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fourthwifematerial · 4 months

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garden of forking paths | 四 | part i. guilty

yandere lord tengen x fourth wife, eiji. word count: 7,077. explicit content. 18+ MDNI

man proposes, heaven disposes.

please be mindful of the ample warnings as we're all responsible for curating our own fandom experience✌️ this chapter contains ultimatums & coercion of an intimate nature, deception, forced marriage, dubious consent on all fronts, foreplay, degradation, consummation & deflowering, forced orgasms, self harm (not in the way you might be thinking) & scarification, nonsexual voyeurism, an off screen rape & accompanying aftermath, murder, threats of suicide, and a very apologetic author for taking on another behemoth when she still has works in progress

She’s never worn a piece so fine as her sister’s wedding kimono.

Bathed in white, the shiromuku settles heavily on her body and soul… A chilling wave passes through her as she stares herself down in the mirror. Crown to cunt, settling deep in her gut. Her nerves are at a fever pitch, threatening to boil over and lash out at any moment.

She hardly recognizes the woman staring back at her. Hardly an easy feat for one such as Eiji. The heavens saw fit to bring flesh to her reflection, one she was forced to protect their whole lives.

On their worst days, Emiko was more her charge than blood. A painful reality for the younger of the two. Years spent in her shadow, ready to strike those that would see her harmed. For flowers so lovely as the twins, it was ugly work in the Red Light District.

No. Her looks were always a matter of contempt rather than ignorance. The bride is abundantly aware of what she looks like.

The palette, however, is new.

A traditional visage for a traditional bride. Something the girls at the brothels were never granted beyond the realm of a marriage born from ashinuke or a buyout.

She couldn’t give into the temptation to touch. She wouldn’t risk damaging the canvas, eyes and lips painted as they were.

There was little need for it before all this. It wasn’t something she ever envied or missed. The closest she came to seeing herself with a full face was her sister.

Still. Not a trace of either sibling in the looking glass.

Eiji has never looked so beautiful. Nor as frightened.

Even through the beads of sweat lining her temples, she was grateful for the katsura wig concealing her sparse hairs. Remnants of her days in the Sisterhood, her cut had yet to grow past her ears. Her keeper was generous enough to postpone the marriage until after their wounds had healed.

It wouldn’t do for the ruse to end on such a glaring oversight.

The pins adorning the piece look costly. Too extravagant for one as modest as Sister Eiji. Hazarding a guess, it looked to be worth more than a month’s wages at the brothel.

Cocking her head to the side, her eyes catch on the embroidered flowers that rest upon the uchikake. The sharp angles and thorns give birth to a dangerous suggestion.

“Not enough…”

She gives voice to the intrusive thought before thinking better of it. Seppuku is on the girl’s mind, though she’s not fool enough to follow through. Would that she could and spare herself the devastation of this whole affair.

A delicate touch presses on her shoulder. It’s soft, but there’s an edge… as if the owner doesn’t have the strength for a proper scolding.

“Remember what this is for,” breathes a hushed voice of admonishment. “If I’m to marry him, I’ll never forgive you.”

Standing vigil is her better half. Wrapped in more fabrics than she’s accustomed; her kimono a muted black, with what little she has left of her once prized locs concealed under a zukin. The wimple is an unassuming periwinkle. Nearly so blue as the virgin snow.

While Eiji might dance with the idea, Emiko has every intention of bedding it. Neither sister needs the reminder…

Even once more and I’ll die. By my own hand if need be.

The threat lingers unspoken between them. Emiko draws back her hand, holding the wataboshi with a white knuckled grip to match. Placing the bridal hood upon her sister’s head, she collects herself with a sniff.

They meet each other’s gazes in the mirror, color on their lids nearly matching at this point. While one wore rouge, the other bore far less intent. Her eyes are red rimmed from endless days and nights spent sobbing. The anger and resentment, the fear, the loathing—it’ll end her life before the blade has a chance to.

Placing the bridal hood upon her sister’s head, Emiko nods in approval.

“You’re ready.” Her voice is broken, still shot from the fight.

Drying the twin tracks running down her cheeks, she lets her go.

No processional. No one to give her away. No tears in tribute.

She doesn’t even see their betrothed until the purification rites.

For as taboo as it sounds, she doesn’t consider Lord Uzui to be her husband. All the same, she’ll take her sister’s place as his lady wife. She has no choice, not if she wants to keep her alive and unmolested.

It’s all she can do to keep her sister in her prayers as she draws water into the chouyuza’s ladle, washing their sins clean. Twice, in as many hishaku, before rinsing her mouth with a third.

Uzui works himself over in silent tandem. Much as she’s loath to admit it, his refined montsuki haori and golden hakama make the man striking… gorgeous, even. His starlight hair was worn up when last she saw him. And now it rests, barely grazing his broad shoulders.

This is the closest she’s been to someone of the opposite sex who wasn’t a client. He hardly made a favorable impression to start. She didn’t know him well enough now to gauge his intent. Whether she’s walking into a den of wolves or a field of rabbits strikes her as a mystery she wouldn’t solve until he was already inside her, she’s sure of it.

Their union is a somber affair before the Shinto priest. Intimate. Tense. Almost severe.

The priest gives the blessings.

With the marriage announcement, Uzui bows where they stand. She realizes too late that she missed the prayers in favor of the mounting anxieties taking root. Nudging her out of her daze, she follows suit. Muscle memory and a lifetime of obedience takes her hand and guides the path before her.

The saké teases her lips and she finds herself tempted to drink before long. It’s not until passing off the small and medium cup that they are permitted to imbibe. She focuses on her throat, still burning from the alcohol as they move on to the rings. It keeps her present of mind enough to fulfill the task she’s been charged with.

A ring is slid on her finger. His handling isn’t rough with her but he’s hardly gentle. When she does the same, she notes the calluses on his battle-worn hands—a testament to his years spent honing his skills in combat.

The warmth throws her. She stills beneath his touch… Even worse when he’s cast his garnet gaze on her like that. With that smile on his lips, he almost looks fond. He turns her hand over and gives her wrist a small caress, far more tender than he’d been with the rings.

She has the grace to blush. The watashobi only allows her so much coverage from his prying eyes, so she takes advantage where she can. His vows barely register. When it’s her turn, her voice is a hollow echo of the priest’s dictation.

“I will marry this man,” he says.

“I will marry this man.”

“No matter what may come, I will love him, console him, help him. Until death.”

“No matter… No matter what may come, I will love him. Console him. Help him… Until death.”

“These things, I swear.”

“These things… I swear.”

The shrine maiden presents twin Sakaki branches to the couple. In turn, they place the branches upon the altar. Together they bow twice and clap in quick succession.

With the stinging of her palms and roar of her ears, it’s over.

It’s finally over.

In every other respect, this is only the beginning.

There was before Tengen… and after.

In another life, she might have been simple… a simple girl of simple means, grown into a simple woman.

What bliss.

No simple girl would ever endure the hand fate had dealt her. They’d never even know it’s touch, let alone see the blow coming.

Back when Eiji had a purpose, she was a nun.

Her mandate was as simple as things went for her. Find your sister, they told her. Find her, mind her. The task proved easier said than done for an Oiran in the brothels of Yoshiwara.

No. If she was anything like the girls to grow up not knowing any better, she’d have thought it a heavenly night.

The scene was a deep wash of cerulean and coal; falling snow aglow with what moonlight peered behind the kawara roof. A contoured edge ran crisp over the engawa, shadows and flakes stopping in tandem before she could so much as wet her feet.

It was the tenderest mercy she would be afforded in a place such as this.

The languid stream of smoke bled from her lips, too soon to think over another drag as she set her gaze on the abyssal sky.

Her brows furrowed, eyes pleading the heavens for intervention when she couldn’t will the tragic whimpers and panicked groans from breaching the walls.

The only warmth known to her was the burn between her fingers and the fury in her veins, neither poison more bitter than the last.

If her lungs didn’t fail her, it was bound to be her heart.

After a terribly violent gasp, Eiji tossed the remains of her cigarillo into the mounting snow, the pressing need for quiet far surpassing any desire for escapism. Flush palms ran over the veil concealing her ears.

Enmeshed in a deathbed of white, the snuffed out embers found themselves buried under the fresh flakes.

“Stop it.” A whispered bid—painful as it was fruitless. She broke on the words, knowing they’d never reach the bedroom. “Put her out of her misery, damn you.”

If that fucker didn’t come soon, she was going to have to finish the job. Tear the stuck pig limb from limb, out of the frying pan and into the fires of Hell. He would bleed for this.

She wouldn’t betray her vows. She only sought to avenge her sister’s rape. Nothing more, nothing less.

You can’t afford to fall apart. You know she can feel you. You have to be strong for her.

And before she could make good on that promise, there was nothing. Not a breath, not a sound.

The silence was deafening and nearly so oppressive as the screams.

The divine stall, dutifully prostrate before the raging tempest.

Any relief felt was dead on arrival. She knew better than to get comfortable. Her shoulders were still wound tight as a bow primed for the shot. Tense and waiting.

Rooms away, Eiji could hear the pleas so viscerally…

“Eiji—” she cried, her voice a death rattle that cut to the marrow. “Sister… Help me.”

a crash in the distance.

a whisper of fabric on the

wind.

the final screams to prelude

disaster.

The shoji was barely ajar before she’d pushed her way inside. She rushed past the hall of incredulous voyeurs, all with the same questions on their minds and lips.

She didn’t even know where they’d put her tonight. She had to follow the commotion like a dog after a vendor in the streets.

Desperate. Near rabid with its goal to fulfill. Out for blood.

If she centered herself, she could be by her side in an instant.

But her mind was racing. She had no time, no focus. All of her being narrowed on the sole objective of leaving this place for good.

Ashinuke beckoned with an outstretched palm whose finger curled so seductively, there was no need to ask twice.

The door flew open with a shout, “Emiko!”

She surveyed the room. Save the cowering fuck in the corner, it was a barren sight.

Dragging him by the collar of his disheveled robe, she hauled his sweating hull from the ground.

“Tell me where they took her,” she demanded. “I’ll gut you, I swear it.”

He shook beneath her. When the night air kissed the tracks on her cheeks, she didn’t have to look hard. There was a gaping hole in the screen of the shoji, ushering the cold inside.

You cried for me…

She shook the memory, focusing solely on the path ahead of her. Her entire world fixated on what little she could see from outside the door; a mere pinprick of vision in that busted screen. All she was able to manage were the snapping swords of some third party who’d entered the fray.

The pig squealed, fear coursing through him at the prospect of a fight.

“Useless,” she spat.

Blood came when the words failed him. The blade from her sleeve made fast work of disposing his filth without preamble or mercy.

sank into his ear…

pull out game for

the gods.

…dragged across

his throat.

He slumped pitifully at her feet, exsanguinating below her turning frame. She was already following after the chaos—dried her tears and righted the cloth just under her eyes.

The body was still warm as she made for the biting cold.

Eiji sullied the courtyard’s pristine canvas. She ran as fast as her feet could carry her. Didn’t make it very far in the dark; someone flew overhead, missing her entirely.

What should have urged her all the more only brought her to her knees.

She couldn’t afford to falter like this, not when the wager was her sister’s life.

“No one’s after you,” she muttered to herself. “There’s no time for this… Get up.”

She had to press on. So why couldn’t she move?

Eiji refused to give way to the fear. Surveying the perimeter, there was little to be done and less to be seen.

It had to be now.

Closing her eyes, she leveled her breath. Slow. Deliberate.

She emptied her lungs with a hiss in her throat and put her all into seeking Emiko out.

With the rolling of her stomach subsided, she picked herself off the street.

Nails bit crescent moons into the meat of her palms, arms trailing behind her as she took off into the direction she foresaw.

She felt her. She saw her in mind’s eye.

Smelled the cracked wood in the air. Burnt, not yet ablaze.

Blood… so much blood.

Eiji found her before too long, limbs akimbo under the caved-in front of a vacant business.

Her sister wasn’t alone. Shock coursed through her as she took it all in.

Three women crowded the body. One at her head, keeping her still, as the others made quiet work of removing the debris from her broken form.

She didn’t have to turn to know they were less alone than the moments that had passed. “Is she dead?” The man asked, feckless to a fault.

He was an eager one, wasn’t he. If this had been out of character for the man, if he’d been a stranger to them… surely they would have reacted.

The smallest among the women only threw herself at him with tears in her eyes.

“Lord Tengen,” she sobbed. “We couldn’t find the lair. I’m so sorry.”

He nodded towards Emiko, his eyes never straying from her unconscious frame. “And the girl?”

“An Oiran.” The name fell from Eiji’s lips with the ease and vitriol of a curse, “Kyogoku House.”

Every stranger encountered this night turned to her, suddenly occurring to them she was worth acknowledging at all. Turned on her just as quickly.

“Kakushi are meant to be seen… not heard,” he warned with a snap, all bitterness.

An incredulous echo fell from her lips, “Kakushi?”

He pinned her down, swiftly and effectively cutting the indignant echo from the root.

“Now what did I just say.”

The man towering over wasn’t asking, not remotely. He looked at her nearly expectant, all but daring her for a response.

Thick arms neutralized the struggle, pressing into her to drive the point home. Voice lowered in tandem with his head, the words in her ears enough to fill her gut with coal.

“If you’re going to interrupt, at least make it worth my while. Might just be tempted to take matters into my own hands and modify the offense.”

“Don’t. Please… stop. You can’t touch her. Please don’t touch her.”

Eyes fell shut as she laid witness to the swan song rasping from her sister’s bruised lips.

Tears streamed, hot and itching. Time slowed to a crawl. “Emiko. Forget about me,” she bade. “You have to save your strength.”

Gravel dug into her cheek the rougher he forced her down. A hitch in her breath. Eiji kept her gaze fixed ahead, locked on the carnage.

The women on assist weren’t concerned with lowering their voices.

“The hell’s a nun doing in the Red Light District?”

“You can’t say that in front of her, idiot.”

She burned under the heat of their scrutiny. Even more as his touch grazed her prone form, searching for weapons. It seemed he’d been blessed with brains to match his brawn and beauty after all.

“You’ve got red on you,” he noted. “You must have seen something.”

“Not my blood.” The words ran cold on her tongue. Near metallic as the blood staining her veil. “He’s dead now.”

“And the demon spared you after it fed?”

“Sir, there was no demon.”

He turned her over. Crouched over her thighs, urging her to continue.

“Patron. Something took her and he was a shit witness. I eliminated my sister’s rapist. If you have complaints, I suggest you keep them to yourself.”

“Eliminated, huh?” He pressed, incredulous. His eyes returned to the women tending to Emiko’s injuries. “Don’t suppose she’s one of ours?”

His aubergine companion spoke with unbidden ease. “Lord Tengen.” A pressing gentleness, as if shepherding apoplectic cats in their twilight years rather than the man straddling her. “In polite society, there are certainly ways to extract such information.”

He eyed her beneath his rippling thighs. Considered the account she’d woven for him. “You really don’t know anything?”

“If I knew what you were talking about, I’d tell you.” She met his gaze, beseeching. “Please, just help my sister. Kill me for my crime if you must, but please… She needs to leave this place.”

When the weight on her thighs was suddenly relieved, she had little time to breathe. He loomed over her, making fast work of tossing her over his shoulder.

“Don’t go getting too dramatic on me, Sister. Isn’t blind faith supposed to be your thing?” He gave her backside a condescending slap before taking off.

Too burnt out from the fight to argue, she merely allowed herself to be lulled by his hellish pace.

She hadn’t slept in so long. The push and pull of the jostle took her back to that day.

Fractured memories of the shore. She was no more than a child then. Now a woman grown, the bitter cold kissed her cheeks.

She looked out on the water’s edge. The drag of the waves. The crash as they touched back down.

Walking into the sea, she collapsed. Falling onto her knees, the water soaked her kimono. She abandoned her zukin, letting the habit drift away. When she looked down, there was an isolated pool of blood.

Her eyes widened, hands shaking as she dragged her touch underneath. The source of the bleed was heavy. She pulled desperately, fighting the mounting tide and her own limitations.

When it breached the surface, she was loathed to lose her grip.

She knew that face. She wore that face.

Realization dawned on her and she was all the more desperate to retrieve what the watery grave that saw to claim from her.

Limp in her arms. On death’s door, if she hadn’t crossed the Sanzu River already. When she opened her eyes, they were worse than void—they were dead.

Eiji woke with a start, her own eyes locked on the ceiling of the infirmary with a scream locked in her throat.

The medical wing remained so unclouded, so quiet, there was a small part of her that considered she might be dead already.

Eyes blinking into consciousness, she wondered to herself how everything got so fucked.

“The prodigal daughter wakes,” came a rasping welcome.

“Emiko!”

She nearly tripped over herself trying to reach out to her; the hand beckoning her closer so small under the covers.

Closing the distance between them, Eiji was treated to a slap to the cheek. She didn’t even register it at first. Her expression thrown, ears roaring.

“You’ve killed me, bringing me here.” Her voice was as weak as her will to live. “Good as signed my death warrant, you bitch.”

Eiji stared in shock before it hit her as one thousand blows.

She was asleep.

She couldn’t move, couldn’t protect her. Hell, she was barely able to find her on time. She’d failed her and the burning realization that there might be more threatens to consume her.

“What happened while I was out?”

Emiko turned away with a hiss—either from aching injuries or her own malcontent, she’ll never tell. “You heard what Lord Tengen said,” she groused. “Demons and the like. He works to annihilate them…”

Her throat went dry in an instant. “What?”

“Sissy, I’m tired.”

Already having rolled to her side and brought the bedding past her ears, Emiko’s eyes pooled. She let the tears fall away from view but couldn’t hide the way her shoulders shook.

exhaustion. trauma. betrayal.

Thoughts swirled in a vicious cycle. She was as furious as she was suicidal.

exhaustion. trauma. betrayal.

The unspoken reverie was loud enough to hear even separated from the bond their blood allowed.

exhaustion. trauma. betrayal.

It was all Eiji could do to crawl into bed with her, arms wrapped around her trembling body.

“Are you more angry that I couldn’t save you… or that I did?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Emiko rolled to face her sister, curling tight against her as a babe to its mother.

“Too late,” she teased gently. Her voice is gentle as the touch that ran up and down her back. “Then tell me. What is it?”

“Just cursing the heavens for damning us with this face and body. And all the bastards who came before Uzui.”

Eiji kept her eyes on the wavering fist curled around the sterile linens they both wore. Trailing her fingers up her back, she brings her palm to her sister’s hair. Pulled her in close, stroking her scalp. She said nothing, merely gave her the means to speak.

“He’s a Hashira. Former Shinobi, by his own account.”

“Shinobi,” she echoed, incredulous. Aren’t they meant to be a dying breed?

“I can’t deliver on the promise I made. I was coerced into accepting his hand, it was the only payment he wanted…” Emiko kept talking over her, vision clouded as if in a daze. “I couldn’t just let him kill you… we needed safe passage.”

A fresh tremor coursed through her. The sight chilled Eiji’s blood.

Bloodshot eyes nearly so vacant as her dream stared back. She didn’t have to hear it to know.

“Emiko… look at me.” She was desperate with tears of her own threatening to break.

“I can’t go through this again. I refuse. Even once more and I’ll die. By my own hand if necessary.”

Her head shook, stunned to silence.

“Those women are his wives. Says I should get used to them.”

“I can’t let you go through with this!” She refuted further, “I won’t. Not for my sake.”

Holding her hands flush against her ears, Emiko’s eyes shut. Face twisting in anguish and grief, she pushes away from her. “Sleep first, then dream.”

“I’m not dreaming. I’m pleading… Let me help you.”

“You don’t understand,” Emiko argued. “That night… It left me with scars, scars you haven’t seen. He saw me. He saw all of me.”

Eiji’s face flushed with anger. “He fucked you?”

“No… He only kept me talking while I was bandaged. Said he wants to wait until the wedding night to touch me.”

“Show me,” she insisted. “If he’s seen it, I need to see.”

It’s a beat before either moved, let alone spoke. Eiji pushed herself off the bed to stand on shaky ground. She was wary, but didn’t argue. Her sister looked away in a pastiche of offered modesty.

“You can look,” she prompted, voice faint.

When Eiji returned her gaze, visions of that night returned with a vengeance.

pierced. mutilated. shattered.

Breaking on a sob, she saw her under the roof collapse so vividly as she did that night.

pierced. mutilated. shattered.

Her sister’s skin was tattooed, marred with the visible representation of her own failure. Hypertrophic scars cut around her waist. A contracture piece gnarled on her back. Superficial grazes claw across her breasts.

pierced. mutilated. shattered.

She had to avert her eyes, choking on her own shame. She would never forgive herself.

Head raised to the heavens, she was anywhere else.

“The Madame will never have me back now,” Emiko noted wryly. “At least there’s one good thing out of this mess, even if it won’t last—”

With the shattering of glass, the words died in her throat. It took seconds for her eyes to catch up, watching her sister follow after the broken vase. Eiji was there, already on the ground. There seemed to be no rhyme, reason, nor method to her madness.

“What are you doing?”

She sifted through the rubbish on hands and knees, seeking out the perfect instrument for her needs. She’d have to start soon while the sight was fresh in her mind… The rest were tossed aside.

“I’m not letting you down again.”

“What does that even mean?” She pleaded, “Eiji, stop… You’re scaring me.”

And still, she refused her. Not until hope was secured.

Lord Uzui ushers his bride inside the bedchamber, quickly sliding the door shut behind him.

no prying eyes, no vying wives.

Eiji makes to sit on the marital bed, still lost to the events of the day. It’s an absolute miracle her knees haven’t given out already.

“Not so fast.”

The command chills her to the marrow. He’s behind her before she can react, let alone flee. Uzui pins her in place, a belt of his corded arms wrapping around her middle. Despite the warmth, she’s frozen in place as she stiffly shies from his touch.

His voice in her ears only drags her further. “Let me look at you.”

It’s not permission he’s after. He’s taking what he wants tonight.

Kissing down the column of her neck, he gives her tit a rough pinch. The assault punches a groan out of her throat, “Lord Tengen, please.”

“Look at that. My prized whore acting like a virgin for her husband. How quaint is this.”

“I just don’t want to sully the garments.” She pushes past the fear and finds her voice. “With all your wives, I don’t see you stopping at four… who knows when you’ll need it again.”

The man drops his arms. There’s a soft sound, almost muffled. She looks over her shoulder and he’s laughing behind a manicured fist. Her eyes widen, the whiplash becoming all too much to bear.

He watches her, watching him. He doesn’t react to being caught. Doesn’t scold her or tease. Merely lowers his hand, leaving only a seductive beam in its wake as he leans forward to take the wataboshi hood from her head.

His gaze lingers on her lips. Before he thinks to act on base impulse and desires, he turns to place the hood away for safekeeping. She trails after him and shirks off the uchikake, offers him the robe and fan. Fingertips graze, earning a hum of anticipation from her husband.

“If you’d prefer me not to do the rest, I suggest you undress yourself.”

She bows. “Thank you, Lord Tengen.”

“Your respect and frugality are refreshing.” A sigh escapes him. “With any hope, you’ll rub off on the others… In more ways than one, I imagine. And I can imagine quite a lot.”

Her cheeks flush at the suggestion.

He gropes her ass as he passes, already stripping as he takes his spectator’s seat at the foot of the bed. Uzui watches her as an expectant beast would his prey. She takes a steadying breath when he bids her to start.

Eiji thinks of the shamisen players in the brothels. She wills the strings to the forefront of her mind. Her eyes are closed as she tugs at the knot of her obi-jime…

No more than a feather on the stream, the silken cord spills to the floor with unbidden ease.

Her ivory obi joins the pool of fabric at her feet. She gives herself over to the music, abandoning her nerves.

Deftly unfastening the datejime leaves her kimono hanging loose. She sheds the rest like a second skin, stepping out of her confines in only her slip of a nagajuban.

More than a chrysalis. A rebirth.

The juban is her only defense. She knows it’s guileless to hope, to dream. It’s all she could have wanted just to keep her sister from the bedchamber.

No. She will do what needs to be done.

When the last whisper of cloth leaves her exposed, she’s quick to cover herself. A futile gesture born from her days in the convent.

A hand catches her wrist and she’s far too exhausted to fight him. Neither for her body, nor her modesty.

Fingers curl around her own as he guides her to the bed. Pushing her gently, back flush against the futon, he holds her in check with only his right hand; keeping her arms raised so nothing might obstruct his view.

He appraises every inch of her flesh, taking his left to explore with the pad of his touch.

neck and collarbone. sternum. breasts.

Kneading her aching tit, Uzui nods in approval. “Scratches are gone,” he notes. “Didn’t even leave a scar.”

her ribs. her waist.

He traces the lesion with reverence. “I’m sorry I wasn’t of more use to you then.”

The words tumble from her lips before she can stop them. “You’re blameless,” she says under her breath.

“Come again?”

“My… my sister. She feels every bit of shame for that night. There’s nothing left. Please don’t trouble yourself.”

Moments pass without a word. Just when she’s about to take it all back, he’s pressing kisses into the worst of it.

Eiji chokes on a whine, eyes widening in shock. “Ah!”

“I think your sister would disagree with you there,” he whispers tenderly against her belly. “I only met her once but she looked like she wanted to kill me for even breathing the same air as you.”

Her heart stutters in her chest, conflicted between the sensations roiling through her and the threat of being found out. She keeps her mouth shut. Neither pleasure nor information would pass her lips. Not when she’s come so far…

She would not let her down again.

Once she found the ideal shard of glass, she made fast work of undressing herself.

“What are you going to do?” Emiko asked desperately.

Eiji walked to her sister’s bedside. She caressed her face. “I’m going to protect you.”

She returned to her own bed, drawing the curtains around her.

Before she lost her nerve, she pressed the glass into herself. She kept digging the piece further inside until she was certain it would take.

She ignored the cries and pleas of her sister. She had to do this. She had to make this right.

With a trembling fist curled around the bloodied glass, she took a leveling breath.

“Once more,” she urged herself.

She dragged the piece along her back, piercing herself to the hilt. Eiji didn’t need a reference to know. She’d never forget for as long as she lived… It would take her a great deal longer to forgive herself.

Falling to her knees, she curled in on herself… With her body shaking from the shock of it, the deed was finally done.

“Never… Never…”

He laps at the trail of pink with his lips, relishing what reactions slip past her schooled features.

“Even still, it’s healed up nicely,” Uzui remarks, dragging her back with him. “Clean margins, not a trace of infection.”

“You certainly know your way around a battered woman.”

“If you recall, my girls are former Kunoichi. Scars are a part of the work culture… You’ll fit in perfectly, my little prize.”

Eiji masks her disgust with a breathy titter. “And here I thought I’d scared you away,” she quips.

“Thought or hoped?”

With those three little words, the room chills around her. She won’t allow herself to falter.

“I am but a traumatized woman.” A dangerous answer to feed a dangerous question. “You don’t think they're mutually exclusive?”

He bullies her legs open with the mass of his bicep. Abandoning her arms, he locks her in place with a firm hold on her hip. Rakes his nails against the meat of her thigh, all too quick to soothe the path with his tongue, just as before.

“Answer me,” he growls against her.

Before she can think better of it, she pushes against his shoulder. He buries his face in her cunt, undaunted by her silent protests.

One swipe of his tongue and she’s gone.

“I… I thought!” Her thighs tighten around him, despite herself. “We had—ngg! We had a… a deal—”

A harsh slap to thigh has her opening back up for him. She stifles a cry behind a shaking palm. He carries on batting at her clit in rapid succession, her groan turning helpless when he buries himself past his knuckles.

Two fingers with a wail on the third, too thick as they scissor inside.

She’s anywhere else.

The cacophony of noises bleeding from her lips has her mind racing in tandem with her pulse.

Unrelenting pleasure. Blinding sin.

He makes quick work slinging her legs over his shoulders. Colors her thighs with his affections, cups her cunt. She jerks further into the assault.

Propping himself on the balls of his feet, he suckles his fingers. Uzui laves up the juices, savoring every morsel of her essence.

“And you’d never do anything to rescind a deal, would you, sweet Emiko.”

She doesn’t answer, doesn’t dare dignify him with a response. If Uzui wants to go fishing, he can drown in her silence for all she cares.

Slow to start, he presses down and teases her all the more. Middle finger lapping her juices, he fucks them deeper every time. His wrist twists without resistance. It’s all she hears. He latches onto her clit, a steady staccato of tongue and teeth with his forearm shining with sweat and her own wetness.

Bracing for the forced release, she maintains a white knuckle grip on the sheets beneath her.

Thighs shaking. Stomach tensing. But it’s over before she can fall over that razor thin edge.

He pulls out without mercy, without warning. She sobs at the loss, sweat beading along her temples and brow.

Uzui takes his time spreading her lips, appreciating her cunt twitching around nothing apart from a watchful eye and wandering touch to match. He slaps her tit, diving back into the fray. She’d scream if she thought it would help.

She’s never felt anything like it.

His nose prods her clit while he gives her a tongue lashing she’s never known. He laps up her juices like a condemned man drinking his last.

Hooking his fingers, Eiji sees white. She came under him and he fucked her right through it, fingering her while spreading his idle hand over her middle. His pinky caresses her scar with such care, almost worship.

It takes her far too long to register he’s been grinding into her splayed thigh.

He’s hot on her bare skin, heavy and thick… She doesn’t have to see him to know.

As if he can read her trepidation like a damn book, he takes her hand and drags it encouragingly over his cock. “You can touch,” he offers.

She says nothing, denying him all the more. Pushing against his advances, she means to end this encounter. Any longer, she fears he may see fit to fuck her into the little hours.

He pushes her back no less than three times before relenting. Fed up with her efforts, he scoffs angrily. “Should’ve brought Suma in to sit on your face,” he laments, all petulance.

Tossing her over his shoulder, he settles her before the bureau.

“Hands against the wood,” he instructs her curtly, nodding where he wants her. Damn bastard’s already slotting a knee between her legs. “Forearms, too.”

When she does so, he roughly forces her back into an arch. Eiji hears the whistle of the strike before the pain registers. Feels the dresser’s chill graze her nipples before the burn on her bottom. She grits her teeth, detaching herself from the scene.

His touch roves across the handprint left behind before drawing back to hit her again.

Appreciating the canvas before him is a short lived reward.

One hand with an iron grip on her chin forces her attentions. He pinches and gropes what he can reach with the other, the taunting lilt of his voice never leaving her.

“Open those eyes.” The order sends tingles down her spine. “Let me see my gorgeous bride.”

Another thrashing leaves her crying out. He tightens around her jaw, tears flowing freely now.

She does as he commands, her deep brown gaze at last meeting his scrutiny.

It’s when she catches sight of herself in the mirror that her resolve nearly crumbles at his fingertips.

where did emiko end…

…where did eiji begin?

He takes her in his arms, flush against her back as he cages her against the dresser. Uzui sucks a bruise just under her ear, his eyes never leaving the mirror. He feeds his cock inside her, ears singing with every scratch of her nail against the wood.

A rough gasp tears its way through her. Eiji remains frozen to his whims as he callously fills her to the hilt. Barely four thrusts as he meets no resistance.

He can’t help but groan at the sight of her.

Stuck-still, she’s too shocked to move, to speak or breathe.

It’s not long before he tires of her cockwarming and his grunts fill the room with a renewed pace. One sharp snap begot the rest and her cunt fell so tight around him.

He sets a punishing staccato, the sounds of them filling the room in a symphony gone wrong. Coaxing the cries from her, Uzui kept pushing and pushing… bottoming out until he was coming apart himself.

“How can a whore like you be so damn tight,” he murmurs, nearly slurring his abuses. “All that work getting you open? What a waste…”

Beads of sweat make a mess of his forehead, the silver strands of his hair catching on his skin. She flushes beneath him as he nears his release.

“Keep those eyes on me,” he commands. “I want you to see who’s making you come.”

She holds more than her will as she looks at her husband. She holds her contempt. Her rage… Her every motive and intent. That’s why it’s such a shock to them both when she meets him thrust for thrust for thrust.

even as the wooden borough grates against the floor and wall. even as he works his spit inside her asshole.

“Fucking close—”

He throws his head back with a trembling exhale and stuttering hips. Eiji’s unbidden wails fall on deaf ears as he spills his seed.

His shaking breath echoes off the walls in a strange marriage of ecstasy and quiet discontent. Would that he could, he’d stay buried inside her forever.

Uzui pulls out with a hiss, beyond loath to leave her pristine warmth. Releasing her, his gaze falls to their combined fluids trailing down her legs. He spreads her cheeks, reveling in the sight of his debauched bride.

Spent. Humiliated. Done. Eiji rests her weary head against the wood, between her trembling hands.

No blood, she relishes inwardly… with Lord Tengen none the wiser, Eiji has fulfilled her duty. If there was a shadow of a doubt, it’s gone now. He wouldn’t find proof of her innocence. It was gone by her own hand the day she gave herself her sister’s scars.

Kisses press against her spine, all the way down to her tailbone. He massages her bruised and bruising flesh while huffing in the musk of their consummation. She twitches under his watchful eye and it’s all the prompting he needs to dive back in for seconds, albeit gently this time.

The deft tongue that pleasured her is the deft tongue that cleans her. She doesn’t shy from it this time. He feels the stark contrast as she bears down on his face, grunting his approval as he lazily stokes himself.

It’s not just for her benefit. Tengen knows that despite the closed doors, this intimate moment was always going to be shared.

Not his wives. Not even the heavens.

He knows the nun is sitting vigil at this exact moment, waiting outside those very doors to tend to her battered sister.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure that was her role back in Yoshiwara. Poor girl’s never known the touch of a man, has never come apart by another’s tender care… judging by her disdain that night, she’d likely only ever heard the shameful encounters of brutes and bastards.

Who was he to deny her? To deny either of them?

If the Sister wanted a show, he’d give that holy voyeur the most flamboyant fucking of her damned life.

Emiko sits beneath a wash of indigo, the stars shining bright enough to spite her. She wrings her hands, anxiously praying he’d be done with her soon. The sun was barely set when they arrived back from the ceremony… He’s had her in there for hours.

It’s all she can do to pray he’d leave her soon enough.

“Stop it.” The familiar prayer falls from her lips, a hush of a bid. She broke on the words as her sister had done so many nights. “Put her out of her misery, damn you.”

In the quiet isolation of the veranda, the only voyeur is the moon above. Emiko weeps for her sister. She weeps for herself.

No one will mind. No one is around to hear it.

#yandere tengen uzui #tengen x oc #tengen x wives x oc #can be read as #tengen x reader #tengen x wives x reader #yandere tengen x reader #for my brown eyed girlies #.garden of forking paths #.shi #honestly the tags are down to a marketing issue... please advise if possible

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milfhandholder · 10 months

Text

My Personal Headcanons on Grell's Past Life (A Masterdoc)

*with excerpts from a draft that will never see the light of day!

The autism got to me ok

Now before we start, I feel like I have to add some disclaimers, number one being everything about this isn't really based on anything concrete, this is strictly my delusions. Second being if there's a flunk in the time period, ignore it. Turn your brain off.

Mr and Mrs Sutcliff

Before our beloved baby girl, there are, of course, her parents. They're nameless in my head, only going by Mr Sutcliff and Mrs Sutcliff. Grell doesn't remember either (more on that in a later post about her reaper years). Her parents were happily married actually, her father knew he had to marry well and coincidentally fell for the best lady during his time. Her mother fancies a handsome man in a suit, perhaps that's where Grell got her taste in men

Her father had brown hair while her mother had red hair which she inherited along with the kind-yet-kinda-arrogant eye shape her mother has. Yet despite that, she looks more like her father: perpetual smile, sharp chin, a more angled face rather than a rounder one, broad shoulders, his eye color (I have never thought abt her eye color before Dispatch so imagine it as you like). Grell's attitude is a mix of both families, the good and the mostly bad coping response

They also know about her 'homosexuality' and her father states that it's fine as long as no one else knows. Their song is Our Word, TRUST

Early life

1840 - 1858

Grell Sutcliff, in my mind, was born to a wealthy old money family. She was her parents only child and as a son, they knew early on they had to teach her to be a respectable young man to be a good heir for her father's business. She's not close to any of her parents; her dad was fine enough to joke around with but he has his moments of anger (I see them like how Emily Dickinson and her father were potrayed in Dickinson) and her mother—though more soft-spoken—was strict with decorum and required Grell to act appropriately at all times no matter what

She had some cousins but most notable would be Martha who was 8 years old when Grell herself was 18. Martha was Grell's first exposure to her hobbies that are seen as feminine like sewing and dressing up but still no 'awakening' yet

She used to be very obedient and less outspoken with her opinions, some even regard her as a serious person who is above anything that isn't seen as polite. During social events, you can usually find her chatting away with people of the highest status but afterwards, she'll be very tired and would look disgruntled somewhat (my girl is tired of masking). Usually when that happens, she'd slip out of the party for a break, this is where she gets the opportunity of a lifetime, the cataclyst of everything actually

As seen above, at 18, Grell was invited to an event by Aubrey Churchill at his country house (privacy reasons, he said) which was actually more of a lively party for bohemians alike which wasn't something Grell was used to. Though she felt overwhelmed, out of place and slightly judgmental about it at first, she frequents the event more in the future after meeting her best friend Charlotte Moore

Crisis

1858 - 1862

Brown hair, blue eyes, and a fiery spirit, Charlotte was an upper-middle young lady who aspired to be a writer and mostly dabbles in poetry and short stories. She was Grell's first 'gender envy' which Grell misinterpreted as a crush so when Charlotte privately turned down her proposal to court her—stating that she didn't really see Grell as a future husband—, she got over it pretty quick and the two remained friends even when Charlotte moved to New York when they were 22

When Grell turned 19, she met Charlotte's cousin and a son from Grell's family friend, Julian Williams who was around 24 years old, no bitches, no rizz, bad vibes. They became fast friends, too fast actually. Julian's a dick and ended up using her as an experiment/for funsies :///. Charlotte attempted to get Grell cut the relationship off BUT THE ASSHOLE IS LIKE LICE, HE JUST WON'T GET OFF. Eventually, Grell does call their fwb situationship off when they almost got caught and Grell decided that "hey, maybe I don't want to get stoned for getting caught making out with someone who doesn't even like me enough"

Things have not gotten better because at 20, she gets stuck in ANOTHER situationship, girl FIGHT BACK. With none other than Aubrey and Eleanor Churchill (married couples are freaks) who were 25 years old and 20 years old respectively when they first coaxed Grell to join in on their... weird fuck pile. They treated her better than He Who Must Not Be Named and they did ignite her love for theatre and acting but still... on thin ice

Anyway, they don't matter. All you need to know is that they eventually drifted away from the situationship all together because they found someone else

Jane Doe, The Only One Who Deserves Rights

1862 - 1868

MY BELOVED JANE DOE (not her real name obvi), if you've read TWBDT you know she was Grell's wife during her human years and that she was a lesbian who was looking for a beard. Why, you ask? Because Julian is a pisshead who was jealous that Grell moved on to the Churchill and decided that the best way to remedy his jealousy is by spreading a rumor about her 'true nature' as if he wasn't sleeping with her beforehand ://

Mr Sutcliff had no time for such bullshittery and basically told Grell to pack her shit up and get a wife quickly. During this time, Grell wrote a letter to Charlotte:

Idk what else to put during their relationship aside from the fact that it was only with Jane that Grell started to question her gender a bit because she's the only one who isn't a raging transphobic cunt (sorry y'all Charlotte's a victim of her time, she changed later on though). Unfortunately girlie didn't connect the dots faster and ended up having a one-sided crush on Jane rip. They're cute and I wish they were real :( wholesome yuri

DEATH~✩

1869

Unfortunately, all good things do come to an end. 1869 in particular was a hard year for her because that's when the pressure starts caving in on her. Aside from her father forcing them to have kids already, Grell's starting to realize that her life just sucks man. As much as she loved Jane, it's not fun marrying someone for status and appearances only and not for love. Long story short, she ended up breaking down under the intense pressure after a huge fight with her father and she died via slitting her wrists in a locked bathroom in her home with Jane getting inside way too late

Grell died pissed off, believing that her suicide was as an act of revenge against her family because now, they don't have a heir that came directly from their bloodline, and overall became a bitter and jaded person she was in the reaper OVA

#kuroshitsuji #black butler #grell sutcliff #kuroshitsuji grell #kuroshitpost #TUMBLR DELETED THIS TWICE MIND YOU

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thegreenleavesofspring · 8 months

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I have... a bad habit. A self-defense mechanism, but a bad one. Of, any time I encounter something out in the wild that I wanted and couldn't have (an event or an emotion), I deem it "stupid". Beautiful weddings are stupid. Birthday parties are stupid. Loving husbands are stupid... etc. And I don't say it to whoever I am talking to, I'm not quite that socially clueless, but I shore up my own disdain for it in the privacy of my mind.

And it's one I've had for most of my life although I've only recently quantified it. And I find myself doing it a lot and I'm trying to be mindful, now, of making myself stop and go "Do you actually think it's stupid or are you kicking against the pain of what you don't have" and nine times out of ten I'm preemptively trying to head off pain.

So anyway I'm trying to let it through in tiny little bits so it doesn't all come crashing down as an overwhelming wave and mourn it piece by piece at a time. And I'm also doing a lot of introspection. Because I never was taught how to regulate my emotions and that one person was right, I do tend to let them rule me, and I don't mean to, it's not an active conscious choice on my part, but that's not enough, I have to learn to master (not repress) them.

So now I'm trying to learn to master my emotions rather than letting them master me but that means constant monitoring and today I'm going down a checklist of "Why am I so tired and lethargic" and it's the depression setting in again for Round whatever and I always get really tired and sleepy and lethargic in the days leading up to that, yay. But along the way I realized that... the last time someone told me they loved me was Get Loved Nerd in my inbox and afaroffsong says it to me sometimes. And it helps. But sometimes I wish I had someone to say it to me in person, too, it helps to hear it audibly (and if it comes from someone who is telling the truth, not trying to be manipulative.)

I genuinely don't remember the last time I got a hug. Not dispensing one to make someone else feel better but just someone hugging me because they liked me as a person and wanted to hug me. I mean I hug my boys all the time and sometimes they even hug me back but those hugs are usually accompanied by headbutts or biting or kicking or fish-flopping or various other bruising activities and besides, they're little, they don't really have any concept yet of... consciously returning love? They need the hugs to flourish but it's not their place or their duty to return a hug.

I don't know. It just feels like, my whole life, any affection I got was conditional on how useful I am to someone and just for once I'd like to feel valued just... as me. I realize I'm not an easy person to love and almost an impossible person to like, once you strip me down to the bare bones, I know this, not only have I been told this but I've got enough self awareness to know that I'm all sharp edges and sharp angles and acerbic sarcasm and terrible but unintentional blunders. But surely I'm not all bad? Not all the way down? I just... surely it's not wrong to want to be valued as a person, not as your usefulness? Just... for someone to enjoy one's company?

Anyway I've been doing a lot of handing over bitterness and envy and sorrow to God lately and even... I don't know, what I thought were godly desires but maybe I'm feeling them too strongly? Putting them ahead of Him? I don't even know anymore. I feel like I'm blundering around in the dark trying to find His will and running up against rough rocks instead and I don't... I'm trying to do right, trying to do His will, but how can I possibly be? When everything I'm doing is wrong? I don't even know anymore.

I'm not sure... I don't know how to do this. And right now I can't hear Him. Which I don't think I have any egregious outstanding sins that would take me away from Him so I'm assuming I'm supposed to be walking by faith? Not by sight? But I'm not sure... I don't know. I don't know what to do.

I'm so very lonely.

...I should probably go brew myself a cup of raspberry tea, it sometimes helps lessen the severity of the depression. Hormones, yay.

#Nattering into the void

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faytalepsy · 11 months

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Andylind + 46

Andylind x Kiss out of envy/jealousy

“You failed today.”

He cringed away from the blatant statement, the bite of disappointment in her voice of steel, needing no reminder of the fiasco that was todays training. Her fingers tapped on the polished wood of the desk, more metronome than rhythm.

“I thought you had an ounce of competence. Apparently I was wrong.” He bristled at the statement, having finished the course as one of the best, despite his lack of sleep. “General, I performed better th-“

But her voice lashed out before he could finish.

“I don’t care how many fucking fools you ended up beating. I expected their mediocrity. But you…”

Her eyes flashed as she rose, slowly rounding her desk. It had always been a mystery how he could be towering over her and still she managed to look down at him.

“I expect my soldiers to be flawless.” She dragged out another pause, a scorpion waiting to sting.

“Like Farah.”

There it was, the name that had his nostrils flare with annoyance. He was well aware Rosalind latched onto his weakness, finding the cracks in his skin to slip her claws beneath and dig deepest where it hurt most. But that didn’t stop her from succeeding by bringing up perfect Farah who finished the training segment perfectly after dragging her perfect little Saul from his party yesterday so they could prepare to be Rosalinds perfect little star team.

“I thought you could match her, work hard enough to be exceptional. But now even Silva seems like a better match.”

It wasn’t fair. Comparing him to fucking Saul when he worked twice as hard to please her while his friend resisted the General wherever he could.

Since he had entered the office he had waited for this blow, the shame and the anger that would follow. But somehow it stung less this time, stung less because although Farah performed better, he was here, with her, the sole focus of that razor sharp attention.

“Perhaps you should stop wasting your time with mid-class fairies and put your focus on improving your skill set.”

The comment was haughty, spoken with all her superiority and still it had him raise his chin, finally look her in the eye. Was this what it was all about? Him fucking another soldier? But before he could even begin to finish that thought she pounced, fingernails digging into his jaw as she angled his head down, making him face her black tipped boots. He could feel her breath on his cheek as she leaned in, a shiver running down his back.

“Don’t you finish that thought Eraklyon.” She leaned in further, her lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“We both know who you thought of yesterday.”

Almost involuntarily he leaned into her, into that whisper he couldn't shake. The woman who dug her claws so deep into his mind there was no removing her presence.

And she knew. Her lips brushed his cheek in a mocking kiss, holding not promise but claim.

You're mine, they said.

Even if I give you nothing, you're mine.

#andylind #andylindsource #thank you anne!#andreas of eraklyon #rosalind hale #fate the winx saga #ftws

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crmsnmth · 2 months

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September Sky Chapter Four, Part 1

-455 I was standing above the sink, washing the day's dishes. For most people, this was just a normal part of the day. Those people didn't have a person shouting at them from the living room. Screaming how she hated me and wanted me gone. Right now. Just get out. But the minute that I'd actually go to leave, she come running holding me back. Telling me she was sorry and that she loved me, and that she'd try harder. I had learned how to deal with it, slipping into the fake world I was building in my head. A fake world that wasn't this sharp.

As I stood there, washing a knife and wondering what would happen I just drove it straight into my chest. She kept screaming. I actually found myself feeling guilty, like always. I know I had done something wrong. I always did. And she was always there to remind me how I fucked up. Lately, it seems that's all I did.

I stood there, washing the dishes, and wishing I was dead. She yelled at me that I didn't vacuum the floor right. Or there was dust on the TV stand. Or accusing me of cheating on her.

I started drying the dishes and put them in the places she wanted them in. In the end it didn't matter, because she would change her mind and claim to have told me. Sometimes, it seemed like she did those things just for a reason to fight with me. To hate me and break me. Then love bomb me for a week so I'll forget all about the time she cut my hand so bad I had to go get stitches in my palm. Or the broken mirror she had shattered over my head. Or the time she straight up punched me in the face. I wore a black eye of domestic abuse shame telling everyone I walked into a door.

It had become routine though. And I loved her. I loved her for all the good times, with all my heart. And to me, that made it worth it to stick through all the bad. I'd take her jabs and low blows, just to hear her say she loved me sometimes. Sorry had become my prayer. And if I wasn't apologizing, she was. The codependency was far from healthy or safe. We were horrible to each other. But those moments where we somehow worked? We were the king and queen of the entire planet.

I put the last plate away and sighed. I headed out of the kitchen and into the small living room. She didn't say anything now, just staring at the TV that was so quiet you could barely hear it. You couldn't actually make out what anyone was saying. A cigarette slowly burned between her fingers. I flopped own into and old and torn up recliner we had scavenged somewhere, probably from the side of a road.

"What? You can't sit by me now?" She asked, with venom in every word.

"Sorry," I moved from the chair, next to her, lighting my own cigarette. I watched the smoke for a second, envying its ability to escape into nothing.

"I don't what you next to me if you don't want to be by me," she growled.

"It's not that at all. I just sat down. I'm tired and just sat down in the closest spot."

"Fuck you, Chris. You're a shitty liar." I looked at her. I knew in a few hours I would be talking to someone else. Someone who did love me. Under that thick hide of anger and resentment was the person I had loved. It was all because of me.

I caught her picking up the crystal ashtray, just in time to duck as it smashed and added a new hole in the apartment wall. Our landlords were going to hate us.

* * * *

My eyes snapped open. It was still dark, and the red glow from my Christmas lights were the only light on in my room. They cast shadows that danced on the walls. From behind my shades, a streetlamp was just the right angle to cast a shadow of slats across my bedroom floor.

My heart was beating quickly. I could feel the blood violently rushing throughout my veins and arteries. As if I'd been running in my sleep. And maybe I was, I was covered in sweat, but was extremely cold. The hard bite of panic does that. It freezes you right to your core. Its cold knives being driven into your flesh. I pulled my blanket up and shivered slightly. Waiting for my breathing to catch up with itself. Waiting for my heart to slow down. To stop seeing movement in the shadows. To remember where I was. And know I didn't need to duck from an ashtray aimed at my skull.

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genpitre · 2 years

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(Don't mind me, just about to gush, feel free to ignore).

Oh my goofdkfjr your style is giving me life, it's so unique and beautiful 😍😍😍 Like, how did you come up with it? I know some artists develop their style organically but wow, yours is one of my favorites. I envy you, I could stare at all of them all day, they are lovely ♥️

Aw no worries at all, thank you so much for the kind words!!

I’m not really sure how I came up with my style - I have always liked the look of sketchy lines and sharp angles in contrast with curves and definitely used to be drawn to artists who use both those. Of course I can’t think of specifics when I try to recall😱

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tomriddleinafrillydress · 18 days

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Bound into insanity — Bound into eternity

Tom Riddle x Moaning Myrtle

Part 1/31 < here

Story summary: Myrtle Warren never becomes Moaning Myrtle, moreover, she never dies, and most importantly, she gets rid of her acne. In her quest for revenge, she decides to seduce the most handsome (and incidentally hated by her) boy at Hogwarts, Tom Riddle, but even her makeover from ugly duckling into a beautiful swan has not prepared her for the unexpected complications caused by a badly brewed love potion.

Is it a WIP?: No. This is a series; first part "Bound into insanity - Bound into eternity" is around 200k words long and I've finished writing it in late March 2024. The second part is titled "Bound into eternity - Bound into depravity", and is currently a WIP sitting at around 100k words (I'm not really stuck in the middle, but writting middles is the worst, please sedate me lmao). I always finish my fics, so there's no danger of getting invested in a story only to find out it's been last updated in 2009 (I know the pain). The publication schedule will be once a week, usually Fridays mornings.

Most important tags: slow burn (a painfully slow one, believe me); Tom Riddle: a manipulative,possessive cute little thief 😇🚩; mild? stockholm syndrome; mind games; horcruxes; BODY SWAP; yule ball; school play; dubious consent (when we finally arrive there); and of course last but not least: Tom Riddle is his own warning (and he's so babygurl at it).

What do I as an author love about this fic the most?: The humour. There's copious amounts of it included, a lot of it rooted in the body swap itself (it lasts for several chapters and includes some gender-specific 'occurences'), however Myrtle being both boy-crazy and a prude at the same time definitely is a treat in itself.

Please do keep in mind that this story is being translated from Polish. I'm not an English native speaker. I'm open to discussion and concrit.

A sneak peak of how Myrtle views Tom:

Had she said he was not ravishingly handsome, she would have been sent straight to the ninth circle of hell for such an outright lie. The contrast between his alabaster skin and black curls gave him such a noble appearance that he could easily have passed for a member of one of the most prestigious pureblood families. This image was only reinforced by high cheekbones, a gaunt face full of sharp angles, and black eyes framed by long lashes, which, with their charm, made it impossible for girls to look away. Aside from looking like a young man snatched alive from the pages of classic romances, Tom Riddle also presented himself to the world as such. Questioned about him, Myrtle would have said she hadn't been paying him any attention, though the truth was much different. No, by no means did she stare at him with her tongue hanging out (only occasionally), but she watched with envy as he wrapped everyone around his finger. She believed that their academic results were similar in many areas (excluding Defence Against Dark Magic, in which he was second to none), but it was he, the golden boy, who collected all the accolades and was lavished with points. Myrtle once stole his graded essay and compared it with hers - apart from the different means of communication, the information contained in their essays was identical with the difference of one extra sentence. By mere peculiarity, Riddle got an outstanding grade and she got an exceeds expectation grade, which she considered to be favouritism mixed with sexism. Not without reason did the Slug Club consist entirely of boys.

If you're interested in reading, you can find the first chapter HERE.

#tom riddle #tom marvolo riddle #moaning myrtle #tom riddle/moaning myrtle #hogwarst #harry potter #hp fanfic #hp fanfiction #hp fandom #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #fanfiction #archive of our own #fanfic #tom riddle/abraxas malfoy #body swap #potions accident #tom riddle fanfiction

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demonsandco · 3 years

Note

Okay okay we know with their demon forms it requires a lot of upkeep now what do you think they would do and what they need help with. Cause what comes to mind is a family grooming session 😊

I love this ask thank youuuu. I wasn't sure if you wanted their canon forms, but this is mostly based on my own personal headcanons for their demon forms! I hope you don’t mind that :) It would be much easier for them to handle their insane forms, but what's the fun in that?

Before I start, all demon horns need constant maintenance. Demon horns never actually stop growing, so routine sanding, usually with a custom shaped whetstone, is important to keep horns smooth and to keep them from getting too long. Without proper care, horns can easily become overgrown and asymmetrical, as well as gain a rough, dry and almost scaly texture, which is rather uncomfortable for the demon in question

All other forms of upkeep vary from demon to demon, depending on what features they have (ei. scales, feathers, fur, hair, etc.).

Lucifer

Lucifer's horns are rather easy to reach, curling forward along the sides of his head, so it's fairly simple for him to keep them maintained himself. It's something that he does often, especially because neglecting them could easily impact his image. After all, it's common to see him bring out his demon form to intimidate others, and he wants to make sure he looks well put together. Caring for his horns is not much different than shaving his face in the morning, nothing more than a quick and simple part of his routine.

The thing that actually gives Lucifer trouble is his wings and tail. General self care is something he can handle easily, but feathers naturally wear down and need to be replaced, which means molting. Molting leaves him feeling absolutely miserable. His entire back starts looking patchy and he feels itchy and irritated all over, but he can never seem to properly reach the areas giving him trouble himself. His pride tends to get in the way of asking for help, so he's often left to suffer through it until the new feathers finish growing in.

Lucifer would need to trust someone quite a bit in order to let them help, but it's always a huge relief to have that itchiness soothed by a caring hand. Most often, Mammon ends up being the one to help out. Not only is the second born the only other one who still has feathers, but he's also very skilled at reading Lucifer's moods and telling when he needs help. They never speak about it afterwards, but it's a much needed binding experience for both of them.

(The rest are under the cut)

Mammon

Being a model, Mammon takes very good care of his appearance. Unfortunately, no matter how many times he does it, his horns always give him an insane amount of trouble. They're very tightly coiled and rest at a slightly backwards angle, making it difficult for Mammon to reach the inside parts of his horns. It's not uncommon to see him sulking his way over to Asmodeus' room for help with those hard to reach areas, after spending hours trying to do it himself and failing.

Other than his horns, Mammon has it pretty easy. Like Lucifer, he has to deal with molting, but it never seems to last too long for him, much to the eldest's envy. His wings are also featherless, so molting is nowhere near as uncomfortable for him. The only big feathers he needs to worry about replacing are the ones on his tail. The rest are much smaller and less irritating to regrow.

His wings and other featherless areas do need extra care, though, in the form of moisturizing. Without protection from feathers, those areas get dry and cracked easily, especially if he goes flying. To deal with it, he's got a pretty big collection of scented moisturizing lotions and oils that he can pick from, most of which were gifts from Asmodeus, since they have similar wings.

Leviathan

Levi's demon form is rather unique compared to his brothers. Instead of having true horns, he has antlers. Rather than needing constant care, his horns grow to their full size, shed their outer layer of skin and then eventually fall off to start the process again. Levi often goes to the ocean to isolate himself when his horns are ready to fall. He usually lets them sink to the bottom, where they take the form of the devildom equivalent of coral, providing shelter for aquatic life.

On top of shedding his horns, he also sheds his skin. His sheds are entirely determined by his horns, happening once when the antlers are full grown and ready to lose their protective, velvety skin, and again later on when they're ready to fall. While his antlers' life cycle is reminiscent of a deer's, the shedding of his skin is very similar to a snake's shed. It's not hard to tell when Levi is close to shedding. The old skin begins to separate itself from his new scales, giving him a dull gray sheen over his body and his eyes begin to look dull and glazed over.

It's definitely not a pleasant feeling and he can't see very well through the skin either, so he tends to avoid his brothers. High humidity is also needed for him to shed properly, so if he can't go hide out at sea, Levi's going to lock himself in his room and soak miserably in his bathtub.

Satan

Satan's self care routine isn't too difficult, but it's definitely the most time consuming and he absolutely hates it. He's not the most patient demon, especially when it comes to tasks that he thinks are wasting his time. When it's time for him to maintain his more demonic features, Satan needs to put aside an entire day for it.

Satan's horns are easy enough for him to handle. The inside part of the sharp curve of them often gives him some trouble, but he's nothing if not stubborn, so he usually manages to sort it out on his own. Horns on their own are rather time-consuming to care for, but what really takes up all of Satan's time is the multiple other horn-like protrusions along his body, as well as his tail. He's got boney spikes in the areas that his bones are closer to the skin (elbows, spine, ribs, jaw, etc.) and, like regular horns, they're constantly growing.

Whether he likes it or not, he always ends up needing to ask someone for help, and that someone usually ends up being Asmo. Not only is the process tedious, but he also has a very hard time reaching the spines on his back properly, so a helping hand is very useful.

Asmodeus

Unsurprisingly, Asmo has a very in depth routine that he follows to a t. Every week, he sets aside an evening to take care of his horns and wings specifically, sanding down his horns to keep them smooth and shiny, and moisturizing his wings with oils and lotions to keep the skin supple and soft. Being related to scorpions, Asmo also has a carapace in his true form that resembles the exoskeleton of actual scorpions. It doesn't need much extra care, but he always makes sure to keep it bright and polished.

The downside to his carapace is that it can't actually heal unless Asmo molts and completely replaces it. He's not the biggest fan of molting, but he'll force himself to molt early if he gets scratched or hurt in any way. He can't stand the thought of any part of him looking dull or banged up.

Overall, though, Asmo definitely has his self care handled perfectly. He's also very particular about how things are done, so he's very hesitant to let anyone else do it for him. He does, however, love helping his brothers out with grooming and self care. Especially the ones that he knows are likely to neglect themselves without a proper push.

Beelzebub

Beel's self care leaves much to be desired. He's completely horrible at taking care of his demonic attributes, but he often forgets about it or runs out of time. It's not uncommon for his horns to be rough and chipped or for his insect-like carapace to look dull and roughed up, especially with how aggressive his sports matches can get. Between school, working out, fangol and his constant hunger, regular upkeep gets put on the backburner.

Luckily, Beel and his twin often partake in allogrooming! They both find it easier to take care of each other, rather than themselves. This is especially helpful when it comes to Beel's horns. They curve so tightly along the sides of his head that he can't actually fit his hands between the horns and his skin to smooth them out. Belphie, on the other hand, has much smaller hands and can easily reach around and sand them down, while Beel takes care of him in turn. They rarely talk during these moments, but it serves as good bonding time for the two of them.

Beel's carapace is something he can handle himself, mostly because it doesn't really require anything. Like Asmo's, the only way for his carapace to "heal" is for him to molt and replace it, which he puts off for as long as possible. It's thick and hardy and since he doesn't put much stock in looking perfectly put together, he doesn't worry about it all that much. Whenever he does feel the need to molt, it goes by pretty quickly and he's back to his regular schedule in no time.

Belphegor

Belphie is honestly the worst at taking care of himself. Not because he doesn't care, but because he has such a hard time gathering up enough motivation to even get up in the mornings, much less put in the effort to look nice. If no one steps in, he can go days at a time without brushing just the hair on his head. Even on the days that he does that much, chances are that he didn't bother brushing the rest of his fur, too. After all, if he just doesn't show off his demon form, then no one will notice right?

Luckily for him, Beel does notice when his twin hasn't been caring for himself. While the rest of the brothers only need to worry about their demon forms every other week or even just once a month, Belphie needs to do it daily because of his coat. Without proper daily care, his hair gets oily and matted together very easily, which only makes it harder to deal with later. Beel knows that that's a lot to handle and often steps to brush out his twin's coat, even if he doesn't need any help in return. It's much easier for Belphie to feel motivated enough to help groom Beel than it is to care for himself, so their joint grooming helps them both.

On a similar note, Belphie has quite a bit of trouble with his horns and he constantly puts off taking care of them until they begin causing him physical discomfort. In the past, there's been a few times where he's let them grow a couple extra curls before they started weighing him down so much that he had to take care of it. With his twin's help, and a strictly imposed schedule, his horns haven't gotten that bad in ages, but they still tend to be rather rough most of the time. He also needs to sand down his hooves in a similar fashion. Normally, they'd be maintained just by walking on rough surfaces, but Belphie definitely doesn't walk around enough for that.

If Beel's not around to help out, Belphie has no qualms with playing the baby brother card and whining until one of the others agrees to help him. He's always willing to groom them in return, though, so he usually gets his way pretty easily.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #demon forms #this post sent me down so many rabbitholes while i was seraching stuff up #also learned that cows have hair instead of fur which is horrifying #so belphie has hair instead of a fur coat

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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 3 years

Text

and then I don’t feel so bad

thanks again to @thecomfortofoldstorries for coming through when I whined at her about needing ideas

also shout-out to my older sister for being the coolest and getting this song stuck in my head today (happy birthday, sis. wish we’d been raised together)

---

Geralt holds the package tightly with both hands and glares down at it with icy anxiety building at the center of his chest. The cloak he’d special ordered two weeks ago is wrapped in brown paper, tied closed with a length of dark blue woolen string. The Witcher, who has faced countless monsters and angry villagers and vengeful nobles alike, takes a deep breath in through his nose and shudders at the thought of his next self-chosen contract: giving Jaskier a Solstice present. He hopes the cloak is good enough. He hopes that he chose a fashionable color, one that Jaskier will enjoy wearing no matter where he chooses to go this winter. Geralt hopes that the heavy wool he’d painstakingly decided on is the right kind of material for Jaskier’s tastes. He hopes�� he hopes that everything he’s about to say and do goes well and that he doesn’t fuck this all up.

“Jaskier,” he calls, keeping his tone light as he knocks on the door of their shared room. “Are you decent?”

“Never!” Jaskier laughs from within. Geralt hears a series of quick, light-soled footsteps crossing the floor before the door is flung open to reveal Jaskier in all his evening glory. The bard is, as usual, painfully correct. He’s not very decent at all; his hair is a mess of brown waves that tumble down to cover his smooth, pale forehead. The apples of his cheeks are flushed fuchsia with a combination of wine and the high of a good show. His frilly white shirt is unlaced at the throat and loosened all the way down to reveal the sharp angles of his collarbones. Geralt gulps air like a man near to drowning and pushes his way inside. Has it gotten hotter, all of a sudden? Jaskier’s eyebrows furrow with worry and he closes the door behind his Witcher. “What’s got you even quieter than usual? Are you sick? Injured? Cursed?”

“Witchers can’t get sick,” Geralt answers, almost automatically. Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“Your version of sick, then?”

Geralt doesn’t know what his version of sick means so he ignores the comment entirely. Instead he shoves the package in his hands towards the bard and huffs. “I got something for you. I thought you might like to wear it to keep you warm, especially since I wanted… I was wondering if you’d like…”

Geralt growls and spins on his heel, running one shaking hand through his hair as if that might calm him down. It doesn’t.

“Fuck! Why can’t I be like you? Why can’t I just… say all the things I’m thinking? I’m no good with words, Jaskier.”

“I actually don’t say most of the things I think,” Jaskier shrugs. He bites the inside of his lip to keep from talking any more and ruining the moment. This is clearly something the Witcher needs to do on his own, whatever it is. He smiles softly and holds the paper-wrapped lump against his chest. “But I’m happy to wait for as long as you need, dear heart. Figuring out the right thing to say is hard.”

Geralt’s heart is pounding in his chest. Each beat rings out like one of Roach’s shoes against unforgiving cobblestone. He can practically see the sparks flying from it, igniting something in his chest that flares and wavers like a candle flame in the high breeze. He wants to protect the wavering warmth with every ounce of strength he has.

“I… I got you this,” he gestures towards the gift Jaskier has yet to open, “Because it’s cold at Kaer Morhen. The pass is treacherous, difficult for a human who isn’t prepared, so I wanted you to- I mean if you wanted to come with me, I would-”

His fumbling proposal is interrupted by a dull thwump as the package Jaskier was just holding suddenly hits the wooden floorboards. When Geralt looks up, terrified of the incoming rejection, he’s met with two watery blue eyes. Every one of his worst fears is being actualized in front of him and there’s nothing he can do to stop it now.

“Fuck. Shit, I- I’m sorry for asking. I didn’t know if you would eve-”

Geralt is interrupted again, this time by Jaskier throwing his arms around the Witcher’s shoulders and starting to sob. Geralt panics and instinctively reaches to pull Jaskier closer against his chest. He tucks the bard’s face against the side of his neck and cups the back of his neck with one broad palm; his fingers scratch up the base of Jaskier’s scalp and into his soft, tousled locks. With his other arm Geralt holds the bard tightly around the waist, rubbing small circles into the meat of his hip as he waits for Jaskier’s breathing to return to normal.

“Do you not want to come with me to the keep?” he asks, voice low and gravelly but somehow smaller and more frightened than Jaskier has ever heard it sound before. His heart cracks wide open and his love for his grumpy White Wolf comes spilling out like water from a burst dam.

“Of course I want to come to Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier chuckles wetly. Sadly. “I just never thought… I thought you didn’t want me there.”

Geralt considers the words for a moment. He really hasn’t been the most welcoming friend, all things considered. He can understand why Jaskier feels a bit lost and a bit confused. Overwhelmed, his brain supplies. Jaskier is overwhelmed.

He slowly releases Jaskier and steps away.

“Here,” he grins, kneeling and offering the package back up to the bard, who accepts it slowly. Now those bright blue eyes are shining with a different emotion, and Geralt envies the mages who can read other peoples’ minds. “Open it.”

Jaskier slowly unties the blue string and pulls two or three layers of plain brown paper aside to reveal a cardinal-red woolen cloak. A cloak that Geralt has bought for him. The hood and the hem are just the right size and shape for the season. The shade of red Geralt has chosen really brings out the pink undertones of Jaskier’s skin and the darker flecks of blue in his eyes. Jaskier knows that this cloak’s design is haute couture and probably cost the Witcher a great deal of coin. “Oh… Oh, my sweet, darling Geralt.”

Hearing his name said like that, with such affection and gentle reverence, throws the Witcher into another frenzy of emotion. He can barely stand it. His fists clench at his sides. It takes Herculean effort not to sweep the bard off his feet and spin him through the air, peppering him with excited, happy kisses. Jaskier is coming to Kaer Morhen with him! Jaskier is coming home with him!

“Geralt?”

“Jaskier,” the Witcher whispers, taking one slow step and closing the distance between them. The bard does not flinch. He does not move away. He does not step back. “Jaskier, if you don’t mind, I’d like to kiss you very badly.”

“Of course,” the bard breathes, his hand floating up to rest against the warm, stubbled skin of Geralt’s cheek, “I’ve been waiting so long…”

When their lips finally meet, time stops. There is only the warmth of their skin where it’s touching and the soft, gentle desperation of two people trying to prove, for once and for all, that they love each other. When they pause for air Jaskier pulls away a fraction. “Let’s go sit by the fire and chat, shall we?”

“Hmm.”

Geralt settles himself before the fire and pulls Jaskier down onto his lap, arranging him until they’re both comfortable. “Will your family mind my coming with you?”

“They’re expecting you. Actually, they demanded your presence this year. Lambert actually threatened me with bodily harm.”

“Did they, now?”

“Aye. Eskel said he’d find you and bring you back himself if I was too cowardly to buck up like a real Witcher and tell you that I-”

He cut himself off with a blush.

“That you what?”

“That I love you.”

“Well that’s good news,” Jaskier giggles, “And quite the relief considering I’ve been head over heels in love with you for years, now. A decade at least!”

“Y-you…?”

“Me, indeed.”

“I’m glad we’ll all get to hear your wonderful stories this winter,” Geralt nuzzles down against the side of his neck and sends Jaskier into another fit of giggles. “And songs.”

“Do you like it when I sing?”

“I like it best when you make up little songs as we travel,” Geralt admits. “They’re sweet... and I feel like- like they’re just for me.”

Jaskier lights up brighter than a well-cast Igni and settles himself into the Witcher’s tender embrace entirely. He begins to hum to himself and then slowly, in a way that always leaves Geralt impressed and entranced, words begin to form into verse:

“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, Big grumpy Witchers that have me quite smitten, Brown paper packages tied up with strings; These are a few of my favorite things.”

Geralt presses a kiss to Jaskier’s temple and hides his blush in the bard’s warm neck.

“Hair soft as silk that went white in the Trials, Arms that can hold me and heft me for miles, Eyes of warm amber I search for in Spring, These are a few of my favorite things.”

The Witcher swears he can’t fall any more in love. It has to be impossible; but then Jaskier’s voice gets even softer and the words are sung so close to his ear that it makes him shiver.

“When the wolf bites, When the bee stings, When I'm feeling sad, I simply remember my favorite things, And then I don't feel so bad!”

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 3 years

Text

Letter 7: 🏹 Eye of the Beholder 🏹

A letter arrives in the mail... by way of bow and arrow. The poor piece of paper is skewered by a sharp arrowhead, leaving a noticeable hole when you retrieve the letter. Elegant script and verboise language flow scross the page, taking up almost every single bit of avaliable space. Paperclipped to the letter is a candid photograph of Grim snoozing (... You do not recall taking that picture).

A large, wrapped frame is laid by your front door. Hidden beneath the protective fabric is a lifelike portrait of you, posed similarly to the Mona Lisa of your world. Every detail is immaculate and perfectly placed (perhaps too much so), from the angle of your eyebrows and smile to the colors of your skin and hair, and even the reflection of sunlight in your eyes. It looks less like a work of art and more like a mirror—if a mirror reflected only the best aspects of you.

***Spoilers for chapter 5!***

Cher Trickster,

Bonjour! How does fate find you on this lovely day? I have noticed that you seem to be out of sorts as of late. Perhaps the weight of schoolwork is getting to be too burdensome, or you are experiencing heartache—from a fight with a friend? The worry and pain is scrawled so evidently across your expression, try as you may to hide it.

Remember! Even at the worst of times... Every morning, the sun rises without fail, blessing the landscape with its light and warmth. That is always something to look forward to! I encourage you, Trickster, to look at the world around you and to bathe in all the beauty that it offers! A stroll through the woods will clear your mind up. You will find that nature has a way of lifting your spirits, and bringing a smile to your face.

Of course, you may say that I have no right to intrude on your affairs—and that is where I must object! For Robin Hood taketh from the rich, and Robin Hood giveth back to the poor. You’ve helped to restore something precious to me, and now I must do the same in return.

If you listen to the rumors scattered about the school, you may hear that I have a sharp eye. This is a trait that I pride myself on as a hunter. Ah, but it does not only come in handy in terms of tracking my prey, non! Why, it was this sharp eye of mine that happened upon the diamonds in the rough that would eventually rescue Roi du Poison.

That is correct! I speak of you and your companions!

There was a darkness stirring in Vil’s soul, you see. A darkness that many would not perceive—for Roi du Poison rarely allows the public to glimpse into the uncertain side of himself. What better remedy than to bring in “fresh meat” (pardon the unforgiving pun~) to stir up the pot? New talent... fresh faces! And a mysterious student with a different perspective. They were what Vil needed to pry open his eyes and “see” for the first time.

Roi du Poison, the Fairest One of All, our beautiful Vil... His sparkle was darkening, dying black with resent and envy. It was beautiful, in its own cruel, twisted way... But it was not the Vil that he worked so hard to be, the Vil that he poured his blood, sweat, and tears to become. To be “seen” as. Do you see, Trickster? My only desire is, and always was, to witness Roi du Poison at his finest, for Vil to recognize his own beauty, despite what the others say of him—and that was a feat that I could not tackle alone.

The one person I could save was Roi du Neige. I was ready to cast my life away to take his place—but Roi D’Or would not allow it. And it was thanks to Monsieur Multi’s quick wits that no civillians gazed upon the form Vil considered to be so unsightly. Monsieur Heart and Monsieur Fuzzball proved their mettle in combat—and even young Epel-kun demonstrated his strength! Ah, and the crowning jewel of it all... Monsieur Spade’s spectacular finale!

And I... A mere spectator in the presence of such a dazzling performance!!

At the end of it all, we embraced and wept in one another’s arms. We sang. We danced. Upon that stage, we were born anew.

Is that what Night Raven College has been missing all this time? The strength of unity.

It is marvelous. So marvelous, in fact, that it brings another tear to my eyes. Beauté... 100 points!!

And the crux of it all lies with you.

Trickster... My eyes do not deceive. There is much more to you than you let on—perhaps even more than you are aware of yourself. That mystique of yours has this hunter intrigued... Captivated!! You might even consider me a new fan of yours.

If there is anything I can do to thank you for restoring Roi du Poison to his rightful throne... you need only ask, and I will be more than happy to assist! There is no distance I will not go. No mountain that I will not scale, no poison I will not consume.

Call my name, mon amie, and I shall come running—even to the ends of Twisted Wonderland, and to the depths of the Underworld itself.

Until then. I eagerly await your response.

Yours,

Le Chasseur D’Amore, 🏹 Rook Hunt 🏹

#Rook Hunt #twst #twst anni #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland anni #spoilers #twisted wonderland anniversary #twst anniversary #disney twisted wonderland #magic mystery letters

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ktheist · 3 years

Text

in another life (i would be your man)

muses. hero!yoongi / assassin!yoongi / father!yoongi / lawyer!yoongi

word. 2.5k

genre. reincarnation au

time and time again, you find yourselves in the other’s absolute mercy.

mercy, which both of you know, the other will not grant.

“have you any last words, hero?” the grass shrivels up around yoongi all because hot air wilts the greenest of life.

a single bead of sweat trickles down the side of yoongi’s face as he looks at you without a shred of fear in the face of death.

“all the gold you’re hoarding... does it bring you happiness?” he says, as though already finding serendipity before you can even drive your talon into his chest.

“happiness!” you roar, mockery dripping off your word, “such humanly sentiments. you forgot who you’re speaking to, hero.”

“yoongi... yoongi’s my name” he sighs softly, eyelids fluttering shut, “say it.”

it is you who fall silent this time.

to say the name of the soul who’s bound to you not for love but for destruction... have you the right?

in your last life, a good few hundred years ago, he’s the one that drove the cross into your chest.

in the one before that, you burn him at the stakes for the wretched powers he held.

in this lifetime, even the armor made of the silver cannot withstand the weight of your paw, talon digging into his chest as he lays underneath you, ready to accept the heroic death.

“very well, if not in this lifetime, then perhaps the next...”

you live for three human lifetimes as the great dragon who brought the continent together. the humans, without their hero, are mere mortals. they learned better than to put their faith in one man.

in the next lifetime, you find yourself kneeling in front of a silver haired man - what a striking hair color for someone who’s supposed to be on the low.

“my hand’s gonna slip,” that gravelly voice still sends shivers down your spine.

“what-” you breathe out, eyebrows knitting together.

he takes his aim.

but there’s something wrong.

the angle he’s pointing at will graze your cheek and ear at most.

then he shoots.

when the bullet bounces against the cement somewhere a few inches away behind you, your body moves on its own. your leg sweep out to send him tumbling down onto the ground. your thighs pin his hips down so he can’t get up and you push the gun farther beyond his reach.

“why are you doing this?” you hiss, knife against his throat.

“don’t you think we owe it to ourselves to be happy?” yoongi says simply, too complacent for a man who’s about to lose yet another life to his enemy.

“that’s not how it works,” teeth gritted together, you press the dulled side of the knife harder against his snow-kissed flesh.

“then, how does it work?” he asks.

for a moment, you’re frozen in place. then you’re taken back to where it all begins.

you were a queen who poisoned her king before proceeding to ruin the kingdom until it remains but a memory to those who’ve lived through your tyrannical era. yoongi was the crown prince from a small country who enticed you into his chambers and kept you locked in a tower like a caged bird while he went to war with the neighboring kingdom with your kingdom’s army.

“i- i hated you for seducing me and locking me up in that tower,” you murmur, breath shaky, “a- and you hated me because i-i couldn’t be killed... because i was...”

“a blood sucker.” he finishes for you.

a flash of anger crosses your eyes and paint your vision red. you press the knife harder - no doubt there would be a bruise, “no matter how immortal i was... i died because of a broken heart. you killed me!”

“i was breaking my own heart for having to keep you locked in that tower but if i let you go...” he trails off, his hand coming to settle on yours.

it’s the first time you hear him choke up.

“so many died because of our love,” yoongi’s voice comes out barely above whisper.

“your sin is mistaking hate for love,” you flick your wrist, switching the side of the blade pressed against his neck to one that could cut through clean and swift.

but before you can seal yet another lifetime of your surviving, a sharp pain cuts into your arm, forcing you to release the blade, your free hand cupping the familiar circular wound that’s gushing with blood.

you push yourself off him, going over the ledge and jumping off to your safety. and yoongi’s left in the cold, night air, the coms in his ear buzzing back to life.

it’s six months later that he finds you, dressed in deep red, smiling seductively as you cling on a man twice your age. all of a sudden, he finds himself ignoring whatever his partner’s saying in the coms and approaching you and the man.

yoongi can barely remember what he said but he remembers the overwhelming feeling of relief when the man pushes you off and march out of the room, shouting russian vulgarities.

“planting a bullet hole in my arm isn’t enough, you just had to sabotage my mission, don’t you?” you’re on top of him once again but the ground isn’t cold and hard as he’s always remembered in the series of you pinning him down in differing lifetimes.

“have you thought about what i said?” he doesn’t look like he minds it anymore.

being pinned down by you, that is.

rather, yoongi quite likes the view of your cleavage when you lean down close enough to whisper into his hears, “i reflected on my past mistakes... and truly, i wish nothing more than to have you gone from my sight once and for all.”

then his index finger ghosts over the softest protrusion of the healed up scar on your arm. and you feel goosebumps on your skin.]

you leave in the morning, slipping out of the hotel room in that skin tight maroon dress, noticing the woman in the lobby, looking like what you would’ve looked like if you were waiting for your partner who went against orders and checked into a room in the very same hotel he was supposed to eliminate his target at.

sloppy. fucking sloppy.

yoongi never sees you after that. he got reprimanded and almost got eliminated by his own agency if it hadn’t been his father, the head of the extermination department who pulled some strings and buried the matter.

it’s a surprise he’s still alive at the age of of thirty-one, owning a lawfirm of his own and living the life he’s never thought he’d have.

a normal one.

then, he spots you, walking down the sidewalk holding a toddler’s hand and smiling down at him like he’s the most precious thing you’ve ever hold dear to.

“stop the car,” yoongi orders.

“s-sir?” the driver, surprised by the sudden request, hesitates.

“pull over!” it’s the first time the young man has ever hear his boss raise his voice.

so he does just that, but a block away from where yoongi last saw you.

he runs as fast as his legs could carry him. but the sidewalk is empty of a woman holding a child’s hand.

it takes another year of him searching records of faces and names. for you have many and unlike yoongi, he’s sure you have no one to pull the strings and make one blunder disappear.

then he finds you, under a pseudonym, of a certain kim hana whose child is named kim youngsoo.

“it’s me,” he announces, stepping into the light that pours past the window and over not even half of the room.

“mommy, can we order pizza?” youngsoo’s lively voice rings from outside of the room.

“yeah, why don’t you decide what toppings you want and i’ll be out there in a sec, sweetie,” your voice sounds heavenly - none of the guarded strain that he usually hears. but your eyes, they look like the eyes of a woman who would give everything to protect her most precious possession.

“so it was you... one year ago,” you say, ambling to the dresser where yoongi easily finds out your motive.

“the gun’s not there anymore, you really think i’d break into the house of an ex-assassin and not think to look for weapons tacked up somewhere out of sight?” he hears the frustrated sigh you make before you stand with your feet apart.

looks like you believe his words.

looks like you’ve got no problems taking him on with bare hands.

“he’s mine, isn’t he?”

a scoff.

“you’re pretty dumb if you think one night’s all it takes to get pregnant with your bastard child.”

“who’s the father, then? why isn’t he around?” he presses on.

and his questions have always been intrusive but you notice the weight of his every inquiry. as if he’d drop dead right this instant if you don’t answer them.

“he walked away, couldn’t accept that we had to always be on the move just because he had a baby with a wanted woman.”

and it’s not the police that wants you.

“his social security number?” yoongi shoots you another question.

“i don’t know. i don’t remember,” you say simply, a shrug accompanying your answer.

“number one rule of being an assassin: never forget anything,” yoongi recites easily, even after five years, he still recalls the drilling his mentor forced him through, “so that leaves us with one possibility: he doesn’t exist, this ex of yours.”

“mooooom.” youngsoo calls out, sounding too close for comfort.

“just a minute, sweetie. why don’t you take my phone out of my bag and get ready to dial up the number to the pizza place?” there’s a lightness in your tone.

envy wraps around yoongi’s heart before he even realizes it. how he wished you’d speak to him in that delicate, loving tone as well.

“look, i’m tired, i’m done playing games, i’ve been done since that night. i know i fucked up and i know some day i’ll pay for it but not tonight... tonight... at least let me have one last night with my kid.”

it’s the way the word ‘my’ and ‘kid’ fall naturally off your mouth that makes yoongi realize that he’s the one stuck in the beginning all along. that he’s the one who couldn’t move on from the past even though he sought to change the present and threw your world upside down when he decided not to take the shot.

before he can say anything, you’re already out of the door but he senses no rush in your footsteps.

“do you have the pizza place’s number down?” there it is again, the soft, tender tilt in your voice.

it’s a little faint but he hears it clearly.

and it may very well just be a trick to make him sympathize but what is he to sympathize with when he’s only here to ask for confirmation?

why do you treat him like death who’s finally come to take back your borrowed time?

well, the answer was simple.

“i paid off the bounty,” yoongi meets you at a cafe where he knows you’ll feel safer.

no assassin will make a move in broad daylight, in public, with his face out for the cameras to record.

“how much?” you sound like you just got another loan tying you down.

“enough that they can’t resist,” he states.

and before you can even say anything, he goes on, “i want to see him.”

“no.” you say curtly.

“he’s my child too.” he slides the white envelope he pulls out of his pocket to you.

it contains the dna results from the hair on the comb youngsoo complained he lost and yoongi’s own hair.

“he’s doesn’t need a father,” you don’t even give the envelope a second glance, “if that’s all-”

“that’s not for you to decide on your own,” he cuts you off.

it’s the firmness in his tone that makes your eyebrows rise. min yoongi has always been a gentle soul. even when he was driving a cross into your heart, he’d done it with the heaviest heart.

and for him to place his foot down like this - how very unlike him.

which is why, when he pulls, you pull harder.

“if you so much as appear in front of youngsoo, we will disappear and i’ll make sure you’ll never us again.”

and with that, you take out the blank check from your purse and slip it over to him. the check and the envelop laying side by side.

money isn’t the issue, you’ve managed to wire every single penny you have to different bank accounts before the agency could even freeze the one in seoul. it took several trips to japan, hong kong and china but you eventually got enough to start a new life with your new life.

and that new life of yours is being shaken by the presence of an entity of the past.

you begin noticing the men and women dressed in plain clothing standing a few feet away from where you and youngsoo go. they’re there, acting absolutely normal which makes it unnormal. always watching, always being on guard as if their lives depend on you and youngsoo’s security.

it goes on for another three months before you finally get tired of it and approach one of them, “call your boss over.”

youngsoo’s blowing bubbles at the park when a sleek black car pulls up at the curb and a familiar face steps out.

“you can see him every week on saturdays, one no-show and you’re out. also- i decide when he finds out,” you set the rules and yoongi looks like he a little kid who’s about to perform at his school’s talent show, “do we have a deal?”

“absolutely,” he nods readily.

yoongi’s hand moves on its own and he almost hooks his index finger around your pinky finger as if asking for some kind of emotional support. but he stops himself.

he walks beside you, watching as you walk out from under the shades of the tree, your expression instantaneously brightening when the sunlight hits, “youngsoo-ah,” you wave the toddler over.

his little legs comes running towards you, curious, bright eyes staring at yoongi and right through his soul. he’s never felt so bare and defenseless.

the only thing that keeps him from running away is the fondness in your voice. and the smile on your face that he’s never seen before, “youngsoo-ah, this is uncle yoongi, he’s mommy’s friend...”

yoongi musters the best smile he can - he never needed to try. it’s the people around him that force smiles to please him. never the other way around. never him having to smile so he wouldn’t scare off his son.

he crouches in front of the child that’s partially hiding behind you, “youngsoo-ah, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

#bts fic #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #yoongi fic #yoongi fanfiction #yoongi fanfic #yoongi smut #bts smut #yoongi imagines #bts imagines #bts scenarios #yoongi scenarios #bts au #yoongi au

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confused-as-all-hell · 3 years

Text

The day did not go gently.

It wept in torrents of rain and lightning, heavy storms sweeping over rooftops, great deluges of clear water flooding the earth. It reached out with hungry hands, fingernails digging into the softened midnight sky, grasping at the stars.

It stole away at any semblance of light, at every last glimpse of warmth. There was no greater cruelty than the day's bitter envy. Men cowered from the sky's wrath.

But Zoya Nazyalensky was a storm in herself, a single long figure sprinting through the mist, chin held high. Her long dark hair clung to her back, and the stupid fucking skirts of her gown tangled around her legs. The ropes of pearl around her throat were askew. A smudge of black kohl ran across her high cheekbones.

A wreck, a ruin, and yet a vision in ivory and gold.

When she angled her face to the stormclouds, she could only be a goddess tasting the sky.

She was a lady, a princess, a queen made for warm fires and gentle kisses; but she was also a woman, and they had their own magic about them.

A little, gasping sob wrenched free of her chest, echoing into the empty, empty, empty air.

Zoya could still see blood on her hands, blood on the floor of her throne room, blood shining like dashed rubies.

A queen must never deign to dine with mercy, her mother had declared stiffly once.

And so when that young man with dark hair and darker eyes knelt before her, a silent plea lingering on his lips, Zoya showed him no mercy. She cut him down before her throne. His heart's blood flowed red as pomegranate seeds, red as a courtier's silky gown, red as the shiny lacquer of her nails.

"My lady," he had whispered, so softly, so sweetly. "My lady, I beg for your kindness."

But Zoya's mother had not raised her to be kind.

So she ran.

The heels of her shoes were uncomfortable, and the laces of her corset were done uncomfortably tight, and her hair was dripping icy water down her dress, and she wanted to fucking cry.

It was cold and miserable and tiring.

It was Zoya staggering into an alley to rid herself of the gaudy gold dress and ivory coat, to rip the pearls from her hair and smear her kohl across her eyelids.

It was lifting her chin and stiffening her spine.

It was sauntering through the streets of her city alone, hair unbound and long legs bare, head held high and gaze blazing.

When a boy with curling aurete hair and pretty green eyes invited her for a drink, it was all she could do not to smile.

He was young and handsome and bright, all dauntless grins and mischievous glances and fingers that were too damn clever. His hands roamed languidly over her hips, the graceful curve of her breasts. They dipped below what remained of her skirts, and she watched the world fracture around her as his fingers moved.

They gently rose to grasp her throat, and at the first brush of his calloused palm, she simply shattered.

Fire and bone and starlight, his mouth trailing down the splay of her legs, her head thrown back against the wall; the boy was kissing her neck, and she was coming undone, and his fingers were still toying at the nape of her neck, and she might have lost her fucking mind.

When she at last slid off him, her legs wavering just so slightly, she was already setting herself to rights.

The boy glanced over at her, and in the dying dregs of night, he could have been a god; the curls of his hair were limned in silver, the lilt of his smile drenched in gold.

Zoya cleared her throat, and reached for the necklaces she had been too furious to patiently unhook. They had been her mother's, ornate and opulent and overwhelming, and even if she held no affection for the previous owner, she had grown to admire the necklaces.

Her fingers closed around bare skin.

The boy was watching her with slight amusement. "Is everything all right?"

Zoya ghosted her fingers across her throat again. Bare, bare, bare. She turned on the boy; in the chamber of her stomach, a serpent of fury reared her proud head.

"What the fuck have you done?" she hissed, one hand at her neck, as if she could wring the necklaces into existence.

The corners of his mouth lifted so slightly. "My darling Zoya, surely a woman such as yourself can piece together the puzzle."

Her name rung through the alley, soft and sweet and seductive.

"After all," the boy, the thief, continued, "how rather unceremonious to be outsmarted by a bastard you fucked for distraction."

She swore.

The thief grinned then, bright and undaunted and beautiful. "They were fetching jewels, I think I'll keep them."

Zoya's temper at last slipped it's leash. She grasped the thief by the collar of his shirt, forced him up against the brick wall; within bare seconds, she had drawn her dagger from its sheath and pressed her own body against his, and then the blade was to his throat and she was kissing him.

His lips parted so trustingly beneath her own, mouth slanting open, head falling back. The touch of his hands was pleading, tugging her close and then closer still. When he swore bitterly against her, she could barely contain her laugh.

She reveled in his soft, breathless whispers, in the quiet lilt of his pleasure, in the hard planes of his body. Her own hands roamed over his frame, dipping into his front pocket, searching for the familiar cold links of her necklaces.

Just as her fingers tightened over what was surely a roughly hewn pendant, the thief pressed a faint kiss to her collarbone, barely the graze of a butterfly's wings.

Zoya's eyes fluttered shut.

This thief, with his bright grins and wicked eyes and sharp tongue, was kissing her with a saint's tenderness. The brush of his lips was her confessional, and she was kneeling at the altar.

But she was the heir to a kingdom, ivory and gold and softest blue.

But he was a thief running her streets ragged, alabaster and bronze and indigo.

But she would have given up her crown for one more touch.

@inejghafasupremacy @thebonecarver@crazywritingbookworm @holding-shan-back-from-murder @saltyfortunes @smol-satan @quintessential-octessence @nightshade3465 @murderbabies @dreaminginvelaris @black-like-my-soul @ratabrasileira @runetherunestone @22herondale @iambecomeyourvillain@story-scribbler @ahecktonoffandomsinoneblog @sankta-nazyalensky @nevada-the-bookwyvern @kazoo-the-demjin @ungodlyravenpuff @jurdan-my-beloved @sankta-chaosqueen @twelve-kinds-of-trouble @22herondale@blackasmysoul @clarys-heosphoros @rorysglimore @dreaminginvelaris @wafflesandschemingfaces @story-scribbler @same-crazy-art-girl34 @theglassphantom @adams-left-hand @blackasmysoul @meg-the-second-greatest @willothewhisper @tiredassbibliophile @saltyfortunes @brekkercookie

#zoya nazyalensky #nikolai lanstov #saved in drafts whoops

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yeoldontknow · 4 years

Text

The Edge of Summer

Author’s Note: happy birthday @kyungseokie !! this has been sitting in my wips since january when i attempted to write this for his birthday. and that...came and went like a lightning bolt so here we are. im finally tossing this into the wild! wanted this up an entire hour ago but my internet died so T~T HAPPY BIRTHDAY I LUV U! Pairing: Kyungsoo x Reader (oc; female) Universe: this is an installment to the Did You See universe however Kyungsoo does not have a full story. this will be the only story centering on him | you do not need to read the other stories to understand, enjoy, or appreciate this one Genre: friends to lovers; fluff; romance; angst; au Summary: As summer comes to a close, your friends make the annual trek to the lake house for one last hurrah. You’ve done this before - countless times, but this year Baekhyun brings his new girlfriend along with him and this, of course, means some plans have to change. You just have no idea how much will change by the end of the trip. Rating: PG-13 Warnings: some strong language; a lot of lust; baekhyun being the worst wingman to exist; it gets pretty spicy by the end but like..only if you squint? just playing it safe yall Word Count: 13.1K

It is only when Kyungsoo’s hand falls delicately into his lap, fingers grazing your thigh with the aimless of touch of nonchalance that you decide:

If you make it out alive, you are going to kill Baekhyun.

Three hours into the road trip, and you think the conviction of this decision carries with it the bitterness of gunpowder and the relief of satisfaction, two distinct feelings entirely befitting the situation you have found yourself in. A five hour journey is long enough on its own, time blurring seamlessly around you in the close confines of a car - but, when pressed against Kyungsoo like this, against the strong muscles of his arms and thighs, feeling the heat of his warm skin radiating into yours, five hours is centuries of pining. These hours are too long for anyone to survive, the weight of yearning compressing your lungs into phantoms of their former glory, breath too quiet, and too slow, afraid of disrupting the fragile pretense of peace.

Being this close to him, this close to the embodiment of your pining, carries the same impact in your bones as a cataclysm, and so you grimace in dismay, silently aware that you might not even live to make good on your silent promise. Baekhyun will live another day and you will wither amongst the remainder of your desire, buried with yet another promise you failed to keep.

Somewhere in an alternate universe, you are happy, and this happiness comes easily. In a different life, you are comfortable, riding in Chanyeol’s car with him, his girlfriend, and Yixing, listening to the playlist Chanyeol had enthusiastically curated for the journey. You would be laughing, talking, teasing - or, perhaps, none of those things, instead luxuriating the jovial warmth that always seems to bloom in their company, the kind that overtakes you without warning, mind unfocused and hazy with thoughts of freedom.

Instead, your back presses into the middle seat of Junmyeon’s old car, knees and thighs aching with the effort of making yourself small between Kyungsoo and Yixing. Glancing to your right, you eye Yixing’s placidly neutral expression, his unfazed smile as he teases Sehun, reaching forward to ruffle his hair from behind the seat. Briefly, you envy him, his loud laugh and the way things are always uncomplicated for him - the way he always gives over out of love, even if he has the briefest moments of internal protest.

At 8AM, Baekhyun insisted he bring his new fling on this vacation. It was important, he said, his eyes pleading with you and Yixing, the puppy dog expression you'd grown used to fixed securely in his cheeks and pout. Chanyeol’s car would be the couples car, and so it was important he be there to set the mood. Yixing had eyed him amicably, biting the inside of his cheek with an endeared sense of amusement, complaining only because the plush seats of Chanyeol’s car were far more comfortable and because it would insight a brief riot in Baekhyun that served only to amuse him further.

And he conceded almost immediately, an ever supportive wingman, winking at Baekhyun before excusing himself to gather his things.

You, however, protested valiantly, arms crossed over your chest and heart unmoved. Baekhyun pleaded, promised french fry dates and to do your dishes for a week - even though he does not live with you, even though you actually enjoy doing your dishes, and, still, you protested, lips pursed and eyebrow cocked in disdain.

But, standing gracefully in the doorway, the sunlight gliding over his shoulders, craving an angle against his jaw you found almost holy, far too magnificent to be human, Kyungsoo laughed. The deep honey chocolate of his tone brought gooseflesh to your skin, teeth biting down on your tongue to keep your spine from trembling; your favourite laugh, and one he so rarely gives only to you. Behind him, Chanyeol’s tall frame lingered by his car, calling for anyone to get in so he could make his departure, and you think Kyungsoo’s bemused, affectionate smile is really what you agreed to.

Hours of his smile, even if it was put out, even if it was a barely there glimmer of fond annoyance, even if it faded almost as quickly as it came - this is what you agreed to.

Even if it meant letting your own heart break, and mend, and shatter once more, chest tight with the burden of proximity.

‘I can feel you looking at me,’ he mumbles, just softly enough that only you can hear the dulcet nature of his voice, teasing and sharp.

Shifting beneath your gaze, his arm nudges gently into yours, soft and supple and smooth, the cotton of his white shirt reduced to little more than rough muslin in comparison. He keeps his head turned as he looks out the window, one hand in his lap while the other holds his chin in its palm, trees and grass streaking past beneath an endless expanse of blue sky. Sunlight pours through the window onto him, casting shadows along his jaw and cheeks that somehow make the curvature of his lips ever more pronounced in profile.

Around you both, conversations live and die, the rippling cadence of Yixing’s laugh losing its edges as you continue to stare, unblinking, at the hard edge of Kyungsoo’s jaw.

‘Is there something you want?’ At this, he directs his attention to you, your dry mouth and unwavering gaze, hand still cradling his chin as he regards you expectantly.

His eyes move over you slowly, taking their time getting acquainted with your features in this light. You feel him where you never feel anyone - all over you, yet ephemeral and nowhere at all, this kind of touching a mystery that runs deep. In a single moment, he is both above and beneath you, walking over the map of your skin and treading just below the surface, the blood in your veins rushing to your heart in celebration. The air in the small car becomes thin, lungs tight and breath constricted. Your hands curl into fists, pressing nails into the muscle of your mount of Venus, but it is not in frustration or fear, rather, instead, the only way you know how to suppress this insurmountable adoration.

By stopping the surrender before it starts, you do not even have the choice to give in.

Perhaps, in the same life in which you are riding in Chanyeol’s car you are also bold, brave enough to give him the best words, the most beautiful words, the ones you keep perpetually beneath your tongue, waiting. How would he look in the aftermath of honesty? What smile would you be given? Would you even survive? You’re unsure, the aspects of such a reality hidden from you now, and so you swallow thickly, giving moisture to your voice to ensure you can speak, even if it is not entirely brave.

‘You’re blocking the window,’ you lie, surprised that you sound so confident, so calm, when the border between your bodies has been so ruefully challenged.

Eyes squeezing closed, they press into crescent moons as his cheeks rise up along the bones, and Kyungsoo laughs, genuinely amused by the absurdity of your statement. So unlike the booming force of Chanyeol’s laugh or the high pitched delight of Yixing’s, Kyungsoo’s low and deep giggle is a thunderclap in the center of your chest, an endless roll of electric pleasure along your nerves. The force of it has him jostling into your side, shoulders vibrating through the humor, and you feel yourself bristle, wholly unprepared. This moment of contact brings with it the absence of thought, the absence of protest, running far deeper than you imagined it could. In a single moment, your longing threatens to unmake you, wanting more of his pleasure, more of his joy, certain nothing is as sacred or magical as this.

Offering you a sardonic, yet amicable smile, he leans back into the seat, making himself as small as possible to take up the least amount of space. Tucking his arms into his sides, he moves away from the window entirely, and releases a hiss of breath through his nose. One eyebrow cocked in question, he pouts, the fullness of his bottom lip sticking out childishly.

‘Is this better?’ he asks through grit teeth, though his smile is tucked in the corner of his lips as a secret; dawn just about to break over the warm glow of his skin.

In this position, his shirt becomes constricted and stretched over his chest, shoulders, and abdomen, revealing the deep contours of his torso. The mid-morning sun casts him in gold, making a home of the pores of his skin and revealing amber flecks in the chocolate of his eyes. Immediately, your tongue becomes heavy, the taste of light filling your mouth, the taste of him and the heat of your unbridled wanting. Even with the smallness of space he has created, gaps between your bodies revealed where he has since retreated, the warmth between you both is a fire that refuses to die, and, in the aftermath of his simple question, you feel yourself flush.

‘Yes, much,’ you nod, hoping your expression is cordial and unmoved. Because it is true. You find you enjoy this view far more than the one before. ‘Now, if only you can stay like that for two more hours.’

Once more he laughs, enjoying your teasing banter as he relaxes into his previous position. All over again he relaxes into you, comfortable and content, strong muscles of his thighs vibrating into your legs as the car bounces over a bump on the highway. It frustrates you how swiftly the butterflies in your stomach wander into your heart as you watch him, stuttering in its rhythm as a stubborn reminder there is no escape, no fail safe to liberate you from this craving. If anything, the closeness you must endure over the length of this trip is only furthering your desire to shorten the ever present distance between your hearts.

‘Why did you give Baekhyun such a hard time this morning?’

His question interrupts your thoughts, words soft yet his tone carries with it a deceptive bite.

Narrowing your brow, you almost snort in surprise. ‘Because it’s ridiculous. Changing everything around at the last minute,’ you explain incredulously. ‘It’s ridiculous.’ Settling back against the hardness of the middle seat, you stare straight ahead, casting your unfocused gaze out beyond the windshield. ‘I can’t believe you’re even asking, as if you wouldn’t do the same.’

In the years you have known him, there has never been a moment where he allowed Baekhyun to get away with anything - not least without an argument or some form of protest. Moving Kyungsoo from one opinion to the next requires a fair amount of convincing and explaining, and, usually, results in his profound frustration until he gives over just to end the conversation. This morning, Kyungsoo said nothing, and his laugh, his smile, and his acquiescence is more out of place than your childish protesting.

Chuckling, he turns back to the window beside him, nodding slightly. ‘You’re not wrong,’ he muses in agreement.

Silence befalls you both, one that does not contain walls or barriers but is gratified. Kyungsoo comfortably nestles into his position, ready to maintain this pose for several more hours, and you turn to look at him, bewildered.

‘That’s it?’ He seems both completely satisfied with your answer and disinterested in continuing the conversation, and your mind races with a confusion so thick you think your hands could break it. ‘That’s all you wanted out of that?’

Tossing you a placid smile, he nods once more. ‘That’s it.’

Searching his face for answers, you translate his words over and over, breaking them down into their smallest pieces to grasp at what lies beneath. ‘Did you ask just to get a rise out of me?’

He keeps his eyes on the world outside, basking in the gold of daylight. It refuses to let him go, the sun, like always, pretending it is you.

‘Maybe so.’

It’s after you’ve dropped your bags in your large room, the one with the bay window overlooking the lake, that Kyungsoo asks you to help him make lunch.

You’re not entirely sure where the others have gone, and you find yourself in the open kitchen hugging yourself, looking around the mess for some way to busy your hands. Too many insulated bags and groceries line the counters, the chaos of them inciting a productive sort of stress, the kind that makes you ready to sort and fix, in your veins. Kyungsoo moves around the room with a confident ease, and for a moment you envy him; the answers already seem to live in his actions, not a single moment of question as he clears space and makes room.

Outside, you hear the deep baritone of Chanyeol’s gleeful howl as it heads towards the lake. Baekhyun’s voice follows, higher in pitch but just as eager, and in the silence of the room you hear Kyungsoo chuckling to himself. The smallness of his smile is betrayed by the light in his eyes, his own happiness a private paradise he shares only with those who choose to look.

And even before you had any control over it, before your mind could remind you that you value yourself and your solitude most, you had chosen him. You will always choose him.

‘Do you want to help me cut the vegetables?’

He doesn’t look at you as he asks the question, unloading the set of knives he brought for the week with careful motions. The silver blades seem to gleam in the midday sun, and you recognize them as the ones you bought for his birthday the year previous. He hadn’t asked for them, hadn’t even suggested you buy him anything, but as you passed the culinary shop window, mesmerized by their sharpness, their danger, their promise, you wondered - would they be a present or a plea? An offering of his happiness or yours, a moment of union between you both in which he would feel joy and you would be the cause of such magnificence.

They’re well worn now. Even from where you stand, you can see the streaks along the blades from multiple sharpening sessions, and as he holds them you can see the hidden strength that lives in his hands. His hands, rough and powerful, yet still more fine than sand and warm as maple. You have never told anyone about your admiration for the elegant length of his fingers, the peaks and valleys of his knuckles, and the way they seem to hold you, transfix you, satisfy you simply because they are proof beauty is not a face or a voice, but an art inherent to all things living. You suppose you will never tell anyone, his hands a poem for you alone.

Peering up at you curiously through the length of his lashes, he patiently waits for your answer and, for the second time today, you feel him. He is becoming an invasion, your defenses drawn down over the many hours beside him, the length of your thighs still tingling from his touch, and you are so aware of him the ripeness of this attention causes you to shiver.

‘Why are you asking me?’ you ask softly, taking a few tentative steps towards the island where he stands. Everything about your motions, your words, is careful, tender, mindful that this kind of question is fragile. ‘You never let people help in the kitchen.’

He stills as he lifts his head to appraise you, unabashedly taking you in and holding you under the ferocity of his gaze. Any other man and you would call this entrapment, but you are used to giving him everything, used to his penetrative stare and the way he always, without fail, seems to witness every flawed and contradictory piece you try to keep buried.

‘Because I want you to,’ he says, as if wanting anything is simple.

Aimlessly, you nod at his response, scanning the island counter as you approach with your arms hanging limply at your sides. You’ve surrendered to him without your own permission, but you are not terribly dismayed by this. He asks for help and speaks of wanting as though it’s an easy request, yet the tension at the back of his throat, minimal and almost imperceptible, implies this is something big and bold and frightening for him to say. For as long as you’ve known him, you both have been difficult, anxious, battling yourselves more than you battle the world around you, and so you do not comment on this ask - do not comment on the emotion of it - because you could still be wrong, and he could still take it back.

‘Aren’t you the one with the chef’s license?’ you tease, coming to stand beside him, unloading the food and organizing them into piles to be moved to their respective cupboards or shelves. ‘Wouldn’t my peasant hands ruin your julienne?’

‘Har har.’ The sound of his sarcastic laugh makes you blush, looking over your shoulder as you tuck unneeded cold things into the refrigerator. ‘And no,’ he continues once you’re beside him again, ‘I don’t need things to look pretty today, I just need them to taste good.’

Handing you a knife that fits perfectly in the palm of your outstretched hand, your eyes meet for a moment that is long enough to generate a spark. It blossoms within your blood, the mark of friendship and the mark of love blurring together the same way grief so often follows joy, weaving together to create something tender and something reverent. You look at him, and this moment feels eternal.

‘Besides,’ he mumbles, moving to guide a bunch of scallions, some tomatoes, and freshly peeled garlic on to the cutting board he has laid out for you. ‘Sometimes the most beautiful things in the room are the ones with flaws.’

Entirely unsure what to say to this, you simply bob your head with a noise of interest, a feigned motion of understanding. He does not seem to notice the way his words pierce you, cutting at wounds you have long since done your best to hide from him, and you are glad his smile endures. From the corner of your eye, you watch him carry on, cutting into an onion with little pomp and circumstance, the ghost of his words a phantom that chooses to haunt only you. Your hand trembles only slightly as you move the garlic into position, and you grip the handle tightly to keep your motions steady and even, gathering all your strength to root into the base of your joints.

Moments slip past you freely, moments where you are silent save for the deep inhalation of breath that fills your lungs as you watch him cut. Your friendship with Kyungsoo is still relatively new, in your eyes - two years on and still there are details of his life, his history, his character that elude you. Still, you know him well enough, likely somehow have always known, that he is complicated and oftentimes impossible, unfathomable, thinking too hard about every nuance and detail that colours his choices.

But when he cooks, when he is in the act of creation, making a whole reality to be touched and tasted with his bare hands, you find he has never been so certain of anything. As he turns the onion, halving it swiftly before quartering it, there is no doubt in his actions, no hesitation, and he seems to relax into this confidence, mind wandering freely because there is no room for its criticism.

‘To The Lighthouse or A Room of One’s Own?’ he asks, unprompted.

Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you begin slicing the garlic into small pieces as you consider his question. ‘To the Lighthouse.’

You're unsure who started this game, the habit of asking one another questions on your preferences, something that feels so fundamental to your relationship you imagine it is genetic to the very fabric of its existence. It no longer matters who started it, you think, only that it has persisted without ever fading, something you look forward to whenever you're together. Baekhyun finds this game rather comical, often wondering why you even bother when you both know so much about one another at this point old topics must be rehashed. But each time, every time, he says this Kyungsoo simply looks at you with an expression that could stitch together the stars and you know, together, that he is wrong.

Even if a topic is revisited, the answer is always different. In this way, you ensure that you know one another and you still never stop knowing.

Kyungsoo hums at your response. ‘Why?’

This is yet another unwritten rule of the game: for whatever you choose, you must offer a quote or a reason, the one thing you cling to that makes the choice feel superior over the other.

Three months ago, he loaned you both these books, and you had finished them rather quickly. The day you returned them, your fingers grazed as he took them from you, the resulting tremor of this touch leaving your hands caught in a fire that would not cease for days. He didn't ask what you thought beyond if you'd enjoyed them. You suppose he'd been saving it for this moment.

Pressing your palm into the flat of the knife, you compress a clove of garlic and dig deep. You'd given your answer automatically, on impulse, and hadn't truly considered the fact that you must quote the line that made your breath catch and your very bones quake. It hits you now that he's read these words, felt this kind of swooning even if there is distance between your twin heartbreaks; eyes kissing the same page long after one another has departed.

‘It was not knowledge, but unity she desired,' you begin, focusing intently on chopping so as not to lose your will, 'not inscriptions on tablets, nothing that could be written in any language known to men, but intimacy itself - which is knowledge.’

His knife falters in cutting the onion, the blade slipping against the wood of the cutting board as you finish speaking. Glancing out of the corner of your eye, you watch the juice spread beneath his perfect slices, his lips parting slightly as he takes in a slow hiss of breath. Steadying himself, he gathers his composure and begins chopping once more, nodding in agreement.

It is your turn to ask a question, but you take this moment of silence to watch the light from the wide kitchen window nestle between his cupid's bow, understanding with your whole chest why the moon fought so hard to claim the sun.

‘Are you okay?’ you murmur, keeping your tone quiet and gentle, concerned yet distanced, not wanting to embarrass him.

‘Mhmm,’ he hums, flippantly avoiding the question.

‘Dexter or Supernatural,' you inquire, moving your pile of minced garlic to the corner of the board as you gather the bunch of scallions.

‘Dexter,' is his confident reply.

'Have these already been washed?' you divert, and he glances to your hands, nodding. Lining them up, you continue.‘Why?’

Sighing, he unwraps a large cut of fish from its paper packaging, considering his choice. ‘We all make rules for ourselves,' he quotes. 'It’s these rules that help define who we are. So when we break those rules, we risk losing ourselves and becoming something unknown.’

Amidst your meticulous slicing, you feel yourself bristle. In the choice between the two, you agree - Dexter would be your first choice. Yet, you had not expected him to pick this quote, this particular choice carrying with it the weight of your identity. Your understanding of yourself and your needs has always been wrapped up in these few lines, your desire for rules and control the very thing that allows you to relate to the world. Everyone you know finds things both disruptingly and disturbingly true about themselves through their relations with other people, through their relationship to their surroundings.

You relate to yourself and to them through the rules you have cultivated, based on your experiences of others rather than their integration into your life. You want to break free from this, aware that this is only yet another way you stand to complicate your understanding of everything, but you rely on it.

And, it seems, so does he.

He is soft and sensitive, and yet conversely so rigid, operating within his own rules. To step outside would be a great unmaking, and, for one blissful moment, you find there is no space between where you end and he begins. In this understanding, you are both slinking toward a new reality.

Glancing down at your cutting board, you pout. The scallions will be uneven.

Kyungsoo swallows with a low cough, clearing his throat. ‘Neruda or Siken.’

A wide smile blooms across your features, this question perhaps one of the easiest he has ever asked. ‘Siken.’

Using your knife, you push the chopped scallions to the top of your cutting board and slowly roll a few of the tomatoes down to the center. Your smile falters, already picturing the mess of squashed pulp that will come from this. Years of cooking for yourself, but still your hands are too heavy for delicate things. With a small sigh, you angle your knife over the ripe curve, the skin so smooth you think your knife might slide right off without any incision at all.

As you start to press your knife down, Kyungsoo stops you.

‘Try like this.’

Coming to stand behind you, he takes your hands in his, joining you in holding the knife and holding the vegetable, the touch from his fingers feather light and, conversely, heavy as steel. Your breath halts its journey in your lungs, blood too warm and stagnant in your veins, your heart faltering amidst this disruption. The heat from his chest radiates into your back, meandering down your spine and into your legs, all over your nerves until you wonder if there is anything left of you, any part of you he has not touched.

He makes being near him feel like a season, full years and days lived in the wake of a breath; your every breath heavy with him, and the things your heart yearns to offer him. Every second full of an exhale transmutes into the precipice of a life well lived, because he is there and smiling and sharing the world with you even if he is not sharing the ardor in your lungs. Kyungsoo is the fifth season, a season unto you, an oncoming wind between the border of summer and autumn, between the heat and the chill, neither a warming nor a cooling but a possibility of both all at once.

You know this. You have always known this. But, recently, in the days you find yourself absent from him, your heart unmakes the memory of these small euphorias, unpossessed and eternally lonely, unwilling to cling to that which it cannot keep. And so you are whelmed and unmade by the totality of him, forced, now, to stitch yourself into someone entirely new, someone who knows how it feels to be close.

He guides your right hand forward, easing the knife slowly along the tomato until the base is what presses into the skin, not the middle.

‘Why Siken?’ he whispers, and he is close enough his breath tickles at your ear, cascading down your neck and into your shoulder. He spills over you, and you tremble, knowing he feels you but he says nothing, polite enough to maintain your pride.

He asked you a question. You know he did, and it takes work finding words when he is doing his best to consume you like this, your eyes watching as he, and you, together, slice a tomato into thin circles. The rhythm he creates with your twin hands is steady, even, almost musical in the way you can anticipate the sound of it, and it grounds you just enough to remember you are about to give absolutely everything away.

If he does not know yet, if he has not known, you suppose he will know now. But he asked. And so you will tell him.

‘Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us,’ you whisper, matching the volume of his voice. You know he will hear you. You wonder if he will feel you. ‘These, our bodies, possessed by light. Tell me we will never get used to it.’

Kyungsoo eases the knife down one last time, and keeps it there, pressed against the cutting board as the slice drops mutely against the other pieces, the juice from the vegetable seeping deep into the wood. His thumb moves slowly over yours in small circles - you’d like to call them reassuring, but as he steps closer behind you, as his other hand moves his fingers over your knuckles, you wonder if there is any reassurance to be found here.

In love, in lust, the solidarity you have found in your hobbies and your, almost selfish, avoidance have dissolved, leaving you exposed to the full extent of his soul. No, there is no reassurance in this liminal space, the moment in which you will either become unbreakable or tragically unrecognizable threatening your very sense of self. Had you known when you met him that it would feel this way? Had you known that loving him would be not unlike a benediction?

The problem, you think, is that even if you had known, nothing would have stopped you. In every life, in every choice, you love him like a beginning and an ending, your heart incapable of knowing much other than craving him.

His hands drift away, peeling off your skin, slowly, as though he is reluctant to leave. Turning until his nose is tucked into the hair just above your ear, he inhales deeply, hands coming to over just above your hips. The energy between you is a live wire, your mouth running dry and your tongue coming to wet your lips, feeling yourself grow parched. Kyungsoo takes a long breath, filling his lungs with nothing but you, before he exhales and whispers into the shell of your ear.

‘Can you handle it?’

You’re not sure if he means the quote or the rest of the tomato, not sure if he means if you can handle this, with him, or the rest of your existence without him. You aren’t entirely sure of much other than the force of your attraction, the sheer power of it, and the way you think it will fuel your every thought until your bones become ash, this love a windmill in your chest.

‘I think so,’ you mumble in affirmation, glancing over your shoulder to offer him a small expression of encouragement, hoping you look convincing.

His eyes have grown dark, the chocolate of his irises tempered with an impenetrable black, and a flush spreads across his cheeks so warm and pink you would think he’s been sugared. Immediately, you regret seeing him, the lust in you becoming a sea, the swell of it so deep and so strong, you fear you might drown in it, in him.

‘Actually, I’m feeling a bit warm.’ Side stepping along the island, away from him and out of his orbit, your words are rushed and hurried. Running a hand through your hair, you look at him, pleading. ‘Are you okay to take it from here?’

‘Yeah, are you okay?’ he asks furrowing his brow, concern evident in his voice.

‘I’m fine,’ you nod, looking everywhere but his face. ‘It’s fine. I just need to dip my toes in the water to cool off. Text me if you need me to come back?’

He laughs, watching you affectionately as you turn away from him, heading to the sliding door that leads to the brilliant green grass of the back yard. ‘Okay,’ he calls, his voice following you out.

You know that he will not.

You know that there is a barrier that stands between grief and loving, a door to walk through in which there is a boundary between the knowledge of love and the acceptance of it. He opened the door. You stepped through, momentarily basking in the reverence of it, only to leave, shutting it behind you, likely forever, to wallow in the ever comforting loneliness of wanting.

‘Are you joining me?’

Chanyeol’s girlfriend sits on the dock, leisurely swinging her feet in the water as she cranes her face into the sun to watch your approach. Covering her eyes with her hand to block the sun, she offers you a curious smile as you slide off your sandals and sit heavily beside her. Leaning back on your hands, you let the sun warm your neck and chest in contrast to the cold lake water that laps lazily over your feet and midway up your calf, pressing your fingers into the rough oak. The water’s chill walks up your skin, soothing the tension in your nerves that lingers from Kyungsoo’s breath, smile, lips, and voice.

In the distance, Chanyeol’s laughter mixes with Yixing’s and Baekhyun’s. Just beyond their small circle, Sehun and Jun canoe in amusement, the paddling of their oars a relaxing rhythm amidst the chaos that surrounds them. Baekhyun’s new girlfriend swims close by, her laughter jubilant yet reticent, still testing the limits of her comfort. Eyes still closed, you tilt your head to the side, remembering how you felt the day you were integrated into this group - shy and uncertain, the closeness of the bonds surrounding you both frightening and awe inspiring.

Chanyeol made it easy, as he always does, but, strangely enough, Kyungsoo made it easier. Even without loving him, without the intense desire to be near him, you would have chosen his company over all the rest. He said your name like it was something special, like he was careful with it inside his mouth - like it mattered. He wanted your opinion on everything, wanted your thoughts, wanted your voice first. You’ve lost count of the parties, the gatherings, the movie nights, the drinking games, and as a result all the times you’ve wound up next to him, tucked into a corner just talking and just learning.

Kyungsoo made it easier than all the rest, simply because he demanded you at his side.

Opening your eyes, the light seems to sparkle in the places where it kisses the water, putting a glimmer against your skin.

‘How did you do it?’The words taste bitter and heavy against your tongue, and you find yourself grimacing as you speak.

Chanyeol’s girlfriend, the Countess as he likes to call her, turns to face you. You feel her eyes move over your profile, patient despite her confusion. ‘Do what?’

‘Tell him you loved him.’ Chanyeol dives under the water only to break through the surface behind Baekhyun, dunking him with a gleeful howl. Would it have been easier to manage your feelings with someone so vocal? Someone with such little restraint? Sitting up, you press the base of your palms into your eyes and release a mournful sigh. ‘How did you own up to it?’

‘Well, I didn’t have to do much,’ she laughs. Looking at her, the expression your features decide to wear feels plagued by uncertainty but she does not see you. Her gaze has drifted to where Chanyeol swims, to his broad form and his musical laugh, her own expression softened beyond measure. She smiles as she speaks, unbridled in her admiration. ‘You know Chanyeol. He’s the least discrete person and also not terribly patient.’ Tossing you a knowing grin, she giggles affectionately and you cannot help but laugh, her happiness naturally contagious. ‘The beauty of those things is he figures out what he wants immediately and then acts on it only after he’s decided it’s to his benefit. He’s very discerning that way.’

Humming, you glance down at your legs and lean back on your hands once more, pouting. ‘Did you know, though? All that time, did you know?’

‘No,’ she shakes her head. ‘I suppose, looking back, there were always signs,’ she concedes quickly, ‘but we’re so similar, I would go between thinking it was just our way of communicating and connecting to thinking it was flirting, but only when I was alone. When I was with him, I just wanted to enjoy being with him.’

‘How?’ You don’t mean to sound so incisive or desperate, but the feel of Kyungsoo’s hands still nestles deep within your skin, and you can sense him there even after he has departed. You are certain that you will spend the rest of your life with him pressing against parts of you long dormant and long ignored. ‘How do you do that? How did you not lose your mind being so close to him?’

‘That’s giving me far too much credit,’ she laughs, body jostling against yours in her amusement.

On instinct, as though the very sound itself is a siren call, Chanyeol ceases his movements and turns to see her, the teasing smile he’d been sporting with Yixing fading into one of contented devotion. In a single instant, the mere sight of her smooths away all his edges. There is something unspoken, yet eternal, lurking in the depths of his eyes, his yearning a boundless loyalty that declares her as his treasure.

‘I always wanted to be close to him, and I was always on the edge of my sanity. But..’ her speech dies slowly, voice tight with emotion. Considering her words, she holds his stare and refuses to look away, seemingly adrift with him. Instinctively drawn to him, she leans forward slightly, the bones and the core of her pulling her to him as best they can. ‘He makes me happy. In the purest, most simple sense of the word he makes me happier than I’ve ever been able to really...attain, if that makes sense.’

She looks away from him then, turning to regard you rather seriously. ‘Happiness has always been a choice I have to make, but it’s also something that is elusive.’ All too easily she adopts the austere tone she so often uses when giving you advice - words stern and slightly cold, though still doing her best to remain supportive and encouraging. ‘When I’m with him, he sustains it. I’m not stressed and I’m not anxious, I just get to be. You have no idea how unbelievably peaceful that is. If I spend my time with him overthinking, it rushes me to a feeling, to a place we don’t need to be in. I don’t want to overthink, I just want to be with him.’

She takes him in once more, all the tension seeming to leave her muscles as her eyes touch what her hands cannot, visibly comforted. ‘More than anything, I just want to be with him’

Fundamentally you understand her statements, your heart responding and reacting to the sentiment with little input from your mind. A language has started to develop within you, the kind that seems to be spoken by Chanyeol and the countess, a language that exists where words fail entirely. There are no words to describe the way you yearn for Kyungsoo, not a single syntax that could contain his grace, his imperfections, the breadth of his very soul. There are no words, yet you comprehend all of it - you feel all of it, the very act of this understanding a transgression against your sense of self.

Shaking your head, you groan, doing your very best to stay the same, to stay guarded. ‘That’s too much to think about.’

Chuckling, she pokes you in the shoulder. ‘I know this is about Kyungsoo.’

Waving her hand away, you hurriedly hush her with a loud hiss, looking to the group and back again. Running your fingers over your arm, you massage the slight pain with a small frown. ‘They might hear you,’ you whisper, aghast.

She snorts. ‘They’re too absorbed in whatever competition Chanyeol has created. And it’s not like this is a big secret. But okay. I’ll be quiet..er.’

The blood in your veins seems to chill, matching the temperature of the water at your feet. Eyes wide, you whisper, ‘People know?’

‘Yes,’ she nods, like nothing has changed, like this single fact is the most inconsequential thing in the world. ‘I’m pretty sure everyone knows, except for Kyungsoo which is shocking.’

With a groan, you fall back onto the dock. Heated by the direct sunlight, the wood sends heat through your shoulders and spine, an otherworldly compassion that does its best to ease your tension. Draping your arm over your eyes, you sigh. ‘Must you always tease me?’

‘Yes. It’s my duty.’ Patting your leg gently she offers little condolence, her voice a sarcastic lament.

In the ensuing quiet colours move amidst the darkness behind your eyes, sunlight infiltrating the small gap between your arm and the bridge of your nose, and providing a kaleidoscope of purple and green. Lilacs and lilies are carried in the rustling breeze, the opposite side of the lake decorated with a field of flowers, its tall grass and array of blossoms just as dense as the hunger in your blood. If you were alone perhaps you would weep over this, the inward nature of this secret desire fueled by the feel of his fingertips and his laugh and his breath on your neck - it is enough to consume the very heart of you, leaving nothing in its wake.

To give in to this would be to render yourself unrecognizable.

‘Have you ever wondered who you would be if you weren’t trying to think your way through feelings?’

A groan of discontent bubbles in your chest, her question simultaneously full of good intentions while still demanding you confront the change occurring within you. Like always, she insists that you take control of it, that you become a participant in your very unmaking - that you surrender to it, as though the only thing you must endure is yourself. How much of this can one survive, you wonder. How much of a person can survive the devastation of wanting?

‘That’s not entirely helpful.’ You know that you are whining - you can hear the cadence of your unease seep through the last of your syllables. But this cannot be helped, you think. Your great resolve has been terribly weakened.

She inhales, preparing to reply, only to be interrupted by the sounds of splashing water making its approach. Removing your hand from your eyes, you lean up slightly and squint through the changing light to see Chanyeol, his arms breaking through the water as he swims to the dock. Pressing his hands onto the wood, he lifts himself up to linger between his girlfriends legs, getting both you and she wet. You roll slightly to the side in surprise, doing your best to avoid more water getting on your clothes, but she just leans forward, the stars and the moon shifting through her eyes she takes him in.

‘My love,’ she giggles, kissing his nose. As she pulls away, he follows after her, leaning forward for more, but she is already looking behind him, brow furrowed. ‘Aren’t you in the middle of some kind of challenge?’

‘Yeah,’ he laughs, folding his arms on the dock and resting his head as he gazes up at her. ‘We’re trying to see who can knock Jun out of his canoe first.’

Cocking an eyebrow at him, you smirk. ‘Isn’t that dangerous?’

‘He’s got a life jacket,’ he shrugs, entirely nonchalant. ‘Anyway, I need a good luck kiss.’

Running her hands through his hair, she lets her fingers toy with the tips of his ears as she speaks. ‘You know you’ll win even if you don’t get one.’

His eyes flutter closed under her thoughtful touching, swooning into her orbit as he hums. They stay like this for a moment, awash and enraptured with one another. Their world is foreign to you, a place of belonging where they live only with each other, and more vulnerable and brave than you could ever comprehend.

When he looks at her again, there is a silent communion that passes between them, words and conversations living and dying on their breaths without any speech at all.

‘Still,’ he pouts, and she understands, instantly pulling him up as he raises.

The prelude to this kiss is just as intimate as the act itself, and you look away, gazing over your shoulder back to the house, back to where Kyungsoo cooks, alone and possibly lonely, abandoned because you have not yet learned how to truly hold the sun in your hands. In truth, you are too fond, too enamored, too lost in him to remember yourself when you are with him; and you are too comfortable, too in control of your emotions to forget yourself, remembering all your flaws and the way they will inevitably be highlighted, all the light in the universe culminating in him and illuminating everything, including you.

Chanyeol swims away once he is satisfied, and you swallow the words that have threatened to rise in the back of your throat. In considering Kyungsoo, you have once again considered the reality of love - they have made you consider love, and there is something easy about the conversation you had before he arrived, so you do your best to return knowing, depressingly, she will not let you escape.

‘You both are assholes you know?’ you tease, nudging her gently.

She watches him hungrily, lips red and swollen, before she looks at you once more, distracted. ‘I meant what I said.’

‘You’re not helping,’ you groan, exasperated.

‘Only because you want to apply logic to your feelings.’ Having collected herself once more, her spine straightens, words full of authority. ‘Sometimes, feelings don’t make sense and sometimes they just are. Who are you when you aren’t thinking about how you feel?’

‘I don’t know,’ you shrug, defeated. ‘I can’t know because I don’t even understand what you’re saying. What do you mean by don’t think about how I feel?’

‘Yes, exactly!’ she says, far too enthusiastic for such a non-committal answer.

‘You know I understand even less now, you know this right?’ you murmur flatly, looking back to the water.

Gaze unfocused, your friends are a blur of action far away from you. Their colours merge and mix while you try to surrender your conscious mind in favor of feeling. Every breath you take is full of him, every inhale and exhale an ode to the way you both see and feel him without ever looking at all. The first summer you met him, everything was pure happiness. July was oppressive in the way it kept you perpetually warm, but you thought you would forget him, that the feeling would fade - this kind of craving dies with summer, the twilight of the season bringing forth a reality too harsh for summer’s fruit.

But he has not left you. Not once. Not even a little.

‘How does he make you feel?’ she tries, taking a different approach to her questioning. ‘Don’t think about why you feel it, just think about what it is.’

To you, the question is inherently frightening, the tendrils of it dripping down into the cage of your ribs and tightening, finding all the places the ache in you is the most special and the most tender. The question is frightening, but it bears an even more frightening answer - a frontier and the unexplored desert of truth.

‘Safe,’ you admit, acknowledging, horribly, that while you are safe with yourself, you are, perhaps, even more safe beside him; his aura, a temple. ‘He makes me feel safe.’

When you look at her once more, you’re certain you are something pathetic, but she simply takes hold of your hand and squeezes it, the reassurance of her touch a threat to the dam of solitude locked inside your chest.

‘Then,’ she begins, almost too soothing and too sweet for you to stand, ‘the next time you’re with him, let yourself be safe and nothing else. I think everyone wants to know who they are when they’re safe, without question.’

The problem, you think, is that you have always known who you would be if you let yourself go. The problem, you think, is that you have known and done your best to spirit it away, aware that to feel as much as you do, about everything, would render someone monstrous.

To be free and open and safe with him is to be hungry - not the absence of yearning, but the sheer, irrevocable abundance of it.

'Listen, the Baroness needs your room.'

Baekhyun corners you in the hallway long after the sun has set. Cheeks flushed and eyes glassy, the wine from dinner and the beer from the fire pit still linger in his bloodstream, giving him the sort of dazed, sleepy appearance that usually makes you soften towards him. Leaning against the wall for support, his closeness allows you to smell the smoke and ash from the bonfire on his clothes, and if he had posed any other question, said, quite possibly, anything else, you would have ruffled his hair and given him a hug, wanting to be close to him.

Instead, you rear back slightly, so bewildered you are certain you have mental whiplash.

'What?' The word comes out quickly, more an exclamation of sound than an actual word. ‘The who?’

Baekhyun shrugs, sheepish. ‘You know how Chanyeol calls his girl the Countess, Jongin calls his Duchess.’ He sways as he speaks, a sign of his drunkenness or a sign of his shyness at the question, you cannot be sure. ‘I’m trying this one out for mine.’

Humming, you nod. ‘That’s very nice. And no.’

'Come on,’ he pleads, already starting to whine. ‘You can share with someone else, but she really needs your room.'

Crossing your arms, you mirror his pose and lean against the wall. The dim light of the hallway puts shadows under his eyes, making his expression look far more forlorn than it likely is.

'Absolutely not,’ you say, sternly. Twelve hours later and you are in the same position as this morning, protesting against the unfairness of his requests. ‘I paid for that room out of my own pocket. She can't just come on this trip and freeload. Besides, didn't you bring her on this trip to get laid? What are you going to do, astral project through walls?'

'No, not really, I mean maybe but not exactly,’ he stammers, doing his best to piece his argument together. Too tipsy to mask his meaning with the smoothness of words, all he can do is suffer the truth of his emotions. ‘It’s not exactly like that but I can't make it that obvious.’

Rolling your eyes, you sigh, exasperated. 'Baekhyun, it's already obvious.'

'Don't you know there has to be finesse to this?' The barely restrained emotion in his voice dismantles the playful tone he has done his best to adopt, the intensity of his desire not something to be trifled with.

But so too are you unafraid of a challenge, your mind already made up, your heart already enclosed in your room with the lakeside view.

'What are you, seven?’ you laugh, incredulously. ‘I think she knows exactly what you're looking for out of this, it's why she's here at all.'

'It's not that obvious,’ he pouts.

'Literally, why would anyone agree to go on a vacation with a bunch of strangers and one guy they only kind of know?’ you challenge, unable to fathom any other conclusion. Even in the beginning, when Chanyeol would invite you out, your proclivity for quiet nights at home always had you leaning toward spending the evening with a book until he would mention Kyungsoo’s name. The sound of the word alone would draw you out, his name dissolving the essence of your loneliness if only for one night. ‘She's here for the same thing as you, just get it over with.'

'I don't just want to fuck her!' he exclaims in a loud whisper, both your eyes widening at his admission.

In the aftermath of his outburst, there is a looming silence in which you are uncertain what else there is to be said. It weighs down on you, on your shoulders and on your heart, the uprising in him so unlike his usually soft and sweet demeanor. He has never been one for committing, never been one for avoiding what he wants either, and so this limbo between wanting her to be his while also keeping her at arm’s length puts a throb in the center of your temple.

Squeezing your eyes closed, you dig your nails into your arms. 'I'm so confused about what's happening here.'

'I really like this girl.’ It’s the most careful Baekhyun has ever spoken, as if he is just as perplexed as you by the sheer tenacity of his emotions. Hearing himself say the words seems to put a colour in his cheeks, deepening the shade of his blush beyond alcohol, beyond the kiss of the afternoon sun. Baekhyun grows almost weary in his relief, glad that he has said it out loud, to someone. ‘I don't want to just make it about that one thing.'

Resting a hand on his shoulder, you offer him a sympathetic smile. Over the years of your friendship, you have watched him fall in love several times a day, with so many different things, his heart an atrium that endlessly nurtures romance and affection. It’s rare for him to settle on one single person, and even more rare for him to act on it.

'I respect you,’ you say slowly, pressing your thumb into the strong flesh of his arm in solidarity, ‘but I still paid money for that room, so it's not happening.'

'I'll pay you back for it,’ he tries, starting to sober beneath your perpetual refusal.

'Baekhyun -'

'Kyungsoo's room has two twin beds,’ he blurts out in a rush, all his words condensed on a single breath. Feeling yourself pale, the axis of the world seems to shift beneath your feet, your vision suddenly blurred and unfocused, dizzy, and he takes your surprised silence as volition to speak. ‘It's like a pleasant surprise! You can share with him.'

Even in the dark, you can see the mischievous glimmer in his eyes, the sparkle of an ulterior motive lurking in the depths. It would not be the first time he attempted to be your wingman, would also not be the first time he would fail at such an endeavor, and your hand slides away from his arm, falling limply at your side. You watch him, slack jawed at the horror of it all, stomach dropping all the way down to your toes.

'Baek, no.’ It is your turn to plead, amazed your voice even makes a sound with how dry your throat has become.

'Oh, come on!' Baekhyun has the audacity to laugh, slapping your arm congenitally as if his encouragement is enough to placate you. 'I'm trying to help you!'

Sarcastically, you snort. 'You're helping yourself and clinging to the hope that it would ever be about me.'

Somehow immune to your admonishment, he simply wiggles his brow salaciously. 'You know you like the idea.'

'Fucks sake, I should never have told you about this,’ you hiss, crossing your arms over your chest once more. ‘I got drunk one time and now you think you can play matchmaker.'

Baekhyun sighs, shrugging his shoulders. 'Listen, I already told her she can have your room -'

Rearing back, you blink rapidly, appalled and bewildered. 'What the fuck?'

'And Kyungsoo already agreed to letting you stay in his,’ he continues, ignoring your seething disdain as though this is simply a negotiation about where to go for breakfast.

Blood rushing away from your cheeks, running to service your overactive heart, you simply stare off into the distance, beyond Baekhyun, beyond the house altogether, to a time in history when you would not have to spend the evening sharing his air. 'I hate this.'

'I know.’ It’s his turn to rest a hand on your shoulder, his expression somehow far less sympathetic than yours had been. ‘But if this is the only way for both of us to get what we want, then someone has to put some fire under your ass.'

Shaking your head, you do not allow him to come into focus, mumbling with scathing contempt. 'Wow, I actually hate you.'

'You move at a glacial pace.’ Assuming the conversation is over, he removes his hand from your shoulder and turns away, no longer giving you any opportunity to complain. ‘At least now we all can say we tried.'

Hurriedly, you follow after him, pushing off the wall and gathering the strength to move your things from your lakeside room to Kyungsoo’s, the phantom memory of his skin on yours awakening once more.

'Why are you still talking?’ you call after him.

But he just tosses you a sly wink over his shoulder, laughing to himself as he heads down the stairs.

‘I can hear you overthinking from across the room.’

The light from the moon creeps in through the sheer curtains covering the window, Kyungoo’s voice filling the space, dancing on the rays, with a tired rasp. He’s worn himself out - laughing, yelling, drinking. Somehow, the sound is thick and heavy, sinking down and deep into places long left untouched, your body wired by the sound of him alone.

'Just go to sleep,’ he chastises, turning over in his bed.

It is only the two of you contained in this small space, twin beds side by side, close enough you can hear his breath. Pressing your head against the pillow, your mind has become divided in two, living in two places at once - this moment, and your time spent with him in the kitchen, doing its best to rationalize the difference. Cooking with him, he was all over you, hands on yours and chest against your back as if he was learning how to make a home of you. It was different then, almost too tactile to comprehend but the sun through the kitchen and living room windows somehow made the world seem wide.

His touch had a distance, a space - even if you could not see it, you could sense it, the light finding its way through, reminding you there is a line between your body and his, a line between simply touching and truly feeling.

Now, in the dark, everything, even the gap between your mattresses feels close - too intense, too raw, to real. The darkness is oppressive, like that, a brief moment in time in which you are aware of the edge of things. Resting in the center of your bed, you are aware of the edge of your limbs, the absolute limit of your body. In the room, you are aware of the edge of your bed and the way there is just enough distance between yours and his for a single person to stand. In his bed, you are aware of the edge of his lips, and the way his breath cascades over them, facing the window to kiss the moon.

And you are aware of the edge of your resolve, threatened and thinned to breaking by the way the light casts him in silver, illuminating all the parts of him you find sacred.

‘You’re wide awake too,’ you say to the ceiling, not allowing yourself to see him. ‘I guess that makes us even.’ Biting your lip, you close your eyes and sigh. ‘I’m not the only one who can’t fall asleep,’ you finish quietly.

Kyungsoo laughs, warm and rich, utterly intoxicating, no trace of irritation in his words as he speaks. ‘Okay,’ he muses. 'How about this.’

You hardly have time to knit your brow together in thought before he begins singing, the rich honey of his tone turning the room into amber. He doesn’t often do this, a talent he likes to keep to himself. Sometimes, when he is drunk, he can be convinced to be the start of a song, not the result, but even this takes an equal amount of convincing as it does bottles of beer. But you have found, over time, that the talent itself is not so secret - hidden, but not entirely forbidden.

When he is with you, somehow you always hear his music, your ear always finding and listening to his voice first. You have found there is not a single moment he is without music, the way he speaks a melody unto itself, but when the sun goes down and the others go to bed, and it is just you and just him, and the dying embers of a fire that blazed too high, he sings with you.

He sings, often, just to make you smile.

'Oh, dear god, is that supposed to be better?' you laugh, skin tingling with adrenaline and a down turned corner of your cheeks as though you are saying goodbye to a time in your life when things were safe.

Kyungsoo interrupts himself, and even though you do not see him, even though you cannot yet bring yourself to look, you know he is beaming. 'I'm not going to stop until you sing along.'

He continues singing and the joy in you sets itself free, liberated like a terror. You would be frightened if this moment were perfect, would feel the world dissolve around you, his voice a nightingale leading you to perish. You would retreat from all of this, except -

'I hate this song,’ you sigh, flopping your arms atop the mattress to signal your unrest.

'I know,’ he persists, turning in the bed to face you. The darkness does little to hide the intensity of his focus. If anything, it feels heightened, the angles of your profile burning beneath his scrutiny. ‘But you know it.'

In spite of yourself, you close your eyes and let the bliss send shivers through your veins. When you are not looking, held in the darkness of your own making, your body becomes otherworldly, something entirely outside of yourself, someone you don’t recognize. How far have you crossed? What line have you transgressed and ignored, blithely meandering into the irresistible territory of passion? It’s all over you now, your smile full of teeth and your mind empty, save for his melody and the advice of Chanyeol’s girlfriend:

Who are you when you are not trying to think through emotion?

It happens in the limbo between who you are and who you want to be, the room suddenly a cathedral devoted to your wanting. With your eyes open, your love takes a verbal form, this voice yours yet better, enhanced and empowered, and you sing because you no longer can help it. Nowhere near as confident or stable in your notes, your voice does its best to hold onto the words, finding the center of the notes almost too late before it’s time to move to another, but, strangely, you don’t find yourself blushing. It is not, you think, that the darkness has made you less inhibited, rather that with a song you hate and a smile at your lips, you simply don’t have it in you to mind.

'There it is!' he celebrates, raising his arms off the mattress and clapping.

Pressing a hand to your forehead, your shyness in the dark somehow even more amusing, you cackle. 'God, this is terrible.'

Adjusting his pillow, he hums. 'Exactly.'

The aftermath of your twin voices seems to reverberate around the room, long after you both have fallen quiet, the echo bouncing off your skin. This kind of euphoria could only be brought by him - his intelligence, his stubbornness, his perceptive intuitiveness. With only the echo and the memory sustained, your breath becomes unsteady, reminded that this place, this room, will no longer just be a place but a sanctuary and you will no longer just be you, but you will, forever more, be his.

'Sometimes,' you begin, words a whisper that you know he will still hear, 'you're funny.'

'It's just something I'm trying.' Such a simple statement, one full of humor and sarcasm but one with a texture that makes you press your tongue to the back of your teeth as he says it. He sounds tired of running - from himself, from all the great complexities he finds in the world, but not from you. 'Just something I want to try for a little while.’'

'All the time.’ Your own words are abrupt, clipped at the end of their syllables as you rush them out, needing him to hear the correction - to not miss it, not for a second. 'You're always funny, all the time.'

For a long while he considers your statement, and, in the absence of sound and conversation, the air in the room becomes thick, sluggish in your lungs. Your fingers curl into the sheets, eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling because now, if ever, it would be terribly dangerous to turn to face him. At least, you presume, he finally knows. He must know, the layers of this confession wholly befitting the hallowed energy that lingers between you.

Swallowing thickly, you let him take his time, forcing yourself to be patient. The darkness has brought everything together, the gap between your beds somehow closed, as though he is right next to you, even unreachable as he is.

'You're the only one who sees me that way,’ he says finally, and you hear the care laced in his voice, doing his best to articulate his appreciation.

You want more of him, more of this sound, more of everything he keeps tucked away where prying eyes cannot follow. You want all of him, his very existence an addiction.

'It's because I see you.' This time, you are more brave, more confident, and there is a pleasing dissonance to your voice, the old you starting to become devoured by the new.

Tonight tastes different on your tongue. Something about the moon and something about the sun, about the way you have spent too long in the light with your private luxuries shrinking ever further away, has allowed you to gather blossoms of starlight, their twinkling mysteries putting a hope in your joints that has never dared to trespass until this moment. All your life, the darkness has been a shroud and a veil, a cloister keeping you contained only with your yearning thoughts and your inadequacies, an invasion that has wormed its way within you for too long. It leaves you now, spilling outward and shimmering in the moonlight, leaving you free and empty, with room to nurture a burning flame.

Kyungsoo remains completely still, and you have the passing thought he does not move for fear of causing your retreat. 'And what do you see?' he asks softly.

Fingers pressing deep into the feather comforter, you hum. 'It depends.'

A low chuckle rumbles through his chest, the very sound a ripple of thunder in the night. 'That doesn't sound reassuring.'

Taking in a deep breath, you hold it in until your lungs hurt, smothering the doubt, the fear, and the inexplicable notion that this will fail until you can convince yourself you are indestructible.

'It depends on how long I let myself look, and depends on what you feel that day.’ Furrowing your brow, you tuck the inside of your cheek between your teeth. This should be sufficient, but he is so much more than a summation of looking, a summation time. He is something that is held without time, something you wish to behold eternally, even long after you are dust. 'It's not that you're mercurial,’ you continue, doing your best not to cringe at the clarity in your voice, ‘it's not that you're not consistent. I think I just see other things because I take my time looking.'

How would he look if you said these things to him in the daylight? What would the midday yellows and oranges reflect if he looked at you, and let himself be seen? Would you tell him your looking extends beyond admiration, beyond mere affection, and into the shuddering truth of love? To say all this in the sunlight, what would become of you?

You think it’s for the best that you will never have the answers to these questions, the night the only thing clinging tenderly to your pride, protective and secure.

'And do you like what you see?'

His voice is full of bashful apprehension, the rustling of his own sheets a symphony to accompany his tentative questioning. He shifts restlessly, hopefully, and you feel the sound with your whole body.

Licking your lips, you press onward, getting used to breaking the darkness - getting used to feeling raw and open. 'That also depends.'

'On what you see?'

Unable to help yourself, you finally turn to your side and look at him, eyes adjusting almost instantly to trace the nuanced details of his face, the moonlight painting silver shadows along his features. You’ve been lured to him, driven to see him now that he is asking to be seen, wanting your eyes on him; the very question begged you to look, and to take your time looking. Incrementally your longing grows, a swell in your chest that challenges the very depth of the lake, rushing through you until it cannot be contained.

'On whether you want me to like it,’ you clarify.

Leaning up to support his head on his hand, he looks at you and the hunger painted over his expression is enough to have your fists curling into the mattress. It stirs in you the need to be consumed, to be loved by his mouth and the palms of his hands, the greed in you not unlike an uprising. The flush in your neck spreads over your chest, your shirt constrictive and tight, suddenly no more room for you and all this impossible craving. Even still, Kyungsoo still remains calm, a king in the world of pleasure, looking at you as though you are a gift for feasting.

'I think people always want to be liked in some way, don't you think?’

A low growl lurks in the back of his voice, tone dropped down an octave to find gravel you have never heard before. All month, the nights have been uncharacteristically cool, heralding the slow death of summer as it bleeds into autumn, but you are heated. His gaze lives beneath your skin, now, a fire that refuses to burn out.

‘And,’ he carries on, as though you remain unlit, ‘I also don't think your opinion of me should depend on me. That's for you to make.'

Lips parted, mouth wanting to take him in, you mirror his pose and lean up on your arm. Slowly, you shake your head. 'That's not what I meant.'

The rasp in your voice surprises you both, and he smiles at the tension he has created, excited at the prospect of snapping it.

'Then what did you mean?' he presses, and you would rejoice at the sensuality of it, at the way the fullness of his lips shapes the words, but the appetite within him is like a hand at the center of your throat.

'I meant whether you want me to like it...' The admission drifts away, the choir of blood in your heart on fire with the weight of honesty. But you are glad for this burning, the fire that eats at you every bit his as it is yours. 'Whether my opinion matters.'

'Your opinion matters.' Kyungsoo doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t allow room for ambiguity or dishonesty. His eyes narrow, penetrative and demanding, keeping you still. 'You matter.'

Unfurling your hands, your fingers press into the sheets as though they are his shirt, his hands, his skin. The angular brutality of him has unmade the careful concealing you have spent years constructing. Hours ago, you had admitted that Kyungsoo makes you feel safe but now you are realizing the peril of letting him in - realizing you are the torment and the danger, little more than the ghosts of your desires. Now, you are starved for him, your tongue a desert aching to be drenched.

Tossing the sheets to the side, Kyungsoo moves his legs over the bed and rises to a stand, taller than you’ve ever seen him stand. Steel keeps his spine straight, shoulders rolled back in pause as though his mind is catching up with his limbs, before he crosses the small space and comes to sit on your bed. You don’t trust yourself with him this close, not anymore. Not after you have learned to love, not only him, but the very act of loving him.

Shifts closer to you, close enough he could touch all of you, not just your legs, your hips, your waist, your chest, but so too your face and your lips - close enough you can taste him on the air. With your lips parted, every breath you take is full of him, tongue wet and heavy with his flavor.

‘What are you doing?’

‘We aren’t like the others,’ he says plainly, fingers toying with the sheets beside your hands.

Your eyes drop to his hands, avoiding the power of the intimacy you find in his expression. It feeds into the room, your tongue coming to lick your lips and he takes in a shuddering breath, the very sound sending a jolt of desire between your thighs. Taking your silence as permission, he continues to speak, the very anguish of his words exhausted at the prospect of not having you.

‘We don’t…’ Taking a deep breath, he glances around the room, searching. ‘Flirt,’ he settles, though even this word does not seem to satisfy him. His gaze on you is hard, urging you to look up and see him, to meet his eyes and witness him. When you do, you’re certain you could smell his very heart, your blood suddenly full of his seductive magic. ‘At least, not like they do. I don’t make speeches and you don’t surrender, not unless you’ve been given explicit proof that it’s safe. That you’re right.’

It’s as though he looks down into you, deep enough that his gaze means to caress your ribs, your bones, wrapping himself around your spine until all your senses belong to him.

‘You see me.’ His teeth glide roughly over his bottom lip, nipping it quickly before releasing it, the blood beneath the skin rushing to make it more plump than it was before. ‘And I see you. I have never stopped seeing you. I’ve not wanted to stop seeing you, finding you, learning you since the day I met you.’

If you are the devil lurking in the dark, the hungry one with eyes of greed then he is the lust, the one who has torn through you and pulled out the language you have only just started to understand. The moment that follows is enormous, a moment in which you realize love is not only the act of feeling but the act of seeing, of being seen. He describes you as though he knows you, as though he knows the clawed and ugly parts of you that threaten to tear the fabric of your existence apart, and as though he loves even what he sees in those.

You don’t think you’ve ever been so aware of gravity, of the way language is not only a syntax but a physics, and of the way he has slowly inched closer and closer, your vision full of only him. With your eyes adjusted to the dark, you come to see yourself as a hawk, able to find yourself in his eyes, able to see yourself as he sees you - pupils dilated and not allowing you the privilege to remain invisible. In feeding on him, you feed on yourself, and so, too, you suppose does he feed on you, on himself, on the carnal savoring of your longing, united.

‘What are you saying,’ you whisper, certain he hears you, certain he hears your plea to be explicit.

‘I’m saying,’ he begins, lifting his hand to cup your chin. He holds it in his hand and pulls you close, his breath on your lips a fever, the feel of his bones pressing into yours sparking a voracious desire to be devoured, ‘if you are thinking of taking a risk, you are safe.’

His truth is a dawn breaking over your skin, spirit sanctified by the permission he grants you. Before you can even comprehend your actions you press your hands into the mattress and give yourself the momentum necessary to close the distance between your lips. The sheer force of the kiss gnaws at you, his free hand coming to wrap around your waist to pull you close. Flush against him, you think you are powerful enough to eat the moon, to eat the sun, to have him and keep him buried beneath your tongue.

He moans against your mouth, the sound of it shuddering against your chest and vibrating through you. Your own arms wind around his neck, fingers toying with the soft hair at the nape of his neck, unable to mind that this new position is awkward and difficult to sustain. You have managed much worse, have contained whole stars in the center of your chest for years and still have survived - you think you can manage the slant of your waist as he holds you against him, unforgiving.

Running his tongue along your lips, he asks for permission you are eager to grant, slipping his tongue against yours in a tentative stroke of possession. In your mouth, he is the blunt edge of a knife, cutting you deep enough that you think no other hands, no other lips will have their fill of you - no one else will have their fill and still find themselves engorged with an unconquered thirst. Sucking his bottom lip between your teeth, you nip the flesh to a swell that feels warm and plump.

He smiles against you, pulling his lip away and you smile too, his voluptuous mouth a blessing.

‘You’re wrong,’ you murmur, grazing his lips as you speak.

Insatiable, he kisses you again, stealing what he can of you until you are breathless. ‘How so?’

Moving one hand from his neck, you cup his cheek and laugh, a sound he eats with his own chuckle. ‘We are exactly like the others.’

Author’s Note v2.0: i do not own the quotes from Virginia Woolf - To The Lighthouse; Dexter, the TV show; or Richard Siken - Scheherazade

tag list: @yehet-me-up @wonderlustlucas @junkfoodwriting @taestfully @heatofmyexoheart @majci @ahgishaman @softly-savage-mint-yoongi @lamichellee

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raelly-writing · 3 years

Text

The Lord of Embers

Since I started in Limsa, the Ifrit questline is the first time Thancred and my WoL really interacts and work together, so I wanted to write something for that first impression sort of stuff.

---

The merciless midday sun bore down upon the land, and only a mild breeze stirred the dry air, barely managing to keep it from feeling too stifling.

For all his years in the region, Thancred felt grateful for the shade of the solitary tree that clung to the rocky slope. Leaning against its trunk, he kept one eye on the Amalj'aa encampment further up the ravine, while scanning the lands below, seeking for any solitary figures moving across the flat plane in his direction.

Hopefully the latest addition to their merry band wasn’t completely incapable of following the directions he’d left with the alderman.

Fishing out his water flask, Thancred took a small mouthful to wet his throat. Even for Thanalan, the heat was near unbearable. If he drew Viana’s ire for making her trekk out here for what was a task he could easily do himself, then so be it - he wanted to see for himself how capable this mercenary from Limsa was.

Not that he doubted Y’shtola’s estimation of her abilities - Hells, by his dear colleague’s strict standards, her praise had been positively glowing.

Still, while he’d had no cause for complaints for her conduct so far, his curiosity remained piqued. Even if Y’hstola hadn’t informed them that their new recruit was training with the marauders’ guild, it’d been plain to him from the moment she had stepped into the solar, just from the way she moved, that she didn’t carry that axe just for show.

Just then a dark shape moving amidst the low brush of the lands below caught his attention. Thancred straightened up a little, instantly on the alert. The figure was too small to be one of the beastmen, and there wasn’t much reason for anyone to be heading this way towards the Amalj’aa’s encampment. So, either it was Viana following his directions, or it was another spoken in league with the beastmen.

Fishing out his small spyglass from his bag, he focused onto the figure. Though the armoured figure stayed off the well-trodden path the Amalj’aa utilised, it was easy to pick out their dark red hair and the great axe on their back.

“Well, well, she did not get lost at least,” Thancred mused to himself as he folded up his spyglass. He should be easy enough to spot from her angle of approach, but if needed to, he’d leave the shade of the tree and meet her at lower ground.

But it soon enough became clear that she’d seen him, and Thancred leaned back against the tree once more to wait for her, his eyes locked on the Amalj’aa encampment and ears trained on the sounds of rocks sliding that slowly grew louder. Seven Hells, he didn’t envy her wearing that armour out in this heat. But she was quieter in her approach than he had expected.

Turning his head, Thancred offered her a welcoming smile when she crested the edge of the slope. “Ah, there you are, Viana,” he greeted her. “So good of you to come!”

Viana gave him a curt nod and joined him under the shade of the tree. Wisps of hair had escaped the bun she’d gathered it up in, but other than a mild flush to her cheeks she seemed fairly unbothered by the trek across the plains. “Apologies, didn’t mean to leave you waiting.”

“No harm done,” he replied with a shrug and held out his water flask to her but she shook her head and unhooked her own from her belt. Well, perhaps he should’ve expected a Highlander to know to be prepared for hot weather.

“Did you hear about Sister Ourcen before you left?” she asked before taking a sip from her flask.

Thancred kept his face neutral as he replied, despite the small pang of guilt. “Indeed, I’ve heard all about good Sister Ourcen. Isembard said her wounds were serious. It would seem my suspicions about the poor rose were misplaced.”

Not for the first time in the past few days, he was on the receiving end of a cool and an appraising look. But rather than saying anything, she merely gave him a silent nod and took another sip from her bottle.

Taking the measure of one's comrades was probably something of a useful skill in the mercenary field, but at the back of his mind Thancred had the distinct feeling that he came up short to whatever expectations she had of him. Oh well, he’d play the fool for a while longer still. “But, onto why I asked you to meet me out here,” he spoke casually. “False though they were, perhaps my suspicions were not entirely without merit. Whilst following Sister Ourcen near the Golden Bazaar, a band of Amalj’aa caught my eye.”

He gestured towards the encampment. “And I tracked them as far as here, but…” He slipped on a charming, apologetic smile as easily as one might put on a well-worn glove. “Well, let us just say that I would much prefer to keep my distance and remain here.” He watched her eyes narrow ever so slightly, clearly anticipating his next sentence. “This, of course, brings me to why I requested you, dear Viana. Would you be so kind as to take a look inside?”

There was a flash of something sharp in her expression, a subtle tightening of her brow and flexing of her jaw, before she exhaled in a slow and controlled manner, “As you wish.” It was the polite, well-practised tone of someone used to not making her annoyance with a request too obvious.

Disregarding the feeling that he was poking a bear with a stick, Thancred put his hand on his hip and tilted his head ever so slightly to the side. “Is aught amiss, my dear?”

While making her way past him towards the slope down into the ravine, Viana hooked her water flask back onto her belt, and loosened her axe from its holster on her back, taking the hefty weapon in one hand. “Nay,” she replied over her shoulder. “Merely trying to figure out if there’s more to you than just a pretty face and clever tongue.”

Thancred couldn’t help but chuckle. “Pretty am I?”

But she’d already begun to jump and slide her way down to the encampment below.

----

The distant sounds of soldiers groaning in pain bore down on Thancred’s shoulders as he made his way out of Camp Drybone’s inn and into the mercifully cooling evening air, with a tray of simple breads and pitcher of water in hand. He did not look forward to reporting to Raubahn how things had gone. Luckily, they had suffered minimal losses on their hasty rescue mission at the Amalj’aa’s inner sanctum.

But there were those who still drew breath who were all but walking dead.

Thancred grit his teeth, his eyes searching for the one person who had somehow escaped the primal’s influence. After a moment, he spotted Viana perched atop some crates in a solitary corner. There were a few bandages wrapped around her arms, but scrapes, singed hair and minor burns had thankfully been the worst of her injuries and from what he could see, they did not seem to hinder her much as she gave her weapon and armour a critical look-over.

“Ah, Viana, there you are!”

At the sound of his voice, she immediately looked up. Despite the attentive edge to her gaze - the look of someone expecting orders to move and continue onward, that rest could wait for later - he could tell that she was tired.

“Come now, at ease, you’ve more than earned a rest, I’d say.” He held up the pitcher and tray in his hands, a couple of simple clay mugs balanced amidst the bread rolls. “Some refreshments.”

Her body language relaxed a little, and she pushed together her gear before moving to the side, making space for him where she had been sitting.

Thancred set down the pitcher and tray by her side, before he with a long exhale sank down on the crate. It’d been a long day, both physically and emotionally.

“You alright?” Viana asked just loudly enough to be heard over the noise of the people milling about camp Drybone.

Thancred shot her an easy, disarming smile as he poured up some water. “Flattered as I am about your concern, there’s no need to fret, my dear,” he replied while offering her the mug. “Despite the rather diligent attempts of the Amalj’aa zealots, I’m quite unscathed.”

Viana sighed, the tilt of her head giving him the impression that she’d only just resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she gave him a weary, contemplating look as she accepted the mug from him. “Good to hear.”

“Well, my contributions to this mission have been sorely lacking,” he responded while helping himself to a piece of bread, “so it seemed the least I could do.” He felt the weight of her gaze on him, but before she had the chance to reply, he continued. “Speaking of, I do believe I was in the process of apologizing. I do hope you can forgive me.”

“For what? There’s nothing you did wrong.”

Thancred huffed out a laugh that sounded more tired than he would have liked. “That’s kind of you,” he replied, managing a casual, carefree tone, while he tore off a piece of bread. “But there’s no denying that I arrived too late to be of any use… to you or the abductees.” A heavy silence followed his words. Absently, he popped the chunk of bread into his mouth but barely registered the taste of it as he chewed slowly. The heaviness on his shoulders grew deeper. If only he’d been faster. Stronger. More alert.

It was never enough. He was never enough. And people always died because of it. The bread tasted ashen in his mouth as he slowly ate piece after piece.

“But you tried.”

To his surprise, the firm, guarded edge was gone from her voice.

When he looked at her, he expected it to just have been a momentary slip, but gone was the reserved professional facade. In its stead was perhaps not the relaxed demeanour he might have expected from a friend, but there was an earnest warmth to her gaze when she looked at him.

“Don’t get me wrong, it was a shite situation,” Viana continued with a brief, wry smile, “And it would’ve been the practical thing to just write us all off as an unfortunate loss and not risk any more lives.” She paused, briefly, and he caught the flicker of gratitude in her eyes. “But you mounted a rescue anyway.” She shrugged and looked back out over Camp Drybone. “If you hadn’t arrived when you did, I’d probably have survived Ifrit only to get skewered on some Amalj’aa’s spear while trying to get out of there.”

At the back of his mind, he noted how frankly she spoke of her own potential demise, with not a hint of mirth to soften her words. The reassuring words did nothing to soothe the choking sense of failure lingering in his chest. If he had been faster to mobilize a rescue force, he might have been able to reach them before they’d even been brought before Ifrit to start with. Despite his internal turmoil, Thancred mustered a disarming smile and winked at her, “Of course I did, I’d hardly leave a fair lady as yourself to her demise!”

This time, Viana did roll her eyes and sigh, but there was the hint of a smile on her lips. “Suppose I should thank you for risking a scratch to mar that face of yours,” she drawled, then gave him a side look. “Thank you, Thancred.”

The earnest, somber tone made his chest feel tight. Thancred swallowed and was a little grateful that a sudden commotion between a couple of residents of Drybone gave him an excuse to look away from her. He watched as the two men were quickly shushed and led away by a guard, before things escalated. Try as he might, his smart replies didn’t come as easily to his far too dry tongue. “Well, at any rate, I should have accompanied you to the ambush site,” he murmured.

“For what? It was a simple mission, you had your own tasks to see to and couldn’t have known there was a mole amongst the Flames.” He opened his mouth to object, but she cut him off, her voice growing rough with poorly contained bitterness that echoed what he himself felt about the situation. “And if you had been present, you would have risked ending up tempered as well and about to be mercy-killed with the rest of the soldiers.”

His stomach clenched uncomfortably at the thought all while his overactive mind was constructing a dozen what-if scenarios where he successfully turned the tide at the ambush, or slipped away unseen to swiftly return with reinforcements before the prisoners even set foot within the Amalj’aa’s stronghold.

A multitude of alternate realities where a score of good men and women were free to return home safely to their families tonight. But wish as he might, there was nothing to do but to face the harsh reality before him, once more. “You know of the unavoidable fate of those put under a primal’s thrall then,” he remarked matter of factly.

Viana made a low noise of acknowledgment. “I’ve been around long enough to have heard the tales,” she replied grimly. “In Limsa, they often speak of the Company of Heroes’ victory against the Leviathan.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her cross her arms, and he could all but picture the mournful frown on her face when she continued, “I wish I could have somehow saved the others, maybe lent them whatever power it is that kept me from falling under Ifrit’s control.”

With a quiet hum of agreement, Thancred picked at the forgotten remains of the bread in his hand, feeling the slight brush of the crumbs that fell to the ground. “Well, loathe as I am to say it, there’s naught we can do for them now, but to give them a swift, merciful end,” he said. Taking a deep, fortifying breath he pushed away those dark, churning emotions into the deepest recesses of his mind. Surprising as it were, he’d rather not risk losing this sudden favourable improvement of his standing with her. Smiling, he met her gaze. “And I dare say there’s still some reasons to rejoice this day.”

Curiosity and confusion flickered across her features as she frowned at him.

Thancred made a gesture that was the faint echo of a bow as he inclined his head, bread still clutched in his hand. “Ifrit is slain, and by your hand no less. That, my dear, is the deed of no ordinary individual.” He leaned back with a satisfied look on his face, almost relieved to slip back into the theatrics of this well-worn cover persona of his. “Not that I ever thought you were ordinary,” he finished with a dramatic wave of his hand, like he was presenting her some magnificent work of art, rather than waving about the sorry remains of a piece of bread.

Viana raised an eyebrow, the doubt clear in her eyes, and snorted. “You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

“What can I say? My fine eye for talent remains undimmed.”

“Mhm, and would that be why you didn’t just investigate that Amalj’aa encampment yourself?”

Inclining his head, he gave her the placating, pleading look of a man begging for forgiveness. “Why, I hardly had the pleasure of fighting at your side as lady Y’shtola did. You can’t fault me for wishing to see your prowess with his own two eyes, surely.”

She huffed out a short laugh. “Could have just asked me to slay a beast, rather than doing all the theatrics.”

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that, my dear?” he retorted. “Anyhow, on the topic of your splendid victory; I dare say Minfilia will be proud beyond all reckoning when she hears of your deeds.” With that, he rose up from the crate, letting the rest of the bread fall back onto the tray. He’d barely eaten a quarter of the already modest roll. “I trust you shan’t object to my bearing the tidings to her. That way I can claim to have contributed something to this mission,” he continued and dipped into an elegant bow, then busied himself with straightening his clothes. “You, meanwhile, have earned yourself a rest. Take some time to relax, and return to the Waking Sands when you are good and ready.” He glanced up at her and gave her a wink. “Just don’t take too long, will you? The realm’s problems won’t solve themselves.”

Viana was giving him a barely concealed look of exasperation, clearly waiting impatiently for him to finish talking. “Seven hells Thancred, sit down. You’ve barely eaten, nor drank anything.”

Thancred paused, a bit taken back by the firm tone of her voice that was a rather disconcerting reminder of Y’shtola when she got in a particularly stubborn mood. “As much as I would love to-” He interrupted himself when she tilted her head to the side and the crease between her brows deepened a fraction.

“Really, you’ll be of no use to Minfilia if you collapse on her doorstep due to dehydration.”

HIs posture tensed. He felt torn between the guilt that spurred him onwards and that well-honed, professional instinct to dig deeper for more information - the urge to seek out the next task and try to succeed there instead to make up for this failure fighting the curiosity that bid him to stay and see what else he could learn about her. Another, more logical side that he ignored far too often, saw the wisdom in her words. He was hungry and the back of his throat still felt dry with dust and ash. Thancred swallowed thickly, which did nothing to alleviate the sensation. A few minutes wouldn’t hurt, surely? Just long enough to fill his belly and quench his thirst. “Very well,” he finally relented with a charming smile. “It’d be rather ungentlemanly of me to leave a lady to dine on her own, after all.”

Viana huffed out that weary laugh once more, its dryness betrayed by the hint of amusement in her eyes and faint smile on her lips. “Aw Hells, maybe I made a mistake,” she drawled.

“Ah, how you wound me, my dear,” he replied as he settled back down onto the crate. “Many a fair maiden can vouch that I am a most entertaining dinner companion.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that at all.”

#Thancred Waters #Thancred #have struggled concentrating #just wanted to finish something :)#my writing

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