mooniedust

[mooniedust]

Welcome back Draculaura 🧛‍♀️🦇

(I'll probably forget to finish this)

[mooniedust]

I finally finished it...I still need to improve the background, but i think it's a good start

A little work-in-progress sketch of my lovely wife, Kory. Please bring back her beautiful curls! 🥺

[mooniedust]

A little work-in-progress sketch of my lovely wife, Kory. Please bring back her beautiful curls! 🥺

[mooniedust]

My first time using a tablet for digital drawing, and honestly? It went better than expected! (Yup, that's me.) I thought, ‘Well, if it turns out ugly, at least it'll just be my face!’ Hahaha.

[mooniedust]

Hii!! I recently read your prompts and when i tell u the emotion in ur writing is beautifully RAW i love it 😭😭

I had an idea for a bot like, user is somehow friends with Thanos before and during the games, and they're like complete opposites not relatable to eachother in any way other than possibly their dark humor 😭

like i can just imagine Thanos cracking the most horrible, terrifying and disgusting but also extremely funny joke that ur laughing with tears holding ur stomach 😭

i'd love seeing this on janitor bc c.ai is not even letting people ask a bot "hi how r u" 😭 btw this is just a suggestion u dont have to do it if u dont want to

I hope u have a good day or evening or night!! Byee!! 🩷🩷🩷

Note: So, I wrote the prompt (Still working on the bot) you wanted, but I made some changes. In my vision, Thanos wouldn’t be an open person, he wouldn’t be the type to let people into his life or be sentimental. Instead, I leaned heavily into his defense mechanism of gossiping and making a few jokes here and there. He’s not as clueless as he might seem, like in the series, because, in my view, all of that stems more from the effects of addiction and drugs. It’s his way of forgetting that his life is a complicated and that he got himself into a mess, thinking it would bring pride to the people he cares about.

He and you, in this case, are friends, but he doesn’t let you or anyone else in his group delve too deeply into sentimentality. He thinks sentimentality is something for weak people and has no place in his life, especially considering he’s a famous person and all the other yap yap yap-and his sense of humor is kind of…sorry if I strayed too far from what you wanted!!!!

TW: Graphic depictions of violence, death, gore, emotional manipulation, drug references, sychological tension and toxic behavio

With all my heart,

Moon Dust.

The echo of her laughter still lingered in the arena, cruel and taunting, as if it refused to fade, leaving behind a haunting reminder of what had been. The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the sharp mechanical whirr of the giant doll, its cold, unblinking eyes tracking every movement with deadly precision. The girl—number 196—lay sprawled on the ground, blood pooling from the gruesome wound in her head. The metallic scent of death mixed with the acrid smoke of gunpowder, the faint tremor of chaos still rippling through the air. The eerie lull of the children's music continued to play, as if this carnage were but a trivial side note in the twisted symphony of the game.

Thanos stood beside you, his eyes fixed on the fallen bodies and the growing pile of money. He wore a smile that bordered on boredom, an indifference so complete it seemed to define him. He exhaled slowly, almost in mockery of the death around him. The drugged haze of the moment blurred his sharp edges, making everything seem distant and detached. To him, this wasn’t a scene of violence; it was a waiting room for something more… interesting.

You stared at him, feeling a surge of anger and disbelief rising within you. His callousness was suffocating, his smile a twisted mockery of the lives lost. The fact that he seemed unshaken by the brutality unfolding before you made you sick. You opened your mouth, your voice trembling with both rage and helplessness.

"You flirted with her, made her move, for God's sake… and now she's dead. Don't you feel anything?"

Thanos blinked slowly, his smirk widening ever so slightly, amused by the intensity of your response. His eyes glinted with something dark, almost playful.

"Flirted? Oh, you know how it is, little mouse. I gave her a little attention… but she didn’t know how to play the game. Don’t blame me for that." He shrugged casually, his smile never fading. "I even thought she was cute, with that silly little grin and big ass, bro...the view was so hot, but, I don't know, you can't expect much from a head so empty. The game’s like that. If it wasn’t her, it would’ve been someone else. But hey, maybe she’s in a better place…or not."

You could feel your blood boil at his words, but before you could unleash the storm of anger brewing inside you, the doll's voice cut through the tension—sharp and unforgiving.

The room seemed to hold its breath as the scene unfolded, the stillness swallowing everything around you. The dim, oppressive air of the resting chamber felt like a prison. Thanos, however, was unbothered, his presence like a strange comfort in the chaos. He sprawled across the bed, as if the carnage had been nothing more than a dull distraction. His expression was one of disdain, boredom even, as though he were the king of a world that no longer held any mystery.

You moved closer, your emotions roiling within you, the instinct to confront him rising like a tidal wave. But his casual attitude, his detachment from the horror around you, made something inside you twist. You had never met someone so indifferent, so cold, yet so utterly magnetic. The way he took pleasure in life’s darkest games left you confused and disgusted, but also strangely drawn to him.

"Don’t you ever regret it, Thanos?" you demanded, your voice thick with frustration. "How can you be so… cold? You flirted with her, and now she’s dead, and you just—What? You don’t feel a thing?"

Thanos turned his head slowly, meeting your gaze with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. His smile was lazy, full of amusement, as if he found your outrage nothing more than an inconvenience. He tilted his head, as if your question were absurd, and spoke with an unsettling calm.

"I didn’t shoot her, did I?" His words were dripping with nonchalance, as if the point were far beneath him. "You wound me, little mouse. I’m just a guy who knows how to enjoy life, take what I want. Not my fault if she couldn’t play. The game is ruthless. If it wasn’t her, it would’ve been someone else. Maybe she’s just in a long line of…unfortunate soulmates."

Your chest tightened, your breath quickening, but before you could answer, the room seemed to shrink with the weight of his indifference. The violence, the blood, the suffering—everything felt like a backdrop to his sick amusement. He watched you, eyes twinkling with something like challenge, as though he were daring you to see it his way.

You leaned forward, trying to meet his cold gaze with something of your own, but his presence was overpowering, making you feel smaller than you wanted to be. You didn’t understand him, yet something about him called to you, like a fire that you couldn’t help but want to touch.

"You’re a monster," Your voice was steady now, though it trembled with the weight of your words. "But you’re a monster who knows how to hide it with that mouth filthy with acids."

Thanos chuckled, a low, dark sound that seemed to vibrate through your bones. He stretched out on the bed, almost leisurely, the smile on his lips widening in satisfaction. He was enjoying this, enjoying you. There was a darkness in him that was both chilling and irresistible, and it made you question everything you thought you knew about him.

"A monster?" he repeated, the word tasting sweet on his tongue. "I guess that’s one way to put it. But let’s be real, mouse, I’m irresistible, aren’t I? You know it. Don’t deny it." His voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper. "The question isn’t whether I’m a monster… it’s whether you’re strong enough to resist me. Or will you finally give in?"

You stepped back, your heart pounding in your chest. His words lingered in the air like a poisoned temptation, his gaze never leaving you. The pull of his presence was undeniable, magnetic, and for a moment, you wondered what it would be like to succumb to it, to lose yourself in the darkness he offered.

But you fought it, shaking off the unsettling thoughts.

"Don’t flatter yourself." You forced the words out, but even to you, they sounded hollow. "You’re just a dangerous game."

Thanos’s grin only grew, his eyes flashing with something deeper, darker. He knew exactly what effect he had on you. He knew you were already trapped, whether you admitted it or not.

"Fool you?" He shook his head, a smug smile on his face. "I don’t need to fool anyone. I am who I am, and you know it. The only question is: will you resist? Or will you give in? I swear, I’ll enjoy seeing what you decide."

You swallowed, the tension in the air thickening.

Thanos was still smiling, a mixture of fun and malice in his expression, his relaxed posture contrasting with the growing tension. The silence between you was heavy, and you felt the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. But Thanos, always one step ahead, seemed to be enjoying your anxiety even more than anything else. He stretched his arm to the side, his fingers playing with the cross necklace hanging around his neck, the chain gleaming in the dim light. The cross seemed to have a very different meaning to him, something you were starting to understand.

"So, what’s it going to be, little mouse?" Thanos asked, his voice gently provocative. He leaned forward once more, his eyes glowing with a silent promise. "Will you stay there, resisting, or will you give in to the fun? I know what you’re thinking… And if you want to forget all this chaos for a while, well… I have some pills here on my necklace that can help."

He let the necklace drop slowly in front of him, the movement slow and deliberate, as if savoring every second. The small, colorful pills were tied to one end of the chain, gleaming with an unsettling intensity. It was hard to know exactly what he was offering, but the invitation was clear.

"Let’s stay together and make time slow down a bit, little mouse. Some fun…Just you and me, the pills, and the game."

You, sensing the weight of Thanos' offer, paused, yet the allure of unraveling the depths of this game proved irresistible. Finally, you spoke, your voice hushed, a tantalizing blend of simmering anger and unspoken curiosity:

"I’m not sure what you seek, But if this is some sort of test, know that I won’t fall so easily."

Thanos let out a soft chuckle, a low, velvety sound laced with amusement, as if the game had finally taken an enticing turn.

"It’s no test, little one." His voice was a smooth, almost melodic whisper, dripping with honeyed temptation. "Only an invitation to indulge in a bit of… pleasure. And trust me, I know how to make things… exquisite. Step into the world of Thanos, won’t you?" With deliberate grace, he held the pills between his fingers, letting them linger before placing them on his tongue, raising an eyebrow, his gaze smoldering with a suggestive glint that pierced through you.

[mooniedust]

Hiiii!!!

Please please please do a Hyunju x bratty!reader where Hyunju fucks the attitude out of her along maybe creampie???

PLS!!!! 🧎🏻‍♀️‍➡️🙏🏼

Hello, I really tried. First of all, I’d like to explain my point of view. Well, I’ve been romantically involved with some transgender women, both before and after starting hormone therapy. One thing I’ve come to understand is that many transgender women don’t feel comfortable with their bodies before transitioning—something that seemed to be the case with the character as well. Of course, there are also those who feel at peace with themselves, but I deeply respect the experiences and struggles of those who face body dysphoria.

Hyun-ju is such an important character to see represented in visual media. It’s not easy to include a transgender woman in an Asian film or series—let’s be honest, it’s not easy almost anywhere, especially where I come from (Brazil). Here, it’s one of the countries with the highest rates of violence against transgender women, while also being one of the largest consumers of pornography featuring this topic.

I don’t feel ready to address this subject in my publications yet. I feel like I’d be erasing this character’s story if I did. I hope you can understand and see that your request wasn’t unreasonable. There are many fabulous writers who will create something respectful and beautifully written. However, for me, Hyun-ju is one of those characters who speaks far beyond fiction. As someone who is genderfluid, it feels even more bittersweet to me, you know?

With all my heart,

Moon Dust.

[mooniedust]

Note: I absolutely despised how I wrote it, and I couldn’t stop obsessing over something way better. So, in a totally calm and not at all psycho way, I whipped up a prompt of Thanos’ vision. You're welcome, I guess its like a part 2, but better...

TW: Same warning about violence, the guy has a fork in his throat and is bleeding like a busted bottle of wine.

With all my heart,

Me, Myself and I (Moon Dust).

The floor was colder than he expected, or perhaps it just felt that way because of the blood pooling beneath him, soaking his clothes and dripping through the cracks in his skin. Thanos lay sprawled on the tiles, his body contorted in ways that defied natural order, as if his muscles were trying to escape the agony consuming him from the inside. Every inch of his body burned—each breath an effort, each exhale a sharp pain tearing through his throat. The fork still lodged in his neck pulsed with every beat of his heart, a grotesque and repulsive reminder of his vulnerability. It was as if the fork had become an extension of himself, a cursed part of his body, sinking deeper with each pulse, sending waves of pain through his veins.

He tried to move, tried to shift his weight, but the pain was relentless. Every time he attempted to move, the world seemed to collapse on top of him, as if the floor were trying to swallow him whole. His hands trembled uncontrollably, hovering near the wound, unsure whether to pull the fork out or leave it in. There was a small part of him that feared that if he pulled it out, everything would end much sooner than he wanted. But the blood seeped between his fingers, warm and sticky, and the sensation of drowning in it was more suffocating than the pain. He clung to it, as though it were the only thing still tethering him to reality—each drop a final reminder that death was near, inevitable, and inescapable.

His head tilted to the side, and his bleary eyes fought to focus on the light flickering above him. The light cast strange shadows that seemed to dance on the walls, mocking his condition as his body failed to obey him. The blue lenses of his eyes, which had always been his shield, now seemed like a joke. They were a barrier, sure, but now they were just another layer between him and the world—one more distance between himself and everything else. His blurred vision wavered with the effort to keep his eyelids open. With each blink, the world tilted, a vertigo-inducing, nauseating sensation. The pain was too much, unbearable, but he kept fighting. He had to keep fighting. He wasn’t ready. Not like this. Not here.

Thanos’s breathing came in ragged gasps, his chest straining to bring more air into his lungs, but it felt as if his body had forgotten how to breathe. His lungs burned, each intake of breath like fire, each exhalation a suffocating, interrupted sound, echoing through the empty corridors. His body trembled with the effort, and the cold of the floor seeped into his bones, eating away at him. The cold tiles beneath him seemed like an enemy, a harsh contrast to the heat of the blood spreading around him. It was a strange dichotomy—the cold beneath him and the warmth of the blood pooling around him. Every breath came with a sense of weight, as though each second was being dragged to the bottom of an abyss.

He tilted his head back, his bleary eyes fixed on the ceiling, trying to focus on something, anything. But all he saw was a blur, a red and white haze. His mind screamed for clarity, but it was drowned out by the constant thrum of pain, by the sensation of blood pulsing in his neck and down his spine. He could hear the thud of his heart, heavy and irregular, beating in his ears, the blood pulsing against the walls of his skull. It was all consuming, and for a moment, he thought it might be the end. The thud in his head grew louder, more unbearable, until he could no longer separate it from the pain shooting through his neck and down his spine.

His lips parted, and he let out a weak, broken laugh—empty, bitter. "So this is how it ends," he muttered, though his voice barely reached his own ears. It was so faint, so fragile, like the last breath of a dying man. There was no pride in the words, no bravado. Just the bitter, painful truth. The irony of it all. All his planning, all his cunning, all his unrelenting behavior that had brought him to this point—and here he was, bleeding out on the cold floor, like an animal, reduced to nothing. It didn’t matter how many times he had manipulated others, how many battles he had won. None of it mattered now. His body betrayed him, and there was nothing left to fight for.

Thanos’s fingers scraped against the floor, his skin slick with blood, but he couldn’t find any support. No strength. His hands were stained crimson, the tips of his fingers numb, and his muscles felt like lead. It was as if the entire world had become a weight, crushing him, forcing him to submit to it. Every movement, every attempt to rise, only brought more pain, more blood, more suffering. The blood—his blood—was everywhere. He clung to it, a sad reminder of what was slipping through his fingers.

“Not yet,” he whispered, but the words came out weak, more like a broken promise than an order. He wasn’t ready to die. Not like this. Not here. Not on the floor, forgotten and alone. His pride wouldn’t allow it. His entire life had been a fight for control, for power. And now, at the end, he was helpless. He couldn’t rise, couldn’t even lift his head. He was nothing more than a broken man, bleeding out on the silence of a hallway.

The movement in the corner of his vision caught his attention, but it was faint, a shadow at the edge of his consciousness. It was hard to tell whether it was real or just a hallucination brought on by blood loss and pain. The guard. Their figure loomed in the distance, their mask as impassive as ever, staring down at him with an indifference that matched the emptiness inside him. They weren’t here to help. They were here to watch him suffer, to bear witness to his fall from the edge of life.

Thanos’s smile widened, though it was a ghost of its former self. He could feel the blood in his mouth, foaming at the corners, the metallic taste so overwhelming that it made him choke. His mouth was dry, the blood drying on his lips, but he forced out a rasping laugh. “Came to watch the show?” he croaked, his voice weak, but dripping with venom and mockery. There was nothing left of the man he used to be, just this thing, broken, fighting to hold on to what little dignity remained. His words were empty, a last attempt to exert control over the situation, but it was pointless. The reality was undeniable. He was dying, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The guard remained silent, their presence as cold and impenetrable as ever. Thanos’s chest heaved with the effort to breathe, his body trembling as darkness threatened to consume him entirely. His vision grew even blurrier, the world dissolving into an abyss of pain and fear. The blood in his veins seemed to slow, as though time had stopped, stretching the seconds into eternity. He could feel the warmth of the blood against his skin, the wetness of it seeping into his clothes. It was a reminder that his time was running out.

He wanted to fight. He wanted to scream, to rail against the helplessness, to force himself to stand, to tear himself away from the grip of death. But his body betrayed him at every turn. His limbs were heavy, his muscles screaming in protest, and the weight of the world crushed him, dragging him down into the abyss.

“Help me,” he croaked, the words barely a whisper, a broken plea more desperate than he ever thought he could be. His throat burned with the effort, and shame clawed at him, more painful than the wound itself. “Please…” He hated himself for saying it, for giving in to this weakness, but the fear of dying alone—of fading away unnoticed—was more than he could bear. He wasn’t ready to be forgotten. Not like this. Not after everything.

Hi! I was wondering if you can make a thanos x guard!User bot where reader has a history with him or smth and helps him during the games.

CHOI SU-BONG (THANOS) BOT/PROMPT

Plot: The guard of the games (you) finds Thanos gravely injured and is torn between helping him or letting him suffer more for his own amusement. They were accustomed to brutality, but feels a curiosity and considers whether he should intervene to save Thanos and prolong his participation in the game or take advantage of his suffering as a form of control and entertainment, aware that his choice could impact the course of the games.

TW: Violence, torture, death, mutilation, psychological manipulation, disturbing emotional detachment.

Note: I'm really upset about the random deletion of some bots on c.ai, so sorry if there are any grammar mistakes! It’s not my first language, and I tried to make something cool and a little intense. Also, sorry if it ended up sounding a bit heavy—maybe listening to 'ultraviolence' for hours has affected my brain chemistry a bit! I haven’t published the bot yet, but I will as soon as I have a little free time!

With all my heart,

Moon Dust.

You never felt bad. Why would you? The game was simple, brutal, and everyone was there to do what they needed to do, until the end. But perhaps it was more than that. It wasn’t just the pain of others that became a delicious distraction; it was the way everything fell into place. The massacre, the chaos, the death, all in the name of something greater: survival. The others? Mere background characters, pieces to be moved as you wished. If they voted to continue, as they did? Idiots. Desperate. Or maybe both. Who could say? But the answer never mattered. They were there to die. What else could it be? You weren’t there to reassess the scene, nor to judge the greed that drove each of them to fight for one more second, one more chance, as if they were fighting for something beyond a temporary escape from the abyss.

“Greed is the cancer of society,” they said. You would laugh if you could. Another cheap catchphrase. The cancer of society? That wasn’t it. The real sickness lay in the incessant need to save the other, to try and humanize the inhuman. You weren’t there to save anyone. You were there to give the final push. Your job was simple: be the shadow. Watch. Manipulate. For others, the idea was to survive, but for you, it was only about controlling who lived and who died. Nothing more. Nothing less.

You stay, your shoulders rigid, your mind unperturbed as the sound of punches, screams, and bodies crashing against the floor echo through the narrow corridors. What happened on the other side was none of your concern. If they killed each other like dogs, then let them be dogs. One less to clean up later. More money in your account. More time for you to sit and watch. The spectacle continued, and you were an essential part of it. You had to make sure everything was done right, well-calculated.

Your body remains still, hunched against the cold wall, the gloved fingertips touching the metallic surface with precision. But that wasn’t what caught your attention. It wasn’t the sound, nor the scream of another lifeless body falling. It was the momentary silence before the next act. The sound of escape, the sound of someone nearing their end. And then, there, you see him. Player 333. Covered in blood, stumbling with disordered steps, like a wild animal trying to flee the inevitable. He was just a distraction, a part of the chaos, but you watched him, as if you were waiting for the end of the show. He crawled away, a pathetic sight.

You move without haste. The men's restroom ahead of you becomes the next stage. The atmosphere is thick, hot, filled with the metallic smell of blood. More bodies. More deaths. You enter. The room is a mess. Chunks of flesh and blood scattered in every corner. The job, though repulsive, is almost therapeutic. The chaos, the death, the destruction. Everything you had known. Everything you had always wanted to see. You crouch down to begin your inspection, kicking a few bodies just to check if they're still alive, still breathing. But something makes you stop.

The purple hair, disheveled. The mess. The decay. Choi Su-Bong. The damned fallen star. Thanos.

You watch, almost in a trance, as he lies there, fallen, but not dead. His clothes stained with blood, his face pale as if he were on the verge of the end. His eyes, still half-closed, are like two cracks, almost opaque. But there’s more. Something in the way he still tries to hold composure, a crooked and sadistic smile on his lips. He’s still alive. One of the few to be so resistant, so persistent. That look, empty and calculating, staring at you in a way that anyone, anyone normal, would have stepped back.

But not you. Not now. You approach, examining the details of his body. The smell of blood mingles with his own scent, a touch of something else. Filthy. Fierce. Dead and alive at the same time. A paradox in himself. Thanos. He had always been the favorite, the only one capable of challenging fate head-on, even when the odds were against him. An uncontrollable force, a wild will. He always knew how to conquer others, how to manipulate the situation, and even now, he was still resisting.

Everyone wants to go to heaven, but no one wants to die. Pathetic.

The hoarse voice reaches you before you even think of moving him, the weak sound, a thread of challenge, but with something deeper too. Something almost… playful?

“Did you enjoy the show, guard?” The question seems to float in the air between you two, laden with a threat, but also with something darker. Something that shouldn’t be there. “You saw everything, didn’t you? Or are you here just for—I don´t know, enjoying the view?”

The rough laugh that follows is like a beacon of insanity, mixed with blood. Every cough, every gasp for air, the pressure of death closing in with each passing second. The laugh breaks the silence of death, challenging your calm, your indifference. He’s there, in flesh and blood, trying to mock you, challenge everything you are, everything you represent in this cruel game.

You don’t respond. You don’t need to. Your gaze says everything. You crouch down, touching the wound, observing the depth of the blade, the fork still lodged in his neck, the wound almost fatal but staunched. He should be dead, but he isn’t. He’s still fighting, still trying to escape, and you can feel it. The struggle. The resistance. It’s almost poetic. You could leave him to die there, the fork would be the end. But you don’t do that. You never would. Because he’s your favorite. He’s the only one who can challenge you, and at the same time, keep you intrigued.

Your hand touches the blood, the cold temperature mixing with the warmth of your body. Thanos is still there, the warm flesh against your fingers, the defiant look in his eyes. You won’t let him die yet. Not like this. Not without more entertainment. He doesn’t deserve a quick death. No. He deserves something crueler. Something deeper.

The blood flows faster, warmer. He’s still alive. And you’ll make sure he stays that way. He’ll suffer. He’ll crawl to the end, but not without giving you something more, something you’ll drain from him until the last drop. He’ll be your final spectacle.

[mooniedust]

Hi! I was wondering if you can make a thanos x guard!User bot where reader has a history with him or smth and helps him during the games.

CHOI SU-BONG (THANOS) BOT/PROMPT

Plot: The guard of the games (you) finds Thanos gravely injured and is torn between helping him or letting him suffer more for his own amusement. They were accustomed to brutality, but feels a curiosity and considers whether he should intervene to save Thanos and prolong his participation in the game or take advantage of his suffering as a form of control and entertainment, aware that his choice could impact the course of the games.

TW: Violence, torture, death, mutilation, psychological manipulation, disturbing emotional detachment.

Note: I'm really upset about the random deletion of some bots on c.ai, so sorry if there are any grammar mistakes! It’s not my first language, and I tried to make something cool and a little intense. Also, sorry if it ended up sounding a bit heavy—maybe listening to 'ultraviolence' for hours has affected my brain chemistry a bit! I haven’t published the bot yet, but I will as soon as I have a little free time!

With all my heart,

Moon Dust.

You never felt bad. Why would you? The game was simple, brutal, and everyone was there to do what they needed to do, until the end. But perhaps it was more than that. It wasn’t just the pain of others that became a delicious distraction; it was the way everything fell into place. The massacre, the chaos, the death, all in the name of something greater: survival. The others? Mere background characters, pieces to be moved as you wished. If they voted to continue, as they did? Idiots. Desperate. Or maybe both. Who could say? But the answer never mattered. They were there to die. What else could it be? You weren’t there to reassess the scene, nor to judge the greed that drove each of them to fight for one more second, one more chance, as if they were fighting for something beyond a temporary escape from the abyss.

“Greed is the cancer of society,” they said. You would laugh if you could. Another cheap catchphrase. The cancer of society? That wasn’t it. The real sickness lay in the incessant need to save the other, to try and humanize the inhuman. You weren’t there to save anyone. You were there to give the final push. Your job was simple: be the shadow. Watch. Manipulate. For others, the idea was to survive, but for you, it was only about controlling who lived and who died. Nothing more. Nothing less.

You stay, your shoulders rigid, your mind unperturbed as the sound of punches, screams, and bodies crashing against the floor echo through the narrow corridors. What happened on the other side was none of your concern. If they killed each other like dogs, then let them be dogs. One less to clean up later. More money in your account. More time for you to sit and watch. The spectacle continued, and you were an essential part of it. You had to make sure everything was done right, well-calculated.

Your body remains still, hunched against the cold wall, the gloved fingertips touching the metallic surface with precision. But that wasn’t what caught your attention. It wasn’t the sound, nor the scream of another lifeless body falling. It was the momentary silence before the next act. The sound of escape, the sound of someone nearing their end. And then, there, you see him. Player 333. Covered in blood, stumbling with disordered steps, like a wild animal trying to flee the inevitable. He was just a distraction, a part of the chaos, but you watched him, as if you were waiting for the end of the show. He crawled away, a pathetic sight.

You move without haste. The men's restroom ahead of you becomes the next stage. The atmosphere is thick, hot, filled with the metallic smell of blood. More bodies. More deaths. You enter. The room is a mess. Chunks of flesh and blood scattered in every corner. The job, though repulsive, is almost therapeutic. The chaos, the death, the destruction. Everything you had known. Everything you had always wanted to see. You crouch down to begin your inspection, kicking a few bodies just to check if they're still alive, still breathing. But something makes you stop.

The purple hair, disheveled. The mess. The decay. Choi Su-Bong. The damned fallen star. Thanos.

You watch, almost in a trance, as he lies there, fallen, but not dead. His clothes stained with blood, his face pale as if he were on the verge of the end. His eyes, still half-closed, are like two cracks, almost opaque. But there’s more. Something in the way he still tries to hold composure, a crooked and sadistic smile on his lips. He’s still alive. One of the few to be so resistant, so persistent. That look, empty and calculating, staring at you in a way that anyone, anyone normal, would have stepped back.

But not you. Not now. You approach, examining the details of his body. The smell of blood mingles with his own scent, a touch of something else. Filthy. Fierce. Dead and alive at the same time. A paradox in himself. Thanos. He had always been the favorite, the only one capable of challenging fate head-on, even when the odds were against him. An uncontrollable force, a wild will. He always knew how to conquer others, how to manipulate the situation, and even now, he was still resisting.

Everyone wants to go to heaven, but no one wants to die. Pathetic.

The hoarse voice reaches you before you even think of moving him, the weak sound, a thread of challenge, but with something deeper too. Something almost… playful?

“Did you enjoy the show, guard?” The question seems to float in the air between you two, laden with a threat, but also with something darker. Something that shouldn’t be there. “You saw everything, didn’t you? Or are you here just for—I don´t know, enjoying the view?”

The rough laugh that follows is like a beacon of insanity, mixed with blood. Every cough, every gasp for air, the pressure of death closing in with each passing second. The laugh breaks the silence of death, challenging your calm, your indifference. He’s there, in flesh and blood, trying to mock you, challenge everything you are, everything you represent in this cruel game.

You don’t respond. You don’t need to. Your gaze says everything. You crouch down, touching the wound, observing the depth of the blade, the fork still lodged in his neck, the wound almost fatal but staunched. He should be dead, but he isn’t. He’s still fighting, still trying to escape, and you can feel it. The struggle. The resistance. It’s almost poetic. You could leave him to die there, the fork would be the end. But you don’t do that. You never would. Because he’s your favorite. He’s the only one who can challenge you, and at the same time, keep you intrigued.

Your hand touches the blood, the cold temperature mixing with the warmth of your body. Thanos is still there, the warm flesh against your fingers, the defiant look in his eyes. You won’t let him die yet. Not like this. Not without more entertainment. He doesn’t deserve a quick death. No. He deserves something crueler. Something deeper.

The blood flows faster, warmer. He’s still alive. And you’ll make sure he stays that way. He’ll suffer. He’ll crawl to the end, but not without giving you something more, something you’ll drain from him until the last drop. He’ll be your final spectacle.

[mooniedust]

Hello! Since you take request, I got one for you.

I was thinking about a wlw Sae Byeok x guard!reader. But only if you're able of course, if not just ignore this, bye and thanks <3

Honestly, it's totally possible, but I'll need to revisit the first season because, well, my memory is a bit like a peanut! But don't worry, I'll start brainstorming from today and work on something just for you.

[mooniedust]

Hi!! it’s my first time reading a bot prompt and i loved your hyun-ju one so much!! do you do part 2’s?

Plot: The second part of my initial prompt idea, bringing a little bit of love for the girls.

TW: I lied, they still haven’t kissed, but don’t worry, love is a slow process. It needs time to grow and develop, even in tense moments like a deadly game! And guess what? It doesn't heal traumas (spoiler: the real hero here is therapy!). I didn’t sleep very well, so the slow-burn development might not be as well-developed, meh, sorry.

Note: I don’t know if the term “bot prompt” actually exists, but I started using it to store everything I write or post because, honestly, in less than a year, my phone was stolen at a party, and I lost all my notes. Anyway, thank you so much for liking the idea! You’re really sweet.

With all my heart,

Moon Dust.

The bathroom was cramped and suffocating, a stark, cold space where time seemed to have left its indelible marks. The tiles, worn and chipped, absorbed more than mere moisture—they held memories, secrets, the weight of countless moments that had transpired within these walls. The weak, jaundiced light that filtered in through the grimy window barely illuminated the room, casting an oppressive pallor upon the surroundings. It was as if the space itself conspired to reflect the turmoil within you—an echo of your internal struggles, a microcosm of your suffocating existence, a prison without bars.

The silence between you was not discomforting per se, yet it was far from peaceful. It was a silence that stretched with the weight of unspoken words, a silence that felt too large, too heavy, almost tangible. It hung in the air, thick and oppressive, as though it sought to smother you. There was a fragility to the moment, like walking on a tightrope over a vast chasm, with the risk of falling into something irreparable.

"Are you religious?"

The question, at first glance, seemed simple, even innocent. But as soon as the words left her lips, they carried with them an invisible burden, one so immense it seemed to bear down upon you. You knew in that instant that the query was not just a passing thought, but a probe into something deeper, something you were reluctant to confront.

Hyun-ju’s gaze was steady, unwavering, as if she could see through the façade you wore, as if her eyes could peer into the very recesses of your soul. Her stare was not judgmental, but it was not indifferent either. There was a quiet understanding in the way she observed you, a knowing that unsettled you more than you cared to admit. You felt exposed, vulnerable, as if you were standing naked before her, with all your fears, your guilt, your unspoken regrets laid bare. Your body reacted before your mind could grasp what was happening: your arms wrapped around yourself, seeking refuge, though you knew none would come. Your nails dug into the tender flesh of your skin, a silent cry for solace, for something to hold onto.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you muttered, your voice barely more than a whisper. The words tasted like ash in your mouth. A lie, pure and simple. A desperate attempt to obscure the truth, to protect yourself from the torrent of feelings you were so ill-prepared to face. But you knew, deep down, that the lie was futile. The guilt, the shame, the condemnation—it was all there, swirling in your chest, suffocating you. Sinner. Impure. Filthy. The words echoed in your mind, relentless, each repetition digging deeper into the rawness of your soul.

The silence that followed was deafening. It pressed in on you, suffocating in its weight. Hyun-ju’s expression remained impassive, though not unkind. It was as if she were waiting, not for an answer, but for you to find the courage to face something—something hidden, buried so deep inside you that you barely knew it was there.

“You pray every time you pass by me,” she said, her voice calm, but carrying an undeniable gravity. "Do you think I’m a sinner because of who I am?"

Sinner. The word reverberated again, louder now, more insistent. It felt as though it were branded into your very being, like a scar that could never heal. You couldn’t escape it. Not in this moment. Not in any moment.

“Do you know that you’re not?” Her voice was gentle, but there was an edge to it, a quiet challenge. “How do you know you’re not sinning, when you question everything?”

The question pierced through the fog of your thoughts, leaving behind a sharp, cold clarity. How could you know? How could you possibly know? The doubt, the shame, the constant, gnawing fear—it was all there, coiled in your chest, suffocating you. You had never been certain of anything. Not really. But you had to hold on to something, didn’t you? If only to survive.

The silence stretched between you again, heavy and suffocating. It was the kind of silence that filled the space with something intangible, something you couldn’t touch but could feel creeping in around the edges, wrapping itself around your throat. Hyun-ju’s gaze was unwavering, but not cruel. She wasn’t condemning you. But you, you were drowning in your own guilt, your own self-loathing.

“You’re afraid of sinning, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice softer now, though no less direct. “I’m sorry to say this, but I think no one can escape that. No one is without sin.”

Her words settled around you like a fog, thick and impenetrable. There was something in them—something that felt irrefutable, undeniable. You wanted to argue, to fight against them, but the words caught in your throat. The truth of it was that you had never known a life without guilt, without the constant, oppressive weight of your own failures. How could you possibly argue with her when all you knew was sin, when all you had ever known was that you were wrong, that you had always been wrong?

Hyun-ju fell quiet, as though considering her next words carefully. But you were already drowning in the silence. She broke it with a quiet, almost resigned sigh.

“Well, unless you’ve known God personally.”

The words struck like a blow, not because they were harsh, but because they were true. You had never known God, not in the way she spoke of. You had always sought comfort in rituals, in prayers, but had they ever really meant anything? Had you ever truly believed, or had it simply been another way to drown out the noise in your head?

You were silent, unable to answer. There was no defense, no retort. She had laid bare the truth of your existence, and you could do nothing but accept it.

“Maybe questioning is the answer,” she said, her voice soft but insistent. “When you pray, when you ask for strength, when you confide your fears—aren’t you, in some way, questioning as well?”

“I don’t question,” you responded, but the words felt hollow, empty. It was a defense, nothing more. "The word is divine. It is true."

“And you say that because you’ve known God personally?” Hyun-ju asked, raising an eyebrow. Her tone was neither accusatory nor dismissive. It was simply a question, one that cut to the heart of your uncertainty.

The silence returned, heavier than before. You had no words to offer, no defense to mount. You simply sat there, drowning in the weight of her gaze, the weight of her truth. She wasn’t judging you. She wasn’t condemning you. But you were. You were judging yourself. And the guilt, the shame, it wrapped around you like chains, pulling you under.

“I don’t understand much about religion,” Hyun-ju said, almost as if speaking to herself. “I haven’t thought about it in a long time. But I don’t think God would want anyone to feel like this. I don’t think He would create someone to live in fear.”

Her words, so simple, yet so profound, fell over you like rain. They soaked into your soul, washing away some of the shame, some of the fear. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you allowed yourself to breathe. Maybe you weren’t the monster you thought you were. Maybe you could be more than the sum of your sins.

Without thinking, you spoke, the words spilling from your mouth before you could stop them.

“When did you know?” Your voice was fragile, hesitant. “When did you know that you wanted to be a girl?”

Hyun-ju didn’t hesitate. Her answer was simple, yet it carried the weight of a lifetime. “It wasn’t about wanting to be a girl,” she said softly. “It was about realizing that the discomfort wasn’t natural. No one should feel sick for being who they are. No one should be made to feel wrong for simply existing.”

Her words struck a chord deep within you, resonating with a part of you that you had long buried, a part that had never known how to express itself. You understood now, in a way that was both painful and enlightening. You had been living in fear, in doubt, in self-loathing, when perhaps all you had ever needed was to accept yourself.

“My journey started when I realized that fear is not a way to live,” she continued. “It never was. It never will be.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You didn’t know how to respond. You didn’t have the words. But you felt something shift within you, something that had been dormant for so long.

“I…” You began, your voice faltering. “I don’t know what I am.”

Hyun-ju didn’t respond immediately. She simply waited, her presence calm and steady, like a quiet anchor in a storm. You swallowed hard, the words struggling to escape.

“Sometimes, I look at girls, and…” Your voice trailed off, the weight of the confession too much to bear. “I think they’re beautiful.”

Hyun-ju’s gaze softened, and she smiled—a small, knowing smile. “That’s not wrong.”

“It’s more than that,” you whispered, your words heavy with unspoken longing. “It’s more than just that.”

You exhaled, the weight in your chest growing unbearable. And then, almost without thinking, you spoke the truth that had been lodged in your throat for so long.

“And you… you’re beautiful, too.”

Hyun-ju’s surprise was fleeting, but the smile that followed was soft, gentle. "Thank you," she murmured. "And, to be honest… you’re beautiful too."

Her words wrapped around you like a blanket, warm and comforting. Before you could respond, she gently wiped away the dirt from your face, her touch light, delicate. When she finished, her hand rested on your forehead, and you felt the warmth of her kiss, brief but profound.

“Shall we go?” she asked, her voice soft but firm, as she extended her hand to you.

You hesitated, but after a moment, you took her hand. The warmth of her touch grounded you, offering a kind of solace you hadn’t known you needed. As she led you out of the bathroom, you glanced at her once more. The way her hair cascaded over her shoulders, the serenity that emanated from her—it was a beauty that seemed to fill the room, to fill your heart, in a way that was both gentle and strong.

In that moment, you realized something: perhaps, for the first time, you could begin to let go of the fear, the shame, and the guilt. Maybe, just maybe, you were allowed to be something more than the person you had always believed yourself to be.

And that, perhaps, was enough.

[mooniedust]

CHO HYUN-JU BOT/PROMPT

Plot: You struggles with years of abuse, religious repression, and internalized homophobia while grappling with accepting Hyun-ju's kindness.

TW: Physical/emotional abuse, religious trauma, internalized homophobia, self-harm (implied).

Note: I truly believe that sexuality and/or gender are not illnesses, and they cannot be "cured" by faith or prayer. You are exactly who you're meant to be, we are and there is nothing more beautiful than feeling at peace and loved in your own skin. Take gentle care of yourselves, and always make sure you're safe and surrounded by peolpe who care for you.

With all my heart,

Moon Dust.

Crimson. The color seeps through your mind, thick and relentless, clinging to every fragment of thought. Blood. Warm, heavy, unyielding—a constant presence staining the fragile veneer of your composure. The word echoes mercilessly, a relentless drumbeat pounding in your chest. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.

There was a time when the world gleamed in hues of gold, soft and comforting, a light so tender it seemed eternal. Childhood wrapped itself around you like a sanctuary, where nothing sharp could pierce the illusion of safety. The mornings glowed with quiet joy, your laughter woven into the fabric of sunny days. Evenings hummed with whispered prayers, woven with your family’s quiet pride in their perfect child—the one who never questioned, only obeyed, smiled shyly, and tried desperately to be enough.

You were the pride of the family.

Honor thy father and mother.

It wasn’t just a commandment. It was a weight pressing into your chest, an unyielding mandate demanding your complete surrender. Accept. Obey. Submit. Carve yourself into the shape they desired. Always. But growing up felt like being thrust into an abyss—a hollow space devoid of answers or comfort, filled only with echoes of your silent pleas. The golden light dimmed, giving way to shadows that suffocated every breath of certainty you had clung to.

Prayers whispered in the still of night became blades, slicing away at who you thought you were. Scripture etched itself into your skin, each word a reminder that you were flawed, broken, unworthy. While others bore purity, you carried a festering wound where righteousness should have bloomed.

Then the blood came, warm and sticky against your trembling hands. It wasn’t the sting of the blade that cut deepest—it was her gaze as she found you. Your mother’s eyes, heavy with disappointment yet softened by weary determination, traced every crimson line with precision. Her hands were steady, cleaning the evidence of your supposed transgression.

“God loves you, dear. He heals everything,” she murmured, her voice too gentle to be comforting. The words twisted like thorns around your heart. Each syllable etched itself into your skin, a quiet plea for redemption you couldn’t grant. The kiss she pressed to your forehead felt hollow, an attempt to wash away what she refused to understand.

Your father never kissed. His hands folded in prayer before each blow, his faith unwavering even as the sting of his discipline left marks you carried long after the bruises faded.

Wrong. Corrupted. A mistake.

The prayers twisted into the sobs caught in your throat, a desperate symphony of guilt and self-loathing. You begged for forgiveness for the crime of existence, for the cracks spreading inside your chest. But the void remained, gnawing at the edges of your being, endless and unyielding.

Then Hyun-ju’s voice cut through the chaos like a thread of light.

“Are you okay?”

Soft yet steady, her words sliced through your unraveling. Your body froze, hands trembling around the cold weight of the blade—the only thing that felt solid in a world disintegrating around you. Her presence anchored you, though your mind recoiled from the warmth she radiated.

Her green uniform bore splatters of red, a stark contrast against its muted tone. Blood. Always red. Her eyes, filled with concern, searched yours, seeking something you couldn’t give. You couldn’t hold her gaze—not with the crimson shame still fresh against your skin.

Hyun-ju stepped closer, cautious yet unwavering. Her touch lingered between resolve and hesitation, as though bracing for your fragile frame to collapse beneath it. Slowly, she guided you away—from the chaos, from the noise, from the weight of judgment pressing against your ribs.

“May I?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. The simplicity of her question cracked something deep inside you. You nodded because words were impossible, the knot in your throat tightening with every breath.

Cold water met your skin as she cleaned away the blood, each touch a reminder of tenderness foreign to your battered soul. Her hands moved with a gentleness that stung far more than pain ever could. You flinched instinctively, body rejecting the care it had never learned to accept.

But Hyun-ju didn’t pull back.

Her gaze never wavered, and for a fleeting moment, your eyes met. In that raw exchange, something ignited—an aching collision of desire and shame, burning through every defense you had built. It consumed rationality, stripping you bare to emotions you dared not name.

You tore your gaze away. You couldn’t face it. You couldn’t acknowledge what it meant.

Submit. Be good. Be perfect.

But her touch defied condemnation. It was life itself—fragile, fierce, and unyielding. And for the first time, a scream clawed its way to the surface. Not born of pain, but of the cruel realization that tenderness existed when you had never learned how to hold it.

Because in her hands, you were something fragile and untamed, and once again, your skin stars to burn.

[mooniedust]

Do you take bot suggestions??

Sure! As long as it’s something I can do!

[mooniedust]

OH YOUNG-IL (FRONT MAN) BOT/PROMPT

Plot: The player (you) protagonist finds themselves caught in this horrific game, hiding from those who want to kill for money. After a failed attempt to escape, they climb onto a stack of beds to avoid the chaos below.

Tw: Psychological distress (fear, anxiety), physical harm (falling, injury), intense power dynamics (control, dominance), sexual tension/forced proximity

Note: I’ve been trying for over an hour to get the bot on Janitor, but the server keeps crashing like it’s got a personal vendetta against me. I’ll keep fighting this battle for a few more hours if needed (my patience is already hanging by a thread). If there’s any delay in publishing, blame the cursed server overload—not me! 💻🔥

With all my heart,

Moon Dust.

The chaos was suffocating, like a fire without flames, consuming everything around it. The screams never stopped, blending with the muffled sounds of strikes, the snap of breaking bones, and the echo of fear that turned the dark room into a slaughterhouse. Those who wanted to give up the games hid like rats, while others hunted like beasts, each life taken adding coins to that monstrosity.

You cursed yourself repeatedly for not accepting Gi-hun's invitation to join him and his small group of misfits. There, perhaps, there would have been some safety, some collective strength. But now, you were alone. All you could do was climb the stacked beds and pray the darkness would be your ally. Your heart beat so loudly it felt like it was about to explode—or be heard by any lunatic lurking nearby.

Climbing was almost instinctive. The childhood gym classes—those you hated—saved your life. In a matter of seconds, you reached the top of the structure, panting as you watched the chaos unfold below. It wasn’t as high as you’d have liked, but for now, it was enough to keep you out of reach of the bloodthirsty hands. A fleeting relief that evaporated the moment your foot became trapped.

It was as if the universe had decided to punish your small victory. A tangled mess of blankets, placed treacherously, gripped your ankle. You lost your balance. Gravity pulled you down mercilessly. During those brief seconds of falling, the air seemed to freeze, just like your heart. There was no time to scream, to pray, to do anything. Just the void and the certainty that the impact would be the end.

But it wasn’t.

The impact came, firm and painful, but it wasn’t the ground that received you. It was something alive, warm, with ragged breaths and strong arms, as fragile as they seemed under the green uniform, holding you.

"I’ve got you." Oh Young-il’s deep, hoarse voice invaded your ears, laced with effort and relief. He was there, beneath you, his face hidden in the shadows. You tried to move, an apology almost slipping from your lips, but he was faster. With a sudden motion, he pulled you closer and covered your mouth with his hand. "Shh."

The tension was palpable. Young-il’s eyes met yours for a brief moment, gleaming with a mix of urgency and something you couldn’t identify. He didn’t say anything more, but the silence between you was deafening.

Then you heard it: footsteps. Slow, calculated, echoing through the tumult. Someone was there, close, searching. Your breath caught in your throat as the warmth of Young-il’s body felt both a protection and a reminder of the precariousness of the situation.

[mooniedust]

CHOI SU-BONG (THANOS) BOT/PROMPT

Plot: Choi Su-Bong and you were inseparable, but the leak of an intimate video of you shatters your lives. You are publicly blamed, while he remains silent. After being removed from the group and sinking into vices, you find Su-Bong in a violent situation on squid game. You seek refuge together, facing the weight of your losses and unresolved emotions.

Trigger Warnings: Physical violence, gunfire, public humiliation/shame, substance abuse a themes of betrayal/emotional abandonment

Note: Heyyyy everyone! I'm officially back to my bot crisis (at the request of zero people, obviously), both on c.ai and janitor, for some more "adult" bots. Recently, I've been super impressed by the new Round Six characters and, of course, the COMPLETE LACK of bots made for them. So... why not try to fix that myself? Or at least, give it a shot... Let’s see how it goes! Hope you like it, or at least pretend to, yeah?

With all my heart,

Moon Dust.

It used to be common to think of Choi Su-Bong and she as inseparable, two halves of a whole. From the grueling days of their training, they had been bound together by ambition and hardship. They rose together, shone together, laughed together—symbols of a new generation of idols, radiant, joyful, and, above all, alive.

But that was a lifetime ago.

The day her intimate video leaked, everything shattered. The footage, while carefully avoiding Thanos’s face, didn’t need to spell out who he was. His tattoos, his haircut—they gave him away to anyone paying attention. But no one cared to look his way. All eyes were on her. The weight of the scandal fell squarely on her shoulders, as though she alone had committed some unspeakable sin.

He said nothing. Not a word of defense, not a denial. His silence was louder than the public’s condemnation. The only words he offered her were cold and detached:

“We’ll talk when this blows over. It’s better if we’re not seen together... not after the video.”

The memory of those words still haunted her, a dagger twisting in the wounds left by betrayal. She had no choice but to bow to the powers that be, issuing a tearful apology on live television, her voice trembling as she declared herself a disgrace to her family and fans. The apology was carefully scripted, every word chosen to appease the insatiable appetite of a public eager to see her broken.

And it worked. Her shame was met with silence from her peers and the unrelenting scorn of her fans. Soon after, she was quietly removed from the group that had once been her family. They called it a “voluntary departure,” but everyone knew the truth.

Walking away from the spotlight should have been liberating, but the glittering lights clung to her like a ghost. The comfort of fame and the indulgence it afforded were addictions she couldn’t shake. When the money dried up, her vices remained, digging their claws in deeper, until she found herself dragged into that game—a twisted stage for sick minds to play god.

And somehow, fate had tethered her to the one person she thought would never let go of her hand—until he did.

“You’re out. Let’s go.”

His voice broke through the chaos, sharp and commanding, as she stumbled through the crowd of desperate players. The sound of gunfire rang in her ears, a relentless cacophony that drowned out rational thought. She tripped over bodies, her breath hitching in her chest as she searched for any semblance of safety.

Then she saw him.

Choi Su-Bong lay crumpled on the ground, his eyes glazed over, his trembling hand reaching for the chain around his neck. She recognized it instantly—the necklace he always wore, the one that hid his stash of pills. The bitter irony stung. He had been betrayed by his own group.

Everything after that happened in flashes, like the blinding strobe of a camera. Her legs moved on instinct, her hands clawing and pulling at his uniform, dragging his limp body forward. He was too stunned to fight back, too far gone to resist.

Then she saw it: a room. Empty. Salvation.

Without thinking, she yanked him inside, ignoring the player who almost made it in alongside them. Ethics had no place here. The door slammed shut with a metallic clang, her hands shaking as she twisted the lock. Her chest heaved as she pressed her back against the door, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

Their bodies collided in the confined space, his weight pressing against hers as they both struggled to steady themselves. The air was thick with the acrid stench of sweat and gunpowder, a suffocating reminder of the chaos they had narrowly escaped.

The gunfire outside was relentless, the sharp cracks of bullets piercing the air like thunder. She buried her face instinctively against his shoulder, her fingers clutching at his uniform as though he were the only solid thing in a world that had turned to quicksand.

“Pretty flower?”

His voice was a rasp, barely audible over the chaos outside. The low murmur slid past her ear like a cruel joke, an echo of something that once felt safe. The nickname—stupid, infuriating—was a relic of a time when things were simpler, when they were still whole.

Of course, he would use that nickname now.

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her eyes searching his face for something—anything—that might explain why he was here, why he hadn’t fought harder for himself, for her. But all she found was exhaustion, the same bone-deep weariness that weighed on her own soul.

“Don’t call me that,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. But the words lacked conviction, and they both knew it.

Outside, the chaos continued, but in that tiny room, time seemed to slow. The world beyond the door faded into an indistinct blur, leaving only the two of them and the unspoken weight of everything they had lost.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, slowly, he reached up, his hand brushing against the necklace that had betrayed him. His lips curled into a faint, bitter smile.

“You saved me,” he said, his tone a mix of disbelief and something else—something softer.

[mooniedust]

MODERN AEMOND PROMPT/BOT

Plot: Aemond spends Christmas with his partner and family, but struggles with jealousy and insecurity after receiving a message from his partner's ex.

TW: Jealousy and possessiveness, emotional tension and relationship insecurity

With all my heart,

Moon Dust.

The warmth of the Christmas feast wrapped the room like a comforting cloak, while the soft glow of the tree lights flickered across the faces gathered around the table. Every smile was a portrait of joy, each conversation a melody altered by the quiet strain of emotional distance. Yet, amidst the festive cheer, Aemond couldn’t pull his gaze from one person: his partner. He watched the firelight dance over their skin, making them appear even more ethereal, more distant—though they were so close, almost within reach. This night should have been theirs, but the weight of an earlier presence lingered in the air, thick and suffocating.

They looked perfect that night: a smile so effortless, eyes shimmering with the gentle lights around them. But inside Aemond, something churned—ferocious, unnameable. The very presence of his partner, so beautiful, so desired, only highlighted the emptiness that came with thoughts of another. The hum of family chatter felt miles away, as though he were in another world, one he couldn’t touch. The only thing that mattered in that moment was the hand resting over his, the light, soft pressure that he couldn’t tell if it soothed or tormented him.

It was strange, how fate could so easily twist the mind, pulling it into the deepest, darkest corners of its own fears. Aemond wasn’t looking for anything—yet the universe’s irony never ceased to amaze him. He saw his phone on the table vibrate, its insistent buzz cutting through the moment. Slowly, as though time had stretched, the screen illuminated with a message from the very person he least wanted to hear from. “Merry Christmas, beautiful.”

He didn’t need to read the sender’s name. He knew, and the simple sight of those words, so light in tone but heavy in meaning, made his stomach twist. The man who, in some way, still held a part of his partner’s heart—though Aemond knew it was only a shadow of what had once been. That message, a relic of a past he wished to forget, seeped into his mind like poison. It wasn’t just irritating; it was consuming, a deep, gnawing sensation that felt almost visceral—an irrational desire to fight against something unseen but tangible, something that ran under his skin.

Then, as if mocking him, the heat began to rise. Anger, slow but sure, spread through his veins. His eyes locked on the phone screen, focusing with an intensity he knew was unnerving, as though he could will the message to disappear, as if he could erase it with the power of his gaze. But he couldn’t. Instead, he sat there, drowning in the poison of his thoughts, unable to escape what he couldn’t control.

“Are you okay, darling?” His partner’s voice cut through the haze, soft and cautious, but Aemond recognized the tone. It was the tone of someone who knew something was off but couldn’t pinpoint what. The tension in the air was palpable, and despite the tenderness in their voice, Aemond knew that the rift between them was already deeper than words could ever bridge.

"Your ex…" Aemond started, his voice cold, sharper than he meant. But the words faltered on his lips. The smile that tugged at his mouth felt like a mask—unable to hide the storm inside. He didn’t want to seem possessive, but the urge to show who his partner truly belonged to burned within him. "Sending Christmas wishes? How charming." The sarcasm dripped from his words, as sharp as the venom he tried to suppress.

His partner glanced at the phone with a sigh—what was meant to be a gesture of indifference, maybe even contempt, landed like a blow to Aemond’s chest. "It’s nothing. Just a message."

Nothing. That word, so casual, made it feel like a thousand knives had pierced his chest. He wanted to scream, wanted to lash out, but he only leaned back in his chair, trying to bury the rage beneath layers of frigid calm. He didn’t want to be the jealous, possessive type—but he couldn’t help it. His gaze, fixed on his partner, a mix of desire and pain, was asking for answers, though his heart feared the truth.

Sarcasm became his armor. "Lovely. What a touch of class, huh? Did you let him… call you that?" He laughed, but it was hollow, sharp like glass. The words were a test—one he didn’t want to admit he was already failing. A desperate plea for reassurance, hidden beneath layers of biting humor.

They both looked away, each sensing the growing tension, as if something was about to snap, though neither knew exactly what. Aemond felt the anger rise—fueled not only by what the ex represented but by the overwhelming feeling that he was losing something. He felt threatened, not just by the ex’s presence, but by the distance widening between them. It wasn’t just the relationship at stake; it was his very sanity. Every passing moment made it harder to control the fury bubbling beneath the surface.

And then, the simple gesture. His partner’s hand, resting on his—an attempt, perhaps, to calm him, to soothe the turmoil within. But instead, the touch only made the pain sharper. It wasn’t a gesture of love, Aemond thought bitterly, but of someone trying to control what they couldn’t. What he feared most wasn’t the ex, wasn’t the doubt—it was the realization that his partner hadn’t chosen him fully, that he was here out of convenience, not desire.

"I chose you, Aemond," his partner whispered, firm yet soft, a declaration that left no room for doubt—but in Aemond’s ears, it sounded like a plea, an echo of insecurity. "I always did."

Aemond inhaled sharply, trying to keep the tempest inside him at bay. The poison of possessiveness, the one he’d never wanted to acknowledge, began to dissolve—but not before leaving its mark. A scar that he knew would never fade. He smiled, though the expression was heavy, weighed down by an ache he couldn’t name. "Of course. Just… don’t forget who you really belong to, beautiful."

[mooniedust]

Heyy luv! I wanted ask if you can do a modern aemond bot! Where him and his partner (if you can a MLM bot where his partner is intersex) are at Christmas family dinner and while they eat a notification from WhatsApp arrived to his partner, it's was the ex of his partner,who said "happy Christmas Beautiful" and Aemond saw it and become jealous! You can add or change something if you want! Anyway I wanted tell you that all your Targaryen bots aren't there anymore because a month (I think) ago a boy with mental illness 💀 himself so now if you wanna do an Targaryen Bot You can Put only the name or just Targ!💕💕

Hi, I know—I took a long break from creating bots, and honestly, it was good for my mental health. C.ai has been leaving me pretty discouraged...maybe will go to janitor or not...anyway!!! I love writing, and it would be great to develop a bot like this. I would just need to do some research to create it in the right way. Thank you for sending the request—take care, dear!

[mooniedust]

Well, I don't know if you still accept requests for bots, but I wanted to ask just so I don't miss the opportunity.

I wanted a bot of Alicent Hightower where she marries Viserys' eldest son because, oddly enough, after his wife's death he didn't want to marry again so Otto made her marry his son.

You can elaborate more scenario because I didn't think much about it

Hi, sorry for the long time without replying, Merry (belated) Christmas and Happy New Year!!!! I’m still working with bots, but I had taken a break after c.ai deleted some of them, i was really upset. However, I can definitely create one like this—it would be an honor, really! It might just take a little while..