[  #LAVORRIRE  ]   ────────  private && low activity JESTER LAVORRE from the show && campaign the mighty nein. this portrayal is fandom independent && heavily headcanon based [ . . . ] crossovers are encouraged [ . . . ] loved by ouija , est 2026 , 21+ , she/her. ( BLOG CURRENTLY WIP )

She will take you. And have you. And have you till spent. Listen to you, it tells him. Your whines deafen hers.

" is that what you want ?? to give it to me ?? " she dips down , working off the braies , dragging her tongue along the throbbing of his femoral. and with a claw , just the barest scratch so that a bead of blood wells at the inside of his thigh. oh please , please !! henry. let her have a taste. while your heart is thump thump thumping in her old language with so much lust and vigor. let it take her , just for a moment , somewhere else where every nerve every blood vessel lights up and hums. to feel what it is to have her skin soaking with such warmth , such living urgency ── to feel it hum beneath her hands , within her mouth. let her have a taste of your decadent sunshine. let her moan against the heat of your skin. and when her eyes peel open in time to see the way he grabs at himself , she couldn't help it. maybe his blood in her mouth made her do it , his own essence guiding her back to him. her hand curls over his own to give him a couple slow and lazy pumps , eyes flitting upwards so she could watch how he reacted. learning him. listening closely just as he had for her. languishing in the whimpers and moans he sang. that was good , wasn't it ?? searching , touching , tasting wherever she could until from him she drew the same sounds and choirs he'd lapped up from her.

" poor thing , have i tortured you so ?? " hums a kiss. " how ever could i make it up to you ?? for all of the pain and suffering of your longing ?? " there'd be no rush. if he could feel what he'd just made her feel , then it should last as long as possible , right ?? he deserves it most out of anyone she's known and it roots inside of her this need to have him in euphoric bliss like he'd just had her. her tongue passes wetly again to sup from him another bead of blood. against his skin she groans , " i'd like to feel that. to feel you. to let you have me. "

just as he needed , she did too.

but not like this. she needed more. this pit that bloomed in her stomach pulsed a decadent hymn and serana knew this wasn't going to satiate it. it wouldn't go away and even could come back stronger and hungrier on a later day if they decided to end this now. she was in her right mind , yes. he was hers entirely. just as she was his. nothing made more sense to her than to fit themselves together in grace. before he's able to complete , she ascends , and the head of him is kissed. then his knuckles used to grip. hips. stomach. savoring his taste. up his sternum and chest she drags her tongue. " můj rytíř. . . " mouths against the column of his throat.

Much like the hammer of thunder, its punch electric and all-too sobering -- frazzling, too, his eyes widening as a great fear finds his belly -- something starts as though fire in the blues of his eyes. Before her, she would notice but a phantom, a ghost a of a memory from bygone year. And goodness, he would seem but a terrible thing, wouldn't he?, as to so provoke in her a venom to make his coil seize? Yes, how he nearly reaches for his longsword, but the instinct of a man who has long lived danger, like -- like she in her error might leave him as a corpse-thing. Or drain him. And finally, with his flavor, know he's real.

She drags him out. When a drunken man laughs, his cuirass bangs against the mortar.

it should've been his cruor that convinced her. rest assured that a single drop ── just one ── against her tongue would have been enough. enough to stir her from even the deepest , death-bound sleep. enough to silence doubt , to anchor memory , to say this is real , he is real , in a way nothing else could.

and yet ──

" yes he is [ . . . ] because they know that which pains me most. they know how my eyes could never look away from the door he should've walked through. they know whose face to take because it was fading away from my memory. " the words fracture as they leave her , something splintering mid-thought. desperate to deny what she wants to believe. because if henry was alive . . . if this was him . . . then that meant . . .

Purgatory’s walls shimmer, the paintings peach-blushing as a statue smiles. She’s seducing. 

“I’m so much like Her,” Nicholas says now. He holds out his hand. ”Nothing is enough.”

Serana offers him what he doesn’t want. Her dress drags behind her the way death follows the British Empire. 

Tchaikovsky swells. Nicholas takes the bag. The apse glows in Buddhist robe golds, throwing miniature solar systems into her eyes.

she will never say no. not to you.

that was new. not being told no. not being denied something whether big or small but instead encouraged. however predatory it may be. serana has never needed much to be led ;; give her a kindness , a small allowance , and she feels the pull of it too easily. prey to it , perhaps , but willingly so. it didn't and wouldn't matter to her if beneath the opulent veneer lay vile and twisted guts feeding off of her own personhood. someone [ . . . ] something [ . . . ] it was cradling her , wasn't it ??

Fuck. Refusing to look, he bets pa would wear his blood like a pricey rouge.

"Fine. Yeah. Right," he answers. "I'm just -- I'm going to ask you to call me, alright?" He's hopeful. From his wallet, he fishes out a card with his shop's name and phone. Goodness. Perhaps he really, so impossibly worries, his care sat tenderer in its middle as to give like a cake. After all, he isn't one of dad's...oil-slicked companions or those servers starved of money eating ramen for lunch. Somewhere, she's his sweater in her luggage, its cologne of lingering peppercorn mingled with his stews, and it's those top-notes of freedom with a warm base of safety. Genuine. And in the middle, the laughter they'd took to as they'd fought about films. And, sure, perhaps she's lamenting its ending, thinking that'd perhaps just tasted what's real to now suddenly lose it, but this creature made of sass and insatiable love?! Him, too! It'd felt...full with her, hadn't it? She touches him, and a man comes.

Hal blinks. Garan, he's thinking. Eyeing him carefully, he's not certain if he trusts him.

"...that's right." A way out from the lion, ey? He looks to Serana. Back again. It's instinct, him shuffling to guard her back where her father's near. "Serana's said she hasn't gotten the chance to see them gardens here yet--" his posture's straight "--and might have been a little too caught up with working and such." A choice phrase. In truth, he's betting she can't go anywhere if she isn't there working! There's silence. Tense, he can practically hear these doors trying to shut. "So, I'd told her I'd take her and show her the grounds if that's what she likes." Anyway... "Not going to be a problem, is it?" He feels dad's gaze. Bastard...! Then, to Garan: "I'd guessed she wouldn't need to ask for permission. Got flowers that only wake up in the night."

silence sinks its teeth in while the advisor waits without a trace of impatience as henry works through his explanation , his gaze steady on the man with the steady attention of someone long accustomed to letting others speak themselves into clarity. off in the distance , vingalmo had started to usher the patriarch away. the maneuver is subtle and carefully done , as though the elder vampire were simply being redirected into another conversation rather than removed outright. successfully. for now. " is that so ?? " garan muses. " how fortunate , then , considering our serana’s propensity for nature. goodness , i remember the garden you kept with your mother , back across the waters. maybe you'll gain some inspiration and grace us with a new one. " he looks to her. something passing between them before serana's eyes flicker down despite the ghost of a smile. garan's next words keep low between the trio. " hm. i don't think there is a problem , so long as my lady would like to attend. "

it didn't matter to him if the patriarch could hear or not. a leash she may have , but it had length to it. garan was the only one outside of valerica to remind harkon of that. he was the only one wiling to risk the proverbial whiplash for letting the lead run to its full range

she hadn't realized the subconscious way she'd stepped back. only when the quiet warmth of henry seeps faintly through the thin barrier of her dress does she become aware of it ── the strength of his presence at her back, solid and grounding in a way she hadn’t expected. enough to stand in her convictions. " i would. " simple. direct. and again , garan bows his head. " there , that wasn't so hard , was it ?? " why wouldn't she ?? in this home of claustrophobia , no better than it's own coffin , henry stands there as her beacon. drawn to life not just because he's living , but because he had heart to share. serana was no part of her father , but that greed had her salivating at the beating muscle and all it promised.

˚࿐ SPARE MEMES FOR THE HUNGRY WITCHER. ㅤ⸝⸝ㅤ 𝙾𝙿𝙴𝙽.

❝    if you'd had it under control,    i wouldn't have had to put down more than five men.    ❞        and the witcher had counted at least eight men,    not counting the three others serana had found herself surrounded by.    while geralt hadn't intended on undermining the single-handedness of her efforts,    his discovry of her whereabouts had been timed too fortunate for the circumstances at hand.

his gaze sweeps the bloody scene between them.    over a dozen men slaughtered.    several stormcloaks in their muted blue-grey uniform,    and all the rest of undetermined origin.    geralt doesn't care what they were.    he only cares to tap away a few burnt torches with his boot,    likely meant to ignite the threatening vampire.    even the thought makes him blow a breath through his nose.    while she's perfectly capable,    geralt hardly thinks she looks like a threat.

❝    didn't want to see you killed.    which it seemed like they were close to doing.    ❞        even if they weren't,    geralt wouldn't stand idly by to let her fight alone.       ❝    you all right ?    not too hurt to go on,    are you ?    ❞

her face twists. lips opening then closing. eyes squinting. quip ready to stab but it's sheathed. for now. " i could've ran away if it felt like too much , " is grumbled in defeat. arms cross as she nudges a quilted blue body ripening the air with the metallic perfume of his crimson. they weren't supposed to have seen her. passing through as if she were nothing more than a shadow had been innate to her as breathing had once been. one moment she was but mist in the air , the next , frightening out of that state by the sudden rumbling of a dragon taking off in the distance.

the rest he'd happened upon.

[vampire] - Revisionist fanfiction. [vampire] - Misconstrues physical beauty for moral complexity. [vampire] - Where are you?

ultimately he was always drawn back to his faith in its most severe and uncompromising expression. true belief could not exist untested, vulnerable as it remained to contradiction and paradox. this crassness has nothing to do with milton and everything to do with danger of his ideas. contradiction — they both know how he felt about dante.

maybe it was the fact that he presented as so particularly ascetic that had serana poking the boar so much in twisted glee. his texts weren't unexpected. they'd sat for hours together dissecting each book of the divine comedy to make their opposing points. did it's straying from strict theology make it any less of a piece of art and important literature ?? if it brought people into faith , was it worthless ??

[🙏🏻 my spiritual advisor🙏🏻] - or a story demonstrating man's failure is inevitable. out of his control. [🙏🏻 my spiritual advisor🙏🏻] - free will was a gift doomed from the start.

A guardian angel. Fucking Christ. Is that what, after all these long and uncertain years, these ages in obscurity and shadow, he, this looming wraith, had come to her as? Had he but known, it might have but broken him a little, might have but swelled in him a granule of a treacherous hope. Indeed, he has been half a demon for forever, for perhaps the length of too-long winters that have dragged for an age. By the lord, he's forgotten how it feels like to be protector, to stand dutifully and proudly as a shield and a blade, but here, he is more creature than a hero, more a scoundrel with his body that would ache with the rain! Fuck. He is older than he had been, is greyer in his temples and harder in his eyes, and in the flicker of the glower of the crackling lanterns, she--

She, dear Serana, is just the same.

But she isn't, is she? Henry swallows. Her dagger tickles the bob sat hard in his throat, the closest to a bloody kiss he has had in months with any damned sincerity. When he licks his lips, he even believes he can scantly taste it, the count of the hemorrhage she has spilled from what hunters might hound her. Secretly, it is then that something wicked claws viciously up his belly, something...proud and mangled and utterly possessive. He longs for it. He longs for it again to serve and serve proper. She has been wandering alone, so free and so sure and so robbed of a leash, and never in the night has she struck him so handsome. So mighty! he sucks a breath. It's been a decade, and she's changed where it matters.

He cants his head. An offering. But brave, his voice familiar--

"And what would be their quality of character, ma'am, to take my lead?"

" yes. " and familiar. so familiar. those eyes , those eyes , those eyes !! they were stolen by some magic to let her guard down. but she's stubborn isn't she ?? always has been. and that word spits out with a venom aged in a loss that had almost broken spirit. because he couldn't be here. it was a dream. a figment born from loneliness and a desire to be known. to be chosen. to be seen in a world that closed it's eyes to her. it had to have been. because she'd been promised. told that he'd come back once his duties were complete. " a master who steals faces to give to their pawns. "

the door had stood empty for a decade. and the certainty of her memories had shattered in that time.

sure she is. the blood slicking between her fingers , the bodies strewn about like discarded offerings at their feet , well it doesn't lend any credibility to the claim. still , the vampire obliges. dips her head , something like sage understanding passing across her features for someone who doesn't wish to be touched , and steps back. the cleric would know better. who was she to presume she ought to intervene , to tend wounds meant for other hands ?? " you just looked like you were in pain. " so instead , at the very least , she offers what she can. a strip of cloth torn from the hem of her cloak , already frayed , already sacrificed once , and presses it into @archaeval’s hand. anything to staunch the bleeding.