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f3mme-f4tale · 5 months

Text

which witch

part one

word count: 4k potential warnings: potential depictions of violence, sexual content, fingering (r! receiving) adult themes (explicit language), tension, angst, world building, more to come... pairing: rebel!ellie x princess!reader (categorized within the knight!ellie aesthetic)

authors note: there are some influences from game of thrones! :))

A cloud of gray smoke lingered above the vine-infested concrete walls of the booming city, machinery roaring to life and wildering conversations floating in the thick air. A war was looming over the Sovereign City, an invading force from the south eagerly plowing through the skin-biting tundra. The hundreds of guilds within the city's walls fed the economy, although some whisper that underground trading of magic folk is what really fuels the financial state. A spy for the rebellion circled the local market, running her hands over the bruised fruit and eyeing the common folk cautiously, trying her best to go undetected. The city center was preparing for the Sun Festival, ironic given the smog that shielded nearly all sunlight.

A local fruit stand was at the center of the market, an older gentleman staffing the exotic fruit from outside the city walls. Bright, intricate starfruit and jelly-filled strawberry papayas littered the concrete mosaic ground. A small goat with a blue bell was tied haphazardly to a post, the yarn fraying with every slight tug from the animal. A group of children dressed in muted shades of brown and green played a game of dice on the other side of the courtyard, daring each other to steal blackberries. The butcher’s son was pushing a small wagon of discarded meat and small fish bones towards an alley, likely to discard the leftovers.

The spy was adorned in local fabrics, muted mismatched stitching holding together a quilt-like material that resembled a shawl. Her deep maple hair cascaded down her neck with a simple silver pin holding some pieces out of her face. Her fingertips were stained with nightshade, her left-hand concealing a small dagger. The weapon was known for immediately striking down any foe, its metal laced with poison. Magic folk and creatures were no exception, despite their enchantments. An abstract fox decorated the handle, a symbol of the rebellion against the empire. On her hip was a small satchel containing various assortments of herbs, sliced plum mushrooms, and powdered oleander seeds. Being a spy, a magic one at that, had its benefits.

The spy detected a woman pocketing something from a guard across the courtyard. She watched her scurry away down an alley, not before stealing a fig from one of the stands. With the day being as slow as it had been, she reasoned that any mischief became her mischief. As she made her way towards where the other woman went, her grip tightened on the weapon. Upon turning down the alley, she seemingly vanished. It was not often that the spy’s prey escaped her sight, not since she was a child at least. At the last possible moment, a speck of red disappeared through a doorway fifty feet in front of her. Swallowing a sigh, she followed.

Inside was a desolate old factory, broken machinery sprawled across the floor and spray paint covering the walls. Sigils were marked on the concrete ground – emblems and allegories from The Blackmoor Book. She questioned how someone within the walls could have such knowledge, risking the high court finding such symbolism.

What was this place?

She did not dwindle on this apprehension long, sinking into the shadows and scanning the place for that woman. A crackly, high-pitched laugh erupted from the other side of the room. Before thinking twice, the spy was across the room in mere seconds, her knife pressed firmly against the mystery woman’s throat, as if in reflex.

“Ya know for as skilled as you are, I figured you’d recognize me,” the woman pestered, her dialect thick. The spy could place the voice, but the face was distant from her mind. The blade stayed against her throat, the pressure never wavering.

“Ellie,” she cooed, “it’s me.”

There was nothing I could do. My feet were lodged between the large stones that decorated the bottom of the fast river, the murky sand blinding my vision and setting my lungs on fire. I was becoming weak, fighting a losing battle with the force of the water. I wanted to give up, to let the depths swallow me whole and my mind run blank. My fingers just barely reached the surface, scratching at the sliver of life that was never fully mine. The anxiety was bubbling up from my stomach and began to make me tremble with complete fear; I wasn’t getting out of this.

Once, when I was young, I would swim in streams and small rivers just like this one. Uncle would be back at the village, father out with the council. My older foster brother would often join me, teaching me how to catch the fish and which plants could be used for medicine. When it was a quiet day, we would read books to the frogs and small insects. Now, at the precipice of death, I can only focus on the day he showed me how to fashion an arrowhead. On how his fingers made sharp movements and the glimmer in his eyes was its purest. He was the mouth of God; I took his words as religion. But he wasn’t there.

My arms grew numb, my body losing sensation. This was it. This was how I was finally going. I screamed against the current and inhaled the river. As my vision darkened and I began to accept defeat, I remembered the reason I was trying to traverse across in the first place; the heaviness of the guilt weighing me down. I made a promise, I swore to him. They were going to die, and it was all my fault. It was a mistake to think I could perform this journey alone, inexperienced.

And then I could breathe again. My fingers dug at my chest, eagerly gasping for air. My eyes burned from the sunlight, my right ankle adorning a jagged cut from the rock that once imprisoned me. My savior hovered above me, breathing just as heavily as I was. Where did they come from?

“T-thank you,” I managed to get out once the anxiety subsided, my throat still burning.

Hesitantly, I glanced up in their direction. They were drenched in luminance, a godliness highlighting their physique, black paint dancing across their nose. Meeting their enticing eyes, I realized I recognized them. A local girl a year older than me from the village, her hair tied tight against her head and half of her body soaking wet. She offered me a curt nod, adjusting the straps on her satchel and securing a few stray pieces of hair. The outfit she wore was jarring, nothing like the large tunics the women wore at home. The breeches and sleek overcoat were skin-tight, a throwing knife strapped securely to her thigh. She did not say anything back, leaving me as fast as she appeared.

“Dina,” Ellie mumbled, her voice rough against the soothing nature of Dina’s. Her eyes scanned the other's face, the memories of her childhood friend rushing back to her like a tidal wave. The same black paint was decorated across her nose, symbolizing her coven. Ellie let her guard down, the blade dropping to her side. The sigils made sense then – she grew up in the same village beyond this city within the Withering Woods, learned from the same potions master, and drank the same Mistmoor river water. Their village Jackson’s Crossing, surrounded by the White Mountains and often disregarded on official cartographer maps, was a cloister of small families from varied ethnicities.

Dina’s fingers were also stained a dark purple – evidence of witchcraft. The last time they had seen each other was years prior, back when Ellie was recruited to fight against the tyranny of the High Ruler, who came into power with varying degrees of support from the public. The last she heard of Dina was that she had joined a coven, practicing magic in secret.

She had grown a lot since their last encounter, her scarlet hair now many inches longer and herself several inches taller. They spared each other the formalities in catching up, Ellie reaching for the item Dina snatched from the unsuspecting general just beyond the door. She let her, Ellie’s mind working through possibilities as she brought the ring of keys closer. She should have known; such an item was predictable. Although, what did Dina need them for?

“Trying to sneak someone out of the dungeons, hmm?” she finally spoke, placing her dagger back into the depths of her clothing. Dina smiled at Ellie again, raising her eyebrows and letting her face do the talking. “Ah, well, sneaking into prison seems more your speed anyways.”

“The council has been very unyielding in my request for an audience,” she began, walking a few steps away from Ellie. “So, I’ve had to find my own ways.”

“Why do you wish to speak to them?” Ellie questioned, puzzled as to what her companion could want with them. Dina’s gaze meant nothing but trickery, her smile growing wider and wider. Whatever her intentions, Ellie considered leeching on, her own assignment from the Rebellion creating a need to be inside those palace walls – although for a quite different reason.

“Remember Jesse?” she smirks, running a hand through her locks. Ellie snorts at this – because of course she remembers Jesse, how could she not? They were practically joined at the hip before Ellie left Jackson.

“He’s gotta learn to keep his mouth shut in front of the guards. He’s so pretty, but he can be pretty thick headed sometimes,” Dina scolds, shaking her head. “So, naturally, they’ve finally decided to sentence him after years of causing mayhem.”

“Well, I want in,” Ellie says coldly, adjusting with the fabric that covers her shoulder. Dina squints at her friend, questioning her motivations. “I’ve got orders to relocate a member of the royal family, per the Rebellion's bequest.”

Deep viridian ivy covers the cobblestones and beige pillars of the courtyard, dark shadows stretching up the walls. Rain litters the ground, the damp air an inviting aroma. Billowing clouds darken the sky, the thunder a welcoming presence.

You’re sitting at a desk, candlelight framing your face as you attempt to read the book in your hands. It’s no use however, as your mind is swirling with a million different thoughts. The betrayal of your father cuts deep; all that remains is the stark reality of your pain. You trace the outline of the candle's flame with trembling fingers, its flickering dance mirroring your thundering heartbeat.

A knock at the door interrupts your spiral, haphazardly setting down your book and the weight of the chair creaking as you stand. A woman is on the other side, her curly black hair cascading down her back. The servant's uniform does her no justice, her figure cloaked in a tunic two sizes too big. You raise an eyebrow, questioning the intruder at such a late hour.

“Yes?” you ask, voice wavering slightly. You know she can see the dismay in your face, your eyes all too forgiving. You instinctively hunch your shoulders, nails pushing into the meat of your palm, knuckles turning white.

“Lord David sent me to draw you a bath, my lady. He wants you to be clean and fresh for your engagement tomorrow,” she responds, bowing her head. She holds clean linens and a sponge in her hand, a slight look of sorrow crossing her face that you almost miss. You step aside begrudgingly, letting her through.

Large buckets of water make their rounds over the fire as the servant works to untie the laces of your bodice, making quick work of the material. The cool air filtering through the partially opened window makes your skin grow cold, the woman helping you out your chemise, body bare to her wandering gaze. Her hands were warm, a stir emerging within your gut. You always disliked having other people bath you, yet you found yourself straightening your back, showing off. She made eye contact with you, half slitted pupils devouring your form. You welcomed this, using your left hand to remove a pin that was keeping your braids in place. She steps behind you to begin dumping the contents of the bucket into a metal tub.

And then suddenly the servant is several inches away, hands agonizingly tracing your shoulders, her breath hot on your neck. She places a small kiss just underneath your ear, a shudder escaping your lips as you tentatively close your eyes. You’d never had someone approach you this way, not unless you count the several forty-something year old male suitors that you had declined since you turned sixteen years ago.

The servant uses one hand to pull your hair over to one shoulder as the other palms your bare stomach. You suck in a breath, not pushing her away. You knew this was wrong, save for the fact that she was another woman. What would your father say? What would the maids whisper to each other when they thought no one was looking?

Despite protests shouting against your very core, you remained still, leaning into her frame. You could feel her breasts pressing into your back, her right hand dancing dangerously close to the space between your legs. Her left hand dragged across your chest, fingers grazing and pulling. When her right hand plunged into your slick, you leaned your head back against her shoulder.

“Lay down, my lady,” she murmured, gently moving your already wrecked body towards the bed in the corner. You obliged, sitting on the edge. She pushed you down, immediately dropping down to her knees. You were new to this, not even daring to touch yourself. Her mouth felt foreign on your pelvis, but you bucked up into her face regardless.

Her tongue slid across you, pink bud becoming raw from the friction. When she pushed two fingers inside of you, a borderline scream escaped your delicate lips. The swell of your breasts bounced as she began to pick up her pace, rocking your body against the frame of the bed and adding another slender digit. Her tongue continues its assault on your clit, forcing you to take it, to take all of it.

It’s over before you realize, her face covered in you. You pull her up by the collar of her uniform, forcing her lips against yours. She’s taken aback at first, but then melts into the embrace. She’s sticking her tongue into your mouth, the taste of you invading and arousing.

“As much as I’d love to continue Princess,” the woman says suddenly, breaking the kiss. “I did come here to bathe you.” You nod, suddenly extremely aware of your surroundings and how easily you folded under her touch – a woman’s touch.

As she dumped another bucket of hot water into the metal tub, you gazed off absentmindedly. Her coarse fingers work through your locks, detangling the pieces that frame your face.

“You’re so beautiful, but you have to keep him happy. He gets bored easily.”

You glance over at her, noticing the way the fireplace behind her makes her skin glow.

“I don’t want you to end up, well, like the others,” she sighs, moving to grab a rag to clean your skin with. You were so used to the mindless handling of your body that sometimes you forgot how vulnerable you could be.

“W-what others?” you croaked, tension once again creeping up your spine and through your fingers. You felt her movements stiffen, realizing she spoke out of turn.

“Oh, I shouldn’t, it’s all hearsay. I apologize, my lady,” she replies, her actions becoming more disorderly. You watch her closely, her sudden discomfort adding another layer of unease to the already heavy atmosphere. Despite her attempt to backtrack, your curiosity is piqued, and you press further.

"No, please, tell me," you insist, your voice barely above a whisper. She hesitates, torn between loyalty to her lord and a desire to warn you. Finally, she speaks, her voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire.

"There have been others before you," she begins, her words careful and measured. "Women who were... chosen, like you." Your heart pounds in your chest, the implications of her words sinking in. You swallow hard, pushing down the rising sense of dread threatening to overwhelm you.

"What happened to them?" you ask, your voice trembling despite your efforts to remain composed. She hesitates again, her gaze dropping to the floor as if unable to meet your eyes.

"They... disappeared," she murmurs, her voice barely audible. "Some say that he grows tired of his playthings, discarding them when they no longer amuse him, banished to distant lands never to return. Others whisper darker tales of rituals and… well," she clarifies, her hands shaking as she runs her nimble fingers through your hair once more.

You struggle to process the implications of her revelation, the realization dawning on you with sickening clarity. "You mean... they're dead?" you whisper, the words feeling foreign and surreal on your tongue. You turn to her fully, putting on a show of false confidence. “This is my home. He can’t frighten me.”

“Of course, my lady. Forgive me.”

You nod, still reeling from her earlier words. As she finishes bathing you, you're left alone with your thoughts once more. The warmth of the water does little to soothe the chill in your bones, the weight of impending responsibilities pressing down on you like a suffocating blanket.

“Will I see you again?” You mumble, eyes pleading with the woman as she’s half way out of your chamber, a robe now draped around your figure. A frown catches her lips, a sigh is all the answer you need.

“I’m afraid not,” she finally answers, yet doesn’t move from her place at the door. You feel your stomach drop, reaching out to catch her lips in a kiss once more. This one is less aggressive, a plea for more. She cups your cheek softly, kissing you back. “It’s not safe. We live in a world where desires are often sacrificed for duty.”

As she finally steps away, you watch her silhouette fade into the dimly lit corridor beyond your chamber. A sense of loss washes over you, as you're left in the silence of your chambers. The flames of the candles flicker ominously, casting dancing shadows on the walls. You try to shake off the unease settling in your chest, but the seed of doubt planted by the woman’s words grows with each passing moment.

You know you should rest, to prepare yourself for the challenges that lie ahead, but sleep eludes you. Instead, you find yourself pacing the room, the echoes of your footsteps mingling with the whispers of your own fears.

This union is a death sentence, a promise made to satisfy your fathers requests. Your older sister was the next in line to rule, your brother already married off to a Duchess in the East. You would never sit on the throne; the pressure of said title always out of reach but forever a taunt. You could taste the longing for power – a snake wrapping around your heart, squeezing.

By marrying Lord David, you help ease the emerging tensions between the East and South kingdoms within the empire. It had long been kept secret that you were a bastard, a lie living a life of luxury. Guilt ate away at you from every inch of your skin, your real mother a ghost of your past. Of course, maids and servants talked. That said, the effort to uphold the ruler's dignity and honor reigned supreme; Those who were caught gossiping would meet a punishment worse than castration.

You understand the importance of maintaining stability within the empire, of ensuring peace between rival factions. But on the other hand, there's the gnawing fear that grips you, the fear of being trapped in a loveless marriage, of becoming just another casualty in the game of power and ambition.

You remember the stories you heard as a child, tales of kings and queens whose lives were dictated by duty rather than desire. You used to dream of a different fate for yourself, of finding love and happiness on your own terms. But now, as the reality of your situation sinks in, those dreams seem like distant echoes of a naive past.

Tomorrow, you will be betrothed to a man you hardly know; a union forged by politics and alliances. When morning comes, you will rise with a sense of resignation, steeling yourself for the path laid out before you.

Dawn breaks upon a canvas of melancholy, the sky adorned in swathes of slate-hued clouds. You dress in a gown of regal elegance, each layer of silk and lace feeling like a shroud closing in around you. Your reflection in the mirror is a stranger's face, masked behind a facade of composure that belies the turmoil within. As you fasten the intricate clasps of your necklace – a delicate chain of platinum interwoven with strands of glistening rhodonite and sunstone – you can't help but wonder if you're adorning yourself for a wedding or a funeral.

Downstairs, guests mingle in clusters of polished nobility. Their smiles are as artificial as the flowers adorning the tables, masking the alliances and rivalries that simmer beneath the surface. You navigate the crowd with practiced grace, exchanging pleasantries and feigned enthusiasm.

In the grand hall, where sunlight filters through stained glass, illuminating the opulence of the surroundings, you stand amidst a sea of faces, each one a mask concealing clandestine desires. At the center of it all stands Lord David, a towering figure of authority and ambition. His gaze finds yours across the room, a flicker of something unreadable passing between you before he turns to greet another guest.

His eyes, like shards of obsidian, pierce through the veneer of social niceties. As he acknowledges your presence with a nod of his head, you offer a polite smile, concealing the turmoil churning within your breast. His lips curve in response, but there is a hardness in his gaze. With unspoken haste, the sea of guests transitioned into the next room, organizing into rows.

Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, casting kaleidoscopic patterns of color upon the assembled guests. The delicate lace of your veil cascaded like a waterfall around you, framing your face in a halo of soft radiance. Lord David, regal and imposing, awaited you at the altar.

As you drew near, the murmurs of the crowd fell silent, and all that remained was the steady rhythm of your heartbeat echoing in your ears. With each step, you felt the weight of expectation pressing down upon you, the gravity of the moment settling like a cloak upon your shoulders.

At last, you stood face to face with Lord David, your hands trembling slightly as you clasped his in yours. The officiant's voice filled the air, the solemn words of the vows binding you together. His grip tightened at your wrists, thumb pressing into your pressure point. You fought against the sinking feeling in your chest, the fear washing over your features.

Concealed behind a pillar, at the room's farthest edge, stood a guest with a blade, its hilt adorned with an abstract fox; A silent sentinel amidst the opulent chaos. Their gaze, like a river's current, flows over your form, lingering on each curve and contour with a cautious reverence. The bodice of the gown hugs your frame, accentuating the gentle curve of your waist before giving way to a voluminous skirt that pools around your feet in a sea of soft fabric. Layers upon layers of tulle and organza lend an air of weightless beauty to the ensemble, each fold and pleat catching the light in a mesmerizing dance.

The spy stole a final glance at the princess, and for a brief moment, she could've sworn she saw a glimmer of fear entrenched in your gaze. Rancorously, Ellie envisioned taking a blade to Lord David's throat and smiling as the congealed mess of his arteries betrayed him. She shoved the wrinkled piece of parchment into the confines of her satchel. Her mission began.

Secure the youngest daughter of the sovereign.

taglist: @seraphicsentences @onlinelesbo @yumimak @elliewilliamsblunt @bready101

#tlou2 #ellie williams #fanfic #lesbian #tlou #ellie x reader #wlw #ellie x fem reader #free palestine #ellie williams fic

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amoreva · 7 months

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FEIGNING FOR YA’

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CHAPTER 1.5

pairing: luke castellan x fem!reader

summary: as a little childish act of rebellion, you try dating your friend, Luke Castellan, to really piss off your perfectionist parents (for a actual real reason, not the small things they hate). what was supposed to be no strings attached turned into a little more than just childish revenge.

warnings: slow burn, college au, smau, fake dating to dating, cursing, clarisse x chris, aged up! pjo charcters, yn is older sister figure to percy, luke and thalia are older sibling figures to annabeth

a/n: smau! the posts that happened during the chapter today!!

series list | next

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FINAL DAYS OF SPRING BREAK!

seaweedbrain

♫ The Temptations - My Girl

Liked by juniper.xo, racheleliz, travisstoll and 59 others

seaweedbrain yeah, that’s my girlfriend 😎

📍greece

tagged wisegirl

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juniper.xo aww 😍

yn.ln percy is in loveee

seaweedbrain when I get back, watch yourself 😒 yn.ln okay loverboy 🙄

wisegirl ❤️

travisstoll eww, cooties

connorstoll eww, PDA seaweedbrain hello, i need to buy a gun 🙃 tyson for rock paper scissors, right? tyson percy, right? tyson right.

lukecastellan thaliagrace, annie is kissing boys

thaliagrace womp womp womp 🎺 seaweedbrain woot woot 🙌

clarisselarue

Liked by silenabeau, chris.rod and 231 others

clarisselarue last days of spring break 💋

📸 - chris.rod

tagged silenabeau, chris.rod, lukecastellan, yn.ln

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yn.ln literally my wives are so pretty

clarisselarue my wife is gorgeous 🫵 silenabeau love you sm yn 😘 chris.rod clarisselarue ???

chris.rod camera creds, oh yeahh 💪

seaweedbrain w/o me 😔

wisegirl we’re in another country?? lukecastellan you’re literally 12 yn.ln we don’t condone underage drinking 🙅‍♀️ seaweedbrain I’M ALMSOT 20

user1 location? 📍

yn.ln GORGEOSU BABES

thaliagrace otw back rn

silenabeau ❤️❤️

clarisselarue posted a story!

thaliagrace posted a story!

juniper.xo

Liked by yn.ln, wisegirl, groverunderwood and 23 others

juniper.xo he said “the moon is beautiful, isn’t it?” 🙃

tagged groverunderwood

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groverunderwood loml<3

wisegirl where did you guys go?

juniper.xo festival!!!

yn.ln cutie patooties

racheleliz the color palette 😍

groverunderwood it is beautiful!

silenabeau he’s a keeper

yn.ln

Liked by clarisselarue, cbeckendorf, silenabeau and 191 others

yn.ln your honor, i have a confession to make

tagged lukecastellan

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silenabeau UH YEAH YOU DO??

chris.rod this was not on my 20XX bingo card

user2 another baddie bagged 😔

clarisselarue cheating on me with castellan?

yn.ln NOOO, i promise babe it’s not like that yn.ln i’ll make it up to you 🙏 clarisselarue make it up to me with an explanantion, please. clarisselarue please? clarisselarue yn.

travisstoll since

connorstoll uh

travisstoll WHEN??

seaweedbrain what.

seaweedbrain not yn, she’s too good for him

lukecastellan ikr 🧎‍♂️ seaweedbrain DISGUTISBG yn.ln be nice

racheleliz so I need to throw my blue hairbrush at both of you now? 🤔

thaliagrace luke henry castellan, explain.

lukecastellan 🤫🤫 lukecastellan also not even my middle name?? seaweedbrain sounds like someone with the middle name henry would say

user3 cute!!

user4 whattt

chris.rod the radio silence??

silenabeau answer your texts 😒

cbeckendorf yn. silena is freaking out and running around the dorm, explain. please 🙏

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taglist:

@happy-mushrooms @m00ng4z3r

#luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #percy jackon and the olympians #luke castellan pjo #luke castellan fic series #college au #pjo smau #smau #luke castellan fluff

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ethanlvndry · 1 year

Text

~♧☆FOCUS ON ME☆♧~

Haganezuka x Black!demon!reader

⚠️:Dub-con, reader is a brat, curvy chubby reader, exhibitionism, size k, blood k, P in V, rough sex. Masturbation

Summary: Y/N was requested to go along with Gyokko and Hantengu on their mission to swordsmith village after leaving Muichiro to Gyokko. She finds herself taking a liking to a concentrated swordsmith. Now she's trying to break his focus, but finds herself struggling at comes up with an idea that just might or might not work 🤔.

_____________

"STAY AWAY!"

You've been trying to get a frightened, puny swordsmith out of your way for 5 solid minutes. Gyokko told me he looked like he was hiding something, so I went to check it out while he handled that frail pillar.

"Who are you to tell ME what to do?"

I raise my leg and kick him on his chest, sending him flying into the wall. I look around, and my eyes land on a moving body.

"Don't tell me you were just trying to hide your friend. I really thought I was about to see some action!"

Wait...what's that scraping sound?

I look closer and see the body is moving a sword.

"Wow, you're putting in so much work for a sword that I'm going to ruin in less than 5 seconds."

I pause to let him answer, but instead, he continues to forge his weak strip of metal.

"Hello? You can hear me, can't you?"

UGH. This guy's really getting on my fucking nerves! How dare he ignore such a specimen?!

Plenty of guys would KILL to have me look their way!

"HEY, FOCUS ON ME"

I whip out my blood demon art.

Sharp Illusion

It allows me to make people feel pain without actually harming their body.

I lash out on his back, but he still continues, a chunk of his mask crumbling down. But he keeps on working. On that stupid. SWORD!

I grumble before lashing out on his back again. This time his whole mask crumbles down. And oh.my.gosh.

He's gorgeous.

I feel a throb right where I need him, and it makes me want to act on my instincts.

"Don't you want to take a break from your task and ravage me before I kill you?"

...still no answer

I decide to physically get his attention. I March over to him and push his hair off his sweaty for head and behind his ear.

I'm shoved away by the puny swordsmith from before and my face almost instantly sours.

"Stay away from Haganezuka-san, you filthy demon!"

His rebellion is cut off by another kick to the chest, this time strategically placed, so that he would be down for a while.

Atleast long enough for me to get what I want.

I focus myself back on 'Haganezuka'

and rub his shoulders, watching them relax out of their tense position earlier. Still, he works on the sword.

"Haganezuka~ I know you want me~"

I find myself getting irritated with his ongoing concentration, and I decide that if I want to break it, I've gotta go all out.

I fall to my knees and massage his shoulders again. This time, my hands slowly start to trail farther down. Eventually reaching the draw string of his pants.

I untie the knot and pull out his cock. A smirk starts to form as I hear a shift in his breathing.

"Do I have your attention now, Haganezuka?"

Still no answer, but this time, my grin doesn't falter. I instead circle two of my fingers around his fat mushroom tip, and trail two fingers on my other hand to my hot pussy.

I moan out his name in an attempt to get his full focus on me, but I fail miserably.

I try other things even kissing him, but he just stays in place and continues working on his stupid sword.

I'm in, hopefully, my final attempt to get his attention. I pull his pants father down and pull my skirt all the way up.

I crawl on his lap and grumble as he continues to work on his sword, only moving his arms around me so he can continue working.

I line his tip up with my hole and let out a sigh before plunging down, taking him all the way inside of me.

"Fuck Mr Haganezuka, your cock feels so good!"

If he answered me, it was through grunts and grits of his teeth. I bounce up and down on his cock, and wrap my arms around his neck for stability.

Once my climax is in reach, I bounce faster than before, and finally, I let go all over the both of us, ruining both of our clothes.

"I never knew a uppermoon thought more of sex than consuming flesh of a human. What a slut."

I gasped at the first words spoken directly towards me from the man who I've been intercoursing with. But it's cut short when he suddenly grabs my hips and plunges into me with little to no stops in between. I Can barely get out a word from my overstimulated state.

I sob and cry in an effort for him to stop, but he won't.

And I love it.

I feel my vision getting fuzzy, and slowly, my head goes limp off to the side.

_____________

#hotaru haganezuka #haganezuka x reader #demon slayer haganezuka #kny haganezuka #haganezuka x black reader #haganezuka x demon reader #kny smut #kny x reader #demon slayer smut #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer x black!fem!reader #demon slayer x black reader #demon slayer

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fourthwingfan · 7 months

Text

Madness - Chapter 7

Warning: violence, mention of past abuse, swearing etc

I hope you enjoy the new chapter :)

In the best interest of preserving peace within Navarre, no more than three cadets carrying rebellion relics may be assigned to any squad of any quadrant.

– Addendum 5.2, Basgiath War College Code of Conduct

In addition to last year’s changes, marked ones assembling in groups of three or more will now be considered an act of seditious conspiracy and is hereby a capital offense.

– Addendum 5.3, Basgiath War College Code of Conduct

“Damn it” I mutter as my toe catches a rock, and I stumble in the waist-high grass that grows alongside the river beneath the citadel. The moon is nice and full, illuminating my way, but it means I’m sweating to death in this cloak to keep hidden, just in case anyone else is out here wandering after curfew. If on my way back from the General someone questioned me why I was out, then I had a good excuse. But now? It would be troublesome.

The Iakobos River rushes with summer runoff from the peaks above, and the currents are fast and deadly this time of year, especially coming out of the steep drop of the ravine. No wonder that first-year died when he fell in yesterday during our downtime. Since Parapet, we lost two first-years.

I move closer to the river, along the ancient line of oaks where I know one vine of fonilee berries will be coming into season soon. Ripe, the purple berries are tart and barely edible but, picked prematurely and left to dry, will make an excellent weapon in Vi’s hands. She knows a lot about poisonous herbs. She has a book that contains dozens of them.

Spotting the boulder I’ve used as a landmark for the past five years, I count the trees on the riverbank. “One, two, three” I whisper, spotting the exact oak I’ll need. Its branches spread wide and high, some even daring to reach out over the river.

It’s strange. The grass is more trampled around the tree, then I expect if Vi was already here.

“Vi?” I whisper “Are you here?”

Silence. Then…

“Aelin?” I see Violet’s head pop out between two branches near the top.

“How did you get up there with your arm?” I raise an eyebrow.

“It wasn’t really that difficult.” She sighs.

“Then I’ll climb up too and help you gather these berries.” I grab a lowest branch and start to climb toward Vi.

The fonilee vines looks deceptively like ivy as it winds up the trunk, but I’ve scaled this particular tree enough times to know this is the one. The tips of the vine leaves are white at this height, barely visible in the mottled through the canopy, but I grin as I see that Vi found a lot of those berries.

“Here” she whispers and hands me a vial.

Then I pluck just enough berries off the vine to fill the glass and shove the stopper back in.

“There. It should be enough to make it through the next challenges.” I hand it back to her.

“I collected mushrooms and other items, so I’m set for about a month.” She packs back the vial in her bag.

“Good. You’re a genious Vi.” I grin at her and start to climb down the tree.

I’m almost down the tree, only a handful of branches to go, when I spot movement beneath me and pause.

I signal Vi to stop. She pauses and looks at me quiestioningly. I point down and signal her to be silent.

Hopefully it’s just a deer.

But it’s not.

Two figures in black cloaks - apparently tonight’s disguise of choice - walk under the protection of the tree.

Maybe it’s a meeting point we didn’t know. It makes sense that the grass was visibly trampled around the tree.

The smaller one leans back against the lowest limb, removing her hood to reveal a half-shaved head of pink hair I know all too well.

Imogen, Violet’s squadmate who nearly ripped off her arm.

My stomach tightens, then knots as the second rider slips off his own hood.

Xaden Riorson.

Oh shit.

There’s a few feet between us. I can’t do anything to conceal us. If they look up surely they’ll see us.

They begin speaking, but I can’t hear what they’re saying, not with the river rushing by. Relief fills my lungs. If I can’t hear them, they can’t hear me either, as long as we don’t move. Imogen probably can’t see us from her place, but Xaden can. Shit, all it takes is for him to look up, and I’ll be toast, literally if he decides to feed me to that Blue Daggertail of his. Maybe Violet is high enough in the tree not to be seen. The moonlight I was thankful for a few minutes ago has now become our biggest liability.

Slowly, carefully, quietly I move out of the patchy moonlight to the next branch over, cloaking myself in shadow. What is he doing out here with Imogen? Are they lovers? But Xaden said that they aren’t. Friends? It’s absolutely none of my business, and yet I can’t help but wonder if she’s the kind of woman he goes for - one whose beauty is only outmatched by her brutality. They fucking deserve each other.

Xaden turns away from the river, as though he’s looking for someone, and sure enough, more riders arrive, gathering under the tree. They’re all dressed in black cloaks as they shake hands. And they all have rebellion relics.

My eyes widen as I count. There are almost two dozen of them, a few third-years and a couple of seconds, but the rest are all firsts. I know the rules. Marked ones can’t gather in groups larger than three. They’re committing a capital offense simply by being together. It’s obviously a meeting of some sort, and I feel like a cat clinging to the leaf-tipped limbs of this tree while the wolves circle below.

Their gathering could be completely harmless, right? Maybe they’re homesick, like when the cadets from the Morraine province all spend a Saturday at the nearby lake just because it reminds them of the ocean they miss so much.

Or maybe marked ones are plotting to burn Basgiath to the ground and finish what their parents started.

’Report them’ I hear the general’s voice in my head.

No. I don’t know what is this meeting, but if it’s something harmless then I can’t do that. They suffered enough because of a Melgren. I don’t want to be like my father. Never.

Shit. Shit. Shit. I have to get closer.

I signal Vi to don’t move as keeping myself on the opposite side of the trunk and sticking to the shadows that wrap around me, I climb down another branch with sloth-like speed, holding my breath as I test each branch with a fraction of my weight before lowering myself. Their voices are still muffled by the river, but I can hear the loudest of them all, a tall, dark-haired man with pale skin, whose shoulders take up twice the space of any first-year, standing opposite Xaden’s position and wearing the rank of a third-year. That’s Garrick? I only see him talk to Liam once, but he’s always by Xaden’s side.

“We’ve already lost Sutherland and Luperco” he says, but I can’t make out the response.

It takes two more rungs of branches before their words are clear. I’m close enough for any one of them to see if they look hard enough - well, except Xaden, since his back is turned toward me now.

I can see familiar faces from my hiding place. Liam. Another squadmate, Ethan. And some first-years whose name I don’t remember.

“Like it or not, we’re going to have to stick together if you want to survive until graduation” Imogen says.

I just happen to value my own life more than I want revenge at the moment, so I keep my feet to myself.

“And if they’re find out we’re meeting?” a first-year girl with an olive complexion asks, her eyes darting around the circle.

“We’ve done this for two years and they’ve never found out,” Xaden responds, folding his arms and leaning back against the limb below my right. “They’re not going to unless one of you tells. And if you tell, I’ll know.” The threat is obvious in his tone. “Like Garrick said, we’ve already lost two first-years to their own negligence. There are only forty-one of us in the Riders Quadrant, and we don’t want to lose any of you, but we will if you don’t help yourselves. The odds are always stacked against us, and trust me, every other Navarrian in the quadrant will look for reasons to call you a traitor or force you to fail.”

There’s a muttered assent, and my breath hitches at the intensity in his voice. Damn it, I don’t want to find a single thing about Xaden Riorson admirable, and yet here he is, being all annoyingly admirable. Asshole.

Have to admit, it would be nice if a high-ranking rider from my province gave a shit if the rest of us from the province lived or died.

“How many of you are getting your asses handed to you in hand-to-hand?” Xaden asks.

Four hands shoot into the air.

“Shit,” Xaden swears, and I would give anything to see his expression as he lifts a hand to his face.

The big one—Garrick—sighs. “I’ll teach them.” I recognize him now. He’s the Flame Section leader in Fourth Wing.

Xaden shakes his head. “You’re our best fighter—”

“You’re our best fighter,” a second-year near Xaden counters with a quick grin. He’s handsome, with tawny brown skin crowned by a cloud of black curls and a litany of patches on what I can see of his uniform under his cloak. His features are close enough to Xaden’s that they might be related. Cousins, maybe? Fen Riorson had a sister, if I remember correctly. Shit, what was the guy’s name?

“Dirtiest fighter, maybe,” Imogen snarks.

Most everyone laughs, and even the first-years crack a smile.

“Fucking ruthless is more like it,” Garrick adds.

There’s a general consensus of nods, including one from Liam.

“Garrick is our best fighter, but Imogen is right up there with him, and she’s a hell of a lot more patient,” Xaden notes, which is just ludicrous considering she didn’t seem too patient while breaking Violet’s arm. “So the four of you split yourselves up between the two of them for training. A group of three won’t draw any unwanted attention. What else is giving you trouble?”

“I can’t do this,” a gangly first-year says, rolling his shoulders inward and lifting his slim fingers to his face.

“What do you mean?” Xaden asks, his voice taking on a hard edge.

“I can’t do this!” The smaller one shakes his head. “The death. The fighting. Any of it!” The pitch of his voice rises with every statement. “A guy had his neck snapped right in front of me on assessment day! I want to go home! Can you help me with that?”

Every head swings toward Xaden.

“No.” Xaden shrugs. “You’re not going to make it. Best accept it now and not take up more of my time.”

It’s all I can do to smother my gasp, and some of the others in the group don’t bother trying. What. A. Dick. The smaller guy looks stricken, and I can’t help but feel bad for him.

“That was a little harsh, cousin,” the second-year who looks a little like Xaden says, lifting his eyebrows.

“What do you want me to say, Bodhi?” Xaden cocks his head to the side, his voice calm and even. “I can’t save everyone, especially not someone who isn’t willing to work to save themselves.”

“Damn, Xaden.” Garrick rubs the bridge of his nose. “Way to give a pep talk.”

“If they need a fucking pep talk, then we both know they’re not flying out of the quadrant on graduation day. Let’s get real. I can hold their hands and make them a bunch of bullshit empty promises about everyone making it through if that helps them sleep, but in my experience, the truth is far more valuable.” He turns his head, and I can only assume he’s looking at the panicked first-year. “In war, people die. It’s not glorious like the bards sing about, either. It’s snapped necks and two-hundred-foot falls. There’s nothing romantic about scorched earth or the scent of sulfur. This”—he gestures back toward the citadel—“isn’t some fable where everyone makes it out alive. It’s hard, cold, uncaring reality. Not everyone here is going to make it home…to whatever’s left of our homes. And make no mistake, we are at war every time we step foot in the quadrant.” He leans forward slightly. “So if you won’t get your shit together and fight to live, then no. You’re not going to make it.”

Only crickets dare to break the silence.

“Now, someone give me a problem I can actually solve,” Xaden orders.

“Battle Brief,” a first-year I recognize says softly. Her bunk is only a row away from ours. Shit…what’s her name? There are too many women in the hall to know everyone, but I’m certain she’s in Third Wing. “It’s not that I can’t keep up, but the information…” She shrugs.

“That’s a tough one,” Imogen responds, turning to look at Xaden. Her profile in the moonlight is almost unrecognizable as the same person who shredded Vi’s shoulder. That Imogen is cruel, vicious even. But the way she’s looking at Xaden softens her eyes, her mouth, her whole posture as she tucks a short strand of pink hair behind her ear.

“You learn what they teach you,” Xaden says to the first-year, his voice taking a hard edge. “Keep what you know but recite whatever they tell you to.”

My brow furrows. What the hell does he mean by that? Battle Brief is one of the classes taught by scribes to keep the quadrant up-to-date on all nonclassified troop movements and battle lines. The only things we’re asked to recite are recent events and general knowledge of what’s going on near the front lines. At least I thought so, but after the meeting with the General I have a feeling that there’s a lot more going on than they le us know. Otherwise why would he want me to report everything about Xaden and the marked-ones? And that strange dagger. It’s only logical if all of this is somehow connected.

“Anyone else?” Xaden asks. “You’d better ask now. We don’t have all night.”

I realize then—other than being gathered in a group of more than three, there’s nothing wrong with what they’re doing here. There’s no plot, no coup, no danger. It’s just a group of older riders counseling first-years from their province.

“When do we get to kill Violet Sorrengail and Aelin Melgren?” a guy toward the back asks.

My blood turns to ice. The murmur of assent among the group sends a jolt down my spine.

“Yeah, Xaden,” Imogen says sweetly, lifting her pale green eyes to him. “When do we get to finally have our revenge?”

He turns just enough for me to see his profile and the scar that crosses his face as he narrows his eyes at Imogen. “I told you already, the daughters of generals are mine, and I’ll handle them when the time is right.”

He’ll…handle us? My muscles thaw with the heat of indignation. I’m not some inconvenience to be handled. My short-lived admiration of Xaden is over.

“Didn’t you already learn that lesson, Imogen?” the look-alike Xaden chides from halfway down the circle. “What I hear, that Melgren girl did a number on you on the mat.”

Imogen’s head snaps in his direction. “She was just lucky. Besides Sorrengail’s mother is responsible for the execution of my mom and sister. I should have done more than just snap her shoulder.”

“Her mom is responsible for the capture of nearly all our parents,” Garrick counters, folding his arms over his wide chest. “Not her daughter. Punishing children for the sins of their parents is the Navarrian way, not the Tyrrish.”

„The same goes to Aelin.” Liam interjects with arms crossed.

„And you fucking friends with her. How can you do that?” Another first-year shouts.

„As Garrick said, she’s not responsible for her father’s actions. And she’s not a bad person.” He answers with narrowed eyes.

That’s…kind of him. I mean everybody down there hate me but he isn’t. It seems he’s really my friend. I feel somehow relieved.

“So we get conscripted because of what our parents did years ago and shoved into this death sentence of a college—” Imogen starts.

In case you didn’t notice, they’re in the same death sentence of a college,” Garrick retorts. “Seems like they’re already suffering the same fate.”

“Don’t forget the youngest Sorrengail’s brother was Brennan Sorrengail,” Xaden adds. “She has just as much reason to hate us as we do her. And I heard that Melgren grew up with the Sorrengails.” He pointedly looks at Imogen and the first-years who raised the questions. “And I’m not going to tell you again. They’re mine to handle. Anyone feel like arguing?”

Silence reigns.

„Good. Then get back to bed and go in threes.” He motions with his head, and they slowly disperse, walking away in groups of threes just like he ordered. Xaden is the last to leave.

I draw a slow breath. Holy shit, we just might live through this. But I have to be sure they’re gone. I don’t move a muscle, and signal Violet to do the same as I count to five hundred in my head, breathing as evenly as possible to soften the beats of my galloping heart. Only when I’m sure we’re alone, when the squirrels scurry past on the ground, do I finish climbing from the tree, jumping the last four feet to the grassy floor. Violet is almost down too.

A shadow lunges behind me and I open my mouth to shout Violet to run, but my air supply is cut off by an elbow around my neck as I’m yanked against a hard chest.

’Shit. It hurts.’ I thought as pain shots to my cracked ribs.

“Scream and you die,” he whispers, and my stomach plummets as the elbow is replaced by the sharp bite of a dagger at my throat.

I freeze. I��d recognize the rough pitch of Xaden’s voice anywhere. “Fucking Melgren.” His hand yanks back the hood of my cloak.

“How did you know?” My tone is outright indignant, but whatever. If he’s going to kill me, I’m not going down as some simpering little beggar.

He scoffs. “I command shadows, idiot.” He lowers the knife and steps away. „You can come down too, Sorrengail.”

I gasp and briefly touch my ribs. Shit. He eyes my hand curiosly as I lower it as soon as I can. He knows that something is not right. It will give him an advantage.

“Your signet is a shadow wielder? And „idiot”? What happened with the sunshine?” I step away from him, closer to Violet, who lands behind me.

No wonder he’s risen so high in rank. Shadow wielders are incredibly rare and highly coveted in battle, able to disorient entire drifts of gryphons, if not take them down, depending upon the signet’s strength.

“What, Aetos hasn’t warned you not to get caught alone in the dark with me yet?” His voice is like rough velvet along my skin, and I shiver, then draw my own blade from the sheath at my thigh and raise it, ready to defend us to the death.

“If it hadn’t occured to you than Dain and I aren’t exactly friends.” I roll my eyes. „Is this how you plan to handle us?”

“Eavesdropping, were we?” He arches a black brow and sheathes his dagger like I couldn’t possibly pose a threat to him, which only serves to piss me off even more. “Now I might actually have to kill you.” There’s an undertone of truth in those mocking eyes.

This is just…bullshit.

“Then go ahead and get it over with.” I unsheathe another dagger, this one from beneath my cloak where it was strapped in at my ribs, and back up a couple of feet to give me distance. Violet moves with me, daggers in her hands.

He pointedly looks at one dagger, then the other, and sighs, folding his arms across his chest. “You really want to fight with me? You barely won over that second-year and I’m way better than him.”

Cocky bastard.

“I’m better than you think. I’m not some damsel in distress.” I flat-out bluster.

“So I see. I’m quaking in my boots.” The corner of his mouth rises into a mocking smirk.

Fucking. Asshole.

Two daggers shots past me and past his head, one on each side. They land solidly in the trunk of the tree behind him.

“You missed.” He doesn’t even flinch.

Shit, Vi. It’s not a good thing to give him more reason to kill us.

“Did I?” I hear Vi behind me. “Why don’t you back up a couple of steps and test that theory?”

Curiosity flares in his eyes, but it’s gone in the next second, masked by cold, mocking indifference.

Every one of my senses is on high alert, but the shadows around me don’t slide in as he moves backward, his eyes locked with hers. His back hits the tree, and the hilts of her daggers brush his ears.

“Tell me again that I missed,” she threatens.

“Fascinating. You look all frail and breakable, but you’re really a violent little thing, aren’t you?” An appreciative smile curves his perfect lips as shadows dance up the trunk of the oak, taking the form of fingers. They pluck the daggers from the tree and bring them to Xaden’s waiting hands.

My breath abandons me with a sharp exhale. He has the kind of power that could end us without him having to so much as lift a finger —shadow wielding. The futility of even trying to defend myself against him is laughable. But I can’t let him to kill us so easily. I need to buy some time for Vi to run away.

I hate how beautiful he is, how lethal his abilities make him as he strides toward me, shadows curling around his footsteps. His allure is a warning not to get too close, and I am definitely too close. Switching my grip to the hilts of my daggers, I prepare for the attack. He looks ready to slit open my throat.

„Run, Vi!” I order her as I move as fast as I can, as I cut in his direction with my daggers.

He easily dodges, than with a strong blow at my right hand knocks my dagger out of my hand. Swiftly I turn in the other direction to avoid the another attack. It seems he waited for exactly that as he deals a blow with his fist in my side.

The air rushes of my lungs as I drop on my knees. Bloody hell. I cradle my ribs with my hands as I wheeze for air. If they’re not broken now, they never will be.

“You should find another guardian, it seems the current is useless.” He says to Violet as he approaches her. „Show that little trick to Jack Barlowe,” Xaden says, turning his palms upward and offering her the daggers.

Useless? I flinch. That word… A wave of memories tries to drag me under.

“I’m sorry?” She blinks at him.

This is a trick. It has to be a trick.

He moves closer, and she lifts her blade.

My heart stumbles, the beat irregular as fear floods my system. I need to stand up. I push aside the pain, the memories. I need to help Violet.

“The neck-snapping first-year who’s very publicly vowed to slaughter you,” Xaden clarifies. He reaches under her cloak and slides one blade into the sheath at her thigh, then pulls back the side of her cloak and pauses.

I cautiously step beside Vi with another dagger in hand. When I see his face I pause. It’s…strange.

His gaze locks onto the length of her braid where it falls over her shoulder, and I could swear he stops breathing for a heartbeat before he slides the remaining dagger into one of the sheaths at her ribs.

I feel a pang in my chest. What is this feeling? I’m…jealous? Ridiculous.

“He’d probably think twice about plotting your murder if you threw a few daggers at his head.”

This is…this is…bizarre. It has to be some kind of game meant to confuse me, right? And if so, he’s playing it really fucking well.

He actullay likes Violet? He doesn’t hurt her as he did with me.

“Because the honor of my murder belongs to you?” She challenges. “You wanted me dead long before your little club chose my tree to meet under, so I imagine you’ve all but buried me in your mind by now.”

He glances at the dagger poised at his stomach. “Do you plan on telling anyone about my little club?” His eyes meet hers, and there’s nothing but cold, calculating death waiting there.

“No,” she answers.

„Good.” He steps back and turns to me. „And you Melgren? Can you keep shut your mouth?”

„I won’t tell anyone. But not because of you.” I say while sheathing back my daggers. I don’t think he will kill us now.

“Why not?” He tilts his head to the side, examining my face like I’m an oddity. “It’s illegal for the children of separatist officers to assemble in—”

“Groups larger than three. I’m well aware. I’ve lived at Basgiath longer than you.” I lift my chin.

“And you’re not going to run off to Daddy, and tell him we’ve been assembling?” His gaze narrows on mine.

My stomach twists to the mention of the General.

“You were helping them. I don’t see why that should be punished.” It wouldn’t be fair to him or the others. Was their little meeting illegal? Absolutely. Should they die for it? Absolutely not. And that’s exactly what will happen if I tell. Those first-years will be executed for nothing more than asking for tutoring, and the senior cadets will join them just because they helped. “I’m not going to tell.”

He looks at me like he’s trying to see through me, and ice prickles my scalp. My hand is steady, but my nerves tremble at what the next thirty seconds might bring. He can kill us right here, toss our bodies into the river, and no one will know we’re gone until they find us downstream. But I won’t let him end me without drawing his blood first, that’s for damn sure.

“Interesting,” he says softly, then looks at my chest. „What happend with your ribs?”

„Today was assessment day, you know that well.” I lie fluently, I’m good at that.

„Do you mean the second-year whom you fought cracked your ribs?” He raises an eyebrow?

„What other explanation would there be for it?” I’m playing the dumb.

„That’s what I’m curious too.” He crosses his arms. „I watched your match and except from the bruise on your face, the second-year can’t even laid a hand on you. After that I escorted you to the Healers Quadrant. You stayed there until night and with Sorrengail you gone back to the dorms.” He recites my movements with alarming accuracy. „I doubt that you fought someone in the dorms or one of the first-years told us about it.”

„What? Are you watching me that closely?” I try to dodge the topic. He’s smarter than I gave him credit for, and I already knew he’s not an idiot.

„Of course. You’re a threat to all of us, Melgren.” He says. „So where do you get that injury?”

„It’s none of your business, Riorson.” I grit my teeth.

„You told us after Battle Brief that the General wanted to see you after classes.” He thinks out loud. „Someone caught you on your way to, or back from him?” He asks with narrowed eyes.

Violet gasps and I turn my head to her and see the horrified expression on her face.

Shit. I told her years ago that he stopped doing these kind of things. In reality he doesn’t, I just got better hiding the bruises. And now she knows.

„Who hurt you?” He steps closer, with something wavering in his eyes. It’s…pity, and anger? No, it’s impossible, he wants to kill us.

„I say for a last time in case you didn’t hear me earlier, Riorson.” I hiss at him. „It’s none of your fucking business. And if you won’t kill us tonight then we should go back to the dorms.”

“Hm. We’ll see if you keep your word and keep our secret, and if you do, then unfortunately, it looks like I owe you a favor.” Then he steps away, turns, and walks off, heading back toward the staircase in the cliff that leads up to the citadel. Wait. What?

“You’re not going to handle us?” Violet calls after him, shock raising her brows.

I groan. Vi, for fucks sake.

“Not tonight!” he tosses over his shoulder.

She scoffs. “What are you waiting for?”

“It’s no fun if you expect it,” he answers, striding into the darkness. “Now, get back to bed before your wingleader realizes you’re out after curfew.”

“What?” I gawk after him. “You’re our wingleader!”

But he’s already disappeared into the shadows, leaving me talking to myself like a fool.

„Aelin, is the Gen…” Violet turns to me with panick in her eyes.

„Vi.” I hush her. „We’re not going to talk about it. You probably pieced together what happened but that’s all. Someone can hear us.” I look in her eyes with a serious expression.

„But… There has to be a way to stop him.” She says pleadingly.

Sweet, kind Violet. That’s why a lied to her for years.

„Don’t worry, Vi.” I smile at her. „I will handle it. Everything is going to be alright. I won’t see him for who knows how long. It’s another advantage of this quadrant.”

I can’t tell her the General wants weekly reports. She would get herself into trouble on my behalf. I can’t let it.

„I… Okay.” She sighs. „But if I can help you, than you must tell me!” She says firmly.

„Deal.” I smile warmly at her. „Now come, we need to go back. We deserve a good sleep, it was a long day.” I link our arms as we starts our way back to the dorms.

#fanfiction #fourth wing #fourth wing fanfic #liam mairi #the fourth wing #violet sorrengail #xaden riorson #oc #the empyrean #garrick tavis #xaden x oc #xaden riorson x oc

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goodqueenaly · 5 months

Note

Do you think Gaemon Palehair really was Aegon II's bastard, or that at least Aegon III believed he was?

Maybe? On a purely practical level, at least, Gaemon being the son of the future King Aegon II does not seem impossible. Aegon the Elder was certainly living in King’s Landing at the time Gaemon was conceived, and if Gaemon’s mother was herself already living in King’s Landing (and there is no indication that she and Gaemon settled in King's Landing after the latter's birth), there was a possibility of the two meeting and conceiving a son. Even if Gaemon was not necessarily that “boy [Aegon fathered] on a girl whose maidenhood [Aegon] won at auction on the Street of Silk”, according to Mushroom’s gossipy report, this alleged patronage in the sex workers of King’s Landing on Aegon’s part may provide an explanation as to how Aegon the Elder could have fathered Gaemon. Gaemon’s pale hair, of course, could easily be read as an inheritance from his father or other Targaryen antecedents: while we don’t have full details on Aegon’s appearance, GRRM’s report that Aegon bore “a strong resemblance to his father” (who himself had a “silver-gold mustache”) certainly suggests that Aegon also had the pale hair common to Valyrian descendants. Too, it may be notable that unlike the would-be king Trystane Trufyre or the Shepherd, Gaemon was pardoned and made a ward of the crown - a rare act of mercy in the twilight of Aegon II’s reign which perhaps indicates some personal investment on the part of the king in Gaemon’s well-being.

At the same time, I would not say Gaemon being Aegon II’s son is a foregone conclusion. While we should certainly consider the fact that the information came under torture, Essie’s admission that Gaemon’s biological father was a Lysene oarsman is at least a possible explanation for both Gaemon’s existence and his pale hair. Likewise, we have no indication that Aegon II thought particularly fondly of the boy; indeed, unlike with Trystane (where it was Aegon himself who knighted the would-be squire king before the latter was executed), Aegon doesn’t seem to have interacted with Gaemon at all, and the passive voice used by Gyldayn to describe Gaemon’s pardon makes it impossible to tell who directed that decision. (Too, Borros Baratheon’s rough treatment of Gaemon at the time of his capture - “carried back to the Red Keep slung over the back of a horse, chained and weeping” - hardly suggests that he knew, or had been instructed to know, that he was dealing with a king’s son.) There is in fact some real-world historical precedent from which GRRM may be drawing for showing mercy on such a figure: when young Lambert Simnel, probably about 10 years old, was proclaimed “King Edward VI” as the figurehead of a failed Yorkist rebellion against King Henry VII, the first Tudor king showed the boy mercy, not only not executing him but actually giving him a position at court (first in the royal kitchens, and eventually as a court falconer). Nor do I read Aegon III’s affection for Gaemon as indicating some secret knowledge of the latter’s supposed royal lineage: not only would Aegon III himself have had no reason to know who Gaemon’s biological father was, but Gyldayn makes it pretty explicit that Aegon’s care for Gaemon came as a direct result of the young king’s sorrow over the (supposed) loss of his own younger brother, Viserys (and to that point, Gyldayn notes that after “Prince Viserys … became King Aegon’s constant companion” following his return, “Gaemon Palehair was cast aside and forgotten”).

Ultimately, I would say the answer doesn’t really matter, both because we’ll probably never get the objective truth on the matter and because the narrative does not really dwell on the question. Gyldayn merely refers to Gaemon as “supposedly a bastard of the missing King Aegon II” and later as a “bastard born of a whore” (and specifically used the last designation to explain why Gaemon “counted for little in the court”); there is, so far as we know, no investigation into Gaemon’s paternal origins, no allusions to his paternity (as compared to, say, Alyn Velaryon, where Willis Fell openly identified him as having “a snake for a sire”), no hints by anyone save his mother as to who might have fathered him. As GRRM himself once noted, “[w]ithout blood tests or DNA, establishing paternity was a lot more hit and miss”, and I think that’s probably the case with Gaemon. Young Gaemon's potential blood connection to Aegon II matters only in the sense that his mother seized upon it (or the idea of it) to present him as a king; if he might have otherwise grown up in obscurity as one of the many lowborn children of King’s Landing, Gaemon was instead, thanks to that claim, subjected to a roller coaster of pseudo-royalty, violent upheaval, courtly semi-protection, and ultimately horrific murder.

#asoiaf meta #gaemon palehair #aegon ii targaryen

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lunarblazes · 2 years

Text

Ren needs something. His rule isn’t being properly respected—the hermits have grown restless and wild, challenging his authority.

Ren knows that the faerie stories of old are not just stories. There are tales of fae who aid any kind of rebellion, any kind of creature resisting a force, for a price. A small price, if Ren’s plan goes smoothly, which it will. Sir BDoubleO has seen to it that pure iron shackles are crafted and enchanted to bind Ren’s new helper to his will. No betrayals are to be had on this day.

And thus, Ren stands in the shopping district, a world away from where his hired help will find their task. He carefully steps around the faerie circle he’s concocted out of mushrooms around an old, battered stump, wary of getting too close and being sucked in. Fae are dangerous. Tricky. They cannot sense any weakness about you or they’ll pounce on it.

He waits for nightfall, until the stars shine overhead, the shackles in his hands poised and ready to coil around the first hint of faerie fire. As the sun rises, Ren sighs, deciding his hopes must be misguided.

It’s not a bright flash of light, or a spectacular supernova of petals. Ren smells the scent of sickly sweet rose petals, honeysuckle, and lavender on the wind before he’s even seen the creature. He snaps his fingers on instinct. The shackles lunge at the signal, snapping around the vague shape of a fae creature, and Ren smiles, his fangs on display.

“Hail and well met,” Ren says, inclining his head, but not looking upon the creature’s form. “I am King of these lands. Who might you be?”

Ren can feel the thing staring at him as its presence molds around the shackles. He’s forced it to show itself. An irritated sigh wafts in on the summer breeze as Ren continues to stare doggedly at the trees behind the circle.

“I am a traveler,” says the faerie, “and I am quite annoyed with you, King.”

“I require a boon,” Ren says swiftly.

“Don’t all of you?” the fae retorts.

“I offer payment.”

“Well, I should hope so,” it scoffs, “against faerie law not to.”

Ren blinks. He didn’t know that was a thing, but whatever. “I need your assistance. My people, they don’t respect me. I am setting up a gauntlet to test them, to prove that I am their rightful king, and I need your power to assist me.”

The faerie is quiet for a moment, contemplating the request. “I hate that that makes sense. Resisting a resistance. Wonderful technicality, I should have stopped those stupid stories.”

Ren doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so he just clears his throat. “Er, yes, I suppose? You will be paid a diamond, and to gaze upon your task we must travel to the Nether.”

“A diamond,” the faerie says incredulously. “One diamond.”

“Er… yes?” Ren says, trying desperately not to show any kind of hesitation and mostly failing. “That is your payment.”

A long suffering sigh from the circle. “I should have stopped doing this. Blast it.”

“Well, to the Nether!”

It’s only when Ren tries to move the faerie by the enchanted manacles around his wrists that he actually gets a good look at the creature. The manacles are bound to each other with a very large length of chain, large enough to let the faerie move its arms freely, lest they impede its work, and another length of chain sits resting in Ren’s palms so that he can lead the faerie around. He can lead it around and into the Nether by the manacles, and he begins to do so before pausing as he glimpses the creature’s face and freezes.

It has pale skin, only a slight red flush in the cheeks in the colder autumn air, and its wrists are clearly starting to blister. Small feathers wrap around its cheeks and the hollows of its eyes, shining iridescent in the rising sunlight; its hair is honey-colored, golden, and very fluffy, almost like puffy seeds. It doesn’t look very pleased, hissing under its breath when the manacles chafe against skin and leave blisters behind—fae can never touch pure iron. The enchantments might lessen the sting some, but it’s still gotta hurt based on the expression of the faerie being stuck in an eternal mix of annoyance and discomfort.

What’s far more pressing to Ren, however, is that he knows that face. It’s twisted, somehow, projected and dialed up to ten, but he knows who this is, suddenly he’s very sure he does.

“Grian?” Ren asks.

“Took you long enough,” Grian grumps, attempting to cross his arms and only succeeding in burning his forearms with the manacles. “Let’s get on with the stupid project, shall we? Chop chop, I haven’t got all day, especially not for one diamond.”

“You’re not free until I say you are,” Ren reminds him, slightly giddy. “You’ve got all day if I say you have.”

Grian stares at him, then shrugs. “You’re the boss, sure.”

Ren turns back to the Nether portal grinning. Oh this is excellent. Grian is not only a faerie but a powerful enough one to have legends written about him! An ally of the known resistance in the kingdom, and there’s such an easily exploitable loophole to use against him! Their morale will be decimated when they learn their beloved assistant had built an impossible quest against them. It’s perfect! Glorious! Nothing could be going better!

Ren’s so caught up in the glory of actually capturing a powerful faerie that he nearly forgets to stop walking when they reach the vault. Grian yanks on the manacles, snapping Ren out of his daze.

“Earth to King,” Grian says testily. “What d’you want me to do?”

“Right, right!” Ren says, shaking himself back into his skin. “Well, you just—I want each of my minions to build me a vault room in here.”

Ren pretends he doesn’t see the way Grian’s skin crawls at being called a king’s minion. If he sees it, he’ll get caught up in the glory, and he has to pay very close attention to these instructions, or Grian might decide the terms of the contract are unsuitable, and then they’d be nowhere. The manacles were insurance against that; if Grian didn’t like the terms, Ren could just lock him up here until he did!

“Then, every willing citizen of mine kingdom will doth be placed in this chamber! If they defeat the games in the vault, I shall give up my crown. If they cannot rise to the challenge, I shall stay in power forevermore!” Ren continues dramatically.

“Forevermore?” Grian asks.

“Forevermore,” Ren says solemnly.

“Okay,” Grian says, “what do you want me to do about it?”

“I need you to make a room that will cause despair. Make them give up their hope,” Ren says. “They should reach your room and feel as though they’ve hit the worst challenge yet. I want there to be no chance of success.”

If Ren had been looking at Grian, then, he would have caught the way those electric blue eyes of his flicker gold with delight as he phrased his instructions, the way his sharpened teeth nearly outgrow his mouth for a moment before snapping back to their rightful place. Despite his excitement, Grian’s voice is even as ever when he responds, “no chance of success?”

“Mhm,” Ren says absently. He’s just realized that capturing and forcing such a powerful faerie for this project is a great way to legitimize his rule. He’d be the King who tamed an untamable creature, the very forces of the wind and sky themselves! King Ren, the king who bested a faerie, bound him in chains. His people had to respect him after that. “No chance of success.”

Grian smiles to himself. “I can work with that.”

#rendog #grian #hermitcraft #lunar propecies #i SAID fae grian i MEANT fae grian!#for real i wanted to write this so badhgrfjfkd #i dont think it does justice to the scene i had in my head tho sighs #but it’s worth it to get it out there hehe

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