#sins of their sires my beloved | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

prythianpages · 2 months

Text

Give 'Em Hell | Part Two

beron's daughter OC x eventually Azriel | Beron Vanserra is a man with many sinful secrets but there is one that desires to punish him. His daughter. His true firstborn and heir to the Autumn Court.

Masterlist

Chapter Summary: Some of the country folk of Autumn are protesting Beron's rule and there is talk of rebellion. The Phoenix. And Beron begins to wonder if the enemy is among his inner circle.

Warnings: bullying, violence, harsh insults thrown oc's way/ brief mentions of sexual assault (groping)

A/N: I'm so sorry this took me forever to update. This has been in my drafts since November omg. I got this idea/motivation to write this at a time where I was at the peak of my female rage lol and now things in my life are better. However, I did always want to write a character who is "evil." Using quotation marks because that's still up to be decided on. For this OC, I'm drawing huge inspiration from Game of Thrones, especially with Daenary's character. Also, I know that birth order does not dictate who inherits the title High Lord but in this fic and probs in canon too, Beron hates the idea of Autumn having a High Lady.

Sometimes memories are the worst form of torture.

Deaths, heartbreaks and traumatic events may pass but the memory lives on, lingering like a haunting and tormenting spirit. The Pryalis family has been threatened to become a distant memory, torturing the remaining patriarch of what was once.

Once a strong and powerful big household, the Pryalis family was now reduced to just one. Edmund Pryalis. Or so he thought.

Among the wreckage of his beloved son’s home, remained a young female. She had been found, a couple of feet away from the house at the edge of the surrounding forest, with signs of struggle etched onto her pale body, bruised and scarred. She had been trembling and terrified when Edmund had approached her, demanding to know who she was and what had happened. He had not been prepared for the words that had broken off from her quivering lips.

She was his son’s bastard daughter. His bastard granddaughter.

Edmund had not questioned it. His son was known for being disloyal to his wife. It was inevitable to not sire a bastard child and if his son’s scandalous endeavors were not enough to convince him, the female strongly resembled his late wife and daughter with her sun-kissed auburn hair, high cheekbones and striking eyes. However, the color of her eyes were not the infamous emerald green the Pryalis family was known for but a chestnut brown instead.

If it weren’t for the deaths of his son and family, his heirs, he would’ve done Prythian a favor and rid it of one more bastard. But he didn’t. He refused to allow the Pryalis name to fade into memory and so now there were two.

“May their ashes rise and flames persist in eternity.”

The air carried the scent of damp earth as the leaves rustled with the wind, whispering their final farewells to the departed souls resting beneath. Edmund pulled his gaze from the tombstone below and to the young weeping female. He gestured for her to follow him and they silently made their way to the entrance of the cemetery, where a carriage awaited them.

As Edmund placed a foot on the carriage step, a sudden realization compelled him to pause. There was one more question he had yet to ask of his bastard granddaughter. “What is your name?”

“Emilia.” The female had replied.

And if Edmund had bothered to turn around, he would’ve caught the flames flickering in her eyes.

“Two will soon become three until there are finally eight but one will not be true to you and only one shall come to be.”

Beron found himself surrounded by the weight of the soothsayer’s prophecies, uttered nearly three centuries past, as he surveyed the grandeur of his Autumn Court's council chamber. There was more truth to the soothsayer’s words than he’d like to admit. To his left, his four eldest sons occupied their appointed seats, a testament to the continuation of his lineage. On his right, the key figures of his advisory council – chief advisor, spymaster, master of coin, and army commander – assumed their positions

His two younger sons were away, honing their skills in the art of war, preparing for a future fraught with uncertainties. And Lucien…

Well, Lucien was doing everything a High Lord’s son probably shouldn’t and Beron couldn’t bring himself to care for it at this moment. There were other pressing matters to attend to.

"Mistwood grows restless," Fenrik, the spymaster, began cautiously. "Whispers of an uprising persist, and while rumors can be as fleeting as the wind, this tale echoes persistently…”

Beron's piercing gaze bore into Fenrik, a silent command for the truth to be unveiled.

“I am uncertain whether it is a person or a group but there's mention of a Phoenix. A harbinger of a brighter tomorrow. Faced with the specter of an impending famine, some villagers may be swayed to rebellion against our presence."

A tense silence falls upon the room as Fenrik’s words hang in the air like a foreboding mist. That is, until Eris, the heir to the Autumn Court, decides to break it.

“Perhaps, we should provide them with enough sustenance to quell their thirst to riot,” Eris suggests, his voice resonating with wisdom beyond his years. Beron should be proud but instead, his eyes narrow as he assesses the situation.

“Gain their trust so they remain loyal to you, High Lord,” Edmund, Beron’s chief advisor, agrees as he waves his hand, beckoning his cupbearer forward.

Eris’s eyes widen ever so slightly, lifting his gaze toward Edmund. It’s the first time the two have ever been in agreement. He then turns his head toward Edmund’s cupbearer, a spark of curiosity flashing in his amber eyes.

As the cupbearer delicately pours a substance, presumably more potent than wine given its acrid scent, Eris can’t help but wonder why Edmund subjects his own granddaughter to a servant role when she is beyond the age of marriage. Granted, Emilia is a bastard. But still his blood nonetheless. His only blood.

Edmund brings his cup to his lips and takes a swig. He sputters almost immediately, throwing his chalice to the floor and drawing everyone’s attention to him. The dark crimson liquid splatters onto the floor, staining the soft fabric of his granddaughter's dress. Emilia shrinks back, fear flashing across her features as Edmund shifts toward her with a scowl.

“This is not what I asked of you!” He seethes with furrowed eyebrows. “I asked for the russet elixir, not this.”

“I’m sorry, grandfather. I thought this was the russet elixir.”

Emilia drops her gaze, a frown tainting her soft features, as she presents the bottle of liquor to him. It is clearly labeled as crimson nectar. “You imbecile. Go back to your station,” Edmund orders hastily, no longer desiring a drink.

“Illiterate bastard,” Hunter mutters under his breath with a chuckle, elbowing Eris.

Eris does not humor his brother. Though his fingers tense around his own chalice, he maintains a stoic silence, his gaze following Emilia. She retreats to her designated place in the council chamber, head bowed low. Her silhouette merges seamlessly with the servants clustered around the table of refreshments.

“Let them starve.”

Eris’s gaze shifts back toward his father and he swears his heart skips a beat.

“But my High Lord–”

“I refuse to feed the mouths of potential traitors,” Beron interrupts his spymaster sharply yet his gaze is focused upon Eris, brown eyes shimmering with disappointment. “The seed for rebellion has already been planted. It does not matter if I send them sustenance or not, they may still revolt. I’ll turn the town of Mistwood into a lesson.”

Beron then rises to his feet, signaling that he will hear no more from his council for today. “Anyone who lends credence to this alleged Phoenix shall be branded as traitors and punished. No exceptions.”

Beron strides out of the room, the council trailing in his wake. Eris, however, lingers, reluctant to vacate his seat. He prods the inside of his cheek with his tongue, stomach filling with dread from the look Beron had given him before leaving. He sits there for what feels like an eternity but given the fact that some of his brothers remain, harassing Edmund’s poor granddaughter, it couldn’t have been for too long.

When Eris rises from his seat, he catches a glimpse of Oliver, his younger brother, trailing a hand a little too low down Emilia’s body. From where Eris stands, he could see Emilia’s every muscle tense under the unwanted touch and harsh words whispered into her ear. Yet, Emilia remains quiet, her gaze fixed forward, even as Oliver finally frees her of his torment.

Silver lines her dull brown eyes and Eris can’t help but pity the female. He knows the look on her face all too well. It's a reflection of the emotions he often carries within himself. Hatred. Fear. Anger.

The room is quiet, save for the measured cadence of Eris’s footsteps. They come to a stop right before Emilia, causing her brown eyes to widen in surprise. Still, she remains steadfast in avoiding eye contact with Eris.

“Lord Eris,” she addresses him, her voice a masterclass in practiced restraint, as though she has honed it over centuries of servitude.

“We should arrange for someone to teach you how to read.”

Emilia blinks, caught off guard and for a fleeting moment, vulnerability flickers in her dark eyes. It’s not the first time Eris has been kind yet she still can’t comprehend why he continues to express concern for her. She hesitates before regaining her composure and slowly lowers her gaze.

“Grandfather says reading will only taint the female’s mind and that I do not need to know how to read in order to fulfill my duty.”

“And what duty is that exactly?”

“I’m the last Pyralis female. I’m sure you can take a guess, my lord.”

Eris exhales heavily, as if he too was wearied by the harshness of her world. “Suit yourself then.”

For centuries, the Pyralis family stood as a formidable force, characterized by its size and strength. Even amidst the transformative shift in magical favor that propelled the Vanserra family to High Lordship, the Pyralis clan endured without faltering. True to their name, they rose from the ashes, mirroring the resilience of the Phoenix they were named after. They maintained their high status in politics, taking on the role as the Vanserra’s chief advisors. Speculation lingered that the only force capable of bringing down the Pyralis family was the family itself.

The Pyralis family's decline began long before Eris’s birth. Still, he couldn't help but reflect on the strange sight of witnessing such a once-mighty and expansive lineage reduced to a mere two living members.

It made him worry if the same grim fate would befall upon his own family.

“Mother’s tits, what happened to you?”

“Your brothers,” is all Emilia says followed by a huff, the small gust of frustration sending the dark red fringe framing her face tumbling forward like a curtain of shadows. Weariness etches across her features, shoulders slumping, allowing a glimpse beyond the facade she meticulously maintains.

Lucien furrows his brow in concern and gently reaches out to tuck the loose strand behind her ear. “You look like you’re in need of a pick me up,” he remarks, his russet eyes lighting up at the idea. “A little trip to Thornwood might lift your spirits.”

Emilia pauses, narrowing her eyes slightly. “I’m sure it’ll lift other things too.”

Lucien laughs, his lips twitching upwards into a grin. Though Thornwood sounds like a good idea, given the hard day she had, she recognizes why Lucien is more than eager to go. She knows him too well. As they step out of the forest house, he hooks his arm through hers and winnows them both to Thornwood before she could even question if it was safe to do so, given the current volatile state of the neighboring town, Mistwood.

Thornwood is a breath of fresh air.

Both Lucien and Emilia feel a sense of comfort as they fall into step beside each other. Lush orchards and vineyards surround the small town nestled in the countryside of Autumn, their branches heavy with golden and crimson fruits. They walk along the cobblestone pathways, leading to a central square where various vendors are selling goods. Residents, adorned in cozy layers to protect from the autumn winds, go about their daily routines with a sense of unhurried contentment.

An elderly female rests against the weathered water well, rattling a worn cup that holds a few gold marks toward any passersby. As Emilia walks by, the female’s eyes follow her and with a sudden urgency, she rattles her cup harsher.

“Something wicked this way comes,” she mutters, the words slipping from her cracked lips like an ominous whisper carried by the wind. “Something wicked this way comes…”

With a glare directed at the older female, Lucien steps around Emilia, shielding her from the female’s sharp gaze.

“Em!”

Emilia's head whips around, her guarded expression softening as her gaze fixes on a blonde figure drawing nearer with each passing second. Before she knows it, strong arms envelop her. Emilia finds herself wrapped in a comforting hug and returns the gesture.

"Hey, Jes," Emilia greets, the corners of her lips hinting at a rare smile.

"You haven’t come to visit in awhile. I was getting worried," Jesminda remarks, pulling away from the hug with a concern-laden expression.

Lucien, feeling neglected, huffs in mock offense. "What am I? Chopped liver?"

Jesminda giggles, but she redirects her attention to Lucien, throwing her arms around him. He responds with equal enthusiasm, pulling her close and twirling her around, evoking a delighted squeal that he silences with an affectionate kiss.

“Gross,” Emilia comments, a slight grimace crossing her features.

Jesminda, despite Lucien's protest, untangles herself from his embrace. "Never been in love before?"

Emilia's gaze shifts to where Lucien and Jesminda now hold hands. "No, and I don’t plan on it." She pauses, her eyes lingering on the intertwined couple before she adds, "It’s not worth the price.”

“You say that now–”

"Yeah, yeah," Emilia cuts off Lucien before he delves into the cliché notion of finding the right person to fall in love with. Blah, blah, blah. She slips her hand into her pockets, withdrawing a handful of goldmarks and tossing them toward Lucien, who effortlessly catches them. "Go fetch us some apple cider, please?"

Once Lucien is out of earshot, Emilia turns to Jesminda with a cautious look. "This is a dangerous game you're playing."

"I'm not scared," Jesminda replies, her eyes scanning the town square before she leans in closer to her friend. "Just like I'm not scared to stand with Saoirse."

Something flickers in Emilia's eyes, and with a soft smile, Jesminda adds, "I love him."

“He’s the High Lord’s son,” Emilia whispers a bit too harshly for even her own liking yet Jesminda remains unfazed by the reminder.

“One of many,” Jesminda simply points out. “I’m sure he could spare one.”

Emilia sighs. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I won’t,” Jesminda promises and then winks at Emilia. “I’m good at sneaking around.”

Emilia watches Jesminda's determined expression, a mixture of worry and reluctant acceptance in her own gaze. It’s not that Emilia doubts Jesminda. Lucien and Jesminda have kept their relationship secret for many years. Albeit, they often used Emilia as the perfect excuse to venture off together such as Lucien planned to do so tonight.

But, for Emilia, it's the haunting memory of past losses that casts a shadow over her protective instincts. She can't help but feel an innate need to protect her cherished friend, especially given the fact that she was the one who introduced Lucien to her. If something happened to Jesminda, it would be her fault.

Before Emilia discovered the truth of her heritage and was taken in by her father, it was Jesminda's family who she lived with. They plucked her from the harsh streets and took her in as if she was one of their own. A stark contrast to the way her blood family welcomed her. She wasn’t allowed to visit them after she moved into her father’s estate but now that she lived in the Forest house with her grandfather, it was easier to sneak off to visit them.

Lucien reappears, bearing three mugs of hot apple cider that smell like heaven. Emilia happily takes hers, savoring the steaming warmth that envelops her as she takes a measured sip.

“I’m going to find Brienne,” Emilia says and then she flashes the two a pointed look, dark eyes lingering on Lucien for a moment longer. “We can’t stay out too late tonight unless we want to raise concern.”

Beron's eyes were deep pools of darkness, simmering with a livid intensity that mirrored the turmoil within the realm. His hands were clasped behind his back. He stood by the window, an emblem of brooding power, his gaze following the departure of his best men on horseback toward Mistwood.

"There's a mole in this court," Beron declares, his voice cutting through the silence, and he turns abruptly to face Edmund. “And I won’t rest until I have their head on a spike.”

Edmund leans forward, concern etching lines onto his wearied features. "Do you have any suspects?"

"I have a few," Beron responds, his gaze piercing into the very soul of his chief advisor.

Edmund's eyes widen in disbelief and he shifts forward in his seat. "Are you accusing me, my High Lord?"

"Given your family history, I'd be a fool not to suspect you. The phoenix is your family's sigil."

"I have no desire for a coup d'état," Edmund retorts, a humorless laugh escaping him as he averts his gaze. His laugh morphs into a cough, eyebrows furrowing in pain as he brings a handkerchief to his mouth. Slowly, he lifts his eyes to meet Beron's. "What must I do to prove my loyalty to you?"

Before Beron could answer, the door to Edmund’s room opens. Emilia slips in and at the sight of the High Lord, a visible shiver runs through her, causing her to instinctively shrink back. With a harsh swallow, she bows her head in respect and then turns to address the older male.

“You called for me, grandfather?”

“You were out late last night,” Edmund glares at the younger female. “Again.”

“Let’s finish our conversation later this afternoon in my study.” Beron says and without acknowledging Emilia’s presence, he gracefully exits the room.

“I’m sorry, I was–”

“You went to go visit them, didn’t you?” Edmund interrupts sharply and when Emilia lowers her head, he rises from his seat. “I am your family. Your only family.”

“You are forbidden to go to Thornwood from now on.”

“But grandfather–”

“Have you not heard?” Edmund raises his voice. “The High Lord has sent his best guards to Mistwood to obliterate the growing threats and Thornwood is sure to follow.” His voice falters as he falls into another fit of coughing.

“You will stay here, where you are safe,” he manages to wheeze as he slumps back into his seat.

“Are you alright?” Emilia gasps out in horror.

She rushes to her grandfather, falling to her knees beside him. He brings his handkerchief once more to cover his cough. “I’m fine,” he huffs out breathlessly.

When his hand drops to his side and head falls back in exhaustion, Emilia notices the dark red stain on the light fabric. The sight pleases her more than it should and with his eyes closed, Emilia allows her mask to fall.

A faint smirk taints her lips and once again, there's that flicker of fiery malevolence in her eyes. Edmund Pyralis is not fine.

He's dying...and the Vanserras are next.

A couple of weeks later...

Mistwood is now nothing but ash.

Though the townspeople fought with heart and might, they were no match for the High Lord’s soldiers who had trained for centuries. Beron gave strict orders for no survivors to be left behind as he’s done so many times before. It’s not the first time there’s been uprisings and rebellions and it certainly won’t be the last. Those disloyal to him may win battles here and there but Beron will always win the war.

His soldiers did not return this time. Instead, Beron ordered them to disperse into neighboring towns along the countryside and act as peacekeepers. However, they ushered in anything but tranquility to the towns they’ve forcefully settled into.

All was well. There was no longer talk about protests or potential uprisings. No more whispers about the Phoenix. What a foolish hope that had been.

Beron sighs as he enters his bath chambers. The anticipation of relief courses through him as he closes his eyes, immersing himself in the cocoon of steaming warmth that envelops the air. His tired muscles, worn from the weight of responsibility, already yearn for the comforting touch of the hot water against his skin.

Upon opening his eyes, however, the tranquility he sought is shattered. Tension grips his muscles even tighter as his gaze falls upon an unsettling sight. There, floating ominously in the bathwater, is a single red chrysanthemum. The vibrant hue seems to mock him, triggering a surge of pain that stabs sharply through his chest. He doesn’t dare think of her name, forcing images of her back into the corner of his mind he had shoved her into.

He plucks the flower out and flames lick at his fingertips. They burn through the flower with ease, reducing it to a small pile of ashes onto the floor. He uses his magic to dispose of it. He shakes off the unsettling feeling threatening to seep in and settles into the bath instead. He’d deal with the servants who prepared his bath first thing tomorrow.

The following morning, just as he’s about to call for his servants, he’s met with an even more appalling sight.

His eyes widen as he steps out onto his balcony. There’s a sea of red chrysanthemums blanketing the palace grounds, their vibrant petals ablaze in the early light. A small piece of paper floats above him, calling his name in a sinister whisper. He reluctantly takes it, unfolding it.

Burn us and we shall simply rise again from the ashes.

-The Phoenix

It's instinctive. The way he sets the paper ablaze in his grasp. As the last ember of paper dissipates, the sea of red flowers catches fire as if on cue. Beron watches in astonishment as the flowers transform into ashes, only to burst into flames once more. The flames intensify, swirling together in mesmerizing patterns, shaping an unmistakable silhouette. A phoenix.

A shiver races down his spine.

There’s only one person he knew who loved red chrysanthemums. Desperate for an answer, he reaches out to the threads of fate that he had severed. They hang loosely but they’re still there. Only this time, he feels nothing. Absolutely nothing.

A profound emptiness washes over him, rendering him numb. She’s dead. He should not be surprised. Afterall, he had ordered it.

It’s as if the Cauldron, offended by his defiance of its predestined connection, has forsaken him upon opening his side of the bond. The bond he denied and closed off for centuries. His body weakens, forcing him to fall onto his knees.

Silver lines his brown eyes. His eyes that were once dull are now lively with pure grief and heartache. His hands grasp at his chest as if they could close the gaping hole she left behind. It’s useless.

The memories of her, his mate, begin to rise just as the ashes of the red chrysanthemums did. He can see her smiling at him in a way he does not deserve. He can hear her calling his name in a hushed whisper that burns into his skin. More and more memories of her infiltrate his mind, tormenting him in the worst ways imaginable.

“Beron.”

“Beron,” the voice repeats again and it takes him a while to register that the voice is not his mate’s but his wife’s. “What is going on?”

Beron is surprised at the concern laced into her tone. He grasps onto this feeling, pulling himself out of the depth of the own hell he created. The bond in his chest slowly closes once more. His breath begins to steady and though shaky, he rises to his feet again.

“I need to find her,” is all he says as he walks past his wife.

Lady Aurelia blinks, eyebrows knitting together. “Find who?”

Beron does not answer her. He strides further into their room and toward the area where he keeps his sword. He secures it to his waistband, determined to never go out without it from now on.

Not when his daughter, thought to be lost to the shadows, was alive. Not when she is the one who stands at the helm of the rebellions that echo through the Autumn Court. And for the first time in centuries, a spark of fear ignites within him.

How is he supposed to fight an enemy that prospers when burned to the ground?

a/n: I feel like I suck at writing about politics/conflict that isn't romance related so I hope this came out okay and not confusing. More will info will be given in the next parts.

It feels like I've read ACOTAR ages ago so I've forgotten some details and am going off of what I find on reddit/ACOTAR wiki so if I happen to make a mistake in terms of canon things, let me know. Also, I was too lazy to find new names for some of Eris's brothers so I'm reusing the ones I used in my Like An Angel series. I honestly can't wait until Az shows up but it will be 2-3 parts until then. For now, you get a lot of foreshadowing (:

tagging: @mybestfriendmademe @waytoomanyteenagefeels @janebirkln, @acourtofbatboydreams

(it's been awhile since I updated so I tagged some of y'all, just in case y'all were interested in reading more. Please let me know if you'd like to remain on the tag list, no worries if not (: Or if you'd like to be added)

#acotar imagine #acotar fanfiction #acotar x oc #acotar fanfic #azriel x oc #vanserra oc #eris vanserra x oc #gem

77 notes · View notes

divinehedons · 11 months

Text

a place of worship.

pairing: mandal'or!din djarin x f!reader

word count: ~2.7k words

summary: despite the multiple times from which you had made love with the mandal'or, there is always something quite different. like the taste of poison. from dust to divinity, measure for measure.

warnings: this is an explicit, dark fic. minors, DO NOT INTERACT. this is a play on bacchanalia (or at least divinely-induced mania) so expect a complete bastardization of both canon and religious-adjacent imagery. din djarin is possibly (definitely) not a good guy. dubious consent, explicit p-in-v sex, oral (f!receiving), allusions to non-consensual p-in-v, breeding kink

REBLOGS AND COMMENTS MUCH APPRECIATED! Please let me know what you think or if I missed anything!

You still remember the day you first met the keeper of Mandalore. You remember the masked warriors that took you from the comforts of your small home.You remember the rough hands of the armourer who pressed her gloved hands against your lower stomach, as if reading the very pattern of your skin. She takes your pulse, as if incensed by the strong rhythm of your very veins. Her blood is strong. She shall sire the heirs of the Mandal’or.

And that’s how you end up in his bedchambers, scrubbed clean of dirt and grime so much so that you felt your identity rinsed away. So much so that it allowed you to exist within and without. To believe, momentarily, that the consummation of what you didn’t know to be your marriage occurred to someone else, a different version of you.

He was a gentle lover, even back then. When all is said and done, he provided you with a small meal, the gentle touches cleaning you again of spend. He asked you your name. You said it in a whisper, He showed you his scars when you couldn’t stop looking. And, in that warm silence from which all memories exist, you showed your own.

–

You supposed it all changed when he started leaving for battle more often. The weeks of warfare would return him to you: slightly, but unmistakably changed. Sometimes you would hear of him lumbering into his hallowed halls, bearing the heavy weight of his beloved darksaber. You would hear his steps before you actually saw him, pulling you closer with a drunken chuckle.

“How about a kiss for your warrior riduur?” Sometimes you think he truly growls before he takes your lips between his teeth.

Sometimes you fear he would one day bite your skin clean off. You try to tell him once that it hurt. He responded by truly making your lip bleed, tongue running across the taste of iron and moaning. Even when you squeal, writhe in the pain, it’s almost as if he was looking for a spot that made you cry the most. Then he kisses you again, comforts you, calls you the most beautiful things. Cyari’ka. Light of my life, my sin, my soul.

You have not carried an heir, even if it was your purpose. You were surprised by the kindness when he asked you if you wanted a child in those early days of your marriage. You suppose you should have cowered in fear. And yet, perhaps his kindness has convinced you otherwise. So you ask him to wait. You try and read his features beneath his stormy gaze. But he knows how to mask himself well. He smiles, kissing your forehead.

“Whatever you say, mesh’la.”

He does not tell you how politics goes and so you learn to read between the lines.

When he falls short of something, he takes– he’d grab you by the arm, press you down to the nearest surface, and sink his half-hard cock between your unprepared walls. He shushes you when you whine. He forces his fingers down your throat when you persist. He does not wait for you to come. He fucks you for his own pleasure, oftentimes leaving you with his seed between your legs as he goes off to distract himself with his ward.

But when he succeeds… you are reminded of the patient man at the night of your wedding. He’ll ask you of your day and chuckle as you redden, flustered to come up with some linear narrative. He makes love so softly and so gently that for a moment you think you finally understand what it was everyone seemed to see in him. He stops from simply being the Mandal’or, the keeper of his realm, the cunningly vicious commander-in-chief. He softens, he turns somewhat human. He asks if you’d let him. Ask as the prickling of his beard tickles the crook of your neck, letting you pull off your own little chemise of your own volition. Ask as he weighs your breasts and suckles on them so needingly. Ask as he prepares you, bringing you orgasm over orgasm with his fingers and tongue before slowly finally fucking up to you.

As he approaches you now, you try and see which hand you will be dealt with. He sees you, picking through the seeds from the gardeners, trying to decide which would be most suitable for the season. And when you see him, you see his playful smirk as he finally disables his weapon, clipping it to his belt before brushing back a few fallen strands of hair.

“Have you eaten, adi’ka?”

Only then do you know. It was a good day.

—

In the more recent weeks, it had become harder to separate your marriage with your duty. No matter how the Mandal’or shielded you, you still heard the whispers. You still saw the dark visors looking towards you– towards your too-empty womb. You swore you heard someone tsk once. Yet what stuck to you the most was when the Armourer herself visited your riduur so early in the morning.

You were barely awake, pretending to have fallen asleep under the sheets whilst the two of them spoke. The air was tense, and you understood why she had come. She had come to deliver an ultimatum.

“We sought for the most viable being to ensure the safety of your bloodline,” she had been saying. “But seeing that it is not the case, perhaps it would be deemed proper to… seek out another.”

“You will do no such thing,” Din finally intercedes, clearly enraged by the suggestion. You hear the sound of breaking glass, a sharp cuss escaping from him. Did his grip on his drink slip, by all means? “The matters of my wedding bed are none of your business. And I will keep it that way.”

You hear the soft sigh of exasperation. One for each of them.

“I hoped for it to be the same. But you are expected to sire heirs. And in avoiding so… you leave an already unstable, rebuilding world into more chaos.”

You stop listening. It is too much. What hurt most was the knowledge that she was right.

Maybe that’s why you let Din take you completely when you woke again.

He fucks up into you with renewed vigor, muscles taut and begging to be released He growls in your ear when he sees your face contort with pleasure just as your consciousness shakes you awake. “Precious girl, you’re so good-” When you kiss him, he kisses back, when you moan, it makes him all the more determined.

Ever since the night you consummated your marriage, that morning was the first time he felt the prickling ironies of the Maker. It felt good, too good to watch you take his seed so willingly. It was a pleasure he never seemed to understand before.

You try to ask him what the matter was but he does not answer. You look into his eyes and you almost see the way he seemed to look into a different plane of reality, opening himself up to complete and utter surrender.

If only you knew where that look of his would lead you… perhaps you would have tried to wake him from his trance. Instead you let him, fucking you all morning until his duties finally tore him away from you.

—

He began to tell you of how mandal’ors have originally conceived their heirs. Generations upon generations, he claimed, were formed in the temple, blessed by the Makers themselves. He talked of it with such passion, such interest, that you saw it so vividly in your head. The mandal’or and their chosen partner, dressed down in nothing but sheer white robes, drinking from the Living Waters of Mandalore. You could imagine the chants as he whispers it to you in bed, a calling for divinity. Nine months later, a strong heir is born into the world, kicking and screaming with divine power in their bones.

All the while, his bad days grew more and more frequent. His turbulent gaze grew more familiar. So did the sting between your legs when you sit with him at dinner. He stopped talking to you, and instead chose to whisper to himself, muttering incoherent languages whenever he thinks you don’t look. He goes on battles more. His advisors tell you he succeeds, violently, at that. You heard whispers of how he slaughtered a warring tribe, done so without hesitation that no one looked him in the eye as they marched home.

He now fucks you with abandon, uncaring if you happen to pass out in the barrage of thrusts one evening, pinning you down so hard you bruised in another.

More than ever, you begin to feel more lonely. It begins to hurt your chest when, month after month, your husband finds that you still bleed, that once again, you have failed to provide him an heir.

Maybe that is why you suddenly succumb.

When you enter your dark bedroom, hearing his mutterings in the dark, you pretend not to hear, sinking into the sheets as you watch him seated on the edge of his side of the bed.

“Do you think it’s possible,” you began, horrified to hear the terror in your voice. “Do you think it’s possible to do it again?” He looks to you, stormy eyes still unweathered as you try to find the right words.”If we went to the temple, dressed in robes, and drank from the living waters… do you think it would still be the same thing?”

You see the light break in his gaze, rooted as he climbs up the bed to kiss you gently. He smirks in the darkness, as if his prey had finally fallen into his trap.

“I’ll make sure of it, mesh’la.”

—

When you both entered the temple, he was in a good mood. He attended to you all morning, brought you food to bed, brushing your hair with his fingers repeatedly as he watches your movements. Perhaps he was waiting for the moment you changed your mind. But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t dare; it’s as if you knew his attitude would change the moment hesitation became apparent. So you smiled, asked him to help you dress, and followed him wherever he went.

Now here you stood, dressed in a thin white robe within the lower levels of the planet. It is quiet, and he is patient with you. It had been so natural, to kneel upon the obsidian banks of the Living Waters, to follow him in prayer, attempting your best to recreate the phonetics of Mando’a. And when you kneeled to cup fluid in your hands, it made sense. The water was cool and sweet to the touch, extinguishing the last embers of hesitation in your chest– and perhaps finally defeating your will, subduing you into the role the world has laid out for you.

It is difficult to describe the feeling of divinity cracking open your mind in submission. You feel pinpricks and shivers against your scalp, an electrifying presence that only grows stronger when Din Djarin presses his lips against the crook of your neck. He is so gentle about it, trailing his hands up and down your trembling torso, whispering pet names into your ear as you fully relax.against his touch.

Perhaps it was Pavlovian. Because whenever he spoke to you in Mando’a, it was like a shared secret, like nothing but the two of you mattered. Mesh’la, cya’re, adi’ka.

You try and respond whenever you can. Riduur, riduur, riduur.

He disrobes you, and the pinpricks of energy seem to follow his fingers wherever they went. “Sometimes I think you’re just divine,” he whispers, making you giggle as his rough beard scratches against the skin of your back, your thighs, the skin of your stomach. He seemed to stop right above where he imagined your womb to be, muttering once again in incomprehensible Mando’a, kissing the skin as you shut your eyes and melt into his touch.

In your hands, my love, you wanted to tell him, I find my devotion.

He lays you on a bed of smoother rocks, leaving himself on top of you, so close that you see that tranced look in his eyes, see how much intense it had been from the last time in the bedroom. You try and make him look at you, but he sees nothing, even with you sprawled, willing and brand new right before him. He focuses his actions on tasting your sweet little cunt, groaning at the feeling of your walls barely letting his tongue in.

“Always so tight for me, pretty girl.” He sounds so different, so distant.

So you shut your eyes. You pretend.

“Give me an heir, Din,” you finally whisper, spreading your legs for him, welcoming him to take. “A beautiful little heir…”

He does not even disrobe himself. But when he kisses you, he silences the doubts in your mind. His hands wander, exploring your skin anew before he finally cups your face gently, making you look at him before he carefully, lovingly fucks the head of his hard cock into your wanting cunt.

The stretch is glorious, comfortable. You feel your slick working to open you up for him. Your moan reverberates from the high walls of the caverns, combined with the feral growl that escapes the man above you. “That’s it. Just like that, cya’re. You like it, don’t you?” You try not to cry, feeling as if your husband had transformed right before your very eyes and you didn’t even know it.

You stare the man you love in the face, the keeper of Mandalore, the warrior divine, the bearer of the darksaber that tore from town after town. He kisses you again, and you try and recognize which parts of him remained the same. He is still Din. He responds to the same name. He kisses you the same way he does on the good days. He sounds the same, he still likes it when you tangle your hands into his hair and mewl needingly into his ear. You’d still follow him anywhere, even if he didn’t ask.

And then you try to recognize where he had changed. His hands pin you too tightly by your shoulders. Up close like this, you finally see the ghoulish dark circles under his eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping. His jaw, permanently locked as a tell of his alertness. It must have been weeks since he had ever felt at peace.

His rough fingers reach down to rub you through an orgasm, pausing to witness the way your body writhed from the pleasures brought about by your hand. He gets to have you this way. Only he gets to have you this way. Only he gave you the pleasure you felt burning through your bones. And it is enough. It is enough as he fucks you through the tidal waves, chasing his own release in a heavenly blend of cries and moans.

By the Maker, he thinks, perhaps You truly did exist. Only You are capable of creating such a glorious act of creation in her.

There is something different when he fills you up there, blessed by the Living Waters of his own planet, the same waters that sanctified him. He bites your lip until it bleeds, thrusting once, twice, before his knees buckle and he is falling into you, dazed and drunken from the very smell of your combined spent.

He makes you promise that you’ll never leave him. “Swear it, adi’ka. Right here where the heirs of Mandalore came into being.”

You promise. You swear.

He kisses you, and you try and pretend that you didn’t notice the way he had begun to force his mouth against yours. Even his kisses are changing too.

#din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin smut #mandal'or din djarin #the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian x reader

303 notes · View notes

7sevenrings7 · 1 month

Text

So Much (For) Stardust - Stolitz (Explicit)

The hold Stolitz has on my SOUL is INSANE. PLEASE, somebody, just let them be happy! *sobs*

So...let's let them have some Good Friday smut. As a little treat.

WARNING: This fic is explicit and is intended for those aged 18+. Fic includes fellatio, ass play, and bondage. Unrelated: Brief and non-descriptive mentions of an apocalypse.

It's definitely not as wild as I could have gone (given the couple), but I wanted to explore the softer side before going into their kinks. Definitely not the last fic of these two.

This will also be posted on ao3 early next week (along with a x reader Hazbin fic if you're interested in those). The prophecy at the beginning will be an integral part of that x reader fic. I was fascinated watching "The Circus" to hear that prophecies were under Stolas's purview and wanted to explore that.

In another life, you were my babe

In another life, you were the sunshine of my lifetime

What would you trade the pain for?

...I'm not sure.

When Hell usurps Heaven

Earthbound its ruler be.

When Heaven quells Hell

The door with no key

Shall present itself

Unto humanity.

And when both fall

So soundlessly

Two stars remain

In shattered realms:

The Light of Lucifer and

The Mourning of Morningstar

To rest reality.

To rest…reality.

Stolas could still feel the snaps of Lucifer’s shoes as he stalked from the mansion tattooed onto his skin.

He could never determine when a prophecy would come to him. He could force it - well, kind of - if information was needed. But the harder he tried, the less what arrived made any sort of logical sense.

That he had not tried at all - in fact was actively begging the universe to offer Lucifer only the most straightforward and simplest of answers - haunted him.

I did not sleep with that imp, your grace.

Ozzie saw me there, yes. Unfortunately, I think there may be some sort of misunderstanding. You see, I was just…

You’re a rule breaker, sire. So let’s rewrite the rules! Who’s to say I can’t marry my Blitzy? We’re already FAR more acquainted than Stella and I EVER would be. From one fallen to temptation to another…let me have this. Let me be happy.

Okay…so he was never actually going to use the last one. Fantasy was one thing. Political suicide was another.

But he also hadn’t planned on spewing the most damnable prophecy that had ever fallen from his beaked lips. One that had come as sure as sin without any of the pleasure.

It did not help that it was the 14th.

Clawed feet dug into the plush red rug in front of his lounging chair that he felt drawn to for the simple fact of wanting something present should he faint. Stolas gasped for air, his hand clutching at nothing and everything all at once as his fingers ruffled through the feathers of his chest.

Where in the Hell will we go? Stolas frowned, his upper set of eyes shutting against the stray thought as he caught the lower set of eyes began to tear up. What’s safety in the middle of the fucking apocalypse?

He did not have to ask himself what the rattling of his brown-gray walls meant. As he always did, Blitzo snatched up the window and slithered into the room just as sly as any snake.

“‘Sup, slut” said Blitzo, standing to his full height in front of Stolas. “Ready to take this ‘D’ train to ‘P’ Town? Like…like Pleasure Town. Pleasantville…nah, that’s gaggy. Pound Town! Oh Christ on a stick…why’d it take me that long to get there? It was right there! Could have helped a guy out there, Stolas.”

Faced with his beloved and his ridiculous humor, Stolas found his breath growing even despite the shake in his very bones.

“Blitzy,” he warbled, words seeming to fail him.

“Hm?”

Those yellow eyes stared up at Stolas expectedly and he could not take the slightest of spaces between them any longer.

With a swiftness Stolas gathered Blitzo up in his arms to clutch him against any sliver of skin he could find. It was not an easy endeavor - Blitzo immediately began to wiggle and jolt his head to and fro in annoyance.

“It hasn’t even been that lo- eek!” Blitzo exclaimed, his hands carding through the feathers on Stolas’s chest to give his mouth room to breathe. The touch, as always, served more like fire to Stolas’s blood. “LET ME BREATHE!”

“No,” said Stolas, voice still weighed with sorrow. “No, Blitzy. I need you to listen.”

“List-ng,” mumbled Blitzo.

That Blitzo’s gun was what his hand reached for when Blitzo slid a hand down Stolas’s arm escaped Stolas entirely. He could merely feel his cheeks redden and his groin grow pleasantly hot.

“I received a prophecy today…for the King of Hell,” said Stolas.

“Ah shit,” said Blitzo, perking up and putting his arm stiff by his side. Stolas made a small “mmph” at the loss of contact. “Lucifer? Like the Lucifer? Like the holy fuck…FUCK ME, DADDY…Hell’s Daddy Baddie Bofanawahnahdingdong?”

Squinting at Blitzo as if trying to understand the workings of his mind, Stolas tilted his head. “...yeeeesss?”

Blitzo’s eyes seemed to shine before he wore a strange, almost pondering expression.

“Is he as short as the tabloids say? Because I say that he’s a Short King ™ but noooooo…Moxxie says he’s soooooo tall and that he’s soooooo seen him in person. Like sure, Mox. An absolute nobody like you has seen our supreme ruler without melting into the pavement like a sour strawberry shake. Lick my ass, bitch boy.”

Though Blitzo was not speaking directly to him (that much was clear…it was the little white-haired imp that Stolas had come to know as “bitch boy,” after all), Stolas could not help but smile at his antics.

“I suppose that would depend on the height of the demon meeting his majesty,” said Stolas plainly.

Blitzo pouted.

“Don’t poke holes in my theory,” he said, whipping his tail lamely against Stolas’s arms still holding him feet above the floor. “Fucking rude.”

Laughing a warm laugh, Stolas snuggled Blitzo into the curve of his neck.

“To answer your question…short.” With a pause, Stolas regarded Blitzo with a hooded look. “Better be careful, Blitzy…you know how I love my short kings…”

That he was referring to Blitzo himself went without question…at least Stolas assumed that it did. The look of confusion on Blitzo’s face made Stolas frown. He took a hand to rub his thumb in a caress across the end of the scar under Blitzo’s eye.

Despite a stray moment of frustration in his brow, Blitzo stiffened entirely before smiling wide.

“You trying to tell me that I could have lost my shameless cum slut? Not much of a threat when I fuck you so good, babe. Speaking of...”

Goetia were practically weightless. It was a fact - a cold one that Stolas did not care to remember when he was busy drooling over the strength it took for Blitzo to flip back before hoisting him into the air. He tossed Stolas onto the waiting and well made bed.

Stolas landed on the comforter with a laugh and a slight bounce. “Ha ha ha! Hm…but Blitzy…you forget what a world of depravity that you’ve launched me into. A toy or two might be all it takes to replace you.”

The dark of the room prevented Stolas from seeing Blitzo, but he could definitely feel those gold eyes on him.

He could also make out the telltale sound of clothes hitting the floor.

Cold, mirthless laughter filled the room.

With a leap only an imp as impish as Blitzo could make, there he was…crouched on the foot of the bed. Those eyes of his narrowed even as Stolas drunk in the view. The splotches of white dancing among the red. The lithe chest and the promising outline between his legs.

The cowboy boots Blitzo always wore and always refused to take off.

When Blitzo spoke, it was with a hiss befitting his forked tongue.

“Be useful for once and restrain yourself.”

Stolas frowned. There were parts of Blitzo’s life that he simply did not talk about. Hurts that Stolas seemed to commit without being quite certain of what he had done.

And the last thing he wanted to do was to hurt the one he loved. So he settled into a role he knew Blitzo approved of.

“Yes, daddy,” Stolas practically purred. “I’m so sorry for being so…mouthy.”

That seemed to improve Blitzo’s mood if his smile and his slither up the bed were any indicators. With politeness, Stolas made to forget and ignore the scratchy slip of Blitzo’s boots on his satin sheets.

Handcuffing himself to his headboard was not a task completely unknown to Stolas. It was, however, unavoidably awkward.

“If you’re so sure that you can have so much pleasure without me…let’s remind you what I can do without all the bells and whistles. See how your smug ass likes that.” Blitzo was close enough now to clasp Stolas’s light chin in his large hand and lean forward to whisper. “Mouthy. Real cute. I’ll show you mouthy, your majesty.”

The nasty tone in Blitzo’s voice was definite cause for concern…

…but not quite as much as the imp literally ripping the clothes from Stolas’s body.

“OH!” Stolas exclaimed, his wrists already the sweetest type of uncomfortable. “Oh, Blitzy, yes!”

The blush that colored Stolas’s cheek was like a drug to get high off of. He certainly felt high as all four eyes danced in delight with the dark of the canopy bed swirling around him. After Lucifer had left, Stolas had found his cape and his crown discarded in some hallway or room in his grief. So the red tunic he wore was the very first to go. He thrust his chest toward Blitzo desperate for contact.

Blitzo simply moved to catch Stolas’s beige trousers in his digging claws. They came off without protest - without need for the speed with which they were thrown.

Stolas’s blush deepened when he realized his thick tongue had been sticking out of his panting beak.

“Look at you,” said Blitzo, his tone both appreciative and aggravated. “Prettier than any Moan-a-Leeso.”

That Blitzo had no idea what the hell he was talking about was evident.

But his intent meant enough. Meant enough to make Stolas stretch and sigh and savor the burn of the restraints despite wanting nothing more than to grab hold of his lover.

“You…think I’m that pretty?” Stolas ventured.

Blitzo managed a nod before his tongue caught Stolas’s.

The Goetia could have cried.

Kissing Stella had been nothing like this. He had once wondered what anyone found fascinating about romance when kissing her was the same as kissing a cardboard box or the back of his hand.

But Blitzo? Oh, Blitzo made him burn. Made him want to be lost in him forever. Made him want to be reckless and reasonless and all the things he had been warded against as a child.

Too soon Blitzo was pulling away with Stolas following him as far as his restraints would allow.

“Ah, ah, ah,” said Blitzo haughtily. “You’re making me forget where I was…my little dick-straction. Oh yes…”

Blitzo was sure to caress and clasp at every bared bit of feather that Stolas had on display as he made his way down the dark lord’s body. The plush feathers of Stolas’s thighs quivered when Blitzo carded his fingers through them.

That he was already hard was a battle Stolas lost mere moments after seeing Blitzo. But the first reverent twist of Blitzo’s hand on his cock made Stolas choke on air.

For his part, Blitzo waited until all of Stolas’s eyes were squarely back on him before smirking.

“Being mouthy,” said Blitzo.

Being with Blitzo was like experiencing every vibrant bit of life all at once. It could be overwhelming and only the slightest bit overstimulating. Both seemed apt descriptions of Blitzo’s tongue twirling the head of his dick as if it were the last lollipop in Hell.

This imp would be the end of him.

“FUCK yes,” Stolas exclaimed.

What Blitzo did not fit into his mouth, he shoved into a hand instead. His fingers curled and quickened at such a lovely rate that Stolas did not quite think to care where Blitzo’s free hand was.

Then a finger pressed soft but steady against the feathers of Stolas’s backside.

Stolas knew the way he spread his thighs wider at the sensation and raised his tail feathers would be considered brazen. The act of nothing more than a common whore.

But maybe whores were onto something when it felt this damn good.

Being that Stolas knew Blitzo was coming over, he had naturally prepared himself accordingly. But in the rush to the bed, he had forgotten the lube. Words were trying to form into sentences in his brain to warn Blitzo…but then the curiously gentle swirl of Blitzo’s finger left the round of the hole he had finally found.

It was soon replaced with Blitzo’s tongue.

One hand still working the Goetia’s dick, Blitzo allowed the other to hoist one of Stolas’s long legs into the air as he slowly but surely licked and lapped and lounged within the other’s ass. The crudeness of it all made the feathers on Stolas’s chest practically burst forth as he squealed in delight - pleasure and pointed avoidance of responsibilities clashing into the sweetest sensation.

Tongue snapping up suddenly, Blitzo chuckled when Stolas groaned in protest.

“What’s the matter? Not so easy to replace now, am I?”

The force and the bite of those words caught Stolas off guard, made him blink almost drunkenly down at Blitzo. “What? Blitzy…I could…I could never replace you.”

A myriad of emotions flitted across Blitzo’s face. None landed quite right or for any more than a moment. But when you had four eyes to catch details, you caught enough.

Shock.

Sadness.

Searching…but for what?

“Well…that’s…” Something like a cough or a wheeze escaped Blitzo. “Oh fuck me…that’s…good.”

Before Stolas was able to say more - to ask what would possess Blitzo - his Blitzy - to assume he was replaceable, the imp had lowered his mouth back lower than low. The pressure of that tongue - thin though it was - seemed too much at first. Unpleasant. Stolas grimaced and was about to ask to shift positions when the dual tips of Blitzo’s tongue ran against that spot.

“FuuuuuUUUUUuuccckk-KH!”

With a mind like Stolas’s, quiet was hard to be found. He always had to be ready to perform his duties at a moment’s notice. There were wars to stave off…faraway stars to map…dreams to bring to reality or to immediately crush. It did not matter if he was simply lounging with a lovely red wine and a good book…his thoughts always persisted.

Now, with his dick thrusting weakly into Blitzo’s warm hand and his mind scattered by the sheer sensitivity of his ass, the only thoughts in his head were of that delightfully crimson cutie pie giving him the most divine of pleasures.

Any discomfort was soon forgotten as Blitzo bobbed his head and let the wet heat of his mouth graze between Stolas’s legs before falling back further again.

“Yeah…yeah make me wear your tongue as a fucking plug,” Stolas rambled loudly, both humiliated and turned on by his own words.

Blitzo, gracious as ever, obliged.

Normally Stolas’s stamina would allow for more fun, but after an exhausting day and being called “pretty” by Blitzy, he was desperately welcoming the build of pressure at the bottom of his stomach. It did not help that Blitzo’s fingers were now focusing on the head of Stolas’s cock in jerks that spoke of well known weak spots.

“Blitzy…Blitzy, please…I’m so close…I’m so…!”

The speed with which Blitzo switched his tasks - set his mouth to Stolas’s cock and two fingers into Stolas’s ass - was astounding.

Stolas could barely appreciate it for the peak of his pleasure striking him all at once…tearing down the trappings of a prince and making him putty in his lover’s mouth.

Oh how he longed to stroke Blitzo’s jaw as the imp swallowed his cum.

The moans from Blitzo as he lapped at Stolas’s dick did nothing to quell this want.

“Touch you,” rasped Stolas, inhaling sharply. “Want to…touch you.”

Pulling the softening cock from his mouth, Blitzo frowned. “Too damn bad. Now stick out your tongue…”

Though he quickly and dearly missed the fingers that had been stroking the inside of him, Stolas giggled almost maniacally. “Fuck yes! Yes! Come to me, Blitzy!”

Sorrowfully, Stolas’s beak did not allow him the abandon he would so adore to have when providing fellatio. But there were always ways around this. One particular gag Stolas had found in a luxury sex shop in the Lust Ring usually helped to give enough range without putting Blitzo in harm’s way.

Tonight…tonight he needed him so desperately that he would forego his pride to give Blitzo what he needed.

Presented with the gorgeously long red cock that he so loved, Stolas stuck out his tongue as far as he could…then past that.

“Christ, we’re eager,” Blitzo chuckled. “Say ‘ahhh,’ baby.”

Stolas could not say anything at all and instead made an awkward humming noise before feeling the weight of his beloved settle onto his tongue. He certainly must have been a sight…all-powerful dark lord of Hell second only to the Sins and their families themselves…reduced to craning his mouth wider than wide to worship the dick of an imp.

The rhythm, thankfully, was soft but steady. Blitzo moved his hips slightly as Stolas’s tongue lathered up and down his dick, his balls, his…

“OHohohohoheeeee! That kind of tickled,” Blitzo giggled.

Heart pounding in his chest, Stolas stopped himself from embracing his darling imp to preen on him until his heart’s content. He’s so raw and real and rippling with sex…oh, Blitzy.

Salt and sweat. It was the taste of fine wine…of ambrosia…of something so indulgent as to be gluttonous.

Oh FUCK…I never called Bee back about the quarterly reports…ah…later. Busy now.

Blitzo’s hand came up to tug back the feathers at the back of Stolas’s head and Stolas writhed beneath him.

“That’s right,” said Blitzo encouragingly. “Suck daddy’s dick just how he likes it.”

Horror sent chills down Stolas’s spine when he let out a horrible slurping noise as his tongue rounded that red cock over and over. It was unattractive and gargling…embarrassing in its earnest enjoyment.

But then Blitzo was mumbling…was saying things that sounded strangely like “Fuck, that’s hot.”

So Stolas continued.

“FUCK me…fuck me,” Blitzo grunted, his hips snapping quicker to meet Stolas’s wild rhythm.

It was the clutch of those long fingers against Stolas’s skull that let him know his effort was about to be rewarded. He thought of their last roll in these same sheets…how Blitzy had sat his cute little ass right onto Stolas’s face and use that blessedly long tail to jerk Stolas off at the same time.

A repeat would be marvelous…but perhaps later…now…now I just want it to be about you, Blitzy.

In the quiet seconds before Blitzo came, the two locked eyes. Trembling, Stolas dropped his gaze while willing his tongue to continue even as the burn at the base of his mouth cried out.

Little longer…little longer…don’t you dare take this away from him…you can do it…

Colorful strings of curses filled the air as Blitzo finally came. Stolas tried to shoot him a wanton look even as he lapped at the cum being shot down his throat.

But Blitzo glanced away, his breathing ragged.

It might have hurt if those hips had not gone backwards to remove himself from Stolas’s grasp before the imp collapsed onto the Goetia’s body.

“Mmmmhmhmhm,” Blitzo moaned. “Daddy want sleepy now.”

Laughing a loving laugh, Stolas gave into temptation and preened - his beak shuffling and clacking against those large horns. “Get some sleep, Blitzy.”

Seemingly beyond tired, Blitzo rolled off of Stolas and onto the empty side of the bed.

His side of the bed, Stolas corrected himself quickly.

…if only.

Several moments of silence passed. Stolas gathered his breathing and slid his hands from the restraints with practiced ease.

He was almost too afraid to turn his head to look at Blitzo. The imp was still there - his weight equivalent to little more than a small dip in the bed.

But if he looked…would Blitzo remain? Or would he disappear like a dream?

Like so many times before?

Stolas heard Blitzo snoring and his heart sunk and rose all at once.

“I’m so scared, Blitzy,” said Stolas softly, sweeping the line of secretive. “I have absolutely no idea what any of this means and…and all I know is that I saw you. During the prophecy. In the madness of a planet’s end…it was only for a moment…but I’d recognize you anywhere.”

The chuckle that hung in his chest was hollow and forced.

“I…I want you to come with us…with Octavia and I.” Stolas smiled when a loud snore bubbled and popped from Blitzo’s mouth. “You can even bring Loona and your two little imps from the agency. I…I haven’t quite figured out where we’ll go…but for as long as I’m able, I’ll protect you.”

He turned then, confident in Blitzo’s sleep. The imp was turned with his back facing Stolas - bare and spiked and intoxicating.

But now…now was not the time for that.

Scooting carefully and quietly, Stolas laid a hand in the space between the two. When he clutched at the sheets, he might have been doing so to keep himself from touching Blitzo once more. For there always was the promise and panic of the next time.

The next time…

“I don’t know…I can’t…I think…”

Blitzo stirred in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible. Stolas eyed him, hopeful. But Blitzo did not wake.

Inch by tiny inch, Stolas shifted to Blitzo until he was flush against his back. Although Blitzo swatted at him at first, he soon settled. Stolas had been rigid yet still - trained in years of proper decorum and terrified of waking the imp.

If Blitzo woke up, he would leave.

If Blitzo left, Stolas may never see him again.

He can’t be your bird in some gilded cage, he thought woefully. Blitzy would hate that…but if he could…if he would just…

What Stolas wished Blitzo to do, exactly, he could not lay a finger on.

Like him?

Love him?

Marry him?

Or, perhaps, he thought, relaxing into the bed and Blitzo and all the bliss of the night, I’d just like him to stay.

Blitzo never had, of course…stayed after one of their rendezvous. Had come close and had even fallen asleep before. But Stolas knew far too well it never made a difference. He shouldn’t get his hopes up. He shouldn’t…Hell, he shouldn’t be doing this to begin with.

Yet just when Stolas began to frown, he felt what at first seemed like vibrating from Blitzo. Slightly alarmed (and only slightly aroused), he glanced over Blitzo’s shoulder trying to make sense of the senseless situation when it struck him.

Purring.

Blitzo was purring in his arms.

Despite himself and his own horror-filled prophecy, Stolas grinned a wide grin and cuddled into one of Blitzo’s horns.

Maybe - just maybe - this could be enough.

Maybe - just maybe - this should be a new beginning.

Maybe - just maybe - this time he would stay.

…maybe.

#helluva boss #stolitz #stolas #stolas goetia #blitzo x stolas #helluva boss stolas #blitzo #stolas x blitz #smut #fanfic

21 notes · View notes

blogdemocratesjr · 2 years

Photo

Portrait of Emma Hamilton as Joan of Arc by George Romney

THIBAUT D’ARC. No! not in vain hath it in fearful dreams And apparitions strange revealed itself. For three successive nights I have beheld Johanna sitting on the throne at Rheims, A sparkling diadem of seven stars Upon her brow, the sceptre in her hand, From which three lilies sprung, and I, her sire, With her two sisters, and the noble peers, The earls, archbishops, and the king himself, Bowed down before her. In my humble home How could this splendor enter my poor brain? Oh, 'tis the prelude to some fearful fall! This warning dream, in pictured show, reveals The vain and sinful longing of her heart. She looks with shame upon her lowly birth. Because with richer beauty God hath graced Her form, and dowered her with wondrous gifts Above the other maidens of this vale, She in her heart indulges sinful pride, And pride it is through which the angels fell, By which the fiend of hell seduces man.

RAIMOND. Who cherishes a purer, humbler mind Than doth thy pious daughter? Does she not With cheerful spirit work her sisters' will? She is more highly gifted far than they, Yet, like a servant maiden, it is she Who silently performs the humblest tasks. Beneath her guiding hands prosperity Attendeth still thy harvest and thy flocks; And around all she does there ceaseless flows A blessing, rare and unaccountable.

THIBAUT. Ah truly! Unaccountable indeed! Sad horror at this blessing seizes me! But now no more; henceforth I will be silent. Shall I accuse my own beloved child? I can do naught but warn and pray for her. Yet warn I must. Oh, shun the Druid tree! Stay not alone, and in the midnight hour Break not the ground for roots, no drinks prepare, No characters inscribe upon the sand! 'Tis easy to unlock the realm of spirits; Listening each sound, beneath a film of earth They lay in wait, ready to rush aloft. Stay not alone, for in the wilderness The prince of darkness tempted e'en the Lord.

—Friedrich Schiller, The Maid of Orleans

#Joan of Arc #George Romney #Friedrich Schiller

2 notes · View notes

jefarawol · 7 days

Text

I had not thought to see thee again so soon, mortal. If thou seekest the knight, know that she hath long since departed for Ishgard.

My thanks, Vidofnir, but it was not for her that we came. We bring good tidings for you and yours. Lord Ravana, who had been summoned by the Gnath, has again been laid low.

Truly? Once more you mortals have succeeded where mine own kind did fail. You have our deepest thanks.

Would that we could take credit. The god fell by another's hand.

Another? Revelation upon revelation. Regardless, it is cause for celebration. The Gnath will have no choice but to withdraw. But to another matter. I have tidings for thee as well.

Regarding the Ishgardians' invitation?

As promised, I brought the matter to my sire. Hearken to his answer now. “For a thousand years have I mourned my beloved, who gave her life to forge a peace thy king betrayed. Such was my lot, until a child of Ishgard came unto me. “For want of warmth, she wrapped herself in a dream. Yet the world will remember her deeds. For truth, she fought. For justice, she sinned. For redemption, she sacrificed, and became as light.

“To follow one's heart, to have faith in one's convictions─be it for weal, or be it for woe. Such is the folly and the glory of man...and of dragon.” He hath entrusted the choice to us, and we have made it. We will keep faith with you who walk in the Light.

Then you accept Ser Aymeric's invitation?

Let it be known that I, Vidofnir, shall journey unto Ishgard on behalf of my people.

Alphinaud: We are honored to receive your answer, and will convey your words to our allies without delay.Alphinaud: It is happening, Ysayle. Would that you were here to see it...

After we had informed Vidofnir, we returned to Ishgard with Thancred. He was impressed with the City, as we all had been on our first time. While they went to appraise Aymeric and Lucia of Vidofnir's decision I went to look for apa, I had been gone some time and I knew I owed him an explanation.

#Final Fantasy XIV #FFXIV #warrior of light #ffxiv hw #ffxiv hw retelling #HW #ffxiv aura #ffxiv gpose #final fantasy gpose #FFXIV Screenshots #ffxiv screenies

0 notes

the-nexus · 1 month

Note

" My liege. " Alastor rounds the table straight towards where King Lucifer sat, with a piece of parchment that had certainly seen better days clutched betwixt his sharpened nails. " I need you to read this immediately. "

He unravels it and flattens it out on the table, caring little of those seated around his superior who may be made privy to this concerning matter.

Written on the parchment? A threat to the king's life, as well as his daughter's.

Another long meeting between Lucifer and the Sins of Hell was deep in session. After the latest attack from the realm of Heaven, Lucifer felt the need to gather his Ring Rulers to prepare for any new spontaneous arrivals. Twice in less than four months had they come. Something was rattling the Angels upstairs, it seemed. Why else were they striking so often?

The voice of his beloved guard captured his attention, a hand raising to bring silence to the meeting room. Eyes widened in horror as he looked over each word. Threats to his own life were not uncommon. But to threaten Charlie's life?

He rose from his seat, the chair falling back against the floor. "Beelzebub, retrieve my daughter immediately." The master of the Gluttony Ring would have questioned him about the note, but the look upon the King's face was more than enough to tell her to save it for later. She was up and out, wings fluttering loudly behind her.

"Asmodeus, the equipment you've been working on, is it ready yet?"

Ozzie rose from his seat. "It's almost finished. I need maybe a week to test it, sire."

"We might not even have a week, Oz. I need you to wrap things up with it now. Everyone needs to be ready. Charlie's life is in danger!" The protrusion of horns from Lucifer's skull quickly persuaded the other to take Mammon and the rest of the remaining counsel from the room.

Lucifer's heart was racing. He cared not if his life was at risk. Wasn't it always? But now his child was being targeted. The blond turned to Alastor. "My love, I need you to do something for me..." He placed his hands to his knight's face. "I need you to take Charlie, when she gets here, and hide. Protect her." The enemy would want to get her first. To use her against him. This, he would not allow. Now while he still had breath to draw.

Who better to keep her safe than his own chosen knight, who had his abilities enhanced by the Devil's blood. Lucifer trusted Alastor above anyone else. He was the perfect fit to protect his only child. He was certain his lover would argue, wishing to keep his king safe, as was his duty, but Lucifer needed Charlie safe.

And Alastor.

#muse;;lucifer #radiodaemon #v; The King and His Knight [Royalty AU]#AIN'T NO ONE TAKING HIS BABIES FROM HIM #NOT EVEN GOD WILL TAKE CHAR OR AL

1 note · View note

definatelyanangel · 3 years

Text

Michael Surprise Guest Interactions!

Favorite items

Food~

Michael loves all things sweet, the sweeter the better!

Paradise Blue! (It is one of the few alcoholic beverages he is willing to drink around other angels for completely normal reasons, I assure you.)

Med Kit! (he eats the syringes)

Wicked cupcakes!

Madame Screams Macarons!

Barbatos' Tea!

Princess' Poison Apple (it's Lucifer's favorite so Michael likes it too.)

RedxRed Apple Pie!

Barbatos' Signature Cake!

Unidentified Matter (Solomon made it and Michael put a ring on it so he feels obligated to like it)

Items~

Flower!

Book!

Pocket tissue!

Surprise Guest Interactions!

Winning, regular:

"Well done! I'm sure Lucifer will be impressed."

Combo: swipe face, shake, swipe arm.

"Are you really surprised that I was able to defeat a few lowly demons who can't even show a mockery of a human face?"

Combo: tap face, tap chest, shake.

High five (Both hands)

"Oh, a high five, is it? Luke likes these."

Combo: high five, swipe chest, tap face

Losing

"For shame. But don't worry, like in all games you can simply try again." Combo: swipe arm, swipe face, swipe head.

Homescreen!

Daytime

"Hello, little lamb. Gone out to pasture?" Combo: swipe head, swipe chest, shake.

"I wonder what Arbor is up to. Sleeping, I hope. He's more pliant that way." (With a stupid little face.)

Combo: run in fear shake, swipe chest, shake.

Night time.

"Foolish little lamb, to be out so late at night in my presence."

Combo: tap face, tap chest, swipe arm.

General Lines!

🎵"I'd rot in hell with you... if you just asked me to. I love the shitty things we do together, live with me in this sin forever." 🎵

^ from this song

"You are my sunshine~ my only sunshine~ you make me haappyyyy~ when skies are gray~"

"Hello, little lamb. Seen a rather rowdy puppy today?" (In regards to Luke)

"Lucifer is no wolf, as I've been informed. In the words of my beloved strawberry, 'I actually like wolves'."

"Diavolo and Barbatos were so cute as babies. Almost made me wish I'd sired Satan or even Lucifer myself."

"I like to bug Raphael all hours of the day. Being a (redacted) in the Celestial Realm is frustrating, you know, so I relieve it however possible... :)"

#obey me #obey me michael #obey me headcanons #obey me michael headcanons #obey me luke #obey me raphael #my writing

77 notes · View notes

lovehotelreservation · 3 years

Text

Lineage

Summary: Business or pleasure.

Respite was hard to attain for the Warrior of Light and the Speaker of the House of Lords. Even now, with you and Aymeric oceans away for a belated honeymoon in Costa del Sol, the two of you weren’t exactly free from your duties.

The task?

To sire an heir to the Borel name.

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Plus Size F!Reader/Aymeric

YEEHAW

WHEN I TELL U THE WAY I YELLED WHEN I GOT THIS COMM PROMPT ON MY KO-FI FHAKLFHAKLF 🥺💙💙💙💙💙🥺 THANK YOU TO THE DEAREST COMMISSIONER FOR THIS CHANCE TO WRITE ABOUT MY FAVORITE BISHOUNEN ELF MANS!!!

I HOPE U ALL ENJOY!!!

----------

Night had fallen but the air was still so warm, so humid.

The sound of gently rolling sapphire waves washing up onto pristine white sand, the exotic scent of surrounding tropical fauna mingling with the smoky burn of a BBQ bonfire malms away down the coastline, the gorgeously ethereal shine of moonlight above in the onyx sky.

From where you stood upon the polished wooden floor of your private bungalow suite with your window open, you were in the ideal position to take in all the sights, scents, and sensations that elated each of your senses.

Truly, it was a beautiful night to be in Costa del Sol.

Though, one whiff of the salt-tinged ocean air instantly took you back to the snow swept lands of Ishgard.

The city you had since called to be your home.

Something made official when you were finally wed to the one and only Aymeric de Borel.

He was why the two of you were in Costa del Sol in the first place.

Aside from finally having the proper honeymoon that the two of you did not get to enjoy after your wedding--given that the escalated rebellions in Ala Mhigo and Doma called for your immediate presence--there was one specific reason why you were here to admire this gorgeous Costa del Sol night.

Wearing nothing but an exquisite royal blue lace chemise.

It wasn’t too long ago that you had just finished up assisting Stephanivien with teaching a lecture to a new class of fresh-faced machinists at the Skysteel Manufactory when none other than a beaming Haurchefant came sprinting towards you the moment you emerged through the door.

“Many tidings to you, my splendid friend! I wish you great blessings upon the Borel heir to be!”

The first sentence you were prepared for, the second you were not.

“Borel heir...to be?” You repeated as your mind processed just what Haurchefant chirped to you.

Though, before you could ask for what he meant, the towering knight was suddenly made to bow by none other than one irritated Estinien.

“Oi, we were supposed to head out to Aurum Vale already,” he grumbled, just before looking towards you with a look of resigned exasperation. “As for you, it’s better if you hear what lover boy has planned for you himself.”

Without sparing another word to even begin to clarify, Estinien proceeded to drag Haurchefant--who happily offered you his goodbyes with a supportive thumbs up--away while muttering something about sprout greenling paladins who bit off more they could chew.

Your subsequent return to the Borel Manor where your husband was there to tenderly greet you with a loving embrace and tender kisses resulted in his affectionate expression becoming intensely flustered when you brought up Haurchefant’s sudden declaration.

The parchment letter marked with the seal of one of Costa del Sol’s most luxurious resorts that was tucked in his pocket was thankfully still kept as a surprise at the very least.

Thus, with the reveal that soon followed, you and Aymeric took off from Ishgard’s eternal winter to bask in the endless summer of Costa del Sol.

And why you were gazing out towards the evening tropical scenery with a fluttering heart.

After all, tonight was meant to not only celebrate the union between you and your husband, but to begin the journey of bearing an heir to the Borel name.

Though Ishgard was in the midst of a historical change within its society to break from tradition and move towards a more open-minded one, there was still an expectation for the House of Lords’s speaker to sire a child, the pressure of which had been pushing increasingly upon Aymeric’s shoulders during your absence.

While starting a family was a conversation that the two of you had spoken about in earnest throughout your relationship prior to this night, to do so now with the layer of political presumption from Ishgard’s governing body was enough to twist your nerves into knots.

A feeling that dissipated the moment you felt a pair of arms wrap tenderly around your waist.

Body heat exemplified by a recent hot shower emanated behind you, the sensation deepened by a chiseled bare chest pressing right against your back, pushing the warmth even further into your skin through the flimsy fabric of your chemise, of which contrasted with the thicker material of a bath towel that hung securely on sturdy hips.

And even here, in a tropical paradise that was oceans away from the inescapable snow that enveloped all of Ishgard, a delightful shiver still trailed along your body from the words that was murmured hotly into your ear,

“I must send my regards to the hotel staff for their hospitality. I did not expect to receive such a divinely wrapped present after my bath.”

Your head turned back, your eyes soon captivated by sapphire irises that gazed earnestly into yours with affection.

Almost overwhelmingly so.

You were used to seeing love akin to absolute reverence in Aymeric’s eyes whenever your gaze would meet his.

But unlike the light that glinted in his blue eyes from when he helped out off the boat that carried you to Costa del Sol, here on this night, there was a darkened, longing desire reflected in his gaze.

Though you had faced many a foe whose schemes spelled ruin across every inch of the realm, it was now that you suddenly found yourself shrinking back with shyness. Giggling amidst your overwhelmed nerves, you teased in response, “Must you charm me more, Ser Aymeric? Was our wedding not enough?”

“You know I will never have enough of you, darling.”

You froze.

Aymeric’s voice was already so dulcetly rich and deep, but the tone of his words smoldered with conviction.

His embrace around your ample waist tightened, a sigh of utter satisfaction escaping him as he beheld your full physique, his face finding its way to the crook of your neck for loving nuzzles. “Gods, when was the last time I’ve gotten to hold you like this? Every inch of you is divine--how I never wish to let go of you.”

Each word spoken was laced with need, all while his hands began to trail over your body in soft caresses, even while his fingers ached to tear off the lace that kept him away from your bare skin.

He drew away from your neck, calling out your name huskily as his eyes found yours once more. “Will you pardon this enamored fool for his selfishness during this holiday, my beloved?” His face closed the distance between yours and his as he continued, “I am going to savor this respite like nothing else--the beautiful time spent with turning you into the mother of my children.”

“Aymeric,” you moaned, feeling your knees weaken as you leaned further against him. What more could you even say at this point when he had you reduced to such a state by the conviction in his words alone?

While he looked all too pleased from having you already melting in his arms, his expression turned serious as he remarked, “Before we begin, I want to make this clear and certain—by no means are we doing this for the sake of Ishgard.”

His hands rested protectively upon your soft belly, his heart already thrumming with excitement to witness your stomach grow rounder and full with his child upon the months to follow. “As you know, starting a family with you has been something I’ve craved the moment you captured my heart.”

Aymeric brought his lips to yours for a kiss most tender. “We’re doing this out of our own shared volition--the House of Lords finally granting me respite so I can claim you over and over was just a blessing from Halone herself.”

Already overwhelmed and dazed by your husband’s intense and loving resolve, all you could let out was a breathless yet eager, “Yes...our shared will.”

A smile quirked onto his lips. “And so we shall share our love with no restraint.”

And then Aymeric’s lips smothered yours for a kiss that was most far from chaste.

Away from the window, towards the bed.

From bathing moonlight to flickering candles.

The kiss shared with your husband was broken for a moment, just so he could gently have you lay upon the bed.

But the moment Aymeric assumed his place on top of you, he became a man possessed.

A man possessed by his love for you, by his desire to claim your body with his seed.

He meant his words from earlier, his hands tearing into the lace of your chemise like gift wrap.

The composed and regal speaker of the House of Lords was nowhere to be found by the way Aymeric hungrily sought out your lips, his hands fondling your supple breasts, his mouth watering at the thought of soon getting to suckle on your nipples and lavish your core with the needy flicks of his tongue while your thick thighs squeezed around his head.

The fumbling yet earnest virgin during the first time you were intimate together was but a precious memory at this point.

Instead, here was a man who knew exactly what to do to elicit the sweet moans of his name off of your lips.

To make you mewl with each teasing pinch and indulgent kiss to your nipples.

To cause your back to arch in sheer pleasure with the obscenely noisy manner he stroked your sopping core with his tongue, all while his hands happily fondled your plump thighs as they remained pressed against either side of his head.

But that knowledge was how he kept you ever on the edge, making sure you remained a step away from your orgasm.

Never to be outright malicious--such would be an outright sin to commit against you as your husband!

Rather, to ready your body for the long and indulgent night to come.

He did not even spare a moment for you to savor his cock with your mouth, keeping you right on your back.

Long had he waited for this moment, and he was going to save every dribble of his cum inside of you instead.

Your lips parted for breathless pants, your cheeks kissed with red heat, your thighs quivering with anticipation once your husband was finally sheathing the full heavy length of his cock into your core.

The delighted hiss of your name from Aymeric’s lips would be forever imprinted in your memory, as would the tremendous pressure he soon exerted as he soon worked the tempo of his thrusts into something swift in its neediness and fierce in its fervor.

One hand locked onto your hip as he plunged his cock into you, the other reached for your breast to squeeze before he planted his lips onto your nipple once more, his mind already anticipating when he would be able to gulp down mouthfuls of sweet milk once you were showing with his child.

Such an experience had him pushing into your core with even greater intensity, of which dragged out yet another lovely squeal from your lips.

He could not resist from grinning, even with his mouth full of your breast.

Onwards he continued, the viciousness of his thrusts sounding out by the indecent slaps of his balls against your ass each time his cock plunged inside of you.

So free, so unrestrained.

Aymeric felt alive, he felt deeply in love.

His lips left your nipple with a pop as he lifted his head, driven by the desire to catch sight of the look on your face as he felt his orgasm approach, all while your slick core milked his cock even more with your own imminent release.

The helpless pleads for more of his touch, the obscenely yearning look of desire on your face.

Halone be merciful on whatever was left of his self-restraint.

Your name was uttered out at a gutteral low from the depths of his throat.

His eyes caught yours yet again, holding onto your gaze as his thrusts quickened in his frantic need for release.

“My beloved, you already enamor me so with those elegant curves of yours--”

You felt the drag of his hand along your body, cupping your breasts, caressing your sides, trailing longingly over your belly.

“--but then, when I think of you strolling through Ishgard, shining with a maternal glow as you carry around our child…!”

A visible shudder seized hold of his body, his teeth clenching with pleasure as he readied himself for what was soon to come, a reaction mirrored by you as you prepared for your own orgasm.

“By the Fury, I will not let you out of this bed until your womb is absolutely flooded with my seed!”

With a snarl, Aymeric captured your lips in a scorching kiss as he pounded into your core harder, hot sticky spurts of his seed soon being pumped into you with each thrust that continued on and on afterwards.

Your arms hugged around his neck, pulling him close as the two of you relished in your orgasms, the two of you smiling into your kiss.

Tonight would be the first of many spent away from Ishgard, but oh how the two of you hoped to return to your home together with a newfound soul in your belly.

#aymeric de borel #aymeric x wol #reader insert #Final Fantasy XIV #FFXIV #Fic #super freaknasty writing

95 notes · View notes

ofcarth · 2 years

Text

nephilim !

disclaimer: 1) this is worldbuilding. any nephilim i write with are not expected to abide by this. however , this is what i go by when discussing nephilim or creating nephilim npc. without outside input from rp partners , this is what nephilim in my universe are like. 2) anyone i write with is welcome to take this headcanon to inform their world or their character , though i do ask for credit.

lilith made the first nephilim. she was the first human to have a child with an angel , and as such , the creation of nephilim is hers to claim. this means that , through the logic of her punishment , nephilim are her CHILDREN in the way that humans are god’s , and will be punished as such.

however , any copulation with an angel can make nephilim. this provides god with several conundrums. the first of which is that angels aren’t supposed to have any emotional or sexual attraction to humans , but of course some do. the second is that most of these angels love their offspring. the third is that most of these offspring are powerful. they are neither human nor angel but something wholly new. so not only are nephilim BOUND to be made , but they are also powerful enough to present a danger to heaven , and many are beloved enough by their angelic parent to make them fall. and yet they are children of lilith ! obviously this presents something of a problem.

the solution is a compromise of sorts. the creation of nephilim is deeply discouraged and INCREDIBLY frowned upon by the lord , but it is one of the few discretions he is willing to allow , for fear of losing his host. nephilim created by any of the host are not allowed to be hunted like the nephilim of hell are , but they are considered lowly and unholy. often they will have to carry something to mark themselves as heavenly , because there is absolutely no difference in their essence and the essence of hell’s nephilim. god makes it no secret that he is not a fan of ANY nephilim. many heavenly nephilim find themselves atoning for the sin of their species by becoming monster hunters , priests , or cavalry in heaven — in other words , they make themselves useful to the lord.

yet they are still considered second-class citizens , at best. because of this , some angelic parents find themselves ABANDONING their children , either so they don’t disappoint the lord for having created them , or so their child isn’t subjected to the treatment they’d receive from their heavenly relatives.

the nephilim of hell do not navigate these sticky political situations. their fallen angelic parents are never expected to choose between parenting their child or obeying their rulers. in fact , they’re encouraged to love and nurture their children. lilith does let them know the DANGERS from heaven that their children are bound to face , since they are her creations , but beyond that there’s no stigma. nephilim are citizens of hell like any other. the only difference is which side sired them.

generally , the nephilim of hell are super confused by heaven’s politics. heavenly nephilim are discriminated against and disapproved of and generally hated , but somehow the kingdom of hell is bad ? they don’t understand it.

like angels , nephilim have the choice to fall. hell is FULL of defectors , though these nephilim often defect secretly. they are hell’s best spies , should they choose that path.

#🔥 THE GARDEN LEFT. ╱ headcanon.#🔥 DAUGHTER OF EVE. ╱ ooc.#long post //

4 notes · View notes

the-cookie-of-doom · 3 years

Text

Atonement

Premise: Denathrius is Revendreth. The realm will die without him, but it can’t survive with him. Renethal takes his place as the Master of Revendreth, while Denathrius is made to atone for his sins.

“Who... are you... to judge... me?” Denathrius roared. Crimson anima bled from his eyes in a molten blaze as the chains binding him strained under the force of his fury. It took every ounce of Renathal’s carefully measured composure not to flinch, to step back like he so dearly wanted to. But he didn’t, and the restraints - a gift from the Arbiter herself - held.

The chains will not break until the Sire is fit to face her judgement.

“I am not here to judge you for your sins, Denathrius. Only to help you atone, as you have taught me.” It was so long ago that Denathrius created him, and charged Renathal with the vital task of rooting out corruption in the realm. I am only serving my Purpose. The Purpose he gave me.

“Your arrogance knows no bounds!”

“On the contrary. It is your arrogance that has brought us here. Your pride that has brought you so low. You saw fit to meddle in forces you couldn’t hope to control, and for what? Power?” Renathal stepped closer to his bound Sire, his composure failing as wrath overcame him. “You were an Eternal One! You were a master of Death, the savior of countless souls! Feared and beloved by all of Revendreth! Was that not enough?” Denathrius once had the undying, eternal loyalty of all the venthyr, yet his cast them aside as fodder in his bid for power. His voice broke as he asked, pleading, “Were we not enough?”

Was I not enough?

Denathrius sneered, and Renathal knew he had revealed too much of himself.

Reckless. I am as arrogant as he claims to believe I could hide from him.

“So that’s what this is. Your pointless rebellion, your usurpation of my throne. The actions of an attention-seeking child.” His voice turned syrupy and mocking, the same way it had in the Castle. It twisted something inside Renathal when he asked, “Have I neglected you, dear Renathal?”

Yes, he thought. Renathal told himself that it wouldn’t matter, if things had been different. He hoped it wouldn’t. Denathrius betrayed Revendreth, he went against the Purpose, and allowed corruption into his heart. it was Renathal’s sacred charge to rid him of it. I am not like the Court of Harvesters. My loyalty couldn’t have been bought with promises of power, nor his hollow gifts or affection.

I am as you made me, Master. I am too much of what I am not to do what I was created for, even if that means I must stand against you.

“You’re wrong, Denathrius,” Renathal said, calm and certain in the purity of his purpose. “I do this out of love.”

“Pathetic.”

“Perhaps. Nevertheless.” The time for idle prattle was over. Renathal couldn’t continue to deny the inevitable. “I hope you may one day overcome your sins and take your throne once more, Sire. It was never my desire to take it. But you have much to atone for, and I fear it may me many millennia before that day comes.”

“You will suffer for this.”

“As will you, Sire.” Crimson gathered around Renathal’s hands as he prepared to siphon the anima from Denathrius. “Let us begin.”

#cookie writes #i love them ;_;#this is my ideal ending for Castle Nathria tbh #nobody tell me what happens i haven't finsihed yet #Denathrius #Renathal #DenRen

51 notes · View notes

its-sixxers · 3 years

Note

Briar Mary, my beloved

we do b lovin mary in this house

There's a lot of like, extra fluffery about her that hasn't made it into fic since it's not really relevant so have some fun facts!

ya girl is bisexual and her first kiss was a high school pal under the bleachers. her heart eyesing at VV isn't just because of the toreador thing 😉

grew up with an abusive fundamentalist Christian environment in Detroit. parents thought they could 'save' the populace but being terrible people mostly just used the chaos as an excuse to be awful to her to save her from worldly sin. it was an exceptionally bad time for her and culminated in her eventually killing her parents.

this is why she thinks she deserves the whole nosferatu thing. while no one deserves to die boy oh boy life was marginally less garbage for her with them out of the way and that knowledge really eats at her. also why she overcompensates by trying to be a NICE vampire

mary is my exploration of self image issues and religious guilt. it's also really fun to write someone as paranoid and uncertain as she is - and how she learns to deal with her issues

I also like treating her as a foil to LaCroix. both (at least in my hc) had sires that screwed them over, came from rough backgrounds, but LaCroix had the privilege of beauty and connections while Mary has to rely on her own strength. his trauma manifests in a mad desire to gain as much power so he will never be as helpless as he once was again, while hers is a desire to break down anything that ever makes people feel that way

we shall see which method pays off 👀

#oc: briar mary #answering asks while gettin my hair done lel

6 notes · View notes

empyrealarc · 3 years

Note

What are all fifty of Ana's titles?

POV: You're slowly dying, waiting for the court announcer to finish announcing Ana'Hira's long ass list of names.

"Who approacheth the Dusklight Throne?"

"TIS SHE! Ana'Hira... Eternal Goddess of the Balance, The Insatiable, Anointed by Sin, The Great Love of Satriani, Queen of Screens, Lover of the Sweet, Wielder of the Dark Aether, Punisher of Unloved, The Grand Gullet, Commander of the Faith Eternal, Sacred of Appearance, Bringer of Void, Mother of Supreme, Verdant Divine, Parasite of the Lost Zone, Keeper of the Tiddy, Chosen of S'Byll, High Mechanic of the Ael-Cha, Streamer of the Year, Gluttony's Daughter, The Original, Equilibrium of the Unbound, Razer of the Faithless, Void-feeder, First of the New Hearts, Rider of the Nexus, Villain of Valentine's, Champion of the Cosmos, Mighty T'Naja of the Infinite Sorrow, Empress of the Deviant Skrulls, She Who Holds The Title, Grand Host Of The Heavenly Gala, Arch-Mage of Sanctuary Hold, Walker of the Burning Sea, Mold-Cast of The Many, Majestic Empress of the Asterisms Uncharted, 24/7 World Champion, Beloved of the Hex Nexus, Most Eligible Bachelorette, Terror Tummy."

"I see... an impressive host of titles, but-"

"Oh, I wasn't done, sire. Simply taking a breath. Let's see, terror tum- ah! Charter of the Never-Ending Horizon, Mistress of the Jade Light, Taker of Sucre, Tyrant to the Wise, Bearer of Enmity's Unholy Hunger, Scion of The Self, Scion of The Crown, The Pretty Good, Cutie-Pie, Keeper of the Sacred Texts, Founder of the Militant Worship, The Once & Future Bitch, Highness As If One Is Melting, Guardian of the Galaxy, Cursed with Ample Bosom, Unyielding Petty Warrior, Pogchamp, Descendant of the Warrior Queen, Cheerleader of the Gods, She Who Will Not Miss, Slayer of Simps, Burger Purger, Favoured of Deceit, Player of the Great Game, Liberator of Love, Lady Verdance, Seneschal of the Great Verdant Realm, Consumer of the Living, Herald of Galactus, Sword of the Evening Breeze, Beast-Tamer, Master of the Shelf Bra, Ace Reporter, Great Keeper of Greed, Duchess of the Frozen Throneworld, Agent Orange II: Electric Boogaloo, General of the Hot Girl Army, Apprentice of the Thotty Arts, Princess of Pettiness, Tyrant of Wendy's, Killer of the False God's Champions, Tyrant of the Tim Horton's, Green Bean, Avenger of the West Coast, Face Stealer, Eternal Warden of My Heart,... and many, many more..."

"You can call me 'Ana'! It's really annoying to list them all, I know~"

#headcanon.#I've been writing... FOR TWO HOURS #i should put this under a read more this is egregious #i definitely have some new favorites though. i might add them to the roster going forward

12 notes · View notes

highseaskxng · 3 years

Note

She's been up since the crack of dawn, leaving Sinbad's side in the morning to deal with the work assigned to him by Ja'far. He'll sleep in for today, unbothered and untouched by his generals. No, it wasn't out of pure kindness and love for her beloved, but it was mostly because it would be more efficient for her to finish more than others and then have Sinbad's attention to herself.

At noon, she resides in his office, a stack of documents already proof-read, checked, and sorted out. At the opening door's sound, the Origin Dragon lifted up her golden gaze to see Sin enter the office. Her look of concentration and seriousness doesn't change as she speaks up, waving her hand at him to approach as she wouldn't get up: "Good morning, Sinbad. Just in time for my lunch break. Finishing up the last documents about the trade with Kina Kingdom," Zarina doesn't look away from the document, giving herself a moment to read over it and put it in the pile of documents she needed to Sinbad - as the rightful king - to look at. "I sorted out all the documents from the last and next weeks in three groups: those you need to look at, those you can toss away because they're useless, and those you can just your generals deal with instead of wasting your time. I've already asked Ja'far to deal with the latter one." Finally, the woman looks up at Sinbad, her lips curl into a small, adoring smile as she continues. "If I am to stay by your side, I shouldn't just relax under the blankets and wait for you to come back, yes? I'll ease some of your work load in the next two weeks. I'm going to join you on your next travel instead of Sharrkan as well." No, she's not asking, she is telling him right now. Quite unfairly so, with a cute smile and a soft tone of voice. "Am I fitting for your future queen if you wish to have me~?" It's a jest from her as she gets up from his table, grabbing the thin stack of documents that Sinbad would need to look at. She approaches him right away. "If you need my assessment of these ideas, trades, and offers, I'm always here to speak business. Alas, I might be less forgiving than you are, so take that into account... my love. Shall we discuss this during lunch?"

Unprompted // Always open // @zorkaya

The night before was pure bliss, Sinbad couldn’t remember when was the last time he had a good time. The night before, he’s had so much time indulging in the pleasures of alcohol and their festivals as well. But what he thought was going to be a long day of leisure that would follow..well his thoughts were completely wrong. The moment he woke up..and actually woken up without Ja’far having to burst into his room to disrupt him from his beauty sleep. It was such a nice feeling to wake up with your own power, long enough for his subconscious mind to ride out his hangover subconsciously.

Slowly Sinbad had freshened himself up and had gotten himself dressed, his robes fit him pretty fine and he was ready to indulge in his work or actually he was just ready to ‘survive’ another day of paperwork but the journey towards his office was a strange one. Everyone greeted him, ‘my king’, ‘sire’, so many nice things he had heard. But no mention of work, usually Sharr would have brought documented affairs from Heliohapt and Masrur would bring him news concerning the Reim empire but none of these people were seen.

In fact it looked as though his kingdom was being run on its own..but that was not possible right? And just where was Zarina? His beloved that he had spent the night with, where was she staying. “In fact..where was she?” Sinbad asked with curiosity in his voice as he began strolling around the kingdom’s interior. But she, nor Ja’far was found, at least not in their usual locations. At long last Sinbad had entered his office, deciding to just work and figure they would join him when the time comes.

Though the moment he entered the room he was surprised to see Zarina with stacks of documents that were probably his once he was ready for work but given the circumstances it seems she had been here for quite some time already working. The sight was lovely, to see her so formal, so engaged with the work she was doing. This was definitely a sight he wanted to see more of in a near future with her in his.

“If I’d still have you? There was never a doubt in my mind.” Spoke the king as he approached her. A hand gently under her chin. “Oh there is so much we can discuss during lunch if you don’t mind that is.”

#◤ : ❛ answers ━ it doesn't surprise me i am the one #◤ : ❛ in character ━ not only a star bitch i am the sun.#zorkaya #best waifu in the world

1 note · View note

ambidextrousarcher · 4 years

Text

Indrajit, 10 sentence meme, for anon

And...I’m just in the nick of time for Ramayana day for the @hindumythologyevent! Yay! This is the first part of two sequences of drabbles, for an anon.

Tagging the three mods of the event: @1nsaankahanhai-bkr @allegoriesinmediasres and @soniaoutloud

Disclaimer: All of these drabbles are in Indrajit’s PoV, and I’m assuming that the race of the ‘Asuras’ are men, closely related to the race of men on Aryavrata, yet different enough that they are demonised. Hence, they won’t really be very kind to the heroes of the Ramayana. If that offends anyone, kindly forbear from reading. I have not written about the Ramayana before, this is my first try, so kindly be a little indulgent of any flaws in characterisation.

The drabble for ‘Fear’ is based on a scene not found in the CE of the Ramayana, in which Ravana ostensibly calls Indrajit a coward for reporting to him about Indrajit’s weapons failing to kill Lakshman. The bits about Sulochana defying paternal loyalty is something I’m not sure is canon, but I’ve read that Sesha curses Indrajit that he will be killed for marrying his daughter without his permission.

With that and no further ado, here are the drabbles.

1. Favourite colour

Indrajit favours the colours he watched his father drape around his shoulders when he was a child, when father was still father in truth. As his father goes farther and farther from him, he clings to those light, understated colours, to remind himself that this wasn't always the case, that there was a time before this, a time when father indulged in scholarship rather than conquest, a time of whites and light golds and streaks of silver rather than the garish reds and blacks all around, pricking his eyes wherever he goes.

2. Crossover

Meghnaad smiles at Percy. “Zeus is a bit of an ass, yes.” Percy grins back. “Glad you agree!” He rolls his eyes. “Honestly, this whole mess about the lightning bolt…” Meghnaad nods sympathetically. His formidable power is at his command, if there is any need of an intervention.

3. Fear

Fear is not a word often associated with Indrajit, his prowess renowned in all the three worlds. Yet, standing there in front of Father on the throne, relaying what he had just seen in the battle, the strongest of his astrs refusing to kill that mortal boy, he felt fear, not of death. Death is something that stares him in the face whenever he goes weapon in hand into war. No, his fear is far more visceral.

He looks up at his father, and his fear is made flesh in his father’s contemptuous sneer. He is gone. He is not what I remember. Was he ever the man I remember?

“I see I sired a coward, then.” Indrajit blinks, swallowing back emotion. Was it not I who brought you back, Father? I who defeated the King of the Devas for you? What did I ever do that you doubt me so?

He ignores the realization of his long-held fear, both the disappointment and the loss of his father, and looks him straight in the eye. “I apologise, Father. I will do my duty, and die by it, if need be.”

4. Mythological Creature

Indrajit laughs at the ludicrous claims the bards of the Devas and mortal men make, that the race of Asuras have features twisted beyond redemption, mirroring the evil in their minds. He lets the rumour stand nonetheless. A little element of fear in the enemy is always beneficial, after all.

5. Nature

All denizens of Lanka expected Indrajit to scoff at the rain and lightning. For they were devices of Indra, the King of the Devas he defeated to get his father back.

Yet, as Ravana spirals from who he was, the man Indrajit admired, to become something...not what he was meant to be, Indrajit finds himself staring at the sky, at the bursts of lightning, clearing the stormy grey for one split, incandescent moment, wishing that he, too, could see that clear silver-grey in his mind, see the clarity of thought he chased after.

6. Prophecy

Meghnaad dodges the Vajr, shooting his own illusory weapons at Indra. Armed with his determination, he wastes no time in getting to business. They must be defeated. They have to be. Lanka deserves its King back. I need my father back.

The battle ends with Meghnaad victorious, a new name on Prajapati Brahma’s lips for him. He smiles at his father. You named me well, it seems, Father. Almost a prophecy, that I will lord over the clouds.

7. Religion

Gods, thinks Indrajit, are often more fallible than those who worship them. Even they can be defeated if one is determined enough, skilled enough. Yet, for all that he defeated the Gods handily, Indrajit still goes through the rituals of religion, for something intangible he does not understand, perhaps for an inner calm, an inner strength.

8. Role Model

Meghnaad always wanted to remain true to his own self and to the bonds of blood and loyalty that bound him, to his father, to his people. In his eyes, as he grows, his uncle Vibhishan is a lot of what he aspires to be. Someone who does not hesitate to put forward what he himself feels, yet loyal to Lanka, to their people. Someone who was principled yet one of them. He would spend a lot of time with uncle Vibhishan. As Meghnaad becomes Indrajit, as his reputation becomes something to be feared, oftentimes, he would defend his uncle to his father.

They would share smiles and secrets.

At the end, that only made his uncle’s betrayal all the harder.

9. Scar(s)

To a warrior, physical scars mean little and less. Indrajit cares not for the wounds of the flesh, though he will be thankful that his face remains unblemished. Sulochana loves the contours of his face.

The wounds he shall remember as long as he breathes are the looks of hopelessness in everyone’s eyes when Father was taken captive, Mother’s quiet anguish, the scars on his beloved Lanka after the monkey burns the city as revenge, the scars that Indrajit sets to work putting alright as soon as he could. Even if the city is unblemished once more, mother is smiling again, father is proud of him, for all that he is the feted Prince of the people, Indrajit would never forgive them these scars. Never.

10. Seven Deadly Sins/Seven Cardinal Virtues

Later generations may sully Indrajit’s name and associate what he had with Sulochana to be lust, but both he and his wife know the depth of love they hold for each other. Love strong enough to defy the bonds of paternal loyalty, even.

Later, they would assume Indrajit is loyal to his father for the sake of power, but he cares not for that. He is loyal to his father because that is all he knew. For what his father stands for, in his mind. For that, he is loyal till his last breath.

He is a man, with a man’s emotions, a man’s virtues and a man’s vices, for all that the descendants victors of the war would demonise him and his people, who tried to adhere to what he felt was right.

For @hindumythologyevent, Day 9: Ramayana

Tagging a few mutuals: @chaanv @pratigyakrishnaki @hindumyththoughts @shellweed @vishnupada @medhasree @ambitiousandcunning @shaonharryandpannisim @jigyask @hindumyththoughts

#scribbler scribbles #nila writes #for anon #ten sentence meme #indrajit #ramayana

40 notes · View notes