#but i feel like the consequences will be steep

[rootspiral]

hi, hello!! i absolutely adore your deep dive series into the aaa episodes, and i was wondering if you could/would feel like expanding further into agatha’s guilt towards wanda and all the emotion she shows in the first episode, when she sees wanda’s corpse? the way agnes seems to value human life is especially interesting to me, considering how much agatha has killed (and i understand agnes is a character in what’s supposed to be a very stereotypical detective series, but i remember how you said agnes is in some ways agatha at her most transparent). anyways, i thought i’d try to pick your brain a little more on the subject, because your takes are very interesting to me!

Hi hello to you, thank you for stopping by! And also thank you for your interesting question, consider my brain officially picked. I'm gonna ramble QUITE a bit because I want to talk about Agatha and misogyny first (as requested by @leoleolovesdc ) but hold in there, I'll get to wanda too.

To get to the point directly, I think that Agatha's actions are steeped in internalized misogyny, and I think it's something she inherited from her mother and the salemites. It's actually pretty common for marginalized communities or individuals to turn against their own and replicate the patterns of the oppressor, looking to ease their self-hatred or for outside acceptance or a sense of control. Think for example about super conservative wives voting against their best interests, think about all the homophobia and biphobia and transphobia and acephobia (etcetera etcetera ad infinitum) in the queer community.

The persecution of witches was essentially a war on a kind of womanhood that went again imposed gender norms. Witches (in the marvel universe and in real life) were more often than not women who lived independently, who knew herbs, who didn't marry, who worked as midwives etc. And talking about the salemites specifically and the way they treated Agatha: they did to Agatha what the external world did to them, they replicated a pattern. They targeted the odd one out, the woman in their group who was the most different, and called her evil and essentially tried to burn her at the stake.

We don't know a thing about evanora, but I would BET that a lot of her hatred stems from her own internalized misogyny / agatha being born female, and I honestly wonder if Agatha would have found it harder to love a daughter the same way she does Nicky or Billy, without any of her internalized bias kicking in. Since she was a kid Agatha had been hurt and persecuted by other witches, she's pretty much wired to mistrust and hate them. And it gets even more muddled and complicated because she hates witches but loves witchcraft, she hates women but is sexually and romantically attracted to them. She yearns to belong, but she ends up torturing and killing her own community. She allies with people like that disgusting prick who violated Jen.

Enter Wanda, who is essentially Agatha 2.0: she was born doomed by the narrative or, to say it like evanora, she was born evil. Evanora would have had a FIELD DAY with Wanda. The Scarlet Witch? The destroyer of universes? She would have tried to kill her on the spot. There is A LOT Agatha instinctively hates in Wanda, she's a woman, she's a witch, she's dangerous. Agatha does what the salemites did to her and what men did to witches: she replicates a pattern. She punishes Wanda for being too alone and too different and complicated and scary. And yes Agatha is doing it to get her hands on chaos magic and all that comes with that, but this is all the baggage she brings in.

There's the other side of the coin: Agatha hates women and witches, Agatha loves women and witches, and Agatha hates and loves Wanda. She's been essentially killing and running away for the past two centuries, refusing to dwell on the consequences of her actions, but we know that she is no unfeeling psychopath, that's just a role she plays. We know all her actions weigh on her. With Wanda that sense of guilt is even stronger because Wanda is not a random witch she kills and abandons in the woods, she has to live with her and witness all of Wanda's pain up close, how lonely she is, how scared she is, the grief of losing Pietro and Vision, it's all there to torment Agatha. She cannot be a child about it, she can't close her eyes and cover her ears and go lalala until it's over, she has to take it all in order to get what she wants. And what's worse, Wanda is so similar to her that Agatha can picture exactly what she's feeling down to her bones, that's empathy to the max. And she goes through with her plan and does horrible things to Wanda anyway.

Knowing Agatha like we know her now, I'm convinced that her guilt about Wanda is especially hard to deal with, but Agatha has always refused to deal with any of her inner struggles, so Wanda just goes on the pile together with all the painful and complicated feelings she's pointedly ignoring, and which are not haunting her at all, thank you very much!

Except when she's Agnes, because all the feeling are still there but she doesn't know where they come from. I'd say that more than transparent Agnes is unfiltered, she doesn't know she should censor her struggles like Agatha does. Based on Agnes, we can plainly see what the biggest issues on her Inner Pile of Shit and Sorrow are: grief over Nicky's loss, anger and yearning for Rio, extreme loneliness, and guilt over those she hurt, with a particular emphasis on Wanda.

[noxcheshire]

No keep going

This is what I live for 🤌🏼

I’m trying to think on how the batfam find out that Damian had been sabotaging their leads for his own gain.

Did he make a mistake?

Or did one of the siblings (going off of previous comments let’s say Tim) noticed how odd Damian had been.

A little too quiet, a little too eager to linger against the shadows to listen in on their search — and when they turn, digging to understand why the new kid who had showed nothing but hostility to Danny suddenly became as silent as the grave?

Oh, the anger and heartache.

Maybe deep down everyone had hoped that perhaps Damian had taken their scolding’s to heart, their insistence and proof of their own love for Danny, to heart. Now they saw that wasn’t the case.

Damian had his own agenda to make.

When it is brought to everyone else’s attention, what face will they make? What acts will they take?

Because they had been running themselves ragged trying to find their youngest brother, only to find out that everything they had looked into was nothing more than a falsehood.

Damian won’t give in, he refused to.

He is very willing to cut where he must to be rid of Danny for good.

And Bruce… Bruce looks back at the spitting image of Danny. Yet can’t find even a little bit of Danny there.

Danny has never made that face before, of someone whose willing to burn to see their way through. Of someone willing and eager to sink their claws down and drag out the last breath of something they perceived —

Danny had always been a shy child. Hesitant, but hopeful.

He was a loving child.

One who had smiled like the sun when his siblings helped to hang up stars on the ceiling of his room.

One that dogged Tim’s footsteps with big, guileless, blue eyes as the elder boy spun tales for a child that was never allowed to be.

One that clung to Dick’s back, giggling into black hair when the eldest would dramatically turn on his heels, playing pretend just to hear Danny laugh.

One that curled up at Cass’s legs like a kitten that had a long day and wanted a moment of companionship, tiny and small, tucked by an old used blanket that Cass had seen better days with.

Danny couldn’t even sleep well unless someone cuddled him to sleep.

Damian was none of those things.

But Bruce still searched for something familiar, anything that could make the heat in his chest cool to a simmer, and then he sees it.

That faint shadow in Damian’s eyes that sometimes Danny got too, if he was alone for too long.

It was a shadow of fear, of hesitance, and uncertainty.

No one ever never knew why Danny always had that look in his eyes, but it was the reason why everyone would assure that Danny was never left alone. They didn’t want him to linger on sad things, terrible things, things that made him hide around the manor for hours even while they called for him frantically.

Bruce willed himself to calm even while his children argued amongst themselves, their shadows heavy and long even where Damian stood glowering back tensely at them.

“There will be consequence for this,”

Bruce’s voice broke through the noise and the room fell into tense silence.

“What you have been doing, there will be consequence for it, Damian.” Bruce made sure that this time, Damian would only hear the stern, disappointment from him. He could see the way the boy tensed at the tone, back straight and at attention.

“Danny will be returning to this family — alive. Safe. And unharmed, physically or mentally. After that…”

Bruce wasn’t even sure what to do, truth be told. What can he do with years of taught hate like this?

“We will return to this.”

Bruce turns away, returning to his search for Danny.

The children wait, silent, before shuffling after him in an eagerness to pick up the search with better results.

Dick is the only one to lean into Bruce, muttering a soft, complicated, “B,”

“I know,” he shoots back. “But not right now. Danny has been out there for too long,” and that is the truth.

Danny had been gone for far too long. So much longer than a kid his age should be.

He might have grown up part of the LoA, but he had been so very young when Bruce had extracted him out, bleeding and slowly dying in his arms.

Danny, once safe from Death’s embrace, from there had lived far more like a civilian child.

Bruce had wanted him to, and Danny for his part, was far too willing to be that child.

He feared what sort of situations Danny could be experiencing out in the world now, just a kid, all by himself, hurting and hungry.

The fact that all their progress had some form of sabotage didn’t help Bruce’s mounting frustration. They would all have to scrape everything they had found and go through everything again with a fine tooth comb just to make sure there were no discrepancies.

Months passed that way, retracing every step to see where things had gone wrong.

Months of rerouting every clue and every path Danny might have taken before it had been wiped clean.

Months that led to sleepless nights, and Bruce still reeling in a tumbling daydream of all horrific possibilities when he heard Flash speaking.

He had been tuning the other man out for days now. He had been doing that for everyone, really.

But something the man said made him shake off the constant voices to actually look at the man.

He was grinning excitedly, vibrating as he swung a picture around towards Bruce like one would swing a treat in front of a dog.

Bruce, Batman, scowled.

“I’m telling ya, Bats! He looks like he could be one of yours!” Flash laughs, and finally allows Batman to see.

Batman, Bruce, lunges.

Flash yells in surprise, quickly moving to the other side of the room just before Batman’s fingers could graze across his collarbone.

Bruce snarls.

That was Danny.

That was Danny.

“Take me to him. Now.”

He laid there on the ground, letting the cold sink into his bones as he bled out. Deep down, Danny had known for a long time this was coming. He was the Shadow, the Spare. The Inferior. He'd always been the shame of his family. After all, what good was an assassin that didn't kill?

That's why he knew it'd only be a matter of time before Grandfather got rid of him. He just never expected it to be like this. Struck down by his own brother. In hindsight, it made sense. It was a way for Damian to be completely initiated before his first mission and to cut off the rotted rope of the Al Ghul line.

It made sense, Danny repeated to himself, but it didn't stop the hurt. The pain that cut deeper than the sword to his gut. Damian hadn't even hesitated. He'd picked up his weapon and charged as soon as Grandfather had told them to begin the duel. Sure, he'd known Damian was never too fond of him. And maybe sometimes he'd thrown knives at Danny whenever he called him "Dami". But he always thought there was at least some form of affection between them. After all, they were twins. Yet Damian had ran him through as easily as breathing. He hadn't even spared a glance back as he left with Grandfather and Mother. None of them had.

Danny couldn't help but weakly chuckle. To think this was how his second death would go. Being stabbed by his own brother.

As his consciousness began to fail him, Danny distantly heard was sounded like a plane. Maybe a jet. He heard once that people can hallucinate before they died. Funny, he always figured he'd hear a train or something. Maybe a family member calling his name sweetly. Instead Danny heard heavy footsteps charging towards him. Gloved hands picked him up and held him close to a chest as an unknown voice whispered, "I've got you."

Ah, he realized what was happening. This was his mind's desperate attempt to give him some comfort in his final moments. It was nice, feeling cared for like this. He couldn't remember the last time he had been. Danny quietly thanked his mind for the blissful illusion, before his consciousness fully faded away.

(Bruce finds out he has a son and goes to rescue him. He gets there just in time to stop Danny from bleeding out and leaves, not knowing he's leaving his other son behind.)

[lalunanymph]

KITTEN, BEHAVE ☆

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ there are consequences to teasing your biker boyfriend...

⋆｡°✩ semi-public s/ex, fem!reader, biker!sylus, reader wears a skirt, reader's a nasty gal <3, undertones of dom/sub (sylus is one kinky mf), finger sucking, finger gagging, petnames (kitten, baby), fucking on his bike (hehe), c/um countdown, unprotected s/ex (wrap it up babes), sylus matches our freak perfectly, based on this thot i had

⋆｡°✩ dawn says: i've been a nasty girl ive been a nasty girl nasty nasty (sorry zayne)

Sylus isn’t one to find beauty in the mundane but the wind whipping past his frosty locks and your arms wrapped tightly around him makes him feel like he’s on cloud nine.

“Kitten, are you alright?” he calls over the lashing breeze. 

His leather jacket is ridiculously thick, but even through the material, he can feel the heat of your cheeks seeping through.

You always flush whenever he calls you your favorite pet name, and Sylus forgets that just like a kitten, you can be just as playful. 

A slender hand tipped with French nails slides down his torso, leaving blistering heat in its wake. The thin compression shirt he’s wearing under his jacket can barely fight off the warmth of your palm bleeding past the material and onto his skin.

His heart doubles in speed, and in response, he revs the N-907 Ultrabike, its wheels kicking up more dirt and dust. Linkon City speeds into a blur, White Coves’ beaches in the distance and to his right, Bloom Forest spreads her velvety green arms open for adventurous outdoor lovers to play in. 

Your hand trickles down his abs, stealing his attention back to your whims, and he smirks behind his visor when he feels your dainty, pretty little palm resting on the front of his pants.

Looks like the little kitten wants to play a dangerous game.

Two can play the same. 

Sylus pretends to ignore you, and he can tell it only frustrates you more when he remains stone cold and unmoving; a statue you’re trying to thaw.

Your free hand creeps under the hem of his shirt, and thank fuck the wind is too loud because a groan slips past his clenched teeth—it would be absolutely embarrassing if you heard it. His mind works doubly hard to focus on not crashing the bike, maneuvering it down the winding steep roads.

“I thought you said you wanted to take me for a ride,” your voice touches his heated ears, innocent and alluring. 

“Isn’t that what we’re doing, kitten?” He tilts his head back slightly and hears your snort. 

Your antics will never cease to amaze him. Whatever possessed you to be bold also eggs you on to be audacious. Your hands travel further up his shirt, pressing right onto his broad pecs and you smirk when you feel the bike wobbling slightly under his control.

“Kitten,” he hisses. “Stop it.”

But, you don’t listen to him. You never do. 

This insolent prey. He tries his damndest not to buck his hips when you start to rub his bulge, merciless with your teasing. Your other hand reaches up to his neck, where his favorite leather collar sits prettily on his defined clavicles, and tug on it, earning another hiss.

The bike skids to a stop and you’re not sure how you ended up pushed against the pillion seat, Sylus looming over you. He kills the engine and kicks down the stand, the sudden deafening silence exacerbating your heavy breathing. 

“Wait,” you squeak, and he shakes his head.

“No more waiting. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” 

Looking around in a panic, you notice that he’s parked the bike under a secluded shade of trees, next to an empty strip of road. 

This was the same route you took to the edge of the N-109 when you were given the mission to retrieve Sylus a few months ago. 

“Familiar, isn’t it?” He reads your mind with a dark chuckle. 

Those ruby red eyes bore into yours with the grace of a predator provoked, and you, his favorite prey, will finally get what you’ve been asking for. 

“I think it’s high time we recreated some memories from the first night we both saw each other,” he drags his palm up your bare thigh, making you shiver. “It’s a good thing you’re in a pretty little skirt, kitten,” he hums, pushing the hem of your leather mini skirt—a gift from him—out of the way. 

Sylus inhales sharply when he notices the micro thong you’re wearing which barely covers anything, his nostrils flaring.

“Insufferable.”

“Sy,” you whine, unsure what he's waiting for. It's never like him to play with his food.

The press of his bigger body on top of yours cages you to the pillion seat, the friction burning when he unceremoniously drags you closer to him. 

Those intense eyes seem to devour you, and for the first time since you’ve been together with him, you see a shadow of his villainous evil in them. 

“Is this what you wanted?” 

Is this what you’ve been begging for? 

Sylus wraps a hand around your throat in broad daylight, not caring for morals or decency when he squeezes. Hard.

Your eyes roll back into your head, regret streaming in for how you teased him earlier. 

“A-ah—” you choke lightly. “Was jus’ tryna play around.” 

Sylus ignores your whimpers, a bored look on his face as he loosens his fingers, letting you suck in a wheezy breath. 

“Little hunters never learn their lessons, do they?” 

He smirks unexpectedly. 

“Remember that night you tried to tame me during our interrogation? In the end, I was the one who had you screaming, didn’t I, kitten?” 

You did remember—of course, you did.

The shine of your boots spreading his kneeling thighs apart. Leather collar around a pale strip of throat you just wanted to suck on and leave a mark. His smug leers, those glowing ruby eyes that shone like dying embers when he finally snaps off the handcuffs you placed him in and pins you to the ground for a taste of your own medicine.

As much as you hate to confront the truth, it stares you down with an impassive face and dark eyes—a truth that breaks the delusion that you were the one in control when it came to Sylus. 

He touches your thighs, spreads them further. Bright sunlight speckles through the trees, casting webs of shadows across his crooked nose and high cheekbones. 

Sylus takes his time to peel your thong off, and you bite down on your lip to muffle a whimper.

“What? Don't tell me you're all shy now?” 

He snorts in amusement at your attempts to be innocent, prying your lower lip free, stroking the curve of your plush mouth with his thumb until you relent and suck on his digit docilely. 

While you’re not inexperienced when it comes to such carnal submission, it’s the first time you’re doing it outside of the bedroom where anyone could stumble upon the both of you. 

The thought makes your thighs tense and your needy pussy clench down on thin air, something that Sylus doesn’t miss.

“You like this, huh? Being slutted out so publicly… it turns you on to be so open to me.” 

He continues to push his thumb around your mouth; pressing down on your gums, flicking the tip of your tongue, inspecting the ridges and juts of each pearly white tooth. Intentionally drawing out your humiliation. 

Satisfied with the oral inspection, he removes his thumb, swiftly stuffing your protests with two thick fingers. 

“You say ‘no’, but I can smell that sweet little cunt getting wetter,” he murmurs, flitting his dark gaze right to your folds flushing readily with need; right to that cleft which houses his favorite hole.

Lewd doesn’t begin to cover how Sylus can treat you in bed. Outside the sheets, he’s content to play the role of your partner and friend, tagging along on your adventures and explorations. 

But the second he has you trapped in his bed, he becomes a different person. 

Meaner. Assertive.

Downright cruel. 

“Do you want me to touch you?” He goads, locks of silver hair falling across his damp forehead. Sweat dews across your chest, and you feel the heat of shame rising in you.

Sylus, I was just joking, you try to argue, but he’s not hearing it. 

“Didn’t seem like a joke when you were pawing at my cock earlier, kitten,” your lover hums, unable to take his half-mast red eyes off of you.  

He slots a hand between your thighs, and you swallow a cry when he drags your thong to the side, spreading your wetness around roughly with his thumb. Sylus rubs tight circles on your aching clit, forcing you to slap a hand over your mouth to muffle your moans.

“Ssh,” he whispers when you give a tiny, choked cry. Sylus takes this chance to nuzzle your neck, inhaling your scent like a starved man. “We don’t want anyone to find us out, don’t we, kitten?” 

Evil, evil man. You bite on the inside of your palm to keep quiet when he lifts one leg to wrap around his narrow waist, effortlessly tugging his zipper down and freeing his cock. 

“One single sound and I will stop, do I make myself clear?”

There’s no choice but for you to nod. Sylus doesn’t waste a single second once he’s got you all nice and wet for him, grasping the base of his girthy and veiny length, stroking it a few times to make sure he’s hard and ready for you.

The thick tip breaches past your tight ring of muscle, and you bite down on a sharp gasp, squeezing your eyes close.

His breathing is getting heavier, and he curses the second he bottoms out in your tight heat. 

The bike begins to shake with every clean stroke, his thrusts making your toes curl and heels dig into his back. Luckily, the pillion seat is wide enough to accommodate your shaking bodies; never imagining for a single second that your lover would be boldly fucking you on it in the middle of a dangerous zone.

But, Sylus has always been like this—addictive, painful.

Dangerous. 

How he fucks you is no different. 

The blunt head touches the deepest spot inside of you, and you’re helpless to do anything but cling onto him like second skin, muffling your whines into his broad shoulder.

“Looks like the little kitten is enjoying her cream,” he murmurs, trailing his gaze down your body taking him so well. 

The veins on the back of his hands stand out, drawing your attention to him dragging the front of your blouse down, tucking your bra cups under your heaving breasts. 

Sylus’ mouth wraps around one turgid bud, sucking it till it’s shiny with his spit and throbbing from oversensitivity. 

He repeats the same motion on your neglected nipple, savoring your hitched breaths and muffled whines. 

Your thighs start to shake, and you turn your head to the side. 

Look at you, he coos and grabs your chin, forcing you to gaze at the spot between your thighs where he’s fucking into you. Look at how well you’re taking me. 

You’re so wet that droplets of white are trickling down your inner thighs, frothing into stickiness where his cock is rutting shallowly inside of you. 

“Sy,” you moan softly, eyes glossing over with tears of pleasure.

He loves how needy and pathetic you look for him with your swollen, parted mouth and tight nipples just begging to be pinched or flicked.

A furrow creases between his brows, drops of sweat trickling down his jaw. 

You surprise him by leaning forward, flattening your tongue and lapping it right up, shameless in your desire for him. 

“Naughty girl,” Sylus purrs, his red eyes darkening to an impossible black until you’re sure not a shred of your sweet boyfriend remains. Two thick fingers part your mouth open, sliding down your welcoming throat until he’s knuckle-deep in you.

Sylus chokes you out as his other hand trails down your body towards your clit, rubbing the flushed nub until your hips buck and you cry out; a master at bringing your body closer to the pleasurable brink. 

The tears beading in your lash line finally freefall down your face, triggering his devilish satisfaction. 

Returning the favor, Sylus licks them clean, chuckling cruelly at the arousal turning you cross-eyed. 

He loves it when you look this fucked out, and one day when you’re comfortable enough, he hopes you’ll relent to him taking a picture of that messed up, pretty face for his safekeeping.

Baby, you gurgle around his fingers. I’m close… 

Yeah? He goads. Gonna break for me? Come on this cock? Make a mess? Fuck—do it baby. Mess me up. Make me feel so good because that’s all you’re good for, huh? 

He grits his teeth, fighting back the cresting pleasure, needing you to come first.

Come on, baby. Come with me. Five… four… three… that’s it, baby. You’re so close, aren’t you. Don’t come until I reach zero. Fuck—that pussy’s so tight. Two… one… fuck, fuck. 

High strung keens are escaping past the cracks of his fingers stuffed in your mouth, your entire body shaking violently that Sylus thinks you’re being wrecked by an internal earthquake.

Zero. Zero. Fuck, baby. Come for me. Come on, give it to me. Give me that sweet cum. Yeah, that’s it, that’s it—

He grunts, his patience breaking, flooding inside of you in waves of heat; filling you up to the brim.

In this moment of weakness where anyone targeting him can put a bullet right through his head, Sylus thinks that if he dies right now, he would do so happily in your arms.

His forehead gently thumps onto yours and you must be as fucked up as him because you push his hair back, scratching his scalp lightly.

Your sculpted, 6’2 menace of a lover who’s seen death and destruction since the day he could speak, groans and nuzzles your cheek like a weak puppy. With every version of Sylus that you have seen before, this will always be your favorite one—where he’s comfortable enough to kiss you affectionately, bringing you down from the high.

He hums. “Satisfied?” 

Sylus would never say he loves you out loud—that’s not in his nature.

But, his actions scream louder than words when he adjusts your rumpled clothes and gives you a peck on your cheek.

“Do you still want to visit that mad scientist or should we scrap it for another day?”

The implicit invitation tempts you. 

A boring lecture or a whole day spread out on my sheets, kitten?

“Let’s go home,” you choose the latter, and Sylus tries his hardest to hide his smug smile when you refer to his penthouse as your own home.

“Of course. But, for the sake of not violating any more public decency laws, you better keep your paws to yourself until we get home, kitten.”

Proving your disobedience and your unwillingness to learn your lesson, you sink two fingers under his collar, dragging him close enough for your lips to touch. 

“That depends on if you can get us home fast enough, Sy.”

He takes it as a challenge, a grin touched with a hint of lunacy splitting across his face.

“Is that a challenge, sweetheart?” 

“No, I—”

He pulls you into a kiss, devouring your breaths until your lungs are filled with nothing but him, him, him. 

His fingers in your hair, an arm wound tightly around your waist so his favorite prey can never escape him. Sylus breaks off the kiss, ruby eyes like two bloody pools when he stares at your warm cheeks and puffy mouth. 

“You should know I always—always—win our petty bets.”

— feedback and reblogs are appreciated luvs <33

©️ lalunanymph. do not copy, repost, or translate to another site

[zhongrin]

zhongrin © 2024 ❥ do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or feed into ai.

when your heart screams within your sealed lips…

(…. i hope i can at least be there to hold you.)

featuring... ❥ zhongli, al haitham, wriothesley, neuvillette, jing yuan, blade

involves... ❥ gn!reader, deeply personal blurbs (very self-indulgent), hurt with comfort (vague, with mentions of someone/people wronging/impacting you badly), probably ooc characters, mentions/implied retaliation by the characters

gilded golden lined fingers of a god dethroned gently weaves through your hair. for once, no words fell from your beloved’s lips, for zhongli knew that despite the silent night and the faux tranquility blanketing your dark bedchambers, your heart was screaming and writhing in pain.

the past few days, his amber eyes had followed you as you stumble and trudge through the thick mud of this whole mess you found yourself entrenched in. you may not realize his vigil over you, and countless times he had wished with all his heart, dreaming that you would sit with him to verbalize your troubles, seek his counsel, sought his aid - anything. anything but this foolish game of pretend, because he is not sure until when he can tolerate ignoring the vermin who has given you such unjust treatment.

perhaps in the morning the sky will darken and his wrath will descend upon the land you both walk on towards those who had wronged you. but for now, his anger simmers, bubbles, forges itself silently within his chest, tempered with the eons of expertise of molding metal. for now, he holds you like he’s holding a shattered bone china, like a craftsman appraising its damage before reshaping it with molten gold.

the price of violating the sanctity of a contract is steep, but the price of breaking your trust and betraying your kindness is steeper.

“you need not worry, my love. if there are moments where a god - retired as he may be - must pass judgment, it is now. a contract has been breached… and consequences shall follow.”

there aren’t too many things that can ruffle al haitham’s feathers. but seeing your eyes clouded with hurt and rimmed by veins of reds while you force a trembling smile on your lips as you welcomed him back home… it most definitely exceeds the annoyance from being forced to work overtime on a friday.

he’s glad he’s gotten used to reading you like a familiar book; your form fits snugly within his arms and your weight rests just right on top of his lap, not unlike the way a familiar book fits within his hand and weighs comfortingly in his hold.

“do you want to talk about it?” his comforting skills are a mixed copy of what he remembered from his grandmother and your own actions, carefully threaded and analyzed to fit the situations and the various variables within the scope of the equation. it’s methodical, logical, yet comforting all the same; it’s uniquely your al haitham.

whether you agree to open up to him or not, he’ll eventually find out. researching is one of his strongest skills after all, and when it comes to investigations, he has two strong cards to play: kaveh knows about almost all the gossips circulating in the city, and cyno is a strong advocate of justice who would be able to move independently given a whiff of the possibility of committed transgressions. if they wouldn’t do it for him, he’s sure they would at least feel empathetic towards you.

and if this perpetrator still insists on weaseling their way out of the law… well, he had been looking for a way to dispose that forbidden knowledge capsule, anyway.

wriothesley has never looked forward to arresting and 'welcoming' a criminal so much before.

impartiality is expected when you work in such field, but the agony you’ve gone through and he’d witnessed firsthand due to such heinous individual had been permanently etched in his brain. with each silent tears falling down your cheeks, it adds yet another scar upon his heart. he never fails to hold and comfort you every night, tries his very best to piece you together the best he can. but with how broken you were, he fears that you’ll never be the same.

he never wanted you to obtain a wound that cut so deep, it would leave a mark on your skin or your psyche. he’d take the bullet for you if he could. but with your insistence of dealing with the matter alone at first, he could only watch as you were ripped, torn, beaten.

he’s never felt like he wanted to utterly destroy a man as he catches your falling form and cradles it close to his chest.

so could you blame him when he personally goes on his way to make sure his newest, permanent prisoner feels absolutely unwelcome inside the fortress sunk deep beneath the waters?

after all, when the duke wants a criminal under his jurisdiction to suffer a fate worse than death, he needs no justification.

the word “guilty” had always tasted bitter on his tongue, like a sour, days-old water which had gone through several harsh conditions and became contaminated with environmental causes.

this particular “guilty”, however, he had said with the most conviction, with no pity nor sympathy, and its palate was of the freshest spring water of an untouched stream in the very nation he’s looking after. if the audience observes that the iudex looked colder and spoke with a voice so calm it’s almost obvious he was trying to conceal his fury, they did not say anything. it’s always been clearer than the reflection in the fountain of lucine; the fact that neuvilette holds you in the highest regard as his spouse.

so when you’ve been wronged?

naturally, when the opportunity for him to deliver justice on your behalf comes to him on a silver platter, he takes it with the most gratuity and takes the chance to personally hands down the verdict.

guilty, for the nights he had to hold you to sleep, for the mornings he had to assure you that you could go through the day, for the afternoons he had to check in to make sure you were busy and not wallowing in the murky depths of negative thoughts. guilty, for all the tears, the frustration, the mental strain, the self-hatred, and the bleeding wounds they’d inflicted upon your heart.

guilty, and for once, he finds himself wishing he could have handed down a death penalty.

“what’s troubling you?”

your husband loves his cuddles as much as his feline companions, and he’s just as sensitive to the changes in your mood as they do. with mimi sleeping and being your makeshift pillow, your cat curled right behind you, the fuzzy blanket pulled up to your waist, and your jing yuan holding you close as he continuously strokes your hair… if your heart weren’t so weary, it would have been a peaceful afternoon.

“you know you can tell this old man anything, yes, dearest?” a playful hum and a lazy grin rouses you out of your miserable thoughts, the muted colors filling with the warming golds of his eyes.

unlike inanimate chess pieces on a board, humans may veer off course from their planned routes and therefore proves finicky to handle to some. but to jing yuan, it is but one of the facets that makes human, human. so when you stubbornly try to avoid talking about it, he does not press further, nor does he feel anger.

time and time again, you’ve proven yourself stronger than steel; countless times you’ve proven you didn’t need his help, and it’s always reminded him of how resilient one could be in the face of adversity. still, he can’t help but fret whenever he’s deprived of witnessing the skips in your steps and the pleasant ring of your laughter. he may be patient, but he knows everything has its limits - both your tolerance and his fortitude, that is.

the general sighs and somewhat begrudgingly decides to give you a few more days. he’s gotten used to uprooting weeds growing in his garden after all these years; this, too, will not be any different.

“who did this to you?”

mara is truly a strange phenomenon.

while there are several things that could trigger his condition, if there’s one absolute causation which could decisively result in a mara-struck blade leading a whole carnage, it was seeing pearls of tears drop from your sullen eyes.

for a moment, he thinks it’s his fault. he’s not the best lover, and he has no doubt that you deserve better - but the moment you admitted you wanted him, broken and horribly disfigured as he was, you’ve filled the cracks in his being with you; you’re part of him, now. and he can’t bring himself to ever let go - but as you look into his eyes with the exhaustion of a broken soldier enduring one too many battles, he knows.

he knows he needs to fight a war you dare not tread.

“all i need is a name.”

through the desperation, there’s a hint of pleading in his voice. the hands cradling your cheeks are bandaged and bloodied with the blood of a billion lives, and he’s ever so grateful that you never flinch away from them. red spider lilies blooms ominously behind his gaze, lycorine bubbling like acid in his veins as he commits the memory of your lips forming the syllables, letter by letter. he’s not good at comforting people, so he does the best he could do: stay as close as possible as you rest against him, eventually falling into a tired slumber. blade carefully tucks you in, habitually presses a chaste kiss on your forehead, and sets off when you’re asleep.

if he’s already just a tool anyway, he would rather become the blade that pierces your enemies’ heart for your sake.

[cloudtransprncy]

"One Night Only"

Word count: 11210 Jennie x Male reader

Consequence – That word reverberates through my mind, echoing off the plush walls of this hotel suite. Each decision, every whisper of action, carries its own shadow, trailing behind it. I know this, deep in my bones. Yet, life, in its fleeting dance, seems to mock the very notion of permanence. The only certainty we hold is the silent, inexorable march towards an end we'd rather not face. We push it aside, cloak it in disbelief. Life, in its relentless stride, continues until reality, unbidden, jolts us awake. So, we find refuge in the fleeting – in the amber embrace of liquor, the smoky tendrils of a cigarette, the heady rush of desire. For a night, just this night, we silence the whispers of tomorrow.

Jennie's breath, a ragged symphony, plays against my lips. Our kiss, a dance of longing, tastes of sweet cherries laced our sharp kiss. Her fingers, entwined in my hair, pull us closer, our bodies becoming one in the moon's silver gaze.

Commitment – that once-venerated word now feels like a stranger's tongue. The thought of being tethered, bound by invisible threads of promises stretching across a lifetime, seemed more a prison than a haven. I've always been a creature of flight, a heart unmoored. Maybe that's why she drifted away – a preemptive strike against a future steeped in resentment. In protecting us from the chains of unfulfilled promises, did I sever the only tie that mattered?

Her skin, a canvas of warmth under my fingertips, ignites a trail of desire. As I explore the landscape of her body, each curve, each hidden valley, I lose myself to the moment. Her whisper, a confession in the dark, "I've missed this," binds me tighter than any vow.

Beyond the confines of this room, the city stretches out – a tapestry of steel and dreams under the night sky. Each light, a star in this man-made constellation, speaks of what could be. Once, as a child, I found solace in the stars, in the steady presence of Virgo among the celestial sea. Jennie, like that favored constellation, has always been the light I orbit, the gravity I cannot escape.

In the lunar glow, her face is a serene oasis, her breaths soft sonnets in the stillness. As I trace the lines of her neck, her back arches, a silent plea etched in moonlight. When our gazes lock, in that infinite moment, I see it – the reflection of myself, of us, in the depths of her eyes, a constellation not in the sky but right here, in this room.

--

She'll come. She always does.

In my mind's eye, I knew she was entwined with someone new, a high-profile actor whose name evades my memory. Insignificant, really, in the grand tapestry of our story. He's but one of many, a star in the vast firmament of an industry pulsing with life. His mark on the world may be noteworthy, but in her universe, he's merely a passing comet, fleeting and ephemeral.

We had drifted apart, yet fragments of our souls lingered, delicately preserved within the vases of our hearts. Months had passed since our last encounter, since our fingers last brushed, our eyes last locked. Though a year had unfolded since our parting, the invisible threads that bound us remained unsevered. When she called, I became all ears; when I reached out, she was always there. Our souls, entwined through seasons of love, could not fully disentangle. She may have sought refuge in another's arms, yet a piece of her essence, like a sacred relic, remained eternally mine, as mine did hers.

The revelation of her presence in New York unfurled as I was poised to board my flight from Chicago to Toronto, the next chapter in my tour's melody. A spare day, a gift of time, whispered the possibility of a detour – a rendezvous in the city that never sleeps.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, bathing my suite in a golden haze, I reached out to her. The skyscrapers below sparkled like jewels under the twilight's caress as I dialed her number. She answered, a silence that spoke volumes, a canvas upon which our history was painted. Our conversations had become a dance, a playful chase of cat and mouse, with words unspoken yet understood.

"I'm in the city for one night," I murmured, the words hanging in the air like a promise, a temptation. Her silence lingered, a delicate pause on the other end, filled with the muted symphony of her world – the distant chatter of her entourage, the soft clicks of cameras capturing fleeting moments.

"I got a room for me and you," I continued, my voice a blend of hope and certainty. "This is for one night only." The details spilled out, coordinates to our secret haven, as the line hummed with the electricity of anticipation before falling silent. But my heart knew – she would be there, drawn to me as I to her, in this city of dreams and shadows.

A knock fractured the stillness of the midnight hour, a subtle intrusion into the suite where I stood, lost in thought. Above, the sky had donned its nightly regalia, stars scattered like diamonds on black velvet, while the moon – a coy dancer among the celestial array – cast a playful glow upon the city's silhouette. Clouds, thin as gossamer, shifted in the sky, their movements like silk curtains in a soft breeze, alternately veiling and revealing the moon's luminescence. The hour was ethereal, suspended between the remnants of the day and the possibilities of the night.

As I opened the door, she materialized before me – an enigmatic vision at the threshold. She stood there, robed in a chic, form-fitting black dress that gracefully embraced her figure, ending mid-thigh in a delicate declaration of allure. Encircling her legs were knee-high socks, culminating in a daring thigh garter – a subtle yet bold statement of her unique style. Her presence was a striking contrast to the muted opulence of the hotel suite.

Her hair, a cascade of dark, silken strands, framed her face in a perfect balance of elegance and wildness. It fell around her shoulders like the night itself had woven a mantle of shadows to adorn her. The dress clung to her form, outlining her slender arms and the gentle curves of her body, a testament to her poise and the understated power of her presence.

Her makeup was an artful composition, her eyes highlighted with a subtle precision that spoke of distant lands – a hint of an exotic narrative told in the language of beauty. It was understated yet impactful, enhancing her natural features with an artistry that suggested a story deeper than what the eye could see. Her lips, painted in a soft, natural hue, invited a second glance, a lingering focus.

As her gaze met mine, it was electric, a current of shared history and unspoken understanding passing between us. Her eyes, dark and inscrutable, held a depth that was both inviting and impenetrable. The air around her was perfumed with the rich scent of roses, intermingling with the sweet notes of her perfume, creating an aura that was at once intoxicating and comforting.

Her smile unfurled, a familiar softness that painted her features with an intimacy known only to those who had once shared everything. It was a grin that reached back through time, stirring a sea of memories within me.

"Hey," I found myself saying, my words emerging with a hint of a smirk, a reflex born of countless shared moments.

"Hey yourself," she echoed, her voice a melody laced with history. Her fingers, delicate yet assertive, found my chest, pressing gently, urging me backward into the realm we had once known so well. The sensation of her touch was like a key turning in a long-locked door, opening pathways to a past we had carefully navigated.

"It's been a while," her words floated through the air, a statement hanging between us, laden with unspoken narratives.

"Indeed it has," I replied, my voice a soft echo of our shared past. The click of the door sealing us within the suite marked a threshold crossed, a silent herald of a journey into realms both familiar and uncharted.

In that simple exchange, a current of anticipation began to build. The air between us became charged, a palpable tension that spoke of things unsaid, of paths once walked and now revisited. The weight of our history and the uncertainty of our present wove together, creating a tapestry rich with possibility and fraught with the complexity of our intertwined past.

In the soft, muted light of the suite, it didn't take long for our reunion to transform into an entwined embrace on the couch, a fusion of longing and familiarity. The kiss was a deluge of suppressed desires, a fervent torrent that left no room for ambiguity in our intentions. Her body against mine was a juxtaposition of the known and the novel, a comforting familiarity found on unfamiliar terrain. Our tongues, engaged in a private waltz, rediscovered a rhythm that pulsed with both nostalgia and excitement.

My hands roamed her form with an eager curiosity, tracing the familiar yet rediscovered contours of her body. The sensation of her skin under my fingertips was a tapestry of memories and new sensations, each touch reigniting a forgotten connection. The urgency in our movements was palpable, a frantic energy that surged against the sands of time since our last entwining. We were an orchestra of motion and sound, a harmonious blend of sighs and soft moans, a tempest of passion and need. The air around us was thick with the scent of our mingled perfumes, a heady aroma that enveloped us in a cocoon of intimacy.

She dug her fingers into my hair, pulling me closer with a forcefulness that stoked the flames of my arousal. The pressure of her lips on mine intensified, her tongue dancing with increasing urgency. A soft whimper escaped her throat, sending shivers of pleasure down my spine. Our tongues fought for dominance, fueled by the heat of our desires.

A sharp intake of breath escaped Jennie as my hands found their way, cupping the curves of her ass with a gentle firmness. The motion drew her closer still, eliminating any space that lingered between us. Through the thin fabric of her dress, I could discern the outline of her response, her nipples hardening under my touch. A physical testament to the charged atmosphere that enveloped us. Her body’s reaction, tangible and immediate, sent a wave of anticipation coursing through me.

The texture of her dress under my palms was a subtle contrast to the warmth of her skin, a reminder of the thin veil that still separated us from total surrender. Each breath she took was a melody, harmonizing with the quiet symphony of the night around us.

Jennie's retreat from our kiss left a tangible, connecting strand, a fleeting bridge between us that shimmered in the dim light. Her eyes, dark and enigmatic, bore into me with an intensity that felt as if it could unravel the very fabric of my being. Those eyes were like portals to uncharted depths, brimming with unspoken tales of desire and yearning.

"I've missed this, Owen" she whispered, her voice a soft rumble, resonating with every fiber of my being. She grinds against me, her hips moving back and forth, a tangible expression of her yearning that seeped through the barriers of our clothing. Her fingers, entwined in my hair, drew me back into her orbit, our lips crashing together in a kiss that was as fierce as it was profound. The intensity of our connection, raw and unbridled, engulfed me.

Consumed by her presence, the taste of her lips, the feel of her pressed so close, my hands roamed with a mind of their own. They journeyed beneath the hem of her dress, venturing over the smooth, warm terrain of her skin, each inch revealed a revelation in itself. The sigh that escaped her, a breathless affirmation of the moment, reverberated in me like a symphony.

Our bodies moved in tandem, a harmony of action and reaction, each caress, each undulation building on the next. Slowly, inch by inch I pushed her dress upward, revealing the subtle, sensual landscape of her form. Jennie's breath quickened as her hips rolled, grinding with an increased fervor against me, her nipples stiff and pronounced, brushing against my shirt, an exquisite combination of restraint and liberation. Her arms stretched upwards into the air as I pulled the fabrics of her dress, away from her, lifting its grip from her form, and over her head, which she then tossed casually to one side.

As Jennie's dress slid away, her figure, a stunning tapestry of curves and lines, was unveiled in the lunar glow that seeped through the windows. The moonlight played upon her skin, casting it in an ethereal shimmer, transforming her into a vision of porcelain radiance. She stood there, an embodiment of confidence and sensuality, a modern-day deity framed in a chiaroscuro of shadows and light.

My gaze lingered on her breast, tracing the contours of her physique – the gentle slopes and the pronounced curves that defined her form. Each aspect of her body, from the graceful arc of her waist to the delicate structure of her shoulders, spoke of a silent grace, a beauty that was as natural as it was captivating. Her skin, smooth and luminous, seemed to capture the very essence of the moon's glow, reflecting it back in a soft luminescence that highlighted her every move. My hands, acting with a fervor born from deep within, eagerly explored the expanse of Jennie's skin, a landscape I had once known intimately. The sensation of her beneath my fingertips was exhilarating – a cascade of textures and warmth that set every nerve ending alight. Her skin was soft, yet firm, yielding under my touch with a gentle resilience that beckoned for more exploration.

As I traced the contours of her body, every curve and dip spoke volumes. The softness of her breasts contrasted with the smooth, firmer feel of her abdomen, each sensation a paragraph in the story of her body. The way her skin responded to my touch, with subtle shifts and sighs, was like conversing in a language of sensation, each caress a word, each touch a sentence.

As my hands continued their journey, Jennie's responses turned into a symphony of their own. Her moans, soft yet resonant, were like notes rising from a well-tuned instrument, each one a melody of pleasure and surrender. The sound of her voice, humming in contentment, filled the room with a music that was deeply personal, an intimate concert shared between two souls.

Her moans ebbed and flowed with the rhythm of my touch, crescendos of sound that matched the increasing intensity of our connection. They were not just expressions of pleasure; they were communications, telling me without words how each caress, each gentle stroke was received. Her hums, low and melodic, were the bassline to the higher notes of her moans, creating a harmonious blend that was as compelling as any melody.

After savoring the sensation of Jennie's skin beneath my hands, an innate longing surged within me to delve deeper, to explore her with the intimacy of my lips. I began at her collarbone, a spot often overlooked yet brimming with delicate sensitivity. My lips traced its subtle contours, each kiss eliciting a gentle sigh from Jennie, her skin warm and soft under the tender pressure.

As I journeyed to her shoulders, the texture of her skin subtly shifted, becoming smoother, more resilient. Her responses grew in intensity, her moans a testament to the changing sensations my lips invoked. The scent of roses from her perfume grew stronger here, mingling with her natural fragrance to create an intoxicating aura.

Gliding down her arm, I reveled in the silkiness of her skin, each kiss a discovery of her unique topography. But it was at her armpit where I lingered, captivated by the uniqueness of this hidden enclave. The texture here was more intimate, the skin softer and imbued with a deeper scent that was unmistakably Jennie - raw and personal. Her reaction was more pronounced; her moans louder and filled with a depth that spoke volumes of the pleasure she felt.

As my lips finally reached the crest of Jennie's chest, the change in texture was profound. Her breasts, tender and full of life, responded to each kiss with a symphony of sensation. The delicate softness beneath my lips felt like the most luxurious satin, each touch deepening our connection. The subtle firmness of her nipples, aroused and beckoning, contrasted with the yielding flesh around them.

Gently, I let my tongue dance over the stiffened peak, and Jennie's reaction was immediate. A shiver coursed through her, a physical echo of the pleasure that resonated within. Her breathing became a series of rapid, shallow waves, a delicate soundtrack to our intimate ballet.

Meanwhile, my hand ventured to its twin, mirroring the actions of my mouth. The sensation of rolling and lightly flicking her other nipple elicited from her a chorus of sensual sounds, each moan a note in our crescendoing duet.

When I enveloped her sensitive peak with my mouth, Jennie's moan - "Oh my god" - reverberated through the room. The meticulous circling of my tongue around her was a focused ritual, each motion deliberate and attuned to her responses. The flavor of her skin was a delicate blend of sweetness tinged with the saltiness of her arousal, a tantalizing taste that drew me deeper into the moment. Her chest pushed forward, eager to meet the onslaught of stimulation with an intuitive abandon.

"I forgot how good you feel," I murmured, my voice tinged with a deep arousal, the words escaping almost involuntarily.

"I want to feel you too," Jennie responded, her voice a breathless mixture of playfulness and desire, sending a jolt of longing straight through me. Her eyes, deep and enigmatic like the midnight sky, held mine with an intensity that spoke volumes. Her hand traced a path up my arm, gliding over the contours of my shoulder, then wrapping around to my back with an electrifying touch that felt like a firebrand on my skin.

With an urgency that mirrored our rising passions, she tugged at my shirt, a silent beckoning for me to shed the last barrier between us. In a swift, seamless motion, Jennie peeled my shirt away, her hands immediately finding the warmth of my bare chest. Her initial feather-light touch quickly intensified, her fingers becoming more assertive, tracing and exploring my skin with a growing fervor that matched the beat of our racing hearts.

As Jennie began to mirror the way I had cherished her body, the intensity of the experience magnified. Her lips traced a path down my neck, each kiss a delicate imprint that seemed to sear into my memory. The sensation of her mouth moving across my skin was both soft and fervent, a contradiction that sent waves of pleasure through me.

Her hands, emboldened by her desire, explored the landscape of my torso. The contrast of her delicate fingertips against the firmness of my muscles created an exhilarating dance of sensations. The pressure of her touch varied, sometimes feather-light, other times more assertive, mapping the contours of my body with an attentiveness that was almost reverent. Each caress seemed to speak volumes, communicating her appreciation and desire in a language beyond words.

As she reached my chest, her exploration became more intense. The sensation of her lips against my skin was like an electric current, each kiss a spark that ignited deeper, more primal feelings within me. Her breath, warm and uneven against my skin, her soft murmurs and occasional sharp expletives, added to the crescendo of sensations, making every moment feel more heightened, more vivid.

In the midst of this exchange, a thought flickered through my mind, unbidden yet insistent. I wondered if her nights with her boyfriend held the same intensity, the same unbridled passion that we were experiencing. Was there the same depth of connection, the same exploration of senses? The thought was a sharp contrast to the immediacy of our encounter, a jarring reminder of the reality beyond this room.

Yet, as quickly as the thought came, it was swept away by the tide of our passion. The here and now was all that mattered - the feeling of her hands on me, the taste of her lips, the sound of her soft exclamations. In this moment, nothing else existed but the intensity of our rekindled connection, a fervor that seemed to eclipse all else.

"Fuck! I need your dick in my mouth," Jennie's voice was thick with desire as she slid off my lap. Her hands, eager and insistent, found their way to the waistband of my sweatpants. With a swift, almost ravenous movement, she tugged them down, freeing my aching arousal. It stood, hard and throbbing, just inches from her face. Her eyes, alight with a fiery blend of lust and hunger, locked onto mine.

"You can have it tonight," I responded, my voice a deep rumble of desire, as her small, delicate hands encircled me. The contrast of her soft touch against my hardness only heightened the moment.

"All of it?" Her question was laced with a seductive confidence, her eyes burning with an intensity that spoke volumes of her desire. I could only nod, caught up in the moment's gravity.

Leaning forward, Jennie's lips parted slightly, and she drooled over a thick glob of saliva that landed precisely on the tip. The warm fluid began to trickle down, glistening in the dim light. She deftly used her fingers to spread it, coating me in a sheen that was both slick and inviting. My entire being was alight with sensation, every nerve ending attuned to her movements as she began to work her hand along my length. Her grip was firm, her movements measured, each stroke a deliberate act of provocation.

Jennie's movements became more intense as she tilted her head, sweeping her hair to one side with a free hand while maintaining her fervent stroke. Her gaze remained locked with mine, a fiery blend of intensity and curiosity as she leaned down. The first sensation was the heat of her breath, a hot, moist whisper against my skin. Then came the slow, deliberate touch of her tongue, tracing a circle around the tip. The electricity of her touch sent a tremor through my body, a visceral reminder of our past intimacy.

As Jennie's lips enveloped the crown, the sensation was both familiar and overwhelming. Her tongue skillfully danced and teased, each movement deliberate and laden with sensation. The warmth and wetness of her mouth enveloped me further, each motion a blissful exploration. Time seemed to stretch and warp, the world outside our bubble ceasing to exist in the wake of her expert ministrations.

Her soft moan, vibrating around me, amplified the sensation, sending shockwaves through my body. I was caught in a spellbinding haze of pleasure, each movement she made bringing me closer to the edge of surrender. The combination of her lips, tongue, and the soft vibrations of her moans created an indescribable tapestry of pleasure, leaving me utterly enraptured.

"Holy Shit!" I couldn't hold back the moan as I found support against the couch's frame, my arms stretched out for stability. The intensity of Jennie's movements sent waves of pleasure through me, causing my head to thrash back in ecstasy. My heart raced uncontrollably, every beat echoing the mounting need within me.

Jennie's hair, a dark cascade, framed her face as she moved with a precision that was nothing short of masterful. The sensation of her lips, sliding rhythmically along my length, was unparalleled. Her ability to take me fully, her breath steady through her nose, spoke of an expertise that was both awe-inspiring and deeply arousing. The way her cheeks hollowed, the hungry suction, the repeated swallowing of my length – it was a dance of intensity and passion.

She occasionally paused, deliberately choking on the tip to gather saliva, which she then used to lubricate my entire length, enhancing the ride with each slick, smooth movement. Every action, every technique of hers was a testament to her skill, her dedication to the act transforming it into something akin to fervent devotion. The pleasure she bestowed was not just physical; it was an experience that transcended the mere act, elevating it to a form of worship.

As I felt the tide of climax beginning to rise within me, I instinctively wanted to prolong this intense experience, to savor more of Jennie's body. Gently, I tried to guide her head away, signaling my intention to pause, but she was resolute. Her determination was clear; she was intent on bringing me to the edge right then and there.

My attempts to ease her off were met with a firm slap of her hand against mine, a silent but emphatic message that she wasn't done yet. "You're giving this to me now, and you're giving me more later," she declared with a commanding tone that brooked no argument. Her eyes, alight with a fierce desire, locked onto mine, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

Jennie intensified her movements, her lips and hand working in perfect tandem. The sight of her, so engrossed in the act, her hair framing her focused expression, was utterly captivating. Each movement of her head, each stroke of her hand, was a masterful balance of pressure and rhythm, pushing me closer to the brink.

The sensory overload was overwhelming - the sight of her dedication, the feel of her mouth and hand, and the sounds of our shared pleasure filling the room. Jennie's technique was a perfect symphony of movements, each one bringing a higher crescendo of sensation, making it impossible to think of anything but the imminent and intense climax.

As the moment approached, a feeling akin to a tempestuous sea churned in my stomach, a wave of pleasure building, threatening to crest. Jennie, attuned to my nearing edge, let out a moan that mingled with the surge within me, intensifying the inevitable release. Overwhelmed, I succumbed to the climax, an eruption of sensation, met by Jennie's unwavering embrace. Her lips formed a perfect seal around me, her rhythmic strokes ensuring not a single moment was lost.

Her gaze remained locked with mine throughout, a mirror of pure satisfaction as she swallowed, taking in every part of the experience. In her eyes shone a prideful gleam, a recognition of her own prowess in guiding me to this point of surrender. Her delight was palpable, a silent celebration of the control she wielded, the pleasure she had drawn out.

As the waves subsided, leaving a trail of bliss in their wake, Jennie finally drew back, the connection gently severed, leaving us both in a state of breathless reprieve. She then picked up my shirt from the floor, using it to delicately wipe away the remnants of our encounter from her mouth and hands, her actions as deliberate and composed as they had been in the height of our passion.

Reeling from the intensity of my climax, I found myself being gently but firmly drawn back to the present by Jennie. Her lips met mine in a kiss that was soft yet charged, the taste of myself on her tongue adding a complex layer to our connection. This was more than just physical; it was an exchange of unspoken promises, a dance of intimacy and understanding.

"I'm not done with you. You brought me here, we're gonna make the most of it," she whispered against my lips, her tongue playfully darting out to trace my bottom lip. With a sudden shift, she grasped my hand and led me towards the bed, her movements fluid and purposeful.

As we moved through the suite, the sounds of the city outside filtered through the windows – the distant hum of traffic, the soft murmur of voices, the occasional siren. These were the symphonies of the night, the backdrop to our unfolding story. The room's lighting cast a soft, ambient glow, painting everything in a hue of warmth and intimacy.

As Jennie gracefully made her way onto the bed, her back presented a captivating sight. The arch of her spine flowed into the gentle swell of her hips, each movement accentuating the allure of her lower back and hips. Clad in a small black thong, her hips were teasingly framed, the fabric nestled seductively in the crevice, hinting at the hidden treasures yet to be revealed.

As she reached the center of the bed, Jennie slowly maneuvered herself into a captivating position. Her legs, long and elegantly toned, were raised and folded in a 'W' shape, an enticing display of both vulnerability and invitation. This pose accentuated the length of her legs, the curvature of her hips, and the delicate symmetry of her figure. The knee-high socks she wore added a contrasting element of innocence and playfulness to her otherwise exposed form.

Then, as if compelled by a force beyond her control, Jennie's hands embarked on a tantalizing exploration of her own body. They traced the contours of her breasts with a languorous care, each touch a study in self-adoration. The slow, deliberate movements of her fingers were hypnotic, accentuating her allure in the dimly lit room.

The transformation in Jennie's appearance since our earlier encounter was striking. Her makeup, now smudged and spread, lent her an air of wild abandon, while her hair, disheveled and untamed, framed her face in a chaotic halo. This raw, disordered state only heightened her appeal, lending her a captivating, almost intoxicating aura of realness.

Reclining gracefully, she ran a finger tantalizingly over her lips – lips that still bore the evidence of our previous passion. She continued her seductive journey, her finger tracing a path down her neck, over the gentle swell of her chest.

"come here..." she gestured over for me to join her on the bed, her tone both commanding and inviting. She turned to lay on her back, the sight of her body beckoning me forward.

Still covered by a black thong, her most intimate area was teasingly concealed, yet the way she moved hinted at what was to come. As I stepped closer, drawn in by the magnetic pull of her presence, Jennie reached down with a tantalizing slowness. Her fingers hooked onto the thin fabric of the thong, sliding it off in a motion that was nothing short of seductive. The removal of this final barrier revealed her in full, a breathtaking vision of desire laid bare before me.

In a move that was both deliberate and revealing, Jennie reached down, her hands delicately pulling at the skin on her inner thighs. This gesture was an open invitation, a welcome for my eyes to feast upon her most intimate self. As she gently parted her skin, the hidden beauty of her entrance was unveiled, a sight that was both intensely private and undeniably captivating. Her entrance glistened, its moist perfection a testament to the intensity of her arousal.

As I crawled forward onto the bed, the sensation of the soft, plush sheets against my hands was immediately noticeable. The fabric was smooth and fine, a stark contrast to the fervent energy that filled the room. Each movement I made caused the sheets to shift ever so slightly, creating a subtle but distinct sensation against my skin.

The bed itself was an island in the midst of our passion, its surface both yielding and supportive, a perfect backdrop for the intensity of the moment. As I found my place between Jennie's legs, the bed seemed to embrace us, its softness enveloping us in a cocoon of comfort and intimacy.

Jennie's body was a canvas of desire, painted with the colors of her own passion. Her skin, creamy and fair, glistened with sweat and moisture, reflecting the soft glow of the lamp on the bedside table. Her hair framed her face in a halo of darkness, accentuating her delicate features. Her breasts, small and plump, rose and fell with each shallow breath she took, their nipples hard and erect beneath the thin sheet that covered her.

As I looked at her from my position between her legs, I couldn't help but marvel at the sight before me. She was naked and vulnerable, yet there was a strength in her that spoke volumes. It was as if she had shed all pretenses of modesty and embraced her true self - a woman who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to go after it.

Jennie's hands moved with purpose across her body, tracing lazy circles around her nipples before dipping down to explore the sensitive flesh between her legs. Her fingers were long and slender, each one ending in a sharp claw that seemed to dig into her skin with every movement. She moved with an intensity that was both mesmerizing and intimidating - a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and wasn't afraid to take it.

As I watched her touch herself, my own body began to respond to the sight before me. My heart raced in my chest as I felt my own erection begin to stir beneath my sweatpants. The thought of being with Jennie again - of feeling her body against mine - was enough to send waves of pleasure coursing through me.

I couldn't help but feel drawn to her entrance - that intimate place where she had given herself so completely to me before. As I crawled closer between her legs, I couldn't help but feel a sense of reverence for the sight before me. It was as if I were witnessing something sacred - something that belonged only to us two.

Jennie's entrance was like nothing I had ever seen before - a perfect blend of delicate petals and firm muscle. The pink flesh was soft yet firm beneath my fingertips as I traced them over the surface. The scent of wetness mingled with the aroma of sweat and lust as I explored every inch of this intimate place that belonged solely to Jennie.

As I teased her entrance with my fingers, Jennie moaned softly - a sound that sent shivers down my spine as it echoed through the room. Her body tensed beneath me as she reached out for me - drawing me closer until our bodies were pressed together in an intimate embrace that seemed to transcend time itself.

I couldn't help but marvel at the sight before me. Jennie's entrance was like nothing I had ever seen before - a perfect blend of delicate petals and firm muscle. The pink flesh was soft yet firm beneath my fingertips as I traced them over the surface. The scent of wetness mingled with the aroma of sweat and lust as I explored every inch of this intimate place that belonged solely to Jennie. As I teased her entrance with my fingers, Jennie moaned softly - a sound that sent shivers down my spine as it echoed through the room. Her body tensed beneath me as she reached out for me - drawing me closer until our bodies were pressed together in an intimate embrace that seemed to transcend time itself.

I closed my eyes and let out a low moan as I savored the scent of her pussy, allowing it to permeate my senses and fill me with a desire that was both insatiable and exhilarating. My tongue darted out, eager to explore the fleshy depths of her entrance, and I licked the outer folds with a gentle, exploratory motion. The taste was unlike anything I had ever experienced before - sweet and salty, with just a hint of tanginess that spoke of her natural chemistry. It was intoxicating, addictive, and I found myself wanting more and more with each passing moment.

As my fingers delved deeper into her fleshy thighs, I felt a surge of pleasure course through me. The sensation was electrifying, sending shivers down my spine with each lick and suck. Her body pulsed beneath me, her hips undulating in rhythm with my movements, as if we were two dancers in perfect harmony. The sound of her soft moans filled the air, adding to the sensory experience. I could feel the heat radiating from her skin, the texture of her flesh beneath my fingertips, and the taste of her juices on my lips. Every sensation was amplified, every detail was vivid, and I found myself completely immersed into her.

I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe for the view before me - it was as if I were witnessing something holy - something that belonged only to us two. With each flick of my tongue, a symphony of sensations unfolded, like a tapestry of flavors and textures. I navigated the labyrinthine depths of her crevices, discovering hidden chambers and secret alcoves that ignited my senses. The taste of her essence, both sweet and musky, mingled with the salty tang of her sweat, creating a heady elixir that intoxicated me. The warmth of her body radiated through my skin, enveloping me in a cocoon of desire. The taste intensified, the sweetness fading into something richer and more intricate - a taste that spoke of depth and complexity that mirrored our own bond.

As I delved deeper into her entrance with my flicking tongue, I couldn't help but feel a sense of pride in what we were doing together. The world outside faded away, leaving only the raw, unapologetic sensations that coursed through our veins. Our bodies were connected by desire and passion, and we explored each other's with a sense of freedom and abandon. The taste of her essence was intoxicating, and I couldn't get enough of it. The salty tang of her sweat mingled with the sweetness of her body, creating a heady elixir that left me dizzy with pleasure. The warmth of her body radiated through my skin, enveloping me in a cocoon of desire. It was a moment of pure sensory exploration - an exchange of pleasure that transcended words or actions. It didn't matter that she was with someone, all that mattered was what we both wanted - needed..

"Oh my God!" As her slender fingers delved into the silken strands of my hair, a guttural moan escaped her lips, echoing through the dimly lit room like a siren's call. Her touch was a symphony of sensations, each caress sending shivers down my spine. It was as if she was weaving a spell, ensnaring me in a web of desire with every delicate pull and tug. "You're so good at that, Owen" Her teeth sank into the softness of her lower lip, drawing a crimson bead of blood. The skin of her neck tightened, corded muscles standing out like delicate ridges beneath the surface. A low, guttural growl escaped her throat, a primal sound that reverberated through the room.

My tongue, a fervent explorer, ventured beyond the silken folds of her womanhood, tracing the contours of her hidden desires. Each delicate stroke ignited a symphony of sensations, a chorus of whispers reverberating through her core. Her body, a finely tuned instrument, responded with a tremor, a ripple of anticipation coursing through her limbs. She writhed in agony, her limbs trembling with the intensity of her pleasure. Her stomach twisted and churned, a maelstrom of emotions swirling within her core. Her head lolled back, her eyes rolling with ecstasy as her body surrendered to the sensations coursing through her veins.

Her head arched back, a gasp escaping her lips as my tongue ventured forth, seeking the epicenter of her desire. My lips moved in a circular motion, teasing and tormenting her sensitive nub, each revolution igniting a fiery burst of pleasure that rippled through her body. Her legs tightened around my head, her toes curling in ecstasy as her hips bucked involuntarily. One of my fingers slipped down between the silken folds of her entrance, circling and probing, adding an extra layer of stimulation. The combination of my tongue and finger was too much for her, sending her spiraling into the abyss of ecstasy.

The room filled with the symphony of her moans, a primal melody that echoed off the walls. Her body writhed beneath me, her curves undulating like waves crashing against the shore. I could feel her heat and her wetness, taste her desire and her passion. I was lost in the moment, consumed by the sensations that swirled around us like a maelstrom. My finger continued its relentless assault, tracing the contours of her entrance, teasing and probing at its delicate folds. My tongue flicked and danced across her clit, each touch sending shockwaves of pleasure through her body. She was a marionette in my hands, her body contorting and twisting at my every whim. Her fingernails dug into my back, leaving moon-shaped marks on my skin. I basked in the pain, a manifestation of her unyielding passion.

Diving deeper into Jennie's silken depths, I felt her body tremble beneath me, her breath hitching in ragged gasps. My tongue danced across her heated folds, swirling and teasing like a mischievous sprite. Each touch sent shockwaves of ecstasy rippling through her core, her moans escalating into a desperate symphony that filled the room. Her hips arched involuntarily, seeking more of my fervent ministrations.

With one hand buried between her legs, I reached up with the other, exploring the smooth expanse of her toned stomach. My fingers traced the contours of her abs, teasing and tormenting her sensitive navel. She arched her back, her hips bucking wildly as my tongue danced across her clit. I could feel her heat and her wetness, taste her desire and her passion. I was lost in the moment, consumed by the sensations that swirled around us like a maelstrom.

As I continued to lick and suck at her clit, I slipped a finger inside her. It slid in easily, coated in her wetness. I began to pump my finger in and out, matching the rhythm of my tongue on her clit. Jennie's moans grew louder, more frenzied, her body trembling with anticipation. I could feel her muscles clenching around my finger, a sign that she was close.

With my free hand, I reached up to cup her breast, squeezing gently as my tongue continued its relentless assault on her clit. Her nipple hardened in my hand, a dark, erect bud that begged for attention. I pinched it lightly between my fingers, eliciting a sharp gasp from Jennie. Her hips bucked wildly, her body writhing beneath me as I continued to finger and lick her.

I could feel her heat and her wetness increasing, a sign that she was on the brink. With each relentless thrust, I quickened the tempo of my finger, driving it deeper into her slick, welcoming depths. I could feel her body responding, her muscles clenching and unclenching around my eager digit, a symphony of anticipation and surrender. Her breath hitched in her throat, a soft gasp escaping her lips as I continued my relentless assault on her pleasure center. My tongue danced across her clit, teasing and tormenting her sensitive nub. Jennie's moans grew louder, more desperate, a symphony of pleasure that filled the room.

In the hallowed chamber of our love, anticipation hung heavy in the air, pregnant with the promise of ecstasy. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her whispered words barely audible above the fervent rhythm of our bodies. "Owen," she breathed, "I'm so close," and I could feel the trembling of her body, the clenching and unclenching of her muscles.

We were dancing on the precipice, so close to the edge, and I couldn't resist the urge to push her over. My fingers slid deeper into her slick, welcoming depths, the tempo of our love growing faster, more intense with each passing moment. The air was thick with the scent of passion, the taste of lust, and the sweetness of surrender.

As I continued my relentless assault on her pleasure center, I could feel the tension building, the anticipation growing. The air was thick with the scent of passion, the taste of lust, and the sweetness of surrender. My fingers slid deeper into her slick, welcoming depths, the tempo of our love growing faster, more intense with each passing moment. The rhythm of our bodies was in sync, our movements fluid and graceful, as we danced on the precipice of ecstasy.

I could feel the heat radiating from her skin, the beat of her heart echoing in my ears. Her whispered words of desire were like music to my ears, fueling my desire to bring her to the edge. I could sense the trembling of her body, the clenching and unclenching of her muscles, as she surrendered to the pleasure.

As I felt her body convulse around me, I knew that I had pushed her to the edge, that I had brought her to the point of no return. The intensity of our lust was overwhelming, a whirlwind of emotions and sensations that left me breathless. I could feel the warmth of her skin against mine, the softness of her hair, the taste of her lips on mine.

Her body, a symphony of rapture, throbbed beneath me, her cries of ecstasy echoing through the room. I had taken her to the precipice, and now she was free-falling into the abyss of pleasure. Her face, a canvas of desire, contorted with delight as she surrendered to the sensations that consumed her. I watched, enraptured, as she arched her back, her body trembling with the intensity of her climax. It was a moment of pure bliss, a communion of souls that transcended the physical realm.

As she finally descended from the tempestuous heights of her orgasm, Jennie lay there panting, her body still trembling like a leaf caught in an autumn gale. The aftershocks of ecstasy rippled through her, her skin flushed and damp with the nectar of our lovemaking. I moved beside her, my heart thrumming in my chest like a war drum, its beat echoing in the silence of the room like a primal chant. As I gazed into her eyes, I felt a raw, primal energy crackling between us, an electric current that coursed through our veins and ignited our souls.

After a moment, Jennie gathered herself, her breathing slowly returning to normal. She looked at me with a mix of desire and longing, her eyes locked onto my erection. Without a word, she reached out and spit on it, her saliva glistening on the tip as she began to stroke me. I moaned softly, my body responding to her touch with a fierce intensity.

"Now, for the real thing," Her breath, a warm caress against my ear, whispered promises of forbidden pleasures, unspoken desires. In the hushed tones of a seductress, she confessed, "I've been thinking about this"

My heart raced as she climbed on top of me, her body pressing against mine with a force that was both

exhilarating and terrifying. As Jennie descended upon me, I was captivated by the sight of her pussy swallowing my length whole, her muscles contracting around me with a ferocity that left me breathless. The feeling was ineffable, a surge of ecstasy that coursed through me like a tempestuous storm, electrifying every fiber of my being. Her gaze bore into mine, a mixture of passion and rebellion, as she claimed my cock in her body.

Jennie's body was a sight to behold, her curves accentuated by the soft, ambient light that bathed the room in a moody, atmospheric glow. Her breasts, full and firm, swayed gently with each thrust, their dark, rosy nipples standing erect against the cool air. Her hips moved in a hypnotic rhythm, her muscles flexing with each deliberate motion as she rode me with a fervor that left me breathless.

The view was breathtaking, Jennie's face a picture of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Her lips were parted, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she lost herself in the moment. Her eyes, dark and expressive, were filled with a raw, primal hunger that was both intoxicating and terrifying.

As we moved together, the room was filled with the symphony of our bodies slapping against each other, the wet, slick sounds of our flesh meeting in a frenzied dance of desire, like waves crashing against the shore. The air was thick with the scent of our arousal, a heady mix of sweat and sex that filled my senses and heightened my pleasure, intoxicating me with its primal allure. The rhythm of our lovemaking echoed through the room, a percussive symphony that pounded in my ears and set my heart racing with each thrust.

"Oh fuck, you're so tight," With a guttural moan, I plunged further into Jennie's depths, my body consumed by an insatiable hunger.

"And you're so big, you're stretching me out," Jennie moaned in response, her hips bucking wildly as she rode me with a fierce intensity.

"Do you like that? do you like my cock inside you? you've missed it dont you?" I asked, my voice thick with desire as I looked down at Jennie.

"yes! yes! Yes! Fuck!" Jennie cried out, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she lost herself in the moment.

In that moment, time seemed to stand still, and all that mattered was the intense sensory experience that was unfolding before me. Jennie's body was a symphony of pleasure, her every movement a testament to the raw, primal power of desire. And as I lost myself in the rhythm of our bodies, I knew that I was experiencing something truly transcendent, something that would stay with me long after the last echoes of our passion had faded away.

As she began to move, I felt myself being drawn into a world of pure sensation. Every thrust, every movement, was a symphony of pleasure that seemed to resonate deep within my soul. Jennie's eyes never left mine, her expression a mix of desire and determination as she rode me with a fierce intensity. I could feel her muscles clenching around me, a tight, wet heat that seemed to pull me deeper into her body with each passing second.

With a sudden surge of energy, I flipped her onto her back, guiding her legs apart as I positioned myself above her. Our eyes locked in a heated gaze as I plunged deeper into her, my body responding to her cries of desire with a feral intensity.

In this newfound position, I was able to control the depth and pace of our lovemaking, driving myself into her with an insatiable hunger. The headboard creaked against the wall in time with our frantic rhythm, the room filled with the wet sounds of our passionate union. Her hands gripped my back, nails digging into my skin as we moved together as one.

With each thrust, our bodies collided in a symphony of sensations – the slickness of our skin meeting in a primal dance, the soft moans escaping Jennie's lips as she arched her back to meet my every movement. Sweat glistened on both our bodies, beading on our skin like liquid diamonds under the dimmed lights. Her breasts bounced with each impact, nipples hardened and begging for attention. I reached down to tease them roughly, eliciting a gasp from Jennie that spurred me onward.

I could feel every ripple and fold of her wet heat enveloping me, clenching around my length like a vice. The scent of our arousal hung heavy in the air – musky and intoxicating – fueling the fire that burned between us. As I watched our reflection in the mirrored ceiling above us, I marveled at the sight: two bodies entwined in an age-old dance, seeking solace and release in each other's arms.

As I pushed into her further, I raised Jennie's elongated, slender limbs by their ankles, spreading them outward for my access. The visual before me was captivating - her toned thighs glistening with perspiration, her delicate toes curling and uncurling as I kissed and licked upon them. Her thin arms quivered with ecstasy. One hand clung tightly to the bedsheets, the other meandering down to manipulate her breasts, pinching and tugging at the firm nipples that stood upright against the cool atmosphere. Her eyelids were shut, her visage a blend of pleasure and agony as she yielded herself to the overwhelming sensations coursing through her entire body.

Jennie pulled me down to kiss her, her lips soft and warm against mine. Our tongues danced together in a frenzied rhythm, mirroring the movements of our bodies below. I could feel her heart pounding against my chest, her breath hot and heavy in my ear as she urged me onward. My thrusts did not stop, my body driven by a primal need to claim her once more.

Her nails raked down my back, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, fueling the flames of our passion even further. Our bodies collided with an intensity that belied the passage of time, as if we were two souls trapped in an endless loop of desire and need. The room was filled with the sound of our moans and gasps, a symphony of lust that echoed off the walls. The scent of our arousal hung heavy in the air – musky and intoxicating – as we raced towards that elusive peak together.

In this moment, there was only us – two people lost in a sea of passion, seeking solace and release in each other's arms. As I looked into her dark eyes, I saw the same longing and desire that burned within me.

Soon after we switched positions, Jennie was on all fours, presenting her luscious ass to me as I entered her from behind. I couldn't help but admire the view before me – her toned backside, the delicate dip of her spine, and the way her hair cascaded down her back in a waterfall of ebony silk. Her skin glistened with a sheen of sweat, accentuating every curve and contour of her body.

As I positioned myself behind her, I marveled at the sight of my cock sliding into her wet heat once more. The sensation was indescribable – hot, tight, and wet; it felt like coming home. With each thrust, I could feel every ripple and fold of her inner walls clenching around me, as if she were trying to hold onto me forever. The sound of our bodies colliding filled the room, a primal symphony that echoed off the walls.

In this position, Jennie's body took on an even more alluring form –  hips curved in invitation; and thighs spread apart in wanton display. Her back arched gracefully, accentuating the perfect curve of her spine and emphasizing the delicate line of her neck. It was a breathtaking sight, truly awe-inspiring - this beautiful creature beneath me, her body glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, her breath hitching with every thrust I made. Her moans, they were like sweet music to my ears, filling the room with an erotic symphony that echoed off the walls. They were desperate pleas for more, whispers of pleasure intermingling with the rhythmic crescendo of our bodies colliding. The sight and sounds of Jennie in the throes of ecstasy was intoxicating, pushing me further to the edge.

Every thrust was a desperate attempt to fuse our bodies together, to become one with this woman who held my heart captive. Our bodies collided with a force that belied the tenderness of our earlier lovemaking, a raw and primal display of unrestrained passion.

I reached down, my fingers tracing the delicate line of her spine, feeling the soft texture of her skin beneath my fingertips. Her body trembled beneath my touch, a mixture of pleasure and anticipation. I leaned down and kissed her neck, my lips trailing a path of fire down to her collarbone. She moaned softly, her head tilting back to give me better access.

My hands slid down her body, cupping her firm buttocks. I squeezed gently, feeling the muscles tense beneath my touch. Her hips moved involuntarily against mine, a desperate plea for more. I responded by thrusting into her with renewed vigor, my body driven by a primal need to claim her.

Jennie's body trembled beneath me, her muscles tensing and relaxing in a rhythmic dance of ecstasy. Her moans grew louder, more urgent, as she neared the precipice of release. Her body was a canvas of pleasure, her skin glistening with sweat as she writhed beneath me.

I could feel it too, the heat and tightness building between us, the overwhelming need to explode in a symphony of pleasure. It was like a volcano ready to erupt, the pressure building and building.

"Owen," she whispered, her voice a desperate plea. "I'm so close."

Her hushed murmurs were barely perceptible over the symphony of our pounding hearts and the wet slap of our bodies colliding in a rhythm as old as time itself. The scent of sweat and sex hung heavy in the air, intoxicating me with every breath I took. I carefully parted the supple curves of her ass, my gaze transfixed on the provocative sight before me: myself buried deep within her slick, welcoming folds.

"I'm close too, fuck! I'm gonna cum" I surrendered to the primitive instinct within me, my hips driving against her with newfound urgency. The soft, supple curves of her back molded perfectly against the harsh angles of my chest and abdomen. Her skin was a living flame beneath my fingertips – hot, slick, and glistening with sweat that clung to her like a second skin. The intoxicating taste of salt and woman filled my mouth as I pressed kisses along the graceful arch of her neck, each one drawing a gasp or a moan from her lips in response.

Such sweet music she made – soft sighs and whimpers that danced in harmony with the symphony of our bodies colliding in rhythmic unison. They were notes on an erotic sonnet, each one resonating deep within me, igniting sparks that threatened to consume me whole.

As the intensity of our coupling began to overwhelm me, I felt my legs quivering, the pressure mounting and threatening to spill over. With a firm grip on her shoulders, I channeled all my strength into thrusting against her - plunging into Jennie with an urgency borne of pure desire and unbridled lust. Each thrust resonated deep within me, stirring up a tempest of emotions that swirled in harmony with the rhythm of our bodies colliding. The sweet friction generated by our union was as intoxicating as it was maddening.

The intensity of her orgasm was like a tidal wave, crashing over me and pulling me under. I could hear her screams of pleasure, echoing in my ears as she came undone beneath me. Her body trembled and quivered, every muscle taut and tense as she rode out the waves of ecstasy. Her nails dug into my back, leaving crescent moons etched into my skin as she held on for dear life. The sensation of her walls clenching around me, milking me for all I was worth, was almost too much to bear. I felt myself losing control, my own climax building rapidly as I thrust into her with abandon.

"Fuck, you're so tight," I groaned, my voice strained and desperate. "I'm gonna cum."

"Oh my God, Owen!" She cried out, her voice a desperate plea. "Fill me up!"

With a final, desperate thrust, I let go. The pleasure exploded outwards from my core, a blinding white light that consumed me whole. I felt myself spill into her, my release warm and thick as it filled her to the brim. Her body shook beneath me, her walls milking me for every last drop as she came undone once more. With a surge of desire, her inner walls gripped me tightly, milking every inch of my throbbing cock as she pressed herself against my groin. Her body trembled beneath me, the rhythmic motion causing her juices to mix with the heat of my own release, filling her to the brim with my essence. The sensation was overwhelming and intoxicating, a swirl of pleasure and wetness.

The culmination overwhelmed us, a torrent of delight that teetered on the edge of being unbearable. This peak, an oft-experienced sensation, was a mass consumption of joy that stemmed from my very essence. It was like a dazzling white glare, a flood tide crashing over me and pulling me under its swell. The impact nearly felt scary, but in the most positive way. It was as if each sensory neuron in me had been ignited, a harmonious symphony of sensations that left me breathless and quivering with fulfillment.

As the waves of pleasure began to subside, I collapsed onto the bed beside her, my body spent and satisfied. I pulled her close, my arm wrapped around her waist as I pressed kisses to her neck and shoulder. Her body was still trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she tried to catch her breath.

I looked into her eyes, and what I saw there was a mixture of pleasure and longing, a deep emotional and physical satisfaction that mirrored my own. I held her in my arms, her body still trembling from the force of our climax. Her hair was plastered to her face, sweat sticking to her skin in a way that only added to her allure. She was breathtaking – a sight that I knew I would never grow tired of. As she lay there in my arms, panting and heaving, I couldn't help but think about what could have been between us.

The intensity of our connection flooded my mind with memories and regrets. I thought back to our time together years ago, when things were different. When the possibilities between us seemed endless. Back then, I had felt the magnetic pull towards her – the urge to give myself to her fully, to commit everything I had. But the fear always held me back, gripping my heart like a vise. I was terrified of losing myself in her, of the vulnerability that comes with true intimacy. So I held back, keeping her at arm's length even as we shared our bodies and souls.

She had wanted more, I knew that even then. I could see it in her eyes whenever she looked at me – that simmering desire for the whole of my heart. But the fear was too strong, the habit of self-protection too ingrained. And so she eventually moved on, leaving me bereft and full of remorse.

Now here she was again, trembling in my arms like she belonged there. The old longings came flooding back, mingled with regret. If only I could go back and choose differently, give her the love she deserved. But it was too late for that. The best I could do was cherish these stolen moments together, even as I knew deep down that I would inevitably pull back again. She was my North Star, my guiding light – but one that I could never fully reach no matter how hard I tried. The thought filled me with equal parts bliss and anguish. I held her tighter as she drifted off to sleep, wishing I could freeze this moment forever. --

I draw an elongated, languid pull from my cigarette, allowing the nicotine to seep into my bloodstream as I linger on this balcony, my perch above the dazzling, pulsating cityscape of New York. The night air is sharp, a crisp contrast to the lingering warmth that still clings to my skin—a souvenir from our passionate interlude.

Inside, Jennie is nestled in the land of dreams, her petite frame delicately cocooned in the luxurious hotel sheets that still bear the scent of our shared desire. I ought to join her, to envelop her in my arms and surrender to the beckoning call of sleep. However, a restless energy pervades my being, my mind a volatile whirlpool in the aftermath of our tempestuous coupling.

Jennie, a beautiful enigma, belongs to another now—Yet, tonight, we merged in a wild conflagration of raw desire, our bodies entwining in a dance as old as time itself, lost in a sea of ecstasy. I staked my claim on every inch of her, driven by a primal need to etch myself into her memory, an indelible mark she'd never be able to erase. Her nails etched a path of fervor down my back, her cries a symphony spurring me forward as we hurtled towards the precipice of oblivion. And when that moment of release arrived, it was a cataclysm—a searing flash of divine perfection that shattered us, only to rebuild us anew.

Commitment has always been my Achilles heel, a specter I avoid with the agility of a seasoned matador. It terrifies me, this concept of vulnerability and surrender. The lessons life has imparted have taught me that nothing golden remains, so I seize my moments of joy with a fierce grip, refusing to hold too tightly lest they slip away. I prefer to exist in a world of beautiful fragments, a mosaic of fleeting moments, rather than be tethered to a monotonous eternity. These thoughts weave their way through my mind as I exhale the ashen smoke from my lips, the remnants of my vice liberated from the confines of my lungs.

I flick the cigarette over the edge, its glowing cherry tracing a fleeting arc in the obsidian night, a dying star lost in the city's neon abyss. Jennie, she is my Polaris, an immutable point of light guiding my aimless wanderings even when she's a universe away. The distance between us may stretch into miles, yet I find myself perpetually ensnared in her cosmic pull, tethered to the irresistible gravity of her radiance.

Perched high above the city, I cast my gaze downwards, drinking in the nocturnal theater below. A ceaseless ballet of headlights, the urban arteries throbbing with life—cars darting like metallic fish, blaring horns that sing a discordant symphony of the city's pulse. Amid the clamor, a melody tiptoes into my consciousness, a haunting siren's song birthed from the events of the night. My next creation, a symphony of sentiments woven into delicate prose, stands ready to unfurl. It's an intimate piece of my soul, a whisper of my essence, something to bare and share with the world. A tapestry of words dipped in the hues of my deepest longings, a lingering echo of my heartbeat, yearning to resonate in the hearts of those willing to lend an ear;

I'm in town for one night, one night only

I came around to put it down, for one night only

Just one night

Got a room for me and you, for one night only

You wanna ride for a lifetime, this is one night only

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My first fic, hope you guys like it.

[cenvast]

Rin, Kabru, & Toshiro: On Asian Identity

I have a lot of thoughts about Rin's identity as a second-generation Asian refugee and how it impacts her relationships with other characters, especially Kabru.

I see Rin as being Indonesian specifically. The name "Rinsha" is of Muslim Arabic origin. In real life, Indonesia has one of the largest Muslim populations in the world, so what might seem like a geographically incompatible name works if Rin is the Dungeon Meshi equivalent of Indonesian.

Rin also says that her parents came from an island that isn't Wa, and Indonesia is a series of islands.

In her Adventurer's Bible entry, she's described as having "no real knowledge or attachment to the East" because "she's second-generation." She also clarifies to Mickbell that she was "born here." From this character description and her dialogue, we get the sense that Rin doesn't really identify with being Asian.

As noted in this Rin masterpost, a large part of this is because she was denied her parents' cultural identity by the elves. They likely suppressed any cultural markers she had and denied her information about her heritage. Since she wasn't born in the Eastern Archipelago and her parents died when she was young, she understandably hasn't inherited a lot of cultural knowledge.

Rin seems to have internalized ethnic self-hatred. Her disconnect from the East and her unwillingness to remedy that disconnect suggests that she has shame surrounding her Asian identity.

Again, she doesn't have many opportunities to interact with people from her parents' homeland, and her trauma also impacts her behavior. Remembering her parents is probably painful, considering the horrible way they died, and since they're her main connection to her cultural heritage, it makes sense that she wouldn't broach the topic.

You could also argue that Rin identifies more with her Northern identity than her Eastern identity since she was born and raised in the North for the first eleven years of her life, and as a result, she doesn't feel the need to connect with her parents' culture. But considering her home was presumptively still steeped in her parents' culture and her main association with the North is probably her parents' murders, this seems unlikely.

It's important to note how different her experiences are from the story's other Asian characters', like Toshiro's, for example. Toshiro travels to the Island as an adult of his own volition (technically, his father's). He's completely culturally Eastern. In comparison, Rin's parents fled from the East. Her family had to assimilate into an unfamiliar Northern culture, and later, she was "raised" by western elves, who are coded as colonizers in text. She seems to have internalized the elves' suppression of her culture and the way assimilating to the North required them to discard parts of their heritage. Her lack of interest in her culture seems learned.

Her strong attachment to Kabru further complicates her relationship with her Asian identity. I see Kabru as Indian or Nepalese; his name derives from a mountain on the border between India and Nepal. On top of being the only person who treats her like a human being during her childhood, Kabru is the only other significant Asian person in her life. They share the trauma of their parents having been brutally murdered and being raised imperfectly (much more severely in her case) by elves. While in the elf's care, they're both othered as tallmen— this aspect is strongly emphasized in the text — and in the main story, they're othered as Asian people in its European-inspired setting. Their shared experiences as Asian refugees are the foundation of their close bond.

It's not a stretch to assume that Rin consequently views Kabru as her main connection to being Asian. While they're from very different parts of fantasy Asia, their experiences as Asian refugees still overlap significantly as seen above, and the way she clings to Kabru suggests she wants to connect more with her culture, but for the previously stated reasons, she doesn't prioritize it. Besides, she doesn't have good models for what embracing one's cultural identity as a refugee/immigrant looks like. Just like her, Kabru doesn't seem to have many cultural ties, similarly because of his upbringing with the elves.

Toshiro could completely topple Rin and Kabru's original dynamic. Rin doesn't seem to like Toshiro. Their personalities would probably clash at first, because just like him, she's prone to judgment, out of self-preservation, and she's quiet. One of their canonical interactions is being captured by the orcs together; they don't even speak to each other in this scene.

Kabru and Toshiro become friends by the story's conclusion. Deep down, Rin might feel threatened by this. She's been Kabru's closest Asian friend up until this point. Toshiro, as an Asian person who was born and raised in his culture, might seem like a "better Asian" and thus, Kabru's replacement for her. This would be the worst projection of her buried insecurity over her disconnect from being Asian and how it potentially separates her from other Asian people. Given her personality, I doubt she would express this beyond acting wary around Toshiro.

With time, Rin, Kabru, and Toshiro could resolve her fears and the deeper issues they point to by all becoming friends. Interacting with other Asian people would heal her. She appears unphased by Mickbell's microaggression, implying it isn't an uncommon occurrence; she seems to only hang out with Kabru and their party. Being around other people of color would lessen the amount of othering she experiences and grant her a break from defending her identity.

Beyond the potential for cultural exchange and bonding over being Asian in fantasy Europe, Rin and Toshiro are also very similar in character. They're both anxious, quiet, and caring. If they made a little effort, they'd relate to each other and get along well.

Ideally, Rin would also befriend Hien, Benichidori, and the other girls in Toshiro's party. Kabru and Toshiro have their own issues with their treatment of women, so without positive Asian female friendships, she'd have another issue on her hands. Still, Kabru could be the bridge to a friendship with Toshiro, and Toshiro could be the bridge to friendships with his retainers. And with mutual growth, they could all enjoy each other's friendships.

Rin herself points out the vast cultural differences and language barriers between different parts of the East. The Asian characters of DunMeshi might not always share culture, but because of the story's setting in fantasy Europe, many of them experience being nonwhite in a mostly white locale. A support system of other people of color could allow Rin the space to explore her identity and culture and begin healing from her childhood trauma.

[demonslayerunhinged]

Unhinged theory:

Sanemi has some form of anxiety

Let me explain:

We all know Sanemi is depressed but I think he has some kind of anxiety disorder too. The evidence is based on two categories:

Sleep Deprivation

Anxiety & Stress

Sleep Deprivation

For this point, I made the diagram below(yes, I have no personal life 😔).

The main symptom that supports the sleep deprivation theory is his bloodshot eyes. Sanemi's eyes are always bloodshot and he always has eyebags, even when he's in a relaxed state (you can tell because his 'eye dots' are larger) which could be an indication of lack of sleep.

His scraggly hair could also be a symptom because aside from Giyuu (who has depression) he's the only Hashira that doesn't seem to take care of his hair.

Another observation I made is that Sanemi is always leaning on something or hanging on something. He also puts his chin on his hand/palm, I do that when I'm tired too.

Or sometimes, he hangs on to his belt.

It seems like a stretch but he does these things often and he's the only character -that I know of- that does this. It could just be a character quirk though, due to his ghetto upbringing.

He's also the only one visibly tired after the training session between him, Obanai, and Muichiro.

I noticed in the first episode of the Hashira Training Arc right after the Infinity Fortress trial period expired and he ended up stabbing the floor, he immediately sat down. Why? Seems like a weird thing to do .

Then there's all the wobbling he does in the mansion while fighting the demons.

Anxiety & Stress

The evidence for this has to do more with his behavior and actions, especially his anger and impulsive decisions. Most people associate anxiety with fear which makes sense but anxiety can also manifest as anger too.

From the article linked below,

Anxiety causes anger for several reasons. At its peak, anxiety can cause overwhelming emotions and thoughts that make you lash out in an attempt to regain your sense of power in a stressful situation.

Anxiety as anger can be triggered by:

Flight-or-fight response - when he feels threatened

Emotional exhaustion - from his past trauma and loss

Perceived loss of control - encounters with Tanjiro(bestest boy ❤)

Cognitive distortions - his belief that he's a monster, that he has to shoulder things by himself etc.

The perceived loss of control I feel is a defining factor for the two drastic decisions he's known for:

Stabbing Nezuko – A Corps member has been harboring a demon. In his mind, the Corps has been infiltrated, and Tanjiro’s probably been feeding Nezuko people.

Trying to poke Genya’s eyes out – His brother has been eating demons. He probably fears that Genya will turn into a demon and then he will have to kill his only surviving family member. Or that Genya will die early if he continues eating demons and fighting.

When it comes to stress, he displays the following symptoms:

Irritability

Anger

Grumpiness

Always on edge

Restlessness

Impatience

His impatience with others and with himself, with him trying to get the mark as fast as possible also points to anxiousness. His white hair too! He hair probably turned prematurely grey due to environmental stress, taking care of his family, worrying about keeping them safe, his violent upbringing and probably lack of nutrients from food because he would most likely have his younger siblings eat all the food instead of him.

So everything is all tied together. His anxiety from past trauma contributes to his present anxiety which prevents him from getting proper sleep and increases his stress levels which leads to even more anxiety.

But how does he fight and stay so alert then?

I think his anxiety disorder is high functioning plus he takes a lot of matcha tea which has caffeine. His constant eating of ohagi probably also keeps him hyper too.

Another piece of evidence that solidifies my theory is the appearance of his eyes in the last chapters.

Probably had that sleep he hadn't gotten in years.

In Conclusion, our boy Sanemi has some form of Generalized Anxiety Disorder and is highly stressed due to lack of sleep which is why he acts and looks like a crackhead. He needs some sleep and possibly to get laid.

[reddesires]

Flustered. [Noa x Human!Reader]

Pairing: Noa x Human! Reader

Summary: Noa accidentally comes across you during your private bathing time, very much embarrassing on both parts.

Fandom: (Kingdom Of The) Plant Of The Apes

Rating: Fluff (nothing too cringe worthy)

A/N: Hopefully, more inspiration comes to me after posting this one, I feel the block coming to bonk me. Enjoy the fruits of my effort lol

Requests are welcomed!

You surmised that the steep pond you came across during one of your escapades was perfect for your much needed alone time, a relaxing bathing spot a luxury you couldn't wait to take opportunity of.

You chose to sneak off while everyone was busy with their tasks for the day. The mid day breeze gently blew through the trees. You sighed as you peered down the path leading back to the eagle clan. It was barren of any presence.

Usually, there was always someone accompanying you during these times, but you desperately needed time on your own to self reflect on certain things or more like a certain clan leader.

'I haven't seen much of him today..' The thought reigned over your head as you rid yourself of your garments and leisurely stepping into the cool waters, you shivered at the sensation. The ripple of the small tide you created as you stepped in casting a mesmerizing glimmer on the surface.

You slowly swam out til the clear pool just reached above your chest, It's been awhile since you've been able to experience a clearing such as this, the pond was coincided with a miniature waterfall and the edges were surrounded with a rocky ledge.

You leaned your head back into the water, your hair soaking up the moisture feeling as relief filled your veins at the comfort. Breathing in the pine aroma that filled your lungs, the smell only reminded you of him the more you indulged.

He smelled of pine and the earth after a rainy night. You couldn't help the intake of breath as he stood near to you. He filled your senses, and it seemed your brain went into hyperdrive each time you found yourself in his company. You stood at a standstill, and it often frustrated you.

You wondered if he got a tingle that traveled up his spine every time your hands would accidentally touch, was their electricity that traveled from his fingertips to throughout his body like it did you..

You wanted to scream out in frustration at the sheer notion of it all, you have so much responsibility to worry about but it seems like all you can think about is him. it's been killing you, this primal apprehension takes over your emotions and you just want to lay claim.

You glide over to the ledge of the pool, your arms resting in a laxed position on it. You lay your head on your arms, feeling a pout cross your lips, and you roll your eyes at all the thoughts floating around your head.

Noa seemed to haunt your very being, and it confused you endlessly. You've never felt this way before. You notice that the tips of your ears felt warm, an embarrassed feeling creeping up on you.

You noticed a shadow overhead. You could only assume that it was eagle sun flying around the area. You wondered if he was aimlessly flying or perhaps he was seeking you out on Noa's behalf. You hoped it was the former.

As the eagle soared off, you leaned back into your arms as your body lightly floated in the relaxing pool. You did feel a tad bit vulnerable in this state. Despite everything, you still had inherent human attributes. You valued your privacy, unlike your ape counterparts.

Looking at your hand, you studied the miniscule details when you heard the rustle of bushes. You decided that it wasn't anything of consequence and resumed on.

Noa had noticed when a certain Echo wasn't wandering around the camp as the usual routine, he was busy tending to the eagles in the high tree so when he came down with you no where in sight he thought the worst.

When he had asked Soona, Anaya and even his mother, he felt like he was gonna drown in panic when they weren't aware of where you had went so as last resort he sent out Eagle Sun to scout out the area.

Rushing to the clearing that eagle sun flew above, worried that you were in some sort of peril due to your sudden disappearance, there was no sounds of struggle nor did he smell your scent that he knew by heart. He often felt bouts of resentment at himself, feeling like he should've done something to prevent things he couldn't have possibly predicted.

The thought of you in danger brought up a deep animalistic urge in his body, an aching sense settling in his canines, blood lust clouding his rationality.

He broke out of the brush into a clearing, a striking cerulean pond in the middle, a peaceful air settled in the environment. He felt his heart and mind calm when he saw you within in his line of sight, the water encasing you comfortably.

As he mind finally perceived the situation, he couldn't help the sound of surprise that erupted from his muzzle. A heat suddenly spread throughout his whole body, he wasn't sure if it was the sun's egregious warmth that took hold of him or the sight of your body that was barren of all articles of clothing he was so used to seeing you sport.

Obviously he had taken heed of your constant need for privacy, he didn't really understand the notion of it since apes were very open with little to no need of personal space but when you expressed to him why it was important to you as an individual, he also concluded it was echo trait.

He feels right at this moment that he may have overstepped and he's frozen in a stupor.

Having heard the sound, you turn your head in curiosity. "Noa!" You yelp, startled by his presence despite being deep in thought about him for the entirety of your bathing.

You cover your chest, red rising from your neck to your cheeks, you bite your lip now feeling more vulnerable more than ever as your in full of view to Noa's line of sight.

Noticing him gawking, you lean over the ledge grabbing a small stick throwing it in his direction to snap him out of it "Noa! Look away!"

Bowing his head, he chuffs before turning his back you "Sorry, Echo..Noa was worried.." he says, his words seeming choppy an anxiousness hanging onto his enunciation.

You laugh, shaking your head with incredulity, the embarrassment lingering in your bones, but you know that Noa meant no harm, and it's likely he'll be super apologetic for disturbing you.

Climbing out of the pond and readying yourself, you think about how worried he was for you and you couldn't fight the flutter in you chest.

[harmonysanreads]

Girl I just reread the most unhinged dark DARK literature of my homeland and I'm not telling you the title because reading the entire book itself requires mental strength but I found a quote that suits how it's like being Blade's darling.

"He's actually sane, there's no doubt about it. The one that's insane is the world that he's facing"

-💅

Nonnie the fact that you reread this apparently unhinged dark DARK literature lol

“He's actually sane, there's no doubt about it. The one that's insane is the world that he's facing.”

At moments, words fail Blade when he stands in the center stage of the circus the universe has made out of his existence.

Rewind time, stroll to a much younger, unassuming version of him, tell him that one day even death will become a luxury for him and watch the way his face twists and churns to confusion, morbidity. He was never supposed to have made it this far, to who still cares he wishes he stayed as that unassuming, eroding construction of flesh. But of course, there is no one and nothing in this universe that will listen to his will.

It's strange, the feeling of having no autonomy over even one's own body. You birth something other than that vacancy he'd forcefully stuffed with conflicting feelings ; it's subtle, easily dismissible but lingering like the trail of incense. Unlike him, you are fortunate enough to be free, to have the choice to end it whenever you please — unlike him. He just wished you weren't always so... clumsy with that apparent freedom.

Constantly hauling yourself towards the precipice of danger, as though the hands on the clock of your existence don't increase in speed the closer you advance towards your end. Foolish, foolish, foolish ; you're not immortal like him — why do you insist on shortening your already waning life? And that fact continues bouncing through his mind : you're not immortal like him, what will you do when the ticking of that timepiece comes to a halt? Or more importantly, what will he do?

Ah, but why does that matter to him? You're just another particle in the grand scheme of things, one among many that will shine for a momentary period of time before disintegrating. Why should he care so much for you, when your inevitable is as clear as it could be? And many more questions that he asks himself before it finally registers in his head, that he'd underestimated the extent of your importance in regards to himself.

Well, not that Blade is that surprised at this point. Affection had become a concept distant from his waking mind, as well as the consequences it brings. The world has never looked upon him in benevolence, brutally snatching away his autonomy. There apparently exists a saying in Penacony and a variation of it goes like this, “People sleep because they're afraid to wake up from their dreams.”

He understands a semblance of it, the fantasy of a designated end, however impossible propels him forward, as paradoxical as it is. So the moment when he starts being grateful for his immortality, that if he can at least slow down the pace of your erosion by becoming your shield, granting him a steep sense of self-worth — the chill it sends throughout his arteries morph into something hauntingly intoxicating.

Insanity may be this world's natural tendency and he has been its victim for too long. But if he could defy this world by dedicating himself to your servitude... that, doesn't sound that unappealing a prospect.

[tswhiisftteedr]

Not to be rude but you accidentally put val's story in vox's masterlist instead. Srry I didn't feel comfy dming you. Nothing against you at all I'm just a coward wanting to hide in anon haha. Ig while I'm here could I get vox general hcs pls?

What the Tv do? ☆ Vox General Headcanon + Drabbles (SFW & NSFW)

☆ Vox General headcanon + Vox x Gn!Reader(Employee!Reader??):

Some general thoughts about the tv man and also his relationship with the ‘reader’. This is silly, this is fun, fluffy and smutty.

Warnings: Mature Content, Not Proofread, Drinking, Death(literally overdose on coffe nothing gruesome), Drug use(c0caine and others substances), Sadistic Tendencies, Dub-Con, Power Imbalance/Power Play, Obsessive and Possessive Tendencies and Acts, Stalking, Voyeurism & Exhibitionism, Boss x Employee, Pet Play?(Just collaring and slight animal based pet names), Valentino.

Words: Total: 5496 = Sfw - 2609 + Nsfw - 2887

Note: I only wrote 1 drabble, i might add more if people request it about the specific headcanon they want more on. so I’m not good with request like these, I like when they are more specific so I have sort of something to base my writing on, so sorry if you anon or people don’t like what I’ve wrote, r.i.p. >:/ Though tell me if you want more!!

☆ more under the cut. ☆

SFW:

☕︎ Coffee addict and 𓏊 Alcoholic

Vox is the figurative and quite literally incarnation of the ‘don’t talk to me until I’ve had my coffee’ phrase.

But we’re talking coffees instead of coffee with him — two cups straight out of bed to be precise. When totalling the day’s consumption, Vox indulges on average, 6-7 cups of 10 oz coffee; in addition to his morning coffees, he likes to have a mid-morning cup, then two during lunch and finally 1-2 cups during the afternoon depending how late he is working.

Is this per say, ‘healthy’? No, not at all, Vox couldn't care less — worst ‘worst’ case scenario, he quote on quote dies, the coffee he had intake ends up intoxicating him due to the splurging amount of it, turning this mondaine drink into a lethal liquid for the overlord’s body. His heart would stop, sub-consequently, him and his body would be out.

Though the good thing — or bad, it all depends on your angle — about hell is that in about the span of 10 minutes his body will have fully regenerate and be back open for business. Some sinners call it it a curse, he calls it a blessing, as this part of the ‘eternal punishment’ practically makes him immortal.

So is he going to work on regulating his caffeine intake? Obviously not!

Worst thing he gets from his ‘little problem’ is a heart attack, and they don’t permanently keep him down. — Sure, they hurt like a bitch, and he would rather not be having them at all to be truthful.

But he honestly he doesn’t see his bimonthly cardiac arrests as that steep of a price to pay. (Honestly how can such a smart businessman be so dumb about his health. * face palming and baffled at the idiocy of it all *)

Now when alcohol is the subject of conversation, Vox takes a slightly different approach, albeit one still characterized by overindulgence.

You see, he prides himself on being the epitome of a charming, classy, and self-controlled casual drinker, compared to his drunkard of a pattern —Valentino— our lovely show host with anger issues and both inferiority and superiority complex is a sophisticated and savvy man.

However, beneath this facade of self-control, which he upholds quite well to the public eye, hides his obvious alcoholism issues.

While he may not be stumbling and blubbering around, picking fights,— in most instances at least— Vox is certainly what you might call a “day drinker."

In fact, this is actually a canonical trait, which was displayed in episode two of the show; Him discussing with others Vees on how to deal with the radio demon’s comeback, a drink in hand.

I presume thatit was a scotch on the rocks due to it’s colour but also it’s historical relevance in relation to Vox’s person— Scotch whisky poured over ice, gained popularity in the 1950s primarily in Western countries such as the United States, the United Kingdom, and Canada.

It became a symbol of sophistication and leisure, often enjoyed in upscale bars, clubs, and lounges frequented by the affluent and fashionable crowd of the era.

Additionally, its popularity was bolstered by the rise of cocktail culture during the mid-20th century, as well as the increasing availability of Scotch whisky in international markets. — this fits quite nicely Vox’s character as it is both a drink of his time on earth but also one that remains relevant in the contemporary era.

It easily mirrors Vox's overarching desire to maintain relevance and significance, both in the present and in the ever-evolving future.

The overlord definitely adhere to ‘it’s five o’clock somewhere’ religiously. Though he does prefer to enjoy his daily drink around 5 p.m. PRT (Pride Ring Time).

He will occasionally enjoys a drink with his lunch, often opting for wine, although this isn't a regular occurrence for the man.

As someone constantly under stress, with his mind racing to keep up with the ever-changing trends and opinions in hell, Vox is a type to indulge in a nightcap or two before bed.

It helps him unwind and achieve the relaxed state of mind necessary for a restful night's sleep.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 Sleep

While the notion of ‘Vox's dreams playing on his screen while he's asleep’ is an amusing concept for fanfiction or artwork, I personally find the idea of ‘the VoxTek logo bouncing around like the DVD logo’ to be more fitting for Vox.

Before delving further, it's important to note that initially, it wasn't necessarily the VoxTek logo projected on his screen; however, I'll address this shortly.

The reason I lean towards the DVD logo concept is because I find it unlikely that Vox's screen would be completely black during sleep. A completely dark screen would imply the device is completely off, no energy is being received or given by it, which would suggest that it is no longer alive. Having some activity on Vox’s screen while asleep would signify that his program is still active, indicating he's still functioning, essentially alive.

Now regarding the widely shared headcanon, I have my own personal take on it.

When Vox first manifested in hell, his 'real name' appeared on screen. By 'real name,' I mean the one he had on Earth, which I believe wasn't Vox —That name seems too futuristic for a person born in the early 1900s or the kind of name you'd associate with a 1950s businessman— Vox is a name he chose for himself after death, symbolizing a fresh start, though I do think that his real name might also have started with a V.

(This perspective extends to other 'Vees' as well, although Velvette seems more plausible as a given name, I suspect it might not be her original one. Valentino, on the other hand, feels like a name assigned to him, but he too might have adopted a new one after death.)

Initially, Vox was unaware of his old name appearing on his screen while he slept since he wasn't conscious during that time. It wasn't until about half a year into his time in hell, during which he introduced himself as Vox to everyone, that one of his acquaintances pointed out this aspect of his physiology. Something along the lines of "Who's V———?" or "Why does V——— show on your screen while you sleep?" triggered a cascade of reactions in him.

Firstly, he panicked, realizing that people had access to his old identity. Secondly, he was puzzled by this phenomenon since no TV he had encountered displayed such behavior, which was normal considering DVDs weren't invented before 1996. — Hell sure was weird, he possessed technological features as part of his physiology before they were even invented— Lastly, this revelation instilled in him a new fear of sleeping.

This behavior stemmed from Vox's desire to construct a fresh existence in hell, complete with a new identity, image, empire, etc. The thought of others accessing his old name and exploiting it to uncover details about his past, including his behaviors, weaknesses, and tactics, filled him with dread.

As a result, he became hyper-vigilant, refusing to sleep unless he was certain of his solitude, fearing the potential repercussions of his former identity being known.

It wasn't until the mid 1960s that Vox had finally managed to upgrade his system, replacing ‘V———‘ with 'Vox'. However, even after this upgrade, he still harboured reservations about sleeping around others for about a year or two. He feared a potential glitch that could revert his screen to displaying his previous name.

Around the late 1970s he had made an adjustment to this aspect of his body once more, replacing 'Vox' with the VoxTek logo after a certain moth had suggested it.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Sexuality

Our beloved Tv Demon a canonical bisexual man, but I personally believe that while he may have bisexuality as his sexual orientation, — his attraction to men was something he only came to realize after death. Although there were subtle hints of his attraction to the same gender based on how he felt about them, he unfortunately didn't grasp them while still alive;

It would have been the late 1950s, and Vox had been in hell for about a year or two. In his earthly life, he had been with his fair share of women, and even in the "surprisingly not so fiery pits of the underworld," his ability to attract partners hadn't diminished much once got over his TV head appearance and let place for his charming and savvy persona to take over.

His love life seemed unchanged, perhaps with occasional exploration of new kinks, until that fateful night of October 11, 195X...

Vox had gone out for a drink after a grueling day at work, back when he was still toiling away at a low-paying job in an electronics factory, toasters, vacuum, etc. Despite the shitty work he had to go through, he had the perk of taking home broken scraps, which eventually played a role in his rise to success. But let's refocus on his night out, shall we?

He walked into his newfound favorite spot, a comedy bar where he sought solace in laughter and libations after a hard day. Arriving just as the performer began their set, he headed straight to the bar for his usual whiskey on the rocks, with nothing else on his mind. It wasn't until the comedian delivered a particularly hilarious joke that Vox turned to look at them and found his attraction piqued.

It was evident that they were a man with the specific style flashy outfit and makeup they wore. The voice was also a dead giveaway. The person now standing on stage, delivering one funny punchline after another, was a drag queen – a stunning one in Vox's eyes.

He couldn't tear his gaze away; there was something irresistibly captivating about the humorous individual on stage.

After the performance, as they made their way to the bar, Vox seized the opportunity. He introduced himself, and they exchanged pleasantries. They shared drinks and engaged in lively conversation, making for a truly enjoyable night that ended with a bang, quite literally.

In the morning, as clarity returned, Vox couldn't help but feel confused. He had never been attracted to men before, so he initially chalked it up to the alcohol or the fact that his night companion appeared so feminine that he mistook them for a woman.

However, as memories of the night flooded back, he couldn't deny his genuine attraction to every aspect of his partner, even the unmistakably male parts.

Initially, it felt strange to Vox as he reflected on the experience. However, after hours of deep contemplation, everything started to fall into place.

Vox realized he had always felt an affinity towards men, though expressing it as "liking men" might have appeared odd to outsiders. When he used that phrase, it wasn't in the context of sexual or romantic attraction but more of an admiration.

Yet, upon further reflection, he acknowledged that his feelings surpassed mere admiration.

He had never entertained the idea of it being anything akin to sexual or romantic attraction, but his recent encounter forced him to reconsider as he contemplated his life and the events of the previous night.

Vox liked men;

— Vox had always been drawn to the men of his time who exuded masculine confidence and assertiveness, finding their presence alluring and desiring to be in their company constantly.

He liked when they wore classic masculine fashion, such as tailored suits with narrow lapels, fitted jackets, and straight-leg trousers. These outfits oozed sophistication and professionalism, and Vox admired the attention to detail displayed.

Additionally, he liked when men would add classic accessories like fedora hats, skinny ties, cufflinks, and pocket squares to their outfit, they added to the polished and stylish appearance.

The preppy style also appealed to Vox, as he admired men who wore V-neck sweaters, button-down shirts, khaki trousers, and loafers. This style exuded a sense of casual elegance and refinement that he found attractive.

He also had a penchant for rebellious men who embraced a non-conformist aesthetic, often seen in leather jackets, denim jeans, white T-shirts, and motorcycle boots.

Vox liked when men were smart and witty, could keep up with the conversation and also teach something along the way.

Vox liked men who exuded strength and athleticism, finding their ability to handle themselves physically appealing. For instance, witnessing a fistfight between coworkers would stir his emotions, initially attributing his excitement to the violence of the altercation.

However, he would inevitably find himself gravitating towards the winner, intrigued by their display of strength and skill, and feeling drawn to them in some inexplicable way. There was something about winners that captivated him and sparked his desire to get closer to them.

He like men who were daring, adventurous, and unafraid to push boundaries, they appealed to his sense of excitement and thrill-seeking.

He liked men who were ambitious, goal-oriented, and willing to pursue their dreams with determination might have resonated with Vox on a subconscious level.—

After his one-night stand, Vox was determined to clarify things once and for all. Following another grueling day of work, he ventured out again, this time to a gay bar, seeking the company of someone who embodied the traits he found most appealing in men, wanting to ensure it wasn't just the alcohol or the femininity of his previous partner. Without delving into detail, let's just say he had quite the night and afterward, there was no doubt in his mind: ‘he liked women, and he definitely also liked men.’

Following that experience, Vox began seeing more individuals of the same gender. However, he still held onto the notion that while he might be attracted to men, he didn't believe he would be interested in them as anything more than sexual partners. That was until he met Alastor...

Initially, Vox approached the radio demon seeking friendship or perhaps a partnership, given Vox's burgeoning company and rising status as an overlord. However, he soon found himself enamored with Alastor. Unfortunately for Vox, his feelings were not reciprocated. After that, Alastor distanced himself from Vox, leading our TV host to regard his old love as an enemy.

In response to the rejection, Vox decided to cease seeing men altogether, engaging in a series of short-term relationships with women. However, he soon realized he was simply idealizing Alastor and shifted his focus from woman to men for meaningless relationships, attempting to prove to himself that any other man was better than "that Bambi bitch."

But this approach only intensified the emptiness he felt. Recognizing the detrimental effects of his frantic behavior on himself and his company, Vox resolved to regulate and get back on a more business focused path.

The fact that rumours began circulating about his supposed "homoerotic relationships," was also a big push into getting back on track, as a word like that getting out was detrimental to business, since being gay was still stigmatized even in hell, during this time period.

It was around the late 1970s, with the rise of gay rights activism, that Vox began publicly dating men. Coincidentally, this was also when he met and began his business partnership (and more) with Valentino.

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Names

Vox has a penchant for using endearing or patronizing nicknames, regardless of the gender of his employees. He will refer to them as "sweetheart," "doll face," or simply "doll."

In moments of frustration or when faced with resistance, he's not shy about using terms like "little girl" or "little boy," or even "kid," to belittle those who question him.

Additionally, he might employ terms like "Princess" or "your highness" as forms of condescension, no matter the gender of the person he is addressing.

NSFW

𓊔 Party

Despite Vox's obsession with his and the Vees' image, when it comes to partying, he becomes a total animal — I’m talking ‘The Wolf of Wall Street’ type of wild.

Lavish gatherings marked by obscene spending and excessive drug intake, especially cocaine.

Vox typically indulged in doing lines off his desk or the luxurious crystal table in the lounge. However, what truly exited him was snorting lines off someone, getting his rocks off at their inability to refuse his advances and delighting in the control he exerted as he pinned them down to prevent any squirming.

The slight anxious tears and nervous mewls from whoever served as his snorting surface always stirred something within Vox. While he would grow irritated if they moved too much, the subtle signs of fear, such as the wetting of their eyes and trembling breath, would quickly reignite his unstable emotions. He found himself intensely aroused by their scared state, and more than once, he acted on these desires…

Drabble:

You were a VoxTek employee, more specifically; Vox’s secretary.

As Vox's secretary, navigating Alastor-related tantrums and enduring the grueling hours could be incredibly taxing, but the job itself had its perks.

Thanks to your position in the company, you enjoyed luxurious accommodations in the finest suites the V Tower had to offer.

Despite the challenges, Vox could be surprisingly pleasant, his charismatic charm reminiscent of his earlier days when his hypnosis wasn't as potent. And beneath the unconventional exterior of his TV head, there was no denying the appeal of his well-built physique.

Given the close proximity and constant interaction with Vox, it was inevitable to develop a small crush on your boss. His magnetic presence and the fact he was practically the only person you interacted with regularly since he requested you to work closer to him about three months ago only fueled this infatuation.

You liked your boss, but at this moment, you couldn't stand him;

It was 3 a.m. on a Sunday, the one day of the week you were supposed to have some semblance of off-time, with the luxury of sleeping in until noon.

But instead of enjoying your well-deserved rest in bed, you found yourself reluctantly entering the elevator, begrudgingly making your way to the usually closed-off top floor of the building.

Why? Because you had received a threatening and slightly slurry phone call from your boss, demanding your immediate presence or else face termination.

With your livelihood seemingly hanging in the balance, you complied without questioning, even though you loathed every second of it.

After punching in the code provided, you entered the lounge area of the top floor to find all three Vees lounging about. Valentino was enveloped in smoke, while music filled the air.

"Y/N! So glad you made it! Come 'ere," Vox exclaimed, his gestures frantic, urging you to approach quickly. He appeared laid-back, friendly, and strangely excited, a stark contrast to his usual demeanor of coldness and condescension.

Confusion clouded your expression as you approached the couch, unsure of what to make of Vox's sudden change in behavior. Velvette, noticing your bewilderment, chimed in with an explanation. "He took some MDMA before he called you — actually, he couldn't stop blabbing about your ass once that stuff kicked in," she divulged matter-of-factly, adding another layer of peculiarity to the already bizarre situation.

‘Ah, he’s high — that explains the weird friendliness.’ You thought to yourself.

But before you could dwell on it too long, Valentino's words snapped you out of your thoughts, "Yes, little Voxxy over there couldn't stop talking about how much he wanted his little secretary with him right here. He just had to call you, despite it being the middle of the night. I'm sorry you're losing your beauty sleep right now, cariño," he said, his tone tinged with insincerity from false remorse. A small chuckle escaped his lips as he finished speaking, adding to the surreal atmosphere of the moment.

“Val, Vel! You can’t tell them that! Or they’ll, they’ll… fuck!” Vox began to say, but something mid-sentence seemed to frustrate him.

Before you could question it for too long, Valentino answered that question for you. “They’ll figure out you have a little crush on them. Aww, don’t worry papi, it’s not like they can say no to you either way,” the moth darkly announced, frightening you, as it was technically true that you had to obey whatever order your boss gave you; it was in your contract after all.

To your somewhat relief, Vox scoffed at his part-time boyfriend's comment, as if to convey that he wouldn't behave in such a manner.

"Shut the fuck, Val!" Vox began, his frustration evident, before redirecting his attention back to you. "And you, lay down on the table." Confused by the request, you briefly wondered if he was joking, but the seriousness etched on his face made it clear that he wasn't. Resigned, you followed his instruction and laid down on the table as he commanded.

As soon as you complied, a smile spread across Vox's face. "Good, good. Now be a good little secretary and stay still as I do some lines off you, m'kay?" he instructed.

Before you could process anything or say something, he pushed your shirt all the way up, ending just under your chest, and tugged your bottoms down slightly — exposing your whole stomach.

Attempting to voice your discomfort, you were promptly shushed by Vox. "Shhh, you're being a table for me right now, and last time I checked, tables don't talk, now do they, sweetheart? So be a doll and shut up," he said, eliciting laughter from the two other Vees.

You complied with his instructions and remained silent as you felt him pour some powder onto your abdomen. Knowing the drugs he usually made you order on his behalf, it was probably coke.

With that, he quickly formed about three lines and began snorting them. The sensation felt odd and somewhat ticklish to you, but what you didn't expect was for him to lick the parts of your belly where the powder had just sat — long lines that started from top to bottom, causing you to squirm involuntarily.

Vox didn't appreciate your movement, because ‘how dare his table move?’. In response, he firmly gripped your waist on both sides and forcefully slammed your hips against the table as a warning to ‘stop moving’.

However, his claws dug into your skin, causing you to cry out slightly. Upon seeing the small tears in your eyes, his mood shifted once more, from aggravation to something more lustful.

He relished the sight of you with tears in your eyes, so he decided to inflict a bit more pain. With a predatory glint in his eyes, he bit at your sides, knowing that you couldn't retaliate due to the hierarchical difference between you.

His bites started from the top, gradually getting lower until they ended up just above your crotch. With a slight, heavy breathing, he remarked, "Now what do we have here? A snack for me? You shouldn't have." As he removed your bottoms, leaving you in your underwear, a slight moist patch formed due to the position you were in.

Sure, Vox was an entitled asshole, but god, did he look and sound incredible when he was being mean and bossy. How could you not get aroused, especially when his face and long tongue ass were so close to your intimate parts.

"You want me to play with you, darling?" Vox asked in a manner that almost made it feel like you had a choice. There was something about it that suggested he might respect your decision if you said no—sure, he wouldn't like it, but he definitely had this thing where he wanted you to want him, to beg for him, to need him. Forcing himself on you wouldn't align with that desire.

You nodded, but he tutted at you, wanting a verbal answer. "No, no, no, it's 'Could you please, sir?' or 'Would love to, Mr. Vox,' or 'Please, I need you, Vox.' You've got to speak up if you want me to do anything to you, got it, dollface?" he clarified, emphasizing the importance of explicit consent, whether it was due to genuine respect for your boundaries or just his enjoyment of your yearning for him, it was a bit unclear. However, knowing Vox, he probably just got off on your embarrassment.

"Yes, sir," you said, feeling embarrassed. "So? Do you want me to give some love to these," he asked, tracing the outline of your underwear, "lovely parts?" He perked up.

"I would love for you to, sir," you managed to speak out. With a 'perfect' from your boss, he was now eagerly devouring you with his tongue, sending small pleasurable shocks through you as he did. No part of you down there was left un-licked.

Just as you were about to reach that sweet, sweet release — Vox removed himself from you, causing you to whine at the loss of pleasure.

"Don't worry," he said, but before you could complain too much, Vox lifted you up and threw you onto the couch, your face soon hitting the satin pillows. As you heard the sound of his belt unbuckling, you felt your hips being repositioned, leaving you face down and ass up.

Vox quickly pumped his cock a few times, not needing much as it was already hard from the sight of you writhing due to his tongue. Getting close to your ear, he whispered, "Cuz I'm not done with you, dollface."

Then he promptly shoved himself inside of you. Thankfully, whatever he was doing with his tongue a couple of instances ago had prepped you, because, woof, did the stretch sting.

After giving you a few moments to adjust, he began pounding you into tomorrow, playing with your front and sending small shocks here and there. With no regard for his colleagues sitting right beside him —or should I say colleague, as in singular—Velvette had left as soon as he began working you with his tongue. However, Valentino remained, watching the scene unfold with keen interest.

Your soon came undone due to his rough ministrations, but he was far from done with you...

⫘⫘⫘ Ownership, ⛌⛌⛌ Humiliation & Collar

If you haven't already figured it out yet, Vox is a sadist. He thoroughly enjoys power dynamics and the act of humiliating others.

Continuing from the previous headcanon, picture yourself as either hired as his secretary or as a low-ranking demon in his company who catches his eye. If you're the latter, he'll undoubtedly arrange for you to be transferred to work closer to him.

But anyway, my point is, as soon as you're in his close proximity, he'll literally makes you his bitch on call in the blink of an eye. And obviously, you can't refuse because, one, he's your boss; two, he's an overlord; and three, he's Vox.

Who would refuse that hunk? Even if you weren't initially attracted to him, you'd find yourself becoming so after a couple of weeks, even if it's just some weird mild attraction—you're still into him.

Once he's got you in his grasp and has fucked you at least once, this is when he begins to play with you. He'll make you start wearing a vibrator under your clothes at work, ordering you to remove your clothing every morning and show him, to ensure you did it. Then he'd send you on your merry way.

If he wasn't physically with you, he'd be watching you through his cameras.

And every time you would be talking to someone and he deemed it too long, you weren't paying attention to him, or you were zoning out/getting distracted, he would turn the vibrator on to 'get you back on track'.

Though he did like to sometimes turn the vibrator on just to tease you. For example, you're in the middle of telling him about a shift in his appointment in a room full of people, and he would suddenly turn it on to fuck with you.

He also has a huge thing for pulling you by your soul chain. He just loves, loves, loves summoning it out of nowhere and just tugging you along with it.

For instance, you could be telling him about some issue concerning a recent project, and he would tell you to come closer so he could hear better.

As you walk closer towards his desk, he deems your pace too slow. Without warning, he summons and tugs at the chain around your neck, causing you to fall to the ground.

In an attempt to brace the fall, you put your arms out, catching yourself and ending up on all fours.

But as you try to get up, he would tut at you, ordering you to “Crawl to me.” You’re humiliated, but you still do it as he watches you like a hawk, a satisfied grin on his face.

If you also happen to scrape or bruise yourself when you fell and some small tears form in your eyes, let me tell you, he would get so bricked up as soon as he noticed them.

And of course, he would make you blow him, though it would end up with him face-fucking you, as it usually did.

He would also hold your head down as he dumped his cum down your throat, then he would pull your nose with his free hand, saying that “you don’t get to breathe until you’ve swallowed it all.” And of course, you would do it because you don’t want to literally choke to death on your boss’s dick.

Once he was sure you had swallowed it all, he would finally release you, allowing you to take some air in. Then he would make you stick out your tongue, and he would spit in your mouth, making you swallow that too.

𐂯 Training

He liked using small electrical charges as a ‘training method’, and this method has two stages. This would happen after he already had you as his personal toy— I mean, ‘secretary’.

At first, he uses electricity to reprimand you whenever you weren’t paying attention to him, questioned him, said no to things, or did anything that he considered as bad behaviour.

He would shock you, making you associate ‘bad behavior’ with pain, so you would end up automatically correct yourself before you even do or say something.

If you take a bit too long to ‘adjust’ to this new way of acting, he might resort to a little bit of hypnosis, but he would prefer not to.

He gets off on the fact that he can train you to behave just with his words and actions, without the help of any special ability.

Anyways, when he is sure that he has drilled into you what proper behavior is, he’ll employ phase two. He’ll start training you to enjoy the sting of his electricity.

So, whether he's fucking you, giving you head, touching you, or basically providing any sort of pleasure, every time you would be close to reaching your peak, he would send jolts of electricity through you, gradually increasing the dosage over time.

Things would get to the point that a small shock from him would be enough to get you turned on, and bigger shocks would be able to literally make you cum.

ฅ Pet

For the most part, he wouldn’t see secretary!reader as a partner. It’s only after a while, like a year or more, that he would start considering it.

He views them as his romantic interests, but not on his level. To keep face with the other Vees, even though they both knew about his crush from the beginning because he was so obvious with it, he would call you his pet.

Sometimes literal ‘pet names’ like puppy, kitty, bunny, etc. (Personally, I would love for him to call him his bunny <3.)

What he calls you all depends on your appearance and behaviors. For example, if you manifested with a more feline appearance, he would call you his kitten or kitty. If you didn’t have animal-like features but for example, were very needy, had a tendency to follow around, and were a sucker for praise, he would likely call you his puppy.

𓌏 Punishments

Besides using electric shocks, he is definitely into spanking as a form of punishment—whether it involves pulling down your pants or lifting your skirt, spanking you for every ‘transgression’ you’ve committed is something he’s totally down for.

It can be a really strange experience if you weren't a masochist to begin with because he'll end up having you conditioned to enjoy physical punishments;

For example, he would be spanking you, and you find yourself getting turned on, arousal literally leaking due to his rough treatment of your behind.

Edging and overstimulation are also big in his book, though each has its own set of circumstances where they would be implemented.

For instance, if you weren't paying attention to him because of someone else, he would overstimulate you to the point where you couldn't think about anyone but him, asserting his superiority over whoever had your attention.

If you weren't paying attention for any other reason, he would edge you, because ‘how dare you ignore him when he should be the most important to you!’.

Thanks anons for requesting!

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[hallowpen]

Before we get to episode four... I forgot to mention something in my previous post about episode three. We were introduced to a new character:

เจ้าเอื้องฟ้า (Jao Uangfah) - Lady Uangfah holds the title of หม่อมเจ้า ('mom-jao' abbreviated as M.C.) as a daughter of a non-successive sovereign prince. Anil's father being closer in line to the throne grants her the title of "Secondary Princess", while Uangfah's father being a further descended prince affords his daughter the lower-ranking title of "Lady". (I know it can be confusing as M.C. is used as a title for several different ranks within the hierarchy, so it's important to know its distinctions)

I spoke about ช่อม่วง ('chor muang') when it made a brief appearance in episode two. However, I'm glad that the series highlighted the process of how to prepare and make the dish... as it is a very detailed and intricate process. The filing is prepared first. The savory filling can vary between pork and chicken. Next follows the making and steeping of the dough (for color). The filling is wrapped in the purple dough where special brass tweezers are used to create a floral shape. The dumplings are then steamed and served, topped with fried garlic. The dish is plated with green leaf lettuce, cilantro, and Thai chilies.

ส้มฉุน ('som chun') is a Thai dessert typically eaten during the hot season. It is made from lychee soaked in cooled sugar syrup (flavored from pandan and orange peels) that is topped with shaved ice, julienned green mango, thinly sliced ginger, and deep fried shallots. The dessert is known for being incredibly fragrant, as well as its sweet and sour flavor.

We were, once again, treated to some very nice social class dynamics featuring Anil's relationships to those around her. She is willing to do whatever it takes in order to obtain what she believes is rightfully "hers". It's extremely notable to point out that Anil continues to view Pin as some kind of possession, even while genuine in her feelings toward her. Anil is using Uangfah in her plan to make Pin jealous, and she is openly cold toward Kuea... with no regard for any consequences. After all, she can do what she wants and manipulate whomever she pleases because she is a highly ranked princess. Anil is used to getting her way... and having people move heaven and earth to help her get it.

There were also some very important scenes between Anil and Prik that reminded the audience that, regardless of their friendly dynamic, Prik still exists to serve.

I also like that the series is integrating the western influences that exist within Anil's family, given that she and her siblings all spent time abroad. The tennis matches (and the wardrobes) were super fun to see, Anil's dinner that she prepared for Pin, even the kissing lesson...

As always, I am very much looking forward to the next episode!!!

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

to be entirely clear and to clarify a few things:

when I say “should I have this kink” I mean more like “I am 100% capable of repressing it, should I?”

My cannibalism kink is also partially romantic and I’m only willing to eat people who fully and willingly consent and imo that’s okay in real life.

when I say I have trouble distinguishing between reality and fiction I mean that I am mildly schizoaffective(or to be more precise I am schizoaffective and my symptoms are relatively mild most of the time) and when I write fiction I hallucinate the characters coming from the world to tell me what happened in that world. so I don’t write fiction and a lot of the time I forget that when people do write fiction they’re inventing the world and characters as opposed to the characters contacting them from another world and so I think of the interactions with characters as interactions with real people cause it’s just so alien to me to write characters that you can actually control and dictate what they do.

hope that makes sense this is very stream of consciousness

so this is what we call "questions wildly outside of my pay grade" although I will note that regardless of your personal feelings on when eating someone irl is okay it's is extremely illegal pretty much everywhere and does come with uuuuh pretty steep consequences

[classic80sand90smovieloves2]

Lestat wooing you would include~

(Not my gif)(Requested by anonymous)

( I wrote this draft a while ago, and only now edited and finished it, so hopefully I'll still like it after my next viewing of IWTV lol. I tried to balance romance with Lestats naturally manipulative and toxic side. And I tried to make a neutral set of headcanons for something I think would really depend on the type of person.)

- When he can, and when he wants to be, Lestat is like a dream personified: one you feel so vividly and yearn for so ardently that you pray you’ll never breach the waking world again. He sweeps you off your feet; both figuratively and literally, until all that’s left of you is a foggy haze that can think only of fairytales and fantasy. 

- And yet, the dream is bound to end as nothing short of a nightmare. 

- Lestat views mortals as toys, things he can do with as he pleases, and dispose of as quickly and as often as it suits him. He hardly ever takes into consideration the feelings and the value of those around him, save for when he decides he wants them: and even then, he can’t help but play cruel little games. 

- Lestat’s love, in general, is a game. It’s a game of cat and mouse, one that only he ever manages to win. No matter how long it may take, no matter how hard you may try to avoid it, no matter how much it might hurt you, you’ll end up being his in one way or another, even if it kills you....

- At first, Lestat is very open about his infatuation with you, introducing himself to you in the dead of night as you walk the streets or sit in your garden. He apologizes for scaring you, ignoring how strange his sudden appearance may be; how it seems almost impossible for him to be where he is right in that moment.

- Though you're too distracted by his physical appearance to truly consider the logistics. Too distracted by his complexion and his hair that seems to be glowing in the moonlight, how striking his eyes are, how expensive his clothes are. He's completely foreign to you; both in physical attributes and status, and because of that, you're taken with him from the start.

- Being with him is thrilling, it's exhilarating, and it feels almost dangerous, so comparably taboo to everything you've ever been taught to yearn for. You would have never imagined that you'd be sneaking away in the middle of the night, tiptoeing past your parents room or climbing down the steep side of your home's architecture: all to meet with a man who only ever appears to you in dark corners and secluded spaces. You would have never imagined slipping back inside just as the sun rises and hiding your exhaustion in the morning at the breakfast table, knowing that if your father ever found out he'd lock you away.

- But just being with Lestat is enough to make you forget about any and all consequences that you may face. He's able to strip away your worries: waxing poetic about how he loves you and how he'll never allow anything to happen to you. About how he's capable of giving you a life that you couldn't even imagine.

- He's worse than the devil when telling you how he'll let you live deliciously: promising you no more pain or sorrow for the rest of time, how not even sickness or death could ever touch you again. But only if you'll trust in him, love him, accept him, him, him, him. His tone is never above a whisper yet it's deafening, rendering the world around you silent so that all you can hear is the beating of your heart and the softness of his voice.

- When he talks to you about the future, it's as though he can read your mind: as though he understands you on some deep and emotional level, perfectly summing up your deepest and darkest feelings that you do your best to hide. He promises to change the things you wish to change, to give you the things you have always yearned for, to rid you of the grievances and the heartaches that you have grown to worry about. Out of everyone in your life, it is a complete stranger who seems to know you best, and it makes you feel as though you are somehow one in the same, connected on some otherworldly level.

- He flirts with you in your more lighthearted moments together: making you laugh and flush and hide your face. He speaks so smoothly, so charmingly, so intelligently. All the boys you've ever met have either been perfectly plain or dreadfully boring, and Lestat is the total opposite: so full of life and passion and romance. It's like he holds your heart in his hands and tells it when to beat.

- He calls you such beautiful things: things reserved for your parents or the letters between history's greatest lovers. Some are comparably innocent to others, holding the affection of a guardian rather than a lover. Pet, lambkin, sugarplum, treasure, angel, beloved, darling, dove, lover, my love, my dearest, my heart, etc. Not to mention when he speaks in his native tongue.

- It's easy to forget who you actually are when every name he seems to call you is a term of endearment or your name spoken in a tone that you've never heard before. He makes it seem so foreign and different: makes you feel different.

- And when he feels his words are no longer enough, he moves on to gifts: covering you in gems and jewels and satins. You tuck them away in the bottom of your dresser, keeping them hidden away from your families prying eyes. The first time you visit his home, you're shown a room that's already made for you: it's closets and dressers full of luxuries that you've never known.

- When he zips and clasps you into them, his fingers linger on the pulse beneath his touch. He kisses your wrists and your neck as his hands slide across your body, listening to the heartbeat racing in your chest and the thoughts crossing your mind, knowing that his affection is filling you with burning heat.

- It's an age of innocence that you live in, and Lestat is a creature of sin: when he woos you, it's bound to include seduction and lust. He wants to sway you towards a life of debauchery, the type of life he has lived for quite some time, the type of life that he can give to you: one without punishment and restriction, one with only pleasure.

- He tries to lower your inhibitions: tries to trap you in a whirlwind of excitement, and romance, and affection, until all that's left is a dizzying love that makes you want to give yourself to him and only him. When he feels he can get away with it, he'll lean in close, staring straight into your eyes as his mouth draws nearer to your own. A grin pulls at his lips, feeling as though he is seconds away from stealing a kiss and sealing your fate.

- It's then that you pull away, wanting to; needing to, preserve your chastity, not wanting to allow yourself to get carried away and do irreversible damage; to be a fool for the sake of love. On one hand, he loves it. On the other, it infuriates him. He soothes himself with your touch, pausing only for a moment as your head turns away from his own before dropping his face into the crook of your neck or burying it in your hair, feeling your softness against him; a promise of what he is capable of winning as long as he can remain patient.

- You're so soft, so warm, so sweet: all attributes he tries to imitate himself; wanting you to trust him more than anything. He drapes himself across you, lays his head in your lap or rests his chin on your shoulders, wanting to seem gentler than he is. He is a monster, yes, but he's determined to convince you that he is not: as though he holds less control than he actual does, as though he is weaker than he is. Perhaps in a way, he is weaker: weak for you, for your touch, for your acceptance, for your love.

- And in convincing you that he is weak for you, he manages to win you over and turn you away from your family, planting seeds of doubt in your mind and ideas about running away with him. He introduces you to passion, to all of the things your family taught you to stay away from because they're sinful and will lead you down a dark path. He questions why something so beautiful and pleasureful would be so wrong for you to engage in. Why god would mean to keep you from enjoying them, from enjoying life and enjoying him, enjoying all the pleasure that he convinces you to let him give to you.

- At some point, he will find himself an entry point into your regular life: likely by attending a party that you and your family are at, and making himself known as an honored guest or sponsor; someone that the people around him are bound to respect and trust. He pretends not to know you when the two of you are introduced, though the way he looks at you when he kisses your hand will tell anyone who's watching that that is simply not the case.

- He plays nice in the presence of others, treating you more like a child than a potential wife: acting like a protective uncle when in the company of your family, friends, or suitors. He cultivates a close relationship in public with you under this pretense, lowering your families guards and making them believe that he truly has your best interests in mind. When other men come around, he is not seen as a competitor, but rather a guardian, someone that they must convince to like them if they wish to get close to you

- Yet for all of this acting, there always comes a time in the middle of the night when he finds you alone, acting as though a switch has been flipped and he cannot keep himself off or away from you. He grabs you from amongst the darkness, concealing your shrieks of surprise as he holds you close to him, growling about how he's missed you and cooing at you as grumble about how he's treated you all evening. He reminds you that you must keep your love a secret; whether it was initially his idea or your own, and against your better judgement, you begin to soften once more; forgiving him as he smiles at and hugs you close to him.

- He keeps you close to him at parties once he feels he has earned the right to; or even when he feels he hasn't, urging you to sit with him at his side and leaning into you so that he can murmur little comments in your ear, grinning as you giggle and try to hide it. You sit at his side as he plays the piano, watching his fingers fly across the keys as he quietly makes lighthearted conversation or teasing quips.

- In the presence of others, his affection turns gentle and innocent: tapping your chin, booping your nose, patting your cheek, escorting you around by your interlocked arms. In private his affection is more intimate: brushing your hair from your face, toying with your jewelry, lingering caresses, purposefully placed hands, long and gentle kisses. It's hard to grow used to the difference: how he can be one man one moment, and seem like a totally different one the next.

- But Lestat enjoys this difference, this game of his that he gets to play with you. It's a game he takes even further in an effort to make you jealous, to make you even more interested in him: to invoke some kind of strong reaction in you and bring the two of you closer in the long run. It's a rotten and dangerous game that he plays: brushing you off in favor of another, disregarding how happy you are to see him, taking pleasure in your confusion and disappointment.

- He expects to bite then lap at the wound like a dog, be the one to hurt you then strip you of the pain. He expects you to eagerly accept his undivided attention later on: for you to feel fortunate for the scraps, to wait for his beck and call. And how rewarding it is for you when you ensure that his plan backfires. Two can play at that game, you reason, and you watch as he conceals his own jealousy in response to your actions.

- When he stands you up during your nightly meetings, you don't show up the next day yourself. When you're at a mutual party, you dance and stay by the side of a boy your father boisterously insists you'll marry one day. When you need fresh air, you take the boy with you and sit in the garden side by side. And oh how Lestat could snap his neck like a twig: drain him right in front of you and sully your little saintlike dress. There's still a chance that he will....

- Your attention is like a drug to him and when he is left with none of it, he festers in sickness and in agony, rotting from the inside as he suffers from withdrawals. He must remind himself to be patient when he thinks about sweeping you away, about making you his and forcing you to stay with him until the end of time.

- He'll undoubtedly interrupt you, whether during your sit down with your potential suitor or after it happens: either scaring the boy off with the sheer tension and anger that radiates off of him, or stealing you away when his back is turned, grabbing you in the blink of an eye; reminiscent of times when you were both in much more jovial moods. His ability to suddenly appear will never cease to shock you, to startle you before you gain your bearings and sigh at the sight of him; whether in relief or annoyance.

- It's in these moments that he has to be very careful. He feels the need to turn you, to ensure that you're not going anywhere, but in doing that, he is playing a very dangerous game. Lestat believes that you could grow to love him over time, that you would get over the initial resentment of being turned once you realize the gift that he's bestowed upon you. But what if you don't? What if he loses you all the same? You'd be as good as dead then, wouldn't you? Immortal and yet refusing to be by his side. He wouldn't let you, but that's besides the point.

- If he does manage to quell those urges, manage to convince himself that now is not the time to change you, then he must decide on how to deal with you accordingly: decide if anger is the way to go, if sorrow is, if kindness should prevail above all else. Sometimes his temper gets the better of him and his sweetened words turn sour, making you wonder if the man standing before you is the same man you've grown to love.

- Oftentimes, you respond just as angrily, lashing out at him in the same venomous way, your pain and your exhaustion showing through. He can't help but love it, love the anger and the passion that you show him. He finds your fury exhilarating: proof of why he chose you in the first place, proof of how perfect you are for each other.

- It's then that he turns on the charm: smiling and laughing in amusement, somehow turning this rage of yours into a bonding moment. It's baffling to witness, and it gives you much to think about. It's in these moments that he might be forced to turn you, seeing the conflict on your face, hearing the words leave your lips, orders for him to leave you alone, how you never wish to see him again.

- He can't allow you to make that decision, to leave him and be rid of him forever. He'll ensure that you're unable to: that no matter where you go and no matter how far you run, he will continue to be the only one you can turn to, the only one who can understand and guide you. You'll learn to love him then, he'll make sure of it. Despite all the aggravation, a life without him will be even more unbearable, ...and you'll realize that soon enough.

- There's a very likely chance that he'll woo you after he bites you, that he'll turn you during your first meeting, or feed from you and later convince you to let him change you. For the sake of these headcanons, I've pretended as though there's a reason he's unable to steal you away in the middle of the night and run away with you. Just let it be known that under different circumstances, he might react very differently when trying to win you over.

- That being said: Lestat does try to give you the choice when deciding whether or not to change you; regardless of your history together. Although, it isn't much of a choice, is it? It's either change or die: a sort of "pick your poison" type of scenario.

- I can see him making his secret known in an attempt to win you over and intrigue you, to fascinate you with his mere existence and draw you towards him even more. Your interest in him facilitates his beliefs about you: about how you're made for his world and not your own. The fact that you're not terrified of him; that you still yearn to be near him even after learning what he is, proves to him that you're different from everyone else, that there's a reason he chose you out of every other person on Earth.

- Logistically, you know that things like him should not exist: that even if they do, they're dangerous and should be avoided at all costs. And yet, you find yourself incapable of of doing so. Knowing that he exists frightens you, and yet it fascinates you even more, making you want to continue seeing him: scared of losing this double life of yours that has allowed you to see things beyond your own comprehension and the set of beliefs that you've been taught since birth. If you turn from him, you risk going back to a normal and boring life, forced into realism after getting a taste of true fantasy.

- It's a hard decision to make; whether you'll choose to continue seeing him or not, yet you should rest assured that Lestat is seldom finished with a person even when they fully believe him to be. If he wants something, there is simply no preventing him from having it. And the thing he wants most is you....

[fatallyfalling]

Bitter Water 0.08 ~ ♆

“ You’re staring again, “

{{ Finnick Odair x Reader }}

{{ previous part || next part }} {{ masterlist }}

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, PTSD, forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, President Snow, time skip, unshared feelings, nightmares, unintentional self-injury, alcohol, sexual harassment, character death, gore/blood, etc

{{ word count }} 6.3 k

{{ outfits }}

{{ prompt }} Desirability has consequences. Desirability is a cage, and you it’s prisoner. A product and a drug to the Capital elites as something to control and have obediently submit. But the drug of almonds and honey is something sweeter and you’ve grown rather accustomed to the taste.

{{ a/n }} This is another cliffhanger i’m sorryyyyy but thank you for all your patience i already have 0.09 in the works i’m hoping to get it up asap after this i love you all sm forehead kisses muah!!

If hell were a place on earth it’d be this room.

Quietly tucked in a penthouse apartment within Capital high-rise walls. With ornate furnishings and slippery silk sheets a stark shade of white that made your skin prefer the idea of being set ablaze and slopping off your very bones just to escape their ensnarement.

The scent of roses suffocates like poison.

If hell were a presence she’d slink between shadowed corners of the space, seeping through the walls, and the floor. Whispering through bars on the windows in the form of tightly drawn curtains blocking out what would have been a skyline view if it wasn’t to hide the happenings behind closed doors. The penthouse was kept cold. There was no love here, no gentleness, no kindness.

Kindness was scarce these days.

Had hell been a person she’d be the shadowed visitors with finely trimmed suits and dresses that glittered with each twist and turn. Gloved hands, colored hair, sticky fingers, and sultry lips covered in luster that held cruel, fanged smiles. Hands as rough as sandpaper that moved as aggressively as attempting to strike a dulled match with pointed nails that too often left angry crescents and small bruises imprinted on your waist and wrists. A predator.

And you were their prey.

Prey made to be caught and devoured.

Made.

You hadn’t always been this way. You knew that. You still foolishly clung to shattered youth and hopes of something “normal” but the pieces of that hope had become too small to pick up and too complicated to piece back together. Things were different now and there was no going back. The first year was the most difficult. Combined with the steep learning curve of mirror-practiced smiles and inviting the unconsented touch while maintaining the subtle demeanor you’d performed so well through The 67th Games when you’d rather commit treason and spill the blood of the penthouse visitors teetered over the edge of excruciating. What would be the cost of more blood on your already crimson-stained palms anyway?

Everything. Everything would be the price.

So carefully crafted were the claws you hid behind perfect manicures. The spiteful temper that blistered through your ribcage was now kept on an even tighter leash than before. You had to keep your loved ones safe. You had to keep that stupid Peacock safe. Your small family back in District 4 was kept unaware of what your frequent visits to the Capital entailed. However, the occasional resigned glances from your Father across the dinner table suspected otherwise. You met his gaze less and less as time wore on.

By the second year, you’d developed a routine. A controlled performance of engrained obedience and an equally forced smile laced with feigned pleasure to top off the act. On the outside, no one seemed the wiser, assuming you’d grown accustomed to being Desirable by the Capital District of Panem. Obedient - submissive, even.  But on the inside, a simmering flame groomed a hatred so vile part of you sometimes pondered how many worlds would shake when you erupted. A hatred for the President that forced you here and a hatred for the repeated lies you told and fell victim to in the name of survival thus far. There’d been plenty of liars in your wake of winning The Hunger Games. Wolves in bloody, rotted sheep’s skin stared down the last remaining lamb of the herd in the name of sacrifice and control.

You were nothing and everything and nothing again as the repetitive act carried on.

Desirability was a curse.

By the third year, You’re forced to mentor your first tribute. The boy had been young, just barely turning twelve a few weeks before The Reaping. The unluckiness of his name being drawn had reigned in pity from the Capital citizens and weary parents across the nation. It seemed to always be that way when someone young was Reaped. His name had been Trout Nettlewood. A gangly kid on the smaller end of others his age, but he was surprisingly nimble and could run like a fox, flaming red hair and all. Your assignment had been to shadow Finnick, learn the ropes, and inspire sponsors through your mere presence. Looking back, the rumors between the two of you had never been greater than during that time. The perfect picture of some twisted, hyper-romanticized, “what if - family” for the Capital’s voyeuristic viewing pleasure. At only only nineteen years old the sickening demand for the Peacock and yourself had never been higher.

Trout had been easily lovable by the masses. A small, scared fox who didn’t stand a chance. He was curious about everything and determined to learn despite his circumstances. The boy devoured the few books of healing herbs and edible foraging you’d scrounged up with surprising ease. He was smart and bubbly, dozens of freckles plastered across his cheeks, nose, and forehead that scrunched when he smiled. Your heart squeezed painfully when he did. The Capital fell hard and fast for the boy, adoring cheers ringing through the crowd during his brief interview with Caesar Flickerman. Warm smiles and a curious intrigue oozed from the auditorium that had you fear vomiting right then and there in the stage wings. Despite the adoration your Tribute earned, and much to your dismay, you knew the minute that bell rang in the Arena they’d look elsewhere. Even with the calculated facades and fleeting rumors, sharks were going into that deadly sea, and they wouldn’t hesitate to kill the weakest links the first chance they got.

You spared a sidelong look towards the bronze-haired man beside you and caught the creasing in his brows and pulse of muscle in his jaw with quiet observation. Both of you had matured over time. Finnick had developed like fine wine, of course. Whether it had been genetics or luck, the honey-tanned Darling was taller and broader, with refined features and a lean, muscular build that sent young women across the Capital swooning. If it had been possible for his charismatic nature and flirtatious attitude to get any worse he’d somehow found a way as well. The urge to punch the Peacock after every sneaking, sarcastic comment made on your maturity was growing as equally difficult to reign in as your hidden temper.

Victoriously, you managed a few jabs to Finnick’s inflated ego when no one else was looking now and then. Yes, you’d matured and better filled a few places than before, but you hadn’t seen yourself changing much at all these past few years. There was always something bigger to focus on and besides, vanity had never taken much priority when you’d grown up working day and night to feed the twins and aid your parents, especially following your mother's passing.

The banter between the two of you had made a routine of its own you supposed. Snapping retorts back and forth on the long train rides between District and Capital, or in elevators between revelries had become something you’d mildly looked forward to. Sometimes whispered secrets were traded in hushed voices when you'd manage brief relief from the vile clients that had purchased your company for the night. The secrets had started simple enough. Favorite colors and what pastries served at the Capital banquets you were forced to attend tasted best, just to name a few of them. You learned the Darling favored the small citrus tarts that seemed to only be served on special occasions when the fruit was in season, everything else was too sweet for his liking. Generally, he enjoyed anything citrus it seemed.

“You don’t have a sweet tooth? I’m surprised, Peacock.” You’d remarked at the time.

“Well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me,” He’d lilted in response, mischief gleaming in his sea-green stare. “You’re quite the mystery yourself, by the way.”

“I prefer the mystery. Why lay everything out like a book when you can keep someone guessing?” You’d replied with a wry smile of your own.

Another secret you’d learned was his knack for tying knots. He’d ramble off on tangents of different tying styles and their uses between hushed chuckles. The knowledge he shared was extensive, and you offered your versions from your time helping on the shipyards back in 4 before your games. He’d offered to show you a few times, but with your overlapping schedules, the time never came to pass.

That warmth in your chest sometimes flared when you caught yourself absently staring at his eyes, the way they crinkled at the corners, or the pronouncement of the dimples that pressed into his cheeks when he smiled. You never allowed the warmth to spread, however, firmly smothering any chance the minute you caught yourself dwelling too much.

Your trade-in secrets was a small rebellion to the parts the two of you had to play. A performance of its own behind closed doors or in shadowed alcoves with prickly thorns and PeaceKeepers lurking nearby just out of earshot. Friendly or not, you were able to sense the mutual understanding of your situations. The predicament surrounding the rumors of the two of you being an alleged item made it easier to avoid one another at gatherings, the aid of clients dragging the two of you to different parts of the various pleasure halls and amphitheaters to keep you apart was mildly amusing at times. In its twisted way of course. But the slight draw, as if a thread tethered the two fo you to one another seemed to draw you both back in each time.

“You’re staring again.”

“Am not.”

Your eyes shift, gluing themselves to the suddenly very interesting floor.

“You bite your lip when you’re nervous or lying,”

You hadn’t even realized you’d sucked the flushed muscle between your teeth.

“Stop being creepy, Peacock.”

Finnick snorts, a roll in his shoulders following the motion of shoving his hands deep in his pockets. Sea-green eyes remained fixed on the red-headed boy across the stage. The spotlights were sweltering. Maybe if you prayed hard enough, the heavy, velvet curtains of the wings would push in and swallow you whole. You wished they would. The hazy image of layered gauze and Caesar’s cackling laugh from your interview just three years ago flickers in your mind. You shake your head to push the memory away.

“He won’t make it past the bloodbath,”

Your tone is cold, detached maybe. A lump had formed itself in your throat and you swallowed thickly, the effort futile. The reality of tomorrow had started to set in after two intensive weeks of training.

“You don’t know that. He’s fast.” Finnick quips.

His tone is also cold, though a hint of determination weaves itself in his drawl as you spare another glance his way. The Darling doesn’t look back. His gaze is still firmly fixed ahead. The crowd bubbles with ‘awes’ and laughter at a joke Caesar makes. Trout smiles. Your heart twists.

“We’ll see,” You respond.

A warm weight presses briefly into your shoulder as the tall Victor beside you turns away from the dazzling lights. Finnick was always warm. “Stop being so pessimistic,” Finnick huffs. But there’s no light in his ocean's gaze as your eyes lock. You feel the phantom warmth of where his arm brushed yours to the other side of the stage. Trout greets you with a hug and Finnick tells him well done, ruffling his fiery hair. Mechanical clicks and flashes follow as you guide your Tribute away from the commotion. This was his final night alive for all any of you knew.

Finnick decides to try and rally a few more sponsor candidates before sauntering off to the pleasure halls of the Tribute Center, leaving you with Trout for the remainder of the evening. Part of you wishes you could write off Finnick’s disappearance as neglect of his Tribute, but you know by the Darling's gait that the weight of tomorrow morning hangs heavy. One last ditch effort to try and bring Trout any chance of surviving.

“Let’s go get you something to eat.” You murmur to your Tribute, trying your best to smile warmly but you know the corners of your mouth are a bit crooked and your throat feels like it’s going to suffocate and collapse. Trout smiles with an agreeing nod, and your heart painfully squeezes, but you take his small hand and lead him away anyway. You don’t look back at the bronze-haired male behind you.

Trout scarfs down his food, despite the multiple courses. You barely touch your own as you stare blankly into the creamy, rose-petaled soup. Bile stings your throat at the floral, desserty scent. You push the feeling down the same as you push your bowl away, opting to offer it to the child beside you. Trout happily takes it with a grin. You dab a napkin to the corner of his mouth with a featherlight touch.

The evening is quiet, and a fire roars in the hearth of a grand marble fireplace in the common area of the Tributes of District 4’s quarters. The female Tribute of District 4 was under Mags’ Mentorship and had been scarcely seen these past two weeks. Her name was Annie Cresta, you’d seen her here and there over the years but didn’t personally know who she was. She’d kept to her rooms and barely spoke. You couldn’t blame her.

Trout had asked to sit with you on the sofa, Instinctively curling himself into your side. The small boy craved closeness, opting to stand close enough to either you or Finnick that body heat was shared or he could easily reach for a hand any chance he got. Initially, the two of you had tried to halt the child’s need for a caring touch considering what lay ahead, logically thinking it might hinder his independence in the area, but in the end, neither of you could stand to let him go into the maw of death without knowing the brief warmth of affection. Even though you were only seven years older than Trout, your viewpoints on the world were distinctly different based on experience alone. As mentors, it was your duty to train your Tribute and prepare them for the arena. The responsibility weighed heavy. 

But it was true you'd grown to love Trout in a way, just like you loved your siblings back in 4.

Maybe that made the goodbyes even worse.

Trout fell asleep nestled safely under your arm as your eyelids grew heavy while trying to recite the book of edible herbs you’d been working to memorize with him one last time. Your legs were outstretched across the leather cushions of the large sunken sectional, and your ankles lay crossed as the flame-haired boy slumbered soundly on your shoulder. He was still dressed in a finely trimmed, forest green suit though he lacked any dress shoes, just black crew socks. Trout hated shoes. The minute he got back from training they were always kicked off by the door. Thatcher had stumbled over them a few times and would grumble his distaste for the lack of manners but no one corrected the action, allowing the small freedom for the Tribute.

Your evening ensemble was a bit rumpled over your thighs and waist, but you didn’t mind. You barely registered the soft click of one of the heavy, entryway double doors as the wee hours of morning crept in.

Nor did you pay any heed to the whisper of a familiar almonds and honey cologne paired with a warm weight over your shoulders as the final pull to drag you into sleep.

No nightmares plagued your mind that night as the sweet warmth kept you safe.

The following morning was as unbearable as you’d expected.

You had awoken before Trout, grogginess trying its best to pull you back under the blanket of unconsciousness, but as your senses sharpened you remembered what today was. Dread settled heavily in your chest as you carefully adjusted your torso to prop yourself up better against the arm of the luxurious sectional in your best efforts not to wake the sleeping Tribute just yet. An ache splintered from the muscles connecting your right collarbone to your throat, howling in protest at the stretch of stiff muscle. You couldn’t help gritting your teeth at the adjustment, Trout's head weighing heavy on your shoulder as you shifted.

Blinking several times, your gaze finally shifted from the boy at your side to the slight weight over your body. A crease forms between your brows as your free hand shields a small yawn. Your nose scrunches with the action as you continue to wake up.

The faint scent of almonds and honey meets your groggy senses again, the worry in your brows deepening as you wipe away the sleep from your eyes. The weight and scent belonged to a familiar navy blue suit jacket, the material was sleek and satiny with a faint shine. It was Finnick’s jacket from last night’s interviews. A flicker of something warm strikes a thread deep in your chest, but you shove it so far down the feeling stops.

“Tch…” You click your tongue as you use your free arm to gently lift the garment, draping it over the back of the sofa as you turn your attention to the red-headed boy on your side. Tenderly, you give his shoulder a small shake and the boy stirs, eliciting a protesting groan from the child.

“Come on, gotta get up.” You murmur and Trout groggily sits up. A small, humored smile crosses your lips as you ruffle his already disheveled fiery locks. You try to ignore the deathly squeeze of dread in your heart as he breaks into a fit of laughter.

The morning picks up speed as Mags, Finnick, Annie, and Thatcher join you in the open-concept living area. Finnick takes trout off your hands as you quickly freshen up and find a change of clothes.

You don’t notice Finnick’s lingering gaze on your retreating form.

The air is heavy on the short trip to the flight hanger where the Tributes will be transported to the arena. Memories of your farewell and the bone-crushing hug from Mags flash in your mind. Casting a sidelong glance towards Finnick, you observe the clench in the victor’s jaw, which tells you he felt much the same about the hanger. Trout grips your hand like a vice as Peacekeepers lead the way. He’s trembling. Your heart squeezes painfully as it starts to splinter.

The peacekeepers around stand straight-backed with fingers warningly placed on the triggers of their rifles. There was no getting out, no last-ditch escape attempts.

Time was running out.

With a shaky sigh, you turn to face the small boy, who meets you with bleary eyes. “I-I’m scared,” He meekly stumbles over your name and you can feel the piercing pain of your heart breaking further. “I know, but you have to be brave right now, okay?” You try to soothe as you bend to be closer to his eye level. Finnick comes to stand at your side, taking Trout's cheeks in his hands gently as he too kneels. “You can do this Trout,” Finnick’s voice is firm as you nod in agreement. You bring a hand to gently stroke his red hair, the peppered freckles across his face scrunch as tears start to well up in his eyes. Finnick’s thumbs are quick to brush them away, continuing his speech. “You remember the herbs and you remember the knots I taught you. You don’t go near the Cornucopia - you run. If you find Annie that’s great, but your survival comes first, understand?” Finnick instructs as Trout nods, gripping The Darling’s wrists in his small, trembling hands.

You wished you could tell him everything would be okay. But you’d be lying through your teeth if you did.

You couldn’t give him false hope - it would dampen his senses in the Arena.

The peacekeepers start to fuss - instructing you to finish up as they shift their weight and adjust their rifles. You shoot a deathly glare their way, not quite caring for the possible repercussions. Glancing askance towards Mags, you see Annie in tears as she embraces the elder. Your heart breaks for her as well, but you’re quick to return your attention to your Tribute.

“Survive,”

Your words are earnest as squeeze the small boy’s shoulder, repeating the word that had kept you alive in the Arena just three years ago. Trout’s resolve breaks, and he throws his arms around your neck, pulling from Finnick’s hands and burying his freckled nose into the crook of your neck with hiccuping sobs. The constricting lump in your throat only tightens as you wrap your Tribute in your arms with a tight hug, pouring every hope and prayer to whatever gods might be listening to keep him safe into the embrace. Your gaze locks with Finnick’s for a moment and his sea-green irises fill with heartache as well. After a moment the boy shifts to hug the Darling with equal vigor.

The Peacekeepers have enough, and bark orders to get the tributes on the hovercraft.

Annie sniffs as she pulls away from Mags, her shoulders tremble as she boards the craft with two Peacekeepers on either side, semi-forcing her along.

Trout is reluctant to pull away from you both, but as a Peacekeeper steps forward and you send another defiant glare their way, earning a growl from the Keeper, the boy peels himself from Finnick’s embrace only to pull you back in and hug both of you one last time. You gently press a brief kiss to his fiery hair, unknowingly tugging hard on that thread inside Finnick’s chest as he takes notice of your action before the two of you are forced to pull away.

“I’ll miss you,” Trout whispers to you both before turning.

Your heart shatters then and there.

“We’ll miss you too,” You all but whisper.

A final, silent tear rolls down Trout’s cheek as two Peacekeepers turn to guide him to the hovercraft. The Tribute’s stylists follow close behind and you remain rooted to your crouched position with your arms wrapped around yourself till the industrial sound of the hovercraft’s door seals shut and reverberates through the hanger.

You feel sick.

As you straighten up, your gaze catches Finnick’s again, but his eyes quickly avert from yours, a muscle fluttering in his jaw. A crease forms between your brows as you divert your gaze to the departing hovercraft, your arms securely wrapping around your middle as if to self-soothe.

The trip back to the Tributes Center is silent - the tension thick enough to be cut by a blade. No words are exchanged as you arrive, heading straight to the pleasure halls to witness the beginning of The 70th Annual Hunger Games.

A vile cocktail of queasiness and dread coats your tongue as you force yourself to keep moving. The hall is bustling with Capital elites as you enter, following Finnick with Mags close behind. Your dread pools in your chest like a weight as you glance towards the large projections of the countdown to the beginning of The Games. Clenching your jaw you do your best to dawn a feigned smile. Finnick has already settled into his Cheshire smirks and relaxed demeanor, plucking an invisible lint from his shoulder as he weaves through the crowd, greeting sponsor candidates and past clients as he plucks two champagne glasses from a wandering avox before returning to your side. A part of you wishes you could slip between acts as easily as the Darling, his languid movements leaving bystanders none the wiser that the two of you had just sent a child to his inevitable death.

A child.

Your broken heart painfully twists at the reminder.

Cesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith have taken their positions as hosts of The Games as they banter across the multiple projections. Their voices meld into the cacophony that bounces off the high-rise ceilings.

“Drink?”

The Bronze-haired male’s voice cuts through your thoughts as he offers you the crystal glass. Your gaze snaps to his before flickering down to the champagne.

“Am I allowed?” You murmur, to which he responds with a wry smile and a nod before you tentatively retrieve the glass and all but down its contents. Finnick raises his eyebrows at your action but says nothing, a small shrug rolling over his shoulders and a coy smirk passing his tanned features before he echoes your movement, his head tilting back as he empties his glass as well.

A ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you observe the slight scrunch in his nose and the clench in the male’s jaw. The bitter aftertaste of the fizzed beverage leaves a tang on his tongue and a bubbling sensation in his throat.

“I always think it’ll taste better if I just drink it more,” Finnick scoffs.

“Sharing secrets already, Odair?” You murmur, your tone dull while passing your empty glass onto a passing tray as he does the same.

“You knew that one already,” Finnick quips, and you give a small shrug. The alcohol brings warmth to your chest as it disperses through your system. You’d allowed yourself one glass here and there after you’d gathered better control of the horrors that plagued your memories. Normally you tried to keep away from the drinks - mostly to keep the bad habit from developing again like it almost had after the 67th Games. But it helped to ease the edge before certain clients and at times like this.

“Maybe I did,” you reply, knowing full well he was correct. The dread still coils itself in your core but the normalcy of Finnick’s remarks is a slight comfort. A muscle pulses in your jaw as you protectively cross your arms over your chest once more. One of the small graces that came with mentoring; if it could even be referred to as one, was that neither you nor Finnick were allowed to take clients during the duration of The Games. As much as the Capital elites relished in gambling and playing dirty to gain loophole advantages, the rules for mentors were strict on prohibiting gaining Tribute favor by sleeping with sponsors. Despite the rules, that didn’t stop wandering hands and roving eyes over the honey-tanned Victor and yourself.

Rumors have still spread like wildfire alongside the grotesque demand for The Capital’s Darling and Doe - especially with the two of you appearing side by side regularly as mentors these past weeks, which inevitably sparked jealousy between clients as women and men alike shot possessive glares as they groped their chosen Victor. Bile threatened to rise in your throat as you bristled under a drunken man’s touch. Thankfully, his hot, liqueur-coated breath and wavering attention were pulled away as images of The Cornucopia swirled into view on the projections overhead. You don’t notice Finnick’s sidestep till his shoulder brushes yours, his radiating warmth lingering once again on your skin. Both of your eyes are glued to the screens, equal creases and hardened expressions replacing the parts the two of you too often performed.

Your eyes scan the small expanse of the arena you’re able to see, assessing your first look at the terrain while simultaneously scanning the other projections for Trout’s face. On another projection on an opposite wall, a grid of all the Tribute’s faces appears, prepared to blackout faces once the blood bath begins.

The Arena was set up similarly to a Pacific-northwestern mountain range. Tall redwoods and many caverns and cliffs are divided by a large dam. Your breath hitches as vague memories of the netted ravine of the 67th arena pass through your mind. Furiously, you blink the images away as the minute counter begins in a glowing hologram above the assembled stacks of weaponry.

“Do you see him?” you murmur, leaning slightly toward the male beside you with a hushed tone.

“Not yet,“ Finnick replies.

The bass of the automated countdown vibrates through your chest, each tick like an added weight to the dread that threatened to pull you under.

Warmth brushes your shoulder again as Finnick shifts, neither of you bothering to acknowledge your closeness to one another and neither of you moving away.

“You think they’ll make it?” You murmur again.

“I don’t know,” Finnick’s voice is clipped.

His unsure answer weighs heavy. There wasn’t any telling who would live or who would die.

Ten.

You swallow hard - resisting the urge to empty the contents of your stomach is proving to be a challenge.

Nine.

You still can’t see Trout.

Eight.

Where was he?

Seven.

“Where’s Trout?” You question, worry etching your tone.

Six.

“I don’t know.”

Five.

“Can you see him?”

Four.

“No,”

Three.

You drop one of your hands to your side, the action slightly brushing your knuckles with Finnick’s.

Two.

His callused fingertips interlace with yours almost on instinct.

One.

You don’t push him away. You don’t know why - but you don’t.

“Let the 70th Annual Hunger Games, begin.”

The silence in the hall is palpable as the bell tolls and tributes launch from their pedestals. A pain in your chest screams to look away but you can’t. You won’t. You have to find Trout. The first canon booms and your gaze momentarily tears away to the grid of Tributes. The boy from District 12 goes down. Another canon and another Tribute go down, but still not Trout. Several more canons fire off as the carnage begins, and several Tributes die in minutes.

Still no sign of trout -

“There,”

Your head whips as Finnick jerks his chin to one of the screens, a subtle point in the right direction. Trout is seen making a beeline from The Cornucopia for the trees, his speed and nimble movements allow him to flee unnoticed. You lose a deep breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. However, you don’t relax - tensions still hold high as canons fire and the first few, crucial, hours of the Arena wear on.

There’s no going back now.

Neither you nor Finnick slept a wink the following days. He’d wanted to rotate in shifts with the sponsors but you’d protested - arguing there was a higher chance of gaining favor if both of you were there talking to the sponsor candidates. Your gamble worked. Trout received a handful of sponsor gifts thanks to Finnick’s charm and the weaponization of your own skill set. A canteen of water, some rope, and a small hunting knife had gotten him through till now. He’d managed to stay high in the redwood trees, passing from branch to branch and remaining vigilant for edible roots and foliage during his brief periods on the ground.

Four days in Annie had managed to find him, the two cautiously allying. Annie didn’t have any weapons - leaving you to wonder how she’d gotten through till now. Trout helped her scavenge, the pair silently traversing the woods and managing to stay out of range from other Tributes.

Nearly half of them were dead by now.

Many of the tributes had died from tripping off the cliffs in an attempt to reach the caves. Except the caves held mutts in the form of grotesque bears with too big claws and white, bubbling froth filling their sharp-toothed maws. The remaining Tributes learned quickly to stay away.

You stood anxiously rooted to your spot near one of the tall marble columns on the outskirts of the pleasure hall. Finnick was maneuvering through the crowd with his usual greetings and compliments to the sponsors. Mags was around but she’d been swallowed by the crowd. The Darling was much more of a people person than you were - you never quite could pin down his thought process or calculate his next move. The 65th Victor’s shift between his playboy act and usual demeanor was nearly seamless, the change so fluid you sometimes couldn’t catch it.

You’re nursing a glass of champagne, your eyes glued to the projections of The Games. Exhaustion was tugging at your eyes, the internal war between consciousness and sleep raging on as you subtly shifted your weight from foot to foot. Your attire for the evening whispered across the glossed tile with your movements. Hyacinth had kept your outfits rather simple, the garments sleek and elegant. However they still subtly matched Finnick’s - the trend having continued since your victory tour. You’d tried not to dwell on the matter, figuring it was simply due to the fact you hailed from the same District or the fact you had mentored the same Tribute. Neither you nor The Darling had directly addressed it with one another.

“Sponsors seem lively as ever,” Finnick sighs as he appears by your side, leaning his weight against the marble column to your left. “Is that different than usual?” you ask, sparing the male a sidelong glance before taking a sip of your drink.

“No, but tensions seem to be rising. Someone higher up was paid off to sponsor an enormous gift to the boy from District 2. Unsurprising, but we should keep an eye out.” Finnick explains, his tone plain as if he were just discussing the weather. “Do you know what it was?” you ask, fully turning your attention to the bronze-haired victor.

“No - but it can be assumed to be a weapon.”

“If it’s anything like that trident of yours, I’m sure they’ll talk soon enough,” You murmur into your glass. You knew bringing up the deadly trident that had been gifted to Finnick during the 65th Games was a cheap shot. Finnick’s jaw pulses at the mention, and he plucks an invisible lint from his jacket while turning his gaze up to the projections.

“I hope not.” That is all he responds with before the two of you settle into a tense silence for a moment or two.

“I didn’t mean -“ you start but he cuts you off.

“I know.”

You sigh through your nose, downing the rest of your glass with a small scrunch of your nose. You don’t pry further on the matter because that’s not how the two of you worked. There was banter and the trade of small secrets but never quite full apologies or sincerity. It was better to stay detached, you guessed. The weight of your responsibilities and the pressure of the capital was enough as is. 

Personal attachments only meant more trouble. 

“How far away is District 2 from Trout and Annie?” You ask, shifting the conversation just as the projections shift to a different Tribute.

“They’re on opposite sides right now, but District 2 is on the move near the cliffs.“

By now you’ve turned your gaze away from Finnick, but as you look away you catch the turn of his head from the corner of your eye. It was another dance the two of you had weaved, one person keeping an eye on The Games, and the other acknowledging the conversation.

“Have you seen Thatcher yet?”

“They’re out in the gardens. I caught a glimpse of them while making my rounds. speaking of which, did you make yours?” Finnick rebuttals your question with ease and your jaw tenses. “I did. I had to pry Mr. Sarginski’s grubby paws off me but I did.” You reply, slightly scoffing as you recall the drunken sponsor’s misconduct.

“I’ll handle him next time.” Finnick sternly replies, that same muscle pulsing in his jaw as his eyes flicker to the drunk across the hall.

“Tch, I don’t need saving, Peacock.” you quip, your gaze flickering to meet oceans of sea-green before returning to the Arena.

Finnick simply scoffs with a roll of his eyes that matches the shift in his shoulders.

“Still using nicknames?”

“Still trading secrets?” You rebuttal.

“Touché.”

A wry smile crosses the male’s face, flashing his too-white teeth and pointed canines as he lightly shakes his head. A somewhat comfortable silence replaces the lingering tension between the two of you as you return your full attention to The Games.

Hours pass, and night falls over the Arena.

The sponsors were starting to dwindle, a normal occurrence according to Finnick.

“They’ll pick back up once there are fewer Tributes.” He explained, earning a hum of understanding from you.

The Arena stills in eerie quiet for another hour or two before all hell breaks loose.

You almost miss it as Annie and Trout are ambushed.

Your breath catches as you startle, straightening as Finnick does much the same beside you. Panic surges in your chest as the Careers of District 1 attack. 

They didn’t stand a chance.

The boy Tribute of District 1 swings his machete with a roar, narrowly missing Annie as she shrieks in pure terror, scrambling backwards. Trout staggers back but brandishes his knife, the small blade like akin to a butter knife beside the older Tribute’s blade. A part of you instinctively wants to call out - scream maybe, but you don’t. You can’t.

There’s nothing you can do.

The girl from District 1 throws a dagger, striking Annie’s arm and she cries out again. Trout swings at their assailants, screaming for Annie to run but she doesn’t as she clutches her wounded arm. You’re screaming inside your head for them both to run.

But they don’t.

Trout lands a slash to the girl from District 1’s chest, but it’s not enough.

Her District Partner swings his machete again and it’s all over.

Annie’s screams reach a blood curdling volume as blood sprays, hot and sticky as it splatters across her face, her jacket, the grass. Everywhere.

Your stomach churns as bile stings your throat.

Annie’s screams blare through the hall, the shrill sound echoing off the high-rise ceilings just as you clamp a hand over your mouth, muffling your own sob at the unfolding horror. Your knees buckle - and you hit the tile below hard. Finnick is frozen in shock, rooted to his place as his gaze loses any light. His jaw pulses and he swallows hard as he can’t look away from the projections.

Gasps ricochet through the hall as Capital elitists witness the gore.

The canon booms.

Trout’s face goes black on the Tribute list.

His head rolls.

Annie runs.

The Hunger Games continue on.

You failed.

{{ taglist }}

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[thefirstknife]

Ok so there’s lore in the new shadestalker gear where zavala realizes he’s aging now bc targe is gone and his knee hurts. This is making me *feral* bc 1) we have no idea how long it’s been since Eris lost her ghost. Is she aging? 2) what about all the guardians who lost their ghosts in the red war? 3) Osiris is no spring chicken either

BUT also, zavala is *awoken* and even tho they’re not *immortal* outside of the distributary, they still live a LONG time (source, tower chatter I keep getting where some dude is griping that awoken don’t age “like people do” which is a whole nother thing to unpack) so, assuming targe was keeping zavala at peak guardian condition, he should have an absurd number of years ahead of him before he really starts feeling his age, right? 🙃

(Unless it’s bc he’s channeling stasis now? I’m gonna start a Pepe Silva board at this rate)

The thing with Zavala is that it's recent. I do believe that he still has A LONG life ahead of him, but the loss of Light is recent and the change must be really significant. Osiris, and especially Eris, have had time to adjust.

It does definitively confirm that Guardians resume aging after losing the Light. The problem that we get into, again, is the lifespans of humans and the timeline. If the lifespan is still longer, Eris wouldn't have aged physically significantly enough to change. Same for Osiris, not in such a short time span. I'd say it would probably take like 50+ in-game years for either of them to start visibly changing which is beyond the scope of the game (unless there's a timeskip).

There's also the timeline ofc. We have no clue how long Eris has been Lightless. Eris is also a curious case due to her involvement with various paracausality that isn't the Light: Hive magic, Ahamkara magic, even Darkness. It's hard to tell with her.

But besides just physical appearance, which I don't think would change drastically in shorter time periods (so not for Zavala or Osiris yet, and Eris is younger than them both so for her it would take longer), the physical effects that can't be seen are there. Both Eris and Osiris have been mentioned feeling their mortality and age.

Either way, Zavala is definitely feeling it right now because he's new to this and not used to it. He's been a soldier his whole life and is used to activity and all-nighters and not really caring about health or injury. I can imagine he's putting the same strain on himself as he did before, without realising that now he can't just look up to Targe to quickly fix these ailments. So it'll be a steep adjustment curve for him. Which is also why he needs a break (and is getting one in the lore tab!).

It's definitely not something that is an imminent danger to him, he still has a long life to live, he will just not be able to do the same things without consequences. Kinda interesting for him in particular because of what he learned with Safiyah about healing and medicine; things he didn't need before, but now he does. Feeling normal about it.

[bluexiao]

#kunikuzushi, how do you love? 

—rewritten relationship headcanons (from “scaramouche, how do you love?” )

THEMES. (pre)relationship, fluff, domestic, character analysis, love languages, use of his real name

NOTES. okay, just a little bit of storytime on how i was so tempted to write this (albeit again) is that recently my mom got fractured and as i am an only child and away from home since i’m going to uni and in a dorm, it’s my dad who’s taking care of my mom. and oh my god. both scara and my dad are capricorns and their bdays are even next to each other,,, and i just cant help but like compare their love languages a bit (it may sound weird but trust me this will be good)

WANDERER / KUNIKUZUSHI 

He knows love—knows its meaning, knows what it does, and knows what its consequences are. Love is but a rose with thorns, pricking whoever chooses to admire its beauty and immerse them in its pleasure. Love is a danger, and far too humanly him. 

It will not be long until he recognizes this disgusting feeling since he met you. 

But as he was his own person, he chose not to identify it—to call it by its name. Out of fear? No. Out of instincts. 

He who didn’t have a heart suddenly felt love? Preposterous. Absurd. He wasn’t human, nor will he stoop so low to pretend to be one. 

Yet he underestimated you far too much—your… charm… so to speak, along with the unpredictability of your actions. How you show up and how your lips curl up in a gentle smile and how his name slips out of them ever so… gentle. Everything about you is gentle, and kind, and so… so-

“Good morning, Kunikuzushi” 

His jaw tightens and he dreaded for the sudden presence almost immediately as it had appeared. 

“It’s you.” It’s always been you—the only one that actually makes him want to run away from. But he won’t, no. He wouldn’t give you the pleasure to know, not ever. 

“It’s me,” you smiled, “hey, I haven’t seen you for a while. You even changed your outfit! Blue looks good on you.” 

He scoffs, almost out of instinct. It is true that it has been a while since he last saw you and yet, it felt like it was just yesterday. And with that thought, he couldn’t bear to look directly in your eyes that with a hand on his hat, he looks away. 

“There’s no need for pleasantries,”—like usual, he replies, and he adds on, “but it’s not much of a surprise to see you again, Y/n.” 

Which actually translates to “it’s nice to see you again”. 

The only time he will actually “confess” with such feelings in mind to you is never—not outrightly or with words, but rather by his actions. 

The indication you may want to look out for is when he himself attentively seeks you out, if you see him often, and if he actually stays with you for a long time, almost the whole day—actually, even if he spares you just a bit of it would be a good indicator. 

When he places an arm over your form whenever there’s an incoming enemy, muttering a “Move back” and makes sure you would actually listen before he proceeds to atack and defeat anyone on his way—both of yours.

When he offers his hand every time there’s a steep slope that you had to pass by, scoffing at your surprised look and says “Couldn’t have you fall down and whine all the way back. Now, come on, lend me your hand before I change my mind.” 

When he waits for you until you finish your work—you’d almost think he wouldn’t since it took you a while, only to find that he’s still there, arms crossed over his chest as he’s leaning on a wall on a far corner, yet it’s still enough to have you visible from his view. “What? Why are you looking at me with that face? I’m not tired, is that what you’re thinking? I don’t tire easily, human.” 

And whenever you’re sick or you’re injured, he will be more silent than he ever was, by your side with pursed lips, nursing you back to health. Even without him actually saying it, you will know how affected he was just by seeing your state. If he told you of his history, you’d know right away that seeing your fragility, vulnerability, your mortality… it can trigger memories that were not really the nicest to him. 

“What happened?” 

For a moment, you can see the hurt in his eyes, struggling to find the right words even if you knew you could explain the situation very well only to falter right in front of him. With this side of him. 

“Kuni, I… I just-“ 

‘How can you be so careless?” His voice was weaker, much more gentle despite its usual tone still laced with it. Yet the Wanderer finds himself unable to change his disposition, not with you like this. 

“Humans…” he mutters under his own breath, and you are unable to speak any more. 

But despite everything, he only knows love, he spent most of his lifetime seeing it as a nuisance, a danger. He did not want to love, did not want the desire to flow in his mechanical and heartless body. 

And yet, it seems that even a puppet without a heart like him can. Love—whatever it is. 

“I love you,” it was you who confessed, “Kunikuzushi.” 

Despite already knowing it deep down, the crease on his brow was visible despite how he tried to look calm, but as you didn’t see such a tiny detail with your head bowed down, you continued on. 

“It’s getting… I mean, I don’t know if you really like me the same way, or you’re just too bored on your own or just treat me as a friend, but… but I don’t think I can go on without being honest to you.” 

Only when you looked directly at him did he feel it—a pang in his empty mechanical chest and a pressure on his shoulders. 

“I don’t like you as just a friend, Kuni.”

A minute or two passes—that’s what you felt like anyway as you melt under his gaze, awaiting for his answer or just… anything! 

“Ugh… why…” 

Then his facade fades, all by a bite on the lip as he looks away for a moment with a hand on his hat. And even if he tried to retract his face away from your view, you could still see enough to notice the pinkish red hue on the skin of his face, all the more so with his exposed ear. 

And as if the pressure in the air gives up to gravity, that same weight on your own shoulders eases up, eyes widening at the sight in front of you. 

Then he peeks from his hat and glares at you, “Why… why are you doing this to me, Y/n?” 

The transition to dating wouldn’t even make much of a big difference, actually. That was what he realized when you two were already “dating” so it seems. Frankly, he was confused by it, only to come up with the conclusion that it is better this way anyway. You and him… are just you and him, there was no need for extravagance and grand changes. 

But really, it was because you two were already comfortable with each other. And the only thing that changed was… 

You blink your eyes open and you welcome the sight of him right in front of you, his soft laughter enveloping your ears as he grins at you. You didn’t know what amuses him so much that he can smile like that, but… 

“What? What is it, Kuni? Did I…” 

“You fell asleep just from reading a couple of books. To think you’d be this lazy in studying, darling.” 

He then leans in and presses his lips on your forehead, not before swiping his palm on them and scoffing afterwards. “Overworking doesn’t make you more intelligent. How about falling asleep on an actual bed so you can have an adequate amount of energy left,” he crosses his arms, “Actually. Sleep on the bed now, or I’ll have to carry you instead.”

He scolds you more… and also kisses you too. A lot of it consists of pecks here and there, it doesn’t really matter to him when or where. He doesn't care if people saw or not—if they did, it’s a good thing anyway, they’d know who they’ll come up against if they ever mess with you. 

He’s with you most of the time but in times that you’re not and he’s having his own travels alone—which happens quite rarely, actually, he would always go home immediately. He’s not that privy of having to part from you for so long—not that he’d admit that outrightly, but you’d notice it straight away. 

And if he does part with you for a while, he will make you give him your handkerchief or anything small that belongs to you, something that reminds him of you and the home he will go home to. That he’s not just a wanderer now. 

He’s just… him with you. 

And that’s how he loves. He loves slow, but he loves with just… himself, his entire being. Even without a heart, he knew of love. He knew of you. 

reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!!<3

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