#─ non-specified.

[rae-pss]

masterlist

˗ˏˋ꒰ 💭 ꒱ . . . listening to tu falta de querer (by mon laferte) makes me hallucinate (/j). may have a second part (if I'm able to put myself to write it), and even a third one. ˗ˏˋ꒰ 💭 ꒱ . . . lowercase intended, angst (?), gn reader who's said to wear make-up, remember that this is from reader's pov so we never know what actually happened.

surely, it was all a joke. a devastating, heartbreaking lie on its twisted side. one that destroyed the day when at the altar, standing up there, with that beautiful outfit, makeup and hairstyle done, with all those people present there waiting for the union... a damn joke that was evident to every and each one's eyes on your wedding day.

your supposedly happiest day became the very day that put an end to a years-long relationship. the humiliation was monumentally overwhelming like no other when from the seconds, the minutes, the hours he did not appear. his damned figure was nowhere to be seen nearby.

he didn't respond to messages or calls. not from friends, not from family, and much less to yours.

oh, the translucent tears that overflowed from your eyes bathed in the deepest, desperate sadness.

oh, the streams of salty water that flowed across your cheeks as if it were their natural flow.

oh, the trembling of your body, a violent movement that brought you to the ground on your knees when you realized that all your love was a joke, a lie.

gojo satoru, toji fushiguro (jjk); dazai osamu, nikolai gogol, fyodor dostoyevsky (bsd); hisoka morrow, chrollo lucilfer (hxh); kaeya alberich, tartaglia/childe (genshin); hol horse, illuso (jjba); apollo (snv/ror); ran haitani, hanma shuuji (tokrev); oliver aiku, shidou ryusei, michael kaiser (bllk); douma (kny); anyone you can think of.

[biscuitdragonwithastick]

Imagine you're a scientist. You work for, probably, not the most ethical of organizations. The work you do was supposed to involve research demonic power and it uses to better the world. But, instead, you've found yourself observing and dispensing of gallons of demon cum.

The idea started simple. Demons generate energy through their impulsive and sinful natures. So, if one can find a way to "milk" out that energy, then it could be used a potential limitless source to power anything one can dream of.

The drawback is that, between the seven deadly sins, Lust has been the only nature that's consistently drawn the most power over time.

Thus, you - standing in front of the observation bay windows - watching a demon pound away into a milking machine. He was large and muscular, thick horns jutting outwards and sharp enough to kill a man with the smallest of gestures. He had a name - supposedly - but demon language meant nothing but gibberish to human ears. You just called him "Dee".

The job wouldn't be so bad, The cum wasn't very useful and you had the job of disposing of it, if it weren't for the fact that the more "higher up" scientists had noticed this particular demons energy output rose exponentially when you watched them.

It wasn't being in the same room, whether it be through camera or window, the thing somehow knew when you were watching him. In recordings, he would fuck into the machine, for lack of a better word, "vanilla". Rhythmically fucking in and out almost bored by its predicament. But when you entered the room... When you watched the live feed...

Dee's breath hitched and he picked up the speed. His hips pulled out in long and swaying thrusts, becoming more targeted to the phantom mares inner collection chamber. As if he were fucking a real body. His body hunched forward and he breathed against the metal frame and spoke in demon tongue. And his claws, they dragged into the ground, being careful not "hurt" the fake body it was presented with.

It was showing off. Everyone knew that it was thinking of you when it thrust inside. That it wanted you to replace that the unfeeling, robotic hole that it fucked day in and day out.

And, what started out as disgust, was slowly turning warmth and arousal. You were growing jealous of the mechanical contraction it bred.

It should be you.

[edit: Link to the next parts ]

[traumagenic-positivity]

i love you systems who call your alters "parts"

i love you systems who call your alters "alters"

i love you systems who call your alters "headmates"

i love you systems who call your alters "voices"

i love you systems who call your alters swears

i love you systems who call your alters things that are silly, weird, or normal

dont let anyone tell you what to call them <3

[simplified-birds]

Simplified bird #40 - feral pigeon

( requested by @pavpavlova )

[m4rs-ex3]

ok but this one of this show's main characters is a girl raised by gay dads and we don't talk about it

[ot9snumber1]

subby momo probably cums just from eating u out and gets pussy drunk

she def does :(( that reminds me of this fic!

rewarding her by letting her eat you out for hours, amused by the way she whines every time you tug her head away to check in on her.

"baby, aren't you tired yet?" you ask, breathless and exhausted from your latest orgasm. momo whines, trying to pull away from your grasp on her hair to attach her lips back to your clit. "no.. no.. one more, please?"

"sweetheart..." you sit up shakily, scratching her scalp lightly so she wouldn't whine about the lack of pussy in her mouth. she was so sweet-looking like this, doe eyes and pouty lips and flushed cheeks and—

your foot feels something damp as you were adjusting the way you sat, curious, you looked down. "baby, did you cum?"

momo's cheeks flush as her gaze follows yours, the mess she made on the sheets being more obvious than yours. how could she not notice? she was too busy pleasing you to even realize she'd reached her peak. multiple times.

"oh—i'm sorry, i didn't mean to!" she immediately hides her face against your neck, wanting the earth to swallow her whole. "sweetie—" you try to conceal your laughter as you rub her back gently, pulling her onto your lap. "—don't be sorry. i think it's cute how needy you are. you know that."

momo nods, holding you tighter as she lets out a little whimper of acknowledgement.

"why don't you help me change our sheets so we can cuddle for the rest of the night, hm?"

[yurislotusgarden]

My daily 50 kisses

ʚїɞ Dazai Osamu x Reader

ʚїɞ Keep in mind English is not my first language, so there may be mistakes!

ʚїɞ First x reader work

ʚїɞ word count: 208

ʚїɞ Tw's: None! Just pure fluff with soft Dazai, Dazai calls himself your future husband once, reader's gender is not specified in any way, the reader is implied to be at least slightly shorter than Dazai

34, 35, 36, 3- oh?

36 is the exact number of how many kisses Dazai got on the face. He counted, and mind you, it was too little. 

“Why’d you stopped?” Came the question from the brunette, his arms tightening around your waist. Your hands were on his cheeks, he was enjoying the feeling thank you very much.

“Didn’t you have enough by now?”

“Nope! Your handsome boyfriend demands more kisses!” At that, the taller figure gets closer to your face.

“What if I say no?” A chuckle from you, an amused one. Dazai’s always like this when you give what he decides, is too little affection.

“You see, there’s no ‘no’ option. You simply have to agree”

“I would disagree” It was hard not to smile in this situation, seeing your significant other so openly wanting affection from you never fails to warm your heart.

“And I disagree with your disagreement. Your future husband is demanding his 50 daily kisses, and he won’t fail at getting them” You don’t fail on slightly blushing at what he called himself - just what he wanted to see.

“Your daily 50 kisses? That’s the first time I hear of such a  rule”

“Hm, you heard right. My daily 50 kisses”

Notes, comments, reblogs and anything else is greatly appreciated

[iguessthisisanewobsession]

Before Bruce revealed his identity

He stated in a game of truth or dare that he has slept with a least one person in the Justice League before finally extracting himself from the stupid game.

The League promptly lost their collective shit.

[rae-pss]

˗ˏˋ COMPILATION !

previous

༉‧₊˚. ─ HADES GAME !

─ dionysus headcanon

༉‧₊˚. ─ NON-SPECIFIED !

─ delicacy

─ a lie

༉‧₊˚. ─ THE KID AT THE BACK !

─ sol gets caught writing about you

[biscuitdragonwithastick]

Imagine your just walking through the woods when a monster rushes you from behind. Sprawled on the ground, helpless under their weight, you wait for the blinding pain of claws tearing through flesh, but it never comes.

Instead, those sharp claws tear through your clothing and you feel blood rushing to face out of embarrassment and confusion. Thoughts rampage through your mind as to what it wants, and then you feel something wet and hot against your opening.

You scramble to get a away but it growls against your neck. It's a monster with needs. It won't let you go until it's done.

You cry out as it thrusts into you. Like an animal, it's only focus is breeding you full of its monster spawn. For some horrible reason, that turns you on. You try to fight how arousing it is to be used like this, that this doesn't feel good at all.

Your voice betrays you though and you moan with an orgasm as it thrusts into you one last time and cums.

You're so ready for this to be all over - to just crawl home and fall asleep in a warm blanket - but then you feel something press against your entrance.

The monster whine and bucks forward. You groan with the force as something pops inside. You have no time to wonder what it is as more of these objects start flood your insides.

Eggs.

You realize that you're being bred with eggs. Your tummy rounds so beautifully with them, your tired mind less horrified and more fascinated to watch it expand with each intrusion.

Finally, the monster pulls out. It carries you back to the entrance of the forest and leaves you there to find your own way home.

All you can think about is how your going to hide this from everyone in town.

[emotinalsupportturtle]

Ahhh tearing my hair out. They make me insane

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

i had a worm wiggle it's way into my head when 'work song' came on on my way home today.

pairing: steddie | word count: 2,949 | rated: T

cw: major character death (no gore, nothing descriptive, though it's stated that Eddie was sick and getting weaker, then implied that he dies.)

Eddie Munson’s mother was a witch.

He didn’t know this until he was stricken with the same sickness that took her from him years and years before, but he knows now.

He knows from the small chest he found buried deep in his and his Uncle’s attic one day after learning of his ailment, and the handful of months he should expect to have left, from the local doctor. 

The chest was brimming with scrolls, tomes, candles, stones, herbs, vials, even a small pewter cauldron.

“I shoulda known,” was all Wayne had said, heeding Eddie’s beckoning call that hazy afternoon. 

Eddie sorted through everything he had found; spending hours every day flipping through each book and journal, deciphering his mother’s handwriting and the spells she had inscribed onto the pages. 

He even started to try a few; his mother’s ‘powers’, per sae, had come from the earth around her, writing in the largest, most disheveled of the journals that all she had needed to do was to listen to Mother Earth herself, listen to what she had to tell her.

So, Eddie practiced.

Small things at first, like seamlessly re-attaching the snipped off head of a daisy back to it’s stem, snipping it off again only to regrow an identical one in it’s place. Even starting a broken branch of the pine outside the Munson home on it’s way to a new green version of what was lost.

Eddie counted himself very lucky that Wayne was not one to believe the church’s nearly unhinged ramblings about witchcraft being the work of the Devil, and let Eddie practice a couple of the other simpler things on him.

“Jus’ don’t go thinkin’ I’mma let you chop my head off, boy.”

Wayne’s body aching from following their ox around all day with the plow? “Here, drink this, it should help.” It did.

Couple of Wayne’s fingers get snapped under the same ox’s hoof? A little harder, but he managed; the digits sore and achy that night, but good as new come morning.

“There a hair spell in that book, Ed?” Wayne joked one morning over breakfast, a good three quarters of the way through the six months the doctor gave Eddie, and a couple after finding Maggie Munson’s secret.

“Hmmmm….I dunno Uncle Wayne,” Eddie flips through his journal absently, “I think a Get Your Hair Back spell is too close to a love charm to work right. You could end up with hair all over your body and not just on that beautiful, shiny, head o’yours.”

“Love spells are touchy,” Maggie’s journal had said, “There are a rumored few that work, but only for the truest forms. I’ve tried some simple potions and charms…Al still left..and if they didn’t work…” the rest was easily filled in. 

“Oh yeah? Then how's about a Cure What Ails Ya spell? Got one’a those in that there book?”

“Why? You feeling sick, Wayne?” Eddie half-jokes, trying to veer away from having this conversation with Wayne again.

Wayne’s quiet as Eddie focuses intently on the book infront of him, trying, and failing, to scoop up a bite of egg onto his fork without looking away.

“Ed,” his uncle starts, soft and pleading once again, “Is there really nothin’ that can help ya?”

Eddie huffs, dropping his fork onto his plate and pushing it and the journal away from him. Definitely something a younger boy would do, not the nearly 25 he is now. “Why don’t you give them a look, huh? ‘Cause I already have.”

“Ed–”

He snaps his head up to glare at the older man. “What is it Wayne? What?” Eddie snatches the journal back up off the table without looking. “I’ve looked okay? Through Mom’s and through every damn book in that attic. And there was nothing. Nothing! You think she would’ve left if there was?” He stands sharply, knocking the small faded blue table away as he does. “Would’ve left m—”

His free hand wraps around his middle, nausea and the spins taking him for a ride a the sudden movement.

“Hey, Hey, sit back down son.” Wayne stands as well, coaxing him back into his chair. 

The nausea spells have become more frequent, the dizziness even more so, as the months have worn on, so Wayne ties up Eddie’s hair (growing thinner by the day), walks the short few steps to the pitcher of water he’d pulled from the well that morning, and pours some into a bowl, grabbing a clean(-ish) rag on his way back. 

Wayne smoothes the cool damp rag over Eddie’s face and neck, slowly and deliberately until the nauseous feeling passes.

“‘M sorry, Uncle Wayne, I know you’re just worried.”

“It’s alrigh’ boy, I shouldn’t’a pushed.”

“I’m still doing better than most,” Eddie says, voice tilting up at the end, “I think it’s ‘cause of the magic.”

“Thoughtcha said there wasn’t no cure in that book.” Wayne states, moving to empty the bowl. 

“There’s not,” Eddie closes his eyes, relaxes back into his chair. “Doc thinks Ms. Wilson had the same as me and Ma, and you saw how quick it took her.”

“Mrs. Wilson was nearly 70, Ed.”

“Then how about that boy Carver? He was my age, and Doc gave him six when he came down with it too, was gone in two.”

Wayne shrugs, “The devil wanted him back sooner.”

Eddie barks out a laugh, lifting his head to catch a glimpse of his Uncle’s ‘desperately-trying-to-hide-his-smile’ smile.

Wayne jokes, but Eddie’s been contemplating this for a while now. When he had hit his second month, he was about the same as he was, steadily growing weaker, as what was expected, but nothing like how Ms. Wilson and Jason had looked in theirs. 

Hell, Jason had worked on the docks with Eddie since they were boys; both fit and lean, healthy young men with the musculature to show for their work.

That was when he’d found his mom’s books, and ever since, his health had slowed to a crawl. 

“I think using mom’s magic is helping me.”

Wayne is quiet, cleaning their plates from the table and dumbing the leftover eggs out the window to the pigs. 

“I think it’s your magic now, Eds.”

—---

And so it went.

Eddie’s given six months turned into a year, his magic growing from healing fingerbones, to mending their ox’s broken femur with ease. 

His year didn’t come without worsening symptoms though, and his previously well filled out overalls hung loose around him, his calves barely filling out the tops of his boots tied all the way tight. 

Wayne always kept the faith, so to speak, not a religious man by nature, but Eddie could hear him sometimes in the early morning and late night praying to “Whoever’s got their ears on up there,” to keep Eddie safe, to keep him in their sights when the time came. 

Eddie had been doing work of his own, too. Writing down anything new he found out while sitting with the Earth, listening, watching….

Mother told him through the whispers of the trees, the soft humming of the grass, that he’d know when it was time. 

And that time was within the next few days. 

He felt it in his bones, he felt it in the air when Wayne passed him his birthday gift (a flaky scone with the biggest chunks of chocolate in town, an amazing treat he got once a year) on the morning of his 25th year, he felt it in the very ground he walked on…

He was ready, though he did harbor one regret. One thing he knew he missed out on.

He’d never fallen in love.

Over his last year, Eddie would sit with Mother; amongst the trees, lain back in the field of grass on the hill behind their house, and tell her about them. 

The ‘they’ that he’d likely never meet, the they that would love him for nothing but his love in return. 

Nothing was ever specific, only the vaguest feelings he’d get about them, about the way they’d love, the humor they’d possess, the love for Eddie’s stories they’d have.

And every time he’d speak of them, Eddie’d leave with something that he didn’t realize he had picked up until he was nearly back home. 

A chain of daisies Wayne had plucked from atop his head when he sat down for dinner, a scrap of dark blue fabric he’d found walking through town, a bouquet of bright yellow daffodils, the tiny sun bleached skull of a bat.

And he’d write. Over and over, never quite getting it right, but there was something he knew he needed to get out of his very being before he left for good. Something that felt like a promise.

–

The morning came, and Eddie awoke to a silent house. 

Wayne out on the fields already, most likely out helping the folks on either side of them with whatever they needed doing, with only the hens’ clucks and pigs’ snorts keeping him company with the calls from the birds in the trees. 

Eddie got up, slow as slow could be, got himself into his clothes, shuffled down the hall to the kitchen to their small blue table, tore out a blank page of his mother’s notebook and wrote.

Pouring all of what remained within him, Eddie thought of the Earth, of his mom, of Uncle Wayne, and them. His unknown love.

-x-X-x-

Steve Harrington’s mother was not a witch.

But for the last few years, he’s had a suspicion that his Grandmother is.

Everyone says that their food tastes so good because “It’s made with love!”,  but with Mama Harrington, it was real. The love and intent she imbued into her meals was there. And she could cure any ailment.

She would always go on and on about the importance of food, each recipe’s ingredients’ healing powers, and of the recipes and their stories that had been passed down through the years from her mother, and her mother’s mother, all the way to now, where they ended up in a cookbook that’d gone untouched since it was given to Steve’s mother in the late 60’s.

“A gift! Unused for so many years, Steven!”

“I know, Mama,” he nods again, dropping some green something into the pot of sauce bubbling on the stove. “Almost 25 years.”

“Aye! You have catching up to do.” she says, shaking a thick wooden spoon at him.

“Me?” he scoffs, “I don’t know the first thing about cooking, Mama!” Baking? He’d hold his own. Cooking? If his grandmother wasn’t there to help him of on the phone to guide him through a recipe? Kitchen would go up in flames.

“Bah! Watch closely, dear.” she says, shuffling to the pot that stands nearly as tall as her where it’s perched on the stovetop. “It is always your intent behind what you are cooking. You can make anything be anything as long as the intent is there.”

“Even eggs?”

She nods, her nearly fully white bun flopping back and forth on top of her head. “Even just eggs.”

“So if I want a carbonara to help get my friend a passing grade?” he asks, incredulous, but immediately thinking of Robin, who’s coming up on her finals in a couple months (for her doctorate! A PhD! Can you believe that!).

“The intent! Put it into the eggs, into the pasta, I don’t care! But make it for That!”

She throws a concerningly large handful of pepper into the pot on the stove, and gives it a stir.

“Now, this is my Mama’s recipe, and it will help your Pa’s back.”

“How so?”

“Because I told it to,” she growls, glaring at the pot and raising her spoon as if she was going to smack some sense into it.

“Alright, Mama,” Steve chuckles, “What do you need me to do?”

He spends the next hour helping his grandma roll out some of her premade dough for some fettuccine looking noodles, grabbing a wrapped up blob “from the top shelf, Steven. That’s the stuff I made for you.”. 

He rolls, folds, and cuts it as he’s told, then goes to pick Robin up from campus while she finishes everything.

“It won’t take long now, dear, and you shouldn’t either.” Mama scolds, waving her spoon around once again.

“Got it, Mama, be back soon.” He slips on his shoes, looks in on his grandpa in the living room as he passes, grinning at the loud snores he hears from the direction of Pa’s recliner, and slips out the front door to his car. 

In no time, he’s picked up Robin, stopped for a movie from Blockbuster, and is home to the smell of fresh bread.

“We’re home Mama!”

“I’m just setting the table, grab your Pa!”

“Come on Pa, Mama’s got some pasta for you.” Steve says, coaxing his grandfather out of the chair and into his slippers. 

“Ah, perfect, my back’s been real achy lately.”

“That’s ‘cause you sleep in the recliner, Mr. Harrington.”

“How many times do we gotta tell you, Robin? Just call us Ma and Pa.”

Robin plops down in her designated spot across from Ma, “Hey, you should get used to it now; Once I finally get up the nerve to Chrissy out, she’ll come over here all “Mr. Harrington” this and “Mrs. Harrington” that.

“And how’s that coming, Bobs?” Steve asks her, sitting down beside his grandma and immediately passing the plate of bread across the table to Robin’s waiting hands. 

She starts going off at a million miles a minute about her longest standing crush, while Steve shares a look with his grandma, both smirking conspiratorially as Robin takes a bite of the bread.

That’d been Steve’s suggestion, a bread imbued with luck.

It wasn’t a “Love Spell”, Mama said there was none in existence that were worth the pain. But the minimal luck that she had sown before into countless baked goods (especially near February), have had a surprisingly great track record.

With everyone but Steve.

She couldn’t quite figure out what it was that kept him from getting the benefits too, every time she had tried, they had tried, it was an astounding failure. 

First with Tommy Hagan, the carrot cake cookies Steve had presented him with as a special birthday treat back in middle school ended with two missing front teeth and a broken arm.

Then again without even thinking about it, he’d added some luck and hope to homemade chicken pot pies he’d whipped up when he and Nancy were on the rocks. 

It had somewhat worked with Billy Hargrove, but that one hadn’t even been intentional, and he shudders to think about it to this day.

“I don’t know my dearest, maybe it is because you are already tied to someone else?” She had said after her tried and true pot pie recipe failed.

“But it didn’t even work with the one I was already with!” he yelled, sighing deep and pinching the tears away from the bridge of his nose. “She jumped right into Byers’ arms.”

Mama had just given him a pitying look, which was worse, honestly.

Now, he stays far away from any of Mama’s lucky foods, especially with the weird twisting feeling he had gotten the few times he’d tried over the years after leaving Hawkins.

He and Robin came up to Indy for Robin to go to U of I, a year after she graduated, and when Steve was fired from the job that had been paying the majority of their apartment's rent when he was spotted kissing his then boyfriend by his manager….they came to live with Steve’s grandparents, taking to them both with open arms and hearts.

He comes back to the present when his third bite of pasta clears away the last of his headache.

Steve shoots his grandma a knowing look, which she ignores with a sip of wine. 

–

They’re nearly finished with dinner when it happens.

Steve’s listening intently to a story Pa is telling them, something he’s sure he’s hears a dozen times before, when he absentmidedly picks up, then takes a bite of the bread Ma made for Robin.

It’s more than he’s ever felt before.

In the past, whenever Steve’s tried to gain some luck in love, he’s been inundated with flashes, feelings, words, a warmth in his bones that he’s wanted to hold onto forever. 

The feelings grew stronger the older he got, and now, Steve finds himself sitting on a rolling grassy hill. 

It’s not a flash of a vision like before, he’s sitting in the tall soft grass, and his hands are already making a chain of daisies. Nearly done, in fact. 

He finishes it off, turns it around in his hands, then when he goes to put it on…

He’s back at the table with his family, the slice of bread in his hand, and Pa still telling his story.

Steve jumps up, startling the other three, and beelines it to the kitchen, flinging open drawers, searching for just a damn scrap of paper. 

Mama follows him, “Steve, the bread?”

“I was on a hill, chaining daisies, and now I have to get these words out.” He probably doesn't make a lick of sense, but he doesn’t want to lose them.

Suddenly, a pad of paper and pen are passed into his line of sight. He snatches them up, and starts scribbling down as much as he can.

He and Mama stare down at the words on the page. 

“Mama, what is this?”

She is silent for a handful of breaths.

“This is why the luck never worked.”

now with a part 2!

also: i don’t know the first thing about being a witch or anything of the sort, nor do i know anything but the basics about cooking; hope im not way way off on anything!!! this is all in fun 😅

[seleneprince]

Mulciber: So, are you a boy or a girl?

Sevrina: I'm a fucking mess

[talesfromthecrypts]

Followers’ Favorite Vampire Countdown

2. Count Dracula - Dracula

Listen to them. Children of the night. What music they make.

[taintedbenevolence]

A KNIGHT'S CONSOLATION

a/n: thinking about argenti's s/o consoling him whenever he wonders if spreading idrila's word is pointless and if his faith goes unheard. pairing: argenti x gender non-specified reader warnings: no particular warnings. maybe a bit of information about the knights of beauty. not proofread. category: comfort/mild angst.

Argenti was a typically well-mannered man, with looks so stunning one would think he's the very image of beauty. Fitting, for being a Knight of Beauty, I suppose.

Candid, devout, and warm-hearted were words people often described him as. He bore no ill intent, and although a little exaggerated at times when he directed himself, it was clear he only meant well.

After all, what kind of Knight would he be if he didn't spread Idrila's good word?

Alas, not everyone returns the kindness he offers. And a flower, as beautiful as every, withers like any other if not taken care of.

The kind knight is amicable, but not delusional. He knows well that she whom he follows is well most likely dead — not missing.

This objective of the Knights of Beauty to find their vanished Aeon was starting to seem more like wishful thinking than an accomplishable feat.

And when one's testimony of The Beauty is rejected more often than not, it's easy to grow frustrated — so when your lover strolls with you in the garden with mildly furrowed brows, you can tell the lack of appreciation for his beliefs is starting to get to him.

You take his armored hand in yours, guiding him to a section surrounded by flowers and grass, as you both slowly sit down in between nature's glory.

Slowly beginning to pick apart a few flowers and tying them around each other, you speak softly.

"What is it that bothers you?"

A simple question, but it does bring the knight's attention back to you. He musters a smile, a quiet chuckle leaving through his lips that reverberates through his chest as he gazes at you.

"Dearest, and here I believed that this was meant to soothe us?"

His words are teasing, and well — elaborate, as always, yet, you can tell he's attempting to shift the subject just slightly. Subtly.

But you know better than to ignore when Argenti begins to show signs of distress. So you pry further.

"It is — and I know something is occupying your mind."

And as his breath catches, his emerald hues flicking towards the sky briefly before glancing back at you, a wry smile tugs at his lips — you have him.

And well, it can't hurt to tell you, now can it?

"I still haven't found her."

Those're the first words he speaks. He pauses, before continuing, just a hint of melancholy present in his usually warm gaze.

"And not many are willing to spare a glance at her radiance."

A bit of a complex statement at first, but you're able to decipher quickly enough what he means by his words. His Aeon remains unfound, dead, and any attempt to garner faith for The Beauty has by now been almost but completely futile.

You continue making a wreath out of the flowers, as you hum quietly in response. You know spreading The Beauty's word can for him be, whilst certainly a blessing, also a burden.

"Not many are able to withstand her radiance," You reply in turn, beginning to lift your gaze to meet Argenti's eyes.

"The human mind was not made to comprehend the divine," You continue, finishing the wreath of flowers as you sit beside him, hugging your knees.

"It's normal for a mortal to not believe what cannot be seen," You say to him, not minding his silence as he gazes at you with an expression that slowly turns into a half-hearted, amused, but certainly endearing smile.

"That is very consoling, my love, but.." He chuckles, his lips forming a more genuine smile that has a hint of hurt, not intended to be hidden. "It doesn't make it any less exasperating."

And he is right — even if your words provided a soothing message to his heart, his mind yet remains uneasy. You gaze at him, contemplating his words, and you sigh quietly, as your head leans on his right shoulder.

"There are things that'll remain with uncertainty, Argenti," You state, gazing at the setting sun, the sky slowly shifting into a faded dusk. "Faith cannot be demanded of instantly — it must come of the soul."

Your hand finds his, gently squeezing it, and he still feels a miniscule chill sent through his way with an accompanied warmth from the palm of your hand, despite the armor that separates him from your touch.

"Even if you don't live to see her light once more .." you speak, feeling his attentive gaze fixed on you. You pause, trying to find the right words, before you smile faintly, finishing your statement.

"I can say for certain — the Path you treaded will leave Traces, and I'm sure that she will find a way into mankind's hearts as she did once before."