#salt & ashes au

[ashuribbon]

Gold Salt Cookie Once there was a mountain of pink salt. The mountain rose tall above the surrounding plains, until the night of the Black Storm. Downpour of unwitnessed strength kept falling and falling, and the water eventually covered the mountain to the very summit. That night, only Salt- No… GOLD Salt Cookie- managed to survive on a tiny boat. And once he awoke, fate would be that of turning tables, which leads to who he is now. Anywhere he goes, he is sure to cause chaos where you'd least expect it. He enjoys hunting any dangerous creature he sees, even if it means nearly turning to crumbs. Even then, he still wants to get his hands on not just vicious creatures like the Jelly Kingfish, but also his hands on the most valuable… But what could that most valuable thing be?

[windupaymeric]

new emote is cute

[latuarts]

s&a azula missing hours

[ultranos]

What inspired you to create Yuka in Salt and Ashes? Is she/will she be a foil of Katara's arc concerning her opinion and feelings towards the Fire Nation?

So this answer is a slight bit complicated.

To put it bluntly: because I was tired of arguments that said that if AtLA wasn't a kids' show, we'd see atrocities Azula committed, instead of being honest with ourselves and talking about the real kinds of atrocities war brings. Yuka represents the reality of atrocities such as the Comfort Women of WWII and the War Children born to that generation, as well as the atrocities committed against Indigenous Americans by both the US and Canada such as Eskimo Numbers and Residential Schools. Yuka is a child born of violence, born with half a mother tongue and separated from half her culture, and yes, the ugly reality that war and imperialism have left us a messy world where things are not black and white.

And yes, if/when she meets with both Katara and Sokka, her existence will challenge their opinions and assumptions on the Fire Nation as a monolith. But also, Yuka's existence is meant to question what Katara's role as "Last Southern Waterbender" really means, since by blood, she is also SWT, and why Katara relying on learning from Pakku never quite worked in canon.

[burning-thistles-bt]

ThunderClan Age List (Ch. 160) For Fun

idk it just tingles my little funky monkey brain

ThunderClan (oldest to youngest)

Smallear - ~96 moons

Halftail - ~82 moons*

Dappletail, Speckletail, One-eye - ~78 moons

Goldenflower - ~62 moons

Whitestorm - ~53 moons

Frostfur - 48 moons

Spottedleaf, Willowpelt - 47 moons

Runningwind, Mousefur - 39 moons

Darkstripe - 36 moons

Firestar, Creekflower - 35 moons

Sandstorm - 33 moons

Longtail, Cherryfur - 31 moons

Dustpelt - ~26 moons

Graystripe, Feathercloud - ~24 moons

Missingheart - ~19 moons

Cinderpelt, Brackenfur, Thornclaw, Brightheart - ~16 moons

Cliffwhisker - ~13 moons

Cloudtail, Ashpaw, Fernpaw, Tulippaw, Elderpaw - ~12 moons

Mistlepaw, Snowpaw - ~9 moons

Bramblepaw - ~8 moons

Sorrelkit, Rainkit, Sootkit - ~4 moons

Redkit, Sweetkit, Spotkit - >1 moon

*Halftail (Sparrowpelt) is the only one without any possible birth speculation. He could, theoretically, be older than Smallear or younger than the she-cat elders.

[not-poignant]

Hi Pia im thinking will you ever write more of your story salt water in the future? I really enjoy it and it would be nice I think to see Ash and augus get revenge and go to the human world.

Also sorry my englisj is no good its not my first language. Much love

Hi anon!

It's usually safe to say that if I wrote a story nearly 10 years ago, and it's marked as complete, I have no intention of going back to it.

I won't be writing any more of Salt Water, I'm sorry! You're welcome to imagine what happens next (or write it down in any language that works for you) though! :D

(Also your english is great! <3)

[tastesoftamriel]

Talviel's Tamrielic Anniversary Banquet

In lieu of an updated jubilee cake for the 30 year TES/10 year ESO anniversary, here's a banquet menu fit for the nobility of Tamriel! Dig in!

Summerset

Soft Indrik cheese and caramelised onion and pear chutney vol-au-vents, with sundried tomatoes

Auridon Blue Monkfish, poached in Russafeld Heights chardonnay

Shimmerene cherry blossom snowskin mooncake, with an apricot mousse and lemon crème filling

Black Marsh

Crocodile dumplings, with a spicy peanut and sweet saltrice dipping sauce

Stormhold jerk kagouti haunch, with guar fat vegetable fried rice

"Kueh cendol" chewy tapioca rice cakes, with dark palm sugar and coconut milk and jelly layers. A Black Marsh specialty!

Valenwood

Wild venison Greenshade carpaccio, with whipped bacon-honey butter

Stone-baked timber mammoth tail, slow roasted for 48 hours with a honey and mammoth butter glaze

Frozen honeyed "bingsoo" yoghurt, with sweetgnats, candied bacon, and deep fried lard bits, drizzled with sweet condensed milk

High Rock

Alcaire smoked pea soup, with bacon lardons and fresh garden herbs

Flambéed foie gras à la Shornhelm, with a blood orange and goose fat reduction

Gorapple tarte tatin, with golden butterscotch sauce and Bantha vanilla bean ice cream

Morrowind

Smoked kwama egg yolk carbonara, with scrib bacon

Spicy Ashlander-style shalk and ash yam stew, served in a shalk carapace

"Baked Vvardenfell" guar milk ice cream and kwama meringue cake, flavoured with comberries and gold kanet flowers

Elsweyr

Old Anequina jerboa and "lap cheong" sausage pie, with a saffron rice and an ale-and-moon sugar gravy

Terror bird egg "foo yong hai" omelette, with an array of Pellitine seafood and a bhut jolokia moon sugar caramel dipping sauce

Frozen samar pekoe tea custard, with hot moon sugar fudge

Cyrodiil

Bruma barley soup, with homemade herbed sourdough foccacia

Barbecued Blackwood cavy, basted with a rich Surilie Brothers port and habanero barbecue sauce

Abecean sea salt, dark chocolate, and Cyrodiilic olive oil ice cream, with wild strawberry coulis

Skyrim

Markarth goat cheese and pine nut crème tartlets, with smoked juniper salt

Lake Honrich salmon steak, hot smoked over maple wood with Goldenglow honey, served with dill remoulade

Snowberry panna cotta, with spiced Whiterun apple-akevitt compote

Wrothgar

Echatere Gruyère and rosemary mini soufflés, with smoked Vorkhiposh roe

Echalette steak, served medium-rare, in a ginger wine jus

Kurog's wild berry chocolate gateaux, with whipped echatere cream and drenched in wrathberry brandy

Hammerfell

Port Hunding roasted red pepper and harissa hummus, with spiced lentil flatbreads

Spicy Alik'r giant snake tikka, with mint yoghurt dipping sauce and pickles

Coconut and medjool date kulfi, with a slice of rosewater and pistachio baklava

[smalllady]

Places in Mass Effect 2 - Tuchanka Scarred by bombardment craters, radioactive rubble, choking ash, salt flats, and alkaline seas, Tuchanka can barely support life. Thousands of years ago, life grew in fierce abundance under the F-class star Aralakh (a Raik clan word meaning "Eye of Wrath"). Tree-analogues grew in thick jungles, their roots growing out of shallow, silty seas. Life fed upon life in an evolutionary crucible. This world died in nuclear firestorms after the krogan split the atom. A "little ice age" of nuclear winter killed off much of the remaining plant life. In recent centuries, many krogan have returned to their homeworld. The reduced albedo has caused global temperatures to rise. In order to maintain liveable temperatures, a vast shroud was assembled at the L1 Lagrange point. It is maintained by the Council Demilitarization Enforcement Mission (CDEM), which is based on orbiting battlestations. CDEM ADVISORY: Visitors to Tuchanka land at their own risk. The CDEM will not attempt to extract citizens threatened by clan warfare. TRAVEL ADVISORY: The ecology of Tuchanka is deadly. Nearly every native species engages in some predatory behavior; even the remaining vegetation is carnivorous. Travel beyond guarded areas is strongly discouraged. Population: 2.1 billion Capital: Urdnot (since 2183) CDEM Garrison: 2,400 (in orbital battlestations) Orbital Distance: 5.3 AU Orbital Period: 16.7 Earth Years Radius: 8293 km Day Length: 21.4 Earth Hours Atmospheric Pressure: 1.1 Earth Atmospheres Surface Temperature: 72 Celsius (36 in shrouded areas) Surface Gravity: 1.14 G

[vampire-exgirlfriend]

All of my work is rated M or E (18+ only. If you’re under 18 this isn’t the space for you) and is ofc or xfemreader unless otherwise noted. Mind the tags. No use of y/n. You can also find me on ao3. My Misc. Masterlist is here and Star Wars Masterlist is here.

I do not give permission for any of my work to be translated, reposted, or plugged into AI.

Aemond Targaryen

they say I killed you (haunt me then) - Aemond x ofc Wylla Karstark | completed | Wylla Karstark is content with her life in the far reaches of the North, happy even. She has everything she ever thought she needed. Until Aemond Targaryen tumbles from the sky, abandoned by his dragon and left at her mercy.

Paper Crowns - mafia au | Aemond x ofc Viserra Velaryon | Completed | Viserra Velaryon has never buckled under the weight of her legacy, of all that she stands to inherit. The oldest daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, she has always understood her place in the world, in her family. But when her grandfather passes, leaving behind an incomplete will and a bloodthirsty widow intent on securing her children's inheritance, she finds herself in the middle of a war that she isn't sure how to fight. Her enemy? The boy she once loved, the man she's learned to hate.

Iron and Ash - When he looked at you it was as if he had peeled the dress from your body, the skin from your bones; you had never felt more bare than when the prince gazed from across whatever room you were in, his eye fixed on you and you alone.

You've Got My Body (Flesh and Bone) - Her violet eyes crashed against his like waves against a rocky shore and the mismatched jewel tones of his gaze had her feeling dizzy; she could just make out her reflection in the facets of the sapphire he wore in place of his right eye. Without thinking, she raised her other hand, tracing the line of his scar even though she knew he couldn't feel it beneath the knot of roughly healed tissue.

Shimmer - He was hot to the touch, as if he burned with fever, and you supposed in a way, he did. He burned for you, he burned in the way that only a dragon could, with the same fire that you felt heat your own

Daemon Targaryen

Meet Me In the After - Daemon Targaryen x oc Sabitha Blackwood | upcoming | The realm holds its breath as Queen Aemma approaches the end of her pregnancy. The king proclaims loudly to any that will listen that she will finally give him a living son, an heir, and all around him rejoice. But Aemma knows, after two stillbirths, three miscarriages, and a son lost in the cradle, that Viserys will not get his wish. Dreams plague the queen, dreams of fire and blood and a dead boy in a cursed crown. Sent to court to attend Queen Aemma two years prior, Lady Sabitha Blackwood is privy to all the queen's fears, to the anxieties that plague her daughter, Princess Rhaenyra, and the pressures of court that eat at her dear friend, Lady Alicent Hightower. Stuck in a loveless marriage with a husband who grows crueler with each month that passes without an heir of his own, Sabitha finds herself preening under the attentions of the king's brother, Prince Daemon Targaryen. As the two fall deeper into a torrid and dangerous affair, the worst comes to pass.

The queen is dead, the king's heir with her, and all eyes fall on the young women closest to her. Will Rhaenyra truly be named heir? Why do the king's eyes follow Lady Alicent? And what does Sabitha know that puts her in the gravest of danger?

When It Comes To You (My World Is Deep Red) - “Is that what you seek? A great love story?” she asked with a raised brow, dismissive of the notion that Daemon Targaryen would be swayed by something so simple as that.

Salt in the Wound | completed | There was a reason they said the Targaryens were closer to gods than men; it wasn’t just their dragons that held them separate, that held them above. No, it was the way that once every handful of generations, one came along that held the ability to tear the world apart with their bare hands, to rend it with their teeth, to melt it down and attempt to recreate it in their own image.

evening star | Daemon Targaryen x Alicent Hightower x Rhaenyra Targaryen | A queen, locked high in her tower, a rose in a glass case.A knight in the form of a sharp tongued, silver-haired princess.A violet-eyed villain who speaks like a lover. Alicent has hardened herself against the promise of a gentle touch. Daemon has learned to taste love in the blood he licks from his blades. And Rhaenyra, lost in the fog of her father’s neglect, finds that she is the tie that binds. What does it mean for the realm when the Queen in Chains, the Realms Delight, and the Rogue Prince come together to create a light in the dark?

Jacaerys Velaryon & Helaena Targaryen

For the Love of a Princess - “Your fascination with me will be your death,” she said, arching up toward him, his shaky exhale ghosting over her face. She had no idea why she said it, though surely her mother would call for his head if they were caught, a replacement for the eye her desperate bid for justice could not procure.

The Conquerors (Visenya, Rhaenys, and Aegon I Targaryen)

Afterlife - She was not the wife he had wanted. He was not the husband she had wanted. All that connected them was lost now. “It should have been me.” The words came out in a whisper and Visenya wept.

Aegon II Tagaryen

Lips Like Lightning (Skin So Sweet) - This moment was just a miniscule light in the dark. But any light was better than none. Tomorrow she would leave, heading home to Volantis to start the new year back in her real life. And Aegon Targaryen, whoever he was, would go back to the people in the pictures.

heaven is not meant to house a love (like you and I) - Aegon Targaryen and his wonderful, fantastic, very good day. A they say I killed you (haunt me then) outtake, set one year before the main story. A birthday gift for @emilykaldwen

[chantsdemarins]

🏰Breath of the Æsir {Loki X Fem.Reader} Chapter 3: Stories Cannot Burn or Disappear

I am so sorry these chapters are taking me so long. I haven't been the same since Covid! I hope the quality is still good...Thank you for joining my crazy medieval AU Loki fever dream era.

There is a bit of Easter and eclipse magic wound up in this chapter!

Summary: Loki isn't the only one who thinks you are more than a human woman, which buys you time while you figure out how to keep your manor and tenants safe. However, the challenge of nursing a debilitated, power-stripped god adds a layer of complexity to your already daunting task, clouding your judgment when clarity is most needed.

Note to Reader: Yes, Hozier is now a character, your eyes aren't playing tricks on you 😭 But which character will he be? Guess and comment!

Passion and Romance Meter: Nothing explicit yet but hopefully you feel it boiling.

I hope these people don't mind being tagged! I thought you might want to be tagged! Please let me know if you don't want the tag or if you want to be tagged. Also comments and reblogs are healing and joyous for me!

@arcielee @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @thomase1 @mcufan72 @caffiend-queen @fictive-sl0th @muddyorbsblr @anukulee @mischief2sarawr @mochie85 @sailorholly @lokisgoodgirl @shambelle97 @lokischambermaid @eleniblue @smolvenger @wheredafandomat @hiroyukinasukawa @meowmeow-motherfucker @latent-thoughts @buttercupcookies-blog @lcolumbia1988 @soulpiercing @wolfsmom1 @mysticmarvelfan

@holdmytesseract @superficialdomina @scrumptious-finicky-illusion @mjsthrillernp @arcielee @poetic-fiasco @gruftiela @thegodofnotknowing @thedistractedagglomeration @tallseaweed

@dangertoozmanykids101 @jennyggggrrr

The clay soil in your husband’s land hadn’t fully absorbed the blood of the Christian god. Not yet at least. The claustrophobic land was hemmed by bogs and marshes, lowlands with the familiar wooden gods made from branches poking out of the muddy banks. The tides to the east would fill the saturated earth till she could take no more before becoming a lake. This system of pooling respiration created a natural barrier for the people. The stillness of the water meant you didn’t stop for long, just enough time to plant your wooden god or light a beeswax candle, burn some leaves as an offering, and then find fast footing across the rickety log bridges built by people no one could remember.

In spring, a carpet of blue wood betony would appear. The town's folk's talk led you to forage it, keeping the blossoms and stems in dark Roman glass, tucked on the kitchen shelf next to the salt. Your husband never noticed your collection, or if he did, he never mentioned it as anything particular or strange. It was a relief to find plants that grew elsewhere, unlike the state of the manor land — high on a hill, flanked by rocky, sandy soil. Collecting plants often made you wonder if Christ might rise from the bogs. You'd just have to wait and see, you supposed, imagining Christ emerging naked from the thick peaty waters, stray herbs clinging to his torso.

Perhaps when Loki showed up, bleeding from his stomach, you'd envisioned something like that before. That desert man had a different name, Jesus of Nazareth. You blushed at the thought of any man, holy or common.

Yet, you didn't blush much while sewing Loki back up. Stitches plunged down his torso into places you'd only seen hinted at on the marble body of Jupiter in Eboracum. Your confident needlework proved itself. If your cheeks reddened, it wasn't from embarrassment but from lack of oxygen, struggling to breathe. Saving a life required haste, much different from the crafts of passing time.

The day the Northmen came you had been already struggling to breathe, you’d lost your air completely and found Loki’s form in front of you when your eyes finally opened again. His hair like ash from the hearth, his eyes the most peculiar color of blue, much like the betony in your waiting Roman jars. Just where had you gone when you’d lost your air? Loki had refused to confront the Danes, refused to fight them. He had handed you back his weapon, leaving you to confront the invaders yourself.

After all, you became a manor wife because your origins had burned in your village's fire, but not in the stories that followed. Stories cannot burn or disappear, especially when people fleeing tell them to the right people in the countryside. Your husband's family had heard your father's tales and believed him. Your hand in marriage was worth more than any dowry. It was all the more disappointing when you couldn't produce an heir or embroidery, and the manor lands remained sandy, rocky, and haunted. You hadn't known a husband should stay close or lie with his wife until Elinor finally told you. Your confidence to heal a stranger, to meet the Northmen at their boat, came from your father. He told you who you were, and like the manor people, you believed him — even if you didn't understand what you were.

The sky had darkened as you came to the mahogany longship anchored next to the wind-ravaged cliffs. You knew to avert your eyes from the mast, the Northern dragon guardian was designed to kill folk such as you. A provocation to your ancestors. There was confusion at their camp, what seemed like hundreds of men were pointing above and shaking their heads. A seer had cast the runes, and the chieftain seemed to not like what the seer had spoken. The rugged man looked up at the sky once more and sent what looked like an envoy to you. He blamed the Norns and you in yet another language you didn’t understand. He could not kill you because it would only curse them more.

Stunned, your trembling hands clutched Loki's blade in disbelief. You ran beneath the still darkening sky, which seemed poised for rain, though no clouds were visible. Looking up, you saw something unimaginable. A planet had fully eclipsed the sun. Your people knew of these events, but you had not witnessed one yourself. As you ran you wondered if the land's spirits had cast a powerful enough curse to scare the Northmen.

Returning home, you found only Loki in the makeshift courtyard, fever-ridden, slumped over the fence. Your heart sank, fearing he was actually dead this time. But the breath of the Æsir still moved through him, you could see his chest moving as you approached.

The village was silent, its people hiding. The only sound was the wind stirring the grain fields and the oak leaves in a dry, papery rhythm. Loki beckoned you inside but he was barely able to move to the porch, he was already worried you’d absorbed too much of the darkness. You fell into his arms, wincing from the feel of his fevered skin through your shift. Significantly taller, Loki's limbs resembled a freshly felled hawthorn. You dragged him closer to the front door, you both were exhausted in the strange day of night.

Your efforts paused for a moment, you readjusted your grip on the stranger. "Saturn is passing over the sun, an eclipse," Loki murmured, breaths faint and labored. How did he know this? Such knowledge was native only to your people. Still reeling from scaring off the Danes, you now faced an eclipse. Loki speculated on the Northmen's possible interpretation of the event. Since much of their knowledge came from his world, he felt he knew exactly what they must have felt seeing the sky darken as you approached.

"They saw the eclipse as a sign of your power. They recognize planetary transits. As you approached them, Saturn crossed the sun's path, a coincidence perhaps in your favor," Loki continued. "But they'll return, and we need to be ready," he cautioned, aware of your mutual defenselessness. He felt responsible for the deaths across these isles, seeking balance, an unfamiliar concept.

You had wanted him to stay long enough to know who he was but now it appeared like he wasn't well enough to be able to leave, even if that is what you both wanted. The truth was, part of you didn't want him to go at all. There was something about him. He knew some of the old ways and where ever he had come from, you suspected again, he had once held a high status.

Loki also continued to contemplate your shared fates. Did the Norns truly allow for this meeting between you as part of the path of the raven’s wingspan, his destiny as a god with no power. He dared to speak to you some of his true thoughts. He felt he owed you some kind of explanation for his resistance to fighting on your behalf.

“Lady, I wish I could help you but as you see I am unwell from my wounds. When I heal, I would like to help you defend your home as part of my thanks, I will find a way to do that does not involve fighting. We have the cosmos on our side it seems, so perhaps there is more luck for our coming together. This is of course if you will continue to have me.”

His pale face seemed even more ghastly, and he laid his body on the porch in a heap, looking very similar to how you first found him. You felt a tenderness stir. You’d felt it for him when you were saving him but now it was tinged with worry for both of your lives and everyone who depended on you.

“Loki I don't want to heal you twice, but it seems this is my fate. Let’s see what you have within you still and if your Gods are listening. I expect you will tell me why you refuse to fight or why you cannot. You owe me the truth. There is much you are not saying.”

He knew he would not be able to hide himself from you as you seemed unable to hide yourself from him. The circumstances unfolding seemed like the actions of reverse spells, instead of concealing they were revealing who you both were. This was vexing to you both.

Despite his sincere words to you, Loki was not sure this troubled land was his final destination. He wondered if he should try and leave as soon as he was able. He was speaking with two tongues. Perhaps he should venture south, go to the Midgard places where panther Gods and pyramids covered in gold existed. Those people were said to do the bidding of the gods with even more ferocity than the Northmen.

Instead, he was sick with fever and stuck with a mysterious, beautiful, and angry woman, whose husband could return at any moment and kill him for what it looked like was happening, even in the middle of a possible invasion. Suddenly his reverie broke as you lifted his shirt to inspect his wound. Your worry for his fever could wait no longer.

"Lady," he said as he batted your hand away.

You protested back, “I have seen you already, why would you be shy now stranger? I need to check your wound, you are feverish,” you continued to pull up his shirt. His gash had indeed become weeping and likely the source of his fever. Whether you liked it or not, you were healing him once again it seemed.

“Wood betony, that is what you need, you are lucky I have some. I’ll see to it Elinor makes you a poultice, and then I am putting you in one of the downstairs bedrooms.” Your eyes were worried even if your words were not. Loki placed his weakened hand on your shoulder, and spoke solemnly, “You know, we need to find your husband.”

You turned your face from him, you didn’t want Loki to notice even the smallest bit of feeling.

“Of course, that is a good idea, this is his manor and his people after all,” you replied. “We can leave when the fever breaks and you can walk without me carrying half your weight,” there was the slightest tinge of playfulness in your words to your surprise. You hoped he did not notice.

As the day was moving into evening, the villagers whispered their suspicions about the stranger you aided. The darkened sky had unsettled them as much as the Northmen. Loki was right, without your husband the manor would devolve into chaos and this would leave the village even more vulnerable.

You watched Loki slowly drag his body to the downstairs bedroom and close the thick doors behind him before you had the chance to redirect him or wish him a good night. You thought better to tell him that he had gone into your husband’s bedroom not the servant’s quarters you had intended for him to rest.

You felt your stomach twist in knots. If your husband came home tonight the wrong impression you worried you would make, would surely be inevitable. You would have to go and move Loki once you were done with your chores. A prospect that left you even more anxious.

Finally, when everyone had gone to sleep and Elinor had gone to her quarters, you stood alone in the empty house contemplating what you should do next. Sleep seemed an impossibility. The eclipse had only been five minutes, but it disturbed the entire day. Now it was nearly midnight and it felt like morning. All time had shifted somehow. Loki sleeping in your husband's bedroom loomed in your head.

To quiet your thoughts you found yourself in the kitchen, sometimes cooking felt relaxing even if you were not good at it. Instead tonight you eyed the row of bottles on your shelf. There was something else calling to you. You grabbed a jar of mistletoe berries, and held them in your hands. Their color was startling.

Suddenly you busying yourself muddling them with the mortar and pestle. If there was a recipe to follow you did not know it, you pulled a few more bottles off the shelf and added the ingredients. Mullein leaves and blackberry.

Pausing for a moment you felt that Loki’s knife was still around your body, you had placed it in a leather holder diagonally across your chest, and forgotten it was there. The knife passed over your breasts and you couldn’t help but touch the length of it.

You hadn't the time to have paid much attention to it before. You noticed the unusual, rich craftsmanship. The inlay was extraordinary. Garnets and chrysoprase. You then gently pulled it out of the holder and carefully pricked your finger with the impossibly sharp tip. This action surprised you.

You inhaled deeply. Crimson blood rolled down your finger and into the stone mixing bowl. You placed your still bleeding fingertip into your mouth hoping to quickly stem the bleeding, but the knife had been too sharp, or you cut yourself too deep.

Quickly, you sucked the wound, blood filling your mouth. You spat the excess into the bowl and placed it on the windowsill, intuitively sensing it needed the moonlight. Just then you heard a deep voice behind you. You were frozen in place, unable to turn around. It was Loki.

"I had no idea you were a seer, you could have told me that sooner and it would have cleared things up," his words rich with sleep and something else.

When you finally turned around you saw he was only wearing his leather trousers and the poultice. Your heart produced a wild, unfamiliar beat, and you steadied yourself against the kitchen table. You weren't a seer, but you could not explain what you were just doing or what you were now feeling.

Before you could stop him, Loki took your mixture from the sill and drank it. "My gods what have you done?" the startled words fell out of your mouth as he placed the now empty bowl back into your hands.

[shibaraki]

KINGDOM OF ASHES ┊TODOROKI TOUYA

synopsis: when you are suddenly uprooted from your life to enter an arranged marriage with Prince Touya you are unprepared for how greatly he defies your expectations, nor for how quickly you fall for him.

tags: FEM reader (referred to as ‘wife’ ‘daughter’ and 'lady’), royalty au; prince todoroki touya, arranged marriage, no quirks, historical setting, perceived unrequited love, fictional contraceptives, horseback riding, fluff, angst, protected vaginal sex, vaginal oral sex (reader receiving), dubcon, strangers to lovers, loss of virginity, hurt/comfort, canonical child abuse, bathing together, outdoor sex, talk of not having children/preventing pregnancy

wc: 12k

The evening before your wedding is quite fitting. Dark clouds have blanketed the skyline and large drops of rain cascade lazily down the windows, accompanied by a cold draft that intrudes the confines of your quarters, wailing like a lost child. Arriving earlier in the year than anyone expected, the Todoroki kingdom was known for its unbearable summers, but what followed was always a season of rainfall that felt unending.

Prophetic, maybe.

In the morning that follows, you would be wed to Prince Touya Todoroki, the firstborn son of King Enji. Your union had been entirely arranged with between negligent fathers, a Lord with land that held valuable ore, and the King in need of a bride for his son.

Your knowledge of the prince was limited, but that was the same for both nobles and commoners. Prince Touya was something of a ghost to the peoples, a determined boy known for his frail body; he'd been born too early and suffered for it. For years it had been rumoured that King Enji had ordered him killed, his weakness a dark stain on the family name. Touya had not been seen publicly since he was 11 years of age.

Upon your arrival to the palace, you had been covered in a white shawl and quickly led by a servant to the large bedroom you currently reside in. They relayed strict orders for you to stay put until the morning, insisting that you were not to wander the grounds nor come into contact with anyone but the handmaidens assigned to you.

Where you could not see much, imprinted into your memory are the hallways leading to your bedroom, imposing and dull. Walls that tower drastically above your head, littered with tapestries and family portraits featuring only the youngest children. You’d scanned every single one, and none of them included the eldest son, your dearly betrothed, and each of the siblings had worn a permanently detached expression.

As your escort had been making the bed, you’d asked about the absence of your soon-to-be husband and pity had flitted across her face before being carefully masked. The blatant caution surrounding him had not comforted you in the slightest.

The wind picks up and your hair stands on end at the sharp drop in temperature, arms crossed over your chest in an attempt to keep the warm kindling. Sparing a glance at the clock sitting on the bedside table, you realise that the night has drawn closer while you were lost in thought. If you wanted to be at your best for tomorrow's events you would have to retire to bed.

So you rest fitfully, the bed is nothing like your own and you’re scared, but the morning comes sooner than you expect. The assigned handmaidens bustle into the room before you have even rubbed the sleep from your eyes, rushing into your bathroom and beginning to fill the tub. With a heavy heart you slip the straps of your nightgown over your shoulders, the material pooling at your feet, and allow them to guide you into the water.

The maidens manoeuvre you as if you were a doll, lifting your arms and washing you with a cloth, pouring various divine smelling salts into the bath with you. Despite the lack of autonomy, you’re grateful that they’re here. You aren’t sure you could bring yourself to do it in their absence. Practiced hands scrub at your skin until you are a clean slate, a blank canvas for the prince to paint as he pleases. No crevice of your body is left untouched, not even the underneath of your nails, which are scraped free of any dirt. With morbid curiosity, you cannot help but watch as the water retreats down the drain — the ashes of your identity along with it.

When you return to the bedroom you find your dress hung from the large wardrobe door, silhouette haunted and draping across the flooring where the train flares. The fabric is notably heavy and expensive, white in colour to signify your proposed innocence, silky under your fingers. Beside it hangs a thick veil that appears to go on for miles. You would have to wear it for the entirety of the ceremony, forbidden from removing it until you are alone with the prince.

“You will look beautiful, I’m sure,” the oldest maiden present reassures you as she pulls down the gown with great care, her fingers crooked and wrinkled from decades of work. You wish you could have known their names, but after today you would likely never meet again.

“Not that anyone will truly see me,” you murmur, stepping into the dress stiffly, your movements mimicking that of a soulless puppet.

“Your husband will see,” she insists firmly, tugging the straps over your arms in two gentle motions. You'd been informed that there was no need for undergarments — the dress needed to be easy to remove. It was elegant, albeit simple, but not at all what you imagined you’d be wearing on the day of your wedding.

“Are you able to tell me about him?”

The elder handmaid's motions noticeably pause for a short moment before she gestures toward the vanity chair. Once seated you are given the chance to see your reflection, barely recognisable, and patently flawless.

“He doesn’t talk much with the staff, so I can’t be of much use to you. But I can reassure you that he is kind in his own way, my lady. I don’t think he will mistreat you”.

You meet her narrow eyes in the reflection of the mirror and they are nothing but sincere. At the very least, she believes what she is saying, and you take great comfort in it. Brick by brick you attempt to rebuild your mental fortitude, stilling the shake in your breath. Resolved, you nod, and her shoulders visibly relax with the relief.

The veil is lowered over your face.

All that is known to you in your journey to the ceremony are the floorboards beneath your feet, dark in colour and unnaturally charred in certain areas. You do well to ignore the implications, and quell your anxiety by counting each knot, tethered by the grip of a maternal hand. It squeezes in succession, tighter with every step, coaxing your thoughts from any fear as you stumble. The only thing to indicate distance is the daunting, heavenly song of a choir as it grows in volume.

You enter another room. Murmurings and whispers tell of it's grandeur — but it is nothing you are permitted to see. Stifling is the pointed weight of their stares against your back, pervasive in a way. Undoubtedly, given the chance, the lords and ladies of the Todoroki Kingdom would peel away the fabrics from your body if only to placate their own short comings. An understandable curiosity.

Why was it you were chosen, not them?

The elder guides you to a large cushion laid at the foot of the alter, plush beneath your knees as you kneel. You are left bereft in her absence. It was entirely possibly that you would not feel a kind touch again.

Not soon after you are seated, the hushed voices echoing throughout the venue are halted all together. There is no solace in the ephemeral silence, soon broken by the thunderous sound of a group of people rushing to their feet.

A body kneels on the cushion beside yours, mirroring your posture. It cannot be anyone but the man you know to be your betrothed.

“…In the presence of His Royal Highness we will begin the ceremony…”

You find difficult in swallowing. A bitter tang on your tongue. Throat swelling with the bloat of your heart, ears filled only by a pitched, white noise, you wonder if your family is in attendance; if they felt any guilt, or perhaps, they were simply glad to reap the fruits of your involuntary sacrifice.

“…Now, if you will join hands…”

Still puppeted by metaphorical strings, you do as instructed. Holding your right hand out with your palm facing upwards, it is all you can do not to flinch as a large scarred hand appears above your own. Prince Touya appears to hesitate, before decidedly intertwining your fingers together. You do not quite fit the spaces between each knuckle — the skin is smooth, blistering. It carries a heat you suspect will never truly dissipate.

In your periphery, the priest leans forward with a long, elegantly embroidered piece of cloth, and rests it over your wrists, swaddling the space where they kiss. He loops it over twice, symbolic of how your lives are now tied together.

You cannot look away from the hand now legally bound to your own. The skin is discoloured, a deep shade of russet that you recognise to be burn scars. Above the static, the priest is still waxing poetry to the guests about love and duty, how one cannot exist without the other, and your jaw aches with the effort to keep it held shut.

Unexpectedly, from the right you hear a hushed muttering of, “Didn’t think I’d be falling asleep at my own wedding”. To your bleeding heart, it feels like something of an olive branch. You can’t help but to laugh quietly, returning the sentiment. Given the way his figure immediately stills, Touya hadn’t intended for anyone to hear. Yet in the same breath, his grip squeezes, and you begin to hope.

The vows are shared — scripted and foreign in your mouth. Promised to him in mind, body and soul. You daren't count all the lies you had told before the Gods. Something dark and ugly settles in your gut as the both of you are each handed a small cup of red ginseng tea, a well known aphrodisiac, in order to encourage the consummation of your union. To you, it felt like confession. We know you do not truly want one another.

You drink it. The ginseng is slightly salty, the taste clinging like powder to the corners of your mouth, but it is otherwise easy to stomach. The applause that reverberates around the room is not. Wincing at the pinch of your now-husbands nails into the back of your hand, you are atleast comforted by his own discontent. It lessened the loneliness.

It was done. You are now the wife of a Prince.

Surprisingly, there is no room for shame to brew within you as Touya takes you to his quarters, delicately guiding you to the large bed and helping you atop it. The veil falls, the weight of it audibly thudding across the linens, and finally you come face to face with the man you are to spend your life with. Stray strands of saturated red hair hanging over narrowed eyes, paired with irises a piercing blue. His features are strong and distinct in the Todoroki family, yet you do not fear him. A soft curve to his cheeks that is almost youthful, no air of cruelty. He’s terribly handsome even when expressionless.

The stretch of silence causes you exceeding discomfort, though, infuriatingly, your husband seems completely unperturbed. Almost expectant. Touya scrutinises your reflexive flinch at the abrupt knock to his door, enacted in a quiet rhythm that must be purposeful. Due to his lack of surprise, this must be an expected visit. Unveiled but not yet bedded, you turn your head so whoever is there will not see your face, given you are still not broken in — it’s still forbidden.

“Did you manage to find some?” you hear Touya's low murmur, a frown settling on your face as he thanks the stranger and returns to his knees in front of you. Before you can question him, a cup is thrusted towards you, and you take it with both hands, gasping at the stinging heat. Rippling in staccato rings, the liquid appears to be wine, a dark rouge colour, aside from the flowered plant floating on the surface.

“This is…?”

“Boiled pennyroyal and wine,” he says, voice entirely flat and void of emotion. It's both explanation and instruction. Dread settles in the pit of your stomach, the evolving tremor in your hands causing the wine to lap messily at the rim of the cup. It was a tea well known for preventing pregnancy.

“You... do not want children?” you ask weakly. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, the sound ricocheting between your ribs.

“No,” he replies sharply, before his tone lowers into something considerably softer, adding, “not right now” in what is a poor attempt at making you feel better. It's difficult to say whether or not you are relieved by the prospect. Bringing the hot lip of the cup to your own, the liquid warms your throat as you swallow it, and the aftertaste lingers awfully bitter.

Touya is slow to undo your gown, gently slipping the fabric over the curve of your shoulder. It is neither sensual or teasing, rather he’s being cautious, as if he expected you to run off like a skittish animal. The skin of his palms are rough with scarring but he handles you with so much care you barely notice, his fingers hooking into the sleeves and exposing your breasts to the tepid air.

You had never concerned yourself much with the appearance of your body until that very moment. Insecurities crawl their way into the forefront of your thoughts and you shrink into yourself, worrying that he might not want you, might not like what he saw.

He exhales shakily and shifts closer to you, your knees now touching. “Stop that,” he mutters. His tone is firm but not scolding, and he takes your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look back at him. Reflecting back at you is nothing short of lust.

“You’re beautiful”.

“You aren’t unhappy with me?” You ask meekly, hearing the quiver in your voice. There is a flash of frustration in his expression, which is quickly painted over with one of amusement. He lifts a hand to undo the buttons of his shirt, tugging the collar roughly to the side to expose the extent of his scars.

The laugh he offers in response is hollow, “I should be asking that of you”.

In an aborted motion, you move to touch him, your hand hovering awkwardly in the space between your bodies. Touya huffs irritably at your hesitance and pulls your arm forward, fingers coming into contact with the marred skin. He’s warm, and his pulse flutters beneath the heel of your palm.

“Could I ask, how did this happen to you?” you ask.

“Not very good at dirty talk, are you?” he laughs again, comforted that this one is bright and genuine. He gently guides you back until you are laid out along the mattress with only your upper half unclothed. Touya looms over you with both arms resting either side of your head, his knees tucked under your legs. Your blood thrums at the realisation that you are now pinned to the mattress, like a butterfly.

“Have you ever fucked anyone?”

Dilated pupils flicker across your face in search of any discomfort or anxiety. You shake your head, too embarrassed to speak. He hums in acknowledgement but seems neither pleased nor disgruntled by the confession. The seed of insecurity in your stomach takes root as you ask, “Have you?”

“Yes,” he says plainly. It doesn’t come as a surprise to you.

“Will you continue to?”

There is an edge to your voice at the thought of him sharing a bed with someone else. You’re aware that some wives allow their husbands to take a mistress -- it is looked down upon, yet especially common in arranged marriages in which there would be no love lost. But even though he was practically a stranger you felt deathly possessive of him. As your husband, he was now yours alone to love.

“Would that bother you?” he smirks, an infuriating air of condescension along with it, “will you tell me to stop seeing other women?”

Jealousy has caused you to overstep. “You’re my Prince and my husband,” you shiver, wishing you could move away and bow your head in apology, “I shouldn’t make demands of you”.

No punishment follows. Instead, the fleeting, tender press of his lips to your temple. “You are my wife,” he murmurs, “if anyone is going to demand things of me, let it be you”.

His given permission sparks like flint to rock in your centre, and you try not to preen. “It would bother me”, you tell him, and the smirk softens. In some way, you think he looks enamoured by your jealousy, by you, as if being wanted wholly was completely new to him.

“Then no,” he relents, “I won’t”.

Relief clouds your senses, and you are startled from your lull of security by the touch of a hand to your breast, his thumb slowly circling your nipple. Instinctively, you arch upward to follow the warmth amidst the chill of the room, skin alight under his touch. You ache to see more of him, weighted by a sense of vulnerability given your own nakedness, but as you reach to unbutton his shirt mottled fingers wrap around your wrist to stop you. A quiet thought whispers that perhaps you weren’t the only one here feeling insecure.

Wordlessly, Touya's hands then clutch at the softness of your hips in order to turn you onto your knees, so you would present yourself to him. You resist it, twisting to give him what you hope to be a pleading look. “I’d like to stay on my back,” you tell him, “I want to see you”.

His mouth falls agape, shaping around words that he can’t find. In processing your request, the pressure of his blunted nails grows steadily against your skin. The answer becomes clear when he relinquishes your hips, dragging your lower half unceremoniously into his lap as you turn. He begins to unbutton his shirt with a trembling hand, the other preoccupied with mapping out the lines of your body. Your knees press together reflexively as he hooks the back of your thigh, prying them open to expose your sex, and something about the salacious look in his eyes makes you feel as if you’re being revered.

A shiver rushes through your body as his thumbs settle into the creases of your thighs and gently pull apart your labia. “Such a pretty pussy,” he murmurs, silken shirt finally falling open and revealing the expanse of his torso. He’s lean, toned, his shoulders and chest broad, his stomach seems to be the softest part of him. He’s held together by scars, raised and uneven, the pigment a little darker than the rest of his skin.

“Still want to be on your back?” he asks expectantly, as if it were a given that you want to be turned away from him.

“Yes,” you insist, bravely tracing the pads of your fingers along the glossed skin that covers his forearms, only pleased that he’s allowing you to touch him. His breathing shutters, eyes falling closed briefly under your tender ministrations.

“Will it hurt?”

“Not if I take my time with you”.

Your worries must show patently on your face, you think, as he immediately seeks to reassure you in an offhanded manner. It was already becoming obvious to you what kind of man Touya is, one that does not seek comfort or depend on anyone – a man that hides his affections in plain sight.

Without a modicum of shame, Touya laps at his fingers until they're sodden, and your lungs seize as you feel them press up against your pussy. Their movements are languid, lightly circling your entrance before spreading your wetness over your clit. You can’t help the appreciative hum that vibrates through your chest like a soft purr.

“Touya,” you breathe.

You’d touched yourself before but it had never felt like this. A mans touch was foreign. His fingers are longer, thicker, and acted with more experience than your own. He sinks into you slowly, instructing you to exhale and relax your hips, lips grazing along your inner thigh. Heat simmers under your skin the longer he stares, not at your pussy but at your face, waiting for any indication that you’re uncomfortable.

“That’s it,” he rasps, voice thick with hunger. All this intimacy wouldn’t be good for your heart. You knew it wasn’t common. With only the horrors passed to you through word of mouth, in the months leading up to your wedding, you’d prepared yourself mentally for pain and inconsideration. The expectation was that you would be manhandled and sore, not that your body would be gently coaxed into bliss.

Two fingers curl upwards inside of you, a come hither motion towards your belly, and both thighs clench against his shoulders. As if to sate his own urges rather than your own, Touya leans forward with haste and takes you between his lips, tongue tensed to trace patterns over your clit.

His breathes come hot and laboured through his nose. “Fuck,” you choke, barely a whisper that tapers helplessly into another moan. Almost. The sensation begins as something like a trickle, pleasure slowly seeps into your lower body and the intensity grows into a wave, your chest rising and falling with the tide. Your fisted grip on the silk linens tightens, legs seizing forcefully around his head, and he groans happily as you cum around his fingers.

“Gods. Look at you,” barely cognisant, you watch as Touya grins while bracing himself over the pillows, forearms either side of you, mouth pulled taut and still slick with arousal. When he licks his lips to taste you again, you finally think you understand what temptation means.

“You’re perfect”.

Spurred into action, you fumble as you reach for his belt and pull at the buckle, the tremors of your orgasm still fluttering between your legs. He laughs warmly at your attempts, taking purchase of your hands and resting them atop your sternum so he can attend to it himself. Embarrassment floods you, having wanted to do something for him, too.

All is forgotten when he rolls his hips, the length of his hard cock sliding against you. Pleasure frissons through you as a relieved sigh falls from his lips. He’s big, you think. From above he seems to get lost in it, lost in you, his hands kept busy massaging firm shapes into your thighs. When the head of his cock catches against your entrance you tense involuntarily, and he hushes you.

“Breathe,” he commands gently, pressing himself into you slow, “I’ll make it feel good”.

The stretch is unfamiliar and minutely uncomfortable, made easier by your earlier release. As you exhale, the sting lessens until there is no pain at all to be felt. Skin to skin, he waits in the cradle of your hips, letting you adjust to his length, his expression straining as your sex pulses around him.

“Please”.

Given permission, Touya moves. The tedious pace inwhich he pulls out has to melting into the sheets, savouring the drag of his cock. Your breasts shake with each rock of his body, his eyes enraptured, half lidded and following every movement. Your inhibitions are lost, hands flying up to grip his biceps, nails embedding themselves into the pinked skin of his shoulders. He indulges, bends to nip at the sensitive skin of your chest, and you arch into his mouth as he continues to transverse the length of your body to tuck into the crook of your neck.

The rhythm is purposeful, deliberate, playing to the obscene wet slap of skin bouncing around your newly-wed quarters. He groans and the sound is so unrestrained it has your toes curling against the bed. “I’m going to– again–!” you warn between stuttered breaths, too far gone to be ashamed by the clumsy jerking of your own hips as you attempt to meet his thrusts.

“Fuck– yes,” he grunts, movements devolving with the desperate need for release, “cum for me, baby”.

Quaking, tension weaves into the sinew of your body as the air catches in your throat. Eyes squeezing shut, your arms lock around the expanse of his back as you crest, in a feeble attempt to cling to reality.

You resurface in time to feel the final, abrupt thrust of his hips as he cums inside you, abdomen clenched as he curls into himself. Panting through it, Touya's brittle whines are hot against the underside of your jaw, limp arms still wrapped around him to keep his comforting weight close. You don’t want to let go.

The contentment does not last. Your arms fall away as he sits upright, his cock gradually softening inside of you. His vermillion hair dishevelled in all directions, a thin sheen of sweat along his forehead, a blush adorning his cheeks. The unkempt and blissed is a charming look on Touya -- it tempts for further intimacy that you aren't sure is allowed.

“Are you in pain?” he asks.

Blinking, you reply in wonder, “There was no pain at all”. He snorts, a tired yet cocksure smirk pulling at his lips. He is considerate even as he pulls out, massaging aimless shapes into your pelvis to soothe any aches, but that does not stop you grimacing at the emptiness that is left behind – nor at the sensation of his cum slipping down onto the bedsheets.

The chill is gone, air thick with the smell of sex. He curses grumpily at the mess and gets to his feet, hastening over to the bathroom only to return with a wet cloth to wipe you with. You fight the haze just to watch him kneel between your legs and gently clean, exhaustion seeping steady into your bones, wearing a tired smile at the small act of care. You think that perhaps, you really could grow to love one another.

It isn’t until you are falling into sleep that you realise he never kissed you. Not once.

The morning after the consummation of your union you awoke alone in your bed, and as your arm had slid along the mattress you noticed there was no warmth to be found. In hindsight, the absence of a loving kiss was somewhat predictive; as for the entire month following your wedding is largely spent alone or with the gardeners, Izuku and his mother Inko, whose family had supposedly been hired to tend Todoroki land for generations.

It did not take you long to realise you might have been naïve in thinking this marriage would be a loving one so soon.

Prince Touya seemingly avoids you at every turn, even going so far as to retire to bed late when he thinks you are already sleeping. He treats you like you are unsightly, yet when he climbs under the sheets he would cradle you against his chest, unaware that you’re awake, and press a tender kiss to the back of your hand – never your lips. Not only do you find his behaviour confusing, it hurts, much more than you thought it would, given you had been strangers not long ago.

But you’d vowed to him your life and your heart, let him have your body and honour. You hoped he would eventually do the same.

Regardless of his attempts to stay away, you would still make the effort to find him on the palace grounds. As lost as you might become in your endeavours, you were determined to have him face you at least once a day as a reminder. I am here, I am your wife.

Such is your goal for the day. Left to your own devices once again you find yourself wandering by the kitchens, lured in by the delicious smell of baked goods. You weren’t often informed of happenings in the palace – even after being wedded to the Prince you held no real standing – but you had heard excitable whispers from the staff that morning. Princess Fuyumi would be visiting, and she was known to have a sweet tooth.

The scent is tempting, and it calls to core memories from your childhood that you might’ve otherwise forgotten. Muffled voices and girlish tittering can be heard down the hallways, interrupting your moment of nostalgia and piquing your curiosity.

“...It’s too bad Prince Touya is married now, he never comes to see me anymore...”

You stumble at the mention of your husband's name and quickly conceal yourself flat to the wall, hand pressed against the cold brick to steady yourself. The maidens seem to have taken no notice, and had they caught you there would be no consequence, yet your pulse still echoes loudly in your ears.

“He’s a good lay, isn’t he?”

“I’ll miss his mouth, that’s for certain,” another laughs, “my beloved husband has never made me feel that good”.

Your blood turns to lead, a heavy stone settling into the pit of your chest with the realisation that these were the women he had been with in the past. He had touched them, tasted them, much in the same way he had you.

Touya hadn't been dishonest about his conquests, there was no reason to be. And you had been aware, even before his admittance to you, that he’d likely had other partners. But simply knowing and coming face to face with them were entirely different. Their gossiping offers kindling to an anger you hadn't known existed before now; it is less about him bedding them, rather, you wished they wouldn't discuss it so openly. At the very least, out of respect for you.

Twenty seconds is all you'll allow. As the time is up, you slap your hands to your cheeks to startle the tears out of your system and supress the hurt. A valley fold, a reverse tail -- one corner at a time, you take the insecurity and shape it into the mental image of an origami swan, and you tuck it away.

Clutching at the fabric of your skirt, heart steady, you choose to focus instead on the positive. Even though he clearly wasn’t touching you, Prince Touya was no longer seeking them out for sex. He’d respected your wishes, and the knowledge placates your anxiety.

Lifting the drapes of fabric pooling at your feet, you quickly turn to flee the corridor as the voices grow louder. Following the winding corridors, you make your way through the palace in search of the training area where you knew Touya would be with his brother, Natsu. You were still completely lost on the layout of your new home, every day that passed you seemed to find a new place to explore. In truth, you didn't think you were ever going to get used to living here.

Stepping through a large doorway into a padded room, your sights are set in on the distant figures of two men parrying with their swords. The left figure built, the right more lithe, quick on his feet. Your husband is smiling, and it is not because of you. A draft billows into the open space, and you wrap your arms around your chest, all the while childishly fantasising about Touya rushing over to offer you his coat.

“Are you alright?” a gentle voice calls out to you, and your body flinches at the sound.

“Heavens,” you gasp, alarmed hands clutching at your chest as if to smother the startled beat of your heart.

You whip around, and in doing so, come face to face with your new sister in law. Much like her other siblings she is undeniably beautiful, but with eyes much brighter in person, and a sweet smile that naturally begins to undo the knots in your sternum.

“My apologies, Princess Fuyumi,” you bow deeply and meet her gaze as you lift your head. “I was just looking for Prince Touya”.

At the mention of her brother, the placid smile widens into a grin. She is so content in her own presumptions of your marriage that you almost feel guilty. She takes your hands into hers with renewed enthusiasm, “How is he treating you? I trust all is going well?”

You try to muster up a genuine smile, intermingling a smidgen of truth in with the lie so it might be more acceptable, “It is going well. Though, I haven’t been able to spend much time with him”. But the Princess is as observant as she is kind. Fuyumi’s expression fractures slowly, grip tightening around your fingers and running the pad of her thumb along the line of your knuckles. The act of comfort is overwhelming after so long without a kind touch.

“Arranged marriages are difficult in the beginning, I can tell you from experience,” she offers sympathetically. “you were two strangers, now forced to navigate life together, you mustn't let yourself be disheartened by these growing pains”.

“It will eventually get easier”.

You nod in agreement. Fuyumi needn't know that she was only repeating to you what you had already been telling yourself -- though from her mouth, you heard it as a plea for her brother rather than a comfort.

“My elder brother has been through a lot of hardship,” Fuyumi continues with an almost motherly cadence, casting her gaze across the training grounds to observe as Touya and Natsuo continue to spar, the sharp sound of their weapons colliding can be heard even from this distance.

“He doesn’t know how to show love because it was never shown to him. He was hidden away and told he was unsightly. When Shouto was named heir and he had his claim to the throne stripped from him, political marriage was his only use. And even in that, he had no choice”.

A frustrated, pained retort of 'neither did I' sits heavy on the edge of your tongue. You remain silent, briefly glancing towards the tall ceilings to will away the sting behind your eyes. Unawares of your presence, Touya moves seamlessly with his weapon, wielding it as if it is an extension of his body. In spite of his irregular bouts of ill health, his body is lean and strong, his instincts impressive and reflexes refined. You knew from the books he kept in his personal library that he was intelligent, driven and curious. He would’ve been a good king.

Fuyumi settles her hand between your shoulder blades, the warmth seeping through your clothes, “If I know him as well as I think I do, I would say he likely avoids you because he thinks that is what you want”.

You balk at the notion, brow pinched with doubt as you glance towards her. “Why would I want that?”

Her expression is melancholy, and not once does she look away from her brothers. “He knows that if given the choice, you would not have picked him”.

“That's--!”

“--But! I think you’ll be good for him,” she interrupts, “I trust you’ll make him happy, though I didn’t expect him to run from his feelings so quickly”.

Before you can give a rebuttal, a yell of victory calls for your attention. Across the room, your husband throws his hands up in celebration as he stands over his brother, the tip of his sword tucked against Natsu's throat. Touya brandishes a bright grin, genuine and joyous; one that steadily dims as he meets your eyes, and narrows at whatever he sees beyond your figure.

A squire strides in through the doorway, pausing at your side. Your back straightens expectantly. Touya helps his brother to his feet, all the while keeping his dubious glare on the attendant, his shoulders strangely stiff. You had never seen him so apprehensive.

Voice monotonous and dutiful, the man falls forward into a deep bow, “King Enji wishes to meet with you before the evening feast, my Lady”.

Touya's strides forward with a hand resting on the hilt of his sword, footfalls loud as he hurries. He does not slow in his approach, crowding in uncomfortably close until he has inserted himself between the two of you, and the squire takes tentative step back.

“What does the bastard want?” Natsuo demanded, while Touya's remains surprisingly silent, maintaining a wide stance with half of his body shielding you from view. Fuyumi reaches forward for your hand, clasping it between her own, and pulling you further back to her side for reassurance.

You sought no comfort from the action, rather it frightened you. They were defensive on your behalf for reasons you couldn't understand. They were protecting you from a servant who was here at their father's behest, and seemingly, they did not want you anywhere near the king.

“I am not privy to that information, Your Highness,” the squire replies, “and the King does not think you are either”.

In the end, it is a helpless affair, one you cannot run from. Fuyumi releases you as you are beckoned, and the concern in her expression so stark it disarms you. As you pass Touya, he reaches for your arm.

“Be careful,” he murmurs, gently circling his thumb against the sensitive skin of your wrist, holding you in place until the servant pointedly coughs.

Guided deep into the maw of the Kings quarters, you feel a daunting sense of nostalgia. A prophetic dread hangs over your disposition just as it had the night before your wedding, only this time your source of comfort is the phantom warmth of your husbands hand.

The squire takes pause outside two large doors, arching atleast ten feet tall and guarded by two armour fitted knights. Without preamble, he pulls taut the rope hung beside the doorframe. A bell rings and both doors slowly swing open in return, the wood complaining beneath the movement.

King Enji stands foreboding by a wall of full length windows that look out onto the gardens. The room itself appears to be an office type space, a grand and beautifully carved desk sitting in the centre of the room with a large cathedra behind it and two cushioned arm chairs opposite.

The squire bows to his King, and then to you, before taking his leave.

“Sit”.

The fine hair on your arms stands on end despite the lack of a chill. Now alone together, King Enji stirs an instinct buried deep in your marrow that is almost primal. You, a well meaning rabbit, lured into the den of an apex predator. Enji is a colossal, imposing presence even without his armour. A king revered and feared by millions and rightly so – if the sensation of fury could be given a human form, it would surely take on his appearance.

“It’s an honour to finally meet you, Your Royal Highness,” you speak clearly as he prefers, and keep your back straight when you bow before taking your seat. Any attempts to smooth the tremble in your reply prove to be futile, but as you meet his calculating, amused stare, you realise that it pleases him.

“Touya was born a month early, were you aware of that?” Enji asks as he walks the length of the room to an array of glass bottles, the sound of wine being poured only slightly louder than the blood rushing in your ears. You shake your head in response, still unable to trust your voice.

“He almost killed his mother. A monstrous little thing,” he hands you a cup, half full of red wine, and the liquid swills against the lip of the glass as you shake.

A baby, you think. Not a monster, a baby.

“For months he refused to be taken from his mothers breast. He was weak, falling ill at the slightest change in weather. An embarrassment to the bloodline, really”.

There is a pregnant pause, and for a moment you fear that he expects you to speak, but he instead glares at the wine you have not yet sipped.

“Do you dislike wine?” he asks, and you quickly hold the cup to your lips, swallowing back the bitter taste while fighting to keep your expression neutral. It was strong, and left your tongue unbearably dry, but it satisfied him.

“He grew to be stubborn and sharp tongued. Qualities that I would not mind had his confidence not been so baseless, pathetic. He caused me nothing but trouble,” the King returns to the grand chair adjacent to where you sit, his form still seeming to tower over you even while seated.

“It is unfortunate that the fire did not kill him”.

You feel your helplessness more than ever in that moment, beneath the weight of his heinous grin. He is telling you all this because you cannot do anything about it, because he wants you to view your husband as weak, pathetic and disfigured. Touya was born into failure, that’s what his father thought, and he would not let his son escape from that reality. Not even with his own wife.

“Your union with Touya has been of great benefit to me, and for that I thank you,” he says, his index finger tapping heavily against his wine glass. “I can only apologise that these are the cards you were dealt”.

He felt sorry for you. He pitied your marriage to his son. This was not a meeting between a father and his new daughter, no, you were here to be undermined and intimidated. It was all a show of power, a show of wealth and status.

‘I did this to my own son, think what I could do to you’.

“You will forgive my imprudence,” Enji begins after swallowing all the liquid in his glass in one, quick gulp, “but did Touya finish inside you on your wedding night?”

Momentary white hot embarrassment, coupled with anger, flashes through you at his question, his lack of respect for privacy within your marriage, and his lack of respect for your husband. Your grip on the wine tightens so much you fear it might shatter.

“Touya may have failed as my heir, but he still has a duty to carry on our bloodline,” he continues, “that falls to you”. You remember what Touya had given you to drink that night, the lengths he had gone to ensure you could not be impregnated, and allow yourself a deep inhale to steel your resolve.

Loosening your shoulders as you meet his prying eyes you answer, “yes, Your Majesty”.

You are met with another member of staff upon your dismissal, there to escort you back to your quarters. The journey across the palace feels longer, suffocating, and paranoia prickles at your heart.

You had lied to a King.

To your surprise, Touya is waiting for you on the edge of your shared bed as you are led back to your room. There is an apparent nervous energy puppetting his body, wild eyes flickering across the length of your clothed figure.

“Bathe with me,” he instructs you.

“What?” you stammer, crossing your arms anxiously across your stomach. He huffs with frustration.

“I said, bathe with me”.

The bathroom you share together is much larger than you think it needs to be, but you find yourself grateful for the length of the tub as your husband undresses himself beside you without a care. He climbs in, the surface of the water rising slightly against his weight, gentle waves washing against his chest.

Once it becomes clear he is not going to look away you reach for the clasp at the back of your neck, undoing the buttons and shifting your arms out of the sleeves. This gown in particular has two underskirts, proving troublesome to remove without the help of your maidens, the material eventually pooling at your feet.

Your nakedness in front of him still stirs feelings of vulnerability and insecurity in you, despite having slept together. Touya’s stare is inescapable, the weight of it can be felt on every part of your body. In his eyes is an odd glimmer of trepidation, as if he were searching for something, but you weren’t sure exactly what.

You enter the bath at the opposite end of the tub, thankful for the depth as the water rises to cover your breasts. He doesn’t comment on the distance, but he does lean his body forward to rest his arms atop his knees.

“It is not like you to want to spend time with me,” you mutter with cautious annoyance. He scrutinises you, hesitant as his fingertips tease the surface of the water, almost close enough to reach for your own hand.

“Did he hurt you?”

It clicks, then, what he had been studying your body for. Bruising, or injuries, left behind by his father.

“No,” you reply quietly. You dare not look at him, watching the expression on your face distort within the water's reflection, “he did ask me if you had… tried to conceive with me, on our wedding night”.

A sharp inhale. “What did you tell him?”

“That we tried, of course,” you frown, lifting your head in brief irritation, “do you not trust me, or do you simply take me for a fool?”

“You ought to be careful what you say to me, or else you could land yourself in trouble,” his eyes narrow, cerulean irritation reflected back at you but you felt no true malice from him. You never had.

“You would not hurt me,” you reply in a whisper, far more afraid of your own tendency to be too honest than you were of him, though he could not have known that. Your hands wring together nervously, the water rippling around the movement, lapping the skin of your upper arms.

“What gave you that impression?” he snorts humourlessly.

“Everyone I’ve conversed with…” the words catch in your throat, your anxiety, a prong collar around your neck. Acknowledging that you saw through his act felt like you were stepping out of line, that you were disrupting the script. “They spoke of your unique kindness. You are known as a considerate man, Touya, not a cruel one”.

There is a brief period of unbearable silence, wherein neither of you know how to move forward. Your thoughts run amok in your mind, having learnt so much in so little time, you didn’t even know whether it would be appropriate to ask Touya about his mistreatment. He had been so sure that his father would harm you that he’d abandoned his plans for the evening just to wait for you.

“You don’t feel safe here, do you, Majesty?” you murmur.

He feigns ignorance at your words, denying you a response in favour of reaching for one of the many washcloths folded on a shelf by the tub. He dips in between your bodies, the cotton growing dark as it absorbs the water.

He tips his head toward you, holding the cloth out while nervously swiping his bottom lip with his tongue. “May I?” he asks.

“Oh!” you fight the urge to sink beneath the surface and stew in your embarrassment, heat simmering beneath your skin that you naively wish to blame on the steam, “do not feel obligated, your Highness, I can–”

“You are my wife,” he interrupts, “even if I weren’t obligated, I want to”.

There it is again, the intimacy, the sudden affectionate actions that cause your mind to reel. You wished he would just decide what he wanted, to leave you be entirely or to let himself be loving.

“Why are you crying?” He frowns, reaching out his other hand and hesitantly swiping his thumb across the dampness of your cheeks, yet you pull back from his touch. His voice is quiet, rough, it mingled so softly with the echo of the water you almost mishear him. You’re tempted to laugh at the question, at how oblivious he has been to your loneliness, words coming between stuttered breaths, Touya’s expression blurred behind tears.

“You needn’t pretend to care about me, Touya—” He clicks his tongue sharply with frustration, fingers gliding down your throat to cup the back of your neck, pressing your forehead to his.

“That is quite an assumption to make,” he rasps.

“What am I supposed to think?” You tremble, fingers meeting the raised skin of his chest as he moves to your end of the tub, “you haven’t touched me since our wedding night. You haven’t even kissed me”.

“That’s what this is all about?” He breathes, the words warm against your lips, his nose pressed to your cheek, “my sweet little wife wants me to kiss her?”

“Don’t mock me,” your voice still meek despite your efforts. To your disappointment he pulls back, only slightly, instead choosing to run the wet cloth over the curve of your shoulder and down the planes of your back.

“My sister scolded me while you were gone, you know,” he eventually says, “she said you do not have the ‘glow of a newlywed’”.

You don’t know how to respond, so you remain silent under his ministrations, complying when he quietly asks you to raise your arm from beneath the water. He takes your hand delicately, thumb twisting your wedding ring as he drags the cloth down the length of your bicep to your wrist.

“I’ve been... neglectful,” he admits in place of an apology, giving a subtle shrug of his shoulders, “I was never meant to be anyone’s husband, and I don't particularly know what love is”.

An exhale of breath, his fingers intertwine then with yours, ”but I would like to try”.

“Okay,” you faltered, a small flame of hope flickers in your chest that you’re quick to smother. At the very least, you would give him the opportunity to try, nothing else.

A strained air of awkwardness descends upon you both as you exit the baths and begin to dress yourselves. Touya still hovers close by, lifting his towel to dry the stray drop of water that cascades the dip of your collar, your heart stuttering where it sits beneath your ribs.

His fingers graze the sensitive skin of your nape when you struggle to hook the clasp, carefully fastening the back of the gown for you.

“Thank you,” you bow shortly, fighting the heat spreading through your body. Somehow, you find that small touch flusters you far more than bathing with him did.

The feast for Fuyumi is a moderate affair, attended only by close friends of the Royal Family. Uncharacteristically, Touya keeps his hand resting on the small of your back as you enter the dining hall together, and to your relief, neither of you seem to garner much attention from the guests.

A musician is seated at the grand piano, playing a soft alluring tune to serve as background noise to the conversations around you. You distantly wonder if your wedding had taken place here, unaware of the heterochromatic eyes following you across the room.

You take your seat beside your husband, a server immediately leaning over your shoulder to place the starter in front of you, then another cutting in from your left to fill your glass with sake. Now that you’re surrounded by families of wealth and high standing it becomes glaringly obvious how little they think of your husband, and by association you, as evidenced by how the two of you are blatantly ignored.

Touya slumps back into his chair with a loose grip on his drink, the other arm sliding across your lap to take your hand with a pointed glare toward the head of the table. You dare not look and begin using your free hand to eat.

“What is it?” you inquire under your breath, savouring the taste of the wagyu beef. Your circumstances could certainly be much worse.

“Shouto is staring,” he gripes, lifting his chopsticks and playing with his matsutake gohan like a picky child. Todoroki Shouto, the youngest sibling and heir, the one you had yet to meet. You raise your head to glance in the direction of the King, knowing that is likely where he’d be seated.

He is staring. Unblinking, his head tilted toward his father as if he were still listening to the man, yet his gaze remained on you. Even at this distance you can sense he is young, a youthful swell to his cheeks and a peculiarity you cannot seem to put your finger on.

But his eyes are harrowing. He seems desperately lonely.

“Do you dislike him?”

Touya snorts, “he is the golden child. Everything I am not”.

“He’s only a boy,” you say, tone forlorn and low with the King's words fresh in your mind, “just like you were”. The sharpness in his demeanour dulls into something soft, contemplative, and the squeeze of his hand causes your wedding ring to press uncomfortably into your skin.

Somehow you manage to eat from all five courses, conscious of the leftovers and not wanting to seem rude, but the people around you have no issue pushing their plates aside once they’ve had their fill. Even with a Lord for a father you’d been taught to never waste a meal, and it served as a harsh reminder that some people did not need to concern themselves with such customs.

Touya does not eat much, his distasteful scowl remains a permanent fixture well into the evening. Once people begin to step away from the table to socialise he suggests that you retire to bed early, the sharp rebuttal on your tongue quickly swallowed as he presses a soft kiss to your cheek.

“Believe me,” he rasps, “you will not be missing anything. I almost envy you”.

The bed is cold when you climb into it, as it always is, and Touya joins you late, as he always does.

You are coaxed from sleep by the sensation of a warm, heavy hand cupping your cheek. Blinking against the morning light that floods into the bedroom, your eyes slowly adjust to the silhouette of the figure still laid beside you. Touya watches as you shake off the last dregs of sleep, his lips crooked as he fails to stop himself from smiling.

“You’re here,” you mumble, voice still slurred and dipped in exhaustion. The smile tightens, a flash of guilt reflected back at you in azure eyes.

“I’m here,” he assures quietly, “I thought if you felt up to it, I could take you riding”.

You recall then his promise of trying to be better. Pushing up onto your elbow, forgetting yourself as you reverse your positions, you lean into his space excitedly. “A date?” you ask, rubbing the thin overnight crust from your eyes. Touya smirks, the chub of his cheeks deepening the laughter lines by his eyes, your enthusiasm entirely contagious.

Once you’re dressed, switching your skirt for riding pants, he leads you out to the stables. You had not yet explored this part of the gardens, a little wary of the stablemen and perhaps the horses themselves, but Touya navigates it well. In the castle the staff will often avert their gazes from him, but here he is greeted loudly, giving you the impression he visited often.

“It’s good to see you again, Your Highness!” an older man with fair, sand-coloured hair calls out to him, a wilting piece of hay hanging from between his lips.

“Jin,” Touya raises his hand in a familiar manner, “my wife and I both require mounts. Bring out Yua for her”.

The man nods before turning to comply with the demand, opening the gate to the third stall and guiding out a beautiful chestnut coloured horse.

“She’s our sweetest girl,” Touya murmurs, his breath tickling the shell of your ear. “Suits you, don’t you think?”

He brushes a surprising kiss to your temple and you lean back into his warmth, ignoring his flirting in favour of watching Jin saddle up your mare. Adjacent to Yua’s stall stands another mare, this one a little taller and blue in colour, that seems to be growing impatient.

“That one’s Nozomi, she’s mine,” Touya explains after following your line of sight, “She’s a Blue Roan. Rare in these parts”.

“She’s beautiful,” you reply in awe. Jin quickly saddles both Yua and Nozomi, Touya leaning forward to observe with obvious contentment. This was something he enjoyed, and you can’t help but smile at the fact that he was sharing it with you.

“I’ve had Nozomi since I was young, but she’s still cautious around new people,” he says, hooking his fingers beneath the girth strap of Yua’s saddle to make sure it’s secure enough for you. As he’s distracted the Blue Roan stares at you inquisitively and exhales a low, breathy whinny, as if to say ‘come here’. You step forward and raise your hand slowly, allowing time for her to duck her muzzle into your palm affectionately.

“Traitor,” he scolds half heartedly, poking Nozomi in the thick of her shoulder, and she huffs a snort in response.

Touya offers to help you mount and you accept, an abrupt squeak falling from your lips as he lifts you effortlessly and deposits you onto the saddle before swinging himself up onto his own steed with ease.

You welcome the cool caress of the breeze as the two of you ride out of the castle gates. Touya turns his mare toward a clearing in the woods, her relaxed walk evolving until she is galloping ahead of you, his vermillion hair blowing against the wind.

“Race you!” he yells over his shoulder, and you laugh incredulously.

Yua is spirited, but she listens well as you loop the reins around your hands and squeeze your legs against her sides, encouraging her to follow. Her easy trot speeds up until she’s galloping, only a few metres behind Touya and Nozomi, your body rising and falling with her movements.

Despite the ugliness that lies within the family, the Todoroki land is beautiful, fertile and green even with the sparse seasons of rainfall. As you ride the forest seems to breathe around the two of you, inhaling the scent of petrichor and wildflowers as the wind combs through your hair, taken by the sensation of freedom.

You could understand why Touya, of all the siblings, came to love riding.

Nozomi begins to slow as she nears a meadow and Yua sidles up beside her elder, whinnying loudly. You take a moment to appreciate the surroundings – wildgrass untouched, splashes of colour found in every corner and the gentle sound of running water in the distance.

Touya climbs down from her, and with assistance you dismount your horse into his embrace. “There’s a stream just ahead, we can sit and let them drink,” he says, eyes appraising the length of your legs in the riding breeches.

“Stop staring,” you spluttered, the embarrassment only making his grin widen.

“A man can’t stare at his wife?”

You tuck your chin to your chest in an effort to hide your own smile, knowing it will only encourage him. Leaning into his side as his arm wraps around your shoulder, he begins guiding you down to the brook with both reins in hand.

As the stream comes into view the mares walk forward instinctively, ducking their necks to lap at the clear water. He knots the reins loosely around a thick tree branch, patting Nozomi firmly on the back before gesturing for you to sit on a clear spot in the meadow.

You sit with your legs curled to the side, leaning against his shoulder as he plays with your fingers in his lap. The day is perfect, a rare day of clear skies without unbearable heat, the sun warm on your cheeks where she kisses your skin.

“Would you be angry if I asked you something personal?”

“Only if you won’t be angry with my answers,” he conceded.

“Why don’t you want children?” you ask, your voice suddenly startling a partridge out of the long grass. Touya inhales sharply, twisting to watch as it takes flight, a far-off look in his eyes.

“At present, Shouto will be the one taking the throne,” he begins with a shallow sigh, “I was deemed unfit because of my condition. Fuyumi is a woman, and therefore has no claim. Natsuo rescinded his right to the throne when he took the oath and became a knight”.

You nod as he speaks, keeping your gaze fixed on his expression as it sours, “If we were to have a son and something happens to Shouto, the claim would go to him, because I was the first born”.

“Oh,” you whisper.

He turns his hand, your palms kissing as he intertwines your fingers, “I wouldn't want our child to bear that burden”.

His reasoning is understandable, and it placates the small insecurity you held that perhaps he simply didn’t want children with you.

“Do you want children?”

You hum amusedly. “I’d want happy children,” is your decided answer, and he snorts a short breath of laughter, grip squeezing. An silent show of gratitude.

The breeze picks up momentarily and your body turns into his embrace to syphon his natural warmth. His chin nudges against your temple in a bid for attention, and you lift your head to grant him it. His face is closer than you expect, eyes heavy-lidded and dilated as he gauges your reaction.

Short, soft breaths ghost against your lips, and you feel the ache in your chest spread to your stomach, tilting your chin towards him with want. You jolt as he finally kisses you, a tongue tentatively tracing along the seam of your mouth, waiting for signs of discomfort just as he had on your first night. The longing has been accumulating for so long that you feel as if your strings have been pulled taut.

And so they thin, and inevitably snap.

His hand finds your hip, shifting until you are laid amongst the wildflowers, bracing himself over you on his elbows and knees, but as he deepens the kiss he lets his weight sink onto your body. It is every bit as comforting as you remembered it to be.

Like a flood gate had been opened, yearning and want takes ahold of you. Your hands flock along the length of his arms, needing to touch everything, everywhere, but not wanting to seem clumsy or naïve.

He smiles against your mouth, a welcome feeling, and slides his hands beneath your hips to squeeze at your ass through your breeches. The moment slows and the surroundings fade away, your husband seemingly content only to press himself to every inch of you and kiss you breathless.

“Touya,” you sigh happily, muffled by his mouth. He pulls back minutely, followed by a wet string of saliva still connecting your lips.

“How’s that for a kiss?” he asks, and it might’ve sounded mocking had it not been so eager, “or was that not enough for you?”.

Your legs fall open when he pulls you into his lap, hands tightly fisted into the material of his shirt. “We shouldn’t,” you sigh, your resolve crumbling as he begins to forge a path of wet kisses down the column of your throat, “not... not here”.

“No one will see or hear us,” he mouths at the exposed skin beneath the collar of your blouse, “but if you truly want to endure the twenty minute ride home to our bed, I’m happy to oblige you”.

He knows neither of you have the patience for that. You’re right where he wants you.

“Will you kiss me again?” you ask, and his lips align with yours. He kisses you tender, over and over, coming up only for short breaths of air before returning to you.

You feel as your body loses rigidity, melting like softening butter beneath his hands, the heat pooling notably between your legs. He pulls the hem of your blouse out from your waistband, his fingers quick to slip beneath and bunch the material above your breasts.

Emboldened by his affections you begin to undo the buttons of his shirt and this time he doesn’t stop you. Resting your hand against his bare chest, right where his heart sits, you marvel at the pace of his pulse.

You excite him just as much as he excites you.

“I need to taste you again,” he says, the request thick in his throat as he lets himself want, “it’s all I’ve been able to think about”.

“Please,” you breathe.

His movements are a touch frantic as he pulls off his shirt and carefully lifts your hips from the soft grass to spread it beneath your body. Once you’re comfortable he makes work of your breeches, tight as they are on your thighs, and tugs them off your legs.

He hooks the crotch of your underwear and pulls it aside, resting his thumbs in the crease of your thighs. Propped up on your elbows you watch while he slowly eases your legs apart, his gaze unblinking and ravenous.

Such a pretty pussy. You recall the words he’d said to you on that first night and feel yourself throb, his mouth falling slack at the sight.

Touya bows forward and takes you into his mouth, running the flat of his tongue through your folds and laving over your clit as he inhales deeply through his nose. Your thighs clamp either side of his head reflexively, and the hazy groan given in return frissons through you.

You feel his fingers flirting with your entrance, his tongue focused only on caressing shapes into your clit. He plays with you, sinking into your warmth only to the first knuckle and retreating, rubbing your wetness between his thumb and forefinger.

“You’re not being fair,” you whine, hips rolling up desperately to entice him, and he gives in easily. You remember his instructions to breathe when he finally presses his deft fingers inside of you, fucking you slowly with his hand. A sob falls from your lips, hands dashing into his windswept hair, your cunt pulsing as you squirm with sensitivity.

The pressure builds gradually until it is spreading like wildfire, thighs trembling where they hang over his broad shoulders. Your back arches, chest heaving and hands still tightly fisted into his hair. He moans wanton at the muted sting in his scalp, and you chase the sensation, holding him firmly to your sex as you crest. Molten bliss washes over you, diffuses through you, warming from the inside out.

Touya sits up to brace himself, forearms either side of your head and his grinning mouth obscenely wet. A soft gasp passes your lips as he reaches between your bodies to pull his cock from his pants, sliding himself through the mix of saliva and cum.

This time, as he sinks his cock inside of you, he does so with his mouth pressed to yours. Heat rises to the surface of your skin when he tempts your tongue into his mouth, suckling on it with a pleased hum that reverberates like a purr.

The drag of his cock inside you is as good as you remembered, the smooth rock of his hips seducing you into bliss, whines muffled and swallowed by his fervent kisses. The sun is bright above you, bathing you in her warmth where you lay hidden between the tall grass, the slap of wet skin drowned out by the rush of the stream.

His rhythm changes, both arms slipping beneath your body and holding you tight to his chest while he grinds tight circles into you. “Touya,” you moan languidly, nails curling into the marred skin of his shoulders as you cling to him, his pants hot against your cheek.

He pulls your orgasm from you like loose thread from a sheet, slowly unravelling and unending, your body trembling in his embrace all the while. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, “so fucking beautiful like this”.

You finally feel blanketed by loves potential, held, as he rides you through to your last wave with leisurely strokes until his hips slowly come to a stop.

He lifts his head to look at you, a blush blooming from his neck to his ears and his hair pointed in all directions. It takes a moment for you to realise that he’s still hard. You hadn’t taken the medicine, so he couldn’t risk finishing inside of you.

“Let me,” you mumble, still catching your breath as he complies and pulls out of you. There are a few seconds of mourning, your pussy fluttering around the emptiness as you wrap your hand around his cock. His brow furrows, collapsing onto one arm with his mouth agape in relief.

He grunts, “Tighter”. With three long, firm strokes, he cums across your bare stomach, whimpering as his hips buck clumsily into your fist.

“That was…” your voice tapers off in disbelief, and he laughs breathlessly.

His cock begins to soften and he leans his forehead against yours, eyes held shut and savouring the afterglow before pushing himself upright. He presses a tender kiss to the inside of your knee as he tucks himself back into his pants, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to clean you up.

You reach to cup his jaw as he does, brushing your thumb along the line of his cheekbone, the pink skin smooth beneath your touch.

“Do you apply any ointments to your burns?”

He turns into your palm, “No, there’s no point”.

“That isn’t true,” you say, your voice purposefully gentle, “it’s important to protect your skin, scars are far more susceptible to sunburn you know”.

“Is that so,” he murmurs offhandedly, his lips moving against your love line, folding the soiled handkerchief and shoving it back into his pocket to dispose of later.

You hum an affirmative. “I could make some for you, I’ll have to find some beeswax and…”

He studies you wordlessly through loose, crimson bangs with fond eyes as you list off the ingredients you’d need. Nozomi and Yua whinny impatiently from the brook, reminding you that if you did not return to the palace soon a search party may be sent out. You wished you could carve out this space in time and remain there forever.

The sun dips behind a cloud.

“Let’s go home”.

[rottenpumpkin13]

You know what…let’s fucking go there!

Genesis gets everything he wants AU

Sephiroth, by some unseen twist of fate, has some kind of physical collapse due to overexposure to mako and ends up incapacitated on the field during a key battle in Wutai. He fails, becoming useless, and Genesis is the one to win the great victory. He gets all the glory for the first time ever.

When they get home, Sephiroth is gone. Restricted to R&D, physically unable to perform as he once did, and Genesis becomes the new hero of Shinra. His face is everywhere, people are saying he was the one that surpassed Sephiroth. PR is going wild with interviews and propaganda. The President awards Genesis in front of screaming crowds. All the young boys now want to be like the daring and fiery Phoenix of Wutai.

Genesis Rhapsodos becomes the new face of SOLDIER and the legendary victor of the Wutai War.

He got everything he dreamed of. He is the hero at last.

But did it satisfy him?

Glory had a distinct taste for everyone, and all the most discerning SOLDIERs knew it. Angeal would’ve said it tasted like metal, the type that pricks your tongue when your mouth is full of blood; the type you have to spit out before you swallow it and it settles in your stomach as an addiction. 

Sephiroth could go on and on about how insipid it was, oftentimes repeating himself as he told his friends just how flavorless his conquests were. Sephiroth couldn’t tell if it was a case of overconsumption that led to the lackluster feeling in his mouth, or if he simply never liked the taste of it at all.

It didn’t matter to Genesis, who always took everything Sephiroth told him with a spoonful of salt. He had an idea of glory that would’ve prodded one's hunger and left you salivating just at the thought of it. In his mind, glory was sweet, delectable, and downright sinful. 

His insatiable hunger for glory didn’t help his case. Genesis Rhapsodos was born hungry and lived life intent on satisfying his stomach at all costs, no matter who he had to step over to fill it.

 

Then, there came a day when glory finally forced itself down his throat. 

And it tasted like the ashes of the dead. 

The battlefield was enveloped in chaos, a symphony of clashing swords permeating the air. It buzzed with the hum of thundering spells. Genesis fought with unparalleled ferocity, his rapier burning brightly with the glow of the flames.

Up ahead, Sephiroth cut through the enemy ranks with his usual immaculate precision. 

But Genesis was not blind, and he had known Sephiroth long enough to notice it—Sephiroth's movements, once fluid, grew sluggish as sweat clung to his brow.

Then, it happened.

Sephiroth staggered, Masamune slipping from his grasp. The weight of the blade seemed too much for his weakened form. His strength gave way. He collapsed to his knees, crumbling like a doll to the muddy ground.

Genesis never did understand the force that propelled him forward that day. He was like an animal, slicing through enemies with pure rage and fear biting his skin, aiming to protect Sephiroth from his attackers. 

The following month, the streets of Midgar were wrought with the roaring cheers of a crowd, a sea of faces adorning banners and posters of a russet-haired hero. Genesis stood atop a grand podium with a gold medal around his neck, placed there by the president himself.

He was the face of SOLDIER now, the Phoenix of Wutai.

The exploding fireworks never penetrated the barrier between the vainglorious display outside and the desolation in Genesis' mind. It was quiet there. He only ever brought himself out when he needed to force a smile or answer a question. 

Though bathed in brilliance and splendor, Genesis felt naked before the abyss that threatened to swallow him whole.

Sephiroth was confined to a bed somewhere in the R & D's medical wing. And Genesis would once again trade places with him in a heartbeat. 

Director Lazard's voice droned on, detailing Genesis's packed schedule for the upcoming week. Interviews with various media outlets, appearances at high-profile events, and promotional activities—all designed to solidify Genesis's status as the new face of SOLDIER.

"...And then there's the gala on Thursday night. The President himself will be there, and it's crucial that you make a lasting impression," Lazard finished, expecting some form of acknowledgment from the younger man. 

Genesis was indifferent, his attention fixated on the PHS in his hands. He absentmindedly drummed his fingers against the polished conference table, his mind anywhere but there. 

Lazard cleared his throat and tried again.

"Genesis, this is a crucial time for your public image. You're the pride of Shinra now, and we need you to embrace that role fully," Lazard spoke. 

“Yes.” Genesis glanced up, his gaze distant. “I understand.”

He kept his attention fixated on the subtle vibrations of his device. The screen illuminated with a message from Angeal. 

Go. Now.

Without a word, Genesis rose abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as he pushed it back. The papers Lazard had carefully arranged slid haphazardly across the table. 

He rushed down the hallway, not caring about decorum for even a second, en route to the medical wing. 

With a swipe of his key card, Genesis entered the suffocating environment, quickly finding the hallways where Sephiroth's room was located. 

Angeal stood guard outside the door. “Be quick. They could come back any moment,” he told his friend, opening the door with a stolen key card. 

The green light on the door panel blinked, indicating permission to enter. With each step into the brightly lit room, Genesis felt the pit in his stomach open wider. 

He had expected the scent of antiseptic to reach him first, the metallic scent of blood, even. So his surprise was marked by the strong smell of mako permeating the air like a suffocating cloud. 

Sephiroth lay on a medical bed, a shell of the man he once was. The soft beeping of monitors and machinery surrounded him.

Genesis' fist shook. He dug them into the side of his leg in hopes of stopping them entirely. But it was no use, the sound of his immediate, choked cries was enough to convince him to break down. 

He wanted Sephiroth to open his eyes, to tease him for crying, to get up and tower over him as he once did, to laugh at his jokes, to talk to him, to be there because he was his friend. 

Genesis stood beside Sephiroth's unconscious form. The memories of that day on the battlefield flashed vividly in his mind. He reached out, guiding his trembling fingers to Sephiroth's pale face. 

Gently, he brushed a stray strand of silver hair from his friend’s eyes. He was cold to the touch, but Genesis still traced his finger down Sephiroth's arm, slowly taking his hand in his. 

“I miss you,” he whispered. “Please come back soon.” 

The constant whir of the medical equipment was abruptly disrupted by urgent beeping. Genesis's eyes widened as he turned towards the monitor, the once steady lines now spiking violently. 

A knot tightened in his chest, a blend of anxiety and guilt settling in.

The door flew open, slamming against the wall. Genesis flinched and jumped back as Hojo's voice cut through the tense air. 

“Get out! I told you not to come back here! Now look at what you've done!” 

A flurry of medical staff rushed in behind him. The room was active with urgency as they flew into action. 

Genesis stumbled out of the room, the words seemingly ripped out from his chest. He could only watch with his mouth hanging open as the constant beep of the heart monitor became accompanied by a shrill alarm echoing through the corridor.

The last he could remember was Angeal wrapping one arm around him, guiding him away from the scene. 

Three months flew by, each week a slap to the face for those who found disquiet in the quick passage of time. Genesis’ name echoed through the halls of Shinra, adorned posters throughout the city, and was celebrated in news broadcasts. Yet, with every accolade, the emptiness within him turned into a pit of solitude. 

Angeal was far too consumed by his protegé. Zack became the center of Angeal's attention, an energetic student-turned-loyal companion.

Genesis watched from the sidelines as the bond between mentor and protegé flourished. He no longer had the energy for jealousy and accusatory fingers. 

Some said he had the heat of his glory to keep him warm. Genesis often compared it to the flames of hell slowly roasting him into a prized turkey ready to be carved and served at the grand feast of judgment day. 

The labs became his daily battle. Genesis's persistent requests to see Sephiroth were met with firm rejection. Hojo had erected barriers that had become more and more impossible to breach.

Yet, he went back. Each day, driven by a stubborn hope that defied reason and logic. At least he could say he tried, that he had never given up on Sephiroth. 

Curiously, that all shifted one evening when Angeal and Genesis were informed of a peculiar happening within the Shinra building. 

“He's DEAD?” One SOLDIER spat, rising higher in his seat. 

All eyes were on Lazard at the front of the room. He looked exasperated, the glow of his tablet reflecting off the glasses which were quickly slipping down his nose. 

“How?” Echoed another voice—Zack. 

Genesis sat adjacent to Lazard, across from Angeal where the two proceeded to share the same, dumbfounded expression. 

Lazard cleared his throat—for the sixth time, Genesis noticed—before continuing. “He was found unresponsive this morning in the hallway outside his office. His skull appeared to have been cracked, and all signs right now are pointing to an accident.”

“Some accident,” Angeal mumbled, his eyes wide. 

“Tell me about it,” a Second-Class SOLDIER sneered. “Ah, anyway. It's not like the bastard will be missed.” 

Lazard shot him a warning look. “Please show some compassion.” 

Genesis scoffed, crossing his arms. “Compassion for Professor Hojo. It'd be more reasonable to ask us to pull our teeth out one by one to pay the ferryman.” 

Lazard ignored him. “Dr. Hollander will be taking over the R&D department temporarily—”

“Goddess save our souls,” Genesis cut in. 

Lazard ignored both Genesis and the subsequent laughter from the others. 

“And he has asked me to assure you all that Sephiroth will be in good hands—”

“Hollander is of the amputate-your-arm-if-you-break-it variety,” Genesis said smoothly, sliding out of his seat. “So if Sephiroth’s cure lies in the hands of medieval medicine, I'm sure he'll be up and about it in no time.”

With that, he stepped out of the room, taking all the spite and sarcasm in the room with him. 

Hojo was dead, a glorifying piece of information Genesis wished he could share with Sephiroth, if only the man was awake. 

He signed, turning down the hallway that led to his office. Somehow, he had a feeling that Sephiroth already knew—somehow. 

A few weeks went by. The early morning sunlight filtered through the office windows as Genesis headed to the conference room. He yawned, swirling the half-filled coffee cup in his hand as he swiped his key card to open the door. 

He expected another monotonous day. However, what met his eyes left him frozen in disbelief.

There, sitting at the conference table, was Sephiroth.

The coffee cup slid through his fingers, splattering all over the floor. 

The shock radiated through Genesis, rendering him momentarily speechless. 

Sephiroth was paler than before, his skin almost translucent. He had thinned out a bit, and the dark circles under his eyes were telling of the poor sleep the man had suffered from. 

But despite the physical toll, Sephiroth's eyes gleamed with an unsettling intensity. His predatory grin sent a shiver down Genesis' spine. It was a smile that spoke of something beyond the realm of mortal comprehension.

That was the thing that overrode Genesis' joy and killed his relief upon impact. 

Because Genesis knew Sephiroth. 

And this was not him. 

[windupaymeric]

Mandervillous Rapier

[latuarts]

i started drawing s&a azula again. check out @ultranos's fic if you haven't.

[ultranos]

God, s&a azula meeting canon iroh would be so sad! Like, the heartbreak that azula would feel there would be devastating. Canon azula meeting s&a iroh could be interesting, I wonder if iroh'd be able to use the insight he gained in s&a to read canon azula better?

He would. s&a Iroh would be startled a bit by canon Azula, mostly by her apparent self-confidence and sharp tongue. And while he'd be pretty quick to pick up on the fact that the self-confidence is somewhat of a mask, he'd still be delighted to see it. Which would probably throw canon Azula off quite a bit.

She'd be further unbalanced by bizarre behavior from Iroh, such as him paying attention to her, inquiring about her interests, and treating her like a person in her own right and not as an obstacle or afterthought to Zuko or as Ozai's clone.

[randomfoggytiger]

"The Next Chance"

An AU where mature Mulder and Scully had a different, mellower life post Je Souhaite.

*****

They were beautiful-- ages chronicled in loosening flourishes across 30 years of countless reports, receipts, and rejection letters. Salt and pepper, red and white; laugh lines and crinkle marks; longer walks and blood pressure medications. Letters tucked away of lives saved and scientific advancements achieved because of their work. An annual Spooks Event to honor them-- drawn more from a series of fictional biographies than the truth-- that was best shrugged off, though less passionately each year.

They sat, as ever, in their office, amused that the fresh blood trickling (no longer pouring) into the FBI were still as appalled and questioning as in 1993. Most of their peers and superiors had long since fallen in the line of duty, transferred out, or retired at a respectable pace (or quite handsomely, like Skinner); and, failed Head of the Bureau predictions aside, Agents Mulder and Scully seemed complacent to spend the twilight of their careers pruning through old files and selecting potential new recruits.

In this world, there was no child to lose somewhere between mythology and conspiracy; there were no greater problems than agile monsters and increasing joint pain; and there would be no second uprising from a shadow group that seemed-- in another life-- to have waxed instead of waned in the ashes of their defeat. Their constants remained the same: each other, their belief in the supernatural and its plausible explanations, and the rising and setting of the sun (though that was spiritedly debated whenever caseloads grew low.)

30 going on 40; and, if neither lost each other in the myriads of dark hallways stretching from a question to its answer, then 50. And if even 50 proved too short a time, then eternity could be negotiated.

Together, anything could be achieved.

*****

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy!

Tagging @today-in-fic