#the heretic's confession

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Heretic's Confession, Chapter One

CW: Captivity whump, some... implications... references to branding. This is just me getting a feel for the idea and character, though, really.

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The robes he once kept pristine are caked in dried mud around the hem. Grigory frowns as he inspects them, rubbing along the seam. It flakes away, leaving imprints of itself behind. 

Maudlin, certainly, but it feels like the stain of their sins painting his soul.

Maybe suffering can give even a man of the Goddess the sentiment of a poet. His lip curls in disgust at the very thought.

Please, please speak to me, Dromada. Tell your priest what he must do to escape this nightmare.

She is, and has always been, silent to his pleas for Her assistance. 

The Goddess the people worship may be a paragon of compassion and forgiveness, her sculptures solemn and grave with hands outstretched to embrace even the lowest-born of Her children, but Grigori is beginning to suspect the holy men have got it wrong. 

She isn't gracefully wise. She does not reach Her hand out to hold Her children. No, as each day passes without Her so much as whispering a reassurance, he begins to feel She is th goddess of laughter, and he is Her current favorite joke.

A knock at the door to his room - his cell, really, but of course they all like to pride themselves on keeping him in high style in his gilded cage - has him looking up, a little startled. The moon has only made half of its trek across the night sky, through the looping swirls of galaxies far, far beyond the reach of mere mortal men. That milky spin of stars, everyone knows, is where the gods live.

He wonders how many of them are looking down on him, sipping crystalline waters, and mocking his pain.

He would spit on every last temple step, if he could.

If he could just leave the fucking room-

“Brother Grigori,” His guest singsongs, half-dancing into the room. Grigory turns away from him, laying one palm over one of the iron bars that blocks any escape through the window. His fingers close slowly around it. 

“What do you want.” His voice is curt, it cuts short and sharp. “Bastard.”

“Oh, see you got my name all wrong again.” The leader of this little gang is tall - too tall - and all knees and legs, lean muscle making him heavier than he looks. Grigori is tall enough for a man, but he seems like he’s half-grown, compared to the bandit. The man’s hair is a shock of white atop his head, shaved on the sides, while Grigori’s curly brown grows to the bottom of his ears, as is prescribed for the priests. He swaths himself in black kohl around his equally dark eyes and shining black leather worn back to brown from age and ill-use at the knees and elbows. Grigori’s hazel and his dirtied robes look like a joke, placed next to the bandit’s appearance.  “It’s Bohli, remember? Or that’s what my mother calls me, anyway. Or she would, if she were still alive. She probably uses that when she curses my name from the heavens above, granted. I mean, probably, unless she really is suffering in the Dark After, like she deserves-”

“What do you want, Bohli?” Grigory’s head is already starting to hurt. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Nonsense. You have all the time in the world. You have nothing but time.”

“Not for… you. Please leave.”

“Nope. Not going anywhere. This is my house, remember? I just let you stay here.”

“Let me.” The words are sour in Grigori’s mouth. “Right, of course. Let me. Because I asked to be branded and trapped here in this room-”

“Hush. I take you for walkies every day, little god’s dog.” Bohli winks, and Grigori - who took a vow of pacifism, once - imagines stabbing his own knife through his eyeball until it comes out the other side of his head. “If you don’t want a leash, you just have to prove you won’t run off.”

He would, of course. Run. Outside, the woods stretch far and wide. There’s a path he could take to find a village, to find freedom...

Or… more realistically… to get arrested for being in league with Bohli and his bastards, which he isn’t, but everyone knows the goddess would save Her most faithful, and he’s been here too long. He would be branded a heretic. Everyone knows he’s a heretic. His own fellow priests would turn their backs on him. The people would burn him at the stake, for being defiled, degraded, a paragon of nothing but the filth they have covered him in. Little more than a bandit himself. 

Maybe he is one.

Dromada would have saved him if he were truly Hers to save. And instead, here he is, the infamous giver of absolution to the men and women who massacre whole towns in defiance of - in direct insult to - the power and might of His Majesty, the King.

No. he would be burned as an enemy of the King's, and he would have no standing to defend himself. A captive this long isn't a captive at all, in the eyes of the world.

Just a man who no longer wants to be saved.

Tears prick at his eyes, and he struggles not to let Bohli see them and mock him even more. It’s not like he hasn’t already been marked. It was one of the first things they did. Bohli had given the order and watched while they tied him down. Grigori himself had been made to look as they put the iron in the fire, made to watch them heat it to red. Bohli had been whispering in his ear when when they pressed it to his pelvis, and Bohli had cooed over him while he screamed, stroking through his sweaty hair.

“Just leave,” He whispers, the area aching all over again. They branded him over the symbol of Dromada tattooed, a mark of his vow of chastity.

Another one broken.

Maybe that was when She stopped listening.

“Oh, but I can’t, darling Grigori. I’ve come to make a confession.” Bohli laughs, and his laughter could make you bleed even better than his blade. But somehow Grigori can’t seem to die from the loss. “Isn’t that why I keep a priest of Dromada around, anyway? For to save my poor mortal soul?”

Grigori fights the urge to wish aloud someone would poison the asshole’s food. “You would burn if you touched the Hem of her robe.”

“Maybe.” Bohli shrugs, kicking a chair over and dropping down into it, loose-limbed. His eyes spark with delight as he takes in Grigori’s misery. “But you wear Her robes, and yet I never burn when I touch you-”

“Speak your confession,” Grigory snaps, his heart twisting and going briefly silent and still in his chest. He feels blood rush to his face, and Bohli’s peal of bright, brittle laughter tells him the flush isn’t going unnoticed. 

“Say it.” Bohli watches him, and it’s like being watched by one of the terrifying big cats that roam the woods just beyond this hideous prison. Unblinking, a predator’s stare. “Say the words, priest.”

Each time he does, they feel more bitter on his tongue. 

But still.

Grigori draws the ruins of his robe closer around himself, and sits up straight. He swallows and sets his jaw. “Bohlinde hir Maksma en Ygridsen, the goddess Dromada hears and forgives all from those who love Her. You have only to ask. Speak, child, and be forgiven.”

Bohli licks his lips, leaning forwards. Somehow, Grigori can’t make himself look away. The bandit leader’s teeth are sharp - those canines can rend skin from bone. He’s part-elf, they say, somewhere in his bloodline the half-mindless shrieking hordes of the elven race lurk. You can always tell, so it’s said, from the sharpness of their teeth. From how little they care for the lives of men.

Maybe he’s half-elf.

It would explain why he’s so fucking smug.

“Forgive me, Dromada’s Chosen, for I have sinned against Her,” Bohli says, and he doesn’t even try to feign sincerity. Why he even plays this game, when Dromada isn’t a goddess for the elves of their wretched offspring to begin with, is beyond Grigori’s understanding.

Grigori fights the urge to sigh. He makes Dromada’s Sign, wondering if it even calls to Her any longer. If She even feels the spark of a follower’s call, or if he’s cut off from Her entirely. Who hears him when he prays?

Does anyone?

“How have you sinned against Our Mother, She Who Gave the Waters?” 

Bohli licks his lips. His smile is a little too wide, shows too many of those sharp, sharp teeth. He'd be blisteringly handsome, if it weren’t for the sight of fangs where none should be. “I won’t lie, Brother Grigori. I set some stuff on fire yesterday. And I’m going to do it again. Will I be forgiven?”

Grigori imagines the mud climbing higher and higher up his robes, pulling him into the earth, forcing itself down his mouth and pressing over his eyes. He imagines the gods in the sky, looking down from their stars.

The image shatters with the memory of first sitting at the table with the dozen or so of Bohli's favorites, each of them smiling at him, while he sat in his pure white robes and felt himself bared, as if naked, before them.

Until Bohli had given the order for what to do with him.

“Dromada forgives all who seek Her,” Grigori intones, thoughtless. The words memorized before he was even thirteen years old, before he was old enough to take his vows. Before he was taken, and they were all broken, one by one. Bohli loved breaking Grigori's vows. “You have only to ask.”

“Good.” Bohli’s voice drops low. He has to focus to hear it, which is probably the bastard’s entire point. “Because I really, really love asking, and I love the sound of your answers.”

The bandit stands, walking over to him, putting one finger under his chin and forcing Grigori to look up - and up, and up, and up - to see the demon smile.

Grigori is sure, as Bohli watches him with his head tipped to the side and his black eyes as bright as the stars, that he can hear the goddess laughing.

[hunterofdeer]

How to Avoid Killing Yourself in Appalachia

“WHERE WILL YOU SPEND ETERNITY? HEAVEN OR HELL” 

- Overly inquisitive billboard

Abandoned houses are either smothered by kudzu leaves, pillaged for their dogwood, or turned into cheapjack meth labs. Each storefront, if it isn’t permanently closed, is HIRING! in bold red font. People wave politely and bake pies for each other, and on Sundays, local chapels are like sardine cans. They pray for good times and good health, but someone later whispers that their bright-eyed neighbor passed. Never died. Passed.

Read more here

P.S. If you like and subscribe to my (free!) blog, I'll seek you out and give you a fat smooch on the cheek <3

Embrace your sins—join A Heretic's Confession

[wordsmusicandstories]

Another Friday the 13th: 13 October 1307

With reference to yesterday’s post (“It’s Friday 13th, the unluckiest day!”) I’d like to share again also the following article 13 October 1307 – The Destruction of the Knights Templar On Friday, October 13th, 1307, King Philip IV of France ordered Grand Master Jacques de Molay and hundreds of French Templars to be simultaneously arrested. They were charged with heresy, idolatry, corruption and…

[tgcg]

tell your loved ones

-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 12:01 --

TG: hey im on the john

JOHN: hey, dave is taking a dump.

TG: taking a shit just so were clear

JADE: jeez!!!!!!! even when im not online i have to hear about it

TG: i know you care so youre first to know

JOHN: i'm just giving you a heads up for the bajillion messages you will definitely have about this when you get home.

EB: god, thank you. that is awesome. dave fans everywhere are gonna go NUTS for this truth nugget.

EB: hey, i am at the store with jade!

TG: tell her the news

EB: i did as soon as you first pinged me, don't worry.

TG: hell yeah see you just fucking get it

JADE: well tell him i say congrats!

EB: she says congrats.

EB: also that you left your "yeah! woo!" machine at her place.

EB: and that you are gross and smell like a dog took a dump on a fart even when you aren't crapping during our conversations.

TG: goddamn

EB: jk that last bit was me heheh. but she nodded!

EB: so anyways, a yeah woo machine?

EB: what the hell even IS that?

JADE: its more or less a machine that yeahs and woos

TG: its basically a machine that yeahs and woos

EB: ok, yeah, that is pretty much exactly what jade said too. apparently this is supposed to be obvious.

JADE: its pretty self explanatory!

TG: pretty self explanatory stuff

TG: anyways im gonna tell karkat this time i think im ready for that

EB: oh shit (LOL), that's a pretty big deal, right? good luck dude.

--

-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 12:03 --

TG: ok karkat can i be unbelievably candid with you is dj crabapple ready for this

TG: this is a really big deal for me but like no pressure

CG: SHIT, IS EVERYTHING OK?

CG: DO I NEED TO COME OVER THERE.

TG: no no its good i just really need to confess something

CG: WHATEVER IT IS, TELL ME. I'M HERE.

TG: alright

TG: deep breath strider

--

TG: im dropping mad logs like bars in the ablution block vantas

TG: shit is on fire

TG: downright heretical like a shat outta hell

TG: and since im feeling penitent i figure our pesterlogs are pretty much akin to a confessional booth right

CG:

--

-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 12:04 --

TT: Hey Dave.

TT: Are you, by any chance, taking a shit right now?

TG: damn word spreads fast on the information superhighway

TT: Yes, I have had the news forwarded to me via this bountiful virtual dimension of knowledge and culture we call the World Wide Web by a fellow enthusiast, one ectoBiologist.

TT: Frankly I'm heartbroken you didn't come to me about it first.

TT: Please, divulge to your loving sister the nature of your bowel movements, in exhaustive detail. Highlights in a notarized list, an overall ranking grade of your experience, whether you would recommend it to your friends, et cetera. These would be among my most pertinent avenues of inquiry.

TG: you were next on the mailing list rose im already on it

TG: boutta weave a verbal tapestry no holds barred just for you about my rambunctious foray down in brown town

TG: stay tubed

TT: Thank god. I don't know what I would do if I couldn't peruse your commodal follies like the morning gazette.

TG: dont act like this has educational value rose

TG: we all know my daily bullshit has got a laugh track

TG: like damn what kind of gazettes are you getting

TT: The best kind, Dave. Only the best kind.

TG: thanks for the vote of confidence

TG: wait gimme a sec karkat pinged

TT: Of course. I understand it's quite a big deal for you.

--

CG: OK.

CG: SINCE THIS APPARENTLY SKIRTS THE FRESHEST BUDS OF OUR BRO-DOM'S BURGEONING FROND NUB, I *ALSO* HAVE SOMETHING IMPORTANT TO SHARE.

CG: I HOPE YOUR REFLECTIVE ABLUTION VAULT IS STOCKED WITH FUCKING RUMBLESPHERE TRANQUILIZERS, BECAUSE THIS EXCHANGE IS ABOUT TO GET SHITHIVE MAGGOTS.

CG: LISTEN CAREFULLY.

TG: whats up

--

CG: I AM ALSO ON THE LOAD GAPER RIGHT NOW.

TG: oh shiiit

CG: DON'T UNCLENCH YOUR EXPLOSIVE FUCKING SEED FLAP JUST YET, BECAUSE THERE'S *MORE*!

CG: I AM *ALSO* TAKING A CRAP.

TG: oh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit

CG: OH SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT

[brutalistgirl]

tfw when ur looking up stuff about st augustine bc ur rly interested in him (for reasons) and he’s dissing on astrology for being fake & evil but then you look it up and you/loved ones share his chart placements...if I had a nickel for every christian blorbo I’ve investigated natal charts for and there being similarities I’d have two nickels which isnt a lot but REALLY WEIRD its been twice

[lizzyiii]

His Lady Love (7)

pairing | aemond targaryen x vampire!mikaelson!reader

taglist | to be added to the tag list just add your username to this DOC

word count | 6,1k words

summary | you leave for the reach, angsty love confession, false rumors travel to king's landing.

tags | (MDNI), SMUT, unprotected sex (this is asoiaf so all sex is unprotected), p in v, death, heavy angst/NO COMFORT, vampire powers, heavy miscommunication

note | I'd be really interested in knowing if you guys made a name for the reader, in my head her name is Krystyna Mikaelson (yes, I googled norse names and chose my fav) So did anyone else read George R.R Martin's blog??? Anyway, I'm just here for Ewan, Olivia and Phia tbh. I was thinking that reader could be a witch. Like I know witches can't be vampires, but Siphoners can. Like just imagine her father was from a Gemini coven, and she doesn't know she has magic and since she's an original, she's her own power source, hence first heretic.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

You had woven yourself into a web of deception, and now, the strands began to unravel. The Hand’s summons rang ominously in your ears, commanding you to escort Prince Jaehaerys to your so-called "home" in the Reach. Yet, the truth was far less straightforward; your true home lay not within the verdant fields of the Reach, nor did it belong to this mortal realm at all.

Time pressed against you—tonight, you would depart from Kings Landing. What could you possibly say to the watchful White Cloaks accompanying you? The question gnawed at you, demanding a rapid strategy as you struggled to quell your rising panic.

For the moment, the Hand had instructed you to gather only your essentials. As the hour of the wolf approached, you prepared to meet the call at the courtyard and bid a bittersweet farewell.

Your hands moved with urgency, tossing your cherished Mikaelson amulet into a trunk, alongside an array of simple dresses that would serve you for the arduous journey ahead. But amidst the flurry of preparation, the creaking of your chamber doors momentarily pierced through your focus. The air thickened with the unmistakable scent that sent a thrill down your spine, a presence you knew too well.

Stubbornly, you continued to pack, resolutely ignoring his entrance. You were a fool playing a game rigged against you—fostering feelings for a prince destined for a mortal being. Unlike your sister Rebekah, who pinned her affections upon every charming face, you fought against the tide of your own heart. Yet, in the shadows of your denial, an undeniable pull towards Aemond Targaryen had ensnared you, leaving you trapped in a whirlwind of desire and longing.

“I knew something would eventually go awry,” he murmured from the shadows, his tone laden with the weight of foresight.

You stubbornly continued to gather your belongings, your hands trembling ever so slightly. “I know not of what you speak,” you replied, defiance lacing your words like poison.

The atmosphere shifted as Aemond crossed the threshold, his presence a storm—intangible yet fierce. You felt the warmth radiating off him, enveloping you as he positioned himself behind you, the scent of dragonfire and leather filling your senses. “Whenever I find a fleeting moment of happiness, it is whisked away quicker than it appeared. The day I claimed Vhagar, and now, as I stand here with you,” his voice wavered, betraying an edge of vulnerability.

You clenched your jaw, a frown creasing your delicate features as an unbidden ache tightened around your heart. “I do not know how long I shall be gone,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Strong hands found your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his chest, a silent promise wrapped around you as he whispered, “It matters not; I shall await your return, no matter how long it may take.”

With a pained sigh, you turned to confront him, your eyes glistening with unspoken sorrow. “You shouldn't.”

Aemond's brow furrowed, confusion etched across his handsome face as he tightened his grip, unwilling to let you slip away. “Why would you utter such foolishness?”

Your insides twisted as you longed to lay bare the truth that lay heavy on your heart. A truth about your eternal curse—a vampire destined to walk the earth forever, but never to grow old alongside him, to bear him no heirs. Instead, you shook your head, you voice trembling as you whispered, “A prince cannot wed a bastard.”

His brow knitted deeper in perplexity. “What do you mean?”

“I am not my father's daughter,” you confessed, the words tasted bitter as they left your lips. “And that alone should be reason enough for you to forsake any thought of marrying me.”

The admission struck you like a blade, a noose tightening around your spirit. Aemond’s disdain for bastards echoed hauntingly in your mind—his vitriol directed at those he deemed unworthy. If claiming your own truth was the only path to forging a distance between the two of you, then so be it. You would bear the burden of his scorn, if it meant sparing him from the shadows that clung to your existence.

In a flicker of desperation, you realized the power you held—the gift of compulsion. You could erase every whispered promise and shared secret, rendering him a stranger to your existence. Yet, the thought pierced your heart like a dagger; to be forgotten was a torment worse than heartbreak. Aemond’s scorn would be a balm compared to losing him entirely, for you would rather endure his hatred than vanish from his memory.

Closing your eyes, you braced yourself for the inevitable scorn, the revulsion you feared would pour forth from his lips. Instead, you felt his hands, warm and tender, gripping your face with an intensity that stole your breath. “Look at me,” he urged, his voice a gentle command.

With reluctance, you opened her eyes, meeting his piercing violet gaze that seemed to see through to your very essence. "I do not care," he declared, as though his unwavering love could alone mend the fractures within your heart.

A tidal wave of anger surged through you—not directed at him, but ignited by the very depth of his relentless love. With a swift motion, you pushed him away, desperation fueling your words as they spilled forth like a torrent. “You should care! You must understand, Aemond— I am not good for you, and I am certainly not worthy of your love.”

Aemond’s frustration prickled in the air as he gestured animatedly, his brows knitting together as if you had unleashed a storm within him. “And who are you to declare yourself unworthy? Do you think Aegon worthy of the Iron Throne?”

You let out a derisive scoff, the incredulity igniting your tone. "Comparing me to Aegon? That is a completely different situation," you stressed, your words punctuated with defiance.

"I cannot fathom your urge to push me away," Aemond's voice rose, desperation lacing his every syllable. The calm mask he wore shattered, revealing the turmoil beneath. “Is it because you do not love me?”

The weight of his question struck you like a lightning bolt. You could feel the tears welling, and you felt the weight of your own heart as it threatened to overflow. Unconsciously, you yelled, “Of course I love you, Aemond! How could I not," The urgency in your voice rose, a plea wrapped in desperation. “But what you fail to grasp is—”

“You love me," All traces of anger evaporated from his expression; instead, a spark of something else ignited in his eyes as he latched onto your statement.

You faltered, momentarily confused. “What?”

“You love me,” he echoed, his voice rising with fervor, amplifying the truth hanging in the air like a spell.

With a scoff, you shook her head, trying to dismiss the revelation. “That is not the point of the matter, Aemond—”

“It is indeed the point,” he countered, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming as he reached out, cradling your face in his hands. “Because you love me, and I love you.”

A weary sigh escaped your lips, the weight of his insistence pressing down on you. “Aemond, you’re not hearing me.”

“I am,” he replied earnestly, his thumbs brushing softly against your cheek, “I hear you, and yet your heart speaks a truth that cannot be silenced: you love me.”

And as Aemond leaned closer, that fierce violet eye consuming your own, your defenses began to crumble. His lips brushed against yours, igniting a spark that uncoiled like wildfire within you. Resistance became a ghost, fading in the heat of your shared breath as your mouths melded together. Aemond's tongue slid past your lips, a tantalizing invasion, and you found herself yielding to the irresistible pull of desire, your essences intertwining in a dance as ancient as the realms you inhabited.

With each caress from his skilled hands, the world around you faded into oblivion, thoughts dispersing like ash in the wind. You clutched at his neck, your fingers tangling in his silver locks as you deepened your kiss, hungry for more. Aemond's grip roamed boldly across your form, igniting a fire beneath your skin that made your pulse quicken—a symphony of passion building between the two of you. You could feel the unmistakable hardness of his desire pressing against you, stirring a yearning that enveloped you.

As the kiss broke, your breaths mingled, thick with anticipation. Aemond trailed hot kisses along the delicate curve of your neck, his lips sending tremors through your body. A gasp escaped your lips as he scooped you up with effortless strength, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your body fitting perfectly against his as he pressed you closer. Your bodies met, his erection unmistakable even through the barriers of your clothing, igniting a primal need that demanded resolution.

He carried you to the nearest table, as he laid you down, the cool surface contrasted with the heat emanating from your bodies. Aemond’s fingers deftly hiked up the hem of your dress, each inch sending electric thrills along your spine, leaving your breathless.

"Do you want this?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper yet filled with a primal urgency that stirred something deep within you, all of your hesitation gone.

With languid desire pooling in between your legs, you yielded, your desperation spilling over into your voice as you breathed, "Take me now, Aemond. I wish to feel you in me, even after I've departed."

His response to your words was immediate and animalistic, a predatory instinct awakened. A growl rumbled deep in his chest, words lost to the fervor that gripped him. Like a tempest unleashed, he tore away the delicate fabric that separated the two of you, casting it aside with a fervent urgency. His fingers deftly unfastened the laces of his trousers, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet room.

In an instant, he pulled you closer, your bodies colliding with an electric urgency. The tip of his cock grazed your slick heat, a tantalizing tease that sent ripples of desire coursing through your veins. With each passing moment, your body ached for him, the need swelling within you like a tide crashing against the shore.

“Please,” you breathed, your tone rich with longing, “I cannot wait any longer.”

Before you could utter another plea, Aemond surged forward, his curved tip breaking through the barrier of your softness. Moments stretched into eternity as he filled you, a divine sensation that stole your breath. It felt like fire and ice intertwined, the ecstasy consuming you both.

As you joined together, he leaned over you, your faces mere breaths apart. His lips found yours, capturing the essence of your fervent connection in a searing kiss that tasted of bloodlust and boundless craving.

You were not a creature of restraint, especially not in the heat of the moment. With a sly, vixen-like grace, you entwined her legs around Aemond's waist, ensnaring him effortlessly. The force of your pull sent him slamming into you, your bodies colliding with a fervor that made the very air sizzle with electric desire. Aemond groaned, a primal growl escaping his lips as he felt the intoxicating warmth envelop him completely; he was ensnared by you as if caught in a hunter's trap.

Your soft moans echoed like a siren's song, urging Aemond on as your lips trailed kisses down the cool expanse of his alabaster skin. Each kiss was deliberate; it was a tantalizing dance between temptation and control. Your fangs tingled with the hunger for his fiery dragon blood, simmering ever closer to the surface, but for now, you quelled that urge with sheer willpower.

Yet Aemond, with his predatory instincts ignited, began to thrust into you with a relentless rhythm, your flesh meeting with a damp slap that resonated through the great hall like a heartbeat as Aemond thrust himself into your cunt over and over. The air thickened with the sweet scent of lust, pleasure, and something darker that lingered in the wake of your intensity.

“When will you truly understand?” Aemond rasped, his breath quickening as he plunged into you with fervor. The rhythmic, wet sounds reverberated softly in the room, his hand finding its way to your most sensitive spot, teasing your clit with skilled flicks. “You were made for me, just as I was for you.”

Pleasure surged through your veins, overwhelming your senses as you murmured, “I love you.”

With deliberate movements, Aemond traced slow, firm circles on your pearl, lowering his body closer to yours as he whispered against your lips, “I love you.”

A soft whine escaped your lips as your body tightened around him, waves of ecstasy crashing over you in a blinding storm of sensation. Aemond was drawn to your peak, his own release spiraling just behind yours. He let out a deep groan, his essence spilling inside you as he collapsed against you, panting, entirely lost in the moment.

You felt Aemond's warm breath against your skin as he leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. “Nuhon,” he murmured, his words carrying an electricity that entwined your very essence with his. (Mine)

For a fleeting moment, you tightened your grip on him, reluctant to sever the bond that pulsed between you. Yet, time was against you, and Aemond slowly withdrew himself, his gaze piercing into yours, leaving an ache in the space inside you. A soft gasp escaped your lips; the void he left behind felt cavernous, devoid of his heat, as you only felt emptiness.

Silently, you watched as he regained his composure, the delicate dance of his fingers deftly lacing his trousers. As he turned, casting his attentive eye around the chamber, he picked up a handkerchief with a gentle touch.

What followed was an act more intimate than what the two of you had just done—the careful way he wiped away the remnants of your shared passion felt surreal. Aemond's hands were gentle, almost reverent, as he smoothed your skirts back into place, making you feel cherished in a way that transcended the physical.

His hands found their home on your waist, solid yet gentle, your fingers instinctively wrapping around his shoulders. With a graceful lift, he eased you from the tabletop, setting you down on the cold stone floor. His gaze shifted downwards, landing on your stomach, and a wave of panic surged through you, yet you instinctively placed your hand over your stomach, wishing to shield it from his penetrating stare.

“You must drink moon tea before you depart,” he murmured, his voice laced with a trace of regret, as though he carried the weight of unspoken truths.

A harsh swallow caught in your throat. It was an empty act for you to do, as your womb lay barren, yet the implications of his words hung heavy in the air. You turned your gaze away from him, a flicker of vulnerability dancing across your features, and nodded nonetheless.

His hand, warm and reassuring, cupped your cheek, gently guiding your eyes back to his. "I shall fetch some for you. Wait here, I will return shortly."

Silently, you nodded, feeling the electrifying brush of his lips against yours in a fleeting kiss, a soft collision of breath that sent shivers through your being. It was a moment suspended in time, brief yet profound, leaving you yearning for more. But before you could fully savor it, he withdrew, leaving your chambers cloaked in the bittersweet essence of his absence.

You busied yourself, gathering the few belongings you possessed, when Aemond returned with striking swiftness. A sense of discomfort washed over you as you drank the vile tea, acutely aware of his watchful eye.

After a brief silence, you dared to glance up at him, a question dancing on your lips. "Do you intend to escort me to the courtyard?"

His gaze remained piercing, an unwavering ember in the flickering light. "Indeed," he replied with a hum that resonated between you.

A sigh escaped you as you reached for your trunk of belongings, but before you could grasp it, Aemond’s hand was there, lifting it away with a possessive ease. A small spark of frustration flickered within you, yet words eluded your lips as you and he made your way through the dim hallways toward the courtyard.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and palpable, each lost in private thoughts as you pushed open the grand doors leading into the courtyard. A sea of anxious faces greeted you, their attention fixed squarely on your arrival.

Shame washed over you as you realized you were the last to come forth, and with Aemond at your side, the scrutiny felt even more intensified. Yet, this was a moment that demanded courage. You squared your shoulders and set your gaze ahead, making your way toward Helaena.

Her eyes danced with sorrow as she stepped forward, cradling her sleeping son, and placing him tenderly into your arms. You held him protectively, your voice dropping to a fervent whisper. “I promise I shall protect him with my life.”

Helaena's expression softened, her hand gently caressing the boy’s delicate face before nodding in earnest agreement. As you turned, your gaze met Aegon’s, his watchful eyes drilling into you, fixated on the sleeping prince nestled securely in your embrace.

With a steadying breath, you made your way toward the carriage, but a hand on your shoulder halted your steps. You turned to find Alicent, her eyes reflecting a sadness that tugged at your heart. She offered you a tight smile, squeezing your shoulder in a gesture of support. “You’re performing a great service for the crown,” she said, her voice filled with sincerity. You could only nod in acknowledgment as she added softly, “Promise me you’ll look after yourself.”

“Of course, My Queen,” you murmured, tightening your hold on Jaehaerys, his warmth a comforting presence against your chest.

Her smile deepened, and she said, "I will pray for the safety of both you and Jaehaerys."

“Thank you, Queen Mother,” your heart swelled at her words, while you whispered the word 'mother' as if it was sacred.

As you stepped into the carriage, you turned once more, your gaze locking with Aemond’s, unspoken words hung heavy in the air between you. Just then, a white cloak swept to close the door, sealing you and the sleeping prince in an intimate cocoon of silence.

When Jaehaerys stirred awake, panic etched across his delicate features, his bright violet eyes wide with confusion, had required an abundance of soft whispers and lots of patience from you. With tenderness, you had reassured him, carefully explaining the necessity of his departure, a necessary measure for his safety.

“What of Jaehaera?” he inquired, his voice laced with anxiety as he searched your face for answers.

A frown tugged at your lips as you deliberated, knowing the harsh truth—that his life must take precedence, for he was the heir. Instead, you offered a gentle smile, fabricating a reassuring lie. “She is being taken somewhere else, my Prince.”

“And Shrykos?” the small prince pressed, his tiny hands fiddling with one of the lemon cakes hastily packed in by the Queen Dowager.

You gazed down at Jaehaerys, who nestled against your side, “Shrykos and Morghul will remain safe within the Dragonpit,” you whispered softly.

A deep sigh escaped him, a pout forming on his lips as he burrowed deeper into your embrace. “I've never been away from Mama or Jaehaera before..." he murmured, his small frame trembling with a mix of fear and longing.

Wrapping an arm around him, you tightened your hold, "Fear not, my prince. I will keep you safe. And soon, you will be reunited with them," you murmured.

You were suffocating in boredom. Two endless days cooped inside this rickety carriage left you feeling more drained than when you began. The road to Highgarden loomed ahead, a serpentine path promising nearly a month's worth of dreary travel. Restlessness gnawed at you, a specter whispering in your ear, as you devised a plan.

Murdering the three White Cloaks tasked with your escort was an appealing thought. Yes, it would be regrettable, but the crude vulgarities spilling from their lips, laced with the foulest lechery as they leered at you, twisted the notion into something almost justifiable.

Once the deed was done, once the lifeblood of those pompous guards stained the earth beneath you, you would take Jaehaerys and make your way back to King's Landing. You would craft a tale of treachery—how you were ambushed by Rhaenyra's sympathizers, forcing you to retreat and return.

As Jaehaerys slept peacefully beside you, his form curled like a contented cat, you decided now was the best time to act. With delicate care, you shifted him onto his back, ensuring he remained undisturbed. You then directed your attention to the partition that separated your lavish prison from the brutish guards beyond.

With a purposeful knock, you roused their attention, your senses heightened, attuned to the disgruntled murmurs that reached your ears as the carriage shuddered to a halt. The door swung open abruptly, revealing Ser Loren, his face taut with irritation, the kind one might expect of a man dragged from the warmth of the sun into the chill of night.

“What,” he snapped, brows furrowing with annoyance, the tone of a man used to being in command.

In response, you offered him an enchanting smile, sweet as nectar dripping from a ripe fruit, and raised a hand to cup his cheek. The confusion flitted across his features, but your grip was steadfast as you redirected his gaze to meet yours.

“Ser Loren,” you murmured, the subtle power of your compulsion thrumming through you like a siren's song. “I need you to slay your fellow guards for me.”

His eyes widened, the flicker of uncertainty sparking a thrill within you. Yet, you tightened your hold, your voice dropping to a velvety whisper as you compelled him anew. “Do not utter a word,” you commanded softly. “You will carry out my will without hesitation, and when that is done…you shall take your own life.”

“Now go,” you urged, the finality of your words binding him as surely as any ancient spell.

As he departed, you closed the door with a soft click and settled back beside the peacefully slumbering Jaehaerys, the anticipation coursing through you like a potent elixir. Through your enhanced hearing, you could make out Ser Loren’s hesitant movements as he drew his sword. The air was thick with tension as you tuned into the muffled voices of his comrades, their puzzled murmurs a prelude to chaos.

Then came the dreadful sound of steel meeting flesh, followed by the piercing screams of two men, echoing in stark contrast to the quiet of your carriage. The ritual continued—a whimper preceding yet another stinging strike of blade on flesh—until an oppressive silence fell, wrapping around you like a shroud.

Rising to your feet, you opened the door and stepped out into the chaos. The sight that met your eyes was macabre: the fallen guards lay sprawled upon the ground, their once-pristine white cloaks now marred with blood, a stark contrast to the pale of their skin. Only the soft whicker of the horses broke the stillness.

With a satisfied hum, you turned your attention back to the carriage, intent on retrieving Jaehaerys. By horseback, you would make your way back to King’s Landing. Slipping back inside, you knelt beside the sleeping prince, your heart sinking as you perceived an ominous shift in Jaehaerys.

Gently placing your hand against his brow, a frown twisted your features upon feeling his rising temperature. Panic bubbled within you as realization struck: the boy was burning with fever, likely the consequence of his first venture beyond the castle walls. His frail immune system was struggling against the onslaught of illness. Children, as you knew all too well, were vulnerable, and fevers could turn grave in the blink of an eye.

Time was of the essence; you needed to find safety for him, a sanctuary where he could heal swiftly.

With care, you gathered him into your arms, cocooning him in a soft blanket to protect his fragile form. Then, you climbed onto a horse with him nestled closely against you. Urging the steed forward, you set your sights on the nearest village, aware that King’s Landing would have to wait—your priority was the precious life cradled in your embrace.

What you were blissfully unaware of was how swiftly whispers of three slain white cloaks would flutter to the ear of King's Landing. Such is the nature of tidings that venture too far from their origin—truth, like shadows, warps in the light of rumor.

What reached the capital painted a grim picture: three white cloaks brutally cut down, their carriage reduced to cinders, with the lady and the prince within consumed by flames. Perhaps there lay some truth to this tale; after you'd fled with Prince Jaehaerys, desperate commoners stumbled upon your carriage, and in their frenzy, laid it to waste.

And so, that account flew to King's Landing with the swiftness of a raven on the wing.

"He's dead," Aegon breathed, his voice thick with disbelief, as he struggled to absorb the weight of the news. "He's dead!"

In a fit of rage, Aegon hurled a glass goblet against the stone wall, shattering it into a thousand shards, his fury echoing within the council chamber. "I’ll kill them all!"

He pounded the table with sufficient force that the goblets rattled, while the rest of the council sat in stunned silence, their eyes upon him. "This is war! I declare war! I declare war!" His voice rose, raw and strident.

With cheeks flushed and a face streaked with remnants of tears, Aegon turned to his Grandsire, his expression a tempest of anger and anguish. "This is your doing! All of this is your fault!"

Alicent, glancing nervously between her father and her son, sought to defuse the tension crackling in the air. "He did not kill Jaehaerys, Aegon," she insisted softly, her voice trembling with urgency.

"No! He merely sent him forth to meet his doom!" Aegon shouted, his despair morphing into a howling tempest.

Otto's gaze remained steady but weary as he leaned back in his seat, allowing a heavy sigh to escape him. "It was a miscalculation on my part."

"A miscalculation that cost my son's life!" Aegon's anguished cry reverberated through the chamber.

"And yet, no one was privy to Jaehaerys’ departure, which suggests treachery lies among us," Lord Larys Strong observed softly, his voice laced with a chilling certainty.

Aegon turned his gaze to the council, suspicion etching lines on his youthful face. "Then it could very well be any one of you!" He thrust a finger towards the council members, prowling behind the table as a predator.

“While Lord Larys raises a point of merit,” Otto continued, as Aegon sank heavily into the head chair, the weight of his grief palpable as tears fell freely down his cheeks, “Jaehaerys will do more for us now than a thousand knights in battle. You will have your war, Your Grace. But if you wait a short time, you may yet double your strength.”

"Mother," Aegon whispered, his voice a fragile wisp swirling in the air, laden with unshed sorrow and searching for comfort.

Alicent stepped closer, her hand settling gently on her son’s shoulder. "The Hand sets on a difficult path, my darling, but it, it might be the right one."

Otto, with an air of finality, declared, "Let us continue with the funeral procession for Jaehaerys. He shall be honored with a grand casket, and riding behind it, the Queen, and with her, the Queen Dowager."

Alicent shook her head in disagreement. "No, I no longer wish for it to become some grand spectacle."

“The realm must see the sorrow of the crown,” Otto asserted, his tone brooking no argument, “a sorrow best expressed through its most gentle souls.”

Casting one last mournful glance at her son, Alicent firmed her resolve. “I think you’ll all agree the king himself must be spared.”

“No. No. It cannot be true,” Helaena whispered, her voice barely above a breath, as she shook her head in disbelief. Alicent stepped forward, the weight of the grim tidings looming over her like a storm cloud, heavy with sorrow.

“The carriage… it was consumed by flames,” Alicent spoke, her voice trembling with the pain of the knowledge she bore.

Helaena’s denial tightened its grip on her heart; she paced restlessly, the fabric of her gown whispering against the stone floor. “She promised me,” Memories of warm embraces and gentle reassurances echoed in her mind, each one a testament to the promise that now lay shattered, “She swore she would protect him.”

“Helaena—” Alicent's hand reached out, a mother’s instinct to comfort surging forth.

Yet Helaena recoiled from the touch, wrestling her emotions. “They are alive, I can feel it,” she insisted, the desperation in her voice soaring.

“There were no survivors,” Alicent replied, her tone heavy with the weight of acceptance, an acceptance that felt like betrayal.

Helaena’s eyes glistened with tears as she twisted her fingers together, seeking solace in their familiar dance. Alicent took a deep breath, gathering herself before adding, “The funeral for Jaehaerys will go on as planned, and… we’ve been asked to ride on a wagon throughout the city.”

With a swift turn, Helaena faced away from her mother, leaning against a sturdy timber beam that framed her bed. “I don’t want to,” she murmured, her voice defiant yet frayed.

Alicent’s expression twisted with empathy; she understood her daughter’s pain all too well. “Neither do I,” she admitted, her heart heavy with the weight of duty. “But when a thing like this happens… a blow to the king is a blow to the realm. When the people share our grief, they draw closer to us.”

“I don’t want them closer,” Helaena shot back, “I don't know them.”

“Sometimes, we have to pretend,” Alicent whispered.

Defiance shattered, the tears Helaena had valiantly held at bay now cascaded down her cheeks. The truth settled in her chest like a stone. “Why?” she questioned, her voice choked with pain.

Alicent stepped closer, “We are representatives of the throne. We have a duty,” she reaffirmed.

Helaena offered no reply, her silence a testament to her grief. Instead, she turned away, allowing her tears to flow freely as she braced herself to mourn not only the loss of her son but the fading light of her dearest friend.

You were dead.

Those haunting words echoed relentlessly in Aemond's mind, a cruel mantra he could not shake off. You were gone, and he would never again behold your celestial beauty, nor bask in the warmth of your radiant smile. The soft comfort of your embrace, which had always been his sanctuary, was lost to him forever. You were gone, and with that, the future he had imagined—a life entwined with yours, filled with laughter, children, and the tender joys of family—vanished into the ether.

He knew he should have fought against the tides of fate, should have raised his voice and insisted on accompanying you to The Reach. But in that fateful moment, he had faltered, and now the price was your death.

The one soul who had loved him unconditionally—perhaps the only soul that ever had.

In the throes of despair, he had ravaged his own chambers in a storm of sorrow, crashing furniture and shattering glass. Yet, even amidst the chaos, he found no solace. Driven by a desperation he could hardly understand, he stumbled to your chambers, longing to find you smiling, blissfully unaware of his turmoil.

But the truth awaited him there, stark and unforgiving: your room stood as a mausoleum, empty and frigid, a world devoid of the warmth you once brought. A wretched reminder lingered in the air, a bittersweet trace of your scent that was now inseparable from his suffering.

And so, in his agony, he lay upon your bed, a canvas of despair draped in the remnants of your essence. He curled around your pillow, desperately inhaling the lingering fragrance of you, each breath a silent prayer for your return as tears slipped from his eyes, tracing paths down his cheeks.

There was a desperate thought that flirted with the edges of his grief—perhaps he should end it all, surrender to the oblivion that beckoned. In that darkness, he imagined a reunion with you, a sweet escape from the relentless pain of war and dread. Yet even in his muddled sorrow, a flicker of sanity held him back, urging him to cling to the slivers of his own existence, the remnants of a life that felt achingly incomplete without you.

Even if he were to shatter this fragile existence, he knew deep down that he would not be reunited with you; heaven would welcome your pure soul, while he would drown in the torment of hell's grasp.

Shame twisted in his gut as he found himself in the Blue Pearl, entwined with a woman who was not you. The very same woman who had robbed him of his innocence so many years ago, the one who had snuffed out the last vestiges of his untainted childhood.

"The love of my life is dead," Aemond murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper against Madam Sylvi's soft, perfumed skin. He was acutely aware of the hollowness inside him, a well from which no more tears could flow.

"You are still young, my prince. There will be many more to come," Sylvi cooed, her voice a melodic attempt to soothe his anguish. But her words only ignited a flicker of anger within him. How could she presume to understand? How could she speak of future loves when in his heart, there was only room for you?

"The last time I laid eyes on her, she told me she loved me," he said, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could summon forth that cherished moment. "I was the happiest I had ever been. And yet, how swiftly that joy was cruelly ripped away."

"Daemon sent them to kill me," he continued, his tone darkening with the weight of truth. "I was out."

"You were here," Sylvi stated.

"In truth, I am proud… that he considers me such a foe," Aemond confessed, a grim satisfaction threading through his grief. "And that he seeks to murder me in my bed—he fears me. His actions have borne my lady love’s tragic end, and he will answer for it."

"As well he should," Sylvi replied, her gaze intense. "The boy is grown into a man." She leaned closer, her lips hovering tantalizingly close to his.

"Mm. No. Not here," Aemond said with a frown, his body recoiling from her advances. Disgust flooded through him as he shifted away from her, seeking refuge on her thighs, though his thoughts were elsewhere. The brothel faded into the background as memories of you flooded his mind—your laughter, your warmth, the connection that ignited his very soul.

(I love making these vids)

Names that are in bold are ones that couldn't be added :(

@barnes70stark @izabell26 @anyisaravia2001 @urdeftonesgrrrl @helo1281917 @strangefunthornqueen @ellie-xOxo @hueanhdang @elenapri0502 @goest-and-fuckest-thyself-blog @caged-birdies-blog @darktrashsoulbear @lenavonswartzschild @writtenbyhollywood @gl4ssw1ngp1xy @goddesslilithmoriarty @sunset18rose @filmflux @ln8118 @esposadomd @sara-grimes-yess @littybeech @gyneve @https-kokomi @void21 @yariany02 @baby-w3-ar3-infinite @baby-i-can-see-your-reylo @niktwazny303 @missyviolet123 @caribbeangal @ggukiespace @levimaids @Lokisgoddessofpower @anakilusmos @spacexdrago @strawberymilktea @snowtargaryen @fiction-fanfic-reader @feelingfaye @sxlsvv

[maacbrem]

Absolutely insane about the Thelyss brothers in Vasselheim cause like

Essek the Bright Queen is RIGHT THERE SIR PLEASE - but then, so is his brother, his little brother he probably still thinks of as a child because they were allowed to be children so briefly before anamnesis failed to come and they had to make something of themselves as new souls in an ancient Den, and Verin is the youngest Taskhand of Bazzoxan and a highly accomplished Echo Knight but he’s going to war??? Against aliens and would-be god killers and Ludinus Da’leth???? And Essek is a heretic fugitive and selfish to his bones, but he loved his brother even when he didn’t think he was capable of love at all, even if he wasn’t very good at it. So he stays in Vasselheim and he makes sure that these strange, awe-inspiring legendary heroes know his brother’s face, his voice, his armour, so that maybe if he falls one of them will deign to pick him up. He thinks about his friends, far from him now (Caleb, out of his reach and likely preparing to do something reckless but too brilliant to be called foolish), and looks at his brother, who will also go, who might never come back.

And Verin??? The youngest son of his Den, the second new soul prodigy by necessity who never really understood his brother but loved him anyway, who mourned their father so hard that he tried to become him by throwing himself against the endless hordes of the Hells, who now answers the call of all the gods and Exandria itself to fight a war with impossible odds, offering himself and his soldiers as potential cannon fodder so that the legendary heroes of the age might emerge victorious? I need to know how long he’s known what Essek did (because I know that Essek confessed and part of him hoped that Verin would condemn him, his righteous, devoted brother), and I need to know if Essek faked his death or just vanished, and I need to know if Verin wept for him. Verin who loves his people and his country and his god, who believes in things like faith and loyalty because he’s never really had cause not to, who has to find a way to believe in his brother, too. He learns to recognize this Archivist disguise and a few others that Essek favours, and he stops referring to his brother by name ever just so he doesn’t forget at the wrong moment, and he carries the beat-up booklet of Ashari poetry that he first learned to read Common from that still has child-Essek’s penmanship in the margins and he thinks about how seasons change and how winter doesn’t really kill, it just rests, and the process of a butterfly’s metamorphosis isn’t really that far off from the Luxon’s decree to become your ever-bettering self.

Essek doesn’t say “come back” but he does say “fight smart” and Verin knows what he means. Verin wraps him in a spine-cracking bear hug, uncomfortable in his armour but Essek has gotten better about physical affection in the past few years and one day Verin intends to thank the Mighty Nein personally for that. Verin says “stay sharp” and then quieter he says “i’ll see you again” and Essek hears ‘in this life or the next’ and he very calmly and sanely doesn’t start screaming, but he does press a pearl to Verin’s forehead (Caleb’s variation of the somatics, a useless bit of sentimentality made powerful that Essek adores). And then they have to part ways before Verin rejoins the Kryn contingent and Essek disappears back into the crowd, two brothers finally on the same side but unable to stand together.

Anyway, I think they’re neat.

[troublesomesnitch]

The Novice

Aemond x Septa!Reader

The one-eyed prince makes a late night confession.

Contents: Book!Aemond. Pure filth, extremely dubious consent/non-con. Confessional dirty talk, coercion, power imbalance.

Words: 4200

Mostly book!Aemond, but with some show elements added to make him a real piece of shit.

CW: sexual assault!

Proof read, but I am not good at proof reading.

-

Twice a week, the grand sept receives fine visitors.

It is always something you look forward to, something special and exciting; hearing guards in the streets outside, and the swift feet of errand boys running to inform your superiors.

The queen will be arriving shortly. 

There is not much preparation that needs to be done, because you never tarry in your duties - there are always fresh matches laid out, candles ready to be lit, not a spec of dust on the altars. But for the queen, you go above and beyond. You fetch cushions for her dainty knees, you light incense in every corner, and you usher out any crowds that are not worthy of her presence. 

You greatly admire the queen. She is all that a lady should be, the very image of womanhood. Gracious, pious, beautifully but modestly dressed, and always kind and courteous to you. She says thank you, and blessed day, sweet Sister, and she asks about your training, your health and wellbeing, what charitable causes you wish to devote yourself to. 

The older septas say that the queen seems to have taken a liking to you, and that perhaps if you are lucky, she will request for you to join her household once you have taken your vows. To be a helper and companion to her daughter, and to teach the little prince and princess - her grandchildren, which is a strange thought, because the queen is so young and so beautiful to already be a grandmother. 

She is certainly much younger than her husband. The king is old and frail and rarely leaves his castle now, but even in his youth, he never came to the sept. At least that is what you are told. Septon Alester says he is an unworthy husband, and an unworthy ruler, too. A heretic, like all the rest of his Valyrian kin, who flout divine law and believe themselves above the gods. 

You would never dare to utter such a thing, but it seems at least partially true - in all the time you have served the sept, the king has never accompanied his queen to prayer. Not even once. She always comes alone, escorted by her guard and her maid. And sometimes by her son. 

The one-eyed prince. The one who rides the largest beast in the world. 

There are many rumours swirling about noble lords and ladies, but especially about him. In the taverns and winesinks people say he is of a sullen disposition, and that the loss of his eye at such a young age has left his face hideous and deformed - clearly they have never seen him, but you have, and you know it is nothing more than malicious slander. 

The prince is as beautiful as his mother. 

They look lovely when they kneel together by the altar, with their hands delicately folded and their heads respectfully bowed. Regal, godly. Like the Mother and the Warrior, you think. You often wonder about the contents of his prayers - what could a royal prince possibly wish for? Not as many things as a queen, it would seem, because he never kneels for as long, retreating after a minute or two to stand and wait for his mother. Watch over her; look at her with devotion and reverence. You cannot help but steal quick glances at him; at his graceful posture and his strong face, and you are always too slow to look away, so sometimes he catches you in it. Even when you stand on his blind side, he somehow knows to turn his head and meet your gaze. The little bow he gives you is courteous, but the taunting smile that follows is not, and you must always remind yourself that you have done nothing wrong. 

It is not a sin to be curious. 

—

When the evening bell tolls, and the city gates close, the High Septon calls to prayer. But one person must always stay behind to keep vigil until the morning, and the duty is shared between all servants of the Faith. Septons and septas, novices, even holy brothers and sisters, sometimes. Only the Most Devout are exempt from it, as well as those who are weakened by illness or old age.

You are neither, but you do not mind taking your turn. It is an easy task, as all of the city is asleep, and those who are not would much rather drink and carouse than come to a place of worship. Here, the night is quiet and calm, and you quite like these hours of solitude. Alone in the sept with only the statues, and maybe the gods, for company. 

On this day though, you are startled from your thoughts when the heavy doors are swung open. 

You have never before encountered guests at this hour, so your fearful imagination is quick to jump to conclusions - the man could be a thief, a common brute, a scoundrel hiding from a brawl, or - gods forbid - from the City Watch.

But when you peek out from your little corner, you are surprised to see that it is the prince. And that he is alone. 

He is dressed differently tonight, in dull colours and coarser fabrics, far simpler than what he usually wears. Perhaps in an attempt to go unnoticed among the common people - but if that was indeed his intention, he has very much failed. Everything about him is unusual, from his hair to his eye to the shining silver clasp at his neck; the immaculate tailoring of each of his garments. Even the way he carries himself makes it abundantly clear that this is no grocer or stonemason. 

You cast your eyes down as his steps echo through the sept, purposeful and determined.  Clearly heading towards you, but you would hate to be presumptuous, so it is only when he is right in front of you that you rise from your seat to curtsy. Reverently, so deep that your knee almost touches the floor. 

“Sister,” he nods. “I have sins I wish to confess - a troubled mind I wish to unburden.” 

You curtsy once more, though not as low this time.

“I am not ordained to hear confessions, but I should be happy to fetch a septon - “

“No,” the prince says. “I will speak to no one but you.” 

What he demands is a breach of the rules, and a cruel thing to ask of you, but there is not much to be done about it. You can hardly refuse a prince of the realm, and what if he tells his mother that you were unhelpful? After all, it is your sacred duty to comfort and guide the faithful. To lead them on the path to righteousness. 

So you nod, draping your veil over your head as you both sit down on your little bench. Right beside one another, so close that your legs almost touch. A proper septa would say confess, and may the Father judge you justly, but that is not appropriate for you, so you merely look down at your folded hands and wait for the prince to speak. 

“I am plagued by impure thoughts,” he begins. 

The colour drains from your face in an instant. Oh, not this. 

Anything else, you do believe you could handle. Envy, drunkenness, greed, gambling, even violent offences, perhaps. Anything but this. But you remain calm; force yourself to keep your composure as you speak. 

“All young men have impure thoughts. It is perfectly natural.”

From the corner of your eye, it looks as though the prince smiles ever so slightly. 

“Of course,” he nods. “But mine are by nature nefarious, because the lady I desire is a chaste and pious woman… a maiden, and justly proud of her innocence. She would be distraught if she knew the wickedness she inspires.”

You feel yourself blushing. Although you are sufficiently educated on the matter, speaking of such things makes you feel ashamed and uncomfortable. As it would most young women. Confession or not, nothing about this conversation is appropriate, and you want nothing more than to be done with it and return to quiet contemplation. You keep your eyes cast down, and you are as curt as you dare when you answer. 

“Then you should not sully her, My Prince, even in your thoughts. You should pray to the Smith for strength, or to the Warrior if you prefer, and occupy yourself with noble pursuits. Prayer, studies, and so forth.”

“Oh, but I do,” the prince says gravely. “I devote my every hour to noble pursuits. And yet time and time again I sully her, and my own hand too in the process -  yes, I must confess that I have sinned exceedingly, in both thought and deed. These urges of mine are so unbearable, I simply must relieve myself…” He pauses to look at you coolly, his brows drawn together in a disapproving frown. “You look quite pale, Septa, is my confession too scandalous for you? I should hope the Faith would not admit a novice so unfit for her position…”

“Of course not,” you quickly mutter, though in truth, you are mortified. This is far beyond your station and skill. Not only is the matter highly delicate, but you must also carefully choose your words so as to not offend a member of the royal family. And one with a - supposedly - unfortunate temper at that. 

“It is not for me to command a prince,” you begin, “but it is my duty to remind you that the Faith condemns such practices - surely you know that by indulging your urges, you will only make them stronger.”

“I have tried to refrain from it,” the prince laments. “But even then, she haunts me…  at night, I dream that I lie on top of her - that I spread her thighs and press her body to my own. And these dreams are so vivid, so terribly arousing, they often cause me to - forgive me, Sister - emit my seed.” He sighs deeply, and turns his face away, his shoulders tense; his handsome features full of torment. “A rather shameful predicament, for a grown man - is it not?” 

Perhaps, you think, but a common one nonetheless, and not something he should be chastised for. You know perfectly well that there are some functions of a man’s body that are beyond his control, as do the gods who made it so. It is best not to dwell on it. 

“My Prince,” you say instead, with what little confidence you can muster, “ - with your permission, I would offer you this advice: if you cannot restrain yourself, and if you care for this lady, then you should court and wed her.” You fiddle nervously with your dress, lowering your voice to barely more than a whisper. “It is a wholesome thing, for spouses to give their bodies to each other - for a man to make love to his wife…”  

The prince hums, either in agreement or contemplation, you can’t tell. But you hope he will take your words to heart, and make this irresistible woman his wife. If the mere sight of her can stir such passion, then he would surely grow to love her deeply, and their union would be happy and prosperous. Blessed by the gods.

- Or maybe not.

“I am afraid that is not possible,” the prince says. Slowly, thoughtfully. “Because you see, my lady is a septa - a novice, as it were…” 

His words trail off, and his hand reaches to caress your face, right by the edge of your veil, where a strand of hair has loosened from its pin. 

You recoil at once, springing from your seat to look at him with shock and horror. 

“This is highly improper - “

“I have thought of nothing but you,” he exclaims, impassioned, rising quickly to reach for you once more, “ - since the day I saw you, I have wanted no one else - ”

Again you manage to evade his embrace, but the prince is tall, and his legs are long and agile. Each one of his strides is worth two of yours, and when you back away he follows, stepping ever closer until you are backed up against a pillar.

Oh how you wish that it had only been a thief come to rob the sept. You could have easily escaped out the little hidden door by the dias; let them take whatever riches they could carry.  There is only silver here, and the Faith has no shortage of that.

The prince is after something far more precious. 

“Don’t touch me - ” you plead, feeling your pulse quicken, the hair rise on the back of your neck. He is too near, moving to loom over you, intimidating and imposing, and so tall that he must bend to brush his nose against your hair. 

“It is a waste,” he murmurs. “That such beauty should only belong to the gods.”

You should flee. You should defend your virtue. Maids and ladies, harlots and tavern girls, all women know to protect themselves, to kick where a man is the weakest, to scratch, bite, shout, make a racket. There are guards patrolling the square outside, and septons sleeping nearby in their cells - if you were loud enough, someone would hear you and come to your aid. 

But at what cost, when your assailant is a prince? 

You dare not risk it, so you stand frozen in place, too frightened to push him away, too frightened to even look at him as he gropes your body, touching it in ways that it has never been, and should never be touched. One of his arms wraps around your waist, the other trails over your dress, feeling your shape underneath the fabric. Your stomach, your hips, your bottom, and especially your breasts. 

He cups them with both hands, kneading and massaging them hard, pressing his fingers into your flesh.

“I would take you right here,” he breathes. “Against this very pillar, for all your gods to see - ” 

The blasphemy, the shameless vulgarity - you gasp, and at the sound, the prince chuckles faintly. 

“You said yourself it is a wholesome thing…”

“For husbands and wives -” you squeak, “please, you mustn’t hurt me!“

“Never,” he says, bringing your hand to rest on his chest, over his heart, as if to reassure you. “If you would only oblige me, I swear I will be gentle…”

You shake your head, but it does not dissuade him. He kisses your hair, your cheeks, the shell of your ear, touching his lips to every little sliver of exposed skin. Not just your face and neck, but your forearms too, your wrists, the insides of your elbows. Anywhere that lets him truly feel you. Feel the rapid beat of your pulse; the warmth and softness of a woman’s body.

And as he touches you, you feel him. His manhood, stiff against your hip when he presses himself against you, moaning softly at the feeling. It is a most intimate sound, and you are ashamed to realise that your body instinctively responds to it; to the closeness, the touch of a man. You feel warm in your chest, and wet between your legs - unnerving, and so at odds with the panic that still grips you, with the tears that prickle in your eyes. 

“Please don’t - ” you whimper, just as his teeth graze your jaw, drawing a single, involuntary sigh from your lips. One that spurs him on to swiftly yank the veil off your head and discard it, fully exposing your hair and neck. 

He pulls back to look at you, your neatly pinned tresses, your smooth throat and collarbones. Your beauty that he has long wished to admire. 

“Like an angel,” he says softly, longingly, taking your face in his hands and stroking your cheeks with his thumbs. “A little angel - the Maiden in the flesh - “

“That is a blasphemous thing to say,” you sniffle. 

It only makes him laugh, and before you can say anything else, he tilts your face up so he can press his mouth to yours. 

No one has ever kissed you before. Many boys have wanted to, but none were ever allowed the privilege. You always knew you did not want to be a wife. That you had a different calling. 

It is a very strange sensation, this kiss. Hot, wet, and sticky. You do not return it, and yet the prince is undeterred, parting your lips softly but insistently, just enough to slip his tongue inside. It gives him pleasure, even when your mouth is slack and unresponsive - you can tell from his blissful sighs, and from the indecent way he moves his hips, rubbing the prominent bulge in his trousers against you. He is so entranced by your mouth and your body that you feel a treacherous sense of relief, thinking to yourself that if this is how he wants to gratify himself - by licking your tongue and humping against your hip - you will let him. No real harm has been done to your virtue, and the gods will understand you had no choice. Already you are silently saying your prayers, to the Warrior for courage, the Mother for compassion, the Father for leniency  -

But you are cruelly interrupted when the prince draws back and begins to loosen the closure of his breeches. 

“No - oh no, no - ,” you shriek, but as you try to wriggle from his grasp, his face hardens and his gentle touch becomes like a vice. Rough and unyielding, holding you in place. 

“You must forgive me,” he rasps, his gaze dark with lust, his nostrils flaring, “ - for I can no longer deprive myself of what I so desire...”

He is so much stronger than you. With an impeccably polished boot he shoves your feet apart, his one hand pinning your arms behind your back, the other hiking up your skirts, determined, deaf to your frantic pleas. 

“You don’t understand, I must remain chaste!”

“Don’t lie to me,” he hisses, “I know the workings of the Faith, you’ve taken no solemn vows yet - “

“No, I have, I have!” you cry. “I pledged myself to the Maiden when I was a girl!”

It is the truth, but the prince does not care. He silences you with another desperate kiss, crushing his face to yours, reaching to hook his hand under your knee and lift your leg. He has you trapped, pinned between his body and the stone column, and you can claw at him until your hands bleed, it makes no difference. Your dress is bunched up, your legs forcibly parted, your most intimate secrets laid bare to be violated. A great sin, made even greater by the circumstances, and yet the gods have abandoned you, left you here to suffer. 

They must be occupied elsewhere, and the statues too stand motionless on their plinths, with their tranquil faces, staring blankly into the distance as though deliberately blind to your tragedy. 

To the hand that worms its way underneath your smallclothes. The nails that dig into the back of your neck, holding your head in place. The mouth that swallows up your sobs until he is forced to break the kiss so he can reach between your bodies and finish unlacing his breeches. 

You gasp for breath, looking up and straight at him, your eyes wet and pleading, your lip trembling. 

“Don’t ruin me, please - I beg you, don’t take from me what can never be replaced - “

The prince’s hand hesitates on your thigh. His one eye flickers between your two, between the tears that flow uncontrollably down your cheeks; your little hands clenched into fists against his chest.

For a split second there’s a shadow of something softer on his face, a strange draw around his mouth, and then he curses and releases your leg. And you bolt, without thinking, ducking under his arm to sprint towards the door and safety. 

You manage all of two steps before the prince catches you and pins you to the pillar once more. 

“Not yet - ” he orders, slipping a hand down the front of his trousers to finally free his member from its confines. He cradles it at the base to proudly show it off before he begins to stroke himself, shamelessly and urgently, while you look on. At once frightened and sinfully curious. 

You have never seen it before. The masculine organ. Only in drawings, of which some were intended to educate young women, and others were of a much lewder nature. The prince’s manhood does look much like those anatomical illustrations, only it is bigger in person than you had imagined. Hard and swollen with need. It fits perfectly in his fist, and the skin glides back to reveal the head, which is thick and meaty, and a dark purple red. It almost looks as though it should be painful for him, having it filled and engorged in such a way. Having it stretched to be so big. But of course you know that is not the case. And even if you didn’t, his gasp of pleasure would have made it very clear. 

He reaches for your wrist, tugging it down between his legs, and you are quick to look away when he closes your fingers around it, with his own hand on top. Somehow, you reason that if you keep your eyes averted, it is not as sinful. Not as deserving of punishment. 

But you can still feel it. In your palm, against your clammy skin. Warm, and pulsing as he squeezes your fingers tight around the shaft, moving them from the base to the tip and back down again, using your hand to pleasure himself. Slowly at first, but as his arousal grows he quickens the pace, moving your hand only over the tip of his member, massaging the bulbous head with quick movements. All the while groping at your chest.

And you let him do it. All of it, resigning yourself to be used at his will and pleasure. It is the best and safest course of action now, and all you can do is bear it. You keep your sobs inside, and your eyes cast down, staring mindlessly at the patterns in the stone floor until the prince’s hand seizes your jaw. 

“Look at me,” he commands through gritted teeth, running his thumb over your mouth, pressing against your lips. “Open - suck, use your tongue - “

You do as he says, wanting so desperately to just be done with it - once he has finished he will surely let you go. The thought prompts you to suck on his fingers with increasing fervour, taking them deep into your mouth, running your tongue along the length of them, along his knuckles; making him gasp at the feeling.  

“Fuck, like that - gods yes,” he moans, letting go of your hand to lean against the pillar for support, his eye falling closed, his hips making shallow, instinctive thrusts.

You continue with the same movements, up and down over his manhood, trying to mimic exactly what he did before, whilst still sucking on his fingers, too. Letting him feel your soft mouth and your warm lips; your little wet tongue caressing his skin. You haven’t a clue as to what you are supposed to be doing, and there is no grace or skill to your licks, but each swirl of your tongue makes the prince moan regardless. He would probably much rather feel this attention somewhere else, but clearly he has the wits to know that shoving his member into an unwilling mouth is not a wise idea. So he contents himself with this. 

And thankfully, it does not take long before your efforts are rewarded.

When you choke back a mewl his hips jerk forward, and his hand flies down to close around yours again, guiding you to squeeze him harder and faster. His jaw goes slack, and his manhood stiffens even more, and even though you are inexperienced, you know what it means. You can feel it, feel his sac tighten, feel him twitch in your hand as semen travels up his shaft. He bends to lean his forehead against yours, and finally, finally, he spurts, moaning with pleasure as he empties himself onto your hand, his seed pulsing out in hot, wet squirts. Soiling not only your skin and your dress, but your conscience too; your virtue, honour and dignity.

And at last it is over. 

The prince slumps forwards against you, hiding his face in your neck. His body trembles with the final waves of his rapture, and he brushes his fingers over your hair in a strangely intimate way, a tender way. As though you were lovers. 

In a sense, now, you suppose you are. 

Before he leaves you he quickly tidies his clothes, throwing his cloak around his shoulders and tucking his shirt into his trousers. And once he has made himself presentable, he retrieves your veil too. Brushing it off with a gloved hand and draping it over your head once more. 

“Thank you, Sister,” he says sweetly, cradling your face to kiss your lips and then your forehead. “I feel much more at ease now.” 

No sooner have the doors closed behind him before you fall to your knees by the Maiden’s altar to beg for her forgiveness. 

Part 2: The Devil You Know

Please feel free to come into my asks or DMs with critique of my fics! Constructive is preferred, but not required.

Tags. @arcielee, @helaelaemond, @targaryen-madness, @qyburnsghost.

[writingwrench]

Confession (Stanford x Reader)

 I hope y’all enjoy! If you want me to write another or you have a suggestion, hit me up!

 Stanford glanced at the photo of the cheerful woman on his desk. She had this immutable, meanderous personality that he’d fallen hard for.

 Ever since they were younger, he’d had a type of respect for her enthusiastic and bubbly personality. Ever since high school (maybe even before then) he’d acquired an officious fervor for her. He didn’t really know how to tell her for fear of provoking some kind of rancor. 

 Even so, he ventured from his basement in search of his parsimonious heretic of a brother....

 “Stanley?” he asked,shutting the vending machine door. The twin was found sitting at the register, counting his day’s winnings.

 “Hey,bro!” he said, sea-tanned face splitting into a grin.

 “I need help,” Ford muttered,pulling a chair over to the counter and sitting down. 

 Stan set the money down,giving his brother his full attention. It wasn’t like him to ever ask for help. Even when they were on the Stan-O-War II.

 “I....I have feelings for (Y/N)....” he awkwardly began,hoping Stanley would understand. 

 Slowly, Stan began to smirk,before full acclaim filled the room. 

 “Finally, you admit it. It’s been over thirty years!” he laughed. Ford’s face was set aflame. He knew his brother wasn’t being callous, but he still felt somewhat ashamed for him to take this long to bring up the gall to tell her.

   Seeing Ford’s impression of a tomato, Stanley laughed again quietly,before,”Look,Poindexter, just go out there,hike up your big boy panties,  and tell her. She feels the same way...even though I don’t really understand, I am the better looking twin!” He grinned,winking. Which earned him an eye-roll from Ford.

 Still unsure, Ford, paused before the door, before Stan got fed up and just pushed him out to where (Y/N) was sitting with Dipper and Mabel. 

 “-I’m trying to nail that quack reporter for his actions,” She was saying. Stanford didn’t really understand what kind of conversation  he’d managed to walk into, but just hearing her voice, he’d instantly felt relieved. 

 “Hey, (N/N)?” he asked, nervousness seeping into his pores.

 “Hey, Ford!” she smiled brightly,turning to him. He stared at her for a moment, lost in her (E/C) eyes, before the awkward silence was broken by the angel he’d fell in love with.

 “What’s up?” she asked, not at all perturbed by the awkward silence. (She’d gotten used to it fairly quickly since Ford himself was such a cute, awkward person.)

 “I....um...I have to confess something,” he stuttered out, not meeting her eye for fear of peeing himself. He didn’t understand. He could take on demons and other horrifying creatures, but with a mere glance from (Y/N),his knees would buckle and he’d be a total loss for words.

 The girl raised a brow, signaling for him to continue....so he did.

 “I want...um...I would love.. gah,screw it! I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU!!” he yelled,startling (Y/N) and the younger twins.

 It was quiet until- “OH MY GOSH,GRUNKLE FORD!!!!!”

 (Y/N)’s face tinted pink.

 “Kids,” she said shakily,”Please give us some privacy.”

 They did as told, making their way to the house. It wasn’t long before she saw two heads pop up over the window sill. 

 Rolling her eyes and grinning, she rushed over to Ford,tackling him in a fierce hug. They both landed with a thud,before surprised giggles filled the air.

 “I love you too,Ford,” (Y/N) said, still grinning before pulling him to her by the front of his overcoat. Their lips met. The kiss was sweet and passionate, the  both of them marveling at how long it took for them to get to this point.

 They disconnected, resting their foreheads on each other’s shoulder, and quietly grinning.

 “(Y/N), I’m so sorry it took me so long,” Ford finally said,breaking the silence.

 He was met with another kiss.

 “It’s alright,you dork,” she said, still grinning.

 It may have taken forever, but she finally felt truly wanted.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Heretic's Confession, Chapter Two

Chapter One

-

Two years prior

The world is on fire, and Brother Grigori can find no opening in the wall of flames. 

He comes to a stop as the archway comes crashing down in front of him, blocking him from taking the market road. When he turns, the crush of the crowd behind him, pushing and shoving and trying to force their way through the narrowed alleys that still remain, seems as dangerous as the burning buildings.

There can be no air to breathe, in a crowd like that. He would be trading possible death for certain suffocation.

Instead, Grigori pulls his white robes more tightly around himself, feeling marked by the visibility. On a normal day, the white robe would lead to people stopping to ask him for healing, for forgiveness, to confess their sins and be freed of the guilt and shame of them. Now, though… the priests of Dromada seem a special target of the bandits who have attacked Her most beautiful patron city.

The priests are nearly all dead, he thinks, in a circle in the temple where they were caught unawares at the evening meal. Only Brother Grigori had been away, ministering to a family with a dying father who needed to be given his Final Grace. 

The man had taken his last breath just as the first bells of alarm rang at the guard towers. Grigori wondered if his body was still lying in his own bed, forgotten.

Or if the man’s house had already burned, a tomb of fire. 

Where the man’s wife and daughters had gone.

Grigori had run for the temple, only to see the bandits streaming out, laughing and shouting and shoving at each other, soaked in sprays of bright red blood against their black leathers. He had hidden, in the temple stables, until they set the stable roof on fire, too, and then he opened the stalls and the wide double doors and escaped when the sudden rush of panicked horses overwhelmed their observations.

The horses had been let to run to freedom and safety. If they make it to the river, and they can swim, there will be safety at the other side. 

Grigori had one inside, moving past the shattered remnants of Dromada’s statue, now crushed on the temple steps. A single white marble eyeball, austere and somehow judgemental, had stared up at him from her half-formed face. The rest looked like cake crumbs, marked with footprints from the soot-stained soles of the bandits’ boots.

He found the bodies of the others in the dining room, some still seated before their still-warm dinners. Throats slit, stabbed through the heart, some simply bashed to death by shield or flat edge of a sword. Twenty-nine dead priests, and only one remained alive, the youngest, twenty-two year old Grigori, who had been found on the steps as an infant and knew no other life than this.

It seemed impossible that the wail he had let out hadn’t brought the walls down around him. 

Then, because there was nothing else left to do, he ran.

Now, the people of the city scream around him. They fight and shove and kick, they hold to each other, beg for mercy from the faceless men in black leathers on black horses who race through the night with torches in hand. 

They kick with heavy boots to knock victims to the ground, yank jewelry from their necks, and slaughter them in the street. He sees someone drag a young man into a house, laughing uproariously as the man pleads, the bandit already tearing at his clothes with abandon. 

It’s obscene.

Like something out of the filthy books they sell in secret at the bookstore in the market, the ones wrapped in thick paper as soft as cloth, that you must ask for by name. Oh, Grigori knows all about the profane pleasures the temple forbids.

He used to dream about them, before he begged Dromada to take such desires away, and they had marked his flesh with his vows. 

He had owned such a book.

Once.

The bookstore has burned, too. There will be no more books sold in this dead city, to dead men, with open eyes the flies already hover over. 

Near him, a woman holding a baby cries out, breaking him from his terrified stupor. Her voice is shrill and panicked. “No! Please, not my baby, please, no!”

Grigori, who had been hidden in the shadows, bursts forward. He’s driven more by instinct than courage. The woman turns to him, eyes wide, tears streaming down reddened cheeks marred with soot. She clutches the wailing infant close.

A bandit on a huge horse looks down at him, face hidden by a mask and helmet except for their eyes, wide with surprise at the sight of him. They have a sword held high in one hand, ready to bring it down. 

“I thought we killed all you stuck-up snobs,” The bandit says, puzzled. “At dinner. Eating fine foods in your fine temples.”

“I-I wasn’t th-there-”

“Oh, you weren’t. Huh. Visiting a mistress?” The bandit winks.

“I beg your-... no!” Fury rose in him, barely held in check by the fear. How dare this anonymous creature of such darkness and hate suggest he would do anything to break his sacred vows, while still wearing the white robes of Dromada, whose hem stays clean even during the worst of the mudslides and floods of spring?

“Oh. Well. If you could just step aside so I can go back to slaughtering-”

“Hurt not the children!” He calls, his voice rasping from breathing in too much smoke, forcing the woman behind him, shielding her with his own body. His heart pounds wildly, making him oddly dizzy, uncertain. “They have done nothing!”

The bandit blinks once. Their eyes crinkle at the edges. “None of you have done a single fucking thing to deserve this,” They said. Was there laughter in that voice, mocking his fear and his righteous anger? When something so terrible goes on all around them? “And yet we’re killing you anyway, just to send a message to Pehla, aren’t we?”

Grigori’s eyes widen. “The… the King Pehla?”

“Oh, right. He’s a king now.” The bandit laughs outright this time, but they lower the sword, and Grigori finds some slim, small pointless hope in the sight. “He was only a prince the last time I saw him.”

“The last time you saw him? No one sees the King!”

“Well. Not since I saw him, I guess. I do tend to make an impression…”

Grigori’s mouth is dry. “I-I… you must go-”

“Anyway,” The bandit says, ignoring his attempt to speak entirely, “Why should we leave any survivors, huh? Tell me why.”

“I, I can’t-... why do you need to kill anyone?” His voice trembles, and he coughs to pretend it’s the smoke forcing it to weaken and not the same fear that has his knees turned to liquid. Somehow he locks them in place, keeping the poor woman and her wailing baby behind him. She shushes the child, cuddling them close. 

“Because you can’t send a message about being dangerous unless you’re actually Dromada-damned dangerous, now can you?” The bandit’s eyes are crinkled again. “Wait. Droma-damned. Is that better?”

“I-... Just. Please. Please, the town is yours, no one else needs to die, there are no more soldiers here. Please.”

There’s a pause. The bandit stares at him, considering. “Say please again. Just like that, but… softer.”

Grigori’s eyebrows furrow, but he offers a hesitant, not-quite whispered, “... please.”

“Dromada’s Dick, that’s nice.”

“Dromada doesn’t have-”

The bandit cuts him off with a gesture. “It’s a figure of speech. Have they ever let you out of that temple, honestly?” Then they sigh. “Well… fine. You're very pretty. I think I've made my point."

Grigori’s mouth opens, but no words come out. The confusion is so pure and perfect that he forgets he ever knew how to speak beyond a stammered, “Wh-what?”

What point?

The bandit points at him, and Grigori straightens up, trying to seem taller than he is. “You. What’s your name, Priestling?”

“I-I am Brother Grigori, priest apprentice to the-”

“Right, yes, Grigori. I like that, Grigori. Nice, won’t have to change it. That would be irritating. See you later, Grigs. Bet you twenty marks I know exactly where you’ll go after this."

"I-... I don't understand."

"Ssssshhhh. Don't worry about it. I’ll find you.”

Before Grigori can answer, the bandit jerks the reins, turning their horse on its heel and riding off into the night. Grigori hears shouting in a language he doesn’t know, one voice then echoed by dozens more, and watches in confusion as the bandits brandishing their swords come pouring out of what houses still stand. They ride away. He watches the one who had dragged the young man into the house come out still fixing his sword belt back on, the young man stumbling after him with his shirt off and his pants ripped, holding them up with one hand. The young man and Grigori briefly meet eyes.

In less than an hour, all the bandits have gone. 

“What happened?” The young man asks, breathless. There are red marks around his neck, which Grigori’s brain refuses to acknowledge are in the shape of the hands that had closed there. “Where are they going?”

“He made them leave,” The woman whispers, and Grigori turns slowly to look from side to side. Indeed… there are no bandits to be seen. 

No army of men and women in black on black horses, setting fires, slaughtering thousands.

No one but the people of the city, and their sole surviving priest.

“You made them leave,” The woman says, in a tone of awe, and she touches the sleeve of his robe as if he himself is the statue since fallen. “You did that. Dromada’s sake, you made it end.”

"What? I, no, I didn't-... I don't know why-"

"Dromada's own has saved us!" Someone yells. Someone else echoes it.

Grigori feels like he'll be sick all over the cobblestones, more frightened of their admiration than he was of the bandits.

By the end of the week, the temple has been cleared of bodies and Brother Grigori is the hero of Henton City. He sweeps the steps, accepts a handshake from the equerry to the king, although not the king himself, who hasn’t been seen in years, not in public. He is given a medal,  special coin on a ribbon with his own likeness cut into it. He's told to wear it always.

He hangs it off his bedpost and pretends it doesn't exist.

He cries, at night, alone in a room that holds thirty beds but only one man left to sleep in any of them. He tries to clean the sleeping space out but finds a diary under Brother Fraykil's bed and reads his writing about what promise Grigori has shown and cries some more, then he never touches any of the other beds again.

People keep coming to thank him, and he can't make himself be rude enough to send them away.

For a few months, he's famous. 

A hero.

Painfully lonely, but... a hero.

Plagued with nightmares, withdrawing from the people, eventually closing the temple doors and barring them shut. The people pitied him, left him gifts of food and drink on the temple steps for him to bring inside at night.

They whisper about him.

He doesn't care to listen any longer.

He prays, and feels the Goddess's touch, but by the time he next wakes from sleep, the comfort is gone.

And yet... still, he's the Hero of Honorable Henton City, Dromada's favored priest, the single survivor of the temple massacre. The man whose grace and holiness was so strong, at his young age, that even the evil things could be convinced to leave by his word.

He was meant to be there, the people whisper. He was born to be the orphan left at the doorstep, raised bathed in holy waters by the men of Dromada's temple. He was born to be a hero.

He doesn't... feel like much of a hero.

They say he's one anyway.

... until he runs away from the temple and joins the very bandits who had so disgraced Dromada’s own city, swears allegiance body and soul to their terrible leader, sleeps with him on the dark altar to a vicious elven god, and vanishes into the dark forests of the Kaila, never to be seen again.

At least... that's the way the story is told.

Grigori's version of what happened is a little different than that.

Not that there's anyone to listen, by then, but the bandits.

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tag list: @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @sunshiline-writes @befuddled-calico-whump

[darkintrinsic]

Infamous Desire | Nicholas Chavez

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

⋆ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. nicholas chavez x female reader. ⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. With dreams becoming more and more real, you live in the impasse between succumbing to the infamous desire. ⋆ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒). dirty talk, somnophilia, knife play, explicit sex, murder, stalker, profanity.

With your palms together, you hear each word of his like music to your ears. He says “God, our Father, take away the sins of the world” as if he were not the bearer of most of them.

Light brown hair perfectly combed back, narrow gaze and broad shoulders over the dark cassock with red details over the cross. Father Charles was the definition of a heretic, frighteningly handsome and intoxicating beautiful, capable of warming parts hitherto unknown beneath the sacred vestments.

"May the Lord lead you safely to your homes, my brothers, I have heard that an evildoer is roaming Houston." Father Charles warns, closing his Bible and turning his attention to the faithful. "Pray, fast, keep evil far from your homes and avoid going out at dusk."

Leaving the only chapel in Houston empty, everyone followed the low sun due to the time and left after the end of Sunday mass, except you. Running her fingers over the dark wooden benches as she walked forward, her eyes never left the man standing at the pulpit, focused on the scriptures. From this point of view, his arms seemed larger, as if they were going to tear the tailored fabric at any moment.

A heavy sigh escaped her lips, dreaming about him every night after prayer had become a routine, and it was common for the temperature to fluctuate between her legs.

"Is everything okay, sister?" Father Charles' voice cut through your thoughts that seemed to be drifting into dangerous territory.

''Yes, yes" You answered a little shakily, adjusting your skirt as a distraction "Do you need any more help to fix the church?"

Father Charles gave you that look and smiled, walking towards you, flames coming out of his pupils and shooting through your body like embers. Since his arrival at the parish, nothing seemed to have returned to its normal state.

"Always so dedicated, sister…" Charles said in a hoarse whisper, leaning down until he was at your height, he lifted your chin with his fingertips and your faces were so close that the warm air of his breath blew against your face. "You deserve the best reward that heaven has to offer you."

With his fingers moving away from the contact with your face, you felt him blush and smiled shyly as you shrugged your shoulders. "Would it be bold of me to ask what it would be, Father Charles?"

"That's not an answer I can give when my mission is to only apply punishments."

"Then maybe I deserve to be punished." You say frankly, forgetting that you are in front of a Catholic authority, obeying only the command of the unbearable heat between your thighs.

"Do you wish to confess, sister?" He asks before half-closing his eyes.

Closed in the four wooden walls of a confessional, your fingers lowered the veil that covered the top of your head, and from the side view you saw Father Charles sitting in the next room.

"Father, give me your blessing because I have sinned"

You say without taking your attention off his erect body. "Every night in my dreams my object of desire manages to persuade me, without any effort, I allow him to take me, to soil my body with his sweet profanity and give me the cup of sin to drink with him. It is becoming more and more recurrent, I am no longer able to separate illusion from reality and being close to him has been torture without remembering the images we experience every night."

"It doesn't seem that serious to me, sister" he began with a deep voice filling the confessional. "We cannot control our dreams, there is no need to consider it a sin to have carnal desires."

"Not even if the object of desire, is you?"

An anguished silence formed in seconds, from the side view you noticed Father Charles closing his fingers on his own thigh, shrinking the fabric of his cassock. You didn't know what that reaction meant more precisely, but a wave of regret for saying those words slowly emerged.

Six Hail Marys and twelve Our Fathers was your punishment, not exactly what you expected after revealing to your parish priest the unbridled delirium he caused in your head every night. Charles left the confessional in silence and, with the discouragement of having done the biggest mistake of your life, you returned to your room at the back of the church.

Cold water from the shower on your naked body, eyes closed, and nothing could contain the maddening agony of thinking about that man from the moment you woke up until the time you went to sleep. Like a volcano, he left a trail of overwhelming destruction with just his intoxicating presence and the woody scent of his skin.

Your fingers sailed to your nipples, twirling around them in circular motions, allowing your mind to take you as far as possible. Heat, tension, stiffness on the soft skin, that was the effect he had on you as if he were constantly electrocuting you with high voltage wires.

All the shame spread in his presence and you just wanted to feel him, you just wished that instead of your fingers entering, it were his. In your core, you made rotary movements until your clitoris stiffened from the spasm generated by your body. A moan escaped your lips, you're at the height of pleasure, didn't care about being heard by the other nuns in the room as you sank two more fingers inside yourself.

Between the strands of hair, you raised your head and noticed a presence watching you through the bathroom window, but you didn't move to stop when you realized that having someone on the other side made you even more excited.

A short scream tells you that you came on your fingers, and a last sigh of relief leaves your lips as you relax in the hot water. The sight of another body in the window is no longer there, and you raise your eyebrows, curiously wondering where the figure that was stalking you was.

After turning off the shower, you wrapped your body in a towel and with bare feet felt the cold floor on the way to the back door of the room. The night breeze attacked you with force, with a wind that made the hairs on your arms stand on end.

You heard a grunting sound that seemed to come from the outskirts of the parish, and even though you were hesitant, you overcame your fear and followed wherever the noise was.

You covered your mouth with your hands to prevent your scream from echoing around the place as you saw Father Charles disemboweling a man's body in the middle of the lawn. His white clothes were stained with blood, his hair disheveled over his face, and he was panting like an animal as he finished taking the life of that being. Shock seemed not to be enough, your legs were frozen in place, and you forgot that your towel had slipped when you put your hands to your mouth in fright.

The dark and demonic gaze that had taken over Father Charles's body left the lifeless body and wandered towards you. Appetite leapt from his expression, as if the reclusive animal was finally free, thirsty for everything it needed to repel. He delighted in the fear on your face, and you tried to retreat as his steps advanced, but to no avail when he grabbed you by the throat and threw you against the church wall.

"Ask me, sister" he said softly, taking his hand from your throat to your hair, his face slowly nuzzled your neck and little by little you gave in as you wrapped your legs around his waist. "Ask me why my body is covered in the blood of a guy I don't know."

"Because, Father Charles…" You gasped when he passed a rigid tip at your entrance.

"Because he was watching you from the same place where I usually jump to see you every night, sister."

"You…

"No… it wasn't just a dream, we gave in to our desires together, every damn night since I got here." He blew and sent shivers down your entire body, pressing your legs tighter around his waist. The object he was using, cold and firm, pierced you and elicited a shy moan. "There is no sin without punishment, sister. Prepare to meet the worst of the devil in me tonight."

The handle of Father Charles' knife moved back and forth against the liquid that was running between your legs. Hot, voracious and with the taste of blood, it was the kiss of the man destined for the holy life who synchronized his tongues at the same time as he passed his lips over my face and pressed his body against the wall.

Infamous desire inflamed your veins and you used your hips to grind against the tip of the knife with the slow and sensual rhythm of the kiss. Your moans were muffled by Charles' lips every time he sank the object deeper.

"That's it, darling," he exhaled in a hoarse voice. "There's no need to rush to finish this dance, I'll always come back the next morning."

Every night was real, he invaded your dreams and confused your reality with the kisses on your belly and the rotating movements he made against your clitoris. Responsible for all the orgasms that flooded your bed the previous morning, Father Charles escaped your fantasies and came true before your eyes.

Taking the soaked knife out of you, he heard the plea you made when you felt you were empty. With a mischievous smile, it didn't take long for him to fill you again with his hard and robust member, too strong for your tight entrance. Charles tore the walls of your pussy as he forced himself against you, and your moan as he dug his nails into your wounded back sounded even louder.

Your breathing synchronized, and he looked deep into your eyes as he thrust and lifted your body with each thrust. You closed your legs to squeeze him, and you had never heard a sound as intriguing as the moan of a man like him. Your body gave the first spasm and your eyes rolled back with the high concentration of pleasure in your vertebrae.

Charles gave you a relentless sequence of penetrations, slamming your back against the wall, rough and delirious, he didn't waste a single drop of your body, running his tongue over your face, neck and breasts, as if it were his fountain of youth.

With a long grunt, you came all over Charles and drew a restrained smile from him. He used his own fluid as lubricant to continue his thrusts. The pause made him sigh and with his fingers digging into the back of your neck he led you to kneel in front of him. His entire length was entering your mouth with difficulty.

You thought it was impossible for someone to have something so exaggerated, but he did. Your hand helped you by stimulating his erection and you worked on smearing it with your saliva, tasting it as it hit your throat. Charles writhed silently and made up for his lack of control by squeezing your hair between his fingers.

Your free hand massaged his balls without breaking eye contact with him. You felt your legs slip again just seeing Charles blush at how slowly he sucked your cock inside.

It was definitely not just a dream this time.

[lunastrophe]

BG3 Drow Lore 🕷️ Minthara's alurlssrin

Alurlssrin is a drow term Minthara uses to describe the bond she shares with Tav - but what does it precisely mean?

🕷️ Alurlssrin In BG3 - alurlssrin appears in some specific Minthara’s lines, when the player character romances her. According to Narrator, it is …a word used rarely, describing the deepest bonds of trust and love.

When asked about it, Minthara says simply that alurlssrin means “love” and confesses that she never really expected to use it. In another line, she seems to be convinced that alurlssrin is the kind of bond that can be life-lasting.

When Tav tries to reciprocate, saying: I alurlssrin you too, Minthara – with a hint of amusement – explains that alurlssrin is a noun.

The alurl- part may suggest that this word means “the best” kind of an emotional bond, or something close to it (alurl – “best, foremost” in Drowic).

🕷️ Alurlssrin And Ssinssrigg - in R. A. Salvatore’s The Legacy, it is stated that …there is no word in the drow language for love. The closest word (...) is ssinssrigg, but that is a term better equated with physical lust or selfish greed.

Ssinssrigg is another term that appears in one of Minthara’s lines, when the player character romances her, but does not have her high approval. She says then: What we share is no more than ssinssrigg, a passion that burns fierce, but has no foundation.

But... since according to drow lore, there is no word for “true” love in Drowic – and the closest term is ssinssrigg - where did alurlssrin come from?

🕷️ Drow Words For Love - alurlssrin was first mentioned by Ed Greenwood in his post (TheEdVerse, Twitter, Jan. 2023) about Eilistraee and drow words for love:

Eilistraee knows all the drow words for love, and the elvish ones, too. The Drow words are: alurlssrin = unselfish, deep love, raggath = act of love (lovemaking), lurraggath = act of love (sacrificial or noble deed), ssinssrigg = passion, lust, greed, longing, love.

(Among elvish words for love, apparently also known to Eilistraee, there is nor = love, essence of passion. It also appears in one of Minthara's lines, when she calls her lover ust-nor - thank you to @vspin for messaging me about this!)

It seems, then, that alurlssrin is a drow word that is known to Eilistraee and most likely to her followers...

...but Lolth-sworn drow – or at least Menzoberranyr drow – do not know / use it. 🤔 So how is it possible that Minthara, a (former) paladin of Lolth from Menzoberranzan, is familiar with it?

🕷️ Alurlssrin In Minthara's Vocabulary

I have a feeling that alurlssrin appears in Minthara’s lines simply because a drow word for deep, true love was needed for the dialogue. Still, I tried to come up with some more lore-adequate explanations:

🕷️ Some Very Old Word – perhaps in Menzoberranzan, alurlssrin is a half-forgotten archaism that is no longer regularly used, but an educated (or bookwormish) drow can still stumble across it in centuries-old books and figure out its meaning.

🕷️ Language Of Heretics – as a paladin of Lolth, it is possible that Minthara came to contact with Eilistraeans – or with their culture – at some point. She might be even trained to recognize this particular kind of “heresy”, learning symbols and words popularly used among the followers of Eilistraee... alurlssrin included.

🕷️ Not So Unknown Anymore – language tends to change over time, and between the quote from The Legacy and the events of Baldur’s Gate 3, there is a gap of over 130 years. Maybe during this time, alurlssrin term became less unknown in Menzoberranzan? Although considering its connection to Eilistraee and her cult, this may be the least likely explanation.

Regardless of everything, the fact that Minthara calls the bond between her and Tav alurlssrin is certainly meaningful. Typically, many drow like her might not be exactly (or at all) familiar with a sheer concept of deep, unselfish, lasting love...

For more of my drow lore ramblings, feel free to check my pinned post 🕷️

[moodymisty]

Hi! I am SO happy your requests are open again, could I Ask for Logan Grimnar x Reader!Inqusitor where she was sent as punishment to monitor Space Wolves and with time she warms up to them and starts having crush on Logan because of his charisma, and after few months they chill in his chambers as he casually mentions that he knows you are into him bc he can smell arousal of you whenever he is around which leads him to confess that he also has feelings for you and asks if you want to tame the Great Wolf? I'm sorry if its written so wonky but its my first ever request😭

Author's note: Sorry this is so short;;; I'm at my wits end with block and i saw this was your first request and really wanted to make sure you got SOMETHING;;

Relationships: Logan Grimnar/Fem!Reader

Warnings: A bit nsfw, a lime if you will ;3 but nothing else

'For a woman sent here on punishment, you've seemed quite pleased with the arrangement.'

'What do you mean by that?'

Grimnar had gotten a confused and a bit miffed expression thrown at him, after he had caught you alone.

He has a habit of doing it. You've presumed that the lucky foot charm attached to his belt actually has some sort of borderline heretical power; Or perhaps he's actively seeking you out to- with a word unfitting of him- pester you.

The old astartes laughed, a deep bellow that nearly hurt your ears and cast a weight in your belly that you hate to admit even existed. All astartes voices are deeper and heavier than most average men, and much louder. Grimnar however seemed ever heavier, and you could feel the way his voice weighed on your body.

'I think it would only be a dumb pup that wouldn't notice the way you smell when you watch me train my men.'

'Part of my duty involves obsv-'

You crossed your arms tight around your chest, as if trying to use them as an extra layer of armor against his words that's peeling it all away piece by piece far faster than you can withstand.

Heat blossomed on your neck, from anger or embarrassment you weren't sure, and your words came out harsher and less respectful that you perhaps intended.

He laughs again, though this time it's almost more like a snort than a full belly laugh. He was so unafraid to look you in the eyes, smirking down at you through the thick hair of his beard.

'Don't try that lie on me, little one.'

He took a step closer, lodging himself firmly in your personal space. You held firm and didn't give him an inch, attempting to hold together your cracking exterior. Your skin felt like it was on fire, boiling in your veins as your guts twisted in your stomach.

Grimnar reached up and with his gargantuan gauntlet grasped your jaw with a practiced gentleness, looking at you as if he could read your mind.

'If you want to tame a wolf, you can sure try. You're a smart girl.'

'I might be an old wolf, But I'm sure you'll be plenty satisfied once I'm finished.'

You've hated that he always calls you girl since first sight; It demeaned your stature, your position, your acomplishments. You also hate the way it hits you where it feels far too good and makes your knees want to buckle beneath you. Your gut felt like it's full of lead, count clenching around nothing as if already disobeying you and yearning for him like a bitch in heat.

[novankenn]

NOBODY...

(Spin-off of this)

Narrator: With the attack on Beacon thwarted... Amber escorted by Pyrrha, Ozpin, Professor Glynda Goodwitch find themselves standing in front of an aged but well functioning castle.

Ozpin: I have a bad feeling about this. Has anyone seen Mr Arc... recently?

Glynda: I have not.

Pyrrha: Sorry, Headmaster I haven't wither.

Amber: Whose Jaune? What is this all about? What the hell is going on!?

Ozpin: Ms Amber if you give me...

Amber: NO! There has been enough time. I want answers!

Ozpin: I'm sorry Ms Amber but I can't

Amber: (Maiden power flowing from her eyes) Ozpin... what is going on?

Ozpin: I'm trying to tell you, but you are not giving me a chance to! It's like one of my past lives!

Pyrrha: ...

Glynda: ...

Amber: ... Huh?

Ozpin: I'm trying my best to answer your questions but I never EXPECTED you to act like the Spanish Inquisition!!!

TRUMPET FANFARE!!!

Narrator: As if they had been magically summoned.. Jaune Arc flanked by Sun Wukong and Scarlet David rushed out of the castle's front doors... intent on doing the Pope's will...

Pyrrha: Jaune?

Glynda: Mr Arc? Mr Wukong? Mr David?

Amber: Huh?

Ozpin: No... he's been using his Semblance... Ridiculous Reality too long!

Pyrrha: ...

Glynda: ...

Amber: Huh?

Jaune: HOW DO YOU PLEAD?

Ozpin: How does who plead?

Jaune: HER!

Glynda: ME???

Jaune: How do you PLEAD? I will not ask again!

Glynda: Plead to what?

Jaune: Cardinal read the charges!

Ozpin, Pyrrha and Amber just stand there entirely gob smacked at what they were witnessing.

Cardinal(Sun): You are hereby charged with treason, heresy, and unconscious seduction of the entire student population of Beacon!

Glynda: WHAT???

Jaune: How do you PLEAD?

Glynda: Innocent!

Jaune: That's what they all say! Biggels!

Biggels(Scarlet): Yes sir?

Jaune: Fetch the Pillows!

Biggels(Scarlet): At once!

Jaune: This is your last chance Heretic! How do you plead?

Glynda: *Totally Confused* Innocent?

Jaune: Biggels! Poke her with the pillows!

Narrator: As ruthless as Jaune and his companions were... Glynda was made of sterner stuff then they had anticipated...

Pyrrha: Headmaster? Are you alright?

Ozpin: *Weaving on his feet with a hand pressed against his forehead* I'm fine... just a headache..

Amber: Huh?

Cardinal(Sun): It's not working sir!

Jaune: I see. Then we have no other recourse! fetch the Comfy Chair!

Jaune: Yes! The COMFY CHAIR!

Narrator: As Glynda was futher subjected to the absolute horrors of the barbaric torture of the Jaune as his companions... Pyrrha, and Amber stood there unsure of what they should... or could do...

Ozpin: My head!

Pyrrha: Headmaster?

Narrator: The ridiculousness of the entire situation had finally overwhelmed the ageless mind of Ozama...

Ozpin: *Shaking his head* Where... where am I?

Amber: Huh?

Glynda: Fine I confess! I dress like this because I get a thrill out of seeing ALL my students lust after me! NOW can we stop this absurdity?

Jaune: NO... because there are others...

Narrator: The newly freed Ozpin stumbled away in confusion as Jaune and his companions focused their gaze upon Pyrrha...

Jaune: DO you have anything to...

Pyrrha: I CONFESS!!! I love you Jaune! I've loved you for months!

Narrator: The utter shock of that confession snapped Jaune's mind free of his semblance... along with Sun and Scarlet.

Jaune: Where am I? What's going on?

Narrator: With another disaster adverted... peace settles over Beacon and Vale... but for how long???

Amber: What the fu...????

[rabbiteclair]

revolutionary indie game concept invented with @dangerhousecooks in the car: a rhythm game named Stand Kneel Revolution where you are a non-Catholic trying to fake your way into being the Pope by attending mass super well. you have to stand/kneel/say Latin phrases with perfect timing so your cover isn't blown. at the end of every stage instead of being rated on how good you are, you get a %heretical score, and once you reach a cumulative 100% heretical score you have to play a confession minigame

[ane-doodles]

I really liked the lamb family stuff you posted about awhile ago. It's something I don't see much of on this app unfortunately. Idk I'm rambling, cool art great designs. 👍

Ahhh yes, the family... To be honest I haven't delved much deeper than necessary into that, although from time to time I do have a couple of ideas here and there. I can drop a couple of facts here while we're at it:

• Avana (the Lamb) and Suemy (her sister) are twins. Avana was the maid of honor at her sister's wedding. The two of them used to be very close between games and pranks. The lamb used to help the sheep run away from home to visit her boyfriend when they were still young.

• Caleb (the ram's older brother) used to work in a blacksmith shop, thanks to that he had remarkable endurance and strength.

• Tragedy struck two days after Suemy's wedding. She and her partner died quickly while the Lamb and Caleb managed to escape and hide for a while. The ram protected Avana for months from heretics and beasts until he was finally killed in a surprise hit.

• The Lamb also had a friend... he could never confess his feelings to her but he gave his life to give them the opportunity to escape.

(using some old art to illustrate)

[also... I accidentally created a timeline in which Suemy survives instead of Avana... ouugghhh]