#she not bald just in progress

[kat-kc-8107]

also i got to thinking and decided to thow a dog a bone

heres more art i may or may not ever finish

this is ares another character i never talk about

like i talk about any of my 15 aus

[imsogonesposts]

I Would Wait Forever For You

|| ao3 ||

summary: After being kidnapped by the Capitol, you return with a loss of memories. Finnick visits you in hopes of you remembering him, or falling in love with him again. (wc: 1,201)

warnings: hijacked!reader, reader loses memories

Every day since the Quarter Quell ended, Finnick was filled with regrets. Regrets of not going to Peeta, Johanna, or you. Not being able to get up and crawl to you. Not fighting Plutarch or Haymitch harder to retrieve the three of you. 

That regret only grew when he saw you for the first time after the three of you and Annie Cresta were rescued from the Capitol. While Annie looked relatively unharmed, Peeta was tortured and hijacked, fed false memories, and forced into hating Katniss, Johanna was tortured, and you. Finnick felt like his heart broke into a million pieces when he saw you. You were tortured, and you couldn’t remember one thing about him, or anyone that wasn’t Peeta or Johanna. 

He remembers the look on your face when he ran to you, hugging you as tight as he could while you just stood frozen. At the time, he mistook it for shock. He thought the shock of it all was what was keeping you frozen. But now, he knows it's because you didn’t know the man hugging you. He remembers the blank look on your face when he pulled away, cupping your face and asking “Sweetheart, are you okay?” He remembers the drop in his stomach when you whispered “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“We all had adjoining cells. We’re quite familiar with each other’s screams,” Johanna had told him, rubbing at her now bald scalp. “That’s why she only remembers Peeta and me. I’ve told her some things, I’ve asked about you, but she doesn’t remember much of anything.” Finnick felt like he was going to be sick. He also felt anger. Not at you, never at you, but to the Capitol. For making you forget him, for torturing you and his friends, for everything they’ve ever put anyone he cared about through. 

Despite his feelings, Finnick still made an effort to be with you. He still loved you, whether you remembered that he did or not. Every day he would visit you, ask you how you were doing, talk to you, anything to make you more comfortable in District 13. 

“Johanna tells me we used to date,” you tell him one day when he comes to visit you.

“Did she?” He asks, taking his usual seat next to you. He knew she did. Every day he asked Johanna if there had been any progress with you, if you remembered anything yet. And every day, he got the same answer. The same “no, not yet, Finnick,” with the same pitiful smile.

“Mhmm,” you reply with a nod. “Says you were obsessed with me.” He laughs at that. Laughs because it’s true. Even now, he can’t find it in himself to stay away from you, because deep down, somewhere there, you’re still you. He still holds onto the same hope that one day you’ll wake up and remember everything. Remember him.

“She’s not wrong,” he says with a laugh. “Did she mention that you were also pretty obsessed with me?” He questions as you shake your head no. “Of course she didn’t, she loves to make me look crazy,” he says, smiling when he sees the hint of a smile on your face. He missed your smile. And your laugh. And your hugs, and kind words, and kisses, and god, he just missed you. 

“I’m going to teach you how to make a knot,” he says suddenly, pulling a piece of rope from out of his pocket. Whenever he felt anxious, Finnick liked to tie knots, in hopes of grounding himself. Right now, it’s to distract himself from how much he missed you. He got you to fall in love with him once, he could do it again, right?

“Do you always carry around a piece of rope with you?” You ask as he lets out a faux shocked face. 

“You don’t?” He asks in horror, before dropping the act, a smile returning to his face. “Look,” he says, nodding to the rope before making his own knot. “This is one of the best knots to know,” he mutters, making a noose, wrapping it around his neck and pretending to hang himself, smiling at your laughter. “You can take me for a walk if you want,” he says with a wink, handing you the excess rope as you swat it away with another laugh. Oh, how he loved that laugh, and how he loved making you laugh.

“No walk? Got it,” he says, removing the noose with a smile, undoing the rope. 

“How’d you learn to do that?”  You ask, leaning forward, like you truly care about what he has to say. There’s no doubt his heart was going crazy in his chest right now. He prayed it wasn’t loud enough for you to hear. He couldn’t help but feel slightly nervous around you. He felt like a teenage boy trying desperately to win over his crush all over again. And all you were doing was asking him a question. Oh, how he wanted to kiss you. 

“We had to learn them for our district,” he replies, absentmindedly making and undoing more knots on the rope. “They’re good to catch fish. And they can come in handy during the arena,” he says, handing you the rope. “You can try, if you want. See if you remember anything.” 

Finnick didn’t expect you to remember much, but maybe it’d come as instinctually and naturally as breathing to you. Maybe tying the knots would help you remember something, anything. 

He smiled as you presented the basic knot to him, a smile on your own face as well. “Nice job,” he said quietly, fingers brushing yours as you passed the rope back to him. God, how he missed touching you. 

“Thank you,” you say with a shrug. That same shrug you always gave him when he complimented you. Maybe you were already starting to fall for him all over again. He liked to think you were. Liked to think these same quirks were because you started developing feelings for him again.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if pretty soon you’re able to do the most challenging knots out there,” he jokes, sending you a wink. He loved that you were still smiling at him. He loved everything about you. And as much as it pained him that you couldn’t remember him, at the end of the day, he was just glad that you were here. Safe. Away from the Capitol’s cruel hands, and back in his, even if he couldn’t hold you in the way he wanted. At least not yet. Because in the end,  it was better to have you here, memories or not, than to not have you at all. It was better than lying awake every night, praying to whatever god that was out there that you were still alive and okay. Because now, he knew you were. He knew he would wait forever for you to regain your memories, even if forever never came. Because to him, you were worth forever. 

“Let me show you one of the knots you taught me,” he says, already maneuvering the rope again. He couldn’t wait to get to fully be with you again.

[eclipseiz]

Twin Thrones

pairing- caracalla x fem! oc x geta

(♡ synopsis)- calista amulis was determined to get her brother back, no matter the cost. even if that means she had to cozy up with the emperor's to do it.

part 1 of ?

please note...

✧ this is set PRE gladiator 2 as the story progresses it might dabble in the beginning but that's about it.

✧caracalla will not have syphilis in this story, he'll just be a crazy freak.

✧this story is gonna be dirty and raw (lol) so 18+

_✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩_

Calista Amulis was set on saving her brother, Caius from Rome the moment she had heard he’d been sold to them.

The sun beat down relentlessly as she leapt from the boat, the heat biting into her skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire that fueled her every movement. She darted away, her heart pounding with urgency, desperate to stay ahead of the soldier she had seduced only hours before for the free ride to Rome. She had played her part well, weaving the web of deception so carefully. She stumbled upon a young woman walking with a basket filled with what looked like bread, “Pardon me!” she called out making the woman turn around

“Yes?” the woman raised an eyebrow

Calista looked around and leaned in closer, “Do you know who I can talk to in regards to the Gladiators?”

She seemed to think for a moment before answering, “Macrinus would be your gentleman. He buys them up the moment they touch Roman soil. If I were to guess I'd say he's in his office near the Gladiators cells just down there.” she pointed down a dusty stairway to the right of the Colosseum.

With a quick ‘thank you’ Calista began down the path coming across a bustling corridor with training men she assumed to be the gladiators and guards. “What's your business here girl?” a bald man walked over to her.

“I'm looking for a man named Macrinus, is he here?” she asked folding her hands together

He grunted and began walking, commanding her to follow him with a wave of his hand. She moved with him until they stood in front of an archway, “Sire this girl here has a few words for you.”

Calista stepped into the room and watched as Macrinus gave her a once over, “Thank you Viggo you may return to the floor.” After the guard had retreated, Macrinus leaned back and clasped his hands together, “Well why have you come to see me…?” he requested her name.

She moved to sit at a chair in front of the desk, “Calista. My brother was sold to you after our city was attacked and I would like for you to release him. I'll give you anything you require.” 

Macrinus tilted his head before letting out a laugh, “Silly girl, who knows if your brother is still alive.”

“Caius. His name is Caius.” she urged

The man thought for a moment, “Ah yes ‘Cyclops’. Quite the fighter…managed to lose his eye during his first fight here.”

Her face flashed with worry, “He’s still standing then?”

“For now.” Macrinus answered with a shrug. He got up from his seat over to where he had a glass of wine, “I know what you can do for me.”

Calista straightened her posture and put her confident mask in place, “Anything.”

The older man hummed, “I'm sure you’ve heard of the emperors Geta and Caracalla from wherever you have come from?” 

“The twin tyrants?” 

His lips twitched, “Correct. I want to take them down and I had no way of doing so until now. You are a pretty girl, Calista, just their type…”

She furrowed her brows, “I am not following.”

“The emperors are young fragile men. Just the kind who can be turned agaisnt each other when it comes to a young beautiful woman.” he handed her a cup half full of the alcohol.

She swirled the liquid in the cup, “You want me to seduce them? Both of them? How do you suppose I got close enough to do that?” 

“I can handle that without fretting. Though you will need to wear something of more taste.” he gestured to her raggedy dress which she had been wearing for days.

Calista stood, setting the cup back down, “And after I somehow manage to pin them against one another, what after?”

Marcinus took the girl's face in his hands, “I'll take over from there. You'll find I can be very persuasive.”

She scoffed, “And you'll let my brother go?”

He gives her a pat on the cheeks before backing away, “If all goes to plan then yes. Caius will be freed.”

“And if it doesn't?” she anxiously questioned

“Then you'll most likely die at the hands of the emperors.” he shrugged like it was nothing.

Calista let out a breath of air before slowly nodding, “Fine I'll do it.”

“Wonderful!” Macrinus beamed, his smile wide and full of triumph, as though he'd just secured a victory in a game of great importance. “I can arrange for you to meet them as soon as tomorrow. But first, let me tell you a little about them.” He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping on the edge of his desk as he considered the task at hand. “Geta is the older twin,” he began, his tone steady and assured. “He’s the one I consider the true leader. Handles most of the imperial duties, keeps things running smoothly. He's a sharp, methodical person who expects loyalty, and demands it. He’s the one you’ll have to watch closely.” Macrinus paused, rocking back slightly, as though trying to find the right words for the next part. "Caracalla, on the other hand..." He shook his head, a flicker of something between amusement and disbelief crossing his face. "Crazy, to put it lightly. He's unpredictable, impulsive and makes decisions on a whim, often with disastrous results. He'll be the easy one to handle, no doubt. But it’s Geta you need to worry about." He sat forward, his gaze sharpening. "Geta is the real challenge. If you can get to him, take him down, the rest will fall into place.”

She regarded Macrinus for a moment, her expression calm but calculating. "I see," she said slowly, her voice smooth and confident.

Macrinus tipped his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I'll have my servant prepare your bath, clothes, everything. If all goes well with the twins tomorrow, they'll likely request a room for you at their palace."

She blinked, a furrow of confusion crossing her brow. "Wait, hold on," she said, her voice calm but edged with uncertainty. "Just like that? They’ll let me in? You make it sound almost too easy."

“It’s not as difficult as you’re making it sound,” he said, his tone calm and reassuring. “The twins are accustomed to intrigue and manipulation, but they both believe in appearances. A beautiful, well-dressed woman appearing as if by chance? They’ll think nothing of it. The way you present yourself will make all the difference.” He paused, watching her carefully. “Don’t overthink it. If you act confident, poised, and play to their egos, they’ll let you in without a second thought.

She chuckled sarcastically, the tension in her expression easing for a moment. "Let's hope I'm as good of an actor as I've been told then." Her voice was dry, but there was a flicker of determination beneath it.

“Cordelia!” Macrinus called for his servant. “I'll have her get you cleaned up. Get a good night's rest and get ready for tomorrow.”

“If sleep can even call upon me.” With that, she exited, the weight of what was to come settling on her shoulders. Tomorrow would tell whether the pieces would fall into place or whether she'd be walking into a trap.

_✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩_

check out my masterlist pinned on my profile

[ikea09]

@messymoonmad I have the goods(sorry, ik I said I would be done by the end of February and I would have multiple drawings but uhh life) anyway hope you like it drops this and runs:

(No sound btw)

(Not part of the au)

Also beard telemachus

Also also I need to know what you thought of my storyboards for this +bald eurymachus.

And here are more details on my good suitors AU

First off, I played around with the ages cus I imagined more of a father-son /older brother-younger brother relationship between Antinous and telemachus(I do not ship sharpwolf) so I imagined antinous and the rest of the suitors come to the palace when Telemachus is around 15 and antinous is older by about 8 years (still young enough to not be conscripted into the army). So it starts in the cannon manner where the antinous and the suitors bully telemachus but what I noticed in most antinous bullying telemachus fics is that antinous often offers fake comfort and I always wondered what he would do if telemachus responded seriously. So that is exactly what happens here, telemachus runs away from the suitors' bulling when he runs into antinous who promptly begins making fun of his tears and mockingly putting a hand on his shoulder. What he doesn't realise is how desperate telemachus is for anyone to give him some type if affection In this moment so he just throws his arms around antinous and starts crying into his clothes. Antinous is shocked and ready to push him off when he has an epiphany. If he starts treating telemachus like a son, penelope will be much more likely to want to marry him so he starts comforting telemachus, wiping his tears, speaking softly, taking him to his room and holding him untill telemachus stops crying. Then he leaves and telemachus thinks. He wonders why he accepted comfort from a bully and why the bully gave him comfort in the first place. He realises it's just to get closer with his mother. He also realises antinous finds his approval to be worth gaining. He can use that, first to influence antinous's behaviour into being better if he can't make him leave and second,antinous is a much better fighter than his instructors and knows quite a bit more so if he can get antinous to train him, he will be better equipped to defend his mother from the other suitors. So he asks antinous to train him, antinous agrees and slowly over the course of a few months, their mutual friendliness becomes more genuine and less of a pretence. All the other suitors take antinous's example and become more neutral and even nice to telemachus. All of them have their own little thing they liked to do with him, eurymachus refuses to let him leave the castle if his hair and clothes are the tiniest bit messy and when Telemachus returns eurymachus is already got a bath with bubbles ready(idk what the other suitors' things could be) but shock, as antinous gets closer to telemachus, he actually becomes meaner and stricter because now he actually gives a damn about wheather or not the Prince can defend himself and reaching his full potential whereas before he was just being nice so telemachus would like him and didn't care if the prince actually improved but this is not doing good things for telemachus's self esteem. Penelope comes to talk to antinous about it and advises him to be a lot less mean during their lessons. Antinous thinks she's just being overprotective and doesn't plan on listening to her untill he hears telemachus crying behind a statue. He goes in to hug him and telemachus confesses how he doesn't feel like he's making any progress at all (antinous didn't tell him). Antinous resolves to be kinder after that. Antinous also meets argos who he is mildly terrified of (cus taphian pirate trauma)so he just stands smiling awkwardly and patting his head. He gets used to him eventually.(I have a lot more to this AU but this is already really long)

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

*pulls the 45 cents I have to my name out of my pocket and drops them on your table*

I can't believe my name will be forever attached to this but one (1) Kenjaku solo session with Heianera!YN portrait, please

❝ life and death will always lead to love and regret (but you have the answers, and I have the key) ❞

Kenjaku x Heain Era!ftm!reader [one-sided] | Heian Era!ftm!reader x Sukuna Ryomen | r! is a curse-user & sukuna ryomen's concubine, NSFW | sub. bottom. reader (AFAB) | NOT PROOFREAD | wc: 4.1K

warnings: creepy/stalker behaviour, Kenjaku is a 'passive'-yandere (in the sense that Sukuna would and will kill him if he tried anything), manipulative behaviour, gore (detailed), Kenjaku jerking off in front of a portrait of r!, very unrequited

authors note: don't be ashamed, Gabriel. I got way too excited writing this and I think that speaks volumes on how I need to get checked, LMAO. On another note - yes, my YN's will always have a harem of men in the JJK-verse because that's what YN (and you, my dear reader) deserve!

I wrote this partially on my phone so bear with me guys...

*song on repeat: Bernadette by IAMX & Rule #34 by Fish in a Birdcage. * YN is described as having long hair because of the heian beauty standard (hair colour and texture not mentioned).

People often compared the years they lived as sand. The hourglass holding it is comparable to the human body. He often thought that metaphor was weak. People — humans — were not hourglasses and their years were not sand. No, no. That’s far too neat for humans.

Humans are messy. They are loud, and chaotic, they defy nature's rules and destroy her for the sake of progress. They had no balance, their compass broke when the synapses in their brains sparked conscious thought.

In that chaos, humans made curses. Or, well, you could argue it who came first but without humans and their silly consciousness — cursed spirits wouldn’t thrive.

People are flesh left under the sun. With their blood drying out, flies and maggots eagerly feast on what they can while the meat greys and rots. That’s a much more appropriate metaphor for a human life. If anything, the hourglass comparison should be used for himself. Constantly turning it over to keep going; uncaring of what kept the sands in confinement so long as it could continue its path.

Down, almost empty, flip, repeat.

Kenjaku had perfected his cursed techniques. He had earned this, he had earned his right to let his curiosities run rampant. He had earned the right to be in the presence of Sukuna Ryomen and you.

“Yuuji, you still owe me for eating my yoghurt from the fridge. It was expensive and it took so long for me to find it!” Nobara huffed. “You might as well just buy some for yourself. I’m labelling my food now.”

Megumi glanced over his shoulder at the lack of reply from the pink-haired boy. Nobara stopping next to him with her brows furrowed, sighing as she looks around for him.

“...I was just talking to myself? Seriously?” she grumbled. Megumi adjusts his grip on the bags. The grocery trips were a good team-building exercise according to Yuuji, a way to get to know each other better. Megumi and Nobara agreed after a particularly harsh mission that aimed directly at their novice team fighting experience.

So far, the results that were yielded from it were found that Nobara had an aversion to pineapples, Megumi had expensive tastes, and Yuuji was very good at budgeting money.

“No, he was right beside you a few minutes ago,” Megumi reached for his phone. Nobara placed her hands on her hips, tilting her head as she continued to scan the crowd.

A gaggle of businessmen came out from the underground train station and between the crowd of slicked-back hair, desperate combovers, and sweaty bald heads, she spotted him.

Tugging on Megumi’s sleeve, she pointed to him. Yuuji was standing and staring up at some sort of vertical banner. As they both approached, they shared a glance.

“Oi, Itadori,” Nobara placed a hand on his shoulder. Smacked it really. He didn’t budge. There was a dullness to his eyes that unnerved her enough to remove her hand. Megumi tightened his grip on his phone as he called out to him again. She took a look at the banner and her brows furrowed.

It was promoting an opening of someone’s private gallery. Some rich kid’s great-great-grandfather’s collection. The painting they used was of a true beauty. A man with long hair, dressed in the finest robes with a serene barely-there smile. It looked to be more European in nature, the art reminding her of the portraits of giant frilly dresses and puffy shoulder sleeves despite the obviously Japanese clothing, accessory, and manner in which the subject was regaled in the painting.

The banner must have costed a pretty penny considering how much detail they could see. Megumi could practically feel the raised textures the artist had used to mimic the pattern of the traditional robe the man wore. The flow of his hair, the texture and pattern it had; and his lashes were surely not that long in reality.

Megumi tore his gaze to Yuuji.

It was like he was in a trance. His mouth was slightly ajar, his brows furrowed and his hands shaking as his knuckles turned white.

“Itadori?”

Yuuji had long forgotten this. This ache in his chest that he sometimes woke up with. When he reaches for the empty space next to him and finds no one. Those moments in the basement when he watches a historical movie and his chest tightens as the nobles courted one another.

“Do you know the painter or something?” Nobara asks.

No, he wants to say. Not the painter. If he knew who it was that did this portrait, he’d tear their heads off their body. But the man? He knew him.

That hellish grin, that perfect face and most importantly those nightmarish eyes.

You’ve seen dolls, right? Those porcelain ones specifically. The craftsmen who make them, the expensive ones with real human hair. To be left on shelves instead of being played with. They would draw these white dots on the eyes, varnish them even, so their eyes would reflect back. A mimicry of humans, that’s what dolls are. But even then, their eyes still twinkled. Not this man. No. It was devoid of light. Pools of (eye colour) and nothing more. These eyes would swallow up any trace of light and diminish the stars from the sky with just a glance.

Yuuji knew him. His soul knew him. His hand clutches over his heart and his friends watch this with trepidation.

It’s been 2,000 years. Sukuna was no longer human and therefore his memory was not as fickle. He still remembers those moments before dawn; the sight of your bare torso breathing softly as you rested next to him. The sun filtering through the windows and making you appear even more ethereal and deadly. How your brows would pinch seconds before you woke. Those soulless eyes that shot through his very soul.

Sukuna could recognize you even if he was blind. He’d be able to hear you just by feeling your chest rumble. If he had to eat one thing for the rest of his life, your body and flesh would sustain him.

In his Malovent Shrine, whilst he sat on his throne, he’d summon his flames in his palm. There he’d watch as your figure danced across his hand. You’d twirl between his digits, a smile across your face as he watches the imitation of you.

It used to be enough. Lately, the action brings him more contempt then fondness. The flames never quite catch your shape anymore. Constantly shifting. That coyness is gone, mini-you petulantly staying hidden behind his fingers. So he snuffs you out in his fists.

He hates you for making him miss you. A King should not be missing anyone or anything. Yet, as his vessel stands here, Sukuna teeters on the edge of breaking the Unbreakable Vow he’d made with the brat just to gaze upon you.

The painter got your resemblance and it was agony for him.

How could he continue to be without you when he’s seen you again? Days ago, he wanted to kill you for making him delirious and now he wants you back in his arms.

“Itadori.” Megumi’s tone is firmer. Nobara smacks his shoulder again and Yuuji jolts forward, nearly falling until his rigid legs quickly come back to life.

“Huh?”

“Are you alright?” Megumi asks, his thumb hovering over the DIAL button of Gojo Satoru’s number. Yuuji glances at his wrinkled shirt and releases it, confusion painted across his face at the fading pain across his chest.

“I...yeah, yeah. I'm okay. I have no idea what that was....”

Rich bodies made life significantly easier.

What was that saying humans used?

Money can’t buy happiness?

Kenjaku chuckles at the thought. Foolish and vain — typical of humans. Clinging onto whatever they can to convince their egos they’re better than most when they’ll all meet the same fate. Kenjaku forgets the exact point where he stopped seeing himself as one of them, but he’s sure anyone would if you’ve lived as long as him. Apathy. Most call it a disease of selfishness. Kenjaku simply thinks they’re lying to themselves.

“Mr Geto?” the gallery was a lucrative endeavour. A piece in his grand scheme that required little effort but great rewards. More personal gain on his end.

“Mr Hajimoto mentioned you specifically in his will. The private room is all yours. Thank you so much for your donation to this fine institution of arts.” Kenjaku offers the man a polite smile and nod. The awkward silence prompts them to open the large doors and Kenjaku is greeted by you.

(Y/N) (L/N). In all your glory. In his favourite colours and his favourite kanza. The bespoke lighting on your portrait makes his hands fall limply to his side. You were a brushstroke away from taking a breath. The colours used to recreate that undertone your skin had, the delicate curves of your lashes and the plumpness of your lip.

The two guards in the corner of the room are a nuisance. But with a simple twirl of his right hand, the Slit-Mouthed Woman makes quick work of them. This curse technique was truly convenient, the mess she made cleaned up by a different curse who laps at the blood with vigor. The noises are all muffled as he admires those vicious eyes.

Just saying your name makes warmth travel down between his legs.

“I’ve almost forgotten how you look like.”

Silence ticks by for a minute.

Then Kenjaku bursts into laughter. Clutching his stomach and covering his mouth as he does. He can still smell your blood. Even if Suguru’s body had never had the pleasure of touching you — Kenjaku remembers it.

The way it flowed out of you like silk ribbons. Warm and wet and virile.

“You are an unusual sorcerer,” those were the first words you said to him. He knows you meant that in a derisive fashion — the curl of your nose was a clear indicator. But that was the day a feverish need was planted inside of his very soul.

You. You. You.

The shape of your face.

The cadence of your voice.

The way the wind carried your scent to his nose.

The sound of your cat-like foot-steps.

The effortless way you carried yourself despite the heavy robes that a revered concubine of your rank would wear, along with the golden hair accessories that would probably break a lesser man's neck.

It didn't stop there either.

Your brain, the wickedness that ran through your very veins and that fire that burns within you. Kenjaku wanted to be inside of you in every he could fathom. To sit within that perfectly shaped skull, to thread his fingers between the locks of your hair and take a scalpel to that skin he so craves to taste. Or perhaps inside in the traditional sense, between your legs, embraced by your warm insides and your deadly arms.

Kenjaku ponders on the time he has. He decides that he should indulge in you. He undoes the robes this body wore and sighs as it reveals the torso. Bodies were all the same but he does appreciate the care Geto Suguru took into his temple — there was no need for shame when he's already desecrated this corpse so viscerally already. His hands travel down his torso and that pronounce v-line and past the patch of wiry pubic hair.

You make him feel young again. Reckless and stubborn. Your eyes watch him as he leisurely spits into his palm and strokes it over the tip.

Evil is such a lame word. So primitive in its nature, another one of human's attempts at letting go of responsibility. If something or someone were evil, they were inherently irredeemable. Humans used to call snakes evil simply for doing what a snake would do when hungry, instead of realising they shouldn't have left the door to their huts opened and their sleeping brat asleep.

Was something evil when it simply did what it was meant to do?

They were simply following natures course.

This act Kenjaku is doing now, is not perverted or evil, he is simply being. Simply living, existing, relishing.

If anything, you were the undoing. The evil. You've made, and continue to make, him lose crave and hunger. You were so cruel, so ethereal — so evil.

Kenjaku groaned your name, walking backwards and dropping onto the low seat the gallery provided. His legs spread and he hung his head down but his eyes remained affixed to your painting.

"He sounds beautiful, Mr Hajimoto," the blonde painter had told him once or twice or thrice. Young but talented, the way he used his brushes on canvas was so impressive and Kenjaku missed you so much (Y/N). He simply had to spread the wickedness of your beauty, immortalize it forever within canvases and lesser non-sorcerers minds.

"Did you know him?" his accent was clunky, the Japanese language tumbling on its delicate legs following the rhythm of the painters voice. Still, he — Mr Hajimoto, Kenjaku — gave him a gentle grin.

"Very well. He was my lover."

The small notebook the painter had written your features down in, it was displayed in this very room as well. In a glass casing, handled with gloves to ensure pesky skin oils wouldn't deteriorate his inked strokes.

Speaking of strokes, Kenjaku's was beginning to pick up it's pace. His smile now looser, like an animal that caught the scent of blood, his tongue curled over his teeth as he imagined the disgust on your face. You'd probably cover your nose with the sleeve of your robe and the thought makes his cock jump; you were wearing his favourite colours and it made him moan.

The notebook was filled with sketches of you. Kenjaku recalls correcting the human, correcting him when he disrupted the harmony of your anatomy. You were the humans muse for years, (Y/N). Even as he neared his death bed, the blonde artist kept drawing you. Sketches lose, your shape less tangible, but hauntingly beautiful. Like your dark flames flowing in the wind. Even as his memories of his life escapes him, the artist remembered you. What a blessing. Kenjaku had visited him before he died and whispered your name into the old man's ear.

Sorcerer Society keeps your name hidden. It's their way of control. Making Sukuna Ryomen more monstrous by telling others he ruled coldly and cruelly alone; death was not as harsh as being erased. They say Sukuna needed 20 of his fingers and his mummified heart to be revived. That's what those poems talked about after all.

A misunderstanding.

The heart was Sukuna's, yes.

But it wouldn't revive him.

"You were so angry," he chuckled out, "so defiant even when I was inside of you."

The sky was blood red, the black smoke making the colour more saturated as it seemed intent on blotting out the sun. Uraume had felt a sudden chill, you did too, and they swiftly rose as the scent of deceit was so thick in the air.

“Uraume,” your voice remained nonchalant. But there was a tenseness in your throat that even they could decipher through the layers of regality. They turned, mouth pressed into a thin line as they went on their knees.

You continued to stare, impassively looking down at the patterned swirl of their snow-white hair. The red and black sky turning the colour of your eyes a pleasantly mournful shade; the golden kanza in your hair that your Lord Sukuna himself had commissioned for you glimmered righteously. The teeth of a beast, the curling of centipede legs, and the melded wings of a raven. It was beautiful just as much as it was unusual.

“You leave your Lord’s prized possession to fend for himself?”

Uraume lips reveal a modest amount of teeth. Their face like a porcelain doll as they raise their head. It makes your heart flutter and squeeze.

“You are stronger than these worms, they wouldn’t dare attack you.”

This is true. A fact. You were strong. 100 sorcerers or 1, 000 sorcerers — it made no difference to you. They’d turn into dust and wither right before you. But it shocks Uraume when you place your palm against their jaw, thumb stroking over their cheekbone as you gaze down at them.

“How horrid it is, making me defend myself.”

They see your eyes soften. It was no wonder you were Lord Sukuna’s concubine. Just being touched by you, looked down upon by you; it makes their spine melt.

“I should have your head for your insolence.”

Uraume apologizes, lips stilling when your thumb presses down on them.

“Return to me. Whole. My Lord Husband and I will not be pleased if you do not. We don’t want weaklings to stand behind us.”

Uraume bows, their lips kissing your knuckles as they do before they raise and disappear from your sight. The screams of terror that are heard outside at the sight of them make you slip your eyes close.

Kenjaku appeared before you what felt like hours later. He looks at the scene with a raise of his brow. Your feet were soaked in blood as bodies were strewn across the wide room. The floor was shimmering, looking as though it was breathing as it creaked from his weight. The clothes the bodies wore painted a clear enough picture — they were your servants. Loyalties were swayed as the fight prolonged. These little ants thought they could save themselves from punishment if they showed these righteous sorcerers your head.

He couldn’t smell smoke and there were no signs of charring. The bodies were mangled beyond belief, guts spilling out, eyes gouged, arms bent unnaturally.

Yet, in the gore and horror, you stood across from him with only your feet stained by traitorous blood.

You were a vision. Delicately wiping away blood from the tiger claw kanza with the sleeve of a dead servant. Then, he watches as you carefully put it back in place atop your hair.

“Kenjaku.”

He bows his head, bending at his waist, then lifts himself up again.

“The Kamo clan, your clan, joined this rebellion. I feel that should be a good enough reason to kill you.” The fire in your eyes makes his heart race. He moves forward, casually stepping over a torn torso.

“That would be unwise,” he gives you a grin. This body of his is new. The stitches are still fresh and red. Most likely a desperate attempt of his to hide away while they destroyed his old body. The corpse is younger, and more plain-looking. Despite it’s Curse Technique being a mystery, you’ll take your chances at strangling him.

“I’ve come at the behest of your Lord Husband. To ensure your longevity.”

Your brows pinch. Kenjaku delights at the creases it creates, tucking away this sight into his memories for lonely nights. Then, you scowl.

“You lie.”

His giddiness is palpable. The wide grin on the corpse’s face is clearly not his own; cheeks lifted too high and smile too large and unnatural. Kenjaku must’ve been a truly ugly man with a truly ugly grin. The body struggles to adjust to this display of amusement.

“I’m not.”

He takes a step forward and you lift your hand. The standstill would’ve lasted longer if it weren’t for the yells and thunderous footsteps clambering up to your room.

“You lie!”

Dark flames roared out from the windows. The heat so smoldering it causes a burst of hot air to knock back the men on the stairs, burning their skin and face. The blood on the floor boils, the iron scent now more acidic as the once fleshy bodies now crumble into dust.

You feel his breathe against the nape of your neck. As you turn, he wrings his arms around you like a snake. One across your stomach, the other around your shoulder. That horrible smile is pressed against your skin.

“Kenjaku,” you growl through gritted teeth.

“That’s right. Say my name.”

Fighting feels a lot like sex.

Kenjaku can feel your passion behind every strike, the bruises you leave behind on his skin are akin to hickeys. When you yell out and scream, cheeks so hot he can feel the rush of blood to your face just from looking — the rapid pulse you have and the way your face is contorted.

Kenjaku pins you down. Your legs are thrown over his own while you gnash your teeth at him and spit insults his way. Your hair was so beautiful, thrown back around your head like a lion’s mane. He slides your wrists above your head and holds them with one hand while the other undoes the meticulous array of folds your kimono had.

Sweat drips down his nose. It’s all your fault. Using your Curse Technique in this room, charring the wood and setting it all aflame. Still, he could work in this conditions.

“Ah,” he moans at the sight of your bare skin. Watching the rise and fall of your chest, licking his lips as he places a hand over your heart.

When you kick at his stomach, he acts like he cannot feel it. When you kick again, this time hard enough for a loud crack to be heard, he looks at you.

“If you kill me, you will break the Binding Vow you and Ryomen had made with me.”

He feels your feet dig into his rib, the spiderwebs of cracks spreading further. He allows this with a pleased hum. Your ragged breathing all at once calms and with a blink, your eyes lose that unbridled fury.

“You dare say my Lord’s name so casually?”

Kenjaku laughs. As he leans down, he presses his forehead to yours. Your nose curls in disgust but you keep your lips pursed. The feeling of his sweat sliding down the sides of your forehead and dipping to travel the side of your nose; threatening to get into your eyes as it slips just beneath it.

“Forgive me, venerable concubine.” Kenjaku does not mean this. When he presses his fingers together and imbues his hand with Curse Energy. He enjoys it.

Slicing through your skin at a pace that made the cut more ghastly then it would be if it was done quickly. You remained stone-faced while Kenjaku chewed on his lower lip, every twitch or squint just fueling his hunger.

He is past your skin and now he sees the yellow, when he twists his wrist you grunt as he slices through the threads of muscles. He spreads his fingers and your teeth part as you let out a strained yell.

"You can be louder if you want," his lips brush against your cheek every time he speaks.

"When I return, I'll take pleasure in ripping your head off your body."

"Threatening me?"

He reaches bone. His finger scratching against it before he peels away and settles between your legs. Your hands aren't pinned but you do nothing but curl your fingers into fists as he shoves another hand into your chest. The squelching and pulsing of your flesh, the bursts of blood from your throbbing veins and pumping heart. The wetness and warmth of your insides. He can feel your body clenching around him, and he convinces himself its because you truly enjoy this depravity just as he does.

The size of his hands in your chest is unbearably uncomfortable. Invading you, filling you when you want nothing more than to burn him, as he moves his digits and wrists within you.

He grasps onto your bones and breaks it under the pressure of his wrist. Your blood is spraying him, staining his clothes.

"Your blood looks like ribbons," he whispers to you, "even your insides are like works of art."

You want this to be over with already.

Your arms move down, eyes still set in a glare. You slip your fingers under the soaked clothing and spread it apart further to reveal more of your skin. Shimmying your shoulders so your torso is now bare of any clothing.

The tent between his legs pressed into your crotch. It's hard to ignore, but you push through and grasp onto his elbow and force him to go in deeper.

"Promising you."

Kenjaku's elbow straightens sharply and he moans as he feels your heart beating in his palm. He pulls it out of your body, panting as your eyes slip close and your heart slows. Beating slowly...slowly...slowly...

Kenjaku moans at the memory of your heart in his hands. Your warm blood coating his skin, drying under his nails and crackling in the creases of his joints.

"I wanted to keep you on me forever," he grunts out as his pace gets faster. "The smell of you, of your flesh."

"I didn't need your body, but it was too beautiful not to be admired."

Kenjaku throws his head back, placing his palm across his nose and lips as he sifts through his memories so he can conjure it all over again.

The painting watches on impassively. The croons and purrs of Geto Suguru's cursed spirits echo faintly in Kenjaku's ears while his hips thrusts into his own fist. It's desperate. He usually isn't like this. Even when he was creating the Death Womb Paintings — even when his plans are so close to coming into fruition.

You make him like this. Make him lose control, every thought poisoned with you even when you're nothing more than a mummified heart hidden so desperately away by Sorcerer Society.

"I've gotten a lead," Uraume had informed him just a few days ago. "They've hidden him in the ocean in an underwater research facility."

"Underwater, hah, they think it'll keep your flames contained. Keep your loyal servant away as if the depths of the ocean is enough to scare them, us — Oh, (Y/N)."

His fist stops and Kenjaku stands, removing his clothing fully as he places a hand against the wall of the gallery. The textured wall, the grooves, give way to his nails as he digs them in. He stares into your eyes, imagining the crease of your furrowed brow and Kenjaku groans out your name as he cums all over the wall.

"...Oh, I can't wait to see you again, venerable concubine."

[rika-mmendmethings]

Terms & Conditions Apply | Sylus

Prologue I Chapter 1

Summary: What begins as a financial lifeline quickly transforms into an emotional labyrinth once you agree to become both the surrogate and ova donor for the Qin family. With an entire year remaining under their roof, you begin to unravel the hidden truths behind their seemingly perfect façade. Worse still, you find yourself confronted with things that were never outlined in the terms and conditions.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story. For this chapter: none.

Word count: 851

Playlist coming soon.

Notes: Another Sylus series cause I couldn't hold it in till August, which was when I was actually meant to release this. This series can be considered an alternate universe because Sylus has no powers in this, and he and MC are married. But there's no change in the characters or places. Anyway, I've written 2-3 one-shots and I might've nearly gone bald because of it, but hey, at least I didn't fully drown in the void named writer's block. Enough about me, hopefully you enjoy this and decide to tune in for the series. It'll return on June 17 again since I'm avoiding writing series for now. My asks are open if you wish to know more about this. Lmk if you wish to be added to the tag list for this ♥

You’re pulled from your thoughts by the gentle voice of the woman before you, her words barely audible beneath the weight of the moment. “Do you agree?” she asks, her smile wide as she leans forward slightly, eyes gleaming with anticipation.

You glance back down at the document in your hands, the words swim in and out of focus as you read through it once again: “You, [Name], agree to donate your ova and act as the surrogate mother for the couple seated before you.” The conditions are clear and direct as you run your eyes over the rest of it. For one year, you will live with the couple, under their roof, in a world that is so far removed from your own. Your needs will be met, and your comfort and safety assured. At the end of the term, you will leave with an amount of 100 million as compensation. The child will remain with them. No strings attached.

A non-disclosure agreement sits ominously at the bottom, promising that not a word will be spoken of this agreement once you sign.

It’s absurd. You, a regular civilian, struggling to make ends meet in your nine-to-five grind, suddenly being handed an offer that could change your life overnight. A hundred million just for... donating a few eggs and carrying a child for a wealthy couple?

You’ve seen the movies. You know this isn’t as simple as it sounds. But you’re also not stupid. You’re not going to let your bank account look like it’s been hit by a tornado for the next decade just because of some minor inconveniences like... the inevitable emotional attachment you might develop to the baby or the fact that you’re signing away the next year of your life to a couple you barely know and met through a website.

But hey, 100 million. One hundred million. Your bank account would practically sing opera with that much cash.

You look up at the couple again, a momentary distraction from the formalities of the contract. The woman — Mikayla Clarke Qin, as the document states — has a radiant smile plastered on her face. Her hands are clasped together in front of her, the look of someone who has long awaited this moment. She radiates an energy, a warmth that might’ve made the situation seem less daunting if it weren’t for her companion beside her.

Her husband, Sylus, is seated next to her, his posture relaxed, but his presence commanding. One leg draped over the other, his sanguine eyes meet yours. He regards you with an intensity that unsettles you — a quiet observer who sees far more than what’s on the surface.

Mikayla, on the other hand, seems almost too eager. She leans forward again, her voice soft but insistent. “It’ll be a smooth process, I promise you. You’ll have everything you need, and I’ll personally make sure this is as easy for you as possible.” Her words sound kind, genuine even.

You exhale, deeply, before letting the cool weight of the fountain pen settle into your fingers. The decision is made in your mind now, even if your heart beats a little faster with the anxiety of what you’re about to do. This could change everything. You turn the pen and, with a steady hand, sign the document.

Before you know it, she pulls you into a hug, muttering words of gratitude to you. It’s tight, warm, maybe a bit too intimate for the occasion. You return the hug, albeit with less enthusiasm, your body stiff as a board.

And then, of course, Sylus stands up.

The man is, to put it bluntly, towering. His frame alone would make most people instinctively take a step back, but it’s his presence that truly fills the room. He extends his hand, and you, ever the awkward one in these moments, offer yours in return. His gaze doesn’t leave you, not even for a moment, and you feel as though his eyes are searching, pulling something from within you. The warmth you felt from Mikayla now seems distant, as if her husband’s presence has cast a shadow over the room. You clumsily shake his hand, trying to hide the way your palm’s suddenly sweaty.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he says, his voice smooth, low, and just... cold. It doesn’t match the warmth of his wife at all. It’s like he’s a different species entirely. You're starting to believe that opposites really do attract.

MC’s voice cuts through the silence again, oblivious to the strange undercurrent swirling between you and her husband. “We’ll see you tomorrow at the hospital and begin the procedure. Just some medical and psychological evaluations in the first stage. Nothing too strenuous,” she assures, her voice cheerful.

You grab your things quickly and head for the door after bidding the couple goodbye, your heart still hammering in your chest. The silence behind you feels deafening. And as you step out into the cool evening air, a single thought pulses in your mind, growing louder with every step:

What have you gotten yourself into?

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

[rhaeheartzsquirrelz]

General Sevika Headcannons (p.2)

Sevika x Female Reader (Fluff)

Content: Slightly modern Zaun.

Proofread || Note: These are so random, I just happen to love this woman.

Sitting at an empty table, waiting for the rest of Silco’s goons to show up, she’ll turn the paper straw covers into tiny rings for you. She’ll even ask the bartender for a pen and draw shaky little hearts all around it. Has she ever given you them? No, she’ll ends up stuffing them in her vest if she finds it cringe.

Real life stalker. Let’s say you’re out on a girls night, drinking and dancing in your short little dress with your face all prettied up with makeup. Sevika, who knew how dangerously sexy you looked in your outfit, went out to.. watch over you. She wouldn’t use the word follow, shadow, nor stalk. She was just.. well, protecting you. Keeping all the drunken men away from her goddess of a girlfriend.

Has candles around her apartment to mask the smell of sweat, alcohol, and cigarettes. Her signature scent? A nice, warm woody smell. She dislikes rough perfumes that smell like cakes and cookies, something softer for the nostrils is her go to.

Takes you out on library dates in Piltover. She wants you to have more options, more opportunities to read books from the city of progress. But, in her personal opinion, she prefers taking you to libraries in Zaun. Yes, she will get a discount but, not only that, the “aesthetic vibes,” she learned that from a kid, fit you. The dark oak of the bookshelves with the worn, yet loved conditions of the rest of the place, she thinks you prefer that more than the bright, obnoxious lighting of the libraries in Piltover. Is she biased? Yeah. She is. She won’t deny it. She loves Zaun, no matter the condition.

Brings home a new blanket every month. Walking past the Everything Store, she’ll come across a fluffy new blanket with designs that just catch her eyes. Without a doubt, she’ll risk being ten minutes late for her new and exciting blanket— that she’ll fold and keep on the sofa in case the apartment got too chilly.

Was never into shirts until you smothered her with affection after seeing her in a red and black button up. She has never gotten over that and, almost everynight, will think about it with her cheeks all heated. Now, she wears them every day she’s off duty. Wandering around the apartment impatiently waiting for you to notice her.

Lets you tie her hair into pigtails and draw whiskers on her cheeks.

She knows how much you love “yapping” to her. Be it drama from a year ago that you randomly remembered, how your day has been, or even if you came across an old friend, Sevika will happily listen to your rants with full attention. But, if you grow too emotional [sad, angry, hurt] she’ll shut you up with a brief kiss on your lips.

Collects beads. Any color. Any type.

On your one year anniversary, she gifted you a necklace that she, herself, had made. The charm being two bullets from the finest gun she owned, she even went further and wrote the both of your initials on them.

Would love to have her hair cut by you but she’s scared you’ll give her a fat bald spot. So, she lets you trim her ends and give her layers— she even suggested matching with the hairstyle.

Okay bye I’m tired

[aesteries]

⋆✴︎˚。⋆ ─ ❝sweetling❞ ─ aemond targaryen and original female character. ❝alicent hightower's youngest daughter, haera targaryen, has returned to king's landing after eight long years in old town and aemond finds himself inexplicably drawn to the girl kissed by the moon and with the eyes that seem to only look at him.❞

how could i not love eyes that see me in all my forms as beautiful?

〔incest, innocence and fantasies, fluff and romance, smut, virginity, events of blood and cheese, family rivalry, disabled main character, hints of book!aemond, modified show!timeline and events.〕

words: 6.6k series' masterlist.

                 CHAPTER 2. 

Court affairs often put him to sleep, hours of incessant complaints and requests from worthless high-born lords and ladies who wanted more than they deserved, but not today. What was unfolding before his healthy eye was just too gripping to ignore, and for once, he thanked the gods that he did not fake an illness to miss the spectacle. His half-sister, Rhaenyra, had been bold enough to bring her illegitimate children to the Red Keep to stake their claim on Driftmark. She was demanding to recognise her second son’s legitimacy, placing him as his apparent father’s heir, amidst opposition from Vaemond Velaryon, who argues that the title belonged to him instead. Many lords in the room nodded in secret agreement with Vaemond's reasonable demand, yet Rhaenyra refused to back down, her determination palpable.

The sudden boom of the throne room doors echoed throughout the chamber as they parted, a loud announcement of the King’s arrival snapping everyone back to reality. Glancing to his side, he saw his siblings straightening up, eyes fixed on their father, King Viserys, as he struggled down the stairs with his body curved over himself. Haera, ever the dutiful daughter, had perked up at the mention of her father’s name, but her clouded vision refused to settle over the fragile man as he began his laboured progress toward the throne. 

“King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

The room sank into silence, a deafening sound as all eyes focused on the King's pathetic frame. The status of his health was known, but to witness his decay was a shock to everyone, and even the unflappable Otto Hightower had concern etched all over his face, though it did not seem quite genuine as he scrambled out of the throne he had been keeping warm. The air was heavy with tension as the King's slow, agonising approach to the throne seemed to take an eternity, pain burning up his skin with every step.

He trudged up the steps toward the Iron Throne, pridefully waving off the guards' offers of assistance as he stumbled, his legs trembling beneath him. In his struggle and exhaustion, the crown that dangerously balanced over his balding head slipped and fell to the granite floor with a shattering clank of metal. Aemond’s eye locked on the back of his uncle’s head as the man was the only one to act, guiding his older brother on the final few steps and placing the crown on his head. 

“I do not understand,” King Viserys’s voice was frail, breathless as he spoke, “why petitions are being heard over a settled succession.”

The sight of the bastard-born boy, with his head of brown locks and the whiteness of his skin standing between the rich tones of the Velaryons, triggered a low laugh from the prince’s lips, earning a side glance from his mother. The air in the throne room was thick, an obvious buzz of energy flowing between the Targaryen royalty. 

“As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons, Jace and Luke, to Lord Corly’s granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena.” Princess Rhaenys’s tone was firm and confident: “A proposal to which I heartily agree.”

Suddenly, as if he had finally heard something that interested him, King Viserys’ eyes snapped to attention, rising on his seat as if the weight of his crown had been redistributed to him with full health. The left side of his face, that side that was uncovered by the mask, twisted into a smile of cracked lips. “Very well…” His voice filled the space with anticipation, his tired eyes darting around the faces of his family. "However, I have a say in the matter of the betrothal of my grandson, Prince Lucerys.”

Aemond’s gaze drifted to his half-sister, who was already watching them with an air of confidence, a smirk on her lips with a subtle challenge. Her piercing glare seemed to dare him, to provoke him, to let him know that she knew something that he did not. His stomach twisted into knots, and he suddenly felt the ghost of a noose around his neck.

"I believe in the continued union of our families, those with the blood of Old Valyria," the king declared, his voice echoing through the hall. "And therefore, I have decided to unite my youngest daughter, Princess Haera Targaryen, to Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon, the rightful heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the future Lord of the Tides."

The young prince’s world was shattered, like that night when he claimed Vhagar, the remnants of untouched innocence finally scattering over the floor for everyone to see. His despair must have been that obvious, as Aegon’s worries were evident when he turned to glance at him. Aemond remained statue-still, his gaze fixed on the back of Haera's head as she stood rigidly, flanked by Helaena and their mother. Alicent's grip on the young girl's wrist was like a vice, a desperate attempt to prevent them from tearing her away, her knuckles white with tension.

Aemond’s heartbreak was soon replaced by a raging fire, like Vhagar’s fire, that consumed his every thought as his eye daggered Lucerys Velaryon, who in return dared to challenge him with a subtle nod. Any outburst in the King’s presence would be suicidal, his wrath barely contained as his hand lingered on the hilt of his sword. He was all too familiar with the King's blind devotion to Rhaenyra and her brood, and he knew his powerlessness against it. Perhaps he could take her and rescue her from the toxicity of the court, where her innocence was being sullied by the very presence of the Strong bastards. He recalled the day Lucerys had slashed him, the resentment still festering like an open wound. In this moment, Aemond felt trapped, forced to endure the insolence of his nemesis.

It was only when gentle warmth had wrapped around his fingers that he was brought back to the present from his deadly fantasies. He looked down to find Haera’s tearful eyes welling up with crystal tears, her mind consumed by her future. The quivering of her lips fed the fire in the pit of his stomach. She was likely aware of the implications of their union, of the dark legacy they would pass on to their children, a heritage shrouded in deceit and tainted by the lies that had defined their past. She was meant to clean Lucery’s dirtied Valyrian blood with their union.

Time stopped for them as they gazed into each other’s eyes, the gentle flutter of her white eyelashes betraying the warmth of her adoration. He knew, deep down, that he and she were meant to be; it transcended tradition. It was fate; it was the will of the gods—they made her just for him, everything that he was not. Even if she were to stand before the altar, before that naive boy to exchange vows, Aemond was resolute; he would set things right. His sweetling would not be made to suffer for the mistakes of others. He would move heaven and earth to ensure her freedom from the shackles of injustice, no matter the cost.

A sudden scream cut their moment short.

Aemond’s mind was reeling, struggling to comprehend just what was unfolding before him as the two of them snapped out of their trance that had drowned out the inheritance hearing. Daemon Targaryen’s sword sliced through the air with a swift swing, decapitating Vaemond Velaryon with a deadly motion. In the aftermath of the violence, as the body began to spill over the floor, Haera instinctively wrapped her arms around his middle for protection. He enveloped her tightly, his hand on the back of her head as he held her close to his chest. The feeling of her slender frame pressed against him and his arms cradling her felt surprisingly natural, out of a dream. It was a gesture that brought a sense of calm to the chaos surrounding them; it grounded them, a fleeting moment of solace in the face of Daemon's ferocity.

His heart was racing as he clutched her. It was where she belonged: sheltered in his embrace, secured in his grasp, shielded by his unwavering protection. The half-sister’s eyes were fixed on the pair, intense with the fire of the dragon, her mind reeling with the plan she had put in place. A brother consumed by his passion and a sister who reciprocated those feelings, now a forbidden romance. She felt the danger in the pit of her stomach, not for her claim to the throne but for the future of her second-born son. Persuading her father to accept the match had been easy, serving the young prince an opportunity on a silver platter. Lucerys saw the two Targaryens lost in their own world, and he saw a challenge. 

The air was heavy with tension, thick with the weight of forbidden love and the ominous foreshadowing of strife to come.

The day after the disastrous inheritance hearing, the sun cast a gentle glow on the beautiful gardens of the Red Keep, its rays illuminating the many flowers that adorned the greenery. As she strolled through, a soft breeze caressed her face and tangled her hair, pulling the strands from the intricate braids her ladies had crafted. Yet she was overwhelmed by anxiety and a sense of unease that had settled in her stomach. The company, she was convinced, was to blame for her discomfort. Her mother’s encouragement still echoed fresh in her mind, and she would not let her down even if she had missed the worry behind the Queen’s forced smile.

Lucerys Velaryon had appeared outside the Queen’s chambers; his arm extended in invitation as a way to formally begin courting his promised princess. The young man possessed an unusual charm, an air of innocence one moment, and a sharp tongue the next. Within mere minutes of their stroll, he had dropped too many complaints for her comfort, criticising the alterations to the Red Keep, the gardens, and even the maids’ outfits. The food, as well, was apparently not to his liking, and she found herself on edge, bracing for the next critique to tumble from his lips.

Lucerys droned on about the dragonpit or something about dragons, but her mind had drifted to some of the times she had taken strolls around the garden. Aemond cherished their shared moments. He never complained, never interrupted her, and listened to her. She recalled how he would gently hold her hand over the cracked stones, ensuring she didn't trip and fall. He'd pluck flowers from the nearby bushes, presenting them to her so she could marvel at their beauty up close. In those quiet moments, Aemond always reminded her that she possessed a beauty that rivalled the flowers, making her feel treasured and unique.

As she stood beside her betrothed, Lucerys, her eyes widened in stark realization. Her thoughts strayed back to Aemond as if her mind were trying to escape the present.

The one-eyed prince lingered in the darkness, fixed on every step they took. The torches cast long shadows over him, clouding him from their sight and helping him blend into the darkness with his black leather. His mother had attempted to stop him, claiming that it was for her own good, but he refused to abandon her, especially since she was to be alone with that bastard and Gods knew what he could be capable of. She looked radiant, shining like jewels even under the weak sunlight, clad in an exquisite silk dress with delicate lace patterns. Her beauty, so pure, made his heart ache with jealousy, seeing how her beauty was being wasted on Lucerys when it should be reserved for him alone.

“I was wondering,” Lucerys’ voice finally directed at her shook her from her thoughts. “How come you do not ride your dragon?”

Her brows furrowed, initially confused at his question but realising he had no idea about the tragedy that had befallen her hatchling, Brightfyre, during childhood. The memory of that painful day was still so fresh in her mind, even if she had been too young. It was like an open wound that would never heal, and his question had rubbed salt over it. "My dragon passed away when it was just a hatchling," she explained, her voice laced with a hint of sadness.

As she spoke, Lucerys's face lost its colour, his features contorting into a grimace. "The dragon keepers believed it was due to a malformation during incubation. According to the maesters, I wouldn't have been able to ride for long even if Brightfyre had survived anyways, as my sight would have continued to deteriorate with age.”

She missed the expression, her gaze fixed on the ground as she continued her walk, her footsteps steady and deliberate. Behind her, Lucerys had to consciously relax his facial muscles, shaking off the tension that had built up. Aemond, ever the observer, caught the subtle movement and raised an eyebrow, his eyes darting between the young couple as they strolled through the castle grounds.

“I’m relieved,” she confessed, her tone a stark contrast to the sorrow that had taken over her voice moments ago. “It gives me a sense of freedom, not being bound to one of them... being different from the rest of my family, to make a name for myself and not through my dragon.”

Lucerys's incredulity was palpable as he struggled to comprehend her words. "But you're a Targaryen," he protested, his voice laced with disbelief. "The blood of dragonlords from Old Valyria runs through your veins. Having dragons is the greatest symbol of our power and strength." He couldn't imagine a life without a dragon; it was unthinkable, especially for a Targaryen and for someone like him. Memories of his childhood came flooding back like an aggressive tide of the times he and the others had mercilessly teased Aemond for not having a dragon, only for him to claim the largest one alive. Lucerys swallowed hard, the memory still a bitter pill to swallow, especially when he thought of the Aemond of today.

She halted, her footsteps suddenly heavy on the stone floor, and turned back to him with an unreadable expression etched on her face. "I do not believe that," she said, her voice laced with conviction. "To me, we are more than the blood of dragons.”

Lucerys's response was immediate and firm. "Blood is everything.”

Her eyes, a light shade of purple that no other Targaryen shared, narrowed, and a spark of defiance flashed within them, lighting up like a flame. It was a glint Lucerys had never seen before—a darker, more intense, suffocating as she stepped closer, her shoulders squaring and her chin tilting upward. Lucerys felt a jolt of surprise. The gentle girl he had been introduced to had transformed before his very eyes into someone else. The corner of her lip curled into a faint, mischievous smirk, and for a fleeting moment, Lucerys could have sworn Aemond's spirit had possessed her, imbuing her with his audacity.

Her voice, usually so sweet and feathery, was laced with sarcasm that sent icy cold shivers down Lucery’s spine as she spoke. “Is that so, my prince?” Her tone dripped with irony. “Is your blood that..." Her eyes wandered over his form, her tilted head making it seem that she was speaking down on him. “Strong… that it defines who you are and determines your worth?” The emphasis on the word "strong" was a subtle challenge, a dare to Lucerys to defend his stance.

Aemond smiled to himself, filled to the brim with a sense of satisfaction as he observed the confrontation from his corner, her voice clear as she landed her verbal blow. He couldn't help but feel proud of her, amused by this feisty side of hers that she had never shown. Despite likely dying inside from the weight of her words, she had stood up to Lucerys, refusing to back down. Aemond knew she would learn to defend herself, and their nephew wouldn't easily intimidate her.

Lucerys's face flushed with anger, his ears burning as he understood the hidden message in her words, her intention to offend him clear as day. His nails dug deep into his palms to the point they almost drew blood, a desperate attempt to restrain himself from lashing out and from raising his hand to teach her a lesson about disrespect. He had to find a way to bend her to his will, and despite her venomous words, she had a rather fragile nature, and he was sure that a few swift blows would be enough to shatter her spirit.

“Anything the matter, nephew?” Aemond’s velvety voice halted the conversation between the young prince and princess, as he had made his way out of the darkness and into the light, having decided that they had spent too long together. His voice dripped with superiority, his shoulders tight as he looked down at the boy. 

They turned to face him, eyes wide as they fixed on the intimidating figure with hands clasped behind his back and a smile that froze the prince in place, a smile that seemed to revel in the power it held over others. Lucerys' skin broke out in goosebumps as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. In stark contrast, Haera’s body reacted differently the moment his calming presence washed over her; tense muscles relaxed, breathing slowed, and calmness took over her.

Lucerys, on the other hand, stumbled over his words, his voice trembling as he tried to find an excuse for their conversation that had taken a disgusting turn, eyes darting towards Haera, who seemed to be the only one immune to Aemond's intimidating aura. The prince's courage, once bold enough to consider striking his future wife, now shrank to the size of a timid rat, cowering in the face of Aemond's dominance.

Aemond turned to address his younger sister, his eye intense with adoration that seemed to suck up all the air around them, to the point Lucerys felt bitter jealousy like a kid watching someone else play with his toy. He could not lose this silent competition over Haera; she was his to claim, announced in front of everyone.

"Our mother has requested your presence," Aemond said, his voice low and husky, like the rustling of leaves in an autumn breeze. "Shall I escort you to her chambers?" He extended his arm, inviting her to take it.

And Haera smiled, the sight so beautiful that it would inspire the finest painters for their masterpieces. She placed her hand on his arm, touching gently and lovingly, and he pulled her away from Lucerys to seethe in silence. As they walked away, Haera's eyes sneakily shifted back to look at the dark-haired prince through a blurred gaze, sparkling like diamonds in candlelight, their secret message clear as day: she knew the game they played, and she would not be swayed. Aemond was the one she wanted, and he was who she was going to get.

The entire family gathered in the grand dining room after the darkness of the night took over the once clear sky, forced out of their chambers to avoid each other since Rhaenyra’s kin arrived. Even the melodic notes of the music could not fill the space between the strained relationships or clear the thick tension of the room as they sat around the table. 

The two sides of the family sat awkwardly in silence until the arrival of the King, carried in by his guards in an ornate chair that allowed him to move with ease. As he was placed in the centre of the gathering, between both sides of the family, Aemond's gaze darted to the far end of the table, where Haera had reluctantly taken her seat beside Lucerys. It had been their mother’s idea, her sullen expression telling him all he needed to know as her pouting lips and folded arms screamed defiance.

The king spoke, his wheezing voice piercing the air, the frail state of his body evident even as he rested in a seated position. He welcomed his heir and her family with genuine warmth between laboured breaths. Aemond’s mind wandered, tuning out the king as he spoke of the importance of family unity. But, as the king began to congratulate the newly formed alliances, he snapped back to the conversation. His stomach churned with disgust as their father praised Lucerys and Haera, his jaw clenched in frustration. He wasn't alone in his sentiment; Aegon, too, seemed put off by the king's flowery words, his eyes fixed on some point beyond the gathering.

Aegon couldn’t contain himself for much longer, pent-up frustration and anger simmering like a pot about to boil. His eyes darted around the room, meeting Haera’s as he looked at the faces of his family. Though her vision was blurry, she could make out the wink he sent her way, tilting his head towards the young prince beside him. 

“Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman.” He was a master at pushing his buttons. He took great pleasure in witnessing his reactions, his face reddening with each carefully crafted comment that would leave him fuming and frustrated, like a shaky vial of Wildfire ready to explode. “You do know how the act is done, I assume... like, where to put your cock.”

“Let it be, cousin.” Baela did her best to manage the situation before the two boys escalated it. 

However, Aegon continued; this time he addressed her instead, "I... regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer.” The young man gave her a pitiful look; the drunken joke was clear in his amethyst eyes: “But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.”

Everyone was jolted out of their casual chatter as Jace’s fist thundered down on the wooden table, the sound like a crack of lightning, and all eyes darted to the source to find him springing up from his seat. He gave Aegon’s shoulder a tight, almost brutal squeeze but then gave a playful punch to his arm. He then strode around the table with heavy footsteps and offered his hand to Aegon’s sister-wife, Helaena. 

There was a sudden spike in tension, as if there was room for any more, as Jace boldly trespassed into forbidden territory. The King, in agony, remained oblivious to the rift between the members of the royal family, his sentimental gaze fixed on the unfolding drama until his frail health betrayed him, forcing him to be escorted back to his chambers for a dose of much-needed medicine.

The servants emerged from the kitchen with steaming plates of food, momentarily easing the bubbling tension that set over the family, calming their sharp glares at each other. During the bustle, one kind-hearted servant, unaware of the significance of her actions, placed the largest, most impressive plate in front of Aemond—a massive, glistening pig', its beady eyes staring up at him like a haunting spectre from his tormented childhood.

Lucerys did not miss the way Aemond’s gaze shifted momentarily, and he let out a snort, his own dark eyes shining with mockery.

As the room fell silent, Aemond's hand came crashing down on the table to get their attention, the sound echoing through the chambers like a challenge. He rose from his seat with his cup in his hand, holding it up to toast. Everyone turned to face him, their hands tightening around their cups of wine as if bracing for an impact that would rival Vhagar’s powerful landing, eyes fixed on the one-eyed prince as his voice boomed through the hall, "Final tribute."

“To the health of my nephews: Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. 

Each of them handsome, 

wise, 

strong. 

Come! 

Let us drain our cups to these three... strong... boys.”

The fragile vial of wildfire shattered, releasing the fury of the young princes as they jumped to their feet, determined to defend their honour, no matter who witnessed it. Jace moved wildly at Aemond, landing a blow to his face, who barely staggered backwards. Meanwhile, Aegon shoved Lucerys headfirst into an empty plate. The guards hesitated, taking a second too long to intervene and separate the boys, allowing the drama to unfold as the frantic mothers rushed onto the scene, their worried cries piercing the air.

Aemond's voice resonated through the air as Haera rushed towards the group that formed, her grip on her mother's shoulders tight with concern. Her older brothers stood before her, their faces tense with anger but their bodies relaxed. Jace's swift punch had left its mark after all—a small gash on the corner of Aemond's lip, a dark bruise starting to spread over his skin. "I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother," Aemond said, his words dripping with sarcasm as he gazed at Haera. The real insult, however, lay in his next sentence: "Though it seems my nephews aren't quite as proud of theirs, an unlikely match for my sister."

The family was dismissed, and each of them was sent away to enjoy their dinners in each of their chambers. 

The flickering flame in front of Aemond captivated him, his gaze fixed on the gentle rhythm of the dancing fire. Time had passed since the tumultuous events of dinner, and he had yet to return to his chambers, finding himself in Haera’s safe library instead as he tried to ease the disgust that still lingered in his stomach. He waited for a long time to make sure everyone had returned to their chambers for sleep to avoid having anyone see him visit his beloved in her chambers.

But before he could act, the creaking of old hinges shattered the silence, and his eye darted instinctively to the source, finding no other than his girl, Haera, seemingly coming to fetch him. His heart immediately picked up the pace at the angelic sight. 

Her cloud-like hair was elegantly pulled up by a soft braid, and her slender body was delicately wrapped in the rich velvet she was accustomed to wearing to bed. Only a thin, embroidered coat rested over her shoulders, tied at the front of her chest with a delicate silk cord, covering her modestly yet radiating an aura of luxury.

The gentle smile he always saved for her tugged on his lips, the book he had been holding slipping from his hands and forgotten in the excitement of her arrival. "Haera," he whispered, his voice full of affection, as he welcomed her. The young princess sighed in relief, the tension in her shoulders finally released. Her soft eyes caressed the contours of his familiar face. "I was looking for you, brother," she said, her voice tinged with worry. Why did you leave your chambers?” The words hung in the air as if she had been searching for him everywhere, her heart heavy with anticipation.

“I needed some time to myself.” He muttered, his eyes fixed on the floor as she approached him, stopping only in front of the chair where he sat with an air of exhaustion. Now that she had moved closer, she could see the purplish bruise on the corner of his lips more clearly in his swirl of colours, and something shifted in her stomach, stirring of concern. He was leaning back on the backrest, his legs splayed out before him, signalling a sense of comfort. His coat, discarded on the floor next to him, and the leather jacket, unbuttoned and open, revealed his plain cotton undershirt. She had never seen him in such a vulnerable state, somehow so at peace after the fiery argument he had sparked with their family, like a stormy sky clearing.

Aemond noticed how her eyes travelled over his figure, absorbing every detail, and his hand motioned for her to get closer to him to take a step into his quiet world. He would have gladly slid over to allow her some space next to him and enjoy the warmth of her company. Still, she might have interpreted it differently, as she lifted herself over the cushion to sit sideways on his lap instead, her movement sudden and fluid, taking place over him as she had always belonged there.

Somehow, courage had taken over her, building from the adrenaline of dinner; if her brothers were capable of such, she was as well. Haera had promised herself that her secret would remain locked away, especially now that she was a betrothed woman, yet witnessing Aemond’s distress over the impending union with Lucerys Velaryon and the impassioned speech he delivered at dinner had ignited a fire within her. A dormant aspect of her character had awakened, a part she never knew existed. This newfound sensation felt distinct, like the first crackle of autumn leaves. It felt exhilarating and empowering. With deliberate intent, she had taken over his lap, her legs dangling off his side, her side pressed flush against his chest, and her hands settled upon his shoulders, claiming him as her own.

Aemond’s vision blurred, everything around him dissolving into nothingness as his mind came to comprehend what was happening—her gentle pressure against him. The scent of her sweet skin, a blend of flowers, enveloped him, making his senses reel. She flushed a deep crimson, her bold facade crumbling beneath a wave of embarrassment, her cheeks burning. His hands trembled with longing, hovering above her hips as if touching her would shatter her and make her disappear forever. "Sweet girl," his voice was low and husky, his throat parched as the desert. "What are you doing?" The words were barely above a whisper, a struggling sound, as if speaking too loudly would banish the moment's magic.

She responded with silence, her unsteady gaze on him, eyes narrowing to clear her vision. The proximity served them like her magnifying glass, bringing him into sharp focus. She was drawn to the subtle curve of his eyebrows, the slight crook of his nose, and the sharp cut of his chin. Her eyes lingered on the corner of his lips, where the faint imprint of the punch had turned into a delicate purple bruise, barely staining his skin. Without thinking, she reached up, her fingertips lightly tracing its edge. The gentle touch sent a shiver through Aemond's body, and he sucked in a breath, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy of the gesture.

She had touched him before, gentle and hesitating as she searched for his hand, arm, or shoulder to rest her head on, but that was not with the same intensity or intimacy as now. Her touch was a spark, setting his body aflame, a drive that propelled him forward with a motivation that came from the desire to be worthy of her. 

Haera’s skin felt strange, her body shifting from hot to cold and back to hot again while his hands finally came to rest on her waist, his slender fingers digging softly into the thin material of her nightgown. The voices in her head took to a contradictory choir, some screaming at her to feel more of him and the other trying to force her away, but a side was stronger and yearned to feel every inch of him, to be consumed by his presence, and for him to realise she would forever be his. The marriage to another man was nothing for her. She would forever be bound to him in her heart, and no contract or agreement could change that.

Her curiosity got the better of her, and she leaned forward, her lips brushing against the corner of his mouth in a hesitant, gentle touch. It would be her first kiss if she had pressed herself fully over his, and her inexperience in the intimacy of her touch was too evident in the way she just pushed against his skin, unsure of how to proceed. The gesture was so sweet and innocent, yet it almost sent him over the edge with a surge of heat, causing his desire to wrestle with his sense of restraint. His mind was a battleground, torn between the purity of her intention and the depravity of his own desires, as he felt the softness of her lips tantalisingly close to the spot where he wanted her to be, to devour her.

But Aemond was a gentleman; he cared for her feelings, so he refused to push her into anything she was not ready for and instead let her take the lead, allowing her to explore and discover the sensations at her own pace. 

Haera pulled back with wide, innocent eyes that sparkled with the surprise of the burning sensation on her lips, covering them with her hands as the tingling was left behind. She looked unsatisfied, her curiosity still burning bright, but she didn't know how to ask the questions she wanted to. So she tried again, her lips finally pressing squarely over his in a chaste, exploratory kiss before pulling back to gauge his reaction. She repeated this once, twice, and three times as she peppered kisses over his lips, each time pulling back to look at him with her beautiful eyes.

He realised she was testing him, watching how he responded to her touch. Aemond smiled, his grip on her waist tightening to hold her in place. “Go ahead.” He muttered, a voice reserved just for her. "You can keep going." The words were an invitation, a permission to explore, and he could sense her hesitation dissipating as she leaned in again, her lips a whisper away from his.

The next time they touched, he leaned in to meet her halfway, brushing against hers with a guiding touch to encourage her to follow his lead and discover the warmth of a real kiss, one between lovers. She immediately mirrored his movements with the soft, tender pressure when his lips danced across hers. As she tilted her head, the kiss slowly gained intensity, and she felt herself becoming lost in the sensation, the heat taking over her lower body as her desire for him grew. Despite her initial uncertainty with him, she felt an innate knowing, as if she had been kissing him all her life.

The kiss deepened, and she felt herself melting into him as the flame grew within her, body moulding to his and pressing heavily against his thighs underneath her legs. Aemond's hand cradled the back of her head, taking control of the kiss, his passion for her growing with every passing moment. His hunger was palpable, and she felt herself responding, drawn to him like a winged insect to a funeral pyre, the world around them fading into insignificance.

His tongue darted out to press itself against her lips, a gentle invitation that she accepted with boldness, granting him entrance to her mouth. He slid inside, his hot muscle caressing hers tenderly as the kiss escalated from their tongues intertwining, sending shivers down their spines as they set into a passionate rhythm with their kiss. At first, her body had stiffened, unfamiliar with the sensation, but he persisted, his gentle prodding wearing down her defences. Soon, she found herself melting into the embrace, her senses surrendering to the intensity of the moment. It was as if her entire being had been submerged in a cauldron of molten lava.

The world around her began to fade, leaving only the two of them, lost in the vortex of their passion. The air was heavy, alive with the promise of what could be, and she felt herself getting swept away by the sheer force of his desire. The kiss was no longer just a meeting of lips but a fusion of bodies that left her gasping for air yet craving more. She started to feel the overwhelming pressure of release, and her body began to sway over him, seeking for something. 

Aemond's senses grew heightened as the darkness within him began to unfurl, a dragon awakening from a deep slumber. With each deliberate roll of her hips, the danger escalated, threatening to engulf him. The thoughts swirling in his mind were primal, raw, and completely consumed by the proximity of her body to his. She had surrendered completely to him, pressing her small form against him on the worn couch, her arms wrapped tightly over his shoulders. The light of the room seemed to fade into nothing as Aemond's focus narrowed to the rhythmic movement of her hips as she began to squirm over him, the gentle pressure of her body, and the sweet curve of her neck as his hands began to travel over her body, feeling her form under his rough palms. 

His mind wandered, consumed by the forbidden thought: could he claim her innocence? The notion sent a searing flame through his gut, fuelled by the knowledge that she was promised to another for political alliances, someone devoid of honour and talent. Another would never cherish her like he could, never adore her like he would. Aemond, a man of substance, could provide her with everything her heart desired. He would mount Vhagar, his majestic dragon, and fetch the moon itself if that's what she yearned for.

Yet he resisted the temptation to take her on that chair, despite the alluring sight of her sitting over him, her barely covered body pressing against him, unknowingly seeking pleasure as she rocked herself over him. She merited more than a fleeting passion; she deserved to be cherished and worshipped. The chair limited him to mere sensations—the feel of her skin, the rhythm of her movements, the sweetness of her taste. He needed to be patient to witness the moment she discovered true pleasure for the first time.

Perhaps if he were her first—the first to touch her, to feel her, to take her maidenhead—he would leave an indelible mark on her soul. She would remember him forever, even on her wedding night and the following nights. Even without the most intimate of touches, she had awakened a deep longing within him that he couldn't ignore. He yearned to be the one to ignite the flames of true pleasure within her and to hear her soft, velvety voice whisper his name in rapturous surrender. The thought of another person claiming the right to shatter her, to push her to the limits, and to witness her stunning features twisted in ecstasy was unbearable. She would see him, not some other man, in her mind's eye. Maybe she would gaze upon her firstborn child and imagine what a child with him would look like—a Valyrian offspring with snow-white hair and piercing purple eyes. The thought tormented him, a sweet temptation that echoed through his being.

He refused to let the beast win—that beast that wanted to break her innocence over a pathetic chair, as tempting as she was in her sheer gown. Instead, he encircled her waist with his arms and drew her nearer, their lips parting with the most lustful sound as they pulled apart to breathe, a translucent string of saliva still connecting their mouths. She let herself fall over him, her head resting on his shoulder as she struggled to catch her breath. The love he harboured for her was a tidal wave, threatening to engulf him at any moment, but having her close and feeling her warmth and weight in his embrace was a balm to his troubled mind. It was as if the world, with all its cares and worries, receded, leaving only the two of them, lost in the silence of their own private universe.

Nothing could prepare them for what would come next.

ᡣ𐭩 ─ author's note ;

i HATE this chapter lol. i feel like it's so much of the show content that i didn't really play around with more stuff, but at least i added an alone moment with lucerys and finally a moment with aemond at the end, to help spice things a little bit before that inevitable chapter where everything goes to shit.

as i think i have said before, this is not a story that will continue with the show or books, so after chapter three there will only be two more chapters remaining and i'm planning for the last one to be almost no-plot smut, since that is what this series was originally. i have added the posibilities to little "spin-offs" one shots in the masterlist and if everything goes right i will go through with them but after i'm done posting other content.

i apologize for any mistakes in grammar or something, i did not have much time for editing but i'm hoping that it gets better by the next chapters! i'm definitely trying to pull my big guns for the last two chapters for sure.

a big question; should i cover blood & cheese completely, or let it be something that happens in the background and is not written down? it will happen, and it will be referenced, i just don't know if i want to write it all going down.

chapter two; Sunday 10th. ╰⪼ thank you for reading!

[felonytaxevasion]

I'm doodling some hair style progression headcanons for the Undersiders and can I just say it's stupid + not real that Rachel never got to completely fuck up her shit with a clipper

In real Ward she should have a buzz cut 24/7 and have to endure wearing hand knitted hats from the Heartbroken all winter so her bald head doesn't get cold

[octobobble]

*posing cutely, sticking one owl leg in the air*

What are your ideas for how the Gods are worshipped in GGG?

Oh man I could’ve never seen this question coming woah. Anyway [cracks knuckles

Generally - Paintings, statues, etc. The gods of the grove seem to have a lot of art involved in the way people like worship and look up to them.

Mitternacht - This is god prime. We think she gets a lot of sea shanties and sailor chants since she looks over the cove. Generally though we don’t think she has a very specific form of worship? She’s the sort of “everything works” member of the pantheon since her role is sorta just. God.

Inspekta - The Bizzyboys! Join the Bizzyboys! Or at least help em out. Also enjoys offerings and directly helping people find out where they need to be led in life. Sadly many of these practices fizzled out with Inspekta’s mental spiral and subsequent self isolation. I imagine he used to be an extremely accessible and easy to visit god before then.

Cobigail - She’s got some of my strongest or most set in stone thoughts, which is! It’s basically witchcraft! Sigils, charms, rituals done with certain foods or drinks. I have a really strong “Cobigail is a witch that ascended” headcanon that sorta bleeds into all the stuff I write for her teehee. Yay!

Thespius - Revelry baby!!! He’s the god of love AND mirth! Being happy and having fun in his name is great! Drinking with friends, doing silly improv, dancing around to music. That’s all Thespius worship baby! Love doesn’t have to be romantic after all, love your friends and love your life ;] More direct worship may include sending him music, writing, etc specifically made for him

Click Clack - I think writers and storytellers will often try to invoke him for luck with their work. Little mask charms on typewriters, notebooks, and computers. Even braver worshippers might even send their works in progress straight to Click in the hopes he’ll give them the time of day. I hear sending it in with the gift of coffee beans makes it more likely :)

Bauhauzzo - Worship of Bauhauzzo is very closely tied with visiting him, listening to stories and telling him some of your own, even if he already knows it. Other forms include working in libraries, helping in museums, doing your best to preserve things such as old family relics and all. He’s the god of knowledge, preserving as much as you can in his name sounds like worship to me!

Huzzle Mug - MAKE WEIRD ART! GO! MAKE IT NOW! Also buzzhuzz speak. The buzzhuzz dialect of nonsense words is basically a form of everyday worship, whether it came before or after Huzzle mug doesn’t really matter anymore in the grand scheme of things because it’s definitely a mimicry of how Huzzle talks in the modern day. Aside from that though? It’s making weird art, pushing the limits, changing things up. Try a new clothing style, switch up your pronouns, shave your head bald, whagever! That’s change, baby!

King - We see the least of King so I’m working my brain real hard on this one. I think King gets a lot of like. Travelers. Writing letters and praying to King that they’ll arrive safely or even delivering the letter yourself. Pilgrimages to other parts of the grove or even earth or the drain. Sorta trying to mimic all the help King offered people. And after she ascends she probably sets up an entire like post office or delivery group or whatever. There’s a bizzyboys 2 joke here somewhere. Anyway go become a delivery person for King 👍

Thank u for asking! This is a post I’ll probably come back to and edit in the future but for now this works

[honeydippedfiction]

Angel, you wonderful gorgeous queen, ik y’all freaky so if you would consider a girlfriend for both of y’all would you consider a boyfriend? (Cough cough Ja’Marr 🤣) cause he trying to steal your man queen Feel free to respond too Joe and even Ja’Marr 🤣🤣🤣

Angel (gasps dramatically, hand on her chest like she’s been mortally wounded): “A boyfriend?! In this economy?! Y’all want me to stress bald tryna manage one fine, cocky, athletic man and one Drake wannabe with attitude problems, a superiority complex, and the audacity to walk around shirtless like it’s a public service???”

(She laughs but is clearly entertained by the idea.) “Now hypothetically—and I’m not sayin’ yes—I’d consider a boyfriend… if he was chill, emotionally intelligent, cooked, cleaned, massaged my scalp while I watched trash TV, and wasn’t tryna fight Joe every time I kissed him too long. Which… disqualifies Ja'Marr.”

(She looks dead into the camera.) “That man is already on thin ice for looking at Joe like he wanna climb him. I see you, Marr. You ain’t slick.”

Joe (grinning like he’s trying not to laugh but can’t help it): “I ain’t gon’ lie… if she brought a guy into this, especially Ja’Marr?” (He shakes his head, smirking.) “I’d start actin’ up immediately. I’m talkin’ possessive. Olympic-level petty. Probably bench-pressin' him in the living room just to prove a point.”

(Then he leans back, cool and smug.) “But honestly… Angel's not sharing. Not really. She says she would but soon as someone flirts with me too hard—anyone—she get territorial like a cat sittin' on her favorite spot.”

(Shrugs.) “Besides, Ja’Marr already third-wheelin’ in spirit. He don’t need a key to our house too.”

Ja'Marr (from somewhere off-screen, fully inserting himself like he lives here): “FIRST of all, Joe was mine before he was hers. LSU knows the truth.” (He sips water, then points.) “And Angel? If you really wanna be fair and progressive, let’s talk throuple. We rotate. Monday-Wednesday you get him, Thursday-Friday I get him, weekends we share.”

(He grins.) “I’ll even cook breakfast. You like waffles?”

Angel (completely unamused): “You makin’ waffles with Joe’s last name in your phone. You bold.” (She narrows her eyes.) “One slip-up, Chase, and I’m changin’ the Netflix password again.”

Joe (to Ja’Marr, smirking): “You try to climb in my bed, I’m closelinin’ you out of it. I mean that.”

Ja'Marr (grinning like a menace): “Okay but like... how hard are we talkin’? Asking for science.”

Angel: “I’m tellin’ y’all right now. One more slick comment from either of them, and I will turn this into a WWE tag team match in our bedroom. Don’t play with me.”

[sabianandocs]

Current House MD animal ideas

Reasonging: (Because yes I did think about it a little bit)

Chase being a horse: Originally I felt like he was an otter, but the vibes were just off about that. His trope that everyone always hounds on in reference to his looks is always his hair, so I felt like he had to be some sort of critter with a hairdo. He's not cool enough to be a lion to me so he gets to be a horse. Also though I feel like he's kind of the same breed of bastard as some horses are so it works.

Tapir Taub: Okay inexcusable but hear me out. It's not just a cheap big nose joke. Although to be fair to me if we're considering in-universe lore he kind of has to be an animal with a noticable nose because that's the characteristic that people make a big deal out of on him. Also, though, he shares the same sort of general vibe? Like, nose aside, they have the same sort of face shape vibes, both kinda stocky, bald...

Fox 13: It just feels right yeah? Everyone agrees that foxes are kinda cool and elegant looking, and 'foxy' is literally a word used to describe her at least in the fandom if not in the show (I feel like I remember her being called that by House but it's been a while I could be wrong) Anyway she's just really pretty and I love her and I think a fox suits her

House is obviously a shorthair cat and Wilson is a sad kicked puppy dog

My other ideas are currently works in progress and subject to change but I'm feeling

Cameron- some kind of rodent, maybe a mouse or hampster

Foreman- bear maybe? Idk for him yet

[mightyflamethrower]

SPRINGFIELD, IL — Despite extensive investigation, experts disclosed they were unable to determine if the angry-looking bald person you saw today was a neo-nazi or simply a progressive feminist woman.

While sources said the individual you saw in the produce section of the grocery store was, indeed, bald and appeared to be angry, there was simply not enough evidence to positively identify them as either an actual neo-nazi or a left-wing Democrat angry about Trump.

"He/she/they are an anomaly at this point," said research scientist Willard Brumlow. "While we have been able to ascertain that this person is enraged at society at large and has a shaved head, we have as of yet been unable to conclusively find out whether they are a skinhead or just a run-of-the-mill liberal female. Further investigation is warranted, but quite frankly, we're hesitant to get close to them… her… it."

Democrats Worried If Government Becomes More Efficient They'll Be Forced To Light Giant Piles Of Money On Fire On Their OwnDemocrats Worried If Government Becomes More Efficient They'll Be Forced To Light Giant Piles Of Money On Fire On Their Own

Analysts advised anyone in the vicinity of the angry-looking bald person to take proper precautions and avoid making eye contact or engaging the individual in conversation. "Whether it's a neo-nazi or a liberal woman, your course of action should be the same," Brumlow said. "Cross over to the other side of the street, keep your eye on them, and whatever you do, don't under any circumstances, let the person know you are a Donald Trump supporter. Or Jewish. Don't let them know you're Jewish. Just to be safe."

At publishing time, scientists had overheard the bald person going on an antisemitic rant that left them no closer to determining if it was a neo-nazi or a Leftist woman.

[liannelara-dracula]

Can you do the ruki mukami library girl aesthetic. And that the s/o is a strong character (like an intj) with a black and eyes with pale skin and drop dead gorgeous

Hi Love,

Sure I can do that aesthetic. :) I mostly use third person for this but you're welcome to put you. This is just to show you his interest in a library girl.

-Liannelara

Ruki's Library Girl Aesthetic

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Prompt

Requests are open

Rules

Warning: none

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the girl reading:

She gives the who is she vibes.

She's a mysterious girl who is always in the school's library reading or writing something.

A girl who writes in her diary about her deep and overbarring thoughts that shes too afraid too share with others.

Her deepest secrets and desires all in paper with a lock for no one else to know about.

Just this, excites him. He becomes immeditaly interested in knowing what a lonely, human girl so quiet and mysterious would put down.

He wonders if she posses the talent of a poet and most certainly she does.

She has grace in the way she holds her pen and conitnues to write onto the next page with a blank expression, yet surely her mind must be racing with a number of thoughts even if she doesn't express it through her facial features.

girl with fallen hair:

her beauty isn't so bald but it is elegant and subtly pleasing to admire.

her lips a muted ruby, like a dark and rich apple that wouldn't exist on earth.

Her dark and perfectly fallen hair being the very thing which caught his eye in the first place.

And the rare smile he'd be eager to witness and be the purpose of over and over again.

Ivory skin he can mark and drag his fangs over and dye her red.

A dark and bold set of eyes with a glimmer of curiousity when they cross paths and meet eyes.

It's a fatal way of flirting with her that he'll never get enough of.

Even if she doesn't utter a word, his glances are enough for her to write about him.

And he'd be dying to know just which pages are about him.

With limited power he can never enter inside her mind or hear her thoughts as he is no pure blood. At times like this, he truly wishes he was just so he could mess with her even more if she is in fact attracted to him as well.

eye contact:

as mentioned he holds strong eye contact even if she is sitting afar from him.

it's one of his ways of flirting and teasing.

but his ways of flirting don't end here.

he'll purposely make sure you both pick the same book on the shelf so your hands meet.

If she infacts works at the library he will ask her to look for a book he "can't find".

Its all just to talk to her, this why he could ask about the books she likes.

This works as a catalyst to start flirting with you and opening up a situation that will progress into something more than just a filrtation. Essentially that is what Ruki's goal is with this type of girl, regardless if she is seeing someone else or not.

quotes:

both are thoughts of his, the first being that while he finds her to be beautiful, her mind is even more captivating.

The second one shows his progression of feelings towards her as the more he is around her the more he desires her.

His want for her doesn't have to neccessialry mean romance it can be purely lust or both combined. It would all depend on the way she is and what her intensions are as well.

lustful interaction:

represents a mix of their desires and increased tension each time they meet.

the photo shows one of Ruki's main intentions to pleasure her from the start due to his instant attraction for her.

Of course, he is a stoic man and rather stubborn so it'd take him a bit of time to come to terms with this.

His execution in flirting with her may seem poor as he is known to give a cold shoulder or be cruel with his teasing.

Ruki's mouth doesn't have a filter, whatever he wants to tell you he will. Everything he doesn't want to tell you he will keep to himself.

His coldness is a way to bother you and get you to approach him. So he acts distant at times to keep the other party interested rather than always giving her undivided attention. With his stoic personality, he fuels on giving her attention and then ripping it away from her.

Some may mistake this as a disinterest but in fact, this is a tactic of his to see her cave to her emotions.

This mysterious girl in Ruki's eyes has a story and many buried emotions he wants to unravel. Being an observant creature of the night he aims to make her frustrated and confused with her attraction and past encounters with him.

Simply, he wants to get her to think about him constantly and have her succumb to her emotions even if she's a relatively stubborn person herself.

Once they have both come to terms with their emotions or just until Ruki no longer cares to hide his intentions he will be around her often.

He'll go out of his way to meet her and get to know her. From here, a relationship will come about even if it is a secret for everyone around you both. Both of you will be able to fullfill your lustful actions in secret or even in the secluded part of the library.

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˗ˏˋ 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝐼 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 ˎˊ˗ ©𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟔~Present

[slowcatsisland]

Some physical headcanons for Zoro 🥰🙏

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Roronoa Zoro; Physical Characteristics Headcanons

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A/N: yes

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His pre timeskip color palette was PERFECT

His hair genuinely looks like a mint chocolate chip green and it’s because of the sun. The more sunlight he receives the lighter it makes his hair look (it got really dark during the timeskip because of Muggy Island’s climate but is progressively getting lighter currently)

When he was young his hair was more of a grassy color

His hair is really thick and surprisingly soft despite how spiky it can look, Luffy likes messing with it when he’s bored (yk when a guy gets a buzz and when you run your hand over it one way it’s soft and then the other it’s prickly? That’s kinda like Zoro’s hair no matter how long he grows it-he also doesn’t ever grow it that long)

His hair takes a long time to grow in general he cut it all off once, never again

(Yosaku, Johnny, and himself all shaved their heads together once when they were growing up. Prolly something to do with touching their mental fortitude and trying to become with the sword or smth. Zoro found out that he has a weird, rectangle head shape without hair to frame it and refuses to lose all his hair ever again)

His hair can’t hold a curl for shit

He smells like steel and iron. He also probably had a strong natural musk bc of his hygiene (bro needs to shower more)

His facial features are so sharp. From his defined temples, the bald patches of forehead along his hair line, his jaw, nose, even his eyebrows and cheek bones all collectively make his face full of sharp lines and cuts

(I’m so not a fan of how rounded he looks post timeskip, especially in Egghead and I mean u could argue that it makes him resemble a tiger more but just guyss)

He actually has more Asian facial features than shown in the manga/anime imo

His eyebrows are either the same light mint green his hair is or they’re a green so dark they look black from afar I just can’t tell which it would be

He has serious threaded eyebrows. Law might have 90s eyebrows to an extent but Zoro is on a whole other level. He never does anything to them either, he’s actually had a whole conversation about this with Nami (she’s envious)

Zoro has a slight concern about accidentally getting his eyebrow hair shaven off somehow and them never growing back

YALL THE HAIR ON HIS EYEBROW PART OF THE SCAR STILL HASNT GROWN BACK-

He has long eyelashes but they’re straight so you don’t see them from the front (his side profile is beautiful-)

His eyes look like they turn upwards but it’s subtle

His eyes are a shade of gold I tell you!! It fits with his whole ‘tiger’ as his animal thing so well

Also also yk how guys in One Piece don’t rlly get their eye color shown unless it’s a specific frame in the anime at least? That happens with Zoro during his fight with King I’m like 90% sure

They’re a type of gold that matches the darkest shade of his earrings

I’ll forever believe his eyes were meant to be gold

He’s got that epicanthal folds trust

He under eye also has that slight puffiness to it too trust trust trust

I heard a theory abt how in his closed eye post timeskip is another soul (one of his swords) and if/when he opens it it’ll be ringed I feel like that’s worth putting here

His scar along his eye is actually a really clean cut with minimal texture differences I guess? If you run your finger across it you feel the ridge of the scarring but it isn’t messy like how Luffy’s under eye scar is

His nose is like, idk sturdy I guess? Yk his live action Mackenyu’s nose is a perfect reference imo

His lips downturn so it looks like he’s frowning or brooding a lot even when he’s not (Sanji’s threatened to fix his face countless times)

He has a scar on his bottom lip going to the end of his chin from getting cut by Kuina when they were using real blades against each other (one time Franky thought Zoro was really messy when they were eating a type of pasta that Sanji made and told him to wipe his chin..nothing came off)

He also has a cheek scar from Kuina on his right cheek going from the center of it to just below his ear (it’s really faint)

His neck has uneven flexibility because of his lack of visibility on his left side (he can turn it around like an owl to the left)

He’s naturally tan but he also soaks up sunlight like a sponge and almost never burns

Pre timeskip Zoro was obviously more lean but he was still the most jacked person on the crew. His muscles were probably more noticeable pre timeskip due to his tighter clothing than they are post timeskip even though they’re bigger now

He’s pretty well proportioned torso and leg wise, not like some of the other characters such as Sanji, Law, or Nami that are mainly legs.

Yk bros back is a holy sight

Pre timeskip he had defined abs but post timeskip he has a healthy layer of fat covering them slightly (Sanji has him on a meal plan, Zoro’s unaware he’s on said meal plan)

Bro lowkey everything about Zoro is just big post timeskip

He’s still the same height, but pre timeskip Zoro looks taller than post time skip Zoro (the muscles and baggy clothing make him look more blocky)

I feel like comparing him to 2000 Hugh Jackman’s Wolverine in Marvel’s X Men or Mackenyu for pre timeskip 👌

Then post timeskip Zoro is more comparable to say 2014 Dave Bautista’s Drax in Guardians of the Galaxy

His stomach scar is actually rough like Luffy’s under eye scar because of how it was healed and it’s probably pretty sensitive I’d assume

Bros legs are built so sturdy. If Sanji’s legs are like pillars of steel then Zoro’s legs would be bricks of iron if that makes sense

His hands are plenty calloused along his palms

He also has a good amount of smaller slash-esque scars from training with real blades along his hands, arms, and quads

It was easier for him to move around quieter pre timeskip but he’s still considerably quiet when he’s walking around

I feel like he’d be ticklish or skittish, mainly around his sides just cause he doesn’t receive physical affection that much

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I feel like I could talk abt him forever

Mwah 😽

[never-rxne]

I've been thinking about how many times arcane used degrading language toward Sevika both in the show and outside of it

Such as "an ogre" & "rat"... she's always compared to something filthy.

And one concept art for S2 that was shown on arcane panel in January (?) had "ugly" written on it.

It was done as a comment left by Jinx but i don't find it funny. The only 2 characters who are called ugly on concept art are Smeech (balding magical creature) & Sevika (a masc WOC).

IMO insults based on appearance are always tone-deaf, born from biases and have no place in huge projects such as Arcane.

But it makes me happy when fanbase tries to "fix" what writers did with her. I love when she's allowed to be called beautiful and being treated with basic respect and some softness. Or even better when her appearance isn't commented on if it serves no purpose to the plot.

And THANK YOU for writing really good fics where she's allowed to exist the way she does <3

(Possibly bad wording but to my defence my English sucks lol)

THANK YOU for this skemford and you worded it beautifully!! i 100% agree with you. the comments made by jinx, whether written from a place of plain ignorance or deeply rooted prejudices, were definitely tone deaf either way. it may seem like a little thing but like you said i don't feel it has a place in a highly progressive, revolutionary piece of media like arcane... especially considering the world they created has worked so hard to move away from the racial histories and discrimination of our world.

^just a side note, the "ogre" line never really sat well with me, and i honestly liked the korean dubbing version better- instead of calling her a name jinx says something like "sevika?! she may be big and tough but she couldn't clean a dust speck with a blowtorch." the nuance of the original korean sentence fit the dynamic better and also just worked better than pointing out a character's physical appearance in a fantasy world that presumably doesn't have the same aesthetic standards of this world (which also is influenced by race and white supremacist ideology)

it's my opinion that fiction doesn't impact reality, but the way fiction is written can be a reflection of the creator's implicit beliefs in reality, and it's important to be aware of that. and just as a general craft choice in writing, what you choose to highlight about a character's appearance reveals different things on how you want them to be seen in the narrative. the blatant racism towards sevika to the fetishization of her body and character shows in the ways she's written.

and i am so glad you feel that way abt my writing 🥹 tysm, i am always trying to improve so feedback is always appreciated <333