#wild women prayers

[fabdante]

If you wouldn't mind what are the names of your sims you used for the challenge?

i will do you one better and i will even give you the names of the ones i have yet to post as little sneak peaks! (names also typed in alt)

[thequeenskeep]

God is not a people pleaser. They will tell you “no” and f%ck your shit up. So why are you ?

[locktheundeadworker]

Fight fight fight

HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE A WOMAN SCORNED

[starliis]

milk & honey— sinners.

 pairing

elias "stack" moore & elijah "smoke" moore x black! reader.

 synopsis

one knew better than to look twice at the smoke-stack twins. but ain’t nobody ever said that once they set their eyes on you, it would already be too late. between their rough hands and honeyed lies, you learned real quick— it ain’t no sin if you ain’t plannin’ to repent. you belonged to them now. and they weren’t the kind to truly ever let go.

 warnings

some sexual content, in other words the implication of sex, childhood lovers, mentions of alcohol, moments of envy; jealousy, some angst + pining, romance, infatuation. african american reader; black representation. takes place in the 1930s, language heavy; cursing. written in a southern tone.

•  part two of milk & honey.

Trouble don't always come loud and stompin'.

Sometimes it just smiles— real slow, tips its hat, and waits. That's how it felt the first time you ever laid eyes on 'em.

The twins—

Smoke and Stack.

Standin' there in the swelterin' heat like bad omens dressed in bruises and Sunday shoes. Grinnin' from ear to ear, like they knew all your secrets—and were fixin' to ruin you for 'em. Whenever you looked at 'em, it was like starin' straight into the faces of killers— past lovers, present heartbreak, and future mistakes; all bottled into two walkin’ contradictions, with fists that still bleed from the night before.

And yet, even standin’ side by side—one made of fire, the other of ice—they’re bound by a brilliance that’s all their own. A beauty so sharp, it hurt to look at for too long. ‘Cause, as your momma once said, a sin can't be undone, only forgiven. And for some reason, they were much more than just that. They were a glance held a little too long, a touch that lingered, and sometimes even a thought that should've been buried, but got watered instead. By the time you’d realize what's been done, it was already bloomin' wild inside you.

Too far gone to pull up by the root.

Until they left, that is.

Leavin’ without so much as a warning or a goodbye. Leavin’ after memorizin’ your body the way they always did—strong hands, gentle kisses, intimate but passionate love makin’—all for you. And for a moment, you thought only for you. But that? That was the greatest lie. Years had come and gone, and you ain’t received so much as a letter. Not even a word that they was still breathin’. At some point, you grieved ’em like they was dead—ghosts from a past you still, ’til this very day, fought to forget.

‘Cause even the rootworkers say, ghosts only come ’round when you call ’em. But you reckon that’s a lie too. This time, they came lookin’ for you first.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────

Southern Mississippi had few, to none, hidden juke joints for just colored folk— there had only been 'bout one that made good profit; a sin-soaked buildin' where all the hard-workin' men spent the last of their well-earned dollars on drinks, while women sang to the blues all night long. That’s where you danced for a livin', outside of bein' a sharecropper. It was a side gig— non’ special. Just a lil’ somethin’ to put a few extra coins in your purse, keepin’ you afloat for whenever you fell behind on your quota.

Though this ain't the life you truly dreamt of, it was the closest you ever got to it.

For just a few hours every night, you'd listen to Delta Slim perform the blues—his tunes pourin' out slow, like molasses, a river of achin' guitars and wailin' brass, where every note dragged its feet through the dust of lost dreams. It was a sound born of broken backs and stubborn hope, of hearts too heavy to fly, yet too proud to bow. Each chord cracked open the air, lettin' sorrow breathe, lettin' joy slip through its fingers like a prayer whispered into the twilight.

And from there, you danced— with fire in your hips and storms in your eyes, movin' through the thick, breathin' heat. The only silk dress you owned clinging to you like a second skin, damp with sweat and sweet with the smell of tobacco, gin, and longin'. The floorboards shivered under the stomp of your heeled feet, the hem of your skirt twirlin' like smoke from a dyin' cigarette. You danced like the world had wronged you— and you forgave it, one sway, one roll, one wild, laughin' spin at a time. The music wrapped itself 'round you like a lover's arm, pullin' you deeper into the pulse of somethin' too old, too sacred, to name.

When the night ended, you were coverin' yourself in a shawl and walkin' out the front doors with a smile on your face—pleased with the earnings, and filled with a sense of somethin' close to enlightenment.

As all you ever wanted to do was dance.

"Do make sho' to bring your fine ass back here next week, Miss [Name],” hollered a drunk regular from the doorway, tippin' his hat and raisin' a metal goblet high.

"You's foolish," you laughed, wavin' him off. "I'll see y'all."

Walkin' down the dirt pathway, you ain't pay no mind to the low rumblin' of an engine, figurin' it belonged to some motor car. It rang out soft and lazy into the night.

That's when you saw 'em.

Two big, strong men. Leaned up against a big black Packard like they owned the night itself. Cigarettes burnin' slow between their fingers, suits pressed finer than any preacher's Sunday best. You knew who they was. But standin' there starin' at 'em felt like lookin' dead into the eyes of ghosts—skeletons dug up from a past you done already tried to bury. And truth be told, if they was gon' stay gone that long, they shoulda stayed buried.

"Miss [Name]," Smoke greets—deep voice, slow like syrup, always the calm, collected one. "It's a bit late for you to be walkin' home. Why don'tcha hop in the car, let us give ya' a ride?"

Smoke was dressed in deep blue—a color so rich, it looked like the midnight sky had been stitched right into his suit. He stood with his shoulders squared, eyes half-lidded, draggin' on his cigarette like he had all the time in the world, his whole body hummin' with a stillness that made your skin itch somethin' fierce.

"I'm good," you said, curt. "Thanks."

"Now that wasn't no suggestion, swee’heart."

Beside him, Stack stood in a suit bold as sin—deep red, reckless, alive. His coat flashed under the moonlight as he tipped his hat to you, grinnin' like he could split the Mississippi clean in two. Stack was all flash and fire; even standin' still, he was movin', talkin' with his hands, his shoulders, that damn devil's smile.

"It still don't change the fact I said no—," you shot back, cold.

Stack pushed off the car, swaggerin' toward you like a man ain't never been told no and sure as hell wasn't gonna start tonight. "Mind who you talkin' to—," he said, voice low but sharp. "We came all the way out here for ya'. Show some damn respect."

"Respect?" you scoffed, feelin' the old anger rise up in your chest like a bad storm. "Tell that bullshit to all them letters y'all never answered."

Smoke didn't say a word—just watched you from under the heavy brim of his hat, cigarette smoke curlin' up slow between you like a bug he ain't in no hurry to chase off.

"C'mon baby," Stack drawled, flickin' the stub of his cigarette into the dirt. "Let that shit go. Ain't no use holdin' on to it."

Tightening the shawl 'round your shoulders, your jaw was set hard as stone. With a sharp nod, you turned your back on both of 'em and started walkin'. "I did—," you said over your shoulder, voice calm, cold, and sure. "And I buried it right next to y'all."

Smoke, always so calculated and quick on his feet, found his way in front of you, "Stop playin' wit' me, Silk. You ain't walkin' home in the dark by yourself."

He sure did love callin’ you by that damned nickname—it stuck with ya’ ever since you was just a lil’ thing. Reckon it’s ‘cause he always went soft when you wore one’a them silk dresses.

"Why? You scared somethin' gone happen to me?"

He ain't say nothin'. Just stood there, them eyes of his shinin' in the dark. Reminded you of the way he always looked when some other fella stared at you too long. Always been so damn protective, like it was his God-given duty to keep you safe. But him standin' there quiet, not sayin' a word, not showin' no feelin' — that's what made you start thinkin' maybe he ain't care near as much as he used to.

"Thought so. Least out there, if somethin' did happen, it'll save y'all a funeral to go to."

"Aight, 'nough of that sad-ass shit you talkin' 'bout. Let somethin' happen to ya', let a nigga touch ya', and they gone get buried in that cotton field out back," Stack spoke, voice low and serious. "That's the way it always been. So go sit ya' pretty ass in that damn car and don't make me say the shit twice."

"Then we can talk 'bout what you really mad 'bout," Smoke added, watchin' you with them heavy-lidded eyes. He knew what you needed; hell, he always did.

Exhaling loud enough to shake the trees, you stomped to the car. It was somethin' real pretty, like nothin' you'd seen 'fore. Brand spankin' new, all dressed up with them fancy interiors. Made you wonder what kinda deal they had to cut to get their hands on a babe like this. Then again, you ain't have to wonder too hard. Folks 'round here knew better than to ask questions. Smoke gave you a hand up and you slid into the back seat. He took the driver's spot, leanin' back like he owned the night. Instead of sittin' shotgun, Stack brought his black ass to the back too, ploppin' down beside you. He got close enough for you to catch a whiff of his cologne—dark, smoky, expensive.

"Y'all takin' me straight home?" You asked, eyein' both of 'em suspiciously. These some pre-meditatin’ ass liars, sho’ ‘nough. You knew that for damn sure. Both of ‘em could talk a woman clean outta her drawls, make a brotha do they dirty work too—and all of it’d be for the sake of business. No strings attached.

"Yeah. 'Course we is," Stack smirked. But it didn't sound too convincin'. He kept inchin' closer, like you was somethin' sweet he couldn't resist.

“Then why yo’ black ass keep scootin’ so damn close to me? M’not gone disappear,” you snapped, cuttin’ your pretty eyes up and down him, full of fire. You was gettin’ real tired of him crowdin’ you, his whole presence gettin’ under your skin somethin’ awful.

"You might."

There was a bite in his words that only stoked the fire burnin’ in your chest. Hard to stay calm when they struttin’ ‘round like they ain’t done nothin’ wrong, like you wasn’t left behind to pick up all the pieces. You clenched your jaw, words spillin’ out low under your breath. “It ain’t me you oughta be worried ’bout—,” you muttered, barely louder than the hum of the tires on the dirt road.

Stack caught it, though. He let out a low chuckle, deep and dry like gravel, “Nah, baby. You grown. Speak up.”

Snappin’ your head toward him, your eyes flashed, “I said it ain’t me you oughta be worried ‘bout.”

Smoke’s hand tightened ‘round the wheel. He cut his eyes at you through the rearview, a slow, sharp glance that made the tension crackle.

“What the hell that ‘posed to mean?” He asked, voice low and dangerous.

Leanin’ back in the seat, you fold your arms tight across your chest, heart hammerin’. “Means I’m sittin’ here starin’ at two strangers. I don’t even know who ya’ll are no more.”

The car got real quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavier than any yellin’ ever could.

“[Name], you knew we was headin’ off to the war,” Smoke finally said, like that explained every damn thing.

“Yeah, I knew—,” you snapped back, voice tremblin’ with all the hurt you tried to swallow. “But I ain’t know leavin’ meant disappearin’. I ain’t know I was never gone hear from y’all again.”

"We had business to handle," Smoke said.

"Right. M’bad, Elijah— you was always 'bout yo' business. No matter who it hurt in the process—," you scoffed, your words hittin' hard enough to bruise all three of you.

"What you want us to say, baby? We sorry?" Stack asked, voice dry.

“Not if you don’t mean the shit,” you muttered, a bitter little laugh scratchin’ its way up your throat. Wasn’t nothin’ funny ‘bout it, but hell—sometimes you had to laugh just to keep from breakin’. Bein’ here with them, after all this time, hurt you in ways you couldn’t even name no more. Pain boiled up inside you, hot and heavy, like thick molasses turned sour; all them nights you laid awake, cryin’ into your pillow, feelin’ like a damn fool for lovin’ two devils who knew how to kiss like angels and lie like snakes.

Even a strong woman like you—hard-headed, proud, tougher than leather—got cracks in her armor. Always did. Tears pricked at your eyes before you could blink ’em back, and you scooted over, puttin’ as much distance between you and them as the seat would allow.

Stack let out a low chuckle, dry as a corn husk. “Careful, girl. Any further and you gon’ roll right out the damn car.”

“Don’t act like you care now,” you snapped, voice low and sharp, cuttin’ through the thick silence that settled. You stared out the window, jaw tight. “Just—,” you breathe. “Just get me the hell home. Please.”

Smoke sighed, shiftin’ in his seat like the weight of what you said sat heavy on his chest. “You mad—,” he started, his voice rough but steady. “We get it, Silk. But what you ain’t gon’ do is sit here and act like we ain’t give a damn ’bout you. ’Cause we did. Still do.”

"I hear you.”

“But you don’t believe me,” Smoke said, his voice low, almost tired.

“Sho’ don’t,” you shot back without missin’ a lick. “If you gave one damn ’bout me, y’all wouldn’t’ve laid with me, then left me sittin’ all by my lonesome like yesterday’s newspaper.”

The car rumbled to a stop, kickin’ up dirt and hushin’ the crickets for just a second.

“You right,” Smoke admitted, his hand grippin’ the wheel like it hurt to say it. “We ain’t stand by you the way we was s’posed to. For that, we apologize. But we here now, ain’t we? Let that mean somethin’, girl.”

‘Course you didn’t answer. Ain’t even look at him. Your stomach twisted up tight as you stared out the window. This wasn’t your little white cottage with the porch swing and the climbin’ roses. This was the old saw mill—deep in the woods, where the trees grew thick and the night air smelled like damp earth and old memories.

“Y’all said y’all was takin’ me home,” you said, brows knittin’ together, voice low and brittle.

“This don’t remind you of home?” Stack asked from the back, his tone half-playful, half-hopin’. Like maybe he could pull at somethin’ you buried long ago. Hell, he knew you remembered. Could see it all over your face—the weight of it, heavy and hurtin’.

Stack helped you out the car, and you looked around, a ghost of a smile flickerin' across your face. Back then, when y'all was a bit younger, this was the spot. The old abandoned mill by the pond—the first place y'all ever met. The memory was 'bout as clear as day. Just you, sittin' under an old pecan tree, a book too heavy for your little hands. Dreamin' about places you'd never seen, with your Sunday dress hitched up 'round your knees, dirt smudgin' your bare ankles. Readin' like it could save you. Like it might carry you somewhere better.

They spotted you 'fore you even knew they was there — struttin' over with easy smiles and slick mouths, smellin' like sweat, gunpowder, and cheap whiskey. You was shy back then, a little soft 'round the edges, but never dumb. You ain't take neither one too serious. Not yet. Not 'til they made you fall in love. Not 'til they touched you like you was made of glass, fucked you like breathin', kissed you like every day might be the last. They made you feel untouchable. Made the whole damn town know you wasn't a girl to mess with. 'Cause you belonged to them.

And they belonged to you.

They taught you how to fight. Hardened you up. 'Til no bitch — not Mary, not Annie — could look at you wrong without catchin' a beatdown. Those boys that once made you laugh 'til you cried, danced barefoot behind the mill, were the same ones who left you bawlin' alone, spillin' tears into the dirt.

And now, they was tryin’ to drag you back to it.

"Why's we here?" you asked, voice crackin' under the weight of memory.

“Business,” Smoke said low, like it oughta explain everything.

Stack struck a match, lit up another cigarette, and took a long, slow drag ‘fore passin’ it off to his twin. “See that ol’ mill? We buyin’ it from a cracker first thing in the mornin’. Gonna turn it into a Juke Joint — a real one, for our folks. A place they can dance, drink, breathe easy without worryin’ ‘bout no white folks breathin’ down they necks.”

Once again you stared at ‘em hard, suspicion risin’ up heavy in your chest like a summer storm. How they got the money for somethin’ like that, you didn’t know. Truth be told, you wasn’t sure you wanted to know. Ain’t nothin’ in this world free, especially not for men like them. Especially not down here.

“And what the hell that got to do with me?” you asked, voice steady, even though your hands itched to fold over your chest.

Smoke leaned back, one hand fidgetin’ with the silver ring on his index finger — a tell he had since y’all was kids. He only did it when somethin’ was sittin’ heavy on his mind. “We need the finest dancer in town to bring that floor alive—,” he said. “Need somebody who make folks spend they last damn dollar just to watch ‘em move. And we payin’, make no mistake.”

Lookin’ between ‘em, you met each of they dark, familiar eyes, and made damn sure your words came out clear. “I don’t want money wit’ blood on it.”

They didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink.

That was one thing ‘bout Stack and Smoke—they could take you at your hardest, your meanest. Could stand up to the fire you threw without backin’ down. But you knew deep in your bones, no matter how tough they acted, those boys was always weak when it came to you; to them big, pretty eyes they swore could bring a man to his knees.

Stack’s patience snapped first, just like always. He shifted, tossin’ the burnt-out cigarette down and crushin’ it under his bootheel.

“Well, what the fuck do you want, then?” he barked, voice sharp with frustration. Always the hothead, always the one to talk ‘fore thinkin’. Never the type to hold his tongue or watch his own damn back.

"To go home, Elias. Care to indulge me?"

"Nah, baby. I don't, actually—," he said without missin' a beat. He was a smart-mouthed fool too, flashin’ that grin full’a them shiny-ass gems every time he opened his mouth.

“What y’all want with me? What y’all really drag me all the way out here for?” you demanded, voice tight like a stretched-out clothesline.

“Done told ya already, girl—,” Smoke said, cool as a winter creek. “Ain’t gone say it again.”

“This a town full’a dancers, Elijah. Ya’ll don’t need me.”

Stack, leanin’ back against the car like he had all the time in the world, just shrugged. “Yeah, maybe. But we want you.”

Smoke stepped in closer, his voice a low rumble under the heavy night air, "We told you we was gone give you a stage'a your own. Make you a star like you always dreamed ‘bout. 'Member?"

Damn them. You remembered every bit of it. You done tried buryin’ it deep, stuffin’ it down like old letters in a dusty chest — but all it ever did was ache. Your throat burned up like a bad fever, your eyes startin’ to sting, chest tight enough you thought it might split clean open.

“Y’all full of shit,” you muttered, but it come out softer than you meant, breakin’ right down the middle.

“We ain’t,” Smoke said, steppin’ even closer now, til you could smell the tobacco on his breath, the heat rollin’ off his skin. He reached out, catchin’ your chin between two fingers, touchin’ you like you might break if he held too hard. “We bled for that dream, same as you, Silk. Fought for it ‘til we damn near lost ourselves.”

With your hands curlin’ into fists at your sides, you was fightin’ the tremble workin’ its way through you.

“Why now, huh?” you snapped, voice crackin’ like a whip. “Why the hell now? After y’all acted like I ain’t mean nothin’? I want the truth this time. None of that sweet-talkin’ bullshit you good for.”

Stack, who usually had a smart mouth ready for anything, went real still. Real quiet. He pulled his hat clean off his head, runnin’ a hand over his hair, lookin’ like he ain’t had a single slick thing left to say. Chicago did ‘em good, cut a line in the side real fresh.

“Why else? We love you,” he finally said, voice rough like gravel. “Always did. Ain’t never stopped.”

Smoke leaned in real slow, close enough you could feel the heat of his breath brushin’ across your face. His presence wrapped ‘round you like a heavy blanket in the dead heat of July. You braced a hand against his chest, feelin’ the steady thud of his heart — and under that, a tremble, like he was holdin’ back somethin’ deep, somethin’ old and wounded, tryin’ its damnedest not to break wide open.

“But one thing for sure, two things for certain,” Smoke said, his voice low and rough as gravel, catchin’ on every word like it hurt to say ’em. “We wasn’t bred to be with a woman as good as you.”

Stack, leanin’ nearby with that bitter smirk of his, let out a humorless chuckle, “Still ain’t.”

The words hit you harder than a blow. Your throat tightened up, and you shoved at Smoke’s chest, hard, but it was like pushin’ against a brick wall—he didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. Just stood there, lettin’ you take out all that hurt and anger without sayin’ a damn word.

“So you thought leavin’ me was better?” you choked out, voice crackin’, the betrayal sharp in every syllable.

"Nah," he said. "We thought it was the only way to keep you clean. Safe. Smilin', even if we had to stay gone for a while."

"But as it turns out—," Stack added, steppin' in behind you, his chest brushing your back, caging you between 'em. "We can't stay away for too long."

Their hands found you at the same time — Smoke's rough fingers liftin' your jaw, Stack's palms slidin' down your arms, steadin' you even as your knees wobbled.

“You ours,” Smoke murmured, voice low and rough, his lips ghostin’ right over yours, not quite kissin’, just teasin’ — like he wanted to savor the moment you gave in. “Always been.”

“That wasn’t ever gon’ change,” Stack rumbled against your ear, mouth grazin’ your neck in slow, temptin’ bites that made your knees damn near buckle again.

The anger, the pain — all that hurt you been bottlin’ up for six long, lonely years — it started boilin’ over, hot and wild, mixin’ with a hunger you tried so hard to kill. It cracked you wide open now, floodin’ every inch of you like a busted dam, no holdin’ it back.

“Don’t put me through this again,” you begged, voice tremblin’, breathless, your body already betrayin’ you, rememberin’ the way they touched you, the way they loved you, like it never forgot. “Don’t come back just to leave me worse off than ‘fore.”

Smoke’s hand slid around your waist, pullin’ you flush against him, his chest hard and hot under your palms.

“We ain’t goin’ nowhere this time, baby,” Stack growled low, a promise buried in every word. “And we gone make damn sho’ this sweet lil’ pussy remembers exactly who it belongs to.”

“It knows,” you whispered back, your hand driftin’ down without thinkin’, findin’ the thick heat straining against the front of Smoke’s slacks. He shuddered under your touch, deep and real, like he was barely holdin’ on. “Just like y’all know ya’ll belong here, with me.”

Smoke's mouth crushed yours before the last word even finished leavin' your lips, kissin' you like he was starvin', like he needed you to breathe.

Stack's hands roamed lower, greedy, sure, gatherin' your dress up in his fists as he pressed hot kisses to the side of your neck, beard scratchin’ soft as his lips dragged over your skin, teeth sinkin’ in just enough to make you gasp.

Their hands—rough, calloused—claimed you in the sticky heat of the Mississippi night, under the shadow of that old mill, with the hum of crickets and the whisper of the river nearby. They kissed and touched like they was tryin' to make up for all the empty years in one night, and Lord, you let 'em.

‘Cause no matter how bad it hurt, you still wanted ‘em. Needed ‘em, somethin’ fierce.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────

[mill3rd]

FIRST BORN LAMB OF SPRING

synopsis. the celts prophesied that the first baby born on the dawn of spring equinox would cool the anger and appease the great one whose name filled the local villagers with fear. too bad that you were the first in one hundred years.

warnings + tags. sacrificial traditions, vampirism, historical but its probably not accurate, kind of an origin story, folklore, ritualistic horror, mental illness, religious extremism, brainwashing, kinda? consummation, idk its ‘seal the deal’ sex, kinda beauty and the beast coded, blood drinking, corruption kink, oral (fem receiving), pinv, biting

word count. 12.5k

© MILL3RD 2025 — all rights reserved. mature content. please do not steal my works

you wake to sunlight feathering across the inside of your eyelids, warm and golden. outside, the hush of morning has just begun to lift — birdsong threaded gently through the trees, soft wind tugging at the edges of the world. the hearth still smolders, low and orange, filling the room with a clean, steady heat.

you stretch beneath the linen, the quiet weight of the morning sinking into your skin. your birthday.

eighteen springs today.

you were born at first light on the spring equinox — a moment of perfect balance. it has always meant something. the women in the village say you carry the turning of the year in your bones. that your very breath carries promise. and today, the promise is being honoured.

you rise when líadan whispers your name. her voice is soft and clear, like the last meltwater of winter.

“éirí, mo rún. it is time.”

you step down from the raised bedding into a pool of fresh rushes. they’re damp with dew and smell of green things, cut only hours ago. twelve women wait around the room, all familiar, all smiling. they’ve known you since you were swaddled in wool and passed around the midwives’ arms.

líadan. saorlaith. muirenn. the mothers and the matriarchs. the herbalists and the singers.

you don’t feel afraid. you feel special.

they begin the rite of cleansing. it is tradition — a sacred preparation for those born on equinox, for those who carry the village’s blessing.

you undress slowly, arms lifting of their own accord, and step into the low basin near the fire. warm water laps around your ankles. saorlaith begins at your feet, her fingers working with gentle precision, her face tilted in quiet reverence.

muirenn presses herbs into a cloth — thyme, marigold, rosemary — then dips it into the basin and moves up your legs, her touch soothing, firm.

líadan hums under her breath. not a song, exactly — something older. it winds through the steam and settles into your skin.

your hair, thick and curled from sleep, is let loose around your shoulders. they do not braid it. that would be a mark of mourning. instead, they comb it softly with bone fingers, pulling it into shape but letting it fall wild and unbound. a halo, saorlaith murmurs.

“the wind will love you today,” she says.

you laugh softly. “then i hope it’s gentle.”

the women smile.

after the bathing comes the dressing. muirenn lifts a robe from a carved cedar box — green wool, dyed with nettle and elder. it gleams faintly in the morning light, edged with gold threads pulled from distant islands. it’s heavy when she lays it across your shoulders, but not cumbersome. it fits you like it was made from the earth itself.

it was.

your mother wove it for you over years, whispering prayers into every thread. you remember her hands. her voice.

saorlaith touches your chest with ochre — the sacred mark. a spiral drawn from the heart outward, each curve a promise of return.

“to wear the balance is to carry the spring,” líadan says, fastening a sun-shaped brooch just above your heart.

you nod. the words settle in your chest like truth.

you do not know how rare it is. to be born on the turning. to be chosen for such honour.

you only know you feel radiant. you feel full of light.

the meal is already set when you enter the hall.

they seat you alone at the long low table. woven rushes line the floor, scattered with violets and fresh chamomile. outside, the sun is still climbing, and the village stirs in soft murmurs. but here — in this space — all is still.

one by one, the women bring you offerings.

trout wrapped in herbs, oatcakes drizzled in honey, figs from the last trade boat, soft white cheese, golden-crusted bread, warmed goat’s milk with a sprig of mint. everything rich. everything sacred.

you eat slowly, your hands washed and your robe tucked neat. no one speaks at first. only the sounds of the feast: the crackle of the hearth, the quiet chime of a copper spoon against ceramic.

then muirenn kneels beside you, setting down a final plate of sugared grapes.

“we’ve never had one like you,” she murmurs.

you blink, smiling. “like me?”

“so close to the centre of the balance… so perfectly timed.”

her eyes shine with something deeper than pride. something like awe. líadan stands behind her, hands clasped.

“you’re not only a blessing, girl,” she says. “you are a bridge.”

a bridge, you think. between seasons? between earth and sun?

you nod. you don’t quite understand, but you don’t question it—after all, you’ve been told since you were small: to be born on the day of balance is to be marked for greatness.

you miss how miurenn nudges her sharply in her ribs.

they braid flowers into your curls next. not for structure, not to bind — but to celebrate. lamb’s ear, hawthorn, a single sprig of meadowsweet.

“you’ll lead the procession after the sun peaks,” saorlaith tells you.

“to the stones?” you ask.

“to the stones,” líadan confirms.

your heart flutters.

you’ve dreamed of this beautiful ceremony since you were a child, nothing but butterflies filling your stomach everytime you thought of receiving such a sacred blessing. but today, you’ll finally live your dream. your robe, your mark, your crown. they will sing to you, for you. you are not just part of the rite — you are the reason.

your mother enters then, arms folded tightly. her face is pale, drawn at the edges, but she smiles when your eyes meet. she kneels in front of you and offers a cloth-wrapped bundle — your token. you open it slowly: a carved wooden bird, shaped like a swallow, polished until it gleams.

you look up. “you kept this?”

“since you carved it at seven,” she smiles, recalling a sweet memory.

“it was lopsided.”

“the wind flew it true,” she whispers and you grin.

you do not see the way her hands shake when she kisses your forehead.

the sun hangs high now, a brilliant coin suspended in the sky.

outside, the village pulses with life. children weave garlands from soft reeds and daisy chains. young men lift baskets of dyed cloth and stack bundles of firewood. hens cluck at the edges of the green, feathers puffed. laughter floats on the wind, caught between branches and thatched rooftops.

when you step out into it — robed and crowned — the world pauses for you.

your feet touch earth strewn with petals and sweet herbs, and the hush that falls is not somber. it is reverent.

someone claps, and then another. soon, the whole green rings with soft applause, the kind given to things too holy to cheer for. women weep behind veils of flower-threaded hair. boys bow their heads. the old healer who once set your broken wrist presses her hand to her chest and whispers, “blessings on her bones.”

you do not understand all of it. not fully. but you feel it settle into you like warmth. you smile. your breath rises into the sky like steam.

you are their light.

líadan leads you by the hand down the village path.

she doesn’t speak, but her grip is steady. around you, others fall into step. a procession. saorlaith and muirenn walk just behind, their robes the colour of dusk, carrying bowls of sweet smoke and branches of alder.

children scatter petals ahead of you. someone plays a pipe from behind the grain store, and the notes weave through the crowd like silver thread. it’s a tune you know — sung on solstice nights, on days of great blessing.

you recognize it now as yours.

your bare feet press into soft earth. it’s still cool from the morning. each step is light, floating almost, as though the ground carries you instead of the other way around.

the path leads out of the village, past the sheepfolds and the stony wells, up toward the woods.

you’ve only been to the stones once — when you were ten, and too young to follow the grown ones into the heart of the ritual. you remember clinging to your mother’s skirt, watching torches flicker between the trees.

now, the same flicker waits for you.

a corridor of flame and green.

two lines of villagers stand along the edges of the glade, holding branches of hawthorn and beech alight at their tips. they nod as you pass, lips murmuring blessings. some offer you small tokens — a pressed flower, a carved stone, a dried twist of nettle — and saorlaith gathers them into the folds of your robe as you walk.

you try to thank each one.

you can’t stop smiling.

the stones appear at the edge of the glade — tall and grey and ancient.

they rise from the earth like teeth, caught in a wide ring, their edges worn from wind and rain and reverence. the center of the circle is bare, save for a slab of low rock and the altar built of woven ashwood.

beyond it, the woods darken, thick with pine and hazel.

you feel the air shift as you enter the ring — cooler, thicker. the scent of moss and smoke curls under your nose.

líadan turns to you and lifts both hands.

“daughter of the balance,” she says, voice clear and bright.

everyone kneels. even the birds fall silent.

you feel the power of the moment swell around you. your skin prickles.

líadan steps aside and motions you forward.

you approach the altar with slow, sure steps. it is draped in a cloth of silver thread. atop it, a basin of water glimmers beside a bowl of seed and a bundle of feathers.

“offer your token,” muirenn whispers.

you take the carved swallow from within your robe and place it gently at the center of the altar. your hands linger on the smooth wood. it still smells faintly of pine.

a great sigh passes through the crowd behind you.

“she gives herself freely,” someone murmurs.

you smile at the words, your heart blooming. of course you do.

saorlaith comes forward now, carrying a clay vessel. smoke spills from its lip — rosemary and yarrow and something sharper. she circles you with it three times. as the smoke wraps around your body, you feel lighter. the wind tugs at your hair like a child’s fingers.

líadan places a hand on your shoulder.

“kneel,” she says gently.

silently, you obey. you are not afraid.

they press your forehead with water from the basin. your chest with ash. your lips with wine.

“you are the bridge,” líadan intones. “between old and new. winter and spring. silence and song.”

you bow your head.

the crowd echoes her, “a bridge.”

“you carry us forward,” muirenn adds. “and the land will bloom with your steps.”

your heart swells. you close your eyes. you think: i was born for this.

you feel it in your bones, in the warm pressure of their hands, in the hush of the trees. the air is thick with sacred meaning.

you are not afraid. you have no reason to be when you are being honoured and treated so holily.

as the sun begins its descent, they raise the torches. líadan takes your hand again, lifting you from your knees.

the glade is golden now — long shadows stretching from stone to stone. the woods beyond breathe deeply, pine-scented and darkening. you stand tall. your curls hang loose around your shoulders, catching firelight.

someone begins a chant. others join. it is low, rhythm-matched to your heart. it rises like mist. you do not know what comes next, but you feel ready for it.

you trust them, you trust the land—and most importantly, you trust the great one to be kind.

the firelight dances higher now. dusk leans into the bones of the sky, and the stones glow soft and amber against the breath of coming night.

you kneel, still, where they’ve placed you — robed, flower-crowned, and marked with ash and wine. the chanting has grown quiet, replaced by the hush that always comes before sacred words.

líadan steps back. a space opens before you.

a man in dark robes steps forward — older than the others, his eyes sharp beneath deep brows, voice worn smooth by years of prayer. you’ve only seen him once before, during last year’s solstice rites, when the animals were blessed for strong birthings.

this is the preacher. an tseanmhúinteoir. the village calls him that with a kind of reverence.

he raises his hands, fingers painted in ochre, his palms scarred with the symbols of the old covenant. the air tightens. no birds sing now. even the wind stills.

he speaks — and his voice is not loud, but it carries.

“daughter of the dawn, child of the turning — the hour is full, and the gate stands open.”

he walks a slow circle around you, his footsteps rhythmic, every word sewn into the air like woven wool.

“you were born of balance. born when sun and night held equal sway, when the veils thinned and the green returned. you were cradled in that space, that breath between worlds.”

you close your eyes. you feel it. the power in his voice. the pull of the moment.

he stops in front of you. his hands lower gently onto your head.

“today we name you not as girl, but as spirit. not as self, but as vessel. not as flesh, but as flame.”

he lifts a bowl from the altar — the same water from the basin earlier, now glimmering with flecks of gold leaf. he tips it gently over your head. it spills across your curls, down your neck, cool and light.

“be christened in the light of balance,” he intones. “walk freely toward the great one.”

a murmur rises from the crowd — a low, shared exhale. the holy monologue complete.

your skin is warm beneath the water. your robe clings to your back. your heart beats steady, not frightened, but filled with something impossible to name.

and then — a cry. it’s sharp. human. too human. a figure lunges through the trees.

it’s the old woman — mrs byrne — hair wild and loose, cloak torn from age, mouth open with warning. you stumble to your feet, nearly falling as your handmaids grab you.

“not this one!” she shouts, eyes blazing, “she carries light — but not for giving. not for burning!”

she points, arm stiff, finger trembling. “they have lied! they wrap you like a gift and offer you to silence!”

her voice cracks and her body shakes. she looks right at you, eyes with sincerity and concern shake off the rumoured loopy ones.

“you will not walk back out,” she says. “they dress it as blessing, but you go to be broken.”

your breath catches. fear creeps in — cold and thin — something you hadn’t felt all day.

you take a step back, toward líadan. toward the altar.

“what does she mean?” your voice is small, withering with your excitement.

but líadan is already moving, wrapping an arm around you, tucking your head into her shoulder like you are a child again.

“hush, a stóirín,” she murmurs. “the old ones sometimes forget the line between dream and truth.”

muirenn joins her, her voice low and sweet. “she wandered alone too long in the dark. grief makes stories out of shadows.”

saorlaith takes your hand, fingers cool and firm, “you are safe. you are loved. this is your path.”

you stare at them — their faces calm, beautiful in the firelight. their eyes shine, not with cruelty, but with reverence.

the fear drains slowly, like water soaking into earth. you nod, once. shaky. they smile.

“good girl,” líadan whispers, “you are strong. the great one sees you already.”

behind them, mrs byrne is pulled back by villagers, her voice fading into ragged cries.

you look one last time — she is not angry anymore. no, she is sobbing.

you do not understand.

but the hands that hold you are gentle and the stars above you are still so bright.

the fire has burned low.

embers pulse in the grass like coals from the belly of the earth, and the smoke hangs thick and sweet. the glade is quiet now — not silent, but stilled, like the last breath before a storm.

you stand at the edge of the stone circle.

behind you: the village, the chants, the women who bathed you, anointed you, called you chosen.

before you: the trees, dark and patient. tall black shapes with silver-threaded bark. you can hear the forest breathing — deeper than before. slower. older.

the preacher lifts his staff and lowers it once in your direction. his face is unreadable. he does not follow.

“go now, mo ghrian,” líadan says beside you, voice soft. “go with joy in your heart.”

she adjusts your crown gently, smoothing a curl back from your face.

“you are the hope we have long waited for.”

muirenn presses something into your palm — a twist of red thread and an iron ring. “for the path,” she murmurs, “and for luck.”

saorlaith kisses your temple.

you nod once, not speaking. you want to. you want to ask something — anything — but the words are heavy in your throat. your heart beats like a drum.

then: you step forward.

one foot, then the other, onto the path between the fires. the heat kisses your skin.

they do not follow. you walk alone.

the fire fades behind you, swallowed by distance.

you do not turn back.

your feet tread softly across the damp earth, bare soles pressing into moss that yields with a hush. above, the branches tangle like outstretched limbs, the canopy thick enough to swallow the stars.

your robe trails behind, silken and pale, its hem already darkened with soil. you carry the scent of the sacred fire on your skin — ash and wine, sweet herbs crushed by blessing hands. the crown of early spring flowers still rests in your hair, though petals fall now and then, unnoticed.

you step into the hush.

it is not quiet like the stillness of prayer, or the gentleness of dusk. this silence is deeper — hollow, listening, thick.

you slow your pace.

and then — to comfort yourself, perhaps, or to offer something back to the strange stillness — you begin to sing softly.

your voice, once sure in the circle, trembles faintly now.

oh the wind on the hill and the grass in the glen, and the night bird sings her soul again…

the melody has lived in your bones since girlhood — a cradle-song, a celebration of the season, half-remembered in words but whole in tune.

you want to believe it still holds power but the sound falls strange here. it does not echo. the trees do not answer.

you feel them, though. the trunks — dark and tall and close — seem to lean, listening. the moss seems thicker, colder. somewhere nearby, something moves without moving — a suggestion more than a presence.

you try to ignore it.

for the child of the cusp, the child of the tide, walks where the veil grows thin and wide…

you sing louder, though your voice catches slightly at the end.

you clutch the red thread muirenn gave you tighter in your palm, the iron ring biting cold into your skin. they said it was for luck. for protection. a charm.

but from what?

you walk on still.

the deeper you go, the less you trust your steps.

the earth feels different now — not dangerous, not hostile — but… alert. each time your foot lands, it feels like pressing into the chest of something sleeping.

or waiting.

your song falters so you try again.

where roots drink deep and stones remember, she walks between the spark and ember…

you stop singing. something rustles behind you.

you turn — quickly — but nothing moves. the path is empty. no villagers. no lights. the fire is far behind, now just a flicker between the trees.

your breath shortens.

you clutch your chest. your heart beats hard against your ribs. not from running. from something else.

a feeling you haven’t allowed.

fear.

you pause beneath a great ash tree.

its bark is silver in the moonlight, limbs curled toward the stars. at its base, mushrooms ring the trunk like teeth. pale, soft, brittle.

you do not step through them.

your voice is barely a whisper now: lay down your name, your blood, your sleep… the wood will hold, the root will keep…

you stop. your mouth has gone dry.

why aren’t you sure anymore?

why does the night, so sacred only an hour ago, now feel like it’s watching?

you were promised light. you were promised blessing. you were promised that you were chosen.

so why does the air feel colder? why do the shadows no longer part for you?

you take one step forward. then another.

your song has left you. all that’s left now is the rhythm of your breath.

and behind it… the quiet, waiting woods.

you walk deeper into the hush, and the woods begin to change.

what had been narrow — close-barked corridors, moss underfoot, canopy above like interlocking hands — begins to loosen around you. space stretches. the trees fall back. and then, almost without noticing, you pass through something unseen, like a sheer veil pulled across your skin.

and suddenly you are no longer in the forest.

you are in the clearing.

it is wide. perfect in its roundness, as if shaped by patient fingers. the grass is silvered with dew, and a low mist curls across the earth like the breath of something sleeping beneath. moonlight spills over the field in slow waves, untouched by cloud, casting the space in cold, luminous calm.

you pause at the edge.

your robe flutters lightly against your ankles. your breath rises in slow spirals. the night feels thin here, stretched tight. as if the world is holding itself still — holding its breath — watching.

and at the far end of the clearing, half-veiled in ivy and fog, stands the church.

they called it tigh cloch na cothromaíochta in whispers — the stone house of balance. ye old church. the old place. the first place. the one even the preacher would not face when drunk with warmth.

you were told of it, always, as something sacred. a structure older than stories, where the great one first laid down breath and root and bloom, where the night folded itself into the day and called it holy.

but this place is not how you imagined.

it is not radiant.

not warm.

it is still.

and dark.

the church rises no more than a man’s height, its roof low and steep, crusted with moss and softened by time. ivy drapes across its walls like hair across a sleeper’s face. the stones that make it up are worn — smoothed by wind and rain and something else. not crumbled, not broken. just… softened. as though the building has been remembering for a long time.

no light shines from within.

there is no lantern by the entrance, no holy flame like you dreamed of. only an opening — a dark mouth, tall enough to pass through without bowing, but not by much.

you step closer. the grass dampens beneath your steps.

tiny white mushrooms press up from the earth like teeth, glistening under the moon. you skirt a patch of them carefully. as you near the church, you notice a low ring of stones, barely higher than your ankle, sunk into the ground. a circle. a boundary.

it does not stop you.

you step across it and everything changes.

the air shifts — immediate, absolute.

it grows colder. not the playful chill of spring evenings, but something else: older, deeper, like water pooled underground. your breath becomes visible — short puffs like smoke rising from a snuffed wick. your lungs ache with it.

you wrap your arms around yourself, hands folding into the opposite sleeves of your robe. the red ribbon tied at your wrist feels tighter. its knot stings faintly against your pulse.

the air smells different here.

earthier.

not sweet. not rotten. something like soil that has never been disturbed — like stone and bone and secrets sealed too long.

your crown of primroses and elderflower trembles slightly in the new wind. petals fall. one sticks to your cheek, and you do not brush it away.

you are not singing now. you do not dare. you reach the entrance.

it looms without movement, framed by carvings older than memory. spirals, triskele, rings within rings — the language of stone, not of mouths. your eyes track them instinctively. your body knows them, though your mind cannot say how.

your heart beats louder now. not from joy, not quite from fear but something else.

you stand before the black mouth of the church. your toes at the threshold. the clearing at your back. the woods behind that. the fire, the people, your name ��� all very far now.

you are alone.

and the church waits.

you stand there, listening—to the wind, to your breath, to the deep stillness inside the stone.

you remember what the preacher told you when you were little — curled beneath his cloak during sermons, your fingers wrapped around the wooden beads of his belt. when you step into the house of balance, child, you leave yourself behind. you walk in as more than flesh. you become vessel.

you had thought that meant light. you thought you would feel… lifted. touched. holy.

instead, the silence presses.

the dark is thick — not void, not empty, but full in some unseen way. not cold like night air, but like cellars, like iron underground. like sleep too deep to wake from.

your skin prickles.

you breathe in once, slowly. and bring your hands to your chest.

you remember the shape: thumb to sternum, then palm out, fingers extended. a sign of offering. of surrender. you trace it with care, a motion handed down through generations. your mouth moves before your heart is ready.

but you speak: a prayer. low, and given.

“a thiarna mór, great one of the still and the turning— keeper of root and reed, bearer of the balance between blood and bloom—i walk as i was made, blessed by breath, held in your eye, let me be open, let me be vessel, let me be joy… your lamb of the cusp, your child of spring.”

your voice quivers slightly near the end. not from doubt — no, you still believe this is right. you still believe you are chosen. that this is what the women meant when they told you you were lucky.

but a shiver still climbs your spine.

not fear, you tell yourself, not fear.

you finish the prayer.

you wait. you think the air will change. that warmth will come, or light, or the voice of the great one will stir from the deep places. but nothing answers.

no flame rises.

no vision flares behind your eyes.

the church remains still. waiting.

the mist behind you curls against your heels. the clearing no longer feels like it belongs to you.

and so, you do what you have been prepared to do since you were old enough to understand the meaning of offering.

you step inside.

the stone underfoot is smoother than the forest earth — cold, but not sharp. flat, shaped by countless feet. you walk slowly, letting the dark envelop you.

there are no windows. no candles. just shadow, and silence.

your hands stay folded before you. your robe brushes the floor. above you, unseen beams creak faintly in the breeze — a soft sound, like wood murmuring to wood. the air smells of moss and old smoke. there is something metallic, too, on the edges — like the inside of a copper bowl, left long in rain. you walk forward. your pulse in your throat. your feet making the only sound.

the chamber narrows ahead — toward the altar, or the place that once was one. you cannot see it yet.

but something waits there. you feel it.

not in the way one feels threat, exactly — but in the way a deer might freeze in tall grass, sensing something vast just beyond the field.

you are not alone here.

you move forward in the dark.

stone walls press close, but you cannot see them. the air is thick here — heavier than before, like it still carried the weight worth of previous ceremonies and services previously held in here. your fingers brush something — a root? a carved post? — and you flinch.

ahead, something glows faintly.

not fire.

a light too pale, too steady. moonlight, it seems at first — until you realize the moon is far behind you now. this is something else. something within.

you follow it.

one step. another.

and then you finally get a good look at the alter.

the light—from afar, that is—could have been perceived as a trick of the eye or a reflection of the moon from the outside. but as you near, you realise it’s not what it first seemed.

in the center stands a figure—the source of the light. you come to realise that the light comes from the head. where the eyes should be.

they remain unmoving. just for now.

the fright stops you in your tracks.

your hands remain clasped at your waist, your lips parted, ready to speak — to kneel, perhaps, to offer your thanks.

but the words do not come.

your breath catches.

it turns sharp in your throat, cuts as it goes down. his face is too close now. the light wraps around his features and peels them bare — that smooth, too-pale skin like candle wax, the glint of something deeper behind his eyes. not malice.

worse.

curiosity, possession.

your fingers twitch against your robe. the cold floor presses into your knees, but suddenly your whole body is heat — the burning panic of knowing you’ve made a mistake but you’re too deep in to run.

your mouth opens. not for prayer. not now.

you suck in air, ragged. you start to pull back.and the moment you do, his head tilts — just slightly, just enough — and a soft sound slips from him. not a word. not a threat, but a noise like a lullaby remembered from a dream, low and hushed and vibrating through your chest like a second heartbeat.

you don’t know how long you’ve been kneeling.

the stone beneath you has numbed your legs. your robes cling to your skin, damp with the sweat of fear, not exertion. your throat is raw from breathing too fast. your chest flutters like a trapped bird. everything in you wants to run, but your limbs are rooted — not by force. not by chains.

by dread, by him.

he stands at the altar ahead — silent, still, and watching. the great one. the thing in the shape of a man, but not a man. robed in the dark, framed in the ruins of a forgotten altar stone, backlit by flickering firelight. the wind moves through the trees behind him, and it sounds like breath. like words you can’t quite hear.

you open your mouth.

and it all comes spilling out.

“they said i was—” you stammer, your voice cracking. “they said i was the chosen one. that i was born on the equinox for a reason, that the stars… that the stars would bless the village again if i came.”

your hands tremble in your lap. your fingernails dig into your palms. you don’t dare lift your eyes. the weight of him is too much.

“the fields haven’t bloomed in two years,” you go on, tears streaking your cheeks now. your voice wavers between sobs and hiccups. “the animals— the lambs were born wrong. and the barley— they said the barley rotted because of the priests. because of the church’s curse.”

you suck in a breath, sharp and wet.

“they said— the druids said—” your words collapse into a quiet sob. “they said if i came… and gave myself… it would be undone.”

your eyes dart upward, just for a moment. he hasn’t moved. not one inch…

only his eyes glimmer — reflecting the torchlight like the eyes of a beast in the brush. like glass. or blood.

you choke on another breath. “i did everything right,” you whisper. “i fasted, i prayed— i was good. i never doubted. i—I’m not unclean, i have remained chaste! i—”

you’re weeping now.

not out of grief.

out of the sharp, rising terror of realisation. a realisation that none of it is going to work.

that you are here.

and he has not spoken.

your weeps fold into your sleeves. you try to make yourself smaller. you rock slightly where you kneel, lost in the wave of all you’ve held back for weeks — months. the prayers, the songs, the blessings from the handmaids. the way they dressed you like a gift. like a lamb for the altar.

you had believed it would mean something.

you believed you would be enough.

“please,” you whisper, and it’s barely a sound. “please let it work. let me— let me fix it.”

for a long moment, there is nothing.

and then—a shift. the quietest motion of cloth and limb. his steps are silent, but you feel him approach.

closer, closer, closer until the hem of his robe brushes your knee.

you dare not lift your head but he leans in.

he smells of old soil, of iron and myrrh. of something ancient and vaguely sweet — the way flower petals smell just before they rot.

his voice when it comes is smooth, deep, and entirely too calm.

“the catholics,” he begins, and each syllable tastes of smoke, “cannot undo their cause of suffering.”

you freeze.

your tears stop, though your breath still shakes.

“and nothing,” he continues, a little softer now, “can appease me.”

you lift your head at last.

you shouldn’t… but you do.

he is looking down at you — not with rage. not with hunger. with something worse.

amusement.

“but,” he adds, a slow curl of a smile forming on his mouth, “i have been blessed with an appealing gift.”

you can’t breathe and you don’t know if you want to anymore. it’s like his words have replaced the silence where your heaving should have been.

his words hang there between you, like frost clinging to a bare branch. they do not melt. they do not pass.

“an appealing gift,” he notes.

you don’t know what he means.

or rather—you do.

but your mind refuses to hold it.

you tilt your head upward, lips parting around the beginning of a question, but his fingers reach you first. the pad of one pale finger, cool as streamwater, traces the damp curve of your cheek where a tear still clings. the gesture is slow. indulgent.

“so much devotion,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “so much belief, even when they feed you to wolves wrapped in silk.”

you stiffen.

his hand doesn’t leave your face. it moves instead — trailing the edge of your jaw, ghosting the hollow beneath your ear. your heart is a rabbit beating its body against the walls of your chest.

“what—” your voice cracks. “what are you?”

he hums again. a sound of vague consideration.

“a shepherd,” he replies, with a smile too full of teeth. “or a beast. depending who you ask.”

you flinch. he notices.

his thumb drags across your bottom lip, collecting the breath you didn’t mean to let out.

“do you want to leave?” he asks, tone curious — not mocking. “you could try. no one would stop you.”

your lips tremble.

“but you won’t,” he adds, witfully, “because you still hope this means something.”

your eyes flicker with wet heat, still swirling with a sad innocence. “it has to.”

his expression shifts. not pity, not cruelty—but something that darkens.

“you poor thing,” he murmurs. “it never did. the rot came from the root, not the leaf.”

his hand drifts down, rests at your throat.

not squeezing—but you feel it. you feel everything.

“they brought you here not to save you,” he says softly, “but to be rid of their own shame. their debt.”

your breath shakes. your head turns. you don’t want to hear.

his fingers follow. gentle. unrelenting.

“you’re not a chosen one. you’re an offering made of regret.. out of fear that i will show myself once again.”

you make a sound — part sob, part protest.

but he kneels now. close enough that his shadow covers you both.

“yet,” he whispers, and here his voice changes again — into something almost reverent, “even so. you are beautiful.”

your lips part, confused.

his hand falls from your throat and presses, palm-flat, just over your heart.

“you believe,” he says. “you still believe.”

your head is spinning. your tears have dried. your fear is not gone, but it’s been replaced — twisted into something tangled with longing, with the quiet death of innocence.

he leans closer, his back curving to meet your kneeled height.

his mouth near yours.

his eyes not just watching — drinking.

“no god will have you,” he says, and his voice is velvet and storm. “but i will.”

you don’t know what makes you lean forward.

it isn’t logic and it isn’t courage.

it’s something quieter — an ache behind your ribs, a hollow born of too many prayers unanswered. something deep and tender, bruised by years of being told you were special only to be handed over like grain to the mill.

your lips part. not in surrender, but in question.

what would it mean, you wonder, to be wanted not for a harvest or for gods — but for yourself?

his breath brushes yours, cool and steady. he doesn’t move to meet you. not at that moment.

his eyes bore into you — and you feel seen. not just looked at. seen. the parts of you that tremble, that dream, that rage — all of them laid bare beneath that black and gleaming gaze.

your voice is a thread of sound. “what will you do to me?”

he exhales — and this time, it is a sound, not a word.

a low, dark hum.

his hand lifts again, gentle beneath your chin, coaxing you to tilt upward. “no one’s ever asked that,” he murmurs. “not before offering themselves.”

“i don’t—” you begin.

but he cuts you off — not with force. with closeness.

his lips graze yours like the edge of shadow.

“i will not tear,” he whispers. “i will not break. i will take, yes. but slowly.”

his mouth presses to your cheek. “you are not the first, but you are the most… willing.”

you swallow, your pulse beating like thunder in your ears.

“i’m scared,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

he nods, and for a moment — something very nearly human passes through his face.

“good,” he breathes, “fear means you understand.”

and then he leans in — fully this time.

his mouth on yours is like falling.

not fire. not ice. depth.

it isn’t passion, not at first. it’s possession. slow, patient, all-consuming. his hand holds the base of your skull, anchoring you as the rest of the world tilts sideways. your fingers catch in the fabric of his robes. your knees sink deeper into the cold stone.

he drinks from you — not your blood. not just yet.

but your breath, your fear, your heat.

he kisses you like a vow.

and you let him.

because somewhere in the back of your mind, a part of you believes this is what was always meant. not an altar. not a blade. but this — the dark, intimate undoing of everything they told you to fear.

when he pulls back, your lips are parted, your eyes dazed.

he smiles — slow, fanged, and still somehow soft.

“they tried to feed me shame,” he murmurs, “but you… you are ripe with something sweeter.”

you can’t speak. you don’t have to.

his arms gather you in and your body slumps into the embrace. lashes flittering with faintness or some kind of derealisation, your lips move before you think about speaking, “what is your name?”

it comes out as a murmur, something that even a light breeze can easily wisk away with it.

there’s a long moment.

he doesn’t answer at once.

his hand continues to stroke the curve of your spine, slow and deliberate, and for a moment you think maybe he hadn’t heard you — that the night carried your voice too far from his ears.

but then you feel it.

the trace of a smile against your hair.

"remmick."

the name slips like silk from his mouth, soft and precise — a sound that feels wrong in the best kind of way, like a song in a language your blood remembers even if your mind does not. the vowels stretch strange. the r hums low. it doesn’t belong to any place or time you’ve ever known.

you taste it, mouthing it once: remmick.

he chuckles — low, intimate, the sound vibrating into your chest where you rest against him.

"it’s not what they called me when they built this altar," he murmurs, gaze lifting toward the stone ruins behind you, half-swallowed by ivy and ash, “but it’s the only name i’ve ever worn that felt like mine.”

you don’t ask what he was called before.

you don’t need to.

his hand finds your chin again, coaxing you to look at him — and gods, even now, when your legs don’t feel real and your thoughts are drifting through you like mist, you meet his gaze.

"remmick," you repeat again, steadier this time, like naming him grants you some fragile tether to reality.

his mouth tilts, fanged but fond, “and yours?”

you blink, surprised.

no one’s asked that today.

everyone already knew.

you were the equinox girl. the chosen one. the gift. your name had been forgotten beneath garlands and titles and all the quiet ceremony.

you whisper your name in a shallow breath.

he exhales, the sound pleased. “freedom.”

your breath catches. you’d never thought of what it meant. no one had ever said it with reverence.

"suits you,” he says, his hands stroking the sides of your head with a sense of endearment.

you shake your head faintly, some small piece of you still clinging to disbelief. “they said i was a lamb.”

remmick leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear — not with hunger, not with threat, but with something almost reverent.

"they lied.”

and this time, when the wind moans through the trees, you don’t hear mourning. you hear welcoming.

his voice curls around you like smoke, and in its wake comes stillness — not empty, but full. full of everything you aren’t sure how to name. his fingers linger lightly at your waist, a gentle tether, and the weight of his gaze has shifted. no longer just watchful — reverent.

"do you want me to stop?" he asks.

you’re not sure when the question moved from implication to invocation. but now it hangs in the air between you, fragile and sacred.

you shake your head. slowly. almost dreamlike. “no.”

the word is barely a whisper — not out of fear, but because anything louder might shatter the moment.

you feel the way his body responds before you see it — the tightening beneath his robes, the faint press of his breath against your cheek. his hand rises to cup your jaw, thumb stroking over your skin like he’s memorizing the shape of you, the texture, the warmth.

and then his lips find yours.

it’s slow. unhurried. like he’s tasting sunlight for the first time in centuries.

he kisses you like he means to rebuild something in you — not tear it down. not claim. not consume. just witness.

your fingers curl into the fabric at his chest, pulling him closer. your breath hitches when his other hand traces the curve of your spine, settling just above the swell of your hips, and the contact blooms heat beneath your skin.

your lips part, and he takes the invitation with a low, reverent sound. his tongue brushes yours — tentative, tender — and your knees nearly give out with the sheer weight of sensation.

he catches you before you can fall, his strong hands sliding down to your thighs as he lifts you effortlessly. turning, he clears a path to the altar, then lowers you onto the cold stone slab—slowly, reverently—laying you down with a tenderness that contradicts the weight of the moment.

his mouth leaves yours only to trail kisses across your cheek, along your jaw, down to the hollow of your throat. your breath stutters as he lingers there, his lips barely grazing your pulse.

"tell me what you feel," he murmurs.

"warm," you breathe. "and… dizzy."

"good dizzy?"

you nod.

his teeth ghost against your neck, and your hands fist tighter in his robes.

"remmick..."

"i'm here," he reminds, "you guide this. not me."

you push him awayjust enough so you can look at him from close up.

his pupils are wide now, and something darker glows beneath — not hunger, but want. longing held back like floodwater behind stone.

you place your hands on either side of his face, fingers trembling, and lean in until your forehead touches his.

"i want you," you admit in a volume only he can hear, spoken like a secret, "before anything else. just you."

the breath he releases sounds like something breaking.

and then his mouth is on yours again, rougher now, more urgent. not unkind — never — but filled with restrained desire. the kiss deepens, his hands roaming with reverence and need, drawing you closer by the hips until your bodies are flush.

the world around you fades — the ancient stone altar, the hush of the trees, the soft hum of old rites. none of it matters.

only him. only this.

his hands bunch up the skirts of your robe, his fingers skim beneath the hem of the light fabrics, drawing slow lines up your thigh, and you shiver. not from cold — from want. from the electric ache building in every part of you. your breath comes faster, your hands mapping the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his neck, the strength beneath his stillness.

"you feel like fire," he says against your skin.

"so do you," you whisper, gasping softly as he kisses along your collarbone, his touch growing more confident, more consuming.

and when he finally begins to undo the bindings of your dress, you let him — not with fear, but with aching trust.

your skin blooms beneath his touch.

his name leaves your lips again, half-formed and reverent, as your body arches to meet him. and when his mouth finds yours once more, it’s not a kiss — it’s a promise.

you are no longer a symbol. no longer a sacrifice.

you are a woman made of warmth and will, met at last by someone who sees all of you — and chooses you still.

“remmick…” his name slips from your lips again, unbidden, rough with breath and reverence. he pauses, just for a heartbeat, the sound of it catching in the space between you like smoke.

his gaze is unreadable, dark and steady, but his hands don’t falter. they glide over you—exploring, learning, claiming—like he’s charting unfamiliar terrain with a quiet sort of hunger.

mo chreach-sa, he mutters, more to himself than to you—my ruin. the gaelic lands like a secret between your ribs, beautiful and dangerous.

when his mouth finds yours again, it’s not soft. it’s demanding. tasting. testing. not a kiss, but a question—and your body answers without hesitation, rising to meet him with heat and need.

you are no offering. no symbol.

you are flesh and fire, met by hands that want not to worship, but to understand.

and remmick, with every slow movement, every rough breath, learns the shape of you not with awe—but with intention.

the stone beneath you is forgotten now—just a texture at your back, swallowed by the heat between your bodies. remmick hovers over you, his weight pressing down in measured degrees, like he’s still deciding how much of himself to give.

your fingers twitch where he holds your wrist, not in protest, but in need—wanting him closer. wanting less air between you. he must feel it, because his grip tightens just slightly, grounding. not to restrain, but to remind.

his mouth finds yours again, slower this time. deeper. the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask—it confirms. he learns the way you move beneath him, the quiet gasp you give when his hand traces the inside of your thigh, the way your back arches just enough when he drags his knuckles down your side.

mo uan, he murmurs between kisses—my lamb. the word brushes against your skin like velvet, heavy with meaning, though he doesn’t explain it. doesn’t need to. you feel it in the way his hands have stopped roaming and now hold you steady, like he’s found the center of something.

his lips trail lower, down your jaw, your throat, marking a path as though trying to memorize the shape of you with his mouth. your pulse hammers beneath his tongue, and still he doesn’t rush.

this isn’t worship.

it’s not possession.

it’s discovery—intimate, patient, slow.

a study of sensation, and you are the text he’s unfolding line by line.

his breath fans across your skin as he moves lower, lips trailing a line down your chest, your stomach—each kiss unhurried, as though he’s savoring the act of peeling you open, layer by layer. not with violence. with focus. with hunger tempered by restraint.

you shift beneath him, instinct guiding you more than thought, hips rolling gently as anticipation coils low and hot in your belly. he notices—of course he does. the flicker in his eyes is almost amused, almost reverent.

but he says nothing.

instead, he parts your thighs with steady hands, slow and sure, like he has all the time in the world. your breath stutters. he glances up—just once—to meet your gaze. the eye contact alone is a promise: stay right here with me.

and then he lowers himself, settling between your legs with a kind of reverence that feels more primal than holy. his hands grip your thighs, thumbs stroking slow circles into your skin as his mouth finally meets you—hot, open, deliberate.

the first touch of his tongue is slow, exploratory, like he’s learning you by taste now. no rush. no show. just deep, focused attention. your hips rise before you can stop them, and he groans softly against you—pleased.

he adjusts his hold, pulling you closer to the edge of the altar, anchoring you there as he works. each movement is purposeful, drawing responses from you like chords from an instrument he’s only just begun to master.

he takes his time. listens with his mouth.

and you unravel—breath by breath, moan by moan—under the weight of his mouth and the silence between each soft, sinful stroke.

his mouth doesn’t falter. if anything, it deepens—his tongue stroking slow and sure, like he’s chasing the sound of your breath, the way it breaks when he finds that perfect rhythm.

your back arches off the stone, hands searching for something to hold—his hair, his shoulder, anything solid enough to anchor you as the heat builds sharp and steady inside you.

remmick’s grip tightens at your hips, not to control, but to keep—keep you here, keep you open, keep you his for just this moment.

“gu làth,” he murmurs between strokes—forever. the gaelic hums into you, low and rough and not meant as a vow but a curse. like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. like he almost hates how much he wants this—you.

your thighs begin to tremble and he feels it, responds to it—his mouth more insistent now, working in a rhythm that’s all instinct, all precision.

you can’t hold still. your voice breaks on his name—again, half-formed, wrecked and reverent—and that’s what finally undoes him.

he groans into you, the sound deep, guttural, vibrating through your core as he locks you in place and devours.

not sweet, not gentle. perfect.

and when release crashes over you, sudden and blinding, it rips through your spine and out of your mouth, a cry that echoes off stone. he doesn’t stop—not right away. he eases you through it, mouth softening only once your legs begin to shake in earnest, his hands grounding you even as you come apart.

finally, he lifts his head.

his lips are slick, his chest rising with slow, controlled breaths, but his eyes—his eyes are wild. quiet. focused. like he’s just tasted something forbidden and is still deciding whether he regrets it.

he leans in again, hovering over you. and for a long second, neither of you speaks.

then—

“still not afraid?”

you’re still catching your breath, your pulse pounding in your ears, but remmick doesn’t move away. his body remains braced above yours, close enough that you can feel the tension coiled in him, held tight beneath the surface

his question hangs in the air—still not afraid?—but it isn’t a taunt. it’s a warning dressed as curiosity.

you meet his eyes, throat dry, lips parted. “should i be?”

a muscle jumps in his jaw. he leans in just a little more, and now you feel him against you again—still hard, still restrained, but barely. the air between you crackles.

“yes,” he says quietly. “but not now.”

his hand slides up your body again, slower this time, from the curve of your thigh to your ribs, lingering just beneath your breast. he’s not trying to soothe you. he’s reacquainting himself—like you’re a weapon he’s learning to wield, and he's not done testing the edge.

his lips ghost over your ear, voice like smoke. “you don’t know what you’ve invited in.”

your fingers curl into his back, nails dragging just enough to make him feel it.

“then show me,” you whisper.

something shifts in him—subtle, dangerous. a low sound hums in his throat, not quite a growl, not quite a groan. he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes burning low, mouth parted.

and then he moves—grabs your thighs and pulls you down the altar toward him in one sharp, effortless motion, your back sliding over stone, legs wrapped around his hips before you can think to breathe.

he doesn’t enter you.

not yet.

he just holds you there, poised on the edge, heat pressing into heat, his control razor-thin.

you can feel it in the way his breath shakes against your skin.

in the way he waits.

he feels the shift in you the moment it happens—the way your muscles go taut beneath his hands, the way your breath shallows, chest rising too quickly.

and he already knows.

of course he does. he’s known since the moment he touched you, the way you trembled under his mouth, the way you reached for him like prayer—not from experience, but instinct.

he leans over you fully now, pressing you down into the altar, his body a cage of heat and power. one hand slides up your side, slow and firm, until his palm rests just beneath your throat—not choking, just holding. claiming.

his mouth hovers at your ear.

“you’ve never been taken,” he murmurs. not a question. a truth.

his voice is silk over stone—low, knowing, soaked in dark satisfaction.

“not by anyone.”

your body shivers beneath him, and you remember your fearful rambling about your devotion to him—the great one—how you flaunted your chastity to appease him.

you lie open beneath him, offered. trembling. not in fear—in awe.

because in this moment, he’s not just a man.

he’s heat and shadow and control.

he’s every story you were warned about, every god you were meant to fear.

and now, your first time—your offering—belongs to him.

he moves his hand from your throat to your jaw, tilting your head so your eyes meet his. his gaze is endless.

“look at me.”

you do.

and what you see steals the last of your breath—

not gentleness, not mercy.

but purpose. hunger. and a cruel kind of reverence.

“you give this to me,” he says, voice soft but full of iron. “you worship me with it.”

his hips press forward, just enough for you to feel the heat of him—hard, ready, deliberate. your breath stutters, and he watches it with a hunger he doesn’t bother to hide.

his fingers slide down, between your thighs, dragging through your slick slowly, testing your readiness—his thumb circling just once, lazily.

his mouth brushes yours, barely.

“you’re mine now,” he says, low and final, like a decree.

“say it.”

your body is already answering him—hips tilting into his touch, lips parted, chest rising fast beneath the weight of his presence. but that isn’t enough for remmick. not for a man like him.

he waits, thumb still stroking slow circles between your thighs, eyes locked to yours like he’s reading your soul straight through.

“say it.”

your voice barely comes—breathy, reverent.

“i’m yours.”

he exhales like that’s what he’s been waiting for. not permission. confirmation.

his mouth crashes into yours, not gentle now, but consuming. his tongue claims you the way his hands already have, the way his body is about to—thorough, unrelenting.

and when he pulls back, just enough to speak, his voice is rough, ragged.

“that’s it, you’ve always been so loyal to me.”

his praise shatters something in you, warmth flooding your chest, your core. you cling to him, fingers threading into his hair, the press of him between your legs making you ache so deeply it borders on pain.

“you give your purity to me,” he says, voice low against your throat. “your body. your first cry. all of it belongs to me now.”

you nod, breath catching—“yes… please—”

he growls softly at that, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“spread your legs for me.”

you do. willingly. eagerly.

not because he told you to—because it’s his. and you want him to take it.

he shifts his weight, guiding himself to your entrance. even as your heart thunders, there’s no fear now. only the raw, pulsing need to be his.

“keep your eyes on me,” he demands, “i want to see you break around me.”

and then he pushes in—slow at first, achingly slow, letting you feel every inch of him stretching you open, claiming you for the first time.

your breath shatters as he watches your face the whole way down.

not just a man but a god, devouring what was never meant to be untouched.

and you.. why, you welcome it, you offer it, you worship him. even through the pain.

he doesn’t thrust.

he stays buried just halfway inside you, holding still as your body stretches to take him—tight, aching, trembling. your legs twitch around his hips, not from resistance but sheer shock at the depth of him, the heat.

his eyes stay locked on yours, unwavering.

he sees the flicker of pain, the burn of pressure behind your lashes.

and he waits.

his hand comes to your cheek, thumb stroking beneath your eye. not soft. intentional. grounding.

“breathe,” he murmurs. “feel me.”

so you do—slowly, shakily, your chest rising as you try to relax into the fullness of him, the way your body clenches, holds, tries to learn him. he’s patient, but not passive—he rocks his hips just enough to make you gasp, just enough to remind you what he is:

not gentle, not kind. devoted.

his other hand presses at your lower belly, feeling the weight of himself inside you. he watches your face change when he does, drinking in your moan like it feeds something holy in him.

“mo chridhe,” he breathes, voice like ash and honey. not out of love—out of possession. like he knows what he’s going to take from you.

“look what you take,” he says, voice low, breath thick against your ear.

“look what you were made for.”

he pushes deeper, inch by inch, letting you feel every stretch, every slow drag of his cock as your body opens to him. your fingers clutch his shoulders, nails digging into skin, trying to hold on to something real as your whole world narrows to this—this heat, this pressure, this unbearable closeness.

your body is slick around him, drawn tight, trembling.

and still he doesn’t rush.

he sets a rhythm with his breath, not his hips—pressing forward just slightly, then stilling, then easing deeper again. each movement more consuming than the last, until you’re fully filled, taken, marked.

“mine,” he whispers, almost like a prayer.

not to you.

to the gods.

to whatever power let him have you.

and when he’s finally all the way inside, buried to the hilt, the breath leaves both your lungs at once—one shared sound, raw and ragged.

he doesn’t move.

he just holds you there, his forehead resting against yours, bodies locked.

and in the quiet, your heart pounds beneath his palm. steady. trusting. open.

claimed.

he holds you like that for a moment longer, buried deep, both of you suspended—your bodies locked together, your breath mingling in the warm dark above the altar.

then he moves.

just a pull of his hips, slow, dragging himself almost entirely out of you—leaving you aching, empty—before sliding back in, inch by inch, with deliberate, devastating control.

your mouth falls open around a sound you don’t recognize—half gasp, half plea. his name, maybe. or something older.

remmick watches you fall apart under him.

it fuels him.

his grip tightens at your waist, guiding your body to meet his now, his rhythm steady and deep, every thrust a silent declaration. he doesn't speak—not yet—but each movement says what his mouth doesn’t: you were made for this.

for him.

you cling to him, your body greedy, moving with his even as it trembles. your slick walls pulse around him, already stretched to your limit, and still your hips roll up, chasing every inch, every thrust.

“that’s it,” he breathes, rough and dark. “take me, little one. all of it.”

you do. again and again.

his rhythm quickens just enough to make your breath hitch, the sound of skin against skin echoing softly in the open space around you—wet, sharp, holy.

his thumb finds that aching spot at your center again, circling in time with his thrusts, dragging pleasure up and out of you with merciless precision. you cry out, thighs tightening around him.

he groans at the way you grip him, how you pulse around him—your body raw with want, no longer trembling with nerves but need.

“you feel that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “you’re giving it to me. all of it. every first, every cry, every shatter.”

his words hit as hard as his thrusts now—deeper, faster, dragging you toward the edge. your nails rake down his back. you nod, frantic, breathless.

“yes—remmick—please—”

he growls, low and guttural. your voice, broken and pleading, cuts through him like nothing else.

his pace picks up. hard now. sure. each thrust knocking sound from your throat, rhythm shaking the stone beneath you.

he’s not worshipping anymore.

he’s taking and you don’t mind.

he feels it—your body tightening, breath breaking, the way your thighs start to quiver around his hips. you're right there, trembling on the cusp.

and that’s when he slows.

his rhythm shifts again—still deep, still relentless, but measured now, cruelly steady. every thrust lands with weight, each one deliberate, drawn out just enough to deny.

you gasp, eyes flying open. he watches it all—how the pleasure builds but never tips, how your back arches as if that might pull him deeper, faster.

but he’s not rushing, he’s mastering.

“not yet,” he murmurs, voice dark and quiet at your throat.

“chan eil thu deiseil.” you’re not ready.

you whimper—needful, wrecked. but he’s merciless, his thumb still circling your clit with devastating skill, keeping you right on the edge, never letting you fall.

your body thrashes under him, trying to chase it—but his grip is iron. one hand on your hip, the other braced beside your head, holding you down as your orgasm builds like a storm behind your ribs, just out of reach.

“you want to come?” he growls against your ear.

you nod frantically, lips parting in a breathless, desperate plea.

“yes—oh, yes, remmick—please—”

he stops moving entirely.

the sudden stillness rips a broken sound from your throat—shocked, aching, lost. your body clenches around him, empty of motion but still full, and he smiles—a cruel, knowing twist of his lips.

“then beg,” his voice is silk and steel.

“not like a girl. like a worshiper.”

his hand curls beneath your chin, forcing your gaze to his. “tell me what i am to you.”

you can barely breathe, every nerve raw, stretched thin. he leans in, voice low, foreign, absolute.

“abair e,” he whispers. say it.

“abair cò mi dhut.” tell me who i am to you.

you’re shaking now, thighs still twitching, sweat slicking your skin. and still—still—he holds you right there, untouched and filled, body alight with heat and need.

and all you can do is breathe. plead. submit

your breath trembles in your chest, caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. the pressure inside you is unbearable—he’s kept you there too long, strung out, body quivering around him, aching to be undone.

and still he waits inside you. above you. simply owning you.

his hand tightens beneath your chin, holding your eyes to his.

“abair cò mi dhut.” tell me who I am to you.

your lips part. not in shame. not in hesitation.

but in offering.

“you’re the one,” you breathe, the words spilling out before you can even think. “you’re the great one—am fear mòr—meant to bring salvation to my spirit.”

your voice shakes, drenched in awe. your eyes glisten with it.

“you’re power and fire and judgment,” you whisper, hips trembling beneath him, “and i was made for your hands. your mouth. your will.”

he inhales sharply through his nose, a groan twisting low in his throat—almost a growl.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, voice hoarse with restraint. “mo sheirbheiseach.” my servant, my worshiper.

and this time, when he moves, it isn’t to tease. it’s to take.

he pulls back and drives in deep—one hard, slow thrust that punches the breath from your lungs, splitting you open around him. your body convulses, and you cry out his name like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known.

he sets the pace then, claiming you stroke by stroke, every movement raw with purpose, with power. his hand never leaves your throat, not in threat—but to remind you.

who you belong to.

his hips rock against yours, heavy, unrelenting. your climax coils again, impossibly sharp, building under the weight of his control, his heat, his divinity.

he leans down, lips brushing your ear, voice breaking.

“come for me, mo chreach… let me see you fall.”

your body is breaking—beautifully, violently—with every thrust of his hips. the pressure inside you is unbearable now, a flood held back too long, and you know it—he knows it.

your cries rise with each motion, no longer pleading but praising.

and he watches you come apart like a man who’s waited lifetimes for this exact moment. he feels it in the way your nails claw at his triceps, leaving red and raw marks in their wake that will undoubtedly heal as soon as they settle into his skin.

“that’s it,” he breathes, voice thick with awe and hunger, “fall for me.”

and you do.

you shatter around him with a cry ripped straight from your soul, your body clenching tight, legs locking around his waist. pleasure crashes over you—white-hot, endless—as if your body can’t tell where it ends and he begins.

and as you tip over that edge, lost in heat and reverence, he leans in.

his mouth finds your throat—not gentle. not hesitant.

claiming.

you feel the scrape of his teeth, the split of skin—sharp, exquisite—and then the pull. his lips fasten to your neck, and he drinks.

your breath catches—but the pain is brief, eclipsed instantly by a second wave of pleasure that drowns you. it’s as if your body was waiting for this too, this final act of surrender. your blood sings in your veins, your skin flushes warm, and all you can do is arch into him, give him more.

his groan against your throat is primal, reverent, like your taste confirms something ancient in him. his hips never stop moving, driving through your climax, deep and slow, as your blood spills in warm rivulets down your shoulder, down your chest—

dripping onto the altar like sacrament.

it runs in delicate red lines over the stone, soaking into the grooves carved by forgotten hands, marking the place where divinity and flesh finally met.

and you—trembling, shaking, utterly undone—feel none of the fear you were taught to expect. only rapture. only fullness.

he draws back at last, lips slick with your blood, eyes burning with something more than lust. he looks down at you like a god who has finally found something worthy of worship.

you’re breathless. glowing. claimed.

and you do not feel broken. instead, you feel blessed.

your breath begins to slow.

each inhale shallower than the last, a fragile rhythm fading beneath the weight of him, the weight of what you’ve given. the world around you drifts, edges softening, sounds distant, as if you’re slipping underwater.

but there’s no fear.

you feel warm. floating.

your body is spent, loose beneath him, blood still pulsing slowly from the bite at your throat—warm trails sliding down your skin, over your chest, pooling beneath your spine on the cold stone slab.

and yet… you smile.

your eyes unfocus, fixed on the vaulted ceiling above, but you don’t really see it. you’re seeing something else—something far beyond stone and sky and flesh.

something sacred.

you feel it in your bones, in the soft dark where your heartbeat used to be.

you are dying.

and it feels like flying.

he stays above you, still deep inside you, unmoving, watching the light change behind your eyes. watching the stillness take you.

watching you leave.

his hand cradles your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, reverent. his lips are parted slightly, breath steady, and his eyes—those terrible, beautiful eyes—drink in the sight of you like it’s the only truth he’s ever known.

“mo ghràdh na bàs,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. my love in death.

your grip on remmick’s arms begins to loosen—slowly, like petals unfurling in the dark. strength slips from your fingers one heartbeat at a time, until your hands fall away completely, limp and lifeless against the cold stone.

your final breath escapes you in a soft, shaking sigh.

a tense quietness settles.

you’re still beneath him now—utterly still—arms slack at your sides, legs parted, body bare and open like an offering. like something sacred left at the altar.

the blood at your throat glistens, warm and slow-moving, a red ribbon trailing over your collarbone, down your chest, dripping to the stone beneath in quiet rhythm.

and there you lie—silent, surrendered.

a symbol not of death, but of eventual salvation.

the beginning, not the end.

your body softens.

and everything—goes—still.

remmick watches you, his heart heavy with a mixture of reverence and anticipation. you are still, the life having fled your body, leaving you open and vulnerable beneath him. but he knows what must be done, the ancient ritual that will return you to him.

he raises his wrist to his lips, his eyes lingering on your lifeless form one last time before his teeth sink into his own flesh. the skin splits easily, and the blood wells up—dark, rich, pulsing in steady rhythm. he tilts his arm, letting it drip, slow and deliberate, down to your mouth.

with his free hand, he gently tilts your head, guiding you toward his wrist, the red offering so close to your lips. the first drop touches your tongue, the warmth of it a promise—a return to life, a bond between you.

you stir.

a faint tremor runs through you, like a whisper beneath your skin, and then—you snap awake.

your eyes open wide, pupils dilated, focused with primal hunger. instinct takes over, and with a growl, your mouth parts as you lunge at his wrist. your lips wrap around the wound, and you suck, pulling greedily at the blood, your body awakening with the rush of it.

he hisses, the sensation of your mouth against his wrist sending a shock of something dangerous and thrilling through him. but he doesn’t pull away. he lets you drink—letting you take what you need. his blood, his essence, filling you, restoring you, binding you to him.

the pull of your mouth is voracious. he can feel your body coming back to life with every pull, your strength returning, your senses sharpening. the sound of your drinking is almost intimate—animalistic, raw—and he feels the tether between you strengthen with every heartbeat.

he watches you, eyes dark with approval, as you drain him, not out of weakness, but need, as if your very soul was calling for it. and with each drop that leaves his wrist, he gives you more of himself—until there is nothing left to take.

only then does he finally pull his wrist from your mouth, watching as your eyes meet his—fierce, alive, and entwined with his.

something stirs inside you. no, not the intrusion of fangs or the bloom of red irises. rather.. a flicker. a coil. a flame reborn.

your fingers twitch. your chest jerks. your mouth opens with a silent gasp as heat floods your limbs—terrible and divine. you feel it thread through your blood, through your bones, not life as it was but something more.

you draw in your first breath anew, ragged and sharp—and your eyes snap open.

you’re not the same.

you are his.

and he is still inside you, watching you rise again beneath him with a gaze that burns with triumph, with hunger, with worship.

you were the sacrifice.

now, you are the revenant.

reborn in pleasure, death, and the hands of a god.

[sadesluvr]

Exposure

You can’t shake the feelings you have for Friedrich Harding, your father’s business partner.

It all started when Friedrich Harding had walked through the door. 

It was an autumn night, not dissimilar to the others. You were sat on the lush upholstery of your parlour, in your designated spot amongst the grand piano and ornaments that decorated the walls and floors, lost in thought as you flew a needle and thread between fabric. It was one of the moments where your house lay quiet, practically coming to a standstill since the death of your mother.  

The house had been an empty nest for a while. You were the youngest, the sole daughter of a wealthy ship merchant who’d had three sons prior. They’d all since grown; moved into estates and had families of their own, whilst you, still in your early twenties, were left at home waiting to be courted. Well, that was most of your life anyway. 

Naturally, your family had been extremely protective, and naturally that meant you were lonely. Days whilst your father worked was spent wandering the halls of your home, making idle conversation with Berta, the maid, or occasionally going for a walk amongst the shore or a local garden.

Nights were more sociable, but only so as the man would parade his colleagues into the dining room, but not before showing you off. You always earned a compliment or a kiss on the back of a hand, but it made you feel like a porcelain doll in a shop window. Enticing to look at, but not truly loved. 

Only you really knew how to love yourself. You found love in the works of Wilde and Hardy – though lately you’d turned to the dusty books at the back of the shelf, the ones where women were nothing but harlots and the men ravenous. Was it your fathers? Your mothers? Berta’s, even? Either way it didn’t matter; as nights were spent with your head in a book, curled up by a small lamp falling asleep to vivid, distant images. You weren’t like them. 

You hadn’t looked up when the door had opened, and two men had marched in, already laughing. In a sense, you’d learnt to zone out. 

“Darling, why don’t you come over and meet Herr Harding? His father used to come over for pool.” 

When he’d kissed the back of your hand, you thought you were sick. His eyes were a striking blue, with a strong, well-groomed moustache and sideburns, with his clothes tailored to match. You’d felt your heart drop to your stomach and your body suddenly run clammy. It was naive of you to think that he could've transferred some kind of illness so soon, but it was never impossible. You hadn’t a clue what went on at times. 

“The pleasure is mine. Your old man told me how stunning you were – I always knew he didn’t have it within him to lie.” 

He was whisked away with a glass of port in his hands, and that was as brief as the first interaction had gone. Until he’d been around the following night. Then the next. And thereafter. 

Friedrich wasn't like your fathers’ other business partners. He was younger, yes, but still significantly older than you. Though you made yourself scarce, you’d somehow catch his gaze from across the room or down the corridor, puffing mindlessly at the stick of smoke as his eyes subtly roved your body.

Conversations became longer, more frequent, and you found yourself making excuses for why you couldn’t stay – for every time there was a discomfort, an excitement that was overwhelming and peppered your skin with goosebumps.  

He made you sick, so much so that you’d stopped reading at night, finding your mind replaced with restlessness...the urge to be touched, satiated from your illness. You hoped it would go through eating more, prayer – anything that meant you wouldn’t have to see a doctor.

You’d heard things, horrible things.

The last time you’d seen one was when your mother died. 

One day, Friedrich, fresh off a new deal outside of his business with your father, had shown up at the door. Seeing that it was Berta’s duty to be useful, but ultimately inconspicuous, you made yourself as polite as possible, offering to show him the new artwork in the hallway by your bedroom. 

“I’m afraid you’re rather early. Father has not yet returned from work,” you sighed, teeth grazing your bottom lip as you spoke. “It’s poor practise, but I can call Berta to fix you a meal — “ 

“That won’t be necessary unless you intend in dining with me,” Friedrich nodded. “You must be hungry. It’s passed the hour.” 

“It’s unfortunate that I must turn you down. My appetite alludes me.” 

“Goodness…Are you ill?” He replied, raising a thick brow as he stepped towards you. 

“Must we talk about this here?” 

“There’s no one to witness the conversation, love,” he said, somewhat confused. “Though your secrecy worries me. Let us sit.” 

 You could hardly protest when he opened the door to your bedroom, his bright eyes scanning your features as he sought an answer.  

“I must. But I haven’t told anyone – I fear they may send me away if I were honest about the onset of my condition…” 

Friedrich paused, and with pursed lips took a deep breath. 

“I may only be your father’s business partner, but I can assure you that you have my upmost discretion, Madame,” he began, inching closer to you as he placed his hands gently on your arm, guiding you to sit on the edge of your bed. “Do speak to me.” 

The reality of your situation fell upon you as you fixated your gaze towards the ground, unable to avoid the pounding of your heart and the heavy rise and fall of your bust. You were alone with a man – one who was a protector, no doubt – alone in your room for the first time in your life, and you weren’t even married.

Essentially, a respected name made you no different to a common whore. Your mouth was putty, but you found it within you to speak. 

“I haven’t been able to sleep through the night,” you began, breath hitching in your throat. “I’ve felt faint, clammy. I can hardly focus on my embroidery.” 

Friedrich hummed. 

“When did you begin feeling this way?” 

You swallowed, wringing your fingers as you glanced up at through your lashes. 

“Months ago, when you first visited.” 

The man furrowed his brows, and shock rang throughout your body at his reaction.  

“Well, I can assure you that I haven’t brought some kind of illness. Perhaps it may have been the material of my clothes?” 

You shook your head. 

“I feel it’s something deeper, like a pull, almost. I have not felt this way for any man…I’m afraid that if I feel it for you, then I never will about future husband.” 

Something about the line caused him to perk up. 

“So, this sudden hysteria is about me?” 

Biting your lip, you fiddled with your necklace and slowly nodded, suddenly aware of how tight your corset felt. You were seemingly floating between life and death; as if you could drop dead at any moment yet still felt an overwhelming sense of anticipation – there was something in the horizon, seconds away from being tangible. 

Friedrich dropped his head, caressing your chin as the cool metal of his pinkie ring pressed against your warm skin, angling you to look at him. His hands were large, veiny and slightly calloused, but were the mark of a great man, as he was. The smell of tobacco and port lingered on his breath as he drew you close, his face atoms away from placing a kiss to your lips. 

“Do you want for me to make love to you, child? Caress your body and please you in the ways you’ve read about in your father’s books? Is that what you wish?” 

A lump bobbed in your throat. 

“Friedrich…I’m not yet a bride…” 

“If that’s something you’d like to wait for, I can make it happen, my love,” he began, words clear, yet not forceful. “But you should know that I cannot resist you. My old man raised me otherwise, but I won’t deny my desire to bed you as you are. I simply cannot wait until we are wed.” 

“You’d marry me?” 

“I’d do a lot more than that, darling.” 

It was natural for you not to protest once Friedrich laid his lips upon your own, hands dropping to your waist as you danced your fingers along his sideburns. His smoky musk consumed you, quite literally leaving you breathless as you whined against his body, desperate to rip yourself from your corset and allow him to consume you. 

His lips moved in tandem with your own, occasionally making a wet noise amongst the sound of his own laboured breaths. Pulling away, you were met with air for only a short few moments before Friedrich laid you back onto the bed, body straddling your own as he peeled off his layers; not totally nude, but enough for him to move around.  

You paid no attention to the slight ache in your back as you wriggled against the bedding, for the man’s lips were now attached to the nape of your neck, kissing and sucking your collarbone, as if he were trying to consume every inch of you. His moustache tickled your skin as his hands pawed at your dress, skilfully making their way up your undergarments.  

In another life, this moment would’ve come far more domestically, perhaps with you on your wedding night - but there was something far more devilish about being taken now, in your bedroom of your family home. You were almost certainly going to hell. 

“You’re quivering, love,” he said softly, watery blue eyes staring into your own. “You shouldn’t be scared of me.” 

You weren’t - well, not entirely – more scared about how your body was reacting; your heart and mind in overdrive as his fingertips made their way down your thighs, thumb ever so gently grazing your labia as it did.  

The bustle of your dress bothered you greatly, though Friedrich didn’t seem phased by it; intent on devouring you even through the layers of fabric, causing the material to flap about in a crude manner. In his passionate haste, the man unbuttoned his trousers and poked his manhood through his briefs before lining himself by your entrance. Breath hitched in your throat as you felt his warm, slightly sticky tip poke at your sensitive hole, knuckles brushing against your folds as he pushed into you without hesitation. 

A sharp gasp escaped your lips as he did, earning a concerned glance from the man. 

“I’m sorry to hurt you, darling,” he breathed. “It’ll only be a minute. I want nothing more than to make you feel good, believe me.” 

With your teeth between your bottom lip you nodded, spreading your legs as wide as the dull ache in your thighs could let you as the moustached man began to buck his hips into you.

Whether it was because he was your first (and only), or the fact that his frequent likening to a horse had rung true - Friedrich had a suitable length and girth to truly fill you up, ceasing the emptiness that your ‘sickness’ had brought almost in an instant. 

“Herr...” you whispered, eyes squeezed shut. You desperately wanted to moan; to cry out even, but found yourself too worried that Berta would see your ecstasy as a cry of distress. “Herr Harding, I can’t --” 

“Hold onto me, love, and open your eyes,” he ordered, though the softness of his voice made it so it could barely be read as an order. “I want to see you.” 

You obeyed. 

A twinge of a smile formed on his lush pink lips as he kissed you again, this time desperate to bury his head between the tips of your cleavage.

His mind was blank and dumb as he rutted into you, a drabble of drool ever so obscurely dripping its way down your skin and leaving a wet patch on the neckline of your dress. Your chest looked delectable, pronounced and wobbling with every motion he made on top of you, that the thought of them rounded and swollen with the glow of pregnancy was enough to send him over the edge. 

He let out a deep groan, and with furrowed brows he angled your leg upwards to dagger into you, causing your dress to bunch around your waist.  

Clamping your hand over your mouth, you couldn’t hold back the whimper that escaped your lips as his cock stretched you, hitting you in places you hadn’t even known existed. It might’ve been your euphoria or sheer breathlessness, but you could certainly feel it in your stomach. 

“That’s it, darling,” he cooed. “Just hold on a little longer. By God, you’re so sweet, as if you were made for me...I cannot wait to wife you, my love, you must wish for me to bear you a child...” 

A child. 

A child. 

The world went white. Your parents had always spoke to you about the presence of the afterlife, a place where a divine being would take you into his arms and cleanse you of sin...but you’d never imagined it to be so soon, underneath the man your father had often referred to as a second son. 

Humorously, you only felt grounded once a sheer liquid dripped down your leg. Whether it was blood, his seed, or a mixture of both, you knew that you were forever impure, and naturally tied to him. 

Forever.  

[shouyuus]

broken rosary, cinnabar dreams

+18, mdni; bc @vifilms inspired me so hard with her insane drabble i had to restart my laptop and bang this out before the words left me for good; so this one's for u raybaebae !

tw: heavy religious imagery, body worship, blasphemy (lol), extremely mixed metaphors, just stream of consciousness at this point

you think that perhaps god made women because he'd looked at men and said i think can do better. but you're convinced that when god made vi, he'd turned to the nearest angel and said goddamn, i'm good.

and you would worship her like she was made to be worshiped, kiss every inch of her skin till her breaths start to sound like monastic prayers, mark her skin with your piety, offer up bloodied palms and bruising knees, press your forehead to the muscle of her thigh and anoint yourself in her essence. you would worship her, yes. and her fingers in your hair would be as the commandments were, an irrefutable intimacy, from your lips to god's ears (or simply the apex of her thighs -- it's been a long time since you've been able to tell the difference).

because you know she's your saving grace, every bead on your broken rosary, cracked ivory and cinnabar dreams, her lips like sin and her body like so much wretched salvation. you would damn yourself for her. for her.

you'd shake her open, swallow down every drop of her violent grace, hollow her out till she's full of nothing but light, fashion her pleasure into angel wings so beautiful the seraphs might start to call her annabel lee. you'd kiss her into a wild messiah, mortal flesh and divine fecundity, curl your apostle fingers until neither of you can wonder if heaven is indeed just a place on earth.

it's here, in the negative space between your body and hers.

and it has always been here, hasn't it? because there's always love and your bodies have been the making. because poetry is only ever the answer to the question of do you love me?

and truth will always rhyme with your voice saying -- please, please, please.

so she answers your prayers with her mouth wide open, her athena-eyes dark as a moon-rocked sea. from here, pressed against her chest, you swear you can almost hear the angel-wing thrum in her thundering heartbeat.

"o-oh -- oh god -- kiss me --"

you anchor yourself to her with a groan, heed her words with hungering lips and a reverent tongue. you kiss her like it's the only thing you'd been put on this earth to do right, as if you'd been given these lips solely for the sake of this. of kissing her.

of kissing her bloody, and kissing her sweet.

of tracing her into more solid lines even as she shakes close to shattering.

"baby, baby -- i'm close -- fuck -- please --"

you nod, tugging back just a fraction to watch the pleasure break across her face, savoring in the splendor, in the gut-deep reckoning.

"yeah? c'mon violet -- show me -- wanna see you cum for me --"

"a-ah -- hah -- fuck -- oh fuck --"

for this, you think, you'd break the world into war. for this, you remedy, you'd paint the world into peace.

you pluck the desire from her like an unraveling thread, unspooling it in gossamer strands, picking it apart till she's undone beneath you -- in all her gold-limned glory, her bright eyes darkened by love or lust, the ridges of her body a study in perseverance -- you remind yourself to take it slow.

because sure, belief is a steady thing, but faith -- faith is running a marathon with no knowledge of the finish line, only the promise of the wind as she whispers in your ear -- just a bit more, just a bit more...

you slow your pace as vi shudders around you; reality shakes loose around your shoulders and truth becomes nothing more than a bedtime story the hungry tell their children on the nights when there's not enough food to go around the table. you gorge yourself on the sight of her, on the leavening skin of her abdomen, rising and falling with her staccato breaths, on the warmth threading from between her legs, slick and sticky as you pull your fingers away.

"holy... shit --" vi breathes, looking down at you with a half-drawn breath. the room around you shimmers in refracted bits of lucidity and memory. you smile, slipping into the space next to her, curling your body into hers, leaning into her as a supplicant to her majesty.

she smiles, reaching out to caress your cheek. you press into her touch, sating yourself on the gentility.

"god... what did i do to deserve you," she asks, her voice corded and breathy.

you blink open your eyes, uncertain of her meaning.

her, deserving of you?

you shuffle forward till your nose is pressed into the junction of her neck, till she is every breath your lungs have the dignity to breathe.

"you're everything, vi," you say, and you hope she understands. you hope she can hear the utter reverence in your voice, the debasement to which you would allow yourself to sink just to convince her of this one, singular truth.

everything.

vi laughs, reaching out to pull you close.

she grazes a kiss by your temple and you try not to whimper.

"and you're everything to me, pretty girl," she says, murmuring the words into the crease between your brows. you tug back to catch the flash of something that looks almost like that self-same adoration in the flutter of her lashes, the darkness of her eyes.

you do not think she understands; you pray she does anyways.

"c'mon doll -- time for bed," she says, chuckling as she hauls you into her chest, littering your skin with a flurry of kisses. your bodies settle against each other as the ocean might a stretch of familiar shore. as raindrops might recognize the specific mirror of the sea -- your souls tied, your breaths sighing in tandem -- ah yes, this is where i'm meant to be.

you let sleep caress you with her silken fingers, let her paint your dreams in shades of violet and blue, let moonlit-silver and midnight-sin sink into your skin. you fall asleep in violet's arms.

you do not hear her say i love you, in a voice singed with holy flames. but you do feel her kiss you. and you think, even in your dreams, that her lips have always tasted like smoke.

[houseofaegon]

ENCHANTRESS ╱ BOB REYNOLDS SERIES

✷ ─── +18 MINORS DNI 𓏲  ◟ ♡ ˖ ࣪ emotional trauma, mentions of death/grief, witchcraft, blood magic, mentions of tony stark and natasha romanoff's deaths supernatural possession, canon-typical violence, discussion of war and loss, found family themese, bucky being a big brother, heavy emotional reunion, psychological instability (enchantress/void dynamic), first contact tension, slight walker slander lol.

✷ ─── AUTHOR'S NOTE. this chapter is the beginning of everything. this is her history, her haunting. arabella means everything to me!! she's my baby and i love her so much, creating her character and her backstory has been both amazing and heartbreaking, especially because of tony and natasha and her grief after losing them. thank you for reading and giving this unhinged little series a chance. love always, bri.

✷ ─── ENCHANTRESS SERIES. chapter one: beauty in tragedy. chapter two: the devil you know. chapter three: the witch. chapter four: moonlit waters. chapter five: divine hunger. chapter six: to burn & be burned. chapter seven: of teeth & tenderness. chapter eight: bound by blood. chapter nine: ashes between us. chapter ten: salt in the wound. chapter eleven: blood moon. chapter twelve: whispers in the dark. chapter thirteen: the witch and the void.

ARABELLA MONTENEGRO never knew her mother. Nor her father 

She never knew the warmth of a mother's voice singing lullabies until she fell asleep, or what it meant to be held in soft arms. Never learned what it felt to be cherished. To be wanted. To be loved. To be a daughter.

Her mother died giving birth to her under a blood moon eclipse in the cold Andean highlands. The air was thin and charged with unspoken energy, the earth wet with rain, and her first cry was followed by a gust of wind so violent it shattered the windowpanes of the midwife's hut.

There was never a father to begin with. The village whispered she had been conceived through a blood ritual the witches performed in desperation—calling upon something old, something nameless, something far more powerful than any of them could control. They said her soul was not entirely her own.

She was raised by witches—her grandmother at the head, the matriarch with weathered hands and eyes that could turn anything into flame. The women in her bloodline had always walked between worlds, but Arabella was different. She didn't channel magic like her sisters. She was magic—uncontrollable, wild, ancient. And at six years old, something inside her opened its eyes.

The Enchantress.

Not a whisper. Not a ghost. A prescence. Always watching. Always waiting. Sometimes Arabella would wake up with her feet dirty and raw, her hair braided with herbs she didn’t remember picking, blood on her palms and a taste like copper on her tongue. The others said she was sleepwalking. But she knew. It was her—and it wasn’t. She saw things—glimpses of herself standing in the woods, barefoot and laughing, darkness blooming from her palms. But it wasn’t her laughter. Not really.

Her grandmother tried to train her, to tether her to the earth with chants, crystals, and sacred prayers. But even she, the oldest and most powerful of all the witches in her village, feared what Arabella was becoming.

They all did.

They never said it out loud. But Arabella saw it in their eyes.

Fear.

Of her hands. Her eyes. Her potential. Her power. Of what lived inside her.

The Enchantress wasn't a passenger. She was a fracture in her mind. A second heartbeat. Arabella felt her stirring in moments of pain, in flashes of rage, in silence too long left untouched. She'd whisper—not in words, but in urges. In hunger. In need.

At sixteen, it happened. A fight. A bad one. Someone touched her—grabbed her wrist, called her a monster. She doesn’t remember screaming. Doesn’t remember the words. Just the fire. The sensation of being split open, of something rising from her spine like smoke and rage and divinity.

It was raining. Pouring rain. Arabella remembers the smell of wet earth, the way the sky seemed to known what was going to happen. Before it all happened. Before it bled. The power erupted out of her like a scream. The Enchantress took over her entire body. She was transformed, became something else. A curse. Her body shifted, her voice fractured. Eyes glowing, mouth open wide—screaming spells older than language itself.

When it ended, the entire village was gone.

Ash.

Smoke.

Blood.

Silence.

Arabella woke in a crater of scorched stone, her hands trembling, her dress shattered, her body painted in blood. She remembered nothing—but in her dreams, she saw it all. Screams. Flames. Her sisters on their knees, begging. Untammed. Unable to control herself. Unable to snap out of it. Dangerous. Feral.

The Enchantress laughed through her.

Arabella had killed them. All of them.

And so she ran

Left the rotting, burning village behind. Left the only people who had ever called her family. Her heart broken inside her chest. She couldn't trust anyone—not even herself.

Because when she loved, when she cared—people died.

She didn't stop.

She ran.

Ran until her feet bleed. Until she couldn't breathe. Until the blood blurred.

And then somehow, she ended up in New York.

Concrete. Neon. Noise. A city too loud for her ghosts.

She slept in alleys. Kept salt and crystals in her pocket. The Enchantress whispered constantly, her presence heavier in the city than ever before. Arabella wore her grief like a second skin and hid her power behind trembling hands.

Until he found her.

Tony Stark.

It was raining—of course it was. New York in one of those late spring storms that felt biblical. The streets washed in rain and car lights and memories. She was half-starved, fingers glowing black under her hoodie. Curled up outside a bodega, eyes half-closed, a protection spell barely bubbling in her throat.

And still—she didn’t cry.

She was too empty for tears.

Then someone stepped through the rain and crouched in front of her. He didn’t step back. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t stare at the light bleeding from her fingertips or the sigils etched into the concrete around her feet.

He just knelt beside her slowly and said, "You look like hell, kid. Let's get you warm."

She blinked up at him, dazed. And that was it. That’s how it started.

He didn’t ask her what she was.

He just held out his hand.

He brought her to the Avengers Compound. Let her shower in hot water until her skin pruned. Let her sleep for two days straight in a room so layered with protection spells, even the ghosts in her blood went silent.

He built her a room lined with vibranium and blessed by both Wanda and Strange. The walls were filled with runed she carved herself, deep and crooked with shaking fingers. Salt lined the windowsills. Crystals in every corner. Every inch a sanctuary just for her.

He called her kid. Said it like it was a nickname, not a burden.

Pepper brought her tea in the mornings. Clean clothes. Soft smiles. She tucked her hair behind her ear like a mother would. Arabella didn’t know how to handle it. She didn’t know how to be held without breaking. But Pepper made it feel like maybe she could be something other than a curse.

Maybe she could be… a daughter.

And Tony? He was the first person to make her laugh. The first person who didn’t treat her like a prophecy, like a monster. He made her feel safe. He taught her how to channel, not contain. He never told her to be less. He never told her to be afraid.

He made her feel like maybe—just maybe—she could be Arabella again, and not the thing the ghosts whispered about. Not the girl born under the blood moon. Not the prophecy in flesh.

Just a girl. Living. Learning

But deep down, The Enchantress never slept. Never faded. She waited.

And Arabella always felt her… watching. Letting her pretend she was normal. Letting her pretend she could be loved.

She became an Avenger at twenty. Not because she believed in saving the world—but because Tony did. Because he looked her in the eyes and said, “You’ve got more heart than most people in this place. Let it beat for something.”

She fought beside them—Steve, Nat, Bucky, Wanda. Bled for them. Protected them. Called them family.

She saved lives. She laughed again. She thought—just for a moment—that maybe she could have a life.

But when Tony died, something inside her broke.

She didn’t scream right away. She just stood there—frozen in the chaos, in the smoke, in the aftershocks of war—and stared. Stared at the arc reactor dimming in his chest. Stared at the blood on his mouth. Stared at the way the sky looked too clear. Too quiet.

He had snapped his fingers. Saved the world.

And it had killed him.

Arabella dropped to her knees beside Peter, who was sobbing. Pepper was whispering, voice cracked and crumbling. Steve stood in silent grief. And Arabella?

Arabella shattered.

The scream ripped through her like a blade. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t even hers.

It was The Enchantress.

Magic exploded from her in violent, pulsing waves—black and poisonous, raw and ruthless, tearing through the rubble like a second earthquake. Spells older than any living tongue poured from her lips like a curse cast by grief itself.

She didn’t know who she was hitting.

Didn’t see Peter until it was too late.

He reached for her—“Bella, stop—please—”

She nearly broke him in half with a single word.

Wanda stepped in, her own power crashing into Arabella’s like a tidal wave of chaos and grief and fury. The ground split beneath them. The sky turned red.

And still, she couldn’t stop.

It was Bucky who pulled her back.

He found her in the aftermath—crumpled against the side of the battlefield, her hands trembling, her body still glowing faintly like a dying star. Blood on her palms. Ash in her mouth.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t raise a hand. He just sat beside her, quiet, solid.

“I know,” he said softly. “I know what it feels like when grief breaks you open.”

She let him pull her into his arms.

Let herself sob until her throat went raw.

She disappeared after Tony's funeral. No goodbyes. No notes. Just gone.

She couldn't bear it—Tony’s lab, untouched and echoing. Natasha’s absence like a ghost in every corner. Steve gone, like a whisper fading in the wind. Everyone trying to move on. Everyone pretending they knew how.

She couldn't pretend.

She couldn't stay in the places where laughter once lived. Couldn't sit at a table set for ghosts.

Thanos was gone. But somehow, she still felt like she had lost.

Like she had failed.

She couldn’t save them.

She wasn’t enough.

Because Arabella Montenegro was never built to bury her dead.

Not when their voices still lived beneath her skin.

Not when the dead still whispered through her veins.

Bucky Barnes hadn’t seen her in years.

Not since the funeral. Not since the battlefield where she nearly broke the earth open with her grief. Not since he found her curled into herself, shaking and bloody, sobbing over Tony Stark’s lifeless body. Not since he held her like a brother who didn’t know how to fix her—only he knew that he had to.

He hadn’t expected to hear from her again.

Not really.

She didn’t owe them anything—not after what she’d lost, not after what she’d given. Arabella had always been something untouchable. A ghost in a pretty dress. A girl with shadows in her lungs and thunder in her fingertips. She was never meant to stay. She was made for disappearing.

But he missed her.

God, he missed her.

Because Arabella Montenegro had done what no one else had.

She got through to him.

When the world still looked like war behind his eyelids and everyone treated him like a loaded weapon, she looked him dead in the eye and said, “I’ve known worse monsters than you. I keep one inside me.”

She never tiptoed around his past. Never judged him. Never tried to fix him.

She just… stayed.

Showed up with tea laced with cinnamon and protection charms she slipped into his leather jacket without telling him. Stitched sigils into his gloves and his suit. Knew when to sit in silence, and when to drag him out of bed at 3am to dance barefoot on the compound roof like two idiots with more power than they wanted.

She made him laugh.

She made him feel like a man, not a weapon.

He used to call her “brat” when she got on his nerves, and she’d roll her eyes and call him “abuelito” for fun. But when things got real, when the Enchantress clawed too close to the surface or her hands shook after missions, she’d whisper, “James,” and he’d come running.

He was her anchor. Her constant. And she? She was his warmth. His moonlight. His reminder that he could be soft without falling apart.

They didn’t need to say it aloud.

She was the little sister he never had.

He was the big brother who never asked for anything but gave everything.

And then New York cracked beneath The Void, when Bob Reynolds began unraveling the fabric of reality one thought at a time, Bucky didn’t know who else to call. There was no Steve. No Natasha. No Tony. So when he dialed her number, voice tight and half-broken, he wasn’t sure she’d even pick up. Left a message she might never listen to.

Just six words.

“If you’re still out there… please.”

Part of him hoped. Prayed.

Because if anyone could help them now…

It was Arabella.

He didn't think she'd come. Not after everything. Not after all the pain and suffering she'd been through.

But she did.

Three days later, the elevator doors opened at the Watchtower, and Arabella Montenegro walked in.

Barefoot, as always. Her black silk dress clung to her like smoke, high-necked and long-sleeved, sheer, embroidered with dark thread in sigil shapes. Obsidian rings adorned her fingers, and a silver charm glinted at her throat—something old, something protective, something hers.

Her hair was longer now. Wilder. Cascading in thick curls down her back like a midnight waterfall, still damp from the rain. It framed her face like a halo of shadows. Haunted in a way that told him the past years had carved her out like a cathedral. Her eyes, rimmed in black, gleamed with something other. The blood-red of her lips looked like the last kiss before a storm. She looked older. More dangerous.

More beautiful than ever.

Bucky stood frozen halfway across the room, breath lodged somewhere in his throat.

She saw him immediately.

Her mouth curved. Soft. Familiar. Just for him. “James,” she said softly.

“…You came,” he whispered, the words barely making it out of his throat.

Arabella tilted her head. “You called.”

And that was all it took.

Bucky moved before he could stop himself—crossing the floor in three long strides. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t wait. Just wrapped her up in his arms and pulled her in like he was afraid she’d disappear if he blinked.

Arabella let out a sharp breath against his chest, the air knocked out of her with the sheer force of his embrace. “James—” She laughed, breathless. “You’re crushing me.”

“I don’t care,” he muttered into her hair, squeezing tighter. “You’re real. You’re here.”

She clung to him just as hard, arms wrapped around his waist, face buried in his shoulder like she was ten seconds from falling apart. He rocked her back and forth without realizing it. His hand came up to cradle the back of her head, thumb brushing through damp curls.

“You smell like rosemary and grave dirt,” he said softly.

“You smell like gunpowder and old guilt,” she shot back, muffled.

His laugh cracked, deep in his chest. “There she is,” he murmured. “My little menace.”

Arabella pulled back, blinking up at him. Her eyes shimmered—just slightly. “You missed me.”

“Of course I did,” he said, brushing her hair back behind her ear like she was still that nineteen-year-old girl Tony brought home. “I’ve missed you every goddamn day.”

“I didn’t think you’d say that out loud,” she teased, her voice trembling with more than amusement.

“Yeah, well.” He shrugged, still holding her. “Getting soft in my old age.”

“You’ve always been soft for me,” she smirked.

He rolled his eyes. “You hex my coffee once and suddenly I’m emotionally compromised.”

“You are emotionally compromised,” she whispered.

His face sobered. He reached up and cupped her cheek. “You good, Bells?”

She hesitated.

Then she nodded, slowly.

“Getting there,” she said. “But I knew I couldn’t do it alone. Not this time.”

“Well, you’re not alone anymore,” Bucky said, his tone quiet, firm, the way big brothers spoke when they made promises they intended to keep. “Not ever again.”

And Arabella, for the first time in years, believed him.

But then the room shifted.

All eyes were on her now.

Arabella turned, facing them fully for the first time. Her presence hit like a ripple in still water—slow, sudden, undeniable. The kind of entrance that made rooms fall silent, made hearts stall in place.

Her magic followed behind her like a scent: wild roses, burnt sage, candle smoke. It draped over the room, pressed into the walls, settled deep into the floors.

And they felt her. Not just her energy—but the presence curled behind her bones.

The Enchantress.

Yelena didn’t even stand up.

She looked Arabella up and down from her spot on the couch, one leg hooked lazily over the armrest, a protein bar half-eaten in one hand. Her sharp gaze swept over the black silk, the bare feet, the storm that shimmered around Arabella like perfume.

Then she said, dryly, “You look like you’ve buried at least three exes and didn’t bother wiping the blood off your mouth.”

Arabella barely blinked. “Only three?”

Yelena raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Two were accidents. The third had it coming. The fourth is still in the freezer.”

Yelena grinned, slow and wicked. “Do you want to be best friends or enemies who share eyeliner and hide bodies together?”

“Can we be both?” Arabella asked, tilting her head.

Yelena tossed the protein bar aside and stood. “God, yes.”

Bucky groaned audibly. “No. Nope. This is a mistake.”

Arabella and Yelena ignored him, already circling each other like twin wolves. Dangerous. Beautiful. Laughing under their breath like they’d been born for this.

“You ever hex a man so his dick stops working?” Yelena asked casually.

Arabella’s eyes glittered. “Only on Tuesdays.” She leaned in. “And only if he ghosts me.”

Yelena let out a delighted gasp. “Okay. I love you. Teach me your dark arts, my Sith Lord.”

Arabella smirked, one brow arched. “Only if you promise to use your powers for petty and chaotic purposes.”

Arabella and Yelena bonded instantly.

Within five minutes, they were seated on the floor, knees touching, comparing knives and horror stories. By ten, they were whispering chaos into the walls—how to enchant Walker’s shampoo, how many ways you could curse someone’s sex life, whether blood magic could double as birth control.

It was like Arabella was meeting a version of herself—sharper, louder, equally unbothered.

And then Walker came in.

Arabella didn’t even turn when he stepped into the room—she just felt the misplaced authority before he spoke.

“So this is the witch,” he muttered, all folded arms and puffed chest.

Arabella turned her head slowly, almost lazily, and looked him over with the kind of gaze that made men reconsider their entire careers.

“If it isn’t the Dollar Store Captain America,” she said, deadpan.

Yelena barked a laugh. Bucky sighed, trying his best to hide his smirk.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Arabella continued, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeve. “Honestly? I expected more muscles. And less… mall cop energy.”

Walker’s jaw tightened. “You know, you witches are all the same.”

Arabella leaned in. “No, I’m worse.”

He muttered something under his breath and stormed off. The door didn’t close fast enough to muffle Yelena shouting, “Try the clearance aisle next time!”

Then came Alexei.

He strode over like an avalanche in boots, face split into a grin, eyes crinkling with delight.

“You,” he declared in Russian, “are the little shadow witch. I have heard things.”

Arabella raised a brow. “Good things?”

“Terrifying things. My favorite kind.”

She smiled.

“I brought gift!” he announced, pulling something from his jacket. “Very sharp.”

He handed her a vintage combat blade—slightly rusted, beautifully heavy.

Her eyes lit up. “This is better than flowers.”

“You are better than daughters,” he said proudly. “I have too many of those. But you—? You are dangerous. I adopt you now.”

“Do I get a pin?”

“No,” he said. “You get vodka.”

Arabella grinned. “I knew I liked you.”

Ava came last. Quiet, hesitant, but not afraid.

Arabella turned the moment she stepped near, gaze softening.

“You’re beautiful,” she said simply. “Not your just face. Your aura.”

Ava blinked. Said nothing. Arabella reached into the folds of her coat and pulled out a crystal—clear, sharp-edged, humming faintly.

She pressed it into Ava’s palm.

“You ground the noise,” she whispered. “That’s rare. Don’t let anyone take that from you.”

Ava stared at her. Not used to praise. Definitely not like that.

“Thank you,” she said, voice small.

“You’re welcome,” Arabella replied, just as softly.

And then—him.

She hadn’t looked at him yet. Had felt him the moment she stepped into the room—golden, fractured, watching. But now she turned.

And there he was.

Bob Reynolds.

He stood like a storm held in skin. Curls tousled, hands tense at his sides, chest rising and falling too slowly. His eyes were full of something that wasn’t him.

Something dark.

Something waiting.

Arabella met his gaze—and time bent. Her pulse jumped. Her magic reacted.

And inside her chest, The Enchantress inhaled sharply.

“Him,” she whispered, breathless. “He’s—he’s not like the others.”

Arabella felt her limbs go cold and hot all at once. Her fingers trembled. The air between them shimmered like heat off pavement.

Inside Bob, The Void purred.

“She’s like us,” it whispered, reverent and hungry. “I can feel the darkness inside of her. Let me touch her.”

Bob didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Arabella’s mouth parted slightly.

The Enchantress hissed—“Feel that? That pull? He’s not just broken, mi niña. He’s bound. Like you. Like me.”

Arabella swallowed, but the breath barely made it down. The air was too thick. The space between them pulsed with something unspoken, ancient. Not recognition—no, it was deeper than that.

It was kinship.

It was want.

Bob still hadn’t moved. Still hadn’t blinked. His fingers twitched once, a tremor that betrayed everything simmering beneath the surface.

Arabella’s voice was barely more than a breath when she finally spoke.

“Hi,” she said softly.

Bob’s lips parted.

Inside his chest, The Void leaned forward, eyes glittering in the dark.

“She knows,” it whispered. “She sees you. And she doesn’t run.”

Arabella didn’t blink.

Neither did he.

And in the space between them, something shifted.

Something began.

𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐅𝐀𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐍 © 2025. DO NOT STEAL, REPOST, OR COPY THIS STORY TO TUMBLR, WATTPAD, AO3, OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM. Moodboards and graphics made by @houseofaegon DO NOT repost or reuse without credit. chain divider by @cursed-carmine

♱ ˖ ࣪ . taglist: @the-a-word-2214 @favestxrboy @uraesthete @abbysbenchpr @sammystarswrite @pey2618 @qardasngan @lunaoieoie @orithyia-eriphyle @amatiswayland @madzzz6958 @all-by-myself98 @dark-silhouette @ghost-ghost-13 @wyvernthekriger @gayfiretruck @watermeezer @lvmxla @novausstuff @mommymilkers0526 @natureartisian @feralgoblinbabe @misaki-evans @uracowboylikemee @sxlsvv @stillinracooncity @deltamel (if you would like to be added to the taglist, please let me know in the comments. love, bri.)

[gremlingottoosilly]

Reader looking to the old gods for guidance, thinking it’s harmless to offer a prayer. She doesn’t know that eldritch!König hears every soft word and plea.

You needed an escape. A reprieve, if anything - something, anything, whatever the cruel world had to offer you. There wasn't a point in trying to cry for conventional gods, they didn't give you anything but creeping anxiety. There wasn't a point in trying to ask for help from your community, the one who had shunned you away. So, you try unconventional methods. Old books, spells, wild rituals, and pig blood on the sunrise. By the time you learned that sea shells are much better as a sacrifice than human blood, you were already desperate to the point of just jumping into the sea. You just didn't know you'd be welcomed in a firm embrace once you did. Konig hasn't seen a follower this cute in a long time - or, maybe, ever. His cult was never the one for beauty, it was always about the cruel practicality of power. Evil men and women seeking refuge in the cold embrace of an old god - no one else had enough resources to spit on the conventions of the mortal world. No one cared quite enough, and no one liked to torture humans quite as much as Konig did... but he didn't exactly want to torture you. An old god like him doesn't even need human sacrifices anymore - it's too little of a price and wouldn't even make him look in a person's direction. No - he needed something bigger, something more interesting. Your feeble ambitions aren't that interesting for him either, but your humble body is, on the other hand... An eldritch being like him doesn't really have need of the flesh, but he can't help but nurture his affection and press his body closer and squirm his tentacles all over you. You were prepared for a possible assault while working with the demonic beings - some of them like to take bodies for a price, as you have read - but you weren't prepared for an old god exploring your body like a curious teenager. His tendrils coil around your nipples, tugging and squeezing, making you whimper from something dangerously edging on pleasure - and making the hot feeling you notice under your hip that much more terrifying. He doesn't ask for your name - not because he already knows it or because he doesn't care about it, but because he intends to give you his by the end of the night. You knew that a deal with an eldritch god would be a terrible, horrible, absolutely unthinkable idea and a punishable offense - you just didn't know that punishment would be this pleasurable. He explores your body with the eagerness of a lover and the curiosity of an explorer, and despite his face being hidden, you can almost feel his cold gaze going deeper, pressing closer. Konig accepts your call, he accepts you as the price for whatever little wish you had hidden in your chest. And while he doesn't need a wife, doesn't need a mortal lover on his arm, he will take joy in filling you up with his eggs and watching as you slowly succumb to him - just like a cute little worshiper like you should. And if you would finally get enough of a brain to try and refuse him, then, well... Konig wouldn't mind breaking a leg or two to keep you trapped in his sea cave forever - or right until you're ready to become a proper old god's wife.

[astrocrazed]

Ketu Ruled Men & Their Striking Features

A Study of Shadowy Beauty in the Nakshatras 💫����🦋🙏🕊️🌚

This is a special collab with @astrocrazed and honestly I'm so grateful to her because this idea was born out of our shared obsession with nakshatra-coded beauty. Most appearance-based astrology content focuses on women and even fewer talk about how each nakshatra affects physical features, particularly in men. So we wanted to change that. This post focuses on Ketu-ruled nakshatras and how this shadowy, spiritual planet shows up physically. Ketu might be headless, but trust me when it dominates a chart, the face tells a story. If your Sun, Moon, or Ascendant is in a Ketu-ruled nakshatra (Ashwini, Magha, Mula), conjunct Ketu or if Ketu is in your 2nd house (which rules the face), chances are you've got some of these distinctive traits. Let's dive into the mysterious allure of Ketu-coded men.

Now onto my introduction,

Offering my prayers to lord Ganesha

Om Gam Ganapathaye Namaha II

And with a beej mantra of ketu

ॐ श्रम श्रीं सरं सह केतवे नमः ||

Om Shram Shree Srom Saha Ketave Namaha II

I am starting this post..

It has been a long time since I have written a long-ass post. This post is a collab with @clarynewme . I am more thankful to her as she is the one who came up with all the points. So kudos to your research and observations. We decided to do such a post after finding little to no posts discussing how each nakshatra affects the overall features of a man. We are delving into physical features that are seen in each of the 27 nakshatras. Before going into individual nakshatras, it would be worthwhile to do a general post on all the nakshatras that are ruled by the same planet. So in this post we are talking about ketu, the shadowy planet.

Each planet has certain influence on the facial features and overall physique of a person. As we are talking about Ketu, let's see how it influences a person's features.

Jaehyun

Brad Pitt

Austin Butler

Ahn Hyo-Seop

Xu Kai

Ashutosh Rana

Adrien Brody

From what is seen in these photos they tend to have:

🍀 Prominent jawline - well defined but not overly square, with minimal excess mass around the jaw area;

🍀 Tapered chin that's round yet slightly squarish;

🍀 Small to medium almond-shaped "puppy eyes" (@venussaidso);

🍀 Close-set eyes unless softened by Pisces/ Sagittarius placements (tropical astrology); Deep set, noticeable or even shocking eyes (Claire Nakti);

🍀 Prominent or unique teeth - large, crooked or with a gap (Claire Nakti);

🍀 Straight and narrow nose bridge;

🍀 High, subtly defined cheekbones;

🍀 Prominent neck - usually long or thick;

🍀 Something unique about their appearance, like tattoos, piercings, dyed or styled hair or a padded/dimpled chin (Claire Nakti);

🍀 Hair that varies widely: long, medium, short, bald, dyed, bleached or natural (common styles include mohawks, slicked back looks, buns, or wild textures) - Claire Nakti;

🍀 Symmetrical lips with a well-defined Cupid's bow;

🍀 Prominent ears that stick out (Claire Nakti);

🍀 Tall height and lean to muscular body (in general);

🍀 Tendency to highlight their eyes with eye liner or smokey eyeshadows - musexmessenger (tiktok);

🍀 Prominent speech - may be loud or direct, with a unique vocal tone such as deep, raspy, airy, high-pitched or marked by a lisp or stutter.

Note: If you've noticed any other traits in Ketu-ruled men, feel free to share-your insights might help us update and refine the post!

Finally finishing our post with this man right here..

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[dansroo]

TAKE THEM OFF. Jayce Talis x reader.

⤷ Tired of monotony, there is nothing that his faithful partner can't fix.

content; nsfw. male!reader. dom!reader. sub!needy!jayce. secret relationship. masturbation through clothes. light overstimulation. dirty talk. teasing. semi-public. mention of body fluids. slight mention of huge cock. so messy and loud jayce. mention of women flirting with you and a little jealousy!jayce. wc; 1.6K

Do you know that famous GIF from a 1997’s movie called "Wilde"? Just so you can understand the position a little better. ;)

a/n; hi!!, I hope you had a good time at the holidays, in my country they haven't finished yet haha. btw, I wanted to release this that I had in mind before continuing with the requests. english is not my first language so I apologize in advance for any grammatical error !

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

The significant effect you have on him was something that remained difficult to explain, even to himself.

The scent of your perfume clouded his mind, causing most of his thoughts to become blurred, transforming into only one that was recurrent—the carnal need he has for you. He wanted to feel you touching him properly, that you stop teasing him over his clothes. Even if it was something foolish to ask, he had already cummed for the second time inside his pants.

Just for a couple of caresses and words in the ear.

No one out there had any idea of what was happening in here. The same ordinary and frequent talks, pretending that they were even a little interested in each other's life or well-being. Hypocrisy. It was all about income, money, convenience.

Drinking the most expensive wine while ensuring a good impression. To have everyone you could on your side.

But he didn't have to spend the rest of the night in a pretentious gala if he had you by his side. His most faithful partner—or at least that was what they used to whisper to each other on every corner.

He wasn't going to spend it either looking at the way those women touched you. So supposedly innocent, when their flirtation could be seen from miles away. Fingers slid all over your arm as they leaned close to you, pressing. They almost made him choke on his drink more than once. It wouldn’t be weird for anyone if you and he got away from the rest, right?

The way it was so easy for you to make him melt in your hands was worth studying.

“Does it hurt?” he managed to hear your voice, muttering close to his ear.

Your hand caressed his thigh, torturously slow. He took a deep breath when you reached the groin, stopping you just a couple of centimeters away from his clothed erection. Of course, it was starting to hurt; the constant pressure inside his pants was hell, he needed you to release him.

He nod shakily, desperately fast.

He knew he would be a complete mess by the time you were done with him—a trembling, whining, and whimpering mess—as if he wasn't already; and he honestly didn't mind. Hell, he wanted it. He wanted it badly.

“Come on, what happened to using your words?” a pleasant chill ran through his body, feeling the way your thumb left soft and ‘innocent’ caresses on his thigh “You are perfectly capable of speaking, aren't you? You love it.” you whispered to him, your tongue making a small and mocking emphasis on the last word. “Or has your brain stopped working?”

“I'm sorry… ugh-… It hurts, it fucking hurts…” he whined, just as you had thought. He was loud; he didn't tend to hide when something truly made him feel good—when you make him feel good—and it was something you loved. It was so satisfying not have to ask to hear him; you would prefer a thousand times ask him to be less loud than not hear his beautiful voice break into prayers and pathetic whines. “Please, please just- take them off.”

If it were possible, you could listen to him all day.

“Fuck, you're so wet.” you heard him gasping loudly against your ear while you touched him again—always over his clothes. His fluids had managed to penetrate the fabric perfectly, leaving an embarrassing stain on his crotch along the way.

You squeezed it, making him moan almost out of breath. He moved on your lap, his back arching slightly. The hand that was gently holding the back of your neck moved a little lower, taking you firmly by the collar of your shirt. You inevitably smiled. “You really like it, don't you?”

“Oh, yes, please don’t stop… please don’t-”

Your hand didn't move anymore, teasing with him. Testing how long it would take him to stand being without your touch—without feeling you. Although deep down, you already had the answer.

He waits, waits patiently. His groans reach your ears later, as you appreciate the way he tries to hide the need, the craving.

Sometimes you were surprised that this same man was the great Man of Progress. The same one they were just talking about outside, just a couple of corridors away.

He was so desperate for some friction that his hips began to move, rubbing against your hand. “What would the Council say if they saw you like this?” you searched for his eyes once he stopped hiding in the hollow of your neck, chuckled softly when he looked away from yours. You bit your lip, taking the time to observe his face—which had remained hidden from you until now—his half-open lips, from which only incessant moans emerged.

Admiring every little inch of his vulnerable expression, focused on keeping your hand close to him taking you by the wrist.

His great and appreciated golden boy.

“If only they knew the way you moan like a whore for me.”

He let out a hoarse moan, beginning to move faster against your hand. You bent down, leaning close to his face. He looked so beautiful, completely submitting to you and letting you see him in a way nobody else was allowed to. His messy hair, his messy neck, his weak breathing -God, just looking at him was making your head swirl and your heart pound.

"You look so pretty, so weak… so breathless and all mine.” Jayce shuddered at your words, silently loving the idea of belonging to you and only you. He wanted you to do whatever you wanted to him, to just let yourself go and take out all that pent up stress and desire. “I could just admire you like this forever.” the way he was so needy for you was absolutely perfect.

“God- I love the way you talk to me.”

There was not a sound he loved more in the world than the tone of your voice, speaking to him so sweetly or even in the dirtiest way possible—he didn't care as long as it was you—your laughter, your ramblings, your praises... searching for you without wasting a second if he thought he heard you, you stole his breaths, you stole his heartbeats, you stole his thoughts; he was simply addicted.

“Are you cumming again?” you observe him, the sweat starting to form on his forehead. He looks at you through his eyelashes, a gaze so lustful and fragile that it is enough for you to understand everything.

His hand clung tighter around your wrist, pushing against you, slowly, making sure that his entire and huge crotch pressed against your fingers. Looking at his face writhing with expressions of pure lust.

“Ah- fuck! I can't... I need it- I just need you-” he whimpered, his words coming out breathlessly as he pleaded to you. Touching was no longer enough, he needed to feel you inside, he needed more of than simple touches. “Please, fill me- I don’t care I-” he groan, his hips slowly losing the rhythm.

His forehead rested on yours. Breathing so erratic that it took him a moment to regulate it decently, his eyes remained closed while the grip on your wrist began to loosen—it was wet, almost sticky. You laughed softly as you took the time to rest against him too, closing your eyes and listening to his breathing.

“Are you okay?” you whispered, the tone of your voice coming out a bit worried. You opened your eyes, looking at him shaking his head. “Do you really need to cum?”

He nodded, a small, trembling breath leaving his lips as he spoke up again.

"Yes!- Yes, just… one more, please.”

“Are you sure about that?, I feel like you're going to faint in my arms.” you laughed, stealing a laugh from him too. “Just do it, it will be worse later.”

You took one last look at the office door. You both knew that you also needed some help, you wouldn't walk out there with an erection in your pants.

And honestly you didn't know what Jayce would do with that notorious stain on his.

Your eyes scanned the entire office. The big shelves were full of books and small decorations that you could tell—In fact, you already knew—were ridiculously expensive. The paintings of different sizes hung on the walls, but the darkness did not allow you to distinguish who they were. The large window, framed small rays of the moon visible among the clouds.

Oh.

There was a very beautiful desk too. Wide and thick enough. This person wouldn't mind if their desk was used as a place to fuck, right?

Fuck it, almost no one at this party liked you enough.

You shared a glance with Jayce, who had already been watching you, knowing perfectly what you were thinking.

.

.

.

The sharp sound of her heels echoed with every step as she took a short sip from the golden cup between her fingers. Turned to the right when she reached the end of the corridor, bumping into the extravagant threshold that welcomed the elegant gala.

Firm posture, demonstrating confidence and control. Utilizing the great weight of her name by standing with the rest of the Council.

“You found them?”

She nodded, watching at the rest of the people talking at the nearby tables “Talking about business.”

"I didn't know that talking about business took so long." the blond man declared, the discomfort prominent in his voice, fingers reaching for another glass of dessert wine from the tray of a passing waiter.

She smirk “You know, Progress.”

Progress was quite an interesting concept for Mel.

© dansroo.2025.

[auspicioustidings]

Savage

Summary: Request for some Scottish warrior Soap taking an English maiden as a prize.

Words: 3.7k

CWs: Violent non-con (I am so serious, do not ready this if it's not your thing), hardcore smut

–

Authors Note: This is very much a rape fantasy. Traditionally rape fantasies have historical grounding in minorities who felt ashamed of their own desires so had to fantasise a situation in which they were blameless for engaging in a stigmatised action because it was forced. It’s sort of where a lot of the noncon trope in bodice rippers comes from because women in unhappy marriages need a fantasy in which they can get rid of the shame for wanting passionate or rough sex because they imagine they fought against it. A lot more people have rape fantasies than people generally realise and truly a miniscule barely there number of them would ever think it was ok to actually assault someone. All that to say, this is not me condoning anything in real life. If you find fantasies like this don’t do it for you, then do not read it, but don’t then shame people who do. There is psychology behind why people fantasise about these things, it’s pretty normal and you don’t need to be worried that it is some moral failing. Mind your business.

It was a miraculously good match for you, a high ranking soldier of the King’s army. You were technically of noble blood, but just barely. You lived simply, not in a large house but in a small village where you held no sway over anyone else and were treated as common. But the village was close to the border between England and Scotland and every day it became more tense as whispers of raids from villages to the West skittered between houses like rats.

You didn’t know how your uncle had made arrangements for this beneficial marriage for you, but it would get you moving South in a few days time to marry and then you would finally be able to relax with this war much further away from you. You had heard horror stories of what happened to young maidens when savages came pillaging. They said that they didn’t wear anything under those kilts, they said it was to make it easy to bury their cocks in any hot hole they could find. They said they didn’t have any tame qualities, not like the English. Scottish men were feral, the comparison to dogs not holding water because at least dogs could be trained. 

When you retreated to bed you got on your knees to say your prayers. As always you had to beg forgiveness for the licentious thoughts that sent thrills straight to your cunt whenever you thought about the images all those rumours put in your head.

–

The noise of chaos woke you in a panic, heart hammering against your ribcage as the smell of smoke drifted on the air and war cries sounded. You recognised your own kinfolk of course, the battalion of soldiers stationed here to keep eyes on the border. But it was the cries of those animals from the country to the North that sent you scrambling out of bed in only your chemise, knowing you had to run and hide before they could see you.

You slipped out of the bedroom, a frightened little rabbit looking for a burrow to hop into. The smell of smoke was stronger in the main room and you could see the orange glow of flames through the window. Going outside would be a risk, but hiding in here may get you burned to a crisp should this building be lit up. You did not have time to make the decision as the door burst off of its hinges, a muscular man in a blood spattered kilt with a warrior's mohawk and wild eyes panting like a dog as he caught sight of you.

You were frozen, unable to even breathe. And then after a beat his mouth stretched into a horrid manic grin as he bounded towards you. That finally shifted you from freeze to flight as you scrambled back through to the bedroom, trying to get to the small window. You threw the top half of your body through the gap but his rough hands grabbed your naked ankles and yanked you back, hard. You felt the chemise catch on the window frame, the fabric bunching up to completely expose you to him before he let go of your ankles letting you crash to the ground. 

Your knees throbbed from the hard floor and by the time you were trying to crawl away he had his hand in your hair, brutally pulling your head up and craning it to look at him leaning over and getting into your face.

“Hear I have a wee noble bitch on my hands.”

Of course he would know. There were families here who would tell them anything to save themselves and pointing them in the direction of a noble maiden, one who was betrothed to an English soldier at that, would certainly be information that could spare them. The shouts outside sounded more heavily weighted towards those in his own gruff and growling accent now. The English soldiers were losing.

“I-I don’t know what you are talking about ser” you cried gently, not knowing how else to save yourself. 

“Bonnie words” he growled, pulling so sharply at your hair that you thought your scalp might be bleeding and using his other hand to grope meanly at one of your breasts through the rough fabric of your nightwear.

You cried out, feeling the tears immediately spill over and stream down your face. He was so strong, you could barely budge against his hold, and he reeked of blood and fire and sweat and hot arousal. You squeezed your eyes shut and he only growled at you.

“Ye’ll keep those eyes open, yer going tae watch yer wee English cunt take me like a whore or I’ll take yer tight arse instead.”

You choked on a sob and opened your eyes, seeing that his were full of sick glee and heat. The hand groping at your tits moved under the chemise to cup roughly at your sex and he pulled you to your feet by that hand. You screamed at how it felt as he abused you with his hand, grinding the heel against you. You felt a hot flood of bitter shame as he swiped a finger violently through your folds. What he found there made him pause for a moment, his face lighting up in unrestrained glee.

“Fucking English slut. Y’er dripping.”

You had heard women who said it would be better to be wet if they were to be taken against their will. You did not agree. Him knowing that your traitorous body found his rough abuse of it arousing was so humiliating you felt you would rather die. He was so oppressive in his demeanour, so big and aggressive above you that you imagined he may break your bed with what he was about to do to you. How foolish of you to think he would have that level of mercy.

“Going tae show all those bastards how their women take Scottish cock” he laughed, spearing two fingers inside you to their full length with no softness at all and pulling you by them.

You could not breathe. You had never had anything inside you and those two fat fingers felt like they were stretching you so much you would tear. He walked backwards so he could keep them firmly inside you and you stumbled pathetically after him, needing to keep as close to him as possible to stop the painful press against your walls that came from him pulling if you did not move. 

The shame was overwhelming as you emerged, full of his fingers and stumbling after him with tears streaming down your face, to find that your country's soldiers had been defeated with the survivors on their knees, hands bound. You were being paraded in front of them you realised, they had been put right here in the town square so they could bear witness, the Scottish soldiers standing behind them feral and full of lust as they took in their leader pulling you in front of them by the cunt. 

When he ripped his fingers out of you, your knees buckled and a high whine left you. You had went from feeling too full to feeling far, far too empty. You could barely hear anything but the blood rushing through you as your heart hammered. That and him as he taunted the soldiers on their knees. 

“Our women would ne’er let ye touch them, they’d die first. Yer clean wee English princess on the ither hand?” he said, planting a booted foot to your chest and pushing until he had you pinned on your back underfoot, “she’s gagging fir it. Foaming at the gusset tae take strong Scottish cock, put a real warrior in her belly.”

His own men cheered at that and you watched on with horror as he cocked his head at one of them and he began to approach you. 

“Naw a monster though am I my wee slut? Ye’d be wet enough fir one of their small English cocks nae doubt, but fir mine? Going tae need something to help me sink in good and deep.”

The other soldier went to his knees between your legs and you watched as he pulled his throbbing cock from under his kilt, jerking it violently. You tried to move away, his cock so close you could feel the heat of it between your legs, but the boot on your chest held you still. When you tried to close your legs the man touching himself used his other hand to wrench one of your knees until it was touching the ground, using his own knees between your thighs to help him keep your glistening cunt fully on display.

When the head of his cock stroked through your folks, slicking you with his pre-cum and bumping at your clit, you were so overwhelmed that you didn’t quite manage to bite back your moan. They laughed meanly at you as the man found his release, spurting hot cum all over your pussy, smacking his cock against your stomach when he was done to shake off the last drops.

It was filthy, you felt sticky and like you were on fire. The next soldier took his place and spat right on your already disgusting cunt as he began to stroke himself. By the time he had painted you with his seed and the third was started, the man above pressed his foot harder to get your attention and all you could do was stare up into his taunting eyes, trying to focus on him so you could not think of what was going on between your legs. You cried up at him, trying to find any level of sympathy in him.

“Keep crying and I’ll gie ye something tae cry about princess.”

Oh you hated him calling you that when you were pinned down in the dirt, defeated soldiers of your country watching as their enemies smeared their cum all over your exposed body. Watching as they made a sloppy mess out of you in preparation for their leader to shove his cock deep inside and pump you full of his savage children.

You did not know how long you stared up at him, not able to look away as you felt the heat of his men on your body, your own body getting hotter and hotter with each slide of velvety throbbing skin against your own. He had started to talk to you, his eyes not budging. It wasn’t the defeated soldiers he was taunting, it was you, ruined and disgraced under his boot.

“See how good I am tae ye little whore? Letting my men make ye flush wi pleasure. Don’t deny it, think I cannae see yer face whenever ye feel a cock on that wee untouched pussy? Like a fucking bitch in heat. I’ll fuck ye like one. Get ye on yer hands and knees so ye can look yer precious King’s soldiers in the eye when ye fall apart on my cock. When ye’r fucking begging for my cum. Wilnae even have tae dae any work, ye’ll be fucking yourself back on me ye needy slut.”

You shook your head in horror at his claims, the true fear being that he would make them true. Already you felt in a daze, felt empty and desperate. But you felt fear as well as he put his arm under his kilt, rucking the fabric up to grab at his cock. It was huge and you found yourself panicked and squirming as the last of his soldiers grunted and slapped the meat of your thigh to get you to stay still. You were rambling incoherently as the man above stroked slowly at himself, causing that thick weapon between his legs to throb and seem even bigger. 

“It won’t fit, it’s not going to fit, please I’ll die, you’ll split me open. It’s so big no no I can’t, I can’t!”

You didn’t even feel the last of his soldier’s loads splatter onto you, didn’t notice when his hands left your flesh. You would have rapidly purpling skin in the shape of fingerprints all over your thighs from how you had been held still by all of them, but you could not feel the dull pain of it through your fear of what was to come.

“Ye’ll take whit I gie ye and ye’ll fucking thank me princess.”

He removed his foot and it was only then you realised that he had been pressing down hard enough that your breaths had been shallow. The rush of oxygen from being able to fully expand your lungs again made you horribly dizzy, but it also flooded right down to your clit and made your body jerk violently with the sensation. 

He didn’t take his hand from his cock and he bent so he could use the other to grab your ruined hair again, yanking your head up and shoving himself into your mouth. You choked, legs scrambling to get underneath you to give you some stability with which to batter your fists against his thighs, trying to pull away. He laughed meanly at your attempts, moving the hand that was touching himself to join the one tangled in your hair on the back of your head and pulling your head at the same time as he thrust forward, settling himself fully in your throat. 

You were gagging around him, tears really streaming down your face now as you begged him with your eyes to let you breathe. He held you there, his own eyes glittering with satisfaction, until your muscles started to give in and you felt your eyes dropping closed as your brain became cottony. Then all at once he pulled you off and you were gulping in oxygen around your coughing and sputtering, the rush much more intense this time. 

He held your head tilted up at him so he could watch your face as he shoved his boot between your legs and got you over the edge. Oh weren’t you a delicious little thing for him, getting off so hard on how he used you, moaning shakily and wantonly in the dirt beneath him in front of his triumphant soldiers and your defeated ones. 

“Good fucking girl” he growled with a feral grin, letting you ride it out with little aborted thrusts on his boot, unable to control your body. 

You looked gone, eyes glazed and body slack. Couldn’t have that, he needed you screaming for him. He needed your blood fighting between being frozen with terror and boiling with need. And he needed you full of him, needed to be able to feel his own cock through your stomach so fucking clearly that he could jerk it. 

You were thrown forward, top half of your body collapsing pathetically into the dirt right where it was covered in the sweat and cum of his soldiers. He manhandled your hips up, leaving your face crushed into the dirt and your ass up high for him, cunt presented. You felt his hot breath at your ear and it was a sudden shock when you realised he was growling lowly into your ear, his words for you and you only.

“S’going tae hurt, yer going tae scream yerself hoarse for me and then I’ll get ye tae milk me when I rip pleasure out of all that pain. Will treat ye right after little princess, like one of my good Scottish lassies, but right now ye’r my fucking English whore.”

The confusing mix of sentiments cleared some of the fuzziness from your mind but you had no time to dwell. He was right, it did hurt and you did scream yourself hoarse. He had lined himself up and plunged into you, cock coated and slick from the cum of his soldiers but no less huge inside your tight virgin pussy. He had split you in two, you were sure of it. His cock must have broken through you, was sitting in your ribcage and punching all the air from your lungs.

You blacked out for a moment, coming right back to when he pulled out to fuck brutally back into you again, slapping your ass so hard that you felt the sting all the way up to your fingertips and making you choke on the sob that fought through the screaming. He ripped at your hair, making you look at the defeated soldiers on their knees. Making you watch their own cocks swell at your treatment. Your utter ruination was making them hard. Your head being wrenched back meant you had to go to your hands as he pounded you, and you saw how they looked as one of your breasts was fucked right out of the chemise, bouncing lewdly for them to see with every hard thrust.

The humiliation had you digging into the dirt like you had claws, feeling the bite of the earth pushing under your nails. It sparked something in your brain, almost like you could see them sharpen. Like you could feel your shoulder blades become more pronounced, become something sinewy and sleek and animal. He was fucking you like a predator and you were drooling and howling and panting like his prey, back bowed as he pulled your hair harder and had to staring at the sky babbling prayers into the night air. 

“S’too much, can’t, I can’t. Full, too full.”

“Ye fucking can. Yer tight fucking cunts trying tae strangle me, wants my cum so bad naw? Perfect English pussy, so slutty and needy for a real cock” he growled, hand letting go of your hair and smacking your ass right over where he had before, causing you to howl at the pain. 

The pain and something else, something that had no place here and yet had been lingering from the moment he had caught you. Something that had been getting closer and brighter and more insistent with every abuse you were subject to. Something that he invited in when your arms collapsed beneath you without him holding your heads weight anymore and he ground your face into the ground before bringing his hand to your clit and pinching. 

Your scream was raw and hoarse, throat well past being able to produce a clear sound. The orgasm was blinding and every bone felt like it had liquified. You saw white and then you saw hardly anything, only vague shapes and colours. The only thing now was how his cock filled you. The shame was gone, replaced with the truth that you loved this. You loved how he used you like this, how he violated you in front of these soldiers just because he could.

“That’s it princess, fucking take it” he hissed, stopping his thrusts and letting you do all the work.

You didn’t even realise now how you wildly fucked yourself back on his cock trying to chase the pain of overstimulation, addicted to the way it made you feel some sick hazy pleasure. You were drooling onto the dirt, tasting the earth mixed with cum and finding the disgust of it only felt right now. When his hand came to your stomach and pushed to feel himself bulging there you came again, harder, babbling thank yous to him.

He bit out a string of curses above you as your pussy squeezed so hard it was forcing him out, but he was strong as he forced himself balls deep and held there, finding his release as you milked everything out of him and into your womb. The liquid heat of it was the last thing you felt as you passed out, blissed and fucked out of your mind. 

–

John MacTavish allowed himself a moment to lean his body against your back, inhaling the scent of sweat and dirt and cum and fear and lust from your limp body. So good for him, took it perfectly. He hissed when he finally pulled out, resisting the temptation to just keep going beyond what would feel good because fuck, being inside you had been a religious experience. 

He was nothing if not a man of his word though, and he scooped your body gently into his arms to get you onto a horse and ready for him to take over the border where he could give you that princess treatment he had promised. The surviving soldiers they would leave beaten and bloodied but not dead. After all, someone had to tell your betrothed all the details.

-

“Fucking MacTavish” he hissed after excusing the man who had given the report.

He had made him give it in full detail, told him to leave nothing out. 

“Kept her alive by the sounds of it, maybe looking to get a bastard out of her” Garrick mused.

“Knowing him he’ll keep her near the border to taunt us instead of moving her further up North” Price added.

Simon Riley would not be letting his betrothed get away with allowing MacTavish of all people to take the maidenhood that rightfully belonged to him. She needed a proper punishing fuck from an English man to learn better.

“Doesn’t matter where he keeps her. I’m going to take her, and she’s going to learn what happens to sluts who spread their legs for those Scottish bastards”.

[abigailovesz]

OFF TO THE RACES FROM THE BORN TO DIE COLLECTION

pairing: older!kook!jj x reader

summary: a rich, reckless jj maybank falls for you, a younger pogue, pulling you into his world of danger, obsession, and glamor. your love burns fast and wild - but in the outer banks, nothin' gold stays.

warnings: age gap, power Imbalance, toxic romance, alcohol and drug use, criminal activity, dark themes, and some violence.

a/n: its lowkey giving elvis and priscilla.

the first time you saw jj, he was lighting a cigarette with a gold plated lighter and leaning against a cherry red convertible outside the wreck. he was laughing with a group of other kooks, the kind of laugh that didn’t ask permission to be loud, that didn’t care who was listening. he wore aviator sunglasses, despite it being dusk, and his golden hair caught the last bit of sun as if it obeyed him.

you didn’t belong in his world. you were a pogue. you took shifts at the marina after school, helped your mom clean vacation rentals on the weekends, and dreamed of something more while scribbling poetry into the corners of your school notebooks.

but jj noticed you anyway.

It was a glance, then a smirk. he blew out smoke and said something to his friends before walking your way. you were carrying takeout boxes to a tourist family’s car when he leaned casually against the trunk.

"ya got a name, sweetheart? or do I gotta guess?"

you rolled your eyes and brushed past him, but he followed.

"you're not like the rest of 'em," he said, tapping the side of his temple. "ya got this whole..sad vibe. I like it."

you didn’t like him. not at first. not really.

but you liked the way he looked at you like you were something glittering and rare. you liked how he called you "baby" when he picked you up in that same red convertible a week later, how he let you blast music and didn’t care when you sang off key.

and slowly, you started to like how it felt to be wanted by someone the whole island seemed to worship.

jj maybank was nothing like you imagined. he wasn’t some spoiled rich boy with nothing but arrogance in his blood. well - he was that, too. but there were bruises you weren’t supposed to see. nights he’d show up at your window drunk and bleeding, whispering your name like a prayer.

"lemme in, baby. I can’t go home."

and you always did.

you kept bandages in your drawer and an old hoodie of his in your closet. you let him crawl into bed beside you, smell like expensive whiskey and coastal salt, and whisper things like, "you’re all I got, ya know that?"

you didn’t understand all of it, not then. why did he always seemed to be running from something? why did his eyes would go dark when he talked about his dad? or why did he never answer his phone if it was one of the Kooks calling?

but you understood enough to keep your mouth shut.

jj liked living fast. he liked gambling with the older boys, liked drag racing down the old highway at two in the morning, liked buying you expensive gifts and watching your eyes widen.

"ya like it?" he asked, handing you a necklace one day, diamond heart dangling from a gold chain.

you stared at it. "jj...I can't wear this. where did you even get it?"

he leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear. "don’t ask questions, pretty girl. just wear it for me."

and you did.

he took you to garden parties that smelled like wine and money. the kind where men in pastel suits clinked glasses and women in designer dresses laughed with red stained lips.

you wore his arm like a lifeline. he wore you like a trophy.

"you clean up good," he said, spinning you slowly in a moonlit backyard while jazz music played in the distance. "ya look like a starlet. like someone who belongs in - i dont know, hollywood."

"I don’t belong here at all," is all you whispered.

he leaned down, nose brushing yours. "you belong with me. that’s all that matters."

you should have run. you should have taken off that necklace, returned the heels he bought you, gone back to your quiet life where boys your age texted you in mornings and kissed you awkwardly behind lockers.

but you were already addicted.

addicted to the way jj drove like he had nothing to lose. the way he made you feel like you were worth fighting for, even if he was the one starting the fights. addicted to the way his kisses burned and his words left marks.

It wasn’t always good.

there were nights he yelled too loud. nights he vanished without a word and came back reeking of perfume that wasn’t yours. nights he broke things. you learned to fight back. learned to slap him when he got too close, to throw his keys into the yard, to scream until your throat went raw.

and then you'd collapse into each other like storms.

because thats what always happens, right?

"you're poison," you said once, sobbing into his chest. "you're gonna ruin me."

he just smiled against your hair. "I ruin everything I touch. might as well make it worth it."

and you let him. again and again. because he was the first person who saw you. not the good girl. not the poor girl. just you. and that was the most dangerous part.

he took you to a poker game once. deep in the Outer Banks, in a hidden room where the walls were lined with liquor and smoke clouded the ceiling. jj kissed your knuckles and told you to sit pretty. you watched him play like he owned the room. watched his eyes sharpen and his smile turn wicked.

and then you watched him lose. big.

After, he threw a glass against the wall and punched the side of the car. you tried to calm him down, but he shoved your hands away. "don’t touch me! You don’t know what this means."

"then tell me!" you cried.

he stared at you, jaw clenched. "It means I owe people now. people you don’t want to know."

you took his hand anyway.

because you didn’t care.

summer got hotter. your secrets got heavier.

jj would show up at your job, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, leaning over the counter to kiss you without shame. "I missed you," he’d say, stealing a soda from the fridge. "come with me, baby"

and you would.

you’d skip work, skip school, skip logic and reason and whatever pieces of you still held on to reality. you’d ride shotgun with your bare feet on the dash and his hand on your thigh.

you knew it couldn’t last. not really.

he was older. he had enemies. he lived on borrowed time and broken rules. but he made you feel alive. like life was one long, reckless song and you were the chorus he couldn’t get out of his head.

It ended with sirens.

you were in his car, laughing, kissing his neck, when red and blue lights flashed behind you. "jj," you whispered. "what did you do?" his smile didn’t reach his eyes. "I did what I always do, baby. I ran too fast, bet too big, loved too hard."

you held his hand as he pulled over.

then he whispered. "tell them you had no idea."

you shook your head, tears quickly filling your eyes. "jj-"

"do it. please. for me."

and just like that, he was gone.

you visit him sometimes. behind glass, under cold white lights.

he smiles when he sees you. still cocky. still golden.

"ya still wearing my necklace?"

you nod. you never took it off.

because loving jj maybank was a race you never wanted to win.

you just wanted to run beside him, even if it killed you.

and in a way, it did.

but you wouldn’t change a single thing.

"off to the races" is about a wild, dangerous, and obsessive love affair with a powerful man, viewed through a lens of glamour, thrill, and self-destruction. It reflects lana del rey’s fascination with the “Lolita” archetype and the darker undercurrents of fame, sex, and power. (from google)

[persephonefawnao3]

Long-Awaited Caitvi Kid Headcanons

Welcome to PersephoneFawn's Caitvi Moms/Caitvi Kids/Kiramman Family Universe !!!

Basic Background Info

Cait & Vi marry not long (like a year-ish) after season two ends

But they don’t have kids until five/six years after (as seen in my fic, Buried A Hatchet

They end up having 3 daughters

Okay so now the moment we’ve all been waiting for…

Introducing the Three Kiramman Daughters :)

Oldest: Felicia, “Leah,” Kiramman 

Born 6 years post-canon 

Birthday: September 20th (Caitvi having a Virgo firstborn just scratches the itch in my brain) 

Hair color: Indigo (in my HC they all have shades of purple for hair) 

Eye Color: Light Blue/Gray (like Vi’s) 

General Info: 

The accident baby (Caitvi didn’t read the Hexstrap instructions closely) 

Inherited Cait’s height 100%, tall as hell, tallest of the three 

Lesbian

Very poised exterior but a secret science nerd (Jayce would love her RIP) 

Her and Vi are both book nerds 

Spent some time in Noxus with Mel (she’s lowkey Mel’s favorite but don’t tell the other kids), hated hand-to-hand combat before staying there but developed a knack for it 

Feels an overwhelming amount of responsibility at all times (she is both of her mothers’ daughter) 

Wears reading glasses

Middle: Cassandra, “Cass/Cassie” Kiramman 

Born 8 years post-canon 

Hair color: Mauve

Birthday: October 29th (what could go wrong with having a Scorpio middle child??) 

Eye Color: Darker Blue (like Cait’s) 

General Info: 

Vi’s twin 

Bisexual (not Vi’s twin in that respect LMAO) 

The wild child 

Learned how to shoot from Cait 

Hopeless romantic 

Has the uncanny ability to always beat Sevika in poker 

The Amy March to Leah’s Jo (Little Women will always find its way into me writing sister dynamics, I’m sorry) 

Has freckles 

Youngest: Lavender, “Lav/Ven” Kiramman (not sold on these nicknames, still brainstorming) 

Born 12 years post-canon 

Birthday: March 2nd (little Pisces, my beloved) 

Hair color: Lavender (of course) 

Eye Color: Hazel/Gray (kind of like Felicia’s) 

General Info: 

Heavily resembles Vi’s side of the family, specifically Jinx 

The token straight of the family (there will be a funny fic written about this) 

Doctor/Healer (gets the interest from Tobias) 

Often the peacemaker because her two older sisters can barely co-exist 

VERY much the baby of the family, is protected at all costs

The only bad thing she ever did as a child was paint on the walls 

Also has freckles 

Inherited Cait’s social skills (my autism queens)

Everyone say a prayer for Vi being the only fire sign in the household.

Obviously this is very basic, but I'll add more as I figure more stuff out

Hope you enjoyed <3

[mirrorballpages]

The Eyes & Ears of the Night Court

Summer at the River House was golden and blooming, the scent of jasmine trailing through every open window and the gardens bursting with late blossoms. The dinner table was long, oak polished to a gleam, and unusually full since everyone had come. Feyre and Rhys at the head, Nesta and Cassian near the wine, Amren and Varian flanking opposite ends, and even Mor, home from another diplomatic mission, laughing as she passed bread. And Azriel... Azriel was there too. Quiet, brooding, utterly still.

But he wasn’t there for the politics. Or the food. He was there for her.

Elain sat across from him, radiant in a soft green gown that clung to her waist, curls pinned half-up with sapphire combs. She was buttering a roll with delicate concentration, as if she weren’t acutely aware of his gaze.

They had been together for two months now. In secret. Since the night they had finally, finally stopped pretending. Since he’d whispered her name like a prayer and she had kissed every scar like a promise.

Now they were inseparable in every way that mattered. But no one knew. Not yet.

Azriel spent most nights at the townhouse, where Elain had moved a few months ago to get some privacy and space. Sometimes, when Azriel couldn't leave himself, she would slip into the House of Wind under the cover of shadows, barefoot and silent. Always returning before dawn. Always careful. And gods, she thrived on it. On the secrecy. On the danger.

Elain Archeron, the sweet, soft-spoken gardener, had learned to love the power in withholding. This was hers. Not dictated by sisters, or fate, or a Cauldron that had tried to rewrite her life. She chose Azriel. Chose silence. Chose to wrap herself in shadows and moonlight, to brush his hand in public like it meant nothing, only to leave wild roses on his pillow the next morning.

And Azriel let her.

Even though every part of him wanted to tell Rhys to go to hell. Every time Elain laughed at someone else’s joke, every time another male looked at her too long and he had to pretend—it tore at him. But he did it. Because she asked. Because he was good at secrets. Because she touched his scars like they were something worth saving.

The conversation shifted. Quickly. As it always did lately.

Windhaven.

Cassian was already four glasses deep, waving his hand in the air, wine sloshing dangerously close to his leathers. “The problem is, since the Blood Rite, none of them talk. The second I show up—silence. Even Az can’t pull anything from spying.”

That was true. Azriel had tried. The males stonewalled him. The females avoided him. Elain’s fork paused mid-bite. Her eyes lifted, not to Rhys or Feyre. To Azriel. A spark flickered behind her gaze. For months now, she’d been training with the twins, learning not only how to listen, but how to defend herself. How to move through the world without relying on anyone else to keep her safe. Ever since that dark spring when she’d been taken by the King of Hybern, her power shackled and voice silenced, Elain had vowed never to feel that helpless again.

And she hadn't.

People still saw her as the quiet one. The gentle one. The sister with flowers in her hair and honey on her tongue. But that softness had become her armor. Her weapon. It made her invisible to those who underestimated her. And that made her dangerous.

Everyone talked to Elain. The baker who gave her fresh loaves on Tuesdays. The courtiers who relaxed just a bit too much in her presence. Even visiting emissaries who forgot she was listening as they sipped tea in Feyre’s sitting room. Especially the women. They told her everything, assuming the smile meant harmlessness.

And now, as the conversation circled Windhaven and its silence, its unrest, a plan took root.

She spoke lightly, but there was steel beneath it. “Emerie told me the vegetable and herb gardens in Windhaven have started to fail. Something about a rot spreading through the grounds. I could offer to help.”

Several heads turned toward her. She went on, voice warm, steady. "It would give me a reason to be there, one no one would question. And while I’m working... I could listen. Because we all know the females—” she smiled slightly, “—they’re the ones who do the most talking.”

Azriel tensed. Not obviously. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But she saw it. The slight shift of his shoulder, the curl of a shadow up her wrist like a tether. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to.

Mor lit up beside her. “That’s brilliant. Females always talk. Especially when no one thinks they’re being listened to.”

Nesta raised an eyebrow over her wine. “You’re sure they’d even let you close enough to listen? Illyrians hate everyone that isn’t them.”

“They might.” Elain swirled her wine in her glass, eyes distant. “People... have a way of opening up around me.”

“She's right,” Feyre added, glancing at Rhys. “Even in the human lands. Remember the manor servants? She had them vacating the home within minutes.”

Rhys’s expression remained carefully unreadable. His fingers drummed once against the table, then stilled.

“You’d have to be alone,” he said finally. “And while the females may not fight like the males, they’re not docile. If things go wrong—”

“I won’t be alone,” Elain interrupted gently. “Azriel can track me with his shadows. If anything happens, he can step in.”

Azriel didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Everyone felt the shift in the room. Rhys’s jaw ticked. “Azriel hates Windhaven. We can send Cassian.”

Azriel’s voice was flat. Final. “I’ll go.”

All heads turned to him. His shadows thickened slightly, curling at the edges of the table like smoke.

“If they see Cassian with her, they won’t say a word. My shadows can hide. I won’t interfere unless I have to.”

Rhys opened his mouth, but Elain spoke first, sweet and sharp.

“Wonderful. Thank you, Azriel.” She turned to Rhys with the faintest edge of a smile. “That won’t be a problem... will it?”

A beat of silence. Rhys picked an invisible piece of lint from his sleeve. “No,” he said smoothly. “Of course not.”

Elain lifted her glass in silent toast. She didn’t look at Azriel, but she didn’t need to. She could feel his eyes burning on her skin like a brand.

🌸🎀💕🌷

The townhouse was silent save for the occasional crackle of the hearth in the sitting room below, and the whisper of wind slipping past the window panes. Summer air hung warm and heavy, thick with the scent of night roses blooming along the balcony. Elain sat curled on her bed, the book in her lap barely read, her thumb idly stroking the soft edge of the page. The moonlight pooled across her coverlet, painting her room in hues of silver and dusk.

And then the shadows came. Soft at first, like smoke trailing beneath the doorframe. They slithered along the walls, over her skin like a caress, brushing the back of her neck in silent greeting.

He was home.

Elain didn’t move, only glanced up as Azriel stepped from the shadows in the corner of her room, his face unreadable.

"Where the fuck did that idea come from?" he said without preamble, voice low and taut.

She smiled softly, feigning innocence. "Good evening to you, too."

He was already shedding his leathers, pulling off his boots with practiced ease, his shoulders rolling with tension. Even after all these months—after memorizing every scar, every plane of his muscled form—he still unraveled her with a glance. The way his wings arched when he was agitated, the subtle way he moved, efficient and lethal.

Her gaze dipped, following the ripple of his abdomen as he took off his jacket. She reached out, fingers grazing down the center of his chest, slow and reverent. But the touch faltered when she met his eyes again, simmering, barely restrained.

He was furious. And afraid. She folded her legs beneath her and returned her attention to her book. “You’re not surprised. You knew I was thinking of doing something.”

“I didn’t think it would be this,” he said, pacing now. “Inserting yourself into Windhaven politics.”

Elain lifted her chin. “Have you and the twins not been training me for exactly this?”

His steps stilled.

“You were the one who said I’d be good at being an emissary,” she continued, calm but firm. “So consider it a test. A single trip to see what I can uncover.”

"You shouldn’t go."

“I’m not asking your permission.”

That pulled his gaze to hers, sharp and hard-edged. His arms crossed over his bare chest, shadows pulsing faintly at his feet.

"You never need my permission. But you don’t know what it’s like there, Elain. The males—"

"—are Illyrian," she finished. "Like you."

He let out a bitter breath. "They’re backwards assholes who hate females, and hate High Fae even more."

"And yet, you said yourself the unrest needs eyes on it." Her voice softened, but her spine didn’t bend. "They won’t talk to generals or spies. But they might talk to a soft-voiced female who seems harmless. One who talks to flowers. One who seems like she isn’t paying attention."

Azriel’s jaw worked. His wings shifted again, as if preparing to take flight, even confined to this quiet room. She knew he hated that image of her. Hated that anyone, anywhere, still looked at her and saw fragility.

Because he saw more. He always had.

"When are you going to step into your power, Elain?" he asked suddenly, voice quieter now. Raw. “Really step into it.”

He sat beside her, reached for her hand, held it like it grounded him. Elain sighed, setting the book aside. “When things settle. When we can be honest about what we are. Then I’ll tell them. About the Earthvein magic. The visions. But now... there’s too much happening already.”

“We may not have that luxury.” His thumb stroked along her knuckles. “With Koschei stirring, and this unrest in Windhaven... they need to see what you can do.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But I can’t just flip a switch and stop being who I was raised to be.”

Azriel didn’t speak right away. He just lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, slow and soft. A gesture that said I hear you. I see you. I will never push you before you’re ready.

And that was the thing about Azriel. He never demanded. Never rushed. He could command armies with a glance, silence a room with a word, but when it came to her… he only ever offered. Waited.

Elain exhaled, her shoulders relaxing just slightly as she watched his lashes lower, his lips brushing her skin like it was sacred. She didn’t have to explain further. She never did. He always respected her decisions, even when he didn’t agree with them. And that was what undid her most.

Because Azriel… Azriel had seen her power before she had.

Long before the shadows wrapped around her fingers for the first time or the Earthvein stirred beneath her feet. Even then, he had watched her with that quiet, burning gaze, as if he knew what she was capable of. As if he was just waiting for her to realize it. He had seen her as strong. As dangerous. As someone who could shape the world with nothing more than a breath.

But she—she wasn’t ready.

Not because the power wasn’t there. It was. It thrummed in her bones, stirred when she touched the soil, whispered when her visions came too fast and too clear. It ached, sometimes, this tether to something ancient and wild. Something no one had taught her how to carry.

But power meant exposure.

Power meant stepping into the light.

And for Elain, that was far more terrifying than any monster in the night. She had been raised to be good. To be pleasing. To be perfect. And power, real power—messy, unpredictable, Fae power—was not perfect.

It was wild and consuming and loud. It was not what her mother would have wanted. It was not what the world expected of Elain Archeron, the flower-growing, tea-serving, quietly smiling middle sister.

So she curled it in, kept it quiet, like a vine growing inside the walls of her own chest. Hidden. Azriel shifted beside her, and she felt his shadows curl again, gentler this time. Not urging her. Just present. Just there.

“I know I need to,” she whispered after a long moment, the words tasting like ash on her tongue. “But the moment I do… the moment I step into it—it becomes real. And if I fall...if I fail…”

Her voice cracked. She didn’t finish. Azriel’s hand was still around hers. He turned her palm over and pressed a kiss to the center of it. “If you fall,” he said quietly, “I will catch you.”

She closed her eyes.

“And if I lose control?”

“Then I’ll help you take it back.”

Her breath shuddered. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder, eyes damp, but not quite crying. He didn’t hold her tighter, didn’t whisper reassurances he couldn’t promise. H

"You’ll be surrounded by Illyrians tomorrow," he murmured, shifting closer, his body heat wrapping around her like a cloak. He began kissing down her neck, slow, reverent. “Males who don’t give a damn about flowers or soft words. Males who’ll look at you and see something they want.”

Elain tilted her head, giving him more skin, smiling faintly. “They’ll see what I want them to see.”

He kissed her deeper, his grip tightening on her thigh.

“You forget,” she whispered, “I’m not as delicate as I look.”

Azriel paused, pulled back enough to meet her eyes. Something dark and proud burned in his. "I never forget that," he murmured, his hands gripping her hips with reverent possession. “And gods, I wish they could smell me on you.”

His voice was low, rough with restraint. “I hate that I’ll have to wash my scent off you in the morning. I hate that I can’t claim you—truly—and have them know that you are mine. That no one else is allowed to even look at you.”

His wings flared slightly behind him, a stretch of shadow and power. And then he lowered his mouth to her skin, kissing down her throat, her collarbone, her chest, slow and consuming. Elain’s breath caught. Her heart beat like wings against her ribs. He had only just returned from the House of Wind after two long days away, and she had missed him, ache-deep and desperate.

"Someday," she gasped, her head tilting back for him, "everyone will know. That I am yours. And only yours."

Azriel groaned, deep and ruined, and began to slide down her body with a hunger that bordered on worship. He hooked his fingers beneath the lace of her panties and peeled them away, slow as sin.

“I missed this,” he breathed against her thigh. “I can’t even go two days without you without losing my fucking mind.”

Each kiss up her legs was a vow. His mouth traced fire over her skin, the scrape of stubble making her tremble.

He reached her neck again, his voice low and hoarse. “Use them.”

Her power sparked before he even finished speaking.

“I want to feel you like that,” he said, pressing kisses to her shoulder, her throat. “Let me see how strong you are.”

At a flick of her fingers, ivy began to stir on the windowsill, silky and slow, awakened by her magic. The vines slithered toward him, twining around his wrists and shoulders, one curling delicately around the base of his spine. Azriel shuddered.

He rolled beneath her, letting her climb over him, shadows flickering across his bare chest as he surrendered. He had always liked control. Had built a life around it. But with her, he gave it, freely and completely. They had played with his shadows first, Elain learning what he liked, what undid him. But the vines... the vines had been hers. And he had loved it.

For someone forged in silence and strategy, he took being undone so very well.

And Elain? She thrived in it.

“You’re mine, Shadowsinger,” she whispered, her voice dark silk, bending over him as the vines gently restrained his arms. His shadows curled up her thighs, eager and reverent, as she slipped off her dress and rid him of the last of his leathers.

“Say it again,” he rasped, voice broken now. “Say you’re mine.”

She leaned down, lips brushing his. “I always have been.”

That was all it took.

Azriel surged into her with a growl, her body arching, the vines tightening around them both, pulling them closer. She gasped, head falling back, pleasure rippling through her as she adjusted to his length, to the feel of him finally back where he belonged.

“Gods, Elain,” he groaned, eyes locked to hers. “You are so fucking perfect.”

She rode him slowly at first, his hands straining against the vines until one broke free, gripping her thigh with bruising intensity. His other hand slipped between them, stroking her with unerring precision.

“Azriel—” she moaned, already close, her voice breaking on his name.

“Louder,” he growled. “I need you to scream it.”

And she did. Her climax tore through her like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, brilliant and consuming. But Azriel wasn’t done. He never was. With a swift movement, he flipped them, cradling her body like it was precious even as he drove into her again. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her fingers tangling in his hair as he kissed her deeply, thoroughly, his hands mapping every inch of her.

The vines curled tighter, binding them chest to chest, holding them together as if even nature couldn’t bear to part them.

And then—

She reached for his wing. Just the sensitive inner edge.

He roared.

“Fuuuck, El—” he growled, his voice ragged, his teeth sinking into the curve of her neck with barely restrained need. A mark. A promise. He pulled back just enough to look at her. “You are so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her flushed face. “Mine.”

Elain could barely think. Could only feel. Her body trembled as the second orgasm surged, vines and shadows entwined, their magic humming in perfect union.

Tomorrow, she would walk into Windhaven. Surrounded by males who would underestimate her. But tonight, Azriel reminded her—and himself—that she was not just lovely.

She was lethal.

And she was his.

And in the hush of that room, wrapped in ivy and shadow, he worshipped her like she was the only thing he'd ever believed in.

@elriel-month

Read The Rest on AO3

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Catch Me If You Can | Chapter 02 Chapter 02 | of bread & gods⌟

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❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

It had been a few days since that lesson—a few days since the woman from the circus had vanished.

The coins were gone now—traded for a thin strip of jerky that didn't do much to ease the gnawing in your stomach—but the lesson she'd given you lingered. Her words echoing in your mind like a drumbeat: Quick hands and quick feet.

And hunger, your old and ever-present companion, was growing louder, a constant reminder that lessons alone wouldn't fill your stomach.

So, when your growling hunger pushed you too far, you decided it was time to put what you'd learned into action.

You'd practiced the coin trick on bits of discarded rope and stray buttons, your fingers fumbling at first but growing steadier with each attempt. Now, you needed food. Real food. The kind you could taste instead of imagining.

The marketplace buzzed with life, a chaotic swirl of sound and color. The sun was warm overhead, its light spilling across the cobbled square. The marketplace buzzed with life: merchants haggling loudly over prices, children laughing as they darted through the crowd, and women chatting with baskets slung over their arms.

You stuck to the shadows, weaving through narrow alleys and keeping your head low. The shadows had always been your friends, but today, they felt different. Today, they felt like your accomplices.

Your target was simple: a loaf of bread from the baker's stand near the market square, a place you'd passed countless times before.

The warm, golden scent of freshly baked bread always hung in the air, teasing you, tempting you.

You'd never dared get too close—the baker was watchful, and the townsfolk didn't take kindly to strays like you—but now, with the lessons burned into your mind, you felt ready.

From your vantage point behind a stack of crates, you could see everything, so you watched and waited, studying the scene like the man had taught you.

The baker was busy—too busy, his hands floury as he tied up a package for a woman with three kids tugging at her skirts. He had bread laid out in neat rows: round loaves, crusty rolls, and braided strands dusted with flour.

You swallowed hard, your gaze locked on the prize near the edge of the stand—slightly misshapen, with a broken crust.

Not perfect, not something anyone would fight over. It was small enough to take without much notice.

Your heart pounded as you crouched low, waiting. Not yet. Wait for it.

The woman fumbled with her coin pouch, scolding one of her children as they reached for a roll. The baker turned his attention to her, smiling indulgently before cooing at the youngest as he wailed.

Now.

You darted forward, your movements quick but careful. Not too close—your tattered clothes and dirt-smudged face would give you away if anyone looked too long.

Your heart pounded, a wild drumbeat in your ears, as you darted forward. Quick hands, quick feet—you repeated the words like a prayer.

You reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the broken loaf. It wasn't perfect; your hand trembled slightly, and your grip was clumsy. But you stuffed the chunk of bread into your shirt and pulled back just as fast, your breath hitching as you walked away.

Your pulse hammered as you slipped back into the shadows, glancing over your shoulder every few steps.

No one noticed.

Not the woman, not the baker, not the bustling crowd.

You'd done it.

By the time you were far enough away to feel safe, your legs were shaking.

You ducked into an alley, the cool shade a welcome relief from the heat of the market. Only then did you pull the stolen bread from your shirt once you were tucked away hidden behind a stack of crates.

It wasn't much—a jagged piece with a crust that flaked at your touch. The bread was a little stale, the edges crumbling as you turned it over in your hands, but to you, it was perfect.

You held it like a treasure, the golden crumbs dusting your hands as you broke off a piece.

Your fingers trembled as you brought it to your lips.

The first bite was dry, the crust scraping against the roof of your mouth, but you barely cared. You chewed slowly, savoring every crumb.

To someone else, it might have tasted plain, even disappointing. But to you, it was the sweetest thing you'd ever eaten.

Because you'd earned it.

You leaned against the wall, the rush of it all still coursing through you. The pounding of your heart, the thrill of almost being caught, the way your hands had acted faster than your thoughts—it all made the bread taste even better.

For the first time, you felt like you'd won—like you'd taken something from the world instead of it taking from you.

The bread might not have been perfect, but it was yours. And in that moment, that was enough.

☆

☆

Days turned into weeks, weeks into years, and that small piece of stolen bread became a memory—a spark that had set something in motion.

It started with little things. A broken loaf here, a forgotten apple there. You learned to move faster, quieter, like smoke slipping through cracks.

Each day, you sharpened yourself like a blade—your eyes keener, your steps softer. You stopped being clumsy, and you knew how to quiet it, even if just for a while.

The alleys remained your home, but they were no longer just places to hide. They became your domain.

You mapped every back street and narrow passage, every blind spot the city offered.

You learned the rhythms of life around you: when the shopkeepers got distracted, when the guards changed shifts, when the markets grew busy enough for you to vanish in the chaos.

People stopped calling you "dirty rat." They stopped seeing you at all.

You grew up in those shadows—older, sharper, harder. The dirt on your face faded when you learned to scrub it off in fountains at night. The rags you wore became a patchwork of stolen fabrics, stitched together with hands that had learned to work just as well as they could steal.

Your once-bony limbs filled out, not with luxury but with strength. There was power in surviving.

No longer did you survive on clumsy scraps; now, you planned every move with precision.

It made it all much better once you were no longer swiping just bread.

You'd swiped coins from fat merchants who never noticed their loss. You'd disappeared into crowds with stolen jewels tucked inside your ragged clothes. You learned how to move like smoke, to wait like a predator, to strike when no one was looking.

Every theft made you better, faster, stronger—more certain that the world owed you something. And you weren't afraid to take it.

But after a while, the small jobs weren't enough anymore. You didn't just want to survive. You wanted more.

Whether it was hunger, pride, or revenge that drove you forward, you couldn't say. Maybe it was all three.

And now here you were, your biggest heist yet.

The wind whipped through the empty hills, carrying the scent of cedar and cool stone. The structure loomed before you in the moonlight.

This was no market stall or careless merchant. This was Apollo's shrine—grand, golden, and untouchable. A place of worship, reverence, and power.

It was massive, carved from marble that seemed to glow in the darkness. The columns stretched high, holding up the sky itself, their edges etched with golden inscriptions that shimmered faintly.

At the top of the steps, twin braziers burned bright and steady—guardians of the god's temple.

But beyond those flames, shadows pooled. And you knew shadows better than anyone.

You stood at the edge of the treeline, staring up at the shrine. It had taken weeks of planning to get here, weeks of watching pilgrims come and go, of studying the guards' patrols, of figuring out when the shrine was left vulnerable.

Apollo's temple was a place of beauty and worship to some, but to you, it was a treasure trove. Gold offerings were piled at the altar in his honor: coins, jewelry, statues—all left by merchants and nobles hoping to curry favor with the god.

To them, the offerings were gifts.

To you, they were a means to an end.

You tugged the dark cloth of your hood lower, your clothes blending into the night. The moon hung heavy above you, pale and cold, but its light refused to touch you. It reflected off the temple's white stone, but on your blackened cloak, it found no purchase.

You were nothing but a shadow.

Your heart thrummed in your chest, steady but sharp. You weren't afraid—at least, that's what you told yourself. Fear had no place here. Not now. You'd come too far.

This was the biggest job you'd ever planned, and you knew you were playing with fire. If you failed, you'd lose more than just your life. Gods didn't take kindly to thieves. But if you succeeded...

And yet—

For the first time tonight, you hesitated. It was a small thing, a splinter of doubt working its way under your skin, sharp and sudden.

The temple loomed so large against the night, its marble and gold glowing with a light that felt more than mortal. For a moment, it was as if the air itself held its breath.

Was it worth it?

Your fingers tightened around the edge of your cloak. Of course it is.

The gods hadn't walked among mortals in ages—eons, really. Their temples had stood untouched for lifetimes, save for the hands of priests and pilgrims.

If Apollo even existed at all, he hadn't shown himself in your lifetime. In anyone's lifetime.

They don't care, you told yourself. They haven't for centuries. Why should you?

Still, your pulse fluttered, a drumbeat of uncertainty. A voice at the back of your mind whispered of stories, of divine wrath and mortals turned to dust for their arrogance, heck for less.

But you'd heard those tales before—told by men with full stomachs, speaking of curses they'd never seen and gods they'd never feared. It was easy to believe in punishment when you had enough to lose.

You... didn't.

The hunger, the cold, the endless nights—they had been your gods, and they'd shown you no mercy. Why should you offer reverence to the ones who abandoned you?

A chill swept through you, the wind whistling low as though daring you forward, daring you to act.

Slowly, you let out a breath, shoulders squaring as you forced the hesitation back down where it belonged.

It didn't matter. It didn't matter if gods watched or waited or burned the skies with their fury—because none of it had been enough to stop you before.

And none of it would stop you now.

You took a breath, letting the cold air fill your lungs.

Maybe that was why you couldn't stop yourself? Maybe it was the challenge—the allure of doing something no one else would dare.

Or maybe it was survival. Maybe you were tired of scraping by, tired of the hunger and the shadows. Maybe you wanted to matter. To be more than whispers in alleyways or a fleeting shadow on a stranger's coin purse.

The shrine loomed ahead, its golden statues glinting faintly, as if Apollo himself watched and waited.

You glanced once at the empty hills behind you, a habit more than anything. There was no one there. No one would stop you now.

Your fingers brushed against the knife tucked into your belt—not for fighting, but for cutting through the offerings' cords.

You could almost feel the gold in your hands already, the weight of it a promise. A way forward.

For a long moment, you just stood there, letting the quiet stretch around you. The wind hummed low against the stone. The moon watched.

You took another deep breath, the cold air steadying your nerves. Your heart pounded, but your hands were steady now.

You'd been waiting for this moment—planning, preparing—and there was no turning back.

"Alright," you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else. Your voice was steady, a quiet ripple through the dark.

You looked back up at the temple—at the god's shrine, glowing like a beacon—and your lips curled faintly, a smirk hidden beneath your hood.

"Let's do this."

And with that, you moved.

A/N: mc really out here living dangerous...so what do you guys think? would you have the guts to pull this off, or are you more of a "better safe than smited" kind of person? 👀