#heed the warning

[sofasoap]

Lastochka - in the hanger

Pairing : Nikolai x F!Reader ( OC/Mini MacTavish)

Summary: You miss the intimate sessions with your husband after all the hectic missions and life. you decided to seek him out in the hanger.

WARNING: Explicit. Smut. Sub/Dom relationship. Safe words used. safe sex. Talk of consent.

per usual, half sleep brain when read through, might have lot of mistakes.

A/N : got so inspired by Nikolai's appearance in the MW 3 game, my smut brain just switched on. ( don't worry. No mention of spoiler. and its deviating from canon anyway. STUFF YOU CANON. )

Thanks to my moots keep feeding me with smutty ideas to add into the fics. you know who you are.

Lastochka series

masterlist

“Hello Commander.” 

Nikolai’s hand stopped in the track. Putting his tools down,he turned around and looked down from the top of the helicopter. 

The overly exaggerated smile, the way you carry yourself, hands behind your back, swing your body left to right, battering your eyes. 

He cocked up an eyebrow.  You are plotting something. He knows his wife well. 

And you are calling him COMMANDER. You definitely want something from him.

Perhaps something he might like too.

“Something I can help you with, my dear Lastochka?” He asked you in a lighthearted tone as he walked down from the steps, wiping his hand on the rug. Throwing the spanner down into the toolbox and swagger towards you.  You flash him another bright smile as you walk up towards him to meet him near the workbench. 

“I am just here to remind my dear husband to take a break.” you brought out a flask and a container from behind your back. “You've been on this since early morning. I just thought you might want something to snack on.”

“And stealing my jacket at the same time??” he asked as he nodded at you, licking his lips.He would be lying if it didn't make him a bit possessive and his cock twitch seeing you draped in his oversize jacket. He loves seeing you wearing his clothing, both in public and private. Subtly showing everyone that you belong to him. 

You pouted. “I didn’t steal it.. I’m just borrowing it. Do you want it back? It’s getting a bit hot in this anyway.” Putting down the containers and flask onto the workbench, you start to unzip the jacket, ready to take it off. He immediately grabbed your hand to stop you. 

Oh, his bold little bird. 

“What’s the matter?” your eyes widen with a fake surprise tone of voice. Tilting your head slightly as you extract your hands from his grip, you look up into his eyes and put your arms around his shoulder.

Nikolai exhaled, eyes dropping down towards your exposed breast, before flicking back up. 

"I'm trying to get this heli fixed, little bird." he warned in a husky voice. But his hands betrays him as it wanders towards your ass,  lightly grabbing it. 

"I’m sure you will need a break sometime.. "You smiled innocently at him while playing with his hair. Pushing your body closer to him, you slid your hand down towards his crotch, palming his arousal.

“And there is no one around at the moment….I thought..”

“You thought you could seduce your husband into giving you a good pounding while he is all sweaty and hot.” Nikolai smirked as he finished your sentence. “Don’t worry my gorgeous little bird, My cock is always hard and ready to please the wife at any time.”

“Nikolai!” you pouted, hitting his chest, pretending to be all appalled. 

“I am right, aren’t I?” Nikolai leans down, ghosting his lips over yours. “Just say the word, my Lastochka.” 

Grabbing his chain to close the gap for the kiss, tongues entwined. Your other hand fumbled to find his belt, unclipping it before reaching up and starting to unzip his flight suit. Nikolai pulls away and grabs your chin with his thumb and forefingers, staring down at you.

“Didn’t I say use your words?” He tutted. “Always the one asking for punishment. First for stealing my jacket.. Now not asking for permission…” 

You pursed your lip, letting out a little huff. “ Why do I have to…” 

“You walked all the way here, wearing nothing underneath?” he whistled. Your head rolls back as he kneads your breast with one hand, the other one working on undoing your pants before yanking it off from you. “So eager to please your husband?” he chuckled. 

“Because I am your COMMANDER, Lastochka.” he growled, cutting you off. “A good soldier listens to their superior. You should know better, Little bird. Now prepare to face the consequences.” he nudges your body, forcing you to walk backwards, nearly falling into the cabin of the helicopter if he wasn’t holding onto you. He gently guided you to sit before pushing you to lie down onto the floor.

Nikolai stood back up, unzipping his flight suit down to expose his fully erected cock. Sliding his belt off from his waist, he leaned forward, unzipped your jacket as well, to fully expose your naked body underneath. 

“As always….  “ you whispered an airy reply, eyes roamed up and down his body and opened your legs wide. “Your Lastochka is always ready for you..” 

Satisfied with your answer, he smiled as he picked up the belt that was discarded on the side before, and grabbed both of your hands and tied them together with the belt. 

“Word, my little bird?” 

You whispered the safe word into his ear and gave him a kiss on the cheek, granting him permission to proceed. You can feel his smirk as he turns his head to return a kiss. 

You bite down on your lip, trying to suppress a moan as Nikolai pushes your tied up arm over your head, dragging you forward by your leg to get closer. He thrust his hip forward, slowly grinding his hardened cock against your dripping pussy.

“Always so wet for me. What a good girl. Maybe I can make it wetter.” he cooed as he slid his gloved hand between, inserting his middle finger through the slit, curling it up to find your sweet spot.  You let out an unrestrained moan as he inserted another finger, and another, lightly thumbing your clit, but making no attempt to move his fingers inside you at all. 

“Move…I want.... Give me more..”  you hummed, bucking your hip, trying to get some thrusting movement to get the relief you've been craving for. 

“Where are you manners, Little bird?.” he scolded, pulling his fingers out. You whimpered and tried to move your arms from his restrain, but his grip only tightened.

“Please Commander..” 

“Please what?” 

“Please.. I want you to touch me … make me feel good.” you begged, almost sobbing.“ Please I want it back in..” 

“Good girl.” sliding his fingers back in, moving them in and out slowly few times, before he starts to speed up.  “See? Being polite gets you what you want.” he cooed.

There is something about making you squirming underneath him, looking at him with lust hazed eyes, mouth slightly parted, breast heaving up and down begging and whining for him to make you come hard makes him feel exhilarated.  That sense of satisfaction, knowing that its him, and only him, can make his beautiful sparrow unravel so easily under his manipulation. 

He can feel your walls tightening and breath starting to hitch. He knows you are getting closer to the peak. He leans over and nuzzles his nose against your neck, before biting and licking it. 

Arching your back, you couldn’t care less if someone else could walk into the hanger and hear the wanton scream as you hit the blessing high. He held you down with his arm and body as he kept pumping his fingers through your orgasm, cum drenching his glove and dripping onto the floor of the cabin. 

Holding up his hand, Nikolai slowly licks his palm, while staring into your eyes. “I only cleaned the floor yesterday. Now you have dirtied it again.” he sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “Looks like I have to give the source of the problem a good clean out…” 

Letting go of your hand, he starts shuffling down south of your body, dotting your hot and sweaty skin with kisses along the way until he reaches your cunt, still glistening with the juices that are weeping out. He flick his tongue on  your clit a few times before diving into it, sucking and licking in earnest. 

“Nik.. Nik…” you moaned, still sensitive from the orgasm from not long ago. “It’s.. it’s too much…please…” you squirmed as your tied up hands grabbed onto his hair, trying to ground yourself. 

He raised his head, eyeing you from between your legs. “Use the words,Lastochka, if it’s too much for you.”

You shook your head, sniffing, part of you wanted him to stop, but the lust won over, you just let your head fall back onto the floor, as he went back down to continue his work. 

The slurping, the sucking, the obscene wet sloppy sound  made you hit your second orgasm fast and hard, you let out a small yelp before everything went blank. You could only feel your legs shaking and Nikolai’s strong arm holding them apart, preventing it clamping his head. 

The sound of his deep chuckle pulls you back slowly to reality. Still dazed with your second orgasm, he pulls you up into the sitting position to straddle him, and kisses you lazily. The taste of your own sex strong on his tongue as he deepens his kiss. 

“Can’t let me do all the work by myself. Now, be a good little bird, time to please your husband with your nice little cunt.” he ordered after he finally pulled away from your mouth. He lifted your arms over his head, letting it rest on his shoulder as you let him help you to lift your body up from your still orgasm weakened legs. He stroked his hard cock few times, hand still wet with your cum, and guided you to drop yourself onto it. 

You loll your head down,leaning against his shoulder, letting out a long whiney moan as you feel him stretch you wide and hit the deep end all in one go. He didn’t give you much time to adjust, pulling you up by your waist before slamming you down again, letting out a satisfying purr each time he repeats the action.

“Ah, look at you my Lastochka,” he praised you as he started thrusting his own hip upwards.  “Serving your husband so well, clenching around my cock with your drenching hot pussy, making me happy.” The only sound you could make was a throaty whimper as you lifted your head from his shoulder and leaned away from him and rolled your hip, hands sliding from cupping the back of his head towards his neck, instinctively grabbing onto his gold chain as you try to get more friction against your clit. 

“Come on my pretty bird. I know you still have more in you.” says Nikolai as he glides one hand down towards your ass, and the other up towards your neck, grabbing onto it lightly. “Give me one more. Just one more….” 

“... not…not before you filled me up Commander..” you begged, nearly out of breath from getting so close to your next orgasm, trying hard not to tip over the edge. “I want you..you.. To come inside me first….” 

“Giving out orders now, are we?” he growled as pulls your body back in closer, pulling your head back slightly, grazing his teeth over the skin of your neck. “Remember who is in charge here, I decide when you cum, and where I want to cum.” he snarled as he punctuated his words with hard snaps of his hip. “But.’ he softened his tone slightly, “Since you've been an obedient girl before… I will let it slide this time.” he moved his mouth towards your ear, whispering in a husky voice. “Come for me now, right now. And you will get your fill. And more rewards later on if you are lucky..” 

Your body reacts automatically with his words. You sobbed as you spasm around his hard length, and you can hear him growling at the same time as he hits his own peak, coating your inside with his own spent, mixing with your own cum, feeling the wetness soaking both of your sexes and thigh as it leaks out with the thrust. 

“Feeling alright there little bird?”  Nikolai murmured into your ears as he held you tight against him, checking up on you after both of you held onto each other tight, recovering from the orgasm.

“I am alright.. Just give me a second.” You lean into his heaving chest, listening to his pounding heart. You close your eyes,  also trying to catch your own breath, with Nikolai’s hand caressing your neck. you were utterly spent after three consecutive rounds. It’s been a while since you had such an intense session with him. But you don’t mind it. 

“I miss this.“you whispered after a few minutes of silence, nuzzling into his chest. “You spend too much time with your other Lastochka. You need someone else to help you.”

You miss his touch. His hands, the dirty talks into your ears. the way his eyes undresses you and make you burn with want and desire. 

You miss him. 

“You know I don’t like anyone touching my Lastochka.” he kisses your temple. The double meaning doesn't escape you. “But I am sorry.”

“You better be.” you pouted. “Now you really need a break. After all that..”

“ I never need a break.” he chuckled, you feel his cock getting hard again inside you. “Not when I am trying to please my little bird.”

Well, the coffee is gonna get cold. 

“Commander, you there?  Here's the list you were….. Ёбаный пиздец!!”  

“ Ooop. Someone found us.”

“Nikolai!!!! Shut up and go check on poor Yuri!!” 

Yuri couldn't look at you in the eyes for weeks after.

Tag list

@homicidal-slvt @nrdmssgs @siilvan@roosterrr@preciouslittlecreature @gamergirlbones@whydoilikewhump @alypink @ashwasherelol @okayyadriana @liyanahelena @miyabilicious @caramlizedtomatoes @deadbranch @celshideout @merkitty49 @abbeyrjm-blog @shyravenns @okamimarta

@jojoblossom,

[fostopia]

‼️Jonah Character Harm, Impalement, Decapitated Deer Head‼️

Yeouch that looks like it hurts!

My personal take on Jonah’s death!

girl help, this took 17 hours

MORE BLOOD VERSION BENEATH THE CUT

[foxgloveprincess]

My Heart is a Hollow Plain

Pairing: Pagan God Loki Laufeyson x Female Reader [First Person Narrator]

Summary: No one told you the price of living the life of which you’ve always dreamed.

Word Count: 6.1K

Warnings: UnBeta’d, Dark (Soft Dark), Medieval(ish) AU, Polytheistic/Pagan Beliefs, Gender Fluid Loki, Mythology, Dubious Consent (Non-Graphic Smut), Death, Yandere Vibes, Deals/Contract (oral), mentions of Servitude, Magic, Jealousy, Yearning, Possessiveness. Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: Welcome back to the Avenger’s Pantheon. Here’s Loki’s story. If you’d like to check them out, there are stories for Tony (Drabble), Steve and Bucky, Dr. Strange, and the Maximoffs in this AU. Enjoy! 

Title from “Breath of Life” by Florence + the Machine

I love feedback, so go ahead and reblog if you want. However, I give no permission to copy, translate, rewrite or post my work on any third party website or app. Seeing my work posted anywhere beside my blog, my library blog, or my AO3 account (FoxglovePrincess) means it’s been stolen/plagiarized.

Please DO NOT click ‘Keep Reading’ if you are not 18+ years of age or if you are uncomfortable with the pairing, themes, dynamics, or warnings. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Thank you!

Candles flicker and drip. A cool breeze winds its way through the stones of the temple to circle my body. Knees aching, I complete my daily prayers and stand. I bow once more before the statue of the Widow and leave. 

The sun shines down on hills of gently dancing grasses. They brush along my fingers as I walk along the path leading to town. A cart passes with jugs of milk and wheels of cheese. I wave to the farmer and fall behind them. 

The market bustles, the cacophony drifting through the open air. I pause at the outskirts, bracing my mettle. Skirts clutched in my fists, I walk on. The crowd swallows me. Passersby jostle my shoulders and tread on my feet. Another body ignored. Quite invisible to those around me. 

My mother’s head sticks up above the rest, her hair piled atop her head and adding height to her figure. She laughs and chats with her customers, wrapping loaves of bread and sweets in a cloth for them. She always sneaks in something extra—a clever ploy to draw them back week after week to her stall. My father works behind her, hefting baskets of bread from our bakery to place for sale around her before disappearing inside again. Market days always bring us the most business. 

My name breaks through the noise. My mother’s hand in the air to beckon me closer. I raise mine in return and squeeze my way behind our table. She thrusts an apron to me and I tie it quickly about my waist. 

“You took too long with your prayers,” she chides. “Your sister’s had to go off to buy our cheese. Left me all alone.”

“Sorry, mother,” I reply, hands already working to count out coins for a customer. I look up to the handsome man and press a tentative smile. 

He bids my mother thanks and turns, figure disappearing into the crowd. No regard sent my way. The smile falls from my lips.

“Come along, then,” my mother says through the side of her mouth. “The morning’s just begun.” 

We sell out of bread and sweets just after the sun reaches its pinnacle in the sky. Temperance returns from her errands, picking up not only mother’s cheese but other necessities she knew we needed. Some candles, a few new jars, onions, carrots, and herbs. 

Father leaves to check his traps in the woods, hoping for a rabbit or even a squirrel. Mother begins to cook with what we have already. Her first seat taken after putting a pot over the fire to simmer. 

My sister leads me up to our rooms, above our bakery. Two straw mattresses laid on the floor, a thin wall separating us from our parents. My sister’s hand squeezes mine, a nervous tick. 

“I have news,” she says in a whisper. Our mother’s ears like those of a hound. Nothing escapes her. 

“What is it?” I ask in an equally quiet tone. 

“The gods have finally answered my prayers,” she whispers, almost forgetting herself with her excitement. 

I nod and prod her along with an inquisitive word or two. She leaves me waiting in suspense not one moment. 

“Matthew has proclaimed his love.” Her face beams so happy, I think it might crack like a delicate pot. “He wishes to marry me.”

I blink, stunned by such incredible news. My thoughts flit to my own prayers, left unheard by the gods. Loneliness my constant companion despite my yearning, my pleas, my offerings. 

Temperance clears her throat. I startle and blurt, “Congratulations, sister. I’m so happy for you.” 

Her smile dulls and she picks a piece of straw from within her mattress. “It does not seem it.”

“Of course I am,” I enthuse. “Mother and father will be, too.” I grasp her hand still in mine. 

“He says he will ask father for my hand any day now,” she says with a slight less fervor. 

“How wonderful,” I reply with the sunniest smile on my lips despite the torrent of jealousy swirling within my belly. “Your life has surely been blessed.”

She looks into my eyes. My younger sister always able to read my heart despite all my efforts to conceal it. Her hand squeezes mine. 

“The gods will bless you, too.”

My mother and father bake a grand cake for my sister and Matthew. Stacked at the top of the others, Temperance and her new husband barely manage to kiss over top it without all the cakes toppling. 

Our town fills the field behind our home with tables of food. As grand a feast as can be made. Roasted ducks and rabbits and boars, a dozen loaves of bread, jams and preserves, cooked vegetables galore—more food than I’ve ever seen in my life. I try each and every dish, despite the tuts from my mother’s tongue. My father drinks merrily, congratulations raining down upon him. 

The afternoon passes into the evening and mother bids me retire. I prepare for bed alone and sleep alone. The first time I have done so since my sister’s birth. My eyes meet the ceiling of our roof and I blink away tears. I don’t know why I’m crying, not exactly. Missing my sister, loneliness, jealousy. All three swirl through my head. 

I close my eyes and try to force myself to sleep—to little avail. Thoughts too loud in my head. Even as I hush them and focus. The creaks of my parents returning and the soothing night sounds just outside our window a boon, lulling me into rest. 

The day after Temperance’s wedding I awaken as early as I normally do. There are trenchers and loaves and buns to bake. But first, to pray and lay offerings. 

I take one of our lanterns and strike a flame outside our shop. Early morning light still slumbering behind the horizon. The familiar dirt of the road plods beneath my feet. The temple just outside of town upon our tallest hill. 

The steep climb challenges me in the low light. The trek back home always just a little easier. A cold breeze brushes past my shoulder. The flame flickers but does not falter. And neither do I. 

Mother and father always come to say their prayers after a hard day’s work. Yet I can’t begin my day without it. The darkness and solitude of the temple at this hour, it fills my soul. With the gods watching over just me for a moment, I feel seen. 

Under the oculus, the moon shines pale and dim. I keep my lantern lit by my side. Letting the faces of the gods remain shadowed. 

My fingers draw a familiar circle about me and the offering of blue iris and violets I have brought before they clasp together and I begin my prayer. The health of my family, my sister’s happiness, and, more selfishly, mine. 

“Why are you here at this hour?” a sonorous voice asks. 

Standing by the feet of the Horned Trickster, god of chaos and mischief, they stand. I cannot see their face to discern the line of their eye, but the hairs upon my arms and the back of my neck prickle. I do not leave my place, but my body recoils all the same. 

“Do you pray for the same things every day?” they ask, unbothered by my silence. “Health, happiness.” Their hand flicks through the air in a lazy swirl. “Tedium and droll.”

“I know not for what else I should pray,” I respond, spurred by their tempting tone. I gather my flowers in my lap, their stems breaking under my tight grip. 

“There is so much more,” they reply with a scoff, “to this world, to your pathetic existence, you need only ask for it.” 

My lips part in shock. The man steps out of the shadows into the candlelight, and finally I see his face. More handsome than any other man in the village. He leaves me speechless with the sharpness of his emerald eyes and the arch of his brow. Raven hair falls to his shoulders, resting upon the finest silks of his doublet.

“Tell me what you truly desire.” Standing mere inches from my knees resting on the stone floor, he tilts my chin with two of his lithe fingers. 

Meeting his gaze proves too intense. My eyes lower to his throat while thoughts whirl in my head. All of the things I have ever wanted. A marriage to a man who will love me for all my days. The fortune of kings. Recognition. Beauty. Praise. Power. 

A smirk pulls at the corner of his lip. “Oh yes,” he purrs. “I see it.” He crouches before me and rests his free hand on his knee. His fingers trace my chin to my cheeks, and back again. “What would you do to receive such bounty from the gods?”

“I—” The phrase poised on my tongue sticks in my mouth, like honey that seals my lips together. 

He hums in question, impatient for an answer. 

I swallow, a lump in my throat, and croak around it, “I would do anything?” Though it spills from my lips as a question, it rings with truth. Conviction stirring in my belly at the words. My eyes raise to meet his, scared of his judgement. 

He smiles and traces his fingers over my lips. “That is exactly what I thought.” He releases my face, though not the thrall he has cast over me. Enchanted by his looks as I am, I follow the movement of his hand as it snakes along my arm and grasps mine. 

He rises, bidding me to follow until we stand beneath the oculus. Hues of pinks and gold bathe over us, the sun rising without. I glance up, panicked by the passing time. 

“I must go,” I gasp, tugging from his grip. Yet he does not unhand me. 

He says not one word until I meet his eye. “I will provide all for you,” he says with a gentle squeeze of my hand. As though he were my lover making an eternal promise. My heart thunders in my ear. Light shines on his skin from above, a dazzling glow that washes him in divinity. “Commit only to me, and I will be your servant.” 

My mouth dries. I stand, stunned, before him. “Are you a god?” I whisper, head bent toward him to share such an abounding confidence. 

A smile curves his lips. “What is your answer?” he asks in turn, disregarding my own question. 

I stare into his grass green eyes, luminous and intense. Heat fills my cheeks. The sun continues to rise. The temple sits quiet. He waits, his hand trapping mine. 

“Where have you been?” my mother blusters, stacking loaves of bread behind our counter. 

The door to our bakery closes behind me with a soft click. “I’m sorry, mother,” I say, rushing to grab my apron and tie it about my waist. “My prayers took longer than I expected.”

“What could you possibly pray for?” 

The sting of mother’s words pierce my chest, but I do not say anything. “Every day, prayers and every day, late,” she mutters under her breath. “You awaken the gods too early.” 

Her finger wags in my direction as she turns and places her hands on her hips. Ready as ever to drone about her displeasure. But once she looks at me—really looks—she falls silent. Her lips part and she blinks. 

“What’s happened?” she asks, slowing into the motion of wiping her hands on her apron to rid them of flour. She steps closer and reaches to cup my cheek. “There’s something changed about you.” Though she whispers it like a secret, I hear her. 

Passing by windows in the town on my walk home from the temple, I glimpsed my reflection. To my eye, I saw no difference. The same plain face, the same soft body, the same clothes. And yet, the way my mother looks at me anew—as if there were something noticeable, remarkable. 

Blinking from her daze, she pats my cheek and turns away. 

“There should be buns ready in the ovens,” she says with a loving lilt to her voice, “go and fetch them from your father.”

I nod, silent, and turn to the back where the oven burns hot and fills the room with its warmth and the smell of fresh bread. Memories of spending winters curled beside the fire and ovens with my sister tucked next to me fill my head. My hand rests on the stone of the surrounding wall and I glance around to find my father. 

“Right there,” he grunts carrying a paddle of loaves over to cool. My father pays me little mind, but nods to the buns sitting off on a side table. 

“Thank you,” I say, grabbing the tray and carrying it out to mother. 

Mr. Fitz stands there with her, paying for a loaf of bread for his wife. He glances over at my entrance and smiles. 

“Good morning,” he says with a nod in my direction. 

I pause, stunned. So rare that customers take a moment to acknowledge me, let alone greet me. My mother whispers my name with a nudge to my side. It is enough to knock me from my frozen state and return the greeting. He doesn’t say more, collecting his loaf from my mother and his coins, before departing. 

“You must be more friendly,” my mother says, “or all your good looks will be for naught.” 

A smile threatens my lips. My mother’s favor of me extending only to the help I provide, never my countenance. That she reserved always for my sister—Temperance’s lovely smile and thoughtful spirit, true beauty shining out from within. A flutter of pride swells within me at her inadvertent praise. I agree with her quickly and return to work. 

The morning passes in joyful company. Customers pleasant and plentiful. Each one sends a greeting and smile my way. They ask after my health and my temperament. They meet my eye and compliment my sunny disposition. 

As the sun crests the top of the sky, Lord Grant Ward enters our bakery. A first for the local lord. His lordship usually more content to send out one of his many servants for such a menial errand. 

His figure stands tall in our doorway. I catch a glimpse of him from just beside the door to the front, loading the few remaining loaves into a basket with my father’s help. 

“I have heard such complimentary things about this bakery today,” he says, perusing our store with a skeptical eye. His toe scuffs across our floor. 

“My lord,” my mother greets, “we are grateful for your visit to our humble bakery. How may we serve you?” 

He looks down his nose at her and huffs a haughty breath. Not even a word of response. My eyes narrow, the heat of fury boiling through my veins. To dismiss my mother thus. I push the door open all the way and exit the back, sweat dotting my brow and basket under my arm. Ready to confront such discourtesy. 

“My lord,” I bite with as much respect I can muster—which is not much. “May I serve you?”

A glance in my direction, and he pauses. The skeptical tilt of his brow evens to one of curiosity and understanding at once. He steps forward toward our counter. 

“I believe you may,” he replies, tone honey sweet. “I wish to purchase all the goods you have remaining.” 

“My lord,” my mother blusters, “you are too generous.” 

He ignores her, eyes locked on my figure. His hand rustles at his belt, tugging away a pouch and handing it in our direction. 

“Will this suffice?” 

I bob in a curtsy and accept it. My mother hovers over my shoulder as I open the pursestrings and look inside. Coins glint up at me. My mother counts aloud but trails off. 

“My lord,” she says with a voice full of awe and respect, “it is surely too much.” 

“Then accept it as payment for the inconvenience of closing your shop early.” The lord waves his hand through the air. “Will that please you?” he asks in a lowered tone, directly to me. 

“Yes, my lord,” I reply, ire cooled but not entirely appeased. “How shall we deliver your goods to you?” 

He hums and steps closer, hand reaching to pluck at the fibers of my basket. “I shall send a cart with instructions. Will you meet them?” 

“Yes, my lord,” I say and take a step back. 

His brow quirks at my retreat, but he says nothing more. Merely nods in acceptance and bids us farewell. 

“To see that look in his eye as soon as I drew his attention toward me,” I explain. My light flickers at my feet beside the godly figures. “How insufferable. To treat my mother with disrespect.”

Fingers trail along the nape of my neck. I know them to be there, yet they have not revealed themself from the shadows. 

“Of course,” I continue in a more subdued tone, “he did send his cart. He collected every bit of our bread. Took what he wanted and gave the rest to the needy.” My own hand wipes the side of my face. “Perhaps I regard his character too quickly.”

“You were right to judge him as you did,” the voice soothes behind me. Different than before. 

Turning over my shoulder, I seek the visage of the god with whom I struck my deal. A figure emerges, softer, curvier. 

I bow my head in respect, sure I’ve been addressing a goddess in mistake. “Pardon my musings,” I rush, knees ready to collapse to the floor. “I misspoke.” 

Lithe fingers lift my chin. My eyes meet the emerald green of my patron, set in feminine features still as striking as before. 

“You make no mistake,” she says with a smile tilting her lips. “I am here, my sweeting.” 

My mouth forms around words I cannot speak. Enthralled by her still, I contemplate the change in her countenance and find myself unable to avert my gaze. 

“You should know the fleeting nature of my appearance,” she explains. “I take many forms. How like you this one?” 

“You are breathtaking,” I reply in a whisper. Clearing my throat from such bold speech, I reach into my pocket and withdraw the buttery raston and small jar of my mother’s plum preserves wrapped in cloth I have brought in offering. “To thank you, and reaffirm my vow of devotion to you.” 

She unwraps the parcel. Her smile widens. A wave of her hand and only the cloth remains. Its contents vanishing before my eyes. Cupping my cheeks in her hands, she presses a kiss to my forehead—a blessing. “Thank you, my darling. You will go to town and continue to enchant all who live there,” she instructs, thumb brushing the apple of my cheek, drinking in the soft breaths which pass my lips and the surety of my attention. Her gaze meets mine with a grim darkness. “But be wary of Lord Ward. He covets you for himself. And you…” she prompts. 

“I serve you.” 

My steps crunch through the underbrush of the forest. Unused to traversing such uneven ground, I walk slowly. Father’s back pains him. My mother stays in our bakery with the few loaves we made this morning. So I search through the woods for his traps, content for a moment away. Engaged with my own thoughts. My patron a shining beacon in the forethoughts of my mind. 

“Who dares to trespass on my land?” a voice booms through the trees. “Reveal yourself.”

My heart jumps in my chest and takes up a thundering beat. My hand clutches at my chest, though I cannot soothe myself. Careful movements carry me toward the sound of the voice. Yet one false step and my ankle twists. I yelp. The cold earth greets me as I fall and sounds of a hurried strides reach my ears.

“Who’s there?” Closer now, Lord Ward’s voice carries clearer. 

“I’m sorry, my lord,” I call back, knowing he approaches still. “I did not realize these were your lands.” 

He stops before me, the leather of his shoes black as night. I dare not cast my gaze up to catch his ire. Instead, I keep my head bowed in deference and pray for help. 

“You need not fall to the floor,” he says in an air of curiosity. 

“Yes, my lord,” I say. 

“Let me help you.” He offers a gloved hand. I eye it before meeting his gaze. 

“Thank you,” I accept and lean on his strength to help me rise. My lips seal against a whimper of pain and I shift my weight to rest upon my uninjured foot. 

“You are hurt,” he observes. Both of his hands offered to aid me. 

“I will be well, my lord,” I assure with a pat to my hands on my skirt to dispel the dirt and leaves clinging to my palms. “It is nothing.” 

He steps even closer still. My breath catches in my lungs. “Allow me to escort you home.” He speaks with such a gentle articulation, it sparks a flutter of my heart. If only he behaved thus upon our first meeting. 

“I thank you, my lord,” I say, picking my words carefully. “Though I must continue to my father’s traps. I fear I only have turned myself around. Forgive me for trespassing.” 

“You’re forgiven,” he says with a nod, “always.” 

I swallow and find I can meet his eye no more. Heat fills my cheeks, as if I labored too long beside the oven. I pat them with trembling fingers and cannot understand my lack of ease. 

“If you will not allow me to escort you, perhaps you might concede to one of my servants accompanying you?” 

“I would not wish to inconvenience them by taking them away from their chores, or you, my lord, in turn.” I step back, glancing over my shoulder as not to stumble and inflame my ankle further. 

“May I at least check to see if the bone is sound?” he asks, already lowering to one knee and offering his hands out for my foot. 

My teeth sink into my lower lip and I raise my injured leg, placing it into his grip. He tests the joint. Turning it one way and another. I wince, but do not draw away. The sooner I may satisfy the lord, the sooner I may return to my task. Once satisfied, he places my foot back to the ground and stands. 

“Be careful,” he commands, with a hint of a smile drawing his lip upward. “I will send a messenger this evening to ensure you make your way home safely.” 

“Thank you, my lord,” I say one final time before turning and limping away to continue my hunt. 

He calls my name one more time, but when I turn, he waits in silence before a last, “farewell.” As though he wishes to say more, yet something curbs his speech. 

I take my leave, slow and reluctant as curiosity nips at my heels. Though I may well have stayed with the lord and heard him out for all my victory. My father’s traps sit without any bounty. Empty. 

I sigh and sink to the ground. A moment of respite so my ankle may rest. My hands dig into the soft, decaying leaves of the forest floor. My head tilts to the sky. A breeze blows through the trees. 

Something wraps about my wrist. I jolt and lift my hand, ready to shake loose any impediment to its movement. Yet find a snake wound about it. Like a cuff, it sits just at my wrist, head raised to meet my eye. 

I freeze. The snakes of which I’ve heard bite their poor victims, leading to a painful death. I swallow hard and wait for the creature to slither on its way. It does not. 

“Please go,” I plead. 

Its head tilts. Its tongue flicks. It stays. 

I stare at it, slow movements turning my arm one way and another to take a better look at it. The shine of its scales, the intelligence in its eyes. 

“Please don’t bite me,” I whisper as I move, looking at its long body, content to perch upon my arm. 

Its head moves back to look at me. In the hush of the forest, the breeze ripples through the leaves. Birds chirp. But there is silence around us. A moment, looking into the creature’s eyes where the world around me dulls. 

“You are no ordinary snake,” I pronounce in soft tones. 

Its tongue flicks. It tickles my skin and I flinch from the unexpected sensation. Thoughts entangled with what sign this creature might bring. It’s relation to the gods. Stories of them and their familiars, their sacred animals. Only one holding snakes in their regard—the Horned Trickster.

“Send my regards to your master and mine,” I say, lowering my hand. 

Its muscles move, slithering toward the ground from my fingers. It disappears beneath leaves and between trunks. The sun shines down through the forest canopy, heading to its resting place beyond the horizon. The afternoon heat cooling on a breeze. I push myself to stand, gazing after the snake’s possible path. A sigh blows past my lips, hands brushing dirt away from my skirts. Shuffling carefully through the roots and foliage of the forest, I head home on much steadier feet. 

“I do not know how it happened,” I lament many weeks later. Head in hands, my mind struggles toward some semblance of understanding. 

My patron stands leaning against the statue of the Thunder Warrior, their gaze tilted toward the ceiling. I begin to pace before them, around in a circle, perplexed by the path of my life. 

“Lord Ward has called after me thrice now within the week.” My hand smooths over my hair, trying to help my thoughts remain in my head, and not floating away in a whirl of imaginings. 

“You think of him often, do you?” their bored tone comments. 

My brow furrows. I pause. “I suppose,” I reply. “Can one not when a man supposes to be so enamored?” 

“It is everything you wished?” they ask, though the way they say it—like they don’t need an answer. A harsh bite to their words upon which I do not dally.

Instead, I give them an answer, “It is what I prayed for. I cannot help the fondness that has grown within my heart.” 

A deep hiss rumbles from the shadows, filling the temple and rattling my bones. My hands jolt to cover my ears, teeth clenched shut against the grating sound. 

“Do not forget,” he says stepping from the shadows to reveal his form, his lip curled and brow set, “you’ve committed yourself to me in this life and the next. You will never marry. You are mine.” His eyes blaze with a barely suppressed rage, fiery and dark.

Stunned by his venom, I ask, “If I am not to marry, what use is the rest? I wish to be loved.” Tears prick at my eyes, distraught as his commandment settles within me. I am to be alone. Regarded by all—and loved by none. 

His fury cools, eyes piercing daggers in the low light. “You made your choice,” he states in a crisp, clear cadence, dispassionate and cold.

“I gave you my trust blindly,” I shriek in response. My hand grasps at the cloth of my bodice, grip tight and heart aching. I swallow a panicked sob. “How could you deceive me so? I have only ever done as you bid.” 

“Do you love him?” my patron asks, accusation sharp. Answering my distress with such little regard. 

Stutters of sound fall from my lips, none forming an answer. The weight of my mistake presses down upon my chest until I cannot breathe. So often my patron had been obliging and kind, the stab of this betrayal far too deep. A chasm opens in my chest and out of it, I speak. “My sister is married and thinks herself already with child. I wish for the same, and I—”

With one last look at the indifferent expression on my patron’s face, my heart shatters. Feet rush from the temple. The candle flickers in the dark, left behind as I dart into the night. Rain spatters across my cheeks, the slick of mud beneath my shoes. Though I do not hesitate, used to the path up the hill and the slightest hint of light on the horizon. Rushing, slipping steps carrying me down the slope. Hoping perhaps my folly might remain far behind at the feet of the gods. That I might escape, even to find myself returned to my previous unremarkable life. Until I reach the cross of the roads and pause. Skirts drenched from rain and weighed down with mud. Chest heaving, coughing in the damp air from exertion. Lost in my own thoughts, the steady approaching clip of horses’ hooves escapes my notice. 

Only the impact of their bodies and the tread of wheels over mine thrusts me back to the present. I lay on the ground, gasping for breath, pain ravaging every measure of me. My lips part to call upon my patron, a last plea, but find I cannot. The whisper of a final breath leaving my body and sending my soul along its path to the River. 

The waters lap at the sides of the boat in the dark. The Goddess of Death, Hela, stands behind me, oar in hand to push us along with the current across the river. 

“Do not touch the waves,” she cautions. The pole moves through the water. “They are full of forgotten memories from those who have crossed. A temptation, but one drop will turn you mad and bind you to its tide.” 

I recoil from the edge of the boat to sit upright. Gaze falling to my hands, lighter than air they sit in my lap, grey. No thoughts fill my head. Just silence, peace. 

Turning to the Goddess of Death, I ask, “do any memories remain to those who have died?”

“Only those that bring you comfort,” she says without a look toward me or any inflection of sympathy. 

A murmur of understanding passes from me, finding consolation in the honesty. Though I cannot place a reason for it. Already, my memories drift along the stream of the Gods Blood. Lost to me. 

The oar lifts from the river and rests against the side of her vessel. Her head tilts, gazing up at the eternal black sky above us. Her brow pinches in confusion. I follow the path of her eyes, but see nothing. 

A resounding hiss builds around us. The waves of the river grow larger, the boat rocking. The Goddess of Death holds out a hand to steady us upon the water. A displeased glare prominent on her features. Whispers of words drift around the boat, a fog rolling in from behind. Hela turns to slash a hand through it. Unable to make it disperse.

I cling to the bench of my seat, the dullest fear tickling the edges of my consciousness. But nothing more. Perhaps I should fear capsizing and madness, yet such emotions remain indistinct—a consequence of death, to be sure. 

In a moment, Hela turns to lash out at a perceived threat and a great appendage wraps about my waist. Warm and strong, it constricts, but I have no breath to halt nor bones to break. It lifts me into the air, shadowed by the darkness of night. I dangle limp and lifeless from its embrace, the prize of its hunt. Perhaps a monster of legend stealing away my soul for a meal. Another fate which engenders no true dread.

A cry chases our ascent into the dark sky. The echoing roar of the goddess’s outrage at losing one of her souls and failing her duty to take me across the Gods Blood. But we ascend regardless. 

My eyes close against the light that breaks through the dark clouds, blinded. We land upon solid earth. Flowers rising to greet my fingers, yet passing through like air. I cannot feel them. 

The appendage around my waist releases me for a hand, instead, to clasp mine. My eyes turn to the person beside me. Familiar, yet I cannot put name to the lovely, angular face. 

“My love,” they say, lithe finger tipping my chin toward them, “We are home.” 

They guide me through the doorway of the quaint cottage before us. Another familiarity I cannot place in the haze of my incomplete memories. 

The fire roars in its place. I step toward it, vague recollections of comfort tickling at the edges of my mind. I reach out to the licking flames, and feel no warmth. 

A hand wraps about mine, guiding me away. They squeeze, and the reassurance of the gesture surges through me. The fingers of my other hand settle on their wrist, petting along their skin up to their sleeves. The fabric of their garments silky under my fingertips. I catch their eye, questions forming on the tip of my tongue. Who are they? Why did they steal my soul? Why am I here?

“Now, my beauty,” they praise. Their lips brush a soft kiss to my forehead. My eyes flutter shut to drink in the sensation. “You will truly be mine.”

Such familiarity, I do not ken. Their face so imprinted upon my thoughts without any recognition. 

“I do not remember you,” I admit, staring into their emerald eyes and praying for some spark to ignite. 

“That does not matter,” they soothe, thumb rubbing over the back of my palm. “We will have eternity to know one another.”

And we do. Years passing outside the windows of my cottage. Buildings fall, crumbling to dust. Only one of them, a bakery down the road, filling me with any notion of regret as its owners cross the River and time creeps across its walls. 

Apart from it all, I watch. Drifting through the cottage, invisible to passersby. Though, even still, whispers reach me—haunted, they call my home. And they are not wrong. The world withers around me, and I remain, a shade bound to the cottage. 

Only one bringing me any solace, any relief. They enter the front door and greet me with a smile, their hands offering sensation, feeling. I grasp onto them, reluctant to release them for a moment of their visit. To return to the dullness of my existence without them. The nothing which awaits me upon their withdrawal. 

“Hello, my love,” they say. Their fingers tilt my chin and I meet them in a sweet kiss. My fingers pulse about their hand. We part and I let myself fall into the greedy hunger of their gaze. 

Their head dips again, lips seeking more. Which I give—again and again. A kiss which might steal my breath if I had any. Their passion a spark igniting between us. Their moans filling the room around us. My fingers sink into the muscle of their shoulders. Clinging to each sensation. I cannot let them go.

“Sweeting,” they gasp. Hands wander across my form until they hitch me into their arms, my body of no substance. ”Come with me.” Though they give me no true choice in the matter—as if I would refuse them and their constant touch.

They carry me to our bed, and set me upon it without once letting me go. Following me to the plush cushions and sheets, their body pins mine to the bed and the weight of it brings a contented sigh to my lips. They drink it in and pull back to meet my gaze.

As always, as I lay beneath them with their eyes shining bright and affectionate, they prompt, “You are…”

“Yours.” 

“Yes,” they purr and return their sweet lips to mine. 

Unable to grasp at the bedding beneath us, I let my hands clutch at them. Our bodies joining together in amorous undulation, seeking the divine thrill of ecstasy. Chasing that peak of my existence. When the world around me explodes in bright color and brilliance. When I feel alive and whole before it fades and I return to the numbness of my eternity.

They murmur words of love into my ears. The sweat of their body cooling them. A dull shine radiates from their skin. Their holy light, they once told me. Their head rests upon my breasts, their breath tickling across me. I swallow and let my fingers weave into the silky tresses of their hair, the world dimming by the second.

“Welcome home, Loki.” 

read more of The Avengers Pantheon at The Undone and the Divine

[old-movies-stuff]

Labyrinth - 1986

[howifeltabouthim]

Foolish to think too much about dreams, I know, but perhaps even more foolish to ignore them completely.

Catherine Lacey, from Biography of X

[yanderelmk]

To that anon who said the guy who likes them wants to meet up, DON'T DO IT. I don't know if this is just roleplay or not, but I've known guys who do that because they know they can manipulate you if you're with them one-on-one in person. If he starts to make you uncomfortable just texting you, you may want to talk to a parent or other adult. I don't know what all is happening, but I've had experiences similar to this, so I'm just gonna say, be careful. I don't know how old you two are, so he may just play victim or something, but don't listen to him.

^^^^^^^^ REAL PLEASE LISTEN This is a 4th wall break but pls. Pls heed them. They speak truths and facts.

[elsantodelrock]

Heed The Warning: The Game

Heed The Warning es una banda oriunda de Minnesota, la cual se desempeña en el llamado neo-grunge con adjetivos que les describen como un nuevo respiro del movimiento Emo, quienes llegan a nuestra audiencia para presentarnos su melancólico nuevo sencillo, primer avance de su EP debut, Kill Your Ego. The Game es la responsiva legal que deberías leer antes de comprometer tus emociones en el…

[frombehindthepen]

Heed the Warning, and Everything's Gonna Be Alright

Heed the Warning, Everything's Gonna Be Alright #Music #ChakaKhan #Caution

Image Credit: Josh Hild Short attention spans – more errors – takes longer to do something – stress increases…Nope, not today, and tomorrow ain’t lookin’ too good either! My mother used to say, “A hard head makes a soft behind,” so you can rest assured that when she said this we were forewarned and treading softly! Chaka Khan made so many incredible hits, but this one received less air time in…

[egophiliac]

don't think I'm not still deep in the episode 7 brainrot. because OH BOY AM I

(also one more extremely, obnoxiously self-referential thing, I'm -- I'm so sorry)

[transgender-scout]

Rambling under cut with a suicide mention tw

I was listening to a horror story today and remembered that time when my mom had us go some of the national parks she was trying to mark off her list. We took a picture with the sign and she suggested that we take a walk down one of the trails. I was reluctant but went along anyway. My dad stayed in the car since it would just take a few minutes.

We walked, not talking about much. We passed by a man on a bridge. He was shirtless, sweaty, sitting cross legged and breathing deeply, like he was doing yoga. He creeped my mom out and she made us walk faster past him. She said something about weirdos. I don’t remember what.

A few minutes later, we realized the path wasn’t going to loop, so we turned around. My mom joked that she hoped that guy wouldn’t be there. I think it was a joke. I hope it was a joke.

We come to the bridge and we subconsciously slow down. It feels wrong now. The man is no longer sitting cross legged on the ground. Something is wrong. He’s standing on the ledge. Something’s wrong. His hands are behind his back. This is wrong.

My mom is trying to speed up. The pit of my stomach hurts. The man says something. My mom stops, ever the polite southern woman. She asks him to repeat himself. He says it again.

“Ma’am, do you believe in God?”

The pit of my stomach sinks into my shoes. She says she does. She was very religious at this point. He nods, sniffles.

“D’you think we go to Hell if we kill ourselves?”

He doesn’t say that, but that’s how I remember it. The sentiment is there. That’s what he’s asking. My chest clenches up. I know why it feels wrong now.

There’s a moment of silence between the three of us. There’s no one else here. My dad is in the car. We can’t call anyone. He’s on the edge of a bridge. I’m frozen to the spot.

My mom starts quoting the Bible. Saying things to make him feel better.

It’s not working.

Mom asks his name. He says AJ. Christ. My girlfriend just started using that name. That’s all I can see now. Fuck.

Mom asks if there’s anything he likes to do. He says drawing.

“My [kid] here likes drawing, too. Do you wanna come down and show us some of your drawings?”

He says no. He can’t. He tied his hands up anyway.

“[Marki], show him some of your drawings.”

I feel like I’ve had ice water dumped on me. You want me to fucking do what? Show the suicidal man my shitty anime drawings?

I don’t show him my drawings.

He’s crying. He tells us about the bad hand he was dealt. I’m rooted to the spot. My stomach has been twisting in knots.

He tells us that he has absolutely no one. My mom insists that he must have someone. He doesn’t. No family. No friends. Nothing, he says.

Mom tells him that the bridge is too short. That if he jumps he’ll just break his neck, and where will he be after that? He glances behind him, but doesn’t say anything.

I see something out of the corner of my eye. Dad is walking up the path. Our walk was only supposed to take 10 minutes. It’s been half an hour. I don’t remember how that much time has passed.

AJ gets panicky. He threatens to jump. Mom and I scream, begging him through tears not to.

“It’s just my husband!” Mom says. “We weren’t supposed to be gone this long! He came looking for us!”

Mom tells Dad to stay back. He sees what’s going on. He turns around and goes back to the car.

“He better not be calling the cops,” AJ says.

“He’s not,” Mom promises. I’m still stuck. I hope Dad is calling the cops. I don’t know how much longer we can keep this up.

I don’t remember much after this.

After who knows long of stalling, I see two people in uniforms approaching us. Dad was smart enough to tell the cops not to use a siren.

He panics again I’m so fucking scared I’m about to watch this man kill himself.

Instead, he jumps onto the bridge and takes off running. The cops go after him.

I don’t remember the walk back to the car. We talked to the park ranger. Said this poor guy comes out there a lot to try…that and the cops are used to dealing with him.

I don’t remember much. Park ranger asking if I’m okay. Mom asking if I’m okay. Dad asking if I’m okay. I can’t say anything. I just nod. They don’t look like they believe me, but they stop asking after a bit.

I don’t remember the car ride back.

I don’t remember that night.

I don’t. Really remember much, I think.

[anotherqueersnailowner]

hey here's a friendly warning

If I hear anyone of you claim that the A in LGBTQIA+ is for allies and you don't mention the Actual Fucking Queer Identities it actually stands for I will teleport into your room and beat the shit out of you

[ministarfruit]

pleased to announce that I have finished omori and feel very normal about siblings right now

[foxgloveprincess]

Another Taste Of Devouring Rush

Pairing: Pagan Gods Stucky x Female Reader [First Person Narrator]

Word Count: 8.8K

Summary: Growing up in a brothel, you’ve known and prepared for the fate that awaits you. But your madam’s scheme is looking for the highest bidder, and two potential bidders have caught your eye—though you’ve never seen their faces.

Warnings: Dark (Soft Dark Stucky), Medieval(ish) AU (Historical Inaccuracy because it’s a fictional setting), Polytheistic/Pagan Beliefs, Mythology, Yandere Behavior, Obsession, Possessiveness, Manipulation, Dubious Consent, Smut (Foreplay, Vaginal Penetration, Unprotected Sex, Loss of Virginity), Forced Escorting/Companionship/Prostitution, Virginity Auction/Bidding on Virginity, Innocence Kink (sorta), Minor Character Death, Abuse/Violence, Blood/Gore. All characters depicted/discussed as SWers are over the age of 18. Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: This is in the same universe as A Little Touch of Heavenly Light. Though I think it’s perhaps darker than Tony’s tale. Not just Steve and Bucky, but also the reader’s circumstances make this one a bit of a doozy. Anyone who gets the Man of La Mancha nod, you’re my new favorite person. 

I love feedback, so go ahead and reblog if you want. No permission given to copy, translate, rewrite or post my work, at all. I cross-post to my own AO3 account. Seeing this anywhere else means it’s been stolen/plagiarized.

Title from “Breath of Life” by Florence + the Machine

This is not Beta’d, so all mistakes are my own.

Enjoy!

Please DO NOT click ‘Keep Reading’ if you are not 18+ years of age or unwilling to read/consume dark content, thank you!

I was born in a ditch, left naked and alone to die. Too cold to even cry out for my mother. A mother who abandoned me. 

Another woman, named Aida, wandering through the cold streets deep in the night, stumbled across me and carried my fragile, near-frozen body to her abode. Tucked close to her breast, beating warm and welcoming. 

The sign for The Broken Beast has always hung crooked over its doorway, welcoming customers to a small establishment of the world’s oldest profession. Not the most ideal situation for a growing girl. But no one ever touched me. Not the patrons, not the prostitutes. Not unless they wanted Aida’s wrath to rain down upon them like the tide of the Gods’ Blood. And it has been all I’ve ever known.

“You’re special, my jewel,” she says, brushing away my worries with the strands of my hair that stick to my forehead. “Only when you are ripe shall you be plucked.” 

And every day I wait, learning from the women and men of the brothel—my siblings in trade. Etiquette, composure, seduction, sensuality. Blossoming and utilizing my developing talents to become appealing—the perfect fantasy. For I know, one day, that is my fate. 

Yet every dawn, when their weary legs carry their heavy hearts to the small temple at the edge of the city and they bow before Ari the God of Pleasure and Passion, I weave my way toward others. The Righteous Captain and his companion, The Freed Soldier. 

Of course, they remain silent. What use would two gods have for a future wretch. It soothes my soul, though, surrounded by their offerings. Gorgeous works of art and ornamented trinkets. No spark of envy in my heart, but a longing for that beauty. True beauty, when my world constructs it from fantasy more fragile than a butterfly’s silken wing. 

I bow before them, my head resting against my hands, prayers muttered on syllables barely a whisper. My heart clenches in my chest and tears prick at my eyes. Hope a withering thing in my chest. Anticipating the day my precarious peace will shatter. 

Shuffling feet alert me to an approach. Skye, her kind eyes gazing upon my prostrated form with pity. Not much older than I, but a mistress to many lonely souls. Still she remains soft, the closest person to a friend I have.

“Let’s go home,” she beckons with an outstretched hand. 

I accept, as I must.

“You come closer every day, my jewel,” Aida declares, the flimsy material of her curtains obstructing her view of the street below.

My shoulders slump, sinking into my chair as my spirit droops within.

Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I conceal my distress with a pristine,“Of course, ma’am.”

“How are your lessons?” she asks, turning her eyes to pierce through me. Locked on every movement with an exacting precision. Never in my life have I been able to hide from her scrutiny.

“They teach me well,” I reply, folding my hands in my lap and shifting upon the cushion of the chair, sitting straight. I clear my throat of despair, biting back the temptation keen to voice my deepest desires and greatest fears. My ankles cross behind the chair’s leg, uncomfortable no matter how I settle. I feel it, deep in me. The question rises from within my gut, and before I can halt its progress I ask, “Shall I be presented upon the dais tonight?”

Aida scoffs, a fond smile tilting her lips. “Oh, my gem.” She stands and saunters toward me, lifting my chin with a gentle finger. “You shall be the most prized whore in all of the Nine Kingdoms.” She pats my cheek and returns to sit behind the sturdy mahogany of her desk. A ledger falls open before her, pages filled with names and sums. Her voice stills like water after it ripples, tone clear and dispassionate. “You shall begin to entertain tonight. But only the one who desires you most will have the chance to gaze upon you and enjoy your deflowering.”

I clamp my lips together, a distressed noise stuck in my throat. My gaze drops to my lap and my fidgeting fingers before I glance back up. Aida’s quill scratches more names into her book, waiting. She knows me too well.

“There are others, far more beautiful than I. My features bear nothing exquisite,” I insist with a gesture toward myself, heart pleading for my freedom toward the only mother I have ever known. Yet, as well as she knows me, she never seems to hear. “Should any new courtesan not do just as well?”

Regretful eyes meet mine. “Oh, my jewel, you are far more precious.” Her hands fold together and prop her chin atop her desk. She sighs. “Your innocence is far more potent in attraction than any fine face. And it shall win us a grand sum.” She stands and leans forward on her palms. “You shall be my crowning glory.”

The tears well along my waterline, blinked away and choked down. I nod. Anguish creeps along my spine, grasping at my heart and squeezing until my breath hitches.

“Of course, ma’am.” With my final word, I stand, bowing my head and retreating from her stifling expectation.

Descending the steps to the vast main room with its bar and many tables, my steps grow heavy, bile churning in my gut at the thought of strutting across this floor and seducing patrons for Aida’s purse. 

Melinda greets me from her stool with a stoic nod. She tips back her drink and shifts silently in her seat. Though she says nothing, barely acknowledges me, her eyes flicker with the briefest glimpse of sympathy. It’s enough to draw me closer, settling beside her and dropping my head to the smooth, well-worn wood. Her presence—the slightest sense of her understanding—washes over me like the flames of a cozy fire in the dead of winter.

A bottle of aqua vitae clinks on the bar before my eyes, Melinda’s hand wrapped around it’s neck. She pours me a small glass, watching as I stare wide-eyed at the spirit. 

“Don’t let them have more than they need.” The caution in Melinda’s voice startles me, the quiet woman not one to often offer advice. “Keep something for yourself. Your rage, your humor, your joy—keep something and tuck it away.” 

“Thank you,” I whisper as I straighten to meet her gaze, gratitude lacing every word. My throat grows tight with emotion, tears pricking at the back of my eyes.

She says nothing more, grabs her bottle of mead, and swaggers away. Chin held high, shoulders straight, yet burdened by the many years of her trade.

I remain at the bar, staring into the cup before me and the rippling drink within. It’s never touched my lips before, but I’ve heard of the acrid burn, the numbness. Too many girls getting lost in drink before entertaining their suitors. The dangers and temptations. Delicate fingers trace the rim, a debate rampant and inconclusive whirring through my mind. In the end, I push it away. Deserting the bar for the solace of my shared room. 

The day passes in distraction. Evening draws nigh. The sun dipping toward the horizon. As the others leave for the bar downstairs, to get to work and earn their keep, I begin the transformation. Style my hair. Rouge my cheeks. Dress in my finest rags. 

Voices swell below, raucous laughter and tittering giggles of delight. A farce. But one that brings coin and keeps customers returning again and again. My lungs expand on a deep breath and I stand without another look in the mirror.

“No,” Aida chastises from the doorway with only a glimpse of me, her frustration leaking from her pores. “This shan’t do.” Her fingers pluck in disgust at my cheeks. A sneer contorts her lip, hands grabbing at my chin.

A cloth wipes rough against my cheeks and her hands peel away the unsatisfactory outfit. She insists I wash again and presents a fine garment of crystal blue—pure, almost holy in its shade. Her foot taps as I scramble to appease her, turning once I am finished and awaiting her approval. 

Her face remains a careful mask, though preferable to the disgust of before. She reaches out her hand. “Come.”

I nod and follow, navigating the hallways of the brothel until we reach a room empty of occupant, but not of purpose. This place, once used for boarding, looks nothing like the barren chamber of the rooms where we sleep. Cushions in lush textiles line the floors. Colorful lamps swing overhead, flickering their flames. Swaths of fabric drape over once bare walls. A table rests before a long, translucent purple curtain partitioning the room. 

Aida draws me over and places me behind it. “You shall sit here,” she instructs, waiting to continue until I find my place. Raised upon a platform to survey the room before me. “Entertain your guests and who knows? One may desire to keep you.” She smiles, no warmth to her eyes, but a greed that consumes her. One with which I am well acquainted. It strikes me with her every glance in my direction.

“Yes, ma’am,” I whisper. 

She hums and spins on her heel, exiting with a click of the latch on the door.

Many pass over the threshold throughout the night, curious eyes seeking the Beast’s jewel. Some leave after a glimpse of the gossamer barrier. Others stay longer, sitting before me for a moment of my time. Ever demure in tone and bearing, I entertain them—ask of their stories and charm them as I’ve been taught.

It is not until the late hours of the night, when a kind older man departs with promises of a return, do I receive my final callers. 

Two figures enter. Strutting into the room with all the air of royalty. They sit like kings across the cushions, sprawling in a display of regal leisure. 

“My lords,” I greet, my chin dipping toward my chest, a gesture of deference still visible through the barrier. 

They do not speak for a moment. The silence elongating until I shift in my position and contemplate how I should continue to address them.

“What’s your name?” one asks, pleasant and genuine curiosity lacing his rich baritone. 

Whether he expects a pseudonym or the truth, I answer with my name on a stuttered breath, struck by his gaiety and left intrigued. 

“Your age?” he inquires.

Again, I answer with the truth, counting the years of my life. Older than the youngest who sell themselves here, well into womanhood and past the hopefulness of youth. The perfect age, Aida once said, to know better, yet not know at all. 

He hums. His companion remains silent. The companion’s head tilts, and I shift once more. Despite the gossamer partition fixed between us, his eyes bore through me. I swallow and match his stare, waiting.  

“Tell me of your tastes,” the first continues. And my gaze drifts from the silent figure.

“Tastes, my lord?” I question, not quite grasping his meaning. “Do you wish to speak of certain proclivities? Or—”

“Your favorites,” he intones, voice warm and soft with a tinge of amusement rife on his tongue. It’s sweet and disarming. I pause, contemplating the correct answer when he prompts, “Just the truth will suffice. Tell me of the foods you enjoy. The colors that catch your eye. The songs to which you long to dance.”

“I,” The words cuts off as my mind scrambles for the truth—too many thoughts whirling like a windstorm in my mind. I focus on the response most easily given. “My palate may not be as well traveled as some, sir, but I enjoy the sweet buns from the bakery down by the temple.”

“You enjoy sweets, then? All the better,” he jests with the confirmation of my reluctant nod, “for now I know a weakness. I must use it to my advantage.”

A laugh—a spontaneous thing, unpracticed and genuine—bursts from me. My lips spread in a smile. 

“And you, sir? What are your weaknesses?” I inquire, with an honest interest lurking behind my words. Never have I felt the necessity of knowing potential paramours in such a way, but something within my belly yearns for it now. 

“He’s bullheaded, and always pursues heavenly creatures without relent,” the companion speaks for the first time. 

His voice, soft and smoky, wraps around me and dizzies my head. My eyes trace his obscured form, and I breathe a laugh again. The delighted sound accompanied by them both. 

The rest of our night, we spend in each other’s company, exchanging pleasantries and small tidbits of favor until Aida shatters our peace to escort the potential bidders out.

Disappointment sits heavy in my gut, but I wait for my madam’s return. She sweeps into the room and brushes the curtain away, a twinkle of triumph in her eyes. My lips part on a question. Yet it goes unanswered, guided as I am to my rooms to sleep and prepare for the rigors of the next evening. 

Many more visit the second night. More the third. But each night, I wait. Bated breath and hopes high, anticipating the the arrival of the two lords who begin to occupy my every waking thought. 

Each night, always the last, they return, enlivening me with their attention and gentle affections. They grow bolder, sneaking closer toward the curtain. Prodding at the boundary between us.

“Why deep purple, little blossom?” one asks, soft voice reaching me. His fingers skim the fabric, catching on the tips and tugging until it flutters. “I have seen many don the color here. Is it the brand of your establishment?”

I swallow, leaning away from his unconscious lure. So close to them, so thin a barrier between us. The impulse tickles my spine and bids my fingers move—but I resist.

“My lord,” I explain with caution, “surely you know, in these lands, purple is the mark of a whore.” 

Silence stretches.

Broken by a growl—an almost inhuman sound, accompanying a cutting assertion, “You are not a whore.” 

I swallow, a spike of fear flickering at the base of my skull at the strict remonstrance. Lips parting, my mind scrambles for an apt response. Working through stunned and fluttering thoughts, I reply, “I am not, as of yet, my lord.” My head bows, unwilling to peek at their figures behind the delicate material. Heat warms my cheeks. “But I might be yours.” 

A sharp inhale meets my ears. 

The door bursts open, Aida ready for her nightly routine. The men stand, unmoving for a moment as they attempt to peer at my visage. To no avail as the curtain remains in place, not a shift or quiver.

No, the only quake comes from my blood, thrumming through my veins in an intoxicating rush. I wait, as I always do, for their reaction—just one more word from either of their lips. My fingers sink into the cushion beneath me, threatening to rip the cloth and expose the feathers and fluff beneath. But they remain as silent as me.

In incremental movements, I begin to stand. My legs untuck from under me, lifting me up. A shaking hand reaches forward. Fingers brush the fabric and begin to grip. Though my reason rebels against the instinct, every fiber in my being wishes to gaze upon their faces. To trace their features and drink in their presence without any impediment.

“My lords, if you would follow me,” Aida insists. Her tone breaks me from my thrall, barbed and biting—her ire roiling behind a composed guise.

When she returns, her nails dig into my arms, grip tight and painful. There is no gentleness in her treatment that night. Only a threat and a lesson learned.

Journeying with the others the next morning, I find the temple on an empty stomach, coaxed to deliver the first of my offerings to the God of Pleasure.

Everything within me revolts at his feet, bowing my head and refusing to utter my prayer. But I offer a coin from my meager purse before weaving my way toward beauty.

It feels right, supplicating myself to the patron of lost souls. The Freed Soldier looking upon my fatigued frame with indifference. 

“I cannot go on,” I lament at his feet, unable to glance at the altar of the Righteous Captain, knowing too well how conflicting my position is to his virtue. Only the Soldier may be my confessor this morning. “This venture, it taints me—spreading like a stain until it will cover every part of me.” Beneath my skirts, I loose a tiny sachet from around my thigh—a few aromatic herbs, a shard of iridescent glass, and a speckled pebble encased inside. “Please, I beg you. I will be loyal all my days.” Tears drip down my cheeks, and splash across the tiled floor. “Help me,” I whisper from quivering lips.

There is no answer. 

The night falls, as it must, and I return to my shrouded position. The faces blur in their familiarity from behind my curtain. Voices returning from the nights previous. Aida keeps new, curious gazes away—culling the interest pool to those wealthy enough to bid for my innocence. 

The older man returns from the first night, his voice jovial. Though he doesn’t tell me it, his name sits scrawled on a piece of parchment resting under Aida’s arm, along with the others who vie for my attentions. 

They’ve started to sit closer, their curiosity feeding a need to discern my appearance. But none catch a glimpse—none that I wish to catch a glimpse.

Except for them. 

Only one comes that night. His companion absent from his side. My heart sinks, distraught and cycling through notions of my failure before he speaks.

“I hope you will forgive me,” the man excuses, sitting before the curtain, pressing probing fingers across the translucent cloth. “I wished for a moment of your time, alone.”

My throat clears, mind searching for the words to express my curiosity and sate my incompetence with answers. “Then your friend has no need of my services?”

“No, no,” he rushes to reassure, “business calls him away this night. Though he should return tomorrow, neither of us wished to lose an opportunity to see you.”

Relief floods through my veins, a grin stretching my lips. “I suppose that will do.”

“Be assured, my sweet, we shall only ever have you together.” 

Heat rushes to my cheeks. His implications and passion striking me to my core. His figure leans closer to the drape, so close I might perceive his features if it were more sheer. Even still, his proximity ensnares my senses, scenting the faintest hint of sage on his clothes, the brush of his breath. My heartbeat thumps in my ears.

“You shall be my sweet, shan’t you?” he questions no louder than a whisper.

Before my thoughts can form coherence, my lips murmur, “yes,” without pause, fervor rife in the declaration.

“Then I have something for you.”

He turns away, hands procuring a bag tied to his belt. He offers it out. Just on the other side of the curtain but no further. I reach for it, charades of anonymity and mystery cursed to the riverbed.

The curtain parts around my arm, fingers grasping at the pouch. A hand locks around my wrist, lips descending for a tantalizing caress. I gasp. 

The man smooths his fingertips over my skin. Such tenderness, reverence in the gesture. And I sit still, unable to break the sanctity of the moment until he releases me with a final kiss to my knuckles. 

I swallow, a lump forming in my throat, impeding any sentiment I might utter. My eyes flick away from the shadow of his face, locking onto my gift and untying the ties. Pulse fluttering beneath my skin, every fiber of my being grasps for composure. 

Peeking into the linen bag, my fingers pluck out a small, dark shard which melts in my touch.

“Eat it,” he encourages, eager and insistent. “It’s called chocolate.”

I hesitate, wondering at the food, trying to discern its flavor without a taste. Yet chocolate is not something with which I am familiar. But the shard finds its way to my mouth, melting as it did between my fingers. It coats my palate with sweet bitterness. A sound of delight trills in my throat, looking to the man who offered such a fine gift.

“Thank you,” I whisper, still struggling to form words and lost in the pleasures of the treat, and even a simple offering of gratitude feels ill-equipped to convey my appreciation.

“Steve.”

“What?” I ask in confusion, glancing toward the pouch now resting in my lap and back to the gossamer.

“Steve,” he repeats, a patience to his voice, “it’s my name.”

“Steve.” It repeats on my tongue, sweeter than the chocolate still lingering. “A pleasure to know your name, my lord.” A smile pulls at the corners of my lips. An ache growing within my chest—inexplicable yet all-consuming. Akin to tenderness, affection. Accompanied by a pang, worse than those of a growing body. Knowing he and his companion are still but one of many who might win my innocence. Possibility and probability and favor warring against our fates that may not align.

But I disregard it. Allowing my own indulgence, engaging Steve in conversation and gaiety—as if I were not hiding behind a veil, and he were any man I might meet on the street. 

And the next night, they return together. My endearment to them growing even more incisive. Heavy as a boulder within my chest and piercing through me. Yet I have been taught well. A charming air shielding my true feelings from them, just as my face remains concealed.

“What think you of your other suitors?” 

The jubilance of my laughter ceases. Stunned by the man’s inquiry. Steve turns to face his companion, fidgeting in his seat. My eyelids blink, batting away bewilderment.

“They are of no concern, my lord,” I rush to say, stumbling over the words. Dread slithers down my spine, colder than winter’s frost. “You may be my only master, should you wish it.”

“And what would be the price of that?” he growls.

“James,” Steve reprimands, cautioning his companion and introducing me to him for the first time. 

Though my throat dries and my nerves pluck with discomfort, I reply, “I will never set the price, my lord. It is not one I wish to collect from you.”

Silence settles between the three of us. Long moments spent with our own thoughts. A chair creaks. A cup clinks. My breath stays within my chest, refusing to escape my lungs.

“Do you wish to be ours?” James asks, an edge to his words that I cannot define nor fathom.

“More than any other,” I reply.

“No matter the price,” Steve intones, question woven with an intensity much like his companion’s.

“Yes, my lord.”

It is the last thing I say to them. Their bodies rising as one and exiting the room. A strong, determined steeliness lining their shoulders and regimenting their gait.

Aida barges into my room, expression a blazing inferno of rage. Her nails sink into my arms, dragging me from my bed and shoving me against the floor. 

“You think to trick me, to make a fool of my endeavors?” she questions, tone sharp and pointed. 

My chin ducks, unaware of my slight against her. Trying to puzzle together whatever infraction I have committed. 

She tilts my gaze up, fingers squishing my cheeks and nails biting at my skin. “I own you,” she seethes. “Until the breath leaves my lungs and my soul fords the Gods’ Blood, you are mine and no one else’s.” She pushes me away and I yelp, head smacking against the frame of Skye’s cot. “Play your games with your suitors, my gem,” she spits, “but do not think you may challenge me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I whisper, still lost and perplexed by her sudden wrath. But unwilling to provoke it further.

“Now,” she straightens, smoothing her hands over her bodice and turning her gaze from me. Yet still it sends a shiver down my spine. “You shall pray with your sisters and brothers at the temple. And come the evening, you shall see no more of those two lords who think themselves your keepers.”

I swallow hard, nodding and waiting to gather myself until her steps retreat down the hall. Head dizzy, I stumble to my feet and brush away the tears lining my eyes. For I know of whom Aida speaks. No two other men had sought me so ardently than James and Steve. I sniff away the distress and smooth my dress. Leaving my sorrow tucked away in the empty room.

My steps tread heavy toward the temple. My knees aching before Ari. Sorrow clings to me like a shroud and I cannot remember the words of my prayers before his feet.

I stay with my siblings at the temple, too forlorn to find my way to any other god to plead my case. Aida has spoken. As the madam of the brothel, her word equates to law and I cannot defy her. I cannot even fathom any strength to try.

Skye wraps her arm around me, guiding me back toward the temple door. Passing by a priestess with a half-veiled face, my steps falter. Her hand stretches before my waist, blocking my exit. 

“You so often find your way to this temple,” she states, her voice smooth and deep. A curl of shocking red hair falling to brush her cheek. Feline eyes scrupulous as they survey my frozen form.

My throat dries, a spark of fear curdling in my belly. “Yes,” I reply on a stuttered breath.

“You do not seek out your gods today,” she presses, gaze narrowed. 

Skye’s hold tightens upon my arm, a firm tug urging me away. But even she knows the respect owed to those in service of the gods. I release myself from her grasp and turn more fully to the priestess, whose emerald eyes shine with some divine knowledge.

“You know our station, sister,” Skye replies for me, biting even as her gentle hands reach for my waist. “Our prayers are sent to Ari in the morning light.”

“Yet her prayers are not yours,” the priestess refutes, turning her attention away from the woman at my side. 

I swallow, lips parted on some protestation that does not come. 

The priestess’s hands enfold mine, a small object placed in my palm. Voice soft, she whispers, “I have seen this appear upon their altar only when your prayers are the most sincere. Yet you have never noticed that it is yours.” With no further explanation, she bows her head and spins on her heel, returning to other duties of the temple and leaving me stunned with the weight of such a holy gift in my hand. 

“Come,” Skye urges, wrapping her guiding arm around me again. Her eyes trail after the priestess, confused and wary. 

My hand drops to my side. The points of the trinket prick at my palm, but every notion in my head knows without doubt that this precious thing must be protected. That Aida must never know it has come into my possession. It slips beneath my pillow, a ten-pointed star strung upon a smooth string. Out of sight and safe and mine.

The evening looms closer with the passing of hours, my heart heavy in my chest. For I know, with Aida’s supervision, I won’t see Steve or James again. 

As the sun descends on the horizon, despite my disappointment, I carry myself with charm and poise. Hoping to endear myself toward one of my few other suitors. For I must. My life hangs in the balance of their favor. 

“So, my dear,” the older gentleman inquires, “what shall I bring you?”

Swallowing down my dry throat, I reply with words fit to choke me, “Just yourself, my lord. I only wish for you.” The falsehoods are bitter on my tongue, forced. And I cannot help but compare them with the truths often spoken with my two favorites, the ones forbidden to me. 

Instead, I am left to please strangers, to lure the rich and bait them with innocence and false fidelity. It drains me each night. The first passing with no sign of Steve and James. The second falling with little hope. 

Until a crash sounds from outside my room. A cacophonous racket that sends me jumping in my seat. It startles my suitor as well—a younger man pleased by strokes to his ego and unconcerned with truth. 

“What in the Land Beyond is happening out there?” he huffs, standing from his place and stomping toward the door. 

Only to be forced back as it bursts open and another figure storms inside. He calls my name, his rough voice a boon, lifting my spirits—James. 

I stand, stepping toward the gossamer partition and wait for his approach. My tongue ties in my mouth, unable to exclaim in curiosity or astonishment, simply gazing at his form through the curtain. Sounds from without reach my ears, more crashes—broken cups and chairs. A ruckus that must have stemmed from him.

“You entertain them still?” he questions, hushed and incredulous. Reaching through the barrier between us, his touch wraps around my wrist. With a gentle tug, he attempts to draw me forward—an attempt I reluctantly resist. “You need not. Come.” He urges me forward again.

“My madam forbids it, sir,” I protest, voice quiet as a mouse yet as loud as I can make it. I do not budge from my spot before my pedestal, nerves a flurry of fear and confusion fluttering within my chest. 

He pauses, grip pulsing around my wrist with a stern strength. “You wish to stay here with them?” James spits the words with contempt, releasing me as if I scalded him. 

My lips part on a confirmation I cannot voice, silenced by an inability to form the proper words on my tongue. Tears prick at my eyes, dripping in cool rivulets down my cheeks. 

He huffs a scornful bark of a laugh, shaking his head and turning toward my evening’s patron. “You think you may have her?” he questions, tense shoulders held like a threat, feet stalking forward. “You will not.”

“Wait!” I cry, hiccuping a sob in distress. My hands grip the curtain, threatening to tear it from its hanging. “Please, James. Don’t—”

Another figure fills the doorway, just as broad and strong. He steps inside and closes the door behind him. 

“Are we ready?” Steve asks, his voice sure and soothing. 

“She will not come,” James replies, turning his attention back toward me and approaching on ominous steps. “Yet.” He whispers the word, almost against my lips through the thin barrier between us. 

His head tilts. A moment of calm passes, our breaths shared. But striking out in an instant, his hand wraps around my nape and drags me forward until his lips crash against mine. 

The fabric remains between us, but I taste his ardent desire in his touch and kiss, shaking me to my core. His heat burns me, tantalizing and tempestuous. And just as suddenly as he had ravished my senses, he releases me.

“You have promised yourself to us, lost little blossom, do not forget,” he murmurs against my lips before stepping back toward his companion.

They both leave through the door without a glance back. And I am left stunned. Lifting gentle fingers to trace my lips, my knees weaken beneath me and I fall upon my cushioned seat. 

Dazed, I continue my duties of the night, inattentive and lost to contemplation. Of Steve and James’ reappearance and urgency—of the hunger in James’ kiss. Ill-defined figures pass before the curtain, shadows forming the men left in my cadre of callers. Even in my dreams, hand tucked under my pillow and clinging to the star, I cannot bid my thoughts settle. Instead, it replays in my mind over and over. The press of James’ lips. His hand on my skin. His heat. The piercing of Steve’s gaze. His soft voice. His calm in the midst of chaos. Fantasies weaving together, leaving me in fits of sleep and waking with a gnawing need. 

It is the first time my prayers ring sincere as I bow before Ari—beseeching his lenience, desire threatening to overwhelm and consume me. 

Sitting before his feet, morning light soft against my skin, I prostrate myself, bending low and touching my forehead to the cool stone floor.

“Ravenous One, God of Passion and Pleasure, patron to lovers and the fallen, grant me clarity, I beg.” I speak through the dryness of my throat, spine pricking with awareness, knowing the bodies lined beside me might overhear my whispered plea. Yet I persevere knowing I can neither abide nor endure my heart beating for two men I shall never have. “Give me strength to fulfill my duty, to obey my madam, to forget those I—” Words threaten to fall from my lips, perched precariously on my tongue—words of love and affection I cannot entertain. I finish the thought, swallowing down those tempting utterances which wish to be spoken, “to forget those I fear I cannot.” My voice cracks, as fragile as my state of mind, searching for mercy—from my desires, from the gods, from myself. I lick my dry lips and stumble over the rest. “So I may serve you in all ways, a loyal and ready supplicant to indulgence. And may the Gods’ Blood flow forever and ever.” 

The candles before the god’s feet flicker. A soft draft brushing against them. I sigh and stand, patting my hands against my skirts and placing my offering upon the altar. A strip of luxurious fabric taken from my cushion wrapped around a small flask of Melinda’s best mead. 

Staring up at my new patron god, tears sting my eyes. A soul-deep acceptance settling within me. His fiery eyes gaze down at me, unseeing and unsympathetic.  

Preparing for the night brings me to the partitioned room, shrouded in secret and ready to beguile. 

An hour passes. Aida’s presence stifling in the close quarters. We wait in silence, yet my madam cannot stay still. Her irritation and uncertainty growing with each passing second. Her shoulders tense. Her fingers pressing to her cheeks and kneading the flesh there. She casts glances toward me over her shoulder, staring at the door with a glare. 

“What have you done?” she grits out between clenched teeth. Though she doesn’t turn, she waits for my answer.

“Nothing ma’am, I don’t understand. I thought—”

She raises her hand to silence me, storming from the room. 

Alone, I puzzle over the absence of my suitors. For they had all been eager—if not for our carefully constructed rapport, than for the thought of defiling my body. Surely they could not have all lost their interest in the span of one day.

My teeth sink into my lower lip, worrying over the flesh as dread rises like bile up my throat. To disappoint Aida would be a sentence worse than death—for she would make it so. Hands clasped before my chest, I mutter a prayer to Ari, pleading for my salvation. 

And it comes with the opening of the door. 

The older gentleman, the one with kind words and a penchant for trying to charm me in return, enters my room and sits before my curtain. 

“You must forgive me my tardiness,” he excuses with a good nature. “I was discussing some business with your madam.”  

“Please, sir, uh, do not fret over such matters,” I rush to appease, stumbling over the placation with a huff of relief. “I will wait for you, with pleasure.”

He makes a happy little sound in the back of his throat and eases into his chair, conversing with me freely and distracting me from the lack of other men eager for my company. He stays until Aida collects him at the end of our night, ushering him out with promises of satisfaction. 

And my routine shifts abruptly. When I stand to weave my way back to my bed, the latch on the door will not budge. Locked in the lavish room, I’m once again left waiting with no explanation. 

The door opens again, a delighted Aida waiting for me without. My brow creases with worry, unsure of this abrupt change in temperament.

“My jewel, come with me,” she begs with a gentle hand guiding my elbow. “Master Radcliffe quite enjoys your company and has just this night bid for your maidenhead.” She smiles over at me, brushing her fingers against my cheek.

Everything within me braces so that I do not flinch under her touch. “So he will be my new master, ma’am?” I inquire, keeping my voice steady though it wishes to crack and crumble into sobs. 

She hums an amused sound. “Only for one night.” She tucks my chin with her finger before drawing me toward her personal chambers. “If he wishes to own you, he shall have to pay a much more fine price.” Her fingers pinch at my upper arm. “If you wish for more, you shall have to please him, shan’t you?” 

She chuckles and prods me into her room. Her bed sits pushed into the corner adjacent to the window. Before the window, her desk. Across sits a cabinet—one I know well. 

The box bed waits with its doors open, the bed still small and cramped and lined with soft linens. My childhood spent locked away during the night, to keep me from wandering eyes and hands. It used to make me feel safe and protected. Now, the space sends a bolt of fear up my spine.

“Ma’am?” 

“In you go, my dazzling jewel,” she urges with a tinge of impatience, pushing me toward the door and dipping her hand between her breasts to retrieve an old, iron key. “We must assure your innocence only one day more. I promised Master Radcliffe we would take every precaution.” She smiles, a sinister glee sparkling in her eyes. “I will bring you your meals and allow you to bathe before your formal introduction.”

My feet hesitate, stuck to their spots on the floor before the bed. My lips part on a plea, but there is no time for its utterance. 

“Get in,” Aida insists, a firm hand on my back shoving me inside.

My legs tuck beneath me just as the doors swing shut, the lock clicking into place and leaving me in darkness. 

Her steps retreat and her door latches, though the flame in her room continues to flicker on its wick. The candlelight a sliver between the seam of the bed’s doors. 

My knees fold beneath me, the flat pillow cradled to my chest, face tucking into the cushion. Filling my body with air, I struggle to remain calm. Forgotten memories flash before my eyes, nights spent crying within these sheets, waiting for a kind word or comforting embrace.

Skimming over the wood to my side, my fingers find the small notch of a carving. The two stars well-worn by so many years spent tracing the crude shapes. Sinking into the bed and turning on my side, my shaky breaths calm, legends of the Righteous Captain and the Freed Soldier stirring a gentle warmth within my chest. Years of learning my destined craft accompanied by an overheard story, a whisper of legend, a glimpse of splendorous offerings.

My lips press together. My eyes close. There are no more prayers for me to utter, but still I spend a restless moment with thoughts of them before I drift off to sleep.

The doors rattle. An unsteady hand presses the key into the lock of my bed, the iron clicking several times. I jolt awake, body forced upright.

“Is everything alright?” I ask, fearful of the answer. Despite the fatigue clinging to my limbs, I remain alert, heart pounding as no response returns. “Aida?”

The low light of the early morning greets me when the doors swing open. The grey fog outside Aida’s window tints the room with its dreary presence. Befuddlement strikes me. It is far too early for the girls to be awake and readying for their prayers. And I was sure I would not be permitted for the sake of my intact innocence. But instead of Aida standing before me, Skye’s wide eyes stare back in terror. 

“What’s wrong?” I whisper, foreboding dripping down my throat and pooling in my belly. 

“You,” her voice cracks and she glances away a moment before sniffing and turning back to me, “You have to come with me.”

Her hand reaches toward me in offering, spattered with crimson drops. My head tilts as I accept. Sore bones from the cramped space protest when I stand. But I make no complaint, focused on my friend—her mind wandering on thoughts I cannot comprehend. 

She rushes away, dragging me behind, her steps quick and frantic toward the room I share with her and a few others. Though their beds are disheveled from sleep, they are absent. My lips part in inquiry, but Skye proceeds with urging me to wash and dress, glancing over her shoulder after every move. 

“Wear this,” she insists, helping me don the gown of crystal blue—the one I wore my first night behind the veil—though it sparkles more now, shining incandescent in the dim light. “It is what they want.”

“Aida and Master Radcliffe?” 

Skye’s head shakes in denial, but her quivering lips do not grant me any other crumb of information. So I am left following her, and stuck in bewilderment. The house remains far too quiet as she finishes readying me. Only thoughts of Aida’s endeavor make sense as Skye checks my appearance. No other explanation forms within my mind. Yet she denied it. 

“Hurry,” Skye beckons with urgency. “We can make them wait no longer.” Her voice cracks over the words, eyes shiny with tears. 

I only pause one moment, reaching beneath my pillow to take the gift from the gods and shove it within the pouch of my pocket. Then my hasty steps mirror Skye’s, unsure yet scared for her distress, descending the stairs to find a captive crowd. 

By the time my feet find the middle step, the scene stretches before me in gruesome spectacle. Cowering in fear, my brothers and sister of the brothel remain by the bar—dotted by the same crimson splattered against Skye’s hands. On their faces, their clothes, staining their skin. Before them, lining the floor sit eight heads. Unfamiliar faces filthy and sitting in a pool of blood, their mouths open and eyes bloody and burnt hollows. Flies buzz about the room, landing upon slack lips and tongues, burrowing into the empty sockets. The stench curls in my nose, death and decay striking pungent and vile. Bile rises in my throat and I freeze. The horrific sight, inexplicable and grotesque, stays my step. Even as Skye prods me forward, I cannot force myself to continue. 

Then I hear my name, honey sweet and calm, from a voice I know so well. “Please, join us, my sweet.” 

I comply on trembling legs, swallowing hard and fighting back the urge to heave and scream. 

Steve and James stand in the center of the room, swords brandished and dripping. Pride in their bearing, a confidence borne of their bloodthirst. Just as crimson speckled as the rest, yet faces alight with satisfaction.

Skye scurries toward our siblings, stepping carefully around the congealing substance on the floor. Welcomed into their terrified and protective embrace as all eyes turn to me.

And I’m alone at the foot of the stair, unable to tear my gaze from the two men I once thought my salvation. Our focus does not waver, though mine darts between the two. Trying to fathom the meaning behind their display. Unable to place a name to their face—seeing them for the first time, unprepared for their beauty and their brutality.

“Who,” I croak, clearing my throat in the attempt to speak louder than a whisper, “Who are those men?” My trembling hand gestures toward the macabre sight.

“You do not recognize them?” one asks, brow tilted in skepticism. That voice—James? My head shakes in response, denying any knowledge of the men. He hums, pleased by the response. “They thought themselves worthy of you. To sit beside you and relish in your company.”

My eyes blink, a slow motion that tempers the faint feeling that assaults my head. A hand reaches out, gripping the bannister of the stairs and my other plunges into my pocket through my dress, grasping the pendant in an effort to ground myself. 

Lined up in a row, the men who bid for my maidenhead. Tracing their features with my eyes, sickness assaults my senses. My knees bend beneath me, weakened by the thoughts flurrying through my mind. The meaning of such violence. The cause for such ghastly arrangement. 

And then I see her. Behind the line of dismembered heads, contorted in an unpleasant pose sprawls Aida’s corpse. Her eyes staring blind toward the ceiling and arms splayed to her sides in unnatural angles. A thick, jagged line of red slices across her throat, no longer spurting her blood, but slick with it. It coats down her dress and across the floor—the source of the pool beneath the necks of those unfortunate men. 

I hiccup a sob, the sound stuck in my throat. Crashing around me, the world slips from beneath my feet. My legs collapse. Only the strong grip which wraps about my waist keeps me upright. Not Skye or Melinda or any other from the brothel. No. My head tilts, the sight of my rescuer churning my guts in a nauseous wave. The brown hair that brushes his shoulders, the crystalline gaze which pierces through my very soul. 

He shushes my whimpers, caressing his fingertips across my cheek, a look of awe brightening his features. He smiles. 

“Loyal for all your days,” he murmurs, focus attracted to the parted flesh of my lips. An aborted noise of horror chokes in my throat. “There will be many of them.” The promise rings in my ears as he rights me on my feet and gathers me close, bringing me toward his companion. 

“I believe formal introductions are in order,” the other says, standing tall and stalwart beside the severed heads, triumph straightening his shoulders. “We’ve waited for this moment for so long. Though I will admit, we hoped for more amenable circumstances.” His hand reaches up, scratching at the beard on his cheeks, a sheepish smile pulling at the corner of his lips. 

I’m released by the brunet’s arm, left standing where the pool of blood just grazes the side of my shoe. 

A babble of noise rises from those by the bar, harsh and harried. One swift glance from the blond stops it short, before a single phrase may form. 

He turns back to me, catching my eye and bowing his head. The softness of his expression, the warmth of his stare, before he utters the words, I know. “I’m Steve, little sweet.”

“I’m James,” the brunet intones, a smirk plucking at his upper lip. He holds himself with a bold smugness I do not understand, until he open his mouth to speak again. “Though perhaps, despite our many meetings, you might know us better by a different title.” 

A subtle glow begins to form around them both. Not from the rising of the sun, though it does begin to crest the horizon. It is something innate within them that grows and brightens. Almost until it burns. 

He gestures to Steve with a tilt of his head. “Patron to artists and carrier of justice.” His hand sweeps before himself as he steps forward, snaking his arm back around my waist. “I shoulder free will and aid lost souls.” 

I do not need to speak the words aloud. Though they sit, perched on the tip of my tongue. Instead, the Soldier sees them in my terrified gaze and nudges my chin with one of his fingers. But my head shakes and shakes and shakes, denial coursing through me.

“Will you come with us now?” Steve asks, stepping forward, a hopeful tilt to his brow. He reaches forward and gently grasps my arm, lifting it until my wrist sits within his grasp and he can brush his lips across the skin of my hand.

“Or must we extinguish this whole place?” Bucky inquires, whispering into my ear with a glance sent toward the people standing by the bar.

I swallow, heart stuttering in my chest and heave a deep breath. “I will go with you,” I reply around the lump in my throat.

In the Land Beyond the River, where the gods reside, time moves differently. Every morning I wake to a new day, full of luxury and leisure. Yet every night it is the night of my ruin. 

Wandering hands, whispered words—over and over and over. My innocence taken from me again and again with the same affection and tenderness as the first night when I was stolen from The Broken Beast and found myself in the God’s Domain.

“Here, little blossom,” James coos, pressing a ripe fernberry to my lips, “taste this and let me savor it on your tongue.” 

My teeth pierce the flesh, tears already welling in my eyes—waiting for the moment it comes. When he will brace himself on my thighs and sink into me. Juice dribbles down my chin, tilted back so that Steve might lap at the sweet nectar. 

“You are divine, my sweet,” Steve sighs, fingers cradling my jaw and holding me steady.

Contorted as I am, I never ache—at least not for long. No matter how they may handle my body, my muscles never weaken and never tire. Instead, their ravenous embrace holds me tight until each is satisfied and I might drift away on pleasurable waves of respite. 

“Say it,” James prompts, the same words every night. 

I swallow around them, stuck behind my teeth. Though each night it gets easier and easier to say it, to confess and lay myself upon their mercy, to believe it with my whole heart. “I love you,” I say, repeating it like a chant, captured by Steve’s lips until they’re muffled in his kiss.

My thighs part wide, held by caring hands that smooth over the skin with a devoted reverence. 

“And we love you,” James assures with a soft smile, “more than you will ever know.” 

His member, thick and turgid, brushes against my delicate petals. My breath catches in my throat as it taps upon that sensational bundle of nerves. 

Fingers ease his way, stretching me until my lips parts on a moaning gasp, the very core of me weeping for them both. Then, with a tilt of his hips, James begins the plunge. It stings, as it does every night. No amount of gentleness or preparation readying me for that initial thrust. 

His hips rock against mine, furthering himself into me. Steve holds me secure, cradling me against his chest, keeping my legs wrapped over his, and my arms locked to my sides. He murmurs sweet sentiments into my ear until my mind turns hazy, dripping with their syrupy honey.

“That’s it. I’ve got you,” he coos in my ear, “our most precious girl.” 

“Yes,” I moan as James stills, the sting of his length accompanied by an all-encompassing hunger. The longer he remains dormant within me, the more ravenous it grows. 

James presses a kiss to my cheek, lips drawn in a smile. “Right where you belong.” He grasps my chin with sticky fingers, tongue licking into my mouth and tasting the sweet fruit and passion that coats my palate. He hums and consumes. 

And I let him, reveling in it. Aching for it. 

How many days have passed thus, I cannot count. Each as steady as the way James plunders me. His hips striking against mine in his fervor. He chases our ecstasy and drags me with him until we plummet into bliss. And Steve does the same. Maneuvering my body to his whims. His tender attentions guiding me until I fall again and again. Until no thought lingers in my mind, but of them. Not the slickness of the sweat on our bodies nor the coolness of the silk cushions. Not the brilliant moon lighting the horizon nor the crash of the river upon its shore. 

Just them. Always them.

read more of The Avengers Pantheon at The Undone and the Divine

[cemeterything]

greek yoghurt will take hold of you and you will resent its absence

[howifeltabouthim]

If you persist in going in, you must go. But allow me to warn you that you will find tragedy in that room.

Ellen Wood, from East Lynne

[furiouskettle]

SONBOY!!!!!

Guillermo del toro’s Pinocchio was WELL worth the wait!!! I adore this interpretation of the character so so so much.