#au: pomegranate seal

[diamonddaze01]

UNTIL YOU KNOW ME

PAIRING: lee seokmin x f!reader | WC: 5.7K GENRE: reincarnation au | soulmate(?) au | angst with a happy ending | time is non-linear and also not real don't read into it too much imo.... WARNINGS: major character death, discussions of blood and weapons, heartbreak x 10000, Seokmin Just Needs A Hug.... A/N: for the 100 collab! thank you to @gyubakeries, @eclipsaria, @nerdycheol, and @shinysobi for hosting such a wonderful collab! | first fic in over a month! sorry I've been gone so long work SUCKS! but writing this was actually so refreshing. I really do enjoy putting Seokmin in Situations (i'm sorry darling boy)

SUMMARY: Seokmin has loved you 99 times. But in this life, just like every other, you don't remember. You never do. But Seomin? He remembers everything. Every goodbye. Every loss. Every time he almost kept you.

On the 47th time Seokmin fell in love with you, he realized it would be the 47th time he lost you, too.

For the first 46 times, he had been foolishly optimistic. For the first 46 times, he still thought himself a king, like he was the first time, his first life. But here, in the 47th (or what could have been his thousandth at this point), Seokmin watched you drop his hand—king of nothing, loser of everything.

He had thought the 47th time would be different. But then again, he had thought that about the 46th. 

In the 46th, he first saw you at the market, laughing—loud, unabashed, bright enough that every head turned toward you. You were tucked between crates of peaches and dried herbs, a smear of pomegranate staining your bottom lip, the sunlight catching in your lashes. A leather satchel hung from your shoulder, worn at the edges, and you walked like someone with places to be and time to waste. You didn’t even glance at him.

That life, Seokmin had sold ink. Hand-ground, bottled in glass, sealed with wax. You visited his stall every week, even though you barely needed supplies. You’d spend long minutes just standing there, brushing your fingers over the shelves like they were familiar somehow. You never lingered on him—but you always lingered.

You asked questions you already knew the answers to. You always added a little extra money to the pile of coins. Once, you’d looked at him for a second too long and said, “It’s strange. You feel like a face I dreamed about.”

Then you’d smiled, tossed a coin onto the table, and left.

You weren’t his, not in that life. You married a cartographer—a good man, Seokmin remembered. He hadn’t hated him. Smelled like cedarwood and carried maps that curled at the edges like flower petals. He’d watch you walk back to the cartographer’s booth, the hem of your skirts catching the breeze, your satchel bouncing against your hip, and think—at least she’s happy.

You died giving birth to your second child. Seokmin found out from a friend of a friend. He didn’t go to the funeral.

And still, your absence gnawed at him in ways he never admitted aloud. He hated himself for thinking it stung a little less that time. Like grief was something you could grow used to.

He closed the stall early the next day. Burned every ledger with your name in it.

This time, in the 47th, you had been the one to say his name first. In this life, you were a singer. Jazz, mostly—low, smoky notes that curled through the air like perfume. He heard your voice before he saw you, carrying out the back of a bar he hadn’t meant to stop at. It had been years—lifetimes—since he last found you, and hearing you again hit him like a blow to the chest.

He’d stepped outside to clear his head. The alley behind the bar was quiet except for the scrape of a match. When he turned, you were already leaning against the brick wall, a cigarette balanced between your fingers.

“You got a light?” you asked.

He fumbled with his lighter. “Yeah. Here.”

Your fingers brushed his as you took it. Your touch felt exactly the same. You lit your cigarette, exhaled a ribbon of smoke, and looked at him for a beat too long.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

“Seokmin.”

You smiled. “Seokmin,” you repeated, like it tasted good on your tongue. “I feel like I’ve said that before.”

Later that week, you sang for him alone. After the last show, after everyone else had gone. You stood barefoot in the dressing room, still in your stage makeup, and sang something soft and unhurried. He watched you from the chair, hands clasped between his knees, trying not to hold his breath.

In that life, you let him stay.

You fell asleep with your hand curled into the front of his shirt. You let him make you breakfast. You danced with him barefoot on cold tile floors, laughed at his terrible jokes, pulled him into bed when you were too tired to talk. You never once said the word soulmate, but some mornings you looked at him like you were starting to remember.

He almost believed the curse was lifting.

Three weeks later, he read in the paper that the bar had been raided. Police found illegal opium stashed under the floorboards. One casualty. Female. Unnamed. Mid-twenties.

He read the sentence again. And again. The words didn’t change.

He didn’t even finish the article. Just threw the paper into the fire and stood in front of it until the smoke made his eyes sting. He didn’t speak for days. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t breathe without hearing your voice in his ears.

The worst part was that it was different, this time. You’d let him love you. You’d leaned into it. And for a moment—just long enough to hurt—he’d thought you might stay.

When the fire burned low in the hearth, and your scarf still hung on the back of the chair, Seokmin realized he was already mourning the 48th.

The first time he had known you, truly known you, he had worn a crown made of thorns and gold.

The thorns were metaphor, at first: guilt threaded through power, a boy-king raised too fast, carved sharp by grief and coronation. But over time, the weight grew real. Heavy. Gilded. Cutting. On colder nights, he would remove it and find faint red grooves across his temples, like the memory of someone’s fingers pressing too tight.

You had never touched the crown. You never bowed, either, not when the court looked on, not when his voice carried over the fields and froze armies in their march. Your head only ever inclined out of habit, not reverence.

You were not a queen. You had never wanted to be. You had been his warhound. His iron nerve. His blade and the hand that steadied it. You walked three steps behind him in court: silent, precise, eyes ever-moving. But in battle, you rode so close your knees brushed. He had memorized the rhythm of your breathing beside him: steady as the northern wind, sure as thunderclouds in spring. He trusted you more than he trusted his gods.

You bled for him, once.

An assassin’s blade had found its mark, but not the one it sought. He remembered the scream—his own—and how it had barely broken free before you collapsed. Steel had kissed your ribs. You had grabbed the attacker by the hair and run them through before falling.

That night, he paced the length of the war tent, blood soaked through his hands, staining the floor in places the servants would scrub for hours. The physicians had whispered, muttered things about odds and infection and prayers.

But you had lived.

And he had never again worn his crown without hearing your ribs break beneath his fingers.

He never said thank you. You never asked him to.

After, something shifted.

He began reaching for your wrist before any decree. You no longer waited to be summoned. He told his advisors he did not dream. You knew he did. (You were the only one who stayed when he woke screaming.)

And then, the witch came. 

Not cloaked, not veiled, not smoke and shadow. No, she came clothed in grief. In mourning black, with a spine stiff from loss and a voice that broke on the names of her sons. She stood in chains before the court, and the king stood tall as justice was read to her face.

But he flinched when her eyes found you.

Because the witch saw it. The way his gaze darted to you first. Always first. The way he moved closer to you without realizing, even now, even here. The way his hand curled—not around his crown—but around the hilt of his sword, every time her voice rose.

“You strung my children in your gallows,” she said, voice dry as sand. “For every son I buried, you will live a life. And in each one, you will find her again.”

The court murmured. The king stilled.

“And in each one,” she whispered, “she will not know you.”

He tried to kill her then. Blade unsheathed, a scream tearing from his throat. But the magic had already rippled through the chamber, warping the air. By the time his steel reached her, she had turned to dust.

He fell to his knees in it. In her. In the curse that still trembled on the marble floor.

He had dreamed of you, every night before the curse. After, he dreamed only of losing you.

He never told you what the witch said. Maybe he should have. Maybe you would’ve believed him. But how could he? How could he say, I think I’m going to lose you for a hundred lifetimes, and still hold you like it wasn’t already happening?

He tried to make the most of it. He held your hand longer. He stole minutes, lingered in rooms just to watch you fasten your cloak or pull your hair back with a cord. He memorized the scar on your collarbone, the way your mouth curved when you were amused but trying not to show it.

And when the end came—when a blade meant for him found your heart instead—he didn’t scream.

He only whispered, “Please. Not yet.” And somewhere, in the distance, the witch laughed.

The next time he woke, he was in a crib. Small hands. Weaker lungs. No crown.

But still, even as a child, he dreamed of you.

And he remembered everything.

In the 19th life, you had been a lighthouse keeper’s daughter.

A quiet girl, born of fog and brine, made of solitude and wind-whipped cliffs. You spoke with your hands more than your mouth. You hummed sea shanties under your breath and slept in a narrow bed beneath a round window that framed the moon like a portrait.

The nights were long. You were used to ghosts.

That life, Seokmin came to you in a storm; not a man so much as a memory trying to remember itself. His ship had shattered itself against the rocks sometime before dawn. You found him tangled in a net of driftwood and broken oaths, sea-foam in his lashes, a gash on his forehead like something the ocean had kissed and bitten in the same breath.

You dragged him inland, breathless and barefoot, the hem of your nightgown soaking in salt. He coughed up seawater and a name you didn’t recognize.

When he woke, it was to the sound of your fire and the creak of old wood settling in your cottage walls. He bled on your sheets. He slept in your father’s clothes.

You fed him soup without asking questions. He answered them anyway.

“My brother,” he said, fingers twitching against the wool blanket. “The sea took him.”

You didn’t tell him the sea takes everyone, eventually.

He watched you when you weren’t looking. You always were—looking, that is. Out toward the rocks. Up at the sky. Across the slow breath of the sea. But never at him.

Still, you brought him what warmth you could: your silence, your bread, your presence. And he, in return, gave you stories of constellations; of stolen ports and stars that guided without mercy; of the ship he had sailed, black-flagged and silver-rigged, bearing the symbol of your father’s enemy.

He didn’t know you had kept the flag.

Your father did.

He found it three days later, soaked and tangled in the wreckage like a secret unraveling.

He came home with the wind behind him and blood already in his eyes. The storm had passed, but it howled still in the bones of your home.

You stood between them — the man you had nursed back into life, and the man who had given you yours.

“Please,” you said, your voice cracking like driftwood underfoot. “He didn’t come here to fight.”

But your father had known too many men like him. Men with soft eyes and hidden blades. Men who flew foreign flags and left entire villages burning in their wake.

Seokmin tried to stand. He was still weak. Still foolish. Still yours.

“I would never hurt her,” he said, voice hoarse, hands raised as if in prayer.

But prayers are no match for grief. And your father’s blade was already moving.

The hunting knife sank in just below the ribs. 

Small. Cruel. Inevitable.

Seokmin tasted iron. Then salt.

Then the press of your hand over the wound, trembling, desperate, too late.

You cradled his face like something fragile and fading. Like driftglass worn smooth by time.

“Why does it feel like we’ve done this before?” you whispered, tears carving salt lines down your cheeks. “Why does this feel like an ending I already know?”

He opened his mouth.

He wanted to tell you: Because it is. Because I’ve loved you this way before. Because I always lose you.But his lungs were filling, and your hands were shaking, and the candlelight was flickering like it knew what came next.

So instead, he closed his eyes and let the sea take him again.

Death came easy, the 19th time. Almost like falling asleep to your voice.

He never woke from that dream. Not until the 20th.

In the third life, you had been a thief, laughing as you ran, skirts hiked, hair wild like a storm had fallen in love with you.

Seokmin had been a soldier then: duty-bound, spine straight, boots loud. He’d seen you first at the edge of the market square, slipping an apple into the folds of your shawl with a wink at the grocer. You’d moved like a secret, like the city itself was built to part for you. You were sunlight in the cracks of stone, mischief bottled in human form.

He hadn’t meant to follow you.

But that’s the thing about you. You happened to him. Like falling. Like gravity.

He chased you through alleyways for reasons even he didn’t understand—at first because it was his job, then because it was you.

You let him catch you once.

Once.

You turned around in the dark, lantern light catching the gold flecks in your eyes. “You’re not very good at this,” you told him, grinning as you pressed him to the wall. “A real guard would’ve cuffed me by now.”

“I forgot the cuffs,” he’d said, heart stuttering.

You laughed into his collarbone.

You were made of quick fingers and quicker stories. You never told him your real name.

You whistled as you walked. Stole buttons from his coat just to stitch them into your own. Called him “soldier boy” until he stopped asking you not to.

He kissed you like he didn’t know it would end. Like maybe it wouldn’t. And you let him. You let him want you.

The last time he saw you, your laugh echoed too far ahead.

You had stolen something you shouldn’t have—something political, or dangerous, or cursed. He couldn’t remember now. Only that you had turned and run, and he had followed.

You were already bleeding when he caught up.

A blade between your shoulder blades. A pool of red blooming at your spine like the worst kind of flower.

You collapsed in his arms, breath catching like it didn’t know whether to stay or go.

Even then, you looked up at him and smiled. Like he was the one who had stolen something. Like he was the lucky one.

“You almost had me,” you whispered, voice broken but bright.

He pressed his forehead to yours and lied. “I’ll find you next time.”

You died before he got the last word out.

In that life, he carved your name into the hilt of his blade. Even though you never gave it to him. Even though you never said it once. Even though he wasn’t sure it had been real.

Still, he wrote it in the steel.

Seokmin thinks the lives where he doesn’t see you die are the worst of all.

When death comes suddenly—when he holds your body in his arms, when your final breath stutters against his skin—there is at least a shape to the grief. An ending, cruel and sharp, but certain.

But the lives where you just fade? Where you disappear in the blur of traffic, or laughter, or time? Where you leave without knowing him, without ever realizing what you meant, who you were—those are the ones that ruin him slowly.

There’s no body to mourn. No grave to kneel before. Only the ache of unfinished things. Unkissed mouths. Unspoken names. An entire love story dissolving like fog in morning sun.

He tells himself it’s mercy, that maybe not seeing the end means there wasn’t one. But deep down, he knows better.

The 88th time, he’d been your professor.

He knew it the second you walked into his lecture hall: late, breathless, a pen tucked behind your ear, hair still damp from the rain. You slid into a seat near the back, opened your notebook with fingers that trembled from the cold. You didn’t look at him once that entire hour. Not when he stammered over a line of Yeats that reminded him of the 9th life, or when he dropped his chalk mid-sentence because you had tilted your head in the exact way you used to when you were a queen’s ghost in his bed.

He pretended not to notice you. Tried to be good. Tried to be just a man teaching literature to a room full of strangers. But you weren’t a stranger. Not to him. You were the poem.

You stayed after class one day, weeks in, to ask about a line in The Waste Land. You tapped your pen on the margin like you always did when you were thinking. He watched the ink smudge on your thumb, the same way it had when you'd written him battle reports by candlelight in your first life. You said, “It’s funny, this part—about memory being a kind of burden.” And you laughed.

He forgot how to breathe for a moment. Because for him, memory was everything. And it was crushing him.

He resigned two weeks later. Left behind a half-finished syllabus and a note to the department chair. You never saw him again. But he saw you, from a distance, months later, laughing in the courtyard with someone else, your copy of Eliot annotated to death. You had underlined the line "These fragments I have shored against my ruins."

So had he.

The 72nd time, he was your neighbor. Third floor, two windows across.

You liked to play music late at night—old jazz, mostly. Sometimes rock. Sometimes nothing at all, just the clink of a spoon against ceramic as you stirred your tea. He watched the glow of your lamp through the blinds, a moth to something warm and unreachable.

You passed each other in the hallway every morning. You wore headphones, always. He would nod. You’d smile, distracted, polite. Once, you left your laundry basket in the communal room and he guarded it like a temple, sitting cross-legged in front of it with his back against the dryer until you returned. You thanked him with a granola bar and said, “You’re sweet.”

He wanted to tell you that once you had sewn up the wound in his side with your bare hands. That once you had taught him how to peel mangoes with a knife curved like a crescent moon. That once you had died cradled in his lap, whispering a name he hadn’t used in that life—but it was his all the same.

But all he said was, “Anytime.”

You moved out six months later. He never saw where you went.

But for years after, he still left his window open at night, waiting for the sound of your record player.

The 91st time was different.

You met in a secondhand bookstore. It was raining, the kind of rain that turned the city soft and slow. You were in the classics aisle, thumbing the cracked spine of a copy of Wuthering Heights like you couldn’t decide whether to take it home. You looked up when he reached for the same shelf.

He should’ve walked away.

Instead, he picked up the book and offered it to you, holding it out with a sheepish grin. “You look like you’d like this.”

You tilted your head at him. “That obvious?”

He didn’t know what came over him then—maybe it was the scent of the rain in your hair, or the shape of your mouth on a word like obvious—but he said, “You just remind me of someone who once loved tragic things.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And how’d that end for her?”

He could’ve said: with a sword through her chest in a burning chapel or: with your hand in mine on a battlefield, dying with your mouth full of my name or: you don’t want to know, not really.

But instead, he smiled and shrugged. “She loved anyway.”

You paid for the book. Wrote your number on the receipt. Said, “Just in case you have any other doomed recommendations.”

For three weeks, you met in quiet corners of the city. Cafés, museums, bookstores with creaky floors. You kissed him in a park under a jacaranda tree, your hands in his hair, and he thought—please, this time. Just this once.

But the dreams came.

You woke up one night, tangled in his sheets, your breath short, a name you didn’t recognize on your lips. You stared at him like he was a ghost. And maybe he was.

The next morning, your number stopped working.

He never returned to that bookstore.

Time no longer moved straight for him. It twisted, coiled like smoke in a sealed jar, writhing just out of his grasp. It folded in on itself, looped through seams he couldn’t stitch shut. Days became out-of-order photographs, blurred at the edges. Sometimes he woke with dirt beneath his fingernails and someone else’s name on his lips. Other times he woke mid-sentence, his voice hoarse, body trembling, your name already half-formed in his throat before he could stop it.

He’d come to in the middle of moments he hadn’t yet earned.

One time, he opened his eyes and your hand was in his. Candlelight flickered across your features, dancing shadows onto the wall, and you were laughing. Your smile was soft and wine-stained, and he thought, pleasepleasepleaseplease don’t let this be the middle or the end. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease let this be the beginning.

But then the world exhaled, and so did you. And just like that, you let go. The wax had melted too far. The moment was already behind him.

He was always late. Or far too early.

Once, he walked past a street performance in a rainy city, the smell of chestnuts thick in the air, and a violinist was playing your song. You were in the crowd, arms linked with someone else. You didn’t look his way. That was the 59th life. You’d been happy. He’d gone home alone and carved your name into the baseboard with a penknife.

There were lives where he found you on accident: caught in laughter in a passing car, your head tipped back, wind in your hair. He'd pull over. He’d get out. He’d run after you. By then, it was always too late. Always.

And then there were lives where he lived entire decades without knowing you were there. Lives where your name never passed his lips, but his dreams were full of you anyway. Your eyes in faces of strangers. Your laugh hiding behind glass storefronts and voices on the radio.

Once, he met you on the first day.

He had blinked into existence and there you were, leaning over a record store counter, your chin in your palm, chewing a pencil that had no eraser left.

You didn’t even look up as he entered. “New here?” you asked, thumbing through a crate of old CDs.

He couldn’t speak. Could only nod.

You turned then, slid him a mix tape in a clear case with handwritten words across the label: for the sad boys.

You raised an eyebrow. “You look like one of them.”

And then—God, then—you smiled.

Not the kind of smile made for anyone else. The kind he remembered from lifetimes ago, before curses, before loss. The kind you gave him when you’d collapse into a tent after battle, dirt on your cheek and blood on your blade, and he would press his forehead to yours and whisper, you made it. That smile.

He didn’t breathe until he was out the door.

In his 98th life, he kept that tape in the top drawer of his nightstand. Even when the store burned down. Even when you left before winter. He never played it. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to know what songs you’d chosen. He didn’t want the sound of your past to be louder than your memory.

And still, some nights, when the silence stretched thin and the moonlight spilled like milk across the floor, he’d take it out of its case. Run his fingers over the letters, worn down by time and hope. He'd hold it to his chest and listen, not to the music, but to what was missing.

You always felt just out of reach. Like a word he once knew. A breath he hadn’t finished taking. A promise made on a night neither of you could remember.

And the worst part was this: You didn’t know he was waiting. You never did.

By the 99th, he no longer prayed for you to remember.

He didn’t beg the stars, didn’t barter with fate, didn’t scream into the ocean the way he had in the 57th life. Didn’t offer up his name like a chant or a wound. No, by then, Seokmin asked for nothing more than time. A brief stay. A held breath. A quiet life, even if it flickered out too soon.

In the 99th, he found you behind a glass door painted with chipped celestial decals, a crescent moon flaking off the ‘o’ in “OPEN,” a trail of stars skimming the corner of the window like they were escaping. The bell chimed as he stepped in, sharp and unkind.

You looked up. You wore a threadbare tank top and boredom like armor, curled on a stool, a single earbud tucked under your hoodie’s drawstring. The whir of a needle hummed from the back room. He thought, just for a moment, that he’d walked into a dream stitched together from old memories. But no, it was you, older, sharper, your smile missing. You hadn’t seen him yet.

He didn’t know what compelled him to speak. Maybe it was the ache in his chest. Maybe it was the way his heart clenched like it always did when it sensed you in the room.

“I don’t have an appointment,” he’d said, voice unsteady.

You glanced at the empty chairs, then at him — his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, his breath shallow.

“No one does anymore,” you replied, voice dry. “Sit.”

He lowered himself into the cracked leather chair like a man about to confess.

You set your gloves on with the kind of efficiency that told him you were good at this — careful hands, precise eyes, the kind of focus that once won wars in other lives. You didn’t ask many questions. Just raised a brow as you prepped the machine.

“What are we doing?”

“A sun,” he said. “Small. Over the heart.”

You didn’t laugh. Just nodded.

“Bold placement,” you murmured, your touch ghosting across his chest as you wiped the spot clean. Your fingers were cold. He felt his ribs shudder under them.

When the needle buzzed to life, he barely flinched. Pain was easy now. Familiar. It grounded him, steadied his breathing. He focused instead on your face: the soft crease between your brows, the way your mouth tugged slightly to one side in concentration. The same mouth that had once commanded armies. That had once kissed him behind a curtain of falling snow. That had once whispered his name as you drowned in the 34th life.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

The silence between you was velvet-lined, thick with memory he could not share.

But then, when it was over—when the ink had settled beneath his skin, permanent and small like a secret—you lingered.

You stared at the sun, your thumb brushing gently around it, not quite touching.

You tilted your head.

“Feels familiar,” you said.

The words weren’t soft. They were hushed. Like they didn’t belong to the present at all. Like they’d spilled out from another life by accident.

Seokmin’s throat tightened.

He wanted to say, It’s because you’ve drawn it before. On my wrist, in the 18th life, when we were both seventeen and on the run. Or the 42nd, when you painted it in the sky for me with fireflies. Or the 65th, when you carved it into the bark of an apple tree and told me you’d always come back.

But he didn’t say any of that.

He just nodded. Quiet. Reverent. Grateful.

And you didn’t press.

He left with a bandage over his heart and the ghost of your fingers still clinging to his skin.

He didn’t ask for your number.

He didn’t need it.

You were always a life away.

And this one was almost over.

When his 100th life comes, Seokmin almost forgets.

Time, by then, is waterlogged: bloated, heavy, slipping through his fingers before he can name it. He wakes sometimes and feels seventeen. Other days, he’s all of them at once: soldier, scholar, ghost, god. There are lifetimes he can no longer separate from dreams. Some where he knows he died before you. Others where you didn’t die at all, just vanished, like smoke trailing from the edge of a candle, leaving him in the dark.

But in this life—in his 100th—Seokmin finds himself with a crown on his head and your hand in his.

It startles him. The symmetry. The cruelty of it. Or maybe it’s mercy. He hasn’t decided yet.

The palace is quieter than he remembers. Not the gold-dripping empire of his first life, where bells tolled and sycophants bowed. This one is quieter. Older. Cracks in the stone. Ivy on the columns. A throne made of wood instead of war.

He looks down, and there you are: fingers woven between his, knuckles familiar.

You’re not in armor this time. No blood on your boots. You wear blue. The soft kind. The same blue as the ink that once stained your hands, satchel heavy with pomegranate. The same ink you dabbed on his trembling skin as he told you he wanted a sun on his chest. Permanent. Just above the heart. The fabric sways when you move, like you’ve never known a battlefield. 

But your gaze?

Your gaze is sharp as ever. It slices through the years. Finds him like it always does.

And this time—this time—it lingers.

There’s something different in your eyes. Not just fondness. Not just fate.

Recognition.

He swallows.

You smile. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’ve seen you,” he says, and it’s the closest he’ll ever come to falling to his knees.

You smile at him as the court rises, as banners are unfurled above their heads.

He lifts his eyes to the crest on the silk.

A sun.

Gold and jagged and familiar, encrusted in diamonds atop your crown.

You wear it differently than he ever imagined. Not like royalty. Not like a symbol. You wear it like it’s always been yours. As if, somewhere in you, your hands remember what it was to trace its shape onto his skin. Onto tree bark. Onto war maps. Onto history.

He turns to you, and for a moment, you're no longer queen—you’re the daughter of the man who had once stood on a gallows, made martyr by the very flag Seokmin now rules under. You had screamed that day—not words, just grief. And even as they pulled you away, he had met your eyes. In that life, his 23rd, you never forgave him.

But in this one, your palm finds his. And stays.

You lean in, as the crowd dissolves around you, a blur of robes and oaths and rustling pageantry.

“I had a dream last night,” you say, soft and faraway. “We were in a forest. I had a sword. You were bleeding. I held your face and told you not to die.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Did I?”

“No,” you whisper, brushing your thumb across the inside of his wrist, where he swears the skin still remembers the kisses you pressed there 43 lives ago. “You came back.”

The throne behind you is carved wood. No gold. No fanfare. Ivy spills from its corners like it’s always been part of the earth. And maybe it has. Maybe this kingdom is a little quieter, a little humbler, shaped by all the lives he never got to finish. All the ones he watched you slip through like sand.

But here—in this 100th, his last—he thinks maybe it was all worth it.

Because when he looks at you now, all the pieces come together. You laugh with the same mouth that once kissed him behind a bookshop, that once shouted orders on horseback. You smile like a thief who never got caught. You hold his hand like a promise.

And when you kiss him,  it tastes like ink and salt and rain.

He feels it then: every life pooling into this one.

Every sun he ever wore.

Every name you ever said, even when you didn’t know why it made your chest ache.

Every version of love that wasn’t enough—until now.

Until you.

Until you knew him.

And this time, he doesn’t need to pray.

This time, he just stays.

[ladybirdswritings]

Pride & Prejudice - Coriolanus {Young} Snow x Reader

Summary: Spending more time with the miserable Mr. Snow, against your will, only proves to you exactly why he is a man you have sworn to loathe for all eternity. Steamy Pride & Prejudice retelling with young snow and you! Alternate universe, au!snow <3

Notes: so happy you all loved the first part — so i guess i’m continuing ahaha. as always, thank u for leaving comments and loves as it keeps me motivated! also, feel free to lmk if you’d like to be added to the tag list <3

two

The mist of September’s end and October’s greeting is a thick, heavy blanket in the air. You only scowl at it as you pick up your tiered skirt from where it drags against emerald moss and dirt. A storm is nearby.

You would melt into this very soil if you could. Become one with the lilacs and peonies if it meant you’d never be prevailed upon to marry again by the force of your mother.

Mama is unwell. As always but, with more fervor now. The dance was most successful for Jane. She and Sejanus have been exchanging kind letters with pomegranate stained kisses garnishing the print. Even so, mama is viciously unhappy.

The cherrywood cabinets slam louder when you pass, and her eyes narrow at any mention of the gathering. Perhaps your behavior was a great embarrassment for her. If only you were as divine as Jane.

The house is lively, far too lively for your liking at this settling hour. Sisters here and sisters there. They busy themselves with the grand piano and awful singing. It isn’t long until one of the twins rushes forward with a sealed envelope clasped tightly in hand.

“Mama! It is for Jane!”

You snatch the paper from her palm, worrisome that she will ruin it with how tightly she squeezes. Beyond this, you are most eager to see the development in your own personal romance novel starring your dearest sister. Mama slaps your hand away in turn, tugging it back into a monstrous grasp that nearly shreds it to minuscule little pieces.

You see the breath halt and dwell comfortably in her throat, unwilling to part or falter. This is most important to her, trivial matter as it is.

So long as Jane is happy…

You gaze on at the girl with petal-pink cheeks and bright eyes — her smile is a thing of beauty and joy at the mere idea that Sejanus Plinth could admire her.

“Mama! What does it say!”

Her hands tremble like hummingbirds now, and your frown stitches itself promptly upon your pretty face. Oh no, he is certain to have changed his mind.

At least he was kind and gentleman enough to inform dear Jane by letter.

That joy, excitement and eagerness once swimming within your mother’s eyes has dissipated to sheer horror.

“When did we receive this?” She whispers, a ghastly and terror laced sound.

“This morning!” One of the twins happily offers, twirling her chocolate ringlet tight enough to knot.

Mama cries out a sound of agony, shoving the paper hard against Jane’s chest — enough so that she stumbles. She is a frantic thing, running round your quaint living space like that of a farm animal who has lost its head.

You are fueled by your own confusion, constricting your mind to only wait upon Jane. She shakily reads the crumbled thing — hesitance becoming her. Her eyes shift then; a look of joy, excitement, fear — then dread.

“What is it?” You whisper, watching as mama mutters nonsense and brushes the collection of scattered breadcrumbs from the countertop — eyes wide as the moon aglow at midnight.

“Mr. Plinth and his sister, alongside Mr. Snow and sir Plinth’s dear — rich uncle, have all planned to meet with us this evening. They’ve taken a carriage, and have made arrangements to arrive by sundown.”

Four pairs of eyes, in perfected unison, glance into the grassy plains where the sun has begun to set.

You do not intend to giggle at the irony, perhaps it is a thing fueled by nerves just as your mother. Yet it floats from your sweet lips like a prayer, slender fingers rushing to suffocate it.

It is undeniably numerous, however. How could it be anything but?

The way your dearest blood all melts at the brim for the gaze of three men whom are only important by cold silver is a thing of great mystery to you, something you do not understand. It is not just mama and Jane and the entirety of your own family however. No, it is all of society. You only wonder what it would be like for a woman to reach beyond the horizon line — to be great. To not be forced upon a man of all creatures to be of true importance.

Mama rushes past, so quickly your hair becomes unruly. She presses her palms firmly against your cheeks — your face piecing together like a swift minnow from the nearby fish pond.

“Oh heavens — if you do even the littlest act so to embarrass me, I am certain to die of great illness. My nerves are far too weak, you must behave for me! Be as sweet Jane is. Sir Plinth’s uncle is of the richest gentleman in Newbury, 5,000 a year! You must converse with him, do it for your dearest mother. Oh! And brush that wild hair from your face, girl. He will think you to be a witch — keep guard at the window.”

Her words are a tangled, knotted mess of all the things you despise. Even whilst tucked away into a place where you do not truly listen, you know well she is asking you to be social for gain of a husband.

You frown, grateful when the headless chicken runs off from you again. Your hand fussses with the wisps rested amongst your forehead — and you obey mama’s orders by sauntering to the creaky old chair that faces the fogged front window.

The fog is a veil, a curtain hiding from you only dread. You are grateful for it now, though it does no good for your locks and tresses. Your eyes dart to the torn book beside you — and you consider disobedience as an alternative to this state. You know well what will happen if you stray, so you do not dare it.

It is an awfully timely and punctual arrival — perhaps ten ticks of the grand, tower clock before the stallion’s snouts peek through the fog. Just as the golden halo sets beyond them.

“Mama!”

You call, but she only waves you away with a busy hand as she continues fussing with the knit table mat. You will not bother it again. You shrink, hiding all but curious eyes behind the lace curtain.

Sejanus is grinning, nervously you think. Then the scowling sister, a small, old creature with a sunken gaze — and the miserable one. They approach, you sink further.

“God Sejanus, smile any more for the poor thing and your pockets will start betraying you.” Grace sneers, voice sewn tightly with disgust at the less fortunate situation your family finds themselves in, glancing around at the quaint, pathetic home. It is as if she believes one breath of hers will cause it to collapse to the soil — to her polished feet.

“Please Grace, she is the prettiest girl I have ever seen. Oh, uncle, her eldest sister is very agreeable as well. Don’t you agree, Snow?”

Oh, he’s asked the cold thing who’s far too proud and rich for a humble party. You’re curious.

“Perfectly tolerable, I suppose. But not pretty enough to tempt me.”

Oh…

Your mischievous, sneaky grin melts into that of a hard line — ample with annoyance. How arrogant of him to say. As if his blonde locks and blue eyes make him any different than the handsome officers that pass by now and then. As if he is some prize. You scowl, Grace’s laugh an unpleasant sound.

Four hard knocks and you are quickly up to your feet.

Mama rushes to you immediately, slapping your hand enough so that it stings greatly and fades the color crimson.

“You were meant to watch! Places, take your stance girls!”

It takes beyond the greatest force to drag your feet to stand beside Jane. Mama checks each forced position anxiously before she tugs the door open wide — with a horrible, eager grin.

“Welcome!”

They trail the moss and dirt onto your oak floors, not bothering to wipe it away on the torn cloth you call a carpet. No need, they believe. The house is pathetic already as it stands. No dirt shall make it any less worthy than it already is.

In unison, a curtsy of greeting becomes all of you. Prim and proper and perfect just as mother groomed you all to be. For preparation of husbands.

Good god, the blonde looks even more dreadful now. Cold eyes darting to the old, harmless hound that chews on a racket ball. He winces at the sight of dust and chipped oak wood furniture surrounding. He looks down upon this place as if it is beneath him.

He far from belongs here.

“Sit, please sit! I’ve already prepared us supper!” Mama practically pushes Sejanus with most nervous palms, and his shadows follow suite.

Though you dream of running through the open door and fading into the mist to never be found again — you obey; sauntering into the archway with tired eyes and reluctant feet.

“My lady…”

Oh.

The short man with bushy brows and coal colored, untamed locks pulls your seat back enough so that you may sit upon it. To your dismay, the miserable one takes place in front of you. His eyes are cast downward to the far from fine silverware laid before him.

“Thank you sir.” You whisper, the chair feeling as though it is determined to suffocate you the longer you sit upon it.

“Oh, Jane — everybody, please meet my uncle, Mr. Casca Highbottom of Bristol.”

You only nod at the grinning old man, and mama rushes back like a midnight breeze through the archway — setting plates filled to the brim with but all of the food left for the entire month. Even so, it remains poor to a gazing eye. Though it matters not how little garnishes the porcelain, for when you catch gaze of miserable Snow pushing his few peas around in disgust, you cannot help but narrow your sight.

How can he be so proud? Certainly, if a humble gathering invited you in for a warm meal in this awful mist — you’d be most grateful for even a singular pea on your plate. Let alone twelve.

Grace laughs at the sight of Snow displeased — placing a soft palm against his knee beneath the cherrywood table. He spares her laugh a glance, and his lip twitches in what appears to be an amused smile. They talk lowly to each other, you notice it from where you peer behind your glass. She must be fond of him what with the way she touches him and leans closer with each word he speaks. You cannot possibly imagine why. Perhaps they are just alike. Rich, rude things.

“So — I dare ask if any suitors captured your heart at the party then?” Grace, she speaks to you now. You snort, ready to offer words of disdain and disgust toward the lot of men and their sweaty palms. Your mother’s cold glare silences you.

“No… they did not.” You mutter in quick defeat.

“Hmm, how dreadful…” it is mock sympathy, noticeable to both you and Jane.

Tension thins to a mere string lacing the table together. Silence blanketing even more so than the mist as worn silverware and mama’s embarsssing tangents erupt in painful harmony. You are grateful for Jane who manages to pry her eyes from Sejanus for a single moment so to save you from mama’s disapproving glare at your silence. She is selling you to the short man, it seems. She has been for the entirety of this meal.

“It is not as though gentlemen do not flock to my dear sister…” Jane starts. “It is simply that she is far too preoccupied with her books to notice them. She is an avid reader, adores her novels you see. She possesses great talents because of it!”

You hoped Jane would be so kind as to avert the attention. Yet it remains stable upon you, the available wife — as cattle with clipped ears. You feel as though you are livestock being powdered and pressed for the market. If the short man is buying, you’d rather be butchered.

He is awkward and stout and his jokes are uncomfortable as they are just rude. He is far from a gentleman and all the reason you deny each hand bestowed to you in the first place. For reason of men like him.

“You write?” Snow inquires.

Those cold, devoid eyes are locked upon you — and despite wishing to send him away to never return so you may be free of his arrogance, you only peer up at his gaze through fanned lashes to see them commanding an answer of you. Awaiting one.

“Occasionally, sir.”

His gaze doesn’t falter, nor does the gaze of Mr. Highbottom, even as he presses a boiled potato to his tongue.

“What of?”

What a silly question, you think. What else would a woman of your age and lack quill about?

It baffles you to find him curious. Perhaps he does not wish to seem obviously rude any more so than he simply is — perhaps he is only creating small talk.

“What else, sir? My thoughts and desires, my ideas. Romance — dramatics…”

“Oh but she just despises poetry!” Mama interjects, as if to end the conversation and refocus it upon your eligibility. Even when she speaks, Snow does not spare her a single glance. His eyes, they still rest upon you.

“You do? I thought poetry to be the food of love.”

You dare a snort then, suffocating a fit of laughter with a spoonful of food. You take your time chewing it, only offering more words when you realize that the conversation does not seem to be at its end. No. It cannot be. Not when he looks at you in a such an expectant manner.

“A poet writes of women in the gaze of all men, which I do not believe to be a true show of adoration. Perhaps it is the food of love — if you want to suffocate it. Stone it till it remains no longer.”

His next words come quick, immediately almost. As if he is grasping at the first chance to reply, much to Highbottom’s dismay whom snaps his mouth shut after losing the opportunity. Every eye in attendance is on the both of you.

Do they think you to be an enigma? You wonder…

“What do you recommend then? To encourage affection between two people…”

You do not know why he asks you this, but you can only assume it is because he wishes to embarrass you. Grace’s sharp gaze morphs into that of an amused smirk. Why would he ask the only woman seated what encourages affection when she cannot obtain it on her own?

You are certain then of his intentions. To mock you in front of Plinth’s sister, his uncle. In front of your blood. He does it so subtlety that if you were not bright as you are — you would most certainly miss it. He is a fool, a great fool because miraculously — you can reciprocate.

“Dancing… even if one’s partner is only tolerable.” You almost sneer with a tilt of your head and raise of your sharp brow.

If something truly clicks within him, it is most quickly dissipated. Most tricky to see. Sejanus clears his throat, and Highbottom — rude creature, erupts into a fit of laughter with a mouthful of food. Your mother is nervous, she joins him.

Grace only gasps, and Jane’s soft features are laced with confusion at the thing only you five are lucky enough to understand.

You remain stoic, challenging his eyes and his tense, twitching jaw with proudness.

“Shall I fetch dessert mama?”

Your mother nods through fits of forced laughter, and you take the opportunity to lift upon your feet. The chair scrapes against the creaky panels and nearly topples as you rush into the quaint kitchen and away from him.

It brings you joy knowing that he has nothing further to say.

You are smiling, terribly overflowed with pride as you place canned, sugared peaches upon ten porcelain plates. How proud he must have felt to speak lowly of you, a girl he spared little words to at a party he refrained from dancing at for it was too poor for his liking.

You disliked him then — but a chat with miss Lucy-Gray Baird while passing by in town confirmed all of your prejudice. She claims to have been treated most coldly by him whilst he was courting her. He offered his hand, then fled into midnight when he grew bored of her. Only the next morning.

He is as any other man is. A heartless hound. His behavior in your small home only further proves your prejudice is with more than enough reason.

You take longer than you should selfishly, and when you return — your gaze locks upon Sejanus who is entirely enamored by the sapphire gaze of Jane.

Mama aids you in placing down the plates you juggle. It is a poor dessert, but one that is most delectable.

“Oh well, your daughter is most precious. Funny, too! How uncommon for women.”

“Oh please uncle, we all have our wit. She is just peculiar, I daresay.”

Mama laughs at Grace’s words, and you only offer a polite, tense smile before being seated once again. It is you now that pushes your food around your plate, fading into the mist truly as you remain silent.

They speak of things you care the least bit for — all irrelevant matters to your mind. You are grateful when wine is poured, you nearly inhale it and garner a slap on your hand once again from mama.

You need it to get thought this.

Highbottom and mama speak of you, she tells him lies. How much you wish to be wed, how eager you are to find a lover. All contradictions of Jane’s earlier lick of truth. The rich fool believes her, his eyes cast upon you like poisonous darts. Slowly suffocating you.

Sejanus is preoccupied entirely by Jane — and the miserable one chats lowly with the scowling sister.

“Well, how about some music and dance? Lizzie, off to the piano!”

Your youngest sister lifts — eager to press her hands against the keys. It will be a mediocre melody but one that offers enough sound so to dance. You wish to stay glued to the table as they leave you to the living space — but mama tugs at your braid harshly, you have no choice other than obedience.

Sejanus kindly offers Jane a hand — and you feel as though you will just sink entirely into the floor as Highbottom approaches. Your heel turns you swift as you try and find even a small bit of space in this little home.

A navy vest with a crimson rose tucked into its pocket cages your escape. You never thought to see the day you’d be grateful for the cold blonde who cuts in front. You nearly collide with him.

“Dance with me.” He commands.

How baffling…

You do not notice the tension settled within your features until your brows ease in confusion. Your chin is pointed upwards — enough so that he can be equal to your gaze.

“Are you asking this of me — or ordering sir?”

His jaw ticks once more, but he does not follow up with any more words. The cleared throat of the short man behind you is enough reason to pick the far less uncomfortable poison. You’d rather be fueled by annoyance as opposed to discomfort and dread. One dance is all.

“Fine.” You mutter, sealing your fate and betraying your swear to be far away from the man whom you loathe entirely.

He is a pale thing up close. Birth marks kissing silken skin, soft as the moss kissing your shoes. You are grateful that this dance does not require touch — only the occasional closeness.

You follow him to where Sejanus and Jane stand — his head nearly reaches your ceiling. His palm hovers over yours, eyes downcast on your pretty features. Grace is scowling, again.

Your fingers twitch as Lizzie begins the sonnet, and you follow his lead.

It surprises you greatly, how well he dances. Though his mouth is a hard line, and his eyes are like round lumps of charred coal. He is noiseless.

“Are we to dance in dread and silence, Mr. Snow? I dare comment on this awful weather, now you may follow with a remark about the food. How much you despised it.”

You catch a glimpse of him, a suppressed twitch of his lips. As if the words offended him. Maybe amused him. You step forward and then back, frayed skirt floating against the movement. He follows suite.

“I could comment on how you dance. I am happy to inform you it is more tasteful than how you cook. Please do advise me on what more you want me to say to you.”

You stumble by his words — and his eyes dart to your clumsy feet. They are stable soon enough, circling him like a shark in vicious waters. His words upset you.

“Mama and Jane prepared the meal. I only prepared the peaches; but I do believe that if a family was kind enough to welcome an abrupt attendance with a warm meal — I would not be so complacent about its contents. You see — we are not all so fortunate to have garnered inheritance, Mr. Snow.” A cold melody, but one he would be a fool to ignore. It is all true.

Now it is him that halts. He steps forward, dipping his head low. Your eyes wander to his gloved palm — it clenches then flexes outward; all evidence of his annoyance with your words.

There you both stand, Sejanus and Jane alongside the twins, mama and Highbottom swirling around you. You do not know where Grace lurks.

You both are still, he stands a tower above you. His eyes pour heat into your own, admonishing you — offended with your words. It is as if the room is only filled with the two of you, the lace of connection between you just your anger. Even in your short time being familiar, it is strong.

“Do you imply that my inheritance is all the reason for my success?” He forces through clenched — perfect teeth.

“Perhaps I do sir, miss Baird of Newbury certainly agree—”

The hand that lays against your side is snatched into his own. He squeezes it tight now, eyes wide and swimming with disapproval and frustration. It has been resting at the surface, but bound to crack.

“Oh I’m certain she does. I am sure she told you the many tales of her troubles and woes brought upon by her time spent with me. You won’t speak to her again.”

It is you that steps forward now, so laced with upset that you do not notice your poor and worn shoes are stepping upon his tip toes. Up upon the rich and shined leather. Your chin is pointed upward, your stance tense.

“You command me as if I am wed to you sir, but I am not. You have come here, unannounced and unhappy with your humble plate as if we are all but a quaint inn with poor maids. Just because we gather little and obscure and we do not have pockets as generous and full as yours does not make us beneath you, Mr. Snow.”

The music halts, and your eyes shift quickly to find a concerned Jane gazing on — alongside your horrified mother. How crazed you both must look now. Stepping upon his toes with palms clasped — anger and upset becoming you both.

You release his gloved hand and part your soft lips to dismiss yourself — yet a strike of lightning cracking from above the grayed sky is a gift given, a distraction from beyond. Yet alongside it? A curse.

The horses startle, lifting to their hind legs before running far and fast with the carriage. Grace cries out from where she sulked in the shadows, and Sejanus alongside his uncle run after the wild beasts. Your sisters and mama follow.

“What are we to do!?”

“Grace, please be calm. We will fetch them.”

“We cannot travel in these conditions, boy.”

“You may rest here!”

Dread is a serpent that wraps tight round your throat — making the pounding of your heart halt entirely.

It is all a blur, but by the end of the lively conversation it is decided. They will stay. They will all stay. You bow your head, crossing your arms round the beating at your chest so to protect it.

“Excuse me.” You whisper, so low it is taken with the breeze from the open door before rushing up your dilapidated steps; knowing full well that the hospitality offered by mama, selfish reasoning or not, is the last thing a man like Mr. Snow deserves…

[fae-cookie-run-madness]

Who do you believe was responsible for cutting Dark Choco hair in your AUs (Both of them)? Since in a lot of Asian cultures, and that is especially present in both cultures Dark Cacao and Mystic Flour were inspired by, cutting one's hair was seen as a horrible thing to do. I don't see either version of Dark Choco doing so (not out of his own free will at least) as that was seen as a very disrespectful thing to do to your parents. Maybe one of the Cookies of Darkness since cutting someone's hair was seen as a way to shame someone?

We definitely took inspiration from both cultures, especially about the long hair.

So, for the Dark Cacao Kingdom (in both aus), long hair is common. As hair especially is seen as a gift from your parents (sense for the warrior nation you can't exactly control cuts and scars on the skin). So, while hair can be cut, typically this rare and mostly done by parents (often only a little to keep it health).

There are a few exceptions, if hair needs to be cut to help seal a wound (can't really stop the healing process). An adult who loses both parents might cut their own hair (Seen in the Second Watcher). Sometimes there is just breakage or just hair that has been ripped out. Sometimes a child is an orphan and doesn't have a family for their hair to be a gift from, typically they do whatever they want with their hair, but instead of it seen as a pride for family it's a reminder they don't have one.

Crunchy Chip is example of an orphan, so he cut his own hair short, to resemble the cream wolves he considers his family. Though in CoB eventually Mystic start to cut his hair for him (she happily takes that role for a lot of children who lose their parents).

Tied to Fate au

In Tied to Fate, Dark Choco always planned to go back home. When he figures out what made him attack his father, he would correct for it and then go back and apologize on his knees if he had too.

However, as he got caught up with the Cookies of Darkness, Pomegranate took a knife and cut his hair. Basically, saying that the prince of the Dark Cacao Kingdom is dead and he need to stop acting like he's still alive. Which makes Dark Choco feel sad, that if he goes back, his father will see the short hair as spiteful against him. And Dark Enchantress sees this and slowly poisons Dark Choco against his father.

Children of Beasts au

In Children of Beasts au it was technically Dark Choco, but it was more so the spirit in the Strawberry Jam sword. The Spirit took over Dark Choco's body for about a week. However, on the run, it saw the wanted signs of the missing prince (returned alive of course) and realize that currently its host is too recognizable. So, the Spirit, in possession of Dark Choco's body, makes him take the sword and slice away his long hair, even going as far as trying to cut the white bangs shorter so they stand out less.

When Dark Choco finally wakes up and gets his body back, when he sees his reflection, he is horrified. His connection to his parents, his pride to his family chopped away.

In his panic state, another cookie tried to help, and his high emotions cause his power to activate, turning him into flour....oops.

[lilacartsmadsion]

“You want perfection? I’LL SHOW YOU PERFECTION!”

——————————————

“Do not invoke The Nameless One’s Wrath”

That was the warning The Apoditic One spoke. To the Wizards and To the Whole of Earthbread.

Except…The Wizards did not heed that warning…

Long ago, when Wizard City was ruled by the gods known as Wizards recruited The Nameless One to create a plethora of Cookies to harness the power of the Moon.

Time and time again…The Wizards would deny creation after creation from the god, until he finally was able to create a cookie of their desires.

Once the Slumbering Moon was born, the Wizards praised her existence…while the rest of her essence were scattered to the horizon…

While the Wizards celebrated…taking the credit for the creation of The Slumbering Moon and no longer acknowledging the existence of countless other life forms that helped make her…The Nameless One suffered.

For the Nameless One loved all his creations, even the Beasts who dared to rebel against him caused him to grieve them when he sealed them away…

He watched as time and time again did the Wizards discard the essence of his Creations into the abyss, frantically searching for a way back, he watched as they suffered and were heartlessly buried as test subjects in the soils of Earthbread.

He could not take the suffering anymore, in his anguish and fury the Nameless One let out a guttural cry. All those who heard it bowed their heads in fear, with the exception of the False Gods, The Wizards.

Through the Darkness the rest of the gods fled the wrath of The Nameless One as he channeled his own emotions into the most powerful of doughs…

The Ultimate Dough. With his sheer wrath, a cookie born from darkness was born out of the anger of the god. She drove away The Wizards upon his command. “See to it that these False Gods learn their place in this world!”

Like cowards the Wizards ran from the gates of Wizard City, for a while, the sky was red as Strawberry Jam…and there was silence…

Once the false gods had fled from the lands of Earthbread The Nameless One commanded. “Let all who trespass into this land learn my wrath, see to it that none shall enter here again.”

And just like that…stationed in the very borders of Earthbread, The Pillars of Darkness guard the Outside World with an Iron Fist. None shall enter and None shall leave.

Beware the Wrath of the Nameless One, for The Dark Enchantress will consume you into the endless Abyss.

—————————

So yeah that’s DE’s backstory in this AU. This is why she can’t have started the Dark Flour War.

In this AU Gingerbrave killed all the Witches so WL wouldn’t have gone to the feast. She did travel to Beast Yeast where Gingerbrave spends most his time

However as I said DE still exists. Just in a different way. She’s stationed as a guardian of Earthbread placed at its borders to keep from things like Witches and Wizards. (Minus the Witches)

Also yes those are Gingerbrave’s eyes, he started putting makeup as a reminder for Mystic Flour Cookie, the only Beast who saw his true face.

Some of the words in this story are ‘overdramatized’ as they are words based on the interpretations of Cookies. No one actually knows what Gingerbrave said, not even Moonlight Cookie who was there during the story.

Inspirations for DE’s design

For Mystic I just took her necklace. I mostly based her off of Pomegranate here. And since I wanted to give a nod to her original backstory, I decided to add some inspirations from WL’s hair and gloves. As well as making DE’s dress gradient to White. As well as make her dress resemble the petal of a flower.

[aziraphales-library]

Hello, thank you for your hard work, you page is really useful!

I’m looking for some Hades and Persephone AU fics since I’m obsessed with the idea of our favorite angel and demon as Greek gods, but I suck at scrolling through Ao3 tags. Is there any chance you can find them?

Hi. There is an Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore) tag on ao3. Combine that with a Good Omens tag of your choice and you will only have a couple of pages to look through. Here's a selection...

beneath the weigth of the goodness by ashms (E)

A retelling of the myth of Hades and Persephone. The Underworld god Crowley falls in love with the god of agriculture Aziraphale and abduct him.

Pomegranate Seeds In Your Heart by WaitingToBeBroken (T)

Persephone/Hades AU In which Crowley is the god of the Underworld, calls Aziraphale 'petal' and is his normal protective and oblivious self. Enter Aziraphale, the god of spring, whose only problem with visiting his friend is that he is not allowed to eat anything. Throw in the fact that he can make flowers grow from underneath his feet but is, also, very oblivious to their meaning and you get a fluffy retelling of our most beloved myth.

Of Roses and Pomegranates by pilatesandpinot (E)

Flower nymph Aziraphale is about to take her vows of maidenhood in honor of the goddess Artemis, but she can’t bring herself to turn her back from the dryad who’s captured her heart, Crowley. To be with the one she loves and redefine her destiny, Aziraphale runs into the dark forest of Arcadia, where Crowley serves as a guardian, and makes the ultimate vow. A retelling of the Hades and Persephone myth.

The Myth of Aziraphale by Shay_Moonsilk (E)

“I didn’t really Fall,” Crowley reflected, twisting the apple about in his hands. “Just, you know. Sauntered vaguely downwards.” “Downwards, into ruling the Underworld?” Aziraphale asked, unable to keep the dubiousness out of his voice. He kept his gaze on the demon’s face, lest he be tempted to eat the apple and seal his fate to Crowley. It did look rather tempting. The King shrugged and said, “Promotions come easy to me,” and took a large bite, though it was Aziraphale himself that felt devoured. --- Armageddon never happened. Crowley is the King of Hell. Aziraphale doesn't want to get married to an angel he doesn't love. Perhaps time in the underworld will help them find the answers they need.

When Earth Freezes Over by WorseOmens (NR)

When Earth freezes over, it’s springtime for the Underworld — but it wasn’t always that way. Aziraphale, God of Spring, was once isolated from the other gods by his overbearing mother. Crowley, God of the Underworld, wanted him to take the freedom he deserved — and all it took, in the end, was a little piece of fruit, and a lot of temptation. (Good Omens Hades & Persephone AU)

The God Below by ChubbyHornedEquine (M)

In order to have good crops, a spring & summer, every year someone is sacrificed to The God Below. (Hades/Persephone/A dash of beauty and the beast inspired AU.)

- Mod D

[bunkieprime]

Ancient Night AU

All of the Ancients fall into the Ultimate dough but they manage to escape but their soul jams leave behind traces of the ancients that get baked into Dark Enchantress.

Red Velvet is adopted by White Lily and Pure Vanilla and he only has one arm but he’s happy with his new mom and dad.

After Dark Enchantress is sealed away, Pure Vanilla is put into a coma from the explosion and his friends are devastated. They place him in a special coffin with locks that can only be opened by the soul jams. When they leave, as a last cruel joke, Dark Enchantress seals off the Vanilla kingdom, preventing anyone from entering it to see if Pure Vanilla is alive.

Dark Cacao begins to worry that dark forces will use his son and unleash Dark Enchantress back into the world. He sends out search parties to find his son and destroy the Strawberry Jam Sword.

Hollyberry’s appoints Pitaya Dragon as her kingdom’s guardian after Tiger Lily goes missing, often heading out to see is she can find her but never finding anything which leaves her feeling defeated

Golden Cheese’s kingdom isn’t destroyed but she did lose almost all of her people (not by death, they all evacuated but they were displaced) except for Burnt Cheese, Smoked Cheese, Mozzarella and Fettuccine.

White Lily takes refuge in Beast Yeast with Elder Faerie and Red Velvet follows her. However, Pomegranate brainwashes RV and makes him bake the Cake army (yes he gets his cake arm in the process)

Years pass and GingerBrave and his friends come into play. Dark Enchantress creates an illusion of Pure Vanilla Cookie and she ends up using that to make GingerBrave and Friends release her. Upon her release, she cackles and says that Pure Vanilla is most likely dead by now as no one can access his castle which horrifies GingerBrave and Co.

Right after this, Dark Cacao emerges and he is upset that four kids and a young adult were tricked into freeing DE. He introduces himself as Cacao Cookie and he joins their party, saying that he’s searching for his son Dark Choco Cookie. They find Dark Choco and Cacao freaking tackle hugs him, making him drop the Strawberry Jam Sword and freeing Choco’s mind. Cacao apologizes again and again for being a terrible father because he was too focused on keeping Choco safe. Choco and Cacao are crying messes by the end of it and Cacao is like “fuck it, you’re staying by my side because I want to mend our relationship.”

Red Velvet and Pastry’s altercation happens and RV is snapped out of his Brain washed state and he is PISSED. He has the Cake Army attack Pomegranate and Pastry starts helping him attack Pomegranate. After Pomegranate flees, RV has a long cry because he is deeply upset about what he was forced to do. Pastry comforts him and they secretly start dating

The first Kingdom the Squad visits is the Hollyberry Kingdom. Hollyberry’s been away for a while (hunting down her missing granddaughter) and Pitaya Dragons been acting weird. Cacao witnesses Shady Noble putting something in Pitaya’s Berry juice and Pitaya looks like they’re trying to resist something before they attack. Hollyberry arrives, unfortunately she has to beat the snot out of Pitaya and after they’re freed from the mind control, Pitaya points out the Shady Noble (who gets Tackled by Cacao because he tried to run) and the Shady Noble is arrested. Pitaya apologizes for anything they did while the mind control was active and they go to get some rest. Hollyberry and Cacao share a kiss and Hollyberry puts a ring on Cacao’s finger, basically saying that She’s gonna marry Cacao once DE is defeated for good

The Cacao Kingdom is next and Cacao is PISSED that Affogato userped his throne, banished his best watcher (Carrow), almost starved multiple villages (thank god for Hollyberry bringing 10 army’s worth of food) as well as bragging about being the reason Choco went after the sword because he was mad that Caramel Arrow was Dating Choco. Cacao confronts them and Pomegranate casts a spell on him, making him go berserk but this time he brutally attacks the CoD, sending them running before he calms down.

The next thing that happens is the Golden Cheese Kingdom. Let’s just say it goes 10 times smoother because Golden Cheese didn’t digitize everything. Smoked Cheese also doesn’t try to steal the soul jam but instead he gives it to Golden Cheese as she was using it as a power source. Burnt Cheese is expressing slight annoyance as he has no idea where the rest of the Golden Cheese Kingdom citizens went but Golden Cheese says that she has her little family and that they’re her greatest treasure.

The last kingdom to come into play is the Silver Kingdom (White Lily brings the Silver Kingdom with her when she returns to Crispia). Cacao and Elder Faerie get along right away and Choco points out how similar they look.

Finally we get to the Creme Republic. The meeting takes place in the Cookie Kingdom and Clotted Cream explains that there might be a way to break the barrier over the Vanilla Kingdom. The Ancients are intrigued when Elder Faerie chimes in and he mentions the Beasts. The ancients are a bit shocked except for White Lily who’s been putting up with Shadow Milk shenanigans for a while now. However, the Beasts have no interest to reclaim their Soul Jams because they realize that their successors are better off with them. Clotted Cream invites the Ancients and their friends/families to the Creme Republic so that they can figure out a way to get to Beast Yeast because White Lily was carried by Elder Faerie back to Crispia. The soul jam shenanigans happen but at the same time, something else is going down

Caviar mentions to The Ancients and GingerBrave that he has a crewmate named Pearl Cookie who is on the reserved side. Cacao asks why she’s so reserved and Caviar says that he doesn’t know why she’s like this. Suddenly they hear a voice that is a pure as a harp but contaminated by sadness. It’s Pearl Cookie. However a voice responds to her and she becomes confused. Gingerbrave, Wildberry, Crunchy Chip and Clotted Cream ask if they can accompany Pearl Cookie to find the voice

[thealphavoidofficial]

So new CRK Au idea, guess what! it’s a SWAP AU! :D

So I still gotta draw the designs down but here is a chart showing all the roles that are swapped:

And here are some fun facts before I make the actual lore and story with them :)

GingerBrave: He has scars and burn marks from his time in the Witches Castle and a Shit-Tom of trauma :), his brother Dozer had died, being burnt alive and eaten in front of him, he has Pyrophobia.

Wizard Cookie: His backstory is kinda similar to Licorice Cookies, and he has OCD

Licorice Cookie: Like OG Wizard Cookie he was baked in the Witches castle, he is rather skittish and rather attention seeking, like his OG counterpart he feels like nobody takes him seriously and always feels like he has to prove himself as a valuable member of the team, he has abandonment issues,

Crimson Velvet (Evil PV): In this Au he went with White Lily to the witches feast and fell into the Ultimate Dough instead of her, however due to mental trauma and slight amnesia from being in a slumbering state in the Void for so long she doesn’t quiet recall it that well.

Pure Vanilla: After falling into the Ultimate dough it had split him in 2, creating Crimson Velvet, after sealing him away he was teleported to the Faerie Kingdom in Beast-Yeast, where he had sacrificed most of his Half-life to strengthen the seal, going in a half-dead comatose state.

White Lily Cookie: She plays a similar role to her OG counterpart and OG Pure Vanilla, like the OG universe she does not have a Kingdom and preferred to wander the land and visit the other kingdoms, she had assisted Pure Vanilla in casting the Dark Moon Magic spell that sealed away Crimson Velvet, getting sent to the Void in the process.

StrawBerry Cookie: Much like OG Pomegranate Strawberry Cookie is very devoted to Crimson Velvet, willing to do anything for him. She also has a slight insecurity when it comes to their looks, preferring to hide her face in her veil.

Pomegranate Cookie: She is rather shy in this Au, like OG Strawberry she was baked in the Witches Castle, she prefers to hide herself in her cloak and rarely takes the hood off.

Chilly Pepper Cookie: She was found and adopted by Crimson Velvet and had her body modified with Cake parts, she sees the cake beasts as her partners in crime and performs several raids with them.

Red Velvet Cookie: After Crimson Velvet exploded The Oven he ran from the Witches Castle and into the world, having to steal to survive, soon meet and befriending a young Cake Hound, whom he named Chiffon, he has trust issues.

Dark Choco Cookie: Like in the OG universe he attack his father Dark Cacao Cookie with the Strawberry Jam sword, however after being banished he abandoned the sword immediately, instead wandering the land as a sort of Vigilante protecting villages from Cake Beasts.

Custard Cookie III: He was found as a mere infant and raised by Crimson Velvet inside of the Tower, although his Healing magic is stronger then his physical Attacks, he can be a formidable opponent in battle, do not underestimate his young and small appearance.

[itsyamajesty]

Rising Carkol

Thats the name of Rising Charcoal PMD AU

That's the post

Go home everybody

Jk here is Rising Charcoal Friday, it was a pretty bad school week but pretty good art week

Also I did draw the friends of all time BUT I kept them separate so cope

Some of these are sorta messy but y'all don't mind, right?

Yeah, I wasn't gonna reveal Midnight's eyes, but I realize that is nowhere near the most important thing to keep secret so there. Girl is creepy

Ranting you know me

Agar Agar drawing is VERY concept since I had no reference, but I wanted to include her because she is pretty important. Instead of Pomegranate getting her out of the well, a very tired Fire Spirit recently introduced to the concept of corrupting and quitting his job won that race. He picked her up, put her down and said "Heyyyyy, what do you think of an unpaid internship as the new fire elemental???" and she's like "what". After getting their shit together, Lightningstriker and Frozen Queen (working name) got together and forced the legendaries to... kinda do their jobs again. Most of them slack off a little because busy being corrupted, so Agar Agar picks up the slack and does the work they don't. She gets offerings from mortals to continue doing this, but is otherwise an unpaid intern.

Anyway not much else other than that is not canonically how the faerie reunion went, just a joke. Though on the topic, twas very sad. Elder Faerie was very sure all the faeries were dead or in a far worse situation that I'm on the fence about being canon. Meanwhile Silverbell and Mercurial were stuck in "if the guardian is dead then damnit" and "if the guardian is alive we abandoned him then DAMNIT". Second is true and so the 2 feel extreme guilt they left Elder Faerie for dead without knowing it. Elder Faerie was just glad to see any faeries lived though. As implied, he met Silverbell first, and absolutely lost his mind when he saw Mercurial made it aswell. He isn't... too mad that they abandoned him. There wasn't anything good waiting for them if he was found.

Also Mercurial lost his wings in the "Fall of Faeriewood". Don't think I said that or have clearly implied it

Also deceit duo kinda popping off. Didn't mention it, but Crowkie is lead by Black Raisin, Strawberry Crepe, Silverbell, Mercurial, AND the beast-yeast epic cookies. The faeries, beast servants, and non-beast servants like Peach Blossom were forced to survive on scraps or flee as the Steel Seal (working on that concept) and the factories were created. Steel Seal obviously being something in the Silver Kingdom, meanwhile factories were everywhere, but focused on the previous domains of the beasts. The alliance between the beast servants and the rest WERE shakey, but 17-16-ish years forces growth

But yeah deceit duo is the least deceived characters, they got a glance at the scripts

Huh a lot of Crowkie. Reminds me I have to do Raven's Maw at some point

[cosmicroadkill]

The rest of the Cookies I have for my shapeshifter AU

GingerBrave-North American River Otter Strawberry-North American Beaver Wizard-North American Raccoon Custard III-Lamb Chili Pepper-North American Cougar

Dark Enchantress-West Asian Ibex Pomegranate-Red-Crowned Crane Dark Choco-Siberian Tiger Licorice-Siberian Weasel Poison Mushroom-Raccoon Dog Red Velvet-Coywolf Affogato-Amur Leopard

Espresso-Somali Cat Madeleine-Great Pyrenees Almond-Belgian Malinois Eclair-Western Grey Squirrel Tea Knight-European Elk Clotted Cream-European Polecat Financier-Vizsla Captian Caviar-Grey Seal Mulled Juice-Red Fox Elder Custard-Boar

Crunchy Chip-Mongolian Wolf Caramel Arrow-Korean Water Deer Wildberry-Maremanna Bull Princess-European Badger Knight-Destier Horse Black Raisin -Carrion Crow Strawberry Crepe-Fennic Fox Smoked Cheese-Peregrine Falcon Burnt Cheese-Pharoah Hound Mozzarella-Zebu Fettuccini-Sand Cat

Peach Blossom-Peacock Cloud Haetae-Xaisi Nutmeg Tiger-Bangel Tiger Candy Apple-Bumblebee Bat Black Sapphire-Flying Fox Mercurial Knight-European Hornet Silver Bell-Ashy Mining Bee

Vampire-Vampire Bat Rockstar-Mainecoon Milk-Polar Bear Yam-Indian Crested Porcupine

Millennial Tree-White-Tailed Deer Wind Archer-Resplendent Quetzle Fire Spirit-Dibokali Sea Fairy-Mute Swan Moonlight-Barn Owl Frost Queen-Snow Leopard Elder Faerie-Lunar Moth

[jasmineway]

Pasjoli // 1-17-25

My friend and I caught wind of an early special over at the one-star Pasjoli down on Santa Monica's Main Street, and we decided to escape the existential dread with a light, lovely meal that was the perfect pause to the heaviness.

Course 1: ravioli

fromage blanc, fried maitake, fennel

I don't know how they packed so much flavor into such a small bite (and believe me, it was a small bite), but this 3-by-3 wafer-think pillow of ravioli before me had the same umami / rich satisfaction of a full cheese plate in 4 bites. Not a single element was redundant - every bite contributed a necessary element to making it taste to good (yes, even the foam - texture matters, and a dollop of ricotta would have broken the airy-dense oxymoron). Tiny, but delicious.

Course 2: parisian gnocchi

butternut squash, caramelized fennel, pomegranate, apple cider beurre monté

This may have been the greatest gnocci I have ever had in my life. The crisp edges, the fluffy core, the outstanding sauce, perfectly showcased by fresh crimson pomegranate and candied greens--all spectacular. My dining companion picked this plate, but we shared both mains. A true, rare, 9/10.

Course 2: steak (supplement)

6oz hanger, sauce au poivre, potato pavé

As a steak connoisseur, the texture was not my favorite for this one, as it felt more like a roast and needed to much cut to win the seal of approval. That being said, the flavors were excellent, and the potato pave was superb - crisp, fluffy, and embedded in sauce without getting gooey.

Course 3: soufflé (supplement)

70% valrhona chocolate, vanilla ice cream, candied almonds

I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to find good souffle. And I mean real souffle, not lava cake called souffle, not mousse posing as souffle, not any of the many, many desserts many menus will accuse of being souffle and end up serving an imposter. Pasjoli had a real souffle. The flavor was rich, the ice cream complemented well, the rise was modest which made sense given the still liquid (but thankfully minimally liquid) heart inside.

Souffle is one of the few desserts I prefer 'out' than baked at home due to my recognition of just how hard it is to get the texture just right, so this is not a dig at the chef (the souffle was delicious!) but--my search continues.

Final Thoughts

At one Michelin star, with the flavors and execution to warrant it, Pasjoli was an excellent choice for a fun evening with a little bit of 'treat-yourself' with a friend. I reccomend the early menu as a half-meal in between a more robust lunch and dinner, as I did leave hungry, but that was I think by design given the missed two courses by picking the express (as a not-salad person, I didn't see much benefit to doing the full menu).

Until next time!

[uruhead-art]

cuties uwu

[bow-eros]

Pomegranate seal, why did you choose me

prompt list!

“Why did you choose me?” Hero asks with a little smile. His fingers slide under Doom’s chin, cuddled next to doom where they’re both in the ambrosia pools hidden beneath the castle in the Underworld. A long day of work decidedly means a long rest in the baths, trying to work away some of the stress and soreness. 

“Choose you?” Doom asks, eyes opening to glance down at Hero down the length of his nose.

“You definitely chose me, husband. Don’t be coy.”

Doom hums for a moment, his hand cupping Hero’s side more firmly and pulling him closer, their sides pressed together. “It’s been years since I chose you, Persephone, there are countless reasons why I love you now.”

“Of course, but initially? Why me? You could’ve had anyone at all, my handsome Lord.” Hero grins as Doom snorts at his comment, but touches Doom’s face again, cupping his cheek. “Why me?” he asks softer.

“... I couldn’t stand not to have something so beautiful,” Doom hums. “Greed, and lust, and fear of letting the world lose something like you to the monstrosities that live up on Olympus with masks made to make them look like kind and benevolent strangers. I wanted to keep your precious innocence away from those who would corrupt you, wilt you, my flower.”

Hero’s hair has not been blonde in a long while - not while Hero has the chance to keep it the dark brunette that matches his husband’s, or the mix of the two to show his own transition between Underworld and Overworld. He’s changed so much since he came to Hades, with two children, his friends, the gardens. Cerberus, even. Especially Doom himself.

“It’s likely not the romantic answer that you wanted to hear,” Doom sounds a bit embarrassed now, reaching up to gently scratch his neck. “It’s my own flaws that caused me to keep you like a trapped bird, Persephone. I fell in love with you, but not the love I feel now - a sick, twisted fantasy of keeping you innocent and pure while being able to do what I pleased with you. It was not a good reason why I wanted you, my love.”

Hero watches him, blinking intermittently before he just smiles, leaning up to press a kiss to Doom’s cheek. “At least you’re honest. And you like me more now, don’t you?”

Doom’s face turns a soft pink, and he’ll grin toothily. “More than you know.”

[branchcbranches-blog]

HaDoom receives an influx of flowers in the 2 weeks leading up to the first day of winter.

Just a fuckton of crocuses, begonias, dahlias… all in beautiful purples and reds, sneaking in through the mouth of the underworld and scattering petals down the steps…

- ig

[ersatz-art]

A very angry Persephero that I did for an ask response.

This is the first thing I drew on my Huion! In CLIP Studio Paint! Wow!

Support me on Patreon? Buy me a Ko-fi?

[uruhead]

And then Doom finds out the asshole stealing his dog is one of his many, many, many nephews and he nearly has an aneurysm. He’s gonna have some fightin’ words with his brother.

“Get him to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop stealing my fucking dog.”

“Maybe Cerberus wants to go with, have you considered that?”

“Tell him to stop, or else.”

[nateezfics]

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

PAIRING — hongjoong x reader

GENRE — smut, greek mythology au, hades!hongjoong, persephone!reader, fem!reader, dom!hongjoong, sub!reader

WARNINGS — smut, unprotected sex, fingering, marking, corruption, sexual langue/dirty talk

WORD COUNT — 2.1k

SUMMARY — for underworldnet’s season of love event day three, something sweet.

You had tasted the most delectable of fruits, delighting yourself in an endless abundance in your mother Demeter’s gardens. All your life as a goddess you were spoiled with fruits that ran full with the sweetest juices.

You never imagined how those flavors would grow bitter in comparison to the taste of a handful of pomegranate seeds. You never expected the lips of the god of the dead to be sweeter than anything your tastebuds had ever touched.

You never knew yourself to be a glutton, but as his fingers pushed another pomegranate seed through your lips, you were suddenly insatiable. The seed overwhelmed your tongue with its tart sweetness, and you relished in it, humming in satisfaction.

Hongjoong smirked, sharp eyes locked onto the sight of his fingers pressing into your lips. His free hand traveled up your thigh, gathering the silk fabric of your dress and hiking it upwards. His palm felt the goosebumps on your skin, and he delighted himself in the way you whimpered as his hand sunk underneath your dress. “Have you always had a taste for sweet things, goddess?”

You gazed down at him through hazy eyes. He was a sight to behold, sitting underneath you, back reclined into his throne casually, power effortlessly exuding from him. You leaned into his touch, his fingers grazing against your bottom lip. “Yes,” you replied, your voice quiet yet loud with arousal. His eyes left your lips to meet yours, and your heart fluttered at the intensity of his gaze. “But I have a much greater taste and hunger for you.”

His eyes deepened and they were like endless pools of obsidian looking up at you. You saw the way desire swam in them; it was the same desire that steadily grew between your legs, and the same desire that filled the throne room with a thickness that rested heavy on your body. Hongjoong’s fingers pressed into the seem of your lips. “Then feast on me until you have your fill.”

But you could never have enough. The moment you stepped foot in the Underworld your fate was sealed; the pomegranate seeds weren’t the only thing that bound you here. It was him, the god of the dead and king of the Underworld. It was him, the god that your mother despised. It was him, the forbidden fruit you were never supposed to taste.

Your lips wrapped around his fingers, tongue lapping at them as they plunged into your mouth. You hummed at the taste of his skin. The rings adorning his fingers were cold against your lips.

“And what if I told you that I hunger for you, too?” Hongjoong’s hand that had been under your dress reached further until his fingers met with your bare sex. You were soaked, and he was eager to plunge two of his fingers into your heat. He watched intently as your face contorted in pleasure, your eyelids fluttering shut as you reveled in the pleasure he offered you. You were warm and tight around his digits, your walls greedily enclosing around him.

Mewls and whimpers spilled from your lips, the sounds slightly muffled by Hongjoong’s fingers. You rocked against his hand in eager desire to chase the building high while your hands rested against his chest. You were happy to take as much as he was willing to give, and with the way he continued to plunge his fingers deep into your sex, it seemed as if his generosity knew no limits. It should’ve been alarming, the way he was able to weaken you so quickly, able to melt you down to a smoldering mess. His deft fingers were quick to reach the most sensitive spot; so effortlessly it was as if he’d been exploring your body for all of eternity. There was an eternity with him to look forward to, an eternity you’d gladly spend just like this, suspended on his lap while he filled you full of the most intoxicating euphoria.

“You’re so pretty like this,” Hongjoong whispered. His voice was reverent, and he worshipped you with his touch. “So pretty stuffed with my fingers.” Long gone was the innocent goddess he had first met in the gardens. You had been so beautiful then, sun kissed skin and bright, wide eyes. Flowers adorned your head and cascaded down the lengths of your hair, and the faintest blush painted your cheeks. His heart was your prisoner the moment you gazed up at him through fluttering lashes, and he was certain then that he would have you for all eternity. Now you were straddled across his lap as you fucked yourself on his fingers, your body soft and pliable from the euphoria, and your skin flushed from arousal. Your hair was a mess of curls and strands hung loosely over your face. And your lips glistened with drool while your eyes rolled backwards at every curl of his digits. You had never looked more divine than you did in this moment.

Your high took you by storm, and he was there to be your solid ground, guiding you through it with soft kisses and praises against your neck. His fingers fell from your mouth so he could wrap his arm around your waist, holding you steady against him. You shook as you fell from your high, fingers curling into his shirt as an attempt for you to ground yourself.

Hongjoong rested his forehead against yours, eyes watching you closely. He smiled fondly as you breathed, air escaping your mouth in heavy pants. “You look the most beautiful when you come undone for me.” He removed his fingers from your sex and brought them near his lips. You watched through hazy eyes as his tongue lapped at his slick fingers, and despite just coming off your previous high, your core reignited with new arousal. The god groaned as he tasted you. “You’re delectable. So fucking sweet. Makes me want to feast on you from the source.”

You moaned when he pulled you against him until you felt the hardness of his erection against your bare sex.

“But as much as I would love to do just that, I can’t deny my own need anymore.” Hongjoong guided your hips back and forth over his erection, and you both moaned at the friction. “I desire to take you. To fill you so full you’ll feel me for all eternity. Would you like that? Want me to fuck you, hm?”

You should have denied him, should have ran as far away from the god of the dead as possible. Your mother warned you to steer clear of him; but here you were, upon him and his throne and so deep within his grasp with no way of escape. The pomegranate seeds weren’t what bound you here. Your desire was. And you were perfectly content to remain within the Underworld if it meant an eternity with him. Your eyes were resolute as they looked into his, and with one word you sealed your fate. “Yes.”

Hongjoong brought your lips to his in a searing kiss. His hands were all over you just as yours sank down to palm his erection. This earned you a low groan from the god below, and the sound shot arousal directly to your core, and suddenly all you cared about was hearing that again. You stroked him over his trousers until you could feel the dampness of precum against your palm. You felt powerful with the king of the Underworld and the dead underneath you, groans of pleasure slipping from his mouth at your touch. “You could unravel me in every way, bring my entire kingdom to its knees with just your touch alone.”

He spoke those words with such conviction you were left with no room for doubt. Pride and arousal flooded your veins; you’d never felt more like a goddess than you did in this moment. You worked to free his cock, and he aided you in slipping his pants down to his knees. You took a moment to admire the beauty that stood erect between his thighs. He was godly in every way, his cock thick and glistening at the tip with precum. You wrapped your fingers around him, and he hissed at the contact immediately. Your thumb swiped across his tip, smearing his arousal all over the head of his cock. You were content to worship his cock despite your raging need, but the calling of your name broke your attention.

Hongjoong watched you closely, eyes darker than they had been before. He replaced your hand with his own and guided his cock to your entrance. “Sit. Sit on your throne, goddess.”

You sank onto him slowly, taking him in inch by inch. You groaned at the stretch, pussy aching in the best way as you accommodated his size. You relished in the foreign yet incredible feeling of being full. Your eyes found his just as his cock sheathed completely in your tight heat, and you could have unraveled there and then.

Hongjoong’s hands gripped your hips as he urged himself to remain still. You were so tight and warm and wet, it took everything in him not to buck his hips into you. In all the centuries he’d endured, he’d never found someone as perfect as you. “It’s like you were made for me, made to take my cock so perfectly. You’re absolutely divine.”

It wasn’t long before you couldn’t endure the stillness anymore. You tentatively rocked your hips against him, and the pleasure was immediate. You mewled, continuing the motion before fully lifting your hips upward until just his head remained within. You came back down, taking him fully again, and the both of you cursed aloud. “O-oh!”

Hongjoong readjusted his hold on you. “Feels good? Do that again. Fuck yourself with my cock.”

You did as he said, bouncing on his cock over and over, steadily increasing your pace. Your thighs soon began to burn, and your knees ached from being bent for so long. Your pace became sloppy as you grew tired, but you were desperate to keep going.

Suddenly your vision was spinning. Your ass met the throne’s cushion as Hongjoong flipped you underneath him, his body now hovering over you. He withdrew himself out of you and slammed himself back in, the force so strong it shook your frame. He repeated this over and over until you were clawing at his back. “I could never tire of having you like this. You’re so fucking perfect, and you’re all mine. Mine to have just like this, splayed out on my throne with your legs spread wide for me as I fuck you. My goddess, my queen.”

Goddess of spring, queen of the Underworld. Those were your titles now, but before you were either of those you were his. And you didn’t care what the aftermath of this would be.

Hongjoong’s hands tugged at your dress until your sleeves fell from your shoulders, revealing your breasts to him. He leaned forward to capture one of your nipples between his teeth, eliciting a whimper from you. You arched into him just as he used his hand to show affection to your other breast, palm kneading the soft flesh. He uttered soft praises against your skin while leaving marks all across your chest. His hips kept their pace, his cock hitting the sweet spot inside you and making stars appear in the corner of your vision.

“Hongjoong.” You spoke his name with both adoration and urgency as you began to spiral closer to your climax. Your fingers gripped at his back as you grew overwhelmed with the pleasure.

Wordlessly Hongjoong reached for your clit, pressing smooth circles into it as he kept his rhythm within you. He watched you as your high took over you, committing every moan, every expression of your face to memory. He was enraptured by your beauty and by the sight of your body as it shook underneath him. Within moments he found his own end, releasing himself inside you and enjoying the way you whimpered as you felt yourself be filled with him. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours.

Your breaths mingled as you both both lied there within the afterglow. Your hands traveled up his back and to his hair and you pulled at the strands until his lips met yours in a slow, languid kiss. You delighted yourself in the taste of him, his sweetness urging you to go back for more and more until your head was spinning. “You said I could feast on you until I had my fill.”

Hongjoong hummed against your lips. “Yes.”

You smirked. “And I am still hungry.”

❦ “Mother you don’t understand; I made Hades run to me. He saw my bones beneath, and offered me half his kingdom. Do you really think I ate the fruit unwillingly?” ❦

AUTHOR’S NOTE — this wasn’t exactly meant specifically for this event, but the timing of me finishing it and the event itself aligned so well i just had to post it now. hope you enjoy hades!hongjoong as much as i do <3

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