#rising them like an afterthought

[maegalkarven]

June was locked in a vault for a century?? 👀 now you got to give some June lore pls!

Aww yis!

Don't mind if I do!

Technically June is not exactly a cambion, but more of an alu-fiend, because his mother was a deviless and his father - a god. But everyone mentioning that will get murdered, so don't. He can be called cambion, so let's stick to that.

June was born sometime before the 1358 DR, being one of the last bhaalspawn of to be conceived by his father before the Time of Troubles. His mother was a lesser deviless and younger daughter of Mephistopheles Gabriel, who conspired with (in some version tricked by) Bhaal to create a perfect child (a mix-breed of a god and a devil).

It awfully backfired on her when June was born the same way gnolles are born: by tearing though his mother's flesh on his way out. He then ate her entire body.

That event immediately brought Mephistopheles' attention, who came to collect his unexpected grandson. Mephisto was aware of the Bhaal's blood within the child and the dangers it possessed, and so the child was put into a vault to be raised in confinement.

Thus June missed out almost everything; his father's death, the bhaalspawn crisis, etc, etc. He mostly grew up alone, with several servants attending him and rare visits of his grandfather. As he grew up, he was allowed out on some occasions, especially after it was revealed he possessed the keen natural talent in magic. For a while Mephistopheles even trained June himself, before he got bored and moved to another one of his projects.

Bhaal tried to claim him countless amount of times through the years, making June have murder fits and being locked back into the vault and closely monitored.

Due to the fact of living most of his time in a magically sealed vault, he aged slower than as if he lived outside, so by the 1460s DR he looked like a teen while being over a century old.

Somewhere around 1460s June attended the party thrown by Raphael in the House of Hope (he had to beg, bargain and manipulate his way into being allowed to attend it) where he met young Enver Gortash.

Soon after that, somewhere in 1470s DR June had one of his recurring attempts of breaking free from the vault. This time the attempt was successful and landed him somewhere close to Elturel. The key aspect of that attempt being successful was Sceleritas managing to reach him in Hell and helping him escape. June then proceeded to cut his wings off and perform a ritual trying to send his possible pursuers the wrong way. The remaining of the wings were later sold to Helsik.

By the end of 1470s June and Sceleritas reached Baldur's Gate and entered the Temple of Bhaal, thus beginning the reign of the new Chosen.

June agreed to steal a Crown of Karsus mostly out of spite and to prove to himself he isn't afraid to go back to Cania (he was VERY afraid to go back to Cania)

When he entered the HOH to steal the orphic hammer, Mephisto was immediately informed of that and came in uninvited. He allowed June to finish playing around, ordering him to 'fix his messes' and bring the Crown of Karsus and himself back to Mephistar. If he disobeyed, he would be brought back by force.

He is brought back by force after the final battle because he, a fool he is and a prideful one, decided to defy his father and thus was stripped of any essence but the diabolical one, making himself an easy target for his grandfather.

At the end of the game he is dragged back to his vault and in a dire need of a rescue party because he will not sit still for another century as the time passes by, no, thank you.

June's timeline is the only one where Raphael survives because the entire HOH questline just turns into family members pointing fingers at each other. Also because neither June nor Raphael are happy to see Mephisto just appearing out of the thin air in the hall of HOH.

Random facts:

June is one of the very few fiends understanding the majority of Mephistopheles' works and projects. He is one of the most magically-talented descendants the archduke has. It pisses Raphael off immensely.

Pre-amnesia June considered Gortash to be the only mortal worthy of his attention. Post-amnesia June is a little less a prick about that, but still has an undertone of superiority about him.

June is very conscious about his relationship with Mephisto and his place in the hierarchy in Hells (which is inexistent tbh). As a child he craved his grandfather's attention and approval more than anything. He never truly grew out of that.

June acts overly cynical over his mother's death, but secretly feels guilty over killing and eating her. He will never admit that.

As a teen he saw the Blood War from above of Raphael's house and desperately wanted to join the fight. He secretly sympathized with the demons and not the devils.

June is chaotic neutral. He fits very badly into Hells because of that.

Before the events of BG3 the closest to a friend June had was Sceleritas. Yes, tragic, I know. The closest to an equal he had was Gortash (obv)

June treated The Cult of Bhaal like a hobby, which pissed Orin off SO MUCH. He never took her seriously and it bit him in the ass later.

June is a weird mix of a wild/storm sorcerer. He is booksmart, but not streetsmart.

June has all of his memories returned as a punishment from Mephisto. He doesn't like it one bit.

[mekha-draws]

Claybound Detail for pearlcatcher females

Love Underneath for obelisk females

Cant believe I almost missed RB's contest orz

first one is a re-work of one of my first accent attempts (it was nature based, kinda), pretty much the only remaining parts of the original are the apparel bits lol

and the second one is based around that cute thing that happens to dog statues, yknow, that (i just think is neat)

anyways! here they go!

[here-there-were-dragons]

and god help you if you're not binary trans and then god DOUBLE help you if you're not nb "the right way" aka "so basically i'm a third binary gender that looks exactly half way between girl and boy also i'm completely 100% human and 100% desire to be human and only human and just as invested in picking Gender Team to be on as everyone else because we all know the only thing that exists or matters in the universe is baseball and exactly what baseball team role you define your existence by permanently without ever even considering anything else right?"

the Trans Experience in our society is being treated like schrodinger's gender. you're a woman when they wanna deny you agency and a man when they wanna deny you support. this is an experience that unites nearly all of us, whether transmasc, transfem, or something else.

[sinsofsummers]

keep quiet

1.3k words | logan x fem!reader

summary: logan can smell how much you need him as soon as you enter the room. what kind of man would he be to let you go unsatisfied? warnings: all smut. literally nothing else. dom!logan, he's kind of mean, hint of a humiliation kink, hair pulling (m receiving, logan asks for it), the cat ears get a lot of love, oral (f receiving), fingering, pure filth. if i miss anything pls let me know. note: andddd i was trying to write a full length fic. i ended up here instead. it's so rushed i apologize. pls logan let me give u a full litter.

He can smell it on you as soon as you walk into the room, and you can see the switch in his body language almost immediately. His shoulders tense, and his hands twitch into loose fists. His jaw ticks. 

You’re meeting Logan at a party. He’s been there for a bit already, but you came late. You can’t even remember what the party is, what it’s for, or who’s there. You can only see him. The way he’s got his thighs spread, one foot propped up on the coffee table in front of him, leaving a wide — and perfect — spot for you on his lap. Just like always, Logan’s dripping in sex appeal.

You’ve already been having…a day. All you want and need is his touch, his tongue, his everything. But here you are, trying to keep it a quiet afterthought as you stare at his lap, wishing you could put your lips over his cock and let it grow in the warmth of your mouth.

“Hey,” you say breathily, the syllable hardly leaving your mouth before Logan’s on his feet.

You can’t even register who else is in the room; his broad chest already blocks your vision and he drags you down a hallway, into the laundry room not far from the earshot of the living room.

You’re pretty sure the other party guests share an awkward chuckle at what they think is about to occur, but you can’t tell. Logan’s cologne is all over you, and you think you might slip your own hand into your panties if he doesn’t give you what you want right now.

“Here,” he snarls, “gimme these.” He’s got you shoved up against the washer, the perfect height to sit atop the cool metal.

He grabs your wrists roughly and shoves them into his hair. His teeth are gritted menacingly, but you’re practically keening at the sight of it. You know what’s about to follow. He can be cruel when he’s like this, but you know you’re about to get what you want.

“Now,” he hisses, leaning close to your face. “You’re gonna keep quiet. You’ve already made it obvious enough how fuckin’ desperate you are.”

You whine softly, and his eyes darken. “I wasn’t even here for more than—”

“No, no, no,” he growls. “None of that.” He lets go of one of your wrists, reaching up to squeeze your cheeks together in one hand, hard enough to make the heat rise in your face. 

He likes to see you like this — humiliated.

“You’re gonna keep quiet,” he repeats. “Anytime you wanna make a noise, you’re gonna pull.” 

He uses the hand still locked onto your wrist as a demonstration. His eyes are hard, and his mouth is still pulled back in that scowl that makes your core weep. 

“Pull hard, pup. You know I can take it.”

You try to squeeze your thighs together at the nickname, but he’s standing between your opened legs. It’s so animalistic, so filthy. You never last long when he’s like this.

But all you can see in front of you is Logan, his cruel face just a centimeter from yours.

You lean closer, wanting a kiss, but he denies you as he moves his hands to your hips, digging roughly under the hem of your shirt to unbutton your pants and yank them to your ankles. He lifts your legs so he can slip closer to your core, your legs resting atop his strong shoulders. 

Any other day, he might have teased you, might have drawn out your orgasm until you were a whimpering mess beneath him. But this Logan isn’t playing around. He doesn’t have time for this, as he’s made clear enough. 

Only in moments like this does he make your desire feel like an inconvenience, like he’s mad at you for being so desperate for his touch. Such a dumb little pup, huh? 

But as soon as he sinks his nose into your pussy and inhales the scent of your desire straight from the source, you know he needs this just as badly. That his every thought is plagued with the reminder that your pussy ruins every pair of panties you own because of him.

His tongue goes to work quickly; he’s brutal in his ministrations, and you tighten your grip in his hair. 

Bless these fucking cowlicks, you think. Or you might have, had you any mind to form coherent thoughts. 

“Insatiable,” he takes a breath and rolls his eyes as he looks up at you, but the sight of your wetness on his beard and nose takes away the exasperation. You can see how his pupils are blown wide.

You open your mouth to let out a moan, but he grunts. “No,” he demands. “Pull.”

So you do. Hard. Your hands card through the rest of his head of thick hair as he dives back to your clit, swirling tight circles around the sensitive bud, practically drinking your arousal right out of you. 

Your abdomen tightens, and you know he’s going for speed over anything at this point. He wants to get you off, and do it fast. You claw at his head, and relish in the deep groans that vibrate through your slick folds like an electric shock. 

“Logan,” you whisper, “I’m—”

“Yeah, yeah. I fuckin’ know, you dumb slut.”

Your eyes widen and you see white at the edges of your vision, your mouth hanging open as you catch some of his shoulder under your nails, dragging your hands across his skin. 

If anything, it spurs him on more. Two of his fingers play at your entrance, and — the mean fucker — he shoves them into your pussy without caring to stretch you out like he normally does. 

But it doesn’t matter. He knows you can take it. The stretch is something you chase, something you cherish every time. You reward him with a particularly strong yank on his hair, afraid you might pull it out of his skull.

He starts to let out a groan so loud it might come off as a roar, but then he catches himself and pistons his fingers in and out of you, his dark eyes lifting to hold onto you as he shoves you over the edge and into a leg-shaking orgasm.

Your hands twist in his hair and you just barely hear the high-pitched whine that falls from his lips. It’s almost feline coming from him.

Logan sits still for a second, his eyes still on you as he laps at your pussy softly, an amused smirk on his face when you shiver at the overstimulation. 

Finally he stands, feeding his fingers to you, nodding as he watches you lick your ecstasy off his digits.

You catch your breath, still feeling wobbly. Your eyes catch on the bulge in his jeans, and you reach a tired hand for his belt.

He chuckles, and it’s almost like he’s mocking you. “Oh, you wanna help me out, sweet pea?”

“Yes, please.” You hope you sound coherent, like you’re apologizing for not being able to make him feel good yet, but you can’t even keep your eyes on him. The treat in his jeans is too tempting. Your tongue absentmindedly darts out to wet your lips.

Logan lifts your chin roughly with one hand, forcing you to look at him. His hair is wild, and you bite your lip at the sight of how disheveled you’ve made him. 

His beard still shines with your release as he shakes his head. “Should have thought of that before you showed up like you did. Can’t control yourself, even in public.” He pulls you to your feet and helps you pull your pants back on. His roughness starts to subside, and left behind is the gentle giant that you recognize.

“You’re gonna wait til we get home,” he says with a gentle kiss to your forehead. But you don’t ignore the tension in his promise that follows: “Then you’re repaying me, bub.”

-

ANYWAYS! i'm crying like a bitch in heat for this man feel free to send me any and all thoughts u have on logan pls

see u for the next one! i hope u enjoyed :)

[eldrith]

˗ˏˋ your lips, my lips ˎˊ˗ Jacaerys Velaryon

jacaerys velaryon x fem!wife!reader words: 5.6k synopsis: you remind Jacaerys that there is no shame in accepting help, especially from his wife. notes: this idea came to me in a fever dream the other day idek. this can be read as an au, it is implied that the dance happened but that luke is alive so idk. as i always say: do what you love. i think jace can be happy for a bit, as a treat. this is honestly like 3k fluff and 2k smut lol. pls lmk what you think <3 warnings: canon-typical injury. jace is so horny and in love that he becomes a poet! light dirty talk(mostly in valyrian bc jace is shy), very very brief breeding kink, slightly sub!jace, praise kink (mutual), slight size kink, hair pulling, pussy whipped jace, PiV creampie, reader rides him. valyrian is translated at the end (author uses a translator so if its wrong im sorry). feedback is appreciated<3 requests open. masterlist.

SHADOWS DANCE. 

Toes cold upon empty stone, you pad across a corridor; short, illuminated in torchlight. A path you’ve taken many times. 

Worry twists your fingers together, toying as you watch the silhouette of your night shift swish upon the contours of the wall. Chamber doors which connect the small hall to your own are open; an afterthought, perhaps, though your husband quite often prefers to slumber with his door to yours drawn open. 

He is hurting. 

Not in any dire way, not by far. Burns, the whispers had reached your ears - from maester to house worker to ladies in wait - burns, across the Prince’s palms; some troubles while handling dragonfire. You have been alive for long enough to have seen dragons dance, see the flesh melt from bones of even those coursing with Valyrian blood in their veins. You cannot imagine the pain of it, lying marred in his palms. 

The maester has seen worse, you are told. He is not in too much pain, to your relief - he is neither sick nor hurting but rather unable to perform any tasks, no matter how menial; something you know your husband will not take lightly. Only a few paces and you reach his chambers, taking in the sandalwood and cedar smoking in small dipped sticks; a favor of his mothers, he told you once. He’s taken to them recently, to the comforting scent; as have you.  

Feet move slowly into the archway; his chambers are always so much warmer than your own. Furs, thicker - bed, more comfortable, hearth, drawn larger. Though it is more likely to do with the company. 

Your husband stands before the mirror of his chambers, his back upon you. 

You watch for a moment - his brows, furrowed in the reflection, a razor is held rather uncertainly in a bandaged grasp. A pang through your stomach at the sight of the gauze, restricting his fingers; a kind glow of candlelight dances across concentrated eyes, once-steady hands trembling as he holds the blade against his cheek, head tilted back. 

Slow breaths - your chest moves with his, as it seems to do more and more these days; a drag of a blade, the wobbling of which sets your teeth upon edge. Such a mundane chore, shaving: yet you know just as most how painful the burns of dragons may be upon flesh.

Your sweet husband is a proud soul; you can almost picture him, resolutely dismissing any offers of assistance before he readied himself for the night. Struggling to wet the razor, to lift it upon his face, yet doing so with a bristling determination. You linger, a specter in the doorway, fingers tracing the stone arch beside you as he works. Slow, determined.  

His chest rises and falls beneath the simple tunic; unlaced, revealing the glimpse of skin awaiting beneath as he clenches his jaw, metal dragging against porcelain. 

Though as soon as you draw a breath, a hiss from him - the razor has slipped, blood thinning in a bloom upon his cheek. Stark against such pale skin. He curses softly, thick brows knitting in some helplessness as his wounded fingers, shaking in pain or perhaps frustration, brush and come away crimson. 

You step forward immediately, concern overriding all hesitations and shyness you’d felt previously.

"Jacaerys," your voice, soft and scarcely a whisper, carries through the room. Through the mirror your husband looks up, his eyes meeting yours. 

A whisper of surprise in his visage that melts into some shade of embarrassment as he turns to you. Your name, falling from his plush lips, bitten in previous exasperation. His voice is warm, guilty. "I did not wish to wake you."

You shake your head softly - he’d not made a single sound since you returned from your evening duties to retire. You learned of his injuries through scarce whispers in the corners of your chamber, not from any loud disruptions from within his own. 

 Ignoring his words, you move closer - feet light, heart aching for his felt helplessness; A crimson tear beads out of the thin cut upon the cut on his cheek. You tilt your head to look into the warmth of his eyes. "You should not be doing this with your injuries," you chide, nodding to the strips of bandage around his palms.

A sigh from him, gentle nod as he looks down upon your expression. "I did not wish to trouble anyone," you find a touch of frustration still coloring his voice, but are not foolish enough to believe an ounce of it could ever be directed towards you. "I am not so helpless." he prepends with a clenched jaw. 

Nodding, you gently take the razor from his loose grip. "No, you are not.” You agree gently, “Sit.” 

You guide him to the table aside the mirror with light hands. He murmurs your name; it slips through his lips like honey. "I do not wish to burden you. It is late, I would not want to keep you awake." 

You cannot help the surge of affection; your husband, so doting, thoughtful. A gentle touch to his cheek, your fingers grazing just under the fresh cut as you swipe away the red. "Sleep can wait.” Your voice is just as gentle as his own. “And you are not a burden; You are my husband. Your troubles are mine."

He sighs, a small appreciative smile growing upon his lips. "I resent being unable to tend to myself." he admits sheepishly.

You run your hands gently over his palm, tracing gently over where gauze conceals marred flesh. “You must heal fully so you might be of aid again soon.” You pull away, crossing the room to retrieve the cloth, oils, and small bowl of water; “In the meantime, there is no shame in accepting help. Especially not from your wife."

His eyes follow you upon your return, your sleep gown swishing against the quiet of the apartments; aware of the semi-sheerness of the fabric, you feel yourself flush. His smile is appreciative.

The bowl makes a small noise as you place it upon the table - you watch the soft illumination of your reflection ripple in the water. “I am a lucky man.” He says, as if to himself; you resist the shy smile that grows upon your lips, looking away from the contents of the bowl and shaking your head gently. He does not seem prepared to leave it be, though: “I scarcely know how I came to deserve someone as wonderful as you.” 

He prefers it like this, you’ve learned; kindness, candor, sweet admissions - flushed cheeks, soft smiles. A true marriage, one being built with respect, with love. And still, moons after your union - every compliment you pay your husband he seems to return tenfold. 

It is content, quiet against the spitting of embers in the hearth as you bend before him, seeking an angle safe enough to press the blade to his skin. A soft conversation, scarcely more than whispers in the eve - though you become weary at the prospect of a safe approach. 

His legs spread wide as he watches you pace - expression somewhere between an amusement and puzzle; You let out a breath in a small huff as you draw a decision.

Your hand falls first onto his shoulder - a steadying grip as you slowly slide onto his lap, positioning yourself to see his face clearly; Jacaerys, with eyes widened in surprise and arms instinctively rising to hold you steady. Despite his injuries, his touch is firm, wrists pressing to you where hands cannot. 

A thick swallow within his throat that you steadfastly ignore. 

The touch of his arms around you, of your thighs straddling his lap - you burn, clearing your throat. Your voice comes, barely more than a breath. "Is this- alright?"

His lips, parted with the proximity, flutter before he finds words. “Y-yes. More than alright.”

With a small grin, you school yourself; pouring the oils upon your palms, you begin to smooth the ointment upon his skin. Cheeks, down the short shadow of stubble he has so resigned to eliminate this evening. A sharp jaw, a strong chin, plush lips. His breath is scarcely more than puffs against your cheeks as you press gently into his jaw muscle; his eyelashes flutter closed. 

When you bring the blade to his skin, it is with no hesitation he tilts his head for you; eyeing you through lids, the apple of his cheeks warm in the light. You release a short breath and begin to shave him with slow, careful strokes. Jacaerys remains still, his eyes fixed - you drag the blade with light pressure, a relief building in you as you begin to effectively remove shadows from his cheek. 

As you continue, the room grows quiet; a soft song of the gentle scrape of the blade and the crackling of the fire. Your heart may have fluttered ceaselessly had you been any less focused on ensuring you do not hurt him; Though there is no doubt - a very handsome man he is, and a very lucky wife he makes you. 

“How did you learn such a skill?” His voice, curious as you tilt his jaw slightly. You do not pull your eyes from your task as you hum gently, aware of his warm stare.

“I’ve never done it before,” you admit, tilting your head along with him, focused on the glide of the blade against the bristled shadow of his jaw. “Though I watched my lord father do it many times. He’d often have me sing to my younger brothers before they were put to chamber - he tended to perform tasks as such when I did so. They used to love watching him.”

Jace nods contentedly, humming at your recount. "Lucerys used to watch me when he was younger, as well.” It seems at the memory he laughs gently - the motion stunted as you hold his face in your grip. “One day he decided he was old enough to give it a try. He sneaked into my chambers and took up my razor."

You can't help but smile at the image, lifting a brow. "And what came of it?"

You sit back, preoccupied with the story - your hand wipes the blade upon the rag beside you, meeting his warm gaze as his grin widens. "I found him standing before the mirror, razor in hand.” A flicker of his gaze to the mirror behind you before he finds you once more. “I tried to warn him, but he was too stubborn to heed me. So, I stood back and simply watched."

Your eyes widen, lips parting in mild amusement. "You let him to do it alone?"

He chuckles lightly, tongue prodding his lower lip. "I thought it best he learn a lesson.” His arms unconsciously pull you closer, readjusting your position upon his lap. You swallow down the warmth at such casual intimacy between he and you. “He managed a few strokes, was quite proud of himself, until... he nicked his lip." A small gesture with his jaw towards your own, his eyes focused on the bottom lip that has found itself caught between your teeth. 

You lift your brows, your hand pausing as it rinses the blade in water. "Was he quite hurt?"

"No, just a small cut," Jacaerys soothes, laughter bubbling up again, eyes tearing from your lips up to your own warm gaze; your stomach flutters at the sound and you can no longer suppress a small giggle of your own. "But the look on his face! He was so indignant, I reckon more in his failure than the pain. He turned to me, lip trembling, and demanded to know why I hadn't helped him."

You swat his shoulder gently with the rag, trying to suppress your own laughter. "You are incorrigible, Jace. You laugh at your brother's misfortune?" You chide, teasing; He shrugs, still grinning as his eyes trace over your face warmly. 

"It was a valuable lesson, one I had to learn myself once. Besides, he forgave me soon enough. I helped him finish shaving properly and patched him up. We've laughed about it many times since." His voice is soft against the crackle of flame, adjusting his posture slightly under your weight.

You laugh gently, the image of a young Jace and Luke pulling a grin to your lips. "You two are quite the pair."

Jacaerys’ eyes soften as he hums in agreement. "I have to let him make a fool of himself now and then." 

He’s taken to moving a stray thumb - one not restricted with salves nor gauze - upon the line of your spine. A gentle ghost of affection as you shake your head fondly at him. 

You hum, resuming your efforts, now moving towards his chin with a gentle grasp. "Well, just be glad I am here to ensure you do not cut yourself again. I should not trust you alone with a razor any longer." You tease, wrinkling your nose as you fix him with a faux stern stare. 

Jace’s laugh is rich, warm. "You wound me, wife.”

The gentle laughter between you trails off amiably as you move your focus upon his upper lip; you, dutifully focused, worried of your own skills, knowing you could very easily slip and cut him - he, enduring your hand around his chin, eyes ceaseless upon your face as you move him how you please. 

You finish the last stroke, setting the blade aside; his eyes are pools; sunlit amber. The cloth is wettened - you string it out and gently press it to his skin, wiping away the remnants of shaving oil and the small trail of blood from his previous nick. 

Jace’s breaths rise and fall languidly with your own in the quiet of the chamber. Your movements are slow, tender; your focus entirely on him, ignoring the heat growing in your abdomen, his muscles flexing beneath you. A shift in the calm of the room; a once placated, gentle silence has grown into a thick, tense quiet - enunciated through short puffs of breath and the slow shifting of your bodies as you clean him.

A lean closer, his finger idly trailing your hip as much as the bandage might permit - you inspect his soft skin, the scent of the oils clouding your mind; lavender, cedar, sandalwood. Incense sticks have lost ember in the corner, the ocean rolling in tides upon the distant shores. You find no missed stubble, only undeniable affection in his eyes; you’ve begun to trace the cloth rather idly along his cheek, eyes rising to find his own gaze stuck upon your lips. Echoes of a house attendant walking out in the halls.

“Done,” You whisper, making no effort to rise from his lap; the warmth that has only grown has begun to make you sweat, that desire, still so new, growing between you. He shifts beneath you, staring blatantly, speaking no words. Worry flickers - a foolish thing, to worry when you’re with him - yet you still murmur your words. "Have I overstepped?” you ask softly, gaze flickering down to his plush, parted lips, watching as he shakes his head vehemently.

"Never," he breathes, "I’m merely admiring your beauty."

Heat. Jacaerys has never, not even in the earliest days of your betrothal, hesitated to praise you for your beauty, intelligence, wit, or heart; yet it still sets your mind dizzy each time. You send him a coy smile, hiding the flush of your cheeks under his compliment, “You only say such things because of the blade in my hand,” You tease. 

Expecting a retort from your sharp husband, your eyes flicker to his; he grins at your jest, whispering, “I would speak such words even if you held nothing but air.” 

His gaze roves over the heat of your cheeks, the flutter of your lashes. Want grows hot within you; to be seen, to be so cherished, it is more than you could wish. Jacaerys stirs your heart like no other could. You do not miss when he leans forward slightly, into your own space; the longing in his gaze is rather unmistakable, and it sends a rush of thrill through you. 

Heart, singing in your chest. “Jace.” you whisper.

He breathes your name in response; a prayer. 

“What are you thinking?” You hum, your breath hitting his own; your hands fall to grasp his shoulders, fingers trailing over the crook of his neck, the ties of his tunic. 

 "I'm thinking," His hands, despite their bandages, pull your hips upon his own quite subtly - your stuttered breath, shaky at the feeling of him beneath you, arousal growing just as your own. His voice is husky, "-that I’d like to kiss you."

 A thrill in your stomach; you purse your lips against a smile of affection before closing the distance, your lips meeting his. 

Warm, soft; gentle as he always is with you - but soon in the undercurrent of the late hour, of the thin material upon your frame, you feel fever infect you. 

It comes in a tilt, sliding your nose against his own, lust coiling between your thighs; any tension of before melts, soon replaced by an urgent need to be closer. Your tongue finds the plush of his lower lip, sliding hungrily. 

He groans softly against your mouth, his injured hands pulling you tight; The faint smell of incense, an intensity of desire matching your own - your hands tangle in his hair.

A wince as you shift, his hand flexing and drawing a grunt of pain from his lips. 

You pull back instantly. 

"Jace," you murmur in concern, even as his lips chase your own, a small bridge of saliva between you two in the firelight. Your voice is breathless, filled with longing. "We shouldn't. Your hands."

He shakes his head, his lips seeking yours. "I care not," he whispers fiercely. "If you cease for my sake, I will perish."

Your eyes roll at his dramatics, though your heart flutters at such fervent words. The desire in his eyes is undeniable, and you are finding it harder to resist such pretty requests. "I do not wish to hurt you," you protest softly, though your resolve weakens with each passing moment.

He gazes at you with a mixture of tenderness and longing. “You could never hurt me. Please, let me feel you. The only pain I feel is the distance between us.”

Unbelievable, his cunning knack for dramatics.

Despite the lifted brow you send him, there is an undeniable tremor within you, your hunger growing at the lilt of his tone. Perhaps, you should feel some kind of shyness; Indeed, you’re still learning of each other. You’ve lain with Jacaerys only a few times since being wed last moon—and yet perched so firmly atop his growing arousal, you can’t help the rush of need.

“Well,” You sigh, hand gracing his soft cheek with a small look of pride, “You mustn’t beg.”

He breathes as a smirk of his own grows, “I am a prince, dōna riña. Begging is beneath me.” He murmurs, eyes aflame with that teasing craving, “but I'd gladly beg if it means I get to have you.” 

His ravenous words, mere kindle to the flame. “It is fortunate for you that I am so generous, then,” you murmur, seeking the warmth of his lips once more. He hums in agreement; a reverberation in his chest below your palms stirring a shiver through you. “Fortunate indeed,” he breathes. “Now please do not torture me any longer.” 

You pull away from his searching lips just so, watching as he chases the warmth of your breath. "If you insist," you whisper, your lips brushing against his. His breath is sharp - he dislikes being so teased when he cannot deliver it in return. "I do insist.” he murmurs, words swallowed by the surge of him, teeth and noses clashing as you exhale, stomach flipping. 

His tongue, sliding into your mouth; eager, you part lips for him. The chamber fades into shadows, a dim glow as the witness to your ardor, the only thing to hear such soft sighs and groans from you and Jacaerys. His lips leave you rather soon, peppering kisses upon the flushed skin of your neck. 

A glance behind his shoulder as you cast your neck to the side - flickering shadows, intertwined with each other in a rather sensual embrace upon the wall; Jace’s nose pressed to the heartbeat of your throat as he bites gently against your skin. 

His lips are fervent - the warmth of his breath, his chest heaving below your palms, the scent of his shaving oils - a fierce wildfire within you, consuming every thought but the touch of his body against your own.

An urge, the light pressure of his wrists, desperate to move you upon him - and then his voice, a growl. "Feel me," he breathes against your throat, pulling back so slightly to catch your gaze as his hands, light but insistent, press upon your waist. 

You respond to his urging without a thought; your hips instinctively shifting, meeting the rise of his form with an eager press. The sensation is both thrilling and intoxicating - his moan of pleasure only spurs you on, a shiver of ecstasy as you press just so upon the sensitive of your heat. 

The space between you is gone, the touch of his hands guiding your movements lightly, encouraging your slow rolling hips. The air is thick with the mingled scents of desire and embers low - you, lost in a sea of sensation. His breaths grow ragged, the intensity of his gaze never wavering as he watches you with a look of utter devotion. "Yes," he murmurs, his voice nearly breaking, "-like that, gods - let me feel every bit of you." 

At such words, your cheeks heat vividly - you surrender to the heat of the moment, your movements growing more urgent, more desperate. His breaths are hot against your cheek as you let out a small moan, toes curling as you rove your hips, chasing the heat of pleasure. 

Your movements become more frantic with each passing moment, the need to be close to him overwhelming your senses. His heart, beating as wild as a beast against your own chest; Your head grows dizzy with need, a small noise from the back of your throat as his wrists coax your hips against him. 

“Jace,” Your breath comes in puffs, cheeks hot with the incessant need to feel him within you. “I need you.” 

He hums against your mouth, tantalizing as he tilts his head, “I had not noticed.” 

So cocky; you sigh, hips ceasing slightly, hands trailing over the fabric of his night shirt, feeling the warmth of his lean muscles beneath your palms. “You tease me.” You pout; he kisses the expression away with a small grin. You insist in the absence of a response, “You are cruel, to make it so hard for me to remain composed.” His arms pull you by the small of your back in an embrace - shivers over you as you feel his hard arousal drag along the heat of your aching cunt between too many layers of clothing. 

“I would have you mad with desire, if it means knowing you are as consumed by me as I am by you.” He mutters into the shell of your ear. Your cheeks, constantly heating under his words, so effortlessly setting you afire. 

You pull back enough to trail your lips over his jaw, dropping to press a soft bite upon the skin of his neck; savoring the soft noise, near whimper, from his lips. “You speak as though you haven’t already driven me mad,” You murmur into his skin, “Though I pay it willingly; I would have it no other way.”

To wait any longer would be torture; your hands, hungry and insistent, begin to gather the skirt of your sleep gown - Jace, watching with desire burning heavy in his eyes, hands lying uselessly - the glint of frustration in his gaze is not missed; though you know he wishes to touch you, you revel in the scarce opportunity to take care of him as he does you. 

A soft smile plays upon your lips as you look into his fervent eyes, feeling the heat of his desire merge with your own; Slipping beneath his trousers, you let your fingers graze his skin just enough to drive him wild; deliberate, as slow as his own fingers often are when he finds himself between your thighs. 

His cock is heavy upon your palm; your thighs, trembling with need as you place a few languid pumps upon him. His head, falling back, hands unable to truly grasp your hips - a groan, uninhibited as his brows knit together. “You’re a vision, my love.”

The endearment sends your hips in a short buck - grinding upon his cock, your arousal finds his own; a choked moan from yourself, falling forward to his chest. Laborious sliding of your hips over his own, spreading your need and coating his cock with your desire. Fingers, twitching against your spine - your own threading through his hair. Breaths together, short huffs and unsteady inhales as you finally guide yourself to the tip of his cock. 

“Are you-” His swallow is thick, “Are you sure, love?” He has the gall to question you after such excruciating a wait - though as you stare into his eyes, a flicker, a fleeting observation; He has always taken more than enough time to prepare you to take him; it is no lie that he is rather blessed by the Father - Such memories heat your cheeks. And though you know it may sting, it does not matter to you; You would certainly welcome the sensation. You stir your hips, biting back a noise at the jolt of your sensitive clit against his cock. “Yes, Jace. And you?” You question. An insistent nod, a short groan - "Gods, yes- stop teasing me," he near whines. You conceal a small chuckle of amusement, pressing your lips soundly against him.  

And you sink onto him slowly, eyes screwing shut at the sensation - he, with a low groan, head lolling back to expose the long stretch of his neck. A sharp exhale as you lower yourself, heart slamming as you’re filled; a sating desire within you, growing as you find yourself adjusting to him. 

When you find yourself fully speared upon your husband, you let out a shuttering whimper; his fingers twitch where they lie, pupils blown wide as he gazes upon you. Your lips find his once more in hunger, whispers of moans swallowed, tongue warm as it slides into his mouth. He tastes of the anise candies he favors; a hint of wine, cherry and dark. 

He remains, hips static as you breathe through the sensation of being full of him. His lips are fervent, though any wild need to feel you around him tamped momentarily by his concern for your own comfort and pleasure. 

A distant rove of waves upon a shoreline; the memory of Jacaerys, flushed and wide-eyed the first time you shared his bed. You slowly grow accustomed to his size, the hunger boiling within you as you slowly shift, growing restless. 

And slowly, experimentally - Jacaerys’ hips push slightly up against yours. You stir at the sensation, his cock pressing a spot deep within you - a keening gasp against him, swallowing his short moan with your lips. A slow lift of your hips, feeling him press against you - your eyes flutter shut once more as a flooding of pleasure courses through you, liquid fire within your veins. 

“Gods, my love-” He nearly chokes, “J-just like that-” 

Your small gasp as you begin to rock against his pelvis, cock stirring and pressing deliciously against the deepest part of you; upon shaky legs you rise, gently allowing his cock to drag out of your hungered cunt. “Jace,” Your voice is whiny, breathless - unsure what you plan on saying otherwise, your hands slide into the curly locks, tugging gently. He is rendered unable to speak, mouth open before moving to lick the slight salt from your skin. 

A flush has grown upon your chest; your husband’s lips have found your breasts, peppering bites and lingering upon a spot just under your neckline, his groans reverberating within your skin. Steadying yourself upon him, you find a rhythm - his cock reaching the deepest parts of you, your head tilting back in true satisfaction, a heat coiling within your gut. 

And his lips, ceasing only when your fingers tug at his curls; a curve in his own spine, head falling back against the back of the chair with a groan of pleasure. Heat curls and coils, lit afire by Jacaerys and the feeling of him reaching deep within you. 

“Jace, you’re so deep-” You whisper, toes curling with the sounds of your shared desire echoing in the chamber softly. He lets out a small noise at your words, a smattering of pink across his cheeks; cock twitching with desire within you. 

The hunger calls you. Without further consideration, you snake a hand between you, down to the heat of your cunt taking him, fingers shaking as you seek your yearning bundle of nerves; His eyes, lidded as he watches you. Jacaerys, in his endless pursuit to ensure your pleasures, has always provided his fingers or tongue to bring you closer to finish - though with him injured below you, you do not mind picking up such slack yourself. 

Especially when it brings such deeply melodic sounds of need to his lips. Despite his arousal at your actions, your hand shies away - knowing whatever extension of pleasure you wish to give yourself will be no match for how he so often touches you. Your grip rises instead to steady yourself upon his shoulders, spearing yourself onto him in languid thrusts, ecstasy climbing within you like the wild of fire. 

“Look at you, ābrazȳrys.” He mutters, pupils blown in pleasure, hips canting to meet yours. Though you speak not the language, you are familiar with such a word: wife. A shudder of pleasure at his ancient tongue - of which he has whispered many words to you, most unknown.

He, the picture of the gods below you, letting out a sharp exhale in his own pleasure. His lips, slick and bright, mutter your name - at the summon your gaze finds his own, molten and hungry as your hips move together, the feeling of his cock twitching within you, reaching a spot that has your back keening.

“I’m c-close.” He whispers, a heat upon his cheeks - embarrassment, perhaps, at his eagerness. His eyes find you; you’re met with that dark gaze, regally commanding as he speaks. “Gaomagon ziry. Touch yourself, love, I want to feel you.”  

Gods save you. 

Just as your husband wishes, you drop your fingers once more with no hesitation, jolting. You do not slow your pace; thighs burning, you keen forward, whispering his name against the pulse of his throat, groaning as your fingers press further, tight circles that bring shudders of pleasure. 

“Jaesa, so pretty. Renigon aōla.” Jacaerys’ brows, knitted upwards in gratification; voice, leaking of desperation, of some kind of adulation. He quite often slips into that frantic tongue - the rush of pleasure, of ecstasy, his sharp mind rendered unable to decipher the common from the ancient tongue. You do not know the delicious words that fall from his lips, yet it does not matter - they spur you closer still towards completion. 

“Jace, I’m close,” You hiss, teeth clenched in desire; your hips, dropping upon him slower, deeper; his arms pull you closer with a groan, lips falling to nip small marks into the smooth of your neck. A moan, unbidden from his sweet lips, “Do not stop, please-” he wishes, and who are you to deny such pretty begging? 

When you hit your high of ecstasy, it is with a muffled moan of his name; into the thin linen of his tunic, legs slowing as you roll through pleasure, spasming gently around your husband. His own, quiet moan into your hair, wrists pulling you into him as he whispers, “Yes, ñuha sȳz byka ābrazȳrys, fuck-” 

A thrill within you as you ride your high, such vulgar of a word from your husband; and all, your doing. A frantic whimper from your lips into his throat as he bucks his hips up into you, chasing his own high with a soft whimper. “You feel so good, Jacaerys.” You keen, raising to his face as you feel his abdominal muscles tense beneath you; pressing your forehead to his own, you ride through your completion, heavy breaths upon each other.

Noses sliding against his, you drink his small groans, holding him close; a ghost of his lips against yours, a nip of your lip by his teeth. Long lashes fluttering, Jace finds his own high. He releases his seed into you; you feel him, his hips thrusting up into you weakly as the warmth of him spreads within you. His breath, hot against your cheek, lips chasing yours as you pull away slightly, the slight shift in position sending you both in a harmony of whimpers at the sensitivity. 

The chamber’s hearth spits and crackles; an ember lands near the floor beside the chair. It smolders out, fading slowly into darkness against the stone as you rest your cheek against Jacaerys’ chest, pleased by his gentle kisses upon your hairline.

After moments of silence, basking in your shared pleasure, you press a kiss to his chest. “Are you alright?” He asks gently, soothing over your spine with the soft of his forearms. 

You let out a shaky sigh of satisfaction as you pull back, feeling his cock within you - a fleeting thought; you hope his seed takes. He watches you, eyes warm and gentle as a shaky finger, curled in pain, wipes a stray strand of hair from your forehead - you nod, lifting your hand thumb away the bead of blood that has appeared once more on his cheek; “Yes. And you?” You wonder, pressing a kiss to the freckle upon his lip. 

His smile is the kind that makes your heart skip beats. “Always.” 

translations; dōna riña - sweet girl

ābrazȳrys - wife

Gaomagon ziry - do it

Jaesa - goddess, holy/divine woman

Renigon aōla - touch yourself

ñuha sȳz byka ābrazȳrys - my good little wife

taglist: @bitchydragonparadisee @lukehughes43 @rhea-ripley @jottositto @chloe-petrichors @elaena-aerrin @smurfelle @greenvita @alyssa-dayne

[soupywoof]

[maintenance] - a gabv1el oneshot

i sit here exposed, pieces of my body never meant to be seen lie out in open air. someone else’s blood, dried, not unlike the rust on my metal, at one point escaped through loose piping, tangled wires, damaged circuitry. you see the signs of my obsolescence.

you stare into my chassis, your face unchanged.

i can feel you, your eyes, your focus, tracing over my internals. your gentle hands disappear inside me for your fingers to follow suit, and they return cradling damaged parts, long forgotten, weathered by use and time as they gathered dust, oil, blood – the likes of which untouched by self-repair.

and, whether by your careful touch or my layered wear, your work goes unnoticed, and yet it doesn’t. i feel you, though i don’t, not as i understand it, not as i have ever felt. the presence of your hand – each muscle and tendon, contracting, extending, manipulating wrist, fingers, joints, yours - its softness, its care. your presence inside of me, i feel it ever deepen, incomprehensibly so. and thus i feel you work. softly, you tear me into pieces.

but i don’t understand the attention you give to each piece of my decommissioned body. you run each wire gently between your fingertips and with care you repair me, reconnect me anew, clip each rusted, rotting part from my chassis and replace it, pristine. you untangle my twisted internals and in return they twist around you, your delicate touch, intricately working, now interwoven, pulled into me. you hold each piece of me as though it could shatter. you treat me so softly. i am a machine designed and created for war: sturdy, persistent, self-sustaining.

and yet, here you kneel, holding my heart with careful hands, gently, dearly, nursing me to life.

and yet, as your hands leave my hollow core each time, i ache.

you wipe away old grease between the seams of my plating, and i can feel you get carried away, slowly, softly, tracing the lines of my body. every angle, every corner, every curve. every part of me. my rust. my breaks. it feels as though not an inch goes untouched, untended. why do you take care of me so?

divine, yet you use your light on me. not even mortal, an afterthought, created by the free will that damned them, of steel, of sin. and still, despite such objectionable existence, here you kneel. why?

why do you care and why do i let you?

why do i sit here, my heart exposed, letting you see into me, each detail of my making, of my being, the routing of each cable into each socket, the pipes fueling my hydraulics, my inner-workings, and why do i let you rearrange me, poke around my delicate circuitry, why do i let you in? i wasn’t made for this. i wasn’t made for you. i don’t know if i care.

as you gently press the last piece of me into place, it clicks, and through the quiet air i can hear you breathe. your scarred chest rises, falls, and rises once more as you stare expectantly into my core. i feel your hand linger inside. you feel different, vivid. like your heart is my own i feel it beat, blood racing through your body. and i twitch. my fans whirr at nothing, my pumps spur to life, and i feel warm. warmer than ever before, with your hand in my chest, against me, inside me, a part of me.

i look down at you, the glow of my visor lights up your face, the low thrum of my body fills the silence.

you look up at me, at me.

i don’t want you to let go. i grab your wrist with both hands, holding it in place against my beating, ticking heart, and this newfound warmth continues to grow. what did you do to me?

please don’t let go.

you avert your gaze and i pain, my grip tightening on you. my whole body tightening in on itself. but you don’t let go. your hand remains still against my body, my chest, my heart, heating, heating up with every moment you stay.

you look back into me, your finished work, your palm against, and mine.

time pauses.

i don’t know what you think.

but in the stillness i feel your grace, your presence, gently against my metal, held onto your flesh. you place your empty hand on mine.

you don’t look back up into my visor, but i feel your warmth course through me and my body relax, my fear subside.

we sit there, in emptiness, accompanied only by the quiet, constant sounds of our bodies.

incredible accompanying animatic made by the amazing oshasno linked here: WATCH IT PLEASE !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[INSPIRED LOTS BY THIS AS THEY WORKED ON IT !!!!!!!!!!!!!]

[mapis-putellas]

𝐵𝑟𝑢𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑠

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Reader

Words: 1299

Warnings: None!

Summary: A typical morning in the Putellas household.

Notes: I’m so sorry for the long wait

"Good morning." You murmur as you slip behind Alexia and secure your arms around her waist, craning your head forward to press a kiss to her cheek. It was early, the sun just beginning to rise against the already blue sky, but Alexia seems to have been up for hours. She was clad in nothing but a black sports bra and a pair of red gym shorts, her blonde hair tied back into its usual ponytail with the fly aways secured by a headband.

The skin of her stomach was slightly clammy, and that along with the slight aroma of sweat lingering on her suggests she had just got done working out. You wrinkle your nose as you rest your chin against her shoulder, giving her a playful poke. "You stink." You add as an afterthought, grinning at the scoff that fills your ears.

“Good morning to out too, amor.” The sarcasm was evident as she pats your hands still pressed against her stomach.

“Hey!” You say defensively. “I said good morning first!”

“Before telling me I stink?” She glances back at you, a singular eyebrow raised.

You shrug. “Well, you do, so…”

Alexia turns her head to look back at you, a look of playful resignation on her face. "And yet you’re still hugging me." She retorts.

"The things I do for love," You joke wistfully before suddenly yelping at the not so gentle swat that meets your backside. "Hey, oww!" You whine, reaching back to rub at the smarting skin as you pull away from her. "Did you just swat me with the goddamn spatula?!"

Alexia's face holds no remorse as she turns to face you with a spatula in her hand, a single eyebrow raised. "Yep. And I will do it again if you do not behave, amor" She warns, and you mock salute her as you stomp away to the refrigerator with the intention of making your own breakfast. You all but yank open the door and grab the first thing you see -which just so happened to be a punnet of grapes- before slamming the door shut and tossing your chosen breakfast onto the counter. You hop up next to them, ignoring your still throbbing butt cheek as you begin kicking your legs.

Alexia glares at you as she turns off the stove, and you pointedly glare back as you pop a singular grape into your mouth and chew all without breaking eye contact.

Surprisingly, Alexia was the first to look away, letting out a deep sigh as she begins to dish out two portions of the scrambled eggs she'd made. "Eres un dolor en mi trasero." She grumbles beneath her breath as she heads to the sink to put the frying pan to soak, and your eyes narrow as you toss another grape into your mouth. You have no idea what she'd just said -curse your inability to learn a new language despite the many months of tutoring you'd had- but you were pretty sure it had been insulting.

Spotting the now discarded spatula Alexia had left by the stove, you reach for it and place it out of sight behind you just in time for the blonde to finish with whatever she was doing. She turns to face you, and you smile innocently as you continue kicking your legs like were the epitome of innocence. Alexia's own eyes narrow, glancing between you and her breakfast, and you roll your eyes again as you swallow.

"I didn't do anything to your breakfast, ale, relax."

Assured by the honesty in your voice, Alexia reaches for her eggs. She bends over, resting her elbows on the counter next to your body before beginning to eat.

"I think my butts going to bruise." You say, effectively breaking the silence.

Alexia glances your way and rolls her eyes as she swallows. "I didn't swat you that hard, amor." She murmurs, and you scoff again as you shift s little to face her. You both knew she'd never seriously hurt you, and even if she just so happened to do so on accident, she’d apologise profusely before promising she’d do anything in her power to make it up to you. This, however, was not one of those times. This was simply a case of who could annoy the other more.

"And how do you know?" You retort. "Are you me? Can you feel my pain?" You hold a hand to your chest, your other hand already behind you tightly gripping the handle of the spatula. You could feel the satisfaction racing through your body already. Oooh, revenge was going to be sweet.

Alexia chuckles in amusement at your dramatic response as she pats your thigh in hopes it would momentarily appease you. You simply blink at her audacity.

"I will kiss it better, amor." She promises somewhat seriously as she scoops up a forkful of eggs, and you smile slightly a you tighten your grip around the spatula.

"Aww, thanks. I'll kiss yours better too."

Alexia looks up at you with a frown of confusion. "But I don't-"

You cut her off by reaching forward and swatting her on the ass just a little harder than she'd done to you. She drops her fork in surprise as an unmistakable yelp escapes her lips, her hand instinctively reaching back to sooth the obvious sting, and you cackle loudly as you hop off of the counter with the intention of finding somewhere to hide before she could retaliate. You feel her fingers just skim the material of your shirt as she tries yet fails to grab you before you could leave the room. 

"Amor! Come back here, right now!" You hear her yell.

"No!" You scramble up the stairs, the sound of her footsteps pounding after you. Your hand was just inches away from the bathroom door handle before her arms grab your waist and yank your body back into her own. "Alexia! Let me go! This is not fair!" You laugh as she hauls you up into her arms and carries you through to your bedroom like you were no more than a rag doll.

"How is it not fair?" She tosses you onto the bed and climbs on top of you before you could even think about making your escape. Your chest heaves as she leans over you, her large hands pinning your wrists to the bed.

"You hit me first! I was just getting my well deserved revenge!" You yell, squirming futility beneath her.

Alexia stares down at you in amusement. "Revenge?"

"Yes!" You cry indignantly. "I have a spatula shaped bruise on my ass cheek because of you! It was only fair you get one because of me!"

"You are going to have a lot more than a spatula shape bruise when I am finished with you." Her eyes had a teasing glint to them, and you knew her next move could go one of two ways. One, she could mark you. Or more specifically, your neck and as a result you'd be forced to listen to the relentless teasing from your teammates until it fades. That was typically her chosen punishment for you when you ‘acted up’ despite your many protests. Or there was option number two . She could-

Hands attack your sides before without any warning, and the shriek the escapes your lips was immediate as you scramble to knock her hands away to no avail.

You guess revenge was a dish best served cold after all.

**

Tags:

@goldenempyrean @girlgenius1111 @codiemarin @marysfics @liloandstitchstan @xxnaiaxx @helen-with-an-a @ceesimz

[syluslnd]

hello! can i request heavy angst with sylus and mc? like them never officially being in a relationship but clearly belonging to eachother, keeping a love-hate slowburn dynamic so it's nothing knew when they fight, but one day they get into a really bad, heated argument. out of anger sylus says something he immediately regrets and mc leaves (also out of anger) but something happens and they don't come back. (you can decide if it's happy ending or not)! thank you in advance!

house of cards

word count 5.6k

tags- angst no comfort,verbal insults ,death,dead dove,grieving

──── ୨୧ ────

The night was cool and the dim streetlights of Onychinus cast long shadows over the pavement. You waited outside one of Sylus’s known hideouts, a secluded bar where his lieutenants often gathered. It had become routine—waiting.

You leaned against the rough stone wall, arms crossed, trying to calm the growing frustration. He hadn’t reached out in days and when he did, it was for one thing—hooking up, nothing more, nothing less. Every time you tried to talk about something real, something deeper, he deflected with that arrogant smirk or one of his quick dismissals.

It was driving you mad. You wanted more than the casual, heated exchanges. But how could you demand more from someone who wouldn’t even admit what you were to him?

Footsteps echoed behind you and you straightened, turning to see Sylus approaching, his tall frame cutting through the dim light like a shadow. He looked as composed as ever, eyes sharp and calculating. You couldn’t deny the way your heart raced at the sight of him but the growing anger inside kept you from softening.

“You’ve been busy” you muttered as he stopped in front of you, crossing your arms tighter over your chest.

Sylus raised a brow, his expression unreadable. “What can I say, sweetie? I run an empire. It keeps me occupied.” His tone was casual, indifferent, like he wasn’t fazed by your clear annoyance.

“That’s the problem” you shot back, your voice edged with frustration. “You’re always ‘occupied.’ When was the last time we spent more than an hour together without it turning into some… thing? It’s like you don’t even care unless we’re in bed.”

He chuckled softly, though there was a sharpness behind it. “You’re upset because I’m busy? You knew what this was.”

His dismissiveness was the last straw. “Is that all this is to you?” you asked, your voice rising. “Just something casual whenever you feel like it?”

Sylus’s expression darkened slightly, his calm demeanor still intact but there was something colder in his eyes now. “You’re making this bigger than it is.”

Your chest tightened. How could he be so dismissive? You weren’t asking for the world just… something more than this half-life with him. “Bigger than it is? Sylus, you barely talk to me unless you want something. I’m tired of feeling like an afterthought. I deserve more than that.”

For a moment, his expression softened but it was fleeting. He stepped closer, his hand reaching for your chin, lifting your gaze to meet his. “What do you want from me?” His voice was low, almost dangerously calm. “I’m not the kind of man who makes promises. You know that. But you’re still here.”

You pulled away from his touch, the sting of his words echoing in your mind. “I don’t know how much longer I can be” you admitted, your voice quieter now, the weight of it hitting both of you.

Sylus watched you pull away, a flicker of something passing through his eyes—annoyance maybe or something deeper that he wasn’t about to show. He sighed, running a hand through his hair before dropping it back to his side.

“Fine” he said, voice laced with irritation “I’ll make it up to you. Let’s go out. Will that make you happy?” His words felt more like an obligation than a genuine apology, as if he were doing you a favor by even suggesting it.

You scoffed lightly, the apology clearly lacking any sincerity. “Really, Sylus? An apology and an offer to go out, just like that? You think that’s enough?”

He rolled his eyes, the sharpness of his usual calm starting to crack just a little. “You’re not making this easy. I’m trying here.” There was a slight edge to his voice but his gaze softened for a moment. “So, where do you want to go?”

You bit back the retort that almost escaped, knowing pushing too far too fast wouldn’t get either of you anywhere. “The arcade. I want to go to the arcade” you said, watching him closely.

Sylus’s expression shifted and for a second, the irritation returned. He didn’t hide the slight frown tugging at his lips. “An arcade?” he repeated, like the idea was absurd for someone like him. “You want me to take you to a place full of flashing lights and teenagers wasting time?”

A small smile crept onto your face despite the tension. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I want. It’s fun, Sylus. Or have you forgotten how to have fun?”

His eyes narrowed, clearly not amused by the teasing. But then, after a pause he sighed again this time more resigned. “Fine. If that’s what you want.”

It wasn’t much of an apology and you could tell he was annoyed but there was something in the way he relented that caught you off guard. Sylus was many things—cold, ruthless, always in control—but every now and then you caught these small moments where it seemed like he was trying, even if he didn’t fully understand why.

“Thank you” you said, keeping your voice soft but not letting the gratitude carry too much weight. You didn’t want him to think everything was forgiven just because he agreed to one date. “We’ll go tomorrow, okay?”

He glanced at you, something unreadable in his gaze. “Sure. Tomorrow.”

You nodded, the awkward silence hanging between you like a thin thread. You didn’t know if you should say more or if this was one of those moments where you just let things settle. Sylus turned away but just before he walked off, his hand brushed yours—light, almost hesitant. It was a fleeting touch, gone before you could react but it lingered all the same.

The neon lights from the arcade spilled out onto the busy street, reflecting off the windows as people moved in and out, laughing and shouting over the sound of the games inside. You stood near the entrance, arms crossed, glaring at your phone. Sylus was late again. It wasn’t like this was a surprise—he was always late—but today, it stung more than usual. You had put effort into this. You wanted to have fun, just once, without all the complications. But, of course, Sylus had to ruin that by being Sylus.

You checked your phone again. 30 minutes late.

Your jaw clenched, anger boiling just beneath the surface. This wasn’t just about tonight—it was about all the other times he brushed you off, made you wait, or treated you like something he could pick up and drop whenever he felt like it. You were tired of being patient, tired of pretending it didn’t bother you when it did.

The sound of footsteps behind you caught your attention and you didn’t need to look to know it was him. Sylus always had a presence—a certain energy that shifted the air around him. Still, you didn’t turn right away, letting him stand there for a moment while you seethed in silence.

“Sorry I’m late, sweetheart” Sylus’s voice came smooth as ever, carrying that casual arrogance that drove you mad. You could feel his gaze on you, waiting for you to respond. “Business, you know how it is.”

You slowly turned to face him, the anger barely contained as you stared him down. “You’re thirty minutes late, Sylus.”

He tilted his head, his smirk teasing. “I thought you’d be used to it by now.”

That infuriating smirk—it was enough to make you want to scream. But this wasn’t the place. You were surrounded by kids, teenagers, people who didn’t know the kind of world Sylus lived in. You couldn’t make a scene, not here, even though every nerve in your body begged you to let loose.

“I’m tired of it” you said quietly, your voice sharp but low, careful not to draw too much attention. “You’re always late. It’s like you don’t even care.”

He stepped closer, his height casting a shadow over you but it wasn’t his size that had your heart racing. It was the way he looked at you, like he could see through every wall you put up and worse like he found it amusing. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

You narrowed your eyes, refusing to let him distract you with his charm. “Don’t start with that. You think showing up late and calling me ‘cute’ is going to make this better?”

Sylus’s eyes glinted and he leaned in slightly, his voice lowering just enough that only you could hear him. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

There it was. That casual confidence the way he twisted every situation in his favor and the worst part? He was right. You were still here. But it wasn’t because you didn’t have enough self-respect to walk away—it was because, despite everything, some part of you still wanted this. Wanted him.

“You think I’m just going to let it slide every time?” you shot back, your voice barely above a whisper, trying to maintain your composure in public.

He chuckled softly that rich, deep sound that sent a shiver down your spine despite your anger. “You’ll let it slide because you want to be here with me. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

Your pulse quickened as his words hit deeper than you’d like to admit. He wasn’t wrong but that didn’t make it any less frustrating. You swallowed, trying to keep control of the emotions that were bubbling dangerously close to the surface.

“I wanted us to have a normal night” you muttered, glancing away to avoid his piercing gaze. “Just one night where we didn’t have to deal with your… business. But you couldn’t even show up on time.”

For a brief moment, something shifted in Sylus’s expression—something softer, almost like regret. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by that familiar teasing smirk. “I’m here now. Isn’t that what matters?”

You looked at him, searching for any sign that he really cared, that he wasn’t just saying what he thought you wanted to hear. But Sylus was a master at hiding his true feelings. He could be teasing one second and dangerous the next, always keeping you guessing.

“You don’t get it, do you?” you said, shaking your head in disbelief. “It’s not about you being here now. It’s about everything. About the way you treat me like an afterthought, like I’m only here when it’s convenient for you.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unbothered by your words. “You’re making this way too complicated, sweetheart.”

You clenched your fists, taking a deep breath to calm the storm brewing inside. “Maybe it’s not that complicated to want someone who actually gives a damn.”

Sylus smirked again, stepping closer until there was barely any space between you. “I give enough of a damn to be here, don’t I?”

His closeness was overwhelming, his presence suffocating yet intoxicating at the same time. You hated how easily he could pull you in, how his words—no matter how frustrating—always had a way of making you second-guess yourself. But you couldn’t let him win this time.

“Being here isn’t enoug” you whispered, your voice tense with emotion. “I need more than that.”

He studied you for a moment, his gaze lingering on your face, as if considering his next move. Then, with a soft, almost mocking chuckle, he brushed a stray piece of hair from your face, his fingers barely grazing your skin. “You’re something else, you know that?”

You didn’t respond, biting your lip to keep the tears that were building up from spilling. You weren’t going to cry—not here, not in front of him. But the way he looked at you, like he could see every crack in your armor, made it hard to keep your emotions at bay.

After a long pause, he sighed, though it sounded more like annoyance than sympathy. “Alright, fine. I’ll make it up to you. We’re here now, let’s just enjoy the night,okay kitten”

You wanted to scream at him, to tell him that ‘enjoying the night’ wasn’t enough to fix what was broken between you two. But instead, you just nodded, knowing full well that this wasn’t the time or place for a real argument.

“Yeah” you muttered, your voice hollow. “Let’s enjoy the night.”

You stood in front of the claw machine, gripping the joystick harder than necessary, your eyes narrowed in concentration. The bright, colorful stuffed animals inside were taunting you, mocking your every failed attempt to grab one. You had already wasted several coins and each time the claw just slipped off the prize at the last second, your frustration only grew.

Sylus leaned against the machine behind you, his arms crossed and a smirk dancing on his lips. You could feel his gaze on you and it wasn’t helping your mood. You were still pissed—at him, at his nonchalant attitude, at the whole situation.

“Having trouble sweetie?” Sylus asked, his voice laced with amusement.

You didn’t answer, your jaw clenched as you maneuvered the claw over a plush toy that looked easy enough to grab. You hit the button, watching as the claw descended… only for it to fumble and drop the toy yet again. You cursed under your breath, stepping back from the machine in frustration.

Behind you, Sylus chuckled softly, clearly entertained by your struggle. “You know, you might be better at this if you weren’t so mad.”

“Shut up” you muttered, glaring at the machine like it was somehow responsible for your anger.

Sylus pushed himself off the wall, coming to stand beside you. “Let me try.”

You hesitated, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, but eventually stepped aside with a sigh. Sylus slid a coin into the slot, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he wasn’t in any kind of rush. He tilted his head, studying the plush toys inside with a cool, calculating expression—like this was some kind of challenge he needed to win just to prove a point.

He moved the joystick with ease, barely paying attention and then pressed the button. You watched as the claw descended, grabbed a stuffed bear and successfully lifted it up, dropping it neatly into the prize chute without a hitch.

You stared at the bear in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Sylus grinned, reaching in to grab the prize. “What can I say? I’m just lucky.”

You rolled your eyes still too annoyed to let it go. “It’s not luck when you don’t even care.”

He handed you the bear, his smirk softening just a little. “Here. Something to remember me by when I’m not around.”

You took the bear reluctantly, not sure whether to be touched or even more irritated. There was something in the way Sylus looked at you in that moment, though—a fleeting softness, like he was enjoying being here with you, even if he didn’t say it outright.

For a few minutes, it was almost… normal. You grabbed some drinks from the concession stand and you found yourself relaxing—just a little. The arcade lights, the sound of people laughing and playing games and even Sylus’s teasing remarks all blended into a strange sense of calm. Maybe it wasn’t perfect but it was something.

You took a sip of your drink, glancing at Sylus. “You think you can beat me at air hockey?”

He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Sweetie you really want to challenge me?”

You shrugged, smiling for the first time since he showed up. “I’m just saying, you won’t win twice in a row.”

Sylus chuckled, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

The banter felt easy, natural even and for the first time in a long while, you were actually having fun with him—laughing, teasing, almost forgetting how mad you were earlier.

But just as you were starting to think the night might turn around, Sylus’s phone rang. You watched as his playful demeanor vanished, replaced by that familiar cold detached look that always came when something serious was happening.

He answered the call, turning away from you slightly but you could still hear bits and pieces of the conversation. It was business, obviously—Onychinus business.

You sighed, already knowing where this was headed.

After a few minutes Sylus hung up, his jaw tight. He didn’t look at you right away, as if he was bracing for your reaction.

“Let me guess” you said, your voice bitter. “You’ve got to go.”

He ran a hand through his hair, glancing at you apologetically. “I’ll make it up to you.”

You stared at him, your earlier frustration flooding back in an instant. “Make it up to me? You said that last time and the time before that.”

Sylus opened his mouth to respond but you cut him off your anger spilling over. “You know what? I’m done hearing your excuses. Every single time we try to do something, you end up bailing. I’m not an afterthought, Sylus.”

His gaze flickered but he remained calm, almost too calm. “It’s not like that—”

“Then what is it like?” you snapped. “Because it sure as hell feels like I’m just something you deal with when it’s convenient.”

He sighed, his patience clearly wearing thin. “You know how this works. I don’t get to choose when I get called.”

“You don’t get to choose?but you also don’t seem to care how it affects me” you shot back. “You always have time for business but never for me.”

Sylus’s jaw clenched and for a second you thought he might snap. But instead he just took a deep breath his voice low and controlled. “I’m trying to keep you out of this. That’s why I don’t bring you into my world more than I already have.”

You laughed bitterly. “Oh, so this is you protecting me? By making me feel like I don’t matter?”

He stepped closer his voice dropping even lower. “You do matter. But I can’t always be there when you want me to be.”

You looked up at him your anger mixing with something else—something closer to hurt. “I don’t need you there all the time, Sylus. I just need you to act like you care.”

For a brief moment his expression softened and you could see something flicker in his eyes—guilt, maybe or regret. But just as quickly as it appeared it was gone, replaced by that same cold distant look he always wore when things got too close, too real.

“I’ll call you later” he said, his tone clipped.

You stared at him in disbelief. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

Sylus hesitated but eventually turned and walked away leaving you standing there your heart sinking as the sound of the arcade faded into the background.

It had been a week. A whole week without so much as a call or a message from Sylus. Each day that passed made your frustration grow until it morphed into a bitter, burning anger.

You knew this wasn't a relationship-he had never promised that. But still, the silence gnawed at you, his dismissive attitude felt like a slap in the face. All the excuses about his work, his responsibilities-none of them felt like enough anymore.

So when you heard a knock at your door and opened it to see Sylus standing there like nothing had happened you felt your blood boil.

“Hey kitten” he said casually, as if the past week hadn’t happened. He leaned against your doorframe his sharp eyes scanning you with a cool detached air. “Haven’t heard from you in a while. You could’ve at least called.”

You stared at him your anger simmering just beneath the surface. How could he be so nonchalant? So unaffected?

You tried to stay calm to hold it together but the way he stood there acting like everything was fine like he hadn’t disappeared without a word set you off. “I could’ve called?” you repeated, your voice shaking with anger. “Are you serious right now?”

Sylus shrugged, his usual smirk playing on his lips. “Yeah sweetie I’ve been busy.”

“Busy?” You felt the anger bubbling over and before you could stop yourself you stepped closer your fists clenched at your sides. “You disappeared for a week, and now you just show up like it’s no big deal? Do you even realize how pissed off I am?”

His gaze flickered with mild amusement as if your anger was some sort of game to him. “You’re always pissed off.”

You glared at him your chest tightening. “Because you give me every reason to be! You act like you don’t even care.”

Sylus chuckled, his eyes softening just slightly as he watched you fume. “You’re so adorable when you’re angry.”

His words were the final straw. You felt tears welling up in your eyes and you hated it—hated that he could make you feel like this, like your anger didn’t matter, like you didn’t matter. He had come here for one thing, and you knew it. That much was obvious by the way he was already moving closer his hand reaching for your waist as if he could just sweep all your anger away with a touch.

But you stepped back, stopping him in his tracks. “No.”

Sylus blinked, surprised by your sudden resistance. “No?”

“I’m not doing this” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “I’m not just going to let you walk in here and act like everything’s fine.”

He stared at you his brow furrowing as if he didn’t quite understand why you were so upset. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that you don’t give a damn about me” you snapped, your voice cracking as the tears finally spilled over. “You show up when it’s convenient for you, when you want something and I’m just supposed to go along with it? I’m not some toy you can pick up and put down whenever you feel like it, Sylus!”

For the first time Sylus didn’t have a clever comeback. He just stood there his smirk fading his expression hardening into something unreadable and for a moment, just a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of guilt in his eyes.

But then, his phone rang.

Of course.

You watched in disbelief as he pulled out his phone, glancing at the screen with that same detached expression you had grown to hate. He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he looked back at you. “I have to take this.”

“No.” Your voice was low, trembling with barely-contained rage. “You’re not doing this again.”

He paused, his hand hovering over the phone. “I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice” you spat. “You just never choose me.”

Sylus’s jaw tightened but he remained silent his fingers gripping the phone as if it was some kind of lifeline. The phone kept ringing the sound filling the tense space between you like a countdown to something inevitable and that was it. That was the moment you snapped.

“You’re a cold-hearted bastard, you know that?” you said your voice rising as your anger reached its breaking point. “All you care about is your damn job, your stupid mafia game and yourself. You don’t care about me. You never did.”

Something in Sylus’s eyes darkened at your words but you were too far gone to stop now. “You act like you’re so untouchable, like nothing and no one matters to you. Well, guess what, Sylus? You’re not untouchable. You’re just a coward who can’t handle real emotions. You’re pathetic.”

His hand clenched around the phone, his calm exterior cracking just enough for you to see the anger brewing beneath the surface. “Watch it” he warned, his voice low and dangerous.

But you didn’t back down. “No, you watch it. I’m done pretending like this is something it’s not. You show up when you feel like it, you leave whenever you get a call and you expect me to just wait around for you like I don’t have my own life. Well, I’m done. I’m done being your damn convenience.”

Sylus’s eyes narrowed, his voice a deadly whisper. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m talking about” you shot back. “I’m talking about how you treat me like I don’t matter, like I’m just here for your amusement.”

The tension in the room was thick, suffocating and for the first time Sylus didn’t have his usual cocky, unbothered expression. He looked… furious.

And then, in a moment of weakness, you said the words that changed everything. “You know what’s worse? We’re not even a couple. We’re not anything. I’m nothing to you, right? Just some girl you hook up with when you’re bored.”

Sylus’s expression turned cold, ice spreading through his gaze. His voice was quiet but sharp as a knife. “You’re right.”

The air was sucked from your lungs. You stared at him, feeling like the ground had just been ripped out from beneath you. He didn’t even hesitate. He didn’t deny it. He just… confirmed it.

“We’re not a couple” Sylus continued his voice brutally calm. “We never were. You knew what this was from the start.”

You took a step back, your heart pounding in your chest. His words cut deeper than any knife ever could. You had known of course you had known. But hearing him say it out loud, hearing the cold finality in his voice—it broke something inside you.

Tears welled up in your eyes again but this time they weren’t from anger. They were from heartbreak. You couldn’t even look at him anymore. “I hate you” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Sylus flinched, just slightly but he quickly masked it. “Go ahead, hate me all you want. It doesn’t change anything.”

You stared at him for a moment longer then turned on your heel and stormed out of the apartment. You didn’t care where you were going. You just needed to get away from him, from the pain, from everything.

The night outside was dark and cold the streets of Onychinus dangerous as ever. But you didn’t care. You were too hurt, too broken to care. You just kept walking, your tears blurring your vision as the world around you faded into nothingness.

And Sylus… didn’t follow.

Sylus had been drowning in work. The weight of Onychinus bore down on him heavier than usual. One of his trusted men had been leaking information—details of transactions, routes, even the inner workings of their operations. It was enough to shake the entire foundation he had built over the years.

He couldn’t afford to let this weakness show. Weakness in his world meant death. So he buried himself in the chaos, his mind constantly racing through strategies to tighten his grip on Onychinus, to snuff out the traitor, to keep his empire from crumbling. It consumed him, and every decision he made carried the cold, calculating precision of a leader who couldn’t afford to let his guard down.

But amidst all the chaos, one thing gnawed at the back of his mind—he hadn’t heard from you in days.

Two days. It wasn’t like you to be completely silent, not after the argument that had ended with you storming out, leaving him standing alone in your apartment. At first, he chalked it up to your stubbornness. You were angry.

You had every right to be. He hadn’t cared enough to check in, hadn’t thought to chase after you when you left. After all, that was how it had always been. You would blow up he’d brush it off and eventually things would return to the way they always were.

But something about this time was different. It lingered in the back of his mind like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Something was off.

On the third day, he finally caved. He sent Mephisto, his crow, to find you. It should’ve been easy—Mephisto never failed him. But when the bird came back, empty and restless a knot of dread settled in his chest.

His irritation mounted. He called his men, ordering them to find you. You couldn’t have gone far. He didn’t doubt your ability to survive but Onychinus wasn’t the kind of place you wandered alone for long without catching the wrong kind of attention.

As hours turned into days, his frustration grew. His men scoured the city, checking the places you frequented, talking to the few who might have seen you. But each report came back the same—nothing. No sign of you. No trace.

Until that first discovery.

The message came late in the night. One of his men, pale-faced and visibly shaken approached him in the office. Sylus didn’t look up from the mountain of paperwork, his pen scratching across the page.

“Sylus… we found something”the man stammered.

Sylus’s eyes flicked up cold and unbothered. “Spit it out.”

The man hesitated, shifting on his feet. “It’s… her fingernails, sir.”

A sharp silence followed those words. Sylus stopped mid-sentence his pen freezing in place. Slowly, he set it down, his jaw tightening. He didn’t like what was being implied. He refused to acknowledge it.

“Don’t play games with me” he said, his voice dangerously quiet. “What are you saying?”

The man swallowed stepping forward with a small bag in his trembling hands. Inside, nestled among dirt and blood, were pieces of fingernails—yours.

Sylus stared at the bag, his expression unreadable. Something dark flickered behind his eyes but he didn’t move, didn’t react, except for the faint tightening of his jaw. “This doesn’t prove anything” he said coolly, his voice sharp as glass. “She could’ve broken them off herself.”

The man flinched. “Sir… you know that’s not—”

“I said” Sylus cut him off, his eyes narrowing dangerously “it doesn’t prove anything.”

The man fell silent but the air in the room shifted, thick with unspoken dread. Sylus’s mind raced, the tension creeping into his chest. He refused to believe it. You were too strong, too smart to fall into something like this. But doubt gnawed at him. He crushed it buried it under layers of ice, refusing to let it take root.

Days passed, and more pieces were found. Little by little, pieces of you scattered across Onychinus like breadcrumbs leading to a nightmare he didn’t want to face. A lock of your hair. A fragment of your skin. The reports kept coming and Sylus’s temper grew colder, sharper. He snapped at his men at anyone who dared to mention what they all knew but didn’t dare say out loud.

“She’s fine” Sylus would say whenever another part of you was found, his voice as hard as steel. “You’re all idiots. She’s playing a game. She’ll show up.”

But he knew. Deep down, he knew.

Then came the day they found your head.

The moment Sylus laid eyes on it, something inside him snapped. Your lifeless face, pale and bloodied, with a twisted smile carved across your lips, stared back at him. His hands clenched into fists, trembling with a fury so raw it threatened to consume him. His men stood back none daring to approach knowing full well the storm that was brewing inside their leader.

And then they found the message. It was simple, scrawled in blood across a torn piece of your clothing:

“I’m always watching.”

One of his enemies. The very traitor he had been hunting lurking in the shadows had taken you from him. They had taken the one weakness he never admitted out loud not even to himself. But now, looking at your head—at the cruel mockery of your death, the message taunting him, daring him to act—he couldn’t deny it anymore.

You were his weakness. The one thing that made him feel something other than cold, ruthless control.

And now… you were gone.

For the first time in his life, Sylus felt guilt. Genuine, gut-wrenching guilt. Regret settled in his chest like a poison, choking him, making it hard to breathe. He had pushed you away. He had let his pride, his work, his goddamn arrogance get in the way and now, because of him, you had suffered. You had died. Alone.

His blood boiled, the rage building inside him, so powerful it felt like it would tear him apart from the inside. He wanted to scream, to tear the world apart with his bare hands. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Sylus couldn’t afford to show that kind of weakness.

Instead, he stood there staring at the message, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt. His fingers twitched, longing to crush something to destroy the people who had done this. But he didn’t move. He was still. Cold. Dead inside.

“Clean it up” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper but it held a lethal edge. “and get out.”

His men moved quickly, gathering the remains and clearing the area their eyes downcast, none daring to look at him. They knew better.

Sylus stood there, alone, his hands still trembling. For the first time he didn’t feel in control. He didn’t feel like the unshakable, unstoppable leader of Onychinus. He felt… lost. Empty.

He had always told himself that you didn’t matter. That you were just a fling, a distraction. But now, staring at the empty space where your head had been, he realized how wrong he had been.

You had mattered. You had mattered more than anything else in this godforsaken world and now… you were gone.

And it was his fault.

Sylus’s fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms until they bled. His vision blurred with rage, the weight of his mistake crushing him from all sides.

He would make them pay. Every single one of them. He would tear them apart piece by piece, just like they had done to you. He would make them suffer. But no matter how much blood he spilled, no matter how many bodies he left in his wake, it wouldn’t change the truth.

He had lost you and he would never forgive himself for that.

[taurasiluvr]

how you can help palestine

★ thinking about diana taurasi putting you in your place... kinda inspired by sen's strap headcanons @taurasiluv

 ⠀ ── ⠀warnings ;; nsfw under the cut, mdni. brat taming (my fav!!!), slapping, degradation, mommy kink (it's a dee smut, what do you expect?)

 ⠀ ── ⠀word count ;; 1.1k

 ⠀ ── ⠀rylin's notes ;; requests are open for those who want to send them in :p

"didn't i tell you to cut the fucking attitude?" diana's voice rang out the kitchen, causing you to let out an irritated sigh. you paused, gripping the edge of the counter as you tried to steady your nerves.

"dee, 'm not a kid. you can't talk to me like that," you shot back, trying to keep your voice even. diana walked into the living room, her tall frame filling the doorway. she was still in her practice gear, her face glistening with sweat.

"yeah, i know you're not. you're acting a brat, and i don't like it." she replied, her tone assertive. she opened a water bottle, chugging it slowly. you took the moment to take in your girlfriend; all of her.

you rolled your eyes and turned around, going back to cutting up some fruit. "maybe i wouldn't act like a brat if you actually paid attention to me," you muttered under your breath, knowing full well she'd hear.

diana raised an eyebrow, setting the water bottle down. "what was that, baby?" she crossed her arms, watching you intently.

"nothing," you grumbled, deciding to really test her patience right now.

"no, you wanna act all big and and tough, let's hear it," diana said, stepping closer.

"i told you, nothing,"

you ignored the calls of your name as you walked toward your shared bedroom, letting the annoyance take over. diana walked in the bedroom behind you, her expression now pissed.

"don't walk away from me when we're talking," she said, her voice low and controlled, but you could feel the anger simmering beneath.

you spun around to face her, your own frustration boiling over. "what's there to talk about, dee? you're never here! i'm tired of feeling like an afterthought."

diana's eyes narrowed. "so that's what this is is about? and this is how you deal with it? by throwing a tantrum like a child?"

"well i-"

"no, i'm still talking." she repeated as your face contorted into irritation. "first of all, fix your fuckin' face. and this whole thing is because you're needy? cause you haven't had a good fuck in a while?"

you clenched your fists, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. diana's blunt words cut deep, but there was a part of you that couldn't deny the truth in them. you needed her, and the lack of attention had been gnawing at you.

"fine," she sighed as she slammed the door shut. "get on the bed, sweetheart."

you looked stunned as diana just kept glaring at you. "you wanna act all shy now, baby?"

you let out a breathe before obeying her, sitting on the bed as diana walked over toward you. she grabbed your face tightly, forcing you to look upward. her eyes bore into yours, a mix of anger and desire flickering in them at you being so submissive.

"you're not gonna pull that bratty attitude with me anymore, got it?" she said, her voice low and commanding.

you nodded, unable to find your voice. the intensity of her gaze, the way her fingers dug into your cheeks, sent a shiver down your spine. she let go of your face before landing a swift slap to your cheek, a moan coming out of your lips at the sting.

"i asked you something," she demanded, her hand finding your face again, her grip tightening slightly. "do you understand?"

"yes," you managed to whisper, your voice trembling.

"yes, what?" she prompted, leaning closer so her breath fanned across your lips.

"yes, mommy," you replied, your voice barely audible.

"good," she said, releasing your face and stepping back slightly. "now strip. wanna see you naked."

your heart pounded in your chest as you complied, your hands shaking slightly as you undressed. diana watched you intently, her eyes dark with desire. she turned around as well, rummaging through your drawer before finding her strap. she slipped it on quickly before she turned to face you once again.

once you were completely bare, you stood there, feeling vulnerable under her intense gaze. she stepped closer again, her hand trailing down your arm, sending goosebumps in its wake.

without another word, her hand gripped your head before she gestured to her strap. her eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catchm as you nodded slowly, opening your mouth, you leaned forward, taking her in.

diana's other hand tangled in your hair, holding you steady as you began to move, your lips and tongue working to please her. she let out a low groan, the sound sending a thrill through you. you looked up at her, meeting her gaze, her expression a mix of dominance and desire.

"that's it, baby," she murmured, her voice rough with arousal. "just like that."

you continued, your movements becoming more confident as you found a rhythm. diana's grip on your hair tightened slightly, guiding you as you took more of her in. the taste and feel of the strap filled your senses, and you felt a rush of heat between your legs, your own arousal building.

after a few moments, diana pulled you back, her eyes dark with need. "on the bed," she commanded, her voice leaving no room for hesitation.

you obeyed, crawling onto the bed and positioning yourself on your hands and knees, your body trembling with anticipation. diana moved behind you, her hands running over your back and down to your hips, her touch somehow both possessive and gentle.

"you're going to take everything i give you," she said, her voice low and commanding. "understand?"

"yes, mommy," you replied, your voice breathless with need.

she positioned herself at your entrance, teasing you for a moment before pushing in slowly, filling you completely. you moaned, your body arching as you adjusted to the sensation. diana held your hips firmly, setting a steady pace that quickly had you gasping for breath.

she landed a couple slaps to your ass, causing a string of curses and moans to leave your mouth.

"fucking brat," she growled, her movements becoming more intense. "say it, say you're mine."

"'m yours," you managed to gasp, your body responding eagerly to her every thrust. "'m yours, dee."

the pleasure built quickly, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. diana's grip on your hips tightened, her own breathing becoming ragged as she drove you toward release.

when you finally came, it was with a cry of pure ecstasy, your body shuddering with the force of your orgasm. she pulled out gently, collapsing beside you on the bed and pulling you into her arms. you lay there together, both of you catching your breath, the intensity of the moment slowly giving way to a feeling of deep contentment.

"did i fuck all that attitude outta you now, baby?" diana managed to say as you let out a breathless laugh.

"mhm, yeah. you did," you replied.

if you enjoyed, any interaction is greatly appreciated!

with love, rylin 𝜗𝜚

[frostbitebakery]

WILL YOU PLEASE RING IN YOUR DESTRUCTION

surrender au

“Genera—“

Obi-Wan is already on his feet and running before a sickening crack cuts off the trooper’s warning.

Cody is hot on his heels, does not let the red lightning rumbling down from the sky freeze his movements even if his thoughts blank for the slice of a second.

He skids to a halt, blaster already drawn, ozone burning through his senses. He registers Obi-Wan lowering his hand—

“Cody, I want every man to back away fifty feet. Close the perimeter but don’t interfere unless I say so.”

That’s not Obi-Wan. Washed out and grey, veins prominent and red and broken. But it’s the same face, underneath it all. The not Obi-Wan sighs in disappointment at— fuck- fuck, that’s Wooley’s paint, Wooley’s body lying on its stomach, visor staring up at the sky.

“Are you alright?” There’s a soldier, back towards them, heavily armed, and voice too, too familiar for comfort.

The facsimile smiles ruefully. “I’m fine,” he reassures as if he hasn’t just killed— “He was so loud.”

“Cody,” Obi-Wan, his one, says and he remembers his orders.

The soldier sighs, gently takes one of the not Obi-Wan’s - precisely scarred, what happened - hand in his own gloved one and squeezes.

Activating the battalion frequency is second nature by now. “Perimeter 50 feet from hostiles. Do not engage. Wait on the General’s orders. I repeat, do not engage until further notice.”

“You’re starting negotiations somewhat abruptly,” the soldier scolds with a smile in his voice.

His Obi-Wan takes a step forward, hands vanishing in his robes.

“He’s trying to find the difference,” the— the wrong— yellow eyes flick over the soldier’s shoulder at his General, a bright smile blooming on dry lips - the utterly wrong Obi-Wan— “Oh…”

The soldier turns around like an afterthought, like there aren’t dozens of blasters and a Jedi Master focused on him. A cybernetic eye whirrs, scar tissue tight and just as familiar as the voice’s cadence. An unimpressed look washes over Cody and he can feel his hackles rise despite himself, swallowing up the fear of what-ifs turning all too real.

With a twist and turn the wrong Obi-Wan, the Sith, is around Cody’s doppelgänger, the cane sharply digging into the ground.

“General, behind me,” the soldier orders, is promptly ignored in favor mad yellow eyes digging into Obi-Wan.

“You’re so Light,” the Sith whispers to himself, taking another step forward to Cody’s General.

The soldier - Cody will deal with the implications of it all, but later - snags an arm around the Sith’s waist and pushes him behind the bulk of his body, careful and practiced. He musters Obi-Wan noncommittally. “Is he what you’re looking for?”

“Cody, they’re all so Light.”

The soldier nods, hand drifting towards - Obi-Wan’s, what the hells - the lightsaber clipped to his chestplate.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan, Cody’s, says with a polite incline of his head, “we do try not to succumb to the Dark Side around here. It’s splendid for my youthful looks, evidently.”

The Sith smiles in cracked stretches, takes a step forward like a moth to a flame until he bumps into the soldier’s outstretched arm. “Would you like to discuss your surrender, General Kenobi?”

Obi-Wan folds his hands behind his back, his own smile going tight, and Cody sees the hand signals. “Over a cup of tea, perhaps?”

[jaylalolz]

❛ 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 ❜ . . . nicholas chavez

SUMMARY, after a dinner with her boyfriend, she realizes that love is no longer enough and leaves him standing alone in the rain, devastated.

A/N, first sad fic i’ve ever written. hope you guys like it 🤍

WARNINGS, none

Nicholas sat across the table from her, but it felt like miles separated them. The soft clinking of silverware against plates was the only sound between them, the conversation long dead. His eyes were downcast, scrolling through his phone with a nonchalance that had become all too familiar lately.

Ever since his latest show blew up and fame consumed his life, something had shifted. The warmth in his voice, the way he used to make her laugh, the way he used to care—it had all faded into the background, swallowed by his growing ego and the new life he seemed to embrace. His responses were short, barely more than a few words. And tonight, as they sat in what was supposed to be a romantic dinner, the silence felt suffocating.

She tried, she really did. She had spent the whole evening asking him about his day, how work was going, trying to pull him back into the person he used to be. But Nicholas was distant, giving vague, dry answers. No matter how much she tried to engage him, it was like talking to a wall.

Finally, she had enough.

Without a word, she pushed back her chair and stood up. Nicholas barely looked up from his phone until she grabbed her jacket and headed toward the door.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his tone flat, like this was just another small inconvenience in his otherwise busy life.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The lump in her throat was too heavy, and the tears were already threatening to spill. She pushed the door open and stepped outside, feeling the cool evening air hit her face as she started walking down the street.

It wasn’t until she had walked a few blocks that the skies opened up, and the rain started to pour. At first, it was just a drizzle, but within moments it was a full downpour, soaking through her clothes. She didn’t stop, didn’t care. Maybe the rain would wash away the hurt that had been building up for months now.

“Wait!” she heard his voice behind her, muffled by the sound of the rain, but unmistakable.

She didn’t stop. She didn’t want to talk to him, not after everything.

But Nicholas wasn’t letting it go. He ran after her, his footsteps quickening until he finally caught up to her, grabbing her arm gently to stop her.

“What’s going on? Why did you just leave like that?” he asked, his voice a mixture of confusion and frustration.

She yanked her arm away, her eyes blazing. “Why did I leave? Seriously, Nicholas? Do you even care? You’ve barely said two words to me all night. Ever since you got famous, it’s like you’re not even the same person anymore.”

He stared at her, rain dripping from his hair, looking bewildered. “I don’t get it. You know how busy I’ve been. I’ve got so much going on right now.”

“Busy?” she repeated, her voice rising with the storm inside her. “This isn’t about being busy, Nick. You’ve changed. You’re distant. You don’t talk to me like you used to. Everything is so…cold. Like I’m not even a priority anymore.”

The tears she had been holding back finally broke free, mixing with the rain that was already running down her face. She wiped at her eyes, though it did little good with the water pouring from the sky.

“I’m trying, okay?” Nicholas said, his voice cracking with the desperation he was trying to hide. “I’m trying to balance everything. You, my career—it’s all just a lot right now.”

She shook her head, the pain of the last few months crashing over her in waves. “I don’t want to be an afterthought, Nick. I shouldn’t have to fight for your attention. I shouldn’t feel like I’m competing with your fame. And tonight… tonight just proved that you’re not the same person I fell in love with.”

He took a step closer, his hand reaching for hers, but she pulled away. “I am the same person. I’m just under a lot of pressure. But I still love you. I need you. Please don’t walk away.”

Her chest tightened at his words, the part of her that still loved him wanting to believe that he could change, that things could go back to the way they were. But deep down, she knew that the person standing in front of her wasn’t the same man she had been with before the fame. And she didn’t know if he ever would be again.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said, her voice barely a whisper now, her heart breaking with every word. “I can’t keep pretending that we’re okay. It hurts too much.”

Nicholas’s face paled, panic flashing in his eyes. “Don’t say that. Don’t… don’t give up on us. We can fix this. I’ll do better, I promise.”

But she shook her head, stepping back, the distance between them growing both physically and emotionally. “I love you, Nick, but love isn’t enough anymore. I need more than what you’re giving me. And I don’t think you can give that to me right now.”

The rain was still pouring, drenching both of them, but neither seemed to notice. Nicholas looked like he was grasping for something to say, something that would make her stay, but no words came.

She took a deep breath, her heart heavy with the decision she knew was the right one. “Goodbye, Nicholas.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, her heart shattering with every step she took. Nicholas stood there, watching her disappear into the rain, powerless to stop her.

For the first time in a long time, he felt truly alone.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Series Masterlist

Blood Ties Chapter 15

Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore; vomiting; pregnancy; pregnancy complications; allusions to child abuse. A/N: This chapter is a little shorter than most of the others but I’m actually super content with it. I’ve altered Daryl’s idiolect to somewhere I feel a little more comfortable. I hope it still stays true to the character. Lots of feels. Buckle up.

Apparently, sleep had been in the cards for you after all. There were four things you noticed immediately upon waking. 

Firstly, there was a comforting ache between your legs that reminded you of the events of the previous night. You could still feel Daryl’s bare skin against yours, sweat-slick and new. You were aware he didn’t give that part of himself easily. You felt privileged. Your newfound revelation of your love for him felt validated. Still, you urged your mind onward. 

Secondly, Daryl was nowhere to be seen, along with Rick, Glenn, and Maggie. They must have left for the run already. You fought against the disappointment of not being able to see the archer before he’d gone. He wouldn’t have woken you. You knew that, but that did little to settle the discontentment of not seeing him off. 

Thirdly, a warmth was secured around your upper half in the form of one of Daryl’s button-up shirts. You chuckled quietly, considering how the gesture was one that was likely born out of concern and consideration but allowed yourself to entertain that it could have more than that. A desire to protect you and his child, ensure your comfort, as if wrapping you in something of his somehow marked you as off limits. 

And finally, you had to pee. The basic bodily function had been enough of an inconvenience before a small weight had been added above your bladder. Now, it appeared that your life was nothing outside of eating, vomiting, crying, and urinating. You were still trying to discern where the beautiful part of pregnancy might be hiding. 

“Good morning.”

You sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes before waiting as they focused on Carol. You returned the greeting while stretching, your muscles giving up their sleep-induced stiffness. 

“Not much to eat but I saved you some beans. Are you hungry?”

You shook your head while, at the same time, scratching your blunt nails over your scalp. “I really need to pee though.” You eased Daryl’s shirt away from where it had pooled, folding it into a square on your lap. There was a brief chuckle from Carol that had you looking up quizzically. 

“I wish you could have seen him making sure you were okay before he left.” Your cheeks reddened, heat rising all the way to your ears. “Come on, I’ll walk with you.” The woman held out a hand. You took it and pulled yourself up, the warmth in your skin beginning to fade. As an afterthought, you grabbed Daryl’s shirt and unfolded it. It fit loosely over your flannel and shirt, providing a little more warmth against the morning chill. 

“I hope they are able to find more clothes. The wind cuts right through these damn pants.” You weren’t really intending to make conversation during the walk just inside the treeline but the silence after she had confirmed Daryl’s softness toward you had felt overbearing. 

“It was probably even colder without them.”

It took a minute for her words to sink in and then you stopped, feigning confusion even after the hint of pink covering your face surely gave you away. “What are you talking about?”

Carol laughed, a quiet sound, and stepped forward to barely move aside the three layers over your collarbone. “He left a reminder for you.” You really were confused for a moment before you were presented with the pleasant memory of his teeth clamping down above your collarbone and the intense orgasm that followed. 

“How do you know it wasn’t a walker?” You knew your attempt would be fruitless and cringed at the absurdity of your question. There was a relief when she didn’t even embarrass you further by answering. “Don’t tell anyone?”

“I didn’t tell them you were pregnant. I won’t tell them you’re sleeping with your baby’s father.” Carol grinned at your expression, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. “I’ll wait here.”

You were dry heaving against the far end of the wall when you heard the roar of Daryl’s motorcycle signal the group’s return. Carol had finally insisted you try to eat something and you conceded, barely finishing the last bite before scrambling away from the fire to vomit only a few feet away. After that, it was a losing battle that you didn’t have the energy to fight. 

“Y’okay?” 

Smiling through bouts of retching had not been on your bingo card for the year, but there you were. His warm hand came to rest against your spine. You sagged with a sigh, barely holding yourself up. 

“Yeah.” Your voice was rough. Clearing your throat, you sat back on your heels and tried again. “Yeah, I’m okay.” The back of your hand rubbed across your mouth to wipe away traces of saliva before you allowed yourself to look at him. “Jesus, Daryl!” The archer was covered in grime and guts, a darkening bruise on his right cheekbone and a still weeping cut above his left eyebrow. 

“M’fine. Ran into some trouble. Handled it.”  

When your hand reached for his chin, he didn’t shy away, letting you turn his head one way and then the other. “Looks more like it handled you.” The archer scoffed and swatted at your arm. With a sigh, you braced yourself on shaky arms to force yourself up, caught off guard by his fingers pinching the three fabrics that covered you to pull them aside like Carol had earlier. You didn’t expect to see such a deep frown when you brought your attention to his face.

Pursing your lips, you sat back down and pulled down the collar of his undershirt, relieved that he had taped gauze over the wound you had opened on him. “I think I win, tiger. Besides, it doesn’t even hurt.”

“Don’t make it alright.”

You shrugged. “It does if I liked it.” You were hoping that would bring him some calm but that endeavor was cut short when you lurched to the side to once again heave futility. Daryl would find no protest when he scooped you up after you’d finished, saving you the journey back to the fireside. 

Your feet touched the ground just as everyone came into view. Did he not want them to see him carrying you? 

“Uh, here.” The archer’s fingers shook as he gently lifted your wrist and began to fit some sort of bracelet on it. “Couldn’t find the meds. M’sorry. Tried like hell. Turned that place upside down.” He looked so disappointed in himself. 

You examined the piece, a light pink band with symmetrically placed metal circles that fit snug, but not painfully so, against your skin. It was a strange piece of jewelry. “It’s pretty.” You stated honestly, not really knowing what you were supposed to say. The gift was appreciated and you liked it in all its uniqueness. It was just that Daryl offering you an apology in the form of a gift was new, for lack of a better term. 

The bowman snorted. “S’posed to use pressure points to help keep ya from feelin’ so sick.”

Somehow, that meant even more than an apology. He couldn’t find what you needed so he searched out an alternative. You were almost willing to bet that’s why he looked roughed up compared to the mere dirt and walker guts you could make out on the other three. 

“Ain’t gonna stop lookin’ though. M’a find that medicine for ya.”

You smiled at him, heartfelt and genuine. “You’ll find it and Thumper’ll be just fine.”

“Ain’t just—” Daryl trailed off, scratching at the back of head while not meeting your eyes. “Ain’t just ‘bout the kid, y’know.” You blinked, your eyes filling. Though some of his actions had hinted at it, hearing him say it was something else entirely. 

“Daryl, I—”

“Y/N!” Maggie was beaming at you while jogging over, immediately wrapping a soft hand around your forearm. “Come see!” She encouraged, all teeth and bright eyes. You glanced back to find Daryl already disappearing into the dark, the moment clearly over. 

You let yourself mourn it even as you plastered on a smile and turned back to allow her to lead you to the others. A short distance from the fire, a plethora of items were littered across a blanket. The eldest Greene daughter had already relinquished her hold and knelt above the supplies. 

“What is all this?”

“Well,” Glenn chuckled from beside Maggie. “Daryl had a list. We searched for medicine and clothes and food but that guy was in full dad mode.” Your heart fluttered but you continued to listen. “He had all this loaded by the time we came out with the other stuff.”

“We couldn’t find the meds though. Not yet but we’re going to stop in other places. We did find some IV bags and tubing though!” Her big eyes flitted down to the bracelet you were toying with unconsciously. “He went back in for those.” Maggie’s expression was incredibly soft. “We heard some other people. And there were walkers. We were loading the last of everything and he was just gone.”

“Looked like hell when he came out but had a bag of about ten of those things.” Glenn gestured to your wrist. “He didn’t know if they expired and really, we didn’t know what they were but he did. He said you might need them for a while after the baby comes.”

You were on the verge of tears, your hand closing around the contraption Daryl had fought so hard to secure. Maggie was already showing you clothing she had acquired, mentioning that you and Lori would need them.  There were boots and sneakers, a size larger than you usually wore. Bras, only regular ones. Nursing bras were a no-go but it would be a while before you needed those. They found few actual maternity items but things in larger sizes and some men’s items that could be used. 

“And then all this stuff Daryl grabbed. He said he didn’t know if he’d ever find it all again so he took all he could.” Rick had remained quiet up to that point, refusing to meet Lori’s eyes as he spoke. Definitely trouble in that paradise. 

The blanket held things you weren’t even sure about. Maggie explained the manual breast pump. There were bottles, nipples, pacifiers, orajel, one container of infant Tylenol, a container of infant gas relief drops, two packs of newborn diapers, three packs of wipes, several baby blankets, three healthcare kits, some clothes that were just so, so tiny. You were simply overwhelmed. Daryl, the provider for the group, had ventured off alone to find all he could think of for the baby, leaving the others to find supplies for the here and now. 

“How are we gonna haul all of this if something happens to the cars?” You bit down on your lip after speaking, still fighting the sting in your eyes. 

“I guess he thought of that too.” Glenn jerked his head to the right where several backpacks were piled up. “He said between all of us, we can keep everything here as well as any supplies the adults need.” It went unsaid how you all held onto hope that you’d have a safe place to stay by then. 

“Wow. How many places did you clear?”

“Four.” The young man answered immediately. “Dude had an agenda. He wasn’t coming back until he had everything on his list.”

“Oh! Here!” Maggie grabbed a thick winter coat and held it out. “He said you needed this. It was one of the things he refused to come back without.”

You were still stunned, swallowing it down behind feigned delight. “Okay, gimme some of those clothes.”

Daryl was leaning against a tree when you found him. You were in much warmer clothes and bundled deep inside the warm jacket that left plenty of room for the belly you’d be sporting soon enough. 

“Hey.” You greeted. He didn’t turn but grunted in reply. “Thanks for this.” You watched his eyes slide over when you gestured to the coat. 

“Warm enough?” 

“I feel like I am legitimately baking a bun in the oven.” You smiled brightly when he deadpanned at you with a mumbled stop. “Seriously, though. Thank you. For this,” you pulled up your sleeves to show him the anti-nausea bracelet, “and for this.”

He glanced over but then back out to the quiet wooded area. “It workin’?” 

You shrugged. “I threw up lunch but then I’ve kept water down so far.” His blue eyes finally turned to you and studied, sliding down and back, before he jerked his chin up in a nod and looked away yet again. Something was bothering him. That much was obvious. “Are you okay?”

“Mhm.” Daryl reached for the bag at his feet, pulling out a carton of cigarettes. He opened one end and pulled a pack free before dropping the box back into the bag. You could hear the plastic tear and the flick of the zippo but your eyes were on something else. 

Breaking the Cycle of Abuse: How to Move Beyond Your Past to Create an Abuse-free Future

You didn’t notice him move until he was zipping the bag with more force than necessary, moving it out of your sight as if you had X-ray vision. 

“You won’t be like them.” You didn’t know who had hurt him. Though he’d allowed you to see him without the thin armor of his shirt, he hadn’t offered any information. Not that there had been time. He sent you off to bed, took watch alone, and he was already gone before you even woke up. 

He took a long drag off the cigarette. “Don’t act like ya know anythin’ ‘bout it.” He stated evenly, smoke flowing from his mouth behind every word. It was difficult but you didn’t let his words sting. 

“I really don’t. My daddy was amazing. My mom wasn’t a monster. She was just—weak. Never had a boyfriend hit me or anything.” A hand came to rest on his shoulder but he shrugged it off. “But I can listen if you want to talk about it.”

“Nah. Ain’t needin’ my head shrunk.”

You noticed immediately that he gave no indication as to any of the people you mentioned being the one in his life to hurt him. There was so much you didn’t know about Daryl. So much he didn’t know about you. If one of you died after the baby came, how could the other possibly tell the story of the other parent with so many missing pieces. 

“Daryl?”

“What?” The archer didn’t snap at you but there was an underlying annoyance that you couldn’t miss if you tried. 

You sighed. “Nothing.” Tell me everything. “I think there should be food ready if we head back now. Corned beef hash, if I read the can correctly.” What are we?

“Ain’t hungry but you g’on. Ya need to eat. Need the food just s’much as the baby does.” It was a valiant but failed effort to offer you his portion of the meal. 

“You need it too.” Daryl looked so tired but it wasn’t just physical exhaustion. He had been racking his brain for anything that could make your life easier now and after the birth. A break was necessary. “And you need to sleep.”

“Said I ain’t hungry. Ain’t tired neither.”

“Bullshit.” Your patience was wearing thin, whether from hormones or just the simple grating of his petulance on your last nerve. “Not gonna beg you. Do what you want but I would feel a hell of a lot better if you’d take as much care of yourself as you try to for me and the baby.” You made a show of stomping away, hoping that he’d see how he was affecting you. 

The warmth of the fire began warming you within the coat before you had fully reached it. Carol was already filling a bowl for you and holding it out by the time you sat down. “Thank you.” The woman smiled and nodded, returning her focus to her own helping. You took a moment to regard the state of your stomach. It was uneasy, but only slightly. The abundant smells of food, burning wood, and a hint of body odor from close proximity weren’t making it worse. You decided to take the risk and shoveled a bite into your mouth. 

You had managed less than a third of the bowl when Daryl emerged from the shadows, nodding at Rick when they passed one another, the latter taking up watch with his bowl in hand. The hunter’s crossbow was placed on the ground before he took a seat next to you, your shoulders nearly touching. It was a gesture of vulnerability that the group either didn’t pick up on or didn’t care enough to acknowledge. But you did. 

Your bowl was placed in front of your criss-crossed legs so you could reach out and silently beckon Carol to fill another. Nodding your thanks, you offered it to Daryl, smiling in the face of his sneer. He wasn’t unaffected by your blatant desire to care for him, his distaste evident but not aggressive. He accepted the food and wasted no time before digging in, visibly forcing himself not to inhale the meal. 

He had been hungry. An invisible force squeezed your heart. He was already making sacrifices for his family, regardless of wherever it was the two of you stood. He was choosing you as a priority, eager for your health and comfort at the cost of his own. You’d have to watch him or he’d run himself into the ground. 

There wasn’t much left after a single serving for everyone but it was an unspoken agreement that what remained would be for you, Lori, or Carl. You managed to make it through most of your own serving, adding a little more on top while leaving enough for the kid and his mom to split the rest. You forced another two bites to at least support the appearance of initially wanting more. You hadn’t. You did want the archer to have more. He was careful to conceal it but you knew without asking that he had either trimmed his own portions of the few meals the group had managed or turned it down all together. And that simply wouldn’t do. 

You maneuvered your bowl above his in preparation to rake what you hadn’t eaten on top of what he was still working through. He pulled back, brow furrowed. “Eyes were bigger than my appetite.” You shrugged. 

“Give it to one’a them.” Daryl jerked his chin across the fire, holding your gaze while taking another bite. 

“There’s enough left for them. I want you to have this.” The tension that followed was brief. He gave in rather easily, offering his bowl with a heaved sigh. You didn’t gloat and spooned the rest out for him. “Thank you.” He replied with a grunt that really could have been interpreted as a growl. 

A promise was made to Carol to help her clean the mismatched bowls in the morning. You were tired; slightly nauseated and, for once, eager to close your eyes. Still, something bothered you. 

During dinner, you noticed the fine, almost imperceptible shivering. Despite his natural ability to act as a human space heater, Daryl was cold. He wore only his vest, long sleeve button up, and a tank top beneath. You pushed to your feet, feeling his eyes follow you. The supplies had been separated and placed into different backpacks, forcing you to go through three of them to find the blankets. Some were small receiving blankets while others were thick, large fabrics. You grabbed two of those and then one of the blankets for the adults. Those were limited to one per person, having been hard to find. 

You returned to his side without a word. The largest blanket was soon spread over the ground. You hoped he would take the hint and share the blanket, sparing him from the cold forest floor. 

Daring to push your luck, you took one of the larger baby blankets and spread it over his shoulders. Daryl tensed with a spoonful of food hovering just over the bowl, trembling so hard that clumps were falling back into the bowl. You watched his eyes dart from person to person, lingering on Carol as she smiled around her spoon. She kept her eyes straight ahead but had obviously seen your actions. 

The archer deflated slightly, pushing what remained on the utensil past his lips. You sat down on the edge of the blanket, leaving ample room for him to just shift over and lie down if he wanted. You, on the other hand, nearly collapsed onto your back before rolling onto your side to grab the other blanket. Your torso was warm under the jacket but the chill of the night air was still biting at your legs. Making sure they were adequately covered, you used one arm as a pillow, not even trying to fight the heavy call of sleep. 

In the haze of exhaustion, you faintly registered the warm body against your back and the gentle squeeze of a hand on your hip. 

The weather only became colder as the days wore on. The dead moved slower but in groups that grew larger, desperately in search of living flesh. There hadn’t been a single living soul in three weeks.  Everyone had moved on. And that meant that every stop had been cleaned out of anything useful. Anything vital to survival. 

Hershel did what he could to ensure that you and the baby remained as healthy as possible. Without the proper equipment, there was little he could do beyond checking your pulse, taking approximate measurements of your stomach. You took the meds when Daryl could find them; changed the bracelet when the one you wore didn’t seem to be as effective. Hershel would administer IV fluids as often as he dared while in constant motion to stay ahead of the gathering herds. At times you wondered if you or the baby would even survive after all. 

At twenty one weeks, you had most definitely—as Lori had put it—popped. While malnutrition and the complications you suffered ensured you struggled to maintain any sort of healthy weight, the small roundness of your abdomen remained prominent. Despite Daryl's protests, you continued to ride behind him on the bike, the bump pressed against his back, the only time you felt like you could offer any true safety for your baby. Protected by their father from the weather, the walkers. 

From the world. 

The current stop saw you vomiting beside the porch of the home the group was searching. Daryl was with you, quiet, one hand on your back and the other holding any hair away from your face. 

“Doc should give ya some’a them fluids.” His suggestion came quietly against your ear after you sagged against him. 

“Maybe at the next stop.” That was always your reply. Even when the archer had to pull the bike off the road for you to retch and heave. Maybe at the next stop.

You didn’t want to be the reason the group was held up. You continued to hold on until your legs buckled and your head clouded, always waking up with tubing in your arm and a worried bowman’s face hovering over yours. 

This was most likely going to be one of those times. You angled your head to look at him, his tired gaze on the front of your coat. The large size ensured the swell remained hidden. You both preferred it that way. If you ran into any hostile living, it wouldn’t be something that could be used as leverage. 

“How ‘bout this stop?” It wasn’t a request. Still, the command was strained at best. Daryl looked exhausted and drawn, years older than just two weeks before. 

There was still nothing defined about what the two of you had. He slept behind you at night, putting himself between you and any possible entrance, the curves of his body fitting into yours. His hand never ventured past where your hip met your stomach. There had been nothing sexual since the first night on the road, not even a kiss. 

The two of you never discussed where you stood. It was as if you just were. Together but not. Maybe he never wanted to discuss it because he was afraid of how badly he felt he was failing you. How he felt he was a terrible father before the kid had even taken their first breath. The times you had tried to reassure him, he had snatched up his crossbow and skulked away to hunt, a quiet bark of watch her to Carol. 

You didn’t offer him any of those reassurances that night. You preferred to have him close to you, that barrier between your baby and the world, instead of wondering if the sight of his back as he walked away would be the last you would see of him. 

As you laid there on top of your blanket in the run down house, IV fluids flowing into the back of your hand and Daryl breathing quietly at your back while his fingers flexed over the bony junction of your hip, you startled to feel the small flutter inside the swell of your belly. You carefully moved your hand over where the sensation originated, not wanting to alert Daryl just yet. Hershel had told you that the first movements would likely only be felt on the inside. 

That was indeed the case. Still you held your breath after each flutter, awaiting the next with tears flowing across your nose and down your temple. 

Your baby was moving. 

“Daryl.” 

His fingers stilled. “Hmm?”

“They’re moving.” You shifted to look over your shoulder at him. He had slightly raised his head, his brow furrowed. He looked over his own shoulder toward the people sleeping behind him. The only one up was Rick, his gun on his lap while his gaze was trained on the door. 

“Who’s movin’?” He looked so, so tired and your heart shattered, as it did anytime you looked at him lately. 

But this wasn’t the time for heavy hearts. 

“The baby. They’re moving.”

The change in the archer was gradual. Understanding finally blossomed in his expression, the dull veil that had glossed over his pretty blue eyes washed away with the wetness of his unshed tears. You gently wrapped your fingers around his and pulled his hand toward your belly, parting your coat so he could touch your warm skin with chilled fingers. You both knew he wouldn’t be able to feel it, but it didn’t stop him from crumbling, burying his face in your hair. You remained unsure if he was crying, even his stuttering breaths completely untelling. 

Still, his fingers squeezed yours over where your baby moved. 

And for one brief moment, the world around you was beautiful. 

[artbyblastweave]

Frederick Sinclair is a really interesting foil to Mr. House. I mean you start digging into this and it's just parallel after parallel after parallel. Start at the high level. House sinks inordinate amounts of resources into saving the city of Las Vegas - not the people, but the city- from nuclear destruction; as long as the stage endures, he can get anyone to wear the costumes. Sinclair sets up an entirely new "community" totally off-the-grid for the sake of protecting one woman, plasters that place with her likeness. House is a visionary with a 200-year action plan to rebuild society in his image, bootstrap space exploration, and construct an interplanetary empire; Sinclair sank everything he had into building the most secure facility possible for a woman who he knew was terminally ill anyway, just to ensure that her last few years lived in the aftermath of the nuclear apocalypse would be as comfortable as possible- there's a fundamental pessimism baked into what he was doing. Both House and Sinclair relied heavily on automated defensive systems and cutting-edge, esoteric technologies to accomplish their ends, but House built his power base on proprietary robotics and computing technology, much of which he personally designed- an outgrowth of his policy of never widening his circle any more than he absolutely has to. Sinclair, in his naive techno-optimism, outsourced his utopia, grabbing flashy third-party technologies like a kid in a candy store- opening a backdoor for the Think Tank to poison his city and ultimately getting everyone at the Gala Event killed when the holograms malfunctioned and went berserk.

Their management styles are inverse. House allows countless abuses to occur under his aegis because he subscribes to a libertarian-when-convenient philosophy where he doesn't much care what the little people do as long as he gets his cut and they don't rock the boat too much- a hands-off approach that fosters resentment amongst his subordinates, lets the White Gloves and Omertas get up to untold levels of fuckery while Freeside languishes and Benny conspires against him. Sinclair, by contrast, had a sincerely-held utopian-straight-edge safety-first micromanagement approach built into the very bones of the casino, he appeared to genuinely give a shit about the safety of the construction crew on the villa, and he was well-liked by nearly everyone who had any direct contact with him- and yet untold horrors also went down under his aegis, because his myopic focus on building the vault for Vera let Dean Domino and the Think Tank run circles around him, good intentions be damned. Their respective interpersonal dispassion and obsession are on display in how they react to betrayal. House's tone never rises above exasperation when it comes time to clean house of Benny, the Omerta Leadership and the White gloves; he treats them as problems to be solved, gears that are slightly out of alignment; By contrast, when Sinclair learns that Dean and Vera have been playing him, he channels the monomaniacal energy he previously directed towards protecting Vera towards the goal of building the perfect poetic-ironic death trap for her and Dean.

There are some other parallels in their personal lives. For one thing they both trusted a pastiche of a 40s lounge singer a lot more than they should have. They both tried to digitize, immortalize their girlfriends- and the discrepancy in how they went about it is telling. House's recreation of Jane isn't terribly robust, and in terms of House's overall project she's an afterthought. She's more a sock-puppet than a person, a sanded-down copy of a woman who died forever-and-a-half ago, forever agreeable, never saying no. Convenient. Only the most superficial visual elements preserved- an illustration of her face on a robotic chassis. Sinclair was obsessive in recreating Vera, preserving her likeness. It's all over the villa, her hologram is everywhere, her voice is everywhere. The terminal in the lightwave lab in Old World Blues reveals that he was still obsessed with getting her hologram right even after the love curdled into hate. All of it a monument to the real woman, and yet in all of it the real woman is still lost, buried under the mythologized projection. He didn't respect the real person enough to let her know that she was dying. A total failure of preservation from the opposite direction. (Except in the suites, where you can hear her very authentic dying pleas.)

You find both of them in their basements. House only looks a little better than Sinclair, but he's got much more of a voice in the narrative. He took steps to make sure he'd be around to tell you what he thinks about everything, fine-tuned the voice with which he speaks to the world, the face he presents. It matters to him that he gets to tell his own story. We find out a lot about House, from House; but for the kind of figure that he is, a shocking amount of what we learn about Sinclair comes from other people, people who knew him or wrote about him. The only image of him you can find is a downplayed element of a larger mosaic. The two documents you find that're written from his perspective have been buried for 200 years, and they're yards from his corpse. And the more recent of the two is an apology. I mean admittedly at the point where he wrote that apology Sinclair was personally turbofucked regardless. If the cloud didn't get him the holograms would have, or the radiation, or, or, or. You can read some level of ego into what he did in the face of that. But however futile it was, he died in the specific way that he did because he recognized that he'd done something awful, and he was trying everything he could think of to correct it. Somehow I find it very hard to imagine House doing either of those things- admitting fault or putting skin of his own in the game to make it right.

[kp-alice]

Who in sub!Ateez would feel most submissive… (pegging/m!top!reader)

On their back, legs spread wide to let you kneel between them while they clutch your arms and back with trembling hands. They're barely holding on while you steadily thrust inside of them, taking as much time as you want. They feel so exposed like this, all on display for you to take in with your hungry eyes - every rise and fall of their chest, every bite of their lip, and every unshed tear glazing over their eyes. They try to kiss you then, to take your eyes off them for at least a second. But even that proves to be in vain as you invade their mouth, exploring it with your tongue while they can't suppress their sounds anymore. No matter what they do, they're at your mercy the whole time, unable to hide their pleasure from you for even a second. They feel vulnerable, they feel seen, they feel loved.

Yunho, Mingi, Jongho

On their hands and knees, forced to arch their back for you while you fuck them from behind, making them take everything you give them. Their pleasure feels secondary, almost like an afterthought as you rock them back and forth, using them however you want. They wish they could at least see you, see the intense look in your eyes as you admire their beautiful body. Alas, all they can do is grip the sheets and hold on for dear life, moans and whimpers muffled by the pillows your hand is pressing them down into. It's primal, it's raw, it's intense. No words can describe just how much you crave them, but maybe your actions will.

Seonghwa, Hongjoong, San

On top, shakily supporting their weight on your chest while they put on a show for you. They can feel you so deep like this, dragging themselves up with tired thighs, only to then drop back down again and let gravity do the rest. You fill them so well every time, making them throw their head back and let out the most sinful moans imaginable. You let them do most of the work, really make them earn their release while you lay back and watch, enjoying the growing desperation in their eyes. And just when they start building a steady enough pace, your hand suddenly reaches up to pinch at their nipples, making them curl in on themselves with a pathetic whine. You're quick to remind them to keep going, though, gripping their hips and ass to help them resume their pace. How generous of you.

Yeosang, Wooyoung

A/N: This was just a little something I wrote on a whim while procrastinating on my other fics, hope you enjoy and remember, all feedback is very much appreciated!!

[throneofsapphics]

the arrangement 

Rowan/Lorcan/Fenrys x Reader

Summary: “You’ll take what I give you.” with Rowan, Lorcan, and Fenrys  

Warnings: degradation, hint of a size kink?, light d/s dynamics, foursome, small description of blood, Rowan’s biting kink of course, cockwarming, oral (m!receiving), brief m/m, slight objectification 

A/N: this is filth, that’s it. for this

Fenrys sat in an armchair across the room, his predatory gaze fixed on you. 

Rowan’s canine’s were grazing against your neck, tongue flicking over your pulse point. 

Lorcan’s hands covered your ribcage, his body firm behind you, his massive frame covering you enough your shadow didn’t reflect on the wall. 

“You’ll take what I give you,” his lips grazed your ear, “won’t you love?” 

“What we give you,” Fenrys corrected. 

“You’re not giving me anything right now,” you teased him. 

Lorcan roughly pinched your nipples between two fingers, whimpers falling from your lips, the mixture of pain and pleasure felt directly in your core, now starting to throb - nearly begging to be filled. 

“Fuck,” you breathed. Lorcan’s hand covered your mouth, forcing you to breathe through your nose, just as Rowan bit down on your shoulder, tongue running along the two small wounds, pinpoint of plain and pleasure. 

“You’ll be good and quiet, won’t you?” Rowan said as he withdrew, your blood staining his bottom lip, his tongue darting out to clean the drops, laughing at your muffled assent. 

“Get over here,” he called to Fenrys without looking at him. The other male snorted, but you saw him rise. 

Lorcan’s hand moved and you took in a deep breath, he still held you steady but Rowan had cleared the path - for Fenrys to head right to you. The newest addition to the arrangement you all enjoyed. You nearly stumbled as Lorcan finally released you, Fenrys’s arms steadying you, twisting you so your back faced him - so you faced the other two males. 

“Go on,” Rowan snapped - not at you. Fenrys’s edged laugh echoed in your ear as his fingers began undoing the laces of your dress with ease. Slowly, so damn slowly - to irritate the others, you figured, he lowered the fabric, revealing your bare skin inch by inch. 

“Beautiful,” he pressed a kiss to the side of your neck. 

“She’s not a delicate flower,” Lorcan snorted. “She’s a little slut, isn’t she?” he asked Rowan, completely ignoring you. Your cheeks reddened but arousal grew at the way they spoke of you. 

“The perfect little toy,” Rowan agreed. 

“Are you a good little toy?” Fenrys whispered. A whimper left your parted lips, your head fell back, resting against his chest. He chuckled, dropping the rest of the fabric, one hand trailing down the valley of your breasts pressing against your stomach to draw you closer to him. His touch was light, gentle even, but just as electric as the others. 

He bent one knee, drawing your thigh over it - baring you to them. Showing you off like a good little toy. Two fingers parted your folds, revealing the arousal dripping from you, already coating your inner thighs. 

“I think I want a taste,” he murmured. 

“Take it,” the two words were filled with your desperation, “please,” you added as an afterthought. It wasn’t the taste you wanted, but hearing him clean your arousal from his fingers was almost as good. 

-

Fenrys had his back to the headboards, your core gripping his cock, hands holding you in place, not letting you move although you desperately wanted to. Instead, you were watching the show in front of you. Lorcan said you’d take what they’d give you tonight, and apparently that was pure torture, watching, waiting, teasing, but nothing to send you into the oblivion of pleasure you desperately craved.  

Lorcan was on his knees, Rowan’s hands gripping his hair, but you who had the other at their mercy. Just as you were finally enthralled, as you knew Rowan was about to launch past that edge, Fenrys lifted you off him. 

You whimpered at the emptiness, but he was already turning you around, pushing you back to rest on your knees between his thighs, eyes drawn to your arousal covering his cock. Your tongue darted out to lick your bottom lip, eager to taste the two of you mixed together. 

“Go on,” you’d missed Rowan sneaking up behind you, but his hand already gripped your hair. “Tap twice if it’s too much,” he reminded you softly - the only softness you’d get tonight - before shoving you down, mouth opening to take Fenrys, to wrap your lips around him, sucking on his tip, tongue circling around him. 

Rowan snorted behind you. “You can do better than that.” 

A rough hand slapped your ass, Lorcan - Gods you needed to work on your awareness, launching you forward, taking Fenrys further, further, until he hit the back of your throat. 

Practice kept your gag reflex from activating, letting you take him as far as you could. Not very far with this angle. Rowan sensed it, what you wanted, arms looping under your shoulders, dragging you so your head hung off the side of the bed. 

“Take it or I will,” you heard Lorcan. 

[berryless]

Tav's touch is light and measured. Her short nimble fingers rake up his hair into an absolute mess of a birdnest in which he would never appear in public willingly, but the process of getting it is so infuriatingly pleasant, Astarion is stuck between tolerating the possibility of looking like Scratch struck by a lightning spell, and prying himself off Tav's lap.

Begrudgingly, he sacrifices the temporary perfection of his looks.

Tav hums above his head, face stuck in a spellbook, but her fingers never stop.

It's still bizarre to him how such act of intimacy can exist in and by itself, without being either prelude to nor an afterthought of sex. Unnerving even.

A part of him waits for the other shoe to drop, for Tav's touch to become more sensual, for her to beckon him to return the favor in only way he knows.

The shoe stays put, and that's the part Astarion finds most uncomfortable.

Thankfully, it's not like Tav never asks for anything in return. She frequently complains about how her legs weren't made for walking such great distances with rather unfriendly terrain, or whines about her headaches from overusing magic and losing too much blood (which is entirely his fault, Astarion has to admit). This 'give and take' approach to closeness puts him at ease, because he's used to treat intimacy as currency. It is an entirely safe act to exchange one form of closeness to another.

The problem with it is that the exchange is never even. The minutes spent, the effort wasted, they never seem to line up perfectly, leaving Astarion with a surplus and a debt to repay. Because he should repay it. Right? That's how it worked in all the time he remembers.

Every time he doesn't return exactly the amount he's taken, Astarion feels imaginary interest ticking up. It grows at a slow and steady pace, threatening one day to become bigger than he's ever able to return. Than he's ever willing? Will he be willing..?

Unable to do anything about it, Astarion tries to ignore it, as if when he doesn't think about it, the interest stops rising.

He never asked for this surplus, did he? And if Tav's so foolishly generous, who is he to decline? It certainly wouldn't be the first time for him to use someone's magnanimity and trust against them. He's long been numb to guilt himself about it.

And yet he keeps the tally and counts his debts, and waits, and waits, and waits until Tav will ask to round it up in a single payment. A final one, because it will be final when she'll ask for it. He'll cut his losses afterwards and will be careful to not end up indebted to her again.

Meanwhile, Tav's fingers scratch him just right, and Astarion practically melts from pleasure, his shamefully content face hidden in Tav's lap as shiver runs down his spine. Tav laughs when she notices it and playfully tugs on his ear.

The shoe stays put.

The debt grows.

Astarion ignores its existence.