Oh My God, The Fragment Of Your Short Story Is Very Cool And Your Illustration Looks Beautiful. I'm Always

oh my god, the fragment of your short story is very cool and your illustration looks beautiful😍😍😍. I'm always extremely happy when I see Slavic mythology somewhere (I'm from Slovakia). I keep my fingers crossed for your work, it will definitely be amazing

ps: I wish you a early recovery

Beloved Husband

Especially for you, the entire story is translated below

[ warnings: character death, violence, progressive madness, depression, mourning ]

Although it had been two springs since her beloved closed his eyes forever, it seemed to her that just a moment ago she was standing at his side in front of the altar in a small wooden church. She was clad that day in her new linen chemise and kaftan, under which stretched her skirt sewn from long, colourful strips, embroidered by her own hands over many nights.

That morning, her mother herself had collected fresh flowers in the field, from which she later wove a beautiful garland of daisies and forget-me-nots for her. The smell of baking cake spread throughout the room as her sisters helped her dress and prepare to leave her family home.

All her belongings, which consisted of several linen shirts and woollen skirts, two kaftans, one winter coat, two pairs of shoes − one for colder days, the other festive, only for church − hair pins, a set of bedding and a holy picture she had received as a gift from her godparents, fit easily into a small wooden chest decorated with painterly ornaments.

Her beloved was beautiful, joyful and kind, his lips curving into a lazy smile at the sight of her, for he had loved her ever since she could remember. He called out to her when she returned from the fair, when she left church with her parents, he made her laugh by looking at her over the fence as she fed her geese, by telling her made-up tales and legends.

He would come to her parents with gifts, wishing them to look upon him with a more favourable eye, as he was poorer than they were − she was the daughter of a respectable farmer, while he was the son of a simple serf peasant apprenticed to a blacksmith.

Although her guardians at first regarded him with disapproval and reserve, they eventually recognised his industriousness, which also brought him a tangible income. He spent days and nights in the forge, creating things that were not only useful and durable, but also beautiful, appreciated by the villagers and the heirs of the manor houses.

Without delay, he came to the aid of his future parents-in-law when the hinges of their doors and shutters began to loosen and fall off. He forged new ones for them, beautifully fitted, with indentations and swirls, which they later showed off to their neighbours. She watched it all from afar, daring to offer him only her warm, happy smile and a gratitude that filled his heart with fervent hope.

− Wait for me, pretty dove − he called out to her then, and she laughed, not even thinking of marrying another.

His approach full of patience and understanding eventually won the hearts of her parents. Her father decided, after some thought, that it was good to have such a swift, hard-working son-in-law, who, in addition, was cordial to the women.

He believed that he would certainly be a good and gentle husband, who would not hit or shout at his daughter, and who would also gladly drink vodka with his father-in-law, and would conduct a conversation well, as his mind was sharp and enlightened.

She knew that she had caught God by the feet when they finally agreed to give him her hand, and she did not hide her joy. She thanked her Lord during every evening prayer for the fact that she did not have to marry a drunkard, a scoundrel, but a kind, handsome, hard-working young man, at the sight of whom she felt warmth melt through her heart.

Not even one spring of their marital happiness had passed when her beloved fainted, having returned from the forge all hot and fiery. He coughed terribly and babbled, only making it home with the help of their neighbour. They laid him on the bed together, wondering what to do. Fear then overtook her and she immediately sent for an herbalist who lived a few huts away.

The woman arrived in the evening and, without saying anything or demanding payment, prepared water over the cooker by throwing dried leaves and herbs into it, muttering something at the same time. After these mysterious procedures, she gave her decoction to her husband, ordering him to drink.

She rejoiced, for the colours returned to his countenance, for life returned to his members, for he recognised her, calling her his pretty dove.

Her heart was filled anew with hope. Lying by his side at night, she prayed fervently, thanking God for his grace.

Only in the morning, when the first rays of the sun woke her up, wanting to attend to her daily chores and prepare his morning meal, did she feel that the body lying next to her was cold and stiff.

She was afraid to look at him, and when she finally did, she saw his face, pale and blue, his lips parted slightly, as if he were in fact still asleep. She tried to wake him, at first with a whisper, then with cries and wails, clamping her fingers over his body, but his eyelids never opened again.

She couldn't name what was happening to her. It seemed to her as if her speech had been completely taken away. Her body was left without strength, her mind became blank, dulled. She lay next to him, looking at his face, holding his cold hand in hers, unable to let go of the thought that the only thing left of him was his body.

She didn't understand what her mother was saying, stroking her cheeks and shoulders as they stood over his grave on the day of his funeral. She stared at the simple wooden cross stuck into the fresh, damp earth, listening to the women wailing and crying raucously around the coffin, chanting mournful hymns that only increased her despondency.

It seemed to her that her mind was foggy and sluggish. She drank, she ate, she did her chores, but she did not feel or experience anything. Her body was as if in a state of prolonged shock. In her mind there was still the conviction that her husband would cross the threshold of their home as he did every evening, that he would take her in his arms, speaking of his longing, that they would sit down to supper together, recounting what the day had brought them.

Her parents, seeing the impact of her bereavement and such a sudden loss, ordered her to return to the family home, which she did. From then on, she helped them with their daily chores, as she had done when she was still a maiden.

She would speak to them and be in their company, but her mind seemed to be out of her body, the emptiness that filled her began to be slowly replaced by a progressive rage and irritation, as she noticed that everyone had begun to forget about him. They laughed and smiled, got drunk and danced as he lay there, deep underground, alone.

Shrill thoughts flashed through her head as she lay alone at night under her quilt. Her heart squeezed with pain at the notion that perhaps the gravedigger had not buried him deep enough and his body would be desecrated by wolves or stray dogs or, God forbid, her poor beloved would wake up in his wooden grave and be unable to get out, driving his nails helplessly into the wooden lid.

She would cry aloud then, burying her face in her hands, holding her thoughts and pains deep inside her, feeling that no one else would understand her suffering, that only he, her dearest, if he were still alive, could comfort her.

It was then that she heard him for the first time since the day he closed his eyes forever: the loud, clear rustling of the grass and the quiet cracking of the branches beneath his feet.

She rose quickly, feeling the aggressive, chest-shattering pounding of her heart. A cold sweat ran down her back as she leaned out uncertainly to look out of the window.

There was no one in the courtyard.

She sat still for a moment, feeling a tightness in her throat at the thought that there was a graveyard beyond the woods overlooking her small room.

The next day she lay down to sleep faster than usual, excusing herself to her family for being unwell, feeling a pleasant tingling in her fingers and excitement at the thought that perhaps her beloved would visit her again, give her some sign, tell her what he needed. No one came, however, and salty tears of regret and disappointment ran down her cheeks as she lay, facing the window, watching the first rays of the sun.

She wandered off to the cemetery in the morning, explaining to her relatives that she wished to place fresh flowers on her late husband's grave. However, when she arrived at the site, she found to her disbelief and dismay that although grass should have grown on the grave long ago, the sand on it was still wet and fresh, as if he had been buried only the day before.

Walking back home along the dirt road, wrapping herself in a warm woollen shawl, she thought of her grandmother's stories. Of how people who had died, called wraiths, rose from their graves to haunt their families, peering down on their children and placing cold, corpse-like kisses on the lips of their wives and husbands.

At this thought she felt heat in her lower abdomen, a pleasant tickling sensation engulfed her fingertips and lips, and she imagined that her beloved had come to her then, that night, wanting to prove to her that he remembered her, that he loved her and could not leave without her.

The realisation that he could wander still in the world without knowing a holy rest both frightened and delighted her at the same time, that their love could be stronger than death, that his desire to stay with her was more important to him than the will of God himself, who had called him to join him.

She stopped and trembled as she heard a loud rustling in the depths of a field filled all around with tall, golden wheat. She lifted herself up on tiptoe, feeling the rumbling of her yearning heart, looking around carefully. Her breathing became raspy and loud, full of excitement.

− My love? − She heard her own trembling, warm voice, sounding as if a mother was calling her child, wanting to give him courage.

However, she saw nothing, nor did she hear any reply.

Nevertheless, the conviction that her husband was still prowling the earth and watching her was growing stronger within her. Candles would suddenly burn out in the rooms she was in, although no one passed by them, doors would open with a loud creak of old wood even though no one was standing behind them. She was awakened at night by a quiet tapping on the windowpanes that kept her awake. She had the impression that she heard someone's footsteps even when there was no one in the room but her.

She whispered to him each time, asking him to appear to her. She would convince him that his cadaverous, pale face would certainly not scare her away, that he still remained her beloved, her only one.

He did not answer.

It seemed to her that she was slowly losing her mind. She was getting thinner and thinner, her face becoming pale, bruises from dozens of sleepless nights surrounding her lifeless eyes. Her parents, worried about her behaviour and the fact that the slightest sound or movement made her flinch as she looked around the rooms, suggested that perhaps it was time to find her a new husband.

− You will have your children, and he too will comfort you with a kind word and a strong embrace of his arms − her mother said. She looked at her dully, feeling that her pale lips trembled parted in disbelief. Cold sweat trickled down her neck, her fingers clenched tightly on the material of her skirt.

That night, she cried aloud with her face pressed into her pillow, calling for her beloved, her kindest, cursing him and begging him to relieve her suffering, to prevent her from being given away to any other man, because they had promised each other that they would be together, now and for eternity.

It was then that she heard him again − the quiet crackling and rustling outside her window, someone's footsteps so clear that her heart leapt into her throat. She pulled herself up from her bed and looked out of the window, pressing her palms against the glass. A pitiful, low sob escaped from her throat as she spotted a male figure disappearing deep into the dark woods.

She got up quickly, putting a warm blanket over herself, and slipped out of her family home in only her nightgown, moving after the mysterious silhouette, wanting to shout for him to stop, fearing, however, that she would startle him. Seeing only the full moon and stars above her, she trudged through the tall shrubs, the needles of the pines and the sharp stones beneath her feet hurting her skin.

She knew that in order to reach the cemetery she had to walk straight ahead, and despite her fear, her heart was filled with courage, because for him, for her beloved, she was willing to do anything.

A loud sigh of relief left her lungs when she finally stood at the border of the forest, seeing clearly the outlines of wooden and iron crosses. She froze completely when she noticed a male figure leaning deeply into one of the grave pits. A broad smile appeared on her face for the first time since fate had separated them.

− My beloved! − She shouted with joy, with hope, with relief, drenched in tears, running towards him with confidence, thinking only of throwing herself into his arms again, of speaking to him again, of hearing his voice again.

My pretty dove.

She stopped halfway, feeling her heart freeze, shivers ran along her spine as the man she was running towards jumped out of the pit like a burned man.

She saw his terrified eyes, he was panting heavily as if he was some wild animal, raising his hands high in the air. She found to her horror that she did not recognise either his face or his figure, looking at him in the moonlight. He was older and taller than her husband, dressed in dark, dirty trousers and coat, his large hands black from the ground.

Only after a moment did she notice a long shovel lying next to his feet, a sack lay immediately next to it, she swallowed with difficulty recognising in its contents something that resembled shimmering gold jewellery in the moonlight.

The stranger moved suddenly towards her, grabbing earlier a shovel lying on the ground. She screamed loudly, throwing herself into flight, understanding her mistake, her stupidity, her naivety. She stumbled several times over tombstones and tree roots, her sore feet seeming to scream with every step she took.

Her voice stuck in her throat when suddenly something dull and hard hit her heavily on the back of her head, then again and again; she fell to the ground, panting heavily. Everything around her seemed to spin, she no longer recognised shapes or where she was, warm liquid ran down her forehead, the metallic taste of blood that had flooded her face melted between her lips.

She wanted to scream for rescue to her beloved, to her parents, but she was unable to get the words out. She cried out loudly and drew in a loud breath, bursting out crying when she felt his large, rough hands clamp down on her bare calves, pulling her back on the ground. Her fingers impulsively dug into the sand and grass, fruitlessly trying to resist him, something akin to a grunt escaped her throat.

My God, have mercy.

She was already completely limp when he threw her into the middle of the grave. No sound left her lips as the heavy, cold sand began to fall on her body. Her empty gaze, from which the life was slowly escaping, was fixed on the bright moon disc spreading over her head.

Before the last breath left her lungs, a thought flashed through her dying mind, from which she smiled gratefully at the stranger who stood high above her like death itself.

I will see him again.

_____

Illustrations and text are created by me. Do not repost.

HOTD Season 2 Appreciation Week Day 2: Costumes → Jacaerys Velaryon,

i need more harry potter fics.

not marauders, not slytherin boys, just harry.

[ A LITTLE DEATH — FT. KINICH ]

synopsis: sometimes, he comes back to you with a beating heart. other times, his body is cold and limp until he reemerges from the flames. you never get used to kinich falling during the pilgrimage, but you’re certainly used to the feeling of his body

word count: 4.4k words of emotional porn. ty & goodnight

before you read: female reader ; major spoilers for natlan archon quest and kinich’s character story one ; kinich falls during the night warden war and resurrects so technical character death (but not for long) ; graphic descriptions of injuries and blood from war ; mentions of gambling, alcoholism and abuse (his father’s lore) ; slight exploration of mortality ; hand jobs ; orgasm delay (kinich to himself) ; cunnilingus ; fingering ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; not proof read because i wrote this all in tumblr drafts like the psycho i am

notes: this is an unhealthy progressing obsession. this boy is not good for my health unfortunately

“Will you stop crying?” He sighs softly, thumb tracing your cheek as it catches yet another rivulet of your sorrow.

You glare up at him, lips curled into a scowl as you sniffle and counter, “how about you stop dying?”

Kinich is no stranger to dying. He and death are good friends, in fact—he visits often, and in return, it houses him kindly for however short his visit may be.

He likes traversing the Night Kingdom, likes to speak to those who have borne his name before him. Dying isn’t so bad when you get a chance to see the things he does in the realm of the Wayob.

But you don’t like to see the aftermath. Blood. Bruises. Cuts. Gashes. Sometimes mangled limbs. Every time he falls in battle, the aftermath serves as a jarring reminder that revival is miracle you can’t take for granted.

Kinich doesn’t understand it, but he tries to. He holds you when he comes back, listening to you sniffle into his chest. He’s always silent as his hand rubs along your back, always unsure of what to say.

I lost you, you’ll always whisper first.

I was always going to come back, he’ll always respond.

The Pyro Archon, you think, loves fiercely enough to rival the God of Cryo herself. The Tsaritsa, God of Love, loves clearly. It’s delicate as it leaves chills, and yet, it is reserved, rare to find after she’s hardened herself. The God of War’s love takes form in the exact opposite. It’s blazing. Warm. Unrelenting. Irrevocably bright. It’s a flame that never dies out, that never needs a ceremony or ritual to keep burning like the contending fire.

She loves all of her children—you know that because you see it on her face, too.

The brief, fleeting flash of horror every time she sees a body. The bitter pride that comes with such a noble sacrifice. She loves her people, and that’s why, when your tears hit the ground as you cry for a fallen Kinich, she gives your hand a squeeze right before she brings enters the night kingdom to bring him back.

The people of Natlan are proud of their history. So much, that they find honor in dying for the cause.

You think you’re the only exception.

You and death are not good friends. You don’t like the way it mocks you with the limp hands of the boy you love and his beat-less heart. You don’t like the way it cozies up against him, dragging him away from you with its hand clasped firmly in his.

It never takes him away for too long before it gives him right back, but you don’t like sharing.

Not Kinich. Not with death.

Your broken out of your thoughts when his fingers gently press into your cheeks, squeezing them together as his hand tilts your head up from his chest to look into his eyes.

“I’m okay,” he insists bluntly, but never without that gentleness.

You’d laugh any other time. Always so straight to the point, you’d tease if it were some other day.

Instead, this time, you sniffle once more before you croak, “you don’t know what it’s like to witness.” Slowly, your hand creeps up his body, traveling over his abdomen before coming to a stop right over his heart. “This time…this time it was here.”

This pilgrimage, Kinich comes back to you with a stab through his heart. Other times, he’s returned pierced through his lungs from behind. Or perhaps with a bloodied head, split open by a blunt force.

It never gets easier. This time, however, you think it’s gotten even harder.

He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s contemplating what to say before he decides to toss the idea of words out entirely. Suddenly, his hands find your waist, flipping you to sit on his lower belly, legs straddling his hips.

Kinich isn’t always good with words. He can count on one hand the number of people he’s had in his life to love. His life has not been kind enough to him to allow keeping all fingers up at the same time.

One for his mother. Down.

One for his father. Down.

And one for you. Up.

He’s sure one day, he might be able to lift a finger for Mualani and Kachina, too. He cares a great deal about them, of course. But love is a difficult thing for him to grasp—perhaps because it’s always been something he never got in full.

Not until you.

More than most people, Kinich understands loss. You know that. He understands it too well, in fact. Sometimes, he wonders if he’d lost his father’s love long before the body was limp and lifeless to show for it. Sometimes, he wonders if his mother ever loved him enough to count as a loss at all. Maybe if she had, then she wouldn’t have walked away. Maybe she never loved him quite as much as she loved herself.

But you’re different for him. You love him more than you love anything else. More than yourself, too. He’s never been loved more than anything else. His father loved gambling, maybe even the burn of alcohol on his tongue, too. His mother loved freedom, and more than that, she loved the idea of living in the absence of fear. Neither loved him more than any of those things.

So, you’re different. You know that, too. You’re a loss he can’t comprehend. Not that he’s ever had to, of course, but his brain cannot handle the idea of being without you.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t fully understand your pain. Maybe that’s why he wonders why knowing he’ll always come back from falling isn’t enough to soothe you.

He’s never loved someone who he knew would come back even in the face of death. It’s a luxury, he thinks sometimes—you get to love him with the luxury of a safety net. But you’re too precious to feel the weight of a real loss. He hopes he can shield you from it for as long as he can, one pilgrimage at a time.

His hands settle for your hips, squeezing once, twice, a third time before he sits up and pulls you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

You kiss back easily. Drinking the breath straight from his mouth is best proof that he’s alive. You take it in greedily.

“I’m okay,” he repeats one more time. This time, it’s a much softer tone. Like a gentle reminder. Like a plead to understand.

His hand grabs yours, pressing it right over his heart so you can feel the erratic beating under your palm. Just from kissing you, it’s rapid enough that he almost feels he should be embarrassed. But you close your eyes and let out a shaky breath, making him watch you carefully as he takes in the relief in your face.

“You’re okay,” you nod slowly.

“I am,” he agrees.

You don’t know when it happens or who starts it first. One moment, your hand is traveling under his shirt to feel his bare skin, to have better contact with him so you can feel more proof he’s alive.

Warm skin. Flexing muscle. Damp sweat. When your hand finds his heart again, his hand cups the back of your head and pulls you into a heated kiss.

Clothes come off after that. It’s a blur. It’s not until you untie the bandana to uncover his forehead do you really take it all in.

Bare under you, Kinich is alive. The proof his body is breathing and pumping blood through his veins is right there before you—standing tall between his legs in the form of a flushed, red cock. Blood rushed there to prove his desire for you.

“Last time, it was here,” you whisper, thumb tracing a pale, faint scar over his ribcage, right where his lung is. “Did it hurt?”

“It did,” he nods, studying you as you don’t meet his eyes. “I don’t remember much of that, though.”

“Do you like it?” You whisper. “Is that why you do it?”

He’s silent. And then, quietly: “Sometimes.”

“Why?” You breathe, cupping his cheeks as you search his eyes for an answer.

Finally, in a rare moment, he chuckles. “Because it’s good to remember I’m alive,” he murmurs, “right before you die is when you realize you’re alive the most. Why you’re alive, too.”

“I don’t understand,” you furrow your brows in frustration. He smiles fondly, kissing your jaw as he lets out a low hum.

“I think of you,” he whispers, sucking sweetly into your skin, “and then I remember how you’re alive, too. Every time I die, you get to stay alive a little more.”

The abyss never goes away. Now, more than ever, he’s aware of that. It’s a war he has to see the winning side of, no matter the price.

There’s a loss this time that he’s unwilling to pay. Can’t bear to witness. Can’t allow to happen.

You decide you give up trying to understand—much like you do every year. Instead, you throw yourself into feeling him, pulling him into a heated, deeper kiss as your tongue glides against his. You give into the battle fast, letting him take the lead and taste you.

You’re not one for battles, not like Kinich is. You’d rather relish in peace than remember the cruelties of war.

“I love you,” you whisper against his lips. “I can’t lose you.”

“You’ve never lost me,” he argues.

“It doesn’t feel that way,” you admit quietly.

“Then let me show you I’ve always been right here.”

As if on cue, his cock twitches between your bodies, hot and throbbing as it presses against your lower belly. You reach between your bodies, wrapping around the thick girth before your thumb grazes the tip.

He shudders, stifling a groan as you slowly smear the dribbling pre cum along his length, taking gentle care to make sure you don’t hurt him.

You’ve seen Kinich hurt enough times.

“Does that feel good?” You grin slightly, watching his eyes flutter shut as you stroke him up and down, fisting around him in a tight squeeze.

“Feels great,” he breathes, “like I’m very alive.”

“Good,” you nod.

“Fuck,” he chokes when you squeeze around the tip, pace quickening as you glide your palm up and down along him faster.

Faster.

The faster he cums, the faster you’re proven he’s living once more.

But he stops you—right before he can spill into your hand, a shaky wrist comes to force yours to stop moving. You look at him questioningly, and he closes his eyes and takes labored breaths to calm himself from the slow, fading orgasm that would’ve shaken through his body.

“What are you—oh,” you gasp, when your body is flipped to lay on your back, Kinich hovering above you as he stares down at you.

You think love is the look in his eyes when he sees you like this, every time. That longing in his pupils, desperate and almost pained even though you’re right there.

Loving something is always a double edged sword. It hurts just as much as it heals—the scabs forming around your heart from his temporary departure is proof of that.

“I love you,” he whispers, kissing along your neck.

I love you isn’t something Kinich says often. You feel his love in other ways. The fresh fruit he brings you on his way back from a commission. The small kiss between your brows he always greets you with, and the delicate kiss to your mouth when he leaves. The hand on the small of your back as he guides you along places, never letting you feel his absence. The pillow he shares with you every night when you invade his space and take up his side of the bed.

You know he loves you. Being reminded is a good feeling, though. Your body shivers as you feel a familiar ache building up between your legs at his sudden confession.

“More than anything?” You ask.

“Yes,” he responds, amused.

“You better not be lying,” you warn playfully.

He chuckles—you’re slowly coming back to your usual self. Causal teasing and playful flirting. You’re all the things he’s not. Open. Vulnerable. So inexplicably bright. You smile and something in him heals. Something in him itches to do better—be better.

“When have I ever lied to you?” He challenges.

You pretend to think for a moment before caving and stretching your lips into a wide grin. The first real smile of the night. You pull him close, kissing him again. Just to kiss him. There’s no heat or desire this time around.

He kisses back sweetly. Just to kiss you.

“What did you see this time?” You whisper when you pull away. “In the Night Kingdom.”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, tracing shapes into your hip with his thumb, “I think I was too busy thinking of you.”

Kinich is only flirty when he avoids something. He’s only ever indirect when he doesn’t want you to know something. It takes form in less honest, more playful banter that he learns from you.

You sigh, rolling your eyes half-heartedly as you whisper, “don’t lie to me.”

“I did think of you,” he insists. “It’s not a lie. I always think of you.”

He decided to prove it by dropping down to busy himself between your legs, gently spreading them enough to press his nose against your clit as he breathes you in.

Sweet. You’re always sweet. You taste and smell it. You drip of honeyed, saccharine desire. When his tongue presses between your folds, he thinks he’s dipping it in gold.

“K-kinich, wait—”

“You say that every time,” he raises a smug brow. His fingers press into you, spreading you open as he inspects your fluttering walls. “But you never mean it, do you?”

Filthy, you think. He’s got an air of pure obscenity to him that you’re sure comes only when he’s tired of feeling alone. When he needs to know you’re here for good and not just for the moment.

“You play dirty,” you scowl, twitching when his tongue swirls over your clit, the smooth rumble of his chuckle vibrating against the sensitive bud. His fingers curl into you, pressing against a very delicate, very responsive spot in the back of your walls.

“Is that so?” He drawls, “you don’t exactly seem to mind it,” he murmurs.

And then his lips wrap around your clit, sucking as his tongue rolls in circles against it as you writhe. You can feel the tips of his digits bully into that same spot over and over, making your back arch as you whine.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “baby, please.”

You don’t know what you’re pleading for. He’s giving you what you want exactly how you want it—maybe that’s why you always say it, though. So you can never stop having him. Asking and asking and hoping he’ll give you everything without pausing.

He does, too. Kinich never gives half of himself into anything. For the right price, you get all of him. You pay the price in gentle kisses along his cheek and soft fingertips in his hair. In a warm lap under his cheek when he’s tired and a soft voice to remind him he’s not alone. In a worried look every time he’s scuffed and a soft smile every time your eyes meet his.

You pay the price of your love, and he compensates you with the reward of his. It’s a fair trade.

The only difference is that unlike his other deals, Kinich would still pay his love to you even if you stopped paying yours. He couldn’t stop if he tried. It’s an exception he doesn’t exactly choose to make, but doesn’t necessarily want to change, either.

Lucky for him, you don’t show any signs of pulling away.

“You’re beautiful,” he says quietly, whispering the words into your cunt like he’s speaking directly to your desire, “and mine.”

“G-gods,” you moan, hand flying to grasp at his hair and tug as his fingers quicken their pace, fucking into your heat mercilessly as his tongue rolls over your clit.

It’s hot. It always is in the Pyro Nation. But hotter is the growing desire in the pit of your belly, and the heat between your legs that only one person can ignite. The flames lick at your sanity before something erupts in your system and all you feel is a gush of pure, white hot pleasure.

“That’s it,” he praises, working you through your orgasm as you let out a soft cry of his name.

Kinich is alive. You know that because only he could make you feel this way, and he is. He’s making you feel like there’s love between your legs as he coaxes the height of pleasure from you, buried into the apex of your thighs like it’s the only place he ever wants to be. You’re reminded that instead of blood dripping from his fingertips, it’s the essence of your arousal.

You’re reminded that when you need him, he’s never not there. Never leaving you behind from this world into another.

“I love you,” you blurt out in a post-orgasm haze.

He looks up at you with a toothy grin. It’s so rare to see him smile so freely. It’s like a child’s, sometimes. Something youthful and joyful and almost innocent enough that it makes your heart ache a little more than it does feel full.

Only a little, though.

“You say that a lot when I make you cum,” he laughs smoothly, a boyish and sweet little sound. You huff with a roll of your eyes.

“You do too,” you counter. “Maybe we only love each other when we feel good.”

“I always feel good with you,” he grins.

“I can make you feel a whole lot better,” you wink, wriggling your brows in a playful, tempting offer.

He takes it. With another soft laugh, he climbs up your body to hover his face over yours, admiring the sweat clinging to your forehead like it’s proof of his good work.

“Go on then,” he whispers. “Make me feel better. I just died today, you know.”

“I know,” you grumble only slightly, “I remember that very clearly. It was very rude of you.”

“My sincerest apologies,” he offers.

When Kinich was young, love was transactional. His father loved him with a box of sweets when a gamble of wages doubled. His mother was happy enough to afford him her gaze when there were flowers in the vase. He knew from early on not to expect any of it unless the proper price was offered.

And then he learned necessities were transactional, too. To exist is to pay a price. He watched as strangers took away his home, the remainder of his family’s belongings packed away as his mother wiped her tears. Food is not free when she is not there to tend to crops. Clothes don’t come easy when your father spends his days drinking away instead of working.

Without mora, you survive more than you live.

He hated it. Hated not having enough. Not being enough. He wasn’t enough to make his father want to be good and he wasn’t enough to make his mother want to stay. Didn’t have enough to offer for something as simple as unconditional love.

Love with you feels a lot different than what he’s grown up learning. You love him even when he’s closed off and a little cold. When his blunt words are a little too blunt and his words press hard into you with force. When he’s tired, and can’t offer you proper company, you love him, too. When he’s gone for days at a time for a commission further away, you still love him as you wait.

It’s always enough for you even when what he gives really isn’t enough at all.

He stopped trying to understand a long time ago. He’s still human—not everything can make sense with the logic of equal transaction. Sometimes, he just wants. Sometimes, he can’t give enough for what he wants. You always give it, though.

He’s stopped trying to make sense of it all for the sake of finally knowing joy. Peace. Possibly even comfort.

“Why do you love me?” He asks softly, rubbing the tip of his hard cock against your thigh. You rub along his bare back with a gentle hand, feeling the goosebumps raise along his skin under your palm.

“Because it’s easy to,” you answer.

“That’s it?”

“Isn’t life hard enough?” You shrug, “it’s nice having something simple. Loving you is easy, and that’s enough.”

“I don’t understand,” he mirrors your words from earlier. “But as long as you don’t stop, I think it’s okay.”

You want to tell him you’ll never stop loving. Every flame in Natlan will have to burn out before you stop loving Kinich. You’re confident that it’s impossible that will ever happen. But instead of words, you gently reach between your bodies to grab at his cock—it’s been hard and neglected for long enough that he lets out a soft, needy sound at the sudden touch.

You bring him to brush against your entrance, murmuring a soft, “I want you,” before he groans in response.

“Fuck,” he says shakily, “me too.”

And then, finally, he presses his tip into you, pushing past your folds and nudging into the deepest part of you.

He’s alive. You know that because you can feel him in the most rawest, purest way. Bare skin to skin. Warmth on warmth. Sweat against sweat. Body tangled into body. He’s alive and here and you can feel all of him at once.

He’s everywhere. He’s in your lungs as you kiss him and steal his breath. He’s in your heart as you feel it skip a beat for him. He’s in your soul as it burns at the very idea of him. And he’s in your cunt as he presses himself into you with a roll of his hips.

You love him when he’s alive.

You love him when he’s dead.

You love him when he’s resurrected.

You love him when he’s yours like this.

“Kinich,” you gasp, letting out a breathless moan as his tip slams into that spongy spot in your walls, “there—y-yes, like that.”

“I know,” he murmurs, grinning a little smugly enough that you feel embarrassed to already be this fallen apart. “I know exactly where.”

“Smooth talker for someone who ruined my whole day,” you huff.

“I told you I’m okay,” he grunts lowly. He kisses your throat, right over your pulse as he whispers, “I’m right here.” You whine as he rolls his hips particularly harshly to slam his cock into your most delicate spot.

“Knowing something is coming back doesn’t mean you like losing it,” you argue. “I don’t want you anywhere but here.” He gasps when your legs wrap around his waist and pull him closer as you squeeze tighter around him.

You hate seeing Kinich fall because you’re reminded it’ll happen one day for real. There’ll come a time where he won’t be resurrected. You don’t like being reminded of this simple truth.

He doesn’t understand it because he’s always too busy denying your fall. He’s too busy making sure he fights every battle to win this war so you can live beside him. So you don’t have to succumb to the cruel likes of the abyss.

Neither of you can seem to grasp the other’s mortality very well. So you try to forget in the feeling of being lost in each other’s bodies. Where proof of life blooms in every inch of skin. Every labored breath and drop of sweat, every flex of muscle and rapid thrum of a heart.

You’re alive, and so is Kinich.

He’s not alone, and neither are you.

No one has had to bear a loss, and that’s all that matters. For now, at least.

“You feel so good,” he says hoarsely, letting out a soft, low whine when your walls flutter around him at the praise. “C-can’t…can’t live without you.”

“Don’t say that,” you sob, reaching your limit, “enough talk about living. I’m tired of it.”

“Okay,” he breathes, “then just cum again for me. I want to feel you do it around me this time.”

Your second orgasm makes you forget Kinich is alive. You’re too busy feeling the rush of life yourself. Your body burns with pleasure through every nerve, the familiar snap of pressure between your legs that has your entire form spasming under Kinich.

“’M c-cumming,” you sob, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him in for a sloppy kiss, muffling your sounds into his mouth as he swallows them whole.

“For me,” he hums.

“F-for you. Always for you.”

And then he cums too. Hard. For the last time, you’re hit with the evidence that he’s here with you and not somewhere else. Somewhere unreachable. Somewhere in a world apart from you.

He’s spilling warm, sticky cum into your walls with shaky arms holding him up above you, desperate rolls of his hips as he lets out choked sounds.

Skin slaps against skin and a combination of your arousals leaves a mess smeared between your legs, spilling down your inner thighs.

“Fuck—ngh. I’m…I’m…” he trails off.

He’s never been good with words like you. So instead, he buries his head into your neck and presses his nose into your skin, letting you cradle the back to his head so he knows you’re there.

“I know,” you pant, letting him fuck himself into you and ride out the high of his orgasm.

I know you need me. I need you too.

When he slumps over your body, you can feel his heart beat against yours. Rapid. Erratic. Harsh. Pounding. All of it is proof you’re both painfully mortal as you are alive.

“I love you,” you both whisper at the same time, utterly spent.

“You’re alive,” you breathe out a sigh of relief as your eyes close tiredly.

He hums, lifting his head to press a soft peck to your lips before he slumps into your neck against. “And so are you,” he murmurs in exhaustion.

You both fall asleep together with another year behind you.

Writing an emotional Kinich is actually really hard I’m not sure I even got it right bc we haven’t seen nearly enough of him but 😭 I hope this was not ooc enough that it was slightly believable. IDK I had a hard time deciding how he’d be in an emotionally charged moment of intimacy

Behold, my wife

I just saw tiktok with that girl at the gym and she was showing her back muscles and biceps god damn.

i love women so much, can someone please squeeze my hea—