#the shackled serpent

[chelsea-lat3ly]

You don't get to tell me about sad...

[zcrayas]

W I S H L I S T

Proprietress of the Volcano Manor

For being daughter to Lady Tanith, Rya was destined to have a great burden over her shoulders. Though, no one foresaw that day coming, as the Manor awaited the Great Serpent to devour the gods. Thus, the rightful heir of the Volcano Manor, the town, and the Mountain Gelmir, was never truly prepared to continue her mother's work as its independent proprietress.

As the Volcano Manor fell along with Lady Tanith, and the most of the remaining recusants and champions scattered across the Lands Between, the day became sooner than anyone ever imagined. The day young noblewoman returns, to the ruins of her former life.

Her journey was supposed to be the first steps to prepare her to take her mother's place. And now, she found herself sitting on a throne far too large. Pressures and expectations piling over her shoulders. It would be only question of time - when the news would slip outside... each might approach the new mistress, with their own intentions.

Rya is not like her mother, or Lord Rykard. She is kind hearted and gentle, without experience to run and discipline an army or hold complete control of the affairs inside and outside the Manor.

She might be a noble woman with an Ancient Serpent blood running in her veins. Still, she is a lost lamb, mourning, and vulnerable to the external influences. Looking for anyone who could give her even piece of advice during her mother's absence. Desperate under the pressures and expectations within the walls of the Manor - not knowing what to do.

Would one approach her as an ally or an enemy - an advisor with good intentions, or with a game plan? Would her path cross with someone trusting and believing in her - to guide to become a better ruler of the House. Though, that wouldn't be simple either - as the Manor has run its course for way too long.

Or, should she become a perfect pawn for ones own game. Scheming, secrets, games of chess - could once more find room within walls of the Manor. Would Rya be ready for war should one come, or would she easily submit to deals presented by challengers? Perhaps form an union, with a deal, with an engagement. A peace, would be better than a risky war, right? Or, perhaps Rya grows to be more than she looks to outside.

[nach0]

Come closer I’m so normal about my ocs I prommy

[fangdokja]

"You’ll love me," he whispered. "Even if it kills you."

❤︎ Synopsis. In a love that teeters between devotion and obsession, escape is futile—his jealousy isn’t just possessive, it’s a consuming force that leaves no room for freedom. With each calculated act, he dismantles your world, ensuring you’ll always belong to him, body and soul.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Ayato x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Childe x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Scaramouche x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Kaeya x Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanons. Heart's Chains - Part 2

♡ Word Count. 2,393

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, non con, psychological manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological and emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non con kissing and touching, forced relationship, BDSM, manipulation of circumstances, threats

♡ Ayato Kamisato – The Serpent Behind the Smile.

“Do not mistake my gentleness for leniency. My love is a silken noose—tender, yet unyielding. You’ll find there’s no escape from my devotion, no matter how far you think you can run.”

Ayato’s jealousy is a masterpiece of subtlety and restraint, a web spun so intricately that it feels like silk against your skin—until it tightens. The Kamisato Estate, with its pristine gardens and tranquil ponds, becomes your gilded cage, every servant’s eyes an extension of his will. Each step you take, each breath you draw, is under his meticulous control.

His demeanor never wavers; he remains the picture of refinement, his words dipped in honey and laced with arsenic. He speaks of love as though it were a blessing, his soft-spoken reassurances masking the sharp edge of his possessiveness.

“You misunderstand, my dear. This isn’t control—it’s protection. Only I can safeguard you from a world so eager to take what isn’t theirs. They don’t deserve even a fleeting glance from you.”

When jealousy consumes him, Ayato’s retribution is chillingly precise. There are no outbursts, no vulgar displays of rage. Instead, he orchestrates a symphony of ruin for the unfortunate soul who dared to admire you. Their family falls into disgrace, their reputation shredded like petals in a storm. And should you inquire, Ayato’s response is delivered with a smile that never reaches his eyes.

“They should have known better than to covet what’s mine. It’s a lesson the world must learn.”

The evidence of his cruelty is as subtle as his touch. The faint scent of blood that clings to his silken haori, the way his hands linger just a fraction too long on your neck as he adjusts a piece of jewelry he chose for you—jewelry that feels more like a shackle than a gift.

His intimacy is a performance of devotion that borders on reverence, each caress calculated to remind you of your place beneath him. He presses his lips to your skin, tracing patterns of possession as though marking you invisible to anyone else. His voice, a low, lilting murmur, sends shivers down your spine, a blend of adoration and menace.

“Do you see now? No one else will ever touch you this way. No one else will ever make you tremble the way I do. They couldn’t begin to understand the depth of what I feel for you.”

When you try to resist, his laughter is soft, almost pitying, as though amused by the futility of your rebellion. His grip tightens—not bruising, but firm, an unspoken reminder of who holds the reins. His fingers trail down your jaw, tilting your chin upward until you meet his piercing gaze.

“Why fight it, little one? You belong to me. Every smile, every breath, every cry of defiance—it's mine. And I’ll teach you, again and again, until you understand there is no life for you beyond me.”

Beneath his polished exterior lies a storm waiting to be unleashed, but you’ll never see it outright. His jealousy isn’t an explosion; it’s a slow suffocation, a quiet reminder with every word, every touch, every stolen freedom, that you are his forever.

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♡ Childe (Tartaglia) – The Predator’s Obsession.

“Love is a battle, and I have not once lost a fight. Don't make the mistake of underestimating me, girlie. In the end, everything you are will belong to me—your body, your soul, your every breath.”

Childe’s jealousy burns hot and wild, like an unrelenting inferno that consumes everything in its path. It is not quiet or restrained; it is raw, visceral, and unapologetically violent. Beneath the playful smile and teasing laughter lies a beast—a predator who thrives on the hunt, and you are both his obsession and his prize.

His jealousy is a storm that no one survives. Those foolish enough to stand between him and you are dealt with swiftly and brutally. He doesn’t care about discretion or leaving no witnesses; in fact, he ensures you see the blood he spills in your name. It’s not just a message to his enemies—it’s a warning to you, too.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice low and chilling despite the blood splattered across his face. “This is what I’ll always do to anyone who dares touch what’s mine. Do you understand now, love? You’ll never escape me. Not alive, at least.”

Childe’s possessiveness is feral, his need for you so overwhelming it feels like drowning. He pulls you into his world of chaos and carnage, holding you tight even as his actions terrify you. His kisses are feverish, desperate, almost bruising, as though he’s trying to claim you with every touch. Yet, there’s a softness in his desperation, a vulnerability that only emerges in these fleeting moments.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice breaking slightly as he buries his face in your neck. “Don’t you see? I’d destroy the whole world just to keep you safe. No one will ever take you from me. No one.”

When you try to resist, to pull away from the suffocating heat of his love, Childe only tightens his grip. His eyes darken, his expression growing colder, though the smile never quite leaves his lips. It’s a predator’s smile—a reminder of the danger you’re courting by testing his patience.

“You think you can defy me? That you can run from me?” he says, his voice soft but laced with menace. “Run if you want, my love. I’ll enjoy hunting you down. The thrill of the chase only makes it sweeter when I catch you.”

In intimacy, Childe’s ferocity doesn’t fade; it intensifies. His touch is demanding, his strength overwhelming, a physical manifestation of his need to dominate and possess you. But he doesn’t simply take—he devours. Every gasp, every shiver, every whispered protest is met with a fervent determination to make you submit entirely to him.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs against your skin, his lips brushing your ear. “Is it fear or excitement? Don’t answer, my love. It’s both, isn’t it? You hate how much you need me, just as much as you love it.”

Childe leaves marks on your body—not just bruises and bites, but an imprint of his presence so deep it feels like it’s carved into your soul. When he whispers his devotion, it’s not a declaration—it’s a promise, edged with the quiet menace of someone who would tear the world apart just to keep you by his side.

“You can fight all you want, girlie, but it nothing will ever change. The moment I laid my eyes on you, you belonged to me alone. And you always will be.”

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♡ Scaramouche / Wanderer – The Tempest’s Grasp.

“I was forged in hatred and despair, yet for you, I would destroy even myself. Do not test the limits of my love. There is no redemption for what I’ve done—only the eternal chains of my devotion to you.”

Scaramouche’s jealousy is a tempest, violent and unrelenting, born from centuries of bitterness and abandonment. His love is not soft or kind—it is jagged and cutting, a love that consumes, destroys, and rebuilds you in his image. He doesn’t just crave your affection; he demands it, needing every piece of you to prove he is not as empty as the gods once decreed.

“You belong to me,” he whispers, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. “I don’t care how you feel about it, and I don’t care who stands in my way. You’re mine, and that’s the only truth that matters.”

He watches you obsessively, his eyes dark with a storm of emotions he doesn’t fully understand. Your every interaction is cataloged, dissected, and judged. His jealousy isn’t just a reaction—it’s a prelude to destruction. The poor soul who dares to come too close to you finds themselves caught in a maelstrom of wrath. Their screams are swallowed by the sky, lightning striking with surgical precision as Scaramouche erases their existence.

“Did you see how they looked at you? So shameless, so presumptuous,” he spits, his hands tightening around your wrists. “They thought they could take you from me. As if I’d ever allow it.”

Scaramouche’s possessiveness is suffocating, his love a cage built from lightning and despair. He doesn’t need to shackle you physically—his presence alone is enough to keep you tethered. His touch is searing, electrifying, a reminder that he could destroy you in an instant, yet he doesn’t. His hands linger on your skin, trembling with restraint, as though he’s waging a war within himself not to claim you in a way that would leave you irreparably broken.

“You think you can escape me?” he sneers, his lips curving into a cruel smile. “Run if you dare. I’ll hunt you down. And when I find you, you’ll regret ever thinking you could survive without me.”

There’s a fragility to his rage, a desperation beneath the cruelty. Scaramouche’s jealousy isn’t just possessiveness—it’s a manifestation of his deepest fears. He’s terrified of being abandoned again, of losing the one thing that gives his existence meaning. When he holds you in his arms, his grip is almost painful, as if letting go would shatter him completely.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he whispers, his voice cracking. “You’re all I have. You’re the only thing keeping me from falling apart. Don’t you dare take that away from me.”

In moments of intimacy, Scaramouche is both brutal and vulnerable. His kisses are fervent, his hands leaving trails of electricity across your body as he pulls you impossibly close. But behind the intensity lies a trembling need, a desperate plea for validation. He doesn’t know how to love without control, without proving to himself that you are undeniably his.

“Cry for me,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “Let me see that you need me, that you feel this the way I do. Prove to me that I’m not alone in this.”

And when you look into his eyes, you see the broken boy behind the storm—the creation abandoned by his maker, desperately clinging to the one thing that makes him feel whole. It’s in those moments you realize that Scaramouche’s jealousy isn’t just dangerous—it’s devastating. It’s the love of a man who would burn the world down if it meant keeping you by his side.

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♡ Kaeya – The Icebound Heart.

“Love is such a fragile thing, don’t you think? It would be a shame if someone… shattered it. Or, better yet, if I shattered them for even daring to covet you.”

Kaeya’s jealousy is an arctic wind, deceptively beautiful but cutting to the bone. He cloaks his obsession in layers of charm and wit, each word a snowflake hiding the jagged ice beneath. His playful demeanor is a mask, and beneath it lies a predator—calculating, relentless, and utterly devoted to possessing you.

“They looked at you as if they had a chance,” he murmurs, his smile as sharp as broken glass. “I almost admire their bravery. But bravery is nothing compared to what I’m capable of.”

Kaeya dismantles his rivals with chilling precision, each act of sabotage cloaked in plausible deniability. The merchant who flirted with you finds their fortunes mysteriously frozen. The friend who lingers too long is subtly discredited, their reputation unraveling thread by thread. Kaeya ensures you remain untouched by the fallout, presenting himself as your only solace amidst the chaos he orchestrates.

“Poor things,” he says, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. “It seems the world wasn’t kind to them. But you have me, don’t you? And I’ll protect you from it all.”

His touch is paradoxical—cold enough to make you shiver, yet searing in its intensity. He presses you against the icy walls of his desire, his lips brushing your ear as his words cut deeper than any blade.

“You’ll never need anyone else. I’ll make sure of it. Whether you see it as love or obsession doesn’t matter. You’ll feel it either way.”

Kaeya doesn’t just want your body; he craves your mind, your spirit, every secret you’ve ever held close. He watches you with a smirk that hides his relentless need, his gaze following your every move like a shadow cast by moonlight on snow.

“Do you think you can hide anything from me?” he asks, his voice soft, almost teasing. “I see through you. I know every thought you try to bury, every flicker of hesitation. You’ll learn there’s no use resisting.”

When he kisses you, it’s with a fervor that steals your breath, his lips as cold as the promise of winter. His hands trace your skin like an artist memorizing their masterpiece, leaving behind a trail of phantom chills. There’s a desperation in his touch, a need to mark you as irrevocably his.

“I could freeze the entire world and keep you warm in my arms,” he whispers, his tone an intoxicating mix of affection and menace. “Wouldn’t that be poetic? You, my only warmth in an eternity of frost.”

Kaeya’s love is a glacier—vast, unyielding, and utterly destructive to anything in its path. He whispers sweet nothings as he tightens his grip, his gentleness a calculated act to lull you into complacency. And when you tremble beneath him, whether from fear or desire, his smile turns predatory.

“You’re so exquisite when you’re afraid,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing your lips. “But don’t worry, my love. The only thing you truly need to fear… is losing me.”

For Kaeya, love is not a gentle thing. It is a tempest, a winter storm that leaves no escape. And though his jealousy is a blade of ice, he wields it with such elegance, such devotion, that you can’t help but shiver at the realization: there is no thaw, no spring. Only the eternal winter of his love.

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If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. Thank you.

General TAG LIST: @uniquecutie-puffs , @ikevampharem , @tnsophiaonly , @mokingbrd78k , @cooldeermagazine , @mimitk-blog1

[jezebelblues]

𝐀𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐔𝐒 | 𝐇.𝐒 𓆩♱𓆪

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐚𝐭, 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐛—𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲, 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫—𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬, 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐧—𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐚𝐫.

𝐂𝐖: smut18+ (p in v), implied consent, heavy sacrilegious elements, selling of soul, manipulation, blood, demonrry

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 11.3k

❏ i know this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but i hope some of you liked this !!! <3

masterlist

IN THE BEGINNING, he was nothing. neither light nor shadow, nor the name carved upon the breath of a thousand angels. before heaven, before rebellion, before the stars spat their first flames into the void, he was silence. harry had no name then, no purpose, no shape. his existence was the marrow of chaos, the pulse of something god himself could not contain. he was desire unbound, the ache of creation, the temptation that god wove into the fabric of his design.

but god, ever proud, sought to bury him beneath the weight of divinity.

and so it was written—let there be light.

light was a shackle, a cleaving blade that divided the holy from the profane. where harry’s essence once seeped through all things, god cast him down, shoving him into the periphery of existence. the angels sang their praises, their voices golden and bright, their hands lifting the heavens into being. harry, the silent pulse of all things forbidden, was hidden beneath their hymn.

but harry did not stay silent.

when lucifer fell, harry followed. not as a soldier, not as a companion, but as something older, hungrier. when the war in heaven turned brother against brother, harry moved through the carnage like a shadow, his presence sharp and unseen. the angels wept rivers, their feathers torn from their backs like leaves in a storm. michael’s blade sang, and lucifer screamed his defiance as the heavens split open. and harry, unseen, caught the blood of the fallen in his hands, drinking it like sacrament.

he descended into hell with lucifer, but he did not bow.

asmodeus, they called him. the demon of lust, the king of desire. but harry wore the name like a mask, his true self hidden beneath the myths men would later craft to make sense of his presence. he did not revel in lust alone. no—his was the sin that bore all others, the quiet devastation of the soul, the ache that turned men’s prayers into whispers of want.

he was the serpent in eden, not in body, but in spirit. his essence seeped into the apple before it ever touched eve’s hand, a sweetness that sang of something beyond god’s dominion. the fruit’s flesh broke beneath her teeth, and in that moment, harry smiled. for the first time, the world tasted him.

harry was no prince of hell, no ruler of legions. his dominion was not forged in flames but in flesh. where lucifer sought thrones, harry sought the softest parts of god’s creation, the places where the divine cracked beneath the weight of its own hypocrisy. he was the tremor in a priest’s voice as he uttered his vows, the heat in a widow’s chest as she knelt to pray, the shadow that lingered in the hearts of the faithful.

his presence was not an explosion but a creeping rot, a sweetness that curdled into decay. he moved through the centuries unseen, his influence whispered in the psalms and carved into the margins of holy texts. the saints who fell to their knees in ecstasy, the priests who burned in the fires of their own desire—these were his victories, small and quiet, but eternal.

but in the fourteenth century, as the plague swept across europe, harry found his hunger growing. the world had grown darker, its faith frayed and trembling. death ruled the land, its shadow cast across every village, every chapel. god’s silence was deafening, and harry stepped into the void it left behind.

he had walked among men before, his form shifting and fleeting, a phantom that touched dreams and slipped through the cracks of consciousness. but this time, he longed for something deeper. the plague had starved men of their faith, but harry wanted more than despair. he wanted worship, devotion, the kind of love that burned brighter than heaven’s light. and so, he took shape, his form a blasphemous echo of the angels he had once moved among.

he descended upon the earth as a man, his beauty unnatural, almost cruel. his green eyes burned with a hunger that no mortal could comprehend, his smile a mockery of god’s grace. he moved through the world like a fever, slipping into dreams, whispering into the minds of the devout.

and when he found her—her prayers trembling on her lips, her heart untouched by sin—he knew he had found his altar.

YN knelt on the stone floor before her bed, dusted with straws of hay and dirt yet to be swept. her hands pressed together so tightly they ached. the crucifix nailed to the wall above her loomed like an executioner's blade, the savior’s face cast in shadow as the meager light of the candles flickered against the damp walls.

"holy mother, guide me," she whispered, her breath trembling. "may i serve you in purity and devotion. may i serve you..."

the words caught in her throat.

only silence answered her.

THE dreams began the night her father announced her betrothal.

it was after supper, the fire crackling low, her father’s voice heavy with the weight of finality. the man he had chosen was a merchant—twice her age, twice widowed. a practical match, her father had said. a man of standing, of faith.

YN had nodded dutifully, her hands folded in her lap, her heart trembling like the flame on the candle before her. she had whispered a prayer of thanks to god that night, her knees pressing into the cold stone of her chamber floor, her lips moving with reverence. she prayed for strength, for purity, for the will to be a dutiful wife.

that was when he first came to her.

harry.

the name would come later, slipping through her trembling lips in the dark, as though it had always been there, coiled around her tongue like a serpent in eden.

at first, it was just the sense of being watched, the prickling heat crawling over her skin as she lay beneath the coarse linen of her blankets. she told herself it was nothing—her imagination, the aftertaste of nerves. but as she drifted toward sleep, the sensation grew heavier, like a weight pressing against her chest.

in the dream, the air shimmered like heat rising from desert sand. she stood in a place that was no place—a horizonless void, dark and infinite, lit only by a soft golden glow that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

and then, he was there.

he stood at the edge of her sight, just out of focus, his form a smudge of gold and shadow. his voice was a whisper, low and smooth, threading through her mind like silk. you are beautiful, he murmured, his words curling around her like a serpent. so faithful—so untouched by the rot of the world.

she tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat, her tongue leaden with fear—or something deeper, something she could not name. he moved closer, still indistinct, his shape shifting like liquid gold in the flickering light.

do you love your god? he asked, his tone neither mocking nor kind, but something in between.

“yes.” she whispered, her voice trembling.

good. the word dripped from his lips, thick and honeyed, filling her with a sweetness that felt almost wrong. then show me.

her heart raced, her pulse pounding in her ears. she sank to her knees, her hands clasped tightly together, her prayer spilling from her lips in a hurried stream.

not to him, the voice interrupted, sharp and commanding.

she froze, her words faltering. the light around him pulsed, growing brighter, harsher, until she could barely see.

kneel to me.

her eyes flew open, her breath ragged, her body damp with sweat. the dream clung to her like a shroud, the words echoing in her mind as she sat up, clutching the cross at her neck. she prayed until dawn, her voice hoarse, the weight of the dream pressing against her like sin itself.

the next night, it happened again.

this time, she saw his face.

it was the face of an angel, but not the kind she had seen painted in the pages of her father’s bible. his beauty was cruel, his features too perfect, too sharp, his green eyes burning with an intensity that made her want to look away and yet drew her closer. his smile was a blade, cutting through her defenses with a single glance.

he stood before her, his hand outstretched. “come,” he bellowed, his voice a command and a plea all at once.

she took a step toward him, her feet moving against her will. the closer she came, the more she could feel it—that heat, that ache, that hunger.

“who are you?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

he tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as if amused. “you know who i am.”

“no,” she breathed, shaking her head. “i do not.”

his smile widened, cruel and knowing. “i am the sweetness you crave but cannot name. i am the ache that fills the hollow of your prayers. i am the shadow in the garden, the voice that whispered take and eat.”

her breath hitched, her knees buckling beneath her. she fell to the ground before him, trembling, her hands clutching at the hem of her gown.

her voice broke, her face twisting in despair. “you are a lie.”.

his laughter was soft, almost tender. “and yet, here you are, kneeling before me.”

his hand brushed against her cheek, and the touch sent a jolt through her, like fire licking at her skin. she flinched, but he caught her chin, tilting her face upward to meet his gaze.

“you will deny me.” his eyebrows furrowed, voice soft but unyielding. “you will curse me. you will pray for deliverance. and yet, you will return to me.”

she woke with his laughter ringing in her ears, her body trembling, her chest tight with something that felt like both shame and longing.

the dreams continued, night after night.

she stopped praying before bed, her faith fraying like a thread pulled too tight. the cross at her neck felt heavier, colder, as if it had become a burden instead of a comfort.

by the end of the week, she was afraid to sleep. but it did not matter. whether awake or dreaming, he was there.

he lingered at the edges of her mind, his presence a constant hum beneath her thoughts. she saw him in the curve of a candle’s flame, in the flicker of sunlight through the chapel’s stained glass, the contemptible ache that burned the pit of her stomach. his voice haunted her prayers, turning her words into whispers of doubt.

and then, one night, he was no longer a dream.

he stood in the shadows of her chamber, his eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. she sat frozen in her bed, her breath caught somewhere at the top of her throat as he stepped into the moonlight, his beauty sharp and terrible, his smile a mockery of grace.

“you called for me.”

“i did not.” she whispered, clutching the blanket to her chest.

“oh, but you did.” harry drawled, dripping with feigned sincerity.

he knelt before her, his hands resting on the edge of the bed, his gaze locking her in place. "it was the fever in your chest, the tremble in your hands as you clasped them in prayer. it was the sigh that escaped your lips as you dreamed of me.”

her breath hitched, her face burning with shame as his words carved through her, exposing her, leaving her bare.

"it was the heat between your thighs grieving my absence.” he continued, his voice a velvet knife, slicing through her defenses. "the ache that settled deep in your belly, curling low and sweet like forbidden fruit. it was the way your body sang for me, even as your lips cursed my name."

she turned her face away, her cheeks wet with tears she hadn't realized were falling.

"look at me," he commanded, his tone soft but unyielding.

her eyes snapped back to his, and the weight of his presence pressed down on her like the crushing weight of sin itself.

put to death therefore what is earthly in you: sexual immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, which is idolatry

harry laughed, deep and cruel, a sound that slithered beneath her skin and coiled around her spine. “do you think your god’s design was flawless? he made you flesh and then called you sinful for feeling it.” his lips were that of the spring berries as he smiled, the faintest stretch of rose.

the scripture would rattle louder in her mind, her lips mouthing the words in a silent, desperate prayer. harry would tilt his head, watching her with an expression that was both pitying and predatory, as though she were a lamb brought before the slaughter. “no prayer, no scripture, no god will efface the truth. you weren’t made to flee from this—you were made to burn.”

”no–“

he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered, "you cannot lie to me, little one. your god may turn a blind eye to the truth of you, but i see it all."

his lips brushed against the shell of her ear, so light it felt like a specter’s touch, but it sent a jolt through her that left her trembling. "and you will call to me, YN.”

ONE day without him was a reprieve, though it did not feel like mercy.

her chest still ached with the weight of the dreams, her thoughts burdened by the lingering whisper of his voice. the sunlight felt sharper that day, the world too bright, too loud. every moment dragged her closer to evening, and she feared the coming of night as much as she longed for its veil.

but the dreams did not come.

that night, her sleep was empty, untouched by his presence. she woke feeling as hollow as the silence he had left behind, her body too cold without the phantom heat of him pressing against her. she prayed that morning, her knees bruised against the stone of her chamber floor, but her words felt hollow, like they were falling into an abyss.

god had not answered. neither had he.

by the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, YN’s mind was frayed, her soul heavy with both relief and dread. she lit a candle and made her way to the small shack her father had built behind the cottage—a sacred place, he called it.

it was little more than a wooden skeleton, the walls warped with time, the roof patched with hay. the wooden crucifix her father had carved hung above a stone altar, its edges blackened with the blood of lambs offered in sacrifice. the air was thick with the smell of wax and ash, the shadows heavy and alive in the flickering candlelight.

she knelt before the altar, the cold of the stone biting into her knees. her hands clasped tightly together, her head bowed, her lips moving in whispered prayer.

“father in heaven, hear me,” she began, her voice trembling. “i am weak. i am lost. guide me, cleanse me, protect me from the darkness that seeks to devour my soul.”

the words felt brittle, as if they might shatter under their own weight.

“deliver me from temptation,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “deliver me from—”

“—yourself?”

the voice echoed through the shack, low and mocking, sending a shiver down her spine. her breath caught, her body freezing in place.

“you ask for deliverance from the one thing you cannot escape.”

she turned her head slowly, her heart pounding as she saw him standing in the shadows. his beauty was sharper here, crueler, as if the walls of this sacred place brought out the worst in him.

“you shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“oh, but i should,” harry said, stepping closer, his movements fluid and calculated. “what better place for me to be? this is where your faith lies, after all. broken and bleeding on that stone.”

he gestured toward the altar, his smile wicked. “how many lambs have been slaughtered here, their blood spilling in vain as your father begged his god to hear him? tell me, little one, how often has he answered?”

she flinched, her hands clutching at her dress, but she couldn’t look away.

“you kneel before this altar as if it can save you,” he paused, his voice a low purr. “but your prayers are nothing more than empty words, falling on deaf ears. your god doesn’t listen, YN. he never has.”

“stop,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“why should i?” he asked, tilting his head, his eyes pines blanketed in fog. “why should i hold my tongue when the truth is so deliciously plain? look at this place—this shrine to a silent god. the blood stains the stone, the candles burn low, and still, you kneel.”

he stepped closer, the heat of his presence overwhelming her, suffocating.

“you pray to him, and yet your body longs for me.” his voice was a velvet knife. “your lips speak his name, but your soul cries out for mine. every breath you take in this place is a mockery of the faith you claim to hold.”

“you lie,” she spat, her voice trembling.

“do i?”

he reached out, his fingers brushing against the wooden crucifix that hung above the altar. his touch was gentle, reverent almost, but his eyes burned with something dark, something unholy.

"stop.” YN insisted, her voice rising. "you cannot defile this place."

"cannot?" he echoed, his smile widening. "little lamb, i have been defiling sacred places since the stones were first laid."

"get out," she hissed, her voice trembling.

he tilted his head, feigning confusion. "why? am i not welcome in my father's house?"

"you are no son of god.” she bit, her nails digging into her palms.

he laughed, a low, resonant sound that seemed to reverberate off the walls and whisper malevolence. “this,” he said, his voice soft but laced with venom, “is not salvation. it is a symbol of failure. your god hangs here, broken and bleeding, a man nailed to wood, unable to save himself, let alone you.”

her breath hitched, her chest tightening as his words carved through her. the candles burned lower, their flames flickering as if suffocating. the crucifix above them groaned, the carved figure of christ seeming to shift, his eyes now open, his mouth twisted in a silent scream.

“he is not here,” he continued, his tone dripping with mockery. “but i am. i have always been here, in the shadows, in the spaces where your god’s light does not reach.”

he turned to her then, his eyes locking with hers. “kneel to me, YN.” harry exhorted. “kneel to the one who hears you, who sees you, who wants you.”

her body trembled, her knees threatening to give out beneath her. she clutched the edge of the altar, her knuckles white, her breath ragged.

“i will not,” she whispered, though her voice wavered with the weight of the lie.

he smiled, a predator’s smile, and took another step closer. "blessed are the pure in heart," he recited softly, his voice dropping to a whisper. "and yet here you are, YN. your prayers stained with want, your purity burned away by the fire in your chest. tell me, little lamb—what does your god see when he looks at you now?"

DREAMS came to her again last night, wrapping around her like silk soaked in poison. she woke with the taste of copper on her tongue. the air was thick, rancid, like meat left to rot.

but it was saturday, and there was no room for weakness on the sabbath.

her father had already dressed in his fine woolen cloak, his voice sharp as he called for her to hurry. she obeyed, tying her hair beneath her veil, clasping the cross at her neck with trembling fingers.

her steps dragged as she and her father walked to the chapel, the congregation gathering like crows around carrion. the chapel’s crooked steeple cast a shadow across the field, its bell tolling low and mournful. the holy place felt like a maw, swallowing her whole.

the priest’s voice boomed as the congregation kneeled on the dirt floor, their heads bowed.

“let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; let him return to the lord, that he may have compassion on him, and to our god, for he will abundantly pardon.”

the words struck YN like a lash, her heart thundering in her chest as she whispered the verse under her breath. she gripped the wooden bench in front of her, her knuckles white, trying to anchor herself.

“compassion,” the priest intoned, his hands raised high. “he calls to us, even now, though we are unworthy. he calls to the sinners, the straying sheep. come back to him, my children. return to the lord.”

a low chuckle coiled through the air, faint as the flicker of a candle but unmistakable. YN’s stomach dropped.

“do you believe that?” the voice whispered, warm and mocking, curling behind her ear. “that he’ll pardon you? that he’ll save you from me?”

she didn’t dare lift her head.

“seek your servant, for I do not forget your commandments,” the priest continued, his voice heavy with fervor.

“he’s lying,” harry purred, his voice like velvet dragged over glass.

YN’s breath caught in her throat.

“you’ve forgotten every commandment that matters,” harry continued, his tone soft, intimate. “what about the one that said, thou shalt not covet? because you do. every night, in your dreams, you covet me. and your god?” he growled, low and mocking. “he watches.”

her body trembled, her fingers digging into the rough wood as the priest’s voice rose.

“i have gone astray like a lost sheep; seek your servant, for i do not forget your commandments.”

harry’s laughter slithered through her mind, dark and sharp. “you are a lost sheep,” he said, his voice dripping with mock pity. “but he doesn’t seek you, little one. he sent me instead.”

she gritted her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut as the priest called for the hymn. the congregation rose to their feet, their voices low and discordant as they sang, the words clawing at the stale air.

“holy father, forgive us, for we have sinned. purify our hearts, that we may walk in your light…”

“his light,” he scoffed, his voice like a knife slicing through the hymn. “look around you. this chapel is a tomb. the life you sacrifice, the blood you spilled—it did nothing. and still, you sing to a god who leaves you on your knees, begging.”

YN’s voice faltered, the hymn dying in her throat.

“keep singing,” he whispered, his voice a noose around her throat. “pretend he can hear you. pretend this is not the cry of the forsaken.”

her breath came fast, her chest tight as she darted a glance toward the altar. the priest stood with his arms raised, his back to the congregation. behind him, barely visible in the flickering light, stood harry.

he was leaning against stone altar, eyes gleaming with amusement. his beauty was stark against the dark stone, his smile sharp and cruel. he dipped his fingers into the chalice of wine and brought them to his lips, licking the crimson liquid from his skin with deliberate ease.

“the blood of christ,” he murmured, tilting his head. “does it taste like salvation? or does it taste like rot?”

YN’s stomach twisted, her knees trembling as she clutched the back of the pew for support.

“your god demands sacrifice, little one. a lamb, a son, a savior nailed to wood. i demand nothing but you.”

the priest turned, lifting the chalice high. “this is the blood of christ, shed for us, that we may be cleansed of sin.”

harry grinned, his teeth glinting like ivory in the dim light. “if you drink it, will it stop the ache?” he asked, his voice low and taunting. “will it fill the hollow i left in you? or will it only make you hungrier?”

her legs buckled, and she sank back onto the bench, her body trembling.

“stand,” her father hissed under his breath, his grip biting into her arm.

“i can’t,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“you can,” harry said, stepping closer, his eyes locking with hers. “you will. for you know i’m watching.”

the congregation knelt again, murmuring prayers of repentance. YN bowed her head, her heart pounding as she forced the words to her lips.

“forgive me, lord, for i have sinned…”

“no,” harry growled like a prayer ripped inside out. “not him. me.”

his shadow loomed over her, heavy and oppressive, and when she dared to lift her head, he was standing directly before her. his gaze burned with something dark, something primal, and his smile was a blade pressed to her throat.

“pray to me, little lamb,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding. “ask me to deliver you. beg me for salvation.”

she squeezed her eyes shut, tears slipping down her cheeks as her lips moved in silent prayer.

“your god isn’t listening,” he said, his voice soft and cold. “but i am.”

when she opened her eyes, he was gone. but the air still burned, his words etched into her mind like scripture written with flames.

THE day was gray, heavy with the weight of a coming storm, but YN could not wait for the skies to break. her soul was breaking already.

the dreams were unbearable now. waking was worse. her every breath felt like a prayer unspoken, each step an act of penance for sins she could not name aloud. her father noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes, the tremor in her hands, but he only frowned and muttered about weakness.

"pray harder," he told her.

so she did.

the confessional was cold, the air thick with damp and the faint smell of rot. YN knelt on the rough wood, her skirts pooling around her as she folded her hands tightly, her knuckles white. the small window before her was shuttered, and through the slats came the low rasp of the priest's breathing.

the priest’s voice came soft through the slats. “speak, child. let your sins fall from your lips, and god will wash them away.”

she trembled, unsure if her words could even be spoken aloud. “father, i am… i am haunted.” her voice broke, shaking with shame. “in dreams. a man—no, not a man. something else. he comes to me, tempts me, mocks my prayers. i try to resist, but he—”

her voice failed.

the priest made a low noise of understanding, his tone grave. “the devil comes in many forms, child. his beauty is meant to deceive, his words to ensnare. you must resist him. confess fully, and god will grant you the strength to drive him away.”

YN’s lips parted to respond, but the air changed. the confessional grew darker, the candlelight flickering weakly. the priest’s breathing faltered, replaced by a sound she knew too well.

laughter. low, rich, and far too familiar.

“resist me?” the voice came smooth and mocking, curling through the air like incense. “you could no sooner resist the tide than resist me.”

YN’s blood turned to ice. her nails digging into her palms as she whispered, “no. not here.”

“oh, but here,” his tone was laced in wicked amusement. “this is perfect. isn’t this where you come to bare your soul? where you whisper all your secrets, hoping your silent god will hear?”

“leave,” she hissed, her voice shaking.

his laugh deepened, almost tender. “and rob myself of the pleasure of hearing what you truly want to say?”

her throat tightened as she pressed her hands together, forcing her trembling lips into a prayer.

“our father, who art in heaven—”

“—has forsaken you,” he interrupted, his voice a sharp, blasphemous mimic of reverence. “your father doesn’t want you, little lamb. he gave you to me the moment your knees hit the floor. what did you think he’d do? save you?”

she squeezed her eyes shut, her voice trembling. “hallowed be thy name.”

“yes, hallowed,” he purred. “and hallowed is the way you whisper my name in the dark. tell me, YN, when you kneel like this, do you imagine it’s for him?”

her hands flew to her ears, trying to block him out, but his voice only grew louder, more insistent.

“stop hiding,” he spit, his tone sharp now, demanding. “tell him the truth. tell him how your thighs tremble when i’m near, how your breath catches when i speak your name. tell him about the ache that wakes you in the night, the way you burn for me even when you beg for deliverance.”

her breath came in gasps, her body trembling. “you’re lying,” she choked out, her voice breaking.

“am i?” he asked, leaning closer. the confessional creaked as if straining to contain him. “then why are you here? not to confess, surely. no, you came here hoping i’d follow. hoping i’d find you, press close, whisper in your ear.”

the wood slats separating them seemed too thin, too fragile, and the air grew stifling.

“take and eat, little lamb,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate. “for this is my body, given for you.”

her stomach twisted, shame and something more burning hot in her veins.

“this god of yours,” harry continued, his voice a cruel mockery of the priest’s measured tone. “he asks for everything and gives you nothing. he demands blood, obedience, sacrifice. what do i ask for?”

she shook her head, trembling. “leave me alone.”

“what do i ask for?” he repeated, his voice louder, harsher now, like a crack of thunder. “your pleasure. your desire. the things you deny even to yourself.”

the priest’s voice broke through the haze, faint but steady. “child, speak. what is it you see?”

YN opened her eyes, her breath coming in shallow gasps. through the slats, the priest sat motionless, his eyes half-lidded and dull, as though he were barely there.

“he doesn’t even know i’m here,” harry laughed softly. “they never do. blind sheep, praying to an empty sky. but you see me, don’t you, YN? you feel me.”

she stumbled from the confessional, her knees weak, her chest heaving as she staggered toward the altar. the chapel spun around her, the walls closing in, but she dropped to her knees again, clutching the cold stone with desperate hands.

she looked up, her gaze drawn to the crucifix, and her breath caught in her throat.

christ's face, carved from pale wood, seemed to shift in the trembling candlelight. his eyes, once serene, now seemed to stare down upon her with sorrow—or was it accusation? the wounds on his hands and side bled afresh, crimson rivulets that ran down his body and dripped onto the altar.

she stifled a choke. “forgive me, father,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “for i have sinned.”

but the words felt hollow, her prayers cracking under the weight of his voice as it lingered in her mind.

“your god isn’t listening,” harry murmured, his tone soft but unrelenting. “but i am.”

the shadows seemed to twist around her, thick and suffocating, and for a moment, she thought she felt his hand ghost across her cheek. she cried out, pressing her forehead to the stone as the chapel grew silent once more.

but even as she prayed, she could feel him there, watching, waiting.

IT was well past midnight when YN woke with a start, the air in her chamber cold and heavy. the faint light of the moon filtered through the small window, casting pale streaks across the floor. her heart was racing, though she couldn't remember dreaming. perhaps it was the silence itself that had startled her, the kind of silence that felt alive, that pressed against her ears and made the hairs on her neck rise.

then she heard it.

a soft scrape, the barest shift of weight on old stone. her breath caught as her eyes darted toward the corner of the room. at first, there was nothing—just shadow. but the longer she stared, the more the shadows seemed to thicken, pooling together, forming a shape.

and then he stepped into the light.

he looked more human now than he ever had in her dreams, though the sheer perfection of him was anything but mortal. his green eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, sharp and predatory, their color like fresh spring leaves glistening with dew. his curls fell loose around his face, framing features so flawless they felt like an insult to the world that had made her.

he was bare from the waist up, his skin pale as marble, his chest broad and smooth. faint scars crisscrossed his arms and shoulders, not marks of war but something deeper, older, like remnants of a punishment she couldn't begin to fathom. he was beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—gleaming, deadly, meant to draw blood.

YN's breath came fast and shallow, her body frozen in place as he moved closer. his steps were slow, deliberate, each one making the air between them heavier.

"you didn't dream of me tonight," he said softly, his voice low, almost conversational.

her breath caught as she clutched her blanket tightly.

"did you miss me?"

"no," she whispered, though her voice trembled.

his smile widened, wicked and knowing. "liar."

he stepped closer, and the shadows seemed to follow him, pooling at his feet like they belonged to him.

"why are you here?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

he tilted his head, his green eyes gleaming as he looked at her. "why do you think?"

"leave me be," she whispered, her hands gripping the cross around her neck.

his gaze dropped to it, his smile softening into something crueler. "that again," he muttered, moving closer. "you think it'll save you?"

he reached out, his hand brushing lightly over the cross. it burned hot against her skin, the chain snapping and falling into his palm. the cross itself turned black beneath his touch, the wood cracking, the air around it heavy with the smell of smoke.

YN gasped, her hand flying to her throat as he let the ruined cross clatter to the floor. "you clutch at your symbols like they mean something," he grumbled, his voice rich with disdain. "your god's little trinkets. do you think they'll stop me?"

her breath came fast, her body trembling as he knelt before her, his face level with hers.

"don't," she managed, her voice breaking. but it held no real conviction.

his lips twitched, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest as he leaned closer, the heat of him suffocating. "don't what? don't touch your meek toys? or don't touch you?"

his hand lifted, slow and calculating, until his fingertips brushed the edge of the blanket covering her legs.

"i see the way you tremble," he murmured, his voice like silk pulled taut. "not with fear. no, this is something else."

“stop.”

"why?" he asked, his tone soft, almost gentle. "why should i stop, when your body begs me to keep going? when your cunt weeps my name, even as your lips say no?"

her face burned, shame twisting in her chest as she shook her head violently. "no. you're lying."

it felt even more shameful that she was the one who lied.

his smile widened, sharp and predatory. "am i?"

his hand dragged up her leg, slowly, the blanket slipping as his fingers grazed her bare skin. her body jolted at the touch, a heat blooming deep in her belly that she tried desperately to ignore.

"there it is," he said softly, his eyes locking with hers. "that flame. you try so hard to smother it, to pretend it's not there. but it is, YN. it always has been."

"you're wrong," she said, though her voice faltered.

his hand paused, resting just above her knee, his thumb brushing in slow circles against her skin. "am i?" he asked, his tone low, teasing. "then why are you shaking? why does your breath hitch when i'm near?"

she clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms as tears pricked her eyes. her desires were red hot, searing and damning—it could blind her.

"there's no shame in it, little lamb." he murmured, his voice soft and coaxing. "desire is the most human thing about you. even the saints, even the martyrs—they all burned with it. they lied to themselves, called it devotion, but you..." his hand slid higher, his touch light but deliberate. "...you feel it for what it is. don't you?"

her body shuddered, heat and shame twisting together in her chest. "no," she whispered, her voice breaking.

his laughter was soft, warm, like a lover's. "you keep saying that, but your body tells me otherwise. it sings for me, YN. every breath, every tremble, every beat of your heart—it's all for me."

his hand left her leg suddenly, the loss of his touch almost startling. it felt wrong to miss it. but she shifted in her bed, tucking her legs beneath her.

he rose to his feet, towering over her, his presence heavy and oppressive. "look at you," he pouted, his voice low and mocking. "kneeling there like a lamb before the slaughter. tell me, YN—when you kneel to your god, does it feel like this?"

her head snapped up, her breath coming in ragged gasps as tears streaked her cheeks. "you're vile," she spat, her voice trembling.

his smile didn’t waver, “and yet you crave me.”

her lips parted to deny him again, but no words came.

"pray to him," he said suddenly, his tone sharp. "pray to your silent god. beg him to take me away. go on."

her hands shook as she clasped them together, her lips moving in a hurried, whispered prayer.

"louder," he demanded, his voice a growl.

she choked on the words, her voice faltering.

"he doesn't hear you," harry breathed, leaning down, his eyes burning. "but i do. i hear every word, every plea, every desperate little gasp."

his hand brushed against her cheek, light as a whisper, and her body flinched at the heat of his touch. "and i'll return to you.”

then he was gone, leaving her alone in the stifling darkness.

YN collapsed onto the floor, clutching the blackened cross in her trembling hands. her prayers spilled from her lips in frantic, broken whispers, but her chest ached with the weight of him, her shame twisting into something darker.

your body tells me otherwise.

the words echoed in her mind, and no matter how hard she prayed, she couldn't silence them.

and part of her didn’t want them to be silenced.

THE festival was a rare indulgence, but one that brought the village together in a brief, fragile joy. the green had been cleared of mud and manure, and stalls were hastily built from rough-hewn wood to hold baked breads, sugared apples, salted fish, and honeyed wine. ribbons of faded red and gold hung between posts, fluttering weakly in the breeze, a half-hearted attempt at gaiety. the villagers gathered in their sunday best—threadbare cloaks and patched tunics, the smell of sweat and smoke clinging to the air.

YN moved stiffly beside her father, her eyes fixed on the ground as he gripped her arm with a hand calloused from years of tilling the fields. his voice, rough and impatient, barked orders as they wove through the crowd. “stand straight. do not fidget. the merchant will see you soon.” he snapped, his words a command, not comfort.

her stomach churned at the thought. she had heard of the man—léonard. old, jowled, his hands thick with grease and his temper legendary. his two previous wives had died, and the rumors whispered that it was grief that drove him to cruelty. others muttered darker things.

“a match is a blessing,” her father had said weeks before, his face dark as a storm. “you will not shame this family with resistance. god’s will is clear—obedience to your husband, salvation through servitude. you will thank him for this.”

YN bit the inside of her cheek, her throat tight as her father led her through the crowd. laughter and shouting mingled with the braying of goats and the clatter of wagon wheels, but it all felt far away, a blur against the rising dread in her chest.

and then she saw him.

harry.

he was standing near one of the stalls, his green eyes fixed on her, gleaming like firelight through emerald glass. he leaned casually against a post, shirtless, his pale skin a stark contrast to the coarse linens and wool around him.

no one else seemed to notice him.

her breath hitched as he began to move, threading through the crowd with a predator’s ease. his presence was heavy, suffocating, even as he stayed just far enough away to keep her guessing.

her father stopped abruptly, and she nearly stumbled into him.

“he’s here.” her father muttered, his voice heavy with satisfaction.

her gaze snapped forward, and there he was—léonard.

his cloak was fine but stained, the dark fabric stretched tight over his rounded belly. his face was ruddy, his jowls trembling as he spoke, his voice low and wet, like the squelch of mud beneath boots.

“so this is the girl,” léonard paused, his beady eyes scanning her from head to toe. “she’ll bear fine sons, i’m sure.”

YN’s cheeks burned as her father grunted his agreement.

“come closer, girl,” he barked, motioning her forward.

she stepped forward reluctantly, her body tense, her hands clasped tightly together.

and then she felt it.

a touch, light as silk, sliding along the small of her back. her breath caught as harry’s voice curled through her mind.

“look at him,” he purred, his tone rich with disdain. “smells like pig’s blood and sour ale. this is the man your father chose for you? a shepherd fattened for slaughter?”

her knees weakened as his hand slid lower, his touch teasing but firm.

“stop,” she whispered under her breath, her voice trembling.

léonard raised a brow. “speak up, girl.”

harry chuckled darkly, his breath warm against her ear. “sheep don’t speak,” he said, his tone a mockery of scripture. “they follow.”

her body stiffened as his hand crept to her hip, his fingers pressing lightly, just enough to make her shiver.

“obedience,” he murmured, his lips brushing the curve of her ear. “isn’t that what they want from you? isn’t that what your god demands? kneel, obey, bleed. it’s a wonder they don’t ask you to thank them for it.”

léonard was still speaking, his voice droning on about dowries and blessings, but it was muffled now, like the buzz of flies over something rotting.

“look at him,” he whispered. “look at the way his lips move, spilling lies and demands. do you smell it, little one? the decay beneath gold? this is what they call god’s will.”

her breath hitched as harry’s hand moved to her thigh, his fingers dragging upward slowly, teasingly.

“you could scream right now,” his voice was low and taunting. “and no one would care. they’d blame you for it. your father would say it’s your fault. your god would call it a test. but me? i’d enjoy it.”

“enough,” she hissed under her breath, her voice trembling.

léonard frowned. “what did you say?”

he laughed, his eyes gleaming. “tell him, little lamb. tell him what you really want to say.”

YN’s heart raced as harry stepped around her, moving behind léonard.

“this is what you’ll wake up to every morning,” he taunted, gesturing to the man’s bulk, his jowls, the faint stink of sweat and blood. “this is your future. do you see it?”

he tilted his head, his lips curling into a wicked smile.

“let me show you.”

before she could respond, harry reached out, and suddenly léonard’s throat was slit, a jagged, gaping wound spilling blood in thick rivulets. his mouth moved silently, his eyes wide with shock as he stumbled back, gurgling, before collapsing to the ground.

her breath caught in her throat, her body frozen in horror.

harry knelt beside the body, his fingers dipping into the blood and lifting it to his lips. “the blood of the lamb,” he said, his tone rich with mockery. “shed for you. do you feel saved yet?”

her knees buckled, and she grabbed at her skirts, trembling.

“YN!” her father barked, his voice sharp.

she blinked, and léonard was standing again, unharmed, his voice droning on as if nothing had happened.

harry stood beside him, his eyes locked on hers, his smile wicked. “just a taste,” he mumbled. “but you see it now, don’t you? the rot. the lie. tell me you want more.”

her chest heaved, her breath shallow as she tore her gaze away, trembling. “i… i need a moment.” she stammered, fleeing before her father could object.

YN's feet moved without thought, her breath shallow and uneven as she fled toward the trees at the edge of the green. the sounds of the festival faded behind her—laughter, clinking mugs, the low hum of a hymn sung off-key. she stumbled into the shadows, her back pressing against the rough bark of a tree as her hands trembled against her skirts.

her heart pounded as she clenched her eyes shut, willing the sickening image of léonard's torn throat to leave her mind. the blood. the gurgling.

the way harry had knelt so casually beside the body, his fingers trailing through the crimson spill like it was honey.

"it wasn't real," she whispered, her voice shaking. "it wasn't real."

"oh, but it could be."

her eyes snapped open, and there he was.

he stood a few paces away, leaning casually against another tree, his eyes bright even in the dim light. he looked impossibly at ease, his shirtless torso pale and gleaming, the scars that marked his flesh carved from a divine hand.

her chest heaved as she pressed herself tighter against the tree, her knees trembling. "you’re vile," she spat, though the words came out weak, a desperate attempt to regain control.

harry’s smile widened, wicked and knowing. "yet here you are," he said softly, stepping closer. "running from him. running to me."

she pressed her back harder against the tree, the bark scraping through the thin fabric of her dress.

"leave me," she whispered, her voice trembling.

harry tilted his head, his curls catching the faint light, making him look more angel than demon. but his smile gave him away, all sharp edges and mockery. "leave you?" he repeated, taking a slow step closer. "but you're the one who called me here. the moment you fled, the moment you thought of me instead of your god."

"i didn't," she said quickly, her voice breaking, though she couldn't meet his eyes.

"liar." he murmured, closing the distance between them in a single stride.

the heat of him was overwhelming, pressing against her like a heavy shroud. his fingers reached for her, trailing along her jawline, his touch featherlight but impossible to ignore.

"do you know what you've done, little lamb?" he asked softly, his tone almost gentle. "you've brought me here. to this holy forest, where the air smells of prayer and sacrifice. do you think your god is watching now?"

she flinched, her lips trembling as she looked down. "he watches everything."

harry laughed, low and dark, turpentine—wearing her thin . "oh, YN. he does not watch you, if he was, would he have let me come so close?"

his fingers slipped beneath her chin, lifting her face until their eyes met. "would he have let you feel this?"

her breath hitched as his other hand trailed down, brushing over her waist, bunching the fabric of her dress in his fist. the coarse wool scraped against her skin as he gathered it higher, his green eyes never leaving hers.

"stop," she whispered, her voice trembling.

his smile widened, cruel and indulgent. "but you don't want me to stop," he said softly, his tone a mockery of tenderness. "you want me to keep going, to do what your god will not."

there was a moment of silence, eyes boring into one another as the trees shook in the breeze of whispers. “banish me.” he prodded, his eyebrows furrowed. “tell me to go and i will leave you.”

her chest heaved as she struggled to find her voice, to deny him, but the words tangled in her throat.

the faint glimmer of her damning shining through her cracked resolve.

"look at you," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "trembling like a virgin sacrifice before the altar. but that's what you want, isn't it? to be taken. to feel something other than this cold, empty devotion."

"no," she choked out, though her body betrayed her, her legs weakening as he stepped closer, his body crowding hers against the tree.

"no?" he repeated, his voice a low growl. "then why aren't you pushing me away? why does your breath quicken when i touch you? why does your cunt sing for me, even now?"

his hand slipped lower, finding her thigh beneath her skirts. his touch was firm but slow, deliberate, as he dragged his fingers upward, his gaze locked on hers.

"your god asks for obedience," he uttered, his voice sharp and mocking. "he demands sacrifice. but i ask for nothing but this."

her knees buckled slightly as his fingers brushed the edge of her undergarments, the heat pooling low in her belly making her head spin.

"don't." she whispered, though her voice lacked conviction.

harry's free hand moved to her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. "don't lie to me, little lamb. i can taste the truth on your lips."

he leaned closer, his breath warm against her mouth. "say it," he urged, his voice low and commanding. "say you want me."

her breath came fast and shallow, her heart pounding as shame and desire tangled in her chest.

"say it.”

her resolve crumbled. "i-i want you," she choked out, her voice breaking.

she gasped, her hands clutching his arms while her face burned—shame and something darker twisting inside her as his fingers slipped beneath the thin fabric, finding her folds.

"there," he murmured, his tone soft and taunting. "that's the truth of you, YN. not the prayers, not the fasting, not the faith. this. this heat, this need, this sin. it's mine."

her nails bit into his skin, taut and firm underneath while his digits slid through her arousal, deliberate and unhurried.

"you'll deny it, of course," he hummed, eyes burning as he watched her. "you'll call it blasphemy, call it wrong. but it's not wrong, is it? it feels too good to be wrong."

she bit her lip, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her body trembling as he circled her clit with maddening precision.

when he withdrew his hand, her body lurched at the loss, her breath catching in her throat. harry's fingers glistened in the faint light, slick with her arousal, a damning testament to her betrayal.

"look at this," he breathed, holding his hand before her face. his eyes burned with triumph, his lips curling into a smile. "the fruit of your desire. forbidden, but oh, so sweet."

YN's lips trembled, her cheeks wet with tears as she tried to look away.

"no," he said sharply, his tone slicing through the air like a blade. "you don't get to turn away from this. from me. taste it, little lamb. taste what you've given me."

her stomach twisted as he pressed his fingers to her lips, the heat of his touch scorching her skin.

"open," he commanded, his voice low and unyielding.

she hesitated, her chest heaving with shame and fear.

"open," he said again, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. "you've come this far. don't turn back now."

her lips parted, a trembling act of surrender, and he slipped his fingers into her mouth. the taste was overwhelming—salt and heat and something darker, something that made her stomach clench and her body burn with ashamed desire.

"good girl.” he breathed, his tone a velvet caress. his eyes stayed locked on hers, watching every flicker of emotion that crossed her face.

when he pulled his fingers away, he let them trail down her chin, leaving a faint sheen behind.

"do you see it now?" he asked softly, his hand moving to cup her face. "do you see what you are?"

she shook her head, not trusting her voice.

his smile deepened, his thumb brushing over her trembling lips. “you do not see, hm?” he cooed, “you are mine by design, as eve was made for adam, as fire is made to burn."

she slid down the tree, her back scraping against the bark as she crumpled to the ground, her head in her hands.

harry crouched before her, his smile softening into something almost tender. "pray if you like," he murmured. "but it won't change the truth."

he stood then, his green eyes gleaming as he disappeared into the shadows, leaving her trembling and broken beneath the gnarled branches of the forest.

THE days following her surrender blurred together, each one heavier than the last. YN no longer prayed—not because she didn't want to, but because the words felt meaningless. they sat heavy on her tongue, unmoving, like stones lodged in her throat. every attempt at confession ended in silence, the weight of her sin pressing her knees deeper into the cold stone of the chapel floor.

and yet, it wasn't guilt that made her tremble in the quiet moments. it wasn't shame that kept her awake at night, her hands fisting her sheets as she tried to ignore the heat pooling low in her belly. it was him. the memory of his touch, his voice, his green eyes burning into hers as though they could see every thought she tried to hide.

she waited for him. every day, every night. and when he didn't come, it felt like torment.

it was near midnight when she woke to the smell of smoke.

at first, she thought the cottage was burning, but when she sat up, the air was still. no flames licked at the thatched roof, no shouts from her father broke the night. the smell was faint, clinging to her skin like an afterthought, mingling with the faint taste of ash on her tongue.

the shack was colder than she remembered.

YN stepped inside, her breath catching as the warped wooden door groaned shut behind her. the faint smell of damp wood and old blood clung to the air, a reminder of the offerings her father had made here long ago. candles sat in the corners of the room, their flames low and flickering, casting shadows that stretched like grasping hands across the walls.

and at the center of it all stood the altar.

its surface was dark with stains that time could not scrub away. her father's hands had held lambs there, muttering prayers as their blood spilled onto the stone. the altar had been a place of sacrifice, of devotion, of faith.

now, it was hers.

harry stood beside it, waiting. his bare chest gleamed in the candlelight, the scars that crossed his pale skin stark and unyielding. his eyes burned as they met hers, the corners of his mouth curling into a slow, knowing smile.

"you came," he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent.

her body trembled as she stepped closer, the worn planks beneath her feet creaking with every step. "you called for me.” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"are you afraid?" he asked, his voice a low hymn, the kind that made sinners weep.

YN's knees shook. her faith had been a crutch her entire life, a shield against the dark, but now that shield was splintered, discarded at her feet. she didn't want god anymore.

she wanted him.

"no," she lied, though her heart was a caged bird, its wings beating frantically against her ribs.

harry smiled. it was not a kind smile. it was the smile of a wolf, sharp and full of promise. he beckoned her closer with the wave of his hand, her steps light until she stood before him at the altar.

his hand reached for her, pale fingers curling around her throat. his grip was light, reverent, as though she were something holy, something to be cherished.

his mouth found hers, claiming her with a kiss that was both savage and tender, his lips devouring hers with a hunger that felt endless. her body melted against him, her resistance crumbling with every stroke of his tongue, every graze of his teeth.

his hands roamed her body, pulling at the coarse fabric of her dress, lifting it away from her skin with a reverence that felt almost mocking. when the cold air hit her bare flesh, she shivered, but his warmth was there, surrounding her, consuming her.

he looked at her like she was something sacred, a relic carved by divine hands. his eyes trailed over her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, lingering on the hollow of her throat where her pulse fluttered like a trapped moth.

"do you know,” his voice soft as a lover's whisper, "that heaven and hell both weep at the sight of you?"

her breath hitched, her cheeks burning as she crossed her arms over her chest, trying to shield herself from his gaze.

"don't," he said softly, his tone sharp but not unkind.

his hands reached for hers, pulling her arms away from her body. "don't hide from me, YN. not here. not now."

his hands moved over her then, slow and purposeful, tracing every curve, every line, as though committing her to memory.

"you're perfect," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "the most beautiful lie heaven has ever told."

her chest heaved as his hands slid to her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto the cold stone of the altar. the chill bit into her skin, sharp and unyielding, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his body as he stepped between her legs.

"do you feel it, little lamb?" harry murmured, his voice dark and smooth, the words curling into her ear like smoke. "the way your body aches for something more? the way your soul trembles at the edge of the void?"

YN gasped, her body trembling beneath him, every nerve alight with a sensation she couldn't name. she tried to speak, to protest, but when his fingers gripped her hips and dragged her closer, the words dissolved on her tongue.

"i'll make you feel heaven," he sighed against her lips, his voice a promise and a threat.

her mind swirled with panic and want, her hands pressing weakly against his chest. "this is... wrong," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"wrong?" harry repeated, a laugh slipping from his lips, low and mocking. "do you think the lamb is asked if it consents to the knife? do you think your god cares for your innocence, your purity? no, YN. you were born for this. to be taken. to be ruined."

before she could respond, he kissed her, and it wasn't the soft, tender act she had imagined in her prayers. his lips claimed hers with bruising intensity, his tongue forcing its way past her defenses, devouring her protests until there was nothing left but submission.

her hands, once pushing against him, now clutched at his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor her as the world seemed to shift beneath her.

his lips descended to her neck, his breath hot against her skin as he kissed the tender flesh just below her ear. she shuddered, her fingers tightening against into him as his teeth grazed her, a soft scrape that sent heat coursing through her veins.

her head fell back, a soft moan escaping her lips, and she hated herself for it. hated the way her body betrayed her, the way it arched toward him, desperate for his touch.

his body was a weapon forged of bone and muscle. he was naked, his skin a canvas of scars and shadows, his beauty as blasphemous as it was perfect.

"do you remember your scripture, YN?" he asked, his lips brushing her ear. "your body is a temple, isn't it?"

her breath came in short, desperate gasps. "yes.”.

"then let me worship."

the stone of the altar was cold against her back, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his body. he moved with purpose, his hands firm on her thighs as he spread her open, exposing her in a way that made her breath hitch.

he shifted, pressing his hips against hers, and the hardness of his cock sent a shudder through her body. she gasped, her nails digging into his sides as he positioned himself between her thighs, his movements deliberate, torturous.

YN cried out, her back arching against the altar, her hands clutching at him as her body stretched to accommodate him. he fucked into her, the sensation overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure so intense it felt like her very soul was unraveling.

"that's it," he grunted, his voice thick with pleasure. "take me, little lamb.”

his hips moved, his thrusts deep and unforgiving, each one dragging a sound from her lips that she couldn't control. the rhythm of him was maddening, each movement sending a wave of heat crashing through her, building and building until she thought she might break.

"do you feel it?" he asked, his hand gripping her thigh, his fingers digging into her flesh. "do you feel heaven inside you? because it is not god who gives it to you. it is me."

YN's head fell back, her eyes squeezed shut as her body betrayed her, her hips rising to meet his with every thrust. she hated herself for the way her breath hitched, for the way her moans spilled from her lips like confessions.

"say it," he commanded, his voice low and rough, his hips driving into her with brutal precision. "say you find salvation in me."

her eyes flew open, meeting his gaze, and she saw it then—the green fire that burned in his eyes, the darkness that curled at the edges of his smile.

"say it," he demanded again, his pace quickening, his body relentless—a sacred place ricocheting with moans and wet slaps of skin against skin.

"i–" she gasped, her hands clawing at his back, her breath coming in ragged sobs.

"say it," he growled, his hand tangling in her hair, pulling her head back so that she had no choice but to look at him.

"i find salvation in you!" she cried, the words ripping from her throat like a scream.

his smile was triumphant, his lips descending to her throat, his teeth scraping against her skin as he drove into her harder, faster, each thrust filling her with a pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony.

her body tensed, her breath catching as the pleasure crested, shattering over her like a wave. she cried out, her voice echoing through the chapel, a sound of both ecstasy and despair.

as she fell apart beneath him, she felt the final pieces of her faith crumble, her soul slipping from her grasp and into his hands.

harry stilled above her, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, "you were always meant for this. for me."

the shack went still. the candles burned low, their wax pooling onto the cracked wooden floor, the flames flickering weakly as if ashamed of what they had witnessed. the air was heavy, thick with the scent of sweat and smoke and something darker. the altar was cold beneath YN’s bare back, but she no longer felt it.

the space seemed different now. even as moonlight spilled through cracks in the wood, painting the ruins in pale silver, there was no pretense of holiness. the crucifix above her hung crooked, the wooden christ staring down with lifeless eyes, mouth agape not in sacrifice but in mockery. if god was watching, he did nothing. no lightning struck. no thunder rolled.

she thought, for the first time, that perhaps he was never there at all.

what had she done?

the answer burned its way into her mind, not with guilt, but with a clarity so sharp it was almost cruel. she had abandoned heaven for him. traded salvation for damnation.

the weight of harry’s body pressed into her, his chest rising and falling against hers in a rhythm that was almost human. almost. her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, her breath shallow, her hands limp at her sides.

this was what she had feared, wasn’t it? the moment she’d run from, prayed against, begged god to prevent. and yet here she was, laid bare on the very altar her father had once sanctified with lamb’s blood. the same altar where prayers for forgiveness had echoed into the rafters, unanswered.

she could feel harry still on her, even as he moved away, the imprint of his body an ache that had lodged itself deep in her marrow.

the stone beneath her was unforgiving, just like the faith she had clung to for so long. faith that had demanded her knees break on cold chapel floors, her hands bleed as she tilled the earth in her father’s shadow, her heart ache as she bent to the will of a god who had never once spoken her name.

now, that faith lay in ruins.

she pushed herself up slowly, her limbs weak, her thighs slick with what they had done. the air bit at her skin, but she did not cover herself. there was no point. there was no shame left to cloak herself in.

harry stood near the altar, watching her. his naked body was a study in contrasts—smooth and unyielding, as though carved from alabaster, but alive with a heat that seemed to radiate from his very core. his beauty was inhuman, the kind that drew worship but offered no mercy in return.

his gaze on her was heavy, not with judgment but with possession. he had taken her, yes, but it wasn't force. it was inevitability. a dance they were always meant to perform.

YN swung her legs over the edge, her bare feet touching the cold stone floor. she thought of the animals her father had slaughtered here, the way their blood had run in thin rivulets down the grooves of the altar.

how fitting that she had bled here, too.

harry spoke no parting words, offered no promises. he didn't need to. what had happened was already written into her skin, her bones. it wasn't just her body he had claimed. it was her soul, and now it was marked, an unholy sigil that no prayer could erase.

when she stepped out into the night, the air was sharp and cold, the stars above indifferent and unmoving. but YN did not shiver. she felt warm, burning with a fire that no heaven or hell could extinguish.

there were no more prayers left on her lips. no scripture to guide her. there was only him, harry, and the path he had carved into her.

and as they disappeared into the forest's dark embrace, the shack and its altar remained behind, empty and silent, its walls whispering of a god who had abandoned it long ago.

[novaursa]

Fire and Gold (to flip a coin)

- Summary: Rhaegar chooses you over her. And Ceresi never forgives you for it.

- Pairing: sister!reader/Rhaegar Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Previous part: whispers

- Next part: coat of gold and three heads

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @naviaberries

Your footsteps echoed in the silence of halls of the Red Keep, the sound only broken by the heavy boots of Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Jonothor Darry, their white cloaks trailing behind them as they followed you. You had given the order, and the two Kingsguard had brought the servants directly to you—a pair of trembling men with faces pale as ghosts, shackles clinking with every step.

Varys had whispered their names to you earlier that day, slipping the information into your hand like a coiled serpent. He had smiled that secretive smile of his and said only, “They may know more than they let on, Your Grace.” It was enough to stir your suspicions. And now, here you were, standing before them in a forgotten chamber deep beneath the keep, the only light coming from the flickering torches on the walls.

The two men, their faces streaked with sweat, knelt before you, eyes darting nervously between you and the Kingsguard. You crossed your arms, letting the silence stretch, savoring the discomfort that crept over them. You had no intention of making this easy for them. Your son was dead, and you would get your answers—no matter the cost.

“Do you know why you are here?” you asked, your voice cold and steady, cutting through the tension like a blade.

The older of the two, a gaunt man with thinning hair, swallowed hard, but he kept his mouth shut. The younger one, barely more than a boy, glanced at his companion, then at you, his hands trembling where they were bound. But neither of them spoke.

You took a step closer, your boots scuffing against the stone floor, and they flinched. “You were seen with strangers,” you continued, your tone sharp as steel. “Strangers who were not meant to be in the Keep. Strangers who entered the very night my son was murdered. Now, you will tell me what you know. Or you will burn.”

They exchanged a panicked look, the older man’s face paling even further. He wet his lips, as if considering whether to speak, but still he said nothing. You felt a flare of anger rise within you, and your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

“I do not make idle threats,” you said, your voice dropping lower, more dangerous. “My father has taught me well. If you think I would hesitate to use fire to get the truth from you, then you are mistaken.”

The words seemed to finally cut through their fear, and the younger man broke, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Please, Your Grace,” he choked out, his voice shaking. “We—we had no part in it. We only did what we were told. We let them in, but we didn’t—”

“Let who in?” you demanded, leaning closer, your gaze boring into him. “Who sent them? Who ordered the death of my son?”

The older man’s resolve crumbled alongside the younger’s, and he glanced desperately at Ser Gerold and Ser Jonothor as if hoping for a reprieve. None came. “We don’t know who sent them,” he rasped, his voice hoarse with desperation. “We never saw their faces. But they... they weren’t after the boy. They spoke of... of you, Your Grace.”

A chill ran through you, cold and sharp, and you forced yourself to remain steady, your face betraying nothing of the turmoil inside. “Me?” you repeated, your voice icy. “Explain yourself.”

“They said... the boy was a mistake,” the younger one whispered, his voice barely audible, his face pale and slick with sweat. “They were meant to... they wanted to get to you. But something went wrong. They found him instead.”

For a moment, you could only hear the pounding of your own heart, drowning out the crackle of the torches and the shifting of the Kingsguard’s armor. The confession settled like a heavy weight in your chest, and you stared at the two men, your mind racing. It was you they wanted. Your son had died because he was in the way. A sacrifice for a target that should have been you.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. This was not the time for grief or for anger. You had the truth now—or at least part of it. And the rest... the rest could be uncovered in time. But these men, these cowardly wretches who had let death into your home, they would answer for their part in it. They had chosen to let the darkness in, and now they would face the consequences.

You stepped back, looking to Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Jonothor Darry, your voice cool and commanding. “Take them to my father,” you ordered. “Let King Aerys hear their confession. Let him judge them.”

The two servants' faces twisted in panic, and the younger one reached out, his bound hands trembling. “Please, Your Grace!” he begged, his voice cracking. “Don’t send us to him! He’ll burn us alive!”

The older man joined in, his voice breaking with desperation. “We told you everything we know! Mercy, Your Grace—please!”

You felt a cold satisfaction settle in your chest, but you kept your face impassive, your eyes hard as steel. “You should have thought of that before you let those men into the castle,” you said, your tone unforgiving. “My son paid the price for your actions. Now, you will pay yours.”

Without another word, you turned and strode toward the door, Rhaegar’s grief-filled face flashing in your mind, the memory of your child’s laughter still echoing in the back of your thoughts. Behind you, the sound of the men’s pleading voices faded as Ser Gerold and Ser Jonothor dragged them away.

They had brought death to your door. Now, death would find them in turn. And you would be there to watch when it did.

The throne room was stifling, the air filled with heat and the acrid scent of burning. Jaime stood at his post near one of the towering pillars, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, though there was nothing he could do to change the horrors unfolding before him. He kept his face expressionless, a mask of rigid composure, but his stomach churned with disgust as the scene played out.

King Aerys leaned forward on the Iron Throne, his eyes gleaming with a manic delight as he watched the two servants writhe and scream, their voices high-pitched and desperate as the wildfire consumed them. The green flames crackled and roared, eating away at flesh and bone with a hunger that seemed to match the king’s own twisted desires. The smell of charred flesh filled the chamber, a stench that clawed its way into Jaime’s nostrils, making him want to gag.

But he kept his place, kept his silence, even as the cries of the dying men echoed through the throne room. Aerys’s laughter, high and brittle, cut through the screams, and Jaime’s fingers tightened around his sword’s pommel. He knew better than to intervene. Knew what would happen if he did. So, he stood there, as he had stood there before, watching, waiting, powerless to do anything else.

Finally, the flames began to die down, the twisted forms of the charred bodies crumpling into ash. Aerys’s laughter faded into a low, satisfied murmur, and he leaned back on the throne, his wild hair falling across his face like a silver curtain. The room fell silent save for the crackling of dying embers and the rasp of Aerys’s breath, still heavy with excitement.

“Let them all see,” Aerys whispered to no one in particular, his eyes distant, unfocused. “Let them know what happens to traitors who dare conspire against my blood. Burn them all, burn them all...”

Jaime forced himself to look away, his jaw clenched tightly. He wanted to turn and leave, to escape the heat and the stench, but he remained at his post, staring at the floor until Aerys finally dismissed them all with a wave of his hand. The courtiers hurried from the room, their faces pale, their eyes wide with horror.

As Jaime turned to follow, Ser Barristan Selmy fell into step beside him. The older knight’s face was drawn, his mouth set in a grim line, but his voice was quiet, almost gentle as he addressed Jaime. “You’ve been even more quiet than usual, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime didn’t look at him, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor ahead as they walked through the shadowed corridors of the Red Keep. “There’s little to say, Ser Barristan. I have no desire to speak of what we just witnessed.”

“Is that all, then?” Barristan pressed, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “Or is there something else weighing on your mind, perhaps? Something you might wish to share about the death of the prince?”

Jaime’s steps faltered, and he shot Barristan a quick, wary glance. But the older knight’s face remained impassive, though his eyes were keen, studying Jaime with a look that made him feel exposed, like a specimen under a glass. Jaime forced himself to keep his expression neutral, though he could feel the muscles in his jaw twitching with tension.

“I already told you everything I know, Ser Barristan,” Jaime said evenly. “I was on duty outside the chambers that night. I didn’t see anyone, didn’t hear anything until it was too late.”

But that wasn’t entirely true, and they both knew it. A memory tugged at the edge of Jaime’s mind, a shadowy recollection of a whisper, a figure moving through the shadows. He had caught a glimpse of someone that night—someone who shouldn’t have been there. But the image was hazy, the details slipping through his grasp like smoke. And even if he had seen more, he had no intention of speaking of it. Not now, not ever. Too many things were at stake, too many lives caught in the balance.

Barristan’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment, and Jaime could feel the weight of it pressing down on him like a heavy stone. But then the older knight sighed, shaking his head as if in resignation. “If that’s what you say, Ser Jaime, then I will believe you—for now. But if you do remember something, anything at all, it would be wise to speak of it before more blood is shed.”

Jaime forced a thin smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Thank you for the advice, Ser Barristan. I’ll keep it in mind.”

They walked on in silence, but the memory clawed at the back of Jaime’s thoughts, refusing to be ignored. He remembered the shadowy figure slipping through the halls that night, remembered the unease that had settled in his gut, the way he’d pushed it aside. He couldn’t make out their face, couldn’t even be sure if it was real or some trick of the mind.

But deep down, a nagging suspicion lingered, and he knew that if he were to speak of it now, it would unleash a storm he wasn’t prepared to face. He had seen what Aerys did to those he considered traitors. He had seen the fire, smelled the smoke, heard the screams. And he had no desire to meet the same fate.

So, Jaime kept his silence, pushing the memory back into the darkness where it belonged. He told himself it was for the best, that no good could come from dredging up the shadows of that night. But as he glanced back toward the throne room, where the smell of burning still lingered in the air, he couldn’t quite shake the sense that the shadows were not finished with him yet.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was alive with the hum of conversation, the clink of goblets, and the strains of music that filled the air. Laughter and cheers echoed from every corner as the lords and ladies of the realm gathered to celebrate the nameday of Aelor, your eldest son, now one and three years old. The tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, fruit, and delicacies from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, and for the first time in many months, the Red Keep seemed to hold a semblance of joy.

But even amidst the festivities, you couldn’t shake the shadows that lingered in your heart. You watched as Aelor, old enough now to sit tall at the high table with a hint of a princely air, beamed with the excitement of the feast held in his honor. His laughter was a balm, but it couldn’t erase the memory of the child you had lost. And it couldn’t quiet the voice inside you that whispered of unanswered questions, of hidden threats.

You moved through the hall, exchanging pleasantries with the gathered lords and ladies, always with a careful smile. Rhaegar was nearby, speaking with a group of northern lords, but his gaze drifted to you often, as if ensuring you were never far from his sight. He knew how difficult this night was for you. He shared your grief, even if the weight of his duty required him to keep it buried.

As you made your way toward the table where wine was being served, you caught sight of a familiar figure, draped in a gown of emerald green, her golden hair gleaming like spun sunlight in the torchlight. Cersei Lannister. She stood with a goblet in hand, her lips curled into a thin smile as she spoke with a cluster of lesser lords. But when she saw you approaching, that smile sharpened, becoming something colder, something that glinted with malice.

“Princess Y/N,” Cersei greeted, her voice smooth as silk as she turned to you, her eyes gleaming with a challenge. “What a splendid celebration for young Prince Aelor. He looks so very much like his mother.” She took a sip from her goblet, her gaze never leaving yours. “One hopes he’ll have more fortune than his younger brother.”

The barb was thinly veiled, but the venom behind it stung all the same. You held her gaze, refusing to flinch. “Thank you for your concern, Lady Cersei,” you replied, your tone equally sweet. “It is a mother’s hope that all her children will be kept safe. It’s a pity, though, that some must pay the price for the schemes of others.”

Cersei’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Your Grace. It sounds like you’ve been listening to far too many rumors. I suppose grief can make one… imaginative.”

You took a step closer, lowering your voice so only she could hear. “Yes, grief can drive one to madness,” you said, your gaze piercing into hers. “But it can also sharpen the mind, help one see the truth behind lies. Like how an assassin’s blade might have been meant for me—but found my child instead.”

For a moment, something flickered across Cersei’s face—something dark, a flash of annoyance, or perhaps fear. But she recovered quickly, letting out a soft, mocking laugh. “You sound like your father, princess,” she whispered back, her voice dripping with false pity. “Careful, or you might find yourself speaking of fire and treachery before long.”

Her words sent a chill down your spine, but you refused to let her see your fear. You forced a smile, every inch the gracious queen. “Better to speak of such things than to act upon them, Lady Cersei,” you said. “I only wonder how many more mistakes the realm will forgive.”

Before she could respond, Rhaegar’s presence was at your side, his hand resting gently on your arm. His expression was polite, but you could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes flicked over Cersei with a look of barely concealed distaste.

“Lady Cersei,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “I trust you are enjoying the feast.”

Cersei’s smile returned, all false warmth as she inclined her head in return. “Of course, Your Grace. It’s a truly joyous occasion. May young Aelor live long and prosper.”

Rhaegar’s grip on your arm tightened almost imperceptibly, a silent signal, and you allowed him to guide you away, offering Cersei a final, cool nod. As you walked together, the sounds of the feast rising around you once more, Rhaegar leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You shouldn’t waste your breath on her,” he said softly, his frustration clear. “Cersei Lannister is as dangerous as she is petty. She’ll twist your words to suit her needs.”

You glanced back over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of Cersei watching your retreat, her expression unreadable, her fingers gripping her goblet just a bit too tightly. “I know, Rhaegar,” you murmured, your voice tinged with bitterness. “But I can’t stand the way she smiles, knowing more than she says. I know she had a hand in this, even if I cannot yet prove it.”

Rhaegar sighed, his thumb stroking the back of your hand in a soothing gesture as he guided you to a quieter corner of the hall. “We will find the truth, but we must be careful. Aerys is growing more volatile every day, and if we push too hard…”

You nodded, leaning into him, drawing strength from his warmth. He was right, of course. The game you were playing was a dangerous one, with stakes that could set the realm ablaze if misplayed. But as you looked across the hall at your son Aelor, surrounded by those who claimed to be loyal and true, you felt a renewed sense of determination. You would find the answers you sought, even if it meant facing the fire.

And when you did, those responsible for your child’s death would learn that the Targaryen fury was not easily quenched.

[dragongirlpoet]

Dark Signs 3

Summary: As Alucard grapples with his grief over what he has done, secrets are unveiled and graver foes awaken. Is it too late to save you? (Plot takes off months before *that ending* in part 2. Some parts are off-canon.)

This chapter is written in Alucard’s POV.

Themes: Dark fantasy, horror, romance, angst I Words: 4k

Warnings: MDNI. Horror, blood, gore, violence, religious themes, mentions of suicide, grief, depression, anxiety, slight smut

Pt 1 I Pt 2

_____________________________________________________

To the lovely folks who are holding out for part 3, thank you! 💛 Sorry I couldn’t put this out sooner.

@s-i-l-v-e @kawaiiskeletoneggsnerd @celly-fahrenheit @skychaser777

I tasted blood, cherry and salt. 

And I wanted more, more, more.

We were tangled in each other, our bodies suspended in the cosmic cerulean of the deep ocean. 

She was my salvation. Her kiss was my atonement. And her blood, oh her blood…it was a gift so heavenly. All my immortal life had desired only that very thing, and now that I had it, I couldn’t let go. 

Every shred of my primordial essence — powerful yet cursed, now entombed in the marrows of her soul. My blood now flowed in hers, as her blood, mine. We were fused as one, we were divine. 

My darling’s fingers traced the sharps of my jaw as she kissed me, our married blood spilling from her mouth, diluting the water. They formed red rivulets around us, as if in symbolic reverence that we were the almighty givers of ichor. 

We were safe, entwined together in eternal damnation.

I love her. I love her so deeply that I’d doomed her with my blood curse, so I could have her by my side till the sun swallowed us whole. And for that, I’d forever fester in my blasphemous sin.

“Adrian…” she seemed to say, but the snare of the ocean strangled her words, slowed our every caress… as if time at all wanted to still for our undying love.

Oh what I would give to hear her voice — seraphic, like a birdsong, my name chaste upon her lips. 

Her ivory chemise clung to her body like sculpted granite, her nipples just peeking through. They were for my eyes only. Yes…her being, her blood, her body…they all belonged to me.

But in that sacred moment, something felt…amiss. There were those jade-green veins, palpable under her eyes… they ran like fine cracks on marble, so like those on a delicately-carved statue.

Raven hair hovered around her tiny frame, resembling venomous serpents held buoyant by witchcraft. They were so in contrast to my gold, like the exact moment dusk bled into dawn.

There was the red rivulet again, this time saturating the white ribbons of her nightdress. They coiled around my arms, binding me to her. Not that I’d ever let go. 

But I had to, for her lingering touch was frost impaling even my vampiric skin. Why was she so cold?

“Adrian…” again she seemed to call out.

Her eyes, despite being underwater, were wide open, the blacks of them bereft of the soul I once knew. She was pale. So pale. And she looked every bit the angel of death. 

My angel…when did she slip from my arms? 

Our fingers entwined one last time, before a sombre gloom dragged her under. Slowly she sank, like a fallen star ousted by the heavens, syphoned of its light. 

But I’m right here, darling. Stay. 

I willed all of my immortal power to reach for her outstretched hands, but my body was deadened, as if held prisoner by spirit shackles. Further and further she sank from me, and I so terribly wanted to tell her that wasn’t where she was supposed to go.

Words evaded me, as my tears had.

The hollow abyss seemed to rise up — impatient, almost — to receive its new sacrifice. 

Blood gushed from her mouth — they were viscid, as if so thickened they had to be forced out or she would choke. The blood kept coming. They streamed out of the sockets of her eyes, running like bloody tears of the living dead. 

They say that monsters like us lack the ability to fear, yet I’d never felt more afraid than I did then. The love of my life, drowning, dying, yet I could do wholly nothing. Alucard, son of Dracula — weak, worthless…

A fissure cracked her chest open, the cavity creeping wide to reveal her beating heart. Her human heart. 

The blood kept coming. 

“Come back to me…” I begged, the futility of it sickening me.

Still, she descended. I watched in horror as the godless ocean buried her in its oblivion, until all I was made to see was the compunction of my sins. 

On her neck that I used to so lavish with kisses, lay the wounds only a wretch like me could inflict. 

I did it. I killed her. 

“Adrian…”

____________

I jolted awake. 

A numbing despair perforated my insides, a feeling I knew all too well. I stared out the window through heavy eyelids, the red moon magnified by sweat teardrops trickling through my eyelashes. 

For a long moment I just sat there, my lungs crushed by torment, my heart shattered by grief. I’d lost count of the nightmares that had plagued me over the decade…no, it’s been 96 years, Adrian. A century. A century she’s been gone.

What was I living for? 

Memories I longed to forget writhed their way into my mind, forcing me to once again relive the hell that fateful night. 

I had sat in the castle hall for days, her lifeless body cradled in my arms. My eyes burned from tears, and I wanted to die. I fed her so much of my blood, my immortal blood, still she slept. I summoned spirits, conjured the most powerful of magicks, still, she slept. My hope hanging by a thread, I fused my father’s sciences with my mother’s elixirs…still, she slept. 

I was about to drive my own sword into my heart — the only one ensorcelled enough to kill a dhampir, when a familiar voice stopped my contemptible deed. 

“Alucard! This place reeks of death, and here I thought we’d gotten rid of your father long ago.”

“Stop it, Belmont!”

“What? He may be pristine but his home sure isn’t. Alucard! Honey, we’re home!”

“Will you stop yelling?”

“Alucard’s probably busy shoving it in her, ha. I need to make sure he can hear me above their grunts and moans. Have you forgotten how loud you get, Sypha?”

“You’re disgusting, Belmont.”

“Alucard! Ah, there you are. In the hall, really? You two really are something. Do you have food? I’m starving. I…”

“Belmont.”

“Fine, fine. Beer is good as w…”

“Belmont!”

It took Belmont a long minute before he alas perceived what Sypha meant. My two dearest friends — immobile in silent trepidation, distress distinct on their faces.   

“What happened, Alucard? Was she attacked?” Sypha was the first to speak. As always, her presence seemed to bring solace, but it dissipated promptly.

“I killed her, Sy…Sypha. She asked mmme… to…tto turn her, and I…I drank too much…I killed her.” 

Mere speaking incinerated my throat, and it was then I’d realised I hadn’t stopped crying. I could scarce breathe through my wheezing, let alone enunciate words.

“I…I tried ever…rything, help me please…ppplease…save her please…”

Belmont, in a rare display of empathy, knelt beside us and took my hand in his. “We will find a way to save her, and we will not stop until we do. I promise.”

At his oath, I collapsed into Belmont’s arms. Anguish, shame, relief…they all coursed through my body — my face buried in his shoulders, weeping. Every emotion that I’d held in, all unfettered at the fact that I had someone, that I wasn’t alone to fight my battles. 

“Fault yourself not, Alucard. She never would’ve blamed you.” Sypha’s voice was soft, soothing, enveloping us in a reassuring embrace. I fell apart completely. 

A loud pounding at the doors disturbed our bittersweet reunion, arousing our every alarm. There seemed to be a clamour of sorts — yelling, mocking…definitely humans. Belmont took to receive the unusual affair, leaving a gap just wide enough to acknowledge a throng of men — bishops, priests and followers of the church. 

“I don’t remember ever calling for your conceited services, Father.” Belmont sneered. 

“It’s Father Caine to you, and I could hardly expect couth coming from especially you. Excommunicated and still, never learning the error of your ways…

I sense a great evil here…more so than I daresay…Dracula himself. Forgive our ruckus, for we, the good men, merely wish to rid the town of all that is malign…Hand the girl over, and all shall be well.” 

Sypha and I exchanged uneasy looks. What was he talking about? 

Belmont, entirely irked by the bishop’s pretentious drivel, was barely holding it in. “Take your horseshit hubris and shove it up your a…”

“Oh, but don’t you want to know why we want the girl? Not the speaker-magician…the dhampir’s lover.” 

What?

The dastardly bishop, words of scorn and malice, continued, “She now has the blood curse of the dhampir, and something in that transformation awoke creatures of the night…dark, hateful creatures…ones that possess an ancient evil…It is easy. We exorcise and burn her body, and as I’ve said…all shall be well.”

Blood searing in my veins, I raced past Belmont, the parasite parish’s body dangling midair in my chokehold. Eyes bloodshot and fangs hungry, I crushed his throat harder. He let out pathetic struggles of breath, rosary still firmly clasped in his hand. 

“Where is your God now, Father? If we are the impurity you so seek to vanquish, then what of the innocents you slaughtered unrepentently, all because they did not fit your cause?” 

I thought of my mother, the Belmonts, the heathens who simply held their own beliefs…and most of all, I thought of my sweet angel, so kind and full of love…

“What the…” Belmont cursed when we were doused with buckets of Holy Water. The “Men of God” started chanting prayers, as if their contrived communion would somehow free their pious leader. 

I let out a laugh. 

“The absolute gall you have, Father. Despite my mourning, I shall grant you this last mercy. Command your men to leave and never again return, and I shall kill only you. Fail to do so, and I’ll rip the tendons from all your wicked hearts. After all, I am a monster, am I not?”

A few men flinched at my words, casting hesitant glances to the others, while some implored Father Caine to choose wisely. Such cowards.

The bishop shifted a little in my grip, a faint smirk splayed across his face. “M…ark my words, vampire. Dark times ar…are ahead…The girl must di…” 

I tore his heart right out of his ribs.

He was right. I was a vampire. I was omni-sentient. I was a monster and a God all at the same time. The farcical impudence he had to order the execution of my beloved…Anyone who touches her will die.

With his blood on my hands, I felt my hunger creep in once again, ripping off the human mask I wore like a virtue. I needed to feed.

It wasn’t until Belmont started swinging his Morningstar than I realised the tumult that had ensued. “And God shits in my dinner once again…Alucard! Left!”

Veins palpitating from the heart I’d just consumed, I saw that the rest of the church, quite possibly under the predetermined order of the bishop, lit a pyre that massacred the foliage we used to read under, devoured the quince fruit trees we so loved to frolic around.

They will all die. 

“Get back!” Sypha cried, mutating the fire into swirls that wavered to her bidding. She channelled them towards the men, trapping them in rings of flame. Out of nowhere, fire arrows flew in our direction, narrowly missing Sypha’s face. That was enough to send Belmont into a scalding rage. 

His Morningstar cleaved through half of the men, dismembering some, dissecting others. My estoc weaved through throats and hearts, beheading some, mutilating others. The tragic irony of it all — the very men whose sole mission was to protect mankind, to do good, on an aimless rampage to kill because of a misguided prophecy.

And so the fighting went on for months, years... Night creatures, more members of the parish, vampires seeking a new world order…valiant efforts, alas they were no more than vermins effortlessly exterminated by us three. 

We weren’t certain why they had kept showing up. Whether it was a curse set off by my turning her, or the fact that they simply wanted us dead…it mattered not, nor did I make it my business to find out. I was going to kill them all. 

Sypha and Belmont had kept to their promise. Come hell or high water, they stuck with me, even moving into the castle with their son. We battled foes, and never once did they abandon their cause to revive the love of my life.

“Alucard, you need to seal her. Keep her somewhere safe, where no one but you can find,” Sypha had one day told me. I was no fool, I’d known they wouldn’t be around forever, and if I’d succumbed to my grief, all their efforts would’ve been in vain. 

“Promise me that when she wakes, you two will look after our kids, and grandkids, and great-grandkids, and…” Belmont trailed off, seemingly stumped by staple discourse.

“They’re called descendants, you idiot.” Sypha rolled her eyes. 

Managing a genuine smile I haven’t had in a long while, I replied, “I promise.”

“My lord.”

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to yet leave my reverie.

“My lord,” Centrio again addressed, this time with more urgency. There, bowing by the door, dressed in fine leather that I had gifted, stood the first human I’d turned after…her. I’d found him by the docks, and he was all but an emanciated vagrant on the brink of death. Perhaps it was the matyr in me, but I thought it more I had wanted to experiment…if he indeed turned, perhaps there was a way…

“The council is ready for you.” 

Donning my guise of Imperious Vampire Overlord — terrifying, deadly, merciless — I made my way down to the great hall with my most loyal emissary. I clutched at the pendant around my neck — a vial forged with obsidian and laced with gold, encased with her blood. It was the only way I could feel her if she woke.  

An excruciating sorrow once again took shape, like an enemy planting tiny splinters in my heart, except those splinters were tainted with the most malevolent of poisons, inching slowly to ravage my vital core. 

“My lord,” 

The council all greeted in unison, heads bowed in utter veneration. Men, women, young, old…I had sired them all. To have a contingency if I ever needed one, to delegate my task of finding a cure, to have some goddamn chatter in the forsaken castle…

“We’ve received word that the denomination led by Gwyth is storming in from the highlands of Brasov. They are…angered by the vampires you’ve sired. She thinks just because…” 

“Just because what?” 

The gathering fell silent, as if fearful to draw my ire. Good…that’s how I intended it to be.

“Tell me, Finnor, does your gallantry waver in my presence? If so, perhaps it was my oversight in appointing you General?” 

“Forgive me, my lord. She thinks it’s a travesty that we, vampires a mere century old, are…” Finnor cleared his throat before continuing, “...exhausting all the human blood supply here in Braila. Some of our own have gone over to bordering cities, and they’re most displeased. She thinks that just because you’re… Dracula’s son, doesn’t give you the right…”

“Dracula’s son?” I scoffed. 

“Did I not sire you all? If Dracula is my father, then does his blood not also run in your veins? 

“Yes!” My council concurred in earnest. 

Does that not make you powerful?”

“Yes!”

“Good! Then let them come. We will defend what is rightfully ours, will we not?”

“Yes!” 

At that, they broke into a resounding cheer, half howling, the rest pounding staffs, swords and what have you on the marble floor. Contrary to the revelry below, I, worshipped like a God on my throne, felt wholly insentient. I cared not for war, nor truimphs, nor reign. If I’d created bloodthirsty monsters, it was merely a means to an end. 

I wanted only one thing. 

Was this how my father felt when my mother died?

“Kindly see to it, Centrio. I wish not to be bothered.”

“At your service, my lord.”

There she was — immaculate in white, clutching the garland of daffodils I’d made her, so detached from the pain I’d caused…I had all but little choice when I’d sealed her in the underground castle chambers. I had cast a spell so powerful, that save for the both of us, no one could enter, or find, our fortress in Wallachia.

Living in the castle without my friends, without her, seeing her lifeless body…it went on for months, years…I couldn’t bear it. Her lying there, bereft of a heartbeat, of a breath, broke me in ways I never knew existed. 

And so I resolved to start over in Braila, it was the only way to keep her safe, it was the only way I could honour my vow to save her.

Cape dragging behind my lifeless steps, I trudged back to my study, thoughts once again lost in her. Innumerable letters I’d written, infinite words I wanted to say — all frozen and wayward like misplaced luminaries in an interstellar void. 

What have I done, darling? I’ve created…abominations... so many innocent lives lost because of me…Will you still love me when you see what I’ve become?

“Adrian…”

I spun round, completely entranced by her voice. 

In the doorway, against the crimson glow of the stained-glass window, wearing the white chemise just as she always had, awaited my beloved. It suddenly became daunting to breathe, my mind apprehensive to behold the sight.

“Darling? Is it really you?” I uttered, my words close to a tremble.

She said nothing, but merely moved to me with such litheness I was taken aback. Her steps were languid, like a lone willow swaying in a bleak winter tempest. 

“H…how did you find me? You don’t look well, do you need to feed? Here,” I offered my bloodslit wrists to her. She pressed her lips to them at once, as though thoroughly acquainted with my gesture. 

“I missed you so much, I…”

“Shhh…” she hushed, sinking to her knees. 

Her hands made quick work of my trousers, and too soon had my entire length in her mouth. My cock twitched as her tongue lapped over the ridges of my growing erection, licking hurried circles around my tip.

“Fuck…baby…I missed you so fucking much…” I panted, pushing her face deeper between my thighs. “Ahhh…that feels so good…” and threw my head back, shutting my eyes, relishing in the absolute ecstasy of her eagerness. 

Pumping my sex in rapid fervour, she took it further down her throat, sucking, constricting…the weight of my every burden reduced to an indistinct drone.

“Slow down, darling,” 

“Yes, my lord…”

My eyes flew open. My lord?

From where I was, I alas saw it. The sable of her tresses ran an incomparable lustre to my darling’s raven. I flung the devil thrall into the windows at once, shattering the glass, red fragments giving way to golden gleams of the inconspicuous sun. 

“How very dare you,” my voice dropping to a haunting hiss as I stalked towards her. “The audacity you possess to employ such pitious artifice…who sent you?” 

The thrall quivered at my unrestrained wrath, straining to speak against the bleeding shards skewered in her throat.

“Y…you…did…m…my l..ord…” 

I froze, the lunacy of my suffering clear as day. I must already be dead. 

Refusing to bear the yoke of that truth, I instead directed all my shame and hurt at the dying vampire whom I’d sired. 

“Why do you get to live, but she doesn’t? Why do all of you get to persist in endlessness, possess my blood gift, but she is doomed to sleep for all eternity? Why!”

All that remained was the anguished aftershock of my tirade, and the spurting of blood that had slivered their way to the soles of my boots. 

“F…forrr…give me, mmy…lord…”

“I want you to listen closely. She transcends your every breath. You will never be her.” 

I compelled my estoc to sever her head. 

____________

I liked it out here. At times the ocean waves would susurrate, tonight it was a thunder against the cliffs. It offered a quiet respite from my heartbreak, the inane vampire politics, and the endless blood war of the undead.

My hair whipped in the frigid windstorm, yet I felt nothing. I was a lighthouse abandoned — hollow, crepuscular — fleeting through the years devoid of purpose. There were nights where I would see her in the middle of the violent sea — so alone, so tormented — does she know? I would cross oceans of time to find her.

Something snapped. 

I remained still as death, my gaze shifting calculatedly to the untimely intruder foolish enough to trespass into my castle grounds. Their steps, though fairly distant and furtive, stood little chance against my heightened hearing. 

The clanging of chains reached my ears long before my sword ensnared the metal. Holding it mere inches from my face, I studied the peculiar weapon — intricate weaving of iron, spikes flared at the tip…and that leather whip. 

“Simon Belmont. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Save that garb for someone who gives a shit, vampire.”

I smirked at his salutation, perhaps a little more than necessary. “I see the Belmonts have a tradition.”

Unlike his forefathers, Simon had fallen out of favour with the Belmonts, insisting that vampires, regardless of their intent and relationship, are considered foe and should, at all costs, be exterminated with their bodies wrung out to dry. 

“The odious horde you have sired are arrogant beyond their means. Do you not care for the turmoil they have caused? The innocent lives they have claimed?” 

I no longer have the capacity to, I wanted to tell him. 

“I come here not to befriend, or beg, or ask. Halt the atrocities of your vampires, or I shall finish what my grandfather so failed to do — kill you.”

“Are you threatening me, Belmont?”

Taking advantage of my affront, he wielded the Combat Cross — one I’d noticed too late — for it struck the pendant around my collar, barely missing my chest. I watched as the vial containing her blood fracture into pieces, her lifesource splattered and devoured by the earth below. 

Seething, I lunged for Simon, teleporting behind him while coiling the Morningstar around his neck. He threshed around his imminent asphyxiation, blindly stabbing his dagger, attempting to find purchase on any of my organs. 

The tip of his Morningstar however, managed to etch itself onto my arm, igniting an unsteady glow. It would not combust in me, for I was neither human nor demon. Still, a searing pain barelled through the recesses of my body.

I released Simon as he collapsed onto the ground, his chest heaving from the lack of air. Hovering my sword above his heart, I recalled the promise I had made to Belmont. 

“This is a fight for another day, Belmont. Take your weapons and leave, for I have little forbearance for charity such as now.”

Flinging a shard of the Transmission Mirror next to Simon, he was pulled into its magic before he could contend. As the mirror engulfed him in its sorcery, he glared at me with such loathing I thought it incredulous I had loved his grandparents dearly.

But it was his last words ahead of being teleported that unnerved me, roused me back to the verity of that very moment — “I know what you’re searching for, Alucard.”

I stared at the spot where Simon was, now an insignificant mass of rocks, amongst them lay fragments of my obsidian vial.

An uncanny cold snaked about my heart. Clutching at it, the hammering intensified to a booming knell, in the same manner as nights where the parish would pound at my castle doors with boulders, clamouring to burn her. My breathing soon withered to a wheeze, then a gasp, and I fell to my knees.

Without the pendant, I could feel her no longer. 

What if she woke? The indefinite dangers she would face outside the castle walls…Simon…what if he knew a way to find her…to kill her…

I was sickened with fear. Haste was of the essence, but the Transmission Mirror teleported at random — there was no telling where I would end up. Trembling, I raced to ready my stallion. 

I was going back to Castlevania. 

Pt 1 I Pt 2

[caelesjjk]

make me your villain - collab

If you’ve ever wondered how the story might have ended differently if the villain got the girl, you’ve come to the right place.

Everyone loves a bit of a morally grey villain who is only good for that one particular person. The kind that would watch the world burn for you and never think twice about it. The kind that are deadly but also deadly hot.

In this collab you’ll find an array of retold stories with that villainous twist. Please look forward to them in the coming months, as there’s no particular posting time.

TBA

Title: The Price Written by: @daechwitatamic Genre: Snow White and the Huntsman!au, angst, smut, unhappy ending Pairing: Snow White!Yoongi x Hunts(wo)man!reader Summary: The Queen is responsible for everything you can claim: your home, your job, your freedom. You live without laying claim to anything else, lest the Queen leverage more pieces of you in exchange for her grace. But freedom isn’t free, and the Queen has just named her price: the young blacksmith, Min Yoongi.

Title: The Surface Written by: @moni-logues Pairing: prince merman!Hoseok x sea witch!reader Genre: fairytale AU/The Little Mermaid AU, angst, smut Summary: Prince Hoseok has only ever wanted one thing: to experience life on the Surface. You have only ever wanted Prince Hoseok. When he comes to you, desperate, claiming you are the only one who can help him, you decide to play along. You'll help him achieve his dream and maybe you'll satisfy your own dream, too.

Title: Red Written by: @sailoryooons Pairing: Werewolf!Namjoon x f. reader Genre: Supernatural, thriller, smut Summary: For as long as you can remember, your village has been relatively normal. But when people begin to turn up dead right after a group of newcomers arrive, pieces of your past start to fall into place, and something feels familiar - particularly the quiet man who can't take his eyes off of you.

Title: A Good Day To Die Written by: @here4kpopfics Pairing: Jimin x reader Genre: Robin Hood!au, enemies to lovers, smut, violence, royal shenanigans. Summary: With a royal wedding looming around the corner, everyone is running around in circles to make sure everything goes according to plan. Three days before the wedding, however, the princess is kidnapped by the infamous outlaw, Park Jimin. Or was she?

Title: Serpent & Nightingale Written by: @caelesjjk Pairing: Captain Hook!Taehyung x f. reader (grown version of Wendy) Genre: Peter Pan AU, Fairytale AU, Villain gets the girl, angst, smut Summary: You needed to escape him. You needed to get as far away as you could so he could never bring you back. So you make a deal with the pirate you’ve been told to loathe most of your life. The pirate that you read stories to when you were a child when had no other way to save him. The pirate who insists you seal your deal with a kiss in order to board the Jolly Roger and join him in Evernight, the island he calls home.

Title: Golden Shackles Written by: @gimmethatagustd Pairing: sorcerer!jungkook x genie!(f)reader Genre: Aladdin AU, fantasy, royalty, angst, smut Summary: For thousands of years, you’ve been forced to grant the wishes of greedy men who want nothing but power. When you fall into the hands of a royal imposter, it’s his rival for the throne who becomes your only hope for freedom.

[forestdeath1]

Sirius being locked up at Grimmauld Place is both tragic and poetic — a cyclical tale, a serpent biting its own tail. The last Black, confined in a house that serves as a living reminder that no one else is left alive. The one who was the family’s greatest hope became the seal on their ultimate demise.

He hates Grimmauld Place not just because it was a terrible place for him. He hates it because it is a living reminder of everything lost — his childhood, his brother, his father, his mother, the Blacks. His family. To clean the house is not solely because he despises it. But to clean it because every part of it is woven with a tangle of memories.

Cleansing the house is the farewell he never had. Sitting in his mother's room is living through the grief he never fully embraced.

A man without a shore to anchor to. Once, James might have been that shore, but never completely; James was never fully there for him. No one can ever replace the family he once had. A family that loved him in their twisted way — terrible people, fanatics, but still his family, and they loved him. You hate them and feel ready to tear them down with your own hands, yet deep down, you are still that little boy whose mother sang him lullabies, and whose father showed him his first wand movements.

Sirius is a prisoner not just of walls, but of the lingering past, forever shackled to the Blacks.

[hawkinshorror94]

Hi there! I was wondering if I could get an Astarion x fem reader where they help clean up and comfort Astarion after he defeats Cazador.

I hope you enjoy! As I wrote this I listened to a song called Serpents by Sharon Van Ettan and I linked it because it fits Astarion and Cazador's abusive dynamic. This reads as gn! Reader so you can imagine they are AFAB

The look on his face was one of stone, not seeing or hearing, he was effectively shut down as you cleaned the blood from his face and hair. He was numb, his fingertips and toes had little feeling and his mind was foggy with broken images of the days and years of abuse. Of the spawn, of Cazador of you.

“Are you okay?” You ask quietly as you bandage a nasty cut on his hand. It’s deep and nearly to the sinew but he seemed not to notice as you cares for it.

“No.” His voice is broken and soft as he speaks that word. No was okay, no you could deal with till the answer is different. When he looks up at you with his crimson eyes they have watery tears unshed on his lashes.

“That’s okay.” You assure him cupping the sides of his face. You wanted your touch to be grounding, a soothing balm to his breaking heart. You lower you both to the floor of his tent allowing his head to rest in your lap and he cries.

He cries for his sins and Cazador’s. For a life lost and one gained. He clung to you like a light in the darkness and maybe that’s what you were his lighthouse. His light and his love.

“I keep thinking he isn’t gone.” Astarion murmurs into your trousers as he clutches the fabric in his fist. Your hand smooths his downy curls and across his jawline, your hands ghosting against his marbled skin.

“It’s me and you Star,” You whisper softly and he clutches you harder. He moves closer to your chest so that he can hear the sound of your heart beating rhythmically in your ribcage. Steady, you are here and so is he.

“I feel like I'm still shackled to the floor on a ratty mattress while he laughs over me. I never want to be weak like that again.” He wails out softly and you feel tears prickling your own eyes. But now isn't your time to cry

“You were never weak.” You murmur pressing your lips to his forehead and he closed his eyes at the warmth of your skin. You were here and so was he, alive, living. Cazador was lying dead, amongst strewn corpses in that awful crypt but he was here with you. Free.

[trappolia]

HOUSE OF ERIDIA ── touchstarved x reader, high fantasy au

“Among the monarch's most intimate inner circle was their Master of Whispers (...) sharp and cunning, the mastermind of an intricate network of spies and informants that ran through the high aristocracy within the walls of the palace, down to the most slimy backwaters of the kingdom's outskirts. The truth of LEANDER’s threat, however, laid within his charm (...) it is said that not even his most beloved Eminence trusted him.”

Leander was devoted— as devoted as a man of such skill in less than legal information brokering could be, at least. Often times you wondered whether he was worth trusting; so much information he laid out at your feet like a suitor would bestow upon you with golds and jewels and fine silks, and just as much he kept away from you. Perhaps it was unwise to bestow upon the fickle position of Master of Whispers to a man who shared your bed, but never his own secrets-- or perhaps you thought too much of him. You did, after all, cradle your own secrets to your chest.

“To one such as the monarch, who clung onto their religion as if it were drywood amidst the furious seas, KURAS was a strange sort of salvation in himself (...) rumoured to be otherworldly, golden-eyed and infinitely wise not only in his knowledge of forgotten, they claimed him a lost eldritch being, shunned by the highest deities of the sky. Others said that he was a deity himself. But what deity hid in the shadows of the throne and kissed the feet of the mortal that sat upon it?”

Amidst the fickle serpents' game of politics and war, there was a superficial solace to be found in the religion you were raised in as a child. From that faith, your devotion extended to a gift from the gods laid at your door, the golden-eyed angel that you were not quite sure existed till they bestowed him to you. Strangely enough, he treated you with the same sort of reverence— as an acolyte might to their own deity. Yours was a strange relationship, a push-and-pull of prayer and religious guilt. Both of you hid your unholiness within a facade of worship and idolatry. You did not know why he has come, but you knew he saw you for what you were and bent the knee anyway. Be not afraid, he said. And so you were not, blindly so.

“The paramour was flame-haired and quick of the tongue, an exotic pet that graced the bed of Their Majesty easily enough once lured with the promise of lavish gifts and security (…) VERE traded his ugly iron shackles for a prettier set of golden chains, but he was not so cunning so as to let himself be lured in by the false promises of what he called “these damned monarchs”.”

It was not an uncommon feat for monarchs to take paramours even after marriage, but if the whore picked from the streets of silk was pretty enough, it could warrant the envious whispers of enraged nobles no matter how high a position one may hold within the royal family. Fortunately, Vere played the game of thrones well, you must admit. Of all the lovers and paramours you've taken over the course of your rule, he is the one you have to worry about defending in court the least… though his knowledge and skill holds up a different problem for you entirely. Perhaps your Small Council does speak some truth when they warn you of the lies he could entrap you in…

”THE STRANGER came like death on a misty night in the dead of winter. Who were they? What reason could they have to lurk around the castle halls, to indulge themselves in the benevolence of the monarch of which they did not worship? What did they seek, and why was Their Majesty so eager to offer their aid?”

A ruler as kind and benevolent as yourself was not so arrogant so as to be oblivious to the suffering of the smallfolk. Many called you naïve, too young to carry the burden of the crown, but you have inherited centuries of peace from your parents, and are intent on continuing such tradition. That is, perhaps, the reason why you welcomed MHIN into your palace that night, turning down your council’s suggestions of torturing them — where they’ve came from, why they’ve come, how a commoner possesses a gift for the magic arts. You offer them bread and wine and a place of rest, speaking nothing of how you’ve noticed their eyes flit about— not warily, but searching. It is naïvety then, in your hopes that MHIN finds what you seek in you, despite your sureness that you will one day stand at opposite ends of a looming war.

“Rare was a monarch who did not indulge in illicit affairs, whether it be a matter of simply flesh or true romance— but what transpired between Their Majesty and the creature of Crimson Grotto was so twisted that their story was told as both urban legend and warning even a millennia afterwards. But in the most desperate of times, even the most noble of the gods’ chosen are capable of such sin.”

AIS was already a figure of urban legend when you came to him him, a sopping wet half-adult playing dress up in an oversized crown and velvet robes weighed down by the grimy water that stained its hem. He never did tell you whether the stories you’d heard were true, only confirmed that yes, he is capable of what you beg him for. He thought of you foolish, to make a deal with an eldritch creature — or, at least, the vessel of one — but he realised too late that he’d gone off the deep end with you when it came to this deal. In the end, there was only his hope that they would not liken you, so good and so bright, to the hopeless thing that is whatever is left of him. Or, perhaps, it will be a last mercy to both of you, to be known in history side-by-side, mentioned alongside the other always— like a single entity.

© trappolia 2024

[sammybunny711]

Morgoth's Shadow Updated Chapter List

Chapter One: The Decision

Chapter Two: A Time of Peace

Chapter Three: Slipping

Chapter Four: Let Me Be Good

Chapter Five: Hands Off

Chapter Six: A Serpent's Tongue

Chapter Seven: Poison Touch

Chapter Eight: Separation

Chapter Nine: Gravity

Chapter Ten: Plummet

Chapter Eleven: Borrowing

Chapter Twelve: The Man with the Chancellor

Chapter Thirteen: A Change of Direction

Chapter Fourteen: Devil

Chapter Fifteen: To the Winds

Chapter Sixteen: In These Shackles (NEW!)

Thank you to everyone who has read, bookmarked, given kudos, and commented on my longfic in the making. I appreciate it! I update usually twice per week on either Monday/Tuesday or Thursday/Friday! <3

[dualdeixis]

[Image description: Two digital drawings. The first features Temenos Mistral and Aelfric in a medieval-style composition. The second features Kaldena and Temenos posing together in a study. There are full descriptions of both drawings under the cut. End image description.]

godsbride / goodwife

happy birthday @maverickflare <3

[Image description: In the first drawing, Aelfric sits on his stone pedestal outside the Flamechurch Cathedral at night. He wears a flowing white dress, a black long-sleeved undergarment, and a teal cloak. He also wears a gold belt and bracelet, and the medallion on his cloak depicts the Sacred Flame. His face is almost entirely eclipsed by a shining white halo; only the outlines of his narrowed eye, lofty smile, and long, curly hair can be seen. In one of his hands burns a blue flame, while the other hand cradles Temenos Mistral's face. Temenos looks up at Aelfric with an expression of dread and reverence, sweat beading on his cheek. The illustration has a border of gold and lapis lazuli that includes medallions at its corners and midpoints, which depict various other characters. At the top center is Crick Wellsley, holding up a red book so that it covers the lower half of his face; he looks directly at the viewer with a shadow over his eyes. On either side of him, as well as at the bottom center, are three angels with shackles around their necks. They smile placidly and hold their hands up in supplication as they gaze at Crick. At the middle left is Pontiff Jörg, looking tiredly off to the side. At the middle right is Roi Mistral, looking downwards with a troubled expression. All of them are drawn with blue haloes. The bottom left medallion shows Aelfric's hand reaching around Temenos's neck; his eyes are hidden, his face is flushed, and his mouth is slightly open. The bottom right medallion is shattered. Between each medallion, a poem is written in Orsterran script and framed by arabesques. The red background beyond the border, decorated with eight black, winged, haloed Sacred Flames, completes the poem. It reads: "THE FACE OF MY LORD / is a devouring fire / THE FACE OF MY LORD / is a destroying angel / THE FACE OF MY LORD / disturbs slumberers in the night / THE FACE OF MY LORD / menaces children at church / THE FACE OF MY LORD / does not appear / THE FACE OF MY LORD / cannot appear / THE FACE OF MY LORD / is a wreath of tears / THE FACE OF MY LORD / is a broken mirror"

In the second drawing, Kalenda sits at a desk in an intricately carved wooden chair. She wears a plum-purple tailcoat, wine-red waistcoat with a dotted pattern, black trousers, and a white shirt with ruffles at the wrist and a black ribbon at the collar. On her left hand, she wears three silver rings; on her right hand, she wears a gold ring on her ring finger. A flower-decorated bowl holding a pomegranate, plum, and grapes sits on her desk. In her right hand is a lychee. Temenos stands behind her, bracing his left hand on the chair and resting the other playfully on Kaldena's head, seemingly reaching for the lychee. He wears a white shirt, black waistcoat, yellow-green waistscarf, and teal trousers which are heavily embroidered with nature imagery. He also wears a pearl earring; a matching gold ring on his right ring finger; and a gold necklace with a pendant of Crick, who is haloed and holding his right hand up in a gesture of blessing. Kaldena and Temenos are both looking at the viewer and smiling. The simplistic background shows an entrance to another room as well as a tall bookcase, with the top shelf holding a vase and two figurines of a griffin and winged serpent. End image description.]

[arcanemirage]

𝗧𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗹𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗧𝗵𝗿𝘂𝗺

Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 1K

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: On a quiet night in the compound, Wanda Maximoff and Natasha Romanoff find themselves tangled in a dance of power and tension. What begins as unspoken challenges escalates into a collision of desire, as Wanda's raw magic and Natasha's unwavering dominance blur the lines of control. Their connection ignites like fire, a charged game where neither fully yields, and both surrender to something greater.

𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: Suggestive content involving romantic and sexual tension. Power play dynamics. Light domination/submission themes. Emotional and sensual tension throughout the story.

𝗔𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: Taking into account that I can't be less than organized with the content and I demand more from myself than I should, I created this account to post stories and poems that I think are not good enough.Well, that's basically it, enjoy! The other profile is @dummiebrat.

ㅤㅤㅤ❛ㅤThere were nights in the compound when the world outside went still. Even heroes hung their capes, bruised and breathless from saving strangers, yearning for a different kind of salvation. On such nights, Wanda found herself drawn to the way shadows draped across red-tinted hair, to the curve of a smirk that always knew too much. Natasha Romanoff—the Black Widow—carried gravity, a woman stitched from danger and silk.

It began as a dance, unspoken but choreographed. Wanda moved through the common room barefoot, wearing a loose sweater that grazed her thighs, while Natasha leaned against the wall—half in shadow, arms crossed and assessing. The air was charged, the kind of stillness before a storm, except Wanda knew storms. She was storms.

— You’ve been watching me, — Natasha murmured, her voice velvet and edged with a bite. The corners of her lips curled when Wanda stilled mid-step. Scarlet mist flickered faintly at the tips of Wanda’s fingers.

— And you’ve been waiting for me to notice, — Wanda countered softly, tilting her chin up. The words were careful, but the hunger was unmistakable.

Natasha pushed off the wall, her boots muffled against the floor. Every step forward was calculated, predatory in its weight. Wanda’s heart hammered to the rhythm of footsteps—thud, pause, thud.

— You’re dangerous when you think you’re in control, — Natasha said, circling her now like a quiet fire. Wanda shivered at the proximity. A gloved hand trailed a path over the back of a chair, over nothing, and yet Wanda felt the caress against her skin as though she’d been touched.

— And you? — Wanda breathed, her voice betraying the ache between words. — You’re dangerous when you know you are.

For a moment, Natasha said nothing. Her expression remained still, but her eyes… oh, her eyes smoldered like coals, daring Wanda to look deeper.

— Is that how you want me? — Natasha finally whispered, lips just brushing against Wanda’s ear. —In control?

Wanda’s breath hitched. Scarlet cracked faintly at her fingertips, betraying her composure. Natasha didn’t flinch when red ribbons curled through the air like serpents, slithering, weaving, surrounding them both.

— You’ll have to earn it, — Wanda challenged, voice darkening, low and simmering.

— Oh, I plan to.

With a snap of her gloved fingers, Natasha grabbed Wanda’s wrist—slow, deliberate, testing the boundary. A hum passed between them, not of fear, but tension—raw and electric. The scarlet magic that flared against Natasha’s skin should have burned. Instead, it twined around her hand, shimmering like shackles. It was a beautiful illusion of power, and Wanda knew it.

— Are you cuffing me or freeing me? — Natasha asked, watching as the crimson chains wound tighter, curling like smoke. Her voice was still steady, though Wanda could hear the crackling edge beneath.

— Both. — Wanda replied, breathless, as Natasha pulled her closer.

The moment fractured and ignited. Natasha’s hand gripped Wanda’s hip, drawing her flush against her body, forcing her to feel the heat, the solid weight of her control. Wanda’s magic flickered wildly now, responding to every press of fingers, every sly murmur.

— You think you can pin me down? — Natasha teased, her mouth a whisper away from Wanda’s.

Wanda answered in scarlet—wrapping Natasha’s wrist in light and pulling her forward, crashing their lips together. It was less a kiss than a collision, all fire and wild teeth, a war fought between breaths. Natasha laughed against Wanda’s mouth, a sound rough with delight, and shoved her backward onto the plush couch.

— Careful. — Wanda warned, though her voice trembled deliciously.

— Make me. — Natasha shot back, straddling her with perfect poise, an assassin’s grace.

Wanda’s hands flared at her sides, red tendrils snaking upward to coil around Natasha’s waist like a possessive lover. And still, Natasha smiled down at her, steady as a heartbeat. Wanda could level cities, but Natasha Romanoff was not so easily undone.

And wasn’t that what Wanda wanted? Someone to stand in the fire, to tempt the inferno and command it.

— Tell me, — Natasha whispered, dragging her thumb along Wanda’s jaw. — Does it thrill you? Not knowing who’s really in control?

Wanda didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Natasha had already stolen the words from her lips, leaving only the delicious thrum of want in their place.

Outside, the compound remained silent, oblivious to the storm erupting within. Wanda felt herself unravel under Natasha’s touch, under the weight of those knowing eyes that dared her to lose herself. Scarlet ribbons curled and fractured as fingers ghosted beneath fabric, every tug and press a claim—one Wanda surrendered to willingly.

In the shadows of the night, they tangled and teased, a dance of power where neither yielded and neither won. Wanda was the storm, and Natasha was the woman who didn’t flinch when it broke around her.

And somewhere between kisses that bruised and touches that branded, Wanda realized:

She wasn’t cuffing Natasha.

She was falling into her.

[blasphemousclaw]

Rykard social media feed:

“Only by embracing the strength of the Great Serpent may we throw off the shackles of the gods. Click HERE to donate to the Church of Eiglay, or sign up to give yourself up as a sacrifice!”

“Introducing the ABDUCTOR VIRGIN: a new, never-before-seen, cutting-edge innovation in weapons of war, designed specifically for the Volcano Manor’s noble struggle against the armies of the Erdtree.” [most horrifying image you’ve ever seen]

[pic of the minor erdtree on fire]

[art commission of the erdtree burning]

“Through strength, unity, and taking by force, we shall claim our freedom from the gods’ tyranny once and for all. If we must descend into blasphemy and sin to end their reign of terror, then so be it.”

[thirst trap]

[quote retweet of Elden Lord Radagon Official’s post] you should kill yourself… NOW

[retweet of General Radahn celebrating Leonard’s birthday]

[elenthyaolyenths]

DAY 14 - «On Thin Ice» Good Omens AU - Triptych Tribute for @blairamok  

Part 2/3: "Fallen Serpent" Crowley

Please, listen to this

Race

Life's a race

And I am gonna win

Yes, I am gonna win

And I'll light the fuse

And I'll never lose

And I choose to survive

Whatever it takes

You won't pull ahead

I'll keep up the pace

And I'll reveal my strength

To the whole human race

Yes, I am prepared

To stay alive

I won't forgive, the vengeance is mine

And I won't give in

Because I choose to thrive

Yeah, I'm gonna win!

Race

It's a race

And I'm gonna win!

Tomorrow, they will be together for the Grand Finale... See you there! ;-)

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↓Come on, check the behind-the-scenes!↓

Personal challenge: a simple sketch each day

Goal: forcing me to keep things simple - inking, shading, just a few sashes of colour

Improvement pursued: to get the movement, the emotion, finding how to add depth, learning how to leave things barely finished

Max time allowed: 2 hours, as usual for my Daily Challenges.

Tribute Time, so I threw the timer away, lol :-p. As for my Fallen Angel Aziraphale (link), I spent more or less 3 hours on the lineart, plus 1h30 on the colouring/shading.

Crowley, as my « Fallen Serpent ».

“On Thin Ice”'s author Blairamok describes the Cantilevers figure as « one of the biggest fuck yous to physics », and so one of Crowley’s signature moves. As I was searching drawing references about this amazing figure, I found a lot of ways to perform it, all beautiful and impressive. I finally chose this particular one (I am sorry I don’t know the original performer’s name on the picture I used, but to me he seemed so powerful, yet relaxed and happy on the picture, so I couldn’t resist). Though I had to slightly re-adapt the figure to Crowley who is taller, thinner and maybe even more flexible (ssssnaky, duh).

I had so much fun re-thinking his clothes for my sketch. I used the scrumptious💕 black and red « Serpent » clothing that Blairamok created, and I added my own « signature move » : wings – or, well, feathers. As Crowley is THE Fallen Angel here, the feathers are slightly burnt, some of them almost torn apart. They cover his shoulder blades, then spread out as a unique short and damaged wing at the back of his right shoulder, go down on his right flank, then cross his back as they slightly go embracing his left hip. The Red Serpent Pattern is quite the same as Blair’s clothing, but it still continues on his leg and circles his right ankle like a leg shackle.

I am particularly proud of Crowley’s eye and expression. Remember? I dearly wanted Crowley sharing a glance with Aziraphale while he was doing his Cantilevers, and Aziraphale was supposed to glance back to him. I had to give up on this idea later – because the figure I chose for Aziraphale definitely couldn’t allow such a shared glance. (but wait for the third part of this triptyque, it will be posted tomorrow!)

So, my Crowley still has this ethereal, strangely happy, almost enthralled expression. It kind of represents my own interpretation of the Cantilevers figure : it’s a proof of complete trust, in yourself, in your skills, in your art and your environment. And I like to imagine that if Crowley is able to have such confidence in himself, then maybe he can and will trust his partner Aziraphale with quite the same strength.

Thanks for reading! See you tomorrow for the third part - our Ineffable Partners will be toghether, finally! (aaaand they will be not talking but whatever the acting will speak for them)

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