#subtle vulnerability

[aventurineswife]

Luck Be a Gentle Touch

Summary: After a difficult day filled with verbal harassment and an accidental injury, you return home to Aventurine, feeling emotionally drained and physically hurt. Sensing something is wrong, Aventurine gently tends to your wounds, offering comfort in his own charismatic yet surprisingly tender way. As the weight of the day settles, he pulls you into a warm embrace, proving that even a man who treats life as a gamble knows when to hold onto what truly matters.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with Comfort, Established Relationship, Soft Aventurine, Emotional Support, Tending to Wounds, Cuddling & Snuggling, Protective, Slow Burn Emotions, Subtle Vulnerability.

Warnings: Mentions of Verbal Harassment, Dissociation, Injury (Scraped Hands/Knee), Emotional Distress, Touch-Starved Reader, Aventurine Being Soft (Which might be dangerous to your heart).

Requested by: @avenrose

The moment you stepped into Aventurine’s lavish suite, the weight of the day pressed down harder. Your leg throbbed, the dull ache of raw skin scraping against your pant leg a constant reminder of your earlier misstep. The sting barely registered, though. Not after what happened before that.

Your mind replayed the cruel words hurled at you, the sneering faces of strangers who had cut through your already fragile defenses with sharp, careless remarks. It left you hollow, as if the world had siphoned away your sense of self and left nothing but a vacant shell behind.

Aventurine’s voice was the first thing that broke through the fog.

“Well, well, you’re late. I was starting to think you finally ran off to live a life free from my overwhelming charm.”

He was lounging on the chaise, one leg crossed over the other, golden rings glinting under the soft lighting as he toyed with a poker chip between his fingers. His signature smirk was firmly in place, but the moment his sharp eyes swept over you, the playfulness wavered.

You were limping. That much, he caught immediately. And you weren’t reacting to his teasing—not with a groan, not with a glare, not even with that exasperated little sigh you usually gave him.

You felt his gaze sharpen, his ever-calculating mind shifting gears in real time. But instead of prying, he simply set the poker chip down with a quiet click against the table and pushed himself up. In three smooth strides, he was in front of you, close enough that his cologne—notes of spice and something rich, like aged whiskey—wrapped around you.

“Alright, sweetheart. What happened?”

You shook your head, not trusting your voice. The words sat heavy in your throat, stuck beneath the weight of too much. Too much hurt, too much exhaustion, too much of that sickly, numbing emptiness.

Aventurine didn’t push. Instead, his hand reached out, fingers ghosting just beneath your chin as he tilted your face up. His gaze flickered down, catching sight of your scraped palms, the faint traces of dried blood and grit embedded in the wounds.

“Tch.” His tongue clicked against his teeth, but the sharpness wasn’t directed at you. “You didn’t even clean these, did you? What am I going to do with you?”

Before you could protest, he was already leading you toward the plush sofa, guiding you down with a gentleness that felt at odds with his usual flamboyant arrogance. Then he disappeared into the bathroom, returning moments later with a first aid kit in one hand and a damp cloth in the other.

“This might sting a little,” he murmured, and then, softer, “Try not to hate me for it, hm?”

You barely flinched as he began dabbing at your wounds, carefully cleaning away the dirt and dried blood. His touch was deft, practiced even, as if he had done this a hundred times before—perhaps he had, in one form or another. A man like Aventurine, who danced on the knife’s edge of risk and consequence, surely knew a thing or two about tending to wounds.

He didn’t fill the silence with empty words. No cooing reassurances, no unnecessary questions. Just the quiet, methodical sound of him working, the occasional brush of his fingers against your skin.

When he was finished, he leaned back, inspecting his handiwork with a satisfied nod. “Good as new,” he declared, though his smirk was softer than usual. “Now, about that limp. Let me see—”

You started to protest, but he was already kneeling before you, fingers easing up your leg to inspect the damage. The scrape along your knee wasn’t deep, but it looked painful. His lips pressed into a thin line, a rare flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

“I should start charging for this level of care,” he mused, though his usual arrogance lacked its usual bite. “But since I’m feeling generous, I’ll settle for one thing in return.”

You glanced at him warily. “Which is?”

“C’mere.”

Before you could react, he was shifting beside you, tugging you into his arms with practiced ease. You stiffened at first, but his warmth was steady, his grip loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted.

You didn’t.

Your body slumped against him, exhaustion catching up all at once. Aventurine sighed, his breath ruffling your hair as he adjusted his hold, one hand smoothing over your back in slow, absentminded strokes.

“See?” he murmured. “I’m not just a devilishly handsome strategist. I make a decent pillow too.”

You let out a soft huff, something almost like a laugh. It wasn’t much, but Aventurine caught it. And that, more than anything, made his hold tighten just a fraction.

Neither of you spoke after that. The world outside could wait. For now, wrapped in Aventurine’s warmth, the weight pressing down on you felt just a little lighter.

[platoapproved]

armand + preparing to tell louis about his past

[bachelor-dankovsky]

we do not appreciate enough how much artemy burakh pines in the bachelor route due to his own incompetence in communicating his feelings. there is a devil on his shoulder telling him to be cagey and vague and he listens to it 100% of the time. but he clearly and obviously loves daniil. this timeline does not get enough love. i love pining artemy burakh i think i am going to become an bachelor route burakhovsky evangelist

[noirve]

god, armand as a character is giving me serious brainrot. he's such a control freak because he desperately needs to derive meaning from something—anything. whether it's god, rituals, or coven life, he needs to give a purpose to his existence. this is why he upholds these stringent laws and regulations in both of his covens, which are ultimately destroyed by someone he loves who stands outside it all. and he kind of just allows that destruction, despite all of his power, because he is also... bored? it's like he's on autopilot, going through life in this meticulously constructed routine until he meets lestat and later louis, who both refuse to adhere to his carefully crafted structures and disrupt the status quo. this is attractive to armand because deep down, underneath his all masked emotions, he is very lonely and desperate for connection! which is just awfully human for such an ancient powerful being

imagine being this old and alone, how do you endure? armand tries to find value in these rigid structures because otherwise, his life feels empty. "he needs rules to give him purpose" but in the end, this doesn't fulfill him completely because, despite his feigned confidence and stoicism, he is insecure, needy, and traumatized. this is why he seeks out chaos despite having spent all this time trying to control everything and everyone around him. he lets it happen—for love, but also, i think, because unconsciously he desires that total loss of control, which allows him to actually feel something real. every few decades, he almost intentionally lets his entire world, the world he worked so hard to manipulate into his will, be ruined. yet, when he tells daniel he "let it happen," he is lying, too (at least about lestat) because he presents himself as more passive, composed, and reasonable than he really was when his way of life was threatened. he just tells himself that he wanted it that way all along so he remains the one in control. i need to see him crack

[yanderejustforyou]

The Mark of a Stranger

Fandom:The Penguin (2024) Pairing: Sofia Falcone x Reader

You woke to a throbbing ache behind your eyes, a dull, persistent reminder of the previous night's festivities. The echo of laughter, the rhythmic pulse of bass, and the strobing kaleidoscope of club lights still swirled like phantom sensations in your head. It had been a typical Friday night - an escape orchestrated with familiar ease beside your friends. Good music, potent cocktails, and that ephemeral, dizzying freedom that always felt a little too short-lived. The city's energy had been a palpable force, a siren song pulling you deeper into its chaotic rhythm. You'd surrendered willingly, dissolving into the sea of bodies, the cacophony of sounds, and the intoxicating feeling of being momentarily untethered from reality.

But as you pushed yourself up from the tangled bedsheets, your fingertips grazed your neck, and a jolt of unease, cold and unfamiliar, shot through you. There was a strange sensation there, not quite pain, but a persistent, foreign pressure—an unfamiliar warmth that radiated from a specific point. It was subtle, at first, easily dismissed. But then your fingers explored, tracing the contours of your skin, and you realized: there was something there. Something raised, with a jagged, almost deliberate edge, chillingly unmistakable. A bite. The skin around it was angry red, inflamed and tender to the touch. The two puncture marks, small and sharp, seemed almost... intentional. Placed. Something cold and predatory, like the fangs of a wolf, had touched you.

Your breath hitched in your throat, the blood draining from your face as a whirlwind of panicked thoughts took hold. You were certain there was no bite from the previous night - no feral alley cat, no drunken stumble into a rosebush. You had left the club with your friends, the walk home a blur of shared jokes and tipsy laughter - none of them had noticed anything amiss. A quick memory check: no strange encounters, no unexpected contact. Nothing - but this. You stumbled to the bathroom, peering into the mirror, a growing sense of dread coiling in your stomach. The mark was small, concealed just beneath your hairline, at the nape of your neck. It looked… almost like a brand, a warning etched into your flesh. A possessive claim.

The mark itself was small, almost easily hidden under your hair, but it radiated a strange power, a claim, like something had carved itself beneath the skin, changing you in a way you couldn't understand. It felt alien, unnatural. You shook your head, trying to dispel the creeping unease, the primal fear blooming in your chest. You went through the motions of starting the day, a shower, coffee, but the normal routines felt… off. The air seemed to thicken around you, a suffocating blanket of awareness, and a prickling sensation of being watched from every corner. The usual city sounds, the distant rumble of trucks, the chatter of pedestrians, seemed to amplify, echoing much louder in your ears. The weight of the world felt heavier, pressing down on you from all sides, and the sense of being hunted grew with every passing moment. Every now and then, you’d catch a flicker in your peripheral vision – a shadow that darted too quickly, a figure obscured by the crowd, too illusive to pin down. Just a hint of darkness, a vague unease settling in with every glance.

The day passed in a state of anxious paralysis, a constant battle against the mounting feeling of wrongness. That night, after another restless day of unease, your phone buzzed. A message. Plain and to the point: “We need to talk.” The name at the top sent a jolt of cold dread through you: Sofia Falcone. Just the name alone felt like a weight on your chest. A wave of sickening unease washed over you, the dots of fear connecting. You tried to push back the feeling that this all must be a mistake, overthinking, a bad dream, but the fear, the bite, felt solid and real. You knew Sofia, or at least, you thought you did. She was an enigmatic woman, a captivating presence with long dark hair cascading down her shoulders, piercing grey eyes that always seemed to see through you, and an undeniably dangerous air that shimmered beneath the surface of her composed exterior. But this? This was something else, something you couldn't fathom, something terrifying in its unknown nature.

You tried to rationalize, to find a logical explanation, to convince yourself it was all a misunderstanding, but deep down you knew this feeling wasn't something that could be explained by rational thought. There was no escaping it, you were caught in this web. You had been marked, and the familiar world that surrounded you was about to shift into something completely alien.

When you arrived at her penthouse, the door opened before you even had the chance to knock, as if she had been expecting you. The cool, calculating gaze of Sofia Falcone met yours immediately, sending a shiver crawling up your spine. She was standing in the dimly lit entryway, the soft glow of candlelight casting long, unsettling shadows around her. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, lingered on your face, her expression unreadable.

“Come in,” she said, her voice smooth and inviting, but laced with an edge of something predatory that sent an icy chill down your bones. “We need to have a conversation.” The words were polite, almost casual, but there was a definitive authority in their tone, an unspoken command that brooked no refusal.

As you stepped inside, your heart hammered against your ribs, each beat a frantic drum against the silence. You tried to ignore the subtle burning sensation at the back of your neck, the insistent throb that was a constant reminder of what had happened. The atmosphere inside the penthouse was thick, a heady mix of expensive perfume, polished leather, and a faint, lingering smell of something old, almost like cigar smoke, a ghost of a previous life and history clinging to the air.

Sofia closed the door behind you with a soft, deliberate click, each movement graceful and controlled, like a panther stalking its prey. You felt small and vulnerable, insignificant in her presence, like you were in the presence of something far older and more powerful than yourself, something that could devour you whole without a moment's hesitation.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry with fear. “What’s happening to me?” Your voice was barely a whisper, the fear bubbling uncontrollably to the surface.

Sofia tilted her head slightly, her eyes scrutinizing you. Her gaze flickered to the bite mark on your neck, a spark of something knowing, something almost triumphant, flashing behind her eyes. “You’ve noticed it, then,” she said, her voice dangerously calm, like the stillness before a storm. “Good. I was starting to wonder if you’d be too oblivious to understand what happened.” Her words were a subtle taunt, a challenge to the fear that was clearly visible in your eyes.

You took a step back, shaking your head, trying desperately to piece together the words, the situation, but it was all blurring together into an incomprehensible nightmare. "What do you mean? What is this bite? Why is it—why is it hurting?" You ran a hand across your neck, the tenderness of the skin a sharp reminder of the violation.

Sofia moved closer, each step slow and deliberate, narrowing the distance between you. Her presence was suffocating, like a thick fog that robbed you of air. Before you could protest, she was close enough to touch, her fingers brushing against the sensitive skin around the mark, her touch light, almost affectionate, but there was a chilling coldness in her eyes, the calm gaze of a hunter who has cornered its prey.

“I’ve marked you,” she said softly, her voice a hypnotic whisper, a silken thread that bound you to her word. “And it’s more than just a bite. It’s a symbol. You’re mine now.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, a wave of cold shock that paralyzed your body. You couldn't move, couldn't pull away from her gaze, the weight of her words sinking into your very core. The heat of the bite on your skin began to intensify, spreading across your neck and chest, filling you with a strange and unfamiliar warmth, but it wasn't the comforting warmth of a fire. It was a consuming heat, like you were being devoured from the inside out. Your heart pounded in your chest, hammering out a frantic rhythm against the silence.

“I’m… yours?” you managed, the words foreign and forced in your throat, tasting like ash. You couldn’t believe what she was saying, what was happening, yet the truth of it rang loud and undeniable.

She smiled, but it wasn't a kind smile. It was full of something dark, something predatory, a flicker of malice that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. A wolf showing its teeth before the kill.

“You’re more than you think. More than you were. You’ll understand in time,” she murmured, her hand lifting and stroking your cheek, her touch a strange mix of fondness and malice. “This bite isn’t just a mark. It’s a bond, a promise that we’re connected now.” Her voice was soothing, but the undertone was unsettling, like the murmur of a predator lulling its prey into a false sense of security.

“No one else can take you from me now,” she continued, her eyes locking onto yours with a possessive intensity. “No one. The bite means you belong to me—body, soul, and every last breath you take. You are mine.” Each word was a claim, a chain forged in the depths of darkness, binding you to her.

A shudder ran through your body at her chilling declaration, your heart racing in panicked flight, trying to escape the truth that she was weaving before you. You opened your mouth to protest, to deny, but no words came out, your voice caught in the web of her carefully wrought words. The heat, the overwhelming sensation of being bound to her, of being claimed, choked you. You had to close your eyes, unable to meet her gaze any longer, the horror of what she was saying washing over you like a tidal wave.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Sofia said softly, her fingers trailing down your cheek as if offering a twisted comfort, the light touch almost a brand. “But you’re mine now. And this… this is your new reality.”

The pressure at the back of your neck grew stronger, the bite throbbing, your body trembling with an agony that wasn’t physical, but emotional, as the weight of her control settled deep into your bones. You were hers now—marked and bound in ways you couldn't yet comprehend, a puppet dancing in her hands. 

[marymekpop]

⟢ highlight of the hour: love next door [03/16] ⟣

confirmation

[skrunksthatwunk]

landing

[dirtyoldmanhole]

deleted like 50% of the hentai strip roughs that were Not Working, instantly feel so much better. i was getting a little too up my own ass about fancy perspective and anatomy flexes, not....you know.... goddamn essential character acting.

krad we are not reading this strip for perspective flexes!! we are reading this strip b/c we want to see gunter be a creep!!!!!! >:P

[zeke-fanfucs]

Hehehehehehehe. All fun and games till I make Y/N betray Lady Zaryia.

Break Formation

⸻

It was supposed to be a quiet evening.

A simple inspection of the west wing’s new defense systems. No speeches. No politics. Just routine.

But then the bomb went off—two corridors down.

You shoved her behind cover before the smoke even cleared.

Now you’re both in a back corridor—your body between hers and the unknown. You’re wounded. Again. You always are, when it comes to her.

And she’s furious.

But not at the enemy.

At you.

“You never listen,” she growls, pacing the ruined corridor as the smoke rolls in around you both. “I told you not to put yourself in the blast radius.”

You’re slumped against the wall, clutching your arm. “It wasn’t a request. It was instinct.”

Zariya’s jaw clenches. Her cloak is torn, dust streaks her cheekbone, but she’s more composed than any human should be.

She kneels beside you—not gently.

“You were hit.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I said I’m fine.

Her voice sharpens like a blade. “You are not fine. You threw yourself in front of a detonator.”

“For you.”

Silence.

Something cracks behind her eyes. Something soft and dangerous.

“You think I want that?” she says, barely above a whisper.

You look up, eyes burning. “I think you’d do the same.”

“No,” she says, quietly. “I’d do worse.”

Then—before you can speak—her hand is on your face, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing away dust and blood and fear.

“I built this city from blood and silence,” she murmurs. “And you’re the only thing in it I didn’t plan for.”

Your breath catches. “Zariya…”

“Don’t,” she warns. “If you say my name like that, I’ll forget I’m supposed to let you walk away.”

She leans in. So close her breath touches your mouth. Her voice—low and unsteady now—betrays the part of her that’s been aching to say this.

“I can’t afford to love you.”

You meet her gaze. “Then stop trying to afford it.”

She kisses you like it’s a war she’s finally lost.

And gods, you surrender right back.

[aventurineswife]

👀 Valentine’s Day is coming up, can we get a date between Reader and Aventurine?

All in, Sweetheart

Summary: When you challenge Aventurine to plan your Valentine’s Day date, he turns it into a high-stakes gamble—one where the currency isn’t credits, but secrets. What starts as a playful game in a lavish casino soon becomes something deeper, as each round peels back a layer of his carefully guarded persona. But when you finally win, the real question remains: is Aventurine ready to reveal what truly scares him?

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Fluff with a Hint of Angst, Slow Burn, Gambling as a Metaphor (for Emotional Walls), Subtle Vulnerability, Witty Banter & Flirting, Mutual Pining, Secret-Keeping & Unraveling Layers.

Warnings: Mild Gambling Themes (No financial consequences, just for storytelling), Mentions of Trauma & Emotional Guardedness, Light Angst (But with a resolution), Aventurine Being a Smooth Yet Emotionally Repressed Disaster.

You should’ve known better than to let Aventurine plan your Valentine’s Day date.

It had started as a casual remark—half a joke, really—when you’d teased him about whether he ever did anything sincerely romantic. His response? That signature grin, all mischief and mystery.

“Why don’t you leave it to me, sweetheart?” he had purred, adjusting the glasses perched on his nose. “Let’s make a little wager. You trust me to plan our date, no questions asked. In return, if I manage to impress you… well, I’ll think of a suitable prize later.”

And now here you were, standing at the entrance of a lavish, high-stakes casino in the heart of an IPC entertainment district, dressed to the nines because Aventurine had sent you a cryptic message demanding you “look like you belong in a game of fate.”

The lights shimmered overhead, reflecting off opulent chandeliers and the golden accents of the room. The scent of expensive cologne, spiced drinks, and polished leather filled the air, and a hum of conversation mixed with the occasional triumphant cheer or groan of a gambler losing it all.

At the center of it all, Aventurine stood waiting for you at a VIP table, leaning lazily against the velvet-backed chair, one leg crossed over the other. His eyes gleamed under the soft glow of the ambient lighting, the black slits of his pupils narrowing when he caught sight of you.

“Ah, there you are,” he mused, his grin widening as he gave you a slow once-over. “Looking dangerously good tonight, my dear. I might just lose my edge if I’m not careful.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the way your heartbeat quickened at his smooth tone. “A casino, Aventurine? Really?”

He chuckled, tapping the side of his cheek. “Come now, did you really expect me to take you to a candlelit dinner and serenade you under the moonlight? That’s far too predictable.” He gestured to the empty seat beside him. “Take a seat, darling. Tonight, we gamble with something far more interesting than credits.”

You arched a brow but sat down anyway. “And what, exactly, are we gambling with?”

His fingers tapped rhythmically against the table, his smirk widening. “Why, secrets, of course.”

Your breath hitched slightly. Aventurine wasn’t the type to share much of himself. He deflected with charm, misdirection, and laughter. But now, he was offering—no, wagering—a piece of himself.

“I win a round,” he continued, “and you have to answer a question truthfully. No dodging. No half-truths. But if you win…” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a velvet whisper, “I’ll do the same.”

You studied him carefully. His posture was relaxed, but his fingers twitched near his stack of chips. He was taking this seriously, even if he pretended otherwise.

A challenge. A game. A moment of honesty disguised as a gamble.

You exhaled, reaching for your own chips. “Alright, Aventurine. Let’s play.”

The night stretched on in a series of wins and losses, each round peeling back a layer between the two of you.

You learned that Aventurine hated sleeping in silence. He needed the soft hum of music or the distant sound of activity to keep his mind from wandering to places he’d rather not visit.

He learned that you kept a tiny lucky charm in your pocket, something sentimental you never let go of.

You learned that he had once conned a corrupt IPC official out of a fortune—not just for profit, but out of sheer spite.

He learned that, despite all his maddening qualities, you had never once truly doubted him.

By the time the final round rolled around, you were neck and neck. One last hand. One last chance.

Aventurine slid the last chip forward with a flourish, his golden rings catching the light. “All or nothing, sweetheart.”

You met his gaze, the challenge clear between you. Your fingers hovered over your cards, your heart pounding. If you won, he’d have to answer one last question. Something real. Something raw.

You took a breath and flipped your hand.

A royal flush.

Silence. Then—Aventurine laughed, the sound rich and full of something almost… relieved. “Well, well,” he murmured, removing his glasses and setting them aside. “Seems luck favors you tonight.”

You tilted your head. “A promise is a promise. Tell me something real, Aventurine.”

For the first time that evening, his smile faltered—just slightly. Then, instead of answering, he reached across the table, his fingers brushing against yours before curling around your hand.

“Something real?” he echoed, his voice quieter now. “Alright, then.”

He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against your knuckles. His grip was warm, steady, and despite everything—the games, the deception, the walls he built around himself—there was something achingly genuine in the way he held you now.

“I suppose,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your skin, “the realest thing I can tell you… is that you terrify me.”

You blinked. “What?”

His eyes met yours, unguarded for just a fleeting moment. “Because you’re the one thing in this world I can’t bluff my way through.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

Then, just like that, the moment was gone. He grinned, slipping his glasses back on, masking whatever vulnerability had been there before. “Now, how about we celebrate your victory properly?” He stood, offering you his arm. “A toast? A dance? Or, if you’re feeling particularly daring, another round?”

You shook your head with a chuckle, threading your arm through his. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

His smirk softened. “Not when it comes to you, sweetheart.”

And just like that, the game continued.

But tonight, just for tonight, you weren’t playing against each other.

You were playing together.

[sysig]

Smooth cover (Patreon)

Bonus alt:

[makotonaegiunderstander]

something I’ve been thinking abt is how many people think Makoto is immune to despair. I don’t think he is. I think becoming the ultimate Hope was BECAUSE he felt despair. He wouldn’t have fully reached that point without Junko. Makoto becoming such a beacon was his last attempt to avoid completely falling and it wasn’t because he didn’t feel despair, it was because he was too damn stubborn to allow everything to go to waste and he refused to sacrifice his beliefs for someone else’s. His inner monologue tells me he DID experience the same new low the other suvivors did in the final trial, but at the point where he had the choice to give up and die, he looked at the others and he looked at Junko and he couldn’t allow it to happen, not out of self preservation, but because the idea that Junko would have control over their lives made him FURIOUS. and that utter refusal to die kicked in, wether luck or otherwise, and he made the concious effort for one last push while something in him was breaking. He had to be broken in order for the Ultimate Hope to come through so aggressively, bc it could only exist in the face of the Ultimate Despair. He snapped the same way she did, but in the other direction. In what could have been his final moments he chose to embody everything Junko wasn’t, and every single optimistic and luck fueled ideal in him suddenly charged forward and pushed him. It was a combination of the final straw and a choice. Makoto isn’t immune to feeling despair, he’s just too stubborn to fall into it of his own volition. I think that’s why I like that scene in DR3 so much. People were SO SHOCKED Makoto actually fell for the tape, that he actually became despair for a moment. I saw people getting mad or disappointed, saying it was pathetic and Makoto seemed to fall from some sort of pedestal for them. Honestly part of me wonders if that sort of mentality, which clearly people had in universe, affected Makoto a bit. Like he started to see himself as less of a person, subconsciously. Prompting him to take more risks, less self preservation, act way more bold. It seems he has to be reminded a lot not to put himself in danger by his friends, to not do something too reckless. All over the place I would see in regards to that scene either this frivolous ‘oh this was just angst drama with no meaning behind it’ or ‘he can do better than that. he’s so weak’ or ‘come on, there’s no way he’d fall into despair, he’s the Ultimate Hope!’ This kind of mentality, which was kind of ironic considering Ryota was there the entire time saying the same thing and treating Makoto the same way. Like Makoto was superhuman. Like Makoto didn’t feel despair the same way ‘normal people’ did. In a way that was also how Munakata saw Makoto. Makoto stopped being a PERSON to the world when he became Ultimate Hope, he became a concept, a belief system, much the same way Junko ascended beyond herself. But the difference is that treating Makoto that way is the opposite of the reason Makoto became such a representative for hope. He wasn’t doing something no one else could. He was doing something everyone had the chance to, he just… was a little more optimistic, a little more stubborn, a little more ‘gung-ho’ about things. He just took the lead where no one else did, where no one else knew they even COULD in the face of Junko’s unstoppable force. She had overcome the biggest threats and obstacles in the world, what could one person do? And the answer Makoto found was, anything. Everything. It doesn’t all rest on Makoto, he’s just the one that was inspired to try to do what seemed like the impossible. But as evidenced by the change in his friends after that trial, it’s clearly not something only Makoto is capable of. The others pulled out of despair thanks to Makoto, but it was their choice to do so.

“But… this world is so huge, and we’re so small. What can we do…? No, we can probably do anything. Yeah! We can do anything!”

[yanderejustforyou]

Day 16: “What do you mean you don’t want to go sledding?”

Fandom:The Penguin (2024) Pairing: Sofia Falcone x Reader

The soft glow of winter sunlight, filtered through the intricate patterns of frost clinging to Sofia’s expansive estate windows, painted the room in a warm, golden hue. Dust motes danced in the slanted beams, creating an almost ethereal atmosphere. The air, though crisp with winter's chill outside, held a cozy warmth from the crackling fire in the hearth. You stood near the ornate fireplace, the heat radiating against your cheeks, cradling a steaming mug of hot chocolate. The rich aroma of cocoa and vanilla filled the air, a comforting scent against the undercurrent of unspoken tension. Sofia leaned against the heavy, carved doorway, her posture relaxed yet somehow coiled, like a predator observing its prey. Her sharp, dark eyes were fixed on you with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine and made your chest tighten, a hummingbird trapped against your ribs. You could feel the weight of her gaze, probing, assessing, somehow knowing more than you intended to reveal.

"I don't know how else to say it," you said, forcing a light, apologetic smile that felt slightly brittle in the face of her unwavering attention. "I'm just not much of a sledding person." The words felt inadequate, a meager defense against the force of her personality. You took a small sip from your mug, hoping the warmth would calm your nerves, but the silence in the room only seemed to amplify the rapid thumping of your heart.

Sofia slowly tilted her head, the cascade of her dark hair slipping in waves over her shoulder like a silken curtain. The movement was graceful, deliberate, and somehow theatrical. "Not a sledding person?" she repeated, her voice a smooth alto, each syllable measured and edged with a subtle undercurrent of disbelief. It wasn't a question, but a challenge. “That’s like saying you’re not a winter person,” she added, a hint of playful mockery lacing her tone.

“I didn’t say that," you teased lightly, attempting to defuse the building tension with humor. A small, self-deprecating laugh escaped your lips. But Sofia didn't budge, her expression remaining unchanged. Her full lips pressed into a thin, almost imperceptible line, her arms crossing over her chest, creating a subtle barrier as she continued to study you, her gaze unwavering and unsettlingly perceptive. It felt as if she could see every reluctance, every doubt hidden within you.

“You’ll go sledding,” she said, her tone final, absolute, brooking no argument. The words weren’t a request, but a decree, delivered with the quiet power that only Sofia seemed to possess. You weren't sure if she was joking, using her usual dry wit or issuing a genuine command and that uncertainty made you feel like a small boat caught in a very powerful current.

You chuckled nervously, a sound that echoed in the space between you. "Why are you so invested in this?" you asked, your voice laced with a mixture of amusement and genuine curiosity. Why did this seemingly trivial thing matter so much to her?

Sofia took a step closer, her beautifully crafted leather boots clicking softly against the polished, wooden floor of the estate, each step deliberate and purposeful. The subtle sound seemed to punctuate the silence and amplified the closeness she was creating. “Because I want to see you laugh,” she admitted, her voice dropping to a softer, more vulnerable register. The shift was subtle, but profound. It was as if a wall had been lowered, revealing a glimpse of the heart beneath the hardened exterior. “I want to see you happy, free.” The words hung in the air, imbued with a yearning that resonated deep within you.

Your heart ached at her words, a soft ache of tenderness and understanding. Sofia had always been a fortress of strength and control, a bastion of unwavering resolve. But moments like this—when her guard slipped, and she let you glimpse the vulnerability, the longing underneath—reminded you of the complex weight she carried, the unspoken burdens that defined her existence. A wave of affection washed over you, a silent promise to offer support, understanding, and love in return.

“Sofia…” you began, a myriad of emotions swirling within you, but she interrupted, closing the remaining distance between you. Her presence was magnetic, drawing you in with an irresistible pull.

“You deserve joy,” she murmured, her hand reaching out to brush against yours in a touch that was light, hesitant, almost tentative, as though she was afraid you might pull away, afraid of shattering the fragile moment. “And if I have to drag you onto that sled myself, I’ll do it.” The playful threat was spoken with a dark glint in her eyes, a hint of something possessive that flickered beneath the surface.

You laughed softly, the tension finally beginning to ebb. You placed your now-lukewarm cup of hot chocolate gently down on the cool marble mantel, no longer needing its warmth. "Okay, okay. I’ll go sledding," you conceded, your voice laced with amusement. "But only because you’re so persuasive." The words were designed to lighten the mood, but they felt inadequate, like a piece of driftwood tossed into the vast ocean of her feelings.

Sofia’s lips curved into a small, satisfied smile, a rare and genuine expression that lit up her face and made you catch your breath. But her gaze remained locked on yours, dark and searching, as if she were trying to read the very depths of your soul. “That’s not why,” she said, her voice dipping lower, becoming husky with undisguised emotion. “You’ll go because you trust me. Because you know I’d never let anything happen to you.” The declaration was raw, unfiltered, delivered with an intensity that sent a tremor through you.

A shiver ran down your spine, not from the cold, but from the sheer force of her conviction, the raw and unwavering emotion that radiated from her dark, fathomless eyes. She stepped closer, her fingers trailing up your arm in a slow, deliberate caress, sending goosebumps skittering across your skin, until they cupped your face, her touch tender and possessive at the same time. The warmth of her hands against your cheeks was grounding, reassuring, like an unspoken promise.

“You’re everything to me,” she whispered, her thumb brushing lightly against your cheek, and the tenderness in her voice resonated deep within you. “And I’d do anything to make you see that.” The declaration was a heavy weight, a beautiful burden to bear, a testament to a deep and complex love you were only beginning to fully understand.

Your breath hitched in your throat as she leaned in, her lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was both tender and possessive, hesitant and demanding. The brief contact was electrifying, sending a jolt of pure sensation through your body. She pulled back just enough to murmur, her breath warm against your lips, “Now, let’s get you dressed for the snow.”

[wife-beam]

a malevolent bingyuan au could be fun. what if i was the monster that lived inside you and stole your eyes and what if we grew insanely codependent ❤️ it’d be easy

[doktorpeace]

This dude is WASHED.

[aventurineswife]

Can i ask... hsr men with a reader who always calls them by their name, when the reader suddenly uses a pet name, an intimate one at that out of nowhere? Like, would they ignore would they get flustered or stuff?

“Call Me That Again and I’m Yours”

Synopsis: They’ve always known you as someone steady—reliable, composed, respectful. Names were a boundary you never crossed. Until you did. Suddenly, a soft pet name slips from your lips—they can only respond in the only way they know how.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Caelus x Reader, Argenti x Reader, Romantic Tension, Emotional Vulnerability, Subtle Fluff, Soft Pet Names, Slow burn/Sudden Intimacy, Banter turning Tender, Hurt/Comfort (esp. for Mydei and Sunday), Stoic Men Unraveling, Subtext and Suppressed Feelings, Unexpected Reactions.

Warnings: Light mentions of blood (Mydei's scene), Slight angst / emotional baggage, Suggestive tension (Aventurine, Dan Heng), Emotional themes (e.g., trauma, guilt, redemption).

A/N: I might have to do multiple parts of this req, so let me know which characters you wanna see next! :DD

You’d always called him Aventurine—not Kakavasha, never anything soft. Just Aventurine. Clean, professional, distant. Even during your playful banter or those late-night strategy sessions when his voice dipped and his eyes lingered a little too long, you’d kept the line firm.

But tonight, as he adjusted the roulette brooch on his collar, you walked past him, leaned in, and murmured, “Looking sharp tonight, darling.”

He froze. For precisely 0.5 seconds—a brief hitch in his well-oiled persona. His fingers paused mid-adjustment, and the ever-present grin twitched, faltered… then curved into something slower. Something far more dangerous.

“Well, well,” he drawled, eyes flicking to yours like dice clattering on velvet. “Did my ears deceive me, or have you just raised the stakes?”

You arched a brow, amused. “I figured it was time to gamble a little.”

His smile widened, but you saw it then—the faint crack in his composure. The way his hand ghosted behind his back, fingers twitching in the air like he wasn’t sure whether to pull you closer or push you away. That name—it wasn’t just cute. It was intimate. Dangerous. It threatened the mask he so carefully wore.

“Careful,” he whispered, stepping closer until your breath caught. “Use that word again, and I might start to think you mean it.”

You smiled back, just as daring. “Maybe I do.”

And just like that, for once, you’d left him unsure who was winning.

“Sunday, we need to address the guest list again. The ceremony’s balance will collapse if—”

“—We include the North Sector delegates, yes,” he interrupted gently, hands folded, gaze serene. “I am already aware.”

You sighed, scribbling notes. Same old Sunday—graceful, poised, untouchable.

“Fine, love, but if this flops, I’m blaming you.”

Silence.

You didn’t catch it at first. His reaction was… almost imperceptible. The pen stilled between his gloved fingers. His eyes flicked toward you with the smallest shift of light. There was no smile, no obvious response, but something behind his gaze unraveled—like a ripple across still water.

“…‘Love’?” he repeated quietly, voice low, measured.

You looked up, unsure if you should laugh it off. “It just slipped.”

“I see.”

He returned to his work, posture perfect—but you noticed he hadn’t written a word since. His mind was elsewhere. The halo above his head shimmered subtly, like it pulsed in time with his heart.

It wasn’t embarrassment. It was something deeper. As if the word had struck a chord he’d long buried—something warm, painful, human.

“…You shouldn’t use a word like that lightly,” he finally said, glancing at you again.

“And if I didn’t?”

His lips parted, then closed. No answer. But his gloved hand slowly reached over and rested on yours, just for a moment. A silent concession. A rare flicker of vulnerability.

You'd breached something sacred—and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull away or fall in.

You found him alone after the skirmish, sitting on the edge of a ruined stone altar, cape torn, armor dusted with ash. The blood wasn’t his, but it stained his hands all the same.

“Mydei,” you called softly, approaching him through the rubble.

He didn’t look up. “I told you to stay with the others.”

“I don’t take orders well.”

A pause. Then a sigh—more relief than exasperation. His eyes finally met yours, heavy with exhaustion and something else: grief he didn’t voice, names he couldn’t forget.

You reached out, thumb brushing a line of red from his jaw. “You’re safe… Beloved.”

He blinked.

“Say that again.”

You tilted your head. “Beloved?”

He stood, slowly, towering, not in a threatening way—but like the weight of that word shifted the battlefield under your feet. He stepped closer until you had to tilt your head to meet his gaze.

“No one’s called me that since…” His voice cracked, just slightly. “Since before the sea swallowed me whole.”

You swallowed. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” he said, reaching out with a hand trembling with restraint. “No, don’t stop.”

In a world where titles were earned through blood and legacy, beloved was the one name he’d longed for but never dared to claim.

You gave it freely—and that was the one war he didn’t know how to fight.

Dan Heng stood silently in the Archives, eyes scanning over glowing data logs. You approached, hands behind your back, watching the way the soft blue light played across his features.

“Dan Heng,” you said as usual. He hummed softly, acknowledging you without turning.

You reached his side, pretending to study the data, but your focus was on the curve of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow.

“I brought you some tea. Thought you could use a break, darling.”

The word slipped out, soft and syrupy.

Dan Heng froze.

His grip on the datapad faltered. He didn’t look at you immediately, but his ears turned a vivid shade of pink.

“…What did you call me?” he asked, tone low, almost cautious.

You played innocent. “Hmm? Oh, nothing, Dan Heng.”

He finally turned, eyes narrowed, a faint flush still lingering on his cheeks. “You did. Say it again.”

You tilted your head, grinning. “Darling?”

He exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath, trying to maintain composure. He failed spectacularly. The calm, cool Dan Heng couldn’t meet your eyes for a solid thirty seconds.

But when he finally did, he stepped closer.

“…If you’re going to say things like that,” he murmured, voice softer now, “Don’t be surprised when I stop pretending I’m unaffected.”

You and Caelus had been walking side by side after a mission, stars glittering above. You laughed about something he’d said, casually bumping your shoulder against his.

“You always do this, Caelus,” you said, teasing. “Charging in like you’ve got plot armor or something.”

“I mean, I might,” he joked. “Main character energy and all.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure thing, love.”

The moment the word left your lips, silence fell.

Caelus tripped over his own foot.

He caught himself quickly, turning to you with wide eyes. “Wait. Did you just call me—?”

“I did,” you confirmed with a sly grin. “Something wrong with that, love?”

His expression shifted, uncertain whether to be flustered or flattered. He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks blooming with color.

“I… No. I mean, it’s not wrong. Just. Unexpected.”

You nudged him again. “You’re cute when you’re trying not to smile.”

“I’m not trying not to smile,” he said quickly, then failed to hide the shy grin tugging at his lips. “Okay, maybe I am. Call me that again.”

The battlefield was quiet now, monsters defeated, the sunset casting golden hues across the ruins. Argenti stood tall, brushing dust from his armor with knightly grace.

You approached, hands behind your back.

“Argenti, you were amazing back there,” you praised, as always.

He nodded humbly. “Merely fulfilling my duty to Beauty and righteousness.”

You smiled. “Of course, beloved.”

Argenti blinked.

The word echoed.

He turned to you slowly, as if unsure he’d heard correctly. “Beloved…?”

You tilted your head, eyes innocent. “Yes?”

He pressed a hand to his chest, lips parting slightly in astonishment. “You honor me with such a name… Are you certain… I am worthy of it?”

“You’ve always been worthy,” you said softly.

He took your hand, kneeling with a reverent grace, eyes shining. “Then allow me to dedicate not only my blade but my heart to you. For Beauty may guide me, but you, my beloved, inspire me.”

You laughed, a little flustered yourself now.

Leave it to Argenti to turn one pet name into a poetic vow.