#the deepest roots

[whimsycore]

I literally dropped one of my wisdom teeth days ago and cannot find it

[zanepilled]

this is probably just a me thing and its not that serious but seeing vex and zane's dynamic portrayed as in any way positive makes me want to put my head through a wall

[hiimcanadia]

I love how deeply human it feels to braid my hair. Like. Since the dawn of humanity people all over the world have been looking at their long hair and going "you know what would make this easier to manage and also look beautiful? If I condensed some of this a bit." And now, in the modern age, I can be one of those people

[odysseys-blood]

i love media where they make it sound like being partners is worse than a death sentence

[system-of-a-feather]

Sharing these screenshots of a chat in relation to this post cause as much as I hate it, they (XIV and Riku) deserve the credit.

-Chunn

[introverting-rn]

i have been planning this post for months thank you op for saying this!

teaching kids your beliefs does not equal brainwashing, and religions are not the same as cults. one of them is sharing with others and building a community and searching for your place in the world. the other is a series of harsh, manipulative tactics designed to undermine someone else’s free will. they are not the same.

People who claim that parents raising their children into their religion is indoctrination are dumb. Like of course a parent will teach the same beliefs, values, religion, worldview, etc. they believe to be true. That's common sense. What are they suppose to teach then? The beliefs of someone else? Whatever that is popular or trendy? The ideology that is promoted by the current government?

[winxanity-ii]

SACRILEGIOUS DEVOTION [1/3]

ship: father charlie x fem!nun!reader warnings: nsfw 🔞 (oral sex/f. receiving; overstimulation; coercion/dub-con?; sacrilege, heavy religious imagery) word count: 3.6k a/n: So, Father Charlie is out here losing all his morals and sanity on Grotesquerie and my mind couldn't help but match it, so what's a better idea other than channeling all the religious trauma/journey into a spicy one-shot? i for one feel like it's a mini-therapy, but enough rambling, enjoy 😩🫶🏾 i'm in love with a holy man, mother 😔…. second part: 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 and final part: 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

★·.·´ɢʀᴏᴛᴇsǫᴜᴇʀɪᴇ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

Father Charlie Mayhew was a sick man.

Not in the manner of flesh, but of spirit. He could feel the sickness festering in the quiet corners of his heart, a sinful yearning that had taken root there, twisting itself around his thoughts like creeping ivy.

It was a sickness that, he believed, made him a grotesque parody of the holy man he was meant to be. For how could he call himself righteous, devoted, when every whisper of prayer felt stained by the way his eyes followed you, Sister ____?

You were a vision of purity, an embodiment of the kind of gentle devotion that Father Charlie envied and craved all at once.

He watched you from a distance, always careful not to draw your gaze, afraid of what you might see if you looked too deeply. How dutiful you were, sweeping the church aisle with a focus that made him forget the dust and see only the graceful motion of your hands.

The sun, filtered through stained glass, seemed to seek you out, casting colors on your habit as if to mark you as someone far beyond his grasp, almost holy in your mundane tasks.

It was in the mornings, when he heard the soft chime of your laughter in the courtyard as you fed the pigeons, that he felt the deepest sting of his wretchedness.

The world seemed simpler in those moments, your laughter echoing off the stone walls, the warmth of early sun painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges. He wondered if you knew how your kindness drew even the animals to you, their heads dipping into your palms as if receiving communion.

There was a stillness to you, a gentleness in every gesture.

The worst of it was during your services. Father Charlie had seen you on your knees before, hands folded in earnest prayer, your lips moving softly as you whispered your devotion to God.

He would stand at the back of the chapel, watching with a mixture of awe and something far darker. He told himself it was admiration, but the truth festered beneath that facade.

It was longing, a hunger that ached at the edges of his soul.

A storm raged outside the convent one evening, winds battering the church walls with a fury that mirrored the tempest building in his chest. The clouds were bloated, dark as his thoughts, and thunder rolled across the sky with a violence that shook even the faith he held so dear.

You had come to his chambers in the dead of night, your knock barely audible over the howling wind. He had been preparing for bed, freshly out of the shower, wearing only his boxers when he heard you at the door.

The creak of the old wood seemed to echo forever as he opened it, and there you stood, eyes wide, looking so impossibly fragile in the dim candlelight of the corridor. Your modest night slip clung to your form, the thin fabric shifting in the draft that sneaked in from the hallway.

Charlie's breath had caught in his throat at the sight of you, innocence incarnate, seeking refuge with him.

He hesitated for only a moment before allowing you in, quickly wrapping himself in a silk robe that hung loosely on his shoulders, barely tied. He knew he should not let you enter, but there was something in the way you looked at him—so trusting, so devoted—that made him abandon every rational thought.

You had come asking to pray with him, your soft voice trembling as you spoke. The storm outside seemed like a reflection of the turmoil within him as he let you step past the threshold, closing the door behind you.

Now, you were here, kneeling before him, your eyes upturned and wide, waiting for his command, for his instruction like the obedient servant of God that you were.

Your soft voice brought him out of his thoughts, a gentle, "Father...?"

Charlie could only lament to himself how sinfully pure you looked. He hummed softly, his eyes dark as they trailed over you, lingering on the curve of your shoulders, the delicate line of your neck.

The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across your skin, highlighting the innocence that made his hunger all the more unbearable.

"Yes, forgive me, Sister. Let us now pray," he finally said, his voice low and rough, the words nearly swallowed by the sound of the wind outside. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your forehead, and you leaned into the touch without hesitation, your eyes closing as if his hand was a blessing.

He swallowed hard, his thoughts spiraling deeper into the forbidden desires he had tried so desperately to keep buried.

He began to pray, his voice low, raspy, each word a struggle against the chaos inside him. "Heavenly Father, we come before you tonight..." But the words felt hollow, their meaning slipping away as he watched you, kneeling so obediently at his feet.

His eyes darkened, wandering further down, tracing the lines of your form. The way your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, the soft rise and fall of your chest with each breath—it all seemed to pull him further from the sanctity of the moment.

He should have been thinking of God, of salvation, of the purity of the prayer—but instead, he was thinking of you, of the way the thin fabric clung to your skin, the soft curve of your breasts visible through the modest slip.

He licked his lips, his gaze fixed on the delicate line of your collarbone, the way it rose and fell with each breath you took.

The more he spoke, the less the words mattered. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, spreading through his body, his thoughts growing more erratic, each word of the prayer slipping further from its sacred meaning, twisting into something profane, something filthy. "Protect us from all evil..." he whispered as he traced the line of your jaw with his thumb, the words a bitter irony as he felt himself drawn further into the darkness of his desires.

His hand moved lower, fingers trailing down your neck, lingering at the hollow of your throat. His touch was gentle, but there was a weight behind it, a hunger that he could no longer deny.

He could almost see the curve of your bare skin beneath the thin fabric, the outline of your body that he should not be imagining. He tried to focus on the prayer, but every word felt like a lie. He let out a shaky breath, the prayer faltering on his lips. "Guide us... guide us in your light," he managed, his voice thick with the weight of his longing.

The storm outside raged on, the wind howling as if to warn him, but Father Charlie could no longer hear it. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart, the rush of blood in his ears as he looked down at you, so trusting, so willing.

As the final words of the prayer fell from his lips—"Amen"—you echoed him, your voice soft and unwavering. You blinked open your eyes, looking up at him with such innocence and Charlie felt himself slip past the point of no return.

He knew that no amount of prayer could ever cleanse him of what he wanted, that he could no longer pretend, no longer fight against the pull that drew him to you—the sweet, precious nun who had unknowingly captured his very soul.

Father Charlie stood, his robe slipping slightly from his shoulders, exposing the toned muscle beneath. The wind howled outside, and thunder bellowed again, followed by a flash of lightning that lit the room in a brief, startling blaze of white.

You were still kneeling before him, your wide eyes following his every movement, the flickering light casting you in both shadow and radiance.

Charlie bent at the waist, his fingers reaching out to cup your jaw, thumb caressing your bottom lip as his half-lidded eyes trailed over your face. "Sister ____," he murmured, his voice dripping with a twisted kind of affection, his name for you almost reverent, as though you were something sacred, something he could worship in his own unholy way.

You blinked, shifting slightly beneath his touch, a soft stutter escaping your lips. "F-Father...?"

He grasped one of your hands, his fingers wrapping around yours, and as he stood, he gently urged you to rise with him. His gaze never left your face, his eyes dark and full of something raw. He began to speak, his voice barely more than a murmur, the words heavy with confession. "As a man of God, there are expectations placed upon me," he started, his tone wavering between remorse and something darker, something that made his grip on your hand tighten. "I am meant to guide, to protect, to remain steadfast in my faith."

His other hand moved, slowly pulling your trembling hand against his bare stomach, pressing your palm against the hard planes of his abdomen.

You gasped, your eyes wide as you looked up at him, your hand trembling beneath his. The heat of his skin burned into your palm, the muscles flexing beneath your touch.

Charlie continued, his voice lowering, growing more intense as he spoke. "But these days... these days, Sister, I find myself at war. At war with desires that threaten to consume me..." His words trailed off, and he let out a low hum as he rubbed your hand across his stomach, the movement slow, deliberate.

Your hand hesitated for a moment, the warmth of his skin making you tremble as you instinctively pulled back. But his grip was firm, guiding you back, and slowly, tentatively, your fingers splayed across his stomach, your touch feather-light.

You swallowed hard, your eyes flickering down before you took a timid step closer, as if drawn by some invisible force. Your gaze shifted to the side, your cheeks warming with embarrassment at the proximity, at the way you could feel his heart beating beneath your palm.

Father Charlie's eyes never left you, and he could see every ounce of hesitation, every flicker of uncertainty that danced across your face. He leaned in slightly, his breath brushing against your forehead as he spoke, his voice a low murmur, "There's no need to be afraid, Sister. You are safe here... with me."

You blinked, your lashes fluttering as you dared to look up at him, your eyes meeting his through the veil of uncertainty.

There was something in his gaze, something dark and magnetic that pulled at you, made your pulse race. His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw; the touch almost comforting, but there was an intensity behind it that made you shiver.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching yours.

You nodded slowly, not trusting your voice to speak, your fingers trembling slightly against his skin. He smiled, a slow, almost predatory curve of his lips, and he hummed again, satisfied with your silent answer.

His other hand moved to rest against the small of your back, pulling you just a little bit closer, his robe parting further, exposing more of his chest.

Your breath hitched as you felt the distance between you closing, the way his body seemed to envelop yours. You could barely think, your mind clouded with the storm of emotions and the strange, electric pull you felt toward him.

His thumb traced along your bottom lip, his eyes darkening as he watched you. You felt your pulse quicken, your knees weakening under the intensity of his gaze.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice a mix of praise and something darker, something that made your heart pound even harder. His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt your body react, leaning in just slightly, as if craving more of his warmth, his touch.

His fingers trailed lower, coaxing your hand along his body, and you felt the tension, the desire in every muscle. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a husky whisper, "Let me show you, Sister ____... let me show you what devotion truly means."

He kissed you then, his lips crashing against yours like a man starved. His mouth moved hungrily, tasting, devouring, and you felt his tongue lick into your mouth, coaxing a soft, surprised whimper from your throat. His groan vibrated against your lips, the sound raw and desperate.

Your head spun, your senses overwhelmed by the taste of him, the sheer need in his kiss.

You pulled back, gasping for air, your lips tingling from the force of his kiss. He didn't give you a moment to recover; his lips moved to your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin.

He nipped at your neck, his teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, to make your knees weaken beneath you. The heat of his mouth trailed down, his tongue flicking out to soothe each small bite, and you felt your body trembling, a warmth pooling low in your belly.

Charlie's hands were relentless, holding you steady as your body threatened to give out, your knees buckling as his mouth worked against your skin. He pulled back only long enough to whisper your name, his voice thick with something between reverence and hunger.

Before you knew it, he had scooped you up, his arms strong and sure as he carried you towards his bed. Your breath hitched, your fingers clinging to his robe as he moved, each step filled with purpose.

He set you down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. His eyes roamed over you, dark and filled with desire, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.

Father Charlie moved quickly, his hands deft as he pushed your slip off your shoulders, the fabric sliding down your skin and pooling around your waist. His lips followed the path of the falling slip, pressing soft, lingering kisses along your shoulders, his warm breath fanning across your skin.

You shivered beneath his touch, the cool air of the room prickling at your exposed skin, your nipples pebbling in response.

His eyes darkened at the sight of you, and he let out a low groan, his hands running along your bare arms, feeling the way you trembled beneath him. "You're like a goddess," he murmured, his voice thick with reverence and lust. "Perfect. Untouched. A temptation I can't resist." His lips found your collarbone, kissing, nipping, his words vibrating against your skin.

You felt heat rise in your cheeks, your heart pounding as his lips moved lower, trailing down the center of your chest, his hands spreading across your back, urging you to arch into him. His kisses were relentless, each one making your breath catch, making your body react in ways that felt both unfamiliar and thrilling.

You couldn't stop the soft whimper that escaped your lips, your hands clutching at the sheets beneath you, unsure of what to do, where to touch.

Charlie pulled back for a moment, his eyes locking onto yours, his gaze filled with hunger. He pushed you back against the bed, guiding you to lie down, his hands never leaving your body, his touch possessive, as if he couldn't bear to be without contact. He looked down at you, splayed out before him, your slip barely covering you, and he licked his lips, his eyes raking over every inch of your exposed skin.

"Look at you," he whispered, his voice dripping with a mix of adoration and hunger. "So innocent, so pure... and all mine." He leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a heated kiss, his hands working the slip further down your body, baring you completely to him.

The cool air made you shiver, your body exposed, vulnerable, and you couldn't help the way your legs shifted, instinctively trying to close.

Charlie's hands moved to your knees, gently but firmly pushing them apart, his eyes never leaving your face as he watched your reaction. His lips moved from your mouth, trailing down your jaw to your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin as he groaned against you.

He pulled the slip away entirely, tossing it aside, his hands roaming over your bare skin, mapping every inch as though he were committing you to memory. "You are... perfection," he muttered, his voice strained, filled with a hunger that made your breath hitch.

His lips moved lower, trailing down your body, leaving a heated path across your chest, your stomach, and further down. His hands were strong, keeping your legs pinned open to the bed, his fingers pressing into your thighs with a possessive hold. He kissed along your inner thighs, his warm breath fanning over your skin, making you shiver, anticipation coiling in your belly.

You instinctively tried to scoot back, to move away as you felt his breath getting closer to your core, but Charlie's grip tightened, his hands holding you firmly in place. He looked up at you, his eyes dark, almost predatory, as he whispered, "Stay still, Sister... let me worship you."

He breathed you in, a deep, satisfied groan rumbling from his chest. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as if savoring the scent of you, and then he leaned in, his tongue licking a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit.

A squeal, half surprise and half pleasure, escaped your lips, your back arching slightly off the bed.

Father Charlie's tongue moved with a purpose, his lips wrapping around your clit, sucking gently before flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. His hands kept your legs spread, his grip firm and unyielding as he worked his mouth against you, his groans vibrating against your core.

He was relentless, his mouth moving with a hunger that made your head spin, your fingers gripping the sheets beneath you, trying to ground yourself as waves of pleasure washed over you.

You could feel his smooth skin against your inner thighs, the sensation only adding to the overwhelming pleasure that built inside you. His tongue moved in slow, teasing circles, his lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against you, his eyes flicking up to watch your every reaction.

The sight of you—your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the way your chest heaved with every ragged breath—only seemed to spur him on, his groans growing louder as he tasted you.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, your hips bucking against his mouth, a whimper slipping from your lips. Charlie's hands moved to hold your hips down, pinning you to the bed as he continued, his tongue delving into you, his nose brushing against your clit as he worked, utterly consumed by the taste of you.

He was lost in it, in you, his tongue moving faster, his mouth desperate as he devoured you.

You gasped, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, your body trembling beneath him. The heat built inside you, coiling tighter and tighter, until you felt like you might break apart. His name fell from your lips, a breathless plea, and he groaned in response, the vibrations sending a shockwave of pleasure through you.

Your back arched off the bed, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps as you felt yourself teetering on the edge, your body ready to fall apart under his touch.

Your first orgasm washed over you without warning, a blinding wave of pleasure that left you feeling weightless, your entire body trembling as you came undone beneath him. You melted into the bed like butter, your limbs going limp as the intensity of it left you breathless.

Charlie's mouth moved against you with a fervent hunger, drinking in every bit of your release as if it were the most sacred offering.

A small whimper escaped your lips as the sensation grew overwhelming, your body growing sensitive to his touch. He didn't stop, his tongue moving lazily, drawing out every last bit of pleasure from you, his mouth still savoring you.

Your grip on his head shifted, your fingers now pushing at him, trying to get him to stop, but his hands only gripped your thighs tighter, keeping you in place. "W-Wait..." The heat in your stomach was already starting to build again, the slow, deliberate movements of his tongue igniting another fire deep within you.

Charlie groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core, his face buried even further between your legs, his tongue relentless.

Your breath came in quick, shallow gasps, your body trembling once more as the pleasure built. You could feel another orgasm approaching, your mind spinning as you tried to form words, but all that left your throat were broken, incoherent sounds—static that filled the room as you babbled.

You tried to scoot back, to move away from the overwhelming sensation, but Charlie's strong arms wrapped around your hips, yanking you back down, his grip unyielding. His own hips pressed into the bedding below, his desperation evident as he devoured you.

You teetered on the edge once more, the pleasure too much, too intense, until it finally broke over you again, your body arching, your mind going completely blank as you came undone a second time.

The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the sensation of his mouth on you, the heat, the pressure, the overwhelming ecstasy that left you gasping for air.

As you came down from your high, your body trembling, Father Charlie finally pulled back, his lips and chin glistening. He stared up at you with dark, lidded eyes, his expression filled with hunger, with desire that seemed insatiable.

There was no hesitation, no regret—only a raw need that made it clear he no longer cared about going against his vows, no longer cared about the priesthood or what was right.

All that mattered to him was you.

A/N: i'm sorry, i just watched Grotesquerie last night and i've become obssessed.... ugh, the tension between father charlie and sister megan is just *chefs kiss* it's clear that megan is obviously meant to be y/n and the screenplay was written in the intent of it being catered to the female gaze because wheeeeww 😩...

[gay-fae]

nothing brings a person to the verge of angry tears like trying to bake a pie

[missedmolotov]

I love this so much.

RICH ASSHOLES :The CEO of UHC was callously gunned down in cold blood this morning in Manhatten. The 50 year old victim was a loving husband and father. We offer the family of the victim our deepest condolences...

EVERYONE ELSE : CEO Down! 🥳 Pop off another one little killer baby! We rooting for you! Witch side of Tumblr already casting protection spells for you.

[esotericalchemist]

𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧 - 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐞 ❃°•

Masterlist - YouTube (subliminals)

Chiron in astrology represents the deepest wounds we carry, often rooted in past experiences or emotional traumas. These wounds are not merely physical but are connected to our sense of identity, self-worth, and ability to heal. Chiron shows us where we feel the most vulnerable and where we often face repeated challenges. However, these wounds are also the key to our greatest healing and transformation. By confronting and working through the pain associated with Chiron, we can access profound wisdom and inner strength. The journey with Chiron is not just about healing ourselves but also about learning how to use that healing to help others. As we move through the discomfort and pain, we discover that what once wounded us can become the very thing that empowers us, leading to greater compassion, self-awareness, and personal growth.

𝐀𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧

Chiron in Aries highlights wounds related to self-identity, personal courage, and asserting oneself. Individuals with this placement often face challenges around self-confidence, experiencing self-doubt or fearing failure. You may believe you don’t deserve recognition or find it difficult to take initiative and assert your individuality, which creates a deep-seated wound around personal power and self-assurance. Healing occurs by embracing your inherent worth and developing the confidence to lead, assert yourself, and go after what you desire. It involves learning to take bold actions without fear of rejection and affirming your right to be seen, heard, and appreciated.

Through the Houses

1st House:Wound: You may struggle with asserting your identity and feel uneasy taking the lead, often worrying about how others view you. Healing: Embrace your uniqueness and express yourself boldly without seeking approval. Healing comes from owning your presence and taking initiative with confidence.

2nd House:Wound: The wound is linked to self-worth and value, creating insecurities about your ability to provide for yourself or assert your values. Healing: Recognize your worth beyond material wealth or external validation. Build confidence in your personal values and take charge of creating your own sense of security.

3rd House:Wound: You might doubt your communication abilities, feeling insecure about expressing your ideas or asserting your opinions. Healing: Practice speaking up and trust in your intellect. Healing comes from expressing your thoughts with confidence, knowing that your voice matters.

4th House:Wound: You may struggle with feeling emotionally secure or connected to your family, leading to discomfort when asserting yourself in your home environment. Healing: Create emotional stability by affirming your right to feel supported and safe. Healing comes from standing up for your needs within your family and fostering your own sense of belonging.

5th House:Wound: You might fear expressing your creativity or worry about rejection in your love life or when showcasing your talents. Healing: Allow yourself to embrace creativity without fearing judgment. Take risks in love and self-expression, knowing your talents are valid and worthy of appreciation.

6th House:Wound: You may feel undervalued in your work or struggle to assert your needs in daily routines, leading to feelings of inadequacy or being overwhelmed. Healing: Stand up for your worth in the workplace and assert boundaries in your daily life. Healing comes from taking control and recognizing the value you bring to your work and routine.

7th House:Wound: You may hesitate to assert your needs in relationships, fearing rejection or conflict, which can lead to suppressing your desires. Healing: Learn to assert yourself in partnerships without fear. Healing comes from valuing your individuality within relationships and establishing healthy boundaries based on mutual respect.

8th House:Wound: You might fear vulnerability and struggle to assert control over shared resources, intimacy, or emotional depth, leading to feelings of powerlessness. Healing: Embrace vulnerability as a strength and assert your right to equal power in shared situations. Healing comes from allowing deep emotional connections and standing confidently in joint endeavors.

9th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about asserting your philosophical or spiritual beliefs, fearing judgment or alienation. Healing: Stand firm in your beliefs and pursue your vision of the world with confidence. Healing comes from embracing your own truth and expanding your horizons without fear.

10th House:Wound: You might feel insecure about asserting yourself in your career or public life, fearing failure or judgment in professional aspirations. Healing: Take bold steps in your career, knowing that success comes from embracing responsibility and asserting your talents. Healing comes from trusting your ability to thrive in public roles.

11th House:Wound: You may feel out of place in group settings, struggling to assert your individuality in social circles or communities. Healing: Embrace your unique contributions and take leadership roles within groups confidently. Healing comes from finding your place in social settings without conforming to others' expectations.

12th House:Wound: This wound relates to unconscious fears, making it difficult to assert yourself in spiritual or solitary pursuits, or creating a fear of being overlooked. Healing: Embrace solitude and your spiritual journey, learning to assert your inner strength without relying on external validation. Healing comes from recognizing your deep inner power and connection to the universe.

𝐓𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧

Chiron in Taurus highlights wounds around self-worth, stability, and security, especially in the material and physical realms. Individuals with this placement may struggle with feeling valued or secure, often fearing scarcity or instability in their lives. You may find it difficult to feel satisfied with what you have or struggle with body image and physical comfort, leading to feelings of inadequacy. Healing for Chiron in Taurus comes from building a sense of self-worth that doesn’t rely on external validation or material possessions. It’s about cultivating inner security, learning to enjoy life’s pleasures without guilt, and trusting that your needs will be met. Developing a deeper connection to your self-worth is key to this healing journey.

Through the Houses

1st House:Wound: You may struggle with insecurity about your physical appearance or self-worth, fearing that you aren’t enough or aren’t desirable. Healing: Focus on building a healthy relationship with your body and appearance. Healing comes from self-acceptance and developing confidence that transcends the physical.

2nd House:Wound: The wound centers around financial insecurity and feeling like you never have enough. You may fear scarcity or place your self-worth on material possessions. Healing: Cultivate a sense of value that goes beyond material things. Healing comes from building inner security and trusting that you can meet your needs without relying on external measures of success.

3rd House:Wound: You may feel inadequate when communicating your values or ideas, struggling with expressing yourself or doubting the importance of your voice. Healing: Healing comes from learning to communicate with confidence and trusting that your thoughts and opinions are valuable, even if they differ from others’.

4th House:Wound: Your wound may revolve around emotional or material instability in your home life. You may feel ungrounded or disconnected from your family environment. Healing: Create emotional security within yourself and build a space, physical or emotional, where you feel safe and nurtured. Healing comes from finding a sense of stability and comfort in your personal environment.

5th House:Wound: You may fear expressing your creativity or feel undeserving of life’s pleasures, struggling with self-doubt in creative or romantic pursuits. Healing: Embrace your creative and romantic sides without needing external validation. Allow yourself to experience joy and pleasure freely, knowing that your expressions are worthy and valuable.

6th House:Wound: You may feel undervalued in your work or struggle with health and body image issues, leading to feelings of inadequacy in your daily routines. Healing: Focus on creating a balanced routine that nurtures both your mind and body. Healing comes from recognizing the value of your work and caring for your physical and mental well-being.

7th House:Wound: The wound centers around relationships, particularly feeling valued by partners. You may struggle with self-worth in partnerships, fearing rejection or inadequacy. Healing: Build a sense of self-worth that isn’t dependent on a partner’s validation. Healing comes from setting healthy boundaries and fostering relationships that are based on mutual respect and value.

8th House:Wound: You may fear vulnerability or struggle with issues of trust in intimacy and shared resources, feeling a need to maintain control. Healing: Embrace vulnerability as a strength and trust in your ability to navigate intimate connections. Healing comes from building trust in shared resources and learning to let go of the need for control in emotionally charged situations.

9th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about your beliefs or struggle to find a sense of meaning or purpose in life, fearing judgment or rejection for your philosophical views. Healing: Embrace your unique perspective and trust in your personal journey. Healing comes from exploring new ideas and trusting that your beliefs and worldview are valuable.

10th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about your career, public image, or professional success, worrying about being undervalued or judged by society. Healing: Define success on your own terms and focus on building a career that aligns with your true values, not just societal expectations. Healing comes from trusting in your long-term achievements and feeling proud of the path you choose.

11th House:Wound: You may feel like an outsider in social groups or fear that you don’t contribute enough to society or group efforts, leading to feelings of disconnection. Healing: Find communities that resonate with your values and contribute meaningfully to collective goals. Healing comes from trusting that your unique qualities are valuable and that you have a meaningful role in group settings.

12th House:Wound: This wound is tied to feelings of isolation or spiritual disconnection, possibly manifesting as fear of losing touch with reality or struggling to trust life’s flow. Healing: Embrace solitude as a path to self-awareness and inner peace. Healing comes from developing spiritual practices that help you feel connected to the universe and trusting in the natural flow of life.

𝐆𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧

Chiron in Gemini highlights wounds around communication, intellect, and self-expression. Individuals with this placement may struggle with feeling misunderstood or doubt their ability to communicate effectively. You may have experienced criticism or rejection when sharing your ideas, leading to insecurities about your intelligence and your capacity to connect with others through words. Healing involves embracing your unique voice and trusting your ability to communicate meaningfully. It’s essential to express yourself without fearing judgment and to recognize the inherent value of your ideas and words. Building confidence in your intellect and trusting that your voice matters are critical to the healing process.

Through the Houses

1st House:Wound: You may struggle with expressing your identity, feeling misunderstood or overlooked when trying to communicate who you are. Healing: Embrace your personal voice and assert your identity with confidence. Healing comes from expressing yourself without fear of being judged or misunderstood.

2nd House:Wound: The wound revolves around expressing your values and self-worth. You may feel insecure about your ability to communicate what you believe is valuable, both within yourself and materially. Healing: Build confidence in your values and express them clearly. Trust that your voice is essential in matters of worth, and that your contributions are meaningful.

3rd House:Wound: This wound directly affects communication. You may feel anxious about speaking up or fear that your ideas aren’t worthy of attention or respect. Healing: Trust your intellect and embrace your ability to communicate effectively. Practice speaking with confidence, knowing that your thoughts and ideas are valuable and deserving of attention.

4th House:Wound: You may have faced challenges communicating within your family, leading to feelings of isolation or not being heard in your home environment. Healing: Focus on improving communication in your family and creating emotional security. Healing comes from establishing an open, honest dialogue where you feel safe expressing yourself.

5th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about expressing your creativity or worry that your talents won’t be appreciated or recognized. Healing: Embrace your creative voice and allow yourself to share your passions without fear of judgment. Healing comes from realizing that your self-expression is valid and valuable, regardless of external validation.

6th House:Wound: This wound may manifest in the workplace or daily routines, where you feel misunderstood or underappreciated for your efforts or ideas. Healing: Improve communication in your work life by asserting yourself more confidently in daily interactions. Healing comes from expressing your needs and ideas with clarity, especially in service roles.

7th House:Wound: You may struggle with communication in partnerships, fearing that your thoughts and feelings are not heard or valued by your partner. Healing: Work on expressing yourself openly in relationships. Healing comes from building trust in your ability to communicate effectively and being confident that your voice is valued in partnerships.

8th House:Wound: You may find it challenging to communicate about deep emotional issues, fearing vulnerability or that your emotions won’t be understood. Healing: Learn to express your deeper feelings and fears openly. Healing comes from trusting that vulnerability in communication can strengthen intimacy and foster transformation in relationships.

9th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about sharing your beliefs or ideas, fearing they will be misunderstood or dismissed. Healing: Embrace your intellectual and spiritual voice, and trust that your beliefs are valid. Healing comes from confidently sharing your worldview and exploring new perspectives with an open heart.

10th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about communicating your career goals or expressing yourself in professional settings, fearing judgment or failure. Healing: Work on clearly expressing your ambitions in your career. Healing comes from building confidence in your professional voice and trusting that your ideas hold value in your field.

11th House:Wound: You may feel like an outsider in group settings, fearing that your ideas are not accepted or that you can’t express yourself freely within social circles. Healing: Find communities that resonate with your interests and values. Healing comes from trusting that your voice contributes meaningfully to the collective and that your unique perspective enhances the group.

12th House:Wound: You may feel silenced or invisible, especially in spiritual or unconscious realms, fearing that your deeper thoughts or insights will be dismissed. Healing: Embrace spiritual practices that allow for self-expression and inner reflection. Healing comes from trusting your intuition and sharing your spiritual insights with confidence, even if it means expressing yourself in solitude.

𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧

Chiron in Cancer signifies wounds related to emotional security, family, nurturing, and belonging. Those with this placement may feel emotionally vulnerable, struggle with feelings of abandonment, or wrestle with a deep sense of being unloved or unsupported. These wounds can lead to difficulties in expressing or receiving emotional care, forming close relationships, and feeling at home within themselves or their family structures. Healing begins by developing emotional resilience and creating a strong inner sense of security. Embracing your sensitivity as a strength and learning to nurture yourself are crucial steps. Building emotional foundations that aren’t reliant on external validation and setting healthy boundaries within family or relationships will allow you to receive love and care without guilt.

Through the Houses

1st House:Wound: You may feel insecure about your emotional sensitivity and how others perceive you, fearing rejection for your vulnerability. Healing: Embrace your emotional depth as part of your identity. Healing comes from accepting your sensitivity as a guiding strength rather than something to hide.

2nd House:Wound: The wound relates to insecurity around emotional and financial stability, often tied to feelings of unworthiness or a lack of nurturing. Healing: Develop a sense of self-worth that is not dependent on material security. Healing comes from trusting in your ability to provide emotional and financial support for yourself.

3rd House:Wound: You may feel insecure about sharing your emotions or experience misunderstandings in family communication. Healing: Practice expressing your feelings openly and trust your voice. Healing comes from learning to communicate your emotional needs confidently and feeling heard.

4th House:Wound: The wound is deeply connected to family and home life, often manifesting as feelings of abandonment or emotional neglect. Healing: Create your own sense of emotional security by nurturing yourself. Building a home environment that supports your emotional well-being is key to healing.

5th House:Wound: You may fear rejection in love and romance or struggle with expressing your emotions creatively. Healing: Allow yourself to express emotions in creative endeavors and personal relationships. Healing comes from embracing vulnerability and being open to love without the fear of rejection.

6th House:Wound: You might feel emotionally drained by work or daily routines, often feeling unappreciated for your emotional contributions. Healing: Set boundaries and prioritize self-care in your daily life. Healing comes from recognizing and honoring your emotional needs in both work and routine.

7th House:Wound: The wound revolves around close relationships, where you may feel emotionally insecure or fear abandonment. Healing: Build healthy emotional boundaries in partnerships and practice emotional openness without fear. Healing comes from trusting that emotional reciprocity is possible within relationships.

8th House:Wound: You may fear emotional intimacy or have trust issues in deep relationships, leading to difficulties in bonding emotionally with others. Healing: Embrace vulnerability and trust your ability to navigate deep emotional connections. Healing comes from allowing others to share your emotional world and fostering trust.

9th House:Wound: Emotional insecurity may arise around your beliefs or spiritual path, making you feel disconnected from a larger sense of belonging. Healing: Embrace your unique emotional and spiritual journey. Healing comes from trusting in your emotional wisdom and allowing your beliefs to guide you with confidence.

10th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about your public image or career, struggling to balance emotional needs with professional success. Healing: Integrate emotional care into your public and professional life. Healing comes from acknowledging your emotional needs while pursuing your ambitions and career goals.

11th House:Wound: You may feel emotionally disconnected or unsupported in social circles or larger community groups. Healing: Seek out or create communities where you feel emotionally safe and valued. Healing comes from embracing your emotional uniqueness and finding your place within a collective.

12th House:Wound: You may feel emotionally isolated or overwhelmed by unconscious fears, struggling to find inner peace. Healing: Embrace solitude as a source of emotional strength and develop spiritual practices that nurture your emotional world. Healing comes from finding peace within and trusting your connection to the greater whole.

𝐋𝐞𝐨 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧

Chiron in Leo represents wounds around self-expression, creativity, and the need to be seen and appreciated for who you truly are. Individuals with this placement may feel inadequate or unworthy of recognition and validation, often struggling with fears of rejection, criticism, or failure when expressing creativity or stepping into leadership roles. These wounds can manifest as insecurity about personal talents, a fear of being overlooked, or hesitance to take the spotlight. Healing involves embracing your inner light and expressing yourself authentically, without relying on external validation. It’s essential to build self-confidence in your creative abilities, talents, and leadership potential. Taking risks in self-expression, creativity, and personal leadership without fearing rejection is key. Recognizing your inherent worth and cultivating joy in your unique contributions will help heal wounds of feeling unseen or unworthy.

Through the Houses

1st House:Wound: You may feel insecure about your identity and how others perceive your self-expression, leading to a fear of standing out. Healing: Embrace your individuality and confidently take charge of your life. Healing comes from shining without needing others’ approval.

2nd House:Wound: You may struggle with self-worth, feeling as though your talents or creative abilities are undervalued or unrecognized. Healing: Develop a sense of inner worth that doesn’t depend on external praise. Healing comes from appreciating the intrinsic value of your creative talents and personal resources.

3rd House:Wound: You may feel insecure about expressing your ideas or creativity in everyday conversations and interactions. Healing: Trust in your voice and communicate your thoughts with confidence. Healing comes from recognizing that your ideas are valuable and deserve to be shared.

4th House:Wound: Emotional insecurity in the home or family may have left you feeling overlooked or unappreciated as a child. Healing: Create a nurturing environment where your personal expression is valued. Healing comes from embracing your creativity within your family and home life.

5th House:Wound: You may struggle to express your creativity, talents, or passions, fearing rejection or failure in artistic or romantic endeavors. Healing: Take creative and emotional risks without worrying about judgment. Healing comes from finding joy in self-expression and pursuing your passions with confidence.

6th House:Wound: You may feel unappreciated in your work or daily routines, especially when it comes to your creative contributions. Healing: Integrate creativity into your everyday life and work. Healing comes from recognizing and valuing your unique talents and contributions in your daily routine and workplace.

7th House:Wound: You may feel unrecognized or overshadowed in relationships, fearing that your individuality gets lost in partnerships. Healing: Assert your creative self in relationships and allow your individuality to shine. Healing comes from balancing personal expression with meaningful connections.

8th House:Wound: You may fear vulnerability in intimate relationships, especially when it comes to expressing your deepest creative desires or talents. Healing: Embrace vulnerability in emotional and creative connections. Healing comes from trusting in your creativity’s transformative power for both yourself and others.

9th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about expressing your beliefs, worldview, or creative philosophies, fearing judgment or dismissal. Healing: Stand confidently in your personal beliefs and express your creative visions without fear. Healing comes from embracing and sharing your unique perspective with others.

10th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about expressing yourself in your career or public life, fearing that your creative talents will not be acknowledged. Healing: Boldly express your creative self in your professional life and public roles. Success comes from owning your leadership and talents in your career.

11th House:Wound: You may feel like you don’t belong or that your creative contributions are undervalued within group settings or communities. Healing: Embrace your unique contributions in social and collective settings. Healing comes from finding a place where your creativity is appreciated and valued.

12th House:Wound: You may feel disconnected from your creativity or have unconscious fears of being unrecognized, leading you to hide your talents. Healing: Embrace your creative power, allowing it to flow through private or spiritual practices. Healing comes from trusting that your talents are valuable, even if not always visible to others.

𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐨 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧

Chiron in Virgo is associated with wounds surrounding perfectionism, service, and health. Those with this placement often feel a deep sense of inadequacy, coupled with the pressure to meet impossibly high standards. There’s frequently a fear of not being good enough or failing in their duties—whether in work, health, or service to others. These wounds manifest as self-criticism, fear of mistakes, and a belief that they need to "fix" themselves or others to be worthy. Healing comes from accepting your imperfections and recognizing that your worth isn’t defined by your ability to serve or be perfect. Developing self-compassion and embracing the idea of “good enough” are key. It’s important to release the need to control or fix everything and to find balance between work, self-care, and emotional well-being. Accepting that healing involves both yourself and others is essential.

Through the Houses

1st House:Wound: You may feel insecure about your self-image or how you present yourself, often obsessing over perceived flaws. Healing: Heal by accepting yourself fully, flaws included. Self-compassion and embracing your worth beyond appearances will quiet your inner critic.

2nd House:Wound: You may struggle with self-worth, tying your value to how useful or productive you are, often feeling you're not "enough." Healing: Build self-worth that isn’t tied to achievements or material success. Healing comes from recognizing your inherent value beyond what you produce.

3rd House:Wound: You may feel inadequate in communication, fearing that your thoughts aren’t good enough or that you’re not smart enough. Healing: Trust in your intellect and embrace the learning process. Healing comes from letting go of the need to be perfect in communication and focusing on expressing yourself authentically.

4th House:Wound: You may have felt unappreciated or inadequate within your family or home, often believing your efforts were unnoticed. Healing: Focus on creating a home environment that doesn’t demand perfection. Healing comes from accepting and being at peace with the imperfections of family life and emotional connections.

5th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about your creativity or find it hard to enjoy life’s pleasures, fearing you're not good enough creatively or romantically. Healing: Embrace your creative and playful side without the need for perfection. Healing comes from allowing yourself to express and enjoy without judgment or the pressure to be flawless.

6th House:Wound: You may feel inadequate in your work or health routines, constantly feeling like you’re not doing enough. Healing: Healing comes from embracing balance in your work and health. Learn that your best is enough, and overworking or overthinking won’t bring you the peace you seek.

7th House:Wound: You may feel inadequate in relationships, constantly worrying about not being the perfect partner or feeling like you have to fix your partner. Healing: Accept imperfection in both yourself and your partner. Healing comes from appreciating relationships for what they are, without trying to perfect or control them.

8th House:Wound: You may fear vulnerability in intimacy, worrying that you are flawed in deep emotional or sexual connections. Healing: Embrace vulnerability and trust that true intimacy involves imperfection. Healing comes from accepting your deeper self as enough without the need to hide or fix anything.

9th House:Wound: You may feel inadequate in your beliefs or philosophical views, constantly doubting if your ideas are good enough. Healing: Embrace curiosity and lifelong learning without needing all the answers. Healing comes from letting go of the need for perfection in your pursuit of knowledge.

10th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about your career, fearing that your efforts are never enough or that you’ll fail in the eyes of society. Healing: Accept your career path as a journey, not a reflection of your worth. Healing comes from doing your best without striving for unattainable perfection and trusting in your abilities.

11th House:Wound: You may feel out of place in social or group settings, believing you don’t fit in or that your contributions aren’t valuable. Healing: Embrace your unique contributions to groups and trust that your imperfections are what make you valuable. Healing comes from finding comfort in your own authenticity within a community.

12th House:Wound: You may feel inadequate in your spiritual life, fearing that you’ll never reach the “perfect” state of enlightenment or spiritual fulfillment. Healing: Embrace your spiritual journey as an evolving process, not a race to perfection. Healing comes from trusting that your spiritual path, with all its imperfections, is part of a greater whole.

𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧

Chiron in Libra brings wounds around relationships, balance, and fairness. People with this placement may struggle with feelings of inadequacy in partnerships, fearing rejection or conflict. There is often a deep wound tied to the need for harmony, where individuals feel responsible for maintaining peace but have difficulty asserting their own needs. This can lead to challenges in balancing self-care with care for others, as well as a fear of abandonment or being unloved if they don't keep the peace. Healing requires establishing healthy boundaries and learning to assert yourself in relationships without the fear of rejection or conflict. It's essential to recognize that maintaining harmony doesn’t mean sacrificing your own needs. Cultivating self-love and understanding that you deserve fairness and balance in relationships is key to healing codependency, insecurity, and the fear of conflict.

Through the Houses

1st House:Wound: You may feel insecure about how you are perceived in relationships, often feeling like you need to change yourself to be loved or accepted. Healing: Embrace your individuality and learn to assert your needs without fear. Healing comes from balancing your own desires with the needs of others, without losing yourself.

2nd House:Wound: You may struggle with self-worth, feeling that your value in relationships depends on how much others appreciate you. Healing: Build a sense of self-worth that doesn’t rely on external approval. Healing comes from recognizing your intrinsic value and knowing you don’t need others to validate it.

3rd House:Wound: You may feel insecure about sharing your thoughts or opinions in relationships, fearing disagreement or conflict. Healing: Learn to communicate your ideas confidently, even if it leads to disagreement. Healing comes from trusting that your voice matters and contributes to healthy relationships.

4th House:Wound: The wound may arise from instability or imbalance in your family life, where relationships may have lacked harmony or emotional security. Healing: Focus on creating emotional security within your home. Healing comes from finding balance in family dynamics and asserting your emotional needs without fear.

5th House:Wound: You may struggle with expressing your creativity or romance, often fearing rejection or imbalance in your love life. Healing: Embrace your creative self-expression and love without striving for perfection. Healing comes from trusting that passion and balance can coexist in romantic relationships.

6th House:Wound: The wound may manifest in your work relationships or daily routines, where you feel pressured to keep the peace at the expense of your own well-being. Healing: Set healthy boundaries in your work life and daily routines. Healing comes from recognizing that you don’t have to overextend yourself to be valued.

7th House:Wound: You may fear abandonment or conflict in close partnerships, often suppressing your own needs to maintain harmony. Healing: Learn to assert your needs in relationships without fearing the loss of connection. Healing comes from creating partnerships that respect both your needs and the other person’s.

8th House:Wound: You may fear emotional or financial vulnerability, feeling the need to control situations to avoid conflict or loss in relationships. Healing: Embrace vulnerability and learn to share emotional and material resources in a balanced way. Healing comes from trusting that mutual respect can foster deep emotional bonds.

9th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about expressing your beliefs or ideals in relationships, fearing judgment or rejection. Healing: Stand firm in your beliefs while being open to others’ perspectives. Healing comes from recognizing that differing viewpoints can exist harmoniously within relationships.

10th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about asserting yourself in your public life or career, fearing that doing so could disrupt professional relationships. Healing: Learn to assert your needs and ambitions in your career without fearing conflict. Healing comes from trusting that you can achieve success without sacrificing harmony in professional relationships.

11th House:Wound: You may feel disconnected or unappreciated in social groups or communities, often feeling pressure to conform to be accepted. Healing: Embrace your unique contributions within group settings. Healing comes from trusting that you can maintain your individuality while being a valued part of a balanced community.

12th House:Wound: You may feel isolated or disconnected in relationships, often struggling with unconscious fears of abandonment or a lack of balance in spiritual connections. Healing: Develop a deep connection with yourself and your spiritual side. Healing comes from trusting the natural flow of relationships and allowing emotional and spiritual connections to form without fear of loss.

𝐒𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐢𝐨 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧

Chiron in Scorpio signifies deep emotional wounds connected to power, control, intimacy, and transformation. Those with this placement often experience fears surrounding vulnerability, trust, and the potential for betrayal or abandonment. There can be an overwhelming desire to maintain control in relationships or life situations, leading to difficulty in allowing emotional intimacy or surrendering to change. These wounds may manifest as challenges in trusting others, resistance to transformation, and an intense fear of losing emotional or material power. Healing begins by embracing vulnerability and recognizing that true power stems from within, not from controlling external situations or people. Trusting in the process of transformation and letting go of the need for constant control is essential. Healing also involves forming deep emotional connections without fearing betrayal or loss, and understanding that emotional intimacy is a strength rather than a weakness.

Through the Houses

1st House:Wound: You may feel insecure about your personal power or worry about how others perceive your intensity, fearing rejection if you reveal your true self. Healing: Embrace your emotional depth and intensity as assets. Healing comes from trusting that you can be vulnerable and authentic without losing control or being rejected.

2nd House:Wound: Insecurity around material resources or fear of losing control over personal security may dominate, causing anxiety about stability. Healing: Develop inner security that isn’t dependent on external resources. Healing comes from trusting your ability to rebuild and regenerate, even after loss or financial setbacks.

3rd House:Wound: You may feel uncomfortable expressing your deeper emotions or thoughts, fearing that others will misunderstand or judge you. Healing: Learn to communicate your emotional truths confidently. Healing comes from trusting in the power of your words and allowing yourself to be vulnerable in your communication with others.

4th House:Wound: Deep emotional pain or issues of control may have been present in your family or home life, leading to feelings of betrayal or insecurity. Healing: Create a safe emotional space within your home and family. Healing comes from letting go of the need to control family dynamics and trusting in the power of emotional vulnerability.

5th House:Wound: You may struggle with expressing your creative passions or fears of rejection in romance, hesitating to open up or be vulnerable. Healing: Allow yourself to take risks in both creativity and love. Healing comes from embracing your passions without fear of betrayal, knowing that your self-expression is powerful and transformative.

6th House:Wound: Feelings of inadequacy may arise in your work or health, with fears of losing control over your body or daily routines. Healing: Trust in your body’s natural ability to heal and regenerate. Healing comes from finding balance in your routines and letting go of perfectionism or the need to control every detail in your work.

7th House:Wound: You may fear emotional vulnerability in close partnerships, feeling a need to maintain control to prevent betrayal or abandonment. Healing: Healing comes from trusting the emotional depth of your partnerships. Allow yourself to be vulnerable, understanding that true intimacy requires letting go of control.

8th House:Wound: Fear of losing control in matters of intimacy, shared resources, or personal transformation can lead to issues with trust and power dynamics. Healing: Embrace vulnerability and trust in the power of shared emotional and material resources. Healing comes from allowing deep emotional connections without fearing betrayal or loss.

9th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about exploring deeper philosophical or spiritual truths, fearing judgment or losing control over your belief systems. Healing: Trust in the transformative power of your spiritual and philosophical journey. Healing comes from embracing change and allowing your beliefs to evolve as you grow.

10th House:Wound: Fear of losing control or being betrayed in your career or public life may lead to challenges with trust and power dynamics in professional settings. Healing: Learn to trust in your resilience and ability to rise, even after career setbacks. Healing comes from embracing vulnerability in your professional life and using it to fuel growth.

11th House:Wound: You may feel powerless or betrayed in group settings, social circles, or communities, leading to fears of rejection or manipulation. Healing: Embrace your role and power in group dynamics. Healing comes from trusting that you can contribute meaningfully to the collective and allowing yourself to be vulnerable in friendships and social connections.

12th House:Wound: Fears of losing control to unconscious emotions, spiritual crises, or the unknown may leave you feeling powerless or overwhelmed. Healing: Embrace the transformative power of the subconscious and trust in the spiritual journey. Healing comes from surrendering control and allowing the natural flow of emotional and spiritual growth to guide you.

𝐒𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧

Chiron in Sagittarius represents wounds tied to beliefs, freedom, and the search for truth. Individuals with this placement may struggle with feelings of inadequacy in their understanding of life’s purpose, personal freedom, and their own philosophical or spiritual beliefs. They may fear not having the "right" answers or feel limited in their ability to live authentically. These wounds can manifest as insecurity about one’s worldview, fear of being judged for one’s beliefs, or difficulty in feeling free to explore new ideas and experiences. Healing comes from embracing your personal truth and realizing that there is no singular path to wisdom or freedom. Trusting your own spiritual or philosophical journey, rather than seeking external validation, is essential. You heal by accepting that life’s meaning is subjective, embracing diverse perspectives, and allowing yourself the freedom to explore without fear of judgment or failure.

Through the Houses

1st House:Wound: You may feel insecure about your identity, especially when expressing your beliefs or personal truth, fearing that others will judge or reject you. Healing: Embrace your unique perspective and trust in your personal truth. Healing comes from confidently expressing your authentic self without seeking external validation.

2nd House:Wound: Insecurity may revolve around personal values or the fear of not being "enough" in terms of what you believe or possess. Healing: Develop a sense of inner worth that isn’t tied to material success or societal approval. Healing comes from trusting your personal values and believing in your inner abundance.

3rd House:Wound: You may feel insecure about communicating your beliefs or ideas, fearing they are not valid or worthy of being heard. Healing: Trust in your intellect and share your ideas openly. Healing comes from learning to communicate your beliefs with confidence and embracing the value of your thoughts.

4th House:Wound: You may feel disconnected from your family’s belief systems or struggle to find your place within your home’s philosophical or cultural framework. Healing: Create your own sense of spiritual or philosophical belonging. Healing comes from building a home environment that reflects your truth and supports emotional security.

5th House:Wound: You may fear expressing your beliefs or philosophies through creative endeavors, worrying about being judged for your passions. Healing: Allow yourself to express your beliefs through creativity without fear of rejection. Healing comes from embracing the joy of exploring your passions and trusting that your unique perspective can inspire others.

6th House:Wound: You may feel restricted in your work or daily routines, believing they limit your ability to explore new ideas or personal freedom. Healing: Integrate your need for freedom into your daily life and work. Healing comes from balancing routine with exploration and finding growth and learning opportunities in everyday tasks.

7th House:Wound: In relationships, you may feel insecure about your beliefs or philosophical outlook, fearing they will not be accepted by your partner. Healing: Embrace your personal truth in relationships. Healing comes from trusting that you can find partners who honor your beliefs while respecting theirs, allowing room for mutual growth.

8th House:Wound: You may fear sharing your deeper spiritual or philosophical beliefs in intimate relationships, worrying about betrayal or judgment. Healing: Healing comes from trusting in the transformative power of shared beliefs. Embrace vulnerability in your intimate connections, allowing for deep emotional and spiritual bonding.

9th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about your philosophical, spiritual, or religious beliefs, worrying that your worldview is flawed or that you don’t have the "right" answers. Healing: Embrace the diversity of belief systems and trust your spiritual journey. Healing comes from allowing yourself the freedom to explore new philosophies and accepting that wisdom is an evolving process.

10th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about expressing your beliefs or philosophy in your career or public life, fearing that others will judge your values. Healing: Boldly embrace your beliefs in your professional life. Healing comes from trusting that your worldview can guide your career and shape your public success.

11th House:Wound: You may feel disconnected from social groups or communities because of differences in beliefs or a sense of not fitting in. Healing: Find or create communities that resonate with your philosophical or spiritual ideals. Healing comes from trusting that your unique perspective can contribute meaningfully to the collective.

12th House:Wound: You may experience existential crises or feel disconnected from your spiritual path, fearing that you will never find true meaning or wisdom. Healing: Embrace the mysteries of life and trust your spiritual journey, even when it’s unclear. Healing comes from allowing yourself to explore the unknown with faith in the process.

𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧

Chiron in Capricorn represents wounds related to authority, responsibility, success, and structure. Individuals with this placement may struggle with feelings of inadequacy in their ability to meet responsibilities or achieve goals. There may be a fear of failure, judgment from society, or not being able to live up to high standards. These wounds can manifest as an overwhelming pressure to succeed, insecurity in leadership roles, or difficulty balancing personal ambitions with emotional needs. Healing comes from redefining success on your own terms and releasing the need for external validation. Learning to balance personal and professional life, and understanding that your worth isn’t tied to achievements or societal approval, is crucial. Developing a sense of inner authority and trusting your ability to take responsibility without self-criticism will help heal wounds related to control, status, and success.

Through the Houses

1st House:Wound: You may feel insecure about how others perceive your competence or authority, often fearing that you won’t be respected. Healing: Embrace your unique leadership style and trust that you don’t need to be perfect to command respect. Healing comes from knowing that your presence is enough to be seen as an authority.

2nd House:Wound: You may feel insecure about material security or fear that you aren’t seen as stable or successful enough by others. Healing: Build inner security by trusting in your ability to create abundance without needing to prove your worth through material achievements. Healing comes from valuing yourself beyond external measures of success.

3rd House:Wound: You may struggle with feeling inadequate in communicating your ideas or feel judged for how you express yourself in intellectual or social situations. Healing: Trust in your voice and wisdom, knowing that success doesn’t require perfection. Healing comes from embracing communication without fear of judgment and recognizing your ideas as valuable.

4th House:Wound: Feelings of inadequacy in your home life or family dynamics may lead to a fear of emotional or material instability. Healing: Focus on creating emotional and material stability for yourself. Healing comes from trusting that you can build a nurturing home environment without the need for perfection or control.

5th House:Wound: You may fear that your creative talents or passions won’t lead to recognition or success, causing you to hold back. Healing: Allow yourself to express your creativity without needing external validation. Healing comes from recognizing that your passions and creativity are valuable, even if they don’t conform to traditional ideas of success.

6th House:Wound: You may feel overwhelmed by responsibilities in your work or daily routines, fearing that you’re not managing them well enough. Healing: Healing comes from finding balance between work and self-care. Trust that you can handle your responsibilities without overburdening yourself, and recognize that success includes taking care of your well-being.

7th House:Wound: Insecurity in relationships may lead you to fear failure in partnerships or feel that you can’t maintain balanced, successful relationships. Healing: Heal by accepting that relationships don’t need to be perfect to succeed. Trust that balance in partnerships comes from emotional harmony and understanding, not control.

8th House:Wound: You may fear losing control in intimate relationships or shared resources, leading to insecurity in trusting others deeply. Healing: Embrace the power of vulnerability in relationships. Healing comes from trusting that you can navigate shared emotional and material responsibilities without fear of betrayal or loss of control.

9th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about your beliefs or spiritual journey, fearing that you’re not on the “right” path to success or enlightenment. Healing: Trust in your unique spiritual or philosophical journey. Healing comes from embracing your personal path, even if it doesn’t align with societal or traditional expectations.

10th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about your career or public image, fearing that you’ll never achieve the success or respect you desire. Healing: Define success on your own terms and trust in the value of your efforts. Healing comes from allowing yourself to take on leadership roles without fear of failure or judgment.

11th House:Wound: You may feel like an outsider in social or group settings, fearing that you won’t find success or acceptance in communities or networks. Healing: Trust in your ability to contribute to social groups. Healing comes from finding communities that appreciate your unique talents and collaborating without striving for perfection.

12th House:Wound: You may feel disconnected from your spiritual or inner life, fearing that you’ll never find peace or success in these realms. Healing: Surrender to the natural flow of life and trust in your spiritual journey. Healing comes from letting go of control and embracing the process of spiritual and emotional growth.

𝐀𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧

Chiron in Aquarius represents wounds around individuality, community, and belonging. People with this placement often struggle with feeling different or out of place within groups, social circles, or society as a whole. There is a deep fear of rejection or alienation, rooted in feeling misunderstood or not fitting in. These wounds can lead to insecurity about expressing one’s uniqueness or ideas, feeling disconnected from social groups, or fearing judgment for having unconventional beliefs or behaviors. Healing comes from embracing your individuality and recognizing that your uniqueness is a source of strength. Trust that you can contribute meaningfully to communities and social groups without needing to conform. By valuing your vision and understanding that being different is not a flaw but a gift, you begin to heal. Finding or creating spaces where your ideas and values are appreciated, and where you can connect with like-minded people, is also essential.

Through the Houses

1st House:Wound: You may feel insecure about how you present yourself to the world, fearing that your individuality will lead to rejection or alienation. Healing: Embrace your uniqueness and trust that it is a gift. Healing comes from confidently showing the world your true self without seeking approval from others.

2nd House:Wound: You may struggle with feelings of inadequacy related to self-worth, particularly around your unconventional values or unique way of thinking. Healing: Develop a sense of self-worth that isn’t tied to societal expectations or material success. Healing comes from trusting in the value of your perspective and ideas.

3rd House:Wound: You may feel insecure about expressing unconventional ideas or fear that your thoughts will be misunderstood or dismissed. Healing: Embrace your unique intellect and communicate your ideas freely. Healing comes from trusting that your thoughts can inspire others and are valuable.

4th House:Wound: Feelings of being different or disconnected from your family or home environment may have left you feeling like you didn’t belong. Healing: Create your own sense of belonging and build a home that reflects your individuality. Healing comes from forming an emotional foundation where you feel supported and accepted.

5th House:Wound: You may struggle with expressing your creative or romantic side, fearing rejection for your unconventional approach to love or self-expression. Healing: Allow yourself to express creativity and passion without fear of judgment. Healing comes from trusting that your unique expressions of love and creativity are valuable and worthy of acceptance.

6th House:Wound: You may feel out of place in work or daily routines, struggling to fit into conventional environments or feeling that your individuality is not appreciated. Healing: Create work environments and routines that honor your individuality. Healing comes from recognizing that your unconventional approach can bring innovation and value to any work setting.

7th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about your ability to maintain balanced relationships, fearing that your individuality may be too much for others. Healing: Embrace your uniqueness in relationships and trust that you can find partners who honor and appreciate your individuality. Healing comes from building relationships where both partners’ uniqueness is celebrated.

8th House:Wound: You may fear vulnerability or intimacy, especially when it comes to sharing your unconventional ideas or emotions. Healing: Embrace the power of vulnerability in emotional and intellectual connections. Healing comes from trusting that meaningful relationships can be built on sharing your true self, even when it feels unconventional.

9th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about your beliefs or ideals, particularly if they are unconventional or differ from mainstream views. Healing: Embrace your unique philosophical or spiritual journey. Healing comes from trusting that your beliefs, no matter how unconventional, are valid and can lead to personal growth.

10th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about your career or public image, fearing that your unconventional approach will not be accepted or respected by society. Healing: Embrace your originality in your professional life. Healing comes from trusting that your unique vision can lead to success and contribute something new and valuable to the world.

11th House:Wound: You may feel disconnected from social groups or communities, fearing that you don’t fit in or aren’t appreciated for your individuality. Healing: Find or create communities that appreciate your uniqueness. Healing comes from trusting that you can form meaningful connections with those who share your values and vision.

12th House:Wound: You may feel isolated or disconnected from the collective unconscious or spiritual realm, fearing that your unique spiritual insights are not valid or accepted. Healing: Trust in your intuitive and spiritual journey. Healing comes from exploring life’s mysteries with confidence, knowing that your unique insights can bring valuable wisdom to others.

𝐏𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧

Chiron in Pisces reflects deep wounds related to spirituality, compassion, and the connection to the collective unconscious. Individuals with this placement may feel a profound sense of spiritual or emotional disconnection, yearning for unity but struggling with feelings of isolation, confusion, or helplessness. They may also experience wounds surrounding sensitivity, compassion, and the ability to trust in the flow of life. These wounds often manifest as difficulty setting boundaries, fear of being overwhelmed by emotions, or feeling that they must always sacrifice themselves for others. Healing for Chiron in Pisces comes through embracing your spiritual path, learning to trust in the unseen, and developing healthy boundaries. Recognizing that your sensitivity and compassion are powerful strengths, not weaknesses, is vital. You must learn to accept that you don’t need to carry the burdens of the world. Healing involves surrendering to the flow of life while also prioritizing your emotional and spiritual needs, allowing for balance between self-care and compassion for others.

Through the Houses

1st House:Wound: You may feel insecure about your identity, overwhelmed by your sensitivity, and unsure of how to assert yourself in a world that feels overwhelming. Healing: Embrace your sensitivity as a unique gift and ground yourself in your spiritual identity. Healing comes from trusting your intuition and allowing your inner wisdom to guide you.

2nd House:Wound: You may feel that your worth is tied to your ability to sacrifice or serve others, often questioning your value. Healing: Develop a sense of inner worth that is not reliant on external validation or self-sacrifice. Healing comes from trusting in your inherent value and allowing yourself to receive as well as give.

3rd House:Wound: You may struggle to express your thoughts or spiritual insights, feeling misunderstood or unable to communicate your deeper emotions. Healing: Trust in your voice and allow yourself to share your compassionate and intuitive thoughts. Healing comes from learning to communicate your spiritual truth with clarity and confidence.

4th House:Wound: You may feel emotionally disconnected or unstable within your home or family life, often sacrificing your own needs for the sake of others. Healing: Create a foundation that nurtures your emotional and spiritual needs. Healing comes from finding inner peace and emotional security within yourself rather than relying on external sources.

5th House:Wound: You may feel overwhelmed by fear of rejection or inadequacy when it comes to expressing your creativity or romantic feelings. Healing: Allow yourself to express creativity and love without fear of judgment. Healing comes from trusting that your artistic and romantic expressions are valid and deserving of appreciation.

6th House:Wound: You may feel burdened by daily responsibilities or work, often sacrificing your well-being for the sake of others. Healing: Create balanced routines that nurture your emotional and spiritual renewal. Healing comes from learning to care for yourself while maintaining compassion and service for others, without overextending yourself.

7th House:Wound: You may feel insecure in relationships, often sacrificing your needs or boundaries to maintain peace and connection. Healing: Develop healthy boundaries in relationships and trust in your ability to maintain deep connections without losing yourself. Healing comes from allowing vulnerability without feeling the need for self-sacrifice.

8th House:Wound: You may fear deep emotional or spiritual vulnerability, worrying about betrayal, loss, or transformation. Healing: Embrace the transformative power of emotional and spiritual intimacy. Healing comes from trusting in the process of emotional depth and transformation, allowing vulnerability without fear of dissolution.

9th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about your spiritual or philosophical beliefs, fearing that your worldview is too unconventional or emotionally charged. Healing: Embrace your unique spiritual path and trust in your inner wisdom. Healing comes from allowing yourself the freedom to explore your beliefs without fear of being misunderstood.

10th House:Wound: You may feel insecure about your ability to succeed in your career, fearing that your spiritual or compassionate nature won’t be valued in professional settings. Healing: Trust in the value of your compassionate and intuitive gifts. Healing comes from integrating your spiritual self into your career and recognizing that sensitivity can lead to meaningful success.

11th House:Wound: You may feel disconnected from social groups or communities, fearing that your emotional sensitivity makes you too different to fit in. Healing: Find or create communities that honor your spiritual and emotional sensitivity. Healing comes from forming meaningful connections with like-minded individuals who appreciate your compassionate ideals.

12th House:Wound: You may feel overwhelmed by unconscious fears, spiritual disconnection, or existential confusion, struggling with feelings of isolation. Healing: Healing comes from surrendering to the flow of life and trusting in a deeper spiritual connection. Embrace spiritual practices that bring you peace and help you connect to the collective unconscious.

Masterlist - YouTube (subliminals)

[dabisbratz]

𝑀𝐸𝑅𝐼𝒩𝒢𝒰𝐸 𝒟𝒪𝐿𝐿 — kento nanami x male!reader

himbo!reader , farmer!au , strangers/friends/lovers , meet - cute , inaccurate farming techniques , lawyer!nanami , slow burn , depictions of injury ( minor burns ) , check - ins , dumbification , vaguely implied age gap (~5 years) , hand kink , inexperienced reader , light feminization , blowjobs , anal , mating press , fingering , hand-holding , praise , degradation , slut - calling , dirty talk , spit / drool , under-negotiated kink , aftercare

w.c; ~ 13.8k

sonny says. . . naaamiiii !!! {cry} {cry} mbaby :c can ybelieve s’is mfirst nami fic ?!?! just tbe clear, the reader’s size or height isn’t explicitly stated, but he’s vaguely hinted toward bein/appearin physical stronger than nanami.

‘ Next stop: Sekichiku ’

When he wakes up, Kento expects sunlight peeking through greenery— warm, yellow rays of light that dance and flicker across his eyelids. Warm, yellow beams that caress his cheek like the knuckles of someone tender, the palms of someone sweeter. It’ll overwhelm him at first, so bright and unapologetic as his eyes adjust and focus, but he’ll quickly crash, pupils constricting as the disturbance dwindles. And, suddenly, the star’s saturation will be comforting. It’ll be like a second. Just slower paced, peaceful. He expects the rustle of leaves, connected to strong branches and even stronger roots that dig into deep, rich soil. He expects to roll over in his temporary bed, breathing gently beneath shade, shielding his eyes from the welcoming invasion and blanketing him in a seamless flow of cool air.

When he wakes, Kento expects to hear the chirping of birds. It’s never quite enough to hear them in Tokyo. The strum of wind as it tickles his nose and pushes him forward. The swaying of grass— the smell is still so freshly imprinted in his brain, as it makes his head swim while crystal drops glide across its surface — a coarse underfoot of greenery that prickles the souls of his feet.

Tranquility by his side, urging him to get out of bed, chirping in an excited voice as it tugs on his wrist. He expects solitude, rolling its tangerine eyes and tapping its foot impatiently, “This is the break you’ve waited twenty-seven years for.”

But, instead, he finds himself clutching his chest, his heart beating with an unfamiliar pace that isn’t so calm. His body feels cold, like he’s been submerged in the deepest part of the ocean, unrelenting and ruthless as wave after wave crashes into his ribcage. The static in his ears grows louder and louder, ready to combust and burst his eardrums. Instead of the rustle of leaves, the cruel hustle and bustle of city life storms forward against his chest, shoving him back and forth. Back and forth, to and fro, against his body as his knuckles turn white and his vision starts to spot. Back and forth, as he comes undone.

It’s been so long, he’s not quite sure just how to unwind.

He starts off slow, swallowing air in desperate heaps until his legs relax, spreading toward the cushion arms of his faux-velvet chair. Then he flexes his fingers, draws them into tight fists and releases the digits until the shaking has stopped. Sips his complimentary white-wine with newfound steadiness, and tries not to choke when the intercoms ring,

‘Now approaching: Sekichiku.’

It’s a quaint little village, your district, where everyone knows everyone and the news is always, no matter where you are, city-wide. Stone-clad pavement and moss decalled windows, there’s a small blanket of achroous fog further north of town square. Yet, despite that, there’s an ever growing city of greenery and agriculture. With a small population and himself being the only passenger to unload at the station, it seems to be a lot busier than he’d originally thought. Street-food stalls and vendors, selling freshly baked goods and syrupy, savory sweets. It’s not like Tokyo, no, there’s no rush. No pushing or shoving, no overcrowded lines, no smells of smoke and burnt coal.

In fact, the air is rather crisp— the further his legs take him, the more apparent. No longer are his lungs breathing in the stench of sickness or body odors, no longer is he pushing past the fortunate, just to shove the unfortunate. And, admittedly, it’s a bit of a culture shock— but it’s not unwelcome. Regardless, Kento keeps his suitcase close, pushes it forward, sidestepping polite smiles and local shop owners.

He basks in it. The genuine nature to it all, the healthy glow of the atmosphere despite the steam, the fog, the chill to the air. He considers this a luxury— the closest to a vacation he’ll get, even if he’s technically ‘on the clock.’ Still— he soaks in the sights of hugging trees, of mossy roads and cobblestone streets. The colorful banners that jump with life, the lanterns and yellow-lighting that illuminates the day— he’s sure at night they’re even more wondrous. And, oh, the smells. Not at all like tokyo— there isn’t an overwhelming mixture of perfumes and colognes, no fast-food chains competing through aromatic smells, no heavy scents of tobacco littering the air. It's crisp, it’s ripe.

He almost takes no offense to the collision against his side— nor the screeching sound of surfaces grinding against each other, nor the loud and abrasive cry of the man bumping into him, accompanied by the crack of an apple’s core against the ground.

“Woah,” Warm breaths pan down the base of his neck, even warmer hands wrapping around his bicep with strength Nanami is sure shouldn’t be normal for a typical, everyday civilian. He involuntarily grunts, a deep sound that rumbles in his throat and earns an eager, yet apologetic chuckle. “You alright? Y’almost went flyin’!”

His brows furrow quizzically at that. First— he’s certain it’s the latter who nearly lost an arm and a leg with his tumble. Second, he hadn’t expected such a youthful, bouncy voice from the very stature shadowing acast him. Not even a bit, it doesn’t match the muscle straining through thermal clothing at all, let alone the sheer square feet of area being taken up by one person. Blocking his vision almost completely, standing straight— at an angle— that blocks a stall for fresh produce and flaky, steaming bread. The goods speak for themselves, crusted over in golden brown mountains and cloud-like, moist cross-sections.

Swallowing, Kento nods, eyeing the poorly drawn sign for fresh bread. Drawn in sharpie, the prices are written in big, bold, red letters. Endearing, almost, the curve and loop of each letter and number— the lines of each to-scale doodle of bread. Nothing like Tokyo, not nearly as artificial, not perfectly clean-cut. Not so cookie-cutter. There’s some personality in it, as juvenile as it may be. And it’s a shame, really, how promising the stand looks. Apples that shine a golden shade of red, bread that���s glazed in a sweet, sticky layer of yellow molasses and savory honey. And though he’d love to indulge, Kento has yet to label himself as the type. “Great, thank you.” Is all he says, pulling his suitcase along the perimeter of the stand.

Some other time, then.

The days are long as they are hard. The sun has yet to fully set, and still, the Earth pulls and pulls to weigh it down onto your shoulders. The sky is painted in hues of orange and purple, strokes of tangerine and lavender roaming past your bird's eye view. Your back pops as you stretch, arms tensing against the woven basket of leftover harvest, shiny red fruits aligned with the horizon and reaching toward the tiny glimpse of departing stars.

Where blossoms grow from tiny seeds, and orchids dance in gentle breeze— beds upon beds of farmland and agriculture drape the outskirts of the farmstead. Though the weather is turning, branches are starting to grow bare and bloom in color, the wind picks up its seasonal chill, and the clouds have begun to dissipate into the sky. . . The well-received proof of your hard work is still something to behold.

“—ome any minute, now,” You’ve heard it all before, your mother gossiping to her farmer-wife friends as she nurses sweet teas and tangerine tiramisu under her calloused, warm hands. You’d been a mere two steps away from where she sits at the open-island kitchen, shoes tipped in the illuminated speckle of celadon clearing just adjacent to the sliding, front, cedarwood door. “Said so, at least. Did you hear. . . ” Windchimes sing in welcome, soft and mellow as the door opens and shuts behind you, socked feet slipping from boots to warm, fuzzy slippers.

“M’back, Mama,” You mumble, half-humming along to the tune of muffled windchimes the further you walk, arms hoisting the overflowing basket up to your chest. A sweet sigh, then pitter-patter of fleece against parquetry, and the discovery of a sweet, cherry-red ladybug walking along your knuckles, leads to the basket securely placed on a free countertop. There’s a quirk of her brow, something of a gentle question— more of a suggestion— not completely committed to keeping two conversations at once. How’d it go?

“No luck sellin’ today,” your voice buds, small and soft as your eyes trail the curves of a particularly large waste of an apple. An evident pout on your lips, then a quiet huff of air.

Farming has been your whole life, really. It’s what you’re best at, good at. Ever since you were young, barely tall enough to push away tall-grass— barely strong enough to pull out weeds, you knew it was yours. Something special, gravel crumbling and breaking beneath heavy, solid boots and rubber tires. The remnants of small, flying rocks, pelting into each other and leaving behind white, gray smoke as your tractor comes to a slow, gradual halt.

“But I met someone new!” That peaks her attention, nothing short of a gasp coming from a pair of lips—identical to your own— and here come the questions. Was he blond? Oh, I knew it! Did he buy anything? Well, why not? Was he tall? Thought so. . . How about handsome? Come on, now. .

“He was . . hmm, pretty.” Is how you’d like to put it, raising a finger to the air in finality. Truth be told you don’t remember much about his appearance— it was more so his demeanor. He’d bumped into you— you think— and yet, there was something so smooth about him. Not even his slicked hair, wavy at the end and curved just right to frame his face and bleed into the bristles of his blond undercut. He’d carried on like it was nothing, still polite, even admired your handiwork on your stall’s banner. A sweet thing of a stranger.

“You’re so easily impressed,” The smile dusting your lips curls into a wee, nasty little frown. That’s just not true. “A good thing, too, you’ll have to like our new neighbor.”

Her voice melting through one ear and out the other like freshly harvested honey has your throat tied into a thick knot, stuck right at the base of your neck and only growing in size. Hands thrumming against the granite countertop, your body leans inward.

“Neighbor?”

“Mm,” She hums, landline trapped between her ear and sweater-clad shoulder. You’re not entirely sure if it’s toward you or her friend, either way, her conversation stays ambiguous. “I heard he’s some fancy lawyer. You think he’s defendin’ the Hasaba girls from last year?”

That’s something to think about. Two little girls who’d been found locked away by some sort of— police officer, was he? Perhaps something more authoritative, and taken into his personal care. You wouldn’t be surprised if it became legalized— you’d only met that man (Suguru Geto, was it?) in passing, but his stature seemed dead-set on protecting those girls.

There’s a muffled gasp on the other line, crackly with static as a finger twirls around the phone’s coiled, mint wire. The rest of the conversation goes unheard, slippered feet carrying you to the large, alcove window that displays just enough equal farmland and neighborhood housing. And, sure enough, as if on cue, it’s not hard to make out the lines and shadows of the ‘ fancy ’ lawyer, his fluid silhouette effortlessly carrying luggage and— what looks to be— a box of books. Documents, perhaps.

“You didn’t— how come you didn’t say nothin’ ?!” Your excitement has you toppling over, limbs every which way as your face presses into the glass window. When you’re stuck in a place where everyone knows everyone, there’s something exhilarating about having a new neighbor. And he knows nothing.

There’s a quiet mumble that roughly translates to: ‘You didn’t ask.’, but it’s filtered out by the sound of your full-footed stomps. You opt to keep your slippers, racing toward the neglected basket, mind completely set. “I’ll be back, Ma!”

The path along your house isn’t dangerous, but it is harsh on bare feet— inured by heavy boots and pick-up trucks.. Still, it goes completely ignored as you carry the heaviest basket of goods you own, anxiety twisting and turning in your stomach— bunny hops into your chest and stomps and stomps and stomps. You’ve carried yourself past the intersection of the cobblestone path, a lot more smooth the closer it gets to the large, usually untouched, rental home. The lights are off— save for the dim, yellow glow of a small porch lamp resting above an unsullied, sleek and wooden rocking-chair. When there’s no one to inhabit the home, it’s always been comforting to look at— but now? .

Cold would be one way to put it. Your feet are cold, your arms are cold, your hands are cold, and you’re stood at his front door— frozen. Scared is another.

Even so, you’ve always been told you’re the ‘bravest boy’ in your whole district. Cry-baby habits and all.

The door opens before you can knock, and all you can register is brown. Brown wallpaper— the beige type, just barely meeting the requirement. Patterned with old, vintage looking floral prints. Brown, sleek wood of a bannister— steps that lead down into the living room, but are visible from the front door. Brown eyes, such a specific shade. When exposed to the light they almost look gray— green?— but as he stands before you, there’s nothing but molten chocolate and burnt honey-candy. A brown leather belt, securing crisp slacks and an equally crisp button up. You expect to see brown loafers, but—

Fuzzy slippers, brown and soft and cute. Little black buttons for eyes, and two floppy, fluffy ears— reminiscent of a bunny.

“Oh. . . Can I help you?” You’ve heard it before, his voice, but it’s even more striking than ever. It’s easy to forget the voice of someone you’d just met, but there’s something so. . distinct about it. He’s got a slight accent, too, something Tokyo-adjacent— you’ve always wanted to visit for longer than the feeble four hours of a busy work-trip.

“Mhm!” Pretty lips spread to their best grin, pulling at your cheeks until the babyfat wells up. “Well, no— um, actually. .” Brown eyes are expectant, but calm and patient as they watch you fumble over your words. Your fingers tremor as the basket is thrusted forward, heat blooming in your cheeks. “These— This is for you!”

“Ah. . .” Pink lips part, cupid’s bow prominent. There’s a beat of silence, then the sound of his front door closing with a slight click— right in your face. For a moment all you can do is stare, eyes boring into the dark, chestnut wood of the rustic front door. Staring until it’s gone blurry, eyes bubbling with fresh, unshed tears. And, nearly spilling over like an overflowing faucet, they gather before you can blink them away— fat and thick and embarrassing.

“Um. . I like your sli—slippers.” Fully aware you’re speaking to an unmoving door, you can’t behind yourself to walk back the moss-decalled path home. It’s not so cold anymore, your bones having rung out in the, metaphorical, hot sun until they’ve dried completely and— now it’s warm. Warmth in your nose, stinging as you sniffle and bite down a hiccup.

“Sorry for the wait,” Mahogany shifts, offset by a deep rumble of a voice, smooth like velvet in comparison to the sharp, slow creak of door hinges, “Here.”

Dam rebuilt almost immediately, your body straightens. Him again, this time his eyes trained on what he holds in his hand. Brown and gold like sweet honey and, by God, it’s the most crisp set of yen you’ve ever held in your life. His fingers dance with fluidity you’ve never seen before, counting through each slip until he’s deemed an amount satisfactory— there’s a slight patch of hair on each of his knuckles, an array of veins that cascade into his forearm. His fingertips look a bit rough, but his nails are glossy and clipped. Even his cuticles are pushed back, just enough to look healthy and natural.

“Oh! I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know it’s rude to tip, so I left the exact change,” You blink. Once, twice— again, lips parted like a fish, fresh out of water. Then he’s hoisting the basket from your trembling hands, eyes downcast. “Next time, don’t give out things you worked for, for free,” Right where his eyes dip, his monolid, there’s a small mole— cute and circular, and had you not been studying the curves of his face you wouldn’t have noticed it. “You should wear a coat, too.” And, like a schoolboy, you can’t help the flurry of butterflies catching flight in your stomach.

“Yes, Sir,” Pearly whites biting at the fleshy, pink insides of your cheek have your lips puckered, pensive and sweet as you clutch the money to your chest. “Sorry about earlier— um, if it’s okay, I could help with your boxes?”

He leans forward, careful enough to keep the respective bubble of space between the two of your bodies, glancing at heavy, book-piled boxes labeled ‘N.K.’ The woven basket creaks under the weight of his chest, but it stays in one place nonetheless. “That?” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine, just mail. Must’ve arrived before I did.”

It’s a bit awkward, really. Anticipation nips at your fingertips— you’ve never really had to work so hard to continue a conversation. You’ve never had to think about it either, if the words were coming out correct, if anyone was comfortable with your presence.

“Oh,” You breathe, subconsciously leaning closer. Perhaps it’s a miracle he hasn’t actually shut the door in your face, and— right. Your hands move to wipe away any streaks from your cheeks, a small sniffle ringing in the air. “Sorry f’I bothered you. I live, um, closest to the windmill. Yknow, just up the path from here. . . ?”

You haven’t known him for long, but you just can’t consider him comparable. Maybe it’s your heart speed-running past any other rational thought, maybe it’s the blooming heat in your chest, maybe it’s the shiver of winter trailing down your spine. You find yourself desperately hanging onto his every breath, only ever beaming when he shakes his head.

“Kento Nanami,” Tense shoulders relax with a deep inhale, the sweet smell of chocolate stuffed bread filling his nostrils. All that trepidation washes away, hushed under the breeze of Kento’s slow breaths. “Did you make these yourself?”

The door creaks, quiet and welcoming as Nanami extends an arm, stepping aside. Once his eyes finally settle on you they harden, just for a moment, as if he’s finally noticed the pull of your eyes— the crystalline seam tightlined around your waterline, the bright red strain of veins peeking behind your lids. Still, he says nothing, until you’ve introduce yourself with watery tremors.

“It’s cold, and you came all this way without a jacket?” Your eyes trace the vapor floating into the air as he sighs, irises dancing along the edge of your bare forearms. “Come in.”

Your muscles straighten up under his gaze, rippling until rigid as you eagerly nod, “Y’don’t think we could share some of that bread, d’you?”

The best time to farm, you’ve learned, is just after sunrise. The sun rests her head on grassy hills, still groggy and not quite awake yet, herself. But you are, suited up in your boots and overalls, not a single lantern in hand. That’s the first plus, natural lighting of the rising sun. The sweet, dim bath of light that paints the path from your home to your plantation in molten gold.

Then there’s Kento. You’d think he never sleeps, but you’ve seen it. Ritualistic, in a way. For the last two weeks, you’ve watched him go about his day. See, the window of your bedroom leads straight into his study, where he prefers a dimly lit lamp over the bright fluorescents. It’s almost hard to tell when he comes and goes, seeing as whenever you look, there he is. Sat in a swiveling chair and hunched over his desk, writing something in a notepad and skimming through— what looks to be— more documents on his computer.

You can only tell he’s going to bed once there’s a sigh, a pinch to the bridge of his nose before smoothing out his eyebrows, then the discarding of silver-frame, rectangular reading glasses. The lamp stays on, as if he knows he’ll be back in less than seven sleeping hours— which you think, for him, translates to roughly thirty minutes.

And, though he can’t see you, you always make an extra effort to wave up at his study, just before starting up your tractor.

You never expected him to wave back. You never expect his eyes to trail from your face to your supplies. And you, most certainly, never expect him to join you. Two thermal mugs in hand as he makes it over the small hill from his home to your own, past the thorn bushes and vacant tangerine trees. Hot chocolate— piping and rich, it coats your tongue in its sweetness and splashes against your lips with comforting warmth.

“Mm!” You hum, blowing through the small gap between the thermos and its sealed lid. You’d assumed your scarf, wrapped snug around your neck, would do the trick— keep you warm enough — but this seems to actually hit the spot. Sticky accents from remnants of unmelted marshmallows, its fluff clings to the corner of your lips. And Kento, nursing his own mug— though it contains tea— looks up to watch you grin, shards of tiny sugar crystals clinging to your pouty bottom lip.

“Hold still,” all but purring, his thumb swipes at your lip, wipes away the stickiness until they’ve parted— breathless. His eyebrows furrow with concentration, as if it’s a practiced habit, absentmindedly licking his thumb clean with one smooth, quick dart of his tongue.

“Sweet.”

Your breath circulates into the air, a swirl of white that dispels almost immediately. Your thoughts are cut short, breath stuck in your throat, eyes wide and glazed over with astonishment. “It’s— huh?”

“Sweet,” he chimes, lips curling around each letter. He’s beside himself, nearly forgetting who he is until the clear of his throat and a resigned grumble. “I can’t fathom how you manage to drink. . . radioactive waste from a cup.”

His humor is dry— something you have to think over for a moment before smiling against the lid of your cup. Kento notes how you smile— with your whole body— eyes closed tight and teeth on display, shoulders bunched and your stride much more bouncy. He tries not to smile when you giggle, hiding the lower half of your face behind the piping mug as your shoulders brush against his own. With each step the closer you get— to both the blond and your truck.

“It’s good,” Your voice lifts at the end of the statement, feigning offense as you lick your lips. Soft tongue against soft lips, Nanami partly wonders if you naturally taste as sweet as your preference for drinks. “M’not bein’ mean about yours!”

“I'm not being mean,” He corrects, a silent apology laced in his tone— just in case — and your knowing gaze lifts from his cup to his eyes, blazing bright and beautiful. He basks in your attention for a moment, like the gentle rays of a sun-swept island. Had this really been a vacation— no carry-on cases— he would’ve considered booking a flight to Malaysia.

First, he’s buckling you into your seat— it seems you’d forgotten, then he’s reminding you to put on your gloves, despite having bare hands of his own.

“You do this for a living,” is his justification, though you deemed it more a reason for him to wear the protective gear. “You wear them.”

And, now, he’s listening intently as you explain the mild inconvenience that is the technicalities that come with farming. He learns of your affinity to animals. Your slight, biased preference for gardening. The way your nose wrinkles when you think too hard, and the way you often forget what you were saying as you say it.

Though the scenery outside the passenger seat window is beautiful— valleys of faded green and brown, a light fog dusting the air. The symphony of crickets and cicadas, and of course, the sunset making its round up the horizon, teetering along the age of the Earth as it paints each and every blade of grass in its light.

He helps you out of the car as if you haven’t done it yourself a million times, careful not to spill your drink in his other hand. He’s awfully tender, too, his thumb absentmindedly circling the glove-clad skin of your knuckles as your hand squeezes his own. The door slams shut, and he doesn’t miss your expression twist as you whisper a small ‘oops, sorry!’ to your precious truck before unloading supplies.

Kento can’t name a thing— he’s out of his depths, here, but he helps anyway. He carries it down the never-ending row of cabbage and radish, watches his step despite nearly dismantling at least three dozen budding vegetables simultaneously. And you don’t yell at him once, instead offering words of sweet encouragement until you’ve found the place to start, dropping your assortment of tools and buckets.

“M’kay, ‘Nami,” He watches you drop to a crouch, warmth blooming in the apples of his cheeks. It’s not just the suggestive position, nor the way your pretty eyes look up at him from there— but it’s how sweet you say his name. . going as far as to give him a nickname, too.

Still, it manifests through the twitch of his eye, which you don’t catch onto, as he kneels alongside you.

“‘Nami—”

“No. It’s pronounced Nanami.” He interjects, his grip tight along the base of unsavory, frostbitten weeds— at least, that’s what he sees you doing anyway. Almost too tight, heavy and thick hands flexing, you can see the bend of his knuckles as his fingers dig into the roots.

“Na,”And, the smell of dirt, it’s so strong, the earthy undertones invade your nostrils and have no intent on stopping. . . “—na,” Raw, natural. His palms press in at the sides, thumbs stroking at the soil as he feels around for growing stems. For a moment it’s silent, save for the crackling radio beside you. Your pretty lips part, and sweetly, you’ve sounded out his name. “—mi.”

A puff of air leaves his lips, a scoff of a chuckle, and he’s giving a slight nod, quietly whispering the syllables of your name in acknowledgment. “Mhm?”

He doesn’t miss the way your lips split into a wide grin, weeds absentmindedly disregarded for a moment as you giggle, “I already knew that— I just said it!”

“Mm,” He agrees, though he’s not entirely sure you did. Then his heavy fingers tap your wrist— gentle, barely even a tap, but it gets you back on track— picking up the dead weeds. Kento watches, your hands gingerly plucking them free from the root, mastered and effortless.

Your fingertips dig into the soil, palms sticky and damp, littered with defrosting grass along each ridge and defining line. There’s so much care in your fingertips, and with every successful pull your eyes ignite. Like a cute, overgrown puppy. “Good. You’re a smart boy.”

“Y’think m’smart?” And, though your shoulders bunch up— a bit more bashful, you’re shaking your head. “I mean— I knew that already, too,” and it washes away as fast as it arrives, replaced with genuine exuberance. “I tell m’self everyday!”

The blond catches it anyway, gaze unwavering, even as your own struggles to keep contact. Nanami’s eyes are remarkably intimidating despite belonging to someone who’s positioned so utterly relaxed. . Crouching just as you are, but with smooth shoulders and lax biceps. Still, they’re visible through the silk fabric of his button-up, but he seems used to it. Tufts of blonde hair, slightly unruly and disheveled— swept back with gel, yet still set off in a flurry of gold by the back of his head, as if he’d rolled around in bed and decided to lounge about instead of retouching it.

Cozy.

“I do,” The sun dawns down through thick, gray clouds, framing his bronze locks— and with his lips slightly parted and his skin picking up a peachy glow, he looks almost seraphic. “What were you saying?”

“Um,” You pause to rethink through the last hour, warmth blowing past your cheeks as a particularly nippy gust of wind rushes by. “. . We sell ‘em, the weeds! That won’t be for a few days, sometimes we keep ‘em for cookin’, but . . . these aren’t any good.”

“Too many?” He asks, as if it’s the most interesting thing he’s learned in his vacation here, by far, despite having learned that just a few days ago.

“Too many!” Pretty lips part into a wide grin, and perhaps that’s the conclusion to Kento’s sightseeing.

౨ৎ

Kento tries not to lie— not unless he absolutely needs to.

With your black on black attire— a large, knitted sweater, a black bomber atop it, dark jeans to match, a hand-woven gray scarf wrapped around your neck, and white sneakers that carry a cream-colored accent in its threading— it’s hard to keep his mouth shut.

“Where are we going?” Is his first question— but there’s so much more he means to ask. Since when do you dress so nicely? Do your parents know you spent extra farm money on those shoes? Is it bad to feel the urge to hold you closer, just so no one gets any ideas?

Nonetheless, checking the silver-plated Rolex along his wrist with the slight tussle of his lapel-collared trench coat, just before popping open the passenger’s seat of your truck, he ignores the growing thought.

“You’re always locked up in your house,” Twisting your keychain covered keys into the ignition, the truck starts up with a gradual rumble. You’ve figured something was wrong with the oil for quite some time now, but it’s never been enough to start any problems. “Don’t y’wanna have fun?”

That doesn’t entirely answer his question, nor does it ease his mind— a vacation this is, yes. But it’s also paid, and he’s technically on the clock whilst being here. Still, he nods just once, the clench of his jaw apparent in the faint valleys of muscle just below his ear. Though, he supposes he could say the same about you. Every day you wake up, harvest, water crops, feed your animals, clean out troths and shovel up feces. He’s not even entirely sure if that’s your idea of fun— but he hopes not.

Kento doesn’t expect you to be such a great driver. Smooth turns and a gentle ride— even with cobblestone streets and gravel trails. You get carried away when you talk, too, hands moving about and your gaze trailing to his eyes every few seconds. He has to remind you— “Don’t take your hands off the wheel,” “Don’t look at me, look at the road,” — but Kento would be lying if he said it weren’t endearing.

It’s almost like you can barely function without basking in his presence.

“If it were warmer,” You swallow, finally stopping to catch your breath after the last fifteen minutes of rambling. The car slows down to a halt, an overhead traffic-light flashing a bright, crisp shade of red. “We could’ve went apple-pickin’ . . . or even oranges!”

You take the time to fully face him, eyes trailing up his dark trousers and gray turtleneck— it bunches at his chest, and you’re sure without his trench coat it’d be just as strained around his biceps.

“What do you do when it’s cold?” He muses, ducking his head to watch the passing of trees and inner city shops.

“Hm?” You hum, but before he can repeat the question you beat him to it. “Uh, we have this lake— it’s the first to freeze over when it’s cold. . ” So quaint, his eyes gloss over pedestrians as they live amongst themselves. Walking their dogs, sharing a drink at an outdoor bar, couples huddled close together for warmth. The sidewalks are clean and clear, there’s a polite, happy bounce to everyone’s step. Fairy lights blink in every other window, casting a sweet, bright hue along the streets below it. Kento understands it all, despite it being much more. . comfortable. . than Sendai. “And, when it’s completely frozen, we skate on it!”

It feels like home. A gentler, cozier version of it.

“I’m sorry—” The blond clears his throat as he turns to actually look at you, having fully processed your words. “Skating?”

“Are y’scared?” Nanami tries to ignore the burning of his throat when you laugh at his silence— a pretty, featherlight thing of a giggle that only progressively makes it harder for him to catch his breath.

“No,” He grumbles. He’s actually done it before— his younger, studying ‘coworkers’ had a knack for dragging him around outside of work hours— and he wasn’t free from it, even in winter. Yuji, Megumi, and Nobora, perhaps the three only people who could have him willingly risking a fractured disc.

“Don’t be scared, ‘Nami!” The car turns into a short trail, decalled in various signs and brightly colored symbols. “I can help you, m‘kay?”

Four people.

He nods anyway, save you the meltdown, and lets you drag him out the car once you’ve found a good place to park. He’d think it was illegal had there not been a sign for it, let alone communal skates in varying sizes. They’re in good condition, too. A small wooden bench— decorated with moss along its sides, he brushed his fingertips against it by accident— keeps him steady, but when he looks over to you, you’re already walking around with untied skates.

“Come here,” He beckons, voice soft and fond as he quirks a finger in your direction. He watches you fumble, nearly tripping over your own legs as opposed to your laces, but you make it over to him anyway, thigh against thigh. You brace yourself when he pulls your legs over his lap, shifts in his seat and tightens them just enough— “It’s not hurting you, is it?”— to fit comfortably.

“Thank you, ‘Nami,” He can hear the sincerity in your voice— as if he’d saved your life. Your breath pans across his face, warm and minty as you shake your head, “Doesn’t hurt. . .”

He offers a gentle pat to your knees once you’re fully set, softly dropping them back down as he leans to tie his own. It’s a quick process— not as tedious as the knotted up, tattered ones back home— a much more nice change of pace.

The ice, though, is considerably worse. He surmises it’s because it’s relatively untouched— if the whole village of Sekichiku had done two laps over it still wouldn’t have been enough to leave a noticeable dent in the ice— so his skates have nowhere to grip. You, though. . .

You’re much more graceful on ice than on land. A slow turn here, a quick twirl there, you could skate laps around him if you so choose. But you don’t, instead holding onto his wrists as he stiffly skates forward. Kento’s nose is nipped with pink, matching the particular shade of his lips as they part in concentration. The shade dispels down his cheeks, and you’ve never seen his face so. . . soft.

“Say, ‘Nami?” You huff, holding his wrists as you move in a slow, clockwise circle, turning you both. “When’re you leavin’?”

The truth bubbles in his throat, tougher to swallow than he’d originally thought it’d be. He clears his throat, avoids the question, and instead of freeing his wrists altogether, he holds your hand. You’re pouting when you slowly swivel to his side, his heart somersaulting almost painfully at the cute, wee frown to your lips. “Hey,” you whine, caught off guard but still pleasantly surprised, squeezing your palms against his own. “What’re you doin’?”

You’ve always been undeniably sweet. Kento thinks back to your basket of goods. The sweet, savory, aromatic flavors of bread, meats, cheeses, chocolates. How you have it to him so sweetly, no questions asked. There’s no ulterior motive to your demeanor, either. It’s peculiar to have someone so. . dependable. Someone to easily lean on, someone so— hospitable.

You’re perfect.

“I've never—“ He pauses, watching smoke dispel form your lips. An intimate position, he’s in— close enough to hear your breaths, holding on tight enough to feel your pulse through your fingertips. “Noone has ever done this for me. Thank you.”

“What, take you skatin’?”

“Support me unconditionally.” He pulls away before you can say anything in response, relishing in the thought of your pulse speeding against his knuckles as he stiffly skates back toward regular land.

The ride home is smooth, but quiet. And once you get there, hunger overrides your hospitality.

You like Kento’s rental— its kitchen is spacious and just big enough to support the mess of pots and pans that come with baking. It’s warm and inviting, the stove works great and the oven even better. Its heat burns a little brighter, but nothing you can’t handle.

Pain au chocolat — chocolatine — and meringue cookies; they’re a pain in Kento’s ass. Not even something he’d try to attempt without you there— he’s happy to watch you whisk away and laugh at his disgruntled faces. A “taste-tester”, you’d called him, scooping one sugary accessory after another onto the pad of your fingertip and asking him to try.

You weren’t lying. You really do know how to bake— flour dusted skin and all. Twisting raw dough into pretty sculptures of bows and braids, scored surfaces of x’s and o’s, light layers of warm butter that seep into soft, risen dough. And when it bakes, oh, how sweet the smell of aromatic bread is to Nanami’s stomach.

Studying the contours of a pretty face— baby fat rounding your cheeks as they pool into a sweet smile, pearly whites displayed brighter than the moonlight leaking through the floral curtains. Your laughter is wholehearted, hands gripping the hem of Nanami’s fleece shirt, body tipping toward his chest as your giggles dispel into the warm, brown-sugar baked air. For a moment he mentally swoons, something of a comforting coo, eyelids heavy and blanketed with the same baking powder littering your handsome face. He relishes the warmth, which leaves just as fast as it arrives, and suddenly you’re reaching into the oven without your cute, fluffy puppy-patterned mittens protecting your hands.

“Wait,” His tone is harsher than intended, solid and thick, and you— the sweet, softheaded boy that you are, don’t entirely deserve the worried look on your face that melts into sharp, hot pain.

“Ouch!” Your elbow smacks into Nanami’s calf as you flinch, fingertips raw and numb— still pulsing from the fresh burn. The man crouches down, knee to ceramic, palm to your warm shoulder, and suddenly your wide eyes are glittering and gleaming. Had the smile from your face not been growing, he’d have been appalled. “‘Nami, did you see that?!”

“Silly boy,” He sucks his teeth, pulling your clasped hands from your chest. Gingerly, he plucks out each finger one by one, runs the pad of his thumb along the burn sites. “You have to be more gentle with yourself.”

And, as if he’d declared to destroy your favorite equipment, your shoulders deflate. Hazel watches as tears well in your eyes in real time— with award winning speed, really— glassy and wet and oh, you’re so cute. It was just a small reminder, nothing too harsh— it could barely be considered scolding. Yet here you are, sniffling and averting your gaze. Eyes glossed over while your fingers instinctively curl over his own for comfort. Then a small, petulant, “M’sorry, ‘Nami.”

“None of that,” Soothing, it's gentle and soft as his thumb travels along the numb pads of your fingertips. And though it was already a faint sensation, you can tell his touches are deliberately featherlight and calculated, cautious. “Nothing to cry about.”

“I’m not crying,” You grumble, though his ears register the sound as a wet sniffle as you rub at your cheek with the back of your free hand. “I don’t do that.”

“Of course not,” The breathy lilt tongue voice gives it all away, a tiny smile dotting the man’s lips. They’re entirely too enticing, a sweet shade of pink that dispels into the milky tan of his skin. Sheen and glazed with what could be spit, your lips part to mirror the same smile. Though yours is larger, his isn’t any less exuberant— luring you in one centimeter at a time until, inevitably, his breath ghosts along the expanse of your jaw— you can almost taste him.

His voice breaks through the thickened silence, “But it’s okay if you do.”

The next two hours should go by just fine.

౨ৎ

“What does ‘default-judgment’ mean?”

Floorboards creak beneath Kento’s feet, dimly lit ambient lighting placed around the office keeps it lit just enough to see ever so clearly— a small lamp angled above an open file, then the remaining trickle of light cascading over photos. Labeled, dated, clipped, and shipped to his front door just a couple weeks ago. Soon to be released, relinquished, deadlined.

His hair drips with cold water, tiny drops dripping down to the floor while others slither down his neck, and pool where his back dips, just slightly. He doesn’t tense when he sees you— his muscles remain just as relaxed as they were in the shower— and his eyes barely widen past the tired, lidded expression that paints his face every night, before he gets his studying done. But you—

You’re the opposite. Your shoulders raise to your ears, eyes wide and unblinking as they stare at the towel wrapped around his thick, slightly hairy forearm— it’s navy blue, with a brown, horizontal stripe across its fabric, and embroidered letters you can’t quite make out. An intelligible sound, then an unexplainable expression, and— there you are, tripping over your own tongue as your hands shoot to cover your eyes. Only unclothed from the waist up, Kento can’t help the amusement blooming in his chest.

“It’s a deduction based on a defendant’s failure to answer. . or appear, in some cases, to a lawsuit or court.” Nanami’s eyes trace the part of your lips behind your palm as your brain processes (though, he doesn’t think that’d be the correct word for it) his words. They purse, quickly, tight lined, until parting again— once more, with less confidence. With each step he takes (long strides that make him appear as if he’s almost floating) he grows closer, strands of freshly washed angel hair sticking to his forehead.

“. S. . ure!” You smile and nod in faux understanding, fingers curling toward the dip of your hairline, eyes peeking through cracked fingers. From there, beneath your palms, an uncomfortable warmth blossoms from your throat up, settling in your cheeks and sprinkling across your nose— sweltering and tingly.

Kento tuts, a soft noise, and you watch as he inhales a deep breath, pine eyes perusing through the space between your fingers for eye contact. “. . . Don’t worry about all that.” And, as if he can feel the high voltages slamming against your heart, his tongue darts out to moisturize his lips, and his eyes fall to your chest. He sits aslant to you, legs spread wide with the occasional sway of his knee— but nothing too sudden. You’re made all too aware of his half-naked proximity, purportedly close enough to feel the warmth of his body radiating through the room— to smell the sweet undertones of vanilla, musk, and earl gray tea residing in his skin. In a low rumble he speaks, pulling lotion free from the drawer to your left. “Silver lining is: I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

Even as he leans forward, closer and closer, he doesn’t cage you in— even if your chest aches at the loss.

Your heart demands the conversation die after that. Beating so rapidly you assume it’s stopped, silence freezes the air as your hands slowly drop to your lap. Lips pulled with woe, darling eyes low and sodden in an instant. Shoulders dropped just enough to sound a sharp creak in the swiveling chair you’re sat in, your lashes clump with fresh, unshed tears. And, in a lapse moment of murkiness, Kento’s lips twitch into a frown of their own.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, as if afraid your response will confirm it— he’s what’s wrong. His choice of words— wrong. Thin brows furrowed, the dip of his chin has his lips ghosting your cheek.

“. . . Nothin’.” It’s worse. He’d expected tears— maybe even an exchange of fiery words— but instead you’ve shut down, hands balled up in the fabric of your flowy pants, denim bunched up and draped over your thighs. Completely silent, staring at nothing and everything— all in between— all at once.

“Nothing?” He echoes, a silent suggestion for more. The rumble in your ear is almost too much, for a moment you assume you’d conjured it up with your imagination. Too close, too bare, too blunt, too warm— too fleeting.

“Mhm,” When your gaze meets, his heart plummets to his stomach. “Nothin’.” Words rush to his tongue before they can catch up to his brain, and. . you look so . . sad. He’s never seen you so defected— nor had he thought the concept of giving up existed for you. So headstrong, determined to make things work, gears always shifting into overdrive when you can’t make something out. You’ve gone as far as to create your own definition— this isn’t you.

“It’s. . . inevitable,” Kento’s voice softens, dropping to a quiet whisper between just the two of you. “But not for a while,” Then shifts his weight back, pulling away as he speaks in some sick sort of oxymoron, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will.” Grumbling, you’ve always been an open-book.

“Not forever.”

“. . . Ever,” You grunt, choosing to ignore the stern quirk of his thin brow. You’re a bit of a brat— Kento sees that now— behind the pouty lips and soft eyes, behind the large smiles and intimidating prowess. “When are you goin’?”

Nanami treads carefully, fingers wrapped around the closed bottle of lotion. With a snap it clicks open, and a generous amount is pumped into his palms. The smell is neutral and muted, but clean and fresh.

Kento tries not to lie— not unless he absolutely needs to. An unexplainable feeling, adjacent to panic, rises in his stomach as he lies, “Six weeks, at least.”

“Nami…” Ignoring the deadline he’d just given you, you ask, “D’you like your job?”

You watch his posture relax, as if the previous conversation was just as emotionally taxing as it was for you, for him. He sighs, pauses to think for a mere second, then shrugs. “I like its structure.”

“Oh.”

“I like helping people, too.” He adds, much more sincere. Your eyes trail the lotion as it’s rubbed into his biceps, his shoulders, his forearms. His fingers flex and muscles ripple, skin bouncing beneath his fingertips, and light traces of hair at his knuckles raising.

“Oh.” You breathe, eyes locked on his veiny hands. You suppose, in a way, your jobs are similar. You, too, help people out— you provide fresh food and crops, you herd cattle and brush the hair of healthy horses. A very hands-on job— it’s rewarding. “Me too. I— I like helping too. And. . .”

His fingers twitch, almost as if they can feel your gaze, but Kento makes no effort to move them.

Six weeks. Time is fleeting.

“I—” With trembling hands you lean forward, clasping Kento’s smooth knuckles against your palm. He’s just as warm as he looks, skin soft and sheen. His fingers flicker in your hold, straining as they tense— silently, asking, ‘what?’ as an increasingly overwhelming urge to keep Kento close washes over you.

It’s moments like these you’d wish you were better with words. To weave them together into something pretty, like a basket made for carrying fresh harvest. To pull apart and braid together an amalgamation of just the right phrases— ones that sound pretty and roll off the tongue. Some that sound soulful and genuine, yet effortless and forthwith at the same time.

Moments like these, where your breath is stuck in your throat and with every rise and fall of his chest you think you’ve lost some more— he’s taken it all from you— you wish you knew just what to say, to do, to bring that air back.

To have him melt at your words the way you do at his actions, to have him feel the same exact thing when your heart clenches in your chest like a rag that’s been wrung out to dry. Without trying, without straining. You wish you were smarter— better at this, as you lean so far from the chair it begins to squeak in protest.

You’re sure there’s better people in Tokyo. With better educational backgrounds, with cleaner jobs. People who have it all together, who have different skills and assets— who don’t stick to one thing simply because they have a natural born talent for it. People who are prettier, more handsome— perhaps more his type. People who have aligning career goals and paths— more accomplishments.

Sweeter, kinder. With softer hands and an easier understanding of city life.

People who are better with words. Who can weave them together into something pretty, like a closed case with no loose ends or dead leads. Who can pull apart and braid together an amalgamation of just the right phrases— ones that sound pretty and roll off the tongue. Who can make their confessions sound soulful and genuine, effortless and forthwith at the same time. All within the heart of Tokyo.

People who aren’t you.

Nanami stands, shuffling over to fix the documents you’d ruined— of course you did— but his face hasn’t changed from his usual tight-lipped expression. Sometimes it’s hard to read him, and it’s times like these you really wish you could.

“I like you,‘Nami.” You whisper to yourself, quietly pouring your heart out with each spoken letter.

And, with a snap, your world goes crumbling down. Increasingly silent, the world stops as you hit the floor and Kento’s chest stills— the soft, quiet beat of his breaths gone quiet, as if it were a mere memory to begin with. The backing of his swiveling chair falls with you, right to the floor, clattering much louder than the sound of your tense body, and—

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I think you have the wrong idea.” His voice is strained. Uncomfortable.

You’ve never felt more humiliated.

౨ৎ

Despite your humiliating attempt to hold onto it, time flies by. Locked away in your room— your only source of comfort being an occasional knock on the door from your mother and the weight of your blanket as it remains overhead. You’ve counted the seconds— tripped over your thoughts after reaching 1,633– started over again. You’ve listened to the pitter-patter of rain against your windowsill, peeked out from your cocoon to bet on a race between the raindrops.

You’ve thought about Kento, of course. So much it plagued you, made your chest uncomfortably tight— until all you could do was let out a humiliated groan all over again. It’s a timeless cycle, and yet, it grows closer to his leaving date.

You haven’t spared a glance toward the actual outside, even when your window overlooks his own study. You’re sure everything’s out of sorts now— weeds overtaking the farm, plants dried out or overwatered, any blooming vegetation snipped at the bud before it could bloom. Tough luck, they’ll get over it.

And, God, has your family tried. Through gentle words and offers of food, through soft praises that fell on deaf ears. Through frustration, too, anger laced in the sweetest yell of ‘where’d my smart boy go?’

Your eyelids feel heavy and thick. No longer swollen with tears or bloodshot with dejection— just heavy, simply tired. Sleep is all you’ve done these days, yet it feels like your body can’t get enough. Fifteen hours a day leave you straining for more, three hours a day leave you exhausted. You can barely remember when you last left your bed— for the bathroom, never for a drink— and even when your frown deepens as you think about it, you can’t bring yourself to fix it.

You can’t bring yourself to fix anything as of late, if it can even be fixed.

You were stupid for thinking he’d feel the same, anyway. A man like ‘Nami— a man like Nanami— so smart and so distinguished. So. . opposite of you, to think you’d fall anywhere near the same line as him. . is laughable, really. Even more so when you consider his upbringing. He doesn’t mention it much, and you try not to pry, but you consider his lifestyle quite traditional and cookie-cutter. You hadn’t even asked if he liked men.

“I think you have the wrong idea.”

His rejection physically pains you, a quiet sniffle and suppressed whine straining your vocal cords. Your nails dig into the fleshy, cushiony part of your palm. You can hear the pitch of his voice — rumbling and deep, you hear the shakiness of his breath—so deeply uncomfortable, cold with disgust. “I think you have the wrong idea.”

A knock to your door startles you awake, eyes wide open as your cocooned body flops around in bed. Still, you barely make an effort to respond, dry lips parting to form a garbled groan.

“Your. . . friend was at the door,” It’s your mother’s voice, but softer and pleading. For a moment your heart twists, eyebrows pinched as you suck in a sharp breath through your teeth— you can’t remember the last time you’d seen her face without slamming a door in it. “Looked tired, so I gave him some coffee. . .”

A bitter, disconcerting ‘so?’ nearly leaves your mouth— something so unlike your usual self, it makes you want to borrow deeper into your sheets and never leave. Shame. She doesn’t expect you to crack the door open. You shake your head, even if she can’t see you, only breaking your stubborn resolve when knocks once more, and slowly, you scuttle around the mess of your bedroom to unlock the door. Your eyes carry dark circles and heavy bags as your gaze pierces straight through her. Then, a shaky breath and barely audible whisper, “. . . S’it Nanami?”

Her aged smile is soft and thoughtful as she leans into the doorframe— something you haven’t seen in a while, and your eyes prickle with warm tears once more. “Between you ‘n me, you’re in much better shape.”

Cracking a smile nearly takes all your energy from you.

You don’t bother changing from your pajamas— they’ve always been so baggy to support the muscle you’ve grown over years of lifting heavy produce and working with truckloads— and now you’re grateful for it. Something to hide behind if you need it, and your fingers subconsciously curl into the fabric of your long sleeves for comfort. Once you get downstairs the two of you depart, and a gentle rub to your shoulder blades is all your mother offers before finding solitude on her own, just a few rooms away if you need her.

And— she was wrong. Of course, he looks tired. You can see it in his shoulders— they’re all wound up and tense, like they’d been when you first met. Sure, his jaw is tightened and you can hear the grind of his teeth against one another despite keeping your distance— but he still seems put together, albeit lacking his usual combover or corporate style of clothing.

It hurts to know he does well without you, as selfish as it may sound.

“Hi,” You mumble, rubbing at your face with the palm of your hand. Your voice crackles with disuse, rumbling and garbled in your throat. “Nanami. .”

“Hi,” He echoes, your name heavy on his tongue as he stands, leveling out the shared eye contact. Just Nanami. For a moment he’s at a loss for words— and it’s odd, typically he has an answer for everything. You remember asking why he’d buckle your seatbelt before his own, and his answer was always the same. You remember asking why he likes what he does— and they’d all circle back to enjoying the small things in life. His Kento’s lips part, taken aback by the loss of his nickname, but they close into a tight line with registration. Perhaps you’re just. . too much.

“I lied to you,” He begins, and your heart leaps to your throat. He clasps his hands together, resting soundly by his thighs as his head tilts downward, a silent plea. “And, for that . . . I’m sorry,” Kento releases a breath, hands coming undone to swipe away stray, gold strands of hair. “Don’t feel obliged to accept, I just— I like y— I want to show you something.”

It’s odd. The look on your face makes him want to scoop you up, to cradle you in his arms and hold you tight. And yet, he can see the cogs turning in your brain, the gradual loss of your frown and faux steel in your eyes as you shrug— he can’t even distinguish if you’re being reluctant or stubborn. Nonetheless, Kento smoothens the fabric of his coat, and makes a small, polite gesture to the door.

“Okay.” Your fist rubs sleep from your eyes, steps heavy and dragging along the floor as you slide your feet into brown bunny slippers— the same ones he’d worn when you officially met.

Stepping into the cold, crisp winter air, you both ignore the tremor to your bottom lip, “What were you gonna. . ?”

Not at all hard to spot, set alight by the glow or orange lanterns, it’s your farm. Oh, it’s much prettier than you could’ve ever imagined it. So clean, with pristine rows and neat placements of fresh soils. You can actually walk through it, as opposed to tip-toeing around like you used to. The air is crisp and fresh, just like you’d remembered it— but it feels better than before. And, dotting the horizon, fireflies dance into the night sky and blend into the twinkling stars. You don’t remember the last time you’d seen them— vision occupied by tall grass or obstructed by rusty tools. You could almost cry. Your breath catches in your throat, a gentle breeze brushing along your forehead and digging into the fabric of your clothes— yet you feel light and warm.

He did all this for you?

“Are you cold?” You blink hard, vision blurred with tears as Kento’s hand grasps your shoulder. “You’re shivering.” He’s quick to shrug off his coat, barely even flinching when the fabric dips into fresh mud, and loops it around your form with steady hands.

“M’okay. .” He frowns, barely visible, and the slight protests of being strong enough to tough it out die on your tongue. But it’s true, you don’t feel cold— not internally, at least. You feel light yet heavy, warm and airy. Heat pokes at your skin, ignites in the apples of your cheeks and trails down your throat. “. . . Thank you, ‘Nami. . . For everythin’.”

‘Why're you saying it like that?’ He wants to ask. As if it’s some sort of sick, roundabout way of saying goodbye. His movement stutters, lips curled into a small ‘o’ before reverting back to its usual, thin line; and he speaks, “I don’t just like you.”

Your fist tightens in his coat, fabric twisting to accommodate your grip.

“I. . admire you. Your strength, your weakness. Your baking. . Your smile, too,” He sighs, quiet and cautious. “Your laugh. I regret not telling you before. At first, I thought you were impulsive, and somehow abrasive, bu—”

You’ve never been one to hide from your feelings— you laugh when you’re happy, scowl when you’re angry, mope when you’re sad. So it’s no surprise to feel you smile; wide and unapologetic. It’s no surprise to feel the tremble of your fingers as they release his coat and land on his biceps. To feel the slow, shaking breath of air he releases at your silence— hearing his own slight sniffle at the nippy, cold breeze. You’re nervous, lips twitching as his chin dips, bashful as his lips intertwine with your own.

A kiss.

"’Nami," Laughing into his mouth, it meets the sound of your lips continuously meeting in breathless, heavy harmony. His lips are plush, soft and sweet, hungry and hasty, everything and nothing and all things in between. “I like you. I like you, I like you, I like you.”

You feel it now— the warmth enveloping his chest, the hard hammering of his heart against his ribcage. "Shit," He whispers, incredulous, and before slowly pulling away, cradles your handsome face between his calloused “I like you too.”

౨ৎ

Kento owns silk pillows. You can tell they’re imported from home— as they disturb the uniform colors of the crisp, cream comforter set blanketing his bed. It’s the first thing you notice, head sinking into the fabric as your eyes flutter closed, thoughts and breaths stolen with each wet, heavy kiss being pressed against your lips. His breath is hot and heavy, small groans and grunts leaving his parted lips, and— he tastes of chocolate.

“Kenny—” You gasp, but the sound of his name on your lips only eggs him on. Hot heat blooms in your stomach, tingling down to your tummy, so deep, something you’ve never really felt before. It tingles, almost, right through your thighs and straight to your cock, plumping up with each passing second. And his hands, god, are so quick and skilled— shedding you of your clothing as if he’s done it a million times before.

“Kenny,” You repeat, much whinier than before, tiny sounds leaving your lips as you squirm in his hold. “Mm, wait,” and his response is barely committal, a low hum that melts into a breathy sigh as your bare skin is exposed and your leaking cock springs free against your tummy. He coos, peeling the sticky fabric of your underwear free. Cute.

“Use your words,” Kento mumbles against your skin, running his hands along the silky smooth skin of the back of your thighs. “I know you can, you’re a smart boy.” You squirm with every touch, plush skin bouncy as you press your thighs together, cock sliding by your navel. And, even when you hide, he can see the precum smearing against your stomach, the tightening of your balls, and, now, your exposed hole winking back at him.

Fuck.

“Mm, don’t look,” You’ve barely convinced yourself, a choked out moan leaving your lips as his big, warm hand wraps around your cock and pumps. “That’s— oh, embarrassin’!” Slow, at first, trailing up the sensitive shaft and rubbing circles into the overly-sensitive head. Until his hand is slick with precum and his own spit, until your thighs are convulsing and you’re close to covering yourself in your own cum. Until you’re sobbing, pulling at his wrist with weak, clammy hands.

“I know, sugar. I know,” And the stifled cry you've been hearing belongs to you. “Feels good, hm?” His free hand grazes down your waist, thumbing at the dip between your hip and your thigh, then cupping the soft, plush skin of your pecs. “Feels better than your own hand, doesn’t it?” Kneading until your nipples harden against his palm, soft skin swelling around his fingers. And, oh, how pretty you are when you cry, overstimulated tears rolling down your cheeks and incoherent babbles leaving your swollen lips.

“Uh— huh, yeah,” Is barely breathed out, and Kento watches pre leak over his knuckles. Creamy and thick, sticky and sweet as your hips rock back and forth, to and fro. You just can’t help yourself, greedy boy, fucking into his fist like it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt and— oh.

It is.

“Messy boy,” He huffs, pressing his forehead against your own— damp and sticky. Your hand, preoccupied with fisting his sheets, is grabbed, and all you can feel is slick, hot heat. “Fuck your fist for me.”

“Wh- Huh?” It takes a moment for your brain to catch up to your hands, wrapped tightly around your cock as your hips buck— whines high and loud in your throat, keening like a puppy. It’s not at all paced, not like Kento, just pure desperation and need as your toes curl and your eyes roll back into your skull. Warmth rises in your face as your legs instinctively part, tingles spreading through your body and needy moans filling the air. Wet and sloppy, your hand is slick and soaked.

He travels lower, lips trailing down your throat, your collarbones— pausing at your chest. He watches the rise and fall, the slight bounce of your pecs as you pant like a dog. Pretty buds hard and sensitive, a gentle suckle is enough to make you arch from the sheets and keen.

“Good boy, that’s it,” You have the urge to get on your knees, to present all your holes to him, to spread yourself open with your fingers- fucking them in and out, in and out, just for Kento. It’s all too much, thinking of what’s next, what’s happening now, what’ll happen later.

Nanami lifts his shirt over his chest, the fabric bunching under your armpits as he keeps it pinned between his teeth, and you have no other choice but to flutter your lashes, watching as his pants are loosened and his cock springs free. Big. Thick and long— and, it seems his tan has traveled to his cock, too. Blushing at the tip, the sweet color of mocha, it disappears the further you look down. Curved, too, slightly past his belly-button and heavy against his navel. It's humiliating, the way your mouth waters almost immediately.

It’d feel so good weighing down on your tongue, fucking your throat fast and rough, making you gag and sputter— choking on your own tears and groans.

“Wanna. . I want. . .” You squirm where you lay, whining high in your throat as you find nowhere to hide— nothing to put your face against, nowhere to bury the drunk, hazy expression on your face.

“Want what?” He murmurs, pretty eyes trailing along the curves of your face before he places a sweet, soft kiss along the edge of your jaw. You take the grip on your waist as a slight indication— Kento’s patience is slowly waning.

“V’never. .” Your lips part into a gasp, eyes fluttering closed as his large hands travel along the expanse of your chest. “I wanna. . . feel you in my throat.”

The smart man he is, Nanami, never misses a beat. Pink lips splitting into a small smile, his thumb rubs circles against your skin. Still, you can feel the throb and twitch of his cock against your thigh, hard and almost leaking. “That’s ambitious, sugar.”

You don’t register scrambling up by your elbows, nor the amount of time it takes for your fingers to fail at wrapping around his cock. Your thoughts are muffled and hazy until a quiet chuckle sounds above you— rumbly and deep, and— ah, Kento’s hand is guiding your head back as he pulls your hands free. You’re panting for it now, mouth dropped open as the slurp and slick noise of his cock tapping against your tongue drops straight to your stomach. You could cum from this alone, without even a single glance toward the ache between your thighs.

"M'gonna be so good, promise, know I can do it! Want it, Sir," A clear habit of rambling when you’re nervous, a soothing coo leaves Kento’s throat. His tip smears along your pillowy lips, sticky and salty as pre paints your chin.

“Shit,” He groans under his breath, fisting his cock to ease the ache in his balls. “Slow. I don’t want to hurt you. Gentle, remember?”

You don’t. You can barely think, let alone recall something from another day. But you nod anyway, eyes glued to his cock as it bobs to and fro— pretty and weeping. You bet it’ll feel so heavy, weighing down on your tongue and nearly crushing your throat as you gag around it. He’ll taste good, too, salty and sweet as he buries his cock down your throat. With your nose pressed into the blond of his pubes, and his balls slick against your chin as they tighten and clench.

Yeah, you want him to cum on your face.

With a whiny nod you take his tip into your mouth, pink tongue over your teeth. In your head, it’s much easier— you can sink down to the base no problem— but in practice. . . You sputter and gurgle, leaning into the gentle touch caressing your cheek as your tongue traces the pulsing, thick vein cascading down his shaft. Through your pathetic whimpers and whines he mumbles— but it falls on deaf ears.

You stick out your tongue, cute and pink, latches onto your bottom lip, slicking his slit as he blinks down at you, pupils blown and wide as he praises you, voice smooth and buttery.

Through your own jittery, inexperienced suckling, his tip is smeared along your lips, slowly tracing your cupid's bow and bottom lip until a thin layer of pre has them glazed over and sticky. Your lips part, carrying a thin trail of creamy pre between them, as his dick slides in and out your hot, wet mouth. Spreading heavy along your tongue, swallowing around the head as his thighs tense, muscles flexing and rippling as they strain to keep still.

“‘Nami’s dick is heavy, sweetheart,” He’s gasping before you can fully take in the stretch of his cock, hips twisting as his eyes flutter closed. It’s been a while, you can tell, with the way his balls are clenched tight, his hand morphed into a fist— careful not to grip your hair. Your spit bubbles and pools around his cock, slick and wet, sliding between the seams of your lips and dripping down your throat, down your sternum, down his thighs. “And you’re taking it so well.”

Running your tongue along his big, veiny cock, his head falls forward— adam’s apple bobbing as he lets out a pleased moan. His cock fills your empty mouth, stuffing it full like a pre-lubed fleshlight, his balls slapping against your chin in sticky, wet plaps. Collecting drool, it froths between your lips and his cock, bubbly and white until your noises are sloppy and loud. “That’s it, good boy, take this load down your pretty little throat. . .”

Gasping on his cock, Kento’s hand holds you close, until you’re buried against his pubes, until your throat is squeezing and contracting and wrapped plush around the thick shaft of his dick. You can feel it, each and every twitch and throb, each hit, sticky rope that paints your mouth as he cums down your throat, ropes shooting down your tongue and sticking to the roof of your mouth. You’ve done so good, such a good boy, marked for Sir, offering a few hollow sucks to his spasming cock before he pulls you off.

You’d rather he paint your face, but you trust him, swallowing the bitter, salty cream as he whispers gentle praises.

“You’re perfect,” Kento mumbles through heavy gasps, rubbing away the fat tears that roll down your cheeks. Such a sweet, pliant boy, leaning into his touch as he gently pushes you back down, off your knees.

Now he’s got you folded, knees bent back in such a slutty, shameless display. The blond squeezes at his cock, his large hand sliding into a fist that clamps down around his beading, shiny slit, then slowly back down to the thick, veiny shaft. Yeah, that’s good, how it slips and slides with rhythmatic pumps. You’d like to imagine that’s how it’ll be when his cock is inside, stretching past your rim and splitting you open, sliding against your velvety walls until he fills you up with his hot, sticky cum.

“Spit,” he says, gentle at first, but hardening as your poor, pitiful attempt at spitting down your own cock turns into gurgles of drool and incoherent moans. He grips your jaw, angling it just right— till you’re resting back on your elbows and have enough space to land a warm, wet glob right down the slit. “Good boy. Look at me, pretty. Like this.”

You watch as he spits down onto his own cock, runny and wet, which stands as a reminder of its own. His fist is so big, but it’s not nearly enough to swallow his cock down. You watch it pop free from his tight grip, loud squelches with each and every movement. Every time he throbs, pulses, shifts— you hear it all.

“That’s it, atta boy, my good little cocksleeve,” You— it must be you, there’s no one else he’s speaking to. Still, with your hand squeezing your throbbing shaft there’s not much you can say, airy little moans and sweet, high gasps leaving your pouty lips as you buck— up, up, up. A thin trail of drool slips down your chin, warm and wet and— oh, that’s nice— trailing down your cock. “That’s it, stick your tongue out.”

You really do play the part, tongue on display as you fuck your fist silly, bumping slits with the blond. Soft and sticky, loud and wet squelching until his own large, warm palm envelops both your cocks, bumping and grinding and sliding so messy. You nearly burst into hysterics when the warmth is gone, and Nanami’s gaze tears away from the pre oozing between your shafts. “Ask Sir for more, angel.”

“Mm, waitwaitwait, don’t— don’t stop,” You keen, stumbling over your tongue. Your brows pinch, eyes glazed over with unshed tears. “Kenny— Sir, please.”

“Good boy,” All but purring, his hands roam along the plush, round mounds of your ass. “Yeah,” His dick slips between the slick skin of your perineum, dragging along the sensitive skin— the head of his cock catching on your rim when his thrusts turn too eager. “You’re a good boy, asking like that.”

“You like grinding on Sir's cock don’t you? Getting me all wet. . .” Just as warm and wet as he’d thought, cooped up in his office and fucking into his fist, lube gushes and trickles out with every deliberate, shallow rut forward. Your balls bounce and twitch, slick and shiny with a mixture of pre. Your moans, so pretty, high and nasally— incoherent and blabbering. The slurp of his cock goes straight to your balls, tightening as you whine like a bitch for it. And his grip, once gentle and steady, leads down to your ass, keeping it spread as he slides the big head of his cock along your pretty little rim, again, and again, and again. It’s more menuevering than bouncing, through your fucked out haze you try to think; you want him to ruin you.

A knot tightens in your tummy, tingling in your balls as your thighs tighten and your legs tremble— fuck, you’re cumming, hard and all at once, it catches you off guard and a choked squeal is knocked from your throat, rope after rope spraying along your own chest.

“I—” You sob, cock convulsing against your tummy as Kento groans. “I didn’t mean to— didn’t know, m’sor—”

He hushes you, a low growl in his throat as his eyes roam up your tummy, past your hard nipples and land on the splatter of cum collecting between the plush hills of your pecs. “S’okay, it just felt too good, mhm? I bet your pussy feels so good, baby— perfect, pretty little pussy swallowing up my cock.”

You don’t expect him to say that— that’s the last thing you expect, eyes rolling back in your skull as you moan, wholehearted and slutty. With the wet squeeze of lube along your bottom half, slicker and sloppier than ever before, your hole winks back at him. Your perfect, pretty little pussy. “That okay, sweetheart? Can Sir pound this hole till it aches for him?”

Your response is barely coherent, garbled sounds and babbling that roughly translates to ‘please’ as thick fingers prod at your tight, puckered hole. Your loud moans are hushed as Kento leans down, close to your ear. His fingers slide against your entrance, sticky lube sliding along with them and connecting to your puffy rim. They feel so big, so long and thick when he taps them against your hole, barely breaching the tiny gape of your rim. “Gonna get you ready for Sir’s dick, gonna finger that cunt nice and slow, get that sweet boy-hole stretched out.”

“Kenny,” You hiccup, uncontrollable tears streaming down your face as you reach forward to press his fingers closer, a tiny gasp leaving your lips as your entrance is breached. You don’t miss the groan you earn in return, deep and shaky as the man takes the opportunity to slip his fingers right in, past the burning stretch of your fluttering ‘cunt’ that sucks the digits deeper and deeper into your gummy walls. “Can take it, pound it, Sir.”

“Look at me, watch me, sugar. Watch Sir fuck this little hole full.” You squeeze your eyes shut for as long as the reluctant, bratty little part of your brain lets you before staring down into hazel. Until his fingers have you seeing stars and rocking back into them like a cock hungry slut, you’ve never felt more full until his cock kisses your insides, leaving you sloppy and open and full.

Your voice isn’t nearly as loud as the wet squelch and slap of skin against skin, his cock sliding in and out your puffy hole as lube gushes out around his dick in white ringlets. Like you’ve creamed on his cock, he can see it slip back inside with each thrust. Your knees over his shoulders, Kento hauls your body up, and with a tiny, wee and pathetic ‘ah!’ you follow suit, your cute little hole clenching and fluttering around his thick, leaking cock.

“Give me a little more, just a little more of this pussy,” You can’t contain the squeals and squeaks that leave your mouth when the blond pistons his hips, a bruising grip on your waist that only gets harder as he grinds his cock down into you. He’s filling you up so good, his balls slapping against your ass with each rushed, rough thrust that has your mind scrambled just as much as your guts. You can’t take it, hands scrambling to grab at something, anything that’ll keep you from screaming.

Pounding into you, your head falls back as you take it, nice and slow, stretching you out— fast and rough, steady and patient— Kento groans above you, bullying his cock inside, grinding while your hips squirm. Mouth open with an unending stream of moans, he breaks you in, turns you into his good boy— his perfect fleshlight. Wet little hole clenching and spasming, his weight pins you down as your greedy hole milks him for all he’s worth.

“Cummin’, Nami, s’too much— M’can’t—” Whining and crying, his touches go right to your head as much as they do your puffy hole."Kenny," you whine, long and pitiful, a pout of a noise that hits him right where you want it to, just as his cock does inside of you. You whine again when your rocking turns into frantic overstimulated grinding, reveling in the stretch of his cock and the rub of your prostate. He groans, thick and gravelly, hands coming up to squeeze at your chest.

“I’ve got you, c’mere, hold Sir’s hand,” He chokes out, feeling it too. The tightening of his balls, the way his dick aches and pulses inside you, the way his cum is starting to kiss your insides and spurt straight onto that small bundle of nerves— fuck, it’s so deep. His thrusts are hard and deep, thick rope after thick rope frothing around his shaft as he fucks it deeper inside. “So good for me,” You never want it to stop, not the pump of his cock, not the drag of his tip against your entrance, not the filthy sounds, not the cum filling up your hole till you can’t move. Your grip on his knuckles is tight, nails digging into the skin of his hands. “That’s it, such a pretty boy, cumming on my cock.”

A searing knot of pressure grows in your stomach, filling as you bear down on his cock and sob on your whimpers. For a minute you think you’re going to pass out, everything going dark as you spurt all over yourself, globs of cum spraying hard onto your chin and splashing back on the blond. He makes you ride it out, offering hard, shallow thrusts to satiate the erratic spasming of your hole, and places a few sweet, tender kisses to your sweaty jaw.

౨ৎ

You wake with a small moan, limbs racked in small aches as your body melts into silk sheets. It smells like him: warm, cozy, and comforting, like a hug. Grateful for the dim, ambient lighting of his bedroom, your eyelids flutter open slowly, and there’s not much to adjust to. You’re clean— its the first thing you notice, a faint scent of soap lingering on your skin as your aching body scrambles for Kento’s warmth.

“I’m here,” He says behind you, hairs on your neck standing straight as you blink at him. Carrying a glass of ice water and a plate of meringue cookies— whisked perfectly. Cute, cloud-like spirals that sit on a porcelain plate— the same ones he watched you make, a smile pulls at your cheeks. “Hungry?” The muscles of your biceps flex as you push yourself up, body subconsciously leaning toward the blond until he’s sat next to you, his touches gentle and fleeting.

He feeds you a cookie, watches your teeth sink into the sweet, then wipes away the remnants of sugar from your lips. So tender, your heart flutters when he takes a bite after you— an indirect kiss.

He swallows, throat bobbing, lashes batting against his high cheekbones, before parting his lips, “I was thinking of extending my stay.”

The room feels ten times brighter, ten times louder, and yet, your heartbeat overpowers it all.

“I like you,” The words tumble from your mouth, almost as if he hadn’t just spent the last hour taking you apart and building you back up. You have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. “I more-than-like you, Kenny.”

And, without missing a beat, Kento answers truthfully this time.

“I love you too.”

[bobafetts-princess]

What Were You Thinking?

Summary: After saving civilians on a mission, Logan is furious that you almost died. (You didn’t almost die) He reminds you that he needs you in the most Logan-esque way possible.

Pairings: Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: Logan gets rough. Hair pulling, ass slapping, biting, Logan doesn’t handle his woman getting hurt very well. Dirty talk. Scott is annoying. Logan goes soft after he finishes.

A/N: If you’ve seen this on ao3, I’m the same person! I edited this so it’s a little different from my ao3 version. I like this a little more tbh.

The mission was successful. Everyone made it out alive and with minimal scratches. Well, everyone except you. You’d thrown yourself on top of civilians, trying to shield them from harm. You were a bontanokinetic, the ability to control plants, but you also had advanced healing. So even though you sustained major injuries from the bomb that went off 20 feet from you, all the civilians were safe and you were almost healed. You’d covered the civilians with plants and tree roots but only had time to cover your upper body before the blast went off. You took some debris full force, leaving you with deep cuts. Most of the them were healed by now, only the deepest still scars.

You weren’t sure that the civilians safety mattered to your boyfriend, Logan, as much as it did to you though. He always had so much adrenaline after a mission. He usually dragged you to the back of the plane and fucked you senseless to work it off. He would fuck you double when he got ahold of you this time, his fear taking the forefront. He wanted to fuck you to make sure you were real. Make sure you were safe in his arms and stuffed with his cock. He did the same when he had nightmares about you hurt or killed. He usually woke you, cock nudging at you, until he was sure you were awake. He’d plunge inside, fucking you until he was sure it had been a dream. Just a nightmare. It wasn’t real. Being buried deep inside you was the best way for Logan to bring himself back to reality. And boy, you’d fucked up this time. You were in for the most animalistic version of Logan there was.

“Are you alright?” Charles asked, hand soft on the inside of your elbow. You nodded at him, appreciative of the concern in his voice. They all knew what was to come and while they knew Logan would never hurt you, they always checked on you, to be sure you could handle him.

“LILLY.” You heard a deep voice shout your moniker and you turned towards it. Logan was striding towards you, lit cigar hanging out of his mouth. You rolled your eyes, you were fine, no one dead, the big bad in custody. He didn’t speak again until he reached you, grasping you roughly by the arm.

“What were you thinking?” He snarled, animal inside him beginning to take over.

“I was thinking I was saving some civilian lives.” You responded dryly, annoyed at his reaction. This was your job. Saving people from evil. There was always a risk with it. He needed to get over it. He began tugging you towards the helicopter, all the other mutants clearing out of your way as he thundered along.

“You could have gotten yourself KILLED.” He growled, spinning so that you were chest to chest. Even in your irritation with him you still reveled in the feel of his hard body against your softer one. He looked down on you, hazel eyes hard but laced with concern.

“I’m fine Logan, I heal nearly as fast as you do. It’s a scratch now.” You assured him, placing your hands on his chest. You moved his hands to your tattered jumpsuit leg, showing him the pretty pink scar that would disappear within the hour. His fingers trailed the puckered flesh, still sensitive from healing.

“You could have DIED.” He reiterated. His mouth crashed to yours, cigar in his hand now. His other hand grabbed the back of your neck to anchor you in place. A fire started to burn in your body and you couldn’t wait to get back to the plane. To let Logan work his frustrations and fears out, using you. You decided not to argue this time, to let him take what he needed. “I’m not losing you.” He said, his voice softer, but still a low and threatening rumble throughout his chest.

“Hey good job Lil!” A voice shouted at you from across the wreckage. “You saved the day out there. The way you handled all that debris being thrown at you? Amazing. You almost died! It was an intense moment.” Scott laughed, clapping you on the shoulder even though you were still chest to chest with Logan. The motion knocked you into him and it broke the calm over the two of you. Logan hardened, features distorted with annoyance and anger. He shot Scott a glare, mouth curling into a snarl. Scott knew that you were a sensitive spot for Logan so he’d take any opportunity to dig at Logan. Scott had never gotten over Logan’s little crush on Jean, even after the two of you had gotten together. So when the opportunity to push Logan’s buttons arose, Scott would always take it.

It didn’t make sense, he wasn’t reaping any rewards, except for keeping Logan away from Jean. Which hadn’t been an issue in at least a year and if you were being honest with yourself, wasn’t entirely Logan’s fault in the first place. The feeling had been mutual between them but Scott had a tough time seeing it that way.

Logan hauled you over his shoulder, cigar back in his mouth as he stalked towards heli-carrier that housed the X-Men on their trip back from a mission.

“Don’t you think you’re being dramatic?” You asked and only got an angry grunt in return.

“Don’t you think nearly getting yourself killed is a little dramatic?” He snapped as he walked up the ramp.

When Logan got dominant like this, it brought out his animalistic side and you ended up covered in his marks. He found your room, a shared one, and shut and locked the door behind him.

He flopped you down on the small bed, releasing himself from his uniform quicker than usual. He always went commando so he was standing before you completely naked before you even had a chance to blink. You moved to get yours off but he beat you to it, tearing the uniform with his bare hands. Charles was not going to be happy about having to replace yours, again. Logan did the same with your bra and underwear and while you thought he was being a touch ridiculous, it was also hot.

You were in for it rough this time. He was high on adrenaline, pissed, and worried. He didn’t hardly take any time to prep you, but it didn’t matter. You were so wet at the manhandling that when he thrust two fingers in you it wasn’t enough, you needed more. He replaced his fingers with his cock giving you enough time to adjust so he wouldn’t hurt you. You could hear his heavy breathing from above you, his nostrils flaring as he exercised every inch of his control. When you were ready for him you told him so and he gave you a few sharp thrusts to make sure. Logan wasn’t a small man in that area, thick and long, so he had to make sure you were ready.

Once he decided you were he started a brutal and relentless pace that only Logan could keep up with for an extended period of time. Your body heated at his dominance, the way that he chased his own release without worrying about yours. But that’s because he knew you would come either way. Your hand traveled down your body, reaching for your clit to give yourself a little extra pleasure. Before you could, your hands were pushed away, stretched out above your body as Logan’s fingers circled around it instead. His body was warm against yours, his thrusts hard and unending. His thumb circled the nub, his teeth marking your breasts. The pressure he put on your clit was intense and you pushed closer and closer to orgasm. His grunts and groans were increasing in volume and he sounded like a wild man, a caged animal. Your body ached for your orgasm, you could almost taste it, so when he bent to bite on your nipple you lost it. Screaming and clenching around him, your hips met his thrust for thrust until it was over.

Once you came down, he pulled out, flipping you onto your stomach. He crawled up your body, entering you again this time, grabbing a fistful of hair and yanking your head backwards. The arch in your back allowed him deep, his balls slapping your clit with each thrust. He bent to bite his way across your neck and shoulder, pushing you closer and closer to another orgasm.

“Think again, little girl, before you try to sacrifice yourself when I’m around.” He grunted, smacking your ass to emphasize his point. His name was falling from your lips, punctuated only by your groans. His words were the only reminder about why he was fucking you like this. Even though you didn’t sacrifice yourself, it felt like it to him. Your hands were braced on the bed, but he grabbed them one by one, not releasing your hair. He pinned them behind your back and held them down. You were at his mercy, you were his toy. You didn’t have the strength to get him off of you but you didn’t want to. You loved when he pinned you. Made you helpless for him. This was your favorite way to get fucked by Logan, hard, rough, and fast. Your second orgasm was building, and when Logan bit down on your right shoulder you fluttered around him. His bites got rougher when he got closer and he usually broke skin when he came.


“Fuck. I’m gonna come in this sweet pussy.” He told you, teeth catching your ear and smelling your hair, his secret kink. He loved the way you smelled when you were turned on. His sense of smell was so strong that your sex pheromones always pushed him over the edge. You always knew he was close when he did this and you knew if you wanted to come a second time you’d have to work for it. But you were surprised when he let go of your hair and moved to focus on your clit instead. His circles the little bud, increasing his pressure with each pass. Before you knew it you were screaming your release, clamping down on his cock. It triggers his own orgasm and he roars, thrusting to the hilt and sinking his teeth in your shoulder hard enough to break skin. He empties himself into you, cock twitching in tune with your pussy pulsing.

“Fuck. That was fucking good.” He growled in your ear, rubbing his face against your hair to soak up your scent. He releases your arms, pulling you upright against him. “Don’t scare me like that again. I don’t want to lose you.” He admits. You nodded, your body aching from the marathon his body had put you through. He spun you, kissing you gently. “I love you.” He grunts, letting his softer side show. The two of you get dressed, stealing kisses and touches between layers of clothes. When you walk out to join the others, the bite marks Logan had left on you were only small scars, save the one that broke skin. It was red but healing, barely visible under your top.

Everyone eyes Logan warily, wondering if he’d worked out all his anger. He lays a hand softly on your hip, kissing your temple and you could feel the welcome sigh of relief from everyone else.

“Are we ready to go?” He asks, strapping you into your seat before he straps himself in. Charles nods at Scott and Storm and they start to take off.

[xxautumnivyxx]

Sometimes you have to remind yourself that the oldest roots run deepest within.

[charliemwrites]

Unfamiliar Nobody

You are a witch preparing for winter. Luckily, you have an extra set of hands - if they'd ever help.

Content: Possessive behavior, Semi-Safe/Semi-Sane/Consensual Intimacy, implied (pseudo) cannibalism, Violence and Death, Unhealthy but Happy Relationship

You haven’t been the same since the ritual.

Souls are tricky things, somewhere on that rickety fence between the Seen and Unseen, a bit of practical magic so common that people don’t think much of it.

Souls are like stones or plants. Abundant, but varied. Some are rare and precious, some are beautiful, some are poison. One soul does not weigh the same as another, and the beings that deal in their collection and sale value them differently. Souls aren’t rare and only some of them are powerful.

It’s a narcissistic misconception of humans - even the ones that can perceive beyond the physical world. That a soul is considered precious and coveted and powerful by all things of heaven, hell, and beyond.

Not so.

That said, like a bit of gold or a well-woven blanket, a soul can be commodified. Reshaped and displayed, butchered for parts, sold…

The selling of a soul has its merits, though not many. High risk, high reward sort of gamble. Tempting for clever witches - or desperate ones.

You were neither when you built the summoning circle that night.

You weren’t looking to forge any contracts or make deals beneath that moon. Didn’t expect to invoke any infernal beings or heavenly apparitions with the stars.

Well, best laid plans and all that - not that it had been an especially well laid plan anyway.

Baring your soul that deep into midnight had not yielded the results you intended. Or maybe it had and your expectations were just skewed. Souls are tricky things.

And yours hasn’t been the same since.

You always rouse as the sun begins to set. Late afternoon at the earliest, when most everyone else is finishing their suppers.

You can manage stark daylight, but poorly. It hurts your eyes and prickles your skin. A deep hood and long sleeves does the trick when required, but you don’t make a habit of it if you can help it, if only for the teeth that bury in your throat when you return.

Tend the garden in the dying rays, light the shop candles before night nestles in. Say your blessings, leave your offerings, wriggle out from beneath clingy weight to secure any provisions or materials from the town.

As the temperature cools and the shadows deepen, you settle into your work.

The shop once belonged to an apothecarist. Died in a plague some four decades ago, or so you’ve been told. No one of any skill or natural talent replaced them afterwards. Too frightened, perhaps, of what could be lingering within.

It wasn’t haunted until you (and your shadow) occupied it.

You’ve stocked it up quite nicely now. Herbs and spices, vegetables and fruits, roots and seeds. Thistles hang from the ceiling and bones rattle in the drawers. Mortars and pestles line a wall, weights and measures beneath the counter. Not a single thing labeled or organized, the latter of which disconcerts your… companion.

Fickle is not the word for him, but it’s the one you use.

(And he is a he, at least according to the long, thick cock he crams into you every chance he makes for himself. Though you suppose such trifles as gender are superfluous to nonhumans. A categorical fallacy for your own ease of reference.)

You told him once, that if he did not like the disarray of the shop, he was welcome to rearrange as he saw fit. In response, he left teeth rings around the base of each of your fingers, telling you how easy it would be to bite them off. He didn’t, of course - wouldn’t - but you spent a good portion of that evening updating the inventory logs (sat on that long, thick cock.)

The shop was never reorganized.

Tonight you wake to his tongue, a dark and wicked thing, improbably dexterous, lapping at your thighs.

“Winter comes,” he drawls into your skin. His voice is dredged up from the deepest pit in his chest, scrapes against his throat before nuzzling into your ears.

“I thought so,” you sigh, sleep laden and languorous. “Felt it on the wind yesterday.”

He hums. Or maybe it’s a growl. It’s hard to say when he’s sinking his teeth into the plush of your thigh, though he does it without hurry. 

For a creature without definite expiration, there is little need to be hasty.

You click your tongue when he threatens to break skin. His jaw locks like that, just on the verge of taking without being asked. This is his price for greeting the evening with you - or so he claims.

“We’ll have to begin preparations,” you muse to the inky ceiling. “I’ll make a list over tea. You’ll help, won’t you? What kind of winter will it be?”

He relaxes his bite, laps at the iridescent fluid left on your skin. His saliva, or what passes for it in this vaguely human form.

“Long,” he drawls. An unseen thumb rubs circles into your calf. “And frigid.”

You hum, can already see it in your mind. Howling winds and a silent earth. Still and peaceful, little creatures huddled down and hibernating. It was a good, warm, lush summer that promises a sweet, abundant harvest.

“A lot of snow?” you ask, fingers buried in something almost too coarse to be hair. 

He unseals his mouth from a fresh, livid mark on your hip. “Da. Snow.”

Your fingertips trail over the gnarled, raised topography of long-healed wounds. Marks that go beyond flesh, wounds of essence. No matter his appearance, he will always be scarred - disfigured, even.

Sometimes you fancy that he was some fearsome fae king or warlord of hell before retiring to become yours.

Sensing the direction of your thoughts, he nips at the meat of your thumb. Draws blood the time. You hook your index finger around a too-sharp canine and shake a bit. He grunts and slides his tongue over the pinprick of blood.

“Any storms?” you ask.

“Two,” he rumbles around your finger. “Maybe three.”

You didn’t used to love winter so. But this will be your third with him. As the climate chills and the nights lengthen, he comes into his patron season. It’s helpful to have a thing of the cold and dark when times are lean and everything (even people) lose their pretty foliage.

“Shall I expect more pelts, then?”

You balked the first time he brought (more) death to your door. Thought him cruel and ruthless. Perhaps he is without you to metamorphose the slaughter into necessity.

Furs for warmth, meat for food, bones for your work. Nothing gone to waste under your care.

“Pelts,” he agrees, “skins, down.”

You trace your thumb over the bridge of his crooked nose, press between his brows when he tries to tilt his head into the warm apex of your thighs. He bares his teeth against your wrist but cannot defy you.

“Tea for that drop of blood,” you bargain.

He sighs deep and vexed. “Mistress.”

Before slithering from your blankets, though, he buries his nose against your pubic mound and takes a deep, noisy inhale.

“Nikto!”

A village girl comes a little after the sun has fully set.

You finished your tea (and bread, for the price of a wet, filthy kiss) while making a list of preparatory chores. Have started grinding up rosemary to replenish your stock.

Nikto senses her before you do, pthalo eyes flicking up. She hesitates at the closed door, poised to knock, then decides against it and simply pushes in.

You pretend as if you’ve just glanced up from your mortar, an easy smile at your visitor.

“Good evening,” you call.

“E-evening,” she replies, lingering in the door.

While you’ve taken measures to keep the air of the shopfront clean and light, it’s something of a fruitless endeavor when Nikto’s made his den here. (Or more accurately, in the room behind the shopfront, where you dwell.)

Still, she only wavers another moment, finding nothing immediately alarming or perilous. She can’t see him lounging on the back counter like a lazy cat.

“Have you need of something?” you ask.

Your easy, friendly tone loosens her shoulders, coaxes her from the doorway.

“I’m here for something for my grandmother?” she says.

You tilt your head. “Anna?”

She blinks. “How did you know?”

Because Nikto grumbled it just now.

“You have her eyes,” you lie. “I have her medication just over here. One moment.”

You turn away to collect the little parcels that make up Anna’s bi-weekly order. Brews for her tea, ointment for her joints. You’ll mix extra as the chill sets in, fewer trips while seeing her through the harsh season.

“Usually Alexei comes to collect these things,” you say.

She rocks back and forth on her heels, a more curious eye trailing over your wares now.

“Mama and I have come to take care of nana. She’s getting older, you know. And this town has better prospects than our old village.”

You hum in agreement, neatly bundling all the items in a cloth and tieing a length of twine to secure it.

“Uncle Alexei is away with papa to finish sorting matters back there.”

“So you and your mother have come ahead, then,” you summarize.

“Mhmm!”

“Well, Anna is lucky to have you. She speaks fondly of you and your mother,” you say.

The girl lights up, cheeks rosy with pride. You slide her grandmother’s order across the counter.

“Anything else?” you ask.

“No, thank you!” she replies, dropping coins into your palm.

You glance at them (overpaid as usual, oh Anna) and sigh fondly.

“Hold on,” you call, “here.”

You pass her a little jar sealed in wax. She accepts it with a bemused smile.

“What is it?”

“For travel sores, when your father and Alexei return.”

She absolutely beams. Any apprehension she had when entering your shop is long melted away.

“Thank you, Miss!” she chirps, waving, and sweeps out the door.

Niko pounces in an instant, arms so tight around your waist that you don’t even stumble from the force.

“What’s gotten into you this time?” you ask.

“You were thinking of those men,” he grumbles. You’d call it childish if he wasn’t damn near mauling your neck.

“They’re well-paying customers,” you scoff, “and more good will is never remiss.”

He snarls, but moves on quickly. “You were so kind to that little girl. She had stars in her eyes.”

You hum in question, surprised.

“Makes me think of you with little ones. Younger ones.” He’s near rambling, drool soaking into the collar of your dress. “My brood. Clinging to your skirts and your hips. Getting sticky hands in the beeswax.”

You huff out a startled laugh. “You’re thinking of babies?”

He moans into your ear, pressed tight to your back. Broad palms knead at your lower abdomen.

“Little voices calling ‘mama’. They would all adore you, want to be just like you. Mother is god in the hearts of children.”

“All?” you repeat, twisting to stare owlishly. “How many is ‘all’?”

“As many as you will let me breed into you.”

Another laugh escapes you, a bit bewildered. He’s never spoken like this before, never seemed interested at all by the women (or their husbands) that come to the shop to ease their pregnancies or births.

“You couldn’t stand to share my attention,” you scoff. Which is to say nothing of it even being a possibility. You’re not sure that you and he could produce viable offspring.

He pauses, nose in your hair, considering.

Finally, he grunts, “Maybe.”

You’d thought so.

It’s not just the change in your natural sleep rhythms. You crave the iron of raw meat and inhale deep the burn of black smoke. Sometimes, you’re too preoccupied with the spill of ink on parchment, or the length and depth of shadows.

Subtle things, perhaps. A change beneath the skin, in the dark parts of your eyes.

You used to ask your questions in the sun, and look for the answers in the bloom of flowers or swirls of clouds. Now you whisper into abyssal shadows and they whisper back with a man’s rasp.

Not everyone can see it, the unusual glint in your eyes or the sharp edge to your smile. For those that do, it’s something of an open secret - that you provide more than helpful tonic and tinctures for common ailments.

A serum against pregnancy. A syrup for unkind spouses. Cut cords for bad friends and bent coins for poor business partners.

Tonight it’s the smith’s daughter. She’s just come into adulthood this past spring. A crown of youth on her brow, vitality draped around her shoulders. Darkened, this eve, by deals made with her as the currency. You see it beneath the sweep of her skirt, a chain of her father’s own making, a key in the hand of the mayor’s son. It drags her step in your doorway, rattling along the wood floors.

“Irina,” you greet.

She doesn’t admit it right away, demuring to purchase her father’s usual burn salve. You don’t pry, instead taking your time to spoon the thick, cloudy mixture into a small jar.

“You’ve…”

You tilt your head to show your attention, expression open. She clears her throat, smooths her skirt, tries again.

“My father designs to wed me to Boris.”

She blurts it like the words escaped between the gaps in her teeth, looks shocked in their wake You flick Nikto a reproachful glance.

“Is that so?” you reply mildly, as neutral as you can manage.

“I don’t want to,” she whispers, as though it is a shameful secret. But there is little shame to be found in your presence, and when your expression only reflects polite interest, she repeats herself, stronger. “I don’t want to. Boris is a coward and his father is…”

Mean. Lascivious. A bastard with a heavy hand and wine for blood, kind only to coin.

You don’t make her say it all aloud, you’ve heard it just fine.

“Is it an ear you’re after?” you ask. “I’ll listen.”

You do not offer more. It is something she must request of her own will. For your sake as much as hers.

It only takes another breath for her to gather the courage.

“Would you help me?”

“I would.”

You don’t jump as Nikto pours himself over your shoulders, teeth already scraping the nape of your neck. He’s hard and insistent against your spine, where scars of his teeth have begun to blossom. You sense that you’ll have a new notch for the collection soon, already feel slick and achy with the promise of his maw.

“What will it cost?” Irina asks, fidgety.

Your cunt three times over. Your blood on my tongue. Your juices down my throat.

“That will depend on our solution,” you say over Nikto’s sibilant entreaties.

Irina’s brow furrows. “Not coin?”

“Maybe coin,” you correct. “Do you want any of these three men dead?”

She startles, pales. Nikto groans in your ear, hips jerking hard, cock catching on the laces of your corset. Irina mistakes the sound for your shop settling, eyes flicking nervously around as if either of you will be caught.

“N-no!” she answers. “No, that’s too - I just want papa to change his mind. O-or for Boris to… to wed someone else. Is that wicked of me?”

You shake your head, soften your smile to ease her conscience. Once upon a time, you stood on the other side of the counter like she is now.

“Then coin won’t be necessary. I have a different price.”

Her shoulders lower, just a bit, curiosity where she should be wary. Coin is a paltry payment in comparison to things a creature like you could request instead. 

“What is it?”

“Scrap from your father’s forge, as much as you can manage, and whatever Boris gave you for your hand. Bring them to me tomorrow night.”

You fish a shirt button from beneath the counter. Prick your thumb on a needle and press the droplet of blood that wells into the smooth surface.

“This is a contract of my services,” you explain as it dries in the open air. Nikto inhales deep and ravenous, tongue flicking over the shell of your ear.

“If you take this, there is no going back. Do you understand?”

Irina hesitates; she’s always been a smart girl. That’s why she knew to come to you.

“What happens if I don’t come back with the payment?”

You flick a glance at Nikto, but he’s too busy toying with the ribbon around your throat. Patience fraying with each beat of your heart.

“Even I don’t know, but I’d rather neither of us find out, yes?”

“Alright. I understand.”

She accepts the bloodied button and drops it into the pocket of her frock.

“Tomorrow,” she promises, and steals out into the night.

Nikto bends you over the counter, heavy body flattening you to the polished wood. It’s unnaturally warm beneath your cheek. You suck in as much air as you can while he paws at the hidden parts in your skirts. He growls to find you wet and willing (always, regardless of what your mouth says) between your thighs. 

“Tithe,” he rasps, sinking to his knees.

Massive arms snake around your thighs as he finds his home between them. Buries his nose in the soft crop of curls so that his tongue and lips and teeth can partake in the sweet offerings below.

“All this for a severed tether?” you gasp, hips twitching in a bid to escape the too much, too fast, too good of it all.

His grip does not relent. On the contrary, it only tightens, dragging you down to smother himself in your cunt.

“Yes,” he hisses.

He takes and takes and takes. Sucks your clit until it’s throbbing at the slightest touch. Licks at the rim of your cunt, forcing his tongue deeper and deeper. Impossibly deep, until you feel the tip of it curl against the hard wall of your cervix, the root of it as thick as two of his fingers.

Your knees have long given out, your voice but a weak trill in your throat. It’s only when he hears you sniffling that he wrenches himself away.

“Give me,” he demands, surging up.

Laves that slick, black, inhuman tongue up your jaw, over your cheek. Doubles back to swipe at half-dried tears that dripped down your neck and onto your hands. He makes an obscene sound when the salt mixes with the dried blood on the pad of your thumb.

“I want to eat you,” he snarls, baring his teeth against the tender veins of your wrist.

“Maybe one day,” you pant, “when I’ve passed on. You can have my corpse.”

His eyes snap open, a manic rage burning so hot it feels cold. 

“Never,” he snarls, cruel fingers plunging into your tender cunt.

You cry out and grip onto his shoulders, fresh tears sliding down your hot cheeks. There is no mercy in Nikto, not even for you. He strokes and pets your walls relentlessly, abusing all the sensitive places he’s long mapped out. Brutal as the muscles in his arm bunch and jump with the pace and force of it.

“Never,” he repeats. Teeth in your throat but you can still hear his voice. It’s so loud and rough that glass rattles. “Just like this. You stay just like this for me. Mine, all mine. Always. My little witch.”

He makes you cum on his fingers, then jerks his angry cock using your release to ease the way. Spends himself in burning, sticky ropes directly onto your clit. As you drag in ragged breaths, he draws his sigil inside your cunt with your mixed fluids.

The bond has long been formed, there is no need to renew it. Your soul is no more or less his than before. You still shiver with the memory, an echo of the sublime sensation of your soul taking new shape. Making room for something else to lace through it.

“S-someone is coming,” you whimper, weak in every sense.

“Dmitiri,” Nikto answers. You knew who it was, of course, but you don’t think he would abide you saying any other name right now.

“Leave his order on the counter and make sure he pays,” you sigh, limping away in search of water.

Nikto may be a bastard, but he manages to follow your orders most of the time.

Irina returns the next evening with all that you asked. A bucket of metal scraps and shavings. In a little velvet pouch, a simple gold engagement ring.

“The button too,” you request.

Nikto, raven-shaped this evening, swoops in to snatch it from her fingers. She yelps, moon-eyed as he perches on a tall shelf and swallows the button down his scarred gullet.

“Should… should it eat that?” she asks.

You don’t even glance at him. “Too late now, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t look amused so you laugh softly and assure her, “He’ll be alright. He’s done it before.”

You turn away, scooping up the items for the spell.

“Now then, take this pin. Carve your name into one candle, and Boris’s name into the other,” you instruct.

“Which one is which?” she asks, a green candle in one hand.

“Your choice,” you reply simply.

When she’s done as you ask, you tie a piece of twine between the two, about halfway down. Set them on a metal plate facing each other and light first Irina’s, then Boris’s.

“Pull up that stool. Watch the candles burn down to the wick.”

It takes nearly an hour. You keep half an eye on it. Watch the candle meant to represent Boris start to eat at the twine, a slow encroachment towards the midpoint. Only for Irina’s flame to latch onto its end of the tie and scorch through the knot, the remaining length falling away.

Irina gasps softly, glances up to find you already watching. Studiously turns back to observe the remainder of the melt.

In the meantime, you continue forming the other half of your spell. Irina has been too preoccupied to notice the raven’s disappearance. Nikto is behind you again, guiding your hands to carve the woodblock in neat little peels. His fingers are threaded between yours, dripping raw power that you shape with intent. If Irina were to look, it would just seem that the candlelight casts strange shadows down your forearms.

When the candles have burned down to nothing, and Irina turns to you expectantly, you press a finger to your lips.

“Do not speak again until sunrise. When you get home, throw this into the hearth, as deep as you can get it. No trace of it will remain, rest assured.”

You press the carved wooden key into her palm. Her eyes trace the unfamiliar runes in wonder, but she keeps her silence and takes her leave with one final, grateful nod.

It is only just past midnight, but you yawn. The connection between Irina and Boris was not a strong one, but severing the covetous teeth of the mayor’s greed was tedious.

He has a weakness for fair hair and light eyes - both qualities passed down to Irina in lovely spades. Qualities his own wife doesn’t possess, but he would gladly see in his son’s if he had his way.

“Nikto.”

“All for a severed tether,” he purrs.

You tsk at him, shove his face away when he tries to steal a kiss.

“Finish the spell and then you will be rewarded,” you huff, waving him off. “Useless thing.”

He moans softly, eyes burning into you. “Useless,” he agrees, sharp teeth grazing your cheek. “Worthless.”

“Out with you. We’ve not all night,” you chastise.

He sinks slowly into the shadows; his eyes are the last to disappear.

Winter preparations are well under way.

A small mountain of firewood is steadily accumulating in the backyard, stacking higher and wider by the day. You’ve already finished harvesting the last of the garden, drying, preserving, and pickling by the jar. Have knitted half a dozen more shawls and socks with thick wool yarn.

Cough medicines, warming tinctures, lotions and ointments. You’re accumulating your winter remedies along the back wall and in crates beneath the counter, well-stocked for the town and smaller surrounding villages that frequent your shop.

Thus far, Nikto has brought you two pelts, and promised two more before the season truly sets in. A new pillow has also been added to your nest bed, a puffy, heavy thing of feathered down and cotton.

You like it so much that you bounce on Nikto’s cock until morning when he brings it to you, spitting into his mouth whenever he opens it in supplication. You drop lavender buds into the casing and breathe it deep as he lays you down after daybreak. It makes an excellent throne for your pelvis when you’re too worn (or over-pleasured) to hold yourself up any longer.

Still, as promising as your preparations are, you need items unavailable even in town. The journey to the nearest city is one day's (or night’s) walk there, and another back. Well worth the trouble.

Nikto has no particular affection for any dwelling, so long as it’s yours. He’s just as eager to travel as you are.

Before nightfall, you drop off any orders expected in your absence, and receive well wishes from your customers. No one asks why you are traveling alone at night. No one warns you that it would be too dangerous.

Nikto accompanies you along the well-trod road, a hooded figure more likely to be mistaken for the grim reaper than your familiar. He’s human enough if you don’t look at him for too long. A tall man thick with muscle, broad-shouldered, built for labor. Likely malformed beneath the scarf hiding his features below those blue eyes - or perhaps just shy.

Just don’t try to peer into the depths of that hood, or ponder that mysterious scarf for too long. The moon acts as a strange prism, waters down the light into eerie refractions. One might start to imagine sharp teeth peeking through ripped lips. Or glimpse poorly sewn hills of flesh, nothing but dark, empty space between the seams.

Luckily, there are no travelers on the road this late into the night. Any errant gaze is that of night creatures, and those know well to avoid the shadow at your side - and you by extension.

The trip into the city is no great adventure, but you weren’t looking for one. Nikto, you sense, is something almost like disappointed. You arrive in the small hours of the morning, just as the earliest risers have begun their day.

The innkeeper seems surprised by such an early (or late) guest, but is happy enough to welcome you in. Bread has yet to be bought from the baker, but there’s stew that’s been simmering overnight. It’s warm and hearty and thick. You eat two bowls with a cup of peach wine, pay for food and board for the next two days, and retire to the second story of rooms.

The bed is not nearly as comfortable as yours. The blankets are thin and woven, though they are layered enough to be warm. The mattress and pillow are both straw - comfortable by most standards, but a poor substitute for your cotton and wool and furs and down.

You make due on Nikto’s rumbling chest (prideful that you miss what he has so diligently provided) and let yourself drift into slumber.

At midday, you wake. City merchants aren’t accustomed to your odd hours, and you don’t want anything to be out of stock - you’re not the only one that’s made the journey for winter.

Luckily, it’s an overcast day and the sun isn’t too obnoxious when you venture out. You get a sweet bun from the bakery to tide your hunger while you shop. Follow Nikto’s whispering for directions, or to pick the best items of any selection. Spoil yourself a bit on honey from abroad and a new grimoire.

Return to the inn at the brightest part of the day for a nap. Rouse again in the late afternoon for more exploring and shopping, as well as a drink at one of the alehouses.

You’ve no friends in the city - or anywhere, really, for that matter. But being surrounded by good spirits and bright noise provides an unusual source of energy. There’s a band to watch and strong drink, some gambling that you amuse yourself meddling in from afar.

There are eyes on you, but there always are in such a busy place. You tend to attract very few gazes, but the ones you do will return time and time again, musing at the lone figure by the wall. None are brave enough to approach - especially not when it grows dark enough for Nikto to reveal himself.

Even he is in unusual form, telling you stories of a bygone time. A time when perhaps he was more finite than he is now. He uses names you’ve heard before, in passing, and chuckles at exploits more mortal than he deigns to participate in now. You like to hear it, like to provide him with the excess buzzing in your veins.

When the crowd begins to thin, you take your leave. He stays at your side (always too close, nearly underfoot) all the way to the inn, and is waiting in your room when you come up with the meal. He manhandles you into his lap and feeds you with his fingers, pours water into your mouth from his.

You stave him off until your food settles, and then he’s taking you into his lap. Has you twice before you doze off. Wakes you three hours later with his tongue lapping at your swollen folds. Has you twice more before you settle in properly until dawn.

The second day passes in much the same fashion as the first. Your indulgence this time is a pretty, slender knife, a length of ribbon, and a simple burgundy frock. The combination has Nikto salivating by the time you return to your room to rest. Not that there’s much to be had with you splayed out over your new garment, his hands and mouth and cock working you over until a puddle of slick and cum forms beneath your writhing bodies.

You send him to wash the stains in annoyance, and it’s returned seemingly pristine - though he gloats that the scent of your coupling remains. At least to him.

Nasty creature.

“If I get tired, you will be carrying me,” you huff on the road home.

He nuzzles his nose into your temple, a silent assurance that you need only say the word.

Halfway there, a band of highwaymen makes the fatal mistake of trying to ambush the two of you. Aware that anyone coming from the city will be laden with coins or goods, they would be correct if you were anyone else.

You click your tongue, steps never faltering.

“Kill anyone that’s taken an innocent,” you call over your shoulder.

“Mistress,” Nikto churrs into the air, breath so cold it sinks in the chilly air.

An unnatural growl reverberates off the trees. You don’t spare a glance behind you, steps easy and light, crunching over dead leaves and dry twigs.

A hand lands on your shoulder - heavy… and then not. Heat splatters and soaks into your sleeve, dripping down towards your wrist. The severed arm falls with a wet, fleshy thump.

Always so messy.

You tilt your head, veer off the road and follow your intuition until you find a stream. Humming, you shed your clothes and saunter into the gentle current. It’s frigid, only just unfrozen. You sigh, minding your step for slippery rocks as you wade deeper. The water rises past your scratched calves, over bitten thighs, soothes your well-used cunt and the bruises on your hips. Tingles over the silvery flesh of your scarred back until it’s nearly to your breasts.

Only then does the water darken around you.

Nikto’s hand closes around your wrist, draws your arm back until he can lick away the smears of a stranger’s blood.

Feast before the season’s famine.

You moan softly at the drag of his serpentine tongue along your skin. The ball of your shoulder, the curve of your tricep and bicep. Tickling the bend of your elbow… up your forearm… and wrist. Twisting between each digit. You lean into the sturdy pillar of his body until his other arm curls around your waist. You stand with him in the water like that, cradled by shadow and bathed in moonlight.

He is never hasty, but tonight he’s unusually slow. Almost lazy.

Wait, no. Not lazy. 

Deliberate.

Each flick of his tongue, scrape of teeth, brush of lips is applied with the same care and reverence afforded to an altar.

You tilt your head to rest against his shoulder, bare your throat. Peer through lidded eyes at the thick fingers twining with yours.

It’s as if he plunged his hands into a fireplace and didn’t care to dust away the charcoal and ash afterwards. It fades at the forearm into alabaster. In the crease of his elbow, it looks like he has ink for blood. You know from experience that it tastes of almonds and tannins, heavy on the tongue like thick wine.

You let him lay you down on the bank, dry and clean. He pampers you on his cock with slow, languid rolls of his hips. Grinds deep, pulls out only halfway to massage the head into that sweet spot over and over until you’re shuddering apart with a deep, heavy moan. He finishes on your stomach and thighs, drawing symbols into your skin before rubbing it in.

“Nikto,” you croon, thumb drawing a line down the left side of his face. From forehead, over his eye, down to the corner of his mouth where there’s an unnatural split. He lets you scrape your nail against the big canine, amusing yourself on the sharper bicuspid just beside it. “My Nikto.”

He purrs into your chest, drooling down your sternum.

“Who do you belong to?” he asks.

You smile, indulgent.

“I belong to Nobody.”

There is a possibility of a second part. Maybe. If that's something people want.

[sweetlady555]

what you wish for based off what house mercury is in your chart *ೃ༄🧞‍♀️🌠

these all could also apply to where you have sun and moon aswell because mercury rules your immediate desires, sun rules your deepest desires and moon rules your subconscious desires.

*ೃ༄ mercury 1h : wishing to be the coolest, wishing to be the smartest, wishing you had the coolest clothes, wishing to be a certain way or percieved a certain way, wishing to be the best, wishing you could be enough, wishing for recognition, wishing you can understand your own identity, wishing others understood you.

*ೃ༄ mercury 2h : wishing to be rich, wishing to be recognized, wishing to be enough, wishing to get the trendiest most sought for item out, wishing for praise, wishing to be the most beautiful person, wishing to be more authentic, wishing for more wishes so you can have anything you want.

*ೃ༄ mercury 3h : wishing to have more friends, wishing others could communicate as good as you, wishing to explore your environment more, wishing to learn everything about something, wishing others understood your ideas and perspectives, wishing you could know how others percieve you, wishing others knew how to drive better or even yourself.

*ೃ༄ mercury 4h : wishing for your family to be happy, wishing for your own space, wishing for a new pet for you to have at home, wishing to be always safe, nurtured and loved by others or by your family, wishing for a bigger/nicer/cleaner house, wishing you could have a secret hideout at home, wishing to be a parent, wishing to know more about your roots, wishing your mother or your family was more harmonious, wishing you could accept others opinions more, wishing people respected your opinions, wishing you could stick to a routine.

*ೃ༄ mercury 5h : wishing to be famous, wishing having more fun, wishing to be the star for any theatrical events or for anything in general, wishing to party more, wishing to be a known model/actor/musician/artist (anything creative), wishing to be admired for your talents and looks, wishing to have kids or wishing not to have any at all.

*ೃ༄ mercury 6h : wishing to be the BEST employee, wishing you never got sick, wishing for a pet, wishing you finish your work on time everytime, wishing to help all animals, wishing you could help everyone in need of help, wishing your body can look a certain way, wishing you exercised more if you dont already, wishing to improve your routine, wishing you could stop overthinking and trying to be perfect all the time.

*ೃ༄ mercury 7h : wishing for a bestfriend forever, wishing to have a lot of friends, wishing for a relationship, wishing that you could get along with everyone easily, wishing for a relationship that is also intellectually stimulating and communicative, wishing to get public recognition that comes through partnerships, collaborations or relationships, wishing you didnt have no enemies, wishing for connections to be fair and harmonious, wishing to have a happy fulfilling committed marriage, wishing you can make decisions more easily.

*ೃ༄ mercury 8h : wishing to understand magic, wishing for intellectual intimacy, wishing you could solve every mystery, wishing you could tell someone your secrets, wishing to be able to talk to ghosts or even being friends with them, wishing for someone to want to understand you to your CORE, wishing people could understand your POV, wishing someone can match your freak (being able to talk about taboo subjects without anyone judging you🌚)

*ೃ༄ mercury 9h : wishing to travel the world, wishing to be apart of a different culture or to learn a different culture, wishing to go to the best school, wishing you could speak every language, wishing you were another ethnicity, wishing to know everything about spirituality and higher truths, wishing to seek new experiences, wish to find someone who shares or respects your philosophical outlook.

*ೃ༄ mercury 10h : wishing you could be famous, wishing to have the coolest or the best job, wishing to be a CEO, wishing to create something new, wishing to be the best at what you do, wishing EVERYONE knew how smart, cool beautiful and talented you are, wishing to be a leader, wishing to be influential.

*ೃ༄ mercury 11h : wishing to have a lot of friends, wishing you could help the planet and the people, wishing to be apart of a community or a friend group, wishing to be influential, wishing to be apart of the latest trend, wishing all your dreams could come true, wishing for the newest device out, wishing for popularity, wish you could stop procrastinating.

*ೃ༄ mercury 12h : wishing to see magical things, wishing your toys could talk to you secretly as a kid, wish to find hidden things, wishing to help people who are sad, wishing to understand your dreams, wishing people can understand your intelligence, wishing to see things others cant, wishing to be alone, wishing for peace. (if mercury 12h individuals were a meme itd be this one😹⤵️)

[hyper-fixates]

and what if i said logan could get off from biting and marking you up ☹️ then what ☹️

just a silly little one-shot. this can be read for any logan/era :)

tags: afab!reader (no pronouns/gendered language), biting/marking, clothed male/naked reader, explicit language, sloppy kisses!!! scent kink, dry humping, groping/touching (let me know if anything was missed!).

Logan loves to smother you.

His earnestness and desire to swallow you whole doesn’t get more apparent besides when he’s on top of you, grinding against your bare cunt despite his cock straining against his jeans. And he’ll leave it that way, at least for tonight.

He sucks harmless kisses against your neck and jaw as if your skin will disappear any second, afraid to lose the sex-filled scent that’s keeping him glued on top you. You squirm relentlessly from the sensitivity and intensity of it all, but it just makes him more determined to overwhelm you and feel how much wetter you’re getting against him.

He licks over the taught tendons in your neck before biting an angry mark into the supple skin adjacent, making you claw harder at his shoulders (the grey wife-pleaser already making it easy).

Each lick, kiss, and mark earns you a swift thrust against your exposed pussy, the rough denim brushing against your sore clit that’s already been teased and tortured by his experienced fingers. You weren’t the first and you won’t be the last.

His scruff pricks the sensitive skin over your neck and shoulders as he ventures along your body eagerly, hands kneading your hips in sharp, desperate squeezes to anchor himself and rut his cock harder over you.

He’ll offer the deepest kisses to your lips when he hears you getting louder, timing his thrusts to rock against you when he reclaims your lips each time, making sure your pleading sounds are silenced.

The soft scrape of teeth against your bottom lip has your pussy clenching around nothing as he tugs just far enough away to open your mouth and seamlessly slip his tongue down over yours, locking your lips back together in a kiss that makes you both dizzy. A soft groan catches in his throat.

He moves back down your jaw, nuzzling the curve while placing wet kisses over your pulse, enjoying how fast it’s gotten from a couple bites and slick kisses.

“I could get off just by doing this,” he sighs, slotting your lips together again in a messy, tongue-filled kiss. “You smell and taste too fucking good to stop,” he whispers against your lips. “Every fucking time.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” you reason, sliding your hands up into his hair. The perfect cat-like points breaking apart as you gently pull at the roots.

He drops his head back to your shoulder, consumed by bliss, sinking his teeth into the skin right between your neck and collarbone. A tremor works its way through you as you feel a new wave of heat roll through your cunt while he sucks deeper and deeper at the spot with a groan.

“God, Logan, please don’t break the skin,” you pant as your thighs clench around his hips, pulling him closer. “It will take at least two weeks to heal.”

You feel him chuckle against you before he pulls off with a lewd sound, panting just as heavy as you. Your neck, shoulders, and chest are raw with hickeys and teeth marks; the skin tender to the touch and red-hot when he finally pulls away for more than a few seconds.

“I remember it being ten days,” he smirks, offering a final gentle kiss to your puffy lips, accepting the white flag you’re waving.

You’ve been marked. Claimed.

You give your eyes a roll. “Satisfied?” you hold back a smile.

He pushes his hips up into yours again, cock still very much hard and now newly soaked through his jeans from your arousal. “Oh, I think you know the answer to that one, sweetheart,” he says with a small, breathy laugh.

A hand releases it’s death-grip on your right thigh, trailing up your chest to lock itself tight under your jaw, holding you there for him as he consumes you with rough kisses that have your core aching. All tongue and teeth and he just keeps you there. All for him to devour.

Maybe this is the one part of himself that he’ll never be able to domesticate.