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🥀 Traps With Baited Jaws 🥀 Prince Paul x Reader || 14.8k words || Part III

Summary: There’s a snake in the palace garden. Blood spattered on Catherine’s shrubs. Reader learns that Ruling all of Russia comes at a gutting price- (TW so much subby!Paul smut, violence, mentions of gore/death)

Suka - Term mostly used for women, meaning ‘Bitch’

Mudak - Term used for men, it mostly means asshole, pig, basically a derogatory term for a man.

General Abramov was practically pacing long groves, in the parquet floors outside your quarters.

The doors were closed. No signs of life stirred behind them. None. Stone cold dead. Quiet as the grave.

It was a quarter past ten. The Tsarevich was due half an hour ago, to join Minister Panin in negotiations with the Turkish Ambassador. Who famously was of a grizzly temper, and didn’t like to be kept waiting.

Subsequently, the man now had a face like bottled up thunder. Sat across the table tapping his fingers on the wood. His aides were getting twitchy and pissy. Scurrying to his side to whisper more snide discontent in his ears in their mother tongue.

They offered wine and cakes. They offered vodka. They almost offered some agreeable plump-thighed courtesans. But it wouldn’t sway the bastards. Sharp brown eyes scratched glares like arrow tips across the table.

Abramov volunteered to leave the huge echoing room. Snappish. Tensions swimming down tight like a noose on the Russians. He politely said he’d hurry the Prince along. The ambassador gave him a chilly stare. Gaze packed in frost.

You do that.

Find out what’s so important to that insolent Boy Prince, to keep us waiting.

The General bowed jovially in parting. Waddled his portly way the hallways to Paul’s chambers. Sword clattering at his rounded side. He scooted along. Sweat beading under his wigged brow. Matching his red cheeks.

He’d knocked loud enough to wake the hounds of hell. And then he decided enough was enough. He jiggled the handle and it twisted.

He let himself into the private lounge. The rooms where the Prince would dine. A lounge where they’d light the fires. Masculine port reds soak heavily on the walls. Golds and creams layered daintily on the furniture, like whipped cream dolloped on a dark cake.

It goes beyond the General’s notice to spot a wriggled pair of stockings thrown over the back of the settee. Cushions squashed from the previous crush of bodies. A suspicious wet patch sullying the silk. One pair of mauve ladies heels cast across the floor.

Evidence of a salacious night the evening past.

Catherine’s silky miniature greyhounds are in here. The maid let them in. The mutts were thieving the food that hasn’t been yet cleared by the servants. Leftover essences of last nights dinner.

Blue cheese and French bread. A bowl of ripe grapes, apples and oranges. Two used glasses of wine. One knocked over, broken. Crimson blooms into the persian rug. Bleeding expensive Portuguese wine. No one will care.

The dogs are thieving bread crusts, fruit, and leftover bones. Munching on the plushy pink centres of cut open figs and gnawing ham bones. They yip and sprint away licking their spoilt greasy chops when Abramov came storming in.

The pocket doors to the bedchamber are half closed. Pushed up but not shut. The General is walking too angrily and too quickly to stop and devour the noises coming from behind those doors.

The room filled with wet sounds sneaking from the spaces where your bodies vigorously net.

“Your Majesty.” He begins as he determinedly cuts through Paul’s quarters.

When he rounds the open doors and sees what’s happening on the bed, mortification roundhouse punches him in the stomach. His glaring pink cheeks get pinker - eyes blow wide like spode saucers.

You and Paul, not at all covered the twisted cotton sheets laying limp to the mattress.

He’s laying back. And you’re riding him. Winding your hips to slam down on his cock.

Head thrown ceiling bound. Hair wild and kinked down your back. Cheeks red. Body rendered in shimmering sweat. His hands clutch the cradle of your hips. Fingertips digging dips into the meat of your skin.

He’s in the same state. Sweat licked skin. Eyes so dark they’re black tar stuck on the sight of you. Brown curls damp at the brow. Cheeks all rushed red. It spreads down his neck too.

You love when it does that. You drag your nails over the blush. Leave white lines raked through.

General Abramov is a witness to the way you grind your hips, all to make your husband buck and writhe below you.

Paul’s eyes widen just a little at being caught. Too wrapped up in the bliss of your cunt to fully care.

He almost goes to grab the damp sheets. Or move. Or rectify, or-just, something. Yell and tell him to get out, when he can manage to find his churlish tongue.

Because, fuck, your hips were just that good. He’s drunk on you.

You shove a hand flat to his sternum and make him stay down - your breasts jolt as you ride your husbands cock. You don’t care if the General sees you. Even more than he’s already undeservedly glimpsed.

The man flounders on the spot for a moment. Caught in the ragged chafing space between embarrassment and mortification.

You twist, panting and look the General right in the eyes where he stands gawping. Long coils of hair sticky and clinging on your forehead.

Narrow your bladed eyes and cut his skin with a look that’s all displeasure and amusement. Prickly as a pretty rose bush. To be adored, admired, but make no foolish mistake, your thorns will prick out blood.

It’s true what they say about you. You are all slicing knives, coated in bitchiness.

You look displeased. Yet you smile. It’s all manner of brazen. Lips way too red and wet from sucking on your husbands cock before the position you find yourselves in now. You’ve no shame.

“I’m not done with him yet.” You insist.

Ultimate authority in your tone. Purring sultry breathy words like the sex kitten you are.

“Now, fuck off Abramov. You may have him. When I’ve finished.”

Unspoken threat follows sharply after your carefully plucked but nettling words; Kindly fuck the hell off so I can cum.

He stumbles through an apology to your majesties and bolts from the room like his heels are lit on fire. Like hell hounds are snapping at his coat tails too.

You hardly hear the receding footsteps. General Abramov’s bright red face glowing as he chuffed in displeasure and made a hasty retreat. Good. Tubby old letch.

Paul chastised you.

Overlapping his cross chide is the slam of the door that rattled the air. “That mouth.” He growled in fondness.

“The mouth that you had wrapped around you not too long ago. You were saying very different things about it then.” You point out.

You shift your hips and resume your pattern. You had been edging him for nearly an hour now. He’s all blushy and ready to blow. Just a little longer.

He sits up, chest mashed to yours, and shuffled your hips further on him. Hands scooping under your ass and bringing you close as was possible.

And then he doesn’t care at all, cause he’s smothering his mouth over your breasts and your perfectly hard nipples, and they bounce to his lips where you continue to ride him to a full gallop.

Those hips of yours should be outlawed. Fucking divine.

He’s licking your nipples and letting them fall into his open, searching mouth. Moving his head to time with your thrusts on and off his cock. Plucking with lips and tongue.

You get sweet. Soft on him maybe

Decide to lean back and let his hot mouth and seeking lips wander the sweat trails on your skin.

So dirty. This prince of yours had some of the filthiest desires you’d ever known. Debauched. Debased. He’s always ready to lap you clean after a hard fucking. Beg on his knees. Let’s you choke on his cock for hours, if that’s what you so desired. Prostates himself on the altar of your dignity.

You purr moans right now as he licks at your nipples.

Your interruption was paid no heed. He’d deal with it later. Much later. After you’d finished having your wicked delightful way with him.

Your nails are scratching up the nape of his neck. Tugging the brown locks in a mean fist. You bring his head up to watch his reaction when you clench down on him.

“Seeings as you find my behaviour so objectionable. Perhaps I should stop?” You judge.

Thrusting your hips forwards in a silky sway that gets his mouth going slack. Buried between your shoulder and your neck as he hiccuped a sob.

“Would you rather I cease, my prince?” You ask.

Twist of the knife. Salt rubbed in a gaping wound. You ask so sweetly. Yet still you roll your hips.

There’s a little glaze of fiery hatred in his eyes. But he knows if he doesn’t behave he won’t get a single thing.

“Please. Don’t stop. Please. Never stop.” He begs. His voice crawls into that soft broken territory between pleading and desperation. Hands palming your dewy hips as he nudged his nose against your shoulder.

He’s weary and sweaty and rubbing himself all over you like a cat in heat. Sweat licked skin. Desperate pretty boy with his lashes draping a long flick of burnt umber onto his cheeks, as he bites his lips and begs begs begs.

You’d kept up this soft teasing for hours. Especially last night.

At dinner was when you started. Afterwards during the Opera was when you kept it going.

Sat next to him in the red and gold encrusted box and drove him wild.

You started by caressing your fingertips just up his thighs. Over his tight white breeches. Palming his cock over them. Making him close his eyes and whine like a kicked puppy.

You’re a cruel cruel mistress with it. Every time he hummed, or moved, or adjusted, shyly asking for more, with a shove of his hips forwards to your hand, you pulled away.

Diamond bracelets rattling on your wrists. The way you looked so smug. Had his teeth grinding to dust.

Desire spurned with so much love and hatred it could swallow the blazing sun whole. Loathe at first sight and all that-

You watched the stage religiously as the Aria from the Soprano tripped into a stunning high C. Pitching higher and higher as Paul’s hips squirmed to your touch. And then-the horrible awful wretched burn of-

Nothing.

Leaving him to fester in the ache of a punishment. Hand pulled away again.

He had to swallow and bite his knuckles. You could see tears shimmering in his eyes. You wondered if he’d summon that bratty tongue and give you orders soon.

Listening to him breathe unevenly, all choppy, staring at the chalky opera scenery and fucking Greek marble plinths and columns on the foggily lit stage, with his cock pressed hard and painful up against the falls of his breeches.

You fan yourself and know he’s watching your hair swirl in the breeze. Your diamonds blazing in the dull light, linked around your neck.

The way they shift up and down with your every breath. Clasping your collarbones and fuck now he’s envious of a bunch of stones for being able to kiss your skin and he cannot?- torture.

He looks to your amused face for answers. Puppy doe eyes - slipped with tears-melting all genteel at you.

You give him that look. That knowing wifely look of ‘you will not cum until my say so.’

And how he knew it.

Trying to get you to budge would be like trying to move this entire palace over three feet, merely by pushing at the brick walls with your bare hands.

You scrape your nails up his thigh to dig in. A sting. Just a little pain. He could take it.

His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Sweet rouge on his cheeks absolutely nothing compared to the real merlot blush underneath.

His jaw was tight, knowing that if he utters so much as one peep of a word, those fingers and that blissful touch of yours would flit away. Back to your own lap.

Poor baby boy prince.

He leaned over and hissed into your ear. Clutching your hand where it laid over his cock.

This opera is going on for far too fucking long.

It’s a German opera my love. It may well last for a week.

He curses in his mother tongue.

When it does finally blunder to a finish? Oh he’s ripping you out that seat and out the box door before the final note even reaches top pitch. Before the velvet curtains slam together.

He practically ran you to his rooms he moved so quickly, so recklessly. Sweaty palm clutched hard and painful on yours. He’s tugging you along and you do let him. Spilling love-drunk into the night

The pair of your shoes clipping harsh on the parquet floors. It snaps to the high moulded ceilings. Along with the smoke that flickers from the flickering candelabras. You laugh when he shoves you into the alcove by by his doors. He kisses you like he wants to win you over.

Again. You let him. You let him devour your mouth like a sloppy teen with a fat clumsy tongue whose never even kissed a girl before.

You grab his cravat. Fist the tied cotton in your nails. Tumbling backwards on horny limbs through the doors to your chambers. Entwined.

Lips joined and roving over hungry plump mouths, passion bruised, burned alive as you bumbled your way, tangled legs, knocking knees, and into his bedchamber.

Your arm hooked around his neck. His took fists of your skirts and hauled you closer. Like a spoilt child clutching at his favourite toy.

“Please, please” He began. Your poor husband was treading softly on eggshells, the slightest kiss or the tease of your body against him giving him a hard-on he couldn’t get rid of. He aches. It hurts- he wants to sob already.

You decide to grant a little clemency in the middle of your fun.

You pull him in and push him onto the settee in your rooms. Shove him back til his legs give way. Making him crash down.

He drank this behaviour in, fucking flourished on this kind of attention.

He’s sprawled out. Cheeks red. You hook your fingers into, and then throw that stupid pompous ceremonial wig on his head across the room. You yank his trouser falls down one handed.

You saw the resulting grin that followed. The dark eyes clutched with lewd lust. He wanted to admonish you for stripping him of his courtly dress. But then you won’t give him what he needs.

Being married to you has been a lesson in biting his tongue. He both loathes and loved it in equal measure. No one can treat him like this but you-

Before he can even try asking and begging again, you’re wrapping your skilful lips and talented flicking tongue around his thick cock. Swirling around the head. Sucking deep. Swallowing him down.

Choking on his girth as his hands twitch to just bury themselves deep in your perfectly arranged, silky-sweep of hair. All coils and pearl pins. Refinement. Elegance.

And yet here you are with his cock buried in your mouth til your gagging. Like some common Parisian whore with smeared rouge.

You let him just clamber to the peak and then, you’re leaving him dry, pulling back with a hum, and a satisfied pop where he slicks out your mouth. Drool stringing down your tongue to his length. Hard cock shiny with your spit.

Watch him drop his head on the puffed up and plump settee cushions with a damn near pitiful, aroused whine. Hips shifting.

“Be good." You warned. You rose up and bit his lower lip in an aggressive kiss. Voice like harsh thunder. He sits up and drinks as much of a kiss out the cup of your mouth as he dared.

You back up to a stand. Pushing up with your hands from the furniture. Paul just looked up at you from his thrown position on the settee, all sprawled crashed limbs and hope worn naked on his face.

Pulling off what of your dress you could manage on your own. Making him watch your crude undressing. Brocade silk cast to the floor.

You lock eyes with him as you strip your clothes. Shoes kicked off. Leaving you in your stays, chemise and stockings. Anything else required more elaborate undressing. And time you simply didn’t have right now.

Every scrappy second was devoted to this man before you. Stood up, peering down on the lovely sight of him

“Are you going to behave for me, my Tsarevich?” You asked him, cupping his chin between a thumb and forefinger.

He’s quick to nod. Head bobbing like a wild lunatic obeying your commands.

“Going to follow my every command?” You check. You slip your hand off his chin.

Again. A nod.

“Knees. Now.” You bark out at him.

“Yes. yes.” He couldn’t twist his clumsy tongue around the words fast enough. He struggles off the settee and his knees crashed to ground - hard. Cock bobbing where he moved.

You take his place. Laying back. Spreading your knees wide. Pulling up your chemise until your slick pussy was exposed.

He swallowed. His pupils blew wide at the sight, enchanted. Tongue wetting his lips. Fingers itching to move.

“Lick-“

He dove into you.

Licked and sucked, nibbled, flicking skilfully against your clit and running the point of his tongue right up and down your slit.

So enthusiastic, so greedy.

You reached over and soothingly grabbed a handful of his brown hair with a sigh, rocking your hips against his mouth.

He groaned into your folds and took it.

Lolling his head forwards as you ground your clit against his nose and slicked up his chin and all over his cheeks with arousal.

“Finally putting that bossy mouth to good use, Hmm?” You moaned. Bucking into his searching mouth.

That voice that barked at his army. And often at you. Or scathed at his mother. And here he is being such a good boy with it. Like he was trying to eat you from the inside out.

He slurped at you as best he could. Hazily content to let you use his lips. Chocolate-drop eyes glassy, gazing with sheer dumbed bliss and awe up at you.

Contentment churned with gratitude, that you’re finally letting him get his mouth on this holy grail of your lush pussy. Feeding it to him.

“You getting all thoughtless my sweet?” You cooed, heat pooling in your gut at the sight of his face squished between your doughy thighs.

“Love eating me that much do you?” You murmur.

He hummed his answer into you.

“Mmmhmm.” Long and low, like hot drawling treacle, nodding, fingers bunching your skirts as you rocked against him.

The only thought behind those doe eyes, is that he desperately needs to make you cum.

Drunk on pussy. He’s making those moans. Your favourite kind. Eyes flicked back in his skull. Lost in your taste, and the sensory thrill of puffy wet lips gliding against his tongue.

Sweet submissive little noises endlessly trip out his mouth.

You can feel that low-gathering heat bunching up in your gut. He’s tonguing you into an orgasm so quickly. Sensation like fire sneaking up from your ankles up your thighs. Almost like an agony. Bliss stacking up in your bones ready to tip over.

“Mmm. Paul.” You groan all breathily. Your hand clutched hard in his hair. The other over your head and scratching nails into the settee silk.

A warning. A good kind of warning. One that meant he was pleasing you. He thrummed with bliss, neglected cock throbbing, and he’s licking harder.

Fuck, you were close. So very, very damn close. He got you there quick.

You sway your hips up and down to push against his sloppy lips. “Gonna cum. Right on your tongue. Would you like that, my darling?” You ask. Voice all high.

He nods. Furiously nods. It makes lewd wet sounds squelch out from between your thighs.

You start to pant with the way your orgasm rips through you like a devastation. It starts to uncoil and then it’s unleashed.

A natural storm that swelled and tugged and transformed. Legs shaking around his head. Knocking into his ears. Throwing your head back and crying out one long wail. Wetness of your climax seeped out of you and onto the silk of the settee seat. Smothered his chin and mouth.

“Paul. Oh, Fuuuck. Fuckkk.” You tug on the back of his hair and it must be mashing his face so deep into you, nose into your clit so that he could barely breathe-

He didn’t look the slightest bit bothered about gulping down air. Not when he was busy gulping down you.

You spilled into his mouth and he eagerly lapped you up. He finally took a breath as he rested his cheek against your thigh. Dozy grin on his dopey lips as you came back from your high.

Seeing this man shiny cheeked with your arousal. All blushy and slumped against your thigh, ye gods, it was almost as good as the incendiary sex the two of you have.

The future heir of all Russia. Slumped into you, brainless from eating you out. Will wonders never cease.

“Get me out these fucking stays Paul. And I will make you cum and cum until my legs give out.” Is your next order.

Laying back and purring at him from your resplendent sex-frazzled position.

He very obediently stands up and acquiesces instantly. Tearing your stays laces open. Stockings off and thrown over the settee back. Mouth hungrily sloppy slanted on yours.

Bed. Now. Wife.

He ripped your stays. An unfortunate casualty in the end. You couldn’t even care.

This is where it wound you both up. The morning after. You’re riding his cock and making him late to meet with the Turks.

You smirk when you think what they will ask Abramov on his return, and what his answer will be.

“Now. Be a good Prince. Lay back so I can fuck you properly.”

“This isn’t properly?” He asks with disbelief.

You reel him in and kiss him before you pull back and carelessly shove him down. The way he liked. Hand to sternum. And you shove-

He sprawled back on the mattress with a pretty grin that split his face in two. Hands sliding up your knees.

“Want me to fuck you or not?” You ask.

“God please. Please. I will throw myself on your mercy.” He begs.

“Go ahead. I don’t have much to contend with.” You warn him sharply.

Watching how he moans and drops his head back. Gasping and grasping at the sex mussed sheets. You start to swivel your hips. Figures of eight relentlessly. Cruelly.

“You’re so-“ The words evade him. He can’t decide if he wants to curse your blood or sing your praises.

“Careful. Or I won’t be generous. I’ll pull off. Leave you here to fist yourself in your own hand. Spill over your chest like an adolescent.” You sneer.

“You wouldn’t.” His lip trembles with some real horrific fear that you might leave him aching.

His fingertips seek for your legs. Clamping you onto him. Never leave. Ever.

He can’t even let you sleep in separate beds. Not even when you vex each other and snipe like fishwives over something inconsequential at court. Something you don’t see eye to eye on.

Even then, he goes off to his chamber to take a drink and calm down. Yet, come an hour later, and he’s climbing under your sheets with you. Pasting himself to your back with his face in your neck because-

His pillows smell like roses. Of course. They’re soft as anything in heaven. But what they don’t have, is the smell of your peachy perfume lingering on them. He needs that merely to drift off to sleep.

On nights like those, you tend to hate-fuck the aggression away. Take it out on each other. Bear scratches and bruises and tired half moon eyes the next morning. It’s worth it all to share that secretive dirty smile over a crowded room.

You both can’t forget that this crazy twisted path which ended up leading to love, did start in seething hatred and explosive enemy territory. You vexed him, he shoved you back. You kicked, he clawed, you scratched.

You loathed each other bitterly before you ever considered it could actually be passion, prevailing, blazing between you. Some nights you’re reminded of that fact and in the morning neither of you can walk properly. There’s bliss in it you could never give up. Not for all of Russia.

You run your fingers down his chest. Dig your nails in just a little. Press your fingertips over his taut nipples to get a whiny reaction. You smile when it comes.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You slide back down on him so he can feel how wet you’re getting.

“Your cock feels too good, my Prince.” You slam on him again and let him feel how you crush your walls in a tight squeeze on him. Choking his thick fat cock. Pleasure and pain in equal portions.

He’s laying back. All lip bites, blushy cheeks and stumbly moans. Unable to tear his shining eyes off you.

You give him so little all night, and took and took, and then you heap everything back upon him. Like now; riding him so fast you knew he wouldn’t be able to resist it for long.

You were slamming yourself to his hips and grinding right up against his soaked thatch of curls at the base of his cock. It had him close to tears. Your clit is almost numb with how much sensation you’re grinding out of him.

The wet slapping-slick sounds of your cunt sheathed tight around him echo obscenely in this bed. Crude as hell and so loud. It’s making him shiver to hear it.

You’re so wet he can feel you slurping against his body. Mess dribbled down to the inside of his own thighs.

“My love. Oh my- love my-your cunt is incredible. I can’t do it. I can’t hold off. I- hmmm.“ He blabbered. Pitchy. He can’t even round off his jagged little words. Throat corded and tense and veins wriggle and push up under his skin with the strained effort.

His body is jolting from how hard you’re riding him. You can feel him coiling tighter and tighter under you. His belly tenses. He’s thrusting his hips up to meet you. It batters that spot rooted far inside that makes your whole belly flutter.

You moan with pleasure and he’s eating it all up.

You adore the way the bed is slamming hard, knocking into the wall from the roll and knock of your hips.

“Better break this damn bed frame putting a baby in me.” You order. Dig your nails into his ribs again.

“Going to fill me up, Tsarevich? Hmm? Leave me dripping?” You enquire. Sultrily cooing the words at him. Liquid sex skated on your voice.

That did it.

His nails bite into your legs and he starts to chuff breaths like he simply can’t believe you. Can’t wrap his mind around your indecipherable form. Eyes wide and dazed. You catch them for barely a second before they flip back in his head.

You wreck him. You drive him to ruin. And he offers himself up to you for more. Push him right to the brink of abyss and snatch him back. You’d always snatch him back. He was yours to do so with.

You feel his cock pulse hard inside you. Spurting and blooming that delicious push of warmth low in your belly.

He whines when you won’t stop winding your hips in big wide circles to get every pulse of pleasure out of him. Capture every drop.

He cries for mercy. Throat bared as his head is all the way back to the sweaty mattress.

You eventually decide to give it. But not before succumbing to your pleasure. Throwing your head back and riding hard hard hard. Moaning for anyone to hear and you didn’t care who did.

Then you’re drenching-gushing in his lap when you cum. Gummy walls rippling down on him in a fluttering series of squeezes that make his brain wipe blank.

His hands are sweaty clamps on your waist as he watches in awe. Cup of his sweet pink mouth gaping. Oversensitivity brushing against his cock but, lord, this view of you he gets to have is entirely worth it.

You float down from your high. Sticky skin pasted to his where you flop into his chest. Thighs shivering with the strain. Feeling the warmth of his soft cock inside you. Messy where your bodies meet.

You indulged him in a kiss as he rakes his hands through the sweat dampened hair at the nape of your neck.

“So good for me. Always so good.” You pant against his lips. Biting his lower lip with a tigers proud smile. Heart clashing terrifying beats against the trap of your ribs. Same as his.

He’s quiet. Just gazes at you. Equally terrified and utterly beguiled by the fierceness of this hold you have over him. He doesn’t know what he’d do without you. Every day in this court he treads a knifes edge that something will take you away. Something he can’t stop. Something he’s powerless against.

Then what will become of him-

Bliss is now furring up his tongue and stilling his head. All you can hear is the aggressive ram of your hearts as you lay atop him.

Dipping your fingers into his collarbone. Dragging them in patterns that smear his sweat over his torso. Down his slight pudge of a belly. The soft scratch of his happy trail. Up over every bump of his ribs.

You roll on your side and hiss when you shift up and off his cock. Almost sore from the rough ride you gave but you don’t divulge that. That would be admitting weakness and there’s no soft spots you can expose, not in the rough hyde of your ‘supposed’ scaly dragon skin.

Slick-creamy spend of him spills down your thighs. A ring of it left at the base of his cock. Shining wetly on the thatch of his dark pubes.

You smile with sight of it as you roll on your side and cuddle up close to him. Leg thrown over his hip. Hand a reliable weight resting on his sternum.

Wedding ring shining a bright snatching gold and glimmer of diamonds. Sweat wriggled down your chest and over your nipples and he’s hungry to stick them in his mouth again.

He skates his hands up your leg. Looking at you with a weepy and dazed expression.

You watch him a second. Before shuffling naked to sit up. You reach over and press your thumb into the space between his brows. As if you can rub the creasing frown away.

“Why the face my love?” You ask.

Because of course you eternally have your fingers hovering on the pulses of his every mood and want. The vital string of him deep inside you loved to toy with? You know it better than anyone ever has. It’s infuriating. Yet somehow incredible.

You can feel when something isn’t right. It’s eerie but you just can. Can judge what’s up with one flick of your eyes across his expression.

To you, he’s like those long daunting books you devour in the library. You trawl your diamond tip eyes over every secret line of him, and can easily read when something isn’t right.

Hysteria slams into his chest. Mangles his still throbbing heart that doesn’t, that can’t, calm down. He drapes his hand over yours on his ribs. Turns to meet your eyes.

He loves you. Proper honest to god, biblical, soul-deforming, aching perfect love.

And that frightens the hell out of him.

And he’s not just stumbling to this realisation because you’ve pushed him around into submission, and ridden his cock like an absolute champion. Well, not entirely-

You tilt your head and await his response. So many things unsaid sink into the plush bed of his tongue;

He’s so thankful his conniving draconic mother brought you here. Summoned you from Rostov to entertain him and get him off her back.

He’s so happy for every sneer you give him. Every shared look that sent shivers, cast over a ballroom swimming in good golden candlelight and the other half falling into spots of shadow.

He’s so soothed when he comes back from another argument, locking antlers with his mother, and you’re there in his quarters.

In your exotic plum silk dressing gown, hair down, soft, no angles present, pouring him wine and pulling him in for a plump kiss to chase the sour-sharp words off his tongue.

He doesn’t know how to speak kindly or softly. He’s been raised in the opposite of all those things. In every manner. By the same token, so have you. You’re perfectly matched in that regard. Tongues like sandpaper. Bred with barbs left on your dark souls.

Is there a hole where our hearts are do you reckon.

Yes my love. Black and terrible deep ones.

And it couldn’t be more right.

He leans over and softly lets his lips spill onto yours, and kisses you. Because these feelings just burst out of him, and he needs somewhere to direct them. He cups your face and won’t stop drinking in your lips like he needs them merely to survive.

You smile when he lingers so long kissing you like he’s still aroused. Lips wet and tasting faintly of you. Pushing and taking. When you pull back, your lips are spit wet.

“Aren’t you now terribly late to go and meet this ambassador?” You enquire in a soft voice still laced in giddiness from his kiss. Fingers still splayed on his sweaty skin.

He shakes his head at you with a trace of a flirty smile. “Good thing I don’t entirely care for the Turks.”

“You’re welcome, my liege.” You grin. Looking like a honey eyed vision. Like that sly fox in old fables.

It suits you. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

A tea party. Another bloody insipid tea party.

All you seem to do is take tea, or lunch, put on dresses, or a strand of pearls or a diamond clasp. Plan yet another tea party, and lay in wait to hear the latest snippets of gossip. It does grow into tedium, you’ll admit.

But then, that’s what the ladies of the court love to do.

They do remarkably little else.

Aside from fucking, reproducing, and bitching. But, silver lining. With these parties, atleast there’s cake.

Paul remarks that those silly affluent ladies don’t have the brains to do anything else. They do as they’ve always done; as they were taught and raised by their own ridiculous mothers.

Prance daintily around with their fluffy little lapdogs, their silk dresses and their powdered wigs, they wag their tongues like it’s a sport. And their usefulness really does end there.

You sit in Catherine’s spacious rooms. The ones she entertains in. The walls are slaked in deep rich paints. Mossy greens and flower vines twining in opulent golds with jewel coloured petals. Dazzling Prussian blue velvet swallows the light on the furnishings. Dark like her wicked taste in all things.

You’ve got one of her little Italian greyhounds cushioned in your lap. Malvolio. The naughty tempered grey one. He sits there chuffing as you scratch behind his ears.

You watch the Empress cackling with mirth as she points out the window beside Lady Orlova, showing off the pair of peacocks in her gardens that drift through, pecking at the lawn. Feathers skirting fluffy behind their steps like a brides train.

They were a gift from the Emperor of the Mughal Empire. All the way from the Agra Fort.

You’re sat on the rococo settee with Milena. She wore a dress the colour of vivid lemongrass, with a gold and emerald necklace ringing her throat. You saw to her having a good maid - at last. And access to as many jewels and silks as you did. She smelled like rich vanilla soap and damask roses.

You wore your mulberry purple silk dress. Rubies set in squares and icy silver cling to your neck, and drape from your lobes. A single teardrop of a pearl dangles off the necklace. To sit at your clavicle.

Both dressed in your court finery. Heeled feet propped on the low table being very unladylike as you dipped into Earl Grey tea - her into the wine - and scoffed down tiny, pretentious pink cakes. Slathered in too much sugar and fondant icing.

“I cannot believe it is expected of us to do this twice a week.” She griped.

“Here, here.” You mope in agreement.

“That’s cause not a single one of them, save for our glorious Empress, has ever read or touched a fucking book.” Milena explained as she shoved a much too big cake into her mouth.

“Probably wouldn’t know how to open one without instruction.” You jape.

It made her smile around her mouthful. She vulgarly sucked her fingers clean.

“You know, I heard that in Europe, There is a popular movement. It is being called the enlightenment. People meet in coffee houses and read journals and pamphlets. An exchange of ideas and liberation.”

At that precise moment your attention is called across the room to where the Ladies flock like hens to one noble who was proudly showing off how the new snuff box she’d been gifted, had been painted with a miniature of her spaniel. And isn’t that stunningly clever. Have you ever seen anything so ingenious? I declare not.

The Patriarch Archbishop, stood and clapped his hands in wondered awe at the spectacle. How wonderfully Marvellous.

“And then the there’s us-“ You comment drily as you watch the exchange with barely veiled horror.

“Stuck in the dark ages.” Milena agrees.

“Be careful lest we be burned at the stake for that kind of talk.”

Lady Petrova scurried past you, talking shrilly a mile a minute, about her new lilac lace parasol. How wonderful the fabric was. And how she simply must demonstrate it’s perfection right away.

She puffs up her parasol like she’s putting on a show and gets a dainty round of applause. Noises of awe from her companions.

“Fuck this. Have you a pistol?” You murmur in agony.

Milena snorts.

“If I’d have been lucky enough to be carrying right now. Half the idiots in this room would have some extra ventilation in their heads courtesy of me.”

“Start with the Patriarch.” You consider. Smiling all saccharine at the man. He was a horrible old letch. Pious to the most harsh degree.

He unnerved you with his constant toadying towards you and Catherine. When you’ve heard him snipe from corners when her back was turned how German turncoats and sexually liberated women like her, should be horsewhipped.

It makes you wonder at the manner of this frivolous court life. If everyone slaps on a smile that’s purely fake to glide through halls. Then, crept in the dark gaps of bright candlelight the smiles drop and true natures come sneaking free. This place felt like a writhing-seething snake pit on the best of days.

Milena tilts her head at you. “Patriarch is a solid choice.”

His nature was entirely contrived in front of Catherine and Paul. You and Milena received scathing comments from him in moments when no one could overhear. As far as he was concerned she was a sapphic hell-spawn who should rot in hell. He saw you as the royal bitch of a broodmare only fit for breeding. At least you were a true Russian though.

By gods grace that was the one thing he did like about you.

Both your moods plummet to the earths core when he decided to wander your way away from the courtesans and their lace umbrellas and fucking dog painted snuff boxes.

“Tsarevna. You do look well.” He rubs his slimy hands together. Horrible glint in dulled eyes the colour of grey marble stone like the cold walls of church he loves. His voice is chalk dry and grating. A sack full of broken metal that scraped against your ears.

“Patriarch.” You greet. Your smile is stiff.

“Still not with child I see? Are there problems upon the royal marital bed? As a holy leader of this country, I take great interest in the state of our leaders familial prospects.” He raised one thinning brow. Your jaw clamps.

Keep fucking walking. You think.

“Though I hear you’ve no problems with opening your legs for our dear royal Prince. Like a true Voronsky.” He insults with a beam traced on his lips.

Milena turns to you with a sneer. “Bet you wish I had that pistol now.” She starts darkly under her breath.

“Tell your little spies to keep their beaky noses out of my business or my bedchamber. I’m a terrific shot. I’d hate for anything to come to harm. They may get their pretty feathers bloody.” You peck out. Stroking your lapdog.

Milena chuckles. Popping another cake in her mouth. Cackling as she enjoyed it. Not taking any care to be ladylike.

“Lady Dimitrova.” He hissed with his teeth clenching. Milena’s hand curls into a fist.

She narrows her eyes. Smiles sickly. Daydreaming about putting a bullet right through his greasy balding head. It was her soothing lullaby most nights.

“Heavenly Father.” She cooed all flirting.

“Still delighting in your depraved inverted sins?”

“On a daily basis.” She sucks her fingers clean of icing with a too loud suck. Sucking the end of her middle finger, and plainly aiming it right at him.

“Still on your knees praying yourself black and blue? More fool you-“ She sniffs derisively. Running her tongue inside her lower lip. Entirely unbothered.

You can see him bristling to say something else. Jaw clenched. You cut him off.

“I would be very cautious of saying too much more, Patriarch. One day I will be mother to the next heir of Russia. I will have sway in this court and this country will belong to my children, and my husband before that.” You make plain.

He folds his hands behind his black cassock back. Cross swaying heavy and obscene weighty gold on his chest.

“Insult me or my Lady in Waiting any further in any manner, and I will happen to discover that you have vehemently voiced ill-will against the future King of Queen of Russia. Repeatedly. I think that may even border on treason.” You state easily.

A very real fear and loathing is woven into his eyes. Everyone knows what happened to Svenska when she dared threaten you at a soirée one night.

Paul’s devotion to you was laced in ferocity and any words levelled against his Tsarevna would answer harshly to the crime. Pay in blood and pain.

“And you. You pathetic little worm. Will be ground into the mud and left for the birds to rip to pieces. I’ll make sure of it.” You sip your tea. Diamond eyes sharp over the rim of the dainty rose pattern china. Set the cup back into the saucer.

“Such a vision of beauty.” He bows and takes his leave. Eyes throwing pools of acidic scathing at the pair of you.

He stalks away and into the folds of court to stir discontent with the Lords. Black cassock flapping around his feet as he takes his leave.

“I love when you do that.” She chuckles. “Put the dogs back in their place.”

Malvolio shakes his head in your lap. As if he knew he was being discussed. Settles his paws on your knees.

“Soundly whipping them into shape.” You smirk. You pucker a kiss at the Patriarch as he daggers a scratchy glare at you through the crowds.

“Besides. I far prefer being sat here with you. My scary Serbian bitch.”

She’s amused at that. “Mongrel remember. Not an ounce of pedigree blood in this unholy body. Unlike you, you pampered bitch.” She sneers.

You laugh together and she shoves a cake at you. “Come on. You’ll need energy to be a broodmare ready for the stud to hump later on.”

“You’re such a cunt.” You speak through a laugh at her. “And I wouldn’t have you any other way as my Lady in Waiting.” You pat her leg with your hand.

“Stop flirting or I’ll do something to you that will make the Patriatch blush in anger.” She threatens.

“I don’t think it would be wise for us to cross the boundaries between friends to lovers.” You decide with teasing.

She tilts her head. Scans you up and down. “You haven’t seen what I can do with my tongue.” She curls it out at you in a scooping motion.

“Must I have you hosed down? Mongrel?” You ask. Eating the cake she gave you.

You pluck the cherry off the top and bite it- plump sweet red clamped between your teeth. She looks salacious.

“Always ready to do my depraved things to anyone- Oh. For fucks sake.” Milena began. Turning away from you and hissing.

You tittered laughter. She cursed under her breath as Svenska came trotting into the room with her train of even more vapid ladies in tow. Even the stupid tottering click of her heels was somehow annoying.

All ridiculous brushed wigs, and low cut dresses. Svenska with her cleavage bulging out of her dark fern silk dress. A little yippy snuffling dog on a lead. With a flat face, lolling tongue, and bulging eyes. Ugly fat beast of a thing.

“I’m astounded she managed to find the door without help.” Milena bit out.

Her and Svenska famously did not get along. They grated like powder versus lit fuse.

Svenska was all highly-inbred noble stock and entirely no brain.

As the saying goes, if it was raining brains, that woman wouldn’t even get wet.

Milena was the polar opposite. Too many brains for her own good, and plenty more besides. She had no noble silver spoon childhood. Her father was a penniless Baron and her mother was a scullery maid. Quite the scandal to blossom from out under.

She rose, through hard plucky grit and bootstrap enthusiasm, and took her years to rise to become a Lady of Catherine’s court. She earned her place here and married only for gain, and you respected her greatly for it.

Svenska had her cushy comforts slung at her, like everything else in her spoilt life.

You were the same. Most of your life had been handed to you on a plate. You’d been trained for this occupation of marriage. Look at where you’re sitting now because of it.

Lady Svenska and her harpies always seemed determined to needle your friend for the manner of her upbringing. Spiky with the fact she wasn’t raised in these noble circles, like them.

Milena had known strife and penury. Overall you think that makes her far more interesting. She wasn’t bred for court life from the very second of her conception.

Now, Svenska’s distaste, it appears, had spilled on over to you, by mere association.

Good.

The woman was a venomous snake, who had tried on many occasions to slip into Paul’s bed and earn title as his Mistress. Even after you were married.

She was always trying to dig her claws in. Angling herself for a dance. Draping her hand over his elbow if she can snatch him alone, at a ball or one of his mothers soirée’s. Always hovering herself on the edge of his notice.

Your scratchy eyes never missed a thing. You kept them on her. You had your sources around this palace. Keeping you informed.

She makes a beeline for you. Expression dipped in venom. She had to come and bid her greetings to you. You were of rank. It was expected.

“Svenska.” You awarded. You didn’t really wish to engage any more than was necessary.

“Harpies.” Milena greets to them with no hint of shame.

“You should really have that mongrel companion of yours muzzled, Tsarevna.” Svenska trilled all chirpy. Smiling. Hateful bite in her words.

You can feel the air crack with tension. Milena bristles with it. Snarl kept at bay in her throat.

“I tried. But she bit the handler quite viciously.” You explained. Still stroking Malvolio. Self assured smile on your lips. Stroke and smile like a fresh faced daisy.

Milena sipped her wine and thereafter bared her teeth in a grin.

“Man needed his wounds sewn shut.” She widened her eyes. Unflinching eye contact with Svenska.

“Best not get too close. She may be rabid. I haven’t yet had her checked.” You warned. Stroking the dogs silky ears like you hadn’t a care.

“Good day Svenska. Have some cake.” You stretch her a wide smile like heaven was too perfect for you. Angels feathers and clouds.

She bobs a curtsey and departs with a sickly smile that snaps off her face when she turns away at her rude dismissal.

She side eyes Milena who winds her up, making a growling noise and then barked and flashed her teeth.

Makes the woman scurry away all the faster in her dainty heels.

You smile together and clink your glasses. Tipping the rim of your saucer to her wine glass.

“Stuck up prig.” Your friend scoffs into her wine. Watching her back as she departed. Ridiculous pampered dog wadding after her.

“Maybe she wears her hair too tight. Could that be why she’s so unpleasant?” You ponder.

Milena snorts her brusque laughter. “Not like it’s strangling a brain. She doesn’t have one. Maybe it’s the wig? Too heavy perhaps?”

“Ladies.” Comes a harsh hyena bark from in front of you.

It’s very telling that Malvolio yips a whine and zips submissively off your lap at Catherine’s looming appearance.

“Empress.” You both nod at her with due politesse.

“Behaving yourselves I should hope?” She lowers her sharp sherry hawk eyes to burn into your faces. Eye contact always so shrewd.

Milena bites her tongue. Tries to hold back a face of amusement.

“Not even remotely.” Comes your answer.

Catherine gives a dry chuckle. “Would you give us a moment, Lady Dimitrova?”

“Of course, Empress.”

Catherine hefts her saffron orange skirts up. Milena vacates her seat for the Empress to take her place.

“I do so hate to be bossy. But I needed to see you.” She insisted.

Catherine loved being bossy. That was such a blatant mistruth. She craved it.

“You and I fully appreciate, compromise is not your strong suit. It’s not even in your repertoire.”

“Not yours apparently. If the spoiled Turkish ambassador meeting I’ve heard about, is anything to go by.”

She needles you with a look.

You allow yourself the small sneak of a smile.

“May I give you one small piece of advice, petal.” She says with a thinning smile.

“Of course, Empress.”

“All these air-headed idiots may vex you terribly. But it’s good to keep them in agreement. Nettling as they all are.”

“Was my displeasure so evident?” You ask.

Not entirely sorry that it was showing so much. Your face was stale and sour with it. Putting up with the frippery and frivolity.

She rolls those dark-sherry eyes over to you. Tucks her cold bony fingers into yours. Rubies and amber rings on her fingers. Her perfume slides off her skin and slinks across to you. Red pomegranates and lilies. Spicy and vibrant as she is. Harbinger of blood. And how ironic it is that she’s scented won’t the flower that reminds most of death.

She beckons the servant over with two crooked fingers and cradles a glass of wine. Scarlet red.

“It pains me to even say it, but a woman in power needs to occasionally rely on the absolute idiocy that envelopes her at every turn.”

She takes a moment and scans around the room as she sips her wine. Fuck the tea.

“You scare them.” She tells you as she looks across the crowds. Squeezing your hand like she’s proud.

“Because I would rather hunt, ride and shoot. Then sit here and sip tea. To be alongside Paul when he attends his meetings. Not shut out and expected to embroider. To possess a sharp mind and budding intellect. Not some empty headed noble who gets excited over an umbrella in fucking November.” You smile through clenched teeth.

You bite the words out so hard it stings your tongue. You consider that perhaps you opened up too much.

“Exactly my darling.” She answers.

“I should be less- terrifying?” You ask. Really you don’t know any other way to be.

“Heavens, no.” She winks.

“Goddamn right they should be scared of you. You’re the Tsarevna. You live in the shade of my terrible image. That thought should strike fear unto anyone.” She sneers. The jewellery on her wrist rattles where she squeezes your hand harder like a great wrapping boa.

“To be in power in Russia. You must be more than a woman. More than your meagre bones. More, even, than a man. You must be like a God.”

You smirk. “Like a god? Busy elsewhere?”

It makes her laugh. It’s a bright musical sound that doesn’t happen often.

“It’s hard fucking work believe me. And a task few would envy. But you must tread a fine line. With Paul. With the nobles. Don’t be a wet blanket by any stretch. But there are times when you must proceed more softly than I know you’re probably used too.”

You nod. You do see sense in that. Doesn’t mean you agree with it.

“I would be by his side for whatever he wishes. I think he’s perpetually scared I will usurp his rule.“ You inform her.

“I did set a precedence for that.” She beams at you.

“A dangerous one. Sometimes the way he looks at me, like he’s worried I will one day follow in your footsteps. I think I scare him in that way when I’m too forthright.”

“Good. Keep the boy on his toes.” She urges with a sickly grin. “It’s not in my nature to take it easy on any man.”

She pats your knee and rose to her feet. A great waterfall of saffron silk rustling as she stood. The slash of her tulip red lips. She towers tall over you.

“Any word on my heir of yet?”

The warmth is sucked from the sun. Your belly shrivels. She’s good at that. Making you shrink down to about two inches tall.

She can wither anyone to crumpled cinders with those eyes and her words. She roots out any spec of shame and dissects it in front of you.

“No word yet. But you’ll be the first to hear if anything changes.” You insist with as much geniality as you can stroke on your tongue. You hold your jaw firm and set you eyes like the hard diamond tips they can be.

She leans down and kisses your brow.

She lingers with an afterthought on her lips. “By the way. I must warn you, keep your guards close-by. I will be adding three more to your usual watch. There’s been rebellions against us in Omsk. Last week two men tried to break into the palace gardens. Be watchful of your pretty back, my dear.” She urges. Nudges a finger under your chin.

And in a great sweep of silk she’s out the room. Guards on her heel. Flying away back to her cutthroat rule. You’re left sat there with a daunting hole burning it’s way into you gut. Price for being royalty already chalked on your head. Being chided slyly for the fact you weren’t with child yet.

You take a deep breath. It’s not deep enough - it feels too shallow. Milena thumps down back next to you on the settee. Shoehorns a glass of your favourite wine into your slack hand.

“I had a feeling this would be needed after the Dragons visit.”

“My guard watch has been doubled.” You told her. Lifting the glass for a sip.

The taste of it soured on your tongue. Too sharp and spiky. It was so sour, you could barely stand to swallow it down. Your stomach roiled at the taste. Throat left chalky.

Milena’s face fell at your news. “Is that dangerous?”

“Looks as if Catherine has been busy of late.” You suggest flatly. Stirring up her usual amount of rebellions and distaste.

And then you wince. “That wine tasted disgusting. What vintage was that?” You ask in vehemence. The cloy of it sat on your tongue making you feel ill.

She frowned at you. “The Portuguese one you love.”

You handed the glass back.

“Come on. Let’s go have a ride or shoot something. I grow weary of tedium.” You insist. Clutching your skirts and rising gruffly to a stand.

Paul was sat leisurely at his escritoire writing his letters. Leafing through sheets and sheets of bureaucracy inked on thick white cloth like paper.

Unawares as to the storm happening in other parts of the palace.

His eyes were store from trying to make out the squiggled hand. Head swimming from the amount of political jargon swirling around his head. Ink stains on his hands. Cramped fingers.

You’d left not half an hour ago. All bathed and powdered. Rouged up and sent off all pretty, smelling of peaches and cashmere wood soap, wrapped in your cream silk dress and a cloak for a walk around the frigid Autumnal gardens with your maid.

You looked so pretty in silks with diamonds shimmering in your ears. It seemed a strange parallel that not half an hour previous, he had you on all fours on his bed ramming his cock into you, until you sobbed.

It was almost unbelievable to equate the two images of you in his mind.

He gets you as the pretty regal Tsarvena in diamonds, in court being perfectly divine by his side. All elegance. Then in private, he gets you as the most debased woman. When you look at him as you’re laying there naked on the bed. Eyes glazed. Beckoning him over with two curled fingers for more-

You glided over to where he was sat writing. Back to the room. You sling yourself around him and kissed the back of his still sweaty neck. Told him you liked it when he was all rumpled and undone. No buttons polished. Shirt untucked. You ran your gloved hand down his chest.

You then squealed as he flipped around and tugged you across his lap on his desk chair. Hands up your waist as he kissed you deep.

Your maid knocked at the door. Too timid to come in. She’d been burned by that before.

He pulled back and rubbed his nose briefly into yours. Laying it alongside yours. Examining those scratchy-diamonds of your eyes he adores. Extending the touch for as long as he could.

Then he hauled you back upright on your feet. Told you to get out of his way and don’t be troublesome. Swatted your ass and watched you smile with it. Lip bite.

“I’m always troublesome.” You insist as you stand near. His kiss worn pressing on your lips.

“Enjoy your promenade. Tsarevna.”

It never dawned on him until later, how those could be the last words he said to you.

You kissed him once more. Softly. White lace gloved hands slipping off him. Flowers and sweet blossoms coating your palms. He watched you slip out the doors. Swathe of pretty silk slipping through his fingers.

Usually it was a walk you reserved for Milena, your lady in waiting. But she was currently in bed hungover and she was too stubborn and grizzly to be contended with this morning.

She’d sent you a note with two short words scrawled on it telling you her answer.

Scurrilous was a word that seemed entirely crafted for your Lady Dimitrova.

He turned to his papers and the morning sun slanted over his desk. Displaying the lateness of the hour. Burning over the walnut wood as he worked. The maid brought him tea. In his working daze, it grew cold.

Time crawled on until something far greater came to disturb.

He could hear her coming. He could hear his mother a mile away. Always.

The tell tale stab of her heels on the wooden floors looming closer. Closing in like a predator on hunt with blood in her nose. Stab-stab-stab. Slaps to listen to her footfalls. Summed her up perfectly.

What wasn’t usual was the drum beat of many many soldiers walking alongside her. He twisted his head to the doors.

She didn’t stand on ceremony. She threw open the doors when she got to them. They slammed the walls. Rattled the floors. Shook the doorcase. Rage filled the room and it’s entirely hers- powerful and terrifying like the way lightning takes up the sky.

The air she feeds into this once calm space feels damned.

He stood from his desk at such an ungodly, not to mention, noisy intrusion.

Catherine’s hawk eyes are scanning his rooms. They narrow to rusty blades at him. Some way relived.

“You’re safe.” She says it like it’s a minor convenience.

“Where is the Tsarevna?” She orders to know.

The guards flanking her file into the room and fill it up. Hands poised over their guns ready to aim and fire. Faces stoic.

Paul feels his gut plummet to his toes. “Walking in the gardens. She left half an hour ago.”

Catherine’s lips purse.

“You are not to leave these rooms. Do you hear me?” She seethes.

Before turning around, and walking her terrifying rage somewhere else. Flicking her sherry coloured eyes all poison-filled, in another direction.

Two of the guards flank the doors. The others trail after her like violent shadows.

“Mother!” He snaps after her. Demanding to know what was so twisted about all that. About why he suddenly felt sheer clammy panic. Shimmering it’s nasty way along under his skin like a vile serpent. It’s gripping onto his bones and he can’t shake it loose.

“What is happening? Explain.” He snapped. His voice clapped harsh off the walls. His throat strained around his shout. Eyes ablaze.

Catherine didn’t even try and temper him. She turned and caught his eyes. Doesn’t mince her words.

“She’s in danger.”

Ice fills his blood. His heart hurts where it beats. Trembling in fear. So much fear fills his face, he looks like a shiny eyed boy again. His lower lip trembles.

“No-“ He says. His voice is a quiet bleeding wound. Born on skipped choppy breath. Not you.

“Paul. Stay. Here.” She threatens. Voice falls as hard as knife blows. She leaves blood weeping behind.

She’s just pulled out his guts out and splayed them twisted at his feet. Stomped on his heart the way one would a weed.

Paul has never wanted to disobey her more.

Your Autumnal walks did fill you with such joy.

It was yours and Milena’s time to bitch or laugh away from the always poised ears of the stifling court. Where apparently every corner and nook and cranny had both eyes and ears.

You don’t see why you need a chaperone still. You were married. And your usual guards had swapped shift when you departed the house. The new men coming into duty were General Abramov finest - so he said.

You found them passed out in the company of a naked plump whore with a ratty wig. Empty bottles strewn around the pit of their room. Clearly they didn’t care overmuch about your safety when there was vodka and fucking to be had.

You rolled your eyes. You weren’t waiting on another set of grunting shaved monkeys to ready themselves.

So fuck it. You made the executive decision.

You and Darya strode out into the dark heart of the gardens, alone.

Your maid was much sweeter than your friend. More timid wet bunny than a rabid long-toothed mongrel. She pranced gingerly along beside you, tiptoeing like a nervous baby roe deer.

She didn’t talk much and mostly hung off your words for fear of displeasing you. You never snapped at her. You weren’t that heartless. She worked thoroughly hard. She was a diamond in the coal mine of ladies maids. She was good with hair too. Worth her precious weight in gold.

“Lovely day.” You comment. Hiking up your skirts to step over a squelching patch of mud.

“Indeed it is Tsarevna.” She copies your lead.

“You don’t need to call me by my title every time, Darya. It doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue.”

“Yes, Tsarevna.”

You roll your eyes. Really, she won’t be won over.

“I hope the chef makes apple cakes tomorrow. That, or something with yellow pears. They are my favourite fruit this time of year.”

“Mine too, Tsarevna.”

“With cinnamon and brown sugar?” You add. Determined to coax more out the girl.

“Yes. Tsarevna.”

You sag your shoulders down. She wins. Milena would have told you three salacious sex stories by now. And two shreds of reliable gossip.

You stroll along and you introspectively marvel at the slowly deadening trees. You didn’t actually mind the companionable silence.

Autumn here did remind you of home. In Rostov. Your father and his love of roasting nuts over the fire embers at night. Buttery chestnuts and smoky air lacing together.

The prick of frost on your cold cheeks. The loping mist that accompanies a frigid bitch of a blue dawn morning. The way you and your sisters used to collect apples in the orchard. Rusty rosy flesh. Gather them in your apron pockets. The way you had to warm your toes by the fire before bed some nights.

You were more at home bedecked in furs, and being in horse drawn sleighs over milky frozen lakes. White as a swan feather snow.

You liked this type of cold that was creeping in. You put that down to your entirely slavic blood. Sustained on frostiness.

You like it how it is now. An array of golden toffee leaves being tidied into corners by the gardeners. Scuttling papery things being blown everywhere. Tumbling and sticking across the wet grass. You idly wondered in the back of your head why the guards weren’t at their posts.

That thought didn’t sink into the proper full dawning place it should have.

You skimmed your eyes along the clipped hedges. The way the frost knifed at the copper beach groves was stunning. Spiderwebs it’s clawing ice across each and every one of the leaves. The air is ungovernably sharp with cold. Blue silk drape of a sky with a searing mustard sun.

Breath leaves your mouth as a silver wisp. Each drag inhale burns the walls of your throat. You watch birds dip and swoop in the sky above. Through the frost thinned branches.

You walk with your eyes turned skyward for a second. And when they come glancing back down to earth- your steps come grinding to a halt.

You fist Darya’s cloak. Getting her to come to a sharp halt. You tuck her behind you. Your hand a grating pain on her wrist where you held so tight.

There’s blood spattered on the frosty copper leaves.

You’re just coming to the clearing in the groves. There’s a fountain with a Greek statue decorating the space ahead. You know it well. Deep in the heart of this garden. The water in the mossy stone pit, is thick and glossy still with ice.

The guards lay dead, heaped beside the fountain. Slumped dark shapes of what used to be men. Throats laid open from ear to ear. Crimson ribbon cuts draped over their throats.

Darya splits the air with a scream, muffled through her hands clamped to her mouth, tears shaking from her terrified eyes. You catch on what tore that scream from out her mouth.

One of them isn’t dead yet. But the man who just ripped a knife across his throat from behind, unleashed a vivid spill of red. Like he was a boar on a hunt and not a royal guard.

Wide glassy eyes, choking splutters. That dreadful expression as his own blood fills his throat. Choking.

The men holding the knives are not of nobility. There’s two of them. They wore dirty coats and mud smeared faces. Shaggy stubbled beards, and hands and eyes that have never known finery or riches. They’re smiling as they kill.

Catherine was very well hated after all.

Darya’s screams draw too much attention. You try and silence her lest she ends up the same manner as the guard. But then her eyes flick back and she drops into your side. Dropped like a dead weight. Fainted. Perhaps that was a mercy.

Their eyes swim to you.

Without care you’re kneeling in the mud and checking she’s alright. Calling her name but she just lays there limp. You yank hair out her face. There’s mud on your hands. You don’t mean too, but it smeared across her cheeks.

Breath fell silver from your lips as you rasped her name. You refused to let panic crawl up your throat and thicken your voice.

Suddenly there’s a grubby hand fisted in the back of your neck. Cold steel - bloodied - resting at your throat. You will down your bile.

“Up. Suka.” Comes a sniggering voice from behind you. Laughter.

Charming.

You try to breathe as you rise to your feet. They pull you up fast. Shoving you backwards against the grove. Leaves and frost scratch the back of your neck.

“Pity that small one fainted. We could’ve had one each.” One says, tone pure filth. Rakes his eyes over your heaving tits. Not even fully addressing you.

They’re animals at best. Beasts that dared to crawl upright from the mud. Dirt ringed around their fingernails, blood spatters on their brown coats. Shirts yellowed with sweat. Hands red.

The way they’re both looking at you is like you’re a plate of bleeding lamb chops before a wolf.

One is lanky and still brushed with youth. Short shorn hair. He licks his lips as he looks at you. Eyes so deep they’re black.

The other one is shorter, older. Hair blonder and shaggy. Down to his shoulders. Eyes paler but no less spurned, entirely wrapped up in blood lust- pure hatred.

“I’m Russian you Mudak.” You spit out at them cursing at you thinking you won’t understand your native tongue.

The young one grabs your cloak in a fist. Clenched the fabric. Rips it off to see more you. Silk ribbons slither free and they cast your fine cloak into the mud. Get a better look at your dress and bodice.

“Look at that- fuckin beautiful.”

You blaze with a furious blush as he drags the knife tip under your diamonds pushing up so the gems grew tight around your neck. Choking a little. Choking you on your riches like the pampered bitch you are.

“The diamonds or the tits?”

“Both.” He guffawed back like a hyena.

You bristle. Caused the younger one to prick the slimy knife deeper into your throat. It burned. Grazed skin.

“Behave girlie.”

You can’t keep to silence. You can’t. Your pride is unleashing it’s jagged monsters. You’re snapping your fangs without thought.

“Fuck you.”

The knife pushes in more. You felt the scrape of it pushing at your rage slicked heartbeat.

“Keep your fucking tongue still unless you want it cut out.” The older one slithers a smile at you.

You spit at him. It lands right on his chest. Streaking down his coat.

“You’re going to regret that Suka.”

“Doubt it.” You snap.

Then he gets closer and his filthy hand grabs your chin. Hard. Squeezes your bones.

“Shame that. To leave a pretty girl without a tongue. It’s all you must be good for, Suka.”

You glare. Eyes threaded with steel. Your backbone rigid.

“If you’re going to keep calling me Suka, you better put start putting royal before it, scum.”

The young one fists his hand in the back of your hair and forces you to arch your neck. It burns. His foul breath washes over your face. His lips are chapped. His teeth are twisted black and yellow.

“Who might you be then?” He wonders aloud.

“Too smartly dressed for a maid.” The older one proposes.

“Maybe she’s a Whore. Opens her legs and keeps her cunt wide open for the nobles or the Prince.”

“What whore would have a maid?” The young one asks.

A beat of silence. You swallow

“The Tsarevich’s wife would.” The older one grins. It’s deadly.

Bile fills your neck like acid.

“We’ll go and find your pretty prince when we’re done here with you.” The young one taps your cheek with his fingertip.

“Slit his stupid throat. Leave you gutted open here. Two little presents for that Empress cunt.” The young one keeps his hand in your

Then he chuckles and it’s sick. Looking down your body. “Maybe you’re already carrying the Empresses’ heir huh? That princes babe in your belly.”

He makes a face that you could only describe as coldly flippant.

“Shame.”

You barely register anything else save for the way he swings his arm back and goes to bury the blade in his hand deep in your belly. The older one watches on.

You brace for the hot mean slice. Your hand vices for his wrist. But no pain comes. It didn’t penetrate your skin.

You flick your eyes down and see the blade hasn’t even pricked beyond the whalebone of your stays. Stuck on the thick close fabric of it. It only ripped the silk and left blood that wasn’t yours.

You act so fast you can’t believe it. Your hands are shaking. Time slows to honey.

You twist his wrist hard enough to potentially break it. He screams. Too slow.

You grab the knife and tore it onto his lanky throat. Ripped it across his neck and push him away. You hear his grunts of pain that churn into wet sloppy chokes.

You’re a sight. Red spattered across your cream silk and those fat diamonds. Droplets across your face and cheeks. Dripping off your hair darkly. It’s like there’s red rose petals on your dainty lace gloves.

You sneered at the expression on his face. Eyes glassy wide and blown with disbelief. Shock. Blood sheeting down his grubby clothes as his hands scrabbled for his neck.

The older one comes for you in rage. Which makes him clumsy. He pushes you into the mud and used all his weight to try and choke you with his bare hands. Where he felled you, the knife scattered out your hand.

Greasy blonde hair falling in front of his rage flushed face. Muddy clothes and the horrid weight of rutting man like a stocky boar above you. Spittle wet on his lips.

He’s cursing your name. You’re grunting and trying everything in your gritty scrappy power to overcome.

He gets his meaty hands around your neck. You scrabble your fingernails at his dirty coat. He slaps you to keep you subdued. Cheek stinging. Mind reeling into base animal instinct.

You twist and reach for it. The knife you dropped. Your fingertips barely reach the handle. A desperate stretch. An empty slip to the frosty muddy grass.

Your world starts trickling into punchy static swirled stars. Blood pounds white and black over your eyes. Pulsing with the craving for air.

Not for long.

Where he pushed you and climbed on top of you, your skirts were up around your knees. And with every painful pulse of your brain. You reach for the slither of a dagger you keep in your garter.

You get your slippy fingers around it. They drift off. Blood smeared over your thighs and your breath is starting to wane. Trickling out dry past your lips. Paul’s face flashes in your mind. Last thing you can think of. Those brown eyes and the corner of his pink smile caught in candlelight.

You could sob with the agony of it. You really could. Your lip trembles.

But then something else roundhouse whirls into your chest like a furious storm that can’t handle your bones. Rage. Love.

Tears squeeze out your eyes that feel ready to burst as you gape up at his furious face. Digging his nails and thumbs into the meat of your neck. The burn of blood rose furious in your throat.

You slam your knife down into the soft of his back. Three times. You stab and stab down down hard until pure terror seizes over his face. Until he’s weak enough that you can knee him off you and grab the back of his neck. Fist his dirty collar in your hands and grit your teeth.

“Rot in hell.” You curse at him before you slam the sticky steel knife into his throat too.

Gurgles and frothy pink blood. More red blooming down into your dress. Sour metal in your nose. Too many warm pennies. It’s gummy on your hands. Sticky.

You hate the smell of blood even on a hunt. It cloys on your furs and matted and made you feel sick. You never hated it more than now.

You kick him off you and scramble to your feet. The weight of him off you. You’re upright and legs trembling like they won’t hold you.

Skin too small. Your veins wriggle like flames. Your steps shivered. Body bowing pathetically. Every muscle sore and still pulled taut with adrenaline.

There isn’t enough air and all you can taste is blood. You spit it out your mouth but it doesn’t leave. Bile tries to force its way out but you just breathe. For now. Just try and locate the thin air.

You brace a crimson hand on your stomach. Stained lace. Mud and blood smeared on your dress. You cannot hear the sweet call of birds or the wind rattling it’s whisper through the trees. All you can focus on is the fierce drum of your heart. Lungs swelling in the trap of your ribs.

You stand and stare down the centre of the copper birch groves. Trees lining the way in your vision. Back to that terrible palace. You just stare because everything is still ringing in your ears.

Guards are furiously running in their swathes towards you. So many of them. Rifles aimed. General Abramov in the centre enfold of stocky columns of uniforms that were his men. Barking his orders that you cannot hear. It’s all swirling mute to you.

Paul is there. Surrounded by a cluster of soldiers. In his untucked white shirt, undone jacket. Hair a smushed mess. Pistol locked in his hand.

Your face is oddly stoic.

He stalks towards you- terrified eyes scanning the bodies slumped around you. Your maid. The guards. The blood. The knife still dripping in your hand.

You’re covered in it. He doesn’t know if he’s out his wits with fear, or wanting to get on his knees and pray his thanks to the heavens, til his lips hurt.

Wrap his hands around your hips and kiss your belly. Chide you and love you in the same breath cause you scared him to death.

You barely see him when he comes up to you. Calls your name. Cups your face. Doesn’t care for the mess all over you. He needs the snap of your diamond eyes meeting in his.

He drops his pistol cause his hands are around you. All over you. A scuff of material catches rough on his palm. Grazed jagged silk.

He looks down and sees the knife sized hole that had been stabbed into your stomach. His breath lays in his throat and it’s too thick to reach.

Even in your hard prickly angles, your glassy steel countenance, and they’ve cut through your brambles and laid their hands on you. Hurt you.

You finally say his name. “Paul.” It’s not even above a raspy whisper.

Tears shine in his eyes and you don’t know anything else than how to clutch him and hold onto his hand over your belly. You chuck down your bleeding dagger. Will the blood ever come away.

You wait until he reels you into his chest and cups the back of your neck to cry. Fear finally gets to you. Hands cold and scrabbling for his hair. His warmth. The smell of his shaving soap. Safety.

For now, it’s enough.

Night fell swift. Catherine was furious. Seething spitting nails at everyone who crossed her path. Livid at being disobeyed.

She chucked wine glasses. She threw priceless vases at the walls. Shrilled til her throat hurt. Shards of broken things less spiked than her displeasure. The countess could barely calm her down.

She cast her eyes over you as Paul walked you back from the gardens. Soldiers flanking you entirely and the General on your heels.

You stepped inside and she was ready to draw some blood of her own. And then she saw you. Red spattered face and dress. That metal scent living on your skin and you were dying to scrub it away. You wanted that harsh scratch from a hard wooden brush. Bristles on your skin until it barbed to pain.

You meet her eyes. You don’t back down.

She almost had the balls to look impressed. Intimidated even-

“Go get her cleaned up.” She orders gently to the maids.

The first time you’d ever heard anything gentle come out her mouth. Crossed with respect. She nods at you. You feel blessed in some ways.

And here you were. No longer trembling. In the piping hot bath in Paul’s quarters. Water slicked over your skin. The bath water still ran pink even now. Even after they sluiced it off you with cold jugfuls before you got in the tub.

Your throat is stinging. Eyes bloated and sore from salty tears. You weren’t angry. Or sad. It went much deeper than that. Roots clinging. You’re not entirely certain why you spilled tears. Maybe it was that one thing you swore you’d never show;

Fear.

It’s fully matte dark and the room is only licked by flames. The orange of the fire and the spin of the gold from the candle holders. You turn and turn a wedge of soap in your palm until your fingertips were pruned. Your hair sticks down your back. Wet silk that sticks into the water.

Blood still in your mouth no matter how much you swilled with tea or water. The wine still tasted bad. It will be a while before you can stomach swallowing claret.

The maid knocked on the door. A harsh rap that disturbed your silence. It seemed almost too much. Overwhelming. You flinched.

That wasn’t you.

You were at peace with the crack of the flames and logs shifting in the half. The swish of the water around your naked limbs. The smell of your tuberose and cashmere wood soap. That was all you wanted for now.

“A little longer, Tatiana.” You call out. Not unkindly. Dazed maybe. You didn’t have the energy spare to be a sniping viper tonight.

The door opens anyway. You don’t bother to cover yourself. The waterline only just hid your nipples.

When you look up. Paul is stood sideways in the door. “I took the liberty of dismissing your maid.” He tells you.

“Did she say how Darya was.” You ask.

“Awake but she was very shaken. The doctor attended her. Gave her a draft.”

“Poor kid.” You sympathise. Scrubbed the soap bar down your arm.

You feel Paul bristle at that. You just know. When you look over at him the sides of his mouth are taut. Pulled firm with anger.

Catherine does the same. When the lips purse, that’s when you know- run.

“My concern is elsewhere at present.” His voice is stiff. Tamped with stomping brat and anger.

“Do not think to lay the blame at my feet. I went for a fucking walk.” You hold firm. Eyes gazing into his. Too tired to be slinging vitriol back and forth.

But you won’t dare let him forget you have sharp snarling teeth. They may be tucked away. But just because a panther sheathes it’s claws doesn’t mean it’s lost use of them entirely.

“I don’t lay blame at you. I’m just trying to wrestle with the idea that I could have lost you today.” He snaps out louder than he intended. Voice reed thin.

Stood at the end of your bath in his big baggy shirt and breeches. Barefoot and stripped down to nearly nothing. Rubbing his forehead and trying not to let fear bleed into his voice. He failed.

He looks so young. So stricken with fear as you sat there. Watching candles flicker jerky flame across his satin cream cheeks and those wide brown eyes.

You say nothing. “You want to be angry with me.”

“I’m not angry. I’m livid.” He hissed out.

I’m terrified. Is what you hear.

“Those men meant harm. They killed four guards.” He tries to strike fear. You’ve had enough of it today.

“I’m sat right here proving their plans otherwise.” You insist.

“Because you got lucky.” He snips.

“Not really. I’m always armed.” You insist.

He softly uses your first name. He never does that.

“Try and take what I’m saying seriously.” He pleads.

You look at him for a silent beat. He’s lumping all this on you and you’re just trying to sit here and manage to breathe.

“They said they wanted to hurt you.” Another swish of water. Swill of soap over your palms. Chalky and white woody petals.

“They told me. They were going to gut me and leave me in the gardens like a stuck boar. They were going to come and slit your throat. Leave your mother our corpses to find. A present.”

His face falls into distress. He’s spurning with so much anger and sadness it’s starting to rule his expression. His eyes twirl with it.

“So before you sit there and rightfully rip pieces out of me, Paul. I ask you this: What choice did that leave me.” You say it so softly. But your meaning is backed by steel.

He soaks in your words. Drinks them in.

He can’t cross the room fast enough.

In four quick strides he’s on you. Uncaring for the soap suds still on your skin or how your hair is dripping. His face is in your neck. His arms wrapped around you and yanking you to the edge of the tub. You’re dripping spots onto his white cotton sleeves.

His fingers rake through your hair. Wet beading on his fingers. He tilts your face up and just traces his thumb over the stinging welt that animal left.

“I don’t want to be without you.” He whispered softly.

That’s what it comes down too. When everything else is stripped away.

“I’m a bitch with sharp teeth and lots of knives. My Angel. I’m not going anywhere.”

You pat his cheek. Slide into an easy plump-lipped kiss. He pushes his mouth onto yours. Strokes his fingers gently down your naked wet back. Those melty chocolate drop eyes by candlelight you will never get enough of gazing at. Or into.

“Your fierceness today astonished me. I’ve never known you do anything so physically Russian.” Ghost of his smile returns.

You take a breath. Something swims on the tip of your tongue.

“I believe It wasn’t just myself I was being very Russian in defending.” You admit.

His face is thrown into all realms of bewilderment. “My love?”

You tilt your head at him. Smile like you’re the gatekeeper of sacred secrets.

You take his hand and slide it under the bath water to your belly. Fully soaking his sleeve. You press his palm onto your warm flesh.

There you fool.

“You-“ He gasped.

Fell on his knees. Mouth gaping. Doe eyes wide. You stunned him like a deer caught out in the open on a hunt.

“Congratulations. Tsarevich.“ You smile. “And may the Lord fucking help us.”

My taglist for the babes; @ceriseheaven @indouloureux @stiegasaw @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @starbxcks @morganamoonstone @ramona-thorns @gvtosbith @poppy-metal @munsonswhore86 @munsonlov3r @lunatictardis @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-tittie @anaisweird @cerinthussulpicia @cinnamoncunt @thincrusttheworks @manicpixiedreamcurl @therosietoesy @fanficappreciationblog @thicksexxualtension @tvserie-s-world @sharp-and-swift @dadsbongos @2clones-1kamino @edsforehead @chcolateeyelver @seven-glass-kids @forever-is-not-for-everyone @creme-bruhlee @bkish @wayward-rose

🥀- lmk if you want to be added or removed. drop a comment to join taglist. This is the most up to date tag list I will be using on all my JQ stories going forwards I don’t wanna miss anyone out ! 🥀

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gentil-minou · 1 year

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Xiantober Day 4 - Ghost!Xian + TGCF Crossover

Good news! Wei Wuxian has been resurrected!

The denizens of Ghost City let out a chorus of exuberant cheers and muffled. groans. Those who'd placed bets hounded the losers to collect their winnings.

13 years ago, the Yiling Loazu landed in Ghost City with with all the subtlety of a calamity being born. In fact, many had thought that was who he was; a new ghost king to challenge their current leader.

While some were concerned, most kept burnt popcorn on hand for what would inevitable become the battle of the century.

Instead, Wei Wuxian took one look around and, without any hint of menace or even perhaps fear, let out a loud "Huh! So this is what hell is like"

Longtime residents of Ghost City were deeply offended by this; their home was lovely! This new whippersnapper dared to come in and insult them! So rude!

A nearby yao, half lion and half sea horse with the beak of an eagle, stepped forward to challenge the new arrival. She was known for being the most vicious fighter, and an excellent baker of human pies.

But instead of recoiling in fear, the Yiling Loazu appraised her up and down, marveling at her fearsome features and bracelets.

The yao had never been complimented that way before, and that was the day she discovered she blushed the color blue. That also seemed to fascinate Wei Wuxian.

In fact, Wei Wuxian took to Ghost City like a baby demon to fire and brimstone. He instantly befriended the tavern owner, even though he spent as much time lamenting their liquor selection as he spent drinking it. It wasn't their fault Emperor's Smile was so hard to import here!

The Yiling Loazu was often seen spending his nights terrorizing innocent ghosts enjoying their afterlife with bets he somehow always won. Other nights, his flute was heard through the market, mournful and putting a damper on everyone's mood

Occasionally, on certain nights every year, Wei Wuxian would drink himself into a stupor, murmuring apologizes to his shijie and shidi, along with doleful gratitude to someone he called Lan Zhan.

He spent a lot of time calling for Lan Zhan, actually, wondering why he never responded or tried to call for him instead.

None of the other ghosts had the heart to tell him inquiry and other communication methods couldn't permeate the barrier around Ghost City.

Eventually, they became used to Wei Wuxian's particular brand of terror. Some days it would be a prank or something,

Like adding extra extra spice to pig baker's sweet cakes. Other days. He'd find ways to automate the city and make it more efficient, even helping some of the elderly ghosts with tasks they weren't able to do.

But it was always clear to them, even if no one said it:

Wei Wuxian did not belong here. While everyone else had welcomed their undead life with open arms, Wei Wuxian held a love of life that glowed in his red eyes, a longing for something half lived and lost.

Secretly, the citizens of Ghost City were hoping for the day he'd go back.

That day, when Wei Wuxian disappeared in a burst of bright white light that blinded everyone in the vicinity, was a joyous one indeed. They ate and drank and kept merry, wishing blessings for his new life.

They hoped they wouldn't see Wei Wuxian for a long, long while.

(threadfic here)

#no fun quips or commentary today only endless anxiety #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #mdzs fanfiction #the untamed #wei wuxian #tgcf #tgcf ghost city #mxtx #xiantober #mdzs musings #bushy writing

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queen-rainy-love · 2 months

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Last B.A.D. 4 story! And maybe a sneak peek on some OCs. Big thanks to @cherryartemis0 and @theywhoshantbenamed for the names and OC ideas.

*Fifteen years later, the story is set in the RedPastry household. A ten-year-old Blue Velvet and his three friends, Mocha Sundae, Chocolate Pearl, and Sponch were cleaning his family's attic.*

Blue Velvet: You guys don't have to do this. This is my chore.

Sponch: Nonsense! From what you've told us, the attic is huge and you need all the help you can get! Besides, *eyes twinkle* who knows what we can find here! Like how your parents first met! Or how they fell in love!

Mocha Sundae: Ugh. Why do you want to know about that? It could be as dumb as what my dad did to get mom's attention.

Chocolate Pearl: To be fair... anything could be better than your dad trying to take over the Cookie Kingdom. In fact, I don't think any of our parents have normal moments. Like my parents meeting during a Cake Hound stampede.

Blue Velvet: Yeah. Besides...*looks away and sweats a bit* my parents first meet wasn't normal...or great.

Sponch: Oooh! Then we gotta find out more about it. *Sponch darted further into the attic, leaving the three alone.*

Blue Velvet: *rolls his eyes and chase after her* You're not gonna find it here!

*Thirty minutes later, the group were going through boxes.*

Sponch: Look at this! *Holds up a picture frame of Red Velvet and Pastry* I bet this was when they first meet!

Blue Velvet: *briefly looks at the picture frame* No. That's their third date.

Sponch: Well it'll be easier if you tell us how they met!

Mocha Sundae: It can't be that bad.

Chocolate Pearl: Yeah. Could you tell us, Vel? *Turns on puppy eyes* Pretty please.

*Panicking, Blue Velvet picked up a box and showed it off.*

Blue Velvet: Hey! Look at this box! Isn't this more interesting?

Mocha Sundae: You can't just- *looks at the box and notices some writing.* Huh? B...A...D...Four? B.A.D.4?

Chocolate Pearl: B.A.D.4? Isn't that the band who was very popular a few years ago before disappearing?

Mocha Sundae: Yup.

Blue Velvet: *looks at the side of the box* Oh, this might be Capsaicin's box. He was a big fan of B.A.D.4.

Sponch: Then let's open it! Let's see what merch he had!

*The group gathered around the box as Blue Velvet opened it. Inside it were album books titled "HellHound w/ Friends and Family." The friends looked inside before Blue Velvet pulled one of those books.*

Sponch: *gasps* HellHound?! The HellHound?! And these are photos of him and his loved ones?! That's amazing!

Mocha Sundae: Why would your family have these? Shouldn't this be with, you know, HellHound?

Blue Velvet: Well...mom did say that she was a bodyguard sometimes. Maybe he asked her to hold onto these books? *Gets concerned* Should we?

Sponch: Oh, come on Blue Velvet! It's only a little peek! Just one page and then we'll put it back!

Chocolate Pearl: That sounds fair. Come on Vel. *turns on puppy eyes* Please?

*Blue Velvet groaned a bit before opening the book to a random page. The friends looked at it and they were surprised by what they saw. Pictures of HellHound with other members of B.A.D.4 and with Blue Velvet's older siblings and mom. One picture that really stood out was a secretly taken picture of HellHound and Blue Velvet's mom kissing.*

Chocolate Pearl: Is that...

Mocha Sundae: Yup.

Sponch: And is that...

Mocha Sundae: Yup. *looks at Blue Velvet* You good?

Blue Velvet: ...

Chocolate Pearl: Vel? You okay?

Blue Velvet: ...

Sponch: I think he's broken.

*Blue Velvet slammed the book shut and ran downstairs before anyone could say anything else. His friends followed him as best as they could with the box in hand. He ran all the way to the living room where his parents, Red Velvet and Pastry, were just sitting there.*

Blue Velvet: Mom! You dated HellHound?! When?! And do you know where B.A.D.4 is?!

*Both Pastry and Red Velvet looked over at him and noticed the photo album in his hand. Then his friends come in with the box.*

Pastry: Oh, you found the box. I knew it was somewhere in the attic.

Red Velvet: ...I knew I should have buried that box in the yard.

Pastry: *playfully smacks him* Oh hush you. Besides, how long did you think you were going to keep that secret from your own son?

Red Velvet: Honestly...to the grave.

Blue Velvet: Why aren't you answering my questions?!

Pastry: *looks at Red Velvet* It was your secret. You should tell your son the truth.

Red Velvet: *breathes in and sighs* Alright kids. Gather round and hand me that box. Let me tell you something. *Mutters under his breath* I can't believe I'm revisiting this ten years later.

#cookie run kingdom #crk headcanons #crk ocs #crk oc: blue velvet cookie #crk oc: sponch cookie #crk oc: chocolate pearl cookie #crk oc: mocha sundae cookie #b.a.d. 4 #bad4 #red velvet cookie #pastry cookie #redpastry #red velvet x pastry

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saijspellhart · 1 month

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for the kissing prompt- 100, ephraim and innes :3

100. Hateful kisses; all teeth, bruising, hair tugging, being pinned against the wall, low groans, heavy breathing, knees separating thighs — but both of them need more. (Ephraim x Innes)

-WARNING: Spicy-

Ephraim finally broke away from the party, slipping out during a toast and a speech proposed by Princess L’Arachel. Her personality was…aggressive enough to draw any and all attention, creating a perfect opening for him to slip behind a heavy curtain and out onto one of the balconies of Castle Frelia.

The crisp night air greeted him, a chilled kiss against his cheeks. An audible sigh, all the tension in his body releasing, he approached the balustrade. He crossed his arms to lean on the railing, gazing off into the valley below.

A little shimmering river, reflecting the light of the moon, cut the fields and forests in the distance. It looked looked like a vein of silver in an otherwise inky black and blue landscape.

In one of the inky fields there was a herd of ghostly white dots. A herd of Frelian pegasi grazing on the pastures. Their snow white coats glowing under the moonlit night sky.

Ephraim pondered the ramifications of commandeering a Pegasus and flying back to Renais.

Not that he could fly one. He still struggled with riding a horse, despite a myriad of lessons with Kyle and Forde. The animals didn’t respond well to his brash recklessness. He doubted a flighty Pegasus would fair any better.

Ephraim, in a fit of irritation, dug at the constricting collar of his tunic. A button popped off in his hand, and he hurled it over the side of the balcony. It disappeared into the night.

“Feel better?”

Ephraim shot a glance over his shoulder. Innes, crown Prince of Frelia, strode out onto the balcony. His silver and storm blue finery, dazzled in the moonlight as he approached the King of Renais. The Prince was always stunning, in a painfully aggravating way. Even when he was caked in blood and worn from the despair of battle.

Innes joined him at the balustrade, a glass of wine in one hand. He took a sip, and eyed the rumpled and undone collar of Ephraim’s tunic. The King could feel the Prince’s sharp eyes as they traced the line of his throat down to the barest tease of a collar bone. Ephraim shivered, hoping Innes assumed it was due to the chill night.

Those sharp steel eyes cut back to Ephraim’s face, pinning him with a stare. “Should I leave you? So you may continue disrobing on our balcony?”

“Shove off,” Ephraim returned to leaning on the railing. “The ball was stuffy, and I hate this frivolous formal attire. I felt like I couldn’t breath.”

“Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so stuffy if you didn’t spend so much of it indulging my sister and her inane friends.”

“I wasn’t indulging her,” Ephraim seethed, reminded of the reason he escaped to this balcony to begin with. “I couldn’t get away from her.”

Innes scoffed, waving his glass in Ephraim’s direction. “It’s not as if you tried very hard. Prancing around the dance floor like a stallion in rut. Always the center of attention, the ladies fawning over you like swooning mares.”

Ephraim angrily swatted the glass of wine from Innes’ hand, and sent it crashing into the balustrade and over the edge.

“How very barbaric of you,” Innes shook his accosted hand and stared down the King of Renais.

“By the Stones, you insensitive prick! Innes, would it kill you to be humane for five minutes?” Ephraim threw his gloved hand in the general direction of the party. “King Hayden approached me to arrange a marriage.”

The haughty contempt finally melted, and Innes’ eyes narrowed. “Whose?”

“Whom do you think? Your sister to me.”

Even in the low light Ephraim could detect the hint of panic that welled behind Innes’ eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, you don’t even like her.”

“I don’t think it matters what I like. Your father wants to maintain strong relations between our Kingdoms, the Renais council has been hounding me to marry since I took the throne, and it’s not like I have any better proposals on the table.”

“You sniveling coward.”

Ephraim recoiled, “Excuse me!?”

Innes stepped forward, jabbing two fingers into Ephraim’s chest. “Did Fomortiis castrate you in the final battle? Since when did Ephraim de Renais submit and roll over to the whims of lesser nobles?

“Your father…” Ephraim stepped back and his lower back hit the balustrade railing.

“My father has no power over you,” Innes closed the distance between them, getting right up in Ephraim’s face. “Tell him no.”

“And what?” Ephraim placed a hand on the rail for stability. “Risk crumbling relations between our Kingdoms? What of my people, Innes?”

“Father wouldn’t dare go to war with you and I am crown Prince!” Innes hissed. They were so close that the discrepancy in their heights had become apparent. If not for the Prince’s ungodly high heels he would have been on his tip toes trying to crowd Ephraim. He still had to tilt his head just a bit to look up at him.

“You being heir to the Frelian throne instills no comfort in me!”

“Why?” Innes cocked his head, sneering. “Scared? Does the thought of me make you quake in your boots, your majesty?”

Gods, could Innes get under his skin in the worst way. The man was fire and steel, cutting Ephraim with a tongue that set his blood alight. “All you’ve ever done is pick fights with me! I’d swear you hate me, the way you act.”

Innes took a fistful of Ephraim’s rumpled collar, demanding the taller man’s attention. “Sometimes…I do hate you, Ephraim. Every time I see you, I’m overcome with the primitive desire to destroy you, to bring you to your knees and make you quiver beneath my heel.”

Ephraim’s breath caught in his throat, heartbeat thundering in his ears. He seized Prince Innes’ wrist pushing against his hold. “Exactly my point! At least if I married your sister it would muzzle your raging ego enough to prevent the collapse of our alliance.”

“You will not marry, Tana.”

“Why?” Ephraim sneered back. “Why is this so important to you?! Is it so detestable to see your sister wed your rival?” He wanted to get under Innes’ skin the way the man crawled under his.

“You,” Innes snarled, “are my rival.” The “my” made Ephraim’s stomach clench. Innes buried his other fist in Ephraim’s mantle, using the fabric to drag the King closer to his level, nearly nose to nose. His gaze as piercing as the arrows he fired from his bow. Those steel eyes tore through Ephraim with ease, sinking past his defenses to render him useless. “She. cannot. have. you.”

Then he surged up on his toes and pressed his lips to Ephraim’s.

Ephraim made a choking noise, his heart striking his ribcage painfully. His weight shifted back against the balustrade again, and he had to put a hand back to steady himself. His other hand tightened its grip on Innes’ wrist.

To push him away? …Or to keep him close?

The kiss was as forceful and abrasive as Innes was. Ephraim swore his lips would bruise the way the prince assaulted his mouth.

Innes, honest to gods, growled against Ephraim’s mouth. He nudged Ephraim’s already buckling knees apart, forcing himself between his thighs as the King of Renais shuddered against the stone railing. It was a miracle Ephraim didn’t melt and topple over the side.

Innes’ lips dragged over Ephraim’s as he whispered into his wanting mouth. “Concede.”

Concede. A dazed Ephraim assessed the Prince beneath hooded eyes.

It was one word spoken between them many many times, but never in this sort of context. It was a taunt, an expression of superiority and triumph. Both of them spouting the word whenever they dominated the other in competition.

Concede. He could feel Innes’ breath against his bottom lip.

An ember of indignation swelled to an inferno within his chest.

Ephraim drew himself up, so Innes was no longer towering above him. His hand left the railing, seized a fistful of the Prince’s celadon hair and crushed their lips together again. The kiss was no less bruising, but this time it was all teeth.

Innes made a noise somewhere between a keen and a hiss, and Ephraim swallowed it.

Ephraim tilted his head, slotting his mouth against the Prince’s, nipping tender lips until their teeth clacked. His other hand released Innes’ wrist to curl around his neck instead. Gloved fingers cradling the back, while his thumb put pressure on his throat.

This time it was a ragged breath that escaped the man, blowing through his nose.

Innes clawed at Ephraim’s chest, nails popping another button off his tunic, only to rake savagely over the King’s collar bone. The slight pain sent electrified pleasure straight to Ephraim’s groin.

The brief upper hand was short lived, as Innes was fighting him again. The Frelian Prince pressed into the kiss with equal fervor, mouth parting to bite Ephraim’s intrusive tongue.

Ephraim had to swallow a yip when Innes’ oddly sharp canine drew blood.

Innes, already pressed between the King’s thighs, jerked his hips into Ephraim’s hardening arousal. The friction pulled a throaty groan from Ephraim and he panted against Innes’ lips.

The railing dug into his lower back again, a show of support as much as it was a mark of weakness. The King tightened his grip on Innes’ throat, his other hand releasing his hair to trail over his shoulders and down his back.

Ephraim took hold of Innes’ backside hard enough to elicit a moan, which he swallowed along with the Prince’s tongue. He tasted of copper and heat. Heady and sharp in a way that drove Ephraim feral. He clutched Innes against him, hips rocking forward, dragging the shorter man onto his toes.

Innes clawed even harder at the King’s front and neck. No doubt marring his skin with ugly red lines. He tore the front of Ephraim’s shirt apart, exposing his chest.

The cold night air bit Ephraim’s exposed skin in perfect contrast to Innes’ burning touch.

Both men broke their kissing to pant raggedly against the other’s jaw.

Ephraim wasn’t sure what prompted him to look up, past the Prince’s shoulder. Had it been a footfall? The rustle of heavy fabric? A soft gasp?

His cerulean eyes met the dark eyes of the Frelian Princess as she backed against the heavy drapes covering the balcony’s entrance. Tana reached blindly for the heavy drapery, an expression of shock and betrayal drawing her usually sweet features.

Any words—excuses—Ephraim might have mustered died in his throat when Innes—oblivious to the situation—reached up and sucked the King’s ear between his lips and teeth.

“H-aah…” Ephraim whimpered. His hold on the Prince involuntarily tightened, and he screwed his eyes shut against the look of Tana’s face.

When next he opened them, she was gone.

-0000-

Please let me know if you liked! I tried my very hardest to make this hot and spicy. I really wanted to capture the intensity between these two.

Thanks for the kiss prompt!!

#Ephrinnes #ephraim fire emblem #innes fire emblem #Fire emblem #fire emblem the sacred stones #fe8 #kiss prompts #ask answers #SaijSpellhart answers #fanfic #writing prompts #fanfiction #hateful kisses #passionate kisses #rivals kissing #forbidden romance

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acourtofbooksandshadows · 10 months

Text

Alliance Maker - Chapter 8

Summary: You expel some of your power and Lucien starts to grow suspicious.

Pairing: Slow burn!Azriel x Afab!Reader

Warnings:Blood, anxiety, Hybern, fire, passing out, swearing and yea.

Word count:1645

Masterlist Series Masterlist

The next morning was easy. Nesta came to wake you up for training and you explained to her you needed to sleep as much as possible before releasing so much energy later. She was going to argue with you but Cassian had shook his head at her from his spot next to her in the hall. Then they slipped away to the rooftop for training. The house gave you breakfast and lunch when you woke up to use the bathroom. You only awoke two more times due to nightmares, which was a miracle. Each time you did the cooling touch of the shadows soothed you back to sleep.

Before you knew it you were standing in a large field, the grass was soft, flowers of all colors sporadically sprouted across the ground. The trees stood tall in various shades of green seemingly caging in the field. The sky above you was a perfect shade of blue, clouds sparsely present. Then there was the Fae you were with. Nesta and Cassian stood together, not too far from you. Feyre and Rhysand stood farther away, deep in a silent discussion. Lucien stood awkwardly beside you and Azriel was leaning against a tree on the edge of the field.

“So how exactly are you going to disperse this energy?” Cassian piped up as you pulled a piece of carefully wrapped cake from your house provided pack.

“You’re just going to have to wait and see, lord of impatience.” You shrugged as though it was the simplest thing, taking a large bite of the cake. A groan rumbling in your chest as the flavor of it coated your tongue.

“Where’d you even get that?” Cassian asked and you could sense a bit of jealousy in his words. Nesta rolled her eyes at him and Lucien held back a snort.

“The House gave it to me before we left.” You broke the piece in half and handed the rest to Lucien who curled up one eyebrow before shrugging and grabbing the cake and taking a bite.

“You’ll need the bit of sugar rush for your help that I’m going to need.” He nodded his head in reply, then you both took another bite of the cake. You burned the wrapper in your hand after finishing the cake, the ashes falling to the ground as you turned your palm over and shook your hand off.

“Let’s get started.” Rhysand said as he and Feyre walked towards you. That’s when all of the nerves set in. You had dispersed your energy countless times but had never done it in front of such a big crowd. The process was normally so robotic but you didn’t have your normal accomplice with you this time. You nodded your head before dancing your fingers in the air, then much to everyone's surprise two hounds made of flame tore through the grass. They yipped and played with one another before bounding towards you and licking your hands. The shadows wrapped around your skin danced excitedly as they watched the hounds.

“I’ve missed you both as well. I won’t wait this long again, I promise.” You knelt down in front of them, petting them both gingerly. You missed the look of pure shock on Lucien's face as you gave both the hounds a kiss before they went back to playing. Not a burn mark was in sight in their wake, but the fire coming from them waved in the air as they ran. Some of Azriel’s shadows had slipped away from the shadowsinger and chased them through the grass.

“I decided to start small, meet Brok and Zas.” You told the group as you stood up from the ground watching the two playing with a look of adoration and love in your eyes.

“Do you need us to do anything?” Feyre’s calm voice spoke up from her position beside Rhysand. Everyone stood a little straighter ready to help if needed.

“Do any of you have the gift of water or ice?” You asked them hopefully, eyes scanning them quickly, Feyre perked up at the question.

“I have both.” You gave her a beaming smile and opened up the pack and took out a blanket. The material was dense, a spell that had been weaved into the object made it fireproof.

“I will need Lucien to form a barrier of fire around me. Once I drop I will need you to immediately douse me in the coldest water you can make.” Your eyes didn’t leave hers as you spoke. Anxiety caused the next instruction to leave your mouth awkwardly.

“I will end up passing out and my skin will still be too hot to touch. I will need someone to take me back to the house of wind. Since Lucien is staying there it’ll be more convenient for him to take me.” Your eyes then flicked over to his waiting form. The anxiety of having a male touch you started to eat away at your chest but you took a deep breath centering yourself. It had been a while since you had trusted a male enough to touch you but you knew you could trust Lucien.

“You will be the only one from the house of wind that will be able to lay a hand on me. I am putting my full trust in you to get me back safely.” He could see the hesitation in your eyes but he did not back down. He gave you a look that looked so familiar, a feeling of home settled within your chest and you gave him a small smile.

“I will be asleep for the rest of the night and all day tomorrow. Could you and Feyre wrap this around me carefully before he carries me?” Your eyes moved to Nesta as you spoke, wanting to reassure her you’d be okay. Not wanting her to worry when you knew she would. She held her hand out for the blanket. Her eyes that had pinned Lucien to his spot in a silent threat met your own. They were cold, but you knew she was worried with the way she took in your form once and then twice.

“Can everyone please back up?” They did as you asked. You looked at your hounds rolling around in the grass, before looking over where Azriel was still propped against his tree, he was just a little straighter than he was before. You felt a cool reassuring touch on the back of your neck. Then you scanned the group quickly, the anxiety finally bubbling over. You had to beg the shadows that had been attached to you to return to their master.

“Lucien?” That’s all you had to say and a barrier of fire was wrapped around you. A large dome like structure that you were praying to the mother wouldn’t waver. Your wings disappeared as your fingers flexed. You rolled your head back and then forwards, shaking out your arms once. Your skin became rapidly hot. With one shaky breath you exploded.

Fire hit the barrier in aggressive waves. You could feel that thing inside you once again trying to claw its way out. Every fiber of your body felt like it was being torn apart and put back together. But you wouldn’t let it. Wouldn’t let yourself lose control in front of these Fae that you barely knew.

Minutes that felt like days passed and you dropped to your knees. Your head thrown back between your shoulders, eyes looking up at the sky through the combined fire of yours and Luciens. Had someone been inside the ball of fire with you they would have noticed that your eyes were changing. They were the perfect match to the fire coming from your body.

A scream erupted from your chest as you flung your arms out to your sides. You weren’t able to see the reactions of those around you. The way that Nesta held onto Cassian's arm tightly. The way that Cassian's siphons started to flare a protective shield coming up around him and his mate. The way that Rhysand looked at you with pure and utter surprise. Yet he was ready to take you down if things got out of hand. Feyre stood ready for the task you had given her.

Then there was Azriel, whose shadows yanked him towards the group. They were whipping across the grass frantically. Desperately trying to reach you through the shield Lucien was maintaining steadily. The Illyrian however sat there frightened yet intrigued. Your hounds whined as they looked upon you, but they sat at the edges of Cassian's shield patiently. They knew that once your power drained they would disappear for a while. Going back to the in between until being brought back out.

Memories of your life flashed through your head rapidly. The childhood you were lucky enough to escape. The love of your father that helped to heal you. Then there were the memories of your time within the walls of Hybern. The fear soared through you causing another scream to rip from your throat, your hands growing taught as fire continued to rapidly escape you. Getting dumped into the cauldron was the next memory. The gentle caress it gave you forever seared into your brain.

You let that slowly ease you. You could feel the last bit of energy starting to leave the chest of power inside of you. Your body shaking as your limbs grew heavier. Lungs rapidly trying to take in air. Blood poured from your eyes, nose and fingertips. A pounding sensation smacked through your head. Black dots started to pop up in your vision. Your throat burned as you let out a roar, fire scratching up your throat and releasing from your mouth and then you collapsed. The lid to the chest that was normally sealed tightly slammed shut.

Brok and Zas:

A/N:Not much Az but there will be in the next chapter! As always likes, comments, follows and reblogs are much appreciated.

Tags(open): @wolfsbane44 @moonlwghts @maddietheshoe @hyemishii @fanboyluvr @kmc1989 @acourtofinkandpapyrus @luvmoo

#alliance maker #azriel imagine #azriel series #azriel acotar #azriel x reader #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #acomaf #a court of mist and fury #acowar #a court of wings and ruin #acofas #a court of frost and starlight #acosf #a court of silver flames

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eikonoklast · 19 days

Text

Day 6 (Halcyon): A Toothless Beast

The elderly hoarhound watched from the creek as the little men played nearby, his head resting on his paws. It was a beautiful spring day on the mountain tundra: flowers of varying pinks, yellows, and purples dotted the grass, their blue-green leaves waving in the light, cool breeze. The sun shone down from a clear and cloudless sky, hedged in by snowy mountain peaks and lush pine forests below.

Oyugun, they called him. An old, mighty beast the Kha once feared - his skin rippling with taut muscle, his coat the color of ice and moonlight. His fangs were as long as daggers; sharp and gleaming in his bright red maw; and his claws were large enough to crush any man's neck between them. On this day however, his mighty paws were crossed in placid comfort. His teeth were concealed behind feather-soft jowls - not dripping with viscous saliva but…being played with by an inquisitive kit.

The small creature shoved a hand into the dread beast's maw, running its fingers over Oyugun's massive teeth. It made some unintelligible noises and tripped over his crossed leg, tumbling into the grass with a surprised yelp and landing in the mud on the edge of the chilly creek. Oyugun licked his teeth to wet them again as the little beast started crying. It wailed and carried on - its wet tail plastered to its side, its hair and tiny ears caked in mud. And it simply lay there by the waterside, wailing. The little men playing in the meadow didn't seem to hear its pleas.

The wolf stretched, his mighty tail swishing and knocking petals cartwheeling into the air. His claws marred the dirt as he dug in, resentful of the little thing for being so annoying. He yawned. The cries continued. The hoarhound stood, taking a step towards the little thing. It did not look quite like the little men, nor the big men. It had soft ears and its wet little snippet of a tail was just as plush. Still, it was furred much the same as the men. It must be one of theirs. Or maybe it was some infant beast?

Oyugun approached the crying creature, sniffing it. At this, the little thing stopped crying, its face red from the tears and cold. It shivered in the midday sun, sniffling and watching the predator with huge, curious eyes; reaching for the hound's grizzled muzzle. The tiny naked paws touched Oyugun's nose, the skin chilly. Why was it over here bothering him? Why wasn't it with the other little men? This tiny scrap of fur had snuck up on him, concealed within the tall meadowgrass as Oyugun had been napping. It smelled of berries and cloves and sunlight. And it did not understand what it was dealing with.

Oyugun encircled the little creature, wrapping his mighty, massive form around it. The thing did not struggle. It made a pleased noise as it pawed around inside his fur, snuggling. Soon it was asleep.

The silvery wolf took to gently licking off the dirt and mud from the little beast. He had been feared once. That time had long since passed. The big men would come if they wanted this kit, this he knew. They would come and take what was theirs and the hoarhound would let them. But until then, this little beast would be safe with him.

Author's Note: Chiteni doesn't have a very happy past honestly, and a lot of that is because I reflect a lot of myself onto him. Halcyon as a prompt is forcing me to really dig deep though - and it'd be a shame if I didn't occasionally get reminded that not ALL of the memories are bad. Though I doubt he remembers this one!

Oyugun is his faithful Fenrir - a friend to their tribe in the mountains who travels with him on his journeys. His name means ‘wise one.’ I wanted to be able to do something short and sweet, so I thought introducing his longest and most faithful friend would be a nice little treat! Sorry for the short post, long day ahead.

#ffxivwrite2024 #day 6 #original character #ffxiv #Chiteni Kha #Oyugun

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writingattemptsxx · 24 days

Text

A Diamond and an Eel with a Clover

Trey starts dating Jade, and Cater finds himself picking up similar feelings.

—

First ever attempt at writing romance. This is just a ship I really like and wanted to share. This got way longer than I expected.

This is mostly Cater/Jade, but Trey and his ships are there.

—

Trey suddenly paused his mixing and looked up at Cater, giving him a smile. “Oh, I wanted to tell you, I’ve finally started dating someone else who I've been talking to forever now.”

Cater and Trey had opened up their relationship a while ago. They were both fine with it, thought it would be nice if anything, so after some conversations they both easily agreed. Cater was honestly a bit shocked his boyfriend didn't have someone hounding him sooner, but maybe that's just his bias.

“Aw! That's adorable! Who is it?”

“Jade Leech.”

Cater felt his eyes widen and his mouth part a bit. “Who? You’ve started dating who?” It's not like he didn't trust Trey to pick out someone nice, but it's impossible to not hear the rumors. That trio from Octavinelle didn't have any good words surrounding them.

Trey sighed. “Jade Leech. I know what you've probably heard, but trust me on this.”

“No no! I trust you. It’s just…” What was it? He couldn't say he didn't trust Jade, though that is probably the truest statement. “I was just a bit shocked tbh. Not something you would expect.”

“You’d be surprised what you learn when you actually get to know people.” His boyfriend gave a shrug and poured the batter into a tin as the oven started to beep. “Maybe you should get to know him. You two might enjoy each other’s company, plus it would be nice for you two to get along.” He wasn't even facing Cater anymore, fully turned to putting the cake in the oven.

“I can def try. We’ll just have to see how we get along.” That seemed to satisfy Trey who started to hum as he started to clean everything up. It’s not like Cater ever planned to intervene in any way. He truly does trust Trey. He could only sigh and hope things ended up well.

—

Trey! There he is. Why was Cater, the one without muscles, sent to get the extra bag of hedgehog food? Totes not fair.

It was only when he got a bit closer he noticed the baker talking to a tall person, dressed in their school uniform, and with light blue short hair. Jade Leech. The one who noticed Cater first.

Jade gave a sudden yet quick shift in his body language, guarding himself. It’s something that probably would have gone unnoticed by most others who didn't have experience doing the same. “Hello, Diamond. How are you?” He gave a fake smile that made Cater’s hair stand on end. He didn't scare Cater instantly as the rumors made him out to be, but he seemed as if he was hiding something. Right as Cater walked up to them too…

“Cater, hello. Do you need help with that?” Trey’s voice dragged him out of his thoughts. He nodded and handed over the bag of food.

“Riddle gave poor old me the job of getting the extra food bag, can you imagine that?” He leaned into Trey, gaining a chuckle in response.

“Oh, I definitely can.” He turned to Jade. “Forgive me, but I should probably help here.

Jade gave a small nod. “Of course. I wish you two a good day.”

With that, Cater and Trey started walking off to their dorm. Cater cuddled up to his boyfriend, thanking him for being his big strong savior, but he couldn't shake what he saw. He doubted there was any danger involved, but what was he hiding? No matter how much he thought he couldn't read any further into the mask. He, Cater Diamond, the one who worked so hard to being able to be friendly with all by being able to read them, couldn't read someone. He couldn't tell what bugged him more, that or his actual suspicions.

He simply took a deep breath. Trey wouldn't pick a bad person. He just needs to trust that.

—

For someone who's constantly on their phone, Cater actually doesn't bump into people often. It shocks him just as much as anyone else who he tells it to. Sadly, that luck doesn't hit every time. Sometimes he runs into people, like how he ran into Jade Leech this time.

They were both walking, so luckily none of them got hurt, it was just a corner blocking their view.

Cater looked up to Jade. “Hey sorry about that.” He was about to ask if he was ok, but as he took a step away, he noticed something off.

Jade’s smile seemed forced, as always. He had a barely noticeable lean away from Cater. His arms were crossed and held slightly too high up than someone calm, unusually close to the chest. His eyes were scanning Cater, but refusing to look at him for too long, looking anywhere else. His whole perfect posture felt stiff, as if he had to physically force himself there.

Was he anxious?

“Are you ok?”Cater didn't even know he was speaking out loud until he heard his own words hit his ears.

“Yes, I am perfectly fine. A small bump into another wouldn't cause any damage.” Jade finally looks at Cater’s face. His gaze felt soft. He had all these sharp features, yet with his eyes, they felt comforting. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, yeah. I'm good.”

Jade gave a small bow. “Then if you will excuse me.” He continued to walk off.

Cater couldn't help but watch him leave, remaining utterly confused. He wasn't the man who was supposed to be able to ‘read your soul’, was he? He seemed anxious, not aloof. It made Cater think of him… differently… In what way? Cater didn't know himself.

—

Cater normally loved helping Trey bake for Unbirthday Parties. His boyfriend always seemed to be in his element and it was adorable, but this time, his mind kept wandering. Every time he tried to just think about the now, a thought of Jade popped up. Was he just anxious every time? Was he always just good at hiding his emotions? Cater even started to look around for him and noticed the same traits every time Jade talked to someone or was in a crowded space.

He looked up from the bowl he was helping mix. “So, uh… Is Jade good?”

Trey quickly looked up from taking the previous batch of cupcakes out of the oven. “Last I checked he was fine, yes. Why? Did something happen?”

“Oh! No, nothing happened. I just noticed that he kinda seems constantly anxious.”

Trey’s worried face instantly changed to one of amusement as he tried to hold in a laugh. “Oh, he's fine. He's just… not good with people. You need to learn to start with context, Cater.”

“Hey! I was only worried. We bumped into each other and I noticed stuff there. It was weird seeing the famed Jade Leech as someone who's simply anxious.”

“Seeing him as Jade and not Jade Leech?”

“Yeah, pretty much that tbh. His gaze seemed soft. It felt weird.”

Trey paused what he was doing for a second, looked Cater’s face up and down, then turned back to his cooling cupcakes. “For someone who can read others so well, neither of you can read yourselves.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. Don't think about it.”

“Wha-? Trey!” With every pout, Trey only told him it meant nothing.

—

Wow… Sam’s shop prices were definitely cheaper than expected, at least to Cater. He was so used to going to all those popular pop-up restaurants with sky-high prices that when he counted out the money Trey gave him to see what ingredients were the best to go for, he realized he could get the better-end items for his whole list.

Cater was even more shocked that the school store had the whole list. Strawberries. Blueberries. Heavy cream. Flour. Sugar. How did Trey JUST realize he was he was running low on all of this?

Next and last was cinnamon. He turned the corner only to find Jade looking at some spices and carrying his own basket of baking supplies. Was Monstro Lounge going to offer baked treats? There's no other likely reason. Right?

Seeing Jade made Cater’s heart jump. “Hey, Jade!” He gave his usual high-energy smile as he quickly walked closer. The closer he got, the more noticed Jade leaning away. He didn't know why, but Jade leaning away stung his heart a bit. Cater just stopped walking forward.

“Hello, Diamond.” Jade stood up, placed the baking powder in his own basket, and tried his best to return to his proper posture. But after what happened before, it wasn't hard for Cater to notice the signs of anxiety.

“What are you up to? Monstro Lounge going to make some new sweet treats? You should 100% let me see them. I bet they'll be totes cammable.” Cater tried taking a deep breath. Trey mentioned him being good at reading people, so maybe he was picking up on the fake smile vibes? Just a natural smile, that’ll lighten the mood.

Cater checked Jade’s reaction and he seemed to calm down slightly. He stopped leaning away, his posture looked less stiff, and maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, but it seemed like whenever Jade looked at his smile, a slight pink dusted across his cheeks.

“No, Monstro Lounge has no intention of offering sweets yet, though I may suggest that to Azul. Trey told me he just noticed he was running low on some ingredients, so I was getting him some.”

“Wait really?” Cater looked between his basket and Jade’s. They had only sugar in common, the rest of them were completely different supplies, just from the same isles. Did their kitchen really need a full restock? What's with the two separate lists? “Trey told me the same thing.” Cater lifted his basket, showing off his own ingredients.

“How does one notice they are suddenly running low on so many ingredients at once? When was the last time your dorm bought stuff for your Unbirthday Parties?”

“We stock up regularly enough. I didn't notice we were running low on so much stuff. I just thought Trey knew better than I did with how much he’s in the kitchen.” Were they truly running out of this much stuff? Was Trey planning something big? Did Riddle agree to whatever Trey was planning, if he truly did have a plan?

Jade sighed. “What is that man doing?”

“I never know what's in his head.” Cater gave a light chuckle “You want to check out with me? We can both head to Heartslabyul together if you want, or I can just carry it all back.”

The faint pink that Cater thought he saw on Jade earlier, but came back definitely noticeable this time. It came back when he mentioned going to his Heartslabyul together. What? Was he flustered about seeing Trey while he was doing whatever he was trying to do? He seemed a bit lost in thought.

“Whatever he’s doing, it’s probably not something he would be upset we caught him on.”

Jade snapped back to reality. “Oh! Yeah, he probably wouldn't.”

“Come on.” Cater grabbed Jade’s basket and started walking to the check-out. “Let’s check out then grill Trey.”

Jade slowly tagged behind. A very slight smile on his lips and his cheeks ever so slightly pinker.

—

Cater thoughts continued to roam despite the homework splayed out on his desk. Apparently, Trey had gotten Riddle to agree to some sweet treats for the dorm before upcoming tests.

While it was nice, it was all a bit unusual too. This is the first time Trey had ever mentioned even wanting to do something like this, and going straight to Riddle with no mention of it before to anyone else was a first for him. Not only that, only Cater and Jade were sent for ingredients. One single student from his dorm and one student from a separate dorm.

What? Was Trey using his boyfriend privileges to get free work from Jade? Couldn't he use his Vice Housewarden privileges to send more people from Heartslaybul? What is Trey doing?

Only him and Jade? Now that thought of it, Trey always seemed to look between the two of them whenever they bumped into each other, even if it was only just for a second. On top of that, after he mentioned he felt weird after he mentioned feeling weird after bumping into Jade that once, Trey looked at him funny, then said Cater can't read himself.

What’s up with Trey? If Cater wasn't crazy here, he felt there was some pattern. Only the two of them… Looking between them… Feeling weird around-

Cater has a crush on Jade and Trey instantly caught it and tried to set them up together.

He felt heat rise to his cheeks as he jolted up from his chair. Trey, that traitor! Trey-tor! Cater immediately started speed-walking out of his room and to the kitchen. There is no way he's letting Trey get away with this.

He didn't even know what he was going to do if his boyfriend wasn't in the kitchen. He was just hoping the ever-present want to bake would work in his favor. He was supposed to be making the sweets for their dormmates anyway. After the corner, he found sweets did work in his favor for once.

“You!” Cater pointed at Trey who stopped in his tracks.

“Cater! Do you want to give me a heart attack?!” Trey set the oven timer and oven mitts down roughly, as roughly as he could without breaking the timer, then turned to face him.

He stomped right up to his boyfriend. “I want revenge! You noticed my developing crush, somehow before I myself did, then tried to set me up with him! Absolute Trey-tor!”

Trey just doubled over in laughter, only getting words out in between laughs and gasps for breath. “Again, you need to learn to start with context. You can't just jumpscare me.” He stood up straight again, barely keeping in a few residual laughs. “But I have no clue what you even mean. Why would I set you two up? How would I even notice your crush? It’s not like your cheeks flush whenever he talks to you or like you look around whenever you’re in an area he’s likely to be in too, or even like you've been bringing him up more and more. No, I would never be able to tell.”

Trey's smirk as he leaned onto a countertop top only made Cater’s face feel hotter and hotter. He couldn't even say what emotion he was feeling. He just tried to show some part of that wasn't happy.

“Aw, you can pout somewhere out of my kitchen if you're not going to help. I have a lot of baking to do still.” Trey turned Cater to face the entrance and pushed him towards it. “But if you two were to date, with your crush that no one ever knew of before now, that would be nice.”

Cater opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He could only stomp back to his room.

—

It’s been a while since Cater’s realization, and maybe Trey was right. His crush was kinda obvi. Even right now, he was looking around since there was even a slight chance he could have bumped into Jade. Could you blame him? He did it with Trey before they started dating too. Is it sad? Probably. But he can't help it. They didn’t interact much during the school day, and Cater just wanted to interact more.

Jade was probably somewhere here in this courtyard around this time of day. All he had to do was look… And there he is! Sitting on a bench and what looks like copying something off his phone onto some notebook. He looked completely peaceful.

Cater makes his way to Jade, keeping his pace nice and peaceful. Hopefully keeping his pace slow might slow his heart too. “Sup Jade?”

Apparently, he was too absorbed in whatever he was doing because when Cater’s voice came out, he practically jumped and his face became absorbed in pink. “Hello, Ca-Diamond. How are you?”

“You can call me Cater, no worries. And, I'm good. What are you up to?” Cater couldn't tell how he scared Jade so badly that he couldn't get Jade couldn't gather himself and was practically dunked in pink paint, but he must have. He couldn't see another reason for any of it. He could at least try and act calmly.

“Oh!” He turned back to his notebook which had a mostly finished drawing of some mushroom, a copy of the mushrooms shown on his phone. “I was drawing a Common Ink Cap Mushroom. It’s also known as an inky cap, tipper’s bane, or even scientifically, Coprinopsis atramentaria. It starts off as bell-shaped, but flattens as it disintegrates. As they disintegrate, they also make a black liquid that can be easily used to make ink. You can also eat the mushrooms as long as you aren't eating any alcohol with them.”

Cater couldn't help but continue to listen and hum some acknowledgments as Jade rambled on and on about these mushrooms. He seemed so interested and happy to talk about them. His focus was solely on the mushrooms.

While Cater made an effort to listen, it was all interesting facts, Cater’s focus remained mostly on Jade’s face. His whole face was lit up by his smile. The corners of his eyes were crinkled up on following his mouth. All of his sharp features seem to only reflect the light of his smile. And while the pink on his face seemed to have died down, some of it still dusted his cheeks. It all made Cater’s heart melt.

Cater immediately started wondering how he could hear him all the time, and as expected, one thought came up. “Do you have a Magicam or something? I bet so many people would love to listen to and learn all of this. I could follow you.” The instant those words left his mouth he regretted them. Did it seem like he was taking attention away from Jade? Why would anyone else have his Magicam addiction? Did that make Jade hate him? Ugh!

Jade’s pink grew back to the same level as when he first shocked him and he gave no response. Yup, he totally hated Cater now. Sure, he had a smile, but how he got just jumped with Cater’s addiction, that was probably nothing more than an awkward smile before letting him down gently.

“Of course, you don't have to make one or let me follow you! It’s good either way.” Cater tried to laugh it all off. Oh, this was so stupid.

Lucky for him, Jade snapped back to reality at his words, at least enough to respond while clumsily tapping on his phone. “I actually do have one, I just don't post to it much. You can follow me though, and I could try posting more. That would be fun.” He brought up a Magicam account with the user ‘MountainEel’. “The account isn't all mushrooms. There are some plants and animals, but it's mostly mushrooms.”

Cater quickly brought up his phone to search for the account. It only took a few seconds to find, but with how his heart was racing it felt like ages. He finally found it and hit the follow button. He swore his heart was seconds from stopping. Cater looked up to see Jade give him another smile. Yup, he's dead. He could barely collect himself to smile back and watch Jade’s pink face deepen in color.

—

“Unfair! Just totes unfair! Why did you get him first?” Cater had been whining into the corner of Trey’s neck for a good few minutes now. It had all started when they wanted to spend time cozy with each other by cuddling in bed, but cuddle time was disrupted by a notification Jade had posted, a daily thing since Cater followed. Trey teased him for how he instantly went to check the post causing Cater to bury his face in between his boyfriend's shoulder and neck, who only responded with a sigh and started playing with Cater’s hair.

“It’s far from unfair. I simply got to know him first.”

“Unfair! That was because you just had the chance to get to know him first. If I had that chance, I woulda done it too!”

“You still can. There's nothing blocking you from talking to him. Just hang out for a bit and try to be friends, it will evolve from there. No matter where it ends up, two of the people I love just getting along well would be nice.”

Cater removed his face from hiding to glare pouty daggers at Trey. “Easy for you to say! I was about to die when I ended up getting his Magicam. I almost died again every time I wait for his reply to my comments.”

“If he's posting more, he probably enjoys the comments and attention. He has been on his phone more.”

“Still doesn't stop my heart from racing.”

“Just let yourself hang out with him.” Trey thought about something before letting a fond smile grow. “You can also just look at him. If you can see past his initial barrier he can’t really hide anything.”

“I think I keep scaring him. He keeps getting all fidgety and can't compose himself while I'm around. He also blushes when he gets startled, which is cute.”

“He wha- Cater… Dear…” Trey sighed and cupped Cater’s face.

“What?”

“He doesn't- He’s not startled, well at least not only startled.”

“But I only see it when I say something out of the blue, like if I can walk with him or follow his account.”

Trey gave him a pitying look for a few seconds before taking a deep breath. “You’re lucky you’re cute. But, just hang out with him for a bit more. Try to learn his signs a bit more.” A playful smirk grew on his face. “You'll get plenty of chances to do that.”

“What does that mean? What’s with that smirk?”

Trey moved his hands from cupping Cater’s cheeks to covering his eyes “What smirk?”

—

‘Hang out’. ‘Why don't you just hang out?’ This is why! He was only walking through the halls while talking with Jade and it was taking all of his energy to not keel over.

What did Trey even mean by ‘learn his signs a bit more’? Cater was reading him pretty well, at least he thought he was. At minimum, he could tell Jade was happy when talking about his hikes, talking and listing about Trey, or listening to Cater talk about whatever he was caught up in at the moment.

“I did see a few beautiful birds on my last hike. Sadly, they flew away before I could get a picture, so I can't say their exact species.” Jade was standing tall, wearing a smile on his face, making the distance between himself and Cater ever so slightly smaller, and using his hands to gesture about the birds. See? Cater could read him. That's a happy eel.

“What did they look like?”

“They were small and ground songbirds. They looked to be some kind of finch.” His smile only grew as he continued to ramble on and on about the birds he saw, along with any animal, interesting plant, or cool fungus that crossed his path.

His smile only continued to grow. Every gesture he made fit exactly what he said. He leaned slightly towards Cater when he couldn't walk closer.

Cater just wanted to fawn over him. “You really are adorable.” It wasn't until his words hit his ears, that he even realized he said something.

Jade’s attention snapped right to Cater as he stopped walking and his face flushed. “Excuse me?”

“I- uh- I just-” Cater’s heart and mind were racing. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid! Who just blindsides someone like that, especially someone who probably gets a heart attack with how much you spook them? But mostly, why would you ever tell that to someone who would never love you back?

Cater wanted to die on the spot, but he couldn't so he did the next best thing. He pushed past Jade and ran away. He heard Jade call his name behind him, but he only darted to his room.

—

Cater spent the past day or two in his room or hiding from Jade. When class was out he took the most roundabout way to get to the next one, making sure it changed almost every day so no one could wise up and tell Jade. The second school was out for the day he went right to his room and didn't go out. Trey and his clubmates kept bombarding him with texts.

Cater can't do anything right can he? First, he accidentally half-admits his crush. Then he does what anyone else would call an overreaction. Finally, he made everyone worry about him wallowing in self-pity over a crush. He even noticed Jade hadn't posted since he ran, probably a bit awkward to post with him constantly lurking.

So why was he here? He was out in the open sitting on the same bench he found Jade on while sketching those mushrooms. Ink caps, right? Trey had texted him and told him to be here for a surprise. Trey practically demanded he come. Yet he's been here for about ten minutes and hasn't heard from Trey once.

He accepted his fate to just sit there in silence for the foreseeable future until he heard a loud voice.

“Nuh-uh! You’re going!” It was Floyd Leech holding his brother in a headlock and dragging him in the same direction as Cater. That can't be comfortable.

Jade continued to try and futilely push against Floyd while complaining. “I said I’m fine just sitting in my room!”

“Nope! He said he needed you here.”

“Who?!” Someone needed Jade here but didn't tell Jade himself? Who tells someone to forcibly drag their brother somewhere without telling the brother first?

Floyd noticed Cater and finally let Jade go, pushing him in Cater’s direction. “Bench.”

Jade looked up and at the bench, making eye contact with Cater, and Cater instantly knew who forced Jade out. The same man who force him out as well. The Trey-tor.

Jade stood stalk still only for Floyd to push him again. “Bench!”

Cater turned his face away when Jade slowly started walking closer with Floyd grumbling and walking away from both of them. What felt like after waiting ages, Jade sat down next to him. They both just sat there silently for another long while. Cater wanted to die.

“You ran away.” Jade spoke up out of nowhere. When Cater looked over at him he was curled up, his feet on the bench and his face slightly hidden in his knees. His eyes had even started to tear up.

“I- uh-” Cater didn't know what to say. He did run. They were having a nice time. He complimented Jade. Then he ran. That must have turned any compliment straight into an insult.

“I thought we were getting along. Then you said something that made me feel so, so happy, then you ran away.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No, don't be. I got my hopes up for our relationship because I couldn't help my own feelings.” Jade gave a sigh and placed his feet back on the ground.

“You're feelings?” Feelings? Cater thought he might have known what that meant, and it made his heart jump. No, he shouldn't get his hopes u-

“I’ve liked you for a while now.”

“You what?”

“Ever since I saw you genuinely smile and laugh when we bumped into each other while shopping. When you said I was adorable I thought for a second you might have returned my feelings, but then you ran away and I didn't know what to think. Now I guess I just think I got my hopes too high.”

Cater was speechless. Jade liked him? Jade liked him! Wait, wasn't that when the blushing started? Oh! That's probably what Trey meant.

“I know I probably sound stupid here, but I couldn't help letting my em-”

“-I like you too!” Cater let everything just come out. “My crush started probably around the time we bumped into each other in the hall. Random seeming time, I know. I just convinced myself you wouldn't like me back, so I tried to keep it to myself. When I accidentally let my feelings slip I got so flustered and embarrassed I only thought to run.”

“Why would you think I wouldn't like you?”

“When we first met you were always anxious and guarded when I came around, so I just assumed you hated me. Well, that and I suc-”

“-Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” Jade glared daggers at Cater. His face then quickly morphed into a pout. “You were the exact same with me. When we first met, you always had a strained smile around me. I didn't know what you were thinking under the fake smile, and I might have gotten scared…”

Cater let a laugh bubble up. “So we scared each other by trying to fake pleasantries and only tried harder after getting scared?”

Jade's face instantly melted into one of joy as he brought one hand to cup Cater’s cheeks. “With how your genuine smile and laugh are what caused me to develop a crush, I probably would have fallen for you instantly if I had seen that first.” Before Cater’s mind gathered what Jade said, he had wrapped Cater into a tight and comforting hug.

Cater moved to rub Jade’s back. “If you had fallen earlier, would it have been any better? With what Trey said of you, I doubt you would have done more than silently pine.”

Jade jumped out of the hug with a playful gasp. “Excuse you? I am amazing at bringing myself to confess. Also, what are you and Trey doing together? Slandering me?”

“Oh really? Who confessed to who with you and Trey? Also, it’s not slander if it's factual, btw.”

“Trey is irrelevant. I confessed to you.”

“What? No! I confessed. That’s what got us here.”

“Yes, because calling someone adorable and then running away is confessing.”

“Shut it!” Cater could feel his cheeks flush. The color only got worse when Jade started to genuinely laugh. It sounded perfect. This whole scene was perfect. Jade was perfect.

Cater moved his hands to Jade’s cheek, mimicking what Jade had done before. He gave Jade a small genuine smile, causing the other’s cheeks to regain some of that pink Cater couldn't help but love.

“What are you up to now?”

“Can I kiss you?”

The small amounts of color on Jade’s face immediately turned to vibrantly cover it. Jade stared at Cater for a quick second, looking between him and his lips. Finally, he gave a nod.

Cater didn't waste another second before pulling him into a kiss. It was clumsy and didn't last for more than a few seconds, but it felt wonderful.

Once Cater pulled away, Jade immediately melted into a puddle. He leaned on Cater as if he had no bones in his body, and hid his face in the crook of Cater’s neck.

Cater couldn't help but laugh. “Are you hiding?” He only got a huff in response. “Mister big strong ‘I-confessed-you-first’ can't handle a kiss? Are you sure you even could withstand confessing? I think my argument is proven.”

That earned Cater a bigger response, a pinch on his cheek and a pout.

“Alright, ow, got the message.”

From behind them, they heard Trey’s voice suddenly appearing, nearly giving Cater a heart attack. “So I assume all went well?”

“Trey! Don't sneak up on people!” Cater turned to see Trey. He had a small basket with what looked like freshly baked bread. It smelled delicious.

“Sorry! Sorry. I didn't know you didn't hear me, though I probably should have guessed based on how you looked.” Of course Trey would instantly go to teasing them. Jade immediately poked his head out of his hiding spot and gave Trey a pouty look.

Wait, Cater had forgotten in all this mess but Trey was the one who set them up. How dare he? “Oh, wait! I'm mad at you. You set us up with all your tricks.”

Jade gave a nod in agreement. “How could you? Such tricks on your own boyfriends.”

“Fine, sure, I did. But I know both of you. Nothing would have come of it otherwise. Though, as recompense, we can all eat this pumpkin bread together.”

“Should we, Cater? If anything, I think we deserve more. Like some cuddles.” Jade gave such a saccharine and fake innocent face before leaning on Cater.

“Fine, fine. You'll get what you want, but we should probably eat where there's more space.”

Jade and Cater both got up to walk with Trey to Heartslabyul. Jade tried to steal a piece of the bread multiple times, and Trey moved it away every time. Jade immediately pouted and leaned on Cater, calling Trey mean. And, as silly or weird as the scene may have looked, Cater found it perfect.

#writing blog #writing #twisted wonderland #fluff #finished #romance #twst jade #twst trey #twst cater #cater diamond #jade leech #trey clover #treyjade #caterjade #treycater #i tried #polycule ship #poly ship

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mad4turtles · 10 months

Note

Do you happen to have any thoughts, shenanigans, or ideas about Usagi and Leo from the apocalypse timeline? 👀

Any… hare-y conflicts hAHA… I’ll see myself out. /lh

Oh, anon. This. This is lovely!

(And it was supposed to be a one-shot but I'm splitting it into two, why do I keep doing this?!)

---

In another time, Miyamoto Usagi isn't attacked by a band of hired muscle sent from Japan by Lord Hijiki. No blue-masked turtle with a daring grin and flashing blades comes flipping into the vacant alley of the Hidden City bazaar to change Usagi's life forever with a quip on his silver tongue and wink to the baffled samurai he'd come to rescue like a damsel.

In another time, the Krang rip open the sky and run the humans underground, mixing with mutant and yokai kind for the first time in centuries for safety and security.

In another time, Usagi's sensei, Katsuichi—his father—is torn to pieces by a horde of infected Yokai before him and his little sister, Hana, roaring at them to run and leave him behind.

“Protect your sister! Live, Miyamoto Usagi!”

In another time, The United Council are formed--a (very) tentative alliance between the Council of Heads and the remaining human leaders of the United States to establish order and a semblance of peace as the world caves in, forcing everyone further underground.

It doesn't last longer than a year. Society finally crumbles, splitting into colonies across the country.

In another time, the survivors of the fabled Hamato Clan rise from the ashes of their own tragedy to take the lead of the Liberty Colony. Not all are on board with this, least of all the remnants of the crumbling Earth Protection Force, most notably their leader, Bishop.

In another time, Usagi joins the ranks to fight alongside the honourable (if unconventional) ninja clan, fulfilling his master's final order and honouring his own late ancestors to fight for those who cannot.

(The blue-masked turtle jokingly calls him “carrot cake” once, and Usagi decides he hates him.

It spurs a rivalry between them, which has half the base rolling their eyes, caught between exhaustion and fondness as they bicker like children every chance they get.

The other half starts a betting poll on how long it'll be before they finally kiss, for god's sake.)

In another time, the Krang break through their first base, and Usagi falls, injured. The blue-masked turtle—Leonardo—saves him from the jaws of a Krang hound, all grace, muscle and deadly steel dipped in searing rage. Usagi, speechless for once, lets Leonardo carry him to safety and passes out in his arms.

(Later, waking up in the makeshift infirmary, his sister cuddled under his left arm, Leonardo dozing fitfully on his right, Usagi stares at the turtle's pinched, restless face and decides he owes him his life.

A friendship blooms like a tentative rose among the thorns of a crumbling world, scathing jeers morphing into teasing jabs and scrappy spars in the vacant training hall. Their friends and family watch on with tolerant grins and, in the case of Donatello, mild jealousy but begrudging acceptance.

Soon, the jabs turn into hip bumps in the hallways, mirroring grins during training, brushing shoulders during war meetings, twinging hands during blackouts and lockdowns, sharing beds on colder nights and whispering secrets after screaming nightmares.

The rosebud blooms full and bright weeks later with Leonardo's awkward smile, sweaty palms and a stammered question that Usagi, hopelessly fond, answers with a kiss.

Donatello wins everyone's money.)

In another time, Usagi fails. A recon mission goes awry, and in her second-ever mission, Hana gets infected.

On his knees, he watches in frozen horror as his little sister, barely ten years old, writhes and screams in terror and agony as the Krang infection takes over. She begs her big brother through tears to kill her, spare her from turning, from hurting him.

It feels like hours, years, an eternity, infinity. In reality, it's only seconds as he slices Willow Branch through her chest.

Leonardo is there in the aftermath, stopping Usagi from taking his blind grief and rage out on the corpse of the Krang that killed his sister, yanking him away and holding him until his roars and struggles ebb, until they're on their knees in the abandoned office complex, Usagi sobbing his heart out in Leonardo's chest.

The days pass in a blur, but Leonardo is there, unfailing, patient, kind, loyal and true, and Usagi decides he loves him.

(A year later, standing among the gore and gravel of a rare but hard-earned victory against a legion of Krang, Usagi seeks Leonardo out. A fair distance away atop a fallen Mech suit, he stands tall and strong despite his exhaustion, covered in blood that's not his own, glowing in the spotlights of Donatello's searching drones. In that moment, he is beautiful, and Usagi doesn't—can't, won't—wait a second longer.

“Leonardo!” he calls.

Immediately, his boyfriend turns to find him, meeting his eyes across the way. “Yeah?”

“Will you marry me?!”

“WHA—?!” he hears Donatello squawk through the comms. Around him, their squad starts laughing and whooping and swearing in shock. April is screaming, shaking or slapping the nearest person—judging by the cries of pain, it's probably Donnie.

Leonardo's eyes are comically huge, his jaw gaping. Heart hammering, Usagi doesn't take his eyes off him, and he's glad for it when the slider's shock turns into a gleaming, helplessly delighted grin.

“You asshole!” he cries through gasping laughter, tears leaving scars down his bloodied face. “You couldn't—are you for real right now?!”

“Is that a yes?!” Usagi asks.

“IT BETTER F%&CKING BE!” Michelangelo hollers from—somewhere on the battlefield; honestly, Usagi had lost track of him in the chaos. “I AIN'T LOSING NO MORE BETS!”

“Language!” Raph barks on comms.

“I'M TWENTY-ON YEARS OLD, YOU BITCHASS SNAPPER! I CAN SWEAR IF I WANT TO!”

Leonardo throws his head back with a cackle, a trembling hand over his streaming eyes as his family devolves into an argument. Usagi climbs and leaps the distance between them just as the turtle drops his hand and faces him, golden eyes brighter than they've been in years.

“You idiot,” he chokes, reaching for Usagi's hand and holding it tight enough to hurt. “Yes.”

April screams in delight with the rest of their squad. Donatello hollers as his sister shakes him senseless, Raphael sobs, and Michelangelo lets loose a stream of mystic fireworks right as Leonardo sweeps Usagi into a spinning hug. Breathless and giddy, Usagi wraps his arms around his boyfriend's—fiance, husband—broad shoulders and kisses him. Leonardo holds him closer and kisses him back.

I won't waste this life. I won't waste our time together, however long that may be. I won't let you go, Hamato Leonardo.

When they part, Leonardo makes a face even as he presses their foreheads together. “Couldn't wait 'till I had a shower?” he chuckles. “I'm literally covered in Krang blood.”

Usagi nuzzles his nose against his own. “Apologies. I couldn't help myself,” he says, running a hand down Leonardo's plastron with a grin. “You looked very sexy just now. In a ravaged, war-torn hero kind of way.”

“Oho,” Leonardo raises a brow, his new grin downright devilish in a way that sends a shiver down Usagi's spine. “Ravaged, eh? That's a funny word to use outside the—”

“I swear to god, Nardo, if the next word out of your mouth is 'bedroom', I am going to be physically ill ALL OVER YOUR FACE!” Donatello shouts through comms.

That does it as Usagi collapses to his knees in laughter. He doesn't collect himself in time to avoid being whisked into a bridal carry by his fiance when the commotion (and mystic fireworks, Mikey) attracts more Krang in the distance. But he doesn't complain one bit.)

In another time, Leonardo and Usagi are twenty-two and married without a ceremony.

In another time, Hamato Usagi is happy even at the end of the world.

---

Stay tuned for part two <3

#rottmnt #my writing #leosagi #rottmnt fic #request #i love them your honor #tw sibling death

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kikiiswashere · 3 months

Text

Terms of an Agreement - Chapter 1

Summary: Silco and Vander are happy. For the most part. In order to keep their dream of Zaun moving forward, they each have jobs that makes the other uncomfortable. And discomfort for Silco comes out in anger. Luckily, Vander is there to remind him that he has nothing to worry about.

Pairing: Established Silco/Vander, pre-betrayal

Rating: Explicit

CW: Marital issues, arguments

Notes: A request from my bestie @sand-sea-and-fable! I posted this story in the new year, but never finished it. I wanted to re-work it (and finish it) for pride month. So, here is the first chapter of what will be a three-chapter novella. Happy Pride!

Silco’s body ached deeply, but his heart was light.

The mission had been successful. He had gotten what he set out for, but getting back across the River had been more treacherous than anticipated.

An alarm in the vault he wasn’t aware of had been tripped, and a unit of Enforcers had chased him. Slippery as an eel in the Oases tidepools, Silco had dodged their snares and rubber bullets. They streaked across the main bridge and wove through the Boundary Markets. He’d given them the slip by squeezing through an alleyway their armor couldn’t contend with, and disappeared down a sewer grate. He had since trekked out of the drains and into the technicolor of Zaun’s nightlife. He kept to the shadows and side streets, weaving his way back home.

To The Last Drop.

To Vander.

His heart warmed at the thought of his partner. A smile curled his mouth and he quickened his steps. The duffle slung across his back rustled with his boon: several file folders from the Clockwork Vault. Account numbers, secrets, and other priceless information about Topside elite at the revolution’s fingertips. They could hold the information for ransom; sell it to the highest bidder on the black market; or even keep it and exploit it for themselves.

The mission had been dangerous, but the information was more than worth it. It would provide the whole of the Underground with opportunities. Vander would see that, would know that; would understand why Silco had felt the need to take on such a risk.

It was all for Zaun.

For their future.

Silco’s heart leapt into his throat at the first glimmer of The Last Drop’s glowing marquee.

Home!

He was almost home!

He’d only been gone for a few days, but he longed for their bed. For the feeling of Vander’s chest snuggled tightly against his back. The gentle rasp of chest hair against his scapula and spine an addicting sense of safety.

He couldn’t wait, he couldn’t wait . . .

His legs groaned as he sped up, carefully maneuvering through the crowd in the square in front of the tavern. He ignored the questioning looks and curled nostrils as he went. He knew he looked a mess: caked in dust, sweat, dirt, shit, and blood.

Maybe he should’ve bee-lined for The Drop’s backdoor, going up to their apartment quietly, instead of subjecting patrons to his stink and dishevelment. But he couldn’t bring himself to be away from Vander any longer. Not when he had such exciting news. Not when there was such a treasure in his duffle bag.

The Last Drop was bustling and warm. The jumble of many conversations filled the air, and the jukebox spouted a toe-tapping melody overhead. A few fellow revolutionaries noticed Silco enter, and they raised their tankards to him. They eyed his appearance with interest, amusement, and a small amount of disgust. He gave them a small nod before inclining his head toward the bar.

Vander was not behind it – Benzo was – and Silco’s lower lip pouted forward. His blue eyes scoured the room, expecting to see the Hound tending to a table. But, again, he was nowhere to be seen. His heart settled back into his chest, a disappointing ache wrapping around it.

Carefully winding through The Drop’s table and chairs, Silco’s eyes still searched. Just as he was about to skirt around the bar and continue his hunt in the storerooms, the sound of Vander’s deep, rumbling laugh stopped Silco in his tracks. He turned toward the chuckle, and his heart was thoroughly sucked up by the deep ache threatening it.

Tucked into the shadows of a booth, Vander sat with the Madame of the only brothel on the Promenade. Advertised as a mere ‘Gentlemen’s Club’, it was notorious for servicing the wandering dicks and quims of Topside Elite. Aristocrats, politicians, noblemen and ladies whose kinkier needs could not be met by their white-bread, prudish spouses. The Club offered a discreet outlet, its playrooms hidden by secret doors and obscene prices.

One of Vander’s large arms was slung across the bench behind the Madame’s shoulders, his body turned towards her. She smiled up at his handsome face, swirling a glass of blood-red wine in her hand.

Silco’s fist tightened around the sling of his bag, his face creasing in anger.

This wasn’t an unusual sight.

They had agreed to this, after all.

While he would scheme and steal to move their cause forward, Vander would use his clout and likeability to get useful information and materials. Sometimes geniality led to flirting; sometimes flirting led to fucking – whatever it took to help Zaun.

They had agreed. Vander’s dalliances meant nothing. They were strictly business.

“It can’ touch what we have, Sil,” he would say. And seal that promise with a kiss sweet as candy floss.

And yet.

And yet . . .

And yet each time Silco was faced with it, it made his skin crawl with jealousy and his heart wall-up.

Now was no exception. He had just gotten home from an incredibly dangerous mission; was beaten, sore, and covered in grime. All he wanted to do was share his success with his partner. Instead, his partner was flirting with a Madame. A Madame who looked at him with predatory bedroom-eyes.

The rational part of his brain reminded him that Vander was just doing his job, his part to see Zaun succeed.

The emotional piece of him was fed up with sharing Vander in this way.

Despite it being very useful and lucrative for the revolution, Vander sharing beds with others left their own feeling cold. The sight of bitemarks and hickeys on Vander’s chest and neck – not left by Silco’s own mouth, own teeth – sent his blood boiling. Even more so when Vander didn’t seem to understand why him covered in love notes from others would bother him.

They had agreed, after all.

Suddenly sensing him, Vander’s silver eyes flicked to Silco’s icy ones. They widened at the sight of him, mouth falling open slightly in surprise.

Before he could do much else, Silco glared at him and stalked towards the backrooms, his pleased mood utterly fouled. He stomped through the hallway and down the stairs to their living quarters, leaving the merriness and hope of the tavern behind. Sinking into the dark of their basement home. Into the dark of his bruised and tired heart.

Thirty minutes later, the Madame pecked Vander on the cheek good-bye, squeezed his thick thigh, and made him promise to visit her soon. His stubble ghosted over her cheek, causing her body to shudder. With a low whisper in her ear that he knew would leave her cunt clenching, he promised he would.

The moment she turned away, his eyes snapped to the door Silco had disappeared behind. He glanced around the tavern, and then to Benzo behind the bar. They caught each other’s eye, and Vander strode over.

“I got the rest fer t’night. I can close up. You go check on, Silco,” Benzo murmured, leaning his thick body across the counter.

“Thanks, ‘Zo,” Vander said, patting his friend’s forearm and making his way off the main floor.

As the cheery clamor of the tavern fell away, it was replaced by the distant stomping of feet and slamming of cabinet doors. Vander’s lips thinned and he sighed. Squaring his broad shoulders, he strode for the living quarters.

Their apartment beneath The Last Drop was lit with the same warm lights as the bar. Like the space above, it created a sense of coziness; washes of yellow and orange coating their mismatched furniture and brightening dark corners. However, the homey atmosphere was greatly defeated by Silco’s moody banging. Vander brace himself and trudged through the living room to the kitchenette.

Silco shuffled angrily from side-to-side of the galley-style kitchen, putting away dishes Vander had left on the counter. He pointedly ignored Vander’s presence.

“I didn’ know you’d be back t’night.” A grunt was the response. “Did’ya get what you were after?”

Silco slammed a cupboard door shut before reaching for his bag. He ripped it open, and carelessly tossed the files on the still damp counter. He then reached for their icebox and wrenched it open. Tentatively, Vander’s fingers reached for the files, but his eyes stayed on his partner. Silco withdrew a bowl covered with a rag from the icebox. He lifted the cloth, sniffed, deemed the smell acceptable, and tossed the rag into the sink. Setting his bony hips against the counter, he tucked into the meal, eating it like it had wronged him.

While he ate – making those sounds that made Vander’s skin crawl – the larger man drew the folders closer. He flipped through them, eyes scanning all the names and numbers. And coin amounts. His eyes widened to silver dollars. His full lips spread into a wolfish grin.

“Damn, Sil.”

Another grunt. With a wet food sound on the end of it. Vander winced. He waited to see if Silco would elaborate or add commentary with regards to the job he’d just pulled.

Only the sound of mouth-smacking punctuated the thick silence.

“You okay? Yer not hurt, are you?”

Instead of answering, Silco finished his meal and tossed the bowl into the sink with a loud clatter. Vander’s wince deepened. He fixed his partner with a serious look as he stepped closer.

“Sil,” he cooed softly, stretching a hand out.

Silco batted it away and snarled, “Don’t. I’m dirty.”

Vander chuckled. “I can see that. Ye don’ smell too good either.”

Silco finally looked at him, and the hurt in his eyes took Vander’s breath away. Beyond tears and weary. They held each other’s gaze for seconds that felt like hours – Silco utterly wounded, Vander wholly confused.

“Sil. Wha’s wrong? What happened?”

The hurt in Silco’s eyes seamlessly flared into hot disbelief.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Vander felt his own temper begin to rise. It swirled with his confusion, a bubbling cocktail of emotion threatening to overflow.

“No. ‘M not kiddin’ ya. Ya show up two days after ya said you’d be home, ‘n just glare at me. Now yer bangin’ around the flat all pissy-like.”

“I’m banging around because this place is a mess. How long were the dishes in the sink? The last thing I want to do after a job is come home to more work!”

“If you’d be home when ya said you’d be, I’d have the place spic-n-span.”

Silco clicked his tongue against his teeth. “That has never once happened.”

“Sil – “

“Just drop it, Vander,” Silco growled, holding a hand up and looking away. He took a deep breath in and repeated, quieter, “Just. Drop it. I need to take a shower. I don’t suppose the bathroom’s been cleaned.”

Vander’s cheeks turned red and he averted his gaze.

“Just as I thought.”

Silco shouldered past his partner and headed for their bathroom. He peeled his filthy shirt off as he went, and pointedly let it fall to the floor in a heavy, damp wumph. He slammed the door shut, and Vander jumped. His eyes fell to the dirty shirt, his stomach twisting into knots. The sound of the shower sputtering to life filled the deadly quiet apartment.

He thought back to the look Silco had given him in the bar. The distaste and betrayal on his thin face. He thought of who’d been next to him, petting his thigh, her hand traveling dangerously close to his groin with each swipe.

Vander frowned and shook his shaggy head, the flush on his face turning from embarrassment to frustration.

They had agreed.

Silco did dangerous missions that sent Vander’s stress levels sky-rocketing. And Vander fucked information and resources out of people.

They. Had. Agreed.

He groaned. He was tired of arguing about this, tired of it subterfuging into other conflicts. He was exhausted by Silco’s pissy, possessive moods. Tired of convincing him time and time again that the trysts meant nothing other than work.

Vander sighed, setting his hands on his hips. His chin flopped to his chest. After a moment, his eyes lifted again to the shirt between him and the bathroom. He heard the water thrumming against Silco’s lithe body and pelting the tiles. A sly smile curled Vander’s upper lip. Perhaps words were not the way to convince his partner. Perhaps action would prove to whom his heart truly belonged.

Vander strode forward, scooping up the shirt as he went, and entered the bathroom.

Notes: EEEEE!!!! What does the Van Man have planned?? Only good things, probably 😏

Thank you for reading. Comments and reblogs keep authors like me well-fed and motivated, so please consider leaving your thoughts below ❤️❤️

Next chapter is slated for Saturday! Til then my lovelies 😘

Next Chapter

#zaundads #vanco #silco x vander #silco fanfic #vander fanfic #zaundads fanfic #arcane #arcane fanfic #happy pride month!#pride #gay #pansexual

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nicothemunch · 3 months

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Starfire Finds Love Again

Reader is black and plus size

I haven’t read many comics with Starfire in them, so I’m going by the comic book knowledge I have right now

Rude comments will be blocked

Cw: Smut, mentions of a strap, oral and vaginal sex, mentions of homophobia, no mention of y/n

After Kori breaks up with Dick (again), she decides to try online dating. While she was on Hinge, she matched with a woman named Jazmine, who worked for The Daily Planet. Jazmine reserved the back of the restaurant for her and Kori because she did not want to be hounded by the paparazzi. They decided to meet at a restaurant near The Daily Planet, and Koriand’r was mesmerized by her beauty. She was dark skin, had 4c hair that was put into two low afro puffs, and a green tube top with a brown skirt. Kori wore a pink crop top and some blue shorts, and felt that she was underdressed for the date. “You look good,” Jazmine said. Kori replied, “You’re beautiful.”

They ordered their food and started talking about life. Jazmine mentioned she got a raise last week, and Kori congratulated her. “So, how long have you been a superhero? I’ve been a hero since I landed on this planet. How long have you worked at The Daily Planet? I have been there for five years.” Kori ordered key lime pie, and Jazmine ordered the carrot cake. As they ate their desserts, Jazmine asked “When did you realize you were into women?” Kori responded,”I had crushes on several girls on Tamaran, but I could not date them since my sister sold me into slavery.” Jazmine looked at her like she had seen a ghost. “Your sister sold you into slavery because she was mad you liked girls. No, Jazmine, she just wanted the power of the throne, and she needed to get rid of me to get it.” “I’m so sorry, Starfire. You didn’t deserve that,” Jazmine said. “Thank you, Jazmine, but I don’t want to talk about my past anymore. Do you prefer the nickname Jaz or Jazzy. Both nicknames are cool. We should talk about you and when you found out you liked girls.” Jazmine smiled and said,” I kissed my friend Sasha in my room when we were in 6th grade. Our parents accepted us, and we were so shocked.

Turns out Sasha’s grandma was closeted for a while, but she got to be with her childhood firmed before she passed away. Some people in our families were bigoted towards us, but we paid them no mind.” Starfire was bewildered over the part about the relatives who were bigoted toward them. “Why would they say such hurtful things to their own flesh and blood over who they loved?” Jazmine called the waiter over to take her carrot cake to go, and Kori said, “We can go back to my apartment and watch some movies, if you want. “I have to get my bonnet, nightgown, and hair supplies if I’m gonna stay the night, Kori. Kori answered,”Well I can fly you back to your place if you want.” Jaz said yes, and Kori flew her to her apartment. She put all her stuff in a bag, and Kori flew her to Star’s place.

Kori had a bunch of movies in a book shelf. Her apartment looked like a small house. Jazmine immediately undressed and was headed toward the shower, when Starfire grabbed her waist. “Would you like to do anything else before you take a shower.” Kori asked. “Yes, I would.” Jazmine smiled at Kori before Kori pulled her in for a kiss. One kiss turned into two kisses, which then turned into a full make out session. Kori undressed herself, and then she told Jaz, “Close your eyes, because I have a surprise for you.” Jaz closed her eyes and waited for Star. When Starfire said, “Open your eyes,” Jazmine was shocked to see a purple strap in Kori’s hands.

Kori adjusted the strap to her hips and told Jazmine, “Get on your knees.” Jazmine obeyed her, and instantly started to suck on the tip of the strap. Kori put her hand behind Jazmine’s head and began pushing her head forward. “Good girl.” Kori continued to praise her. “You’re doing such a good job for me.” After a while, Kori wanted to give Jazmine head. Once Jazzy was on the bed, and Starfire started to suck on her clit. “You taste so good. Thank you.” Jaz said while moaning. Jazzy’s moaning evanescence louder and louder because of Kori’s tongue going up and down her clit. “I’m gonna cum!” In seconds, a white liquid starts to ooze out of Jazz’s pussy. Kori sticks two fingers in her clit and brings them to Jasmine’s mouth for her to suck on. Jazmine takes of the strap, and starts to suck on Kori’s clit, and used her two fingers to fuck her pussy. Kori was in pleasure heaven, and she didn’t care if the neighbors heard her moan like this. Jazmine took the strap and lined it up to Kori’s entrance, and then started to fuck Kori’s pussy slowly. “You like it like that? Yes!” Jazmine started going faster, and his pleased Kori even more. “You’re doing so well for me, princess.” Jazmine looked down to see a small smile had formed on Kori’s mouth when she said that. “I think I’m gonna cum! Then cum for me, princess.” Soon after that, a bunch of white liquid started to flow from Kori’s pussy. With the both of them being exhausted, they cuddled together in bed and went to sleep. Jazmine’s shower would have to wait.

That’s the end of my fanfic

How did you like it

I want Koriand’r to date a woman so bad in the comics, because she’d be the perfect girlfriend

Tell me the weak points in the comments

#starfire #pansexual #lgbt #sapphic #wlw #wlw post #wlw love #dccomics #kory anders #fanfic #black and queer #black tumblr #lgbtq #nico writes #starfire x black reader #x black reader #x black fem reader #x black plus size reader

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pure-garbage · 2 months

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Final Miscalculation Of The Seeker Pirates! Tashigi's Trap!

Chapter Warnings: Violence, gore, character death

"Tighter! And make sure the knots are on the other side of the mast, where she has no hope of reaching them!"

Lana came to in a nightmare, Corrin's voice bringing her back from unconsciousness most unpleasantly. Across the deck from her, Nami and Sanji were slumped over, shackled.

"What... happened?"

The last thing Lana remembered was foraging on an island with her friends. Something about a net... Sanji yelling about a trap.

"I can't move!"

Mast at her back, Lana realized she recognized the ship she was on. Her suspicions were confirmed when Corrin stepped into her line of sight.

"Well, well, Avariya's awake," he crooned. "Long time, no see, lockbreaker."

"Corrin!" Lana seethed. "You've got some nerve letting me see your rotten face again after last time!"

"Nerve? Come on, it's only natural for bounty hunters to target pirates," Corrin tsked.

"Bounty hunters? What the hell are you talking about?" Lana demanded. She spared a glance upward. This was undoubtedly the ship of the Seeker pirates, but they weren't flying their jolly roger.

'I know Corrin. He would die a pirate before turning coat and becoming a bounty hound. He's up to something... but what does he have to gain from lying? And who is he really lying to? This line can't be for my benefit.'

"Corrin!"

A woman with blue hair appeared, frowning tersely through thick-framed glasses. She carried a sword. "The man I'm looking for isn't here. If you're wasting my time..."

"Wouldn't dare dream of it, sergeant major Tashigi," Corrin assured her. "These pirates are all part of the same crew. If anything can be said of the straw hat pirates, it's that they leave no man... or woman, behind. He'll come to take them back from us."

"He'd better, or I'll be holding you to account," Tashigi warned Corrin severely.

A marine. Some of the pieces started to fall into place.

"If you're trying to lure our captain out to rescue us, you should know it's gonna backfire," Lana spat. "Luffy's gonna mop the deck with you."

"Straw Hat Luffy?" Tashigi replied. "I'm afraid there's no way he'll be joining us. The platoon of marines I sent to distract him seem to be doing a fine job, judging by the commotion on the beach."

She was right. The shore was in sight and Lana could see Luffy, Chopper and Usopp running like madmen from a navy brigade.

"So... you mean it's not Luffy you're after?" Lana asked, confusion clouding her tone. "Then... who? Who is it you're trying to lure out?"

Robin's bounty was impressive, but Tashigi was after a man. If Sanji wasn't their target, that meant...

Lana's eyes narrowed as she reached a conclusion.

"Zoro? You idiots are trying to provoke Zoro? Corrin, you've pulled some bone-headed stunts in your time, but this takes the cake. You must have a death wish."

"Not me," Corrin grinned. "I'm just helping the good sergeant major capture her mark. It's a nice bonus that I'll be able to... collect your bounty, as well, Avariya."

His grin widened and he shot her a sly wink. Lana gasped, realizing his ploy. She scoffed, pulling furiously against the ropes that bound her.

"I get it now. You treacherous snake!"

Corrin would never lose Lana to the government. She was worth much more to him than the forty-six million berry price on her head the navy had decided she deserved for her part in the Alabasta misunderstanding. This gambit of his was clever, but flawed. He thought he could manipulate the navy, defeat the straw hat pirates and reclaim Lana for himself.

"There's just one wrinkle in your plan, Corrin," Lana smirked. More than one, but only one that truly mattered. Her confidence caused Corrin's smug expression to waver momentarily. "When Zoro gets here... he's going to slaughter you!"

"Why you-"

"Don't be shaken," Tashigi ordered. "When Roronoa Zoro arrives I'll handle him."

'She'll handle him? Who the hell is this woman?'

It was apparent that she was a sword master. Lana knew enough about quality steel to tell at a glance that the blade Tashigi carried was fine indeed. Could this meek-looking woman really have the skills to take Zoro down?

'She... she seems so sure of herself!'

"Tashigi, is it?"

The marine turned when Lana addressed her.

"Tell me, sergeant major, what business could you possibly have with Zoro?" Lana pried.

Tashigi fixed her with an icy glare.

"I don't need to answer to pirate scum."

"Ugh, rude, aren't you?"

Tashigi walked away, leaving Lana fuming.

"Sanji! Nami! Wake up! You need to- Mmm!"

Corrin placed his hand over her mouth, leaning against the mast beside her.

"Don't get so worked up, Avariya," he purred. "You'll be home soon. Back here with me, where you belong. And this time..."

Lana's eyes widened in panic as Corrin raised his left hand. In his palm, his seeking mark glowed orange as he prepared to use it.

"... I'll make sure you never have a chance to escape again!"

Lana squirmed in vain, desperation rising from her chest to choke her. He was going to mark her again and she was helpless to stop it, just like the first time. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she cursed him silently with all her might.

'Damn you! Damn you, Corrin, you bastard! Will I never be free of you?!'

"You're mine, Avariya! Then, now and always!" Corrin declared.

Lana's broken sob of despair was muffled by Corrin's hand. She let her eyes slide shut, trembling as she waited hopelessly for him to claim her once more.

'I'll kill the bastard the first chance I get! I'll burn his ship to ashes even if I have to burn along with the rest of these bastards! He can't have me! Not again!'

A slash sang out like a miracle, followed by a tense, sudden gasp from Corrin. He screamed in agony and Lana's eyes flew open. Corrin's blood splattered across the mast, wet and warm on even Lana's fevered skin. Corrin stumbled back, leaving his arms on the deck at Lana's feet. He fell, screaming and flopping away like a gutted fish while blood sprayed against the planks of his ship.

"Zoro!" Lana gasped, laying eyes her crewmate. The expression on his face stunned her into silence. His rage was seething, his bloodlust uncontrolled. He stepped past Lana without sparing her a glance, too focused on his target. He sliced through the ropes that bound her in passing, his blade deeply scoring the mast a half-inch from her hand.

Lana collapsed to the deck, slipping on blood as she watched Zoro advance on Corrin like some vengeful spirit. He placed his foot on the Seeker captain's chest, immobilizing him completely.

"She's not yours," Zoro growled. Corrin whimpered under the intensity of his ruthlessness. Zoro raised Kietetsu, his voice rising with the blade.

"She never was, and she sure as hell never will be!" he roared.

"Please!" Corrin managed to cry out, to no avail. "Mercy! I beg-"

Zoro cut his pleas short, separating his head from his body with a strike so brutal that it cleaved clean through the deck below.

"Z-Zoro..."

Lana's voice quivered. Zoro was breathing hard, shaking despite the fact that his brief assault shouldn't have been an exertion. Lana got to her feet unsteadily as Zoro slashed the air off the port bow, sending Corrin's blood hurtling off Kietetsu into the sea. He sheathed the blade as Lana found her footing and met her teary eyes with hellfire burning in his gaze. It was a terrifying sight to behold, but Lana was too shocked to feel fear.

"You killed him!"

"The bastard had his hands on you. Of course I killed him!"

Lana's lip trembled and she couldn't stop the tears from streaming down her face.

"Oh... Z-Zoro!"

"Tch, don't tell me you wanted me to spare that scum?" he scoffed, misreading her expression as he often did. "Well, I don't- hhng!"

Lana threw her arms around him, burying her face against his chest as she struggled to compose herself. Gratitude overwhelmed her, disbelief settling in to replace the terror she'd felt in the face of Corrin's return. It was over now, forever this time. Seeker Corrin would never, ever hound her again.

"Thank you!" she managed, her words muffled by his shirt. Knowing Zoro, she expected him to shrug her off or play it cool. Instead, she felt his arms around her, returning her firm embrace. His fingers crept into her hair as he held her, silently assuring her that he would kill for her again in a heartbeat.

Lana had never felt so safe in her life.

"Roronoa!"

Tashigi's voice cut the moment to shreds, tearing Lana back to reality. She and Zoro separated, turning to face the marine as she drew her blade and leveled it at Zoro. Behind her, the Seeker pirates reacted to the gruesome death of their captain with a range of emotions from shock, to anger, to despair.

"Suck it, assholes!" Lana jeered at the men who had done their part to torment her over the five years she'd spent sailing as their captive. "And you... boy, are you in for it now, little miss sergeant major! Zoro's gonna take you down too! Right, Zoro?"

"Uh... aw, crap! What the hell is she doing here?!"

"Huh?"

Lana realized Zoro's disposition had changed entirely as soon as he set eyes on Tashigi. He looked... squeamish?

"Zoro, what's the deal?" Lana demanded. "There's a swordsman challenging you, aren't you going to fight?"

"No way! I'm not fighting her!" Zoro declared.

"What?!" Lana gaped, her jaw dropping to the deck.

______________________________________________

<== Previous Chapter

Next Chapter ==>

== First Chapter ==

#fanfic #oc #one piece #roronoa zoro #sandbox adventures #nami #pure-garbage #sanji #tashigi

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5sosfanfictioncatalogue · 5 months

Text

Fic Titles Named After Food Masterlist

Birthday Cake (ao3) - im_just_a_sucker_for_bromance luke/calum E, 2k

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It’s Luke’s birthday and Calum decides to make it special.

burnt eggs & broken promises (ao3) - kingscrossinseptember luke/ashton G, 4k

Summary: “…So after a month or two of getting hounded by people, I may or may not have invented a fictional boyfriend.”

Luke glanced up at Ashton with worried blue eyes, as if he was expecting to be berated for lying. Instead, Ashton shrugged. “I can see why.”

or,

Ashton’s always found his roommate, Luke, nothing but aggravating, but when they make a deal where Ashton has to pretend to be Luke’s boyfriend for a night, his opinion starts to shift slightly…

Cake By The Ocean (ao3) - HPFangirl71 luke/calum E, 1k

Summary: Just the boys having fun in Bali......

I was sort of inspired by the DNCE song but only in the fact that it inspired the title and the premise of our ship Cake having sex by the ocean. lol Its basically just a reason for more Cake smut!!

cake topics (ao3) - galacticsugar luke/calum E, 39k

Summary: Every morning that week, Calum goes back to the bakery, collects his lemon bar, and sets up on the terrace with his laptop.

And every morning that week, he sees the tall guy with off duty model vibes, right around the same time, always carrying his iced coffee, always wearing a leather jacket. Since he’s all the way across the street, Calum doesn’t really get a good look at him beyond basic shapes, so the off duty model thing is based entirely on his build and the fact that he looks sort of effortlessly put together with his leather jacket and casual sneakers.

That’s probably why Calum waves like a maniac and blurts, “Hey buddy!” when he comes face to face with the guy when he’s in line for his lemon bar the following Monday morning.

Candy Cane Lane (ao3) - HeartbreakAshton94 luke/calum G, 270

Summary: Luke has never been to Candy Cane Lane, so Calum takes him there this year.

Candy Canes (ao3) - orphan_account luke/ashton E, 1k

Summary: In which Ashton is a tease and Luke gets his own back.

Ashton teases Luke by sucking on a candy cane, and Luke has a better idea of where to put it.

carrot correspondence (ao3) - galacticsugar, kaleidoscopeminds luke/calum T, 15k

Summary: His eyes. Calum is losing seconds if not weeks looking at them. They’re a little heavy and a lot hazy, framed with such ridiculously long lashes, and they glitter and shine at Calum as he pauses, with his lips already half turned up like he’s prepared to be delighted at any of Calum’s answers.

Calum entertains an errant passing thought about whether the bride would be willing to go for a gold glitter dusting on top of the piped flower design for the godforsaken carrot cake and—

The fucking carrot cake. Fuck.

Cherry Stained Lips (ao3) - Rainbow711 calum/ashton M, 1k

Summary: Cal and Ash want to make each other fall apart, Cal has a plan.

cups of coffee (ao3) - jasperdillon michael/luke G, 697

Summary: sometimes luke’s internal monologue leaves his mouth without his permission and sometimes it turns out good. this is one of those times

Dripping like Honey (ao3) - FayeHunter michael/luke E, 8k

Summary: Michael can’t seem to escape Luke and her wild ideas. She doesn’t really want to

Grapes (ao3) - im_just_a_sucker_for_bromance michael/luke E, 3k

Summary: Luke was bored and when he found an interesting package, he could not help his curiosity; he wanted to see what laid inside. Oddly enough, he wanted to use what was inside. Luke was horny in L.A, Michael was horny in Sydney and it just happened.

I’m Going Blind from this Sweet Craving (ao3) - kaleidoscopeminds luke/calum T, 6k

Summary: “Bye, Luke,” Calum says. “Maybe see you tomorrow, and… Hope you have a great day too.” His face breaks out into a wider smile that reminds Luke of the feeling of getting just the right consistency for macaron batter, or a perfectly smooth finish on a cake, or the way good puff pastry flakes into the perfect fragments when you cut through a mille-feuille. Or something.

A bakery au

I think I like you… even more than your cinnamon rolls! (ao3) - FernandaLC luke/ashton, michael/calum G, 1k

Summary: Luke has been working in the bakery for one year. He really likes his job, he really enjoyed it. He dedicate three days on the week to make his cinnamon rolls. Everybody loves them. If that place was famous is for those delicious rolls. The blonde has been hearing comments of other people about his recipe, but one in particular, from a curly and handsome boy, makes him feel really happy.

no tempest in the tea (ao3) - kingscrossinseptember luke/calum T, 1k

Summary: Ever since Calum found out that Luke had been cheating on him for a significant amount of time, Luke has never tried to lie or make excuses. It’s just a fact. The sun is bright, the sky is blue, and Luke has been sleeping with another person regularly for the past six months.

Of Cherry Blossom And Chinese Food (ao3) - Juliaenerys luke/calum E, 12k

Summary: Luke and Calum have a big fight and it turns into something else, which they hadn't planned.

Popsicle (ao3) - im_just_a_sucker_for_bromance luke/ashton E, 4k

Summary: When Ashton proudly stated that he did not beg, Luke takes it as a challenge. He was going to make sure to make Ashton change his mind, however long it would take or to what extent he would have to go.

Sugar With the Sweet Talk (ao3) - galacticsugar luke/ashton G, 1k

Summary: Luke’s hands are shaking as he carefully pipes frosting onto a three-tier s’mores cake. It’s for Michael’s birthday, and Luke wants it to be perfect. Michael may be a troublemaker and a pain in Luke’s ass, but he deserves a perfect birthday cake for taking care of Petunia while Luke was filming Bake Off.

Waiting for Pizza (ao3) - Nichole_Fanfics michael/calum N/R, 1k

Summary: Michael and Calum are just waiting for their pizza. It's not their fault they decide to pass the time by fucking.

#5sosfanfictioncatalogue #5 seconds of summer #5sos #5sos fanfic #masterlists #food tw #food #food masterlist

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revelisms · 1 year

Text

All Gilded and Golden

I've been getting back into Zelda a bunch recently, so I've thought about sharing this fic here. It's an oldie and a big prosey braindump on Zelda/Link and gender identity, but it's become a bit of a personal favorite of mine :-)

Full story below and cross-posted on AO3.

Rating: M | WC: 2.9k | Zelda POV | Oneshot Even a lifetime of constructs can still find ways to be freed. Or: Zelda and Link, as the night sees them. CW: Mentions of war, blood and violence, themes around gender identity and sex, implied sexual context

The boisterousness of men had long dissuaded her: a vile, sordid thing; each galumphing footfall and splatting hand caking the walls with blood-thirst and sweat—but the coffins of seams and satin fared no better, a confine equally damning. On this night, one of countless predicated on ceremony, she is trapped between both.

Throughout the hall's great arches swelters the sweet of mulled wines and meads, roast hog and wild hare, holly glimmering gold with the light of a thousand pyres. She, the Head of their kingdom's exuberance, sits with a chained elegance: a witch burned for her beauty: a dismal observer to a joy numbly felt.

Boots on tile, shields, swords; metal gleamed and glistening. The banquet roars with the fires of a war freshly won. Blood still stains the silver of her soldiers' armor. The stench of it is suffocating. It spears the air like a tainted stream, and she—queen-becoming, highness of wisdom-born, yes—she is meant to take it in with grace; chew on its rotted flesh and sip down the wine of its poisoned fruit, gleefully.

(She will not—and, were it not for her namesake, the ritual itself would never be demanded. But the fates of ones birthright are ineludible. To tear away the vines of their becoming would be as foolish as attempting to split steal with bare hand alone.

She is not the first in this long line of magic, jeweled crowns smothering, to resent the title she was born with. She will not be the last.)

The thought is a dismissed one, spit into the moon-red of her wine and swallowed down. She has too many hours more to go to slip into such loathing already. But it will pass—it will always pass.

(Come star-rise, the men will scatter: to boast the tall tales of their kills, to drown their sorrows, to fuck—and she will retreat to the night; strip down the shackles of her womanhood: a crumpled, silken corpse, discarded upon the stones; be reborn, rebound, in steel and linen, if for a moment.)

That time is yet to come. She cannot think properly of it, now.

"My lords." Her voice carries clear; her posture lifted, with poise. The long wings of her dress unspool from her seat in a glistening tide. "My ladies." A smile blossoms, demure. "We have, yet again, struck down the forces of our enemy." Cheers, stamping, ripples of applause. "We are richer." A scepter drums raucously. "We are stronger." A chorus of agreement. "We are Hyrule, again."

Such pretty little words, for such blood-hungered hounds. Even the guise of nobility could do little to hide their banquet's unashamed victory.

And yet—one wolf in the pack does not cheer. In a sea of rubied armor, he stands, still as a slab of valley rock: blue-fire in his eyes, blood on his cheek. His mouth does not turn at the graze of her stare.

(He, alone, is the very reason for their triumph; he, whose holy blade had cleaved the filthen head of a demon embodied from the loom of its shoulders: plunged into the cursed light of veins throbbing still, any final shreds of beating life stripped red in a feral slurry.

He had torn into their enemy like a mauling bear, and slipped away like a fox to the shadows. None had chorused his name for celebration. None would. He preferred it, that way.)

Her eyes skip across the mud-streaked wheat of his hair, a knot in her throat. She swallows it down. "Now," she presses on, and raises her hands in a bright flourish, "we celebrate!" The hall erupts to a violent symphony, gauntleted fists pounding glinting steel, great cups filled and cheered. A bard strikes up a rousing jig. The shimmer of a fiddle strings starlight through the laughter's glimmering.

She sinks back to her seat, to the rattle of her chains, and lets the smile fall, gently. It is caught, tender as a fallen bloom, by a single voyeur—as it always is.

(It is improper, for him to keep his eyes on her so. But the wildness of them is like a wash of ocean foam to a blistered wound.)

She dares to let her attention lift, if only for a moment. The bow of his head stirs a quiet warmth beneath the twist of her palms.

He turns in a flush of dark velvet, gold sweeping about the steel at his shoulders, and is swallowed by the crowd.

⚘

Behind the castle walls, she is royal-born; within them, he is a pawn of war. There are expectations for what can and can't be—consequences, explicitly penned, for any lines one may dare to cross in the presence of those whose forgiveness could not be earned, with even a lifetime spent atoning.

But beyond these cursed stones, she is infinite—and he, well...

Outside of the armor, she's never quite sure what to make of him.

He carries himself as though identity itself had failed to settle cleanly about him; as though any christening could not dream of capturing the soul strained against it; as though the wilds of the Green-Valley River and mountain hearths alone knew which name to speak, by the light of the blood moon.

He is the binding of a chain in a great line of prophecy. He is tethered to her. In these moments alone, that is all the clarity she demands.

The night strips their titles to frayed fragmentations; buries their divinity beneath the eaves of the palace's outer gates. He approaches her, always, with the stars held on his back: lays a kiss at the bend of her knuckles, the silk of his hair warm at her hand: leads her, with silent, knowing strides, about the forests' brush, to the great unknown of the world beyond.

There is something comforting, strange though it comes, about the grand insignificance of one's life, when faced with the beauty of it all—miles upon miles of wilderness untamed: the eyes of the great mountains and endless reach of the wide-glittered sea the only ones privy to a history time could not dare to contain.

It should be a damning weight, to a typical mind. But, for her, it is freeing, in a way nothing could have prepared her for.

In the dark, rough earth bruising against her legs, she can breathe—heaving lungfuls of damp, mist-chilled air, eyes closed to the night. Can let her hair fall, rain-wet about the cave of her shoulders, without the burden of its inherent femininity. Can drag muddied fingers about the firm, battle-hardened heat of his own, to be lifted upon the stones' rugged slopes, canopied beneath the valley pine and blessed unquestioning.

(Sometimes, fingers slipping free about the cracks of her shell, she will find herself sobbing; and sometimes, shivering with the cold of the lake's shallows, she will lay a pale hand about the water-beaded slope of his waist and find herself envious; and sometimes, she will pull the heat of his tunic upon her, and hold it to the flat of her sternum with an ache she cannot (will not) name—not yet.)

Most times, they find points of conversation in the quiet. But he is one of few words—and she is one of too many—and the lull that bubbles between the scrape of their heels on dark earth and the claiming of a space wholly theirs, for a time, drifts through touch as much as it is spoken.

Tasting his spirit is enough, in any of its forms. It is the one thing that grounds her, these days.

⚘

"Were you always sure this is what you wanted?" she murmurs, against the tide of his breath.

The night air is cool with a storm across the way. His fingers shift the drape of his cloak about her shoulder. "Hard to say," he says, after a long moment. The cluster of weeds that thistle and sigh about the cliff's edge are frowned upon, thoughtfully. Beyond them, valley settlements lost to the pitch flicker with fireflies of flamelight. "I'm not sure I ever had a choice."

She twists her fingers about the heavy cloth wrapped upon them. "Why do you say that?" She glances up to find the soft angle of his jaw, the sharp line of his nose: golden lashes turned blue to the night: the deep of his eyes—sodalite, in the sun—now a blackish sea: swallowing, and moonbeamed.

He lifts one brow, with an absent sort of smile. The crook of it dimples his cheek. "Well." The smirk loosens, and his stare shifts to steel: hardened, unforgiving, where it wanders through the valley's shadows. "I had to keep going." It is not spoken like an explanation. It is a living fact: present, as much as past. "You take whatever hand you're dealt."

Her eyes slip away, far beyond, steady on the roughened peaks of the cliff's edge. She forces liquid down her throat. Lets her lashes fall. "Did you ever regret it?"

His lungs fill beneath her cheek. "Living?" he breathes out. He turns his eyes to the stars. His fingers burn against her shoulder. "No."

⚘

They are not caught (wine-red eyes ensure of it, though she has yet to be made privy to the silent promise her shadow has made to her)—but wandering eyes stir suspicion, nonetheless.

(The court elders may presume, at the simplest of grievances, that she has found an unsuitable lover—and that, perhaps, could be contested. She will not be so brazen as to display her affections in plain sight. But the palace's inner walls knew the shivers of her pleasure: knew she cradled a carefully-wrapped memory of the taste of his mouth, with every instance the touch of his lips had been given.

That scandal, in itself, is such a simple one. There are far greater grievances to be held by men drunk off priest-magick and blood-rites—but those, she takes care to never shine a light towards, at all.)

In the moments closed off from the prowling of their palace's royals, he shares worn tunics with her, unasked; shows her how to thread shut their daggered weaves with a surgeon's stitch, in place of embroidery. His fingers are gentle, so gentle, through the strands of her hair: the long coils of it plaited and smooth. In a mirror that glistens with the flicker of a single flame, she stares at the bared hollows of her cheeks through her fringe, and fights to put a name to the soul she sees.

(She will not keep those beautiful fabrics, no matter how her heart longs to pull them close. Their evidence would be incriminating to scavenging elders yearning for proof of a sentence yet to be made.

Still—there are things she can keep hold of, in her own ways. She gathers them into the empty space of her palms, locks them away in the small boxes of her being, with as much affection she can muster; tries, fiercely as she can, to not let the gleam of their treasure dim with resentment.)

When he leaves, the scent of him lingers—oiled leather, and sweet hay, and the damp green of a forest path before the light.

She drags her fingers about the bared slope of her shoulder, and aches for that hollow warmth to be her own.

⚘

"Ride away with me." The offer is laid into her hair with utmost reverence: one fully aware of its futility. It is no different than asking a long-lost spirit to return to mortal land, once more.

She twists the pale petals of a gardenia within her fingers. "I can't," she whispers, after two breaths. "You know I can't."

He does—and the crease that slides within the sun-kissed hollow of his cheek is accepting of it. His eyes take her soul by the hand and lead it into the shallows of possibility, no matter. They are the sea's green and the blue of dusk wrapped into one: enchanting, and fierce, and quiet.

"You can't, forever," he affirms. He tilts his head, the line of his weight an easy shift upon his palms, pressed to the marble at the empty space beside her. The garden whistles with the tune of a roving nightingale. A breeze sweeps the dark honey of his hair about his cheek. "But—" (Always, this—and, always, she waits: dreading, longing, for where his reason will get the better of her) "—I don't think an hour or two will hurt you that much."

Damn him. "You're determined, again, aren't you?" she sighs.

The flash of his teeth is sly, and lovely.

⚘

Slowly, she begins to resent the dawn.

The sun's glow spiders a scalding hand about the twist of her sheets: snares about the linen that puddles upon her bones, speckled with long-faded stains of bloodspots and grime. It draws him away, like the tipping night pulls the constellations down with it.

Drowsily, she will let the heat of his clothes be reclaimed: sway into the roughened care of his touch, the kiss of his breath upon her breast.

He will dress with the morning light simmering through the fibers, golden through the long frays of his hair. His touch will haunt her: knuckles pressed warm to the back of her shoulder, brow brushed upon the loose curls of her plait.

The birds will chitter through the open window, long after he is gone. Sitting up in a bare, chilled slump, she will lift a weary hand: begin the slow process of unweaving the ties of her hair, a ripple of moon-yellow about the slope of her back.

Across the room, costumes of royalty will catch the sun's glimmer with lace-clotted teeth.

⚘

Eventually, Impa, reddish eyes downcast, reveals her actions to keep them hidden from prying councilmen—shared simply upon the steps of their chambers, a bottle of mead set between them—and there is little she can do, to wrap her heart around the countless things this woman has always been to her, whether bound by blood or not.

(Most of all, it is her shadow's very being—her strength, her rage, her power; it is beautiful, and it is unforgiving, and it is warmer than any flame.

It eases out confessions long sheltered from the daylight, like a poison drawn from a wound: small, shivering, horrid things. Once she has started, she can't find the will to stop.)

"I wish it wasn't like this." Her heart feels heavy—so heavy. "I wish another life could have some to me. That I wasn't spending—spending so much time, trapped between words—"

Impa's mouth is thin. Her eyes are kind. "Why?"

"Because I don't—" The words shake: incredulous, enraged. "I don't know why I feel like this—"

"Highness." And surely Impa, herself, knows—for she wears her authenticity upon her sleeve; carries her presence without any possibility of burying it. "I understand. I do." The bottle hangs over the great slope of her knee. "But you do not have to crawl through the pages of a life you were not present in, to a find a reason for why you feel the way you do."

If only it were that simple—oh, if only—

"Your story has not been predefined—Crown, or not," Impa continues firmly. It crumbles any scraps of denial to measly things, forgotten. "We are living; oral histories and songs—our existence transcends language." Vermillion eyes turn with gentle focus down a strong shoulder. "Our tales do not have to fit into the words of men."

⚘

Perhaps, indefinability in itself is the answer to it all—and what a freeing, terrifying thought that is.

It is what he has embraced. It is what she has yearned for.

(But it is not an explanation enough—and she is searching, searching still.)

⚘

The banquets arrive and depart in grand flourish, one after another after another, harkening the seasons like a vile overture.

They will never end, so long as a kingdom is here to lay claim to them. She is not so foolish as to forget that. Battles will still be fought, and lost, and won: blood will still be shed in her name: and, contained within the clamor of their noblefolk, they will appear in their assigned roles—allow their eyes to find each other, as they always do; one affirmation of countless unspoken others, no matter the wilds that surround them—and carry out their respective duties, in silence.

It is a routine time will not abandon; one she is unable to avoid.

But it will pass. It will always pass. That, she has not forgotten, either.

⚘

Dusk blooms violet and pink across a blue-blackened streak of rolling hills, her breath sharp and cool between the galloping—and for this moment alone: eyes sinking closed, pressed to his back, to the warm furs of his steed: they are flying.

She tightens her hands about the curve of his waist. Turns her eyes to the sky's settling dark, far beyond the horizon.

He turns over his shoulder, hair fluttering against her cheek. "Where to?"

It is an endless host of possibility—the chance to run across the farthest edges of the world and dip down to the lowest rocky points of the southern shoals—and she could let him ask her, for a lifetime. A smile curls across her mouth, absently, where she tips her chin into his shoulder.

"As far as you want to go," she murmurs. A grin creases through his cheek.

In this moment, she is winged, and golden, and glittering.

In this moment, she doesn't need a definition.

#zelda fanfic #loz #zelda #gilded and golden #link #zelink #so...like of 90% is coming from me just being a nonbinary kid growing up on zelda and projecting onto link *a lot*#(didn't we all)#blame this on me getting emotional listening to zelda piano covers #augh this series #also this is...sort of oot timeline?#not really sure #words just happened #writing #cw war mention #cw blood #cw violence

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