#death of women farmers

[the-melancholic-human]

I am in love with the thought of simon riley being a grumpy snobby nobleman who marries a boorish reckless girl that’s just a ray of sunshine

Simon views marriage as a way to protect his legacy, a way to carry out his high esteem bloodline, he views marriage as a financial decision, after all he’s in his late thirties now and he’s not getting any younger, a few silver strands of hair that decorate his dirty-blonde hair prove that fact

As much as he hates the thought of tolerating a woman who will stick to him for the rest of his life like an unwanted disease, he knows that it’s for the best, he needs heirs to protect his fortune after his death

And so he needs to find a wife as soon as possible, he can not marry a woman from a noble family, from what he has seen so far, noble women are more demanding, they’re constantly in need for attention and because they are used to living lavish lives they tend to be careless with money, he knows that if he marries a noble woman her family would constantly ask to visit her and that means even more unnecessary social events simon must attend, and so he has to search elsewhere for a wife

But he has a plan, instead of going for a woman with high status, he’ll just marry one of the girls that live in the village, and wouldn’t you know it, one of his farmers was more than glad to marry off his daughter to the duke for some quick cash

And a week later, the girl is standing on the porch of his manor holding her suitcase, looking like a lost puppy, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt nervously as she’s waiting for someone to invite her into her new home

Instead of her husband opening the door to her, kissing her cheeks and giving her a warm hug, there’s the mean old lady that does the cooking for the riley manor, standing in front of her in the doorway

And as soon as the poor girl drops off her old ugly suitcase at her bedroom (and simon’s bedroom ofc) she’s running barefoot in the garden to catch a lizard

Now picture this, simon jumps off his stallion in the evening, waiting for his new “wife” to come greet him when he hears screams from the garden, so he runs to the garden to make sure everything is okay, and the scene before him is just unbelievably peculiar:

A young beautiful girl, running around the garden, her underskirt shoved into her belt, her feet covered in mud, and her hair an absolute mess, chasing the old maid with a lizard in her tiny soft hands

And when she runs up to simon, holding up the slimy creature to show it to her new husband, simon is just fucking in love.

Part 2 is here btw:

[mmogurl]

Dragonseed Chapter 1 : First Night

18+ | 6.4k | Daemon Targaryen X Female Dragonseed Reader | dangerous, sex starved, raunchy Daemon | virgin reader, first time sex, first night / prima noctae, big breast reader, daemon is a boob man in this, non con, non consensual, P in V, much groping, lots of typical Daemon cussing, starts out rough but reader enjoys it in the end, I just woke up with this in my head and needed to get it out.

Daemon has not been satisfied with his wife Rhaenyra lately. Frustrated and sexually deprived, he goes searching in the village at the base of the Dragonmont for a woman that might catch his eye. That's when he comes upon you, a beautiful, young dragonseed, ripe for the taking, whether you like it or not. I came up with the idea for this after reading page 914 in Fire and Blood. In the show, they recruit Valyrian blooded bastards to ride the unclaimed dragons from King’s Landing, but in the book there is actually a fishing village at the base of the island where Dragonstone is located. The men of House Targaryen were known to seek pleasure among the commonfolk there quite often, claiming their ‘first night’ rights and sowing ‘dragonseeds.’

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 On AO3

Rhaenyra has been an insufferable cunt as of late. First she had wallowed in the death of her son, Lucerys, which he understood to an extent. They were at war though and Daemon could not excuse her absence at council. There simply was no time for mourning when the Iron Throne was at stake.

When Rhaenyra finally returned to the painted table, she was in shambles, a scared, frail shadow of the strong Targaryen woman he’d known and cared for. It had taken all he had to hold back the grimace that fought its way out at the sight of her tear stained cheeks. They were of royal blood, Valyrian blood, and she should be ashamed to show such weakness openly, especially as the future queen.

She spoke of retribution for her fallen boy, demanding the life of the Hightower bitch’s second mongrel son, Aemond. Daemon had offered to fly to King’s Landing right away to avenge his wife, but none would take any part in his plan. So he did as he often did, connived in the shadows, plotting murder so that a one-eyed Targaryen princeling might die to replace the son Rhaenyra had lost.

But, it seemed nothing was ever good enough for the so-called Realm’s Delight. No act of loyalty, nor obeisance, nor love, nor retribution would ever amount to anything in his wife’s eyes. She did not seem to trust a word he said lately, viewing him always with thinly veiled scrutiny and scorning him from her bed every night. Perhaps she had only been interested in using him to solidify her claim as queen after all. The irony was not lost on him considering how badly he’d wanted the throne in the past. It all left Daemon feeling restless, his blood running hot with the need to satisfy his carnal urges. Admittedly, there were not many women within the confines of the castle, save for the servants, who were not especially comely. So, he ventured forth to the village below the Dragonmont, where farmers and fishermen lived around the now thriving port. There he walked the streets, drank in the tavern among the commonfolk, hoping to chance upon a suitable woman. Any fair of face with a willing cunt would satisfy his needs, but he was hoping to find someone of note, a beauty worth his seed.

So far, he has found nothing but mediocrity and it does nothing to stiffen his cock.

As he exits the tavern already deep in his cups, given the position of the sun it’s sometime past mid-day, and there is a celebration underway. A flutist is playing a lively tune as men and women alike dance together in the square. His eyes dart around, taking the scene in slowly considering his relatively inebriated state, until he catches a flash of blue.

And that is when he sees you. You are ravishing in light blue silk, a crown of yellow wildflowers upon your silvery-gold head of hair. Daemon finds himself completely enamored as he takes in your fetching features; the big blue eyes, your proud nose, those luscious lips, and the full swell of your breast has him reeling.

Daemon finds you a sight for sore eyes, a vision of purity and class coupled most gladly with the bosom of a well coveted whore. From the look of it, you are the bride, clutching arms with some young pup who is likely to be your new husband.

It was well known to Daemon that the towns below the mount were seeded with Valyrian blood. Going back two hundred years when Aenar Targaryen first arrived with his dragons, when the house began to practice the tradition of ‘First Night.’ Whereas a lord or king has the privilege over the smallfolk, to bed any bride first on their wedding night. As a result, it was not uncommon to see pale hair mixed in among the common, many having been bred within the Targaryen line for generations.

Daemon has never claimed such a right before, but he is inclined to command it at the sight of you. A wicked smirk begins to work it’s way up his lips as he approaches. He can’t believe his good fortune, that such a shining flower of a maiden was waiting for him, so close by, and that he just happened to stumble upon you at just the right moment to claim you.

As the King-Consort to be closes the distance, many begin to notice his presence with a look of awe and excitement on their faces. For on Dragonstone, the Targaryens were considered closer to the gods than other folk, and were esteemed as such. Brides that were chosen were considered blessed and envied by all. Many of these women were taken care of well by their benefactors, being endowed with luxurious gifts of jewelry, fine silks, and even bequeathed titles for land.

The children born of dragonseed were celebrated on Dragonstone and it is clear to Daemon by the fine silk of your wedding gown that you have been attended well by your Valyrian patron, whoever it may be.

He walks purposefully towards your merry, dancing form and takes hold of your arm to still your movement. When you look up at him, he cannot help but feel disappointed when your face drops, a look of despair crossing your face as you intrinsically know what he desires of you. Daemon had hoped you’d be pleased to attract his attention, that you’d consider it a godsend as most would. It is merely a minor blow to his ego that won’t stop him from taking your maidenhead.

Silence hangs in the air and before words can even be exchanged, an older woman with dark gray hair advances forth to him. She claims to be your mother and apologizes for your insolence.

‘The blood runs too strong in her, m’lord,’ she grovels with deference, bowing her head with every word.

Good he thinks to himself I like them feisty. Daemon grins, glaring sideways at the young man next to you. He would be considered handsome by most standards, but he is green, just a silly boy without disposition to even protect his alluring little wife. He intends to ruin you for any other fellow tonight, so not even your juvenile husband will ever be able to satisfy you again.

He snickers with satisfaction as your mother offers to escort the pair of you to a suitable location where he might take up his rights. Daemon can’t help but soak up every curve of your face and body like a predator eying up his next meal as she speaks, but you look on the verge of tears, ready to break at the thought of being torn away from your silly little wedding festivities.

“Might I freshen up first, My Prince,” you say, your civility barely held in tact through grit teeth.

“King,” he reminds you, furling his brow. This girl will be nothing but trouble. It will be best to break her swiftly. He then shakes his head non-nonchalantly. “And there is no need. You are already quite pristine and lovely in your wedding gown. I will take my claim now.”

You fluster, your cheeks growing impossibly red with embarrassment at not just the mention of his intent, but your own indignity as well. “My King,” you acknowledge his correction. “Allow us to ready the chambers for a man of your caliber. My marital bed is far too simple…” you continue prattling on. He isn’t really listening anymore though, instead focusing on the plump of your lower lip and how it might feel wrapped around his cock.

He also can’t help but notice how you sound much more proper than your mother, than most commonfolk really, and wonders if your Valyrian contributor has paid for your tutelage as well. You strike him as someone who has been overindulged in your life, treated as a lady of distinction. It would certainly explain your bratty attitude.

“I am not against the amenities of the commonfolk,” he offers indifferently. “As long as there is a clean surface, it will do.” It’s not like he hadn’t fucked in some of the filthiest brothels on the Street of Silk back in King’s Landing. At least there weren’t many rats in Dragonstone.

‘Oi, aell take ye to me own dwelling, m’lord,’ your mother is spouting now. ‘It aes clean, Ae wash the linens m’self.’

“Nonsense.” A man with well-kept clothes is now stepping forward and Daemon believes he recognizes him as the innkeep. He offers his finest suite for the union of Daemon and his freshly wed dragonseed maiden.

Gods, it’s good to be king.

Daemon can’t help but chuckle smugly at the look of absolute dread on your face. You think you’re so special, too important to be fucked by a king apparently. He was going to enjoy showing you otherwise.

His grip has not left your upper arm and it now tightens as he nods to the innkeep, accepting the proposition for a room. The man leads the way and Daemon follows, dragging you along with him and reveling in the way you peer back with sad lamb eyes at your newly minted husband. There is something so deliciously satisfying in tearing you away from that whelp of a lad, in taking what belongs to another simply because he can. It spoke to the primal side of him, the dragon within that would snatch up whatever it pleased without concern for morality.

He desires you now and he would soon have you whether you liked it or not. Rhaenyra had cowed him for far too long and now he’s going to reclaim his manhood, his brutal nature, by taking your bloody virtue on the head of his cock. For the bedroom was just as fierce as any battlefield and Daemon was a seasoned veteran of both arts.

Daemon’s stride is long and resolved as he jerks you closer to his side. You’re reluctant to be close to him, but finally heed the warning and match his pace as you both enter the tavern which also serves as the inn. Upstairs, the balding innkeeper opens the door and ushers Daemon into his freely provided chambers, with his unwilling maiden shuffling in beside him.

The room is quite nice for what it is. Accommodations for peasant folk were typically a mix of ramshackle furniture and blankets with patched holes in them, if the mattress had linens at all. This chamber is simple, but the furniture looks as though it were hand-crafted in town. The bed is very obviously carved by a skilled carpenter and topped with a red blanket as though it were actually a fine establishment.

“This will do nicely,” he nods to the innkeep. Even though Daemon knows he is not expected to offer compensation as an esteemed guest, he let’s you go from his grasp momentarily to fish a coin from his purse, and places it in the man’s hand. “My thanks,” Daemon offers plainly with a dismissive nod, declaring his desire to be left alone with his prize.

“My pleasure, My King,” the innkeeper says with an overzealous bow as he closes the door behind him, finally leaving Daemon alone with you.

You stand there looking like a stunned baby bird who has just fallen from the nest. Your hands are clasped together in front of your stomach as though that might defend you from his designs.

He smirks at you with a pointed laugh as he draws close. Daemon apprises you thoroughly, circling you like a beast as he takes in every sign of weakness, every swallow, every carefully withheld whimper.

“You know what will happen, girl?” he finally breaks the silence as he comes to a stop right behind you.

“Y-yes,” you answer unenthusiastically. The tremulous tone of your voice both excites and amuses him.

Daemon’s hands reach out to your waist then, finding the laces that hold your bodice tightly in place and he begins to untie them. You turn rapidly on your heels to face him, trying in vain to halt his advances. He can’t help but growl at your defiance as he tugs you against him, his grip like a biting jaw on your pliant body.

Grinning wickedly, he glares into your eyes, leaning in so closely that his forehead is against yours and his hot breath is in your face.

“I’m going to take you, little one,” his voice is filled with violence, his tone rough and dangerous. “You will give yourself readily or we can take the difficult path. But, I promise you would not like how brutish I can be. Especially considering how sore you will be once I take your maidenhood.”

Your expression contorts with hatred and insubordination as resignation tries to take root, but ultimately you refuse to budge. He has not broken your spirit yet, but he knows he soon will. Daemon hopes to avoid being truly cruel to you, that is unless you remind him of his fucking wife by being so gods damned obstinate. Then he might just be forced to take his impotence out on you.

“Or maybe…” he continues with a sardonic twitch of his brow. “Maybe since you’re behaving like such an ungrateful bitch, I’ll just fuck you hard and deep until I spill seed in your unspoiled little cunt. I might even keep you here all day, perhaps all night. I have not wet my cock for at least a moon’s length and I am wont to gorge myself in you.”

Your breath hitches at his menacing coercion and tears begin to well in your eyes. It doesn’t bother him, in fact he thinks you might look even more attractive when you’re crying. Most importantly, you nod subtly as you finally understand the truth of your situation, that he has conquered your rebuffs and brought you low before him. You should be much more compliant now.

Daemon presses a kiss against your cheek, relishing the taste of your fear and the way your body tenses in his arms. “Good girl,” he states in a calmer voice.

He swiftly turns you around again, his fingers moving deftly to work the laces of your corset free. You are sobbing quietly and even though he relishes the idea of making you submit, of seeing your eyes red and swollen as you take him to the hilt, it’s becoming tiresome to hear as he undresses you.

“Would you cease with all that incessant blubbering?” he chides you with palpable irritation. He pulls at your laces, then the fabric of the bodice, going back and forth to loosen it enough so he remove it from your body.

“I’m scared,” you peep. “That you will hurt me.” You’re reminding him of a bird once more, perhaps a little chick with no wings to fly, sniffling and pathetic as you accept your fate.

Daemon lets out an exasperated sigh. He would almost rather you be angry and spiteful than sniveling like this. He should have known to use a different tact, but he’s been out of practice for quite some time. He now sees with clarity that you’d be far more susceptible to seduction rather than brute force, but his anger with Rhaenyra had him on edge.

He places his hands on each of your shoulders and cranes his neck forward until his lips meet the spot below your right ear. You jump as he presses a gentle kiss against your skin, his fingers reaching over and caressing along your collarbone. He can feel you relax considerably with his shift in behavior and takes the opportunity to slide the sleeves of your dress down your arms.

“You need not be scared, little bird,” he whispers into your flesh as he leaves another kiss wet against the base of your neck. “I have bedded many a maiden in my time, and I assure you that I am a far more experienced and skillful lover than that untried boy you call husband.”

You swallow with difficulty and then your whole chest heaves upward as you let out a shaky breath. He is not sure if you’re still apprehensive about the pain involved in the act itself or if you dislike hearing him speak ill of your new spouse. It matters not, for Daemon knows he is best suited to tend to your needs on this day, and he will deliver you swiftly from your pain if you serve him well. He could also make it much worse than it has to be if you don’t.

But for the moment, you’re obliging him, not even resisting as he slips the sleeves of your dress off of your hands and they fall to your side. He groans at the pale skin bared to him, feverish at the thought of groping those large tits of yours without the restraint of any bindings.

“I know how best to alleviate your discomfort, my dear,” he continues, his breath tickling your skin. “I know how to hasten you to pleasure.” Daemon sucks teasingly at the lobe of your ear and delights as you shiver and goosebumps break out across the exposed flesh peering out from your low neckline. He is getting so eager now, craving the way you’ll squirm beneath him as he touches you, as he claims you.

He rocks the slackened bodice down over your waist, wiggling it from side to side until it clears your hips and the entire gown finally falls to the floor in a heap. You still don a sleeveless cloth chemise underneath that goes down past your knees, but the fabric is so thin that he can see the outline of your figure right through it.

Daemon feels the hairs on the back of his neck bristle as his cock bulges painfully against his breeches. He’d been so caught up in taming you, so fervent at the thought of plundering your shores, that he hadn’t even realized how much he was aching for you.

With a surge of fist and cord, his trousers are on the ground and he practically tears his braies off so he can press his throbbing length against you sooner. Being liberated from his smallclothes leaves his member free to prod the valley of your arse, and he yanks you back tightly against his chest with a grunt that makes you chirp. You are his sweet, helpless baby bird, ready to be devoured by the fox.

As though pulled by an invisible force, his hands are already snaking around to your front catching your breasts, one in each hand as he kneads them forcefully. You let out a strangled cry of distress as he tweaks your nipples firmly and Daemon’s eyes roll up at the supple, yet dense give of your breasts.

“By the old gods,” he rasps out, looking over her shoulder at the beautiful sight below of cleavage and ample bosom turning in his grip. “These are surely sacred treasures befitting a king.”

He has to feel you without the interference of meddling fabric, needs to see your breasts in all their splendor, to touch-taste-suck them until you cry out. A growl erupts through his nasal cavity and he abruptly yanks your shift down your shoulders, ripping the straps in the process of revealing your remarkable tits.

Seeing your exposed bosom, Daemon grinds his cock into your arse with arousal, his restraint faltering with the promise of you. He spins you towards him, walking backwards to the bed and drawing you by the hands with him. He glances up to see the uneasy expression on your face, the blush in your cheeks as you allow him to lead you. His cheekbones rise and his brow furrows slightly, regarding you with discernment and maybe a sense of pride as you walk bravely forward.

Daemon decides after brief consideration, that he likes you this way: vulnerable, yet courageous. The thought is fleeting as he hits the edge of the bed and sits down without hesitation, tugging you close until you are standing in the space between his parted thighs. Your tits are right in his face now, just where he wants them.

With an aggressive pull, he wrenches the shift from your body, laying you completely bare to him. He doesn’t even know where to begin, so much pale and youthful skin to take in that it makes him absolutely ravenous. Daemon’s hand reaches behind your back, holding you in place as he practically inhales your breast into his mouth. You writhe in his embrace, trying to back away from the intensity of his hungry maw to no avail as his strong arms keep you effortlessly in place.

He nips at the stiff peak, relishing the way you jump in response. Daemon’s hand slides downwards, cupping your round, tight ass with a squeeze. He leans back, taking in the view for a moment as he licks with the point of his tongue around your pale pink areola. He switches to the other beautifully pliant tit, tracing a line with his tongue across the valley of your breasts.

Daemon sucks hungrily at your nipple, palming the other with fanatical tenacity. He can feel your body wanting to withdraw, the way it pushes for more and pulls back at the same time, yet your feet remain firmly planted. He’d praise you for being so mannerly if his mouth weren’t full with your delicious tit at the moment.

He can feel his pulse pounding throughout his cock, standing erect between his legs and starving for any attention it can get from you. He relinquishes his grip on your breast, daring an attempt at getting you to relieve his torment as he clutches your hand and brings it down. Your hand retreats backwards, not wishing to participate, but Daemon is firm with you, guiding you to wrap your little bird wings around his engorged member.

Tepid, featherlight fingers graze against the sensitive skin of his too-fat-with-blood cockhead, and he lets loose a growl against the slope of your chest. “Fuck,” he hisses, sucking air through his teeth as you reluctantly touch him. At this point, his sexual deprivation paired with the immense lust he feels for you makes even your untrained pawing feel flawless in execution.

He’s quickly reaching the point of no return, his carnal urges so great that he knows he must have you soon. Daemon’s fingers lower to your tight little cunt, checking to see how ready you are for his impending intrusion. A knowing grin spreads across his cheeks as he feels the silken wet state of your folds.

“Mmm,” he pulls off of your nipple, peering up at you with violet eyes full of mischief. “Are you holding back how much you desire me, little bird? You naughty thing. What will your husband think?”

You flush red and while he was hoping to see indignation, he’s not displeased with the look of yearning present instead. Had he actually managed to ensnare you with the capable way he handled your body? Had he charmed you into his grasp when it seemed impossible you might actually enjoy yourself? Your silence is complicity as far as he is concerned.

Daemon smirks up at you deviously before switching back to your left breast, his tongue dancing across the tender nub as his fingers test and prod at your entrance. He doesn’t feel a solid membrane, but one that has already been teased on multiple occasions, likely coaxed from the efforts of the wanton little dragonseed herself. He could take her virtue with very little pain and she might even find pleasure in the act.

Dragging creamy nectar up from your heat, he holds your hood back, pressing his middle finger to your swollen pearl with a light, circular motion. You jolt into him, leaning forward as though your knees might buckle with even the slightest of coaxing from his touch.

He does not relent, continuing his attentions to both of your breathtaking breasts as he caresses the peak of your sex with practiced grace. You begin to whine, flinching your shoulders with every nip and suck of your tender nipples, your body becoming overly sensitive with his continued ministrations.

Daemon can feel the tension in your body rising and knows that you are ready for him. And not a moment too soon, he muses to himself, lest he lose his fucking mind with desperate need of you.

He stands up suddenly, gently walking you back a couple steps. He then picks you up into his arms with one fluid motion before depositing you with careful precision onto the bed. You look up at him with big eyes, dilated black with arousal as he climbs on top of you.

“You are a sight to behold, dear girl,” he says hoarsely, his voice heavy with desire. “I will not regret this joining and nor should you.” You look bewildered, a flurry of emotions all rolled into one, acutely aware and fuzzy at the same time.

For the first time, Daemon kisses you, and the feeling is like molten lava blazing through his heart and pooling in his gut. His cock is hard and threatening against your thighs, seeking entry with every jerk and twitch. His tongue sinks through your parted lips, dipping into the heat of your mouth, wanting to consume you whole.

He parts from your lips with an intake of breath, declaring gruffly, “You know that you belong to me now?”

With your quiet acceptance, Daemon positions his head at your core, pressing in just enough to fit snugly against your entrance. Leaning down once more, he cradles your back in his arms and presses another kiss to your lips. He needs to keep you distracted, his tongue dancing with yours, keeping you from dwelling too long on unavoidable pain. Gods knew, the feel of your passionate kiss was enough to divert his attention away from all meaningful thought besides the easing of your hurt.

Without warning, Daemon thrusts into you, breaking through your virtue as he holds you tightly. You cry out in startled agony as his length enters you, tears welling in the corners of your eyes at the sudden flash of pain. He holds position within you, soothing you with hushed whispers and gentle kisses through the worst of it.

As he thought, you are not upset for long, within moments already wiggling your hips around his swollen cock and hungry for more. He can’t help but grin with smug satisfaction at the way your body begs for more without speaking any words. Daemon will give you exactly what you crave. In fact, he loves how quickly you’ve become his little bird, his sweet harlot, forsaking your new husband for him in no more than a hand’s width of daylight.

He winces as he begins to move again; the way your cunt clings to his intruding cock for dear life is almost too much to bear. Daemon pulls back slightly to take you in and is not disappointed by the way your pretty lips are spread and panting out quick breaths of ecstasy. He had not lied to you, he’d certainly been with his fair share of maidens. None have come close to matching the beauty of your deliverance from chastity. You take to his girth with aplomb, to the act of love-making with a passionate, melodious abandon.

Daemon would watch your blissfully lurid expression, listen to your dulcet of sinful delectation, all day if he could. But, it’s not long before he can tell that your little cunny is going to give him trouble. If it hadn’t been so long since the last time he knew a pleasure better than his fucking hand, he might be able to deal with you. But, you are so fucking tight and he’s so wound up, that he opts to go out with a clash of smacking flesh. If he cannot make you peak this time, then he most certainly will on the next try, and he will most certainly take you again.

Your lilting moans drive him closer to the edge, pushing him faster than he’d like. Rearing up onto his knees, he clutches your hips tightly and spreads you across his lap. Daemon desperately tries to push you along to your climax, knowing it will be a race that he is likely to lose. He’s not expecting the intense response you give him or the way your hips buck as he coaxes your pearl to completion.

His eyes widen in disbelief, wincing as your pelvis seizes and you clamp down on him with a force so powerful it undoes him. “Fuccccking Hells!” he growls out sounding like a gruff animal as your walls milk his seed forth. Daemon’s member pulses violently, your muscles finally letting up only to begin rolling in waves across his length. “Gods fucking damn, girl!” he steadies himself against the bed, almost falling on top of you in the process.

His release lurches through his body, demanding and powerful as he erupts into you. He is faintly aware of the way your chanting with delight, muttering something incoherent while your small hands remain fastened to his back, holding onto him. The overwhelming rush finally passes and he is left feeling weak, breathless, but oh so fucking good.

Daemon wilts onto you, pressing a contented kiss against your lips. He’s not entirely surprised, but is still pleased when your hands find the back of his neck, deepening the kiss with vehemence. He feels the musculature of your inner lining contract upon his cock again and shakes his head as he parts from your lips.

“No. No more of that,” he gripes, still too sensitive to take that kind of abuse.

He recoils as he withdraws from you, unable to believe how big his cock looks, not fully hard, but still excessively fat considering. Daemon lies down beside you, wrapping his arm behind you and pulling you close.

You come willingly, cuddling into the crook of his arm as your hungry fingers roam about his jerkin.

And then it dawns on him, that in his impatience, he never even bothered to fully disrobe. He dutifully unfastens the clasps on his leather vest, displacing you for a moment as he tosses it aside and tears off his doublet.

“There,” he says with confidence. “Now you can have the full show.”

You laugh, a mirthful sound that makes his heart ache in a good way. Gods, he had really needed to get in a good plowing. He can feel all of his anger and tension melting away as he takes you back into his arms.

“So? Was it all bad?” he asks, fishing for compliments because he loves to hear them. He’d especially welcome them from a stubborn creature such as yourself.

Quietly, you shake your head, seeming at a loss for words. He could understand. A lot had happened in such a short amount of time. He’d essentially stolen you from the path you’d been traveling, plucked you up for himself without your say so. Daemon wouldn’t prod you to talk about it now that his appetites were sated, wouldn’t tease you about your husband now that he had claimed you fully.

He raises a brow as you speak unexpectedly, listening intently for your first real words since he’d imposed himself upon you.

“It was enjoyable,” you answer respectfully, your lusting eyes betraying your true feelings as your hands rove over his now bare chest, eager for more.

“Only enjoyable, little bird?” he decides to tease you a little bit, just for fun.

That mellifluous laugh returns, making him smile genuinely as he gazes upon you. Daemon strokes your back, relishing in the warm plushness of your skin as he settles into bed.

“Why do you keep calling me little bird?” she asks instead of padding his ego. “I am a dragon just as you… Am I not?”

His whole face lights up with a self-satisfied smirk. “Oh, are you a dragon now? I thought you were just a little bird.”

“I am a seed,” you contend with him, far more seriously than he expects you should. “I am of your line too.” You run your fingers into your disheveled hair, twirling cornsilk strands as evidence.

“Well, yes, but you are not quite a dragon. It’s true you have wings and the means to fly, but that does not make a dragon, my delicate little bird,” he cannot help but say it with a mocking tone, enjoying your reactions too much to let it go.

You dare a fearless smack at his chest, indignant and pouting. He would normally kill someone for laying hands on him in any manner of disrespect, but Daemon does not mind it from you in this moment.

“Perhaps, you do have some fire in you yet,” he taunts you with amusement. You look at him wide eyed as though he’s about to admit that you are a dragon just as he is. You make this too easy. He chuckles as he continues to rib you, “I’ll call you my firebird then. I think that suits you nicely.”

Daemon’s brow winks with humor as you take another swing at him. He holds your arms down to your sides as he pulls you on top of him. He let’s you go as your annoyance settles, regarding you fondly as he tucks loose tresses of silvery hair behind your ears.

“I hope you know that I’m going to come back for you again and again, my little firebird,” he utters in a lower tone, his voice taking on a more serious quality now.

You give him a twisted look of both gladness and remorse, your mind unable to decide whether this is a good or a bad thing.

“Do you care for your husband?” he asks earnestly, not pleased with the idea of another man laying hands on you. “I can conscript him to the queen’s army if you wish to free yourself from him. You need only ask.”

You look torn, but he can tell you’re considering his words carefully. “He is not a bad man as far as I know. The marriage was selected by my mother, my husband earns a living well enough to pay my way.”

It bothers Daemon to hear you call the man your husband, even if it’s true. He considers killing the man masquerading as your groom for you should undoubtedly belong entirely to him and no other.

“Paying your way will no longer be an issue. I will ensure that you are financially supported from this day forth, but I will not give you up,” he hears the words spilling from his mouth and feels like an old fool. He’d celebrated too many namedays to be spewing this lovesick shit? He couldn’t help it though. You stoked a fire inside of him that made him feel alive and vibrant, he needed to keep burning with you.

“I appreciate that,” you offer with a small, but hesitant smile. “I’m sure my mother will be thrilled. She has always tried to make sure I’m well looked after. It’s unfortunate you could not find me a day sooner. I’m not sure how to face him now,” she says with a trembling lip. “He will expect to bed me. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to. It would make me nothing but a whore.”

“Hush,” Daemon says disagreeably. “Don’t say such things.” He finds himself cradling your sweet head against his chest, hating how true your words are and that he is the one responsible for your situation. He must make it his own responsibility to free you from it then.

“I’ll pull you to castle staff then,” he offers, grasping at possible solutions. It would not be wise to tempt Rhaenyra’s wrath under her own roof, but it would be a means to separate you from your husband at least temporarily, until something more lasting could be devised. There were many positions that would keep you far from his wife’s vicinity as well, if she would even notice that he had taken a lover to begin with.

He might also simply murder the bastard and be done with it, but it might be nice to have you close by in Dragonstone too for opportunistic dalliances.

You begin to protest the idea of going to work at the castle, but he won’t hear any of it and interrupts you. “I will give you a choice then, in recompense for what I’ve taken from you. Will you stay with me, little firebird, or with your husband?” He peers at you with thoughtful bluish-red irises, waiting to hear your answer. He has already decided that he will abide by whatever ruling you make, at least for a time. If you wish to bed your husband as well as him, then that will be your prerogative.

“I do not wish to stay with my husband,” you say quicker than he anticipated.

“Well,” he practically gloats with a mischievous grin. “You’ll be coming home with me then.” Daemon presses a happy kiss against your lips, the sight of your bosom sinfully crushed against his chest sends a pang of desire to his cock, signaling it for action. “But, we might as well make good use of the room first. It was graciously afforded to us after all.”

Daemon reaches down to grip your hips, letting forth a hiss of air as he positions you on his already rigid length. You, his little firebird, would be keeping his flame kindled all this day and perhaps all night as well, with many more to follow. You were his now, born from a threat and remade into a promise that he intended to keep. Dragonseed has officially been continued! Read Chapter 2

[dilfartist]

Just obsessed or love obsessed?

Tw; Kidnapping, sensitive topics, Yandere behavior, Obsessive behavior, marriage mentions, abuse, physical abuse, mentions of Suicide on Yoosung’s part, mentions of death, NSFW on the end of Asmodeus’s part,

Which yanderes are actually in love with their darlings? Which yanderes simply obsess over their darlings?

Fandoms: Naruto, JJK, Demon Slayer, Death Note, JJBA, Chainsaw Man, Baruto, Obey Me, and Mystic Messenger.

Characters; Naruto, Sasuke, Sakura, Mahito, Toji, Geto, Sukuna, Douma, Tengen, Mitsuri, Akaza, Gyutaro, Muzan, Light Yagami, Chilchuck, Laios, Ascended Astarion, Dio, Kira Yoshikage, Jotaro, Josuke, Yoosung, Mammon, Asmodeus, and Denji.

Notes: {Most of these are just ramblings, sorry if they mirror each other in similarity. Not all characters from each show/movie will be on this list, just a few that came to mind.}

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!

Somewhat proofread

Reader's description; Female/GN

Obsessed

These yanderes have no love for their obsession. Although they want you for romantic purposes, they could never love you. Most of these yanderes treat you like a pet rather than an actual lover.

Mahito

Mahito sees humans as toys. Humans are there for his entertainment. Their tears, their fear, their panic, and their crys are all for his pleasure. Mahito has only managed to love the suffering of human beings.

Mahito harbors no love for his darling. Sure, Mahito favors you compared to other humans and he doesn't outright kill you or torture you, but your relationship is more like a farmer favoring one of the farm animals he’s leading to the slaughter, so he allows it to live a little longer than the others.

If you were to ask him if he loved you since he’s gone out of his way to keep you to himself and demands romantic actions out of you; he’ll respond with a laugh, finding it laughable you’d assume so.

“Love you?” Mahito giggles, “You know, I was manifested by the strong emotions of humans, but love isn’t one of them. But hey, if it makes you feel any better, you're my favorite human!”

Sukuna

Sukuna was born evil, not giving two shits about the human race he once belonged to. Love, in the eyes of Sukuna, is a feeble emotion that only exists to continue giving humans a reason for their pitiful existence and to keep their kin cared for. Those who sing songs of romance irk Sukuna. As if the human race couldn't get more irritating. Though he will admit he enjoys a good lovers quarrel. The negative emotions that cause the birth of curses and the scenes of women and men plucking out the eyeballs of their lover's hidden sweetheart in an act of rage; never fails to give him a wicked laugh.

Lust. Lust is what Sukuna feels for you. Love is nowhere in sight. Any act of love you find yourself partaking in with Sukuna isn't because Sukuna desires loving contact, but because you loathe the thought of acting this way with him. He relishes in the resentment you feel towards him. Kisses, hugs, cute nicknames, and lingering touches in favor of disturbing you. Sukuna is obsessed with you due to your enjoyable reactions. Such a scared little thing, he thinks. In a world of humans Sukuna views as insects, you are Sukuna's shivering prized chihuahua.

If you were convinced Sukuna was in love with you and asked about it, he'd laugh in your face.

"Maggots, such as the human race, invented love to maintain relevancy and keep their young alive. What else are they good for if they can only birth a few babes before their bodies break. They might as well drop dead once production is no longer available. Unfortunately for all living creatures, they continue their life spans." Sukana speaks with distaste. He leans his cheek against his fist, gazing down at you from his throne. "I find the emotion despicable. Although.." Sukana begins, lips curling into a cruel smirk, "I could think differently if it came to you, my dear pet." You don't miss the flash of amusement in his ruby eyes at the sight of your grimace.

Douma

Douma will never love anyone. Douma is stated to have no emotions but that isn’t necessarily true. Douma can feel emotions for himself, it’s others he cannot feel emotions for. Douma may have claimed to feel love towards Shinobu but Douma wanted to feel something, or at least convince himself he felt something before the end of his life. Truly Douma could never love his darling even if he tried.

Contrary to popular belief Douma does treat his darling like he loves them...50% of the time. The other half of the time he acts on his sadistic nature.

He is one of the yanderes that will kill his darling with no hesitation if he needs to. Douma will hesitate if his obsession is strong enough to dissuade him. If his darling ever dies or somehow escapes then he’ll forget about them. In his eyes, you’re replaceable since you never were loved in the first place.

“You know, (Name), I think I’m actually in love with you!” Douma would smile down at you as you sat in his lap. “Can’t you hear it! My heart flutters at the sight of you!” he’d pushed your head to his chest, “Such an exquisite feeling.” he cooed at you, hugging you closer. You scowl knowing every word from his lips is a lie. You wonder which one of you he’s trying to convince.

Ascended Astarion

Astarion before the ascension would genuinely love his Darling. And if he didn’t he wouldn’t even be with his Darling. However, if his darling allowed him to go through his accession, all his love would vanish from his body. Once a vampire spawn becomes a true vampire, they become a shell of the person they used to be.

Astarion is no longer the person you once knew. In fact, he resembles his former master in ways. His spawns, his mean attitude, his view of other people as less. It’s a sicking sight, truly. He no longer treats you as an equal. You’re a pet to him, even if he says you are his consort.

You both know Astarion doesn’t love you anymore. Yet neither of you have said a thing about it. Astarion finds it rather amusing you think he could love someone as pathic as you. His old weaker self did and he won’t repeat any actions from the past. And still, he refuses to allow you to leave his side. His darling will be reassured but they know the love of their life is no longer around.

“I love you, my dear pet. That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?” he’d chuckle darkly at you, his tone full of mockery. You wish his words were the truth, but they’re not.

Dio Brando

Even in normal circumstances, Dio wouldn’t be able to love. During his normal life, Dio only loved the pleasure he sought in hurting others. He forced himself to act like he loved Jonathan and George Joestar, but in reality, he was only using them for his advantage. Once he turned into a creature of the night, the was no way he’d be able to love. All of his humanity, including his human emotions had been erased.

Dio’s darling is merely for his entertainment; he does not yearn for a real connection. You’re simply a pet. He’ll care for your health so you won’t die, he’ll feed you well so you won’t starve, and he’ll even buy you nice things to keep you in line. Other than those few things, he could care less about you. He enjoys keeping you around because of your reactions. You’re just so human! It disgusts him and excites him at the same time.

“Poor dear,” Dio sang cruelly as he held you in his lap. “Shivering in my lap like a lamb awaiting for the slaughter.” he’d chuckle darkly after.

Kira Yoshikage

Yoshikage never loves any of his darlings. He takes without a second thought, caring not for the person that fuels his obsession. Yoshikage may take the time to learn about his victim but after some time your fate will be the same as any other darling. Depending on which stage of Yoshikage you get that is.

You could encounter a quick death if you met Yoshikage at the start of Dimond is unbreakable. He’d be interested then when he finds the right time to kill his darling and take their hand. If you come across Kira in the middle of Dimond is unbreakable then your death will come after a while. It depends if he likes your personality since during this stage he begins to prefer knowing a woman’s personality when taking their hand. If he meets you by the end of Dimond is unbreakable then you have the most probability of living. He’d be so concerned about keeping his identity a secret he might keep you around longer and settle with befriending you instead of outright killing you.

Kira really has no love for his darling. The only care he has for his darling is keeping their hands beautiful to fuel his obsession. Kira is less obsessed with his darling and more obsessed with their hands.

“Darling you must keep yourself clean,” he’d chid, pulling out a pack of wipes to desperately clean the dirt from underneath your beautiful fingernails.

Love-Obsessed

Both their feelings and obsession grow together as they come to know you. They love and are obsessed with you. These yanderes see their darling as actual partners and do love them, unlike the obsessed yanderes.

Naruto Uzumaki

Naruto loves you with all of his being. Growing up as a boy with no family and for a short while in his childhood no friends, he yearns for a real connection. He wants to love and be loved. So when you come into the picture, he swears no harm will come to you. Even if the leaf village is at stake.

Naruto does everything he can to please you because he believes you deserve everything good that comes to you. His generosity isn’t meant to be taken as a way to manipulate you, unlike some characters. Naruto strives to keep you happy. He’ll do everything he thinks will do right by you.

Naruto sees his darling as his partner in crime. His one and only. He refuses to look at anyone else. He’ll keep you safe even if it means keeping you locked away.

“I love you more than anything, you know,” Naruto whispers to you as he snuggles up to you. “I’ll never let anything happen to you, believe it.”

Denji

Denji’s been through a lot. No one has been there to love Denji for who he really is. Everyone loves Chainsaw Man...then there's him. All of a sudden you come into his life. Dissimilar Makima or any woman in his life, you care for him. You’re genuinely kind without expecting him to do something for you. His feelings grow for you due to your kind nature.

Being Chainsaw man comes with its cons. He’s always in danger and his loved ones are always in harm's way because of him. He grows paranoid. What would become of you once it was revealed he cares for you?! He manages to pull some strings and finds a place for the both of you to live together. Sure you can’t leave but at least your are safe! Plus, Denji is a great guy who gives you everything you want.

Denji doesn’t force you to care or love him, he implies wanting your tenderness but never forces you. He loves you. He goes as far as fighting every demon in your name.

“I like you...like a lot.” Denji starts off slowly. He’s at your side, crouching to your level. His eyes show vulnerability, “...you don’t have to like me back but I won’t allow anyone to hurt you. I wish things could be different...I really do.”

Yoosung Kim

Yoosung falls in love with his darling very quickly. Originally, Yoosung fell in love with the Mc in eleven days. Instead of his obsession and love growing together, Yoosung falls in love first then his obsession begins to grow. Though Yoosung is in love with his darling he still compares them to Rika despite his darling and Rika not sharing many qualities. He loves his darling for their kindness but also because they share the comfort Rika gave him.

Yoosung doesn't care if he puts his darling in harm's way despite claiming the opposite. Yoosung loves his darling enough to be in harms way along with him. In a way it’s like a romantic double suicide

“You’ll only talk to me, right?” he’d ask. Despite this question being sent through text you could hear the question asked in Yoosung’s voice. “I love you so much, do you really think some guy like Zen could compare?”

Mitsuri kanroji

Mitsuri is heavily encouraged by love in her daily life, so of course she’d be in love with her darling. Her darling completely takes over her mind, invading every thought she has. She doesn’t see her behavior as weird or obsessive. After all, isn’t it ideal for a lover to be utterly in love and devoted to their special someone?

Her obsession and love for you grow at the same pace. She’s so in love with her darling, every action she takes is in the name of her darling. She constantly reminds her darling of her love and devotion, not caring if her darling doesn’t reciprocate.

Her obsession is fueled by the constant rejection she’s faced in her life. She’s clingy, clingy to the point you feel suffocated. She needs her darling's reassurance and will be unsettled by her darling giving anyone else praise she deems too much.

“You’re so amazing!” she’d coo at you, latched onto your right arm, batting her lashes. “I’m so glad you’re mine, (Name).” she’d hum, pushing her face into your sleeve.

Sakura Haruno

She is a very dedicated person. Despite the lack of love she received from Sasuke, she stood by his side the entire time no matter what. When she loves, she loves hard. This also applies when she begins to obsess over her darling. Even if you don’t share her feelings she will never move on. Sakura is a very persistent person, and if she truly desires something then she’ll achieve it.

Her obsessiveness comes later on when she really gets to know you. Once the obsession starts, there’s no way of getting rid of her. Her love overpowers her obsession, which is worse.

If you thought Sakura being at your hip most of the time was annoying, then your hell is with Yandere Sakura. Sakura will never leave you alone. However, you have a savor named Tsunade. Sakura listens to Tsunade with out a doubt. However, Tsunade doesn’t really care for your situation. Sakura can be annoying but she doesn’t bring harm to you. So...not her circus, not her monkeys.

“Gosh,” she’d sigh dreamily as she lay against your chest, “I’m the luckiest girl in the village, aren’t I?”

Josuke Higashikata

The king of romance himself! Josuke loves his darling dearly. Even going as far as to think twice before hurting his darling if they dare insult his hairstyle. Unlike all the others on this list, Josuke would be in love with you first before the obsession would even begin.

Josuke never lets his darling forget his love and dedication towards them. He reminds them he loves them every chance he gets.

Josuke is more normal thanks to his genuine love for his darling. However, that won’t stop him from acting on his obsession. If his darling ever found out about his obsession and attempted to leave, he’d hesitate to

“Oh, these?” Josuke would look down at the bouquet in his hands. He’d rub the back of his neck with a grin, “Just wanted to get something for the lovely girl I call my girlfriend!”

Laois Touden

You are as important as Falin is to him. His mind is full of thoughts of you. Although Laois is obsessed with you, he treats you right. He never oversteps boundaries, always makes sure not to hurt or overwhelm you, and always listens to you and your needs. If it weren’t for his unhealthy obsession, Laios would be the best boyfriend.

Laios obsesses over his darling the same way he obsesses over monsters. Laios carries a notebook full of facts about you. What monster food do you prefer? Easy! You love boiled mimics! After all, Laious put it down in his note book and Laious is dedicated to being correct about his darling.

His love goes as far as locking away his darling; If necessary that is. He’d rather explore the word with his darling. He won’t repeat allowing someone so dear to him to be hurt again. Laios nearly lost his sister and he’ll be damned if you were ever harmed.

“I don’t think I say it enough,” Laios comments completely out of the blue. You and him sit at the breakfast table, still in your midnight clothes. Laios looks at you sweetly, his chin against his palm. “I love you.”

Obsessed to Love- obsessed

These yanderes start just obsessed with their darlings with either no feelings or ignoring their growing feelings. As time goes on, they begin to fall in love with their darling.

Toji Fushiguro

Toji finds it hard to love after his late wife’s passing. So when you come into his life he’s as distant as he can be. Toji’s rude and nasty to you. Not because he dislikes you- well, not fully anyway- but because Toji can sense his attraction towards you. It scares him; it Angers him even. Toji’s had his fair share of one-night stands, feeling nothing after them besides passing sentiments of guilt because of his late wife. However, you’re different. For some reason, the fuzzy feelings he felt with his late wife have come back when he’s around you. He loathes these feelings. In a way, Toji finds this as a betrayal, and he blames you.

However, as time progresses, Toji learns to allow you in. He can’t obsess over his late wife forever. At first, he’s simply obsessed with you. Always around you, you’re constantly on his mind, keeping a tracking device on you, the usual. Then it happens. You show him genuine kindness and show you care for his well-being and it’s like a switch flipped. Toji realizes he’s in love. And instead of getting angry or distancing himself, he accepts it. Unfortunately for you, Toji’s left broken by his ex-wife’s death and you’re the new love of his life.

You’re immediately kidnapped and taken away to live with him. The one person he loved died, he will not have that happen again. Toji knows he needs a stable life to keep you around and he refuses to use another woman for her money since he finds it disrespectful to you. Toji’s gambling habits cease nearly quickly. He works for the both of you to have a stable life because he love you enough to try. Toji never outright tells you he loves you, but you can tell in the ways he acts around you.

“I’ve gotta say, you’re the biggest pain in my ass.” Toji would grumble. You both lay on the couch together, him on the bottom while you lay ontop of him with a blanket wrapped around you. His hands fiddled with your hair, one of his quiet ways to show his love.

Akaza

At first, he felt like he was betraying his first love, Koyuki. Akaza distances himself because of the guilt that consumes him. He feels so weak, which pisses him off. And he can’t help but find himself getting angry at his darling as well since you caused this weak feeling to initiate. If it weren’t for his guilt at the onset Akaza would be categorized in the love-obsessed category. Once he learns to move on and realize his feelings will not be leaving any time, then he’d be loving towards his darling.

Immediately, His darling is kidnapped. Akaza has learned from his past to always be near his loved ones; his darling wouldn’t suffer the same fate because of his carelessness. He’d keep them in a nice house deep in the forest. Akaza remembers every part of the forest just in case you attempted to run away. The house would be nice and furnished and his darling could request items to be placed into the house. It’s more of a house for his darling than a shared house.

Very loving towards his darling. If it weren’t for the circumstances, Akaza and his darling's relationship would be seen as the ideal romantic relationship. Akaza didn’t want his darling to be taken away, he’d much rather have his darling willingly. However, his trauma and immortality dissuade him.

“You’re so beautiful...” Akaza would murmur to you. You watched in the mirror as the demon brought your hairbrush back to your hair, gently going through the strands. “So beautiful, my love.” he’d press a small kiss on your shoulder blade.

Jotaro Kujo

Jotaro already has too many problems to worry about romance. Jotaro’s obsession disturbed him. He has other priorities such as saving the world from enemy stand users, yet he often finds himself thinking about you rather than the problem at hand. It becomes a problem for him. There’s even a point where he becomes annoyed by your name alone. However, as time goes on he learns to accept his feelings of obsession. Then he’ll have to accept the romantic feelings that soon follow after he accepts his obsession.

A while back, I wrote Jotaro as a yandere that would hold you captive and overall be very intimidating towards his darling. Now that I look at his character, he’s more likely to act regularly with his darling. Jotaro will come off the same as any man who has a healthy relationship with their significant other. The only reason he’d become intimidating towards his darling is because they’re trying to leave him. No matter how obsessed jotaro finds himself, he ultimately won’t force his darling by his side. Jotaro recognizes the danger he puts his darling in when they date, he realizes how selfish he is just being near you. Jotaro genuinely loves his darling, so although he does try to intimidate his darling into staying with him, he would allow you to leave if that’s what you truly wanted.

Jotaro is the type of Yandere to allow you to leave but have you on his mind ever since. There are memorabilia of yours around his house. Pictures hang upon his walls that he hasn’t bothered to take down. There’s even a framed picture of you right next to his bed.

Tengen Uzui + Wives

The Uzuis would be off put by their darling at first. Despite it traditionally being on the man’s part to decide if he wants to marry another wife, Tengen puts his wife's decisions above his. Tengen isn’t the type to simply marry someone because of a little crush or obsession. One, he needs to feel strong feelings towards someone before he considers putting a ring on it. Two, Tengen respects his wives too much to decide marriage on his own. Tengen would introduce the topic and his darling to his wives slowly, giving them a little time to decide whether to feed his obsession or not. Ultimately, Tengen gets their blessings.

Their obsessions don’t blossom until marriage. Ideally, their darling is not as strong as them. They become very protective of them, especially Tengen if this is after he retires. Time passes and they all grow to love their darling, they’re obsession turns into a love obsession. Each one of them won’t keep their hands off their darling. They are in general very touchy with each other, but with their darling, it’s times 100.

At least one of them has to accompany you. Not only to keep you safe but to make sure you never think of leaving them. They don’t mind kidnapping their darling if they need to.

“Don’t splash around so much,” Tengen complained to his other wives. They all sat in the bathtub, cleaning each other. You sat firmly in Tengen’s lap. “Stop hogging cleaning them, Suma!” Makio barks at Suma. “I am not! Lord Tengen! Makio is trying to say I’m hogging the sponge, but I’m not!” Suma whines. They were taking turns washing your body, whilst Hinatsuru washed your hair. Tengen presses a small kiss on the back of your head.

Asmodeus

When Asmodeus first met his darling he only saw them as someone he could seduce for a moment of pleasure. It isn’t until he makes a pact with his darling that his obsession begins. Sure, Solomon also has a pact with Asmodeus and he’s not obsessed with him. You’re different. You help him with problems and spend time with him. And such a cutie you are you do it no questions asked. The obsession sets in when he manages to sleep with you. It was like your body was crafted for him. It’s addicting really. Your taste, your touch, your sweet voice! He’s even considered never touching another again.

He’ll stick around you more which leads to a connection between you...or maybe just in Asmodeus’s eyes. Love, an emotion he’s only been able to share with his brothers, will develop in the time shared with you. You’ve surprised him again! Asmodueus will grow into a possessive person. Not even his brothers will have the fortune of spending time with you. Asmodeus becomes harsh with his brothers, like a cat hissing at other cats for being too close to their owner. Lucifer has to step in ever so often because Asmodeus is close to ripping out one of another demon’s eyes with his claws because they got too friendly with you.

Don’t think you can just leave him either; That isn’t an option whether it be due to your exchange coming to an end or you not wanting a relationship anymore. It just won’t happen. If you have to go back to the human world, that just won’t slide with Asmodeus. He’ll find a way to be with you. If Lucifer doesn't appeal to any of Asmodeus’s requests to keep you in Devil Dom, then he has no problem going with you. Nor does he have a problem possessing random people to see you every day. Now, ending the relationship with Asmodeus will lead to a moment of pain. A moment of pain because there is no way you’d be apart for more than a couple of months. His brothers won’t force you to be in Asmodeus’s arms nor will they stop talking to you until you give in to dating Amsodeus again, they care for you as much as they care for their brother. Nonetheless, you will have earfuls of them trying to convince you to be with Asmodeus again. Not to mention every demon in Devil Dom has been in your DMs on Devilgram. All of his adoring fans call you every name under the sun. No matter how tough your skin is their words will get to you. They even began to spread hate against humans which got the attention of both Lucifer and Diavalo. Now you’re having a conference with them, where you simply decide to go back to him. It’s better for everyone.

“Don’t you feel so much better~” Asmodeus coos to you, his fingers deep inside your cunt. “No one can make you feel as good as I can!” Asmodeus presses a trail of kisses down your neck, “No one could love you as much as i do.”

Mammon

When you first met, Mammon only saw you as an annoying human. Another task on his list that his brother put on him. Then he began to get to know you and that view quickly faded. Unlike other yanderes, Mammon fell in love quickly compared to the others. Suddenly, Mammon was proud to be your first man. So proud in fact that many reconsider his sin being greed.

Though greed is definitely his sin. He’s so greedy he won’t allow his family to take your time away from him. Mammon nearly snarls like a rabid dog at the thought of anyone stealing you away from him. If it’s his brothers then he won't have as much of a problem, he’ll complain but won’t harm them. Let another demon try the same and he won’t care if he breaks a few bones. Not even caring for Lucifer’s chiding.

His love is apparent. It’s overwhelmingly sweet, overshadowing his tough-guy act. You won’t even mind his obsession because his love delays any concerns that arise because of his actions.

“I’m your first man, so I should be your most important priority,” Mammon huffs clinging to your waist tightly. You scheduled a lunch with his brothers due to Mammon taking up your time, now you think you should cancel it. Mammon shows no sign of letting go any time soon and it’s getting harder to breath.

Chilchuck Tims

There would be no way in hell Chilchuck would allow himself to fall in love or even think of any romantic thoughts of his darling, at first. After his wife left him and took away his children, leaving him alone, he couldn’t bear the thought of another romantic relationship. His obsession starts slowly because he distances himself since he can tell he feels attracted to you.

He hates the fact he often has dreams of you or the fact he remembers your favorite foods. He especially hates it when he gets a foreign fuzzy feeling in his chest when it comes to you. He’s often rude and closed off to his darling. He comes off meaner to his darling than anyone else. It has gotten to the point the others often call him out on his behavior to which he scoffs and turns away.

It isn’t till he learns that not everyone will leave him and he can learn to be a better partner Chilchuck opens himself to being romantic with his darling. He grows to love his darling so dearly. He writes to his daughters about his darling. Even goes as far as mentioning them every chance he has to his companions.

And although he’s finally going through the process of learning to forgive himself for his divorce, he’s still paranoid. If you show any signs of leaving him, he won’t immediately lock you away but he’ll become uncharacteristically clingy. Every hour he’s snuggling closer to you, asking about your day. He even begins to stop complaining about small things you do that annoy him at times. If you are attempting to leave him, good luck. That isn’t happening. Besides Chilchuck’s small size, he’s incredibly smart when it comes to dire situations. Such as you leaving.

“I...I love you.” Chilchuck admits, his face has an expression of the first taste of sour candy. It’s almost as if the words stung the tip of his tongue each time he spoke.

Gyutaro

You’re interesting to him. Whether you’re ugly or pretty, Gyutaro envies you. Those who are attractive get to live happily without the misery of being ugly. It makes him sick. You are treated better than he was that’s for sure. But as he comes to know how kind you are to others, especially the less fortunate, he begins to obsess over you. You’re so beautiful, much more attractive than him anyway. How could he not think of you.

Gyutaro learns more about you by stalking you. He’s always around, going as far as to hide in the dark of your room in the mornings just to get more of you. Gyutaro never thought about marriage as a mortal, he was too caught up in caring for his sister and many girls never even glanced his way when it came to romance. You change his mind. He can imagine you in a beautiful wedding dress as you profess your love to him not even cringing at his ugliness.

He genuinely loves his darling. Gyutaro wishes he could have met his darling when he was a mortal, his life wouldn’t have been so depressing, and he could have even tried to find a better occupation and live a normal life with you. He’s selfish, after all, he’s faced so many hardships, why can’t he take the few things that bring him joy? No one else deserves you. Once you’ve lost your beauty, you’re better off dead than in the hands of others.

“So beautiful...gahahaha!” Gyutaro laughed manically to himself. He sat in the corner watching you closely, his hand covering his wide smile. “No one else could compare!”

Possibly love-obsessed (unsure)

These yanderes could either love their darling and never admit it or not love them at all. It depends on the situation or stage of the relationship.

Suguru Geto

(Only Non-Sorcerer Darling)

Geto believes that he could never love a Non-Sorcerer yet has an obsession with his darling. Geto felt the need to dehumanize the Human race since his change in ideology to cease any doubts he may have about his decisions. There may be a part of him deep down that isn’t fond of the idea of hurting Non-sorcerers but is too far gone to even think about ending what he started. Geto strives to protect the weak. When he was in high school he believed that the weak were Non-Sorcerers until his perspective changed to Sorcerers being the weak ones due to the Non-Sorcerers being in charge and harming the ones keeping them safe from curses. He found the acts of Non-Sorcerers to be unforgivable which is why he went to the extreme of choosing to start a genocide.

There is a part of him that despises his darling. How could some random monkey make him feel this way? It’s perplexing. Sometimes he wants to gouge out your throat and watch as the light fades from your eyes to give him the pleasure of his original ideology: All Non-Sorcerers should be terminated. Yet he cannot bring himself to put the plan into action. Especially when you’ve been such a good pet and listen to his every command. He won’t admit that he craves to be around you. He loves holding you tight as you both drift to sleep, he loves the sweet kisses that he forces out of you, and he loves the way you moan out his name. A filthy monkey shouldn’t have the pleasures of indulging in his greatness, yet he refuses to kill his darling.

Even Geto doesn’t know if he loves his darling. He’s adamant he only sees his darling as his pet, but deep down he might love his darling. Though that would never come to light.

“You’re a good pet. Always listening and obeying my commands.” Geto comments as he reads his daily newspapers. You brush his hair quietly, focusing on the raven strands gently pulled by the bristles of the brush. “Good. Just as all monkeys should.”

Sasuke Uchiha

It isn’t that Sasuke is incapable of loving because he definitely loves the people in his life. However, he is too emotionally immature to truly love his darling. He yearns for their touch and love but he can’t for the life of him reciprocate the affection.

Sasuke has forgotten the feeling of love since It had been ripped away from him at such a young age. He assumes his love for things in his life is just extreme liking them. Sasuke extremely likes tomatoes and Sasuke extremely likes talking walks but the word love never seems to come to mind. If anything he just won't admit it to himself. He can love.

It won’t be until when Baruto begins that Sasuke is finally classified as Love-obsessed. He’s more truthful to others and himself. He can finally admit he’s in love with his darling...to himself. In Baruto, Sasuke is more open to being vulnerable around his loved ones and even tries his best to repair relationships with advice from Kakashi.

“I care about you...” Sasuke would say, not daring to look you in the eyes. “...a lot,” he adds in awkwardly.

Light yagami

Many believe Light to have no love for anyone, for whatever reason. However, this is not the case. Light's love for his family is one of the main reasons he decides to become Kira. Or what he believes to be justice. Light started out wanting to be a cop because his father was a cop and Light wanted to bring justice to the world. Light wants the world filled with good and his family surrounded by good instead of unjustified evil. The reason he’s so cruel to Misa and even uses her to his advantage is that he never shared these feelings in the first place. Misa forced him into a relationship with her and didn’t seem to mind him not wanting it. He’s very different with his darling.

I put him on this list because there are two ways Kira could feel about his darling. One, he’d be obsessed with them but wouldn’t love them. This would happen if they were involved in the Kira case and Light would obsess over them because of it. Two, his darling is a random citizen who shares his feelings and judgment, and Light loves his darling dearly.

Even if Light truly cares for you, he won't admit it because of his focus on the Kira case.

Muzan kibutsuji

For Muzan to care about his Darling, they would have to have certain qualifications. One, they knew of Muzan before he transitioned into the first demon. Two they either could relate to Muzan’s past as a human or they didn’t have any judgment towards Muzan because of his sickly appearance. These are a few situations that would lead to Muzan's obsession. Once Muzan turned he had past wives who killed themselves because of his cruelness. Muzan had no feelings toward them which is why Muzan would be more likely to love or care about his darling if he had known them before his change.

If Muzan’s darling had none of these traits then Muzan would be purely obsessed with his darling. Muzan would need a connection with his darling. There is a slim chance his darling could win over his true affection, but the chance of it happening is nearly impossible.

[mewlabu]

People forget that while Ukraine isn't allowed to harm one hair on Russia's soil, Russia has been working hard to kill Ukrainians not just with misiles

- by destroying the medical infrastructure

- freezing or burning people to death by destroying the power grid that helps people survive during winter and increasingly hot summers

- by kidnapping and re-educating Ukrainian children and adopting them into Russian families

- by destroying Ukraine's food production capacity

- by targetting civilian areas, in broad daylight, such as shopping centres

- by destroying cultural institutions, museums, universities, schools

- by riddling farm land with mines it will take decades to remove that will maim and kill farmers and children

- by causing one of the worst environmental disasters when they blew up a dam

- by executing and torturing and raping men, women, children and elderly who are Ukrainian

- by creating generations of trauma and loss, some of which has and will end with people taking their own lives

- by convincing the whole world that it's ok for them to keep doing this without consequence whether in Chechnya, Syria, Ukraine, Georgia, Mali, Sudan, Central Africa, and the list goes on

And that all not even touching on how the operate in the actual battle field, using chemical weapons and white phosphorus, or executing POWs, and civilians in captured towns.

And this isn't touching on centuries of linguistic and cultural repression, political repression, forced starvation, forced labour, death by displacement, gulags, and summary executions.

Russia is a plague on the world. Hell, on its own people.

And it's been that way for centuries. Before Putin. Even before Stalin. Even before the Tzar.

Repression. Oppression. Violence. Totalitarianism. Subservience to power. Apathy in the face of it all. That's all it has to offer in its grotesque history, art and culture.

[comfortless]

syl im begging on my hands and knees pls pls pls expand on that idea of könig being a warrior rumored to eat womens hearts its like giving scheherazade and i NEED IT

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. vague time period/setting. fem(afab) reader. light descriptions of violence and gore, talk of cannibalism, non-con groping & cuddling, forced marriage.

There are endless tasks to be done and everything beneath a vast blue sky to explore, forgoing those things, the men about your village often prefer to gather for a duel. There are no rules for their game, only that you bring a weapon and thrust it toward the opponent in such a way that it brings you glory, pride, some scabbing mend to a crooked scar.

Except not you, never you. They wouldn’t so much as allow for the women to watch unless sparring for the hand of a weeping bride happened to be the gleaming prize waiting at the end of the night.

Your eyes had witnessed such before, a girl with hair the color of autumn straw that rolled down to the end of her back, whisked away by some man from the sea after he dug his blade into an old farmer’s belly. Her father. A sad thing, but you imagined her life must be much better now. Instead of tending to a mule or pricking her fingers on needles for sewing, she’s off collecting sea shells and has the ocean’s breeze eternally perfumed in her hair. Maybe she cradles a baby on her hip now, plump and cooing happily whilst they watch the waves roll and glitter beneath the sun.

A better life for only the cost of a swift death. It was something that you had always envisioned wanting for yourself, away from this village that reeks of blood, the very place where your options were limited to shoveling after the horses or to die a lonely hag.

That was until the behemoth began to show his face. Not quite his face at all, actually. It changed things for you. Instead of a longing for one of these strong men to carry you off into the night, there sat a creeping terror each and every time he crossed the threshold into the village.

He was rumored to be many things: an executioner from a foreign land, either a lost and wicked saint or a demon made flesh, and worst of them all… a cannibal from out in the untamed downs that crest the mountainside.

The women of the village were frightened by him, by the bulk and height that suggested he was not a man at all, but something far more terrifying beneath that black veil. They hid away when he first arrived, claiming he carried an organ in his hands, chewing away at a still-beating heart with blood running down his fingers. The men remained rigid, but their hands shook when they took up their weapons against him.

And there was no way of knowing then that this man was to be yours.

Time and time again, the giant would win, request a warm meal and a bed for the evening, and would be gone away come morning. He wouldn’t return for months, and the gossip would continue to fester until his return. Then, only then, would lips be pursed in silence and another fool would rush to death in an attempt to win some measure of pride. His opponent would be buried in the very field they would fight in, his bones serving for another layer upon the earthen stage once the worms and rats had picked him clean, and the giant would be back. He was always back.

The town is hushed to silence when his horse is led through the well-worn street. There are lingering observers: the broad stable hand that would not even dare to raise a whip or a dagger to this behemoth, the women of the brothel even shy away from him, and the children who whisper their rumors behind open palms.

He does not stop for any of them, only carries forward with that dark cloth concealing his head.

You peek out from your window, nursing tea with honey to calm the chill drifting through the air, feathering over your skin. It’s bitter on your tongue, even with the sweet coursing through it. Bitter, when his blue eyes flick in your direction and you feel every inch of your skin begin to prickle and tense.

He’s worse up close like this. The man doesn’t conceal his torso, never seemed to find a need to— no one ever gets close enough to wound him. Not any more, at least, judging by the pasty scars that mar his chest with the biggest being a healed, pinkish blemish that stretches from below his ribs down to a narrow hip. You find the most unsettling part about him is not those marks of violence, but the fact that you can not read his face.

Time slows to a halt as he just stares, takes you in with your cup of tea and the old dress stolen away from your mother’s own wardrobe. And you return it, warily looking him over from his veiled head down to the toes of his boots. After regarding you in the very same way a bored cat would observe an unaware, little bird, he moves along his path with a quiet huff of breath as his face is turned away from you.

There’s a heavy axe strapped to his back that you only notice then. Something new and shiny, glistening in the rays of golden sunlight above. Sharp and wicked, too cruel a weapon to be used in a bout for dinner and a lumpy mattress stuffed with decaying straw.

You could only hope he brought a cloth to clean it once this ordeal was over. Perhaps he truly does use his veil to do so, gets drunk on the scent of blood and gore clinging to it and pleasures himself to the violence as they claim. The macabre tales of this giant only go darker than that. But the tales he lives up to most of all are the ones about his skill in killing.

When night begins to scrape across the sky in dark, drab purple, fate comes crawling throughout the town as though it is nothing more than a famished ghoul.

Your mother storms toward you where you’re sat, preparing for bed. Her face is a mask of pure anguish when she pulls you into a tight embrace. She bawls into your hair, digs her nails into your back as though she would sooner die than let you go.

The men of the town follow behind her, wrenching her arms away from you and pulling you up by the front of your gown. The thin linen tears with the force of rough hands, rips a thick line down your chest that almost leaves you bared to them. Though the hands are eager, the eyes of these men do not shine with hunger, only with fear.

The shouts and cries from your lips are lost to them, to even your mother who wails in defeat someplace behind you.

“You’re plenty old enough to be a bride,” says one of the men, voice like a coiled snake spitting venom. It doesn’t take one of the well-educated people of the capital here to explain just what is to happen to you now.

The giant, the cannibal, saw something that he liked, and decided that you would be his prize. When you’re led to the field, kicking and flailing against the strong arms that hold you tightly in their grip, the sight is enough to tell you just how much that he enjoyed your silent, curious staring only hours before.

He stands upright, silent and daunting above a body that’s been split by the axe still held in one strong hand. The color of crimson cakes his knuckles, crests over his arm and the expanse of his chest, all from the headless corpse lying disposed at his feet.

The scene is what you expected, you’ve heard the words of your people about this beast of a man’s propensity for violence, but no amount of mental preparation could have truly readied you for seeing so much blood. The blood of a man you knew to be good and true, a hard-working blacksmith from the foothills. What a tragic way to go out: fighting for a pouch of coin when this horrible giant must have clearly lost his mind to rut and rage.

No hand comes to cover your mouth when you shriek, and the tight grips guiding you forward only loosen when your man or murderer stalks forward to take his prize. Through your tears, you still manage to make out the lines beneath his eyes, how they fold upward, and there’s no doubt that he’s smiling beneath that mask. A big, ugly grin at the thought of prying open your ribs and helping himself to a maiden’s heart.

He lifts it over his head in a swift motion, and drops it over your own instead, opposite to the hastily cut eye holes to block out all of the hazy, pale light of the moon and flickering yellow-red torches surrounding. Amidst the panic threatening to send your heart fleeing from your chest, the cold trickle of dread that finds itself curling in your belly, you feel two arms hoist you up and settle you over the back of his wretched steed.

“Gehen wir.”

Then, the darkness turns abyssal.

You only pray your body has truly died of fright when you first wake. There’s no darkness, no scent of blood when your eyelids pry apart to flutter. Water laps over your bare thighs, cold enough to force a shiver up from your feet to the blades of your shoulders. But behind you sits fire, a warmth so comforting you would think you’re rested against a stone bathed in summer sun, if not for the softness.

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, rationalize just what’s happening, until a hand clutching a scrap of cloth maneuvers up from your thigh to your tummy, lathers you in a soap that smells only of pine. It halts, cinches around your waist when you begin to tense, when he knows you’re truly awake. A pond to your front and a man of horror at your back.

There’s sunlight streaming down from above, painting the clouds in gold. There are birds happily singing from the surrounding trees, and other, unseen animals scurrying through fallen leaves. Serene, pretty, and almost comforting when the wind turns course and brings with it the scent of late-ripening fruit. If the reality of your situation were not so dire, perhaps you would have enjoyed it, being here with a man who killed instead of presented your family with a dowry or offered you some pleasant wedding to dine and drink your fill of berry wine at.

“Let me go.” Your voice is a feigned warning, the mocking growl of a mere pup. You imagine he must keep his weapons close, only offering himself the courtesy of cleaning you so your meat doesn’t taste of dirt or lavender oil when he sinks his teeth into it.

“Süss frau,” he mumbles behind you, presses his head into your hair and inhales deeply as your body only grows further rigid. There’s a pause, before he corrects himself. “Meine süss frau.”

It would help if you knew what he was saying, calm your nerves some, maybe, but each word spoken only sounds guttural and instills further fear. You twist in his grip, hissing small curses that would have left your mother in a rage, but he only laughs at your squirming. Then, he tightens his grip as the cloth is dropped into the pond’s glassy water.

“Take me back home,” you continue to urge, placing a trembling hand over the limb pressing your body further back against him. “Please.”

Your small attempt at pleading is met only with his head dropping to the nape of your neck, a kiss pressed against the flesh there. It warms for him, sends a heat spiking up to your cheeks in spite of the way you still suspect he wishes only to rip your throat open with teeth more akin to a devil’s fangs.

You turn your head, intent on spitting right in this monster’s face, but find only a man looking back at you.

There’s a shimmer in his eyes that almost seems playful, a grin so prevalent there it must cause the corners of his mouth to ache. No blood in his teeth, and though the silvery-blue of his eyes seems distant, they are not cold. The goliath who stole you away stinking of blood and innards isn’t present now, and that seems even less of a comfort. He’s even handsome in the strangest way, certainly not the look of nobility, but none of his features are cruel. There’s a boyish charm to him, perhaps he would have the look of a charismatic farmhand or an apprentice of sorts if not for the scarring.

“Won’t hurt you… too pretty,” he assures, burying his face against the side of your neck. But the bastard does, digs his teeth right in and suckles at your skin when you claw at his arm in surprise. It’s not enough to draw drops of blood, but it accentuates the point that he seems to see you as something of his, a possession of sorts.

There’s a messy patch of drool over bruising skin when he pulls away to laugh at the wounded expression upon your face. He apologizes in a huff of breath as he guides you up to stand at his side. His hands linger too long for comfort when they rest along your waist. Your sullen glare only seems to further endear him. Too much, judging by the way the pillar between his legs bounces thick and hard and proud, throbs when you tilt your chin up to meet his gaze and angrily hiss to him about how a man should treat his wife. Cannibal or not, the beast needed to learn some manners.

Fear still edges its way up your spine, but it diminishes more and more as the seconds pass.

He’s no gentleman when he splashes away the remnants of soap from your body, hands grazing over every inch of your bare skin he sees available to touch. Your breast first, weighed up in his palm with the nipple pinched between his index and middle. Emboldened by your hushed protests, he dares to slip his other between your legs, and only then do you force his hands away.

He certainly bears no resemblance to a proper husband when he hoists you over one shoulder to carry you further into the woods and into his shack, either.

It’s barren and ugly, an unsightly wooden structure decorated only with a thin mattress, a table too small, and blades of many forms. The axe sits proudly below the window, astonishingly cleaned of the gore from the night prior. The veil rests above it on the sill, damp from a cleaning that never should have been. You stare at his belongings for a time when you’re placed on your feet, silently judging the array in search of anything to justify the gossip, only to come up short of anything.

He doesn’t even touch you past the bathing in the pond. You’re dressed in a tunic that fits like a dress upon your form: far too big, long and dull to be anything you would normally be seen in. But there are no tailors this far out in the wilderness, though there’s an apologetic promise whispered to you once he sees you in his clothes. He’ll buy you a new dress upon your first visit to town as his wife, several if it pleases you.

The man leaves for a spell, brings you rabbit to clean and prepare, then busies himself stoking up a fire for cooking. His speech is a little broken when he tells you of how long he’s waited to have someone like you here with him, how he never suspected a woman so pretty would be his wife. And you don’t eat when the meat is fully cooked and placed in front of you both. You insist that you only wish to return back home, to hug your mother and tell her that you’re still alive.

That, he takes insult to.

His brow is pinched when he forces you to sit in his lap. He brings the meat to your lips and presses into your cheeks with his free hand to force your mouth open. There’s nothing romantic or cute about it, about him, but you do glumly settle in his hold when the realization does dawn on you that, though his strength is extraordinary, he is only a man and the only harm coming to you would be between your legs.

You’re drug over to the mattress after dinner by a tight hold over your wrist. The fight hasn’t left you, not by a smidge, even when the loose tunic is lifted over your head with shouts of your displeasure and you’re pressed onto your back with the giant watching you curiously from above.

He pins you there, but doesn’t force his hands down to your sex again. He only sighs when he rests his weight next to you and curls in to lie his head over your breasts.

You’re body remains stiff and rigid as a bowstring. His nearness only sends that same swell of heat back from the pond, brings with it the scent of fire smoke and sweat emanating from him. His hair is long and soft, soft as the kisses he places on the plushness of your tit, long as the drag of a callused palm from your hip up to cup the other.

He offers you no warning when his teeth circle over your nipple, holds fast to you when your back arches and your fingers weave into his hair to jerk him away. The worst part about him seemed to be having a penchant for leaving a mark, and the smug grin that crosses his face when he meets the fury in your eyes with the lust-drunk look in his own.

“Was? You don’t like?,” he grumbles, tracing over the marks of his teeth with his thumb, pressing against and smearing his saliva until you feel your back begin to arch and your breathing grow heavy.

“It hurts.”

He stares at you in amazement for a moment, whether surprised you haven’t made an attempt to flee or startled by the lack of a strike to his jaw after such a thing, it mattered not. Your terrible, ignorant “husband” only seems satisfied with your response. He draws back to sit on his knees before you, sliding his hands along each curve and dip of your body until they rest at your ankles.

“Ja… hurts. I will make it better, meine süße.”

He’s no less brazen when he makes a dive toward your womanhood, lips parted in preparation to breathe you in. Or… taste you in full, whichever option was suited for men who were more beasts than men at all. Maybe that was his only feat of cannibalism: licking at women until they were wet and pliant for him to take entirely. You pry him away with a gasp and a quick shift onto your side, demanding that he not touch you any further.

Again, he laughs, curls behind you and shifts his hips to slot the girth of his cock between your thighs, buries his face into your neck once again. You can feel the grin that stretches over his lips against your skin. When the dark envelopes you both, the quiet crackle of the fire in its pit still showing signs of life, he seems content to just cuddle you close.

Exhaustion creeps its way through your limbs, steals the fight from your voice and leaves your eyelids heavy. You consider waiting it out, listening to his breathing deepen and slow to creep away, but his grip is firm around your middle, so strangely comforting that you do allow yourself to relax. Running could wait until the morning sun rose.

[yandere-sins]

Monstober - Day 4: Harpy

I have a strange relationship with harpies. I really like them, especially since they are the mythical equivalent to my favorite animal—vultures—but also I guess they actually manage to horrify me for some reason... Ah, well, luckily I get a chance to write for them in this challenge :D

Prompt: Day 4: Harpy | Cliff // Flying // Illusion Warnings: Yandere, Fem!Reader, Implied Sexual Actions, Violence (Swearing, Implied Murder, Implied Death, Implied Animal Cruelty, Hunting, Animal/Monster Fighting), Monsters + Descriptions of Monsters, Long Post

"Be careful now, young'un. There's harpies roaming these fields."

Resting your head back, you let the hood of your cape free up some of your sight heavenwards. You watched the clamor of harpies flying high above the field you and the mercenary were crossing through. They were so far away they looked like little specks of feathers against the grey skies.

"Fuckin' breeding season. Every year it's the same shit. They just wait for some poor farmer's son to come out and whisk him away, fuck him till he's sucked dry, and eat him afterward."

Your lips curled into a small smile at the sound of the mercenary's foul choice of words. Although you didn't hire him for his raggedness or the threat of some usually easily slain harpies, you began to appreciate his no-shit attitude the longer you traveled together.

"By that logic, wouldn't you be more in danger?" you asked, referring to the difference in gender you two had. If the harpies were lusting after young men, then you, as a woman, had less to fear, you figured. But at the same time, with his grey hair and long beard, he probably wasn't on the dinner schedule either.

"Don't be so sure about that, young'un. I've seen beasts that were clearly lasses but had pricks closer to that of giants than any man has. Likewise, male monsters tend to prefer to hunt scarier prey than frail women like those from the villages where everyone is skin and bones except the workers. And they keep them as trophies and pets, doing unspeakable things to the men—and have the man do things to them. Monsters are not always what they seem."

"Why would they need a human then?" you questioned his words, but the mercenary only shrugged.

"Maybe they find their own as ugly as we think 'em to be."

You grimaced, unsure how to react to that information. You had always been sheltered by your family, not quite royalty, but wealthy enough that you'd be married off against your will unless you escaped far out of their reach. Luckily, your jewels and gold chains had managed to buy you a decent mercenary to help with your plans of running, finding a new home, and a new life far away from the expectancies.

"Why aren't they attacking us then? Surely, they see us."

"My, you have lotsa questions, young'un. You can't rationalize those monsters. Maybe they like other prey. Maybe they are just waiting for the right moment. Don't worry your pretty head off about why or why not, just enjoy not being eaten."

He clicked his tongue, spurning his horse forward, and you followed, worry tensing your back as you looked up again, noticing how the clamor now seemed much closer. You could even see individual feathers in the mass now. It was questionable whether drawing more attention with faster movement was a good idea. Still, you wanted to trust the mercenary and his years of experience.

"We're close now!" he yelled back to you. "Into the forest, and we'll be out of their sight!"

Pushing your heels into the side of your steed, you two fell into a speedy gallop. The hood of your coat kept falling over your eyes, but you tried your best to stay focused and keep up with your guide and protector. All you had to do to overcome this first hurdle was reach the forest, and you were so close to it, you could already smell the wood.

That was until the sudden sound of screams ahead of you made you push your hood off completely, just in time to see the silver of the mercenary's breastplate sparkling in the light as he wildly squirmed in the grasp of an enormous monster. He was yelling loudly, only drowned out by shrieking and cackling. Another feathery creature swooped down, and it was his horse next that was carried off, neighing and crying out helplessly, your breath hitching with panic as you rammed your heels into your own stead.

You were so close to the woods when a massive bird passed by just in front of your horse, the animal rearing upwards. You tried desperately to hold on, but when something gripped the horse by the neck, a sharp claw grazing your face, you lost your hold out of surprise, your body falling freely to the ground while your poor stead was carried off mercilessly.

Your head pounded with pain as it hit the dirty field, your bones aching as they tried to feather your fall. But luckily, you were pumped with adrenaline, sitting up before you even realized how much it hurt, blood dripping from your cheek.

"Hi."

The woman standing before you smiled, her eyes unblinking as her lips curled upwards. Your whole body halted in its tracks, your breath stopping. You felt yourself relax at the sight of her and then stiffen up completely, goosebumps pebbling your skin as you forced yourself to realize this couldn't be. Whatever she was, she wasn't human, appearing so suddenly. Instead, she must have been an illusion of the harpies—one of them.

She was, at best, a few steps away from you, at worse, too close to be able to escape. Her head cocked to the side just a little too far to be natural as she regarded you on the ground with unbreakable calm. The peace of a predator, someone who wasn't worried about getting hurt. Silently, you cursed your family for denying you to learn how to wield a sword or dagger. Any kind of self-defense, really. "It wouldn't be necessary," well, now it was. There were no signs of the chaos that had just unfolded, the sounds reduced to the wind softly swaying through the early sprigs of oats growing on the fields.

Don't answer, you cautioned yourself, knowing the best survival tactics when dealing with monsters was not dealing with monsters. You were already pretty vulnerable to the creature as it was; you didn't need to agitate her.

"Clever, are we?" she said, her lips splitting to reveal the teeth of the creatures you were most afraid of all of a sudden. Apparently, the harpies were not disinterested in you, something the mercenary probably hadn't thought about as he led you directly through their flock.

"And so pretty," the harpy chirped, her eyes raking over you as she cocked her head to the other side in a snap. "Want to go to the forest? You can."

Suspicion raised inside of you at her offer. Letting you go so easily? Even if she didn't want to take you away for mating, shouldn't her kind be interested in eating you?

"You'll let me go?" you asked, only realizing your mistake when it was too late, and you slammed your hand over your mouth. The harpies grin only widened, her mouth tearing open unnaturally wide.

"Yes, you can go. A darling girl like you shouldn't be around my sisters. They'd love to taste you."

Your chest was heaving heavily with panic as she spoke. You heard her coo sweetly as she watched you, her gaze dropping from your face all the way to your legs as if she were trying to rip you open and spill your guts with just her eyes. Delighted by the sight, hungry. And you felt so vulnerable under the scrutiny, her eyes on you beyond any look anyone had ever given you, dripping with her full attention and desire.

"Come back sometimes, okay? Let's play together? You're so pretty..."

You gulped. Never before had you heard the tale of a harpy letting someone go because they thought they were pretty. You dared to glance by her, looking at the woods that waited for you behind her form. It was so close, perhaps ten footsteps away, before you breached the edge of the forest.

With your breath escaping you, you staggered to your feet, trying to always keep your eyes on her. You stopped mid-movement as you heard the shuffling of her clothes. Clothes that you realized weren't from fabric at all. Just her convincingly placed feathers. It was scary how well she could imitate an ordinary woman if not for her sharp mannerisms and the way she fixated on you strangely. However, someone less aware and less familiar with the threat of harpies could have easily overlooked these features. Fallen for her illusion that only now started to dissolve as she began reacting to you.

Her wings appeared like a brown dress on her, with a mantle over her shoulders to cover up her lack of arms. Her legs were hidden well beneath the "skirt," and her brown locks perfectly framed what could pass as a pretty face in the city you were from. That was until she opened her mouth to shatter that facade.

"What?" she asked. "Do you think I'm pretty, too?"

It felt wrong to agree and give her more of your time than necessary. If she was well-disposed now, you didn't want to draw her ire. But at the same time, not answering seemed like it would cause her mood to sour, too. This time, instead of speaking, you nodded hesitantly, then firmly.

"Ah, I'm glad!" she hooted, and her "clothes" fluttered with excitement, feathers spreading outwards and destroying the illusion of her wings being garments. Something changed right before your eyes, but you couldn't pinpoint it. Even so, you were no longer fooled by her looks. She really was a monster before all else.

"Go," she cooed, leaning forward and hovering above you, her body now appearing much taller than before. "Before I keep you all to myself, you sweet, sweet thing."

Slowly, avoiding harsh movements, you finally came to a complete stand, realizing you were still at least three heads smaller than the harpy. You wouldn't let her out of your sight, and neither did she, you, as you began rounding her at a respectable distance. It wasn't enough distance to make you feel comfortable, as she could probably close it faster than anything else you knew. But it was your best bet.

She lets me go, just like that? you thought, still in disbelief. Feels like a trap.

But soon enough, your back was turned to the forest. A forest that, presumably, would keep you safe from the harpies if the words of the dead mercenary could still be trusted. He misjudged the situation once, but what were you supposed to do? Between the trees, you at least had the size advantage. Her wings fluttered again as she watched, cocking her head, hooting softly. Not moving from her spot.

Five more steps.

Four.

Three—

Your attention snapped away from her the second you heard the shriek of another monster approaching you from the side. You tumbled to the ground, feeling the force of the gust of wind its wings produced as you were thrown further away from the forest and onto the field, claws scratching you, ripping wounds into your sides. There was a match of voices as even more shrieking and hissing erupted, and you buried face down into the mud, shielding your head with your arms as movement and sounds accumulated right above you.

There must have been more than two harpies fighting above you, but you couldn't determine how many there were from your position. All you knew was that their claws sliced through the air just above your back, every one of them trying to get to you. Every one so close to hurting you—or worse.

"MINE!" one of them roared, and more shrieking occurred as a heavy, clawed foot landed on top of your back, pinning you to the dirty ground and pushing the air out of your lungs. "SHE'S MINE!"

The protest was apparent in the cacophony of sounds directed at the harpy above you, but the tumultuous movements slowly disappeared, only one body remaining. And suddenly, everything went dark, the foot on top of you slipping off until two feet were stomped into the ground on each of your sides.

You dared open your eyes again, trying to see what had happened and gauge how dead you were, but it was way too dark to see. A shudder went through what was blocking out the light, feathers fluttering aside just enough to let a spot of light in and show you were still on the dirty field. It made you realize that something was above you, shielding and enveloping you with its body.

"MINE!" the harpy shrieked again, the sound not directed at you, but it still shook your bones. "Mine," she repeated, this time calmer. You couldn't see, couldn't hear what was going on outside. But when her voice calmed, you could finally recognize it as that of the harpy you had spoken to. Even if her shrieks and caws were barely discernable to you, her voice remained the same.

She squawked a few more times into the direction of who knows where, your nerves completely blank as they couldn't get accustomed to the sounds, but now that the situation was calming down, the pain set in again, and you cursed it, willing it away only for it to blow up again inside of you.

Groaning, you braced yourself onto your arms, trying to lift from the ground, only to be met with the sharp sting of your sliced-up side. The wound was deeper than it had felt at first, and you let out a pitiful howl as you agitated it accidentally. You reckoned that your body was not okay after that attack, and you couldn't fathom how anyone could survive and mate these creatures when their claws did so much damage easily.

Turning onto your healthy side was the only thing you could think of to alleviate the pain temporarily, although the movement hurt so much more than if you had remained on your stomach.

"Oh no," the harpy cooed from above, and you spared her a glance from the one eye that was turned upwards. Her wings unfolded from each other, opening enough for her twisted neck to see through the gap, letting in some light and exposing her grotesque but real form. The legs of a bird, feathery and gnarly, the torso of a woman, and the face was a mix of both. No arms, just wings sprouting from her shoulders, and her hair a mess of feathers and twigs, nothing like the beautiful illusion she had shown you before.

"Poor, poor girl," she hooted, her expression ever so slightly drawing together in a meager display of unhappiness. "My sisters are so mean, aren't they? You were just trying to go to the forest."

You didn't acknowledge her with words as you bit your lip to stifle another sorrowful moan. Still, your body contorted, causing you to cry out in pain.

The harpy moved around you, circling you as she watched you restlessly, sweat and tears falling from your face as you couldn't even stop the bleeding with your hands full of grime and dirt. She danced around you awkwardly, keeping her wings up like a shield but letting in enough light to watch.

"You can't go like this now, can you? Can you? Poor, poor, pretty thing."

You heard her sigh, sounding oddly human, then she leaned down, poking you with the top of her wing where the bone spread to form the limb. Shockwaves of pain went through you as she agitated the wound by moving you, and you sobbed into the dirt, not knowing what to do. You couldn't communicate with her, couldn't tell her to fetch you a doctor. But if you stayed here like this, you'd probably be eaten sooner rather than later, and not unlikely by her.

Even as you cried, you used what little strength you had to sit up. The pain was unbearable, even as you clenched your jaws together tightly. But you were grateful when you felt one of her wings sweep beneath your back, helping you up even if it hurt.

"I need to stand up," you explained through sobs and cries of pain, and she hooted in understanding, lending you the firm part of her wings again to hold onto. She wasn't very deft in how much strength of hers you needed to be supported, but she tried to help—she, a monster. The situation was beyond strange and unimaginable, yet you almost felt some gratitude towards her.

"I need..." you gasped as you finally got to your legs. Pain was stealing your air, your mind twirling, and every thought getting more challenging to form. You stumbled backward, but her body caught you, steadied yours with hers. Dizziness raked at your conscience, the blood loss taking its toll. "A doctor. I need... a doctor..."

"Doctor?" she hooted questioningly. "What's a doctor?"

"A human who helps... injured humans. Medizin..."

"Huh?" With her elongated neck, she could easily look at your face even from behind you, but you didn't dare to look up to see how unnaturally she twisted her head back and forth, as she didn't understand. It wasn't that far off that harpies probably didn't help each other heal. They seemed more of the... cannibalistic type when one of them was weak.

"I need... help. I'm sick."

"Oh."

Finally, she seemed to understand, but unfortunately, instead of helping, she seemed deep in thought when the ground suddenly shook, and you had to grasp her wing tightly to keep your balance.

"Not fair!" another creature squawked, the sound almost shattering your eardrums coming from right in front of you. The ground shook even more as more of them landed, confronting their sister and you.

"Not fair! We want the human, too!"

"No!" the harpy at your back barked at them. "She's mine."

"She's not your mate!" they complained. "She's weak and bleeding! As good as dead!"

The harpies fell into a cacophony of chants, some saying "Dead Human!" in unison while the others shrieked, "Eat! Eat! Eat!"

"NO!" the harpy bellowed, shutting the others up fast. You were shocked by the vibrations of her body at your back, but it almost made you smile a little. What a stupid monster without a reason to be this protective. And yet she kept fighting for you.

"Then... she's a mate?" one of the harpies asked, sounding at her wit's end. The other hooted along to the statement, questioning your protector.

"Yes," she announced firmly, and this time, you did wrench your head upwards. She met your gaze with resolution, adding, "She's my mate. I have decided."

"Wha—?" you managed to wring out when one of her feet suddenly dug beneath your arms, clawed toes wrapping around your upper torso. You groaned in pain even though they didn't touch the wound directly as she placed them with intentions, but before you could complain, your feet lifted up from the ground, and you were just beneath the clouds faster than you could speak.

"Wait!" you screamed, struggling only to be hit with more pain.

"Where are you bringing me?" you asked, much quieter now that the situation finally dawned on you. The harpy tugged her legs in, supporting you with the free one beneath your thighs and giving you a place to sit on while also smushing you lightly against her feathery bottoms.

"To the nest. You said you are hurt, so I must clean your wounds, mate. Need to find herbs and food for you. Maybe there's some left from the hunt earlier. Flesh. You are too skinny."

"But... I'm not even your mate! We're both girls!" you complained heavenward, and she clucked, almost as if she was laughing.

"That makes no difference. You are my mate, I have decided."

"Do I get a chance to decide?" you whined, and for a moment, her wings stopped beating, the flight turning into a glide.

Her neck twisted, face turning back to look at you, and your wounds pounded angrily as her grip tightened.

"You are wounded. Do you want to be eaten?"

You gulped. That sounded much like your previous assumptions that harpies were not usually taken on duties to care for others.

"N-No?" you answered truthfully, but it sounded like a question anyway. Perhaps death was better than whatever "mate" was.

Seemingly satisfied with your answer, she turned forward again, resuming her flight.

"Then you are my mate now. You'll like the nest. We can soften it together, and then we can create young. You'll stay there and heal, and I'll bring you food and gather pretty things for my pretty mate."

She looked down again, and her lips split in an upside-down grin, so very similar to that of her human form. She seemed almost... happy. You swallowed hard as she revealed her plans, unable to come up with anything that would change her mind and not drop you from this height. What else was there but to comply with her—for now? Maybe once you were healed and back on steady ground, you could escape her and still make the run you had planned to make anyway. Just now, you had your own family and a monster gnawing at your heels. At least you'd be safe for now, you hoped.

Hearing no complaints from you, her grin widened even more, feathers puffing as if she was proud of her accomplishments.

"My mate," she cooed, and the clouds cleared up, revealing the sundown over the ocean, a couple hundred more harpies squealing and screeching beneath you as you two made your way towards the cliffside. It was too close to the city you used to live in. Back to point zero, now with an additional struggle to manage. But at least here, they'd have a hard time finding you and perhaps an even harder time retrieving you while you could plan your next moves.

It wasn't what you had imagined when you ran away, but you'd have to do with it for now.

Your new home.

[paranoiddreams]

Sukuna the secret softie (HC)

Sukuna is a powerful curse, and a merciless king. So when he starts to fall in love, he feels terrified, which in turn makes him even more terrified. Could he feel such emotions before?

Heian era!Sukuna x fem!reader

Warnings! - the slightest big suggestive lolz, fluff that makes my heart bleed :), Sukuna is emotionally constipated :P, kinda short :/

A/n! - This is my first time posting for jjk so pls be nice lol. I haven’t finished the anime/manga so this might be a lil ooc, but who cares😗. Anyways, I’m going crazy I need him :333!!!1!11!

- He’s secretly such a softie

- He is clingy, and touch starved, and probably doesn’t often have feelings for women past lust.

- But then he meets y/n and everything changes in an instant

- He easily makes her blush, and go silent, and yet he���ll feel his cursed heart twitch a little everytime :3

- Laughs a lot, because he’s actually a humorous guy!! Even if some, or most, people don’t find his humor…humor.

- And have you heard his laugh omfg it makes me wanna cu—

- Will make y/n shy on purpose, but is just as easily flustered by her.

- He doesn’t blush (he’s dead, therefore no blood flow for big papa) but he does have telltale signs that he’s a big flustered mess

- If he’s in his true form (yk with the four arms n shit) he’ll unconscious wrap the lower set around his waist and turn away with an ‘angry’ expression

- In reality, y/n probably just smiled at him, or said his hair looked cute that day, and he was in shambles.

- At first, Sukuna denies denies denies his feelings for y/n

- But then when she starts coming around more, and he starts learning more about her personality, it gets harder and harder to just pretend away his awfully human-like feelings

- It made him feel stupid

- And that’s what he told y/n when he confessed during a heated moment of panic

- They were in the village, looking around the farmers market for fresh food. Of course, since he’s da king🙌🏼👑, they give him, and the lady by his side, everything for free.

- But Sukuna being Sukuna, he didn’t want to be perceived as broke in front of his GIRL

- EVEN IF HE DENIES THAT SHES HIS GIRL OUT OF FEAR!

- So he turned to pay for everything with an extra tip (just for y/n bc she’s watching), but when he turned back she wasn’t there anymore

- The crowd swelled, and the King of Curses was hit with the realization that she could’ve been swept up into the bustling weekend rush, or an enemy from far lands has come to take the only person he’s ever been close with after death.

- He demanded that everyone halt with a deep, commanding voice, and of course they did as he said.

- He could hear a pin drop, it was so quiet.

- But then, he saw y/n and her adorable doe eyes looking up at him with confusion.

- When everyone went back to normal he was rendered speechless. If this was anyone else, he would’ve killed them.

- But when she whispers a little:

- “You okay, Kuna?”

- All of his fear and anger melts away.

- “No because I care for you, and it’s terrifying.”

- He doesn’t even know why he said that, so suddenly too, but that fear of losing y/n was paralyzing—even if it was just for a second.

- But by the end of the day, Sukuna was glad he admitted it, because it felt like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders.

- From that moment on he and y/n were, if it was even possible, even more inseparable.

- It was safe to say that that was the day y/n because Sukuna’s official Queen, and he her king<3

DISCLAIMER!! I do not own any characters from the Anime/Manga Jujutsu Kaisen. This is purely written for entertainment purposes.

[quitealotofsodapop]

Sun Wukong is such a cool character across the board since if you genderbent the character - very little would change other than the reactions of those around them.

LMK: Same character. Only difference is brief confusion from MK and Tang, who adjust their pronouns when speaking of Dawn accordingly. Relationship with Macaque unchanged.

Hero is Back: Short red hair, chewing on hay, tall af? Thats half the butch farmers in my county. Liuer has a brief moment of "The Great Sage is a woman?" before going straight back to fanboying about how cool Dasheng is. Zhu Bajie is likely shocked and appalled that he was defeated by a woman - tho still shoots his shot. Attract does not work on Dasheng. Story accidentally becomes a tale of a mother sacrificing her life to protect her son, and ends with the son sacrificing himself to protect his new mother.

Reborn: Still a chaotic hissing gremlin of a monkey. Brief moment of funny where the very feminine Taoist acolytes misgender Smokey as male since she still looks the same. Zhu Bajie hesistates to hit on Smokey (despite her very convincingly diguising herself as his wife during his recruitment), since she terrifies him. Smokey still arises from their false death cloaked in blue flame and lava. And still mourns the loss of Fruitie.

NewGods: Bigger plot twist of Ace's identity. No one has figured out her identity for so long (including Ao Guang) cus they all assumed SWK was a guy. Still a giggling, gambling lush. Yunxiang: "Hey whos this drunken, half-dressed old lady offerring to train me in exchange for a motorbike- oh sweet Buddha she's the Monkey King."

1999/2000 Cartoon: Sugar is already femme af. No change.

Netflix: Little character change, though Cherry's story would indirectly become a glass ceiling situation with the Immortals. Men can become immortal by killing lots of evil demons (source: Erlang & Hou Yi), but women gotta suffer (source: Guanyin). Bonus girl bonding with Lin.

Smash Legends: Starfruit leans into gender stereotypes for the views. Goes full tiktok e-girl with her asethetic. Would form punk girl band with Goldie.

And lets not forget how many live-action Sun Wukongs are played by women actors and/or stuntwomen.

Gender bending their Macaques also do not change much. Basically these monkeys could be any gender indentity and still be themselves

[fictionadventurer]

In Emma, the incident that sparks the story isn't a death or a loss of fortune or even someone new coming to town. It's a wedding. A happy event, usually the end of a story. But I like how this acknowledges that even a happy event like a wedding can bring its own kind of sorrow. Emma's happy for Miss Taylor, but she still mourns the way that her life has to change. Marriage can massively alter social circles, especially for women, taking them away from the home sphere and into a new life, and forcing the people they leave behind to deal with the loss. Here, it's a good change, but it's still a change.

Emma's in a unique position among Austen heroines. She's got money, a comfortable home, a loving father who would prefer she stay in his household for the rest of her life. She doesn't have to consider matrimony as a business arrangement the way some heroines have to. If she marries, it's going to be almost solely for companionship.

Because that's the one thing Emma lacks. She's lonely. She loves her father, but he's not someone she can engage with socially or intellectually. She ranks above everyone in town, so there's no one who can be on an equal level with her. Her father won't travel, so she can't get involved in social events with people who are of her rank and happen to live a little further out. Her attachment to Harriet is a desperate attempt to create a companion of her own social rank, and then marry her to Elton so she can remain in Emma's social circle. Mrs. Martin would be just another farmer's wife who sits below Emma's level; Mrs. Elton can be her equal.

But we can't overlook the fact that Emma makes the situation worse through snobbery. She's not only of a higher social rank than the people around her--she feels herself superior to them. Her father has plenty of friends, but to her, Mrs. Goddard and Miss Bates are just "prosy old ladies". Which is fine--they're more of her father's age, not hers. But it does indicate a wider personality problem. There's more than a hint of Mr. Darcy about the way she goes about detaching Harriet from Mr. Martin because he's so "coarse and vulgar", and trying to raise her up to Emma's standards of what's acceptable.

So, anyway, Emma's uniquely positioned in a story where friends-to-lovers has to be the character arc. And in the process, she's got to overcome her sense of superiority that makes it so difficult for her to classify people as friends.

[city-of-ladies]

Genmei (661-721) was Japan's fourth empress regnant. She was Empress Jitō's half-sister and her match in terms of ambition and political skills. Her rule was characterized by a development of culture and innovations. 

Ruling after her son

Like Jitō (645-703), Genmei was the daughter of Emperor Tenji but was born from a different mother. Jitō was both her half-sister and mother-in-law since Genmei had married the empress’ son, Prince Kusakabe (662-689). She had a son with him, Emperor Monmu (683-707). 

Kusakabe died early and never reigned, which led to Jitō's enthronement. The empress was then succeeded by her grandson Monmu. The latter’s reign was short. In his last will, he called for his mother to succeed him in accordance with the “immutable law” of her father Tenji. Genmei accepted. 

Steadfast and ambitious 

Genmei was made from the same mold as her half-sister. She proved to be a fearless sovereign, undeterred by military crises. 

She pursued Jitō's policies, strengthening the central administration and keeping the power in imperial hands. Among her decisions were the proscription of runaway peasants and the restriction of private ownership of mountain and field properties by the nobility and Buddhist temples. 

Another of her achievements was transferring the capital at Heijō-kyō (Nara) in 710, turning it into an unprecedented cultural and political center. Her rule saw many innovations. Among them were the first attempt to replace the barter system with the Wadō copper coins, new techniques for making brocade twills and dyeing and the settlement of experimental dairy farmers.

A protector of culture

Genmei sponsored many cultural projects. The first was the Kojiki, written in 712 it told Japan’s history from mythological origins to the current rulers. In its preface, the editor Ō no Yasumaro praised the empress:

“Her Imperial Majesty…illumines the univers…Ruling in the Purple Pavillion, her virtue extends to the limit of the horses’ hoof-prints…It must be saif that her fame is greater than that of Emperor Yü and her virtue surpasses that of Emperor Tang (legendary emperors of China)”.

In 713, she ordered the local governments to collect local legends and oral traditions as well as information about the soil, weather, products and geological and zoological features. Those local gazetteers (Fudoki) were an invaluable source of Japan’s ancient tradition.

Several of Genmei’s poems are included in the Man'yōshū anthology, including a reply by one of the court ladies. 

Listen to the sounds of the warriors' elbow-guards;

Our captain must be ranging the shields to drill the troops.

– Genmei Tennō

Reply:

Be not concerned, O my Sovereign;

Am I not here,

I, whom the ancestral gods endowed with life,

Next of kin to yourself

– Minabe-hime

From mother to daughter 

Genmei abdicated in 715 and passed the throne to her daughter, empress Genshō (680-748) instead of her sickly grandson prince Obito. This was an unprecedented situation, making the Nara period the pinnacle of female monarchy in Japan. 

Genmei would oversee state affairs until she died in 721. Before her death, she shaved her head and became a nun, becoming the first Japanese monarch to take Buddhist vows and establishing a long tradition.

Feel free to check out my Ko-Fi if you like what I do! Your support would be greatly appreciated.

Further reading

Shillony Ben-Ami, Enigma of the Emperors Sacred Subservience in Japanese History

Tsurumi Patricia E., “Japan’s early female emperors”

Aoki Michiko Y., "Jitō Tennō, the female sovereign",in: Mulhern Chieko Irie (ed.), Heroic with grace legendary women of Japan

[ghostboneswrites2]

Maybe, Possibly, One Day.

Summary: All the years that went by before Daryl realized you loved him.

Pairing: Reader!Greene x Daryl Dixon

Era: Starts at the Greene Farm, ends at the Commonwealth

Genre: survival, comfort, falling in love

Word count: roughly 2800

Warnings: TWD typical violence, character death, grief

        The first time he saw you, you were tending his wounds. His eyelids had barely parted, so little that you couldn’t tell he was awake. The gunshot barely missed him, just grazing over the side of his head. You couldn’t help but think about the scar it would leave. You felt bad for him, always searching tirelessly for that lady’s little girl and getting hurt in the process. 

        The bullet graze was oddly the least of his worries, though. The bolt that pierced through his abdomen may not have caused too much internal bleeding, but it was already nasty and oozing with pus. Your daddy made comments about going through the antibiotics so fast, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t bare to see another person die, not after so many had gone.

        Through the slivers of his nearly shut eyes, he followed you around the bed. He watched you check his bandages, clean his wounds, rewrap him carefully. He took note of your gentleness. Hershel, Patricia, Beth, Maggie — they all had careful hands. You, however, were the most gentle and tender person he’d ever been touched by. You were so afraid of hurting him, even when you thought he was out cold. He couldn’t help but admire your softness, even if it meant you might not be cut out for the world.

        He’d take notice of you after that. He never really did before, honestly. You were just one of the farmer’s daughters he’d met in passing, nothing more. After he was back on his feet, though, you’d catch his eye often. You were young. Younger than Maggie, older than Beth. He knew he couldn’t look at you that way. You know, the way that encouraged lingering gazes and any excuse to brush a finger against yours. No, he instead opted to look at you as someone to protect.

        He told himself if things went bad, if the farm went up in flames and the dead were chomping their jaws at every turn, he’d look for you. He’d make sure you made it out of there, because you deserved that. And so, he did. When the farm was burning to ash, when walkers plagued the land and took out so many of your people, he looked for you. He found you, after Carol was already on the back of his bike. 

        He would have thought you were a walker had he not recognized your frame from behind. You were dragging your feet slowly, traumatized and exhausted from the events of that night. He slowed his motorcycle beside you and called to you. “Get on.” 

        There wasn’t exactly much room, and you found yourself hugging tight around Carol to prevent you from slipping off the back. Carol had to hold Daryl tighter to avoid slipping off with you. And there he was, chauffeuring two women he’d allowed himself to care for to safety, or some semblance of such, at least. 

        That night was a blur. You lost a lot. Everything, really, except the remainder of your family and your newfound friends. 

        The winter on the road wasn’t much easier. You had all learned to operate as a team, tactical and careful. Silence became your best friend. 

        Sometimes you’d find yourself staring at people, reading them, appreciating them for who they were. Daryl wasn’t exempt from this habit. You’d always been an observer, reading people well. You could tell he was a tad softer to you and Carol than the others. Sometimes he’d make sure you got the canned food you liked if he could save it for you. Sometimes he’d just give you that knowing look and remind you that he understood, that you weren’t alone. 

        He wasn’t chatty, not even when the prison became home. Still, he made time for Carol and you sometimes. He’d bring back a little trinket for you or a flower for Carol. They were tokens of his appreciation to you both, two soft souls who reminded him he could be soft too.

        When the prison fell, when he lost Beth, he had given up hope. After the Claimers, when he found Rick again, he reasoned it couldn’t be that bad. Things could finally look up for him and his family, maybe, one day.

        Terminus seemed too good to be true, because it was. The one good thing, he was reunited with most of his family, and especially you. When he saw you in that train car, when he heard your voice, he couldn’t stop himself from embracing you. It wasn’t a long intimate hug, but it was tight and secure and you felt something when he did it. That was the beginning of something, but neither of you knew it yet.

        After Beth died, morale was at an all time low. Days blended together without food or water. You barely had the strength to keep walking. Daryl was a shell of himself after the events at Grady. You took notice but you didn’t pry. You did, however, sneak off after him once. It was one of many times he’d break away from the group and meet them back on the road. You had begun to think he had the right idea. It was exhausting carrying on with everyone in the street, trying to keep your mind set on survival instead of the image of your little sisters brains splattering all over you. 

        You followed him quietly, albeit not quiet enough to go unnoticed. You didn’t have the skill he had when it came to stepping perfectly on the crunchy leaves to not make a sound. It peeved him a little, truth be told. He went out to think of Beth, to cry, to let himself feel something finally. When he found a suitable spot to sit, he did, with no regard for your presence. You sat too, against a tree just a few feet away from him. 

        You enjoyed the silence of the forest. The sounds of nature and critters around you was second nature at that point. You didn’t even register it. You did, however, notice the two shoelaces tied around Daryl’s pants at the bottom. They were different colors, dirty and worn, and the familiarity brought a constricting feeling to your chest and throat. 

        “Are those hers?” You croaked, barely above a whisper. He glanced down at them, and looked over to you. His eyes were glossy and sad. He nodded and pressed his lips together tight, tears aching to burst through the damn of numbness he’d confined them behind. You sniffled and let out a quiet sob. The weight of your pain was too much for his hardened shell to bare. It cracked under the pressure, knowing he failed you, knowing he failed Beth, knowing she was gone and she wouldn’t have been had they not separated. It was just another tragedy to bare the burden of, just another notch on his belt. He broke. He cried. So did you. 

        You were the first to pull yourself together. When you stood and walked over to him, he looked up at you. It was a pleading, helpless look. Maybe it was forgiveness or comfort or something in between that he was begging you for. You didn’t know. But you crouched down beside him and curled up right there on the forest floor, laying your head in his lap and sharing your grief with him. It was like you gave him some of your own sadness and took a little of his in return. It was a lot to shoulder, so you’d do it together. 

        He flattened his legs as his knees were originally up toward his chest. Your head fit perfectly on his thigh. It was comfortable. You didn’t look at him. Your eyes were far away and spaced out. He watched you, though. He took in all of you. The imperfections on your soft skin, the layer of sweat that seemed to permanently coat your face and enhance your radiance. He saw the way your hair stuck down to your clammy flesh, the flush of redness from heat and sunlight. He watched your breathe and familiarized himself with the pace of your breaths. He admired you, much like he always had, but somehow it was deeper than before. 

        He found himself placing a hand on your side, and the other found the top of your head. He didn’t rub you in delicate circles or anything too affectionate. Just touching you felt like such new territory, but he was there. The weight of his still hands on your body was enough. You felt as whole as you could feel given the circumstances. 

        “C’mon.” He’d whisper after maybe fifteen minutes. “Can’t let ‘em get too far ahead.” 

        You stood and offered him a hand, which he only took to be polite. He didn’t use you to hoist himself to his feet, he used his own strength. 

        At Alexandria, when you all slept on the floor of the living room, he was the last to shut down for the night. He picked a spot close to you. Close enough to hear your breathing, but not close enough to draw attention or touch you. 

        He searched for you when the wolves attacked. He looked for you when he came back from recruiting with Aaron to let you know he was back home and safe. He’d find you when you were missing from dinner. He skipped gatherings with you. He grew fond of you in a way he hadn’t for anyone else. 

        He didn’t kiss or compliment you. Hell, it wasn’t so romantic at all, really. He’d just get that fluttery feeling when you stood close enough to touch shoulders, or when you’d both look each other in the eye and communicate silently. You always understood each other.

        Your company was peaceful and welcome. You were soft and kind, sure. But, you weren’t weak. The only thing you’d never done that others had to do was kill someone, and that time was sure to come when the situation called for it. That day would come sooner than either of you thought.

        You went out on a hunt with him once. Your duties at Alexandria were fulfilled for the day and you decided to tag along for some much needed peace that could only be found when you were alone with him in the woods.

        There weren’t many tracks to follow that day, so you spent a lot of the time just wandering with him. He normally would turn back when he realized there was little chance of finding food. This time, though, you were there, and he could tell you needed the escape, so he accompanied you in your stroll and pretended to search for signs of edible life.

          A snap in the bushes drew both your attention in the direction it came from. Daryl’s crossbow raised, your knife in hand. You suspected either a walker or an animal, never a group of rugged men dressed in rags and muck. 

        The men circled you both, outnumbering you by three more. They reeked of dirt, sweat, and blood. They eyed you with a predatory passion, the kind that a woman feared coming from a man. As hard as you fought, you and Daryl were no match for them. Daryl managed to take one out, you managed to injure another, but the other three managed to overpower you both. 

        One held you both at gunpoint while the other two went to gather some wood for a fire. Whatever they had planned for you, it wouldn’t be good. They intended on keeping you both for the night, that much was clear, but past that you were uncertain. While the other two were away, and the man you injured was wallowing in pain, the guy keeping watch over the two of you with a rifle was making sure Daryl understood just how angry he was at him for killing one of theirs. 

        You’d scream and beg him to stop but the man beat Daryl down nonetheless. Eventually Daryl stopped fighting, the pain becoming overwhelming and the fear that retaliation would result in harm coming your way creeping at the back of his mind. 

        Still, you begged, and when the man didn’t stop, you scanned your surroundings for anything of use. Your eyes landed on a gray rock with jagged edges. You glanced over at the man who was still kicking Daryl into the ground, then down at Daryl, who was watching you with a knowing look. His eyes said everything that needed to be said. He was telling you to do it. 

        Without a second thought you rushed over to the stone and ran up behind the barbarian, slamming the rock into the back of his bald head. The man stumbled and grabbed his skull, but he hadn’t gone down. You gripped the rock tightly once again and smashed him in the temple. He fell to the ground with a thud, but he was still moving, and that meant you weren’t done yet. You couldn’t be. 

         You climbed over him and straddled him, raising the rock high above your head with both hands, and brought it down on his face. You weren’t really sure if it worked. You had never killed anyone before — let alone in such a brutal fashion — so you kept going. Hoisting the heavy stone up and bringing it back down as hard as you could. By the time you stopped to catch your breath, the man’s face was smashed in, non recognizable. Blood and brain matter were speckled all over you. 

        You looked at the rock in your hands with horror and dropped it to the ground, scrambling away from the body in disgust. You were panting, hyperventilating.  When Daryl finally pushed his aching body off the ground he rushed over to you.

         His face was bloody and bruised, but you were his main focus. He dragged you to your feet and pulled you back toward home, all the while replaying the events of the day in his mind. 

        He always knew he’d kill for you. Hell, he’d die for you. But he never thought you’d do the same for him. He didn’t think you could. He didn’t believe you should have had to. He was meant to protect you, to keep your pretty skin free from the gore. He may have failed at that, but he did learn something: you’d kill for him.

        He didn’t forget that, either. Not when he helped you clean up that night, not when he relayed the events to Rick and Deanna, not when months passed and it was all in the past. He was reminded time and time again what you’d do for him. When you killed Saviors, when the war was over, when Rick died and you made sure to stay for days at a time with Daryl at his camp in the woods. 

         It took him years to realize it, but he thought maybe you could love him. He thought maybe he loved you too. He thought, no matter what, he’d always find you, and you him. 

        After the Whisperers were gone, at the Commonwealth, between caring for Judith and RJ, he’d find as much time for you as he could. And one night, at your small apartment, he’d stand outside the door, playing with his fingers and gnawing at his cheeks until he took a deep breath of courage and knocked.

        You’d open the door and smile at him the way you always did. Soft and subtle, but real. You’d step to the side and let him in. He’d follow you to the kitchen where you’d pour a drink for you both. He’d take a sip, then two, maybe three. He’d wait for the buzz to set in enough to gain some confidence in himself. Then, he’d find himself staring at you, taking you in as everything that you were. You’d ask him, “What?” With an awkward giggle. You’d wonder if you had something on your face that he couldn’t look away from. 

        He’d shake his head and shrug, unsure if he could find the words to articulate what he was thinking or feeling. He never had a way with words. 

        He couldn’t find the right thing to say, he’d realize. But he did think he knew what to do instead. 

        So, in the midst of the thick silence that consumed you both, in your dimly lit kitchen, he’d step closer to you. You’d stare up at him. He’d get close enough that you could feel his soft breaths tickle the baby hairs on your forehead. He’d reach up, slowly, unsteady, until his hands found your jaw. Then, he’d lean down, and his lips would find yours. 

Masterlist // Taglist

tags: @kissmeunicornbaobei @thesadcatt0 @clairealeehelsing @duckybird101 @tmntfixationxreader @ryoujoking @blackvelveteen1339 @yondus-girl @ladylincoln @sunshinebug9 @saylum559 @yoowhatthefuck @duffmckagansbandana @celtic-crossbow @virginsexgod69 @dazzling-roaring-20s @l0kilaufeys0n7 @uhnanix

Divider credits can be found on my masterlist!

[serpentface]

Hibrides at the annual Rites to Anaemache on the Brilla River, checking to make sure she's doing this right. (Feat. a rather docile captive-bred leucistic hespaean, which has no fucking idea that it's a valuable offering and is about to die).

The hand position here is one of three key gestures against evil, a basic method of self-purification that can dispel minor evils, in this case being used to purify oneself before entering the sanctified riverbank.

Under normal conditions, yearly festivals are held during the peak of the dry season throughout Imperial Wardin, taking place at one or more temples to Anaemache that can be found on the banks of each major river. Anaemache is the Face of God that looks upon fresh water, rivers, rains, seasonal flooding, cyclic fertility, fertility of wild plants, the fertility of crops, female fertility, and pregnancies.

The rites have a set date at each temple (which may differ across the region due to variance in the average timing of the wet season), and take place over a full day, from one sunrise to the next.

The rites have a dual function. It takes place at the height of the dry season to encourage the return of the rains and the health of the river via the mass offerings that occur, and to impart Anaemache's blessings onto attendants. Most attendees are women, though farmers and other agricultural laborers will often attend regardless of gender. It is considered ideal for all women of marriageable age (a category which includes young girls who have reached menarche) to attend yearly to ensure their fertility, but this often lengthy journey is impractical for the average person to take every year, and in practice most women who attend for personal fertility matters are those who are pregnant or actively seeking pregnancy.

Most bring offerings to the river, the most basic of which can be grains, fruits, spices, or flowers (it must be a seasonal growth, ideally one that requires the rains to occur), and the best of which are sacred animals to Anaemache such as the reed duck or hespaean. Sacrificial stock vendors will often set up camp near the river temples (though are banned from temple grounds) at this time of year to hawk live animals to pilgrims, which can be a very lucrative job when done correctly. Other vendors will sell dried flowers, grains, spices and fruit for the same purposes (a less lucrative but often more stable job).

Offerings of plant matter are cast into the river directly by the pilgrims, while animal offerings are brought to a temple priest (usually set up downriver to the rest of the crowd, they must remain in the river from the start of the rites to the end) to be properly sacrificed. The animal must first be blessed and invoked as Anaemache Itself (as it is replicating God's sacrifice in creation and becomes It at the moment of death). The act is done with a quick and deep slice across the throat, allowing all of the blood to flow directly into the river. A priest will anoint the offerer's tongue with a single droplet- the animal has become the River Face of God and its blood imparts a strong blessing, taken into the body for the effects to become physical and binding.

Important parts of the sanctified body are removed for use among the temple priesthood (in this case, mostly feathers), and the rest of the corpse is placed on a continuously maintained pyre to be burned. The ashes will be collected and scattered into the river after sunrise to mark the end of the rite.

Sacrificial river animals are liable to escape into the river when brought en-masse, and one that does is considered to have been spared and blessed by Anaemache and will be left alone. Populations of water birds around these temples will often display striking and unusual coloration due to genetic input from escaped domestic/captive bred animals.

Regardless of what one offers, the offering must be made before the offerer touches the water. The participant will then remove some or most of their clothing (the minimum is shoes, the maximum is everything BUT underwear- full genital-baring nudity is socially problematic and metaphysically vulnerable when in public, and thus avoided) and enter the water. One should ideally fully submerge themself, but touching the silt with bare feet is adequate. It is then that the participants say their prayers and ask for any specific blessings- a pregnancy, the safe delivery of a child, a bountiful harvest, fruitful trees, clean drinking water, plentiful grazing, a good stock of fish, etc.

After one says their prayers and leaves the water, their part in the rite is over and they are free to go home, or alternatively stop by the celebrations that frequently crop up along the roads. In a good year, food and drink vendors, traders, the mass of pilgrims, and other opportunists will amass and form temporary mini-towns along the roadsides (or temporarily invade nearby villages), which can be excellent places to eat, drink and/or hook up.

Hibrides has shelled out a significant amount of money to a street sacrifice vendor for a near-perfect offering, to pray that she will be blessed with a healthy pregnancy and bear a boy, mostly so that she can be done having children. The rains have been inadequate (or have outright failed) for five years at this point, and the Brilla river is scarcely more than mud. God doesn't seem to be here at all. She doesn't have her hopes up.

[stillunusual]

The word "Nazi" has a specific meaning to normal people, but to vatniks and tankies it has five basic meanings…. "anybody I don't like" "anybody who disagrees with me" "anybody who's a citizen of a country that Russia wants to invade" "anybody who opposed or simply didn't want to live in one of the tyrannical regimes I simp for" "anybody who was oppressed or killed by one of my favourite mass murderers" EDITED TO ADD: a tankie clown reblogged this post and made some typically asinine comments, so I thought I'd elaborate a little bit…. Tankie clown: @well1x is either referring to the fact that a lot of the "deaths under communism" listed in "the black book of communism" (which gives us the 10 million number or whatever) are quite literally Nazis in WWII, or they're referring to the fact that the only people who have been made to deliberately suffer under communism have been literal Nazis and fascists (generally speaking)

Joining the tankie cult requires you to live in a delusional clown world and believe in a shit ton of made up (and often contradictory) nonsense that requires a considerable repertoire of mental gymnastics (and lies) to maintain….

@well1x is literally trying to claim that all victims of communism are "nazis and facists" (sic), which - back in the real world - is a very obvious lie. It's also a blatant example of victim blaming. For example, most of the millions of men, women and children who were robbed, raped, imprisoned, sent to the gulags, tortured, starved to death, executed or ethnically cleansed by Stalin's henchmen were not Nazis or fascists, and many were innocent of any crime. The vast majority of the population in Stalin's Soviet Union also had to put up with crippling poverty and backwardness, the brutal suppression of their religious and community life and the total lack of freedom.

Based on his comment, I doubt if the tankie clown has ever read "the black book of communism" and I'm also not sure why he mentions this book in particular, when there are thousands of others that thoroughly document the numerous crimes of the regimes tankies insist on being the useful idiots for, and I think it's safe to assume that he hasn't read any of those books either (in fact, I doubt if he's ever read any book whatsoever)…. Tankie clown: Karina then shows an image of (presumably) some kids in the Ukraine famine. This is completely unrelated though because this famine was not manufactured by the USSR as say the Irish famine was by the English. Can't really attribute natural disaster to "muh communism"

Again - a typical genocide-denying tankie lie.

Tankies generally start by saying that the holodomor was Nazi propaganda, and when you debunk that they claim it was just a natural disaster, and when that doesn't work they make up some bullshit about how millions of farmers who barely had enough to live on were wealthy kulaks who burned crops and slaughtered cattle (and therefore deserved to die). And when you point out that the red army actually broke into their homes and confiscated all their grain, every cow or chicken or any other food they had, and that the Soviet authorities blacklisted villages, sometimes purely for containing relatives of Ukrainian independence fighters, and prevented the villagers from leaving, shot them for even collecting ears of grain from the fields, and watched them starve to death - tankies will just deny it, or laugh, or pretend that millions of holodomor victims were all rich landlords (and therefore deserved to die) etc etc….

I've also never seen English people pretending that the Irish famine never happened, or claiming that the victims deserved it, or that it was a good thing, or that Britain should re-conquer Ireland. On the other hand, it's difficult not to notice Stalin's smooth-brained groupies swarming all over social media every day denying or justifying the holodomor and other crimes of Russia and the USSR, and hoping that Russia not only re-conquers Ukraine but also Finland, the Baltics, Poland and other countries it has invaded and occupied in the past.

There's no point trying to reason with tankies using facts, logic or common sense - and appealing to their sense of decency while they're simping for their favourite mass murderers is a complete waste of time. Tankie clown: Karina then says @well1x is defending imperialism(???), defending ethnic cleansing (which …what??), dreaming about labour camps and mass shootings (for Nazis yes plz), and does not do any praxis (based on?).

Yep - most tankie clowns claim to be communists while simultaneously embracing Russian fascism, supporting the imperialism of Russia’s mega-rich ruling class, mindlessly repeating the Kremlin's propaganda and cheerleading their war crimes. These morons seem to have no idea that the Russian Federation is an empire made up of many conquered states that Russia invaded, occupied and colonised in the 16th, 17th, 18th, 19th and 20th centuries, or that Russia's war against Ukraine is a brutal attempt to reassert control over one of its former colonies. Russia's history of imperialism is at least as bad as that of any western country - and they're still doing it in the 21st century.

And I have seen countless examples of tankies speaking openly of wanting to mass murder their ideological enemies (or people they don't like) - because they also delude themselves into believing that if their revolutionary dreams ever came true, they'd be the ones doing the arresting and killing, despite the fact that in a real revolution they'd be about as much use as a fart in a spacesuit. They also have no idea how their small dick energy is somehow going to bring capitalism to its knees, which they'd inevitably end up crying about if it ever actually happened in reality.

Most of them are complete losers who spend the majority of their time sitting in their bedrooms huffing their own farts while reading tankie fan fiction online. Tankie clowns also claim to be against western imperialism and capitalism, despite living comfortable lives in western capitalist countries and owing everything they have to capitalism, including the freedom to use their capitalist smartphones or laptops to post anti-capitalist tantrums on social media platforms owned by western capitalists (thus helping these western capitalists to maximise their profits).

This is generally the sum total of a typical tankie's - ahem - "revolutionary" activity.

The vast majority of tankie clowns wouldn't dream of ever giving up the comforts of capitalism to move to one of the authoritarian shitholes they stupidly simp for, because then they might not be able to play their favourite capitalist video games anymore….

It's also a fact that Russia and the USSR have ethnically cleansed millions of people. Tankie clown: OP takes this insane train all the way to the station, and says @well1x is talking about anyone they don't like which… no. They're talking about the traditional Nazis.

No - they're falsely claiming that all victims of communism are Nazis and fascists. Learn to read…. Tankie clown: But also let's break this down. Who does OP think is being called a Nazi? "anyone I don't like" I mean I don't like Nazis, but I don't think everyone I don't like is one lmao. Funny tho, dude throws around the word tankie until it has no meaning.

In my experience, if you disagree with tankies about anything, they will pretty soon call you a fascist or a Nazi. It's they who throw around words like "fascist" and "Nazi" until they have no meaning (and most of them hilariously claim to be opposed to fascism while simultaneously supporting it - if it happens to be Russian). Tankie clown: - "anyone who disagrees with me" if you disagree that all human beings deserve to live a dignified life regardless of race/sex/gender identity/sexual orientation/age/disability/whatever then yeah you probably are a Nazi

Straw man. See above….

It's also amusing to observe the doublethink of somebody who apparently believes that "all human beings deserve to live a dignified life" while simultaneously thinking that when his favourite mass murderers oppressed and/or killed huge numbers of people it was perfectly OK…. Tankie clown: - "anyone who's a citizen of a country that Russia wants to invade" why the fuck are we talking about Russia? Believe it or not OP, USSR does not stand for "United Soviet States of Russia" lmaoooo

We're talking about Russia because most tankie clowns support Russian imperialism and mindlessly parrot the Kremlin's propaganda about how Russia's latest invasion of Ukraine is some sort of special de-nazification operation (see above). Tankies are generally so ignorant, gullible and stupid that they will literally believe anything the Kremlin tells them…. Tankie clown: - "anyone opposed or simply didn't want to live in one of the tyrannical regimes I simp for" tyrannical regimes lmao. These were only "tyrannical regimes" for people who actually were in fact Nazis.

Again - this is the kind of reality-denying nonsense I'd expect to hear from a tankie clown. One thing that really appalls people in the central and eastern European countries that experienced the reality of being occupied by the USSR and/or Russia, is the staggering ignorance and stupidity of western useful idiots who have no idea what it was actually like, and are not only dumb enough to join the tankie cult, but insist on westsplaining to the victims and their descendants about how the horrors they and their families suffered (usually for doing literally nothing) either didn't happen ("cuz the CIA made it all up") or claiming that they somehow deserved it ("cuz they were all Nazis/fascists/kulaks/slave owners").

Back in the real world, these were tyrannical regimes for tens of millions of ordinary people who had done nothing to deserve being subjected to tyranny…. Tankie clown: - "anyone who was oppressed or killed by one of my favourite mass murderers" yeah basically that's what I've been saying.

Thanks for proving my point….

And please note that smoking weed on your mum's sofa isn't actually going to bring the world revolution closer.

That was just a joke…. 🤣😂

[m1ckeyb3rry]

MY DEAREST MIRA HAPPY 1K 💯🤍 wowow your blog grew sm so quick i literally blinked and boom ur at 1k !?!?!!? congratulations i have and always will be in love with your writing i seriously need to catch up on ur works eheh..

i know the bare minimum about pokemon but google was indeed my friend so… may i request a team consisting of kaiser and arctibax (dragon + ice) 🫡 you know me and angst, plus the fact that i’ve been wanting to read fantasy as of late 🙂‍↕️

── SWORD OF THE SAINT

Synopsis: Shortly after the death of your mother, you meet a mysterious man in your family’s chapel, and as the days grow colder, you find that he is the closest thing to a savior you might ever know.

Event Masterlist

Pairing: Kaiser x Reader

Word Count: 18.1k

Content Warnings: pseudo-christianity written by someone who is NOT christian, fantasy au with nonexistent worldbuilding #deal with it, death, angst, no happy ending, sickness, killing, reader is kinda delicate but it IS for a reason beyond just “omg women weak” HAHA, kaiser is an angel, kaiser is also kind of a jerk, kaiser is probably ooc idfk at this point, kaiser pisses me off, i don’t like kaiser, this is based on an actual myth but in the way pjo is based on greek mythology (so basically not at all)

A/N: ANGELLLL HI MY DEAR!! omg hehe i know i feel like i was just at 500 it’s crazy that i already managed to hit 1k 😩 you were an og though fr my seventh follower or smth like that LMAOAO we’ve been through it all together!! anyways sorry this actually rlly sucks but uh…kaiser’s in it ig…and it’s a fantasy au…and it’s kinda sad…and it has an angel…because you’re an angel…😭

The winter before the plague broke out, the river spilled over its banks, stealing your stores of grain and leaving serpents to litter your streets. They were vipers of the diamond-scaled variety, with blue tongues and slit eyes and thin teeth, white with venom and red at the tips. Their killing was random and indiscriminate — the trails of blood they left behind them dried on the cobblestones, and no one dared to wash the dark smears away for fear of their retribution, for fear that they would be the next victim.

It was an omen, that much was clear, though no matter how many stars the king turned to, he could never quite understand what it portended. Anyways, before he could divine the significance, the snakes vanished, leaving the city devoid of life, bar the bronze-footed horses and those individuals who had had the sense to remain inside and away from the dark-mouthed beasts.

The harshness of the winter never abated any; you were never given anything resembling reprieve from terrors after terrors, which came in quick succession. The departure of the serpents was followed by a fortnight of storms, raging winds lashing at your tightly-shuttered windows, shards of ice like daggers driving from the sky into the hard, barren ground, and after the storms there was, for a brief week, a time of eerie stillness where nothing grew nor prospered. 

That week, your every word turned to fog in the air — at least, when you deigned to speak, which was rare — and even the ermine-trimmed cloak your youngest uncle had gifted you two birthdays ago did little to ward away the cold. Your mother, who was of a delicate constitution, shivered near-constantly, wasting away by the fire which burned at all hours with a forlorn expression on her wan face.

It grew warm again, in time, but your mother’s trembling never did cease. You added your cloak to the pile of furs she was buried in, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing could seem to warm her, to breathe life into the husk of a being that she had become — she was hollow like a rattling cicada shell, her cheeks sunken and her eyes blank. 

Right about when your father was at his wits’ end, there was news of the first death: a peasant, one of the farmers in the king’s employ, who had grown unbearably cold and subsequently wilted into a corpse, spending his last few days alive in the same manner a skeleton might.

Your father, the eldest of the king’s younger brothers, had enough power still that he could command every physician in the kingdom to search for a cure. It was obvious that this was the affliction poisoning your mother, who grew worse and worse daily anew. Yet no matter how hard they searched, they could not find any herb nor method of soothing her.

In the meantime, the black-cloaked disease visited homes with even less discernment than the vipers had. There was nary a family who did not have at least one member with the sickness; eventually, the physicians came before your father and the elder of your uncles, the king himself, bowing their cowardly necks and saying there was nothing to be done about it. It was doom. Anyone who had the illness would surely die, and the best thing that could be done for your mother now was to leave her be so that you, too, did not fall victim to her plight.

You stood abruptly at the announcement, which ordinarily would have earned you glares from the surrounding noblemen but today only entitled you to their pity. Gathering your skirts in one hand, you ran towards your mother’s quarters as fast as you could, ignoring your father’s shouts for the guards to stop you.

She was where she always was, and even the slamming of the door did not cause her to flinch. The firelight reflected in her eyes, which shone like mirrors, and when you knelt by the armchair she rarely moved from, she exhaled slightly.

“Mother,” you whispered, drawing her hand out of the blankets and holding it to your cheek. It was bony and thin; already, she was more skeleton than woman, but something in her must’ve prevailed, must’ve rallied and clung to existence, for her heart still beat in her chest, however shallowly. “Mother, don’t — please don’t —”

She sighed softly. You wondered if she could even hear you, or if she was too fascinated with something beyond your vision to know that you were there. You clutched her hand tighter, her knuckles digging into your palm, her fingers like snow on your face.

“Y/N!” It was your father, bursting into the room, guards flanking him as they raced towards you. You pressed closer to your mother’s chair, gazing up at her. To your surprise, her eyes had widened, reflecting a radiance that made even the hearth seem pale. Her lips, once lush and painted, now dry and cracked from dehydration, parted in wonder, and then for the first time since she had grown sick, she spoke.

“Michael,” she breathed out.

“Michael?” you repeated. Even your father paused, tremulous hope brimming in his irises as your mother smiled slightly. Her hand on your face balled into a fist against the bone of your jaw, and then abruptly it loosened. “Mother? Mother, what do you mean, Michael?”

She laughed. It was a wheezing sound, brittle and reedy, breaking off at the end into something painful. For the first time, she tilted her head towards you, and it was as if she were met with a stranger, though eventually recognition did flash across her face.

“Ah, daughter,” she said, her voice hoarse as she smoothed her hand over your hair. “He is here. Right in front of you. Don’t you see him? He is so beautiful. As beautiful as the paintings.”

“There is no one,” you said, your throat thick with tears, your voice barely able to escape it. “No one is here but us.”

The soft motions of her fingers stilled, and she settled back in her chair, suddenly content. You gripped her wrist, willing her to come back, but she was no longer awake, her eyelids sealed shut, a faint smile still lingering on her face.

“You shouldn’t be here,” your father said gruffly, as if waking from a dream. Before you knew it, one of the guards, a handsome boy with hair like marigolds and eyes like autumn, was lifting you from the ground, carrying you out of the room despite your half-hearted protests and depositing you on the ground in the corridor with a bow.

“My father is still in there. You ought to retrieve him, as well,” you said. The guard looked towards the door and shook his head.

“If your father wishes to stay, then it is not my place to stop him,” he said.

“I see,” you said, for there was no point in further argument. Leaning against the stone wall, you wrapped your arms around your torso; compared to the sweltering heart of your mother’s chambers, the corridor was all but frigid. “Do you think this plague is some sort of a punishment?”

“For what, your highness?” the guard said. He was humoring you only because your father, to whom he was sworn, remained in the room even now, so you only shrugged.

“I’m not sure,” you said. “Perhaps the people have committed some wrong, or perhaps it was my uncle, his majesty the king.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “I am not so well-versed in the matters of theology.”

“Only of the sword, I’d reckon,” you said. 

“That’s right,” he said.

“My mother mentioned Michael,” you said. “Right before you dragged me out.”

“My apologies for that, your highness, but it was your father’s command,” he said.

“It’s alright,” you said, finding some diversion in the conversation, which at any rate was a welcome distraction. “I do not blame you. Do you know who Michael is?”

“Doesn’t everybody?” he said. “Though I suppose you might know more than I do.”

“Likely it is the case,” you agreed. “He’s the emperor of angels, or so they claim. Perhaps we are biased because he is our kingdom’s guardian; well, anyways, according to the stories and the songs, he is the one who enacts divine will unto us. Supposedly he amongst his peers is the most merciful by far, but there are as many or more poems of his rage as there are of his kindness, so who can say?”

“I didn’t know the last part,” the guard said. You patted his armored shoulder, motioning for him to follow you — he did so hesitantly, with a backwards glance at his broad-backed counterpart, who stayed behind to watch over your still-absent father.

“It’s true, though I doubt rage and kindness are things he can really understand,” you said, weaving through the hallways of the palace until you reached a familiar wooden door. 

“What does that mean?” the guard said.

“It’s a personal theory,” you said. “But how can we expect angels to understand the turmoils of humanity when they are so removed from it?”

“I confess I’m lost, your highness,” he said, ducking his head. “I shall continue to pursue the ways of the sword and leave such philosophical questions to you and your ilk.”

“Maybe it is for the best,” you said. “I don’t know that my uncle would be so pleased to learn I am becoming a preacher to the common folk. It’s not the kind of role best-suited to a princess.”

“Certainly not,” the guard said.

“Have you ever been here?” you said as you strode past the tapestry-lined walls of the gallery without pause. The guard shook his head.

“I’ve never had cause to,” he said. Arriving upon the painting you wished to show him, you stopped abruptly, pointing at the gilt-framed portrait, reveling in the shock which twisted his features. 

“It’s him,” you said. “The one my mother spoke of. Naturally, the painter has been lost to time, but the subject can never be forgotten.”

The background was plain — a muddy field, gray clouds brewing on the horizon and threatening rain, sunlight breaking through in a halo over his brow. He was tall and regal, a sword in his right hand, pointed at the neck of the viper upon which his left foot was planted. Gold hair cascaded down his shoulders, the shade of the sun at midday, and in his right hand was a rose, the same impossible color of blue as his eyes. The vines of it crept up his arm and curled around his neck, and from his back sprouted a pair of wings, the feathers silver-brown like an eagle’s, unfurled like banners in the air behind him.

“Michael,” the guard said.

“Yes,” you said. “He reveals himself to us very rarely, and only if there is some message which he wishes to impart. I wonder…I wonder what it means that he appeared to my mother.”

“He’s a healer, isn’t he?” he said. “Perhaps with this blessing, she will be the first to recover from this plague.”

“Perhaps,” you said quietly. “Well, I suppose I ought to return to the court and apologize for my misconduct.”

“Nobody blames you, your highness,” he said. “Nor do they think poorly of the reaction.”

“Regardless, it was unruly and childish,” you said. “I do not wish for my father to fall from my uncle’s favor because of my behavior. It’ll be better if I show that I am remorseful. Come, then, let us go. Unless my father has banned that as well?”

“He has made no such demands,” the guard. “After you, your highness.”

“Very well,” you said, and with one final glance at the painting of the severe angel, you led the guard out of the gallery, back towards the throne room you had fled from earlier.

Your father spent the night in your mother’s chambers, though his advisors begged him not to; perhaps it was a form of precognition or intuition, for he ignored their advice and lay at her feet until the next morning, whereupon he exited the room and informed you all, his countenance faded and dull and lifeless, that she was dead.

The carriage ride to your family’s summer estate was silent and awkward. As soon as your mother had been buried in the royal cemetery, your father had insisted you escape to your riverside manor, which had remained mercifully untouched from the winter’s floods. And so, although it was still barely spring and more people fell to the plague by the day, you packed your things and took leave from the castle, at nighttime when there would be no one to see you go. So quickly was it all done that the earth over your mother’s grave was still freshly turned, and you didn’t even have the time to wish her farewell before your father was ushering you into the carriage and whispering to the coachman to hasten his preparations.

“It will be better for us,” your father said again and again. It was such a hollow refrain that he kept repeating, clinging to it like it was sanity, but it didn’t become any more believable the more times he said it.

Yet regardless, you responded with the same thing every time: “Yes, father.”

“Perhaps this plague is a curse on the castle, in which case we are justified in fleeing,” your father said. “And I have already told my brother.”

You pulled your cloak tighter around you to ward away the nip of the nighttime air. “Yes, father.”

“Besides, who can blame us? Not when — not when your mother—” he broke off.

“Yes,” you said miserably. “Father.”

He might’ve ordinarily snapped at you, but today he only sighed and nodded slightly. You supposed you should’ve been grateful that he had enough of a handle on his grief that he could refrain from spitting poison at you, but gratitude was one emotion you could not bring yourself to muster just then, so all you could give him was an exhausted upturn of your mouth which resembled a smile in its barest form.

In the sprawling grounds of the summer estate, it was easy to pretend that nothing wrong had ever happened. There was no sign of serpents amongst the prickly evergreens, for the needly undergrowth was hostile to their pale, soft bellies, and so few servants remained there year round that, of their small number, the majority weren’t even aware a plague had broken out in the first place.

“It will be better for us,” your father said again, this time with finality, helping you down from the carriage and brushing himself off. “This was the right decision.”

You wanted to tell him that there was no world in which you earnestly agreed with that, because you had left your mother behind, and how could that be right? Yet he was so determined that you did not have the heart to, so you only exhaled and shuffled after him, the thought of staying outside for even another moment all but unbearable.

There was much less to do in the lonely manor, where you sat by yourself at all hours of the day, so eventually, despite your reluctance, your thoughts turned to the last time you had seen your mother, replaying that final conversation over and over in your mind until it was all you could see.

On the third day of this self-imposed torture, you dragged yourself out of your bed, trudging to the chapel which your father had commissioned — not for himself, for he was never religious, but for your mother, who often found solace in the marble of its walls and the gold of its altar.

The door, heavy and wooden and large enough to admit a pair of horses at once, opened with a groan and a plume of dust, revealing the inside of the chapel, which was as ornate as you remembered. Your father had spared no expense in its construction, and the floors and walls alike were covered in intricate, patterned mosaic, the high windows rimmed with marble and the ceiling painted with delicate, jewel-colored pigment.

In the middle of the room was a figure, and at first you thought he must be a statue, but then he moved slightly to face you and you realized he was a man; at least, if one could consider someone like that a man, for he bore all the resemblance to the cheerful guards of the palace that a dove did to a common sparrow. His hair was choppy and short and gold, though the ends faded into a blue shade as they trailed down his back, and his bright eyes were lined with something the color of blood that only threw the azure of his irises into greater relief. There was a sort of perfection to the slope of his nose and the curve of his neck, his shoulders held straight and true, his chin high and proud — strangest of all, however, stranger than any of these things by far, was that there was a rusted sword clenched in his fist, the sheath of which sat empty on his hip.

You were quite certain that he did not belong there, but you did not have the wherewithal to question him, so you only shut the door behind you and sat in the entrance, leaning against the walnut frame and closing your eyes, clasping your hands together in front of you and wishing you had something to pray for.

“What have you come here in search of?”

The voice was unfamiliar and keen, like a dagger in your heart or a fang in your calf. You knew without knowing that it must be the man speaking; opening your eyes, you were unsurprised to find him peering at you with no small amount of disdain.

“Whatever do you mean?” you said. He stared at you with a discomfiting intensity, his fingers playing with the hilt of his sword, his eyes wide and endless like the sky, his brows furrowed.

“People don’t come here unless they want something,” he said. “So what is it that you pray for?”

“The things I want are impossible to obtain, so I do not pray for them at all,” you said. 

“Hardly anything is impossible. What a limiting way to think,” he said. You narrowed your eyes at him.

“At least it is not an arrogant one,” you said. “Unless you believe that resurrecting my mother is truly something which can be done?”

“Arrogant?” the man said. “Certainly, your mother could be brought back, so for you to accuse me of arrogance is unfounded. The question is whether she should be revived.”

“What a pointless differentiation,” you said. “I doubt you believe she should be.”

“No, of course not,” he said. “Though I don’t believe anyone should, so you ought not to take it personally.”

You swallowed, hugging your knees to your chest, resting your chin atop them and averting your eyes from the strange man. Likely you should’ve felt angry at his callousness, but in the moment, the only feeling you could summon was resignation.

“Perhaps that is the truth,” you said. “Then it is the same regardless. She won’t ever come back. This is her chapel, you know. I thought I might find some reprieve by encasing myself in this place, but I suppose it isn’t so. There is no reprieve. I think of her always.”

The man made no move to offer you any words of reassurance, nor did he drop his sword. He just stood there and watched you with the sort of wary caginess that one might expect from a half-tamed animal, shifting and unsettled and pacing. You found it almost comforting that he did not offer you any platitudes nor condolences, for you had heard enough of those that you were sick of them.

“Who are you, anyways?” you said. “A servant? I don’t recognize you, but then it has been some time since I last came to this estate, so it isn’t a surprise.”

“I am something along those lines,” he said. 

“And what business do you have in this chapel?” you said. “As far as I know, only members of my family are permitted entry.”

“Nobody has ever stopped me,” he said. “So why shouldn’t I be allowed? Do you mean to cast me from here?”

He was already shifting from foot to foot, as if he expected you to strike him or throw him from the chapel; it wasn’t an incorrect sentiment, exactly, for certainly if you were your father you would’ve, especially for his earlier impudence. What cause did a mere servant have to talk to the king’s family in such a way? But you could not summon that same indignation, so you only shook your head, standing on legs which had grown sleepy and electric from inactivity.

“No, I have no great desire to,” you said. “If you do not disturb me, then I won’t disturb you. Might we coexist in that manner?”

His eyebrows raised almost involuntarily, and then he shrugged. It was an odd way of doing it, though you couldn’t exactly point out what was odd about it, and then he tapped his sword against his leg.

“I suppose it isn’t a tall order,” he said.

“You should leave your sword at the door, however,” you said. “Aren’t weapons forbidden in places like this?”

“It stays,” he said with finality. You peered at it; it was a comely instrument despite its age, the hilt gold and embellished with roses, dark corrosion creeping up the blue-white blade like vines, the tip as sharp as a thorn. His fingers were wrapped around it like a vice, and you tilted your head when you realized that there was something black drawn on his hand, resembling an emperor’s crown, though you were too far to ascertain if that was what it truly was.

“As you wish,” you said. “It’s not me who you’ll have to answer to, anyways. At least I tried.”

“Your efforts will be appreciated by someone or another, I’m sure,” he said.

“I’m sure they will be,” you said with a scoff. “Ah, wait, sir. Before you leave — can I ask for your name?”

“My name? Why, so you may curse it?” he said.

“So that I may call you by it,” you said. “If we happen to meet again, here or elsewhere.”

“Is it important to you?” he said.

“It’s a courtesy,” you said.

“Since when has the king’s family ever known courtesy?” he said. You thought he might shirk away after the brazen statement, but he only gazed at you levelly, as if challenging you to respond.

“We are trained in it from birth, and must practice it from then on,” you said.

“Courtesy and etiquette are not the same thing,” he shot back.

“Will you tell me your name or not? This exchange is tiresome,” you said. “I shall assign you a name of my own if you do not give it. I doubt it will be to your tastes.”

“Kaiser,” he said. “You can call me that, if you are so insistent.”

“Kaiser,” you repeated, tasting it in your mouth. There was a familiarity and a power to the word, but you could not place your finger on what it meant; deciding it was unimportant, you nodded. “I am Y/N.”

“Yes, I knew that already,” he said.

“It would’ve been rude if I did not introduce myself to you as well,” you said.

“And there is the difference between courtesy and etiquette,” he said.

“Hm?” you said. He did not even look at you, lifting his chin so that he could admire the ceiling.

“What a beautiful scene,” he said. 

“Beautiful?” you said, frowning. You had never taken the time to understand it, but now you saw that it was a depiction of Michael killing the hellish viper that was his bane. The roughness of the strokes, however, lended a gruesome quality to it that the painting in the king’s gallery did not have — Michael’s face was twisted into a grotesque leer instead of a gentle smile, and his sword was stabbed through the serpent’s throat instead of pointed at it in warning. Red-glazed pebbles wept like tears along the snake’s body, and the sword in Michael’s hand was made of cruel ivory, his eyes chips of blue glass that twinkled with delight instead of solemnity. 

“Isn’t it?” he said, smiling for the first time, not at you but at the mosaic. 

“Well, there’s a quality to the workmanship,” you said. “But it’s too gory for my tastes.”

“The truth of things can never be too gory,” he instructed you, and though he had no qualifications in the way of priesthood, you were somehow inclined to listen. “The truth is the truth. If that is how it happened, then you must accept it.”

“Who are we to know how it happened?” you said.

“Who indeed?” he said.

“You speak in riddles,” you said. “It is distracting. I do not mind it, though, because there is much I wish to be distracted from at present, so I am not chiding you, necessarily, but I hope that you know.”

“I know,” he said, amusement in his tone. “It’s something I’ve been accused of many times before, and by men several orders of magnitude more important than you as well.”

“I see,” you said. “Regardless, I believe my father might search for me soon, and as I have found some merriment in you, I do not wish for him to find you here quite yet, so I shall take my leave. But I will return! Please be here when I do.”

“I will be here,” he said, despite the fact that you hadn’t mentioned when you would next visit the chapel. You didn’t question it; he felt like the kind of person that was better left a mystery, or at least figured out slowly, so that no layers were missed.

The next morning, you entered the chapel as the bell rang upon the hour, peering in through the door and smiling slightly when you saw him perched upon a bench made of the same rich walnut as the entryway. He was perfectly still, his back straight, his sword laid across his lap, and he did not turn to greet you, staring straight at the flickering candles of the altar. Your footsteps echoed as you crossed the room, sitting on the bench directly opposite him, facing the candles as well.

“Did you light them?” you said.

“They were already lit,” he said.

“Hm,” you said. “It wasn’t me.”

“Naturally,” he said.

“I suppose someone else visits this place, too,” you said. 

“What will you do about it?” he said.

“Nothing,” you said. “If it brings them solace, then who am I to deny them that? The nearest church is a long walk; even this is not so close to the manor. I am weary already.”

At this he did glance at you, his eyes lowering for a moment before he returned his attention to the front of the room.

“You are frail, then,” he said. “The walk is not that long.”

“My mother was the frail one,” you said. “I have inherited my father’s good health, or so I am told.”

“Ah,” he said. 

“I will have to come on my horse next time,” you said, only half-joking. Perhaps the distance was not quite long enough to warrant riding, but you really had been winded, and the constriction of your chest was more than a little unpleasant, like there was a stone pressing into your heart.

“If that is what you require,” he said, clearly disinterested in the conversation. You wondered what he saw in the candles, if there was something he could divine from the small, captive flames.

“Was your mother a moth?” you said.

“What?” he said, blinking at you in alarm. “Are you an idiot?”

He said it so genuinely that it felt more like concern than anything. You suppressed a smile, pointing at the beeswax dripping into the golden bowl set there to collect it.

“I’ve only ever seen moths be so enamored by candles before,” you said. 

“So you are an idiot,” he said, clicking his tongue. “What a foolish thing to say.”

“It was in jest,” you said. “My apologies. I shall remain serious in your company henceforth.”

“See to it that you are silent as well,” he said, and so you were, sitting across the aisle from him and watching the candles until they burnt out. Even then, he stayed facing the wisps of smoke, tracking them with his eyes as they fluttered into the air with the briskness of a wasp, so eventually you left him behind, him and those blackened stumps marring the air and the altar alike with their crumbling, papery ash.

“There is news that the plague is worsening,” your father said one day at dinner. The news of the plague brought to the forefront of your mind your mother, who you had done so well at ignoring until then. It was easy to pretend that the sickness had never existed, that those days of flooding rivers and viper-lined streets and shivering women had been nothing more than horrible dreams in quick succession. 

“I suppose it shouldn’t come as a shock,” you said. “Winter has come early this year.”

“Do you think so?” your father said. You gulped, pushing at your food with your fork.

“Already, there is a chill in the air,” you said. 

“What horrible luck,” he said. “We’ve hardly had time to recover and replenish our stores of grain. If frost comes to the fields early, then we are doomed.”

“I am surprised it has not yet bitten the earth,” you admitted. Your father, who had always trusted you more than most men would trust their daughters, groaned, dragging his hand over his face.

“There is still time?” he said.

“We can hope,” you said.

“I will order the fiefs to begin their harvesting at once,” he said. “By all rights, summer is still yet to fade into autumn, but even if it is premature, the crops should be serviceable, and the fields can be replanted at once. If it goes well, then our yields may nearly double.”

“A sensible decision, father,” you said. “That should be more than enough to last us all until the next spring.”

“Thank you for your counsel, my girl,” your father said, and if you were not seated at the table, he would’ve patted your shoulder or kissed your cheek or shown his pride in some other such affectionate manner. “I will be lost without you.”

“I am not going anywhere,” you said. “Am I?”

“Not yet,” he said. “But one day you will leave this manor for your husband’s home, and then I shall be on my own.”

“That is still some years away,” you said. 

“As many years as possible,” your father said. “There are no suitors in this kingdom worthy of you, anyways.”

“I will trust you when you say that, father,” you said. The lines around his eyes deepened from the force of his grin, and it heartened you to see, for he hadn’t smiled much since your mother had died. Setting your cutlery down, crossing them over your plate as was neat and expected, you placed your hand over his, the skin of his hunt-worn palms rough against yours. “For now, I am content here.”

“And here you shall stay,” he said, firm and sure in the way that only the brother of a king could be. What he said was what happened. He commanded things into existence and so they did occur; it was the kind of power that very few were afforded, and hardly ever in a greater quantity than him, so when he spoke, it was always with the weight of expectation behind it.

You really did ride your horse to the chapel after that dinner with your father. Now that you had mentioned it to him, you could not help feeling the signs of the impending ice of the dead season, and only hugging the warm neck of your little bay palfrey as she trotted along could ward it away. She was gentle and game enough to not mind it, nuzzling you when you got off and dropping her head to graze where you tied her. You pulled your gloves off and tucked them in your pocket, rubbing the whorl of a white star on her forehead before ducking into the chapel.

It was later than you had been the other times you had come, but Kaiser was there anyways, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his forehead pressed against the altar. Never had you seen such misconduct, but you thought he must be sleeping, so you did what you could to be as silent as possible, tiptoeing over to stand behind him, reaching out your hand to jostle him.

“Don’t,” he said, flinching back and glaring at you over his shoulder.

“You were awake?” you said.

“Yes,” he said. 

“I thought you were not,” you said. He squinted at you.

“Your powers of discernment are frightening,” he said.

“Because of their uncanny strength?” you tried.

“The opposite,” he said. “You are fumbling and blind. I do not know how you have made it so far in life.”

“Maybe it’s a miracle,” you said, sitting beside him, mirroring the arrangement of his legs, your elbows digging into your thighs so that you could rest your chin in your hands. “My birth was one. Why not the rest of my life?”

“I assume you want me to ask what you mean by that,” he said.

“It’s not that I want it,” you said, swiveling eagerly so that you could face him. He snorted, not offering you the same dignity, the gold of the altar reflecting on his cheekbones. “But I’ll tell you if you’d like!”

“I wouldn’t,” he said. You waited, but he did not budge. The sword was at his side, his one hand placed over it, so instead of telling him any stories, you bent so that you could inspect the weapon.

“Where did you get this, anyways?” you said. “It’s of a make I don’t recognize.”

“And you are well-acquainted with every blacksmith in the entire kingdom, I expect?” he said.

“The ones of note, yes,” you said. “The ones with the talent to make something so fine. Don’t you remember whose daughter I am? I was loved by knights long before my father laid eyes upon me. They taught me a little.”

“What use does a princess have for smithing?” he said, though he did not make any moves to pull the sword away, allowing you to inspect it. You dared not touch it, lest he yank it back, but it seemed the lingering of your eyes was permissible, so you were unabashed in allowing them to rest upon the gleaming metal.

“Not much,” you said. “But a knight has very many uses for the matter.”

“You are no knight,” he said with a sneer. 

“Of course not,” you said. Now that you were closer, you saw that the centers of the roses blooming on the hilt were sapphire, and what you had thought was rust had a different shade to it, something dried and burgundy that you could not identify. “But they were. The ways of the sword were all that they knew, so I was raised on such tales instead of the more typical stories.”

A gust of wind blew through the windows, and you shuddered, tucking your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. Kaiser gripped his sword tighter, the veins of his hand standing out blue and angry, but otherwise he did not react.

“One blacksmith brands his work with a bull,” you said. “Another with a dog, and a third with laurels. Many and many things, yet the rose has no place on the list. It’s too sacred. Nobody would dare carve Michael’s symbol into a mere mortal weapon. Who are we, anyways? To compare ourselves to someone who does such grand things?”

“You said grand,” he noted. “Not great.”

“Great implies an antonym,” you said. “But I don’t think such concept really exist to him and those of that kind — good and bad and all. There are different scales, different evils, but the ways in which the angels impact our lives can only be grand or minute. It’s unfair to assign morality to it.”

“Yet if these acts, whether grand or minute, change your life for the better, or alternately for the worse, then can you not judge them to be either good or bad?” he said.

“I can, and indeed many do, but they are not my concern. I speak only of Michael, and I maintain that it is impossible for him to turn that judgment unto himself,” you said. “You know, my mother saw him right before she died. Everyone thought it was a stroke of good fortune. He’s a healer, so he must’ve been there to heal her — yet they forgot, in their desperate hope, that he also comes to escort us to our final resting places. As he had come for my mother.”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s true.”

“Well,” you said. “That’s it, then. Is he evil for taking my mother? Can I liken him to a villain for what he did? I would like to. It would be easier…if there was someone to blame, then it would be easier. I wish I could hate someone for it, but I cannot. There is no one. Michael did not take her to hurt me; that is just what he does. I can point my finger at that ceiling and curse him, but what good will it do? It won’t change his nature.”

Kaiser was silent. You must’ve bored him, and you wished you could disappear into the floor, melt into a mosaic, and freeze in place before he could mock you.

“Angels are above humans,” he said after a while.

“Everyone knows that,” you said.

“So how can humans do something that an angel cannot?” he said. “How is it possible?”

“I suppose it’s not unique to them,” you said. “Asking an angel to understand a person is like asking you or I to empathize with a dormouse. The best we can do is impartiality; it’s the same for them, I’d say.”

“Dormice?” he said. “I don’t think it’s the same at all.”

“No?” you said. “I’m not that learned. I don’t take offense. There’s as many theories about these obscurities as there are stars in the sky; I pass the time by coming up with more by the day, for I have little else to do when I am not here, but of course they would not hold under examination. I’m hardly a priest.”

There was another gale, this one howling and accompanied by your horse huffing anxiously outside. You doubted it was anything more than an oncoming squall, and ordinarily you’d wait for it to pass, but you did not want to leave the mare alone in the rain, so reluctantly you stood, dipping your head at Kaiser in the politest farewell you could muster.

“Wait,” he said when you reached the door, his voice still a dull, quiet monotone that you had to strain to properly listen to. “Next time.”

“Next time?” you said.

“Tell me the story of your birth,” he said, and then he was glowering at you again, demanding and haughty and piercing all in turn. “I will understand you.”

“Who said you won’t?” you said rhetorically. “Farewell for now. Please be safe in returning to your quarters.”

Your mare pranced the entire way back to the stables, her ears pricked towards the sky, her tail held high and the whites of her eyes showing. You tangled your fingers in her mane, the coming storm seeping through the fabric of your cloak as you urged her forward, hardly making it to the stable before it began to pour, ducking under the stone lip of the roof and holding onto her reins with sweat-slicked hands, trembling from the relief of the near-miss and leaning against her muscular neck to regain your bearings.

At the end of that week, you were met with a visitor — the youngest and dearest of your uncles, who loved you as if you were his own eldest daughter. He had set out from his own manor as soon as he had heard the news, and such was his haste that even now, the grit of his travels lined his clothes and features, but that did not dampen his jovial spirit any.

“You must rest, uncle!” you said, wincing as he regaled you with a story about the strange twins he had met while riding to the manor, with faces like crocodiles and mouths that only spoke lies, right up until he cut their tongues out, after which they could no longer speak at all.

“My, my, how you fret! Lovely niece, you are more and more like your mother every day,” your uncle said. “You must be so proud of her.”

This was accompanied by a good-natured punch to your father’s arm; anyone else would’ve been reprimanded, but at his brother’s antics, your father could only roll his eyes and cuff him on the ear, just as good-natured and half-heartedly.

“I don’t think it’s possible for a man to be prouder,” he said.

“Thank you, father,” you said, curtseying before brandishing an irreverent finger at your uncle. “But really, I insist! Let me take you to your chambers. You have come so far — surely you are weary.”

“Now that you’ve mentioned it…” he said.

“There will be plenty of time for your stories tomorrow over breakfast,” you assured him, taking the stairs slowly, so that he did not overexert himself. “I am sure you have many more.”

“Of course,” he said. “Though not all of them are as lively.”

“Is there cause for alarm?” you said. Your uncle turned away guiltily. Slipping the key to his chambers into the lock and rotating it, you waited. “You must tell me if there is.”

“I don’t want to cause undue stress,” he said. “Especially after everything with your mother.”

“You have already said it. Better to be done with the affair and tell me the whole of things; it’ll only stress me further if you leave me to conjure scenarios of my own in my mind, so there is no avoiding it now,” you said.

“Come in with me, then,” he said, following after you into the chambers where his luggage was already waiting. You sat on the edge of the bed, allowing him to collapse into the desk chair, his head in his hands. “The queen.”

“No,” you said, praying it was paranoia that forced your thoughts down the ugliest of paths. “No, you don’t mean—”

“She has taken ill,” he said. “Her condition is deteriorating at the same rate your mother’s did. My brother the king is…not optimistic. She has been secluded in an attempt to contain the affliction, though of course we do not know how long she has been sick and how much longer she has been contagious. The entire royal family, barring you, your father, and I — if we stay away from the palace, that is — could succumb before the flowers next bloom.”

“Only the three of us will be left?” you said. Your uncle nodded.

“It seems that even in death, your mother is looking out for you,” he said. Something scratched at the back of your throat, and despite how you tried to swallow it back, it only clawed its way up, coalescing into a small whimper. Your uncle’s face softened, returning ten years of youth to it. “Don’t be afraid. We are safe here. As safe as can be.”

“How does it matter?” you said. “If everyone else is gone, how does it matter?”

To this, your uncle had no response, so he only gave you a pitying look and bade you to return to your room, promising you both would meet again and discuss it in the morning, when your father could join you. Whether he would’ve held true to that oath or not, you didn’t know, because as soon as you heard the murmuring of the servants awakening, you threw on a pair of house-slippers and fled the manor, running as fast as you could to the chapel where you knew Kaiser would be waiting.

In the watery light of dawn, he was almost ghostly, ephemeral like smoke or a wraith, the blue of his hair iridescent, the gold closer to a soft cream. Today he was far from the candles, sitting on one of the benches again, his back to you. You panted from the exertion of your earlier pace, but he did not move, did not try to assist you or even greet you.

“There was a prophecy,” you coughed out, flopping onto the closest bench, lying on it with your feet hanging off of the ends. “About my mother. It said that my father’s blood would spell her death.”

Kaiser did not say anything, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t listening, or at least that was what you assured yourself with. He must’ve heard you. He must’ve known.

“My uncles commanded him to take a second wife. The prophecy must’ve referred to their progeny, and indeed every heir they attempted to conceive died in her womb before it could kill her in turn, further proving the point. My father refused, however. He wouldn’t do that to her. If he could not have a child with her, then he would not have one at all,” you said. “I’m sure you know where this is going.”

“They prayed,” he said. “In turn, they were gifted with a child.”

“And my mother did not die,” you said. “That’s why people say I’ve been agreeable for my entire life. I did not fuss, either. I was good, or so I’ve been told. The best of my cousins by far. At the time of my birth, my father was away on some campaign for my uncle the king, so he did not even hear of it for many months, and he could not return for many more. It’s why I was raised by knights and nuns.”

“And why you spout theories and smithing as if you were born to them,” he said.

“That as well. Anyways, the nuns always praised me for defying that prophecy,” you said. “For saving my mother from a certain death. Do you understand?”

“Prophecies are hardly ever so straightforward,” he said. “You can divine one million meanings from them, but it is the million-and-first which will come true. It’s foolhardy and presumptuous for one to claim they understand the truth behind the future. You can only know it once it has come to pass.”

“Yes,” you said. “I don’t disagree.”

“Perhaps it was still your father’s blood that led to your mother’s demise,” he said.

“How? She fell to the plague,” you said.

“It ended with the plague,” he said. “What did it begin with?”

“Snakes,” you said. “No, before that. A flood.”

“And before that?” he said, condescending as anything. It would’ve been infuriating if it was not so at home with his severe countenance.

“There was nothing before that,” you said. 

“If that’s what you think,” he said. “Anyways, is that what you came to tell me?”

“The queen is ill,” you said, gripping the back of the bench and using it to push yourself to a sitting position, swinging your legs down so that your feet were planted on the ground again. “They think it is the same disease which ruined my mother. It’s likely that the entire royal family will be lost — except my youngest uncle, my father, and myself, for all of us fled before the outbreak could reach the castle and have not yet shown any symptoms of the plague.”

“Maybe they deserve it,” he said, with no small amount of contempt. You trained your eyes on the ground, unsure of how you could even fathom saying something, and in your mother’s own chapel, as well. Surely you would be judged for it, but for some reason you thought that you owed honesty to Kaiser.

“Maybe they do,” you said. “Likely they do. But they are — they are still my family. I don’t want them to die.”

His sword caught the sun, and for a moment the maroon on the blade seemed to writhe and drip, coming alive in the light and only stilling when clouds passed across the windows once more. Kaiser’s shoulders still did not face you, but he tilted his head so that he could regard you as he spoke.

“You think they deserve it,” he said, phrasing it as a statement of fact instead of a question.

“I don’t know,” you said. “They must. We all must. These disasters are likely a form of punishment, though I know not what we are being punished for.”

“There is cruelty in this kingdom,” Kaiser said, his voice so cold that it caused a nervous tremor to shoot through you. “And it takes its purest shape in the L/Ns. That must be why they are facing the worst of it.”

You wished you could disagree with him. You wanted to. You wanted to tell him that your father and your uncles and your ten cousins were kind and good, but neither could you lie. Neither could you reassure him of a falsehood, when the both of you knew that had it been anyone else in your family who had found him in the chapel, he would’ve lost his head by now.

“They are cruel,” you said. “I know it. But I cannot bring myself to hate them, not when they love me.”

“It does not absolve them,” he said.

“It does not,” you said heavily. “And I suppose it does not absolve me, either.”

This time, he stood, hefting his sword and pacing in the same frantic way that a leashed dog might. He did not try to brandish the sword, allowing it to drag along at his side, but neither did he let it go. You watched him until you were dizzy from the repetitive nature of his path, and then you covered your eyes and listened to the thud of his boots against the ground.

“You are more like your mother and the queen,” he said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” you said. “Is it because I am a woman? I have cousin-sisters as well, however, and they are as L/N as me.”

“No, it is not that,” he said. “You have been dragged into the sins of the L/Ns against your will, and now you must reap their consequences alongside them. Whether or not you have earned them is irrelevant at this point; you will receive them.”

“It’s already begun,” you said. “My mother — my mother — and who else? They will all be gone, and my father and uncle aren’t so young, which means I shall soon be alone. What will I do then?”

Kaiser was a servant, so by all rights such things were beyond him, but never once had he spoken to you with the deference that his station implied. You didn’t think he knew what it meant to bow his head and comply blindly, so you waited for him to respond, to bestow some small wisdom hidden in the biting jaws of his blasé attitude.

“You won’t be alone,” he said.

“You don’t know that,” you said.

“I do,” he said, as if it were an undeniable truth, written in the foundations of the world. You had never been the type to feel comforted by platitudes, but something about the way it sounded coming from him made your heart swell. “Y/N L/N, you will never be alone. That I am sure of.”

“Do you guarantee it?” you said. “Even though it’s impossible, do you swear?”

“I do,” he said. It was the kindest thing he had ever said to you, so you smiled slightly, although there was no amiability in his tone.

“Then I will believe you,” you said. 

“Believe me or don’t,” he said. “Your feelings will not affect that outcome.”

“Hm,” you said. “Well, thank you for reassuring me.”

“That isn’t why I said that,” he said. 

“But you managed it anyways,” you said. “I need to go, though. I did not dress to be outside, and it’s a bit cool today, isn’t it?”

“No,” he said, a peculiar lilt to his voice. “No, Y/N. I don’t think that it is.”

With your uncle there, it was harder to find time to visit the chapel. Where once Kaiser had been the only one to occupy your time and thus your thoughts, the only one with enough of a mystery to his being that even the bleakest of your grief could be warded off by it, now your uncle was there to distract you, with his stories and his tricks and his gifts. Never one for religion, just like your father, he laughed when you suggested visiting the chapel, and often by the time you were freed of his company, you were far too exhausted to even think about leaving your chambers, let alone the manor.

He was a whirlwind of a man, your youngest uncle, a tempestuous person whose sword was as ready as his smile. Quick to anger and slow to forgive, he had been the spear of your father’s campaign, slicing through the villages they conquered in the name of the king with brutal, clinical efficiency. You were the only person who had never been subject to his wrath, for you were the youngest and mildest of your ten cousins, and thus cherished by the rest of your family in a way that the others were not.

“Have you finished enough of those to go in the woods with me? There’s a place I’m thinking of going hunting, but I’d like your guidance before I do so,” your uncle said one morning, when the sun shone and the sky was as blue as if it were made of ceramic. You were sitting across from him in the parlor, embroidering handkerchiefs with your family’s sigil, folding them and placing them on the table for your father’s use. Your father himself was out for the day, checking on one of his vassal’s progress in the early harvest, which was likely why your uncle was asking you for assistance instead of him.

“It’s only something to while away the hours,” you said, tying off the end of the thin thread in a perfect, imperceptible knot, shaking out the newly completed handkerchief and then setting it with the rest. “I can go whenever you’d like.”

“I’ll send word to the stablehands to tack our horses, then,” your uncle said. “Have you gone to the river’s shore before?”

“Once or twice,” you said.

“If there’s anywhere to find deer, it’ll be there. What do you say about venison for supper by the weekend?” he said.

“Father will be pleased,” you said. The youngest of his brothers and yet the most talented when it came to hunting, your uncle was known in your family for his aptitude at picking out the rarest of game. Your father always told you that if there was anything resembling an afterlife, he would spend it all eating whatever your uncle brought home, and you had no doubt that he would be delighted to return from his trip and find a freshly-slain stag waiting for him.

In order to reach the river, you had to ride through endless swathes of green — some were tilled and tended, but the majority of those fields were wild, home to nothing but rabbits and robins, both of whom fled upon hearing the clip of your horses’ hoofbeats. At first the cleared paths were wide enough for you and your uncle to ride side by side, but eventually they grew narrower, the tall grass scratching at your legs, pollen leaving yellow streaks on your horses’ haunches, and so you were forced to ride in front, for your mare was as sure-footed as your uncle’s charger was flighty and spooky.

“Be careful,” your uncle said as you pushed her forward, kicking her when she pinned her ears at your uncle’s stallion. “The grounds in these fields are always treacherous. Snakes make their homes amongst the grasses and hide the entrances; even one misplaced footfall can be disastrous.”

“Ah, she is good,” you said. “I trust her to know where her feet are better than I would.”

“Smart girl,” your uncle said. “You must get it from your uncle.”

You swatted away a horsefly before it could land on your leg. It was gray and fat and lazy, but you knew that its bite burnt like a bee-sting, so you steered your horse away from it the slightest bit, in the hopes that it would dissuade any further pursuit.

“Of course,” you said. “Though more than smart, I trust that my father’s men have trained her well, in these very fields.”

“Do they come here often, then?” he said. “We won’t be able to find anything if there are many people passing by.”

“Not that I know of. This section of the riverbank is reserved for our family’s use. Nobody would dare come up this way unless they were on my father’s orders, and my father rarely issues such commands,” you said.

“Good,” your uncle said, relaxing in his saddle, taking his bow off of his shoulder and holding an arrow in his right hand. “If we are very quiet, then we may find something today.”

“So soon?” you said.

“Why not?” he said. “We must be silent, however, lest we frighten everything in a few leagues’ radius away.”

Soon, the only thing that could be heard was the whine of the crickets in the grass that your horses disturbed. It was a high sound, shrill and thin like a flute, insistent in the way of begging, and if your uncle had not been there, you would’ve covered your ears to muffle it.

You couldn’t tell how long you wandered along the riverbanks for, but eventually, there was a faint rustling in the brush. You and your uncle locked eyes, and then you reined your mare to a stop, allowing him to trot forwards, eyes locked on the place where the noise had arisen from, his bow held at the ready, a single arrow in place — because a single arrow was all he would need. Your uncle had never once let fly an arrow which did not then make a home in its target, and you doubted he would begin to do so any time soon.

Another minute passed before the rustling grew louder and something burst from the copse of saplings, crashing through the tightly interwoven branches. You gasped when you saw that it was not a deer or any other such game but a boy, his hair dark and long over his eyes, his shoulders narrow and bony, more like perfect, sickening corners with skin draped over them than anything.

“Please,” he said, dropping to his knees, gazing up at you, his pupils like black pinpricks in the expanse of his blank eyes. “I didn’t — I didn’t mean to! I wasn’t — I got lost, but I didn’t mean to end up here! I was only waiting for you to pass through so that I could return home.”

“So you knew that what you were doing was wrong. Expressly forbidden by the prince,” your uncle said. 

“Uncle, it was clearly a mistake,” you said uneasily. 

“Mistakes are made when one does not have knowledge,” your uncle said. “This was not a mistake, nor was it an accident.”

“I was looking for rabbits,” the boy pleaded. “My sister likes them.”

“So you were hunting on the prince’s land?” your uncle said.

“No!” the boy said. “No, she — we don’t eat them, she likes to pet them, she’s still young and our mother is sick so I thought I would find one for her but there aren’t any near our house, so I began to wander, and I don’t know how but I ended up here — please, I didn’t mean to! I didn’t!”

“It’s alright,” you said, loosening your foot from your right stirrup and preparing to dismount. “Where is your home? We can escort you—”

“Stay on your horse,” your uncle said to you. You froze, unaccustomed to hearing him speak in such a way. “You. Boy. You admit your guilt? You have trespassed?”

“Yes — no — I don’t—” the boy stammered. His lips were bluing at the edges, you saw, and you realized he, and likely his mother who he had spoken of, was cursed with the plague, which choked his mind and judgment as well as it did his throat and heart.

“He is unwell, uncle,” you said quietly. “Let him go home.”

The boy was not long for this world, and wasting the precious time he had remaining with this pointless interrogation caused a pit to form in your stomach and a glacial feeling to crawl down your back and shoulders, the kind which could not be chased away even by the strongest of fires.

“Crimes cannot go unpunished,” your uncle said. “If we let him go, then we will have to let the next go, and the next after that. Where do you draw the line?”

“Here,” you said. “That is where I draw it. We both know that he is closer to my mother than to us at this point. Forgive him this time. He will not return, I am sure of it.”

“I won’t,” the boy said, voice cracking. “Your royal highnesses, I won’t.”

“Tell me where you live,” you said. “Not far, surely?”

“Just over the hill,” the boy said, staggering to his feet. “The house with the hyacinths in front of it.”

“I will take you there,” you promised him.

“You will do no such thing,” your uncle said. “Y/N L/N. If you ever wish to be the lady of an estate, then you must learn how to punish those who disobey your rule.”

“Don’t!” you said, but you were too late, far too late. Already, the arrow was cutting through the air and piercing through the boy’s heart. He fell in the way a leaf might, silent and crumpling and brittle, a motionless heap staining the earth with his blood. You screamed, or at least you tried to, but there was not enough air in your lungs, and you could not inhale or exhale without the ringing in your ears climbing into a pounding sensation.

“Where are you going?” your uncle said as you tugged on your mare’s left rein, turning her around, away from the still body and your uncle’s stark figure. “Y/N! Wait!”

Tightening your calves, you cued her into a gallop, taking off along the riverbank, water spraying into the air wherever her feet fell. Dimly you were aware of your uncle shouting after you, and then he, too, was galloping in your pursuit, but his stallion was recalcitrant, rearing and gnashing at the bit with every step, slowing their progress immensely and allowing you to fly out of their sight.

Turning into the fields that swept towards the manor, you paid no heed to your uncle’s earlier warnings, pushing the horse faster instead of slowing as you should’ve, your surroundings blurring into nothing more than smears of viridian and mustard in your peripheral vision. You had to reach him before your uncle did. You had to, you had to, you had to —

Abruptly, your horse skidded to a stop, scrambling for purchase in the ground and snorting nervously. You were thrown up her neck but did not fall, sitting back and scanning the area for what might’ve spooked her. In the beginning you did not see it, but then there was a soft hiss from the ground that caused her to dance backwards uncertainly, and you bit your lip hard enough to draw blood.

“You are meant to be gone,” you said to the viper, which was baring its fangs at you, its dark tongue flicking out periodically to taste the air before it. Your words bordered on hysterical as you shifted in your saddle, eyeing its coiling body with equal parts fear and disdain. “Your kind vanished! Why are you back? Do you mean to torment me?” 

The serpent did not move to strike, but neither did it shift out of the way, its slit-pupil eyes never blinking, its white teeth like pearls against the roof of its black mouth. You looked around, but there was no other path as clearly demarcated as the one you were on, and you dared not risk going into the grasses where thousands more of the snake’s brethren could be lying in wait.

Behind you, you could once more hear your uncle calling your name, and you knew that the precious few seconds you had gained on him would come to naught if you continued to dither about. When all was said and done, there was only one thing you could do, so apologizing to your horse, you squeezed her onwards. She lurched forwards with a start, her tail swishing, her movements jerky as she inched towards the snake, which grew eerily still at your approach.

Death was supposed to be a mystery or a surprise, but for some reason, as your horse took that final step forwards, you were excruciatingly aware that the next few moments would likely be your last. The snake would dart up, as quick as a whip, and it would latch onto your leg, slaying you instantaneously. What a swift revenge it would be, that your uncle had killed that boy and now he would be met with your own body, pierced through with snake venom as that child had been skewered upon his arrow!

You could’ve done a great number of things in those final seconds, but your mother’s final words came to you, and you found yourself mulling them over. He is here, she had said. Right in front of you. Don’t you see him? He is so beautiful. As beautiful as the paintings. Michael himself had appeared for her, but then who was by your side? Who would accompany you after your death? 

There was a flash of movement in the corner of your eye, something azure and fluttering — a butterfly, surely, or some small bird frightened by the commotion. It was unimportant in the end; what mattered most was the color, which was so reminiscent of the person you had set out for that it broke you from your daze, heartening you enough to sit up and raise your chin, facing the snake with enough courage that even your horse ceased to shy away from it. Instead, she let out a squeal which sounded like a trumpet, and then she leapt into the air, bucking upon the landing and galloping away from the viper at such a speed that white lather frothed on her neck and streaked down her shoulders.

You reached the chapel in a time that should not have been possible, and even before you had pulled the mare to a stop, you were leaping off, your fingers clumsy as you tied her to the first fence post you saw. Your legs protested as you took the stairs two at a time, but you paid them no heed. You could not allow them to fail you, not when your uncle’s strides were twice the length of yours.

“Kaiser!” you called out when you entered the chapel. He was standing by the altar, a shower of sparks falling from the flint in his hands onto the charred cloth placed on the table, and instead of greeting you, he blew on the smoldering edge. A flame blossomed to life, and he used it to light a new candle, smothering the cloth under his boot once the fire had been transferred. “Kaiser, you must leave at once.”

“Why should I do that?” he said. “Who are you to dismiss in such a way?”

“It’s not me,” you said. “My uncle is furious, and if he finds you — if he finds you here, then he’ll cut you down, and not even that sword of yours will be enough to stop him.”

“Your uncle and his moods have little to do with me,” Kaiser said. “His tantrums are meaningless.”

“You don’t know him like I do,” you said. 

“Don’t I?” he said.

“He just killed a boy for trespassing,” you said. “I couldn’t even stop him. It was the most I could do to return in time to warn you before he came here to pray for that child’s life.”

“You disobeyed your uncle and ran from him for the sole purpose of…warning me?” he said.

“Yes, but it will be meaningless if you don’t hearken to my words,” you said. 

“Why is that?” he said.

“Enough with your riddles and your questions!” you snapped. “Are you incapable of taking anything seriously? You will die!”

“Answer this one and I’ll oblige your inane demands,” he said.

“Being with you is the only time I do not fear or mourn,” you said, your nails carving crescents into your palms as your gaze switched rapidly between him and the door. “My mother…my family…the plague and the vipers and the floods…I can forget about them all when I speak to you. If you are gone, then I will have no one. So please, please run. I cannot bear the thought of your blood being shed as well.”

Kaiser looked at you, and then, inexplicably, he laughed. It was a sound so lovely that it grated on your nerves, like a bell ringing too close to your ears. “Your uncle is not a man who could ever shed my blood, and he’d have to have an inordinately high opinion of himself to think he could.”

“You said you would oblige me,” you said, having half-expected such an arrogant response from him but finding that you were vexed by it anyways. “It doesn’t matter what you think of him. You must go, and only return once he has left this place.”

The door slammed open. You spun, drawing your cloak tighter around your shoulders and standing as straight as you could, dismay spiking in your stomach when your uncle walked in. The two of you had spent too long discussing, your explanation had been too lengthy, you had remained frightened of the snake for more time than you should’ve — at the end of the day, the reason didn’t matter as much as the result, which was that your uncle was here and Kaiser was still standing behind you.

“Y/N,” your uncle said, coming down the aisle, his stride light and elegant, the picture of a gentleman. You took a step back, reaching your hand out behind you to prevent Kaiser from saying something callous and damning, as he was wont to do.

“It’s not what you think,” you said. “Uncle, it’s not — please don’t —”

Yet when your uncle reached the altar, he did not draw his sword, nor did he command Kaiser to kneel before him. He only gave you a puzzled look, directing his attention to the candles burning behind your back.

“You played with your life just to come and light the candles a little earlier?” he said.

“What?” you said. 

“I know it must’ve been upsetting to see, but rules need to be upheld, or else they cease to be rules and turn into mere suggestions,” your uncle said, patting you on the head. 

“Aren’t you angry?” you said in trepidation.

“With you? No, of course not,” he said. “It was the same way for me, the first time I witnessed my father performing an execution. You’ll grow out of it.”

“Er, okay,” you said, too bewildered now to even comprehend his words. What was Kaiser’s magic, that he had escaped your uncle’s stern reproach and careless sword, which had felled countless men?

“Will you stay with me while I pray?” your uncle said. It was the only time he ever changed his mind about religion — after every life he took, he pleaded for forgiveness, as if that could be enough to exonerate him. You weren’t sure if it would be or not, but it didn’t really matter what you thought — it was the only way he had, you were quite sure, to go on. To continue living despite everything he had done.

“No,” you said. “Come — ah, what?”

You had turned to beckon Kaiser, but when you did, you realized that he was gone, vanished without a trace, though you had not heard or seen him leave. Your uncle gave you another strange look before returning to one of the benches and bowing his head, leaving you to wonder if Kaiser had ever even been there in the first place.

The stablehands were confused when you brought your drained mare back to them and demanded they ready another horse for you, and it was only worsened when you commanded them to also bring you one of the rabbits that were raised for their meat. Yet they could not argue with the princess, so they did as you said, bringing you the smallest of your father’s mounts and placing a young rabbit in your arms once you were in the saddle.

You could not tell whether you or the rabbit quivered more — the rabbit from confusion and fear, you from fatigue and the temperature, which had dropped rapidly since you and your uncle had set out in the mid-morning.

Taking a longer route so that you avoided the fields where you had seen the serpent, you trotted towards the riverbank, cradling the rabbit to your heart in the hopes that its warmth would transfer to you. Halting by where the boy’s body still lay, undisturbed and almost peaceful, you set the rabbit atop a tree branch so that it could not escape, and then you jumped off of your horse and crouched so that you could lift the boy onto your saddle. Draping him over it with every bit of strength you could summon, you took the rabbit back in one arm and used the other to lead the horse after you as you trudged towards the direction of the village, mud soaking into your boots and flecking the hems of your clothing.

You crossed the hill at a snail’s pace until you reached a small stone house with purple hyacinths littering the courtyard and a brown goat grazing on the scrubby grass, and then you knocked on the door and stood there until a man opened it. He was tall, his face lined and burnt from the sun, trenches like crow-feet digging into the corner of his eyes, his clothes patched and mended by inexperienced hands many times over. He squinted at you, like he was trying to recognize you, but eventually he gave up and cocked his head at you instead.

“On what business have you come knocking, miss?” he said.

“Your son,” you said. He rolled his eyes affectionately.

“Ah, that rascal. I hope he was not bothering you?” he said. You tried to swallow back the lump in your throat and found that it was impossible, so you stroked the ears of the rabbit and squeezed out a response anyways.

“He’s dead,” you said. “No. He was killed.”

“Pardon?” the man said. “Killed? On what — on what account?”

“On a whim,” you said, a tear splashing onto the rabbit’s back, turning the gray of its fur into a color like tar. “If there were a better explanation, I’d give it to you, sir, but the truth is there isn’t one.”

The man stared at you in disbelief, and you tightened your grip on the horse’s reins, waiting for him to say something. Yet he was silent, staring and staring as if by doing so he could turn your words to lies.

“I brought him back for you,” you whispered, the words digging into your windpipe as they went. “I brought him back.”

The man made a small nose which seemed to come from deep within him, guttural and low and keening, and then he fell to the floor.

“Please say it isn’t so,” he wept, pressing his forehead to your feet. “Lady, lady, say this is some cruel prank and go. His mother is sick already; you cannot say I will lose them both in such short succession. Say you are lying to me.”

“I can’t,” you said, your lower lip wobbling and your vision blurring. “Sir, I cannot do that.”

He wrapped his arms around your ankles and bawled like a child, folded over your boots as he cried and cried. You were motionless, wishing that there was something you could do but knowing that it would all be meaningless — just like Kaiser could not bring your mother back, so, too, were you incapable of resurrecting this man’s son, who had been put down at the hands of your own uncle.

“Thank you,” he said after some time had passed, standing and wiping his face, taking your horse’s reins from you. “I will see to it that he is taken care of. Might I have your name? So that I can repay you?”

“No repayment is necessary,” you said. “Please refrain; I’ve done nothing worthy of repayment. I only ask that you tell me if you have a daughter.”

“Yes,” the man sniffed. “Yes, she’s inside, sitting with her mother. Do you require her?”

“Only to give her a gift,” you said. “And then I shall take your leave.”

The man nodded at you, and you swept inside, brushing past him before he could exit the house and relive his grief anew upon seeing his son’s body in the flesh. You had been there the first time; the second time, you thought, should be something private, belonging to him and him alone.

Sitting by a fire and covered in straw was the wretched woman that could only be the boy’s mother. She appeared worse than your own mother ever had, even in the hours before her death, and her chest rattled with every breath. Squatted by her side was a girl, likely half your age and hardly even a third of your weight, her hair lank and heavy around her shoulders, her cheeks flushed a pink that promised the plague had not clawed into her body yet.

“Hello,” you said. The mother did not move, but the girl looked up at you in a manner reminiscent of a puppy or a foal, a certain naïveté to her features, which resembled her brother’s so much that for a moment you were breathless.

“Hello,” she said. Her voice was a brittle murmur, and her lips barely moved when she spoke, but her eyes shimmered with a slight curiosity, widening when you knelt before her. “Who are you?”

“Your brother sent this for you,” you said, avoiding her question and handing the rabbit to her. She inhaled in delight, taking it from you swiftly and burying her nose in the fur around its neck before beaming at you.

“Really, he did? He always called me foolish when I told him I wanted a rabbit! Said that rabbits are wild creatures and only fairies can catch them,” she said, kissing the rabbit atop its ears. “Are you a fairy, miss? You have to be, right?”

“Certainly, I am not,” you said, kneeling on the stone of the floor and placing your hand against her cheek, which burned with the heat of the fire she was tending. “Dear girl, please remember that it was not a fairy who brought this rabbit to you — it was your brother, who loves you more than anything.”

She still did not know about any of it. She did not know that her brother was dead and her mother was all but. She only saw the object of her desires encircled in her arms, so she was, at least for now, happy, and you could not bear to steal that happiness from her, not when you knew that you how fleeting it was.

“Okay,” she said gravely. “I’ll remember it well. Mama, look! It’s a rabbit. You like rabbits, Mama, so please wake up and look at it.”

“Your mother is resting,” you said when she bent to shake her mother awake. “You should not bother her.”

“She’s always resting,” the girl said. “And if she speaks, it’s only to say that she’s cold.”

“Is that what the straw is for?” you said. Even if she wasn’t sick, you’d have agreed with the woman; you, too, found it to be growing colder out than it ever had in the past, but she had been cursed with the plague, and so it must have been tenfold worse for her than it ever could be for you. 

“Yes, it’s the best we have,” she said. “My brother, father, and I share the blanket because we don’t sleep near the fire, and so we only have straw left to warm her. I think I’m going to start working soon as well, and hopefully then I’ll be able to buy the best blanket in the world for her.”

There would be nowhere that would hire her in time for her to give her mother a blanket, except as a burial shroud, so you undid the clasp of your cloak and draped it over the woman’s body. She did not acknowledge you, but you saw her shoulders fall into an exhale, and you knew it was her form of thanks. The girl gazed at you in wonder, her eyes settling on the gooseflesh which pimpled your upper arms without the protection of the cloak, and then she returned her attention to her mother, whose expression was a degree less distraught with the added shield you had provided.

“Not now, and not for some years to come, but when you are old enough, come to the L/N manor,” you said. “You will find work there.”

Outside of the house, her father was digging, and on the ground beside him was a heap of canvas that no doubt disguised her brother. The girl followed you towards your horse, lips pursuing as you used a nearby tree stump to remount.

“How? It’s impossible to be employed there. All my family’s tried, but they’re ever-full,” she said.

“They will admit you, as long as you bring that cloak with you,” you said. “And if you tell them that Princess Y/N sent you.”

Her lips parted in awe, and the rabbit’s nose twitched as you smiled at her, as kindly as you could. In a few hours, she might despise you — after all, you had been the one to bring her brother back, and even if she never learnt of the role you had played in his death, she might resent you for that fact alone — but for now, you were someone she admired, the princess who had come from the manor and left her with a cloak and a rabbit and a promise.

Without your cloak, it was brutally cold, and you soon grew more preoccupied with trying to warm yourself in some way than with guiding the horse home. And although it was tamer than the rest, your current mount still belonged to your father in the end — it was not of the same reliable temperament as your own mare, who would’ve doggedly brought you back to the stables. As you slumped further and further into the saddle, your vision swimming, the horse only halted in the middle of the field you had somehow ended up in, unsure of what to do without a rider’s direction.

“You are a surprising person, Y/N L/N,” a soft voice said, and then someone was prying the reins out of your hands and taking them over your horse’s head. You would’ve been frightened, but though your eyesight was blurred, you knew who it was as soon as he spoke. “Foolish and surprising in turn.”

“Kaiser,” you said. “How are you here? Where did you go earlier? I thought my uncle might find you, but you weren’t there…”

“Don’t concern yourself with such trivial matters. They are beyond your understanding,” he said, clicking his tongue to encourage the horse forward. “I came here for you because earlier, you came for me, no matter how unnecessary it may have been. That’s all that matters.”

“Aren’t you cold?” you said, leaning forwards, collapsing against the horse’s crest, too tired to hold yourself up properly. “I’m cold.”

“I know,” he said. “You’ve been cold for a while, haven’t you?”

“I suppose so,” you said. For a moment, there was silence, and when he finally spoke again, his tone was tinged with melancholy.

“I wish that you were more like your father,” he said.

“Hm,” you said drowsily. “Why?”

“I want to condemn you,” he said. “Curse you. Rebuke you. Damn you.”

“And you cannot?” you said.

“I can,” he said. “All too easily.”

“Then?” you said.

“Then nothing,” he said. “It’s only that it makes me feel strange when it shouldn’t.”

“Strange,” you said. “What a vague word.”

“I cannot explain it further,” he said. “So don’t ask me to.”

“I see,” you said, though really you didn’t — you only did not want to upset him when he was the only savior you had. “Wait, Kaiser, you must know — there is a viper, one of the ones from the flood, it’s in the fields and it might yet strike. I am not sure if it is the only one of its kind, as well.”

“No vipers will dare cross my path,” he said, a laugh trickling into the cadence of his speech. “Not while I have this sword at my side.”

“Even now, you have it?” you said, your eyes closed against the light. 

“Yes,” he said. “I cannot sheathe it yet.”

“What does that mean?” you said.

“It is meaningless,” he said. “You ought to be silent, lest you waste what meager amounts of energy your body has managed to retain thus far.”

You weren’t sure how much longer the two of you walked for, but suddenly you were by the stables and there was a clamor and you were falling off the horse’s shoulder, into the arms of one of the stablehands. He was speaking in a panicked rush, commanding someone to fetch your uncle and another to send word to your father before asking you something, his voice harsh and breathy, nothing at all like Kaiser’s needle-precise words. You would’ve answered, but the slight rocking motions of his gait were enough to lull you into a sleep before you could even understand what his question was in the first place.

The stablehand must’ve carried you to your room, for when you awoke, you were in your bed and the sun had set. Your father sat at your desk, a lamp lighting the letters he was writing. Wrinkling your nose and then wiggling your fingers and toes to regain some feeling in them, you yawned, sitting up with a rustle of the sheets.

“Father,” you said, your mouth cottony from sleep. “You’ve returned?”

“Y/N?” your father said, dropping his quill and jumping to his feet, racing over to your side and catching your hand in between his own, holding it to his forehead. “Oh, Y/N, you must swear never to do something so idiotic again. I was so frightened — I thought — I thought you might never wake again.”

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Why would you go riding without dressing for the weather?” he said. “And without at least asking for someone to accompany you?”

“I’m sorry, father. I wasn’t thinking,” you said again, because you knew without a shadow of a doubt that you could not tell him the truth behind your escapade, or he might find some way to penalize the family who had not been at fault and had already lost so much.

“You’re lucky that that horse was so intelligent,” he said.

“What do you mean?” you said.

“It managed to find its way back to the stables even with you all but unconscious on its back,” he said.

“No, someone led me home,” you said. “A servant.”

Your father furrowed his brow. “Ah, what do you mean? There was no one.”

“There was, I’m sure of it!” you said.

“Nobody saw anyone leading you back, daughter,” he said. “You must’ve been having visions from delirium. It’s not uncommon for those who have been so compromised.”

“Visions,” you said. “I suppose there is that explanation.”

“Setting that aside, how do you feel now?” he said.

“Much improved,” you said.

“A night’s rest will do you well,” he said. “We can speak again in the morning, yes?”

“Yes, that sounds appealing,” you said. “Goodnight, father.”

Oftentimes he, like the rest of his siblings, had a somber and unyielding expression upon his angular face, but never when he looked at you — because when he laid eyes upon you, he was no longer the prince of the kingdom. He was only your father, the man who had half-created you and loved you more than he had ever loved anything or anyone, excepting, of course, your mother.

Maybe it was because you had slept half of the day away, but the next morning, you were awake even before the sun. You lay in your bed for a moment, willing sleep to take you once more, but when it became evident that it had fled from your grasp for good, you pushed your blankets to the side and stood on shaky legs, finding comfort in the consistency of readying yourself for the day.

You had none of your usual composure when you entered the chapel. The moment you saw Kaiser standing with his hands laced together and his face tilted towards the sun, your heart skipped an irrational beat, and then you picked your way towards where he stood, careful not to slip on the precious stones of the floor, which today seemed to be more treacherous than usual.

When you reached his side, you were not sure of what to say, so you opted for the truth, however blunt. “I dreamt of you yesterday.”

“I’m flattered,” he said, in that same amused way he said everything, his every word a private joke you could never be in on. 

“You saved me,” you continued. “If it hadn’t been for you, I would’ve died.”

“You wouldn’t have died regardless,” he said dismissively. At first, you raised your eyebrows, because how was it that he always said such things with such conviction that you could not help but believe in them? Who was he to inspire such faith in you? Then, before you could lose your nerve, you embraced him, your arms around his neck and fingers dangling in the space between his shoulder blades, his thrumming heartbeat reverberating through your bones like a hymn.

Many seconds passed wherein he was motionless, a being made from stone, before, slowly, hesitantly, he pulled you even closer to him, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other arm wrapping around your waist so that you did not crumble. He was hot like a hearth, his skin blazing with the kind of warmth you had not felt in so long that tears sprang to your eyes.

“You saved me,” you insisted, weeping in earnest, wishing that there was some way you could stay by his side forever and then wondering where such a desire could even have sprung from. “Even if you were only a vision conjured by my mind, I know that I would never have made it home were it anyone else I saw. Had it been anyone but you, I would’ve been lost until the end.”

“Enough wailing,” he said, but it was devoid of the typical thorniness. “Y/N L/N. Stop it.”

“I cannot,” you said. 

“Pathetic girl,” he said; however, for the first time, you detected a hint of wavering in his voice. “Pathetic, idiotic girl. If only there were a way I could un-know you. If only it were possible for me to forget you entirely.”

“Don’t,” you said. “Please don’t.”

“I won’t,” he said. “If I were capable of it, I would’ve done so long ago, but as I haven’t, it can only mean that I never will.”

Somehow, you returned to the manor before anyone could raise an alarm at your second disappearance. Joining your father and uncle at the table for breakfast, avoiding your uncle’s greeting and sitting next to your father, you realized that it was not a miracle that you had escaped notice; rather, it was that everyone was supremely concerned with the letter your father was scanning, storms swirling in his eyes as he read it over.

“They’re summoning us,” he said, a second later. “Oh, Y/N, you’re here. Good.”

“Who is?” you said.

“My brother the king,” he said. “There’s been a prophecy. Very soon — in two weeks or even less — the queen will be dead.”

All of you set off at once, your father and uncle riding ahead, leaving you to cocoon yourself in a nest of furs atop the cushioned bench of the carriage. The guard from before, the handsome one with the hair like fox-hide, was requisitioned to accompany you, and so he sat across from you instead of riding in the company of your father and his retainers. You were the one who had asked for him specifically; he was kind and familiar to you, so in such a terrifying moment, you preferred his stalwart nature to any other’s.

“Tell me again,” you said, your voice muffled by the squirrel pelt wrapped around your neck and chin. “What did that prophet see?”

The guard did not know any more than you did, but in the monotony of the carriage ride, there were few other things you could occupy yourself with besides the obsessive question-and-answer game that you played with him. He was happy to follow along, or, if he was not happy, then at least he did as you asked without much complaint.

“Three things,” the guard said, holding up his right hand, the white calluses standing out against the pink of his palms. “Firstly, an eagle fell from its nest and broke its wings.”

“A clear omen against the L/Ns,” you said. “Eagles represent royalty, so for one to fall and lose its ability to fly in such a way…”

“Yes,” the guard agreed. “Secondly, upon reading the entrails of a sow, it was determined that the eagle was referencing a woman in particular.”

“And if it is a woman, then it could only be the queen,” you said.

“Correct, your highness,” he said. He could not see it, but you smiled at him — just barely, for you had not had enough to drink during your journey, so your lips were cracking from dehydration, and you did not rest well anymore, so you were constantly weary. “And finally, they consulted the mirrors, whereupon they saw death from disease tarnishing the pureness of the silver.”

“So they combined the symbols and divined that she would perish from the illness which has plagued her, as it once did my mother,” you said. “I wonder if it is worse or better to be aware that your death is approaching.”

“I suppose she must have known already, don’t you think?” he said. “In the moments before her death, your mother saw the angel Michael. I am sure the queen has had such a visitor as well.”

“Perhaps,” you said. “Though then again, I doubt that he would make appearances so frequently.”

“If he came to escort your mother, then would he not come for the queen? Forgive me for being candid, but it’s true that the queen’s station is far loftier than mother’s was,” he said.

“It’s alright. You’re not wrong, but even then,” you said, and then you sighed, sinking deeper into the plushness of your blankets. “Well, I don’t know. The affairs of angels are beyond you and I.”

“That’s true,” he said. You screwed your eyes shut, colorful spots painting the blackness behind your eyelids, the world spinning peculiarly, in a manner which was unrelated to the swaying of the carriage wheels.

“I think I will sleep now, sir,” you said. “If you do not mind very much.”

“I am only here to do as you command, your highness,” he said. “If you wish to sleep, then by all means, please sleep. I will wake you if anything happens.”

The journey to the castle was longer for you than it was for the riders, who could take narrower paths and cut across fallen trees and flooded bridges that the carriage needed to circumvent. By the time you reached, there was already a procession underway, and as the guard helped you towards the church, holding onto your hand and shoulders so that you could walk, you had to be wary of the spectators to the parade, who were shoving one another so that they could have the best possible view.

“They’re praying. For the queen’s health, and for the end of the plague,” you said, coughing hard enough that your chest ached from it, covering your mouth with your hand in shame, for you had been coughing more and more frequently as of late.

When you removed your hand, you noticed that there was something wet and wine-colored speckling it, and right when you were about to reach an understanding you should’ve come to long ago, a man’s shoulder rammed into your side, knocking you off-balance. Only your guard’s quick reflexes were enough to catch you, and he picked you up before such an accident could be repeated, taking care to push the man away rougher than he really needed to when he passed.

“Are you alright?” he said.

“Yes,” you said, half in a daze, the image of your stained hand imprinted in your mind. “Can you hear what they are saying, sir? Are they begging for forgiveness?”

“They are,” he said. “They’re repenting in the hopes that there will be mercy.”

“It’s late for that,” you said. “For me, anyways. But maybe the rest of you can still be saved.”

“What do you mean by that?” he said. Without you to slow the guard down, the two of you covered ground at twice the earlier speed, and you reached the steps of the church before the throngs of worshippers could. You saw them coming, the gathered masses of people, with the king and your father and the queen at the forefront of it all, and then you coughed again, because until you had seen that blood you hadn’t comprehended it, but now you did. “Why don’t you include yourself amongst our ranks, princess?”

“What is your name, sir?” you said.

“Kunigami, your royal highness,” he said. “Are you quite alright?”

“Kunigami,” you said, clenching the fabric of his tunic in your fists. “Kunigami, it’s not cold out today, is it?”

“No,” he said. “No, princess, it’s not. It’s mild and lovely.”

“It hasn’t been,” you said, and then you were crying, because you were afraid. You were more afraid then you ever had been, and you only had this bewildered boy to comfort you — and what slim comfort he provided! He, who was meant to be your staunchest defender but could never defend you from this. “It hasn’t been cold in many months, has it?”

“No,” he said. “Actually, it’s been rather warm. This year marks the warmest summer we’ve had since the time of the last king, or so I’m told.”

“The warmest summer?” you said. “I see now. I see. Oh, oh, Kunigami, you must go and fetch my father at once.”

“You are confounding me, your highness,” he said. “What is the matter?”

“Please bring my father,” you said. “Please, I don’t — I don’t want to be alone when it happens.”

Your poor father — some higher power had decided he deserved this. Your father, who was cruel, who killed and conquered, who was the horrible prince of the kingdom. Your father, who had already lost your mother. Your father, who would soon lose you.

“I don’t understand even now what you mean,” Kunigami said, setting you on the steps and straightening his shirt. “But I will do as you say. Wait here.”

He charged down the stairs, cutting through the crowds effortlessly with his imposing presence. You watched him go before turning back to the church, marveling at the building, the white pillars and the silvery dome which shone in the sky like a daytime moon. Statues of angels and muses lined the roof, and across the facade, there were words engraved. You could hardly read them, but you knew by heart what was written: On this mountain, I shall build my home, and thereupon I will give you the keys with which to reach me.

You didn’t know when your legs buckled, but they must’ve, for suddenly you were lying prone on the stairs, the stone freezing against your face, and although it was hardly the place for it, you found your tucking your fists under your forehead, exhaling and thinking of how sublime it would be to drift off now, drift off and not wake up for many hours or days…

“Y/N L/N.” The voice was the same, but there was something else behind it. Never had he spoken with such strength and such sadness in combination; his typical apathy had been chased away entirely, replaced with a fond if not distant pity. “I told you that you would not be alone. Did I not?”

Hands like embers held your face carefully, thumbs brushing against your cheeks as he tugged your jaw up so that you could look at him. You hardly had the strength to lift your head — how had you not known that it was coming? How had you ignored the symptoms of your own condition? Was it that you did not want to know it and so you refused to recognize the simple fact which had been looming over you for months now? But ignoring it did not make it go away. Ignoring it did not make it false. Ignoring it did not change the truth of the matter: that you were dying, that you had been dying for a long time now.

“Kaiser,” you said. He appeared different, though you could not place it; there was something hazy and golden about him, but regardless you were assured that it was him and no other. 

“Some know me by that name,” he said. “Most do not.”

“What do you mean?” you said.

“Michael!” It was your father who was screaming the name, and when you shifted, you realized he was doing his best to run towards you, though your uncles held him back, shock reflecting in their faces as your father bawled. “Michael, divine lord, don’t take her, too. Anybody else, be it the queen, my brothers — even me! Kill me, kill the entire kingdom if you must, but leave Y/N. Spare her, and I will repent! I will change my ways, and I will force the others to change as well. Spare her and I will do whatever you ask — but please, please spare her.”

“You should’ve come to this conclusion longer ago,��� Kaiser said, and though he spoke at a regular volume, his voice rang through the square like he had shouted. “The time for begging is long gone. The plague will continue until all of you are dead. By my sword, I swear—”

“Michael,” you said. He was silent immediately, and you fought to keep your eyes open. Noticing your lowering your eyelashes against the sun, he reflexively spread his wings to cover you in shade, allowing you to admire him in full for the first time. “Has it been you all along?”

“Yes,” he said, a soft breeze running through his feathers and ruffling his hair. “Yes, it has been.”

“My mother was right,” you said. “You really are as beautiful as the paintings. Though, you were right as well. There is nothing resembling serenity in your expression.”

To your surprise, he chuckled, though there was a distinct tinge of sorrow behind it, so that it was as similar to a sob as it was to a laugh. Something moist splashed onto your face, and at first you thought he, too, was crying, but then you realized it came from his sword, which he brandished even now. Blood, that was what it was, the source of those sanguine stains which were now animated and lively, weeping down the length of the blade and dripping onto the white marble beneath his feet.

“Of course there is not,” he said. “When there is so much injustice in this world, how can I ever be serene?”

“You brought this plague upon us,” you said. “And the snakes, and the flood.”

“I did,” he said. “It was divine will. In the face of it, even I am powerless.”

“By your sword,” you said. “Is that why you hold it before you always?”

“How intelligent you are,” he said. “Oh, if only it were not you.”

“But you can stop it,” you said. “If you deem us worthy of being saved, you can prevent anyone else from dying.”

“Not you,” he said. “It’s too late. Even if I do that, I cannot save you. Not this time.”

“That’s alright,” you said. “You needn’t save me again. Once was enough. I’ve not done anything to be deserving of a second time.”

“No,” he said firmly. “You are the only one who I want to save. If you are lost, then there is nobody worthy of surviving. What have any of the rest ever proved to me? What goodness have they ever shown? What virtue or introspection? They are all brutes, and so they have earned it.”

“I cannot say whether that is true or not,” you said. “I don’t know about anyone else. But if even one other person like me exists and your inaction kills them, too, then will you ever be forgiven?”

“I am an angel,” he said. “I seek no forgiveness. I have not done anything to necessitate it.”

“I will not forgive you,” you said. 

“What does it mean?” he said. “What will any of it mean once you are gone?”

Your father had fallen to ground, repeating every prayer he had ever been taught, and even your uncle the king, who was typically stolid in the face of adversity, who had not placed a foot wrong the entire time he had thought his wife was the one prophesied to die, had tears shimmering in his eyes.

“Forgive them,” you said, and then, to your surprise, Michael, or Kaiser, or whichever name you called him, for it was irrelevant when they were all in reference to this singularly grand being — was dropping to his knees and tenderly taking your head so that it could rest on his lap. “As I will forgive you, forgive them. Please.”

Nobody even breathed. Every single body in the kingdom was stationary; the rabbits, the dormice, the people and the snakes, all of them waited to see what he would do. For a moment, it was nothing, and after that he merely hunched over and pressed his lips to your temple, his wings arcing to cover your body from any who might dare to glance at it.

“Very well, then,” he said. “I cannot save you, Y/N L/N, so this time, without riddles nor fuss, I will oblige you.”

A small smile graced his face, albeit an anguished one more characteristic of men than of angels, and as one blazing hand grew hotter and hotter against your rapidly-cooling cheek, he raised his sword in the air; then, for the first time since the plague had begun, he sheathed it.

[ranticore]

Can you talk more about homosocial bonding in Ironwall, I'm curious to know how that works. If there are women's only dance clubs, are their clubs for men too?

Yes but it did work differently for men

The womens clubs are a social holdover from pre-Florian times. A herd is always led by a mare (read: a mother), who would be the leader of their entire social group, enforcing a rather strict hierarchy among subordinate mares and younger women. Young colts and geldings (yes babey we have eunuchs too) have their place in this herd so long as they are related to one of the established female members (a son, a nephew, etc), though colts would have been expected to go their own way once they reach maturity.

What happened at the time (traditional era, pre-Florian, middle ages) was that the colts would stick together when they left their group/town/hold/etc and form little roving bands of 17-25 yr olds. They'd prepare themselves for their proper adult life by play-fighting over literally everything, being gay, and caring for the youngest members of their bachelor band. But it was not acceptable to stay in this roaming, half-wild state forever. They would peel off one by one to try their luck in the settlements they passed, arriving as a potential stallion, not a young boy. They were treated henceforth as ticking time bombs ready to go off, as all stallions are (just because it was pre-Florian doesn't mean it was some egalitarian paradise. you know me better than that and i love it when things suck), and allowed to lead 'from the rear' (a protector role vs the boss mare leading from the front, the one who was truly in charge). In a small herd, the stallion would be the only guy fathering kids. In large complex towns and settlements, herds could merge and separate on a daily basis, and a small number of adult men could claim (with the boss mare's permission) the wives who wanted him.

So in their adulthood, men were never expected to seek out male social groups, because those other men were now rivals (for sex, for dominance, for their place in the herd, etc). Why are you as a man seeking friendship with other men? etc

For the young women in the herd, things can be grim. You're not expected to strike out on your own, but you are expected to find your place in the hierarchy and that means going head to head with the other women. And being gay. Friendships were always made complicated by the friends' unbalanced social status, and the fact that your social status was in part decided by the boss mare (so not something you have the ability to change if her mind is set), and your own willingness to fight (sometimes physically) for your place. Not everyone has the guts to assert themselves, but also a lower social status was not always doom and gloom, usually it just meant others dictating your movement by cutting across your path. Social status in a herd was entirely unrelated to material wealth, it was a separate axis kept track of by everyone around you at all times. Unlike the boys, young girls would be expected to grow up in the same herd, living their entire lives among the same social group, and it also meant that acting outside that expectation was discouraged and disrespected; a woman leaving the herd to find another, without the boss mare's blessing, was considered to be acting either "like a man" or like someone who just couldn't hack it in the often very stressful life of a low-status woman.

BUT! That was hundreds of years ago. Following the foundation of Ironwall, the most common herd structure (small groups of subsistence crop-farmers) began to die a slow death. The concentration of a large population in a small area caused a clash that could not easily be accounted for by the new laws and human-style social norms. Early Ironwall was plagued by gangs of unruly feral teenage boys roaming the streets, so a new law was added to the rest. Boys of the right age range would be conscripted into military service during their bachelor era (great for wartime). Homosexual behaviour might have been tolerated as a quirk of youth, and inherently immature, but the governors and lawmakers saw it as obscenity, and cracked down hard on it. It was impossible to impose the nuclear family on Ironwall citizens, but something like it was enforced; emphasising greater parental control, smaller social groups usually limited to one's workplace (hard work was purifying, so people were less likely to be gay at work... maybe...). The herd structure was sublimated into the overall puritan work ethic of Ironwall and evolved.

In later centuries, womens' clubs like the one I talked about briefly became very common. Homosocial activity among women was more acceptable as they were expected to, like, have friends of the same sex, so they frequently made spaces where they could hang out together. Social clubs reached their peak in the Victorian era, becoming so popular that you could almost find one on every street, and they were almost a prerequisite for a lady, but getting into one involved an interview process with the club's matriarch, the contemporary boss mare. Dancing was only one of the activities they were permitted behind closed doors. They could also play cards (gambling was immodest for women and illegal in clubs, so they would play with game tokens and chips instead, and then leave the club with their chips to go to a second location to turn them into money so technically they were not gambling at the club...), they could drink, and they could take occasional tours out to the local sportsgrounds to engage in Womanly Exercise (aforementioned hard as fuck centaur polo, racing, tennis). The invocation of the traditional herd structure was a feature of the clubs, and its proponents believed that imitating the 'natural' way of life for a centaur was good for your health, but it was mostly artifice, and the role of the boss mare was vastly overstated, practically inflated into a Queen-like rulership over her subordinates. homosexual activity in clubs was kiiiiiind of common, but on a club-by-club basis. you had to find the ones in which you could be openly gay.

because of the other laws about immodesty and women needing chaperones, men and humans were strictly forbidden from the clubs. if any men showed up, suddenly it became a mixed social event, and those women had better be chaperoned so help me god

At this time, specifically centaur social clubs for men were not nearly as common, due to the factors i mentioned above. Why are you, as a man, seeking the company of other men? But boys had to gamble somewhere and they ended up doing it in social spaces which did not have such tight security. Any random guy could stroll into a men's social club, even humans. there was not so much of an air of revivalism there, or any fetishisation of the past, but still it was and has never been considered healthy to be gay past a certain age and for men, friendships were part of that. The gay clubs were few and far between and kept secret.

In the 20th century Ironwall saw a cycle of recession, housing market crash, collapse, migration, and unprecedented homogenisation between human and centaur populations. Romanticising the herd structure was old-fashioned and socially regressive. Dance clubs became mixed-sex, and progressive attitudes started to become predominant. There was a backslide in the 90s, however, when Natural Life (tm) became glamourised once again, a backlash in response to increasingly heterosocial spaces and relationships, particularly against young women who (according to natural life proponents), were only going through a rebellious phase by choosing to be friends with men. Human-derived society was seen as the culprit here, a corrupting influence. Rather than "we are half animal and thus we should be ashamed and try to make up for it", the natural movement's tagline was "we are half animal and thus we should not go against Nature". They were quite well-funded and spawned several popular political parties, differing only by whatever parochial bullshit the individual councillors can do for rando citizens, which have been passing around power without letting their opponents get a word in edgeways for about twenty years now.

For people who really take their Back To Nature movement seriously, they have left Ironwall entirely, ironically seeing it as a den of sin for very different reasons than the ones that led to its founding, and tried to revive herd-based societies in their own homesteading communities, creating a hundred tiny little cults perfectly designed to abuse basically everyone in them. But you can be gay there, so long as you're under 25. still gotta dress modest though

[laurasimonsdaughter]

is there any aromantic themed folklore stories?

I think that very much depends on your personal definition. Of course there are plenty of folktales that do not include romance, but for me that usually isn't quite enough to consider them aromantic. For me the folk- and fairy tales that feel the most aromantic to me, are the ones where the plot makes me expect there will be a love interest along the way or a wedding at the end, but instead there is neither.

Here are the ones I've taken a personal liking to so far:

The Shoes That Were Danced to Pieces

Source: Cape Verdian folktale, collected by E. Parsons from Antonio Soares Rosa in 1916-1917.

Content warnings: princess-shaming.

Character I read as aro: The hero.

Why: He answers a royal proclamation that states that whoever is able to find out how the princess wears out seven pairs of shoes every night can marry her and have half the kingdom. When he accomplishes this, however, he declines the marriage and returns home to build his mother a new house.

Read it: Full text online.

How The Devil Married Three Sisters

Source: Italian folktale, published by Widter and Wolf in 1866.

Content warnings: fairy tale violence, abusive spouse.

Character I read as aro: The youngest of the three sisters.

Why: While the first sister is pleased by her handsome suitor (the devil) and the second sister is also described as "wooed and won" by him, the third agrees to marriage only because he is rich. She proceeds to save her sisters, outsmarts the devil, and they all get away.

Read it: Full text online.

David Cotterson

Source: Danish fairy tale, collected by Jens Kamp, published in 1879.

Content warning: suicide contemplation, fairy tale violence.

Character I read as aro: The hero, David Cotterson.

Why: His biggest desire is to become a sailor and see the world. In his biggest adventure he defeats a seductive witch, saves a prince who has been cursed to be a dog. He then decided what he wants most of all is to got home to his loving parents, which he does.

Read it: Offline in this book, or my summary online.

The Squire’s Bride

Source: Norwegian folktale, collected by Asbjørnsen and Moe, published 1841-1844.

Content warning: attempted arranged marriage, attempted kidnapping.

Character I read as aro: The heroine, a farmers daughter.

Why: She's being courted by an old, rich squire. She rejects him, not for a better (kinder, younger) suitor, but simply because she doesn't want him. He doesn't back down so she humiliates him to teach him a lesson.

Read it: Full text online.

The Three Brothers

Source: German folktale, collected by the brothers Grimm, published 1857.

Content warning: ends with natural death.

Characters I read as aro: The protagonists, three brothers.

Why: Their father tasks them to learn a trade to show who deserves to inherit their family home. They become a master barber, blacksmith and swordsman, and the third inherits the house. But because they love each other so much they decide to share the house. They live happily and grow old together, after which all three die close together and are laid in the same grave.

Read it: Full text online.

Diarmaid and Grainne

Source: Celtic legend, Scottish variant collected by H. MacLean in 1859, from Alexander Macalister.

Content warning: tragedy, coercion, murder of protagonist.

Character I read as aro: The warrior Diarmaid.

Why: He has a love spot on his face, which he keeps hidden to prevent women from falling in love with him. Grainne (who is married to his lord Fionn) sees it and falls for him, but he refuses to go with her until she outsmarts him and places him under obligation to do so. He goes with her but they live in a house with separate beds. Grainne betrays Diarmaid for yet another man and Diarmaid ends up being killed by Fionn before he realises that Diarmaid has never touched his wife.

Read it: Full text online.

Slawa

Source: Romanian fairy tale, found in a German collection from 1977, sadly unsourced.

Content warning: attempted kidnapping, fairy tale violence.

Character I read as aro: The heroine, Slawa

Why: She is a poor young woman so beautiful that the cruel tsar wants to marry her. She keeps refusing and he gets violent, so she resorts to defeating him with magic (which she has because she was once a doll brought to life through the love of her parents), so she is free to go see the world.

Read it: You can download my translation here.

King Bear

Source: Danish folktale, collected by Jens Kamp, published in 1879.

Content warning: animal death.

Character I read as aro: One of the two protagonists, the eldest of two brothers.

Why: The older brother doesn't fully understand why his younger brother has fallen in love with an imprisoned princess, but helps him win her hand anyway. He stays happily at the royal court, but never marries himself.

Read it: Offline in this book.

And just because I still love them, I did write two literary fairy tales with aro protagonists myself some years ago:

The Man and the Mermaid, in which a man meets a mermaid after losing the woman he thought he wanted to marry.

The River Sprite, in which a woman helps a river sprite who is determined to repay her.

Hope there's something on this list that makes you happy!