#prune soles

[joyfullfeet]

Did I mention my onlyfans🥹🌊

[beepborpdoodledorp]

meme

[sttoru]

𝝑𝑒 SYNOPSIS. sukuna is shameless—not caring if anyone were to ever catch him righteously claiming ownership over his favorite concubine in the garden.

wc. 1.5k-ish

tags. true form!sukuna x concubine!female reader. smut, pwp. exhibitionism. size difference. dumbification \\ objectification. has two c.ocks. hair pulling. use of spit (yeah ik i wouldnt write for it but its sukuna). breeding themes. overstimulation. reader gets called ‘little girl, slut’. sukuna’s a menace and loves to create drama between his concubines

“shut up. i don’t care if they’re here or not,” sukuna grunts, tightening his grip on your fleshy thighs as his lower cock slams in and out your sloppy cunt without much thought. the sound of pruning shears cutting off branches is easily overwhelmed by the lewd noises of skin slapping against skin.

you feel sorry for those servants who’re just doing their job tending to the garden. none of them dare to look your way. they’re sweating, eyes solely focused on the branches they’re cutting, acting like they are not hearing the sinful moans and grunts in the distance. if they look, they’re dead. that much is known.

everything is blurry to you. all you can manage to do is let out a string of pleasure filled whines. your body is easily overpowered and held up against the harsh wood of the nearby wall. your thighs are spread in an awfully painful way, your knees up to your chest. quite literally folded in half.

“i said eyes on me, y’ fuckin’ slut,” sukuna barks. he does not have the patience today. you breaking the intense eye contact with him only worsens his mood. one of his veiny hands tug at your hair. the others hold you up—not allowing you to even think of getting back on your feet until your tight cunt is done milking him for what he’s worth.

you gasp and sukuna takes the chance to grab your jaw with yet another free hand. “open y’r mouth,” his hips do not still for even a second. they roll and ground against yours, the surrounding skin near his pelvis stained with your wet juices. he could smell it. just as nasty and dirty as he wants it to be.

you part your lips and keep them like that, not wanting to piss sukuna off even more. he grins at the sight of your red tongue instinctively rolling out like the obedient little girl you are. he spits right into your mouth, “swallow.”

you do so without second thought. the warm liquid trickles down your throat. sukuna watches in satisfaction, drilling into you until your insides are complete mush. you’re drooling over yourself already—clearly having lost control over your rationality.

you sniffle and try to hold onto sukuna’s biceps. your small fingers curl around the shape of them, nails digging into his flesh. every time you think sukuna’s finally letting up, he only increases his inhuman pace. “my l-lord, ‘s too much,” you cry out. your body could only handle so much pleasure before it’d break down. your pussy is convulsing around his girthy cock, feeling his other sliding back and forth over your sensitive clit.

the king of curses shuts you up with a hiss. his bottom set of eyes is focused on the impressive scene of your tiny pussy swallowing his cock so easily. he’s feeling proud of the fact that he’s molded you into the perfect concubine for him and his carnal pleasure.

sukuna has fucked you silly enough times to know how to get you under his spell. his fingers brush over your hard nipples, grabbing the squishy flesh of your tits as they bounce with each of his thrusts. he leans his head down towards yours. his rough, raspy voice makes your body heat up, “no, no. it’s never too much for my little girl, right? she can easily take ‘nother load f’me.”

your breath hitches and sukuna realises it worked. he knows just what to say to manipulate you into giving in. so he can fuck you senseless for how long he wants. you’re a sucker for the fact that he calls you his. that’s what you are—you’re his woman. only his and no one else’s. the claim of ownership makes your pussy clench.

“y-yes, my lord. i can take another, i can,” you breathe out, head swaying from side to side, not mentally able anymore to keep up with sukuna’s intense libido. yet, your body is still active, squeezing around sukuna’s dick as he promised you more of his precious cum.

the king of curses snickers, amused by just how fast you gave in. “that’s what i thought, hah,” he’s realised that his hold on you knows no bounds. you’re his little toy. the only one he wants to ravish these days. and the only one worth of carrying his seed.

you’re still thinking about the way he’s called you ‘his little girl’. it’s driving you closer to the edge. you start to get louder, completely ignoring your inner thoughts that begged you to have some decorum; to try and hide the fact that you’re getting slutted out in the courtyard.

there’s not much hiding it anyway since the servants have a clear understanding of what’s going on behind them. “mghh, please—please need more!” you mewl and sukuna listens. his red eyes darken with desire as you get into it. he loves to experience that lust driven side of yours. a complete opposite to your usual formal and shy self.

“louder, c’mon. let them know i’m fucking you good,” sukuna sneers, enjoying the mind games he is playing with you. you’re too cockdrunk to even notice. the them in his sentence refers to his other concubines. he knows that you’re secretly craving to get revenge on them and show them just how well you get dicked down by him every single day.

unlike them, who rarely get graced by his touch. that is, when you’re unavailable.

you do as told and increase the volume of your erotic moans, letting everyone around the estate know what you’re getting up to. not like anyone could interfere. sukuna wouldn’t dare let them live a second after.

“that’s it, yeah,” the sorcerer grunts and rams his length repeatedly into you, cursing at the way you’re gripping him so tightly. you’re so dripping wet that he slips out of you for a second. he moves his hips, angling them better to slam back inside of you.

however, you’re one step ahead. your shaky hand reaches down between your legs and you quickly guide his tip to your entrance, urging him to push between your moist folds again. “nasty fuckin’ girl,” sukuna scoffs at your desperation, though secretly thrives off it. he switches cocks and shoves the upper one into your cunt.

you gasp. you’re so used to him to the point that you could sense the difference between his dicks. the upper one has more veins and is a tad bit girthier. you hiccup and nearly choke on your own moans and spit from the change of pace and dicks. “ngh, ‘tis so deep, my lord—” you whine loudly and your hands move to hold your breasts, stopping them from painfully jiggling around in every direction.

sukuna hums in content as he continues his rough thrusts. he can feel his balls twitch and clench, ready to shoot his sperm all up in your womb like you deserve. though, he doesn’t want to end this moment too quickly. he wants to extend it.

“c’mere,” sukuna grumbles and stops pounding your poor, aching cunt. he stills his dick inside you and allows you to cling onto his tall stature, lifting you away from the wall. he silently urges you to wrap your legs around his waist so he could carry you.

the robes of your kimono get left behind on the patch of grass near the wall of the main house. there’s a few droplets of white liquid that’s stained the grass, right where sukuna and you were standing at seconds ago.

you don’t think about anything anymore as you babble about how full you felt with his cock all the way in you. the fat tip brushes against your cervix with each step sukuna takes towards his next destination.

“keep talkin’ to me, doll. tell me how good it feels to take my cock,” he grins smugly as he carries your little body like a trophy into the main building—not paying mind to any maids who he passes by. they’re shocked by the sight of their lady in such a state, though are only able to bow at the two of you.

sukuna finally stops in front of the dinner table. the same table you always have dinner at with him and his other women. he places your back against the surface, big hands holding you down by your hips. “there we go,” he coos mockingly, seeing how you’re completely fucked out, yet still needing more of him.

the king of curses has his own twisted reasons of bringing you here. looking outside of the window, you notice how the sun is starting to set. that’s also the moment you realise his hidden motive.

the other concubines will sooner or later gather at the dining hall to eat supper. they’d expect a peaceful meal, though instead, they’ll be greeted by the sight of their dear lord screwing his favorite. it’ll be a painful blow to them.

which is exactly what the ruthless man wants to achieve.

sukuna licks his lips and all of his eyes focus on you solely, “gonna enjoy my dinner a bit earlier t’day, yeah?”

CR. STTORU 2024

[ninibeingdelulu]

Beach date ✧

Plot: A date at the beach with your grumpy boyfriend after one of his big games.

.part two.

Even though he loathes anything involving sand, surf and sweat, you somehow still managed to wheedle Sae into this "relaxation outing" with your pleading pouts and promises of indulging his every grumpy demand.

That signature scowl etched deeper into those striking features the second his restless soles hit the gritty shoreline.

"This is already the last damn time," Sae grumbled under his breath, squinting against the bright sunrays glaring off the turquoise waves.

You simply grinned, tugging him further down towards the water's edge knowing full well it was an empty growl.

While Sae stubbornly insisted on laying out that ratty old beach towel, you immediately stripped down to your swimsuit and raced into the refreshing shallows with a joyful whoop.

Splashing around like an excitable puppy until those cold droplets sprayed his exposed skin, earning you a murderous glare that only widened your cheeky grin in response.

"Come on , Sae! Just dip those toes in for me?"

That dry monotone somehow conveyed simmering irritation despite the lack of inflection. "I'll deteriorate into salt and misery, thanks."

Laughter tinkled from your parted lips while giving an exaggerated pout specifically to nettle him further.

Sure enough, it wasn't long before Sae dragged himself into the gentle surf with a weary sigh - arms hanging sullenly at his sides even as you circled him in teasing loop-de-loops.

Every few passes, you'd ghost those pruning fingertips along the taut cords of his neck and abdomen just to delight in Sae's visible shiver.

The creeping blush prickling high across his cheekbones when stealing not-so-subtle glances at your glistening, bare curves.

"Eyes off the merchandise, baby." you crooned with no bite, relishing the scathing scowl you received in return despite his appreciative leer lingering a bit too long.

Eventually coaxing him to lounge chest-deep in that sublime bath while tucking your delicate frame against his front.

Pillowing your head into the cradle of Sae's sturdy shoulder as those strong limbs subconsciously moved to cradle your lower back and thighs underwater.

His mouth remained pressed into that perpetual hypercritical line, though the tiniest sparkles returned to those jaded chips the longer he sat absorbing your serene surroundings and warmth.

Well aware this was precisely the type of simple, intimate moment his thundering spirit craved - no matter how stubbornly Sae refused to admit it.

At some point, you noticed his free palm blindly combing through the foamy shoreline in search of something. Eyes half-lidded while simply absorbing the rise and fall of your entwined figures caught in that gentle rhythm.

Until finally, Sae's fingertips resurfaced curling around some sand-caked treasure he silently brushed off before holding it up for inspection.

A petite pink conch shell with subtle striations and a mesmerizing iridescent interior that immediately reminded you of Sae's captivating irises.

Gazing upwards, you noticed the barest hint of a softened look clouding those very same eyes as the shell turned slowly in his calloused grip - brow smoothed into something almost tender before flicking that intense stare sideways to meet yours.

"...it reminded me of that mouthy little smile you're always wearing like an idiot."

Sae's sardonic tone attempted hiding the tiniest curve peeking out at the corners of his mouth while depositing the conch treasure into your waiting palms - maybe allowing the ghost of delight to play across his stare too before tucking you snug into the shelter of his throat again.

No further sentiments necessary beyond you silently tracing those intricate swirls with your thumb, mouthing 'I love you too, grouch' against the salt-tinged skin warming your cheek until he absorbed that affirmation with a low grumble vibrating clear to your bones.

Sae might swear he loathed these tender, peaceful interludes...but you recognized that lie reflected in the contentment etching his guard-less features and iron grip refusing to let go.

Staying firmly anchored to his tranquil island for as long as these stolen pockets of paradise allowed.

[angel-of-the-moons]

can you do some bratty reader x johnny cage :33 need him so bad 😭

HELLS YEA I CAN

(Also because it wasn't specified which Johnny, I'm gonna go with MK1 because the things I would do to with this man--)

Bad Kitten

Johnny Cage x Bratty!Fem!Reader

TW/CW: NSFW, SMUT, bratty!reader, bit of a dom!Johnny (but not much), pool sex, teasing, fingering, edging, orgasm denial, dirty talk

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵

Being Johnny Cage's girlfriend had its perks.

Living in Malibu in his gorgeous mansion was one of them. As well as having a bomb ass pool that went all the way inside the house, too.

It was no biggie to pop in for a swim whenever you wanted to engage in your "fish instinct brain" that Johnny called it. In fact, when Johnny couldn't get a hold of you while he was on set, or you weren't answering he knew he could find you floating in the pool, one of your favorite shows playing on the TV nearby as you lazily kicked your feet about in the water.

You were a bombshell, a true prize, Johnny would tell everyone.

But the one thing that confounded him the most, was your bratty and playful personality. You were a smartass, a bit of a prankster, and a maddening tease.

An intoxicating cocktail that he couldn't resist (and found stupidly sexy).

But sometimes... You needed some reminding as to who you were playing with. And right now was one of those times.

He crossed his arms as he looked down at you, his shoes just inches from the edge of the pool, his expensive silk shirt wet and damp from where you splashed him, soles squeaking on the expensive tile.

"C'mon, Kitten..." He said, crossing his arms over his chest, frowning down at you, a bite to his tone.

"Because of you, I have to go change now. We're gonna miss our reservations."

"So?" You grin up at him, doing a lazy backstroke, thrusting your chest up out of the water so your breasts were on display, your bikini top leaving little to the imagination.

You could see his Adams apple bob in his throat as he licked his lips. You couldn't see his glasses behind his shades, but you knew damn well what he was looking at.

"Baby, c'mon..." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Nah. Fish brain demands water." You laugh, kicking your foot out and splashing water onto his shoes, causing him to step back with a sputter.

Somewhere along that time, Johnny slipped on the water you'd splashed earlier, landing flat on his ass and sending his glasses skittering across the floor.

"All right, that's it!" Johnny growled, moving to get back on his feet.

"You are in for--" He was cut off when your bikini top came flying at him and hit him square in the face.

His mouth dropped open when he looked at you, the setting sun casting fiery colors on the water, reflecting up onto the walls in a mystical array of patterns, the light of the sunset illuminating around you as you spun in the water, a cheeky grin on your face as your breasts freely bobbed in the water.

"In for what, baby?" You purr, sticking your tongue out at him. "Gotta catch me if you wanna get your point across..."

Johnny gave you a grin that sent a thrill down your spine, and he started pulling his clothes off.

💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵💵

"I'm soo-oo-rrr-rrryyy!" You whimpered, squirming to get free from his relentless grasp.

"Nope. Nuh-uh." Johnny said casually, as he rolled and pinched your clit between his thumb and forefinger. Your bikini bottoms had long since been untied, floating somewhere in the pool.

He had been at it for nearly an hour and a half. Your bodies were already pruning, but that didn't stop him.

"You got my floor wet, Kitten." Johnny sighed in your ear as he gave you another pinch, his other arm wrapped firmly around your waist, keeping your back pinned to his front.

"Got my clothes wet, made us miss our dinner reservation..." He rolled your clit beneath his water-wrinkled thumb.

"Made me drop my glasses, too. If those lenses are scratched... Well." He grinned into the skin of your shoulder.

"This is what happens to bad pussies, you know. You gotta learn your actions have consequences, babe."

You groaned at his crude metaphor, and made a shaky moan. Your throat was dry and scratchy, your tongue feeling like sandpaper from your whining, squealing, and moaning you'd done since he started this torture.

You felt the flames of your orgasm, so close to completely engulfing you, and you felt your heart speed up again at the promise of release.

But Johnny? Oh, he knew your body like that back of his hand, by now.

He knew how to read you the way a blind man reads a book written in braille; and he was always eager to study when it came to you.

And that, is precisely why he stopped, merely tapping his finger on your engorged clit, sighing as you thrashed, a needy sob coming from you as water splashed around you, your legs kicking weakly in protest.

"Johnny!" You cried, tears burning in the corners of your eyes.

"Mmm?" He hummed innocently, still tapping your clit in a way that was just pure torture, each point of contact sending lightning bolts striking up through you.

You could feel the hardness of his cock was pressed firmly against your ass, yet Johnny seemed perfectly content to ignore it in favor of driving you to the brink of insanity with just his fingers.

"God--just--fucking--" You cry, throwing your head back.

"Hey, now, keep talking like that and I'm gonna make sure you never get off." Johnny grinned at you, kissing your cheek.

"Johnny, I'm sorry--" You hiccuped pathetically. "Just please!"

"Please what, baby?" He cooed.

"Fu--please. Please please pleasepleaseplease let me cum."

"Aaaaaand?" He chuckled, swiping at your clit again.

"I'm sorry I got you wet!" You sobbed. "Ah-and--and made us miss d-dinner!"

"That's my girl! Knew you could do it!" He encouraged with a kiss to your shoulder.

When he pulled his hand away from your, you whined, thinking that he was messing with you and wouldn't give you the relief he had been teasing you with and yanking out of your fingers.

But when he spun you around and started to grind his cock against your folds in the water? You felt your mind get foggy with the promise of having his cock fuck you into oblivion.

"Been wanting to fuck you in the pool for a while." He grunted as you blindly reached down to line him up, sinking down so the tip of his cock popped into your aching hole.

Johnny tipped his head back with a deep groan that rumbled in his chest as you speared yourself down, nails biting into the wet skin of his shoulders, sliding down to leave deep red grooves in the skin.

"Goddamn, Kitten. You're so tight."

"Ah, god--fuck." You whine, desperately trying to get into a rhythm that you could settle into.

But it was hard. The slickness of the water made it difficult; awkward and hard to find purchase. You were getting frustrated now, and made an angry whine.

Johnny chuckled tightly and took pity on you, his feet planting on the tiles of the pool below (thankfully you were on the shallow end, right now) as he grabbed your hips.

He used the water to help him move you as he arched his back, thrusting up into you with vigor.

You squealed and doubled over as he rammed himself in mercilessly.

When he tipped his hips up in a certain way, your mind went blank with the white-hot pleasure that sparked in your blood. The flames of your orgasm that Johnny had been edging from you finally combusted, engulfing you in the choking flames with a frayed wail; your muscles clamping down on his cock as you wrapped your arms around his neck, sniffling from the overstimulation as he continued to slam up into you, his arms caging you against his chest.

"Fuck, so good for me, baby." He hissed through clenched teeth.

"Doing so. Fucking. Good." He grunted, punctuating each word with a harsh snap of his hips.

"Johhhnnnnyyyyy..." You mewled as his dick dragged in and out of your gummy walls.

"Fuck!" He rolled his eyes back with a deep moan, swallowing hard.

He knew he was going to cum soon, he never lasted long when you were this worked up and tight.

But damn, was it fun to work you up.

Johnny made a whimper in your ear before taking the lobe between his teeth, biting down as his orgasm started to crest.

He had the mental acuity enough to pull out before he started to cum, milky white ropes spurting out of his swollen and achy tip, lazily wafting about in the waves that splashed around the two of you.

You both almost collapsed, letting the push and pull of the water ease your muscles.

"...Im thinking we should order out tonight." Johnny grinned at you.

"Up for some Chinese?"

[discordiansamba]

Chief Hakoda has heard a lot about Prince Zuko.

The first rumors that reached his ears were simple, uncomplicated. The Prince had a sickly disposition, and was confined to a villa on a Fire Nation resort island for the sake of his health. That was why when Prince Ozai took the crown of Fire Lord, it was his second child, Princess Azula, who became his heir instead.

It just made the next rumors he heard about the young prince that much more incomprehensible.

The Avatar had returned, and his father had sent Prince Zuko to capture him. Either the prince's health had improved over the years, or Ozai was a crueler man than Hakoda could have ever guessed. Some said that the prince had burned down Kyoshi Island- others said the fire was only limited to the village.

The next time he heard about the prince, it was from Bato.

He had heard the Avatar had companions- but he hadn't know they were his children. They were taking him to the North Pole so that they could master waterbending, and Hakoda could not be more proud. At the same time, he grew concerned- and thus, he asked about the Avatar's pursuer. Had he heard anything about Prince Zuko?

Bato's expression grew grim. His children had described the prince as something out of a spirit tale. They'd described him as rage given human form- and had added that they were using human loosely. Bato had inquired what they meant by that, and they'd explained that the prince had the claws, horns, and wings of a dragon.

Hakoda had been raised on his mother's spirit tales- among them were tales of those who had been cursed by the spirits- their souls reshaped, their bodies twisted. If there were any family that deserved to be cursed by them, he supposed to the Fire Nation royal family made sense. It also explained the inconsistency- if the Prince were cursed, no doubt his family would want to hide him away where no one could see him.

Perhaps sending him after the Avatar was as much an attempt to get rid of him as anything.

The next time Hakoda heard of Prince Zuko, it was from Sokka himself. He'd come to visit their camp at the mouth of Chameleon Bay. Hakoda eventually questioned him about the prince, and Sokka had just laughed and said that they didn't have to worry about Zuko chasing them anymore. He'd decided to help them instead.

Hakoda gave him a look.

But his son went on to describe how he had shown up at the Northern Water Tribe with his Uncle, to warn them about the Fire Nation invasion- and about how Zuko had broken Aang out of Pohuai Stronghold. Hakoda nearly choked on his sea prune stew, staring at his son as if he were telling tales. He'd heard of Pohuai. He couldn't imagine one person breaking into it.

Sokka just shrugged. Zuko's not exactly normal.

The next time he heard of Prince Zuko, it was again from his son's lips. Ba Sing Se had fallen, and they had barely escaped with their lives. The Avatar had taken a fatal wound, but Katara had managed to revive him with spirit water. And Zuko... Zuko had covered their escape. He'd been captured instead.

They seized a Fire Nation ship, posing as soldiers. In the ports of the Fire Nation colonies, Hakoda heard a new rumor about the prince- about how Princess Azula had paraded him, chained and muzzled through the Caldera. He'd been vicious, they whispered- spewing sparks from behind his muzzle and growling at anyone who got too close. They said it was a merciful act- how noble of the princess to spare him, even though a dragon now controlled his body.

He was being kept in the Capital prison, away from the sun. They hoped it would drive the dragon out of him. If not...

...how tragic it would be, if the Fire Lord were forced to kill his own son.

(The next time he heard of Prince Zuko, it was from the Dragon of the West. He'd invited himself onto their ship, and made himself part of their invasion plans- but his sole intention, he said, was to rescue his nephew.)

[gardenofnoah]

turn me like a beast / hold you to the floor

tags: nanami kento x reader, princess!reader, violence, injuries (minor), non-graphic descriptions of hunting, medium burn, sort of enemies to lovers but mostly scared strangers to unfortunate lovers, the fall of a dynasty, character death (sorry), reincarnation, bittersweet ending. mdni.

wc: 6.5k ish

notes: for @medusashima’s collab—indulging myself (and y’all) in my take on one of my favorite stories. i hope you like it 💘 this is based on the tale of the two fossils found wrapped up in each other in an unlikely pairing (which is made even better by the fact that it is not fiction and it happened!! love is real nerd!!). there’s a really phenomenal webtoon called burrow (by saige9) that makes me cry and that y’all should read immediately. anyway, enjoy. love u

summary: the world is at its end, and an unlikely pair finds solace in each other. to love is an animal thing.

it shocks you, how gentle a tug it takes to unravel everything that you were. only a thing between two others—before: a princess on a hill, the unraveling, and who you’ll be after.

your feet stomp clumsily over dirt and jagged rock—softened soles split open easily with each stride. but, ever your grandmother's frightened little rabbit, not even that searing pain is enough to thwart you in your descent down the hill—away from what is surely certain death. nothing but the animal need to survive pushing you forward—to get to whatever comes next.

it happened too fast—the only way a dynasty can fall to those privileged enough not to notice the slow decline of the society around them until it's too late. your family spoke of pockets of uprisings as if they were fictitious and theoretical—some grandiose, far away prediction of the old crone that haunted the village below your compound, and certainly not the men concealed by shade of trees that had been pruned by your family for centuries, salivating but patient for the perfect moment to strike.

and then they were dead. all of them but you.

a childhood of exploring the grounds of your family home proves useful in knowing without much thought which paths lead farthest from the carnage at your back, but your fright makes you uncoordinated—mechanical in your stride. the price to stop for even a second is far too high, and the hounds that howl after you in the dark serve as a constant reminder of the consequence of hesitation. so, bruised and bleeding, you keep on.

you run until your lungs threaten to collapse and then on farther. your feet carry you through unfamiliar wood, but in your rush, your brain rationalizes that the repercussions of trespassing cannot be much worse than what's behind you. and that seems to be the truth—right up until the real consequence drops out of the tree above you and pins you to the earth below, a blade to your throat.

gritted teeth snap too close to your face. you hear a deep voice—maybe a deeper threat, something to raise the hair on the back of your neck if you could only focus on the words. the world spins and your mind struggles to make sense of the sudden stop in motion, but something far more animal inside you decides that it's had enough. against any remaining survival instinct, you feel all tension bleed from your body—the stranger's face comes into clearer view right as you go limp underneath him. resignation wins out—your limbs wouldn't move if you pleaded with them to.

blond eyebrows meet hairline as your attacker is caught off guard by your forfeiture. "what are you—"

once distant howls growing nearer cut him off. he looks over his shoulder, eyes narrowed at something he cannot yet see. you watch from outside yourself as he turns back toward you. dark eyes meet your own and you see the decision make itself—in one instant you are free of his bodyweight, and in the next you are weightless as he hauls you over his shoulder.

he makes it no more than 10 feet down the path before the last bit of adrenaline leaves you and is replaced by a sudden, blinding pain with no identifiable source. you feel it everywhere—all of the seemingly inconsequential injuries catching up with you now that you've stopped moving. the receding tree line is the last thing you see before the world goes dark.

.

..

the warmth that surrounds you is decadent. you curl into it, reluctant to break the spell of sleep. but then you remember.

you shoot upright, sending at least three layers of blankets rolling off of you. you pinch the fabric of the top one between your fingers—alpaca. not native, but farmed here over the last century or so. you know (and had been told) that it was unbecoming of a princess to hold so much commonplace knowledge. but then again, status matters little now, and this blanket is soft. you're grateful to know the beast it was made from.

it hurts, but you coax your head into swiveling around to survey your surroundings, surprised when you find that it's very clearly someone's home. it's old—some of the wooden boards that line the walls have started to bow against the nails that drove them into the framework of the house, and daylight peaks through the cracks. the bed you rest in can barely be called that—an old futon cushion atop bundles of straw. but it's warm, and you slept. someone has been taking care of you. the thought is sobering; the anxiety that comes with it is enough to hold you to the bed for the foreseeable future.

but your stomach growls, and the bodily betrayal forces you to move. you do it slowly, kicking both feet out from under the blankets. to see them bandaged is startlingly unexpected.

your memories until now are fuzzy at best, but the last thing you distinctly recall is the feeling of sharpened metal biting into your skin. there are few ways you can fathom connecting the dots from that moment to this—swaddled in blankets with your wounds tended to. it leaves you on edge.

on two feet, you sway a bit—the hunger feeds the vertigo that spins the surroundings in your peripheral. one hand braced on the bed now behind you, you blink until things settle. you take a step forward, and the pain is shocking—your feet are clearly more injured than they'd felt at the time, but there is only one way out of this room. you press on.

the heavy wooden door opens into a one room cottage. it's old, and not in the well-loved and well-lived way—the dilapidated structure and lack of any real homely qualities tells you immediately that it's current inhabitant is more of a recent opportunist than a longtime homemaker. that distinction mattered little now, though, and you suppose you should be grateful for your stranger's resourcefulness.

you creep further into the room without a sound until you find yourself in the middle of it. crouched and defensive, until the realization hits you—you see all four walls and are perplexed to find that you are completely alone.

the room is little more than a crooked wooden table and a futon pad on the floor. there are remnants of a fireplace in the center of the room—mortar and brick crumbling up wooden slats toward the roof, but still useful with still-burning embers inside. truly, it's more primitive than livable—there are weapons and tools strung up along the wooden panels of the walls, and animal hides hang in any space between metal and wood. but it's warm, and it's a reminder of what is at stake. what should spur anxiety brings only confusion—when cost of survival is so high, why add another body to the burden?

you forget yourself until the heavy fall of footsteps outside the door reignites your adrenaline. you watch, wide eyed and frozen, as the door picks a fight with whoever is on the other side of it. a weight smacks solidly into it once, twice, and a third time before it opens with a heavy groan. in the daylight, your captor is revealed to you.

hard eyes widen slightly at the sight of you, and then narrow in suspicion. you're still as he takes in all of you, and suddenly very aware of the nightgown you escaped your home in, still hanging off your body. you fight the urge to withdraw into yourself—you know it’s not the time to cower.

he eyes you for a moment more, and then drops a heavy pack on the floor next to him, and busies himself with unloading. you watch as he pulls out tools that look unfamiliar to you—though you suppose any tool would. it's not as if you or your family ever had a need for them.

you watch him work and are surprised to find that he's...handsome. jaw set at a hard angle with scars that wrap around the slope of one side, he's rugged in a way you'd never been taught to find appealing. he is unlike the men that sought after your hand with promises of riches and comfortable living. he is unlike anyone you've seen before, truthfully.

"um—"

"is there something you need?"

his coldness stuns you for a moment. you're not sure what you were expecting—you'd no real reason to anticipate any kindness from the man, but the care by which your feet were wrapped had led your mind in that foolish direction anyway.

you fight the urge to draw your limbs into yourself like a startled turtle. "oh—i just. wanted to thank you, i suppose. for helping me."

he looks up from his sorting to meet your eyes, and the disdain in them feels like a physical wound. he drops the tool in his hand with a sharp thud against the floor, and it makes you jump.

"once you've healed, you will leave."

you exhale sharply. it makes sense, of course—it is no small ask of him to allow you to stay even until you're healed. even so, the reality of the world that awaits you carries a weight to it—it lurks around the periphery of the tiny cabin, waiting for you to poke your head out.

then comes the loss—the blood that still stains your fingertips and the hem of your nightgown. you bow your head—out of shame or grief, you're not sure—and turn on your heel, right back into the room you came from. you shut the door behind you quietly, and you don't make it to the bed. you sink to your haunches and gravity pins you there, head in hands as your mind reintroduces you to each of the ghosts that now have a tight grip on both your ankles.

.

..

it's dark when you emerge, once again driven by hunger or thirst, or some other base need to stay alive despite every glaring sign not to.

you commit yourself to stealth—to staying out of your stranger's way, as much as you can before you take your leave. the dark of the cabin hides you in your trek out of your hiding place—unfortunately, it also hides the solid object on the floor, laid directly in front of your door. your foot catches it and it clangs, the metallic echo ringing in your ears.

you curse under your breath, bending down to feel around in the blackness for whatever you hit. you startle when your fingers hit something unexpectedly soft. you squint, and suck in a breath when you realize what you're holding—a piece of bread. rather, half of a loaf, with a cut of meat nearby, on the metal plate that you’d kicked. you blink, like if you do it enough, the mirage will dissipate and leave only dark wood behind. but it doesn't—the bread gives some as your fingers squeeze around it as if to test it's trustworthiness. you decide to stop looking the gift horse in its mouth, and recede back the dark of your room, food in hand.

.

..

oddly enough, it becomes a regular occurrence. you grow accustomed to expecting a plate of food by your door every night—a seemingly ironic luxury, given your reality now. you hardly see your stranger—you've no idea when he has the opportunity to leave food by your door unnoticed, give his penchant for absence. puzzling still is that the food you're given varies, as if he intends for you to have a fully balanced diet in the middle of a societal collapse.

he doesn’t stop at the food, either—after a few nights spent in your room, he makes his first real appearance in the daylight. a knock at your door rouses you from what’s become a habit of mid-afternoon naps, in lieu of staring at the splintered walls of what was quickly beginning to feel like a cage instead of a place of healing. you pull the door open to find your stranger towering over you—leering down at you with the same discontent he had before. only now, he holds something in his hands, and extends them to you.

“there’s a stream at the edge of the boundary.”

he thrusts what’s in his hands to yours, and you realize that it’s clothing—not in the best shape, but certainly better than the blood-crusted nightgown you still wear. he says no more, and for once you’re grateful for his curt demeanor. he turns on his heel and stalks out of the cabin, back to whatever the outside world has to offer him. after a moment, you follow his path, for the first time since you’d arrived.

it stuns you for a moment, how sinister the land looked in the dark, and how different it looks now. the sun shines hot down on the wheatgrass that sways gently in the breeze. it picks up a lock of your hair and you feel lighter with it.

you walk where you assume you should—down a thinly-worn path between the grass. you find it eventually: a small stream, just wide and deep enough for you to bathe in if you crouch. you turn your head to each side, squinting in your search for prying eyes—you find no one, but it’s still wholly uncomfortable to undress in the open like this.

your reservations leave you the minute you step into the water. warmed by the sun with a sweeping current, you let out a guttural moan that would’ve certainly earned you a chastising from your grandmother for its crudeness. you can’t help it—the caked on dirt and grime dissolves under your fingers and leaves you feeling better than you ever have. there is a slight sting in the soles of your feet—that it is slight is surprising to you, and a harrowing reminder of the clock that continues to tick out of your favor.

.

..

days bleed into weeks. your feet heal earlier than you expect them too, and the guilt you carry is worse than the wound. you know you’ve reached the end of your stay, but you can’t get yourself to leave. not when your stranger still insists on taking care of you. the anticipation is sickening—instead of sitting and waiting to be shooed away, you decide to earn your stay. hard work for someone who’d never worked a day, but the determination proves stronger than the fatigue.

you clean. it’s the only thing you can think to do, and truthfully, it’s necessary. you haul water in old containers on your shoulder from the stream, and you wash the dust away until the floors shine and the windows are clear again. you do this everyday—finding something to clean and fixating on it until the sun reaches the other side of the horizon. today is no different—you set your sights on the ash in the fireplace, using a metal pan to scoop it into a stray tarp to carry outside when you’re done.

you’re almost finished when you hear the now familiar sound of boots scraping the stone outside. you tense, but you don’t stop, pulling another pile of stale smelling soot onto the tarp as your stranger opens the door. you hear him stop behind you, but you don’t turn.

“what are you doing?” the tone is not as harsh as you’re used to—a little fatigued, mostly inquisitive.

“cleaning,” you say softly, pulling up at each corner of the canvas and watching the ash collide into neat little heaps in the center, “i’m almost done—i’ll be out of your way.”

you get to your feet, discard in hand, and turn to look at him. his strong brow furrows as he looks at you, like there’s something about what he sees that he can’t understand. against your best interest, your curiosity gets the better of you.

“i’m sorry, it’s just—i never learned your name.”

the look he levels you with makes you wish you’d never asked. his expression gives away nothing, but it tells you enough.

“how are your feet?”

your stomach drops—all of your attempts at earning your place for naught after all. but you stand in front of him now—to lie to him would be foolish at best.

you can barely raise your voice above a whisper. “healed.”

he studies you for a moment more, and it’s too much for you. your eyes fall to a crack in the floor, and distantly you wish you’d shrink down to slip inside of it, never to be seen again.

“tomorrow i will show you how to trap.” he gruffs, finality lacing his tone. your eyes snap to his but he’s already turning, half way out the door before he stops. he turns his head, eyeing you over his shoulder.

“kento,” he mutters, barely audible and strange meeting your ears, “my name is kento.”

and then he’s gone again—leaving you standing there with a hand full of dirt and no way to discern your left from right as your world tilts on its axis, if only slightly—but noticeable and disruptive all the same.

.

..

you don’t sleep well that night—startled out of a twilight sleep in what appears to be the dark hours of the morning by the rapping of knuckles on your door. kento nods to you in a greeting of his own, turning swiftly on his heel and heading toward the front door. you follow him dutifully, pulling over your shoulders the blanket you’d snagged before you left the warmth of your bed for the chill of the morning. the grass is cool and dewey under your bare feet, and it’s a quiet luxury you find yourself reveling in as you pad along behind him. you can hardly see him in the dark and yet you keep up, somehow—you know there’s too much at stake to lag behind.

true to his word, he teaches you how to trap. solely by doing—few words are exchanged between you as he trudges into the stream and hauls out a weaved basket attached to a rope, fastened to the shoreline by a stray branch. the light that creeps over the horizon begins to illuminate his work—silvery tails gleam as they flick back and forth from inside the cage. you know better than to be sad, but you feel it anyway. it’s silly to feel a kinship with the creatures, not even sentient enough to know that there is no escape for them—but you know, and the weight of that is a tangible thing.

he teaches you how to prepare the fish, then—and you get through it, if not only through sheer determination to not throw up in front of kento. the sun rises and illuminates other opportunities to learn—he teaches you about the native plants, only in simple directions of pointing to a patch of green with an accompanied “don’t touch”, or “fine to eat”. it’d feel patronizing if it wasn’t all so overwhelming—he had a knowledge of things you’d never dreamed of before. all you can feel is excitement that he’s willing to share it with you.

as the sun begins to set, he brings you to the garden—a small patch of land, seemingly unassuming until you step inside. there are fruiting plants everywhere you look—fat, red tomatoes and vining, prickly cucumbers, complete with rows of leafy greens and cabbages. you can’t begin to imagine how he’d managed to grow all of this by himself. his nightly food gifts start to make more sense.

you work side by side, pulling ripe crop from each plant and placing them into a metal canister—usually used for mechanical purposes, but at the end of the world, you find many uses for what you have. you feel emboldened somehow with your hands in the dirt next to his, and the words leave you before you have a moment to reconsider; you tell him of where you’d come from, and of your descent down the hill. you think of the kin you’d left behind, and you feel detached as you tell him of the loss—an observation if nothing else, as if you’d sat on a shoreline and watched the tide flood in.

he doesn’t react—not to your noble status, and not to the death—he’s quiet as he moves on to each plant, only the pattering sound of what he harvests hitting the tin bottom of his canister. you don’t mind—there’s no reaction you’d expect or find helpful, and for some reason, his presence is enough. you find it odd that weeks ago his footsteps incited real fear in your veins, and now he’d spent the day teaching you new ways to be useful. it was a strange and intimate gratitude, but one you felt nonetheless.

you find you see him more now, with your newfound ability to contribute and the determination to do just that. days are spent hauling fresh catches out of the stream, and hunting down small mammals to supplement your diet. you watch him closely—the flex and twist of his torso with the pull of the bow, the way he narrows his focus to the fluffy little thing that scurries among the leaves. with the twitch of a finger, the arrow flies toward its target—there is a screech, and then a sobering quiet. for the first time in your life, you pray—quietly, for the creature with the same instinct to survive that drives you to take its life.

“here,” kento says, handing the bow to you, “try it.”

you wrap your fingers around the wood and do as he asks. it’s deceptively heavy—the tension of the bow makes it nearly impossible to draw back with your own strength. focused and determined not to fail in front of him, you nearly jump out of your skin when his hands cover your own.

“there’s no trick to it,” his voice is gruff but gentle and far closer to you than he’s ever been, “just pull back, like this.”

he guides your hand backward with his own and the tail of the arrow follows—at your back, you feel the muscles in his chest ripple with the effort.

“focus,” he breathes, and you fight a shudder at his proximity, “listen.”

and it’s hard to hear anything over the roar of blood in your ears, but you try, blinking in an effort to snap out of whatever trance kento has put you in. it takes a moment, but then you hear it—the crinkle of leaves beneath tiny paws.

“take a deep breath.” kento allows you to move the bow where you want to, and you try to focus your aim. a bushy tail flicks up behind the underbrush—you train the point of the arrow right below it. your heart thuds wildly in your chest, and suddenly you’re worried that the bow might slide out of your sweating palms, impaling you instead.

“let it go.”

you do as he says, and the ringing in your ears drowns out the sounds of short-lived suffering. he lets go of you then—you don’t notice he’s come to stand in front of you until you feel the rough pad of his thumb swipe gently across your cheek. you blink, your own fingers reaching up to find tears you don’t recall ever shedding. your eyes meet his, and they burn with an intensity you’ve never seen in him before. but he’s not angry—you feel no compulsion to apologize for whatever is happening to you. he takes the bow from your hands, and slings it over his back.

“we’ll go back now,” he says quietly. you follow him up the path, and the tears don’t stop until you reach the cabin. you wonder who exactly it is that you’re crying for.

.

..

you don’t know what it is about the nights that follow that lead kento to decide to stick around, but there’s a part of you that’s glad he does. above all else, you knew better than to question it. he doesn’t say much—he never does—but you’re more than happy to fill the silence. you suppose you owe him the opportunity to know you, after all he’s done for you—you’ve no idea how to quantify the gratitude you’ve felt over the last few months. you do what you can.

“there’s a story my grandmother used to tell,” you murmur, eyes to the fire that crackles in front of you, “i used to sit at her feet while she brushed my hair. she only ever told it to me—it was like a secret between us.”

the wood pops and spits an ember at your feet. you watch it blaze bright, the tiny thing—one last attempt to catch before it snuffs itself out. “there was a princess that lived high in a tower built to protect her from the bandits of the neighboring empire. she was only ever allowed to walk the grounds of the palace under the safety of a full moon. one night, as she crept out of the tower under the cover of the dark, she’s lured into the dark forest by a witch. she promises to grant the princess any wish, for a price.”

your eyes catch kento’s, and for once, his expression is not indifferent. he is here with you in this moment, and it warms you more than the flame. “of course she wishes to be free,” you continue, waving a hand at its inevitability, “and the witch turns her into a hare. and in the original story, that’s the end of it. there’s a lesson there, right?”

“but in my grandmother’s story, it’s the best thing that could’ve happened to the princess. she’s free to hop around to her heart’s content. all she does is eat greenery and lay fat in her den until she dies a natural death after a long and happy life.”

you hear what you think is a scoff from the man next to you. your eyes roam kento’s face, and you think there might even be a hint of a smirk there. it thrills you.

“the tale of an optimist,” he offers quietly, and it’s not bitter.

“she was,” you murmur, “until the end, she was an optimist.”

it’s quiet between you for a moment, save for the crackle of the fire.

“i’m sorry you lost her.”

you smile, and it hurts. the tears well up before you can stop them.

“it’s unfair,” you croak, despite yourself. you’d done well to put up a good front in front of kento—humbling, to see how quickly it could be undone.

you startle when you feel a warm palm close around your clenched fist. “it is unfair,” he says, eyes meeting yours.

the warmth is profound, again despite the fire that heats your cheeks. you find yourself leaning into it until you’ve tucked yourself under his arm. he’s tense, but allows it.

“tell me something about you,” you whisper thickly, needing to think of anything else. he hums, tipping his head back. you sneak a glimpse of the curve of his jaw, glowing between shadows cast by a flickering flame. scar tissue curves and shimmers as it tenses.

“we were a group,” he murmurs, still looking up at the old, wooden boards, “myself and some of the neighbor children. there were no family units, there— we created our own.”

you’re so quiet you think you can nearly hear him piece together the memory in his mind. you know he’s gifting you something precious, so you don’t dare speak.

“we were too young to be running around alone, but there was nowhere to go. we knew enough to dodge the militias that would burn through each village. we thought we did, anyway.”

“the elders were kind. they brought in as many of us as they could on nights when the trucks would come down the road. but we didn’t have parents or homes, and they couldn’t take in all of us.” he pauses, sucking in a long breath. it shifts you when his chest expands. “i was small enough that i was able to fit through a hole in the crawl space under a home. Yu tried, but he wasn’t fast enough.”

“he was my best friend.” kento’s voice is quiet, and more fatigued than you’ve ever heard it. it’s unnerving, seeing his humanity laid out so plainly. “he tried to run, but they caught up just as quickly. they would’ve just taken him to a work camp, but he put up a fight.” he says it with a small smile, like he’s proud. “they shot him and left him there to die.”

if there was a way you could be closer to kento, you’d have found it by now, but you find yourself trying to sneak up under his ribs anyway. trying to find a way to siphon his pain into yourself, if only for a moment.

“you were brave,” you whisper, having nothing else to say except for that—for what feels obvious and true. he scoffs, but you can hear the grief behind it.

“maybe,” he says, arm tightening around your shoulders, “i don’t think i’ve ever felt that way.”

you hum, a low and sympathetic thing, fighting the urge to nuzzle into his chest. it’s strange, how easy it is to default to such animal inclinations when there’s no need to abide by arbitrary customs. there is only the two of you here, and the urge to comfort kento is strong.

“will you let me do something?”

he glances down at you out of the corner of his eyes—narrowed in distrust, despite baring his most tender bits to you only a moment ago. you push past it.

“here,” you say, sitting up and out from under his hold, “sit here.”

“on the ground?” he’s not so much incredulous as he is confused—and you’ll take what you can get. you nod, an appeasing sort of grin teasing the corners of your mouth.

his eyes are still narrowed when he goes—crouched in defense like you wait with bared teeth instead of open arms. still, he moves to sit before you—facing you. you laugh a little, endeared.

“i meant for you to turn—“

“no.”

you’re snapped back to reality then—to the present moment, with this man that kindly took you in but does not trust you. you take in a slow breath, careful not to flinch under the weight of his stare.

“okay,” you murmur, reaching up to pull free from your hair the comb that tethers it in its knot, “that’s okay.”

your hair slips down over your nape as you pull the teeth of it free—hard and familiar in your fingers, you offer it to him like one would a scrap of food to a feral dog. an heirloom made of deer bone—your family’s own commitment to using all that you were given, even if it was in excess. a reminder of a luxury that never felt like one until now.

“is it okay?” you ask, pulling up on your own bravery to keep his stare. after a long moment of careful deliberation, he nods tersely.

you lean forward slightly, careful of his space, and let him see the comb as you reach up. he jumps when the dulled prongs meet his scalp, but you stay the course. you pull it through the blond strands—longer than they were when you first met, the dulled ends slipping through with each pass.

you sit back to look at him after a moment. there’s no resistance, nor is there any enthusiasm—but you trust that he’d stop you if he was uncomfortable, so you keep going.

you lose yourself in the task, pulling (or pushing, from where you sit in front of him) the carved bone through his hair. you allow him the privacy of a reaction—eyes focused only on the strands that flit away from the teeth of the comb.

so focused, it seems, that you have to suppress the jerk of your leg when he leans up against it. the quick glimpse you allow yourself gores you—his eyes now closed, head cushioned by the soft of your thigh. looking more childlike than you’ve ever seen him in the months you’ve spent every minute with him. you see flashes of him as a boy—small and without scarring or a reason for haunches to raise in fear or rage. you think of him laughing—rolling in mud and being scolded by an otherwise kind woman instead of squeezing his way through jagged, wooden boards to save his life. never knowing the sound of a shot ringing out in the street.

you tuck your face into your shoulder—determined to hide the tears and your grief on his behalf. determined to let him feel this, whatever it is, and be a safe place for him to do it. to be the strong arm and the kind hand for him now—the one he can give his precious trust to.

the fire crackles and the mourning is heavy in the air—but kento is alive beneath your fingers, and your own heart beat is a heavy and reassuring thud inside your chest.

.

..

he is a rose in bloom, in the nights that follow. tightly coiled and still with all of his thorns, but in bloom nonetheless.

he becomes something of your shadow. where he lingered out of distrust he now hovers with intent—comically so, his large body folding itself in the small confines of the makeshift kitchen while you wring out linens in the sink. it’s clear that something has shifted between you—though what, you’re unsure. your mind tells you he is finally coming around to you. your heart yearns for something more than just his trust, though you are not unaffected by the weight of that trust alone.

he is never more than an arm’s length away. he leaves in the darkened hours of the morning to hunt, and is somehow back before the sun rises to wake you. that was another shift—he hadn’t asked you to join him on a hunt since that night. he hadn’t asked you for anything after that, really. he sleeps nearer, too—you’d been under the impression that he’d been sleeping outside until he wound up at the foot of your bed, sleeping still like a guard dog. you didn’t have the heart to ask him about it—you just left the candle burning and turned away from the door. he was owed privacy in his vulnerability, and you give him that.

and however hard to read the man may be, you feel some discontent at not pulling your weight, so you try your best to anyway. patching up holes in the wooden exterior of your home. sealing the windows with fur and fat to beat the chill of the creeping fall. you know that the garden tending is cyclical with the seasons—the cold calls for heartier vegetables. you pull and preen until your fingers swell, aching.

and there he would be—watching you, as always.

“hard work for a princess,” he mutters through something suspiciously similar to a smirk. you level him with a glare—the heat of which is immediately snuffed out in comparison to the heat of the cloth that he wraps around your wind-bitten hands. the heat of his body before yours is a close second to the warmest you've ever been despite all of the holes you'd still yet to patch.

“i hardly remember ever being one now,” you murmur, leaning into his side as his thumbs swipe over your palms—needle pinpricks left in their wake, even through the fabric.

he scoffs, his hands engulfing yours in his warmth. "are you not still?"

"i suppose, technically." you shrug, letting him crowd you over to the old, torn up futon that you'd been using as living room furniture. he'd been doing a lot of that lately—pushing you to relax. itching to take a weight from you. he arranges you to his liking, wrapping one of the woven blankets around your shoulders. "i was meant to be made into more than that, you know. before the uprising."

kento only raises an eyebrow at you. you shrug, past the point of shrinking from his silence. "my family had paid a sizeable dowry to have me married off. an heir in a neighboring village, supposedly. only my grandmother was against it, in her own, quiet way. she took to calling me her rabbit, after her story. she wanted differently for me."

there's no mistaking the way kento stiffens. there's no reason for it, nor is there a justification for the way you want to placate him. you do it anyway.

"maybe it's for the best," you say, waving your hand as if to dismiss the whole thing entirely, "i'm not exactly the noble type, now."

you watch him deflate. he nods sagely, the smirk pulling at his lips again. "surely you're the most frightening princess i've ever met."

you turn your head to watch him settle in next to you—another new behavior, seemingly unbothered by the proximity that he no doubt was unfamiliar with. "what's that supposed to mean?"

his teasing grin fades into something a little more forlorn. "when i found you, i expected you to be afraid. i wouldn't have harmed you—i only wanted to scare you off."

you huff. "that wasn't very nice."

"you weren't afraid though. it was unnerving."

"oh?" you grin, reaching to poke him in the ribs. "you were afraid of me?"

he reaches for your hand and pulls it to his lap. "i was sad for you. it wasn't a resilience—it felt as though you were broken."

it hurts, you decide, to be known like this. how simple things had been when he'd only left you provisions at your bedroom door and left you be. now you'd gone and allowed your heart to run freely ahead without a tether. you'd no way of preparing for the injury that freedom would cause.

"you pitied me," you mutter, unable to keep the bitterness from your tone. the mood shifts between you, and something inside you wants to resent him for it. how warm it had been inside the delusion—the world in which you both exist in this space as equals, brought together by fate and want and nothing else.

"no, not pity." you startle at the feeling of his fingertips as they brush a tendril of hair from your face. "you reminded me of myself. i didn't want you to be alone."

"why take on that burden?"

kento hums, pushing his fingers through the hair at your temple. despite yourself, you lean into the touch. "maybe i didn't want to be alone, either."

you blink, the sentiment working its way into your head. it lands significantly south—deep in your chest with an ache you can't describe. you reach for the wrist in your peripheral, stopping his movement and keeping him close. "is that all?"

"no." his admittance is a whispered, strained thing. you're close enough that to tilt your head back brings his jaw to your lips. the ghost of your breath along his skin makes him shudder, and you feel the fingers in your hair flex into a grip.

"what else, then?"

he ducks his chin to nose at your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, mind empty of all that swam around in it only a moment ago.

"my rabbit," his bottom lip brushes against your own, "what else is there but you?"

.

..

the weather changes and the gods grow restless.

you both feel it at the first chill of the year. there’s no graceful turn of the seasons—the air is bitter and cold, and you know something is coming. there’s little time for play, so on the last few warm evenings of fall, you take advantage of it. or you try to—you drag kento into the stream to soak in the dwindling rays of sun, but the knowledge of what is to come weighs heavily on you both. he holds you up in the current—body to body, only breathing. you can't get close enough—to reach inside him and carve out a space for yourself would still not sate the longing you feel.

that wretched something shows it’s face soon enough. the first snow is harsh, collecting in heavy banks against the roof of the house. the wood sags under the weight and the cold creeps in through the wood until the fire is no longer enough to warm the house in it's entirety—only the small space in front of the mantel that you crowd around. you and kento don’t talk much these days—to speak takes energy you don’t have to spare. he is doting as he always is—making sure you are covered in every layer of fabric and fur he can find, but something is wrong. you know the worst is yet to come. you feel it in the way kento holds you too close during the night; it’s never warm enough.

at first there is hope. kento has his food reserves and you'd preserved some of what you’d gathered. but a week of snow turns to two, and two weeks turn to two months. the rations get smaller and the two of you get hungrier. by the third month, you understand that you will not be spared the gods’ wrath. you see the punishment for what it is—a utilitarian consequence to all of the bloodshed by man. you do not have the energy to mull over the unfairness of that. even if you did, the gods do not concern themselves with what is fair—you know that now. the light inside you fades with every new inch of snowfall.

but kento is kind, despite your insistence that he be otherwise. he pulls from his own warmth to add to yours. your dinner portions are always bigger, even if it means he goes without eating entirely. it’s in vain, of course. neither of you will live through this. you scold him for pushing the last of his food on your plate and he doesn’t bother to respond. he only watches while you eat, like he can’t rest until he knows for sure that you have eaten all he has to offer you. you chew through tears and the only comfort is the hand that reaches to wipe them from your cheek. it’s a painful end, wasting away like this. watching kento fade away.

it's when you can smell death's approach that you know with certainty that your humanity has fled for a better place. the thing that remains in you—that keeps your heart beating, that coaxes your lungs to inflate—is purely animal. and it's out of that same primal need that you close the distance between kento's frail body and your own. in the silent chill of the night, the warmth between you may be merely a hallucination now, but you feel it all the same. there is no pain anymore. only a pull into a sleep you want so badly to slip into.

you don't cry—you use the last of the strength in your body to tuck yourself under kento's chin and curl around him in some intimate display of what exists between you. of what has existed this whole time.

"if this is the end," you murmur, knowing that it is, "i'm happy that i'll leave this world with you."

the knuckles that brush against your cheek are sharp and gnarled now. you've never known a touch so tender. it’s odd to speak—to shatter the intimacy of the silence that’s floated around the both of you for much of the last few weeks.

"do you know now?"

if you close your eyes, you can pretend that the man in your arms will live to see the morning. that this is merely pillow talk, and the sun will wake you with warmed skin in a few hours.

but you don't let yourself turn away. it's striking, how even with his last few breaths, kento manages to use them worrying about you. you wonder if he's done it the whole time. you do know; you realize with unmistakable clarity that you'd know his love anywhere, now. you nod, feeling his thready pulse against your forehead.

"i do. you'll have to forgive me for not seeing it sooner."

you feel him scoff—an inappropriate use of dwindling breath that makes you laugh, too. "there will be plenty of time to show you in the next life, my rabbit."

a brief bitterness curls up your spine—the unfairness of all of this creeping back up like a rising tide. how cruel it was to have settled on the loneliness of a life without love, just to be shown the magnitude of a life with it in the final months of your own.

but it recedes in the next moment, because there is no more time to grieve. you can only feel grateful, now—to leave this world saturated in all that kento has given you.

cracked lips brush the skin of your temple—he has no real energy for a proper kiss, but the desire to comfort is strong between you. you spend the next few, precious moments counting the breaths that rattle inside his chest, grateful for every one cycled through.

in the silent hours of a darker morning, there is a light only the two of you can see. shrouded in the glow, he is so beautiful.

with all of your strength, you call him by his name, one last time. "until next time, my love."

epilogue

if the notion of certainty is alive in anything, it is in the way that fable and folklore are sure to be born and born again out of gatherings of beings with mouths to speak it. one such example is the jagged, snow capped hills of Akaito—a new village comprised of all walks of life, the one commonality between them being their displacement during the fall of the Zaiaku dynasty almost one hundred years prior. built overtop the remnants of survivor settlements crushed under the Great Snow, all who inhabit the land know well of the blood that has stained the soil and pay mind to honor the loss of life in their own ways—namely in storytelling. this great coming together eventually gave way to a new mother tongue for the telling of a new bed time story to bleary eyed babes in the middle of the night: the tale of the Akaito lovers—the wolf and the hare.

as the story goes, villagers who have been bestowed some unearthly dose of luck by the gods may catch a glimpse of an unlikely pair—a formidable looking white wolf with scarring across its broad body, and its counterpart: a fluffy and downright regal grey hare. one might catch them romping around in the dusting after a fresh snow, or preening one another under a shaded tree in the heat of the summer. depending on who tells the tale, it might be the case that if a person is truly fortunate and determined to wait out the dark of night, they might even be gifted the sight of the duo curled around one another, sleeping peacefully in a protective and loving embrace under the light of a waning moon.

as with all fables, the story is altered with every new tongue that speaks it, and one day the tale will vanish from the minds of the younger generations completely. but for now, it is ripe in the minds of the young and old, the latter of which are very certain that it is no mere fable at all.

[f0rlorn]

days spent in the sun → treech

a/n → making coral’s moodboard sent me into a spiral and now i have moodboards for every district 😭 is it worth it to post?

notes → in which nature is the perfect place for treech to show his love for you. feminine intended reader (though not sure pronouns are mentioned)

warnings → not edited & upload via iphone

     your hands were wrapped around treech’s arm as he carefully lifted his axe up to the tree, beginning to carve the shape of a heart. he was prudent in his work, meticulously shaving the bark off of the tree from inside the shape he had formed. you watched him silently, in awe of his handiwork. the result was a perfect heart shaped carving, permanently engraved on the tree. beaming, you pressed a quick peck to the boy’s cheek, then pulled him along with you as you walked atop a tree trunk bridge back to the lake. currently, the two of you were clad only in your undergarments, having gone out with the intention of swimming for the whole day. your clothes were strewn over the branch of a fallen oak, basking in the sun. the water was freezing, a stark contrast to the midsummer heat that lingered in the air. treech held your hand as you stepped in, prepared to catch you if you accidentally slipped. at first, you sunk into the shallow water leisurely, but as the water reached your hips, you let go of treech’s hand, completely submerging yourself in order to get used to the temperature. as you arose, your teeth chattered, but a grin was still plastered on your face.

     “get in, the water’s great!” you invited treech to join you with a sarcastic remark as he stood to the side, opting to just watch you. you could tell he contemplated it, but he denied, shaking his head. “where’s the fun in that?” you whined.

     “i’ve gotta do something first.” he simply replied, a roguish glint in his eyes. you were suspicious, but let him do his own thing as you bathed in the water and sunshine. the gravelly sand that covered the bottom of the pond indented the skin on the underside of your legs, adding a soothing pressure as you sat down, letting the water ripple around you. many minutes passed, and you grew restless the more time you spent alone in the water. venturing further into the pond, schools of minnows could be found darting rapidly. they brushed past your skin, maneuvering around your moving form. all was quiet aside from the waves of the water as you forded through. a rustle in the bushes from behind you startled you, causing you to jump and turn around quickly. treech had come back, his hands behind his back.

     “whatcha got there?” you queried, swimming over to him as he kneeled by the water. he just smiled, pulling out a bouquet of colorful wildflowers from behind him. vibrant pink poppies, orange lilies, mauve colored petunias, a few orchids scattered here and there, and yellow wallflowers galore all seemed to bloom from his hand. you were in complete and utter astonishment at the bundle of flowers and the work he had gone through to pick them for you. they were tied together with a loose stem, and you delicately took them from his hand. mother nature’s sweet scent wafted from the stunning plants, instantly soothing you. “these are beautiful, treech,” he grinned, eyes lighting up with pride. his smile always made you melt, and the way his hazel eyes, speckled with green and honey tones, glowed golden in the sun made him seem ethereal. laying the flowers down gently on the grass beside treech, you draped your arms around his neck, placing a tender kiss on his lips. treech gradually joined you in the water, but not before you plucked the sole, pale blue morning glory from the bouquet and tucked it behind his ear, brushing his curls out of his eyes. he took your hand as you guided him further into the pond. the two of you splashed around, laughing for hours until your fingers pruned.

     treech had to drag you out of the water as the sun got lower and lower, the sky growing a burnt orange. you groaned playfully, but shook the water out of your hair anyway, allowing it to drip on the grass below you. the earth felt cool and damp under your bare feet, and the wind blew against your body, making you shiver. quickly, you slipped your shirt over your head, and tied your skirt around your waist, hoping to gain some warmth from the items of clothing that had been strewn out in the sun all day. it seemed to work, but your arms were still bare and the wind was picking up. treech noticed the goosebumps that had formed all along your forearms, and he helped you into his wool coat. smiling, you thanked him, grateful for the extra source of heat. gracefully, you picked up your dainty bouquet of flowers. intertwining your fingers with his, treech led you out of the familiar woods, taking you down the roads of district seven, back to your home. like the gentleman he was, treech walked you to your door, waiting to make sure you got inside safely before leaving. he was just about to leave as you slipped through the front door, but you called his name before he could go any further. he raised his eyebrows, urging you to go on.

     “i love you,” you professed, coyly.

     “i love you more,” treech declared with a smile, before promptly turning and bidding you goodnight, the flower still adorning his hair. 

[littledovesnow]

a/n: hi hello here is 2.4kl of young!coriolanus x fem!reader <3 should i continueeeeee?

------

The margins of your notebook paper were running out of room, and Dean Highbottom didn’t seem to be nearing the end of his lecture. You weren’t even sure of why there were lessons and lectures about the war, you and your classmates were all old enough to remember living through it a mere decade ago.

You stifled a yawn, perking up when you saw the Hunger Games creator plop back onto the chair in the center of the lecture hall, hands already reaching for the bottle of morphling on his desk.

“Don’t forget, the top 24 students are to meet tomorrow morning in the Great Room. Do not be late.”

The rush of students leaving the room caused you to slow as you gathered your things, chewing on your lower lip out of nerves. No one knew what required the students to come back after hours, but there were rumors of it involving the Plinth Prize.

Coriolanus met you outside of the hall, small smile on his face. You were thankful for Tigris for setting you and her cousin up, as the icy blond known for his wits and sharp demeanor, was often the sole ray of light in your day-to-day.

“Have you heard for certain that this meeting tomorrow is about the Plinth Prize?” You asked, lacing your fingers with your boyfriend’s slender ones.

Coriolanus frowned, shaking his head. “No, I doubt it is about that. More than likely some absurd dedication gala, perhaps Plinth paid his way into University early.”

It was no secret the Capitol students thought lowly of their fellow classmate, ostracizing him not long after the Plinths gained access into the Capitol.

“Hm, I suppose so.” You pondered.

“Why? Did Dean Highbottom say anything?”

Shaking your head, you thanked Coriolanus as he opened the door for you, following you out into the brisk, afternoon air. “No, but Festus was gossiping again to the others. Saying how he’s got a lucky ticket into the Plinths’ pockets.”

“Festus didn’t even complete Dr. Gaul’s assignment last week.”

You let out a small laugh, coming to a stop at the roundabout in front of Citadel, looking up at your boyfriend. “You know, you and your family are always welcome for dinner. My mother has been wanting a reason to show of the new dinnerware one of the Avoxes found.”

Having been friends with Tigris for so long, and dating Coriolanus over the last few years, you weren’t privy to their financial woes, but you never pushed your own family’s wealth onto him.

“I promised Grandma’am I would help prune her roses tonight.”

“Oh, you softie. Better not let Arachne hear you have a heart, Corio. Word might get out.” You poked him in the bicep, teasing smile on your face.

Coriolanus rolled his eyes, pressing his lips to your own before parting ways.

------

The room was alive and the chatter was loud when you stepped into the meeting hall for Dean Highbottom’s announcement and the reaping.

Having spotted your boyfriend and fellow classmates, you marched over, heels ponding on the marble floor.

“Oh, there she is. Your Coryo has been lost without you.” Arachne quipped, flute of posca in her hand.

“Well, at least someone cares about me. Can’t say the same for you.” You bit back, Coriolanus choking on his own posca as he wrapped his free arm around you.

Felix Ravenstill, who had just been at the buffet table, openly laughed at your remark.

“Now, now, children, let’s not ruin the mood.” Clemensia teased, giving a warm smile to you and Coriolanus.

“This lamb is scandalous; you guys have to try it!” Felix said, sucking the juice of his finger.

You made a face, stepping closer to your boyfriend as Festus chided Felix for his lack of manners.

“Hey, we’re here for the Plinth Prize, right?” Felix asked, setting his now empty plate on the tray of a passing Avox. “Because I heard my father mention that Dr. Gaul is here.”

You felt Coriolanus tense at the mention of the head Gamemaker. “What? Why would she be here for that?”

The group shrugged, Arachne catching the attention of the group as she chided the family of the hour, who had just strolled in. “Why the face, Y/N? Not a fan of your boyfriend’s friend?” She asked, smirk on her face.

“He’s not my friend, Arachne. I simply tolerate him.” Coriolanus spit back. “He’s District.”

You softly jabbed your elbow into your boyfriend’s ribs, noticing Sejanus was walking over to the circle.

“Hi, Sejanus.” You greeted him with a friendly smile, much to the dismay of your boyfriend. “Made it to the reaping.”

“Yeah, for once.” Festus added, earning a chuckle from Felix and Arachne.

Sejanus smiled at you, though his voiced a reply to Festus. “Yes, and you made it to graduation, Festus. We’re both shocked.”

You hid a smile in Coriolanus’ arm, Arachne’s questioning about the Plinth Prize garnering your attention.

“Now, now, I’m not going to ruin my father’s news. I know no one here actually likes him, but they do like his money.” Sejanus spoke, looking at the red-lipped girl. “You know what that’s like, right Arachne?”

Before anyone could reply, Dean Highbottom called the room to attention, and the anthem began playing, signaling everyone to take their seats.

You slipped into a chair between Coriolanus and Clemensia, tucking your cheek between your teeth. Coriolanus took your right hand in his left, twisting the ring on your pointer finger mindlessly.

“Good luck, Coryo.” You whispered, though you knew he was a shoe-in to win the Plinth Prize.

He didn’t reply, seemingly in a trance as he stared at Dr. Gaul.

“Clem,” You whispered, leaning to your other side. “Why you do think Dr. Gaul is here? The reaping doesn’t usually require her attendance.”

Shrugging, Clemensia had the same look as you. “Maybe something special for the tenth anniversary?”

You pondered that thought, only for your questions to be shut down when Dean Highbottom and Dr. Gaul announced that this year, the top 24 students would be mentoring a tribute. “The best mentor will receive the Plinth Prize.”

“What?” You asked, the sudden question capturing the attention of the students around you. “What do you mean best mentor? The best mentor will be the one who’s tribute wins the Games!”

“Miss Rosewing, mind your manners or I will demerit you on the spot.” Dean Highbottom spoke, silencing you.

Coriolanus’ knee was shaking, a telltale of the anxiety coursing through him. His family was depending on the Plinth Prize to keep there apartment, to afford food, to survive.

Arachne, who was just as distraught as you, spoke up this time. “What if I get the pathetic runt girl from one of the poor districts like 8 or 12? They’ll die in two minutes just as they did last year!”

“Now, now, Miss Crane, your role,” Dean Highbottom spoke, gesturing to the two dozen Academy rouge uniforms seated in front of him. “Is to create spectacles out of these tributes. Victory is only part of the considerations for the Plinth Prize. Your future rests on this last project.”

You heard Coriolanus swear under his breath, his hand moving from your own to on your knee, something to ground him in the moment.

“Oh, one more thing,” Dean Highbottom added, grabbing a small index card form his desk. “If you are caught cheating and giving your tribute an unfair advantage, you will have no future at all.”

You all sat in silence as the reaping played on the large screen in front of you, some cheers rang out from students who got tributes from the first few districts, though Sejanus’ outburst at getting a tribute from his home district broke the tension.

“District ten boy, Y/N Rosewing. Girl, Arachne Crane.” You hummed, looking at the boy in the screen.

“Oh, you’ll Iike this one, Miss Crane.” Dean Highbottom smirked from his spot. “District 12 girl, Coriolanus Snow.”

You snapped your neck to look at your boyfriend, who wore an unreadable expression on his face. “Coryo,” you whispered, sorrow in your voice.

He was one of the first out of his seat when the group was dismissed, and you were quick to follow.

------

Behind a pillar out front, you found Coriolanus staring out into the main road, watching cars go to and fro, silent.

You stepped next to him, looking up at his face. “It’ll be okay, Coryo.”

“Hah,” he laughed bitterly, looking down at you. “You don’t have to worry about a thing. You can just go back to your fancy house and and maids and full kitchen. I needed the Plinth Prize, Y/N.” He spoke, pure anger in his face.

You were taken aback, not used to seeing this side of Coriolanus. “Then make sure you show that tribute how to win the Games.”

“How?”

“You saw her sing when she was up on that stage. Give the Capitol a show. A reason to want he to win.” You suggested. “We have time to meet with the tributes tomorrow at the zoo. Figure out what she’s good at, then use it to your advantage, Coryo. Use it to win.”

------

You were livid when you walked into the zoo, seeing your boyfriend in the cage with the tributes- the animals.

Lucky Flickerman was talking to them, and you nearly burst a blood vessel when you saw their linked hands. This was not what you meant when you advised your boyfriend to figure out what Lucy Gray was good at.

Once the cameras and microphones were out of the way, you marched over to where the two were still talking. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Lucy Gray looked between you and Coriolanus, who had half a mind to have a sheepish look on his face. “Who’s askin’?”

You looked her up and down, in the bright dress Arachne likened to a clown the previous day. “Did you force him into that cage? Get your little friends to threaten him?” “Hey, Y/N, she didn’t do anything.” Coriolanus spoke up, stepping between the two of you even though there was a gate in the way. “This is Y/N, my girlfriend.”

Lucy Gray’s lips formed an O, and she had an apologetic look on her face. “I wasn’t aware, I do apologize.”

You hummed, taking one last look at your boyfriend before heading over towards Arachne and your tribute, water bottle in hand.

“Tanner,” you smiled, passing the water bottle between the fence posts. “Do you need any medicine, are they feeding you?” You asked, kneeling to get some bread out of your bag.

Your tribute, Tanner, was grateful and kind as you two spoke, a stark contrast to Arachne and her tribute, Brandy, who she was teasing with water.

“Arachne, watch-” You began to advise the girl, though her tribute was too quick, and in the blink of an eye all Hell broke loose.

You watched in what felt like slow motion as Brandy smashed the glass bottle into Arachne, piercing her in the neck.

“No!” You cried, moving to cover the wounds with your hands. You vaguely felt glass poking and breaking skin in your hands, and gunshots from the Peacekeepers.

Arachne wasn’t a friend, but she was a classmate, someone who you had spent most of your life sitting around. You tried to save her, but the blood gurgled up and out, life draining from her eyes.

“Arachne, hey- don’t, it’ll be okay! Someone’s coming, just hold on!” You cried, aware of arms pulling you off of the deceased mentor.

------

Coriolanus was discussing getting a guitar for Lucy Gray when he heard the noise.

Looking over, he felt his heart shoot into his throat when he saw Arachne, you, and a mess of blood on the ground. “Y/N!” He called, trying to evade the Peacekeepers between the two of you.

The tributes were ushered back against the wall of the cage, the public and mentors ushered out of the zoo.

Coriolanus saw the dead tribute on the ground, and you were on top of Arachne, hands to her bleeding neck. “Let me go, that’s my girlfriend!” He begged the Peacekeepers, their hold on him unwavering.

He finally broke free of their grasp when one of the tributes threw a rock over, and Coriolanus darted over towards you, pulling you off of Arachne’s body.

“It’s okay, hey, look at me.” Coriolanus walked the two of you away from the scene, all while you were still in a panicked daze.

“Can you hear me?” He asked, moving some hair out of your face. “I need to know you’re with me.”

You finally met your boyfriend’s eyes, breath slowing down a bit. “Arachne- she-”

“I know, I know.” Coriolanus felt his heart break at the look on your face. “Deep breaths, okay?”

You nodded softly, taking a few shaky breaths, looking down at your hands.

Coriolanus followed your gaze, frowning when he saw a few pieces of glass in the palms of your hands.

He led you over to one of the medics, who seemed to be the zoo’s veterinarian. “She was cut trying to save our classmate. Can you help?”

The vet nodded, having you sit on the ledge near him. “I don’t have any morphling, this will hurt. I apologize.”

You nodded, still breathing heavily from the adrenaline leaving your body. Coriolanus stood next to you, rubbing your upper back and keeping an eye on everyone around.

“Will she need stitches?” Coriolanus asked, frowning when he felt you wince as a larger piece of glass was taken out of your palm.

Nodding, the vet pointed to a small section under your thumb. “Only here I believe. You will want to get this looked at in a proper hospital. Make sure no infection is present.”

You nodded once, looking away as the vet began threading a needle to stitch your skin.

Coriolanus fished a water bottle out of his bag, unscrewing the top and offering it to you. “Dr. Gaul better just call off these games. One tribute is already dead, what is the point?”

You hummed, thanking the vet as he finished stitching your hand. “I don’t want to think about the Games right now.”

Nodding, you and Coriolanus slowly walked back to the Corso, back to the Snow penthouse.

[wnbnny]

the blood crown. (chapter 1.)

pairings: prince!chan x reader, prince!minho x reader, prince!changbin x reader, prince!hyunjin x reader, prince!jisung x reader, prince!felix x reader, prince!seungmin x reader, prince!jeongin x reader

warnings: mentions of blood, death, poison, suggestive jokes but no smut, competition amongst noble families, ot8 are princes

author's note: hellooo:) welcome to my first series on tumblr! i wanted to go with a sort of dark theme for this fic:> please please do leave likes and comments, it truly makes my day!

You grew up in a household made of lies, deceit and poison. 

Born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you were born to an ordinary village girl, and your father, a high-ranking noble. Your mother had been training you since you could barely walk; always smile politely, always walk gracefully, always greet your guests. Each time you would get something wrong, the feared cane would come down upon your hands, enough to hurt but never enough to leave bruises. Your mother had grown up in a poor village, using her charm and wit to seduce your father and charm her way into the ranks of high society. She was ruthless, cunning, and most of all: ambitious. She dreamed of ascending to the very top- the royal family. It was no surprise that when you were at the mere age of ten, your father was pronounced dead on a Thursday afternoon in his quarters, being assassinated by a thief who had supposedly snuck into your house. 

But you knew. 

You knew when the corner of your mother's lips curved up ever so slightly, at the funeral ceremony of your father. Barely there, but it was the smirk of a triumphant winner of the chess game. All your father's assets were transferred to your mother, and she became head of the household- never remarried and never gave birth to any more children. 

Your kingdom was governed by the Bahng's, who had eight sons and a daughter- Christopher, the heir to the throne and the king's sole legitimate child, Minho, the second, born to a concubine in the king's harem, just like the rest. Changbin was the third, along with Hyunjin, then Jisung, Felix, Seungmin, and finally Jeongin. And then there was Princess Areum, the king's beloved daughter and second legitimate child. 

Your mother heard from the gossip circles amongst the ladies at the tea tasting ceremonies she hosted often, that there were talks of Princess Areum being engaged to Duke Choi's son, Yeonjun. The Choi's were a rival family, always competing with your mother for power. 

One day, when you had just crossed the age of eleven a few weeks ago, your mother called you to her study. You sighed, getting up gracefully from where you had been perched on a chair reading, and walked to her study, knocking first, three sharp raps.

"Come in," she called.

And so you put on a demure smile, hands clasped in front of you, never tripping or stumbling on your way. Clothes neatly ironed, not a single hair out of place, the pinnacle of perfection.

"Y/N." her perfectly shaped brows rise, scrutinising you, before smiling softly. Your mother was always strange like that. You knew she loved you, but in wanting what was best for you always pushed too far.

"You know of Princess Areum's engagement." 

You nod, brows furrowed.

"She is not the heir to the throne and poses no danger to us as she is a girl, but her future husband does, unfortunately. The Choi's will surely use their newfound power to gloat over us and trample us underfoot if their son was to be married to the princess. However, we must target the girl this time, it is far too risky to target the boy. Weeds in a garden have to be pruned, ripped out by the roots, to maintain the beauty of the garden. Surely you understand. Tell me the number one rule in chess again." her once soft expression hardens, and she leverages you with a stare, piercing through you.

"Always predict your opponent's next move." you reply, unsure of where this conversation is going. 

"Yes. The Choi family will immediately suspect us if something happens to their precious firstborn, meanwhile the princess will be easy to manipulate and target." your mother sighs, folding her hands neatly on her lap.

"I want you to make friends with Princess Areum, invite her to our house if possible. We'll see from there." 

You nod, hesitant yet confused. What did she mean by target the princess? Was she going to manipulate her to cancel the engagement? 

It turns out, the outcome was far worse.

Princess Areum had become fast friends with you quickly, both sharing common interests. Soon, she began to invite you and your mother to the royal palace, your mother becoming close with the queen too. 

You should've known. 

Years later when you were older, you finally understood what had happened. A tiny bottle of liquid your mother had claimed to be a restoring health tonic, carefully tucked into your mother's sleeve as she made her way to the palace together with you for your weekly afternoon tea sessions with just the four of you.

Princess Areum's rigid body falling to the ground when she took a sip of her afternoon tea, the cries of Queen Bahng echoing out throughout the room as the princess drew her last breath. 

You knew.

The King was heartbroken, his only daughter buried in a grave six feet under the ground. No one even suspected your mother.

One year later, Queen Bahng departed from the realm. The people claimed she died from the heartbreak of losing her only daughter, but only two individuals ever knew the truth. 

Your mother pretended to be inconsolable at the funeral, sobbing as she watched the casket, and you almost wanted to applaud at how convincing her acting was. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the Crown Prince, Christopher Bahng, standing beside his father who had a tight hand clasped on his shoulder. The prince's eyes were clearly red from having cried the night prior, yet he remained stoic throughout the ceremony. He never let his emotions nor his grief consume him, you supposed it was how you were like with your mother. Never allowed to show your imperfections to the world. Though you wouldn't admit it, deep down you felt sorry for him, a broken child just like you.

The Choi's never rose to power, and your mother's plan worked. 

"You must take what is rightfully yours," she had said on the carriage ride home. "And you must do what it takes."

"But at what cost?" you asked.

"Everything."

-years later-

You stared out the window at the bustling city, feeling extremely uncomfortable in the many layers of silk and fabric you were clad in. 

"Remember," your mother turned around to look at you, her sharp voice cutting through the silence. "Keep your head up and your eyes trained upon the goal. Charm Prince Christopher.”

“Become the next queen."

~part 2 coming soon~

[withclawandvine]

title: meet you after dark 

tags: smut, 18+ only, slight domme/sub dynamics. what can i say… i love it when men beg, y’know those statues of men on their knees for a woman?? this is my love letter to that 

wc: 4k

summary: Elain’s fingers knotted in his hair, and she used the leverage to push his head back, giving herself access to the near-feverish skin of his throat. Her legs locked around his waist as she kissed a path up to his ear before whispering, “What else do you think about?” 

“You,” he said, breathless as he tilted his face up to the stars, exposing more of his throat and moaning gratefully when she scraped her teeth over the taut skin. “What you feel like. The kinds of noises you’d make, how you’ll taste.” 

author’s note: i can’t believe this is finally done !!!! i’ve been workin on this shit since like.... march?? it was literally supposed to be for elriel month 😭😭😭

read on ao3 here!!

After years of hard work, the garden, nestled in the peaks surrounding Velaris, was once again lush and expansive. The couple the land belonged to had called it home for what might have been eons, for all Elain knew. She was honored they had trusted her not only with the garden’s reconstruction, but also with tending to it while they stayed with relatives. 

Three tiers had been carved into the mountainside, all connected by cobbled staircases that led to meandering paths through the flora. Elain sat on a blanket along the low wall dividing the highest tier from the middle, her feet hanging over the ledge, toes just barely skimming the soft grass beneath.  

The long afternoon of harvesting, pruning, and weeding under the sun had left her with aching hands and pink cheeks. And for her efforts, she’d been encouraged to take whatever she wanted for herself. 

From the basket at her side, Elain withdrew an apricot and bit into it. Juice dripped down her chin and onto her front, making her once again grateful for the stained overalls she wore. The garment was perfect for gardening, right down to the pocket stitched into the panel that covered her chest. The pant legs, made of breezy linen, hid her shape almost as well as a dress, while being much easier to move around in — less likely to catch on branches or her own feet. 

She leaned back on her elbows to watch the lowering sun set the sky ablaze, then disappear behind the mountains, bringing the stars to life, and along with them, the night-blooming flora. Some, she’d recognized from her old garden at the estate on the other side of the wall, while others — such as those with faintly glowing petals — were native to Prythian. She sat among it all, breathing in their heady scent and mountain air, in perfect serenity. 

Until her pointed ears twitched at a faint noise from above. A rhythmic drumming grew louder with each beat, until the sound was accompanied by a breeze that swept up the fine tendrils of hair that had escaped her braid and a dark, powerful figure landing softly in the grass. 

He wore no armor, wasn’t cast in the azure glow of siphons, or surrounded by swirling shadows. It didn’t matter. Elain, whether she wanted to or not, would recognize Azriel anywhere. 

She stiffened, eyeing him warily. 

He’d landed in the middle of the garden level below where she sat, several paces away. But still closer to her than he had been in weeks, when they’d been seated across the table from each other at a mandatory family dinner at the river house. 

It was the first one Azriel hadn’t been able to wiggle out of since Solstice and it had been painfully uncomfortable. Their sole conversation had lasted roughly two minutes, and Azriel spent the entirety of it looking anywhere but at her, his eyes shifting around the room, as if searching for anything that might liberate him. 

Elain couldn’t begin to fathom why he’d intentionally seek her out now, and he certainly wasn’t making it any clearer as he remained still and silent. 

“Are you going to stand there like a gargoyle all night, or were you planning on saying hello?” 

“Hello.” 

Despite herself, Elain couldn’t contain her laugh. The sharp, undignified snort breaking the tension between them. Her keen Fae eyes could make out the flash of Azriel’s teeth in the dark, making her heart jump. A genuine smile on Azriel’s face reminded Elain of Starfall; it was as brilliant as it was ephemeral, and stirred in her the same sort of dewey-eyed wonder. 

She willed the feeling away; she couldn’t let herself fall back into him or her own guilelessness. She cleared her throat, as if it might expel any lingering traces of her laughter from her voice. “Is there something I can do for you?”

But as he ventured closer to Elain’s perch, Azriel just asked, “Is this one of the gardens you helped rebuild?”

“I’ve been checking on it while Celstine and Zekiah spend the summer in the Dawn Court with Celestine’s sister,” she said, feeling two steps behind. As if to make up for it, her next words came out in a rush. “And they asked me to draw up some plans for a water feature.” 

She pointed up to the empty space next to the house and started explaining her ideas for a pond that would cascade over the nearest wall into a trench dug to look like a natural stream that would slither through the whole garden. She’d read about a system of spelled pipes that would force the water at the end back up into the pond so it never ran dry. 

Azriel’s attention never wavered, and damn if it didn’t remind her of her first Solstice, how engaged he’d been as she sketched and rambled, even going so far as to encourage her to go on once she’d fallen into self-conscious quiet. Like there was nothing else he’d rather be doing at half-past midnight. 

Elain felt the ache of losing it — whatever it was they’d shared — all over again. 

So she steeled herself, made her voice hard when she asked, “And is that what you came to discuss? Water delivery systems?” 

Finally taking a few steps toward her, he said, “It’s not.” 

“Then what is it you need?” 

It was unlikely that Rhysand would need her for anything, and if Feyre wanted to send a message, she would knock on the doors of Elain’s mind. Could Nesta have sent him? 

Elain was still trying hard to sound disinterested as he stopped right in front of her. If she wanted, she could swing her leg and kick him. Her left foot twitched, as if persuaded into motion by the mere thought. 

“A moment of your time, away from —” Azriel’s jaw worked, forcefully holding words back. “Please.”

His eyes found hers, heavy and imploring. It was that small fracture in his composed exterior, rather than the plea itself, that made her nod. 

“I lied,” he said. “On Solstice, when I said we were making a mistake.” 

Elain felt herself recoil at the word, but Azriel pressed on, undeterred. “I go back to that night all the time. What I’d do differently. What might’ve been if…” 

Azriel leaned in closer, the words fizzling out. As if he’d driven himself to distraction by daring to cradle her cheek in a rough palm. 

“If?” Elain prompted, a little breathless. 

“If I’d just…” he murmured, thumb tracing over her bottom lip. And when he leaned in, she didn’t stop him. His lips brushed against hers — a soft, sweet thing. Tentative and brief, it was nothing like the kiss that would’ve been, had he gone through with it that night, when the air had already been laden with desire. 

“If I’d told you that I once thought myself something of an expert on longing,” he said. “And that after spending so many years yearning for my freedom, for a family, for something that was truly mine, I knew everything there was to know about wanting something you didn’t have — knew how to live with it.” 

“But then I met you, and I…” His smile is faint, and a bit rueful. “It was different than before, when I was young and hoping for things that seemed impossible. Because you were within my reach. And yet, all I could do was want you. And I have carried it with me for so long, and I have said nothing — even when I should have — but I’m saying it now. I have to say it now.”

With a gentle hold on her chin, Azriel tilted her head back a little, so his lips nearly brushed hers when he said, “Because I don’t just lose sleep thinking up grand speeches.” 

There had been thousands of questions racing through her head for months, answers she wouldn’t allow herself to beg him for. She was still angry, still hurt. But all of it was losing the battle for her attention while Azriel stood between her knees and the feel of him still buzzed on her lips. 

Elain’s fingers knotted in his hair, and she used the leverage to push his head away, giving herself access to the near-feverish skin of his throat. Her legs locked around his waist as she kissed a path up to his ear before whispering, “What else do you think about?” 

When his only response was a strangled groan, Elain nipped at a sensitive spot below his ear, prodding. 

“You,” he said, breathless as he tilted his face up to the stars, exposing more of his throat and moaning gratefully when she scraped her teeth over the taut skin. “What you feel like. The kinds of noises you’d make, how you’ll taste.” 

The admission was like oil poured over the smoldering embers of her arousal. 

“Do you still want to know?”

Head tilted coyly, she watched Azriel all but shudder as the words and their meaning landed.

There was hardly anything seductive about unfastening the buttons keeping her overalls secure before having to wiggle out of them, but Azriel watched the graceless movements like a charmed snake. And when she struggled to kick her feet free, he sank smoothly to his knees and guided the garment over each one. 

A hand lingered, wrapping around her ankle and worrying his thumb over the bone. The heat of his touch rolling through her like thunder.

He hadn’t been the only one to fall victim to wanting and wondering. Elain was desperate to memorize the taste and shape of him. But even as he gazed up at her — drinking in every inch of her newly exposed skin, her nipples, peaked through her undershirt — eyes dark and heavily lidded, Elain couldn’t let herself forget that she’d been here before. 

Or rather, in a dim corridor, to be left feeling humiliated by her desire and betrayed by the object of it.

Now she was half naked and soaking through her panties, but if she was going to offer any of it up to Azriel again, she needed some reassurance, indisputable proof that he wanted her. 

Without giving herself the chance to think herself out of it, Elain pushed her panties aside and dipped her fingers into her wet center, gasping a little at how easily they slid in. She watched Azriel’s face, the hungry way he licked his bottom lip, as she circled her clit with trembling fingers. 

She felt Azriel reach for her other ankle, then the tensing of muscles, poised to pull her closer. A shift in energy that built… then buckled under his hesitation. Whether he had intended to back away or pull her closer, Elain would never know, because she moved first. 

She brought her slick fingers to his mouth, felt his satisfied hum as he closed his lips around them. 

Elain’s breath caught at the sight of him, a warrior, powerful and unyielding, on his knees before her, savoring the taste of her on her fingertips as he looked up at her with heavy-lidded eyes. Even in the dark, it was easy the desire plainly etched into his face. Gone was the impassive spy, the formidable soldier. 

This was Azriel. Open and vulnerable. Gentle and…  

“Beautiful,” she whispered, and pushed down on his tongue a little, just to watch his eyes roll back, before pulling her hand away, brushing her thumb across his bottom lip and wiping away the trail of spit. 

She felt his shaky exhale against her skin as his wings twitched, the movement small, brief, and agitated. It was a silly impulse to reach out and stroke the arc of bone that formed the top of his right wing, as if he were an anxious horse, but it was also impossible to resist. 

He trembled under the caress, and the wounded sound he made had Elain yanking her hand back in surprise. 

The question that had been forming in her mind was answered when Azriel leaned in, chasing her touch, and let out a very unspecific “please.” 

She touched him again, more purposefully this time, and Azriel muffled his moan by pressing his face into her thigh. Elain’s fingers straying along the inner curve of his wing had him sinking his teeth into her skin. The pain was sharp, but short-lived, arousal its echo, pulsing through her. 

Azriel looked up at her, nostrils flaring. 

“I need another taste,” His voice, usually cool and smooth as a midnight breeze, was gravelly and low. It struck her, this change in him — the knowledge that he trusted her with it. “Need you to come in my mouth.” 

“So greedy,” she mused, unable to fight the smile pulling at her lips. 

“Yes,” he agreed readily, then paused to kiss the delicate skin where the mark from his teeth was already blooming. 

“You…” he shook his head a little, breathing out a soft, dumbfounded laugh, as if he couldn’t quite believe that after such a long life of convincing himself that he was content on the fringes, he was finally allowing himself to want more. “I’ll take anything you’re willing to give me.”

Elain’s heart soared at the words while her body burned hot from the way he spoke them. She wanted to swear to give him everything; she wanted to put her lips to better use. But in her indecision, she must’ve been quiet for too long, because wariness had crept into Azriel’s gaze, the way he said her name. 

Her hand found his cheek, her thumb caressing the flushed skin, which seemed to settle him. 

“I like you like this,” she admitted with a blush. And as Azriel looked at her with black eyes, chest heaving, she thought he might like it too. Kneeling for her, being at her mercy. She moved her foot, nudging his stiff cock, and his hips jerked at the contact. 

“Fuck, Elain,” Azriel groaned. “Please.”

He pinched the lace waistband of her underwear between his thumb and forefinger, and pulled at the material gently, supplicatingly.

At her nod, Azriel slid them down Elain’s legs. 

His hands were hot and frenetic, guiding her gently onto her back with her feet hanging over the ledge, toes skimming the grass below, reaching for an ankle and propping it on his shoulder. The cool night air against her wet cunt made her whimper, the soft sound seeming to echo through the otherwise still night. 

As awkward as the position was, Elain kept herself propped up on her elbows, so she could keep looking at Azriel. Watch his eyes, heavily-lidded and cloudy with lust, flutter closed with the first broad lick through her folds. 

And with that one taste, it was as if all the urgency had bled from his body. 

He’d gotten what he needed, so now he could take his time getting what he wanted: Elain, pliant and breathless, as he teased her with his tongue, slow and indulgent. 

“Azriel,” she whined as he took clit between his lips, sucking at her. It was as if the heat and tension building in her abdomen was sapping the strength from everything else — her voice, now high and reedy. Her legs, shaking under Azriel’s hands. Her arms, buckling and dropping her flat on her back.

Elain couldn’t see Azriel anymore, but gods could she hear him. He moaned into her, noisy and salacious. Letting her arousal coat his nose and chin, and then smearing it on her trembling thighs when he pulled away from her pussy to kiss and nip at them. 

She was panting by the time he sank a finger into her, slowly working her open while his tongue circled her clit, before adding another. And when his fingers found that sweet spot inside her, the stars above swirled like a snowstorm. 

Squirming, Elain couldn’t decide if she wanted reprieve from the burning pleasure sparking in her core or if she wanted to chase it. 

The choice was made for her by a hand, splayed across her stomach and pinning her in place. Too breathless to make any real noise, Elain’s mouth fell open, a cry caught in her throat, as she came. 

Azriel settled back to watch himself fuck her through it on his fingers, moaning as if it were his cock inside her instead — pulsing around him, begging  him to stay. 

Still so wet and sensitive, Elain was sure that if he kept going, he would make her come again. But if that was going to happen, she didn’t want it to be while she couldn’t really see him or get her hands on him. Suddenly desperate to have him closer, she clumsily surged forward and grabbed his shirt collar.

Only when she knew he was getting to his feet did she let go and settle herself at the center of the blanket, giving him the space to climb up after her. But the instant he was within her reach, Elain was crashing back into him, capturing his lips in a near vicious kiss, needing his mouth to be on her again, in one way or another. 

She could taste herself on his tongue, feel his hands shaking as they cradled her head, fingers knotting in her hair. Elain reached again for Azriel’s shirt, pulling at it, trying fruitlessly to peel it away.

“Take it off,” she breathed, dimly aware that she was the one begging now. 

But as if it had been a command, Azriel unraveled the network of buttons and flaps keeping his shirt on his back, then grabbed a fistful of the fabric covering his chest and yanked it off. 

The fastenings of his pants were much more straightforward. 

As he sat back with his weight braced on his hands, Elain crawled into his lap. She knelt, trapping his legs between hers, feeling as if she could melt into the heat of his skin on her thighs, the curve of her ass. While one of her hands curled around his hip, the other wrapped lightly around his length, flushed and dripping with arousal. 

Azriel sucked in a stuttering breath, as if she’d punched him in the gut instead. 

Elain quirked a brow — a little surprised and a little smug — but he was unabashed, arching into her touch, his hands coming to clutch at her waist. He was uninhibited in the way he reacted to the languid slide of her fist, yet clearly holding back. She could feel it in his fingertips, the way they dug into her ribs — the effort it was taking to keep still and let her touch him as she pleased. 

Azriel’s cock throbbed in her hand, and she squeezed him at the base, just enough to keep him from tipping over the edge, to pull a low whimper from his throat. 

Tempted as she might have been to continue toying with him, nothing compared to Elain’s desire to feel him everywhere. 

“Can I —” 

“Yes,” he breathed. “Please.” 

She never said what she wanted, didn’t get the chance to ask for it, but Elain got the sense that it wouldn’t have made a difference.

With a hand on his shoulder for support, she guided him into her, bracing herself for pain. But while, yes, there was some discomfort as she stretched to accommodate him, Elain felt most intensely the relief of having him. It was the first bite of food hitting a growling stomach, a flushed cheek against the cool side of the pillow on a hot night. 

One of Azriel’s hands trailed to the apex of her thighs, his thumb finding her clit. A feathery, coaxing touch to tempt her body into staying pliant for him until she sat heavy in his lap, her legs loosely wrapped around his waist. 

Elain’s fingers linked behind his neck. Under her thumbs, she could feel the blood surging, propelled by a ferocious, erratic heartbeat. 

“Does it…” Azriel started, the words choking out as Elain clenched around him, adjusting. “How do you feel?” 

Her response came more as a sigh than a word, “Good.” 

Elain rocked against him, slow and deep. So exquisitely full, she could feel him everywhere. “You feel so good.” 

Azriel practically whined at the praise. His hands slid up her body, pushing her shirt up as he went, finally exposing all of her to him. His fingers roamed all of it — from her wrists to her shoulders, her hips to her ribs — before splaying across her back, fingertips pressing into the skin, holding her to him. 

Elain’s arms fell back down around his neck, cradling his head between her shoulder and her palm, holding him just as tightly. He turned his face into the spot behind her ear where she always dabbed her perfume oil, inhaling heavily, as if trying to trap her scent inside his lungs. 

It was a slower burn than before, but no less intense. Every touch, every roll of her hips stoking the fire until she was entirely consumed by the heat, her desire. Became single-minded in her need. Azriel must have been thinking the same thing, because as her hand strayed to one of his wings, his drifted down to where their bodies were joined. 

A few messy circles of his fingers and Elain was coming. The hand in Azriel’s hair closed into a fist, holding him tight to her, the crook of her neck muffling the near-guttural sounds he made as she fluttered and squeezed around his cock. 

And then Azriel was leaning forward, getting his knees under him and letting the momentum tip Elain onto her back. He braced himself over her, one of his hands between the back of her head and the ground. Cradling her gently, even as he fucked her without restraint. 

Elain’s arms, which had landed limply at her sides, wind around his shoulders, at first to hold him, then to reach again for the sensitive membrane of his wings. 

The touch seemed to unravel Azriel and any remaining thread of control he had over his body. The rhythm of hips faltered, becoming frantic and sloppy. His eyes squeezed shut, just before his head fell forward, hanging heavy over her. He was too far gone to do much more than slur something that sounded like her name against her cheek as he came, his whole body tensing with the intensity of it. 

And then, all at once, a softening — his brow smoothed and his eyes fluttered open, holding her gaze. A deep sigh relaxed his clenched jaw. Slowly, his body melted into hers. 

Elain welcomed the comforting weight of him. She curled a hand around the back of his head, gently dragging her nails through his dark hair, damp with sweat. He kissed her collarbone before pressing his cheek flush to her neck  — nuzzling a little, she realized — then shook with a breathy sort of half-laugh that had her thinking he was just as giddy and dazed as she was. 

But when he spoke a moment later, his voice was pensive: a confession, murmured into her skin, “There’s still so much I need to tell you.” 

There was still so much she wanted to know. But Azriel’s warmth was seeping deep into her bones and his fingertips were skimming up and down her arm in a tender, lazy rhythm that had her lulled halfway to sleep. 

“In the morning,” she murmured. 

“We can’t stay out here all night.” 

“I don’t want to leave.” 

You, she thought, I don’t want to leave you.

She hadn’t said the words out loud, but it didn’t matter. Azriel, as he so often did, seemed to understand them anyway.  

“Alright,” he said, tightening his hold on her. “A bit longer then.”

[a-very-sparkly-nerd]

I’ll Do Whatever It Takes (i’ll make a million mistakes)

surprise 🤭

More than anything, Callum was disappointed in himself. Disappointed in himself for not knowing better, disappointed in himself for getting his hopes up, for thinking he could finally have a happily-ever-after.

But what had he ever done to deserve one? He deserved whatever karma the universe decided to dish out, but their son didn't. He hadn't inherited the evil or the dark heart, hadn't done a single thing except be born to an accursed man.

He hadn't been able to step foot in the nursery. Hadn't been able to make himself look at the tiny, wheezing, prune-purpley-red little infant in the cradle he'd sworn to protect, but ended up breaking that promise, too.

All the Sky spells in the world hadn't worked, nor Sunfire healing, and Earthblood stabilizing abilities could only do so much for so long. Even magic, what he’d leaned on since that day he’d first laid eyes on Zym’s egg, had been as utterly helpless as he.

Since he'd been born just a week ago, Callum had spent every spare second locked in his study hopelessly searching for some kind of remedy, a mission he knew was doomed from the start but had to cling to, only leaving to slip into bed with Rayla and let her hold him as they both sobbed.

His wife slipped into the room now, a soft thunk reaching Callum's ears before she was standing behind him, arms looped around his neck and chin on his shoulder. "Hey."

He clasped her hand. It felt like all the apologies he'd spouted every night could never be enough, not for her and not for Ezran and not for their poor little sickly child. "Hey. Um, how are you holding up?"

The past seven days, Rayla'd mostly been helping him not-really-grieve, stuck somewhere between denial and bargaining, bringing tea and food and soft kisses. Callum didn't know what he'd done to deserve it. He hadn't been able to comfort her, hold her tight and soothe her, at least not yet. They'd always both been so good at tamping feelings down to help the other.

She shrugged sluggishly, moving to sit on his desk in front of him and take his hands, gently stroking the soft, tender skin between his wrist and thumbs. "I'm- I'm okay. Ish."

Callum pressed his lips to her forehead not solely for the purpose of keeping his tears out of her sight. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Rayla."

She shook her head, arms snaking around him. "Don't. Your genes aren't your fault, your history isn't your fault, random bad luck isn't your fault. The universe hating us isn't your fault. I wouldn't change anything." She brought his hand to cover her still-swollen stomach, where the baby weight had yet to fade, and for a moment it was almost as if their son had yet to be born, and they were happily oblivious to the disease fighting tooth and nail to claim him since the second he'd arrived. As if things were as okay as they could be.

"Callum, I need to talk to you," she said softly, combing through his hair, and he moved to look at her because he owed her that at the very least.

"Yeah?" Whatever she said next surely couldn't be good, but he'd rather hear it from Rayla than anyone else.

"Callum, every second that child is alive is a miracle," she breathed, crying silently as her lips trembled, face splotchy. "If the worst happens, if we lose him... I want you to be there. I want you to know your son at least a little bit."

"Rayla..." Callum gasped out, shaking his head in disbelief. He'd known, but confronting that terrible reality was the worst thing that could possibly happen.

She caught his wrists, holding them in her lap and drawing him into her lap, tilting his chin up. "I'm not done yet. Callum, I..." She pulled the source of the earlier thunk closer to them from the side of the desk, settling her small, pale hand against the large, dusty tome. Callum didn't dare reach for it.

Read more on ao3

[miasmaghoul]

honestly something i’d absolutely love to see in your style of writing would be mountain and one of the other ghouls having a relaxing day potting plants in the greenhouse :) maybe they’re talking about something deep, maybe they’re exchanging gossip, maybe they’re working in comfortable silence, but whatever it is, they’re having fun, they’re soft and chaste, and they’re so so in love <3

yes uh huh yep absolutely lets go

soft boys below the cut

Dew sways in place, humming a tune to complement the raindrops pattering against the glass walls surrounding him. A springtime sunshower that makes him feel refreshed, makes his skin buzz and his gills flutter. He's tempted to sneak away, just long enough to get his fins damp and his hair frizzy, but it's a fleeting thought.

Dew's tail swishes aimlessly on the ground, stirs up fallen leaves and withered petals. The result of one of Mountain's seasonal repotting days, of hours spent pruning and stripping and checking for root rot. Of lugging around countless pots and sacks of dirt and the putrid fertilizer Mountain swears by. It's lousy work, really. Delicate but backbreaking, especially for a ghoul of smaller stature. Exhausting.

Dew's been here since just after sunup, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

It's been hours now, the sun hanging high where it peeks through the rainclouds. He has at least six different kinds of soil caked under his nails and streaked across his face, muddy smears covering both his apron and the garbage pair of jeans he'd yanked on this morning. They're more stain than denim at this point, and Dew wears them exactly four times a year. The little ghoul stretches his arms over his head and relishes the way his spine pops.

He's sore all over, truth be told, but it's a kind of good sore. The kind that comes from manual labor, from hard work and dedication. Dew catalogs the places he'll need to ask Aether to rub later, a little quintessence analgesic that he'll definitely have earned; his shoulders for sure, they're starting to crunch when he rolls them. His fingers too, Dew knows his knuckles will be all swollen up otherwise. Probably his legs and feet as well, but that would be better saved for -

"I'm back."

Dew's ears perk up when a deep voice calls from across the greenhouse, accompanied by the telltale squeal of the heavy glass door. Booted footsteps follow, wet soles squeaking against dirty concrete, and Dew hops off the stool he's been perched on just in time for Mountain to round a nearby pallet of exotic ferns.

"Don't get up on my accout," he chuckles, smoothing wind-mussed hair back between his antlers. Dew can just barely see misty droplets clinging to those auburn strands. "Besides," Mountain adds, holding up a paper bag, "I brought you lunch, and you don't want to eat standing up."

Dew's stomach growls mightily the moment he says it, loud enough that they both look down at it.

"Good timing," he says, poking at his belly. Dew hops back up onto his seat and scoots it closer to the filthy bench he's been working on. "Any longer and I might have started consuming things with no regard for signage."

Mountain laughs, but it's true. Dew hasn't eaten anything since he and Mountain found each other in the kitchen this morning. Even that wasn't much, a couple pieces of toast and a container of some weird coconut yogurt he'd found on the bottom shelf of the fridge.

Dew has these four days memorized at this point - three days before a solstice or three days after an equinox - but Mountain still always seems surprised to see him stroll into the common room in his work boots and crusty jeans. Dew supposes that has something to do with the fact that he usually sleeps until at least noon, but that's neither here nor there.

"Wouldn't recommend that," Mountain rumbles, setting the bag on the table for Dew to pounce on. "Last time Ifrit did that I couldn't keep him off me for a week."

"Woe is you, " Dew laments, collecting his prize. "I'm sure you suffered, what with his huge dick and endless stamina."

"It was a struggle like no other," Mountain deadpans, slipping his apron back over his head. He'd hosed it off before Terzo had called him for an unexpected meeting, and Dew had taken the liberty of pulling the moisture from it while he was gone. Left it in dark stains on the floor below instead. "I smelled like him for two weeks."

Dew snickers, opening up the bag. Pulling out a hefty container that's still warm to the touch and a real fork. There's a drink in there too, a bottle of coffee in Dew’s preferred mocha, and a paper-wrapped fruit pie the size of his hand. He looks up at Mountain with a quirked brow.

"What's all this?" Mountain tips his head while he secures his apron, makes a questioning sound. "You said lunch, I figured I'd have a sandwich or something. This is like," Dew gestures vaguely, "this is a whole thing."

Mountain shrugs, rolls up his sleeves. Dew definitely doesn't stare at his forearms for the second or two it takes to open the container. For the smell of it to hit him - roasted salmon with creamy polenta, along with a small pile of green beans flecked with garlic and lemon zest. His mouth waters immediately, and his stomach gives another loud complaint. Dew grabs his fork and gathers up an oversized bite, and it's halfway to his mouth when Mountain answers.

"I stopped by the mess after my meeting," he explains with a casual shrug. "Got there at the right time, I guess."

Dew freezes mid-bite, looks over at Mountain with his mouth still hanging open. He's in the middle of hauling pots onto his own bench, a cart of miniature rose bushes in the process of being repotted sitting beside it.

"You went to the mess?"

It's a well known fact that Mountain can't stand the parts of the abbey that attract swaths of humanity - it takes real effort to even get him to attend mass - and Dew can't imagine him braving the mess hall on his own. Again, Mountain shrugs.

"It was on the way back from Terzo's office," he offers, collecting a bush from the cart. Setting it on his worktable and brushing a few stray leaves to the ground. "You've been working hard, you deserve real food."

Dew's face goes unbearably warm, but he doesn't argue.

"Thank you," he murmurs instead, soft but genuine.

Honest.

Mountain's tail sways up to pat at his arm in response, the tufted end ticklish against his exposed forearm. Dew finally pops that forkful of food into his mouth, and the taste of it is exquisite. He groans, his eyes fall shut, his shoulders curl, the whole shebang. Surely an overreaction, but in fairness he's really hungry.

"Fuckin' hells, that's good," Dew sighs, popping a green bean into his mouth. "Say what you will about Sister Agata, but that old broad makes damn good food."

Mountain scoffs, shoots him a dramatic, offended look.

"Better than mine?"

Dew snorts, shoveling another mouthful of polenta. He makes a wavy gesture with his hand, a silent ehhh, maybe that Mountain responds to with a shocked gasp. Dew rolls his eyes, flicks his tail at Mountain's calf.

"'Course not," Dew assures him, spearing a bean on each tine of his fork. He gives the other ghoul a wink. "No one burns popcorn like you, Mount."

The end of Mountain’s tail whacks the back of his head, right above the knot he's tied his hair into. Dew waves it off, but makes a happy little sound when that tail settles on his thigh instead.

They fall into comfortable silence, Dew watching Mountain unearth a bush from its home and set it on his table. Munching away while he follows the way Mountain starts gentling its roots apart, spreading them out to better suit the large pot at his feet. No matter how often Dew does this, he can never get enough of seeing the way Mountain gets lost in his element.

If Mountain were anyone else, Dew would've asked where his lunch was, why he was eating alone. But there would be no point; Mountain has a certain philosophy when it comes to food, something that must have come ingrained in his vessel. He believes in only eating what he grows or catches himself - be it fish from the lake and streams, animals from the forest or even the odd, wandering sibling. He wouldn't eat mess hall food if it were the last thing Above.

Plus Dew's pretty sure he can photosynthesize, so there's that too.

Dew polishes off his meal quickly, while he watches flowering vines curl their way up Mountain's antlers. Speckled with tiny pale blue blossoms that Dew knows match his eyes. He's quiet, but his lips are moving like he's speaking to the plant in his hands. Dew imagines him encouraging it, coaxing life back into any fading roots. He's tossing back the last of his coffee by the time Mountain's hoisting the new pot onto the workbench, already lined with rich, black soil that will keep that little rosebush happy for months to come.

"What color will that one be?"

Full and re-energized, Dew slides from his seat and sidles up beside Mountain, observing the way he meticulously shake the old dirt from that mess of roots.

"Pink, supposedly," he mutters, brow gently furrowed. "That's what the label said, at least. Hard to know with these, though. Ivy did a lot of crossbreeding in her younger years. These could be black for all I know."

Mountain settles the little bush into its new home, carefully aerating the new earth with nimble fingers. Dew reaches forward out of habit, helps to redistribute that soft dirt and get those roots covered up nice and snug.

"I hope they're white," Dew chimes in, focused only on the task at hand. "The white ones are my favorite."

"And Zephyr's," Mountain hums, tapping the back of Dew's hand when he's happy with the plant job. Dew pulls back obediently, gives Mountain the space to fluff up its leaves. "Guess we'll just have to wait and see."

"Guess so," Dew sighs, leaning his elbows on the table while Mountain adds a layer of topsoil to the pot. "My turn now?"

"If you'd like," Mountain offers, standing back. "Unless you want to wait until they're all potted first."

"Nah," Dew straightens, cracks his knuckles, "I already walked all the way over here, might as well."

Mountain laughs, a brief but rich sound that Dew treasures every time he hears it. Dew extends his hand, takes a deep breath through his nose and exhales between his fangs. The tips of his fingers tingle, cool in the temperate heat of the greenhouse.

"Soil or leaves?"

"Both," Mountain replies, and with a nod Dew twists his wrist.

This is his favorite part, of course. When it comes time for the watering, for Dew to make himself useful and earn a pat between the horns for his efforts. He holds a flat palm towards the bush and manipulates the moisture hanging around them - in the air, consensed on the glass walls, even the few droplets still clinging Mountain's hair. Channels it all into a fine mist that he's sure to apply to every last leaf and burgeoning bud. Dew hums to himself while he works, cupping his hands once he's happy with his coverage and letting the water fill his palms instead.

"There," he says, pleased, pouring a few modest handfuls into thirtsty soil. "Good enough?"

Dew steps back so Mountain can check his work. He wipes both hands on his apron, smears around the caked on dirt that'll take a chisel to remove by the time the day is done. Mountain rumbles his approval after a moment, and Dew preens from the sound alone.

"Very well done," he lilts, and Dew rolls up onto the balls of his feet just in time to meet Mountain's hand. It rests perfectly between his mother-of-pearl horns, ruffling the loose hairs that have escaped their ties. Dew purrs, Mountain chuckles, and they part once more.

"One down," Dew says, peeking around Mountain at the remaining plants on the cart. "How many to go?"

"Eight," Mountain replies easily, already hoisting the next bush up to work on. "Of these, at least. I think the new guy is almost done racking the orchids, so those will be next."

Mountain looks at him from the corner of his eye, like he's waiting for Dew to complain. To whine about this taking too long, or that it's too boring. The look he gives him every time Dew volunteers to help him with this. Dew gives him a fang-filled smile instead.

"Sounds good," he says easily, striding back to his own work station. "I'm here as long as you want me, big guy."

Mountain chuffs, eyes sparkling. Dew can't believe how much more obvious the gold flecks in his emerald irises stand out on these days. He looks so...whole. Mountain's fingers dance over what will one day be a rose, now just a green bud, and Dew doesn't miss the way his ear flicks.

"Hey, Dew?" His voice carries something deep, something real.

"Yeah?"

There's a long beat of silence, and all Dew can hear are fading raindrops. The sun's getting brighter now, fewer clouds to hide behind. He can see Mountain’s freckles in the warm light, and the streak of copper in his hair. Then,

"I'm...really glad you're here."

Everything around them seems to soften. Dew smiles, unabashed and open, his tail drifting over to tangle with Mountain's just because he can. He huffs our a deeply amused laugh, staring down at his tabletop to hide the way his cheeks flush. Force of habit.

"Nowhere else I'd rather be," he replies, easy as anything, and he really hopes Mountain believes it. "Now gimme something to pot, my fingers are gettin' itchy."

Mountain snorts, shakes his head, but doesn't hesitate to grab another bush and a pot, depositing them on Dew's table. Dew busies himself scooping fresh dirt into the terracotta vessel while Mountain checks the plant for anything that requires pruning.

"This one's even supposed to be white," he says, not missing the way Dew perks up at the words. "Take good care of it, yeah?"

He will, of course. And in a few months, when these plants are hale and hearty and flush with springtime blooms, a bouquet of them will appear in Dew's room. Perfectly trimmed and never wilting, wrapped in silky green ribbon that Dew will save in a secret place behind his sock drawer.

For now, Mountain returns to his own table, and together they work. The silence doesn't last nearly as long this time, broken by Mountain humming a folksy tune that Dew has heard enough times to harmonize with. So he does, the sound bouncing around them and accompanied by the gentle rustle of leaves swaying in a nonexistent breeze. The plants singing with them, Dew thinks. Peaceful.

Soon enough, one of them will speak again. Will break up the monotony with talk of music or recent happenings, or maybe even indulge in a little gossip regarding Terzo's newest summon. He's a hybrid, Dew heard, fire and earth and supposedly just enough quintessence to make him a Problem. Dew wonders if that's what Mountain's meeting was about, but he doesn't ask. Not yet.

For now, all he needs is this.

[thatsthewrongwallcraig]

In The Woods Somewhere

Chapter 4: Ecstasy Of St. Teresa

Summary: Penance through pain….and pleasure.

Pairing: Father Ignatius x nun!afab!Reader

Word Count: ~3.7k

Content Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat 18+!, Hurt/Comfort Galore, Brief Trauma Flashbacks, Ignatius Being The Utmost Sweetest, Body Worship, CONSENT RAAAHHHHH, Unprotected Intercourse, Oral (F Receiving), Tongue Fucking, Freak4Freak

A/N: Alexa, play Take Me To Church by Hozier!

Tagging: @theprettiesthead @midnight-mess @queer-crusader @blueberrypancakesworld @theidiotwhowrites @nelegance @starry-eyed-wild-child

You had Jesus on your breath

And I caught Him in mine

Sweating out confessions

The undone and the divine

- Bedroom Hymns By Florence + The Machine

Cold moisture squelched from the woolen collar of your overdress as the thick and knobbly fingers of Sister Margarite grabbed the fabric in a fistful, the shorter yet much more fierce woman dragging you along the hallway with such haste that you nearly tumbled over in an attempt to catch up with her.

“One should think that you have adapted by now but quite the contrary.”, The hag of a woman huffed the words more to herself than actually addressing you, “No, you still have to act up every now and again, don’t you?”

You followed in quiet, the thin soles of your boots chafing over the floor with each step. You’d known that you had it coming since deciding to ditch lunch to clean yourself up; this particular endeavor somehow changing everything and nothing simultaneously. You still tiptoed around everyone else besides Carla maybe, still the outcast, and now even more so because you carried a secret at the very curve of your lips, one mouthed against them with an intoxicating sense of eagerness.

I will be there.

And you’d do everything you possibly could to make it to the chapel after dark, every little fiber within vibrating and buzzing at the thought alone.

“I am sick of it, Sister.”, The Mother Superior snarled into the cold of the corridor, air heavy and fragrant with the petrichor of rain to come soon, “And since you couldn’t be bothered to join us for breakfast, lunch, or prayer, I figured that you certainly wouldn’t mind being absent at the dinner table as well.”

Well, Sister Margarite wasn’t particularly right nor wrong about that. Most certainly, you enjoyed every second away from the lot of them, however, a clawing hunger for more sustainable things than thrill and adventure had been tugging at your stomach for quite some time now. If things had gone according to your flimsy and more spontaneous than everything else planning, you’d have crawled back to the convent, eyes lowered to the ground and apologetic for your absence, explaining it ad nauseam if Sister Margarite would’ve made you as she usually did; wanting you to steep and simmer in the disdain loaded upon you by the scorching eyes of the Mother Superior - old, pruned up bitch bittered to the core.

However, you could hardly be bothered with thoughts about that for the warmth spreading through your chest was much too fiery, made you feel too high and mighty for the moment because something within had learned that you weren’t the only outlier in disguise roaming these halls, not the only misfit disagreeing with what was being served day in and day out. It gave you an unbeknownst sense of security, feeling like you were in on something so far away from the convent's reach, something that was your very own for once.

“Come now.”, The Mother Superior nearly caused you to stumble over your own feet as she tugged at your dress to make you pick up your pace, “You’ve got some work to do, missy.”

Recalling the moment Sister Margarite had shoved an old wooden bucket and an equally ancient mop into your palms, tugged at the corners of your lips briefly, that was until a new dull flash of pain emitted from your bent kneed pressed against stone tiles.

Penance through physical labor and pain was the hag’s favorite but she couldn’t have possibly known that she was sending you right where you burned to be by commanding you to clean the chapel for next Sunday’s mass. Of course, you’d do that, nodding along whilst she shoved you off, biting down at the soft tissue on the inside of your cheeks not to start laughing.

Yes, Mother Superior, of course, Mother Superior.

“I don’t care if it takes you all night to do it and now you better get on with it, Sister.” She’d wanted for her words to cut through you like a sharpened threat but they didn’t even leave a chink in your steadily growing armor, they evaporated into nothingness by the time the heavy wooden doors to the chapel creaked shut and you were left to yourself; mop and bucket not exactly a sword and a shield but the next best thing around.

Cleaning the nearly fully renovated, round building of the tiny chapel slightly adrift from the gardens was a sisyphean task, all the last bout of pollen from the trees nearby collecting on the pews in a dusty yellow veil during those first days of autumn. Once you swiped them, a new layer manifested out of nowhere just minutes later. Exact same as for the floors - where was the point in scrubbing cold, dead stone anyways? A good brushing with a broom would've done the job just fine. It certainly would've elicited less hatred on your part, knees raw and sore from crawling around on the broad, rectangular cuts of gray stone even through the thick of your slowly drying overdress.

“What are you looking at, huh?” You huffed the question towards the massive wooden crucifix hanging from the roof right behind the altar, an array of candles illuminating the room in warm hues as the last rays of sunlight disappeared behind the forest.

Carved and lifeless, half-lidded eyes looked down upon you and you felt the rage coiling and compressing like a pitch-black pit at the very bottom of your stomach.

“Fuck you and your whole lot. There's truly no hate like Christian love. Oh, fuck off.” The frazzled washcloth flew over your shoulder as you threw it away in frustration, wrists sore from scrubbing in circles for hours now.

The doors behind you were creaking and the sudden sound made you jump to your feet, head spinning around in a jolt of panic that it might’ve been Sister Margarite who heard your burst of anger.

“You tell him.” Ignatius raised his hand in a calming manner and nodded towards the solemnly hanging crucifix, drawing an immediate smile to spread on your face; the wash of rage ebbing away and being replaced by a bubbling sensation of nervousness.

“Am I not being burned at the stake?” To calm yourself a little, you brushed over your dress, dust falling off of it and sticking to the freshly wiped floor; sisyphean, truly.

“Hey, if that's what you're into…” He shrugged his shoulders, chest rumbling with a heartfelt chuckle.

“Thanks for reminding me why I believed you to be a total creep.” You reciprocated the tease as you watched him close the door behind him slowly and take a few steps towards you.

“A creep, huh? Says the total weirdo.” Ignatius bickered in return, eyes roaming the chapel, from polished pews to scrubbed stone plates and back to you standing upright and beaming in front of the crucifix.

For a moment, Ignatius took the time and simply admired you. Admired you for surviving this desolate piece of earth, its lack of love and compassion.

“How're the scratches doing?” The sudden remembrance made his voice drop a little.

“They're healing…I think.” You couldn't exactly tell how well they were off just by letting your fingertips run along them.

“Would you mind if I take a look?” You shook your head, waiting for him to stand before you, his presence now a comforting thing in your space and you sensed your heart picking up a beat; treacherous thing.

With slightly knit-together eyebrows, Ignatius pulled the collar to the sides, eyes darting right at thick and hardened scabs protecting the broken skin for it to heal in peace.

“No picking at it, yeah?” His gaze caught yours and your mouth turned dry in the very second.

“Uh-Huh.” You managed, feeling like you were drawn in and drowning by the blue in his eyes.

“Cat got your tongue all of a sudden?” Ignatius was well aware of the way you stared at him, he himself was struggling more than just a little to keep his composure, to not just whisk you away and shower you in a myriad of kisses, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, hoping they'd make you forget all about this place for a fraction of time.

“Uh..” There was next to nothing left in your mind as your gaze slowly dropped down to the plush pillow of his bottom lip, the fresh memory of it glistening with your saliva on it short circuiting your train of thought entirely.

You wanted more of exactly that and in a sudden pang you felt bold enough to take it, hand reaching out to grab the priest by the waist and pull him against you, head leaning in and a hungry mouth crashing onto his.

This time, there was nothing holding either if you back, no looming sense of shame about the forbidden, no cold winds whipping at soggy clothes and no pressure to make as much as possible with the smallest amount of time given, nobody could stop you from kissing him into the early hours of the morning and once the spark had flown over, fired up Ignatius just alike, he pushed against you, walking you back in careful steps, his lips not breaking from your for any of it.

“Up.” He hummed into your mouth, gentle hands pawing at the undersides of your thighs to lift you up and sit you back down on top of the altar.

You couldn’t help yourself, fingers awkwardly fumbling at the buttons of his cassock because you didn't know where or how to touch him to begin with, nervousness eventually breaking free and surging through you, making your hands tremble.

In a brief moment of indulgent mindlessness, Ignatius pressed his body between your legs, needing to feel you impossibly close to him, pulling a desperate moan from your throat that had him reeling for his senses.

“Can I touch you?” He mouthed against your lips as he found himself again, slightly scolding himself for slipping up and coming off so strongly again.

“Please do.” You whispered in return, gladly allowing him to take the wheel as his fingers found your wrists, slowly pulling them up for his mouth to only break from the kiss to pepper tender pecks to your roughed-up palms.

His lips nipped at your pulse point, making you shiver with rapidly growing arousal and something else you couldn’t quite pinpoint just yet, you only felt it growing within with every next little caress, every gentle ministration feeding into it.

Ignatius took his time with the nonverbal praise of your hands, thanking them for swiping relentlessly, tile for tile, and only dropping them back in your lap to finger at the buttons of his cassock himself, swiftly unbuttoning the gown.

A halfway exhaled breath hitched in the back of your throat as you reached to pull the white collar from around his throat and your eyes widened with mischievous joy as the white thing feathered down onto the ground before you slipped your palm underneath the fabric, fingertips grazing over his chest and up to his shoulder to help him shed and shake the robe like a snake did with its old skin that had lost its use.

The warmth of his body was exhilarating, making you want to touch it all over, trace how his muscles curved when he moved and follow the delicate dip of his collar bones up to the nape of his neck. His gradually uncovered form mesmerized you, eyes transfixed on his alabaster skin.

“Angelic.” The word spilled over your bottom lip like a thick droplet of honey.

“I wouldn't say it like that, but-” You shushed him gently with a look carrying nothing but sincerity about your statement and he caved immediately.

“Please tell me if this is getting too much, yeah?” The warmth in his tone gave you a little whiplash, scenes from a dusty closet and muffled No's and Stop's flashing behind your eyes for a split second.

“Will do.” You shook the distorting images with the nod of your head, not wanting any of it right now.

This time was so vastly different, world's between getting forcefully felt up between brooms and mops and now being cared about by Ignatius. He actually gave a damn and you sensed it with every tender touch of his fingertips, like a paintbrush against canvas. He made you want to trust him, trust him enough to let yourself fall for once.

After lifting your behind off the altar in a little hop, you pulled both the gown and underdress up to your hips, toes pulling at your heels to slip out of your boots, letting them clank down.

“Huh..” You follow Ignatius’ gaze down to your exposed knee, the center brightly red and sore.

“Cleaning.” You stated, a surprised yelp rolling over your tongue as you watched Ignatius slip his hand underneath your leg and lift it until he could put his lips to the brutalized patch of skin.

“Can't have that.” He muttered against your knee before leaving a patchwork of little kisses, the gesture and sensation jolting right between your legs, making you wish for his hand to slide up further but instead of his hand, his lips set off to wander.

You almost forgot to breathe whilst his mouth left a trail of gingerly placed nips and pecks along the inside of your thigh all the while holding eye contact to make sure you were alright. It only broke off as you allowed your head to loll back with a deep moan sounding from your chest, a warm, wet tongue darting out to lap at your throbbing cunt. The very tip of it working itself between soaked folds to get a full taste of you as you helplessly oozed onto the altar, arousal mixing with saliva amidst your thighs.

You hadn't been aware that something could feel just that good, your entire body vibrating every time he hummed into you, the tip of his nose nudging and rubbing against your throbbing clit as the full width of his tongue spearheaded to lick at your inside. You couldn’t fathom the sin in something that filled you with contentment like this, being one breathing, feeling experience with someone, letting them close to share pleasures with. If that was flying too close to the sun then you'd willingly risk catching on fire every day anew. What nonsense titling something as sin just because it brought a godly hue of joy and pleasure to the earthly suffering.

You leaned against the altar, back flat against the stone, allowing Ignatius to take over, to wrap his arms around your thighs and bury himself between your legs, the muscle of his tongue fucking into you slowly. He explored you, every little bit inside and out like you deserved to be discovered; fingers pushing into the supple flesh of your thighs, him searching for all your pleasure points, one after the other until he could make up a steady rhythm, tides of pleasure washing up your spine and down to your toes.

With that, your mind drifted away, pleasantly awash with fireworks of arousal jumping from every synapse to the next, all the pain swallowed up by the pleasure he was gifting to you with every tender nudge of his nose and each writhing motion of his tongue inside of you. This simply couldn’t be compared to you getting yourself off as quickly as possible, heart racing with worry to get caught by either a furious Sister Margarite or whatever God's ever-darting eyes. This was something real for once, an experience that belonged to you and only you, a beaming memory-to-be that you could cradle and invoke for as long and often as you pleased, nobody could take that away from you ever again.

Exhaling flat and labored breaths, you angled your hips further against his face whilst the muscles in your lower abdomen pulled together, each flick against your swollen clit sending a jolt of electric current through your body over and over until your body tensed up for the blink of an eye, your behind arching from the altar and fingers grazing over his scalp as blissful spasms took over.

For the matter of fractions, you forgot about everything and anything, the only thing important to you was knowing Ignatius to be with you in your most vulnerable of moments.

He pulled back and you inhaled, eyes fluttering open to stare at the unmoved crucifix above and a righteous, quick laugh clawed itself from your throat.

“Are you okay?” His tone was laced with amusement and you felt his teeth grazing over your hip bone seconds later, almost swallowing your attempt of forming an answer.

“Yeah.” You mouthed quietly, basking in the afterglow that was seeping through your every muscle; unbridled and content enjoyment, something you'd rarely felt.

After another handful of slow breaths, you worked yourself back up into your elbows, one hand reaching out to pull at the cassock.

You wanted him to get closer, yet, the fabric just slid off his shoulders completely, pooling on the floor in no time.

“Oh, well…” You grinned at him, the world surrounding you standing still for the time being.

He understood your notion, but before looming over you perched on the altar, Ignatius worked himself out of any remaining fabric, be it the layers to his cassock or his shorts underneath.

Pawing hands went straight back to your thighs, broad palms pulling you back just a little and you didn’t dare to break from his blown out eyes, the black of his pupils nearly covering all the blue of them, as you let him take you, thrusting into your still slightly overstimulated cunt, made pliable from the former orgasm. It didn't hurt and a little gasp dropped from your mouth at the sensation of feeling comfortably full, made whole by him.

A gentle hum of his got lost against your heated cheeks as his lips brushed against it on their way to find your mouth, tongue darting out to push past your bottom lip making you taste yourself in a rush of hungry kisses whilst he bottomed out slowly.

You appreciated his gentle and tender ministrations, however, he'd given you a taste and now it turned you greedy and wanting.

“I'm no porcelain.” You egged him on, teeth latching at his bottom lip in return, pulling him with you a little.

“Oh, I'm aware.” Ignatius groaned into your mouth, hands clasping at your thighs to hold you in place as he rolled his hips against you much harsher than before, effectively knocking the air from your lungs.

Your hands darted out to grab at his shoulders, fingernails digging into smooth skin, a little deeper with every thrust, the quickened pace pulling little sighs and groans to trickle from your lips.

“Like that?” You nodded into the crook of his neck as you held on to him, inhaling him in with every streaky breath and feeling the rhythm falter little by little.

An almost pained groan rumbled through your chest as Ignatius eventually tore himself away from you, pulling to send milky white ropes of his spent to drape over your thighs and up to your hip bone, leaving your overworked body to clench around nothing. However, you knew that it had to be like this. Catholic girl's school might not have taught you a whole lot but getting you knocked up on a horny whim like that was not an option in a place like this.

“You good?” The second he'd come down enough from his high, Ignatius’ attention was back on you, glazed-over eyes studying you attentively.

You nodded, tilting your head as you eyed the sticky mess covering your legs.

“Hold on a second!” Ignatius tucked himself back into his shorts, a weirdly modern contrast to the cassock, as he stepped out of the pooling fabric and went to pick up the washcloth you'd discarded over your shoulder earlier.

“That should do it.” He smiled at you as he put the damp piece of fabric to your skin, softly dabbing at it to gingerly wipe himself off of you.

“Thank you.” You watched him clean you up, a comfortable moment of silence spreading between the two of you as he did.

“Of course.” He hummed in return, his forehead leaning against yours after he placed a quick, little kiss on it, his curly copper hair falling against the bridge of your nose.

Smiling contently, you led your fingers to roam his arms upward, fingertips tracing the soft curve of the muscles up to the inside of his elbows, eliciting a poorly choked back sigh from Ignatius. It sounded pained as if you’d accidentally touched something that you shouldn’t have and you immediately retracted your fingers, eyes roaming his skin to find the culprit causing him this sudden push of discomfort but you couldn’t exactly find anything too obvious, nothing but an array of slightly darker spots that looked like a misplaced bunch of freckles.

“What’s that?” You pointed at the patch of skin and watched his gaze drop down to it, lips slightly contorting with the turn of his head.

“I've had a life before taking up the cloth, you know. Would you let me explain over a cigarette?” He proposed, a certain sense of reluctance hanging in the humid air between your bodies.

“Haven’t had one since high school, but sure.” Ignatius’ brows knit together in a mixture of curiosity and surprised amusement.

“High school?” He asked and you answered with a simple, brief nod.

“I’ve had a life before I was put into the cloth, you know?”

[mysticcollectionbee]

Loki Season 2 Ep. 1 Thoughts:

(Heavy Spoilers)

Ok so I have a lot of thoughts and are basically all over the place so I'm gonna be putting in them in somewhat chronological order (Unlike Loki's current situation hehe)

They really HAD to put more of Loki's heartbreak over Mobius not recognizing him? Loki creators probably: "I know we're gonna bring the duo back but let's make 'em suffer just a bit more in the beginning".

I know others have covered this but also want to spread this headcanon/theory: Even though past Mobius doesn't know Loki ,and probably got his memory erased afterwards, It's still an interesting theory that maybe his interactions with Loki then might have somehow stuck with him and made him want to look into Loki a bit later.

Miss Minutes is with Ravonna right? I feel likeMinutes is probably the only tool/weapon that might give the former judge some leverage.

Casey! Casey not just being a comedic guy but actually a massive help is really nice. He (Present Casey) immediately saw Loki in pain/trouble and decided to help him without much question.

So...X-5 and D-90 weren't what I was expecting, they're kinda switched actually from what I was expecting. I thought X-5 would be a friend to Mobius and kinda con-artist and D-90 was a massive jerk who would side with Ravonna...But hey, I'm all for D-90's redemption.

New Judge is great. Screw Ravonna!...Where's Ravonna?

Apparently she was in on HWR's plan from the beginning...Guess she is a big bad after all. Also, why was she so great to HWR? Like in the comics they were couple but things seem to have taken a different turn in the MCU.

Look, I get it if you don't ship Lokius but...You have to admit was really nice to see Loki get some support from Mobius (And B-15, don't forget her stopping Ass-5) and then Mobius trying to calm/ground Loki while the poor dude is really going through it. AND even later, Loki and Mobius trying to make the other calm down and not to worry about their problems.

IF you do ship Lokius. We're either getting fed well or being clowned upon. Either way, let me just enjoy these two for a bit.

Why has no one talked about the weird fact that O.B.'s memory doesn't seem to have been erased but Mobius' has? Also, is O.B. like a TVA secret? Why the hell is no one in the TVA visiting him! How is he able to keep track of time in the TVA?!

Ok so that guidebook O.B. made, Loki still has it right? Like in a trailer clip he is flipping through an orange book, that's the guidebook right?

I love how Mobius is still thinking about whether he'll lose his skin or not till the very last minute lol. We know he's always was gonna pick saving Loki no matter what, but you'd totally still be worried about the skin thing.

I think Loki was pruned by either Future Sylvie or Future Loki. I think Future Loki and Sylvie came up with a plan to make sure Present Loki got pruned and survived. Also...Sylvie growing out her hair to have 50/50 hair colors is making me more of Bi idiot than usual.

While I enjoy the comparison to the Sam/Bucky roll to Lokius I think there is a key difference: FaTWS played this for comedy while this was played for relief that the characters are ok. And Sam immediately told bucky to get off while Loki probably just thought Mobius's suit was too heavy. (Yes, I'm wearing clown makeup, what about it.)

Finally, And I know how controversial this is: I don't think Loki is looking for Sylvie for romantic reason (OR more accurately, not the sole reason). She is literally about to be hunted down and probably killed and was the last one to see what happened in the Citadel. Even if he did feel betrayed by her, he still would probably want to save her.

[mahayanapilgrim]

The Bodhisattva Way

Mahayana Buddhism puts great emphasis and, in fact, encourages anybody to follow the path of a Bodhisattva. The Sanskrit term Bodhisattva is the name given to anyone who, motivated by great compassion, has generated bodhichitta, which is a spontaneous wish to attain Buddhahood for the benefit of all sentient beings. What makes someone a Bodhisattva is her or his dedication to the ultimate welfare of other beings, as expressed in the prayer:

"May I attain Buddhahood for the benefit of all sentient beings."

This is bodhichitta. With this motivation, if the Bodhisattva or trainee Bodhisattva promises to engage in the practice of the six or ten perfections (Pāramitā), this is the Bodhisattva vow. The Bodhisattva does not seek bodhi (Awakening) solely for him/herself, but chiefly for the sake of freeing all other beings and aiding them into the bliss of Nirvana.

Cultivating the intention to follow in the footsteps of the Buddha, Nyingma practitioners wish to develop the mind of Enlightenment, to become a Bodhisattva who gives all gain and profit to others and takes all troubles and difficulties upon him or herself.

Each and every day, whether they are pruning trees, sewing prayer flags, painting a thanka, printing Tibetan texts, or caring for a sick community member, they dedicate the merit of their actions for the benefit of all sentient beings.

Through their intentions and work, the Nyingma community strives to develop understanding of the Bodhisattva path by living a hand-on investigation of human nature.