#fic: around the world

[spiritedstars]

Around the World - Part 1 [ Elucien ]

Prompt: Prostitute/Client Modern AU requested by a poor ‘nonnie ages ago. |

Genre: Humor/Romance/Fluff Rating: SFW (for part one anyways ;D) Recommended listen: Make Me Feel by Janelle Monáe

Elain was frustrated. She was tired. She was probably more pissed than she looked at the moment and she was also slightly tipsy. But not quite tipsy enough to forget that she was at some fancy hotel bar where her ex-boyfriend was schmoozing in the next room.

Grumbling to herself, she fumbled for the ringing phone that she had thrown somewhere in her purse and squinted at the screen. Nesta. Again.

“What?” she whined, leaning against the bar counter.

“I’m coming to pick you up. Where are you?” her older sister demanded and Elain scoffed.

“No, you're not. I don’t want to be picked up. I want to be left alone.”

“Elain, you will not be getting drunk and crying over Graysen because you saw him at this stupid party.  He is a piece of shit.”

“A piece of shit I thought loved me.” Elain mumbled and she heard Nesta sigh.

“Well, aren’t you glad you’re not dating a piece of shit then?”

“Maybe.” Elain replied with pursed lips, her eyes scanning the place around her. “I still can’t believe he dumped me.”

“It’s okay. I’ll break his neck eventually.”

Elain snorted. “I’m counting on it.”

“I already broke his nose. It won’t take much to break his neck.” Nesta responded through the phone and Elain giggled into her glass. It had been glorious watching Nesta deck him. “Now, where are you?”

“Nesta, don’t come. I’m going to stay here and find a really hot male prostitute to fuck me.” Elain whispered into the phone with another giggle, her eyes back to scanning the room and the line went silent.

“Excuse me?” Nesta said after a minute.

“I want to have sex with a really hot guy. It’s the least I deserve after that stupid, good-for-nothing asshole dumped me.”

“Not with a prostitute you’re not.”

“But they are professionals. I bet he’ll show me around the world. Graysen never did.”

“Elain, how much have you had to drink?”

“Only two glasses. I’m not drunk. I just want to have a nice night.”

“We can have a nice night at home. Where the hell are you?”

Elain pursed her lips, weighing her options. Let Nesta come pick her up to where Feyre was waiting at home to console her which was something she didn’t want or stay here and maybe make out with a nice stranger and drink in peace? The decision was almost too easy.

“You’ll never find me.” she deadpanned then blew a raspberry into the phone and ended the call.

Was she being childish?

Absolutely.

Did she care at the moment?

Absolutely not.

“You sound like you need another drink.” a voice spoke out next to her and Elain’s head whipped to the side.

Her eyes fell on the stranger next to her and she blinked. He was handsome. Red hair tied in a neat ponytail, dressed in a button-down shirt and dress pants.

The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to reveal his toned forearms and this made her eyes wander up to the way the rest of his shirt hugged his body. Her gaze kept going up until it locked on the fading scar running down his face, his eye that had seen better days, and the quirked brow that completed his look.

The stranger gave her an amused look as she bluntly checked him out and when the corner of his mouth turned up, Elain flushed deeply.

“I’m good.” she finally replied, her voice coming out like a squeak and the stranger chuckled.

“Didn’t mean to eavesdrop but you were talking rather loudly.” he continued and took a sip of his own drink. “Trying to drink your sorrows?”

“No. This place is too nice for that.” she replied, casually smoothing down her skirt and then looking back at the stranger. Something about him seemed familiar. “I’m the florist for the wedding party happening in the banquet hall. My job’s done so I’m rewarding myself.”

“Didn’t they have an open bar?” he asked curiously, his eyes never leaving her face. As if he too had seen her someplace.

“Rewarding myself away from them.” Elain clarified then took a sip of her own drink, averting her gaze from his. “There are people attending I don’t want to see.”

“Your ex-boyfriend?”

Elain turned her head and narrowed her eyes at him. “How much of my conversation did you listen to?”

“You were shouting for half the place to hear you.” he replied with a chuckle then he held out his hand. “I’m Lucien.”

“Elain.” she said, shaking his hand. She eyed him again and found him eyeing her. “Why are you here?”

“Dinner party. Shitty company so I left earlier to come sit here instead.” he said, giving her a half smile. She nodded her understanding then gave him a curious look that he returned.

“I feel like I’ve met you before.” she said.

“So have I.” he replied, leaning against the counter. “Weren’t you the florist that handled Spring Corps end-of-the-year banquet?”

Elain perked up with a wide smile. “Yes! I had so much fun planning that!”

“I thought so!” He said with a smile. He had only stared at her for most of the evening, like a creep. No big deal. “I used to work there. That was my last event actually.”

“Better opportunity?”

“And better people.” he replied, holding up his glass before taking a sip and Elain chuckled.

“Good for you... What is it you do anyways?”

“I’m a marketing manager for Velaris Inc.”

Elain’s body straightened and she let out a gasp. “You work for Rhys?”

“You know Rhys?” he asked with a blink.

“He’s my brother-in-law!” Elain said with a laugh.

“Rhys is your brother-in-law?” Lucien said with a blink then laughed. “You’re Feyre’s sister! I can’t believe we haven’t met before.”

Elain beamed then slid her glass over, moving to the bar stool that had been between them. He watched her movement and his lips twitched, turning his body to face her fully, their knees touching.

“This is so exciting! I’m sure Feyre has talked about you before and I just didn’t make the connection.” Elain gushed. “Do you like working with them? Feyre and Rhys can be annoying to be around when they don’t stop touching each other.”

Lucien snorted. “Annoying is an understatement but Feyre is one of my closest friends. She’s the one that actually helped me get the job... Rhys can be tolerable at times.” he said with an eye roll and a good-natured smile that made Elain laugh.

“I’m going to tell your boss you said he’s only tolerable.  I’m his favorite sister-in-law, he’ll listen to me. You’re going to get in trouble.” she said with a playful smirk and Lucien placed a hand over his heart, feigning hurt.

“We’ve just met and you’re already throwing me under the bus? Strangers are horrible.”

She laughed again and shoved him lightly. “Technically, we’re not strangers anymore.” she said then lowered her voice for a dramatic effect. “I know where you work now.”

Lucien gasped, his drama matching hers. “A stalker! The horrors!”

“At least I’m a pretty stalker.” Elain replied with a cheeky grin, taking a sip from her glass and Lucien chuckled, his eyes slowly looking her up and down.

“That you are.”

They shared smiles and when Lucien opened his mouth next, the conversation between them became gushing. They talked about everything and anything, their drinks untouched next to them. An hour easily passed with the two of them sharing stories and what had started as a miserable evening for them both was now a night full of laughs.

“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve walked in on Rhys and Feyre fucking or about to fuck at work?” Lucien said and Elain crinkled her nose. “They never stop, dear god.”

“My rule is to call three times before I visit them. They get three warnings to make themselves decent before I arrive.” Elain replied, holding up three fingers then waved her hand. “Then I just start making annoying noises until they’re actually decent.”

“Annoying noises?” Lucien asked with a laugh. “What do those consist of?”

“Yodeling. Wailing. Animal noises.” she replied and grinned when his laughter continued. “Whatever strikes the mood really. Singing is always the last resort because I’m really terrible at it.”

He gave her a grin and pointed his finger at her. “I am definitely going to start doing that.” he said and she giggled. “Think they’ll fire me if I start yodeling to announce my arrival?”

“Tell them it was inspired by me. Maybe they’ll finally take the damn hint.” she replied and he snorted, gesturing for the bartender to refill their forgotten empty glasses.

“Elain! There you are.”

Both their heads swiveled towards the voice and Elain let out a low groan as Nesta came barreling towards them.

“That’s Nesta?” Lucien asked quietly.

“Yup.” she said with a sigh and turned to give her sister a thin smile. “Nesta. You came. Even though I asked you not to.”

“It took a bit to find the place...I didn’t want you to be alone.” Nesta replied and Lucien could tell wherever this woman went, she intimated everyone with her stance alone.

“I’m not alone.” Elain replied then gestured to Lucien with her glass. “This is Lucien. My designated lover for the night.”

Lucien almost choked on his drink but hid his smile in the glass before placing it back down and meeting Nesta’s horrified gaze.

“No. He’s not.” Nesta replied, crossing her arms and arching her brow.

“Indeed he is.” Elain said with a nod. “I told you on the phone I wanted to find someone. Here he is.”

“Hello.” he said, attempting not to burst out laughing. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Keep your pleasure to yourself, thank you.” Nesta replied, holding a hand up, her eyes never leaving his face. She squinted. “I’ve seen you before.”

“That’s because he’s very popular in the agency.” Elain immediately interjected. “Something about redheads.”

Lucien’s lips twitched, his eyes darting to Elain then back to Nesta. He shrugged. “It gets a lot of people going apparently.”

Nesta’s nose flared and she shifted to glare at Elain. “I’m not going to let you spend the night with a strange sexual professional.”

“Male escort.” he corrected.

“Prostitute.” Elain corrected at the same time, giving him a wink and he snorted. “And you’re not going to let me do anything, Nesta. Lucien is going to show me around the world, aren’t you?”

“I plan to.” he replied with a smirk that heated Elain’s cheek.

“We’ve already booked a room.” she said, beaming at her sister. Nesta blinked, her posture rigid.

“Elain. If you’re joking, I think it’s time to stop now.”

Elain squinted and turned in her seat to face her sister properly. “Are you really going to deny me sexual pleasure, Nesta Archeron?”

Her sister rolled her eyes as Lucien again, tried really hard not to laugh. He was both aroused and very, very amused.

“I’m not going to deny you anything. I just think you should get it from someone who couldn’t potentially murder you in a hotel room.”

“Hey, I’m a professional. I would never do that.” Lucien objected with a frown.

“Exactly!” Elain agreed. “Besides, everyone knows you always dump the body in the river so the evidence washes away.”

Lucien let out a laugh as Nesta glared at her and then poked her head gently.

“How many drinks have you had?” she hissed and Elain pouted.

“I’m fine, Nesta! He’s a friend! It’s fine!” Elain replied, exasperated. “I’m fine. I appreciate you coming but I’ll be fine. Go back home.”

“I didn’t realize you befriended prostitutes.” she stated curtly and Lucien snorted.

“Prostitutes are people too, you know.” Lucien said, giving Nesta a look and she scowled at him.

“I never stated otherwise.” her curt tone sharpening.

“It’s the flower business. Really draws us in.” Lucien replied, his eyes on Elain now. “Also helps when there’s a cute girl selling the flowers.”

Elain tried hard not to smile when their eyes met and cleared her throat, turning back to Nesta.

“You’d be surprised how many come in for the nicest bouquets.”  Elain said with a nod toward her sister.

“It helps set up the mood.” Lucien said to Elain, nodding his agreement and Elain giggled.

Nesta’s expression turned sour and then she grabbed Lucien by the front of his shirt. He blinked at her.

“Can I help you?”

“I want your phone and ID. Now.”

“Nesta!” Elain objected but Lucien gave Nesta an amused look and then pulled out his phone and wallet, allowing Nesta to yank them both out of his hand. Elain and Lucien watched her dial a number in his phone until her own phone began ringing, then she pulled his ID from his wallet and took a picture of it. Glancing at him once more, she shoved both his phone and wallet back in his hand then gripped him by his shirt again.

“If anything should happen to my sister, I will find you and murder you so viciously they won’t even find dust particles of you.” she said quietly. “Understood?”

“Yes ma’am.” he replied promptly and Nesta let him go. She glared at him once more then turned to Elain and patted her on the head.

“Have fun. Use a condom.”

“Thanks mom.” Elain grumbled and Nesta flashed her a small smile before shooting Lucien another glare and then leaving.

A silence fell between the two for the first time since they sat next to each other, Elain mortified and Lucien beyond amused.

“I’m not sure if I should be offended or flattered she believed that I could be a high-end hooker.” he finally said and Elain groaned, immediately leaning down to hide her face on the counter. Lucien finally burst out laughing and she lifted her head to playfully glare at him.

“I’m very offended she believed that I could only get laid if it was with a high-end hooker.” Elain replied with a frown and Lucien laughed again.

“How badly does she think you need a good fuck?” He asked rather bluntly and Elain turned bright red.

“I — it was — that’s a very personal question!”

“You told your sister I’m your male entertainment for the night, I think we’re past that.” He said teasingly and Elain hung her head with another groan. He chuckled but his gaze lingered on her.

Elain’s cheeks flushed when she looked up and met his gaze. Their conversation had been well but everything that had been said when Nesta showed up took it down a different path. A path she wasn’t sure she was ready for. Though she would like to kiss him. Maybe more. Maybe.

“Maybe I should just leave...enough embarrassment for one night.” she muttered, giving him a small smile.

“Why the rush? I never said I wouldn’t be able to help you.” he said quietly, the corner of his lips turned up.

She blinked at him.

“Huh?”

“I may not be a male prostitute but I can promise to show you around the world.” he said in that same quiet tone.

“That’s a big promise.” she said quietly, though heat had already pooled low in her stomach. She was so attracted to him.

“One I intend to spend all night fulfilling.” Lucien replied, a finger tracing the top of his glass, his eyes never wavering from her flushed face. “If you’ll let me.”

So Elain found herself once again, weighing her options for the night. She could spend the night with this fine specimen, getting what could potentially be a fuck of a lifetime or she could go home and well...her vibrator was her other option.

The decision was once again, too easy.

Elain leaned forward and fisted both hands in the front of his dress shirt, pulling him half off his bar stool against her and crashing her lips into his. Lucien immediately responded, a hand cupping her face and the other on her neck, guiding her to lean further into him. The kiss was heated, the tension that had been between them only increasing as Lucien nipped at her bottom lip and if the way his tongue was working with hers gave any indication of what he could do with it in other places, Elain was in for a ride.

He pulled away from her after a moment and Elain stared at him breathless.

“We’re going to need to book that room.” he said quietly.

“Yes. Yes, we will.” she replied and he grinned.

“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.” he said, leaning in to kiss her once more but pausing inches away from her lips with a worried expression. “Or I mean, if you do want to go that’s fine —I just —before I book the room —”

Elain tugged him closer, shutting him up and getting the kiss he had denied her, before gently letting him go. “Let’s go book that room.”

[lucabyte]

monologue

[petricorah]

scenes i loved from Real Enough to Get Me Through by @marriedzukka <333 [ids in alt]

[frownyalfred]

I’m sure someone has written it by now but on the off chance they haven’t…I need a fic where Jason never learned how to swim and it never came up when he took on the Robin mantle (maybe he lied, by omission, or maybe it truly never came up in conversation) until a patrol gone wrong where he gets thrown into Gotham Habor and almost drowns. Bruce has to teach him how to swim while dealing with his own guilt over never fully verifying if Jay could swim, because he grew up rich and had lessons in the pool out back and never fully put together — until that awful moment, seeing Jason’s head disappear underwater — that swimming isn’t often an instinct, but something that absolutely has to be learned. and practiced. and they both have to untangle their prides and guilt and do something as simple as jump in the pool together and swim.

[ihave-atummyache]

is it here?

Changbin Blurb/imagine

short drabble

sfw!! (i was giggling and kicking my feet writing this)

im not sure how many words but not many!!

this is 100000% inspired by a tweet i just saw <3

“Binnie, let me see your phone,” you lock your own phone and he grabs his off the table, passing it to you, not even pretending to glance away from his laptop.

“What are you looking for?” Your boyfriend ponders, clicking away on his computer. You had been scrolling on your phone quietly for a while and he was wondering what you were doing.

“I ordered something online and I can’t find the confirmation email. I might have accidentally put your phone number,” you reply and type the word “order confirmation” into his search bar.

You click the first email that comes up and your eyes widen and you let out a gasp when you realize what it is. This immediately catches your boyfriend’s attention, especially when he sees the blush rush up your neck and the soft smile on your face.

“What? What happened?” He leans back in the couch and glances over at the screen of his phone.

There, you both stare at the confirmation email for the engagement ring that he had ordered. You quickly swipe out of the email and scroll, finding the email you’re looking for and forwarding it to yourself.

You’re speechless and, to your surprise, so is Changbin. You swallow thickly and lock his phone, placing it on the couch between the two of you.

Neither you nor Changbin say anything for a few minutes. He clears his throat and starts typing on his computer again and you unlock your phone once more but you can’t even pretend to be focused on anything on your screen.

Before you know it, a quiet giggle escapes your lips and you bite your lip to try to suppress it. Your boyfriend hears you, his cute giggle following yours and you can’t help but laugh again.

The two of you continue to giggle, falling back on the couch and leaning into each other.

“What are you giggling at?” you tease, interlacing your fingers with his and resting your head on his shoulder.

“What are you giggling at?” he rebuttals and you let out another quick giggle before taking a breath and calming down enough to speak.

“You know why I’m giggling,” you reply and turn towards your boyfriend, who was already looking at you, “Is it here?” you add on, a small smile covering both of your faces. He already knows exactly what you’re asking about.

He chuckles once more before nodding his head at you, “It is,” he confirms and a huge grin covers your face.

“Is it hidden?” You ask, sitting up and grabbing the laptop off his lap. You sit it on the coffee table before swinging your leg over his lap and straddling him.

“It is,” he repeats himself, giving you nothing to work with. Your boyfriend (soon to be fiancée, apparently) wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him. You wrap your arms around his neck and lean forward, pressing a kiss to his lips.

“Wanna play hot or cold?” You offer and he immediately shakes his head at you before the two of you erupt into more giddy giggles.

[luxaofhesperides]

Soulmate AU: First Words + End of the World ; requested by @justwannabecat!

Duke has long since accepted that he doesn’t have great luck. Most things in his life tend to go wrong very quickly, or complicate situations he was already struggling in (see: being a meta and getting his powers in the middle of a fight). Having an incomprehensible soulmark is an unpleasant discovery on the morning of his nineteenth birthday, but not entirely unexpected.

He had been hoping for something simple, a common one like hi it’s nice to meet you or sorry, didn’t mean to bump into you.

What Duke gets instead isn’t even words. 

Scrawled across his left hipbone is a string of symbols glowing a faint green. They’re not in a language he recognizes, and the symbols seem to move, shifting ever so slightly so they look different every time he blinks.

“Well,” he says after a solid five minutes of staring into the mirror, unable to rip his eyes off his soulmate’s words, “I hope theirs looks nicer than mine.”

He spends his birthday in a bit of a daze, enjoying time spent with the Waynes and his friends. It’s hard to be fully present when he’s all too aware of the soreness on his hipbone flaring up each time he moves. It’s hard to keep his mind off of it, wanting nothing more than to search for answers, unravel the mystery of his soulmate’s first words.

“Something on your mind?” Jason asks, as the attention shifts off of him for a brief moment as Harper and Cullen get ready to leave and everyone rushes to give their goodbyes,

Duke shrugs, carefully keeping his hands still so they don’t drift to where his soulmark is hidden beneath his clothes. “Yeah. Nothing you need to worry about, though.”

Jason looks him over critically, then nods. 

Duke resigns himself to being investigated by the rest of the Bats. If he’s off enough that Jason had to comment on it, then that means everyone’s noticed and are trying to figure out what’s happened. They’re not going to ask him, because they think he needs space to work through whatever’s got him so distracted, but they’re also not going to just do nothing. 

This won’t be the first time they’ve done this. Duke expects it. Frankly, it would be stranger and much more concerning if they didn’t try to dig up all his secrets the moment they caught wind of him hiding something.

He’ll tell them about getting his soulmark soon. Soulmarks can appear on any birthday between the ages of thirteen to twenty five; they might suspect he got his, but they won’t be able to confirm.

For now, Duke can keep his soulmate’s first words (whatever that gibberish means) to himself.

He makes the decision then and there, as his birthday party winds down, to tell them in a week.

And because his luck is abysmal, a world ending threat hits five days later and suddenly there is no time for soulmarks and first words.

Duke is the last to arrive at the Fortress of Solitude, hitching a ride from Superboy to get there. The biting cold and the harsh winds keep the place far from the reaches of the rest of humanity, surrounded by nothing but deadly white. 

Desolate as the landscape is, it’s still in better shape than the rest of the world.

Things would be better if it was alien invaders. It would be more bearable if some sort of cosmic colossus tried to eat their solar system. At least then there would be something physical that they could fight.

Instead, the world is breaking apart, the sky and earth both fracturing to reveal glowing green faultlines. Timelines are getting mixed up and muddled; just yesterday, Duke had to evacuate a building that had been demolished forty years ago, then stop a gang leader who wouldn’t be born for another eight years from taking over a neighborhood block and holding the residents hostage. Strange creatures are appearing out of nowhere, crawling out of shadows and tide pools and from beneath the roots of trees, all horrible, monstrous things that go after people with teeth and claws. 

The Flashes and the rest of the speedsters are nowhere to be found. The last time anyone get communication from them, it had been Impulse sending Red Robin a glitchy, barely audible video chat saying something along the lines of “trying to fix—unstable—keep us here—never been alive before.” All things that are very concerning to hear, made worse by the fact that no one had been able to contact them at all. 

The quiet loneliness of the Fortress of Solitude is a welcome change from the constant screaming, death, and destruction that’s taken over Gotham as well as the rest of the world. Last he heard, even Justice League China was at the end of their rope. 

“In here,” Superboy instructs, guiding Duke through the halls. There’s no time to look around at Superman’s secret base. All his focus is stuck on staying conscious for another few hours to see if this gathering of heroes is able to find a solution to the world breaking apart.

Batman stands besides Superman. Both nod at Duke when he enters the room. Wonder Woman is watching over John Constantine as he writes something on the floor, muttering under his breath. The rest of the Justice League lean against each other, visibly exhausted as they wait for Constantine to finish up what he’s doing. A few other heroes are here too, and Duke goes to join them where they lean against a wall, fighting to keep their eyes open.

“Hey,” he greets, voice low. “Hanging in there?”

Wonder Girl sighs. “Somehow. I don’t know how much longer we can do this. There’s just too much…”

“We’ll get through this. I mean, even without us out there, plenty of civilians have formed rescue and relief groups to help with keeping things under control,” Speedy says, gently knocking her arm against Wonder Girl’s. “We just gotta keep going. No giving up.”

“What’s this plan, anyways? I just heard that they needed me here to some attempt to fix things.”

“Well, without the speedsters, you’re kind of the only one who can help with time and power related stuff,” Speedy says.

“That’s definitely a stretch. My powers don’t really have anything to do with time. It’s all just light and shadow.”

Speedy shrugs. “Well, you’re here, aren’t you? Too late to complain about it now.”

Duke doesn’t get a chance to say anything else when a loud clap catches his attention. The entire room goes still and silent as Constantine stands up and surveys the circle and symbols he’s written, taking up an entire corner of the large room. 

“Alright,” he says. “Time to get started. Remember, let me do the talking. If you have to speak, it’s only to back me up or when a question is directed to you.”

Batman nods to the other Justice Leaguers, and suddenly everyone is falling into formation behind Constantine. Duke hurries to join them with Wonder Girl and Speedy, taking a place on the edge of the group where he’s a little closer to the circle than the others. 

Constantine begins chanting. His voice is steady though none of the sounds make any sense, refusing to form themselves into recognizable words, and the air the in the room feels heavier. The chalk circle glows a blinding white and Duke can see magic swirling through the air, his power kicking in the let him watch as reality tears and a glowing star in the shape of a boy comes out of it.

Duke blinks, forcing his power down. The hypnotic swirls of magic fade from sight, but the boy still glows, bright and terrible as he floats above the circle and surveys them all. A crown engulfed in blue flame hovers above his head and the fabric of the cosmos is draped over his shoulders as a cape. 

Just from presence alone, Duke can tell that this figure is now the strongest existence in this universe. He hopes this boy king is kind; no one, not even Superman, would be able to beat him in a fight.

The boy king opens his mouth and speaks, but it’s not words than comes out. A strange static like sound emerges, but light and almost melodic. 

His left hipbone burns.

Duke gasps, hand flying down to it, and the boy king’s gaze snaps to meet his.

The world stands still. No one moves. No one dares to breathe.

And then the boy king drops to the floor and walks out of the circle.

“I thought you said that would hold him!” Batman hisses at Constantine, who is looking more and more distressed.

“It was supposed to! I wrote it specifically to hold the King of the Infinite Realms!”

The boy king glances at Constantine. This time, when he speaks, it’s in smooth English. “Did you name the king in your circle?”

“Yeah, I named Pariah Dark… Bloody hell, you ain’t him, are ya?”

“No,” the boy king smiles, “I’m Phantom.”

The cape and crown fade away, and suddenly it’s not an all powerful, terrifying king standing before them, but a young man with white hair and green eyes who looks Duke’s age. Like he could be any other new generation hero in the room. 

“Phantom,” Duke repeats lightly, just under his breath, but it makes Phantom look at him again.

He walks forward, ignoring the other heroes’ aborted attempts to stop him, coupled with Constantine’s frantic back off motion happening behind him. Phantom leaves the circle and the Justice Leaguers behind to stand before Duke, a soft smile on his face.

“Hi,” he says softly, “I dreamed of you.”

“You—what?”

“I dreamed of you. I have for years now. To think that being summoned was what made us meet—” Phantom breaks off into a breathless laugh.

Duke swallows, then drops his had from where it had been pressed against his hip. “So we’re really—? You have my first words too?”

In the corner of his eye, he sees Batman stiffen up. Maybe he should have just told them the day after his birthday, but in Duke’s defense, this is the definition of extenuation circumstances. 

“First words?” Phantom repeats, “Is that… Do we have different soulmate connections?”

“I think so. Here, everyone gets the first words their soulmates say to them appearing somewhere on their body.”

Phantom’s gaze darts down to Duke’s hip, then back up. “Oh. I get dreams. Where I’m from, we dream of our soulmates, and the closer we get to meeting them, the more we remember the dreams.”

“And you dreamed of me.”

“I did.”

“As touching as this is,” Constantine interrupts, and Duke gets to watch as Phantom rolls his eyes, “We summoned you here for a reason. Our world is falling apart at the seams and we need someone powerful, from the Realms, to help us fix it.”

“Okay.”

“...What do you mean ‘okay’?”

“I’ll help,” Phantom says.

“Just like that? No deal to be made, no price to be paid?”

“Just like that. I’m not one for deals anyways. If I can help, then I will. But I do want to see what the problem is with my soulmate by my side, if you don’t mind.”

Batman steps in, fixing Duke with a steady gaze, a barely noticeable tilt of his head. “Signal?”

“Yeah I’ll go with him. Of course I will. The sooner the better, in fact, because everything’s gone to shit.” Duke turns to Phantom, taking hold of one of his hands. “It is really bad out there,” he warns, “If you need help—”

“I’ll ask for help from others in the Realms,” Phantom says. “No offense or anything, but if it’s really that bad, I doubt living mortals will be able to do much to fix things. It’s why I was summoned, right?”

“Right. Let’s get to it, then.”

There’s a flash of mischief in Phantom’s eyes, and cheeky grin stealing across his face for a moment, before he says, “Aye aye, captain!” and picks Duke up like he weighs nothing and flies up through the ceiling.

Duke is able to hear everyone’s surprised, panicked shouts before they’re outside the Fortress of Solitude and Phantom is flying them away. He only needs a few directions from Duke before he finds the first of the large fractures in the sky.

“Yikes,” is all he says, which is not a great thing to hear. “I think I know how to fix it, though. We’ll need to do a little investigating as to who, exactly, started messing around with reality, but once we find the source, it’ll be an easy fix.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all week.”

“Even better than meeting your soulmate?”

“I haven’t slept for more than four hours all week. Knowing there’s an end in sight beats everything else.”

Phantom laughs, throwing his head back and Duke can’t help but drink in the sight of him, so ethereal and bright and full of life. “Fair enough! Got any ideas as to where we should start?”

“I’ve got an entire crew of detective vigilantes,” Duke replies. He’s not taking any more chances. No more waiting to talk about important things; he messed up by keeping his soulmark to himself, so he needs to make sure everyone meets his soulmate before shit goes south again. 

“Let’s go find them, then!”

They take off again, soaring through the skies that are barely holding themselves together. 

The world is still ending, and every hero is being stretched thin, but held carefully in Phantom’s arms, racing head first into a solution, Duke can’t help but feel that everything’s going to be alright now. 

He’s had enough bad luck. Now, his soulmate with him, bearing the title of King with grace, things are finally starting to look up.

[nyoomerr]

Fic prompt: SY is the chosen cleric of LBH, the world's most possessive divine emperor, accent on the divine. He did not sign up for this. (Meanwhile, LBH is trying to figure out how he can fit a divine empress into this pantheon)

i actually got very into this AU once i thought about it for 0.5 seconds, so here's a lil drabble that i hope to expand on and put on ao3 in the future ;>

---

Shen Yuan wouldn’t consider himself to be particularly religious. He believed in the gods, of course - the proof of their existence is written on every street corner and under every roof. The lights of the city that have no discernible power source outside of the goddess of invention herself, the unemptiable food basket that had been gifted to Shen Yuan’s father by the god of plenty, the buzz of raw energy in the air each weekend when the city gathers to say its prayers. 

Undoubtedly, Shen Yuan had grown up in a city blessed by the gods, so naturally he believes in them. He just doesn’t much care for them.

A city blessed by the gods is also a city kept by them, after all. No inventions that could possibly be construed as a weapon would ever be approved by the ministry of creation. No civil courts existed when the gods could directly send down divine punishment to sinners.

No life in the city would ever survive if the gods found it unworthy.

Shen Yuan knew, objectively, why the rules of the gods were so strict. Divine Emperor Luo wrote them himself, and each one had been crafted specifically to prevent the sort of strife and abuse that he had witnessed when he was a mere mortal. Every schoolchild learns the story of the pitiful Luo Binghe who struggled to reach the heavens, faced every day with proof of humanity’s dishonor and ugliness.

When that pathetic Luo Binghe had awakened his blood as the Divine Emperor, he’d immediately sought to rewrite the rules of the heavens to fix the issues he’d seen as a mortal. It made sense. It even worked, to some objective degree of measurement: starvation and war between human lands was barely heard of, these days.

Shen Yuan casts his eyes up to the ceiling of the chapel. A mural of Divine Emperor Luo is painted in bright splashes of color, his eyes piercing down at the viewer as he holds a drink in one hand and a woman in the other. An image of wealth and wellness; a warning to stay in line if you wish for a similar happy ending. 

Shen Yuan thinks that the Divine Emperor must truly have had a hard life, to rule as such an immature god. A child that never got the chance to grow up freely, now imposing their black-and-white outlook of life on an entire land of people who are mature enough to understand that life isn’t so simple.

Shen Yuan looks back down, peering through barely open eyes at his feet. He isn’t supposed to have his eyes open at all, during prayer. It’s just - despite the issues he has with the gods’ reign, and despite the apathy he feels in place of admiration or piety, he really can’t help but think - 

How pitiful, to have ascended without first understanding the joy of being human. How sad, to have your ‘happy ending’ worshiped by the masses without understanding it yourself, believing it to be good only because it follows your own strict rules. 

Shen Yuan sighs, a quiet release of air in the quiet of the chapel.

His next breath in feels electric. 

The vaulted ceilings of the chapel suddenly feel claustrophobic. The quiet hum of hands rubbing against hands in silent prayer rises to a crescendo of skin and movement and life. What low light the candles lining the pews had provided now burns as brightly as the light of a hundred divine lanterns, but there isn’t anywhere Shen Yuan can cast his eyes towards that is less shocking to look at. 

And there, at the front of the chapel, is a god. 

Shen Yuan’s breath catches. He can’t look away. The god is beautiful; more divine than any blessing that Shen Yuan has ever witnessed. 

He is also looking directly at Shen Yuan, meeting his gaze through half lidded eyes and with the laziness of an apex predator. 

Around Shen Yuan, the other church-goers have begun to break from their prayers, startled and choking on the divine presence around them. Many of them dare to sneak peeks at the descended god, but none of them seem able to look directly at him, their eyes sliding off of him before they quickly duck their heads and take up the pose of prayer once more.

Shen Yuan still can’t look away.

Slowly, the god steps down from the pulpit and begins to approach. He doesn’t bother to look at Shen Yuan as he moves forward, casually glancing around the chapel as if assessing it. His eyes catch on the mural on the ceiling - his own face looking down at him, though paling in comparison to the beauty and power of the real thing. 

And then he pulls his eyes back to Shen Yuan, and Shen Yuan realizes with a start that he’s stopped walking, standing directly in front of the pew Shen Yuan is sitting in.

Shen Yuan wets his lips. His pulse beats jack-rabbit fast in his throat.

“Divine Emperor Luo,” he greets. “How - how can I serve you?”

The weight of the Divine Emperor’s attention is no lighter than if Shen Yuan had held the entire ocean on his shoulders. He looks at Shen Yuan as if he might eat him, and expects Shen Yuan to thank him for the honor of filling a divine stomach.

“Do you think you can?” He asks, and Shen Yuan shudders at the sound of his voice. An infinitely powerful being, and he’s speaking to Shen Yuan as if Shen Yuan were a peculiarity, something fit to either be played with or disposed of once the god has finished assessing him. 

“Can I - um, my apologies, Divine Emperor, can I…?”

“Serve me,” The gods says. “Or did you offer such a thing unthinkingly?”

Shen Yuan stares at him. Divine Emperor Luo stares back, his gaze sharp as he takes Shen Yuan in. 

“Can you,” Divine Emperor Luo says, voice low and dangerous, “serve a god that you see as pitiful?”

Shen Yuan jerks back as if slapped. How useless would it be to say that he hadn’t meant it? If a god can hear any thought about them, not only directed prayers - for certainly, Shen Yuan’s private ruminations about the tragedy of Luo Binghe’s story had been nothing like a prayer, and yet they had clearly been heard - then there is no point in lying. If Shen Yuan were to claim one thing with his mouth and another with his mind, he’d only be branded one of the many sinners to be smited by the Divine Emperor’s just hand. Deceit was hardly looked favorably upon; to lie to a god that could hear the truth from your own mind would be suicide. 

Shen Yuan hesitates. At his back, he knows his family must be terrified, and yet he also knows that they dare not look at the Divine Emperor, and that their heads must be bowed in prayer like everyone else in the chapel. 

A room with a hundred people, and it may as well just be Shen Yuan and his god.

The Divine Emperor’s lips quirk up. It isn’t a friendly expression. 

“Your god, little Shen Yuan?” He asks cruelly. “You can pity me, and you can know in your heart that you are incapable of serving me, and yet you claim to be devout to me in the same breath?”

“Aren’t I yours, Divine Emperor?” Shen Yuan asks. His voice does not waver, but it is a near thing. “If I didn’t belong to you, could I dare to live in this city? Every living thing here must live by your rule; naturally, we must all belong to you.”

“What pretty words,” Divine Emperor Luo says. His eyes glint red from beneath his lashes, and Shen Yuan thinks -

Ah, so red is truly the color of the divine. 

Divine Emperor Luo’s eyes are very suddenly the same deep brown that his murals all portray him with. Shen Yuan lowers his gaze deferentially, and wonders idly if all the other too-sharp pieces of the Divine Emperor would smooth out if Shen Yuan’s thoughts lingered on them. 

“If Divine Emperor Luo finds my words pretty, then I will dare to keep speaking,” Shen Yuan says, keeping his eyes turned down. 

“Go on, then. Speak.”

Shen Yuan takes a shuddering breath in. His family is still cowering behind him. The old lady who lives down the street is shaking in her pew across the aisle. 

And Shen Yuan has never considered himself especially religious, because believing in the gods is very different from placing your faith in them. 

“To spy is the manifestation of distrust,” Shen Yuan recites, the words long since memorized after a lifetime of growing up under the gods’ many rules about morality and punishment. “A lack of trust in others implies something impure within yourself. Spying should be punished with ten lashes.”

Shen Yuan’s mother lets out a quiet sound of alarm, stifled so quickly it sounds like a whimper. Shen Yuan does not bother to send her any sort of mental apology; it would not reach her, and would instead be intercepted by an outsider. 

Besides, Shen Yuan had known well what he was doing, quoting the rules that the Divine Emperor had written right back at him, implying that a god should be punished. It would be foolish to apologize for something he had done so purposefully. 

“Spying,” Divine Emperor Luo says, after the silence in the chapel has stretched long. “What a funny way to describe listening to the prayers of my followers. Is it spying for you to hear a call made to you from within your own house?”

“If all of the prayers that the Divine Emperor receives sound like what he heard from me,” Shen Yuan says, glancing back up to meet the god’s eyes defiantly. “Then I wonder why he hasn’t bothered to descend before today to scold us all.”

“Does little Shen Yuan think I will scold him?” Divine Emperor Luo asks, voice soft. 

“I think,” Shen Yuan says, “that a god normally so busy with punishing us would not bother to descend unless it was to fulfill those duties.”

“The world is good, from the work that I do,” Divine Emperor Luo says sharply. 

“Is it?” Shen Yuan asks, and he finds that his fear has been pushed down, his chest tight with a lifetime of reading about the gods and wondering why, if Luo Binghe’s life was so miserable, would he be unable to recognize misery in his own subjects, living every day in fear of him? 

Luo Binghe had been pitiful, and he’d never been allowed to grow up peacefully, and Shen Yuan truly thinks it sad that a divine being could live in such a tragic way. 

But that doesn’t make him blind to the way that Luo Binghe’s immaturity has scorched the mortal plane, nor does his pity completely dissolve his anger over such a thing. 

Shen Yuan’s fate had been sealed from the moment they the Divine Emperor had descended. If he’s going to be punished regardless, then it will be for having said his piece. 

Dying from bitching this pathetic god out is a far better story than dying from having only thought it. 

And yet, before Shen Yuan can open his mouth again -

The Divine Emperor turns suddenly, facing the cleric at the front of the chapel. The old man is clutching at his prayer book with shaking hands, and he ducks his head instantly when the god looks his way. 

“Take him in as a disciple,” Divine Emperor Luo commands, gesturing lazily in Shen Yuan’s direction. “I want him trained and moved to the main church by the end of the year.”

Shen Yuan looks at the cleric, and then back at the god in front of him. He - what?

The Divine Emperor glances back at Shen Yuan, his lips quirked up and his eyes once more a blazing red. 

“There’s another reason for a god to descend than to administer punishment,” he says. “We must also appoint clerics.”

And then Divine Emperor Luo is gone, the space where he once stood crackling with divine energy. 

In disbelief, Shen Yuan - the first cleric to be personally appointed by the Divine Emperor in nearly a century - falls to his knees. Fuck, he thinks, and he hopes that the god is still listening to hear it. 

[potatobugz]

dog teeth

[lulublack90]

Prompt 11 - First Kiss

@wolfstarmicrofic January 11, word count 404

Sirius had been obsessing over Remus’s lips for weeks, months, probably years. He’d become suddenly aware of how much Remus affected him one evening when they were crowded around one of the fireplaces in the Gryffindor Common room, and Remus had just finished off this third chocolate frog. There was a thin smear left on the corner of his mouth. Sirius watched as the tip of Remus’s tongue poked out and swiped the last bit of chocolate, disappearing back into Remus’s mouth before poking out again and slipping across Remus’s lips. Since then, Sirius hadn’t gone a day without wanting to touch them with his own. 

He and Remus were sitting in the quidditch stands, watching James racing up and down the pitch with the quaffle as Gryffindor played against Ravenclaw for the quidditch cup. 

The game went on for hours, both teams neck and neck for points, it was going to come down to whoever caught the snitch first. 

Sirius had grabbed onto Remus’s sleeve half an hour ago when Fuller had almost caught the snitch, her fingers brushing against the golden ball for a second before the snitch darted out of her reach. A wave of exasperated sighs chorused around the stadium at poor Fuller’s fumble.

Twenty minutes later, Fuller suddenly shot straight up and reached out her hand. She levelled off with her hand firmly clasped around the golden snitch. 

The roar that rose from the Gryffindor supporters was deafening. The crowd jumped to their feet, jumping and cheering as the players circled the stands. 

Sirius turned to Remus to join in the celebrations with him, and then he saw the joy on Remus’s face and the smile stretching his lips. He couldn’t take it any more. He took a huge chance, grabbed Remus’s face with his hands, and captured his lips with his own. 

They were soft, yet had a firmness to them when, to his surprise, they kissed him back. Remus wrapped his arms around him and Sirius melted into him. All the surrounding noise disappeared as he and Remus kissed. Someone could have been talking directly to him, and he wouldn’t have heard them, because at that moment only Remus mattered. 

They broke away and stared at each other breathless and with uncertain eyes. 

“Hi,” Sirius said, his voice cracking. Remus smiled at him. 

“Hi,” And then he was kissing Sirius again and Sirius had never been happier. 

[captainfairygodmother]

You know what I really love that should be explored in even more Merlin fanfics?

Immortal Leon. Like, you've just got Merlin over there sulking about while he waits for Arthur to return. Then there's just Leon, living his best immortal life, doing the most randomest shit known to mankind

[itsthatlake]

Ha! Look at you, so young and happy... where did they years go?

[spiritedstars]

Around the World - Epilogue [ Elucien ]

Prompt: Prostitute/Client Modern AU with a twist. |

PART ONE |  PART TWO

Genre: Humor/Romance/Fluff Rating: SFW

Author’s Note: A little bonus scene. Morning afters are always fun. Enjoy ;D

It was long into the night when Elain and Lucien finally succumbed to sleep. They had discovered more in each other that night than anyone else had before. It had been a night filled with fervent kisses, tangled limbs, and a lot more laughs than either of them expected. They spent it wrapped in each other’s arms.

So wrapped in each other that they slept very late into the next day.

It wasn’t until a shrill ringing had Elain fumbling blindly for her cell phone, not even glancing at who was calling.

“Hmm?” she mumbled, the phone barely held up as Lucien’s sleeping figure wrapped an arm around her naked body, pulling her closer.

“Elain! I can see your boobs!” Feyre’s voice rang out and Elain’s eyes flew open, blinking rapidly.

“What?”

“I’m facetiming you to make sure you’re alive and Lucien hasn’t murdered you in retaliation for Rhys annoying him at work. I was more concerned with seeing your face but I guess your boobs will do.” Feyre continued.

Elain shot up, a slight panic at her surroundings then winced, her body protesting at the movement. She glanced to her side, Lucien still sleeping on his stomach, his arm still around her, and her lips turned up at the sight.

“Still only seeing boobs, Elain.”

Elain scowled now, pulling the sheets up and then holding the phone to her face. “Here. My face. I am alive.” she replied curtly to see Feyre giggling and Nesta rolling her eyes behind her.

“I can’t believe you slept with Lucien.” Feyre exclaimed with another giggle. “Look at those hickeys.”

“I personally can’t believe you’re still there.” Nesta said with a snort. “Guess he truly was the male entertainment you needed last night.”

“You two literally couldn’t wait until I came home to do this?” Elain whispered furiously, slowly sliding out from under the sheets and darting quickly around the room in search of her underwear, making sure the phone stayed on her face.

“It’s noon. You wake up at 8am daily. Something was clearly off.” Nesta replied and Elain resisted the urge to groan, and winced again, feeling sore everywhere. “Are you okay?”

“I was tired. I had a late night. I’m fine, Nesta.” she replied, hopping on one leg to slip said underwear on. Late night and early morning. But they didn’t need to know that.

“Exhausted from late-night shenanigans, huh big sis?” Feyre teased.

“Is that Elain?” Rhys’ voice called out and it was then she let out the groan, facepalming.

“I’m not having this discussion with Rhys there.”

“Tell Vanserra he’s not getting a promotion just because he gave you a good lay.” Rhys called out again and she rolled her eyes when his face popped up on the screen next to her sisters. “Was he a good lay? If he wasn’t, I’ll cut from his next paycheck.”

She saw Lucien stir out of the corner of her eye and her eyes narrowed back on the screen.

“You three are impossible. I’ll see you later.” she said quietly. “I’m going to go.”

“Going for another round? Elain, you sly minx.” Rhys sniggered and she scowled at him. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Do you even have enough condoms for that? Jesus.” Feyre questioned.

“If he turns out to be an actual prostitute on the side, I’m going to be vetting all your future dating choices.” came Nesta’s addition.

“Had we known you’d been this deprived, Elain, we would’ve intervened earlier.” Rhys’ teasing came again.

Elain flushed deeply but before she could answer, Lucien’s voice rang out. “Tell Rhys to mind his own fucken business. He can’t annoy me on my days off too.”

Elain bit back a grin as she watched him slowly stretch, the deep rumble of his sleepy voice going straight to her core and she squeezed her legs together. Lucien gave her a lazy smile as he sat up, knowing exactly what she was thinking.

“Ohhhh, she looks ready to pounce. It’s always the quiet ones.” Rhys said causing Feyre to start laughing and Nesta to snort loudly.

“I hope Lucien knows we’ll be getting all the details from you and using that as ammunition at work.” Feyre said with a grin.

“You should be more concerned of her showing up at your workplace to meet him there now.” Nesta said, the corner of her lips turned up at Elain’s scowl.

“I hate all three of you.” Elain mumbled, her eyes still locked on Lucien who gestured for her to come back to bed with two fingers. The two fingers that had known exactly what to do with her. The two fingers she had licked clean. Without looking at the phone, she added a quick, “Bye.” and ended the call, tossing the phone on the table next to her and made her way back to him.

Elain crawled on the bed and settled over him, straddling his waist. Lucien wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a kiss, one much more gentle than his previous ones had been.

When the two finally pulled away moments later, they could only sit in silence, glancing at each other.

“Can I take you out on a date?” he asked quietly.

“I thought this was supposed to be a one-night stand?” she asked in the same quiet tone and the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Elain. I knew the moment I started talking to you, you weren’t going to be a one-night stand.” Lucien replied, running his hands through her hair and she gave him a small smile. “You’re far too interesting for me not to at least try asking you out.”

“Is that so?”

“It is so.” he said with a chuckle. “I’d like to get to know you better. If you’ll let me.”

Elain smiled fully then. “I’d like that. We can start by getting some breakfast and then see where this goes.”

“What kind of breakfast are we talking about?” he asked with a smirk and she rolled her eyes, cheeks flushing.

“I am actually hungry but I’m willing to be your dessert later if you’ll be mine?”

“That is a proposition I can definitely work with.”

[somber-cryptid]

Kim Rok Soo learning to cook at a really young age.

Like. Five or six. When there was nothing ready to eat in his uncle's cabinets that he could find. The milk had gone bad, and the only other thing in the fridge was an egg or two.

His uncle hadn't been back for two days, and he preferred it that way. He could wash his own clothes in the sink and hang them to dry by the window. Get up for school by himself, dress himself, and walk to school by himself. The only issue was food.

He got food at school for free. That was the best food in Kim Rok Soo's opinion. Food he did not have to risk asking his uncle for. His teachers even praised him for eating all of his side dishes when his classmates were picky about theirs. Being picky was something that you needed money for.

Kim Rok Soo didn't have any money. If he did, then his uncle probably took it with him. When he was older, he'd get a bunch of money and share it with everyone but his uncle. That would be a while, though, and he was hungry now.

Yesterday, he'd eaten the last slice of bread in the entire apartment (he'd checked everywhere, even his uncle's room.) It'd been moldy, but as his uncle often said, 'beggars can't be choosers.' Kim Rok Soo now missed the bread he'd had to pick little blue spots off of. He should've eaten the spots, too. Maybe then he wouldn't be as hungry as he was right now.

Now he stood in front of the fridge (careful not to open it, his uncle got mad if kim rok soo ran up the electricity bill) thinking hard about the egg sitting inside of it. What if his uncle got home and wanted the egg? Then what? Get hit a lot just because Kim Rok Soo couldn't wait until the next day? It wasn't even the weekend yet.

Kim Rok Soo still ended up opening the fridge and holding the egg in his hand. He could crack it open over a cup and slurp it down. Kim Rok Soo didn't want to take such a risk for something he couldn't even chew though.

So he decided to cook it. He'd seen it in books, television, and even in person when his uncle was still nice to him. If he could do the rest by himself, he could do this by himself, too.

Kim Rok Soo gathered his supplies (a stool to stand on, a pan, and his uncle's egg) and stood in front of the stove. Remembering what cooking an egg looked like, he cracked his egg on the counter and emptied the inside onto the pan. A few eggshells fell in, but Kim Rok Soo just picked them out like he did the blue spots in the bread.

He knew which knob to use to turn the stove on, but he didn't know how much. So he decided to turn it halfway and left it on medium.

Kim Rok Soo stood there for what he felt was an eternity just watching his uncle's egg. Then the edges started to turn white, and he felt a little thrill. His stomach grumbled in anticipation. The pan kept getting hotter, and eventually, Kim Rok Soo couldn't see the pan through the egg anymore. As far as Kim Rok Soo knew, the egg was done.

A very smart child, Kim Rok Soo made sure to turn off the stove. His uncle had left it on before and blamed him for it, so Kim Rok Soo couldn't forget how important it was.

He put his plate on the table and then tried to flip the pan over so the egg would come out. The yolk hit the side of his plate, but the rest of his egg didn't budge. Kim Rok Soo frowned.

What the hell? It never ended up that way for anybody else. He'd just have to ask the auntie downstairs about it. She'd taught him how to fold his shirts too.

In the end, Kim Rok Soo found a spoon and scraped the rest of the egg into his plate.

It was pretty good, or at least Kim Rok Soo thought so. He was still hungry afterwards, but not as hungry. The entire process left him feeling satisfied. Another thing he could do on his own. Soon enough, he'd be able to live on his own and never see his uncle again.

Thinking about it, he'd have to get a job too, wouldn't he? You had to earn your meals after all.

[cryptocism]

new digs... 2!!!

from chapter 18 of frequency

[emloafs]

in barcelona daniel and johnny rent 3 hotel rooms because do they even charge students anymore?? like no. so they have no money. larusso auto is funding them.

it's one room for the girls, one room for the boys, and then one room for daniel and johnny - all with two full size beds because that makes the most sense logically and financially. so sam and devon each get a bed to themselves, and the four boys are crammed into one room.

demetri makes it a point to not share with eli and continue to ignore his existence, so hawk, already expecting it at this point, beats him to it and asks to share a bed with miguel. so robby is with demetri.

miguel and robby have just about had it with the binary bros bickering by the second or third night so they decide to Meddle (a reoccurring theme this season)

they're like if WE share a bed then they'll HAVE to share a bed whether they like it or not. so one night they get back to the room super early and claim one bed, turn the lights off, and pretend to sleep. demetri gets back to the room first and he clocks it immediately, but robby and miguel are "sleeping" so he grumbles and just decides to go to bed.

hawk gets back to the room last cuz he's up late training and is so confused and then he also is like actually fuck miguel and robby for this i hate them. buuuut he's so exhausted from training and he just wants to sleep. so he cuts his losses and gets into bed with demetri.

demetri, petty and iconic as he is, does not acknowledge him and just steals all of the blankets to his side. and they literally wrestle for them but eli gives up and just sleeps with nothing and is cold. they whisper fight but eventually fall asleep.

when they wake up in the morning, they're spooning and completely cuddled together.

(robby and miguel wake up first and take a thousand photos of them. they consider it an absolute win)

[suguwu]

WRAP YOUR TEETH AROUND THE WORLD I PART ONE

A child of the harvest, your life is forfeit when you're chosen for the Hunt's Rite.

You don't expect the god to take an interest in you instead.

minors and ageless blogs do not interact.

pairing: gn!reader x millions knives

notes: if you've followed me for a bit, you know that i've been thinking about this concept for a long while. it's such a delight to be able to finally share it. with massive apologies to my beta, who has not read this because i am too impatient.

the title is, of course, from hozier.

content: god of the hunt nai au, reader is specifically a vegetarian, slow burn, human sacrifice, implied murder, predator/prey aspects.

wc: 5.2k

The sun is setting when they come for you.

Light is still pouring golden over the horizon, dripping along the edge of the sky like honey, sweet and thick despite the teeth of the encroaching night. It casts the High Priest’s face into shadow, blurs the edges of her until she is something else, something more. God-touched.

You watch her disappear into the temple, absentmindedly holding the lantern-lighter to the wick. The flame catches quickly, a kiss of light, flaring like a shooting star. The bright flash makes you blink. It makes you refocus on your task. The next lantern is lit just as quickly, and you make your way around the courtyard, until a constellation bathes the courtyard in soft, flickering orange. 

You’re lighting the final wick when you hear your name. It rings out like the toll of a dour bell, deep and sad. Frost spirals down your spine, winter come early. You take a moment to blow out the lantern-lighter before you turn around. 

The High Priest of the Hunt flashes her teeth. The forest lives in the sharpened edges of them, each carefully filed to a knife’s deadly point, smooth and sharp. You shudder.

“Child,” your High Priest says. “You have been chosen for the Hunt’s Rite.”

Your next breath hurts. It shears through you, drags up between your ribs to split you apart, carves its way out of your throat. You choke on it.

“But—” you gasp out. “I’m a child of the harvest.” 

“You are not claimed,” the High Priest of the Hunt says, her voice billowing out like smoke. It fills the cracks in you with char, with something you cannot name. “And you have been chosen.” 

You have no words; they slip away from you like mist rising from the lake’s surface, wispy and intangible. The harvest god does not claim. It is not his way, but you had thought it would be different for you. 

(The man smiles at you, soft and sweet and edged with something like sorrow. “Eat,” he says, holding his hands out, his palms suddenly overflowing with plump fruit. The berries gleam in the dappled sunlight, little multi-colored gems. 

Your stomach aches at the sight. 

“You’re—” you breathe. 

“Eat,” the man—the god—repeats. “It will do you well.”

The berries burst beneath your teeth. They’re salt-kissed, a remnant of his touch. You devour them, ravenous with months of famine settled into your weakened bones, and only taste devotion.)

You had thought it would be different for you, you who had supped from his palms. 

“Please,” you say softly. “Please.”

Your High Priest looks away. His mouth twists, going sour at the edges, and his eyes are glassy in the low light, shining brightly with unshed tears.

The High Priest of the Hunt’s eyes glimmer too and you think of a predator peering out from the depths of the woods, eyes flickering beneath moonlight. 

“It is an honor to be chosen,” she tells you. “The hunt has always provided.” 

You stay quiet. 

She hums low in her throat, the sound like the distant baying of the dogs, and reaches out. You bite your tongue to keep from flinching. The pain shatters beneath your skin, a lightning strike sting, and you concentrate on that as she traces her thumb over the apple of your cheek.  Her touch is reverent, skimming over your skin like silk.

“Come,” she breathes. “We must ready you.”

Your High Priest protests, but the sound of his reedy voice is lost under the pulsing thrum of your blood as it echoes through you. It’s loud, like the purr of the pebbles that tumble over themselves each time a wave draws back from the shore. You stumble back a step.

There’s a ribbon woven around your chest, you think, and it’s growing tighter, compressing the bones until they start to creak. You suck in a sharp breath; it burns.

The High Priest of the Hunt studies you. In the lantern light, her features are stark, flickering shadows dancing over her face. She tilts her head and her blonde hair spills over her shoulder like starlight. It illuminates her, a galaxy spread sparkling in the sky, and again, she seems like something more. Something bigger. She flashes her sharpened teeth in a mockery of a smile.

“Come,” she says again. “There is nothing for you here.”

“Elendira,” your High Priest says. “Please.”

Her eyes harden. “The child is ours. The rite must be prepared.”

“They are to be given one night—”

“That is for those with family.”

You cast your eyes to the ground. The guttering flames of the lanterns send undulating patterns over the packed-down dirt of the courtyard; they writhe like snakes. The two High Priests continue to go back and forth, but they sound distant, as if they’re just echoes of themselves.

“Child.”

You look up. Your High Priest gives you a ghost of a smile; there’s a deep sorrow tucked up in the corner of his lips. He takes your hand in his. His fingers are bird-boned, delicate things. They’re trembling.

“You must go,” he says.

“Must I?”

He squeezes your hand. “Yes.” 

You blink back the tears. Just behind him, Elendira watches the two of you, her eyes gleaming in the lantern-light. There’s a triumphant curl to the crimson slant of her mouth, a brutal slash of victory. You squeeze your High Priest’s hand and draw in a ragged breath. 

“I would bring some of my things with me,” you tell them. It will help, you think, to have them with you. 

Elendira scoffs. “There is no need,” she says. “You are in the care of the hunt now. We will provide all that you want.”

“Then the hunt can provide me with my things.”

She eyes you, her lip curling up into a fierce little smile. “You have bite after all,” she says. “The hunt lives in you yet.”

You resist the urge to bare your teeth. “The harvest lives in me.”

She arches a perfect brow. “We shall see.”

Still, she relents. Two of her acolytes silently accompany you to your room at the temple; you pack in a daze, plucking up a few keepsakes, though you’re not sure why. You know the fate you are heading towards. You let your fingers play over the spirals of seaglass that line your dresser, the deep blues and the soft greens misted over by the ocean’s touch, years of gifts from the woodcarver.

You pick up one of the pieces, rubbing your thumb over the rounded edge of it. It’s the gentle blue of a mid-morning sky, of a speckled robin’s egg tucked carefully into the mess of a nest. You bring it to your lips and think that you can still taste salt. 

The acolytes urge you from your room, their hands reverent against you. One of them has callused fingers, a bow’s lingering kiss, and you shrink back from the abrasive feel of them.

Elendira is waiting for you in the temple’s courtyard. She hums, low and resonant, as you approach, eyeing the few things you’ve gathered, but she says nothing. You bite at your lip as you take in your own High Priest beside her; he’s stooped over, heavily slumped, an eroded rock. He can’t meet your eyes.

You look away and into Elendira’s keen gaze. She smiles, a crimson slash that shows off her sharpened teeth, and beckons you close.

“Come here, little one,” she says. 

You follow her command, coming to a halt in front of her. She slips a finger under your chin to make you look her in the eye. Her sharp nail digs into the softness there, just shy of breaking the skin. She examines you again. Her eyes—blue as the nearby lake, glittering like the water beneath the sun—are keen. You set your jaw and meet her gaze.

She laughs. She pushes your chin up higher for a brief breath before she withdraws, her nail dragging against your delicate skin like the tip of a knife. You draw in a sharp breath, but it doesn’t hurt. 

“We leave now,” she says.

“Let me say goodbye.”

She considers you again. “Is that a demand, child?”

“You said the hunt would provide.”

“You’ve already used that once,” she says, but she sounds amused. “This is the last time I’ll allow it.” 

She turns around and strides away before you can reply, her hair rippling behind her, a comet’s blazing trail. One of the acolytes trails behind her; the other remains in the courtyard, stepping back into the shadows cast by the lantern light. 

“Child,” your High Priest says softly. He still can’t look you in the eye. “I am sorry.”

“I know.”

“There is nothing I can do for you.”

“I know,” you say, and the tears beading crystalline on your lashes finally spill over, running hot down your cheeks. He reaches out and cups your cheek. He hushes you quietly, his thumb running softly beneath your eye, brushing away the falling tears. His own eyes are shimmering. 

“The woodcarver,” you say. “Will you—”

“I will go to her as soon as you’re gone.”

“Thank you.” 

“Is there anything you wish for me to say?”

You shake your head. “She’ll know.”

“As you wish,” he says. 

The acolyte shifts. “It is time,” they say, stepping forward into the light. “Come.” 

Your High Priest’s hand tightens against your cheek before he lets it fall. You miss his warmth; the cool night air erases the ghost of his touch in an instant. “Goodbye, child,” he says softly. 

“Goodbye,” you whisper.

The acolyte steps up beside you and gestures you forward. They lead you to where Elendira lingers in the shadows at the temple’s entrance. She steps forward and raises the hood of your well-worn cloak, her long fingers careful. The smile on her lips is sharp. It sinks down into your marrow, a well-placed knife. You shiver, frost spiraling down your spine. 

The acolyte chivvies you into a carriage. Elendira slips gracefully in across from you, her cloak flowing around her like a gentle river. You turn your gaze outwards, unwilling to face her.

She laughs, the sound billowing out from her like smoke. But she doesn’t try to engage you; you watch the darkened countryside roll by, blurring like a mirage. You mark things familiar to you to try and ground yourself: the half-bent oak, the overgrown path to the long-dried lake, the curl of smoke rising from the temple.

It doesn’t work. You feel wool-headed, as if it’s stuffed between your ears. The world is a watercolor, smearing across your vision in flickers of color. You close your eyes against it, stomach roiling, and concentrate on breathing from your mouth, low and slow. 

You only open them when the carriage creaks to a halt. 

Elendira gives you no commands; she merely flashes her sharpened teeth at you in a mockery of a smile before sliding from the carriage. You have no choice but to follow. 

There are two acolytes waiting for you, their curious eyes tracing over every inch of you. Elendira beckons one of them close.

“Ready them,” she orders. “They need to be prepared for the coming days before the rite.” 

The acolyte bows and ushers you forward. You don’t bother to fight it. You barely look at your surroundings, too focused on each heavy step towards your fate. They guide you through the temple carefully. People bow as you go by; you catch the shadows of them out of the corner of your eyes, each one wispy as they yield to you and the acolytes. A shiver trickles down your spine like icemelt. 

The air changes as you step into another hallway. There’s a dampness to it now, like the humid touch of a midsummer’s afternoon, when there is a promise of a storm in the air. The baths, then, you think. You’ll be scrubbed clean of the remnants of your temple, stripped of the very last of it, the scent of your soap. 

For a moment, you consider running, but there’s no point. Instead, you let them herd you through a door and into the baths.

Once you’re in the steamy room, they strip you of your clothing with reverent fingers. You sink into the bath without a word, barely taking in the magnificent stretch of it, the bath so large it could almost be a pool, lined with tiles as blue as the sky. 

You don’t fight it when they begin to wash you. Their touch is gentle, as sweet as a spring lamb. The soap smells of clover, of the meadows that edge the village, and it’s almost enough to mask the rusty tinge of blood that lingers in the air. The acolytes murmur to you as they bathe you, but their voices are distant, burbling like the river current. 

They rinse you by pouring ladles of cool water over your head. It’s a balm against your heated body; you turn your face into it despite the gasps it brings. The water cradles you like a lover. Their murmurs meld into something songlike, rising and falling like the wind, fluting high and rasping low. Prayer, you think. You don’t bother to listen.

They dry you with towels scented like the forest, like the deep woods, all moss and loam. You do not receive your clothing back; instead, they dress you in fine silks that stick to your skin, that cling to your body like a gossamer spider’s web. You shiver as they sweep against your skin, as cool as a river. 

The bath starts to darken as they blow the candles out. They chivvy you forward, back into the halls. Your cheeks heat as you go, aware that the silk sticks to each inch of you, a second skin, and that all eyes are upon you. The murmurs echo off the walls, rolling across you like waves against the shore. 

The room they bring you to is a lavish one. There are luxurious pelts spread on the large bed, ready to keep the chill air of the encroaching fall at bay. They nudge you through the door. You stumble through it, your foot catching on the draping silk, and catch yourself against an ornate chair.

By the time you turn around, the acolytes are gone, the door scraping closed behind them. The click of the lock rings through the air. You cannot help yourself; you try the door. It does not budge.

The tears start to sting your eyes. You sniffle, willing them back, and make your way to the bed. It’s soft as you sink down upon it. You stare up at the ceiling until it starts to blur, and then you finally close your eyes.

You do not fall asleep for a very long time.

—

Dawn comes too early. 

You’ve barely stirred in the bed when the door opens; an acolyte sweeps in. She’s keen-eyed, almost vulpine, with the sharpened teeth to match. You sit up as she draws near, huddling under one of the pelts. 

“Come,” she says, her voice rolling like summer thunder. “You must eat.” 

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll find your appetite once there is food in front of you.”

You shake your head.

Her expression doesn’t change, but suddenly, there’s something cold to her, the slow creep of the first frost. “It wasn’t a request,” she says. “Now come.” 

You grit your teeth, your fingers tightening in the thick fur of the pelt you’re under. Then you let go and slide out from under it. 

“Good,” the acolyte says.

She dresses you in silence, brushing your hands away when you try to smooth out the silken clothing they’ve brought you. It’s finely made, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever owned, and it makes your stomach twist.

She takes you through the winding temple halls, your bare feet quiet against the cool stone floors. The other acolytes stare as you go by, just as they did last night, and you shrink into yourself, make yourself small. It does little to alleviate the weight of their gazes. 

The room she takes you into is a small one, but it seems cavernous, with its high ceilings and sparse decor. Elendira is there, her long blonde hair gleaming in the light, a falling star. She turns as you enter. She beckons you forward; you slink towards her, a cowed dog. 

“Sit,” she tells you, gesturing to the chair across from her. “You must eat.”

You hesitate for a breath before you sink into the chair. She smiles, clearly pleased, and when she nods, another acolyte places a plate in front of you. 

You pause. The plate is laden with seasonal vegetables, cooked and raw. For a moment, you almost feel like you’re home. “There’s no meat,” you say. Your own voice startles you, small as it is. 

Elendira hums. “No,” she says. “It would make you sick.”

It would, considering how long you’ve gone without it, but you hadn’t expected to be accommodated. Perhaps you should have; it’s easy to forget that you’re important to them now. That you are something bigger than yourself. You gaze down at the plate and your stomach churns.

You think you might be sick anyway. 

Under Elendira’s gaze, you pick away at the food, mostly pushing it around on the plate. When you finally lean back, unable to take even a second more, she purses her lips but says nothing. Instead, she beckons to you, a silent command.

You follow her out into the courtyard in the middle of the temple. You’re surprised to see the garden that fills it, the scent of wet loam rising to your nose as an acolyte waters a patch of summer roses, their petals the color of the dawn, a sweet, pearly pink. There’s a basket of them on the ground, their cut stems still oozing sap. You pause.

“Go on,” Elendira says, sounding amused. 

You pick one up, twirling it between your fingers before hissing out a breath as a thorn catches the pad of your thumb. The blood wells up, a crimson seed, and you press your thumb between your lips to suck it away. Iron spreads on your tongue. 

There’s a drop of blood clinging to the thorn; it trickles down the stem a bit. You wipe it away as Elendira watches, something like a smile blooming on her lips, but she says nothing. 

Instead, she takes you through the garden to a set of rooms on the other side. There are acolytes waiting inside.

“Take care of them,” Elendira says. Before you can protest, she turns on her heel and glides from the room, her blonde hair flowing behind her like a comet’s tail. 

“Come,” one of the acolytes says, holding out a hand. 

You almost shrink away, but you take a deep breath and straighten your spine instead. You do not take their hand, but you follow them anyway. They bring you deeper into the chambers, into a room that smells of incense. It’s heavier than what your temple uses, but there is comfort in it nonetheless. 

You spend the day in that little room, retreating deep into your mind as they prepare you, engaging in little rituals that are beyond your knowledge. Normally, you would ask, always curious, but you cannot bring yourself to do so. 

By the time they lead you from the room, night has fallen. The scent of incense lingers on your skin as you walk through the courtyard, your face lifted towards the sky to better see the rising moon. It shines silver on the garden, painting petals with its soft touch. 

A different acolyte chivvies you along. He’d joined the group later, taking over from faces that had just started to grow familiar. Part of you thinks that is exactly the intent—that you gain no true companionship with anyone. It is utterly lonely, like living amongst shadows. 

He leads you to your room; once inside, you again hear the click of the lock. This time, you don’t bother to try the door. Instead, you shimmy out of the silken clothing and into the bed, closing your eyes.

When you open them again, you know that you are dreaming. 

You are small again; you barely come up to the woodcarver’s hip. She presses your face against her skirts, her hand gentle but firm. The words are lost to the dream, but you remember them well enough—the elders discussing your fate after your father was lost to winter’s teeth, claimed by  a cliff disguised by drifting snow. 

The gods are not kind. That much is clear.

The elders say your father’s name like a funeral knell. You think it will haunt you forever. 

When you look up from the woodcarver’s skirts, she is older, time smearing together as it only can in a dream. The edges of her eyes crinkle like parchment, laugh lines etched into her skin. They do not show now her face is solemn, her lips pinched together. She is thinner, her cheekbones sharp, and you realize it is the famine years.

The world swirls and suddenly, you are in the town square, desperate cries echoing around you. The woodcarver is next to you, her face grim, and she pulls you close as the crowd—the mob—pushes forward. 

You know what happens next. It’s already written, a history you can’t change. But you turn away anyway, hiding your face back in the woodcarver’s skirts, as if it can block out the cries of the harvest god’s acolytes as they fall. 

You wake with a cry, char and blood lingering in your nose, a phantom of the past. You sob once, twice, and bury your face in the furs of your fine bed. 

The gods are not kind, but neither are men.

—

The morning dawns red.

It streaks through the sky, crimson fingers of light smearing against the horizon, the sun bleeding it like a cracked egg. It spills into your room through the high window, pooling on the stone floor. 

The ruby sky fades into something softer as the sun continues its rise, but the damage is done. The burning spectacle haunts you as you dress for the day, unaccompanied by any acolyte. You can hear them in the hallway, the temple stirring to life, but no one comes through your door. Something in you burns cold.

When the door finally opens, you know. 

The acolytes take you to the bath through deserted halls. The water is warm and sweetly scented with a perfume that you don’t know. It winds around you, soft and soothing. You drift as they bathe you. 

Your skin prickles with gooseflesh when they rinse you, the air dragging its cool fingertips over the length of your body. The acolytes dry you with soft towels before they wrap you in clinging silks yet again. You trail your hand over the material, take in the icy slip of it. 

You look up as one of the acolytes approaches with a piece of fabric in his hands. You dip your head at his gesture; he ties it over your eyes, leaving you in darkness, with just the tiniest hint of light seeping in at the edges, like the sun peeking over the horizon. 

Blinded, you’re entirely reliant on the acolytes to lead you. You take deep breaths, trying to loosen the knot that’s wound itself around your ribs. You drift in the darkness, your mind fleeing.

The light hurts when the blindfold comes off. You wince, blinking away the sting, and find yourself in a grove at the forest’s edge, surrounded by the temple’s acolytes. They cry out at the sight of you, and you shrink into yourself, feeling your heart fluttering between your ribs, a trapped bird. Your hands are shaking.

Smoke billows around you, the scent of char settling over your skin as the acolytes disrobe you. Elendira watches from her place by the altar. Her blonde hair glints in the light, haloed by the sun, and her gaze is heavy upon your form. 

The silk you were wearing puddles at your feet, iridescent, an icy lake reflecting the moon’s glow. They dab oil behind your ears and in the hollow of your throat. You choke on a sob.

It was not meant to be like this. 

(Eat, the god of the harvest says, his smile sad. So that you may live as you are meant to.)

You let the acolytes wind pelts around you, the heat of them settling into your bones, a stoked fire caught up in fur. They’re for the deepest parts of the forest, you think, where the trees still murmur to each other. Where it stays chilled even in the height of summer.

It’s kind of them to think you’ll get that far. 

“Please,” you say quietly, as one of them dips near to smear crimson juice on your lips. 

She ignores you. 

Elendira raises her arms at the altar. The others turn their attention her way; you glance to it and see a pearly pink rose laid out against the stone. You turn away and stare at the ground, at the forest loam full of moss. There is a spider skittering across a leaf. You watch it run. 

Elendira is speaking, her cool voice filling the meadow. You cannot hear her. The acolytes move with her, at her command. You glance up and cannot make sense of what they’re doing. They whirl around you, snapping their sharpened teeth into the air with sharp clicks of their jaws, the muscles working beneath their skin. It’s too different from your own temple, all vicious, violent movement. 

You only know the rite is complete when you feel him.

He blazes into being behind you, his presence oppressive, the weight of his gaze dragging at you like an anchor and its heavy chain. It sinks into you. Crawls beneath your skin. Flays you open and touches the deepest parts of you. 

It’s almost familiar, like a dream within a dream. 

Elendira cries out, her voice fluting like a bird’s before it grows rougher, crueler, until you hear the hunting dogs in her voice, nipping at your heels. Behind you, his presence grows, a stoked fire. 

You don’t flinch when he touches you. His touch blazes like cold fire, a frostbitten thing. His thumb—thick and callused—dips into the oil that’s gathered on your neck.

He smears it up the soft underside of your throat to the tender skin just beneath your jaw. He presses there, just against your fluttering pulse. 

Please, you almost say, but you know better.

The god of the hunt is not known for his mercy. 

(Knives is just one of his many names, but it’s the one that rings truest. A blade is a blade is a blade. It cares little who it nicks.)

“Acceptable,” he says, and there is the forest in his voice, something ancient. It echoes around you. Thunders through your bones. 

He leans in close, his breath warming the nape of your neck. Your chest goes tight.

He murmurs, almost fond, into your ear:

“Run, little rabbit.”

You do. 

You know better than to look behind you; you bound off towards the forest, where the saplings rise like ribs, their shadows long against the ground. You feel the grass beneath your feet give way to the loam of the woods, dirt cushioned with moss. 

The forest blurs by as you dash through it, nimble-footed as you dodge around the massive oaks that soar to the sky, their canopies darkening the woods around you. You gasp in a breath, your chest tightening more, anxiety spooling around your ribs like thread. 

The woods have gone quiet. There are no birds calling; even the rustle of the trees is gone, as if fall has already consumed them, given them over to winter’s slumber. You only hear the pounding of your heart as it flutters against your ribs, a hummingbird's frantic beating of wings. You duck beneath a branch but not far enough. It scores your cheek, a whip crack of pain that fades quickly.

You have no time for it; you hurtle over an old, old root system, the tangle of them gone mossy with age. You barely clear it, your toes brushing against the mushrooms blooming from the bark. 

You land hard.

It knocks the breath from you, rattles up through your bones, the earth's admonishment. Air rushes from you in a great, gasping breath and you cannot pull it back in. Your chest aches with it, a bruise freshly pressed. 

Still, you don't dare stop.

You can feel Knives behind you, pacing like a wolf behind its prey. He keeps his distance, but never too far, nipping at your heels each time you slow with his massive presence, something too big to name. You hadn't known how divinity devours.

There is a maw at your heels and you can only go forward.

You dance between the saplings, breath caught in your throat. The woods are hungry around you; everywhere you look there are only trees.

Your feet pound against the dirt. They ache, a bone-deep bruise. You're slowing, you know, but you cannot help it. Your legs feel encased in resin, the slow drip of exhaustion trickling down them.

"Please," you pant. "Please."

(“Slowly,” the god says, brushing a knuckle against your cheekbone. “I will be here to give you more.”) 

The blackberry bush to your left blooms into being, berries pouring from it, ripened to a plumpness that's beyond anything you've ever seen.

You change directions instantly, veering towards it. 

Another one blooms, and then a raspberry bush, the berries little blood-red rubies, thick and juicy. You follow the verdant path coming to life, something bright starting to burn in your chest, something that you barely dare think of as hope. 

You choke on your next breath.

Knives' presence has roared to life behind you, a freshly stoked fire. It drapes over you like the nighttime, deep and oppressive. Ozone crackles in the air. It's stark on your tongue. Suffocating. 

Then there's an arm around your waist.

It stops you in your tracks, so sudden that it hurts. It shakes the sense from you. You gasp, the air forced from your lungs in a long, low hiss, a rattlesnake’s vibrating tail. Only the arm—thickly muscled, unyielding as iron—keeps you upright.

When your breath returns, it only catches in your throat once more.

There's heat against you; air stirs the fine hairs at your nape. You can feel the slow, steady rise of Knives’ chest against your back. His arm tightens around you. His fingers dig divots into the flesh of your hip. 

His voice—full of the forest, of the hunt, of fur and fang and blood—rumbles through you.

“Not this one, little brother.”

The berry bush that had just burst into life withers, its verdant leaves curling up into brittle skeletons. You draw in a sharp, ragged breath. Your chest aches, a bruise of a thing, bone deep. You shift and those fingers flex, sinking even deeper into the curve of your hip.

You go still. There’s little point in struggling; this close, you can feel the divinity radiating off of him, a falling star, cold and bright. It’s overwhelming, burning through your very bones. It devours you. His arm tightens around you as your knees start to give, your chest heaving. Your vision spots, going black at the edges, and you feel more than hear him speak. It cracks like thunder and your body gives up. 

The last thing you see before the world fades is a flash of blue hair.