#(for lack of a better descriptor)

[sublimerences]

One of my favorite details in death note is how near and mello both have their lackeys hold their phones for them. That’s it. That’s the post

[dreamsy990]

hi i wanted to draw my own au so have a snippet of scene i rewrote like 12 times and will likely rewrite again

[12thbiologist]

i think about how the biologist wants to be able to "appear sociable but still exist apart" every single day. every moment. its burned into my skull basically. its such a profound and relatable sentiment that only makes sense if you have lived that. its legendary. me too biologist. me too.

[poemtoken]

Travis fares well in the wilderness despite being one of only three and then two male figures after Javi’s death (we know this because he is the only one to make it out) by resigning himself to passivity. He and Ben exist as their own subgroup of outsiders to the team by way of the fact that they are outnumbered, but they also exists as foils of each other in their chosen methods of survival. Travis survives by assimilating into the wilderness and becoming passive in the face of violence. Ben chooses opposition and the maintenance of his own humanity over conformity.

The nature of the wilderness provides only one of two answers to the question of isolation: conformity or death, dealers choice! To conform is to survive but to lose touch with humanity and morality in the spiral of starvation because staying alive matters more than doing what is morally sound. To find a vocal justification for the unjustifiable as the steaks increase, and to be swallowed whole and enmeshed in the world and belief system of the wilderness. To isolate or deviate or disobey is to face its consequences. Jackie refuses to conform post doomcoming, mocking the gift of the bear. She then freezes. Javi leaves and upon return extends humanity to Nat in the gift of a place to hide only to drown leading her to safety and away from the impending inhumanity of the hunt.

Ben’s refusal to conform is so interesting to me for the contrast it creates in him. Conformity and cowardice, feel however you please about his proclivity for these traits, are hallmarks of his characterization made much more interesting by the fact that his defaulting to them is far from baseless. His cowardice, like Travis’s passivity is a mechanism for survival but more importantly, this is not exclusive to his time in the wilderness. Cowardice has always kept him alive. His rejection of conformity is different. For a brief period it is his saving grace, but ultimately it leads to his death in a culture of join vs. die.

His whole life pre-crash is spent making the safe decision in cycles of deprivation and self-retreat. An ever present default to palatability and inconspicuousness, not to perpetually worry or weigh the cost of social ostricization and all the ways it could ruin him. He is not himself, but he is safe. His separation from the group is the first time in his life when conformity is no longer synonymous with survival.

He knows that being their coach will not save him, and ponders his value to the group after being pushed out of his role as their authority figure which is deeply intertwined with his own loss of ability. He grapples with the notion that if he cannot be useful to them in the way that is expected of everyone else, he may not be useful at all. (I was scared, that I—maybe was next. That you guys didn’t need me anymore…) that could very well cost him his life. His trial is about many things, one of which being that he helped himself by leaving when he couldn’t help the team.

Return in a death sentence. He remains unchanged and frozen in time at the very moment he saw the pile of clothes and butchered remains of the youngest of the group. It’s the whole reason he kidnapped Mari (You guys killed and ate Javi, you really telling me I wouldn’t be next?)

Even more so, his refusal to conform is ultimately also a death sentence. He knows and has seen too much without giving into It’s urge and the team knows this. Shauna said it best: He’s not one of us and he hates that. It terrifies him. We are here, and alive because we fought to be here, and we fought to stay alive. His status as an outsider, the only outsider, makes him an enemy regardless of the fact that he is fighting to stay alive, too. His survival looks different than everyone else’s. To the group, it’s more-so about that fact that he isn’t part of the in-group. He is an outsider; becoming the carcass of the bear himself as the team becomes the pack of wolves he once warned them of in their cruel and inhumane treatment of him.

Cowardice was and remained, for him, a mechanism of survival. Fleeing and hiding had always come naturally in a world that expected it of him. Going against the status-quo in contrast to his usual method of survival and straying from passivity, taking action, only made danger and death more imminent in the end. It wasn’t the right choice, but it felt like the safe choice. The irony of it all is that the same as he thought he was making the safe choice in boarding the plane rather than confronting the realities of how authenticity would change his life, he believes he will once again find safety in his departure, only for his isolation to be the final nail in the coffin. Safe is never really safe.

[leslie057]

he not mgonna fall alseep

st textposts 1/?

[terminalkisser]

v2 is Without a doubt, the more "human" acting one in comparison to v1. it was programmed to have some social awareness. can read & respond accordingly to facial expressions. yet i do think it has some buggy instincts leftover from v1s code it cant help

[iridescent-lightning]

question: what's the last film you watched and what did you think?

statement: easter eggs are the best shape of chocolate and i should be allowed to buy a big hollow egg all year

Oooh. That's a good question, and unfortunately I don't remember the answer 😅 to be entirely honest I don't watch many movies or tv shows! I mostly just have various videos essays or astronomy college lectures on in the background while I make stuff. Keeps me sane.

...yeah chocolate eggs really do hit special don't they? Nothing quite like that first cronch. Gonna have to delve into my chocolate stash at work tomorrow now LOL (I've been really enjoying the Reece's eggs lately. Peanut butter. I'm too hungry for this 😭

For the art tax (stuff I do while half listening to youtube) have this Espeon I made! Patterned it up myself through Much Suffering... I really wanna make glaceon but I need a Very Specific Color that.. kinda just doesn't exist? So I had it printed on plain minky and it's now in the mail.

Anyway I can stop rambling now, thanks for the question and the 100% correct statement, friend!

[catenary-chad]

The thing that irritates me with people going along with canon’s inaccurate depiction of coach vs freight “classism” is, there’s completely practical reasons why passenger traffic is prioritized and passenger trains are cleaner and more concerned with appearance. Freight rail in the US and UK is heavily focused on bulk hard goods that aren’t time sensitive and can arrive days late without issue… there’d be outrage if that happened to passengers. Not to mention slow, impractically large freight trains obstructing passenger trains is such an issue in the US. Rocks and grain and cars don’t care about appearances or external dust either.

It’s like public vs non-public facing jobs. There’s no need to dress up to work in a factory or warehouse where nobody will see it and it’ll get dirty anyways. If you work front desk in a fancy hotel, yeah that you need to look good for. Though these days, the concern is more with just looking clean and attractive and visually identifiable vs luxurious. The marketing and design and propaganda of rail is its whole fascinating thing (and ties into toys since companies have sponsored ones based on themselves). See how many uncritical UP OCs there are vs how many people discuss their notoriously awful practices? Marketing at work.

And freight is by far the more profitable industry! Private freight rail can exist (it dominates the US lol) but private passenger rail almost inevitably fails time and time again because it’s so hard to turn a profit. Both industries are usually well-paid union jobs irl too, if anything money’s the last grievance employees have against US freight rail companies, it’s the unreasonable hours and almost no sick leave that are the problem

I’ve said it before but the more accurate divide is blue vs pink collar jobs. One is in unglamorous but profitable industries, the other is “softer” but usually needs government funding.

Also kind of irritates me when passenger rail (and electrification) is painted as a snooty rich coastal thing because come on dude. Rural communities SHOULD have passenger rail access and a number of them in the US have been fierce Amtrak advocates because of that. Even building that stuff in wealthier areas helps create economies of scale so it can be implemented better elsewhere. It reminds me of how left-wing politics are treated the exact same way.

(Another real, practical divide is fast vs slow trains in general, because that’s an issue in places like Germany where all freight trains have to be short and fast to keep up with the schedule and you have more perishables sent by train then)

[byanyan]

still thinking about byan having the softest of natural curl to their hair... but having the sort of natural volume that makes it look more intense than it actually is when their hair is the right length for it

[momo-shut-the-fuck-up]

Playin around in life makeover again

I got these contacts and im suuch a sucker for heterochromia man

I made this in the process of fuckin around w em but i dont have dyes for the jacket so its black and white in reality :(

Its more on brand for me than the other stylings methinks

[physalian]

How to make your writing sound less stiff

Just a few suggestions. You shouldn’t have to compromise your writing style and voice with any of these, and some situations and scenes might demand some stiff or jerky writing to better convey emotion and immersion. I am not the first to come up with these, just circulating them again.

1. Vary sentence structure.

This is an example paragraph. You might see this generated from AI. I can’t help but read this in a robotic voice. It’s very flat and undynamic. No matter what the words are, it will be boring. It’s boring because you don’t think in stiff sentences. Comedians don’t tell jokes in stiff sentences. We don’t tell campfire stories in stiff sentences. These often lack flow between points, too.

So funnily enough, I had to sit through 87k words of a ��romance” written just like this. It was stiff, janky, and very unpoetic. Which is fine, the author didn’t tell me it was erotica. It just felt like an old lady narrator, like Old Rose from Titanic telling the audience decades after the fact instead of living it right in the moment. It was in first person pov, too, which just made it worse. To be able to write something so explicit and yet so un-titillating was a talent. Like, beginner fanfic smut writers at least do it with enthusiasm.

2. Vary dialogue tag placement

You got three options, pre-, mid-, and post-tags.

Leader said, “this is a pre-dialogue tag.”

“This,” Lancer said, “is a mid-dialogue tag.”

“This is a post-dialogue tag,” Heart said.

Pre and Post have about the same effect but mid-tags do a lot of heavy lifting.

They help break up long paragraphs of dialogue that are jank to look at

They give you pauses for ~dramatic effect~

They prompt you to provide some other action, introspection, or scene descriptor with the tag. *don't forget that if you're continuing the sentence as if the tag wasn't there, not to capitalize the first word after the tag. Capitalize if the tag breaks up two complete sentences, not if it interrupts a single sentence.

It also looks better along the lefthand margin when you don’t start every paragraph with either the same character name, the same pronouns, or the same “ as it reads more natural and organic.

3. When the scene demands, get dynamic

General rule of thumb is that action scenes demand quick exchanges, short paragraphs, and very lean descriptors. Action scenes are where you put your juicy verbs to use and cut as many adverbs as you can. But regardless of if you’re in first person, second person, or third person limited, you can let the mood of the narrator bleed out into their narration.

Like, in horror, you can use a lot of onomatopoeia.

Drip Drip Drip

Or let the narration become jerky and unfocused and less strict in punctuation and maybe even a couple run-on sentences as your character struggles to think or catch their breath and is getting very overwhelmed.

You can toss out some grammar rules, too and get more poetic.

Warm breath tickles the back of her neck. It rattles, a quiet, soggy, rasp. She shivers. If she doesn’t look, it’s not there. If she doesn’t look, it’s not there. Sweat beads at her temple. Her heart thunders in her chest. Ba-bump-ba-bump-ba-bump-ba- It moves on, leaving a void of cold behind. She uncurls her fists, fingers achy and palms stinging from her nails. It’s gone.

4. Remember to balance dialogue, monologue, introspection, action, and descriptors.

The amount of times I have been faced with giant blocks of dialogue with zero tags, zero emotions, just speech on a page like they’re notecards to be read on a stage is higher than I expected. Don’t forget that though you may know exactly how your dialogue sounds in your head, your readers don’t. They need dialogue tags to pick up on things like tone, specifically for sarcasm and sincerity, whether a character is joking or hurt or happy.

If you’ve written a block of text (usually exposition or backstory stuff) that’s longer than 50 words, figure out a way to trim it. No matter what, break it up into multiple sections and fill in those breaks with important narrative that reflects the narrator’s feelings on what they’re saying and whoever they’re speaking to’s reaction to the words being said. Otherwise it’s meaningless.

—

Hope this helps anyone struggling! Now get writing.

[straighttohellbuddy]

thinking about Lovejoy describing themselves in three words as 'Aromantic British Noises'

thinking about Lovejoy describing themselves in three words as 'Aromantic British Noises'

thinking about how the idea of aromanticism isn't nearly as widespread as it is on Tumblr/various other corners of the internet

thinking about how most people would probably assume the use of Aromantic as a descriptor would imply a lack of any kind of love or romance or close interpersonal relationships in their music which is INHERENTLY NOT TRUE

thinking about Lovejoy choosing Aromantic specifically, confident enough in understanding the actual concept/culture of aromanticism to describe their entire band

thinking about the potential for there to be someone(s) in Lovejoy who is either on the Aromantic spectrum or has considered it as a possibility and has researched it to understand it (and maybe themselves) better

thinking about hard about Lovejoys songs and realising that despite a few having vaguely romantic or implied romantic connotations, you could absolutely do an aro-spec reading of their whole discography

thinking about Lovejoy becoming part of Aro Culture in my heart

thinking about being aro-spec myself, and how id consider the term 'lovejoy' to still very much be my vibe despite that.

thinking about self described Aromantic British Noises, Lovejoy.

thinking about Lovejoy.

💚💚🤍🩶🖤

[official-linguistics-post]

hello! i do not mean to be rude when i ask this, i am just curious as a neo-pronouns user and polyglot. i saw your last anon, and i just wanted to understand- what is the “linguistic” stance on neo-pronouns? (I was a bit confused by the last paragraph of your response and i wanted to better understand) /gen

i can't speak for the field at large but my personal stance is that neopronouns are fucking cool!

linguistically, pronouns usually fall into what is called a "closed category" of words—that is, there's not a lot of new material, and it can be hard to make new ones stick. think of something like articles in english: all we've got is a/an and the. innovation doesn't really happen in that grammatical space. (note that "closed" is a descriptor, not a mandate. nobody's checking IDs on that gate.)

neopronoun users are therefore facing a double challenge: to be socially recognized as valid in a world that is often hostile to gender innovation, and to have their pronoun paradigm(s) adopted as natural. many people struggle with learning neopronouns from simple lack of exposure because it does take practice to be able to use an uncommon paradigm fluidly regardless of your intentions.

so yeah please keep on keepin' on. it's not an easy battle to fight, but the more we're exposed to the concept and practice, the more likely it is to become accepted both socially and grammatically.

[grandisknight]

at your service | rafayel

summary: Gaining the upper hand in Kitty Cards has its benefits, which solely consist of making the loser (Rafayel) comply to the winner’s choice.

tags: nsfw (mdni), established relationship, kitty cards (derogatory), teasing, gn!reader (no specific descriptors), 'miss bodyguard' name mention, thomas mention, maid!rafayel, sub!rafayel, costumes, roleplay, maids, photography, kissing, praise kink, ‘master’ kink, brief mouth fucking, finger sucking, handjobs, m!orgasm, ejaculate, implied/suggestive ending

wc: 3.0k | ao3 | kinktober in deepspace masterlist

a/n: don't ask me what happened but just know i will die on the hill that is maid!rafayel

You couldn’t believe your luck. 

And Rafayel couldn’t understand his lack of it. 

The Evol kittens were no better in-between the two of you—some were happily purring or fast asleep, comfortable in their colored teacups. More importantly, unbothered and unaware of the two players on opposite spectrums in their aftermath.

Out of the nine creatures, an overwhelming majority belonged to you. After a long, arduous dual and third round sweep, you had overshadowed Rafayel with a score of thirty-two points to his measly eight sum. He held a quarter to your victory.

“This game sucks,” Rafayel sulks. His frown mirrors one of the red Evol kittens closest to him, rounded tears blobbing down its cheeks. Both defeated, worse for wear at the outcome.

You let out a small laugh. “You say that, and yet you still play with me every week.” 

You poke the cheek of a cheery green Evol kitten, who nudges against your touch in turn and meows. “Isn’t that right, little fella?” It delightfully purrs back at you, the accordance only rubbing more salt into Rafayel’s poor wound.

“Hmph.” He doesn’t fight you there, chin resting in the palm of his hand and averting your teasing gaze.

You collect your hand and his, returning all cards to the discard pile with a satisfied hum. No sooner did a café worker come by to clear your table, leaving the two of you to your devices.

“And you know what that means, don’t you?” You lean forward, reaching to his sulking demeanor. Catching the sleeve of his blouse, you lightly pinch the silk between your fingers, putting on your own petulant expression. “Unless you forgot so soon.”

As long as he breathed and lived, it was actually Rafayel who would constantly have to remind you of things said and done in the past. Less of the forgetful one between you, he takes pride in his memory retention.

Even so, he couldn’t stay upset with you for so long. His shoulders relax at the sound, back straightening and taking your hand into his. A scoff of, “Puh-lease, of course I remember,” answers your questions.

“Loser does what the winner wants,” he tacks on in confidence. 

It was the terms agreed upon when stepping into Meow Meow Café earlier that day—he didn’t think much of it at the time, confident he would win today’s rounds. 

But, that wasn’t the case. Right. You won the first, he the second, and as for the third…

Rafayel pauses then, dual-chromed eyes now narrowing in suspicion. “Wait a minute. I’m the loser.”

You nod, a grin plastered to your face. “Today you are, yeah.”

“And you’re the winner,” he follows up. 

(If you look close enough, you could make out swirls of equations and calculations floating around his head.)

“Two for two, you’re absolutely correct.” With a gentle tug and rise from your seat, you string along a bewildered artist in tow. 

It came altogether then. A sense of dread at your unrevealed schemes quickly fills his tone, face already draining of its color. “Oh no,” Rafayel groans.

“Oh yes,” you chirp. “I have a wish that needs to be granted, and you’re going to help me out!”

—

“Are you sure you don’t need my help?” 

You stood outside the bathroom door, which was currently (and firmly) locked from within. Not that you were going to barge in unannounced, but surely it warranted some concern when Rafayel hadn’t stepped a single foot out since entering. Only the rustles of clothing and hushed utterances echoed the acoustics of tiled walls; you couldn’t really make out any of the finer details otherwise.

And it’s been ten minutes.

You clear your throat, wondering if he missed the first time you called out. “Ra—fa—yel—“

The door swings open then, the man of the hour greeting you with, “Yeah, yeah. I hear you.”

It took a second to register his reappearance, and your mouth fell slack taking him in. “Woah,” you breathe out in awe.

No longer in his casual blouse and accompanying slacks, the artist stood before you in a newly picked attire. 

White knee-high socks stuck to his calves, with the edge of their supporting garters partially hidden and neatly wrapped all the same. A frilled apron of ivory linen rested neatly above his kneecaps, blanketing the black satin of a dress in an equally-met length underneath. Sleeves puffed around his shoulders, and a pointed collar was tastefully unbuttoned in fashion—undoubtedly of his own doing, revealing the flush of his chest and collarbone that homed one of his many beauty marks.

To which, he instinctively covers up with a defensive cross of arms and ears tipped in a bright red. Embarrassment follows his rather meek stance. “So like, that’s all, right? Can I take this off now?”

You take a step closer, hands clasped behind your back in observation and hum. It was well-fitted to his body, hugged neatly in all the places where it mattered. Thomas came in clutch when you asked him the other day, catching him at Flux Arts during one of the slower viewing hours. 

“His measurements?” The agent pondered your request. A couple swipes to his tab later, he adds on with a smile, “Sure thing. If it’s for Rafayel’s sake, then I’ll send them over.”

A little secret kept between the two of you, unbeknownst to the wearer. It was probably for the best, you wouldn’t hear the end of his moping otherwise.

Rafayel whines under your scrutinizing gaze that was lost in thought. “Hey—“

“Not yet,” you say with a shake of your head. “Indulge me for a while more. You took forever in there all by yourself, anyhow.”

You reveal a matching headdress between your once hidden fingers, a row of pleated ribbon swiftly placed amongst his wavy locks. The final piece of the puzzle, a maid in all his glory and in the comforts of your humble abode. A sense of glittering pride holds your gaze to his.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he points out.

Your shoulders raise in a slight shrug. “Of course I am, it’s the winner’s right.” A hand trails down to the curve of his jaw, holding the face that continues to pout. With a light snicker and compliment in attendance, you tell him, “You look very cute, by the way.”

Rafayel’s pout twitches for a second, slyly revealing his enjoyment to the compliment. He clears his throat, saying, “Yeaaah right. Take a picture, I’m sure it’ll last longer.”

Oh, but he spoke too soon. His eyes widen when you actually take out your phone, much to his better judgment. “Hold on, you’re not planning on really keeping a memo, are you?”

“It would be a shame if I didn’t,” you counter. He said so himself—might as well take his word for it.

Swiping to the camera app,  you position the lens inches away and see his furrowed brows through the viewfinder. You gently tug him forward, fingers fully curled underneath his chin. On the other hand, he purposefully sways back and forth in an effort to blur your captures.

You tsk. “The more you squirm, the longer I’ll have to keep trying to take a shot.”

“What, you don’t like my blurry faces too? They’re all handsome,” he huffs. Though a squish to his cheeks cuts him short, stilling him long enough for a ring of shutters to seal the deal.

“Alright, alright,” you coo to console his woes. “I think I managed to get a good one.” 

You lower the phone in observation, scrolling through the new gallery additions. The flurry of dark lavender and hazy skin aside, a few select shots captured the paused moment of time where he did behave. 

Device neatly tucked away into your back pocket, your attention turns back to the subject of your newest wallpaper. Even if this was a reward for you, he deserved just as much in compensation. 

A soft kiss to Rafayel’s jutted lip melts some of his tension, brows no longer scrunched together. You smile at his relaxing shoulders and opening arms when you give another. 

You shower him in adoration, butterflied smooches and his closing eyes soon pressing against the closest wall. Your hands run over the frills of his skirt, smooth to the touch and gently laid out atop his thighs. The barrier of fabric did nothing to hide the amount of warmth emanating through, the effect of your touches having a clear reaction on him. 

You wondered if there was more to be seen—only one way to find out.

Shifting, you drag your lips away from his and to the sweet spot where his jaw and earlobe meet. You ask in a low voice, “So, what do you think?” His blush steadily follows into the very space, worsening when you blow gently over the affected skin. “Dressing up like this for me.”

“My thoughts?” 

Whether it was in disbelief or furthered embarrassment—perhaps a fine condition of both—Rafayel could only exhale. You could feel his legs pressing together in unspoken confirmation, and a bashful turn of his head carries his murmur of, “What do you think I’m thinking about when you touch me like that?”

“Well,” you trail off. “I’d rather show and not tell.”

In a blink, your fingers bunch up the skirt fabric into messied pleats that reveal the answers you sought after. And it truly was a lovely sight to see—you let out a low whistle, impressed at the state he’s in. Through the sheer lace of white trim, a curved tip as red as his ears was weeping quietly, soiling the undergarment dutifully.

“Don’t look,” he whines, attempting to cover up his hardened arousal with the satin.

“Would you prefer if I touched instead?” You tease, catching his wrist in apt timing. You guide his hand over where his body couldn’t lie, and he noticeably twitches. “Oh? Maybe you prefer touching yourself.”

“I can’t do that,” Rafayel weakly counters. It breaks into a low moan when you slowly inch him closer to the beads of precum pulsing past his slit. He hisses when your thumb slips against it, purposefully smearing his come against the lace. “You’re so, so mean, Miss Bodygu—“

“Ah, not so fast.” You tut, drawing back and a string of his arousal follows. He gasps at the unexpected loss, protests shaping his lips before you continue your turn. “That’s not my proper title.”

Confusion tints the hues of red and blue that, already, were far dipped into the seas of lust. “I call you that all the time though.” 

In hindsight, you are his Miss Bodyguard. Have been, for months on end, and with generous bank statements stamped with his name as a source of proof. One who graciously accompanies him when your schedules allow it, to even sightseeing trips for both business and pleasure.

He pauses, then notably gawks with the cogs of realization spinning. “You… Don’t tell me, you want me to call you that?”

It wouldn’t be the first time this particular name has come up in conversation, but the circumstances were vastly different. You bring your soiled thumb to his lips, swiping it across and allowing it to settle into a thin layer of gloss. 

“You can’t be serious,” he says.

“Sorry, are you talking to me right now? I only listen to those with manners.” His eyes only grow in size, yet you feign indifference to it. Of course you would hear him out—though only with the proper name.

Ignorance was never bliss, but rather a crude form of torture for Rafayel. “M… m…” The word laid on the tip of his tongue in a hesitant sound, before a quick mumble follows.

“I can’t hear you.” Your fingers curl themselves once more in a grip over his chin, directing his gaze to go nowhere else but to you. And your eyes were steadfast, committing his flustered face to memory.

“Speak up,” you encourage.

The air above sea had never felt so suffocating yet enticing all at once. Rafayel couldn’t help but enjoy the heat, and the root cause of it, to which he says in a low groan, “Master.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” Your faceted praise comes with a tilt of his head and a kiss to reward his newfound diligence. He sighs into your warmth that welcomes him, though it shifts to a whine when you pull away too soon.

Rafayel nudges your nose with his, a pity show pooling in his eyes. “More, Master.”

“More of what, exactly?” You contemplate, before a decisive, downwards push of his lacey underwear has him sighing. 

His length stood proud against his abdomen, way past a softened state, firm and twitching to the exposed air. You draw a fine line from base to sensitive head, gauging his reaction. The other hand toys with the closest garter on his thigh, fingers dipping past the fine leather. “My sweet Rafayel,” you purr. “What should I do with you?”

“Want you to touch me,” he strains, an edge of impatience to confession. His lips move to mouth at your collarbone, no longer hiding his neediness and taking it in stride. It was rare for you to see this side of him, so vulnerable yet entirely reserved for you—a face he wouldn’t dare show anyone else.

Rafayel spoke with heat in his voice and hazy stars in his eyes. “Master, please. I swear I’ll do anything you want.”

“Anything,” you muse, squeezing his thigh thoughtfully. “And all you want me to do is touch you.”  You can’t help but chuckle when his enthusiastic nod only adds to your point. 

You could see his illusory fox ears flatten in disappointment when you pull away, against his wishes. He lets out a small yelp when your fingers release the garter and smack against his skin.

“Master, I—“

“Open,” you instruct, fingers searching his lips once more. 

And Rafayel does, choking a moan when you place them against his tongue. Carefully, you stroke his warm cavern, to which his mouth closes around and sucks with zeal. He swirls his tongue against the pads of your fingers, determined to please you.

His canines briefly graze your skin when you depart with a faint string. Now finely coated in a layer of his saliva, you dip your hand downwards—curling the sticky fingers around his nearly-neglected cock. Rafayel cants his hips immediately, supporting the salaciously wet noises that echo in tune. 

You squeeze his length in warning, pressing the other hand to his abdomen. “Stay still,” you scold, feeling him contract beneath your pressure. “If you can’t follow a simple order, I’ll leave you high and dry.”

“No, no, no,” he whimpers, shaking his head adamantly. His hands grip the skirt, desperate and knuckles almost turning white from their strength. Something to keep him grounded, to make sure he listens well to his beloved—“Master, I won’t move, promise.”

You purse your lips. “We’ll see about that.” 

Up and down, you tenderly attend to his arousal in generous strokes. Steady rubs and an occasional swipe to his sensitive head last for what feels like an eternity to Rafayel. He was so well-behaved when his orgasm was threatened, all in the palm of your hand.

“You’re close,” you observe with a particularly firm flick, “Aren’t you?”

“Mhm, ‘m very close,” Rafayel quickly admits, his breaths ardent and changing in pitch. He looked so beautiful like this, prettily wrapped around your fingers and a sweet song of your name resonates from his throat. 

Abandoning the languid strokes, you angle your elbow to reach him sooner—faster. “A good, honest boy,” you coo. His blush only deepens at the sound, and his keens grow in volume. You’d apologize to the neighbors later. 

“Should I let you come?” You ask knowingly.

“Master, Ma—ah—ster,” he cries out. “Can feel it, I’m about to—“ A tear rolls down his cheek, matching the one threatening to bead past his slit. “Please, please.” Overwhelmed and in a desperate need for relief, Rafayel’s expression stirred a flame within you.

“Let it out,” you coax, pace unrelenting and threatening to cramp your fingers. The finish line was only a step away, and you say with a smile, “Do it for me. Come undone, my little maid.”

Blissful orgasm wrecks his body, accompanying his labored whines and pearls of white leaving his spent cock. Both the fabric of his outfit and your hand became victims to the viscous liquid, with the air equally met with nothing but the scent of it. 

Rafayel was boneless by the time he was nothing but dribbles of cum and a wrinkled skirt, slouching against the wall.

Your dry hand finds its way to his face, kindly stroking his cheek and adding a kiss to his relaxed brow. “You did so well, Raf.”

“Course I did,” he manages to jest in a hoarse voice. He eyes the state of his clothes and your dirtied hand, to which he nods towards. “Give me your hand.”

“What?” You look down, before raising it between your faces. It glistens, brought to the light and sinking into the creases of your skin. “Why—Ah.” 

Obediently, Rafayel takes your fingers dripping in release to his mouth. He licks in strides at the leftovers as if it were a swirl of ice cream on a hot, summer day.

“Cleaning up the mess you made,” you muse, though make no movement to stop him. “What a dutiful maid I have.” 

He nips your now unsullied fingertips at the comment. His hold on your wrist brings you closer—you stumble unexpectedly, letting go of his face to steady a hand to his chest.

“Raf—“ Your voice stutters when you feel his knee rub between your legs. Purposeful and angled, the pressure stokes the forsaken flames in your abdomen. “Rafayel,” you breathe, attempting to collect your bearings. 

“I hope you know I won’t easily forget all the things you’ve done,” Rafayel murmurs, eyes glimmering in mischief. “I won’t let you off easy, Master.”

[lovesick-desires]

VALETUDINARIANISM

YANDERE!VIKTOR X IMMUNOCOMPROMISED!READER — CHAPTER THREE

‎‎‎‎PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⇠ ✩ ⇢ NEXT CHAPTER [THE END]

ABSTRACT: On arrival to the commune, you learn their blissful ways of life that could be yours: one without pain or suffering. However, that wouldn't last for long... CONTENT WARNINGS: major character death, yandere behavior, mass death, coercion, murder, self-hatred (Viktor), god complex (Viktor), swearing, mentions of apocalyptic outcomes, mentions of war TAGS: gender neutral reader, major season two spoilers, minor canon divergence, utilization of other canon characters in the plot, use of Google Translate for Czech, no descriptors for reader, no use of "y/n", slight JayVik if you squint, maybe ooc Mel and Jayce (not sure), lack of Viktor in this chapter but dw he will be more prominent in the next one, semi proof read (N)SFW?: SFW WORD COUNT: 3.2k+ VIKTOR'S YANDERE ARCHETYPE: delusional, protective

Through the decrepit streets of the Undercity, The Machine Herald sauntered beside you, leading you back to the commune. The cerulean light from the midnight moon basked both your forms, its crescent body hanging among the twinkling stars that were meticulously dappled over the canvas of the midnight sky. With the bottle of pills clutched in your digits and his cane in his, you two walked in silence in the nightly solace. The cacophony of Zaunite nightlife and bar fights dissipated as the symphony of nature faded in as you two drawing closer to the commune.

Maybe things wouldn't be so bad, maybe you were just overreacting, maybe... just maybe, Viktor was right.

"Are you afraid of me, miláček¹?" Viktor muttered, his voice percolating his lips. His whisper garnered your attention, your gaze flickering up to the man beside you.

"Fear is... not exactly how I feel, Machine Herald. I'd say... uncertainty would be better." You carefully replied, your words well thought-out. This elicited an affirmative hum from the healer, the clicking of his cane following.

"Rozumím²," Viktor muttered, halting at the gate of the commune before you two. His kaleidoscopic eyes shifted to meet your gaze, a soft glimmer in them from the moon above. "You are uncertain of the future then, yes?" He added, his voice warm as the corners of his lips turned upward. You stood beside him as you gave him a small nod.

"You can understand my... reluctancy, right? I mean, this whole thing it just feels like it's—"

"Too good to be true, yes?" Viktor interjected, rotating his torso to face you. "I thought so too. I thought that things could never get better for me due to my weak, fragile, human form. I felt that I was going be six feet under before I could even turn 35, to be honest." He lamented, his gaze shifting to his cane. The healer stood in silence for a moment, his digits squeezing around the cane in his palm. His brows knitted together as his gaze hardened.

"I was bounded by the limits of my flesh and bones, the blood pumping through my veins, my viscera within, and in short, my humanity." Viktor muttered, somatophobia evident in his tone. "It was nothing but a hinderance to my true potential. Therefore, I sought to better it by any means necessary." Viktor declared, gazing out at the commune, fixing his posture as he gazed upon his creation. With a reluctant hand, you place it upon the healer's shoulder, garnering a soft gasp from him.

"Are you... glad you did?" You questioned, looking over at The Machine Herald.

"Glad is... not exactly how I feel, I believe that empowered would be better in that use." Viktor proclaimed, taking a step closer to the commune as your hand slipped from his shoulder. "Before, I felt powerless and febrile, but now, I feel as if I can do anything. I have healed so many people, so many ailments and disabilities." Viktor added triumphantly. With this, his colorful eyes gazed back towards you, a soft smile graced his pale lips.

"And I hope you become one of the people I have healed. I believe it will be... glorious" Viktor spoke softly, his voice laced with honey.

To this, you nodded, smiling softly back.

Two days had passed since you decided to give the commune a try. It had been a fresh breath of fresh air in your aching lungs, seeing people live so peacefully without fear or pain. The more and more you saw, the more you wished to join them. However, you gave yourself three days to make sure you were certain. This was a big life decision after all. It was an idyllic little commune, or so you thought.

You were helping some of the soup kitchens prepare food for the nightly supper when you felt an all-familiar burning in your lungs, causing a series of coughs to erupt from your throat. Others looked at you with concern and worry, one of the commune's chefs came up to you, assisting you into a chair as you dug in your pocket for your pills. Soon enough, your fingers wrapped around the pill bottle, fishing it out with ease as your throat burned with agony. Opening the bottle, you quickly pulled out one of the five, leaving the last four. You figured there was no need to refill them at this point as you most likely would never need them again in a days time.

Slipping the pill under your tongue, the chef rubbed your back with concern, others gazing at you with concern and whispering among themselves. Over the course of the next minute, the pain slowly seized as you took some deep breaths.

"Are you okay?" The chef questioned, his brows knitted together in concern. With a sniffle, you nodded your head, watching as the other members went back to their tasks, talking amongst themselves in hushed whispers. You could feel the judgement from the dissipating crowd as you rose to your feet, brushing it off.

"I-I'm okay, thank you." You spoke to the chef, adjusting your posture.

Besides the occasional judgmental individual, you felt like you could fare well in this commune. People were so nice and accepting, the land and food was plentiful, and you felt like you could genuinely get better if you accepted Viktor's blessings.

A flash bright light from outside followed by a loud bang filled your senses, causing your blood to run cold. Something was very wrong. Rushing out of the food tent, you gazed out at the center, concern brewing in your chest. A large eruption could be seen from the orb as if a large hole had been blasted through it. Remnants of the orb floated in the air amidst the eruption.

Looking around at the commune members who seemed to be just as confused, the fingerprint markings on their bodies from Viktor's healings began to glow a bright white. One by one, people began to collapse, dropping to the floor like flies with eyes wide and mouths agape. Your breathing quickens as you watch everyone collapse one by one, some still on their knees as soft beams of golden light emit upwards from their markings.

What the hell is going on?

You gaze back at the orb to see a man sneaking out of it while wielding what appeared to be some sort of large hammer. His golden eyes looked around frantically as his chapped lips let out soft gasps as he seemed to be running from the orb. Without thinking, you ran after the mysterious man, your legs sprinting to catch up as you chased him towards the edge of the commune, to get some sort of answer to this madness.

"Wait!" You cried out, alerting the man whose boots slid against the dirt road to a halt. His head snapped back to your direction, his deep brown hair laid in thick strands on his tan forehead.

"How are you not turned into—"

""Who are you? Everyone just collapsed! What was that loud boom? What the fuck is going on?" You proclaimed, your words frantic and panicked. As if just to add on to the calamity, a loud roar could be heard from the commune's center, garnering both of your attentions. To this, the mystery man's thick brows knitted together as his hand rested on your shoulder.

"Come on, we don't have much time!"

"You didn't answer my questions—"

"I'll explain everything after we get out of here, come on!" The man proclaimed, gesturing you to follow him.

Feeling like this was your only option, you quickly followed the man, letting the roaring of whatever monster back there fade into the distance. You could feel your heart pounding in your ears, the stress causing hot saliva to pool in your mouth. Your lungs began to feel that dreadful burn but you keep pushing it down, trying your best to suppress it once more.

As if the world was trying to play a cruel trick on you, you tripped over your own foot, falling to the floor with a grunt. This gained Jayce's attention who screeched to a halt, running back to grab your hand, helping you to your feet. You felt your lungs giving out as you weakly stood, knees buckling and breaths wheezing. As if on instinct, the man scooped you up in your arms, carrying you bridal style as he kept running.

"Come on, stay with me, we're almost there." The man grunted through gritted teeth. "Once we get there, I'll explain everything." He added, adjusting his grip on you in his arms. You tried to reach for your pills in your pocket but the man's grip inadvertently restricted your movement. Your lungs and throat burned like hell as you tried to remain conscious. However, the pain eventually became too much and you shut your eyes to be greeted by pure black.

beep...

You could hear a faint beeping fade in. You felt warm and safe, covered in some sort of blanket.

beep...

"Who are they?" A warm feminine voice spoke up, one vaguely familiar to you.

beep...

"I don't know, they just ran up to me after... you know." The voice of the mystery man from earlier declared.

You could feel some sort of needle lay stagnant in your arm that slowly pumped liquids into your bloodstream.

beep...

"Jayce, we have no idea who this person is or what their intentions are."

You could feel a tube in your nostrils, blowing cold air into your respiratory tract.

beep...

"With all do respect, Mel, they looked scared. I couldn't just leave them there. Besides, they weren't... you know... 'healed' by Viktor yet."

Healed? Did he mean the healing caused all of this?

beep...

You could feel your fingertips as you began to move them a little, trying to wake yourself up from this episode of sleep paralysis.

beep...

"They're waking up." The woman, presumably named Mel, spoke informatively.

beep...

Slowly, you felt your eyelids get less heavy, allowing them to slowly open. Your vision was flooded with a bright white light, causing you to wince at the change of scenery. Soon enough, the white faded and you were greeted with two faces looking down at you: one familiar and one not.

"You're awake" The woman stated, her hazel eyes scanning your person. Your eyes gazed around, realizing you were in some sort of infirmary. But this was most definitely not like Zaun. The room was clean and well kept, unlike the dilapidated hospitals in the Undercity.

"Where are we?" You croaked out, slowly sitting up as the tan nasal cannula slipped from your left nostril.

"You are in an infirmary." The mystery man, presumably named Jayce, explained.

"I'm aware of that, but where? This is not like any infirmary I have seen." You rasped, adjusting the nasal cannula. The two other individuals exchanged glances before looking back at you.

"You are in Piltover's main infirmary. Do not worry, you are safe here." Mel declared, sitting on a chair at your bed side. Piltover? How the hell did you get in Piltover? Mel seemed to pick up on your confusion, resting her hand on your shoulder. She looked up at Jayce who had his brows knitted in concern. "Want to explain what happened to them, Jayce?" She queried, glancing up at the now more well-kept man who was now wearing a black form-fitting professional shirt instead of the raggedy white coat from earlier. Jayce cleared his throat before beginning.

"I found you at Viktor's commune after... what happened... and we were running but you collapsed. I tried to keep you awake but you started coughing and gasping before passing out. I luckily got you here in time and used one of those pills from that pill bottle in your pocket on you. You were really out of it for a while as I ran you to the infirmary and now we're here." Jayce explained, his voice laced with worry. Wait... Viktor. What happened to him?

"Where's Viktor?" You questioned, your brows knitting together in slight confusion. This seemed to bring an air of tension to the room as Mel sighed shakily.

"Viktor... is dead."

What?

"How?" You questioned, looking at Mel then at Jayce. Jayce's face looked crestfallen as he averted his gaze to the floor.

"I did what I had to do." Jayce proclaimed, still holding his hammer at his side. In his other hand, he held a small silver gear that seemed to be dappled with multiple colors, spinning it slowly in his fingers. The room fell into heavy silence as if all of us were processing something in the inner machinations of our minds. "It was for the greater good, even if Viktor was my partner." Jayce commented, pocketing the gear. Partner in what context? You had no idea, yet you felt like you shouldn't ask that in this moment. It was obvious Jayce was close to Viktor in some context and did what he did out of some form of necessity.

"I... I see..." You muttered, slowly taking the nasal cannula out of your nose as you felt like there was no longer a need for it.

"Were you close to Viktor?" Jayce queried, resting the head of his hammer on the floor as a sort of support.

"Not particularly, no." You spoke up, sitting up straight in the bed.

"So why were you at the commune? And why aren't you... healed?" Jayce interrogated, his thick brows knitted together.

"Well, Viktor had convinced me to stay three days to see what it was like before I made my decision." You proclaimed, swinging your feet over the edge of the bed.

"Decision to be what?"

"To be healed." To this, Jayce sighed softly.

"Well, be glad you weren't." Jayce muttered, sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed.

"How come?" You asked as your feet adorned with hospital socks grazed the off-white tile floor. A crestfallen look appeared on Jayce's face as he sighed, his gaze shifting to meet yours.

"All the people Viktor 'healed'? They are all essentially his puppets now." Jayce answered, his voice seeping from his lips like billowing smoke.

"What? How?" You inquired

"Well, Viktor has some sort of control over the people he has used his powers on. It's correlated to his use of the Hexcore." Jayce

"The Hexcore? What's that?" You questioned, your curiosity peaking

"It's what gave Viktor his powers in the first place. It's... something him and I were researching before the attack on Piltover's council... It was something I should have destroyed long ago when I had the chance." Jayce explained, still spinning the gear in his fingers. Mel took a deep sigh as she looked at you, continuing.

"Now, it seems like Viktor has taken on some new sort of omnipresent form through the husks that were once his commune members."

"Now, it is something your mother is trying to weaponize as an unstoppable army." Jayce grumbled, clutching the gear tightly.

"She has no idea what she is dealing with, Jayce." Mel proclaimed, her brows furrowed.

"We know that, she does not."

"She is tempering with forces outside her reach."

"Well, we still have to stop her."

"What are you two going on about?" You interjected, lost in the lack of context.

With a sigh, Mel looked at you, the golden accents on her skin glistened in the lamplight.

"There is about to be a large war between Noxus and Piltover, and Viktor is in the center of it." Mel explained, putting her hands on her hips.

"Viktor is on the precipice of something he calls his 'glorious evolution'. If it comes true, the world as we know it will cease to exist." Jayce interjected, standing from his chair. The thought of this coming a reality chilled you to the core. This man you were thinking of letting heal you was going to... start the apocalypse?

"You mean the world will end?" You enquired, your fingers gripping the white sheet of the cot. To this, Mel rose from her chair, her white cloak dancing with her elegant movement.

"Exactly. That is why we are gathering soldiers now to fight back." Mel spoke, her gaze moving to Jayce. To this, Jayce gave an affirmative nod.

"We are going to need as many people as we can with this or we don't stand a chance." Jayce declared, also rising from his chair. Jayce's golden gaze shifted to you as you sat on the edge of the cot. With wobbly knees, you rose as well, trying your best to stay standing.

"You guys said you needed people, right?" You probed, your gaze meeting Mel's then Jayce's. To this, Jayce tutted, putting a hand on your shoulder.

"No, absolutely not, you are far too weak right now." Jayce reprimanded, gently pushing you back into a sitting position on the cot. To this, your gaze hardened at the man before you.

"Maybe now, yes, but the war is not right this moment, right? Give me the night to recover and I can be on my feet in the morning." You asserted, your conviction and determination strong. Mel cocked a brow at your statement, surprised by your altruism.

"What help could you be to us in a situation of war?" Mel countered, her voice laced with judgment and uncertainty. You refused to sit around and watch the world end. You have fought for this long to keep living, like hell you'd give up now without putting up a fight.

"I'm one more person who is willing to fight. I will not let myself lay idly in this bed and watch the world end. You need people, well, I am a person." You affirmed, your words laced with determination. To this, Mel's gaze shifted to Jayce.

"They have a point, Jayce" Mel asserted, a soft smile on her lips. To this, Jayce grumbled, grabbing the handle of his hammer.

"Don't encourage them. They crumbled when they tried to run from the commune with me." Jayce shot back, his tone full of uncertainty.

"You can always fall as long as you get back up." You proclaimed, raising from your cot once more as you stabilized your legs. You stood proudly as you looked between the two before you. "Besides, Viktor once told me that while my body may be limited, my soul is strong. I will help in any way I can." You added, adjusting the fabric of your hospital gown. Jayce looked intrigued by your statement before he reluctantly sighed.

"Fine, but you better be willing to fight with everything you have." Jayce relented, his tone wavering from uncertainty and sternness. You felt a warm hand glide onto your shoulder. You look over to see Mel smiling softly at you with a look of hope in her eyes.

"Trust in them, Jayce. I know a good warrior when I see one." Mel proclaimed, her smile soft yet assuring.

"I will not let you two down."

¹ miláček — "darling" or "sweetheart" in Czech

² rozumím — "I understand" in Czech

SONG OF THE FIC: DISEASE - LADY GAGA

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ARCANE MASTERLIST

OFFICIAL FANFIC PLAYLIST

[achaoticeternal]

electric touch

aemond targaryen x niece!reader

summary: while taking a visit to the royal library, you come across aemond who seems to have a small gift for you. word count: 1.1k warnings: afab!reader, targcest, reader is mentioned to have violet eyes but that is the only descriptor. a/n: this was just a little drabble I thought of. i'm trying to get back into the grove of writing after my summer hiatus.

Though King’s Landing was quite an enticing place to visit, the climate at Dragonstone seemed to accommodate her taste better. Where Dragonstone held warm air and cooling sea breezes, King’s Landing lacked such a luxury. Whenever Rhaenyra made visits to the capitol with her daughter, neither princess slept well for their own reasons. Both, however, missed their own beds and comforts of home.

Currently, the younger Targaryen princess was making her way down the aisles of the library. Particularly, she found herself in the special collection that her uncle had curated. Books that varied from philosophy, the history of Old Valyria, and even strategies of ancient wars. However, sprinkled in between were books that contained the sweetest words held in between pages. Yes, both she and Aemond held a secret bond over the lines of fine poetry.

It was a love they learned as children. Whenever Aemond was not training or being tormented by his brother and nephews, he would accompany his niece at the weirwood tree. Helaena would not be too far off either, allowing the creatures in the gardens to climb into her gentle hands.

Such a memory caused a small smile to grace her lips as she reached for a book that had been well-loved.

“Have you come to wreck my shelves?” The voice interrupted her abruptly.

She jumped away from her spot, the breath returning to her lungs when she recognized the man. Her hands went to smooth out her skirts, “Good day to you, uncle…”

The lady went to reach for the book again. Still, it remained just out of reach. The scoff sounding next to her changed her focus once more.

“Have you not considered using your words to ask for help, riñītsos?” He questioned.

Little Girl.

Sighing at his question, she moved back from the shelf. As she faced him, her eyes flicked from the book to his gaze. Though her actions were childish, she did not anticipate being denied her wish, “Kostilus…” Please.

His dismissive hum could be heard as he moved in front of her. With ease, he gripped the spine of the book before bringing it down. Aemond held onto it for a moment, eye scanning over the cover. Epics of Old Valyria.

“I see you’ve been working on your native tongue,” the prince stated nonchalantly, “Though it is still peculiar to me as to why you deem it fit to borrow from my personal collection?”

The corners of her lips dropped at his words, “And do you enjoy withholding the pleasure of knowledge?”

His violet eye slowly trailed up her height. Both of them had grown since they’d last shared each other’s company. This was evident to both parties. Her eye then met her own violet ones as a chuckle played on his lips, “Withholding pleasure is enjoyable for some people.”

Her posture straightened immediately, the innuendo not going unnoticed. She took the book from his grip, preparing to move past him and back to the security of her mother’s chambers.

The princess did not make it more than two paces before his hand shot out to grasp at her forearm. His touch was not harsh, yet there was no warm to it either, “What are you forgetting?”

She breathed out in audible frustration. Her eyes still trained toward the exit of the library, keeping her distracted from his intense gaze, “Are you not supposed to be in attendance of the small council meeting? Or has your seat been taken?”

Aemond’s jaw tightened at the taunt. However, his demeanor remained relatively calm.

Finally, she answered him properly, “Kirimvose.” Thank you.

After a pause of silence, she craned her neck to look up at Aemond. Her gaze was met with a playful smirk, “Issa daorun” You’re welcome.

However, his hold did not retreat from her forearm. Instead, he continued, “I have a little gift for you. Consider it a welcoming present for my favorite niece.”

“Careful, uncle,” Her eyes refocused on his face. The rest of the library remained at a soft focus, “You wouldn’t want to hurt poor Jaehaera’s feelings.”

His upper tip seemed to curl into a snarl at the quick-witted comment. Releasing his hold, his hands went to the pockets of his doublet, eyeing the item within it. Pulling out the piece, a finely forged Valyrian steel chain dangled from his nimble fingers. Resting at the bottom of the chain was a pendant of a singular dragon with a sapphire for an eye. The craftsmanship itself must have cost a fortune, not to mention the installation of such a fine gemstone.

“Kepus,” Her voice lulled, “Gevie…”

Without a word, Aemond moved to stand behind her. His gentle touch caressed her upper back as he moved her hair onto one shoulder. The cool pendant rested atop her bosom, sending tingles throughout her chest. The chain itself snaked around the delicate skin of her neck where he now clasped it together, “Dōna zaldrītsos,” Aemond purred.

As she turned back to face him, her lithe fingers toyed at the pendant. She quickly grew accustomed to the weight of it and the metallic feel against her skin, “Where did you find such a necklace?”

The look on his face was passive as if he could not drop his uncaring disguise, “I had it made for you.”

As her browed raised in motion for him to continue, Aemond added on, “I figured it would be to your liking.”

She took a moment, eyes flickering from the leather he wore to the steel chain at her neck.

“I see,” She nodded, “And what moved you to commission such a fine piece?”

Unbeknownst to the lady, Aemond fought an inner battle. He wished to step closer to her and reach out once more. He hated that he could easily despise his nephews, but never her… Not the girl whom he read poetry with between lunch and tea time. The girl who was now a woman grown before him. His greatest torment and object of his deepest affections.

Aemond faced her once more, bringing up his hand to toy with the pendant at her chest now, “The thought of you wearing it for me…”

---

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