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novaursa · 2 months ago

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Legacy (the last enemy)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (descriptions of blood, gore, violence and death)

- Previous part: the great war

- Next part: daybreak

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril @urdxrling

The walls trembled with the force of the onslaught.

Tywin stood firm, his golden armor dusted with soot, his crimson cloak billowing as he surveyed the carnage unfolding before him. The dead had come in numbers beyond reckoning, their skeletal fingers and frozen flesh clawing up the steep cliffs and battering the gates.

The ramparts were slick with blackened blood, as the men of the Westerlands fought tooth and nail, driving back wave after wave of the relentless undead. Arrows laced with dragonglass pierced the skulls of wights, sending them crumbling into the masses below. Boiling oil and flaming pitch rained down, setting the battlefield ablaze, yet still they came.

On the eastern wall, Kevan Lannister parried a strike, his sword cutting clean through the rotted flesh of a wight, sending its head tumbling to the ground. Behind him, one of the younger knights—Ser Andros Lefford—gasped out, “They don’t stop! Gods, they don’t—” before an icy blade pierced his throat, silencing him instantly.

Kevan whirled, his blade lashing out and taking the wight’s arm off at the elbow, but the creature did not falter. It lunged at him with unnatural speed, its hollow eyes fixed in hunger, until one of Thoros’ men brought an axe crashing down onto its skull, splitting it in two.

Kevan turned, panting, his breath misting in the frigid air. He locked eyes with his brother, standing atop the main gate, his gaze like steel.

“They’re wearing us down,” Kevan called up, his voice hoarse. "The men grow tired."

Tywin did not move, his expression unreadable as he watched another section of the wall collapse under the weight of the dead.

A horn sounded, deep and ominous.

One of the bannermen, Lord Crakehall, staggered toward him, his face pale beneath the grime and sweat. “My Lord… we can’t hold forever.”

Tywin finally turned to him, his voice as cold as the air that surrounded them. “Then we hold as long as we can.”

Crakehall swallowed, looking as if he wanted to argue, but there was no point. They had been fighting for hours, the sky above them a void of endless black, the air thick with the stench of death and burning flesh.

Below, Arraxes stirred from the mines, his blood-red eyes flashing in the darkness. The young dragon let out a guttural growl, the deep rumble shaking the ground, but he did not leave his lair. The battle raged around him, but he had yet to take flight.

Kevan turned his head, wiping sweat and grime from his brow. "Why didn't she return?"

Tywin did not answer.

The question had gnawed at him for hours. Where was she? His wife, his dragon-rider lady, the only woman to ever unravel the cold fortress of his heart. She had promised to return, to bring fire and death upon the enemy before they reached the gates.

But she was not here.

The walls shuddered as another siege ladder slammed into place, the undead swarming up like insects, their fingers clawing and scraping at the stones. The men on the ramparts hacked and slashed, their muscles burning, their blades growing dull from overuse.

A scream rang out as a wight ripped a man’s throat out with its bare hands, sending him toppling over the wall, his lifeblood spilling into the darkness.

Tywin clenched his jaw. This could not go on.

He turned abruptly to Thoros of Myr, whose sword still burned with divine fire, carving through wights like parchment. "Tell me, Red Priest," Tywin said, his voice dangerously low, "where is your Lord of Light now?"

Thoros paused only briefly, his expression unreadable as he swung his blade, sending another wight screaming into oblivion. “He watches, my Lord. The question is—what will we do before he acts?”

Tywin narrowed his gaze.

A decision needed to be made. A desperate one.

He turned to his commander. “Pull the men back from the eastern gate. Draw them inward.”

Kevan’s brow furrowed. “You mean to let them through?”

“I mean to burn them all.”

Crakehall exhaled sharply, but he did not argue.

The new plan was in motion.

From the mines below, the ground shook as Arraxes let out a low snarl, sensing what was to come.

Tywin’s eyes remained locked on the endless horde, as they crawled and surged toward him.

The iron gates groaned as they swung open, and the dead poured in like a flood, their hollow eyes fixed on the living flesh that awaited them.

Tywin stood motionless, his green eyes cold and sharp, watching the monstrous tide surge forward. The plan was in motion—the courtyard would become their pyre.

Yet, as the first wights crossed the stone threshold, something shifted.

A sudden stillness gripped the air, a heavy pause like the moment before a storm.

The wights that had rushed forward now froze mid-step, their heads twitching unnaturally, their jaws clicking, the ice inside them humming with something unknown, something ancient.

The soldiers on the battlements who had been ready to drop torches and fire hesitated, looking down with wide, confused eyes as their undead foes stood eerily still.

Then, the air itself changed.

A deep, guttural growl resonated through the stone walls, a sound that was older than men, older than the kingdom itself. It rolled through the courtyard like thunder, a vibrating tremor born of rage.

Tywin’s breath hitched as the shadows beneath the castle moved.

Then he saw them—two massive, blood-red eyes, glowing like molten embers, emerging from the darkness of the mines beneath Casterly Rock.

A monstrous black form slithered forward, slow and deliberate, the torchlight flickering against his onyx scales, his long, serpentine body shifting with the grace of a shadow given flesh.

Arraxes.

The young dragon, no longer a hatchling, no longer a beast confined to the earth, but a living, breathing instrument of war.

The wights turned toward him, their heads twitching, their limbs jerking in response to something unseen, something ancient. The magic that bound them quivered, as if some primordial force had just been awakened.

Then Arraxes roared.

A great explosion of sound, a maelstrom of fury, the sheer force of it shaking the very stones beneath them.

And the dead began to scream.

The battlements erupted with shouts as Tywin’s men bellowed their battle cry, calling to the beast below.

“Burn them! Burn them all!”

The courtyard ignited in chaos, as Arraxes lunged forward, his jaws unhinging, his throat glowing with a furious crimson fire.

The wights moved, some clawing toward him, others stumbling back, but it was too late—

A torrent of flame erupted from Arraxes’ maw, a wave of fire so intense that the very air warped and twisted, a golden-red inferno consuming the creatures whole.

The wights burned instantly, their screeches echoing across the walls, their bodies crumbling into charred, lifeless husks.

Tywin had seen fire before. He had commanded it, wielded it like a weapon in his long reign of war.

But this…

This was something else.

This was vengeance made flesh.

Then, another roar split the sky.

A sound Tywin knew.

His head snapped upward just as a massive cream shape came plummeting down from the heavens, the force of its arrival causing the air to tremble, the winds to shift.

A torrent of pale gold fire rained down, engulfing the northern side of the battlefield, sending entire waves of wights into oblivion.

And there you were.

High above the Rock, mounted upon the beast of war itself—Viserion.

Tywin's breath left him, his mind snapping to realization.

You had returned.

The battlements erupted in a chorus of relief and war cries, the soldiers shouting your name, their voices melding with the roar of battle.

And as the golden dragon leveled her wings, as Arraxes lifted his head to the sky, something stirred in the distance.

A new sound.

A new force.

Tywin turned sharply, and in the distance, beyond the burning wights, beyond the chaos of battle, he saw it.

An army.

But not of the dead.

Not of wights.

Not of nightmares.

A host of living men, clad in steel and leather, banners whipping in the wind.

And at their head—

Jon Snow.

A second front had arrived.

And the true battle for Westeros had begun.

Jon gripped the hilt of Longclaw tightly, his breath coming in quick, visible bursts as his army pressed forward into the abyss of war. The ground beneath them was slick with ice and blood, the scent of rot and death so thick in the air that it clawed at his throat. The sky overhead remained an endless stretch of darkness, no moon, no stars—only the cold void of an unnatural winter that had swallowed the world whole.

Then, they came.

At first, it was just a whispering sound, the unnatural scrape of bone against steel, the mindless hissing of wights as they sensed fresh flesh, their movements jerky, broken, and yet disturbingly fast. Then the horizon erupted with motion, a tsunami of the dead rushing forward, wights bounding across the ice, climbing over one another, their jaws snapping, their dead eyes fixed upon the living.

“Shields up!” Jon roared, and the Northern front braced itself, shields locking into place, spears lowered.

The first impact was brutal. The wights threw themselves against the shield wall with mindless ferocity, their rotting hands clawing, scratching, tearing at anything they could reach. Steel sang, blades cleaved through frozen flesh, and the battle dissolved into a chaotic storm of bodies and blood.

Jon struck down one wight, then another, his movements swift, practiced, each strike of Longclaw sending the creatures collapsing into lifeless heaps. Beside him, Tormund swung his axe, cutting through the onslaught with savage force.

“They just keep coming!” Tormund bellowed, smashing the brittle skull of a wight beneath his boot.

Jon didn’t respond—because he had already sensed it.

Something else was coming.

A new sound broke through the howling storm of battle—a deep, guttural clicking noise, something alien, something far more sinister.

Jon turned just in time to see them emerge from the darkness.

Tall, lithe, and eerily graceful, the Others strode through the battlefield like specters from a nightmare. Their armor gleamed like ice, reflecting the dim light of distant flames, their eyes glowed an unnatural blue, piercing, unfeeling. Each carried a blade of frozen death, their weapons forged from the very essence of the Long Night itself.

The wights parted for them, shifting and retreating as the Others advanced, their movements calculated, elegant, lethal.

Jon’s stomach twisted into a knot. He had seen what their blades could do, how they could shatter steel, slice through flesh effortlessly, how they left no wound that could heal.

“Steady!” Jon called to his men.

Then—a new horror.

The ground trembled, a deep, unsettling quake that rippled through the ice. From the shadows beyond the fray, massive dark shapes skittered forward—their long, spindly legs moving with unnatural speed, their mandibles clicking, their icy exoskeletons gleaming like frozen obsidian.

Spiders.

But not just any spiders.

These were the legends given flesh, the beasts of Old Nan’s stories, the terrible nightmares that haunted the North for thousands of years—the Cold God’s children.

Their eyes burned with the same eerie glow as their masters, their limbs moving like streaks of black lightning, their webbing a frozen death trap that could ensnare even the strongest warriors.

The Northern lines buckled as the first wave of monstrous arachnids lunged forward, their legs piercing armor, their fangs tearing into flesh.

Jon ducked as one leapt toward him, its monstrous body blocking out the battlefield behind it. He rolled, barely avoiding its deadly strike, before bringing Longclaw down in a powerful arc. The Valyrian steel bit deep, slicing through chitinous flesh, sending the beast screeching in agony before it collapsed in a heap of twitching limbs.

Davos plunged his sword into another, while Tormund hacked off its legs, laughing like a madman drenched in blood.

“What in all the hells are these?!” Davos shouted, his sword slipping on the frozen exoskeleton of another spider.

Jon had no answer, only the grim realization that this was not just an army—it was a nightmare made real.

Then, a shadow passed over them.

Jon looked up just in time to see a torrent of pale-gold fire erupt from the sky, the flames licking across the battlefield, igniting the wights, turning the monstrous spiders into charred husks of burning legs and blackened corpses.

The air shook with the roar of a dragon, and Jon’s heart leapt into his throat.

Viserion.

And not alone.

The ground shook again, but this time it was not the dead that trembled. Another roar joined the first, a deep, furious sound, one that made the very air vibrate with heat and fury.

From the darkness of the battlefield, another form streaked through the sky, its wings massive, its eyes burning like molten rubies.

Arraxes.

The dragons dove together, their fire cascading down upon the battlefield, their fury unleashed upon the cold horrors below.

The Northern men roared in defiance, emboldened by the sight, their swords cutting through the wights with renewed strength, their resolve hardening in the face of the impossible.

Jon gritted his teeth, the flames illuminating the battlefield, casting the Others in stark relief.

For the first time, they hesitated.

For the first time, they looked up.

The chamber was deep within the heart of Casterly Rock, carved into the very stone that had been home to House Lannister for centuries. The thick, ancient walls muffled the sounds of battle from the world outside, but Damon and Maelor could still feel the tremors, the distant thunder of war pounding at the gates of their sanctuary.

Damon sat near the heavy oaken table, his fingers clenching the fabric of his tunic as he stared at the flickering candlelight. He knew, even without seeing it, that his father was somewhere on the walls, that his mother was up there in the sky, and that death was coming for them all.

Maelor was sitting on the floor by the hearth, his small hands clenched around the wooden lion figurine that had been gifted to him long ago. He was still too young to understand the full scope of what was happening, but he understood enough—the fear in the guards' eyes, the way the castle had gone deathly quiet despite the howling wind outside, the way everyone was whispering prayers to gods he had never truly known.

Across the chamber, Ser Barristan Selmy stood watch, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, his sharp gaze sweeping over the room like that of a lion ready to pounce at the first sign of danger. He had seen countless battles, served countless kings and queens, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

“It’s too quiet,” Damon muttered, breaking the silence.

Barristan turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “The worst storms are always silent before they strike.”

Damon swallowed hard. He had never been a coward, but right now, all he could think about was his mother and father, out there in the midst of it all, facing things that should not exist.

“Do you think they’ll win?” Maelor’s voice was soft, hesitant, as he looked up from his lion figurine. His large eyes flickered with worry.

Barristan sighed, stepping forward, his armor glinting in the dim torchlight. “Your parents are strong, your father is the greatest commander Westeros has seen in a century, and your mother has fire in her blood.” He kneeled before Maelor, his voice gentle but firm. “But wars are never certain, young prince. We must be ready for anything.”

Damon exhaled, his hands tightening into fists. He was seven, nearly eight, not a child anymore, not a babe to be coddled. “I should be out there.”

Barristan arched a brow. “And what would you do? Swing a wooden sword at the dead? The battlefield is no place for you yet. You will have your time, but not now.”

Damon bristled, but he knew Barristan was right. He had tried to claim Arraxes, tried to prove himself worthy of a dragon, and he had failed. The pain of that rejection still burned just as deeply as the scars the dragon had left on him.

Maelor, still holding his wooden lion, suddenly whispered, “They won’t let them take us, will they? The monsters?”

Barristan stood, his shoulders straight as a steel blade, and placed a hand on the pommel of his sword. “Not while I still draw breath. Not while your father still stands. And certainly not while your mother flies above us.”

The young prince nodded but said nothing more.

Damon’s thoughts drifted to the sky, wondering if his mother was still flying with Viserion and Arraxes, wondering if his father was still standing atop the battlements, staring down the army of the dead with that cold, unshakable gaze of his.

The castle trembled again, and from beyond the stone walls, a distant, bone-chilling shriek echoed through the corridors.

The sky above Casterly Rock had never seen a storm like this before. Not a storm of wind and rain, but one of fire and ice, of death and war, raging in the heavens like the battle of gods. The once-imposing sky, veiled in an unnatural darkness, was torn apart by flames, illuminating the battlefield below in flickering shades of gold and blue.

Tywin Lannister stood atop the ramparts, his eyes lifted to the heavens where you and your dragon fought against something beyond the comprehension of men. Around him, his men held their breath, frozen in place, momentarily captivated by the spectacle of beasts clashing in the sky. Even hardened soldiers, men who had fought in countless wars, who had carved their legacies in blood and steel, could only watch in stunned horror.

High above them, Viserion roared, her body twisting through the air as she clashed against an abomination that should not exist. The Night King’s dragon, a monstrous corpse of ice and death, let out a horrific, piercing shriek that shattered the sky, the sound echoing over the battlefield like the wail of a dying world.

You sat firmly in Viserion’s saddle, your breath fogging in the unnatural cold that radiated from your foe. You clutched the reins, your body taut with focus, the very air around you biting like a blade as you commanded your dragon to strike. The Lannister-forged armor that encased Viserion’s powerful body gleamed in the flickering light, its crimson and gold etchings striking a stark contrast against the swirling darkness around you. The lion’s sigil had been carefully engraved along the armored plating on her neck and flanks, a lion riding a dragon into war.

“Dracarys!” you roared, and Viserion obeyed, unleashing a torrent of pale golden fire, so hot it burned white at the center, cascading toward the ice dragon.

But the Night King did not flinch. He did not recoil, nor did he flee. Instead, he raised a single, frozen hand, and the fire sputtered, struggling against the unnatural cold that surrounded him. The flames licked against the ice dragon’s hide, but it did not burn—it resisted, as if flame itself could be turned to frost.

“What in the Seven Hells is that thing?” one of Tywin’s bannermen whispered, his voice trembling.

Tywin did not answer. He merely watched, his jaw tightening, his knuckles white as he gripped the hilt of his sword. You were up there, fighting a battle that no warlord, no king, no conqueror had ever prepared for.

Then, Viserion and the ice dragon collided.

The impact was like a thunderclap, two great titans crashing into one another with enough force to shake the very heavens. Viserion clawed and bit, her jaws snapping at the cold, lifeless flesh of her foe, but the ice dragon retaliated with brutal swipes of its frozen talons, gouging deep into Viserion’s armored flank.

You barely held on, your fingers gripping the saddle tightly as Viserion roared in pain, her body lurching violently. You felt the deep, aching wound through your bond, a searing pain that made your stomach churn.

“Fall back! Defend the gates!” Tywin’s command snapped through the frozen air, dragging his men’s attention back to the war that still raged around them. The dead had not stopped their assault, and now they came harder, faster, as if driven by the presence of their king.

The gates of Casterly Rock trembled, the undead hordes hammering against them like waves crashing against a cliff. Pale, lifeless hands reached over the battlements, grasping, clawing, pulling themselves up. Men screamed as they were dragged over the edge, their armor useless against the sheer numbers of the dead.

A wight lunged toward Tywin, its hollow, frozen eyes locked onto him, its mouth twisted into something like a grin. But Tywin did not hesitate—his sword flashed through the darkness, severing its head in one clean stroke.

The ground beneath them shook again, this time from above.

Tywin looked up just in time to see Viserion twisting through the air, flames and ice clashing as the battle raged on. The Night King’s dragon spewed an unholy breath of frost, a bitter, freezing wind that turned fire to mist and ice to jagged spears.

Viserion barely evaded, but the attack struck her wing, and a section of it stiffened, turning to frost-bitten crystal. You gasped, feeling the numbness through your bond, and you urged your dragon onward, higher, away from the deadly grasp of the Night King.

But the Night King did not let up. He lifted his spear—a javelin of pure ice, the same weapon that had felled a dragon before. He pulled back, his inhuman face emotionless, his piercing blue gaze locked onto you and Viserion.

Tywin saw it before it happened.

“No—!”

The Night King threw his spear.

Time slowed.

You saw it slicing through the air, its tip glinting like death itself, aimed straight for your dragon’s heart.

And then—

A blur.

Arraxes.

The young dragon—smaller, but faster—swooped in from below, his scarlet eyes burning like fire itself, his wings folding in just as the spear struck him instead.

The impact was instantaneous. The ice spear pierced through Arraxes’ chest, and for a moment, the world stopped. The young dragon let out a piercing wail, one that rattled the very bones of the earth, and then he fell—spiraling downward, blood and frost spilling into the endless night.

Your scream split the heavens.

Tywin watched in horror as Arraxes plummeted, his body twisting, his wings faltering, his onyx and crimson scales gleaming even as death claimed him midair.

But there was no time to grieve.

Viserion roared in fury, and you clutched the saddle, your mind burning with rage and sorrow. The Night King had taken something from you, and you would make sure he burned for it.

As the battle raged below, as the dead swarmed the gates, as Tywin and his men fought for their very lives, you turned Viserion toward the Night King once more.

And this time, you would not hold back.

The sky burned, and yet the cold never ceased.

You gritted your teeth, feeling the throbbing pain in your head, your body weighed down by the sheer exhaustion of battle. Viserion’s breath came ragged, her golden armor dented and scratched, dark stains of blood marking the spots where the ice dragon had struck her. You could feel her rage, her pain, the way her body ached but refused to yield.

And Arraxes was gone.

The young dragon had fallen to the depths, his lifeblood spilling like a comet through the darkened sky, but you had no time to weep, no time to scream. The Night King was still standing, still riding his monstrous undead dragon, its hollow, soulless eyes staring at you with an unnatural hunger.

“Fly, my love, fly!” you urged, gripping the reins tighter as Viserion roared, banking hard to avoid another ice spear forming in the Night King’s grasp.

Below, Casterly Rock was drenched in battle, the flames of Viserion’s earlier attacks still licking at the swarming masses of undead. But even dragonfire wasn’t enough—their numbers were endless, waves upon waves of the dead still climbing the walls, forcing the gates, their pale, rotten hands clawing at every living thing they could reach.

And at the very heart of the chaos, Tywin Lannister watched you fight a war in the sky that no army could reach.

“My lord, there is nothing we can do—” one of his knights began, but Tywin silenced him with a look sharp enough to cut steel.

His hands were clenched into fists. His breath came short and cold, not from fear, but from fury. He had fought wars his entire life, built a legacy of order and control, and yet here he stood, watching as his wife fought a battle he could not reach, one that no Lannister steel nor Westerland army could touch.

His teeth clenched as he turned sharply, barking an order:

“Bring me my horse.”

There was a pause, a moment of disbelief.

Kevan took a step forward, his brow furrowing. “Tywin, what are you—”

“Bring. Me. My. Horse.”

“You can’t help her!” Kevan snapped, frustration flaring in his voice. “She is up there, fighting a dragon, fighting something that isn’t even human! How do you plan to—”

“I will not stand here while my wife fights alone.”

His words were steel, unyielding, absolute, the kind that left no room for further argument.

A heavy silence fell upon the men around him, all of them watching the great Tywin Lannister, the man who never acted without cold calculation, now mounting a horse in the middle of an impossible battle.

It was Beric Dondarrion who finally spoke, his voice grim, but resolute.

“We’ll ride with you.”

Kevan turned his glare toward the men of the Brotherhood Without Banners. “Are you mad? This is suicide!”

Beric merely smiled, a dry, weary expression. “Death is not as permanent as you might think, my lord. And besides—someone has to watch the Lion of Lannister charge into a storm. A tale worth remembering.”

Thoros of Myr grunted, pulling himself onto his own mount, the light of his flaming sword casting eerie shadows over the blood-stained snow.

“Let it be known that Lannisters are as mad as Targaryens.”

Tywin said nothing. He merely kicked his horse forward, his cloak trailing behind him as he led the charge into the chaos.

You could feel Viserion’s wings weakening, the frost slowly creeping into her bones from the wounds she had taken. Every beat of her wings was a desperate, furious fight against the cold trying to steal her from the sky.

But the Night King did not tire.

His lifeless blue eyes locked onto you, and his dragon—a decayed, twisted horror of what once was a great beast—let out a breath of pure death.

A spear of ice formed once more in his grasp, and this time, you could feel the inevitability in the air.

Viserion was struggling.

Your body ached.

The Night King would strike again, and this time, he would not miss.

But then—

Something below shattered the battlefield.

A golden standard, burning against the night, moving through the horde of undead like a specter of defiance.

Tywin.

You almost did not believe it. He was down there, riding into the fray, sword in hand, cutting down wights and monsters alike, his men charging behind him with flaming swords and shields raised high.

“Seven hells, what is he doing?!”

Viserion stirred beneath you, her own fire igniting in response. She had always been protective, always watched over the man who had claimed you as his, and now he had charged into a battle he could not win—for you.

For you and your children.

The Night King turned his head, his gaze flickering toward the movement below.

A mistake.

“Now!” you screamed, and Viserion answered.

With every last ounce of her strength, she roared, diving toward the Night King’s exposed flank, golden fire surging from her jaws just as the sky erupted with flame and steel below.

Tywin’s men fought harder, their leader at the very front, cutting through the waves of the dead as Viserion and her rider struck the heavens like vengeful gods.

And finally—finally—the Night King faltered.

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mebis-art-dump · 10 months ago

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SaviaVida

#hollow knight #krita #digital art #fanart #mebi's art #hollow knight fanart #kofiartist #ko fi link #buy me a kofi #lifeblood creature #hk lifeblood #hollow knight lifeblood #lifeblood core #lifeblood #saviavida #lifeblood beast #lifeblood heart #hk fanart

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xoxoangelllcake · 4 months ago

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The Huntress and the Hunted

Vampire Caitlyn, Huntress Vi, Maddie being eaten by Caitlyn(well not literally just having her blood sucked by Cait), Period sex, Lesbian sex, Cunnilingus, Dom!Caitlyn, Sub!Vi, Noncon

Vi wandered through the alleyways of Piltover, the cobblestone streets slick with rain. The neon lights above cast eerie reflections on the puddles, creating a dance of colors that she found oddly mesmerizing. Her eyes, usually sharp as a hawk, were momentarily drawn to the fleeting patterns, a rare moment of distraction in her otherwise focused hunt. The city's usual bustle was muted by the downpour, leaving only the occasional distant sound of a carriage and the rhythmic tap of her boots to keep her company.

As she turned a corner, her heightened senses caught the faint scent of iron in the air. Her grip tightened on the stake hidden within her leather jacket. She had been tracking this vampire for weeks now, a creature that had been leaving a trail of drained bodies in its wake. The scent grew stronger, and she quickened her pace, her heart racing with a mix of excitement and trepidation. This was it, she could feel it. The creature was close.

The alley opened up to a dimly lit courtyard, and there she saw her. Caitlyn, a vampire with hair like spun silver, was crouched over Maddie, a local barista who had been reported missing just the night before. Maddie's neck was a mess of torn flesh, and her eyes were glazed with the haze of a feeding victim. Caitlyn's fangs were buried deep, her cheeks flushed with the crimson of Maddie's lifeblood. But it wasn't just her neck that the vampire was attending to; her other hand was busy inside Maddie's soaked underwear, stroking her sex with a hunger that was equally terrifying and intriguing to Vi.

Vi's instincts screamed at her to attack, but she remained still, hidden in the shadows, watching the erotic scene unfold. The vampire was too engrossed to notice her presence, and she felt a strange heat spread through her body. She had never seen a creature of the night act with such carnality before, and the sight of it sent a thrill down her spine that she couldn't quite explain. She took a deep breath, willing herself to push aside the sudden, unbidden attraction and focus on the task at hand.

With a roar, Vi lunged forward, her stake aimed at Caitlyn's heart. But the vampire was fast, faster than she had anticipated, and she evaded the blow with an elegant twist of her body. Caitlyn's eyes snapped up to meet hers, filled with a fiery hunger that seemed to pierce through the rain. The two locked gazes for a moment, the tension in the air thick as the scent of blood and desire mingled together. Vi could feel the vampire's power, a dark allure that threatened to overwhelm her.

Their battle was swift and brutal. Vi swung her fists, each hit landing with the force of a hammer, but Caitlyn was a shadow, dodging and weaving with inhuman grace. Her fangs glinted in the moonlight as she taunted Vi, her movements deliberately seductive despite the ferocity of their struggle. Vi felt her body responding to the danger, a primal instinct that she had never felt in the presence of a creature of the night.

Caitlyn's hand shot out, grabbing Vi's wrist and yanking her closer. The vampire's breath was hot on her neck as she whispered, "You're different, aren't you?" Vi's heart pounded in her chest, her fear giving way to a strange excitement that she didn't understand. She tried to break free, but Caitlyn's grip was like iron. The vampire leaned in, her eyes locked on Vi's, and licked the rain from her cheek.

The taste of Caitlyn's tongue sent a bolt of electricity through Vi's body. She gasped, the stake slipping from her grasp. Caitlyn took advantage of the opening, pushing Vi against the cold, wet wall. The vampire's hand slid down to cup her breast, thumb flicking over the hardened nipple beneath the drenched fabric. Vi's breath hitched, and she felt a betrayal from her own body as it responded to the vampire's touch.

Their eyes remained locked, the intensity of their gaze unbroken even as Caitlyn leaned in closer, her fangs grazing Vi's neck. Vi felt a sharp pain, and a warm trickle of blood ran down her throat. But instead of fear, she felt a pulsing heat between her legs, a wetness that had nothing to do with the rain. Caitlyn's eyes widened, and she inhaled deeply, a smirk playing on her lips. "Ah, a little surprise for me," she murmured, her voice thick with lust.

Vi realized with a start that she was on her period, a fact she had hoped would deter the vampire. But instead, Caitlyn's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Your blood is… exquisite," she purred, licking the blood from Vi's neck with a delicate flick of her tongue. The sensation was both soothing and maddening, sending a shiver of pleasure down the huntress' spine. She tried to push the vampire away, but her legs felt like jelly, her body responding to the touch in a way she couldn't control.

With surprising strength, Caitlyn pinned Vi to the wall, her legs spread apart. Vi's eyes widened in shock as the vampire's hand slid down her stomach to the apex of her thighs. The fabric of her underwear was already soaked with desire, and Caitlyn's touch sent a jolt of pleasure through her. Vi bit her lip, trying to stifle a moan that threatened to escape. The vampire chuckled darkly. "Fight it all you want, but your body knows what it wants."

The vampire's fingertips traced the outline of Vi's sex, the roughness of her calloused skin a stark contrast to the softness of the rain-drenched fabric. Vi's eyes fluttered closed, and she felt a warmth spreading through her core, the pressure building with each caress. Caitlyn leaned in, her breath hot against Vi's ear. "Your fear is delicious, but your arousal… it's intoxicating."

Vi's body arched involuntarily as Caitlyn slid two fingers beneath her underwear, the coldness of her touch sending a shiver through her body. The vampire's eyes glowed with triumph as she felt the warm, sticky proof of Vi's attraction. "I can taste your desire, even through the coppery scent of your cycle." Her voice was low, a seductive whisper that sent tremors down the huntress' spine.

Caitlyn's thumb found Vi's clit, applying just enough pressure to make her gasp. "Your blood is a feast, but your pleasure… that's something truly divine." Vi's eyes snapped open, the reality of the situation crashing down on her. This wasn't just about bloodlust; the vampire was playing a game, a game she didn't know the rules to.

The vampire's mouth hovered over her, fangs gleaming in the moonlight. "I'm going to devour you," she whispered, and before Vi could protest, Caitlyn's tongue slid into her folds, lapping up the rainwater and her own blood. The sensation was unlike anything Vi had ever felt, a mix of terror and pleasure that left her trembling against the wall. Caitlyn's fingers danced over her clit, the pressure building, as her tongue delved deeper, tasting every inch of the huntress's most intimate flesh.

Vi's hands clenched the fabric of Caitlyn's shirt, trying to push her away, but her body was a traitor, arching into the touch instead. The vampire's mouth was relentless, her tongue flicking and swirling around the sensitive bud that was now swollen and aching for more. Vi's breath came in ragged gasps, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and need. She could feel the beginnings of an orgasm, and the knowledge that it was brought on by the enemy she had sworn to destroy only fueled the fire within her.

The sound of Caitlyn's eager lapping grew louder, and Vi's hips began to move of their own accord, grinding against the vampire's face. The cold stone of the wall bit into her back, sending shockwaves of pain and pleasure through her. She didn't know if she wanted this to stop or never end. The tension grew, a coil tightening in her belly, and she could feel her muscles tensing, her body on the brink of release.

Caitlyn's fangs grazed her thigh, and Vi's eyes shot open, the stark reality of the situation slapping her across the face. She had to regain control, had to remember why she was here. With a roar of defiance, she bucked her hips, throwing Caitlyn off balance. The vampire looked up at her, eyes flashing with hunger and amusement. "You fight a losing battle, little one," she said, wiping her bloody mouth with the back of her hand.

Vi took the opportunity to shove Caitlyn away, her own strength surprising her. The vampire stumbled back a few steps, giving her enough space to draw the stake again. But Caitlyn was unfazed, a wicked grin spreading across her face as she slowly regained her footing. "Your kind never learn," she sneered. "You can't resist the allure of the night."

The air grew thick with tension, the rain seemingly pausing for a brief moment as the two adversaries circled each other. Vi's body was a battleground of emotions, torn between the instinct to fight and the traitorous desire that still pulsed through her veins. She could feel her own blood, hot and sticky, running down her neck, and the ache between her legs was almost unbearable.

With a snarl, Vi lunged at Caitlyn again, the stake held firmly in her grip. This time, she aimed not for the vampire's heart but for her throat. Caitlyn anticipated the move, darting to the side with a grace that seemed impossible. Vi's stake sliced through the air, missing her by a hair's breadth. The vampire's eyes gleamed with amusement, and she flicked her hair out of her face, leaving a crimson smear on her cheek.

"You're quite the little fighter," she taunted, her voice a seductive purr that made Vi's skin crawl. "But you can't deny what you feel. Your blood calls to me, and your body… it's begging for me to claim it."

Vi's mind was racing. She knew that succumbing to Caitlyn would mean giving in to the darkness, but her body was a traitor, her heart hammering in her chest and her core throbbing with need. The vampire's words echoed in her ears, a siren's song that she was finding increasingly difficult to resist.

With a guttural growl, Vi forced her body to cooperate, dropping to her knees before Caitlyn. The vampire's smirk widened, her eyes gleaming with victory. But instead of attacking, Vi leaned in, her mouth hovering over Caitlyn's sex, her own blood mingling with the rainwater that coated the vampire's thighs. Caitlyn's eyes widened in surprise, and for a brief moment, the tables turned. Vi's tongue darted out, tasting the sweetness of the vampire's arousal. It was a heady, intoxicating flavor that made her want more.

The vampire's grip on her wrists tightened, but instead of pulling away, Vi pushed closer, her mouth engulfing Caitlyn's clit. The vampire's legs trembled, and she let out a gasp of pleasure that was music to Vi's ears. The taste of her, the scent of her, it was all too much to handle. Vi felt her own orgasm building, the pressure in her belly tightening like a noose. She had never felt so alive, so consumed by desire.

Caitlyn's eyes rolled back in her head, and she let out a low, throaty moan. "Oh, fuck," she breathed, her voice thick with need. "I wish I had my strap-on with me." The words sent a bolt of surprise through Vi, but the vampire's praise only served to spur her on. She could feel the power shifting in their battle of wills, the huntress now the hunted.

Vi's tongue worked Caitlyn's clit with a fervor that belied her inexperience, each stroke eliciting a whimper of pleasure from the vampire's lips. Caitlyn's praise was like a drug, making her bolder, her strokes more confident. "You're a natural," the vampire murmured, her voice strained with arousal. "If I had my strap-on, I'd show you just how good it could be."

The words sent a shiver down Vi's spine. She had never felt this way before, never wanted to please someone so badly, especially not a creature that had taken so much from her. But here she was, kneeling before Caitlyn, her tongue buried in the vampire's sex, drawing out her pleasure with every flick and suck. The vampire's hips began to buck, her movements growing erratic as Vi brought her closer to the edge.

Vi felt a strange thrill in knowing that she could make this creature of the night feel such intense pleasure, a creature that had brought nothing but pain and fear to the people she swore to protect. She could feel Caitlyn's orgasm approaching, the muscles in her thighs tightening around her head. With a final, desperate lick, Vi sent her over the edge. The vampire's scream pierced the night air, a sound that was equal parts pleasure and shock.

As Caitlyn's body convulsed with the aftershocks of climax, Vi took a moment to revel in her victory, the taste of triumph on her lips. But she knew she couldn't let this distraction last. With a swift movement, she pulled away, the cold rain hitting her flushed cheeks like a slap of reality. She stood up, the stake now pointing at the panting vampire's chest. "You think I want you?" she snarled, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

Caitlyn's smile was predatory as she met Vi's gaze, the rain plastering her hair to her face like a crimson waterfall. "You don't need to want me, darling. You just need to accept me." She reached up to gently trace the line of Vi's jaw with her thumb, the gesture oddly tender despite the circumstances. "But for now, watch yourself."

Maddie's unconscious form lay forgotten on the ground, her limbs sprawled out in the puddles, a stark reminder of the violence that had occurred. Vi's eyes darted to her, guilt and concern warring with the rage and desire that still coursed through her. She knew she had to end this, had to save Maddie from becoming another of Caitlyn's playthings.

The vampire's eyes followed Vi's gaze, her smile never wavering. "Don't worry about her," Caitlyn said dismissively, her voice a silken caress. "She's just taking a little nap. She'll be fine." The nonchalance in her tone was a stark contrast to the passionate hunger she had shown moments before.

Vi's hand trembled, the stake still pointed at Caitlyn's heart. "What…what do you want from me?" she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper. The vampire's smile grew wider, her eyes dark with an emotion that was both thrilling and terrifying. "Everything," she replied, her voice a seductive whisper. "But for now, let's just say I want to keep playing this little game of cat and mouse."

#caitlyn kiramman #vi smut #caitvi x reader #wlw smut #vi x reader #wlw #arcane #sapphic #arcane season 2 #caitlyn smut #caitlyn x reader #caitvi #arcane smut #maddie nolen

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blue-wings-of-life · 10 months ago

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Ah sorry, should have expected that to be a sore spot... Uh, do you have any family?

Though... When a god died, it's family will feel it so unfortunately.. I'm aware of Kenos' death... My poor baby..

Heh, at least the rest of them are still alright, oh how I hope to see them again one day.. I.. I never even got to see Astra hatch from his egg.. I wonder what he's like.

#life is a blessing :: le'cya #abyss creature #hk #hk oc #hollow knight #hollow knight oc #lifeblood :: art #little friends :: anons #whispers from the outside :: asks #death beloved :: og #the walk of life :: rem #to bring about a new :: kenos #the sky so far out of reach :: astralocus

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deadtired-highkeyenergetic · 1 year ago

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The Scars On His Back

Just going to slowly reupload my fics...two at a time...

Summary: Astarion has a nightmare and goes out to the forest for a breather when he runs into you.

He’s back there again, with the feeling of a knife tearing into his back, carving up his flesh. Blood runs down his body, creating rivers of crimson on his pale skin and drips onto the floor, pooling between his feet. He can feel the stickiness of the liquid penetrating the gaps between his toes, the feeling sending shivers up his spine. His lifeblood drains with each moment, the pain overwhelms what is left of his soul and tears his body apart, sending screams ripping from his throat until his voice is hoarse but it never stops. The knife digs in again and again, the pain harshly dragging him back into reality each time he drifts off too far into the black void.

And then he wakes up with a start to the mess that is his tent, chest heaving out of habit and a sting in his eyes. His hands tremble as they reach up to wipe his weakness away, nearly causing him to nick himself. He presses his hands against his face, shakily drawing deep breaths.

He’s far far away from there now. He’s safe from him , with the tadpole in his head. He won’t have to bow and scrape to him as long as the tadpole remains. As long as you shelter him.

Hastily throwing on a tunic to cover up the scars, he heads outside his tent for some fresh air, to be away from the stuffiness that his tent brings tonight. The night air is cooling, a gentle breeze whistling through the still camp. Moonlight spills through the tree canopy, shining beams of silvery light upon the various tents pitched around the once burning campfire.

Quiet trills of nighttime creatures fill the silence, the smell of your blood wafting from…hold on. The smell of your blood? Ruby eyes widen and his feet move in the direction his nose is picking the scent up from before his mind can register anything. You are injured , his half-awake mind processes, a small pool of panic bubbling within his chest as he quickens his pace. How bad are your wounds? Have you been attacked? Will he make it in time?

He bursts through the trees, gaze frantically searching for any signs of an attack but all he sees was you. There is no sign or scent of enemies, only your lonesome figure sitting sheepishly on a rock, crimson liquid seeping through your fingers.

“Hi Astarion,” you smile, waving awkwardly.

“Y/N!” He hurries over to your side. “You’re bleeding.”

“So it seems,” you chuckle. “A small accident, really. I merely slipped on some wet grass and cut myself on the sharp edges of the stones.”

“You really are the clumsiest person I know, darling,” he shakes his head with a sigh, taking out some bandages and ointment. “Let’s treat this wound of yours before it gets infected. Wouldn’t want a small accident to turn into a big mess now, would we?”

You nod, biting your tongue before words that will ruin the mood slip past your lips. It’s better to keep to yourself how prepared he was to treat your injuries, and especially the fact that you could tell he was worried about you. Then an idea hits you.

“Since I’m already bleeding, do you want to feed on me?” The question sends his head shooting upwards, a quizzical look on his face.

“Feed…on you?”

“Yeah, like drink my blood since it’s leaking out of my body anyways, would be a shame if so much of it went to waste,” you can’t help but grin, “I can see your fangs peeking out, you know. Go ahead and drink, I don’t mind.”

He opens his mouth, moving it closer to your wound. The sweet scent of your blood hits his nostrils hard and they flare in response, hunger gnawing in his chest. You had offered your blood to him, what did you want in return? His body? His services?

Ruby red eyes search your face, waiting for you to lay down your conditions but you simply press your bleeding arm to his lips with a small smile, dabbing a sliver of blood on his lips.

“I mean it, Astarion. And no, I don’t want anything in return. I promise.”

A small puff of breath leaves his lips at your words and his tongue darts out, gently licking a stripe up your arm. When you don’t pull away, he gets a little bolder, sucking blood from the open wound. You hiss softly when his fangs dig in, drawing more blood from your body but keep your arm steady. He hungrily drinks it all in, the sweet flavour bursting in his mouth.

You don’t know what compels you to do it, but your other hand moves towards his hair, gently running your fingers through his silver curls, twirling the longer strands around your index finger. You carefully avoid touching his ears, knowing how sensitive they are and instead tangle your fingers in the hair at the top of his head.

He quietly purrs against your arm, pressing his tongue against the wound to staunch what bleeding he can before cleaning the wound thoroughly with a damp cloth, sending vibrations running up your arm. Gently dabbing the ointment on your arm, he wraps a bandage around the wound, pressing one last kiss to it before standing back up, offering a hand.

“Shall we return to camp before the others begin panicking? I doubt they can function without the both of us.” The smile on his face is filled with apprehension, a fact that doesn’t go unnoticed by you.

“Astarion –”

“Don’t you worry, my sweet. I’ll repay this debt of yours as soon as possible,” he winks, pulling you to your feet. “You won’t regret it in the slightest.”

As he turns to leave, you shout.

“Astarion!”

He stops in his tracks, turning around. Muscles tensed, he tries to cover up the fear that is thrumming through his veins with a feigned smile, hoping it’d mellow out your anger. After all, you could neve resist his smile…right?

You see the way fear flashes in his eyes and immediately regret raising your voice, even if it was out of frustration directed at yourself. Taking a deep breath to clear away your anger, you hold out a hand in peace offering.

“I’m sorry for raising my voice at you. I’m not mad at you, I’m just…” Your voice trails off. How do you even justify what you just did? You know of the horrors Cazador inflicted on him, and yet you still lash out.

“It’s quite alright, Y/N,” he chuckles nervously.

You vigorously shake your head, “I really am sorry about it. There’s no way I can justify raising my voice at you, you didn’t do anything wrong. I was really frustrated at myself for not being able to convince you I didn’t want anything in return, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Astarion searches for any sign of a lie in your words but finds nothing. You really meant it. Every word you said. Your apology, your insistence on needing nothing from him after he had just fed on you, all of it was sincere and genuine. His undead heart skips a beat and suddenly the night doesn’t feel so cold anymore.

You care about him.

Before he knows it, his feet carry him over to you once more, his hand sliding into your outstretched one. The warmth blooms from your palm and winds around his cold one as your fingers intertwine with his.

“Y/N,” he breathes.

“Will you accept my apology?” You ask softly, eyes downcast.

“Of course, dearest. I always will,” he leans in, lips hovering over your forehead. Can he kiss you? Will he taint you if he does?

You tilt your head upwards, meeting his lips with yours and he immediately melts into the kiss. Unlike his previous kisses, this one is filled with care and love, not the usual lust and passion he’s used to receiving. Your arms wrap around him, hands resting on his back where scars tell of his past and he reflexively tenses. But this time, the hands on his back mean him no harm. They lie there to pull him closer into your warm embrace, to protect him from those who seek to harm him. So he lets them rest on his vulnerable back, soaking in the strange warmness that the simple action brings.

Astarion closes his eyes, putting his own arms around you. It’s weird, hugging someone for the first time. You don’t mind his cold dead fingers resting on your back and even press closer against him, enveloping him in your warmth.

When your lips part ways, he doesn’t say a word lest his voice wavers and betrays him. He lets you do the talking, relishing in the way you hold onto his hand tightly. Not a single move is made when you lead him into his tent, only letting go of his hand to help him tidy up his bedroll. You make sure he’s comfortable before turning to leave, pausing when he calls out your name in such a gentle manner.

“Stay…with me?” He begs. Your heart aches from his tone and once more you’re reminded of how much he hurts on the inside, so you backtrack and wrap your arms around him.

“Always.”

#astarion bg3 #astarion x durge #astarion x reader #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion ancunin #astarion angst

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xokaythebunnyig · 1 year ago

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GIGGLES HI IM ALIVE AND WELL, AND UH NOT DEAD :DDDDDD

I uh, have some pictures of the sillies.. we got Grimm, TPK aka Abner- We got Lurien the Simp and The Lifeblood creature :]

Basically got new markers and coloured in some old pics. Also yes I did forget to date the colouring for Grimm. Hope you enjoy these human designs of silly bugs ♡

#pale king #hollow knight #hk #hk pale king #troupe master grimm #hk lurien #lurien the watcher #hk grimm #traditional art #these fuckers take up 85% of my brain space #the other 15% is helluva boss stuff ._.#they're all so cute #my mom likes the pic of Lurien a lot teehee #grimm is so silly #pk being angsty af #Lifeblood creature is adorable #try to change my mind #srry that the picture quality is so bad #i have an android

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beausbugbiome · 2 years ago

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Bug and Seek!

“Being developed by a husband-wife dev team living in the woods, Bug & Seek is a relaxing, open-ended, bug catching simulator with a mystery twist. In Bug & Seek, you've just sunk your life savings into buying an abandoned Insectarium (bug museum)! Once the lifeblood of the town and its economy, someone stole all the bugs in the dead of night. Now it's up to you to catch and sell bugs to fulfill requests from collectors, neighboring towns, schools, and universities, all while building your personal collection. Become a master bug hunter as you grow level up your skills and expertise, upgrade your equipment, and expand your Insectarium. Meet the locals and complete quests to earn special items and discover what really happened during the Great Bug Heist.”

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/bugandseek/bug-and-seek-a-cozy-bug-catching-sim-creature-collector

#insects #entomology #bugs #insect #bug #nature #bugblr #beetle #coleoptera #beetles #myriapods #arachnid #bug game #indie games #kickstarter #Bug and Seek

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lipglossanon · 4 months ago

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The Old Ways

Leon S. Kennedy x Priestess fem!reader

A little more savory tier commission from the lovely @porcelainseashore 💜 thank you for your patience 😭

Word Count: 2318 🫣

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, alternate universe, paganistic practices, animal sacrifice, slight gore, blood, blood sacrifice, bloodletting, predator/prey, sex magick, biting, marking, scratching, rough sex, voyeurism, kissing, unprotected sex, creampie

proofread

Mother Moon wanes in the sky, like the sly grin of a fox. Turning your gaze from her cool light, you continue with your toiling. You gather herbs along with the other village women, whispering chants over the brambles and plants. Tomorrow you welcome the birth of a new moon and winter—and with those, the ceremony of oblation.

The wights of the land clamor for your attention, whispering in your ear of the hunger for blood to be shed. As the priestess, you’ve led many rites to the elder gods. Every full moon a calf is sacrificed at the altar in the center of the village, followed by dancing and merriment. A wooden goblet is filled with its blood and poured upon your nude body, anointing you with its life so you can pass it on to the village.

The women and men are gifted with innate power, dark arts to help keep your community prosperous and safe. These sacred practices have been passed down through the ages, the covenant with the Dark Ones holding fast and true with every new generation. It now falls upon you as the newest priestess to keep up these traditions.

The air is sharp and cold, furs keeping the soft animal of your body warm. Your fingers curl like the gnarled hands of the older women beside you, a fate you hope to see in your future. A few of them catch your eye and nod, solemn gazes and voices when otherwise there would be singing and joy.

Your gaze alights upon a party of the men returning from their traps, various animals thrown over their shoulders or writhing in sacks gripped in their fists. A few of them spot you and nod in respect. As you watch them walk back to the village, you muse that one of these men will partake in the ritual with you tonight. Many of them are a stranger to your eyes, but if it is the will of the ancient ones, then it shall come to pass.

Once enough has been gathered, each of the women rise and follow along the winding path back to the village temple. Fires burn bright and hot in the night, dancing shadows cast upon the men while they skin and flay the carcass of beasts in preparation for tomorrow night.

Entering into the temple last, the other women have formed a circle around the altar. The red-stained surface feels cool under your fingers when you press your own herbs down onto it. Words spill from your lips like wine, an ancient chant of embracing the dark for its sinister gifts. Other voices join, swelling to fill the chamber with their ambiance.

Hands raise in supplication, feet stamp against the cold, earthen floor, and you slice open your palm to rub blood across the runes etched into the stone altar. Once filled, you turn, chanting softly, to paint symbols across each of the women’s faces. They bow their heads and sink to their knees once they’ve been anointed. Before reaching the final woman, a wisp of a boy—straddling the line of manhood—enters the doorway with a plump hare in hand.

He waits until you beckon him forward with blood-coated fingers. Placing the warm animal in your arms, he leaves the temple. The chanting of the women ebbs and flows like the wind in a storm, the sound bolstering and soothing. An elderly woman steps forward and holds the hare against the altar’s face. Pulling out the same blade you used to slice your hand, you wait until the old woman snaps its neck, then you plunge your blade deep in its soft belly.

Lifeblood runs hot and thick across the stone. Each of the village women comes forward to gather the blood, bathing their arms and necks with the dark liquid. You skin the chosen creature, gutting it quickly before the innards grow too cold for use and drop the heart and lungs in a separate wooden bowl. Finished, you pick up the bowl and walk outside to the center of the village. You toss them into the fire with a smattering of herbs gathered earlier.

You shout out an incantation, tossing more herbs and branches into the fire. Voice growing quiet, you bow to the flame, ending the ritual. Everything is now in place for tomorrow’s oblation. A few of the women help you to your home, exhausted as you are from the fervor of performing your duties.

The next morning dawns brightly. You rise along with the burgeoning rays. Dressing for the cold, you join the congregation of people at the temple. The scant time of daylight is spent readying the skins and headpieces for the ceremony. Masks and furs are to be given to those joining, a trickery of confusion to one chosen to Hunt for the priestess. The times when the Hunter has become confused and chosen poorly, the dark gods were unkind, and many perished.

The village elders now choose more carefully lest it happen again. For as long as you’ve been alive, every chase has ended with the priestess caught, ensuring the village is secure until the next ceremony of oblation. The sun begins to set, signifying an end to preparations.

Everyone begins to gather outside the temple. The elders talk amongst themselves, narrowing down who shall become the Hunter—who shall be the one to find you amidst the trickery in the dark of the forest—the one who shall perform the ceremony and satisfy the lust of the ancient ones.

“Leon, come forth.”

A young man with blonde hair and blue eyes is brought forward. His strong arms, offset by scars, signify battles won, someone who must be from the war party. You’ve seen him before, but with his task of being a fighter, he is rarely in the village. This ceremony, however, requires everyone to partake. All of the war parties and hunting parties made the trek back home in time.

A loud cheer goes up when the man accepts the crown of raven’s wings, letting one of the elders anoint his brow with blood before placing it atop his head. He shrugs on the sacred skin of the bear, cutting a formidable figure against the dying sun. You hope he is up to the task. His serious blue eyes seek you out amidst the villagers, nodding in deference once he locks eyes with you.

You join the elders and enter the temple. They strip you of your warmth and paint your body with runes and symbols of the dark gods you worship. Herbs are crushed into a paste and smeared across your belly and breasts. Chants and incantations are murmured while they ready you for the ritual. Dressing you in the coat of a freshly skinned stag, they adorn your brow with a headdress of antlers.

Guiding you from the temple, you join the group of men and women joining the chase, each dressed in skins and masks. Now that you’re ready, they’re off, running into the dark of the forest with you trailing behind. The elders will release the Hunter once they’ve completed the blessings for him. It’s not long before villagers begin to split off.

The chase warms the blood. It’s why this part of the ceremony has lasted the test of time. Warm blood is the preferred offering of your dark gods. The antlers snag on a low branch and keep you in place. You can hear the others running, footfalls muted on the soft, damp earth. It gives them time to distract and escape from the clutches of the Hunter.

The heavy coat of the stag drips against your skin, sticky blood running down your naked body. You finally snap the branch that’s keeping you from moving, feet picking up speed until you’re running through the winding trunks. The silver birches gleam like ghosts in the murky night. You catch fleeting glimpses of other animals—deer, rabbits, a fox or two. Your eyes have yet to see the Hunter, clad in the finest bearskin with a crown of raven’s wings atop his brow.

No matter how cold the night is, the heat of the chase keeps the chill at bay. You’re close to where the ritual needs to take place. This Hunter is smart, corralling you close enough that he can catch you more easily. The elders chose wisely this time. The tree comes into view. A horrible wretch of a thing. Legend tells the screaming face embedded in its onyx-colored bark is the combined souls of those who would do the village harm. Another reason why the covenant with the dark gods is so necessary. Its thorny branches are sharp enough to slice into flesh.

A thick arm bands around your waist, stopping your momentum and sending you stumbling back against a warm, fur-covered chest.

“I’ve caught you, priestess.”

You can see the smoke of Leon’s breath passing by the side of your face. A low humming chant begins deep in the forest, the elders leading the procession of villagers to the site of the ceremony. He manhandles you until he’s pressing your back against the rough bark of the dead, wizened tree. The antlers are tossed from your head onto the ground along with his own crown before he takes your lips in a rough, hungry kiss.

The men and women begin to form a semicircle around the tree, witness to the ritual about to take place. They’re only a minor distraction before Leon rips the stag coat from your body, dropping it at your feet. Skin scraping against the bark makes you hiss in pain, small cuts forming along your back and arms. He kisses you again, parting his own animal skin to bare his naked body.

You pull away and sink your teeth into his shoulder, biting hard enough the tang of blood fills your mouth. He grunts, cock thickening against your leg. Shoving you more firmly against the dead tree, he slots his leg between your thighs, pressing the damp lips of your cunt against the warm skin. Hissing, you rock down against him, pleasure zipping through your body.

The ritual is meant to be bloody and rough, an offering to the dark gods that bay and howl for life. Leon moves to kiss you again at the same time you dip forward to bite his other shoulder. His chin knocks against your cheek, making you shift, arm catching on a thorn-covered branch and slicing open your flesh. Pulling you into his chest, he braces his forearm against your side, the branch cutting into his flesh and preventing it from sinking into yours.

You admire his care; the ancient ones have no preferences whose blood is shed as long as it is human and it is fresh. He kisses across your jaw before sinking his own teeth into your neck at the same time he lifts your leg to wrap around his waist. Your eyes catch sight of the villagers, standing solemnly, watching as Leon and you perform the rite. He brings your attention back when he ruts his cock against the seam of your cunt. Notching the head of his dick at your hole, he bullies his way completely inside, stuffing and stretching your pussy so suddenly you can’t breathe.

He groans like a wounded dog, pulling halfway out before sinking back into your pliant flesh. Your nails scratch and claw at his back, shredding the skin underneath. He retaliates by biting and snarling, teeth maiming your neck and shoulders until it’s a bloody mess. All thoughts of higher thinking are lost to the frenzy. Leon mates you like some rabid animal. You're biting and clawing at each other—blood spilling from your bodies to coat the imposing tree at your back.

At some point, Leon pulls out to spin you around, pressing your stomach and chest against the rough bark. Keening like a bitch in heat, Leon pounds your cunt with hard, powerful thrusts. More cuts open against the soft meat of your belly and breasts, palms scraping against the tree while Leon fucks your pussy into submission. His palm cups above your mound, angling your body back in a way that makes you clamp down around his cock.

Groaning, he keeps up the fast pace—his dick plunging in and out of your wet, dripping hole, the tip grazing something so delicious it’s making your brain light up in ways you’ve never experienced. You can’t stop the noises escaping you, like a stuck pig braying for help. Leon rams into you, cock thick and heavy, stretching you out. A pleasure unlike anything you’ve experienced is overcoming your senses. Your fingers curl into claws, mouth open in a silent scream as something in your brain snaps.

Everything goes silent except the pleasure engulfing your entire being. Time is infinite in this space. Tears streak down your cheeks, eyes open yet unseeing even as Leon buries his cock to the hilt to fill you with his sticky spend. You come to yourself when a heavy fur is draped around your exhausted body.

“Priestess, the ceremony of oblation is complete.”

Turning, you look into a pair of blue eyes.

“Thank you,” you rasp, voice scratchy.

He shifts on his feet, nude body covered with his own animal skin. The various men and women are walking back to the village, preparing the feast that is to follow the ritual. Leon stands next to you, a warm and quiet presence while you gain your bearings once more.

You walk in silence, side by side, through the forest. It’s a companionable feeling, a sense of peace that pervades you. The man beside you coughs lightly.

“Priestess,” he pauses for a breath. “May I dance with you at the fire tonight?”

Heat suffuses your chest, and you smile at him, dried blood flaking from the movement.

“I’d like that, Leon.”

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