#me watching fallen flower petals off trees

[dubioushonour]

Sitting outside in the setting sun, emotional about life coming back from the brink of winter and nature's proclivity to spin

[driaswrld]

🪷 — A ROYAL AFFAIR . . . THE SCANDAL OF THE CHILDHOOD CONSORT

LADY DRIA WRITES . . . ˚ ༘ *

🪷 dearest gentle reader, what is a princess to do when she's caught between two dashing princes, both of which are her childhood friends? — one her betrothed and the other her past love... 4.7k words.

🪷 prince gojo x reader x prince geto jjk regency/royal au, use of regency era terminology, longing and more longing.

🪷 taglist : (lmk if you want to be added or removed!) @angelshimaa @yunymphs @todorokies @satocidal @maeby-cursed @rinniessance @cinnabooonn @shegetsburned @starry-grace2 @selfishdoll @shuuennovirche @wishmemel @riaki @yazzzmints @aphroditisxc @gojorbit @izakyun @satoruoo @irisxyphium @zwtari @/lollipop974 @r0ckst4rjk @softgirlgonehaywire @lilvampirina @brianmaysclog

CHAPTER ONE. . . ˚ ༘ *

L'INCOMPARABLE.

Talks of betrothal began in the last Spring of your youth.

Under the cherry blossom trees, you sit in silence, fuchsia petals decorating the length of your hair in messy scatters.

Satoru Gojo, crowned prince and heir to the Gojo throne, picks the fallen remnants of flowers from your hair one by one as the nobles watch on.

Whispers of ‘they would make such a beautiful match’ and ‘look how the Prince dotes on her’ echo in the brush of the gardens, women whispering among themselves and the men chortling between swings of their mallets — in a near deathly game of pall mall.

“Don’t hide from me,” Satoru dips his head, breath fanning the shell of your ear. If possible, the whispers intensify, cutting past your ears and you bite back a giggle, stifling down the thought that crosses your mind, attention whore.

“I’m not hiding, your highness.” You counter, shifting to the side, your smile hidden behind a porcelain teacup, swift sips of ginger warming your cheeks.

“It’s improper, you know.” The words linger in the air between soft wisps of wind, flurries of foreign fabrics and bright layers of skirts pass your vision — and yet, all is drowned out by him.

Your anointed Prince, the attention whore.

“Improper to gaze upon my companion?” Satoru scoffs, grinning wide, toothy, dimples.

Childhood found you both tethered like bee and nectar, always close, always coming back.

At first, it was through duty, sharp tongued ten year old Satoru Gojo, a prince born with a halo and the title of the realm’s strongest to his name, meeting you, the humble princess of the Western kingdom, born in valor and sprouted in pride, a warrior’s code.

It was a disastrous first few encounters—

(—but then he was your bestfriend, and you his. )

His dear mother, bless her soul, had taken the time out to host this marvelous garden party to welcome the newest maidens into their debuts – moreso, to marry Satoru off quicker than he could leave for another battle, chasing another war – and yet, he cared not to meet with any of the women or entertain them beyond an inch of his being.

Not around you, at least.

“You shouldn’t jest about these things—!” A snort leaves your mouth, and whereas the ever uppity ladies of the palace court gawk at you in utter disbelief and mild disgust, Satoru finds himself bellowing a boyish laugh.

That was the last time he’d laugh like that with you, before a warm spring of youth turned to a burning summer, hot with passion, scorched with lust.

THE SCANDAL OF THE CHILDHOOD CONSORT.

Dearest gentle reader,

As all royal scandals do,

It started with an invitation.

We cordially invite you to the Gojo palace grounds to celebrate the betrothal of our crowned prince Satoru Gojo and his bride to be [name] [name].

This author finds herself compelled and rather . . . intrigued.

What a match made in heaven! Our beloved Prince Satoru and his most dearest childhood friend!

Your fingers tremble at your sides, the aura that is the strongest permeates your very being. The soft hum of piano keys coupled with string and bow becomes near inaudible – the power Satoru Gojo has on you is like a moth to a flame, lamb to slaughter.

But I assure you,

When it comes to matters of the heart —

Carefully, your feet carry you across the crowded ballroom, mass of bodies parting the instant they catch a glimpse of your eyes – that desperation is familiar in young women like you – and they pity you.

You, who should be above them, who should be the next Queen, the current Princess consort to be.

And yet.

“I’ve told you endlessly, I will take no wife!” Satoru’s voice is a staccato, bouncing off the walls of the vacant corridor adjacent to the ballroom, echoing past your ears.

Dare I say, our beloved crowned Prince

Is not the strongest.

“Some nerve you have, boy.”

Satoru’s father, the King, is a stoic man.

You’ve come to know this well in your youth. He rules firm and his word remains law. By no means is he the strongest or possesses any more battle capacity than that of any other noble, but he remains a political stronghold.

And his grip over his family — his subjects, remains unwavering.

“I don’t care for your affairs or your crown,” Satoru’s gaze remains hard, even as he meets his father’s ire in tow, and in such a barely secluded place too. “Let one of your bastards have it, my place is on the battlefield doing what you are too cowardly to.”

Your mind runs rampant, palms pressed against the cold wall concealing your presence.

You wonder what Satoru might be thinking — if he’d be so foolish as to forsake his lineage and do away with his duty, if he’d give up simply because his fate was not his choice — he wouldn’t.

No, Satoru is good and kind, and he would see this kingdom to a new realm of peace just with his bare hands alone.

“And that is all? You wish to do away with it simply because it does not suit your childish desires? I have given you everything! And the one thing I ask of you—”

You still yourself at the near animalistic growl that leaves Satoru’s lips.

“She will never be Queen.”

It cuts through you like blades of grass, familiar, scratching at your skin softly, pinpricks of green drawing blood from your calves.

It reminds you of when you were younger, more naive and susceptible to the follies of men and matters of the heart.

“Who’ll marry you if you spend your days swinging a sword and broadening your shoulders?”

“Aren’t there girls your age you can follow around? I don’t care if you’re a princess, we’re not friends.”

“I don’t know why you’d believe he’d ever want to court you.”

Three months, thirteen days.

Your betrothal has long exceeded and broken the record of engagement wait time.

Most women would be married within the same month of betrothal, the longest and most respectable wait time being a month and a half, only due to cases of overdue dowry payments.

Three million dollars was your reverse dowry.

Paid directly from the royal treasury to your father, and four million dollars paid in return. That was how much yours and Satoru’s hands were worth to your families, a testament to the weight you’d both bear by wearing a crown.

Except, you hadn’t been crowned yet. Or married for that matter.

“—summer solstice hunt!” It’s Yuji who exclaims, voice filled with childlike wonder. Recently knighted by Satoru himself and a renowned protege of the Kingsguard, the boy is eager to please. “Who will you cast your bets on, your grace?”

The confines of Satoru’s private study function as a meeting room for idle chatting — he leaves the letters to his advisors when they are of little importance.

Or discards them entirely when he has company, like now.

You sink deeper into the cushioned seat, Satoru’s arm draped over the back of your chair. A tuft of snowy hair falls over his forehead and he breathes a chuckle, your weight curling in on itself with every rise and fall of his chest.

why don’t you want me why don’t you want me why don’t you want me why don't you want me

“It’s out of question to bet on one’s self, no?” Satoru chuckles and it earns a cackle from Yuji, who, despite himself, has already casted his own bet on his annointed Prince. “I wouldn’t want to make anyone’s head bigger than it ought to be.”

The summer and winter solstice brings with it two separate ceremonial festivals — the hunt being the most anticipated due to its cutthroat competition among nobles and peasants alike.

That, and the prize.

The winner of the hunt, the man or woman to capture the famed primordial stag — which is really a regular stag trained and bred to elude even the most skilled knights — would be rewarded a grand jewel from the Queen’s vault.

Gentle reader,

The famed jewel for the taking

This summer, is none other than—

“I’ve placed my bet on you,” you comment plainly with a shrug and Yuji beams.

It isn’t unlike you to root for one of Satoru’s proteges, the ones fairly skilled and new to knighthood – you’ve always found yourself cheering for the peonies in a garden full of roses — the underdogs full of potential . . .

Satoru glances over to you, and for a second you miss how his gaze lingers.

“You’re too kind, Princess…” Yuji sighs, near dreamily. “I will no doubt do well now that I have your favor on my side.”

( losing dogs, satoru wants to say. all you ever do is bet on losing dogs. )

“You have her bet, not her favor.” Satoru scoffs dramatically before you can even think to lend Yuji your well wishes. “It isn’t something given, it’s something won. And from a maiden, not a Princess consort.”

She’s spoken for, is all you hear though.

There’s an air of uncertainty that passes between you and Satoru that only thickens with your closeness.

A pale palm curls around the cross rail of the back of your chair and you lean into his touch subconsciously – it’s warm, secure – he’s saying, I have your favor, don’t I? Tell me I do.

—The champion’s jewel,

A wraith necklace fit for a Queen.

The L’Incomparable.

“Nevertheless, you have my good faith.” You interject, followed by a sharp inhale, and you stand abruptly from your seat. Satoru’s hand falls to his side. He knows what you're thinking.

Three months, thirteen days.

You’ve sat by and watched Satoru deny you marriage – his excuse, that he’s waiting for his coronation first – you’ve watched him continue to entertain the women around him like he’s done since he was merely a squire, plastering a smile on his face from this glass castle he calls home.

He’s close, but never too close. Stringing you on then letting you loose— it’s routine.

It’s eerily similar to your childhood.

“Yuji,” Satoru speaks, soft yet firm. The young boy is on his feet immediately and offers a swift bow to his majesty, handing his service in tow to the call. “Leave us.” Satoru commands, and just as swiftly as he came, Yuji is bowing to you and exiting through the study doors.

L’Incomparable.

The largest internally flawless diamond in the kingdom and the most expensive chain sitting in the Queen’s vault currently, worth eight billion dollars alone.

Allegedly, it was handcrafted as a gift from an ancient Gojo king to his mistress — whom he had knighted and sent off to fight in the war at her wishes once their affair had been brought to light and scrutinized.

A gift he only got to place on her corpse.

Even in death, he loved her. More than he loved his own wife and Queen.

And though many attempts had been made to destroy the necklace, it remains near indestructible.

“Something troubles you.” Satoru murmurs the moment the door clicks shut. His gaze remains strained forward on your form, from where you fiddle with the frayed hem of your gown, back turned to him.

“I simply think of the prospects of the hunt,” you retort. “There are many promising young competitors traveling to partake— I fear my Prince would simply be. . . thwarted, is all.”

L’Incomparable is not a jewel of love.

It's a sickening story of a woman who loved a man who could not love her back in the way she deserved.

A woman who took what she was given, secret meetings, hushed whispers and fleeting gazes.

And when he did, finally love her back wholly and ardently, unable to bury it behind a locked door in the dungeon he called a heart — she was already gone.

“You doubt me?” Satoru’s voice is closer now, and you wonder when he even stood up – if he'd been taking small steps toward you the entire time.

“No.” It leaves your mouth like a prayer, an oath, worship. Every ounce of confidence you have is in him. He has protected you, kept you, safeguarded your sanity and treated you with grace— “Never that.”

( —he is your friend. nothing more than that. )

He exhales, and you hear the faint sound of a swallow, the click of his tongue. Your ear feels hot with the proximity, yet, he inches closer still.

“Will you give this to me, then?” He whispers, faint, uncertain — almost desperate.

And you turn, faces inches apart, breath mingling. “What is it you wish of me, my Prince?” Your pupils dilate.

“Your Prince,” Satoru repeats, like it knocked the wind out of him. It's a common way to address the monarch, you’ve said it before as have others. “. . . asks for your favor in the upcoming hunt.”

He keeps his hands folded behind him, curled into fists and trembling. Your Prince. Yours. Yours.

He’s a gentleman. He was raised right.

This urge—

( you’re his friend. his advisor. his confidant. this is not what he wants. )

The urge to strip you down to nothing but your chemise, lay you on his desk and hike your legs over his hips, show you things you’ve only seen in dreams or read in books — like he’s done to so many women before — he promises himself he’s not a rake, he’s just a man, but when you look at him like that and say his title so softly—

( it will pass. )

“Then,” your breath slows as he steps forward, so easily leaving you pressed back against the hardwood desk, caged by him. “I will grant my Prince my favor.”

Satoru watches in earnest, places his hands on either side of you on the desk as you remove one of your gloves.

Pure white, pearl decor, lace trim.

He would've laughed if he wasn't so enthralled by such a simple thing. Satoru wants to pull the other glove off with his teeth.

“I’ll return it to you,” he says, a promise. He takes the glove as you hand it to him, leaning forward and chasing the remnants of your fingertips against his once you pull away. “When I win.”

( and maybe then, you’ll understand i am devoted to you, wholly and utterly, if only in these moments and never again. )

There's a knock at the door, brief and soft. A maid, come to drop off another stack of letters.

And just as quickly as Satoru had found himself against you, he’s across the room, opening the door.

As if you had never been there.

The only evidence that he had even touched you is the lace cupped in his palm, middle and index tracing over a minute pearl.

L’Incomparable is a jewel of longing.

Morrow brings with it the beginning of joyous festivities.

You woke to another trousseau. This time, from a distant cousin in the Easternmost kingdom.

Attached was a letter of the newest development in her love life – said development being a defected knight nonetheless.

It made you giggle.

The palace corridors are bustling with life.

Servants and attendants eager to welcome early visitors who have come for the summer solstice, robust back and forth on decorations and food and gossip and many a’ things outside the realm of possibility to be discussed in one sitting.

Your lady in waiting, Areta, whom you’ve known since your youth, creeps into your room with a grin as wide as a war banner – you immediately assume the worst, mischief is your pastime but you fear the poor girl takes ‘eavesdropping on court gossip’ to another level.

“My lady, you would not believe—” Areta huffs, journeying to sit with you on the balcony, wiping an imaginary bead of sweat from her brow. “The things I’ve heard today!”

“You hear things everyday, I fear.” You indulge her, as always. And she begins to talk your ear off, all in good faith of course.

Down below in the courtyard, is the sound of smacking wood and the occasional chorus of baritone conversation.

Satoru, who should be attending treaty meetings with his father, bides his time sparring on the cobblestone with the other men of the Kingsguard – the noise wakes you most mornings.

“—talking to Julietta, you know? The girl who attends to the countess? And she said—”

You hum along to Areta’s words, eyes peering over the edge of the balcony, gaze fixed on the crown Prince.

His snowy hair is damp with sweat, Victorian style dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, every swing of his wooden sword causes a commotion — muscles in his back flexing under the sunlight, so easily seen beneath the thin white fabric.

“—that her lady told her that she heard from a cousin-in-law who works at the docks that—”

You wonder what expression Satoru has as he pummels through his underlings playfully, hardly sparring but more play fighting. You imagine he’s grinning wide, crystalline blue eyes shimmering with glee—

“—that Prince Geto is coming for the hunt!”

You choke. Audibly.

Areta is quick to shut her mouth and lend you a concerned gaze. “Princess, are you—”

“I’m alright.” You wave a hand, catching your breath. Prince Geto. If you think about it too hard, you fear your chest might burst open and spill out your insides.

Oh, fair reader, it seems

Our dear protagonist has come upon

A treasure trove of memories.

“You were, ehem, saying?” You twirl your index finger in the air as if to prompt a rewind. “About. . .”

Areta raises an eyebrow, but nods slowly. “About Julietta’s lady’s cousin-in-law?” The girl questions, dim.

“No!” You interject immediately, twirling your finger in the other direction. Fast forward. “The other thing— the thing you heard!”

“Oh, about Prince Geto!”

Dearest reader,

Suguru Geto enters.

A man of great mystique,

the northern Prince.

And striking opposite of

our beloved crowned Prince Satoru.

“Yes! About him—”

Suguru Geto.

In many ways you could say he was Satoru’s best friend, his greatest rival and worst enemy all at the same time.

Through solstice events, formal gatherings and other royal duties, the same way you met Satoru, you met Suguru through him.

“Well, Julietta’s lady’s cousin-in-law works at the docks,” Areta begins again, regrettably. “You know? The private harbor where all the spirit and wheat shipments come in, but that's besides the point—”

( suguru was your bestfriend too. in every way it counted. )

“Areta.” You coo, coaxing her to get back to the main point. Why was Suguru coming for the summer solstice hunt? After being away in the North for so long, why now?

The only correspondence you’d had with him was a few letters years ago. And then he stopped writing.

“So, Julietta’s lady’s cousin-in-law saw the Geto family's ship dock in the private harbor!” The girl exclaims hushedly and you hum to yourself, curious.

Rightfully, you’d hold a grudge about never hearing from Suguru.

But in this moment, you feel no resentment or hurt. Instead, excitement that you might see your old friend once more.

And maybe, you, Suguru and Satoru could spend the summer solstice together— just like old times.

( and that’d be enough to get rid of the heat in your chest when satoru gets too close to you. )

Faithful reader,

she could not have been

more wrong.

Four days remain until the summer solstice hunt.

Satoru is scarce around the palace in preparation for his coronation coming soon and treaty arrangements.

You, on the other hand, have exhausted all your hobbies, biding your idle time helping the other ladies at court pick their gowns for tomorrow's feast — the first of seven nightly ones during the solstice.

Another trousseau is delivered to your chambers when you wake.

This time, you’re taken aback.

Instead of an elaborate stack of gifts, a box of jewelry or even a scandalous collection of seductive corsets and nightgowns to remind you of your predicament—

There's a long wooden box, coupled with a sealed parcel.

Inside the box is a beautiful gown, deep burgundy and shapely. Fitted with a low bust cut and short sleeves. It's a mouth watering dress, one you would've bought yourself if you even knew it existed.

But you've never seen a dress designed like this before, down to the intricate details of the underskirts and the hemming.

It's almost intimate.

When you finally open the parcel, you expect a note, but there's none. Instead, inside is a pair of black silk gloves, so smooth it melts in your palms – your mind immediately goes to Satoru and the glove he still holds hostage for you.

You don't think twice before telling Areta that this is what you’ll be wearing to tomorrow’s feast.

( you ought to thank satoru for this gift by wearing it, no? )

˚ ༘ *

The lights in the dining hall are dimmed perfectly to match the moonlight.

When you slip in from the adjacent corridor, greeting visiting nobles and residents of the palace court alike, a sense of nausea floods the pit of your stomach – what will Satoru say when he sees you? Will he like how the dress looks – or rather how you look in it?

Wait, why do you even care?

You’ve never really cared for these things— it must be the tea you had earlier. You nearly feel faint.

Darling reader,

it was in fact,

not the tea.

Your thoughts don't get the chance to linger very long, as the soft hum of music slows to a halt, and everyone begins journeying to their assigned seats.

Naturally, you fiddle with your gloves, not wanting to sit down at the second table yet.

One, it would be very impudent of a lady of your caliber to be seated without a proper escort by a gentleman.

And two, even though you did decline the few men who asked to escort you, you can't help the anxiety that floods your veins when you begin to realize that so many people are sitting already and you're not!

Sure, you're a Princess, but can't a girl be a little shy?

( not that you were waiting for satoru or anything of course. )

Devoted reader,

our protagonist

is in denial.

“It pains me to see such a beautiful lady left unaccompanied.” A voice flits past your ears, so close you can taste it on your tongue — incense, sandalwood.

( oh god, no. )

Your body turns in an instant, almost too quick, and your underskirts almost trip you as the weight sends you wobbling forward.

“Easy—” Suguru Geto’s arm darts out to curl around your waist, steadying you.

“You're here—” “You’re still clumsy—”

The both of you lock eyes at your shared unison of speech, then chuckle to yourselves.

You let your eyes wander over his features, how much he's grown over these past years.

He’s still as ethereal as the royal painters would describe. Prince Geto, the joy to paint, once in an era type beauty, born to be depicted in art, they’d say.

You don't doubt that.

“You look well,” you say. Suguru glances down at you and shakes his head, as if that is too much of a compliment for him to take. “No, honestly— I don't tease, you look very. . . stately.”

“Are you trying to call me old in a polite way, my lady?” He feigns offense, tilting his head to the side a little. You cover your mouth to laugh.

You don't miss the way his eyes linger on your gloves.

( oh, the gloves ! )

“Your highness,” leaves your mouth in a whisper, half teasing, half regal, and you give a brief curtsy, which he counters with a swift bow. “Would you do me the pleasure?” You grin, extending your hand to him.

Suguru — never Prince Geto, not to you at least — had been your solace, your comfort and your refuge.

The greatest friend you could have asked for in your youth.

“The pleasure is all mine.” Suguru whispers, taking your hand in earnest, escorting you over to the table and pulling your chair out for you — settling himself in the seat across from you, on the other side of the table.

( what a coincidence. )

˚ ༘ *

Time passes in waves.

People are whispering, no doubt. As they always do about you. No matter how hushed, you always hear them.

‘Look at the poor Princess consort, sitting beside an empty chair.’

‘You’d think she’d refer to herself as Lady now instead of Consort—’

‘To think even a Princess is not immune from such things. . .’

‘These things happen when you're sold off to a future King.’

“Bitter.”

Your head snaps up at the sound, dessert fork halting mid stab into your slice of cake.

Suguru’s eyes meet yours, as if he’d been looking at you the entire time, like he reads your thoughts as his own.

The people sitting at the table alongside you both fix their attention on him, the whispers halting.

“The cake,” he leans back in his chair, shrugging strands of his hair out of his face, looking down the length of the table at the spectators, nonchalant. “It's terribly bitter.”

You think you’d open your mouth to scold him a little, to not joke about what people say, royals should never engage in such petty gossip – but instead, you smile in gratitude.

( bitter. everybody's so bitter in this place. )

“That's quite unfortunate.” A familiar voice rings out, your fork sliding out of your hand to rest on the edge of your plate. “I hoped it would be rather sweet tonight.”

When you look over your shoulder, Satoru is already at your side, bending a knee and outstretching an open palm to you. “My Princess.”

He looks. . . disheveled.

Not completely out of order, it's something so small — so minute that only those who know him well would be able to point it out. From the crease of his vest to the shaky rasp in his voice—

And the woman in your peripheral stumbling back into the dining hall from the garden entrance on shaky legs. . .

( so that's what he was doing. )

“Your grace,” leaves your lips in a whisper and he kisses the back of your palm before sinking into his seat.

The way he presses his middle finger against his bottom lip like he’d been burned by the silk makes you raise an eyebrow. Does he not even have the common courtesy of pretending to like the gloves he gifted?

“I’m pleased you took time out of your busy schedule for us regular people.” Suguru chuckles, and Satoru’s mother, sitting near you all at the head table seems far from pleased.

“Well, a small act of kindness goes a long way.” Satoru parries and you force a smile, stabbing your dessert once more. “Especially for someone as regular as you, Prince Suguru.”

If you had initially thought this would be a quaint rekindling of an old childhood friendship, you never felt more wrong than in this moment — the air settles thick between you three.

“Isn't the future King Gojo just so kind?” Suguru addresses you, and you swallow, stifling your laugh.

“I pray for your marriage. . .” One of the Dukes seated at the table jests, to which you fiddle with the hem of your dress, the burgundy falling over your palms as a chorus of laughter ensues.

Marriage.

Suguru notices your gaze on him – or rather far away – and he smiles to snap you out of it. “Lady name?”

Just then Satoru’s hand reaches for yours under the table, halting your fiddling with the fabric, his grip steady and soft.

“Princess Consort.” Satoru interjects with a flat lipped smile, which could be perceived as kind, but to Suguru. . . “She changed titles.”

When was the last time someone called you by your name and not Princess consort? Always that. Not even Princess name.

“Pardon me,” you mumble beneath your breath, your grip on your dress going slack. You shrug your hand free from Satoru’s grip, abandoning your seat in an instant.

Satoru rises from his chair only four seconds afterward.

“Name—” he calls to you, following you out of the dining hall and down a vacant corridor.

Your footsteps evade him as he chases after you wide steps.

But he stops dead in his tracks when he hears you slam the door to an empty side room shut.

My dearest reader,

brace yourself for the

next publication.

Your kind author

bids you farewell.

[nvuy]

briar rose — argenti

summary. you venture off to search for flowers, and in the midst of the trees, you meet a stranger.

notes. argenti has been running through my mind like a hamster on a wheel. then @localj8 dropped the most insane concept and the wheel went even faster. channeled my inner disney princess for this because aurora was always one of my favourites. is it exactly the same as the original 1958 sleeping beauty clip? no. because truthfully, i think argenti would be a terrible singer, and i didn't want to write a singing segment......................... but anyway...

warnings. none (except a little spindle prick reference and a bit of blood, but thats all disney movie violence)

You’d been happily picking roses from the bushes with a set of trimmers whilst humming a tune when you’d pricked your finger on a thorn. 

It had stung for a good moment. Ruby red had trailed down and caught in the joints of your finger until you tended to the small cut. You’d forgotten to pack essentials as you’d only be out in the forest for an hour, and yet still, you found a way to hurt yourself.

You smeared red on your shirt in an attempt to halt the bleeding.

You plucked another rose—this time, mindful of the thorns—from the rosebush. The petals were gentle; a unique contrast to the auricles in the side of the stems. You wished to take more so you could create more bouquets for the flower stand back home, but most of the roses had shied away into rosebuds. You’d have to wait longer.

Hmm. 

The leaves of the bushes rustled in the gentle breeze, and water droplets rippled off of the leaflets and into the soil below. The seeds wishing to germinate would provide you more flowers soon. And in return, you’d take care of them. 

You admired the roses in your basket. They would do. The petals would disperse as the moon shrank towards the horizon. 

Distantly, birds chirped. There was an owl sitting atop a branch nearby, watching you with giant dark eyes and rustled feathers. A beautiful white owl, with grand wings when it stretched them outwards, almost to show them off.

Petrichor. You missed the smell of rain. The soil was damp beneath your feet. The grass grew dewy, and there was the nearby squeaking of a small fluffy animal with a curled bushy tail feeding from the treesap. 

You parted from the bushes and followed the rushing river from the bed. The roses rustled and tangled within the woven basket in your hands. 

In a pleasant twist of a surprise, there was another rosebush by its lonesome, hiding behind a fallen tree. And sadly, there was a cycrane flapping its wings, trapped and entangled in a bush of ivy.

You freed the poor thing. It let out a robotic chirp before it flew away. 

Then, you admired the flowers, feeling the plush petals with your fingers. It was almost soothing against the small wound.

Your finger touched another imposing hand, decorated with white armory and black leather palms.

The cut stang, and your hand flinched away from the touch.

The scent of pear and bergamot graced you when the offending hand shifted away.

“Forgive me.”

The stranger plucked a rose you had missed. A beautiful one with crimson petals and a brilliant deep green stem, that he then handed to you. 

You took it gratefully, a wry smile pulled onto your lips. You weren’t quite sure a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet. The fragrance was aromatic; a tender note of the water droplets left behind from the evening rain. 

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Oh…” You turned, briskly standing up, trying to chase the fluster crawling up your neck. “It wasn’t that.” You tried your sore finger, bending it at your side. It ached. “It’s just–” The stranger did startle you. Nobody ever ventured out into the woods.

“I am a stranger.” He nodded, understanding. “Allow me to introduce myself.” His armour was a gleaming gold and porcelain, and his red hair spilled over the pieces like silk and satin sashes on an old and loved dress. “I am Argenti. A dedicated knight of the Knights of Beauty. I couldn’t help but traverse into the woods, and I am ever so grateful I did.”

You shouldn’t speak to strangers, no matter how well-mannered they were.

But maybe, you could selfishly indulge in his presence, even for a few fleeting moments. 

You greeted him with your name. You weren’t sure your smile could equvicate to his dazzling grin, though there was a red tinge to the tips of his ears you couldn’t quite ignore.

“Mellifluous.” Argenti could simply die. “A honour it is to learn your name. I will remember it well and forever.” He then noticed the crimson along your finger. "You're hurt."

"It's nothing." You wiped the blood on your shirt again. "Don't worry about it. I'm alright."

His face twisted with concern, though he remained silent. He must have been a dream. It was a dream too good to be true. 

There was a slow and long silence. He was distracted with admiring the delicate swoop of your lashes, the shadows dusting upon your cheeks accentuated by the silver light of the moon.

“You collect roses?” he asked once he’d blinked. He nodded towards the basket.

“Oh!” You pulled back the lid to show him the flowers. “I collect all sorts of flowers, actually.” You pulled one from the basket. “But, the rosebushes have graced me today, it seems.” This rose was a light red, almost leaning towards a rouge, and absent of thorns on the stem. 

You slotted it carefully above his ear. The red sat nicely in his hair, and the stem matched the colour of his eyes.

The scent of vanilla wavered from his hair. What an interesting mix. You felt yourself drawing closer.

You are too dangerous for him. He felt his heart weigh light in his chest. The dark tinge of your cheeks and the curious purse of your lips when his gloved fingers raised to stroke the petals in his hair.

The soft chirp of the nightbirds and the distant flutter of the cycranes played a soothing song within the wind. 

What a pleasant, perfect night. The sky was clear, save for a fading cloud crossing over the moon’s silver gaze. 

And so, he bathed in the presence of Idrila’s beauty. Never would he had thought to have the opportunity to experience this moment. 

He could’t even begin to describe how his heart leapt in his chest, how it hammered against his ribcage, desperate to be set free. So desperate to press to your own chest, to feel your own heartbeat against his skin. A blessed song, only for him to hear.

Argenti held out a hand once more. “May I indulge in a dance?”

You blinked, knitting your brows together. 

You looked around. “There’s no music.” You also couldn’t dance. You were afraid you’d trample on his toes.

Argenti simply let out a mellow laugh. “The sound of the quiet of the night and your voice is a tune of its own, is it not?” His hand settled gently onto your waist. “Allow me to lead.”

You let out a laugh when he whisked you into a circle, your fingers slotting perfectly in between the spaces of his. “You’re a madman.”

Perhaps he was. Perhaps you had figured him out already, like opening a book and following every line of writing with that gorgeous gaze of yours. Perhaps he was already enchanted by the flutter of your lashes, and the small imperfections dotting along your skin.

Grace. A flower amidst the rubble and ruin. He believed elegance and beauty were synonymous, interchangeable, even.

But, when you almost tripped over his foot, and then a stray root from a nearby tree in the damp soil, he caught you, and realised that you were everything he had been searching for his entire life. 

[miquella-everywhere]

So I wrote a small little fic about Malenia addressing her newly anointed Cleanrot Knights.

Feel free to read it if you'd like lol

Finlay along with the rest of her comrades stands before Malenia, Blade of Miquella, in the Haligtree City of Elphael. They all stand at attention before their General, their leader, and for many of them, their personal trainer to which they owe their fighting skills as Knights.

Today is a special day, a commemoration of sorts, the Haligtree grows strong and the divine trees first bloom of scarlet flowers fills the air, with dancing crimson petals and golden leaves blessing all those who stand in its gentle rain, and in particular, making the Demigod Malenia look strikingly sacred.

Her helm is off and the breeze rustles her vibrant scarlet hair, and with her remaining eye, showing signs that it too shall soon be claimed by the Rot, she watches her loyal band that stands before her.

And with a firm voice she addresses them all:

"As you all know, Rot has a hold upon my very soul. Never have I know relief from this pain, and even with the fullest efforts of my dearest brother, your Lord Miquella, I still suffer despite his unending kindness. So if you truly wish to dedicate yourselves to my name, know that if there is no hope for me... then there is no hope for you."

Silence falls between the Cleanrots.

They've known this for a long while now, one does not pledged loyalty to the Demigod cursed by the Scarlet Rot without the knowledge that they too shall one day decay into nothingness, but hearing the truth come from Malenia herself is jarring.

It's as if she is testing their faith and loyalty.

"Should you have any doubts come forth with them now." Malenia says, "But do not take my words as ones of judgement. Because I wish for you to know, that there is no shame in wanting to live."

Malenia's remaining eye lacks light, the rot having eaten away at the illustrious gold that she was born into, with all that remains a dull sheen. But despite the lacking radiance, her eyes are still warm, gazing at her loyal Knights with such gentleness, along with a deep sadness that cones with the understanding of the fate to those close to her.

Finlay steps forward, and speaks on behalf of all of the Cleanrot Knights; whose hearts beat as one.

"We shall fight by your side until the bitter end Lady Malenia."

Malenia smiles.

The Empyrean brings her blade to her face in a single elegant motion. The fallen leaves and scarlet petals on the stone flooring rustle from the movement, and the Demigod warrior addresses her loyal band of Knights:

"Then upon my name as Malenia, Blade of Miquella, I hearby anoint you all as my Cleanrot Knights. May our battles in the name of Miquella and his Haligtree be fierce, and our determination even fiercer!"

As if on cue, the wind blows as Malenia raises her sword skyward, and the fallen golden leaves and scarlet petals whirl around her and the Cleanrot Knights, who proudly salute their General.

Finlays eyes follow the long elegant curve of Malenia's marvelous blade, and as she reads the prayer etched upon the marvelously crafted unalloyed gold up to the sharpened tip, curtains of light drift down from the balcony above, and from that light: sits Miquella, watching the ceremony from the balcony wall with a tender smile.

Miquella's presence always leaves Finlay breathless. Truly the most fearsome Empyrean indeed, when all he has to do is smile and it makes Finalys heart ache so tenderly.

Miquella's eyes meet Finlays from behind her helm and his smile only grows gentler. The young boy then closes his eyes, bringing his hands up to clasp them in prayer. His lips move but Finlay can hear no words other than the breeze and rustling of leaves.

But it's in this moment that she knows, deep within her soul, that the Cleanrot Knights are truly the most blessed of all.

[kazemi-archive]

To Know Now

Pairing: Faerie Prince!Kita Shinsuke x Wingless Faerie!Reader WC: ~1k Genre: fluff CW: pining, not much warnings really just kita being sweet and smitten but nervous

PART FOUR OF JUMP AND YOU WILL FIND YOUR WINGS AS YOU FALL

The queen regent wasn’t usually a suspicious woman. She was kind and fair and she took what she was told at face value… usually. But when her grandson comes to her with baskets full of petals and the request that she helps him make perfumes… she has trouble believing his claims that there is nothing going on.

Shinsuke didn’t mean to ask for her help at first, he was intent on figuring it out on his own, after ruling out the possibility of asking his friends for help without being teased incessantly. He was attempting to do more on his own. Teas and dresses were becoming too common of gifts to bring you in his opinion, it wasn’t to you though. Every new tea or dress made you smile like the first one, unsurmountable happiness consuming you. But Shinsuke wanted to give you more. Which is how he ended up hovering in the doorway of his grandmother’s study, nervously scratching his neck as he stuttered around the question he wanted to ask.

“I-um,” Shinsuke cleared his throat and stood up straighter, “I was wondering what a lady might like.” The queen regent’s quirked eyebrow had him clarifying himself. “I meant, what a proper lady might like. I was- I was trying to make things from all these petals but I’ve run out of…” He trailed off and looked around sheepishly.

There was a small smile on her face as she stood and approached him with ease. “Perfume.” She said, walking past him and waving him to follow her quickly. “Ladies often like perfume.” He followed her dutifully until they found themselves in a room Shinsuke had never entered before, looking somewhat like a lab. “Let me ask you a question dear.” Shinsuke watched as his grandmother pulled down some vials, seemingly knowing exactly what she was looking for. She waved him over to the table with her, and took the basket of flower petals, sifting through for the ones she wanted. “When do you plan on introducing me to her?”

Shinsuke’s eyes widened as his gaze snapped over to his grandmother’s face. But he wasn’t confronted with her anger in any way, a soft smile greeted her lips at the light tease. He sighed and focused back on the basket of petals, trying to pick up on which ones she was looking for. “She might not exactly be someone the court approves of.” He sighs at the thought, the injustice of not being able to have you the way he desired, to publicly announce that he wanted you. “She’s…” he trailed off, thinking about the repercussions of admitting to the queen regent your lack of wings. “She might not exactly fit into the standards of our society.” He mumbled after a long pause.

His grandmother hummed thoughtfully, shooting him a knowing glance as he looked down, worry written across his face. “Let me ask you this.” Her words drew his attention back up to look at her. “Do you love this girl?” Shinsuke’s breathing stuttered and he didn’t answer. He didn’t have to, the blush that rose to his cheeks then was enough for her to know the answer. “I see.” She mused, nodding and turning back to her work. “Then that is enough for me. It would be lovely to meet her one day.”

They worked silently after that, not pushing the subject further, and you’d loved the perfume he gave you. But that conversation was playing through his head now.

Now, as the two of you laid in the meadow, the sun beating down on the two of you. You’d fallen asleep not long ago and he couldn’t bring himself to wake you. He’d been telling you about the dances in his kingdom, the huge parties and the lights that twinkled in the trees of the kingdom, making the night seem like day as music played and laughter rang through the air. His hands had been messing with your hair, twisting strands and twirling them this way and that.

He found himself now, staring down at you softly, humming small lullabies as your head laid in his lap. They’re lullabies that are common in the faerie kingdoms, ones that are sung to all the children, ones that you never got to hear, but ones he hoped to sing to your children someday.

He hated himself for that thought for a moment. The momentary image of the two of you having a child, or children together, of coming home to the palace to see you with your children running around the corridors. To have that image in his head yet not yet having the courage to tell you how he truly feels about you yet. His refusal to confess until the flowers tell him it’s the right time.

But he can’t help it. You look so perfect to him, your hair spread out around you, your head laid in his lap comfortably, safely. He weaves flowers into your hair softly as you sleep, shaping you a crown of your own. He’s determined then, to give you a real one. A crown befitting of a queen, his queen. He knows now that he wants you to be his queen. To hell with the laws and the courts. He’ll find a way around them.

His hands halt their motions when your eyelids flutter, thinking that he’s disturbed you for a moment. But your lips part in a soft sigh and your eyelids stay closed. He smiles down at you, and when your eyelids flutter in your sleep again, he leans to press featherlight kisses against them. He can only hope that the dreams you have are of him. That you, like him, dream of being with him. He hopes too, that the flowers will tell him soon that its the right time to confess to you his feelings.

And he knows then, if he were to have that conversation with his grandmother again… if he were to be asked again… if he loved you. The answer would be yes. And he would know that that would be enough.

a/n: sorry its been so long and then i come back with just filler </3 i (hopefully) will be better about posting soon because the school year is almost over and i’ll have more time on my hands !! TAGLIST : OPEN (send an ask)

[iamthecomet]

Mushy May Day 5

Grooming & Hair Braiding

Rating: E Characters: Mountain & Dew Featuring: Mountain's rats nest of hair. Dew's magic fingers. Word Count: 750+

Read under the cut or on ao3.

Mountain’s hair is a mess.  Dotted with sticks and leaves, looking like it’s been dipped in mud. Dew grimaces as soon as he sits down next to him on the touch. He reaches up and worries a clump of it between his fingers, pulling out a couple of lilac petals as he goes.

“Thought you were trimming the trees, not rolling around in the mud.”

“Fell off the step stool,” Mountain says with a shrug. He tips his dirty head against the back of the couch and Dew can practically see Cirrus have a conniption about it. “It’s been a wet spring.”

Dew drags his fingers through a particularly tangled section, earning him a pained growl from the earth ghoul. Dew deadpans. Flecks of drying mud flake off to land on the couch.

“You need a shower,” Dew wrinkles his nose at him. Mountain smells like dirt and sweat and lilacs. And while it’s not entirely off putting, the way mud is flaking off of his hair and onto the couch is. Mountain grumbles a little out of sheer habit of being bossed around by Dew. But it’s probably the fact that Dew is the one standing up and dragging him to his feet that makes his resistance half-hearted.

“Bath,” Mountain asserts as Dew shoves him from the room and Aether does his best to brush the dirt off of the back of the couch.

“Yeah yeah, whatever you want, dirt boy.”

“Why are you following me?” Mountain asks once it’s clear that Dew isn’t just throwing him out, but trailing after him toward his room. “You don’t have to watch me to make sure I really do it. I’m not a kit.”

“You’re going to need help.” Dew says, eyes flicking up to the mess of Mountain’s hair.

“I can brush my own hair.”

“Needs a lot more than a brush.” Mountain grumbles again. Dew can see the exhaustion behind his eyes, in the slope of his shoulders. The asshole in him wants to just allow Mountain to suffer since he wants to so bad. But he doesn’t. He follows him into his room, and waits patiently as Mountain runs a bath, strips. The room fills with steam as Mountain slips into the water, groaning as the water digs into his sore muscles. He sags into it. Dew kneels behind him. He puts two hands on Mountain’s head and pushes until the earth ghoul relents with an eye roll, dunking his disastrous hair.

It takes Dew a long time. Long enough that he has to run his fingers through the water to keep it hot. Long enough that his knees start to ache. He combs through each knot, each spot matted with dirt and leaves. He collects a small pile of foliage on the floor next to him. Twigs and branches and flowers.

Somewhere along the way, Mountain’s eyes slipped closed. He started to purr.

Dew drags his fingers through Mountains hair, over his scalp. He drags his other hand through the water again, bumps the temperature up. Mountain makes a small content noise, sinking deeper into the water, tipping his head closer to Dew.

“Where’s your shampoo?”

“Not yet,” Mountain mumbles.

“Mount—”

“Feels nice.”

Dew sighs, he adjusts his position so his knees don’t hurt so bad. He’s spent longer on his knees than this—he’s fine. He sinks both hands into Mountain’s thick hair, dragging over his scalp and down through the ends.

Mountain’s purr rachets higher and Dew doesn’t have it in him to stop—to just leave to let this end.

He’s made the first braid before he’s even decided he’s going to do it. Just letting his fingers move through Mountain’s hair on their own accord. He keeps going. Braiding and unraveling over and over as the tension in Mountain’s shoulders releases.

Only when it’s clear that Mountain has fallen asleep under Dew’s hands does he stop. Leaving one braid, just behind his right ear, for him to find later.

Dew presses a kiss to Mountain’s temple and stands up to stretch. He doesn’t go far—knows he still has to wash Mountain’s hair for him—knows he still wants to. He settles back on the floor, his spine pressed against the wall, watching Mountain sleep. In a little while he’ll be on his knees again, fingers deep in Mountain’s hair, covered in soap to his elbows.

But for now, he’s content to witness the rarity of a fully relaxed Mountain splayed out in the bath in front of him. He tucks his chin onto his knees, and waits.

[psychedelic-ink]

kinktober '22 ║XXI

pairing: poe dameron x f!reader

genre: smut, minors dni

word count: 2.3k

summary: you and poe fin yourself on a pumpkin infested planet, however the flowers that surround them seem to be poisonous.

warnings: sex pollen, outdoors, piv, oral (receiving), creampie, tensions running high, multiple orgasm (reader), mild overstimulation, lil bit of blood from biting

a/n: welcome to my very firs poe fic! I'm not sure how this turned out since it's been a long time since I watched his movies but I wanted to write something very horny for him so this was born! ❤️‍🔥

MLISTS .  LIBRARY. TAGLIST . KINKTOBER '22

The air is crisp, fallen orange leaves crunching beneath your heavy boots as you walk further away from the ship, Poe’s string of curses falling on to deaf ears. You can feel the cold despite your orange flight suit. There’s something eerie, yet beautiful about the planet you spontaneously had to land upon. The trees are a brilliant shade of umber and completely bare, you see pumpkins bursting through the soil like fresh daisies. They come in all shades of orange, the smaller ones hidden beneath the fallen leaves. 

A gust of cold air blows and you hear the soft rustling of petals, looking down you see small flowers filling the voids between the pumpkins. They’re equally as orange; the veins of the petals are a bright shade of green. You stop at the edge of the cliff, looking down at the pumpkin patch. So pretty. Suddenly an overwhelming need to drink water consumes you, you swallow as a vain attempt to suppress the thirst. Your right foot dangles off the edge, it doesn't feel like a cliff anymore, it feels like you can step on air and reach the breathtaking flora. A wide smile slowly makes its way throughout your face, you’re about to take a step forward–

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” 

Poe’s grip around your wrist stings, he yanks you back, your body falling to the humid soil. You blink heavily, the daze you were in dissipating due to the impact. 

You notice Poe on the edge, the next thing you know he’s gone. 

You lunge forward, knees scrubbing the dirt into your skin. His name is etched to your lips as you scream for him. Reaching the edge, you carefully peer down, scared of what you might see. Luckily the pumpkins and flowers had broken his fall, his heavy body had squished the fruit, making a mess of his flight suit. With a hand on his head, he groans, eyes blearily looking up to you. 

“Are you okay?” you ask, voice laced with half relief and half worry. 

“I’m fine but it stinks!” he darts his tongue out, wrinkling his nose with disgust. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, just stay away from the cliff,” 

“Okay…sorry,” 

You can’t help but smile when you hear his heartfelt chuckle. He softly shakes his head, and with a wave of his hand he dissipates all of your worries. 

“It’s okay, just wait for me by the ship,” he calls out to you again just as you’re about to leave. “Oh, and get me something to drink will you? My throat is suddenly dry.” 

Poe returns with a limp in his step, his arms dangling with no aim with his every movr. A sheer coat of sweat glistens above his golden skin, his eyes glazed as if he’s been walking for hours, and you know that’s not true. It has been ten minutes at most. He’s breathing heavily when he collapses down next to you, his hands cradling his face, chest raising up and down in an exaggerated manner. Worried, you place a hand on his shoulder and he jumps away, looking at you like he would an enemy. 

“Poe?” you ask. “Are you alright?” 

He thickly swallows, adam’s apple bobbing up and down, he wets his lips. 

“I-I think there was something in the flowers,” 

You’re surprised at how disheveled he sounds, his voice all shaky and frightened. Fear ghosts across your skin, leaving unsettling goosebumps on your flesh. Just what the hell did he inhale? Is he poisoned? 

“Is anywhere hurting? Should I get the first aid kit? You need to be more clear about your symp–” 

“Shut up.” 

His words cut through the air, feeling like a bullet to the chest. You stay frozen, eyes wide and mouth gaping. Poe shudders and shakes his head, the ends of his hair curling even more with the moisture of his skin. Still worried, you sink your teeth into the inside of your cheek and speak with as much clarity you can muster. 

“Poe you need to tell me so I can help you,” 

“You can’t.” 

“How do you know that?” you challenge him, you move from where you seated and kneel before him. He looks almost pained when his gaze drops to meet yours, the whites of his eyes a sickly yellow. “Do you know what you have?” 

He replies between gritted teeth. 

“I have an idea and I think it’s best if you just move away from me,” 

“That’s a hard no flyboy, I’m not leaving you alone when you can barely stand,” 

“It makes me horny,” 

“Excuse me?” 

He lets out an exasperated sigh while you wonder what he actually said, because surely you heard him wrong. Poe’s fingers bite into his forehead and rubs his temples hard, seemingly trying to get rid of the worst headache ever. 

“It makes me want to fuck you,” he exhales through his nose, jaw clenched tightly together. “Whatever I inhaled, it makes me want to fuck you and not just that, it makes me want to fuck you hard. Whenever you touch me it makes me want to lay you out on this very ground and eat you out until you’re crying for me to stop– When I inhale your scent…” 

You’re absolutely speechless when he takes a deep inhale, mulling your scent in his lungs like a fine drink. 

“...It short circuits my brain. I’m barely controlling myself, now get on the damn ship.” 

You push aside the sinful reactions his words are pulling out of your body and try to focus on the problem at hand. It’s a hard thing to do but you have to, for his sake.

“What if it doesn’t pass?” you whisper, eyes going down his body and taking in the sight of his fully erect cock, your mouth waters. “What if…you need to… you know…” 

“We’ll just have to take out chances,” 

“We can you know,” you blurt out suddenly, heat pooling under your cheeks. “We can do it,” 

Gathering enough courage, you lift your gaze back up expecting to meet the familiarity of Poe’s dark chocolate eyes, instead you see two dark pools of lust. His breathing becomes heavier. 

“I don’t think you understand,” he hisses out between pants. “What I feel right now…It’s animalistic–” he grabs your chin, squeezing into the hollows of your cheeks. “I don’t know if I can stop, get it?” 

“I do, I just don’t care. I don’t want you to suffer, alone like this” 

He snarls at your stubbornness, blunt nails leaving crescent shaped marks on your skin. Finally he lets go, leaving you gasping for air as if he was squeezing your throat instead of your cheeks. Frantically he pats himself, handing you his blaster a moment later. When you feel the weapon in your hand, brows knitted together with confusion, 

you look up to him. 

“I’m not going to shoot you,” you say bluntly. 

“I didn’t give you that so you can shoot me–” he rasps, your eyes widen, he’s getting worse, beads of sweat sliding down the frame of his face. “Well I kinda gave you that so you can shoot me but only if I’m out of control, got it?” 

“N–” 

“This isn’t up for discussion,” he commands. A shudder crawls up your spine and you become silent, listening for what else he has to say. “Either promise me you’ll shoot me if things get out of control or get on the ship and wait for me to get this damn drug, or whatever it is, out of my system,” 

The air stills, even the planet seems to know the rising tension between the two of you because it’s buried in sudden silence. You exchange glances, a small tremor to your hand as your mind, and heart, races. You want to do this. Every nerve in your body is screaming for you to let this happen, let it play out. But you also know that if you promise Poe Dameron anything, you need to see through that promise. Your fingers tighten around the blaster, your face feels cold but your body feels warm. 

“Do you promise?” 

His voice draws you out of your thoughts, swallowing, you place the blaster on the ground, your fingers spreading across the metal surface. 

“I promise.” 

“Are you sure?” he tilts his head to the side, clicks his jaw and adds, breathing heavily. “Say the full thing. I want to hear you say it,” 

“I will shoot you if things get out of control.” 

And that’s all it takes. 

Poe’s mouth crashes into yours, lips molding with one another as he slips his tongue between your lips. He holds your wrist, pulling your hand down to his clothed cock. You gasp at how warm he is, you roughly cup him, failing a bit with your movements. He groans into your mouth, his hands ripping apart your orange jumpsuit, you continue to stroke him. Poe’s everywhere all at once. He smells of pumpkin and sweat, you inhale him deeply as his lips trail down from your mouth to your collarbone, sucking your skin greedily, he pushes his fingers into the seam of your underwear. 

He starts to rut into your hand, you can feel the front of his suit getting wetter with his precum. It makes you arch into him, your own arousal pulsing heavily between your legs. 

“Fuck you feel so good– Fuck fuck fuck–” 

Poe leaves a series of open mouthed kisses down your body, his tongue following the burn of his lips. You gasp as the curve of his nose brushes against your puffy clit, his mouth latched onto your clothed folds, he tastes the slick spread across your underwear. His breath hitches at the tangy taste, and you moan at the way he’s completely indulging in your body, a man unhinged. 

When you feel his bare tongue for the first time, you choke on air. 

It’s a feeling you never experienced before, it just feels right to have him inside. Flattening his tongue, he licks up between your folds, lips closing around your clit. You’re positively soaked for him. His fingers follow the trail of his tongue, pushing two of them inside with ease. Your fingers dig into the dirt, your lips parting with a high-pitched moan. His tongue draws tight circles around the sensitive nub, the electrifying pleasure is accompanied by him fucking his fingers deeper inside of you. Poe has you seeing stars in seconds, your vision blacking out as you cunt squeezes and gushing around his thick fingers. He drinks it all with a growl, tongue lapping up even the smallest of drops. 

“On your hands and knees, now,” 

You’re about to do exactly that but before you can his hands grab your waist and flips you over, coaxing a startled yelp from you. His cock throbs between your folds, the tip brushes against your clit and you shiver at the contact, the tremors of your orgasm still rolling across your body. Leaning forward, Poe cups both your breasts, his cock sliding into you with one smooth motion. A sharp cry rattles your throat, he fills your perfectly, the stretch making pleasure prick at your skin and blood pool underneath your fingernails.  

The pace he sets is rough, frantic, and in some ways desperate. He squeezes your tits, his teeth digging into your shoulder as he pounds his cock deeper into you. Head spinning, you scream out his name, your insides feeling raw with another orgasm building deep within. Poe let out a strangled moan as he ruts into you, he lifts you from the ground, his hand cheating its way down your body. Throwing back your hands, you claw at his nape, you feel a finger breaching where his cock slides in and out. 

“I want to feel you cumming with my fingers,” he groans, teeth nipping your skin. “You can take more of me can’t you?” 

“Yes, Poe– I–I can take more,” 

Underneath your eyes, pressure builds, he slides a finger knuckle deep, feeling himself fucking deep into you. You feel on the verge of passing out, you feel so full of him, your muscles grow taut as you feel his cock throbbing. Your second orgasm shatters through you and your nails bite into his skin when it does. It’s such an overwhelming feeling of pleasure, your body arches in the most unnatural way, head falling over his broad shoulder. You can feel the warmth of blood trickling down your skin from where he bit you, you let out a moan, your nails digging further into his skin. Poe’s hips stutter forward, fucking you full of himself as he spills into you. Your body quivers, gravity pulling you harder than ever to the ground but his grip keeps you flush against his heated body. Beads of sweat roll down his back, his breathing heavy while continuing to slam into you. 

You hiss at his seed spilling from you with his every thrust, soon you feel him softening and he pulls out. He falls back down, pulling you onto his lap, with his face buried between your breasts. You play with his soft locks, the ends curl with post-coital perspiration. 

“Are you okay?” he heaves, lips moving across your damp skin. 

“I’m more than okay Poe,” you can’t help but smile as he refuses to look up to you. Hooking a finger under his chin, you lift his gaze. Your smile quickly disappears when you see the wetness in his eyes. “Are you?” 

“I am– I feel good, amazing– I just don’t want you to hate me,” 

“Never flyboy,” you lean in and softly press your lips against his. “All I have for you is the opposite of hate, it’s love.” 

The blaster sits on top of the wet soil, completely forgotten. 

kinktober tags: @tusk89 , @amneris21 , @witchisenpai , @pedrito-friskito , @tom-whore-dleston , @lola766 , @batdarkladyvampir , @dindjarinswhore , @dnxgma , @eyelessfaces , @queenofthefaceless , @softtdaisy , @saintlike78 , @timpletance , @xdaddysprincessxx , @stardust-galaxies , @spacecowboyhotch, @queenofthecloudss , @prettyouttherethoughts , @reaperofmen , @partr1dge , @bbyanarchist , @alwaysdjarin , @thevoiceinyourheadx , @absurdthirst , @levi-llama , @damnyoupedro , @stardust-galaxies , @all-the-way-down-here , @welcometostayingawake, @bullet-prooflove , @rainbowcreepie

[foundtherightwords]

The Firebird - Chapter 3

Pairing: Prince Paul (Catherine the Great) x OFC, fairytale AU

Summary: When Paul, a spoiled young prince, spots a strange bird in the forest near his palace, he impulsively chases after it, hoping to both escape from and prove himself to his disapproving mother. Thus he is plunged into an exhilarating adventure across a magical realm populated by enchanted princesses, dangerous monsters, and powerful wizards, an adventure that may change him more than he can ever imagine.

Chapter warning: some mentions of blood and injuries

Chapter word count: 4.1k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2

Chapter 3 - Wraith and Rumor

Paul was woken by the gnawing and the rumbling of his stomach. He sat up, stretching out his limbs, stiff from sleeping on the cold, hard ground, and readjusted the wig that had fallen off in the night. In the morning, the world looked more familiar—not familiar in the sense that he knew where he was and where he needed to go, but familiar in the sense that the trees were now trees instead of guardian spirits and toadstools were toadstools instead of teasing imps. Paul wondered if they only came alive at night, in a reverse of the curse that plagued Zhara. When he woke up, the girl had transformed back into the bird and was perching on top of his cloak, watching him with inquisitive eyes. It was strange, but when she was a girl, Paul had thought her manner birdlike, and now, when she was a bird, he couldn't help but notice how disconcertingly human her gaze was.

"Can you understand me?" he asked, feeling rather foolish.

She tilted her head. He took that as a "yes".

"So how far is it to this fortress? I'm absolutely starving and could do with some breakfast."

She hopped away. Paul rushed to pick up the cloak and his blood-stained cravat and follow her. His hope for breakfast was soon dashed when she only led him to a bush. It was true that the bush was full of ripe berries, gleaming black like jet beads amongst the leaves, but after having nothing to eat since the previous evening except for a gulp of birch sap, he was not exactly looking forward to berries for breakfast. Still, there was nothing else to eat, so as Zhara started pecking enthusiastically at a berry, Paul shrugged and popped one in his mouth as well. The berry exploded between his teeth, so much sweeter and juicier than the strawberries and cherries from the gardens of Tsarskoye Selo. He picked another, and another, and another, until his hands were stained purple and only the unripe berries were left. He looked up at Zhara, shame-faced. She rolled her eyes at him, but her chirps sounded more amused than irritated.

Paul was still licking the berry juice from his fingers when Zhara led the way out of the grove and into the meadow. She flew a little down the stream that murmured along the forest, then stopped and tilted her head at Paul, clearly waiting for him to catch up. Paul hurried to follow her, but his steps slowed in astonishment as he took in the landscape around him. The meadow spread out under the endless summer sky like a green velvet blanket, with a coverlet of wildflowers that nodded and swayed in the breeze. Most of these Paul recognized—cornflowers as blue as the sky above, ox-eye daisies with their friendly yellow centers and milk-white petals, delicate crimson poppies, lacy wild carrots, proud, spiky thistles—though like the berries, they looked bigger, their colors brighter, their scent more fragrant than the flowers of the world he'd left behind. Even the bees and butterflies that buzzed between these seemed more alive, and when he looked more closely, Paul could have sworn he saw tiny faces peeking out from between their wings.

They walked across that vast meadow, keeping the dark forest on their right and the stream on their left. It was slow going. The bird-girl flew as long as she could—her wound had stopped bleeding, but her wing was still weak—then resorted to hopping on the ground for a while, before trying to fly again. Eventually, Paul couldn't take it anymore and offered her his arm. She looked at him with those human, haughty eyes but refused to move.

"Come on," he said. "At this rate, I'll have a beard down to my belly before we can find Baba Yaga." She relented and hopped onto his arm, though she held herself rather stiffly as she made her way to perch on his shoulder.

Paul didn't know how long they walked. His wonder at the landscape soon waned. As the sun rose, even the bees and the butterflies—or the creatures that looked like bees and butterflies—fell into a kind of stupor, so it wasn't difficult to imagine he and the bird-girl were the only living things in the vast, empty meadow. It put him in mind of the Great Steppe of Kazakh—not that he knew what it was like. With a jolt, Paul realized that he knew so little about his empire, the empire he hoped to rule one day. All he only ever knew was Moscow and Saint Petersburg and the surrounding countryside.

Questions crowded into Paul's mind, and, because he had no one else to talk to, he started voicing them out loud, despite knowing that the girl could not answer him. How far away the fortress was, what sort of creatures they might meet, could she understand other birds and animals, how much she knew about his empire, how many Russians had ended up in this land and how many inhabitants of this land had ended up over there, and whether they ever found their way back. To all this chattering, the bird-girl only tossed her plumed head and moved a little further away, to the very tip of his shoulder, without making a sound.

His legs, not used to such prolonged exercise, started to tire, but when he tried to sit down for longer than a few minutes, the bird-girl would chirp crossly by his ears and peck at his arms, so he would reluctantly stand and walk again. However, by midday—judging by the sun and by the twisting of his stomach—he was too exhausted to go on. The berries seemed a long, long time ago. His scalp itched and sweated under the wig, his feet were blistering, his hip felt bruised where his sword had been tapping against it, and his legs were like two logs ill-fitted to his hips.

"This is unbearable," he groaned and slumped down on the grass bank of the stream, causing the bird-girl to tumble off his shoulder. She struggled to her feet and shot him a look of pure loathing. "You can bring Baba Yaga to me once you find her, but I'm not taking another step."

Ignoring her furious twittering and jabbing, he lay down, burying his face in a clump of clover. He was letting its sweet smell cool him down when suddenly Zhara gave a screech of warning and poked at his head through the wig. Paul yelped but was too tired to push her away. He only raised a hand and gave her a feeble swipe, as one would a fly. She pecked him again, at the back of his hand, her beak surprisingly sharp.

"That hurt," he protested, raising his head to glare at her. She was frantically gesticulating with her beak, and following her movement, he saw what she was trying to gesture at.

A figure was coming toward them across the field, an unmistakably female figure. She was dressed in a flowing white dress, and there was a wreath of cornflowers in her hair, which was the color of ripe wheat.

"Oh, blessed be the Saints," Paul breathed out. "I was beginning to think this entire place was devoid of people. You there! Can you help us?"

The figure turned slightly, but she was too far away and her hair was in her face, so Paul couldn't see it very clearly. As he started toward the figure, Zhara flew into his face, hitting him with her wings, squawking angrily, trying to drive him toward the forest. Paul stepped back in confusion, and then alarm, not just because of Zhara's fury, but also because he'd noticed something odd about the way the figure on the meadow was moving. She wasn't walking. She was gliding. And there was a scythe in her hand.

The figure drew near, and Paul saw she was no girl at all. But he couldn't tell how young or old she was, for her skin had rotted away like that of a corpse left under the sun. Her nose was gone. Her eyes were two shriveled, empty sockets. She opened her ruined mouth in a silent scream, and a blast of scorching hot wind came out of that gaping hole, hitting Paul in the face, dizzying him and sending a sharp pain across his skull. He fell on his back as the wraith bore down on him, her scythe raised high like Death.

Zhara flapped her wings at the wraith. Sparks flew, but the wraith's hot breath immediately blew them out. Zhara turned and pecked at her injured wing, drawing blood. She then flung the drops of blood at the grass at the wraith's feet. Fire erupted from the blood, and the dry roots from last year's growth caught at once, spreading quickly to the ragged hem of the wraith's dress. With a furious scream, the wraith swung her scythe, hitting Zhara with the handle, hurling her across the meadow. Paul lunged after the bird-girl. He landed painfully on his belly but managed to stretch out his arms and catch Zhara in his palms, just before she fell into the stream.

Turning her back on them, the wraith busied herself with moving the scythe across the burning grass, putting out the fire. While the wraith was distracted, Paul scooped Zhara's limp body into his arms and stumbled across the meadow, across the stream, and into the cover of the trees. The wraith rushed after them, only to lurch back as though slammed into an invisible wall. Still running, Paul risked a look behind him. The wraith swirled and shook her scythe, but it was in vain—she couldn't cross the stream. With a final shriek of impotent rage, she dissolved into a dust devil, leaving the meadow just as peaceful and pretty as it had been.

In the safety of the forest, Paul tried to catch his breath. He looked down at the red-and-gold shape in his hands and sighed in relief to see her getting to her feet, her feathers a little ruffled but otherwise looking none the worse for wear. "You couldn't have warned me that there were demons in the field attacking people in broad daylight?!" he said hoarsely, afraid that if he raised his voice, it may bring the wraith back.

Zhara wriggled her neck and shoulders apologetically. Before Paul could ask what they were going to do next, her eyes widened in fear as footsteps founded in the distance. Paul jumped up. But no, the wraith had no footsteps. It was only a muzhik, a peasant, sauntering through the trees with a fishing rod on his shoulder and swinging a string of fish in one hand, seemingly without a care in the world. The man hadn't seen Paul or the bird-girl yet, hidden as they were behind a big oak tree.

"That's not a monster in disguise, is it?" Paul asked. She shook her beak. "All right, then there must be a village nearby. They will have food there, maybe even a horse—" Before he could finish, she had hopped out of his hands and slipped into a bush at the base of the oak. "Fine!" he grunted. "Stay here if you want, but I won't starve for you!" He would show her that he could survive in this world without her help.

He came out from behind the tree and hallooed to the muzhik. The man came toward him at once, smiling amicably, and Paul felt a little easier to see that he looked no different than the peasants of his empire, in a coarse linen shirt, woolen breeches, and bast shoes. "Good day to you," the muzhik said. "Where did you come from and where are you going?"

Paul hesitated, wondering how much of the truth he could tell without sounding like a madman. But then again, perhaps the people of this land were used to strangers turning up out of nowhere. "I'm searching for Tsar Afron's fortress," he said, ignoring the man's first question. "But when I was walking across the field, we—I was attacked by—by—a—" He wasn't sure what to call the wraith.

The man understood at once. "Ah, I see, you've had a run-in with our Lady Midday!" he said, clapping Paul on the back. "You were lucky to escape with your life then. A fair few of my fellow villagers had lost their heads to her, before we knew to avoid the meadow at noon." Paul whitened, but the man only laughed. "Best stick to the forest, lad, at least until the sun is past its hottest."

"Do you know how far it is to Tsar Afron's fortress?"

The man scratched his beard. "A couple of days' walk from here, I reckon."

Two more days! Paul didn't know if he could bear walking for two more days with nothing but tree sap and berries to eat. "Is your village nearby?" he asked. "Does anyone have a horse or a carriage for hire?"

"Horses!" The muzhik laughed. "What would we be doing with horses? But you're welcome to stay with us for the night. The village is just yon that rank of oaks there. Come, come! We're but a small village, but you'll find us friendly enough. Anyone who's survived Lady Midday deserves some hospitality."     

With one last look at the bush where Zhara was hiding, Paul followed the man through the forest.

Though the man said the village was "just yon", it took them until mid-afternoon to reach it. It was indeed a small one, only a handful of wooden huts scattered around what looked like a chapel that stood in the middle of a clearing. There was no cross on the onion-shaped dome of the chapel, and Paul wondered what sort of God, or gods, these people worshipped.

His arrival seemed to be a great source of interest to the villagers. In such a small place, words soon got around that Timofey Arkadyevich had brought home a stranger, someone who had survived Lady Midday, and they came out in droves to stare and point at him and laugh openly, just as the toadstools had the night before. Paul kept his chin up and squared his shoulders, but he couldn't stop the heat from rising to his cheeks and prickling his insides. When some little imp, no doubt egged on by his friends, ran up and tried to snatch his sword from his belt, he snapped, "Keep your hands off me, you brat!"

The boy shrank back with quivering lips, and the villagers' faces turned stony as they called their children to them and took them home. The muzhik—Timofey—cleared his throat, embarrassed, and Paul's face burned again with a different kind of shame.

Timofey led Paul into his izba, a small, one-room hut. Paul hesitated to enter the dark interior. He had been taught that the peasants were little more than a faceless mass to be controlled. Those who joined the army were all sullen or desperate, and Paul only selected the ones that had been whipped into shape—quite literally—for his brigade.

But now, his hunger overpowered his hesitation, and the promise of food pushed his feet forward. Most of the hut was taken up by a cook stove. A table and two benches stood by one window, a spindle and loom at another, and a small bed at the corner made up all the furniture. Yet for all its small size and simple furnishing, the place was spotless. The walls, ceiling, and floor were scrubbed to a shine, the curtains were white as snow, and there were pots of cheerful red geranium at the windows.

Timofey handed the fish to his wife, whose cheeks were as red and cheerful as the geranium, and told her to make a fish pie and put the rest in a stew.

"You'll have to forgive the village folk," he said to Paul. "We're simple people and not used to strangers. You must have come from very far away."

"Yes, very far," Paul said cautiously. Timofey eyed his clothes and wig but said nothing more.

The stew, which had leeks and turnips in it, was very good, and the pie, with its buttery, crumbly pastry, was even better, though at this point, Paul was so hungry that it could be sheep brains and rat tails for all he cared. Only when the gnawing in his stomach stopped that he remembered Zhara. He was still angry at her for not warning him about the wraith, but he realized, with a slight prick of conscience, that their encounter with the wraith had probably left her weakened and in pain. Besides, it was getting dark soon, and this close to the village, someone may stumble upon her in the forest. He couldn't leave her to fend for herself. After all, she was his only hope of returning to his world.

During the meal, Timofey and his wife kept asking about his journey and what he hoped to do at the fortress. Paul kept it vague, not knowing how much he could reveal. Baba Yaga may be real in this world, but people may fear her and think it foolhardy to go searching for her.

He reluctantly turned down Timofey's offer to stay the night. While Timofey's wife was wrapping up a rye loaf, some hard cheese, and a string of bread rings in a napkin for him, Paul remembered something else and asked, even more reluctantly, if she had some women's clothes to spare.

"Women's clothes?" she repeated, eyebrows disappearing into her headscarf. "What would you be wanting with them?"

They must be thinking that he was some sort of debauched libertine. "They're for my—companion," he said.

"A lass?" Timofey asked. "Why didn't you bring her here then?"

"And what happened to her clothes?" the wife chimed in.

Their curious looks made Paul's temper flare once more. The audacity of these peasants, to question him so boldly! With difficulty, he reminded himself that they didn't know who he was. But surely, they would know Zhara. Even the leshy knew her...

"If you must know," he said, bristling, "my companion is Tsarevna Zhara Artyomovna of Arthania, and she has suffered a great..."

He trailed off, as an astonishing change had come over his host and hostess. Timofey's sunburned face went white under his beard, his wife's cheeks lost their ruddiness, and both made a warding gesture with their arms.

"It—it can't be!" the muzhik stammered. "They're all dead! The entire kingdom! She killed them! And her brother, the new tsar, has put a price on her head!"

"If you're with her, then please, don't hurt us!" Timofey's wife ran into a corner, took some clothes out of a trunk, and flung them along with the bundle of food at Paul's feet. "Please take these and go away! We never did you no harm! Leave us alone! "

They truly seemed out of their wits with fear. Bewildered, Paul picked up the food and the clothes and left. He could hear every door and shutter throughout the village slamming shut behind him as he went.

Could it be true? Could it be that the bird-girl was not a cursed princess, a damsel in distress in need of rescuing, but an evil sorceress? And if it was true, then what did she want with him?

Paul wavered at the edge of the forest, uncertain of what to do. He could continue alone. He could find the fortress and ask for help. But then he remembered the leshy and the wraith, and how Zhara had saved him from them. Even if it had all been a ploy to gain his trust, he had to admit that the likelihood of his survival rather increased with her around. With a sigh, he plunged on.

It was fully dark by the time he found the oak tree where he'd left Zhara. She was still there, hidden behind the foliage. Her face lit up upon seeing him, and brightened even more when she saw the clothes and food he brought back. When she emerged from behind the bush, dressed in the ill-fitting chemise and sarafan, she looked more human, less ethereal, even with a flame flickering on the tip of her finger like a candle. "How do I look?" she asked, smiling.

"Very well," answered Paul stiffly.

"I'm really sorry about earlier today," she said. "I truly didn't know there was a Noon Wraith on that meadow. I just thought we ought to keep to the stream to avoid getting lost."

Paul shrugged. "It's fine."

She didn't seem to notice anything amiss in his tone, absorbed as she was by the bread and cheese, which she was tearing into with gusto. "This is excellent," she said, between mouthfuls. "You have no idea how tired one gets of berries and seeds."

Paul sat against an elm tree and watched her. She had wrapped his cravat back around her wound, which was bleeding again, and the beginning of a bruise was blooming on her cheek, where the wraith's scythe handle must have hit her. He went over what Timofey and his wife had said, how frightened they had been, but he couldn't quite believe it. This fragile-looking girl, a murderous witch? No, it couldn't be true.

"I hope you found a way to pay the villagers for these," Zhara said. "Or at least thank them sufficiently."

Paul, who had never thanked anyone for anything in his life, realized that the idea hadn't even occurred to him. But he didn't say so. Instead, he said, "I didn't have a chance to do either. They chased me away."

She looked up. "Why?!"

He decided there was nothing to do it but to speak truth. "The villagers said that your entire kingdom was massacred," he said slowly. "By you."

The piece of bread froze halfway to Zhara's mouth. "Did you mention my name to them?" she said in a horrified tone.

"Yes."

She put the bread down on the napkin. "No, no, no..." she groaned, hands reaching up to grip at her braid. "What have you done?"

"What have I done? What have you done?!"

"I didn't do anything."

"Then why does your brother have a bounty for your capture?"

Her hands shook, and a spark flew out of her fingers. She squeezed her palms shut. Paul began to think that perhaps it wasn't wise to confront someone who was wanted for mass murder, especially when that person could shoot fire out of her hands.

"Because he wants me dead." Her amber eyes flashed. "It's all a lie told by my brother to legitimize his claim to the throne. He was the one who killed our father and destroyed any of the boyars that dared to oppose his rule. He was the one that cursed me."

The tale was a familiar one to Paul, and it only increased his suspicion. Could it be that the girl knew of his mother's rise to the throne and was using it to gather his sympathy? "I thought you were cursed by Koschei," he said.

"It's a long story." The girl looked at Paul. "You don't believe me."

"I don't know what to believe."

"Why would I lie to you?"

This was exactly what Paul had been asking himself, and even now, he had no satisfactory answer. "To gain my trust, to get me to help you."

"Help?" The girl let out a derisive laugh. "Why would I need your help? How have you helped me, exactly? You've been nothing but a burden. I could've been halfway to Tsar Afron's fortress by now if it weren't for you!"

Getting berated by two women in the span of two days was more than Paul could bear. He jumped to his feet as though stung by a bee, and stormed off.

"Yes, leave!" the girl said. "Get yourself killed and see if I care!"

He kept walking without a look back. Through the trees, he could see moonlight glimmering silver on the stream, and he remembered to keep it on his right as they had during the day, though he didn't dare leave the forest. The muzhik had said the wraith only appeared at noon, but better be safe than sorry. He would walk all night if he had to. He stumbled over roots and got his feet tangled in the undergrowth, but he righted himself and walked on. He would show her—he would show them all—that he could survive.

Then he heard the girl scream.

Chapter 4

Taglist: @ali-r3n

[cielcreations]

Little Fairy (Rancher Duo Fanfic)

Tango was a fairy who lived in a little town called Hermitcraft. He wasn’t sure who came up with the name, but it didn’t matter. He needed a few more leaves, string, and other items to help restock his shop as well as build his Decked Out game (it was turning out to be a bigger project than he intended).

He began to pick out some leaves from the trees as well as fallen leaves (the different colors would look amazing in all his buildings!), putting them in his bag. He continued to fly around, going to the flower field and picking off the petals. He continued to fly around, happily gathering petals, leaves, moss, vines, and anything else he could carry in his hands or bag. Once he finished, he began to fly home.

He was humming and singing to himself, flying home and not paying attention as he did. He suddenly ran into something and gasped. He groaned, realizing he was caught in a spider's web. The blonde tugged against the web, groaning.

"C-Crap!" He yelled, tugging as he called for someone, "HELP! IMPULSE?! ZED?! SOMEONE?!"

He struggled, tugging on the web, scared. The web was made, the spider had to be somewhere, and Tango would be its next meal if he didn't run.

"HELP!" Tears came to Tango's eyes, "HELP MEEEE!"

He began to cry, sobbing as he tried to pull out. He heard crunches of branches and dead leaves, turning his head and seeing a human. The human had dirty blonde hair and sky blue eyes, pale skin. He wore a white button up shirt, a blue cardigan, black pants, and back shoes. Tango whimpered, shaking as the human stared.

"A... fairy..." The human blinked. He then gasped, "O-Oh my god, you're stuck in a spiderweb!"

The human stepped forward and Tango stiffened more. He heard the stories of humans! They crush fairies, use their wings as trophies! He was shaking and crying as the human's hands got closer. The human gently put his hands behind and over Tango, gently cupping him. Tango closed his eyes, preparing to be crushed to death. Would any of his friends find him? What would the human do after he was crushed?

"Are you alright?" The human cooed.

Tango hesitantly opened his eyes and saw the human was looking down at him in concern. He blinked and squeaked as the human gently removed the spiderweb from his wings.

"There you go." The human smiled, "You're okay, right? Not hurt?"

Tango shook his head, blushing darkly as he stared at him.

"Good. Do you need help? Can you fly? I can-"

Tango quickly flew off without a second thought.

"Ah, IF YOU NEED HELP, I LIVE IN THE HOUSE OUTSIDE THE WOODS!" The human called.

Tango turned around, hiding in the trees as the human smiled softly, walking back out of the woods. He blushed. The human's hands were so soft, so warm, he was so gentle and kind.

He flew home.

***

Tango sat on top of the windows of the house. 

Why he chose to come to the human’s house, he had no idea. He just... maybe he wanted to see the human again. He wasn’t sure why though, he was still really scared. But... 

He gasped the windows opened, looking over the sill and watching as the human set out a flower and a note. He also put a pencil out and placed... something on a napkin.

"There." The human spoke, "Hopefully that fairy is okay... He seemed a bit scared and nervous..."

He then seemed to move back and Tango flew down, hiding behind the flower pot, looking into the house and seeing the human was gone. He tiptoed over to the note and knelt down, reading it.

To the fairy I met yesterday. I hope you are doing okay. I didn't mean to scare you and I didn't mean to hurt you if I did. I hope you are okay and here's a piece of chocolate! You can come by any time if you want a piece or if you just need a place to stay. Take care. -Solidarity

"You didn’t hurt me..." Tango muttered to himself, I was just scared.

Tango then looked over, picking up the pencil with difficulty. He had to fly just to hold it and, with a lot of perseverance (despite how heavy it was), managed to write a simple 'thank you', even if it was a bit sloppy.

Tango panted, sweating from holding the heavy pencil, wings tired from using them so much. He groaned and let go of the pencil as his wings gave out. He was about to fall and the pencil was going to crush him, until a hand reached out and caught him.

The dirty blonde stared at the panting fairy, "You... You're the fairy from yesterday... OH!" He put Tango down, "You poor thing, you look exhausted! Are you okay?! Was the pencil to big?! C-Crap, s-stay here! I'll grab some water."

Tango tried to stand up as the human left, fluttering his wings, "O-Ow-!" He groaned, Nope, they’re too sore...

The human came back, pulling a chair in front of the window as he sat down. He opened a bottle of water, carefully pouring some water in the cap before holding it to Tango’s lips, "Here, drink up."

Tango held the cap and drank from it. Once he finished, he looked down, blushing in embarrassment, "Thank you!"

The human smiled, "Your welcome! Uh, have you tried the chocolate? I wasn't sure if you would like it, but I figured it was a good guess. Who doesn't like chocolate?"

"I-I’ve never had it..." Tango admitted, "Fairies can't make it."

"Well, it's really good!" The human gently broke the smallest piece he could before offering it to Tango, "Here!"

Tango hesitantly took and ate it, smiling brightly, "It's amazing!" He smiled up at the human, "Thank you!"

The human smiled, "You're welcome." He offered his hand, "My name is Solidarity."

"My name is Tango!" The blonde smiled.

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you. Come back anytime. And here." Solidarity wrapped the remaining chocolate in the napkin, using a small string to tie it and make a handle, "Just make sure to eat it soon, chocolate will melt!"

Tango nodded, holding the makeshift bag, "Thank you!"

Solidarity smiled and nodded. He waved as Tango flew off with his new treat.

[sunflowersteves]

Heard you're looking for Steve Harrington fluff ideas, so what about Steve going all out for the readers birthday? He plans a big surprise and it's romantic and fluffy (maybe a birthday scavenger hunt??)

author's note || yes!! i love this concept and think it's cute! i tried to do a scavenger hunt but i didn’t rlly like it so i rewrote this instead :) i hope you enjoy!

warnings || mention of illness, just flufff

masterlist

"Where are we going?"

Steve's smile brightened as you cautiously placed your hands in front of you. You were walking slowly towards your door, making sure you wouldn’t run into anything in the process. 

After he got off work from Family Video, he drove as fast as he could to your house. At first, you were a little bummed that he couldn’t be with you the whole day because of work, but you knew that Keith had been up his and Robin's ass lately. It wasn’t his fault that Keith was being a hard ass. 

When he got to your place, he immediately had you in a blindfold despite your protests. All he said was that you were going somewhere, right this second. You could not help but ask a thousand questions, only getting a cheeky smile from Steve—which you couldn’t even see. All you got out of him was, "somewhere."

Now, you were trying to walk back to his car with him, just stating that he was taking you somewhere. 

“Jus’ keep walking, I got you.” One hand wrapped around your waist as he guided you to his car. He opened the car door and gently placed you onto the seat—or so he thought.

“Ow!” Your head hit the roof of the car. “Steve!” He couldn’t help but snicker as you rubbed the top of your head. You tried to punch his shoulder because you definitely heard him, but you just barely missed. 

He chuckled, “sorry, angel,” and then gently placed his lips on your forehead. After making sure you were situated, he then ran over to the other side of the car.

“Where are we going again?”

His eyes flickered towards yours for a split second before turning back to the road. “You know, the more you ask me that, the more I won’t tell you.” Despite the teeny tiny smile on your face, you scoffed. 

You could have sworn you were in his car for at least fifteen minutes, figuring you were on the outskirts of the town. Hawkin’s wasn’t that big. You feel the car halt to a stop, and Steve opens the car door. He helps you out—ensuring that you don’t hit your head again because you definitely threatened him this time. 

“Steeevvee—” You dragged out every single syllable of his name as he continued to lead the way. You could tell that you were on grass, the crunching sound of autumn hitting your ears.  

“Watch your step, sweetheart.” He leads you downhill, and after a few seconds, he stops. He reaches up and lifts the blindfold from your eyes. You look around a bit, more confused now than you had ever been. 

“You dragged me all the way out here? The woods? What are you gonna do, murder me—” Steve rolls his eyes, “I told them to put it out here.” He thinks, for a second, before grabbing your hand and making your way into the woods.

“Ah, so you are going to murder me. I didn’t hear you say no—” your teasing dies right on your tongue as you look around. The sunset had fallen—dusk upon you as the light dwindled beneath the atmosphere. There were candles everywhere, leading a pathway to what was before you. 

Dustin, Max, Will, Lucas, El, and Mike were all standing waiting for your reaction. Their large smiles and snacks in their hands almost made you tear up. They had placed a large projector held by two trees, lots of beanbags and comfy blankets scattered around the ground, and rose petals that led to the champagne bottle in an ice chest. 

“We knew that you were super sad when the drive-in theater closed down, so Steve had the idea of recreating one for you.” Dustin smiled and pushed the flowers in your hands, “So Happy Birthday!”

When you found out that the drive-in movie was shut down, it had almost brought you to tears. You had many memories of going with your sister before she passed away. You would fling popcorn at each other, get sick on candy, and laugh until your stomach hurt. It was one of the things that distracted you from terminal cancer that took over her body.

You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know how to react. No one had ever done something so thoughtful for you. No one but your Steve. 

“I- Steve.” You immediately hugged him, squeezing him as hard as you could. He smiled before wrapping his arms around you and planting sweet kisses on your cheeks.

“Thank you, baby. This is the best thing that I–” You almost choked on your words, the tears stinging your eyes a bit. His bright smile replicated yours. “You don’t have to thank me at all. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I love you so much.” 

His head rested on your own. “Happy Birthday, angel.” He bent his head down, lips connecting with full force. Your hands went to pull on his cheeks, almost so that you could get even closer to him.

“Can you guys stop kissing so we can watch movies now?”

“Dustin!” You detached your lips from Steve’s to laugh, sprouting a pout on your boyfriend’s face. 

“What? I wanna watch Aliens.” Max hit him in the shoulder while you laughed again, shaking your head. You all plopped down and started the movie, your hands intertwined with Steve. 

You could definitely say that this was the best birthday present ever. 

[kitashousewife]

sunset watching

part of my summer holiday event! there is something so dreamy about just watching the sunset with geto and i just love him he needs some peace and quiet😚

pairings: geto x fem!reader

warnings: fluff, pet names, lowercase intentional, that's all!

you felt as if you had been driving for hours, even though it had only been a few minutes. windows down, music blasting, geto's hair blowing around in the wind. allowing you to pick the music, geto almost felt at ease. he finally felt like he could breathe easy.

after dinner earlier, geto asked if you would want to watch the sunset with him. of course, you agreed. you can tell how worn out he has been lately. his carefree personality has slowly diminished, the twinkle of mischievousness in his eyes that you loved so much had dimmed. all you wanted was to make things a little easier for him.

grabbing some blankets, a couple drinks from the fridge, and some bug spray, you started to load everything up in the car. the lingering summer heat almost guaranteed you didn't need to put any extra layers on.

"do you need anything else, or should i lock the door?" geto says over his shoulder, hair tie between his teeth as he begins to shut the door.

"we should be okay, don't you think? i have blankets, some bug spray, a couple drinks," looking over the contents in the back seat, you gave geto the go ahead to shut the door.

"so where should we go? our usual spots? there's a nice place in the park that-"

"actually, is it okay if we go somewhere else? satoru told me of a great spot and he sent me the pin," geto mumbles as he tries to find said pin through all of his messages. smiling, you nod back.

"that sounds wonderful."

now, you find yourself on some random backroads, geto's old SUV doing a great job climbing higher and higher through the hills. you don't recognize the area at all, but from the looks of it, you're sure the sunset spot is going to be perfect.

"it says we are almost there, but wow, isn't it just gorgeous up here?" geto shouts over the wind whipping through the windows. geto doesn't get a response from you, so he looks over. he's about to repeat himself when he finds you, head out the window, smiling as you take in the scenery. he smiles.

slowing down, geto follows the gps to the exact spot of the pin. putting the car in park, geto looks a little confused. checking the messages again, he realized that gojo sent more.

once you get there, just go through those trees and you’ll be right at the spot. you’ll know it when you see it😁

trusting his friends advice, the two of you hop out of the car. grabbing your belongings, geto takes your hand and leads you towards the trees.

“sugu, are we sure satoru’s directions are right? i don’t know how well we can see things through these tree- oh my god,” cutting yourself off, you take in your surroundings. geto chuckles at you.

this was it alright. rolling fields of green, patches of wildflowers, and an amazing valley in the distance that almost frames the setting of the sun. it was picturesque.

“this is…” you were stunned. this was something out of a children’s book. it almost didn’t feel real. following behind geto as he finds the best spot, you reach out and brush your fingers through some of the grass. geto lays out your blankets and guides you to sit on top of them. while you observe more of the area, you don’t notice geto off to your right.

geto moves, flower to flower, trying to decide which one is more like you. a blue one? maybe purple? or maybe the soft pink? not wanting to disturb any of the nature, geto notices a flower that had fallen right next to his foot. picking up the stem, he rolls it between his fingers. the soft yellow of the petals swirl together, almost mesmerizing him. geto decides that this one is for you.

“isn’t this something? we’re going to have to thank satoru for this,” geto sits next to you on the blanket, stretching his legs out. patting in between them, you move yourself to rest between his thighs. “i almost forgot. face me sweets, i have something for you,” as you turn, you see geto holding a flower in front of his nose, smiling at you.

he gently brushes his hand across your face and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. placing the stem in to rest between your ear and your hair, geto smirks at his work.

“there we go. it looks beautiful on you. my pretty girl,” geto kisses the tip of your nose, then pulls you back against his chest. sighing in content, geto looks towards the sunset.

your heart is leaping in your chest. sure, geto has done many amazing things for you; taking you to the finest restaurants, showing you the most magnificent art, treating you to the best gifts. but right now, laying against him as the sun paints the two of you in a golden glow, you feel almost celestial.

if heaven is real, it is a place with geto.

geto places a kiss to the top of your head. with each second that passes, he feels as if he is being healed. every worry, stressor, and problem he has had lately melts away in the comforting light that the last rays of sun provide. he feels lighter. he feels content.

no words are said between the two of you, but you feel everything.

protected. cherished. needed. adored.

“i am in love with you, you know that?” geto says softly, almost as if his voice would disturb the beauty around you. turning your head to face him, you grin.

“i love you more, sugu.”

geto has never looked better than this moment right here. his hair cascades down his back, a couple strands rest on his face. his eyes are bright, his spirits lifted.

if heaven is real, it is a place with geto.

facing towards the sunset once more, you pull the blanket over your legs and wrap your hands around geto’s arm that rests across your sternum.

the sky changes from blue to a vibrant orange, traces of pink scattered through the remaining clouds. the sun’s descent providing one of the most beautiful displays of color you’ve ever seen.

as the minutes pass, geto feels your breath steadying as he holds you close. he runs his fingers through your hair, playing with the ends as he looks around. he has never felt so at peace. his thoughts are blank. the only things in his mind are snapshots of you tonight. the adoration on your face, your wonder and beauty, the love you have for him almost tangible. geto smiles to himself, kissing you on the head once more. taking in the last seconds of the sunset, geto feels more alive than ever before.

if heaven is real, it is a place with the two of you together.

[uselessundertalefacts]

Undertale September Day 6 - Sans

Flowey learns something about his friend(?????) Sans the skeleton.

“YOU SEE, IT’S BASICALLY THE SAME AS THAT CLUB PENGUIN GAME!” Papyrus gestured at his blueprint for a new type of puzzle, which was covered in various shapes. “YOU TURN EVERY X INTO AN O! BUT NOT A Δ!”

Flowey shook the recently fallen snowflakes off of his petals. He couldn’t have heard that right. “Not a what?”

“A Δ! DON’T TELL ME YOU DON’T KNOW THE ALPHABET, FLOWEY!”

Before he could answer, the air crackled around them and Sans appeared, leaning against a tree, inches away from Flowey. He tried to pretend not to be startled. “Ugh!! Don’t DO THAT!”

“oops,” said Sans with his usual smile.

“SANS!! YOU ARE RIGHT ON TIME!” Papyrus shouted, his hands on his hips. “AND BY RIGHT ON TIME, I MEAN THREE HOURS LATE!”

“eh, that’s pretty good by my standards,” Sans said, winking.

Papyrus thought about this. “WELL… TRUE! FOR YOU, THIS IS QUITE IMPRESSIVE! I’M IMPRESSED! CONSIDER MY IMPRESSEDIVITY!”

“isn’t it ‘impressediousness’?”

“WHATEVER!” Papyrus rolled his eyes. “ANYWAY, BEHOLD! A NEW TYPE OF PUZZLE! FLOWEY AND I WERE JUST GOING OVER THE PLANS!”

“wow,” said Sans, looking over the obtuse charts. “so o turns into Δ, right?”

“EXACTLY! GLAD YOU UNDERSTAND!” Papyrus clapped his hands and turned to Flowey. “WELL, ALL SEEMS TO BE IN ORDER, SO LET’S… SANS, WHERE ARE MY TOOLS?”

“you didn’t bring ‘em with you?”

“OH WAIT!” He looked through his inventory and found nothing but some old notebook paper. “NOPE! I MUST HAVE LEFT THEM IN MY DUNGEON… BRB, FRIEND AND BROTHER!” With that, he flew off towards town, leaving Flowey and Sans to themselves.

“so,” said Sans, lounging against the tree. “how’s it going, flower person whose name i know?”

Flowey startled. He’d kind of zoned out, honestly. With the skeletons, it was so easy to just watch them do their thing and not really pay attention. “Uh, normal,” he said. “Been… here. In the underground.”

“cool,” said Sans. He seemed like he also wasn’t paying attention. “i gotta get to my sentry station, meet you there?” He teleported away before Flowey could respond.

When Flowey made it to the sentry station, Sans was already asleep, his head resting on the station counter. This annoyed Flowey so much that he lost his already-minimal self-control and threw a snowball at Sans’s head. It exploded on contact, making a satisfying noise and waking Sans up. “uh, that hurt,” he said. “but it was a good shot. i respect that.”

“What’s your problem?” Flowey snapped. “Are you being annoying on purpose?”

Sans shrugged. “who knows.”

Flowey huffed. “Well, why’d you tell me to follow you?”

“we’re friends, aren’t we?”

That surprised Flowey. He’d always assumed Sans secretly hated him, for some reason. All those times he’d “accidentally” dumped ketchup on his food, that had to be a sign of disliking him, right? And when he ordered a new plate of food for him afterwards, that was just good manners.

They’d spent a lot of time together in this run, actually, now that he was thinking about it. He always acted annoyed with Sans out of habit, but so did Papyrus. Maybe for Sans, that was a sign of friendship.

“Uh, sure,” he said eventually. “I mean, I know Papyrus better, but I guess you can’t be friends with someone and not be friends with their… roommates.” It was normal to not want to say the word ‘sibling’.

“nice. yeah, it’s always fun seeing you around. and i know you mean a lot to papyrus, so.” Sans’s head was resting on the counter again. Flowey was surprised he hadn’t fallen back asleep yet.

“Do you have to always teleport right next to me?” Flowey asked. “You have legs, don’t you?”

At first, Sans was so quiet that Flowey thought he had actually fallen asleep. Then he said, “leg machine broke.”

“What!?”

“can’t walk much,” he said. “well, not today.”

“Oh…” Flowey looked down where his feet would be, if he still had feet. "Why not?"

"takes energy."

"Doesn't teleporting take up energy?"

"not as much. but yeah. gotta take a nap soon."

Flowey got the feeling that Sans didn’t want to get into it. He tried to think of a different annoying thing to complain about instead. “Your station smells like rotten mayonnaise,” he said eventually.

“that’s on purpose.”

“Why would that be on purpose?”

“ghosts can smell rotten foods.”

“You’re making that up-“

Suddenly, Papyrus crashed into a tree next to the sentry station, toolbox in hand. “THERE YOU ARE!” he shouted as he disentangled himself from the tree branches. “READY TO GET STARTED, FLOWERY?”

“Sure,” said Flowey. “Bye, Sans.”

Sans waved at him as the two made their way to the designated puzzle area. “Does he really not walk sometimes?” he asked Papyrus.

Papyrus stopped walking. “WAIT… HE TOLD YOU THAT?”

“Uh, yeah… am I being rude or-“

Papyrus jumped five feet into the air. “OH MY GOD!!!!” he said as he landed gracefully. “SANS NEVER TELLS ANYONE ABOUT THAT!!!! WOWIE… YOUR FRIENDSHIP BOND MUST BE INCREDIBLY STRONG!!!”

“Not really,” said Flowey dubiously.

“OR MAYBE… HE’S LEARNING TO OPEN UP TO HIS FRIENDS???” Papyrus gasped. “I MUST TELL HIM HOW PROUD I AM, THE NEXT TIME I SEE HIM!!!”

They arrived at the puzzle area. Sans was there, leaning against the same tree as before. “sup,” he said.

“BROTHER!!!!” Papyrus ran up to Sans, throwing the toolbox aside and almost hitting Flowey with it. “I HEAR YOUR FRIENDSHIP POWER IS GROWING!!! I AM SO PROUD OF YOU FOR BEING SO CLOSE WITH MY FRIEND, FLOWRY!”

“what can i say,” said Sans, winking. “he’s a charismatic kinda guy.”

This was all getting too mushy for Flowey. “Can we build the puzzle now?” he asked.

“EXCELLENT IDEA, MY FRIEND AND SANS’S FRIEND!” Papyrus picked up his wrench, which had fallen into the snow. “SANS! YOU BE THE FOREMAN!”

“can i be the threeman instead?”

“BAD JOKE! BUT FINE!!!”

“Uhh, thanks,” said Flowey while Papyrus unloaded his tools. “For not teleporting on top of me this time.”

“no prob, bud,” said Sans.

“Is that supposed to be a pun?”

“that’s for you to decide.”

[atripthroughthestars]

Comforting Company

Dan Heng X Poppy (OC)

Warnings -> Nightmare comfort

Grey.

No matter where I turn, all I see is grey. The land, turned to ash that stained my skin whenever I touched something. The trees, rotting from the inside out and filling the air with a withered odour. The sky, blocked by clouds so thick it was impossible to tell if the sun or moon is out. The forest is too bright to be night, but too dark to be day. A thick fog with its own eerie glow hovers here.

The worst of it all is the silence. There is no crunching of the dead grass and leaves beneath my feet, no howling of the wind even though it tickles my cheeks and ruffles my clothes. There are no birds, no insects, no rustling in the bushes - though, they are only twigs now, the leaves having fallen off and lay decaying on the ground around them. Not even my own breath can be heard here. It’s horrifying, to feel one’s own heart pounding in their chest but unable to hear it pulsing in their ears.

Fear drives me to run. Between the silent trees, over ditches that once held the source of all life, through clearings where living beings once grazed. They’re all bones, now; skeletons scattered across the landscape like flowers must have been once. Ribs and sharp spines cut up my ankles as I stumble through. I imagine skulls snapping at my heels, but nothing chases me further into the forest. Nothing forces me in any direction but my own panic.

Then I see it: a faint light in the distance. It flickers, turns off, comes back on, flickers again, stays on, flickers, turns off, on, off, flicker. The light says nothing but it’s dying and my only source of hope. I chase after it recklessly and made it to the wreckage just as the light is snuffed out once and for all.

The crash is heartbreaking. A large, steel train has landed on its side and slid several feet from its tracks. Steam is still rising from the wheels. There is no sign of survivors. No sign of death, either, but corpses still litter the ground. Corpses of who had been on board.

In one deep red puddle, I find a pink camera with a shattered lens. In another similar puddle, I find an elegant walking stick snapped in two. In another, a golden pocket watch who’s hands no longer move. In the fourth, many mechanical parts that must have been one at some point. In the fifth, I find a baseball bat splattered with the same red substance. In the sixth, I find a spear with intricate detailing, the pointed edge sliced off diagonally as if something sharper had cut clean through it.

And in the seventh, I find an upright clay pot. The soil within is rich, the red flower sprouting from it in full bloom. It’s the only thing in this forest that speaks.

“Only… one… left…” Before my eyes, the vibrant petals start to shrivel and fall. “No… one… left.”

I look up just as bright golden eyes and bone white fangs lunge from the shadows.

~~~

Poppy sat up with a jolt and pushed herself back against the headboard, both hands flying to protect her neck as her mismatched eyes darted around the room. It was dark, but she could make out the various shadows of her plants and flowers. Her curtain was open, and beyond the glass was an inky sea of stars and comets. The sight was common and further reassured her that what she experienced was nothing more then a haunting nightmare.

Leaning over, she turned on the lamp at her bedside and listened to the sleepy humming of her little bedroom garden. The succulent plants had deep singing voices, the snake plant hummed with an underlying hiss, the hanging ferns harmonized with the rest and the dracaena plant pitched in whenever it so pleased. When one is so accustomed to hearing the voices of living beings that to not speak, absolute silence is an impossibility.

Poppy’s nightmare was more terrifying then terror itself.

It would be easy for her to tune in to the other unheard voices boarded the Astral Express, to listen to her companions hearts and see that everyone was safe and sound in their beds, but Poppy didn’t like to pry into someone’s heart without their permission. In her eyes, reading a heart was no different then sneaking a look into someone’s diary. So, she crawled out of bed, stepped into her slippers and wandered into the hall of the passenger cabin.

Things here were much quieter, but it didn’t frighten her as she knew this was normal for the middle of the night. Welt, Himeko, March and Caelus, each room she passed was silent and dark beneath the doors. The archives, however, was a different story. The room was just as silent as the others -though, the master wasn’t a loud character to begin with- but the light peeking beneath the door was rather bright. Dan Heng must still be awake, though again, this wasn’t particularly unusual. He must have simply lost track of time again.

Still, just to be sure, Poppy walked up to his door and knocked in her signature style: one light tap followed by a pause, another light tap followed by a pause, then three rapid taps. She didn’t have to wait long for the door to open.

Dan Heng’s head titled at the sight of her. “Poppy? What’s the matter?”

Poppy didn’t realize her shoulders were tense until they dropped. He looked just as he always did, if perhaps a little tired. He was safe, and that’s all she needed to be absolved of the last of her worries.

Lips pulling into a small smile, Poppy shook her head to dismiss his concerns. Lifting a hand, she cupped his cheek and ran her thumb gently beneath his eye and over the scar next to it.

“I’ll be going to bed soon. I just want to finish uploading the last of the data we collected to the data bank.” He said. “Are you sure nothing is wrong? You’re usually fast asleep at this time.”

She wrapped her arms around herself and shrugged.

“Are you thirsty?” He asked, to which she shook her head. “Did you have a bad dream?”

This time, she nodded. The image of Cloud-Piercer, laying broken in a puddle of what was obviously blood, flashed through her mind again and sent a violent shiver down her spine. She reached for his coat and Dan Heng guided her into his chest, stepping back with her so he could close the door.

“It was just a dream. Nothing can-” He cut himself off and shook his head, as if thinking better of what he was going to say. “I won’t let anything harm you.”

Poppy shook her head, looked up at him and tapped his chest.

“I was the one who was hurt?” She nodded and buried her face in his chest again, breathing in a familiar smell that clung to his clothing. Dan Heng placed a hand on the back of her head and rested his lips against her blush red hair. “You don’t need to worry. I’m perfectly fine.”

She knows, but the longer she remained in his hold, the more scared she felt. Funny, she always thought being held by someone you loved would make all the bad things disappear entirely. That’s not the case this time, though; being in Dan Heng’s arms, hearing his breath and the faint ‘thump’ of his heart against his chest, all she could think about was what she would have lost if that dream were real. She would have lost her boyfriend, her friends, her home, everything.

If Poppy could speak, what would she say to him? She would say that she’s glad he’s alright, that the thought of losing him scared her more then death itself, that she loved him so much she would swim across the galaxy just to find him if they ever got separated. She’d tell him how much she loved his company, how she noticed the way he constantly watched out for her every time they stepped foot on a new planet. She’d tell him how cute he looked when flustered and how sorry she was for ever being intimidated by him when they first met. She can’t say these things, though, not with physical words. She could write or type a message, but it wouldn’t be the same. What she could do, though, was press a long, gentle kiss over his heart.

“I love you, too.” Dan Heng replied, pulling back to look down at her. “Do you feel any better?”

Poppy shrugged, and after a moment of thinking it over, pointed at herself, then towards his bed.

“If staying with me will make you feel better, then I don’t mind.” He said. “Make yourself at home. I’ll join you as soon as I finish with the data bank.”

Grateful for his kindness, Poppy smiled and made her way to his sleeping spot. She crawled onto the futon and curled up beneath the blanket, and though her spine was going to be sore in the morning, she positioned herself in a way that allowed her to view the chair Dan Heng had sunk into. His back was to her on an angle but she could see the side of his face, and that alone brought her much comfort. The tapping of keys on the tablet filled the otherwise quiet room. Before long, her eyes start to feel heavy and the tension in her body slowly melted away.

About fifteen minutes later, Dan Heng turned the tablet off and glanced towards the bed. He wasn’t surprised to see that Poppy had drifted off, it was what he was hoping for. Still, part of him felt a bit shy at how safe she felt with him to be her most vulnerable. It shouldn’t be surprising anymore, and it wasn’t, but it didn’t fluster him any less.

Rising from the chair, Dan Heng shrugged off his jacket and moved quietly across the room so he could turn the lights off. His navigated his way to the bed through the dark easily, slowly squeezing himself onto the small, now even smaller, futon. Poppy stirred, but he hushed her and guided her head to rest on his chest. She quickly settled again.

“I’ll protect you.” He whispered, running his hand up and down her back. “No matter what, I’ll protect you.”

As if she heard him, she nuzzled in closer.

[florida-preposterously]

I had a competition thing and I wrote this story

so there’sa lot of interpretations you can have and please tell me what you think Its about 🥺

Trigger warnings: abuse, drowning mention, hallucinations (kind of),ghosts, suicidal thoughts

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The walls of Heather's room felt like they were going to close in around her, crush her underneath their weight.

She always took deep breaths when that happened,  turning her attention towards the swaying of the branches outside her window. 

 Or when all of it got too much, slip out the backdoor, praying nobody noticed. 

And when her steps no longer needed to be silent, she ran towards the woods. Let the chirping of the birds drown away her thoughts, saw towering trees reaching out to the sky and she wondered if she could do the same.

Heather sat on a fallen tree, its branches, once beautiful, crushed against the ground. Her legs itched where the bark touched her skin. 

The screaming had gotten too much yet again. So her feet had carried her here, woods no matter how far she ventured, she never seemed to get lost in.  

She'd always heard things about the woods. Of course, where the voice of reason was absent, the human mind always leapt to conjure up some speculation to  fill the space.

 They said in the early hours of the morning, the mist held figures  human eyes weren't meant to see. 

They talked about the way the rustling of the leaves whispered secrets in their ears when the moon was high. 

How the squirrels in the forest could jump too high, how the deer walked around with eyes white instead of black, how the branches hung a bit too low, brushing against their skin. 

Heather didn't care about the myths. Sometimes, when she lay on the damp grass and wished the roots would overcome her, she couldn't help but hope it was true. 

Maybe one day, she'd venture too far into the woods, get lost in the swaying branches, and Never have to return home. 

A flower grew near her feet, something familiar about the  way its petals were  twisted and bruised. It resembled the marks left on her skin by her father. 

The world threatened to spin again, and their words etched their way into her thoughts again, so Heather stood up and ran further down the rows of trees. The wind gently caressed her face, but the tears rolled down her face anyway.

She came to a small clearing, where water rushed past her, roaring with confidence. She briefly wondered how far away she was from home, the distance reassuring her. 

She stared at the water and wondered how it would be like to flow away with it.

But something cold pressed against her shoulder, and when Heather looked up, a faint whisper of a figure stood facing her, their eyes asking a question she'd wondered for so long.

"Don't you want to be free?" 

Heather blinked, and when she opened her eyes, there was nothing there. She laughed, trying not to be scared that she was finally going crazy.

But then branches crushed under someone's foot, and when she looked up again, a girl stood there, staring off into the distance.

 Heather backed away, filled with fear.

"Who are you?" She asked, speaking faintly. The girl turned around and tilted her head at Heather. Her eyes were dark, darker than the night sky. Her skin was smooth and her hair the colour of sunlight. Curiosity erupted in Heather's mind. 

The girl did not respond, opting instead to just stare at Heather.

 She couldn't explain how, but something felt surreal about the girl. Maybe it was the way the light hit her skin, or the sharp lines of her figure. 

"What's your name?" Heather asked. The girl simply smiled, and Heather couldn't stop thinking how the other girl was so pretty yet…so surreal.

The girl sat down beside Heather. She cleared away the branches and leaves lying at the river side to reveal dirt. Heather watched her pick up a stick and scratch a name  in the mud.

"Alora. That's your name?" The girl, or Alora, nodded. She pointed the stick at Heather, like she was inquiring about her name too.

"Heather. You don't talk?" Alora smiled. She scratched "pretty name" in the dirt. Heather smiled back. 

"I've got to say, your handwriting is very bad." The girl pouted, her expression drawing a laugh out of Heather. 

The next day, Heather snuck a book and quill out of her Father's study, staying in the shadows to avoid being seen. Alora never let the book go after she got it, excitedly flipping through the empty pages. 

Heather never knew what home was, but sometimes when she watched Alora excitedly scribble words onto the page, watching her eager expression as Heather read her silly jokes, some faint impression of what the word was supposed to mean built in her chest. 

Once Alora accidentally left her book behind, and when Heather had sneakily managed to take it home, she found the pages empty. She flipped through the pages fervorously, almost tearing the delicate paper, but when she hid the book under her mattress, defeated and slightly haunted, she knew that the book held no words. 

The next morning, Heather woke up to screaming again, and out of habit she ran towards the river they always met beside, clutching the book tightly in her hands. But now, as she ran away from the echoes of her Father's words, her mind filled with a different set of questions. 

As usual, she waited near the flowing river, wondering why she'd failed so miserably at seeing all the strange things about her new friend.

 But that wasn't true, was it?  Heather had seen them, but in the face of companionship and the yearning for Alora's comfort, the quirks felt irrelevant.

How did Alora always show up?

Why had the words disappeared?

What was Alora?

The branches crunched under someone's foot, and when Heather looked up, Alora stood there, her face torn between defeat, anger and sadness. The shine of her hair, the sharp lines of her figure, all of it stood out again, and when Heather met her eyes again, all she could wonder was,

"Who are you?"

Alora sighed as she knelt down and took the book. She took the quill, softly brushing Heather's hands for a moment.

Alora flipped through the pages, which were full again. Heather frowned.

"Come with me." Alora wrote. Heather shook her head.

"Why?" Alora looked at her, and the sadness in her eyes pained Heather's heart. 

"Please." And Heather thought about what she had to lose. The truth was, the only person who'd ever wanted her was Alora. 

Heather complied, and Alora grabbed her hand as they walked down a part of the forest she had never been in before. They walked through places where the  branches  curled strangely, where  birds that made sounds she'd never heard before, where the green of the grass turned bluer with every step she took. 

Things stopped making sense, but Heather didn't think any of this was supposed to make sense. 

"Where are we going?" Alora looked back at her, and then she remembered, all those months ago, she'd seen the same look in a different pair of eyes. 

"Don't you want to be free?" 

And Heather could answer that question in a heartbeat. 

"Lead me there."

Alora stopped and when Heather looked around, the river ran backwards, and the branches hung so low they brushed across their torsos. The grass was bluer than the sky, But even with so much wrong about this place, she recognised it anyway. 

Alora stepped into the river, and Heather followed. 

I want to be free, she thought. 

The water was cold. So was Alora's hand, like it always was. 

I want to be free. 

The water filled her lungs, but the feeling was so pleasant  that Heather sighed, a small smile forming on her face. 

She woke up, but Heather didn't know where she was. Everything felt similar yet so different the same time that it sent her reeling from vertigo. She laid down on the ground, the soft grass underneath her felt so comforting that she almost drifted away. 

Someone touched her shoulder and when she opened her eyes, she saw eyes darker than the night sky looking at her, and a smile so beautiful that she couldn't help but smile back.

"We're free."

Tagging my art taglist and moots because I want attention

@theseasonalarsonist @theseasonismerrybutimnot @constant-sapphic-breakdown @callas-pancake-tree @that-glasses-dog @appleflv @abubble125 @katniss-elizabeth-chase

[chaosdndsquad]

Blossom’s Falling

“Are you sure you got the energy for that?” Sasha eyes Magda up and down. The campfire does nothing to help her sight, but the fighter searches for signs of fatigue in their rouge anyways.

Magda sputters in response. Sasha’s lips twitch upwards, watching. She’s hesitant to call Magda “cute”—it's too childish a term to describe her anyways—but there’s something about the motion that Sasha can only describe as adorable.

“The fight wasn’t that bad! I still got some fight left in me.” Sasha has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing. Magda is goading her on, and despite how tired Sasha is from riding all day, it’s working.

Magda picks up a fallen stick from Bryn’s massive oak tree. She waves it like sword, the tip of the flimsy stick makes a “whoosh” noise as it slices through the air. She falls into a battle-ready stance, a playful challenge in her eyes as she states at Sasha, still seated.

Sasha quirks an eyebrow. There’s no hiding the smirk rising to her lips now. “Oh, so it’s going to be that kind of fight, is it?” She asks, amusement peeking out into her voice as she grabs a stick sword from the ground.

Magda, undeterred, laughs. “You wouldn’t win if it was the other kind of fight. Remember last time?”

Sasha shakes her head and smiles. How she thought it was a good idea to enter a wrestling match against someone with a metal arm, she will never know. Sasha readies her battle stance. “This isn’t last time.”

Sasha means to strike first, she really does, but Magda beats her to it. Sasha only has time to deflect Magda’s blows, not attack with any of her own.

They continue for a bit before Magda backs off briefly. The two take this opportunity to catch their breath.

“Not much of a fight with only one person hitting.” Magda pants. The firelight gleams in the reflection of her metal arm, making Magda’s purple skin glow. She looks good in the campfire light.

Sasha blinks, focusing her gaze back to her opponent’s. “This is a fight,” she says, summoning up as much bravado as she can, shooing away the previous thought before it can be voiced. “It’s not supposed to be fair.”

Magda hums. She twirls her fake sword and starts walking—strutting—back towards Sasha. That’s when she sees it.

Sasha blames the oak tree being in full bloom. She blames the grasslands and its windy weather. She blames the razor wings for making them camp out here. She blames anything and everything she can to justify the way her heart lurches as she sees Magda approach her. The wind blows and little white flowers fall from Bryn’s tree. Flowers and petals fall all around them in a delicate dance: some fall into Magda’s crown, but most fall into her curly hair. Raven black, curly hair that shines against the campfire so much it could put the moon to shame. Even her crown, covered in thorns seems to gleam like stars, and her eyes—

Sasha sucks in a breath, realization hitting her in a way her opponent’s attacks couldn’t. Sasha Lucero is the biggest fool in all of Evras.

Magda Martikov is beautiful.

Sasha has no idea what to do with this information. She’s dumbfounded, still processing her thoughts, that she temporarily forgets that the two women are in the middle of a fight.

Magda’s smirk and cunning tone snap Sasha out of her spell. “You’re right. Fights aren’t supposed to be fair. That’s why you have to cheat.” On the word cheat, Magda lunges to attack again. Sasha automatically moves to block it, and just like that, the two are back to dancing around each other.

What Magda lacks in athletics, she more than makes up for in acrobatics. It is vice versa for Sasha. They are playing to each other’s strengths. Magda is quick, but Sasha is steady. Where the rouge tries to lightning strike and catch Sasha off guard in order to land a hit; the fighter paces herself, and blocks out the storm of strikes and blows, waiting for her chance. Sasha is still reeling from her revelation, so she relies on the fact that Magda will tire herself out eventually. Magda had called it cheating, but Sasha calls it playing to your advantage. Why fight your opponent when your opponent is fighting themselves for you? Their recent dungeon crawl might express otherwise, but Sasha is very patient when she wants to be.

In the end, no one lands a hit. Their watch, if they can even call it that, is over before they realize it. Both women are tired, and sleep is a siren call neither can ignore. Sasha and Magda declare their little fight a draw and go to wake their replacements for the next shift.

Sasha is grateful for the distance, ready to return to their cart to sleep…when she sees three little goblins taking up its space.

Sasha curses softly, still mindful of their new companion’s slumber. Of course. Why not this, too, on top of her perception of her friend being rocked? Sasha grabs the deer blanket that Fang made her and goes to the tent Korel and Magda share.

“Here,” she mutters, throwing the heavy thing on top of Magda. “A peace offering. Go back to bed.”

“We were fighting?” Magda’s sleeping mumbles, and Sasha wants to be a smartass, wants to say, “yes, we were, with sticks. Now go back to bed.” But she doesn’t. As frustrated as Sasha is with herself, as mad as she is at finding Magda’s sleepy voice adorable, Sasha pauses. This is her problem. She is not some silly teenager, not knowing how to express her feelings. Sasha is—was—a soldier. She can keep her emotions in check enough to be professional with a colleague. Because that’s what Magda is. A colleague. Who saved her life. And has the prettiest hair Sasha has even seen.

“No, I—” Sasha hesitates, trying to find the right words, before continuing. “My sleeping place has been taken over by our new friends. I came into your tent without asking. The blanket is a peace offering for it. I don’t want to sleep on the floor tonight.” She should add in, “please let me spend the night here,” but she’s so stupid with soft emotions right now, Sasha doesn’t trust herself to speak to them.

Magda is either too tired to see the conflict on Sasha’s face, or is already half-asleep enough that she doesn’t actually care where Sasha sleeps. Either way, Magda mumbles something that sounds like, “okay,” and goes back to sleep. Sasha has never been more grateful for her friend’s ability to fall asleep in an instant.

Sasha lies next to her, careful not to touch her. Her thoughts swirl violently, reason clashing with emotions is the storm of her heart. This is survivor’s guilt, she thinks. Hero worship. She saved your life, for Maker’s sake. Of course you think highly of her. You owe her a life debt. Of course, you care for her, it’s only natural. This will fade with time.

But it’s been months since Pada, Reason argued. We traveled together for at least a month before we met up with her friends. Surely, I would have noticed her that way during that time, right?

Her heart spoke softly, you have been traumatized. You have buried all of your friends. You have not had the time to process all of this. Of course, when you’re finally in a safe place, all of these emotions would reveal themselves.

Sasha sneers at herself. Of course, this happens on top of everything else. Why not? At the very least, she knows she will not fall in love with Magda. It took so long for her to heal and move past Maya. She is not capable of doing that again. Sasha was barely coming to terms with having the smallest of crushes on her medic, Ioh—

Ioh, who is buried six feet under the ground, along with the other one hundred and forty-four soldiers who lost their lives in Pada. The brave men and women who gave their lives following Sasha’s orders. Sasha, who is supposed to be buried with them. An empty grave marks where Sasha had “buried” herself. All that she had left her people was her Captain’s helmet, sword, and name tags. All she could give them was her name.

Sasha wonders where their souls are now. If they are resting in that elusive place called, peace, that they have been fighting for this whole time.

She takes a deep breath. Then two, then three, steadying herself. Sasha does not know what to do with these newfound emotions for Magda, but she decides they do not change anything. Magda still saved Sasha’s life, and Sasha still owes Magda her life in return. Whatever is Sasha’s is now Magda’s. Whatever Magda needs, Sasha will give. It’s as simple as that. Magda, whether she knows it or not, has a loyal knight at her beck and call. It will stay that way until Sasha can repay her debt.

Sasha can keep her emotions in check, in the meantime.

Maya is not Ioh. Ioh is not Maya.

And Magda is like no one Sasha has ever known before.

[ridgeclan]

Snippets: Before and Now

Characters: Freezeclaw, Lightpaw(fur)

Word Count: 509

Freezeclaw reflects on the differences between his warrior past and his current medicine cat role.

     “Oi, keep up!” Freezeclaw snapped. The fur on his neck prickled with annoyance as Lightpaw stopped to sniff yet another useless flower. She’d only been his apprentice for a few sunrises and already was getting under his pelt with her incessant curiosity.

      Lightpaw pulled her nose from the dew-speckled petals of a wildflower and hurriedly padded over to him with her tail held high. He was about to remind her to keep her tail down or else possibly be spotted by an intruding enemy warrior, but he remembered with a pang that he was a medicine cat now. Any warrior that encountered him knew to keep their claws sheathed or face StarClan’s wrath for hurting one of their chosen. His whiskers twitched in amusement at the thought; before, warriors wanted nothing more than to test their mettle against him and learn the hard way why he earned the suffix -claw. He would to go to gatherings and revel in the new scars littering his enemy’s pelts carved by his claws. Now, his claws and teeth were only used with the most delicate touch to remove fragile stems and leaves. StarClan how he’d fallen…

       Lightpaw looked up at him with her wide eyes. He could practically see the question on her tongue. Her muzzle twitched like there was a live mouse in there, and she had to keep it closed or risk it escaping.

        He raised an eyebrow in tacit permission for her to ask. If she didn’t do it now, he reasoned, she would just get more distracted by it later. 

       “What was so funny?” She blurted. At his confused expression, she continues awkwardly, “You looked like you were gonna laugh. I wanted to know why.”

       StarClan save me from curious apprentices, he thought but couldn’t ignore the affection that bloomed in his chest. 

      “If you must know,” He drawled, “I was thinking about how at this rate we’ll never see the Moonhollow.”

      Her ears perked in interest. “Wait, that’s where we’re going? Oh please can we go!” She begged, her paws picking up dust in her excitement.

      He chortled. “If you want to go, you’ve got to start walking.”

      She bounded ahead, white tail high as an aspen tree, no care in the world where she put her paws in her haste. He padded after her, calling for her to slow down. It wasn’t long before she slipped on a loose stone, and he couldn’t hold back his laughter this time. She pouted but picked herself off the ground. 

      She was reckless, air-headed, and a bit awkward, but she was also earnest, eager-to-learn, and determined. He nudged her with his tail. “Gonna let a little tumble slow you down?” He asked cheekily.

      “No!” She mewed stubbornly. Still streaked with dirt, she took off in a sprint.

      “Watch out StarClan. You’ve no idea who you’ve picked.” He said under his breath before running after her. “Don’t fall again!”

       “I won’t!” She called back before immediately tripping once again. 

       Apprentices… He thought with an amused purr running to her side.