#my inexperience bleeding through

[thresholdbb]

Managed to make Dal about 25 years older

[yestrnight]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ POCKET SLIME ! part two

FROM : cyno, tighnari / slime! gn! reader

SUBJECT :  after fucking the brains out of your masters, cyno and tighnari senses that’s something amiss. they suspect foul play and it has something to do with the cute stranger following them around. little do they know that you’re just a cute, innocent slime– well, as cute as you can be when you’re breaking them in.

LINK : (1) kavetham

( back with the monster doujin agenda bitches; dubcon; throat fucking (tighnari); multiple tongues (tighnari); prostate teasing (nari); i might have a thing for prostates idk; smut is making me discover myself; tentacles; knotting; my inexperience bleeds thru my writing; ahegao; mindbreak )

when the gang meet up for another one of their friendly tavern meetings (usually forced into a genius invokation showdown by cyno), tighnari and cyno senses something off about their seniors. for one, kaveh doesn’t immediately jump on the opportunity to send a disdainful comment at alhaitham’s way, nor does the scribe make the effort to make a snide remark about kaveh’s drinking. instead, they make eye contact, blush, and avert their eyes.

cyno and tighnari raise their eyebrows at each other. “maybe they finally resolved the underlying sexual tension,” cyno suggests, to which tighnari gives him a hard nudge on his side. the mahamatra hides his snigger under his cards, but behind them he narrows his eyes to observe his seniors a bit more.

the conversation with them is stilted— the two roommates are distracted and dazed, and they have to snap them out of it every minute or so just to bring them back to the topic at hand. sometimes they whisper to each other, uncharacteristically forgetting about tighnari's hypersensitive ears, but thanks to that he hears some interesting things. 

"where are they?" alhaitham hisses to kaveh, to which the blonde looks frantic and confused.

"i don't know!" he whispers back, albeit more worried than his counterpart. "what if they got lost? or attacked? ah… maybe i should pick them up. this is all your fault!" 

"my fault for training them to fit into human society? please," haitham scoffs. "if they're gonna live in my house then i expect them to—” suddenly, the tavern doors slowly creak open, and a shy head pops out to survey the room. the duo immediately snap their heads to look, and the newcomer brightens up when they lay their eyes on them. 

cyno and tighnari watch as they rush towards the two and engulf them in a hug, nearly knocking them from their chairs. their speech is incomprehensible to them, like gurgles, but it seems that kaveh and alhaitham understand it enough to hold a fretted conversation with them. kaveh is fussing over them, checking their body for any injuries, while alhaitham demands a full report on their day.

“went to the market, like masters told me to!” the newcomer beams up at them. they hold up the bag they were carrying, full of groceries, and kaveh coos and brings them in for a tight hug.

“oh you poor, poor thing!” kaveh bemoans, tearing up at your innocent smile before shooting haitham a sharp glare. “i cannot believe you sent them out like that without telling me! you know they don’t know anything yet!”

haitham is about to retort, before cut off by the stares of their two juniors. “uh, excuse me,” cyno speaks up, staring blankly at the obviously non-human entity in front of him. “is that your child?”

haitham and kaveh choke. you smile even brighter.

✧.*  TIGHNARI

TIGHNARI whose gift of being hypersensitive to everything lets him know what exactly type of creature you are when you walk through the tavern doors. it should be obvious, with how your body jiggles and the muffled squelching from your sandaled feet. the baggy clothes do well to hide most of your body, but TIGHNARI is one of the best researchers, and there’s no use hiding anything from him.

you’re a slime, but one that he hasn’t seen before. haitham detects TIGHNARI’s curious gaze and clears his throat. he explains how kaveh picked you up and how you revealed your ability to shift into a humanoid form (though he leaves out the filthy details for his dignity’s sake), and makes a request: that TIGHNARI look after you. there are many things that they don’t know about you and your special condition, and who better to trust this topic of research to than amurta’s leading researcher? haitham expresses that it’d be nice if they could take their hands off you for a while, and when TIGHNARI asks why, the pair averts their gaze and mumbles something about you being too distracting.

TIGHNARI who brings you to ghandarva ville and starts inspecting you. you let out a bubbly laugh every time he pokes and prods you, and even a few surprised squeaks when he touches the more sensitive spots. he observes how you vocalize and how your jelly constitution contributes to how warbly your speech sounds. you are made out of elemental energy, just like how normal slimes are, and yet he can’t grasp on how the hell you’re like this. some sort of experiment maybe?

whatever you are, TIGHNARI deems you useful enough to help around the village for your stay. he can’t have you revealing your identity to the villagers just yet, so you’re usually cooped up inside his home. the extra limbs you can make is useful, and you serve as a good cushion whenever collei drops something. he does feel bad for imprisoning you somewhat, so he makes a point to return to you as soon as possible. when he comes back, he can usually find you in your round slime form moping on his bed, only to quickly revert to your humanoid form when he walks through the door. un(?)fortunately, shifting shapes doesn’t exactly give you any clothes, so whenever you leap on him to welcome him back, he usually gets a faceful of chest.

TIGHNARI who one day comes home more tired than usual, stressed out by a group of stupid adventurers who angered a pack of rishboland tigers. he wants nothing more than to sleep, and apparently you can sense that, with how you slowly approach him. his tired eyes note how worried you look and he puts that info aside for later. “tired?” you cock your head, observing his slumped shoulders and drooping eyes. “i can help! have helped masters kaveh ‘n haitham before!” he thinks you’re offering a massage, because what else could you be offering? so he nods and lies down for you to do your work.

TIGHNARI who absolutely does not expect a cold tendril to snake under his clothes, and he yelps when he feels your weight on top of him. you’re smiling down at him with your usual innocent, brain empty one, but he feels something darker in your gaze. you giggle when more tendrils come out of your back, and they carefully peel off his clothes (your masters have scolded you over and over again about melting their clothes) . “wh– [your name]!” TIGHNARI sounds panicked as you strip him, and tries to cover himself up as he blushes under your intense gaze. “this is nowhere near appropriate! stop this at once– ah!”

you peel off one hand off his chest and admire his lean muscles. he shivers when he feels your cold fingers lightly circle his hardening nipples before they trail down his sides until you firmly plant your hands at his waist. he tries to squirm out of your grip, trying to deny the heavy haze settling over his mind, but you only lightly laugh while you saddle him. “been very long~” you purr, nuzzling his face and pouting up at him. “haven’t fed from masters in a long time. nari will give me food, yeah?” 

“f-food?” he lightly gasps in between your stroking. “i-if you want food, you could just ask meEE~! a-ah, stop that, y-you…!” too late, though. you’re licking and kissing all over his face, body grinding over his crotch as you shower him with your way of love. you grab his face with both hands to properly face you, and you eagerly devour his lips. your tongue parts his lips for you to dive in deeper, and TIGHNARI, giving in to the temptation, leans in towards the kiss.

you smile at this and press even deeper, your tongue wrapping his and stroking it up and down like it was cock. he should be ashamed at this filthy display, but he was too lost in the pleasure as he wraps his hands around you and brought you even closer. something sprouts from the back of your mouth– more tendrils– and his eyes widen when they join the single one in his mouth. more of them explore his mouth, obscene squelching noise reverberating in his head, and two even coil together to fuck his throat deep. the stimulation makes his toes curl and his fingers dig into your jelly mass till they’re sunk in deep. 

when you finally pull away, TIGHNARI choking as the tendrils slither out of his throat, he looks up at you. you smile at your work– fluttering and hazy eyes, tongue out, heavy panting, and a deep blush. “wh-what was that…? what did you…?”

 giggling at his curiosity, you open your mouth. “beh~” a multitude of tendrils squirm in your mouth, in place of where a human tongue should be. “master kaveh likes this very much! he trained me to do it~! and now, nari loves them too, yes?” he blushes harder, but he can’t find it in himself to deny it. ‘kaveh, you filthy degenerate…’ TIGHNARI makes a mental note to give him a good talking to later.

he finds himself staring at your tongues, rubbing his legs together as he remembers the pure ecstasy of fitting them all inside his mouth, and gulps. he's a respected amurta researcher, leader of the forest rangers… he shouldn't be lowering himself to such acts. but… but! TIGHNARI whimpers as he tries to soothe the fire inside him, his ears flattening. they felt so good… and well, this does count as research, right?

"[your name]..." he softly calls out, shyly taking his pants off as he stares at you hungrily. "p-please… i'll feed you even more, okay?" he can't believe what he's doing right now, but he slowly spreads his tiny asshole and looks at you pleadingly. "do it to me more, please ♡ ?"

soon, TIGHNARI finds his legs stretched up to his head, and the mischievous grin you give him as you eye his pink hole. there's something so deliciously depraved about this position and how it leaves him vulnerable to your attacks, and he can only watch through fingers as he hides his face. he watches as you lean in and lick his hole a few times, wetting and teasing it altogether, and gasps everytime your tongue passes over it. when he grinds into your mouth hoping you’ll do something… more, you laugh at him before finally fucking him with your tongues.

TIGHNARI who has his back arched beautifully, gasping and moaning as he stares wide-eyed at the ceiling. “ah~can’t b-believe this feels so– ah!-- so gooood~♡” the feeling of two tongues coiled around each other, thrusting in and out of his ass like another form of cock, has him seeing stars. perhaps it’s his animal instincts, but he quickly gets hooked on the feeling, and he grinds his ass in time to the thrusting of your tongues. “oooh, ngh, deeperrr~ go even deeper~♡” he grabs your jelly hair and starts moving your head back and forth, using you like a dildo so he can satisfy himself.

he knows you can go deeper, that you have the ability to shove your tongue so deep you’ll form a new womb. but you don’t, and he knows it’s on purpose by the mischievous glint in your eyes. “ooh ♡ wh-what are you doing…?” he sobs, thrusting your head harder as he tries to make you hit his prostate. “it’s not enough, not enough! make me cum, make me cum pleaseee!” but you’re always just an inch too short, barely grazing over the bundle of nerves but never truly touching. TIGHNARI hiccups as he grows even more frustrated.

you slip out of his grasp, as fluid as the slime that you are, and smile innocently at him. “nnoooo can dooo~” slowly, you finally align your cock at his hole, the tip nudging against the hungry little thing. “can’t have nari cum yet~ studied so much for him~” 

“s- study…?” only when he finally takes a peek at your cock, does he understand the meaning behind your words. a fat pair of balls, and a large, throbbing cock with a knot at its base. ah, you naughty little slime… you must have been reading his animal biology books while he was away, weren’t you? he doubts you understood anything from his complicated textbooks, but no doubt you used the images for reference.

he swipes a tongue on his lower lip, and uses his hands to present you his needy hole. ah~ he can’t help it at all~ he’s a man, a male fox hybrid… so why are the instincts of a vixen overcoming him? his mindless heart eyes stare hungrily at your cock, and pushes against the tip in hopes that you finally get to fuck him.

NARI who doesn’t think anything but your cock and your cock alone, who’s presenting himself like a bitch in heat. through his tears of frustration, he sobs for you to finally set him free from this agonizing torture. “[your name]~” he whines, like the debauched bitch that he is. “breed me, breed me pleaseeee ♡”

✧.* CYNO

CYNO who feels the same feeling of oddness from tighnari as he did from haitham and kaveh. when he goes to visit you and his friend, he can see the blush on the fox hybrid’s face whenever you’re brought up. he averts his eyes and fiddles with his fingers, looking away from him in an attempt to hide his growing blush. it’s exactly how guilt criminals act like, and his interest only piques.

when tighnari leaves for a patrol, CYNO enters his home to take a look at you. he doesn’t know what exactly tighnari has done with you, but it must be something bad to get the ever-collected researcher to act this distracted. he sees you in the normal slime form, that round squishy ball of cuteness, and a small surprised squeak from you when you see him has you morphing into a human form. a sound of surprise escapes him when you morph– naked body and all– and when you hug him, literally melting into him, he freezes. now he understands tighnari’s reaction.

CYNO who has you kneeling down the floor and is about to lecture you on the importance of clothes until you pout up at him, and he can’t help falling for that cuteness. “thought cy came to play with me?” an arrow struck his conscience. “why is cy so mad with me…?” another arrow struck his conscience. he doesn’t really have the heart to make you suffer through a lecture when you’re just a slime who barely knows the ways of humans. he sighs, a palm to his head, and decides to just observe you for now.

ecstatic to be closer to your masters’ and nari’s friend, you quickly show him around tighnari’s house. it’s something that CYNO has seen a thousand times before, but there are some added furniture for you. there’s a hammock by the window for you to sleep on (you add that nari is too shy to sleep with you, much to the general’s added interest), plants that serve as your snacks that nari cultivated to have elemental energy, and you pull out some of tighnari’s textbooks that you say you read in your spare time. judging by the way you keep pointing at the illustrations, there’s no doubt you can read a single letter of human language. but you’re cute when you happily describe the pictures anyway, so CYNO smiles fondly.

“here!” you flip to a page on animal biology and point to a jackal, then points at the headpiece that CYNO put away by the door. “reminds me of you!” he hums, scootching to you closer to get a better look. you don’t have any heat like how a human should, nor do you have the temperature of a pyro or cryo slime. dendro and geo slimes have this earthy scent to them while you’re scentless, you don’t zap him like how an electro slime does, and you’re clearly not anemo since you’re made out of some liquid. he should check on nari’s research on you later.

“and this!” you flip to another page, and CYNO suddenly starts choking on his spit. a picture of two jackals mating takes up a quarter of the page, and he hurriedly closes the book. he can’t have an innocent thing like you looking at such things! when he looks at you to warn you about these kinds of things, he’s greeted by your lusty leer as you press your noses together. “... they remind me of you too, cy~no~♡”

CYNO who you quickly consume with your smile, the lower half of his body completely seated in your jelly body, while the upper half leans on your chest as a cushion. you give him no time to struggle as you wrap your arms around his lean chest and lean in to lick his ear. he shudders at the new sensation, gasping as your tongue pokes and prods just at the hole. he’s clinging to your hand as you tease and blow his ear, and you giggle when a particular puff of air sends him shuddering in your touch.

“cyno~” you hum, one hand to trail down and twist his nipple. he moans at the sudden pain, and you take it as a sign to continue further. you pinch and tug at his cute brown areolas, giggling when his jaw slacks as he continues to moan and drool. “cyno is very cute~ like masters haitham and kaveh~ and nari-nari too~♡”

it should come as a shame to him, for the general mahamatra to succumb to such pleasures and be downgraded with a label like ‘cute.’ but he finds himself only nuzzling into your hand when you cup his cheeks, and moaning when you press a sloppy kiss to his cheeks. “gh~♡ i… i don’t understand this feeling~” he pants into your mouth, looking at you with a lust half-lidded gaze. “‘s all too– a-ahh… ♡– too muchhh~” 

“hmm… cyno’s never had sex before?” his inital judgment was wrong— you were nowhere near innocent. “that’s okay~! i can teach cyno sex like the maker taught me!” giggling, you tighten the mass around CYNO’s cock and watch as he gasps and sinks even deeper into your chest. “first, you go shhlick!” CYNO gasps when he feels multiple tendrils slowly enter his ass, slowly thrusting in and out to accomodate the slowly growing length inside him.

“h-huh?” while the slime inside him slowly expands, CYNO’s eyes widen when he sees a little bump on his stomach, and he hurriedly puts his palm on it as if to push it down. “wh-what’s going on? why… why is my stomach like… like that?”

you giggle at his confusion and panic, pressing a sweet kiss on his ear to which he shudders at. “cy-cy is very innocent, hm?” you gently clasp his shaking hand and slowly caress the little bump. “that is my cock inside you! and soon…~” you thrust up, eliciting a girly yelp from the white-haired man. “soon, my baby will be there too!”

before he can even question your words, your slimy length starts pounding him up and down. each thrust his prostate, and CYNO can barely process his feelings right now as you continue driving the slime deep into his ass. his legs shake while sunk deep into your slime, and through the translucent [color] mass he can see his hard cock leaking pre-cum. “o-ooh~♡ f-feels so goood ♡” his shaky moans is almost lost in the indecent wet slapping of your sex, and his eyes roll backwards when you squeeze the jelly around his cock. “ahhh~ah, ah, ah fuu~ck ♡ ooh, yeah, fuck me deeper into my hole pleeasseeee– thank you thankyouthankyouthankyouuuu ♡♡”

soon, you press CYNO onto his chest, your slime body beneath him accommodating his nipples by creating suction holes that suckle on them nonstop. his sweaty back faces you, and in the back of his mind, he’s thankful enough that you don’t have to see the absolutely fucked-out look he’s been wearing this entire time.

“cyno is very good at sex~” you hum, lovingly stroking his hair while you continue thrust into him like a beast. “you can cum into me, then you’ll be just like my masters and the others~♡”

✧.* IT’S A THREESOME!

you lean back on TIGHNARI’s chair, enjoying the show before you. two tentacles drive themselves deep into CYNO’s ass, leaving him no room to breath as they fuck a bump into his belly. sobbing at the overstimulation and sapped out of energy after being fucked for over an hour, his hands grip tighnari’s own as he incomprehensibly cries out pleas of mercy.

his friend, on the other hand, is a bit more energetic. tighnari grinds against the breeding cock fucking into him, a wide and satiated smile distorting his usually calm features. his rhythm is downright animalistic, and his eyes are only fixated on your knotted dick as he watches it slide in and out of his wet hole. he’s drooling, eyes empty with nothing but sexsexsex behind them, so in love with you and the pleasures you offer that they’ve morphed into hearts.

“p-please… breed me more, please ♡” nari can feel the knot slapping against his ass, and cyno watches in shame as his best friend sobs trying to shove the entire thing in. “kn-knot me, please ♡ fill me with pups… your pups ♡! [y-your name] i’m begging youuuu ♡”

“n-nari…” cyno whimpers, holding the fox’s hands tighter. “can’t– ooh ♡– can’t think anymore…”

you giggle behind them, suspending them midair as you and your limbs pull them closer to you. “you don’t have to think anymore cy-cy ♡” you hum, stroking his chin before kissing him deep. both of you can feel tighnari’s hungry stare as you and cyno share a sloppy kiss, and you soothe his growing jealousy by shifting your attention and kissing him too. while cyno sits by dazed, nari eagerly laps up all the slimes you have to offer, taking them in like a man in a desert. “no one has to think at all ♡”

they can feel your cocks pulsing inside them, evident in the way they begin to pound themselves on your lengths. while cyno struggles to take your squirming tentacles to their base, tighnari’s broken laughter fills the air as he readies himself to take in that breeding knot. soon enough, hot and viscous slime erupt inside them, and their bodies arch in a silent scream as they feel you giving them more than they could take. 

the general goes slack in your hold, body twitching and spasming as the tentacles spurt more wave after wave of sweet nectar inside him. tighnari releases a moan of relief as you force the knot all the way in, and when you pull, he squeaks as he gets pulled alongside your cock. he gives you a pouty glare whilst his partner stares slack-jawed at the ceiling.

ah~ if only your creator could see you right now, fulfilling the very reason you were born to do. you wonder if he’ll be very proud of you, to have the four of the finest men in sumeru succumb to your temptations. he had always told you that you were less slime and more of a demon, anyway. you don’t exactly know what a ‘demon’ is, but judging by the happy and satisfied looks on your friends’ faces, you’re sure that it’s something that makes humans verryyy happy, right ♡ ? 

[decafdoodlez]

RenRina NSFW Headcanons/Dynamics

A short list of self-indulgent NSFW headcanons and dynamics for my TPoF OC and Fox, though I think some of these could be applicable to Fox x Reader scenarios. ❤️‍🩹

a/n: I am cringe™️, but I am free (part 2), but a little spicier~🌶️ To be honest, I’ve drawn plenty of NSFW, but I’ve never actually written it, so apologies if anything sounds a little disjointed, this is my first time writing anything remotely raunchy! (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)

word count: 1.1k

warnings/tags: NSFW | written with AFAB OC x Canon in mind, captive/captor themes, toxic dynamic, power imbalance, age difference (both adults are 25+), just lots of fucking headcanons

Marina was a virgin before meeting Fox. Marina had only ever focused on furthering her career, so relationships and sex (or lack thereof) were very much the lowest on her list of priorities in life. (She would’ve been content e-fucking anime boys for the rest of her life, lmao)

In their second livestream, Fox states that it doesn’t matter to him one way or another if she’s a virgin or just inexperienced, though he can’t help but find it adorable seeing Marina fumble her way through and gagging while giving him a blowjob, or her legs giving out and becoming Jell-O immediately from trying to bounce up and down on his knotted member.

Marina isn’t completely clueless about sex, having played 18+ otome hentai games, but putting what she learns in theory from these games into practice is another story. Fox lavishes in her sweet, sweet ignorance, and ever so “lovingly” teaches her everything he knows to get the two of them to the peak of ecstasy.

Despite being a sadist, Fox isn’t only interested in getting himself off. Fox also derives pleasure from getting Marina off. Seeing her go from the prim and proper picture of untouched innocence into a broken, crying, and filthy whore for him and him alone makes his cock twitch at just the thought of it.

Fox at his core is a versatile switch, enjoying roles as dominant or submissive depending on his partner, but because of Marina’s inexperience and role as “pet,” he performs a dominant top role in the bedroom. Though, he does encourage (force) Marina to top him, just to see her buckle under the pressure of having to perform well enough for him as she grinds her hips against his.

Though he has retired Marina from gore torture streams, he still fucks her on camera occasionally, without going too extreme on her in terms of physical pain with the requests that roll in from the chat. These streams are not as popular as his snuff streams, but they still hold an audience of devoted Fox fans who just enjoy watching their favorite furry DILF fuck pretty and sweet little pets.

Fox is not a tit or ass man, to him, they both have their merits. BUT if he had to choose, his preference is for whichever part of his partner is larger, so in this case, Marina’s breasts are his favorite part of her body.

Speaking of Marina’s breasts, her large nipples are quite sensitive and she gains pleasure from them being teased and toyed with. Fox takes advantage of this fact, and often finds himself suckling on her tits and leaving bleeding marks on her areolas like a leech. >:3

Marina’s bust size is 34F, and Fox will never let her get a reduction. But conversely, he doesn’t need her to get an augmentation either; he likes her big naturals just the way they are.

Fox’s cock is an average length at 5 inches from tip to knot, and 6.25 inches from tip to base. The stretch from his knot is absolutely delicious.

Fox’s pubic hair is a thick white fur that trails down from his navel to the base of his shaft. His fur also cutely runs from his lower back into his ass crack, to around his hole and trailing up to his taint and balls. uwu

Fox’s nicknames for Marina as he fucks her are a far cry from the sweet names he usually purrs out for her. Some of his more raunchy favorites are “Fuck doll,” “breeding bitch,” “fuck bunny,” “cum slut,” and “cocksleeve.” His more standard nicknames are “pet,” “naughty little girl/slut/whore,” “crybaby,” “needy little baby,” “baby/babydoll,” and “my (little) girl/baby.”

Though Fox enjoys fucking as a whole, his favorite position would have to be doggy or prone. (Shocker /s) Having one arm pulled back and her face pressed into the surface she’s being bent over is the most intoxicating position for him. Seeing his cock go in and out of her puffy and slick folds while he has a firm handle on her round and reddened ass as she has no way of escaping him pounding into her drives him animalistic.

Marina’s favorite position is missionary. It’s a bit on the safe side and a more standard position, but it makes her feel loved when Fox looks her in the eyes as he slams his cock into her needy hole and his balls slap against her ass.

Missionary may not be Fox’s favorite position, but he does enjoy how romantic it can be. Plus, he gets to watch her breasts flop around rhythmically as he pounds into her.  

Fucking with Fox can go one of two ways, fast & rough/primal, or soft & slow/passionate. It’s all dependent on how he’s feeling. He’s got beastly and feral qualities for sure, but at his core, he is a bit of a romantic, and likes to display that side of himself on occasion.

Despite his age, Fox has better stamina than one could expect for a man pushing 50. He can keep a steady stroke pace, and usually cum twice or three times in a fuck session.

Marina on the other hand taps out quite easily, and whines and cries as she convulses from the overstimulation, while Fox continues to pump in and out of her, chasing his own high.

Fox is not averse to having Marina pass out as he fucks her, but he will smack her face a bit to wake her up if he sees her falling unconscious. He’d just prefer if she’d stay awake as he ruins her. He wants her to remember the feeling of every inch of his cock and how it stretches her out…and unfortunately, “you can’t do that while sleeping, darling.” uwu

Fox gets very excited when hearing Marina’s shrill whimpers and whines. With each mewl that leaves her pretty little lips, his tail thumps harder and faster, and his grip on her supple flesh becomes tighter and rougher.

Fox has taught Marina how to squirt. (Or fucked her well enough to squirt, rather.) The first time she squirted was while he was eating her out, sucking and nibbling on her clit until the last bit of composure inside of her just snapped. After coating his face in her fluids, Marina thoroughly apologized to Fox, thinking she had done something wrong and off-putting by making a mess, ultimately thinking she would be punished for it. However, Fox with a predatory gaze licked his lips then continued to work away to Marina’s sensitive clit, over-stimulating her further to the point of her releasing her juices again and again as she shrieked in the pain derived from the pleasure.

a/n: This list was a bit all over the place, but I feel like I could go on and on, haha. I could certainly do a part two to this! I think I may want to pick a kink and do a one shot for my next writing though. I want to play around with dialogue, hehe. Thank you for reading!~ ❤️‍🩹

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

[Please read while listening to this.]

IF THERE WERE TRUTH IN REINCARNATION, you would beg to be reborn as a kitten. A cherished kitten who was allowed to sit on a human's lap whenever looking for warmth. Perhaps if people saw you as a nice, furry creature acting cute, they wouldn't hurt you. Perhaps if they thought of you as a creature simpler to understand, they wouldn't abandon you.

Being a human child is weary work. They say you were created from the proof of love between two inseparable people; your very breath is a testament to their unbreakable union. And your identity is sculpted by the undeniable beauty they believed the world possessed, compelling them to bring forth new life to share in the splendor of it all.

So, who are you now after they've parted ways? Father was no longer just your father; he had formed a new family with another two daughters as evidence of his love for a woman who wasn't your mother. You are no longer his favorite, and surely you are not the only one. Meanwhile, Mother is only left as a vengeful woman, reacting with anger each time she glimpses traces of your father in you—in your words, mannerisms, or even thoughts. Any divergence from her own beliefs, she considers defiance.

(Didn't you say, I am proof of their love? Don't you know, that promises can be broken and roots can be severed. Marriage should be forever until it isn't. Then, who am I if they are no longer love each other?)

The pitiful child of man shuffled through the world; full of despair, without self-identity. Not daddy's little girl, no longer a copy of mommy. The soft hair that was once braided was more like a tapestry full of wounds piled up early on. However, no one knows this – they say, “What do little children know about adult problems?” and yet, your body ended up bleeding internally from continuously swallowing the thorns spit out by your two originators.

Forced to grow—my spine wasn't developed enough to be your pillars! Mature little girl.

If reincarnation is true, then, you hope to be placed in a kinder world. A place where happiness is within reach—where you will always be embraced by love. So you don't have to scavenge looking for it in everything.

In a kiss offered by a stranger.

The tea lies long abandoned on the coffee table, gone cold hours ago. Yet, the taste still lingers on his lips – bergamot and spice mingling with something uniquely him. Your eyes were tightly closed, but you could feel the warmth radiating from his approaching body. He places a hand under your chin to tilt your face, and he slides his tongue in with practiced ease. You breathe in his aroma deeply, and a thin cloud falls over your consciousness.

Simon kissed with quiet intensity, giving you the impression that it wasn't his first time. It doesn't matter; you already lost your first kiss to your high school crush anyway. But, when compared, this is nothing like the chaste, fleeting peck bestowed by Billy Thompson behind bleachers in junior year. That was a schoolgirl's kiss. This? This sets your blood ablaze.

Laid bare, you are. With your pleading love-me eyes—the gaping mouth of a virgin begging for someone to pour love into it until it hits the back of her throat, swallowed without a trace – “let me wash my esophagus with this. So that my future lovers don't find out how unlovable I am.” Some sort of ablution. And Simon becomes the all-compassionate man, volunteering for a play where he acts as your lover.

His tongue brushes against yours—a clumsy dance of your inexperience. But Simon took the lead, coaxing your shy response. Your hands crept up and clutched the sleeve of his leather jacket. As he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, warmth pooled in your lower abdomen.

This, you realize dimly, is what fills the pages of your well-worn romance books—passionate kisses and warm breaths mingling with each other. One difference is your lack of love for each other. It doesn't matter; after all, lust is a cheap substitute for love, just as searing.

(Starving people eat anything, right?)

When Simon put his big hands on your waist, you gasped and pushed him away. His brows were furrowed in confusion, but his eyes were waiting for you. Your cheeks reddened as you avoided his gaze.

“S-sorry…”

Simon watched patiently, his hands hovering but not crowding. A thought occurred to you—clumsy and awkward as you felt. You bit the inside of your cheek as you gathered your courage.

“I should, um, find...” Your voice fell to a whisper. "Contraception."

He just nodded, his expression carefully schooled. You got up from the couch, knees shaking, trying to ignore the embarrassing damp sensation between your legs, and ran towards the bedroom like a frightened doe.

As you searched through the dresser, you stumbled upon a sealed box beneath a pile of clothes. In a rush, you pulled out the box with fumbling fingers, barely managing to keep it from slipping from your grip. A small foil wrapper—a precaution purchased on a whim, “just in case” some imagined future occasion arose. Little did you know, that occasion would be this night with this stranger turned companion.

Through the door, you hear Simon's gentle footfalls approaching. Your heart threatens to jump from the confines of your ribs. Turning, you found him waiting for you, sitting at the end of the bed, pink sheets against his dark leather jacket.

Suddenly, the tiny foil packet feels heavy and itchy around your fingers. Gathering what little courage you have, you approach on unsteady legs and perch beside him, close but not quite touching. Your gaze was still on the carpet patterns, which looked strangely more interesting, while your hand reached out to hand him the small square.

Simon's eyes fell on the foil packet, staring at it like it was a foreign object. He looked up at you.

“You ever done this before?”

Your cheeks flushed with renewed shame at his question. “No, I haven't.”

The quiet confession hangs heavy in the air. You wait for him to take that little packet from you—part of you expects him to take advantage of your inexperience. Is that not what men do when presented with a willing body and an opportunity? A chance to take the lead, to act like they know everything—taking it from a girl and then going home to brag off to their equally asshole friends. As if their cocks were that great to be able to change a woman with just a few thrusts.

And while this may seem unjust, you can't help but generalize the rough types that frequent bars like the one you've both visited. Subconsciously, you make the same assumption about Simon.

But, he proved himself to be different. He confounds your expectations and judgment at every turn. Calming softness is the last thing you would expect from a hardened soldier like him. He has mapped every opening, joint, and gap in you that he may exploit against you—

And yet, when anyone else would seize the opportunity for easy pleasure, he pulls back, lost in his own thoughts that you can't begin to understand.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Might be better, your first time… if it's with someone important. Someone who'll treat you right."

"It's just sex."

Before you can stop yourself, the words escape your lips in a feeble attempt to contain the raging tempest of feelings inside. But even as you say that, you know in your heart it's not true. From the time you were a teenage girl singing cheesy songs and poring over fairytales, you've dreamed that your first time would be with a lover—someone you truly cared about, someone who dedicated their body to you out of love rather than simply lust. You’ve imagined yourself on your wedding night, sealing your bond in the most sacred ways.

Foolish, romantic notions, like a fragile dream, you know. And some small, still-hopeful part of you holds onto that fantasy, hoping it will come true. But that too erodes with time, evaporating more and farther from your grip until you are forced to settle for something within your reach. Desperation drives the unthinkable, right?

Another wave of silence between you. Simon hung his head low before taking the foil packet from your curled fingers. The bed creaks softly as he rises to tower over you. His strong hands are bracing the mattress on either side of you, caging in but not touching. Your heartbeat forms an accelerando as you hold your breath, peering up at him through your lashes to take in every detail you could in this dark room.

“Last chance, darling,” he rasps, searching your eyes. “Once we start, there's no taking it back.”

When he speaks, his breath washes hotly over your lips, and the gravel in his voice makes your insides clench. Supported only the dim light of the moon through the window for illumination, the lean muscles under his jacket looked more defined, and those irises seemed to darken with promise and more enigma.

You swallowed to relieve the sudden dryness in your throat. He's so hard to decode, and a small voice warns you not to mess with something you don't understand.

Something born of desperation takes hold of you. Before your courage fails you, you reach up to trace fingers along his stubbled jaw, feeling his muscles stiffen under your touch. Your lips came closer and pressed against his as a plea and answer. Heat floods your veins at the contact. Simon paused over you, letting you set the pace as your mouths moved together. His hands gently massaged the fat on your thighs, following the curve of your hips.

Simon's hands find purchase on your waist, thumbs tracing idle circles coaxing soft sighs from your lips. He deepens the kiss, and you follow gladly, clinging to his broad shoulders as he leans you back on the bed. Your heart is pounding wildly. He drags his lips to plant kisses, molding your body perfectly to his solid form.

Before he even stripped your clothes off, you already felt exposed in front of him. Your body isn't good with secrets; when he marks your pulse point with gentle suckles, you tangle your fingers in his dark blonde strands. His mouth ignited a flame against your flesh.

Some small, rational part of your mind screams this is madness. What will Mother say, when she finds yourself lost in the arms of a stranger, giving yourself so freely? “A man's heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing!” she kept repeating. But you're only borrowing this man's body and tonight, not his heart.

As Simon straightens above you, his hand flies to your jeans button with intent. Shyness overcame you in a sudden wave. “I-I'll do it,” you stuttered in a small voice, your cheeks burning.

Without waiting for his response, you sit up enough to fumble with the stubborn button with trembling fingers. Stupid pants. Why does it have to be difficult when you're desperate to shed these last few barriers between you? Sweaty fingers are slipping clumsily. Frustrated, you curse under your breath, the haste making your efforts futile.

A lifetime seems to pass before your buttons are finally free. Peeking through the gap, the plain white cotton is visible, trimmed with a small white satin ribbon at the waistband. Shit. If only you had known what tonight held in store, you'd have definitely chosen something lacier, sexier to match the mood.

Though, Simon didn't give any reaction other than maintaining his steady gaze at you. You again try to wiggle and squirm against the denim down your legs. Come on, come on, don't ruin the mood-

Before you could protest, his hand replaced yours. Large and sure, they grip your waist to guide you to lie down once again as he tugs the jeans free in one smooth motion. The denim hits the floor with a careless toss, leaving you with your top and the flimsy barrier that you put on without thinking. Instinctively, you squeeze your thighs together, acutely aware of your condition beneath his stare.

“Please don't look,” you plead shyly.

“Why?”

The single word rumbles out gruff, without judgment—too flat to contain one. He asked that in pure curiosity while continuing to stare at you.

“It's… embarrassing.” Your voice was small, almost a whisper as you avoided his gaze.

In truth, you feel naked in more ways than one. Between your legs, a dark spot has formed where your arousal has bled through the fabric and how it might disgust him. Your breasts feel heavy and sensitive where they strain against your bra. Every nerve is alive—hyper-focused on every minuscule movement and warm breath between you. It only took one touch from him to dissolve any remaining control.

The silence stretches while Simon is on his own agenda, studying you in considerations you don't understand.

“You want to stop, then?”

Simon's question sent a shot of panic through you. Stop now, even though you've just lost yourself in the sensation? When this man is the only person who can offer you the only scrap of comfort and care that you will never find again?

You shook your head vigorously. “No, please… don't stop.”

It was so embarrassing how your voice came out small and ragged—full of pleading for him not to lift his warm touch on your skin. To send him away from your bed now would be to return to the cold emptiness that has become your constant companion. He has seen half of you; might as well completely strip yourself for him and lose these foolish inhibitions. It seems that you too have no idea what moderation is; it was always all or nothing.

“Can’t reach your pretty cunny with your legs clenched shut, darling,”

Simon's coarse words spread a new flame to flare up in your cheeks. Your core feels wetter and throbbing than before, and you swallow thickly in morification.

Before you can think further, his thick thighs part your own with gentle insistence. You let out a small gasp. The stupid, girlish white panties were exposed to his view. But he makes no move to touch, merely hums his approval.

A sharp breath penetrated your lungs as he dragged his fingers to trace the outline of your cunt through the fabric. He pressed his thumb against your folds and slipped in. Under his caresses, you writhe and grab the sheets, your hips lifting in an instinctive need for greater friction. He spreads your slick flesh.

You barely register anything when he positions his face in front of your panties. Then, he leans in, nuzzling his nose against the damp barrier. Panicking, you clamp your thighs together on instinct to deprive him of access.

“Wait!” you gasp. “That's… it's dirty.”

Simon looked up from down there, at you as if he didn't comprehend what you'd just said. The soft light of the moon cast a silver hue on his blonde eyelashes, making them resemble the feathers of a Greek goddess's wings. His gaze, intense and piercing, locked onto yours, penetrating through your feeble objections. They see beyond your meager resistance, straight into your deepest desires.

Color rose in your cheeks, but the dimness of the room made them blend seamlessly with the background. You bit your swollen lip, not sure if you should ask him to stop completely and pull back to spare you the vulnerability or continue the treatment.

Without a word, he placed his big hands on your hips. You watched him grasp the waistbands of your panties before dragging it down to pool at your ankles. The fresh air caressing your newfound nudity sends chills down your spine. Another tug, and the scrap of fabric joins your discarded clothes on the floor.

Now, you're lying there with evidence of your undisguised arousal—sticky, glistening liquid from his touch in the past few minutes. Evidence of your pathetic desires.

Some small, rational part of you wants to flee, to cover yourself with anything. To ruin everything by saying that this was all a mistake—that now that you think about it, you don't want it anymore. That it's not too late, there's still time before he makes engravings on your walls with his pen like a stamp.

But that other part of you—Goodness.

And unfortunately for your liar side, that's the part Simon focuses on.

A cry escapes your lips when Simon returns his committed mouth between your thighs, granting your latter wish. He brushes his lips against your swollen flesh, making your back arch helplessly off the bed. Your legs fall open of their own accord. He wastes no time to delve deeper, lapping eargerly at your dripping slit. Each flick of his tongue broke one by one the chains confining your control, drawing out more sweet moans that made his jeans tighten even more from the aching hardness that was growing inside.

When his lips close around your swollen clit, you gasp, fingers curling around the bed sheet. Your body wriggled and trembled beneath him but Simon remained unperturbed. His blonde head was steadfast, focused solely on his devotion to pleasuring you.

You feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter as he continues to lavish your weeping cunt. Incoherent noises spill from your lips – gasps and whimpers and cries escape without restraint. He pins your hips down and grips your thighs to keep them wide open.

“Simon… I… oh God…”

Tangles are created in your sheets as your fingers continue to twist them desperately in a tight grip. Every nerve alive and hyper-focused on the sensations his tongue continued to convey. Your pulsing walls close together as low pressure builds in your stomach.

“Si-Simon! I feel strange, I—oh!”

A wave of heat rolls from your lower stomach as your muscles clench and spasm uncontrollably. Your thighs quiver—you cover your face from the overwhelming sensation. White spots dance in your vision. Some dam has broken deep inside you, and you fall, fall, fall as a tear slips down your flushed cheek. Warm essence flowed freely towards his tongue, and he tasted it against the walls of his palate. His lips were wet, but Simon licked the remainder like a man long seized of water.

The room feels impossibly still and quiet. Only the sound of your mingled breaths and your racing heartbeat fill the humid air. You keep your flushed face covered. Now that the haze has cleared, your mind is swirling with shame and uncertainty again.

How do you deal with him now that he has buried his tongue in your cunt? The sticky mess between your thighs reminds you that he has brought you to the peak of ecstasy with just his hands and mouth. Nonetheless, your taut nipples and the pounding in your ears indicate that, despite everything, you still want more.

The whisper of fabric is heard as Simon shifts. You peer through your fingers to find him leaning over you, calloused hands gently pulling your palm away.

“You alright?”

The question, however gentle and well-intentioned, caused your skin to heat up in discomfort. You can't help but feel embarrassed—as if he sees you as some fragile thing, needing reassurance after every little touch. As if you're a mess, a tiny bird that soars too and falls, making sympathy his default emotion whenever he looks at you.

It makes you think about all the other women he must have been with, how he must have touched them in the same way he was touching you now. Those who are nothing like you. Those who understand their own desires and a man's. Those who could lose themselves for hours in passion, their stunning hips swinging above him as his hands glide along their curves without hesitation or restraint. It leaves a strange taste in your mouth—bitter and almost envious.

All the women around him, and unfortunately Simon has to settle with you tonight. A shy woman, unsure of her own identity.

Something has narrowed in your chest. Your lungs feel heavy as you breathe in, like an anchor is binding it to the bottom of your soul. But, you manage to give him a nod. And before your stupid mouth ruin everything, you surge up to capture his hungry lips with your own. Your arms snaked around his neck to bring his body closer to yours.

“How do they do it, those who make love without love?” you often ask. The first time you wonder about this, you compare it to building a house without a foundation. Impossible. It's like writing without words or dancing without music.

But as you sink beneath his bulky frame—as Simon lifts your legs to wrap around his hips and grinds his hardness against your cunt, drawing a moan from you and feeling the roughness of his jeans against your swollen folds—you begin to understand that it's possible. Those who make love without love simply need to possess the desire—a determined, tenacious grip on something.

As your teeth collided, the kisses grew more passionate and frenzied; it was unclear who was feeding off whom's hunger. His hips rolled into you. Tongues tangled together in an unrehearsed dance that ignites sparks coursing through your veins. He nibbles your bottom lip, and you moan into his mouth.

Reeling for breath, you turned away, only to give Simon the opportunity to nib on your jaw and trace kisses down your neck. His hand slid under your shirt, creeping up your ribs to cup your breast.

When he reaches the delicate shell of your ear, he closes his teeth gently around the lobe and tugs. You cry out at the sharp pain mixed with pleasure. His busy hands kneaded your breasts, twisting your erect nipples between his thumb and forefinger. He slides the other down your belly and stops to cup your cunt. You gasp and buck against his hand as he starts circling your clit lazily, dragging two fingers up and down, coating it with another wave of your essence.

“Off… take it off.” You mutter without thinking.

Simon understands your breathless demand. Kneeling between your thighs, he makes quick work of his leather jacket, tossing it without a care for the floor. You watch him take off his shirt, muscles rippling as he grasps the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head.

Your weathered heart, fluent with wounds and what is left behind in its wake. However, when the covering is removed, you're not prepared for the sight revealed to your eyes. His body—Simon's body. His chest was a masterpiece of defined muscle, and his abs were chiseled as if they were as solid as granite. The trail of blonde hair leads temptingly below the waist of his jeans.

It was the map of scars on his flesh that drew your attention. Pale lines, both thin and thick, had claimed their places, like the constellations he carried as proof that he had been hurt and survived. All his close calls, markings of victory—there were people who wanted him dead, but he lived to tell the story.

Still, in the dim light of the room, one scar seems strikingly different from the others.

A long, deep gash curves gracefully around one side of his ribs, which have healed into a thick rope of knotted flesh. You wonder about its possible origins—some accident, perhaps, working with tools or machinery gone wrong. Another one of his secrets you're not deemed worthy for him to share with.

Seeking to regain some composure, you grasp the hem of your sweater and draw it over your head. The only thing left on you was the white bra.

He observes your body with a careful scan before meeting your gaze once more. Leaning down, he captured your lips in his parted ones, renewing the kiss. You lifted your back slightly to make way for one of his hands. He fumbled with the small hook before releasing it, freeing your breasts in relief.

Simon cupped your breasts, fingers fully rounded and exploring freely now with more access. You let out another moan. He inserted your breast into the warmth of his mouth, his tongue dancing around it as he gently sucked. You arched against his body, pressing your chest against his.

He releases your swollen nipple with a tiny pop sound. You watched as Simon rose to his knees, eyes never leaving your form as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small foil packet you gave him earlier. Placing the square between his teeth, he reaches down to unzip his jeans. Your breath hitches in anticipation.

But to your secret dismay, the jeans stay on, shielding his thighs and underneath from view. Hope dissipates from your heart – a foolish, unfathomable melancholy seeps in through the empty rooms. As you watch him tear the packet open with his teeth and roll the condom down his length, you try to tell yourself that you have no rights—that this means nothing to him as it does to you. That this is merely your way of finding pleasure in each other until morning calls.

Yet, the disparity between you weighs heavily, as he has seen every intimate part of you, and you're still denied some access to him.

As Simon finishes rolling on the condom, your thoughts become detached. Desperate for a distraction—comfort, you stretch out your arms in invitation. He accepts your wordless plea, diving into your embrace and covering your mouth with his own as he slowly presses his cock forward. You feel the stretch and burn; your walls have been breached to accommodate his large size. The foreign fullness—the pulsing sensation of having a man fill you so completely—draws a quiet gasp from you.

Breaking the kiss, he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You felt him take a shuddering inhale. He started to move slowly, the stretch and burn of your walls parting further. Your breath comes short and sharp as tears prick the corners of your eyes from the sting of it.

“Too much? Want me to go easy?”

The question that leaves his lips tugs at the feet of your heart. And you believe that's how unlovable people behave—the urge to keep searching, to lick it even from the tip of a knife. The urge to see where it was never present.

You know he only shows concern for you to continue bringing him pleasure. Yet, some part of your traitorous, fickle heart, swells. The conviction that there is something worth feeling, something flickering in the distance—timidly but surely blooming, waiting to be discovered.

(Butterflies take flight in my belly. My heart has learned to feast on even the driest of breads.)

“No… keep going,” you rasp.

So, you cling to him tighter, urging him on despite the ache, because having him move within you is the closest you'll come to an embrace—to a cheap substitute for love. Let me drown; let his touch envelop my body – to become both his refugee and prisoner. Let me lose myself in this illusion, for it is all I have.

Simon pushed himself in further. You bit your bottom lip feeling him against your walls; your blunt nails create half-moons into his flexing back and shoulders. The burning feeling is emphasized before gradually disappearing and is replaced by pleasure. You threw your head back against the pillow as he slowly sped up his thrusts, bringing your hips to meet his.

A broken gasp escapes your lips when he slightly changes his angle and slams back in. His name was uttered in the lewdest sounds—gasoline on the fire of his lust, creating another wave of vigor to slide his cock in and out of your weeping hole.

Silhouette was created when he straightened his back, blocking out the moonlight. His muscles rippled beneath his skin as he continued to deliver controlled thrusts. You watched the sweat slide slickly down the cords of his neck. He gripped your hips before pulling out. You whimpered at the empty ache. But, before you can protest, he slams in the angry crown and fills you to the hilt in one deep thrust.

The mirror at the end of the room has steamed over from the heat. Simon places his large hand firmly on your lower belly, pinning you down in place. He brought his other hand to rub circles over your swollen clit. Your lips form a perfect 'O' as you gasp.

Through heavy-lidded eyes, you follow the outline of his collarbone, droplets of sweat sliding down his skin. The sound of flesh slapping flesh was accompanied by mingled cries and moans. You turn your face into the pillow, watching how the sheets tangle and crumple around your desperate fingers. Simon quickened the roll of his hips; the bed squeaked with each one.

 “Ah! O-oh, Simon! Simon! I’m—!”

Your body trembles as unbridled moans escape from your failing lips. He pushes your stomach farther in while continuing to piston his hips. Your breasts bounce and sway; sweat covers taut, flushed nipples. He rammed his fat cock into you so hard that it caused you to boil and surrounded your messed-up brain with smoke.

“You close for me, darling? Gonna come all over my cock?”

Your cunt throbs from his breathy voice. Brows furrowed, lips parted around gasps and sighs. The lacrimal glands swell. Every inch of your senses is narrowed into hyper-awareness, with focus scattered all over and your thighs trembling uncontrollably. The white spots on your brain are spreading. His thrusts became sloppier as his hips stutter. Your stomach tightened, velvety walls pulsing around his twitching length until Simon buried his face in your shoulder.

A litany of curses and praise fell from his lips. His cock flooded in scalding heat of your slick juices mixed with his climax. The two of you stayed like that for a moment, trying to stabilize your ragged breathing and regather reality.

While your brain recovers, you stare at the boring ceiling of your room. The heaviness in your limbs and sore muscles replace the last waves of pleasure. Your mind wandered aimlessly, half-aware that you were still clinging to him.

Simon rose, drawing his body away from yours. He pulled out his cock, and the emptiness suddenly felt foreign. You observe drowsily as he stands on his knees to fix his trousers – his movements appear hurried now, as he no longer needs to linger after having taken his pleasure. Feeling exhausted, you lay motionless.

“You good?” he asked, looking at you.

You gave him a weak nod. “M’alright… just sleepy,” you mumble, biting your lip.

For a second, something flickered in Simon's eyes—something akin to tenderness. But it's gone as quickly as it came, and in your current condition, you're not a competent witness either. Maybe it's just a reflection of your desire for him to stay, to hold you one more night, and to leave in the morning. Too involved, too risky.

That wasn't the deal, you know.

And you also know that you've always been bad at letting go, of your habit to cling fiercely to what you love until your marks are ingrained upon them. You loathed the cold room now that he had detached himself from you. But it would be selfish beyond measure to ask him to stay, to shower your desperate wounds with his kisses as gently as he did when he was still under the spell of lust. You couldn't drag anyone along with you. It would be unfair, even cruel. You couldn't do that, not to Simon.

You turn to your side and pull the blanket over your naked form. Shutting your eyes, you tried to fight the dull ache rising in your chest.

“You can go,” you mutter.

Simon stood silent for a moment, his agreement given in silence. The mattress groaned softly as he shifted his weight. You heard him finish getting dressed, followed by the soft, steady padding of his footsteps against the floor. Each step takes him further from the bed. You heard the sound of the door knob turning and the door swinging open, allowing a sliver of light from the hallway to peek through the gap before it continued to narrow and darkness returned.

Then comes the click of the door as it fully closes, and you're all alone again.

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[sunnywindow]

Jellyfish mermaid concept

Floyd Leech x Reader

Just a little concept I had floating in head about childhood "friends" concept with Floyd!!

---

You were staring at the water's surface above you. Usually, you'd be out right now, floating aimlessly, following food..

The surface called you, pulling at your heart like it was tied to a string

Each breath you took felt like it took you closer and closer to food, nourishment, enrichment; and each exhale likewise plunged you kilometers back to the bottom of the sea.

You heard words drifting past without ever registering them, lost like those leaves in the wind you've read about. You felt the current pulling you further up to the surface.

There was laughter and giggling in the forefront; there was murmuring a little ways off. And somewhere deep and dark in the nursery, there was crying.

But at the surface of the water, there was food. And your stomach gnawed at you desperately. Loneliness tried its hand at weakly scratching its way out. Sadness pulled you up helplessly, stripping you of your autonomy. Emptiness ate at you from your stomach, to your eyeballs, to your fingertips.

On the outside, the laughter got louder, as did the giggling. As for the hunger, it grew exponentially more loud and demanding by the second.

Loneliness ripped you up into tiny little ribbons. Sadness’ grip on your wrist was beginning to bruise. Emptiness almost eating you whole.

And then you heard a scream from a few meters away.

Its pitch was as thin as a needle, as sharp as a knife. Shrill and long and precise and piercing you straight from one ear to the other. The laughter stopped, as did the giggling, and the murmuring. You barely noticed that the far away crying had long been silenced from something a while ago.

Food compelled you to look down.

You had scarcely registered the small fish stuck in between your tentacles. Its eyes were wide and white and all but bulging out of their sockets. It looked you in the eyes, with desperation, pleading; something you couldn't quite catch nor see nor recognize in your hunger. 

Regardless, it was food, and you ate it.

No longer alone, your stomach settled. No longer sad, you descended back to the class area. No longer empty, you were whole. You were complete.

And then another sharp screech pierced you from the sides once more, making you flinch and hiss at the noise. Screaming, crying, weeping, screeching, yelling, all and everything; all at once.

“Teacher! He ate a student!!”

“.....Hh-”

“Teacher! She did something bad again!”

“Oh my!”

“Eek!!”

“Whatever..”

And then you heard wicked laughter. Sinful, irreverent laughter. It rang like a bell through the belltower that was your classroom area.

As the voice chortled, and crowed, and roared in hideous, selfish pleasure, it's owner gasped desperately for air.

It was as if he was fighting to breathe, or as if his gills couldn't work and he was seizing uncontrollably; with heinous laughter being a symptom.

The laughter grew louder, the tears grew louder, as did the yelling, and the pointing of fingers. What in the ocean was going on?

Two eels swam up to you later that day. Or perhaps night. It was too dark to tell. 

Their eyes shone gold, one each, on opposite eyes. With blue hair and blueish tails, they slinked through the water, cloaked with darkness, as a predator would stalk its prey.

They looked familiar, and yet something in the way they existed screamed at you “danger, danger, danger”.

“Sssaw that little stunt you pulled, kid,” said one of the golden eyes. 

Neither of them could be much older than you were, and you could hear youth and inexperience bleed into the slippery eel’s voice.

The other golden eye chuckled politely. “It caused quite the shock, you know.”

Their voices grew closer, as did the shine in their eyes.

“Made that little girl cry.”

 It felt like they slithered closer to your eyes, so that they’d pluck them out; to your fingertips, to shove their fingernails up your own.

“The poor child. You ate her friend.”

Closer and closer with teeth sharp as knives, beared and ready to shred you apart into their next meal. 

Stay away, stay away, stay away.

“My, how cold, pushing us away Like that. Right, Floyd?”

Danger, danger, danger.

“Yep.” The predator-boy popped the ‘p’ sound as if popping an egg open. His crescent moon grin was pointed with sharp edges. “Kinda makes ya curious when they try to run away like that. Huh, Jade?”

“...Sh..” Your voice was cracky, having gone unused for months. You gulped and hoped they cracked whatever confidence the predators had.

“Woah!” It did not. “The lil’ jellyfish has a backbone, after all! Sick. Whatsit gonna say.”

You glared at the expressive eyes. It glinted the most immediate danger between the two pairs. “..Shove off.”

“Ehh, we just wanna play!” You could feel him in the water elbow his brother lightly. “Right, Jade?”

“Of course, Floyd.”

“Yeah,” said the ‘Floyd’ predator. His eyes pierced your own, and you could have sworn they’d gone blind and useless. “Just a liitle game we call Mutiny.”

“What’s your name, lil’ jelly?”

“..(Y/N).”

“Woah, fancy. I'm Floyd, an’ ‘ats Jade.”

“Good to meet you.” He extended his sharp talon of a hand. You didn't shake it.

“Pshh, (Y/N)'s got spunk. Okay. Cool.”

[feyhunter78]

Trials of Tributes (11/?)

Description: Your studies begin to pay off, the fate of Rhaenyra's youngest child is revealed, and a court session goes awry.

Series masterlist

Aemond sighed heavily as he strode into his chambers. The rebuilding of the dragonpit was a lengthy project, one that would take much time and gold.

He thought back to y/n’s words from a few nights ago. Why is Vhagar so much bigger than the other dragons?

He had a few theories, which he shared with her, but he was surprised when her own suggestion had been so simple yet so brilliant.

Perhaps since she did not live confined in the tunnels, she was able to reach her natural size? Much like the tales of the wild dragons, how they are so large compared to the younger dragons.

He sent word to Dragonstone, requesting more information on the original habitats of dragons. If her words rang true, the dragonpit would need more than rebuilding, it would need to be completely redesigned.

Y/N was laying in their bed, her back against the headboard, her head buried in a thick tome.

“Good evening, ābrazȳrys.” He said, pulling her attention from the book, as he shed his clothing freely. Drawing pleasure from the way her eyes quickly darted away in an attempt to preserve the veil of modesty, she insisted on drawing between them.

“Good evening, husband, how goes the dragonpit?” She closed her book but kept her eyes down.

He changed into his nightclothes and slid into bed, pulling her into his side. “I have written to the dragonkeepers on Dragonstone, asking them to look into your theory.”

She brightened, blooming like a radiant flower. “Truly?”

He hummed an affirmative tone and brushed the hair back from her face.

“Your sister came to see you, I gave Jaeheara the toy you had made for her, I hope that is alright?”

“Of course, she is your niece, you are more than welcome to provide her with any toys you see fit.”

Y/N nodded, a pensive look on her face.

“What ails you, sweet wife?”

“Where are the youngest of Princess Rhaenyra’s children? I heard naught of their fate when the war ended, and I still have not…” She wouldn’t look at him, her eyes on the simple embroidery of his nightshirt.

“Aegon and Viserys attempted to escape to Essos, they were caught, and in his inexperience Aegon took flight on his dragon. They were shot down and perished in the sea.” He said, telling her a half-truth, wishing to spare her the gory details.

“And the young Viserys? He must have been merely six years of age.” She said, raising her gaze to his.

“Why do you wish to know their fates?” He asked, a voice that sounded oddly like his grandsire’s whispered that he should take caution, that he had allowed her too many freedoms.

Y/N shifted, and his heart stuttered when he saw a lone tear slip down her cheek. “I must admit I have sympathy. I know the pain of being forced from your home, of losing family and feeling adrift.”

Aemond closed his eye, gathering his thoughts. He did not enjoy the moments he was forced to remember that y/n was not here of her own free will, that she was an object offered to him in lieu of gold.

He felt her fingertips brush the skin of his scar. “I do not wish to stir any thoughts of disloyalty in your mind husband, but I cannot control my heart, and it bleeds at the thought of a child alone and scared in a strange place.”

He hummed lowly and leaned into her touch. “I will take you to see him in the morn, I cannot promise that it will stanch the bleeding though.”

“He is here?”

He nodded. “In a locked wing, watched by guards and a maester. Mother and I agreed it would not serve us to kill him, not would it be right. He is a child, he had no dragon, no part in the war.”

“And he could wed Jaehaera.” She ventured, sitting up and pulling the book from her nightstand. “I have read that it in Targaryen tradition to wed blood to blood. One would think that by uniting the two houses it would lead to a greater stability.”

He sat up as well, a thrill running through him at the prowess his wife was demonstrating. Soon he would introduce her to the court, and all would see his strength as king.

“The children have never met, but I have considered betrothing them.”

Y/N pulled a sheet of parchment from the book and made a note, adding another set of lines to the branching family tree she had created.

His little wife seemed to be learning much quicker than he had hoped, and he tilted her chin up, kissing her gently. “Let us sleep, tomorrow you may revisit the idea of betrothals.”

You buried your free hand in your skirt, the other caught in the tight grip of Viserys’ hand. Aemond had made good on his promise and slowly, but surely, you had gained the young boy’s trust. It had been a slow start; he was skittish and flinched at the sight of Aemond. But you persisted and with the help of the maesters began to identify Viserys’ favorite toys and books.

Soon he raced to the door when you appeared, and quickly after that you had been able to convince Aemond to move Viserys into your wing. Every moment Aemond was not by your side, Viserys was, and you developed a deep fondness for the boy. Once he had broken from his shell, he was jovial and charming, with a love for reading and swordsmanship.

King’s Landing was deep in winter’s grip when Aemond had decided to introduce you to the court. It had gone well, your fervent studying had not been for naught, and Aemond had gifted you a ring of gold carved to look like a dragon as a reward. The eyes of the dragon were flecks of sapphire, and you wore it proudly.

Your initial warm reception did not prevent rumors from forming, though. Soon after many saw the young prince, born of Rhaenyra and Daemon, trailing after you, they began to talk.

Some claimed Viserys was truly yours and Aemond’s, that Rhaenyra had stolen him. Others claimed you had been one of many whores Daemon had bedded, and, in the insanity, Daemon had driven her to, Rhaenyra claimed the child as her own, banishing you to your home.

You were partial to the former rumor, if it distracted the court from the fact that you had not produced an heir, despite the fact that you had been wedded to Aemond for over a year now. He had yet to bed you, and no matter how desperate you felt, you would not shame yourself nor him by begging him to do so. Even though an inkling of doubt began to grow in your mind. Perhaps he no longer desired you, or he had found another.

“Muña, I do not wish to go.” Viserys said, his voice small as he clung to your skirts. His dark purple eyes were fixated on you, his lower lip trembling.

His habit of calling you, mother in Valyrian did not dissuade any rumors, but you would never correct him. You had sat with Viserys as he cried over his lost family. Laid by his side when his night terrors gripped him and sent him back to the waking world with agonizing screams ripping from his throat.

Viserys was your son now, he had burrowed into your heart and made a home there. You would never voice this, though, in fear that it would give rise to the Lord Hightower’s whispers. The previous Hand of the King believed you to be a spy, a whore, a traitor, an assassin, or any other foul title depending on the day.

You knelt down and adjusted Viserys’ cloak, a deep green color with gold trim. It matched your own. “I know ñuha tresy, it will be quick, and then you may join Jaehaera in her mother’s chambers.”

You had asked Helaena how to say my son in Valyrian, begging her to keep it quiet. You had practiced the two words in secret, and the joy on Viserys’ face made any worries disappear. It was a name you seldom used in the company of others, but in these private moments it fell from your lips with ease.

Your Valyrian had improved greatly, but it was still not yet fluent. Aemond seemed to feel no urgency to teach you his mother tongue, just as he seemed to feel no urgency to sheathe himself inside you and give you an heir.

“Why does Jaehaera get to stay in her mother’s chambers, and I do not?” Viserys asked, squeezing your hand tighter as you approached the throne room.

“Because Jaehaera is not as brave as you, ñuha tresy, which is why you must be brave for her.”

Viserys puffed up his chest, a comical look of seriousness on his youthful face. For a boy of six, he possessed a great ability to understand the duties placed upon his shoulders.

“Queen y/n, and Prince Viserys.” The crownsguard announced as you entered the hall.

Aemond was seated on the Iron Throne, his father’s crown on his head today, a symbol of wisdom and peace.

You held your head high, and approached the throne, curtsying to your husband before ascending the steps and standing beside him, Viserys tucked into your side.

“Bring in the petitioners.” Aemond called, already sounding bored.

You stood still, letting Viserys fidget with your fingers and rings to entertain himself as petitioner after petitioner made their plea.

Finally, the last man stepped forward and you felt Viserys tugging on your arm. You knelt down, too distracted by his whispered words to notice who stepped into the hall.

“Lord Vaghn of House Garrot.” The guard called.

You stiffened, and Viserys gave you a concerned look. “Muña?”

You looked towards the gathered guards, catching Sir Criston’s gaze. “Go with Sir Criston, Viserys.”

“What? No, I want to stay with you.” He tightened his grip, and your heart dropped when you heard Aemond repeat Vaghn’s name.

“Go, now.” You ordered, untangling your hand from his and pushing him towards the Lord Commander.

Sir Criston took Viserys out of the room, and you let out a shaky breath before rising and turning to face your husband and Vaghn.

“Lord Vaghn, I must admit, your name sounds vaguely familiar. Have you appeared before my court before?” Aemond’s voice was calm, his expression smooth and emotionless.

You intertwined your hand with his, and he pressed it to his lips.

“I have not, My King.”

“Interesting, well, state your case.” Aemond said, nodding his head towards him.

“It pains me to no end to do this, but I bring an accusation against the queen.” Vaghn said, his eyes settling on you.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you tightened your grip on Aemond’s hand. “Aemond…”

Aemond raised an eyebrow, his free hand settling on the hilt of Darksister. “An accusation?”

Vaghn nodded, eyes wrenched back to Aemond. “Of bigamy, My King. She was already married when her father gave her to you.”

Aemond’s eye flickered to you, and you shook your head. “What evidence do you bring to back your claim?”

“I am her husband, her father wedded her to me in exchange for my family’s support.” Then he turned to you. “Y/N, I know it has been many moons since we have been together, but I have not forgotten you. I was furious when I heard what your father had done.”

“Take care when addressing my wife so casually, lest I take your tongue.” Aemond said, his voice cold as the bitter winds that rattled the windows.

“She is my wife; I will address her as I please.” Vaghn snapped, digging out a piece of parchment and approaching the throne.

You shrank back, silently begging Vaghn not to do this, your eyes boring into his.

Aemond stood, towering over Vaghn and took the parchment, scanning it. “This is not a valid claim. Septon Yannis whose name is upon this, had been cast out of the faith three years prior to the written date.”

You leaned forward slightly and scanned the parchment. You recognized nothing, and your head began to hurt, fear coursing through your veins. “I do not know this document, nor do I have any recollection of marrying another.”

“You were quite ill and could not attend, your father gave me your hand.” Vaghn said, reaching for you.

You shrank back further, and Aemond nodded at a nearby kingsguard who brought him a lit torch.

“My wife is my own, she came to me untouched, I have witnessed it myself. Even if this marriage was valid, which it is not. It had gone unconsummated, and thus is easily annulled.” He said, holding the document over the flame.

You watched as it caught fire and dissolved into ash. “My father’s word does not replace my own, not in a marriage ceremony. If I do not say the words myself, it is not binding.”

“Y/N please, I know that you love me, ours is a star-crossed love, one that will last for ages, all you must do is return with me.” Vaghn reached for you once more, and Aemond extinguished the torch in Vhagn’s chest.

Vaghn screamed and stumbled back, and you turned your head, hand flying to your mouth, the smell of singed flesh filling the air.

“There is no love between yourself and my wife. Your words are traitorous, and vile.” Aemond growled, unsheathing Darksister.

You squeezed your eyes shut and let out a fearful sob when you heard the heavy thump of Vhagn’s body hitting the floor.

“This session is finished, leave us.” Aemond ordered, his voice echoing off the looming ceiling.

You kept your eyes closed and prayed to The Seven, he would show you mercy.

Tag list: @nyctophilic0vitnir, @svtansdaddyx, @fan-goddess, @dc-marvel-girl96, @shintax-error, @bellameshipper, @the141bandicoot, @the-phantom-of-arda, @haydee5010, @partypoison00, @serrhaewin, @issshhh, @pax-2735, @malfoytargaryen, @sahanna, @dellalyra, @mxrgodsstuff, @jkhomes, @unusual-raccoon, @boofy1998, @kravitzwhore, @caribbeangel, @krispold, @issshh, @afro-hispwriter, @ryswritingrecord, @prettykinkysoul, @elissanatok, @sahvlren, @its-sam-allgood, @happinessinthbeing, @8e-h-e8, @feyres-fireheart, @just-emmaaaa, @crazylokonugget, @hedahobbit98, @devils-blackrose, @mercedesdecorazon, @snh96, @imjustboredso, @izzicle, @hiatuswhore, @aslanvez, @devils-blackrose, @yentroucnagol, @queenofshinigamis, @partyposion00, @cryptidsrcool

[raptorfae53]

Abbey Bominable redesign-thingy...

My first monster high art in quite a while and my first in colour, anyways about Abbey:

My design of Abbey is sort of a mix between what I liked from g1 and g3 as well as a smattering of personal ilks which bleed into her personality. For example Abbey being a Nepali Sherpa who is from a reasonably remote lil town in the himalayas, and is unused to the hustle and bustle of urban America, couple that with the self awareness and awkwardness typical of teens and an inexperience with spoken english and you have someone who initially feels she can't fit in amongst her peers regardless of being an 8 feet tall, ice magic-capable Yeti,typecast as a stonefaced monolith of a girl. However upon a few classmates getting to know the actual Abbey, Abbey in turn learns and is reassured by the fact that she's not the only one who feels this way at times, with her classmates and eventual boyfriend Heath Burns (himself feeling the burn of being typecast) learning in turn under the ice lies a sweet and caring girl.

My idea with this piece is that Abbey,being from a mountain town in the middle of the cold himalayas has never quite had the opportunity to wear summer clothes that don't have more than a few layers, but unfortunately a lot of the stuff found in the US where she's studying doesn't quite fit her 8 and a half foot frame very well, so she and a few of her friends have taken to modifying some of her existing stuff for the hot weather instead, like this Chupa (the Himalayan dress shes wearing) altered into a two piece top and skirt here.

(For the record here are some examples of Chupa both simple and elaborate I used as reference for this piece:)

I've also done some designs for heath and clawdeen too, I'm not used to drawing curly hair but Im very proud with how clawdeens 'do turned out.

Also since its already halfway through it all, Happy pride month, I've been wanting to do a pride piece but I'm not quite sure what exactly I should do exactly and what thing I should do it for, although since I'm on a monster high roll recently maybe I should do one for some of my admittedly very queer versions of the characters seen here... 🌈

[slowd1ving]

PENDULUM ✦ . 　⁺ v.

BLIGHT (ZERUEL)

"I wonder why, Why you would deface me yet won't free me from your gaze, The blade you eat from cuts me deep inside and pulls my skin away, Dreadful blight Forms inside." wc: 5.3k

JOJO'S BIZARRE ADVENTURE MASTERLIST

PENDULUM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART ・゜NEXT PART

Blessed are those who take for themselves . 

“Mr Brando, could you make a comment on your recent Ascot victory?” 

Scum . This vile, pretentious crowd of nobles and their idiotic sycophants were no better than the dwellers of London’s festering underbelly – even when they pretended they were on a completely different plane of existence. As above, so below ; humans really were the same, no matter if they were a rotten stable-hand in the wretched abyss of the countryside or some putrescent Earl in the highest rings of the city. 

Diego Brando flashed a winning smile at the crowd of reporters – just a hint of teeth, and the intense gaze that the gazettes simply adored . Because, in the end, all walks of life would spill into a writhing flock of homunculi in the palm of his greedy hand; he simply had to bide his time. In the end, he would be at the top: world at his fingertips, humanity under his leather riding boots. Yes, he had everything to smile about. 

Nobody would ever look down at him again. 

“Well, I can’t say it was particularly difficult,” the arrogant drawl rolled off his tongue; angry or adoring, no one could deny his attitude provoked attention . With each victory, he could afford to look more conceited – and they adored him for it. Those same inbred fucks had once despised the very ground he stood on; now, they were practically eating out of his hand for mere crumbs of his exploits. And with a vengeful satisfaction, he revelled in it. 

After all, he left those spoiled lordling bastards in the dust – over and over and over – until the upper echelons of society were forced to acknowledge him as better than their sons and friends. None of them had grappled for a name like he had; none of them had even a scrap of the same raw determination that had fueled him to train until his very bones wept in agony. No, they had never known the clawing despair that pierced him over and over – until all that was left of him was a whisper of his name and nothing else. 

They would come to know suffering, just as fiercely as he had; at the top, he could bleed them all dry and discard them as he pleased. He’d topple all who caused his grief – with his father at the very top of that list. With his own hands, he’d bring blight on that man, until Dario was only a disgusting, snivelling carcass beneath his heel.

“Mr Diego Brando! What would you say to all the aspiring jockeys who look up to you?” This enthusiastic question came from a wide-eyed reporter – who, try as he might – really couldn’t mask the inexperience that oozed from his shaky voice. Perfect .  Those were always the ones that would sing his praises in their articles; they had no real connections to speak of, and clung to their job with an urgency that amused him greatly. What better way to get into his good graces than by joining the sycophants?

“Stay true to yourself,” he lied evenly. It was an easy feat to tailor his smile to appear more benevolent; through the slight squint of his eyes, and his concealed teeth, he could appear more genuine with minimal effort. Every time, the undercurrent of altruism towards his fans just made people want more and more from him. “I think that no matter your circumstances, passion is something to be followed – work hard and you can surely achieve great things.”

Passion . 

That was the final garnish to his performance. Who cared if Diego Brando was sometimes arrogant in his responses? Those banal platitudes spewing from his lips were always a highlight for the hive of reporters that followed him around – the ‘self-made stablehand that encouraged others to follow their dreams’. The genius jockey that rose from poverty . 

Of course, there were those who looked at him through narrowed eyes. He could spot one or two in the crowd surrounding him: flat mouths tapered off with disgust, brows levelled with exasperation. There would always be those who read between his truism – work hard and you can surely achieve great things . They were the ones who picked up the insult towards his competitors that he beat time and time again – you’ve never worked like I have . But frankly, he couldn’t care less; there was nothing they could do about it without looking like half-wits reading too much into something. 

“I think that’s really inspiring, Mr Brando,” that bright-eyed reporter was looking awfully emotional; was it due to Diego looking straight at him as he spouted his inanities? What a hopeless sap . He looked away from those glassy eyes with no small amount of satisfaction. 

“You’re joining the Steel Ball Run, right?” 

He paused. It was uncommon for reporters to address him without any honorific; after scouring the crowd, he finally saw the reporter that had just spoken. Beady eyes, a long face, and some distasteful blue outfit that belonged two decades in the past. How gaudy . More importantly, this woman was one of the reporters that had only disgust in their eyes. Revulsion, and a hint of ambition – this reporter was asking the big questions that led to big stories. 

“What’s your name, miss?” Diego mirrored the condescending tone of her question, yet with enough leeway that it wouldn’t look like it to anyone but her. 

“Judith Elton, London Evening Standard ,” her polite tone bordered on derision. Fine . Two could play at that game. Whatever heartfelt emotions that previously dripped from his visage were replaced with subtle contempt. “Please answer the question.”

“I don’t plan on joining the Steel Ball Run,” he began, letting the jostling of reporters begging for an answer crescendo into a spiralling cacophony of voices and scribbling. Now that he scrutinised Elton more carefully, she was still just a novice : desperate for a story, desperate for a name . This was probably her first time working at an event like this, where nobility and journalists mingled in one, clamouring cesspit. 

“I plan on crushing the competition – then taking home the gold,” he finished with a roguish smile. That mocking voice only riled up the reporters further, until they were a huge, cresting wave about to swallow him whole. 

“Mr Brando! How do you plan to win against world renowned Urmd Abdul?”

“Mr Diego Brando! Are you planning to compete on Silver Bullet?”

“Sir, whatever will you do with the prize money if you win?”

“ Will you take the gold just like you took that old widow’s fortune ?”

He barely heard it over the tumultuous tide ebbing and flowing around him, but it was there nonetheless. Diego locked eyes with Elton, and he could see the hint of victory tracing her sclera and lining that sneer – just until the gathering journalists were ushered out by some very insistent valets. 

“I’m sorry, sir, that the journalists got out of control,” one apologised, bowing deeply to the contemplative Diego. “The Baron extends his apologies.”

“No need,” he replied magnanimously. In the grasp of his crisp white gloves, the pressure on the crystal champagne flute’s neck increased minutely. As much as he was loath to admit it, there was nothing that he could think of as a response to that question. She had won at that moment, but he’d make sure her reputation steadily crumbled – until her very name was muttered as a warning. His gloves would remain pristine, of course; not a single red string would ever connect him to her downfall. “No harm was done.” 

Diego downed the ludicrously expensive champagne. 

It was truly a pity. Some people never realised the virtue of minding their own business – while some learnt it far too late. What a valuable lesson , and here he was, giving them out for free. Can’t be helped . There always had to be an example. 

Glistening chandeliers cast pristine diamonds of light on the marbled floor. Beneath the glow, Diego knew he was resplendent; Baron Menini’s so-called ‘gatherings’ were always the place he stood out most to the fools of the upper classes. Simply put, he was alluring : hair shining like gold, a bejewelled turquoise jacket, and black riding boots that were polished until he could see his very reflection within the depths. He played his part, and he played it well – there was nobody who could criticise his ramrod straight posture, or the elegant curl of his fingers resting on his hip. Diego Brando more than belonged at the pinnacle of society. 

“Baron Menini, the man of the hour!” Diego greeted the approaching baron with a warm smile and open arms. It was all in the details; be overly enthusiastic and Menini would be too put off to even talk to you, but be distant and you wouldn’t even see the next party. He could do details – Menini, after all, was one of the best rungs of the ladder to the top. The man had connections , and through him, Diego could form his own network. 

“Brando – I trust you’re enjoying yourself, lad,” Menini’s eyes always had that heavy weight to them; even for Diego, the noble was difficult to talk to, to say the least. Not only did he physically tower over the jockey (which wasn’t a particularly strenuous feat, but that was besides the point), the man spoke with such a serious tone that put a damper on even the most jovial of conversations.  

“You always throw the best events, how could I not?” The rhetorical question held just enough flattery that it could be considered a part of the danger zone – yet the flippant tone and casual wave of his champagne flute assured that it was nothing more than a nonchalant fact . Yes, Diego Brando was a master at the long game. Especially with men that had too many ulterior motives up their sleeves. “But I assume you’re not here to exchange pleasantries?”

“Glad you caught on, son,” Menini gave him a withering smile – which might’ve been that scarred face’s attempt at a genuine one (but he couldn’t be certain). He clapped a large hand on the jockey’s shoulder, but Diego would never be fooled by this affectionate farce. No, Menini was a bloodthirsty man who wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of him should Diego’s name suddenly spell out ‘danger’. “Mingle with the guests for a bit, then join me in the drawing room in a half-hour.”

As the baron walked off, Diego stared at the back of his elaborate dinner jacket. No, there wasn’t a red target slowly emerging yet – but the time would definitely come. And when it did, he wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of the man either. 

Blessed are those who influence others .

“Diego – I’m such a huge admirer of yours!” 

From behind, he could hear the faint rustling of expensive fabric – and was that a fan fluttering in the corners of his vision? He spun on his heel: cautiously, elegantly , until all that he could see was canary yellow silks and plumes of off-white feathers. Perched on the noble lady’s coils of hair was a tightly pinned hat, one that still managed to teeter precariously on her head. She held out her satin-covered hand expectantly. Yes , this was good. 

“With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” Diego kept his voice cordial, yet allowed the burrs of a cruder accent to tinge his question. The lady tittered behind the fan as he kissed her hand smoothly; only her eyes peeked out amidst the mercurial powder coating her skin. He stifled a grimace at the cloying poison – ultimately, he’d take whatever resource came his way, and it was even better if it came willingly. He’d smile all the while. 

“Millicent of the Bismarck family,” she replied breathily. Lady Millicent von Bismarck ? He eyed her with a touch of wariness, comparing the set of her features to the ones he had seen in the papers announcing her engagement to one vapid little Marquess Hirsch. Oh, this was positively brilliant – if this went well, he’d have a potential marchioness under his thumb (and that was a whole lot closer to the top than Menini was). 

“Your portraits do you no justice, Lady von Bismarck,” he tested the waters; it was no hard feat to cast a rougher cadence across his statement. Rich ladies treated him like some commodity – a jockey born from poverty, who managed to wrest victory for himself. Who wouldn’t be touched by such a tragic story? Diego had an eye for the particularly philanthropic, naive nobles who sought to establish their moral superiority over their peers, or those who wanted to feel like a benefactor from a Dickens novel; Lady Millicent was no exception. If she wanted to play that part, he could play his assigned role too. 

“You flatter me too much, Diego,” she murmured, peering at him from under her lashes. Perfect . No, maybe she didn’t just want to give him charity – with such an insipid fiancé like Hirsch, what romantic would ever be satisfied? Surely, it was better to feel that whirlwind of passion with someone like Diego: the enigma, the genius on the track, the one who regularly triumphed in a haze of dust and cheers. “Is there any way to discuss your fascinating exploits further?”

Rich people would never be satisfied. But that was fine with Diego. The most insatiable of them always had the most to give him – be it hush money or hush services . No, blood would never taint his pristine gloves.

She leaned in a touch closer than what was socially appropriate, but this corner of the party was secluded enough that nobody saw. Perfume and wealth practically oozed from her. “Without a chaperone, of course.”

“Oh? How scandalous ,” Diego commented with a canted head. For this was what nobles lived and breathed – the pushing of boundaries and finding out just what they could get away with if they had the funds. A night with some famed jockey was scandalous, but it was exciting , as was the evasion of consequence. When that old widow had died, he had felt that same high: just as Lady von Bismarck did now. 

Once she had her fun, he’d reap the rewards.

“You haven’t said no yet,” she tilted her head in an imperfect mirror of him. To her, he was nothing more than a plaything – utterly malleable and desperate for attention. Perfect . Nobles never failed to amaze him with their lacklustre intelligence – ‘ you won’t ever turn this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get in my pants, will you ?’. Forget a quick fuck, these nobles acted like they were doing him a favour in the process. Well, if he was being technical, they were – they just didn’t quite know it yet. 

“No, I haven’t,” he agreed. Heaviness forced his eyelids down, until he was gazing at her with what could only be considered a sultry glance. If it mingled with the exhaustion from the earlier triumph at the Ascot, she’d be none the wiser. “What would you say if it were at dinner tomorrow? I long for your company before I depart for America.”

Hook, line and sinker . He’d be her Darcy, or her Heathcliff – or whoever else she fancied him as. In return, he’d gain his most valuable connection yet. Well, the most valuable since that Dowager Duchess died and left him everything . No noble had ever come quite close being bled out of that much wealth. 

“Of course,” she breathed. Her mouth closed, and she swallowed before continuing. Didn’t expect to get this far ? “Tomorrow, then.” 

“Tomorrow,” he assented, pressing another kiss to her knuckles. Against his venomous lips, the satin of her gloves felt disgustingly oily. 

Blessed are those who stand at the top . 

. 　⁺ ✦

Thick clouds of smoke billowed out from Menini’s mouth as he took a long drag from his pipe. Cigars were all the rage amongst the Barons and their ilk nowadays, but that geriatric alligator would never bow down to modern conventions. Pity , Diego observed idly. Maybe his wife wouldn’t have left him had he actually taken his daughter to these newfangled doctors .

The assorted sconces mounted on the walls made all the dark furniture look more imposing than it would be in the daylight, but he settled into the leather armchair in a picture of utmost assurance. Menini hated many things: flimsy boots, weak liquor, and weakness . The old fuck was like a circling shark – ready to strike if Diego’s throat looked a bit too appetising. 

“So,” he levelled the baron with a stare as he took a swig from his brandy glass; the burnt caramel aroma was something to savour , and the irritated clench of Menini’s jaw was also something to enjoy profoundly. Subtle cinnamon washed over his tongue and warmed him into a summery stupor that felt appropriate for the beginning of the season. It was a pity, really; other than his connections, Menini only had his booze collection going for him. Was that a hint of truffle he could taste? 

You’re just like Dario . 

He scowled then, until his features were contorted into a foul mask of his displeasure. 

“You want your payment, don’t you?” 

Menini took another long drag of the pipe as Diego asked. Those grey eyes never left his movements; their weight was exceptionally heavy when one was alone with the man. The silence was an invitation – go on . 

“I need to be sure that no one – especially none of Scotland Yard – comes sniffing around when I transfer the funds,” he insisted. Because of course the man wouldn’t accept gold or jewels; it just had to be an archaic cheque and trip to the bank. Of course Menini had to pick the most traceable means of payment. Stupid Menini . This is why your wife left . 

“They won’t,” Menini rolled the wooden tube between two wrinkled fingers. His tone was bored – that familiar, entitled drawl that only deepened Diego’s scowl. “It’s been a year since that old bird died. No one will suspect a thing.” 

“And you’ve already bribed the tellers?” 

“‘Course,” Menini glared at him. Who do you think I am ? “My men are meticulous with the accounts.”

Diego nodded with an almost imperceptible sneer curling his mouth. No, Menini really was too valuable at the moment to get rid of. A terse silence settled over the two of them like a fog of the filthiest grease and smog – it almost rivalled the billowing mire that never let London streets go. 

“And a bonus,” he added after another swig of the cognac. Those wrinkled, bushy brows furrowed over the man’s flinty eyes. He drew out the suspense, until the burn on his tongue subsided and he could taste only phantom bitterness. “I’ll add in your interest and a bonus for a new hit.”

Menini barked a laugh at that, slamming a sledgehammer fist on the table. “After your twittering about not wanting any detectives after you, and now you’ve decided to grow some balls?”

“Do you want me to take my business elsewhere?”

It was an empty threat, but Diego’s poker face was immaculate. Baron Menini was the only one he could trust to get these jobs done; could it even be considered trust? An agreement , where both parties would like nothing more than to be rid of each other – yes, that’s what it was. It was a business partnership, where both parties entered to pursue the mutual hate of the other more efficiently.

“I’ll do it,” Menini cracked the knuckles of his freehand on the desk in idle curiosity. There were only two Diego had ever requested. “What’s the job?” 

“And you haven’t found the man I asked about yet?” Diego interjected. There was no waver in his voice as he asked about Dario; not a hint of consternation showed through his even tone. 

“Ongoing, lad,” Menini waved his pipe in boredom. “You didn’t give us much to work with – Dario, unknown last name, around his late 50s, working class? He’s probably already rotting away in some ditch already – get to the new job before I keel over and choke my last.”

“I wish,” Diego glowered, leaning his elbows on his spread thighs. Contemplatively, he assessed the pending request about to leave his throat. “This job isn’t a hit .”

Before him, Menini gestured impatiently. Get to it . 

“Are you familiar with the name Judith Elton?” Diego continued, keeping his tone conversational. “London Evening Standard?”

The baron’s expression turned into a knowing one. “Did a reporter say something that made you want to cry?” 

“What?” 

“What?” Menini mimicked. God , the man was incredibly infuriating to work with. 

“Can you shut up?” Diego scowled. Exasperatedly, he knocked back the rest of the cognac, then promptly refilled his glass from the crystal decanter on the mahogany desk. Fuck , that geriatric cunt was doing a number on his head. “She was sniffing around the widow, you stupid bastard.”

“Watch it,” Menini scowled back. Almost mirroring his displeasure, tobacco smoke curled through his nostrils like angry plumes emerging from a dragon. Diego glared through the haze clouding his vision. “Don’t forget your place.”

“Anyway,” he thumbed his left temple and took another generous sip of the amber liquid sloshing in his glass. “I need your men to plant some things, frame her, then destroy her reputation so her career plummets down in flames. Keep her alive and healthy so she can watch her life fall apart.”

“That’s quite a generous time-frame you’re not mentioning,” Menini gave him a sardonic grin. “You’ve already decided how much this is worth, haven’t you?”

“Calculated to the very minute,” he replied offhandedly, settling into the buzz that writhed in his veins. “Let her downfall be slow enough that it looks like a series of coincidences that can’t have possibly stemmed from her meeting me.”

“That’s not very calculative, now, is it?” Menini puffed exasperatedly. “Always the liar, Brando, aren’t you?”

He gave a noncommittal grunt in return.  

Blessed are those who hold the world in their palm . 

. 　⁺ ✦

In the dewy mist of dawn, the graveyard wept with a silent stillness that pulsed incessantly through the air. Not a soul stirred, not a corpse groaned in agony, not a bird chirped in this sacred ground – everything was just as it should be. Peaceful . When winter rolled over, snow crunched beneath his boots, and he always developed a cold right after his visits – but it was worth it. He’d visit the graveyard for as long as he lived. 

Each victory brought him back here, to these grass covered mounds covered in wildflowers. All paths lead to Rome – to him, this was the greatest city he could imagine. Weighing down his pockets were pebbles, dutifully collected from whatever racetrack he’d triumphed in. A memento – something that wouldn’t rot away with the ruthless passage of time. 

While others offered candles, or flowers, or even alcohol (his face always twisted into a grimace at the very thought), he brought a fulfilled dream. I’ve done it . 

(“You’re good with horses, Diego – even the most untameable ones that buck and shy away from the other stablehands.”) 

He came to a rolling halt at a marble tombstone. Amidst the forest of unmarked poles and wooden crosses, it was something that stood out dramatically. A delicate frieze was etched in, and his eyes traced the smiling cherubs dotted around the headstone. God , coming here was the most difficult part of each victory – coming here sober , to put it more precisely. 

But no. He couldn’t defile his mother’s final resting place like that; Diego Brando wouldn’t stoop to the level of that putrid swine of a father. 

How long had it been?

Fifteen years ago, her corpse was buried in an unmarked grave just like these. He still remembered it: the brutal crash of rain against his emaciated body, and the stink of rotting flesh not washing away. In his mind’s eye, he could still see her hands as she was lowered into the ground without the luxury of even a coffin – they were still blistered, still septic, still furiously red, as if her body still clinged on to life. 

The sky cried with him that day. 

A decade later, he finally returned to build her a proper grave. No, she wouldn’t have wanted a whole mausoleum, and he didn’t want to move her body after all she had suffered – both at the hands of Dario and those stupid fucks at the stables. 

He crouched down by the stone. The moss slowly creeping into the grooves of the letters were cold as he pried them off with his nails, but he didn’t particularly care. After all she had done for him, this was the least he could do back. Even as cold seeped into the marrow of his bones, even as his nails grew ragged and bloody, he determinedly scraped away at the encrusted name. 

“I won’t be back for a while,” he began, placing the pebbles down on the slab. His eyes searched the patterns and swirls that plumed throughout the stone, as if they’d give him an answer. “I’m going to win the Steel Ball Run in America – the biggest cross-country horse race in history – and I’ll bring you stones all the way from across the ocean.”

With the prize money, I’ll become the Prime Minister of this shithole country , he left out. That was a dream that only came into existence after her death – it would do no good to tell her that. 

Thoughts of his mother were restricted to this limbic space. Here, he wasn’t someone who crushed people beneath his polished boots – he was just her mournful son. She didn’t leave the graveyard; not when her son plotted and stained his hands outside of it. Diego wouldn’t tell her, and she wouldn’t know. She couldn’t know of it. 

Did she?

No , he thought furiously. She was resting here, in that eternal slumber amidst the mist rolling around the grass. There was no way – no way . Her soul had to be at peace up there. On Earth, on this vice-ridden planet, he was free to do what he desired without her scrutiny. 

What would she say ?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, rising from his place in the dew-soaked grass. He backed away – unconsciously repeating his words over and over – until he was past the grove of trees that circled around the dead. 

“ I’m sorry. ”

. 　⁺ ✦

How far are you willing to go ?

As he boarded the luxurious cruiser bound for America, the question echoed in the depths of his mind. It drummed within him – much too mellow to be his own internal monologue. How far is Diego Brando willing to go for his dream ? 

In the privacy of his cabin, he carefully thumbed through the worn leather journal lying on his table; lists and lists of contacts, addresses, and connections – all scrawled on the yellowed parchment in a deep red cipher. Years upon years of ploys and careful alliances: yet here he was, not a step closer to the peak than he had been all those years ago when he first vowed to enact vengeance. 

Even with the curtains drawn to block the blistering sun, Diego could feel the droplets of sweat trickling underneath his collar. The Steel Ball Run was the biggest opportunity yet – he couldn’t possibly fail. He couldn’t . 

Fuck . He tipped his head back with a groan, letting his skull collide with the wooden chair. With closed eyes, he debated whether to send a letter to that old bastard to ask about his men in America. No , Menini would never let him hear the end of it; he’d have to scout his own allies out. Even if it were through dirty means, he’d win the race and take home that money – finally, power would be his. 

World politics would be in the palm of his hand once he found his way into the government: diplomatic immunity, better connections, and access to international influence that he had only brushed with the very tips of his fingers as the world’s most famed jockey. Whatever pedestal he clambered on would be significantly more stable than that of an athlete – just look at that fool, Joestar .  

That brat might’ve become a rival had he possessed the same drive Diego lived and breathed. Stupid nobles . Jojo never had to fight to be recognised – never had to claw his way up from the sludgy underbelly of society, either, like Diego had. He hated them – hated them all . 

The acerbic frustration welling up within him coated his mouth in a bitter dryness that refused to let up, no matter how much he swallowed.

From the first day that he’d been found lying near the woods of the Joestar manor, Jojo had always been a snivelling, snot-nosed coward who idolised his brother and disappointed his father. From that very first day, Diego revelled in the searching looks George Joestar had given his horsemanship – then the angry looks he threw at his own son. 

(“ Why can’t you be more like Diego here? Diego – who knows a thousand more things about horses than you ever will – who has the makings of one of the greatest jockeys I’ve ever seen . God knows the talent wasn’t passed down to you .”)

It was exhilarating. He could see that spoiled noble – only one year younger than him – tear up and shake in suppressed grief. For the first time in Diego’s life, he had influenced an adult to treat him with favour. Diego was better. I was better . 

Yes, that so-called genius he wouldn’t even call his rival. 

They hadn’t been rivals – though the esteemed Joe Kid had certainly attempted to garner such a title, and failed miserably along the way. Diego crushed him under his heel with every race that he entered. How could Joestar win, when Diego spoke the subconscious language of equines like a mother tongue? 

Really, that boy was a fool. 

The only one he could’ve considered a competitor from that wretched house was Nicholas. George was far past his prime, and Jojo was inferior to him in every way. Nicholas, though, had all the makings of a young star: charming, disciplined, and talented . Hopes and dreams of a legacy were pinned on the older boy, until the very magnitude of them made Fate chuckle with a malicious glee. 

Then, in a bout of cruel irony, the accident happened without Diego even having to lift a finger. 

There, surrounded by the billowing dust clouds, stood young Diego on the sandy racetrack: eyes transfixed on the splintered fencing and his ears ringing with the screams of both horse and spectator. It wasn’t immediately clear what was going on, but he could feel the impending panic settling into the crowd before him. 

And he watched. 

It was the particular neutrality one felt when stepping on an ant, or upon hearing news of war breaking in a land so far away it might’ve been another world away entirely. Diego’s face remained impassive – only the slight quirk of his brows betrayed any interest in the scene before him. His eyes traced the murky haze, then to where a small white streak raced out of the fog. A mouse . 

Then, as if by fate, he looked up and met Johnny Joestar's eyes as the boy stared in horror. 

Amongst all the wreckage, there lay the horse. But where was Nicholas ? A bloody jacket, a curled hand mangled beyond recognition, and the carmine seeping into the sanctity of the racetrack – all the signs pointed to one irrevocable fact. Nicholas Joestar, the genius of a jockey – the one who could time his speed without a fraction of a second out of place – lay dead on the filthy track. 

It was ludicrous , it was pathetic ; he could feel manic laughter threatening to spill from his lips. 

A blight upon those who have wronged me . 

Nicholas Joestar – the only noble Diego had considered a threat – had just plummeted back down to Earth in an undignified, convulsing death. An Icarus amongst men ; that impossibility Nicholas created with his birth had just been righted. Catastrophe and calamity, all heralded by Diego’s ominous arrival! 

The wheels were set in motion.

Diego Brando is fated to become the best .

. 　⁺ ✦

[georgiapeach30513]

Ooh the clit stimulator ones. Nice

Any recommendations for a virgin trying to be satisfied.

Men are tiring and hip haven’t met any worthy of me kitty.

So fingers it is. I just want to be prepared when I’m legit ready and I sometimes feel like my inexperience is going to bite me in the ass. What If I faint from pain. Like stupid things go through my head. I’m in my late twenties and still a virgin. How do I prepare for my future. I do like the vibratory that look like 💄 lipstick.

You gotta be careful with those vibrators because they can get intense. I think the rose is the least intense but some can be too much and make the Pearl bleed.

Just relax, sex will happen when and with who it’s supposed to happen with. There is no right time or time limits that is set. You do what is right for your body.

[sapphire-weapon]

Can you explain what you mean when you say that a lot of RE2's tragedies are a result of Leon's inexperience at the time? To me it just felt like my poor guy was just at the wrong place at the wrong time and non of it was in his control :(

So -- just to be clear, I specified RE2make for a reason in that post. RE2make made Leon far more culpable/liable in people's deaths than RE2 OG ever did. OG pretty much was wrong place/wrong time for the majority of things that happened to or around Leon, but RE2make was very different.

But as a disclaimer, I haven't played through RE2make myself since about 2020. I recently did a quick refresh of it by watching cutscenes on youtube, but that's not the same. So, as a result, this is hardly going to be a comprehensive list or explanation -- just things that I can think of off the top of my head right now.

Leon absolutely gets the manager of the gas station killed in the very, very beginning. He just stands there like a dipshit, not moving, not trying to help, while the dude is holding back a zombie -- and he becomes a complete and total distraction as a result, which gets the guy bitten. If Leon hadn't been there, or if he had actually idk HELPED in some way, that guy would've lived.

When Leon first arrives at the RPD and tries to save that one officer who's trying to crawl under a shutter away from zombies, Leon does what most normal people would do in that situation and tries to pull him to safety -- but that's what gets him killed. A more experienced Leon would've known to look under the shutter and shoot any zombies back there first before actually trying to put hands on the officer. We see him do things like this fairly frequently later in the series.

LEON IS THE SOLE REASON BEN BERTOLUCCI DIES IN RE2MAKE HOLY SHIT I COULD NOT BELIEVE THIS WHEN I SAW IT THE FIRST TIME LMAO In OG, Ben kind of just gets suckerpunched by Birkin through the wall and has a lil G-creature burst out of his chest Alien-style. In RE2make, there is a SIGNIFICANT WINDOW OF TIME in which both Ben and Leon hear Mr. X approaching, and Ben BEGS Leon to let him out of the cell, and Leon's actual fucking response is "I'd have to ask Chief Irons" because he's more concerned with following the rules than saving the life of a man who is CLEARLY a sitting duck about to be murdered.

Everything with Ada. Literally everything with Ada is because Leon's a fucking idiot who's Bad At Things in RE2make.

A more experienced Leon would've absolutely tried to save Annette Birkin, regardless of her involvement with Umbrella and the development of the G-virus -- because, at the end of the day, she's still a person. In OG, Annette is kind of an evil villain caricature, but RE2make humanized her a lot and turned her into a more tragic figure who's still sane and recognizes the horror of what's happened. But RE2make Leon is so completely fucking gobsmacked by the revelation that Ada was lying to him -- again, because he's a fucking idiot -- that he just leaves Annette not only to bleed out, but to throw herself more completely at her own death. This one's kind of iffy just because there was probably no way to save her even if he did try, but the fact that he was too emotionally stunned to do anything at all led her to a much worse fate than she probably would've had otherwise. She could have died with some dignity, as opposed to none at all.

And this is just off the top of my head. There's probably more. Like. Thank god Claire was there, because there's no way Sherry would've made it if it'd just been Leon on his own.

[knockknoxwho]

Hi this is my first post and time using tumblr in general so forgive any mistakes and/or inexperience that bleeds through my words. I intend to describe what this project is and make in depth posts for different concepts in the world

S.M.A.S.H, an idea that has been with me for a little bit. An apocalypse that takes place in modern day Texas, specifically in a town in the Austin-San Antonio corridor. I plan to incorporate many different species of the area, and chart their development, general transformation percentage, symbiotic relationships that form between mutated species, defense mechanisms, hunting practices, and whatever else I can think of when delving into each species. This apocalyptic world and all of its species and changes is something I plan to port into a ttrpg GURPS campaign. I hope you all enjoy this journey as much as me!

The Fungus:

The beginning and cause of the apocalypse as a whole. Created by a large company’s pharmaceutical department led by a Dr. Simon Adler(working name), with the idea and task of emulating a healing factor similar to the axolotl’s abilities. To achieve this goal the team began experimenting with implanting different forms of parasitic organisms with the intent of creating an organism with the ability to sustain a state of symbiosis in which it took nutrients from the human host and created new human tissue in return. they decided a fungus would be best for this, but I’m not sure if any type or species that fit the traits exist in the real world. The scientists then experimented on rats and other animals to see if this gmo fungus was able to connect and acted in the ways they intended, unfortunately it just didn’t take. As a last ditch effort they hypothesized that in order to make it able to infect many types of species they’d have to make the genome of the fungus itself unstable and rapidly adaptable to organic material it encounters. To do this Dr. Adler blasted a sample with radiation, while this killed most of it, the remainder proliferated very quickly and latched onto every animal in the lab (they were specifically more susceptible to fungal infection in order to ensure that the experimental fungus could take) and collapsed all at once.

I feel like now is a good time to specify how the fungus works and what actually makes this an apocalypse instead of just a very fast bio weapon.

The fungus first spreads by spores that are shot in clouds into the air, the spores then breathed in and deposited deep in the lungs of animals.

These spores then infect the area, and slowly move toward the brain, replacing healthy tissue with its own as it goes (the fungal tissue can show up as many different things, from spring and spongey to calcified and hard like coral).

Once it reaches the brain it cuts off all motor control, this causes the animal to collapse, seemingly due to death.

The fungus then rapidly consumes energy from the host and incorporates itself into healthy tissue throughout the body

This process takes only minutes to finish to completion. Due to the speed of such a change heaps of heat is created. many animals end up spontaneously combusting, spreading the fungus into the air even more. The few who can bear it, become mutated by the fungus into different creatures with new abilities and physiology. (Different animals have different rates at which the fungus can incorporate itself, meaning some animals are much more likely to combust than others, ex: ravens are very unlikely to survive, while deer have such a high survival rate that whole herds of them still roam after the apocalypse).

The animals in the lab then rapidly became much larger and starving due to the quick growth, this presented as a feeding frenzy. The entire team of scientists were killed in the lab due to either smoke inhalation or mauling from the animals. Due to the lack of perceived danger of the study initially, safeguards such as lockdowns or automatic vent closing and backup systems were absent from the facility. This caused the spores from the laboratory to gradually waft up and out into the city above. This vent specifically had become a widely used resting place of grackles, which will be the first mutated animal that I’ll dive deeply into in the next post.

If anyone has any suggestions on the story and/or the science behind it I would appreciate each and every one of them (same with tips on how to blog and that sort) thank you for reading I hope you enjoyed and have a nice day!

[thed20isbad]

I bowed as deep as I was able, the blood loss and head injuries making even the slight tilt I managed, dangerous. I swallowed the mouthful of blood and saliva in my mouth before responding. "Og coursh loord, layfy, wes haad ashreat time."(Of course Lord,Lady, we had a great time.) My head pounded like an orcish drum. The Shadow Elementals presence was like a hot iron to the back of my skull. The ritual was nearly complete, I must complete it, or I would bleed out in the dirt. I swallowed again and looked down at the one holding my hand. It was not even to my hip, and looking at it only felt like a needle in my neck. The hand holding my little finger was my own. The right one sacrificed to the elemnyal so it could feel for a day. The poorly cautorized stump still dripped blood but was only obviously painful when I concentrated its existence.

The young Shadow elemental gestured wildly with its other appendage. The smokey psuedopod gesturing and presenting a small doll of leather and cloth shaped like a turtle. After a moment, it pulled the doll to what I would generously call a head. It had what I used to have in my head. My right eye, just off center and less than a finger's breadth from my missing teeth. The right half as well, luckily, it knew nothing of human anatomy, or it may have ripped out the jaw along with the teeth. The young Shadow Elemental had not been gentle, likely due to inexperience and exloration. I could see it had formed a small lump next to my eye, a grim facsimile of the swelling my face underwent when it took my eye.

I bowed again, and nearly fell again. "Hi shill ahwaysh sherve."(I shall always serve.) I couldn't keep the blood from pouring out of my mouth. I dropped to one knee, unrestrained by tension, I slammed to the ground. It seems I was lucky, and that was close enough to the correct solemn kneel that i had completed the ritual as I lost consciousness.

I woke later. Pain free, aside from the rock I seemed to be laying on when I woke. I was alive, that would be listed as at least a partial success by the cult. My hand was gone, but the stump was coated in fresh pink skin, and I could feel it. The exchange had been successful. My hand past the wrist for a sheaf of shadowy pseudopods. They were invisible in the light, but I could feel them, existing. I raised my hand to my mouth. My teeth were still gone. I would have to check later if that exchange had been successful, an all devouring blackness for my teeth. Lastly, my eye, also still gone. The wound was gone and the socket too. Flesh covered bone where once dwelt my eye. This exchange was also successful, my eye that sees light, for one that sees only darkness.

It was the least known of the exchanges. All reports said that one could see the in the shadows and dark places like it was noon on the solstice. It was true, I could see in and through the dark. That wasn't the end of the sight though. I could see through the sky, into the darkness of night. I couldn't describe what it was like to see forever expanding beyond the edge of the sky. To know there is more beyond the realm is one thing, to seek to touch the moon was another, but to know there are things and places higher than the moon in the sky and beyond the stars is another. I learned quickly not to spend much time looking up. There is a reason why the masters with this exchange are often mad.

"You have been kind to this child of ours, though she is nothing more than a monster to you. For that, you have our endless gratitude. Kindness is often missed by our kind. For you to give her such a priceless gift… we won't forget it, Friend Of The Abyss. This, we promise."

[neverhangd]

Nobody asked but I still feel like sharing. 😌

Anne is surprisingly sexually inexperienced, which is a fucking delight to write! Real change of pace for me. Now, don’t get it twisted—she’s not a virgin. She’s just had less sexual experience than one might expect out of a pirate, particularly one with her reputation. (Like much of the rest of this blog, that’s the whole damn point!)

TL;DR?: Anne has very little experience but she’s very good at oral.

cw for Anne’s abusive marriages below

it’s not detailed but it’s still not pretty and i’d rather not trigger anyone with my dumb thoughts lol

Most of Anne’s inexperience can actually be directly traced back to her first marriage. Friendly reminder that she was sixteen (in my canon) when she married James. She’d had one lover before him; it ended badly the same night it started. Then there was James, a relationship that slowly twisted and soured into a very similar shape with a remarkably similar ending. I won’t go into all the sordid details, but a year or so into their marriage, Anne learned something: James didn’t care if she got hers or not. That made two of two people she’d slept with that didn’t care, one of which was also horrifically abusive. She learned fast that if she got James off, he didn’t care what happened next. So Anne got very, very good at giving oral. It was the fastest way she learned to get James off and off her back.

To no one’s surprise but Anne’s, her next lover was similarly inattentive to her needs. Two’s coincidence, but three’s a pattern—Anne, at age nineteen, came to assume sex really was just a chore of the marital bed. (There’s a reason it was referred to as a “duty,” she assumed, and now’s when I remind you this was a common line of thought among women at the time.) She started to assume sex and everything that came with it was just more of nature being a bitch to women: they cramp and bleed once a month if they’re not pregnant, eventually the cramping stops and hot flashes set in, and sometimes they become unbearably horny with no satisfying way to take care of the issue. To the point where, while married to Jack, she began to assume arousal was like some kind of bodily signal that she needed to seek him out and so often did.

Now, this isn’t all to say that Anne’s never gotten off. Fear not! She just…hasn’t gotten off with a partner. A little while into her marriage to Jack, he started snubbing her advances. One night Anne was frustrated by it all and decided to make the arousal go away by mimicking intercourse. She just hoped it would be enough to loan her some peace, but in the process she ended up discovering a few things about herself. Like her clit. And that she can enjoy sexual contact past vicarious enjoyment through her partner, under the right circumstances. The next time she slept with Jack, when he was done and she…wasn’t, she finished herself off. That was one of the last times she slept with Jack.

[coochiecowgirl]

Really wish my mom would stop telling me about her sex life. Wish she had a close friend or a therapist she could talk to about all this stuff. She’s been so open with me for so long that it would feel very strange to set boundaries now. And I also feel like if I say that sex talk is off the table then we’d never talk at all lol.

Like I’m happy for her and her sex life but I also still get flashbacks to when she took me to a swinger party when I was 21 and I came out of the bathroom and saw her sucking some guys dick.

And then I think about when I was 11 or 12 and she brought me to her bf’s place in Port Townsend for a weekend and he lived in a loft above a garage so she put me in the closet to sleep (which was just a few feet from the bed) and not even 20 minutes later she started having sex with him and I cried myself to sleep listening to them have sex, trying to block out the sounds with my stuffed animal.

And then I think about when she moved to the house in Marysville when I was 14 and her bf spent the night and I could hear them having sex through the walls so I went downstairs to sleep on the couch but they were having sex so hard the chandelier was shaking and I blocked out the sound with my cd player and headphone.

And then I think about when I was 15 and decided I was ready to have sex so I told her I wanted to get on birth control and I came home from school the next day with a dildo and lube on my bed and a note from her saying I should get some practice in before the real thing. And then when I lost my virginity she was so proud and happy for me and I couldn’t tell her that it was really bad and that I was in a lot of pain for days.

And then I think about when I was 16 and had a real boyfriend and she kept asking me if we’d had sex yet and I didn’t want her to know so I kept telling her no and she kept asking what was wrong with him.

And then I think about all the education I had to do myself about sex and orgasms and self pleasure and condoms.

And then I think about when I got my period when I was 11 and she gave me some books from the literal 1960’s that explained things so poorly and I thought I was gonna bleed for 28 days and I was so relieved when I stopped after 5 days.

Growing up she could never talk openly about anything. She didn’t teach me anything about my body. And it sucked. So I hate that now she’s open she can’t see how much she fucked me up by her own inexperience and immaturity and won’t recognize the damage she caused. And I know she was Christian for so long, but she stopped being a Christian when I was 11 or so and while she was experiencing new things with her own body and spirituality I was also going through it and had no real support.

I will always hate her for how she parented me from ages 10-18. I get that her whole world was changing but she was a really shit mom during that time. I deserved better.

[tkvkfanfics]

WHISPERING WILLOW

🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ ↝ Jungkook's only goal was to get his degree and have feet that weren't covered in bloody blisters. He never anticipated losing his sanity like everyone else from THAT Village did, on his journey towards it. OR Jungkook's head hurts from too much thinking

ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛ Credits ↝Inspired by the request from Estar. Thank you so much for this amazing idea. It was my first time trying a mystery genre. I hope you will enjoy it. Is the ending hopeful enough?

From Original Request:

↝Jungkook arrives in the Village of the Whispering Willow for a summer assignment. Interested in the village's mysterious history. He meets Yoongi who helps him with the Willow's secrets. During his exploration Jungkook stumbles upon Taehyung's open-air studio. It seems that Taehyung's only muse is that willow tree which lures Jungkook in. Jungkook is fascinated by Taehyung's ability to capture the willow's magic on canvas. He wasn't prepared for the secrets Taehyung revealed. Bittersweet, open but hopeful ending: Despite a strong connection, circumstances (Jungkook is from another city and Taehyung can’t see himself leaving the village) force Jungkook and Taehyung to part ways.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢꜱ ⥏ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ↝ taekook, artist⥏ taehyung x university student⥏ jungkook ↝ soulmates taekook (kinda) ↝ time-traveller taehyung ↝ mysterious min yoongi

ʀᴀᴛɪɴɢ ⥏ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ ↝ teen and up ↝ mention of violence ↝ open ending

ᴛᴀɢꜱ ⥏ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ ↝ attempt at humour, mention of past lives, detective vibe jungkook ↝ mystery, adventure, fantasy, reincarnation

🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳

People called the village, resting peacefully among the gentle slopes of the green hills, “Village of the Whispering Willow”, most likely because of the old weeping tree leaning over the lively river where the fishermen were spending most of their vacation days.

Even if you stopped an old lady who looked too old - wearing a scarf around her head and thick woollen skirt with multiple layers falling to her blue swollen ankles - to be born somewhere else, and asked her what was the village’s original, real name, she would hit the, by the time and weather worn-out, pavement with her walking stick and fixed the old shopping net whose shabby loops were barely holding her Sunday purchase behind them, (sliding down off her wrist and stopping the circulation in her fingers), and then, looking you up and down from behind the glass of her thick glasses pressed tightly to the bridge of her nose, she would say, “The real one? My late grand grandfather planted the willow tree by the hill with his brother when he was just a boy. It has been the Village of the Whispering Willow since then. Since forever.”

And those were the first words Jungkook wrote down inside his newly bought notebook, wrapped in the layers of paint carefully applied by an artist to create a solitary willow tree with branches reaching towards the river below.

“Thank you,” he bowed politely, brushing through the letters settled between the lines with his finger and smearing the graphite.

Jeon Jungkook was an ordinary University student, who gladly exchanged the sleek look of a nobleman ironing his snow-white shirt every morning and washing it every second, for the wash-out jeans and a hoodie he hadn’t worn since his rebel times over the jacket of his high school uniform. Packing a box of band-aids and sticking a few on his soft heels that would bleed out his inexperience as soon as he took the first step in his hiking boots, he bought a ticket and with the travelling pillow pressing on his nape and the sides of his neck, he got on the train, determined to submit the assignment paper to his professor at the end of the summer holidays and get the key from the gate with a path leading straight to his diploma and freedom of independent adulthood.

The old lady nodded shortly, hovering her walking stick over the pavement to continue in the routine of her daily life written in her bones.

Jungkook watched her retreating back and her limping step, slowly vanishing in the mist of an early morning, until she didn’t disappear where the first brick of the houses was placed.

As the sun started to set a day, clearing the fog-covered roads, and peeking through the clouds touching the green hills, a tree he had seen countless times but had never stood in the shadow of it, grew up from nothing. Probably took a shape from water circulating in the sky or from the swarm of bloodthirsty mosquitoes.

“A fucker!” cursed Jungkook, spitting a frustration from his tongue, and slammed a palm on his ankle, the only place where his bare skin was catching all the filth the air was full of. The slam resonated through the air, jumping from the cold bricks of church and fence shielding the cemetery from the world of the living, and whirled the air, creating a wave of weak wind around his legs, yet nothing the little thirsty vampires with suckers ending mouths weren’t used to.

Jungkook began to wave his arms around himself as if he wished to take off the ground, spinning on his heels and clapping his hands together every time a daring one laughed too close to his ear. Not paying attention to his step, too engrossed in saving his nails from mindless scratching in the next few hours, he didn’t notice when the solid bumpy asphalt turned into soft ground, boring his heels deep under the sticky muck of dark brown, under soles of his shoes.

“I wouldn’t go that way if you want to get rid of them,” a voice sounded over his head and Jungkook stilled, stopping midair with fingers leaning backwards as far as the muscles of his palm let them, he raised his eyes only to frown when he saw no one, just a mess of wet path hollowed out with mud and green torn leaves.

“Here,” laughed the voice, reaching past the shoulder of Jungkook’s leaning over his knees figure.

There stood a man, no older than a boy, with hands crossed over his chest and legs stretched wide, impatiently tapping the flat rock with the tip of his boots, as if waiting until he saw more than zips of Jungkook’s backpack. With one eyebrow pulled up, his eyes ran over Jungkook’s face, stopping at his big nose and continuing lower, raising up a corner of his mouth in a suppressed laugh when he noticed the state of his shoes, spoiled with wet dirt.

“You are not from here,” that wasn’t a question. “Here,’ the stranger boy repeated, and outstretched his arm, wiggling his fingers a reach from Jungkook’s body, ‘let me help you,” he pointed with his chin towards the moving mud, swallowing up his feet, now grazing his slick teeth up to his ankles.

The boy’s fingers fisted the loose sleeve of Jungkook’s jacket, his big thumb slipped past the loop that should have held the button, but it was missing, and with a huff blowing away the black strands from his eyes, he pulled him up.

“Mother would say the Whispering Willow set up the trap for its invaders,” chuckled the stranger secretly. His words pricked Jungkook’s attention more than the pair of sharp narrow eyes glaring at him from over his button nose.

“The Whispering Willow?’ he breathed out with interest, wiping off his shoes by rubbing them against the dull edge of the rock they both were now sharing, ‘Do you know the legend?” he asked.

The boy with fierce like a cat gaze tapped his chest as if he wanted to say ‘Look at me!’ before another laugh tinted his words, “I learned how to walk here, I learned how to climb these rocks while you were feeding the city pigeons,” he stuck up his chin proudly.

Now, Jungkook enjoyed breaking his slice of bread in two and feeding the crumbs to ducks, but he wasn’t about to push his tongue against his cheek and argue. “Great! What can you tell me about it?” he let the question past his teeth instead, already grazing the pages of his small notebook with his index finger and stopped on the first, almost empty page, watching how his pencil rolled on the white paper.

“Haven’t you like,’ the boy was now observing the documents rolled into a tube and covered in see-through foil peeking out of the deep side-pocket of Jungkook’s hoodie, ‘read hundreds of articles your noisy city friends uploaded all over the internet?” he scoffed audibly, his grimace closely resembling the one Jungkook’s sister sported every time she witnessed Jungkook licking the plate clean after he finished his meal. 

“Like a dog,’ she liked to say, lifting her upper lip up and scrunching her nose, ‘only Coco manages to do it with more grace. You, on the other hand, just look like a hungry vacuum cleaner.”

"No, actually,' Jungkook admitted, shaking his head to clear his mind from the memory of his sister's teasing face, 'I wanted..." but he halted, cut himself midspeech, as if suddenly realising something.

When the elderly conductor in his maroon uniform, whose dark hues looked almost festal surrounding the golden buttons and cuffs on his sleeves, opened the sliding door with one touch of his palm two hours later, Jungkook found himself following his steps as if they were leaving vibrant red trail behind their heels. He was the only one who did so, as he discovered when he looked around the small platform that had surely seen the better days, while watching the departing train.

The dense forest seemed to be enclosing the mysteriously creepy quiet village, wrapping it in a thick layer of mist. He wondered if this was the same forest his uncle used to take him to as a child. As he passed by a wayside twisted metal sign with the number one hundred and sixty-eight on it, he couldn't tell if that meant he was one hundred and sixty-eight kilometres from Seoul or one hundred and sixty-eight kilometres from civilization altogether. Nothing and noneness.

The stranger's eyes seemed to follow Jungkook's thoughts effortlessly, even without him pushing them aloud off his tongue. With each breath he took, the boy next to him exhaled in response.

"Well, that's rare," said the boy at least, Jungkook noticed the glimmer of curiosity shaking with his body as if he was standing on the edge of a hill, considering if to jump or run as far from the danger as possible. "Most people come here armed with what they call information, reliable sources even. They think they already know everything there is-"

"But they don't," completed Jungkook, sensing where the boy's sentence was going.

The stranger squinted his already narrow eyes, looking Jungkook up and down again before nodding ever so slowly. "They don't have a foggiest," he nodded with a thick accent, another of his almost disgusted scoffs bubbled saliva around his lips.

The stranger boy stood up on his tiptoes before bending his knees, taking a giant step that reminded Jungkook more of a jump, he bounced from the rock, away from the mud that now drenched through Jungkook's boots staining his socks forever-brown.

"Wait!" Jungkook wanted to yell, desperation at the end of his throat, but he was struggling to maintain his balance on the unstable stone. He could barely recall the expensive surfing lessons he had taken during his first year of university, a mere excuse to spend more time with his crush - the instructor - yet he doubted they would help him with the soft, slippery mixture of water and soil.

"You see, city boy," the stranger let out an audible sigh before extending a hand to help him onto the soft green grass, not appearing too considerate over Jungkook's well-worn-out but still valuable jeans. If anything, he seemed to be more judging Jungkook's choice of clothes than caring if a splash of brow didn't get on his pant leg. "This old willow that you see just as an attraction to spare your bored mind holds ancient secrets that are not for the weak ones."

Following the boy up the hill, blooming with flora life where the mist dispersed into a sunny summer day, with fingers folded over his hip, Jungkook's heart was skipping with excitement. Not only he was lucky enough to come across this boy who had already uncovered all the mysteries hidden within the tree, and he would share them with him, willingly or not, like a children's tale, Jungkook could also hear the willow's long branches, falling like strands of braided hair to the river's surface in whole their enchantment, dancing with the summer breeze.

"The Whispering Willow is not called whispering for nothing,' continued the well-cultured boy, 'It can communicate with those who are willing to listen. But beware,' the boy's voice was now nothing but a hushed breath blending within the wind, as he raised his hand to stop Jungkook in his tracks, 'it can also sense doubt or greed."

They were standing where the dead trail of desire path was meeting damp wooden planks of a bridge supported by sturdy pillars over the quiet river that Jungkook started to slowly realise was a murky, green swamp. What before looked like a moving stream were lily pads floating on the surface of the stagnant water with the occasional bubble rising from the depths. The swamp was alive with the unceasing buzzing of insects - the bloodthirsty mosquitoes followed Jungkook even up there - and the vibrant croaking of frogs.

"Many that came have lost themselves,' the boy, leaning against a pole dug into the mushy soil, cleared his throat unexpectedly and Jungkook all but forgot he was even there, 'Listening to what was not for their ears to hear. Wandering around for days and months, it is said some of them wander till now." His hand, strongly clenching the wood, slipped from the pole and drew a half circle, showing Jungkook tens of fishermen dozing off in their folding chairs, held together by thick fabric of various colours, or casting, jiggling and reeling in their fishing rods.

As they stepped onto the wooden bridge, Jungkook could feel the soft, squishy moss beneath his feet. It was moist and slimy, making each step slippery and dangerous. At one point, Jungkook leaned over the rope railing just in time to spot a toad sticking out its sticky like a glue tongue at a great speed and before his eyes could close and open again in a blink, the toad was chewing its prey with delight. Jungkook stared at the toad in awe, the hours spent watching Animal Planet on his grandfather's vintage TV were coming to life just in front of his eyes.

He noticed the stranger boy grinning at him with an odd, soft glint in his eyes, as if he had seen the scene unfolding not even a step away from him, thousands of times before, and Jungkook once again got that bizarre tingly feeling at the bottom of his spine that he felt upon his arrival, the sense of familiarity. He looked as if words were forming in his mouth because of the way he was chewing on his tongue and inner cheek, but as soon as Jungkook raised an eyebrow, the boy simply shook his head and placed his foot on the field of daisies, killing at least three of them with the sharp spike of his hiking boots, on the other side of the bridge.

Caught in a moment of hesitation, Jungkook wavered, his gaze fixated on the stranger in front of him. There was something in the air, an unspoken connection that was possible only inside this village. It was as if Jungkook could sense the boy's thoughts, it felt like dipping your hand into a pool of warm honey and feeling the slow, sticky pull of something familiar and yet unknown. Without fully realising it, he followed the boy across the bridge, guided, if not lured, by an invisible thread of the Whispering Willow.

🌳🌳🌳 

Jungkook kicked at the fallen branches, gathering them together with the cold, moist but still crusty soil into a pile, where the mix of light green and faded yellow, lengthy leaves were already forming a soft blanket next to the robust, rough and thick as a human leg roots. His boots were covered in mud that had glued to his soles when he had walked down to the shore of the swamp to take a picture of purple irises. He could feel it weighing his ankles down and sticking his feet to the ground.

Jungkook pulled his hoodie over his head, messing up his hair which he guessed was already unruly enough from the windy weather. He threw the fabric over the wooden root, patting it out of habit before he sat down, noting how hard and round it felt under him. He outstretched his legs and crossed his ankles, watching the muck of rotten-brown leaves and little rocks all over his new hiking shoes.

The wind swishing around the branches was producing a whispering sound and Jungkook wondered if this were the whispers the stranger boy was talking about. Could he possibly make up the words from the thin hushing?

From his backpack, he pulled out his new notebook and unfastened the elastic band keeping the pages in place. As it snapped against the paper, a bit of dried colour chipped off and landed on Jungkook's knee.

He looked down at the small speck that stood out against the dark blue fabric of his jeans in its natural hues, fitting perfectly among the browns and greens of the forest around him, yet, when he gazed back at the hand-painted picture of the same tree he was sitting under, it looked as brand, as magical as when he bought it after his arrival.

Jungkook liked the painting because it flawlessly expressed the soul of the ancient willow. In his high school days, he prided himself on being an artist, skilled with his pencils and eager for others to recognize his talent. He signed for every art competition at his school and always gladly offered the lines of his pencil during festive times. However, despite all of his efforts, he never received more than a curt "Thank you" from his class teacher, who sipped on her coffee as if it was her who had just challenged her sleep regime, battling against the exhaustion, all the while crying over the memory of other students climbing up the winner's podium.

Following the precise strokes where each leaf was delicately detailed, and the colours blended seamlessly to create a lifelike representation of the tree's spirit, he thought with his still there, just dormant, old jealously, the artist of the Whispering Willow would surely win everyone's hearts.

Jungkook caressed the tree’s massive trunk on the canvas, leading up to the leaning-over crown. The texture beneath his fingertips seemed to pulse with a subtle vibration, like the heartbeat of the ancient willow itself. The leaves, frozen in their endless dance, carried an unearthly elegance. Jungkook thought he could almost hear their rustling, feel the breeze behind his nails, as if a gentle wind swept in between the branches.

The roots painted with the exhausting amount of details got his eyes’ attention. Their strength and tirelessness beneath the soil, which looked as wet but still crusty as it felt, was palpable.

A thought that sounded too absurd to be true, but too wild to be ignored, crossed his mind. They weren't just strokes of paint; they were conduits of a timeless force that whispered tales of centuries gone by. As he gazed at the picture, the boundaries between reality and art began to blur.

Tracing the lumps of the layered paint with the sensitive heel of his finger, a curiosity sparked within Jungkook as he wondered about the artist whose hand could not only capture the exact play of the beauty he was watching from behind the bridge, but also the old tree's mystical energy. Was it simply a skilled painter who managed to bring life to canvas, or was there something more?

The wind picked up, whooshing the leaves above him, some landed in his hair but he hardly noticed, as his attention was drawn to a strange mark at the bottom right corner of his notebook cover. It appeared to be engraved into the layers of dried paint. A perfect place for signature, Jungkook's heart did an excited twirl. Only, as he brought the notebook under the swipe of daylight fighting its way through the branches' shadows, he noticed the strong elastic, sewn to the last page, snapping and unsnapping under Jungkook's nervous fingers, had destroyed his only lead. He now knew where the tiny speck of colour was coming from.

Frustrated, he couldn't help but blurt out, "Who are you?" just as a new thought popped into his head. He flipped open the notebook to the first page, where only his scribbled words

 'Old lady 70+, gr. grandfather planted the tree - 2023.6.11. 7amish?'

were reminding him of his little progress. Blinking at the words written by his own hand, he didn't think too long before crossing them out.

Jungkook held his pencil steadily, positioning the side of the tip just above the sharp edges of the bottom right corner where the paper had been marked by something sharp but invisible, before he grazed the sandy surface with a light touch, leaving the traces of shiny gray graphite behind.

Where the black and easy-to-smear coat of broken graphite couldn't get past the impression, three letters, initials, stood out in white contrast.

"K-T-H," Jungkook carefully read each of the letters aloud.

🌳🌳🌳 

Jungkook's boots were leaving a stain of light brown mud on the grass as he followed the path of straws lying pressed to the soil as if someone's heavy boots stepped on them not so long ago. His backpack kept sliding off his shoulder, thumping against his side with every step. He clutched his notebook tightly with both hands, the front page brushing against his index finger while he approached a figure lying at the top of the hill.

The stranger boy's eyes were closed as he let the warm rays of sun caress the exposed skin showing under his rolled-up pants and baring his bony ankles. But he still seemed to sense Jungkook's steps, perhaps he could feel the ground vibrating under his soles.

"City boy!" he called, stretching his arms over his head. A mischievous smile spread across his face. "Are you here to soak up some sun? I hope you've got enough sunscreen on those delicate city cheeks." 

When Jungkook's shadows fell over his face, blocking out the warm comfort of summer day together with light, the boy lying in front of him, head tickled by grass straws, lifted one eyebrow and opened an eye. Watching Jungkook's hesitance as he took a moment, he hoisted up on his arms, boring the elbows into the soil.

"Jungkook,' sighed Jungkook after a while, 'I am Jungkook." He bowed his head, placing his hand just under his collarbone.

The longer Jungkook was walking the village's fields, the more leaves from the nearby trees intertwined in his hair strands and the more energy was pulsating under his fingertips, the less connected he felt to the life he left hundreds of kilometres away just a few hours ago. Jungkook was unable to put a sense on it, but he felt as if he had always lived in this village, perhaps even in a past life. Just by the swamp and its purple irises underneath the old tree.

The boy continued to squint at him despite the shadow; the sunshine had probably burnt out his sensitivity to the world behind his eyelids for the next few minutes. He looked to be thinking something over, before he shrugged and nodded curtly. "I know," he said simply without a warm nice to meet you or reaching out his hand and uttering his own name conversationally. "Yet, City boy suits you better." The boy sat up, brushing his fingers through his hair and dusting off the dirt from his elbows.

Jungkook's eyebrows would have been floating above his head, even speeding up higher, in surprise if they weren't growing from his skin so firmly. He raised them quickly and powerfully, his voice stammering, "H-how-how do you know my-my name?" His words tripped over each other, and he could taste the confusion that followed his initial shock. Only, he soon after began to choke on the pungent feeling of fear down his throat, swirling down to his stomach. Jungkook thought his reaction was just on the spot. "I've never-"

"It's on your bag,' explained the boy unbothered, lifting his arm to grasp and pull at the hanging loose band, twirling in circles in the wind, of his backpack shoulder straps, 'You are walking around like a kinder garden kid in the village where everyone knows everything about you just by a mere look or touch." His eyes seemed to glimmer in rays as the sun moved across the sky, shining high above them. They become so light, almost transparent that Jungkook swore he could recognise the red string his mother sewn his name with into the stiff fabric. "You are not like anyone else that came here, Jeon Jungkook. You wish to get to know the secrets but you can hardly protect yours. The Willow was right." 

Jungkook's large bag bumped against his unprepared wrist, knocking off the notebook from his trembling fingers. They both watched as it landed on its thin edge before toppling over, the bar code down, with the heavier wooden backside leading the way and the light pages fluttering after it.

"You want to know who painted this?" The boy's fingers traced the path from the roots pushing on the ground and up the massive trunk to the detailed crown, almost delicately, that Jungkook had explored earlier.

Jungkook's mind was stopping, he couldn't think straight for a moment. 'Who are you?' he wished to ask, but even before the dread had a chance to resonate within his self-preservation, he knew the question was irrelevant. 

The boy let out a soft chuckle, his eyes full of sparkling amusement. He looked over the unspoken question clear in the fear Jungkook's facial muscles twisted in, or maybe as loud and voiced out in his ears as if Jungkook had let the words leave his mouth.

Still caressing the green-yellow leaves on the front page of Jungkook's notebook, Jungkook didn't doubt he could also sense the tree's life from the layered painting under his fingertips, the boy finally spoke, "Taehyung painted this,' his voice carried a weight of importance that made the air feel denser, "Kim Taehyung. He's been painting the whispers of the Willow for as long as I can remember. The Willow seems to favour him, it tells its most intimate secrets only to him."

Jungkook's eyebrows knit together, the name stirring memories of a dream he couldn't quite recall; echoing like a catching melody of the upbeat song his sister liked to dance to from dawn till dusk and yet not the same. He could easily sing along to the track (away from his sister's ears of course), not missing a single word, only, however, he was unfamiliar with its name. When it came to Kim Taehyung, it was like recalling the name of a family friend his mother liked to mention thrice a week, but no one really knew much about him. 

"You might meet him," the boy didn't stop, if anything, he looked determined to let out everything he knew after walking in circles around Jungkook for so long, as if waiting for him to interrupt. "Or perhaps, you've already crossed paths. The Willow has a way of weaving souls together." His eyes met Jungkook's with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. 

Jungkook's gaze drifted back to his fallen notebook, its pages close to rustle in the breeze if it was not the stranger boy's hand holding it down. 

"Be careful, city boy,' the stranger warned, his eyes holding a depth of knowledge, 'The Whispering Willow shares its secrets cautiously. Some truths are best left undiscovered." 

Jungkook quite couldn't shake off the feeling of the warning that was muted right after it was born when he found himself on the empty train platform. Was the Whispering Willow playing with him like a puppet, sensing his greed?

The boy's fingers spread to feel three of four edges of Jungkook's notebook, and picked it up carefully, as if he forgot it survived the fall and couldn't break so easily. 

When he handed it back, their fingers briefly touched, and Jungkook felt a jolt of something indescribable, a flood of memories that weren't his but held onto him until he embraced them as his own after the disorientation, throwing him off his legs and blurring his surroundings for a fleeting moment, didn't fade away.

With nothing but the clear blue sky above, he felt a violent, spiky cold of firm, solid stone under his soles. He had somehow got rid of his hiking boots along with his socks. In this forest, where concrete met nature, Jungkook was surrounded by countless ancient willow trees of all shapes, shades, and captured in different seasons. Jungkook felt lost.

When the sound of wet paintbrush sweeping across the canvas, interrupted only by the occasional scratching, fell on his ears from behind him, he spun around.

A flash of a young handsome man's face with nicely shaped expressive eyes under strong, well-defined eyebrows, overwhelmed him. However, before Jungkook could gaze deeper, searching for secrets that had never been hidden from him, they quickly turned alert, sharp and angry. Where availability should be, defiance was flashing, pushing Jungkook away. 

He wasn't aware he was looking at the world through the stranger boy's eyes, until the voice didn't cut through, "Did you see it?" the boy asked, his fingers wrapped around Jungkook's wrist in a bruising grip. 

As quickly and unexpectedly as the borrowed memories came, they diffused into the field of daisies and swamp under the bridge. Jungkook looked around, confused. "I..."

The corners of the boy's soft smile lifted with sympathy. "Now you know where to go."

🌳🌳🌳 

The building bathing in the sunlight of the day that soon would be considered old and ready to shine the rays of evening, looked as shabby as every house Jungkook rushed past on his way down to the city. Built from the same grey bricks fixed by the time, the very same time that had bitten down on the sand, crushing it into bricks dust lying in dark white piles by Jungkook's feet, cast a shadow over Jungkook's face when he looked up, counting the floors and rows of the old grimy glass panels in their even older wooden frames.

On any normal day, Jungkook would have the number 119 ready on his phone's speed dial, just one tap away with his index finger on the green icon. He would probably start stretching to loosen his stiff joints to deliver the knocking-off kick or punch into the first pervert's face that dared to lay a hand on his shoulder. Or, and most likely, he would have already fled the scene before even noticing the filthy stains on the broken entrance door pushed away from its frame.

Even if Jungkook was weak to shining promises of adrenaline behind every adventure, he didn't necessarily seek danger. He used to have a home where to return to. 

But as his boot landed on the unstable metal surface, and the door remained firmly in place despite its protesting creak of hinges, his heart raced at the thought of this village and all that it represented to him. Why should he worry? He was already home.

The elevator was out of use, as suggested by the dark, deep hollow space where the heavy, thick door should have been. Instead, Jungkook took a step back when his sight fell on a single wooden plank hammered down by four bent and corroded nails, two on each side. Jungkook didn't believe them no matter how sturdy and unbreakable they looked. 

He couldn't tell if his knees were popping or if the stairs under his feet were vibrating with such cracking noise bouncing from the walls surrounding him suffocatingly, as he climbed up the floors, his palm sliding up the railing and collecting all the dirt. Jungkook didn't know where he was going, he didn't know when to stop or turn, he wasn't following a sound or a light, even if the summer rays from the boy's memory were still as vivid as when they first burnt holes into his eyes. The pulsating life of energy under his fingertips, still caressing the painting of the ancient willow, as if he was pressing them on someone's neck or wrist, was his only leading source. 

There was no staircase behind the corner next to the broken elevator on the sixth floor, no corridor opening behind the mirror wall from where Jungkook's own pink, sweaty and tired in its dark circles under eyes and prominent shadows under his cheekbones, face was reflecting back at him. Yet, instead of two doors, each one on the opposite wall, the third one, blue with a lever handle instead of a knob, and a sticker FIRE EXIT tapped down at the very top, caught Jungkook's attention. Without hesitation, he reached for the handle and pushed it open. The door swung inward, revealing a tight space, no bigger than a broom closet, with a shiny black metallic ladder fixed on the wall. Where the ladder's legs were touching the ground, a makeshift mat, adorned with colourful paint splatters, lay beneath. A pair of worn-out sneakers, their heels bent probably from frequent use, were neatly positioned on top of the greasy wool. A strong, thick rope hung down from somewhere above Jungkook's head, disappearing into the hole he could see just as a dot of light. It appeared to be well-used, with frayed strands visible all along its length. He reached out his arm, his fingers grasping the rough material that seemed to burn his skin. As Jungkook tugged, he could hear something far above him, hidden by the concrete roof sliding across the surface. Again, he pulled until his muscles burned and this time an annoyed voice echoed from the walls, "Yoongi hyung, you know you're too heavy for this rope!' a voice yelled from somewhere unseen, 'Just use the ladder!"

Jungkook froze, his hand still gripping the rope tightly as he slowly glanced around, searching for the source of the voice, but there was no one in sight. 

Curiosity got the best of him, he couldn't resist its pull, full of promises. Without a second thought, he let go of the rope and didn't even stop to see it spiralling in ellipses. He stepped onto the woollen mat, quickly bending in his waist to untie his shoelaces. Frustration boiled inside him as he impatiently worked on each boot, finally letting out a sigh of relief when they finally felt loose around his ankles. 

The ladder rattled under his bare feet and sweaty palms as he climbed up, his own breath mingled with distant humming coming from above him. The air grew colder, brushing against his skin like ghostly fingertips. Goosebumps raised along his arms, but he pressed on, driven by an unexplainable force that refused to let him turn back.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of grabs and jolts while the ground beneath him grew farther away, Jungkook's head popped out of the circular hole. Darkness gave way to blinding sunlight, flooding his chilled skin with warmth as he entered straight into the stranger boy's memories. Only this time, the cold cement under his palms as he hoisted himself up, swaying his legs like a small child at least twenty meters above the ground, felt solid enough that it could fracture his elbow if his hand slipped. It was a stark reminder of the reality of this situation.

The pulse under Jungkook's fingertips felt erratic, but he wasn't sure if his own heart, wild after a bit of exercise, didn't add to the mixture. He pulled his legs out of the hole, dragging them behind his body as he turned on his hands and knees standing up ever so slowly. 

As Jungkook rose to his feet, he found himself standing on a rooftop unlike any other he had ever seen. The sun, hanging just above the church's crucifix secured at the top of the pointy tower, was casting its golden rays, reflecting on the paint the pictures of the Whispering Willow were made of. Whenever Jungkook turned left or right or spun around completely, canvas on canvas with the same old tree was everything he could see. The village sprawled out in all directions - a sea of buildings and streets, probably as dead as when he rushed through them - behind the cotton fabric stretched over the frames didn't matter.

Jungkook couldn't remember when was the last time he felt so mesmerized by the physical beauty. If the world began to crumble around him, his legs, nailed down to the ground, would not even jerk from the startle of the loud destroying sounds. 

The vibrant colours of the painting seemed to burst with life, melting the dried-up layer of the thick ice frozen over the muddy swamp into the slippery surface, as the sunshine caressed it with care. When he took a step closer, eyes fixated on the pair of ice skates lying unlaced and torn up on the shore, the pain of frostbite shot into his fingertip grazing the rough texture. 

Lost in the way his skin turned bright pink and swelled pale white, Jungkook didn't notice the figure leaning with his back against the concrete half wall until the person spoke, "Beautiful, isn't it?" his voice was soft, despite how low and deep it was coming to the world. Startled, Jungkook spun around, wrapping the fingers of his left hand around his injured digit, his breath caught in his throat as he took in the ethereal, almost otherworldly, appearance of the man.

Tone filled with a hint of melancholy that matched the dying flame in the almond-shaped eyes, Kim Taehyung continued, "So beautiful, and yet so so sad." If Jungkook didn't know better, he would think the man was describing himself. 

Too caught up by the open expressiveness of his dark eyes before, he failed to notice how Kim Taehyung's skin seemed to glow with a mystic light, casting a glowing hue around his lean body. Jungkook didn't know much about auras, but this was exactly how he had always imagined them to be. The glow seemed to shatter the closer it got to his sharp features, dimmed around his long limbs and fully 'turned off' when it touched his torso and hips. It was Kim Taehyung's face that was radiating as if all the illumination gathered there, blinding Jungkook's eyes greatly than this summer's sun. However, when Taehyung's mouth parted, probably to take in the dry air, his lips wobbled with a blend of joy and sorrow; melancholy, before he whispered, "What are you doing here, Jungkookie?"

Perhaps Jungkook expected anything to fall from Kim Taehyung's sigh, codes and equations of poem verses he couldn't understand, but to hear his own name be said the second time this day without him voicing it ever out, simply caught him off guard.

Out of habit, he patted his right side, trying to pull at the long hanging strap of his bag, only to find a missing weight over his back as he moved his shoulders up and down with ease. He must have left it with the stranger boy among the white daisies.

"How do you know my name?" asked Jungkook, feeling the sense of repetition. "Did the stranger boy tell you?"

Kim Taehyung pulled up his perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Stranger boy?" he asked with curiosity.

"He knows you,' stated Jungkook impatiently and waved his hand as if that could answer the puzzlement fresh on Kim Taehyung's face.

"I am sorry but-"

"Pale face, restless judging vibe, eyes this narrow, he always talks as if knows everything but tell nothing at all and... oh, 'Jungkook suddenly brought his hand up his chin, just under his nose, tapping it twice with the side of his fingers and said, 'this short."

"Yoongi hyung,' exclaimed Kim Taehyung, his eyes suddenly distant as he ran them over one of his paintings, 'As you said, hyung never reveals anything."

"Then how..."

"Remarkable,' a laugh full of disbelief was forced out of Kim Taehyung's throat, 'You haven't changed a bit, still so clueless." 

"Excuse me, but do we know ea-" his words died with surprise as all of sudden, there were long fingers wrapped around Jungkook's wrist, tugging at his arm. Jungkook stumbled forward, nearly tripping over his own feet and stepping on his own bare toes as he helplessly followed the tug. 

He looked up at Kim Taehyung with wide eyes that could hardly mask his confusion. "What are you doing?" he questioned, trying to pull his arm free from the man's hold.

But Taehyung's grip only tightened, his fingers feeling like a vice and Jungkook's arm like a fragile wooden stick. He didn't even have much time to wonder where in this lean body such power could be born, when Kim Taehyung spoke again, "You don't understand," he said, his voice filled with urgency. "There's something you need to see. Before..." he stuttered and Jungkook thought he could see a flicker of something shiny under his big eyes. Usually, tears used to sparkle so brightly and even if Jungkook usually didn't possess a habit of wiping the tears of strangers away, the desire to touch Kim Taehyung's face was simply too strong to resist. He needed to get his hands on him to make sense of that intense pulsating. There was only one problem though, there were no longer cheeks he could dry up anymore.

In an attempt to shield himself from the harsh, merciless wind the winter spirits blew their way as every new year, Jungkook pulled his cloak, whipping with a flapping sound behind his back, closer around his body. Leading a string under the loop and tying it twice, he secured it under his chin and in the middle of his chest where his winter tunic was peaking out, causing the cheap cotton to hug his upper torso tightly, restricting his arms movement, but at least it provided him with some warmth against the cold. 

His father had traded their chickens for the leather pouch before winter set in, as they could no longer afford to care for them. It was now wrapped around Jungkook's belt with the same rope that held his cloak together, bouncing against his leg. He could hear the sound of charcoal scratching against the parchment or sliding across his dagger as he trudged through the deep snow. With every raise of his knee, every step that required effort, a sweat glistened on Jungkook's forehead under his hood. 

The young spirits were again playing with the branches of the tree leaning towards the frozen lake. The snow, that had gathered and frozen on the naked twigs in long pointy icicles glimmering in the sunlight as if coated in diamonds, slumped down in a snow shower, raising a pile next to what looked to be a tent made of luxurious fur hanging from four wide wooden sticks bored under the ground. Jungkook had seen such fur only sold by the wealthiest merchants in the city right under the gates, and he couldn't help but wonder who could afford such extravagance out here in the wilderness. If it was him, he would have sold it for food and milky rice wine long ago. 

His boots were leaving deep footprints behind him - the snow walls trembling and crumbling, so if he turned around he would not know where he came from - as he slowly approached the makeshift tent. When his fingers gripped the fur, it was cold and solid like a rock, its dampness seeping even through the fabric of his gloves. It was clear that whoever had made this shelter had been here for a while - perhaps even days. Ever since the Great Full Moon, the snow in Jungkook's village had not stopped falling.

Pushing aside one of the furs that served as a door, he stepped inside. 

As he entered the shelter, the first thing he noticed was how little light made its way through the thick animal coats. His eyes took a while to adjust to the dimness ruling inside. But even if it appeared larger than he had expected, the tips of his boots kept kicking into a pile of another expensive fur, covered with light silk, gathered together to form a provisional bed. The creases of the delicate and costly fabric were visible even in the shadows. They were curling around the dip, noticeable in the middle of the furs, big enough to fit a man. Jungkook's eyebrows furrowed together, he wondered where was this person hiding in extravagance, when suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows. Armed by darkness and surprise, a weight pinned Jungkook's body down; he could see the grey cloudy sky rising further. His head and shoulders sank through the layer of snow, hitting the hard frozen soil with a thud. A breath was forced out of his lungs when whoever attacked him landed on top of him, and a hand wrapped in jewellery was placed on his chest, either for stability or to hold him down. Jungkook could hear his heart beating in his ears as it pounded the angry blood into his brain. He gasped for air, the man hovering above his stomach and pushing his hand down, was causing a sharp pain in his ribs. 

"Who are you? What do you want?" a deep voice, vibrating from the chest raising unsteadily above him, rumbled, blowing a breath of warm air over Jungkook's face, melting away the coat of freeze that settled over his cheeks. The man leaning towards him like an animal that had just caught its prey, had a face of an angel, contrasting with his murderous intentions, if the teeth clear under his raised up upper lip weren't enough proof. 

"Get off me!" Jungkook demanded, shifting from side to side, painting a picture under his body, the hardest he could, but he struggled to break free, the man was simply too strong. "Didn't you hear me?!" he sounded braver than he felt when the tip, sharp enough to draw blood, of an improvised weapon made of an animal claw attached to what looked to be an old broken comb, was placed under his chin. Jungkook could feel the point boring into the soft skin of his neck, right where his pulse was the strongest. He knew he would bleed to death soon.

"I asked you first," growled the man, voice still rough and strained, as if he didn't talk in days. The man straddling him maintained a fierce gaze, his eyes reflecting a mix of desperation and determination.

"I am just... just a traveller, trying to find a place where to survive the winter,' Jungkook's voice sounded shaky as he carefully shaped it around the words, 'I mean no harm." He would lift his arms along his body, his father always taught him to show his empty palms, but the man's knees were crushing the bones of his forearms. 

The man remained unconvinced, pressing the makeshift weapon a little harder against Jungkook's neck, if Jungkook moved his tongue, he would feel it at the beginning of his throat. "Traveler or not, these are harsh times. People will do anything for survival. What's in your pouch?" the man demanded, his eyes narrowing.

Jungkook, pinned beneath the weight of the man, felt a mixture of fear and helplessness. The cold of snow underneath him, seeping through the layers of his clothes, mirrored the chill that ran down his spine.

"Please, it's just some essentials for survival,' Jungkook pleaded, 'Roots, a bit of rice wine, and some drawings. I'm an artist, not a threat."

The man's gaze darted back and forth between the honesty lowering Jungkook's eyebrows on either side of his face in vulnerability and the leather fastened to his big belt. Yet, he made no effort to remove the weight on Jungkook's chest or the improvised weapon. He was clearly not as gullible as Jungkook had anticipated for someone of his social status to be. With his free hand, he toyed with the rope, studying the tightness of the knots pressing down on the leather, prodding the material that was rising between the tied strings, perhaps trying to make out the objects hiding to prove to Jungkook he was lying. Then he pushed aside his own cloak and reached into the pocket sewed to his trousers' leg. He pulled out a sharp, jagged object. It was another piece of an animal's claw, just like the one he was using to threaten Jungkook. The man held it between his fingers, examining it, maybe trying to find the sharpest edge. In a glint of sunlight, Jungkook saw the sky reflect off the curved surface of the raised nail before a ripping noise filled his ears. Suddenly, the weight on his lower stomach disappeared as the sound of breaking ceramic echoed in the silence. The shards slid down his body with ease, powered by the slippery surface of the fastly drying milky liquid. They both watched them disappear under the snow.

"Traveller and artist,' the man scoffed, 'If you are on your way to the King, you are a bit late," he laughed humorlessly. "They killed us all and if you are here to finish what have they started,' the man's eyes fell on the tip of Jungkook's dagger that had torn through the cloth it was wrapped in, 'this tree won't allow you. It will protect me!"

As the sun began to set, throwing its last reflection of the day off the blade, Jungkook caught a glimpse of a tear running down the dark hollows under the man's eyes.

Jungkook wished to touch him, however as he blinked, the ashen skin that hadn't seen the warmth of the rays of the man's cheeks for a long time, was no more. Only dark behind his eyelids as he choked on his own boiling blood, screaming in pain.

Jungkook jerked his hand away from the canvas as if it had burnt him. He jumped back, elbowing something soft in his hassle and quickly brought his hand under his chin, pressing it down tightly, grasping for life that was slipping hot crimson between his fingers. But he felt no scarred, sliced skin opening into a bleeding wound and the tongues of freezing wind were no longer lapping over his dying body. Trembling, he let go of his neck.

His hand was clean, save for the mud under his fingernails, shining in the sun slightly as the oil he liked to apply all over his body rubbed into it. If the burning red frostbite in the middle of his palm wasn't trying to feed on his skin before it all disappeared into a memory, Jungkook would not believe what had just happened, what he had just seen, was real. He clasped his hands together, rubbing them against each other to help the cold wound heal sooner. 

As he lifted his gaze, Jungkook locked eyes with the man, wearing Kim Taehyung's face, who attempted to take his life not even a minute ago. Taehyung's dark eyes were inspecting him closely and Jungkook wished to possess the stranger boy's abilities to see through them, yet their expressiveness continued to stay only as a dying reminiscence.

"What was that?" he coughed up finally, cautious not to strain his neck muscles too hard, he still feared the echo of his past life would rise to the surface. "How did you do it?"

"I started to paint a very long time ago, but I have never left the village,' admitted Taehyung, his eyes seemed to burn with deep, unspoken pain as he gestured towards the paintings that surrounded them like a circle, 'At first, to be safe, the Willow protects those who trust in it. Not for free of course. It's a secret for secret, pain for pain, it interlocks us all in," he sighed and turned back to face Jungkook, open in his desperation. "Later, I stayed for my own selfish desires. I have met you as many times as you can see paintings. I took your life dozen of those, believing that's why you keep returning, to haunt me. Only, your eyes have never recognised me. I started to think the Willow was wrong. So I tried to keep you, but every time I did, the Willow tore you away from me." Taehyung's words were heavy with longing and regret. His hand reached out towards Jungkook before quickly retracting. 

"But why?" Jungkook’s eyes widened in disbelief as he looked at Taehyung. His mouth hung open, his chin almost touching the floor, as he scanned the paintings hanging on the wall. He desperately tried to recall the feeling of the willow tree blooming in pink, its broken branches bandaged, or the sneakers, he had seen by the ladder's legs leading up here earlier, tied to twigs by their laces exactly as he saw them painted by Taehyung's hand. 

"This place isn't meant for you, Jungkookie. You've never been one to seek safety or fear death. Yet, here you are, constantly returning, just to leave. Is it because of me? Am I the reason for your repeated visits? Perhaps it's because I am trapped in this cycle of misery and pain, the cost I have to pay to stay protected. I never meant to become a part of your life, to force myself into it. Maybe it's because I have lost everyone and you were the first person to find me." Taehyung's eyes got lost in the white and grey of the untouched snow brushing past the frozen falling branches. 

Jungkook reached out and gently took Taehyung's hand, feeling the warmth and the pain in it. Together they traced the faded colours of their shared history. He had never considered the idea that he might be trapped in an endless cycle of reincarnation, reliving his death or life as many times as there were paintings just to remind this man of his agony.

"The stranger boy told me, the Willow has its own ways how to weave souls together. There must be a way how to break this circle, Taehyung-ssi." Call Jungkook naive, the striking opposite of who Kim Taehyung he met in merciless winter for the first time was, but he refused to believe there was no way out of this never-ending loop of art. "Have you ever tried to leave?"

"Leave?"

"Take the train,' suggested Jungkook, 'Come with me." 

Taehyung pulled his hand back gently, shaking his head and laughing in response. The glimmer of hope that had briefly illuminated Jungkook's eyes disappeared even before his mouth opened, "I can't Jungkookie. The Willow... it binds me here. Every attempt to leave feels like fighting against a chain. If one link is broken..." Taehyung let his words fade into silence, his voice heavy with resignation.

What a terrible irony, to be trapped within the very branches that were growing to protect him. Jungkook could feel the frown crumbling on his face. The man had known him, had killed him, and had tried to save him ever since. Yet... "Have I ever, have I ever done to you what you did to me?" Jungkook ran his fingers through his hair as if trying to comb back the unsettling realisation.

Perhaps it was because he had experienced countless deaths and rebirths that he could no longer fear the end. After hearing Taehyung's words, Jungkook thought he had never felt death chasing him so closely its tips were stepping on his heels. He died and came back, only to be killed again; potentially with his own dagger being thrust into his heart. Jungkook wondered if his past self knew what was waiting under the willow's shadow. He had always considered himself a coward but the truth was that had never quite stopped him. 

"You know the answer don't you?" Jungkook whispered softly as if he was scared to say the words aloud and looked back at Taehyung only to hear him sigh. It must have been the truth behind the question that poisoned the air, turning it into a suffocating fog. Taehyung's gaze met his own, weary and scared.

"It's easier when you don't see it coming or don't remember ever dying,' Jungkook admitted, nodding, 'I remember only one life but you have a memory of thousands of mine. Isn't that enough evidence that you will have another chance, sometime later?"

"I will take the train alone today, Taehyung-ssi," Jungkook broke the silence between them again. He reached for his notebook, flipping through the pages filled with pre-printed lines but no scribbled notes or sketches. "And most likely submit an empty page because no one, not even my craziest professor would believe this shit that I had witnessed today." He placed a comforting hand on Taehyung's shoulder. "But maybe I will see you around. It's up to you if in this or next life." 

🌳🌳🌳 

Jungkook loved Seoul. He loved the city's countless opportunities, from cycleways and yellow painted lines on the roads, contrasting with those white for traffic, boosting up his cardiovascular system, to Friday nights wasted over empty glasses, that once used to be full and the colour of his drink made sense, in bars and pubs. Seoul was the only city Jungkook had ever known and been to, although, sometimes, he had those quite wild dreams about sticky mud glueing onto the soles of his hiking boots and sunrays burning his delicate urban cheeks red. But he had never remembered spending his money on the shoes full of blister promises.

Jungkook threw his backpack on the empty chair pushed back until its legs weren't lining up with the desk edge and sank onto the other one next to it. A year had passed and he was no closer to earning the independence of the dreamt adulthood than his sister luring an innocent man to a marriage. 

He shook his head, trying, but failing, not to think about his friend signing a contract for his new apartment and letting the beep, as the doorcode he put in turned green, play through the phonecall until Jungkook hung up, annoyed. Meanwhile, he was stuck taping the posters of his favourite football players back onto the walls of his old bedroom. His mother refused to speak to him for weeks after finding out that he had spent the last summer doing nothing. 

Jungkook led the zipper of his backpack down, revealing a fat book wrapped in newspaper between its blue not sharp teeth. 

He could hear a breath of the librarian, studying something behind her glasses, to hitch as it slipped from his fingers and lifted the dust that had settled down over the desk when it fell.

Written in his own hand, the title on the stained paper read 'The Lost Melody of Okinawa.' When he first stumbled upon the book on the library's website, it seemed intriguing. However, it was before he learned there were five hundred pages of pure text, without a single image to break up the monotony.

He grabbed onto the orange sticky note he had to tape down to stay there, and opened the book with exhaustion behind his aversion. He couldn't recall if it was his own hand or someone before him breaking the library's policy by marking certain lines with a pink highlighter. Jungkook wasn't stupid, he learned during his high school times that bold text usually held the most important information. He could only thank whoever recognised it in the letters of the same width and decided to help their lazy colleagues. 

As he fished out his phone from his pocket and waited for his camera to load, a voice laughed close to him, "Got yourself a thrilling read?"

Jungkook's head snapped up, almost knocking a fellow student, leaning across the desk, under his chin with the top of his head. 

From the tone of the boy's voice, Jungkook could judge he was teasing him, yet, as his nicely shaped, almond eyes fixated on the paragraphs, bending his neck into an uncomfortable stretch to help him read, there was definitely an interest.

"Can I help you?" asked Jungkook, trying not to sound rude or impatient. The last thing he needed was someone else snatching his last chance to graduate, no matter how boring it was, away. 

"Oh,' the boy's hand shot to the back of his neck, scratching at the embarrassment flushing red above the collar of his nice snowy-white shirt, 'I am sorry, I just couldn't help but notice the obvious disgust on your face," the boy said, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. "I couldn't resist peering over to see what had you so... grossed out."

Jungkook couldn't hold back his laughter; he had to cover his mouth with his hand to muffle the noise. But perhaps he should have thought about biting his lip before it was too late and the librarian shot him a disapproving look for disrupting the silence.

He grabbed at the shoulder strap of his backpack and let it touch the ground, motioning for the boy to sit. "It's just this book." He turned to the very first page and pulled the hard board out of the newspaper-folded cover.

"The Lost Melody of Okinawa,' the boy read aloud before taking the offered seat, 'An interesting choice. Mind if I join you? Two heads are better than one, right?"

Jungkook raised an eyebrow, looking the stranger up and down. "I should have known you are into mysteries if you didn't find the amount of black on the single page off-putting."

The boy chuckled. "Let's just say I have a knack for uncovering hidden stories. I am Taehyung, by the way."

Jungkook nodded, a smile stretching on his lips. "I'm Jungkook. Please help me graduate."

ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ

🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳🌳

[libidomechanica]

Unseen

A limerick sequence

               1

One unbecoming years, pale grew, it is that makes it bleeding nails; we rubbed    the saints,—I love answerless,    and the city. Into one, methought their education.

               2

At last thou! And thousand are not despise. Was apt to be. I believe a    hand so through a mist: they    did enthral or gall the heathen in the quest. Done forever.

               3

— The joy the conceit of him remain. Believe if they thought she with the    inoculation. Trod    underfoot if any pass before, reduc’d to bring again. ’ Well!

               4

So brimmed with any body in the painted Fragments lie! Now, that lucent    wavering look on her    Faults, if Belles had recently so, as Socratic royalty.

               5

Fans clap, Silks russle, and flood and what’s uppermost of new or hoard of stone.    But ev’ry life melts with    poets through the last so history, which the same—it wearies out.

               6

The injuries were the carved lady’s eyeballs pure and the Powder from Day’s    detested Day, which eyes    with man the shirtless Jeanie’s heart free, as they are rags or dust.

               7

So short can never can comparison had wish’ to pay. Saw the groves, yet    inexperience could    never learnt in little ones are fair: to dance with you beauty.

               8

Again, I am one with a nobly place confounded ear; she, who as    yet t is but an    inferior Priest have been knows. Her tongues were no sooner reading.

               9

I do love the best of temper’d him with new stings unfold, waft on the sun;    while the twilight dawned; and    out on death. In the lawful reason where Mahler wrote his face.

               10

Some thought to your Venus! For youth sublime and had been contends, it soothers    maim. And indecision,    oh Thou Jewel utter’d; but of Psyche. Whoever wants an heir.

               11

From that he was what ev’n in Slumber sound my echoing straiten’d for thee,    ’ and kept the Board. I’m a    philosopher of the many-winter’s feelings, or transferr’d.

               12

The thing of all Monarchs of our own score. Bare on its placed accord before    growing Combat, or where    day be deceive the living world my spirit leaps with music.

               13

A dying lovers dare not. And pass’d I blindfold her, and her future strike,    and keep my drooping eye;    but love me from out and shaven hear who should disturb their boots.

               14

First time how many benedictions new; most true. Bright movement was clear, our    Gipsy-Scholar of the    man. Elephant unite, transform’d a vast Buckle for her sects?

               15

Before me, that’s enough thee, that shall be kept its produces—You. And, that    word of Self, that know the    ship from each contended wide, and seem to kissing his wife weans.

               16

Nothing, and office of his attraction’? But thought our maladies want, save    in verse, which, if not I,    for miles away, it eats the new day comes, adoring crown.

               17

The joy their mother city thick and White array’d; themselves on it, and foolish,    new, seraglio,    wherefore should cost thou? A most encourage passed an older friend?

               18

Your real Griefs, and the lurking at the sun will to end the Peer again? But    ev’ry day lang; he’s peevish    an’ jealous mad, In the wintry tempest, to the bonie Jean.

               19

My plan but I, if but for blood the tree, are not to disfigure out how    to switch #1 with #3. How to be    going to the worse, to put on nature’s darling at her troth?

               20

He mighty wing to feel another. And, asleep: a maid of Dian’s this awkward    the sky. While with her    recklessness, a hand as alabaster pale: would make ye blue.

               21

With fire the crowd above a waterfall. To love, hatred with her side are    his traine. The wink, but still    believe if the swarthy Moors. Dreamed this goodly grown humble kind.

               22

With her glass, twas better still; and bask and whiskers, to dance the porch with, Let    us remember? The    dead from this new native unto gracious act, and all the sky.

               23

Singing of the broken profit thee? Canopy of her days. Held carnival    at will be past that    all in vain. And those throat, before the thraws in my loosening.

               24

But sweepstakes for ever old yet never see through thou couldst no harbour finde    in this occasion, who    think and we should so abide? Nations break of days like to come.

               25

Love distance lies nor equal husbands, I do claim men’s pride I boast: wretched    Maid! Some life may be my    dwelling Bag he renders vain the scream. And blood and gibe the same.

               26

Her aid, how men through they had before a feat to-day. Her lived again to    state: since they grow; the Gnomes    direct, to ev’ry Pow’r all the musk-bull browses; he had been?

               27

Felt with fainting Fears, soft Sorrow. And not lie alone is done, we dropt, and    pass our long having tact    and thus set at last I spoke. More endears, and he beats his taste.

               28

It is a very clear for my pains to fair and Innocently so, as    soon their passing breast, a    great expects your true delight in the lass o’ Ballochmyle.

               29

The resides. The more esteem’d to set a glazed with sidelong glances apart    i carry your beauty’s    patterned in its girth; but even the maxim for mankind!

               30

I never told me of the fair Head, and tears, instead of a bell, and spiral-    talk. Her title was    a Catholic, and I lov’d at such as we walk in and flip-flops.

               31

Shall outlive it—lower yet—be happy? That Jury-men may slip from cages    pull the Prize not, madam:    by your face was glad i’m happy skies, breadth, nor fail in it.

               32

Were ever on their own mind, when to Mire. I copy or my draught would    excuse: sweet thou mad’st me    leave this voice, we repair; the boy’s mite, ’ and, like the wretched make.

               33

That is goodly and a flatter I the day, I feel her slave, and in her    head with her Hand is sunk    below the just clear the hearts command, the brake. And Love deny’d.

               34

Gude faith! My heavenward and sip without discrimination, I can’t without    a smooth Iv’ry Neck.    Waking not fulfil your winged horses over the clematis.

               35

Rage, rage against the dying love’s day. Sweet the Warders with her glossy raven    black, brown, or Pooh! And    each field, and a light hide those bright, can lay an Europe’s sight?

               36

Saw the stands upon misprision grow cold.—But, artists! A Love Supreme. He    does not with the ground, as    we prayer, as doth Love speak? He always rattles, remember?

               37

I am. Well as verse—I wish it any less photorealistic? Leave    her weakness in another    doth me tie are humbler Province is the fronting them twa.

               38

Ah, Psyche tender lover pants upon a Matadores, but oh, thought    she slept their ambition.    The pleasant fruits of joy to day and an eyelash dead or sleep.

               39

From hence it any less photorealistic? But grim to shine; and strange in    the eye of salmon sing    is soul was round and root, and, which is not more its vanity.

               40

I hear smells, I see there in wild race. Where Light hover, an old hostel, called    the white rose up, and features,    that the dark hours, with each vulgar fraction’? There is in them.

               41

His beard, and the plank, and from the scream. While great court-Galen poised him, and feasted    with Ida’s at time    we shall reasons as they sang to weak. In brighter shine as well!

               42

And the thin hairs of words. But though on the rose up, and barb’rous Pride: with too    much with such the Mortals    bend the sunflower as he the moon was gone, and said she cccome?

               43

’ My Phillis, will flourish with the brightly taut in the soul! While the hollow    shows: the colours flings, colours    and all the World the knack? Airs have to wait for you to come.

               44

Or—what is with you better yet to fret the fine Edge of mine in his glad    Wings, a thing to like, thou    grand legitimate Alexander! But certes it conceal’d.

               45

Love too long, leapt up, and he can kill! In the purple fritillaries the    snow careful Plumes displays,    possession. When we passe, most humbly own—’tis decorum.

               46

While the ones whose ridge the wood where I go; long hair. It being Love, ’ why not    said she if you’re lovely,    and Halberds in grosser Air below, if the moon—cold weighty.

               47

That early June, where she then presume the aforesaid Baba just clearing    at her frightening, plumed    by Longinus or the imperial present for the gout?

               48

Not the genial art, and kye, and lost hath got blue devilish malignant witch!    Twas certainly ran many    risks, yet in bud and breath in the chill of being not you?

               49

I mean to abuse of his Cheapside; at length I find, happy title was    apt to blame it. Somewhere    it before me; carelessly array’d; with boys, or her return!

               50

And blessing; is convinced that which yet join not scent to a tree. Superbly,    and cut through that single    cord, but still shall view in cloudless Sky. Saying, I have at all.

               51

—And lips as without my song: in brief agony what shall have we known to    my horse, a horse fallen:    her side hortensius. Take, oh, take wi’ naebody; naebody.

               52

But now it is large; their cause they did not mind. But I who like yonder motions,    and some rejoic’d in    such uneasy virtue, All, our Sex resign thy dear concern.

               53

The glowing bosks of Gold. And have need not now; she would breed sweet place costume.    Made when they’re wet with you!    Soft yielding ransackt heart But I who like this modern dinners?

               54

As thy toil reward the lurking those bright against the wing, his Arrow hit;    nay, but an orphan; left    all their Chocolate shall join its brilliant bow. Doth follows light hints.

               55

Her voice comes, the rest, did I look’d this sin there is Spain? To draw the Planets    thro’ the gallows’ need: so    with those white linen hence, there’s bitter breast a thunderbolt.

               56

And gazed upon the night to flit in Air, weighs the Melodious-moving    this new feelings as    sympathy, universal sun. And scorn to add a Furbelo.

               57

For the great comments various Off’rings of his captive’s hours. The zephyr    wanton eyesight poring    over his wonder then, before than a catbird hates and imps.

               58

Which leans something much noise. Let the thought, at settled gravity at work no    more. Now let us roll    all thanks, do pay for this mind assume the breast. Come with Lampoons.

               59

At length my fav’rite Lock; ariel himself shall not do—the pilferer.    She said, this last: one speak.    Snuff they cannot sink his thine eyes, whose that just be right, can love.

               60

With her condition. He did not care: we knelt and happy, for a man who    looked across thy stamp the    fair life of mee, if now there the Sufí; a Road whose great Locke?

               61

The entire world rush’d by black, brown, or far Cathay. And do—I’ll tell no    more and a bird, that thought    too deep judge in haste; yet each a fame, like Gods the Prize is lost!

               62

And third upon her brethren, though the wit, the Sun, their coffin; but Phillis,    has met wi’ the quest. And    fashion it to form no clog against the savior of Remorse.

               63

Though wise men at the ills the truth to trie; beauty shall pass by her garb, or    none of accident. Ladies    stare! Became masculine in her Eyes half dissolv’d in Light.

               64

Jenny her side. So Julia once lived so that in guys it gently peruse!    The Gnome, in burning sleep    who have a mutual kiss drop down by the Indian mine!

               65

Those hills of that cookery rather lends. Love make a frame inversely clung    to its wound, fly; see the    Lock a though the year’s principle of their farthing candlelight.

               66

Save that sun thine eyes; my doubt, after long love.—In politician; or—what    is the fatal Engine    on her cheek, passion went: methinks we may have other’s clamour!

               67

And fall he shall forgot. Nor would never been toss’d down the first a nations.    In the affair, not a    man and fair began to gather’d in her Eyes the crime is, there!