#reciprocity decay

[seethehumanside]

The unexpected reciprocity decay: when does a favour expire?

Are you upset when people you've helped don't return the favour? It's a normal phenomenon called reciprocity decay. Favours do expire.

We tend to help others in one of two ways: either we do it for free and expect nothing in return, or expect the favour to be paid back in equal value. But sometimes, especially if you wait for too long, the other person might forget you’ve done a favour and get nothing in return. That’s explained by reciprocity decay. Let’s see how it works and why favours simply… expire! The study behind…

[jaggedjot]

“But I need this one to live. As a testament to our companionship. Of its endurance.” 

Armand; centuries spent serving as the high priest of a temple to devotion itself, where the rituals and duties matter more than the subject of dedication.

Louis; an enshrined object playing as deity, pleading for his alleged follower to make a sacrifice through sparing another from death.

Daniel; a fading offering at a crumbling altar, desecrated, preserved and recreated into an eternal monument to its ruin.

[silkscream]

HEAVEN SURROUNDS US

ੈ✩ summary: gojo likes that you make him feel human. admittedly, he also likes that sometimes, you make him feel like a god. ੈ✩ warnings: smut (18+), fingering, unprotected sex, slight dacryphilia, begging, soft dom!gojo, kind of mean gojo lol, workplace relations, reader can see curses but that's it, gojo has a god complex, dirty talk, not proofread bc i do not give a fuck ੈ✩ wc: 3.1k ੈ✩ a/n: i am having intense gojo brainrot. i was thinking about 'i'm your man' by mitski the entire time i was writing this btw. ALSO I LITERALLY HAD A GRAPHIC AND DIVIDERS FOR THIS BUT EVERY TIME I INCLUDE THEM this shit doesn't show up in the tags. i've given up!

Gojo Satoru has the smell of death burned into his senses to the point of complete apathy. He’s sure that Shoko feels similarly, though as a healer and a doctor, she’s often only met with the aftermath – the quiet decaying, the dried blood.

Gojo has encountered it all. The stench, the last pleas for salvation, the battered and torn-apart limbs. Even when the dying beings are cursed spirits suffering from the carnage created beneath Gojo’s hands, sometimes he wonders if an angel is nearby that weeps for them.

He has held grief inside his core to use as a weapon ever since he lost Geto. Nothing fazes him anymore. After the tragedies of his late teens, Gojo chooses to devote himself to his students rather than ruminating in sanctimonious thought loops. Gojo Satoru knows he isn’t a god, but sometimes, when he levitates in the sky with blood on his hands, he certainly feels like one. It’s safe to say that he may be the closest thing to one in the world of Jujutsu sorcery. It’s nothing that he despises – he’s known since his powers took shape in the awkwardness of his child-body.

Gojo likes to think he isn’t as cruel and indifferent as a god should be because of how protective he is. The warmth he’s had in his heart for Megumi alone confirms this as such, and now for Yuuji. Despite toying with the idea of divinity, he likes to remember that he’s human.

You are the only thing that reminds him of this.

Ever since Gojo had laid his eyes on you, he figured you were a delicate thing. He’s not completely wrong – although you can see curses, you lack any techniques. After becoming an assistant at Jujutsu Tech, he had taken more than a liking to you, more than he would be willing to admit to anyone else. He also never thought that the girl who was so quick to sardonic banter with him would be so vulnerable. 

When you’re underneath him, maybe he does consider himself a god, just for a second. And then he feels the silky touch of your skin and he can’t help but wish for a life of mundanity with you until the earth stops spinning. 

He likes that he can feel how fast your heart is beating. He likes that you become so pliant just from having his hand on your thigh.

It’s not like he exploits the little affair you have. It’s not that he wants to exploit you either, but the power trip that surges through him when you preen to his touch feels better than winning any battle. It’s those big eyes of yours. It’s a miracle you had reciprocated your attraction to him – he doesn’t know what he’d do to any other man who happened to pursue you. The thought of that kind of violence doesn’t make him feel any guilt. He’d do it in a heartbeat if it meant that he could have you forever, unconditionally.

Within the few months you’ve been working at Jujutsu Tech, you learn a few things about Gojo Satoru. He has an incredible sweet tooth. He cares about his students. He likes the feeling of your fingers combing through his hair. Lives for it, even, but he could never tell you that.

That’s how you ended up here, you suppose. Writhing and wet and oh so obedient for him. 

You like that a man that is worshipped by all enjoys worshipping you.

“Satoru,” you whisper. The sound of your voice makes him fucking melt. 

God, it’s so much worse when you beg. Satoru wants to be gentle with you, careful, because he knows that if all of his morals were thrown out the window, he would devour you completely, leaving bruises in your wake. But he waits, titillatingly, smirking as his long fingers grasp the flesh above your hips.

“Please,” you whine. Your lower half bucks up into him, squirming just a little, but he grounds you with his large hands once again. 

Satoru knows better than to toy with his prey, but the flush on your cheeks is so fucking cute that he wonders what you would look like with tears rolling down the soft blush of your skin.

“Be patient, baby,” he rasps. “Just like lookin’ at you.”

“You look at me all day.”

“Someone’s got quite the attitude.”

You’re about to protest until you feel his knuckle brush against the peak of your clit, teasingly. A nasty grin spreads across his face as he grazes his fingertips along your slit, marveling at how wet you are when he’d barely touched you.

“So pretty for me,” he muses, mostly to himself. 

“Should see how pretty I am when you’re inside me.”

Satoru scoffs. Despite being so human, you have quite the mouth, so much confidence in the way you move and speak that he often forgets how easy it would be to lose you. To break you. Though, of course, that privilege is for him and him only. 

He kisses you to shut you up, but not nearly for long enough. You can’t even get your tongue inside his mouth. You whine pitifully as he pulls back. 

“Poor baby,” he coos. “So on edge today. What’s got you so desperate like this, huh?”

“Just want you,” your voice is meek, which is an anomaly. The honey-sweet cadence of your words is barely above a whisper.

“You have me.” Unbeknownst to you, you always will, whether you tire of him or not.

He makes his point by circling the pad of his thumb to your clit while his other hand claws at your chest underneath your dress shirt. The sound of your gasp has him reeling already, has his cock rock-hard in his slacks. 

“More,”  you whimper. “S-Satoru, please.”

You’re surprised when you feel the palm of his hand over your mouth. You whine against his hand, soft gasps dissipating underneath his touch as your eyes roll back. You feel two fingers enter your sopping cunt and it renders you brainless, docile just how he likes you. 

The rhythmic ministrations of his fingers touch upon the spot inside your core that makes your legs shake. You like being smothered by him despite your personality. You don’t even have to tell him – he knows already, he’s known ever since he noticed your reactions to him touching you casually during the working day.

The more you crave his touch, the more you become dependent on him, even when you don’t realize it. You always pride yourself on being an independent soul, refusing his insistence to pay for your meals, the way you express to him quietly that you want to be able to fight back one day. You could perfect a certain violence in between your fingers just like he can if you put your mind to it. But you have too much dignity to request his guidance as a mentor or teacher. 

He thinks about it now as he touches you. The idea of him training you to use cursed techniques. The idea of him making you in his image, shaping you like he had created you himself.

If anyone truly knew the extent of how you are the object of Satoru’s affection, of his obsession, one would render him pathetic. But he knows he’s too powerful. He knows it’s easy to make you seem like the pathetic one. You’re already begging for his cock, after all. 

“I‘m gonna… I’m–”

There’s a squelching sound when he retracts. His fingers are wet with your slick and you’re on the verge of tears when you feel the loss. You’re already falling apart without his touch. It doesn’t help when you watch him lick your wetness off of his own fingers.

“Why are you being so mean to me today?”

“‘m not,” Satoru purrs, licking a stripe from your collarbone to your earlobe. You try to kiss him since his face is so close to yours, but again, he restricts you. His long, slender fingers squeeze the base of your neck. “I could be a lot meaner to you, y’know. You’re lucky. This is mild compared to what I’ve thought about doing to you.”

“Wanna cum,” you whisper. You don’t even realize that there are tears falling because you’re too focused on Satoru. It isn’t fair, the way he’s toying with you. The moment he relinquishes his grip, just barely, you reach over to palm his cheek. He lets you pull the blindfold from his eyes.

“Dunno if I can let you. You’re being so greedy. Such a selfish fucking girl.” He pinches your nipple as he says it. His voice is smooth, dripping like honey, dulcet in the way his words manage to make your eyelashes flutter despite how filthy the subject matter is. He’d ruin you if he could. Perhaps, he’d ruined you the moment he touched you.

He’s touching your clit again, but not rhythmically. You feel a sense of loss every few seconds. He’s fucking teasing you now, but you’re smart enough to not snap at him despite how much you want to. 

So you say his name instead. Like a hymn or a prayer. Like it’s the sweetest thing to come from your tongue. From the way your voice sounds, Satoru is convinced that his own name is a blessing just because it comes from your lips. He can’t get enough of it.

You make Satoru feel human, but the way you react to him at the moment makes him want to pretend he’s a god.

“S-Sat–Satoru. Oh.”

“You cryin’ already, baby? Thought you liked it when I played with you.”

His voice is low, raspy. Almost cruel. 

Your brain is so foggy that it feels like he’s been doing this to you for hours. You can’t even form words, can’t bitch to him or dominate him the way you often attempt to. There’s a secret part of you, deep inside, that is unlocked by the way Satoru handles you. As much as he loves control, he still doesn’t know the extent of what you would let him do to you. How you wished he’d wrap a silk ribbon around your neck and collar you like a puppy. How you think you would do anything for him if he asked.

You don’t even know that he would do the exact same for you.

Now, you’re at your peak again. Your legs are wobbly, senses so heightened by the way he plays with your pussy that it takes you a few moments to notice that his cock is prodding against you, bare and pink and fucking leaking. 

Maybe if you tell him you’re close, he’ll stop. You can’t stand the thought of it. So, naturally, you cry instead, and the sight makes him want to keep you for as long as he’s alive. Satoru would make sure nothing slights you, and that nothing out of his control could possibly vex you. This desire usually scares him. At the moment, it doesn’t. At the moment, he feels drunk with it. 

He knows when you cum because he has you memorized. It’s a little death, truly, because when your legs tremble and your moans fade into a sharp gasp, Satoru knows for sure that your brain has turned to mush. Your body melts against his. Maybe you’d melt right into his mattress if he didn’t have more energy to play with you. 

Gojo Satoru does not believe in a higher power, but he thinks that if one existed, one that was more powerful than him, he would thank them. He would thank them for you, the creation of you, the very essence of you living and breathing in the same wretched world as him. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, you were made just for him. 

You recover in a succession of exhales. Blinking rapidly through blurry vision as you feel Satoru’s face nuzzling your neck, almost too domestic and sweet to bear. You had never thought of anything serious with him because of his reputation, but every time he has you like this, underneath him, you often wish that he would reassure you that he wants to keep you.

And he does. He is devoted to you in a way that feels holy. He just doesn’t know how to tell you that. Satoru hopes you can figure it out just from the way he touches you. 

And maybe, like him, you’re just above human. An angel, he thinks. A set of wings would suit you. 

“I– I– please–” you strain. You feel embarrassed from the tears, but Satoru cherishes you. He kisses and licks them right off your face.

“I know, baby. I won’t make you beg any more than you have,” he sneers. 

You’re fucking doe-eyed, angelic when he enters you. Just the tip, for now, just so he can see how you react. It isn’t the first time but you are certainly acting the part from the way your whole face screws up. Your perfect mouth parts and he touches your bottom lip with his thumb.

You whimper like a wounded thing. Like you should be begging for mercy. He hasn’t dipped too far into his God-complex yet to coax that reaction for you.

And without a warning, he pushes himself into you completely, bottoming out. He groans at the feeling of your walls tightening around him. So warm. So fucking wet.

“Fucked you enough to mold the shape of your pussy to my cock, huh? Feels so fucking– fuck,” he exhales, rutting into you with eyes shut. 

You whine his name, clutching at him, scraping your nails across his pale back. He loves the way you need him. He wouldn’t trade the feeling for anything else in the world.

Made for me. God made you for me.

You slur your words against his neck and his chest as he thrusts into you – cries of his name, of begging for more, of your usual expletives. He grins like a predator. He bends you in half and thinks briefly about breaking your limbs for the sake of his pleasure. (He doesn’t. You’re too delicate, too human.)

In reality, you’re sarcastic and sometimes brash. When Satoru has you writhing underneath him, you’re a little more shy. He wants to tease the desire from you, whatever filth that permeates in your brain. 

“Tell me what you want.”

“Want– I want– aah!”

“Feels so good for you, I know. Use your words for me. I know you can,” Satoru taunts.

“Want you to make me cum on your cock. Please,” you beg. “Need it deeper, ‘Toru. Need you.”

“Need me, don’t you? Say it again so I can hear it.”

“Nngh– Need– Fuck, I can’t–”

He slows the speed of his thrusts and rubs the length of your jaw softly with his palm. His other hand rubs your clit gently, making your body spasm. He tucks the hair sticking to your forehead behind your ear so he can see all of you. You and your swollen mouth and glassy eyes.

“Don’t do that,” you whine.

“Do what, baby?”

“Teasing me like this. Wan’ it rough.”

“What else?” he breathes into your neck, palming your breast as he thrusts into you deeper.

“Want everything. Want it to hurt.”

And with that, he gives it to you. He gives you all of it. 

You drape your arms around his body so that you’re closer than ever, both of your bodies ready to mesh into one if they could. Satoru pushes your legs up, knees bent and ankles near your ears, and he basks in the sound of your pathetic mewls. 

“Such a good… fucking girl,” he groans. “‘m so close.”

“Me too,” you reply in a hushed tone. “Right– right there.”

Satoru has fucked you plenty of times. He’s called you a slut, a greedy whore – but he can’t bring himself to degrade you like that even though he knows you like it. You’re splayed out for him, limbs limp and grateful for his embrace. You’re too fucking precious for him.

You’re too dazed to think about the moral implications of your affair. It's a miracle you can't enter his mind so deeply when you're fucked out like this. Where his thoughts flash from lecherous to monstrous, yours are rendered sluggish. There’s almost nothing in your brain, save for him and his blue eyes and the feeling of his cock. It consumes the best of you. You welcome it with open arms.

Another kiss. It’s mostly Satoru working his tongue into your mouth and you dissolving under his tongue. He tastes so sweet, so fresh all the time. His lips are so fucking soft it drives you insane.

“Pleasemakemecum,” you cry out in a jagged mumble. “Please. Need it so bad. Please!”

He groans in response. You’re begging more than usual. You are frantic and desperate and welcoming his hand to shape you in his image. 

The way he grinds into your cunt becomes more aggressive, which is easy for him. There’s no resistance – your pussy is so fucking wet for him in that way. The cloying heat in his pelvis spreads to the rest of his body, warmth enveloping him like hot water in a bath.

You whine his name again and it dissipates into his mouth.

“Cum with me, fuck, I can feel you–” he moans. Both of you reach your peak in the way he grasps your body, calloused hands worshipping the length of your waist until his fingertips bruise your thighs. 

His hips stutter as he indulges in his pleasure. In the sound of your hushed whimpers. In the way your nails claw across his back. 

Both of your labored breaths fill the silence. Even in the dark, you admire the brightness of his blue eyes. They could replace the divinity of the stars themselves, you muse. 

Both of you are hazy, intoxicated on the touch of each others’ skin. You shiver in your skin. You’re only soothed when he buries his face into your neck, long limbs splayed over your smaller frame.

“I should fuckin’ marry you,” he breathes into your skin.

“What was that?” you raise a brow.

He clears his throat. Despite the daze, he’s able to give you one of his signature cocky grins. Something flashes in his blue eyes, you think.

“I think I wanna keep you.”

If he was god, you were his seraphim, he’s decided. He almost tells this to you, out loud, because your big eyes drink him in. He knows better.

“You have me,” you reply softly, echoing him from earlier in the night. The way he smiles reminds you of the sun. 

Gojo Satoru knows it’s an affirmation from you, maybe even pillow talk. But he knows that sentiment to be truer than anything he’s ever known. He is yours and you are his.

For now, you don’t know the half of it. Maybe someday you will.

[girlsworldillusion]

CLAIM - by Aemond Targaryen

+18 (seriously, no minors)

author's note: my first time writing for him, even though I've been in the fandom for a while now. (I hope this isn't the only one).

There you go, Aemond thinks with some bitterness.

Bright, innocent, pure. Tempting in annoying ways. Certainly a cute little thing to look at, though.

Unfortunately, he's not the only one who noticed this.

A warm, tingly ball curls in his stomach the more he watches you and your pathetic excuse for a partner during the waltz. Every delicate twirl you make around the grand ballroom sends shivers down his spine. The flushed dust high on your cheeks leaves his throat dry. The gentle smile you offer the Lord who smugly leads you through the dance makes his fist clench so tightly around the wine glass that Aemond is actually surprised he hasn't shattered the thing into a thousand pieces yet.

Aemond is not jealous, however. Aemond doesn't get jealous - being jealous is wanting something someone else has, and he has everything he needs, a lot of enviable things, to be honest. (That's what he tells himself, sipping some wine and sending icy daggers toward the man who insists on holding your waist tighter and tighter).

He's not jealous. He just doesn't like it when others covet what's his - or what should be his.

You, another Lady with a prestigious name. Theoretically there were many like you, it's true. But to Aemond, you always stood out. Unique, special. It is a great inconvenience that others also think this way.

Aemond was trying to be a gentleman here. He was purposely going slow so as not to scare you; innocent walks in the garden, subtle conversations about a book you both recently read, an unassuming invitation for afternoon tea (although he doesn't even like tea).

He was already exhausting the limits of his own patience and he still didn't get any real sign that you reciprocated his interest in you. You are kind and lovely, of course. But that's how you are with everyone around you. This, in itself, is no guarantee of absolutely anything for him.

Aemond was trying to be patient. Gods, he really was. But with each passing day he found himself more and more tormented by thoughts and fantasies about you. His mind is playing tricks on him, pushing the limits of his self-control to the point where he feels like he might snap like a stretched rubber band.

And it is on these nights, when everyone in the Red Keep is already asleep and he is absolutely certain that he is finally alone with his own demons - that he gives in.

He closes the only eye he has left to keep from seeing the shamefully needy descent of his hand beneath the waistband of his sleep pants, only for it to become a fleeting, innocuous thought a few seconds later, because there it is again; that all-encompassing, overwhelming feeling that makes him see stars every time.

He palms his straining erection wet with precum, imagining it's your tiny hand there - or your pretty mouth, your tight pussy. The mere thought of it sends a bolt of pleasure down his spine and makes him part his lips in a husky sigh.

He thinks of you, over and over again; in hurried and repetitive steps, like someone lost in a maze.

Your cheeks flushed, your lips swollen from his kisses, your eyelashes fluttering with pleasure, your sweet voice begging for him...

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond-

Aemond writhes on the sheets, panting, shaking with it, his toes curled against the bed; his hips twitching with each wave of pleasure along his shaft trapped between his fingers. In the waves of euphoria, he throws his other arm over his eye, hides his sapphire and his personal decay like a secret, panting, getting close, so close, fuck, fuck...

It's sweet torture, after all. Spills out onto his own stomach and sheets instead of where he really wants to be.

But he can handle it. All to be a gentleman for you. All to endure the long, agonizing (and embarrassing) wait while you happily accept his invitations to teas and walks in the gardens and entertain him with your witty anecdotes about the latest book you read -

Although you never give him a concrete answer about your feelings for him.

He's trying to hold on.

But you need to pressure him, don't you?

He grits his teeth and narrows his gaze when the man waltzing with you leans down to say something close to your ear.

This isn't new to him, of course.

Aemond is used to having to fight to get what he wants. Nothing really comes easy for him. But there is something about the arduous trajectory of his personal achievements that no one is able to deny.

Once claimed, it's his forever.

That's it, enough of trying to be a gentleman - Aemond hums as he uses the rim of his wine glass to hide the wicked smile tugging at his lips.

.

"Oh, baby."

He is against you.

Pressing his crotch against the curve of your ass so you can feel how hard his cock is in his pants.

He's laughing in your ear.

Mocking.

"You like that, don't you, girl?" he asks, in a dark whisper after cornering you in one of the castle's corridors, blocking your walk to your chambers. He deposits words laced with malice and honey into his husky voice, whispered against the shell of your ear.

You shudder against him.

He's rubbing himself against you. His cock rubbing explicitly against the curve of your ass, while his fingers squeeze your throat, pulling the back of your head to his shoulder.

"You're mine," he says, his voice full of possessiveness. Like he was on the verge of losing it. He already lost.

You cry out softly, feeling him squeeze your throat again. Harder this time.

"Nobody touches you from now on. Got it?"

He's nuzzling into your hair. Lost in the tickle of your strands on his face, in your sweet smell in his nose.

You shake your head somehow even with his firm grip on your throat and he laughs against your hair.

A low, harsh laugh, a wicked sound that rumbles straight from his throat as he leans down to leave a single kiss on your cheek, intertwining his fingers with yours to give a light tug.

"Good girl."

.

You open your mouth to say something, anything - an apology, a well-rehearsed argument, words too soft and genuine to compete with the sound of Aemond's hips slamming violently between your thighs - but all all you can do is a low, breathless meow.

"You smell like him," Aemond huffs coldly, though it's more of a breathy grunt.

Maybe there is a certain amount of exaggeration in his words, you don't smell like him. Not really. But the simple memory of that man's hands on your waist and his face close to yours to whisper anything was awakening a dangerous euphoria in Aemond's veins.

He tries hard to at least pretend to be easy, to at least pretend to have some control over the situation. Struggling silently to remain composed, as if he wasn't finally fucking the woman he's wanted for a long time at a brutal pace, as if your scent and your tears weren't permanently staining his sheets right now, as if he wasn't squeaking his teeth to keep from spilling too soon at the mere thought of having permanent physical proof that you were here - right in the bed where he sleeps every night. Aemond feigns an indifference and coldness that are not real.

But he's trying.

He is under the intense watch of your drunken, half-closed gaze, and tries hard not to embarrass himself any more than he already has. He struggles to breathe through his nose, trying not to blink too often; carefree, not a hair out of place. And, in the midst of his personal battle for dignity, he finds some amusement in how you seem to be going insane beneath him; as if you seams were being torn apart with each breath hissed through your teeth.

"I-it was just a dance..."

“He was desperate,” Aemond cuts you off, squeezing you so that your words turn into nothing more than a pathetic groan at the end of the sentence. His fingers dig into your throat, anchoring him as his hips work furiously against yours. His hair is falling to your shoulders and breasts, raising goose bumps on your skin with each thrust of his body against yours. “And that smell is really offending me, girl.”

“I-I, I’m so sorry-” you stutter, hands gripping his wrist as he resists the urge to sink his teeth into the crook of your neck, exactly where everyone can see it tomorrow, “I told him I already had someone and -"

He barely hears your confession before he interrupts. Thick words spilling from his lips as the grip on your body doubles in intensity.

"He thought with that sticky smile that he could just have you? That he would be the one to take your purity? This is for me, he should know. You belong to me. Only for me - only for me." He shakes and sputters to the wild pleasure coursing through his veins, some of his self control slipping as he bows his head and bumps his forehead against your sweaty shoulder, panting heavily into your skin at the feeling of your tight walls gripping his cock like a lathe.

"Yeah - only for you", he distantly hears you moan above the roar in his ears, feels your little fingers tangle between the silver strands of his hair until you manage to give a sharp tug, right at the base of the back of his neck. He groans into your skin at the sensation.

The liquid heat building inside him is almost overflowing, so close that he can't stop his trembling hips from meeting yours with shallower thrusts. He's almost rubbing himself against you, over and over, frantically. “Aemond, p-please,” you murmur, cherry-colored tongue wetting your plump bottom lip. "I can't anymore, I can't - ngh, please-"

Aemond swallows the rest of your words with a punishing kiss, answering your broken plea by quickly grinding his hips, encouraging your orgasm to wash over you. He doesn't stop, not even when you go rigid, unable to kiss him back or do anything other than moan and cry into his mouth.

Aemond traces your lips with his tongue, nibbling them until they're soft, his own breathing becoming as frantic as the cock that's dragging without pause against your wet walls. When his orgasm washes over him, Aemond is already panting and moaning as if in pain as he rests his forehead against yours; an intense gaze observing yours, focused on every detail of your delicate features. Your hooded gaze, the wet trail of tears on your red cheeks and your uneven breathing. The purest adoration for him shining in your eyes like stars in the dark sky.

And he smiles then.

Because you are his now.

Duly claimed.

.

With a gentle touch on his elbow, Aemond returns to reality.

The apples of his cheeks are dyed a subtle (but noticeable) shade of red as his violet gaze scans the space in front of him, silently surprised to have been caught in the middle of his unholy reverie.

It's you.

A beautiful silk dress on soft skin. Hair tied in a slightly loose braid. So small compared to him. So beautiful. So...his.

"Prince Aemond, are you okay?"

He looks at you for a moment, debating between feigning disagreement to spare himself the humiliation of being caught or pushing you against the nearest wall.

In the end, he chooses to remain still, head raised proudly and face indifferent, although his violet gaze remains stubbornly tilted downwards, thirsty to maintain eye contact with you.

"Yes, I just got distracted," he says, voice deeper than he'd like it to sound.

You smile, sweet and soft and his heart quickens.

"That's great. Well, it's late and my feet are hurting after all the dancing." You close your eyes in an amused, relaxed expression, there's even a dimple forming in your cheek as the wide smile stretches your lips - and although the sight is enough to fill his chest with a bubbling sensation of pure warmth, a muscle Aemond's jaw jumps at the mere mention of your recent activities. "Have a good night, my Prince." You conclude when he offers no response to your comment, bowing with a respectful farewell before walking away.

He watches you leave the great hall with delicate steps, gentle smiles and nods directed at the people you meet on the way. The image of grace and innocence, without a doubt. At least until you turn your head towards him before walking out the hall doors.

The way your upper teeth sink into the plump flesh of your lower lip, your heavy eyelashes fluttering when you squint briefly, the flushed cheeks and swollen pupils aimed specifically at him...

It happens as quickly as it started. With a fluid movement you turn around again and walk through the hall doors, as if nothing had happened.

Aemond sighs; tired, irritated, burning with lust.

You keep playing with him.

The wine glass shakes and clinks loudly as he places it roughly on the table, but he doesn't care. He doesn't even care if anyone notices as he abruptly follows your steps, leaving the ballroom behind, with a hard gaze and dark features.

He would catch up to you.

And this time he'll make sure it's not just in a daydream-

He will claims you. Truly, indisputably.

[thegnomelord]

Shark Merperson reader is real gud.

- 🦈

(HOLY FUCK. THANK YOU TO WHICH EVER ANON REQUESTED THAT BECAUSE I FUCKIN LOVE SHARKS.

Now Im thinking of a Price x Reader, because shars are the oldest species known to exist. Obviously sharks arent immortal, they've just been on this earth way b4 tress bloody existed.

So Im thinking the readers an eldritch creature, they represent sharks as a whole, as long sharks exsist they exsist. Heck they mights of even of been Prices mentor when he was in his draconic 100s? (Late 20s?).

Imagine Price missing his friend calls him up to see hows hes doing. Reader elated to meet an old friend, accepts the invitation to meets up with him. Reader definitely scolds him for lossing a wing, honestly is pertrified Price lost a piece of himself and thought he was retiring due to it. Cut ahort to him smacking him slap dab on the head when he learns he's lost it a long time ago and didnt tell him.

Cue wholesome interactions th 141 and etc. Heck maybe some romance with Price.

Just a blurb i had yo tell you abt)

Okay, this tickles my eldrich abomination trying to act human itch

CW:SFW, eldritch reader, kissing

Price knows you're there the second he steps onto the old wooden pier, able to smell seaweed and brine and something in the air — what he thinks the bottom of the ocean smells like, old rot of decaying whales and older heat of geothermal vents — the soft wind billowing his hair like the breathing of an elderly beast.

He knows you're watching him, passively at least, washed up mermaid purses dotting the beach to give you a glimpse of the world above the waves through the yolks vital for the pup's survival, able to dream of the warm sun and course sand while you slumber beneath the waves.

"Oi, ser, yer look like a wee lass waiting for her sailor." Soap's sharp voice cuts through the air, the werewolf far too energized for his own good, the sand in his fur not dampening his mood when he can just shake himself off and flick the grains on Simon.

"Hah," Price snorts, "Maybe I am." He tilts his head back to the sea, sharp eyes watching the breaking waves. "Time to wake up old friend." He mutters your mangled name under his breath, mortal lips and vocal cords unable to replicate your own voice.

The young ones in his team lack the sight needed to notice your form slowly rise from the sea like a submarine breaking through the ice, only the visible flicker of air and the receding water keying them in. Price old enough to see you without needing the inner surface of his skull to be dotted with eyes. Though even he sees your real form like a man having a stroke — vaguely familiar at first yet the details are undefinable — flesh and sea melding together without rhyme or reason, long strings of seaweed bearing miniature eyes with pups wriggling inside, cookie cutter sharks boring holes through finless corpses so long eel sharks may form ever reforming sinews, fossilized bone and old rock giving giving support to the massive insult to reality's laws; birth and life wrapped up in death.

You're an affront to logic. And with one sneeze from existence itself you're human standing in front of him.

Eerily human.

Perfectly human.

Almost.

"What the fuck?" He can faintly hear Gaz's voice, all of them only now noticing you stand where you weren't previously.

Your hand touches his back before he even registers you move, always slightly damp, "When did this happen?" You ask as you trace the spot where his wing used to be. "What did this?"

"And a 'hello' to you too sweetheart." He clasps a hand around your waist, purring softly in greeting as he pulls you closer to his chest. Even if he sees you once every few centuries, even if you don't possess the ability to reciprocate, his love for you is as youthful as it was when he was but a wyrm.

Your facial features remain neutral like the ones of sunken statues, but you blink, and for a few seconds he can see that yawning abyss in your eyes. "Hi." You say, your hand still tracing the bump created by atrophied flight muscles, trying to judge how fresh it is. "Explain."

Your tone sounds like a predator baring it's teeth, but he knows you wouldn't harm him. "In a lil' bit." He snorts, puts pressure on your back until he forces your legs to move. "Come, want you to meet my boys."

The introductions are odd on both ends considering you hadn't spoken with people other than Price since that Icarus of a passenger ship mistook your fin for an iceberg and they've never met an old one like you. But you like them, they compliment Price just like the small scale he gave you makes the pearls and gold offered to you through the ages shine more.

Even if your face is unreadable, somehow they can figure out you're not too amused when you hear he'd lost his wing during a mission. "I told you arrogance would cost you." You at least you can mimic a sigh as you rub your head, "At least you retired." You say,

"We wish!" Soap snorts before he can help it, and the next thing they hear is a horrific crack that has them jumping out of their skin.

Your head had whipped 180 degrees with the rest of your body remained in place, the laws of nature nothing more but blurry guidelines. "You. . .did retire?" You ask, voice like the roar of a whirlpool.

"About that," Price starts, unable to finish his thought as you slap him upside the head as if he's still the whelp who thought he could brave an ocean storm.

"You'll put me in the grave." You growl, holding him by the ear, words spilling from your mouth like seawater filling the empty bowels of a ship. "I swear your scaly hide hasn't learned a single thing-"

"Should we help?" Gaz wonders as they watch you chastise their captain like he's a boy.

"No, this is great entertainment." Ghost chuckles.

"Want me ta grab the popcorn?" Johnny ads, already snacking, tail thumping against Simon's leg and growling playfully when Gaz reaches for the snacks.

Eventually your anger relents, mood changing as swiftly as the tide. You spend the time they have left learning about the men he's chosen as his hoard. Kyle's a bit weary of you just due to his harpy nature, but soon enough you two can be found sitting on the pier and fishing, and if you purposely make the waves flow so a big fish snags on Kyle's line, Price never says anything about it, not when his boy has a smile as big as the sun when he looks at the gigantic fish flopping on his hook.

You attempting to help Soap cook the barbeque, but you're fine motor skills are rusty after all these years of slumber, so the food is slightly burnt but Price loves when his food's basically charcoal and eats it with a smile, especially as it keeps you from telling all the embarrassing stories you have of him, from when he got his ass bit by a squid to when he was so horny he ended up rutting against an extra curvy piece of rock, though the rest have already heard enough dirt to bury him for the next several decades.

Unfortunately for Price, you and Ghost hit it off like a house on fire, and Ghost ends up learning far too many ways to hurt people without killing them that most definitely are against the Geneva conventions but you pull seniority on it. Simon in turn, teaches you how to play cards, which, when you're literally a god that can see almost everything including your opponent's cards, means the shmucks Simon ropes into playing you and Simon end up with empty pockets.

As the sun stars to dip behind the horizon you wind up sitting next to Price by the fire, the others splashing in the water.

You feel his wing spread behind your back to pull you closer to him, "I missed this." He says, knowing you won't comment on the 'I missed you' hidden behind his vellum words.

"Last time we met like this Napoleon was still emperor." You hum, a small yawn escaping you, sharp tips of shark teeth peeking from human gums. "And you had two wings." You can't help but point out, making it clear you've not forgiven him about not informing you.

Price pointedly ignores your later comment, his hand tentatively, almost shyly, reaching down to sit on top of yours. "Afraid I'll forget about you?"

His pulse picks up when you shift your hand to hold his, fingers lacing together when you don't have a tail as a human. "You wait for me." You shrug, holding your free arm up, reality wheezing for a few moments before his scale is suddenly in your hand, shiny and unharmed just as it was when he'd given it to you all those years ago. "And I dream of you."

His eyes widen and heart melts, a purr rumbling in his chest "C'mere sweetheart," He rumbles and pulls you into a kiss, free hand holding your chin stable.

You taste of salt and blood, of chilling cold and boiling heat, of something ancient and familiar and Price drinks it all down like a babe, tongue licking in your mouth and fangs nibbling on your lip, feeling you respond, the touch of hungering god as soft as silk, just to him.

But he knows this won't last.

A shark has no reason to stay on land, and a dragon can't survive underwater regardless of how much he wants. Soon you'll return to slumber, and Price won't know when he'll see you again, if he'll see you again, or if you'll learn of his passing when your waves swallow up his ashes.

He doesn't notice the prickling in his eyes but you do, wiping a stray tear with the pad of your thumb, your other hand still wrapped around his. "Don't worry John," You say, statue features finally cracking into a small smile, "I'll stay for a little while." You say and lead him into another kiss, the other members of TF141 leaving you two to catch up on lost time...

[hoseoksluna]

SMOKE, i. | myg

pairing: idol!yoongi x smoke!oc (ft. bangtan)

genre: angst

word count: 6.8k

summary: everything that begins also ends.

pinterest board: smoke / taglist: join

warnings: suicide ideation, yoongi has deep feelings that he hasn't felt in a long time, sexual innuendos, yoongi has brief dirty thoughts, alcohol consumption, talks of alcohol, social anxiety and feelings of anxiety in general, jungkook has mint hair, covid and the pandemic, talking to a dead loved one, jealousy, envy, anger, crying, yoongi's bad shoulder.

note: welcome to the brand new yoongi series! i can't believe this baby is alive and ready for you to read. i struggled with this a lot, since it's written in a way i've never tried before. yoongi's pov, first person—like what? i thought this chapter was pretty shitty as i didn't feel comfortable writing in this style, but i pushed through, felt like it was meant to be—which is why i need tons of your validation. i was also kinda sad today, so please send your love. :( fyi, jungkook may be a huge part of the beginning of this story, but this is not steam pt 2. jungkook won't be present as much later on. no polyamory here. *spoiler* he just brought oc to yoongi and then he will lovingly go away, dw. :) enjoy this first chapter, i can't wait for many more! kisses.

side note: happy bday to us! mwah.

It was a bang, what happened in our group. 

A bomb that blew off in Jungkookie’s trembling hands when he shared the news. A decision that wasn’t really collectively discussed, not even privately with Namjoon—but an information that erupted among us as we sat in the lounge room of the venue, refreshing ourselves with snacks and drinks after the tough soundcheck we had. I had a bottle of Hennessy in my hands myself, about to pour myself some liquid courage in order to chase away the bitter ire I had swirling in my veins, but hearing his words made me forget about the nectar right away. 

He was bringing along a female friend for the tour. 

The ire turned sour in my bloodstream. 

He must’ve lost his mind. 

And what’s worse, I was the only one who looked at him as if he were a lunatic. The members squealed and hollered, clapping their hands, shouting different variations of words of, “Jungkookie got a girlfriend!” that made him blush so profusely that he wasn’t able to reciprocate any of our eye contact. 

Especially not mine. 

I was fuming, taking breaths that hurt my lungs. The bottle of liquid courage damn nearly broke, but I didn’t feel a thing. How could I—when amidst the ruckus and the soft smiles of our staff my feelings parted and melted into a crossroad that I began to stand in the middle of. 

One way led to selfishness, the other to the very polar opposite of it. 

Jungkook didn’t deal with the pandemic well. His skin was invariably lined with a certain sensitivity towards forlornness and when the mandate forced upon him a pressure of being abandoned—by us and by his long time flirt that was the driving force behind his creativity, besides Army themselves—he didn’t take it well. Crawled inside himself, even deeper within when our management canceled our Map of the Soul tour and we had to stay bricked up inside our homes for a full year. 

He was crestfallen and despondent, a decaying human. No girlfriend, no Army. No band members to slap his back, cook him food and distract his mind from the loneliness. 

Except for me. 

I was the one who made time for him. Who visited him, despite our management’s strong disliking for it. I went around them and did it without anyone’s knowledge but Jungkook’s. With a mask and health in perfect condition that I took care of more for him than for anyone else. Our relationship blossomed to highs that overgrew the bricked walls of our mandatory, artificial castle. A peach honeysuckle vine that we watched as much as we could while I wrote poems to him in my heart to alleviate his ache. It was spring and one, singular  hummingbird would fly in to listen to my words while inhaling the sweetened perfume of those pale orange flowers or the fragrance of the natural honey I would buy him and pour over the pancakes I would make for him. A comfort food, a symbol of our secret meetings. A butterfly would sit on the small creature’s back, just to look over its wings and be a witness to a mind’s mending, an afternoon’s tea mixed with dark liquor that would always fade to noraebang. 

The key to Jungkook’s heart. 

I don’t know how the little fella found us, but I wish his wings would sense us here. There’s no windows for him to look out of, but the craving in me for it to fly in and save the day, remind Jungkook who’s been here for him this whole time, blossoms in me just like those peach flowers. 

The castle has collapsed a tiny bit, but the honeysuckle remains untouched. 

Or at least I hope so. 

The other, non-selfish way is simple. Our work had been put off for so long and now that we’re able to pick it back up—in a way that isn’t as satisfactory as I’d want it to be, of course, for the only faces we’ll be seeing beyond the stage are the ones of camera lenses, not the ones belonging to our beautiful Army—there’s a distraction, an external person who could never understand the gravity of that pain we all went through. 

This was supposed to be a precious time shared between us. Another mending of some sort—as our job is the chambers of our hearts. 

And now as I look at her, I feel her playing with those strings of my heart like a harp. And I have that terrible feeling that she will open the doors to each chamber and ruin everything we’ve worked so hard for. 

In spite of the fact that she didn’t do anything wrong. It’s a gut feeling that consumes me and I can’t do a thing about it, not even admit that it gives me the tiniest hint of a thrill that I’ve been craving for so long. 

Jungkook wasn’t the only one affected by the loneliness that came with the mandate. I gave my all to him and always walked out of his door empty—with no one to refill me. 

Performing again was supposed to do the job, but it seems as though she’s come in to hijack it.

Announcement, the ruffling of his hair and multitudes of teasing aside, we had an hour and half left until the beginning of our first show in Seoul. Jungkook left us, with cheeks as darkened as poppies in the summer, with a staff member and our bodyguard to pick her up at a designated meeting spot nearby. He hadn’t eaten all day—not before our dismal soundcheck and certainly not during our hair and makeup session. A ribbon of worry curled tightly in my gut that unfurled once he filled his plate with hotdogs after introducing her to us.

No shaking of hands, only Jungkook’s hand pointing at each member while his mouth gave life to their names. And she didn’t nod her head, not even once, as she moved to greet and smile at every face, which caused me to think that she either already knew of us, either due to our popularity or due to Jungkook’s stories—or both. 

But when it was my turn, her smile faltered.

I didn’t see much of her face, for she wore a black mask. And the only part of her features I was able to see spoke to me in a foreign language I was too pissed off to decipher.

Feline eyes. 

Round and wispy, so terribly cat-like that it cut through my heartstrings she played with and then abandoned. She held my gaze so unfathomably deeply and it wasn’t until she whisked her eyes away that I realized she, irrevocably, clutched time in her hands. It had stopped during that brief moment and resumed as if nothing happened. 

It unnerved me. 

As did my strange feelings as I took in the personality of her outer form. 

She wore a long silky dress, as black as her energy and her hair nearly akin to the length of that garment. Its hem brushed against her ankles with every movement she made and her feet were shod in a pair of heels that would puncture my heart if she so much as wished so. Over her shoulder hung a matching, leather purse and I noticed something that bruised, most peculiarly, my flesh. 

The clasp of her chain strap had a chubby Grookey Pokémon caged as a keychain. 

I found it as adorable as absolutely dangerous. Still do as my eyes can’t help but to watch it twirl. 

She’s a dangerous black cat, with her claws tucked in. And the entire night coils in her eyes, dressing her in innocence and a simultaneous seductiveness that make my lungs swell. 

A quintessence of beauty, she is.

After the introduction is over, Jungkook pulls out a chair for her beside him, sitting down and not wasting a second as he stuffs his mouth full with one of the hotdogs. The monkey bounces with her movement and it’s only now that my brain puts two and two together. The monster almost matches the minty tinge of Jungkook’s dyed hair with its plump, green body. 

None of them know that I match him, too. 

A leaf of the same plant swirls in my glass of whiskey. 

And the notion of iciness that it adds to the bitterness of the liquid turns to ash in my mouth as I take a sip. I, myself, sit on the armrest on the couch, alone—but not alone physically. Hobi rests, leisurely, next to me and she’s stolen glances at him more times than I like. Looked at him while completely avoiding the ring of protectiveness I’ve conjured around myself. 

She does good, but it spreads fire to the strangeness of my feelings that I can’t name. 

Is she throwing a rope around another one of the boys? Her claws itching to rise? 

Who’s next? 

I sigh as she laughs, softly, at something Namjoon says and it deepens my ire. Namjoon should’ve made order as the leader of our group. Should’ve said no to Jungkook at the unfolding of his news and keep the number of our group to seven. Especially when our time together is this precious. 

Not chatting her up and coaxing that wonderful sound out of her.  

“Can we get you anything to drink?” Namjoon asks, waving his hand in the direction of the alcohol station out far in the left corner of the lounge room. A mint plant mocks me as my eyes flick to it while I take another sip. The reason why it’s there in the first place is because Jimin likes his mojitos. 

He sips on it like it’s a Capri-Sun as I swallow the dark liquid after swirling it in my mouth for a moment, the bitterness doing nothing to stifle my ire. 

“No,” she says, feebly, brushing her fingers down the length of her ebony hair before tossing it over her shoulder, giving me a perfect look of one singular strand that has been dyed in the same pale green color that is suffused all though Jungkook’s hair. The shade, but darker, more sinister, imbues my blood with envy. It’s not that soft color, redolent of spring meadows, by any chance. It’s an ancient, vague memory of a forest once in full bloom that is now withering and dying at dusk. How long has he been seeing her that they reached this base? “I don’t drink hard liquor, but thank you.” 

Namjoon licks his lips, spreading his arms over the two empty chairs beside him. “Ah,” he laments, smiling at her, gently. “You don’t drink at all?” 

Jungkook lifts his head from his plate, laughing through his nose as he chews his food, his mouth forming into that bunny smile of his. He knows something I don’t and my green blood boils. 

The cat girl grins, her head twisted in Jungkook’s direction when she laughs, the skin under her chin rounding out, and my chest tightens in endearment at the sight of it. 

The cutest fucking double chin I ever have the eyes to see. 

Fuck. 

“Oh, she drinks,” Jungkook says, his words muffled due to his full cheeks, the food inside showing as he continues to be all smiles.

The cat girl pinches his arm, but owing to the thick fluffiness of his jumper, she doesn't reach skin, and therefore doesn't inflict the pain she intended. Jungkook pretends to moan in pain, anyway. My chest tightens again—this time for a beat longer. 

An oddity flies through my vision, slicing through my envy. 

Her claws sinking into my bare skin as I let her playfulness out—

I shake that picture out of my head as quickly as it arrives, running my fingers through my strands that had fallen in front of my eyes. The girl helps my effort by speaking, distracting me from the faint rush of lust that begins to course down my body. 

I can’t get hard. 

“Yeah, I only drink wine,” she reveals, coyness entwining around her tone, and she kneads her hands, struggling with her straight posture. 

Another distraction, one that softens, most peculiarly, my lust. 

If I were born with deaf ears, I would’ve known she was fighting through her shyness by one glance at her body language and I don’t blame her. 

She doesn’t have only seven pairs of eyes watching her. She’s the apple of fifteen more if I include our staff, sound engineers and our management. 

If I weren’t the person I was and if this wasn’t my job, I would have run the first chance I got. A certain admiration envelops my heart the more I study her toy with her fingers, soothingly, because of a reason that aches to admit. 

A reason far from plain. 

She’s the same as me. Uncomfortable by and disliking any public event with people involved, especially if you’re put in a position to talk. 

A bond forms and I can’t stop it. I can’t rip it apart even as I willfully try in my headspace to cut off that red string tied around my heart, leading to hers. I can’t because she eventually slouches, giving up, her spine protruding towards me through the open back of her dress, for she’s turned her body towards Namjoon, who sits at the head of the table, but I figure she did it in order to be closer to Jungkook to gain some comfort from him. The skin of her back is refulgent and tanned, scattered with little blemishes that connect, like constellations, to a night sky full of birthmarks, and that only add to her beauty.

Her whole back is filled with them, stirring my wonder. And, unknowingly, she let me see by sweeping her hair to one side. I wonder if Jungkook has seen them and appreciates them as much as I do—

Jungkook burps, obscenely loudly, setting down Hobi’s unfinished can of Sprite that he left on the table. I’m sure Hobi’s regretting making that mistake, but when I look at him, he’s smiling so widely that I can see his gums and I’m so astounded by that view that I’m thrown off my balance. 

Even more so, when I check the reactions of the other members and begin to feel shame descending down my own spine like cold sweat. Jimin has hearts thumping in his eyes, raising his hand in the girl cat’s direction, connecting with her as he says he loves a good bubbly. Taehyung, sitting on the direct opposite side of Jungkook by the table with his arms crossed and his face flushed intones that tonight after the show he will break his sobriety streak. Jin joins the table and flicks Taehyung’s forehead, tells him he doesn’t have to break anything while taking a huge bite of his banana. And Namjoon… he laughs, hands intertwined upon the back of his head. 

The whole table laughs, in fact.

Hobi does beside me, too.

I’m the only one who doesn’t, steeped in my uncertainty as I am. 

They all bask in comfort and gaiety. There’s no awkwardness, no unspoken words or silence that hangs heavily in the air. There’s no need for our hummingbird; no need to change directions, play pretend or act accordingly to the new situation because there’s absolutely nothing new about the atmosphere I find myself to be in. Everything is as if it were just the seven of us. 

Making jokes, lighthearted energy, connections lengthening and digging deep… 

I haven’t seen that, been a part of that in so long. 

I was wrong—and the shame, stemming from my wrong impression and unwarranted fear, washes out the envy from my blood. It stands, arm to arm, with my life-long emptiness and I bow my head down, licking my lips.

I wish to exit myself out of this room. 

I wish my heart wasn’t so sensitive. 

I wish— 

“It’s her birthday today and I bought so many bottles of champagne and wine,” Jungkook says, running his tongue over his teeth, and my head lifts; my heart enlarges before it shrinks, painfully, magnifying my shame until it grazes the flesh like a shard. It’s her birthday? “I’ll need your help, guys. We’re not celebrating here tonight. After the show, we’re going to my place.” 

It’s not peach honeysuckle that I’m thinking of. Not pancakes. Not our hummingbird and butterfly as the boys cheer all over again, wishing her happy birthday. 

It’s her that I’m thinking of. 

And how much I messed up. 

He brought her here to make her birthday special—to be with her on the day that carries her name, not to replace me.

It explains why she’s so magnificently dressed up; why she’s putting her feet through so much pain in those heels of hers. 

Just for one night. And I’ve managed to ruin it so majestically with my energy. No wonder she won’t look at me; no wonder her eyes won’t even sweep past me en route to Hobi’s chocolate fountain that his eyes emanate. 

Mine are nothing but death. I don’t blame the decline of her smile as her pools met it. A kitty cat that looked at the face of a skull. It symbolized the end of time and now I perceive that it epitomizes the end of me. 

The longer she’s present, the more I loosen the consuming negativity that I’ve lived for so long in compliance with—because now I’m soft. 

I’m gutted I made her feel awful to be here with my dark energy. 

“Jungkook, you should’ve told us that was the reason why you brought her along. We would have welcomed you with a happy birthday song,” Namjoon says, his palm lifted towards Jungkook and her while his other hand reminds behind his head. 

I can’t see her smile. Not even a hint of it in her eyes, for this time around she doesn’t turn around to steal a glance at Hobi. And I wish she would, with a strength that I’m in awe that I’m even possessing, because I find myself yearning to look at her face, amidst my softness. 

I misjudged her so terribly that the yearning doubles as she presses her hands against her cheeks amidst the overbearing attention. Becomes a need—a need to fix what I so unfairly have broken. 

And jealousy thunderstrikes in my system when Jungkook bumps his shoulder into hers, gently, his head tipped low, fixed in her direction as she struggles, once again, in her shyness. Straightens her spine just in time for Jungkook to curl a finger around her ear and take off her black mask. 

I’m so jealous everyone else gets to see her face fully that indignation supersedes my past ire and my softness and I’m quickly up on my feet, ready to walk out to breathe in some fresh air but something else steps into my plan. 

And it’s not her. 

It could never be her. 

Staffs members circle around us, guiding us out of the room to wire us up. But I stall my time, purposefully staying behind so I can look at her. I pretend to exercise my pain from my shoulder surgery by rolling it and making a face. Jungkook whispers something to her, her face pointed upwards as he stands before her while she remains sitting and I’m so bothered by it that it calls out the pain, incites it to come haunt me again. 

Everyone else had something to say to her—and yet I still haven’t, owing to my foolish mistake. Self-hatred fastens to my anger and I can’t breathe, my lack of knowing what to say to her when the time comes worsening my feelings. 

The boys leave the room and it’s just me and her. The staff member knows not to push me, but the pressure in her eyes is the driving force that takes my legs to the kitty girl. 

She sits so awfully forlornly in her chair, reminds me so much of Jungkook, her spine back to slouching, that marvelous pillar protruding again and my lungs do that thing they seem to automatically do whenever I see that part of her. 

She hears my footfalls as I approach her, but she doesn’t turn around. I ignore the way it makes me feel, the heaviness that comes with it, too. She, in most probability, thinks I’m walking out of this room without saying a word to her, but I’m not capable of that. 

Not anymore. 

I call out her name and, in surprise, she lifts her spine. Turns around, at last, the sleek fabric of the dress adding swiftness to the movement and I see her face. Her full mouth that compliments, most perfectly, her big feline eyes. And I think about how much her dark, sensual energy doesn’t mirror her personality, her coyness that hides inside until someone speaks to her. Her chin is so small that my fist would still be empty if I held it in the way my body asks for, but the look she gives me diminishes the lust that slowly begins to crawl again within me. 

It’s one that bears a different kind of shyness. It’s fear-induced respect and the hatred towards myself thickens. 

I don’t want her to feel this way, but I molded it in her. 

It’s my fault. 

It’s why I think twice before I tell my fingers no, for they ache to drum against the top edge of her chair in effort to linger in her proximity. I won’t encourage her discomfort when I yearn to wipe it clean. But when she inhales my prolonged silence and raises her thin brows in waiting, the tiniest sliver of a smile quivering on her lips, she doesn’t know it—but she somehow gives me the words I was lacking. 

“Did Jungkook tell you where to go?” I ask, softly, fearing her knees will turn away from me, her body language divulging to me the depth of her uneasiness around me. But she remains put, the pillows of her lips balancing at last as they stretch out in a small grin that I don’t deserve. 

Her slender nose crinkles. 

My heart forgets to beat.

“No, he told me to wait here and that Min-ji will take me to a room where I can watch you, guys, perform on the TV,” she says, her grin making it difficult for her to get the words out and she blushes. There must be some other, silent language shared between our bodies because I discover myself smiling, too, even though there’s nothing from her sentence that can possibly be the cause of it. 

The energy shifts, devastatingly, and heat clings to my skin, dispersing relief down my nerve endings. 

All while buzzing tingles chase it, hastily, grabbing it by the back of its shirt and consuming it. 

It’s strange, so terribly strange to be consumed by nervousness when I’ve been used to nothingness and emptiness for so long. 

And her eyes seem to grow bigger, despite the irrepressible dynamism of her fear. Is she gaining thrill out of it—to be staring at the face of breaking death like the small kitten she is and knowing it’s her power that influences me? 

Those eyes. If my ears weren’t bombarded by Hobi’s sound effects wafting down the hall and into the lounge room, mingling with the rise and fall of Jungkook’s voice as he warms it up, I swear I can hear the song of swallows in them. She’s a manifestation of a summer evening in her fear and nervousness, when those birds go mad in the tender blues and pinks of the sky—and I don’t know why I like it so much. Why I want to seize it in my hand and squeeze it. 

And she’s about to be all alone here with it while I go join the rest of my brothers. 

It’s something that doesn’t feel right. 

The staff member taps me on my back. Time is against me—why doesn’t she control it? I swivel behind me to catch her nodding her chin in the direction of the hall and I sigh, quietly. 

“Wait with her until Min-ji comes to get her, so she’s not alone here,” I tell her, then look down at the kitty girl again. 

Her raised brows create wrinkles on her forehead and once she sees that I’ve noticed, she relaxes, wetting her lips. Doesn't want me to see the surprise that comes from what she created in me. 

How cute. 

“Enjoy the show,” I murmur, moving my feet towards the exit. I gaze back at her, catch her lungs shuddering, and the words slip off my tongue before I scramble the courage to stop them. “And happy birthday.” 

Her blush reaches her neck and it’s all my vision consists of—even when I’m performing. 

Our interaction was too short. Too, too short. And my anger took on a new face. 

Hers. 

Every word I rapped as I stared into the camera, I felt it dissolving in me and transforming into a yearning so great that my verses gained new meaning. A yearning to see her again, talk to her, pinch that fear in my fingers and fling it away, make space for something in her that had the vigor to surprise me and make me soft again. And in my concentration, I didn’t have the fight in me to put a stop to it. I was doing my duty for the happiness of our Army and while I thought about her, it seemed right. Those two things went along and it spurred a pleasant feeling in me that was warmer than the adrenaline sticking to my inflamed body from all the performing. 

It didn’t hit me that she was watching me the whole time until my eyes regarded her unperturbed, flaccid posture in that white plastic chair, wading in my thoughts as I was. Her grin and the flecks of light in her eyes illuminate the room with orange, blazing fire. She’s barefoot, her heels kicked to the side, crooked, elegiac, yet still sensuous. Our show is being rerun on the TV and she’s watching it, transfixed, not realizing me and Jungkook were the first to come to her out of the group. 

A mental connection clicks in my brain at the sight of it. The peach blossoms of the honeysuckle, Jungkook and the genuine love I carry for him. It is that orange color—it’s a home that keeps it safe, the atmosphere that she exudes through her evident elation and I don’t really understand why I feel this way. 

I haven’t even known her for a day. 

And it’s forced to collapse when her pools don’t find mine, but Jungkook’s once we walk in, joining her. She holds up her hand in the air, curling down her middle and ring fingers in while the rest of her digits remain erect, small and slim as they are. Her nose crunches up in the way it did when our bodies spoke in that secret language. And when she laughs and the corners of her eyes crinkle, I realize she’s mimicking his gesture that he so often does on stage while showing off his Army tattoo. 

The finger-fucking gesture. 

Her blush beams on her face, even more so when she does a stroking movement with her curled fingers, and I can’t help but wonder, briefly, if that’s how she does it to herself when she’s all alone and the night sinks inside her skin to get a refill of her juices, only to smear it across the sky.

It’s what I need to focus on, so I don’t explode in anger that she ignores me. 

Jungkook cackles, sticking out his tongue and doing the gesture. I hide my face in my towel, getting rid of the sweat coating me—but it pours out of my pores again when I hear her giggle. 

And I need to leave, my imagination no longer strong enough to withstand the jealousy that poisons my blood all over again. 

I fling the towel out and away from me, not caring where it lands. 

I don’t meet any eyes as I walk out, keeping my sight fixed on the gray floor, streaked with black lines from the hundreds of wheels of carts that have drove down the hall and from all the sneakers that have walked past. I follow them and I don’t know where they take me until I’m suddenly face to face with the gaping night. 

And it’s not her. 

It’s my wound. 

No stars for a naked pupil to see. Merely an abounding canvas of blackness that stares back at me and questions me, questions my feelings when it knows full well how hard I’ve wept, many times, in its airy embrace. 

I sit against the wall, needing something solid to support me, the spaciousness of the roof enveloping me, but not tightly enough. There, but never close enough—always a safe distance apart, as if afraid of me. 

Everyone is so always fucking afraid of me. 

And when they lean in and graze my heart, they get repulsed by me. 

It’s an ouroboros that my life, like my legs, follows. Like a dog chasing its own tail—and it’s such a perfect comparison because I’ve always been alone, save for my brothers. Distracted for a while, then alone again. 

I’m weary of it, despite the fact my body tends to wait for the thrill of the attention, longs for it, even when I dislike it. I’m an oxymoron that won’t cease and I have to live with it. 

And I can’t exit out of it because I have millions of lives that depend on me, plus six more. 

I sigh and I think sucking on a cigarette, numbly, while I crawl on my knees through the forest of my thoughts and feelings would be a thing of perfection. But I can’t afford that. Not when we’re working again. Not when our boss lurks at every corner, has eyes everywhere. Jungkook has had his last hotdog for a while and I… 

I swathed my broken strings around someone he brought into my life. 

Through a little hole my brothers let me see by forcing her to sit through a conversation that was a pain for her. A moonlight stripe of her personality, encased by her social anxiety and shyness. One that has awakened my body to emotions it hasn’t felt the touch of in a long time. 

Why am I not fighting it? 

Why am I not coercing my soul into submission, into that abyss of emptiness and hostility? 

Why am I letting myself feel? 

She’s just a girl that he’s seeing. Many stories like these have been written before and we’ve read the lines, recognized words that limned us, only for the love interest to disappear into thin air after some time like she never existed. And she’d just be another character in his love chronicles, if her persona hadn’t spoken to me so much. 

If her body hadn’t spoken to me in a language no one knows—not even me. 

I can’t begin my sentences about her with ‘she’s just a girl’, because she isn’t. 

And I don’t understand how that’s come to be. 

It happened so quickly that I fear I wasn’t present enough. 

My wound tilts its head as my world does the same thing—slants on its axis. Coos at me, seeing me, seeing through me. Reminds me of what happened the last time I felt. 

The passing of my girlfriend gave me the gift of a gun to my hand—gave me the face of death that I’ve been carrying ever since because it nearly made my dream of time ending come true. And the kitty girl… standstill hangs off her fingers like a pearl necklace that’s too long. And I find myself wanting to wear it. Because it’s her decision, her consciousness, her will. 

Not mine. 

And it will bring me closer to my Sun-mi.

My wound begins to cry at the memory of her, raindrops pitter-pattering on the tin ridges of the rooftop and I cherish that she’s remembered and honored by such vastness, by such picturesqueness that I’ve always considered the night to be. And when the wind brushes along my fidgeting hands, I almost feel her touch all over again. 

Feel. 

I feel. 

And in my heart, I tell her. I sail to her, attaching myself to her again. Tell my Sun-mi that I am capable of feeling and that I don’t know how it came together in me. And I ask her, in utmost respect, to guide me on this unknown path. 

Because I am alone without her. Adrift, without rhyme and reason. No wits to me, no rationality, no clear perception of right and wrong. 

There’s only grayness to me. 

Maybe that’s why I, unknowingly, dyed my hair this color before the start of the tour. 

And it dawns on me, now that one chapter has closed in my life, that the passing of my Sun-mi a year and a half ago is the reason why I’ve clung to Jungkook so rigidly. Because I couldn’t spend my time on her, I spent it on Jungkook. Because I had all this love for her and I couldn’t give it to her, so I gave it to Jungkook. 

And the kitty girl has put a stop to it. 

Sun-mi graces me with the tepid, yet fuzzy impression that it’s good—that it was meant to happen. And I believe her. 

And with my belief, the rain thickens. 

A thunder rolls forward from a far-away corner of the canvas of the sky that I can’t see. And I dwell in the pool of the fountain of the love I still have for her and forever will continue to have. Kneel in it. Search for her. 

I imagine her. The button of her nose, the curl of her top lip whenever we ridiculed aegyo by doing it together and doing a good fucking job while at it. I imagine her small fist at her round cheek, but she connects my memories to the kitty girl. 

And she consumes me, wholly.

Sun-mi makes me imagine her doing a cat-like aegyo and as the corner of my mouth lifts, a particular fear devours my gut. 

A fear of closeness. 

A fear of doing something with her that I did with Sun-mi, even when she okays it in my spirit. 

A fear of reliving something so painful again. 

The rain inches towards me and I scurry to my feet, my hand trembling as I open the door to the staircase. And when I shut out the sound of hard rainfall and prevent the traumatic memories of my accident from slinking into my mind, it’s the only strength I have left. 

And I crumble. 

I mirror the rain I abhor so much. 

I sit on the top of the staircase and I sear my hands with my acid-suffused tears. Sob so devastatingly that I don’t recognize myself, drenching the denim fabric over my knees. And when I pull on my hair, numbness is all that I detect within me. 

Good. 

No feelings; only emptiness. 

I steel myself by taking a few deep breaths, letting the oxygen settle that deep in me. And I unattach myself from my Sun-mi, promise her I will get back to her soon. Go back to who I previously was before I scraped the skin of my knees raw on the hardened soil of my emotions and thoughts. 

Alone death. 

But Sun-mi doesn’t sail away back to heaven. Doesn’t let me go. She stomps her foot on the wet grass of my heart and I understand why. I asked her to guide me and what I didn’t know was that she would break the laws of heaven in order to do that. She wouldn’t whisper words of wisdom into the chambers of my heart. She would take my hand and show me wisdom, pointing me to the right decision. 

That is my Sun-mi. 

I let her because I need her. I bow to her and I would stoop to my stomach on this dirty, metal staircase floor to divulge my respect and gratitude to her if I didn’t hear a voice echoing up towards me. 

A familiar male voice calling out to me. 

Sun-mi pulls me to it and tingles vibrate down my legs as I fly through the stairs, skipping the bottom ones in order to get me faster to my brother. Sun-mi pumps blood into my heart, refreshing the grass she lays upon, and lightness descends upon my shoulders. 

Her work of art. 

Heaving, I meet Jungkook in the doorframe, glancing up at me, disappointment lidding his eyes. But I don’t fear, not when Sun-mi is with me. He opens the door wider for me to step through, but I remain fixed on my spot, panting, ringing piercing through my hearing sense. 

Too much adrenaline at once in a season of drought. My body is unable to catch up to the new acclimatization. 

“What’s going on?” I ask, my throat raw from my crying and I clear it, so there’s no evidence of my sensitivity. Sun-mi caresses the wall of my heart to soothe me and tears burn at the back of my eyes—from the simple fact that I can feel her. 

I’ve felt her only once before. A week after she died, I prayed to her, loudly, until I lost my voice. Begged her to come back to me. 

And she did. 

And it felt nice until it didn’t—so I made it my habit to attach and unattach myself because of my fragility. It is only a matter of time before the logic of your mind distinguishes a real person from a ghost. And the parting of that vulnerable mist, in the middle of your agony, isn’t for the faint-hearted. 

But Sun-mi, at this very moment, feels more real than she ever has. As if she truly was hidden in the rooms of my heart like a little doll, like a little angel that has the task from above to guide me. 

And because I need it, I’ll let more time pass through this transcendental connection. 

Jungkook flattens his lips, tightly, the tip of his tongue poking out to play with the thin metal pierced through his bottom lip. He’s changed back into the clothes he came in, minus the fluffy jacket. A black T-shirt, black pants and sneakers. It makes the green of his hair stand out—just like the wisp of the same color on that singular strand of the girl kitty’s hair. 

They have a tendency to match and shame boils in me, that Sun-mi is a witness to the jealousy I feel. I haven’t told her and I don’t know if I want to. In my momentary cowardice, I hope that she can sense it and validate it. 

But I gain nothing from her. 

Silence. 

One that Jungkook breaks. 

“Staff said that we have to wait until the storm passes.” 

My stomach sinks, the memory of the rainfall faint in my ears. “Good.” 

Jungkook pauses before he voices out the question that I can visibly see rising in him. Nibbles his bottom lip, the metal tilting to the side like my world. “Where did you go?” 

My breath shivers as I inhale, tasting my half-false words before I speak them. “I felt hot and I needed some fresh air.” 

I felt jealous that you made dirty innuendos with your friend, I don’t say. It led me to seek my dead girlfriend because I feel inclined to fraternize with that aforementioned friend. 

Jungkook frowns. “You went out in the rain?” 

I pass through the gap between his body and the doorframe, not able to stand the position I’ve been put in, anxiety prickling my fingertips. Jungkook lets the door shut behind him with a loud thud, following closely behind me until he falls in step beside me. 

“It felt refreshing until it didn’t,” I decide to mutter. Typical words of mine—I can’t stand them either. 

Sun-mi is still silent.

Maybe I should unattach myself, protect myself from further pain. It was a moment of weakness, anyways—

Jungkook rubs my shoulder, gently, the fixed one, barely touching me, but the gesture is there. And I grasp why I love him so much. 

His gentleness is everything to me. 

“The rain will stop,” he says and I take those words to heart, giving them the meaning that they are the wisdom I needed to hear, the wisdom I sought from my quiet Sun-mi. 

The rain will stop. 

The sensitivity will stop, too. 

And time will stop soon, one day. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, @hobiberrystuff.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

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[aemonds-sapphire]

Inexperience

Summary: You have often wondered how it feels to pleasure a man, so you take it up with Aemond.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: NSFW. Inexperienced reader. Friends to lovers (if you squint). Handjob. Masturbation.

Word count: 2k

Part II

“You’re doing it again.”

Aemond’s velvety voice snapped you from your intrusive thoughts state at once.

Inwardly scolding yourself, you shifted your attention back to the embroidery in your hands.

You weren’t being exceptionally subtle when it came to staring at him.

And Aemond’s observational skills were far too perfected for your own good.

“I apologise,” you said quietly.

Even from the corner of your eye you could see an intriguing smile on his lips as he lifted his eye from the book. “As you wish, my lady.”

You felt a rush of heat pool in your face. Even after years of growing up with Prince Aemond and tearing down any walls that were built from the unavoidable hierarchical imbalance, he would always know how to get under your skin.

The two of you would spend long hours in the fireplace room after supper, enjoying the calmness and silence. You’d be entertained with your embroideries while Aemond took his time diving into history and philosophy books.

A very intriguing young man he was.

In fact, he was just as intriguing as he was perceptive, which was why it didn’t surprise you that he had caught on to you occasionally glaring at him.

Not just him.

His body.

Quite frankly, the burning curiosity inside you begged you to just ask. It could be considered improper, but your mind kept wondering how.

How did he do it?

How did it feel like?

What was the worst that could happen should you ask these questions?

The matter of intimacy was all but known to both of you. He’d often invade your dreams with kisses and moans, but you didn’t dare reveal any of that to him. Sometimes, when about to doze off, you’d wonder whether it was reciprocal.

Not that it mattered. Your father would one day marry you off to some lord in some decaying castle never to cross paths with Aemond Targaryen ever again.

So you might as well ask and it was apparent that your body language betrayed your forced calm demeanour as it was enough to get his attention.

“Why are you so tense?”

You jolted in your seat, nearly jabbing the needle in your finger. “I am not tense at all,” you offered a smile.

“Lying is very unbecoming of you,” he said, flipping through a couple of pages. “Whatever is on your mind, you can share with me.”

You straightened in your seat, lowering your faze to the flowers you were carefully threading with your needle. Given the current circumstances, embroidery seemed far more inviting in comparison with having to deal with a suspicious Aemond.

“Take your time,” he said, not tearing his eye from the book and drumming his fingers on the padded armrest.

“I… it is nothing, Aemond.”

If you thought that was enough to shake him off, you were dead wrong. Instead, Aemond heaved a deep sigh and closed the book on his lap, staring intensely at you.

You tried your best to ignore his penetrating glare, but all to no avail.

“Do you take me for a fool?” he asked, but there no hint of annoyance in his voice.

If anything, he seemed deeply amused.

“What do you—”

Aemond interrupted you at once. “I’ve noticed the way you’ve been staring at me as of late.”

You looked at him wide-eyed. “Staring?”

“Subtlety isn’t your strongest suit.”

His eye was studying your every move and you had to be the inside of your cheek in frustration. More at yourself than at him, if you were being honest. You knew he wasn’t who was easily fooled, but you had also not expected that all the glaring had become that noticeable.

“It is nothing,” you said, feeling droplets of sweat coating the pads of your fingers, staining the coloured thread.

“You keep staring at my hands. Why?”

He had beautiful hands, indeed.

“For no reason.”

“Lie to me one more time and I will not have you riding Vhagar with me again.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He clicked his tongue. “Do not try me.”

Your heart clenched as your felt trapped. “It’s nothing much,” you lowered your voice and glanced around to make sure no unwanted visitors were present. I was just wondering how it feels when you... uh... when you... do it.”

Aemond’s eyebrow arched. “Do... what?”

You weren’t sure if he was genuinely unaware of the implication, or if he was just pretending in order to get you riled up. However, were willing to bet on the latter.

“Hmm... you know...” you said, feeling your face burn hot from embarrassment. “How does it feel when you… hmm… pleasure yourself,” you finally managed to get the words out but quickly added, “Just curious… because… hmmm… just curious and—”

You cut yourself off, realising you were now rambling.

Tense moments ticked by and you noticed Aemond Targaryen was visibly amused. “Is this your subtle way of asking me to touch myself in front of you?”

Panic immediately hit you hard. “Of course not! Why would I want to see that? How — how is that—what? — I was merely wondering.”

He placed the heavy book on the table by his side, as his lips curled into a smile. “I wouldn’t mind it.”

You shot him a death glare. “If you don’t want to tell me just say that.”

“I do not indulge in such depravities.”

“Lies,” you threw at him in disbelief. “I do not believe you.”

“Lies? Well, it does take one to know one, I reckon.”

You bit the inside of your cheek once at the remark regarding your earlier failed attempt at deception.

“There is no need to get tense,” Aemond said, standing up to take a seat in the nearby velvet-padded settee.

“I’m really not.”

“We all have urges, I suppose,” he then shrugged, staring at his own hands. “I have never done this with someone else. It could be… interesting.”

“You could simply tell me how it feels or how you do it,” you said, mouth turning dry. “Besides, we would not be doing anything here.”

“Why tell you when I can show you?”

He could not be serious…

“The doors are closed,” he said, extending one hand to you. “No one comes here this late at nigh. Come here.”

Your feet brought you to him before you could even process what was happening. “I was having a serious conversation and you’re now talking about your… your…” you pointed at his crotch as you say by his side.

This time he arched an eyebrow at you. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. Weren’t you the one who wanted to know how it feels like?”

Point taken. “Yes, but—”

“So what do you want me to talk about?” Aemond asked, lips turning into a devious grin.

“You are being vulgar.”

“You started this conversation, my lady,” he pointed out. “You’re the one who’s being vulgar.”

There was no way around it. You were definitely making things worse for yourself. This had started off innocently enough, but he was easily bending the conversation to his will.

You decided to ignore his remark and had your eyes on the lit fireplace in front of you, determined to enjoy the way the flames danced around and burned through the wood.

But Aemond was relentless.

“I can show you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You awaited for him to quickly take that back as a joke, but that moment never came.

He was dead serious.

“No, thank you,” you breathed, still not daring to look at him.

In all honesty, you wouldn’t mind taking a peak, but you couldn’t just admit to that. What if it made things awkward between you? What if you had crossed a line you weren’t sure you could go back from?

You kept your eyes firmly locked on cackling fire, but you could feel him shift beside you. It was probably a bad idea to dart your eyes to the side to watch as his legs lazily sprawled out from the settee, with and one hand resting on his belt.

You jolted when you saw him extend his hand to you. “You may touch it.”

This was definitely not what you had in mind. “Uh...”

He chuckled briefly. “It is my hand, not my cock.”

Your chin nearly dropped at his crass words and you frowned. “It’s simply genuine curiosity.”

He chuckled. “And I’m here willing to satisfy that curiosity. We have shared a friendship for many years,” he said, voiced coated in tones of warm honey. “If you are to learn about such things, I’d rather be the one enlightening you.”

It was such an unexpected and truthful statement, you felt your heart soar.

But as satisfying as it was to hear such words from him, you still had a shred of dignity left. “What if someone comes in?” you hissed in a low voice, eyes roaming across the room.

“We can be discreet,” he said. “Have you forgotten the many times we hid under beds after raiding the kitchen? No one would ever find us and those apples tasted ten times better.”

The memories of your shared youth tugged gently at your heartstrings.

“But we’re not hiding.”

Aemond brought a finger to trace the back of your hand. “We don’t have to. Not anymore.”

You swallowed hard hand watched as he offered you his hand at first. Without failt, your heartbeat sped up instantly, but you did your best to ignore it as you inspected his hand. His palm was turned upwards, giving you access to his warm skin.

“Can I...?”

Aemond had his head on the backrest, half-hooded eye still on you. “Yes.”

Holding the back of his hand in yours, you let your index finger slowly drag across it.

You could have sworn you heard the faintest sound come from him.

His skin felt really warm to the touch, nearly

“Is this alright?” you asked, halting briefly and studying his face.

“Carry on.”

But then something else in your field of vision caught your attention.

The hand he had resting on his belt drew you to look a bit further down and—

“Aemond?” your sudden gasp had him staring at you. “How are you...”

He bent his neck to stare down at the bulge in his pants. “I have no control over it.”

You wanted to be outraged, but this made you feel empowered and did wonders to your ego. You wanted to let go of his hand and be done with... whatever this was.

But you didn’t dare break contact with him.

If anything, the grip on his hand only intensified.

“Keep going… I can get harder than this.”

Gods. His hoarse voice immediately caused your thumb to resume the soft strokes along the palm of his hand.

The tension in the room was palpable, and you were no longer bothered in concealing how much your body craved more of him.

And just like Aemond had promised, you were able to see his cock growing harder and even twitching slightly each time you applied a certain amount of pressure on his skin.

Your breath was coming out in shallow pants.

You wanted more.

No.

You needed more.

Apparently, the feeling was mutual as he had his fingers on the buckle of his belt, tugging on it. The sight had your mouth watering. The not so subtle bulge was clearly making him uncomfortable in a way and in eye you detected undeniable lust.

You couldn’t help but shift closer to him, and the motion triggered him into undoing his belt. Once he got it out of the way, he unbuttoned his pants.

He heaved a deep sigh of relief at sudden relief of tension.

“Maybe we should stop?”

“Do you want to?” he asked, gently fiddling with the waistband of his pants.

No. “It’s just... what if someone—”

“You keep sabotaging yourself,” he groaned in exasperation.

“But... if someone comes in...”

He growled. “I will behead them.”

Your eyes widened in sudden horror.

“I am not being serious,” he finally added, offering you a grin. “Just enjoy this.”

In one switft motion, he pulled the fabric down, freeing his hard cock.

“Oh...”

You had never seen one before. It looked intimidating and you tried to do something other than just glare, but you couldn’t quite believe in what was happening just yet.

“Such a pretty mouth...” he observed as his eye dropped to your lips and wrapping his fingers around himself.

Your clit was pulsing as your walls clenched and pushed out more and more wetness to coat your folds.

Aemond started pumping his cock in a lazy rhythm, eye fully locked with yours. You saw a few beads of a clear liquid pooling around the tip.

“Keep touching me…”

“I... I...” you sounded like a fish out of water.

He tightened the grip on his cock, forcing more of the liquid to come out. That’s when it started sliding down and onto his knuckles.

“Keep going…”

It was clear he was getting impatient and the strain in his voice hit your brain, causing you to straighten before bringing the palm of his hand to your lips.

You made sure he kept his eye on you when you started pressing soft kisses to each finger.

“Good...” he praised and encouraged, bringing the palm of his other hand to rub on the tip of his cock.

He had his wetness smeared across his skin and you kept on kissing him until he dragged his hand down to pump his cock once again.

“Let me feel you,” he panted, squeezing himself tighter. “I want to feel you.”

You presse one last kiss to the palm of his hand. “What?”

It was his turn to grip your hand. “Let me fuck your hand.”

Oh… Gods…

You felt a load of wetness leak from you it’d be a miracle if you managed to somehow finish this without having your own dress completely soaked.

He guided you down to his crotch, letting go of his cock only to have your own hand wrapping around him, drawing a beautiful hiss from him.

The sudden urge to kiss him took over your senses, and just as the thought flooded your mind your body promptly acted in it, and you crashed your lips onto his.

He was definitely caught by surprised, but had no problem reciprocating the same hunger and lust you felt for him by having his tongue against yours.

You allowed him to guide your hand up and down his cock with his own, feeling his grip increase. He set up a very slow rhythm as if making the most out of this moment.

“Tighter...” he moaned in between a sloppy kiss.

Your fingers promptly squeezed around him. He had been leaking so much that it didn’t take long before your own hand was drenched in his wetness.

It was hard to focus on his cock when he was completely robbing you of air, refusing to break the kiss.

When he finally let go of your lips, you saw him staring down at his cock fucking your hand. You could feel his breath come out in pants when he started lifting his hips to set a new tempo.

“Is… is this how you do it?” you said innocently.

Aemond’s eye closed shut and that was the best reply he could have given you.

You absentmindedly brought your free hand to roam under your dress and to your undergarments. Your wetness was sipping through the fabric, your pussy clenching at the thought of one day having him take your maidenhead.

You didn’t even notice that he had undone his coat and lifted his shirt, exposing his abdomen as it flexed with each snap of his hips, a sheer coat of sweat forming as he sped up.

“Are you tighter than this?” he groaned.

How could someone be this… alluring?

He kissed you again, his hand gripping yours tighter once again.

But you needed more of him.

You pushed him away for a moment so you could swing one leg over his waist, effectively sitting on his crotch. Lifting your dress, you revealed your soaked undergarments. Aemond was shamelessly glaring at the stain that was spreading across the fabric.

“Be quiet,” you told him, squeezing his cock as a warning.

“I said nothing,” he said with a knowing smile.

You needed the friction on your clit and this new position would grant you that. With each thrust from him, your clit was being pressed gently, and you couldn’t help the deep moan that slipled through your mouth.

Aemond finally let go of his grip in you and brought both hands to frame your face, once again draining your lungs from air as he pulled you into a scorching kiss.

You never thought you’d be this close to release, but that was the least of your concerns. You wanted to watch that beautiful man unravel before your eyes.

He kept on thrusting into your hand, and when he pulled away you knew he was close. You took some time to admire how his beautiful face twisted in pleasure, mouth parted into laboured gasps.

“Faster...” he urged you and you were more to glad to oblige.

You were now familiar with what made him groan deeper, gasp louder, and roll his hips higher. It took him only a few more moments before his thrusts started faltering, and he had to bite the back of his hand to keep himself from groaning out loud as hot spurts of cum started shooting against your undergarments. You shuddered as the head of his cock pressed into your clit and his warm released sipped into the fabric.

You tumbled forward to rest your head against his shoulder, not even concerned about the mess.

“That was…” he let out, chest heaving rapidly.

“Can we do this again?”

You felt his chest rumble into yours. “Give me some time to recover… you just emptied me…”

-

Part II

[harmonysanreads]

bestie I'm currently reading a really good imperial palace setting manga, and in one of the scenes the concubine used her jewelry to "mark" her handmaidens to prevent bad people from approaching them.

Imagine Neuvillette with a human crush that somehow has the draconic habit of marking her loved ones, but she uses jewelry. Mr Neuvillette most likely sees it as darling understanding dragon courting.

Even funnier if in reality darling doesn't understand dragon courting.

-💅

yes, bestie, yes.

To Neuvillette, the message within that gesture is bold and clear ; it's a sign of ownership and an unspoken invite for his reciprocation, to you, it's an expression of your unadulterated care. Something you've done before and to which Neuvillette definitely wasn't the first in line — but he doesn't know that.

Neuvillette takes great care of whatever piece of jewelry you've given him, be it a necklace, bracelet, earring or hairpin. Though, I think what would scratch his brain just right is if you were to give him a ring instead. He promptly orders a special box to be crafted from the sturdiest material to store them and polishes them himself regularly and so diligently that by the time you see them again, you think it's a new jewelry entirely. Due to his draconic features, I think he'd be able to pick up on the vaguest traces of ‘you’ from your jewelry. For example : your necklace carries a good portion of your fragrance, in your bracelet and hairpin, there's a lingering scent of the hand cream and shampoo you use. Neuvillette is able to learn so much about you from those small gifts alone.

Your jewelry also serves as a catalyst of comfort when things get too hard for the Chief Justice, they remind him of the promise and motivate him to continue for your sake. This festering paranoia is something he knows is quite absurd but, Neuvillette thinks that he cannot, by any chance, allow dust and moisture to damage the jewelry. Even the faintest decrease in shine, the alignment that your affections for him must be decaying? It makes him uncomfortable beyond description. And since things are so sweet and perfect in Neuvillette's head, it's all the more devastating in the case he learns of your true intentions. Poor Hydro Dragon.

Side thought : I was thinking about the same scenario but, with a darling with amnesia. Some angst thrown into yandere!neuvillette is always good in my humble opinion.

[bloodmoonmuses]

time lapse | mark lee

genre: mark lee x reader, established relationship, fluff, experimental prose??? warnings: none!

summary: one day, mark finds out you write poetry about him.

Mark was beautiful in a way that evoked poetry out of you. Not the kind of poetry you’d write in a class, or to a rubric, or written to please that snooty professor whose opinion you unfortunately care about. Not stuffy poetry, nor the kind that’s overindulgent in its prose. Not forced devotion.

He evoked the kind of poetry that only exists in the mundane. Snippets of domesticity like just-cooled tempered glass: fragility strengthened by warmth. Remnants of heat hissing faintly amidst silence… The ghost-like sensation of fingertips that once grazed your abdomen, moved to brush tendrils of hair away from your face, and ultimately cradled your blazing cheeks. Warmth like when you steal his hoodie and the body heat is still living in the garment. Warmth like recognition pooling in Mark’s eyes as he wakes to you each morning.

It’s the mundanity of Mark you were obsessed with.

His eyes hold multitudes. You’ve become fluent in their language: the sheen that floods them when he talks about his friends. The haze that clouds them after a particularly exhausting day. Their absence when his eyes crinkle with laughter. Everything about him was poetry, worthy of being chronicled in sonnet form. There’s a sort of rigid lyricalness that encompasses Mark. The tact and efficacy with which he executes choreography, contrasted against his feather-light vocal timbre. You especially liked when he sang, breathy melodies escaping like playground secrets. 

His voice is gravely, yet youthful. Buoyant but hearty. Full and bright. His terms of endearment ring like a question, like he’s confirming that his feelings are in fact reciprocated each time he proclaims his love to you.

Mark says, “Love you, baby.” but “baby” has an upward lilt to it. The affection is caught at his throat. You feel it too. When he leaves and says, “Be back soon, my love,” you nod. Because he will be back, and you will be waiting, and it’s cute that he still needs confirmation of such considering you’ve been together so long. “Stay healthy,” he says. You tell him to do the same, shoving a cup of tea in his hands as he bounds out the door. This is your way of saying “stay warm” as well, though time doesn’t allow you to actually verbalize this. 

Mark’s perpetually running late.

When you wrote about this, the idea would show up in lines like: “Time decays faster in his wake- eroding at the edges like a distorted strip of film. But when he’s in your eye line, the background of time bleeds into watercolor- faded blues and denim grays swirling in the now frozen frame.” When Mark enters, time stops. 

One day, Mark stumbled upon your journal. “I sing about you, it’s only fair!” he exclaimed as he noted the sheepish look overtaking your features. It felt like being torn open. You’d rather read the poetry to him than endure the silence that blanketed the room as he read. But he insisted.

“How do you feel?” You had asked in a breathless whisper, eyes shut tightly to rid yourself of the embarrassment that settled in the flush of your face.

Mark smiles. “Seen,” he said.

[lowkeyrobin]

reader has had a crush on Rory since they were kids when they kissed (for practice ofc) but rory just has eyes for Erica and it breaks reader's heart but is still supportive cause as long as rory is happy so are they and SOMETHING happens which means reader is slowly dying and rory doesn't realizes his feeling until it's too late and reader dies in his arms.....

holy shit Alex you are evil. when I said angsty mbav I didn't realize you took that personally 😭🙏 /lh /pos

RORY KEANER ; you don't know what you have until you lose it

summary ; you like rory, but he doesn't reciprocate

warnings ; language, death, talk of throwing up, influenced by some music bc I was listening to sleep token LMAO

track ; take me back to eden ; sleep token

word count ; 1.5k

masterlist

The only good thing about living in Ontario, Canada, was your friend group, the Supernatural Squad. Although you were just the comedic relief, you were the most reasonable and level-headed. You were still a staple to the group. You weren't very supernatural, however. Just an ordinary human who happened to be friends with a bunch of vampires, a witch/wizard, Benny couldn't decide on a damn label, and a seer.

You and Rory and Benny and Ethan were the two duos of the group that'd been together the longest. Benny and Ethan met in middle school, and you and Rory met in 4th or 5th grade when he moved to White Chapel. Sarah and Erica met in their freshman year, having been bonded over the lack of friends and their good grades in English and history classes.

You and Rory were a different kind of close. In every universe, you knew you'd met each other, one way or another. He was the funny, dim-witted vampire who was still a geek even through his transformation into puberty and vampirism. You, on the other hand, remain the second half of his comedy troupe, the smart and level-headed companion he needed to keep him mentally stable through all these new, weird things he was going through. He'd forever be 15 while you grew older, something you weren't too worried about right now.

You remembered like it was yesterday when you shared a first kiss for "practice." It was practice, really, Rory wanted to know how to kiss before he tried asking Erica out. However, for you, that was the problem. You didn't want it to be practice for him to be able to woo over Erica.

There was no doubt that Erica, the tall, blonde, vampire, was hot. Hell, if you weren't already head over heels for the younger blonde, you'd totally date her. But, that was the whole thing, he had googly eyes for Erica and you just solemnly looked at him with love stuck in yours like a curse.

But, of course, Rory hadn't learned about the phrase "you don't know what you have until you lose it." He wasn't expecting to lose you, nor was he aware that he even had you wrapped around his finger.

During the final fight with Vice Principal Stern, you'd gotten hurt, and hid it from your friends ; you saved White Chapel for good, ridding the town of evil. You didn't want to sour the mood about a wound that would heal itself, and you didn't want your friends worrying about something so small that'd disappear in time.

Stern hit you with a purplish magenta light-beam from his staff, leaving a very painful, burn-looking wound on your side. Over time, it didn't heal like you hoped it would, if anything it only looked worse, like your skin was decaying.

You had it wrapped up nearly 24/7 to prevent infection, the grey-ish skin was pruney and nasty looking from the amount of moisture. You'd only been living through the pain thanks to a lot of Tylenol, which you probably took a little bit too much of sometimes on accident. The center of the wound was a weird purple color, like a bruise, and it branched off like veins almost. It ran down your hip and up your torso, a grey color, acting as if you were a rotting corpse or something.

The theory was that it'd heal over time or completely disappear after a way since Stern was gone. But obviously, those were both incorrect.

You touch the wound, feeling a sharp pain radiate through the area as you pull your fingers away with a grimace. Your next idea was to ask Benny for a potion or something to help it go away. I mean, he had to have had some wound-dissolving spell or potion laying around somewhere, he was a witch for Christ's sake. It shouldn't be too hard to just ask for one.

That was easier said than done, however. He and Ethan wanted to know what it was for before he made it, and they wouldn't stop pressing after you said it was nothing. They eventually figured you out though, having been the first to notice and point out the veins spreading up to your collarbone and shoulders while you were all hanging out at Ethan's after school.

You kept telling them you were just tired and you had a cold, etcetera etcetera, the past few months, but after a while, they started to wonder why you were only looking worse. Then they persuaded you to just show them so they could help. You complied, showing them the wound you acquired from the final battle with Vice Principal Stern.

Ethan is the first to speak, quickly questioning you, "Dude, when and where did you get that?"

"Fighting Stern a couple of months ago." You shrug nonchalantly as you try your best to force your eyes open to stay awake, "Look, I just need something to make this heal or disappear, okay?"

Benny and Ethan share a worried look, barely able to look at your wound without cringing in disgust and the pain they felt for you.

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡° ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡° ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°

Within another agonizing week, Sarah, Erica, and of course, Rory, had found out as well. So much for secrets.

All that week, no amount of drugs or spells or potions could help your condition whatsoever. You would frequently throw up and would have to skip class to go to the nurses office or sit in the bathroom while your stomach twisted and turned inside of you. Rory tried helping you as much as he could, carrying your things and flying you straight home after school, but it didn't help much, neither did the magical help from Benny and his grandma, it was like you were immune to it at this point.

You lay in bed on your side, a trashcan accompanying you for any biohazards. The veins now climbed up your neck, your shoulders, and down your legs, your eyes were made heavy by suitcase sides bags under your eyes, it felt like your eyes were swollen, yet they weren't. Rory sits beside you, one hand rubbing your shoulder as you mindlessly babble on, his other hand holding an ice pack to your forehead as you experience heat flashes.

The four other teens stand outside your closed bedroom door, trying to think of any ways to help you. They wanted to convince your parents to take you to the doctors, but how would you explain the massive wound on your side. And how would you explain that you were now a walking corpse acting like a shitty father after a trip to the bar?

"Y'know, Rory, I've always liked you, like, like-liked you" You giggle, ruffling his hair. "You're adorable"

Rory lightly smiles, not taking your words to heart.

"Really, please listen to me, R" You quickly place your hands on his cheeks, cupping his face, "I like you. And I know you don't like me back and shit, you like Erica and you're constantly talking about it, but I want it off my chest before this stupid thing probably kills me or starves me out of my body"

The blonde boy blinks a few times, and wraps you in a hug. "I'm sorry" He mumbles, remembering the fact you were definitely on your last limb here, "You're the best, most awesome friend I could ever ask for, so you're not gonna die! Wait- could I turn you into a vampire and save you? Would that work?"

You shrug, not wanting to get too excited, I mean, the others probably already thought of that and imagined a bad outcome.

The four walk back in to see you resting your head on Rory's lap, probably sleeping as he speaks up, his speech moving a million miles an hour.

"What if we turn them into a vampire? Would that work? I mean, they'd become immortal, right?"

The four look to each other and shrug, positivity shining through their worried expressions.

"Did they say they wanted to try it?" Sarah asks, "It's a big devotion... I mean, this is literally life changing, maybe for the better"

Rory nodded, "They said to ask you"

Sarah nods down, looking at you, "Ask them, I'll be downstairs, I'm gonna make them some tea" She lightly smiles, dragging Erica along with her.

Rory shakes your shoulder with no response, your cheeks pale as the veins quickly crawl up your face. He gets a little more aggressive with it, calling your name, the fear showing in his voice.

"Y/n, Y/n, Y/n? Y/n? Y/n!"

Ethan stands frozen, seeing your entire face begin to be engulfed by the weird infection. Benny begins shouting for Sarah and Erica, sprinting down the stairs as quickly as possible. The blonde turns you face up, seeing blood trail out from your nose.

You were totally limp in his arms, a sense of calmness painting your face instead of the now usual pained and tired look. You seemed peaceful laying there while your whole body is painted in a spider web like pattern.

"Y/n/n, please, wake up! I can help you!"

No response, your chest wasn't even slowly rising or falling anymore, you were just a limp, heavy body laying on him.

Tears prick at the blonde's eyes as he stares at your relaxed features, wishing that just maybe he'd thought a little sooner.

Maybe if he just thought of that a little sooner, then you'd be okay.

[adiluv-moved]

✦ : ❝ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐭𝐡 !

꒰synopsis—wc꒱ in which the cold isn't as bad as he'd originally believed. 738 words.

꒰warnings꒱ soft-yandere scaramouche, barely edited.

꒰adi moment꒱ honestly a bit too tired to try and come up with something interesting/funny to put here, so just imagine that i said something really captivating instead! ♡ hope you enjoy! ໒꒰ྀིㅅ´ ˘ `꒱ྀི১

Scaramouche, in the many centuries of his existence, has never once considered himself a fan of the winter. Or, as he's found himself being corrected at an increasingly alarming rate, he hadn't. At least not before you decided to worm your way into his life.

It's embarrassing, really. Humiliating, if he was being entirely honest. Pathetic, even, that he would ever allow himself to bend so readily to the whims of a mere mortal, especially one as blatantly naïve and idiotic as yourself.

He should have you killed for it. Would, too, if the mere thought of watching his underlings throwing your lifeless body into the creek right behind your ramshackle cottage didn't stir up the strangest sensation of discomfort within his hollow chest.

... You've got the man absolutely whipped for you, to be truthful, though it's hardly even the worst part of his little dilemma. Couldn't be anywhere near it, really, when you knew of his feelings towards you, understood them, reciprocated them—dissipating the storms brewing within his very being with a mere glance in his direction. You're more than comfortable with the situation you've found yourself in, and that much is clear, a fact that elicits both distress and elation from the ever-feared Balladeer.

He finds that he's become more prone to the latter, as of late.

Your lips were soft whenever you kissed him. Your grip was gentle whenever you pulled his body towards you, though the entryway of your cramped home, into your arms ꒰where he rightfully belongs, he's sure꒱ whenever he'd return to visit after a particularly strenuous mission. Tender, and warm, a type of affection so faint that he feared even the most insignificant gust of wind would be enough to erase it from his body entirely.

But the winter, as he soon comes to find, changes that.

Although he'd much rather clamber onto the cold metal of Il Dottore's vivisection table than admit it out loud, it's truly impossible to deny just how comforting you are to hold, face buried into the crook of his neck as your form trembles beneath his fingertips. Your lips have become chapped, now, and he can feel just how dry they've become—tickling his synthetic skin alongside your shaky breaths, though he's come to find that he hardly even minds it.

You look adorable, truly, wrapped up within his luxurious fur coat, undignified whines escaping your lips whenever he taunts you with an attempt to push you away, force you to battle the freezing temperatures without the aid of his body heat, watch as you freeze up without the extra warmth he provides you. It's an honest miracle that you survived before meeting him, he teases, given the absolutely atrocious state of your abode's decaying walls, soothing circles rubbed onto your back as attempts to defend your childhood home die out on your tongue.

Scaramouche could have them fixed for you, if he so desired. Toyed around with the idea, even, flipped through reviews of some of the more reputable renovators he could find. And he will, he reassures you, pulling your weight atop his own ꒰a gesture more for his comfort than yours꒱, tangling his fingers into your hair, because he'd hate to have another human die on him—especially so when he's already allowed himself to become attached, again—and it's really only a matter of time until he's called away on another mission, and he's certain you won't be able to hold out much longer as things are.

... But there's no harm in enjoying your desperation, if only for the time being. Because you wouldn't be upset with him. Because you can't be, surely, when your love is so terribly addicting, entrancing him like a moth to a lamp. Because seeing you grab onto him with all of your strength, even if partially motivated by the desire to stave off frostbite, makes him feel wanted. Needed. A type of satisfaction that burns away his inhibitions, sears itself into his nonexistent heart.

Besides. Even if he were to miscalculate, and even if your home remained in poor condition by the time he's set to leave, it's not as though he'd ever actually leave you for dead. He's nice, like that. And you're dear to him, now, if those words even hold value for a puppet like himself.

... And he thinks you'd look much nicer, more in place, within the comfort of his estate.

i have a taglist, which you can sign up for here!

[chaoticace2005]

Thinking about one sided Vox/Alastor has also made me think about Huskerdust, and it’s kind of interesting the way they mirror each other.

Both Vox and Angel (both people who have some kind of relationship with Valentino) push the boundaries of the guy they’re interested in. Both guys turn them down. Both times they react poorly to being turned down. The difference is how the stories begin and ended.

Husk was forced after Angel, jumped in to protect him and made the first step. He started a dialogue that Angel reciprocated in, not because Angel thought Husk would finally return his feelings, but because he was happy to finally have someone who understands him. Their relationship is then created where they care about each other. Whether or not romantic feelings are reciprocated isn’t the point, they formed genuine connection.

Then we have Alastor and Vox, where they were friends BEFORE the confession happened. Alastor must have been willing to be vulnerable to some degree to form attachments with the man, and for a while it was reciprocated, until Vox confessed and pushed. This caused Alastor to leave and then we see the fall out later with Alastor and Vox’s battles.

Huskerdust and radiostatic have the same pieces of the story, just told in very different orders:

Huskerdust: Push boundaries- needle each other- fight- one reaches out- they bond- friendship

Radiostatic: One reaches out- they bond- friendship- push boundaries- fight- needle each other

The difference between the two is not just the order but also the fact with Huskerdust they recognize they needed to stop. Husk was in no way obligated to take the first step because Angel kept pushing him, but he did, because he recognized something in him. Then with Angel’s treatment of Husk later Angel recognized he needed to stop. What Angel was doing was a persona and self-defense mechanism, yes, but that explains why he did it, not excusing it. And to change he must be able to recognize that.

With Vox though, he doesn’t recognize it. We don’t know exactly where Vox’s feelings from Alastor stem, they may not be a persona like Angel’s but they’re certainly unhealthy, and he refuses to recognize it. Focusing only on his own comfort and hurt, which Angel similarly did until he was pulled out of the loop.

I want to again reiterate the reciprocity of these feelings isn’t my point of discussion. Radiostatic isn’t “more toxic” than Huskerdust because Alastor is aroace and doesn’t reciprocate Vox’s feelings, while Husk potentially grows to have feelings for Angel. Alastor isn’t in the wrong solely because he denied Vox. That’s not the point. The point is their similar reactions to rejection and how their relationships changed from it.

In Huskerdust we have the creation of trust and forming of a bond.

In radiostatic we have the loss of trust and fracture of one.

(Literally just exponential growth vs decay)

(Also im just comparing the relationships. I am in no way saying Angel and Vox are the same person or Husk and Alastor are. Everyone has their own separate fucked up shit going on and different degrees of fucked uppedness. Husk and Angel don’t seem near as sadistic as Vox and Alastor are, I’m not equating them to “villains” in that sense. The whole point of this is the fact that their relationships have such different end results BECAUSE Husk and Angel are able to recognize their faults to a degree and WANT to change. With the other two we don’t really have that.

Angel could have continued down the whole “incel” route and told Husk to fuck off every time he tried reaching out. Too snubbed by the fact that he rejected him. Husk could have decided to leave Angel out to try and not help him at the bar. Hell, he could have watched the whole thing happen and fucking enjoyed it. But he didn’t.)

[thevalleyisjolly]

There’s something really fascinating about the different ways in which the Hungry One is understood and conceptualized in Calorum.  In the Bulbosi Church, it’s characterized as an apocalyptic Satan-figure, the cause of suffering in the world and the thing that will one day come to devour everything just because that’s what it does.  Where things really get interesting is in the different sects within and around the Church.  Adherants of the Ramsian Doctrine, for example, believe that it is necessary for the Hungry One to devour the world so that the Bulb can triumph over it - and they believe that the Hungry One will not devour the world so long as it contains “junk food.”  In a similar manner, the Prophidian Heresy and the FDA believe that the Hungry One will not devour the world if it is full of waste -only the FDA consider waste to be general rot and decay rather than the Candians specifically, misanthropy vs xenophobia GO- and that this is therefore the key to preventing the destruction of the world. 

Within the FDA and the Prophidian Heresy, there’s also an intriguing link between body and soul that contradicts mainstream Bulb theology.  Whereas most of the Church believes in a rigid delineation between body and soul, that after death, the body returns to the ground and the soul (if it is not damned) goes to the Bulb, the FDA’s plan of filling the world with rot and decay so that the Hungry One will not devour it suggests, quite radically, that the body just as much if not more so than the soul is what the Hungry One devours.  Mainstream Bulbians believe the stomach of the Hungry One is Hell for damned souls who do not go to the Bulb - the FDA seems to believe that the state of the material is just as important to the Hungry One as the metaphysical and that large enough volumes of rotting decay (which could also be the moral decay that comes with actions in war, but in this case the FDA themselves have the most rotten souls of all) can keep this Devil-figure from consuming anything, regardless of the state of the soul.

On a different level, with Karna, we find the idea that the Hungry One is not just a powerful over-arching entity but rather something which people can relate to and personally interact with.  When Karna kills Sir Drunon and the woman, she takes part of their bodies and burns them “in offering” to the Hungry One.  As the audience, we know that Karna is mechanically a warlock of the Hungry One, with the specific subclass of The Great Old One.  Combined with the offering, the characterization of the Hungry One is as an active, powerful being who, to some degree, can engage with people personally.  Not necessarily in a reciprocal way -you can burn an offering as a sign of respect or acknowledgement without any expectation of receiving something in return- but people like Karna can and do engage with it on an individual and personal level.  Given the fact that when she kills, a new rotten spot appears on her body, it suggests that her relationship to the Hungry One does, in some part, go both ways, that there is something on the other side receiving her votives and responding to them.

Also fascinating to observe, when she kills Sir Drunon, she says “We are all eventual food in the maw of the Hungry One,” and immediately thereafter as she kills the woman he’s with, “I’m sorry, but we are all eventual waste.”  This presents another perspective on the relationship between the Hungry One and the concept of waste. In contrast to the FDA or the Ramsian Doctrine, which believe that the Hungry One won’t devour the world if it is full of waste or junk, Karna’s statements suggest that the process of dying inherently involves becoming waste - and that the Hungry One will still eat that waste nonetheless. 

Then there’s Cumulous and his specific monastic tradition (which is not actually one and the same as the Order of the Spinning Star because it’s stated that there are monks in the Order who draw power from the Bulb; overall, the Order seems to be more an organization of people dedicated to the same goal rather than a religious enclave of people with the same spiritual beliefs).  In ACOC, the first thing Cumulous ever says is, “The Hungry One must feed.”  It’s an interesting phrasing because there’s a very passive connotation - not “The Hungry One must consume” or “The Hungry One must eat,” but rather the use of the term “feed” suggests a little less agency and purpose.  It isn’t going out looking for something to eat, but rather it is feeding on whatever it is given.

Later, Cumulous explains to the party that he does not worship the Hungry One and that it is just a source of power to him.  He can tap into it, just like the Bulbosi miracle workers can tap into the Bulb, but it’s not something that has a real consciousness or its own will and he does not interact with it as if it does.  Combined with his monk subclass (Long Death), the characterization of the Hungry One is less a supernatural powerful figure but more a manifestation of inevitable death and entropy.  Very similarly to Karna’s perspective, it’s going to feed on everything eventually because everyone’s going to die one day.  It might be today, if you happen to be a cheese sailor trying to murder your lawful child duchess, but that’s neither here nor there.

And as Lapin realized in his last moments and as he later showed to Liam, this seems to be the closest understanding to the actual nature of the Hungry One which we have encountered so far in either campaign.  The Hungry One is just a cosmological ball (add that to the list of significant TTRPG orbs!) and while it certainly contains a lot of power, it doesn’t do anything with it other than eat what is delivered into its mouth.  The power and the destruction and the death associated with the Hungry One?  All of that has only been wielded or used by living people, for their own aims and agendas.

Anyways, all this to say that while I don’t think it likely to happen, my dream scenario is for a couple FDA members to flee the scene of whatever plan they had that some or all of the Scrumptious Scoundrels have managed to foil, and as they escape, they run straight into a group of Candian monks (aka what they were actually doing during the Ravening War).  The last thing they hear, after all their scheming to “save” the world, is “The Hungry One must feed.”  And it does.

[soulessjourney]

Quiet Confessions

Paring: Astarion x fem!DurgTavReader

Word count: 1.4k

Summary: As memories flood back, Tav opens up to Astarion beneath the moonlight, sharing the chains that bind her.

Warnings: Truama talk, mentions of abuse and violence, Angst, fluff, hurt and comfort, Tav being an emotional wreck in the softest way possible, talk of self hatred

A/N: I'm gradually working my way down the list of tasks I need to complete, which means I'm getting closer to the fantastic requests I've been receiving. If you have a request, feel free to share it! I thoroughly enjoy bringing your ideas to life!

Uncertain of how long you had been away from camp, you found yourself lying in the grass, gazing up at the moon. Time slipped away as you became lost in the labyrinth of your thoughts. The journey began when a torrent of memories, once erased during your escape from the ship's pod, flooded back, triggering a piercing headache. These recollections unveiled a darker version of yourself, one capable of committing unspeakable acts in pursuit of power. The realization of your own monstrous nature left you feeling contaminated, haunted by the deeds done beyond your control.

Choosing to forget the past, you had embarked on a new life, hoping to bury the shadow of the person you once were. Yearning for the demise of that former self and its memories, you couldn't help but wish they had perished the day you awoke on that ship.

The serenity of your contemplation was interrupted by the soft cadence of approaching footsteps. Astarion, with his distinctive gait, revealed his presence. Over the past few months, you had honed the ability to identify individuals by the sound of their steps—a skill cultivated, perhaps, by the constant threat of someone attempting to sneak up on you.

Sitting up, you turned to Astarion, offering a tender smile, reciprocated by his affectionate gaze. "Once again, I fail to surprise you, my love," he remarked, settling down beside you.

You shrugged, reclining in the grass, allowing your gaze to settle on the moon. A comfortable silence enveloped the space between you as Astarion leaned back on one hand, holding a book in the other. He never felt the need to inquire if something was amiss; he understood that you would approach him when ready, just as you had done for him. Neither of you pressured the other, always waiting until one felt inclined to share what weighed on your minds. This dynamic defined the perfection of your relationship—rooted in trust and patience, creating a beautiful harmony. Astarion sensed your internal struggle and refrained from prying, recognizing the feeling of being bound to something without an escape.

You debated with yourself on how to approach the topic. Keeping your gaze fixed on the sky, you decided to let your thoughts flow into words. "Sometimes when I look in the mirror, all I can see is a monster—a cold-blooded killer who gazes into people's eyes as life leaves them. I hate how good it makes me feel when it happens," you suddenly confessed, pulling Astarion's attention away from the book. He closed it, placing it beside him, and lays back beside you, offering his undivided attention. He was prepared to listen to every word, no matter how violent or disturbing, understanding that being present for you in this moment was the best form of support.

"As I would take off my armor and examine my arms, a part of me felt ashamed of what I saw. Scars where the skin was rubbed raw. Initially, I thought nothing of it, but now I can feel those shackles that kept me confined to that room. A room with a window too high for me to look out, allowing sunlight to reveal its true small and decaying nature. A room where the body of the person I murdered lay in the corner, reeking of death, and I was forced to stare at it for days until the stench drove me mad," you whispered, furrowing your eyebrows as your mind wandered back into that haunting memory.

Anger surged through Astarion upon your confession. You were a prisoner of your own mind, with no escape until recently, just like him. Astarion refrained from touching you as he observed you beginning to fall back into the past—a familiar experience, losing oneself in a memory and reliving it.

"The day I felt those chains break from the ground was the day I learned how to truly walk. It was the day I killed so many people, and every single one of them begged for their life. I remember laughing and smiling like an accomplished fool when I took their lives. It's so disgusting, knowing that I did what I did, how I killed the people that I did. With that came the pure torture my so-called father put me through. He would lock me in this room with his followers and see just how much pain I could take. He claimed it was to make me stronger, to be the perfect killer I was born to be. But each time they cut into me, I lost myself piece by piece," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Astarion rolled onto his side to look at you, studying your features as you spoke. He noticed the subtle cues—how your jaw clenched when discussing anger-inducing events, how your eyes softened when recalling taking an innocent life, and how your nose would scrunch when lost in thought. Everything about you was beautiful, breathtaking even, which intensified his resentment for the pain you had endured.

As you spoke, Astarion began to grasp why you lingered sometimes, gazing at views or exploring houses and temples. These were sights stripped from most of your life, confined to the inside of a cell or a room, enduring unimaginable pain.

What you chose to share next shattered Astarion and revealed the depth of your strength. "But now that I have Wyll, Gale, Karlach, Shadowheart, Lae’zel, Halsin, and even you, I'm learning how to be strong for the first time ever. I'm learning how to confront the darkness and face my own reflection without resentment, knowing that I bear the face you love and cherish. I'm learning how to truly live for the first time, and it terrifies me," you confessed. Astarion felt his eyes soften, his hand moving to rest beside yours, his pinky gently brushing against the side of your hand in a small gesture of comfort.

Lost in your memories, you didn't even register the subtle caress of his finger on your hand. Your eyes had glazed over, ensnared in the labyrinth of your mind, silent tears tracing their path from the corners of your eyes. Your profound silence began to concern Astarion; it seemed as if you were paralyzed in that moment, with no discernible movement. He felt a sense of helplessness, unable to assist you in the way he desired, as he, too, often succumbed to the torturous memories inflicted by Cazador.

When a strangled sob shattered the silence between you, Astarion sat up and enveloped you in his arms. This was a method he knew could often bring comfort when you broke down. No words needed to be spoken as he held you tightly. You were someone who wore a mask around others, refusing to reveal your vulnerabilities. Yet, with him, you found solace and strength, as he did with you. Lae’zel often remarked on how you both carried the weight of the world, calling you two sides of the same coin.

Or when rejecting Gale, he commented on the irony of your love for Astarion, noting the striking similarity in your personalities. While said to hurt you, there was truth in his words. You and Astarion understood the shared pain and the deep connection between you, choosing to be there for one another and share love you both craved.

Drawing you closer, Astarion let your head rest in the crook of his neck, his cheek against the side of your head. He released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding when he felt your arms wrap around his middle, bringing you back from the daze you were trapped in. You were here, in his arms, holding on as if afraid he would vanish if you let go. Leaning back slightly, he cupped your face in his hand, running his thumbs over your cheeks in a soothing manner. "There you are, my love. I was worried I lost you," he said, the concern and fear evident in his voice.

Shaking your head, you placed your hands over his, leaning into his touch. Although your response was silent, he understood. "Can we stay and watch the sunrise? I've never seen it before, and I want to experience this new thing with you," you whispered, searching his eyes for any sign of rejection. You wanted to linger, to feel alive, if only for a moment, before returning to the mask you had carefully crafted.

Pressing his lips to the crown of your head, he nodded, pulling you closer and shifting so you both could sit in a more comfortable position. "Of course, my love. For you, I'd sit through a million sunrises if you asked me to," he said, prompting a small smile to grace your lips. This moment with the person you cherished was your sanctuary, he was your home.

[lockewrites]

Durge!Reader being comforted by Halsin

Reader (gender not specified) x Halsin || SFW-ish (slightly violent) || 2390 words AO3

From anon on Tumblr: I feel like theres a real lack of Halsin/durge fics, specifically him helping her after denying to kill, and I think you’d be amazing for this!!

SPOILERS FOR DURGE IN ACT II - wrote the scene Larian denied us with Halsin as our LI :3

You lie on your bedroll, the stars hidden behind the cloth of your tent, the air within suddenly feeling as though it’s not enough to breathe. Sitting up, a wave of nausea roils through you, bile eating away at the back of your throat; each breath in creates a ripple in your gut. You crawl out of your tent, desperate for the open air; your movements are slow as you push to your feet, fearing your stomach will empty itself.

This sensation is certainly not a stranger; you’ve felt it a number of times since waking from the illithid pod. 

The campfire has long since died, and with it is the absence of your companions, each lost in a trance or dreams. You’re grateful for the solitude; they’re aware of your… general situation, or at least as much of it as you know yourself, but they needn’t see you in such a state. 

Your eyes flicker to Halsin’s tent; the druid had quickly drawn your interest upon joining the party. It began solely as a physical attraction; the sheer size certainly was enticing, and his Wild Shape, that very nature spoke to the feral instincts inside you. But his gentle temperament despite the power he holds, both physical and arcane, is an enigma to you, and him extending that soft touch to you, someone who certainly does not deserve it… the interest had quickly shifted to something deeper. 

And for reasons you still couldn’t fathom, it’d been reciprocated. 

Without realizing, you find yourself having approached his tent, your hand reaching to open it. 

“He believes you’ve relieved the weight of his worries, returning him to himself.”

You spin to find a despicable creature standing behind you; decaying skin stretched taut over sharp bones, beady red eyes looking past you at Halsin’s tent. Sceleritas Fel. 

“Such delusions, to think you a savior. As though you aren’t the heaviest burden to wrap around his neck, until he breathes his last, losing himself forever.”

Your mouth pulls into a sneer, and you take a step to block his view.

“You could do so much better, Milady,” the butler says, shaking his head. 

“Back off, you rotten gremlin,” you hiss, your fists clenching. “You won’t touch him.”

He holds his hands up, unphased by your words. “I won’t lay so much as a talon on the elf.” His pointed teeth show in his malicious smile. “I wouldn’t rob you of that delight.”

A sharp pain beats through your head as you stare the creature down; the evidence apparent in your expression. 

“Your clever mind is penning tragedy as we speak,” he remarks, pointing at you. “Your repressed Urge yearns to kill.” His voice drips with something akin to desire. “And kill you will. Tonight, the moment you close your eyes, your favorite person will be brutalized.”

“But I love him.” Your words are quiet, yet they startle you, spilling from your lips of their accord. Are you surprised by the admission? So early in your journey? Or is it that you don’t know whether you’re truly capable of such a thing?

“We all kill what we love most, in time,” Sceleritas replies. “He is so beneath you; his very presence infects the air with a sickeningly sweet stench. His pure heart would be better served floating in a jar.”

With each utterance, bile crawls further and further up to your throat. 

“Halsin believes I’m stronger than this,” you mutter, more to yourself. “He won’t come to harm by my hand. I haven’t even yet told him how I feel.”

“Why not whisper it while you twist a knife?” He smirks. “Or have a love confession be the final words between you.” Sceleritas leans toward you. “It is my duty to ensure you are making the right decisions, Master. There was much disappointment at your reluctance to kill the little Moonmaiden.” 

Your glare sharpens, suspicion growing and nearly pulling a snarl from your chest.

“You could kill this one deliberately,” he explains. “I’m sure it will be considered a great show of goodwill. The tithe could still be yours.”

The pain stabs through your head again, forcing your eyes shut as you grimace. Your instinct gnaws at your mind, and your Urge claws and screams beneath your skin. 

Forcing your eyes open, you speak through clenched teeth. “Perhaps I sate the Urge by killing you.”

“Oh, my dear Lady.” He shakes his head and smiles. “It’s been many a time I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing your malice personally. But my death means little to your father and the Urge.”

The thought of his death at your hand would be satisfying, but you feel the honesty in his words; it would be far too shallow a victory to quiet the Urge.

“I won’t do it.” Your nails threaten to break the skin of your palms. “I will keep him safe. From you. And from me.” 

He tilts his head. “I do not doubt you will act with the decorum befitting one of your rank.” His head dips, giving a bow just as his body glows an eerie red. “Good night, sweet Lady.” 

His body disappears in a moment, leaving you alone with your back to Halsin’s tent. With a deep breath, you will your jaw and fists to relax; the lingering pain offering a bit of comfort as you wrack your mind on what to do. 

You turn, reaching up to open the flap of Halsin’s tent, leaving a dark spot where your fingers touch. A metallic tinge spills into your nose, and you look down to see your hands streaked with blood, spilling from half-moon wounds in the middle of your palm. Without thinking, you run your tongue across your skin, the taste sending a shiver down your spine as your breath wavers. 

Your movements freeze, the Urge rising in your chest, desperate to taste blood spilled from a body you crave.

“No,” you whisper to yourself, as though simply speaking would placate it. “Not Halsin.”

You dare to step through, finding Halsin lying on his bedroll, still deep in his trance, unaware of the looming threat to his life. Kneeling beside him, your bloodied hands hover above his throat; it would be so easy to spill his life with a simple slice of your dagger. 

“Stop,” you plead to yourself, to your hands. 

They move to his shoulders and give him a shake. “Halsin,” you utter, hoping to not wake the others. He doesn’t react. “Halsin!”

He wakes with a start, sitting up and gripping your arms in concern. “What’s wrong?”

Your lips part, but you struggle to find the words. 

Halsin’s hands move to your wrists, turning them to view your still-bleeding hands.

“Speak to me,” he pleads, looking at you with fear and concern, visible even in the dark.

“You’re in danger,” you breathe, not entirely confident your words are loud enough for him to hear. 

His brow furrows. “From what?”

“Me.”

His mouth opens, and you half-expect a lighthearted remark, but perhaps your severe gaze makes him hesitate. Halsin’s grasp slides to rest on either side of your face, his warmth filling you and quelling the nausea still tainting your stomach. 

“Whatever is going on,” he begins, his thumbs brushing away tears that you hadn’t known spilled, “we will get through it, but I need to know what’s happening.”

You blink, his image going in and out of focus. “I… My… My mind isn’t my own,” you cry.

Each word given steals more and more of your energy, leaving your body on the cusp of failing; your vision grows tunneled and red as a headache splits through your skull, the pain unlike anything you’ve experienced before. 

You feel the last of your consciousness slipping, but you must get out what has your heart in a vice grip. You slip from Halsin’s touch, stumbling backward against the tent’s flaps.

“It wants to kill you, and I… I don’t know what to do. I can’t lose you.”

He leans toward you. “You won’t lose me,” Halsin promises. “Our time together has only begun.” He interrupts himself with a heavy sigh. “You’ve shared a touch of your troubles with me, but this is far beyond anything you’ve said. To hold such a burden alone will destroy you. You could have confided in me.”

“I’m…” Even with the absence of any of your strength, you somehow draw further back; your vision becomes nothing more than a blur, the world spinning beneath you, and your throat burns with bile. “I’m sor—” You collapse into the dirt. 

Whatever time that’s passed is lost to you, waking near the dead campfire with your hands bound behind your back and any semblance of control over your Urge gone. Your body thrashes, your wrists twisting and pulling against the rope, its flesh tearing into your own. 

“Calm yourself,” Halsin orders, his voice sounding authoritative, as if speaking to one of his druids. “My magic cannot penetrate what plagues you. You, your will, will conquer this.”

Your mouth tastes of iron; vile desires gather on your tongue, the Urge itself commanding your body. You try to focus on Halsin, your eyes pleading that he sees you’re trying, even if not successful.

“I know you are still in there.” 

His words are soft, sweet… they sicken the Urge. 

You lurch forward, your teeth seeking to clamp down on any piece of Halsin, wanting to tear the meat from his bones, devouring him raw. 

He doesn’t flinch, but his jaw sets. “I’ve handled the most feral of animals. Your fangs are no threat to me.”

The response sends the Urge over the edge, your limbs pulling with all of your strength, no regard given for any injuries caused by their own actions. The rope breaks through your raw skin, blood soaking the binds.

“Easy, my heart,” Halsin says. “Your strength is greater than this curse, and I will grant you my own alongside. You will not suffer this alone.”

You hold his promise in your chest, hoping it blooms bright enough to allow you to express your gratitude. You try to speak, but all that escapes is a harsh growl that tears through your throat.

“A growl means little from a trapped beast,” he remarks. “But you can escape this. I will see you free of this affliction.”

Tears that feel like acid fill your eyes, and you can’t tell whether it’s frustration and anger from the Urge or fear and dread from you. Your body is beaten inside and out, exhaustion’s hands wrapped around your throat. Still, it fights against your bindings, even as your consciousness slips back into the dark. 

“Let your mind rest,” he says. “Your body will soon follow.”

Again, you don’t know how long you’re out, but at some point, you come to. You feel sticky, your clothes clinging to your sweat-slicked skin; your head still pounds, and your stomach still turns, but your mind is once again your own. As your vision clears, you let out a sigh of relief; Halsin remains in front of you, mercifully unharmed.

His gaze holds yours, searching for you. And he finds you. 

Rising to his feet, he steps behind you and cuts your binds; your freed arms settle in your lap, the muscles screaming, and your wrists and hands caked in dried blood. Tentative, you flex your fingers, the maroon stain cracking and falling from your skin.

Halsin returns in front of you and sits back down. His expression is relieved, but as the seconds pass, it shifts to something far more serious. 

“I am overjoyed to have you back,” he begins, “but we need to discuss what happened.”

Your head drops, shame filling you. With a deep breath, you let everything out: divulging the severity of your Dark Urge, how often it haunts your thoughts and dreams, the little creature that calls himself your butler, your mysterious father you’re supposed to please.

Those hazel eyes are hard, his brows pinched; Halsin is deep in his thoughts, sifting through the heavy truth you’ve just shared. And all you can do is sit and wait, anxiety boiling within as you await his response. Will he claim you too dangerous to live? An unnatural being, something that disrupts the world’s balance? Perhaps simply cast you out, banish you from the camp as he’s unable to bring himself to end you? 

Your hands are suddenly gifted his warmth, his own gently caressing yours. He dips a rag in a bowl of water beside him and begins cleaning your wounds, his touch impossibly gentle.

“In all my years, I’ve not come across anything quite like this,” he finally speaks. “But I stand by my words. You will not lose me. And I will not let you lose yourself to this Urge.”

He puts the rag aside and casts a healing spell; the golden glow fills the space between you, and the torn skin pulls back together. Your wrists still ache, still feel some remnant of the deep injuries, but it’s barely more than a pinprick to you. 

His hands remain on yours, but you feel disgusted and have to fight the temptation to pull away. You should be left to rot, ended now to protect everyone around, to protect him.

“I’m a monster,” you mutter, unable to meet his gaze. “I’ve taken countless lives. I don’t even know the depth of my crimes. I’m an abomination now, and I know… I just know I was fully embracing this Dark Urge before I lost my memories.” Your throat feels as though it’s being stabbed. “You should end me.”

Your head is guided up, his thumb under your chin and forcing you to look at him.

“The Urge is a monster,” he argues. “You, the person you are now, is utterly incredible. And having learned just how hard a battle you face with this evil, I am in awe.”

The tears fall from your cheeks, and while you still don’t believe you deserve a single utterance he’s given, you’re grateful beyond what words could express.

Halsin wipes them away, and his hands remain along your jaw. 

“We will free you from this abomination,” he swears, “and your mind, your heart, your soul, will be entirely yours. And you will see just how extraordinary you are.”

[stnkiconverse]

Hello! I hope you are having a great day/night. I was thinking that I need me some Homicidal Liu fluff (and maybe a bit of smut) but can I request how it would be to be in a relationship with him? Can it be for a female s/o? (you can include sully too and a bit of smut? If not, that's totally okey) thank you so muchh 🩶 I hope I'm not asking for too much 🥹

Liu Relationship Headcanons

1. Protective Nature:

- Liu is fiercely protective of his partner. Despite his dark past, he always ensures that they feel safe and secure, often going out of his way to walk them home or check in on them frequently.

- He might teach his partner some self-defense moves, just in case they ever need to protect themselves.

2. Affectionate Moments:

- Liu shows his affection in subtle yet meaningful ways. He loves holding hands, often interlocking fingers and giving reassuring squeezes.

- He enjoys cuddling, finding comfort in the closeness. Whether it’s on the couch watching a movie or in bed before sleep, he treasures these intimate moments.

3. Gentle Reassurance:

- Knowing his partner’s presence helps him stay grounded, Liu often seeks gentle reassurance through touch—be it a hug, a kiss on the forehead, or simply resting his head on their shoulder.

- He's also very receptive to their touch, finding it calming and reassuring, especially during moments of internal conflict.

4. Thoughtful Gestures:

- Liu is surprisingly thoughtful, often surprising his partner with small gifts or acts of kindness. This could be a favorite snack, a handwritten note, or a flower he picked on a walk.

- He loves cooking for his partner, even if he’s not the best cook. It’s the effort and thought that count, and he takes pride in making them happy.

5. Shared Solitude:

- Liu appreciates quiet moments of shared solitude. Whether it’s reading together, taking a quiet walk in the woods, or simply sitting in silence, he finds these moments incredibly comforting.

- He often brings his partner to his secret apartment, where they can spend time away from the chaos, enjoying each other’s company in peace.

6. Emotional Support:

- Despite his struggles, Liu is very empathetic and always ready to offer emotional support. He listens intently and offers thoughtful advice, drawing from his own experiences.

- He’s very patient with his partner’s emotions, understanding that everyone has their own battles and offering a shoulder to lean on whenever needed.

7. Adventurous Spirit:

- Liu enjoys exploring abandoned places and often invites his partner along, turning it into an adventure. He loves sharing these experiences, finding beauty in the decay and history of such places.

- They might even have a tradition of taking photos together during these explorations, creating a unique scrapbook of their adventures.

8. Nighttime Comfort:

- Liu struggles with insomnia, but his partner’s presence often helps. They develop a nighttime routine to help him relax, which might include reading to him, listening to calming music, or simply talking until he falls asleep.

- He appreciates the effort his partner puts into helping him find peace and often reciprocates by staying up with them when they can’t sleep, sharing comforting words or stories.

9. Gentle Humor:

- Liu has a surprisingly dry sense of humor and loves making his partner laugh. He enjoys playful teasing and inside jokes that bring a smile to their face.

- His laughter is rare but genuine, and his partner cherishes every moment they can make him laugh.

10. Building Trust:

- Trust is crucial for Liu, and he works hard to build and maintain it with his partner. He’s honest about his struggles and appreciates their understanding and patience.

- Over time, he opens up more, sharing his deepest thoughts and fears, finding comfort in their unwavering support and love.

Now, here’s how I think sex with Liu and Sully would go (not always lol, sorry for not adding Sully into the descriptive headcanons, I’m tired), (and sorry for not describing these, me and writing smut do not go well tgt) :

Liu's NSFW Headcanons

• Gentle intimacy

• Affectionate aftercare

• Passionate kisses

• Attentive lover

• Slow and sensual

• Exploring fantasies

• Mutual satisfaction

• Soft dominance

• Deep connection

• Romantic atmosphere

Sully's NSFW Headcanons

• Rough and intense intimacy

• Consensual rough play (hair pulling, biting, spanking)

• Dirty talk and commands

• Edge play

• Teasing and denial

• Assertive aftercare

• Spontaneity and adventure

• Bondage and restraints

• Mutual pleasure and satisfaction

(no guys sex with Sully does not always go like that, it usually does though)

Hope this was good enough!!