#ghost orchid press

[dorywhynot]

"Ada & Elisya" Watercolor on Paper, 2024.

I had the absolute pleasure of working with author Jelena Dunato and Ghost Orchid Press, painting characters from "Dark Woods, Deep Water". This is the second of three postcard prints included in a book box with special hardback editions of Dark Woods, Deep Water, and the new novella "Ghost Apparent".

Check out the book box here!

[duckprintspress]

Subscribe to the Indie Press Exchange Newsletter!

Want to support indie publishing? Well, Duck Prints Press is part of a small, awesome group of micro presses and small presses working together to help all of us grow! This Wednesday, we’re excited to share that this group is launching their debut newsletter, featuring news, new releases, upcoming events, and more from nine different presses! The presses involved in our exchange are:

Ghost Orchid Press

Shortwave Publishing

From Beyond Press

Speculation Publications

Neon Hemlock

Archive of the Odd

Sobelo Books

Tenebrous Press

Duck Prints Press (that’s meeee!)

Want to get the latest news from this awesome group of Presses? Sign up for the Indie Press Exchange newsletter today!

This newsletter has been put together by Speculation Publications, HUGE shout out to them for putting in the work to make this happen!!!

[thegirlwiththelantern]

2023 Fantasy Releases

The Enchanted Hacienda by J.C. Cervantes | 16 / 05 / 23 – Hachette After losing her dream job and realising that her boyfriend is a jerk, Harlow Estrada decides to flee New York City and head back to the one place she can always call home – the enchanted Hacienda Estrada.The Estrada family farm in Mexico houses an abundance of charmed flowers cultivated by the women in Harlow’s family. By…

[deehollowaywrites]

DIS/MEMBER's lit coverage, January-March

What's going on in horror-story land? Quite a bit!

(No, not national and world news; horror stories we read for fun, not ones we experience by dint of being alive)

Katherine Silva's next book, Vulpine Curse, is out next month and we offered a first peek at the cover.

there's quite a bit of heavy metal-flavored horror around lately--here's a listicle of some of our favorites.

Tenebrous Press delivers vol. 7 of Split Scream next week; read our slightly-spoilery review and get hype!

get indie press Ghost Orchid on your radar if they aren't already.

Trying more new stuff in coming months, including a guest column from author Saskia Nislow! Subscribing to D/M's newsletter is a great way to stay on top of spooky news.

[bbokicidal]

a few more seconds. | skz + hugs

How the boys hug, what they remind you of, and what I think they smell like.

Warnings: None Genre: Fluff/Comfort ig Notes: I'm aware we know some of their actual perfumes but idgaf.

Masterlists : NSFW | SFW

Chris

How he hugs: Chris gives the BEST hugs hands down, no arguments being made. He's all muscle but he's also such a gentleman that he makes sure to never squeeze you too much during hugs and he always keeps his hands in respectful areas. Though when you're stressed, he does give you a wee little squeeze - just so you know he's there and to keep you grounded. What it reminds you of: Home. Chris feels like home. Safety, comfort, and warmth. The feeling of waking up under soft bedsheets in early morning hours to sun peeking through the curtains and the soft hum of birds outside your window. Scent: Tommy Bahama - Maritime Journey [Green apple, Lavender; Violet, Orchid; Moss, Cedarwood]

Minho

How he hugs: Gently, quickly. The type to give you a hug from the side with one arm wrapped around your waist. He's quick about it but it's because it makes him shy; But in late evening hours he'll be wrapped up around you from behind while you cook, his chin on your shoulder and his body swaying with yours. What it reminds you of: Safety. Minho's hugs feel protective yet gentle, shy and fleeting. His touch is calculated and careful, aiming to please but keeping it brisk; And when he does melt into you during late nights, he wants you to know that he will always be there; And you can feel It from the way he refuses to let you go. Scent: Tom Ford - Oud Wood [Cardamom, Pink Pepper, Patchouli]

Changbin

How he hugs: With all his heart. His arms wrap around you knowing you might need him there in the moment, and even if it's not a moment of need - it's a moment of want. He's aware you adore when he hugs you, and he adores it just as much in return; the feeling of you in his arms. You wanted him as much as he wanted you, and that was all he could ask for. What it reminds you of: Love. Changbin keeps you in his arms as long as he can, swaying, humming, talking about whatever it on his mind. His hugs are soft, warm; He presses kisses to your cheeks and sometimes dotes on you while you're flush against him. He makes sure to make every moment count. Scent: Honeyed Tobacco & Oud [Bergamot, Honey, Tobacco Leaf, Coffee, Oud]

Hyunjin

How he hugs: Lingering. Every touch is never fleeting. His arms wrap over your shoulders so he can keep your head close to his chest, and silently he hopes you can hear his heartbeat, too. He lays his hands on you with purpose; To caress every inch, to make sure you know how much he adores you. All of you. What it reminds you of: Warmth. Hyunjin puts all of his passion into his affectionate touches, whether it be the way his hand squeezes your hip or the way he hugs you in early mornings; the way his lips ghost against yours just to tease before he kisses you and then takes his leave for work while giggling. Scent: Tom Ford - Ombre Leather [Cardamom, Jasmine, Black Leather, White Moss, Amber]

Jisung

How he hugs: With all of his might! Jisung's always squeezing you tight when you hug him, his arms wrapped around you as if they'll crush your ribs right in. He's the type to laugh while hugging because he knows it's too much for you but he does it every time anyway. Very lovey, very sweet. Peppers you in kisses afterwards. What it reminds you of: Childhood. His tight hugs, sweet giggle, and beaming, bright grin bring you back to the days you would play with friends outside - and when it was time to part ways, hug each other as tight as possible to say goodbye. It makes you wonder what it would have been like being Jisung's childhood friend. Scent: Imaginary Authors - Saint Julep [Sweet Mint, Tangerine, Magnolia, Bourbon, Sugarcube]

Felix

How he hugs: Gently. Felix hugs to express many emotions; Gratitude, excitement, sadness even. He wanted to be there to comfort and to feel; Wanted to be there when you needed him most whether it be an upsetting day in or an exciting day out together. His hands slide over your back to keep you as close to him as possible and act as a grounding tactic, keeping you with him at all times. What it reminds you of: Sweetness. Not only because Felix often smells like baked goods and treats - especially when he's at your house and never leaves the kitchen - but also because he wanted to be there for you whenever he possibly could; and he yearned to feel every emotion that coursed through your body be it good or bad. Which, in turn, earned him the title as the sweetest man you've ever met. Scent: Granado - Elixir 1870 [Mandarin, White Tea; Magnolia, Rose; Sandalwood, Musk]

Seungmin

How he hugs: Almost... tenderly. His arms are always hesitant to wrap around you when you initiate the affection, careful where his hands place with fingertips skirting over your sides before he locks down his grip and pulls you in closer. He buries his face down atop your head or into your shoulder every time. What it reminds you of: Tragedy. Yet, not in a bad way. Seungmin always seems to shut down a small amount when you hug him. It's as if he melts into you, into your touch and body. He lets his shoulders slump, lets his hair fall in his eyes. It reminds you of the way he's been misconstrued; under appreciated. But when he's with you, it reminds him that he's understood. So maybe it wasn't tragedy; Maybe it was.. Understanding, or Appreciation. Scent: Juliette Has A Gun - Into The Void [Black Orchid, Liquorice, Papyrus, Cedar]

Jeongin

How he hugs: Tight. Adoringly. His arms are always locked around your waist, his head tucked down so he can either kiss you or kiss over your skin; The type to pepper kisses along your neck as you mumble into his shoulder about your day, or wish him luck on tour. Though if he initiates the hugs, he does so by wrapping both hands around the small of your back and pulling you flush against him. What it reminds you of: Youth. Jeongin is young, still in his early twenties, and he always reminds you of that by the way he's a bit greedy with his affection; But also with the way he yearns for you, needs you, when times are rough. He's playful yet soft with his touches, never demanding and always checking to see if he's too teasing by peeking up at you. Almost... shy. Scent: Heretic - Coeur Noir [Rosewood, Labdanum, Madagascar Vanilla]

[cambion-companion]

Glimpses (Baldur's Gate 3 x reader)

A collection of x reader snapshots as follows: Astarion, Shadowheart, Gale and Raphael. Part II will have more!

"Careful darling, I bite."

"I don't think most people know what you fully mean by saying that, Astarion." You whispered to the Elven vampire spawn as you made your way to the tavern table, flickering firelight making the bustling atmosphere cozy and warm. "It's hardly an appropriate disclaimer."

Astarion's red eyes flicked over to you, a self-satisfied smile curving his lips. "You sound jealous, my love. Don't be, my fangs are all yours."

"I'm thrilled." You deadpanned, your gaze drifting back to the barmaid Astarion had definitely been flirting with. "Do you chat up everyone or were you just trying to get discounted ale?"

"You are jealous!" Astarion chuckled and you squeaked slightly as he pulled you by the waist to sit next to him. "Now, don't go off in a huff." He leaned in and you smelled his familiar scent of cloves and iron. "

"I'm not going anywhere." Your familiar words caused Astarion to still, his hands softening their teasing grip on your hips.

"Darling..." Astarion murmured. He hesitated and then you felt his soft lips touch your neck, no scrape of his fangs against your skin this time. He buried his nose in your hair, and you heard him inhale deeply.

"Like what you smell?" You teased gently.

"Mmm." Astarion murmured, kissing your neck once more before moved his face away again. "Like wine and death."

Moonlight filtered silver through the latticework windows, turning the stained glass to broken shards of ice against the starry sky. You heard footsteps approaching you, soft upon the deep carpet of the hallway. You turned, your breath catching in your throat as you saw Shadowheart walking to you dressed in a gown that seemed to be made of the shadows themselves, hugging her every curve.

"You look beautiful." You said, the words leaving your lips feeling like they did no justice to how your heart was skipping.

Shadowheart looked uncomfortable, pulling at the edges of the fabric that draped so elegantly over her hips. "I can't remember when I last wore something so impractical." Her green eyes met yours. "But thank you for your sweet candor."

You closed the distance between the two of you and touched her hands, coaxing them away from where she was tugging at the dark dress and pulling her into you. You pressed a kiss to her forehead and brushed your nose against hers, feeling her body begin to relax at the familiar affection.

"We must make our required appearance at this gathering, and then we can slip away." You promised, your hand ghosting up the side of Shadowheart's neck until your fingers tangled in her long thick hair. "Get into something more comfortable."

"Can we indeed?" Her voice lilted, always an edge of playful teasing to her words. "I suppose it'll do."

You pulled her in by the nape of her neck and kissed her plush lips, dragging a small groan from the woman you'd grown to love deeper than the shades of Night Orchid blossoms.

"Now let's go show Faerun how lucky I am to have you at my side."

"She is the most darling little thing I have every laid eyes on." You spoke fervently, but kept your voice soft as you looked down at the winged cat sleeping in your lap.

Gale approached quietly, his smile fond as he looked at the two beings he treasured most in the world. "She's quite taken with you."

"And I with her." You looked up at him and smiled, it was always such a pleasure to hear his voice and share his company.

Gale crouched down beside where you sat with Tara, his hand reached forward and stroked the Tressym's feathers gently and scratched her sleeping head. Tara yawned widely, showing off her sharp white teeth before she tucked her head beneath a wing and went back to sleep.

You pouted a Gale as he continued showering affection his sleeping friend. Gale caught your eye and chuckled. "I'll pet you too, if you ask nicely."

You snorted but your expression softened when you felt Gale tuck his fingers beneath your chin and tilt your face back up to his. He leaned forward and placed a loving kiss on your cheek. He moved his lips to press against the top of your head and lingered there for a moment. "You'll never know how grateful I am for you." His voice was as gentle as Mystra's weave, it carried notes of magic and the promise of safety. "

"I love you too, Gale."

You grumbled in frustration as yet another wooden match broke in your fumbling fingers. "Gods above..." You muttered, yanking another from the box to try again.

"Not quite." A familiar voice said, and you turned to see a well-dressed noble with dark hair and eyes. He gave you a devious smile and clicked his fingers.

A spark of fire, the smell of sulphur, and your campfire burst into flames that quickly took purchase on the sodden logs and warmed your face pleasantly.

"Ah." You grimaced, fighting down the feeling of elation at seeing your favorite cambion. "Raphael...thanks for that."

"You're most welcome." Raphael said dryly as he approached you, glancing over your bedraggled figure. "Did my mouse get caught in the rain?"

You rolled your eyes, smirking at the familiar needling banter between the two of you began. "What does that make you? The cat, making sure its meal is warm and dry?" You grinned at him as he stepped even closer, pushing into your personal space. "A guardian devil as it were."

You felt his hands dig into your waist, the sharpness of his claws growing more apparent as Raphael slowly dropped his human guise. "You should know better by now." He rolled his shoulders, stretching his wings to their full extent, the flames of your campfire dancing wildly in the gust of wind the motion created. Your hand slid up between his shoulder blades, the heady scent of musk and cherries filled your nostrils as you felt his teeth on your neck. The devil's voice sent a vibration to your heart. "The fox, rather...luring you in inch by inch until you belong to me."

[lani-sun]

☆ love you like a dog (i just keep coming back) ☆

synopsis: losing your mate means losing yourself. it's too bad the little part of you that cares for his brother didn't die with him. aged-up!lo'ak x na'vi!fem!reader. warnings: ANGST IN THIS ONE Y'ALL, graphic descriptions of death, death of a loved one (neteyam), loss, heavy descriptions of grief, taboo/complicated relationships, explicit sexual content [18+ MINORS DNI], oral fem!reciving, size kink, mention of stomach bulge, dirty talk, slight dom/sub dynamics, i don't know how to write smut sorry friends, unedited to the max i apologize in advance

☆

the first time it happens, you repent. chain yourself to charity like a fork-tongued saint, devout and forlorn. purification becomes purpose. lifeblood. you had to atone for your sins somehow, didn't you? (you still thought of lo'ak's canines, sinking into the side of your neck, one five-fingered hand threaded in your hair, the other pulling at the ties of your tewng {loincloth} like he'd die if he didn't touch you—). you know better. you know lust cannot fill the vacancy slithering through your exoskeleton, marrow-deep and unyielding. it eats at you, the emptiness. engulfs you whole, spits out a mass of azure skin, eggshell bone, bloodied teeth. and you let it. what else are you supposed to do? who else are you supposed to turn to but that personified ache in your subconscious, that nagging worm in your head that begs you to bloodlet? begs you to make it better, make it easier? dislodge yourself from the longing that keeps you reaching for a hand that has long slipped out of your grasp? you were only doing it because you needed to. because there was no other way to escape your own mind.

(it's been years. and yet, you remembered the blood, the way it had painted your hands in seeping layers of thick, tacky crimson. you remembered the way your mouth had opened in a silent scream, tongue heavy and thick in between lips forming the syllables of his name, over and over and over. neteyam, neteyam, neteyam, my mate, my mate, my mate. you remembered the way you'd shirked away from the tangy bite of metal in the air, the taste of iron down your throat akin to a barrel of a gun, the heat of a bullet. the gush of an exit wound. you remembered how neteyam's gaze had clashed with yours when you'd pressed your hands firmly to his chest, a silent plea written in the flecks of gold dotting his irises: "take me home, ma'yawne." you remembered neytiri's face, frozen in time, streaked with crystalline tears, her eldest son laying lifeless in the arms that had birthed him.)

the second time it happens, you make a choice. a calculated, deliberate decision. an instigation. kiri notices your tense silence during dinner that night, and reaches a hand over her crossed knees to pat at the side of your thigh comfortingly. she leans in as you shift, meeting her appraising gaze with apprehension floating precariously at the surface of your own. her eyes flash honey-gold, nearly glowing in the tangerine gild of the raging pyre beside you. although the feast you face is beautiful - lines of emerald rock orchid leaves, crimson mushrooms, and freshly-caught flat skate fish - your stomach contracts around nothing, appetite lost. paranoia is fast to appear. kiri couldn't know, could she? you'd been careful. you'd left before he had, had hidden the indentation of his teeth lining your collarbone that had rapidly turned a rather unsavory shade of purple—

"are you okay?" she whispers, tilting her head. there is something accusatory the way her eyes linger on the restrained trembling of your bottom lip, and for just a moment, a single ghost of a second, you find yourself wanting to tell her everything. your throat closes up, and you swallow heavily. "i'm fine," you choke out, straightening. her hand jostles on your thigh. "just tired." kiri's forehead creases—she doesn't believe you, of course—as she retracts her touch, leaving your skin feeling inexplicably colder. she doesn’t bother to ask questions, doesn’t stop you as you hastily make excuses to exit (i think i might go lie down, i think i'm coming down with something, i'll find you tomorrow, tsmuke {sister}, i promise), hands trembling as you efface the sticky sweat lining your palms on your bare stomach. you can feel kiri's gaze lingering on the back of your neck as you begin towards the pods; your skin prickles in response. she sees right through you. your fallaciousness is nothing but a shadow. a barricade made of sand.

your resolve is steely by the time you cross the reefs, the steady drone of the log drums behind you fading softly from earshot. lo'ak must have known you were coming; he does not stand to welcome you, nor does he lift his gaze from the dull blade in his right hand as you duck under the adorned mangrove-wood reinforcement of his marui [home] and step inside, the grating hiss of metal against a sharpening stone slicing through the eerie quiet. you linger at the entrance, your intake of breath sharp. lo'ak adjusts his grip wordlessly with practiced ease, forearm flexing as he draws the blade across the stone in slow, calculated arcs, as if coaxing the metal into submission. into perfection. oh. oh. there is a strange ringing in your ears, thrumming alongside the rapid, bird-like beat of your heart. you consider remaining silent, but you just can't help yourself. restraint is a virtue you find yourself no longer able to practice. "lo'ak," you whisper. it is just his name. but it speaks volumes. the air between you thickens excruciatingly. his head lifts, eyes glazing over your figure, and you self-delude when you determine you do not like the way his gaze goes slightly slack. there is a hunger in the sharp curve of his jaw, in the firmly-set, downturned line of his mouth. a need. a visceral urge that mirrors your own. it is achingly sweet. saccharine in your mouth, rotting your teeth. pounding in the space between your temple and ear like a tangible, carnal throb, spasming wildly at the sight of him. (you still find yourself jolted awake in the middle of the night by a feeling you could have sworn was the ghost of a four-fingered hand tracing unintelligible patterns into the curve of your spine, the phantom of your mate's body curved around your own. his tail curled around your calf, or his arm slung around your waist.)

you see it in his eyes, the longing. he stands, holstering the knife on the sheath looped around his thigh. his steps towards you are silent, charged with the boundless energy pouring through his veins. to chase. to hunt. to kill. to keep. he shrouds you in his shadow as he approaches, tilting his head. there is an erotism to the the way he assesses you. the cognizance he possesses of your lips, your tongue, the column of your throat. you blush midnight blue when you catch sight of the bloomed purple notch in the side of his neck. you'd done that. "this hasn't faded," you breathe after a moment, reaching a hand up on instinct to graze the spot. lo'ak's entire frame goes stiff under your touch, but he huffs out what sounds like a soft laugh. "y'got me good," he responds, and the rough quality of his voice makes you shiver. "i'm... sorry." (you're not sorry.) he shakes his head, mouth curving up in a sly smirk. "don't be." his pulse point throbs under the tip of your index finger, and it jumps when you press down. "i liked it." you try to breath normally as your hand stills, then drops back down by your thigh. "you weren't at dinner," you murmur thickly, eyes darting across his face. it it sickening, his beauty. his grace. he wears faux arrogance like a second skin, and you despise the fact that it suits him. enhances what is already there. he shrugs, lips pursing. "i wasn't hungry." he's lying. he nerve of him is laughable. there is a color of indigence in your voice when you scoff. "don't lie to me. you just didn't want to see me, did you?" (you have to remind yourself that you don't want to start a fight. you don't want to face the fact that there is a lecherous, macabre fragment of your soul that craves the feeling of his haughty hands on your skin. you want to hate him. you want to hate yourself. but this is the only way to make it better. the only way to cease the ache left behind. and neteyam would want that for you, wouldn't he? he wouldn't want you to hurt. he never did) "doesn't matter," he responds, and his answer downturns your lips. the lazily, fervid lowering of his eyelids acts as an aphrodisiac of sorts. he is playing with you. relishing in the way your eyes seem everlastingly drawn towards the curve of his mouth, the tantalizing taste of his tongue. "you always come crawlin' back anyway."

you see red. your hand lifts before you can stop yourself. it is halfway to his cheek — you can already imagine the sting the contact will induce — when his own encircles your wrist promptly, halting your motion midair. the sheer strength in his grip is nothing short of breathtaking. astounding. your inhale catches in the narrow arch of your throat, and you resist the urge to cough. your eyes jump to his face. "y'don't wanna do that, tìyawn {love}," he warns lowly, and the expanding of his pupils, the darkening of his expression, terrifies (excites) you. he lets you wrench your wrist out of his grip, flexing his hand as though he misses the feeling of yours in it. your navel stirs, a sliver of heat traveling rapidly up your spine. you imagine he can smell the change in your composition, can sense the suggestive direction of your thoughts. "i'm not an animal," you snap, vexed. "i don't crawl." he raises his hands in mock surrender. the braids at the forefront of his head following the movement of his head tipping downwards, gaze towards the ground. you realize he's laughing at you when his bare stomach contracts under the leather of his cummerbund. "we both know that's not true." 

(neteyam used to make you crawl to him. he'd lean against the bed, temptation incarnate, his burning perusal of you leaving heat pooling in its wake. and then he'd tell you to get on all fours. tell you to arch your back. present to him, for him. "crawl to me," he'd whisper. "show me who you belong to. show me who owns you.") lo'ak's stare pulls upward. and then he pounces. he doesn't kiss you, no. what he gives you isn't a kiss—it’s consumption, all teeth and tongues and the scent of his arousal making your head spin, a battle for dominance that neither of you endeavors to win. his control slips, and you're suddenly aware of the way his mouth finds your neck, his teeth dragging along your skin like he wants to mark you, claim you. his touch is rough, desperate, searching for skin, gripping your hips, pressing into your thighs. he pushes you roughly towards the tangle of his sheets just as he finds the soft curves of your breasts, marveling at the way you go still under him. he tweaks your nipples, running his thumbs over the ridges, and you twitch in response. everything—everything—smells like him: fresh, damp earth, the faintest touch of smoke and salt, wet stone and metal. your cunt squeezes around nothing when you loop your arms around his neck and pull him onto you, draping his body over yours. "i said this would never happen again," you whimper when his kiss drops to the valley between your breasts, then to the line of your abdomen, the flare of your waist. he works his way down your body, worshipping his skillful entrapment. his prey. "i-i said it wasn't right."

"you did," is all lo'ak responds with, seemingly drawn towards your clothed cunt. he palms it, expelling a breath at the way your ragged moan catches brokenly at the edges. "and yet." "it isn't r-right." you swallow thickly, fighting to keep your voice steady. wordlessly, lo'ak simply undoes the ties of your tewng {loincloth}, peeling the fabric away from your hips as though unraveling an exquisite fruit. you jerk away when his breath fans over your unshielded skin. oh, he was so close. just an inch and his lips could lock around your clit. just an inch and his fingers could be embedded where you desperately needed him to touch you (inside, inside, inside, inside, as close as you could possibly get him, as deep as you could physically take him—) "you want me to stop?" he asks as his mouth drops to press a kiss to your mound, his tongue swirling around the soft flesh. you buck upward. "y'sure look like you do." he was teasing you. rapturous ecstasy explodes beneath your closed eyelids when his mouth finally, finally meets your clit, messily spreading your slick across the bottom half of his face. "great mother, you smell good," lo'ak moans out, voice muffled. your thighs close around his head before you catch yourself, your own tipping backwards. "tastes even better," he continues, euphoria painting his words in raw need. "like honey." he dips into you the second you open your mouth, trying to regain some semblance of control. "oh— lo'ak—" he hums against you, hands planted under your bottom, digging into the flesh there. your skin turns an ashy shade of slate under the strength of his grip, a frenzied voice in your mind urging you onward, rousing every part of your body that had wished for this, hoped for this, dreamed of this with your own hands attempting to replicate this feeling of blinding, sparkling warmth. your body tightens, every muscle wound to snap. "i t-think i'm gonna—" you sob with relief when the pleasure comes to a peak, shattering in his hold. your lower stomach contracts and expands uncontrollably, a rush of molten heat flooding his mouth. lo'ak pulls himself back up over you with smack of his lips, lapping up the tear tracks staining your cheeks with the same tongue he'd just had halfway up your cunt. "such a pretty girl," he murmurs, almost absentmindedly, staring down at the way your chest heaves, the way a drop of sweat flows into the indented notch right above your winged collarbones, almost as though he seeks to memorize the places his brother's hands had been. "y'can't help yourself, can you?" his tone is satirizing, though an undertone of gentleness discards the bite. "pretty girl just keeps comin' back to me, doesn't she?"

"asshole," you pant, gently framing his face with your thumb resting in front of his ear. the impassioned fire in his gaze softens, giving way to something that resembles—no, is—pure, unadulterated adoration, quiet and unspoken, yet unmistakable. it taunts you. alarms you. his amatory look returns just as quickly as it had disappeared when his hand stretches downward to undo the string of his own tewng [loincloth], discarding it beside you. his tail curls around your leg, and you hoist yourself up into your forearms to survey the unexpected movement, but before you can open your mouth to question it, his hand wraps around the base of your own tail and tugs. your entire back arches straight off the sheets. lightning shoots up your spine, and in an instant, you're presenting for him, your body developing a mind of its own. "look at you," lo'ak murmurs, swiping his cock up and down against your leaking slit, spreading your folds over his tip. pleasure wanders along your navel, and you flinch when his tip nudges your tender clit. "you should've come to me sooner, baby." no resistance meets him as he slides the first, then the second, then the third, fourth, fifth, eighth, tenth inch inside of you. your eyes roll back in your head as the aching stretch subsides, replaced by a feeling of complete and utter fullness. paradise. "i would've helped you," he continues, but his voice wavers, betraying his control. "would've made you feel g-good. would've had you like this a hundred fuckin' times." the sharp, sky-language curse falls from his bruised lips in a rushed exhale of breath. tears gather on your lash line when he thrusts up— just once, just enough to bottom out inside of you, shaft twitching against the spongy entrance of your cervix. his palm presses hastily against the protruding bulge in your lower stomach, feeling for the outline of his cock. his eyes widen, just as transfixed as you are at the sight of himself moving under your cyan skin. 

he swallows your high-pitched squeal as his thumb reaches downward to draw tight, small circles around your swollen clit, his length settling into a smooth, even rhythm that had a a quick, breathless shout spilling out of your open mouth. "cat got y'r tongue?" he whispers when you go blank, blinding pleasure rendering you speechless. "c'mon, honey. y'talk a big game, don't you? show me what y'got." ("show me who you belong to," neteyam had said.) you keel, eyes rolling back in your head as his teeth move down, down down, latching onto the hardened peak of your nipple. your legs thrash under the weight of him, and his low growl in lieu of a response vibrates across your skin. an obscene, wet sound reverberates in the air around you as his head lifts from your chest, a string of saliva following the curve of his mouth. his hips buck forward even further on their own accord when your cunt tightens at the sight of him. feral, like an untamed animal, droplets of sweat canvassing the corded muscle of his abdomen. you lift yourself up onto your forearms shakily, collecting the briny fluid on the jagged surface of your tongue. his entire body quivers as he folds forward. "yeah," he breathes, taken aback, bracing one hand beside your shoulder and the other at the base of your neck, holding your mouth to his chest. your lips close obediently around his nipple, and he chokes, grip faltering. "there y'go. that's good, baby." 

you barely have time to gasp his name before he begins to rut his cock deeper, pushing past your cervix to ram the head against your womb.

you nearly scream, feeling him everywhere, all over you. somehow he was touching parts of you his hands were nowhere near. his voice cuts through your bleary-eyed pleasure, the familiar drawl sending a current akin to lightning through the curve of your spine. "say somethin', baby," he coaxes through gritted teeth, hands lingering on the dip of your hips as he presses his thumbs into the bone. he rolls his pelvis steadily, the muscle flush against yours, eliminating every modicum of space in a calculated effort to get closer, closer, closer. "y'know i like hearin' you talk. always so mad at me, hmm? always talkin' back." a rhapsody of noise escapes you when his tongue swipes a line from your collar to your jaw. "don't worry, though," he exhales, his hips snapping harshly against your inner thighs. "we'll fix that." 

"lo'ak," you finally croak out, hands flailing in the air to grapple for an anchor, sinking hungrily into his hair. he hisses when you tug, tail wrapping tighter around your calf on instinct, as if to hold you in place. "y-you’re so deep." your lips part shamelessly around soft, choked sounds, clit pulsating as your hips jerk, scrambling for purchase. 

"yeah?" he responds, ever the cocky bastard. his grin is sly, fangs bared. you would have done terrible things to feel them in the side of you neck. you already had. "am i fuckin' you good?" when coherence fails you, and you emit strings of half-sentences accompanying a withheld moan of his name, his smile only widens, eyes of liquid gold simmering with unrestrained desire. "i asked you a question, mama, c'mon." you only nod frantically, gripping his cock like a vise when it jumps inside you. (the rational part of your mind bristles, reminds you embarrassment is a virtue you posses too little of. but you're too far gone. lost to the ocean. to the salt on lo'ak's skin left over from the hunt he'd gone on this morning. to the taste of someone who is not your mate, who is not neteyam.) lo'ak huffs softly when you flutter around him, careening forward until his face tucks itself into the side of your neck, licking a stripe over your pulse point. your body thrums, glistening desire dangerously close to a precipice, an apex, and your hand flexes in his hair, clutching a fistful of his braids for dear life. "lo'ak," you whisper, breathless. "lo'ak, i-" "i'm here, tìyawn {love}," he assures you, his lilt rough and unrestrained. wild. his canines flash as he growls, and you tighten around him; you fight the pull to break into tears because, oh, ewya—this is different. it's never been like this, so raw, so intoxicating. you’ve never felt so utterly claimed. so owned. it is inevitable. the fall, the crash, the burn. when you reach your climax with a startled shriek, lo'ak comes with you, a kiss pressed quiveringly to your throat, three words whispered delicately into the space between your collarbones. i love you. i love you. i love you. (tsireya once told you that the way of water had no beginning and no end. it is your home, she’d said. before your birth, and after your death. you wonder, therefore, it he knows. if one day, you will meet your mate at the crest of where the sun meets the sea, and he will know what you've done. how you've betrayed him. you wonder if neteyam will still love you. you wonder if he will gaze upon your face with the same devotion his brother offers so fiercely. so violently.) lo'ak loves you like a dog. you force yourself to kick him down like one. note: this is my first fic!! reblogs, likes, and comments are more than appreciated!! love you all!

[takemetomyfragiledreams]

just another fic in my wip folder about kid!Tim and ghost!Jason:

Tim doesn’t get a chance to visit Robin’s grave until well after the funeral. He’s been waiting anxiously for the press to lose interest in the tragedy that is Jason Todd’s death, made popular only because of the man that adopted him. From what Tim knows of him, Jason would hate it, but Jason isn’t around anymore to call the press out on their behavior. 

It’s been raining a lot since the announcement. Gotham is always downcast; always inflated with heavy clouds and thick smog, but it’s been worse lately. The streets are constantly slick with rain, to the point where flood warnings have been going off on the television for weeks. It’s as if Gotham herself is in mourning for the bird that was grounded too soon. 

The graveyard grounds are thick with mud. With grim determination, Tim trudges through each sucking step. It’s hard work that leaves him panting under his raincoat. The earth itself is begging him to turn back but he’s far too stubborn for that. 

It’s dark which is why Tim thinks he’s alone at first. The flowers left on Jason’s grave are bedraggled from the storm. Tim’s seen pictures of the angel built into the stone but it’s different being so close. The gloom makes it seem taller, more severe. Rain drips down from its praying palms, washing away some of the mud creeping up the bottom of the grave. 

Tim rocks back on his heels as he takes it all in, suddenly unsure of what to do. He’s never been to a funeral before. He’s got no first hand experience with how these things go. There is only the constriction of his lungs, like a vice slowly closing in on his ribs, and the tears he’s cried since he realized the announcement wasn’t just a cover. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, though he isn’t sure what it is he’s apologizing for. For thinking Robin above death? He saw the Flying Grayson’s fall, he should know better by now that no matter how magical a person seems, they’re always going to be left shattered across the ground.

He blinks water from his eyelashes; is it rain or tears? Tim doesn’t know. He places his bouquet of flowers amongst all the rest. White orchids and blue forget-me-nots. You are always loved. You are never forgotten. 

It doesn’t feel like enough. 

He sniffles, sure that he’s crying now, and wipes a hand across his face. “Robin,” he whispers, like the secret it is. 

There’s a wet sucking sound from the other side of the grave; Tim freezes in place. For a moment there’s nothing but the pitter patter of rain, and then comes something like a sob. He approaches the side of the grave hesitantly to peer around the back. There’s a small body back there, curled up on itself and splattered in mud. 

Tim gasps and quickly rounds the grave. “Are you okay?” 

There’s no reply. 

He bends down next to the body. They’re shaking harshly; a flash of lightning shows that some of the patches of mud look darker, almost like blood. Tim hurries to pull his raincoat off to wrap around the stranger. 

“Come on,” he says, shivering as the rain begins to soak through his clothes. “I’ll help you, okay? You just have to walk.” 

There’s no reply but when he stands the stranger stands too. He takes their arm to lead them back the way he came, steps even more determined than before. It’s a task to fit two bodies on his bike but he hardly notices a weight difference. He squints through the rain on his way home, using all his concentration to ensure they don’t crash. His teeth are chattering by the time they arrive at Drake Manor so he can only imagine how cold his guest must be. 

“This is my house,” he explains, as he lets them in. He’s tracking mud across the floor but he’ll have to deal with it later. “Come on, I’ll take you to the bathroom so you can shower. You can wear my clothes.” 

Tim starts the shower for them when they say nothing. He makes sure it’s nice and warm before forcing himself away. “It’s ready. Use whatever you want, I’ll leave you clothes by the door.” 

Again, there’s no answer. 

He hurries through his own shower in the guest bathroom, mind racing with thoughts of what he needs. They’ll need hot food. Blankets, too. What if the stranger is in shock and that’s why they’re silent? He nearly works himself into a tizzy over the possibility and rushes back to his room. 

The shower is still going so he waits. And waits. And waits. 

“Hello?” He finally calls. The door creaks open as he peeks in. The room is thick with steam; he squints at the shape of his raincoat on the floor and looks further in to the shower. “Do you need help?” 

There’s no reply. Tim steps forward hesitantly; he knocks on the glass door before pushing it open a crack. There’s no one there. 

Here’s what Tim knows: there are only one set of footprints on the wooden floor. His bike didn’t feel like it had another person’s body weight on it when he rode home. He doesn’t remember ever touching skin or feeling any warmth from the stranger. They never spoke.

Hallucination? Maybe. But Tim didn’t move the bottles in the shower and he didn’t put his raincoat on the floor. Something isn’t right and he’s going to get to the bottom of it. 

Tim returns to the graveyard the next day. His nose is stuffed up and he’s got a cough from being in the rain for so long the day before, but he’s determined. Someone was at Jason Todd’s grave last night, someone who was definitely a child like Tim. Robin would make sure they were safe; Robin would solve the mystery. So Tim can do nothing less. 

The rain has washed away any traces of last night. The holes his feet left behind have been overtaken by puddles, which leaves him no way to look for a second set. He brings out the little hand held flashlight he brought along to search the gravesite. There’s no trace of anyone. 

Tim rocks back on his heels with a frown. He thinks back over his actions the previous day; he didn’t bring flowers this time, if this is magical in nature does that have something to do with it? He said words too, though he doesn’t think they were all that magical. Either way, he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. 

“I’m sorry, Robin.” 

He cracks an eye open and feels silly when there’s no change. “Maybe it was just a hallucination,” he mumbles. “Robin would know what to do.” 

There’s a gasping sound from behind him. Tim whirls around to find a small figure bent double in the mud. He kneels beside them, hands hovering a few inches away from their skin. 

[moncherriecoups]

Muted Hearts

Some love stories are whispered, not spoken. Some promises are signed, not said.

This is ours.

This rule or mine

On my mind

We are two main characters

Without supporting actors on stage

Sharing our breaths, even the familiar flow

Through this eternal work, let's stay together

──────────────────────────────

Seungcheol x f!oc

Tags: tense relationship, idolxoc, slowburn relationship, angst

Word count: 3.2k

──────────────────────────────

Chapter Eight

A week passed. Seven full days of unanswered texts. Seven full days of silence. Seven full days of pretending like Choi Seungcheol didn’t exist.  

If she were being honest, it was harder than she thought.  

Ignoring his messages was one thing—she could set her phone on Do Not Disturb, let his calls go straight to voicemail, and pretend the notifications didn’t make her heart clench. But the problem with loving someone like Seungcheol was that he existed everywhere.  

She saw him when she walked past a billboard near the train station, his face staring down at her with that same confident smirk. She heard him when the radio played Super—and that was the worst of all. His deep voice cut through the static like a blade, the way he growled his lines sent a sharp tremor down her spine, tightening around her ribs like a vice. It was embarrassing how easily her body reacted, how just the sound of him could pull her back into the memories she was desperately trying to suppress. The way he had whispered against her skin, how his voice had actually sounded like that when he was right next to her. The heat that curled low in her stomach was both unwelcome and inevitable, leaving her pressing her lips together in frustration.

And at night, when she finally closed her eyes, she felt him—the ghost of his touch still lingering on her skin, refusing to fade.

But she needed this. She needed time.  

And so, Sua ignored him.  

His gifts, however, were another story.  

It started with flowers. A bouquet of white roses and orchids waiting for her at the gallery, the note attached reading a simple, 

Please.  

She threw them away.  

The next day, another delivery arrived at her apartment—a small Cartier box wrapped in silver ribbon. She didn’t open it, just tossed it onto her desk like it was any other package. Then came the Chrome Hearts necklace, neatly placed in its signature pouch. Seungcheol’s favorite brand. She rolled her eyes at the thought.  

By the time the fourth package arrived—this time a pair of diamond earrings—Ari, her coworker, was eyeing her with something between amusement and disbelief.  

“Okay,” Ari drawled, arms crossed as she leaned against Sua’s desk. “Are we gonna talk about how you apparently have a sugar daddy?”  

Sua sighed, closing the latest gift box with a soft snap. “He’s not my sugar daddy.”  

“Right. Just some insanely rich man sending you luxury gifts every day because he has nothing better to do.” Ari raised a brow. “Did you piss him off or something? Is this an apology?”  

Sua huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “Something like that.”  

Ari whistled, plucking the Cartier box off the desk and inspecting it. “Damn. I should start dating rich men and drive them mad, too.”  

At that, Sua only chuckled. Because what else could she do? She wasn’t going to sit here and explain the intricacies of loving someone like Seungcheol—the way he gave too much and too little all at once, the way he thought money could fix things because it was the only thing he had full control over. Ari wouldn’t get it.

Hell, Sua barely understood it herself.  

So instead, she said nothing. Just smiled, shrugged, and went back to work.  

—

Despite the silence, despite the unread messages and unopened gifts, Sua still watched him.  

She wasn’t talking to him, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t watching him.  

She saw the new photo he uploaded on Instagram—a candid shot of himself, sitting on the patio of that quiet little café they went to a month ago. The one where he had worn that stupidly expensive sweater and complained about how hot it was, only to refuse to take it off because, in his words, “fashion over comfort, baby.”   

Sua had taken that picture.  

And there it was, sitting on his feed like a quiet message only she could understand.  

She remembered it vividly—how she had told him to stay still, how he had pouted and said she was embarrassing him, how he had still done exactly what she asked because she liked capturing moments like that. Moments where he wasn’t an idol, but just hers.  

She watched his random live at 2 AM, when he was half-asleep and scrolling through comments with unfocused eyes. Someone had asked if he was okay. He had laughed—low and breathy—before muttering, "I don’t know, man."  

And when his schedule was over for the day, when he was supposed to be asleep, she saw him online. Just like her.  

Ignoring him was easy. Not missing him was impossible.  

But this was the test, wasn’t it?  

Could she handle this? Could she handle him? Could she handle loving someone whose world would always, always come first?  

Well, she already knew the answer. She’s just not ready to face it yet.  

Not when she could still pretend.

—

It had been a week.  

A full fucking week, and Sua still hadn’t answered him.  

Seungcheol wasn’t a patient man to begin with, but this—this was hell. The kind of slow, torturous suffering that made his chest feel tight every time he looked at his phone and saw nothing. No texts, no calls, not even a goddamn emoji reaction to his messages.  

He tried everything.  

Flowers? Jewelry? Ignored. Chrome Hearts—the brand she knew he loved? Untouched.  

Seungcheol wasn’t the type to beg, but fuck, she was pushing him to his limits.  

And now the entire world knows it, too.  

It wasn’t like he meant to cause a scene. He was just frustrated. He had gone live at two in the morning, phone propped against his pillow, half his face buried in his blanket while he scrolled through the chat. He wasn’t even thinking, just running on exhaustion and the kind of loneliness that felt too big to keep inside.  

Then someone asked, "Coups, are you okay?"  

And because his filter was nonexistent at that hour, he had sighed and muttered, “I don’t know, man.”  

That was it. That was all he said.  

And somehow, overnight, the entire internet lost their mind.  

CHOI SEUNGCHEOL SAID HE’S NOT OKAY—WHAT HAPPENED???

IS IT HIS HEALTH??? HIS MENTAL STATE??  

SOMEBODY CHECK ON HIM, PLEASE???  

His company had to issue a statement before noon, assuring fans that he was fine. He wasn’t. But what was he supposed to do, tell them he was losing his shit because a girl was ignoring him?  

Absolutely not.  

Instead, he poured all his frustration into one final move.  

Something Sua couldn’t ignore.  

Something that would force her to see him.  

So, he walked into the art gallery in broad daylight, draped in an oversized black coat, as if that would make him less noticeable. A mask covered half his face, but it did nothing to dim the sheer presence he carried.

He could already hear the murmurs the second he stepped inside.  

“Wait… is that—”  

“Oh my god, isn’t that—?”  

“No fucking way, Choi Seungcheol is in an art gallery?”  

He didn’t care.  

His eyes swept across the space, searching, waiting—there.  

Sua.  

She was at the far end of the room, speaking to a client, completely unaware of the way everything in him settled the second he saw her.

God, she was beautiful.  

He had spent seven days trying to remember every little detail—the curve of her lips, the way her hands moved when she talked, the quiet elegance in the way she carried herself. But nothing compared to seeing her in real time, breathing the same air, existing in his orbit again.  

She still hadn’t noticed him.  

So, naturally, Seungcheol did what any sane, rational man would do.  

He’s gonna buy a painting.  

A fucking expensive one. 

Let’s see if Sua could ignore this.

—

Ari, standing behind the front desk, gasped so dramatically that she nearly knocked over a stack of brochures. The gallery’s visitors—people who were here for art, not idols—stared in stunned silence. Even the ones who weren’t fans could recognize him.  

Sua, who had been flipping through exhibition notes, felt his presence before she even saw him.  

What the hell was he doing here?  

Ari recovered fast. “Oh my god,” she whispered, gripping Sua’s wrist like she needed to physically restrain herself. “Sua. SUA. That's him.”  

“I see that.”  

“Do you?! Do you SEE how gorgeous he is in real life?”  

Sua wanted to say yes, painfully so, but she kept her expression neutral. “He’s just a visitor, Ari.”  

Ari, very much not believing that, smoothed down her blouse and put on her best customer service smile. “I’ll handle this.”  

Except Seungcheol didn’t even glance at her.  

His eyes locked onto Sua immediately, like he had walked in already knowing exactly where she was.  

And when he spoke, it wasn’t to Ari.  

“Sua.”  

Ari blinked. “Wait, what?”  

He ignored her, taking slow, deliberate steps toward Sua. He looked—God, he looked so good. Dressed in all black, silver rings glinting against his fingers, eyes dark and intense. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t playing the role of “Seventeen’s Leader.” No, this was just him.  

And he had come here for her.  

Ari looked between them, confused. “Wait, hold on. You two know each other?”  

Sua could have dragged this out, let Ari spiral a little. But she was too focused on Seungcheol—on the way his shoulders were rising and falling like he was steadying himself, on the way his fingers twitched at his sides, like he was barely keeping himself from reaching for her.  

“I’ll take it from here,” Sua said, voice measured.  

Ari gasped. “WHAT—”  

But Sua was already stepping forward, already walking past the stunned gallery visitors, already leading Seungcheol deeper into the exhibition halls.  

She didn’t look back. But she felt his gaze burning into her like a silent plea.  

And she wasn’t sure if she could ignore it much longer.  

—

The air in the gallery felt thick, like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for something to happen.

Sua, however, was determined to act like nothing was out of the ordinary.

Never mind the fact that Choi Seungcheol just waltzed into her workplace in the middle of the day. Never mind the way Ari was practically vibrating with excitement (and barely contained nosiness). And definitely never mind how her own pulse was thrumming a little too fast just from being in the same space as him again.

She inhaled deeply, straightened her spine, and turned to face him. “Right this way.”

She didn’t give him a chance to respond before she started walking, the soft click of her heels against the polished floor the only sound between them.

He followed without hesitation, his footsteps slower, heavier—deliberate.

For a moment, they walked in silence.

It wasn’t comfortable.

It wasn’t easy.

It was awkward.

Frustrating, even, because Seungcheol didn’t even seem awkward. He just walked beside her like he belonged there, like this wasn’t the first time they’d seen each other in weeks, like she hadn’t been ignoring him entirely.

Sua, on the other hand, felt like she was seconds away from combusting.

Still, she kept her voice professional as she spoke. “This piece is from an emerging artist based in Bangkok. It explores themes of solitude and self-reflection.”

Seungcheol hummed, stepping closer. “It’s nice.”

...

Nice.

NICE?

That was the most noncommittal response possible, and it irritated her more than it should have. But before she could snap at him, he moved again—this time, stopping in front of another painting.

“I like this one more,” he murmured, his voice softer, more thoughtful.

Sua turned—and immediately regretted it.

Because of course he was standing in front of her favorite piece. Of course he picked the one she’d personally fought to include in this exhibition. And when he turned his head to look at her, when their eyes met—

It was over.

Because that look—that damn look—was the same one he used to give her when she was lying in his bed, bare and vulnerable beneath him.

Like she was the only thing worth looking at.

Like she was his favorite piece of art in the room.

Her throat felt tight.

She forced herself to break eye contact.

“Are you buying a painting today, or just here to waste my time?” she asked, keeping her tone clipped.

A slow smirk curled his lips. “I think I’ll buy this one.”

She arched her brow. “Really? What, did Minghao get to you?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Maybe.”

Liar.

But she didn’t call him out on it. She simply turned on her heel, making her way toward her office. “Fine. Let’s finalize the purchase.”

—

Sua’s head was already throbbing from the sudden influx of visitors, but now she had to deal with him again. After that entire gallery scene, she knew this was inevitable. She had let it happen.  

And now, here they were.  

Seungcheol sat across from her in her office, leaning back in the chair like he owned the place. His long legs stretched comfortably, one arm lazily draped over the armrest. His expression was unreadable, but the slight smirk tugging at his lips told her he was enjoying this.  

Sua, on the other hand, was trying to remain professional. She felt his eyes on her the entire time.

“You’re really not gonna talk to me?” he finally asked, voice low.

She exhaled sharply, already irritated. “I am talking to you.”

“You know what I mean, Sua.”

She did. And she hated that he wasn’t letting her get away with it.

So, instead of answering, she focused on the papers in front of her. “Sign here.”

He didn’t move.

She looked up.

He was still watching her, lips pressed into a tight line.

Something about that look—about the frustration simmering beneath the surface—made her want to push.

“You know,” she said casually, “if you were really serious about collecting art, I’d be more inclined to help you.”

His jaw ticked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugged. “It means I don’t believe for a second that you’re here because you suddenly developed an interest in fine art.”

His silence was loud.

Her heart pounded.

Then, finally—

A slow, almost amused exhale.

“You always saw right through me, huh?” he murmured, stepping closer.

She held her ground. “Not exactly difficult, Choi Seungcheol.”

His lips quirked. “I did want to see the gallery.”

“Sure.”

“And I did want to buy a painting.”

“Right.”

“And I definitely wanted to see you.”

Her breath hitched.

Damn him.

She tapped her pen against the table, glaring at him. “You specifically requested the pickup to be sent to my apartment.”  

Another hum. “That’s what I did.”  

Sua exhaled. “Seungcheol—”  

He cut her off with a slow grin. “What? I figured it’d be easier for you.”  

She wanted to throw something at him.  

Her fingers tightened around the pen, and she took a deep breath. “You do realize this makes things worse, right?”  

Seungcheol tilted his head, feigning innocence. “How so?”  

She narrowed her eyes. “You showed up here, made a scene, approaced me like it's nothing, and now you’re having the painting delivered to my apartment. Do you want people to find out?”  

At that, his smirk faded slightly, but the amusement remained in his eyes.  

“I don’t care if people find out,” he said smoothly. “You do.”  

Sua clenched her jaw. Of course he doesn’t care.  

She knew this was his way of testing her. Of pushing her. He had been too patient this whole week, letting her ignore him, letting her keep her distance. But today, he had enough.  

“Besides,” he added, leaning forward slightly. “It’s not like this is the first time I've been here. Also not the first time we’ve been alone in this office.”  

Sua froze.  

Her soul left her body.  

Slowly, her eyes snapped to his, and the knowing glint in them made her stomach flip.  

“You—”  

He shrugged. “What? I’m just saying.”  

Her entire face burned. “Shut up.”  

Seungcheol chuckled, absolutely thrilled by her reaction.  

“Don’t look so offended, Sua,” he teased, resting his chin on his hand. “We had a great time. Well—at least I did. You were too busy pretending you weren’t enjoying it.”  

Sua threw the pen at him.  

He dodged it with a laugh. “You’re so violent.”  

“You’re insufferable,” she snapped, standing up.  

But before she could even take a step, he was already moving.  

In a blur, he was out of his chair, closing the distance between them so fast that Sua barely had time to react. She found herself backed up against her desk, his hands on either side of her, caging her in.  

Her breath hitched.  

It had been so long since they’d been this close.  

Too long.  

She could smell his cologne, the familiar warmth of it making her head spin. His presence was overwhelming, and she hated how her body reacted immediately.  

Her pulse pounded.  

Seungcheol wasn’t touching her—not yet—but the way he looked at her was enough. His eyes flickered between hers, searching, waiting.  

“Say you didn’t miss me,” he murmured.  

Sua’s fingers curled against the desk.  

“I—”  

“Say it,” he challenged.  

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.  

Because she had missed him.  

She had missed him so much it hurts.  

And in the next second, he was kissing her.  

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant.  

It was desperate.  

The second their lips met, Sua felt everything she had been trying to push away come rushing back. She clutched his shirt tightly, as if letting go would make this disappear. Seungcheol groaned against her mouth, one hand sliding to her waist, pulling her even closer.  

God, she hated him.  

She hated that he made her feel like this.  

That he knew exactly what to do, exactly how to break down her walls with just a single touch.  

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathing hard. Sua’s head was spinning, and Seungcheol’s lips were red, slightly swollen.  

“I hate you,” she muttered breathlessly.  

He smirked. “Liar.”  

She was a liar.  

Because she was already pulling him back in.  

—  

Photos of Seungcheol leaving the gallery had already begun circulating online.  

At first, fans were just curious.  

Then they started analyzing.  

And now?  

Now, Sua’s gallery was turning into a hotspot. The next day, the usual art crowd had been replaced. The gallery was still packed—but the visitors weren’t here for the art.  

They were here for him.  

“This is insane,” Ari hissed under her breath as she watched another group of girls excitedly whisper while looking at the paintings. “They’re not here to buy anything, are they?”  

“Nope,” Sua muttered.  

Ari turned to her. “So… are you gonna explain?”  

Sua stiffened. “Explain what?”  

Ari squinted at her. “Why Seungcheol was here. Why he suddenly cares about art. Why he requested the painting be sent to your apartment.”  

Sua gave her the most deadpan look. “Maybe Minghao finally got to him,” she shrugs. “He’s one of the loyals anyway, not weird seeing a friend of his now involved.”  

Ari laughed out loud. “Yeah, okay, sure. Let’s pretend that’s the reason.”  

Sua refused to say more.  

Because even though she trusted Ari, she also knew how insane the internet could be. The NDA was still in place, and despite Seungcheol’s complete disregard for secrecy, Sua had to be careful.  

She sighed, rubbing her temples. “It’s fine. This will die down soon.”  

Ari raised a brow. “Are you sure?”  

No.  

No, she wasn’t.  

Because from the way things were going…  

It was only getting worse.

──────────────────────────────

I'M BACKKKKKKKKKKKK OMG finally i have time to finish this! Pls enjoy!!!!

see u on the next chapter! ><

[ghost-proofbaby]

hiii, I saw your post about the valentine's event and wanted to ask if you could write a something about Shadowheart going on a cute cottagecore date with a female reader. I don't usually request things because it makes me nervous, so I hope my writing isn't bad lol. have good day or night and thank you!!

ABSOLUTELY!! your writing isn't bad in the slightest, dear <3 i really love the thought of going on a cottagecore picnic with shadowheart, just reading to her as you play with her hair and aaaaaaah. this is my first time properly writing shadowheart x reader so i hope i did her justice as i dip my toes into the water <3

wc: 1.1k+

You’re trying to recall a time Shadowheart has looked so beautiful as she does now, and you’re falling short. 

Perhaps that time in the Underdark, in which she gazed around with eyes full of wonder and childlike grin at all the new scenery, could compare. Or perhaps the first time you’d gifted her a Night Orchid, and she’d seemingly glowed from within as she beamed at you behind all her faux casualness. Maybe her silhouette in the moonlight, on the beach during your travels, the night you’d taught her how to swim, could mimic this moment.

But it’s hard to think upon those times when the right here, right now is in front of you. 

The afternoon sun is warming her skin just right, pools of gold breaking through the leaves of the tree overhead and catching onto her high cheekbones just so. The bridge of her nose has turned a few shades pinker than it had been when the two of you first arrived, and it’s done nothing to deter her from keeping her head tilted back towards the sunshine. Her silvery white hair is littered with cherry blossoms, her comfortable garments are flowy in the soft spring breeze, there’s a ghost of a grin still on her kiss-bitten lips – she’s beautiful. 

Plain and simple. No metaphors, no elaborate plots to go about it. Your girlfriend is the vision of beauty herself, and she has you speechless. 

“Have you had enough of all your gawking, lover?” she hums, teasing as she cracks an eye open to peer at you. 

The book you had been reading out loud for both of you lays abandoned on your lap, pages face down so as to avoid letting the words distract you, “Never.”

You think you’d spend the rest of your life gawking, as she had so lovingly put it, if she’d just allow it.

“Well, who am I to complain?” she sighs out as she leans further back on her arms, entire body relaxing as another breeze flutters by. You swear, something in the air is whispering for you to kiss her again, “Although, I have to say, I was awfully enjoying that adventurous story of yours.” 

“We’ve had enough adventure for a lifetime,” you laugh a little, shifting around on the soft blanket on the ground, narrowly avoiding the picnic basket as you seek out a better view of her, “Is it so wrong for me to simply be relaxing?” 

“Gawking – not relaxing.” 

“Same thing.” 

“Is no-”

You cut her off with an unexpected kiss. Leaning your full weight forward, and capturing her mouth against yours. You’d steal all her breath away, if only she’d allow it. 

And she nearly does. She reciprocates easily despite you catching her off guard, quick to reach out for your hips, desperate to pull you closer. There’s no need for begging or bartering, however – you’re already on the move to situate yourself in her lap, fingers already carefully carding around the flowers you had placed in her hair, your own warmed skin eager to feel the press of hers. 

“What about the book?” she smiles against your lips, pulling back just a touch. 

You chase after her, not letting her get far, “Who cares? If you want to experience a real adventure, we can just call up Withers for another go-round-” 

She shuts you up with a kiss now. 

Hands dancing across the hem of your dress, inching it up, up, up. Not a secret motive in sight, nothing dastardly on the mind; she simply wants to be close to you. She only aches to feel her fingertips pressing into the soft skin of your thighs a bit, only craves to let the taste of sticky sweet strawberries on your lips dance on her tongue for a while. 

You get the message well enough. 

This is enough, she whispers with a playful nip at your bottom lip. Stay here with me, just a while longer.

And you will. She doesn’t even need to ask – you’d stay fiercely at her side to the ends of Faerun. You’ve already been fiercely at her side for travels through approximately half of it.

All the kissing and wandering hands with no real destination is a lovely reprieve, but it comes to a sudden end when a flash of white fur barrels into the two of you. 

“Oomph!”

“Scratch!” 

The two of you yell out in sync, no real anger behind your words as you collapse to the ground for the overexcited dog to trample both of you. The laughter is bubbling like champagne, and a paw weighs heavy on your chest as you watch Scratch begin his assault of licks across Shadowheart’s freckled cheeks.

Giggles, gentle chastising, springtime air, the smell of the grass’ dew below you – it all bursts around you with a whoosh, and it feels a lot like home. 

“I was wondering when you might interrupt our afternoon picnic,” Shadowheart simpers as her hand reaches out to ruffle snowy fur. “Miss us too much, boy?” 

You turn onto your stomach as you roll your eyes, “Missed you, more like it. ” 

“He misses and loves us both very much.” 

“He tries to kick me out of our bed every single night,” you snort, “I’m pretty sure he’s cuddled more with you in the last fortnight than I have over the last several months.” 

“Jealous?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow. 

Very. You’ll probably spend the rest of your days jealous of every single person who ever has the honor of occupying her time, her thoughts, her care. It’s simply impossible not to. Not after getting to see her in moments like these, not after learning her soul as intimately as you have.

But you don’t say that outright, her beauty taking you by storm once more. 

Have her eyes ever been so green? Have they always matched the blooming leaves so perfectly? Or is it simply the sunlight catching them, and your heart in the process, just right?

“I’ll take your silence as a yes,” she jests as she turns her head back to the sky, a smirk toying on her cheeks. 

Has she always been able to steal your breath away so easily? Has her coy smile always made your heart batter about your rib cage this way?

The answer always has been, and always will be, yes.

You follow her suit, catching sight of a single drifting cloud above the branches, “Of course you will.”

Scratch settles himself into her side, farthest from you obviously, and the three of you lay in blissful silence. The distant chirping of doves, the dull buzz of insects impatiently awaiting the summertime, the thrum of your heart that you somehow instinctively know has fallen in sync with your lover’s. 

It’s all white noise when her hand stretches out to yours, sincere skin brushing against your own awaiting palm for just a moment before her pinky hooks with yours.

You never do find your answer as to whether she’s ever looked quite as beautiful as she does now. You have a lifetime to keep searching.

[danika-redgrave124]

Day 13: Confession

The Pomefiore gardens were bathed in the soft glow of twilight, the last rays of the sun casting a golden hue over the perfectly manicured hedges and delicate blossoms. A gentle breeze carried the scent of orchids and fresh earth, mingling with the faint traces of expensive perfume lingering in the air.

Vil stood at the garden’s edge, gazing at the horizon with a serene, unreadable expression. His posture was flawless, as always—poised, regal, untouchable. Yet tonight, something about him seemed softer, as if the setting sun had stripped away a layer of his usual perfection.

Rook watched from a few steps away, his sharp green eyes filled with something beyond admiration, something deeper. He had seen Vil in many lights—under the harsh glare of the stage, in the quiet solitude of his dressing room, even in moments of frustration when perfection seemed just out of reach. But here, under the evening sky, he looked truly breathtaking.

"Roi du Poison," Rook finally spoke, his voice carrying the warmth of a well-rehearsed sonnet. "Do you know what happens when one gazes upon the sun for too long?"

Vil turned slightly, arching a delicate brow. "They risk blindness."

Rook smiled, taking a step closer. "And yet, knowing the danger, I cannot look away."

Vil exhaled, a quiet, almost knowing sound. "Rook."

"Mon trésor," Rook continued, reaching for Vil’s hand but stopping just short of touching him. "For all my flowery words, for all my admiration and relentless pursuit of beauty, nothing has ever captured me quite like you."

Vil’s breath hitched, but his expression remained composed. He tilted his head slightly, violet eyes searching Rook’s face. "And what do you expect me to do with such a confession?"

Rook chuckled, but there was something genuine, something vulnerable behind the usual theatrics. "I expect nothing, ma belle étoile. I merely wish for you to know that my heart, much like my eyes, belongs to you alone."

For a moment, silence settled between them, broken only by the rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of crickets. Then, Vil turned fully toward him, his gaze unreadable, his lips pressed together in thought.

“…You are insufferable,” he finally said, but there was no venom in his voice—only something quiet, something careful. He reached out, his fingers ghosting over Rook’s own before clasping them with delicate certainty. "And yet, I suppose I've grown used to you."

Rook's smile softened, his grip firm but reverent, as if holding something precious. "Then I shall count myself the luckiest hunter of all, to have captured even a fraction of your heart."

And under the fading light of the sun, Vil allowed himself, for just a moment, to rest in the warmth of Rook’s presence.

@oh-hopeless-heart

I had to do the iconic Pairing of Rook and Vil.

I used another personal headcanon that Rook calls his S/O more significant terms than just the title/nickname he originally gives them.

[dorywhynot]

"King Amron V & Orsiana" Watercolor on Paper, 2024.

I had the absolute pleasure of working with author Jelena Dunato and Ghost Orchid Press, painting characters from "Dark Woods, Deep Water". This is one of three postcard prints included in a book box with special hardback editions of Dark Woods, Deep Water, and the new novella "Ghost Apparent".

Check out the book box here!

[thegirlwiththelantern]

More 2024 Horror

I’ve said a few times already that this list or that list is my favourite. But this is such a fantastic collection of books! Fear in the Blood: Tales from the Dark Lineages of the Weird edit. Mike Ashley | 25 / 03 / 24 – British Library Publishing Timothy followed, in his dream, and saw the ungainly, yet agile creature clamber in through the cat-flap… He could hear the flip-flop as it went up…

[girlnextvore]

OC Deep Dive - Rosa Núñez

What common/uncommon fear do they have?

In life Rosa feared commitment very very deeply but was in a cycle of doing NOTHING about it. She dated the girl her parents picked out for her (as a man at that point) and was even ready to propose cause her dad said it was time

In her vampire life Rosa fears killing on accident very deeply, she sees it as the final showing she is no longer her own person. She also has a fear of deep water. And being seen as "replaceable"

Do they have any pet peeves?

SHE HATES BEING TALKED DOWN TO. And she hates getting attitude when trying to help.

She dislikes people who can not see the deeper meaning in things like art. She gets super angry when someone picks a flower with no purpose for it. She also hates those who attack the insecurities of others.

Also dirty nails. As a gardener and botanist she is always making sure her nails are clean.

What are three items you can find in their bedroom?

You would find ALOT of plants but mostly Holy Ghost ORchids as its what she needs for her bane to sleep. She has them usually put around her bed and some physically on her bed. ALso other plants hanging above her bed

You would see ALOT of really cute vintage platforms, its one of the few luxuries she loves. She loves a cute platform knee high boot more then anything

The portrait of her and her wife that is in a frame made of human bone.

What do they notice first in a person?

Face shape, like literally how their flesh hangs on their skull. She loves interesting facial shapes, after that is smell. She is very into the scent of a person so she tries and places it quickly.

If its a more business or serious setting its how someone speaks. She will ignore physical looks and smell to HEAR you, she believes so much of how someone is is the way they speak to someone and use their voice.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how high is their pain tolerance?

This is complicated.

Physically: I will say her tolerance for Physical pain is FAIRLY HIGH. She is a Koldun and alot of her sorcery requires her to do BIG AMOUNTS of damage to herself and even sometimes with fire. She takes it in stride pretty well. Also her and her wife get into "Freaky shit" So I am going to give her like a 8 out of 10. I will say however even if she can HANDLE IT her body will give out alot sooner then her mind will

Mentally: If its anyone thats NOT her wife like a 8. If its Alezya like a fucking 3 if THAT. Her Resolve is her highest stat but it just doesn't matter when its Alezya she knows how to really get in there deep

Emotionally: Basically the same thing as mentally. Like a 7 but when its Alezya it knocks it down to like a 5.

Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure? (Or freeze or fawn?)

Oh its actually flight. Very rarely does the "pressure" get to her but when it does she fucking leaves. ITS HER WORST TRAIT, She is really tough and will stand by you but if it ever gets TRULY HARD on her she might run

What animal represents them best?

So I usually use a weeping Willow to represent her like even in my mind her Beast is a old and scary tree. But if I had to use an animal.

I think the pfeffer Cuttlefish. Its cute and its rare to run into it but it can kill and it kills so easily. Even without wanting to do it. Also the other worldly nature of it works perfectly for her.

How would a stranger likely describe them?

"Extremely beautiful and kind (She has the 4 dot looks merit)" Very much feels and looks as if she is wise beyond her years. Even has a motherly vibe for a woman so "young"

I think once she speaks to them it shifts to "Beautiful but also strange. She almost looks sad under that smile"

Do they have any hobbies?

Oh Rosa's main hobbie is botany and cross pollinating plants. She also enjoys sewing every so often and other artist things. She presses flowers and also designed 90% of her own tattoos.

Besides that she has been trying to catch up on music so she listens to atleast 100 new songs a week. There is also Koldunism but she doesn't consider that a hobby anymore since she is a fairly accomplished Koldun at this point in her unlife

--------------------------------------

Thank you @aztarion for tagging me! I alrady did it once but this was a good excuse to do it again for Rosa!!!!

I already tagged a fair bit of people last time but ill tag @eric-the-bmo @rhiannon42 NO PRESSURE if you dont wanna do it!

[laniwriter]

☆ love you like a dog (i just keep coming back) ☆

synopsis: losing your mate means losing yourself. it's too bad the little part of you that cares for his brother didn't die with him. aged-up!lo'ak x na'vi!fem!reader. warnings: ANGST IN THIS ONE Y'ALL, graphic descriptions of death, death of a loved one (neteyam), loss, heavy descriptions of grief, taboo/complicated relationships, explicit sexual content [18+ MINORS DNI], oral fem!reciving, size kink, mention of stomach bulge, dirty talk, slight dom/sub dynamics, i don't know how to write smut sorry friends, unedited to the max i apologize in advance

☆

the first time it happens, you repent. chain yourself to charity like a fork-tongued saint, devout and forlorn. purification becomes purpose. lifeblood. you had to atone for your sins somehow, didn't you? (you still thought of lo'ak's canines, sinking into the side of your neck, one five-fingered hand threaded in your hair, the other pulling at the ties of your tewng {loincloth} like he'd die if he didn't touch you—). you know better. you know lust cannot fill the vacancy slithering through your exoskeleton, marrow-deep and unyielding. it eats at you, the emptiness. engulfs you whole, spits out a mass of azure skin, eggshell bone, bloodied teeth. and you let it. what else are you supposed to do? who else are you supposed to turn to but that personified ache in your subconscious, that nagging worm in your head that begs you to bloodlet? begs you to make it better, make it easier? dislodge yourself from the longing that keeps you reaching for a hand that has long slipped out of your grasp? you were only doing it because you needed to. because there was no other way to escape your own mind.

(it's been years. and yet, you remembered the blood, the way it had painted your hands in seeping layers of thick, tacky crimson. you remembered the way your mouth had opened in a silent scream, tongue heavy and thick in between lips forming the syllables of his name, over and over and over. neteyam, neteyam, neteyam, my mate, my mate, my mate. you remembered the way you'd shirked away from the tangy bite of metal in the air, the taste of iron down your throat akin to a barrel of a gun, the heat of a bullet. the gush of an exit wound. you remembered how neteyam's gaze had clashed with yours when you'd pressed your hands firmly to his chest, a silent plea written in the flecks of gold dotting his irises: "take me home, ma'yawne." you remembered neytiri's face, frozen in time, streaked with crystalline tears, her eldest son laying lifeless in the arms that had birthed him.)

the second time it happens, you make a choice. a calculated, deliberate decision. an instigation. kiri notices your tense silence during dinner that night, and reaches a hand over her crossed knees to pat at the side of your thigh comfortingly. she leans in as you shift, meeting her appraising gaze with apprehension floating precariously at the surface of your own. her eyes flash honey-gold, nearly glowing in the tangerine gild of the raging pyre beside you. although the feast you face is beautiful - lines of emerald rock orchid leaves, crimson mushrooms, and freshly-caught flat skate fish - your stomach contracts around nothing, appetite lost. 

paranoia is fast to appear. kiri couldn't know, could she? you'd been careful. you'd left before he had, had hidden the indentation of his teeth lining your collarbone that had rapidly turned a rather unsavory shade of purple—

"are you okay?" she whispers, tilting her head. there is something accusatory the way her eyes linger on the restrained trembling of your bottom lip, and for just a moment, a single ghost of a second, you find yourself wanting to tell her everything. your throat closes up, and you swallow heavily. 

"i'm fine," you choke out, straightening. her hand jostles on your thigh. "just tired." kiri's forehead creases—she doesn't believe you, of course—as she retracts her touch, leaving your skin feeling inexplicably colder. she doesn’t bother to ask questions, doesn’t stop you as you hastily make excuses to exit (i think i might go lie down, i think i'm coming down with something, i'll find you tomorrow, tsmuke {sister}, i promise), hands trembling as you efface the sticky sweat lining your palms on your bare stomach. you can feel kiri's gaze lingering on the back of your neck as you begin towards the pods; your skin prickles in response. she sees right through you. your fallaciousness is nothing but a shadow. a barricade made of sand.

your resolve is steely by the time you cross the reefs, the steady drone of the log drums behind you fading softly from earshot. lo'ak must have known you were coming; he does not stand to welcome you, nor does he lift his gaze from the dull blade in his right hand as you duck under the adorned mangrove-wood reinforcement of his marui [home] and step inside, the grating hiss of metal against a sharpening stone slicing through the eerie quiet. you linger at the entrance, your intake of breath sharp. lo'ak adjusts his grip wordlessly with practiced ease, forearm flexing as he draws the blade across the stone in slow, calculated arcs, as if coaxing the metal into submission. into perfection. oh. oh. there is a strange ringing in your ears, thrumming alongside the rapid, bird-like beat of your heart. you consider remaining silent, but you just can't help yourself. restraint is a virtue you find yourself no longer able to practice.

"lo'ak," you whisper. it is just his name. but it speaks volumes. the air between you thickens excruciatingly.

his head lifts, eyes glazing over your figure, and you self-delude when you determine you do not like the way his gaze goes slightly slack. there is a hunger in the sharp curve of his jaw, in the firmly-set, downturned line of his mouth. a need. a visceral urge that mirrors your own. it is achingly sweet. saccharine in your mouth, rotting your teeth. pounding in the space between your temple and ear like a tangible, carnal throb, spasming wildly at the sight of him. (you still find yourself jolted awake in the middle of the night by a feeling you could have sworn was the ghost of a four-fingered hand tracing unintelligible patterns into the curve of your spine, the phantom of your mate's body curved around your own. his tail curled around your calf, or his arm slung around your waist.)

you see it in his eyes, the longing. he stands, holstering the knife on the sheath looped around his thigh. his steps towards you are silent, charged with the boundless energy pouring through his veins. to chase. to hunt. to kill. to keep. he shrouds you in his shadow as he approaches, tilting his head. there is an erotism to the the way he assesses you. the cognizance he possesses of your lips, your tongue, the column of your throat. you blush midnight blue when you catch sight of the bloomed purple notch in the side of his neck. you'd done that. "this hasn't faded," you breathe after a moment, reaching a hand up on instinct to graze the spot. lo'ak's entire frame goes stiff under your touch, but he huffs out what sounds like a soft laugh. 

"y'got me good," he responds, and the rough quality of his voice makes you shiver.

"i'm... sorry." (you're not sorry.)

he shakes his head, mouth curving up in a sly smirk. "don't be." his pulse point throbs under the tip of your index finger, and it jumps when you press down. "i liked it."

you try to breath normally as your hand stills, then drops back down by your thigh. "you weren't at dinner," you murmur thickly, eyes darting across his face. it it sickening, his beauty. his grace. he wears faux arrogance like a second skin, and you despise the fact that it suits him. enhances what is already there.

he shrugs, lips pursing. "i wasn't hungry."

he's lying. he nerve of him is laughable. there is a color of indigence in your voice when you scoff. "don't lie to me. you just didn't want to see me, did you?" (you have to remind yourself that you don't want to start a fight. you don't want to face the fact that there is a lecherous, macabre fragment of your soul that craves the feeling of his haughty hands on your skin. you want to hate him. you want to hate yourself. but this is the only way to make it better. the only way to cease the ache left behind. and neteyam would want that for you, wouldn't he? he wouldn't want you to hurt. he never did).

"doesn't matter," he responds, and his answer downturns your lips. the lazily, fervid lowering of his eyelids acts as an aphrodisiac of sorts. he is playing with you. relishing in the way your eyes seem everlastingly drawn towards the curve of his mouth, the tantalizing taste of his tongue. "you always come crawlin' back anyway."

you see red. your hand lifts before you can stop yourself. it is halfway to his cheek — you can already imagine the sting the contact will induce — when his own encircles your wrist promptly, halting your motion midair. the sheer strength in his grip is nothing short of breathtaking. astounding. your inhale catches in the narrow arch of your throat, and you resist the urge to cough. your eyes jump to his face. 

"y'don't wanna do that, tìyawn {love}," he warns lowly, and the expanding of his pupils, the darkening of his expression, terrifies (excites) you. he lets you wrench your wrist out of his grip, flexing his hand as though he misses the feeling of yours in it. your navel stirs, a sliver of heat traveling rapidly up your spine. you imagine he can smell the change in your composition, can sense the suggestive direction of your thoughts. 

"i'm not an animal," you snap, vexed. "i don't crawl."

he raises his hands in mock surrender. the braids at the forefront of his head following the movement of his head tipping downwards, gaze towards the ground. you realize he's laughing at you when his bare stomach contracts under the leather of his cummerbund. "we both know that's not true." 

(neteyam used to make you crawl to him. he'd lean against the bed, temptation incarnate, his burning perusal of you leaving heat pooling in its wake. and then he'd tell you to get on all fours. tell you to arch your back. present to him, for him. "crawl to me," he'd whisper. "show me who you belong to. show me who owns you.")

lo'ak's stare pulls upward. and then he pounces.

he doesn't kiss you, no. what he gives you isn't a kiss—it’s consumption, all teeth and tongues and the scent of his arousal making your head spin, a battle for dominance that neither of you endeavors to win. his control slips, and you're suddenly aware of the way his mouth finds your neck, his teeth dragging along your skin like he wants to mark you, claim you. his touch is rough, desperate, searching for skin, gripping your hips, pressing into your thighs. he pushes you roughly towards the tangle of his sheets just as he finds the soft curves of your breasts, marveling at the way you go still under him. he tweaks your nipples, running his thumbs over the ridges, and you twitch in response. everything—everything—smells like him: fresh, damp earth, the faintest touch of smoke and salt, wet stone and metal. your cunt squeezes around nothing when you loop your arms around his neck and pull him onto you, draping his body over yours. 

"i said this would never happen again," you whimper when his kiss drops to the valley between your breasts, then to the line of your abdomen, the flare of your waist. he works his way down your body, worshipping his skillful entrapment. his prey. "i-i said it wasn't right."

"you did," is all lo'ak responds with, seemingly drawn towards your clothed cunt. he palms it, expelling a breath at the way your ragged moan catches brokenly at the edges. "and yet."

"it isn't r-right." you swallow thickly, fighting to keep your voice steady. wordlessly, lo'ak simply undoes the ties of your tewng {loincloth}, peeling the fabric away from your hips as though unraveling an exquisite fruit. you jerk away when his breath fans over your unshielded skin. oh, he was so close. just an inch and his lips could lock around your clit. just an inch and his fingers could be embedded where you desperately needed him to touch you (inside, inside, inside, inside, as close as you could possibly get him, as deep as you could physically take him—)

"you want me to stop?" he asks as his mouth drops to press a kiss to your mound, his tongue swirling around the soft flesh. you buck upward. "y'sure look like you do." 

he was teasing you. rapturous ecstasy explodes beneath your closed eyelids when his mouth finally, finally meets your clit, messily spreading your slick across the bottom half of his face. "great mother, you smell good," lo'ak moans out, voice muffled. your thighs close around his head before you catch yourself, your own tipping backwards. "tastes even better," he continues, euphoria painting his words in raw need. "like honey." 

he dips into you the second you open your mouth, trying to regain some semblance of control. "oh— lo'ak—"

he hums against you, hands planted under your bottom, digging into the flesh there. your skin turns an ashy shade of slate under the strength of his grip, a frenzied voice in your mind urging you onward, rousing every part of your body that had wished for this, hoped for this, dreamed of this with your own hands attempting to replicate this feeling of blinding, sparkling warmth. your body tightens, every muscle wound to snap. "i t-think i'm gonna—" you sob with relief when the pleasure comes to a peak, shattering in his hold. your lower stomach contracts and expands uncontrollably, a rush of molten heat flooding his mouth. lo'ak pulls himself back up over you with smack of his lips, lapping up the tear tracks staining your cheeks with the same tongue he'd just had halfway up your cunt. 

"such a pretty girl," he murmurs, almost absentmindedly, staring down at the way your chest heaves, the way a drop of sweat flows into the indented notch right above your winged collarbones, almost as though he seeks to memorize the places his brother's hands had been. "y'can't help yourself, can you?" his tone is satirizing, though an undertone of gentleness discards the bite. "pretty girl just keeps comin' back to me, doesn't she?"

"asshole," you pant, gently framing his face with your thumb resting in front of his ear. the impassioned fire in his gaze softens, giving way to something that resembles—no, is—pure, unadulterated adoration, quiet and unspoken, yet unmistakable. it taunts you. alarms you. his amatory look returns just as quickly as it had disappeared when his hand stretches downward to undo the string of his own tewng [loincloth], discarding it beside you. his tail curls around your leg, and you hoist yourself up into your forearms to survey the unexpected movement, but before you can open your mouth to question it, his hand wraps around the base of your own and tugs.

your entire back arches straight off the sheets. lightning shoots up your spine, and in an instant, you're presenting for him, your body developing a mind of its own. "look at you," lo'ak murmurs, swiping his cock up and down against your leaking slit, spreading your folds over his tip. pleasure wanders along your navel, and you flinch when his tip nudges your tender clit. "you should've come to me sooner, baby." no resistance meets him as he slides the first, then the second, then the third, fourth, fifth, eighth, tenth inch inside of you. your eyes roll back in your head as the aching stretch subsides, replaced by a feeling of complete and utter fullness. paradise.

"i would've helped you," he continues, but his voice wavers, betraying his control. "would've made you feel g-good. would've had you like this a hundred fuckin' times." the sharp, sky-language curse falls from his bruised lips in a rushed exhale of breath. tears gather on your lash line when he thrusts up— just once, just enough to bottom out inside of you, shaft twitching against the spongy entrance of your cervix. his palm presses hastily against the protruding bulge in your lower stomach, feeling for the outline of his cock. his eyes widen, just as transfixed as you are at the sight of himself moving under your cyan skin. 

he swallows your high-pitched squeal as his thumb reaches downward to draw tight, small circles around your swollen clit, his length settling into a smooth, even rhythm that had a a quick, breathless shout spilling out of your open mouth. "cat got y'r tongue?" he whispers when you go blank, blinding pleasure rendering you speechless. "c'mon, honey. y'talk a big game, don't you? show me what y'got." ("show me who you belong to," neteyam had said.)

you keel, eyes rolling back in your head as his teeth move down, down down, latching onto the hardened peak of your nipple. your legs thrash under the weight of him, and his low growl in lieu of a response vibrates across your skin. an obscene, wet sound reverberates in the air around you as his head lifts from your chest, a string of saliva following the curve of his mouth. his hips buck forward even further on their own accord when your cunt tightens at the sight of him. feral, like an untamed animal, droplets of sweat canvassing the corded muscle of his abdomen. you lift yourself up onto your forearms shakily, collecting the briny fluid on the jagged surface of your tongue. his entire body quivers as he folds forward. "yeah," he breathes, taken aback, bracing one hand beside your shoulder and the other at the base of your neck, holding your mouth to his chest. your lips close obediently around his nipple, and he chokes, grip faltering. "there y'go. that's good, baby." 

you barely have time to gasp his name before he begins to rut his cock deeper, pushing past your cervix to ram the head against your womb.

you nearly scream, feeling him everywhere, all over you. somehow he was touching parts of you his hands were nowhere near. his voice cuts through your bleary-eyed pleasure, the familiar drawl sending a current akin to lightning through the curve of your spine. "say somethin', baby," he coaxes through gritted teeth, hands lingering on the dip of your hips as he presses his thumbs into the bone. he rolls his pelvis steadily, the muscle flush against yours, eliminating every modicum of space in a calculated effort to get closer, closer, closer. "y'know i like hearin' you talk. always so mad at me, hmm? always talkin' back." a rhapsody of noise escapes you when his tongue swipes a line from your collar to your jaw. "don't worry, though," he exhales, his hips snapping harshly against your inner thighs. "we'll fix that." 

"lo'ak," you finally croak out, hands flailing in the air to grapple for an anchor, sinking hungrily into his hair. he hisses when you tug, tail wrapping tighter around your calf on instinct, as if to hold you in place. "y-you’re so deep." your lips part shamelessly around soft, choked sounds, clit pulsating as your hips jerk, scrambling for purchase. 

"yeah?" he responds, ever the cocky bastard. his grin is sly, fangs bared. you would have done terrible things to feel them in the side of you neck. you already had. "am i fuckin' you good?" when coherence fails you, and you emit strings of half-sentences accompanying a withheld moan of his name, his smile only widens, pools of liquid gold simmering with unrestrained desire. "i asked you a question, mama, c'mon." you only nod frantically, gripping his cock like a vise when it jumps inside you. (the rational part of your mind bristles, reminds you embarrassment is a virtue you posses too little of. but you're too far gone. lost to the ocean. to the salt on lo'ak's skin left over from the hunt he'd gone on this morning. to the taste of someone who is not your mate, who is not neteyam.)

lo'ak huffs softly when you flutter around him, careening forward until his face tucks itself into the side of your neck, licking a stripe over your pulse point. your body thrums, glistening desire dangerously close to a precipice, an apex, and your hand flexes in his hair, clutching a fistful of his braids for dear life. "lo'ak," you whisper, breathless. "lo'ak, i-"

"i'm here, tìyawn {love}," he assures you, his lilt rough and unrestrained. wild. his canines flash as he growls, and you tighten around him; you fight the pull to break into tears because, oh, ewya—this is different. it's never been like this, so raw, so intoxicating. you’ve never felt so utterly claimed. so owned. it is inevitable. the fall, the crash, the burn. when you reach your climax with a startled shriek, lo'ak comes with you, a kiss pressed quiveringly to your throat, three words whispered delicately into the space between your collarbones. i love you. i love you. i love you.

(tsireya once told you that the way of water had no beginning and no end. it is your home, she’d said. before your birth, and after your death. you wonder, therefore, it he knows. if one day, you will meet your mate at the crest of where the sun meets the sea, and he will know what you've done. how you've betrayed him. you wonder if neteyam will still love you. you wonder if he will gaze upon your face with the same devotion his brother offers so fiercely. so violently.)

lo'ak loves you like a dog. you force yourself to kick him down like one. 

note: this is my first fic!! reblogs, likes, and comments are more than appreciated!! love you all!

[revasserium]

Hi! It's me, I'm the problem Jazz again 🤣

Ikemen Prince ask for either Leon or Silvio with prompt number 88 please 🙏 ♥️

send me a number and a character :)

priceless (88. This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.)

silvio; 1,374 words, fluff and... fluff LOL this is only tangentially inspired by the prompt u__u whoops

01.

when you break his heart the first time, he doesn’t really know it’s real. he presses the lips of a dozen priceless wine bottles to his mouth and imagines every one to be yours — he drinks until the world is spinning, the way it spun when he asked you to dance for the very first time.

he gets drunk on the sound of your remembered laughter.

he makes a mess of the sheets, of his silk-lined robes, of all the richest furs in the corners of his closet — he falls asleep wishing that this were all but a dream.

he wakes up and has to deal with the realization that it is not all just a dream and that for the first time in his life, this isn’t something he can buy his way out of because what is the price of heartbreak? the tag on the pieces of a shattered wish — he screams into every single pillow he owns and falls asleep at noon.

02.

the second time you break his heart, he catches your arm before you can leave.

“what d’you want?” he asks, desperate and imploring, with a shudder in his voice that he’s never truly heard there before but —

you shake your head.

“i — i don’t want anything from you.”

he feels his fingers slip from around your wrist as you purse your lips and stumble back half a step. but that’s all he needs. he’s needlessly reminded of a story he’s heard a long, long time ago — about a genie and a girl who accidentally summons him. about the genie who asked the girl what she wished for and she told him she didn’t. the genie stayed with that girl for years and years and years, and in the beginning, whenever she asked him to do anything, he’d ask if that was her wish but she’d shake her head no. she’d tell him that he didn’t have to if he didn’t want to.

and yet somehow, he always found that he wanted to.

silvio wonders what he really wants, and the answer comes — clear and quiet as a winter stream —

he wants… you.

03.

the third time, he thinks he can get used to this.

04.

the fourth time, he’s ready for it —

“no,” you say, shaking your head, frowning at something he’s demanded of you.

“alright then,” he says, shrugging.

you blink, watching him as he turns away. watching him as he takes three steps away from you before you reach for him, tugging him back by the sleeve.

“what — that’s it? you’re… not gonna force me?”

he chuckles, “what’s the point if you’re just gonna snark at me? and anyway — i’ve got proper maids for this kind of stuff.”

“fine then,” you say, petulant, your voice sharp in a way that makes his lips twitch.

he grins, cocking his head as he watches the color wash up into your cheeks.

“fine,” he parrots back, his own voice painfully sweet and just as smug. he revels in the way your eyes flash, the way your fingers curl into fists at your side as he turns away.

so it really does take two to tango.

05.

“y’know, a million girls would kill to be in your place right now.”

“then why aren’t they?”

“hm? why aren’t they what?”

“why aren’t they here, in my place?”

silvio licks his lips, tasting salt and heat and the midnight air.

“cause… i didn’t really take to any of ‘em.”

you sigh, rolling your eyes.

“and you just so happened to take… to me. why?”

silvio shrugs, “you’re beautiful.”

“bullshit — there are plenty of girls out there prettier than me.”

“prettier, yeah. but more beautiful? no.”

your breath catches in your chest — hook, line, and sinker. you feel the tug in the base of your belly, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“w-what? that… that doesn’t make any sense.”

silvio only laughs, casting his eyes back out at the florid lushness of his palace gardens, teaming with the world’s rarest flowers — the night blooming cereus, the elusive ghost orchids, the fire lilies, and his prized juliet rose bushes. he leans over the thick railing to tug one from it’s bed of thorns, pressing it to his nose and taking a deep breath.

“it took my best gardener 12 years to cultivate one o’ these,” he says, twirling the peach-colored flower between his fingers.

“wow,” you say, eyeing the small, unassuming bloom, “that’s… a long time.”

“yeah, sure. but the gardener was rewarded pretty damn well for his work.”

at this, you heave another sigh, leaning up against the stone banisters.

“and i’m sure that’s the only reason he worked as hard as he did, right?”

silvio traces a finger along the edge of a velvet petal, admiring the fractal-like formation of the flower’s center.

“yeah… i’m sure it is.”

06.

the sixth time you reject him, he almost laughs out loud. it really is fun pushing all your buttons after all.

07.

the seventh time, he curls his lips around the shape of your name and dares to ask why.

you tell him, “because… it’d be nice of you to ask instead of demand for a change.”

he shivers at the gentleness of your tone, at the feather-soft of your confession, the pink that kisses your cheeks like the rosy-fingered dawn.

“but… if i ask, there’s a chance you’re gonna say no.”

you laugh and roll your eyes, “i say no anyways.”

“so why bother askin’ when i know what your answer’s gonna be?”

“because… sometimes, if you give someone the choice to stay or to go — they’ll surprise you.”

08.

“can… can y’just… stay? please?”

“...okay.”

09.

“when’d you learn how to say please?”

you twist to face him in the silver light of an encroaching dawn.

silvio groans as he buries his face in the silken pillows, his hair a hallo of lingering moonlight.

“dunno — shuttup… it’s too damn early.”

you allow yourself a smile and snuggle in before drifting back off to sleep.

10.

“kiss me.”

silvio smirks, cocking his head, “no.”

you narrow your eyes, frowning even as he chuckles, his fingers tight around your waist as the pair of you spin in ever and ever faster circles to music only the two of you can hear.

“why not?”

“cause…” he bites back, laving his tongue luxuriously across the expanse of his bottom lip before tugging it between his teeth, “y’didn’t ask nicely.”

you fight down the urge to push him away but his grip on you is tight and true, strong and steady and… so very nearly sweet.

“fuck off.”

he grins a foxhole grin and you feel yourself sinking into it’s depths, deeper and deeper as he spins you beneath his arm and dips you low, low, low.

“nope — pretty sure y’didn’t ask there either. and… that ain’t proper language for a lady, now is it?”

you roll your eyes as he pulls you back up and the dance begins again.

“fine,” you bite out, sparing him a half-hearted glare, “can i please have a kiss?” you ground out the words, even as the heat crests up your chest and bubbles over into your cheeks, burning all the way to the tips of your ears.

“hm… now that wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

he leans in and you let your eyes flutter shut.

when he breaks the kiss, he is smiling.

“kiss me again,” he says.

you smirk, “what happened to asking nicely?”

“hn. don’t feel like it — too much trou—”

but you cut him off with another kiss, and briefly, silvio considers the merits of tugging away if only to tease you about the impropriety of interrupting a prince’s speech before he’s finished. and then the next moment, he decides that, really, he prefers just kissing you instead.