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animereaderinsertwriter · 3 years

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Cupbearer (Eren/Reader)

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV (in progress)

Warnings: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT (im watching you, if you see this, begone!), vampire!eren, hunter!reader, fem!reader, smut, some amount of predator/prey dynamics but only kinda?? there is also a significant age difference but only cos eren is immortal and all that jazz. we're all adults here. there will eventually be smut.... and do i really need to say that there's gonna be blood in a vampire fic?

Description: A story of falling in love in 4 parts.

Eren is a bad man (well, a bad Creature) who has done bad things. When he meets the great-great-great granddaughter of one of his former friends in his favorite blood bar, however, he thinks it might not matter so much what happened in the past, so long as he can make the future something worth living to see.

Ao3 link here

Part I

A lamb in a den of lions, he thought, watching the newcomer as she settled in, ordering whiskey neat. A fool, for sure.

A fool she may be, perhaps, but even fools could be dangerous. Eren had known that the young woman was a Hunter from the moment she entered the bar (everyone else had, too) but something told Eren that she was hardly cut from the same cloth as the average Bane of Creatures. There was something in her movements— a predatory grace in her stride, perhaps, or a stiff, straight posture, with muscles tensed and ready for action— that betrayed her power to him; but for all that, she really was lovely, and the image of a rabbit caught in a patch of bramble came to mind whenever he looked at her.

Sitting in a corner, drinking his B-neg, he watched the woman as she sipped her drink, checking over her shoulder now and then. She was wary— as anyone with good sense would be— but she didn't appear frightened, and Eren's curiosity was piqued. It wasn't every day that someone so bold happened across his path, and it became harder and harder for him to resist the urge to approach her.

Eventually, Eren gave in to his curiosity— he never had been very good at or even particularly fond of restraining himself— and when he came silently up behind her, the newcomer didn't even notice his presence until he murmured a greeting close to her ear.

"Hello, little love," he said, and she startled in her seat. "Are you lost?"

She turned around then, her eyes big and bright in the dim lighting of the bar, but by the time she managed to look at the spot where Eren would have been, he was already seated on the barstool beside her. Eventually, though, her eyes found his, and when their gazes met, Eren was amused to find no fear in her visage.

"Far from it," she told him, turning her body towards him. "I am precisely where I mean to be."

Eren blinked, nonplussed.

"Curious," he said, leaning forward so that she could see the sharpness of his teeth as he spoke. "Do you fancy yourself a wolf among sheep, little Hunter? Did you really not think we would know you for what you are the moment you crossed the threshold of this place?"

Any normal, human ear would have missed the way her heart leapt in her chest, but Eren missed nothing. The fear he had hoped to inspire in her was present after all, but her face never moved from its impenetrable mask— an affectation that was somehow both soft and steely at once.

"That's not what I'm here for," she told him, widening the distance between her knees as she readjusted on the stool. "I'm here to discover the truth."

The truth— what an odd notion!— and yet Eren sensed no lie in her.

"You're a strange one," he told her, but forced himself to relax his posture to appear lazy, almost drunk. "Most Hunters— even ones so pretty as yourself— shoot first and worry about the truth later. What's your name?"

Her nose crinkled. "It's polite to give your own first."

Sharp, he thought, watching her closely. Names have power.

"Eren Jaeger."

"Eren Jaeger," she echoed, then extended her hand. "My name is (Y/N)."

That name sounded familiar to Eren— and though most names did after living a few centuries, this one seemed to hit closer to home. He knew that name, and knew it well…

"What's your surname?"

(Y/N)'s eyes flashed with an emotion that Eren didn't catch.

"Kirschtein," she replied, averting her eyes. "I'm Jean Kirschtein's great-great-great granddaughter."

And damn if Eren didn't want to laugh. Perhaps his nosiness into the posterity of his old acquaintances really was as bad of an idea as Armin always seemed to imply.

"I see," he said, and he truly, truly did. "Then you know who I am— what I am— and what I've done."

More than that, if she truly did know who he was, it was unlikely that she had come without a specific purpose in mind.

(Y/N) nodded, confirming his suspicions. "I was digging around in my family history and— well— I read what my grandfather wrote, and I just— I wanted the truth."

So wide-eyed, so innocent— so alive. Eren could see now her resemblance to Jean; if they were not similar in looks, she had his sharpness, his humanness… and, as he always had Jean, Eren envied her for it.

"If that's the case, then I'm sure you know that you don't get something for nothing," he told her, sipping his drink just to watch the expression on her face as he let the warm blood slide down his throat. "And that dealings with me can be dangerous."

"Jean Kirschtein loved you, Eren Jaeger," she told him fiercely and with such conviction that Eren nearly choked on his drink. "To take such a tone with me, to threaten me, the last living remnant of him, is the most disrespectful thing I've ever heard."

Eren was about to say that he didn't owe her, Jean Kirschtein, or anyone else any sort of respect, but she plowed on, unwilling to let him say his piece.

"You broke his heart a million ways by doing what you did, but— but he was your friend through all of it, no matter what side each of you were on," (Y/N) continued, passion aflame in her eyes. "I can't even imagine what inspired such a love, such a loyalty from him that he would forgive you for the horrors you caused. That's what I'm here to find out— what you have that a man such as him would find you redeemable."

The reproof in her words stung, but Eren was too old to argue. She could never understand what it was like back then.

"I understand more than you think," she snapped, and Eren actually flinched. "I understand that you hurt the woman my grandfather loved immeasurably, and that he forgave you for that even though he never even particularly liked you. I understand that you were ready to sacrifice the world for that selfsame woman, for Jean, and for all the others. I understand that you're a monster who loved and was loved back, but I want to know why."

How? Eren thought, shaken.

How had she known his thoughts? It was as though she had seen straight through to his innermost being.

Without speaking, she answered his question. (Y/N) took a hand and rolled up her left sleeve, presenting to him a scarred marking in the shape of a pentagram.

"My grandfather didn't settle down with just anyone," she told him, holding his gaze. "I come from a line of powerful witches, all of whom possessed strong claircognizance. Paired with my nature as an empath, you can assume I know what you're going to say before you say it."

Eren hummed, trying to appear less perturbed than he was.

"And yet you hunt Creatures for a living; strange, since you're practically one of us yourself."

(Y/N) glowered. "I hunt monsters that prey on my people, not Creatures. No innocent has died by my hand."

The unlike you went unsaid, but that didn't mean that Eren didn't hear it anyway.

"Don't get high-and-mighty with me, girl," he told her roughly. "Knowing is one thing, but experiencing what we experienced is another."

"I'm not here to judge you," she replied. "I told you, I'm here for truth, nothing more."

"And I told you that the truth doesn't come for free," he told her darkly. "You must give me something in return."

(Y/N) set her jaw.

"What would you have of me?"

It was a mean, base request. Eren was wicked for even thinking it, and vile for wanting it— but looking at the great-to-however-many-degrees granddaughter of a good man that he had once known, seeing the vitality that brought a flush to her cheeks and thumping to her heart, he knew he couldn't pass up this golden opportunity.

It had been so long since he'd had a Companion.

"Become my cupbearer for six moons," he told her, crossing his arms. "Starting with tonight, the moon becomes new; let me drink from you until six of these have passed, and along the way, you will learn what you want to know."

(Y/N) eyed him warily.

"Can you assure my physical safety?"

Eren grunted, almost amused. It was a bit late to be worrying about that.

"I think you know that I can."

"And will you let me continue in my duties as a Hunter?" she asked, her eyes searching his own as if she would find the answer to her question there inside the same eyes he'd had since he was nineteen. "Completely uninhibited?"

"That depends. Will you kill Creatures in the discharge of your duties?"

(Y/N) made a face. Eren had forgotten how expressive mortals could be, but he found that being reminded was not altogether unpleasant.

"You know I will," she replied, "But you have my word that any killing won't be unprovoked."

Eren supposed it was as close to a compromise as he could expect.

"As you wish it, so shall it be."

He turned away, signaling to the bartender for another drink, but a lightning-fast hand shot out to grab his wrist.

"Swear it," she demanded. "I need us to be Bound by it."

The meanness in Eren finally won over. He reached forward, grabbing (Y/N) by the neck, and the silver rings on her fingers burned him as she pulled at his hand to try and restore her breath. Eyes from all around the room were on the two of them— had been, since the very beginning— but it was only once the Hunter before him began to look appropriately humbled that he withdrew.

"Do not touch me without my permission," he said, "And I will return the favor."

(Y/N) looked at him then, but there was still no fear in her eyes. Anger, yes, but no fear.

She must be mad, or foolish one, he thought, considering her for a moment. I always have been partial to mad fools in general, but…

Something about her seemed different, and Eren didn't know what to do other than accept what she had to offer. Heavens knew he was getting the better end of the deal anyway.

"Swear it," she repeated, this time more quietly. "Give your word, and I will be your cupbearer."

Eren brought his hand up and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt. At his will, the nail tip of his forefinger sharpened, hardening into a point; he used it to draw an 'X' onto the skin just over where his heart rested inside his chest, cold and dead. Blood welled into the cut— precious little, compared to that of a human, but still enough to run down his chest in smudges— and it was by that blood that he swore. He spoke the terms of their agreement, then took the blood from his wound with the pad of his finger and marked the same spot over (Y/N)'s own heart.

"Satisfied?" he asked, their faces almost touching, and (Y/N) shivered.

"Yes."

Her warm, living breath fanned over his face with her reply, and Eren took the moment to close his eyes and appreciate the scent and sensation of it.

"You may think you're satisfied," he told her, pulling away, "But you don't know the meaning of the word."

She eyed him warily, but before she could speak, he added, "In six months' time, I'll ask you the same question, and it is then that you will truly know what it is to feel satisfied— satiated in every way."

"As you say."

It was a throwaway comment, nothing more than a dismissal, really; but Eren felt like it was the start of something truly remarkable.

#aot x y/n #aot x reader #aot #aot fanfiction #eren x reader #vampire!eren jaeger #aot smut

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xanthiasonadonkey · 6 years

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Diomedes in the Iliad

Well, socratitillated discussed some very good themes in the Iliad involving Diomedes, and now I want to vent.

Fine. I don’t really rant all THAT often, so it’s not like an occasional fit of verbosity is going to harm anyone.

Beware, a WALLOFTEXT awaits.

Because *sarcasm mode: ON* I don’t talk about Diomedes very often *sarcasm mode: temporarily OFF*

Tydeides is magnificent in a million ways, great and small. And, while I can’t express such things eloquently enough, you can be damn sure I’ll try.

Calliope help me, I’ll try.

Because, while it is easy to get attached to the drama!!-generating hurricane that is Achilleus, or to Hector the devoted family man just dealing with other people’s fuckups, or to Helen who honestly didn’t deserve any of this shit, or to mr. Nobody (don’t be greedy, man, you got a whole epic just to yourself!) – sure, they are a riot to read and talk about, but…

The Argive king is never talked about as much as he deserves.

And it’s a shame, because he’s damn complex and not just “that badass who, with Athene’s help, made frigging Ares run to daddy.”

Which does not mean Diomedes is not a badass. That part is obvious. But.

There’s so much more going on with him. So. Much. More.

For example, I will never get over the interplay of courage and discretion in this figure.

Where does the former end, giving way to hubris and/or savagery?

What separates caution and cowardice, when they can look so similar to each other?

What does it take to stop before crossing that line, when almost everybody around you is letting their own personal demons run amok?

And why shouldn’t they? It’s not just a war. To them, it’s THE war.

Well, to Peleides (and Agamemnon, most likely) it’s also HIS war. HIS path to glory. That’s what’s matters, right? Right?

So, a certain very offended nereid’s child decides his erstwhile comrades should pay for that dishonour, and he has the means to make sure they do. Or, rather, Thetis does.

Individualism versus conformity, sure. In some ways. But Achilleus’ desire to affirm his value as a person, ironically, blinds him to the value of other individuals, so he messes up.

Agamemnon, of course, is a mess-up of cyclopean proportions in general.

Somebody has to step up. Somebody has to stand between the Achaean host and disaster and do everything possible and impossible to keep things from going to Tartaros in a handbasket.

Several heroes do. They work hard, they think hard, they fight hard. But among them, Diomedes is probably the one who can shoulder the greatest part of the burden. So he does.

Let others be unreasonable. Let others quarrel. There’s work to be done.

And so, when Ares takes the field, any fear, any hesitation, are trampled by an understanding that somebody has to go and stop an immortal God.

Good thing another immortal is there to help. But you can bet anything She would never favour anyone unworthy. Divine help is not chance – it’s kharis, and kharis is earned.

Many people have noted how seamlessly divine interference and human free will blend into each other in the Iliad. An angry, but still mostly rational, Achilleus is physically restrained by Pallas before he attacks the high king. Aphrodite and Helen have a complex relationship, mirroring Helen’s feelings about her own circumstances and Paris. Agamemnon is ridiculously susceptible to deception – his mind clouded now by madness, now by a false dream. Athene’s wise words are most often heard and acted upon by those who are wise themselves.

Some go so far as to suggest that the Gods and spirits are merely “metaphors” for more mundane things. But… no. Let’s stay away from that slippery slope.

The Iliad, without doubt, treats the Gods as real. But just as real are the very human emotions, motives and qualities the heroes act upon (or don’t). Nothing mutually exclusive there.

The Gods do not force Themselves on the world. They are OF the world. So, when They infuse a warrior with valour – the recipient will almost invariably be someone who surpasses others where that particular virtue is concerned. When good advice is given, it is given to a man of good sense. And the victim of every deception is, of course, an individual already in a confused state of mind.

Divine favour is not a whim. It is earned. An exceptional relationship with the Gods – or a particular God – denotes an exceptional individual. So, when we are told that Athene loves Diomedes (and Odysseus) more than others – this means she has a reason to.

He’s the kind of man who would stay silent when bombarded by undeserved insults because any more dissent would be poison to the Achaean host – but make a fairly demoralized army listen to him when the high king breaks down. He’s the only one who goes to save Nestor when everybody else is saving their own nether regions. He’s a mortal who respects the Gods, but will not allow that respect or fear stop him from doing his damn duty.

And Pallas, Who guides heroes, Who loves excellence tempered with wisdom - Who IS excellence tempered with wisdom - harsh but just Pallas notices this mortal.

How can She not? He is unflinching – so Atrytone stands by him. He proves himself in battle – and Promakhos lets him go even further than he otherwise would. He is wise – and Polymetis whispers warnings and advice to him.

They are Goddess and worshipper, they are teacher and pupil, they are comrades who respect each other immensely, they are friends who know each other’s minds.

At the same time, they are a man and his sense of duty, maturity and strength of character.

Gods are both *who* and *what* at once. Pallas acts, but She also IS.

When She interacts with Telamonian Aias – staunch, reliable, straightforward Aias – it only ends in disaster. Because Aias also happens to be temperamental, petty and, frankly, childish.

Not so with another hero.

The ruler of Argos is an excellent charioteer. He reins in his wayward passions the same way he deals with horses. Anger? Pride? Fear? Good. He controls it. He makes it work in his favour. Tempers each important decision with an understanding of its potential consequences.

That iron self-discipline is more than an individual’s adherence to societal expectations. It’s also more than a desire to keep away the madness his father lost to. While both factors are present, his own innate sense of responsibility is what determines his behaviour.

It would have been easy to say that he simply respects Agamemnon’s authority and therefore avoids conflict when insulted in rhapsodia IV – oh, Peleides would not be so meek! But then, we see Diomedes speaking out against the Mycenaean king’s cowardice when nobody else does. In both cases, he does what needs to be done for the Achaean cause.

*sigh* Okay, said cause doesn’t look so hot from a modern point of view. But that particular can of worms should probably be set aside for later. Let’s just establish that the Achaeans actually have a complex set of reasons to be invading the Troad. Deal?

Tydeides is not just here for glory, or because he took that ill-omened oath. He is fully convinced this war is necessary. That’s why he’s ready to go so far to achieve victory. And, whether right or misguided, that determination is a thing of beauty – even if that beauty is cold and deadly as a blade.

When he promises to stay and fight even if all the other chieftains turn tail – he means it.

When he honours the guest-friendship of Oineus and Bellerophon, and reinforces that bond by exchanging gifts with Glaukos – he also means it.

He’s a scary, scary man, that Diomedes.

Maybe that’s the point. A warrior whom others have no reason to fear is useless.

But so is a warrior who is only a source of fear. Sophrosyne, moderation, is the watchword.

Arete, too. And kleos, and aidos. But it is the balance granted by sophrosyne that makes our hero’s other qualities truly shine.

Shine like the brightest star of autumn, bathed in the ocean’s waves, as it were.

This poetic comparison from rhapsodia V? It’s not just there to be pretty. When Achilleus or Hektor are compared to stars – the descriptions are entirely different, more fitting to their personalities. One can NEVER pay too much attention to detail with the Iliad.

And, when one does begin to hunt for all those details, all those subtle and unsubtle hints, one realizes, that this story does not belong to Akhilleus. Neither does it belong to Hektor or Agamemnon, or to Helen. It’s not even a tale of “rage” or “war”.

It’s a story where every figure, every theme, large or small, is a centre of gravity. Odysseus and Thersites, Priam and the daughter of Khryses, every soldier whose pathetic death is so meticulously described, every simile, every digression or story of times long past – are an omphalos unto itself, the navel of the world, even if just for brief moment.

Let’s just say, that among all those centers of gravity - I know which one interests me most.

But, let yours truly remember sophrosyne now, and fall silent for some time. There is much to discuss yet: the Theban cycle, those star metaphors we only briefly touched upon, the Doloneia, the chariot race, Italy and those pesky seabirds, but… moderation, right?

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patroklxs · 7 years

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the son of peleus, patroclus knows without question by the time he is thirteen, is an insufferable ass.

pretty and golden and used to getting what he wants. his mother a goddess who adores him and his father a king who doesn’t need to adore him to give him anything he asks for. his father’s servants too scared of thetis’ retribution to raise their voice at him. even when patroclus had been a prince, the same as him, he had had more discipline. menoetius had a stricter hand. the people who served him knew that were patroclus deserving, his father wouldn’t condemn them for reprimanding him.

he resents ten-year-old achilles’ easy freedom. if he killed a boy, his mother would bring down the house before she would allow him to be sent away. patroclus had no such intervention.

“leave her alone,” says patroclus, when his little golden hand has tugged five too many times on the cook’s girdle.

achilles rounds on him, all wounded pride at the reprimand. “i can do whatever i want,” he says indignantly. “did i ask you here, patroclus?”

“if you had i would have said the same thing.”

“get out.”

“i won’t.”

i won’t was as good as make me to achilles, in those days.

ii.

“i’ll race you to the top of the hill,” achilles tells him. everything is a race with him. everything is a game, or a competition. patroclus loses every time. at first it hurt him not to win. now he accepts it as a fact of life.

sometimes, you lose. the sword arm that can’t best achilles bests nearly everyone else. there’s no more shame in failing to defeat him.

“no,” he says.

the look on achilles’ face at his refusal is probably a thing he got from his godly mother. patroclus has heard thetis described as having the temper of the sea in a storm; her son imitates her with a look that would chill a grown man. “what do you mean, no?”

“i mean no,” patroclus repeats, and when achilles looks over his shoulder to see if anyone else is hearing this insubordination---as he’d known he would---he takes off up the hill, giving himself a few seconds’ head start.

achilles beats him anyway.

it doesn’t matter. he doesn’t play to win anymore; he plays because it’s fun.

iii.

the third day after they kiss for the first time, achilles asks him for a kiss and patroclus kisses his chin.

“no,” he says, “you know what i mean.”

patroclus bends towards him again and kisses the bridge of his nose. “haven’t i kissed you?”

“patroclus,” achilles warns, and grabs him by the shoulder.

“yes?”

“stop.��

“all right,” he says, and pulls back, sitting back on his hands and smiling.

“---no, not like that!”

“you should be more clear.”

“how much clearer can i be than telling you to kiss me?”

patroclus twists forwards again and kisses his forehead.

achilles punches him in the arm.

iv.

patroclus wakes with his hand over achilles’ heart, his face pressed into the bend of his shoulder. the beat beneath his fingers is steady, but not so slow as to make him think he has somehow miraculously woken first.

“patroclus?” he murmurs, and patroclus realizes achilles doesn’t know if he’s awake or not.

he decides to play along, and stays motionless, waiting for---

achilles sighs heavily, and he gives himself away instantly by grinning at the sound.

“good morning,” he says, knowing the jig is up.

“i’ve been awake for two hours.” he can hear the frown in achilles’ voice, just as easily as he can see the line of his collarbone sliding into the notch below his throat. he can imagine the stormy eyes perfectly, the thin pinched line of his brow.

“maybe they’ll write a tragedy about you,” he says.

“you make a very pretty girl, achilles.”

he doesn’t mean it sarcastically. the truth is that the prince of phthia, the leader of the myrmidons, is beautiful as a woman, the same as he is as a man. achilles is beautiful, and like all other beauties, deadly. the only difference now is that he wears his hair longer, tumbling down around his shoulders. the rest of the illusion is just clothes and jewelry. patroclus had recognized him almost at once, but had had the good sense to hold his tongue until clever odysseus gave it away.

he means the compliment entirely.

achilles makes a rude gesture at him anyway.

vi.

because they are at war and because patroclus is fully mortal, he sometimes bleeds for greece. never much and never often, but even the best of warriors --- even the most vicious and battle-hungry myrmidons --- fall sometimes, or are felled. the score across his bicep from the spear bleeds freely down patroclus’ arm, the red dripping from his fingertips, and achilles decides that this wound, which would be hardly a scratch if patroclus had had a mother to dip him in immortality, requires his full attention.

“you’re reckless, patroclus,” he says, tightening the bandage, patroclus thinks, with unnecessary vehemence.

“i was only following you, achilles.”

“you aren’t me!”

“i’m not. i bleed; someday i’ll die.” achilles tells him every morning: come back safely. he doesn’t return the sentiment because he doesn’t want the unkeepable promise. achilles would say yes and they would both know it wasn’t up to them; and he prefers a brutal unspoken truth to a comforting lie. they’re different that way. “i won’t stay in your tent and wait for you to come back every day to prevent that.”

achilles ties off the bandage and takes his chin between his fingers. patroclus feels his own blood smearing his jaw. “you make me angry enough when you’re breathing, patroclus. let’s not find out how furious i’ll be when you aren’t.”

vii.

patroclus wakes up to achilles slipping into bed behind him, and blearily moves forward to make room, before he bumps into iphis and remembers her presence. she stirs, slightly, and achilles’ hand finds his waist.

“the bed is full,” he says, and turns his head to look at achilles in the dark.

achilles is smiling, in good humour as he drops back to the floor of the tent. “are you replacing me, then?”

“i’m looking into the possibility.”

the fine, royal mouth grows thin. achilles can start a joke, but he can’t bear to let patroclus finish it. beside him, iphis turns over and presses her face into his chest. “don’t look too hard.”

viii.

sparring has lost its charm for most in years of war, but achilles is born to fight and patroclus is born to let him. his rule is: there is honour on the field of battle, but none when he and achilles are roughhousing in the surf.

achilles knocks him off balance with a hard, glancing blow. he goes down on purpose and comes up with his foot hooked around one of his ankles. he memorizes what few weak spots achilles has and exploits them mercilessly. he still always loses.

“you don’t play fair,” achilles complains once, staring up at him from where he’s lying on the ground for a brief moment before he leaps up and wrestles him down into the water. “do my men know that?”

patroclus draws him into a kiss and uses his distraction to get the high ground back, shoving a knee hard into his hip to slam him down into the sand. “there is no fair with you, achilles.”

ix.

“briseis sounds more and more like you every day,” achilles tells him, ducking past him into the tent.

“oh?” patroclus says, continuing to clean his armour. trojan blood washes off the metal easily enough, but sinks into the leather, if he leaves it on too long.

“she talks back now---do you know you’re the only person who does that?”

patroclus smiles at the sand, thinking of her dark eyes narrowed in reproach. she may have only started talking back to achilles, but she certainly hasn’t been silent on the subject in their conversations for all this time. “well, now i’m one of two.”

“if not for the love i bear you, patroclus, i’d have killed you a long time ago.”

“then how extraordinarily fortunate i am to be loved.”

it’s been a good long time since he lost his temper with achilles --- years maybe, with so much practice under his belt to keep him calm. so many dead greeks will do it. the myrmidon camp standing still with the anger of the son of peleus parts silently as he makes his way to the tent. every day he asks: the kings told me to tell you again that they need you. will you come? and every day achilles says no.

“why are you crying?” achilles asks.

such a rage rises in his heart at the question, but of course it can never match the sort of anger that muses will sing about after the two of them are gone.

“give me your armour.”

#a drabble abt making achilles' life hell to get back into this Voice #*MUSE.#V : C

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