#but they take it as HE'S a god in a mortal body

[o3o-lapd-o3o]

okay! here's the first poseidon 'snippet' . this takes place before and during this scene!

hope you guys enjoy! ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

*a few months after poseidon had left apollo’s infirmary finally all free of holes all healed up*

*up on olympus*

zeus: *bored outta his godly mind after 20 years of entertainment (especially those last 10 years)*

zeus: *suddenly struck with an idea*

zeus: *to no one in particular* i think i’m going to go pay my brother a visit… just to check on how he is…

zeus: *disappears in a flash of lightning*

hera: *entering the room*

hera: *stares at the scorch marks on the ground where zeus just was*

hera: *to herself* as long as its nothing to do with a woman or illegitimate child… then i don’t care.

*below the sea in poseidon’s palace*

*poseidon enjoying some peace and quiet; when in a flash, zeus on one of his very rare visits, appears in front of him*

zeus: *looking around the room* so… how are things?

poseidon:

poseidon: *sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose*

poseidon: what do you want zeus?

zeus: *ignoring poseidon’s question* where’s your queen?

poseidon: amphitrite is out visiting her sisters…wait never mind that-

poseidon: what do you want?

zeus: *now looking at poseidon* can’t i come see my big brother?

poseidon: you never bother, unless you want something.

poseidon: *anger now in his voice* so out with it.

zeus: *putting his hands up in front of him* whoa! no need to get angry…

zeus: *putting his hands down and a smirk appears* ...remember how that ended for you last time?

zeus: *smirk gets bigger* how you let odysseus beat you like that, i have no idea…

poseidon: *glaring at zeus* do not speak that name in my home

zeus: why my dear brother? are you perhaps… scared?

poseidon: *falling right into zeus provocations*

poseidon: i am NOT scared of that mons- mortal!

poseidon: he merely took advantage of my state after using a lot of my power!

zeus: *under his breath to himself* that power still didn’t kill him though, did it?

zeus: *to poseidon this time* but you’re not in that state now, are you? nor have you been since you left olympus… so what’s holding you back now?

poseidon: *raising an eyebrow at zeus* holding me back from what?

zeus: *knows he has poseidon hook, line and sinker*

zeus: i understand you can no longer hurt him or his family; unless you want to incur the wrath of my daughter… and i suppose even my wife

zeus: but you can make trouble for him still, can’t you?

poseidon:

zeus: *notices the slight hesitation*

zeus: or maybe you are truly fearful of him now? the mighty god of the seas, terrified of a mortal king.

poseidon: *blinks and then goes back to glaring at zeus*

poseidon: i told you i am not sca-

zeus: -then what’s stopping you?

poseidon: NOTH- *coughs* nothing.

poseidon: *crosses his arms and looks away from zeus*

zeus: *laughs knowing he’s done what he came here to do*

zeus: well, i shouldn’t stay too long away from olympus... enjoy the rest of your day brother.

zeus: *disappears in another flash of lightning*

poseidon: *looks at the scorch marks on his floor*

poseidon: he always leaves a mess…

poseidon: *thinking over the conversation again*

poseidon: i’ll show him who’s scared.

*outside the shores of ithaca*

poseidon: *looking the nice clear weather and seeing the merchant ships coming to and from ithaca*

poseidon: it would be a shame if something disrupted this...

poseidon: *smirks* *summons his trident & lifts it to the sky*

*the wind picks up and storm clouds quickly start forming*

poseidon: *can hear distant shouts of mortals reacting to the sudden storm*

poseidon: *laughs to himself* perfect.

poseidon: well, i guess i’ll leave this to brew. i’ll check back later to see what damage has happe-

poseidon: *a full body shiver comes over him out of nowhere*

poseidon: *turns to look at the ithacan docks where he can see..a mortal?*

poseidon: why i am i bothered by that mo-

poseidon: *sees deep red eyes and realises who the mortal is*

poseidon: -oh no.

*the king of ithaca odysseus stands there, glaring into the storm*

odysseus: *in a cold voice* I am going sailing with my son. There will be no issues, is that understood?

poseidon: *even though he knows odysseus can’t hear him* aye aye captain!

poseidon: *with a whimper calls off the storm immediately and quickly dives back under the water*

poseidon: *before he can completely leave, he can hear the voice of odysseus saying “good.”*

poseidon: *about to head straight back home but pauses*

poseidon: *remembers odysseus said he was going sailing with his son*

poseidon: *knows he may be god of the sea, but he can’t always be there to control what the residents of said sea get up too*

poseidon: maybe i should just make sure there’s nothing to make him angrier at me

poseidon: *secretly follows & stays near odysseus’ and telemachus’ ship*

[darklilacs]

in true ridley scott fashion: fuck history fuck canon. geta forgives caracalla and they cross over to the other side together :)

It happened quickly. Much faster than he had anticipated. Thousands of times, he had seen gladiators take their last breath to entertain their emperors and the crowd. They spat blood, their panicked eyes darting around in a desperate attempt to free themselves from bodies that, in their final moments, became inescapable cages. 

Back then, he had found it somewhat amusing. Seeing how, when the end was near, people behaved like desperate. Deep down, Caracalla had always thanked the gods that he would never stand in the arena. His pain would not be a spectacle. Even now, just after death, though a whirlwind of emotions tossed him around like a ship with no destination, he felt relief that he had gone quietly. Without applause or laughter. Just like that. Like an echo.

Caracalla woke up on a beach. The rough, gray sand should have irritated his skin, and left red marks. But his hands remained unchanged. He would have gladly scraped them down to the bone because, he still saw Geta’s gaze behind his eye every time he closed his eyeslids. His brother wasn’t angry with him—that was perhaps the worst part. Geta looked at him with terror, with concern, silently pleading for his brother to come back to him.

Snap out of it, brother. Calm down. Wake up!

Caracalla wasn’t the boy Geta had known his whole life at that moment. 

Caracalla saw red. Lightning in his head thundered loudly, preventing him from forming a coherent thought. The worst thought emerged from the chaos in his gut like a well-nurtured plant: Kill before you are killed.

Caracalla saw red when he was angry.

He saw red in his brother’s hair as the servants carried away his body. His laurel wreath fell to the ground with a clatter. Geta never liked taking off his jewelry. He would have been so angry if he had known...

Caracalla saw red on his own hands when he woke from his trance after the murder. When the ship of his thoughts quietly sailed past the rocks, and the storm subsided. For a long time, he tried to wash the blood off himself. But it kept coming back, as if Caracalla had been condemned after the murder to live as a statue that will always be covered in rust. The color of dried blood on the floor.

Caracalla couldn’t see blood as he rubbed his hands in the sand.

He wanted blood.

Isn’t it funny that he had shouted that just a few days ago, looking down at the arena? Wishing for a spill so vast it would create a sea. And he always got it. Now, he wasn’t worth even a drop.

He buried his face in his hands, breathing heavily. In the afterlife, oxygen was unnecessary, but out of habit, his chest rose and fell unevenly. Sweet air did not grace him with its presence. Having lived in abundance, he was now left with death and grayness. With storms and lightning. No red at all.

The sound of a boat docking on the shore suddenly caught his attention. Was it possible that a lost soul had wandered into the abyss he had created himself? Pluto must have a sense of humor if a stray mortal had been sent to haunt him for eternity. To torment him until, finally, a single drop of blood fell onto the earth covered in gray sand.

Caracalla curled in on himself. Perhaps his new tormentor would be merciful.

"Brother."

Caracalla heard it right beside him.

His muscles tensed instantly. Of course. From now on, Geta's voice would haunt him, accompanied by the endless black sea before him. Instead of the beautiful song of sirens, his brother's concerned voice would lure him toward a happier place he would never find.

"Look at me."

Caracalla felt a hand on his shoulder. He was a fool, yet he raised his head.

Geta’s eyes looked at him with the same concern as that night. He wasn’t afraid for his own life but for Caracalla’s. He feared that he had lost his brother forever.

“I’ve been waiting for you. It’s time to go.”

Geta took his hands and led him closer to the boat. Onboard, a hooded figure was already waiting. Charun.

The myths did not reflect the calm that emanated from his presence. People fear death, the moment they are left alone. It is somewhat comforting that, during the final journey, someone accompanies us.

During Caracalla’s final journey, he will be accompanied by two people. Pluto’s envoy and Geta. Because before they were emperors, before they fell in love with power, they were brothers. Brothers who, during childhood games, made a promise. A promise not meant to be taken as seriously as a vow to the gods. Yet, somewhere in the hearts of both brothers, that promise must have been hidden, safe from the specter of hunger for violence and gold.

Always by your side. Wherever we are.

Caracalla dug in his heels, frightened of this last journey. Geta stopped mid-step, still holding his hands.

“I—I’m sorry,” Caracalla stammered uncertainly. As if he had just learned a new word, one that carried a magic he feared. A word he had avoided like fire—until now.

“I know,” Geta replied gently.

As if he truly understood, what Caracalla felt before he had even managed to voice his emotions aloud. That’s just how he was, wasn’t it? Geta was always right, always knew better. When they were children, Caracalla thought it was a gift. Now, it seemed more like a curse. Whatever he will say, Geta won’t be surprised by his remorse. He won’t notice the change growing within him, hesitant and fragile, like a bird too weak to break through its eggshell.

“Forgive me. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

Caracalla fell to Geta’s feet. His brother knelt down in front of him, not letting go for a second. A comically tragic mirror of the pose they had taken that night. On their knees, torn by conflicting emotions. 

But this time, Caracalla didn’t see red. He saw a warm brown. The color of Geta’s eyes. The color that reminded him of home. Of reassurance.I’m here with you, and everything will be okay.

“I forgive you, brother.”

Caracalla exhaled unevenly, as if he had taken a breath of fresh air. He tasted the sweet fruit he had longed for.

Caracalla buried his face in the crook of his neck. He could have started crying. But not now. Not here. It was too soon. He couldn’t wait to see the blue again.

“Come on. We should go.”

The brothers left the beach. Together. Just as they had promised each other years ago. Caracalla could have sworn that before the boat pushed off from the shore, he heard Geta’s voice.

Always by your side. Wherever we are.

read on ao3 :) Did I disappoint you? Will they still let me over If I cross the line? - beautyofsilence - Gladiator (2000) [Archive of Our Own]

[sifuhother]

Regarding my headcanon. Jayce and Viktor get sent into an alternative universe sheltered from magic, meaning that during the “trip” Viktor's augmentations are neutralized and he gets back to his human body before any hextech trial (he’s still disabled). The rune is also affected by the nature of this universe: it loses all of its powers. Because of the historical implications of a Runaterra without magic – such an important aspect of the main universe of Arcane – its history and socio-political landscape are completely different from Jayce and Viktor’s world. This means that in this universe there is not Zaun or Piltover, nor any of the people they know. Combined with the absence of magic they are not tempted to interfere with space/time and can make peace with the loss of their loved ones. They arrive with everything they had on them when they got teleported (the blanket is still there!) so they have no money and no tools to navigate this new world. At the beginning it’s a bit of a struggle, but eventually they find a shelter and a city nearby. And step by step they build their new life, they make up for the time lost. They build a little lab and start working in the local school. They learn how to sew and enjoy little vacations at the beach. They go to doctors’ appointments and have bad and good days. They still carry the physical and psychological scars of their past, but they take care of each other. They share a normal human life, and they are fulfilled and in love (thematically I don’t like the idea of them becoming gods or ascending or floating into the arcane forever: Viktor's mortal flaw was his arc 2 realization, that people were at fault for their own humanity; Jayce – and Ekko lmao – literally pierced through his transhumanist mask and called his “imperfections” beautiful and for extension humanity itself. If they have another chance – and they had because the animation is clearly depicting teleportation – they should have it as humans). I also wrote a little ff from the point of view of a local.

“It’s the partners’ tomb. Long ago a couple lived in the house down the lake, Jayce and Viktor Talis. They came here all of a sudden and but helped the community a lot. They were scientists of a sort and designed many facilities in the town. They were rarely seen with other people and never without the other. They stayed here for years: they found them on their bed, locked in a hug, a glass filled with water still on the counter. They say they buried them like that, wrapped in a blanket they found in the house.”

I have a very specific and detailed headcanon about Jayce and Viktor after the events of season two, supported by some evidences in the show and fleshed out by some fanarts I saw on twitter. For my sanity I will stick to it as my life depends on it.

[space-cowboys-and-aliens]

At Your Immediate Discretion

Rating: Mature

General Acacius x Reader

Word Count: 700

You meet General Acacius under the cover of night, revealing what you've been hiding from him.

"I have something weighing on my spirit. It seems that it needs your attention."

"What is it?"

"Over the last several weeks, I've realized…there are developments that have made their presence known to me."

"Developments? What is it you speak of?"

"Sir, my apologies. There is something horrible happening inside of me."

He laughs. "Horrible?"

"Yes, wicked and vile and ugly and…"

His face grows serious.

"Gods. We must get the doctors in at once. Fetch Brenan, he will see you to them."

"No! Sir, it’s more than what doctors’ minds alleviate."

The general, still confused, sits on a stone protruding from the ground.

"The feelings I have…the thoughts in my mind…you would think I’m growing mad. The worst kind, brought on in massive quantity by your presence. Forgive me. I cannot wash myself clean enough. I have tried. Gods, I fear the worst."

"My…"

He takes your wrists in one massive hand, holding them in a firm but grounding embrace.

"You are not…unclean, as you have said. You, of all, have the least to feel shame for. Who told you this was necessary to believe?"

"But never in my life have I felt so indecent, so exposed. It’s unnatural for a young woman of high nobility to entertain, allow, such deviancy. I throw shame upon myself. Forgive me. Depravity echoes through my soul."

"It’s very natural. Very mortal to feel…such a way."

She looks up.

"It is?"

"It is."

"I say again, General. I have horrible, deeply troubling thoughts. Every day. Every night."

"Every night?"

"When you pace by in the corridors. I sense you from gait alone. Across the gardens in the mornings. In the cathedral. Every fiber of my being attunes to yours. I’ve been alone most of my life. I’ve never had anyone teach me the ways in… what I can only describe as carnal desire. The sins of the flesh. Cartha and Tom run through the streets in the night, scheming for conquests. Their company has surely infected my nature. I have plagued you, too. I must…"

"Please look at me."

You can’t.

"There is something horrible happening inside of me..."

"There is nothing horrible happening."

"And it hurts."

"You don’t have to hurt, my stars. Where does it hurt? Tell me."

"Here."

"Here?"

"Yes."

"And you say I am the cause of your impure thoughts."

"Dear gods, how to control it? This fire within, wreaking havoc and destruction where I turn. Please."

"Would you like me to show you…?"

His hand was warm as he spread his touch across your waist.

"Please, let me touch you."

"Oh, my gods."

You lean forward, arms winding around his neck, bringing your foreheads together.

"He holds onto you by your waist."

"Hey. Shhh, it’s okay. You make the sweetest sounds. Are they for me?"

You nod.

"Answer."

"Yes," you breathe.

"I’m going to take care of it, okay?"

You nod.

This is the first time you have ever felt anything like this. Your face contorts at the faintest hint of pleasure.

He slowly pulls her body closer until it’s pressed flush to his own.

"Does it feel good?"

"Yes, yes, it feels so good."

"You’re so sensitive…"

"So sensitive…," you repeat.

"So needy…"

You stop rocking her hips. Looking down at him,

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No, no. Come here. So good for me…"

"…you…"

"Turn around."

You obey, and he kisses your neck as you stretch the skin. You feel your head tilt up, up, towards the heavens. His laving attention increases as your impatience towards relief grows, drawing a slight whine from your core. He grunts, a heavy sigh upon your open back. Another kiss presses to the nape of your neck. Your breathing turns to pants, mouth open, gaping at the worlds above.

[lmao-ooooooo]

new god by moon walker has been stuck in my head all day and as always i found a way to wangxian it haha

lwj visits the bm and the ghosts basically sing the chorus to him with his mother and wwxs lives, showing how the 'old gods' failed them (ref to the last verse "raise your boys to be sons and your girls to be daughters" bit)

then he kills the bad people who fucked up their lives (he just barely spares his uncle and brother, but hes taken over the lan clan and gets rid of a lot of dumb rules + punished lqr and lxc) he uses all the people he killed to bring back wwx to show him how well he honoured his death. he manages to bring his body back into one piece but the body has no soul. this is when he finds out wwx ascended and became the god of the dead and justice. the god has a few shrines but none with his face showing and he wants to see his beloveds face.

so he builds a new shrine in the burial mounds, where his body is kept and preserved. people try to burn the shrine bc the drasted yllz will never be a god to them! but lwj kills them all as well.

word goes around that the benevolent hgj is building and worshipping the god of death and justice and they think this god has taken their hgj under his wing.

wwx who just woke up in heaven as a god is very confused. as to whats going on. like what do the other gods mean that the man he who was supposed to hate him reseructed his dead mortal body and built a shrine for him while deathly injured with his own two hands?

what is lwj DOING??????

wwx dosent remain very confused for long because lwj spends a long time nearly every night repeating "wei ying" and "i love you" and "i did this for you" and "i avenged you" repeatedly.

so wwx goes to investigate, taking on the form of 'mo xuanyu' when the man dies sacrificing himself to kill his relatives and the two finally reunite.

[mengyan]

i had been made into an archer, the shadows suiting me best; you were a sun-bright girl forced into immortality, eternal servitude to chosen sacrifice for the people.

i think the first thing you taught me was absurdity. no one that knew me ever dared— through these years i’d become as much of a man as the rest, and it was rare for someone to think of wanting me. not that you did— did you? did you want me, wen xiao, or did you not think so much and just trusted that i would catch you?

sleep was always restless when it came. the heartbreak in a-heng’s new-blue eyes always marked the end of my dreams, because i was too afraid back then to turn around and see the rest of him. one month was enough to grow sick of my chambers, and i retired only when i could no longer keep my eyes open.

but then: a forest, a sea. fog cleared and the ink of you kissed my palm, calling me awake.

xiao, for daybreak, but if i allowed my tongue to loosen just the slightest— xiao, for you.

was it then that i became unable to see much else? was it then when i started seeking you first in every room, your voice in every pitch, your hands, arms, fingers touching mine— and me racing to reach you before you changed your mind? was it then that my heart wavered, and i thought, perhaps, that the dark wasn’t so lonely after all?

i never intended to keep you. i knew your eyes strayed elsewhere— i always noticed you first, but so did he, and him, and everyone that has ever met you. the fate of a goddess, maybe, to be beloved by all, to spill her love as floods to the people— but i knew you had long found your home in the soul of one. bloodbound by contract, kindred through heart and mind— how often i’d find myself rushing to stand before you only for him to already be there. 

the place by your side was never meant to be filled by me. but wen xiao, i’m no less absurd than you taught me to be. i would pray to a false god if it would make you safer; i would shoot even at the heavens if they tried to take you. flesh and blood is all i can offer you— is it too much to let me shield you with it?

later the worst of winter stole away your beloved, your closest friend, but kept me. still alive, rosy-cheeked and frostbitten on my knees in front of you, but the snow might as well have buried me too. live with me, die with them— and you picked up the dagger.

what does that mean, wen xiao? what am i supposed to do about what that means? you pulled me from the abyss, but am i not worthy enough to do the same for you?

the cold began to cling to me. one by one we lost the best and bravest of us, and i could do nothing to stop it. i thought myself useless, a drag, but you took my hand and said, so earnest, so warm, so thawing— i need you. you wouldn’t lie to me, but how badly i wish it were the truth.

it had been at least four fortnights since i’d ceased being afraid, since the fears in my heart stopped festering. they never disappeared, but i could stare at them head-on now, knowing that what a mortal lacks is only the difference of a body. you said that you thought of me as irreplaceable, and so i believed that’s what i was.

a fool’s tenacity is, perhaps, the strongest of all.

i woke to everyone but three gone, your tears pouring from the skies. he left to him white streaks in his hair, horseback roaming, world seeking; he left to you an age-old vow on paper, in jade, an impermanent parting, a once-more isolation.

and you left to me not even a farewell.

how is it that the demon hunting bureau is fuller than ever yet so grave with silence? how is that what i guard is no longer home to anyone that used to live in it?

i must be going mad, sometimes, to hear bells that no longer ring, bickering that never ends, idioms i’ll never be able to correct; to smell food i’ll never taste again, wine i’ll never get to drink, sulfur from cases unsolved; to see golden eyes, the rustle of notebook pages, the swoop of a brush— and feel the lilt of you, so willing for me to stay.

and so, absurdly, ridiculously, stupidly— i’m still here, wen xiao, and this is how i’ll remain. come and see me just once, and ask me what i asked you. three hundred years in a sundial: was it hard? the rest of my life with only your memory to keep me company— i’ll answer you the same.

don’t you want to know what my big-as-him secret is? i’ll give you a hint: if you see him in the rain, i see you in stone. just as pillars hold up these roofs, this city— the cliff i hung from was too-steep, yet you held me by the soles of my feet, dug yourself into my palms, and said look up, pei-jiejie. dawn has come.

the morning will always return after night. but wen xiao, when will you?

[bigidiotenergy]

Coming to and fro the Underworld should be no easy feat. They'd gone to the edge of their world in desperate attempts to flee Poseidon's seas and storms— but this remained no place for the Living. Odysseus IS mindful of that. How can he not be? But then how could he be SILENT as the Lord of this land tells him that the Underworld harbors its own dangers? How could a KING be silent when receiving threat, after threat, after threat? Maybe this Land was confusing him. Maybe all this Land does is bring out true nature. It was part of the unknown. A world exposing what the Captain cannot hide. But doesn't he try? Every possible route he can take— isn't it worth the risks so the Underworld cannot CONSUME him?

No. Odysseus does not know how far his luck goes. How easily Hades would be able to SMITE him given he's in his own domain— but he does know how far his opportunities go. If Hades had wanted his soul to join the others in the river, he could have done so already. Should have done so already. The same arrogance that comes from the little King is the same arrogance that had gotten them in this situation in the first place. The very thing that had made Polyphemus lift his club and strike the first six men down. A cockiness that seeps from his lively, mortal pores as he reveals his name to the Cyclops. Relying on a wit that had gotten most of his brothers sent here.

The Fates were not to blame for a King's PRIDE. The Fates are only a reminder that a King still remains MORTAL.

A purpose Hades adopts momentarily as those striking blue eyes bare onto Odysseus's soul. Such a POWERFUL look almost makes him back down completely. Enough to strike intimidation in any reasonable mortal. Until Hades's words echoed around the large cave that was the Underworld, their grasp tearing through his chest to weight his heart down right to his stomach. Eyes unable to hide the horror that resonates deeps within him. They can't even glance at the ship in the distance to make sure they're okay. His eyes refuse to leave the God of the Underworld. The king's heart rate spikes as the God only moves closer. And closer. Yet closer.

Do you miss the sounds of the waves? Captain... Odysseus's body tenses. Those voices... Do you miss the sounds of the seagulls? Captain... No. The Underworld God wasn't asking HIM these questions. Odysseus can feel it. The chill in the air. A damning cold breeze from the river itself. If only your mind hadn't been clouded- CAPTAIN! WHY WOULD YOU LET THE CYCLOPS LIVE WHEN RUTHLESSNESS IS MERCY?

The very presence of so many souls in the illusions this land gives him makes the King take a stumbling step backwards— only for his balance to fail him as he lands right against the rocky ground. Body trembling as tears begin to form in his eyes, no matter how much he does not want them to. Hades's laughter only rings in his head as it mixes with the voices of men he's failed. As it mixes with SCREAMS. The very suggestion of bringing these souls out of the river once more only forces him to scoot back. "No!" He cries, begging the God not to. "Please!" Begging to same souls who died begging him. "Pl-Please, Lord Hades!" Begging so desperately that his pleas interrupt the God of the Underworld. But they don't work. Hades only then PROMISES him to show that the Dead not only have been disturbed, but also livened once more. And it's all because of their Captain.

In the end, that divinity will always get a mortal to kneel. That's what Odysseus does. Head hanging low as he can only stare at the rocks below now. Shifting himself so the skin on his knees and shins rest against the rough surface. Hands adorned in braces spreading in front of him. The last time a God asked him to apologize, 552 men were sent here by that same God. Are apologies even enough for the Gods? "Ep-Epithet Hades, I-" He tries. He tries so hard to stop the trembling in his voice. What could he say? What should he say? "I— I'm sorry, King of the Underworld. I-" He bites his tongue. What will he say that will only end in more bloodshed?

The King of Ithaca quiets himself, head hanging lower. Maintaining that silence for a long time. Aren't you tired? Odysseus's shoulders slump immediately at the question, as if answering it with the gesture itself. His eyes finally trail upwards back to Hades's gaze. Wetness on his cheeks gleaming in the little light the Underworld emits. The tears in his eyes had fallen, soaking into his goatee. "I'm tired of not seeing my son and wife!" He sobs out before he can stop it. Of course he was tired. All he wanted was to rest his heavy eyes, soul, and bruised heart. Still, the king still keeps it in. He keeps it sealed. Hades could admire every dented corner. That consuming darkness.

But could Penelope? Could he even face her, knowing he's changed?

Irony,  once  it  touched  the  corners  of  the  God  of  the  Underworld,  always  was  welcomed  by  that  taste  of  eternal  tragedy  in  which  he  cannot  remove  the  aftertaste  of  his  lips.  So  far,  compared  to  Lelouch  vi  Britannia  who  managed  beautifully  to  screw  himself  up  in  middle  of  the  country  attached  to  his  name  (  which  would  remain  something  eternally  amusing  )  who  endlessly  was  trapped  within  the  same  symphony,  he  thought  he  had  escaped  it  ---  Impact  of  the  Underworld  towards  an  mortal  mind,  as  their  breathing  living  being  was  associated  to  the  heaviness  of  an  future  home,  sadly,  he  didn't  have  lot  of  examples  to  remember.  Deimos  couldn't  hardly  counting  at  one.  The  Underworld,  endlessly  present  at  his  side,  endlessly  supporting  him  and  embracing  him  with  an  protective  manner,  awakening  something  that  would  eventually  exploding  to  the  face  of  the  other  dimensions  ---  The  Underword,  touched  meanwhile  he  was  still  alive,  awakening  dormant  desires  who  always  has  been  here.  The  Underworld  unlocked  the  content  of  an  heart  rarely  showed,  in  same  measure  he  devoted  himself  to  exposing  differently  the  heart  of  an  Golden  Witch,  in  which  manner  another  blood  would  be  confessed  though  the  wounds  of  the  Emperor  of  Britannia.  One  tiny  moment,  remembrances  concerning  decades  had  to  be  remembered,  once  more.  One  tiny  moment,  the  slight  realization  maybe  other  outlines  details  had  changed  from  the  memory  he  could  embrace  in  the  moment  …

Odysseus  could  have  just  assumed  the  circumstances  he  had  decided  to  do.  Wasn't  it  lucky  ?  If  his  mood  hadn't  been  generous  at  the  immediate  moment,  if  his  heart  hadn't  been  opened  to  wishing  having  pleasant  fun  of  circumstances  pulled  by  the  Fates  ---  he  would  have  remained  trapped  within  the  Underworld  for  a  long,  very  long  time.  It  would  have  been  understandable,  right  ?  It  would  have  been  fair,  right  ?  Wasn't  the  most  respecteful  action  to  do,  once  entering  within  the  realm  of  the  Underworld,  to  request  permission,  to  showing  honor  to  the  host  ready  to  close  eyes  upon  one  necessary  digression  ?  Nevertheless,  Fates  weren't  kind,  wasn't  it  ?  Nevertheless,  Fates  always  trapped  him  inside  that  eternal  circle  of  Illusions,  isn't it  ?  A  silent  feeling,  a  dull  emotion,  then  awoke  heavily  in  his  expression  by  the  moment  that  one  sentence,  these  harmless  words  were  exposed  If  the  Underworld  is  like  every  other  isle  ---  bitterness  of  an  unparalleled  disappointment  from  what  he  kindly  called  these  pathetic  humans  as  soon  as  this  feeling  awoke,  betraying  his  features.  Insignificant  seconds  in which  composure remained the same as he  smiled  playfully.

Inside  other  circumstances,  back  when  he  was  having  fun  in  Italy  inside  his  illusionist  play,  that  beloved  Athena  warrior  would  have  pay  for  this  life  for  the  little  assumption,  and  oh,  the  litte  misunderstanding  on  the  matter  ---  wasn't  what  they  could  expecting  for  someone  called  an  foe  for  had  been  remaining  horribly  civil,  maybe  having  an  sharp  mouth  exposing  facts  themselves  didn't  wanted  to  look  at,  but  did  he  have  to  be  blamed  for  the  truth  ?  Old  habits  remained  yet  anchored  deeply  inside  his  prestance,  he  found  himself  forced  to  holding  back  the  exposure  of  an  divine  Cosmo  that  would  have  force  him  to  kneel.  At  the  second,  as  he  would  laughing  at  his  face,  as  he  would  show  him  the  foe  inside  him  ---  However,  no.  Provocations  after  provocations,  unfortunate  word  after  another,  that  had  been  only  consolation  he  had  received  from  Lelouch.  Silent  wound  of  a  heart  that  had  sought  to  be  compassionate,  despite  the  apparent  harshness,  began  to  flow  into  an  inner  blood  whose  pain  was  all  too  familiar.  As  an  reminder  still,  there  was  exposure  of  an  deeply  controlled  aura  as  an  physical  remembrance  towards  which  divinity  he  was  speaking  about,  before  ocean  eyes  losing  themselves  inside  Odysseus  eyes.  Wasn't  an  invisible  warning  that  under  other  circumstances  he  would  have  been  dead  worth  all  the  threats  in  the  world  ?  Athena  requesting  him  to  close  his  heart,  to  keep  his  emotions  unmoved  by  the  events  ?  Poseidon  requested  him  to  not  open  that  precious  lock  imposed  to  his  heart  ?  Oh,  how  naive  ! How unfunny ! How boring !

❝   Do  you  have  so  little  regard  for  your  soul  and  those  of  your  men  ?  ❞  A  mental  echo  resonated  throughout  the  location  he  was  in  the  Underworld,  where  the  sound  of  his  voice  vibrated  in  two  instances.  He  would  resume  his  normal  voice,  but  he  had  this  ability  to  make  his  divinity  heard  in  an  insistence  different  from  the  words  pronounced,  which  was  necessary  for  an  apparent  calm  to  be  maintained.  By  losing  himself  in  his  illusions,  Odysseus  had  offered  him  a  familiar  reflection,  a  reflection  in  the  mirror  needed  to  expand  his  perspective,  to  understand,  and  to  remember  all  the  trials  he  had  been  through.  Did  he  think  he  was  free  from  the  trials  that  other  of  his  protegees  were  experiencing  ?  How  naive.  Maybe,  if  there  was  an  audience,  they  would  have  considering  Odysseus  gesture  as  something  terribly  brave,  nevertheless,  at  the  moment,  he  was  perceiving  an  simple  miserable  human  having  only  words  of  arrogance  to  defend  himself  in  total  helplessness  …  Odysseus  should  be  flattered.  Many  Athena  Saints  had  died  for  this  feat  of  courage,  had  been  magnificently  massacred  in  the  indifference  of  the  Underworld  as  a  result  to  be  hoped  for.  Quietly,  he  moved  closer  towards  that  famous  Greek  hero.  ❝   Do  you  miss  the  sound  of  the  waves  so  much  in  this  vast  environment  where  the  echo  can  extend  across  the  earth  ?  ❞  He  playfully  bounced  back  with  an  large  amused  smile,  reflecting  innocence,  when  the  water  previously  watched  served  as  remembrance  lock  for  awakening  inside  Odysseus  mind  that  familiar  sound  he  heard  during  so  many  time,  pushing  him  to  the  reminder  of  his�� men  waiting  him  embraced  by  the  same  sound.  ❝   Do  you  miss  the  distant  sound  of  seagulls  ?  ❞  This  last  sentence  was  expressed  with  a  knowing  gaze  again,  embracing  the  irony  of  the  reflection,  and  of  the  experience  as  a  whole,  also  vibrating  that  sound  through  the  walls,  very  distantly,  very  inaccessiblely,  to  himself  know  that  melody.  ❝   If  only  your  mind  had  been  only  clouded,  Odysseus,  you  wouldn't  have  to  suffer  the  heavy  burden  that  your  unhappy  and  wounded  and  desperate  heart  has  suffered  until  now  ---  ❞ 

Your  Lands  remains  untouched.  The  Dead  have  not  been  disturbed.  These  sentences  generated  then  the  emotion  he  wouldn't  have  expected  another  human  to  ever  see.  A  distortion  of  laughter  in  powerful  emotionality  was  heard  through  the  walls,  in  which  ocean  eyes  imposed  an  condescendance  having  no  consideration  this  time  around  for  degree  of  smallness  he  would  feel  as  a  result.  ❝   Do  you  want  me  to  bring  each  soul  of  your  men  to  your  side,  begging  you  in  every  corner,  asking  your  charitable  soul  to  save  them  from  their  fate  ?  Do  you  want  the  sound  of  five  hundred  and  fifty-eight  men  free  to  lay  out  their  score  of  hope  for  you  ?  Do  you  want  me  to  send  for  them  at  once,  so  that  they  may  show  me  how,  in  no  way,  the  Dead  have  been  awakened,  they  who  see  your  liveliness  as  a  lost  hope  ?  Imagine  all  the  things  you  could  say  to  them,  Odysseus.  Imagine  all  the  things  you  could  remember  to  yourself,  while  seeing  them,  bursting  with  piety,  wanting  only  to  see  you  one  last  time,  wanting  to  stay  by  your  side  on  the  rest  of  your  journey.  ❞  Bitter  taste  of  a  warning  remained  in  some  of  his  words,  studying  each  moment  of  a  reaction,  wanting  to  see  in  the  terror  that  had  been  awakened  and  fragmented  each  time  a  thought  was  offered  to  him.  ❝   You  are  in  my  kingdom,  Odysseus.  My  brother  may  have  been  flattered  by  your  pleas  for  a  warm  journey,  but  an  open  door  can  quickly  close.  Perhaps  your  men  offshore  will  join  you  soon,  carried  away  by  the  waves,  carried  away  by  the  sound  of  the  seagulls,  and  the  hope  you  cling  to  will  slip  away  delicately  like  a  dream  …  ❞  Apologize  or  you'll  never  come  home,  an  echo  resonating  without  lips  moving,  remaining  presented  in  the  atmosphere.

Immediate  denial  who  resonated  afterwards,  by  the  moment  he  exposed  his  single  confirmation  upon  an  fact,  didn't  changed  the  sligth  emotionless  features  upon  his  face.  Not  that  he  admired  such  breakdown  with  an  sentiment  of  appreciation  …  Nevertheless,  no  matter  how  he  could  hide  himself  inside  an  illusion,  no  matter  how  he  could  please  himself  into  an  dream,  Odysseus  wasn't  as  blind  as  Lelouch  ?  The  King  of  Ithaca  wasn't  as  much  emotionless  that  could  be  the  Emperor  of  Britannia  inside  his  manners  to  present  himself  to  the  face  of  the  world  ?  Hey,  there  was  the  shadowing  presence  of  Deimos  all  around  him,  hey  there  was  the  shadowing  fragmented  power  of  Illusions  who  embraced  his  hands  …  dear  King,  you  wouldn't  mind  an  maintained  illusory  vase  breaks  into  a  thousand  pieces  ?  Wasn't  that  the  real  truth  of  your  heart  all  this  time,  trembling  with  fear,  writhing  in  despair,  longing  for  someone  to  tell  it  that  things  would  get  better,  that  hope  was  worth  it  ?  ❝   It's  only  the  truth,  Odysseus,  king  of  Ithaca.  ❞  There  was  another  giggling  escaping  his  lips.  ❝   I  am  not  the  one  to  blame  for  the  trials  you  will  still  have  to  live,  and  it's  unfortunate  that  your  refusal  of  my  hospitality  pushes  me  to  want  to  see  true  nature  composed  by  your  heart.  Aren't  you  tired  ?  Aren't  you  tired  of  lying  to  yourself  ?  Aren't  you  tired  of  keeping  all  these  emotions  inside  you  that  must  remain  sealed  ?  ❞  I  would  break  your  locks,  one  by  one.  I  would  observe  this  bruised  heart  in  every  corner.  I  would  admire  every  dented  corner  of  your  soul.

[thebongcloudopening]

i'm just saying that the likelihood all these cult members arthur keeps saving start a cult of their own for him is not zero

[justaz]

god!merlin

druids can NOT speak in people’s minds. when they are before a high priestess, they can pray to her directly and she can hear them (hence the scene between morgana and mordred when he spoke in her mind).

merlin who constantly has this buzzing in the back of his head that he can never understand besides the occasional odd word which makes no sense. but when he’s closer to a druid or when their prayer is super strong, then he can make out what they’re saying.

merlin who brings up the fact that druids can speak into peoples minds to gaius who casually unfurls a scroll containing his ongoing list of reasons why merlin is/evidence of merlin being a god of the old religion.

[makorragal-312]

I think I've forgotten how intense I can get whenever I get a crush on a fictional character because tell me why I spent the better half of the day going through Pinterest and looking for pictures of Smoke from MK1 to put as my desktop wallpaper...

[tswwwit]

just reread whump au for the nth time now, and it suddenly occurred to me what in god's name would've happened if dipper just straight up kicked the bucket right after saying, "i love you."

i can't imagine bill's reaction would've been a good one. i'm getting chills just trying to picture it, honestly.

in fact, just the image of dipper dying in general, and seeing the aftermath of that from bill's pov, has my whole body breaking out into goosebumps.

awesome.

also, let's just assume that bill hasn't yet figured out the whole reincarnation thing in this scenario aha

(i just really like angst okay? lmao)

Oh man, Bill? Oh Bill. Bill.

He would be very, very upset.

Also this is a good opportunity for the ol' classic:

[maegalkarven]

I have the suspicion what the Cult of Murder wasn't very keen on healing/ had many healers around.

They probs had healing potions and scrolls and stuff, but do you think Durge would bother with them? Or would they, intimately familiar with the anatomy of the body, occasionally treat their own wounds with the cold precision of a surgeon?

What I have in mind is Durge casually sewing their own wounds shut with the first found rusty needle and something they deemed would suffice for a thread, Gortash seeing this horrific display and deciding enough is enough and taking the ordeal of healing this freak of an ally into his own hands.

[pain-is-too-tired]

BLOOD/ICHOR TW

Last days of Sparta, follow Him down to meet Apollo And he'll brace for battle in the night He'll fight because he knows he cannot hide He's never gonna make it, all the Poor people he's forsaken, karma Is always gonna chase him for his lies It's just a game of waiting from the Church steeple down to Satan karma There's really no escape until he dies

Outrunning Karma by Alec Benjamin

I know shocker shocker another angst art for them.

I do stand by that Luke should receive some punishment/consequences for his actions. But I also don't want it be something the gods inflict, because Luke's choices hurt other demigods more than the gods( main reason he shouldn't be forgiven immediately-)

So, Lee/image of Lee taking over that role just seems fitting. He was one of the first camper deaths.

Retribution and acknowledgement of mortal guilt is also something Apollo is often connected to. As well as protection of youth.

Lee is the son of the god who rained plague on the Greeks for the taking of one of his priest's daughter, in many versions assisted in the death of Achilles for the death of one or more of his sons. Slaughtered Cyclops more ancient then his own father out of anger and grief of lost of another son.

Absolutely Lee's gonna make sure Luke fully understand the effects of what he's done.

[louisdulacblog]

Not going to lie but long term end goal for this blog is to build a louis-worshipping cult. Like low-key just for the haha and stuff but like...kinda highkey. Like irony. Not serious or anything but like...👀

But I don't think this era would allow it. But if it was 2012 best believe I was gonna push that agenda HARD.

[nonuggetshere]

So they didn't become void, they were "born" that way

In FaaF there are different species and kinds of higher beings (still a MASSIVE work in progress tbh, trying to figure out how these cunts work, but for now I'm thinking they're extremely rare species with far greater abilities and lifespans than a normal bug's that have a chance to ascend to true godhood (but even if they don't ascend that doesn't stop mortals from worshipping them as they're already very god-like from a normal bug's perspective)), "pale beings" being one of these kinds/mutations.

Well, there was also a different kind once, "void beings", but they all went extinct a very long time ago by the beginning of the story. Shade Lord was one, and last, of them and it lost its life in a fight with Radiance - the same fight that drove her to make her permanent residence in the dream realm out of her new-found fear of death (which backfired spectacularly ngl). Its body was buried in the Abyss, where it broke apart and decayed, or decayed as much as a non-living thing can, before it was unearthed many ages later by the pale wyrm.

Not much is known about them since they've been gone for so long, and the vessels are the only void beings remaining, but since they're not "pure" void beings it'd be foolish of anyone to assume that the ancient extinct species behaved the same way as these ones do. But they were generally greatly feared thanks to the void's freaky, dangerous properties, which partly lead to their extinction as some of the other higher beings purposefully attacked and killed them whenever they stumbled across one out of fear. Now the only thing remaining of them are the rare void sources, where their former bodies still refuse to fully die.

Shade Lord does get accidentally resurrected in the story bc of all the tomfoolery happening with its body before almost immediately getting killed again by Ghost who inherits its title and reign. Don't ask me how that works, haven't figured that out yet. Magic god shit or something idk LMAO

[euthymiya]

[ A LITTLE DEATH — FT. KINICH ]

synopsis: sometimes, he comes back to you with a beating heart. other times, his body is cold and limp until he reemerges from the flames. you never get used to kinich falling during the pilgrimage, but you’re certainly used to the feeling of his body

word count: 4.4k words of emotional porn. ty & goodnight

before you read: female reader ; major spoilers for natlan archon quest and kinich’s character story one ; kinich falls during the night warden war and resurrects so technical character death (but not for long) ; graphic descriptions of injuries and blood from war ; mentions of gambling, alcoholism and abuse (his father’s lore) ; slight exploration of mortality ; hand jobs ; orgasm delay (kinich to himself) ; cunnilingus ; fingering ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; not proof read because i wrote this all in tumblr drafts like the psycho i am

notes: this is an unhealthy progressing obsession. this boy is not good for my health unfortunately

“Will you stop crying?” He sighs softly, thumb tracing your cheek as it catches yet another rivulet of your sorrow.

You glare up at him, lips curled into a scowl as you sniffle and counter, “how about you stop dying?”

Kinich is no stranger to dying. He and death are good friends, in fact—he visits often, and in return, it houses him kindly for however short his visit may be.

He likes traversing the Night Kingdom, likes to speak to those who have borne his name before him. Dying isn’t so bad when you get a chance to see the things he does in the realm of the Wayob.

But you don’t like to see the aftermath. Blood. Bruises. Cuts. Gashes. Sometimes mangled limbs. Every time he falls in battle, the aftermath serves as a jarring reminder that revival is miracle you can’t take for granted.

Kinich doesn’t understand it, but he tries to. He holds you when he comes back, listening to you sniffle into his chest. He’s always silent as his hand rubs along your back, always unsure of what to say.

I lost you, you’ll always whisper first.

I was always going to come back, he’ll always respond.

The Pyro Archon, you think, loves fiercely enough to rival the God of Cryo herself. The Tsaritsa, God of Love, loves clearly. It’s delicate as it leaves chills, and yet, it is reserved, rare to find after she’s hardened herself. The God of War’s love takes form in the exact opposite. It’s blazing. Warm. Unrelenting. Irrevocably bright. It’s a flame that never dies out, that never needs a ceremony or ritual to keep burning like the contending fire.

She loves all of her children—you know that because you see it on her face, too.

The brief, fleeting flash of horror every time she sees a body. The bitter pride that comes with such a noble sacrifice. She loves her people, and that’s why, when your tears hit the ground as you cry for a fallen Kinich, she gives your hand a squeeze right before she brings enters the night kingdom to bring him back.

The people of Natlan are proud of their history. So much, that they find honor in dying for the cause.

You think you’re the only exception.

You and death are not good friends. You don’t like the way it mocks you with the limp hands of the boy you love and his beat-less heart. You don’t like the way it cozies up against him, dragging him away from you with its hand clasped firmly in his.

It never takes him away for too long before it gives him right back, but you don’t like sharing.

Not Kinich. Not with death.

Your broken out of your thoughts when his fingers gently press into your cheeks, squeezing them together as his hand tilts your head up from his chest to look into his eyes.

“I’m okay,” he insists bluntly, but never without that gentleness.

You’d laugh any other time. Always so straight to the point, you’d tease if it were some other day.

Instead, this time, you sniffle once more before you croak, “you don’t know what it’s like to witness.” Slowly, your hand creeps up his body, traveling over his abdomen before coming to a stop right over his heart. “This time…this time it was here.”

This pilgrimage, Kinich comes back to you with a stab through his heart. Other times, he’s returned pierced through his lungs from behind. Or perhaps with a bloodied head, split open by a blunt force.

It never gets easier. This time, however, you think it’s gotten even harder.

He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s contemplating what to say before he decides to toss the idea of words out entirely. Suddenly, his hands find your waist, flipping you to sit on his lower belly, legs straddling his hips.

Kinich isn’t always good with words. He can count on one hand the number of people he’s had in his life to love. His life has not been kind enough to him to allow keeping all fingers up at the same time.

One for his mother. Down.

One for his father. Down.

And one for you. Up.

He’s sure one day, he might be able to lift a finger for Mualani and Kachina, too. He cares a great deal about them, of course. But love is a difficult thing for him to grasp—perhaps because it’s always been something he never got in full.

Not until you.

More than most people, Kinich understands loss. You know that. He understands it too well, in fact. Sometimes, he wonders if he’d lost his father’s love long before the body was limp and lifeless to show for it. Sometimes, he wonders if his mother ever loved him enough to count as a loss at all. Maybe if she had, then she wouldn’t have walked away. Maybe she never loved him quite as much as she loved herself.

But you’re different for him. You love him more than you love anything else. More than yourself, too. He’s never been loved more than anything else. His father loved gambling, maybe even the burn of alcohol on his tongue, too. His mother loved freedom, and more than that, she loved the idea of living in the absence of fear. Neither loved him more than any of those things.

So, you’re different. You know that, too. You’re a loss he can’t comprehend. Not that he’s ever had to, of course, but his brain cannot handle the idea of being without you.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t fully understand your pain. Maybe that’s why he wonders why knowing he’ll always come back from falling isn’t enough to soothe you.

He’s never loved someone who he knew would come back even in the face of death. It’s a luxury, he thinks sometimes—you get to love him with the luxury of a safety net. But you’re too precious to feel the weight of a real loss. He hopes he can shield you from it for as long as he can, one pilgrimage at a time.

His hands settle for your hips, squeezing once, twice, a third time before he sits up and pulls you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

You kiss back easily. Drinking the breath straight from his mouth is best proof that he’s alive. You take it in greedily.

“I’m okay,” he repeats one more time. This time, it’s a much softer tone. Like a gentle reminder. Like a plead to understand.

His hand grabs yours, pressing it right over his heart so you can feel the erratic beating under your palm. Just from kissing you, it’s rapid enough that he almost feels he should be embarrassed. But you close your eyes and let out a shaky breath, making him watch you carefully as he takes in the relief in your face.

“You’re okay,” you nod slowly.

“I am,” he agrees.

You don’t know when it happens or who starts it first. One moment, your hand is traveling under his shirt to feel his bare skin, to have better contact with him so you can feel more proof he’s alive.

Warm skin. Flexing muscle. Damp sweat. When your hand finds his heart again, his hand cups the back of your head and pulls you into a heated kiss.

Clothes come off after that. It’s a blur. It’s not until you untie the bandana to uncover his forehead do you really take it all in.

Bare under you, Kinich is alive. The proof his body is breathing and pumping blood through his veins is right there before you—standing tall between his legs in the form of a flushed, red cock. Blood rushed there to prove his desire for you.

“Last time, it was here,” you whisper, thumb tracing a pale, faint scar over his ribcage, right where his lung is. “Did it hurt?”

“It did,” he nods, studying you as you don’t meet his eyes. “I don’t remember much of that, though.”

“Do you like it?” You whisper. “Is that why you do it?”

He’s silent. And then, quietly: “Sometimes.”

“Why?” You breathe, cupping his cheeks as you search his eyes for an answer.

Finally, in a rare moment, he chuckles. “Because it’s good to remember I’m alive,” he murmurs, “right before you die is when you realize you’re alive the most. Why you’re alive, too.”

“I don’t understand,” you furrow your brows in frustration. He smiles fondly, kissing your jaw as he lets out a low hum.

“I think of you,” he whispers, sucking sweetly into your skin, “and then I remember how you’re alive, too. Every time I die, you get to stay alive a little more.”

The abyss never goes away. Now, more than ever, he’s aware of that. It’s a war he has to see the winning side of, no matter the price.

There’s a loss this time that he’s unwilling to pay. Can’t bear to witness. Can’t allow to happen.

You decide you give up trying to understand—much like you do every year. Instead, you throw yourself into feeling him, pulling him into a heated, deeper kiss as your tongue glides against his. You give into the battle fast, letting him take the lead and taste you.

You’re not one for battles, not like Kinich is. You’d rather relish in peace than remember the cruelties of war.

“I love you,” you whisper against his lips. “I can’t lose you.”

“You’ve never lost me,” he argues.

“It doesn’t feel that way,” you admit quietly.

“Then let me show you I’ve always been right here.”

As if on cue, his cock twitches between your bodies, hot and throbbing as it presses against your lower belly. You reach between your bodies, wrapping around the thick girth before your thumb grazes the tip.

He shudders, stifling a groan as you slowly smear the dribbling pre cum along his length, taking gentle care to make sure you don’t hurt him.

You’ve seen Kinich hurt enough times.

“Does that feel good?” You grin slightly, watching his eyes flutter shut as you stroke him up and down, fisting around him in a tight squeeze.

“Feels great,” he breathes, “like I’m very alive.”

“Good,” you nod.

“Fuck,” he chokes when you squeeze around the tip, pace quickening as you glide your palm up and down along him faster.

Faster.

The faster he cums, the faster you’re proven he’s living once more.

But he stops you—right before he can spill into your hand, a shaky wrist comes to force yours to stop moving. You look at him questioningly, and he closes his eyes and takes labored breaths to calm himself from the slow, fading orgasm that would’ve shaken through his body.

“What are you—oh,” you gasp, when your body is flipped to lay on your back, Kinich hovering above you as he stares down at you.

You think love is the look in his eyes when he sees you like this, every time. That longing in his pupils, desperate and almost pained even though you’re right there.

Loving something is always a double edged sword. It hurts just as much as it heals—the scabs forming around your heart from his temporary departure is proof of that.

“I love you,” he whispers, kissing along your neck.

I love you isn’t something Kinich says often. You feel his love in other ways. The fresh fruit he brings you on his way back from a commission. The small kiss between your brows he always greets you with, and the delicate kiss to your mouth when he leaves. The hand on the small of your back as he guides you along places, never letting you feel his absence. The pillow he shares with you every night when you invade his space and take up his side of the bed.

You know he loves you. Being reminded is a good feeling, though. Your body shivers as you feel a familiar ache building up between your legs at his sudden confession.

“More than anything?” You ask.

“Yes,” he responds, amused.

“You better not be lying,” you warn playfully.

He chuckles—you’re slowly coming back to your usual self. Causal teasing and playful flirting. You’re all the things he’s not. Open. Vulnerable. So inexplicably bright. You smile and something in him heals. Something in him itches to do better—be better.

“When have I ever lied to you?” He challenges.

You pretend to think for a moment before caving and stretching your lips into a wide grin. The first real smile of the night. You pull him close, kissing him again. Just to kiss him. There’s no heat or desire this time around.

He kisses back sweetly. Just to kiss you.

“What did you see this time?” You whisper when you pull away. “In the Night Kingdom.”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, tracing shapes into your hip with his thumb, “I think I was too busy thinking of you.”

Kinich is only flirty when he avoids something. He’s only ever indirect when he doesn’t want you to know something. It takes form in less honest, more playful banter that he learns from you.

You sigh, rolling your eyes half-heartedly as you whisper, “don’t lie to me.”

“I did think of you,” he insists. “It’s not a lie. I always think of you.”

He decided to prove it by dropping down to busy himself between your legs, gently spreading them enough to press his nose against your clit as he breathes you in.

Sweet. You’re always sweet. You taste and smell it. You drip of honeyed, saccharine desire. When his tongue presses between your folds, he thinks he’s dipping it in gold.

“K-kinich, wait—”

“You say that every time,” he raises a smug brow. His fingers press into you, spreading you open as he inspects your fluttering walls. “But you never mean it, do you?”

Filthy, you think. He’s got an air of pure obscenity to him that you’re sure comes only when he’s tired of feeling alone. When he needs to know you’re here for good and not just for the moment.

“You play dirty,” you scowl, twitching when his tongue swirls over your clit, the smooth rumble of his chuckle vibrating against the sensitive bud. His fingers curl into you, pressing against a very delicate, very responsive spot in the back of your walls.

“Is that so?” He drawls, “you don’t exactly seem to mind it,” he murmurs.

And then his lips wrap around your clit, sucking as his tongue rolls in circles against it as you writhe. You can feel the tips of his digits bully into that same spot over and over, making your back arch as you whine.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “baby, please.”

You don’t know what you’re pleading for. He’s giving you what you want exactly how you want it—maybe that’s why you always say it, though. So you can never stop having him. Asking and asking and hoping he’ll give you everything without pausing.

He does, too. Kinich never gives half of himself into anything. For the right price, you get all of him. You pay the price in gentle kisses along his cheek and soft fingertips in his hair. In a warm lap under his cheek when he’s tired and a soft voice to remind him he’s not alone. In a worried look every time he’s scuffed and a soft smile every time your eyes meet his.

You pay the price of your love, and he compensates you with the reward of his. It’s a fair trade.

The only difference is that unlike his other deals, Kinich would still pay his love to you even if you stopped paying yours. He couldn’t stop if he tried. It’s an exception he doesn’t exactly choose to make, but doesn’t necessarily want to change, either.

Lucky for him, you don’t show any signs of pulling away.

“You’re beautiful,” he says quietly, whispering the words into your cunt like he’s speaking directly to your desire, “and mine.”

“G-gods,” you moan, hand flying to grasp at his hair and tug as his fingers quicken their pace, fucking into your heat mercilessly as his tongue rolls over your clit.

It’s hot. It always is in the Pyro Nation. But hotter is the growing desire in the pit of your belly, and the heat between your legs that only one person can ignite. The flames lick at your sanity before something erupts in your system and all you feel is a gush of pure, white hot pleasure.

“That’s it,” he praises, working you through your orgasm as you let out a soft cry of his name.

Kinich is alive. You know that because only he could make you feel this way, and he is. He’s making you feel like there’s love between your legs as he coaxes the height of pleasure from you, buried into the apex of your thighs like it’s the only place he ever wants to be. You’re reminded that instead of blood dripping from his fingertips, it’s the essence of your arousal.

You’re reminded that when you need him, he’s never not there. Never leaving you behind from this world into another.

“I love you,” you blurt out in a post-orgasm haze.

He looks up at you with a toothy grin. It’s so rare to see him smile so freely. It’s like a child’s, sometimes. Something youthful and joyful and almost innocent enough that it makes your heart ache a little more than it does feel full.

Only a little, though.

“You say that a lot when I make you cum,” he laughs smoothly, a boyish and sweet little sound. You huff with a roll of your eyes.

“You do too,” you counter. “Maybe we only love each other when we feel good.”

“I always feel good with you,” he grins.

“I can make you feel a whole lot better,” you wink, wriggling your brows in a playful, tempting offer.

He takes it. With another soft laugh, he climbs up your body to hover his face over yours, admiring the sweat clinging to your forehead like it’s proof of his good work.

“Go on then,” he whispers. “Make me feel better. I just died today, you know.”

“I know,” you grumble only slightly, “I remember that very clearly. It was very rude of you.”

“My sincerest apologies,” he offers.

When Kinich was young, love was transactional. His father loved him with a box of sweets when a gamble of wages doubled. His mother was happy enough to afford him her gaze when there were flowers in the vase. He knew from early on not to expect any of it unless the proper price was offered.

And then he learned necessities were transactional, too. To exist is to pay a price. He watched as strangers took away his home, the remainder of his family’s belongings packed away as his mother wiped her tears. Food is not free when she is not there to tend to crops. Clothes don’t come easy when your father spends his days drinking away instead of working.

Without mora, you survive more than you live.

He hated it. Hated not having enough. Not being enough. He wasn’t enough to make his father want to be good and he wasn’t enough to make his mother want to stay. Didn’t have enough to offer for something as simple as unconditional love.

Love with you feels a lot different than what he’s grown up learning. You love him even when he’s closed off and a little cold. When his blunt words are a little too blunt and his words press hard into you with force. When he’s tired, and can’t offer you proper company, you love him, too. When he’s gone for days at a time for a commission further away, you still love him as you wait.

It’s always enough for you even when what he gives really isn’t enough at all.

He stopped trying to understand a long time ago. He’s still human—not everything can make sense with the logic of equal transaction. Sometimes, he just wants. Sometimes, he can’t give enough for what he wants. You always give it, though.

He’s stopped trying to make sense of it all for the sake of finally knowing joy. Peace. Possibly even comfort.

“Why do you love me?” He asks softly, rubbing the tip of his hard cock against your thigh. You rub along his bare back with a gentle hand, feeling the goosebumps raise along his skin under your palm.

“Because it’s easy to,” you answer.

“That’s it?”

“Isn’t life hard enough?” You shrug, “it’s nice having something simple. Loving you is easy, and that’s enough.”

“I don’t understand,” he mirrors your words from earlier. “But as long as you don’t stop, I think it’s okay.”

You want to tell him you’ll never stop loving. Every flame in Natlan will have to burn out before you stop loving Kinich. You’re confident that it’s impossible that will ever happen. But instead of words, you gently reach between your bodies to grab at his cock—it’s been hard and neglected for long enough that he lets out a soft, needy sound at the sudden touch.

You bring him to brush against your entrance, murmuring a soft, “I want you,” before he groans in response.

“Fuck,” he says shakily, “me too.”

And then, finally, he presses his tip into you, pushing past your folds and nudging into the deepest part of you.

He’s alive. You know that because you can feel him in the most rawest, purest way. Bare skin to skin. Warmth on warmth. Sweat against sweat. Body tangled into body. He’s alive and here and you can feel all of him at once.

He’s everywhere. He’s in your lungs as you kiss him and steal his breath. He’s in your heart as you feel it skip a beat for him. He’s in your soul as it burns at the very idea of him. And he’s in your cunt as he presses himself into you with a roll of his hips.

You love him when he’s alive.

You love him when he’s dead.

You love him when he’s resurrected.

You love him when he’s yours like this.

“Kinich,” you gasp, letting out a breathless moan as his tip slams into that spongy spot in your walls, “there—y-yes, like that.”

“I know,” he murmurs, grinning a little smugly enough that you feel embarrassed to already be this fallen apart. “I know exactly where.”

“Smooth talker for someone who ruined my whole day,” you huff.

“I told you I’m okay,” he grunts lowly. He kisses your throat, right over your pulse as he whispers, “I’m right here.” You whine as he rolls his hips particularly harshly to slam his cock into your most delicate spot.

“Knowing something is coming back doesn’t mean you like losing it,” you argue. “I don’t want you anywhere but here.” He gasps when your legs wrap around his waist and pull him closer as you squeeze tighter around him.

You hate seeing Kinich fall because you’re reminded it’ll happen one day for real. There’ll come a time where he won’t be resurrected. You don’t like being reminded of this simple truth.

He doesn’t understand it because he’s always too busy denying your fall. He’s too busy making sure he fights every battle to win this war so you can live beside him. So you don’t have to succumb to the cruel likes of the abyss.

Neither of you can seem to grasp the other’s mortality very well. So you try to forget in the feeling of being lost in each other’s bodies. Where proof of life blooms in every inch of skin. Every labored breath and drop of sweat, every flex of muscle and rapid thrum of a heart.

You’re alive, and so is Kinich.

He’s not alone, and neither are you.

No one has had to bear a loss, and that’s all that matters. For now, at least.

“You feel so good,” he says hoarsely, letting out a soft, low whine when your walls flutter around him at the praise. “C-can’t…can’t live without you.”

“Don’t say that,” you sob, reaching your limit, “enough talk about living. I’m tired of it.”

“Okay,” he breathes, “then just cum again for me. I want to feel you do it around me this time.”

Your second orgasm makes you forget Kinich is alive. You’re too busy feeling the rush of life yourself. Your body burns with pleasure through every nerve, the familiar snap of pressure between your legs that has your entire form spasming under Kinich.

“’M c-cumming,” you sob, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him in for a sloppy kiss, muffling your sounds into his mouth as he swallows them whole.

“For me,” he hums.

“F-for you. Always for you.”

And then he cums too. Hard. For the last time, you’re hit with the evidence that he’s here with you and not somewhere else. Somewhere unreachable. Somewhere in a world apart from you.

He’s spilling warm, sticky cum into your walls with shaky arms holding him up above you, desperate rolls of his hips as he lets out choked sounds.

Skin slaps against skin and a combination of your arousals leaves a mess smeared between your legs, spilling down your inner thighs.

“Fuck—ngh. I’m…I’m…” he trails off.

He’s never been good with words like you. So instead, he buries his head into your neck and presses his nose into your skin, letting you cradle the back to his head so he knows you’re there.

“I know,” you pant, letting him fuck himself into you and ride out the high of his orgasm.

I know you need me. I need you too.

When he slumps over your body, you can feel his heart beat against yours. Rapid. Erratic. Harsh. Pounding. All of it is proof you’re both painfully mortal as you are alive.

“I love you,” you both whisper at the same time, utterly spent.

“You’re alive,” you breathe out a sigh of relief as your eyes close tiredly.

He hums, lifting his head to press a soft peck to your lips before he slumps into your neck against. “And so are you,” he murmurs in exhaustion.

You both fall asleep together with another year behind you.

Writing an emotional Kinich is actually really hard I’m not sure I even got it right bc we haven’t seen nearly enough of him but 😭 I hope this was not ooc enough that it was slightly believable. IDK I had a hard time deciding how he’d be in an emotionally charged moment of intimacy