#i want to bury my face in the beast fur!!

[yet-another-haven-of-dollya]

Busy today cuz FGO boss raiddddddd~~~

This is the prettiest boss I'll ever be seeing for a while. Isn't she just so majestic, and her voice too. Beast IV: Left - Evil of Human Reproduction

From wiki. I swear I love her design so much, Wada Arc neva disappoint XD

But of course nothing my Kiara can't handle✨ Prettiest demonic mermaid against prettiest demonic beast, with sweetest voices (Tanaka Rie & Chiwa Saito).

I'm in heaven for sure 🌸Ư w Ư)✨✨✨

And I get to bring all my favs to the raid and receive huge bond bonus! Yiss

[seafarersdream]

Cregan x reader where the reader is betrothed to him but he gets close to Alysanne Blackwood and she feels insecure. But he then reassures her that he loves her. Could be fluff or smut, whatever you feel fits

Big Bad Wolf | 18+ (Cregan Stark x Y/N)

Y/N knows exactly why she has been sent to the frigid North: her grandsire, Otto Hightower, intends for her to secure Cregan Stark’s loyalty to the Greens with a proposed betrothal. A union that would bind the North to her family’s cause and strengthen her brother’s claim. She can’t help but wonder what he would sees in her—a willing pawn, a coveted prize, or perhaps, an unexpected adversary?

TW // Strong language and profanities, mild sexual content, mention of injuries and wounds, slow burn romance.

Note: I took a slightly different approach than originally requested to better align with my brainstorming ideas. I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! And fair warning—it ended up being around 10k words because I got carried away and so into it😂

The wind howls around her like a beast, its icy fingers clawing at her cloak, desperate to strip her bare. Y/N Targaryen pulls the fur-lined fabric tighter around her shoulders, her silver hair whipping against her face as she stares out into the endless expanse of white that is the North.

The cold is sharp, biting against her skin, a relentless assault unlike anything she has ever felt in King’s Landing. There, the sun always warmed the walls of the Red Keep, the gardens bloomed with vibrant flowers, and the salty sea breeze carried the smell of soils from distant lands. Here, in the North, all of that feels like a distant memory—a dream now buried under layers of snow.

She shivers, and not just from the cold.

Being a Targaryen means something. Being a Targaryen princess means the realm is her oyster. She has always known this. The daughter of the late King Viserys Targaryen and the sister to the current ruler, Y/N has never wanted for anything. Born under the banners of black and red, her birthright is as weighty as it is illustrious. In the courts of King's Landing, her name alone is a force that can command, bend, and break. The Valyrian blood coursing through her veins has bestowed upon her an otherworldly beauty—hair the colour of moonlight, eyes that burn like molten silver. She is used to men and women alike vying for her favor, hanging on her every word, their desires evident in their eyes. She is used to being adored, admired, even envied.

But here, in the North, none of that means a thing.

The North is a different world, an ancient one with a heartbeat of ice and snow. It is a world where the name Targaryen carries little weight, where dragons are the stuff of nightmares, not symbols of power and strength.

For thousands of years, the North stood as its own kingdom, ruled by House Stark of Winterfell—a house older than her own, as old as the First Men themselves. The North submitted to Aegon the Conqueror’s rule, but submission is not the same as surrender. She can feel the weight of that history in every flake of snow, every gust of wind that threatens to unseat her from the back of her horse. The North remembers.

And the North does not care for Targaryen princesses.

The men and women who stare at her from the edges of Winterfell’s courtyard do not see a daughter of kings. They see a southerner, a foreigner, an outsider draped in silk and furs too fine for their taste. They see someone who has never felt the bite of a northern winter, who does not understand the constant struggle for survival that defines their lives. To them, she is the very embodiment of everything they disdain—the soft courtly life, the excesses of the south, the endless games of backstabbing and ambition that mean nothing in the face of a harsh winter. Her beauty, her title, her blood—none of it matters here. She is a stranger in a strange land, and they watch her with eyes that are cold and calculating.

It is a stark contrast to the life she has known. In King’s Landing, courtiers flocked to her side, eager for a smile, a kind word, a glance that might change their fortunes. But here, no one bows or scrapes, no one offers her flattery or fawning attention. Instead, they glance at her with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity, their expressions as unreadable as the frozen ground beneath her feet. Even the cold here seems to seep into their bones, hardening their faces into masks of stone.

Her gaze shifts to the man standing at the center of it all—the Warden of the North, Cregan Stark. He is as unyielding as the walls of Winterfell, a man carved from the very ice that surrounds them. His dark hair is touched with frost, his grey eyes piercing through the flurries like a direwolf scanning the wood for prey. He regards her with a guarded expression, his features stoic, as though he is measuring the weight of her presence in his hall. There is strength in his stance, a raw, quiet power that seems to ripple beneath his skin like a river beneath ice.

She knows why she is here. Her grandsire, Otto Hightower, has sent her north with a proposal for a betrothal, hoping to secure Cregan Stark's allegiance to the Greens. A marriage alliance that would bind the North to her family, to her brother’s cause. But she also knows that such an alliance is easier proposed than accepted. The Starks are proud, stubborn as the wolves on their banners, and they are not easily swayed by promises or threats. She wonders what Cregan Stark sees when he looks at her—a pawn, a prize, a potential enemy?

Y/N squares her shoulders, forcing herself to meet his gaze with the same intensity. Her breath mists in the cold air between them, mingling with the snowflakes that drift down from the leaden sky. She is a Targaryen, born of fire and blood, and she will not be cowed by the cold.

She takes a step forward, her boots crunching in the snow, and inclines her head with a grace born of years at court. “Lord Stark,” she begins, her voice steady despite the chill that bites at her skin, “I bring greetings from my family and an offer that I hope will interest you.”

For a moment, there is silence, broken only by the distant howl of the wind. The Northmen are watching, waiting for their lord’s response. Cregan Stark’s grey eyes remain locked on hers, his expression unreadable, and she feels the weight of the North pressing down upon her.

“Princess,” Cregan replies at last, his voice a low rumble that echoes across the courtyard. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

And with those words, the game begins.

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Y/N Targaryen has always been more her grandsire’s granddaughter than her mother’s daughter—or her father’s, for that matter. Not that it has been much of a choice. King Viserys had been many things in his life—gentle, soft-hearted, more comfortable with scrolls and histories than with the complexities of ruling—but present, he was not. His love for Rhaenyra, his firstborn, was the love of a man whose affections had been spent long before Y/N was ever born. So, she learned quickly that if she wanted attention, guidance, or even a semblance of familial warmth, she would find none of it in her father.

Instead, she found herself drawn to Otto Hightower. He was a man of purpose, of ambition, of decisive action. With her mother’s soft words and frail smiles failing to shape her in any meaningful way, it was Otto who taught her the art of politics, of maneuvering through a court filled with predators. In him, she saw a mirror of her own aspirations—always looking forward, always plotting the next move. It was from him she learned that power is something you seize, not something you wait for. She knew he would never coddle her, never tell her she was beloved just for being herself; he only valued what was valuable, and that gave her a clarity she found comforting.

Her siblings, however, were a different matter entirely.

Aegon, her eldest brother, was a fool. Self-conscious, always craving their parents' love like a starving child reaching for a morsel of bread. For years, he had hoped to be the shining star in their father’s eyes, only to discover that no matter what he did, he would always be in the shadow of their half-sister, Rhaenyra—the daughter Viserys truly adored. That realization had driven Aegon to the brink. He had spiraled into self-destruction, numbing his pain with Arbor Red, drowning in the company of whores and sycophants who fed his illusions of being liked, respected even. She had watched him become a hollowed-out shell of a prince, playing at being a king among the rats and the vipers of the Red Keep. Aegon was a king now, a ruler in name, but he wore his crown like a noose.

Aemond, on the other hand, was a different creature. Where Aegon sought love, Aemond sought approval, validation—something to make the gods’ cruel joke of his birth order feel less like a curse. He set impossible standards for himself, always striving to outshine his elder brother, to rise above his station as the spare. He immersed himself in philosophy, warfare, Westerosi customs, determined to be the best in every field, the most learned, the most skilled. And yet, no matter how many strategies he mastered or how many books he consumed, he would always be the second son. Aemond may have won the favor of their grandsire, may have been admired by those who valued intellect and ruthlessness, but in the end, Aegon’s incompetence still carried the weight of the gods' favor. And that knowledge gnawed at Aemond like a wolf at a bone.

Helaena and Daeron, bless them, were different. Y/N could say nothing ill of those two. Helaena, with her strange, prophetic dreams and her love for insects, was perhaps the only light in their shadowed family. She lived in a world of her own, a world of strange riddles and hidden truths that no one else could see. Daeron, meanwhile, had been smart enough to remove himself from the poisonous atmosphere of the Red Keep, carving out a life for himself in Oldtown.

As for herself? Y/N had always considered herself a performer, a mirrorball reflecting the light of others, knowing exactly where to place her foot in every dance. She did not crave her parents’ approval or love; she never had. She knew her worth, not in how many times her father called her his precious daughter or how often her mother sighed with the weight of unspoken affection. No, her worth came from the power she had managed to accumulate on her own, the alliances she had forged, the influence she wielded like a blade. She had held her own court, commanded attention, respect, and fear. She had learned to survive, to thrive, to be more than just another pretty Targaryen face.

And now, she had none of it.

Here in this frozen wasteland, she was stripped bare of everything she had built. The North was a godforsaken, heretic country in her eyes—a land of rigid codes and old gods, where men did not bow easily, where words were weighed like precious stones, and secrets were buried beneath layers of ice and snow. She had no court, no power to wield, no influence to peddle.

And then, there was Cregan Stark.

A man whose reputation preceded him like a cold wind. Honorable, they said. A man of principle, a man who lived by his word, who believed in truth and duty as if they were his religion. There was no room for subterfuge in his life, no space for half-truths or hidden motives. His gaze was like steel, unbending and severe. It was almost appalling, really, how saintly he was. Mother above she thought more than once, he would be eaten alive in King’s Landing.

In the South, where smiles masked daggers and every word dripped with double meaning, a man like Cregan Stark would be a lamb led to slaughter. His sense of honor would be his undoing, his truthfulness a weapon turned against him. She had never met a man like him. A man who looked at her not with lust or ambition but with a quiet, steady gaze that seemed to see right through her. He seemed entirely unimpressed by her. It was infuriating and fascinating all at once.

Y/N squared her shoulders, determined not to let her irritation show. She would learn this place, learn its people, and most of all, she would learn Cregan Stark. She would find the crack in his armor, the flaw in his honor, the chink in his unyielding principles. Everyone had one; it was just a matter of knowing where to look, how to press, how to push. She was not here to be swallowed by the North—she was here to conquer it, one way or another.

She knew that the path to Lord Cregan Stark’s cold, cold heart was not a direct one. It was not a road paved with smiles or adorned with sweet words. It was a labyrinth, and the only way through it was by understanding his people.

She had watched him long enough to know this much: Cregan Stark was a man who put his people above all else. The North had a way of making even its leaders humble before it. They were not like the nobles of King’s Landing, always scheming for personal glory or clawing at each other’s throats for favor. Here, in this frozen hell, survival depended on something far simpler, far more primal—on loyalty, on unity, on trust.

So, she began to snake her way into the hearts of his people.

It started small, with gestures they would not expect from a southerner, least of all a Targaryen princess. She knew how they saw her—pampered, delicate, with hair too fair and hands too soft to have ever known true work. She could feel their eyes on her wherever she went, could hear the whispers as she passed by, wrapped in her fine furs, a dragon in the land of wolves.

The courtyard was busy that morning, the ground slick with melting snow and the air thick with the sounds of work—axes splitting wood, the clang of blacksmiths’ hammers against anvils, the shouts of men and women hauling barrels and crates. She approached the group of women gathered near the cookfires, a mixture of curiosity and skepticism in their gazes. Y/N took a deep breath, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders, and stepped into their midst.

“Is there something I can do?” she asked, her voice clear and carrying over the noise. A few heads turned, eyes narrowing in surprise. She saw a woman in her middle years, broad-shouldered and with arms like tree trunks, squinting at her as if she were a curious animal. The others paused, their hands stilling in their work, glances exchanged.

The woman, who she had come to learn was named Mildred, finally spoke, her tone rough as gravel. “Princess,” she drawled, dragging the word out like it was something distasteful in her mouth. “I don’t think there’s much here a royal lady can handle. Unless you’ve got a mind to ruin that fancy cloak of yours.”

Y/N smiled. “I’ve more cloaks, Mildred. And if it gets ruined, well, I suppose I’ll just have to make do with another one, won’t I?”

A snort came from somewhere in the back of the group, and Y/N’s eyes flicked to the source—a younger woman with a mess of red hair and a skeptical expression. Y/N kept her smile, but she let a hint of a challenge creep into her tone. “Besides, I’m not afraid of a little dirt.”

The women exchanged glances, weighing her words. Mildred shrugged at last, tossing a hunk of dough onto a wooden board. “Fine then. Let’s see how you fare kneading bread. Got to feed half the damned keep today, and we’re short on hands.”

Y/N stepped forward without hesitation, rolling up her sleeves. The cold bit at her exposed skin, but she ignored it. Her hands, unused to such labor, moved awkwardly at first, pressing into the dough with less confidence than she wanted. Mildred watched her, arms crossed. “Too gentle,” She grunted. “You’re not petting a dragon. Put your weight into it.”

Y/N did as instructed, leaning into the motion, feeling the resistance of the dough against her palms. It was a small thing, this task, but it was a start. She could feel their eyes on her, hear the whispers quieting, turning into something more like curiosity than derision.

Hours passed, and the smell of freshly baked bread filled the courtyard. The women began to loosen up around her, laughter breaking out now and then. She let herself laugh with them, leaning into their banter.

Days turned into weeks, and Y/N made it her mission to weave herself into the fabric of Winterfell. She found her way to the blacksmith's forge, where the air was thick with smoke and the clang of metal. She watched as the smiths worked, their faces streaked with soot, and asked questions—many, many questions.

“Why do you use that angle with the hammer?” she asked one of the younger smiths, a boy not much older than.

The boy, startled at first, blinked at her, then answered, “To shape the steel, Princess. To make it stronger, to give it an edge that lasts.”

She nodded, watching his hands. “Show me,” she demanded. The boy hesitated, glancing around nervously, but she stepped forward. “Don’t worry. I can hold a hammer.”

He did as she asked, and soon enough, she was holding the hammer herself, mimicking his movements. Her strokes were clumsy, awkward at first, but she learned fast, and with every thud of the hammer, she felt the eyes of the smiths soften just a little more.

In the great hall, she would sit with the lords and their wives, listening to their woes, their concerns, their petty grievances. Y/N had a mind sharpened by the best—her grandsire, Otto, had seen to that. She listened carefully, offering her thoughts, her solutions, often to the surprise of those around her.

“The river’s dammed up, and it’s ruining the fields,” one lord grumbled, a beefy man with a thick beard.

"Then undam it," she replied, her tone smooth. "Divert it, instead of letting it run its course. Build channels to guide it where you want it to go."

The man blinked at her, surprised. “Aye, well… that could work.”

“It will work,” she replied, a small smile playing at her lips.

She advised them on how to better store grain, how to rotate their crops, and how to reinforce their defenses with minimal resources. She made suggestions that saved money, improved efficiency, and most importantly, earned her a grudging respect. To her, these Northerners were like sheep, clueless and slow-witted. But she smiled, she helped, she solved their problems. She was always in the middle of things, her presence a constant in the great hall, the courtyard, the kitchens, the stables.

She even joined the hunts. The Northmen had mocked her at first for daring to ride out with them. “A princess in the snow?” they laughed. “She’ll freeze before we see a single stag.” But she proved them wrong. Her dragon’s blood kept her warm, kept her defiant in the face of the bitter cold, and she was the first to draw her bow, the first to bring down a deer.

“By the gods, she’s got a steady hand,” one of the older men muttered to Cregan as they dragged the deer back to Winterfell.

Cregan’s gaze had flicked over to her, his expression as unreadable as ever, but there had been a flicker of something there. Amusement? Respect? She couldn’t tell, but it was enough.

Bit by bit, she felt the change. The Northmen, these stubborn, superstitious heretics, began to soften, to open up to her. They began to speak to her not with suspicion but with interest, their words less guarded, their gazes less cold. They valued her now, saw her as something more than just a prim and proper southerner.

It was at a feast that she noticed it—how the lords and ladies began to speak of her in hushed, respectful tones, how they sought her out for advice, for a kind word, for counsel. She saw how Cregan watched from across the hall, his grey eyes narrowing, the faintest flicker of something akin to admiration crossing his face.

She caught his gaze, held it across the room. He didn’t look away. Instead, he raised his cup to her, a silent acknowledgment. A challenge, perhaps.

Y/N raised hers in return, a smile playing at her lips. The North had begun to bend, and soon enough, so would he.

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One afternoon, Y/N had just returned from Winter Town, cheeks flushed from the biting wind and the smell of pine and smoke still clinging to her cloak. The snow had begun to fall heavier now, thick flakes drifting down like soft feathers, blanketing the world in a quiet that felt almost sacred. She pushed back her hood as she stepped into the warmth of the great hall, her eyes scanning the room out of habit, looking for something—anything—that could further her cause.

She spotted a cluster of handmaidens seated by the hearth, their heads bent in concentration. They were mending and embroidering clothing, fingers working deftly with needle and thread. Y/N noticed the familiar shapes taking form on the fabric—the direwolves.

She glided toward them, her steps light, her expression warm and inviting. She had perfected this look over years at court—the doe-eyed charm that could disarm even the most hardened of men. “Oh,” she said with a bright smile, her voice a melodic lilt, “working on the Stark sigil, are we?”

The handmaidens looked up, a bit startled at her approach. They were used to her presence by now, but not so much to her sudden interest in their needlework. A girl named Caragh, her brown hair tied back in a braid, nodded. “Aye, milady. Lord Cregan’s cloak was torn on the last hunt, and his tunic needs a new embroidery. Wolves, of course.”

Y/N tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with interest. “How lovely,” she murmured, kneeling down beside them. “May I see?”

They hesitated for a moment but eventually passed her the cloth, the direwolf stitched in silver-grey thread standing fierce against the dark fabric. She studied it with a discerning eye, her fingers tracing the lines of the stitches. The work was good, but plain—functional, as was the way of the North.

A smile danced on her lips as an idea took shape. “Do you know,” she began, her voice soft and conspiratorial, “I’ve always been rather good with a needle myself. Perhaps I could try my hand at it? Just a little, of course. I wouldn’t want to overstep.”

The women exchanged glances, unsure, but intrigued. “Princess, you’d do that?” asked Caragh, her tone curious. “We’d be honored to see southern stitchings. They’re said to be… well, far more intricate than ours.”

Y/N chuckled softly, the sound like a chime in the quiet hall. “Oh, we do have a flair for the elaborate, it’s true,” she agreed. “But I promise, I won’t change it too much. Just add a bit of finesse.” She reached for the thread, selecting a shade of grey that was just a touch darker than the one they had been using. “Here,” she said, threading her needle with practiced ease, “let me show you.”

She set to work, her hands moving with ease. Her stitches were tiny and precise, the needle dancing in and out of the fabric as if it were silk and not the heavy wool of the North. The handmaidens watched her, their eyes wide with fascination as she added delicate touches to the direwolf—tiny knots that gave the illusion of fur, subtle shadows that made the beast look as if it might leap from the cloth at any moment.

“How do you make it look so… alive?” one of the younger handmaidens breathed, her cheeks flushed with awe.

Y/N smiled, enjoying their attention. “It’s all in the details,” she said with a little wink. “You have to see the wolf in your mind first, imagine the way its fur moves, the way its muscles shift beneath the skin. Then, you just… follow the thread.”

The hours passed, and the handmaidens were more than happy to let her work, their questions and chatter filling the space around them. They asked her about King’s Landing, about the fashions of the court, about the kinds of silks and velvets they had only heard of in stories. She answered them with good humor, spinning tales of the South that made their eyes shine with wonder. And all the while, her needle moved, faster and faster, until the direwolf on the fabric seemed to almost snarl, its eyes fierce and intelligent, its body coiled as if ready to pounce.

By the time Cregan Stark returned from a hunt, the hall was warm with the crackle of the fire and the murmur of soft voices. He strode in, snow still dusting his dark hair, his cloak heavy with ice. His boots left wet prints on the stone floor as he shook the cold from his shoulders and glanced around.

He stopped short when he saw her—Y/N, seated among his handmaidens, needle in hand, a small, satisfied smile on her lips as she worked on his clothing. His eyes narrowed, and he made his way over, curious despite himself.

“Princess,” he greeted her, his voice a low rumble, “I see you’ve taken to mending clothes now?”

Y/N looked up, her expression unruffled. “Lord Stark,” she replied, her tone light, teasing almost, “I thought I might be of some use. Your handmaidens were kind enough to let me practice a little of our southern needlework.” She held up the fabric for him to see, the direwolf now a striking, almost lifelike creature that seemed to leap from the fabric with a ferocity that had not been there before.

Cregan’s eyes widened, just slightly, his gaze moving over the stitching, his expression unreadable. “It’s… well done,” he said finally, and she could hear the surprise in his voice, grudging though it was.

She smiled, pleased. “You sound surprised, my lord. Did you think a Targaryen’s hands were only meant for taming dragons or holding goblets of wine?”

He let out a soft chuckle, the sound like gravel grinding together. “Not surprised,” he corrected, his gaze meeting hers, steady and unyielding. “Impressed. You’ve a fine hand.”

Y/N's smile widened. “Why, thank you, Lord Stark. I’m glad my work meets your approval.”

He nodded, his gaze still on the cloth, the direwolf that now seemed to pulse with life. “Aye, it does,” he admitted. “Though I wonder, Princess… are you looking to become a seamstress now?”

She laughed, a bright, ringing sound that filled the hall. “No, my lord. I’ve no desire to take up a needle permanently. But I do find it’s useful, from time to time, to show that a princess’s hands can be skilled in more ways than one.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, a challenge in them. “Is that so?” he asked quietly. “And tell me, Princess, what other skills do your hands possess?”

Y/N’s smile did not waver. “Oh, many things, Lord Stark,” she replied softly. “Many things indeed.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in the depths of his eyes, before he nodded again. “Well,” he said, “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

And with that, he turned away, but not before she caught the slightest curve of a smile on his lips. She watched him go, feeling a thrill of satisfaction course through her veins.

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Her scheme had worked flawlessly. Piece by piece, the North was falling into place just as she’d planned. The people were warming to her, Cregan's gaze was lingering a little longer than before, and Y/N could feel the iciness of Winterfell slowly starting to melt in her favor. Everything was moving toward the outcome she desired.

Well until it wasn't.

The disruption arrived in the form of Alysanne Blackwood—Black Aly, they called her. Y/N watched her ride into Winterfell with a certain swagger, a confidence that bordered on arrogance. A member of House Blackwood, the aunt of young Lord Benjicot Blackwood, Alysanne had come north under some pretense Y/N didn't care to know about. At the time, it had seemed inconsequential. She had dismissed it, too caught up in her own plans to pay attention to this new player on the board.

A mistake. A rare, foolish mistake. Her grandsire would have scolded her for being so pliant, so hasty, so unguarded. Never underestimate a rival, he would have said. Never take your eyes off the board. And Y/N had done just that.

She should not have misconstrued this woman.

Alysanne was everything Y/N was not. Tall and lean, with thick black curls that tumbled past her waist, she had a wildness to her that seemed to embody the very spirit of the North. Her long legs and strong arms marked her as a woman who spent more time in the saddle than at a hearth, more time holding a bow than a needle. She wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense—her features were sharp, her smile wide and often mocking—but there was something about her. Something raw and fearless, a fire that seemed to burn just beneath her skin. And that smell…woodsmoke. It clung to her like a second skin, as if she had been born in the midst of a bonfire.

Y/N had heard the whispers—how Black Aly was a legend in the North. An excellent hunter, a horse-breaker, an archer with a keen eye. She was bold and outspoken, with a tongue sharp enough to cut through steel and a wit that could match the sharpest of minds. The Northerners adored her. They loved her for her wildness, for her lack of pretense, for the way she embodied everything they valued: strength, courage, a disregard for the fripperies of southern court life.

She could see it in their faces as Alysanne moved among them, laughing and jesting with the men, sharing bread and soup with the women. Y/N could almost feel the tides shifting, the winds changing, as this woman—this picture-perfect embodiment of Northern virtues—threatened to ruin everything she had worked for.

Cregan Stark took to Alysanne immediately. Of course, he did. Why wouldn’t he? He took her hunting, riding out into the forest with her at dawn while Y/N was left behind to smile and make small talk with his bannermen. He brought her to his war councils, included her in his patrols, took her to meet the northern lords. Wherever he went, Black Aly was at his side, her sharp, barking laughter echoing off the walls of Winterfell.

Y/N could see it in the way he looked at Alysanne—a gleam of admiration, of respect, of something deeper, something raw. He valued her opinions, sought her counsel. And that stung more than Y/N cared to admit. Did it truly come down to this? Y/N Targaryen, a princess of the realm, having to compete with some backwater nobody?

She could feel her temper simmering beneath her skin like a slow-burning fire, the frustration building with each passing day. She thought of confronting Cregan directly, her hands curling into fists as she imagined the scene. She would demand to know why he spent so much time with that woman, why he found her so intriguing, so worthy of his attention. But no—she knew better than that. She couldn’t afford to appear desperate, to show him how much this rankled her. Instead, she kept her face a mask of calm, her smiles as practiced and serene as ever, even as she felt herself cracking.

One evening, as Cregan returned from yet another outing with Alysanne, Y/N was waiting for him in the hall, her posture regal, her eyes gleaming in the dim firelight. “Lord Stark,” she called out, her tone light but firm. “You’ve been busy.”

Cregan paused, glancing at her, his expression unreadable. “There is much to do, Princess,” he replied evenly. “The North doesn’t rest.”

She offered him a smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “So I see. And it seems you have found quite the companion to help you with your duties.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “Alysanne is a trusted friend,” he said. “She knows these lands as well as I do.”

Y/N felt a flicker of irritation but kept her voice smooth. “Of course. She is a fine… huntress. But surely, you don’t need her for every task, my lord. I’m certain there are others who could serve just as well. Perhaps even better.”

He regarded her for a long moment, his grey eyes searching her face. “Are you offering to join me on my next patrol, Princess?” he asked, his tone challenging, with the faintest hint of amusement.

Y/N’s smile didn’t falter, but inside, she felt a surge of frustration. “If you think my skills would be of use,” she replied, matching his tone. “I am, after all, more than just a… court ornament.”

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made her skin prickle. “I’ve never doubted that,” he said softly. “But the North is not a place for games or tricks. It demands strength and a willingness to face the unknown without fear.”

Her smile wavered, just a little. “I am not afraid of the unknown,” she replied, her voice edged with steel. “Nor am I afraid to prove myself.”

Cregan’s eyes softened, just for a moment. “I don’t doubt that,” he said, his voice lowering, more intimate. “But Alysanne… she knows this land, these people. She knows how to speak to them, how to move among them. That is not something you can learn in a few weeks.”

Y/N felt the sting of his words, but she masked it with another smile, her eyes flashing. “Perhaps,” she conceded, “but I have learned much in a short time. And I am still learning, Lord Stark. Every day.”

Cregan nodded, as if considering her words. “Then learn, Princess,” he said quietly. “But do not think you must compete with Alysanne. She is… unique, yes. But so are you.”

The words were meant to placate, to soothe, but they only made her feel more cornered.

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The doors to the great hall swung open with a loud creak, and a chill wind swept in, carrying with it the scent of snow and iron. Y/N turned, her eyes narrowing as she saw the commotion. Cregan Stark had returned, his presence commanding attention even as he limped slightly, his dark hair damp with sweat, his face streaked with mud and blood. His men flanked him, some of them leaning on one another, their expressions grim, their clothes stained with the same mixture of dirt and crimson.

Her heart lurched at the sight, but she quickly schooled her features into a mask of cool indifference. The skirmishes with the wildlings had been growing more frequent, their raids bolder, and it seemed today had been no different. The maesters were already scrambling, rushing forward with their apprentices and assistants, trying to assess the most grievous injuries, their faces set in strained concentration.

Y/N took in the scene with a practiced eye, her mind already calculating. There were too many injured, too much blood soaking into the stone floor of the hall. She could see that the maesters were stretched thin, their resources and patience fraying at the edges. Cregan, of course, was insisting on helping his men, despite the fact that he was clearly favoring his left leg, a nasty gash visible on his right thigh, and his arm hung a little too limply at his side.

Typical. The man was as stubborn as a mule.

She moved closer, catching sight of the way he clenched his jaw against the pain, his brow furrowed in a way that made him look older, wearier. He was trying to wave off a young apprentice who was attempting to guide him toward a bench.

“I’m fine,” he growled, his voice low and rough. “See to the others first.”

The apprentice looked helplessly at Cregan, clearly torn between obeying the Warden of the North and following the orders of the maesters. Y/N, sensing an opportunity, pushed through the crowd, her chin tilted upward, her eyes sharp.

“Really, Lord Stark?” she called out, her voice loud enough to carry over the clamor. “You look about as fine as a roast pig on a spit.”

Cregan’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowing at her. “Princess,” he said, his voice edged with irritation, “this is no place for jesting.”

She smiled, a sharp, knowing smile. “No, but it is a place for common sense. Something you seem to be sorely lacking at the moment.” She turned to the apprentice and gestured toward the other men. “Go. Help the others. I’ll take care of your lord.”

The apprentice hesitated for a moment, glancing between them, but then scurried off, clearly relieved to be free of Cregan’s stubbornness. Y/N stepped closer, folding her arms over her chest, her gaze fixed on the injured lord.

Cregan grunted, his expression darkening. “I don’t need your help, Princess. I’ve had worse than this.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have,” she replied. “But forgive me if I don’t trust your judgment on your own health, seeing as you’re bleeding all over the floor and insisting you’re perfectly fine. Very lordly of you, I’m sure, but also incredibly stupid.”

He scowled at her, a deep line forming between his brows. “I can take care of myself.”

“And yet,” she countered, stepping even closer, “you’re not doing a very good job of it, are you? Sit down, Cregan, before you fall down and make an even bigger fool of yourself.”

For a moment, he looked like he might argue further, but then he winced, a flash of pain crossing his face, and Y/N seized the moment. She reached out, gripping his uninjured arm with a strength that belied her slender frame, and guided him toward a nearby bench. “Sit,” she ordered, her voice firm, and to her surprise, he obeyed, albeit reluctantly.

He dropped onto the bench with a huff, glaring up at her. “I don’t need a nursemaid, least of all a princess from the South who’s never seen a real fight.”

She laughed, a sharp, sarcastic sound. “You’re right, I’ve never fought wildlings or raiders. But I have spent plenty of time in the Red Keep watching men bleed out because they were too stubborn to accept help. So, unless you want to be one of those men, shut up and let me work.”

His gaze flickered with something between annoyance and grudging respect. “Fine,” he muttered, “but make it quick. I have men to see to.”

“Quick?” She snorted. “You don’t give orders here, Stark. Not while you’re under my care.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your care? And what makes you think you’re qualified?”

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she grabbed a nearby cloth, soaked it in a basin of water, and began to clean the wound on his thigh with swift, precise movements. Cregan hissed through his teeth, his muscles tensing beneath her hands, but he didn’t pull away.

“I’ve shadowed Grand Maester Orwyle countless times,” she said as she worked, her voice steady. “I know what I’m doing. And more importantly, I’m not about to let you bleed out just because you’re too pigheaded to admit you need help.”

He grunted again but said nothing, his jaw clenched tight. She could see the pain in his eyes, the way his shoulders stiffened with each touch, but he stayed still, letting her do her work. She carefully cleaned the wound, her hands moving with a skill that surprised even herself, then reached for a needle and thread.

“This will hurt,” she warned, threading the needle with practiced ease.

“I’ve had worse,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“Of course you have,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it after I’ve saved your life.”

His lips twitched, almost as if he were fighting a smile. “You’ve a sharp tongue, Princess.”

“And you’ve a thick skull, Lord Stark,” she shot back. “Now hold still.”

She began to stitch the wound, her needle moving with swift, precise strokes. Cregan watched her, his eyes dark and intense, but she didn’t falter. For once, she was not the southern courtier, the diplomatic princess with honeyed words and gentle smiles. She was herself, sharp and unyielding, meeting his stubbornness with her own.

When she finished, she tied off the thread with a quick, efficient knot and sat back, wiping her hands on the cloth. “There,” she said, satisfaction in her voice. “You’ll live to fight another day.”

He stared at her, a mix of surprise and grudging admiration in his eyes. “You did well,” he said finally, his voice softer than before.

She arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. “Was there ever any doubt?”

He chuckled, the sound rough but genuine. “Plenty,” he admitted.

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Winter is coming.

No, not the Stark words, spoken like a prayer or a warning. Winter is truly coming, and Y/N can feel it deep in her bones, creeping through the stone walls of Winterfell like a living thing.

The air has grown sharper, biting at her cheeks with every gust of wind, and the snow falls thicker now, each flake heavy and deliberate. The trees are bare, their branches skeletal against the grey sky, and the cold seems to press down on her, seeping into her skin with a relentless chill. It is a different kind of cold than she has ever known, a cold that seeps into her lungs and settles there, making each breath feel like an effort.

The North has always been harsh, but now it feels like it is preparing for something more—something darker, more unforgiving. Even the men and women of Winterfell, who have spent their entire lives in the shadow of winter, seem more guarded, more wary. There are murmurs in the great hall, anxious whispers in the corridors. Wildlings have been sighted more frequently, their numbers growing bolder and more desperate as the long night approaches. The skirmishes along the Wall have increased, and the night fires are lit earlier and burn longer.

Y/N pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she crosses the courtyard, the snow crunching beneath her boots. She knows what is coming. She can feel it in the very marrow of her bones. Winter is coming, and with it, something more—a tension that hangs in the air like a drawn bowstring, taut and ready to snap.

That night, as she sits by the fire in her chambers, a raven arrives. The black bird flutters through the window, its wings dusted with snow, a rolled parchment tied to its leg. Y/N takes it with a frown, untying the message with cold fingers, her eyes narrowing as she recognizes the seal. Hightower.

She unfurls the parchment and reads the message, her eyes scanning the words with a growing sense of unease.

Return to King’s Landing at once.

The words are simple, direct, and she can almost hear Otto’s voice behind them, calm but commanding. He has received reports of the incoming long winter, of the increasing sightings of wildlings, and he deems it no longer safe for her to remain in the North. He urges her to leave before the roads become impassable, before the snows deepen and the wildlings grow more desperate.

Y/N exhales slowly, a plume of breath escaping her lips in the cold air of her chamber. She should feel relieved. Glad, even. No longer required to linger in this frozen wasteland, where the people are as hard as the ground they walk on, and her plans have slowly unraveled like thread from a worn tapestry. She should be glad to return to the South, to the warmth and intrigue of King’s Landing, where the games are played on her terms.

But instead, she feels a sharp sting of frustration. She berates herself for failing to secure the North for her family, for not weaving a strong enough web to catch the loyalty of these proud, stubborn people. A true Targaryen, she should have bent them to her will, but the North is as unyielding as its lord, and she has not succeeded in making it hers. It is a bitter pill to swallow.

“Failure,” she murmurs, her voice a low hiss in the dim light of her chamber. “And what would you say to that, Lord Hand? That your granddaughter, for all her cleverness, could not win the North?”

She lets out a soft, mirthless laugh, crumpling the parchment in her hand. “It’s a matter for another day,” she tells herself. She will return to King's Landing, regroup, plot anew. There are always other pieces to play, other moves to make.

Yet, her thoughts drift back to Cregan Stark. The brooding wolf of the North, with his grim expression and unyielding sense of honor. She won’t admit, even to herself, that she is fond of him. Or likes him. Or anything of the sort. No, certainly not. But… there is something about him that lingers in her mind like a half-remembered dream, something she can’t quite shake off.

After being surrounded by the snakes of King’s Landing, the liars and flatterers, the power-hungry and the depraved, she finds something strangely compelling in Cregan Stark’s righteousness. It comes to him as naturally as breathing, as naturally as wielding that massive Valyrian steel sword of his, the one he calls Ice.

She has seen him wield it with ease, watched him cleave through the air with a power that seems almost otherworldly. She has watched him ride out with his men, fearless and unyielding, his face set in determination. There is a strength in him that is not just physical, but something deeper, something that runs to his very core. A strength that does not waver, that does not bend, even under the weight of the North’s endless cold.

And she hates it. She hates how it seems to make everything about him… uncomplicated. How he carries his honor like a shield, how he speaks his truth without hesitation, without guile, as if the very concept of deception is foreign to him. It is infuriating. It is intriguing. And it has left a mark on her, whether she likes it or not.

Y/N folds the letter and tucks it into the folds of her gown, her fingers lingering on the soft fabric for a moment longer than necessary. She knows what she must do; her place is back in the South. But as she rises to her feet, her eyes drift around her room, taking in the rough-hewn walls, the cold stone floor, and the fur pelts draped across her bed. There is a part of her—small, quiet, but undeniably present—that resents leaving this place. Resents leaving him behind.

She sighs, pushing the thought away, and begins to gather what little she had brought with her. No handmaiden to help her, not that she would ask. She has always preferred to do things herself when it comes down to it. She moves about the room with a swift efficiency, her hands quick and sure as she folds her scarves, places them neatly in her travel bag.

She is in the midst of folding a deep green scarf, the color of pine needles, when a knock sounds at her door. She freezes, her fingers still gripping the fabric, and for a moment, she considers ignoring it. But then she rolls her eyes at her own hesitation and strides to the door, swinging it open.

Cregan Stark stands on the other side, looking as rugged and battered as ever. There is a bandage wrapped around his arm, another at his side, but he stands tall, his posture straight, his face unreadable. He looks better than he had when she had tended to him earlier, but not by much. His grey eyes flick to her, and she can’t quite read the expression in them.

“Lord Stark,” she greets, her voice carefully neutral. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He inclines his head slightly. “I came to thank you,” he says, his voice low and gruff. “For earlier. For tending to my wounds.”

She raises an eyebrow, surprised. “Oh? Didn’t think you’d bother with gratitude.”

He snorts softly. “I’m not so stubborn as to ignore a kindness when it’s given.”

“A kindness?” She smirks, leaning against the doorframe. “I think you’ll find I had very little kindness in mind when I forced you to sit down.”

His lips twitch, just slightly. “Perhaps not,” he concedes. “But you did help. I owe you that much.”

Her gaze softens, just for a moment, but before she can reply, his eyes shift past her, taking in the half-packed bags and scattered belongings strewn across the room. His brows knit together in a frown.

“What is this?” he asks, his tone sharper than before.

Y/N shrugs, affecting a nonchalant air. “I’m going home,” she replies, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “A happy bit of news for you, I’d wager.”

He is silent for a moment, his frown deepening, his eyes fixed on hers. “No,” he says finally, his voice low and steady. “I take no joy in this news.”

She blinks, momentarily caught off guard. “No? I thought you’d be delighted to see the back of me.”

His expression softens, and he steps further into the room, his gaze never leaving hers. “Believe it or not, Princess, I’ve grown accustomed to your… presence.”

Her eyes narrow. “What are you on about?” she demands, her voice sharper now, a hint of frustration creeping in. “Don’t tell me you’ve developed a fondness for me, Cregan Stark.”

He hesitates, then, with a sigh, says, “Perhaps. Or maybe I’ve simply developed a soft spot for your relentless stubbornness.”

She scoffs, folding her arms over her chest. “Oh, do spare me,” she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “The Wolf of the North with a soft spot for a Targaryen? Is that supposed to flatter me?”

He gives a half-smile, his eyes holding hers. “It’s not meant to flatter, just the truth.”

She rolls her eyes, exasperated. “Right. And I suppose this has nothing to do with your other northern… interests?” She tilts her head, her voice laced with mock sweetness. “Surely, Black Aly is more up your alley?”

His face hardens slightly, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Alysanne is a friend,” he replies, his voice calm. “A trusted one. But you—”

“But me?” she interrupts, stepping closer, her eyes blazing. “But what, Cregan? Do you think I’m going to stay here in this frozen wasteland to be your latest curiosity?”

He shakes his head, his voice rising just a fraction. “No, that’s not what I meant—”

“Then what did you mean?” she snaps. “Because I have no desire to dance around whatever it is you’re trying to say.”

He exhales, frustration lining his features, but there’s something softer there, too. “I meant,” he says slowly, deliberately, “that I have come to respect you, Y/N. To… care for you, in ways I did not expect.”

She laughs, sharp and incredulous. “Care for me? Truly? You’ve a strange way of showing it, taking Black Aly on all your little adventures while I’m stuck here playing house with your bannermen.”

Cregan’s eyes darken, his expression turning serious. “It wasn’t meant to slight you.”

“But it did,” she fires back, her voice lower, more intense. “It did. And now, you stand here, acting like you don’t want me to leave, when all you’ve done is—”

“I don’t want you to leave,” he cuts her off, his voice firm, his gaze unyielding. “Not now. Not like this.”

There is a beat of silence, the air between them taut and electric. Y/N feels something twist inside her, something she doesn’t want to name.

“Why?” she finally asks, her voice almost a whisper. “Why, Cregan?”

He takes a step closer, so close she can feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. “Because,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, “for all your southern games and sharp words… you’ve gotten under my skin, Y/N Targaryen.”

She meets his gaze, searching his face for any hint of a lie, any trace of deception, but finds none. She swallows, her throat tight. “And what do you suggest I do about that?” she asks, her tone still edged, but softer now.

He glances around the room at her half-packed bags, and then, with a determined expression, begins to pick up her things, placing them back where they were. “For a start,” he says, his voice gruff but not unkind, “you can stop packing.”

She watches, incredulous, as he calmly folds one of her scarves and places it back on the table. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demands, even as a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

He looks up at her, his eyes twinkling with a challenge. “Undoing a mistake,” he replies simply.

She shakes her head, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’re very difficult, you know that?”

He grins, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “So I’ve been told.”

They stand there, close enough to touch, the tension between them crackling like a fire waiting to ignite. For a moment, neither of them speaks. The air between them is thick, charged with something that neither of them can quite name. She lets out a sigh, breaking the silence that has settled over them.

“My grandsire has called for me,” she says finally, her voice softer than before. “It’s more of a command, really, than a request.”

Cregan’s brow furrows, his grey eyes narrowing slightly. “Is Otto Hightower the King of the Seven Kingdoms now?” he asks, his tone dry, laced with a hint of disdain.

Y/N chuckles, a low, throaty sound that sends a shiver through him. “He might as well be,” she replies, a faint smile playing on her lips. “He certainly acts like it.”

“Seems he’s got a hold on you too,” Cregan mutters, his gaze never leaving hers.

She shrugs, a half-smirk curving her lips. “I wouldn’t survive a winter here, would I? You said so yourself, Lord Stark. Even Vermithor and Silverwing refused to fly beyond the Wall of their own accord. Those ancient, powerful creatures wouldn’t dare. So whatever lies out there…” Her voice drops to a whisper. “It must be damning.”

Cregan’s expression is unreadable, his jaw tightening for a moment. “I can keep you safe,” he says quietly, but there’s a firmness to his voice, an unyielding resolve that makes her chest tighten.

Y/N raises an eyebrow, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “Oh, how kind of you, my big, bad wolf,” she drawls, her tone mocking but playful, her fingers reaching out to brush lightly against his arm. “But how about you start with something simple?”

His eyes narrow, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. “Simple?” he repeats.

She steps closer, so close that her breath mingles with his, the warmth of her skin brushing against him. “How about, for starters, you try keeping me warm?” she murmurs, her voice barely more than a whisper, yet it carries between them like a challenge. “It is awfully freezing here… Can you do that for me, Lord Stark?”

For a moment, Cregan says nothing. His eyes search hers, as if trying to discern whether she’s serious, or just toying with him as she so often does. Y/N isn’t expecting much—she knows the Northerners, with their prudish notions of honor and virtue, probably see this as a surefire way to eternal damnation. She expects him to laugh it off, to turn away with a huff, to remind her, once again, that he is not some Southern lord to be trifled with.

But he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t turn away. Instead, his gaze darkens, his eyes tracing the curve of her lips, the line of her throat. He takes a step closer, his body towering over hers, and she feels the heat radiating from him, the intensity in his stare. Her breath catches in her throat, her heart thundering in her chest as he reaches out, his hand cupping her chin, tilting her face up toward him.

“Is that what you want?” he murmurs, his voice a low, rumbling growl that sends a thrill down her spine. “For me to keep you warm?”

Y/N swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. She hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected the Wolf of the North to respond to her challenge with anything but stern disapproval. “I—” she starts, but the words catch in her throat as his thumb brushes over her lower lip, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through her.

He leans in, his breath warm against her skin, and she feels the heat of his body pressing against hers, the rough fabric of his tunic brushing against the softness of her gown. “Say it,” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost desperate. “Say what you want, Y/N.”

Her heart pounds, and she feels a rush of something she can’t quite name—fear, desire, defiance—all mingling together in her chest. “I want…” she begins, her voice wavering, but then she catches herself, lifts her chin, her eyes flashing. “I want you to keep me warm, Cregan Stark.”

His lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile, and before she can draw another breath, his mouth is on her throat, hot and insistent. She gasps, her hands instinctively flying to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his tunic as he kisses her skin, his mouth trailing down to the hollow of her collarbone, his teeth grazing against her pulse.

“Gods,” she breathes, a mixture of surprise and pleasure washing over her. She hadn’t expected this—not from him. But he is relentless, his mouth moving against her skin, his teeth nipping at the sensitive flesh, his tongue tracing patterns that make her shiver. He smells of the woods and leather, of smoke and something wilder, something purely him, and it makes her head spin.

She feels a hot rush of sensation flood her body, a fire igniting deep within her belly as he kisses and nibbles at her neck, her collarbones, his hands sliding up her back to pull her closer. “I didn’t think you had it in you,” she gasps, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging just a bit.

He chuckles against her skin, the sound vibrating through her, and she can feel his grin. “I am good at playing my part too, Princess,” he mutters, his voice rough, raw with hunger.

She arches against him, feeling the warmth of his breath, the roughness of his beard against her skin, and something inside her snaps. She doesn’t care about the cold, or the North, or even the damned wildlings anymore. She only cares about the way his mouth feels on her, the way his hands move against her, the way he’s suddenly, inexplicably, decided to abandon his precious restraint.

“Oh, so you’re not a prude after all?” she teases, her voice a breathless whisper, but there’s a tremor in it she can’t quite control.

He bites down gently on her shoulder, making her gasp, and she feels him smile against her skin. “Careful now,” he growls softly, his lips trailing up to her ear. “You might just find out how much I’m not.”

She laughs, a low, sultry sound that makes his grip tighten. “Well then, Lord Stark,” she murmurs, her voice daring. “Show me.”

And he does. All night long.

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The next morning, chaos erupted in Winterfell. The dawn broke over the snow-covered battlements, but there was no sign of the Lord of Winterfell. Cregan’s chamber was found empty, his bed undisturbed, and his bannermen immediately feared the worst. The cold winds carried whispers of possible attacks, of kidnappings, of wildlings breaching the walls in the dead of night.

“Where is he?” one of the lords muttered, his voice tight with worry. “I saw him head to his chamber last night. He should be there!”

“But he’s not,” another snapped, his face pale. “And there’s no sign of a struggle. Nothing.”

Maids and guards exchanged nervous glances, and the tension in the great hall thickened like smoke. Servants hurried through the corridors, peering into every nook and cranny, while a group of bannermen began to search the grounds, checking the stables, the armory, anywhere he might have gone.

The panic spread quickly, growing like wildfire. Hushed voices turned into frantic shouts, and soon enough, a full search was underway. Every room, every corridor, every shadowed corner was combed through with increasing urgency.

“Maybe he’s gone to the Godswood?” one bannerman suggested, and a group ran in that direction, boots crunching against the snow.

“What if he’s been taken?” another whispered fearfully. “The wildlings—”

“No, he’d never be taken without a fight!” a grizzled old warrior barked, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. “Keep looking!”

And so they did, their desperation growing as each minute passed without a trace of their lord.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, one of the servants hesitantly approached the door to Y/N’s chamber. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the handle as if unsure whether he should dare to disturb a Targaryen princess. But with his heart pounding and knowing that all of Winterfell was searching, he pushed the door open.

There, in the soft light of dawn that filtered through the small window, they found him.

Cregan Stark lay sprawled across the bed, still deep in sleep, his dark hair tousled, a faint smile playing on his lips. His arm was wrapped tightly around Y/N Targaryen, holding her close against him as if she were the most precious thing in the world. They were entangled in the furs, his body curved protectively around hers, their legs entwined, her head resting on his chest.

For a moment, the servant could only gape, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. Then, finding his voice, he croaked out, “Lord Stark!”

Cregan stirred, groaning softly, his eyes blinking open in the dim light. He looked down to see Y/N still nestled against him, her silver hair a soft halo on his chest. For a brief, confused moment, he forgot where he was, why there were voices at the door.

Then he heard the shocked gasp of the servant, and it all came rushing back.

“What’s the meaning of this?” a bannerman’s voice boomed from behind the servant, and within seconds, the doorway filled with faces, wide-eyed and bewildered.

Cregan rubbed his eyes, sitting up slowly, his hand still cradling Y/N. He glanced over at the doorway and saw the crowd of his bannermen and servants, their expressions ranging from horrified to amused to utterly scandalized.

“Well, it seems I’ve been found,” he muttered, a grin spreading across his face as he looked down at her, still half-asleep beside him. “So much for a quiet morning.”

Y/N stirred, blinking up at him, and then she saw the small crowd gathered in the doorway. Her cheeks flushed, but her lips curled into a mischievous smile. “Good morrow, gentlemen,” she purred, propping herself up on her elbow. “Is there something you’re looking for?”

The bannermen stood frozen for a moment, then the old warrior who’d been leading the search cleared his throat, his cheeks flushed red. “Lord Stark, we thought… well, we feared the worst.”

Cregan’s smile widened, his hand brushing a strand of silver hair from Y/N’s face. “No need for fear, Wylis,” he replied, his tone far too amused. “As you can see, I’m very much alive. Just… occupied.”

The servant who had found them couldn’t suppress a grin, though he quickly ducked his head to hide it. The bannermen, on the other hand, exchanged awkward glances, shifting their weight, unsure of what to say.

Y/N looked up at Cregan, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Seems you’ve caused quite the stir, my lord,” she murmured, teasingly. “Should I be worried that your men are so eager to find you?”

Cregan chuckled, pulling her closer, ignoring the gaping faces in the doorway. “Let them talk,” he murmured, his voice low and affectionate. “I have everything I want right here.”

And as the bannermen mumbled and fidgeted, trying to find a way to excuse themselves from the room without causing further embarrassment, Cregan leaned down to kiss her forehead, his smile never fading. “Let them see,” he whispered. “Let them know.”

Y/N laughed softly, rolling her eyes. “As you wish, wolf.”

And with that, he pulled her back into the warm cocoon of furs, ignoring the murmurs from the doorway, perfectly content to remain exactly where he was.

[br0kenangel]

𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐁𝐒: 𝘓𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯.

Aegon and Aemond, along with little Daeron, played with the great beast. The boys were fearless in their affection, cuddling close to the lion, burying their faces in his soft fur, and giggling as his tail swished lazily from side to side. Silver Fang tolerated their antics with the patience of a creature who knew he was the king of the jungle—though he was well aware that his true queen was you, the lady who sat nearby, watching with a soft smile.

"Mother, tell us how you got Silver Fang," Aegon asked, his eyes wide with curiosity as he stroked the lion's thick mane.

Aemond, who was more reserved but no less intrigued, looked up from where he was resting his head on Silver Fang’s massive flank. "Yes, please, Mother. Tell us."

You smiled, your heart warming at the sight of your boys so carefree and happy. "It was a gift from my father," you began, your voice soft, your eyes distant as you recalled the memory. "He gave Silver Fang to me when I was just a little older than Aegon is now."

"Why did he give him to you?" Aemond asked, his voice tinged with awe as he glanced at the lion, who lay still and majestic beneath their hands.

A knowing smile tugged at your lips. "Because I was afraid something might happen to me. I was a child, and the world seemed so big and dangerous. My father, Lord Gerold Lannister, knew this. He knew the fears that lurked in my heart, so he gave me Silver Fang to protect me, to keep me safe when he could not."

Aegon’s eyes sparkled with excitement. "And did he? Did Silver Fang protect you?"

You chuckled softly, leaning back in your chair as you regarded your sons. "Oh, yes. He did. Once, a man tried to harm me. I don’t remember his name—he was someone who thought he could get what he wanted by force." You paused, watching as Aegon and Aemond leaned closer, their young minds enthralled by your tale. "But Silver Fang… he didn’t let that man take a single step toward me. He tore him apart, devoured him alive."

You said the words calmly, almost casually, with a smile that was both serene and chilling. There was no fear in your recollection, only satisfaction in the lion’s loyalty, in the protection he had offered you when you needed it most.

Aemond’s eyes widened, a mixture of amazement and admiration in his gaze. "He ate the man alive?"

"Yes, Aemond," you replied, your smile widening slightly. "He did. And that’s why I know you’re safe with him, just as I was."

Aegon reached up, placing a small hand on the lion's massive paw, marveling at its size and strength. "He’s so beautiful… and strong."

"That he is," you agreed, your voice filled with pride as you looked at Silver Fang, who blinked lazily at you, his golden eyes reflecting the light of the setting sun. "And he will always protect you, as long as you treat him with love and respect."

Your conversation was interrupted by the soft sound of a servant approaching. The young woman curtsied deeply, her voice deferential as she spoke. "My queen, your brother has arrived. He is waiting in the hall."

You rose gracefully from your seat, your golden gown shimmering in the light. "Good," you said with a smile. "I have been expecting him." You looked down at your sons, your expression softening. "Stay here with Silver Fang, my loves. I will return shortly."

Leaving the boys in the lion's care, you made your way to the hall, where your brother awaited you. As you entered, Jason turned, his face breaking into a broad smile at the sight of his sister.

"Y/N," he greeted warmly, enveloping you in a tight embrace. "It’s good to see you."

"And you, Jason," you replied, returning the embrace with affection. Though he could be brash and arrogant, Jason had always been a loving brother to you. He wanted nothing but your happiness, and you appreciated that more than words could express.

Jason stepped back, his smile turning mischievous. "I brought what you asked for."

Your eyes lit up with anticipation. "You did?"

Jason nodded, gesturing to the guards who stood behind him. They stepped forward, each one holding a small, squirming bundle of fur in their arms. Four lcubs, barely old enough to be away from their mother, their eyes wide and curious as they took in their new surroundings.

Your heart swelled with joy at the sight of them. "They’re perfect," you breathed, reaching out to take the smallest of the cubs into your arms. It was a beautiful and rare creature, white as snow, with striking red eyes that seemed to see into your very soul, very much like your daughter. This one, you knew immediately, would be for Helaena.

Jason watched you with a fond smile. "I’m glad you like them. I thought they might make good companions for the children… and perhaps ease some of your worries."

You looked up at him, your expression softening. "Thank you, Jason. You’ve done more than I could have asked for." You kissed his cheek, and he smiled, pleased by your approval.

"I just want you to be happy, sister," he said, his voice sincere. "You deserve it."

You gave him a grateful smile before turning to the guards. "Bring them to my chamber," you instructed. "I want the children to meet their new friends."

The guards nodded, carefully carrying the cubs as they followed you back to your chamber. As you entered, Aegon and Aemond looked up, their eyes widening with wonder as they saw the cubs.

"Are these for us?" Aegon asked, his voice filled with awe.

You smiled, kneeling down to their level as you cradled the white cub in your arms. "Yes, my loves. They are for you." You gently passed the cub you held to a guard, then gestured to the other cubs. "You may each choose one. They will be your companions, your protectors, just as Silver Fang is mine."

Aemond’s eyes were drawn to a playful cub with a mischievous glint in its eyes. The cub was rolling around on the ground, batting at the guard's boots with its tiny paws. Aemond smiled, reaching out to pick up the spirited creature. "I want this one," he declared, laughing as the cub nuzzled into his arms.

Aegon, meanwhile, was drawn to a slightly larger cub with a wild, untamed look in its eyes. It growled playfully, baring its tiny teeth, and Aegon grinned, clearly captivated. "This one is mine," he said proudly, holding the cub close.

You watched them with a soft smile, pleased by their choices. "Take good care of them, my darlings," you said. "They will grow with you, and one day, they will be as strong and fierce as Silver Fang."

Little Daeron, sat nearby, giggling as he watched his brothers with their new pets. You approached him, your heart swelling with love as you picked up the calmest of the cubs. She was a gentle creature, her eyes soft and trusting as she looked up at you.

You knelt before Daeron, placing the cub in his small arms. "This one is for you, sweetling," you whispered, smiling as Daeron immediately began laughing and hugging the cub, his tiny hands stroking her soft fur.

The sight warmed your heart, and you watched for a moment longer, reveling in the joy on their faces. But there was still one more child to tend to, and you knew exactly what you had to do.

Holding the white cub with red eyes close to your chest, you left your chamber, making your way to Helaena’s chamber. The guards followed, but you dismissed them at the door, wishing to be alone with your daughter.

You found Helaena sitting on the floor, surrounded by her collection of bugs. The girl was lost in her own world, humming softly to herself as she watched a beetle crawl across her hand. You paused for a moment, your heart aching with love for the gentle, strange girl who was so different from her brothers.

Steeling yourself, you approached Helaena and knelt beside her, holding the cub up for her to see. "Helaena, my love," you said softly, holding the white lion cub up for her daughter to see, "this is for you."

Helaena looked up from her bugs, her pale lavender eyes focusing on the cub in your arms. For a moment, she simply stared, her expression unreadable. Then, a small, almost shy smile curled at the corners of her lips.

The cub squirmed slightly, letting out a soft, high-pitched sound as it gazed at Helaena with its striking red eyes. It was a strange creature, just like Helaena—different, unique in a way that set it apart from the others.

"She's different," Helaena murmured, her voice soft and melodic, as if she were speaking to herself rather than to you. Her fingers brushed lightly against the cub's fur, and the little lioness responded with a gentle purr.

"Yes, she is," you agreed, your heart swelling with a mixture of love and sorrow. "Just like you, my sweet girl. I thought you might like her."

Helaena’s smile widened, her eyes lighting up with a rare spark of joy. "She’s beautiful, Mother. Thank you."

A pang of bittersweet emotion welled up in your chest, but you pushed it aside. You gently placed the cub in Helaena’s lap, watching as your daughter cradled the tiny creature with a tenderness that belied her years.

As Helaena stroked the cub’s fur, she looked up at you with an expression of quiet understanding. "You’re doing this because you’re scared, aren’t you?" she asked, her voice soft but unwavering.

The question hit you like a blow to the chest. For a moment, you could only stare at your daughter, caught off guard by her perceptiveness. You had always known that Helaena was different, that she saw things others did not, but hearing those words spoken aloud shook you more than you cared to admit.

Your smile faltered for a brief moment, and you felt your carefully constructed composure begin to crack. But you forced yourself to remain calm, to keep the fear at bay. "I just want to make sure you’re all safe, my love," you said, your voice steady, though it took more effort than you would have liked. "That’s all I want."

Helaena tilted her head, her gaze softening as she watched you. "You’re afraid of what’s to come," she said quietly, as if she could see straight into your soul.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back, refusing to let them fall. You couldn’t afford to be weak, not now, not ever. Your children needed you to be strong, to protect them from the dangers that lurked in every shadow.

So you forced a smile, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to Helaena’s forehead.

Helaena smiled back at you, her eyes filled with a quiet wisdom that made her seem far older than her years. "I love you, Mother," she said softly, her fingers still gently stroking the cub’s fur.

"And I love you, Helaena," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. You lingered for a moment longer, watching as your daughter continued to bond with the cub, before slowly rising to your feet.

You left Helaena’s chamber with a heavy heart, closing the door quietly behind you. As soon as you were alone in the corridor, you pressed your back against the cold stone wall, breathing deeply as you tried to steady yourself.

Helaena was right. You were scared—scared of what the future held, of the dangers that could threaten your children, of the possibility that you might not always be there to protect them. It was a fear that gnawed at you constantly, one that you tried to hide behind a mask of strength and calm.

You took a deep breath, willing yourself to stay calm. You had to be strong, for your children. They were your life, your everything, and you would do whatever it took to keep them safe.

After a few moments, you pushed yourself away from the wall, your composure once again firmly in place. You had a role to play, and you would play it well. There was no room for doubt or fear, not when your children’s lives depended on you.

With one final deep breath, you straightened your shoulders and made your way back to your chamber. Your sons were still there, laughing and playing with their new friends, their faces alight with joy.

You watched them from a distance for a moment, a soft smile playing on your lips. They were so full of life, so innocent and unaware of the dangers that surrounded them. You envied them that innocence, but you would do everything in your power to preserve it for as long as you could.

As you approached, Aegon looked up, his face splitting into a wide grin when he saw you. "Mother, look! He’s already getting used to me!" he called out, holding up his cub proudly.

You chuckled softly, nodding in approval. "I see that, Aegon. You’re doing a wonderful job."

Aemond, who was still cradling his cub, looked up at you with a serious expression. "Thank you for this, Mother," he said quietly. "We’ll take good care of them, I promise."

"I know you will," you replied, your voice filled with pride as you looked at your sons. "And they will take care of you, just as Silver Fang has taken care of me."

You spent the rest of the afternoon with them, watching as they bonded with their new companions, your heart swelling with love and pride. The future was uncertain, and the path ahead was fraught with danger, but in this moment, you allowed yourself to believe that everything would be okay.

Part 1 ♡ Part 2 ♡ Part 3 ♡ Part 5 ♡ Part 6

@ 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

[dark-moonlust]

Heyyy so im so weak for bear hybrids and i just saw the one you posted, (LOVE IT btw), and i was wondering if you could do a sequal where reader decides to stay and lives a happy cozy life, with like cozy fires and all the bestest fur blankets and coziest bed and BIG FLUFFY BEAR MAN CUDDLES, but also like yk mad crazy sex where he likes to show off his strength and just like tosses her around, like up against walls, that thing where u like hold a girl on ur shoulders to eat her n stuff, if not thats ok i love all ur work sm 🙏🧎‍♀️🤍

Hello anon!!! Thank you for all the lovely words and the smutty idea!! I love bear hybrids, too. I'm sorry I took so long to complete. I have a lot of requests and I've been so busy lately. I'm trying to catch up on them slowly. Anyway, I hope this is to your liking!

Happy reading everyone!

Check out the first part of my bear hybrid oneshot here.

Cozy Life with your Bear Hybrid

Pairing: bear hybrid x fem reader Summary: you live a cozy life with your giant bear of a man. And you love it. Warnings: minors-ageless accounts don't interact, 18+, smut, size kink, overstimulation, oral (fem receiving), huge 🍆, p in v sex, lots of 💦.

The wind screamed outside, rolling through the trees, yet it was only a whisper in the warmth of your cave. The fire crackled in the hearth and you were wrapped up in your mate's thick, muscled arms—the big bear of a beast who smelled like woodsmoke earthy perfume. He was warm and super cuddly, his big frame spooning you from behind.

Thick furs were heaped high on the bed their softness wrapping around you like a cocoon. Your bear hybrid always ensured you were warm and cozy, and took great pleasure in cuddling and loving you for hours on end. That night, he had a fond deep look in his eyes that spoke of his desire to keep you close and shield you from the outer world.

His mate. Forever.

Yes, you loved your life as his other half.

Shifting slightly, he moved, drawing you even closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his furred bear face scratchy but exquisite against your skin. His fingers, strong and calloused, trailed carefully down your belly, over your thighs, making sure his sharp nails were sheathed. Humming in satisfaction, you sunk deeper into him.

There was nowhere else you'd rather be, nothing else you'd rather do than spend every day surrounded by the warmth of your giant, soft bear, who was just as possessive and tender toward you.

"Hmmm, I could stay like this forever," he drawled in a low voice that vibrated through your chest. “But I’m also thinking about all the things I want to do to you.”

“Like?” you challenged, hands caressing his furry arm.

“Taste your sweet honey for one,” he murmured, his voice a low, dark rumble that sent goosebumps all over your skin.

“You just love to use this reference!”

He cocked a brow. “Why not?” His voice deepened. “Your cunt leaks the sweetest honey there is. I can vouch for that.”

“You are a horny bear beast.”

Chuckling, his hand moved down your thigh, fingers pressing just hard enough to cause you to open. “Hmm, and as the bear beast I am, I should taste again. Make sure your lovely cunny is as delicious as before. I love honey. Your honey.”

“You are insatiable.” Your face felt warm at the memory of him eating you out just hours ago. Your pussy had no issue whatsoever; it clenched and pooled with your juices.

Damn… You were both insatiable.

He grinned, that familiar, smoldering look blazing in his eyes. “Sleep, cuddle, eat you out, fuck. Then repeat. That’s our schedule. Now come, mate,” he playfully tapped your thighs. “Time to let me taste your pussy.”

His tone was straightforward. As if what you did every day was perfectly normal. You touched each other, rolled around in bed, kissed, made out (a lot), and couldn't keep your hands away from each other.

And you weren't a coward or an idiot to turn away from such joy.

In a playful mood, you smacked his hands playfully and scooted off the bed. You were in the mood to tease him. He growled and you hardly had time to move when he lifted you effortlessly, as if you were weightless in his massive arms, whisking you off the ground. You hugged him firmly and moaned as he hoisted you again, slamming you against the wall.

Strong hands maneuvered you so that your legs were draped over his shoulders, your pussy exposed and dripping in front of his eager mouth. You clutched his head and peered down at him, seeing the passion in his eyes as he licked up your mound, manipulating your folds with his long thick tongue. Your head tipped back, spine arching as he sucked you in, savoring your juices as if he were eating his favorite meal—which he was.

You were his favorite delicacy.

It went on and on, his tongue playing with your tender clit, circling the tender nub. You went wild, buried your fingers in his silky fur, and tugged violently as you shattered, your body coming alive with energy. He kept going, his big hands clutching your ass, his tongue thrusting inside to taste your honey. He growled primitively, his breaths vibrating over your clit.

He could go on for hours if you let him, feasting on your cunt and doing incredible tongue tricks just to see you lose yourself in pleasure.

“Pl—ease…ha~” you trembled, your voice strained from the toe-curling orgasm he’d given you.

With a husky moan, he gently flung you back into bed, onto that sea of fur covers, his large bulk crushing you with this delicious, heavy warmth and scent. You sighed with happiness and stretched your legs wider. He leaned over you, his cock thrusting up from between his broad thighs, already dripping seed.

His hands robed over your body, caressing your legs, belly and your breasts. You arched against him, whining when his leaky cock pressed against your entrance. He toyed with your nipples and leisurely rubbed his cock across your slit, his massive shaft appearing inhumanly large in comparison to your little human hole.

“Want my big bear to fuck me,” you whispered, fingers reaching down to open the outer lips of your pussy. “Pretty please?”

He whined and pushed the blunt cockhead a tiny bit inside. “How can I deny you, love?”

“Yessss,” you moaned, wiggling your waist. You were half-dazed with pleasure and you craved every inch of him inside you.

The spark in his eyes told you he was barely holding back. He was always so gentle despite his raw desire for you.

“Easy. Look at you,” he drawled, eyes on your pretty cunt, spread by his cockhead. “Every inch of you… mine, open and soft for me.”

“Come on, no more looking,” you warned. “Inside. Need you inside. All of you.”

A gentle roll of his hip, a little wiggling from you and he was inside, every inch of him buried in your depths. He was so deep you could feel him throbbing in your bellybutton, his balls crushed against your bum. You clutched his biceps, let out a gentle pants at the thick girth spreading your hole. You felt full, but not uncomfortably so. You’d learned to take him, to accommodate his hybrid cock.

“Good girl,” he drawled, his tongue plunging into your mouth.

Tongue down your throat, he fucked you, pounded into you in deep, unhurried thrusts. He kissed you as if he was starving, as if you were the only precious person he’d spent his entire life searching for. Which was entirely true. His hands cupped and kneaded your tits, his breath warm on your mouth.

Pleasure hit you again, and you sobbed mutely, your fingers tangling in his furred shoulders as he continued to claim you, his magnificent cock pumping in and out of your slick cunt. You heard his feral grunts and the squelching sounds of your bodies colliding. Two more thrusts and he exploded, loads of cum filling you up. He spurted for several minutes, your cunt overflowing with hot seed.

“Pretty, so damn pretty,” he roared. “Good mate, taking my cock and my seed. It drips so beautifully down your thighs.”

“Too much! It always is,“ you whined, feeling the final spurts of his release.

“Oh, that’s nothing.” His eyes had that dark hungry gleam, one that told you he wasn’t done with you. “Let’s see just how much more you can take, mate, ‘cause I’m not stopping anytime soon.”

Did you enjoy?! Like, comment or reblog! It would make me so happy!

[fanaticsnail]

Halloween: Eustass Kid

Birthday Celebration Masterlist

Word count: 3,200+

Themes: Eustass Kid x m!reader, werewolf!kid x human!reader, NSFW, 18+, smut, mdni, breeding, bondage, sub Kid x dom reader (switch both), love, feelings, emotions, term 'mates' used for coupling, romance if you squint, monsterfucking, you top Kid, creampie, Kid's werewolf form can only speak in one to two word sentences.

Notes: Happy Halloween! I hope you enjoy this fic!

The stare born by two tangerine orbs glared at you through a bowed head. Messy locks of scarlett cascaded over his lengthy lashes as his perpetual growl reverberated in the chasms of his chest.

Upper body bound in heavy chains of silver, a single cuffed wrist anchoring him to the floor by a thick bolt set within stone, Eustass Kid continued to raise his hackles up at you. Revealing sharpened canines, pearly and pristine as his left side scar rose with his grimace, you simply rolled your eyes and continued to read your newspaper without paying him any mind.

Plush pillows, shredded clothes, both his and yours, littered the surrounds of the bolt, forming a perfect nest around the creature. He could sleep if he wanted to, but the man now replaced by his alternate monster had different plans.

When Kid experienced his change on the lunar cycle, you were subject to more of a beast than the man you loved. The man who held your heart was buried deep within the belly, sometimes a softness depicted in the cool of the beast’s eyes. For now, the beast was simply just that: a werewolf bolted to the ground and bound in thick rings of silver.

“Don’t get all huffy with me, pretty boy,” you warn him, fluttering the pages as you straighten the curved edge. “Boss said you can’t be trusted around me when you’re like this. I don’t make the rules, I obey them: as must you.”

That comment was met with a roar, his teeth parting and salivating through the muzzle clasped against his snout. You huffed, slamming down your newspaper on the table, and turning your head towards the red-furred werewolf version of your lover and gave him a disciplinary look. He snarled at you, his upper lip tucked up at the corner in reaction to your glare.

“Really?” you scolded him, tilting your head to seek out his eyes with your own. “And here I thought you'd appreciate my company below decks.” You rose to your feet, brushing off your thighs and readjusting your shirt. As you began walking across the wooden floor, you continued your soft reprimand over your shoulder.

“I can hear you crying out, you know,” you spoke in absolutes, honesty being the only source found in your voice, “Not just howling at the moon, but true mourning keens, screaming for attention. As mate to your human counterpart, in my self-absorbed delirium, I thought that meant you wanted me.”

As your hand reached for the door, a soft whimper whistled through the back of the beast’s throat in a desperate plea to halt your motions.

“What?” you snap at him, turning back to face him once more. “Now you want me here? Which is it, pretty boy: I stay,” you gesture to the ground, “Or I go?” you point to the door.

The red-headed beast darts his muzzle from you to the floor in a bid to relay his desires. With a rumble in his chest and a soft snuff from his nose, you let out a groan in response to his motions.

“Fine,” you roll your eyes and remove your hand from the doorknob, ��But if I stay, I need three things from you. First, sit,” you gesture strictly to the ground. The beast toppled down, sitting with its hind legs curled either side of its form. You smirked, shaking your head and walking just out of reach, should he desire to test the shackles.

“Second, stop snarling at me,” you scold him. His immediate reaction was a stuttered quiver of his upper lip as he hung his large tail tucked beneath him. He bowed his head low, peeking up through the auburn eyes reflecting his obedience. You chuckle, clicking your tongue and shaking your head at him.

“Third,” you approach the monstrous version of your lover, standing just on the perimeter should this overgrown pup decide to turn on you. “I know you can speak when you’re like this, pretty boy. Try to use your words, okay? That’s all I ask.”

“Mate,” the werewolf rumbled in a deep growl, “Me.” You rolled your eyes, shaking your head and looking down at the seated werewolf maintaining an almost innocent air about him.

“Yes, I am your mate,” you nod towards the red-furred, overgrown puppy on the floor, “Good job using your words. Now that that’s settled, can I get back to reading the paper-?”

“-No.” The werewolf began to raise his teeth back, halting as he internally reminded himself that you ordered him not to snarl. “Mate, me.” You click your tongue, crossing over the perimeter line of safety towards the more feral, unhinged, and unpredictable version of your partner, Eustass Kid.

“We’ve established that, sweetheart,” you utter in empathy, tilting your head to the side and crossing your arms over your chest. “You and I are bound together as humans, and I love you in any form you take. You’re my mate, and I am yours.”

You knew it would be dangerous, you knew the consequences of stepping over that threshold. He could overpower you in a second, attempt to rattle and break out of his chains, and throw the muzzle off himself to bite, claw, and maim you. This is what you assumed your partner was attempting to protect you from.

What you weren’t expecting was Eustass Kid, sitting on the floor in his beastial form, looking up at you through pleading eyes while revealing his thick, hard, and weeping cock to you through his parted legs the closer you approached him.

Staggering a little in your step, your eyes immediately drew down to the angry, tapered tip drooling from the smaller slit at the top of his cock. Following along the bowed shaft, your gaze halted at the large bulb at the base of his cock above his fur-covered balls.

“Mate me.” The sound he let out was a soft whimper after such a request. “Breed.” His entire hulking form was submissive as he attempted to make himself lower to the ground, shielding his cock from your sight.

“Eustass,” you whispered, slowly reaching your hand forward as you drew ever closer towards the beast. “I can only just take your cock while you’re in your human form. It took us ages to even get to that point.” You gently pressed the flat of your palm on the top of his head, slowly carding your fingers through his coarse fur towards his pointed ears. “There’s not enough lubricant in the world for me to be able to take you within me like this.”

The beast whimpered, nudging his head into your palm while his huffed pants fell from his lips in rapid frequency. His cock twitched and pulsed the longer you made contact with his fur, his whines only growing in intensity as you began to scratch him behind his ears where the strap to the muzzle was located.

“Breed,” he desperately sobbed, his voice sounding like a mix of his humanity shining through alongside a beastial growl, “Me.”

“You…?” you pause, focussing on his eyes once more and darting your own between his. “You… Want me to breed you?”

The wolf emphatically bobbed his head up and down while whining, howling, panting, and heaving into your touch. Your lips parted and eyes rounded in shock as you peered down at the werewolf nudging your hand.

Immediately recalling the earlier conversations you’ve had with your partner in the past, you couldn't help but laugh to yourself about what words he used then, and what their intended meaning was now.

“When I’m him, all of my thoughts and feelings are heightened a hundred times over,” he spoke within your mind’s eye, “Everything is primal, all needs urgent, and I can’t control how my alter reacts. He’s still me, but my wants and desires will be without filter. Can't trust him.”

“What do you mean, Kid?” you asked him at the time, “You’ll want to kill, seek and destroy more than usual? Go berserk?”

“My inner monologue will be exposed, and I can’t trust how I’ll behave around you.”

What you thought he meant was his wolf would ascend to a more dominant and more authoritative stature: biting and gnashing his teeth at all - including you. As he shied away from your touch, immediately clunking down onto the floor with his ass raised and tail swishing, you knew that not to be the case.

Eustass Kid, your captain, partner, lover, and light of your life, was wanting you to mount him to claim him as yours.

When you first started this relationship as boyfriends, you thought to yourself that such a dominant man would never want to be topped by you. Most of your couplings involved him taking you from above, anchoring his metal hand above your heads while rutting into your body, his remaining right hand reaching between you and pumping your cock with every in-thrust.

He’d bite with his polished canines, mouthe at your neck leaving a trail of hickies in their wake, finish inside you while howling your name, before kissing your lips with professions of love. Kid was only ever dominant in his human form.

His werewolf alter was not.

“Breed me,” the werewolf said once more, his cockhead brushing against the ground and leaving a sticky trail of precum connecting between the floor and his quivering tip, “Mate me.” His cheek made contact with the floor as he turned his head to plead at you further.

His weighted chains rattled against the floorboards, causing you to empathetically wince at his display. You knew the silver was good for him, prohibiting him from getting too far away from the designated den he had made for himself. It didn't stop you from wanting so desperately to remove them and the muzzle from his features, but you know Kid placed them there for a reason. What reason, you were unsure of.

The way his puckered entrance pulsed alongside his bloated knot had your cock begin swelling within the waistline of your pants. You shook your head, taking into account that you had never topped him as a human, and you didn’t want to start something Kid didn’t consent to within the realms of his humanity.

“I can’t sweetheart,” you whisper with all the sympathy you could muster, “I can stroke your cock for you if you like? I could suck a little of it while massaging the rest to ease you through this.”

“Breed me-!” he whined into the floor, drool leaking from his lips and frothing within his heckles, “Want it-! Need it-! Trust you.” You felt your heart pound hard within your chest, truly desiring to heed your partner’s craving for you. It didn’t help that you were exceptionally hard and the constriction of your briefs was beginning to be uncomfortable.

“Eustass?” you asked your lover while cradled within his arms, head laid on his chest and fingers intertwined within his own over his stomach. “When you’re the wolf, do you still like me, or do you want me dead?”

“What kind of stupid-ass question even is that?” he scoffed, nudging your head up with his chin for you to turn towards him. “Of course I fuckin’ like ya. I’m still me, you’re still you, and we’re still mates. If anything, I think I like you just a little bit more. Can’t trust myself when I’m like that. Might gnaw your fuckin’ face off thinkin’ I’m kissin’ ya.”

“Okay, okay, sweetheart,” you coo lovingly down at the werewolf presenting his body to you, “I need to prep you-.”

“-NEED!” he howled needily, heavy tail swooshing to the sides as his cock continued to drip onto the floor beneath you. “FILL ME! BREED ME! LOVE ME!”

You growl in frustration at his lack of cooperation, thrusting your index and middle fingers in your mouth and dampening them with a thick engulfment of your saliva. You gripped his hip with one hand, immediately steadying yourself while pressing the pad of your index finger into his ass.

The werewolf didn’t flinch, instead arching his back lower, whining while backing up into your hand. Your eyes flew wide as his whimpers began sounding more human, breathy pants and heavy whispers of your name fleeing through his muzzle before he again began growling at the touch.

It didn’t take any longer for you to add a second finger to broaden the stretch, curling your fingers up to brush with his prostate the same way his cock did within you. His passage began clenching in a rhythmic thrum each time you thrust in and out of his ass, prompting your own need to began growing more apparent.

“Just hold on a minute, okay, love?” you cooed down at him, removing your hand from his hip to take your cock over your waistband, “I can't leave you in this state, I love you too much to see you suffer.”

You lined up your cockhead against his puckered hole, the pinch of the muscle broadening at the stretch causing your eyes to roll back in your skull. Nothing could’ve prepared you for how he felt like this around you: everything about him running more hot now shrouded in fur, with his monstrous body now attempting to back into you to suck your cock inside him all the way to your base.

“Mate-!” the beast’s voice split in perfect unison between beast and man as you bottomed out completely, complete euphoria being the only presence in his tone. You reached your hands around his fur-covered hips and held tight, rocking a few testing thrusts into his ass to ensure he was comfortable. The werewolf howled in delight with his tail swishing in front of you, behind him.

Hair from the swatting protrusion wagging at your face entered your mouth, causing you to spit out a few of the strays that landed on your tongue. You moved one hand from his hip to hold his tail in the middle of the muscle, using it as an anchor to tug you in in harder slaps of the front of your hips meeting the backs of his. Kid growled in delight, his muzzle leaking with saliva while his tapered cock drooled in unison.

Each thrust forward had his insides churning in ecstasy, finally feeling his mate claim him as he had been claiming you as a human. The wolf side of him felt accepted and loved, as you loved him while walking beside him in humanity. Feeling at one with you bottoming out repetitively had the twin souls within him thinking only three things.

My mate wants me.

My mate needs me.

My mate loves me.

Internally, Eustass Kid was taking the first-mate’s posting while his wolf captained and navigated his corporeal vessel. He felt everything the wolf did, and was moved to tears that you would ever do anything like this for his benefit. He was a hardened captain, bearing the weight of his whole world on his shoulders. While you were with him like this, he knew he would never have to bear that weight alone again.

“Doing so good, Eustass.” You took your other hand off his hip, reaching around to massage the bulb at the base of his cock, stroking it alongside your thrusting forward. Each pump hand him both rutting forward and arching backwards to aid you in fucking him the way his instincts needed him to.

Kid was feeling already so worked up, he could barely bark out a warning before painting the floor beneath his body in a large splash of milky ropes. His cum continued weeping out while he howled up at the ceiling, arching his back further while riding through his high.

He had never felt so full in his life, his entire twin-souls binding together by forging against your own. The love and acceptance he felt as the beast was overwhelming, causing him to whine and whimper against the chains of silver.

His puckered hole began to contract around you as you felt your abdomen tighten in a thick knot. The peak was right within your sight as he continued pulsing around your shaft and throbbing in your hand. Your thrusts grew manic as you felt your high begin to reach the pinnacle and bloom to a full release.

With one final tug on his tail to anchor your body fully into his, you cried out a groan of your own, filling the beast with your entire load as you thrust in and out of his body. His ass continued sucking you in as your abs tensed and heat overwhelmed your senses.

“K-Kid-! C-Cumming!” you called out for him, your thrusts growing languid before slowing to a complete stop. Fully still sheathed within him, you released his tail, which limply fell to the side, causing you to flop down onto his arched back and chuckle into his fluffy spine.

His fur felt comforting against your skin. From afar, each strand looked like a wired bristle-brush, but beneath your skin like this? It was plush and silky. You slowly removed your cock, prompting the werewolf to mourn the loss with a soft cry.

“Shh, it's okay,” you soothe him, sifting through his vibrant hair on his back with your fingers. “Everything is alright, pretty boy. I promise.” You replaced your waistband on your hips after tucking your cock within your briefs.

“Stay?” the beast called over his shoulder, “Den?” You sighed, glancing down dotingly at the monstrous form as he nestled down and invited you beside him. Considering how pliant he was being with you, presenting to you and claiming you completely as his mate, you saw no harm in indulging his request.

Slowly sinking to your knees, you were hastily stollen by two lengthy paws and ushered in like a giant plush being accepted claimed by a needy puppy. You relaxed in the embrace, feeling the beasts heartbeat bounding in a soothing rhythm.

“Goodnight, my mate,” you whisper up at him, feeling the cool if his metal muzzle resting on your head as he shook happily within your embrace. Sleep overcame you both, breaths and rumbled purrs morphing into more humanoid snores when the moon was eclipsed by the door.

When your human lover woke to find you cradled in their arms in the middle of their nest, Kid tensed immediately. His tangerine-colored orbs scoured you for marks and wounds as he replayed the events of the night before within the fog of his memory.

Feeling the crude squelch exit his asshole told him all he needed to know, his face immediately flooding with a deep blush as he stared down at you. He moved his human hand up, now easily slinking out of the cuff to cradle your cheek. Within your slumber, you unintentionally nuzzled against his palm.

Kid’s heart soared at the sight. His mate had claimed him in his wolf form, which means you truly accepted him for who and what he was. He could not have been prouder to find his home in you, your bond only growing ever stronger now he knew he could trust you to take care of his needs as the beast.

“I love you,” he whispered down at you, a confession more spoken for his own affirmation. “My mate.”

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory @jadeddangel @ane5e

🎶 Happy Birthday to Me 🎶

If you would like to celebrate by indulging my caffeine and bubble tea addiction, my Kofi link is here.

[rs-hawk]

Sorry for the delay in Day Four! I’ll be posting Day Five soon as well. Also, I only have one more spot for the BATB Week since I still have one ask in my box, so if you want yours done, hurry and submit it!

CW: this post contains graphic depictions and smut. This is intended for an 18+ audience. Knotting, excessive cum, talks of pregnancy, etc

After Beast drug his cock in and out of his pretty captive’s cunt, he was pulsing and throbbing, so close to bursting. She was hiccuping as fat tears of overstimulation poured down her face. For a moment, he just watched her whine and cry, her cunt stretched around just the tip of his cock. Her lower lip quivered as she looked up at him, her dark eyes glistening with the wet tears there.

“A-are you not going to knot me?” her voice came out as a whisper, her throat tight. She had never felt so full in her life. Part of her wanted it to never end, and if he knotted her, at least that would delay it.

He smirked, lowering his mouth to her face, his large tongue licking up her face to taste her tears, before asking, “do you want me to?”

All she could do was nod, and in seconds, he had stuffed himself back into her warm hole, his knot forcing its way inside. She grabbed onto his arms, the fur somewhat comforting as she tried not to cry out. He grunted as his knot finally popped inside of her, his cum filling her to the point that her stomach slightly extended.

To her surprise, he kissed her. His sharp teeth grazing her lips and cheeks as his lips consumed hers. He no longer tasted of her, instead he tasted of his own desire. The smell of his sweat and fur overwhelmed her just as his lips and tongue did. She arched her back slightly, her fingers now tangled in the fur of his neck. He was trying to be gentle. She could tell. His lips worked over hers with cautious care, and his tongue barely explored her mouth this time.

After the kiss, he picked her up, still stuck on his knot. He sat in the chair, holding her in his lap. A hiss escaped her lips as she was forced down on his knot, her eyes squeezing shut at the fullness. If she had thought he was stuffing her before, then this was him setting her close to bursting. However, he drew her against him, wrapping his large arms around her small frame.

With a smile, she buried her face in his fur, soothed by the warmth of his fur and body. Just as she was starting to doze off, his knot had gone down enough for him to pull out of her. She assumed he would be satisfied, or at least tired, but instead she realized quickly he was grinding his once again fully hard cock against her clit.

When she whined, fidgeting in his lap, it was like a switch in him flipped.

Before she knew it, she was on her hands and knees, his long claws holding her hips up as he was lining his cock up with her cum filled hole. Just as she found her voice, he bottomed out inside of her roughly, forcing his entire length into her.

He was like an animal, which she supposed he sort of was. He dropped to all fours, supporting his weight on his palms which were slammed onto the wooden floors on either side of her face. The creaking of the floors could barely be heard over the sound of his knot slamming against her lewd cunt with every thrust.

All she could do was moan and push back against him, though even that she barely could. He was fucking the air out of her with how fast he was going, and in this position, it felt like his tip was reaching her lungs. His back claws were scraping the floor as adjusted his footing to be able to slam himself inside of her faster.

As her tight walls pulsed around his cock, signaling she was once again close to cumming, he roared. That was all it took for her to cum on his cock again. This time it was so intense that it nearly locked poor Beast in place, his captive’s precious cunt trying so hard to milk his massive cock, drawing his cum deeper into her.

“That’s my girl. Mine. Mine,” he growled, snapping his teeth close to her ear. “I’m going to fuck this cunt until you can’t walk. You’re mine. That’s why you’re here.”

“I know. I know,” she babbled in agreement, limply reaching for his hands as she came down from her high.

“Tell me you love it. Ask me to fill you with my seed again,” he demanded, his thrusts becoming more erratic.

“I love it. I love it so much. Please knot me. I need you to cum inside of me again,” Belle begged, pushing back more against his cock now.

Beast snarled something she couldn’t hear, but in seconds, he was giving her what she wanted. Forcing his knot inside of her again, the tip of his cock buried against her cervix to dump his seed inside of her again.

Like this story? Support me on Ko-fi ☕ ❤️

[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 🙂‍↕️

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.

[inubaki]

The Exchange (first showings)

part 6

Adam had no accurate account of how long he’d laid in the pit. Lucifer said nothing and neither did the boys as Eve remained in her state of stasis.

The pit was an engorged trench of earth Eve had so keenly constructed amongst many in Adam’s absence. Deep enough to cover but never not adequately deep enough to bury a human body. It was intricately cushioned in stakes of strange smelling plants, flowers and possible herbs. Its bedding bore a sharp contrast to its barren surroundings where floral refused to grow. Nothing disturbed Eve and days dragged along to months without even a murmur.

It came as a double edge to ease Adam’s paranoia from her last fit, but also entrapped him to the same spot. Refusing to abandoned her and cause a rift with the twins. All the while his stomach was only growing larger by the day.

“Ozzy…”

Lucifer announced with a kiss to Adam’s brow. The human man looking up from his assorted rations, giving the pale man a perfect window to push a daisy behind Adam’s ear. Sunflower colored eyes leered back at him with its usual suspicion. The once angel laughed and disrupted Adam boldly to shove himself into Adam’s lap. The beast’s favorite place if not to leer eerily behind him. “Asmodeus, really, but Ozzy for short!”

Lucifer repeated. Like a snake, he curled himself around Adam’s front. An embrace as lucid as it kept constricting. Adam shuddered away by instinct and general unease by physical contact. “That’s a Stu——“ he jerked in alarm as Lucifer’s fangs nicked at his swelled nipple. The arising tenderness in his chest which he refused to acknowledge. Their softening metamorphosis and only inspiring more leeching excitement for the demon making it all the more impossible to shove the leech away. “-STUPID FUCKING NAME!! Ahh—-“. Adam’s breath caught as Lucifer’s warm tongue engulf his nipple entirely. The shock of it eliciting a full body jerk, his cock twitching between his leather and furs. The years of neglect since leaving Eden rendering him ultra sensitive to even the slightest touch from the beast at his breast.

What would Eve say now? Now that he was the one being entrapped upon by Lucifer’s corroding influence. Adam chocked back a stammering moan as Lucifer switched breasts as easily as he switched humans. The fucker… Between them, his stomach gave the faintness of movement and dispute Adam jerking away from the sheer alieness of the feeling, Lucifer only purred. “So fitting it is, for the first prince to be of Lust…”

Lucifer’s hands lower to slip through Adam’s coverings. Tapered claws tracing along the beginning of an ample curve. Something shifted beneath the skin invoking a thirsty snarl from sharpened fangs. The ‘angel’ Adam had long forsaken shoved his face between Adam’s bared chest while giving an utterly inhuman whine. There was no end to Lucifer’s reach as Adam felt utterly engulfed. “Cause we’ll never get enough of you… My Queen and I… to our mother of hell….”

——-

It’s not very good. But, even with my headache, I wanted to do at least something. Eve, the earth’s first witch, had wanted to bring Adam some happiness. In form that would take, not even she expected.

Eve was Lucifer’s and Lilith’s first conduit. Dispute being human children, the children Eve bore carried their blood, strengthening their bond. The pit is the space in which both Abel and Cain drew their first breath and first blood so it’s the site most closeted to ‘them’.

And by extension are the marking Eve’s craved both into herself and Adam. Tying them both to the pit and Lilith, and Lucifer’s influence. Eve had expected to be the mother of humanity. And though she would be, she did not expect to what liberty Adam would carry in parallel to her.

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[druidwolf21]

Pack bonding

Leman introduces Zad to his wolves, much to sanguinius' distaste.

@jaghatai-khock @cardinalcanis @beckyninja

Another little short story about @jaghatai-khock best little baby boy.

Sorry it's so short! I got caught out by something and I HAD to get this out of my head before my brain melted

"This is freki" Tiny fists balled into thick fur, curling into the textured coat as Zad laughed. His crimson eyes squinted with glee as he ruffled the large canine.

Leman laughed as he held the child, supporting his light weight in one hand as he watched his nephew reveal in the new texture.

"one day, you will be big enough to ride a fenrisian mount, you will be a fine drengr!"

He spun the child in the air and set him on the back of the giant hound. The blonde babe slipped forward, burying his face into the wolf's coarse ruff as he babbled.

"feki feki feki"

"haha! Not quite little warrior, but there will be plenty of time to get that right, come let me show you the rest of the pack!"

Leman strode off towards the stables, his loyal companion padding silently behind him, one ear cocked back to listen to the child as he chattered nonsense and ecstatic noises. Giant paws slunk silently towards the timber building as a instinctive voice whispered into the wolf's mind.

"cub, pup, protect, pack, child"

6 months later

"Enough! stand down"

The 2 beasts stood snarling, saliva drooling from fanged maws as they defended the child stood behind them.

Zadkiel's eyes glittered with glee as he sat behind the wolves, his hands clapping in delight as the hulking mass of muscle and fur bristled at anyone who came too close. Including his own father.

Sanguinius pressed his fingers into his temples, massaging away the incoming migraine.

"am I seriously bargaining with dogs right now?"

His wings puffed in rage and frustration as he once again reached for his son, only to be met with a roar and snap of ivory fangs. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene before him, tactics running through his mind as he tried to deescalate the situation.

His young son sat in a large pile of fallen leaves, hands and face matted with mud and debris as he ran his fingers through the colours of autumn. Reds, oranges and yellows casting warm light on his pale skin as he threw handfuls into the air, smiling as they cascaded around him, settling into his hair and pearly wings. Beside him had slept 2 gigantic fenrisian wolves, the kin of leman russ, assigned guard duty when the primark had to attend an urgent meeting.

"don't worry angel!" The wolf king had laughed. "No one will lay a finger on him!"

"got that right" sanguinius muttered under his breath.

The wolves had lurched to their feet, hackles raised and teeth bared as soon as the angel approached, his gentle coercion and increasing threats doing nothing to dissuade the canines from guarding their newest pack member.

"look I just want to get the muck off my son" he cooed gently, raising his hands up in a calming motion. "My son, my cub"

The beasts exchanged a glance, ears flicking in recognition before turning to look at their young lordling.

"no bath, ick" spat Zad, shaking his head so violently his gold locks bounced across his face. Scarlett eyes squinted in distaste as he poked out his tongue.

"yuck yuck yuck!"

The great angel groaned, throwing his hands up in defeat as the wolves turned back to him, stamping paws and swishing tails as they prowled forward, adamant of setting a protective barrier.

"what's the matter bird? Can't handle a little resistance?"

Sanguinius rolled his eyes as he turned, meeting the merry gaze of his brother as he strolled towards them, branches cracking like wet twigs as he swung his way through the undergrowth.

"Russ, this is entirely your fault, I expect you to rectify it" he hissed, running a hand through his own sunlight hair and wincing as his son threw more leaf litter into his own locks.

The wolf king laughed in response, a deep thrum bouncing through the trees as his large canines flashed in the dimming light.

"he's part of the pack now brother! Who am I to dissuade him from his important business" lemans grinned widened as his nephew found a wet patch of moss and began tearing it into confetti, green mulch splattering across his plush face.

"I swear to terra dog, if you don't sort this now"

The fenrisian waved the threat off, snorting as his normally composed sibling began to unravel at the mess the toddler was making.

"fine fine, I'll get him. But I'm not helping you get him into the bath"

He strode forward, snarling at his 4 legged companions as he did so, his own teeth bared in challenge to their own as he reached into the mulch to retrieve the giggle ball of undergrowth. The wolves reluctantly returned to their haunches, muscles vibrating as they carefully watched their prize lifting into the air under the care of toned arms instinct screaming to obey their alpha, but to protect the young one.

"fenkgerifenkigeri" Zad burbled, waving at his companions as he rose over their heads, laughing as their coarse tongues rasped wet kisses along his bare feet.

"there, easy as" grinned the warrior, cocking a rough grin across his face as he waved the kid in the air, much to Zad's delight and sanguinius' horror. "The little drengr was in serious talks with my brothers, I hope you know what you're doing"

He paced back to the enraged primark, pointedly ignoring his hissed breaths as he bounced the small cherub in his arms.

" little Stormurstjórn, we will be here when you return" he nodded, finally returning Zadkiel to the safety of his father's arms.

Before he could comment how "you were mad if you thought I'm leaving him with you again" Sanguinius' eyes widened in shock at the sudden tenderness in the spacewolf's voice.

Russ leant over, his normally icy glare replaced with a soft eyes and a gentle smile.

"we will always be right here"

[hogwartslegacyreactions2]

Can I have a reaction to Hogwarts Legacy students and professors to a female hufflepuff MC who owns a chinchilla

They have the softest fur on the planet

Only eat hay and special pellets ( no fruit or veggies in their diet) they can have certain dried herds and flowers though

Sorry about all the chin facts I own one

My little girl is all white with dark grey ears and some grey on her face and base of her tail with the pinkest noise

Please and thank you

A/N: I've had the honor of petting one once, they are the softest creature in the world ❤️ Thank you for the reference photo ❤️❤️

HLC REACT TO F!MC HAVING A CHINCHILLA

SEBASTIAN SALLOW: "What in Merlin's name- no, forget Merlin, what in the world is that??" He squints and looks real close at it. Gets right up in the floofy rodent's face. So close that the chinchilla sniffs his nose back. He huffs and gives a little smirk. "Adorable...just like its owner." He throws a cheeky wink at MC.

OMINIS GAUNT: He trusts MC wouldn't put anything terrible in his hand when he was asked to hold it out. He feels the light weight of a small soft creature on his palm. He brings his free hand up to lightly pet it and he smiles. "It's quite soft, MC. Is this another one of your beasts?" He doesn't give the chinchilla back for quite some time, they even take a nap together.

ANNE SALLOW: "I've never seen anything like it!" She gazes in amazement and holds out a treat MC gave her to give to it. She's very curious about the chinchilla; where it came from, how long has MC had it, etc. She hopes MC brings it with her every time she visits.

IMELDA REYES: "Is that a rat in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" MC's chinchilla was indeed hanging out in her pocket. She tells the same joke every time MC is around in the hope she'll get to see the baby. She doesn't lose her mind over its cuteness but she wants to pet it every time it's around.

NATSAI ONAI: She sneaks extra snacks for the chinchilla all the time. She also lets it sleep in her robe if MC is busy. She loves pet sitting. She's also fascinated by the chinchillas tiny hands, they can grab things??? Like a people??? Weird.

GARRETH WEASLEY: He's never seen fur like what the chinchilla has. He's very curious if it has any unique properties. Don't worry, he wouldn't dare take a pair of scissors to such a precious creature, but when MC is cleaning its cage, will she spare a few furballs?

LEANDER PREWETT: He struggles to maintain his composer when MC is carrying around the little fluff ball all curled up in her arm. It's. Too. Cute. It's unfair how cute it is! When MC lets him hold it for the first time, he cries. He's not allergic, his eyes are sweating. Stop pointing it out.

AMIT THAKKAR: His only hang up with the chinchilla is that it chews on everything. All of his books have teeth marks on them from the chinchilla sneaking a nibble when no one was looking. Nevermind his quills, parchment, shoes, and even his wand. Is nothing sacred?? He's gained the habit of watching it like a hawk when MC brings it around.

EVERETT CLOPTON: "Hehehehe, Levioso." Whoosh the chinchilla is in the air and very confused. Any retaliation from MC is worth it. It's funny watching the little chinchilla get so confused by suddenly leaving the ground.

POPPY SWEETING: She has to cover her mouth to muffle the squee that escapes her as to not draw attention, but she is losing her mind. The chinchilla is the absolute cutest thing she has ever seen and that is saying a lot. She steals the chinchilly away every chance she gets, straight up runs off. Her chinchilla now, bish.

~~~

ELEAZAR FIG: He doesn't mind pet sitting when MC is out and about for extended periods of time. He and the chinchilla get along quite well. However, when he himself gets buried in work sometimes he loses track and has to go digging through his office to find where the chinchilla scampered off to.

MATILDA WEASLEY: "As long as you follow the pet guidelines set by the school, your unique pet is welcome. That said, this is quite the curious creature. How did you acquire this?" She studies the chinchilla and gets it a little pat.

CHIYO KOGAWA: "Cute." Is all she says about it. She's not a big pet person. Nothing personal.

AESOP SHARP: His initial reaction is just a dismissive "hmm" when MC shows it off, but later on, if the chinchilla escapes, it finds its way to the dungeons and into his classroom where it sits in his lap and he mindlessly strokes its soft fur. It's very therapeutic. Would want to pet again.

ABRAHAM RONEN: "A chinchilla! Holy guacamole those are rare in these parts. Where did you get it?" He examines the chinchilla closely and rubs its ear.

MIRABEL GARLICK: "Oh my, aren't you just the most darling thing I've seen!" She excitably comes over the chinchilla and bounces in place when she gets to pet it. "Oh! It's so impossibly soft!" She orders seeds of plants native to Western South America and grows a few just for MC's pet.

MUDIWA ONAI: "Well, this is one unique creature. I see you two have a very special bond." She delights seeing the chinchilla.

BAI HOWIN: She reminds MC to keep plenty of fine dust available for their pet to roll in. "Scotland gets a lot of precipitation and moisture isn't good for their coats. Keep them dry and healthy." She hands the little chinchilla a pellet.

DINAH HECAT: She smiles as she pets it. "I had a chinchilla when I was little. Stole it from a merchant who wasn't too good at taking care of his merchandise. Nursed him back to health. Had him for twelve long years. Good years..." She tears up a little, but makes no fuss of it.

CUTHBERT BINNS: He doesn't really notice. Thinks the chinchilla is an extra small puffskien or something.

SATYAVATI SHAH: "No thank you, I do not wish to pet your chinchilla. Please finish your star charts." Doesn't even look up from her work.

PHINEAS NIGELLUS BLACK: "Ew, take your fat squirrel and get out of my way. I have important business to attend." He walks away with his nose in the air.

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

Your bird adeptus reader posts have me gnawing at the bars of my enclosure theyre so good

Okay okey I see your Bird Adeptus Reader and I raise you one Dragon Adeptus Reader, bonus points for that “not quite mastered shapeshifting yet” human disguise that has reader running around with dragon features.

This doesnt have to be considered a request but I feel compelled to share my thoughts with you in gratitude for the absolutely fantastic works you put out okey brainrot time lets go

Bumping foreheads with Foul Legacy like cats (lets be real here dragons are just lizard hardware running cat software) and having to be extra careful because of y’all’s horns so that makes it even more special. Or reader kneeling to like meditate or something, their tail is swishing behind them, and Legacy goes “!” before swatting at reader’s tail because he’s just Abyssal Moth Beast hardware running cat software.

A Dragon Adeptus would likely be very durable as well, so Legacy doesn’t have to worry about squeezing reader while cuddling or knocking into them by accident; they’re still soft and squishy and cute, but very very sturdy and able to handle all that Moth Affection.

Mutual purring, also another good thought. Legacy likes shiny objects, reader is compelled to hoard shiny objects: you really cannot lose in this situation.

It’s cat-like creatures solidarity babey!!

*unlocks your enclosure* i like the way you think anon

amongst dragons and dragon-type creatures you're considered a bit of an oddity. dragons are grand, powerful beasts that command attention or at least respect, like your secondary caretaker Zhongli (Cloud Retainer is still your adoptive mother- just because you're not the same type of adeptus doesn't mean you're not her child!) but you're smaller with softer scales and a long tail with a tuft on the end of it, still plenty durable and armed with sharp claws and adeptal powers, but you don't really have the same intimidating presence as most dragons. that's just fine with you, though- you're far more content keeping to yourself and spending time with Foul Legacy, who, in contrast, looks strong and vicious but has the softest, sweetest personality you've ever encountered, and that includes the few humans you've met and your fellow adepti

you both share several of the same habits, being essentially cats covered in either scales or armor with you being slightly more put together so you can listen to people's wishes and prayers, meditating for a couple of hours each day. whenever you sit down and close your eyes Foul Legacy always sneaks up behind you, not to spook you or anything, just to playfully bat at your tail as you work- you've taken to handing him a brush whenever he does, feeling him happily comb through the tuft of fur on the end. once he tied a little bell around it and broke into chitters of delight when you stood and instantly started jingling. you got your revenge by adoring his horns with some of the ribbons and ornaments you have for yourself- although, he seems to rather like it, so now you take a few minutes each day to pick out accessories for each other's horns, and you have plenty of shiny items to choose from

napping together is essential, particularly in sunny patches of grass. the warmth makes both of you drowsy and lethargic, Legacy nuzzling his head against your cheek and your tail wrapping around his leg. if you're particularly tired you'll change into your draconic form and completely curl around your very happy Abyssal beast, your purrs synchronizing with his. you also nap together in the most smushed clingy positions, since you want to be as close as possible- someone's face is always buried in someone's neck or chest, at all times. Legacy does make a point to be more alert in sleep than you are- you seem to fall into the deepest sleep whenever you doze, maybe it's something to do with you being a reptilian adeptus- just in case someone comes walking by, so he can wake you and help you cover your horns and tail

[peppermintquartz]

Beauty & the Beast AU, where Tommy really is a beast, and things get a little steamy between them. But Tommy is not proud of what he currently is.

idea from here

---

It's the touch of Evan's hands over his muzzle that undoes Tommy. Fearless, gentle. Evan's fingers drop to Tommy's mouth and slide in to feel sharp, deadly teeth.

Tommy's mouth drops opens slightly, terrified yet aroused, as Evan touches every single fang. They both know that Tommy can snap his jaw shut and take Evan's fingers with ease. But Evan doesn't even tremble. His long fingers touch the tip of Tommy's tongue, and almost involuntarily Tommy opens his mouth wider, lets his tongue loll out. Just like the beast he is.

Except Evan only strokes the length of it, his own breathing growing heavier. The blended scents of their arousal becomes more intense, mingling with the woody ashy smell of the fire. Tommy knows he is drooling, and the way Evan is caressing his tongue is not helping, and he doesn't even dare to imagine what a horribly bestial image he is presenting. A real monster.

Evan soon takes his hand away, and Tommy can close his mouth now, try to swallow, try to regain some dignity. His heart is pounding so hard in his chest, he wonders why Evan isn't commenting on it. This is the first time since he was cursed that anyone has gotten this close.

Then he feels Evan's hand stroking down his furred torso, reaching down to the heated length between Tommy's legs.

Tommy whimpers. "Evan, stop."

Evan stops. He buries his fingers into the soft, dense fur of Tommy's belly and starts giving Tommy the scratches he adores, the belly scratches that calm him down. "Sorry. Was I going too fast for you?"

"You shouldn't..." Tommy gulps, and finally he opens his eyes, the first time since Evan kissed him that night. Evan is aglow, his clothes discarded in a pile by their feet, the firelight burnishing him in copper and gold. Tommy wants to weep at the beautiful man in his arms. He does not deserve him. "Evan, you shouldn't have to touch me when... when I'm just... just this. You don't have to... to desecrate yourself."

Evan exhales slowly and brushes back the thick mane on Tommy's head and over his shoulders. Then he reaches up to grab one of the heavy, coiled horns and tugs, making sure that Tommy is looking directly at him. Evan's blue eyes are blown dark, wells of deep night.

"Lord Thomas Kinard," says Evan calmly, "this is not desecration. This is me, deciding to be yours. I don't care that you're not human. i got myself here knowing that. I care about making both of us feel good, together." He skates his free hand over Tommy's face again, his fingers digging into the thick mane. "When you told me to stop, is it because you didn't want me to touch you, or because you think I should not touch you?"

Tommy trembles and doesn't speak. Evan tightens his grip on Tommy's mane, pulls himself closer. "Tell me the truth, please. Do you like me touching you?"

"...yes."

"Do you want me to touch you more intimately? Not - not whether it is right to do so or not. But do you want it?"

Swallowing his shame, Tommy mumbles, "...yes."

Buck sighs and nuzzles as closely as he can, releasing Tommy's horn and the mane. "Then I will continue. And after that, if you feel that it's been just me mauling you, you can lick me all over. Taste every inch of my skin."

The blood in Tommy's veins rush to his thick erection, the one he has tried his best to ignore whenever it wanted his attention the past few years. But Evan only makes a sound of appreciation when he feels it between their bodies.

"I think you like that idea," Evan coos. He skims his hands down. "Alright then. Let me help you feel good, and then you can make me feel good. I know you can make me feel so, so good."

And as Evan touches him, Tommy thinks that there's a different kind of magic, and finally, finally allows himself to be loved.

[thecreaturecodex]

Dream Lord, Manus

"Artorias vs Manus" © twitter user Max58Art, accessed at The Art of Video Games here

[Sponsored by Soluman Blevins. Manus is the Bonus Boss of Dark Souls, whose lore is deeply woven into the game but can only be fought in an expansion. In universe, his title is Father of the Abyss, but the Abyss in Dark Souls and the Abyss in D&D/Pathfinder are two very different things. So I struggled for a while of where to put him. As a nascent demon lord? As a Great Old One? I finally decided on Dream Lord, a category of my own invention, which at this point is made up of demigods from video games whose lore and magic systems do not intersect nicely with any form of Pathfinder canon. The Plateau of Leng seems like a reasonable place for the litany of nightmares From Software creates.]

Dream Lord, Manus CR 25 CE Outsider (extraplanar) This creature is vaguely humanoid, but its form has clearly been warped and distorted past the point of caricature. His head is small, with a leering demonic face and a set of antlers. His shoulders are enormous, and multiple sets of rib-like appendages grow from his shoulders and along his upper back, studded with luminous red eyes. His right arm is proportional and carries a staff with a scythe-like blade. His left arm is as thick as his torso, ending in a massive hairy paw with spikes on the underside of the fingers. Shaggy fur, or perhaps simply ribbons of gray-black skin, coat his thighs and a long, lashing tail.

Father of the Chasm, God of Primal Darkness, the Dark Soul CE male Dream Lord of loss, negative energy and obsession Domains Chaos, Darkness, Evil, Madness Subdomains Entropy, Insanity, Loss, Shadow Worshipers denizens of Leng, hoarders, stalkers, vampires Minions mutants, nightshades, shadows, sorrowsworn Unholy Symbol An oversized hand Favored Weapon ogre hook Obedience in complete darkness, spend one hour cutting, whipping or otherwise tearing your skin while meditating on an object or a person you once had in your life but have lost. Gain a +4 profane bonus on saving throws versus positive or negative energy. Once this choice is made, it cannot be reversed Boons 1: darkness 2/day; 2: enervation 2/day; 3: harm 2/day

Manus is a nightmarish beast of darkness, an infection that seeks to cause the horrors of Leng to overrun the Waking World. He was also once a man. The original Manus was a powerful magic user, according to his cult the first mortal to manipulate negative energy. Although his methods were cruel and his goals covetous, he was considered a great hero by his people and was buried with high honors. When his grave was robbed, however, his pendant was stolen from it. The pendant was broken, and whatever magic it contained had long seeped out of it, but Manus’ obsessive desire to reclaim his property caused his soul and memory to go wild, transforming into a creature of pure nightmare. Manus’ mausoleum is now the heart of the Chasm of the Abyss, a demiplane coterminous between Leng and the Material Plane, and it is here where the Father of the Chasm resides.

Manus wants things. His broken pendant most of all. His cultists sweep the planes searching for this relic, and whatever they find instead, they offer as tribute. Manus’ lair contains piles and piles of valuables, the riches of a dozen realities and a thousand kingdoms, and he cares for none of it except his amulet. Of course, it is the nature of his madness that if Manus ever retrieved his broken pendant, he would certainly find a new indignity to focus on and object or person to obsess over. He also collects hostages, although he rarely exchanges them and more often warps them into mutants or madmen through his very presence. Manus’ worshipers are as obsessive as he is, and his faith is attractive to stalkers, hoarders, social climbers and other people with warped and envious desires.

Combat is one of the few things that allows Manus to forget his pain and obsessions, and tends to attack first and ask questions of the corpses of his victims later. Although he is a powerful spellcaster, he usually leads with his physical attacks. He uses his channel negative energy ability to empower the Manus Catalyst, his signature hooked staff. Against multiple opponents, he tries to spread his attacks out, enjoying the suffering he causes before finishing them off with a mighty swat of his grotesquely hypertrophied hand. He usually doesn’t use his signature supernatural attack, in which he fires globes of cold and negative energy at his enemies, until reduced to below half hit points. Manus has not needed to flee a combat for thousands of years, and his arrogance and obsession is likely to lead him to fight to the death.

Manus Catalyst (minor artifact) Slot none; Aura strong necromancy; CL 21st; Weight 20 lbs. The Manus Catalyst is Manus’ signature weapon. It is a Large +1 unholy brilliant energy ogre hook that acts as a void scythe for the purposes of channeling negative energy and consuming the bodies of those it kills. The wielder can activate its brilliant energy property or dismiss it on command. A creature that holds the Manus Catalyst gains a +2 to the save DC of all spells and spell-like abilities that it uses of the necromancy school.

Manus CR 25 XP 1,640,000 CE Huge outsider (chaos, evil, extraplanar) Init +10; Senses blindsense 120 ft., darkvision 60 ft., Perception +42, see in darkness Aura lost humanity (240 ft.)

Defense AC 43, touch 23, flat-footed 37(-2 size, +6 Dex, +9 deflection, +20 natural) hp 585 (30d10+420); regeneration 20 (lawful) Fort +24, Ref +23, Will +26 DR 20/lawful and epic; Immune bleed, charm, compulsion, cold, death effects, disease, poison, sleep; Resist electricity 20; SR 36 Defensive Abilities fortification (50%), freedom of movement, negative energy affinity, shield of dreams

Offense Speed 50 ft. Melee Manus Catalyst +45/+40/+35/+30 (2d8+19/19-20 x3 plus 2d6 unholy), slam +46 (4d8+36), gore +41 (2d8+9), tail slap +41 (1d12+9) or slam +46 (4d8+36), gore +46 (2d8+18), tail slap +41 (1d12+9) Space 15 ft.; Reach 15 ft. Special Attacks awesome strike, channel negative energy (10d6, DC 34, 14/day), dark orb barrage, frenzy (30 rounds/day), oversized arm, profane channeling Spell-like Abilities CL 25th, concentration +34 Constant—freedom of movement, tongues At will—arcane sight, call spirit (DC 24), confusion (DC 23), deeper darkness, enervation, inflict critical wounds (DC 25), psychic reading, unhallow 3/day—blasphemy (DC 26), finger of death (DC 28), greater dispel magic, quickened harm (DC 27), hungry darkness, insanity (DC 26) 1/day—curse of night, divide mind, energy drain (DC 30), gate (to Plateau of Leng, Chasm of the Abyss or Material Plane only), summon (1 advanced nightcrawler, 100%, 9th level), wail of the banshee (DC 30)

Statistics Str 46, Dex 23, Con 39, Int 24, Wis 29, Cha 28 Base Atk +30; CMB +52 (+54 bull rush, overrun); CMD 77 (79 vs. bull rush, overrun) Feats Awesome Blow, Blind Fight, Charge Through, Combat Reflexes, Extra Channel, Greater Vital Strike, Improved Bull Rush, Improved Critical (ogre hook), Improved Initiative, Improved Overrun, Improved Vital Strike, Lucid Dreamer (B), Power Attack, Quicken SLA (harm), Stand Still, Vital Strike Skills Appraise +40, Climb +48, Intimidate +39, Knowledge (arcana, planes, religion) +40, Knowledge (dungeoneering, history) +37, Perception +50, Sense Motive +42, Spellcraft +40, Stealth +39, Survival +39; Racial Modifiers +8 Perception,+8 Stealth Languages Aklo, Common, Necril, Shadowtongue, tongues

Ecology Environment underground (Chasm of the Abyss) Organization unique Treasure triple standard

Special Abilities Aura of Lost Humanity (Su) Any humanoid that spends 24 hours within 240 feet of Manus must make a Fortitude save or gain the mutant template. The save DC starts at 10, then increases by +2 every day until it reaches its maximum DC, 34. If a creature is transformed in this fashion, it must make a Will save at the same DC or become chaotic evil in alignment. The save DC is Charisma based. Awesome Strike (Ex) When Manus uses makes a single attack using his Vital Strike chain of feats, he may make a combat maneuver as if using Awesome Blow if it hits with this attack. Channel Energy (Su) Manus can channel negative energy as if he were a 20th level cleric. He does not gain other cleric class abilities, such as spells or domains. Dark Orb Barrage (Su) As a standard action, Manus can fire a barrage of orbs of destructive darkness. Manus makes a single ranged touch attack against all creatures in a 60 foot cone. A creature struck takes 25d6 points of damage, half of which is cold and half is negative energy. A creature struck by a dark orb must succeed a DC 34 Fortitude save or be blinded for 1d4+1 rounds. This save DC is Charisma based. Manus can use this ability at will, but must wait 1d4 rounds between uses. Dream Lord Traits (Ex/Su) Manus is a dream lord, a powerful outsider native to the Dimension of Dreams. Dream lords gain the following abilities:

Immune to charm, compulsion, disease, poison and sleep effects

Immune to one energy type and resistance to another two energy types. Instead of being one of his resistances, Manus is immune to bleed and death effects.

A dream lord’s natural weapons, and any weapon it wields, count as chaotic and magical for the purpose of overcoming damage reduction

Occult (Ex) A dream lord gains Lucid Dreamer as a bonus feat, and can use  occult skill unlocks even if it lacks other psychic magic

Shield of Dreams (Su) A dream lord adds its Charisma modifier as a deflection bonus to its AC and CMD

Summon (Sp) Once per day, a dream lord can summon a CR 19 or lower encounter of thematically appropriate monsters.

Dream lords can grant spells to worshipers as detailed in their divine information. A worshiper can gain boons from performing an obedience to a dream lord, as per the Deific Obedience feat, but the boons granted are simple, appearing as a 2nd, 4th and 6th level spell usable as a spell-like ability twice per day.

Frenzy (Su) Manus can act as if under a haste spell for a number of rounds a day equal to his Hit Dice. Activating or ending this ability is a free action. Oversized Arm (Ex) Manus’ left arm always makes slam attacks as a primary natural weapon, even when Manus is wielding manufactured weapons. He deals twice his Strength modifier to damage with his slam attack. Manus’ slam deals bludgeoning and piercing damage. Profane Channeling (Su) Whenever Manus uses his channel negative energy, he can choose to do so as a swift action, to maximize the damage dealt (or healed), or double the area of the effect. Manus can choose only one of these enhancements at a time.

[mitskicodedwukong]

🔪 BLACK BLOOD 🔪 || Macaque & MK

» ptolemaea (ethel cain) « 1:17 ─〇───── 6:23

╔⏤⏤⏤⏤╝🍑╚⏤⏤⏤⏤╗ AUTHOR'S NOTE ╚⏤⏤⏤⏤╗🍑╔⏤⏤⏤╝ ➤ This is reposted from my old account, @nothyenlowz :3 ➤ Writing blurp featuring Qi Xiaotian and Six-Eared Macaque. ➤ Probably a oneshot, might be related to a future AU. ➤ I just wanted to write something scary/creepy ngl. Macaque and MK do not have a good relationship in this rip. Also based on season 1, episode 9, Macaque. ➤ TRIGGER WARNINGS include profanity, creepy vibes, graphic descriptions of violence & gore, blood, implied possession, and major (temporary) character death. ➤ Word count: 1,113

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

❝ i was there in the dark when you spilled your first blood. i am here now, as you run from me still .❞

He did it.

Qí Xiǎotiān has defeated the Six-Eared Macaque.

Jīngū bàng lies a few feet away, the bright gold bands stained black with thick, thick blood. Pieces of flesh and skull are speckled against the staff and the surrounding stone, and Xiǎotiān is sure there's a surplus of black fur stuck to it, too. His hands face the same fate, perhaps worse. Jīngū bàng is cold and unfeeling, while Xiǎotiān feels much, too much. The gore on his body is warm, almost scorching. It feels like it's wiggling, like it's trying to slither back to the cold corpse splayed out beneath him.

He clenches his hands and shivers at the squelching feeling.

When Xiǎotiān had struck the shadow beast, it'd vanished, leaving the demon monkey in its place. He'd clutched his heart, on his knees and trembling, looking up at Xiǎotiān with wide eyes. He guesses Macaque hadn't expected him to break his illusion so easily.

Poor bastard. He shouldn't have underestimated the Monkey Kid.

His body is a mess. Xiǎotiān had hit him only once more, a careless swing towards his upper body. He's not entirely sure what he wanted from the strike—if he wanted the demon to die, to fight him, or to vanish through his own shadow—but it seemed fate had chosen for him. The staff caught Macaque below the jaw and forced him to the ground, shattering his skull and breaking some bones from the force. The following gush of blood and brains spraying across the stone and across Xiǎotiān's body immediate.

Macaque hadn't even exhaled before he was dead.

Now the demon's head is practically gone, an unidentifiable slurry of blood and bone and fur and brain. His magic has flickered out, letting his illusions—glamours, he thinks they're called—fall, revealing his namesake: six large ears, three on each side, colored in hues of pink, blue, and purple. Their glow illuminates the mess of his face at first, but then they fade like dying lanterns, finally going dark and flopping over each other.

Qí Xiǎotiān has killed the Six-Eared Macaque.

Xiǎotiān wonders what he should do. Should he leave Macaque here to rot, or bury him? Perhaps the carrion birds and the bugs would feed on his flesh until he was naught but sun-bleached bones atop the mountain—but maybe they wouldn't. Maybe they would sense the tangible taste of evil and they would avoid Macaque's body like the plague, leaving this moment frozen in time.

Xiǎotiān is tired. It's been a long few weeks training with Macaque, and his body is bruised and fatigued, covered in cuts and running on fumes. And the smell, that awful miasma of fermenting fruits and decaying blood, is beginning to get to him, wrapping around his guts like snakes and squeezing until he feels faint. He looks up at the sky, at the bright stars twinkling in the twilight.

Everyone will be worried if he's not home soon. Pigsy will chide him until he goes to bed, and then he'll chew through Sūn Wùkōng, and then, when they discover Xiǎotiān was not with the great sage, he'll be in even more trouble.

Best to cut his losses while he still can. Hiding the blood will be a feat in itself.

Xiǎotiān shuffles away from the body, towards Jīngū bàng. His arms tremble slightly from the weight, but he pays it no mind. His power is steadily rebuilding itself and he'll no doubt be back to full strength after some rest. The blood on his hands coats the red of the staff, and he prays it won't stain.

He finds himself hoping the same for his mind.

Xiǎotiān waits for a moment. He considers just blasting off, and he considers turning to face what's left of Macaque for the last time. Whether he'll say goodbye, condemn him to Hell, or hope he's reborn into something kinder, he doesn't know—he's not sure he'll say anything, really. But something in him has to look one more time.

So he does.

And the Six-Eared Macaque is gone.

Poor boy, whispers the world. You shouldn't have underestimated Liù ěr Míhóu.

Xiǎotiān trembles, holding the staff close to him, hopelessly staring down the last of the orange sky as night falls. He's afraid of many things, but the dark was not one of them.

Now, though, he thinks he'll have to reconsider.

There's a chilling feeling creeping up his spine. It feels like there are a thousand eyes watching him, boring into his spirit, and it only gets worse. There's whispers in the wind, dozens of voices speaking at once, condemning him, warning him, begging him. Run, boy, they say. Run while you still can and don't stop. Never stop. Even if your feet bleed; if your lungs shrivel up; if your body begs for mercy. He will grant you no such thing. They're tearing him apart, forcing themselves into his soul through his ears, the cuts in his skin, the tears dripping from his eyes.

"Stop," he sobs, clamping his hands over his ears. "Stop."

The voices shriek.

Stupid boy!

Pathetic.

Lost, he is lost.

Another lamb to the lion's den.

Get up.

Run!

And then they are gone, suddenly, as if they were never there.

Xiǎotiān feels... light. Like the atmosphere has gotten so much brighter, even though the world gets darker, blanketed by night's thick sky. He hears nothing but the wind and the rustling of trees. Jīngū bàng lies beside him, rolling against his foot.

Qí Xiǎotiān is fine.

With a shaking breath, he retrieves the staff again and wastes not even a second longer on leaving this damned mountain, hoping to abandon Macaque there, too.

Wherever he may be.

He manages to get into his apartment through his window and into the shower before Pigsy can catch him. He allows the steam to envelope him, the water hitting his back in a steady stream. Black, black fur and thick, thick blood swirls down the drain until no trace of the Six-Eared Macaque remains.

When he steps out of the shower and wraps himself in a towel, he braces himself against the sink and leans forward, swaying in exhaustion. His eyes slip shut.

Drip-drip-dip.

He opens his eyes.

Blood drips into the sink.

Quickly, Xiǎotiān brushes fog from the mirror and peers close to his face. A thin cut trails through his eyebrow to the bottom of his eyelid, then continues underneath his eye and down his cheek.

He traces the cut with a finger.

The blood is black, and it smells like something chemically sweet.

He hums quietly at the sight, and then he grins.

"Should of kept some peach-wood on you, kiddo."

❝ run then, child .❞

❝ ＹＯＵ　ＣＡＮ＇Ｔ　ＲＵＮ　ＦＲＯＭ　ＭＥ　ＦＯＲＥＶＥＲ .❞

[dross-the-fish]

The Creature stood, towering over him at a greater height than any man, living or undead, Watson had previously encountered. He was a fearsome looking brute, hulking and draped in furs with a tangled curtain of ink-black hair obscuring his face. The great head perched on top of his broad shoulders was angled in a watchful tilt, like a bird of prey glowering down at a mouse. It did not help that his yellow eyes were unblinking and so piercing they seemed almost to glow. A gap in his ratty furs exposed a translucent patch of skin on the Creature’s chest that showed the occasional twitch of his red-brown muscles and pulsing veins beneath, the only visible proof of life from a body that was otherwise inhumanly still. The monstrosity spoke: “Why do you entice me to abandon my solitude? If you have come to hunt me trickery is ill-advised. I’ll wager I am more cunning than you have anticipated and ten-fold as strong. Begone or I will bury you among those other enemies that have tried their hand at my destruction and failed!” His voice boomed across the quiet tundra like thunder and Watson, though not a cowardly man by any means, could not help himself but to take a retreating step back from the force of it. Seeing the older man falter Quincey tensed and raised his rifle but before he could take aim Watson caught his eye and shook his head, gesturing for him to hold his fire. He squared his shoulders and moved closer to the Frankenstein monster.

“We don’t mean any harm!” He held up his hands to the creature in a pacifying gesture, “We were hoping that you could help us,” he came to a halt only a few paces away. Close enough to the Creature that the party could not safely shoot without the risk of hitting Watson in the crossfire. The gesture was not lost on the monster and his black lips lifted in a bemused and half-mad smile, “What is this tactic then? Be wary! If you come closer you will be within arm’s reach and your fellows shan’t save you if I wish to set my hand upon your throat.” Rather than frighten him the creature’s warnings emboldened Watson to step closer. He came to rest a foot away and gazed cooly into the being’s eyes, “I suspect, that if you truly wanted to kill me you would have already tried to do so. You’ve been watching us for days, you could have picked us off any time you wanted but you didn’t. You must have realized from the start that we were following you but you haven’t tried to confront us until now,” he may not have had Holmes’s powers of deduction but Watson had learned how to observe the mannerisms people over the years and, undead or not, the pattern of the Creature’s behavior was not that of a beast or monster. It was the cautious and measured reaction of a man. Watson had seen it many times over the years, in criminals who were fearful of the punishment of the law yet weary of hiding. He recognized well the ravages of isolation and guilt on the Creature’s face and he was wagering that if he could just show the Creature that there was no threat, the party could gain their ally. The monster hesitated; his face contorted, on the cusp of violence or tears, Watson was uncertain which, but caution had already been discarded and he was unwilling to waste his opening, “I think, and if I am mistaken, we will leave you in peace, but perhaps you're tired of living in exile here in this frozen wasteland. Would you at least be willing to sit and hear out our proposal?” he asked, “Surely you cannot decline a polite invitation to a warm fire and a cup of hot tea!”

The Creature threw back his terrible head and let out a harsh, barking, laugh that rattled in hideous peals from his sewn throat, “Shall we be civil then? Do you invite me to break bread with you at your merry campfire and you’ll speak to me as though I am human? As though I am not a damned and miserable wretch? I know you have my maker’s journal and no doubt you want me to decipher the secrets within. Let me dash your hopes. If you wish to replicate the process of my animation it is lost. Victor burnt those pages to ash and his secrets died with him,” at the name of his creator the laughter cut off with an anguished sob, matted locks of hair clinging to cheeks wet with more than melted snow, “Do not offer me comforts, there is no greater cruelty you can do me now than to instill in me false hopes and give empty kindness. Leave this barren rock and leave me to my purgatory where I can no longer harm mankind, nor it harm me.” As the monster began to turn away Watson reached forward and laid a firm hand on his arm, “I will not!” he insisted, “Even if you cannot help us, I see no reason you should stay here. You may not be doing any harm but you’re not atoning either. You’ve been here for 100 years and you’ve done nothing with that time except haunt this blasted rock like a ghost and scare away ships! I insist that you sit with us, hear us out, and if you still feel like you want to spend the rest of your days rotting away here at the north pole then so be it. We won’t force you to come with us!” The Creature growled in warning but Watson was resolute and he pushed on “I want you to think on it, you may not be doing evil here but what good are you bringing into the world?”

the Creature froze, shocked at his boldness, “Do you believe it? After reading the journal, do you believe goodness is still in my capacity?” his voice had taken a desperate edge and Watson knew his instincts had been correct. “Yes,” he said insistently, holding the Creature’s gaze, “I have seen the most unrepentant monsters pull themselves from the brink and lead good, honest lives. I’ve seen men do the right thing even as the world was against them and we’re offering you a chance to do the same. You likely won’t get another, so I’ll ask you again,” he tightened his grip on the creature’s arm, “Will you sit and hear us out?”

[rashoumon-homo]

“In my defense, I was left unsupervised.” - SKK Valentine’s Week Day 6

Prompts used: Cuddling | Memories | “In my defence, I was left unsupervised.”

-> TW for (animal) vomit

As he did most mornings, Chuuya woke up to an uncomfortable weight on his chest and the sound of purring. Without even opening his eyes, he knew the familiar weight was that of Fishstick, his cat, standing directly on top of him. Fishstick sniffed Chuuya’s face intently while continuing to purr, tickling him with his whiskers. Chuuya squirmed away and finally squinted up at the cat. A pair of intense yellow eyes stared into his; boldly contrasted from his pitch black fur.

No matter how tempting it was to just push the cat off of him and go back to sleep, Chuuya knew the inevitable consequences of that all too well. Fishstick wasn’t a very vocal cat, so when he wanted to be heard, he’d rely on the voice of his adopted brother, Cheese Beast. What Cheese Beast lacked in brain cells, he made up for in enthusiasm. He was the epitome of “orange cat” and unfortunately, he could scream pretty fucking loud.

“Dazai,” Chuuya grumbled, flopping his arm over to the other side of the bed to shake his boyfriend awake. “The gremlins want food.”

Dazai grunted and buried his face deeper into his pillow. Fishstick looked back and forth between them, surveying the situation, then hopped off the bed to go look for his brother. Chuuya was just drifting off again when he heard a piercing meow from the doorway. He cursed under his breath. Maybe Cheese Beast would let him sleep for once.

Nope. The orange cat parked himself by the edge of the bed and meowed continuously at an almost impressive volume for how small he was. Since he wasn’t getting the attention he wanted, he moved on to his next tactic: misbehaving. He batted a pen off the nightstand and pounced on it, attacking it with all four paws before zooming around the room. The meows began again, but this time sounding much more pitiful. Chuuya finally gave in and sat up, only to find Cheese Beast halfway up the curtains, hanging on with his claws.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Chuuya grumbled. He got up and untangled the cat from the fabric, setting him safely on the ground to scold him. “We don’t climb curtains,” he said sternly. “That was very bad. Bad cat.”

Cheese Beast eyed his pajama pants like he was considering climbing those instead.

Chuuya sighed and headed to the kitchen, the cats following eagerly behind him. He opened a can of wet food (removing Cheese Beast from the counter twice) and divided it into two separate dishes.

On his way over to the placemat, both cats weaved in and out of his legs as if trying to trip him. He activated his ability, hovering just out of reach so they wouldn’t get underfoot.

When he set the dishes down, the cats immediately dug in. Fishstick was a bit more careful with how he ate, making sure not to spill any. Although, anything would be considered careful compared to how Cheese Beast quite literally faceplanted into his food, getting it all over his face and the placemat.

Chuuya just shook his head and headed back into the kitchen. It was a weekend, and he was hoping to sleep a little longer, so he opted to pour himself a glass of orange juice instead of making coffee. He carefully carried it back to his room.

When he entered the bedroom, he saw Dazai fast asleep, Cheese Beast curled up in his arms. The cat still had wet food stuck to his nose and whiskers and even his forehead, but he too was sleeping happily. The image reminded Chuuya of the day Dazai had brought Cheese Beast home.

It was a busy time in the Port Mafia, so Chuuya often had to work long hours and occasionally got called into work unexpectedly. This was one of those days, and Chuuya felt especially bad about it since he and Dazai had planned to spend the day together. He’d bid Dazai a guilty farewell, promising to make it up to him.

When he arrived home nearly 12 hours later, he walked in on Dazai laying on the couch cuddling an orange kitten. He hadn’t spotted Chuuya yet, so Chuuya was able to watch for a minute as he gently stroked the kitten’s fur with a soft smile on his face.

“A kitten?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Dazai jumped, looking guilty. “In my defense, I was left unsupervised.”

“Where did you find it?”

“He was left in a box outside Lupin bar. He seemed so lonely and I was lonely too so I thought I’d bring him home, just for a little while at least,” Dazai explained. More quietly, he added, “He reminds me of you.”

Chuuya thought things over. They weren’t exactly in professions that made it easy to keep a pet, but cats are relatively low-maintenance. Plus, Chuuya had been feeling like their little family needed expanding. No way in hell was he going to want a child, so a pet was the next best thing. Ideally, it would have been a dog, but he knew that was off the table to begin with since Dazai didn’t like dogs. And the way he looked when he was playing with that cat… Chuuya would give anything to see him truly happy like that more often.

“What’s his name?” Chuuya finally asked.

Dazai lit up. “I’ve been calling him Cheese Beast.”

“Cheese Beast?”

“Yeah! He was really hungry but I wasn’t sure what to feed him so I tried giving him some shredded cheese. He loved it, ate a whole handful in seconds.”

“Dazai,” Chuuya groaned. “You can’t just feed cats cheese. Dairy isn’t good for them, it makes their stomach upset.”

Right on cue, Cheese Beast barfed up said dairy onto Dazai’s vest. Dazai wrinkled his nose and reached for the box of tissues. Chuuya popped his head in the kitchen to grab some paper towels.

“We should take him to the vet for a checkup too,” Chuuya said as he helped wipe down Dazai’s chest. “Just to make sure he doesn’t have any diseases or anything.”

Dazai nodded. “So it’s okay if we keep him?”

Chuuya drew his mouth into a line. “If you promise to put in the work to take care of him… fine.”

Chuuya’s thoughts were brought back to the present day as he saw Dazai softly smile in his sleep. He looked so cozy like that, with Cheese Beast asleep in his arms and the blanket pulled half over them.

He’d discovered pretty quickly in the first few weeks of caring for the cat that the “orange cat” stereotypes were more than true. In hopes a friend would calm him down, he and Dazai stopped by the shelter and picked up Fishstick. The shelter workers said he was a quiet, mellow cat, so they’d thought he’d be perfect. Instead they ended up giving Cheese Beast a partner in crime.

Fishstick rubbed against Chuuya’s leg.

“Done with your breakfast?” Chuuya murmured, reaching down to scratch between his ears. “C’mon, let’s go back to sleep.”

He climbed back into bed, Fishstick close behind him. They settled into bed next to Dazai and Cheese Beast and, all curled up together, drifted off to sleep.

@bsdfanweek

Read this work on AO3

Sorry for missing a couple prompt days! Life has been super hectic lately. I really wanted to write this one though so I wrote it mid migraine (somehow) and here it is just a couple hours late! This is gonna be the last work I do for this prompt week so I wanted to say thank you to the mods for setting this up. It was super fun!

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