#How to remove splinters

[bongreviewbd]

স্প্লিন্টার কীভাবে শরীর থেকে বের হয়ে যায়: জানুন বিস্তারিত

শরীরে কোনো স্প্লিন্টার বা কাঁটা ঢুকে গেলে তা খুবই বিরক্তিকর এবং বেদনাদায়ক হতে পারে। এটি সাধারণত ছোট এবং তীক্ষ্ণ বস্তুর টুকরো হয়, যা হাতে বা পায়ে ঢুকে যায়, যেমন কাঠ, বাঁশ, ধাতু, কাঁচ, অথবা অন্য কোনো কঠিন পদার্থের টুকরো। প্রায়শই, এটি নিজে থেকে শরীর থেকে বের হয়ে আসে, কিন্তু কখনও কখনও এটি এমনভাবে ঢুকে যায় যে তা সহজে বের করা সম্ভব হয় না।

স্প্লিন্টার কীভাবে শরীরে প্রবেশ করে? অত্যন্ত সরু এবং তীক্ষ্ণ বস্তু খুব সহজেই আমাদের ত্বকের মাধ্যমে শরীরে প্রবেশ করতে পারে। কাজ করার সময়, হাঁটা চলার সময়, অথবা কোনো দুর্ঘটনা ঘটলে কাঠের টুকরো বা বাঁশের স্প্লিন্টার হাত বা পায়ে বিঁধে যেতে পারে।

কাঁটা বা স্প্লিন্টার ঢুকে গেলে কি করবেন? প্রথমেই, স্প্লিন্টার শরীরে ঢুকে গেলে তা যত দ্রুত সম্ভব বের করে ফেলা গুরুত্বপূর্ণ। সহজভাবে যদি তা ত্বকের উপরিভাগে থাকে, তবে তা টেনে বের করা সম্ভব। কিন্তু, যদি তা গভীরভাবে প্রবেশ করে এবং সহজে দৃশ্যমান না হয়, তখন কিছু সাবধানতা অবলম্বন করতে হবে।

প্রাথমিকভাবে কীভাবে স্প্লিন্টার বের কর��েন: ক্লিন টুইজার ব্যবহার করুন: যদি স্প্লিন্টার হাত বা পায়ের উপরিভাগে থাকে, তবে এটি টুইজারের সাহায্যে ধীরে ধীরে টেনে বের করা যেতে পারে। সেফটি পিন বা সুচ: যদি টুইজার দিয়ে না বের করা যায়, সেক্ষেত্রে একটি পরিষ্কার সুচ বা সেফটি পিন ব্যবহার করে স্প্লিন্টার বের করার চেষ্টা করা যেতে পারে। মনে রাখবেন, অবশ্যই ব্যবহৃত যন্ত্রপাতি স্যানিটাইজ করা জরুরি। ইনফেকশনের ব্যাপারে সতর্ক থাকুন: কখনও কখনও স্প্লিন্টার ঢুকে গেলে সেই জায়গায় ইনফেকশন হতে পারে। ইনফেকশন হলে জায়গাটি ফুলে উঠতে পারে এবং পুঁজ জমা হতে পারে। এর ফলে স্প্লিন্টারটি ধীরে ধীরে ত্বকের উপরের দিকে চলে আসতে পারে এবং শরীর নিজে থেকেই তা বের করে দেয়।

যখন চিকিৎসা নেওয়া জরুরি: যদি স্প্লিন্টার দীর্ঘদিন ধরে ত্বকের ভেতরে থাকে এবং তা নিজে থেকে বের না হয়, তাহলে চিকিৎসকের শরণাপন্ন হওয়া প্রয়োজন। কারণ ইনফেকশন ছড়িয়ে পড়লে তা শরীরের অন্যান্য অংশেও সমস্যা তৈরি করতে পারে।

শরীর কীভাবে স্বাভাবিক প্রক্রিয়ায় স্প্লিন্টার বের করে: মানবদেহের ইমিউন সিস্টেম বা প্রতিরক্ষা ব্যবস্থা খুবই শক্তিশালী। যখন ত্বকের নিচে কোনো বাহ্যিক বস্তু প্রবেশ করে, তখন শরীরের প্রতিরোধ ক্ষমতা সেই বস্তুকে চিনতে পারে এবং তার বিরুদ্ধে প্রতিরক্ষা ব্যবস্থা চালু করে। ইনফেকশন হলে, ত্বকের চারপাশে পুঁজ জমতে শুরু করে, যা প্রাকৃতিকভাবে একটি চাপ তৈরি করে এবং স্প্লিন্টারটি ত্বকের উপরের দিকে উঠতে সাহায্য করে।

সতর্কতা ও পরামর্শ: স্প্লিন্টার ঢুকে গেলে কখনও সেটিকে উপেক্ষা করবেন না। ইনফেকশন হলে দ্রুত চিকিৎসকের পরামর্শ নিন। ঘরে প্রাথমিক চিকিৎসা দেওয়ার আগে অবশ্যই হাত ও যন্ত্রপাতি পরিষ্কার করুন। কখনও কখনও স্প্লিন্টার ক্ষুদ্র হওয়ার কারণে দেখা যায় না। এ ক্ষেত্রে ফ্ল্যাশলাইট বা ম্যাগনিফাইং গ্লাস ব্যবহার করতে পারেন।

উপসংহার: স্প্লিন্টার ঢুকে গেলে তা ছোট একটি সমস্যা মনে হতে পারে, কিন্তু সঠিকভাবে যত্ন না নিলে এটি বড় সমস্যার কারণ হতে পারে। শরীর অনেক সময় নিজে থেকেই এই ধরনের স্প্লিন্টার বের করে দিতে সক্ষম, তবে ইনফেকশনের আশঙ্কা থাকলে চিকিৎসা নেওয়া জরুরি। সঠিক প্রক্রিয়া মেনে স্প্লিন্টার সরিয়ে ফেললে অস্বস্তি ও ব্যথা থেকে মুক্তি পাওয়া সম্ভব। আরও দেখুনঃ তোমার রক্তনালীগুলোর দৈর্ঘ্য কত?

ট্যাগ: স্প্লিন্টার বের করার উপায়, ইনফেকশন প্রতিরোধ, প্রাথমিক চিকিৎসা, ত্বকের যত্ন, স্প্লিন্টার ইনফেকশন, স্প্লিন্টার থেকে মুক্তি, স্প্লিন্টার চিকিৎসা, কাঁটা ঢুকে গেলে করণীয়

আরও দেখুনঃ ম্যাকফ্লারির অদ্ভুত চামচের রহস্য

[sluckythewizard]

YOU JUST HƎARD IT FROM [HIS MOUTH] FOR SURƎ!!!

[coolguycy]

How does Splinter go from human to rat in the versions he does that?

in 12 and 87, i believe he was walking down the street or chilling in the sewers and was mutated into a rat the same time the turtles were mutated.

in rise however.. its a longer story

Hamato Yoshi had a fuckton of childhood trauma (which i will not get into because Spoilers) he was raised by his grandfather but rejected the traditions his family tried to force on him. he moved to LA and became action star Lou Jitsu. he had fame, money, his own merch, he was living the high life.

while at the height of his stardom, he meets Big Mama and they fall in love. after dating for a while Lou proposes, at which point Big Mama revels herself to be a spider yokai and kidnaps him. She forces him to fight in her Battle Nexus, a gladiatorial death match run from BM's hotel. for a while (unclear exactly how long) Lou Jitsu was the undefeated champion and was discovered by none other than Baron Draxum

Draxum kidnaps him and uses his dna to mutate the turtles, in the hopes of creating soldiers with Lou's fighting prowess. Some of the Mutagen gets on Lou, hes bitten by a stray rat and mutates. blah blah blah big escape, lab blows up, and the rest is history

[21st-century-minutiae]

In the early twenty-first century, Magic the Gathering is a popular trading card game. The game has multiple official formats which define which cards are legal to play, to create different experiences. Pioneer is one of the newer formats, which generally allows cards that were created after 2012 to be included, with some bans.

Ancestral Recall is a card from the original 1993 release of Magic the Gathering. It allows a player to draw three cards at instant speed at the cost of "1 mana." "Instant speed" means that you can play it on your opponent's turn. This is contrasted with "Sorcery Speed" which means you can only play it on your own turn. This is generally a powerful option since you could wait for your opponent to take their turn before deciding what to do, and because it doesn't allow your opponent to react. "Mana" is a resource in the game. Generally speaking, more expensive cards are harder to cast and need to be played late in the game. "1 mana" cards are VERY easy to cast and can be used as early as the first turn. Because drawing cards is VERY useful in Magic, and because Ancestral Recall is very very very easy to cast, it is considered one of the most powerful cards in all of Magic's history and is banned in most formats, including Pioneer.

Treasure Cruise is a card from the 2014 release of Magic the Gathering. It allows a player to draw three cards at the cost of 8 mana, but it also has an ability to make it cheaper at the cost of doing some setup, to a minimum of 1 cost. If you build a deck in the right way, it is pretty easy to make Treasure Cruise a 1 mana spell that draws three cards, which makes it often seen as comparable to Ancestral Recall. However, there are a few key differences:

First, it does require setup to use. Even if it is relatively easy, this setup cannot happen on the first turn of the game (except in VERY weird circumstances). Second, using one copy of Treasure Cruise undoes your setup for the next one. Ancestral Recall can draw another Ancestral Recall which can be used immediately, as early as turn 1 or 2. But it will be somewhat later in the game before you have enough setup that you can play multiple Treasure Cruises in a row. Third, while pretty much every single deck can play Ancestral Recall (indeed, it is almost mandatory to play the card whenever it is legal), only some decks can properly setup Treasure Cruise to make best use of it. Finally, Treasure Cruise is NOT at instant speed. You have to commit to playing it on your turn. Even in the best case it is not as strong as Ancestral Recall for that reason alone. Treasure Cruise is a very powerful card, but it is not as ludicrous as Ancestral Recall. It is also LEGAL in Pioneer.

"Splinter Twin" was a powerful and popular combo from the "Modern" format in magic circa the year 2013. Modern as a format which permits most cards that were printed after 2003. The year 2013, where there were about 10 years worth of magic cards, was considered something like the height of the format, and is often compared to the current Pioneer, which also has about 10 years worth of magic cards.

The Splinter Twin combo made use of two cards. The first was the titular "Splinter Twin" a '4 mana' 'sorcery speed' card which permanently gave a creature the ability to make temporary copies of itself once per turn. The second was any creature that could let a creature use their 'once per turn' effect again. With those two cards together, you could make a copy, have the copy refresh the copier, make another copy, have the new copy refresh the copier, and keep going infinitely. This let you do infinite damage as early as turn 4 of the game, assuming your opponent couldn't disrupt you. Waiting until a later turn allowed players to prevent disruption pretty consistently. This combo was banned in 2016 from Modern, because it was very popular at the cost of other decks. Many people felt this banning was a mistake, especially in retrospect as the format only got more powerful. Splinter Twin was never legal in Pioneer.

The asker in the post above is inquiring as to why Treasure Cruise is legal in Pioneer, but Splinter Twin is not. Calling Treasure Cruise "Ancestral Recall" is a provocative effort to hyperbolize the card, and calling "Splinter Twin" a "turn 4 combo that dies to removal" (removal being a term for getting rid of a creature which would disrupt the combo) is an attempt to minimize the power of Splinter Twin and ignore the fact that it was printed before 2012, meaning it is not currently eligible for Pioneer. The implication is that if a card as powerful as Ancestral Recall is legal, than something that is weaker like Splinter Twin should NOT be legal.

Mark Rosewater, an individual who designed a lot of Magic the Gathering, denied the premise that Treasure Cruise is Ancestral Recall, implicitly stating that the probing question was made based on a flawed premise.

In the early twenty-first century, Magic the Gathering players familiar with the Modern format of 2013 (of which many older players would be) would likely know that both Treasure Cruise and Splinter Twin are being mentioned here, despite neither card being mentioned by name. They would understand the description, know about the formats, and know what Ancestral Recall does. They would know who Mark Rosewater is, and likely have an opinion about Splinter Twin (and Treasure Cruise).

People NOT in the space of Magic the Gathering, of which the majority of the early twenty-first century would be categorized (as, while popular, the card game is not universal) would have zero idea as to what is being discussed in this exchange.

Why is ancestral recall fine for pioneer but sorcerery speed infinite damage, turn 4 combo that dies to remove, isn't?

Ancestral Recall is not legal in Pioneer.

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru

TW: implied noncon, yandere, captive reader, blood, knife play

gn reader

Satoru doesn’t have infinity activated around you. You don’t really pose much of a threat, and he thinks you know that too—besides, you’d never actually dare do anything anyway…

The knife in his lung says differently. Your hand around the hilt shakes, unintentionally wiggling the blade.

The surprise is greater than the pain. Honestly, the pain barely matters. He’s experienced so much worse, his body scoffs at the tiny kitchen utensil. Cursed technique stops the bleeding before a single drop even escapes—it works like a well-oiled machine without him even thinking about it.

You seem worse off. Tears fumble down your face as you tremble, wide-eyed and petrified, staring at where you’ve just driven the weapon through the otherwise pale and perfect alabaster muscles of his abdomen. 

He says your name, and it seems to shake you out of it. You let go of the shaft, but the knife remains inside. He pulls it out himself as if it’s nothing—not even giving it the same regard you would have a tiny splinter.

A droplet of blood slips down the blade and splashes on the cotton of your panties—the ones he’d been so eager to remove only a minute ago.

Where’d you even hide the knife? Has he become so comfortable around you that he didn’t notice you holding it?

You’re still in shock. Small whimpers escape your trembling and the erratic nature of your breaths. You’re not really breathing fast or slow, it’s almost like you’ve forgotten how to do it right—hitched both on its way in and on its way out again.

He almost feels sorry for you. But then again, he’s the one who was just stabbed.

“Lick it.” He doesn’t know where it comes from. It’s the first punishment that he could think of.

You blink like you’ve got an eyelash stuck on your lens as you adjust your gaze to look up at him. He holds the knife to your lips.

“Wah—”

“It’s dirty. Lick it clean.”

He can see the gears turning in your head. He wonders what you’re thinking about. Is it how much you hate him? Regret for what you’ve done? Or misery over how it didn’t kill him?

Would you really want to kill him? He would ask, but he doesn’t think you know the answer.

Your tongue trembles as it reaches out, gasping once it touches the blood.

It’s weird, but there’s something really intimate about it. Maybe it’s because he’s horny. He was planning on fucking you just a while ago, after all.

You whimper as you lick along the length of the blade, feeling the fresh blood soak into your tastebuds—salty and metallic and a little sweet. He turns the blade for you to finish the other side as well.

The taste stays on your tongue.

He throws the knife away once it’s clean. There’s no clatter, just a thud as it lands in the white fur of the living room carpet.

Lanky hands hold both sides of your face as he lays his forehead down upon yours. “I know it wasn’t your intention…” he rasps while his thumbs rub into your cheeks, making your lips jut out in a pout. His blue eyes are even crisper than usual. “But that really turned me on.”

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[miniseokminnies]

you don’t own me —- c.sc

☆ pairing: choi seungcheol x fem!reader ☆ genre: club owner!seungcheol, established relationship ☆ wc: 1.2k ☆ warnings: 18+ MDNI, possessiveness, jealousy, dom!seungcheol, toxic relationship, spit kink, fingering, unprotected sex (that's a no no), multiple orgasms, creampie, name calling (slut), public sex, exhibitionism

Choi Seuncheol was not a possessive man, or so he says, however, the grip on your thigh told you otherwise.  The comments he made minutes ago dragged the silence on and you wished that he would drive faster.  If he needed space, by God you would make him regret it.

“Listen…” Seungcheol started when he was putting the car into park, unfortunately for him you were out of his grasp and out of the car as soon as it stopped moving.  He groaned and slumped in his seat. It was going to be one of those nights.  Plastering on your favorite smirk, you approached the door with your boyfriend trailing behind you.  

Your favorite bouncer smiled at you as you pushed past the entrance, you are always on the list so no need to check your ID.  He chuckled to himself as you sauntered in, knowing exactly what kind of night you were trying to have.  

“What did you do this time, boss?” he asked, trying not to laugh.

“Mingyu just do your job” Seungcheol muttered and the taller man held his hands up in surrender, still smiling.

Choi Seungcheol was not a jealous man, but he knew when something belonged to him. Watching you, his girl, from across the bar flirting with some stranger just because he made some off handed comment about needing space. His grip on his glass tightened, almost sending shards splintering across the freshly waxed bar top. 

You didn’t look at him as he approached, pretending to be interested in the one sided conversation this poor guy was trying to have with you. He was nothing to you besides a pawn in the little games Seungcheol and yourself like to play. 

Seungcheol pushed past the crowd and gripped on to your seat, spinning it towards him. His eyes were wild and you knew you had riled him up. He didn’t even give you a chance to smirk before taking hold of your chin, 

“Open up,” he commanded, not even looking at you. Confused, you did as you were told. Without breaking eye contact with the guy you were previously talking to, Seungcheol spit into your waiting mouth. “Swallow that for me,” he gives you two slightly stinging pats on your cheek. 

Choi Seungcheol knows when something belongs to him, and everyone else should too. 

With that Seungcheol turned and didn’t look back at you.  He knew he had you in his grasp now, he knows how to play your game and he beats you at it every time.  Wordlessly you rose from your chair and followed him into the hallway where the bathrooms were.  He turned to face you hearing your footsteps in the quieter secluded area.  

“You always ruin my fun��� you blurted into his face, he cocked an eyebrow in response,

“Oh really?” he smirked, “I found it fun” he moved closer to you, putting one hand on the wall beside your head. 

“Well..” you avoided his piercing eyes, “I didn’t…” you knew the comment was in no way convincing. 

“Oh really?” he trailed his other hand across your soft skin, getting higher and higher.  You feel his calloused fingers drag up the length of your thigh and under your skirt. His fingers reach the apex of your thighs and you know you can’t lie anymore, “Doll, you’re so wet,” he shoves his hand on the wall into your hair and briefly massages our clit through your soaked panties.  You have to bite your lip to stop a moan from escaping your lips at the sensation.  

A whine of protest does tumble out of your mouth when Seungcheol removes the hand under your skirt.  He pulls you by your hair off the wall and positions you in front of him and pushes you into the men’s bathroom straight ahead.  Once the two of you were through the door you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.  The visual of yourself being utterly controlled by the man behind you filled your body with heat that rushed straight to your core.  

Seungcheol pushed you further into the bathroom before letting go of your hair and moving to check the stalls.  He all but punched each door open before returning to you. 

“Turn around,” you did as you were told once more and he wasted no time bending you over the sink in front of you, “Teasing me all night has consequences” he rasped, pulling your underwear aside.  He almost moaned aloud seeing your glistening cunt on display like this.  He easily slipped two fingers in, surprising you.  You whined at the feeling of being filled, wishing for more.  Seungcheol sets a swift pace, you know he is nervous for someone to interrupt even if he would never admit it.  “You like that?” he watches his fingers disappear and reappear.  

“Yes, oh my God” you mewl. 

“That’s right, you love my fingers,” he punctuates his sentence by adding a third finger, making you shiver with pleasure, “but you’re a slut for my cock, isn’t that right?” You nod in response, not quite able to form a response.  He pulls his fingers almost all the way out of you, “No you use your words with me” 

“Y-yes, I’m your slut” you choke out.  He shoves his fingers into the spot that drives you crazy, coaxing you to the edge.  

“That’s what i thought,” you were starting to become overcome with pleasure, “You can cum now, Doll” with his permission you let go, white spots overtaking your vision.  You cry out from the intensity of the orgasm.  

You feel Seungcheol pull his fingers out and you hear his belt hit the floor.  He pulls his pants down just enough.  You hear him spit into his hand and he grunts giving his cock a few pumps.  Lining himself up he uses the reminisce of your orgasm as lube.  Sliding in easily he gives you a few moments to adjust to the difference between his fingers and his thick cock.  

He begins thrusting into you, setting yet another bruising pace.  Despite the swiftness of his movements you could feel every inch of him each time he pulled out and slammed back into you, you couldn’t control the noises coming out of your mouth nor the squelching of your pussy each time.  

“Doll” he grips your hair in his hand and pulls you up slightly, “Look at you, getting fucked in the bathroom of my club,” he smiles wickedly between thrusts, “Look at yourself getting fucked, don’t forget who you belong to.” You look at your own fucked out face and the face behind you twisted with pleasure.  You feel a second orgasm creeping up on you.  Seungcheol is approaching the edge as well, judging by the fact that his hips are sputtering and he can barely manage to keep quiet anymore. “Gonna cum” he grunts. 

White hot spurts of him begin to paint your walls white as the coil in your stomach snaps.  You take all of it, like the good slut you are.  Seungcheol’s hips still, the two of you breathing heavily for a moment.  Slowly, he pulls out of you, staring at his seed spilling out of your perfect cunt.  He takes a moment to push it back in with his fingers as best he can before sliding your underwear back into place and putting his fingers in your mouth.  You clean them off greedily.  

“Hold on to that for me,” he pats your clothed cunt twice, “I will check when we get home later.”      

[shellxrls]

hiiiii angel smutty rafe thought here!!! rafe slutting you out so hard he breaks the headboard 🥵 OR yall going at it on the druthers 😍

rafe 🤝 rough sex

MDNI | 18+ content

he's hitting it from behind bcuz he's mad, muttering something about how you're 'too pretty' for him to look at right now — and so your face is shoved into a laundry scented comforter only to stain the cream colour with layers of eye-makeup forced out of you through sobs of pleasure elicited by the harshness of rafe's thrusts.

he's mounted you completely, one hand bracing himself against the dip of your back, and the other concentrating his residual strength against the wooden headboard, the solid timbre hitting the plaster of the wall with every slap of his hips against your ass.

just when he's about to cum does he finally remove the hand from your waist, instead propping your ass up higher and moving both hands to the headboard so he can increase his pace without the risk of harming you.

he doesn't even notice when it happens, too entangled in this cocoon of pleasure he's orchestrated with you to hear the snap of wood corroding under his powerful digits.

it's only when the two of you are done, and you're fussing with the sheets to get them right again after your sacrilegious demolition of the poor bed, do you notice the splintering of the headboard.

you cross your arms over you chest defiantly, "rafe, did you do this?"

he just shrugs, "quit actin' like you weren't the one beggin' me to use you."

[hanasnx]

Indy! What kinks do you think Bruce would have ?

bruce wayne's kinks.

MINORS DNI 18+

! ── bondage + gags: it's a classic. tying you up and taking control from you is a huge turn on for him. if you have his complete trust, which rare ever do, you'll be able to do the same to him. unfortunately, those pretty silken ropes end up getting worn through way too quick, so you've upgraded to chains so you can ride him like a stallion. however, your headboard creaks a little more each time. when a 200+ man of pure muscle yanks on wood it splinters.

! ── edging + overstimulation + dacryphilia

! ── exhibitionism: part of his bruce wayne persona means public displays of affection are required. however, he enjoys it. getting his hands all over you where anyone could see means he elicits that cute reaction out of you where you hit him and scold him all the while his teeth are on your neck and he's groping you through your dress. the thrill of removing just enough to make sure he can get inside you makes him rip his belt open with fervor, and he's always a fan of a quickie. it's a stress reliever.

! ── breathplay: he's calculative when it comes to breathplay, but more specifically he loves putting his hand around your throat.

! ── size: he's an avid supporter. he thinks it's hot when you get all sheepish being reminded of how big and strong he is. he's got a powerful body he works day and night for, the least you can do is appreciate its every inch.

! ── food play: ever since strippers jumped out of his birthday cake in his twenties covered in frosting and edible bits that he was allowed to lick off he's had a thing for food play. at one point you feel like he's eaten entire meals off of you, he's completely nondiscriminatory when it comes to what he can lick and mouth as long as it's on you. if he's on a cheat day, he lets a scoop of ice cream melt on your skin just so he can clean you himself and watch your poor nipples pebble from the cold.

! ── impact play: chronic ass-smacker, tit-smacker less so, face-smacker even less.

! ── old school panty snatcher: if you put a pair of your used panties in his suit pocket before he goes to work he will play with it all day. stick his hand in there to meddle with the fabric between his fingers while he's talking to his board of directors with the presentation he's been preparing. he gets into the habit of inviting himself to your undergarments, and has been caught multiple times using one of your favorite pairs to jack himself off.

! ── bareback + creampies: condoms are fine he's not an idiot, but there's something about going in raw that draws him in. the extra edge of danger and the intimacy of touching the deepest parts of you bare.

! ── thigh riding: clasping your hands in his for balance while he watches you get off on his thigh. tells you it's like a personal show. he keeps those eyes trained on you with such an entertained grin it makes you whine in frustration, and that's hot too.

! ── threesomes/foursomes: he's done it all. having multiple partners is a testament to his endurance and he loves the praise, but since he's been official with you there is no room for that sort of thing and that's fine with him.

! ── light roleplay: you two have been known to throw the word "batman" around the bedroom.

! ── praise mostly very rarely a degrader

! ── daddy: as far as he's concerned, that's one of his names when it comes to you. in any context you call him that, he swells with pride. one time you visit him while he's in a meeting, not only did you turn every head in the room but when you called him "daddy" accidentally and out of pure habit, he didn't skip a beat. he glances at his companions with a knowing glint in his eye because they should be jealous that the girl they're gonna be thinking about for the rest of the day just called him daddy. he's got no shame about it.

[ladymercysletters]

NSFW Alphabet - Cregan Stark

Word Count: 2,864

A/N: I have no words, other than I now have many thoughts about sex on furs. NSFW 18+ only!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

As much as he seemed like a solid silent brute when you first met him, upon your marriage bed Cregan was soft with you. Easing you through your maidenhead and doting on you afterwards. He removed the stained sheets from beneath you with ease before returning with wine for you. He cares for you the same every time you finish. Soft touches and demands to the maids that they bring in wine and some food after, tucking you up into the furs from the end of your bed and drifting off to sleep with you.

B = Body part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Cregan often trained with his shirt off. Partly to harden his body to the cold of the north, but also to intimidate his opponents. When he notices you watching him train from one of the wooden walkways he can’t help but put on a show. Roaring as his sword comes down on the shield, splintering it in two; he makes sure to roll his shoulders when his back is turned from you, flexing the muscles that show there. He is most proud of his strength and he loves that you watch him, satisfied that he can protect you from anything and anyone.

When it comes to your body he is in love with every part of it. Your soft hair that catches the snowflakes when they fall, to your cheeks that glow with warmth when you’re huddled up to the fire in the great hall. But he’s most enamoured with your legs. He loves how strong they are from horse riding. It’s the hidden aspect as well; he knows they’re there under all those layers and folds of your dresses. He enjoys helping you out of your clothes in the evening, trailing a hand slowly up your legs, feeling how they grow warmer as they get to your centre. And then the lovely treat between them, only for him to enjoy, hidden.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) - Winter is coming and so is he!

Cregan loves to cum inside you. This is well documented (thank you to every fanfic writer here!) There has barely been a time where Cregan has wasted a drop outside of your body. His favourite place is where he can breed you; the thought of his seed filling you completely and seeing you all round and lovely with his child sends a jolt of something through his spine every time he thinks of it. He loves to see you splayed out for him, your white shift not even fully removed in the haste of your love making, watching from above as your breasts move in time with his thrusts, your face flushing and soft moans pushing from your lips has him doubling over you to make sure he doesn’t spill a drop.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Cregan doesn’t really have any dirty secrets. There’s nothing he hides from you and to be honest, nothing he particularly finds shameful enough to keep a secret. There is nothing shameful in loving ones wife isn’t there? That being said, a blush forms just at the tops of Cregans cheekbones when he thinks of how his hips stutter and the groans roll from his tongue when you rake your nails down his back. That little spot right at the base of his spine, just as the skin of his buttocks gets a bit more sensitive. Right there, if your nails trail down to that spot his hips will stutter and twitch between your thighs.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Cregan has a bit of experience before your marriage, but not as much as most men perhaps. He first lay with a woman when he visited an elder cousin south of Winterfell who took him to their silk streets; and he’s had his share of women when away in battle. Those women always seemed to know where there were plenty of men, and when you think you may die there’s no harm in going out with a bang.

F = Favourite position (this goes without saying)

Mating press. Face down ass up. Any way he can bend you and bed you he will. He especially loves these two positions as he can get so deep inside you; flipping you over or propping your ankles over his broad shoulders, both are excellent ways to view his wife in his eyes. If he had to choose, mating press would be his favourite. He once got caught up in the heat of the moment and had to steady himself as he thrust into you. It just so happens that he steadied himself by placing his hand on your abdomen. The shock of feeling the movement of his thick cock inside you sent a bolt straight down his spine. He didn’t last long after that.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Despite Cregan’s initial intentions in looking for a wife, you married for love. He had never met a woman as witty as you. With every sly jab from one of his men at your being from the south, you batted back with a comment of your own – leaving many stumped in response. Cregan loved your sharp tongue and teasing grin as you bounded past him on your horse. When you were wed this did not stop. Your laughter translated to more heated moments, when he has you pressed against a wall and you would tease him for being so eager for you; or when you shared the warm springs and giggled together at the thought of someone finding you in a compromising position.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He’s a hairy man. But not hairy like a bear, hairy like a wolf – an inverted triangle covering his chest, with a long dark trail leading directly over his navel and into his breeches. His back isn’t hairy at all, much to your surprise, but his forearms and legs display a similar coating of dark brown hair.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Cregan can be incredibly romantic. His lack of any close family and betrayal by some has left him without really love or intimacy for most of his life. But despite this, he isn’t a cold man. Many a night has been spent sprawled out on thick furs in front of one of the great fires; Cregans body covering yours as he makes love to you. He holds you tenderly afterwards, looking down on your peaceful face he draws a strand of hair away from your face, turning it in his fingers – amazed by the softness. He’s amazed by the softness of all of you. Amazed that you’re his.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He’s got himself off more times than he’s ever prepared to count, lonely nights in the castle or on the road necessitating this. When you wed this wasn’t something he thought he would need to think much of anymore. But during one feast, when you’d both had your fair share of wine, your hand had wandered to his breeches. First a hand on his knee, then higher. Then, just as he took a swig from his cup, over the thin material of his best trousers. Your small hand wriggled inside his trousers gripping him tightly. Cregan looked over at you and thought of how casual you looked, not a mark on your face would suggest where your hand was at that moment. Even as you carried a small conversation with a maid clearing some plates and replacing your wine, your hand continued its smooth movements up and down his growing cock.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

BREEDING KINK! BREEDING KINK!

Once the immediate delight in coupling with you has faded the first thing on his mind when sharing abed with you was what your children would look like. How good of a mother you would be and how you would look cradling his babe. How you would look growing his babe – all round and waddling through the halls. Curled up in the furs that lay over your bed. He’d make sure to hunt the finest fur he could for your first born, make sure you’d both be safe and warm. As soon as he got that thought into his head it was the only thing on his mind every time you fucked. He’d whisper the filthiest things in your ear about how good you’d look swollen with his child – evidence of you were his, his love.

L = Location (favourite places to do the do)

Hi favourite place to have you will always be his bed, your shared bed. He loves that you always sleep together – and everyone knows you do. It’s ones of the worst kept secrets in Winterfell that the lord and lady haven’t used their separate bedrooms since they wed. And if Cregan gets his way, you never will.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

He can keep quite a good lid on his urges in general. He knows his duty and he never shirks from it; but when you glide past him in the hall to get to your ladies in waiting, when he’s got his mean around him discussing the days business, his eyes flicker up and over to you – and he can see how the bodice of your dress is just a bit tighter than usual, or you’re wearing a lighter fabric over your arms that is practically sheer. Little things like that, that show just a touch more flesh or expose the delicate softness of your neck. Those things just remind him how only he has seen you bare, and it makes him want it again.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He’s seen some things in brothels he’d rather not have seen. Some men using bodily fluids Cregan would never think erotic and doing things to women that made his stomach turn. He hated even thinking about those things, especially when he was with you.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He would live between your thighs if you would let him. We’ve discussed that he is a thigh man but by the gods; having both of your legs over his shoulders, stroking up and down the fat of your thighs as he buries his face in your cunt. He’s so skilled with his tongue. As much as you may expect him to be rough and a bit clumsy, he isn’t with his face. He nudges you open with his nose first before starting off with gentle licks into your core. If/ when he does use his fingers it only when he’s got you absolutely soaking wet and he can feel the tremor in your thighs.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

It very much depends on how you’re both feeling. Sometimes he needs to take you slow and soft; tracing his rough fingers over your soft exposed skin and kiss every inch of you. Other times, especially when you’re ovulating and decide to go and watch him train, the two of you barely make it somewhere alone before he’s got you in the air and inside you.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He’s not a huge fan of quickies. For one, he doesn’t like having to perform under pressure – not that he can’t! He just likes to savour you. Even if you’re both so desperate for each other and clothes off you both still want to take as long as you like; knowing you can tease each other until you can’t take it anymore or have each other again and again if you wish. The possibilities are endless with enough time.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He’s down for most things but I don’t think he’s one to experiment off his own back. He’s more of a tried and tested kind of guy; if he knows something gets you off he’ll do it over and over. You need to be the one to take risks and suggest new things to try.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

The man is a beast, and his stamina is that of a hunting wolf. Some nights he can go three rounds, with breaks in between, each one making him more ravenous for you. Even if he just can’t go another round he still loves making you cum, just once more. Kissing up your leg before laying lazily between them as he eats you out so slowly; building your pleasure until you break like a dam one final time.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He’s not really one for toys; he’d much rather use his own body to pleasure you. That being said he’s not opposed to tying you up. He loves to watch you squirm for him. Maybe once you’re both comfortable enough and Cregan has had time to think about different ways to take you, he uses one of the ties to blindfold you.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He doesn’t particularly get off on it himself; though if you’re into it and he can see how much you’re loving it, of course he’s going to tease the hell out of you until he can get you to cum again and again. He’ll tie you up to stop you touching yourself or reaching out for him and trail a gloved hand over your soft stomach. The leather cool and rough against your warm skin. Cregan loves to watch your muscles twitch and goosebumps raise on your flesh. He loves to go slow when he teases you; the way you get impatient and start begging for him makes him feral.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Cregan isn’t that loud, he’s more of a grunter. He’s a stern rough man and he doesn’t particularly want others to hear him or know what you’re getting up to. But the deep grunts and groans that slip past his lips, getting muffled by your shoulder as he doubles over you, vibrate right through to your very core.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

At your wedding he put his cloak on you, bringing you under his protection and into his family. As a symbol of your marriage and in honour of the fact that your children will carry on his line, he loves to fuck you on his cloak. He lays it out on the bed and throws your naked body onto it – both of you giggling as you know what’s coming next. Its not just about carrying on your line though, it’s the memory of having you laid out for him on there when he wears it outside. Others seeing his cloaked figure as a terrifying symbol of the power and strength of the North; but Cregan also knows that he’s had you screaming his name again and again on it, soaking your scent into the fabric of it. If he risks it he’ll sometime draw his nose closer to the inside of it and inhale deeply.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Cregan is completely in proportion to the rest of his body. His girth always surprises you and, if you’re not prepared, still stings a little. And he’s a good 7 ½ inches, if not more. He can get so nice and deep inside of you; he stretches you out gently at first, making sure you can take him before he pushes into you. If he’s in the right position you can almost feel him at your cervix; he loves to get you into positions where he can feel himself through your stomach, knowing he’s so deep inside you and can breed you so easily.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He’s very good at controlling himself. His appetite isn’t insatiable – he has duties and responsibilities, and as much as you distract him, he is perfectly capable of holding off. That being said, if you tease him too much; the neckline of your dress lowered to distraction or some particularly lingering touches and soft words, expect a long night later on.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He has the entire weight of Winterfell on his shoulders. As much as he loves to lay and talk with you after a long day, more often than not he falls asleep very quickly. You were talking to him one evening about a letter sent from your cousin in the Riverlands, only to hear soft snores from behind you.

[crushmeeren]

ᝰ ILLUMI WHO FUCKS YOU BEHIND HIS PARENTS BACK .ᐟ

master list link

༝ ᭝ ༝ just a little blurb, maybe I could circle back and expand in the future? this is kind of all over the place, but i love illumi and this my first hxh work! ༝ ᭝ ༝

The rhythmic tick of the clock on the wall steals your attention, the murmuring chatter of the other three people in the room muffling as you zone out. It’s mindless, the way your fingers trace over the dark mark sticking out against the conference table like a neon sign. The rich mahogany is smooth, not a splinter in sight.

Your chair creaks when you shift your weight, eyes rolling in annoyance when your foot tingles with pins and needles, the appendage forcing itself awake.

For how rich they are, you’d think the Zoldycks could afford comfortable seats at the very least.

A much larger hand covers your own, halting your repetitive tracing, and you shift your head to the left to be met with your father’s firm gaze, his mouth set in a line. You glance across the table to Silva’s serious expression, then to Illumi’s blank one.

You lock eyes with the younger Zoldyck and something hot jolts in your belly, a deep ache settling between your legs. You linger a bit too long before returning your focus to your Father, who removes his hand from yours. You clear your throat, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet room.

��Yes, father?”

He raises an eyebrow, somewhat amused but hiding it well. “Did you hear anything that was discussed?”

Heat crawls up the back of your neck and into your cheeks, but you manage to keep your features neutral. “No, I’m sorry Father.”

“Silva and I have agreed to allow you to work with Illumi on this mission. We feel it’s best to have you both there,” your Father explains, gesturing towards Illumi. You blink twice, spine straightening, and your pride refuses to let you peak at Illumi and gauge his reaction. You know it’s non existent.

You hesitate, then nod. “I understand Father,” you assure. You turn to Silva with your chin raised. “I’ll be an asset to this mission. I won’t hinder Illumi.”

The soft rustle of Illumi shifting, like he can’t sit still, does not go unnoticed by you.

Silva looks as pleased as he’s capable of and dips his head in acknowledgment. “See to it that you are. Illumi does not fail, and if this mission falls apart, you’ll be the one who is punished.”

“She will not fail,” your Father interrupts, tone sharp at the edges. “She is just as capable as Illumi.”

Your Father and Silva stare each other down for a few tense seconds before Silva concedes, nodding once.

“Very well.”

⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣

“Illumi, fuck,” you moan, tightening your fingers in his soft hair as your lids flutter. Your breath hitches when he sucks the sensitive skin of your inner knee between his lips, intent on leaving a dark hickey. “You know you’re gonna get in trouble if— oh god!” You squeak. Illumi’s teeth bite down harder in an effort to stop you from continuing your sentence. “If your Father finds out, Illumi.” You emphasize his name with a pointed yank to his hair.

Said man’s warm tongue suddenly sweeps up the crease between your pussy and thigh, causing your hips jerk in the direction of his mouth, eager for what comes next.

The dingy white walls and scratchy sheets of the motel bed do nothing to curb the warmth that’s running thick and honeyed in your veins.

Illumi settles fully on his belly, placing his thumbs on either side of your pussy and spreads you apart. He distracted for a split second by how slick he’s gotten you, running his thumb over your pussy before meeting your heavy lidded stare with a bored one. The only evidence of his arousal is the dark pink flush on his cheeks.

And his rock hard cock.

“Why are you concerned with that now?” He asks, tone somewhat annoyed. “You’re aware I’m not bothered by that.” Illumi’s tongue flicks your clit, determined to refocus on the drool worthy sight in front of him. “Don’t you want me to eat your pussy?”

You curse, drawing your knees up and let your thighs fall open as wide as they can. “You know that I do.”

“Then stop whining.”

Illumi’s skilled. He’s precise and to the point, especially when it involves getting you to cum on his tongue. Then he’s in your face, leaving a few inches to separate you as his hair surrounds you, shielding you both from the outside world. When it’s the two of you, the pressure to be perfect fades to background noise.

One hand plants itself by your head, the other gripping the base of his shaft to steady himself. The slick tip bumps your clit, a brief, bright pleasure sparking in your pelvis, and then he shifts down to press forward and slide home.

Your moan is simultaneous with Illumi’s. His jaw clenches tight, eyes pinching together before flashing back open.

“Move,” you command. The assassin, who’s never this compliant, drags his hips back halfway and pushes forward smoothly. The glide is so fucking slick, so fucking hot, and you loop your arms around his neck, tugging until his sweaty forehead lands on yours. The steady roll of his hips builds to a quick pace, the filthy smack of skin colliding filling the room.

Illumi won’t last long. Not after a mission like the one you’d had. It went well, but there was a tremendous amount of fighting, and the tense line of his shoulders shows how worked up he is. He starts to whine with every other breath, dark eyes intense and locked with yours.

Illumi grips one of your legs and shifts it until your knee hooks over his elbow, cock striking your g-spot with each pointed thrust. You cry out his name, pulling him as close as you can despite the awkward angle, and he starts to twitch inside you.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers in a rush, breath hitching as he catches your lips in a kiss, all the emotion he struggles to voice shining through. He sucks on your lower lip and it’s over, pussy fluttering and squeezing Illumi until he makes a choked off sound, surging forward until his balls are snug to your ass. He cums with a broken moan, and you swallow the noise like you’re dying of thirst.

There’s little fanfare after, just a quiet moment where you hug him tight, prompting him to sneak his hands underneath your back to return the gesture. The embrace is sticky and sweaty, overheated.

Illumi places his forehead on your collarbone, brushes his lips over the swell of your breast and pants as he catches his breath. The knowledge that even someone as cool and collected as Illumi needs a moment to gather himself when he’s with you steadies your thundering heart.

“I couldn’t be bothered to care what my Father’s opinion is. At least, not when it comes to you.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

Illumi’s quiet laugh is the best thing you’ve heard all night.

[moonlight-prose]

smoke and ash

a/n: this is based entirely on a post made by the amazing @cavillscurls and i was given permission to write it for her cause the idea actually made my brain go numb. plus just the thought of this man having an oral fixation paired with someone who also has an oral fixation?? beautiful. filthy. spectacular. it's quickly written cause i had the inspo at the time and really didn't want to lose it. so enjoy!

summary: cigar smoke trailed after him with every step, his mouth always desperate for something to wet, something to bite down on. and you with the match between your teeth indulged him every which way.

word count: 1.4k+

pairing: old man!logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY!!, oral fixation, spit kink, choking, dry humping, desperate!logan, overstimulation, cigars, they're fucking messy, dirty talk.

A dark stain of saliva coated the base of a match as you sat sprawled on his leather couch. Your teeth dug into it, creating an indent that would last until you decided it was time to strike the phosphorus and let it burn down. Sometimes they snapped. Other times you tossed them in the trash. Tonight you were intent on lighting it up—solely for the cigar currently stuffed in between his own lips.

He sucked at the end thoughtfully most nights. Glasses perched on the edge of his nose, a book he'd read a hundred times over propped in one hand—whiskey in his other. Half of it was already burnt through. Used within the span of a few days before stubbed out and saved.

“Interesting story?”

The soft hum was all he offered, his eyes flicking back and forth between the lines even though he could recite the words from memory. The pages were worn from use, spine cracked every which way, and you often considered buying him a new copy. If just to give the story a chance to breathe in his mind. Sink beneath the depths of memories that still floated along the surface—seeking to ruminate in the cracks of chaos.

“Logan.”

“Bub?”

“What does it taste like?”

At last he looked up, eyebrows lifted and fingers moving to drag the sticky wet cigar out of his mouth. “This?”

You nodded. “Good or bad or…”

“Better than those fuckin’ matches,” he scoffed, pointedly glaring at the splintered wood between your teeth—a nervous habit you had yet to kick. “C’mere and find out.”

Scrambling off the couch a bit too quickly, you found yourself perched in his lap, legs straddling his hips with a smile painted across your lips. He removed the match, flicking it into the discarded ashtray with contempt—happy to have your mouth empty and waiting. Only to place the soaked butt against your tongue, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip at the sight. You always imagined what the flavor resembled. Until it finally dawned on you.

This is how it tasted to kiss him. The bitter tang of the cigar muted by the flavor of the whiskey he drank and the mints he chewed in his spare time. You sucked on the remnants of his saliva, your mind lighting up at the feel of it. Of having something stuck between your lips, a thing you could fixate on.

“Taste’s like me don’t it?”

You nodded, shifting against his body as the first spark of heat began to slowly meld with the rest of your senses.

“Good girl,” he mumbled, the book forgotten to the side in favor of his hand sliding along your throat, thumb catching just beneath your chin. “Suck on it harder yeah? Want it to taste like ya when I smoke it again.”

A whine cracked in the back of your throat, your hips catching on the zipper of his jeans. “What about you?”

The mumbled words caused spit to drool down to your chin, his eyes tracking the slide of it with a heavy gaze. He wanted to lick it up. Swallow down what you offered. But the sight kept him transfixed—your tongue sliding along the end of the cigar as if it were his cock. Soaking it in your taste enough to drive him a bit closer to the edge, his other hand suddenly a harsh grip on your ass.

“I got what I need,” he replied with ease. “Yeah?”

You nodded, catching the glaze of desire in his dilated pupils. He wanted more than an empty mouth. The cigars appeased a side of him no one saw, a man who ached for something to bite down on, someone to taste even in the most mundane of ways. He was your guard dog looking to chew, to gnaw, even if spit flew out of his mouth with a feral edge of desperation. And with a grin, you stuffed three fingers into his mouth right down to the knuckle.

He took them with a moan, tongue laving over the length of them as his hips bucked up into yours. The hot cavern of his mouth and wet slide of his tongue drew out a sound you never knew you could make. A biting grunt that made spit fly everywhere, splattering against his cheek to mix with his own.

Ripping the cigar from your mouth, you hastily licked around his full mouth. “Suck harder for me baby.”

They met the back of his throat, choking him enough to force his head back. His eyes rolled, nostrils flared, and for a moment you felt the power dynamic shift. You were in charge. Telling him what to do to appease the ache of pleasure growing in the pit of your stomach. And it might have lasted. He very well could have given you complete submission if it weren’t for the lack of the cigar in your mouth.

A growl rumbled up from his chest, eyes flashing dark enough to send a thrill down your spine, and before you could fix your mistake he rectified it for you. Three fingers—to match your own—were pushed harshly against your tongue, hooking behind your teeth to drag your face closer to his. You didn’t need to hear him to know what he wanted.

The intent blazed in his hazel eyes well enough: suck.

Through the haze of wanton lust you felt his hand begin to guide your hips along his crotch. The bulge of his cock straining against denim, pushing the metal zipper up for your clit to catch on each time. Clad in his flannel and cotton panties, you found yourself plummeting towards the burning ache that built faster than you could comprehend.

You ripped your hand from his mouth, burying the spit soaked fingers into his hair to grip him close. But it never remained enough. He wanted to delve beneath your skin. Seek the warmth that seeped from your body where his fingers kneaded and pushed to drag you to a fro. His teeth latched onto your shoulder, the sweater pulled to the side while his fingers met the back of your throat, choking you with their size.

A cry slipped past his knuckles as you humped his clothed cock—dragging yourself inch by inch towards the release you could practically taste. It clung to the tip of your tongue—the saccharine flavor intertwined with the tobacco musk of his fingers. You swallowed around them, drool spilling down your throat and pooling at the top of your breasts.

“That’s it,” he gasped, a line of bites trailing right to the juncture of your neck, his spit smeared across your skin. “Gonna cum for me?”

You whined harshly, body going taut as your clit pulsed rapidly with the impending wave of bliss that tugged sharply on your spine. The pain of his teeth puncturing hard enough to draw blood dragged a knife through the thin strand  of resistance. And you came with his name at the back of your throat and white bursting behind tightly shut eyelids.

“Yes. Fuck–” His growl ran down the length of your spine, body trembling in his tight grasp. “That’s my girl.”

Unconsciously your nails punctured the skin at the back of his neck and with a jolt, he groaned long and ragged against your throat. A dark wet patch formed beneath his jeans as you soaked him with a spit filled cry. The pleasure wrung your body dry, pulling the final dregs of your energy straight from the source. Your chest heaved, mouth a gentle suckle at the very base of his fingers, and Logan could feel you begin to collapse forward into his chest.

“You really like when your mouth is filled,” he mused, lips curling into a smile.

Nodding, your voice was a content hum—his fingers dragging at the back of your teeth, tracing their shape. A kiss was pressed to your head, body slumping further into the chair with you atop him.

“Gonna get you some more matches in the mornin’,” he mumbled lazily. “My pretty girl needs a treat for being so good.”

Your heart fluttered, eyes glistening with the devotion you’d never dare to hide. The love that burned with the power of an eternal flame. Settling into his body, you felt his hand drag along the expanse of your thigh. Calming the storm in his mind—a catastrophe you longed to weather with him.

You were the balm to his weathered soul.

A permanent fixation of smoke and ash that surrounded his charred and splintered heart that burned for you.

[cupcakeslushie]

hey, a Kendratello Au question:

if Donnie DOES manage to somehow recover from Kendra and realize that he was being manipulated and used by her, will he develop some kind of trauma or PTSD? Or something probably worse than that?

Draxum works in tandem with Leo to watch over Donnie’s health. But Leo let’s Draxum take the lead. They’re more worried about the immediate concerns, like Donnie’s fever, and mental health. His ninpo will grown stronger once those things are addressed. Splinter is pulled in five different directions. Donnie is his main focus, but Raph, April, and Mikey are ignoring their own health and need to be watched closely as well. He’s trusting Draxum in the first few days, and provided support where he’s better suited. They will all be needed at some point. Splinter knows this will be a looooong recovery, and keeps trying to remind the others that they need to rest too.

They weren’t that bothered by the idea, when Kendra pitched it. But seeing how wrecked Donnie became, they started to feel bad. Which is why, when the family saves Donnie, Jeremy and Jason grab all of Donnie’s tech and find Raph to return it. Jeremy even grabbed S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s AI chip and removed all of Kendra mods. Donnie will still have to rebuild him, but he will be just like before.

When Raph brings Donnie his shell, Donnie’s thoughts are “at least I’ll have some protection when I irritate them too much.”

[cockslutpadalecki]

There Is A Heaven, Lets Keep It A Secret

Summary: The owner of the brothel you were sold to only offered you to the ghoul in the hopes it would frighten you. To stop you from trying to run away. You weren’t meant to actually like it.

Characters: The Ghoul/Cooper Howard x F!Reader.

Words: ~1K.

Warnings: ghoul fucking, what else can I say? Mostly PWP, some initially unintended angst, 18+.

A/N: Dedicated to the queens that are @sweeterthanthis & @likedovesinthewnd ❤️ Not beta’ed so all errors, spelling mistakes and general bullshit are entirely mine.

The smell of leather and day old blood used to turn your stomach. But as Cooper slams his glove over your mouth to keep you quiet, your gut rolls with something that’s so far removed from revulsion, it makes your eyes roll into the back of your head.

Pavlovian instinct or not, warmth blossoms in your core, and flames take root in your veins until all you can feel is unmistakable heat.

“Ssh sweetheart,” he coos in Texan above you. “Can’t have them knowin’ you like it. You wouldn’t want me to stop comin’ around, would ya?”

He doesn’t need your affirmation in words. The way your cunt pulses around him is more enough to tell him what he already knows.

The ghoul was only meant to scare you into staying. To put you in your place.

But the more he keeps coming back, the more of the man beneath the irradiated skin shines through.

Initial terror morphs into adoration and some nights, when the raiders decide to get a little rough, you find yourself hiding inside your head— fantasising that it’s his hands on you instead.

But the fantasy only lasts briefly. Cooper Howard would never.

Unless you ask him nice and pretty.

You stare up at him, his eyes lost in the way your breasts bounce from the force of his thrusts. He ruts into you with abandon, the loud slap of his hips against your ass echoing around the room. The obscenity makes heat creep up your spine, and settle thick beneath your cheeks.

You can’t have anyone knowing that these moments are all that keep you sane.

“Maybe it ain’t gonna be your mouth that reveals your truth, after all, honey,” Cooper observes with a husk.

A free hand slides up your writhing body, and a gloved thumb runs circles over your pebbling nipple. Your back arches at the contact, forcing your hips up. His stare catches yours over the top of leather.

“There you are, little Jet,” he smiles.

Cooper lifts your leg over his shoulder, the contrast in depth steals the breath from your lungs. He notices— must see the way your eyes widen as he slides back inside you, right up to the root. Your hand flies up, tightening your grip around his wrist.

“Right there, huh?” With another brash smile, he presses his lips firm against the inside of your knee. The kiss sends pulses of electricity firing straight to your core.

Fuck. If there was still a God, you’d pray.

There was a part of you that used to hate how easily he managed to unravel the components that make you weak.

But hate fast became a need. Now you welcome it. Crave it.

Your stomach lurches with heat the moment his pace begins to quicken. Everything suddenly heightens around you— heartbeat and all five of the senses— and it’s evident your end is close to catching you.

“You gonna give me what I came for, sweetheart?” His voice is gentle, but his actions are not.

You nod. You’d give him your fucking life at this point.

His hand slides off your mouth, settling loosely around your throat like a necklace. “Wanna hear you beg.”

You lick your lips wet, the words, “Please, Coop,” hissing quietly through your teeth. Just loud enough for him to hear.

He smirks. His free hand finds its way between your legs without a second thought, and the roughness of the leather against your sensitive clit is everything you need to tumble over the edge.

Cooper clamps his hand back over your mouth, hurrying to stifle your scream as you splinter beneath him. Stars swell, bursting into bright white behind your eyes just as the tremors start off in your thighs. Euphoria claims you for its own, and by the time you’re finished, your entire body is shaking with delirium.

He stares down at you in awe, hips snapping to a rhythm that has you keening into the palm of his glove. Leather and blood encompass you. Your body ripples from the weight of Cooper’s body against yours, your name wrapped up within his lips as he surrenders to his high.

When he moves out from between your legs, you’re too fucked out to pull him back in. Every inch of you needs him back.

You hate this moment the most. The awkward silence before he has to leave. And as he glances at you over his shoulder, tipping his hat in your direction like the goddamn gentlemen he still is beneath the surface, you feel a twinge in your chest.

“Until next time sweetheart,” he drawls thickly.

You flash him a small smile. “I’ll be here, Coop, just like always.”

And just like always, you’ll be counting down the days like it’s fucking Christmas.

[inkskinned]

one of the things that i think we should pay attention to, socially, about the disney v. desantis thing is that it is really highlighting the importance of remembering nuance.

in a purely neutral sense, if you engage in something problematic, that does not mean you are necessarily agreeing with what makes it problematic. and i am worried that we have become... so afraid of any form of nuance.

disney isn't my friend, they're a corporate monopoly that bastardized copyright laws for their own benefit, ruin the environment, and abuse their workers (... and many other things). this isn't a hypothetical for me - i grew up in florida. i also worked for the actual Walt Disney World; like, in the parks. i am keenly aware of the ways they hurt people, because they hurt me. i fully believe that part of the reason florida is so conservative is because it's been an "open secret" for years now that disney lobbies the government to keep minimum wage down, and i know they worked hard to keep the parks unmasked and open during the worst parts of Covid. they purposefully keep their employees in poverty. they are in part responsible for the way the floridian government works.

desantis is still, by a margin that is frankly daunting, way worse. the alternative here isn't just "republicans win", it's actual fascism.

in a case like this, where the alternative is to allow actual fascism into united states legislation - where, if desantis wins, there are huge and legal ramifications - it's tempting to minimize the harm disney is also doing, because... well, it's not fascism. but disney isn't the good guy, either, which means republicans are having a field day asking activists oh, so you think their treatment of their employees is okay?

we have been trained there is a right answer. you're right! you're in the good group, and you're winning at having an opinion.

except i have the Internet Prophecy that in 2-3 months, even left-wing people will be ripping apart activists for having "taken disney's side". aren't i an anti-capitalist? aren't i pro-union? aren't i one of the good ones? removed from context and nuance (that in this particular situation i am forced to side with disney, until an other option reveals itself), my act of being like "i hope they have goofy rip his throat out onstage, shaking his lifeless body like a dog toy" - how quickly does that seem like i actually do support disney?

and what about you! at home, reading this. are you experiencing the Thought Crime of... actually liking some of the things disney has made? your memories of days at the parks, or of good movies, or of your favorite show growing up. maybe you are also evil, if you ever enjoyed anything, ever, at all.

to some degree, the binary idealization/vilification of individual motive and meaning already exists in the desantis case. i have seen people saying not to go to the disney pride events because they're cash grabs (they are). i've seen people saying you have to go because they're a way to protest. there isn't a lot of internet understanding of nuance. instead it's just "good show of support" or "evil bootlicking."

this binary understanding is how you can become radicalized. when we fear nuance and disorder, we're allowing ourselves the safety of assuming that the world must exist in binary - good or bad, problematic or "not" problematic. and unfortunately, bigots want you to see the world in this binary ideal. they want you to get mad at me because "disney is taking a risk for our community but you won't sing their praises" and they want me to get mad at you for not respecting the legit personal trauma that disney forced me through.

in a grander scheme outside of disney: what happens is a horrific splintering within activist groups. we bicker with each other about minimal-harm minimal-impact ideologies, like which depiction of bisexuality is the most-true. we gratuitously analyze the personal lives of activists for any sign they might be "problematic". we get spooked because someone was in a dog collar at pride. we wring our hands about setting an empty shopping mall on fire. we tell each other what words we may identify ourselves by. we get fuckin steven universe disk horse when in reality it is a waste of our collective time.

the bigots want you to spend all your time focusing on how pristine and pretty you and your interests are. they want us at each other's throats instead of hand in hand. they want to say see? nothing is ever fucking good enough for these people.

and they want their followers to think in binary as well - a binary that's much easier to follow. see, in our spaces, we attack each other over "proper" behavior. but in bigoted groups? they attack outwards. they have someone they hate, and it is us. they hate you, specifically, and you are why they have problems - not the other people in their group. and that's a part of how they fucking keep winning.

some of the things that are beloved to you have a backbone in something terrible. the music industry is a wasteland. the publishing industry is a bastion of white supremacy. video games run off of unpaid labor and abuse.

the point of activism was always to bring to light that abuse and try to stop it from happening, not to condemn those who engage in the content that comes from those industries. "there is no ethical consumption under late capitalism" also applies to media. your childhood (and maybe current!) love of the little mermaid isn't something you should now flinch from, worried you'll be a "disney adult". wanting the music industry to change for the better does not require that you reject all popular music until that change occurs. you can acknowledge the harm something might cause - and celebrate the love that it has brought into your life.

we must detach an acknowledgment of nuance from a sense of shame and disgust. we must. punishing individual people for their harmless passions is not doing good work. encouraging more thoughtful, empathetic consumption does not mean people should feel ashamed of their basic human capacities and desires. it should never have even been about the individual when the corporation is so obviously the actual evil. this sense that we must live in shame and dread of our personal nuances - it just makes people bitter and hopeless. do you have any idea how scared i am to post this? to just acknowledge the idea of nuance? that i might like something nuanced, and engage in it joyfully? and, at the same time, that i'm brutally aware of the harm that they're doing?

"so what do i do?" ... well, often there isn't a right answer. i mean in this case, i hope mickey chops off ron's head and then does a little giggle. but truth be told, often our opinions on nuanced subjects will differ. you might be able to engage in things that i can't because the nuance doesn't sit right with me. i might think taylor swift is a great performer and a lot of fun, and you might be like "raquel, the jet fuel emissions". we are both correct; neither of us have any actual sway in this. and i think it's important to remember that - the actual scope of individual responsibility. like, i also love going to the parks. Thunder Mountain is so fun. you (just a person) are not responsible for the harm that Disney (the billion dollar corporation) caused me. i don't know. i think it's possible to both enjoy your memories and interrogate the current state of their employment policies.

there is no right way to interrogate or engage with nuance - i just hope you embrace it readily.

[spxfav]

Orange

Summary: Post Tobias Hankel Spencer, struggling to stop taking dilaudid and spiralling in darkness finds light in the one he loves most <3

Warnings: Anxiety, drug dependency, panic attacks, depression (I think that's it, please let me know if I missed any)

Word count: 3.2k

a/n: Hi guys! This is my first time writing something longer than a bot for Spencer, so I really really hope you'll like it! The way I chose to portray his depression and anxiety here is very much based on how I experienced it, so this is very important to me. Let me know if you'd like a part two! Enjoy!

Spencer was wasting away, fading. His dark eyes no longer shone like they used to. His pretty smile was now a rare sight to see. His nerdy contributions to conversations were now scarce - that is, if he ever interacted with anyone anymore.

He felt hollow, no longer being motivated to do anything but the one thing he knew he shouldn't. Dilaudid.

That little bottle now went everywhere with him. The flask and the demons that haunted him after Tobias, clinging to him and punishing him for whatever bad thing he had done to deserve this. And he was sure he had done something. He just couldn't understand why so many bad things kept happening to him, following him from his childhood to his adult years. Even with all the science in the world, the only explanation plausible enough was that he had done something terrible in his past life and was now paying for it.

Despite the leave Hotch let him take having ended two days ago, he still hadn't shown up to work. This was new to him. He'd always loved going to the bureau, even if it was just for paperwork. Now, he could barely read three lines out of his favourite book.

Time was blurry, a haze of sobering up and searching the high once again with pauses destined for the bathroom and occasionally to eat - when his stomach hurt enough to remind him he had to. Apart from that, he never left his bed, hopelessly wishing he could sleep without being hunted by the flashbacks of his time in that shed, of the splinters he wasn't able to remove after digging his own grave. His hands were now raw in the parts he had scrubbed out the skin to take the little wooden pieces off of him. He barely felt it. He barely even felt anything.

He knew it wasn't rational, but the empathy and guilt he felt for the man who kidnapped him was so intense it did nothing but contribute to his numb state.

So, alone, he spent his days, going through flask after flask of the forbidden liquid, cursing himself for not being strong enough to stop and wishing Tobias had never reanimated him back at the cemetery.

Naturally, after dealing with a schizophrenic mother all alone as a child, and being forced to grow up faster than he should have, he fiercely believed he had to solve this problem alone, like he's always done.

You, however, didn't. With the many gift baskets sent by Penelope and the sweet voice that was enough to make his demons dissipate - at least while you talked -, the time you spent sitting by his locked door always left him feeling somewhat relieved.

Sitting on the cold hardwood floor with sweaty damp hair clinging to his forehead, Spencer listened quietly as you talked, not giving you any hint that he was there. Part of him didn't believe he deserved those acts of kindness from you, so he hid himself in the shadows, and, as if forbidden, served as audience to your stories about events he missed. He noticed, even in his usually drugged state, that you tried your best to lighten up the stories, probably afraid to trigger something in him. If only you knew there was no need for a trigger.

x

It was a Wednesday, and the pouring rain that came through the window he forgot to close and got him and his bed soaked was almost enough to make him give up on the day, even if he had been up for only two minutes and 28 seconds.

But he couldn't. Because giving up would mean he'd have to sit in the wet sheets all day, and despite everything, he still had issues with the feeling of wet things against his skin.

Dragging himself out of bed, he gave up on the challenge of changing the sheets and settled for his sofa instead.

"I'm changing ambiens. This is improving."

The lie of getting better was more of a sentence he said as a form to attract it, though he never made the effort to stop himself from deteriorating further. That was merely an excuse for the voice in the back of his mind to scold him further. It started with his incapability of getting clean. Then, his lack of shower. After, came the barely eating and now, the sulking in bed - or in this case, the sofa.

His mood was as gray and dull as the weather, and the sound of the rain falling did little to comfort him through the many nightmares plagued naps that he eventually gave up on. This was the moment of the day he went to his bedside table and retrieved the little ornate box with the needles and the bottles of the clear liquid. This was the moment of peace, of relief.

His mind was hazy, clouded by the momentary pleasure only the dilaudid was able to provide when the familiar knock on the door came.

“Hi Spence.” You said, your honey, homey voice wafting through the apartment and reaching his ears.

Automatically, he stumbled across the living room, and, in an all but gracious way, dropped by the door. That was the first time you heard him move inside as you talked to him, and as minimal as it was, it brought a smile to your face.

“I think I heard you fall. Knock twice if you’re hurt.”

No knocks. So, he was okay. Or as much as possible.

“The day was boring. No new cases today.” You start talking, the daily briefing session that grew more and more important to his weary mind filling the previously silent apartment, your voice sounding like a melody to his stoned brain.

“But I thought of you.” His ears perked up, his spine straightening as he focused intently on the next words.

“Can you believe there was no sugar for the coffee? Not in the coffee station, not anywhere in the building.” It was silly. Stupid. But it made you think of him, and if he was on your mind, he was happy.

“That’s absurd.” He murmurs, a little out of it.

You freeze, too surprised that he said something this time. It was the first time you heard him speak in almost two weeks. It was muffled, and too low for you to understand, but it was words, and that was better than nothing.

“It is.” You say, trying not to draw much attention to the fact that he spoke. You didn’t want to scare him away.

“What happened next?” He asked quietly, almost as if talking to you was a mistake. To him, it was actually a privilege he didn’t deem himself worthy of.

“Garcia went down to a local coffee shop with Emily and they stole a bunch of packets for us. They came back running as if they had stolen a bank.” You say and chuckle, hearing the faintest of laughs inside from him. He was laughing. That was good. Amazing, actually.

“Good. Can’t imagine being without sugar.” He murmurs, and you couldn’t see the small smile on his lips at the first sign of normalcy after so long in the dark.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure when you get back there’ll be as much sugar as you want.”

Silence.

You wait, and wait, and wait, but he doesn’t speak again.

“Spence?” You ask, and the only other sound you hear that day is him getting up and stumbling away.

x

“When you get back.”

Those words plagued him for the rest of the day, which he spent locked up in his room to try and muffle your voice as you continued talking on the other side of his front door. Just the thought of it terrified him.

At first, he imagined it was out of fear of living something like his experience with Hankel again. But when he passed by the mirror in the bathroom and saw how he looked, he understood the real reason.

Deep dark circles. Hollow cheeks. Lifeless eyes. Hair greasier than it had ever been in his whole life. Pajamas stained with food he couldn’t identify. Grown out beard. He had gotten used to the smell by now, but he was sure it would be strong to anyone else.

He was disgusting. Gross.

Useless. Undeserving. A junkie.

His breathing quickened, but it was like no air came. One shaky hand moved to his heart, feeling the fast and strong beats. It felt like drums in a rock song. Like the cart of a rollercoaster against the rails. Like horses running freely.

Except there was no freedom. He felt trapped, desperate. Hopeless.

And as he fell to the ground and tears pricked his eyes, he was sure he might die.

No one will understand. No one will try to understand.

Suddenly death didn’t seem so bad. But just like it happened so many times before in his life, it was an easy way out. And nothing was easy for him.

So, fifteen minutes later, the needle in his arm was the only thing capable of taming the panic attack that still coursed through his veins.

x

When he rolled around on his bed, sweating from the nightmare, the room was spinning. Or maybe it was just his brain.

Either way, the open box on the bedside table, the not discarded needle and the torniquet still on his arm were explanation enough for what had happened the night before. He exaggerated. Again.

The day after these episodes were always the worst. Sickness, dizziness. Loss of strength in his muscles. That was also when the thoughts got worse.

It was ironic, really, that he went through almost a whole flask in hopes of drowning the voices only to wake up with them stronger than ever. It was a cycle. But then again, wasn’t all of this?

The world was a blur, a mix of living nightmares and not very healthy thoughts, and in the end, he caught himself wishing you’d show up.

Laughing, whispers of love and beautiful promises. That was how the world was around you. And even through the thick wood of his front door, he was still selfish enough to crave a glimpse of the Heaven you held in your hands; of the salvation from this twisted reality he found himself trapped in.

Spencer wasn’t the most emotional of men. In fact, before you, all his research pointed to him lacking the brain connections that allowed one to feel anything remotely romantic. He was sure he was okay without love, and he was sure he would always be.

But then you came, and it was like buying his first glasses all over again: suddenly the world was clear, and so much more beautiful.

It was hard for him to describe what he felt. He could only think of one simple way to put it. It was all orange.

x

“Hi, Spence” The melody of the notes that compose your voice echoed around the apartment, making the faintest of smiles bloom in his face.

For the past three days, you had managed to make him talk more and more. At first, it was weird. Alone in his apartment, the only things his walls had heard in the past few weeks were his terrorized nightly screams and the incoherent mumbles that occasionally made themselves present.

“Listen, I brought you something” You say and wait to see if he had any contributions. When he remains quiet, you continue. “I called your mom’s facility” His eyes shot open, and he sat up straighter on the floor. “Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything. I figured if someone was to tell, it should be you” The simple reassurance was enough to calm him down the slightest. “I called to ask her for the recipe of those peppermint cookies you told me about a few months ago.”

The smell of baked sugar filled the small kitchen. Days like these were good. Days when his mom was okay. When she was his mom again, and he had the freedom to be the child his seven-year-old self deserved to be.

“I made some” Your voice cuts through the first good memory h’s had since everything went down. “I’m sure they’re not as good as hers, but they’re not bad either. I have them here, I could drop them off with the baskets Penelope brought and yo-“

The sudden movement of the door opening catches you by surprise as you stumble back, no longer having a surface to rest your back on.

He opened the door. He really opened the door.

Spencer stood there, looking down at you and seeming even more surprised than you did. His eyes flickered over your form, heart beating faster. God, how he missed the sight of this angel.

He looked different from what you remembered. Dark stubble covering his face, messy and greasy hair, sleeves rolled up to reveal an arrangement of needle punctures. For a moment, neither of you say a word, simply taking in the sight of the one person you each missed more than breathing. That was when Spencer realised it. He’d rather die in that shed a thousand times more than go another day without seeing your face. The pictures he had really did you no justice, not when you looked more beautiful than a diamond, with its carbon atoms so perfectly aligned, creating what is believed to be one of the most precious objects on Earth. You didn’t even compare to that.

“You made me cookies?” He asks, looking down at the little box in your hands, the faint smell of the cookies reaching his nose.

“Yes. Yes, I did. They’re still a bit warm, I baked them before coming here.” You stand up, quickly enough to drop your blood pressure slightly, but not enough to startle him.

When he takes the box from your hands and, without another word, walks inside leaving the door open for you. There’s no hesitation in your steps as you follow him in. And the sight that welcomes you is nothing but heartbreaking. His once so perfectly organized place – at least according to the system only he understood – was now a mess. There were books on the floor, take-out boxes on every table, dirty clothes on the floor.

He wafted through the chaos, eyes never leaving the box as he opened it and threw himself on the sofa. Carefully, he picks up a cookie, and after an experimental bite, a single tear rolls down his face. Then another, and another, and another until the dam breaks and he is full on sobbing on the sofa, crushing the cookie as his hands close into fists and his shoulders shake.

Your heart, shattered already, breaks even further, and when you sit next to him, you feel shocked as he falls into your arms. His arms are tucked between your bodies, his face buried on your chest, and you don’t have the heart to tell him he smells the tiniest bit. No, not now. You could tell him he needed a shower when he didn’t look like a vulnerable child, climbing on your lap.

“It’s okay… shh…” His brain barely registers your comforting words, too busy paying attention to the way your fingers card through his hair without a hint of disgust. He knew he loved the right person, especially because of moments like this. You were just… perfect. It was cliché, but Spencer genuinely could not think of any other way of describing you.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” His voice was almost inaudible, filled with a gut-wrenching guilt for doing this to you. “I’m s-sorry”

“Don’t be. It’s okay, you’re okay. I’m here” Your voice, the soft murmur of reassurance breaks him even further, relieving him of the pressure of the guilt he had been feeling for so long.

That day, he cried until he fell asleep in your arms. Not for a second did you let go of him, your hands always gentle and loving as you caressed his hair. For the first time in two weeks and four days, he slept with no nightmares.

x

The sound of steps moving around his apartment was the first thing he registered when he woke up. Rubbing his eyes and sitting up on the couch, he looked around, groggy and with his head pounding from crying.

You had your back turned to him as you cleaned his kitchen, the smell of something in the oven making his stomach growl slightly. Then he notices it. No clothes on the floor. No takeout boxes around. Books neatly on the shelves. You had cleaned his place while he slept.

For a minute, he simply watches you, dark eyes following your movements around the kitchen as you wash and dry dishes. Then you turn, and the small, concerned smile that forms on your lips as you walk closer is enough to send his heart racing in his chest again.

“You’re up. How did you sleep?” You ask, stopping behind the couch as your fingers lovingly brush his messy hair out of his face.

“Fine. How long was I out?” He asks and clears his throat, voice slightly gruff.

“About three hours. I didn’t want to wake you, so I cleaned up. And made dinner. You still like lasagna, right?”

His eyes stare directly at your face, and for a moment, he considers a crazy theory.

Maybe he had died that day in the shed. He died, and the last couple of days were his time spent in some sort of imbo. But now he was in Heaven. That had to be it. As irrational as it was, how else could he explain the presence of an angel in front of him so suddenly? Besides, he always thought that if the Realm of God was a real place, if his paradise was real, you’d be there.

“Spencer?” He blinks, and the world still has a happy veil over it when his eyelids open and his irises meet your face again.

“Yes. Yes, I like lasagna.” He nods, eyes fixed on you.

Maybe life wasn’t so bad after all.

x

The door closed behind you, and the illusion left just as fast. The light that seemed to follow you was gone, his world buried in darkness and numbness again. Your presence made him feel so light as you talked his ears off today. He didn’t mind. Not when he smiled more in a couple of hours than in the last two weeks. Not when you two were sitting so close, cuddling on the couch. Not when your lasagna had tasted like the best dish he ever ate.

But now you were gone, and all that is left for him to do is climb back in bed. His sheets are clean now – you changed them – and the overused pajamas on his body feel sinful against the fabric. What was meant to be a good thing only served to send him spiraling again, and as most nights, this one ended with a small pinch and the sting of the liquid as he applied it on his forearms.

Who knows? Maybe the delusions would bring you back tonight.

[comfortless]

Only Other

chapter two of three.

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical au (set around 350BC); potential inaccuracies as i am no historian!, König speaks some German here (as opposed to Gothic), mutual pining & worship, mentions of an arranged marriage with a large age gap, slight sexism, descriptions of violence & gore, more groping, allusions to abduction, dubious consent to a nonsexual genital inspection, animal death, minor character death, masturbation.

wc: 10.6k.

<- previous.

Everything feels unsound, a thicket of heavy vine curling it’s way up from the dirt to settle over you, in your belly, hair, anywhere. Sharp thorns and sap so thick you could drown.

Gaius is here, again, poised with his arms folded over his chest. You swallow thickly after you ask him to repeat what he’s just said. Something about eyes and ears between every crevice, beneath every board. He had a litany of reasons to believe you were not the sweet little maiden he had promised a halfway decent life to.

Careful as you thought you were, sneaking past the gate to roll in moonlight with the giant men of myth and smell the beasts and their pelts past the wall… The following morning had been the downfall of bliss. People take note when wolves begin to sniff around their cattle, and it’s no surprise that König was noted doing just that when he brought you back here on his horse with some sort of bloated pride when he named you his ‘Göttin’.

“Disrobe,” Gaius commands for the second time. The voice that comes from cracked lips and weathered jowls never falters: always so self-assured, stern, and where it may have sparked an interest in you from anyone else, here… it only feels vile. He’s the embodiment of the city itself: worn, cracking, splintered filth, left alone to wind and twist out of control.

You imagine he must have taken up the demeanor during his days as a centurion, but your head clouds when you try to recall the many times he’s monologued those times to you. Like his proposal, the dowry and arrangements, all of it feels blurry in your mind. You lose yourself to it when the strap is slipped down your shoulder, your body goading you do as asked for the sake of fewer future headaches.

There are no lemures looming over your shoulders these days, they only guide his hand, his voice. They haunt you in the shape of Gaius, an old hawk that screeches the commands you’ve no place to refuse.

The stola drops to your ankles with a dreadfully slow sweep, a century passed in a bolt of lightning. It pools down at your feet in a river of white. Graciously, Gaius doesn’t prompt you to remove the breast band where the truth of your bout lies embedded in little bruises, the mark of teeth scraped right by your areola in a rolling fit of passion.

Your betrothed boxes you in against the bench until the backs of your knees meet the wood, guides you down with weighty palms until you’re seated: feet pressed onto the seat, knees brought back toward your chest. In earnest, your stomach froths with a displeasure and embarrassment, but this is not the first time that the man had taken to inspect your pussy as if it’s your only worth in the world.

Whichever malady he possesses to make him like this… you could only hope that König did not have it. This weak, old soldier would be nothing short of a toothless dog should your bull take to charge him.

What was a dull glimmer of longing for his safety immediately sours to a wish for his goring when those cold fingers tug your loincloth aside and you’re laid bare for him right there on the bench.

The old creep inspects your cunt as though he were a medicinal woman. His fingers part your parched labia, not so much as a dewdrop of arousal there— completely unlike how your body had only seemed to melt and sing its pleas for König. He doesn’t whisper his pleasures in Latin about how pretty it is down there, doesn’t capture your mouth in a kiss that scorches you right through, only probes and prods at your slit to see if there’s any give.

Of course there isn’t.

It wouldn’t have mattered if you let the entire barbarian camp take their turns with you; you wouldn’t be any more blooming for Gaius. Men like him didn’t have the slightest idea of how to make a lady soft and dewing, they only thought that they did.

You knew with a certainty that this wasn’t normal by any stretch. After the first instance, asking the women nestled against their open windows, humming to sleeping infants curled on their chests only prompted sympathetic stares. “Have you no midwife?,” one had replied, face paled as she looked to you: the pitiable woman who had been inspected like a strange fish just for bartering with a man at his market stall for bread. Gaius had not found a thing then, and you had only begun to doubt his intelligence.

… Did he even know what a hymen was?

You will keep your secrets, and he will always play the fool. That’s just how peace would operate once you did share a roof with him.

“Well?,” you prompt, shifting a little in your seat when his cold fingers move to grip the plush of your parted thighs, examining closer with a low, raspy gasp.

A feint that earns no response.

Seemingly satisfied by a lack of a shimmering semen trail or whatever dullards like Gaius sought, he scowls and backs away, hands falling to his sides. There’s no bulge stirring beneath his toga, either. There’s an absence of anything that would make your relationship seem anything more than some strange transaction.

If anything at all, you have become a kept dove, clipped wings and cooing in a gilded cage. No more a wife than a pet or a pretty, glittering jewel. Something meant to waste away its days possessed.

You didn’t even know why he had chosen you, a lady with no gold, silk, or land to her name. Everything you owned he had given to you. Father, mother… whether or not you even had siblings, you were uncertain. Trying to remember only stirs up another aching in your head and you’ve had more than enough to worry about lately without the added sting,

“You’ve done no wrong.” It’s decided in a cold tone of voice. There’s a belief there, but only because the truth of the matter would make him look entirely the part of the fool that he seemed to play without notice.

“As I said.” You won’t run pleading to Juno for her forgiveness this time, or ever again. For the goddess of marriages and women to bless you with… this. Surely she never favored you very much at all.

You wouldn’t waste your bronze coins on fortune tellers anymore, either.

“Mind your words, girl.” He pats your cheek, feigning an affection that has never been present in this villa, in this city at all. You feel little more than like one of the slave girls— not whipped into submission, their plight was always far worse, but if you looked into their eyes for a moment too long, you knew you would find a part of yourself held there.

You nod your head and carry on puppeting yourself as you always have. Conversation comes stiffly as he wanders about your little home, noting what would need fixing before the night of your wedding, checking your food stores and even helping himself to a bone cup filled with wine. Even with it offered to your lips, speaking with him does not come any easier.

Finally, you utter the words that have nagged at the back of your throat since the day of his proposal, “Why do you want for us to be wed?”

The man pauses as he sets the cup aside, finger drumming at the rim momentarily as he regards you with an upturned brow.

“Your father’s dying wish was for us to be married.”

“Yes, but… who was he?”

“A great warrior.” That’s the only explanation you ever get, even when the confusion paves way to a simmering concern. How could you not remember your own kin? It seemed so unfathomable. Seeing so many large families walk these same streets as you… and yet you only had Gaius, hardly better company than a corpse.

“That’s all that you ever tell me.”

“… You will make a great wife.” He concludes the conversation, gives you a firm kiss on the cheek and leaves you to stew in the nothingness that haunts this place as though it were an ancient tomb.

Your days remain the same, nothing ever changing in your eternal cage that only grows ever-colder, more and more like a crypt.

Stitching, weaving, flowing. The animals needed tending, the marketplace was always bustling, and you’ve stopped listening to the poets. Their words only make you feel colder now.

You have met the things that lurk beyond these walls, and they do not speak of bubbling creeks and your gods; they soak their weapons in you, whisper like the trees and bellow like the mountains, ride their horses into battle without a scrap of armor on their hides. They don’t even fear the lemures or Jupiter’s lightning strikes. Maybe not even the changing seasons; harvests must be plentiful when your home isn’t surrounded by chalked clay and ivory.

You don’t turn to Juno any more, but you do turn to Mars. You pray not for the empire, but for his bastard.

Her altar had been tucked away to a corner of your room, replaced now by a stagnant cup of wine you dutifully purge and refill each night, a stray dagger you had acquired from a thieving child on the street, and a strip of red fabric torn away from an old tunic belonging to your betrothed.

When night comes and the weight of it all curls over your shoulders, you find yourself tugged down to the floor on your knees, whispering great fortune for that arrogant beast who had promised to take you to bed when next you meet. It always starts the same, your voice pleads to Mars, only to dither off to murmurings of a different name.

Though he remains distant, barking and bleeding out prey far from you, some semblance of him remains tucked between your ribs. A small echo, one that only seems to grow into a roar when your eyes close and you dream of wolves and their sharp-fanged promises, wisps of wind through low-hanging branches and not paved streets, dirt giving way beneath your feet.

He holds you in those dreams, whispers to you about your false gods when you stand over a stream, points out the only two in existence amidst the reflection with a curled finger.

In those dreams, you think you hear the voice of Mars, a fluttering leaf on the breeze detached from what he’s come to be: it tells you of thyme and rosemary, a foreign glade, of death and longing, and never does it breathe fire.

Then, you wake, ripped from the Elysian and back to wander Orcus with a heavier weight upon your soul.

— — —

Mars answers your prayers in the late autumn.

You do not wake to the sounds of horses or crackling fires outside, only something quieted and peaceful. The street beyond your window is silent as you stretch out to see what’s stirred you; not an animal or a man lies in wait, only the cool gloom of the moon tucked beneath clouds above.

Time only seems to pass more viciously these months. There’s a wedding to be had when the seasons changed; your yellow-red veil had been stitched with trembling fingers nicked several times over by needle, the lectus had been prepared and set on the first floor of the villa. The red cloth covering the modest couch seemed a threat in itself. You don’t hazard it a glance when you wander out of the door to take to the street tonight.

Dim moonlight does little to guide you, only making each shadow seem to stretch and warp in mocking, uninvited guests to set your shivering heart spinning.

There is just no time anymore, not here.

There, sits an owl atop a roof. Its dark wings stretched out as if to begin another flight, to coo its retribution to the sleeping city. You don’t dare to attempt to capture it, there would be no ritual tonight and no care if some harbinger brought doom to this place. It regards you with shimmering yellow eyes, and you think, for just a moment that you see the same feral look in them that you saw in your warrior. The bird wasn’t always the omen that others may claim, sometimes it’s only a sign.

The son of Mars has returned, his horse is waiting to take you upon its broad back and carry you to the mountains and the sea.

The chill on the breeze only guides each step you take as you clamber through that chipping hole in the wall and flee to the field once again. Strangely enough, the air even feels different out here, colder still but devoid of the shadows that climb and crush. The soldiers usually stationed outside the wall are not present now. You only reason that it was rare that they ever were, anyway, always too bathed in wine and kisses from flighty little women slaves to focus on the scape just beyond.

And there, further out from the opposite bank the stream, you see the glow of a fire.

It was strange to see the Goths had returned before your city’s own soldiers. Perhaps you had slept through their march, tucked away at some vast banquet filled with pillaged riches, the finest of wines and the most fresh of smoked meats before you had even begun to stir. Peculiar thing, being so accustomed to the rituals of men that for the most part you had learned not to even bat an eye. It mattered not, anyhow. What you sought was not another Roman to steal away your aspirations to take you as his woman.

Your pace is light and tentative, feeling the earth sink and mold around your bare soles. The thorns risen up from grass dare not poke you with their spines, the owls lurking in the trees do not chase or call, and the horses in the pastures seem at ease.

Even in a world bathed in black and silver, you feel golden, warmed from temple to ankle by that someone other lurking just beyond reach. The other gods could be condemned— it was Mars at your side all along.

The barbarian camp is in a similar state to when you had first seen it, just as you are with the ends of your gown drenched in water from the stream.

There are fewer to their numbers now. You count only three: two busied away with roasting meat over the fire, one running his blade over a flat stone at the mouth of his tent. You recognize them, somewhat, as you step closer, each just as imposing as the first with thick hair and wild eyes, but there’s no sign of König, not here in the open.

You’re stricken by fear immediately, clouding your head with doubt and worry: not for your own safety, but at the thought that your warrior was left to rot in the forests beyond, struck down by some other barbarian king.

You’re stood at the edge of the camp when your breath grows thin, pulse racing as your veins try in earnest not to burst with panic.

One of the men rises from the fire, gruffs something at you in his mother tongue, a deep rumbling like the rocks of old mountain and the timber of trees: like König. He stands before you, a wild mane of dyed hair atop his head, so deeply crimson and maroon you would even think it had been colored with blood from sheep or man, perhaps both.

He claps you on the back with a strong hand, the shove nearly enough to send your shivering form tumbling to the dirt, before you’re righted with a strong grip on your wrist. Then, he laughs.

“Come. König,” the man barks in his heavily accented voice, tugging at your wrist as if you were a mere calf to herd.

Your panic dulls somewhat, enough to wriggle out of his grip and shoot him a glare you had only previously reserved for your betrothed. Intent on playing the part of some strong yet benevolent noble woman it seemed, as you straighten yourself out and ignore the way that the mud and blades of grass stick right to the dirtied hem of your loose robe.

“He is here?” You ask after a moment, feeling a bit misplaced as this other, less familiar giant stares down at you. His eyes are not blue, but gold when the light of the fire pit illuminated him.

This one does not understand as much as you had hoped, because he only murmurs more incomprehensible words and pushes your forward with a palm placed right between your shoulder blades.

You don’t trip, but you had half a mind to hiss at him then, until you realize he is only leading you towards that same ugly tent from before.

The pelts have been changed out, somewhat. There is less gray now and more brown, hides from deer and boar alike, taken from their months of travel. The maroon fabric remains, layered beneath in such a way that seems to make it only seem more alive and bleeding this time.

“Keep warm.” The man speaks up again, and there is no mistaking the amusement in his voice. Insulting, what he dared to insinuate with those two words, yet… there’s a cloud of fuzzy, warm excitement billowing up between your breasts all the same.

The flap of the tent is held up by your own trembling hand, elation tinged with an anxiety, a clustering song played without harmony in your very bones. Though, it settles so easily when the light of the moon mingles with the candles within the cradle of wool and leather.

König is sat, recognizable from his very being, laden with scars and coarse light fur, vast as he had always been. However, his face has changed. Gone is the bleeding shroud you had seen upon him before: the cloth has been tossed away on the mattress, revealing a face that both chills and heats you to the very base of your being.

His face is not unlike others you have seen, maybe upon gladiators a time or two once the helmets were discarded and the dancing with beasts and men alike had subsided. There are scars there, too, a broken face revealing a menagerie of pain from the bump upon his nose to the chip in his tooth as he smiles. His eyelids are still smeared in darkened mud used to make him seem that much more sinister in battle, streaking down his cheeks not unlike the carmine that tended to use to paint your own.

Those eyes though… they stand out above all else, heart wrenching and sullen, and still, they rise to crease at the outer corners when his stare meets your own.

A man with more polish would have concealed the state of himself from a maiden; turned his face away and covered his nudity in the furs lining his mattress. You’re thankful that König is not like those men. His stare is as open as his body’s own articulation: he only lies back into the bed and beckons you near with a curl of his fingers to his calloused palm.

“I made offerings for you.” To you, but thankfully that phrasing doesn’t make its way out. You take your place on his mattress, carefully placing a palm over his chest just to feel— to touch, to be nearer to your god in some way. The time apart hasn’t been entirely cruel, but ‘kind’ would never suit it well either.

Your touch is answered by a heavy grip around your forearm, a gentle yet demanding tug that leaves you sprawled across him like some tiny animal gripping onto a tree: your head presses against his bare stomach, one hand tucked to your chest while the other is quickly pulled up to meet his mouth. König kisses you, right on your palm in some peculiar sort of reverence.

“Your blessing was enough.” You feel his mouth stretch, the brush of teeth against your flesh as he grins, something you’ve missed.

It’s a ruse; there are winding strips of fabric haphazardly tied over his chest, thick with the stench of iron. The blood is dried, but you could only imagine the state of the wound beneath it. Months upon months of travel with a chest wound… your heart crumbles, struck with worry then.

The seax sits intact, however, propped up against one of the wooden poles keeping the shelter in place. Even sheathed, you could assume with how dutifully the barbarian cared for his blade that it had been cleaned, sharpened and greased to keep rust at bay. Though the benevolence he had coaxed from you had not saved him, a part of you was almost pleased to see the weapon unscathed.

“You’re hurt,” you hear yourself say, far away, out amidst the turning leaves that surely watched him take a spear or a dagger, maybe even an arrow, toward his beating heart.

“Hm…? Men get hurt in battles, meine Göttin,” he says, so nonchalant, as though the fear of dying out amongst the trees and hungry animals did not exist for him at all. “You worry?”

You pull your hand away from him when he playfully nips at your fingertips; even wounded König seems more inclined to bite and make you squeal than settle into this expanse of fur to rest and heal.

Of course you’re worried, men fall to mere scrapes in time: grime coaxes its way in, wounds fester with an almost laughable ease, infection paves way for fever and…

“Take care of me…?” König’s voice comes soft, the softest you’ve heard. Gone now is that boyish, mocking lilt, replaced by something akin to trepidation. Fear for him does not come from the shouting of men with blades held high, but in small whispers begging for affection.

“Sure…”

The ruddy bandages are pried away from his chest by gentle hands, uncurled and left on the dirt floor to the side of the bed. The wound in his chest is not as severe as you had expected, a few centimeters deep, jagged as it curves upward… whoever had done this had not had the opportunity to properly pierce him before the offending weapon had been pried from their hands. Crushed. Followed by what you could only imagine was the attacker’s fretful shrieks when König advanced upon him.

Your fingers brush over the wound, gentle, as you inspect the blaze of red around its edges. There’s no clear indication of infection, but when a clay jar of honey is plucked from König’s belongings and brought to your hands, you dutifully dab the wound in its sweetness.

You tell him how it will heal, using the phrases you’ve only heard from the physicians about the city, failing to mention that you had not tended to someone like this before. He breathes his appreciation in a soft rumble when you wrap his chest in strips of cloth, tightening it comfortably just to tie at his side.

“Did you kill the man who did this?,” you ask once you’ve stripped yourself bare, shed your clothing to lie in a heap with the ruined bandages he had previously worn. Your body rests at his side, arm curled over his middle. A woman’s warmth was necessary to heal a warrior… perhaps it could remedy a forgotten god, too.

“All of them,” he hums into your hair, a whisper of a voice harboring words that should chill you to your very bones. König only appears pacified as he speaks, never minding his own madness, nor the blood caked beneath his fingernails.

You ask him what these men were like, who could have been capable of wounding a man as mighty as himself, and in turn he laughs. Surely, the gash must ache, but his voice never falters when he gathers you in two treelike limbs to pull your body ever-closer to his own.

He tells you that they were familiar, that your men in their dye red tunics held their spears and struck down some of his men but could not hope to best him.

He tells you of the cowardly ambush, how the warriors of your city turned upon his own with shouts and anger after a slave woman had been released. The way the woman spoke… as if she knew more about you than you ever had, how he could not bare to watch her suffer when she even resembled you in some ways: older, but still so very much like you. He had felt killing her captor to return her to the forest was the only way he could keep your favor.

While you listen in a stasis, stuck ridged against him as your mind drifts, pulls memory from the darker corners within your skull, he strokes at your shoulder, presses his nose right up to yours.

The man who had struck him was smaller… weaker, he had not survived König’s first blow, but… There’s a frothing madness in his eyes like the sky threatening storms when he tells you that he could not bear the thought of a man that would think to harm anyone like his goddess finding a way to return. His attacker was ripped limb from limb, body burned with the rest of those that followed his order.

You remain entirely silent, taking in this whispered tale as though it were breathed from the mouths of the gods themselves.

You never needed to pray to Mars, to Juno, to Vulcan…any of them. The embodiment of fear lies as a welcomed presence next to you, stroking along your back as though you were a mere kitten while he breathes this gory story against your lips. The smile returns when he finishes, pets at your jaw as if awaiting a reward for his perceived good deed… and you allow his madness to slip right past your teeth.

The touches brush over you like the featherlight breezes of the past spring, fingertips grazing from your waist to neck, nails leaving lightened stripes over the flesh he carefully claws at, gathering your skin, the meat from your bone, to roll between each pad of his digits. There’s further worship, a desperation to ensure that you are still here as he pants into your mouth, grips at your hip to pull you closer to where he aches the most.

There’s no pelt sprawled over his groin to hide himself from you, no thin linen to protect where he wishes to reach most. All you have is your words, and a thumb delicately rubbing over his bandage. When the kiss breaks, only then do you think to speak.

“When you’re better.”

The man makes his protests, gives his cock a few strokes as he hisses into your ear about promises, the horse, how long he’s dreamt and waited. You don’t need to be convinced, but now… your mind is riddled with what’s occurred in your months apart. Though the tension remains thick and wafting in the air between you, the physical could wait until you’re both sorted.

While you remained stuck and forlorn, struck by longing and misery, he had only found some semblance of meaning for all of what has eluded you, slayed every man who he could envision bringing you- anyone like you- harm, came back with another wound to fold over into a puffed scar.

You’ve only been waiting for your own sentencing.

Your warrior softens when your eyes begin to swim, fragile and overwhelmed as you’re tucked away beneath him. He only holds you, protective with an unwavering grip as the moon sweeps through the tent with its melancholic comfort that finally pulls the tears right from your eyes.

“Meine Göttin…,” he whispers against your temple, before you press your face into a broad shoulder, hiding tears and frail hiccuped sobs. “I prayed only to you.”

The words come barely audible, though they were never truly necessary.

You feel them in every touch, every hurried whisper as he coos his apologies in that keening voice, every kiss pressed over your warmed face when relaxation snares your limbs, and you do bloom further against him. The comfort and adoration is near staggering, taking you in and pulling you under, further below than even the rivers of your dreams and the ocean just out of reach could ever hope to.

As though this were the most natural thing…

The altars of your villa before were mere practice for the worship of lying next to your own deity; bastard son or Hercules, a wolf or a wild boar, none of it mattered.

He sighs, cups your face to kiss you just once more, something far more chaste than what you’ve come to know from him; the small peck to your lips holds more weight than the clatter of teeth and tongue from before. When you begin to drift off to a dream of a glade filled with nymphs where the trees breathe sap that tastes of honeysuckle, all bathed in the glow of starlight, you only feel the need to silently pray for one last thing: that he will never let you go.

— — ���

It’s only on the seventh morning that you come to a realization over a breakfast of figs and water from the stream just below the hill— one that you haven’t been home. You feel at home enough here. The stuffy villa seems only a distant memory when you’re seated across from him, the giant who showers you in so much love it feels warmer than the great flames of Vulcan’s own fury.

No one has come to seek you out, either. Gaius had to have had an idea, should he have even bothered to search for you in that now desolate home. The few soldiers you have witnessed on their patrolling across the field never seem to turn an eye to the barbarian camp. You fill your pots with water, taking aid from König’s men, and never once have they turned to you.

Judgment always seemed so swift with all apart from destiny. You reason that this is surely what it must be, a destiny painted high above in the stars on nights where the mist does not curl up to conceal them from your gaze. You watch them sometimes, when König relaxes his grip in sleep: you turn to the outside of the tent to stare up at the expanse of stars and hear the stories of this nameless king from the mouths of the very men who have braved each storm with him.

They tell you in shattered language of stories you know with a certainty must not be entirely true. They range from talk of the hundred wives König supposedly had that he released all when he met you, of the temples built in his name all lined with gold and the names of jewels you had never once heard spoken, of how he had even slain your great god Jupiter… You have always listened with great amusement, wondering just how highly he must speak of you to have his men lie for him so brazenly.

Laughter follows you back to König’s tent each night, waiting to hear the cries of their king expending his love upon you that never come. You tend to his wound, observing its healing as the days come and go, and with each rebirth of the sun, his touch only seems to grow more imploring, his words sweeter than even the fruit held up in your palm.

In the haze of the morning sun spilling in from the parted flap of the tent, his eyes seem alight with an unnatural flame when he pulls you in to seat you upon one of his muscular thighs, far too rowdy for an injured man. You think not to refuse him when he laps at the juice from the fruit that has trickled down your chin.

“I love you.” He professes his devotion in that same pleading voice, an arm curled around your middle to keep you securely in place. Another thing that you never needed the words spoken to know.

You bring a fig up to his mouth, feed him with a kiss to his cheek and a whispered confession of your own. From the moment you saw him tending to his seax on the bank, your heart had become a howling, skittering animal in the cage of your ribs. You murmur words stolen from the poets against his jaw, about love and flowers, the mating dances of beasts and gods alike. With each word spun, he clutches you tighter, echoes them in his mother tongue.

The confession ends in a kiss that leaves you cloudy, aloft, a union of tongue and soft panting that leaves each nerve thrumming rapidly. The bowl of fruit slips from your lap, left to scatter over the ground forgotten.

König lowers you to lie back on the bed, teeth nipping and raking down along the column of your throat, over your pulse… back to your breasts that he caresses in two large palms.

“Not yet,” you remind him. His touch grows more insistent, thumbs pressed to your nipples to roll over them until your back arcs and your thighs tremble. “You’ll open your wound…”

“I am fine,” he huffs when he releases you from such delicious torture. “Let me…”

You can not bring yourself to tell him the true reasons as to why you can not. Not yet. You’re a mere stroll away from the city’s beckoning gates, from the place where you’re set to be wed only a fortnight from now. The mouth of Orcus that will drag you back in and keep you caged away from him… it would be too bittersweet to make your passions clear when your doom still imposes upon you with just a glance outside. If it ever comes… and you silently begged to any greater thing that it never would.

“When you’re healed… when you take me away from here,” you promise.

König listens in his own way. You see a flash of mischief when he separates from you with one final generous squeeze to your breast. This isn’t just the casual acceptance that comes with children being scolded, but an urgency to contend your words, a desire to prove himself buried in those shimmering eyes.

“Meine Göttin thinks that I am weak, hm?”

“That is not what I said.”

“I will show you.”

All at once, König rises from the mattress, casually shedding the bandage over his chest to discard it. You want to protest to whatever it is that he’s doing, but you knew very little of the minds of these men, their proclivities and desires, only that above all his intentions only seemed to be to prove himself worthy of worshiping at your feet, between your parted thighs…

As if to taunt you, the stiffened cock between his own legs bounces, drools when he stands. Your head spins as you force yourself to sit up and look into his eyes instead.

“What are you doing?,” you ask when he gathers his seax from the place he’s left it propped up, followed swiftly bu the pelt he usually donned around his middle with its leather straps and worn, gray fur.

“We will go on a hunt, hm? I will show you how…” He trails off with a grunt as he fastens the straps, finally conceals the pale, proud pillar when the fur comes to cover his groin. The seax follows as it’s tied to his narrow hip, the pommel glinting in low light as he approaches the opening of the tent and gestures for you to follow.

He should not be going on a hunt, and you… still did not even possess a weapon to aid in such an endeavor. Still, the thought of seeing him actually in the midst of a heated battle stills your breath for a moment, spurs you forward to follow along behind him.

The men around the camp speak with him for a time, prattling on in their mother tongue, gesturing out towards the trees with grins brimming with excitement. They all seem enticed by the prospect of felling some noble creature to drag back to their camp, make a true sacrifice for the goddess made mortal that lurks here. König dismisses them with a wave of his hand, clearly intent on being the only one to gift you such an offering.

He barks an order to the man that led you to his tent, and within moments this other man brings a Roman spear to your warrior, recognizable by its intricate engravings and barbed tip. König weighs it in his hands for a moment, glances back at you with a grin that simply screams his satisfaction of holding a trophy pried from the grip of one of your own detestable soldiers.

You follow after him through the dense forest bordering the clearing. The trees have long since shed their summer green, replaced instead by reds and golds, the dead falling to bathe the forest floor in bronze and brown. König walks slowly as to not cause too much sound to pass beneath the weight of his bulky body, encouraging you to do the same in a hushed demand with each crunching leaf beneath your soles.

Finally, he comes to a halt overlooking a small ridge that overlooks a small clearing. The brush and thickets rise high here, no doubt the birthing place of brambles and thorns, ground passive and untouched by all except the animals hiding within trees and bedded down in burrows. One still walks, awake and alert, a brilliant red stag with antlers more vast than even the horns of the bulls sent off to play war with the gladiators.

The creature is stationary, chewing cud with each movement of its dainty little jaw. It’s tail twitches, ears flicking on occasion when a bird swoops too close or the sound of a snapping twig out in the distance echoes through the forest. It’s a beautiful, delicate thing, but still strong and sturdy. The stag looks perfectly at peace here, not noting the wolf that watches over the ridge.

By the time that the deer does catch sight of König, it’s already too late. The arm holding the long spear is already pulled back and raised high. When the creature moves to resume its prance, the weapon is sent spiraling through the air, twisting and spinning in the absence of a breeze like a living thing until its point is found bedded in the stag's protruding belly.

The creature bleats in pain, writhes and kicks as it comes crashing down to a bed of brittle leaves that clamor beneath its weight. You close your eyes when you see the ground painted with blood from its seeping wound, and König begins to descend upon it. There are other sounds that follow, thudding blows in quick succession that leaves very little to your imagination; you’re only grateful he brought such a pretty thing a swift death.

You walk ahead of him on the way back to camp as he carries the animal’s corpse, politely telling him that if you look, you will not eat.

He gives his spoils to the other men once you’ve reached the camp again. They cheer, readying their blades to carve the creature up for a meal of venison and whatever amount of wine remains in their stores. The rations had been cut off since the others had failed to return, it wouldn’t be long until there was no wine left without one of them fetching work for coin within the city and purchasing it himself; still, König ensures that your cup is filled to the rim with it’s tart sweetness, grape with notes of something earthy, a mixture of thyme embedded into it to bless it with scent like a pomander.

You seat yourself in his lap, looking every part of a pretty earthen goddess as he presses his face to your bare shoulder, traces shapes into your hip while you sip from your cup. His men do not stare, either, regardless of your state of nudeness. There’s respect here, embedded into their flesh, their beliefs, and you only feel the part of a noblewoman when you take note of it. You are not just any man’s woman, but their leader’s most revered treasure.

The others pick apart your harvest of flesh, hang the skins to dry for further use, the antlers and bone left in a heap to be cleaned, then sharpened and carved. Your stare is appreciative as you watch them work away, never having seen this side of things from your modest villa. A fire is stoked when the usable meat is peeled away from what remains of the bones, ribs and femur, others that you could not hope to name.

“See?” König chimes as he takes hold of your hip, squishing you closer, tighter amidst the space of his palm. “Not weak..,” he hums into the hair at the back of your neck.

His touching grows more persistent, eager as the tips of his fingers graze your inner thigh; though appeased, you were not keen on the idea of straddling him before the eyes of his men as though you were only a breeding pair of foxes, screeching your passions into the forest for birds and bears to hear. When a throb resounds from his stroking, you wind yourself away to sit at his side instead, jaw resting on his knee and cup raised up to hide your breasts from his field of view.

“I did not say you were. Just hurt.”

He gives an impatient grunt in response, but allows you to linger in this new position, taking to stroke at your face and shoulders instead.

When the meat is cooked to their standards, still bloody and near raw to your own, the men chatter away between mouthfuls and thick swallows of their wine. You try to keep up, forcing yourself to commit some of their more common turns of phrase to mind— obvious yeses and nos, the way that they call one another, the names that would sound strange on your tongue but suit the others all the same. When your expression falls to confusion, König whispers translations into your ear; they’re discussing the Romans… what they will do if their rations are cut entirely, something about a deal struck before your interest summers and you resort to eating the venison you hood in silence.

It is not that you feel out of place, only lost. These men live in a separate world entirely: there is no talk of ironed out politics, organized festivities, of weddings an plotting for farmland. There is laughter here, even song when one of the trio seated across from you and König begins to bark out a loud chorus from a tune that your warrior so sweetly explains to you is about a woman who ventured out to elope with a cave-dwelling bear. Peculiar wild men that they were, you don’t even bother to question how that could ever possibly work.

When the afternoon sinks into the coziness of evening, you walk hand in hand with König back to his tent, and just as with any other night, there are cheerful, foreign goads and tedious little sounds elicited behind you. The wine had you peaceful for a time, but its haze has since passed. Your sheepishness is apparent at the implication, but the wolfish grin König shoots back at his men is anything but.

You know he expects to fulfill his promise entirely— make you his lover, wife, whatever he seems to see you as. That could not happen… as much as you thrum for him with each brush of his warm palm against your backside or upon your face, eternally gazing up at him with your dumb and doting stare.

To your credit: when his gaze crawls over you to take every bare expanse of flesh in, he only sees a beauty that he seemingly can not comprehend. The tells range from the tightening of his jaw, the twitch of each digit when they meet your skin, the way his nostrils glare and eyelids sag. His profession from earlier was anything except just that: it was a truth.

As he strips away his pelt and sets his blade aside, your hands rise to press against his shoulders, forbidding him to go any further than this simple reveal. And you speak true, explaining your exasperating engagement with the foul man who made certain you were spied upon, your distaste for your life within the walls itself, and lastly the marriage that would occur once the seasons did change.

Your eyes feel nothing short of pure liquid when you seat yourself upon his mattress for what you assume would be the very last time. Your voice tapers when you reveal that those very reasons were why you had come to him that night for the horse, why you came back even now.

König listens until your voice is reduced to a somber whisper, broken up by weak sniffles. The flirtation in his gaze is lost, and there’s no grin that splits apart his thin lips. You think that, if he asked you if you felt similarly to him then, that you would break down in full, but he doesn’t.

Instead he hisses something in his mother tongue, a singular word: “Scheiße.” Then, another laugh is coaxed from his throat, the dozenth that you must have heard this night alone. He seems fully unperturbed, unbothered when he descends upon you as if you were nothing more than the very deer he had slaughtered earlier.

“It is fine. Alles gut.” He covers your face in kisses, biting at your cheek when you squirm against him. “I can fight him, hm?”

Stupid… so terribly impulsive and cute. You sigh as if exasperated with him, but envelope him in your embrace anyway.

“I just want to be free of all of it,” you explain in a hushed voice.

“Then we will be free,” he confirms. We. No longer just yourself, and you almost bring yourself to ask if he has truly meant it before you're reminded of his declaration with a swift kiss that punches the air from your chest and leaves you shivering.

You hold him tighter still, fingers weaving into his hair to massage at his scalp and draw back in a tug when his head cocks to nip at your jaw. Again, always, he encompasses you, pulls you down into darkened water that warms and thumbs around you. You lose yourself more and more with each touch, thumb brushing over the pulse of your neck, teeth nipping at your clavicle, the brush of his groin as he rolls his hips to meet the plushness of your thigh.

You ache, cry when he guides your nipple into his mouth, languidly lapping over you until his salivating is evident over your tit. He only grows less patient the more vocal you become; one hand remains played to the side of your head while the other steadily slinks down past your naval, trails off to grasp at you hip and steer you closer before descending lower, where only his blade had dared venture before.

“I have dreamt of this, meine Göttin,” he purrs when he shifts his hips. His cock rests heavy over your thigh, weeping the sheerness of its own demand to paint your flesh. He guides your hand there to palm at his steadily growing arousal, curls your hand around his length and guides it up to stroke.

His chest rumbles his pleasure as he groans against your cheek; the sounds are somehow more surprising than the ones you had heard outside the brothels. Before König… never had you heard a man voice his pleasure, and though it may have been emasculating to some, it only makes you wet, there where his fingers reach to pet once he’s satisfied with the pace you’ve set as you pleasure him.

Your thumb grazed over the flushed tip, smearing the preejaculate that drools from it, his hips buck then. Your own sounds join his chorus when he ghosts a fingertip over the hood of your clit, buried his middle finger into your cunt. The entire ordeal is lazy, lazy as the slow kisses that connect your panting mouths.

With each twitch of your wrist as you milk his cock, you’re met with a finger probing deeper. At some point, one becomes two, a try for three before he draws back and realizes you’re too close to begin to take anymore.

“Tight..,” he appraises in a low voice, tongue lapping over your teeth as you writhe at his side.

You pick up pace at his praise, adoringly offering him your love with quickened sweeps of your hand, of your thumb over the weeping head, until he begins to throb in your hold. König mutters a curse against your jaw as he struggles to keep his hand steady then, bludgeoning you with his fingers, circling your clit until you begin to whine.

The heat builds within you so quickly you begin to see the night sky beneath your eyelids— an expanse of stars, of glowing blooms, and all at once the heat becomes too much. You curl into yourself, struggling to keep the demanding cock in your grip as you grind your hips down upon his hand to ride out your orgasm, bleary eyes and weakened by the intensity of it all you merely muffle your cries against his waiting mouth.

It takes no time at all for him to finish then, thick spurts of white seed paint up from your mound to your belly, coating your fingers in its stickiness. He hurts his teeth through it, intent on stifling the desperate little sounds building up in his throat, kisses you with even more fervor when you bless him with another tug to milk out every last viscous drop as it kicks and throbs in your hand.

He settles briefly, trailing kisses from your jaw to shoulder, then rises to part your legs with a strong grip around each thigh. For a moment, you almost think he’s prepared to fuck you proper, but the thought dissipates when he gathers his own seed over the head of his still hardened cock, settles it against your cunt, and grinds his seed against your salivating hole.

Your whine is clipped and almost pained when he brushes over your clit, hips rising to pull away when you feel the tickling burn of overstimulation. It doesn’t last; satisfied that he has left his spend close enough to your pussy that he may as well have laid claim to it, he crashes down over you, head pressed between your breasts.

König’s breath still comes in a pant while he huffs his affection for you: praises, those three wonderful words again and again. His tone is tender, reverent, as he tells you that he loves you… immediately following it with a stout and crude declaration of how roughly he will fuck you when the time does come.

“Do you mean what you said…?” You find your voice when he finally stops whispering the filth of his fantasies to you, when your cunt ceases its pleading for more. Right now… it would not be as special anyhow. Your fate still lies in the grasp of another, and as much as you wished for it to align in full with him, that simply was not so.

“Ja,” he answers immediately, no hesitation when he commits himself in full to you, the Roman woman who had tamed him down with her silly whims and ache for him. “I will take you to the mountains, the sea, …the stars if you ask.”

You comb your fingers through his hair, filled with mirth as he speaks of such impossibilities. There is no place in the stars for two misplaced lovers, but you don’t dare say that. The things that fill your imaginations would leave even the poets balking, scrambling for the words pretty enough to describe a love so peculiar.

— — —

You had not questioned why they remained, that was your folly.

You had never thought that you would even care should you see the city fall. Though… dread immediately strikes your heart with ice and silver when you’re bolted awake by the sound of shrill shrieks and loud crumbling. There’s a war just beyond the veil the tent provides: loud sounds of heavy feet, shouts, even the clash of metal upon metal if only for a single stuttering beat of your heart.

Vulcan has descended, rode right through on flaming steeds with flame rising from his open maw. You know it with a certainty without even approaching the opening to look. But you do. You do move away from the empty mattress, finding the space where König had slept against you, snoring softly and tugging you closer in your bliss, entirely devoid of any warmth. The air is warm, tinged with the heat of coursing flames, but the bed is cold, frigid like the fear that cinches at your heart and steals the breath from fluttering lungs.

There’s ash in the air, falling like the first snows of winter when you make your way out of the tent, coughing into your hand as it clasps over your mouth and nose. The air is so thick, noxious and darker than even the backdrop of velvety sable marking the horizon. Your eyes track the twisting, feathering pillars of flame as they rise even higher than the wall: a gold and red death.

Shadows scramble across the field— men, women, then the horses, the bulls, that come thundering past. The animals trample and shriek: broken bones, hooves driven through skulls to erupt into mush, leaving twitching, scorched corpses in their wake.

Fire billows up only to fall and rain down, back onto the murderous beasts in some abstract punishment. You watch the puppets writhe and squeal; perhaps your own cries join them, wailing and crying out as all you’ve come to know is engulfed, smothered, destroyed. What the fire does not take, the shattering structures do.

Amidst it all is glee.

There are shouts of men on horseback that come out as the victory roars of men amidst battle, yipping and howling as all is reduced to rubble around them. Your feet do not guide you toward the chaos, they do not bring you to peace either, only far— far as you can go.

The smell alone makes it worse than it ever appeared in your dreaming. Blood, oil, cinder and ash that plummets deep down into your stomach, pushing back up to purge what became of the deer. You feel how that creature must have: alone, terrified, certain that death was biting at your heels. If you had fur it would bristle, antlers would plow through the brush to carry you to safety, but… you do not. You’ve only the ability to gather yourself enough to fall. You descend down the hill in a painful roll as your legs give out beneath you.

You want to close your eyes, to sink into the stream and bid the fire away with desperation alone. When you lower to the grass to wretch, fingers digging into the earth, your gaze snaps back to the scene just beyond the stream.

You know, know dreadfully well that the people here that have managed to escape were hunted down in a veil of inky blackness. The ghouls of myth could not compare to this… This was very real, real as the scent of cooking meat and hair and wood.

And you watch and wait for the fire to burn out, for the animals to cease their rampage and fall back to a calm that never comes.

You stand to your feet, meekly trembling before the wrath and chaos, and you wait with splintering nails clawing at your thighs and unshed tears blurring your vision. There was always a price to pay for freedom, you had seen it time and time again in gladiator pits, monetary and dull, but never this…

And you know the price for yours was paid in fire and vengeance, promised before you ever even had the notion to disappear at all. There was always tension between the Goths and your people. This was bound to come about sooner or later, but the guilt of potentially being the catalyst to it all brings you back to your knees.

You don’t know how long you sit there, staring out into the abyss in silenced fear, but eventually all that fills the quiet is the dull roar of the fires still burning and the dull sounds of a horse’s trot growing nearer. Just across the bubbling little stream, untouched by the death beneath the full moon, is König atop his sable steed. The creature huffs just as König cocks his shrouded head, prompting you in his silence to say anything— deliver your blessing, your thanks, your kisses.

Yet, you can not bring yourself to deliver anything but a weak, anguished wail.

The stream is crossed before you’ve even the time to raise your head, limbs gathering you up to pull you against the broad chest of your god in the cruelest tenderness. You feel limp there, atop this frustrated horse, in the arms of the man who had sacked this city. They will come for him, kill him too… You will be alone with nothing and no one, and stupidly, you find yourself longing for the comfort of calling to Juno in that bedroom you would never see again. All of this just for pleading for the very horse you now perch upon.

He lets you cry as holds the reins in one hand and carries you away from this desolation. The horse walks further than you have ever even seen. The stream before the barbarian camp is not the only, there are orchards and glades and fields of tall grass even further beyond it. You take in the beauty as the city becomes a glimmering speck far behind you.

König only remains silent, stroking your back with his free hand, so lovingly and gentle you find it almost impossible to believe him capable of such cruelty. Your mind is tired, limbs weighty and chest aching from breathing in so much smoke. You do not even realize your exhaustion until you find yourself in a fitful sleep.

There are no dreams, no wonderful comforts, only slow breaths and pained whimpers.

When you do wake, the sun has risen in full.

You’re lying on your back amidst withering grass, a pelt thrown over your body and a figure sat at your side. There’s no longer the stench of smoke, no drab gray clouds hanging over your head. The air is light and tinged with the tartness of buckthorn. There are white, puffy clouds hanging up in the vast blue of the sky, and as you blink, a thumb moves to stroke at your cheek. Soft, so soft and even tentative when it rises to your temple.

“You should have slept longer.” König’s voice comes, not reprimanding, but in a gentle surge of breath. He sounds as exhausted as you still feel.

You’re angry… but you know not why. It feels performative, almost, when you shove his hand away. You want to wail for what you’ve lost, but that voice never comes. Gaius? A home you never liked? The lectus that would be used as a stand to consummate a marriage you had begged to avoid for months on end? What was lost?

“You are going to die.” Your whisper comes strained, tight and tinged with your own misery.

“You worry for me again?”

You shake your head at that, fierce as you turn on your side and away from him again. The dying grass digs into your flesh beneath the fur, scraping like claws, like König’s very touch.

“We are not going to die, little one,” he continues as he moves closer to you, trying to gather you up into his arms in an act of comfort. Your tension rigidly leaves you, though you try to force yourself to remain closed off, it does not happen. You mold against him when he lies at your back, hand splayed over your stomach.

“I never said we. Just you,” you huff. Your hand meets his wrist as his thumb begins to stroke at your naval. The desire to push him away again only dissolves when he winds out of your grip to take your hand into his own, forced lower to feel the cold earth and the warmth of each digit beneath your touch. “They will hunt you down.”

“Then I will die at your side.”

You don’t respond to that, finding his desire to further prove whatever this was entirely incomprehensible now. It is not endearing, you force your mind to reason. This man was more than just tedious at times, but dangerous to… To burn an entire city on a whim then curl against you like this… You whimper, keening and sorrowful as you squeeze your eyes shut— force the macabre thoughts out.

“You are like me,” König continues, a low rumble as he lowers his head to press his cheek to the side of your neck. Even amidst the chill of winter, he’s so warm, so soothing, enough to make you melt like wax from candles… perfumed by his own sweat and the ash he left in his wake, so earthy and lofty all the same. “Kleine Göttin…”

“No… I’m not.”

“You come from the mountain,” he urges with a kiss to your shoulder. His grip around you becomes more insistent with each muttered word, the pads of his fingers pressed further to dimple your skin. “The slave woman told me so.”

You didn’t know the woman he spoke of, you didn’t know anyone still living apart from himself and his men. You want to yell, to drill it into his very skull with your words, but even more than that, you want this comfort.

You want to feed him figs, allow his tongue to sip the wine from your own, and to fall asleep against him with his breath tickling at your scalp. More, to share the life with him you once promised to a deceased man buried in ash…

Truth be told you were not even sure of your standing, Roman or barbarian… Though you had never told him that, his resolute tone leads you to believe all of it. You had always longed to bathe in rivers rather than crowded bathhouses, to crest the tops of mountains and taste fresh honey on your tongue… The titan promises you all of those things and more with his tight hold and in a purred, breathy, “I love you.”

All that you could not prevent dissipates in a plume when you twist around to bury your face against that chest, curl your fingers into his hair and breathe out your resistance in its entirety. The most pitiful of surrenders.