#i will be making a scale of some sort soon

[petal-boi]

more inscryption cards, lately ive been enjoying finding stickers for extra squirrels and stuff lol

incase anyone is interested in what medium ive been using its mostly pencil to sketch then dip pens and cheap crayola markers, the cards i yellow with boiled down coffee and turmeric

[deoidesign]

Look at these stickers my brain is literally so huge. God. I love them so much.

I hadn't tried to do a sticker sheet at home before because I knew it would be difficult, and I was right! Getting the cut lines to line up with the print was super hard and there were many failed attempts, but it was so worth it I'm so happy with them!!!

This sticker sheet is for my patrons this month ^^

[neverendingford]

.

[logansdoll]

professor

the students are excited to have their old biology teacher back, but you can't be that great... right?

CW: fluffy fluff, the events of Last Stand didn't happen, Logan being Logan, reader is a chlorokinetic (controls plants), love at first sight, Logan's down bad off rip

It was a couple months back when word of your return began buzzing around the mansion.

No one knew where the rumor started, or who started it, but the day wasn't even half over before the entire student body was obsessed.

Whispers muttered during class, lunchtime gossip chains, study group pow-wows.

Many couldn't believe it.

You? Come back?

No way.

Some could've sworn you were supposed to be gone for at least a few more years.

Others thought you weren't supposed to come back at all.

And a small few even believed that your arrival could come as soon as the following month.

But after a week or so of no follow up, eventually, the rumor was put to rest, interest diverted to the next, newest gossip on campus.

...

That is... until the story came out.

Apparently, one of the students—who seemed to have some sort of super-hearing—eavesdropped on a conversation between Scott and Charles, and found out you would, in fact, be returning to the school and your position as the biology teacher.

And that was all the students needed to go absolutely berserk.

It wasn't even a full twenty-four hours later before the first meeting of your welcoming committee was held, the new club already having about twenty-five members.

While they began making preparations and to-do lists for your arrival, another group began going out to your garden on the weekends, trimming the overgrown weeds and planting new flowers in their place, caring for them in the meantime.

Some students even started straightening up your old classroom, cleaning the clouded glass of the greenhouse and redecorating with your favorite blooms.

And, of course, Logan had to return from one of his trips right in the middle of it.

Now, at first, he didn't really give a shit.

But out of curiosity, he asked Rogue what all the commotion was about—especially after some kid ran past him with a trolley full of potting soil—and what he gathered was that you were some professor who left about a year ago to teach abroad.

Apparently, you were nearly every kid's favorite teacher, your fun and interactive lessons, along with your genuinely kind and caring personality, touching the hearts of damn near the entire student body.

Even kids who had never met you before were chipping in, helping out those who needed a little extra manpower.

It was almost unbelievable.

'If this chick doesn't show up, Charles is gonna have a nuclear war on his hands...'

"Guys!" Kitty shouted, running straight through the front door and into the foyer. "I think her car just pulled up!"

The following stampede could've ranked as a 9.0 on the Richter scale.

It was eight in the morning on a Saturday, and half the kids were still in their pajamas, but they all moved with lightning speed, grabbing their signs and noise-makers before running down the stairs.

A boy with super speed sprinted to the lower level dorms and woke everyone else, while a girl with the ability to stretch hung up a welcome banner over the archway.

"Hurry! She's walking up!" Kitty reported, her head halfway through a window.

Quickly, the students formed a crowd at the door, the teachers slowly descending the stairs to join them.

"Mmm. She's here already?" Jean yawned, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she landed on the final step, hand in hand with Scott.

"Still as punctual as ever," he smiled.

"I'll say," Ororo grinned, crossing her robe over her chest, "She wasn't supposed to show up for another week."

Logan was less amused.

No one should have that much energy on a weekend.

Even still, he quietly settled himself off to the side, leaning up against a wall while the others joined the crowd.

'You wouldn't get this kinda reception if the President was the one coming...'

"Y'know..." Ororo started, seemingly out of nowhere, as she joined him on the wall. "I think you'll like her... she's just your type."

He turned to her, raising a brow, "Is she, now?"

Despite his playful tone, he wasn't entertaining the idea in the slightest.

All that true love-soulmate bullshit didn't exist for men like him.

He was 136, going on 137, and had loved and lost enough times to realize that at the end of the day, he'd outlive her.

So why bother?

His life would be one he forever walked alone—a fact he was slowly coming to terms with.

Or at least he thought he was.

Because as you walked through the threshold before him, flashing a heart-stopping grin, he felt all that shit go flying out his head.

You were absolutely beautiful.

And you'd think after 200 years he'd learn...

"Surprise!" the children cheered, proudly holding up their signs and tossing confetti into the air. "Welcome home!"

You gasped, dropping your bags and covering your mouth in shock as you admired the homemade decorations.

"Kids, you shouldn't have!" you smiled brighter than the sun, letting out a small laugh as they all rushed you for a group hug.

And, of course, you were happy to oblige.

"It's good to see you, (y/n)," Scott greeted, he and Jean walking over.

(y/n).

The name sounded like honey on his tongue.

"Logan," Ororo smirked, elbowing her friend in the rib. "You're drooling."

The man cleared his throat, closing his mouth and averting his eyes so they couldn't embarrass him any further.

"Some of you have gotten so big since we last met!" you cheesed, pulling back to examine each of them. "And I see some new faces, too..."

But, against his will, Logan's gaze trailed back to you, Jean's speech going in one ear and out the other.

And when it landed on your face again, he realized he wasn't the only one staring.

Your soft, (e/c) eyes were trained on him as well, their flicker of curiosity and awe completely contrasting your composed demeanor.

It made him feel hot, being subject to your gaze, and he could feel himself thoughtlessly straightening his posture, making himself appear taller, and slightly larger.

You let out a silent laugh, discreetly bringing a hand to your lips to cover it, but not before letting the man get a peak of your smile once more.

Fuck, that smile.

"Can you two quit eye-fucking? It's gross," Scott groaned, joining the two on the wall.

Logan ignored him, looking toward you with a small smirk.

Something about you gave him a good feeling... like things would be different.

Maybe love could exist for him after all...

[luveline]

hi jade! ☺️☺️ ur one of my favorite writers gosh you feed my heart everyday

im currently going through my usual body-wrecking periods 🥲 ur fics are helping

could you write something for bombshell! x spencer where maybe deeper into their relationship she is open with him about her period and he comes over to take care of her when her body is aching or she feels nauseous. im thinking some hair playing or some tummy rubbing.

i hope your weekend is lovely 🫶

thank you ❤️❤️❤️ fem, 1k

Can I come over? Are you home 

You summon your first smile of the day, reading Spencer’s text. 

Don’t know, you text back, can you handle me? 

Usually not, but that hasn’t stopped me so far. I’ll bring dinner? 

What kind of dinner my love  

Maybe Indian? What do you want? I want tandoori chicken 

Indian food is awesome if that’s what you want, I’m just messing with you 

You can hear his voice in his next text, I know that. So I can come?

You can always come over but I have to warn you, I’m irritable 

What’s wrong??? 

Spencer texts again before you can answer, I’ll come now and we can order delivery, I’ll be right there 

You decide to call him before he can make the wrong conclusions. He answers so quickly you laugh down the line. “Spencer, hi, there’s nothing that wrong.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“You don’t have to rush over.” 

“Well, what’s wrong? Did I do something?” 

“Why do you always think that, babe? No, you didn’t do anything. You’re actively making me feel better just talking to me.” 

Spencer pauses briefly. “Really?” 

“Really. I’m on my period, it’s kicking my ass,” you mumble, dropping your face into the soft top of your couch. “It would make me feel so much better if you were here. I want a hug.” 

“I’m coming. I haven’t brushed up on my hug skills for a while–”

“You hugged me yesterday before I went home?” 

“How would you rate that? On a scale of one to ten?” 

“Ten, definitely.” You sigh and stretch out your legs. “No, just, my stomach is hurting and I feel sort of sick from the cramps. I’m a bit… depressed, maybe, so you don’t have to come over if you don’t want to. I might not be good company.” 

“You’re always good company, you loon.” 

“You what?” 

“Sorry, I’m trying to be playful.” 

“I know that, you loon,” you say, grinning. “Okay, you better be putting your shoes on. My patience is running out.” 

“I’m by the door!” he says, giggles woven through each word. You can picture his smile, his unbuttoned coat. “You feel sick, should I still get dinner?” 

“Yes, please. Tandoori chicken for me too, and–”

“I know what you want.” 

“Okay, I’m gonna go shower before you get here and see me all disgusting–”

“Don’t you dare.” 

“Spencer!” you laugh. 

“I’ll run you a bath when I get there. Can you sit down until then?” 

“I can’t believe how you’re speaking to me. You used to blush when I said hi.” 

“Because you never just say hi. And it’s not like anyone else saying hi, it’s you.” 

Spencer lets that kindness sit with you and says goodbye, promising he’ll be there soon with dinner. You hold your sore stomach and wait, flicking through tv channels, craving something warm to eat and a warmer chest to lay your head. Spencer’s hugs are without doubt a ten out of ten experience, he’s weirdly good at them for someone who maybe hasn’t had as many as he deserves. His hands are active as the rest of him stills, rubbing over your shoulders or your chest with care, his hair soft and ticklish on your cheek or his lips right next to your ear. 

You’re dozing when he lets himself in. The rustle of a plastic bag awakens your dormant appetite, and you force yourself to meet him in the hallway. 

He drops the bag like it isn’t forty dollars worth of food and beams at you. “Hi,” he says, fawning at your sloppy pyjamas. “These are cute, they’re way too big for you.” 

You manage to hug him first, your arms around him and face screwed up in his chest. “Hi. My stomach hurts so bad, I missed you.” 

“How bad?” he says, dropping his volume. “Have you ever considered you might have endometriosis?” 

“Spencer, I love you, can you hug me for now and tell me about it later?” 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. “Where does it hurt, everywhere?” 

“It’s in my back.” 

Spencer drops his hand lower. “Oh, here?” He rubs your back, and he leans away enough to see you eye to eye. “Let’s have dinner, then at least you’ll have a full stomach.” 

“I don’t know if I can manage it, but I’m starving.” 

“You don’t have to eat everything.” He visibly looks you over, one feature at a time. His eyes get stuck on yours, your lashes, and his lovely mouth tips down. “Were you sleeping?” 

“Got bored waiting for you. I’m not tired,” you promise. 

“It’s okay.” He grasps your back and rubs at it with good pressure, the shard of a cramp held back by his touch. “You okay?” 

You lift your chin, turn your head just a touch to one side, asking and not asking. He smiles in that not so secret pleasure as he gives you a quick peck. It’s quick and chaste and everything you need, better when he encourages your face into his neck to give you a last good rub on the back. “Do you wanna sit down? I’ll make you a plate and we can eat on the couch.” He dots a kiss against the highest point of your cheek. “I got you motrin. And tylenol, too.” 

“I don’t need any painkillers, you’re gonna rub my back.”

Spencer smiles into your cheek. “Mm, I’ll relax your uterus. Rhythmic touches.” 

“That’s one way to say it, sweetheart.” 

“How would you say it?” he asks, cupping the back of your neck tenderly. 

You deflect, not wanting to make fun of him. “I love you.”

He pulls away, grinning, failing to talk. He's smiling so hard. When he goes in for a third round of hugs, you aren’t surprised. 

[innerfare]

A Lucky Injury - Law

Summary: Your Captain, whom you've been crushing on since you joined the Heart Pirates, was injured in a fight, and his wound is in a place he just can't reach, forcing him to ask you for help bandaging it. Features pining (reader is down bad).

Pairing: Trafalgar Law x Gn!Reader

Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff

CW: SFW // Slight Mention of Blood and Injury (no real gory details though)

Word Count: 643

———

It was a lucky injury. You were a bad person for thinking it, a horrible person for gleaning any amount of pleasure from your Captain’s pain, but it was a lucky injury. Somewhere between mild and moderate on the scale, closer to moderate though Law claimed it was mild, the gash on his shoulder blade was just out of reach. For him, at least. The gash was well within your reach. It was also serious enough to warrant medical attention, but not so serious that you had to worry about his future health. 

It was a lucky injury. 

“Take off your shirt,” you ordered him, doing your utmost to act normal as he sighed and went to pull his hoodie off. To your sick pleasure, he flinched a little when he did, allowing you to step in and pull it the rest of the way off. You caught the lingering scent of his soap and that special laundry detergent he used for his sensitive skin mixed with his sweat, and you had to stop yourself from pulling the garment to your face and inhaling like some sort of lunatic. 

“Y/n-ah, I can do it myself.” His voice sounded lower than usual, similar to when he was tired or battling a cold he insisted he didn’t have. It was gravelly, like it might give out at any moment. 

“Just like you could fight those guys yourself?” You set the hoodie beside him on the exam table and assessed his wound, drying some of the blood from his tanned skin. You took extra care not to look at his bare chest, knowing full well those heart tattoos and lithe muscles would make it too difficult to concentrate on your work. 

“I did fight them myself,” he said. “And I beat them myself, too, so don’t-” He hissed as you dabbed his wound with antiseptic. 

“Yeah, you’re a real tough guy.” 

“I’m a Warlord,” he reminded you. 

“And the most terrifying one, to boot.” You continued cleaning his wound, a little bit too aware of the way his jaw clenched as you worked. Oh, and the sinewy line of his shoulder. You knew your captain was a nerd, but he certainly didn’t have the body of a guy who spent much of his time hunched over a desk. 

It was a lucky injury. 

“Why are you taking so long?” He asked. “It’s clean by now, just bandage me up.” 

“Doctors make the worst patients,” you tutted, giving his wound one more pass with the antiseptic. It was for his own good, not because you wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to touch him. 

“If you’re dragging this out to punish me for going in by myself-” 

“I would never prolong your suffering,” you interrupted, reaching for a bandage. “That would be unethical.” 

“Yeah,” he muttered, “a pirate would never do something unethical.” 

“Is the Warlord going to lecture me now on ethics?” 

“Maybe.” He cleared his throat, and you realized there was a slight pink flush to his cheeks, though you had no idea why. You could only imagine he was embarrassed to be caught in a position where he needed help. 

You considered messing up the bandage so you had to redo it, now not even so enamored by his naked upper half as you were enjoying the way he squirmed, for once not in a position of power, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Of course, you regretted it as soon as he grabbed his dirty hoodie and tugged it back on. 

“I’ll need to change that in a few hours,” you told him as he stood up. “Come find me after dinner.” 

“Thanks,” was all he said before slipping out, leaving you with the fresh memory of his shirtless form and warm skin. 

It was a lucky injury. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔬𝔱 ℜ𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔥

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Your husband has been deeply troubled as of late. In an attempt to guide him from his distress, he brings a concern of his to light that only serves to tip you into your own fears.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Nonsexual nudity, AFAB implied w/ usage of "breasts," the title "wife" is used. Angst and some fluff. Small hints of morally gray reader. She's simply in love with her demented husband.

𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰: 5.6k words. Just something short and sweet; I had to write a comfort fic for our favorite, pretty war criminal after the season finale. But I may have just made it worse actually. Not proofread.

It is all teetering into chaos. Suspended along the edge of a great precipice. The depths of which you cannot spy the bottom of. The worry, the agitation looms heavily over the castle. Over the entirety of King's Landing. Buzzing and constant like the bothersome scattering of flies. And where there are flies, death is near. You see the dread in their eyes. The fearful whispers that are passed between the bowed heads of the servants as they work; the horrified, faithless gossip casted about by the socialites and bureaucrats as they traversed the halls in secretive conversations that are much louder than they believe. 

The tensions have only been mounted with the news that the Blacks have come into the resources of new dragonriders, the scales are looking as though they are tipping in their favor. It has all strained and on edge. With the order of the city's gates having been closed by Aemond's decree, the smallfolk have been up in arms against the order. Cries of outrage chanting and rising up from the masses in pleas against their Prince Regent. Protests that warn of starvation, proclaiming that he is cruel and uncaring. Not even the assured decimation of Sharp's Point by the scorching breath of Vhagar's fire has done anything to calm the storm brewing. 

The tides are still swelling. Churning and tossing to soon lift from above and collapse down upon all of your heads. The toll of it weighs heavy on all of you like the promise of damnation. Hope is dimming. The support it once offered giving underneath itself, curling in on its own body like a beheaded serpent. But it is the man who bears it all who is in the throes of violently crumbling underneath the burden of this war. 

You see it tearing at him. Pushing down on the once prideful set of his shoulders, pressing down upon the crown of his head so that it no longer sits perfectly high in unwavering confidence. The light of the zealous fire that once blazed within his eye has dimmed. Starved and suffocated; reduced to smoldering flickers light that mean to lash out in his near crazed attempts at preserving what little footing his still has in this war. 

It is almost as though he is dying right before your eyes. The final wild struggle of an animal caught between a set of fangs, claws and teeth lashing in the hopes to wound its bigger opponent. You have never seen him in such a state. The vulnerability that bleeds through the thin cracks in his armor worry you; unlike any sort of raw emotion that he has ever displayed before. It is fear. And it is almost unsettling to see on the face of your fearless husband. 

He is breaking directly before you, and now the only optimism you have of keeping him whole comes from the pressure of your own hands. 

His own mother has turned him away. You see it in the way she stares at him. Observing him as though he is a stranger, a monster wearing the flesh of her child - as though her name is not marked on this war just the same. It makes your skin prickle. Body flushing from heat and contempt as she silently disowns the very man who raises her banner, and fights in the name of his house. No one else will offer him solace as he labors underneath the crushing weight of the kingdom. Not his mother, not his sister, not the advisors in the king's counsel. It pains you to see him breaking. To see him scrambling to orient himself and find a way to victory with hardly an ally to assist him. 

So utterly lost. 

That is how you find when you slip into his apartments in the night. The candleflames flicker about the dim space in drops of amber, serving as your only guide to traverse the room in search of him. His bed and his writing desk are vacant of his presence. The latter cluttered and askew with parchment and documents, quills, vials of ink, and seal stamps strewn about its face. But it is the empty goblet of wine is what concerns you the most. He does partake in spirits quite casually, at supper and often when he evaluates the latest strategies before turning in for bed. You have yet to ever see him lose himself to the influence of the drink. Only indulging as a means to relax himself; a subtle rosy hue to dust his cheeks, but not enough to become untoward or dull-witted by its effects. 

But the circumstances now are so much different. You can only hope that he has not turned to it in the attempt to drink himself into a stupor or allowed himself to become sloppy from the sway of the spirit. 

"Aemond?" It is both a question and a call as your vision darts about the space, flickering back over to his bed to see if you might spot the impression of a body tucked underneath the drape of its blankets but they are flat and perfectly lain along the mattress. "My love, are you here?" 

It remains deathly silent. The only bit of noise belonging to the low whisper of the flames softly darting about their wicks in the draft that drags along the room; the delicate billow of the breeze drifting through the columns of the open windows, gliding into to the room from the guide of the wind that calls outside. Most of it sneaking in through the open threshold that conducts to the balcony. 

A low breath puffs from your chest. Hardly a sigh, but it dares you to feel relief as you step towards the entry way to near the stone platform the projects from the side of the castle. You notice the stars first. The bright, cosmic glimmer of them as they hang from their place within the silky black cradle of the darkened heavens. The faint lights of the city below nearly blending with the night sky, though the oily sheen of the lantern fires can hardly compete with the star dust above. 

In your observations, it does not take you long to spy the form of the prince, standing along the banister as he stares down at the city, bare hands gripping onto the rough barrier. You can see how tightly he clutches onto it from the tension in his fingers, stretched and taut along it so tightly that you fear the stone may crumble and break beneath his palms. Relief floods you at the sight of him, though it is quickly dulled and banished by the worry that replaces it. Snuffed by the rigid way he holds himself, as though he is only moments from snapping and giving in on the pressures of his own mind and collapsing upon the stone floor beneath his feet. 

He becomes hard on himself in times like these. No matter how indifferent he tries to project himself, the opinions and thoughts of others often swarm over him like a cloud of angered hornets, and it can be a trouble for him to shake. It is never easy to guide him out of his thoughts. You know that he is aware of your presence, but he has been caught too tightly within the chaos trapped within his mind to respond. The deluge of emotions that he often refuses to outwardly show too great. And knowing him, he has willingly turned himself in to the anger and the bitter spite that wars within him, finding solace in its familiarity. He is too stubborn for his own good, but that will never be enough to keep you from trying draw him out of it. 

Your feet seem to cross the stretch of the floor that separates you, silently carrying you to him with the soft patter of their soles along the chilled stone. He does not give you any indication that he is aware of your approach. Not the tilt of his head or a single murmured word in greeting, but he does not startle when your hands lift to sweep up his back. The leather of his doublet is tepid with the slight cold in the air and the warmth radiating from his body, smooth and buttery underneath your palms as they sweep around his torso to press him against you in an embrace. You let your cheek to rest along the flat of his shoulder, the silky strands of his hair tickling your skin; your lungs pulling in the subtle spice and musk of his scent. 

"You should come to your bed; it is getting late." You suggest, allowing your fingertips to toy with the metal clasps on the front of his garment, tracing the engravings in their shape. You nearly expect to get no response from him. For him to continue to wallow and torture himself alone in his silence. But then you feel it almost more than you hear it, thrumming along your hands from the depths of his chest as his voice rises out in a hum. The only verification that he has acknowledged your words. 

It is better than silence. A response from Aemond is better than naught in these circumstances. It gives you some hope that you may be able to usher him from the fog of his oppressions. 

"Come," you urge softly. "You have fretted yourself enough." 

"Have I?" It comes from him in that serene tone of his but the bite at the edge of it is more than apparent. You know that it is not aimed at you. Not directly, at least. In his mind, and on the battlefield, he has been backed into a corner, and like an animal it causes him to lash out and bare his teeth, even at things that are familiar. "That seems to be everyone's judgement as of late. I suppose I should listen then, hmm? Roll over and brandish my belly for Rhaenyra's dragonriders to feast upon. Would that satisfy you then?" 

"It would not, and you know that." Your voice comes out much firmer than intended, though you do not feel guilt over it. For someone so logical, Aemond is often swept over by his emotions and the voice of reason is easily drowned out. "Look at me, please." 

He makes no attempt shift from his stance, continuing to stare out along the horizon. Watching the city in its slumber, and you have to wonder if he is imagining it in a state of ruin. Preparing for the worst already. Bracing for the destruction that has yet to come. Picturing the roofs and spires lit aflame in a blaze so great that it would turn the night into day, smoke twisting up to the heavens to brush against the stars. 

You loosen your grip around him, giving yourself enough separation just to stand along his shoulder so that you are able to look upon his face. He refuses to meet you vision with his own. The pale glint of his eye now dark underneath the cover of the night as he peers ahead. But already you are able to spot so many different emotions reflecting within it. A confused storm: anger, bewilderment, sorrow, loss. You know that he must feel as though he is drowning. Caught and strung along by his responsibilities. Pulled between the pressures of his duties and the rejection casted by his mother. So many conflicting obligations with no way to properly juggle them. You know that you have no true way of guiding him through the blood and fire of this war. Of the strategies that it requires. But you can hope to be some kind of support. A beacon breaking through the thick wall of an oncoming tempest. 

You lift a hand up to his face, sweeping your fingers past the shape of his jaw to cradle his cheek, feeling the texture of the scar underneath your palm. You are gentle in your direction when you guide him to look at you, and despite his earlier remark, he allows you shift his head to you willingly. Leaning into the weight of your hand as his eye darts to meet yours. The confusion and torment burn inside the pale hue of it, glinting far brighter than the traces of light reflecting along the angles carved into his jeweled eye.  

You are nearly surprised that he has not removed the sapphire yet. You know that it often ails him. When the precious stone absorbs the chill around it, or the dull edges catch along the sensitive flesh of its cradle. Rattling about his socket and causing the tender tissue within to ache and swell with irritation. Another punishment for himself it seems. Intent to burry down inside his own suffering. 

"You must stop this insistence on driving yourself towards your own destruction. You will find no answers by forcing yourself awake at night, ruminating over the criticisms of your mother. Of the council."

Something venomous passes through his expression, but it is quickly traded out by what looks to be exhaustion and a diluted sense of irritation. A subtle furrow pinched between his brows; lips lightly pursed.  "What would you have me to? Laze about all day on my bed. Stuffing my gullet with wine as my brother would while our enemies close in around us?" 

"No." You reply promptly, allowing your hand to drop from its place, running your thumb along his cheek in a final caress as it falls to your side. You do not miss the way that his head nearly bends to follow its wake. "I would have you rest. An eased mind is a sharp one. " 

"Rest." He echos in a murmur, allowing the word to roll off his tongue as though it is a foreign one. "Rest is not something that I am afforded. Each moment of "rest" is another second allotted for our enemies to draw closer."  

You understand his reasoning. His anxieties are not unfounded. But that does not make them any less frustrating. His intellect, the determination that fuels him and wit of his tongue have always been some of his most endearing qualities to you. It drew you towards him like a siren song. But all of those traits are currently making you feel as though you could bludgeon your head against a thick wall. You fear that he will collapse underneath their breadth.

"They will draw near regardless of your slumber or not. " That stubborn expression on his face remains undeterred. Still fully unconvinced it seems. Or perhaps he seems to be resisting against your wishes because he is merely in search of some sort of victory, no matter how measly in spirit it is. And as much as you would like to indulge your husband in his efforts in feeling vindicated, this is not a battle you can allow him to win. Not for his sake. "If you will not do it for yourself then do it for me. Comfort your wife. That is too apart of your duties is it not?" 

You notice his nostrils flare, his chest rising suddenly as he draws in a deep breath. Likely to ground his own irritation. His eye shimmers lowly in the dim cast of the candlelight projecting from the confines of his room, spilling out past the threshold to dance along the dark blue of the sapphire. Like sunlight scattered about the shifting face of an ocean. He is angry. That much is and has been apparent. Left astray to dangle and thrash along the fraying support of a rope. You only wished that he would allow you to catch him instead of treating you like the ones who have tied him to the line. 

But you notice something waver in him then. The breaking of a dam. The thawing of ice. The vulnerability displayed could destroy you if you allowed it. To cause you to fall apart underneath the sheer sense of raw loss and uncertainty. He is so troubled. So lost. Forced to display a facade of unwavering poise and resolve no matter the dangers that prevail ahead. Constantly trailing after the role that he was not allowed to fulfil despite being better suited and now left to stand alone as the support of his own house falters. Superior enough to be wielded as a trump piece in combat, in council, but not benefitting enough to bear the title of king in the eyes of the advisory and his family. An injustice you can hardly stomach yourself. 

"Come," you urge once again. You voice much lighter than before, softened by the distress in his gaze. There is still a hesitance in him. The reluctance to relinquish what little control he still has over himself, but that control seems to snap when your hand closes over his, fingers threading to join them. It only takes a slight tug for him to follow. The fight in him absolving to trail after you, allowing you to guide him back into his chambers and away from the open, chilled air of the night. 

The atmosphere within the safety of the apartment walls is much warmer. Almost balmy along you skin, perfumed with the scent of wax and ink. Another reminder of the documents and worries that he tirelessly toils over. The bloodshed and the possibility of dragonfire. But you push it all to the recesses of your mind. Burying it all deep in favor of escorting him to the side of his bed. It is only then that you allow your hand to remove from his, and you mourn the loss of his warmth against your palm. 

"Remove your clothes," you order gently. You notice just the faintest hint of amusement nudging at the corner of his mouth. The possibility of a smile, though it does not fully come. You can still see the traces of his mirth. Of lust as well. Even while he does not properly convey it, you allow your delight to grace upon your expression. Your lips lifting upward as you shake your head to admonish him delicately. "Not tonight." 

He makes no complaints as he begins to unfix the clasps of his doublet. Unhooking the fine metal rungs with lithe fingers to shed the garments, uncaring as it lands along the floor. He is just as nonchalant about the rest. Shedding and discarding his undershirt and his breeches just as quickly after tugging of his boots. Baring his nude form to you. It is a state that you have seen him many times before, but still, you are unable to keep yourself from tracing the agile shape of his body. Admiring the swell of strength in his arms, the defined cut of muscle along his torso, the flaccid condition of his cock hanging between his thighs. 

The spike of heat that rushes throughout your being is tempting, but currently unwelcome. On any other night you would have basked in it. Pursued after the warmth and hedonism, but this is not one of those nights. When you manage to will yourself to meet his eye, you are forced to notice the smirk that lifts at the curled edges of his mouth. Satisfied and preening underneath your salacious attentions. 

"Not tonight, ābrazȳrys?" His inquiry is teasing and arrogant. And finally, for the first time since you have sought him out you see the man that lies beyond the pain and distress. The man that strides about the kingdom with his head lifted high. A head deserving the weight of a crown. 

"Not tonight, my love. " You answer, both a playful jab and a truth as you pluck at the neckline of your shift to allow it to join his clothes along the chilled stone beneath your feet. He only offers a velveteen hum in response as his eye sweeps over you. Just as gluttonous as yours had been as you move to climb astride the bedding, making sure to toss the blankets aside before shuffling to rest the flat of your back along the cushion of his pillows and the embellished headboard behind them. You sit, unfaltering underneath his focus. If anything, the crude nature of his observations only emboldens you. Even past the reasonings of lust. He views you as though you were crafted just for him. Sewn together by the gods and animated by stardust and earth to be worshipped and praised by his sight and hand. 

You like to believe that he was born for the same purpose. A god amongst men built by fire, wind and blood. Designed to be revered by your voice and mouth. He is beautiful beyond compare. Fierce in his loyalty and cunning. Unrelenting in his determination and ferocity. Like a deity of war. 

He does not wait for a cue as he follows after you, climbing along the bed and into your waiting arms to lie himself within the cradle of your hips, draping the length of his body along yours as he settles his head against the cushion of your stomach. He allows himself to go pliant against you. Indulging in your warmth just as you do with him. The heat radiating from him making you turn lax. The both of you melding to each other. You observe him at his place tucked into you. Admiring the pale fan of his lashes resting against the sharp contour of his cheekbones, the proud rise of his nose. He is gorgeous like this. As though he had been sculpted from a fine marble. The statue of a great god - a king - come to life. 

You glide you fingers through the silken, silvered strands of his hair. Combing your nails along his scalp and you are all but rewarded by the way that he seems to melt even more, the tension leaving his body. Going slack and supple; his nose daring to nuzzle along at your breasts as he attempts to burrow himself closer like he wants to bathe in your warmth. That stubborn furrow is still hitched between his brows. Immediately letting you know that his troubles have yet to be fully evicted from him. His mind is no doubt just as frenzied as before even though his body relents to the comfort of his bed and the weight of you. 

"You truly do stress yourself too much," you murmur. Your fingertips skirt downward, tracing along the nape of his neck, sweeping your thumbs along the sensitive skin at the edge of his scalp. A shudder trembles softly down his spine. "It does not suit such a pretty face." 

His lips twitches again, though that furrow comes back with a vengeance. His brows cinching close in the guise of annoyance, and if it were not the fleeting appearance of that brief smile then you would have truly believed him to be angry. "I have no ear for listening to your jests, lady wife. " 

"Not a jest," you promise playfully. "I wouldn't dare. " 

Another low, rumbling hum rises up from his chest in the semblance of a response. His chin tilts back just the slightest, baring his throat to you. Offering it to you as you move your hands downward to cradle the sides of his face, fingertips gliding along the edge of his jaw. The contented noise he makes nearly reminds you of the purrs that leave Vhagar as she lounges along the forest floor. The pleased growl of a dragon. A tranquil silence drifts along the room, as though it is brought in by the tepid breeze that glides in through the threshold of the balcony. It is calm. Peaceful for once. It feels as though it has been years since an hour without fear or dread has haunted you. And finally, it is simply you and your husband. Free to relax and just simply exist. To lounge within the warmth of each other as though you were lying under the sun. Untouched by war and bloodshed. 

You continue to massage your fingers along the shape of his skull, combing them through his hair and lightly scratching your nails along the sensitive skin almost absentmindedly as you allow your own head to rest against the board of the bed. The lull of sleep is already calling. Inviting and comforting in its beckon as the influence of it threatens to take ahold of you, but a part of you resists. Insistent on enjoying the dulcet pleasure of this moment. Intent to stretch it out for as long as possible before it slips away from you and the both of you must return to your duties. To the horrors of the world. It is here that you are safe. He is safe. 

"We should make contingencies in the event of my death." 

The quiet sound of his voice, the words abruptly registering in your mind feel as though they gut you once they are fully understood. Just the prospect of it has your heart skipping, fluttering wildly within your chest and your hands are forced to pause; smooth tresses caught between your fingers. Your eyes snap open as you head bows to look down upon him from his place against your torso. He is already watching you, the sapphire gleaming sharply in the firelight but the pale hue of his eye is soft despite the sobriety of his words. You see clearly without asking that this is not some sort of twisted attempt at morbid, tactless humor. He is well and truly serious. A dull wave of nausea wells up in the pit of your stomach as you watch him. 

"What has brought this about?" You ask sharply. There is a raised edge in your tone. Defensive and unsettled, but your vulnerability is also apparent. Easily heard with the way that your breath snags in your throat. 

"It is only an honest concern. " He answers, but it is clipped. A bear explanation and it gives way that he is dodging the question. Offering scrap to appease you. "One that I should have prepared for long ago, when this war was little more than a whisper on a gossips lip." 

"I won't hear of it." 

"You are my wife," he insists. But with each utterance it only drives a slash of phantom pains into the depth of your heart. You swear that you can hardly manage to pull in a single lungful of air. "That does not shield you but make you a target. And we cannot expect to win this battle with Vhagar alone. If I were to be slain, they may very well come for you. A trophy of this conflict-"  

"Aemond, that is enough." It comes out as a warning. Or perhaps a plea. It is so difficult to know. It is impossible to tell when you feel as though you are breaking in half even while he rests safely inside your embrace, confronting you with the single thing that you have always feared. The single terror that gnaws and bites and lashes at your heart and spirit every time that he sits astride Vhagar and lifts into the air for battle. The horror that he may never come back. It had eaten at you when he had snuck off to Rook's Rest without your knowledge, only to return hours later smelling pungent of dragonfire and the acrid sting of smoke. 

His lip's part, a rebuttal no doubt on the tip of his tongue, but it is quickly snuffed out by the desperate plea of your voice. A final beg of mercy.  

"You are my love, Aemond. Without you I cannot live." You nearly hate the sound of the raw emotion that pitches from your chest, but you are unable to control it. The intensity of it far too great. Welling up within you until it seems as though you may drown in your own trepidations. That your lungs will be squeezed in its grip until you suffocate on your own anguish. Your fingers thread around his hair, seeking out the warmth that lies underneath as though your mind requires confirmation that he is still here with you. Safe in your bed. "You are not allowed to die. Promise me, Aemond. Promise that you will return to me."

His eye skirts along your face, as though committing your features to memory. You can tell exactly where his vision lands from the weight of the concentration in his gaze as he studies the structure of your lips, the sweep of your cheekbones, the shade of your eyes. It is awful how much it feels as he is staring at you as though it will be his last. 

"Please," you whisper once more. 

A plethora of emotions flicker along his countenance. Time seems to be frozen when he lifts himself from your grasp. Your hands leave him reluctantly, clutching onto the sheets alongside you to stave off the urge to reach for him. But you are stopped when he rises to nudge his head to your own to meet your eyes. It gives you no other options but to meet his eye. To face the intensity and adoration that burns within it. The flecks of violet and azure seeming to blaze with his fervency. 

"I promise, ñuha dōna ābrazȳrys, I will return to you. Be it a thousand years in this life or the next, no man nor god will keep us apart." 

A sob could have torn itself from your throat had you not a better grip on yourself. Though you do not have enough control to manage in articulating a response. You can only nod, lifting your hands once again to grip at the junction of his neck and shoulders. Needing to feel the warmth of his flesh underneath your palms. His lips are soft as they press against yours. Simultaneously gentle and hungry as they coax yours into a kiss. It is languid. Unhurried but no less passionate. 

It is like a balm on the tearing placed upon your soul. Soothing and mild. You sigh into his mouth, drawing each other's air inside of your lungs in between the starved presses of your mouths. Holding scraps of the other within the pocket of your chests. But just as quickly as it had begun, he pulls away from you. Though he hardly gives you time to voice your complaints or to mourn as he guides you both to settle along the bedding. Mapping out your face with the fleeting brush of his lips, scattering them along your face until you both lay side by side to gaze upon each other. 

You cannot bear to look away from him now. The mere idea of it sounds akin to death. You are not sure how long you remain in that state. Simply beholding each other. Counting the breaths that he takes, how they puff across your face in warm brushes along your nose and cheeks. The candlelight has lightened his hair with glows of burning amber, as though molten gold has been spilled upon the pale strands; highlighting the contours of his body. Like a deity of light. Of fire.  

There is a peace in his expression now. And you are not certain if that concerns or alleviates you. The corners of his mouth have perked into a content smile, his eye unblinking in his admiration as though he is at peace. Sweeping over the shape of your breasts and rise of your hips down to the length of your legs. But it is untouched by lust. It is simply observing. Peaceful in his exploration of a body that he has touched many times already. As much as you would like to remain that way, fixed beneath the worship of his stare, you are unable to keep yourself from nudging yourself closer. Too weak to hold yourself back from returning him back into your arms where he is safe. Untouched by the war he wages. Protected from the consequence of dragonfire and sword. 

You rest you nose along the crown of his head, drawing in the scent of spice and wind that clings to his hair in the hopes of calming yourself. Of ripping yourself from the influence of your own worries and escaping the control of sleep that threatens to possess your body despite your terror. You want to focus only on the weight of him. The heat of his skin. The steady rise and fall of his breath. The press of his face tucked beneath your chin. 

"Sleep, ābrazȳrys." His voice thrums against your chest. It seems that even when he is not watching you, you are unable to escape his perceptiveness. That you cannot hide from the from him. He knows you too well; he feels the tension in your muscles, in your silence. Still, despite the urge to fight his tender order and to resist the weight of sleep, it is growing difficult. The urge to slumber is heavy on your eyelids, nudging them to close. And the comfort of his scent in your lungs only goads you closer. "I will be here when you wake." 

It sounds like another promise. And the assurance rings heavy in your ears, giving your mind the permission that it seems to have needed in order to welcome the blanket of rest. But all the while, as you descend into your slumber, you can only give yourself the solace that he is still here. As of now he is safe. Guarded from blood and death under the shield of the night. Drawn into an embrace while you both sleep as pair of lovers. 

[endless-ineffabilities]

sapphire-hearted (part four)

Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

Aemond is not one who shares those which he thinks belong to him. Including you, as you'll soon find out after an eventful little feast.

themes/warnings: jealous!Aemond, third and fourth parties (but not really), Aemond is a stubborn and possesive arse, drunk Aegon - huzzah!

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

a/n: I can't believe it's been a year since I updated this fiery miniseries! Apologies if I couldn't tag everyone who asked from the previous chapter - taglist is now closed 💙

The necklace is perhaps the most beautiful piece of jewelry you've ever seen.

With an intricate interwoven chain of Valyrian steel, and a sapphire pendant inlaid in a burnt bronze frame that glowed dark green in some lights, the frame displaying carvings that resemble Vhagar's scales.

There is no question to it. Not an inkling of doubt.

This gift is from Aemond.

"You simply found this when you arrived?" you asked your lady-in-waiting, as you pick up the necklace from its velvet casing and study it against the faint firelight in your chambers.

"Yes, my lady," she responds promptly. "Shall I fasten it upon you before you depart for the King's feast?"

Your mind forms almost immediately, resolute in your decision. "No, it will not be of any use to me this night. You may keep it away in my boudoir."

The thought of it around your neck is a pleasant one, to be sure. It is such a thing of beauty, fit to be worn to a royal gathering. But what message might it signal to the others?

What purpose might it serve - especially to Aemond - that you wear something that symbolises him?

All while your companion is Ramsay, with whom you hope to be betrothed.

And while Alys is likely draped upon Aemond's arm. That slimy, bastard witch.

You will not give in, and give him what he wants.

The necklace is far from enough to make up for how he has wronged you, so it stays in your chambers, safely tucked away in its casing, not to be worn until Aemond sets things right.

If he ever will.

Ramsay arrives at your door soon enough, accompanied by two of Aegon's guards. The awe in his gaze as he takes you in is so evident, so pure in its apparent innocence. Unlike Aemond's, who would be undressing you with a single passing look.

Unlike Aemond's, who - despite his trangressions - looks at you like he would burn the entire Seven Kingdoms for your hand.

But he has relinquished your hand when he took that witch to bed.

"You look dashing as ever, my Lord," you curtsy in greeting, as Ramsay kisses your hand. He is clad in a tunic in House Beesbury's yellow and paly black, as you are wearing a gown in your own House's hues.

If not the necklace from Aemond, branding you as his, why not something of Beesbury? It would anger Aemond so, but you are feeling petulant. Why can't you take a jab at him after what he had done?

"And what a lovely sash you wear," you say, observing his attire. "Mayhaps I might display this on my person? Have it as a sort of attachment upon my skirts? I would be proud to have everyone at the feast know that we have come together."

"Of course! I would be honoured, my lady." He immediately relinquishes it, handing it to your lady-in-waiting, who then fastens it around your waist. The colour is striking in contrast. The piece of cloth surely will not go unnoticed.

You make your way through the Red Keep, your arm entwined with Ramsay's. Sounds of the revelry make themselves heard as you near Aegon's private dining hall.

As the guards open the doors, you hear your names announced. Almost all the attendees are already sat around the table. Aegon and his host of sycophants, particularly Lord Reyne and Lord Estermont. Helaena and her lady companions. Tyland Lannister and his betrothed. Even Ser Criston Cole, who has never been one to partake in merrymaking, usually standing guard in the corner. There are some others whose names escape you, as you find your seats - among the last ones which remain empty, right next to Aemond and Alys.

"Welcome, dear lovely guests, welcome!" Aegon walks over to you, already on his fifth or sixth goblet of firewine. "Please find your seats, have a drink - or seven drinks, preferably, and... oh! Isn't that something, my lady? Beesbury yellow?" Not giving mind to any boundaries, he toys with the sash tied around your waist.

Aemond twists around in his seat, catching sight of you for the first time.

His pupil dilates considerably, with a single glance at your face, then down to your décolletage... where the necklace is nought to be seen.

What he sees, raking over your figure, is that sickening shade of bright yellow. That Beesbury sash tainting the beauty of your gown.

Tainting the woman who is rightfully his.

His hand instinctively goes to the scabbard in his belt, though his sword remains in his chambers. It matters not, he can just as easily demand one from the Kingsguard.

Because the rat who calls himself Ramsay has surrendered any desire to stay alive.

"So... you here," Aegon guides you to your seat, with his arm loosely draped around your waist. "And you right there," he adds to Ramsay.

If you didn't know any better, you'd think the seating arrangement is accidental. But you know Aegon - he surely planned it to be Ramsay, you, Aemond and Alys beside each other.

Aemond openly stares at you as you settle down to his left.

"My Prince," Ramsay greets from your other side, "Lady Alys."

"Oh, it's just Alys, m'lord," she clarifies, unabashed. "I am no Lady. I am simply here at the behest of my dear Aemond."

"Prince Aemond is fortunate to have you as his companion, Alys," you smile sweetly, concealing any ire you might have. "As I am fortunate to have Lord Beesbury by my side."

Alys nods, raising her cup to you. To anyone, it's an innocent enough gesture, but you see her up close, and you see into the depths of the witch's gaze. She knows about you and Aemond, of course she does.

The attention of your companions are diverted, and Aemond wastes no time in leaning closer to you. He grips your thigh underneath the table, away from any prying eyes.

"My love," he purrs, "you never fail to take my breath away. Although I never thought you would sully yourself by wearing that. I trust you received my gift?"

You cross your legs so that his hand falls off, but it doesn't faze him. He simply finds purchase yet again, this time digging harder into your flesh. So warm, it almost feels as if your skirts do nothing to prevent his encroaching touch.

"Hmm, don't test me, now," he warns, lips curling back in annoyance. His tone is so deep you feel the heat pooling in your core.

"I could say the same to you," you counter. "Do not lay a hand on me, my prince. Especially not in the presence of my betrothed." You push his hand away, and he relents for the moment, reaching for his goblet and downing its contents in one angry swig.

"And by betrothed, you must mean that you have reconsidered my proposal and agree to be wed to me, your only love," he says, daring you to challenge him.

"You are mistaken, Aemond," you respond coolly. "I do appreciate the necklace. It is a marvel, indeed. But there is a reason why I don something of Lord Ramsay's instead of it. I am not yours. I feared the message it would send were I to wear the necklace to this feast."

"What message, my love? The truth? That you are mine and mine alone?"

"That is finished - "

"If you value Lord Beesbury's life by any small measure, you would not speak to me of such vile ideas. He will not have you, lest he wishes his head to no longer rest upon his shoulders."

"Resorting to threats now, are we?" you spit venomously. "You will not harm him. Or I swear to you on my mother's memory that I will never speak with you again."

That shuts him up. He exhales deeply, weighing your words, studying your expression. He wants to fight back and to call your bluff, but it is no use. His gaze is drawn down to your lips, and he moves closer just an inch, his own lips parted in longing and torment.

"Well, it seems we may have more cause for celebration!" Aegon bellows from the head of the table, with a grinning Ramsay standing by his side. You tear your attention away from Aemond, but he lingers on you, until his brother calls out for him. "Aemond! You must have known about this, dear brother, as I understand you and the lady have always been close."

The guests share glances, already assuming what the news might be, but none of them say a word for fear of their Prince Aemond.

"Iderēbagon aōha udra sȳrī, lēkia." Choose your words wisely, brother, Aemond warns him. The mood of the entire room shifts, as it inevitably does whenever Aemond speaks.

"Oh come now, none of that!" Aegon groans, drunk and unamused. Nothing will bring his spirits down, not even his far more intimidating younger brother. "These are happy news. Something about a successful betrothal, I hear?" he declares, nudging Ramsay to make the announcement.

Ramsay locks eyes with you, and you manage to give a stiff smile, aware of the simmering rage of the one seated beside you.

"Allow me," Aemond stands, raising his cup to the entire table.

"Even better," Aegon shrugs, "you have always been excellent at dinner proclamations, lēkia." Brother, he addresses Aemond, his own Valyrian disjointed and careless.

Aegon sits back down and raises his cup. A confused but still smiling Ramsay returns to sit next to you.

Ramsay hurriedly tells you, "I was hoping to share the news myself, my lady, but - "

"Do I not have your attention, Lord Beesbury?" Aemond interrupts.

"O-of course, you do, my prince," Ramsay stammers, reaching for his cup with shaky fingers. You take notice and place your hand atop his to provide comfort.

Someone else takes notice, unfortunately.

"A toast," Aemond voices clearly, and a hush falls over the room, "to a new betrothal."

"Hear, hear," Aegon responds, taking a sip of firewine and waving for the others to do the same.

But Aemond is not finished just yet. "We are not often afforded the privilege to marry for love, and that is what makes this union so exceptional."

You stiffen in your seat, dreading the next words that you know will come out of his mouth. For you know him so well. You know Aemond's design.

"It is an honour to take my love to be my wife," he raises his cup as he gestures to you, and you swear you could hear a pin drop in the deafening silence that ensued. "She is already the keeper of my heart, so the ceremony will only be a formality. But I shall take her as mine in every way that I can. In front of the old gods and the new."

You are unable to drop Aemond's gaze, unable to see the look of betrayal Ramsay is giving you.

"Hear, hear," Ser Criston offers, in an attempt to cut through the tension.

Aegon releases a fit of laughter, prompting his fawners to follow suit.

"Seven hells!" he exclaims. "More wine, more wine for all!"

Aemond rushes to you, pulling you out of your chair, not paying mind to anything or anyone else.

"Come with me," he commands, his fingers tight around your wrist.

You feel powerless as you let him herd you away from the table and out of the hall.

"Oh, would you look at them!" Aegon practically squeals, and calls after you, "It is customary for the bedding to be after the wedding, you two! But then again, who fucking cares?"

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[sweetimpurity]

Sometimes I have ideas for fics but not enough will-power to write the whole thing out all the way. This is one condensed haha ⬇️

not proofread 🥴 Part 2!!!

Earth-928

You're out to dinner with your bf Miguel. It's been such a nice night and you've been together so long. You think tonight is the night. He's gonna propose. His job as Spiderman does take him away from you a lot of the time. You tend to spend a lot of time missing him. Wishing he'd make more time for you. Make you his priority. That's the only doubt you'd have when it comes to spending your life with the man but other than that, you know you want it.

He took you for a walk on the beach, then to your favorite restaurant to end the night. You've just ordered your food when his comm watch get's a notification. A red alert emergency. Green Goblin in downtown Manhattan tearing up half a city block and blowing things up. Scaring civilians, injuring many.

"Babe... I'm so sorry... I think I have to go." He says, a growing sense of dread washing over him. And then he looks up to see that look of disappointment in your eyes. The heartbreak.

"You... are you sure, really?" Your voice breaks his heart. He sighs, looking down at the alerts coming in from Lyla. One after the other.

"I'm so sorry... I promise I'll be back as soon as I can..." He says, getting up from the table and kneeling in front of you, taking your hands into his. It breaks your heart even more watching him do that. Seeing him kneel. Except he's not proposing, he's leaving.

"You'll be my number one babe... when I get back I promise..." He says. But the words just make you feel so empty. "I promise... I love you. Wait up for me." He says, letting your hands go and stepping back. Sending an alert to Lyla that he's on the case and he's coming. "I love you babe..." He says again, stepping back and watching you. Wanting to hear you say it back. But you don't. You just watch him go. Heartbroken. Feeling so small, so unimportant. Unwanted.

He eventually has to just let it go and turn to leave. Passing by some people in the restaurant and leaving the restaurant. Trying his best to just keep going. To get this done and then he can be with you. But this has become a pattern as of late.

He gets outside the restaurant, getting to an alleyway and scaling the building, climbing to the top and pressing on the pod to make his suit expand and cover his body. Nanotech glowing up to his jawline and eventually closing over his face in fire red and dark blue.

He swings off to tend to the issue. To stop whatever's going on. Save the city. Again.

You wait for him for an hour. Sitting there like an idiot. Like a fool. Before deciding you deserve better than this. You ask the waiter to pack up the food and pay the bill. Three years you've been with this man. And this sort of thing just happens?

You grab your stuff, getting up to leave. Figuring you'll just go home and eat that ice cream in the freezer. Maybe call your mom or your best friend and get some reassurance or cry. Passing by people leaving the restaurant, you leave the building, walking down the sidewalk a few yards before-

"Baby!" He calls. The familiar sounds of a portal opening accompanying his voice. You look over and there's Miguel walking up to you from the alleyway next to the restaurant. Oh. You think. Here he is? "Hey-"

"You have to come with me. Right now baby. The anomaly, it's worse than we thought. We have to go, this dimension is gonna go!" He explains frantically, his voice slightly muffled by the mask you recognize so well on his face. He comes over, instantly taking both of your hands in his. The cool feeling of his suit on your warm skin. Really? You have to leave now? He said this sort of thing could happen at some point. But the chance was rare because he's always do everything he could before letting the dimension collapse. He's been gone for an hour and now the dimension is suddenly collapsing?

But if he says so, then you'd trust him. "Come on baby. We'll be safe you just have to come with me." He starts walking backwards towards the portal, holding onto your hands. It's not your first time going through a portal with him. It's a weird sort of tingly feeling.

"Okay okay" You nod, shocked by this sudden turn of events; walking with him and looking back on the world you know. The dimension you've lived in all your life. The place you've both shared a life in too. But if he'll be with you then everything should be fine.

He leads you through the portal, his big hand on the small of your back as he helps you through to the other side. The portal closing with a flash of glitching light. The alleyway falls silent. Not a sound.

An hour passes. The restaurant closes, everyone goes home. Your boyfriend swings back to the restaurant. Feeling like such a dick for leaving you like that. Leaving you when he too knew that this was supposed to be a special night. He gets to the restaurant. Finding it closed. "Damn it." He sighs. Pacing back and forth. "Lyla, is y/n back at the apartment?" He says. Walking down the sidewalk a bit.

"I can't track her phone right now. She either lost signal or turned the tracker off herself." She says.

"Damn it." He huffs again. Sighing and staring out at the street. His brow furrowing at what's before him. It's the car. His car. The one you both took to the restaurant tonight. Why is it still here if you're not?

"Lyla. What was her last recorded location?" He asks, staring at the car parked on the street. His mind flooded with possibilities. "Right here. Literally right where you're standing." She says, looking over the data.

He looks around. This doesn't make sense. "Track her again." He says.

"I can't-"

"Try again! Try something else! Street cameras! Surveillance footage! Something!" He yells in frustration and anger. Scowling and look around. Lyla sighs, pulling up the footage from the cameras on this street after hacking into their systems. Scrubbing through the footage.

"Let me see." He demands, looking at the holographic screen as Lyla displays it. There you are, leaving the restaurant. He winces, watching you leaving the place in defeat. Knowing this is his fault. But then he watches you stop, looking down the alleyway next to the restaurant. A flash of glitching light and then it looks like you're talking to someone.

You're definitely talking to someone. He check the time on the footage. It was about an hour ago. An hour ago you started talking to someone in the alley and then-

"What is she doing?" He mumbles, eyes widening when he sees you join hands with someone. The person that's taking up all your attention. "Zoom in Lyla." He demands.

The footage isn't super clear, it never is on these cheap street cameras. But he can see it. When the figure turns around, leading you down the alleyway. It's him. Himself? He can see the red and blue marking of his own suit. He's watching a video of himself leading you down an alleyway into what he can only assume is a portal. A portal to lord knows where. With a version of himself that's pretending to be the one you know.

[angelpuns]

“ GET BACK!” Leo gripped his katanas tightly, backing into the corner. The lumbering, spiky creature before him grimaced, holding his claws out like Leo was some sort of spoiler animal. 

“ Leo, hey, what's goin' on, buddy?” The creature asked, voice softer than expected. It made Leo hesitant, if only for a second. 

But it must have been a ploy. A trick to trap him and-and do god knows what! 

“ I'M NOT YOUR BUDDY,” Leo hissed, keeping his eyes open for any movement from the hulking creature. If there was an opening, he'd have to take it, otherwise he'd have to portal away. It didn't feel right to leave this creature in his room, though, so that would be a last resort, “TELL ME WHO- WHAT YOU ARE! NOW!” 

The creature blinked in mock surprise and took a step back. Good. Maybe Leo could stun it and then go out the back way to his room. It wasn't a great plan, but it was all he had right now. Hell, maybe he could scare the thing all the way out the door and fight it in the lobby. Sure, it was a lot bigger than him, but he had two swords and it has nothing. 

“Wh- it's me! It's Raph!” The creature raised its voice a little, then immediately softened it again, “it’s- you're safe, Leo, its just me. You're in the lair. We're all safe…”

It was holding its hands out again and took two steps forward. Leo backed further into the corner and cursed under his breath. This was the opposite of what he wanted. 

“HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME!? WHY ARE YOU IN MY ROOM!?” He bit out, cycling through several more half-baked plans where he didn't have to portal and didn't mess up his room. He didn't want to leave this guy here to mess it up either if he could. 

“ We're- we're brothers, remember? We explained it yesterday…. You were cursed by a witch and-”

Leo scoffed, “ that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard! You've got 3 seconds to leave before I cut you to pieces!”

He’d always been more of a playful banter guy than a ‘threaten to literally kill you’ guy, but this was dire. There was literally a random, dangerous looking creature-guy in his home. He wasn't gonna rake any chances to be funny, not right now. 

“Okay, okay. Let's just calm down, Leo….I really need you to take a deep breath and-and uh…name five things you see?” the guy - Raph, he'd said - was speaking even quieter, and getting even closer. 

He took another step forward and Leo couldn't think- there was nowhere to run, he was trapped. 

The creature reached forward slowly, mimicking slow breathing and Leo lashed out with his sword, barely nicking the guy’s arm with it. He either had tough scales or Leo was still too far to do any damage. 

He hissed in pain, and Leo saw a bit of red there, but he couldn't wait to find out if he'd finally pissed this guy off. 

He cut a portal beneath him and fell into it, heartbeat pounding his ears and electricity thrumming through his body. He heard a cut off “ LEO, WAIT-” before the portal closed and all he heard was the sounds if the city below him. 

 When he landed he was on a rooftop, somewhere far from his room and far from the creature. The sun was peeking above the horizon, a sudden chill making him shiver. Of course he couldn't have thought to put on a hoodie. Then again, he had been unexpectedly ambushed. 

At least he'd gotten away without a scrape. 

And not a moment too soon, because for a split second he'd seen two more guys in his doorway, each with shocked and then angry expressions. If he'd stayed even a second he'd be a goner, he just knew it. 

For now, he was safe. Now to think of a plan. 

----

Here's a blurb of that idea! I've written a chapter outline but writing has been hard lately, so I'm just gonna keep it in my docs for now. It might become a fic and it might become a comic, who knows. For now thus is what I've got. I just really wanted to write this bit :)

Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4

[thethief1996]

For the past 100 days, Israel has been waging a genocide campaign in Gaza without any sort of reprieve from western countries. Palestinians are suffering from a human-made famine, surpassing the scale and speed of any other famine enforced in the past 75 years. Healthcare professionals are being cornered into Rafah by constant airstrikes, sniper attacks and bombardments at hospitals, forced to leave patients and medical supplies behind. Unmaned quadcopters opened fire on the maternity and ICU unities of Al Aqsa Martyrs hospital and killed 8 civilians. Yesterday, the hospital ran out of fuel and the babies in incubators might die anytime soon. Only 127 aid trucks are being allowed into Gaza of the 500 allowed before the war, under "normal" blockade conditions. The distribution of food and water is made basically impossible by the destruction of communications and the looming threat of executions against people gathered to receive it. Just today snipers killed 3 people in line to receive food in Gaza City and Israel officials have the gall to say the problem is that humanitarian organizations, whose volunteers are being executed at unprecedent rates, aren't putting in enough effort. The IDF drops leaflets telling desperate refugees to flee and then station tanks on the roads or bombs the safe zones.

Ever since I read South Africa's submission to the ICJ I can't stop thinking about how they label it as the demication of Gaza and its people. On every sphere of the government, there are statements calling for the anihilation of the people of Gaza (pages 59 to 67). The Prime Minister has directly adressed the army telling them to wipe off the amalekites (page 60), and South Africa showed tiktoks of the soldiers repeating his speech word for word before committing massacres. And yet they have the gall to come to the world and say they haven't targeted hospitals, they haven't withheld aid and that the statements are "random assertions." To prove that Netanyahu isn't a blood thirsty pig, they pasted a statement he made ONE DAY before the hearing started, which is frankly ridiculous we're supposed to believe isn't a PR stunt (page 34).

No western outlet streamed the highest stake court hearing in the 21st century, but you can rest assured they streamed Israel's pathetic defense. And Canada, Germany, the UK and the US, countries which have in no way reckoned with their own genocidal pasts, have come forward in defense of Israel like they have any moral high ground to patronize the world about genocide.

Take action, for their sake. Motaz has said "Don't call yourself a free person if you can't make changes. If you can't stop a genocide that is still ongoing". We need to fight in any way we can to stop their massacre.

Keep yourself updated and share Palestinian voices. Muna El-Kurd said every tweet is like a treasure to them, because their voices are repressed on social media and even on this very app. Make it your action item to share something about the Palestinian plight everyday. Here are some resources:

Al Jazeera, Anadolu Agency, Mondoweiss

Boycott Divest Sanction Movement

Palestinian Youth Movement is organizing protests and direct action against weapons factories across the US

Mohammed El-Kurd (twitter / instagram)

Muhammad Shehada (twitter)

Motaz Azaiza (instagram) - reporting directly from Gaza.

Hind Khudary - reporting directly from Gaza. Her husband and daughter moved South to run from the tanks but she stayed behind to record the genocide. The least we can do is not let her calls fall on deaf ears.

You can participate in boycotts wherever you are in the world, through BDS guidelines. Don't be overwhelmed by gigantic boycott lists. BDS explicitly targets only a few brands which have bigger impact. Right now, they are focusing on boycotting the following:

Carrefour, HP, Puma, Sabra, Sodastream, Ahava cosmetics, McDonalds, Disney and Israeli fruits and vegetables

Push for a cultural boycott - pressure your favorite artist to speak out on Palestine and cancel any upcoming performances on occupied territory (Lorde cancelled her gig in Israel because of this. It works.)

If you can, participate in direct action or donate.

Palestine Action works to shut down Israeli weapons factories in the UK and USA, and have successfully shut down one of their firms in London.Some of the activists are going on trial and are calling for mobilizing on court.

Palestinian Youth Movement is organizing direct actions to stop the shipping of wars to Israel. Follow them.

Educate yourself. Read into Palestinian history and the occupation. You can't common sense people out of decades of propaganda. If your arguments crumble when a zionist brings up the "disengagement of Gaza", you have to learn more.

Read Decolonize Palestine. They have 15 minute reads that concisely explain the occupation (and its colonial roots) and debunk popular myths, including pinkwashing.

Read on Palestine. Here's an amazing masterpost.

Verso Book Club is giving out free books on Palestine (I personally downloaded Ten Myths about Israel by Ilan Pappe. If you still believe in the two states solution, this book by an Israeli professor debunks it).

Call your representatives. The Labour Party in the UK had an emergency meeting after several councilors threatened to resign if they didn't condemn Israeli war crimes. Calling to show your complaints works, even more if you live in a country that funds genocide.

FOR PEOPLE IN THE USA: USCPR has developed this toolkit for calls, here's a document that autosends emails to your representatives and here's a toolkit by Ceasefire in Gaza NOW!

FOR PEOPLE IN EUROPE: Here's a toolkit by Voices in Europe for Peace targeting the European Parliament and one specific for almost all countries in Europe, including Germany, Ireland, Poland, Denmark, Sweden, Netherlands, Greece, Norway, Italy, Portugal, Spain, Finland, Austria, Belgium Romania and Ukraine

FOR PEOPLE IN THE UK: Friends of Al-Aqsa UK and Palestine Solidarity UK have made toolkits for calls and emails

FOR PEOPLE IN AUSTRALIA: Here's a toolkit by Stand With Palestine

FOR PEOPLE IN CANADA: Here's a toolkit by Indepent Jewish Voices for Canada

Join a protest. Here's a constantly updating list of protests:

Global calendar

Another global calendar (go to the instragram of the organizers to confirm your protest)

USA calendar

Australia calendar

Feel free to add more.

[darantha]

How to Spot AI images (Hopefully)

So, I did see GailyNovelry's excellent post on this (Link here), but saw that there also were some confusion and they were using a environment image as their example, so I thought I'd do a breakdown that was more character centric.

The key thing with AI images is that the program does not know what it is making. And, arguably, they thrive on that we are currently conditioned to not really look at things for too long before we hit that engagement button and/or just scroll onwards to whatever next the algorithm feeds us.

It's hard to fight that urge, I know, but if you just pause and look, you'll soon start spotting things that just do not make sense, and I don't just mean that the pretty booby elven fighter is sporting seven fingers on one hand. Those are the obvious things. I'll try to cover the general sort of artefacts that tend to tip me off to the fact that a image is generated rather than actually hand-made by someone making informed design decisions as opposed to trust what amounts to RNG. I think this is important as there's those who do not tag their images as AI generated, and try to scam people with commissions.

And, as the saying goes... The devil is in the details.

To start with I picked this image from deviantuser CeiEllem. At first glance, it looks... very impressive. Sharp looking elf lady with killer hair. 10/10 wish I could rock that haircolour.

But, it is AI generated. Aside from the general tell that is this hyper rendered, near photorealistic style that AI images often have, there's a lot of details that tips it off to just not having been made by a human who actually made the decisions.

Since AI is just working off patterns and not actual decisions, things like hair is a immediate giveaway that you're looking at a AI image.

(Deviantart users: daralyth, DavidZarn and lunayokai)

In all these three images you can see just how hair whisps off into weird nonsense shapes or even meld into the background or clothing. Because, again, the AI doesn't know what its doing, just working with shapes. Similarly, background elements that just stop and start randomly is a dead giveaway, like the tail in the first image.

As I've said, details is the key to spotting these images, and another giveaway is the sheer density of details that is just noise.

This is from users Rigtorok7, and the details are so noisy, absolutely miniscule in scale, and hypersharp, yet have no actual design to them. Artists imply details all the time. We don't render out every single nook and crevice, and since we actually know what we want the viewer to look at, we'll pull back and simplify things so you don't want to look at the big chunk of very noisy hair ornament or necklace instead of the face of the character.

For comparison, this is how it looks when I, personally, indulge in doing 'overdetailing' of something (because I am forever weak for painting jewelry).

BUT I want to stress that the key here isn't that detailing equals AI generated. The key is the lack of design choices IN the details. There's a lot of artists out there, and someone painting out all those nooks and crannies in something doesn't mean they are a AI user. This painting by Leighton is super detailed but you see the intent with all the details. You have a focus with the people in the boat and secondary read of the figure in the door, where the details are a lot more implied and less sharp.

AI can't do that, because AI isn't making any decisions.

I couldn't find any good example once I went looking, but if you're into fantasy art: look for people just holding weird 'swords'.

AI is rapidly evolving, so who knows how much this'll help in 3 months, but for now, this is how I spot things.

But, in the end, the biggest giveaway that someone is using an AI generator is that they've filled up page after page on deviantart/artstation/wherever in the past like... six to nine months, and often swing between wildly different styles. If you're unsure, look up the source of a image. Another clue can be generic 'untitled' or just 'elf lady' sort of titles, since someone uploading 30 images a week isn't going to make unique titles for each image.

Also, commissioners. ... you should ALWAYS get a sketch and progress image from a artist that you hire. My art directors would have my head on a plate if I didn't send them a rough sketch and progress shot before finalising the image.

[theoxenfree]

DARK POOL

aquatic monster x reader | 2.8k

you're mystified by the strange noises coming from the basement. despite your uncle attempting to thwart your concerns, you make your way downstairs into the basement one night and come across an appalling sight, and soon enough, a blooming infatuation.

warnings; 18+, double penetration, explicit sexual details, imprisonment (not mc), some unsettling details, roughly proofread, repost from my old blog 2kmps.

this is a concept piece for a potentially long one-shot! pls answer the feedback questions at the end + reblog!! it really helps to develop a well-rounded story for y'all!

Uncle told you that the rats in Cape Tellis liked to swim and when they were in search of food, they didn't care how long they'd have to paddle through the water to find it. Some would simply drift with the current for days; black-gray fur rotted off, skin peeled off bone, little faces disfigured by sea and salt, but they would keep going until their bodies nudged the rust-red walls of the lighthouse and found the energy to scale upward to a window and squeeze inside.

He mentioned this anytime you had something to say about the ruckus down in the basement—sometimes scratching, sometimes powerful, erratic thuds that you felt pulse through the floorboards, through the rubber soles covering your feet, and into your skin. That place was sealed behind a rusted metal frame and door, deadbolted and locked with a key he always carried on a chain through a belt loop.

It always jangled when he walked because he had a limp so bad that his entire leg always dragged a pace behind him and took a great amount of effort to haul forward. When you had asked of it, as memory dictated a handful of years prior he didn't have such trouble, he first claimed it had been a bad sinus infection that got into his brain and disrupted something neurologically. In another instance where he had stopped for a third time on an evening stroll together, he had said he scuffed with one of Cape Tellis’ formidable rats and the mangy bastard had won and taken a chunk of meat out of him before scuttling back into the walls.

“Just ignore it, it's normal that they're active this time of year,” he was saying while scraping fried eggs out of a pan onto your plate. Meanwhile, you winced to the usual commotion downstairs. “They get real flighty this time of year. The rats do. They get frisky and chase each other all around. I don't know nothin' about them besides being persistent, ugly things, but it may well be their special season.”

You ripped a sharp edge in your toast and prodded the egg yolk until the sunny orb burst, oozing out across your plate before you could scoop it all up in the bread.

“How long does it take for the rats to go away?” you asked with some interest in his answer, if for no other reason to know what sort of yarn he'd spin next. The bread was buttered, the eggs unseasoned, but you ate it all anyway while watching him. “Are they permanent residents or do they come and go? You must be feeding them if they stay here.”

Uncle took a long time to situate his bad leg under the table, longer to arrange his silverware and the direction of his food. “Oh, they have no interest in leaving, I don't think. If they really wanted to, I imagine they would've jumped back into the water and swam somewhere else.”

Each time the noises rose up between the wood slats under your feet during breakfast, Uncle told you not to worry about it, but you quieted every sound in your head to better hear rattling metal, reverberations of some sort—like having a man’s deep, anguished moan pressed right against your ribs. You weren't sure what you were looking for when you listened, only that you knew they were rats.

Uncle looked at you, his appetite pushed away towards the center of the table with his plate. “Let's go for a walk, yes? The rain won't come back for a few hours.”

When you did walk after a meal, granduncle would often have to lie down with his dead leg propped up on a short stack of pillows for a long while. It became something of a habit of yours to exert him too much after dinner, forcing him to keep up with your youthfulness—your merry prances and unburdened soul.

For what it was worth, he did the best he could to never be a hindrance. He didn't seem to fully understand his own limitations either, making it quite a simple thing to steal the key from his belt loop while he slept—deep and silent, so much so that you needed to drop a tissue over his face from make sure he was still breathing—and unfasten the lock to descend a set of slick, stone stairs.

There wasn’t much to at the bottom; a space half-flooded from seasonal rains raising the sea-level, old pieces of ship equipment hanging like ornamentation, an old folding chair that had yet to rust despite damp air, and a large hole in the ground that was dark like the throat of a nightmare envisioned in the most precious hours of night.

You held a plate of raw meat, freshly thawed from the freezer, outstretched with a flickering lantern in your other hand. Anywhere else, you'd have just brung a flashlight—but, he didn't like the bright lights, had ripped the last one out of your hands and smashed it against the wall. Oil lanterns were better tolerated, but he still seemed to cower from the gentle flickers.

So, you placed the meat on the seat of the folding chair and walked closer to the hole, wading a hand through seawater until touching braids of cold metal, chains pulled taut as though weighted down by an anchor. You gave the closest one a tug, always with the same caution as a child gripping his mother's clothes in uncertain times, and backed away.

He never made noise when he surfaced, always frightfully quiet, only indicated by a trail of bubbles that followed after where he roamed underwater. The first thing to emerge was a dorsal fin flared proudly from the middle of his head until midway in the deepest curve of his back. His eyes were on you, abysmal black things with a luster you likened to a landbound fish, and skin and scales that moved stiffly with his facial movements.

“You,” said the creature, toneless and in a voice far too raspy and deep to have an equal match amongst human men. “You have come. You are here.”

Months ago, he hadn't been capable of simple speech such as this. The noises he made were incompatible to anything you had ever heard—perhaps mere vocalizations he utilized underwater, possibly something long gone and archaic—but he had started mimicking you when you'd speak, and eventually you started slowing down, giving him the time to feel how the sounds vibrated in his own throat.

“I brought you food, again.” You gestured towards the seat with raw meat with your lantern, prompting his passing glance of interest before he was back on you. “Not hungry? He usually doesn’t feed you that well. I haven't been down here in a week or so, so I figured you'd be ready to scarf it down.”

“No.”

He came closer and the size of him grew, a towering figure with strong, broad-shoulders and a chest built to withstand the friction of the sea he used to own. His face, although hidden in darkness and flickering shadow cast from your lantern, gleamed as the light struck his iridescent scales. The shape of his lips were human-like yet taut, helping to comfortably fit his sharp teeth inside his mouth.

You'd wondered at times what exactly he was, what your granduncle believed him to be and feared so much to hide him away, chained to a wall. You fantasized that he could be the lost prince of some underwater civilization, or the offspring of several thousands of years of evolution between humans and something else.

He never seemed to understand you when you asked him what he was.

“Come,” his reach was limited by the chains that bound his limbs, keeping him shy of touching your body. “Come to me.”

With the lantern set aside, a distance you hoped wouldn't turn him petulant, you walked in his arms and the shackles and made home there as he surrounded you. His embrace was not the sort you could escape, nor was the kiss he pressed against your mouth.

There were parts of him you were too scared to touch, where his scales were like serrated teeth and he had much less control to retract at will like the dorsal find along his back. His lips were smooth and cold, however, a safe place for you to be on his body along with the hard flesh on his chest.

He pushed himself into your touch as your fingertips traced the shape of his torso, rose with the sprawl of his breasts and shoulders, molded into the ridges of his lower abdomen that you felt pulse and tense the further downward you roamed.

The sheath around his groin had swelled significantly and seemed to twitch when you smoothed your hand across it, kneading it gently to see what would come of doing so. You'd seen this only once before several months ago, a time where you'd been more frightened of him and fled from the basement for weeks when he'd acted more aggressive than usual.

It was one of the many things he had taken notice of that were perceived negatively—with fear and distance and shutting him away in this deep dark until you found the courage to feed him again, because your uncle was petrified along with being restricted in his ability to navigate the stairs with his lame leg.

So, he had learned to behave at the worst of times to keep food supplied, for you to stay wrapped up in him like this and so curious to challenge the extent of his self-restraint.

His kiss had grown full-bodied and restless and gone elsewhere on your body to a great expanse of skin. His face nuzzled into the fabric hiding your warmth from him, teeth tearing and fraying the threads that kept your clothes together until you stopped him.

“Stop—wait, wait, wait.” You walked back out of his arms once he was able to recognize the words. He reached for you despite the clattering bonds around his wrist, but you took your time to shuck the clothes from your body and fold them.

Once he had you back, he led you to the edge of the pool of endless depths and sank down inside of it. Your toes touched the very edge of darkness, stirring a rabble of butterflies in your gut that did not dissipate even once he resurfaced.

"Sit.” He gestured right at where you stood. “Sit down.”

The idea of having any part of your body submerged in the black water left you with little desire in continuing this, but you obeyed and slowly lowered your rear to the rim of the pool, legs speckled by goose pimples as the cold water gripped up to the inside of your thighs.

“Yes, good.” He was close enough to push your thighs wide apart and stick his tongue inside of you. You took in a great sucking breath, startled from the suddenness of it and the long, articulate appendage massaging a part of you in a way no one ever had before.

You leaned back on your arms when they weakened and shook from the sensations, eyes flicking towards the drab ceiling, wondering just how far under the living quarters of the lighthouse you actually were and whether granduncle would hear any lewd sounds that were beginning to hum in your throat.

“Keep going.” He said when you moaned, tongue retracted from your body to mimic the ministrations you made with your hand and fingers while you stroked yourself. “Keep doing it.”

He nudged your hand away to put his mouth over that stimulated spot instead, sucking and licking along you with such fervor that you dissolved into hard pants and whimpers, tempted to close your thighs around his head and push him away as the tight warmth inside of you flushed out with a kaleidoscopic burst of color and cool air following the trail of something slowly oozing out of you.

It took a second orgasm and chanting turned to cries to get him off of you. That brief respite ended when he took you by the waist and dragged you into the pool with him. By that point, you were too far spent to have anything but unshakeable indifference to the depths and the cold.

His kiss was as it had been before, rough and restless, forceful in a way that left you malleable and melting against him. Even when he had your front wedged between the rim of the pool and his chest, you couldn't bring yourself to react much.

You felt his thighs mold to the back of yours before the slim tip of his cock pushed into you, the girth of it thickening considerably at the base. The friction of the water wasn't an obstacle for him to fuck into you with greedy thrusts that threw your hips forward, knocking skin and bone against the wall of the pool.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh—” the ridges of his cock were an unusual feeling, catching your walls in spots, spreading you wider when he'd withdraw part way and plunge back inside. “Oh, shit—feels good. Harder. Harder. Harder!”

There was truly never any way to know how much he understood when you said it, something called into question when his thrusts slowed to a stop, but he stayed hard inside of you. For a moment, the water settled along with your heavy breaths and blood gushing through your ears.

Things slowly came back into focus—the dancing lantern light, the room temperature meat, the wicked water in which you were immersed to the waist while the rest of you was braced by him.

He shifted behind you, adjusting his thighs so yours went even wider. Before you could ask the things you wanted to, a new sensation stole your breath—the swollen head of a second cock, different in shape and size from the first, pushed into you and lay flush atop the other.

“Don't—don’t move.” You were struggling to do the same thing with such an enormous stretch you'd never had to accommodate before. Tension built in your throat, whether a sob or a scream or your own anxiety, and stayed there to cinch your voice into silence.

He soothed you with lips and teeth all over your flesh; the back of your neck, the cartilage of your ears and the underside of your jawbone. His large hands left the shelf of your hips and felt along your front side, nipples, chest, stomach, and groin where he tried to recreate the same pleasure on you now as you had done for yourself earlier.

“Good?” He nested his cocks deeper when he heard you moan. The pain of it was beginning to subside, but the strangeness of it remained. “Is it good?”

“Just—just don't hurt me.”

His hands were back on your hips to keep you seated on his thighs while he thrust into you. It wasn't as easy for him to move as it was before, perhaps realizing the limitations of a human companion, but continued in snappy pulses that made the water lap at the skin on your back and turned your thoughts into senseless, garbled things.

Soon enough, you were riding a sloppy, savage rhythm to which you had no control of whatsoever as he chased his end. In moments where he seemed to regress into a natural state, almost animalistic in the way he rutted into you and buried his cocks, one would slip out and go forgotten for a time. The length of it glided against your groin, a smooth motion underwater that prodded your sore spots before he was able to fit it back into place with the other.

Amid your luscious sounds were those of his own; labored, air-sucking rasps that rumbled from places more than just his throat. They were probably never meant to be heard above the surface of water, just as he didn't belong fucking a human while being chained to a wall.

You thought about that fact while the last thrusts he took seated his cocks so deep that you ached, hard surges of warmth flooding your insides in a way unexpectedly delightful. He clung to you with his arms and shackles even well after he had emptied himself in your body and retracted both cocks into their sheath.

After a while, he hoisted you out of the water and followed you to retrieve your clothes. He stopped short of the chains pulling in the wall, watching while you wiped away the remnants of him oozing down the backs of your thighs and redressed.

“Don't go.” He kissed you and let his cold lips linger over yours. “Stay here.”

You returned the affection as endlessly as he gave it, only thinking that sunrise would soon come to pull you apart.

a/n: so, this idea has unfortunately never been able to fully develop from a lack of ideas. with starting this new blog, I'm hoping to get enough interest and feedback to actually commit to this and bring a completed project eventually!!

are you satisfied with how the aquatic monster was written in this piece? what would you be interested in having added/taken away? what do you think could be improved upon/expanded? is there anything you're particularly curious about?

what sort of setting would you like to see this story take place? 19th century, the 90s, or modern e.g. 2010+? are you satisfied with the setting being in cape tellis? a location inspired by lighthouse coastlines with predominately dreary/cool/wet weather? if not, what type of setting would you prefer to see?

in terms of the storyline, are you more interested in seeing: 1) a relative goes missing, so you arrive at the lighthouse he owned to solve the mystery 2) mc being an underwater mechanic to fix a damaged dam 3) mc being part of a small group trying to capture proof of a "creature" lurking around cape tellis. 4) something else???

[downbadf0rficppl]

you're on your own kid

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You had a rough childhood, what with an absent father and a piece of shit mother. When a family dinner goes wrong, how do you stop your brain from spiraling? How do you convince yourself you're not alone? A certain blue-eyed, metal-armed avenger, of course.

Word Count: 3.3K

Warnings: Eating Disorders/Weight Related Talk, Blood, Injury, Kinda Self Harm, Child Abuse [PLEASE DO NOT READ IF THESE TOPICS MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE!!!]

You squirmed in your seat, fidgeting with your sleeves. It was awkward being at home after so long. You hadn't been home for four years almost - and it had probably been even longer since you'd sat at this table. Your mother sat across the table from you - her gaze heavy on your head. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, your brother had joked.

He was sitting next to you, his knee gently brushing against yours. A placating movement. He was trying to keep the peace - enjoying the first meal that you had had as a family in a long while. You don't know what it was that made you seek them out. Maybe if you had waited a week, you would have thought about the facts, rather than the feelings. Maybe if you had waited a week, you wouldn't be sitting here with the weight of the world on your shoulders.

You sat in silence, playing with the food on your plate. Your mother was of the almond variety, weighing out plates before passing them around the table. You didn't have much to talk about. Things hadn't ended well the last time the two of you spoke.

Your brother chimed in with the odd question - 'How's your gardening coming along, mom?' or 'How's the new job, sis? What's it like working for the Avengers?'. You'd humour him until your mother's disapproving stares became too much and then you'd shut up. He'd give you a sad sort of pitying smile, before returning to his food.

Dinner was long - even it was less than the traditional three courses. Your brother packed up some extra food, and took it home - he only lived about a half mile away so it made sense for him to go home. You made to go with him but your mother insisted you stay with her. "I made up your room, just the way you like it."

You doubted it. But you smiled anyway and hugged your brother tightly. He whispered that 'you would be fine' and 'it's only one night' and maybe for a second you believed him. As soon as he left, you headed to bed, claiming that 'The trip was long, ma, I'm super tired.'

The look on her face screamed that she didn't believe you. But she waved you good night and headed to the kitchen to find her favourite bottle of scotch.

You opened the door to your childhood bedroom to find it almost the same. The pink walls and bedcovers were suffocating, the blinds drawn shut to create this overwhelming feeling of being trapped. You were. Trapped.

You took your jumper off, laid it over your vanity chair, and jumped onto the bed. It was comfortable, but lying there staring at the ceiling brought back all the horrible memories you tried to suppress. Diet pills and weighing scales, small plates and vomiting, screaming and crying, sirens and hospital bills. Tears streamed down your face as curled up onto your side.

It was almost midnight when you heard your mother walk up the stairs. You knew she was drunk - her steps were loud and out of sync, and the bottle in her hand frequently tapped the banister as she tried to stabilise herself on it. You half expected her to keep walking, cross the landing, and fall dead asleep on her bed.

Instead, your door creaked open and you came face to face with her. Her glassy eyes were rimmed with red - she'd been crying too. Her eyes raked over you and suddenly you wished you'd never come back at all.

"Such a shame," she whispered, "You could have been so much more."

"Ma?"

"You were always... the best. The prettiest. The skinniest. You could have been incredible. Instead, you are... nobody."

Her words cut deep but you tried to ignore them. You were somebody. You worked for the Avengers, you were a top-level agent for SHIELD. You helped save the world.

"I tried my best. To help you. But you were ungrateful," Your mother stalked closer, her sadness giving way to anger, "conceited, convinced that you could be anything more than what I made you. But you were wrong. I created you. Without me, THERE IS NO YOU." She launched the bottle at your head and it shattered at the wall behind you.

She kept screaming, but you tuned her out, slipping off the bed and grabbing your jumper and keys. You ran past her, shoving her hard as she tried to grab you and ran out to your car. She watched you go screaming abuse after you, telling you to 'never step foot inside her house again.' You weren't planning to.

You drove like a madman back to upstate - traffic was pretty light considering the ungodly hour. You parked haphazardly - Tony would probably murder you for it in the morning but you couldn't find it within yourself to care. You trudged upstairs, footfalls far too heavy for someone is literally a superspy, but this was your home. You weren't running from anyone in here.

You were so stuck in your own head that you didn't realise that Bucky was sitting in the living room, watching as you walked into the kitchen. He'd heard your footsteps and he was worried. You never walked that heavily.

"Everything ok, doll?"

You looked up at him, not registering a word he said. He stood up and walked over to you, fingers reaching up to stroke your face.

"You good?" He whispered, his forehead almost touching yours.

You pulled away from his touch, even though your body was screaming for you to collapse into his open arms. "Yeah, Buck, fine. See you in the morning for training." You stepped past him, heading for the stairs.

"Yeah, doll. See you in the morning."

The morning came around far quicker than you'd hoped. You had barely slept, tossing and turning all night, your mother's words ringing through your head.

Eventually, you realised it was a futile effort. You might as well get up and be productive. You found yourself in the gym just as the sun came up, face to face with a heavy bag. You clenched your wrapped fists before shaking the sleep out of your system.

Your hits were precise, measured, calculated. If there was one thing no one could fault you for, it was your skills. You were an impeccable agent. If only your mum could see that. You took your rage out on the heavy bag, pouring every ounce of resent in your body into your punches. Sweat beaded on your forehead, the exertion making your breaths heavier and your knuckles sting. You kept punching, time slipping away from you.

You heard the door to the gym open, and someone was talking. Their voice was muted, almost as if your head was underwater. Between the punches and your tiredness, nothing registered in your foggy mind. From the distance you could hear footsteps, getting louder almost as if they were walking towards you.

You nearly jumped out of your skin when a hand brushed against your shoulder. You spun around ready to cuss out whichever stupid rookie decided to bother you so early in the morning. You were surprised to see familiar eyes boring into yours.

"I called your name, you know," Bucky said, his hands moving to rest on your waist, "twice. I even dropped my bag next to yours to get your attention."

"Sorry, I was thinking."

"I can tell," Bucky's thumbs drew circles on your waist, absentmindedly, "Where's that pretty mind been at lately?"

"What do you want, Barnes?"

"I'm worried. About you. You haven't been yourself lately. What's going on?"

"Nothing." You sighed, removing yourself from his grasp, "Missions, reports, meetings. It's tiring."

"Maybe you take a holiday? Try and relax a bit?" You could hear the genuine concern in his voice but you still rolled your eyes.

"Maybe you mind your own fucking business, Barnes? Don't you have other shit to be doing apart from hovering over me?" You grabbed your stuff, refusing to make eye contact with him, and walked out.

"I'm still seeing you for training right?" You hear him call after you, but you keep walking. You let out a shaky breath as soon as you got into the elevator.

He didn't see you for training. Or after.

You'd skipped training in favour of going on a run with Steve and then you had to file a few mission reports. You'd holed yourself up in your office, manila files piling up on the corner of your desk your fingers brushing over the keys with seasoned speed. Bucky had wanted to stop by but given your odd behaviour in the morning, he'd decided against it.

You were glad. You hated that Bucky could see right through you, even when you tried your best to hide it. Especially because you were irrevocably in love with him.

You'd been in love with him ever since you'd started working at the compound. Bucky was one of the few people to notice you and your efficiency. You became one of his preferred mission partners, a fact of which you were very proud. You quickly became one of his favourite people, period, and Bucky even went so far as to blow off Steve to spend time with you.

It hurt you to keep him at arm's length but you knew it was for the best. You remembered what your father told you the night before he left. You're on your own kid. You always have been.

You were given a mission assignment in the evening, with strict instructions of 'wheels up at 0600.' The early pickup time wasn't strange and you were itching to get out of the compound. You packed your bag up, leaving it by the door, and headed to bed.

Another restless night of sleep was the last thing you needed, but you were up and at the hangar waiting for Captain Rogers by 0600. He smiled when he saw you and handed you a coffee. You smiled. Your first real smile since you visited your parents.

"Good luck out there." A voice calls from behind you. You freeze. Bucky jogs towards you both, his eyes betraying his tiredness. Steve's face breaks into a grin at the sight of his old friend. Steve throws his arms around Bucky.

"Don't do anything stupid until I get back," Steve says, his joking tone making Bucky laugh.

"How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you."

You want to smile at the sight of the two of them together but you held yourself back. You walked towards the quinjet, ready to get this show on the road when you hear Bucky clearing his voice behind you.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Onto the quinjet?"

"Not without a hug, you're not." You sigh but trudge down the steps to give him a half-arsed side hug. He pulls you in tight, and whispers into your hair, "When you get back, we're gonna talk. Okay?"

You don't respond, brushing him off and climbing into the jet. Steve follows you in, dropping his bag next to yours, before turning back to wave at Bucky.

"Don't worry, Buck, I'll take good care of your girl."

His girl. That sounded nice. You shook the thought away before elbowing Steve in the sight. Jokingly of course, but he still doubled over for effect. Bucky burst into laughter.

That was the last thing you saw as the door went up.

The mission was hard. Not terrible - no one died, which was a win in your book - but it wasn't fun. Multiple shootouts, car chases, and three hours of hiding in a dumpster later, you were ready to nap for a week. But, alas, Fury had set a debrief at 8 the next morning, which meant that you had - you checked the clock on your microwave - 6 hours at best.

You dropped your bag on the sofa and headed into the bathroom. You unzipped your utility vest, dropping it on the floor. You needed to disinfect it - god knows what had stained that vest. You pulled up your compression shirt, wincing as the flecks of red came into view. You quickly stripped it off, dropping it in the washing basket, before whipping back around. You caught your own reflection in the mirror and tilted your head, taking in your reflection of your body. Your mother's words played back in your head. Maybe your mother had a point.

You quickly shook your head, dispelling those horrible thoughts from your mind. But still, you continued to stare at your body, scrutinising every feature. I mean, sure you weren't as skinny as you used to be, but that's because you had muscle now, right? And the hamburger you had for lunch was a treat - you know for completing the mission? The super important mission that you were on because you are important and you are somebody and you have value and you are someone without your mum. Don't you? And it's ok that you can't see your ribs because actually you have abs now and that's way more attractive. Right? And.. and... and....

SMASH.

Broken glass was shattered all around you, fragments piercing your skin. Your mirror now had a fist-shaped hole in the middle, from where your sadness had quickly bled into anger.

You cradled your bloodied fist in your hand, sinking to the ground as sobs racked through your body. Glass dug into your knees as they hit the floor and you curled your hands into your chest. Hurtful 'what ifs' swirled through your head, stealing your breath and making it almost impossible to breathe.

Pounding on your door broke you out of your thoughts. You tried to regain your bearings. It was 2 am. You were in your apartment, the apartment that was miles away from the compound, that you lived in alone. Who the hell would be at your door right now?

You were silent, breath bated as you waited for the stranger to go away. They banged on the door again.

"Doll, I swear to god, if you don't let me in, I'm going to break your fucking door down."

You knew that voice anywhere. The knowledge that you weren't alone, that he was here for you, that Bucky wouldn't make you suffer alone brought new tears to your eyes. Fresh sobs burst from your chest as you tried to move. Glass shards were stabbing into your legs, and one of your hands was bleeding profusely. Bucky, your safety net, was so close and yet so far.

"Doll? Doll, I can hear you. Doll, please, please let me in." You could hear the panic in his voice as he struggled with his conscience. You tried to move but the pain was excruciating. A pained scream erupted from your lips.

A loud bang came from your front door, followed by heavy and fast footsteps.

"Where are you, doll? Come on, just come and talk to me." He said, sweeping through your living room. You whimpered from the bathroom, his enhanced hearing focussing on even the smallest of sounds.

He quickly found his way into the bathroom, his eyes raking over your hunched figure, before flitting to the broken mirror and the shards of glass on the ground.

"Oh doll," he whispered, bending down to scoop you up from the floor. He cradled you gently as he carried you from the bathroom into your bedroom. "What happened, doll? Talk to me."

You looked up at him, trying to figure out where to start. You blanked. You couldn't find a good place to start the story that would cause you the least pain. Your mouth opened and closed a few times with no sound coming out. Bucky rested his hand against yours, trying to reassure you to take your time, but the sound of your wince drew his attention to your hands.

"Doll, your hands." He grabbed your hands gently, peering at your knuckles. They were mauled, glass sticking out of torn-up skin, "What did you do?" He stood up, walking into your kitchen to grab the first aid kit he knew was under the sink. Watching him walk around like he owned the place made some small part of your heart happy - it was almost as if your dreams, your darkest-held fantasies, were coming true.

Bucky kneeled in front of you, placing the first aid kit beside him. He brushed all the glass shards off your legs - luckily none of them had been embedded into your skin. He cleaned any small scratches before turning to your knuckles. The sight of your knuckles made him wince and you started to pull them away. Bucky leveled you with a look that said, let me take care of you. You let him. He sterilised a pair of tweezers and got to work pulling the shards of glass out of your knuckles. You sat in silence for a while, Bucky diligently working on your knuckles, and you watching the swiftness with which he worked.

"Why did you punch the mirror, doll?" Bucky asked after a while.

"I was angry," you whispered, your voice deathly quiet. Now that the rage was gone, all you had left was embarrassment.

"And why were you angry?" Bucky coaxed, his eyes pleading for some answers. He pulled out the last shard of glass before swiping an alcohol wipe over your knuckles and bandaging them up. He packed up all the items back into the first aid box and went to put it away and wash his hands.

You were still sat on the bed contemplating your answer when he got back. He knelt in front of you again, before he rested his hands on your face, "Why were you angry doll?"

"I didn't like it." You whispered, pulling your body away from him.

"What didn't you like?" Bucky's eyes stared into yours and you suddenly felt extremely self-conscious. You tried to remove yourself from his all-seeing, mind-reading gaze, but he didn't let you. He pulled you into his lap, and you hid your face in his neck. His beard tickled your forehead as you nestled into him, trying to seek out the comfort you so desperately needed but didn't know how to ask for.

"Me." You said, your head turned away from him as you stared at your hands.

"What?"

"I didn't like me." Your voice started to shake as you tried to find the right words to tell him the truth, the whole honest godforsaken truth, but you couldn't.

Bucky seemed to read your mind, "It's ok, take your time. We don't have to talk about this today. We can come back to it later, when you're feeling up for it, okay?" You nodded, burrowing further into him, "You wanna sleep?"

You nodded again, and Bucky shifted, wrapping his arms around you so he could gently place you down on the bed. He removed his arms from underneath you and tucked you into bed, gently kissing your forehead as you turned to leave. You whined.

"Pleasedon'tgoBuck-" You mumbled, sleep quickly pulling you under. He smiled, perching himself on the end of the bed.

"You sure you want me to say, sweetheart? Not sure you'll ever get rid of me if I stay?"

"I promise. Never want you to go." You said, clinging to his arm and pulling him back into bed.

You slipped into an easy slumber as Bucky shuffled around in your room. Maybe you didn't have to be on your own anymore.

fin.

buy me a coffee

[n0tamused]

Hello!! Can I request some hcs for Jiyan, Calcharo,Aalto and Scar with blind s/o?

A/n: Sorry for making you wait for so long, but I hope you like this! Did this as a bit of a warm up, hopefully I'll have more writing done soon <3

Contents: Jiyan/Calcharo/Aalto/Scar x gn reader (separate), fluff, Aalto and Scar are up to shenanigans

Ko-fi

Blind s/o headcanons

Jiyan:

-As an absent lover, seeing how he is always at the front lines, he does think of you a lot. Even with the knowledge and memory that he has made your shared home a easily manageable environment for you, and with his mother not too far off paying you visits every now and then, he still worries. What if something breaks and you step on shattered pieces? What if you twist your ankle in some hole he forgot to patch up? What if something happens to you and no one is around?

-Jiyan has worked alongside you in making the home environment easy to remember and easy to maneuver, and he rarely ever changes the order of  things so you don’t accidentally hurt yourself. He does notify you if he does something like move the couch or some chair or  a vase.

-All the pots and jars and bottles are labeled in braille, so you can never miss one ingredient or liquid for another. Although when he is around he does try to do everything for you, no matter how small the act is.

-He has plenty on his mind as it is but he can never get his thoughts away from you. He looks forward to seeing you again, all the time

-When he is back home he is always nearby, you can practically feel him before you hear him coming close, his arms wrapping around your waist and his chest pressing against your back as he softly greets you, asking how you’re feeling

-At night, it has become a routine of sorts for you to just map his face with your fingers. The soft pads of your fingers finding the arch of his brows, sliding down his nose and over his soft cheeks, slowly finding their way down to his lips, his breath tickling your knuckles but he remains still and remains patient. He lets you do as you please, all while taking the same time to admire you and the way the lines of your face pull and tug as you take in his features

-Sometimes you scratch lightly at the scales on his cheek and he only tilts his head away, chuckling at you

Calcharo:

-Similarly to Jiyan, Caclharo isn’t often at home or around you, and even less so considering he is the individual he is. He’d not ever risk your safety just to squeeze in some “lovey dovey” time. He loves you, but not that much to disregard everything else

-With so many of his spies working for him that have made the one shell credit deal with him, he does take some aside and gives them the task to keep an eye on you. These people know better than to disobey this, not that they would in the first place considering Calcharo has helped them for the price most would consider cheap in this field of work.

-So you’d often get visitors introducing themselves as friends of your partner, or colleagues, or simply just as a mailman, bringing you food or gifts. You have come to befriend a particular food stall lady that lives only a few minutes of walking from your home. She brings you your favorite snack without a fail, always, no matter the weather or time. She tells you of the people she meets and serves, the children and even the birds and dogs that come sniffing around her stall

-She makes it a task to clean up too, so there’s not a lot of times where you have to do much

-This leaves for a lot of boredom, and however sweet this notion of being protected by these people was, you did not crave them, you felt like you didn’t need them either - you wanted your beloved.

-One night when he did return to visit you, he found all lights off, which wasn’t unusual but he had believed you went to sleep only to nearly go into fight mode when he found you only now preparing for bed. Light was not of significance to you, so you were just wandering in the darkness. That could be the only time you gave Calcharo a real fright

-He is very quiet himself, and for a man of his size and stature that can come off as quite the surprise when he suddenly appears at your side, asking you in that soft rasp of his to take the plate from you so he can scoop some food into it for you.

-To make up for his soft footing, he does try to talk more to you, or just make some more sound in general. Often you’ll hear soft grunts or huffs when you’re about to bump into something or when he’s around you when you’re walking about the home. 

-However odd it is, you found that his hand was always close by when you needed him. You only need to move your hand out in front of you, and almost instantly you’ll feel his warm fingers twinning between yours or taking your hand by the fingers gently to lead you to him. 

-It took some time for him to get used to have his face touched by you, and a lot of times he only allows it for a short amount of time as he gets uncomfortable if it stretches on, but slowly he began to melt into it. 

-He’d sit on the couch beside you and watch how you feel around with your hand, climbing into his lap to greet him as you take his face into your palms. And slowly you’d kiss his forehead and cheeks, having missed him far too much for your heart to handle another moment without him

-He sighs softly, and you don’t have to see to know how exhausted he is too. He is closing his eyes, tilting his head into one of your palms and nuzzling against it, his breath fanning across your skin as he sinks further into the couch 

Aalto:

-He’s a tease. Aalto is a tease in most of his endeavors, but he is specific when it comes to you. Depending on how you lost your vision, be it natural or through some illness or even a freak accident, he does crack a few jokes to make light of it. He puts himself in your shoes, imagining he’s blind and he just can’t see anything good about it, so he does what he knows will make you smile

-He speaks a lot more softly to you and he is very descriptive when explaining anything. He loves the times when the two of you just sit down, your legs in his lap as he talks away about whatever interests you. He’d be massaging your legs or feet, finding that motion relaxing for himself as well, while being relaxing for you too. He also does try to make conversations engaging as well if he sees you have the energy for it, since he doesn’t like making your conversations just mere monologue on his end

-For a dangerous individual as himself, honestly he makes a lot of time for you. At one point you had to question whether he was ditching his job for you, but he assures you he is not neglecting his duty. On that topic, while he does often visit you, from time to time he is sent on longer missions that have him absent from your company for a week or two at most, depending on where they send him. 

-During this time, you find your side occupied by someone else. Aalto, however easy going he may seem, is just as worries as the other two on this list, and he does not come to trust people easy. His charming demeanor can often be a simple front put up to give strangers wrong impressions, which he can later use to his advantage. With that  said, he does leave the same person he trusts to be with you while he is away.

-Little Encore often visits too, sometimes alone and sometimes with this caregiver or Aalto. She brings Aalto’s letters and gifts to you, and reads the letters out. You are unsure why Aalto bothers so much with letters considering he can record and send a message to you, or even call you, but you guess it’s some technicality while he’s on the field, or he just wants to woo you again in this traditional style 

-Either way, you don’t mind, it is always heartwarming to feel someone’s love in different ways

-Sometimes he does change the order in your home just to get your reaction though and then asks you “How could you have not seen it?”

-.......

-Don’t worry though, it’s never something that would pose a health risk of any kind. Although he did once switch your sugar and salt-

-He took a sip of your drink to show his greatest sympathies for you, and you had to chuckle when you heard him sputter and curse the drink

-Doesn’t shut up when you trace his face or figure. He is a bit sensitive, so it is a shocker to him when you do put your hands on his waist or on his cheeks, but he doesn’t let it affect his tongue. He yaps okay.

-Loves it a lot though. If you happen to do it late into the night when he’s tired and there’s nothing else but the two of you, he’d become sappy as well, one warm palm settled on the side of your face as he describes what he sees and how lovely you are, how beautiful, how much you mean to him.

-Sometimes he claims these never happened just to poke fun at you “for dreaming about him”

Scar:

-If you think Aalto was bad in any regard, you haven’t seen this goat-

-For one he is a yapper. He does not shut up, so at the very least you will not have any trouble finding him around , unless he goes quiet on purpose just so you can’t find him. Two - he loves to tease and poke fun at you here and there, but in his own way, this is how he shows he cares. He really doesn’t pay much attention to people he doesn’t care for or doesn’t know, he only gives his attention to people and things he does want and care for

-So the fact he is at your side a lot, does speak of his own priorities

-He’d often come back to you, throwing his arms around you from behind and resting his had on your shoulder as he starts to talk about one thing or the other, his weight weighing on you as well, but it is the comfort of it that keeps you from shrugging it off

-Scar does love to watch you simply do things. As he is not blind, he can’t really relate to your struggle, he just knows he’d hate it if he lost his own sight. To him, it is some miracle how you are still going about as anyone else would, well..  as best as you can without seeing things. 

-You’d often ask him about ingredients in jars that you found a little too suspicious to taste yourself, and when it comes to that he is pretty honest. He replies too fast for a jab to make itself known in his mind. 

-If you’re out walking, Scar makes it a point to have his hand on your somehow, either holding your hand or keeping his hand on your shoulder or arm or back. If he lets go and goes quiet, you know he’s being playful and wants you to search for him

-However annoying he can be at times with jokes and games such as these, he still wouldn’t set you in the midst of danger. He doesn’t play where it is not safe. So you can rest assured you won’t be finding any tacet discords while looking for him.

-Lets you hold onto his clothes or those dangling bits on his outfit, and you can joke around that you’re walking him like a dog and he’d scoff, laugh or bark. He finds it just as amusing as you do 

-When he is tired he comes to you on his own and pulls your hands onto his face. He lays in your lap, reveling in the soft feel of your fingers over his face, feeling the subtle change in skin textures in places he has scars. You take it all in, and it doesn’t matter if it’s the first or the hundredth time you do this, you take it slowly all the time, feeling his head grow heavy in your lap.

-Sometimes, during the day or when he’s simply awake and full of energy, he’d take your hand or tell you to touch his face just so he can nip at your fingers

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[dvrk-moon]

ENHYPEN OT7 ; 엔하이픈

PLAYING MINECRAFT WITH THEM

requested : no

genre : crack, fluff

pairing : enhypen x reader (can be platonic)

warnings : cursing + the members being menaces

heeseung ; 희승

absolute sweat

like speed runner esque

nags on you for being too slow and making him have a speed run time of over fifteen minutes

like you’re barely getting an oak log and he’s already in the nether. like u turn away for two seconds and he’s already built the portal

“heeseung where did you go” “i’ve almost killed the wither wait” … “CAN U CHILL OUT WE JUST CREATED THIS WORLD”

so u thought u were gonna have fun hanging out with heeseung on minecraft? NO

because as soon as he finishes his speed run and you finally got your first diamond, he’s decided to build a base

and u thought he was gonna be all cute and make u a room awwww!!! no.

he does make u a room, but the stairway up to ur room is a parkour course

(when the fuck did he have time to even make that?!!?!!)

first and last time playing minecraft with him

jay ; 제이

absolute knight in shining armor

literally

those mobs have nothing on his iron drip

protects u even if u don’t need it

“oh shit there’s a creeper” “ON MY WAY Y/N”

his netherite sword is CRACKED. like perfect enchantments

when he’s not protecting u he becomes ur farmer

the farm is so organized and beautiful jay is literally my husband pls

does in fact laugh when u die tho

like he’ll collect your stuff for you but the second he sees “[your gamertag] fell from a high place” he’s going to laugh for like two minutes straight

also he keeps an extra chest in his room for u

like in case u need something OR u die and he’s not able to collect ur stuff so it despawns

jay is so husband. even in minecraft

jake ; 제이크

he’s played before ok (trust him)

(it was when he was like nine)

like he’s very very. bad

he’s trying tho!!!

keeps dying. like every two minutes you see “jake_awesome2002 was blown up by a creeper”

he does not know how to change his gamertag so ur just stuck playing with jake_awesome2002

he starts getting the hang of it and immediately thinks he’s cracked at the game (he’s not)

so he disappears from you out of nowhere and so you try to help him :

“jake where are you” … “jake” … “jake sim where the fuck are you” …………. “i don’t know”

(cue “jake_awesome2002 fell out of the world”)

“JAKE HOW DID YOU FALL OUT OF THE WORLD” “I DONT KNOW”

he respawns and like sulks for three minutes before leaving and collecting dirt(?) for some reason

coincidentally you keep finding dirt blocks placed throughout your base afterwards! how silly of him!

sunghoon ; 성훈

he was so ready to show u how good he is

he’s not very good. but at least he’s better than jake!

he somehow is always in a cave or some sort of dangerous location

like say u found a village and you’re like “sunghoon come raid this village with me!”

meanwhile he’s trying not to die because of a pillager outpost

somehow he doesn’t?

he’ll go and do stuff like that or spend days in the nether and survive but his weakness is witches

like he doesn’t scream UNLESS there is a witch

and if you’re nearby ? he will 100% sacrifice you to the witch so that he can survive

womp womp

he actually sacrifices you quite a bit because he has like 36 levels

he thinks he’s funny when he does it too

sunoo ; 선우

honestly prefers to play in creative mode (me too sunoo)

but when you were like “let’s play in survival for once” he’s like “fiiiiiiiiinneeeeeuhhhh” (very dramatic about it)

he immediately builds a forever base when you spawn in

makes you do all the mining and stuff

he will tag along! but he won’t do shit

he’s the interior designer. he’s got bigger and better things to do

he only redeems himself when you go into the base and find your minecraft beds right next to each other

besides holding the house down, he also has an extremely high scale and successful farming system

so if you ever check in his chests, 100% you will find like 20 stacks of wood, stacks of wheat, of carrots, of beets, etc.

may be a homebody in minecraft but at least he’s fun to play with !!!! 10/10 would recommend to a friend

jungwon ; 정원

the miner

like you’re trying to get along with your day until jungwon stops and drops into the smallest cave ever

“what are u doing” “wait y/n we might need this copper” “jungwon don’t u already have like three stacks of copper” “yeah but we might need it”

lots of time spent mining

u eat your words tho when he is decked out in diamond armor from almost the get-go

when you guys build a base it HAS to have a little mine under the house (little as in huge)

somehow has like ten dogs?

“this one is maeumi, this one is maeumi’s friend, this once can be gaeul… maybe this one can be layla? oh! and this one is maeumi’s other friend. this one is bisco. this one is yours but you don’t get to name it. i will name it for you.”

they would be cats if it was really up to you but you’ll live

also refuses to elaborate on this thing he does

he makes tons and tons of signs and just places them around the base

some of them make sense and others just don’t at all

has a 2x2 fenced in area and the sign outside of it says “jail”

has anyone ever been sent to jail there? no. but as jungwon says “just in case”

riki ; 니키

possibly the worst yet most fun person to play with

at first you’re like “let’s play together” and he’s like “yeah sure whatever” but little do u know he has every plan in the world to turn the game into warfare

it’s even worse if you are playing on a realm rather than just a server

he abandons you from the get-go and immediately runs away and you can’t catch him so he builds a base far away from you

the base is in fact a dirt house

but it’s minecraft who said he had to be an architect

yes he abandoned you and is regularly attacking you at any given chance but he still keeps his tabs on where you are

walks all over your farm and kills your livestock

leaves signs saying “riki was here” “get rikrolled”

since he keeps tabs on you, u have to be very cautious of what you leave in your chests

he will steal anything. just for fun

threatens to blow up everything because he just wants to

little does he know if he wants warfare ur gonna give him warfare

a/n : this is random but i played mc like two days ago and i thought this could be a silly idea