#taketaketake

[koiisin]

She glistened: an intricate pearl of sensuality (“you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful” — he chanted an orison to her, for her twisted form of damnation to his sin), basked in the rays of Zìyal’s greed (“gi’me it, come on, jaggy—” ; oh how insatiable she became), lathered in her will to taketaketake.

Jaguar stumbled to grasp the right word for them besides addiction (because — what else is it? his mind felt dizzy. unfocused.). Swallowed every gasp from her lips when he hit just the right spot, drunk on her smell and high on her sounds. Her nails burned with every rake over his skin, grounded and spiteful (as if to remind him of her ire. that there would be nothing left after they take and give and steal).

And Zìyal smelled utterly divine, her scent intermingled with his own — if ever faint. Sang to him her symphonies of praise, his ears flat to muffle his own desperate noise. He knew this elevation would plummet once their clouded minds would clear, so he savored every moment, brimmed in fullness. Yes, he’d savor it until this addiction swallowed him whole.

[eventiderookery]

taketaketake

Artemis knows this has been coming for a long time. She’s felt it in the marrow of her bones since they slew Oryx and sent his corpse adrift; a silence that nags at the very back of her mind. The mantle is hers. All she need do is take it. 

With eyes closed, she dips a hand into that vast expanse calling to her. Her Light buffers against it, shielding, heavy. The truth slices through it into her fingertip; she bleeds stars. 

“It is ready.” Eris’ voice rings through the desolate throne room of the Dreadnaught. An empty court awaiting its king.

Circles upon circles ring Artemis where she stands. Soulfire burns green in braziers placed where the circles end and begin in endless spirals. Runes and sigils will siphon the power towards her when she calls upon it, binding it to her. She does not spare a glance towards Eris and Lune hovering just over her shoulder. What will happen is done, she has made this decision and will bear it without regret. She hopes her Ghost can do the same.

She hefts the wicked blade wielded once by the King of Shapes and stabs it into the floor at her feet. The words that pour forth are such:

“I have slain Oryx, the Taken King, and by the many-edged truth I take his mantle! 

By the truth of blades I assume the power to take life and make it my own! 

I stand before the Deep as the end to which everything bends. I am the logic of swords wielded by heretical undeath.

I am Telos, Master of Shapes! Blade of Finality! The Taken King!

Henceforth will it be! Aiat!” 

The question that is its answer echoes a chorus over and over. Her connection to the Light snaps, a clean break of bone. There is something waiting for her in the space between infinite moments, she reaches a dagger-clawed hand forth and cuts it for herself. A weave of impossible stars, beautiful in their finality. It drapes over her eyes and slips between her fingers like water, but she holds firm. The Deep will not claim her will so easily. Blind she cups her hands and lifts them to her mouth. She is devourer of secrets; she will make this power hers. She drinks and drinks and drinks. The black fire stars make home in her belly, in her lungs, her heart that now beats with the attention of thousands. 

She is ascendant.

Existence returns to her in a flash of lightning. Light courses through her nerves, retracing the paths it has run a thousand times over. It crackles alongside this newfound power, sparking between her fingers like she’s grave fresh once more. 

She scuffs the ritual circles with a step forward, she needs to find Eris… find…. The world tips, unbalanced, as though she’s seeing it with more eyes than before. Then Eris is there, a brace beneath her shoulder to keep her upright. 

“Careful,” she admonishes. “Our success has yet to prove itself.”

Eris leads them over to the half dead thrall they brought. The first test of the new king’s abilities. It writhes against its rune inscribed bindings. 

Take… whispers a voice in the darkness. Take it...

With a hand wreathed in abyssal flame she does. Palm laid flat against its eyeless skull she pushes the tide of her will into it. It shrieks like rending marrow as the physical is unmade. Darkness and lightless flame consume it from the inside outwards, leaving only a glowing, twitching shell. 

Buoyed on the power rushing through her, she raises that same hand and cuts a wound into reality. Her inherited army is smaller than it would have been had she taken the mantle sooner, but all the same dozens more thrall flood through the gash. All awaiting her command.

“How is this for success?” Telos’ voice booms across her court. Laughter follows on its tail. “I am now master of death and the shapes it takes. A thrice dead god. Guardian and King!” She looks back to Eris, hand extended. “Our sister of War stands no chance.”

[maylies]

lovelovelove. love is all consuming, love is obsession, love is sun on your skin, love is fingers combing through your hair, love is tides of red, love aches, love is hunger, love eats you up inside, love is prayer, ungodly worship, salvation; love, love, love. 'i can't hold enough of you in my hands'— to break you down and build you up, love for you is religion, it's petrifying, it's engulfed in waves of claret, nettle like foam coating lungs, yet, it's oxygen.

— why does it consume me? i trace an altar in your name. will you remember me? will your heart beat for me when i have nothing more to give? when all i can do is taketaketake until you're bound to that hospital bed, fluorescents & tile. will you sing for me? devour me like those hungry, red nights? don't leave, please don't leave — living without you is sin, and one could play god, could cut both lives short; but he couldn't do that, he'd hate that, hate himself, if only the action could be mirrored, if only he had the guts to do it to himself, spare his better half, but love is selfish. for drawing a breath or seeing colors past pitch is impossible without you.

butterfly wings flutter, and morning dew lands. red thread binds my beating, empty heart to yours, and i am solace. i am human. i am so delicately human.

[forgivenpunishment]

Wolfwood's hand stills, frozen as Vash crawls over him craving rough treatment. And that... that voice... it gives him chills, but they're the sort that shoot right down to his gut and cause the wingbeats of arousal to begin again.

His mouth hangs open. He watches a drip of his own seed fall to the floor from Vash's chin. Wolfwood immediately feels his stamina refill fully—he wants to taketaketake, wants to claim; something primal stirs and wants nothing more than to steal him away and br—

nope! we're stopping that thought right there.

Okay, okay—he just wants to bend him over and take him without any preparation. That's... not a good idea though. Even if he's going to be rough, he doesn't want it to be the uncomfortable sort of rough. He'll figure that out. He'll figure that out right now.

"Of... of course I'll do that," Wolfwood reciprocates the bite and the kiss, "You want me to take you over and over and over again? I'll give you all that and more..."

He takes the opportunity to push the blond over and crawl on top of him, cradling his torso and head in his hands as he bites down Vash's neck. Sharp, pointed imprints of teeth follow a trail to his shoulder—though the latter half are blocked by his coat. Below, Wolfwood drips with need over Vash's pants.

"—too many damn clothes," the undertaker growls, then picks Vash up and practically tosses him onto the bed. Unable to take his time and draw the moment out due to his base instincts, he tugs on the blond's tight pants but is blocked by his boots. Grumbling, he instead takes off Vash's jacket first before spending any mote of focus on the damn boots.

Vash wasn't expecting Wolfwood to ease off of him that much, but his poor, neglected lungs sure did appreciate it; getting in a few big, greedy breaths through his nose to try and refill so he wasn't gasping for air through a mouthful of spend.

It... only sort of worked.

As Wolfwood pulled back, Vash had to fight with himself to keep from coughing up everything in his mouth; curling his tongue in a way that was meant to act as a dam of sorts, and keep everything in... but he was so dizzy from the lack of oxygen that the movement wouldn't stay solid and some would drip out anyway-- rolling down in his chin and onto his shirt, the crotch of his pants... the Plant just closed his mouth and eyes and swallowed was what left, ignoring the zip of discomfort from his raw throat and enjoying the heat as it sat in his stomach.

Wolfwood... wanted more. A-and while Vash was inclined to give it to him, the clarity he was now desperately clinging onto couldn't help but ping that reaction as odd... shouldn't that have helped sate the fever? The undertaker was still flushed, his eyes were still glassy... had that just made it worse?

... ugh. His head felt heavy; arousal thrummed through his body, pounding in time with his jackhammer heartbeat and made him feel a bit needy-- and the way Wolfwood was stroking himself definitely didn't help that. But Vash needed to try and keep on top of things. If they both lost it now, like this...

"Like it when you're rough, Nick... love it, actually..." and it definitely sounded like he'd been rough, wow. Vash cleared his throat and swallowed again, touching at his neck with the tips of feather-light fingers before he shifted to his hands and knees and started crawling forward. Closer. "F'I give you more, you'll stay rough with me, right?"

W-wait, what are you saying, we can't-- that's a bad idea-- I can hold it back. It hasn't gotten to me yet. Yeah, yet...! What happens when we're in the middle of something and that switch flips?!

Then Wolfwood would make him feel better, wouldn't he?

"Wanna be covered in bites and bruises in the shape of you... w-wanna smell like you, drip with you, s-so everyone knows I'm yours..." the blond purred, the slight hitch in his speech acting as a signal of his own surprise at what had been coming out of his mouth. Where was this coming from?

Now perched in front of the undertaker, their knees touching, Vash wound his arms around Wolfwood's shoulders and pulled him in closer. Close enough to slot their noses against each other; close enough that Vash could kiss and nip at his partner's lower lip. Close enough that only Wolfwood would hear the low, rough way he finished his request--

"You'll do that for me, right, Wolfwood...?"

[aynjewlfaycc]

#FashionDesign #Designer #Yup #IKnow #YouGonna #StealIt #YallStealEverything #EvenMyKids #UmmaDoIt #Anyway #TakeTakeTake #GotToBeMe #IDGAF #ThatsWhyImHere #ExpressYourself #Fabric #Design #Cutting #SnipSnip #NothingWillStopMe #DealWithIt https://www.instagram.com/p/CIjpc6rA1MG/?igshid=1t78aw31nxzy9

[kindredsoulsau-blog]

Anyone else have this problem?! Every single Wednesday and Thursday night, the ONLY night I ever really want to watch my favourite tv show @bacheloretteau and what happens?! My kids happen. 😩They know I want to watch it so bad so they are purposely turds so I can’t watch it, it’s like yeah sorry if we can’t watch it you can’t lol. 😳🤨 Thank god for catch up, they have no idea about that little secret lol 😂 #thisparentlife #kidscanbeturds #lifesuckers😭 #blesstheirlittlesouls #wouldntchangeitfortheworld #littlepeople #taketaketake #ineedmummytime #watchingrealitytv #bachlorettefan #thebacheloretteau #myfaveshow #thankgodforcatchuptv #itsavesme #sadbuttrue😧 #firstworldproblem #wednesdayfeels #womensclothingboutique #kindredsoulsclothing (at Sydney, Australia) https://www.instagram.com/p/B4hPTEXHt1G/?igshid=1q1akyve85caw

[mattdeford]

Loomask- a partial mask for the face FOR SALE! $45 ($100 framed) free shipping US and Canada. Comment or message if interested. - Platinum Blue Pigment ink Lamy Al-Star 1.5 nib Monteverde Ritma 1.1 nib Faber-Castell Ambition Walnut wood EF nib - - - - #relationshipgoals #taketaketake #racoon #trash #art #artist #artistsoninstagram #illustrationartists #penandinkchallenge #comicstrip #drawing #watercolor #ink #comics #fountainpen #cartoon #word #wordofthedaybymatt #wordoftheday #instaart #buyart #collectart #dailyart #inktober … https://www.instagram.com/p/CiNOcs7AkQm/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[moltolavoro]

he feels unmoored by this, entirely out of his depth and unable to articulate exactly why. well, no, that's a lie. he could articulate why. he doesn't want to. too much to think about. too much to pull apart. he watches her with a gaze that's halfway distant, but something close to fond, at the very least.

then her hands in his again and he's only human. he wraps himself around her, folds over her until his can press his forehead into her shoulder. and he's being selfish, taketaketake but right now he doesn't have anything to give. he wants to, he wishes he could, but he doesn't. he can't. calling maddie sounds good. calling maddie sounds impossible. finally buck says ❛ yeah, ❜ and hopes that it sounds convincing because it doesn't feel convincing.

she scrubs at her own hands until the skin burns even under the lukewarm water, turning away from buck to do it so that he doesn't have to see the pink swirl down the drain all over again, or maybe so he doesn't have to see her be considerably less gentle with herself about it than she's been with him.

she dries off with the same towel — not taylor's usual practice, but everything's so fucked up today that she doesn't care — while buck vanishes, matches his smile with a small one of her own when he reappears. ❛ we're probably not the same cup size, anyway. ❜ it's not a big deal. she had a cardigan on. she finishes stripping and drying off unceremoniously, gets dressed just as efficiently, does up a couple of extra buttons on the cardigan, just to be safe. once she's done wiping away the mascara that'd run in the shower and has her hair shaken out into something a little bit less like one big tangle, taylor slides her hand into buck's again. ❛ we should call maddie now, right? ❜

[pbcnita]

Flynt still ain't gots clean water tho. They are not the only ones either. #justsayin #idontcareboutthatbuilding #thisworldisdisgusting #allofthedonationstheyreceived #yetwehavehomeless #peoplearehungry #humanityfails #fu@kthatchurch #saveourforestecosystem #killingourplanet #wearenatureschildren #taketaketake #staywoke https://www.instagram.com/designsbylwhite/p/BwZ70QDHT3L/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=tvnqs81j33w9

[smuglemon]

i promised i wouldnt do this again fuck fuckkfuck it hURts im so stupid what the fuck

[ambiguousfiction]

ah

[honorhearted]

The woman laughed softly. "Come now, you're being self-deprecatingly modest."

"If only that were true," Benjamin jested back. In truth, he had nothing to compare this to -- nothing at all -- so he very well could be the worst kisser on this side of the Sound.

To his surprise, the woman turned and lifted her hand, idly skimming her fingertips along the curve of his jaw. For one moment, he thought she might try and lift his mask -- he, after all, found himself rather curious about what laid beneath hers -- but she merely took a step closer, her eyes ensnaring him with their enchanting familiarity.

"I'm afraid I'm rather inclined to agree," she said. "In fact, I think I find you rather appealing."

Benjamin grinned. "Ah. So the punch truly must be spiked then," he teased. Expression softening, he reached up and took her chin between thumb and forefinger, gently tilting so that their eyes remained locked. "Perhaps it's untoward, but I feel as though I've known you my entire life," he murmured. "And if we truly are acquaintances, then that means we're merely sharing affection between two old friends."

The woman drew in a quavering breath. "May I kiss you, sir?"

The words were whispered between them, and yet had the impact of a yell. Benjamin slid his hand up to palm her cheek, his thumb idly tracing along the corner of her mouth. There was a certain endearing quality to being asked. In a world that was so driven towards taketaketake, he found himself touched that she queried first -- had wanted to ensure that every touch and sigh was wanted. And it was. Very much so.

Flustered by his internal musings, Benjamin lifted his free hand and cradled her face between his palms. "You may," he murmured, "though perhaps I intend to kiss you first."

Forwardness was not something he strove for in life; he shied away from it, in fact, yet he felt so comfortable with her, so at home that the moment his mouth found hers, it was akin to drowning in a long-forgotten embrace.

Words couldn't possibly express the startled lurch of his heart, nor the frantic need to get closer. Angling in with a firm enthusiasm, Benjamin deepened their kiss with clumsy ardor. He'd certainly heard about and dreamed of this type of affection, but to actually experience it was a thrill that he found wholly indescribable.

"I'm afraid war has made me a bit out of practice, but...I did want to say hello for a moment. If that's all right?"

As skeptical as he seemed over his ability to exchange proper pleasantries, the man was oddly charming and strangely approachable, as though they were already acquainted. Perhaps it was simply the holiday spirit. That and the spiked punch.

Evidently, the man's initial intentions were entirely pure, for he appeared to have had no idea that the mistletoe hung so conveniently above them. Knowing this only escalated her desire to speak with him more intimately.

"I'm not exactly well-versed in these customs. I'd hate to ruin your evening with the worst kiss of your natural-born life."

"Come now, you're being self-deprecatingly modest," she chuckled fondly.

"But then again, I did see that man over there throw up inside his own shoe, so perhaps I'm not the absolute worst option you could find."

Oddly enough, the redhead was finding that she not only wanted to kiss him but to allow herself to indulge in something impulsive and enjoyable -- things she was not permitted to do as a servant. And on this night, Christmas Eve, when life offered endless possibilities, why shouldn't she gift herself the chance?

Heart beating rapidly, threatening to burst from her chest, Genya mustered up her courage and stood on her tippy toes as she brushed her hand along his mildly stubbled cheek.

"I'm afraid I'm rather inclined to agree...In fact, I think I find you rather appealing."

The thrumming of her pulse reverberated in her skull, daring her to continue despite her limbs numbing with trepidation.

"May I kiss you, sir?"

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

for the spooky prompts !! if the mood sways you, perhaps grima with "fog rolling on an open field" ?? 👀💀💗

I was asked for spooky and uh...wrote some spooky-adjacent smut instead. You're welcome world.

But thank you so much for the ask! I am happy to have cranked something out that is a one shot and not 8k words long - a marvel upon marvels.

Title: Wondrous Works

Rating: explicit

Characters: Grima, Eomer, the dead

Pairing: Grima/Eomer

Summary: The second harvest is being brought in, the sun is beginning its slow decent into long winter nights, and the dead are out to remind the living what is owed. But mostly, Grima and Eomer shag.

Note: takes place post-Cycles of Song/the war and also Be Not Afraid of Plenty but no need have read that monstrosity of a trilogy+ to follow this. Just know it's post-war and Theoden is still alive.

AO3 Link

Halloween Prompt List

--

Night, late, and the air is collecting itself into mist which hugs the ground of freshly reaped fields. Second harvest is the singing harvest. It is also the one to let the dead into the world of the living until Spring Jol where they will dissipate again into their halls and barrows and mounds. The unknown lands that exist within and atop of and beneath the known.

Gríma drinks fresh mead that could have stayed in the barrel for another month and watches the fog gather. Are there shapes within it? Shadows moving, creatures venturing to eat what was left for them but only through the safety of night when all is hidden.

/

In Gondor, there had been a man Gríma got drunk with during one of the many feasting days after Aragorn’s coronation and Gríma had explained second harvest to him and the hallow dark days that end come middle-March. There are moor-walkers, shadow-walkers, death-eaters, keepers of hungry grass, disir, aglcecas—

You used that word before, the man said.

Which one?

Aglcecas. But you used it to describe the crown-prince.

Gríma tisked, We don’t have crown-princes. We have king-elects and yes, I did use it for Éomer. It means…fiend and monster, to be sure. It can also mean hero or saviour or great warrior. At least, that is how I’ve heard it translated. It alters, depends who you’re speaking on.

The man squinted through wine at Gríma. Sizing him up or trying to see if he’s lying or not doing anything of the sort and just looking at him drunkenly. How would you translate it?

Formidable one. Devils and ghouls and spirits of fire and air are formidable. So are men lauded as heroes, but for different reasons.

/

Things have changed since June 3019. A great many things. Gríma would still use aglceca to describe Éomer, though.

Second harvest is brought in by everyone. Kings to peasant. Men, women, children. Everyone is in the fields swinging scythes for barley and einkorn and rye and oats. Those that aren’t in the fields are in the threshing barns, separating out the chaff. It floats through air, catches in hair. You spend the evening pulling it out, flicking it into the fire. It’s hot work, thirsty work, especially when summer heat is lingering long and will likely continue well into autumn. Night, then, is a relief.

Gríma scratches at the back of his neck, bits of dust and flecks of chafing. Low cooking fires, kept going by those up date, dot the countryside. Larger bonfires remain burning if you train an eye towards Edoras, the villages and homesteads that pour out from its sturdy walls. Gríma, though, is well beyond foregate and town. It’ll be an hour or so to walk back and he isn’t in the mood.

The fog has thickened, made itself a sturdy fortress. It will remain until morning until the sun gets going enough to burn it off. That means, early hours of gathering water and feeding chickens will need to be careful hours. The dead may still lurk in the mist past daybreak. When they come, they come hungry. They taketaketake and do not look too carefully at what, or who, it is.

A crunch of grass, breaking straw, then Éomer’s voice: ‘There you are. I was wondering where you got to.’

‘Admiring the stars.’

Éomer looks up, nods, yes they’re nice tonight. The moon small enough so they can shine through. ‘Are you kipping out here or going back?’

Gríma finishes his mead with a shrug. ‘Probably stay out here. We’re back in the morning anyway to finish the job.’  

‘Is it safe?’ Éomer teased. ‘With spirits and sprites lurking about to make mischief.’

‘Worse than mischief, usually.’

‘I suppose you’ve your patron protector to hand, if you need him.’

Gríma makes no reply. It may be over a year since the war ended, and gods, he may be attempting to hash out his weregild and do amends and all that, but he remains loathe to give up all secrets. He calculates what’s told and untold. He thinks Éomer suspects something for the man brings up the entity more than is reasonable.

‘First night of second harvest is for mischief,’ Éomer points out. ‘Your nights are later.’

‘What do you mean my nights?’

‘Spirits and seidrcræft—that’s the dark nights.’

Gríma hums agreement. He tilts his head, ‘Are you saying these nights are yours?’

A flash of a grin, full impish glee. ‘Never. I’m the future king. I must learn to be serious and maintain decorum. Éothain says that I’ve improved drastically. Erkenbrand seems less inclined to sing my praises.’

‘He likes you well enough, my lord.’

‘He preferred my cousin.’

Gríma shrugs. There’s nothing to say to that. Éomer can shake swords at the ghost of Théodred all he wants. Wrest the crown from the hands of a shade whose memory haunts Éomer’s instep. Or does for the moment. Crowns and thrones have a specific sort of power to overwhelm and Gríma suspects that when Éomer assumes the mantel of kingship it will blind the world and force those memories to lay themselves to rest.  

At the moment, though, there is no kingship. A future thought of it, but no present reality. It remains on Théoden’s shoulders. So Éomer is just a marshal of the mark and nephew to the king and making a lewd face at Gríma, full of innuendo, before tugging him along towards a haystack and kissing him.

Gríma hisses, ‘Éomer—we’ll get caught. Don’t be daft.’ To which Éomer replies, ‘I’ve never shagged someone behind a haystack before.’ Gríma, tartly, ‘Overrated in my experience.’ Éomer grins his wicked grin, the one made of quick fire and works to reverse Gríma’s blood, causes his head to cartwheel.  

‘I always forget you were a farm-boy. You’re so well versed at appearing urbane and your accent never drops. Not to mention your general aversion to anything approaching physical labour.’

Before Gríma can reply Éomer’s mouth is against his again and Gríma is pressed into the hay which sticks into skin, more dust will slip beneath tunic and shift than what has already gathered from the day. He will itch and chafe away for it. He suspects it’ll be worth it.

‘Truly,’ Gríma whispers, ‘we should go elsewhere.’

‘Don’t want anyone seeing you on your knees?’

Gríma exhales through the thought of someone knowing Éomer is his and his utterly and his to all ends of the earth and gods he would burn the world down if Éomer asked him to—

‘Discretion, my lord,’ he says. ‘Better part of valor.’ Éomer leans in, breath warm against Gríma’s neck. He kisses beneath Gríma’s ear while tugging hard at Gríma’s hair and there is a second kiss, soft, painfully soft, the suggestion of teeth, tongue against skin. Gríma wants to meld into Éomer. Wants to fuse into him wholly, entirely, and never separate. Éomer’s other hand cups the side of his face and they’re against each other—work tunics and hose are light, thinner wools of autumn, and he can feel Éomer hard. Rubs his palm between the younger man’s legs causing Éomer to make a noise, a half-gasp, then they’re back to kissing, mouths hungry and wanting.

 A song strikes up, a workman’s lay. Three men, Gríma thinks, by the sound of it. Close to them. Too close. Gríma steps away, adjusting hair and belt and the skirts of his tunic as Éomer does the same. Thankfully the moon is small and so there’s plenty of dark to hide in. They can be like the disir, unseen until they wish to be seen. Éomer grabs his hand and nods out to the fields and between them, a stream where they both know there to be divets and grottos, little sacred places to be secret in.

The man in Gondor Gríma drank with had been surprised by how closely the Éothéod live with their dead. How their barrows and mounds are where couples plight troths and where families picnic on high holidays in summer. Chairs and benches are left open at meals to accommodate the unseen and silent. Berries left on bushes after the second week in September for the fallen brave to feast on. The dead are dead, they are in the halls of their ancestors, but they are also in the home of everyone person in Éomarc.

Éomer leads them down along the embankment and towards a tucked-away space created by an overhang of a tree and the steepness of the bank at this particular spot. There is some grass, and it’s not too muddy, so will do for the time. Gríma finds Éomer’s hands on his face again, kissing him, he’s walked backwards into the wall of the embankment. Rocks and tree roots press against back as Éomer leans fully into him. Gríma tugs at Éomer’s belt, loosening it then it drops to the ground. By the water, and in the deepening hours of night, the world begins to cool so Gríma pushes tunic skirts aside, thankfully short for they’re labouring clothes, and begins unlacing hose. No finesse, here. No taking time. No forbearance. Restraint means little as Éomer moans into Gríma’s mouth when Gríma wraps his hand around Éomer’s cock.

Gods, he gets hard knowing he can make Éomer moan like this. That he can make Éomer restless and reckless. That Éomer wants to fuck him face first into the earth, shove his cock inside Gríma hard enough, deep enough, often enough to make the thought of riding a horse painful. That Gríma could order Éomer to walk on him and he would. There is a delightful thread of power in this. Woven through, at times, with sheer mysticism at why.

Why him? Éomer should throw him in a river, all things considered. Do as Gríma’s brothers did a hundred times throughout childhood. It being little more than is deserved—and there are men and women who would tell Éomer he’d be well justified in it. But Gríma doesn’t wish to look too closely at the why and the wherefore. He doesn’t want to know what might lie beneath it. He doesn’t want clarity because shining light upon the why might make Éomer leave and that would be worse than dying.

Currently, Éomer is whispering that he wants Gríma’s mouth on his prick. He wants Gríma sucking on him. He wants to see him gag for it. He wants to watch Gríma swallow. He wants to know his semen is inside of him. All the while Gríma is gasping, yesyesyesgodsyesohgodsplease and wanting to rub himself up Éomer’s thigh, wants to ride Éomer, climb him like a tree, anything, but Éomer is pulling Gríma’s hand off his cock, he’s stilling Gríma’s hips which had been moving against Éomer.

‘Wait,’ Éomer hisses against Gríma’s ear. ‘You’re a patient man, you can wait.’

He is not a patient man, Gríma wants to say. Why does Éomer think he ran so fast to Saruman when there was the threat of darkness looming (greed and power aside)? No hope and no patience to wait for hope. A desperate need to be doing something, anything, to have some control and moving fastfastfast to make it happen. So fast he dove off a cliff. Granted, this is hindsight. At the time he thought he had deliberated on it, thought it through to exactitude. Anyway.

Éomer pushes Gríma down to his knees, thankfully not making a joke about future crowns and thrones, which he has done in the past and Gríma replied, Nothing is less arousing than your sense of humour.

Fingers are in Gríma’s hair as he wraps a hand around the base of Éomer’s cock before taking it in his mouth. Everything zeros in to this moment, the noises Éomer is making interspersed with whispers of ohgods yes and fuck I like you like this, also the taste of Éomer’s prick, the way it feels in his mouth, against his tongue, the smell of arousal, sweat from the day, also damp earth, autumnal tree litter going to molder beneath itself.

Gríma wants to touch himself. Wants to pull himself off while Éomer spends down his throat. But he keeps his free hand on Éomer’s hip, fingers digging in as Éomer rocks forward slightly. Glancing up, he meets Éomer’s gaze, a hungry, fearsome, aggressive look. All fire. Not dissimilar to how he looks in battle when blood is up and he’s just killed someone. Gríma thinks Éomer could kill him right now and he’d be happy. He closes his eyes again, feels Éomer’s hand tighten in his hair, tugging on it and pushing him down so Gríma’s mouth is against the hand working the base of Éomer’s cock. He works on breathing. On not gagging. Though he thinks Éomer would like it, knows Éomer would like it, but he doesn’t want to give him everything. Éomer is used to having things given to him. Being a nobleman does that. Gríma likes to make him work, from time to time.

When Éomer comes, it’s with a gasp that deepens into a moan, and he tugs at Gríma’s hair for something to do with his hands and Gríma swallows what he can before pulling away, taking deep breaths and working his jaw. Suddenly Éomer is before him, kissing him soundly and pushing him backwards so he’s sitting. Gríma wants Éomer on top of him, pulls him close as Éomer moves clothes out of the way, undoing enough to have his hand around Gríma’s cock. He’s tight, warm, Gríma loves the feel of it. The callouses, the way Éomer strokes him, the way he whispers, all heatedly, tell me what you want, show me how you like it. Gríma buries his face against Éomer’s neck, breath hitching. Éomer says, ‘I like watching you come, I like watching you touch yourself while I touch you’ and wants him lying back, half propped against the wall, but Gríma won’t move, prefers his arms around Éomer’s shoulders, his face hidden. Éomer’s hand tightens, Gríma moans, whispering, ‘Oh gods’ into Éomer’s hair and skin and oh stars help him he wants to meld bodily into Éomer’s hair and skin and bone.

When he spills, it is quiet. Hardly noticeable. Éomer is slow, entirely pleased with himself as they unweave from one another. A damp hand holds Gríma’s face still. Gríma wants to look anywhere else but Éomer is directly before him and close. He looks at Gríma, through Gríma, a cutlass stare then, a sudden smile as Éomer leans in and kisses him.  

Around them, fog gathers. Whispers and hums of the dead and the creatures of rivers at night, of barrows and the unknown, gather. Gríma rummages through the bag on his belt and pulls out a candle. He lights it. Sets it between them and the river. Feels Éomer settle near him with a comment that he should return to his lodgings soon. Lest he be missed. But there’s no rush. They can stay here, like this, for a little while and pretend that when the sun rises everything will be different. No crowns. No past riddled with poor decisions. Somehow, during the night, a mist will billow in, blanket the world, consume everyone, and spit them out wholly as they ought to be.

‘Or not,’ Éomer continues. ‘I suppose we are as we ought to be, right now. Because of what we’ve been and done.’

‘That is how it works,’ Gríma replies. ‘The part of our soul that is us is like wax. It imprints with what has happened. We are made of what we have seen and done and who we have met and what we have heard.’

‘Ah,’ Éomer grins. ‘You are coming around to my way of thinking at last. If the part of your soul that is you is wax, then you can reshape it. Or portions of it. Even though you think you were born set in stone.’

Gríma sniffs. The candle flickers. Gutters as a breeze brushes by. Or a spirit. Somewhere in a distant field, a guttural howl but not of any wolf or hound. Éomer sighs, gets up and dusts his clothes down. He holds his hand out for Gríma. Gríma looks at it, hesitates a second, before accepting it. Never having had much himself, he wonders how much kindness a person can accept before it becomes a burden on their souls. Like alcohol, he assumes some can bear more than others.

But look at this night—the stars and the smell of the harvest and there’s Éomer humming some dirty soldier’s song, waiting for Gríma to snuff out the candle and come along with him back to the warmth of a hearth fire and mulled wine. The smell of myrtle and sagebrush and sweetgrass.

Around them, there is mist and fog and the dead who are made of memories. As they walk back, slow and with patience, Gríma supposes he will find out how much his own souls can bear before like a shelf with too much on it, the weight of the goodness of world breaks them.

[snickiebear]

on your broken knees you pray // rotting tongue, your words decay // oh how sweet the sound of death // my god's hands only know of theft

for @saintwilllem !! thank you for commissioning this piece and allowing me to use your brilliantly delicious concept and wonderful characters from The Changing House <33 (i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i did writing it)

i.

The house, it hungers.

Like a lurking beast, all starving teeth and festering gore, it aches. I know this, of course I know this. Six years old and headless animals at the foot of my bed, flies swarming and feasting and fantasizing. Ten years old and the doors lock, the windows shut, no way out, no one to hear my—

I wondered, in my youth, if the house satisfied its hunger with the things that went missing. The socks and the heads and my hope. But it always seemed to want to taketaketake and I never wanted to give. The house is not a home, oh no, never.

The atrocities, the horrors, they haunt my dreams. One doesn’t live in the house, one survives it. How my parents inhabited the house still bothers me, did they not find the blood pouring from the facets? The carcasses dripping from the ceiling? The locked doors and stuck windows?

(Or maybe, something dark whispers, it only ever wanted you.)

But now, my parents are gone and all that is left is the house. It stands, looming and yet so small, the greenery drained, the paint peeled, the lights dead. It's like nothing’s changed. It's like everything’s changed.

Breathing deeply, I tighten my grip on my backpack. Why was I here? Why did I come back? Gods, I didn’t have to but, but.

This horrible house was never home and yet I have never felt more alone outside of it.

Weak.

Maybe, in some twisted way I missed it. Maybe.

I don’t know.

Knuckles paling under my grip, I take the first step on to the yard. The door flies open. And and and

Oh.

Oh.

Welcome home.

ii.

“What are you?” I breathe, taking a step back. It's useless, the windows and doors locked as soon as I stepped inside. I escaped once, it won’t happen again, I know. Unless, well.

The House (and how do I know? One look and it's instinctual, it's a primal knowledge. Oh, oh it's you. It's you. It's always been you.) smiles, it looks wrong on the face it's stolen. Too crooked, not enough teeth. Deathless. Lifeless. “Yours.”

“I don’t want you,” spitting fire and shaking hands. Another step back, he — it?— steps forward. “You— you’re a monster.”

Fingers, mismatched and differing lengths (a child’s, a man’s, a woman’s, a molding bone), grab my chin harshly, thumbing the jut of my jaw almost gently. Bruising, demanding. “I am yours,” the House swears, “or I am nothing at all.”

Then it— he?— falls to his knees, fingers trailing down my chest like a forest fire, igniting. The House kneels at my feet, bowed head like a sinner. And for once, deserving sits within reach. I reach out, the House’s hair dirty and matted, I do not let go.

iii.

I blink, he blinks back. A mirror. A ghost. It's disgusting how much I want to reach out and touch, it's horrific the way I watch the House — Yahya, I remind myself because the House is a person now, a man now— swallow, memorizing the column of his throat. The House walks and speaks and fucks just like any other living thing. An unwanted thrill sparks down my spine at the thought.

“You killed them,” I say, pushing him away from me, “you killed them, to— to lure me here? To— to get me to come back?”

Yahya tilts his head, predatory. “How else was I supposed to get you home?”

“This,” I snarl, “is not home.”

His hands cup my face, fingers digging into the apple of my cheeks, I let him because. Because. “Why are you fighting?”

Teeth flashing, I wrap my hands around his wrists, “Why shouldn’t I? This is prison, you are my jailer.”

“Oh,” he murmurs, leaning in close. Breath stills in my lungs, halting. “No, my love, no. This is not jail, you are no prisoner. This is heaven, you are its ruler.”

He kisses me, tonguing open my mouth, teeth clicking and he consumes me whole, breathing in my very essence. I return the fever, clawing at his back, yanking at his hair as he tries to pull away.

“Then let me out,” against his lips, hips slotted together (perfectly, too perfectly). “Let me leave.”

Hands at my neck, pulse fluttering. Yahya looks at me, wearing a dead man’s face, lips kiss bruised and hair wild. Hunger gleams in his eyes, a look I know all too well, he kisses me again, drowning me in him.

I go willingly.

iv.

I am knife and wound and he. Well, he is the hand that holds the knife, the fingers that dig deepdeepdeep into the wound, blood pooling and mouth drinking in the pained gasp, not flinching as my teeth cut his tongue—

The house hungers.

So do I.

Hands grasp, unholy and utterly selfish and I return the grip with fever, yanking on his hair to look him in his eyes. We study each other then, carnivorous. He holds himself still inside me, waiting for the command, for the order.

“What am I?” I ask, ragged and raw.

His lips drag against the skin of my neck, teeth at my pulse, hands on my wrists, “God.”

It's shades of white after that.

v.

“I can’t let you go,” Yahya says after after after. “You don’t know the world like I do.”

I don’t answer, closed eyes and boneless. He continues, “You don’t understand how they could hurt you. I won’t let them, that’s why you must stay here. Where I can watch you.”

“And the hurt you’ve produced?”

“I never hurt you, my love.” Fingers trace the bumps of my ribs. “I was protecting you, I am your shield, I am your knife.”

I hum, turning over to give him my back, fingers twitching as his kisses down my spine, hands at my hips.

He’s wrong. He knows nothing of terror, nothing of protection. My lips twitch into a smile as I look at the ceiling. That’s the difference between us, I suppose.

vi.

“Where did you get this body?” Maybe the question should remain unasked.

“I stole it.” Yahya looks up from the book he’s reading. “The boy, you liked him. He didn’t deserve you.”

“And you do?”

His face twists into something monstrous, “Of course I do. Who else but me? Don’t ask stupid questions.” He stands, fist curling. "I protected you when no one else did. I loved you when no one else did. You are mine, mine. You are my God. No one can have you, no one but me."

I ignore the heat in my belly in favor for the chill down my spine.

vii.

Losing time happens in the house, it gets worse now that he can actively distract. Shutters closed, doors locked, windows shut. Darkness consumes and we rot inside, we rot within. Some days I cannot tell where he begins and I end, we blur so constituently.

Drowning, I think, was a mistake.

He steals everything, the breath from my lungs, the thoughts in my head, the free will of my limbs. He claims I am a God and yet he holds the strings in his hands, scissors in the other.

Puppetry and godhood, a child’s tale, a man’s nightmare.

It is as if he’s trying to climb into my skin, make room for his body within me, and god above I give him an inch, he shoves a mile. It's disgusting, it's revolting, it's never enough.

I want him and hate him in equal measure.

I should have never come back.

I should have come back sooner.

This needs to end. Get him out my of my fucking head, pull out the roots he’s grown so silently around the muscle of my heart. Loneliness is a small price to pay to rid oneself of insanity. He’s the air I breathe, like a smoker, like a disease.

“Oh,” he says, “here you are, I was looking for you.” Fingers on either side of my neck, squeezing.

There won’t be much to look for soon.

vii.

He sleeps, it's the only time of peace. Slipping silently out of bed, I go to the kitchen, digging through the drawers until I find it. Lighting the match, the flame jumps, burning brightbrightbright.

I drop it.

viii.

The doors were unlocked, the foolish house trusting a bit too much. The fire rages and there’s screaming. Unholy. Delightful. Like a melody, a song. His face presses to the window, clawing at the glass. Why? Why? Why? Unspoken but heard all the same.

Smoke billows in the air and from the street I inhale slowly, letting it settle deep in my lungs, replacing every touch he’s ever made. “You say I am your God.” A twist smile, a wild laugh, throat bared as the heat of the house seeks to caress me once more. “So I say you shall burn.” Godhood has never appealed until now, until destruction drips from my fingertips like blood.

Sirens roar somewhere around me as I turn away from the house, taking a step into the new world.

ix.

“How does a man become a god? How does a house become a home?”

“Oh, don’t you know? You love it.”

[the-book-design]

Dominika – Jaroslav Konáš (Take Take Take 2018) – design: @nikola.taketaketake, illustrations: @bitvanespocetnychslz, photo: @puf_studio – #repost #TheBookDesign #artdirection #editorialdesign #graphicdesign #booklover #typography #coverbook #typedesign #print #nikola_taketaketake #taketaketake #dominika #publishinghouse #czechliterature #jaroslavkonas #dominika #nikolajanickova

[laviexenrose]

honorhearted·:

While Isabelle practically tore at the buttons on his shirt, Ben drove his hand more strongly between her thighs, licking at her mouth while she whined and admonished him for cheating. He had to laugh, breathless as she dug her nails into his shoulders and rocked into his awaiting hand, each roll of her hips driving his fingers in far more deeply.

In a way, it was difficult to turn off the primordial side of him that just wanted to taketaketake, especially when her long, drawn-out sighs were catching in his ear, and – and God, her hand was now working him over with firm, vigorous strokes. Each fevered pass of her fingers against his skin had him growling low in her ear.

As Isabelle began to rise and fall more harshly in his lap, Ben reciprocated by jerking his hand up each time she came down. He attempted to stroke all of her pleasure spots by using slow, forceful rotations of his hand. “That’s it,” he whispered, kissing beneath her ear. “Take me in…”

Her mouth found his again and their tongues glossed, wet and needy as her moans caught into their kiss. Each eager sound sent a jolt straight to his cock, making him squirm and arch into her rapidly stroking hand. Pleasepleaseplease…

Drawing away from him, Isabelle dipped a hand between her legs and then smeared her arousal over his throbbing shaft, making Ben grit his teeth and curse softly once she started pleasuring him with renewed vigor. Her lips latched onto his neck and then her teeth grazed his skin, his hands tightening on her waist as she straddled his cock and started grinding against his tip, firm and slow.

Finally, finally, Isabelle eased herself down around him, and impatient, Ben bucked his hips with a hint of desperation, panting as her tight warmth pulsed wetly around him. Once she settled down to the hilt, his hold tightened and he rocked her in place, almost frantic as Isabelle’s slow, sensual grind soaked and squeezed at his shaft.

Shuddering from each clench, Ben fumblingly dipped a hand between them and rubbed at her clit, his thumb circling and pushing on her bud until she gasped and pleaded. Isabelle practically clawed at the door and console, using both to support her weight as she jerked and rolled her hips into his own.

Delirious with sensation, Ben obeyed and rubbed at her clit harder, relentless as he rocked into her heat again and again. His motions jolted her against his lap, and groaning into her throat, he smeared his lips from her pulse toward her mouth, claiming her in a sloppy kiss while he pleaded with her to come undone.

Whether it was Ben’s intention or not, she found herself dangerously close to cumming around his fingers — his seductively whispered words further beckoning her to that edge — but rather than warning him, Isabelle succumbed to the sweet release her body craved, desperately rocking into his lewd touch as faint whines and lusty whimpers rasped at her throat.

As soon as her walls began contracting, she gasped from how intense the climax began, a rush of sensation that traveled all the way down to her toes, forcing her eyes shut and her jaw drop open. It took several moments to recover. With shallow breaths, Isabelle lolled her head into the crook of Ben’s neck, giggling and feeling rather giddy after such a high.

Lifting her head, her cheeks were colored and heated. Beaming at him, she seemed almost embarrassed over her body’s natural response to his deep stimulation, though as far as she could tell, Ben didn’t mind it in the least, especially after she used her own cum to lubricate his cock and pleasure him more wetly. Afterwards, her hand circled faster and harder around his shaft, just enough to drive him crazy but nowhere enough to send him over the edge. He could wait just a bit longer…

As their bodies writhed almost in unison, Ben’s thumb tirelessly working her bud, Isabelle felt that all too familiar warmth building once more within her core. She took him in deep, as deep as he could go, the advantage of being on top. Tightening around like a coil on his cock, her insides hugged and squeezed his length. “I’m… I’m…” Close. So very close. Her body shuddered, thighs trembling in anticipation of her climax. At this point, each moan that slipped past her lips was a plea for more.

While she labored for breath, his lips came crashing into hers. She moaned softly and moved a hand to the back of head, lacing her fingers with his hair. She kissed him hard, very little to be desired. It was only seconds later when she had to pull away, needing a moment to catch her breath. Her eyes glanced over to the backseat and then an idea came rushing to her mind, one she couldn’t resist.

Hearing his pleading, Isabelle gave him a little smirk as she leaned into his ear. “Not here, not like this,” she murmured breathlessly, dragging a hand down his chest. She nibbled on his lobe before abruptly pulling back from him. Ben looked caught off guard as she carefully crossed over into the empty backseat, giggling. Her legs were more wobbly than she realized.

On her knees, back facing him, Isabelle lifted her skirt above her waist, revealing her bare bottom as she spread herself out on the seat and pushed her hips out a bit, giving him a view of her glistening folds from behind. Casting Ben a glance over her shoulder, she waited eagerly, shivering from the excitement of what was to come.