#along the fog pines and darkness

[comfortless]

Only Other

chapter one of three.

Goth soldier! König x fem, Roman! reader

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 gore, groping, dubcon sword/knifeplay. additional warnings will be added to the next two chapters.

notes: for @writersdrug’s request. ^^

wc: 11k.

The barbarians are here.

The dream of river water lapping over your knees and songbirds in swaying trees fades out into a hazy fog as you begin to rise, dropping your legs from the mattress to spur yourself to move across the small room as quietly as your feet can carry you.

Heavy footfalls and staggering hoof beats from their horses weighed down by heavy sacks of supplies is what has pulled you from sleep.

The flames of their torches crackle, accompanied by the shrieks of clanging, well-polished metals singing out as if in the throes of war becomes a dull song; weapons, wicked and crudely crafted unlike the spears of the soldiers donned in red you were so accustomed to by now.

You had heard the whispers on the wind of the untamed beasts from Germania filtering in, settling down here; their arms and their blood for just a sliver of land to claim, soil to birth farmland, a semblance of peace from within the walls of the great empire.

Never, in these small words from gossiping tongues, did you suspect that these rugged men would be taking to camp so very close to your city. Not only that… they’ve been accepted into the walls, the door flung open for them with their gnashing teeth and thick, ugly weapons. These men of myth were usually set further out into the countryside, far from view of polite people to sow seed in soft fields, build the little shacks that seemed far too fragile for their rugged forms that could never compare to the villas built here.

Peering over the sill of the open window, stretching your upper half out into crisp night air to catch a glimpse of torches sailing along the breeze, flames just as ever-shifting as their darkened silhouettes, your breath seems to halt entirely. They look the trueness of harbingers like this: each somehow more imposing than the one they follow behind. You count only two horses split between the eight men of this small band.

Could any of them even speak in your tongue?

What stories could they tell?

Had any of them ventured as far as the sea or had they only bathed in waves of warm blood?

With eyes wide, you even dare to perch there to watch on, never bothering to conceal your underclothes with the faith that the darkness would hide away anything more than a illusory view of your shape.

Through the faint glow of the yellow-red flickering flames, your gaze drifts to something large, hulking and brutish, darker still against the backdrop of a sable horizon.

The shadow walks in line with the others, their proud and raucous foreign voices feathering through the otherwise quieted air… only he does not speak, does not make a single utterance of mirth or glee. He stares only forward as his feet tread on just paces behind the rest of the group.

Nine, then.

Like the tales you’ve heard of the Goths, you’ve also listened in on the children spinning wild stories of monsters, the legends of heroes of old slaying cruel beasts told by their elders. You had always believed them, even without the evidence currently striding through the sleeping streets, dark like a crypt, like the underworld itself. A true titan.

Just as your eyes track the brooding, silent form, he abruptly turns his head in your direction.

The glow of a nearby torch paints the shrouded face in the color of a dying sun, casts a glint on the thick seax strapped to his hip.

In that moment, it isn’t wonderment curling through your blood, but surprise, maybe even a tinge of fear.

Your heart hammers as you pull yourself from the window to whisper hurried, hushed prayers to Juno, protectress of women, as you reject your curious nature and climb back into your bed. You’ll bring your offerings to her altar just as any devout: incense and a sweet pastry so long as she keeps you safe, chaste.

Buried beneath cushions stuffed with straw and thin fabric sheets to tuck yourself away, you wish only to return to dreaming of the river’s silt beneath your feet and colorful birds parading past in the open air that smells only of violets and honey.

Instead, you dream of fire.

You dream of the city bathed in gold, molten and angry as the walls come down around you.

You watch as your neighbors, friends, all begin to writhe and shriek as their skin begins to blister, boil beneath until it melts layer by precious layer to puddle like oil where feet once stood until the mighty, wraithful scorch takes even that away too. What once was human becomes smoke: women, men, children, it made no difference. It all becomes a mighty roaring flame as the structures wail and crumble around you.

Yet, you remain untouched.

Dawn breaks with the puppets sewn in shadow all but entirely forgotten, washed away in the fearsome tides of your own dreaming.

You startle and bolt upright as you wipe cold sweat from your brow with the back of your hand.

You’re no oracle: it’s just a dream… Vulcan would never turn his fiery gaze to your people after you’ve all honored him so, the offerings paid at his altar had been plentiful this past year with the steady expansion of the empire and the need for well-smithed weapons.

There were no volcanoes here to sweep away your life with magma and sulfur… only the lemures that haunted old shacks with their wailing had paid a visit to you last night. You let them in with your fears, and you would ward them away next with your courage.

The sun’s warmth creeps its way in, sweeps up from your blanketed legs until it curls and caresses at your cheek. From its positioning, proud and impossibly high in the sky it’s almost as though Sol himself were staring down at you, radiant yet scolding.

You’ve overslept.

Hurriedly, you ready yourself for the day, cinching your waist, clasping the shoulder of the stola, and dutifully washing your face with still water held in a clay pot. There was little else to do than bide your time with tedium: the animals loitering about needed tending to, a neglected sewing project lay strewn across the floor that had long-awaited its completion, and as the questions began to stir in your mind again… perhaps, gods willing, you would safely be gifted the opportunity to peek at the barbarian camp. To see that peculiar titan that they kept tethered at their sides.

It was dangerous and unheard of for a maiden, of course, but with little else to do than work and practice stitching threads for a betrothed you held no true affection for, this was a significant reprieve from the humdrum of what was scrawled out into the stars.

You weren’t given the luxury of further studies and communing with the aristocrats at their hearty banquets, sipping wine and prattling onwards about politics and how to further Rome as a whole. A part of you preferred this simple life of taking to the street, to peruse the market with what little money you held clutched in your palm, to pet the horses and watch as bulls sparred out in the fields beyond. Returning home to an empty house was a comfort, too.

As always, the market is a lively place, full to bursting with people exchanging anything under the sun, either beneath painted wooden stalls or from the first floor of their very homes, all with very little regard for you.

The city was simply too full to take in every name and face, and only their chatter seemed to intrigue you anyhow. You didn’t need a scroll or a song about each individual, your people were easy enough to read: war, pride, and duty all embedded into their very blood. The only ones that drew your attention were the poets and bards, entertainers who spun their stories of lives vastly different from your own… but there were none awaiting coin on the streets today.

A man passes with his wife at his side, loudly bolstering onward about his progress on some expedition.

Women with flowers woven into the braids of their hair laugh softly behind their palms as they exchange their secrets in singsong whispers.

The children play and pocket with eager palms when salesmen are unaware, likely to be caught later on and have their hands whipped raw.

There’s no talk of the Goths.

With these foreign men, most of your people seemed unbothered, taking solace in the knowledge that the empire’s cavalry would ride to strike down any opposition. A tentative, arrogant sort of comfort that you knew very well not to trust entirely. Most were simply not as educated on the potential of what could be, hadn’t snuck around on quiet feet to listen in on the men discussing failed treaties and negotiations.

The Goths could find their own food, their own women and shelters after fighting for the empire for a time: likely what they were here to do… give up their lives in exchange for a sliver of a Roman dream. A band as small as the one you witnessed could never quite hope to topple an empire, anyhow.

That sense of safety brought forth disinterest and smug little grins with little else to say, whereas your mind only took to further conjuring curiosity.

The more you wander the more you question whether you saw them at all, or if they were mere specters, already slain and silenced on some field far off from here, long dead and forgotten by all but the sleep-addled mind of a maiden.

You’ve never felt so disheartened. Though the city remained constantly bustling and full of intrigue when you knew where to look, these days the ease of it all only seemed to further the boredom. If nothing were to come, it would be no surprise to find that Juno would serve her purpose, looking after all with her blessings. You almost regret calling for her safety last night.

If the barbarians were indeed real, had some plot to overthrow an empire with their small numbers, perhaps only a vulture would be pleased with your thoughts now: teetering on the cusp of anticipation and wonder. You would never think yourself treasonous, but to learn, to see more… Your appetite for something further than a life spent sewing and child-rearing after marrying a man that made your skin prickle with distaste in the coming winter was rational.

Maybe not to most, but to you.

The fruit stall pulls you from thought with its sappy, honey-sweet scent and brilliant colors littered in crates: reds, greens, even some soft and blue… You only then notice you’ve been standing entirely still here, lost in thought, as if expecting a bolt of lightning to split the world in two.

Two apricots were purchased, one for you and the other for the gray mare in the stable you had grown fond of. You give the merchant a smile and a few bronze coins and carry on your way, nibbling at one of the fruits on your walk.

There were usually servants tending to the horses just beyond the city's paved streets, but it seemed today they were busy with other affairs: Quinquatria would be upon the city soon, and there was much to prepare for such an important festival. The place was empty all apart from yourself and the horses, some off in the fields to gallop to their heart’s content, while others like your mare, secured by wooden gates and paddocks.

You feed her, cooing gently as she takes the pitted fruit from your hand and between her blunt teeth; then, allows you to lead her into the grass with your honeyed words and languid steps.

One day, you hoped to have the opportunity to ride her, perhaps far away to touch the waters of the ocean, to see the foreign trees in some great adventure that would leave you more fulfilled. Ideally, without being weighed down heavy with child.

Your hand strokes at her nose before she begins to tense, eyes wandering from your form to something just beyond, far off and nestled in tall, fluttering grass and small bushes. You track her gaze for a moment, finally turning to look over your shoulder.

The wind has the tops of the trees swaying along the hills, grass pushed down to kiss the earth with each flutter of air. It all smells and feels so gentle, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the soil and salt of the earth itself. Ceres would have found herself prideful at the sight; everything rich and lush with the spring… Harvests would be bountiful this year, and everyone would be well-fed and contented. It’s no surprise that after pilfering through old calendars and running his tests upon the soil, Gaius had declared that this was the year he would take you to be his wife.

Past the expanse of soft blossoms and a cavalcade of greenery, all sweeping and rolling, a beauty that would stifle anyone should they think to look hard enough… but amidst all of this sits a man that you recognize immediately. Though he remains utterly faceless, his stature is somehow enough to make a gladiator blush and turn tail in shame.

There, just where the hill dips down and gives way to the soft rush of the stream, sits your warrior. His head is lowered as he crouches by the water, hands tucked to his front as he busies himself with something in his lap. The bare expanse of his back presented to you is unfathomable even from such a distance.

The men from Germania were said to be huge, dwarfing those that you were accustomed to by lengths, tall and thick like the weapons that they carry. They were said to be handsome, too… and like some hazy dream you were already certain that he was, somehow, beneath the pelt tied round his waist to keep him warmed at night, the sable shroud hanging over his head as he works away at sharpening the blade laying over his lap.

Your legs feel weak like a freshly birthed lamb’s as you watch him; the muscles of his bare arms bulging and quivering, his nude back tensing with effort. The soft rays of the sun beaming down only seem to paint him golden, untouchable except by higherborn women and men who could pay well to have him dirty his blade or his cock. Radiant, cruel, maybe even a bastard son of Mars himself, because what better a place for a man so vast and laden with scar tissue to be than in the midst of some great war.

Someone like this, you know with a certainty, would have no time for fickle maidens with their heads filled with the fluff of fantasies, and in a way that only seems to solidify a plume of possessiveness stirred up within your head.

You wonder even, if he calls to Vulcan as he pauses to hold his blade up to the sun to marvel at his work, the sharpened silver glinting in the light. The weapon casts its rays to only further illuminate the paleness of his flesh, coupled with the gleam of the flowing water ebbing past it only serves to make him look the very picture of those old stories and myths. The older women in the city would have tapestries embroidered of this scene, no doubt, if they could see through your eyes now.

Your horse trots off, satisfied that there is no true threat here, and you feel yourself begin to creep forward.

The gods and goddesses must play their tricks, because you are no fool. The pull only feels undeniable, something that you could not fight with a stern will alone. You pacify your impromptu decision with the thought that you could turn away at any point in the meters it would take to reach him. Surely, if he turned to face you before then that same fear from the night before would come to surface and you would sprint, startled and wary.

Perhaps he would even give chase…

There’s no excitement to be held on him, either acutely unaware or ignoring your presence entirely as you draw ever-closer. The grass softens your footsteps, the breeze blanketing any sound from each shift of your legs beneath the linen stola. You’re near silent in your approach, only halting where the hill crests over the bank several paces away from where he remains seated.

Only then does he turn to look your way.

There’s no greeting, no display of friendliness. His body language remains closed off, distant, like that of a wolf in cautious preparation; deciding whether or not it would be necessary to bare his teeth, to snap and growl until your flesh rends beneath him.

So it’s left up to you and to Juno who remains harbored in your heart. The goddess would protect you most assuredly, you’ve left her offerings for as long as you could remember, prayed at her altars and devoted yourself entirely— perhaps not in the same way of the temple maidens, but certainly more so than most.

You take a breath, watching him with kind eyes and an air of unease about you that only seems sweet by comparison to the very danger that his presence proposes. He only returns your stare with something colder, detached and unamused beneath that ugly veil he wears: two holes for the eyes, dyed beneath with the red rimming yellow like the tissue a butcher may find in a plump calf.

“Can you understand me?”

There’s a long, tense silence that follows your frail question. The titan stares, looks you over from the crown of your head, briefly pauses midway- at your hips- then further. It’s both heated and cold, coaxing yet analytical.

Finally, the barbarian gives a curt nod in response, seeming no less frigid and closed off even as your voice feathers over the breeze. But he understands, can decipher your language, that’s a start.

“You are… one of the barbarians, yes?” Is that even what they preferred to be called? The word certainly sounded prettier on your tongue than the brutish pronunciation of ‘Goths’. There would certainly be some price to be paid if your blood was spilled over a mere insult…

Graciously, he only seems to overlook it as he sheaths his blade and rises to his full height, tall like the mountains you had only heard stories of, where gods and goddesses sit in council not meant for mortal ears.

Freed of any covering upon his upper body, you find yourself reluctantly mesmerized by the trail of light hair that runs from chest to abdomen and down further… until a little tuft peeks from the hem of the pelt tied around his narrow hips. The layer of fat over his midsection paves a way upward to reveal the muscles of his chest, wider and more prominent somehow than most breasts you’ve seen.

Unruly thoughts clutter that would have others questioning your status and devotion to your Gaius if they could hear them. It couldn’t be helped, you reason; you had never seen a man quite so vast, so meant for battle and breeding.

“That is what your people call me,” he huffs, bull preparing to charge. His words come out with a thick accent, northern. The trees and mountains would sound similar if they could speak at all.

He drinks you in with his eyes, fingers twitching at his sides as though itching to touch your most sensitive parts. Though he doesn’t move yet, you get the sense that all it would take is one false move, a skitter in your step that leaves you tumbling to the earth, and he would be upon you like the downpours of spring. You even wonder if he would roar like the thunder delivered from Jupiter’s weighty palms if he were to mount you.

Of course, what he sees before him is not a maiden of Rome. His people didn’t care for purity, for your religions and ideals: you’re a fertile little doe, wandering straight to a buck in his prime.

You swallow hard, a little bob from your fragile throat, to force those treasonous thoughts from your mind. Even talking to this man was a risk to your reputation… Your poor betrothed, nearing thrice your age and horribly delicate by comparison to this beast, would be up in arms if he were to find you here. More concerning, you couldn’t find it within yourself to care.

“What do you call yourself, then?” Your voice comes almost breathless, thighs pressed together beneath your stola as your own body sends its signs and omens to tell you that you’re precariously close to the underworld just by gracing him with your presence. Perhaps it would be that dark, too, if this giant decided to push you to the soil, hover over you as he plucked you apart like petals from a flower.

His eyes track that subtle shift of your legs, crinkling at the outer corners when they roam back upward to your face. The beast grins beneath his hood, you’re certain of it, and those eyes of pale blue seem to glitter like the sun's rays on the stream to your side. He shifts, crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his hips just slightly forward, some strange display undoubtedly meant to tempt and charm you.

You don’t budge from your perch, despite your body’s persistent singing for him. Enticing scents and views of flesh could do that… this man wasn’t special, you were just curious. That’s all that it was.

“König.” He answers things plainly in that lilted voice, as though he’s trying to seem more of a man to spite that boyish way of speaking. And gods help you- it’s cute.

“Does it have meaning?,” you settle to ask when he does not request your name in turn. A bit rude, though you do wonder if perhaps the bullish men in his settlements see delicate things like you more like pets anyhow. The thought of this warrior whisking you away and naming you one day… You swallow that lump in your throat again, teetering back on your heels as if to place more distance between you two.

“What do you think it means?”

That simple non-answer does finally allow your pulse to settle, only to rise immediately to find it insulting— as if this wild man with no proper education had the right to insult you at all.

He only smiles again beneath that veil when your face sours. Awful, wretched, gorgeous creature… You’re no threat to him and he knows it. He’s only playing with you, dodging your pretension with a bit of his own, and unfortunately… This is the most pleasant conversation that you’ve had with any man.

Your betrothed was only arrogant and dull, there’s no light in his eyes when he smiles at you- everything is duty. Not here. Not with König, and surely the goddess of marriage and love is frowning down at you from her lofty throne, because you’re almost certain you’re infatuated with the brute by now.

“You’re a bit rude.”

“King.” He grins, a grin that you can see when he frees the leather flask from his belt and shoves his mask upward to take a heavy gulp of what is undoubtedly Roman wine. The glimpse alone makes you weak again, honey drips from your thoughts to your cunt, and you know now that you were never simply curious.

No, this brute would be the end of your engagement and even you if you allowed it.

You watch him take his fill, catch the bitter scent in the air as a bit trickles down from his rough jaw to his throat, all covered in scars. He’s been in battle for a long time, likely why he wears the hood at all. The rest of that handsome face is undoubtedly a wreck just as what could be seen of his body, all covered in memories of where he’s had scrapes and dances with daggers only to fell his foes one by one with that long seax dangling from his hip.

After the hood and the flask are in their proper places once more, he gives you a nod, then speaks, “How many coins?”

It takes a moment for the question to register in full; he isn’t asking what you have on your person, but how much you’re worth. How much it would cost for you to spend a night in his bed, tolerating this giant between your legs…

Your attractions billow up in smoke immediately, just as you expression sours and your hands curl to fists at your side, crushing the half-eaten apricot in the process. You toss the ruined fruit to the ground, allowing the sweet juice to coat your fingers as it flows downward.

You wring your hand as you very nearly shout, “You are an animal. I’m not here to sell myself.”

Your voice falters to a meek, little whisper with your final words, the breath a weak gust through the first tiny blossoms of spring.

Of course he catches onto your body language, to the way your thighs rub and tense beneath your skirt, the way your nipples peak at the mere sight of him and all of the infatuation and curiosity in your eyes. Men knew things like this, offhandedly, it seemed; if the others were correct then this beast could surely smell you, too.

The bastard only stares, eyes narrowing as his brow pulls together beneath the hood in some strange confusion. The whores wore their togas, not the stolas of maidens and married women, even a barbarian should have known that: his men were certainly no strangers to the sweet women with their faces chalked in lead.

Then, his shoulders pull up to fall in a shrug.

“Run, then, little one.”

It’s almost as though he knows your thoughts in and out, a lemure himself as he presents the bulk of him that would strike fear into any man, taunts and goads. You don’t want another fire dream. You force your courage and mirror his stance: chin up, back straightened as you look down upon him like a goddess sent to deliver her fury with… a pitted apricot at your feet rather than bolts of famine and misfortunes.

His eyes become stars, twinkling in earnest when he sees you then. You’re no aristocrat, no empress, but you certainly feel the part when the giant’s gaze finally relaxes its pilferage and settles upon your face instead.

Your act is all for naught, because you realize that his men are approaching, opposite the stream. One of them was enough, but a hoard of others… You were not even certain that he could understand you properly, and the others could be even less patient. Your gaze travels over their forms, smaller than this ‘König’, but each equipped with their own weapons and their own scars from battle.

They look from their leader to you, eyes grazing over the plush flesh that your stola dutifully conceals like starved dogs. One of them mutters something in a foreign tongue, harsh and guttural, his eyes never leaving your shape in a display of brazen appraisal.

König responds in turn, voice taking on a lower octave as he all but barks his response: harsh, unyielding language that you couldn’t hope to interpret… but if you had to guess, you were nearly certain that his men were asking who would lift your skirts and have their way with you first.

You depart from them with tentative yet hurried feet, and you don’t look back as you cross across the lush field. There’s no stopping at the stable, not a thought in your head except that you would most assuredly not be returning. The barbarians could have the field, the stream, whatever the city’s officials had allowed them.

Just not you.

It’s Gaius that greets you when you arrive home, to the little villa he had secured for you; to the place that would become less of a home and more of a prison once the two of you were wed. You’re barely a foot in the door when the man’s gaunt face turns to you, his lips set in a stern line.

“Where were you?”

You knew that look, it’s the very same that he gives to his slaves when he’s about to bleat out his orders like an enraged goat, shove them or grab at them to feel less small than he truly is.

Your brow pinches, a shaky breath leaving your mouth as you try in earnest to look the part of an innocent lady who had not just crossed a field and fantasized endlessly of some rude, barbaric oaf.

“In the field. With the horses,” you deliver your half-truth with practiced ease. This wasn’t the first time you’ve lied to him, and it certainly would not be the last. If the protectress of Rome could overlook your stunts and recognize your discomfort in this wretch’s presence… then she might even side with you; save you from a future of sharing this man’s bed.

Gaius relents then— as much as a stoic, old man could. He reaches out to cup your face with one weathered hand and you have to force back to urge to shudder.

It’s not that you mean to be cold, not after all that he’s done to care for you… it just comes as naturally as the seasons and the wills of the gods. Something about him always made you feel ill.

You eventually, tentatively jut your chin forward just a bit to force yourself into leaning toward the touch of his cold hand.

His lips curl into an unsightly grin; then, he pats your cheek and draws away enough to bless you with fresher air to breathe without his withering presence alone contaminating it.

“I brought you a gift, meum corculum.”

“Oh…” Your words come in a little hiss, your heart stuttering in your chest as you teeter back on the heels of your sandals. The straps along your calves feel tighter now, your stola too… maybe even the room itself: everything seems to close in, and you could only silently hope he doesn’t request your affections for doing such. “… you didn’t have to-“

“Nonsense.” Gaius raises both of his hands, arcs them before stepping out of your path to reveal a new dress lying on the wooden table just beyond him, dyed a light blue.

It’s pretty, well-spun and soft-looking… yet you still hesitate a bit when you step closer to run your fingertips over the fabric. It yields beneath your touch, bunches when you move each digit along the pliant linen, and it’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched, maybe even softer than the lambs and kittens you’ve played with in the streets.

“I thought that you might like something nicer to wear during Quinquatria,” he adds from just behind you. You feel his hands trace along your arms, further, until they reach your shoulders and give a gentle, but almost demanding squeeze.

It’s meant to be affectionate and he is your husband-to-be… but he still manages to make you feel ill. It’s only a blessing that he’s never requested more from you than a peck for his offerings to you.

What a man in his late stage of life could see in you, you couldn’t hope to imagine. A fertile womb, likely, and you could only hope that that isn’t also what he saw in the women he kept as slaves in his own home further toward the city’s center. Nosy, dull man that he was, of course he needed to be closer to the housings of banquets and discussions to feel some level of importance while he kept you locked away toward the wall and the slums like some filthy little mystery.

“I’m tired, my love,” you manage, voice thin as you slowly pull yourself away, from both Gaius and the delicate blue thing you would be forced into wearing for the coming festival.

The man balks, but doesn’t push. A few seasons and he would have what he’s awaited for years, the confident gleam in his eyes tells you that he’s certain of it.

It’s difficult to believe that someone you had once considered a hero and a friend could make you feel so much disgust now. You were naïve, then, and now you only feel how those poor horses locked away in the stables must feel, burdened with a constant yearning for your own freedom.

“Then rest.”

When the door shuts behind him, you’re only then able to expel your relief. The weight of what you must do settles upon you, heavy and unyielding, the boulder of Terminus.

You can not marry Gaius. You can not continue to breathe in the stink of the city from its miasmic aqueducts, perfumed only by the crowded marketplace full of mortals so contented with their own tedium. The unknown calls and calls, howling like a mother wolf to guide you. Even with the stories told of what fiends and horrors lie outside of the city you could almost feel with a certainty that you were destined for it.

You light your incense with a lump of coal in the burner of a clay pot. Just cinnamon would have to do for now. You make your peace with that promising Juno whichever sweet, flaking pastry that appeals most during the festival of Minerva.

Though you were more than content with your wish for nothing more to do with the barbarians after meeting with König earlier… he comes rushing back into your mind, rolling and lapping like waves as you begin to prepare yourself for sleep. The polished tin of your hand mirror reflects your face as you twirl the handle in a curled palm and you stare. Did he see beauty or simply a womb…? Had you taken offense to nothing? The questions stir up remorse as you strip away your gown and take to the bed.

Just one more meeting with the foreigner, maybe. Just to say your farewells, wish him luck in future battles, bless his seax and his shield with a touch and a prayer (if he even had the sight to keep any form of defense on his person).

When Quinquatria comes, when the people are busy and satisfied with their food, fortune telling and the gladiator games, you will take your mare and ride off into a sea of stars. Each light will be a point of guidance until you reach the riverbed you’ve only ever dreamt of, until you scale the mountains that sang so sweetly from the goth’s tongue…

And perhaps he will chase you.

— — —

Quinquatria used to be one of your favorite festivals. The fortune tellers were your favorites, always seeming to know so very much with so little insight into your life. Then there were the revelers donning their colorful masks, barking out song with bitter wine painting their tongues.

You try to listen in on them as a woman traces over the patterns in your palm, the curved lines and straight, fine indentations. Palmistry, rather than any proper reading with sacrifices and proper seers stood before a temple. You reason that this is for fun, just like the wine-drinking and the gladiators fighting for their lives and the horrible stink of the city’s streets: natural, reasonable, and dreadfully normal.

The fortune teller hums as she reads you through your hand, laughs a bit when she seems to note a secret or… something. You were not entirely sure. The woman was young, her belly likely as full of fermented fruit as everyone else’s as they dance and crowd the street where you two are stood.

“You’re unhappy, girl,” the woman muses, giving you a sympathetic look before another laugh pulls from her lips.

You give her a nod but don’t say a word as she continues to stroke at your palm. Of course you were, anyone could tell just by the frail look upon your face, as if you were indeed bereft and ready to cry at any moment in this horrible, dainty dress with your betrothed fondling some lady mere paces from you.

“Yet, so lovely,” she continues, nimbly running her fingers to your wrist. She curls them around you, turns your hand over and gives it a soft pat to signify that your reading is done.

“You’re destined for a summer wedding.” Winter, you want to correct. “And your husband… strong and brave like the sacred wolf.” Weak and old, you force back with a clenched jaw.

She releases your wrist with one last assessment, “Juno favors you, sweet girl.”

You want to call her a fraud, but instead you merely part with the bronze you had promised to her. With Gaius preoccupied, his wrinkled hands already tucked beneath the skirt of the other woman’s stola, now would be the best time to wrench the door of your little cage wide open… not make a scene.

Your chest feels tight, and for the first time it isn’t from some unknown fear, it’s excitement. Your heart hammers as the blood stirs within your veins, belly tense and breathing shallow, taking a stiff pace to walk along the shadow untouched by silver paths of moonlight.

There’s a bellow, a wail as the gladiators fight some distance off. Soft words and whispers filtering past like eerie words from something ghastly, moans from a brothel, bells on the wind, the stink of rot and perfume all from all that you’ve known for so long as you leave it all behind.

Your mare is pacing restlessly in the field, her ears flicking and tail swaying behind her. You’ve no saddle, you hadn’t even thought to procure food or any supplies. You’re not even certain that she’s been ridden by anyone, but you coax her over to the wooden fence that your body rests over; hands find the velvety fur of her gray snout, fingers moving to gently caress her mane and ears.

“We are going to be free,” you whisper as your hands curl over her neck. The mare makes her displeasure known immediately, huffing and tensing immediately… and you realize that this isn’t going to work, not without her bucking you off and leaving you injured or dead. You’re not stupid or brazen enough to break a horse or anything, really. Not Gaius. Not…

You would find König. Perhaps you could even trade the Goth for a horse already accustomed to being ridden… he had already revealed his intentions, and he was easy enough on the eyes to entertain the thought.

You give the mare a kiss farewell, right on the softness of her cheek and detach yourself from the fence to wander past the silver field, the gently flowing stream. The water dampens your dress, embeds it’s cold into your very bone where the sandals fail to protect. Spring or not, it’s hardly warm at night, and there are only so many rocks lying in the water to keep you from sinking in.

The clothes are drenched by the time you crawl to the other side. On the opposite bank, it’s only then that you turn back to look over at the city, one final glimpse of a place bathed in gold; cinder and ash from torchlight, flowers and the creeping scent of decay carry on the breeze. Even from the distance you can hear the music, chimes of steel on steel, the laughter and cries of mirth and pleasure.

Begrudgingly, you feel the first seeds of regret plucking at your heartstrings. You’ve nothing to your name apart from a few coins in a pouch strapped to your hip, no weapons, no food. You could die, you verily would if you went at this alone. And still, you force your face forward and continue your steady waltz to look the unknown straight in its bloody maw.

You won’t panic, won’t fear. Whatever awaits would be better— it had to be.

The barbarian camp comes into view some time later. You couldn’t be certain how long you’ve been walking, as though some spirit had plucked the chords of your mind and left you in some confused daze. It couldn’t have been your own desperation. Something greater had to be at play, a proper destiny: one much better than the life of Gaius’s wife, owned like a hound, imprisoned and uninspired.

Though their torches burn, their tents stitched together amalgamations of old pelts and cloth, the air is fresher here. You expected the reek of death, heavy on their skin, bathed in blood and the rot like visions of Mors herself. Instead, you smell smoked meat and wine on the air: a boar and fermented grape, fruit from the surrounding orchards, the heavy scent of men. There’s no celebration here, a few men talking quietly as their eyes wander over what you can only assume to be some sort of map— tactical discussion for their next bloodbath.

You puff your chest and steel your gaze as you walk towards them, expression set not unlike the stern looks your betrothed would give.

Your attempt at intimidation only earns a flicker of hunger in the gazes of these men, and then a bout of grating laughter. They glance at one another, discussing you in hushed voices in their mother tongue before one finally looks to you and asks a simple, “Was?”

“König,” you answer simply. “Where might I find him?”

The question undoubtedly goes uninterpreted, but the name does spark a wave of interest that passes between their faces. Finally, one points toward the tent at the far side of the camp: ugly thing, vast and layered in dark tones of gray and maroon, the very structure is a bleeding animal.

You hear the laughter behind you, the lewd whispers and jeers and only a simpleton wouldn’t be able to interpret the meaning; the titan that heads their little group has a lovely woman seeking him out like a wayward dream, and with adrenaline already coursing through you the thought of spending your night here doesn’t even seem an insulting prospect.

The flap serving as the door of the tent parts as your hands move to lift it, and sure enough… the beast lies in wait in his den, seated on a mattress made up entirely of fur. His hood remains over his head as he traces the carvings on the handle of the seax, under flickering flame and the shadow of the tent König seems further unearthly, god walking amongst men as he toys with his weapon in some strange sort of ritual.

The ritual only seems to be one of boredom, because his eyes light up when they rest over you, standing like a dream as your dress billows with the breeze creeping in. You’re drenched and dirty and pitiful in his presence, but he only seems to soften when he beckons you toward him with a curl of his fingers meeting his palm.

You obey with tentative steps, stopping next to him as he waits on the bed. If it were possible for your heart to seize and halt entirely without you collapsing to sink beneath the earth, it surely would now, so close to him.

“I need a favor,” you explain in whispers. “A horse.”

“A horse,” he repeats as his weapon is set aside, “Warum?”

You don’t want to explain a thing. He’s working with the very men that could drag you back to the city after being paid heavily by Gaius… your trust is blind and foolish and you almost want to break apart right here. How stupid to believe that you could find some solace here, with a giant that walks along the cusp between men and beasts. Your shaking hands reach out to drag along his vast shoulders, lingering on the healed wounds that dent and give rise to his flesh.

“I’ll do what you want,” you offer quietly, earning a pleased rumble from his chest.

Though after a moment, he only sieges your wrists, pulls you down to the mattress at his side. He touches you no further, only stares down at you in a twist of amusement, reverence and confusion.

“Warum?,” he repeats, “Tell me.”

You wind over onto your side, staring up at him with a desperation that you’ve never known until this night, clawing down from your throat to bed it’s way into your roaring pulse, frightened and pleading. Just give in, ask no more, you want to wail to him as your vision begins to blur with tears.

Mercifully, he doesn’t ask again. König lies at your side, mimicking the way you curl onto your side and again… he smiles, though this one is unlike the way he looked upon you by the stream. It lacks that boyish twinkle, the intensity of the lines forming beneath his eyes: it’s more of a pleasantry than anything genuine.

“You are married?”

“What? No…” You swallow hard, toying with a thread that’s begun to pull free from your hip, twirling it between your fingers. “…not yet.”

“Ach… but you belong to another, ja?”

You want to howl out your frustrations up to every god and goddess above, burn through the Elysian with your misery alone. You wish, yearn for the courage to cast off that mask and lure him in with a kiss, erase any memory of Gaius with the kindling of a truer passion.

Your voice doesn’t come, and your fingers steadily pluck at that thread, feeling more unsure of yourself with each passing second.

Again, your bastard god grants his mercy as he raises a hand to cup your jaw, the warmth of him singing away the memory of the weathered hand that had touched you there before. His hand is so much larger, strong and riddled with calluses; you swear that you can feel his own fluttering pulse through his fingertips when they press against your bottom lip.

“Not after tonight,” he hums.

When the shroud is tugged up and his mouth meets your own, König’s kiss is exactly what you had expected: a sloppy, eager clash of teeth and tongue. He steadies you with a hand pressed to the back of your neck as his grunts filter past your own lips. Your eyelids flutter, then close as you allow your mind to finally relax, coaxed into the ethereal with each swipe of his tongue and pleasured sound drawn up from the well of his throat.

He pulls away with a gentle peck to the corner of your mouth, gazing down at you as though he’s been deprived of light for the entirety of his being and had only now met the sacred flame. It’s incomparable to how easily your betrothed would cast his scrutiny; though the hunger is similar, there’s something far more enticing here.

“Do you trust me?”

König’s voice holds no apprehension as he speaks; the question is just as blunt as each bulge of muscle and peek of teeth through the grin on his face, only set aglow by dim candlelight in the tent. You don’t nod, don’t even reply immediately as you stare at him a little dumbly, still intoxicated by the ferocity of his affections.

“… I don’t know.”

He moves a hand over your eyes then, gently presses his palm over you until you’re bathed in such darkness that you shudder. It’s a disconcerting feeling— not because you fear him so much anymore, but because if this were Gaius you would have already been squirming away, rushing to hide. You want to kiss his palm, revel in whatever piece of him he gives to you.

“Sehr schön,” König coos to you in a whisper. You settle further, allowing the tension to leave you almost entirely as you fall into the velvety embrace of all of this darkness and the pelts beneath your back.

He shifts at your side, and almost immediately there’s a cold chill at your collar, something sharp that he rakes over the softness of your flesh, then down, down to snag at the top of your dress. Your gasp is quieted by a kiss as you feel his weight shift over you, and just as you begin to melt into it… the fabric begins to tear, shreds as he guides his blade further, past your breasts and along your sternum, your belly, further.

“Don’t..,” you manage to hiss against his mouth, immediately taken over by the feeling of his tongue lapping at your teeth. Your nipples peak at the sudden chill as your dress lies ruined to either side of your body, thighs trembling as the blade hooks along the linen concealing your maidenhood.

One more generous, gentle cut and that comes away too.

You’re entirely bare when he retreats to your side again, one hand still clutching the blade as he moves his head to lay over your breast and… never, never had you heard of a man lapping and suckling at a woman like a pup, but that’s what he begins to do; his tongue circles over the bud, tugging it between his teeth until you feel the wetness between your legs beginning to drip to smear upon the mattress.

It’s caught, quick, as he turns the blade in his hand to slot its grip against your sex. It’s cold, but his mouth is warm, attentive as he licks between the valley of your breasts to capture your other nipple.

The noises that leave your mouth are filthy, rivaled only by the sounds you’ve heard in brothels… König only seems appreciative of them, muttering praises as he grinds the cold metal against your cunt, careful as the ridges of it graze your throbbing bud, gathering your slick to make the glide that much easier.

When he moves to dive for your breasts again, you cradle his jaw in your hands, peering up at those moonlight eyes in silent pleading as you capture him in another burning kiss.

The blade turns again, its sharpness directed down so as to not bring you any harm as you desperately roll your hips against its coldness. He groans into your mouth, panting softly just as you begin to whine.

You’ve never heard of a man making love to a woman with a weapon… or of one suckling at her as though she’s lactating when she is not, but… it has the desired result when your body tenses and all that can escape you is a frail whisper of his name.

The heat sweeps from your foggy head to your middle as your thighs squeeze around the damned thing and König presses his lips to your temple. You climax for him, chasing wave upon crashing wave of intensity with stilted bucks of your hips. He clicks his tongue in approval when you’ve finished, holds up the seax again, smeared wet with your essence and twinkling as though it had been bathed in the stream once more.

You know with a certainty you’ve lost Juno’s favor. If he chose you to carve you open with his come-stained blade the goddess would not make her descent to save you.

“Gut,” he whispers into your hair. To your horror, maybe even fascination, he raises the dirtied silver to his lips and licks your sweetness from it with another low groan.

“Wh… why would you do that..?” Your rapture feels almost shameful as you watch him lap at the weapon, the long tongue meeting silver only warmed by your heat.

He’s mad, certainly, and you only find yourself further infatuated: you reason that you must be too…

König doesn’t answer you as he sets the seax aside again, not in words. Instead, he cups your face and directs your lips to his own where he laps at your tongue, suckling it in the same way he did your tits. It’s slow and sensual, and you can taste yourself in his mouth, smell yourself on him as his hands find your waist and tug you closer until you’re lying almost entirely over him; one leg thrown over his thigh with your hands splayed over his chest.

The titan is hard beneath the pelt he wears, felt against the plushness of your thigh, the brown fur wrapped around his hips is pushed to rise where it’s harboring something akin to a pillar… but he doesn’t force you to settle over it, makes no attempt to tug it free, despite its throbbing against your leg,

“I needed your blessing,” he mutters, a hand settling over your naked hip, tracing small shapes with his thick fingers. The other finds your shoulder to pull you into a cuddle, pulled so tightly against him that you’re hardly able to discern where your warmth ends and his begins.

“A.. a blessing?” Your voice comes as a trembling croak, head pressed into the gap between a broad shoulder and the column of his throat.

“We are leaving in the morning.”

“Oh…”

“I will give you the horse when I return.”

Your head feels like a mess. You’re not even certain of what you’ve just done— did that count as sex? Would he tell the Roman soldiers he works alongside of how he had convinced some pompous aristocrat’s lovely bride to lustrate his blade with her essence? You could hit him, demand the horse now and bolt, but you only melt against him: eyelashes fluttering as exhaustion takes hold and the tension leaves you entirely.

“That’s all?”

König pets you, running a hand along your spine and back up to repeat. He presses his nose to the crown of your head, nuzzling against it until his hand is freed from your form and only then does it coax its way beneath the fur covering his groin.

He laughs at the weak sound of surprise you elicit when that beast is pulled free, another, thicker weapon curled in his hand. The thickness, the length of it that tapers off to a layer of skin, eager and pulled back from the tip, leaking beads of milky white: something that would surely tear you if he were not careful, and the thought brings you to squeeze your thighs together, concealing the leaking, thrumming thing between.

“I will fuck you when I return, too,” he huffs into your scalp, causing you to further bury your face against him, intent not to let him see the effect his derangement seems to have on you. You would let him bury himself into your chest, steal the breath from your very lungs, but you don’t breathe a word of it. Something tells you it’s a mutual thing, perhaps it was all spelled out for you when he asked for your favor rather than from any of his foreign gods.

You count your undeserved blessings. He seems sated only ruining you with his touch for the time being, you’re very comfortable here, and though you dare not speak it… you do find this brute charming. He speaks where you fail to, whispers of your beauty being like that from myths and dreams.

He doesn’t force you to leave, either, only paws at and squishes your breasts until you squeak and whine your protests, already sore from his teeth leaving their marks all over them. When he tires of his fun, you’re pulled into a crushing embrace where he rests his head against your own, blankets you in himself entirely. You were right… the shadow he casts over you blackens out the sun, moon, stars all of it; dulls the haze of carnality with something far more tender.

Your night becomes entirely made up of König: his scent like forest and sweat, the furs from beasts he’s chased down and slain, his soft breathing and gentle snores when he does fall asleep against you.

No dreams come to you, no lemures to haunt you with their wails and flames. Not even Juno descends to punish you. You’re warm and soft and contented like the kittens curled up in clusters along the streets on cold nights.

It’s the first night of peace you’ve had in some time.

When morning comes, the brightness of the sun peeking through the flaps of the tent, you wake to find König already out of bed. He stands at the far side of the tent, strapping on pelts and gear and the leather pouch filled with wine. His seax is held up in utter revelry, and mortifyingly enough… you immediately note that he hadn’t cleaned away the remnants of what occurred last night either.

When you bring yourself to sit upright, the giant only drops to his knees at your feet and curls his arms around your middle, pressing a kiss to the valley between your breasts through the thick fabric of the hood.

And… it almost hurts, to realize then that this is something you’ve longed for. You’re not arrogant enough to believe yourself worthy of some foreign worship, but he seems to liken you of some devout little acolyte, as if your come and kisses could grant him favor while he butchers poor souls all in favor of your empire: the people he had likely been communing and trading with only months before. Traitorous, mad, utterly enthralling man… You’re not certain whether you want to relieve yourself from him or guide him back into bed for more frenzied pleasures.

“You will stay?,” he murmurs into your skin as his kisses trail up to your neck.

You hadn’t even considered what you would do, it never came to mind, but staying in a shoddy tent in wait for him to return with the horse he’s promised was far from favorable. You’re out from the city, still without food or weapons, your dress and underclothes are a torn ruin on the floor, nothing but the wind and the stream and König’s stinking furs… The bathhouse seems to call to you now more than ever. Your lower lip trembles when you think of returning to that stale place, to be questioned endlessly about your affairs from your ‘doting’ husband-to-be…

Your head shakes solemnly. “I’ll wait for you at home.”

König drags you up onto your feet and closer as he savors in another embrace. You’re cloaked in a gray pelt, tied up and over your shoulders like the gaudiest tunic in the world, but you bur your nose into its shoulder, humming in contentment when you find that it smells just like him.

He’s more confident and proud than you’ve ever seen him now. The filthy blade remains strapped to his hip when he gathers you up to sit at his front on the back of his horse— a dark stallion with a pelt the same shade as the night sky. It doesn’t even seem to flinch at your combined weight, just canters along smoothly as König directs it through the sprawling field and past the stream to lead you back towards the city’s gates.

You’re not thinking of Juno or Gaius or traditions when König cinches your waist with a thick arm to draw you in closer; there’s nothing but fluffy warmth pooling in your chest sent by Venus when you feel his hips shift to press himself against your back. His head dips to kiss at your neck, your burning cheeks, shoulder, anyplace that he can.

When the horse comes to a halt with a sharp tug of its makeshift reigns, some length of rope and twine, his hand is at your rear.

Everything’s incensed and floral when you’re lowered to the ground, when he lifts the hood to grin down at you, not only with his eyes this time. It’s a sheepish, gluttonous grin, drunk off your very presence.

“I will come back for you, meine Göttin.”

And you know now, that the palm reading had been true— there’s your wolf in preparation for a hunt, the man who’s unwittingly aiding you in your pursuit of freedom painted with mountains and vast, blue skies. You will convince him to come away too, lay down the blade you’ve blessed with your pleasure. A summer wedding… far from wars of greed and smirking old men.

Your head swims when he bids you farewell, rides off on his massive horse back to his camp to gather his own men to march. You watch him go, breath caught up in your throat, a burning longing in your chest that you can not entirely dismiss.

The walk of shame only comes when you’ve crossed the threshold separating König’s world from your own.

The stink of the streets immediately washes away any lingering scent of him on your skin, on his pelt you now hide away with your arms curled around your waist.

You catch your reflection in stagnant water held in a pot, swaying and ebbing gently as others breeze past you.

You’re in a foreigner’s clothes that just barely crest your thighs, hair a mess and the carmine you had worn to bring a false blush to your cheeks is smeared over an eye and down to your jaw. You look the part of an adulteress, maybe, even as you dip your hand into the water to wash the makeup from your face.

There isn’t much to be done about the marks left over the hints of your chest revealed beneath the fur, but you make your way home without anyone even bothering to ask. If anything, the festivities from the night prior only seemed to subdue the standard bustle. You could only imagine how exhausted the hungover soldiers may have been as they undoubtedly prepare for the expedition König had mentioned.

That overrides your shame, sobers you from that sugary elation somewhat. You’re worried. It’s not just about König himself, not about the threat of fucking you when he returns left unfulfilled— though, those are enough to make your heart begin it’s hammering, rabbit in the throes of a chase. The horse, too. That proud stallion, your hope of a swift escape before winter comes and it’s all lost. If his drunken allies fail him in battle, if some other barbarian’s spear strikes true and fells your titan then the dream is dispelled into smoke, sunken down to river bed to be lashed away by frothing waters.

Whoever decided that the day after revelry would be the time to move was a fool indeed. The deities couldn’t look at you after last night, you know if they saw their noses would be turned up in disgust… perhaps not Jupiter’s, he’s more guilty than you could ever be, but your offerings had never been for him had they?

You fret and hiss below your breath as you wind your way back to the villa with its white walls and terracotta-tiled roof. The sun bears down on you like the flame of your dreaming. You’re afraid again, letting the lemures find their way in through the gaps in your shivering limbs to haunt your dreams.

Gaius is not there to greet you, likely still recovering from his own fevered night. You’re grateful for that.

The little altar to Juno still stands atop a table in your room, the burner still smells of cinnamon, dried flower petals and a dish of honey still sat there entirely untouched. She hasn’t split it in two, abandoned you, but it does feel that way when you peel away the fur.

Your fingers nudge at the bruises laden into your skin, the marks that look like teeth to either side of your breast. You press into them, gently, immediately feel that coil of heat, and you don’t want to sleep. That fire from your dream only seems to have become a part of you: you know it intimately now, it comes with pleasure and bite marks and a heavy weight harbored in your chest.

You cinch your waist and tie your stola at your shoulder, brush your hair out with a comb made of ivory. You rub your bruises with a salve made of honey, bandage up what you can and hide away what you can’t by tugging up your breast band.

The same as any other day, you take to the streets of the city and peruse the marketplace, take to the empty bathhouse to wash away all that’s consumed you over the past day. And you watch the soldiers go as they march through the streets, women and children waving away their fathers and brothers with prayers and sentimental words.

They don themselves in red, clutching their gladiuses, spears and heavy shields as they filter out and away where your very being longs to be. Their faces are giddy, almost: the prospect of pillaging and felling each enemy another delightful treat just like those found in the gladiator pits and amidst rolling with the whores in their brothel beds. You can not hope to understand their mirth, the happiness in any of the civilians either.

You watch them leave wistfully, lips pressed to a thin line, fingers digging into the waist of the stola. You down your fair share of the wine Gaius has left in your cellar. The day merely passes you by, the sewing left undone on the floor, altar bathed in cinnamon and saffron as you make your prayers and beg like any dog.

The mattress feels lonely and sad without the warmth of a body made for war curled against you, without his breath in your hair and his arms wrapped around you. It’s cold, too, and far harder than his, all straw and thin sheets. None of this feels like home.

Your eyes eventually close as the last of the sun’s rays begin to die, blotted out by the dark, untouched by torchlight.

You dream of fire.

[shadowkoo]

disgraceful dreams

→ Summary: After two years of lustful pining and disgraceful dreams about someone far out of your reach, you decide the only way to move past your hopeless crush on Onyx Academy's star student is by taking part in the Lupercalia festival for the very first time.

↠ wooyoung x f.reader (feat. yeosang) | 16.4k words | 18+ ↠ genre: witch/warlock au, smut, virgin!reader, inspired by s2e3 of caos, slowburn

→ Full Fic Warnings: little bit of social class discrimination, cult-ish behavior (mentions of blood, Y/N uses a knife to cut her hand for binding/ritual purposes), being ‘hunted’ like prey, explicit sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, pet names, praise kink, biting, nipple play, breast play, begging, fingering, mutual masturbation, oral (female and male receiving), exhibitionism, voyeurism, partial agoraphilia & semi-public sex, dirty talk, heavy teasing, spanking, multiple orgasms, grinding, deep dicking, size kink (wooyoung is HUNGGG), magical sex, fucking up against a tree, slight age gap (y/n is 20 and wooyoung is 25), slight corruption, choking, possessive!wooyoung, woo is ravenous for you (you’re welcome)

→ Networks: tagged below

@ksmutsociety @k-vanity @pirateeznet @cromernet

@illusionnet @othersideoutlawsnetwork @cultofdionysusnet

→ Author Note: edited by the lovely aeris @beomcoups whom i appreciate so SO much for tackling this beast of a fic ILY! And also to ally @lovetaroandtaemin for reading this over for me!!! this doesn’t follow the exact lupercalia process, i’ve twisted it to work for my fic and based it around halloween instead of valenbarf day lol, if you'd prefer to read on ao3, it's been crossposted here!! all likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated <3

‘This can’t be real.’

Jung Wooyoung casts a dark look upon you while taking in your ethereal, naked form before him. The flames of the common room’s fireplace dance in his eyes, reflecting his sinister and most impure thoughts. Thoughts of you, what he wants to do to you. With you.

‘I must be dreaming.’

He circles around you, hovering over your backside and letting his hands fall to your bare hips. His touch leaves a trail of goosebumps across your skin.

“Mmm, can I touch you?” Wooyoung whispers as he leans in to kiss the dip between your shoulder and neck.

You nod, giving him permission to do whatever he pleases, and lean back against his broad chest.

His hands move from your side, one moving upward to cup your breast, the other heading down between your legs, gently tracing your silky skin until his fingers find their way home and sink into your sweet center.

The sensation awakens you from your sinful slumber, and you sigh, realizing it was only a dream—another delicious and depriving dream that left you wanting someone who would never consider you.

Groaning, you force yourself to roll out of bed and step toward your closet. Black Mass isn’t for another hour, but arriving early might help erase these recurring dreams from your memory.

Your footsteps echo in the empty hall as you exit the residential wing, making your way outside. It’s a beautiful gloomy day, the air is crisp and the sun is hidden by thick clouds that look as if they could open up at any moment and soak the woods with another harsh day of rain - something you wouldn’t mind.

The fog creeps through the forest, following your steps and trailing behind while you wait for your familiar to catch up. Besides your raven’s distant cry, it’s quiet. The hum of the earth’s magic is even more reserved than usual. It’s peacefully eerie.

“Ghoul Morning, Blair,” you say, extending your wrist out for her. She caws from above and slowly descends from the clouds, eagerly accepting your arm as the safe place to perch while you walk along the path to the Unholy Church.

Though she looks like a raven while masked, Blair wreaks havoc in her goblin form on anyone, and anything, that dares to disturb you. She’s one of the strongest familiars a witch could be cursed with, and you’ve been thankful for her services ever since you started training.

It’s your second year attending The Onyx Academy of Dark Casting, a magical finishing school that only the finest witches and warlocks between the ages of nineteen and twenty-five are given the unholiest privilege to attend.

Of these students, the Dark Stars of each class lead with their high values and spectacular spell casting. More often than not, they graduate with the highest dishonor and ascend to become High Priests and Priestesses of covens across the world.

Jung Wooyoung is a beloved Dark Star and stellar student, and it’s rumored that he’ll become the youngest Anti-Pope inducted into the Church of Night after his completion here at the academy.

Even with your unique gift, it’s not in the cards for a person of your status to ever equal his. Which you very well know and understand, despite the dark fantasies that haunt you most nights and your schoolgirl crush that hasn’t gone away since the very first day you met him.

Blair lets out a sharp caw, her wings cutting through the air as she ascends, perching gracefully on the steeple just as you arrive at the church. Her dark silhouette stands stark against the sky, watching over you like a silent sentinel.

The towering doors creak open as you approach them, welcoming you inside the dim space. You walk between the rows of pews, watching the candles that mark the aisle light up as you pass.

Once closer to the altar, you lift a hand and wave it across the front of the sanctuary. The room becomes brighter as the remaining unlit candles grow flames from your magic.

You have a way with the elements; you’re able to manipulate and control them as you wish without specific spells, conjuring them when you please. Your energy is unmatched compared to the other gifted students.

Yet, instead of improving your social status, being gifted has made you even more of an outcast. The professors are wary of your potential and what you could be capable of; the students keep their distance too, either jealous or frightened of your power.

Needless to say, you’re not Miss Popular, but that doesn’t bother you as much as it could. Only the luckiest of witches and warlocks are disgraced with gifts from the Dark Lord, and having chosen you out of everyone means something. And knowing the Dark Lord chose you is enough.

You settle into your usual pew, the familiar creak of the wooden bench under you blending into the background as your mind begins to churn. Thoughts swirl of today’s impending announcement during Father Blackmoor’s sermon cross your mind.

The excitement for Lupercalia is beginning to build. This ancient festival, celebrated by all magic wielders the week leading up to Halloween, is dedicated to the Goddess Peralia, who blesses covens with enhanced health, virility, and fertility in exchange for an indelicate offering. Participants must engage in a series of ritualistic events celebrating lust and sexuality, transforming the festival into a vibrant expression of desire and intimacy. Only then will she offer her unholiest blessing.

You sit there, not in prayer, but in a quiet storm of contemplation, unsure if you will sign up for the festival this year. Another downfall to being viewed as an outsider is that you have yet to experience, well, anything. Sure, you might have kissed a couple of warlocks in your intermediate years, you even had a boyfriend in prep school whom you were convinced you could have loved eventually, but your virtue has yet to be given away.

It’s common for witches and warlocks to lose their virginity during Lupercalia; typically when they are in prep school. In fact, it’s encouraged. Yet, by age twenty, you still haven't mustered the courage to join in the festivities.

This year might be different…

The sudden crash of books jolts you from your thoughts. You turn to see Yeosang, a fellow student, crouched beside a toppled stack of The Book of Blood, its pages splayed open.

“My apologies; I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he says, a hint of embarrassment in his voice as he scrambles to gather the scattered volumes. His cheeks flush slightly, and you can't help but smile softly.

He’s a sixth-year student, just like Wooyoung. Yet, where Wooyoung’s presence demands your attention with an almost suffocating charisma, Yeosang embodies a more reserved demeanor. He tends to stick to his tight-knit group of friends and immerses himself in his studies, radiating a quiet intensity that draws you in without overwhelming you.

You feel a wave of annoyance wash over you as soon you realize that even in the presence of another man, your thoughts keep drifting back to Wooyoung. It frustrates you to no end, pushing you to a spontaneous decision: this year will finally be the year you break free from this obsession. By participating in Lupercalia, you’re determined to finally move on from him once and for all.

“Don’t worry about it,” you reply, “The Dark Lord has already provided me with the clarity I came here for.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he says, carefully restacking the last book. He glances to his left, likely considering the seat he usually occupies, before turning back to you. “Would you mind if I joined you?” he asks, a hopeful note in his voice as he gestures toward the space beside you.

“Not at all, please do,” you smile.

He settles beside you with an effortless grace, and the air around you immediately fills with the warm, intoxicating blend of amber and musk from his cologne. The scent is rich, almost magnetic, pulling your attention in ways you hadn’t anticipated. You fidget with your hands, trying to focus on anything but how good he smells, as your mind races to keep pace with your quickening heartbeat.

Maybe... you could partner with Yeosang for the festival. The thought lingers as you steal a glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s undeniably handsome—sharp features that give him a striking, confident look, but it’s his kindness that really stands out. There’s a warmth in the way he carries himself, a subtle softness behind those strong eyes that makes him more than just attractive. You wonder what it would be like to lose your virginity to someone like him, someone who seems both strong and thoughtful in all the right ways.

"Are you sure you are okay? You seem a little tense," he asks, his voice laced with genuine concern as his eyes search your face. You hesitate to answer, feeling the heat rising in your cheeks, and though you're trying to keep your composure, your breath has grown a little quicker, more shallow.

Thankfully, he’s kind enough not to mention it, but you catch the flicker of awareness in his gaze. His words are gentle, but there's an underlying curiosity there—like he's not just asking out of politeness but because he genuinely cares. You try to steady yourself, aware of the closeness between you, and suddenly the air feels heavier as if the moment itself is holding its breath, waiting for your next move.

"I didn’t mean to pry if it’s personal," he quickly adds, his voice softening as he notices your hesitation. His words have a touch of urgency, and he backtracks, not wanting to make you uncomfortable. His shifts slightly, giving you space while still holding onto the moment, unsure whether to push further or retreat.

"Can I tell you a secret?" The words escape your lips before you even realize what you’ve said. For a moment, you freeze, caught off guard by your sudden vulnerability. His eyes widen slightly in surprise, but there’s no turning back now.

Yeosang nods and softly says, “Of course.”

“I’ve…never participated in Lupercalia,” you admit guardedly.

“Oh, um. That’s, uh…” He’s visibly taken aback when he hears your confession, stumbling over his words. “Wow, I… I wasn’t expecting that.”

He shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, uh, that’s really something. I just, uh… I guess I never saw you as someone who hadn’t, you know, participated.” He draws out the last word, his tone heavy with the unspoken meaning.

You nod, trying to meet his eyes. “I know, it’s just… I never felt called to join in on the festivities in previous years. But lately, that feeling has… changed.”

“Oh. Right, yeah, I get it. So you’ll be signing up for the events this year?” He asks with a calm, collected voice, though he’s concerned that the quickened rhythm of his heartbeat betrays his calm facade.

Hearing your confession piques his interest. He’s always found you hauntingly beautiful and has enjoyed the casual conversations you’ve shared between classes and such, but today feels different.

He knew you didn’t actively participate last year, though he figured you were still doing something-someone-in private. Now that your secret is out, there's something undeniably more intriguing about you—an unexpected allure that wasn’t there before.

“Yeah, I’m thinking about it.”

“I think you should,” he blurts out, then quickly adds, “What I mean is, the festival’s about self-expression and the intimacy you share along the way. If you’re looking for a wild introduction to Lupercalia, there will be plenty of opportunists who share that venereal vision. But if you want something more comforting…choose someone who makes you feel safe and respected for your first time.” Yeosang trails off, his gaze lingering a little too long, the implication unmistakable. He clears his throat, trying not to give himself and his intentions away.

“Thank you, Yeosang,” you say while resting a hand above his knee, genuinely appreciating his insight.

Before the conversation can continue, the sound of footsteps echoes through the Church as fellow students file in, taking their seats. Black Mass is about to begin.

Wooyoung hadn’t intended to listen in on your conversation. He was too busy waiting for the other Dark Stars to arrive at the closed-off sanctuary to finish preparing for Black Mass. As usual, they didn’t show up early despite his suggestions. That’s a lie; he knew his words were less like suggestions and more like demands.

He was well aware they’d be late today, especially since most of the fifth and sixth years had spent the night at an intimate pre-Lupercalia party that stretched into dawn.

The only reason he peeked through the shadows was due to a loud crash, which he soon realized came from Yeosang, who appeared entranced by someone sitting near the front of the Church. That’s when he noticed it was you.

He’ll admit to having observed you over the past year—not out of personal interest, but because he’s intrigued by your unique gift and curious as to why the Dark Lord chose you of all people. Yes, you’re undeniably attractive as most witches are, but your ability to manipulate pure power without relying on spellwork is, to him, the most compelling quality you possess. If you had the right social standing, you would likely ascend to the role of High Priestess in a very fortunate coven.

From his hidden vantage point, he watches as his friend settles down beside you; that’s when the conversation begins.

“I’ve…never participated in Lupercalia,” he hears you share your secret. Now that is quite a confession.

Wooyoung’s lips curl into a smirk as he observes your flushed face from a distance, the rosy hue contrasting with the cold room that surrounds you. There’s a spark of mischief in his eyes as he takes in the way you shift nervously, completely unaware of his gaze.

Knowing that you haven’t been touched stirs a mix of amusement and curiosity within him. He wonders what thoughts are racing through your mind, feeling a strange sensation rush through him when you place your hand on his classmate’s thigh.

He saw no reason to hold back from participating. The moment he came of age, he dove in—and he’s done so every year since, always finding ways to revel in the experience to the fullest. As he reflects on past encounters, a pleased smile crosses his face as he silently counts the number of popped cherries he’s collected over the last several seasons, each a vivid memory weaved into his mind.

‘What’s one more…’

As more students trickle in and take their seats, the soft murmur of conversation fills the air. Wooyoung senses the moment is right and slips out of the shadows just as Father Blackmoor begins to walk down the aisle, weaving between the pews filled with eager faces. The flickering candlelight dances on the stone walls, casting a warm glow that contrasts with the coolness of the sanctuary.

He moves to stand on the left of Father Blackmoor, joining the other Dark Stars who are trying to stifle their yawns. The collective fatigue from the previous night’s festivities hangs in the air, but a shared excitement simmers beneath the surface. He exchanges brief glances with his fellow Stars, a silent acknowledgment of their late-night revelry and the anticipation of what today’s ceremony will bring.

“Fiends and Friends, today marks the beginning of our annual Lupercalia Festival,” Father Blackmoor announces, his voice resonating through the crammed Church. “As you all know, Lupercalia is upon us. I can feel the excitement buzzing in the air. The Festival of Wolves is a cherished tradition within our coven, and we take immense pride in honoring Goddess Peralia through a series of exhilarating rituals, all in hopes of receiving her unholiest blessings. With that in mind, let’s review the week’s events for those of you who are new to our practices.”

Father Blackmoor pauses to take an envelope from Wooyoung. “Tomorrow marks the start of the Assessment Period, which will be held in the Grand Hall. Witches who sign up today will be quizzed by prospective partners in hopes of finding their ideal match.”

“Courting begins on Tuesday. Those interested in a specific witch will reserve time slots to spend more time together. By the end of the night, the warlocks must submit the names of the witches they wish to be paired with. This will be followed by the Matching Ceremony on Wednesday, where the pairs will be revealed to the entire coven. On Thursday, we’ll have the Moon Ritual, during which the paired couples will venture into the darkwood to complete the rite. More specific details will be shared on the day, but they are expected to spend the night together beneath the moon in unholy abstinence.”

Some students snicker, knowing very well they won’t be abstaining from anything that night.

Father Blackmoor waits for the room to settle down before continuing, “Friday ushers in the Insatiable Hunt at dusk, where wolf-masked warlocks will chase after their red-cloaked witches through the woods, culminating in divine pleasure once they’ve been caught. We’ll conclude the week of festivities on Saturday with the Final Feast, where we will express our gratitude to Goddess Peralia for her many blessings this season.”

Wooyoung steps forward once more, this time carrying an ancient, leather-bound tome. The worn edges and faded lettering hint at its age and significance.

It’s the Book of Blood; which contains hundreds of Witches and Warlock's printed names, signed with their crimson ink, as a binding commitment to their word. It’s like a contract between yourself, the entire coven, and the Dark Lord himself.

With a practiced hand, he carefully cracks it open, his eyes sweeping across the room. “Witches that dare to participate, please step forward, say your intent, and sign your name in the Book of Blood.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as you push yourself to your feet, joining the line of participants ahead of you. A mix of excitement and nerves swirl in your stomach, each step bringing you closer to the moment you've been both dreading and anticipating.

The weight of curious eyes fall on you as you move, but none more intense than Yeosang's. His gaze feels like a spotlight, cutting through the crowd around him.

With each passing second, your pulse quickens as the line inches forward at a deathly slow pace. Every breath feels shallow, as if the air is too thick for your lungs to handle. Despite the knot of nerves tightening in your belly, your feet move on their own, as if guided by some force beyond your control.

Before you even realize it, you’re standing before Wooyoung. His eyes pierce down onto you while he hands you a knife, “Do you hereby pledge your full participation and commitment to the forthcoming Lupercalia festival and all associated events?”

Taking a deep breath, you respond, “Yes, I pledge myself.”

You take the knife from him, feeling the cold steel as you press the sharp blade into your palm. With a swift motion, you slice a clean, precise line across your skin. Ruby-red blood wells up, pooling in your cupped hand. Without hesitation, Father Blackmoor raises his hand, his dark magic swirling in the air as he draws the blood from your palm. It twists and shapes into the form of a pen, glowing faintly with a sinister aura, ready to be used.

You reach up and grasp the hovering pen, its energy vibrating through your hand. As you sign your name in the book, a surge of adrenaline floods your veins, electrifying every nerve. The moment the ink dries, you feel an undeniable shift. Something deep within you has been awakened.

Wooyoung smirks, knowing the sensation very well. “There’s no backing out now,” he says to you, his gaze locking onto yours, sharp and unrelenting.

“So,” Jongho, a second-year student like yourself, pauses to clear his throat after pulling on his tie, “That was awful.”

You chuckle, relieved to see you're not the only one with frayed nerves. “Yeah, good luck with the rest of them.”

He smiles back before shuffling along to the next person.

It’s Assessment Day, and every witch who signed their name is being rigorously questioned by the participating warlocks. Friends who had gone through this in previous years warned you about what to expect, and they were right. It’s definitely a forced mingling period on steroids.

It’s only been an hour, and you’re already exhausted of the routine of answering questions filled with probing and uncomfortable inquiries that delve into personal preferences. Over and over again, you're forced to confront touchy subjects, as if each question is designed to peel away the layers of your desires, as if you know.

The process feels more like an interrogation than a mere assessment, testing not just your patience, but your lack of knowledge on the subject at hand—sex.

The situation would be far less awkward if you didn't have to sit directly across from someone to verbally review the list. After each question, it’s mandatory to respond in one of the following ways: Agree - you give consent to the matter being discussed with the current party; Acknowledge - it is a potential option, and you give partial consent or Decline - no consent is given.

You pick at your fingernails while you wait for the next warlock.

“Penny dreadful for your thoughts?” You glance up to see Yeosang sliding into the seat across from you, with a broad smile spread across his handsome face.

“Oh, hi!” you say, doing your best to not sound startled. “Just wondering when all of this will be over, you know?” you continue, waving your arms around.

“Yeah, this part of the process isn’t the most comfortable. But I understand why it’s necessary,” he comments while leaning forward on the table. “Have the others been respectful?”

“Oh, yes. Yeah, everyone has been nice. I’m learning how many students I’ve never spoken to before,” you reply lightheartedly.

"Shall we begin?" Yeosang asks with a playful glint in his eyes, nodding toward the paper resting between you on the table, waiting for your cue to dive in.

Just as he reaches to pick up the list of desires to discuss, his movement is halted by the sudden arrival of Wooyoung, whose presence instantly commands attention.

He strides up to your table with his usual confidence, a grin tugging at his lips. The conversation shifts before it even begins, as Wooyoung’s energy pulls both your attention toward him without saying a word.

Yeosang lowers the paper, his eyes flicking between you and Wooyoung, sensing the inevitable distraction.

“Father Blackmoor has requested your presence in the Anti-Sacristy,” Wooyoung announces, handing him a miniature scroll with a secret message.

Yeosang frowns while reading it over, “Please excuse me.”

"Of course, I hope everything's alright," you murmur, though your words go unheard as he's already on his feet, moving swiftly toward the door.

Watching Yeosang rush out, you suddenly realize Wooyoung is still standing there. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, and he tilts his head, studying you with a curious intensity.

"Seems like you require a partner," he says with a smirk, sliding effortlessly into Yeosang’s chair without missing a beat.

You’re too stunned to respond and shift uncomfortably in your seat, completely unsure of what to do in this situation. He’s not offering to go through the questionnaire, is he?

Somehow, you forgot that you would, at some point, have to converse with Wooyoung today. It entirely slipped your mind up until this moment. And now he’s here without giving you time to prepare. You start to breathe a little heavier, and a slight sense of panic sets in.

“Why are you acting like that?” He says with a raised eyebrow, noticing your bouncing leg (a nervous habit of yours that annoyingly shows up at the worst possible moments.)

“I’m not sure what you mean?” Well, yes, you do but you won’t admit that. But your hyperventilating and antsy body might tell a different story.

“Yeah, right,” he rolls his eyes.

Your eyes lock on Wooyoung’s as he casually picks up the page. Without waiting for your reaction, he glances at the list and reads off the first item, his voice smooth and confident.

"How does each party feel about blood play; drawing blood by use of knives or other sharp weaponry, smearing blood, using blood as a lubricant, and/or tasting blood?" he reads off, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he waits for your response.

"I acknowledge," you reply with hesitation in your voice, uncertain whether you’re truly opposed to it, yet not entirely sure if you fully consent either. “And you?”

Wooyoung tilts his head again, “Do you really need to ask?”

"You and I both know there are specific rules to follow here," you say, leaning back in your seat with your arms crossed, eyes fixed on him with a mixture of challenge and caution. And, if you’re being completely honest, there’s a hint of annoyance now too. The nervousness from earlier has vanished entirely.

“Fair enough,” "he replies with a nonchalant sigh, “I agree.”

It’s your turn to read off the next item. “Does each participating student consent to bringing in other parties to join and/or watch your sexual relations? And additionally, joining others.” You look up toward Wooyoung, already expecting him to agree to those terms.

“Decline,” he states firmly, his voice dropping an octave as he adds, “I don’t share.”

You try to mask your shock, but the expression slips through.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he huffs.

“Sorry,” you mumble, “I also decline.”

He nods curtly, and you swear you hear him mutter "good" under his breath.

You breeze through the next set of questions surprisingly fast, both providing the appropriate answers as you work your way down the page.

At first, Wooyoung seemed a bit disinterested, but something caused his attitude to shift. Now, he’s more engaged, genuinely listening to your reasonings whenever you offer it.

“Last question, how many sexual partners have each participating party had?”

As he finishes speaking, you narrow your eyes at him, “That question isn’t on the list.” You’ve practically memorized them all by now. “You’re making that up.”

“So? Answer anyway,” he dares.

You glare at him, silently debating whether or not you should tell the truth. “Screw it,” you exhale, “None.”

Instead of the shock or teasing you expect, he simply blinks at you, as if he already knew what your answer would be.

But how…

When you wake the next morning, butterflies are already fluttering in your stomach. At this point, it’s hard to judge who will end up courting you, though you have a pretty good idea that Yeosang is interested. When he returned after visiting Father Blackmoor, you two had quite a connection while going through the assessment list.

You’ll find out for sure when you make it to the Dining Hall the courting schedule will be pinned on the announcement board for everyone to view.

You decide to grab a pastry and wait for the crowd around the schedule to thin out before checking how many dates you will have today. To keep things relatively fair, each witch is only allowed to have up to five courting suitors. A flicker of nerves sets in—what if no one reserved one of your time slots?

For the love of Lucifer, please let me have at least one warlock courting me.

You shove the last bite into your mouth and make your way to the board, eager to find out. Peeking around the remaining heads blocking your view, you spot that two of your time slots have already been reserved. Just as you’re trying to make out the names, someone taps you on the shoulder.

“Ghoul morning, Y/N,” Yeosang says with a smile, handing you a card. Your heartbeat picks up, recognizing the formality; courting warlocks are required to provide the witches with a card that essentially confirms their date.

“Hi, Yeosang!” You beam. Praise Satan.

He looks relieved when you accept his card. “I was hoping to see you this morning. Meet me at the Weeping Willow at three o’clock this afternoon. I have a special activity planned for us.”

You’re about to respond when you can feel his presence. Turning to look over your shoulder, you see Wooyoung standing closely behind. He towers over you, staring down Yeosang.

“Do you need something?” you ask, bringing his attention back to you while silently begging that he’s not here to send Yeosang away again, like yesterday.

“Yes,” he extends a hand, offering you a card. You stare at it in disbelief. He’s not here to steal Yeosang; he’s stealing you.

Wooyoung is your other suitor.

“I believe you’re meant to spend the morning with me.” Wooyoung’s eyes drift from yours and back to Yeosang’s, who tenses beside you. They seem to have a silent exchange of words.

“I see,” Yeosang says curtly, “Enjoy your time together.”

Before you have a chance to say anything Yeosang already disappears. Damn it.

“Come on, follow me,” Wooyoung demands while grabbing your wrist. He leads you down the dim, shadowy hallways of the school before picking up the pace as you leave the safety of the school, heading into the woods.

The thick trees close in around you, and the air feels heavier with each step. Fog swirls at your feet but mysteriously clears a path ahead of him like it knows exactly where he's going. You follow, feeling the cool, damp air cling to your skin. The deeper you go, the more unfamiliar the landscape becomes—you don’t recognize this part of the woods at all, and a strange sense of unease settles over you.

“Bloody heaven, where are you taking me?” you huff, doing your best to keep up with his long strides.

“You’ll see,” he grumbles, helping you up when you trip over an exposed tree root. “Can you stop tripping every five seconds? You’re slowing us down, and we’re on a time crunch.”

You glare at the back of his head as he speeds up. What a dick.

It’s not long before you arrive at the destination; it’s a stone table in the middle of the woods. You look around suspiciously. “Is this a ritual site? Are you planning on killing me for some weird sacrificial thing now that you know I’m a virgin, or…?”

Wooyoung bursts out laughing, “The thought hadn’t crossed my mind, actually. This is a portal.”

“A portal? To where?” you ask, peering at the stone. It doesn’t look like any portal you’ve ever seen.

“Want to find out?” he offers a hand for you to take, and you grab it warily.

He places his other hand on the stone, and its magic instantly pulls you through the atmosphere, sending you spiraling toward an unknown destination.

When you land, your feet hit the damp cobblestone street with a soft thud. The air smells of rain and baked goods, and you take in the bustling scene around you—witches and warlocks are flowing in and out of quaint little shops that line both sides of the road, their chatter filling the air. The street is alive with energy, and everything looks both foreign and strangely charming.

Before you can fully absorb it all, Wooyoung tugs you along, his grip firm as your head swivels, trying to figure out exactly where you’ve been transported to. The unfamiliar cityscape seems like a dream, its details slipping through your grasp as you hurry to keep up.

Suddenly, you collide with his back, not realizing he has stopped. "Ouch," you mutter, rubbing your nose in surprise. You’re about to say more when something above catches your eye—the sign swinging in the breeze.

"Trahana’s Tomb!" you squeal, excitement bubbling up. For ages, you've wanted to visit this place, but something always got in the way. Now, here it is, right in front of you, and the thrill of finally arriving sends a rush through you.

Trahana is a renowned sorceress and writer known for her vast collection of grimoires, enchanted artifacts, and other rare occult items—many of which are now on display and for sale at her legendary store. You've been itching to get your hands on her coveted Book of Arcane Beasts, a tome filled with forbidden knowledge of magical creatures, their histories, and untold powers.

Wooyoung holds the door open for you, and without a second thought, you dash inside. Your eyes widen as you take in the towering shelves crammed with both ancient and new books. Every corner of the shop is overflowing with enchanted curiosities.

At the back of the shop, a narrow, spiraling staircase catches your eye. It likely leads to an upper level filled with even more treasures waiting to be explored. The thought of what might be hidden beyond tempts you, adding to the growing sense of wonder.

"Oh, my sweet, evil boy! How are you?"

You turn to see a tall, elegant woman pinching Wooyoung’s cheeks with an affectionate grin.

He swats her hands away, groaning, "Aunt Hana, you know I hate when you do that. I’m not five anymore."

She laughs, unbothered by his protest. "Oh, you'll always be the stubborn young warlock playing with the Acheron Configuration upstairs even when told it was off limits," she teases, her eyes twinkling with the memory. “Goddess knows how many hours you spent trying to crack that spell.”

She shifts her gaze to you, giving you a quick once-over before raising an eyebrow. "Don’t be rude, Wooyoung. Introduce me to your friend."

Wooyoung rolls his eyes, "Forgive me. This is Y/N, another student at Onyx Academy. Y/N, meet Trahana, the curator of this fine establishment and, unfortunately, my insufferable aunt."

Trahana smirks, ignoring his jab. "Charmed, I’m sure," she says, her eyes glinting with curiosity as she sizes you up.

"I need to get back to work, but it was a pleasure meeting you, darling," Trahana says with a warm smile, her voice dripping with a mix of elegance and mystery. She gives you one last appraising look before turning away, her long robes sweeping the floor as she glides effortlessly toward the front of the store. The air feels lighter without her presence, yet the sense of power she carries lingers, leaving you a little awestruck.

You gape at him once she’s out of earshot. "She’s your aunt?"

Wooyoung sighs, nodding with exaggerated patience. "Yes, I’m painfully aware."

"That’s so cool. So you spent a lot of time here growing up?" you ask, curious to learn more about him.

"Yeah," Wooyoung replies, glancing around the shop with a hint of nostalgia. "My parents traveled a lot for business when I was younger, so this place became like a second home. Now, I come back whenever I need a break from school. Plus, it’s a great place to study; there's something peaceful about the chaos here compared to the eerie silence of Onyx Academy’s library."

"That makes sense," you say, nodding as your fingers trail across the spines of the old books lining the tight aisle. The dust, the energy, and the soft hum of magic in the air make the shop feel alive, the perfect contrast to the academy’s cold, quiet halls. "I can see why you'd find this place comforting."

Wooyoung smiles, clearly more relaxed here than you've ever seen him. "It’s got a strange kind of charm, doesn’t it?" he says, his voice softer now as the two of you meander through the maze of shelves, discovering little pieces of history with every step.

He allows you to explore the shelves, letting you dive into the books that capture your interest. As you lean down to examine the aged pages, he watches as a loose strand of hair slips across your face, and you absently tuck it behind your ear.

"Can I show you something?" he asks, gently drawing you away from the book that’s captivated your attention.

You glance up at him, and to your surprise, he almost seems nervous. It’s a rare sight for someone who usually exudes such confidence. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, making you curious about what he wants to show you.

Nodding, you allow him to lead you toward another bookshelf two aisles away from where you were just standing. His gaze flicks across the titles, searching for something specific.

"Ah, here it is," he finally says, lifting his arm to reveal a book with a deep blue spine. You hear a soft click as he pulls it out slightly, followed by a faint unlocking sound. With a practiced motion, he shifts down to another shelf and pulls out a book with a green spine. To your astonishment, the entire bookcase creaks ominously before revealing a secret door.

"This whole day just keeps getting stranger by the minute. Is this another portal?" you ask, a mix of skepticism and humor in your voice.

Wooyoung grins playfully. "As entertaining as that would be, no. It’s not a portal. It’s my secret place."

You turn to look at him. "See, now that’s kind of worse. Now I really don’t want to go in." The idea of stepping into his hidden sanctuary feels more daunting than the prospect of another magical journey.

He gives you a look.

“Okay, fine. In I go,” you say, taking a step closer before reaching for the cold handle. As you turn it and push the door open, you peer into the darkness beyond, straining to gauge what lies within. And, if you have to be completely honest, wondering why it needs to be hidden away.

Wooyoung steps inside after you, snapping his fingers to conjure his magic. A bright orb of light flickers to life, glowing softly at first. As he guides it upward, it gradually brightens and rises to the center of the room, illuminating the hidden space with a warm, inviting glow. The walls are revealed and adorned with eclectic decorations and mysterious photographs, creating an enchanting and haunting atmosphere.

"What is this place?" you ask, your curiosity piqued as you step closer to a nearby table and spot a stack of photographs. You pick up the first few, admiring the artistic shots of a plant you recognize from your walks through the Darkwood—it's a Moonset Fern, captured in full bloom. You remember learning about it in Herbology 101 last year; it’s renowned for its ability to protect against ill-will spells.

Intrigued, you skim through the rest of the stack. Each photo showcases different plants, all with potent herbal properties, their images so carefully composed they almost seem to pulse with hidden power.

“So,” Wooyoung says nervously, “What do you think?”

“Of the photographs? I think they’re beautiful. You took these?” He nods. “I didn’t know you had an interest in photography. Or Herbology, for that matter.”

"It’s a secret interest. Obviously," Wooyoung says, gesturing around the room to emphasize his point. "Unfortunately, Father Blackmoor thinks it’s a complete waste of time. To him, this is the work of a lesser warlock." The distaste is evident in his voice, like the words themselves leave a bitter taste in his mouth. "He’d rather I focus on proving my potential to become the youngest Anti-Pope."

"Do you believe him?" you ask, watching his reaction closely.

"Am I even allowed to believe any different?" he replies, his tone a mix of resignation and defiance. He picks up a different stack of photos and flips through them, each holding a distant memory of a time he felt genuine joy.

"Part of me wishes I wasn’t destined for this life—that I had the power to shape my own future," Wooyoung admits, his voice heavy with conflicted emotion. "But then the other half of me hates myself for even thinking like that, especially after everything my family has sacrificed to get me here." His gaze drops, the weight of expectation clearly pressing down on him, caught between desire and duty.

“No one in the history of The Church of Night has ever turned down a position of power once they've received the proper training and hold the necessary status,” he continues, his tone growing darker. "I can’t even imagine the consequences of rejecting something like that." The mere thought seems to weigh on him, defying centuries of tradition would unravel everything—not just for him, but for everyone tied to his legacy.

“That’s a frustrating position to be forced into. Though, I hate to admit I’m jealous.”

His head snaps up, eyes locking onto yours, confusion and a flicker of anger etched across his face.

"I’ve spent my whole life not knowing what my future will look like," you begin, your voice tight with emotion. “I have all this power, yet no one can explain why I have it or what I’m supposed to do with it. I don’t have even the slightest clue where I’ll end up in life, so yeah, from that standpoint, I am a bit jealous of your situation," you admit, a hint of envy creeping into your voice.

As you speak, the anger in his expression gradually fades, replaced by a quiet understanding. His features soften, and you can see him truly considering your words, letting them sink in.

"At least you have a clear path laid out for you, even if it’s not exactly what you want. I’m still stumbling around, trying to figure out what my purpose even is. But even then..." your tone softens slightly, "If I were you, I wouldn’t let my sense of duty smother the passion I feel for another study—even if it’s an uncommon path for someone in my position.”

You begin again, your voice steady with conviction, "The Dark Lord wouldn’t have put this path in front of you if there wasn’t something here worth discovering. I’d bet there’s a connection between each path, and maybe, just maybe, you’re meant to do something with both. Something no one else has thought of yet.”

Wooyoung hadn’t thought of that.

“That’s just my two cents,” you sigh, setting the photos down and walking over to the next table with hundreds more to look through.

One photo in the middle of the pile catches your eye, standing out in a way the others don’t. You can’t quite place the plant; it’s unfamiliar, yet stirs a sense of deep nostalgia. It’s a rich olive green, with spiny stems and sharply pointed leaves giving it a menacing look. But what truly captivates you is the ethereal purple aura surrounding it, shimmering faintly, like the plant itself is alive with ancient magic. Something about it feels important, though you can’t recall ever seeing it before.

"It’s a Ghost Violaceae," Wooyoung murmurs softly, leaning in close over your shoulder. His breath is warm against your ear as he speaks, his voice slightly raspy. "It’s commonly used in the art of seduction." His words hang in the air, as mysterious as the plant itself, and the subtle intensity in his tone makes the air between you suddenly feel different.

Wooyoung would do unspeakable things to know the thoughts swirling in your mind right now. He’s desperate to unravel what it is that made you blush so fiercely, what’s causing your heart to race and your breath to quicken.

You turn slightly, looking up at him with your lips parted. Wooyoung tilts his head, his eyes sparkling as he tries to decipher the emotions playing across your face. There's a flicker of curiosity in your gaze, his focus sharpening as he leans in just a fraction closer…

The sudden ringing of a timer blares through the silence, startling you both. Your head snaps toward the sound and you see a stopwatch floating in midair, its rhythmic ticking a clear reminder that your time is almost up. It’s time to return to Onyx Academy to prepare for your next session with Yeosang.

Beside you, Wooyoung tenses, the atmosphere immediately changing. The warmth in his eyes vanishes as quickly as it has surfaced, replaced by the cold, guarded demeanor he typically fronts. His walls shoot back up, and just like that, the brief vulnerability between you disappears.

Blair eyes you curiously, her black feathers ruffled while she senses the secret you’re holding back. She’s perched on a low branch, watching as you wait beneath the cascading limbs of the Weeping Willow. You’ve arrived early, not finding any solace in the silence of your room after returning to campus. Yeosang should be here any minute, but the unease from earlier lingers.

Wooyoung had barely spoken after the stopwatch appeared, his mood darkening as he grudgingly led you back to the portal. He rushed you through without a word, his steps heavy with frustration, and stormed off toward the church once back on school grounds without so much as a goodbye.

You’ve been trying to clear your mind, focusing your energy on the upcoming session with Yeosang, but the tension from Wooyoung still simmers under the surface. You take a deep breath, determined to push it aside and give Yeosang your full attention. He deserves it.

Blair lets out a sharp caw before taking off into the sky, disappearing into the distance as soon as she senses his presence. She knows to give you your privacy, leaving you alone just as he approaches.

“Oh, you’re here already,” Yeosang says, a bit surprised to see you already by the willows. He steps forward, his happy expression growing as he extends a bouquet of dried wine-colored roses, elegantly tied with a black ribbon.

“These are for you.”

Your breath catches at the sight of them. "These are gorgeous. Thank you—wow," you say, smiling while gently taking the bouquet from his hands. The gesture feels intimate, the deep red petals catching the light as you admire them, warmth blooming in your chest at the unexpected kindness.

“You’re welcome. Do you want to apparate them to your room?” Yeosang suggests.

“That’s a good idea, actually,” you reply, lifting the bouquet in front of you. With a soft hum, you recite the incantation, watching as the flowers shimmer and disappear, transporting them to your bedside table in an instant.

“There,” you smile, “Now they’ll be waiting for me when I get back.”

“We have a short walk to our destination. If you’ll follow me?” Yeosang guides you up a path behind the willow grove, the incline leading to a breathtaking view of the Darkwood below. The forest stretches endlessly, its shadowy canopy glittering with ancient magic.

"Do you mind waiting here?" he asks, rubbing the back of his neck, a hint of nerves flickering across his face. "I thought I'd have a little more time to set things up."

You smile softly. "I don’t mind at all."

Relieved, he excuses himself, disappearing back down the trail to retrieve whatever surprise he has planned. The minutes pass in peaceful quiet, the cool air brushing against your skin. You close your eyes, enjoying the moment, until a faint rustling behind you interrupts the calm energy. You glance over your shoulder, seeing nothing, and shrug it off—probably just the wind.

But then, movement at the edge of the tree line catches your eye, a shadowy figure slipping between the trees.

You step cautiously toward the movement, your heart beating a little faster with each quiet footstep. The air seems to thicken as you approach, a soft rustling continuing just beyond the nearest tree. You steady yourself, taking a slow breath before rounding the massive trunk.

Face to face with the culprit, you freeze—a pair of wide, curious eyes staring back at you. It's a small, ethereal creature, almost like a fox but with wisps of glowing mist trailing from its fur. Its translucent body shimmers faintly under the dappled light filtering through the trees.

You exhale in relief, it’s just another familiar. The creature’s gentle gaze is more inquisitive than threatening; and she tilts her head, trying to decide whether to flee or come closer, her silver eyes studying you with an almost childlike curiosity. The creature soon takes off, before you have a chance to ask who they belong to.

As you turn around, a startled cry escapes your lips—Wooyoung is standing just inches from you, his presence completely unexpected.

"What are you doing here?" you snap, your hand instinctively flying to your chest, trying to calm your racing heart.

"I'm not really here. Just astral projecting. And who’s to say I wasn’t here first?"

You cross your arms, glaring at him, clearly unimpressed.

"Okay, fine. Maybe I wasn’t here first," he concedes with a shrug, his smirk faltering under your withering stare.

"Yeosang is going to be back any second," you warn, narrowing your eyes. "Are you here to spy on us?"

"Pfff... no..." he says, though the lack of conviction in his voice makes you roll your eyes.

"Lame," you mutter, watching his poorly veiled attempt at denial fall apart. He shifts awkwardly under your gaze, clearly caught.

“I don’t like that you’re alone with him.”

“Why?”

“I told you already. I. Don’t. Share.”

“You can’t be serious,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “Is this just some kind of game? Are you playing with me because you don’t want Yeosang to have me? What is it, Wooyoung? You haven’t given me a second thought until two days ago.”

“It’s not like that—" Wooyoung starts, but the sound of rustling interrupts him, cutting his sentence short. Both of you turn, startled, as Yeosang emerges from the trees. His eyes sweep the clearing, looking for you since you aren’t standing where he left you. When he spots you, he smiles and approaches, carrying a woven basket in one arm and a blanket in the other.

You glance back toward Wooyoung, but he’s already vanished. Typical, slipping away before finishing what he started. Maybe he’s glad for the escape before you can grill him any further.

“Looking for something?”

‘More like someone,’ you think to yourself. “Oh sorry, I thought I saw a familiar, but it ran off,” you explain, brushing off the awkward moment. “So, what’s all this?” You gesture to the basket, quickly shifting the conversation before Yeosang has a chance to ask anything.

He grins, glancing down at his hands, a bit shy. "I hope you like picnics. I thought we could enjoy some treats and maybe get to know each other better."

“That sounds lovely,” you reply warmly.

Yeosang carefully picks a spot, spreading the blanket and the two of you sit side by side, the breathtaking view of the Darkwood stretching out below. There’s something serene about the quiet between you, the moment brimming with peaceful anticipation.

He sets the basket in front of you, lifting the lid to reveal an array of colorful sweets, the soft glow of the late afternoon sun reflecting off the glass jars inside. You notice delicate pastries, chocolates, and sugared fruits arranged neatly.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I brought a little of everything,” Yeosang says, his voice low but sincere.

Your heart warms at the gesture. "You’ve really outdone yourself,” you praise, picking up one of the pastries for yourself and offering another to him.

Curiosity gets the better of you, and you decide to bring up the scroll from yesterday. "I didn’t want to pry, but you left in such a rush yesterday. Was everything alright?" you ask before taking a bite.

Yeosang chuckles softly, as if amused by the memory. "Funny you should ask. Turns out, when I arrived at Father Blackmoor’s office, he had no idea what I was talking about. No urgent scroll was sent for me. But he thought it was good timing and wanted to discuss my plans for after I complete my time at the academy."

Your curiosity piques further. "And those plans are...?" you press, hoping he’ll open up.

Yeosang hesitates briefly, but then, with a slight smile, he reveals, "I’d like to teach, maybe. My father was a teacher, and he always said I had the same qualities. Plus, I love kids. I think teaching them the basics of magic—the very foundation of what they'll need for the rest of their lives—would be important work."

A soft breeze ruffles the edges of the blanket, and you can’t help but smile at his answer. "That sounds perfect for you. I can already picture you as a great mentor."

The rest of your evening with Yeosang flies by in a blur of conversation and quiet moments spent enjoying the view. Before you know it, he's walking you back to the dormitories. He hesitates as you both stop outside the door to the girls' dorms, clearly lingering on something unsaid.

"I just want you to know," he starts, shifting nervously, "that regardless of what happens tomorrow at the Matching Ceremony, I had a lovely time tonight. I'll see you tomorrow then."

Before you can respond, he leans down and presses a soft kiss on your cheek. "Goodnight, Y/N."

You barely manage to mumble a “goodnight” back, still caught in the trance from the warmth of his lips against your skin. As you make your way up to your room, your heart feels light, and you can’t help but smile even wider when you notice the flowers he gave you earlier—now arranged beautifully in a vase on your nightstand.

But something else catches your eye—a small, glimmering box sitting on your bed, illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight. You walk over to it and find a note attached in handwriting you immediately recognize.

Not a game to me – W

Your breath hitches as you find the book you had been eyeing earlier—the one Wooyoung had distracted you from in Trahana’s shop—alongside the newest edition of The Book of Arcane Beasts. Tucked neatly between the pages are a few of the photographs from his secret room; the ones you had admired without realizing he noticed.

Your heart races as you hold the items in your hands, the meaning of his gesture sinking in. It’s not just a game. Whatever this is with Wooyoung, it’s something real. And now, you're more conflicted than ever.

Yeosang steps closer to the flames that surge in the iron vessel before him, casting flickering shadows across his face while he waits. If you look closely, shapes begin to form within the flames, dancing and twisting as though something is being forged in the heat. A sudden flare of sparks erupts from the fire—it's ready.

With a steady hand, he pulls an envelope from the fire. The edges of the paper are still smoldering while he opens it with precision, watching as the magic ink slowly manifests on the paper, revealing a name.

You notice a brief, almost imperceptible frown cross his face, but it vanishes just as quickly. “Polly Petrify,” he announces smoothly, his voice steady, betraying nothing as he steps back into place.

Father Blackmoor gives a solemn nod, signaling his approval of the pairing.

The Church is packed for the Matching Ceremony, and a mix of excitement and nervous energy ripples through the crowd. The warlocks stand in front of the filled pews, their postures rigid and unreadable, while the witches occupy the first two rows of seats, eyes flickering with anticipation.

You sit among them, your heart sinking as Yeosang’s name is paired with another witch. The knot in your chest tightens, but before you have time to register how you truly feel, Wooyoung steps forward.

It’s his turn.

Time stretches unbearably as his fingers hover over the glowing envelope that emerges from the flames. He grasps it carefully, tearing it open before pulling out the slip of paper, the suspense in the room thickening with every second.

At least a dozen witches sit in eager anticipation, each one hopeful, their eyes flicking toward the altar, silently praying that their name will be the one called.

You watch his face intently, almost holding your breath.

The moment he reads the name, a subtle smile curls at the corner of his lips, making him look effortlessly gorgeous. His inky black hair falls in perfect disarray, and the deep blue sweater he’s wearing brings out a distinctive glimmer in his eyes—it’s definitely his color.

As he steps back in line to let the next warlock take their turn, you realize that you completely missed whose name he just called. You’ve been too busy gawking to notice. Leaning toward the witch beside you, you whisper, “Whose name did he say?”

She shoots you a scowl and snaps, “Yours.”

Your heart skips a beat, and your gaze whips back up front. Wooyoung catches your eye and quickly winks, the gesture playful yet it’s enough to send a wave of heat rushing through you. Your pulse races and every nerve in your body is suddenly aware of his presence. The world around you fades for a second, the reality of the situation sinking in—he chose you.

It feels like all the oxygen has been sucked from the room. Your chest tightens, and it’s taking every ounce of control not to claw at your neck in search of air. You can’t tell if your racing heart is a sign of excitement, fear, or a mixture of both.

The pairing results swirl through your mind as you try to process how you feel about Wooyoung having been paired with you. You know that the warlocks have some say in their pairing preference, but the decision is ultimately up to Father Blackmoor and The Dark Lord.

But there’s no time to dwell on it now—you have a performance to focus on. As the rest of the ceremony wraps up, the witches, including yourself, are expected to sing I Put A Spell On You.

You walk up to the front of the church with the other witches, your heart still hammering in your chest. You can feel Wooyoung’s gaze searing into you from across the room, but you refuse to meet his eyes. You know that if you do, you’ll stumble over the lyrics or worse, completely forget your part.

With every note of the song, you force yourself to remain composed. Your voice blends with the others, the melody haunting, filling the ancient church with an enchanting resonance. The weight of his stare lingers, but you resist the pull until the very end. Only when the final note fades and you’re walking back to your seat do you glance his way. His eyes are still on you, but there’s something different about his expression now—intense, unreadable.

Father Blackmoor steps forward as the ceremony winds down, his voice ringing through the dimly lit room. “Remember, paired witches and warlocks are strictly forbidden from seeing each other until tomorrow evening when you’ll all meet in the Darkwood for the Moon Ritual. Ghoul evening to you all.”

The church stirs with hushed whispers and rustling bodies as everyone begins to disperse. But you remain in place for a moment, your mind tangled in the events that have unfolded. Tomorrow promises even more mystery, and the thought of it sends another shiver down your spine.

You follow the large group down the path toward the heart of the academy’s campus, their excited chatter buzzing in the crisp evening air. But as they veer toward the dining hall, you quietly part ways, taking steps in the opposite direction toward a different building.

The heavy wooden doors creak as you push them open, and the familiar scent of ancient tomes and aged parchment envelops you.

The sanctum, the private library for advanced students like yourself, is nearly deserted tonight, making it the perfect place to find peace in the aftermath of the ceremony. The usual hum of magic is calming and the near-silence offers a much-needed space to clear your mind.

You make your way to the Demonology section, where the dim light and towering shelves create a cocoon of solitude. Finding an empty seat, you settle in, snapping your fingers to summon your books. In an instant, they materialize on the table before you, pages full of dark knowledge waiting to be absorbed.

Despite it being Lupercalia season, the academic grind doesn’t stop. Your upcoming exams loom over you like a dark cloud, and no amount of supernatural matchmaking will change that.

You run your fingers over the spines of your books, mentally preparing yourself to dive into study mode. The familiar words of your Demonology texts are grounding, a reminder of the discipline and focus you need to maintain.

The sanctum is quiet tonight, only the soft sound of pages turning and the occasional whispered incantation breaking the silence. You try to focus on the words in front of you, but your mind keeps drifting back to Wooyoung—his voice, his gaze, the gift he left in your room. You shake your head, pushing the thoughts aside. There will be time for all that later. For now, you need to concentrate.

Time passes and after finishing a few chapters, you glance at your watch, eyes widening in surprise. Three hours have flown by. Blair is going to be furious that you’re late to feed her. Scribbling down a final note, you snap your fingers, sending your books back to your room before heading out of the sanctum.

As you step outside, you collide with someone. "Oh, I’m so sorry!" you stammer, glancing up to apologize, only to be met with familiar eyes twinkling beneath tousled black hair.

Wooyoung.

“You’re forgiven,” he says smoothly.

"We’re not supposed to see each other," you remind him, taking a cautious step back.

He tilts his head, smirking too, just like he always does. "I know, but you skipped dinner, and there’s something I’ve been dying to do since yesterday."

"What? Stalk me some more?" you quip, feeling a rare surge of confidence.

His smirk spreads into a full smile, and to your delight, he chuckles—a sound you’ve secretly grown to love. Your heart pounds faster.

"You wish," he shoots back, his eyes gleaming as he steps closer. The intensity in his gaze feels almost magnetic, as if he's looking right through you, straight into your soul. His nostrils flare with a sharp exhale, and you can’t help but wonder what’s going through his mind.

“What are you doing?” you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper as he takes yet another step closer.

He doesn't answer. Instead, with one smooth motion, he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you toward him. His touch is firm, but there’s a softness to the way his fingers splay across your back. You feel your pulse quicken, your breath hitching in your throat.

“This is breaking the rules,” you whisper, trying to find an ounce of self-control to step out of his embrace.

His proximity overwhelms your senses—the warmth of his body, the way his breath tickles your skin, and the undeniable connection crackling between you two. He tilts his head slightly, the smirk on his lips fading into something more serious, more dangerous.

“I don’t break the rules, I just bend them,” he rasps, his voice low and teasing, right before he closes the space between you. The moment his lips brush against yours, you freeze, caught off guard by the softness, the tenderness as he coaxes you into responding. His mouth moves gently, skillfully, as if testing the waters, daring you to give in.

A frenzy stirs inside you, an electric current surging through your veins. Your hands instinctively move to frame his face, your fingers sliding along the sharp lines of his jaw before tangling in his soft, messy hair. The kiss deepens, the intensity building with every second as you press yourself closer to him, losing yourself in the heat of the moment.

You can’t get enough; the taste of him, the way his breath mingles with yours, and the undeniable pull that has your body responding before your mind can catch up. His other hand slides under your shirt and up your spine, anchoring you to him as if he never wants to let go.

Wooyoung mumbles an incantation against your lips before tickling the corners with his tongue. You’re too distracted to recall what he said, especially when you feel it.

Heat begins to radiate from his fingers, searing into your skin. It flows through your body until it hits your sweet spot, pooling dangerously between your legs.

You gasp against his mouth, and he uses the opportunity to dip his tongue inside, swallowing your moans as you let them slip out. Pressing your legs together, you try to find any sort of friction, aching for something to relieve the growing pressure.

A sinful sound vibrates from his chest when you bite down on his lower lip ever so gently. You have to admit, the thought of kissing him has crossed your mind more times than you can count. But now, standing here with the taste of him on your lips, you realize the reality is so much better than anything your imagination could have conjured.

He’s more intoxicating than any dream could ever be. Every touch sends a thrill through you that no fantasy could ever match. The way he knows exactly what you like leaves you yearning for more in a way that feels almost addictive.

Blair caws, cutting through the shadows of the night and announcing her arrival with impeccable timing. You both jolt, breaking apart as if the spell between you has been abruptly shattered.

“Ghoul evening, Blair,” Wooyoung mutters, his voice still thick with the lingering tension. He glances at the raven-like figure perched nearby, an amused glint flickering in his eyes. “It’s a good thing you arrived when you did,” he adds, his tone teasing. He looks down at you, pleased with how dissolved your shirt looks, how pouty your wet lips are from your nefarious activities.

He takes a step back, quickly smoothing down his hair and adjusting his clothes, his fingers lingering at his collar as he regains his usual composure. You, on the other hand, are still catching your breath, feeling the flush in your cheeks and the electric hum of the moment that lingers in the space between you.

Give me a little privacy to say goodbye, and I’ll give you extra treats for your late dinner, you say telepathically to Blair. She tilts her head, considering the offer, before finally cawing in agreement and taking off into the night, clearly satisfied with the deal.

“I want you to try something tonight,” Wooyoung murmurs, his voice low and full of mischief. His eyes glint with something dark and thrilling, sending a shiver down your spine. “When you’re alone in bed and everyone else is asleep…”

Your heart races while he speaks.

“I want you to pretend that your hands are my own, and I want you to touch yourself where you felt my magic earlier.”

“E-excuse me?” you stammer, your heart racing as you try to find the right words.

He grins, leaning in just enough for you to feel the heat radiating from him. “Trust me, you’ll like it,” he teases, his voice like velvet. “I need you to warm yourself up for me, so you’re ready to learn more tomorrow night. Will you do that for me?”

You nod, a shiver running across your skin as his words linger in the air.

“Now, get out of here and go feed Blair before you wake up tomorrow missing your eyes,” he adds with a playful smirk.

You roll your eyes but can’t suppress a smile. “Fine, see you later.”

“Yes, you will,” he says with a wink, watching as you turn to leave, his gaze heavy on you the entire way.

His words linger in your mind for the rest of the night.

It's now the witching hour, and your roommates are fast asleep, blissfully unaware of the potion you slipped into their bedtime tea. They never noticed the subtle, earthy undertones masking the spell’s effects, leaving them in a deep slumber for the next several hours.

It had to be done, the last thing you need is for one of them to wake and catch you in the act, especially while you're carrying out Wooyoung’s special request.

Under the safety of your blankets, you move quietly, as if any sudden movement could betray your secret. One hand begins to massage your breasts through your thin tank top, the other sliding down toward your pink panties.

Taking a deep breath, you open your legs, allowing your fingers to slip beneath the dampening fabric. After spreading your juices around, you rub your clit before slowly dipping your first finger into your slick entrance. The sensation is unfamiliar—neither bad nor uncomfortable, just something you're not used to. The pain of the stretch lingers, leaving a strange warmth that you can't quite place.

You close your eyes and pretend that Wooyoung is there with you. Swiftly, you begin to curl your fingers, simultaneously bucking into your hand. You picture him hovering over you, but the image clouds over, shifting into a different scene that becomes sharper.

Wooyoung is also in bed, with his hand wrapped around his exposed, thick cock, lazily pumping it. There’s something unsettlingly vivid about this image, as if it’s not just a product of your imagination. It feels real—too real. Gasping, you realize that he’s in your head, projecting himself, revealing his presence in a way that makes your heart race.

Then, as if he can sense that you've finally caught on to his wicked scheme, a dark smile tugs at the corner of his lips, the kind that makes your body’s temperature spike. “Are you touching yourself, like I asked you to?”

You suck in a sharp breath and nod instinctively, even though you know he can’t physically see you. But somehow, you sense that he knows.

“I bet you are,” he hums, closing his eyes while running his thumb over his pink head. He tosses his head back as he strokes himself, “I bet that tight little virgin cunt of yours needs some good stretching before she’s ready for me.”

Feeling the heat rising to the tips of your ears, they’re red from the weight of his words, like they’re wrapping themselves around you, pulling you deeper into his influence. The knot in your lower belly grows as you match your little finger thrusts to the speed of his hand pumps.

“Add another finger, honey, I know you can,” Wooyoung groans, his hand moving a little faster. “Look at how my cock aches to be sunk inside your sweet folds.”

You do as he commands. You’re panting at this point; completely zeroed in on his throbbing length while you climb towards bliss. The silent room fills with a sinful pattern of squelches from each thrust into your lush heat, and a divine sensation washes over you.

“Goddess, I’m about to make a mess,” he whines, a sound that you’ll never be able to forget. He stills, letting out another beautiful noise while his seed shoots out across his abs, some even on his dark silk sheets.

“That’s just a preview,” he grins devilishly, “Sleep well, Y/N.”

"Many blessings," Father Blackmoor's voice rings out, reverberating through the towering trees of the Darkwood. "Tonight, we honor the Moon and her radiant beauty. Paired couples, please step forward to collect your basket."

You step forward cautiously, aware of Wooyoung’s presence close behind you. As your fingers brush the edge of the woven basket, Wooyoung’s arm reaches past you, his hand closing around it first. His body hovers briefly against yours, a faint smile curving his lips. Sucking in a sharp breath, you pull your hand back as your mind flashes back to last night, Wooyoung’s cock is still fresh in your mind.

"Each basket contains a ceremonial knife," Father Blackmoor continues, his tone solemn. "You will begin the rite by smearing your blood upon your partner's forehead. Then, you must drink the purification potion—the milky-colored vial—and consume the figs, symbolizing your unity. Under the moonlight, you will lie side by side until dawn, as a testament to your bond and in preparation for tomorrow’s Hunt."

His final words hang in the cool night air as the forest seems to hush in reverence for what’s to come. You glance up at Wooyoung, and his eyes are already on you, dark and unreadable, only reflecting the moonlight.

As the other couples start to spread out across the forest, Wooyoung’s hand finds yours, tugging you deeper into the woods. His steps are quiet, purposeful, as the towering trees close in around you both. Your attention snaps forward when you catch a glimpse of movement—there, not far ahead, the same fox-like creature you spotted by the willows. The realization dawns on you: it’s Wooyoung’s familiar.

The creature moves gracefully, leading the way through the underbrush, its magical fur shimmering under the pale moonlight. Wooyoung follows without hesitation, his gaze fixed on his familiar. You trail behind, curiosity building, as the creature guides you to a secluded clearing hidden deep in the Darkwood.

“Thank you, Vixen,” Wooyoung murmurs once you’ve arrived. The fox-like familiar halts briefly, then glimmers before fading into the air, leaving behind a trail of glowing embers that slowly dissipate into the night.

Your eyes scan the clearing, and you notice the scene in front of you—a circle of softly flickering candles arranged around a blanket spread across the forest floor. The air hums with quiet magic, thick with mystery and anticipation. Wooyoung turns to you, his eyes glinting in the candlelight, a mischievous yet unreadable expression crossing his face.

Wooyoung extends his hand to you, his touch firm yet gentle as he helps you step onto the soft blanket. With a single snap of his fingers, your clothes transform—yours into a sheer white nightgown, his into simple black pants, with his chest left bare, the candlelight casting shadows over his defined muscles.

“Ready to begin?” he asks, voice low, eyes holding a flicker of something dangerous yet enticing.

You nod, your breath catching for a moment. Reaching into the basket set down beside him, your fingers curl around the cool metal of the ceremonial blade. Together, your voices join in a low, rhythmic chant, weaving through the night air. The ritual words hang heavy between you as you press the blade to your finger, feeling the sharp sting as blood wells up. Stepping closer, you bring your hand to his forehead, smearing an upside-down cross on his tanned skin, the blood vivid against his complexion.

Without a word, you hand the blade to Wooyoung, your fingers brushing his in the exchange. He mimics your actions, the cool sting of the knife barely registering as he pricks his finger, marking your forehead with the same crimson anti-cross. The flames around you leap higher, responding to the magic building in your chant.

The moonlight glistens against his skin, bathing him in an ethereal glow as he lifts the purification potion from the basket. He drinks deeply, eyes never leaving yours, and then hands the vial to you. You take it from him, your pulse quickening as you lift it to your lips, the magic binding you both growing stronger with each word, each action.

His eyes darken; trailing over your nearly naked body. They land on your peaked nipples, and he lets out a deep exhale while his eyes are glued in place.

“Um, figs,” Wooyoung clears his throat, momentarily dazed, shaking his head as if to regain focus. He grabs one from the basket, handing you the other. You sink your teeth into the fruit’s tender skin, its bright red flesh spilling a sweet, rich juice onto your lips. A single drop escapes and trails down your chin, and you catch Wooyoung watching, his gaze lingering longer than usual. But he doesn’t say a word. Not yet.

You quickly wipe away the juice, trying to ignore the flush creeping up your neck. “So… what now?” you ask, your voice more uncertain than you intended. You’ve both completed the ritual, but the tension between you is undeniable. Neither of you has acknowledged last night’s activities, though you’re certain it’ll come up eventually. It has to.

He shifts slightly, his eyes scanning your face, and for a moment, it seems like he’s about to bring it up. His lips twitch into a half-smile, “I’ve got an idea or two.”

You’re not sure how it happened—one moment you’re standing, the next you’re lying beneath him. Wooyoung hovers above you, his arms on either side of your head, eyes gleaming with that familiar intensity. His body is close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, and your pulse quickens as his breath brushes against your skin.

Without notice, his lips crash down onto yours. He sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, moaning when your hands twist in his hair.

He presses his hips down into yours, letting you feel how worked up he’s already become.

“We're technically not supposed to do anything tonight,” Wooyoung says, his voice low and teasing once he pulls back. A mischievous glint sparkles in his eyes as he adds, “But a rule’s never stopped me before.”

You pull his head back down to yours, kissing him languishingly as he rolls his hips into yours again.

“Do you want to keep going?” he asks, this time pressing his length right up against your covered heat.

Wooyoung’s lips curl into a devilish smile when you whine incoherently about wanting more.

“Answer me, honey. Do you want more?” He asks with a growl, but the intensity in his gaze makes it clear—he already knows the answer.

“Yes,” you beg, “More. Please!”

He grabs handfuls of the fabric at your sides, bunching it up around your waist before he descends below.

Your dewy center is covered in a heavy coating of your arousal. Spellbound by the sight, he instinctively brings his fingers to your heat, gathering some of your transparent essence and smearing it around your folds.

“Fucking hell, you’re so fucking wet for me,” Wooyoung mutters.

Incapable of waiting any longer, he dives in tongue first, licking a beautiful line from your slit’s opening up to your needy nub of nerves. Another growl resounds from his chest as he devours your sex, his cock involuntarily twitching when he sinks two fingers back to your opening. Wooyoung strokes his saturated fingers through your slit before sinking them inside your soft flesh, feeling your inner walls clench around them.

He pulls them out and admires how your hole instinctively sucks his digits back in where they belong.

“Such a tight little cunt. It’ll be ruined by tomorrow night,” Wooyoung groans; despite his words, there’s nothing but appraisal in his voice. He looks up at your body, meeting your eyes. His flash with a dark dominance, lust with a dash of something else flicker in them.

His devilish words only excite you further, and more of your sticky arousal coats his hand. Each curl of his fingers brings you closer and closer to writhing pleasure.

His head dips back down, his tongue swirling around your clit before he sucks it between his teeth. Gasping, you buck your hips upward, needing more. So much more.

“I can’t wait to turn you into a nasty little whore. Would you like that?” he asks in between little licks.

“Y-yes” you mewl. “Wanna. Be your w-whore.”

He’s got you dancing along the edge of a very dangerous cliff, and you want nothing more than to jump off, face first, and dive into the waves of ecstasy that await.

He can tell that you’re close; your walls are beginning to tighten around him. Flattening his tongue against your sensitive nub, he applies the right amount of pressure you need to come all over his face.

When he sits up, his mouth is dribbling with your release; it’s a pretty sight to see.

“Not bad for a virgin,” he teases.

Your blissful smile turns coy, “Is it my turn to taste you? You’ll have to teach this virgin just how you like it.”

A deep, low growl vibrates in his chest and the corners of his jaw flex as he stands up, his silhouette outlined from the moonlight.

“On your knees then, slut.”

You twist your body until you’re sitting on your knees, your used cunt dripping onto the blanket below.

“Goddess, I’m so fucking hard for you,” Wooyoung grunts while pulling his pants down.

Freed from his pants, his cock springs out before bouncing momentarily, then stands erect in its full glory. You reflexively clench at the sight of him. It’s just as you remember it from last night.

Tightening his palm around his shaft, Wooyoung begins stroking himself before lining his tip up to your lips.

“Take just the head into your mouth,” he murmurs. “Just while you warm up to the feeling.”

You immediately wrap your mouth around him and a wave of precum leaks directly onto your tongue. Circling his thick tip, you get comfortable with the weight of him on your tongue, learning his taste.

“Such a good slut,” Wooyoung croons, causing your core to tremble from his praises.

One hand moves to hold your chin, angling your head to look up at him, “When you’re ready for more, take a deep breath and take in more of me.”

Hollowing your cheeks, you suckle on his head, letting more and more of him into your wet cave. You run your tongue along the underside of his shaft, the tickling sensation causing him to jerk inside you.

Wooyoung tugs on your hair, softly at first, and then his fist wraps around the handful in his grasp. His impressive length fills your mouth, his immense girth cracking your jaw open with each gentle thrust.

Words of encouragement spill from his lips, giving you the confidence to suck in the final inch of his member.

Involuntarily, you gag around his cock when his thick head hits the back of your throat. Tears sting the corner of your eyes, falling soon after.

Without warning, his length surges into your throat and Wooyoung lets out a stream of colorful expletives as his release hits him. His hips jerk once more, and he tosses his head back underneath the moonlight.

You shudder, feeling his thick cum stick to the walls of your throat.

“Goddess,” he hums, “Sorry about that.” Wooyoung slips out of your mouth, admiring as you use the back of your hand, you wipe your soddened mouth.

“It’s okay. Now I know what to expect.”

Wooyoung pulls you into his embrace, and you both settle into the quiet rhythm of the night, staring up at the stars as they shimmer in the sky. His warmth surrounds you, grounding you amidst the cool breeze.

He shifts slightly, turning on the blanket to meet your gaze. “I need to warn you about tomorrow,” he begins, his voice lower, more serious. “The potion we warlocks take before the ceremony… it makes our animalistic instincts take over. It’s going to be rough. That’s why I’ve been preparing you, so to speak.”

A knot twists in your stomach at his words. You hadn’t realized the full extent of what tomorrow held, but now it makes sense. That’s why they call it the Hunt, you think, You’re basically their prey. The pieces finally click into place. His honesty, though jarring, makes you feel strangely grateful that he’s letting you in on something you weren’t aware of.

“I trust you,” you whisper softly. “You haven’t hurt me so far, so I’m not worried about tomorrow.”

Wooyoung’s chest rises as he takes a deep breath, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. He silently prays to Goddess Peralia that he won’t bring you any harm during the Hunt. The uncertainty flickers in his eyes for just a moment before he pulls you closer, wrapping you in his warmth.

“Come here,” he murmurs, his voice gentle as you settle against his chest. His heart beats steadily beneath your ear, and soon your breaths fall in sync, the sound of the wind rustling through the Darkwood easing you both into a peaceful silence.

As the stars twinkle above, the night’s calm surrounds you like a protective cocoon, lulling you into sleep. You drift into a deep, restful slumber, cocooned in his arms, feeling the peace before the inevitable storm of tomorrow.

“The Insatiable Hunt begins,” one of the warlocks grins darkly before tossing back the elixir, the liquid shimmering as it slides down his throat. Wooyoung raises his glass in silent agreement, his eyes flashing with excitement before he gulps it down, feeling the fiery potion race through his veins. The others follow suit, the room buzzing as they prepare for the night ahead.

They pull on their wolf masks, transforming from men into primal hunters, instincts sharpening with every heartbeat. The thrill of the chase hangs thick in the air as they line up, muscles tensed, waiting for the doors to open.

Wooyoung’s body hums with the effects of the potion, a burning heat spreading through his skin. His senses sharpen—your scent lingers, intoxicating and irresistible. His pupils dilate as your essence floods his nostrils, every fiber of his being urging him forward. The others grin beneath their masks, but his focus is single-minded: you.

The doors creak open with a loud thud, unleashing them into the night. With a guttural growl, Wooyoung sprints into the woods, his feet pounding the earth as he follows your trail, the scent drawing him deeper into the Darkwood. His heart races, blood pumping with one singular purpose: to find you. To claim his prize.

Wooyoung moves like a shadow, effortlessly twisting and turning through the woods, his heightened senses guiding him closer to your trail. Each subtle shift in the air tells him you're near. He slows as he approaches a dense thicket, his instincts screaming at him to be cautious. He can feel you hiding, watching, waiting.

His cock strains when he catches a whiff of your scent, his hardened member straining against the tightness of his pants as it begs to bury itself deep inside of you.

His eyes narrow, hyper-focused on the faintest rustle of leaves. You dart from the bushes, sprinting through the underbrush, your breath quickening as you distance yourself from him. He follows silently, his steps deliberately soundless as he stalks you.

You duck behind a tree, pressing your back against its trunk, heart pounding in your chest. Straining to listen, you hear... nothing. No footsteps, no rustling—nothing. A chill creeps up your spine. Slowly, you peek around the tree, scanning the shadows. There’s no sign of him.

Relief barely has time to settle in before you turn back and scream.

He’s right there, inches away.

"Gotcha," Wooyoung growls, his voice low and menacing, his breath hot against your skin. With a wicked grin, he grabs your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze as he slams your back against the rough bark of the tree. The impact sends a jolt through your body, your heart racing even faster now. His grip tightens, but not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who’s in control.

His eyes glint through the wolf mask with a dangerous mix of hunger and satisfaction, the thrill of the Hunt evident in every line of his expression.

Wooyoung's grip tightens, his breath hot against your ear as he growls, “I can’t wait to split you in half with my cock.”

Before you can react, he spins you around, pressing your chest against the rough bark of the tree. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears as his hands slide down your sides, firm and unyielding.

He blames his newfound animalistic behavior for how fast he rips away your crimson cloak and the layers beneath it, leaving the shredded fabric scattered across the mossy forest floor.

In one swift movement, Wooyoung uses a knee to spread your legs and sinks into your inviting opening without warning. Tears sting your eyes from the sudden intrusion, but the pain quickly turns into mind-shattering pleasure.

“Taking it so well, aren’t you, slut?” he purrs, voice low and dripping with praise. The raw, commanding edge in his tone sends shivers through you, your insides tightening around him in response.

You hum an incoherent response, unable to form words when his cockhead is pressed against the swell of your cervix.

After ripping his mask off, Wooyoung’s fingers press into your hips. He holds you steady as he moves, each thrust punctuated by dark whispers of just how perfectly he fits inside you.

Wooyoung’s grin brushes against your neck as he drags his tongue up the curve of your skin, leaving a lingering lick before pressing a kiss just below your ear. His hips pull back slowly, his length retreating from your slick folds until only the tip remains, teasing you.

Then, with a low growl, he thrusts forward, filling you entirely in one fluid motion, claiming every inch as he sinks deep inside.

The sudden motion causes you to moan uncontrollably, his girth continuing to stretch out your soft walls. Your soaked cunt splitting open around Wooyoung’s enormous girth only causes him to swell more, if that’s even possible.

“M-more, please!” you whimper.

Wooyoung clenches his jaw, feeling your wetness ooze out where your bodies meet with each quick thrust.

One of his hands squeezes your side, the other falls to your round ass, and his claw-like nails scratch across your skin before he pulls his hand back to spank you. Your vision blurs from the impact, and you push your hips out, asking for more.

“Again,” you whine, your head digging further into the tree’s bark.

You bite down on your lower lip, anticipation building as you brace yourself. A sharp crack echoes through the air as his hand comes down against you, harder this time and sending another sting that radiates through your skin.

A moan slips past your lips, the sharpness transforming into pleasure that courses through your body. His fingers trace the spot he’s just marked, his low chuckle rumbling against your ear.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice rich with approval, each word sending shivers through you. “Turn around. I want to look at you," he demands next, his voice gritting through his teeth.

You obey, slowly turning to face him, your heart racing under his intense gaze. His eyes roam over you, filled with a mix of hunger and admiration that makes you feel both vulnerable and exhilarated.

Wooyoung cups your chin, tilting your face up toward him. His thumb brushes over your swollen lips as he drinks you in. "Look at you," he whispers, almost to himself, his thumb slipping inside your mouth. Instinctively, you wrap your lips around it, meeting his gaze as you lightly suck, earning a dark smile from him.

"You're perfect," he murmurs, his free hand tracing down your body, grazing every curve and leaving a trail of heat in its wake. "And you're all mine tonight." His words trail off as his length pounds into you again.

He watches as your lips part, head tilting back in pure bliss, and takes his chance. His mouth crashes onto yours, tongue slipping between your lips with a raw desire, claiming every inch he can reach. The kiss is deep and possessive, leaving you breathless as his hand tangles in your hair, keeping you close.

His tongue strokes against yours, tasting every gasp and moan you release, as if he’s memorizing the way you feel beneath him. You melt into his kiss, losing yourself in the heat, the way he consumes you with each movement.

When he pulls back, Wooyoung drags his lips against the shell of your ear to whisper, “Is this what you want? Your little virgin cunt destroyed?”

“Yes,” you moan, voice low and thick with desire. Then, locking eyes with him, you let a wicked smirk curve your lips, meeting his heated gaze with a look as dangerous as his own. "Ruin me," you breathe, each word dripping with a challenge that sends a spark down his spine.

A growl escapes his lips, and his grip on you tightens. He pushes you against the rough bark, lifting your leg to wrap around his waist as his eyes darken with pure, animalistic hunger. “You want to be ruined?” he whispers, his voice a low rasp against your ear as he pulls your hips even closer. “Careful what you ask for.”

His thrusts come harder, relentless, each one leaving you trembling and gasping as he takes you to the edge, only to pull you back before you can fall. His hand slides up your throat, a possessive touch that’s somehow both gentle and commanding as his thumb grazes your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"You’re mine," he growls, eyes blazing, his body pressed against yours with no space left between you. He savors every inch of you, watching your face intently as he ravages you with a merciless rhythm, his fingers digging into your waist. “And I’m not stopping until you’re completely undone.”

Your moans grow louder, filling the night air and mingling with the rhythmic slap of your bodies moving in unison. The sounds echo through the Darkwood, a primal symphony that seems to resonate with the forest around you, intensifying with each frenzied thrust.

Wooyoung feels your walls clench tightly around him, a signal that you’re close to unraveling. “Cum around my cock, honey,” he rasps, his voice laced with possessiveness. “I know you’re close.”

He quickens his pace, pounding into you with a newfound urgency, while his fingers find their way to that sensitive spot between your legs. The moment his thumb and forefinger pinch your aching nub, pleasure spirals through you like wildfire.

You scream his name, your body seizing up as waves of ecstasy crash over you, each pulse flooding your veins with tingling heat.

He watches you intently, captivated as your face twists in bliss, feeling you squeeze around him, almost pulling him over the edge.

A low growl escapes his lips, and with two final, frenzied thrusts, he buries himself as deeply as he can, his abs contracting as he spills himself inside you. His teeth graze your bare shoulder, biting down as he rides out his release, filling you with a heat that leaves you both breathless.

“Oh, praise Satan,” he gasps, letting out a shaky laugh as he presses his forehead against yours. The two of you catch your breath together, heartbeats slowing, tangled in the afterglow.

You collapse entirely into his arms, utterly spent and trembling, every muscle deliciously exhausted as you sink into the darkness of sleep that lingers at the edge of your consciousness. A grin tugs at your lips, satisfaction mingling with exhaustion as you surrender to it, the night’s events replaying like a forbidden lullaby.

Nothing in your dreams could ever compare to the raw, disgraceful, dangerously addictive reality you’ve just experienced. Wrapped in the warmth of his embrace, you let go, falling into a slumber filled with echoes of his touch.

The room is loud with the sound of laughter, clinking goblets, and whispered gossip. Candles cast a warm glow over the grand hall as platters of food float between the seated bodies; you're barely listening though, too hyper-aware of Wooyoung sitting beside you.

You steal a glance at him from across the table. He’s watching you, his gaze steady and unwavering. A secret smirk plays at the corner of his lips, one that makes your cheeks burn under the soft glow of the chandeliers. It’s almost unbearable, this tension simmering between you, each stolen look as dangerous as a spark near dry wood.

His fingertips graze yours under the table, sending a rush through you each time. You both know the game you’re playing—pushing boundaries, daring each other, waiting for one of you to make the next move.

Finally, he leans in, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “Let’s get out of here.”

"We can’t just leave," you mumble, finally meeting his burning gaze. There's a warning in your eyes, but he ignores it, his grin only growing.

You bite your lip, glancing around at the oblivious faces around you. "It’s the middle of the feast," you continue, though your resolve is already faltering. "People will notice."

"Let them," he says, the mischief in his tone unmistakable.

He stands and takes your hand, his grip both gentle and possessive as he leads you out, weaving through the tables with a confidence that dares anyone to question him.

Whispers and side glances follow, and you try to ignore the burning stares—hungry warlocks with dark eyes, envious witches with guarded whispers.

Everything has changed.

Wooyoung’s presence grounds you, his thumb brushing reassuring circles against your skin. And when he glances back at you, tilting his head in that familiar way with a smirk tugging at his lips, you realize that somehow—despite all the chaos of this past week—some things aren’t so different after all.

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[hairyjocktf]

As a small twenty year old in college, I just wish I could get the peace and quiet of the outdoors. Can you make me a big hairy lumberjack?

You woke up this morning to the blaring of your alarm. Monday always felt way too early. After grabbing your phone and silencing it you rolled out of bed with a resounding thud. You were so tired of the hustle and bustle of school and work and life in general, it was just never ending. With a huff you dragged yourself into the bathroom, passing your reflection in the mirror. You stopped for a second, gazing over your thin body, wishing it could be something more. There was no time to dwell on those thoughts though, and you turned on the water and hopped into the shower. Hot water cascading over you, you reached for the new body wash you’d just bought. ‘Man Wash: Cedar & Pine Scent’ it said, something the other day had compelled you to try that over the normal wash you usually got. You lathered up, the scent of trees filling the shower. There was something relaxing about that somehow, and you stood there lost in it for a moment before rinsing. It was a 3-in-1 with face wash, so you figured you might as well use it there too. That gave you a hefty dose of that cedar scent directly by your nose. 

You realized it’d already been ten minutes and hastily switched off the water, stepping out of the steamy cocoon before grabbing your towel to dry. The mirror in front of you was entirely fogged up as you slipped the towel around and around, but as it cleared something caught your eye. Holding the towel loosely around your waist you stepped closer to the glass, staring at your reflection as it became more visible. It looked like there was something dark on your face. You bent over the counter to get a closer look, staring at what looked like dirt smeared across your upper lip. You wiped the condensation off the mirror and leaned in even closer. It was hair, soft but dark hairs had suddenly sprouted across your upper lip and it looked like on your chin too. You tilted your head around to make sure but it really did seem like they’d just sprouted suddenly. Then your jaw dropped.

As you stared at your reflection you could see thick brown hairs popping out along your jaw, spreading from your chin outwards. The hairs pushed out quickly, climbing up your cheeks engulfing the peach fuzz that was there before. Your wispy mustache thickened up as thicker, darker hairs sprouted between older soft ones, spreading and connecting with the rest of your burgeoning beard. Hairs poured out of your face, itching as follicles were pushed into overdrive cranking out a thick rug across your cheeks. The hairs grew thicker and wirier, tangling together into a solid mass pushing out. It quickly passed an inch long, then two, then three. Your face had vanished entirely behind a curtain of masculinity, and you could feel the itch of new hairs popping out on your neck as it worked down. In shock, you raised your hands and thrust your fingers deep into the beard, scratching at the hairy mass that had appeared within seconds.

You didn’t have time to admire this feat, as moments later you suddenly bowled over, feeling like you’d been kicked in the stomach. You collapsed onto your ass on the bathroom tile, looking down at yourself. Your belly began to grow, pushing out. Your eyes went wide as it hardened with muscle, it wasn’t abs but it showed real strength. You felt the gut, your fingers prodding the layer of thick hard muscle underneath a slight bit of fat. The intense soreness that underlaid your new musclegut spread up, and you watched as your chest pressed out into thick pecs. The mounds pushed and tightened into refined muscle, before softening slightly into huge pillows adorning your chest. Your traps sprang next, putting on size, followed by your shoulders as they puffed into serious boulders. You could feel muscles bulking up all over, the soreness gradually replaced by ecstasy as your body exploded with mass. Your back widened, your arms grew into full-on gun shows, hands thickening to match, your quads and calves doubled in size, even your ass plumped up. It felt like your back was cracking on repeat as it stretched upward, your legs pushing out equally to add another three inches to your height. Not to be outdone, your feet popped as they grew another few sizes.

You laid there, back against the wall, panting from the intense growth. Though it happened in front of your eyes you could scarcely believe it as you squeezed your huge muscle tits in your hands. Sweat was pouring down your huge frame, muscles fatigued severely from inflating so much. That was when the itch returned. Starting in the center of your chest, you looked down to see a thick dark hair push through the skin. You reached up to grab it, feeling the coarse strand between your fingers as you feel more pushing up against the rest of your hand. What started as a few hairs quickly grew into a patch, spreading out as more hairs cropped up over your luscious pecs. A wave of stubble pressed out over the expanse of muscle, shoots of dark hairs elongating into thick strands that gained some curl as they grew. Within seconds your chest was buried in a continuously growing rug, new curls and swirls developing as more hairs grew in.  The itch crept outward from your chest, bringing with it a tidal wave of growth. Your collarbone vanished beneath the carpet as wiry strands connected up to your beard. Your shoulders itched from the fur coating taking root, your traps similarly felt the growth. Your bulging biceps and triceps got their own dusting, and your thick forearms became the site of the most luxurious forest of hair, thick strands popping up across the backs of your hands and knuckles.

The feeling of fur erupting across your body was electric, the uncomfortable aspects of itching drowned out by surges of pleasure. Your pits were next to feel it, an increase in sweat leading the way for the blossoming of what were surely to be the most masculine pits around. The bare skin tingled as thick, wiry hairs burst forth, quickly growing into a dense tuft to catch all the sweat dripping down. The hairs tangled together, spreading out over a wider and wider tract, escaping your pits entirely to connect to your chest rug and arm hair. New hairs pushed out between the older ones, until even scratching at the area couldn’t yield the skin below. Your gut itched as the carpet on your chest swiftly moved down over it, burying it beneath layers and layers of fur.

Your groin itched as your sparse bush exploded in size, hair pushing out and spreading like wildfire. The hairs surged up to connect with the rug on your torso and down over your thighs. Your balls ached as they swelled before becoming hidden behind a dense carpet. Your pubes grew denser as more and more hair squeezed out, climbing up the shaft of your growing cock. You could see the rug advancing down your legs, coating your thick thighs and calves in hair, before your feet pushed out a generous covering of hair, with tufts on the toes. Your ass itched as both cheeks darkened slightly as a fur coat enveloped them before racing up your back, the wide expanse itching as hairs conquered the open skin.

Your mind suddenly felt foggy as the stress of school faded, replaced by the desire to get out into nature. What were you doing cramped in this tiny apartment? You got up off the floor and looked again in the mirror, a scrawny student no longer in the reflection. Instead was a tall burly man, bursting with muscle and absolutely coated with hair. It felt right. You walked into your closet to find it now full of flannels and jeans, your work clothes. You pulled on the dirty jeans and threw on the flannel, only buttoning it about halfway. Your work boots were waiting by the door, and you slid them onto your newly grown feet. You grabbed your keys and headed out the door, not eager to be late to work again. You were a lumberjack, after all, the world depended on the wood you provided. It felt good, and you grinned as you hopped into your truck and sped off past your old campus, heading into the forest.

[shibaraki]

KISS IT BETTER ┊ SHINSOU HITOSHI

tags: GN reader, pro hero shinsou, support engineer reader, brief descriptions of blood + injury, tending to wounds, mutual pining, fluff, idiots to lovers, love confessions

wc: 1.9k

“You know I’m not a doctor, Hitoshi,” your voice is a low murmur yet loud in the cramped space of your bathroom. Just you, his shallow breathing and the steady flow of water in the sink. “I wish you would actually go to a hospital, or someone with a healing quirk”.

Hitoshi shrugs in the reflection and immediately appears to regret it as his face twists in discomfort, the movement jostling his wound. The bullet grazed a vivid arc right across the back of his left shoulder; thankfully not deep enough to require stitches or to damage the layers of skin beneath, but given the awkward to reach area and the blood that had been streaming through his fingers upon arrival you can’t say you blame him for waking you.

“You do it better,” he rasps. The soft hair on the back of your neck stands on end as you sense his eyes on you in the mirror. “You’re gentle. And good with your hands”.

The gauze dabbed around his wound is saturated red, quickly darkening and taking on a brownish hue. Resolutely avoiding his gaze you toss it beside the molehill of stained swabs already on the counter, reaching for a clean one and running it under the cold water. “I’m good with your equipment,” you stress with a huff, willing the heat crawling up your neck to go away. Years of working with delicate machinery keeps your hands steady. “I fix gadgets, Hitoshi. Not people”.

Hitoshi hums. Rather than contemplative he sounds faintly amused at your strong denial, as though he knows something you don’t. “You fix me just fine,” comes his soft reply as you successfully staunch the bleeding. Following the steps that have become routine for you both, he passes back the usual tub from your med kit—used so often now that the label has worn off—and adds nothing further while you cover the wound with a thin layer of petroleum jelly.

“Bandage,” you say, proffering your hand once more. Hitoshi twists his good arm to give you the non-stick dressings. You mumble an apology at the quiet hiss drawn between gritted teeth as you smooth the covered edges around the wound. “And… there. You’re set. That’s as good as you’ll get from me”.

Hitoshi turns in place before you’ve the chance to step away. You find yourself closer than intended. The white luminescence drapes over his shoulders and glints off the silver studs in each earlobe. You don’t know where to look. His ribs expand as he takes a staggered breath and your chests meet; a brief touch of bare skin but enough to make the sound of your heart flood your ears.

You catch how his throat bobs and entertain the thought that he might be equally affected. “Thanks,” he says. The gentle timbre of his voice settles over you like a cold fog of longing.

Neither of you have moved. You do not address the proximity as you study his upper body. There’s old bruising on his hip that looks a bit like an abstract painting but nothing else of immediate concern. He’s lean and angular, tall enough to cast an impressive shadow; neither of you are children anymore.

“You don’t have any other injuries hidden, do you?” you ask, eyes trailing up the column of his throat and lingering on the healed scar tissue cutting through the right of his mouth. It begins beneath his nose, strikes through the dark scruff along his jaw and ends far beneath his jugular, a paint stroke left by a brush with death. The memory is fresh in your mind and guides your hands to cup his chin, thumb tracing the raised skin. You don’t recall ever being that afraid for anyone, and yet he returned to work the day after as though nothing had happened.

At the very least it gives you ample reason to stare at his mouth. You can feel his gaze on you, peering down through half lidded eyes. There’s warm intensity behind them, like he can see through your poorly strung excuse, but if that is the case then he’s allowing it to happen, and you think that reveals just as much.

“It healed perfectly. You don’t need to worry about it,” he murmurs. There’s almost a breathless quality to it that invites goosebumps. And you freeze, as if caught.

“Not worried,” his lips press thin at the sudden cold tone as you turn to gather the used gauze and throw it in the bin beside the sink. “Your funeral not mine”.

Hitoshi moves when you nudge him aside, blood staining the dispenser as you squeeze some soap into your hands and scrub yourself raw under the running tap. The murky red water gurgles down the drain, rivulets streaking higher up the basin and likely to stain. You’re so lost in the sight that you barely register the larger hand coming to cover your own.

“Stop. Let me,�� he says, already prying your entwined fists apart to gently massage the soap along each finger. Body heat seeps through your sleep shirt as he loosely wraps around you. You lean into him a fraction and imagine he’s embracing you like a lover while he cleans the dried blood from beneath your nails.

Silence befalls the small space once the water cuts out. Rather than dry your hands Hitoshi keeps them there, encased in his, his thumbs stroking back and forth over your knuckles. He rests his forehead on the curve of your throat and something shifts. The atmosphere, the ephemeral thing between you that you called friendship, the hips that press closer until he’s shaped perfectly to your back.

“I’m sorry,” you hear him say.

Wild violet hair tickles your cheek. It’s shorter than last time. You stare at your conjoined reflection as you overturn your wrists, threading your wet fingers together until your palms kiss. “For what?” you prompt, watching his head lift while you speak. “For constantly breaking your support equipment? For bursting into my apartment after midnight and bleeding all over my carpet again? For scaring me and making me lose sleep? For this—” your eyes meet in the mirror and your mouth becomes dry. “For this less than professional relationship?”

At that the corner of Hitoshi’s mouth lifts in the suggestion of a smile, and suddenly exasperation and fondness is warring over your expression. He clears his throat, almost shy, and he tightens his grip on your fingers. “I guess I’m sorry for all of that, too. But that’s not what I meant”.

“What else is there?” you tilt your head. In a heart stopping move, he turns his nose into your temple.

“I’m sorry I can’t… shit. That I can’t be normal about this kind of thing,” he admits, jaw shifting as he fights the discomfort that so often accompanies being vulnerable. “I always feel like I need some dire excuse otherwise you’ll see right through me”.

“See through you—?” the clamouring in your mind comes to a standstill. Your tongue sits heavy behind your teeth. You spin in his arms, The sink counter digs into your lower back and your hands, mostly dried by the air, come to rest on his bare chest. A mottled blush spreads across his collarbones. “What, you bled on my carpet because you didn’t want me to know you liked me or something?”

Hitoshi grimaces. His eyes rose to the ceiling to avoid your scrutiny and he hesitates to hold your hips. “Sounds stupid when you put it like that,” he huffs.

“Because it is,” you remark, sliding your hands further up and around his ears. Cradling the back of his head you tip him forward and force him to look at you. “You could’ve just brought me coffee at work or something”.

“You’re missing the point,” he mutters, gaze dropping to your lips and away, staring at the space between your eyebrows. “I did it so you wouldn’t know”.

“Why not?”

“Because there’s no way that you’d…” he blinks. His words lose strength as your nose bumps his. You feel a shaky breath leave his lips.

“No way that I’d like you?” as you finish the sentence for him, unsure if he even hears you behind then far off look in his eyes. Emboldened, you pitch your voice lower, quiet enough to cover the short distance between your mouths. You stroke your thumb over the swell of his cheek and say, “You think I patch up every guy that rolls through my bedroom window?”

“Well. There better not be any other guys coming in through your windows,” he rasps, cautiously tipping forward. A playful furrow has etched into his brow. Hitoshi wets his lips, searching your expression for something—perhaps rejection or anything close to it. “I know you’re a good person. You’re good to me. I figured that’s all it was”.

“Right, I’m good to you,” you nod and hear his breathing hitch as your mouths brush. The blush across his chest has spread fingers up his throat to his cheeks, enough reach to stain his ears pink. Hitoshi sways forward. You collide. He kisses you, finally. It is every bit as solemnly sweet and respectful as the hands at your waist.

You can’t help but smile, and feel his smile in turn. There is something so boyish and coy about it; you would never expect it from a man of his status—a man that sees the worst of humanity and spends his nights both evading and preventing death.

“…Oh,” he breathes dumbly as you pull back, his focus caught on the swipe of your tongue.

“Oh,” you repeat to lightheartedly tease, pushing the heel of your hands to his cheeks together until his mouth juts into an ugly pout. Restlessness grips you seeing it paired with his dazed expression, already wanting more than he can give in his current condition.

You release his cheeks and rub them in apology. “You’re done for the night, yeah?”

“Yeah…?” fingers dig in at your soft waist, drawing you impossibly close, as though he were savouring the last of the moment. You smooth over his shoulders, down the curve of his biceps, along thick forearms to take his wrists.

“Good. You’re coming to bed with me,” you tell him. The stupefied look after tucking a kiss to the corner of his mouth will never get old, you’re sure of it. “We’re going to sleep. Tomorrow I’ll help you clean and redress your injury and then,” you press another kiss on his jaw, nuzzling the coarse stubble there, “then you can take me out for breakfast”.

You almost lose your footing. In one swift motion Hitoshi has swung the bathroom door open and begun corralling you through it toward the bedroom. There’s an echo of soft, near drunken laughter as you navigate the darkness, and you realise, belatedly, that it is coming from you.

The strong arms cinched around your middle unraveled to drop you on top of the covers. Reclining into the plush pillows at the head of your bed, you holdout your arms to welcome Hitoshi into honeyed repose. The mattress yields under his weight. Breath held, he crawls over to you—braces over you and sinks onto his forearms.

Seconds pass. Fingers dance across his back, avoiding his bandages. Your grin is concealed by the darkness but it’s clear in your voice. “Hitoshi,” you whisper. “You can breathe now”.

With an exaggerated exhale, Hitoshi sinks into the crook of your body and smooshes his face into the pillow beside your head. “I’ll try not to bleed on your bedsheets,” he says, muffled. Then quieter, much later, when he’s sure you won’t hear it, “I like you”.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

I’ve read a variation of soft and rough König and I’ve enjoyed both but I’d love to see your take on his character.

I can’t deny I have a preference for soft König. I think his size is a major concern, especially if his partner is on the smaller side, which leads me to believe he’d prolong the inevitable and the pining and anticipation would be off the charts on his end. But maybe his SO thinks he’s not as interested as she initially thought.

Add in the fact that he’s gone for long periods of time in which there is little or no communication and perhaps she considers moving on. The ol’ miscommunication trope if you will, with a happy ending. Thanks!

Overflow the Stars

Pairing: König x F!Reader

Synopsis: One more abandoned date night later, you're left wondering if the man you're infatuated with is really interested in you at all.

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: Angst, feelings of insecurity, body issues, allusions to König's past w. bullying & his anxiety, size difference, fluff, soft!König, happy ending

A/N: This is my apology to the German-speaking people out there - I think I butchered your language (feel free to correct me). I'm so sorry lmfao. But, Anon, this request was adorable to write, hope you enjoy it!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You wanted to say you were surprised when he didn't show up – really, you did – but in the back of your mind, you already knew he wouldn’t. It was hard not to feel disappointed when you swirled your tiny cup of Franziskaner tensely, watching the whipped cream sink away into the concoction of dark espresso and milk; calling attention to the same feeling in your chest.

König had a strange habit as of late, and with a delicate furrow in your brow and perhaps even a smidge of sadness in your eyes, you wondered what you had done wrong. Why had he been avoiding you so…violently? While you wouldn’t have called yourself perfect by any means, nothing you had done over the course of your meetings was strange or downright embarrassing. 

You admitted that the man had never been the type to run away from something, and sighed as you brought the cup to your lips and sipped. Caffeine sits on your tongue along with a bitter revelation as the rain begins to pick up in velocity outside. The small and quiet café where you’re spending your afternoon is warm and unburdened by the weather. 

Do you think…he’s even interested in me anymore? The sharp thought brings a pang to your chest, fingers over the warm cup flinching back as if struck with lightning. O-or he doesn’t like being around me?

Your relationship was still new, very new, and if you were asked you would say it wasn’t even dating yet. König hadn’t asked you to be his girlfriend. 

But it had still been going well.

“Or so I thought,” you take a breath, watching the fog on the window as the streets of Vienna are rapidly being emptied of tourists and locals alike. Your shoulders are painfully tight.

Aggressive rainfall like this into the cold seasons was unusual, but it wasn’t like mother nature cared about the whims of anyone but herself. It’ll freeze overnight, leaving a bitter chill that puffs from breaths and a shaky few steps out the door across hardened ice. You’d probably go out – alone – for a walk in the morning to clear your head, or try, at any rate.

Lately, all you could think about was the bear of a man that was supposed to be sitting in the empty seat ahead of you. The cursed wooden chair burns your eyes; its dark wood and red cushion stab your vision over and over until you’re sure you’ll bleed tears instead of water. 

He was supposed to be here.

Taking another shaky sip of your drink, one that König had recommended to you himself a few dates ago, the brief moments of warmth it brings to your bones does little to satisfy you. You doubted anything short of a hulking figure trying to stick their knees under the small table could do just that.

The giant man you called your possible future boyfriend was avoiding you, and your subconscious was breaking itself to try and understand why. As if that gracious plea had been heard above the glossiness of your eyes and the gentle hum of the café workers who shuffle about, the phone in your pocket jumps. 

You don’t want to admit how fast your hand snapped to your thigh, sneaking under the layers to draw out black metal. A single link to König when he was overseas or out of sight that you were told was unwise to use. He was rarely able to answer you, but for what it was worth, he always tried to call back later. 

Even if recently, it had been a brief state of events. 

“I-I can’t talk right now–”

“Forgive me–”

Your lips thin.

Pulling the phone out, you immediately look at the contact, though you already know the message before you read it. The sunken whipped cream finally falls under deep chocolate-colored waves.

“Sorry, Bӓrchen, I’m stuck in the building for the day! I swear I’ll make it up to you for missing–” You don’t bother reading the rest, thumb already scrolling upward to see the numerous times other excuses have been made. 

His parents were needing some help moving furniture, he was drowning in post-operation reports, or simply just too tired. You weren't stupid. But every time you had stuffed down your pride and responded cheerfully, dressed to the nines and standing in your living room while your fingers shook over the keys.

Holding back tears. 

It would hurt less if he’d just tell you to your face what you were thinking. Maybe all of this was just… 

Your thoughts trail off. 

But that didn’t make sense – König was never malicious!

Placing down the phone, you leave him on read, feeling the pitying eyes of the baristas burning into your skin like a brand. They knew as well as you did that he wasn’t showing up.

When he calls sometime later, you shut the device off completely. Staring out the window at the dimming light, you lean your head into the glass and try not to cry as you watch couples rushing for cover from the rain; laughing and holding the other close. 

The empty chair stays motionless in the corner of your eye.

—

The first time you met König, you were left gaping at the sheer size of him. 

Towering over ninety percent of the other patrons in the art shop, he had looked down at the package of charcoal pencils in his large, scarred, hands. Turning them over to read the description on the back like an expert with delicate eyelashes that you’d kill for. 

You yourself had been cast in his shadow quite by accident, looking along expansive shelves for a sketchbook – your friend had gotten into a watercolor phase lately, and what better to give her than a birthday present she could actually use? The only problem was that you had no idea what was considered good quality or not, but had a strange suspicion the man beside you did. But what a happy accident it all turned out to be.

König had a black surgical mask on, but the milky-white scar that ran up his right eyebrow and disappeared into his auburn hairline was still starkly visible. Expressive dark eyes blink down at his object from a surprising height. Between picking up multiple books, running your fingers over the paper and whatnot, you can’t help but stare at the pure strength the man emanates. Compared to you, he was utterly gargantuan in both mass and height. A bear and a bee, you thought with a stifled giggle.

He blatantly appeared to know more about this stuff than you did as he placed the charcoal pack down and picked up another.  

“Erm,” you begin, and his head snaps down to yours immediately, head of hair falling into gentle curls near the ears. He had looked partially surprised to hear you speak to him, and his eyes had flickered around instinctually. But it was only the two of you in the aisle. “I’m sorry to bother you, Sir, but you seem to know a helluva lot more than me about art supplies.” Your voice was cautious, and you were afraid you’d seem rude for disturbing him, but all he did was stare and wait for you to finish speaking. Feet every so often shifting, or his hands twitching as if he never was able to stay still; he blinks a few times like a rabbit. “Any suggestions for watercolor?” A small laugh meets the air as you move your hand to show off the wall of possible options for paper. “I’m not much of an artist, but my friend’s birthday is coming up – thought I’d get her something she’d actually use this year. She wasn't too enthralled with the plant I got her for her twenty-third. Killed the thing in a week.” 

A nervous chuckle is softly met and your face heated as his own did. There’s a moment of a clearing throat before the man nods carefully, and the sparse freckles over his forehead shift. His biceps flex.

“O-of course, Ma’am,” his accent is quite strong, and you like the guttural raspiness of his tone. “I prefer Saunders Waterford, though I don’t manage to use it often. Better, eh, was ist das Wort?” He stumbles for a moment over the proper descriptor. “Beständig. Durable.”

A tilt of his head later, and you’re beaming, picking up the large pad with careful fingers, testing the weight in your palms as one would an apple. 

“Wonderful! It looks like I owe you one, eh?” Looking back up, you watch his eyes widen as you notice him blatantly staring. Face crinkling into a shy display of heat and curiosity, he slightly moves back, a large hand going to scratch at the base of his neck as his sweatshirt bunches. 

Chest tight, you stick out a hand and offer your name with a smile. It was only customary, but the action was pure instinct more than thought-out. All the while restraining a shiver, his limb encompasses yours so completely and radiates a large amount of heat.

“A pleasure,” your voice wavers, but it’s not so much nervousness as it is genuine intrigue. For a man so blessed with the tall gene, he really had a considerate hold – barely squeezing your skin in fear it would break. 

The action makes your chest squeeze.

“Ah, guten tag,” he utters, nodding with a firm shake, though his eyelashes caress his cheeks as his eyes rove away, “König.” 

A bit awkward, isn’t he? You have to ask yourself. Not that it was a bad thing – in fact, you found the nervous tensing of his thighs to be cute, along with that red tinge that was over his pale ears. So very opposite of how you expected him to act.

That was when you noticed the dog tags, as well, though you found no purpose to say anything. But everything about this man had caught your attention as a large billboard would, and the comparison has you practically bending in laughter. He probably could be a billboard with a build like that. No doubt he’d catch a lot of attention.

You tilt your head and release his hand, nodding to König’s charcoal pencils. 

“I bet you can make some killer drawings with those things, huh?” The beast twists them in his hand and turns down to stare at the supplies as if he’d forgotten they’d been there at all. “You draw often?”

“Ja,” his eyes brighten, and the crinkling of his eyes tells you that a small smile pulls at his lips. “Whenever I’m able. I,” König pauses before his shoulders move in a soft movement akin to a shrug. “I…find it calming.” 

Your ribs move in reaction to an interested sound. 

A bear that likes to draw.

“You’re better than me, I’d just get frustrated if something doesn’t look right.” A deep laugh echoes off the shelves before a lapsing silence settles like a bird’s wings. Overcome by a sudden urge to speak, yet having no other words to say, König’s voice meets your ears before you can find something to say.

It’s slow, the tone, bathed in hesitation and even a smidgen of armor; like the outcome of your response was already measured and taken as null compared to the giant’s own thoughts.

“I…don’t suppose I could show you some if you’d be interested.” At your widening lids, his twitching hands come up to his sides, eyes blinking rapidly as a vermilion hue blossoms like a flower over his visible skin. Dark eyes like broken obsidian pay more attention to your shoes than your face.

“N-not, eh, scheiße, I only meant I–” Watching him stutter was similar to what a high schooler would do when he was called out during an assembly. Though, your giggle makes him clear his throat and pause with a stiffening spreading to his legs. His body seems to deflate, taking your reverence for his soft inward nature as making fun or at worse, a blatant rejection. The delicate makeup of his psyche was on display, though you didn’t know. “I’m…I’m sorry, Ma’am–”

“I’d love to see your artwork, König,” you begin, pulling the watercolor pad closer to your body instinctually, cheeks hot. The man perks up, and you can see his heart hammering through his clothes when his eyes blaze with light. “How about I give you my number and I’ll text you a day I’m free and we can work something out? A local café or library sound good?”

“I…yes, that sounds wonderful.”

—

You throw your soaked coat on the hook as you shut the door, hating how the frigid rainwater had wetted your hair, though still holding it as a blessing. At least no one could see the tear tracks as you walked back to your apartment. 

Kicking off heavy boots and peeling the slick layers of fabric from your chest with a sloping sound, you flick on the lights with a shaking finger and a sniffle. Wet footprints are left over the rugs and hardwood as the phantom shuffles over them, beelining to the bathroom to strip. 

Your mind was preoccupied as you slipped out of heavy fabric, the pile already on the floor creating a large puddle that you threw a towel on and left as it was. 

“He…he’d tell me if he didn’t like me anymore, right?” Whispering, the broken words meet air as you toss on a large shirt – the hem meeting your knees as a pair of thick sweatpants follow. 

Quite the look for someone who was having an internal battle. Your friends would say you looked like you were minutes away from grabbing a tub of ice cream and sobbing over a rom-com. The quick-witted part of you confessed that the idea wasn’t even that bad if you threw in a glass of beer. Preferably the shitty kind so you could complain about it and distract yourself.

“Get it together…” You would not cry over a guy that hadn’t even asked you out officially, but with that familiar sting in the back of your eyes, you hissed that König wasn’t just any guy.

You’d really liked him, and for what it was worth, your heart would have exploded if he had asked you out. 

He was kind – respectful. Utterly adorable when he was speaking so passionately about his artwork and his parents who he held on a larger-than-life pedestal. König’s heart was just as big as his body, that gorgeous, bear-like body, and…oh, you’d wished he would like you just as much as you liked him. 

Before you could stop the wave of hopelessness, the tears were already dribbling down your face, and the dark apartment was echoing with the barely-there sobs that hit the walls.

—

When you hadn’t answered him in the next two hours and his calls were going to voicemail, König was hit with a train’s worth of worry. Feet tapping faster than unusual and eyes were finicky as they passed over documents.

Although his contract with KorTac wasn’t exactly like his own had been in the military, the hyper-vigilance was still ingrained bones-deep. The Austrian man held his personal relationships tightly – and if someone wasn’t answering him, the anxiety reserved for large, uncontrollable, crowds reared its ugly head. König wasn’t sure when it had happened, but you had entered that loyal group consisting of his parents and a few work friends in an incredibly small amount of time. 

He really should have bit the bullet and gone out with you today, the man acknowledged as he slipped out of his office and tried once more to get in contact with you. König watched the icon of your smiling face go straight to the familiar voice that in any other circumstance, he would have wanted to listen another moment too.

“...Thanks for calling! I’m not able to speak with you right now, but go ahead and leave a message–”

“Come on, Bӓrchen.” König lightly growls, hanging up and stuffing the infernal device into his cargo pant’s side pocket. 

His usually hidden face was twisted up with worry, so commonly lit with bloodlust on Ops now left in a state of unknown. It was stupid to think like this, but how could he not? In such a small amount of time, you’d made him fall for you like a bird does the sky; that thin line between falling and flying caught underwing. 

That was why he’d been making excuses, you see. 

You were so…good…that he’d been worried about the way he carried himself; second-guessed small actions like a hand on the small of your back in public, or a comment about how nice you looked. 

Did she take that the wrong way?

Why did I tell her that?

I hope she doesn’t think that I’m rude…

You were messing with his mind with every turn, but it wasn’t even all that, either. His size also played a part. Your form was so small as it trailed beside him on walks through the city – it fit in the clutch of his arm easily. 

König was just scared he might break you, he’s never had to be…gentle so often before. It was against everything he’d been taught in the last decade or so.

Pushing open the front door of the KorTac: Private Military Contractor building, the man pushes on with a frown over his scarred lips and a drawn-in expression. He hadn’t even noticed he’d forgotten his surgical mask in his office, along with a jacket, and braved the volatile winds and slapping rain in a slight jog, an athletic shirt tight across his chest. 

By the time he’d reached your apartment building, his hair was dark and stuck to his skin, slight puffs of breath escaping his lips and wracking shivers along his spine. König ascended the stairs in double steps, agile as his heart pounded. 

Being ex-military left him with an undeniable state of readiness.

With heavy knuckles and panting breath, his hand quickly rasps against the door, and after a second of no sound, he does it again. 

“Bӓrchen, it’s me. Are you there?” König’s shoulders are set, ready to batter the door down at the barest hint of something wrong. He calls your name but like a voice on the wind, there’s no answer. Not even a shadow under the barrier, a whiff of your shampoo.

Grunting, strained eyes going grim, the man’s hand encompasses the handle, arm and body going parallel to the wood. His hips tense, feet grinding over the floor as they set. But the nearly missed footsteps that his ears twitched at gives him pause. 

After a few moments of intense listening, his body stone-stiff and eyes spaced out, there’s a clicking of a lock. 

König moves back swiftly, hands going to rest at his sides, and when your face graces his vision, a large weight is lifted. Until he realizes that your eyes are red-rimmed. His lids go startlingly wide, fingers coming up to curl into themselves near his middle, but you speak before he does.

With a hatred for interrupting others, König keeps his lips sealed and watches with a concerned once-over and nervous lungs.

Your hand is clenched over the door frame, the muscle of your tongue licking at your lips as beads of water fall from your locks. 

“What are you doing here, König?” With a voice more hoarse and dry than a desert. The man itches at the side of his hawk nose, hesitant about what he sees. 

You’d never been like this before – always so happy. 

“I…” He trails off quietly, seeing your eyes unwilling to meet his own. “Are you…alright?” 

The Austrian’s fingers jerk when you laugh, and a surprised blink later he’s coming closer to check on you, hand almost outstretched before he sees the size difference and thinks better of it. He just taps on your cheek instead, delicately, like a hit from a flower. 

“Sweet one? Please tell me what is wrong. You weren’t answering your phone.” He wants to beg for you to look at him, plead. “It made me worry for you. Why did you not respond?” 

“So you want me to respond when you’re obviously bailing on me for what,” you pull back, disappearing partially behind the door. König watches with a still body as your arms go to wrap around your waist, dread creeping up his throat. “The third time? Fourth? I guess I’ve lost count.” 

The man’s lips go thin, eyes crinkling as an expression of pure self-hatred takes hold. He had stupidly hoped you wouldn’t notice that. When times got tough for him in the past – whether with the schoolyard bullies or an operation on wrong, avoidance was usually his best tactic; it was one he had fallen back into time and time again without fail. But he’d never told you that. 

And now he looked like a proper Arschloch. 

But you’re not done yet. When you leave the door open and disappear inside the dark apartment, König follows after like a lost puppy, water still dripping from his strong chin and stuck in his stubble. Cursing himself out in his head. 

“Ach, du Depp, jetzt hast du‘s getan. Die eine gute Sache ruiniert, die du hattest, oder...?" He mutters, slipping out of his boots and frantically looking after you as your form goes to the couch. König closes the front door and stays in the foyer, fingers twiddling and mouth opening and closing. 

You hadn’t even looked at him yet, and you’d barely seen him without a mask on. 

The Tv was on, playing some show that he’d never seen and he doubted you were watching. Your body plops to the couch with a shrieking of springs and bouncing of pillows. A small huff escapes your lips, though you speak no more. 

König clears his throat again, a nasty nervous habit along with the fidgeting, as he takes a few steps forward. The finger of his right hand goes to spread through his hair, pushing the strands back like a red wave and unintentionally slicking them to his skull. The clicking of his jaw reverberates in his ears as he resets it, picking at the palate scar under his left nostril. 

He opens his mouth to speak but closes it fitfully and already his face is reddening. König looks away from you for a moment, breathing before shuffling over like a guilty child would on drowned socks. He places one leg on the floor and kneels down in front of you so he can better look into your creased face. 

“Bӓrchen,” he liked calling you that – little bear – because the comparison was enough to make him smile every time it passed his lips. It was such an endearing term that it became difficult to look past the blatant harm he could inflict on you if he wasn’t careful. While his size made him perfect for the field, home life was, well, let's just say he could easily force his way through a crowd. Not that he would, of course. But at any rate, that was what you were to him – a little bear. “I…I have to confess to you that I have been avoiding you, yes? That much has been,” a stiff breath is taken in. “Obvious.” 

Your head turns to the side, knees brushing his own as you hold your hands in your lap. Behind König the show continues to play, spreading a silver light over the living room and the continuous droning of voices.  

Not knowing whether it would be frowned upon or not, and with a steadying breath for confidence, the man loops a cold finger under your chin; bringing you back to him and finally setting your glossy eyes ahead. 

He sees you blink in surprise when you find him maskless, and a faint smile flicks over his lips when your expression goes shy. Cautious like a bird.

“It was of no fault of your own, Sweetling, I ask that you believe me. I’ll try to explain the best I can, Ja? If you’ll let me, though, I know that I don’t deserve it.”

“If you don’t like me anymore, you can just say it…Stop dragging me on, please.” His heart stops, mouth still partially open before a sharp breath is sucked in. “I don’t know if I can take that anymore.” The pang in his chest hurts immensely, like taking an arrow and peeling back skin. You look at him so hopelessly, broken beyond belief as though a piece of you was being ripped out.

“W-why do you say that?” König tries to desperately stop the wetness of your tears from falling, shaking his head and cupping both of your cheeks, rubbing at the flesh in agony. “No, no, no, Dear One. That’s not what it is at all, I beg of you to listen.” In the fever, he switches between his native tongue and English, fingers shaking though not from the drenched clothes. “Meine Schöne, oh, meine Schöne. Bitte hör auf zu weinen.“

He takes quick breaths and finds in himself that he would do anything to stop you from crying – take a bullet, run a marathon, or learn to fly. Name it, any of it. Anything to wipe away the sadness that lives in your expression as if it even belonged there in the first place

“Do not cry over me, please, I-I,” König’s tongue trips over itself, but he persists, a similar burn in the back of his nose. “I…You scare me, Bӓrchen,” that gets your attention, creased eyes and a loose jaw going to give him full observation. 

What?! Your expression screams.

Face on fire, the Austrian continues with intense eyes, dark obsidian awash with pure light that reflects stars. Overflowing with anxious tears that he refuses to let fall. 

He can’t lose you. No, no, not you. You were the best thing to happen to him in a long time. Damn him – damn his own consciousness that’s more of a betrayer than Brutus. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go… 

“...What?” Your voice wavers, nose twitching so adorably that the man is momentarily stunned. 

“I am afraid of you, my Dear. Utterly and wholly.” König sucks down a breath, now the one unable to continue the stare-off. His foot shifts. “I am afraid of what you do to me. Your smile, Gott, your smile. A-and the way you speak, how you react so honestly to my paintings like you care with all of your heart.” He laughs wetly when you smile dimly, continuing as he caresses your skin. “Everything down to your very bones is like…like…” König’s words fumble, because comparing you to something earthly was impossible to him. 

“Ever since I met you in that art store, I cannot string together words with any semblance of meaning when I am around you. Bӓrchen, you have entrapped my mind, and I am afraid.”

He watches you breathe in slowly, tears no longer falling, though the evidence still haunts him. The man’s chest lets go of a tightly wound knot, the anvil on the other side just narrowly missing his heart as the sweat on his brow evaporates.

“A-and,” König sighs, shaking his head and moving his hands to tightly hold your own in your lap. How could he explain the last part of this dilemma? He bluntly states, “you’re small.”

A brief moment of silence bleeds like a wound, long and slow, until a tiny snort echoes. Full-blown laughter emanates not even a second later, and he watches your body heave forward and slot itself with your nose in his shoulder. König’s blush stains all the way down his neck, but minuscule giggles also fall from him in retaliation to yours. His great arms wrap themselves around your waist, dragging you slightly closer as he breathes deeply. 

Your scent pulls him under like a ship at the water, riding great waves with sea beasts under the waves guiding the vessel along its course. 

“Everyone’s small compared to you.” Your mumbling in his shoulder makes his grip tighten, side-eyeing your visage as his head tilts down. “Not my fault you got every gene that made you sprout like a damn tree.”

With your lips caressing his neck, he blinks softly down at you, amused, as his breath mingles with your hair. He lets you speak, getting it all off your chest and feeling stupid for how he had been avoiding this.

“You’re afraid because you’re so big, then? That you might hurt me?” 

“Ja.” Your hands circle around his shoulders, and with a sigh that leaves the man short of breath, you shimmy back and face him, fingers playing with the base of his neck; pulling at tiny hairs. 

“Don’t you think being worried about that means something? And, c’mon,” you smile lightly to him, and he watches closely, fingers moving along your spine. “With how conscious you are of your body, it’s hard to imagine anything ever happening.”

Hands grasp his neck, and with a bobbing Adam’s apple, König yields to your pull, angling his head to you as your back straightens. Watching with awe; your silhouette bathed in silver light and eyes fatigued, though never more beautiful. You’re beaming.

“I’ve never felt safer than when I’m with you, okay? So stop worrying about it, you big dope – and stop ditching me!” The Austrian’s dark eyes are fastly moved from one spot on your face to another, cataloging every bump and pore to memory. 

He’d never been this close to you before, though he’d fantasized about it. And what you were telling him…it’s like his body deflates with relief, and a genuine, boyish, smile blossoms. 

“Safe? W-with me, Bӓrchen? Oh-oh, my…” A kiss suddenly hits his forehead, and if you continued doing things like this, he was sure he’d explode. His body was vibrating with pure bashfulness; it was so odd to be complimented and doted on by someone that wasn’t his close family. For someone to reassure him of his flawed concerns. 

She feels safe with me. 

How could he tell you how happy that made him to hear aloud?

“Hey,” hands cup his jaw, and his spaced-out eyes snap back to you instantly, blinking away the rose-colored fog. You shake his head back and forth until he’s chuckling, like a kid again, and his grip catches your wrists to make you stop. Your breath fans over his blazing cheeks like a wind sent from Zephyrus himself, and the sticking clothes to his body matter little. “No more leaving me hanging, okay? I miss you, König. I want to be around you.” 

The eyes that travel down his scarred and freckled face leave him slightly self-conscious, but as if sensing this, your lips curve. Before he could utter a grunt of surprise, your kiss had connected with the scar on his forehead, as well as the palate. Just brushing the top of his lips as his large nose poked your cheek. 

“Mein Gott.” König gasps, eyes fluttering shut when you pull back and a grin slashes your face. A whisper meets the room.

“Thank you for showing me your handsome face, mein Schöner, I’ve been wondering what you looked like.” Shyly scanning his features, the redhead lets your fingers trace his flesh, shivers left in their wake, and a soft sigh. 

If he opens his eyes, he’s afraid he’d start crying. So he lets you touch his scarlet flesh, nearly the same shade as his hair, though the auburn is more deep-set. Shivering every time you lay another press of your lips to a blemish; more addictive than drugs. 

“You’re going to kill me,” König pleads, “but if this is punishment for causing you pain, I will gladly bear it.”

“Sly.” You smirk, pressing one more peck to his nose, and pulling back. He grumbles in his throat before his eyes peel open slowly; pupils blown wide and mouth parted. “Are you alive down there?”

“Barely. Perhaps I’ll need another kiss to tell, yes?” 

“You’re horrible.” Looking at his clothes, your eyes suddenly go grim. Like you’d just noticed the state of him now that he was kneeling in front of you and struck by your beauty. “And shivering.” You huff. “Why didn’t you start by saying you were soaked to the bone, König?” 

He looks to the ground, and you try to shuffle past and grab him a towel, but his arms trap you. You find yourself in a chest faster than you can blink, hands splayed over a pec that jerks as you’re lifted up. 

König hears you squeak and laughs, throwing you up into a bridal-style hold easily. Laughing chest-deep, you curl under his chin and quickly comment, “what are you doing?!” 

“Hush, Bӓrchen,” the man squishes you closer, “I’ll find a towel, don’t strain yourself.” 

You direct him to the bathroom after he sets you on your bed, hearing the pounding of rain outside as he sneaks off. 

The room smells of your shampoo, and König takes a pastel towel from the wrack after half-closing the door, slapping it to his head and violently rubbing it back and forth. Lost in his elevated thoughts and happy demeanor, the knock on the wood is almost missed. He’s just about to take off his shirt and wring it out when he blinks at the sound. 

“König – I’ve got some spare clothes, but I doubt they’ll fit you well enough.” An amused twitch of his lips later, he’s opening the door to your soft face, staring down at it. Standing shyly, your eyes crease; head tilting. “Sleepover?”

The man looks at the pile of fabric and nods kindly, a lofty feeling in his bones.

“Yes, please. They’re perfect, vielen Dank.” It isn’t long before he’s coming back out, a shirt that barely fits over his wide chest and a pair of sweats clinging to his hips. But he didn’t mind. 

They smelled like you, and thus, he smelled like you. König quickly found out that drawing wasn’t the only thing that could calm him. 

An embarrassed smile and a sheen of giddiness never leave his face.

He slides into bed with you, and you quickly latch under his arm, limbs tangling with his own as his fingers twitch over the width of the base of your shoulder blades. An easy expulsion of air leaves him as your weight settles, back curving to the make of the mattress. 

The words leave him in the delicate silence; water hitting the window and during the exploration of souls. Cheeks hot and heart hammering. 

“Sei mein?” Be mine? 

He feels your grin, nose nuzzling his flesh like it was the perfect pillow, and his heart speeds like a shooting star.

“Mein Herz war immer deins. Ja.” My heart was always yours. Yes. 

He stays awake for a long while, listening to your breathing and staring at the ceiling, running knuckles over your spine and staying silent. 

Smiling.  

[koiiiji]

fantasy AU series! lookism & windbreaker boys

tw ; supernatural, suggestive, kinda obsessive

starring ; gun & goo

author’s note ; pls if u know art authors bellow, let me know, i will tag them. i took all arts from pinterest and i haven’t found any credits

author’s note 2 ; let me know if you want part 2 with other characters, i decided to separate post in case if you guys won't like it 🙏🏻🫶🏻🪄

Gun & Goo

Oni & Kitsune

it was known that the creatures of the forest were not the friendliest. oni and kitsune divided the forests at the foot of the mountain between themselves, standing at the top of the food chain and becoming each other’s natural enemies, while the tengu lived high in the mountain. the way there was closed to almost all creatures, no matter if they were humans, animals or demons. but this didn’t mean that the young tengu didn’t come down from the mountain in the darkness of the night to look at the inhabitants of the forest. of course, it was forbidden, and the elders severely punished those who disobeyed, but still youthful excitement and interest led small groups of teenagers to the foot of the mountain.

tere's nothing unusual about that, you assured yourself as you made your way through the thick fog, along with the other tengus - your brothers and sisters. you often saw the older guys sneaking out at night to have fun, and in the morning they teased you, younglings, with stories about how entertaining and interesting it was downstairs. this has already become a kind of ritual among young people - teenage excitement and thirst for adventure forced them to run away late at night to the border with something forbidden, to meet something that was hidden from the eyes. the forbidden fruit is always sweet, right?

well, fruit wasn’t that sweet when you fell into a trap, while you were running away from the oni who caught you at the border. maybe guard confused you with kitsune, or even with humans, but they clearly didn't welcome outsiders into their territory. it was very difficult to take off, the forest was very dense, the branches of the pines were so dense that neither the light of the moon nor the light of the stars could be seen, you didn't even have enough space just to spread your wings completely. in a panic, all the brothers and sisters scattered to wherever they went, not sorting out the way, leaving each other alone with darkness, fear and furious onis behind them.

somehow climbing a tree, you tried to get higher so that you could fly out of this damn forest, now I don't care how you get home, whether you will be punished, now the main thing is to survive. * crackling* the branch under you crunches, the hand slips off. A body with wings seems so heavy when they are just flapping behind your back, unable to lift you higher or lighten the weight. and so, you're already flying down, breaking a few more branches under you.

it was unusual to fall. the last thing you remember - before you pass out from a painful shock - is a characteristic crunch in your right wing, for a moment you felt like you were doused with ice water, then the heat of a thousand suns pierced your body sharply. the pain was incredible, so much so that you didn't even have the strength to make a sound louder than a squeak squeezed deep in your chest. the blood was throbbing loudly in ears, pulse was just racing, but a couple of seconds on the ground seemed like an eternity before your brain gave up from the overwhelming amount of adrenaline, pain and fear.

when you woke up, the sun was pleasantly warming your cheek, persistently seeping through the coniferous thickets of the forest. "it seems this one is still alive," a high-pitched voice sounded somewhere above you, dismissively poking a healthy wing with a stick. “what's the difference, just finish her off and let's go, I don't want to be seen in the company of a fucker like you” - another, rough and low voice, boomed somewhere in the distance.

taking advantage of their small skirmish, you abruptly turned over, in the process backhand hitting the blond man in the face with a healthy wing, you crawled back to the trunk of a tree, painfully pulling up the wounded wing, covering yourself with it, and bringing clouds of dust with a healthy one. a pathetic attempt to delay the moment of death honestly. the agony from the broken wing pierced the entire right side of his body, waves of pain drowned out by adrenaline yesterday, now hit with renewed force. with a groan, throwing your head back, you turned your gaze up at the treetops, not wanting to see the faces of two bastards who will just kill you if you're lucky enough.

"but this one pretty adorable,what do you think, Gun?" the blond man said in an ordinary tone, turning his head to his companion, while a clawed hand squeezed your throat with incredible force, pressing harder into the tree. "oh! maybe she's some kind of an important person there? what do you say, poor thing? will they give us a reward if they find out that you're alive?" - the claws dug deeper into the skin when his face was so close, the vertical pupils piercing into your soul. "don't mess around, just kill her already, it's starting to get on my nerves" - an irritated voice approached, did the blond man call him Gun?

another clawed hand grabbed you by your cheeks, twisting your head, examining you. the pitch-black eyes narrowed, appraisingly surveying your entire appearance. "weeeeell, what do you think??" - the blond man drawled, slightly tucking his big ears in anticipation, several tails twitched animatedly behind his back. stop. stopstop. the blond one was a kitsune, but the black-eyed one had two thick horns sticking out of his forehead, so he was an oni. how could these two be standing here together?

"do whatever you want.." - clicking his tongue, oni turned around and headed into the thicket of the forest. "great! let me know when you want to visit us!" - his friend waved cheerfully at him, slowly turning to you and baring his fangs in a wide grin. "don't get him wrong, he liked you.." - he said affectionately, tucking your lock of hair behind your ear, - "we just haven't been able to grab tengu before... well, at least not alive. your brothers and sisters have never gone this far into the forest..." - his predatory grin didn’t leave his face as he examined your wounds and abrasions. "my name is Goo. my friend Yuzuru, but he prefers to call himself Gun," - a hot breath touched your ear when Goo whispered to you about his friend. "let's go heal your beautiful wing, what do you say, cupcake?"

another trap has just been snapped behind your back.

author’s note ; sammy, taejin, vinny and joker coming soon if u guys will like this series🫶🏻👅

[urhoneycombwitch]

wanna make you feel better

based on this anon 💞

cw: allusions to/discussions about bad sex, Eddie fools around with someone who’s got a sort-of partner, R experiences light post-sex dissociation, mutual pining

wc: 1.3k

 __

It takes a few minutes for your limbs to unwind, to come back into your body after sex- and in those few minutes, Adam has already hastily dressed, kissed you quick and chaste on the forehead, and left your bedroom with a casual “see ya” tossed over his retreating shoulder.

Fuzzily, from your staring-at-the-ceiling vantage point, you hear the front door of your apartment close. Then some quiet voices in the hall- first the familiar low tones of Eddie, followed by a higher-pitched lilt of… Mary? Margot?- and the front door shuts again.

You sigh, long and deep, wiggling your fingers and toes back to life. As if moving through molasses you push yourself to sit up, then to gather your clothes strewn around the floor- underwear first, one leg at a time. Secondhand t-shirt that hits your knees, the band logo nearing a total fade from all the wash cycles Eddie had put it through before it ended up in your laundry.

A knock at your door, and Eddie peeks around the frame, dark curls frizzing and cartoonishly tall in the back- “Hey. You want Oreos or Bugles this time?”

“Uhm.” You pause halfway to putting on your second sock, trying to blink through the brain fog and connect with your stomach, which quickly sours in response- “Neither, I think. Maybe some water.”

Eddie’s rings click against the wood of the doorframe as he taps in acknowledgement. When he turns to leave for the kitchen, you catch a glimpse of bare torso, grey sweatpants slung around bony, boxer-less hips.

Slut, you think, fondly, pulling on your soft sock the rest of the way and padding out into the living room.

The record player in the corner is calling your name, so you kneel to flip through the milk carton stuffed full of yours and Eddie’s combined collection.

“Nothing maudlin,” Eddie calls from the attached kitchen, cabinets banging shut in punctuation. “We have a strict No Wallowing After Bad Sex rule in this house and we’re goddamn sticking to it.”

“Apartment,” you amend, ignoring his instruction and pulling Blue from its sheath. “And wallowing can be therapeutic, y’know.”

With the drop of a needle, Joni Mitchell starts crooning about traveling a lonely road, and Eddie sighs, long and deep, a mirror of yours from earlier.

There’s a clinking of porcelain on glass, and you turn to watch as Eddie sets out bowls of snacks and tall glasses of water- one of them iced the way you like- onto the coffee table.

“Eat up. The midday meal of champs- or losers, depending on your preference.” He collapses with a dramatic huff against the couch, then leans over to dig around in the bowl of Bugles.

I wanna be strong, I wanna laugh along, I wanna belong to the living…

You crawl the short distance it takes to settle your back against the couch, side pressed into Eddie’s leg. There’s an acidic taste at the back of your throat, a mixture of Adam’s release and your own sickened stomach in a nauseating combination; you sip at the cold water, attempting to wash the taste away.

“Here. Doctor’s orders.” Eddie’s hand comes into view- each finger topped with a curved chip.

A giggle works its way out as you tilt your head to pull a Bugle off his finger with your teeth, crunching into the familiar corn flavor- it certainly works to get the lingering taste of shame out of your mouth.

“Don’t get used to seeing Margaret around, by the way- sounds like she’s gonna patch things up with her boyfriend.” Eddie’s hand draws back, a subsequent crunching noise before he speaks around a mouthful of chips- “I know you’ll miss all those scintillating hallway conversations.”

You snort, unsure if he’s referring to the fact that you’ve snooped via ear-pressed-to-door whenever they used to argue, or the handful of times that you and Margaret have politely and coolly interacted due to the one-bathroom setup.

“Well, good for her.” Unable to keep the irritation out of your voice (on Eddie’s behalf, since you’re such good friends and it’s hard to see him treated this way, not because you’re jealous), you dig into the snack bowl, fishing for an Oreo. “Hope Margaret and her weirdo on-and-off again boyfriend with that pedo mustache are very happy together.”

Eddie laughs, a melodic, genuine one that has him doubling over to bump playfully into your side. “Goddammit. That Ed Rooney-looking motherfucker…”

The bite of Oreo goes down smooth and sweet; you lick at the crumbs left behind on your thumb before saying, “And, lucky for our bathroom usage, Adam won’t be around anymore either.”

Eddie groans. “I think that guy uses more hair product than me and Harrington combined, and that’s saying something.”

He seems pleased when you chuckle, taking the warmth of his body previously pressed into your side away as he settles back into the couch. “What was wrong with this one, couldn’t get your rocks off with Ol’ Mister Hairspray?”

“Got my rocks off just fine, thank you very much,” you say, faux-primly, focusing your attention on the glass of water in front of you.

Condensation slips down the side. Your voice gains a gravelly tone that feels dangerously close to preceding tears when you say,  “I just… every time we hook up, I end up feeling lonelier than ever afterwards. And I’m kinda sick of it.”

Do you see, do you see, do you see how you hurt me, baby? So I hurt you too, then we both get so blue…

Eddie’s warm palm (not the one covered in Bugle crumbs) comes to rest on your shoulder, thumb digging gently but firm into the tense muscle at the nape of your neck. A hum purrs from your throat, eyes shutting involuntarily as he manages to zero in on the spot that needs the most care.

 ��C’mere,” Eddie says, softly, hand sliding off and away as you unfold your limbs to stand. Once you’re sharing the couch cushion, he goes to pull you in closer but stops when he sees you bite back a smile- “What?”

“Your hair is… insane. In the back. If you haven’t noticed- wait!”

Eddie’s hand freezes halfway to his head with your alert, and you knock it out of the air, chastising- “Gonna have a head full of Bugle crumbs. Let me.”

“Bugle Head. New band name, I call it.” Eddie’s eyes are half-lidded, reminiscent of a cat getting groomed as you smooth down the out-of-place strands, hands cradling the back of his skull briefly before you pull away.

“Didn’t even bother looking in the mirror after going at it like rabbits with your not-girlfriend?” You accentuate your tease with a solid finger-poke to his bare ribs.

Eddie’s hands drop to your waist, pinch just-shy of mean against your hips. “Watch it, pot. And this kettle’s not fucking like a rabbit… more like a semi-interested turtle. With a semi-”

He gets shoved, for that comment, but drops down flat on the couch a bit too easily, pulling you with him.

With your ear pressed to Eddie’s chest, you can hear the whooshing of his blood, the steady thump of it against your cheek. He slips an arm around your lower back while yours encircle his torso, his sweatpantsed-legs twining with your bare ones.

“Why do we keep sleeping with such losers?” you muse aloud, breath unconsciously stalling to match Eddie’s much slower rhythm.

“Dunno.” His hand strokes down the length of your back, likely covering you in snack crumbs, but you find you don’t really mind right now. “Glad I have you to commiserate with, though. They say not all who wander are lost…”

You frown against the smooth skin below your cheek, sensing a trap. “…is that a Tolkein reference?”

“Nope. Shakespeare. Hamlet, if I recall correctly.”

He lets you laugh into his chest, squeezing gently at the soft flesh of your upper arm, like he’s trying to hold on to you and the moment at the same time.

You settle, again, breaths joining again. Joni croons on.

Wanna write you a love letter, I wanna make you feel better, I wanna make you feel free…

[imthesilentwriter]

The Conversation

Harry Potter x Wolfstar!Daughter!Reader

Summary: It’s been two weeks since you and Harry shared your first kiss. To say things are awkward is an understatement; however, everything comes to a head, at your traditional Christmas Eve dinner with the Potters.

Warnings: some awkward tension, kissing

Authors Note: Another fic! Only 4 days after the other one? Crazy!! I hope you're enjoying my oneshots so far - I have SO MANY MORE PLANNED, I'M SO EXCITED!!! If you wanted some context to this oneshot, then reader this one The Stars, first; however, it's not really necessary. I hope you enjoy!!

Word Count: 2545

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It’s been two weeks.

Two weeks since you and Harry had kissed under the mistletoe up on the Astronomy Tower. To say things were slightly awkward was an understatement.

You two have barely had time to talk to each other about this whole… situation. The second you think about bringing it up, something always seems to get in the way.

Maybe it’s a good thing that you get interrupted every time you try to bring it up; after all, facing the truth of your feelings feels daunting, and the distractions give you a chance to gather your thoughts, even if it’s just for a moment longer.

Oh, who are you kidding? You’ve been a bundle of nerves, your heart racing at the thought of what might happen if you laid your feelings bare.

Yet, the fact remains is that the kiss changed everything, and neither of you can pretend it didn’t happen.

The warmth of the freshly baked apple pie seeps through your gloves as you stand outside in the cold December air, snowflakes gently falling around you. The twinkling lights of the Potter’s home glow softly against the snow-covered ground, casting a warm, welcoming hue over the dark winter evening. Your breath forms small clouds in the crisp air, and you shift on your feet to keep warm, the excitement of Christmas Eve buzzing in your chest.

Sirius, however, is far less patient. He bangs on the front door again, a loud, persistent knock echoing through the quiet night. “James! Lily! Open up, it's freezing out here!” he shouts, his voice carrying an exaggerated urgency that makes you smile.

“Dad, they’re probably getting ready for dinner,” you say, shaking your head. “You don’t need to knock like you’re the Ministry.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Remus mutters beside you, pulling his coat tighter around him. “He’s just looking for an excuse to make an entrance.”

“I’ll make an entrance, alright,” Sirius grumbles, knocking even harder. “I’m not about to freeze to death on Christmas Eve when there’s food and warmth inside.”

“They know we're coming, Sirius,” Remus says calmly, though there’s a smirk tugging at his lips. “Chill out. They’ll let us in.”

“Chill out? I’m already chilled out! Literally!" Sirius huffs, his breath fogging in the cold. "Besides, how long does it take to answer the door when your best friends are standing outside freezing?”

You laugh softly, exchanging an amused look with Remus. “Maybe they’re hiding from you, Dad. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow at you, a mock-offended look on his face. “Me? Hiding from me? I'm the life of the party!”

Just as he’s about to pound on the door again, it swings open, and James Potter grins at the sight of you. “Alright, alright, no need to break the door down, Padfoot. You lot coming in, or are you planning to camp out there all night?”

Sirius straightens up, his dramatic flair back in full force. “Well, we would have been inside already if you hadn’t left us out here to freeze like a pack of stray dogs.”

James rolls his eyes. “You’re as dramatic as ever. Get in here before Lily hears you and thinks you’ve lost your mind.”

Stepping inside, the warmth of the house wrapping around you like a blanket, the smell of pine and cinnamon welcoming you home for the holiday.

Your eyes glance around, taking in the decorations – a string of enchanted lights twinkling along the mantel, stocking hung neatly, and a fire crackling softly in the hearth.

Lily steps into the hallway, wiping her hands on a dish towel and smiling brightly. “There you are! I thought I heard Sirius yelling out there.”

“I wasn’t yelling,” Sirius says with a smirk, pulling off his coat. “I was announcing our arrival – dramatically, as always.”

Remus snorts, shaking his head as he follows you both in. “More like demanding entry.”

Lily laughs, walking over to give each of you a warm hug. “It’s good to see you. And what’s this?” she asks, eyeing the apple pie you’re holding.

You smile, handing it over. “Homemade apple pie. Well, sort of homemade. Dad supervised, but I did most of the work.”

“Hey!” Sirius exclaims, raising his hands. “I supervised because I’m a terrible baker. And for the record, I’m great at taste-testing.”

Lily grins. “I’m sure you are. Come on in, everything’s almost ready. We’ve just set the table.”

You follow Lily into the kitchen; you can hear James and Sirius chatting loudly from the other room, their laughter echoing down the hall. As you step inside, you spot Harry standing near the counter, his back turned as he helps set out glasses. Your heart skips a beat, that awkward tension instantly tightening around your chest.

You haven’t talked about the kiss. Not really. And every time you see him, it’s like that moment keeps hovering between you, unsaid and unfinished.

Lily pulls you from your thoughts, smiling as she hands you a dish of roasted vegetables. “Could you help me bring these to the table, love?”

You nod quickly, grateful for the distraction. “Of course.”

Balancing the dish, you move toward the dining room, brushing past Harry. For a second, your arm lightly touches his, and it feels like the smallest spark between you. You catch his eye for just a moment, but he looks away just as quickly, as though neither of you quite knows how to navigate this strange, new territory between you. There’s that same softness in his expression – the one that’s been there since the kiss. But there’s also hesitation, the weight of words unspoken, hanging in the air.

You take the vegetables to the table, setting them down beside the plates Lily’s already arranged. She bustles in behind you, carrying more food, and soon enough, the room is filled with the smell of roasted meats, potatoes, and fresh bread. It’s warm, comforting, but the tension with Harry still lingers just beneath the surface, gnawing at you.

As everyone starts to gather around the table, you find yourself slipping into your usual seat, the one across from Harry. It’s always been that way – his eyes meeting yours across the table, a friendly exchange, a joke, a smile. But now? Now everything feels different. He sits down, his movements a little slower, more careful, like he’s trying not to draw attention to the fact that everything’s changed between you.

Dinner begins, with the usual clatter of silverware and the hum of conversation filling the room. Sirius and James are already deep into a playful argument about Quidditch, and Remus is chuckling along, trying to keep the peace. But you’re hardly paying attention. Your focus keeps drifting back to Harry.

He’s quiet tonight, quieter than usual, occasionally glancing your way but not saying much. Every time your eyes meet, there’s this… thing between you, a kind of nervous energy that wasn’t there before. And every bite of food feels like it’s sitting heavy in your stomach because, no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to relax.

Lily leans over at one point, offering you another helping of potatoes, her soft voice pulling you out of your thoughts. “You alright, dear? You seem a little distracted.”

“I’m fine,” you reply quickly, offering her a smile. “Just thinking.”

She gives you a knowing look, but thankfully doesn’t press further. You can feel Harry’s eyes on you again from across the table, and you risk another glance in his direction. His fork is hovering over his plate, but his gaze is fixed on you, intense, like he’s waiting for something – an opening, a chance to talk.

But the words just won’t come.

The familiar sounds of laughter and holiday cheer continue around you, but it feels like you and Harry are in your own bubble, isolated from the rest. Every clink of a glass or scrape of a chair feels like it’s just prolonging the inevitable conversation you both know is coming.

After dinner, the house hums with the warmth of family conversation, but you can barely focus. Plates clatter as you and Harry gather the dishes, the room filled with laughter from the others.

You follow him into the kitchen, the tension between you as thick as it was during dinner. Harry’s hands move with practiced ease as he starts packing the dishwasher, and you find yourself mirroring his actions, the two of you working in silence.

It’s only when the last dish is tucked away, and Harry closes the dishwasher door, that he speaks. “We need to talk,” he says, his voice low, eyes darting toward you.

You freeze, a lump forming in your throat. “I know,” you whisper back, already feeling the weight of the conversation you’ve, both been avoiding.

He takes a deep breath, glancing toward the dining room where your parents are still chatting. “Let’s take a walk,” he suggests. You nod, grateful for the chance to step outside, to breathe away from the tension hanging over the evening.

As you move toward the hallway, Sirius looks up. “Where are you two sneaking off to?” he asks, raising a brow. Remus glances over, curious as well.

Harry shrugs casually, but there’s a tightness in his voice. “Just going for a walk. We’ll be back soon.”

Sirius shoots you both a teasing grin. “No funny business, you hear me?”

You roll your eyes, muttering, “Dad.”

Remus, however, just waves you off with a smile. “Go on, you two. Get some fresh air.”

Stepping outside, the cold air hits you immediately, refreshing but also sharp. You walk in silence, your breath visible in the chill, the crunch of snow beneath your boots the only sound for a while. You feel Harry’s presence beside you, close but careful, like neither of you knows exactly what to say yet.

After a few minutes, you arrive at the treehouse, the one you’ve both spent countless summers and holidays in, hiding away from the world. It’s where you’ve shared secrets, jokes, and dreams. But tonight, the treehouse feels different – like it’s holding its breath, waiting for the words to finally spill out between you.

You climb up first, settling into the familiar space. Harry follows, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence stretches out, both comforting and suffocating at the same time.

Finally, you break the quiet, your voice soft. “Our friendship… it’s changed, hasn’t it?”

Harry leans back, his eyes on the floorboards. “Yeah, it has.” His tone is measured, but there’s something raw underneath, something unsaid.

You bite your lip, unsure of how to go on. “I mean… we don’t have to let it. We could just… forget it happened. The kiss, I mean. We can just stay friends.”

The words feel heavy, almost painful, as they leave your mouth. You’re not even sure if you believe them. But it’s easier than facing the possibility of things falling apart between you.

Harry’s head snaps up, his expression one of pure shock. “Forget it?” he echoes, disbelief colouring his voice. “You really think we can just pretend that didn’t happen?”

You shift uncomfortably, shrugging. “I don’t know, I just… I don’t want to ruin everything.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his gaze piercing into yours. “But I don’t want to forget it. I don’t want to pretend like nothing’s changed. Because…” He hesitates, and you can see the conflict in his eyes, the way he’s choosing his words carefully. “Because I like you. A lot more than just… as a friend.”

Your heart skips a beat, your breath catching. “Really?” It comes out softer than you intended, the word barely more than a whisper.

Harry looks at you earnestly, his eyes soft but steady. “Yeah, really. I’ve been trying to figure it out for a while now, but that kiss… it just made everything clearer.”

You stare at him, stunned. His confession sends a rush of warmth through you, but you’re still trying to wrap your mind around the fact that he feels the same way. “I… I feel the same,” you admit, your voice shaky, but there’s no denying the truth behind your words.

His eyes soften at your confession, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. Then he gently lifts your joined hands, his fingers still intertwined with yours, and holds them between you, as if solidifying the connection.

You notice the mistletoe again, still hanging above your heads. You can’t help but let out a small, nervous laugh. “There’s that mistletoe again.”

Harry follows your gaze, then looks back at you with a soft smile. “Yeah… funny how it keeps showing up, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t hesitate this time. Slowly, deliberately, Harry leans in, and your breath catches in your throat. You can feel the warmth of his breath as he inches closer, your heart pounding in your chest.

When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is soft, almost hesitant at first. But then you both relax into it, the tension melting away as his hand gently cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. You kiss him back, your free hand finding its way to his chest, your fingers gripping the fabric of his sweater as you lose yourself in the moment.

The kiss feels different from the one on the Astronomy Tower. This time, there’s no hesitation, no second guessing – just the two of you, wrapped up in each other and the quiet certainty of how you feel.

When you finally pull back, you’re both a little breathless, your foreheads resting together as you sit there in the stillness. But then a thought crosses your mind, and you pull back slightly, just enough to look at him.

“I just-” You hesitate, biting your lip. “I don’t want to ruin our friendship, you know? I mean, I like you. I really like you, but… jumping straight into a relationship? It feels like a lot. And I don’t want to mess things up.”

Harry’s brows furrow slightly, his gaze soft as he watches you. “So… take it slow?”

You nod, your heart pounding as you wait for his response. “Yeah. If that’s okay with you. I just don’t want to rush into something and then lose what we have.”

A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and he squeezes your hand gently. “Of course that’s okay. We don’t have to rush anything. We’ll figure it out together.”

Relief floods through you, and you let out a small breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Really? You’re okay with that?”

Harry grins, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Yeah. That’s fine. We don’t have to label anything or figure it all out right now. I’m just… I’m glad we talked about it.”

“Me too,” you murmur, the tension between you easing into something more comfortable, more familiar. “So… we’ll take it slow.”

Harry nods, and then, without hesitation, he leans in again, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Whatever pace you want.”

Your heart swells, and for the first time in weeks, everything feels less complicated. You don’t know exactly where this will go, but for now, your content with this – taking things one step at a time, hand in hand.

[wowcatboys]

how abt how yone kisses o(∩_∩)o

sorry if getting these repetitive asks r annoying or uninspiring— take your time and have fun

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HEARTSTEEL YONE: KISSES ♡ Gender Neutral ♡ SFW, NSFW separated under bold header ♡ DW anon, I'm OBSESSED with kiss HC's. I will NEVER complain if I get to Think About Kissing The Boys. Hope you enjoy (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡

YONE

Yone's kisses are unique—they can't quite be described in the normal terms you might use, like 'passionate' or 'intense'. His deep kisses feel like poetry, almost abstract: like a pine forest under a shawl of fog. The steady roll of dark storm clouds, not quite raining over you yet, but whispering with a looming promise of thunder. Leather gloves. A whiff of cedar—mountaintops at dawn—the ripples on carved marble. Even though he's busy, he truly makes time when he's kissing you. As his tongue takes command of your mouth, you really feel him. Strong. Steady. He makes you feel important, secure. A good word, if you have to boil it all down? Sensual, but not overdramatic. It often leaves goosebumps popping up along your arms, and whenever he pulls away there's a momentary look of peace and dreaminess on his face. (It's quickly extinguished whenever the rest of Heartsteel engages in their perpetual bullshit, but oh well, what can you do. There will be more time to kiss when Sett's not whipping Earnest's toys at the windows as fast and hard as possible.)

Not big on PDA, Yone will keep your kisses quite chaste and gentlemanly in front of other people. The classic knuckle kiss is a favorite of his. He'll often gently bring your hand to his pillow-soft lips if feeling affectionate while in meetings with band managers or discussing business with venues.

That being said, Yone loves to stand behind you and rest his chin on the top of your head whenever you're waiting in line somewhere. If you protest with an 'ow' when his bony chin boinks your skull he'll murmur a "sorry" and press a light kiss your head. Then he puts his chin back, albeit more gently this time.

Yone always tastes great (a very subtle, clean wintergreen flavor) , even though you never see him popping mints or chewing gum. How does he do it...? You ask him how he avoids chronic coffee-breath but he just shrugs. "I don't do anything special," he claims. You're sure he's got some super-secret stash of high-powered mouthwash hidden on his person at all times but, as of yet, its existence is sadly unconfirmed. (Not to say he won't let you feel him up with the excuse of looking for it.)

Often, Yone's mouth is freezer-cold from his iced coffee. His chilly tongue never fails to send a shiver down your spine.

Speaking of his tongue—boy, does Yone ever know how to use his. He likes to lick long the ridges on the top of your mouth, the back of your teeth, and along the length of your tongue. Never fear because he's appalled at the mere thought of the washing machine maneuver. Even if you're in a sloppy make-out sesh he keeps it classy.

Yone's got some minimal pull with the more popular gossip mags, and he uses it to make sure pictures of you kissing stay out of the tabloids. He absolutely hates the idea that your relationship could be subject to public scrutiny. If someone manages to get a picture of you two in an intimate moment, he's not above using his influence and/or money to make sure it's not released.

Kissing Yone with his hair down is a recipe for disaster. There's just so much of it and it gets everywhere—before you know it he's wincing as your fingernails accidentally tug his hair and you're pulling red out of your mouth. If there's a hair tie on your wrist, Yone snags it. When you open your mouth to protest the theft he shuts you up with his mouth on yours.

Sometimes the rest of the guys are dorks and act absolutely disgusted if they catch you kissing Yone. "Ewwwwww," they laugh, prompting Yone to roll his eyes, annoyed. "I hate seeing Mom and Dad kiss." (Gender matters little in this teasing scenario. Yone is 'Mom' either way.)

Yone's a workaholic, so of course he gets a bit delirious and silly from lack of sleep sometimes. If he's giggling and rapid-fire pressing kisses on all your birthmarks, it's probably time to make that man go to bed. Nothing says you can't enjoy the extra affection before he passes out, though.

Though he gets in the zone and may not give you a deep, sensual kiss while he's working, Yone always returns a kiss when you give him one. Giving him a quick peck while he's scrunched over his work computer is a surefire way to steal a little loving while he's otherwise occupied.

NSFW

Yone's the king of body worship. When he knows he's been neglecting you for work, he makes a show of getting to his knees and running his hands feather-light up and down the outside of your thighs. "My darling," he lifts your foot towards him and his warm breath fans along your ankle. "Won't you please let me earn your forgiveness?" Taking his time, he caresses sweet, nerve-tingling kisses up the length of your legs. When he reaches the apex of your thighs, Yone meets your eyes, gaze smoldering, before taking you into his mouth. Let's just say he doesn't rush, and you more than forgive him by the time he's done with you.

Yone adores kisses in missionary. It's as if his mouth is soldered to yours, swallowing up your moans like he's a man starved. Whenever you break away to gasp and pant his name he presses his forehead to yours, basking in the closeness and warmth of your bodies.

One of Yone's turn-ons is when you trail kisses down the back of his neck and over the column of his spine, so light he can barely feel them at all. Your warm breath and your lips whispering across his back have him tense and shivering in the best way possible. You're only halfway down his spine before he starts muffling moans into the palm of his hand. He gets so fucking hard it almost hurts when you finally reach around to touch his cock.

[lanitalay]

At sea 

Rhysand x reader

a/n: Hi my loves!!!! I wrote this to break the ice after winter break. It will likely have one or two more parts. Wanted to write some Rhysand fluff after destroying his character in Before I say goodnight lol.

word count: 1k

warnings: none

Summary: reader returns home after months at sea.

Part 2

Salt coated the railings you clung to while walking down the stairs to the main deck. The summer sun had dried up the water that had crashed against the ship all night long. Now small crystals blanket every surface on board. You make it down the wonky steps, map rolled and tucked under your arm. It had been a rough passage last night, the shaking had kept most of the crew on board hugging buckets, unable to control the bile. It was the most dangerous part of the voyage, the captain had to watch out for jagged rocks that were mostly covered by water or mist, towering waves and fog overhead that prevented the guiding stars to be visible. 

It would be a matter of days now. If you squinted you could swear the shoreline of Velaris was on the horizon. This time it had been an entire season. The trek had started the day after the last of the snow melted and you would be back just shy of the summer solstice. You had never been gone this long from your home. The salt air was starting to stink, you yearned for green fields and pine scented breezes. 

You had collected more samples than ever before. The botany in the foreign lands you visited was truly magnificent and different to what you were accustomed to in the Night Court. In your private quarter you had managed to fit around one thousand dried samples of leaves, roots, flowers and a few insects along with some living plants, placed carefully near the port hole and a plethora of seeds. Your favorite treasure was an exceptional plant that you had meticulously looked after because the bright violet color of the flowers reminded you of a pair of matching eyes back home. Rhysand. You tried not to think of him. You really really did. But in the flowers you saw his eyes. In the stars you saw his smile. In dark waters you saw his fury. In the sea shanties you heard his drunken laugh. A sigh escapes your frowning mouth. 

He might have married or mated by the time you return. Not that anything romantic existed outside of your wildest dreams. But he was your friend. You had known him since the head researcher of the priestesses had sent for a field researcher, since she did not feel ready to be outside of the sacred library walls. You had been recruited because your father was a renowned explorer and you had grown up by his side. Every shore in Prythian and the Continent was familiar to your family. Every shore unknown called your name. 

Rhysand was the one who brought you to the library the first time. He had wanted to be present and even gave you a tour himself of the massive sanctuary. Since then, each time you return he flies you to the library and you tell him an abridged version of what you saw on your travels. Sometimes you think that he holds you a little tighter than the last time he saw you and you stop yourself before even thinking that there is a glint in his eyes that indicates something more than polite interest. 

The days pass slowly. Eventually, the familiar cliff sides and hilly landscape come into view. Relief floods your chest. You would be staying a while this time. Cataloging all of the new materials would take at least until the end of summer. Flapping sounds from above and you look up expecting to see the mast ripped but instead a gliding shadow figure high above. An inevitable smile forms on your face. 

It feels like docking the boat took forever. But once all the ropes are tied and the masts lowered, the bridge gets lowered and you all but leap to the wooden platform and to the young High Lord that’s waiting for you. Sprinting you pounce on him, wrapping your arms around his neck and relishing the feeling of being on solid ground. “Welcome home, explorer” his smooth voice soothes your racing heart. Seconds pass before you let go and look at him. He’s beaming, his hair has gotten longer since you’d gone,  his face is clean shaven and he smells of home. You open your mouth to speak but his smile- his smile is making it impossible for you to concentrate on anything other than his mouth. So you stall. Your hands ruffle his hair in the way you knew would annoy him and he laughs. 

“I’m so glad to be back” you finally say. 

Flying to the House of Wind was routine at this point in your career. You would land and immediately go debrief with your head researcher. But today Rhys had asked you if you were hungry. The grumble in your stomach told him you were. So now you were eating a lovely lunch prepared by the house. It felt decadent to eat anything other than fish and potatoes. You moan as you bite and the High Lord in front of you chuckles. 

“What else did you find?” 

“Besides the plants there were incredible creatures there. Some had fur and some had scales. I drew them in my books” you point towards the bag you had brought with you most precious items. He reaches for it and begins to flip through the pages of your findings. 

“This is fascinating” he breathes. 

“What about you? Is there anything new in the Court?” You notice his jaw clench for a fraction of a second.  “Is something wrong?” 

He shakes his head and closes the book “there are whispers of war”. Your blood drains from your face. “What do you mean?” 

His face is now the face of a High Lord, relaying important information to a court member “Hybern has been making some advances, Prythian is too fragmented to stand a chance”. The war that had put the wall between the human realm and the seven courts had ended not one hundred years ago. Villages were still recovering. The Courts were still shifting in new power dynamics. 

“What can I do?” You were no warrior. The amount of times you’d trained with the Inner Circle you could count on one hand and it had always been to appease Cassian. Rhys looks away “nothing, we are trying our best to unify and organize our armies”. Something akin to a thorn nestles itself in your heart “and how are you going to do that?” 

He swallows and looks straight through your eyes “I’m marrying the Princess of Autumn”. 

[bellaxgiornata]

All These Years [Part 2: "Of Drinking and Dishonesty"]

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

Summary: You met Matthew Murdock unexpectedly at Columbia University and you couldn't deny that there was an instant attraction–for you. But for Matt, you became as close of a friend to him as Foggy did. As the years pass by, your feelings only grow for your best friend, but all you can do is watch as he dates and sleeps with every other woman on campus and eventually in New York City but you.

Warnings/tags: 18+ for this series; contains emotional hurt with no comfort until the final installments, angst, pining, friends to lovers, slowburn, and eventually smut

Word Count: 3.9k

a/n: Enjoy the next little angsty installment for this series! I've been having fun writing a bit more about the college period than expected and our next installment gets angstier. Because who does Matt date in college? Yup. She's here. You can find the entire list of installments for this series here. Feedback is always appreciated if you're enjoying the series as well!

Tag list: @theetherealbloom @rotscinema

“Okay, okay, so I took Punjabi and didn’t learn anything. Big deal!” Foggy said, waving a dismissive hand. “At least I got to talk to that really hot chick in class.”

“But that’s all you did,” Matt pointed out. “You never even managed to get her number.”

Foggy let out a sigh, a faraway look on his face as he gazed just past Matt’s shoulder. You giggled at the sight; you’d heard the story about the girl Fog had taken Punjabi just to talk to many times before, but it never failed to amuse you how little he’d actually learned because he’d been distracted by her instead.

“So what about you?” Matt asked. 

He turned in your direction, leaning his elbows along the table and drawing himself closer to you. Your fingers were fiddling nervously with the beer bottle on the table in front of you, absently peeling the label from it. The way Matt was focused on you with that little grin on his mouth in the dimly lit bar had sent your heart racing, the weight of his sightless gaze on you behind his dark glasses making you nervous. For a moment your eyes lingered on his lips, wondering just how great of a kisser he might be. How it might feel if he just leaned a bit closer towards you and connected his mouth to yours. Or what it would be like to curl up with him in your bed after this, feel his tongue in your mouth and his hands roaming your body instead of someone else’s…

You cleared your throat, shoving those thoughts quickly away. You flushed when you realized you’d been staring silently at Matt, his brows having started to rise curiously onto his forehead at you.

“What about me?” you asked awkwardly.

“I never hear you talk about going on dates or taking classes just to meet a guy,” Matt said, that grin still on his mouth. “I think it’s your turn to spill some embarrassing stories.”

You met Foggy’s eyes on your other side, his smile faltering at Matt’s question. Swallowing hard, your gaze quickly dropped down as you focused on your beer bottle in front of you again. You shrugged in response.

“Guess no one’s caught my eye,” you lied.

Out of the corner of your eye you saw Matt shaking his head. Looking back up at him, you noticed his grin had widened on his perfect mouth. Immediately you frowned at the sight.

“Come on, be honest here,” Matt pressed, leaning even closer to you as one of his dark brows rose up onto his forehead. “You’ve never taken a class just to talk to someone? Or anything like that?”

You exhaled slowly, eyes falling away from Matt. It’s not like you could be entirely truthful here. Maybe you hadn’t taken a class to get to know someone you’d had a crush on like Foggy, or asked for assistance to intentionally get some one-on-one time with someone like Matt had often done. But you had become best friends with the guy you had a thing for. Rearranged your entire schedule to fit his so you could see him almost every day despite how utterly pathetic it often made you feel. 

But you certainly couldn’t admit that .

“Don’t tell me there’s no one you have a thing for,” Matt urged after a moment. “I won’t believe you.”

His arm slid across the table to nudge yours in a friendly, playful gesture. Your eyes instantly dropped down to where he’d touched you, your arm feeling like that single, brief touch had sent a burning fire through your entire body. But when your eyes darted back up to Matt’s face, your attention was drawn to just over his shoulder. There was a young woman in a group of a few others back at the bar, and it was obvious how her attention kept shifting back to Matt, checking him out.

Shoulders slumping, your head dropped low as you focused back on your beer bottle. That jealous, dejected feeling washed over you. It was one you’d become familiar with lately, feeling it whenever Matt was flirting, or being checked out, or out on a date, or clearly out having sex with someone. 

“Not anyone who’d ever notice me,” you muttered.

“Oh well now I’m sure that’s not true,” Matt said good-naturedly. “How could someone not notice you? You’re amazing. Right, Fog?”

Your head flew up, eyes going wide at Matt’s compliment. He’d called you amazing. Matt had never said anything like that before about you. Your mind suddenly was spiraling in a different direction for once, thoughts quickly running through your mind one after another.

Could Foggy have been right? Was it possible Matt maybe did have an interest in you? Maybe all this time all you’d needed to do was just tell him how you felt. Maybe he’d never asked you on a date before because you weren’t forward with your feelings like all of the other women who’d very openly flirted with him. 

Maybe it was just as simple as that.

“I tell her that all the time,” Foggy agreed easily. “And I’m sure whoever this guy is sees it, too.”

He shot you a pointed look before his eyes darted meaningfully across the table to Matt. Slowly your gaze followed where Foggy’s had, attention returning back to Matt. He had focused back on you as well, that beautiful charming smile of his on his mouth. Biting your lip, you contemplated thinking up some way to just tell Matt how you felt here and now and put everything out there in the open. Especially before the girl making eyes at him could come over and steal him away for the night. But before you could open your mouth, Matt was continuing on.

“You should really give yourself more credit,” he told you. “Any guy would be lucky to take you on a date.”

Hope was quickly rising in your chest, your body suddenly feeling weightless. “You–you think so?” you asked him cautiously.

“Absolutely,” he answered, one hand coming up to readjust his dark glasses on his nose. “You’re a sweet, intelligent girl. And you’re funny as hell. Honestly, I was not expecting you to be as hilarious as you are.”

“Yeah?” you asked.

Beside you, you noticed the way Foggy’s wide eyes were darting back and forth between you and Matt like he was just waiting for the moment one of you admitted feelings or something. It felt like your stomach was filling with hundreds of anxious butterflies all flapping about inside of you as that hope only bloomed further in you. 

“Oh, definitely,” Matt said with a nod. “You’re like a female Foggy. Which is high praise, because Foggy is the absolute best friend anyone could ask for.”

Instantly you deflated as if Matt had just punched you in the gut. 

You’re like a female Foggy.  

…the absolute best friend anyone could ask for.

Mouth dropping open, you sat there dumbfounded and hurt. Every ounce of hope that maybe you’d misread the situation–maybe he didn’t see you as just a friend–immediately dropped into your half finished bottle of beer and drowned. Your chest felt hollow as Matt’s smile briefly faltered before you. 

Attention returning back towards Foggy on your left, you saw him shooting you that all-too-familiar sad smile again. You wanted to crawl under the table and cry at the sight of it.

“You’re both suddenly really quiet,” Matt pointed out, his tone a bit nervous. “Did I–I say something wrong?”

You couldn’t look at him, your gaze dropping yet again to the table before you. Tears pricked at your eyes as you tried to fight them back, clearing your throat as you blinked hard a few times. 

“No,” you answered softly. “Thanks, Matt.”

“You–you sound upset,” he pointed out. “What’d I say wrong?”

“Dude,” Foggy began immediately, “you just told her she was best friend material when you were supposed to be giving her encouragement that she is more than that.”

“What? No,” Matt said quickly.

Your eyes caught sight of how fast his head turned in your direction out of your peripheral. That hollow feeling felt like it was only growing in your chest the longer you sat here. Maybe you should just call it a night and head back to your dorm before it swallowed you whole.

“That’s not what I meant,” Matt said earnestly. 

He said your name, his hand reaching out and feeling along the table before it eventually landed on your wrist. Your eyes snapped shut, your jaw clenching at the contact of his skin on yours when his fingers encircled your wrist. It wasn’t helping.

“Hey, I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to say you were just friend material,” he continued. “That’s not what I meant. It came out wrong.”

“It’s fine, Matt, I get it,” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly.

“No, hey, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot,” he said in a rush, his hand holding tighter to your wrist. “Please don’t get upset. I just meant you’re a really great person, one of the best I’ve ever met. I’m sorry, I didn't mean it like that.”

“Yeah, alright,” you said with a nod, desperate for him to just stop.

“How about this,” Matt said, his tone picking up to something brighter, “you bring me with to meet this guy, and I’ll be the best wingman ever." 

You slipped your wrist out from Matt’s hold, no longer interested in sitting here and finishing your beer. Walking home in the cool evening and crying sounded vastly more appealing. Abruptly shoving your chair out, the legs of it making an irritating screech along the floor that was audible over the pop music playing, you slipped out of your seat.

“You heading back already?” Foggy asked, that knowing look on his face.

“Yeah, early class tomorrow,” you answered.

“Wait, hang on,” Matt said, pushing his own chair back as he turned in his seat towards you. “If you’re leaving because I upset you, I’m sorry.”

You sighed, pushing your chair back into the table so he wouldn’t end up tripping over it when he inevitably got up. “I’m leaving because I have an early class in the morning, Matt,” you deadpanned.

Your eyes caught the brief twitch of his eyebrows on his forehead as if he somehow knew you were lying. He opened his mouth to speak but you cut him off before he could try to apologize yet again. That, too, wasn’t helping. 

“I’ll see you guys later,” you said quickly, shooting Foggy a wave as you took a step back.

“Dining hall for lunch tomorrow?” Fog asked hopefully.

“Sure,” you answered, shooting him a tight smile. Turning, you muttered under your breath, “If I even have an appetite by then.”

Weaving your way through the fairly busy bar, you eventually made it to the exit. You pushed the door open, stepping out into the chilly late spring evening. You felt a bit of the tension easing from your body already, the street noise of the city vastly preferable to you than being in Matt’s proximity right now. You couldn’t sit there any longer listening to him apologize to you for viewing you as only a best friend. 

You were an idiot to have thought there was hope for something more between you both. Of course he was only saying nice things that a friend would say to another friend to make them feel better and build them up. It was the same thing he’d probably say to Foggy if he was interested in a girl. How stupid you were to think of it as anything else. 

Any guy would be lucky to take you on a date.

You laughed bitterly at his comment, your arms hugging tight to your chest as you made the short trek back to campus and towards your dorm. Any guy except for Matt would be lucky to take you on a date, that’s basically what you gathered this evening. Matt was probably going to be hit on by that girl at the bar in a matter of minutes. You were positive he’d end up in either her dorm or his shortly afterwards. But you were not someone Matt would take on a date.

A frown twisted your mouth downwards, tears stinging at your eyes. You didn’t want to think about yet another conquest for Matt. It felt shitty that Matt would sleep with almost any girl on campus except for you. Not that that’s all you wanted from him–because you wanted vastly more than to just fuck him–but it made you feel like there was something wrong with you. 

Why weren’t you good enough? What was so different about you that Matt didn’t want you like he did with those other girls?

A tear slipped down your cheek and you reached a hand up, wiping it away. Seconds later you heard your phone ringing in your pocket and your frown deepened. You reached down, pulling it out and looking at the caller ID. Matt’s name was on the screen. Your eyes closed as you came to a stop on the sidewalk. You didn’t want to talk to him, why the hell was he calling you?

For a minute you considered letting his call go to your voicemail and ignoring it. You could always just tell him later that you’d had it on silent and didn’t realize he’d called until the next morning. How would he know you were lying? 

But you felt guilty at the thought of ignoring him just because he’d unintentionally hurt you. It’s not like Matt could control who he was or wasn’t attracted to. That wasn’t his fault. With a sigh you flipped the phone open, bringing it to your ear.

“Hey, Matt,” you answered, trying to keep the waver out of your voice.

He greeted you with your name, his voice sounding a little out of breath. You frowned.

“What’s going on? Something happen at the bar?” you asked, brows furrowing.

“No, not exactly,” he answered quickly. “Fog saw this girl he likes there. I think her name is Marci? Figured I’d leave him to it and check on you, actually. Which is why I called. How far from the bar did you get? I was trying to catch up.”

Biting your lip, you turned on the spot, stepping out of the way of a small group of college kids walking past you. A little ways back you could make out Matt’s form heading down the sidewalk towards you, his cane tapping away in one hand, his other hand holding his phone to his ear. Shoulders dropping, you realized you were going to have to walk back with him. Which was the last thing you’d been wanting to do right now.

“You didn’t need to leave on my account, Matt,” you told him.

“You seemed upset, I didn’t want you to walk back alone like that,” he replied. “So how far away did you get?”

Sighing, you began walking back the way you’d come. “I can see you, I’ll just turn back around and meet you in a minute,” you said.

Both of you exchanged goodbyes before you hung up, slipping your phone into your pant’s pocket before you once again uncomfortably wrapped your arms around your chest. It took you about a minute to reach Matt and you greeted him once you did, watching as his head darted in your direction. That damn charming smile slipped onto his face instantly and you hated the way it made you feel.

“Was hoping I’d manage to find you,” he greeted you back.

“Congrats,” you muttered. “I can walk you back to your dorm, if you want.”

“Well now that defeats the purpose of me walking you back to your dorm,” Matt countered cheekily.

You rolled your eyes, unable to fight the small smile snaking its way onto your lips. Reaching out, you placed Matt’s outstretched hand in the crook of your arm. His warm fingers curled around you, that hollow pit in your chest suddenly growing larger as you began to guide him back towards campus. 

For a little bit neither of you spoke, your body tense as Matt held onto you while the pair of you walked back towards your dorms. His cane tapping along the pavement mixed with the noises of the city, the sound lingering heavily over the pair of you.

“Are you okay?” Matt asked, eventually breaking the silence.

His question caught you off guard, your lips pressing together as Columbia came into view. Once again, it’s not like you could be truthful with Matt. You couldn't tell him you had feelings for him–had them for months–and that him calling you a female Foggy had deeply hurt you. You’d only embarrass yourself and ruin your friendship with him.

“Yeah,” you answered.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his head turn swiftly in your direction. Your teeth ground together under the weight of his attention. 

“Can you be honest with me this evening?” he asked.

“Who says I’m not?” you countered.

“Because I know you,” he answered immediately. “You sounded close to tears earlier before you left the bar. You’re not telling your usual jokes or laughing. You’ve been pretty quiet most of this evening, especially during this walk. You’re just giving brief responses when I know you love to talk.”

Your eyes remained fixed on the sidewalk before you as you led the pair of you down a different path, one that would bring you towards the residence halls. Internally you cursed Matt and his astute observations. 

“Was it what I said at the bar?” he pried. “Because I didn’t mean it like that, I swear.”

“Can we please stop talking about that already?” you snapped.

Heat flooded your cheeks immediately after your outburst. You hadn’t meant to snap at him, but you were tired of hearing his apology. And you certainly didn’t need to hear him offer to be your wingman again.

“So it was what I said,” he replied. 

His head turned, his attention once again on you as you both continued to walk. Your gaze remained fixed ahead of you, though.

“Why did that bother you so much?” he asked gently.

“Because I–” you stopped instantly, unsure of how to navigate this conversation without giving everything away. You sighed, shaking your head. “Because I’m always the friend,” you admitted weakly, tears stinging at your eyes again. “And I don’t understand what’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Matt said earnestly. “Why would you even think that?”

You shook your head, glad when you saw your building coming into view. You were desperate for an excuse to get out of this conversation. Especially because you felt the threat of tears growing stronger.

"It doesn't matter, forget I said that," you replied.

Matt pulled you to a stop on the sidewalk instantly. Surprised, you turned towards him, beginning to blink back the tears threatening to spill forth.

"It does matter if it's got you this upset," he pushed. "I meant what I said earlier. Any guy would be lucky to take you on a date. And if whoever this guy is has got you feeling this down on yourself, he's probably an asshole."

You couldn't help the humorless laugh that fell out of you. Little did he know he'd just called himself an asshole and you couldn't help but see the humor in it. The sound of your laugh only caused Matt’s brows to furrow though, his fingers tightening their hold on your arm. 

"What?" he asked. "Why is that funny?"

Because it's you, you idiot.

"It's not funny," you answered instead. "I just feel stupid."

He said your name softly, shaking his head. "Hey, you're not stupid" he assured you.

You couldn't stop the tears that fell, that ache in your chest only deepening with every nice word from his mouth that didn't mean what you desperately wanted it to. Matt's head tilted to the side at your silence, but the moment you couldn't fight back a choked sob, he was quickly pulling you in towards him.

One of his arms wrapped around your back, the other gently drawing your head towards his solid chest, cradling you carefully against him as his fingers lightly stroked their way through your hair. Your own hands easily wrapped around him, holding tight to him as you cried into his shirt. His hand along your back began rubbing a soothing pattern, managing it somehow even with the cane still held in his hand. His comforting presence only had you fisting his shirt tighter in your hands as you became overwhelmed with your emotions, crying harder when you felt him rest his chin along the top of your head. Somehow his hands held you even closer to himself. 

You'd often imagined what it would feel like to be in Matt's embrace so many times before; what it would feel like to be in his arms, breathing in that warm, familiar scent of him. But you’d never pictured it like this. Never because you were crying over not being able to be with him while he unknowingly comforted you for it.

"Maybe he's not the right guy," Matt whispered. "If he can't see how great you are, maybe he's not the one worth feeling like this about."

"He's not an asshole though," you choked out, voice muffled against his chest. "That's the thing."

"You'll find someone," he assured you. "Someone who will see every wonderful thing about you. Someone who won't make you feel like this about yourself."

"He usually doesn't," you muttered. 

"Usually doesn't what?" he asked softly.

"Make me feel like this," you said, turning to rest your cheek against his chest. "Usually he makes me feel good. Happy." Your fingers tightened their hold around his shirt as you sniffled. "Special. But–but he doesn't know how I feel and I am positive he doesn't feel that way in return. And that's what hurts."

"How do you know if you don't tell him?" Matt asked.

Matt’s words at the bar ran through your mind again and your eyes snapped shut. 

You’re like a female Foggy.  

…the absolute best friend anyone could ask for.

"Believe me, I know," you answered stiffly. 

Forcing yourself to release your hold on Matt, you stepped back as he untangled his hold on you in return. You wrapped your arms uncomfortably around yourself yet again, your attention on your feet. 

"Sorry, this was stupid," you mumbled. "I can finish walking to my dorm myself, Matt. But thanks for uh, trying to help."

He took a step towards you, concern clearly written on his face. "I can walk you the rest of the way. It's not–"

"I want to be alone," you told him firmly. 

He stared at you in silence for a moment before he finally nodded. "Okay," he replied. "I'll see you tomorrow though, right?"

You sighed heavily, eventually nodding. Because you knew you were too weak to give Matt up. You knew that despite how much it hurt to see him with other women all the time, the thought of him permanently missing from your life hurt worse.

"Yeah, I'll see you tomorrow, Matty," you whispered. 

Turning, you made your way down the path towards your hall, tears still silently streaming down your cheeks. You ignored the stares of passing students, wiping away the dampness on your cheeks with the back of your hand as you walked. 

These feelings would eventually fade. They had to.

[youwouldntdownloadapizza]

The Gates of Jackson | Joel Miller x F!Reader | Chapter 2 - Patrol

masterlist | ao3 | follow @youwouldntdownloadapizza and turn on notifications for updates

You showed up at the gates of Jackson with hands covered in blood and no memory of how you got there. That was two years ago. Since then, you've become Maria's right-hand woman and the person in charge of Jackson's logistical backend. Patrol schedules, inventory—all your purview. When a patrol gone wrong forces you to get to know Joel, memories of your past begin resurfacing—along with their consequences.

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pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+, minors DNI

word count: 1.0k

tags: no use of y/n, eventual smut, no beta we die like sarah, jackson era, other additional tags to be added, slow burn, ellie needs a hug, joel lives, good parent joel, reader-insert, reader insert, forced proximity, only one bed trope, nightmares, childbirth, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, soft joel, cuddling & snuggling, fluff, masturbation, pining, joel falls first, possibly demisexual reader (tbd), ptsd, ptsd flashbacks, panic attacks, amnesia, sexual braiding

chapter warnings: childbirth (mentioned)

chapter summary: A detour finds you and Joel lost in the woods and in need of shelter for the night.

Chapter 2 - Patrol

It was foggy today. Cold and foggy. You resented the low visibility, but Joel didn’t seem to mind. He followed behind you on Chestnut, an older mare named for her lovely, dark coat. While you focused on the trail, he watched the trees. Even if infected were rare out here, he wasn’t about to be caught off guard.

You made it about four miles before dust began to mix with the fog, making you cough until you pulled your shirt over your mouth and nose to block out the debris.

“Rockslide,” you called back to Joel, the sound of pebbles still clattering to the ground confirming your assessment. “We need to find an alternate route. I usually send patrols up this way three times a week, but no one’s come up this way since last Thursday. It’s overdue for a checkup.”

Joel was unfazed. “The river narrows to a stream about a mile back. We can cross over, loop around.”

You nodded, “Lead the way, Miller.”

Letting Joel lead was a mistake. Between the detour and the fog, you were hopelessly, utterly lost.

“If we die out here, I’m gonna kill you,” you told him, your annoyance beginning to slip towards downright anger.

“We’re not gonna die out here, Doe. Calm down.”

“We need to find high ground—figure out where we are, get above all this fog,” you said.

Luckily, you were headed uphill. But uphill didn’t last. Just as the fog began to thin, you reached a lake. Beside it stood a cabin, one you hadn’t seen on your patrols before.

The siding had once been painted a bright, cheery yellow, but time and the elements had stripped away much of the color. There were no signs of life, no broken windows. It had probably been abandoned long before the outbreak. Either that, or occupied by people who knew how to keep a low profile.

You eyed Joel, and with a sharp nod, he dismounted. You tied the horses just inside the treeline and approached, slowly and quietly climbing the stairs to the enclosed porch.

You squatted down to pull out your lock pick, but before you could even retrieve it, Joel was winding up to kick the door down. You stopped him with a gentle hand on his thigh. He looked down at you, eyes wide, and you answered his unspoken question by raising your lock pick. 

You made quick work of the lock, standing to push the door open. You motioned for Joel to head inside, but he opted to hold the door for you instead. “After you, ma’am.”

You were tempted to roll your eyes at that, but honestly, you kind of liked it. You led the way, clicking on your flashlight to investigate.

It wasn’t untouched, like you had initially suspected. There were signs of past occupants between the outbreak and now, but whoever it was hadn’t stayed long. The cabinets were still mostly stocked, though none of the cans were of your preferred variety. The curtains were drawn and dusty, having been left that way for some time. You opened them, letting in a dull beam of late-afternoon light. It glinted off liquor bottles strewn across the carpet by the couch.

“Looks like somebody hunkered down here for a bender,” Joel said, toeing a half-empty bottle with his boot.

“You got all that from liquor bottles and a carpet covered in dried vomit? Very observant, Miller,” you teased, taking a seat on an old barstool.

“I’m surprised they didn’t start breaking shit.”

“Not every drunk’s a violent one, Joel. Some of them just get sad. Or horny.”

“Or both.”

You huffed at that. He wasn’t wrong. You were stretching your neck when Joel made the call.

“It’s getting late,” he said. “We should settle in here for the night.”

“That’s not–” you started, before realizing he was probably right. If you kept going, you’d likely end up going in circles, just getting more lost than you already were. And even with all the floor vomit, that couch looked comfy. “Fine,” you sighed. “Get a fire going, figure out some food. I’m gonna head up to the roof, see if I can get a radio signal.”

Joel nodded, setting his pack down by the fireplace. You climbed the ladder up to the small loft space, looking for roof access. There was a small skylight, and with luck, it pushed open.

You crawled out onto the roof, leaning back against a weathered gable. You could just barely get a signal on your long-range radio.

“Doe to base camp, come in,” you spoke into the mouthpiece.

“Copy, Doe. This is Mike at the main gate. Over,” a voice crackled through the speaker.

“Joel and I hit a rockslide along the Mountain View lodge trail earlier. We took a detour and got lost in all the fog. We’re at a cabin near some lake up here. Looks like we’re gonna be stuck here for the night. Over.”

“But you’re alright otherwise? No injuries or anything? Over.”

“Fine, Mike. We’re fine. Should probably get a group out this way soon, though. The place is well-stocked, practically untouched. We’ll probably be back sometime tomorrow afternoon, assuming this fog clears and we can get our bearings. Over.”

“Copy that, Doe. All good over here.”

“Copy. Over and out.”

“Over and out.”

You scrubbed a hand over your face, your bones heavy with exhaustion. It had been a very long day.

“Soup’s on!” Joel called up from the living room.

“Be right there!”

You gathered your things, starting your haphazard slide back toward the skylight when a thought hit you.

“Hey, Mike?” you asked into the radio.

“Yeah?”

“How’s Maria?” 

You waited anxiously for his reply. Childbirth had never been without its risks, but in the apocalypse, it was easy for things to go wrong.

“She’s good,” Mike said, “Delivery went smoothly.”

Good, you thought, letting out a sigh of relief. That’s good.

The radio crackled back on, and Mike added one last detail to his report.

“It’s a girl.”

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[innocent-cat]

May I request an angsty Vax (vox machina) x reader, where the reader likes Vax but he doesn't know it especially paired with his feeling for Keyleth at the time. But when he figures out he rethinks his feelings, but by then the reader feels like the Second pick. (It can have a happy or angsty ending, whatever feels right to you)

GUYS IM BACK!!!! have this and two others im keeping on the burner to write. There were five, so if you don't see your's pop up anytime soon, its because I didn't know how to write it. Loved the ideas, though◡̈

Vax'ildan Vessar x Reader

Warnings - None

"An option, never his priority.", Vax x Reader

.·:*¨༺༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺༻

The fire whips in the direction of the wind and crackles in defiance against the small pellets of snow fall onto it, burning the firewood, which was already charred on nearly every side.

You sat next to your best friend, Vex, who had known about your love for Vax for months now. All she could feel was pity for you when she watches you stare off into the dark and starry night, looking anywhere except the two people in front of you.

Vax and Keyleth. Vax shot empty flirts at Keyleth without any reaction from her, as she blankly looks into the fire uninterested in him.

From the corner of your own eyes, you can feel Vex looking at you with a look on her face that you hated. It felt embarrassing for her to give you that look of empathy for so long, and it brought you back to the moment.

Taking a deep breath in through your nose, you held it for just a second. You let it out through your mouth and watch the air fog for just a moment. You look at Vex through the side of your eye, making eye contact, and she quickly looks away.

You sigh. The silence between the entire group was killing you, and you caught second hand embarrassment from Vax flirting with Keyleth like no one could hear them.

To be fair, no one but you and Vex were paying attention. Percy was tinkering with something that you couldn't be bothered enough to ask about, Pike and Grog were fast asleep. How could they fall asleep so quickly in this cold?

You slid off the log you sat on, the rough texture of the bark along it pushed against you and the snow crunched under your feet when you stood. Without looking around, you simply walk away into the snowed in forest.

"If you get lost just give us a shout." Vex's voice ringed through your ears, and you gave her a nod without turning to look at her.

Snow continued to crunch under your feet as you trudged into the forest. It was extremely dark, and the trees made you feel crowded. The trees rock as you push the pines out of the way, feeling the snow piled on them seep into your mittens, creating a soggy feeling on your hands.

Turning to an opening, you see a few logs turned to one another. It seems another group of travelers had passed through here once or twice before too. The world is really small, anyway. Not too hard to think about. You cast a fire spell on their old fire pit, watching the charcoal burn again. You sit down on a log, and stare into the sky, enjoying lonesomeness.

//////////////

(third person POV switch)

Keyleth awkwardly stood up and followed you after a few minutes of awkwardness with Vax. She tightly gripped and wrapped her faux coat around herself. Vex and Vax make eye contact, and glance between themselves and Percy. Vex shrugs and speaks.

"You know she doesn't love you. Quit bothering the poor girl, Vax."

Percy glances up at the siblings, but opts to continue fixing and cleaning his trinket.

Vax sighs, and turns his face away from Vex, not saying a word, waiting for her to say something he would choose to continue off of.

Vex scoffs at his stubbornness to the conversation. "Have you ever paid attention to how they look at you? YOU guys would work out. Not you and Keyleth!" Vex's accent gets thicker as she continues to voice her complaints about Vax's irony to not notice anything around him.

Vax pauses, and looks as if he's thinking to himself and piecing together evidence in his head.

"...You mean to tell me, that this whole time, all those gifts, and all the times they've been flustered without reason, was because they're in love with me?" Vax mumbled to Vex, still putting it together.

Out of the corner of her eye, Vex could see Percy rolling his eyes to their conversation. It was obvious he could tell too, in fact, him and Vex had spoken about it a few times when they had nothing better to do.

Now, it's Vex's turn to roll her eyes. And that she did. "What do you think I just said to you?" She scoffs after her sentence is stated.

Silence falls over the two and only the wind, the crackling fire, and Percy's tinkering can be heard. Soft crunching and talking can be heard from the forest.

(3rd person POV switch)

I softly laugh with Keyleth as we step back to the group's makeshift firepit. Before I can sit, Keyleth sits next to Vex, which forces me to sit next to Vax. Before I do, Vex waves me over and whispers into my ear.

"I told him"

I give her an annoyed look and she smiles smugly at me. I quickly turn before anything can be insinuated between the others and sit next to Vax.

This time, Vax seemed to be nervous to sit next to me. He was drooling over Keyleth just a second ago, You couldn't understand how he could change his mind so fast.

You close your eyes and decide not to think about it, trying to sleep quietly. It was late, and you were too tired to talk after the grueling work done today, which had to be followed with miles of walking to do the next morning.

When Vax notices this, he wraps his arm around you and pulls you in to rest on his shoulder. While his touch his warm, and something you've yearned for, you didn't like it. You didn't welcome it.

It wasn't what you yearned for. It felt forced.

The vibrations of his voice rumbles on his chest, and you could feel it in your head, but your hearing was muffled. It felt like you could hear their conversation in another room. You felt him hesitate when talking to Keyleth, but he spoke to her in that same tone.

He was settling for you.

You could feel an unsettling sense in your stomach, it made you uncomfortable, and it made you squirm.

You didn't want to be his second choice.

[inkformyblood]

i hear you call my name (it feels like home) GhostSoap

Written for the GhostSoap server Balanced Equinox event! For the fic complete with John's POV (written by the wonderful ChaoticEmmeline) here is it on ao3

Tags <3: @imjustheretofightforlove @mossyroach

Fantasy/Medieval AU, Mistaken Identity, Sort of Fake Dating, Mutual Pining

Simon scuffs his heel along the stray stones on the road, a thin plume of dust following the action. The mark wouldn’t last long, obscured in the same instant of formation by the man behind him in the procession, but it existed for a moment. 

He hadn’t thought it would be sunny when he first met his fiance. 

He hadn’t thought he would meet them at all.

Succession is a strange thing in his kingdom, one of many things that could be considered distasteful about it from an outsider’s perspective, and Simon had been nothing more than a blade in the shadows, a body on the battlefield, directed first one way and then another to coat his hands in gore for the sake of his orders. Orders given by his father and then his older brother when he began to step into the role. He doesn’t want to think overtly about the change in circumstances that has left him in this position; married off like some third or fourth daughter, his hand suddenly the best thing about him. 

His jaw is clenched, an ache stabbing through the scar tissue over his neck, and Simon, reluctantly, relaxes the muscle. He presses the ball of his thumb against the hinge of his jaw, feeling bone shift beneath his touch. The sensation is muted through his gloves, heavy dark leather and what feels like every drop of moisture in his body pooling into the lining. His eyes sting with every other blink between the glare of the sun and the damenable temperature doing its best to cook him inside his formal clothes. Another corner, another field fit to bursting with vibrant crops spilling as far as the eye can see. Simon breathes in, ignoring the taste of ash that clings to his tongue. 

He’s getting married after all. 

Married.

When he had received the order, it had been delivered much like any other, a piece of parchment sealed with the family crest accompanying a wrapped bundle. He’d been hoping for some fresh rations, would have taken new weapons, and, instead, it had been clothes. Formal enough that he wouldn’t embarrass the family, not formal enough to match the occasion. 

He misses his armour. Entering the city had gone smoothly enough, an eyebrow raised by one of the guards at the sword strapped to his pack, and his brace of knives sat unevenly against his hips beneath the delicate stitchwork on his tunic. Too short on the torso, a touch too broad in the shoulders, but he was able to keep his mask on. It’s a simple thing, dark fabric drawn up over his nose and encircling his cheeks and neck, but it is heavy with sweat, his breath fogging against his cheeks with every exhalation. Above him, ahead of him, the castle sits; a towering construction with towers and battlements protruding from it. Couple of weak spots that Simon can immediately spot, more likely lingering just beyond his scope of vision. 

There’s a man on one of the battlements, too far away for Simon to pick out anything more than the general shape of him. It’s his hair that catches Simon’s eye, a streak down the centre of his head that catches the faint breeze like a pennant. Simon tips his head back as the procession works its way beneath the open gate, a blessed sliver of shadow blotting out the sun for a moment. Even the air is heavy here, thick against his tongue, and Simon tugs at the base of his mask, drawing it away from the hollow of his throat in search of some relief. He finds none. 

There will be none. 

Behind them, the last of the procession steps into the castle and the towering doors in front creak open, heavy chains rattling with the effort. 

Three more weak points.

No, four. 

A guard close to Simon drops his spear, both hands clinging to the fragile flag he carries, his eyes wide with panic as he tries to catch it regardless, tearing himself in two directions. Simon moves on instinct, swinging his leg out to catch the blade with his boot before he continues the movement upwards. He catches the spear with one hand and holds it out to the guard, maintaining his grip until it is secure once more. Turning away, Simon surveys the procession, already in motion once more. 

Fuck. 

He’s lost his place. 

Simon moves back into the crowd, setting his shoulders in a rough line as he works his way through it. The movement must be obvious from above, a blade cutting through a field of swaying wheat, and Simon keeps his head lowered, just enough to keep his focus on his target. 

“Name?”

“Riley delegation,” Simon answers the steward, halted at the doorway. His shadow bleeds in front of him, a wash of darkness against cool stone as the sun brushes against the top of the castle walls. He looks monstrous.

He is a monster. Not something he’s likely to forget, formed and forged and ready to kneel in front of the altar he is going to be sacrificed on. This kingdom is prosperous but untrained, untested. Simon and his kingdom will be the threat in the shadows to keep the smaller monsters away, chaining Death itself to ward from household pests. 

The steward nods once, eagerness bright in his eyes. He’s young, his cheeks flushed pink, and he nearly bounces on his heels as he turns to face the main hall. “Riley delegation,” he announces, his voice filling the space. 

Simon keeps his gaze down, watching his shadow blur in front of him. One heartbeat, then two, and he can move once more, making his way down the stairs. This entire event feels wrong, like he’s folding himself into a shape he was never meant to wear, something intended for someone softer, sweeter, suited for good things. He pauses in front of the throne, bowing to the seated pair. He’d heard the gossip about the current king and queen, about their careful and dedicated manipulations for the marriage of their fourth son, the man being offered up to Simon’s kingdom as a living bargaining chip. A snarl tugs at the corner of his mouth, still hidden behind his mask, and he pushes the expression away as he straightens, aiming for a routine compliance. He’d been subjected to drills, same as any other soldier, and this is nothing more than that. Just another drill. Walk there, stand here, do nothing, be nothing. 

King Duncan is a solidly built man, just beginning to go grey at the temples, and he holds himself well, broad shoulders and belly speaking to the prosperity of his kingdom. Next to him sits Queen Marion, slightly shorter than her husband with her hair braided and piled on top of her head. It could be concealment but Simon doubts it. They’re a well-matched pair, their eyes dark and intent as they look down at Simon, drinking him in. The Queen opens her mouth, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners, and Simon flushes in reflexive embarrassment at his ill-fitting clothes, his ill-suited self. 

“So, you’re the ambassador? Emissary for the Riley kingdom?” 

There’s another man, slightly offset to the King and Queen, an oversight Simon would not make again. He’s leaning forward, his stance wide and his weight tipped over one leg. A flash of recognition hits Simon, the same man from the battlements, not just a guard but someone more important. A personal detail, maybe. But, no. 

Simon’s gaze flickers to the circlet around the man’s brow, a beautiful and delicate piece that only heightens the wild ferocity that the shaved hairstyle adds to the man. His eyes are blue, striking enough that Simon doesn’t answer for a long moment. And then, another. 

“John,” Queen Marion says, her tone bright. 

John doesn’t flinch but there’s a lessening of him, a rounding to his shoulders, his weight sliding onto his back leg. He’s no longer a warrior in that instance but a child being scolded by their mother. He catches Simon’s gaze once more, the blue of his eyes a touch darker as his brow furrows before the expression is wiped away. “Apologies, Your Majesty. I spoke out of turn.”

“Ambassador, Your Majesties. No need for apologies, it was my error and mine alone.” Simon is ruined. He’ll build his own funeral pyre later because this man standing before him, the man who is turning to grin at Simon like Simon is the one who wove the stars into the sky and coaxed the sun into rising, is his fiance, his future husband.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Ambassador?” John pauses, tipping his head to one side. 

Simon swallows, keeping his hands flat at his side. His fingers itch to pick up a blade, not for any solid reason but to have, to be able to flick it along the flat of his fingers just to watch John’s gaze follow it. A moment of reprieve from digging his own grave, tossing another shovelful of dirt over his shoulder. “Simon, please, Your Majesty.”

Safe enough of a name to give. If questioned, it wouldn’t be uncommon to share a name with the Prince and, selfishly, Simon wants John to know him by his proper name, instead of his title. 

“Ambassador Simon,” John nods. “I’ll need to catch you later. We’ve got lots to talk about, yeah?”

“John,” Queen Marion sighs. John bounces back on his heels with a small laugh. She continues, addressing Simon. “We thank you for the journey. We understand it is a notable distance from your country and we appreciate yourself and the Prince travelling to us for this engagement. I trust he will be following shortly?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Simon, the second Prince, answers, lying through his teeth and the thin cloth of his mask. “The Prince will be arriving shortly.”

⁂

Simon doesn’t look at Roach. 

The other man had detached from the rest of the delegation several dances ago, choosing to forgo the array of delicacies laid out in front of them — in celebration of the upcoming wedding — to haunt Simon’s shadow. He’s a solid presence behind Simon, his own mask drawn high over his features and his hood pulled low across his brow to obscure the rest, and Simon doesn’t need to look to know the expression on his face. 

One dance flows into another, both unfamiliar to Simon although that was only to be expected. The music he is accustomed to is rough and ready, a handful of notes coaxed out of hand organ that had already been battered by a sword twice, a low whistle from chapped lips and a mouthful of blood. A few of the others slip onto the dancefloor, wraiths in dark leather with their masks pulled high over their faces to match Simon’s own. There’s comfort in that kind of wordless solidarity. Roach’s foot presses over his own and Simon realises he had been moving, tapping the heel of his boot in time to the music. 

He still doesn’t look at the other man. 

He doesn’t need to. Roach’s hand digs into the dip of Simon’s waist, a touch of cruelty in the familiarity of the gesture, and Simon straightens, fighting the urge to cringe away from it. The touch didn’t hurt; it tickled.

“Alright,” Simon murmurs, keeping his voice low. There’s a courtier four steps away who is some sort of spy for the crown, another just across from them who is either a renowned gossip or yet another agent allocated to their group. “I fucked up.”

Roach is his closest friend, hell, his only friend in whatever way the word could be applied to either of them. Two broken pieces somehow coming together to form a disjointed whole.

“Royalty doesn’t fuck up,” Roach whispers, his voice catching on every harsh consonant, dragging its heels over the softer vowels. “It will be explained as caution.” He pauses, swallowing. “And the Prince keeps watching you.”

Oh? 

Simon deliberately hadn’t been watching the high table, tracking the shadows out of the corner of his eye but little else. He’d be called back up soon enough to be shown to a room to prepare for the feast later on that day, and from little he knew of his father’s court, he would have to assume that from the moment he stepped foot inside the castle that he would be watched. Roach is safe enough, along with the other members of his party, but no-one could be trusted until the wedding is completed and Simon can officially call Prince John his husband. His fascination meant nothing until then. 

Roach presses his fingers in further like he is trying to claw open a barely healed wound, fingers curling so there’s the rough edge of nails through the bunched fabric. “Look.”

Objectively, Simon knew John to be a beauty before he had travelled here. There had been a portrait included with the missive pulling Simon from the front line to trek across three countries to arrive here, but it must have been a few years old or painted with little consideration of the man it was meant to show. The man Simon would have expected from that tiny smudged picture is short, near-waifish in stature, with honey blond hair cascading over one shoulder. It had been too small to see much in the way of his features but the only accuracy was the blue of John’s eyes, the solitary mastery on display. Prince John marries the features of his parents well; the broadness of his father and the height of his mother, not as tall as Simon himself but there is some strength to him. He would be a wonder with some more concentrated training.

Simon cuts his thoughts off there, letting them fall bloodless to the ground. This marriage would be nothing more than a partnership that promises to be beneficial to both parties, nothing more. He can’t let himself forget that. 

The Prince’s gaze flickers to Simon before he looks away, his cheeks pink. 

That’s strange. Unexpected. 

Simon is used to people looking away from him. He’s aware of what he looks like, how out of place he is in this ballroom, some hulking behemoth ripped from the battlefield and shoved where he was never meant to exist, but people didn’t normally blush when they averted their eyes from him. 

It’s a good colour on the Prince. Pretty, even. 

The Queen holds her hand and the music falls silent. The pair that had broken away from Simon’s party pause in their twirling, arms wrapped around waist and shoulder, closer than they should be for propriety's sake, but they’re from Simon’s court. Some eccentricities are expected and should be exploited ruthlessly. “Thank you all for joining us for this time leading up to Prince John’s wedding.” She smiles sweetly through the applause that her words bring, a chill prickling over the nape of Simon’s neck. “If the Ambassador from the Riley delegation would please join us for a moment?”

Simon does so, feeling the blade he is forging for himself sing against his neck. He can survive this. He has to. 

⁂

Life in the MacTavish kingdom moves slowly, hours dripping past with the same consistency as honey. It isn’t the same as the uneasy quiet before battle or the achingly long time after that can only be spent nursing new injuries and commiserating over loss; this time feels hopeful, the kingdom mustering under fresh banners of their Prince’s upcoming marriage.

A marriage Simon can only hope he hasn’t tarnished before it has even happened. 

“What would you do—” Simon asks Roach as the other man leans over the small basin in the corner of their room, “—if I threw myself off of the battlements rather than face this party?”

The rasp of a razor is deceptively loud in such a quiet space. Simon watches Roach work, the deliberate stretch of the skin around the jumble of scar tissue on his cheek so he can navigate the blade over the sparse hair growth there, steam fogging up the polished mirror resting in the alcove. In the other man’s hazy reflection, a smudge of the mirror wiped clear before it begins to cloud once again, Simon catches Roach’s gaze, dark against dark, and shrugs. 

Roach grins, uneven, lopsided, a shattered mirror to Simon’s own. “Take you either way. Pretty up your corpse and stand you against a pillar.”

Simon laughs. He can’t help it. The sound struggles out of him, quiet at first then louder. Roach braces himself against the side of the basin as his shoulders tremble, every breath catching at the apex with an aching hitch. In another life, this would be all Simon would have to concern himself with, battles and the spaces between, going where he is ordered and killing whoever he is aimed towards. The door on the far wall had been opened once into the adjourning room on that first night, the ostentatious set-up intended for Prince Riley had been meticulous from the firewood stacked in perfect rows in the grate to the heavy embroidered comforter drawn over the lower half of the bed. Simon hadn’t dared to touch it.

Roach wipes the remnants of the soap from his face before he draws his mask back up over his nose. He crosses the room in a few steps, tipping himself backwards onto the bed in the same manner Simon had moments prior, his head near Simon’s hips, his hips near Simon’s head. They’re the same like this, warriors with soft sheets against the layered scars on their backs, both out of place and clinging to stability. Simon just might be able to find that here. 

“Tell me truthfully, Simon.” Roach raises his head, the motion a whisper against Simon’s fingers and Simon does the same. His voice is hushed, intended for Simon’s ears alone, and a prickle of unease courses down Simon’s spine. “What do you think of the Prince?”

Simon bites the tip of his tongue, grinds the blunt edge of his teeth until it aches. It’s Roach asking, his only friend, his shadow, the one person he could count on in the entire decaying world. “I could grow to care for him.”

“Could?” Roach tangles their fingers together, squeezing until bone creaks beneath the pressure. “Have, Si.”

There’s no time to consider the weight of his words, a deep toll echoing through the castle to summon the guests to the ball. Simon stands on legs that don’t seem to be able to bear his weight and doesn’t look at Roach at his side, always by his side. 

Prince John isn’t what Simon had expected. He’s only had a few occasions to interact with the other man since their first fateful introduction, but the man has dominated Simon’s thoughts. It had been a small moment, Prince John half-turning his face towards Simon while caught in a conversation with another. His mouth had initially been pressed tight together, a thin line of pressure making the fullness of his lower lip more apparent, but he had discarded that stress in an instant as he had smiled over at Simon, one brow arched in a silent question. Simon is nothing to this man, a delegate from a kingdom as mired in darkness as John’s own is awash with light, a false Ambassador denying himself for no other reason than reflex. 

(He knows why.)

John would have come to Simon’s side if he had gestured for him to do so, because he is a kind man, a good man. There is an intent focus about him that would feel clinical if John had been anyone else, a glint of wonder in brilliant blue eyes that hadn’t yet given fruit or been torn up for the harvest, and Simon would let himself be known down to the marrow if John asks him to. 

(He is afraid.)

Simon’s kingdom is reclusive, exporting warriors and a handful of trade goods. Their wealth is in blood and bone instead of something that lasts, affection never factors into a decision. This marriage is no different to any other order Simon has been given, his role carved so deeply into his flesh that it hasn’t scarred. It simply is, he simply is. He can’t love John, he wouldn’t survive the loss of it.

There’s still battlefield mud on Simon’s boots as they sweep into the Royal Hall, Roach half a step behind and bristling with the weapons Simon had been unable to keep on his person. He feels the absence of his sword like a wound through his spine, a hollowing at the core of his person. He couldn’t understand how people could live like this, exposed, vulnerable. Prince John doesn’t strike him as a man who would willingly roll over and let scavengers pick at his ribcage; instead, he’d be a symbol of righteous fury, teeth bared and bloody. 

At the high table, the royal family sits, gold shining at their brows and place settings. It’s a striking image, King Duncan resplendent in finery and flanked by his wife and son. Three openings to cut his throat, four if Simon can break one of the goblets into something more substantial. He doesn’t look directly at Prince John, trying to devour his fill in scant movements tracked out of the corner of his eye, and it still burns like he’s staring into the sun. Simon blinks and the afterimage stays with him, haunting him. 

There are roots growing in his lungs, thorns pricking his veins from the inside-out, and Simon doesn’t know what will bloom if he lets it. 

Queen Marion is a softer figure than her husband and son, silk where they are gold-leaf steel. Her hair is carefully coiled on top of her head and Simon’s gaze flickers over it, tracking the shift of one of the ornaments as she stands, drawing every wandering eye to her. It’s an impressive skill, one that would make her a formidable opponent on a battlefield Simon is entirely unaccustomed to. He could learn to be, would learn to be if the Prince needed it of him.

As Simon makes his way to her, commanded by little else than a raised goblet and an inclined head, he hears the wildfires of gossip burst around him, a deliberate dissection of his entire being from the stitching on his doublet to the mask he wears. It’s different to the version he wears on the battlefield, thinner in some attempt at civility but the fabric is still dark, the stitching heavy and deliberate to partially obscure the features beneath. He knows a handful of the rumours that circulate about his kingdom — difficult not to with some of the concerned clucking that follows himself and his companions down every hallway, ladies clustering behind their fans as if they are solid stone, servants unaware of how much their voices echo — but the whisper circle around their masks more than anything else. 

His favourite is the most fantastical, a children’s bedtime story given just enough substance to stagger. A handful whisper that the Royal family of Simon’s kingdom are cursed to never die but are not spared from decay so beneath the masks they wear, their faces are nothing but gleaming bones, their skin stolen from corpses.

In truth, soldiers wear the masks and the nobles follow suit to try and steal what little favour they could from wells long since run dry. Simon’s scars are not the most extensive in the army, the sharp lines on either side of his mouth fading to a silver sheen over time, running darker in the chill, but he still feels the blade that made them every morning when he first wakes, a dull ache where he can no longer feel any sensation, a tugging against unforgiving healing when he goes to speak. 

He will need to lower his mask to drink, to eat. 

Everyone will see.

John will see.

“A drink, Ambassador?” Queen Marion asks as he draws closer, gesturing to the place left empty next to her. It’s a high honour, one that even Simon is aware of, and he accepts with a short bow, sitting down carefully next to her. Too many lines of sight for him to keep track of so he settles for monitoring the obvious, the balcony above, the pillar next to the interior door, steeling himself for agony. He lowers his gaze to the goblet, far too fine for the likes of him, the wine inside rich and dark. It could be poisoned. Simon studies her for a moment, the fall of her dress at her wrists and the jewellery clustering her neck, her hands. Her wedding ring is relatively simple, a single outlier amongst courtly trappings, and she turns to him with a smile that he cannot understand but trusts all the same.

Queen Marion speaks clearly as she turns away from him, her voice cutting over the rolling field of whispers like a scythe through wheat although Simon can’t make out her words over the rush of blood in his ears, a wardrum of his own construction. Eyes turn to her, Simon sheltered for an instant by her actions, merely a shadow at her side, concealed by her radiance. He reaches for the goblet, covering the span of his face with his other hand as he hooks his thumb into the fabric of his mask, drawing it down as he drinks deeply. 

“Changing your hairstyle this close to a wedding is certainly a bold choice to make, my son,” Queen Marion continues. Her smile is fond, powder cracking slightly over the lines in the corners of her eyes, and she reaches one hand out to Prince John who leans forward accommodatingly. “However, your circlet. A fine piece of our history, if I do say so myself. If I am remembering correctly, it once belonged to my grandfather, King Ivar of the former Upland territory. He was a fine warrior, skilled in several forms of combat and the piece was a gift from his paramor, Jarl Geirr of the Medipad. Geirr’s artisans were talented craftsmen, renowned for their work. I believe one repeat customer was an Empress from across the ocean and she made the journey personally to secure their wares. We have a rich history in our veins, one that is important to respect and honour.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” John murmurs, ducking his head. 

He cuts a fine figure in a dark grey coat, embroidery picked out at the cuffs and collar in what Simon would lay money on being pure silver thread. It isn’t a colour Simon would have associated with the Prince; the other man reminds him more of sunlight filtering through stained glass, a ruin transforming into something beautiful by his mere presence. Simon glances back to the goblet, prodding his lower lip with his tongue as he thinks. The taste of the wine lingers, memories of plucking berries from roadside bushes and devouring them in handfuls as he marches crowding to the forefront of his mind, the remembered snap of banners unfurling nearly startling him from his seat. He knows that dark shade. 

His colours.

There’s an uneven weight sitting low in his belly, a bonfire accompaniment to the heat rushing through his chest. He isn’t a man prone to blushing, a boon given his pale colouring that would ignite in an instant, but he can taste flames in the back of his throat, overpowering the remnants of the wine. If he can salvage the marriage once his deception is revealed, John will be his husband. He will wear Simon’s colours. 

Simon isn’t going to survive this unscathed, unchanged. 

The meal passes slowly. Beneath him, the court fades into nothing more than a shifting sea of colours. The majority wear blue and green, a few with red, however, the men wear a patterning on their clothing, a repeated hatchwork of different colours and lines. It’s something new for Simon to sink his teeth into, desperate for a moment’s reprieve from the inevitable wildfire in his mind. The Queen speaks to him throughout the meal, soft comments that he can nod and shake his head in response to, her smile never wavering from something soft and… and… 

When the plates are cleared, Simon rises when asked to, the Queen’s hand resting on the crook of his elbow. Through the layers of fabric, he can feel the strength in her grip, the slight indentations of calluses on her thumb and forefinger. She is head and shoulders shorter than him and he’s careful to adjust his stride to hers as they make their way to the dance floor. The panic in Simon’s veins feels solid, a beartrap convalescing around his heart and restricting his breath. So many eyes are watching him, burning into the slope of his shoulders, the thin line of skin visible at the nape of his neck and the beginning of the scar that is exposed there. It’s darker than most of his others, healing raised and jagged. Noticeable. 

“Music,” Queen Marion commands. She’s facing Simon, her face momentarily hidden from the rest of the court, and her expression is fragile, teetering on the edge of something. It doesn’t last long enough for Simon to categorise it, gone nearly before he can notice it amongst the swelling of strings as the first dance begins. 

Simon holds her hand carefully, the thick leather of his gloves blunting the sensation of her skin against his own. He presses the back of his hand to the small of her back as they step together, a simple dance and one that Simon is familiar with. 

“You must forgive my son,” Marion utters to him. Her mouth barely moves as she continues, her voice pitched for his ears alone. “He is a good boy, a brave young man, but courtly pursuits bore him. He will cultivate a court befitting his husband, however. Rest assured, he will serve Prince Simon well.”

Simon catches himself with a reassurance on his tongue, a single brief statement that would tear away any chance at subterfuge he has left, because how could John be anything other than perfect? He swallows it back, expecting the taste to be rotten like everything else in his life, and it’s sweet instead. He tries to speak as softly as the Queen when he answers but it feels like a pale imitation. “Thank you for your insight, Your Majesty. I have faith the Prince will succeed in whatever role he takes.”

Queen Marion inclines her head as the song draws to a thunderous close. “A moment, Ambassador. I find myself needing to attend to the other guests, however—” She doesn’t pull away from him as she turns, scanning the ballroom with a practised eye. 

A moment of respite and Simon takes it gladly, scanning the ballroom over the heads of the assembled figures. He catches sight of Roach in an instant, the man dressed in the same dark clothing as the rest of his delegation and marking a careful patrol route through the gossiping crowd. Ahead of him, enough distance to not draw attention, the King moves, pausing to speak with a member of his court between every few steps. The Chamberlain at his side is the same that first escorted them to their chambers all that time ago. His name escapes Simon for a moment, lost in the mire of everything else he needs to remember before it rises to the surface: John Price. A knight if he’s correct. 

Simon lets himself grin, relaxing in fractions, a slight loosening in his shoulders, his fingers curling more securely against the Queen’s still held carefully in his. At least Roach is enjoying himself. 

Another figure approaches and Simon tenses once more. Queen Marion’s gaze snaps to him for a moment, assessing him like a combatant at first before it changes to something else, maintaining the softness as she looks back to Prince John. “If you would take care of the ambassador?” she asks, gesturing for John to take her place as she steps away. 

Prince John nods once, his gaze following his mother for a few delicate steps before the crowd swallows her up and they are alone in the centre of it all once more. There’s a persistent flush high on the Prince’s cheeks that only darkens as his eyes flicker to Simon’s, sticking for a moment before his gaze lowers, cataloguing the lines of his throat, the slope of his shoulders, halting at his chest before climbing once more. There’s a fervent hunger to the other man, wondering the shade of Simon’s blood and how best to tear his throat out. An artist’s focus, Simon realises, heat slung low in his belly at the thought of being known like that.

It’s the work of a moment to pull his gloves off and tuck them into his belt. 

“Do yeh have a preference for leading, Ambassador?” Prince John asks. Any disappointment he may feel at Simon’s continued presence instead of his true fiancé is well-hidden, his features marble-cast in a joy Simon can delude himself into thinking is real.

Prince John isn’t his betrothed and yet, he is. The man Simon is standing here is more himself than he’s been in years.

“If you’d allow me the honour?” Simon answers. He can feel every rough note in his voice catch in his chest, clumsily hewn next to the sculpture of the other man, fragile enough to shatter with a gentle word.

John’s hand is warm against his own, the tips of his fingers skimming carefully over the harsh texture of Simon’s scars before he settles, solid and sure. “Honour’s all mine.”

It doesn’t feel real. Simon moves through steps he half-remembers, reaching for solidity in a dream and coming away wanting, but everything pales to the warmth of John in his arms. His hands are his first focus, John’s are slightly broader, a cluster of the same calluses that line Simon’s palms scattered there. They fit together perfectly as the music swells, a wavering string calling out in exhalation. There’s the scent of woodsmoke, fusing with the lingering rich aroma of the wine, and a fragment in the back of Simon’s mind slips free. He hasn’t imbibed enough to let the tight control of himself slip, but with John so close, he could imagine that this is what it feels like. It’s the potential that sets his mind spinning, a lapse of concentration for an instant as Simon lets himself enjoy the dance.

The moment doesn’t last.

Simon’s foot catches against John’s, stepping where he shouldn’t be. His reaction is instantaneous, pulling back the first moment he feels the contact but it isn’t enough. They stumble, nearly colliding with another pair with all the grace of a drunken bull. Simon’s cheeks burn, his throat closing like he’s preparing to dive from a cliff. Nothing beneath him, no saviour except, this time, there is.

Prince John chuckles, his mouth twisting into a wry grin. It’s a new expression for Simon to study, drinking it down now that he’s close enough to see the exact way John tips his head to one side like a conspirator with a secret. “Suppose I should stop tryin’ to steal the lead, then.”

Deliberately loud. Targeted to draw eyes away from Simon once more. John’s shoulders are broad enough to hold the blame he’s carrying and Simon’s treacherous heart skips a beat, his vision gradually expanding with a dull haze at the edges. He breathes out carefully, rolling his shoulders to release the knot of tension between them. It’s the same instinct that leads him the battle, the cause of several of the scars that decorate his skin, the urge to fling himself forward and take the blows himself. Strange to be on the other side of it. 

Prince John leans closer, squeezing Simon’s hand once as they adjust their stance, still close enough for Simon to count the individual sweep of his dark lashes. “Don’t mind the gawking hens, my lord.” They sweep past one such couple, their gazes clinging to John, burrs on his clothing, and Simon’s grip tightens, a low unease prickling in his chest. John continues, “My father’s courtiers are good people but prone to excessive nosiness.”

Simon huffs out a quiet laugh and is rewarded by John’s grin widening, beatific and glorious. The Prince surges forward, his words coming quickly now that he’s found his footing, working beneath the chunks in Simon’s armour so sweetly he can barely mind it. “Was the food to yer liking? I’ve been told Prince Simon campaigns often. Do ye accompany him in the field? If anything is too much, I’ll personally have a word with the kitchens.”

He knows Simon only as the Ambassador, not a Prince, not his fiancé. The deception has given Simon a gift, a glimpse into the man who would be his husband instead of the concerned fabrication he had thought he would meet. Simon smiles, the action unfamiliar but easy enough to slip into, wide enough he can feel his mask shift with the expression.

 “It’s far better than I’m accustomed to and your kingdom’s hospitality is greatly appreciated,” Simon says, skirting the edges of the truth. If this was a fight it would be easier, each move strung onto a wire pulled taut against Simon’s hold, but the dance doesn’t feel as treacherous with John in his arms, the lingering burn of his hands held in his. “I’ve spent time on the field with the Prince recently so have had nothing but rations until my time here.”

Nothing but rations for months. What had truly been the defining test of Simon’s subterfuge hadn’t been meeting the Royal family, it had been breakfast the day that followed. 

“It has been better than I could have hoped,” Simon murmurs, his words hopefully lost beneath the swell of strings as the dance concludes. 

He bows his head to the Prince, knowing there would be others swarming to tear free a piece of the other man for themselves. He’ll treasure the glimpse he has been given, keep it close and safe. The Prince’s hand lingers in his, the other man’s hold on his shoulder keeping him grounded for a moment. When John’s gaze meets his, there’s steel in his eyes, a nerve gathered and held tight before it can desert once more.

“If it doesn’t sound too forward, I’d like to meet with you on the morrow, perhaps after our midday meal? I must admit, shameful as it is, but I know little about my future husband’s kingdom. Hoping your insight would at least prevent me from making a right arse of myself and embarrassing him in front of his court, aye?”      

“Of course, Your Highness. I will endeavour to answer your questions to the best of my ability.” Simon draws his hands free and tugs his gloves back on. He can still feel the imprint of the Prince’s touch on him, a heady flush that had little to do with the wine blooming in his chest. He steps away and someone else steps forward to fill his space. Simon turns away, turns to Roach at his side, his shadow again, something jagged tearing at his heart as John slips into another’s arms and the dance begins once more. 

⁂

“Find me something?” Simon whispers to Roach as the pair step outside onto a small enclosed balcony. Plants wreath the ornately carved columns of the railing, a few artfully spilling onto the railing and Roach plucks a leaf as they pass, digging the jagged edge of his nail into the furrow. The scent is immediate, near-medicinal in the harshness, and Simon breathes in deeply, trying to calm the frantic whirl of his thoughts.

He isn’t meant to be in love with his fiancé. 

Fuck. Fuck.

This changes everything. (It changes nothing.)

Roach pauses next to him, turning to study Simon, the movement barely visible out of the corner of his eye. Simon braces himself against the stonework, digging his fingers into the surface. Grit scratches beneath his gloves, the sensation not enough to dull the memory of John’s hands in his. He doesn’t know what he looks like but he feels untethered, free of a leash he couldn’t remember locking around his neck. 

Boots silent against the stone, his hand steady where it wraps around Simon’s wrist, nudging aside the leather until fingertips brush skin, Roach leans in closer. “What do you wish, sir?”

It’s an escape. If Simon asks him to, they will leave, marriage and Princes be damned. But… he doesn’t want to run. He wants to see this to the end. He owes John that much of his tattered heart at least.

“Gossip. Something fun.” If these are to be his people as well, if he is to care for them like John does, Simon will do everything he can to make this work. This may all be for naught but he wishes to try, to try and be a shade of the better man that John deserves. 

Roach nods once and vanishes back into the ballroom on silent feet. Simon leans forward on the bannister, hissing a slow breath out through his teeth. Behind him, music spills out as another dance begins, a wash of golden light cascading to fall at Simon’s heels. There’s a chill in the air, the season beginning to grow cooler with the lengthening nights and shorter days heralding the upcoming wedding ceremony when the balance was starkest. Simon tips his head back, worrying at a loose seam on the edge of his gloves as he watches the stars gleam overhead, uncaring and hungry all the same. 

Footsteps. 

Familiar footsteps.

“Your Highness,” Simon rumbles as Prince John slumps against the stone beside him, closer than he had been previously and yet achingly far from when they had danced together. 

The other man grins up at him, loose-limbed and rumpled, unselfconscious of just how beautiful he is. There’s a heady flush to his cheeks, sweat beading on his brow, and he breathes deeply before he speaks, picking up their previous conversation as if they had never been parted. “So… if ye don’t mind my asking, where does the prince intend for us to live? I’m eager to travel with him, if that’s his mind. I just…”

Simon remains quiet, watching John carefully. There’s a tense strain to his bearing, his smile sharp as he speaks, and something seems to uncoil in his chest as he looks over to Simon in fragments, a gradual loosening. It’s dangerous territory for Simon to be walking in; this kingdom knows him only as the Ambassador he claims to be and their fury at the revelation could be unmatched, but Simon has been in danger every day of his life. He isn’t the heir, only a legitimate spare sent to the battlefield even before he was strong enough to hold a sword.

He’d take whatever punishment was necessary for his transgressions. It would only be fair.

“I’d like him to be happy,” John continues. “Even if we’re ill-suited, I cannae blame him for any of this.”

John has no concept for the blade that he has just neatly slid between Simon’s ribs. Happiness is something made for other people, not something that Simon has been able to crave for himself. Weapons couldn’t be happy, corpses couldn’t feel joy. 

And what is Simon if he’s not either of those things?

Prince John laughs, shaking his head. “Tha’ came out wrong. What I meant is that I’m pleased with this union and hope I can assist in my husband’s future rule in any way.”

A muscle in Prince John’s jaw tightens, the lines of his throat drawn harsh as the shadows pool around them both. Simon aches to reach out to him, to feel the warmth of his touch against bare skin once more, but he doesn’t. He can’t. 

He’d only been a child when his older brother had married, his hands long since bloodied and the wedding had been several weeks past by the time the missive had reached him on the battlefield. Barely two sentences long and ranked beneath his next set of orders, a simple statement about the successful union that didn’t cut as deep as intended. Marriage is a contract, nothing more, nothing less. Simon isn’t so much a fool to think his own would be any different, regardless of his feelings. Even so…

“The Prince wishes the union will be successful for you both. If travel is your wish, I doubt it would be denied to you.”

Simon will make sure of it. 

⁂

“Do you wish you could fight in the tournament?” Roach tugs the needle through the loose seam in Simon’s glove before tying a knot and snapping the thread. They are both pooled across Simon’s bed, the sheets tucked taut beneath them, and the door to what would have been the Prince’s bedroom thrown wide. The day had dawned bright and warm, sweat already beginning to slick down their spines beneath their dark clothes.

“No. It would be strange to fight somewhere when people aren’t actually trying to kill me.” 

Simon flexes his fingers, tugging on the fresh seam. It’s neat work, the stitches small and uniform in the leather like they would be in flesh. Too many of his injuries to count had benefited from Roach’s stitching. “Better that I don’t. Can’t hide the way I fight from anyone who might know.”

Someone’s coming down the corridor. Their heads snap to the sound like the well-trained dogs they are. There’s already a blade in Simon’s hand; he doesn’t remember reaching for it. 

“The Chamberlain,” Simon murmurs, letting his eyes drift half-closed as he concentrates. 

The knock on the door echoes a moment later, brisk with a power behind it. Through his fluttering lashes, he can see Roach stand and make his way to the door. Simon moves as well, placing himself in the crevasse when the door would open. Positioned like this, he wouldn’t be able see the Chamberlain, Price, or the hallway beyond, only Roach’s profile, his mask drawn high over his features, his dark eyes the sole focal point.  The door opens soundlessly and Roach stands, shoulders square, against this new opponent.

“Honoured guests,” Price says. “The Royal Family extends the invitation for you both to join them in the Royal Booth.”

Roach looks the man over once more, his face carefully blank to the outside observer. The hand closest to Simon twitches on the back of the door, once, twice, a cat flicking its tail in unabridged delight. “We will be a moment, sir,” Roach rasps before he steps back, nudging the door ajar.

Simon leans close to his ear, keeping his voice low as he resheates the small blade into the concealed holster at his thigh. “You’re having fun, aren’t you?”

Roach blinks up at him, the very picture of innocence. “Only following orders, sir.”

⁂

Metal rings against metal as Simon makes his way to the Royal booth, Roach walking in his shadow. It’s a familiar sound, the air already sticky with sweat and a sour tang on the breeze that the fragrant smells of roasting meat and sweet honey couldn’t fully mask. A row of tents ring one edge of the wooden fence that encloses the arena and people scurry between them, laden with pieces of armour or weapons. As Simon watches, a knight he recognises as being close to the Prince strides across one of the makeshift alleyways, muddy handprints on his chest and a sword balanced across his shoulders. He ducks under one of the tent partitions and disappears from sight. 

“Good-sized crowd,” Simon says. Too many unknowns, he means, too many targets.

He doesn’t need to be looking at Roach to see the tightness in his jaw, the way his gaze roams over the crowd who never move in closer as they pass through. “It’ll be an experience to watch from the Royal booth,” Roach says. I’ll watch over them too, he means, and Simon ducks his head in acknowledgment. 

Roach vanishes into his seat first, a lower row off to the side with a scattering of other favoured guests. He’s an ink blot amongst their finery and they lean away from him, hiding their whispers behind delicate fans, the back of a gloved hand. Simon’s jaw clenches, something old and bitter condensing at the back of his throat.

He isn’t unfamiliar with the dismissal Roach faces; a lowborn child thrown into the army with no name and no family ties. It had only been chance that they had collided, Roach throwing himself into Simon’s back to knock him to the ground during an enemy barrage. He’d received a wound to his flank for his trouble and Simon’s companionship. They’re an unlikely pair, but they are well-suited all the same, the Ghost and his shadow. 

There are two empty chairs amongst the Royal family; one next to the King and the other next to the Queen. Simon’s steps slow as he draws nearer, sketching an uneasy bow as his mind races. Prince John isn’t here. 

The Queen brightens as his approach but there’s a furrow worn into her brow, her mouth drawn tight against her smile. “Apologies, my dearest friend. My son excites himself into a fit when there’s a tourney.” It’s a sight Simon craves like air now that he’s aware of its existence. “He’ll be joining us shortly, I’m sure. But, please, rest assured he’ll be with us soon.”

Ghost takes the seat next to her. It’s a plush affair, set slightly lower than her own but he still towers over her frame. He rounds his shoulders carefully, intent on letting any curious glances wash over him. His skin crawls with them; it seems that every second person in the crowd is staring into the Royal box, their faces blank and meaningless to him in their slack excitement. He thinks of John and the band in his chest slackens slightly. It doesn’t seem to fit what Simon knows of the man to picture him at the sidelines, he would spend time there surely, basking in the delight of his people, his skin sticky with their lingering touches, but that wouldn’t be the entirety of his experience. 

The sand of the arena is smooth, pale in colour, unmarred by the blood that would soon crest across its surface. Simon has fought on every terrain he can imagine and several others he hadn’t thought possible until he was up to his waist in stinking stagnant water, but sand is unpleasant to get out of armour. Already, he can feel some of the telltale grit between his back teeth, the distant taste of salt. 

Trumpets blare, drawing Simon from his thoughts. 

There. At the mouth of the arena, Prince John strides forward to rapturous applause. He had been made for this, moulded and shaped to be loved and adored. He wears armour on his torso, steel moulded to the width of him and polished to a bright sheen that catches the sunlight on every rivet, but his legs are mostly bare, the only protection a kilt patterned in demanding shades of red and blue. Prince John turns to the crowd first, walking backwards as he holds his arms aloft, his kilt riding up an inch or two to expose the thick bands around his thighs. Broad thighs.

Others file in after Prince John but they’re unimportant. Inconsequential. Simon could not look away from the Prince even if it meant his death, and it would be a glorious sight to die to, one that should be immortalised but would only exist in the fragile confines of Simon’s memory. 

Prince John circles the arena, his grin only growing broader as he reaches the space in front of the Royal booth. Next to him, Simon hears the Queen sigh, the sound catching on her throat until it’s exasperated but fond. “What are you doing, John?” She murmurs, barely audible above the screams of the crowd. They have ceased to be recognisable, a dull heat haze, a halo around the Prince as he reaches into the folds of kilt and pulls free a small ring of flowers. 

They’re the same shade of blue as his eyes.

Prince John bows once, his hair held in a loose tie falling forward across his features, and he steps forwards, rising onto the balls of his feet to hold the flowers out to Simon. “As you know, ma favours belong t’ma betrothed.”

Oh, fuck.

He knows.

The King laughs, the thud of his crown knocking against the back of his throne echoing through the hollows in Simon’s chest. “Or in this case, his representative. Give them a sound thrashing my boy! Show House Riley what they are lucky to recieve!”

Simon stands, leaning forwards against the railing at the front of the booth. It would be too obvious to remove his glove to accept the favour and there is acid in the base of his tongue at so many people seeing the jagged skin of his hands, so he settles for remembering as he holds out a hand, cupped palm like he’s asking for benediction. Prince John’s eyes crinkle at the corner when he smiles, his fingers lingering over the worn seams of Simon’s gloves as he presses the flowers into his palm. 

“Keep it safe for me, yeah?”

Simon nods once before he settles back into his seat. It doesn’t feel real, like he’s caught in an instant between dreaming and waking. His hand rests in his lap, the other tucked beneath it, and the petals rustle with every inadvertent twitch of his fingers. It’s nice. Sweet even.

The flush on his cheeks isn’t visible beneath his mask but Simon burns all the same. John’s a good man. 

He can’t remember much of the tourney when it concludes, the roar of the crowd indistinguishable from the frantic echoing of his heart in his head. He keeps the flower close, fingers brushing the delicate petals like a prayer.

⁂

“Si— Ambassador. Walk with me?” 

Simon doesn’t twitch at John’s sudden appearance at his side having heard the man’s footsteps speed up when Simon came into view, the rustle of abandoned paperwork dropped into a nearby alcove to do so. It’s strange to see John so unaccompanied, stranger still for Simon to be. The Prince’s momentary slip hasn’t gone unnoticed and Simon worries at it like a kernel caught between his teeth as he walks with the other man. Ever since the tourney, the ball prior, the very air between them feels different, charged in heraldry of a storm, and Simon isn’t a betting man; he wouldn’t presume to guess John’s thoughts but he can hope all the same. 

Simon wears a false face. Would John still enjoy the company of the man beneath? 

The ruse had progressed for far longer than he intended from a momentary slip of the tongue to a lie honed to a keen edge. It would be easier to flee than fall upon it when he’s discovered but still he lingers, a man half-starved and suddenly allowed to feast. He stays for John.

“Have ye been t’the gardens? Meant to be one of our treasures.” 

Simon shakes his head and John brightens, scraping his fingers over the new growth on his scalp. He’s wearing the same circlet as he was at the ball, the gold flush against his skin. It moves slightly with the shift of his fingers, a darker imprint beneath it. 

“Jus’ this way.”

The gardens are enclosed, an outcropping within the thicker walls that circle the main keep. The heady scent of roses floods the air as John opens the door with some effort as the lock sticks before he inclines his head and gestures for Simon to go first. Pink, red, white, a few scatters of orange and yellow, it seems that the entire sky is choking beneath the weight of the roses wreathing the door, the walls, any structure left unattended along the walkway that meanders out and back again.

John moves onto the path and Simon follows him, intent on the man by his side. There’s something different about him, an uncertainty that hadn’t been present before the tourney, and Simon can’t find the words to pry closer. His tongue feels like lead in his mouth, just as liable to poison him as it is the Prince. He wants to be able to help, to soothe, but it would be better suited to ask a battleaxe to till a field. A better man than Simon would know what to say, to ask. 

He loves John, he wishes to be able to do this small comfort for him.

John reaches out to one of the low-hanging flowers, bruising a petal between his fingers before he releases it, the bough leaping back into place.“Honourable, to fight for your lands, to fight with your people beside you.” He sighs, tipping his face back to the wash of sunlight. “Even a spare like myself wasn’t given much time on the field. My first was just after my seventeenth birthday. Raiders along the coast. Feathered a few but I was forbidden from engaging in the van. And then there was…”

It is a wonder to just watch John speak. He is already animated, sheer joy spilling from him like his own personal sun burning in his chest, fuelling him to greater heights, but when he speaks, it is like poetry. War breeds good poets to spill mournful dirges and furious rebuttals alike and he has more than enough occasion to listen around sputtering campfires, but he could sit by John’s side and listen to him speak until all of the stars fell out of the sky. John glances up at him, searching for something in Simon’s face and he must find whatever it is as he breaks into a laugh, swaying slightly as he walks. “Last summer I accompanied some of our men to the south. Some of that bad business between Oswye and Craustan ended up in our pastures. Finally met steel with steel and drove the bastards out of our borders. Father and Mother were not pleased. Ye see,” John leans closer, nearly as close as he had been when they had danced. “I wasn’t to be involved in the fray. But the lower houses needed to know that my father wasn’t neglecting them and I couldn’t permit other kingdoms to bleed my people. Negotiations failed and I showed’em how the MacTavish clan deals with problems. Mediated two armies into licking their wounds. Both sides agreed to peace after that.” 

The pride John wears is well-earned, burnished to a near shine and tacked to the swell of his chest. Simon remembers both Oswye and Craustan, some low-lying kingdoms that hungered for more resources, more land, more gold to the detriment of everything else. The royals didn’t care about the state of their armies, their people, only that their coffers were full and their tables alone were plentiful. It had rankled Simon on his passages along their borders while he had been scouting, the few citizens that staggered out of the forests terrified and delirious from hunger and sickness, but then they had turned their gazes towards Simon’s kingdom and he had been unleashed upon them. His leash had drawn tight before they could be wiped from the map; his father preferred to leave them cowed and terrified of his shadow in whatever form it takes. 

It didn’t surprise him that they turned to John’s kingdom next. 

John’s shoulder knocks against his as they walk, companionable in a way that makes Simon want to excavate his chest for the sake of respite. “Tell me some of Simon’s feats? Or maybe just one of your yers? I’m sure you’ve got a few stories to tell. And please… no formalities. Not with me… not when we don’t have the nattering hens clucking around to remind us all of our places.”

Simon laughs then. Couldn’t stop himself even if he wanted to, pressing his hand to his mouth to try and muffle the raspy sound. It pulls his mask flush against his skin, drawing one edge down where his fingers press into his cheek. He pulls the fabric back into place as he straightens, turning his gaze back to John. “If that’s what you wish, John.”

“Johnny.” John leans into his hip, his entire frame curving towards Simon. There’s a sharp glint in his eyes, a hound given a target to chase down and worry into submission. Simon can’t help but wonder what those teeth would feel like pressed against his throat. 

“Johnny.” Simon lingers over the taste of it, sweet like honey, like a golden afternoon. “A few campaigns ago, we were mostly at a standstill outside of the city. Most of any war is sitting around waiting so it was something we were used to.” The only brightside had been that it had been clear and warm. “#One of the battalion commanders had the little bit power go to his head, so he wanted to be kept updated on every arrow that hit the ground overnight to the point where he’d go survey the campsite himself. So, I made sure I picked up some of the enemy's arrows after the battle and spent my night shooting them into the air so they’d land at the camp’s border. He went scurrying after them every time.” Simon shrugs, rolling his shoulders. One of his joints sticks, releasing with a crack and Simon sighs. He misses his sword, the weight of it to keep him grounded whenever his thoughts float whenever Johnny is nearby. “Not quite as glorious as your exploits, I’m sure.”

Johnny’s teeth indent his lower lip, his breathing shallow as he struggles through his laughter. “About the same level, I’d say. Any more?”

Simon grins. He wants Johnny to know him like he wants to know the other man. He isn’t proud of most of what he has done on the battlefield, it had been necessary but that had been all. His hands are caked with blood from the things he had done and he wants Johnny to know the man he is despite that. 

“If you insist,” he murmurs, inclining his head towards Johnny.

⁂

Simon never expected things to turn out like this. When he had pictured his future as a younger man, bleeding on a cot in the corner of a medical tent and not knowing if he’d even have a face when they were through with him, he’d thought of a blade through his belly, a knife at his throat, some inglorious demise in the soaking sodden mud. 

A fiance had never crossed his mind, let alone a fiance that he loved. 

The enclosed garden is as good a place as any to twist his thoughts around his fingers and try and braid the fraying ends into something that made sense. Roach had stepped away, the sharp imprint of his fingers still a bruise against Simon’s ribs, a welcome hurt to focus on given that he had been unable to train since he first set foot in this kingdom. His racing mind is a poor substitute for being able to run. 

Days crept by and his wedding draws closer and closer with no sign of the errant Prince Simon. The whispers are not quiet anymore, the rasp of a powder keg filling to the top and near-enough ready to burst. He would laugh at the rumours if they weren’t so insulting; not taking offence for himself or the empty plinth of Prince Simon, but on Johnny’s behalf. He hadn’t walked to the garden under his own power, steered by a man half his height when Simon had been overtaken by a rage intended for the battlefield, the compulsion to remove his mask so he could better tear out perfumed throats with his teeth. 

His absence is a slight on Johnny, an insult to the man he loves, and it is Simon’s fault. 

He would cut his throat himself if he thought it would help but there’s no sacrifice Simon can make to pull back the seconds that had slipped by, to alter every choice he had made except one. He wouldn’t change falling in love with Johnny for anything. 

Behind him, the door to the garden creaks open, the hinges moving a little easier after fresh prolonged use, and Johnny’s boots scuff against the gravel. Simon senses the moment Johnny sees him half-sprawled out in a patch of grass, his face tipped back to the weak sunlight filtering through the clouds. There’s an immediate electricity in the air, the focus of a half-starved wolf stumbling across a stag in the forest and ignoring the sharp jut of its antlers. 

“Simon.” The word isn’t an exhalation or a sob, not a shriek or a roar, simply his name and that is all it should be. Johnny tips himself onto the grass next to Simon, uncaring of the tangle of his limbs as he curls forwards to press the flat of his palms to his forehead, resting against his knees. He’s wearing a kilt, the pattern the same as the one he wore at the tourney, the fabric a heavier weave and it creases at the fold of his thighs, pooling onto the grass. “Ah’m glad to see you.”

He straightens in fragments: shoulders first, broad beneath the thin white shirt he wears, seams straining with the effort; his back next, his spine a delicate hollow that Simon aches to trace his fingers down, to count every vertebrate by touch and not just by sight and guesswork; his head, his circlet tacky with sweat and the shine of the jewels dulled by the uneven smudges of fingerprints over them. His hair is growing in, the defensive prickles of Johnny’s freshly shorn sides beginning to soften. He drops his hands last, his eyes distant, staring at Simon but not truly seeing him. 

Johnny leans closer and Simon doesn’t move away. 

One of Johnny’s hands presses against Simon’s thigh, the other loosely curled in front of his chest, unwilling or unable to reach out. His breath fogs against Simon’s cheeks, barely felt through the fabric except by the slight change in temperature, Johnny’s gaze flickering to Simon’s eyes before dropping lower, watching his mouth. A kiss through fabric, sensation blunted but present enough… 

Johnny’s thumb presses against the edge of Simon’s mask, high on his cheek. 

The Prince moves away, snatching his hands away from Simon as if the very thought of him burns. “Forgive me— you’re not— I cannot do this. To lead you on is to lead myself astray. I have to honour… my prince.”

He stands, sketching out a trembling bow intended for someone high above Simon’s current station, the man John wishes him to be, and flees from him. 

Simon never had cause to be jealous of himself before now, but he finds that he despises Prince Simon with every thread of his being. Tomorrow. This delusion will end tomorrow. He needs to confess what he’s done. 

⁂

“Move aside.” 

Simon huffs out a breath into his cupped palms, a sudden ache blooming in his worn knuckles at the declaration from the door. Dread is a familiar companion, easily notching into the hollows of Simon’s ribs with such ease he wonders how he ever thought this marriage would come to pass. The headboard creaks beneath his weight as he leans fully back against it, the base of his spine relaxing in torturous relief as he settles his sword across the span of his thighs. The blade is still slick with oil, the remnants of which line the cracks in Simon’s palms in the same fashion. It’s lighter in shade than the kind he normally favours, his thoughts skimming over rain instead of blood.

Roach at the doorway doesn’t step away. John may be a Prince, but he isn’t Roach’s.

Instead, he leans back slightly, face upturned towards a world that has only ever revealed the soft parts of itself when it is punching him down and tips his gaze towards Simon. His arms are tense, fingers wrapped around the edge of the door and his other hand braced against the stonework. 

“I said move aside before I do it myself.” Each word is measured, vibrating like a freshly struck fork, and Simon tracks their impact by the pressure in Roach’s grip, the fresh holes boring into Simon’s belly. To see Johnny delighted had been a miracle; what does the man look like angry, what level of devotion could he illicit in fury?

“Roach,” Simon calls, pitching his voice loud enough to carry. His cheeks ache, scarred lips pulled up over his teeth and he can’t say if he’s grinning or matching Johnny’s snarl. “Stand down.”

Simon splays his hands over his sword, one over the pommel, pressing down until the cool metal indents into his palm, and the other against the blade. He curls his fingers, testing the edge against his skin. Honed to a point and hungry. He’s been waiting for this confrontation since he arrived, mud-streaked and exhausted and desperate to be someone other than who he was for a moment. Simon’s a soldier, a wraith bound to this shape, but in Johnny’s arms, he had been human.

It’s a harrowing thing to mourn the loss of.

Simon rests his head against the wall, the edge of the headboard indenting the base of his skull. “The Prince wishes to speak to me.”

(It’s over.)

The door swings wide, Roach’s arm dropping a deliberate few seconds after it does so. The shadows of the room cling to his slighter frame as Prince John steps forward, eclipsing everything else in existence. His blue eyes are bright, the flickering candlelight caught in the glow of them, and he levels his gaze at Simon like a challenge, one of the wickedly sharp halberds decorating the palace artwork made to run him through.

(It’s almost a relief.)

“You’re the Prince.” Sharp, clear, bloodless. John’s gaze flicks over Simon before it returns to Roach. “And who are you, then? His lover.”

Simon’s grin grows sharp, his eyes narrowing. “He’s my friend, the same as your knight. I won’t let him be insulted by anyone.” He jerks his head towards the door, never taking his eyes from Johnny. 

It’s a declaration he’s gone to the ground to defend, beating his knuckles bloody against helmets until the metal is a dull smear beneath his hands. He loves Johnny, will always continue to do so regardless of his impending doom, but he won’t accept an insult to Roach. Roach inclines his head, a flicker of movement in the corner of Simon’s vision.

“My Prince, Your Highness” Roach murmurs and steps out of the room, the door closing behind him. 

John watches him leave, jaw drawn tight beneath the pale wash of stubble over his cheeks. His hands hang at his side, oddly still. There’s a smudge of ink over one finger, dark enough that it could be mistaken as a bloodstain for a single heartstopping instant. “I…” Johnny clears his throat, drawing himself up to his full height and squaring his shoulders. A fighting stance. “I was to be wed to a prince I didn’t know. I was supposed to play my part and be happy, be grateful that I could be useful for only my realm but yours too.”

“Johnny–”

“I’m not finished.” 

There’s the curled lip, the bared teeth that Simon has come to expect; not just anger but hatred, disgust. John jerks into motion, striding to one edge of the room then the other, turn, repeat. His knuckles are pale beneath the force of his grip, every footfall a fresh shovel of dirt onto Simon’s grave. “Was it a ploy all along? I wish to God it was. Knowing you’re here to kill me or my parents makes it easier for me to hate you instead of doing all this… because you didn’t want to. I cannae hate you for that. Marriage, it… it changes you. And I… never wanted Prince Simon to be tied down to me or anyone else. We’re princes, we have duties and expectations… but we’re still… you’re still just… Simon. I only wish you told me sooner. You never had to… I wouldn’t have…

“I never would have thought to love you.”

It is only by the pounding of his heart in his head, the screaming hollow of his lungs, and the bright flash of pain over his palm that Simon knows he is still alive. His hand is flush against the blade of his sword, blood seeping from the fresh wound and staining the sheets beneath him, the dark fabric of his clothes. 

Johnny turns back to him, his chest heaving with every ragged breath even as he schools his features back into court-forged neutrality. “Explain.”

Simon presses his teeth against the tip of his tongue, biting down until the pressure matches the pulse in his hand. “Wasn’t a ploy or a trick,” he says. “It was—”

He’d never been good at expressing himself through words, a waste of resources to teach a blade courtly manners or speech, but he steels himself all the same. Simon fixes his gaze at a spot on the edge of the bed, Johnny a trembling shadow behind the sweep of his lashes. He can’t look at him while he does this, can’t see the final embers of affection die utterly. 

Simon tugs his mask down, pulling the ties free, and letting the fabric drop. 

“You heard the rumours about the Ghost of the Riley Kingdom, about me, yes? Damn fine piece of work. Won us more battles than the fighting did. But, what none of them seem to remember is how old I was when I was sent onto the field for the first time. These—” He drags the blunt edge of his nails over one of the scars that bisect his cheeks, running from the permanently notched corner of his mouth to the swell of his cheekbones. His touch catches on the rough texture, the areas with no sensation except pressure, “—are a reminder of that. I was captured because of my family name, carved up because of my bloodline, and I returned to that duty again and again and again. So, when I arrived here, when I saw you, and I had the opportunity to be someone else for a while?

“I’m not a good man, Johnny, but my actions were never intended to hurt you. I’ve been told my entire life that my duty is to die and you have been the only one who thought differently, who made me believe it could be different. If you wish me to leave, then I will, but I’ll forever be indebted to you for that.”

“I don’t know your reasons, Si. Prince Simon. But I…” Johnny’s thumb brushes against his neck, fabric whispering beneath his touch. “I’d have yer hand. I’d be at yer side for as long as you’d have me. Even in disgrace. We could flee now, I’d have the bishop marry us with our men as witnesses. But if I was never—” Johnny blinks slowly, close enough to Simon that he could feel the trembling inhalation in the way his head spins from it. “—If marriage was never what you wanted, then you would do well to leave soon.”

“There hasn’t been a moment since I met you that I didn’t want to marry you.” Simon closes the distance between them, not to kiss Johnny but to press his forehead against Johnny’s. “But this is your home, your family, your people. How can I ask you to leave all that behind and be a mercenary prince with me?”

“These are my people… this is my home… but Si, I always knew I’d be forced to leave it all one day for a wife or a husband. Because I’m the fourth son, inheriting nothing save a duchy to disappear to once my vows are spoken.” Tears brim in Johnny’s eyes but never quite spill free, the blue nearly obscured behind a film of them. He laughs once, softly. “If anything, the tale of the mercenary princes will be quite famous.”

Moving carefully, as if Simon is some wild thing prone to bolting or biting, Johnny rubs his thumb over Simon’s cheek, the touch there and not at the same time. “Lemme wrap your hands.”

Wordlessly, Simon holds his hands out, palms up. In addition to the sluggishly bleeding wound across one palm, the other is muddied with repeated grinning imprints of a skull. Johnny hisses through his teeth at the sight of them, his brow drawn into deep furrows as he surveys the damage. “Won’t pretend that I’m a dab hand with a needle and thread but I don’t think it needs stitching. Will hurt while it’s healing though.”

“I know.” Another pause, a blink as Johnny’s gaze wanders once more, tracing over the bridge of Simon’s nose, his mouth, the line of his jaw, before he stands and moves to the dresser. Simon continues, “Should be some bandages in the second.”

It’s nice to have someone take care of him. Unexpected, still strange and awkward in a fumbling way Simon hasn’t felt since he was a boy with limbs that were too long for him and a mind that never seemed to quiet. Johnny bows his head as he returns to sit in front of Simon, his mouth moving soundlessly as he works. They never part, not truly, Johnny’s fingers remain curled around Simon’s as he works, drawing the pale cloth tighter and pinning it closed. 

“Alright.” Johnny clears his throat, looking around the room as he does so, but his gaze returns to Simon again and again, shy little glances under his lashes. It’s close to how he would watch Simon when they first met down to the colour high on his cheeks. “We need to move quickly. Not much time before my family notices I’m not where I should be.”

Simon nods once. They untangle themselves slowly, deliberately, and Simon can still feel Johnny’s touch over the blunted pads of his fingers, the cracks in his palms. He returns his sword to the holster, strapping it to his back before he reaches for their packs, slinging both his and Roach’s onto his shoulder. They had never thought to unload them, both ready to leave at a moment’s notice. He turns back to Johnny in the centre of the room, his face pale but determined, smiling at the other man before Simon draws his mask back into place. 

It doesn’t sit as well as it once did.

In the corridor, the knight, Garrick, stands, tipped against the wall close to the door while Roach waits opposite to him. His face is downturned, but that isn’t enough to hide the wide edges of his grin behind his mask. Garrick rights himself as the door swings open, the straps of a few bags clutched in one hand, the other fluttering first over the hilt of his sword then to rest by his side. “Right,” he announces, glancing between them both. “You two kissed and made up?” There’s a deliberate brightness to his voice, not quite in jest but not enough to dissuade Simon of the notion that they both had their ears pressed to the door moments prior.

“Something like tha’,” Johnny answers, stepping forward and reclaiming his pack from Garrick. “Now, let’s go.”

They make a well-fitting if strange group as they make their way around the corner, the Prince of the land, his sworn knight, a foreign Prince masquerading as an Ambassador and his shadow. Simon can’t look away from Johnny just ahead of him as they walk, the confidence in his stride as he hurries them onwards, excitement crackling to the ends of his hair like a lightning strike.  They stagger to an uneven halt as they round the corner, the broad figure of Chamberlain Price made broader by armour standing in the centre. Simon wraps his fingers around his sword, sensing Roach mirroring the movement behind him. He’d need some height to throw the blade, and Simon readies himself for the impact of boots against his thigh, his back as Roach gets that needed height. 

“So,” Price says, “you’ve made your choice, my prince.”

Johnny straightens, squaring his shoulders before he nods. 

“You’ll want to take the west corridor. I’ve asked Lady Sorcha to prepare your travelling clothes. Oh, and Kyle?”

“Sir?”

“Serve him well.”

The remaining corridors weren’t empty of soldiers, a few roaming in fixed patterns that are easy enough to avoid, and handfuls more are pointedly distracted at their posts. 

“Three,” Roach whispers, leaning forward just enough to bump his head into the scant free space on Simon’s back between holster and pack. “Pay up.”

“That last one looked before he returned to staring at the wall.” Simon draws the coins free from the pouch at his waist, holding them back towards Roach. Tucked into the small alcove outside of the castle, the air is cool, tracing delicate fingers over the line of sweat beading on Simon’s forehead, seeping into his hair. Gaz stands at the entrance, his profile cast in sharp relief, before he steps out with a sharp whistle. The distant trudge of footsteps grows purposeful, a small group of workmen heading towards him, and they step out at his instruction, Johnny’s fingers twisting around Simon’s. 

There’s a peculiar stillness inside of a church as if the world has drawn a breath in and hasn’t yet decided to exhale. The light isn’t strong enough to cast coloured shards across the floor from the ornate stained glass windows, but it is enough to illuminate the huddled pews and the altar holding court in front of them all. 

“My Prince.” The bishop is an older man, his hair long gone white and beginning to thin across the crown of his head. He stoops as he walks closer, the hem of his robe dragging softly against the stone. “‘Tis a strange hour for a visit.”

“Aye, it is, Father. But I have a request of ye.” Johnny steps forward, drawing Simon to stand at his side and Simon moves with him willingly. The only warmth left in him are the places Johnny touches, the lingering mirages of his hand blooming and collapsing over the blank bare skin of Simon’s hands. Johnny raises their joined hands into the bishop’s line of sight. “I want you to marry us. Now.”

The bishop recoils as if Johnny had slapped him. His eyes are wide, wild, and he draws his hands close to his chest, fingers pressed together as if asking for some eternal forgiveness. “My Prince, if this is some jest, I must refuse. You are betrothed to Prince Riley, it would be a grave injustice to the realm for you to do this. And to draw the Ambassador into this tomfoolery!”

Gaz speaks, a grin painted broadly across his face. “Father, the Ambassador is the Prince. I swear it on my honour.”

Johnny rises onto his toes, twisting so his cheek is pressed against Simon’s, facing Roach behind them both, before he speaks. “If nearly anyone other than Gaz would try that, they’d be turned on their heel with their ears ringing with scripture before they even knew what was happening.”

Simon tips his gaze sideways, studying the other man. Gaz doesn’t look away from the bishop, his expression warm and earnest, impossible to not be believed. If he had been born in Simon’s kingdom, he’d be an entirely different creature, a viper dripping poison into foreign dignitaries' ears until they were sick with it.

“Indeed.” The Bishop stares at them each in turn, his brow furrowed. “This is most unprecedented, my lords.”

“There’s been nothing scandalous between them, sir. Prince John wishes to respect his fiancés desire for privacy. Prince Simon heads his father’s armies, you see. A large gathering already paints him and John as targets. If they were doing this in sin, they’d never come before you, Excellency.” Gaz concludes with a nod, his hands clasped in front of his chest, beseeching, a careful mimicry of the bishop’s own stance. 

“Very well.” The Bishop clears his throat and spreads his arms, holding them in place. “If the couple would step forward, we will proceed with the vows.”

Simon does as he’s bidden, Roach and Gaz moving into place behind them, as he turns to face Johnny. The other man’s eyes are bright, blue as the fresh dawn, and he has never looked more beautiful than he did in this moment. The vows are rote repetition; Johnny echoing the bishop’s words before Simon follows suit.

The bishop pauses, tucking his hands back into his draping sleeves as he studies them both. “Traditionally, the partner is crowned at this stage, however due to the sudden nature of this wedding—“

“I have something.” Johnny pulls the circlet from his brow, his hair falling askew over his forehead before he pushes it back in a single motion. “If you’re willing, that is.”

Simon kneels on the cool floor of the church, lets the warmth bleed away from him as Johnny stands above, a delicate circlet of gold held in both hands. 

“With this,” Johnny begins, his gaze never wavering from Simon, some deity of old cast in flesh and blood, “I crown you, husband and Prince Regent of the MacTavish kingdom.”

The metal is still warm, sitting high on his brow, slightly off-centre. Johnny huffs out a quiet laugh, nudging the circlet back into place. He holds out his hands once more for Simon to take as he stands, the pair swaying together as he does so. 

“I now pronounce you husband and husband. I invite you to seal your wedding vows with a kiss.”

Johnny cups Simon’s cheek with one trembling hand, blocking the bishop from sight. It’s a small gesture and Simon didn’t think it had been possible to love Johnny more and yet he does. He loves him more with every passing second. Simon tugs his mask down, leaning to kiss Johnny, his husband, his love.

It is just as wonderful as he thought it would be.

“My bonnie husband…” Johnny whispers, eyes blown wide and dark, never looking away from Simon. 

“Yours,” Simon murmurs. “All yours, my husband.”

⁂ 

There’s countless marks worn into the road by the passage of the procession through the laden fields and bursts of rich greenery. No banners snap overhead to announce their presence, barely more than a dark shadow detached from the skeleton of something monstrous, but they are known all the same.

Honoured all the same.

The castle sits squat, a few new towers carved onto its surface since the last time they had seen it. Three places it could be breached from now, four if the fires were banked to glowing coals. One corner is awash with a thick growth of roses, their scent heavy in the air even amongst the warm bloom of harvest that promises golden dawns and distant evenings. 

Simon had left the MacTavish kingdom freshly married and crowned, his husband at his side and two knights at his back. Glancing at Johnny, Simon swings himself down from his horse first, dust covering his boots, a finer scattering working its way up to his thighs. Travelling back had an exhausting undertaking but worth it in the end. 

He holds his hands out for his husband as he dismounts. 

Johnny had become everything Simon had thought he could and more. His hair is still shorn short at the sides, the mane on top woven into braids like his forefathers of old, and his mask is one of Simon’s, doing little to hide the gleam in his eyes. 

The Chamberlain is waiting for them as they approach, grey flecked through his beard and hair, new lines in the corners of his eyes. He moves solidly, having lost none of his powerful frame in the time they’d been away, escorting them to the throne room before he clears his throat and announces, “Riley delegation.”

The King and Queen look at Johnny first. Simon looks to Johnny and meets the man’s gaze fully, his eyes half-lidded as if in a dream before he straightens, turning towards the thrones.

“My King, my Queen. May I introduce Prince Simon Riley, my husband, officially and properly this time?”

[loonfull-sonnetzz]

To Soothe The Ache

Note: I lost motivation for this fic so I decided to just post the WIP since ya'll have been waiting for AGES. Sorry guys :') No beta we die like Frou Frou

༊*·˚Pairing: Alexei Vronsky X Soldier!Transman!Reader

༊*·˚Universe: Anna Karenina (2012)

༊*·˚Summary: You and Vronsky are soldiers and secretly find comfort

༊*·˚Warnings: menstruation, cramps, unsafe binding (do not bind with bandages!! Please!!), historical inaccuracies, mentions of war, probably out of character Vronsky (hadn’t read or watched Anna Karenina sorry :( ) 

���*·˚WC: 1k

Divider credit: Florietas 

Finally, serenity.

The cavalry unit you had found yourself in had traveled across the Stara Planina, trekking through the jagged peaks and small cliffs while leading the horses, praying to god your foot doesn’t slip on the ice or one of the horses panic from the distant howl of wolves that haunted the vicious winds. All for the sake of fighting off the Ottomans in Serbia. However, the stress was worth it, even as your legs screamed to rest and your eyelids began to go heavy from the restless nights guarding the makeshift camps the unit had made throughout the weeks.

Now your unit had finally left the mountains, finding a decent clearing amongst the soaring pines to rest once again. The wind no longer howls with threats, but whispers along the gently rattled pine needles. Between the spaces of the trees, up high, you could see stars twinkling in the inky night sky, hundreds and thousands of stars gazing down upon you – you could’ve sworn you could see into the eye of the milky way – Something you could never experience in your home city St. Petersburg where the fog and smoke hid the celestials. 

You took a deep breath. One good, deep and well-deserved breath. The crisp winter air filling your lungs, held, then exhaled – coming out as white mist that danced in the dark before dissipating.

But soon enough serenity would not last. Sure, it was relieving to be out late, no longer burdened by your comrades’ complaints and sharing company with the stars, but your body protested. Not just with the ache that dully throbbed in your legs or your eyes that you had to fight to keep open, but the pains that shoot from your hips and to your stomach, an unfortunate reminder of your secret. Stress could do so much before there could be no more delays and the time of the month comes crashing in. Or Alexei Vronsky chiding you for wearing your bandages for too long.

Alexei Vronsky, the man that was just as handsome as his frivolity and ambition, became an unlikely friend. It was all an accident, really. Months ago when they were stationed at some headquarters back home in Russia. Soldiers had to share washrooms, but you were vigilant and always went early in the morning or late at night when it came to changing so no one could know you were born a different boy, a boy who didn’t have the same body as the others. But one of those nights Vronsky was out for a while and returned late, exhausted and accidentally stumbling to the washroom to only catch a brief look as you panicked and slammed the door on his face. 

Even to this day it was hard to know why you had come out to him in the first place. Perhaps it was his hesitant inquiry, or the guilt for being rude for shutting the door on him. Or perhaps something more, that you both didn’t exactly fit societal norms. Vronsky may be charming, ambitious and brave – bearing the image of the perfect soldier, but he is still a man with his own struggles. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t freak out or prodded you with uncomfortable questions as most other people, especially aristocrats like him, usually did.

Shaking your head and pushing the reminiscing thoughts aside, you briskly make your way back to your tent. Your nimble fingers made way to your buttons in a swift fashion, undoing them until the top of your military uniform started to slide down your shoulders and gooseflesh covered your exposed skin. The cold once again reminding you of it’s limited mercy as it bit your flesh and sent chills down your spine. But hypothermia was probably better than cracking your ribs in the long run.

You were already about to unhook the pins that held the bandages before you heard someone clear their throat and call your name. You whipped your gaze at the intruder, stiffening up and crossing your arms over your chest instinctively before you realized who it was.

“Come here, will you?” Alexei murmured, his voice low and soothing like the distant babble of the creek. He drew you slowly enough that you could have pulled back easily. “You’ve already done so much for us since the beginning of this journey, this is the least I could do.”

You felt your face burn from the sudden praise and care, but you soon felt your shoulders droop and arms fall to your sides. He was right in a way, you could collapse at any point if the cramps or your duty as a soldier didn’t keep you up. So you let him trace the pins, unhooking them and unraveling the bandages. Your gaze flickered from his hands to his face, his brows a little furrowed with compassion and concentration as he buttoned up your uniform – not letting a moment of the wintry air freeze you or the discomfort of having your body vulnerable and exposed go on any further.

He catches your gaze as soon as he finishes, his hands lingering on the last button before one glides over to caress your cheek. His worry became more evident on his visage. “Is there something on your mind?”

The lie on your tongue was silenced by another wave of pain, making you hold your own waist and curling further to yourself. Alexei quickly holds you steady, his sapphire eyes flickering all over you to search for the cause of sudden agony.

“I’m bleeding out,” You said with a slightly self-deprecating chuckle, a little amused by Alexei’s fretting to something natural as menstruation. This only confused your fellow comrade before it seemed to click and he sighs and embraces you, his arms wrapped around your waist.

“I’ll be okay, it’s just cramps,” You said, biting down your tongue to smother a wince. But you didn't make an effort to leave and neither did Alexei, who didn’t look convinced by your lame excuse.

“I know, darling. But I'm not leaving your side to suffer this alone. I just want to make you feel better,”  He said, pulling back slightly to meet your gaze again. His hands trailing down to hold onto your hips, the warmth soothing the ache. Alexei then dipped his head down, his soft lips pressed against yours before he whispers against your lips. “How can I be of service?”

[nanamimizz]

tags: 18+ minors dni, a/b/o verse, fem reader, omega reader, alpha john, licking, marking, themes of jealousy and possessiveness. for @prettyboykatsuki with their explicit permission.

synopsis: jealousy comes knocking on our door no matter what or when or why.

He doesn’t smell like you, it’s the first thing you realize when John Marston walks back into camp after taking Old Boy to the horse hitches with the rest of them. It makes your body twitch and stall for just a moment - you spill some water on the table that Mr.Pearson reprimands you for and you can only half apologize. You watch with sharp eyes how he moves, how he walks and how John easily slots himself next to the other men at the table with his hands on his gun belt even when he is passed a bottle of whiskey.

The camp is large and has a variety of scents and smells, one gets used to them and you can identify them as easily as picking out the white clouds from the blue sky. Pine for Charles, lavender for Mary-Beth and firewood for John Martson who is currently being covered by the scent of roses and cherries that you know no one at camp smells like and it makes something inside of you insane at this outsider’s scent. It’s enough to make you excuse yourself, marching over to the scarred man and tugging him behind you, away from the men who watch with amused expressions on their faces as John almost trips with the force you pull him into your shared tent.

The thick wooden beam that supports the middle of the tent is your witness stand as you push the taller, broader alpha to the wood and hold him there by the shoulders, nails digging through the sleeves of his coat. There’s an alarmed undercut to his firewood and brandy scent, agitation and nerves biting against your own as you bare your teeth at him.

“What is it with you, woman?” He asks you, dark brows furrowed and his scowl on his scared face would make anyone cower but you with your stubborn fearlessness that you push him further against the wood as the sweetness of your foreign scent turns sour in your agitation.

“Why do you smell like that - like some, fucking tramp?!” You hiss, voice low but venomous and John has no doubt that if you had a tail it would be flickering behind you with your jowls peeled back like some sort of feral hellcat. John frowns, brows pinched as he tries to free his arms from your grip.

“What you mean? I smell fine.” He throws back, bringing the lapel of his jacket to sniff half heartedly - picking up on nothing out of the usual. You puff, muttering some words under your breath. The only ones he catches are calling him the village fool as you crowd him, pressing yourself flush to him and John is happy that you closed the tent behind you so no one at camp can see how the fullness of your figure perfectly melts into his. There’s a flush to his cheeks that was not there before and you can’t notice it on how you feel sick on the scent of roses. On the tips of your toes, you press your face onto his neck and rub against the scent glands there. Pressing and rubbing until your cheeks shine with the scent of firewood and musk and brandy as you huff into his skin. Your tongue sneaks out to lap at the oils and John jumps beneath your silken touch as you moan softly against his flushed form. The salt of him melds onto your mouth as his scent clouds your mind and the sour-mango scent fogging the enclosed space of the tent blooms in golden nectar and clove.

It’s enough to make him moan, enough to make something heady flush in his mind as your teeth once bared nip and suck until the alabaster skin of his throat turns into purple petals of the jarul flower you would catch along the coasts. You pull away only to be tugged back and John’s voice is reduced to raspy little sounds in your ear as you lick, bite and suck at the other side of his neck until you can see the indents of your teeth as red as a sunset. If you could, you would have stayed there for hours, scenting and marking your John until he reeked of mangos and clove and henna leaves and so many things from the other side of the world.

“You’re mine, don’t ever - don’t ever come back smelling like you ain’t.” You mutter in between nips of your sharpened teeth.

So he’d never smell of anything other than you ever again.

But his name is called by Hosea, who’s voice is like a spear of sobriety through the veil of omega-posession and alpha-want that makes you pull away. John is a vision and you are too, red faced and panting; face slick with drool and oils from his scent glands. Dark eyes look at you with a wanting so deep you are tempted to disobey Hosea’s call until it rings out again clear as day. It makes John swallow, ducking his head and running a scared, calloused hand through his head as he nods to you.

“I’ll see you later, um…okay. I’ll see you tonight. Here.” He mutters, ducking away and out the tent flap cursing when he hears some of the men holler at the marks on his neck and the heavy scent of omega on his clothes. You find yourself unbothered as you step out and return to Mr.Pearson who finds himself unable to look you in the eyes.