#a hollow shell probably

[chronicowboy]

CHRIS IS IN THE ROOM!!!!!!!!!!!!

[fly-sky-high-bug-games]

Pech and Sulfur for @/tulpenteufel (on instagram), having fun at the Hive!

[melina-mellow]

Xlm nation y'all ever think about how in one of Xiao's voice lines he warns the Traveler that if she ever loses herself to the darkness, that it'll be up to him to put her down.

I didn't think much about it at first when they were barely acquaintances/allies fighting on the same side at the beginning of the game.

Cause yeah, while that line is pretty cold it made sense, because seeing what happened to his siblings and it being his duty to protect Liyue, it's obvious that is what he'd have to do if things came down to it.

But now that their relationship has progressed so much... They've grown so close over the years...

Do you think that... If Lumine ever lost herself to the drakness— just like his siblings did.

Do you think he'd hesitate... even if it's just for a moment...?

[jennycalendar]

i am noticing lately that things are … missing? from my heart. not just the jenny thing — i cannot find my deep profound care re: what other people think of me, or my intense desire to cultivate the relationships i have with others, when in the past both things have mattered so much to me. there is a general vague sense that i may just have to wait out the storm clouds, but in letting them exist i am learning that i am maybe very sad about, like, a lot of things.

[telephonetowerlover]

Godshell(?)

imagine, if you would, a god that's too big for its shell.

The assimilation was meant to be as easy and happen in a snap, but somehow within the milliseconds the process took, something went....wrong??? Maybe It was too eager? Maybe the shell wasn't ready for it immediately?

Whatever the reason, the shell now shambles awkwardly about, always trying to make its new passenger as comfortable as possible with slow movements, constantly hunched over with the weight residing in it. Even then, ichor will drip out of the joints if it jerks too hard. Every time It shifts inside, a new crack bursts across the shell's skin, but with no mouth to scream with the shell is forced to suffer in silence

[batfamfixation]

I can't believe I've almost finished building Titans Tower in the Sims. I've been working on it for over 12 hours. I'm not even joking. I was originally using a blueprint, but then I realized the blueprint doesn't have a kitchen. Also the Sims doesn't allow more than four floors. I could only fit five bedrooms, so it's just gonna be the TV show Teen Titans living there.

Once I finish with this, I'll make an apartment for Barbara Gordon and Stephanie Brown, because that shouldn't take more 12 hours, and I need a smaller build after this.

I'm also going to make Wayne Manor (which will absolutely take the longest, since I plan on decorating bedrooms for all of his kids, and that's a lot), Arkham Asylum, a house for the Al Ghuls (I can't make Damian if I don't have Talia), Queen Manor (which reminds me that I need to make Sims for Ollie's other kids outside of Roy), the Kent family farm (which will be difficult since I don't own either of the farm packs), a Greek inspired home for the Wonders (Diana, Donna, Cassie), a Flash house (Berry, Wally, Bart), and if I'm not completely burnt out after that, then we'll go from there.

[bludraws094]

time to traumatize my sister by watching toh with her!

[that-house]

I recently installed that one firefox extension that puts Mr. Beast in the thumbnails of every video on youtube (which is great if you've ever wanted to be plagued with visions of a grinning white devil) and it made me take a second to think about him and that one Polygon article about how he's subsumed everything he is to win at the content game.

I really appreciate how Mr. Beast is, like, a hollow shell of a person. I don't really like him or care for him, but I can admit to a grudging respect for a man who figured out how to play the content game better than pretty much anyone else.

But it just feels right, you know? He's the closest we'll probably ever get to a God of YouTube, and he lost what made him human along the road to divinity. He's the pinnacle of everything the internet has been leading to for the last few decades, the apex of the apex of those ceaseless, soulless engines of churning content.

He has everything and nothing. He who masters the algorithm cannot break it.

[amourane]

cheers to youth

pairing: yoon jeonghan x gn!reader

genre: angst? hurt and comfort, a lot of comfort, fluff

w/c: 1.1k

summary: in which you and yoon jeonghan reunite after years and find comfort in each other.

warnings: none

a/n: in honour of the cty mv releasing and me crying to it every single time i watched it. i hope this makes your day feel better if you're having a hard time <3 remember to always love yourself!

Jeonghan didn’t know where he was going. 

The rain poured down relentlessly, each droplet soaking him to the bone. He had no umbrella, but he didn't notice or care. Even when the winds were rough and the trees were being pushed around he continued to walk. 

Walk to nowhere. 

Part of him knew he should be getting rest or at least try to. Jeonghan hadn’t slept for many days now and if he even managed to, it would only last for an hour or two before he was woken up. There were bags that shadowed his eyes and he silently trudged along the path.

It was bad enough he was having a bad day then he came home to have his girlfriend of two years break up with him. Yujin was bound to leave him sooner or later, everyone else did. And yet, even when he knew this, it still hurt. The feeling still left a hole in his heart just like it did the first time. It still seemed to tear his consciousness apart, leaving him a hollow shell.

Jeonghan couldn’t decide what hurt more: her leaving or his letting her go. He could have begged her to stay, could have gotten down on his knees and pleaded, but he didn't. He let her slip away. Perhaps it was because he knew he had fallen out of love with her.

The two had only found solace and comfort when times were rough and back then, Jeonghan 

had been at a better place. When he looked at her he used to be filled with the softest of love and admiration. He didn’t do that anymore. The couple fought and screamed and in the end, it always ended in tears. So like he said, inevitable. 

There was a figure at the park, hunched over on a bench. Jeonghan's eyes were blurry, partly from the tears so when he approached you he didn't recognise the familiar warm eyes. The eyes that once sparkled with happiness and joy. It was you who was crying silently in the rain and you didn’t notice Jeonghan until he sat down next to you.

You looked up sniffling, red eyes dripping with tears. It took a moment for you to register who was in front of you before you let out a gasp. 

"Jeonghan!" Your voice was croaky and he suspected it was because you've been crying for a long time. "Long time no see."

It truly had been long. The last time he remembered seeing you was at the graduation party. The two of you were never closely acquainted. There was only a small project when the both of you were paired together. Even then, he loved the way your voice sounded like honey and no matter what, you were always smiling. It made him forget about the tough moments in life for just a small period of time whenever you were with him.

"I didn't think you'd recognise me." He chuckled.

"Nonsense." You wiped away your tears, as you took a shaky breath. "I'd remember that face anywhere." 

There was a silence between the two of you. It wasn’t awkward though. He let you weep and you let him stay. It was mutual understanding. 

"Why are you in the rain then? If you don't mind me asking."

"I don't mind." Jeonghan sighed. "Girlfriend broke up with me and my life's been shitty." You nodded and it wasn’t in pity, he was glad for that. "What about you?"

"Found him in the bed with my best friend." You scoffed, bringing your hand up to his face. "We were meant to get married four months from now." 

Jeonghan noticed the small diamond ring you had on your finger. He sat next to you, letting you ramble to him. You apologised a lot and he barely recognised you from the years back. Back then you were the happiest person in the room, loud and cheerful. Now you were meek and timid, saying sorry for the littlest of things. 

"You probably hate me talking so much." You nibbled your bottom lip. "It's nice to see you again though Jeonghan. Nice to see a familiar face."

There was a brief silence and Jeonghan took in what you had just said. The two of you had changed a lot since you last saw each other but that was expected. No one can really stay the same after so many years. 

"I don't think I could hate anything about you Y/n." The words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "It's nice to see you as well. I've always wondered how you've been doing post-graduation."

Even though the rain had stopped, the clouds covered the sun. The weather was better than before, still cold no doubt. You were shivering a bit and Jeonghan noticed. He reckoned you were in a rush to get out of wherever you were because you were only wearing a t-shirt and that was soaked though. He took off his jacket and handed it to you. 

"It won't do much since it's already wet. But it'll stop you from freezing to death." When you met his gaze you could see his eyes, filled with something you couldn't describe and yet it made your stomach warm and a surge of comfort washed over you.

"Are you sure? I remember you being quite sensitive to the cold, I don’t want you to freeze." The thought you had recalled such an insignificant detail about him made Jeonghan’s heart skip a beat.

“It’s fine honestly, I’m wearing a hoodie underneath anyway.”

You hesitantly took the jacket and put it on. "Thank you." 

Jeonghan was about to get up and head home when you grabbed his hoodie. He turned around to see you, drowning in the significantly larger than you jacket and he couldn’t help but think you looked cute. You were fumbling around in your bag, taking out your phone.

"Can I get your number?" 

Jeonghan stared at you and tried to comprehend what you had just asked. 

He blinked a few times before taking out his phone. A small smile tugged at your lips as the two of you exchanged numbers. A warm feeling filled both of your chests. The both of you hadn’t felt that in such a long time.

When you told him goodbye Jeonghan smiled at you and for the first time it was a smile that he didn’t have to force. It was a smile that he knew was true, he knew it was because he was happy.

That night when he got home he received a text.

21:04 - from Y/n: hi, it's y/n! i forgot to tell you before you left but thank you for being there for me today <3 wanna go get some coffee tomorrow, my treat?

Jeonghan bit back a grin.

21:06 - to Y/n: coffee tomorrow sounds good :) 

And when he went to bed that night, it was the most peaceful sleep he ever had.

[qingxin-dream]

“Righteousness”

summary | in another timeline, kunikuzushi never redeemed himself. he took interest in a different kind of heart—not the Gnosis, not a Vision—but yours. (art credits: @/Shiqaruki on twitter).

warnings | lore, kidnapping, kuni calls you ‘little songbird,’ profanity, brief mention of physical abuse, manipulation, praise & degradation, pining, obsessive/possessive, smut [18+, MDNI], dubcon, female-bodied reader (wears a dress & lingerie), dominant kuni, choking, yandere jealousy, murder/arson threats, worship, slapping, finger-fucking, mirror sex, kuni receives oral, deepthroating, edging/teasing, orgasm denial, mention of breeding

genre | yandere, smut with plot, canon-divergent

word count | 4.5k

pairing | kunikuzushi/scaramouche x reader

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

In a time all but forgotten, a young boy sat on his knees, caressing a hand-sewn doll in his palms and looking up with childlike compassion to his companion.

“There once was a puppet solider whose greatest wish was to be with a ballerina doll forever and ever,” he began, his eyes reflecting the scene of his storytelling imagination.

He gently squeezed the doll in his hands, as if to comfort his companion before the truth spills from his lips. “But the solider didn’t have a heart and didn’t know where his feelings came from.”

“One day, his owner didn’t want him anymore and threw him away into a fire. But even in the flames, his eyes never left the ballerina,” he continued with a more somber tone, drawing attention to the gut-wrenching ending of a tragic romance.

However, his voice shifted, offering soft words of wisdom and hope to his distraught friend. “The next day, the people found a tiny heart in the ashes left by the fire.”

Instinctively, the beautiful puppet sitting before the young boy curled his lip in disdain. “Probably ashes in the shape of a heart… but that’s not a real heart.”

He could hear the affectionate smile pulling at the corners of the young boy’s mouth. “Maybe, but what if… hearts can be born from ashes?”

“What a joke. It’s just ashes,” the lonesome puppet can barely conjure up a breath in his agony. “Nothing left but ashes.”

As his chest twisted and clenched with the wretched filth of so-called human emotion, the divine puppet came to a profound realization. His body merely served as a hollow shell, cursed by the ghost of mortal weakness—a living testament to the depths of an Archon’s visceral mourning.

In his naïveté, he had trusted the boy he thought to be his friend. He had believed that silly little fairytale, that maybe he wasn’t as empty and worthless as he felt. There was no heart to be found in the cold vessel of a failed god.

Kunikuzushi would have to claim one for himself.

Sin.

The ultimate temptress of mortals. The manifestation of human greed and desire. That which demands repentance and atonement for fear of eternal damnation. It is hinged on the human condition that death is inevitable.

Mortals are easily persuaded by morals and ideology if it means life after death in a paradise that is not guaranteed. Humans create false narratives to exercise the sick satisfaction of controlling one other. When all is said and done, the real struggle is for power—namely the power to control fate itself.

For those who are destined to roam the world with no such motives, imprisoned in an earthly purgatory, sin and salvation are laughable notions.

There is no reason to live, for you cannot die; Sin knows no bounds and comes with no price.

“The sooner you accept this, the better,” Kunikuzushi laments, his face just inches from yours. The bewitching twinkle in his lavender irises has remained all these centuries, a cruel illusion masking the abyss beneath. “Nothing you say will change my decision.”

You were really quite the picture, if he was being honest, all tied up for him. Kunikuzushi loathed that just the sight of you was enough to make the void in his chest cavity ache with longing. A reminder of his imperfection.

Anyone else would have died a violent death for such a transgression. But you presented a unique opportunity.

“Kuni, please,” you whimpered, your pleas falling on deaf ears. On the contrary, he loves hearing your voice, especially when you beg so earnestly. “I-I don’t know what I did wrong… I’m scared. Please, let me go…”

The puppet hushes you lovingly, his lips brushing against your delicate skin toward your ear. “Hey, now. There’s no need for that. You’re safe with me, little songbird.”

You flinch, gasping and recoiling in fear, turning your head away defiantly. It’s not like you could push him away, your little limbs bound to a tall column in the kitchen nice and tight. Hot tears pricked at your eyes. It burns like hell.

“Untie me, Kuni!” you shrieked, squirming and struggling against the binds to no avail.

He snatches your face firmly between his thumb and two fingers, squishing your cheeks to the point you felt pressure on your skull. “Ungrateful slut. Didn’t I explain this to you already? Your heart beats for me from this day forward.”

Frozen in shock, your body stiffens involuntarily as fear floods your veins, rendering you utterly helpless. Even as he gazed upon you with an icy, detached stare, you couldn’t find it within yourself to fault Kuni for this act of desperation. He could never make sense of himself and the pain that came with betrayal after betrayal.

Why even try to embrace humanity if it would mercilessly punish you for not having a heart?

You still remember the day you found him, it was but a coincidence you both crossed paths. Kuni was a wandering traveler, or at least that’s how he introduced himself. He seemed kind enough. You were particularly taken by his appearance, so lovely it was almost inhuman.

It just so happened that you were willing to offer him a place to stay. It took a bit of convincing on your part, actually, but you were worried about the string of murders near your village recently. Someone must have had an insatiable vendetta against the blade-smithing arts, striking them down one by one.

A small knowing smile pulled at his lips, his eyes creasing slightly with amusement as he marveled at how you opened yourself up so easily. This was the first time he had talked to a human in who knows how long. Perhaps since the young boy’s passing many dreadful seasons ago.

Kuni found the void in his chest persuading him to entertain his curiosity about you.

He had to admit, once you both got to know each other, it was quite the impeccable arrangement. During the day, you provided the kind of mundane tranquility and domesticity he had always dreamed of. Thankfully, your residence was in a rural part of the countryside, which offered much appreciated security and seclusion from the world.

Once you were safely tucked into bed and sound asleep, he would lie restlessly in the guest room. Puppets have no need for sleep. On some lonely moonlit nights, he would entertain his own fantasies of you. In the absence of such desires, he was compelled to satisfy his blood thirst.

Though Kuni had long forsaken the human emotions that afflicted his existence with disappointment and abandonment, his burgeoning relationship with you had quickly proven to be the last remaining vestige of his innocent supplication for a purpose.

In fact, he demanded it, after witnessing you day in and day out slipping from his grasp. He was growing impatient, waiting for something more. You had always stopped short of taking a little leap of faith to hold his hand or kiss his forehead, leaving him yearning for your touch and attention. Why?

Even in your presence, he was not alleviated of his turmoil. A number of possibilities plagued him. Were you dissuaded by his artificial constitution? Did he make a fatal miscalculation? God forbid, was there someone else?

No matter how many times he twisted, folded, and bent reality in his mind, trying to make sense of you, he never came to an agreeable conclusion. By the time Kuni realized just how deep you had nestled yourself into the empty husk of his heart, it was too late for the both of you.

All of this mental anguish and pining was unbearable. Unacceptable. He loved you, yes, but needed you more.

The puppet’s chest fluttered as you willingly complied, tears staining your cheeks, but that’s okay. His soft pink lips brushed against your cheek once more, kissing away your precious tears. It was his first taste of you.

Kuni cradled you in his palms like a delicate doll, his thumbs ghosting your cheeks. He leaned in closer, indigo bangs tickling your face and his mouth parted with a breathless question. “Is your heart… truly mine?”

He had broken you, and you had no choice but to nod slowly.

“Say it for me, little songbird,” he encourages you with a warm intonation. His eyes were trained on your lips.

“I-I’m yours,” you replied weakly.

No sooner than you could speak were his plush lips pressed to yours, a breathy hum of relief exhaling through his nose. In turn, you muffled a whimper, overwhelmed by the sensation. He had untied you, knowing you couldn’t hurt him but he could certainly hurt you.

Kuni was gentle at first, relishing in his first kiss with you. He carefully took your wrists to guide your hands to his body, and he wrapped his arms around your waist to pull you against him. Still, you trembled in his grasp.

“There’s no need to fear,” he whispers between kisses, holding your face to his. “I will take care of you.”

He can’t bear to leave your lips. Guiding you towards him, he leans against the kitchen counter and tucks a stray lock of your hair behind your ear. A small prayer barely escapes his lips. “(Y/N), hold me… touch me… please.”

“Kuni,” you choke out, tears forming in the corner of your eyes again. You are silenced with increasingly fervent kisses, one of his hands trailing down to your neck just by his fingertips, giving you goosebumps in the wake of his featherlight touch.

“You are going to give yourself to me. Your heart is my heart, and I will not have you hiding any part of yourself from me,” his voice grows a bit more insistent, closing his fingers around your throat as a threat, but not yet squeezing. “Do you understand?”

You give a feeble nod, unable to look at him directly. Every time your gaze locked with his, it sent a pang of terror jolting through your fragile body. He brings you closer by your neck, kissing you with more confidence than before. There is a little part of you that is worried you are unable to discern fear from excitement.

The puppet lets his hand slip further, fingertips finding the contour of your chest. He hesitates briefly, then allows his palm to feel your plump breast. The act was enough to elicit a little whine from you, and he knew right then and there that he had to hear it again.

“Do you… have any inclination of how long I waited for you?” he whispers hotly onto your lips, feeling down your waist at an excruciatingly slow pace. He smoothed each wrinkle of your dress with his thumb, tracing the silhouette of your figure down until he felt the hem of your underwear through the thin fabric. His breath caught.

You were still not as receptive to his advances as he would like, and suddenly he scoops you up to hook your legs around his hips, pressing your back against the nearest wall in the hallway. Kuni was beginning to reveal his desperation for you in more ways than one, breathing a little heavier. He was determined to have you submit to him and if you weren’t responsive to his soft side, then so be it.

“Answer me,” Kuni lowers his voice with a commanding edge, his lips just inches from your neck while his messy indigo bangs tickled your jaw. You whimpered, involuntarily moving your hips against him at the mere thought of his mouth on you.

At long last, you found your voice—delicate and decadent with a tinge of spine-prickling anticipation. Perhaps you had lost part of yourself, your humanity, in him too. “H-how long, Kuni?”

You shivered slightly, feeling his mouth spread into a satisfied smile against the sensitive skin of your neck. His voice deepens further, sultry and needy, “Lifetimes… I’ve been so goddamn purposeless for too many fucking lifetimes, just waiting for you.”

Without warning, the touch-starved puppet sunk his teeth into the crevice of your shoulder at the base of your throat, sucking at the weak spot to bruise the skin with his mark. A surprised yelp fell from your mouth, and you so nicely turned your head to offer him more. He clutched your curves tightly, as if he was secretly wishing your bodies would just melt into each other.

Ba-dum… ba-dum… ba-dum…

Your precious heartbeat echoed through his chambers of his chest. Kuni craved that little pulse of yours, chasing it up your neck in heated, sloppy kisses. All the while, you encouraged him with sweet little sounds of pleasure, softly asking for more under your breath.

“It’s mine,” he reiterated, perhaps to help immortalize the sensation against his lips. With a faint growl and yet another love bite, he added, “You’re fucking mine, you hear me?”

If only he could be bothered to pull back and catch a glimpse of how the puppet had unraveled you beyond recognition, equally as intoxicated by the heat of the moment. No matter. He will have his fill of you in due time.

“Y-yours, mhmm,” you capture his wet lips halfway, experimentally swirling your tongue with his passionately. You were clinging onto his shoulders, entangling your fingers in the soft ends of his pretty hair resting on the back of his neck.

With a faint moan against your mouth, Kuni lifted you once more by slipping his hands under your dress to feel his digits press into the soft flesh of your ass. It was light work to carry you, giving him the opportunity to squeeze and smack your ass with a smirk.

Slipping into your bedroom, he set you down and turned you around by your hips so that you were facing the tall mirror just a few feet away from the mattress. He leans over your shoulder from behind and you blush heavily at the image reflected by the mirror. Both of his beautiful hands traveled up your body simultaneously, one feeling your stomach, ribs, breast, and resting around the bottom of your throat.

The other, however, caught the frilly ends of your dress, sliding it up your skin at a painstakingly slow rate. Kuni’s violet irises shimmered with obsessive desire, admiring every inch of your body that was exposed to him. He bunches the dress in his fist as he raises it above your hips, revealing the most angelic lacy undergarments accented with cute little ballerina pink ribbons. Kuni chuckled, his breath tickling your neck.

“Do me a favor, darling,” he whispers into the shell of your ear, kissing it lightly. He takes his time to unveil your breasts, each one perfectly shaped with lovely nipples begging to be pinched. “Open your mouth.”

You comply, watching yourself in the mirror with curious fascination, before Kuni stuffs the thin, light fabric of your dress into your mouth. He nibbles your ear playfully. “Hold that for me.”

His eyes marvel at your body. If you told him you were a goddess, he would believe you without hesitation. Divine or not, the puppet was hell-bent on worshipping you like he had been dreaming of. Kuni played with the intricate lace of your snow white lingerie, his thumb brushing your pelvis teasingly.

Instead, he takes two fingers and caresses your folds outside of the undergarment, pleased to feel your panties dampened with excitement. You quiver at the touch, moaning faintly. Kuni is enthralled by the sweet noise, taking the tiny lingerie by his thumbs and sweeping it down your pretty legs.

He immediately sits down on the edge of the bed, quickly pulling you into his lap and spreading your legs apart with his knees. There it was in the mirror. Your glistening flower framed with the loveliest soft petals.

Kuni couldn’t possibly restrain himself when you were presented so exquisitely, wasting no time to slide his fingers over your pussy. You groaned in pleasure, muffled by the dress in your mouth, relaxing against his chest as the puppet focused on rubbing circles around your clit. He kissed your neck and shoulders endlessly, admiring your reactions in the mirror and whispering lowly, “So good for me. So, so good for me, aren’t you, (Y/N)?”

Your thighs trembled. You desperately wanted to close your legs as his movements became faster on your clit, the stimulation swiftly overcoming you. Breathy moans soon evolved into incoherent pleas. Kuni held you steadfast with his legs, keeping you spread all nice, admiring how you twitched beneath him.

“What did I tell you?” his tone is one of warning, groping your right breast and littering your skin with a few more marks. “There are consequences to hiding yourself from me.”

The puppet suddenly swipes his middle finger over your leaking hole—causing you to moan lewdly—before slapping your pussy. It was a light but firm slap, sending an addicting concoction of both pain and pleasure through you.

After a brief moment, he returns to your folds to trace and admire it, then continuing his ministrations on your clit. Occasionally Kuni would let a finger slip to tease your entrance, finding that it drove you crazy.

“P-please, please, Kuni,” your words quivered like your body, bending easily to the pleasure he was so kindly bestowing you. It had to have been the hundredth small cry for relief tumbling from your throat, you were on the precipice of your climax. “I-I need it. Something, anything… fuck me.”

“You better not cum on my fingers,” the puppet orders, gathering your slick and gently inserting two fingers into your warm walls. You whined in frustrated pleasure as he stretched you slightly, pumping his digits in and out of you barely an inch but keeping you stuffed.

“I c-can’t, I’m…” you babble. Kuni knew you were on the brink already, but he wanted to at least try to prepare you for his cock. He suddenly pulls his fingers out, and with it escapes your climax. Tears were almost pricking your eyes. You could definitely feel them beneath the surface.

He slaps your pussy again as punishment for not listening to his commands. “Greedy sluts are not rewarded.”

“I-I’m sorry,” you mumble and he grunts, pushing you off of him and to your knees in front of the bed. Kuni makes quick work of his clothes, tossing his shirt aside and pulling his pants down enough to spring his throbbing cock free. You had certainly felt his hard length while you were in his lap, but seeing it rendered you speechless.

No different from the rest of the puppet’s beautiful body, Kuni’s cock was perfect. A few veins wrapped around his hard member, bulging under the flesh. Towards the tip, it was gradually flushed pink with hot need, a pearl of precum on his slit. You took him in your hand, butterflies swarming your stomach with the realization that he had more girth than you expected.

Kuni grabbed a fistful of your hair and shoved your face toward his cock with a simple demand. “Suck.”

You experimentally drag your tongue underneath his cock, licking your lips, and working your mouth on his tip to lubricate him first. Kuni’s eyes roll in the back of his head, resting one hand behind him on the bed as he moans deeply. “Fuck, (Y/N)…”

The sensation of you smiling with his cock in your mouth sent warmth through him. You eagerly fit more of him in your mouth, sucking and swirling your tongue just the way he likes it when you received praise. Yet, Kuni needed more.

“You can do better than that,” he scoffed.

His grip on your hair tightened, pushing your throat completely down on his cock just to feel it once. The puppet twitched in your throat, letting out a seductive growl of pleasure. You gagged slightly, before pulling back with a string of saliva connecting your lips to his tip. You coughed a little, but he cupped your chin and wiped it from your mouth sweetly.

“That’s my girl,” Kuni coos, guiding you up on the bed next to him and pushing you down onto your back. As much as he’d love to see you taking him in your mouth all evening, he had a prize more tantalizing waiting for him. Clothes on the floor, moonlight pouring over you both, the puppet vowed to never forget how you mewled as he dragged the pulsing tip of his cock along your wet folds.

Gasping, you achingly bucked your hips in tandem, utterly drunk on the delicious sensation of his thick length parting your pussy lips. You loved to be teased, that much was for sure and Kuni ate it up—the desperate crinkle of your brow in pleasure and how your breath became short.

He presses his tip at your warm hole, but never pushes it in.

You groan dramatically, sweat already forming on your forehead and you haven’t even began. Every bit of pressure he applies has you smitten, imagining the moment he finally fills you. “K-Kuni…”

The smug puppet smirks down at you knowingly, grinding his cock against you repeatedly, rubbing your clit just right. “Yes, my little songbird? Have something to say?”

Before you can speak, he kisses you to muffle your answer. You grow even more impatient, using your legs to keep his hips locked close to yours. Kuni peppers your jawline and neck with kisses and little playful licks of his tongue. “I’m listening.”

“Please,” you beg.

Kuni’s tone is unreadable. “Please what? Use your words.”

You give him a flustered look of desperation and he pins your hands on either side of your head, interlacing your fingers with his. You reply, biting your lower lip, “Fuck m-me, Kuni.”

A smile graces his face and his eyes soften, thumbs caressing your hand comfortingly to brace you for his length. “Is this… your first time, (Y/N)?”

Though you were a shy and kindhearted person, he should’ve known from the way you deepthroated his cock earlier that it wasn’t your first. He wasn’t your first. That means someone else was. Someone else defiled you.

Kuni’s electric purple eyes darkened like an impending storm as you shook your head.

“Indulge me,” the puppet asks. “What other men have been in my position?”

You are not in the right state of mind, still insatiably yearning for your climax and grinding your wet folds on his length. However, Kuni doesn’t accept your nonsensical mumblings and half-answers. His hands tighten around yours, pushing his cock into you with a guttural moan inch by inch until he bottoms out completely.

“Oh my fucking god,” you sputter out, sighing in sweet relief and a bit of pain. Your pussy is filled to the brim with his cock, stretching you out good. You try to turn your head away and close your eyes, but Kuni refuses to let you.

“That’s right,” Kuni’s voice is nothing short of alluring in the most raw way possible. “Treat me like your god and fucking look at me while you take my cock.”

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t also utterly euphoric as he sinks his large member into your tight walls. Gritting his teeth, he’s taken aback by how you squeeze him unknowingly, even your subconscious is unable to deny the pleasure he’s giving you. It took you a few seconds to adjust to his girth, your eyes drifting down his muscular chest and toned abdomen in admiration.

With the first drag of his cock out of you to his tip, hushed hum of pleasures are murmured by each of you, until he buries himself all the way back into you. Kuni continues in this rhythm with a few thrusts, unable to his stifle his own moans. He was no better, his climax already building within.

Pulling back, the puppet releases your hands to push your legs against your chest by your thighs to get just the right angle and perfect view of your folds. He hovers above you, fucking just his hot bulbous tip into your needy hole. In mere seconds, you cursed to yourself at how good it felt when he brushed against your sensitive entrance.

Your clit pulsated for attention. How could he not press his palm onto your pelvis and drag his thumb across the slightly swollen bud? His half-thrusts became shakier as you unexpectedly tightened around his cock—moans freely and loudly erupting from your throat. The feeling was beyond exhilarating and convinced him to push you to your limits.

“You think I’m going to let any other man put his hands on you like this?” Kuni sneers with jealous envy reflecting in his irises. “I’ll fucking snap his neck. I’d kill him.”

Impulsively, the obsessed puppet roughly plunges his entire cock into your soft pussy. He relishes in your loud moan of shock at the pleasure and slight discomfort in splitting you wide open. His cock pushes against that wonderful spot deep inside you, incredibly sensitive after all his torturous teasing. You were seeing more than stars.

“I bet they couldn’t fuck you like I can,” he scoffs, possessively pulling your closer by your legs and holding your ankles on his shoulders as he fucks you mercilessly. “Make you scream like I can. And—nghh—breed you.”

You were finer than a work of art, truly, in all your fucked-out glory as you chase your high on his thick cock. His thumb flitting over your clit messily, primal groans of bliss echoing throughout the bedroom at every divine flutter of your pussy milking his cock so well. Your words were simply unintelligible, mumbling breathy prayers wishing for his seed.

“No one can take you away from me,” Kuni himself is beginning to tremble with pleasure, but nevertheless he keeps up his brutal pace. Every crevice of your walls and your womb will know his essence. “You’re mine, and I’ll burn the whole damn world for you if that’s what it takes.”

In a rush of jealous envy at the mere thought of losing you, the puppet abruptly pushes your legs back onto your beautiful breasts by his chest. The erotic melody of your fluids coating the base of his cock and v-line with every sloppy thrust pushes you both over the edge of an impossible free fall of euphoria.

“Cum on me, (Y/N). C’mon, cum all over my fucking cock,” Kuni demands with salacious desperation, pounding into you again and again until you’ve ridden out every second of your climax. The sensation is indescribable as he swears he could feel your rapid heartbeat through your walls—your heartbeat in his hands like he’s the supreme god of your body.

And as such, he blesses you with ropes of hot cum to drown your pussy in his everlasting love. Kuni collapses and cradles you, wiping the tears of pleasure from your sweet, angelic cheeks.

Righteousness means nothing to gods, for whom salvation is too late and sin knows no price.

thanks for reading! reblogs are appreciated! my masterlist

[ego-meliorem-esse]

July 13th, 1917

Be it from a sense of paternal concern or simply patriotic duty, Arthur made sure to leave his soldiers in the charge of an older Corporal and made his way to the quite pathetic excuse of a medical section where his son was left to rot.

Arthur had heard about the attack. He had been informed the day prior.

He had seen war and famine and sickness, but never like this. Arthur wasn't young, in any sense, and what wonders and strong political oppinions young men had, had left him a long time ago like a ship leaving the harbour in a hury to claim new land. This though, had left shock echoing within his tired, millenia old frame. He wasn't used to this.

Arthur made his way through the trenches with soldiers from every corner of the globe instantly stopping whatever they were doing prior and saluting him as if etiquette and rank mattered in hell. As if it was more importaint to greet the Higher ups than to survive long enough to even write a letter back to family. Arthur did understand that though. Routine and rules were the only thing keeping these poor and wretched souls from being consumed by thoughts of an imminent death.

The path to the section where Matthew was held was quite straightforward and quite familiar. He had marched to and from it hundreds of times and had a sort of automatic rithm in his step. Arthur made his way to the small and damp room with a fast pace indicative of familiarity, only to stop in his tracks in the shabbily built doorframe at the sight that awaited him in the corner.

Matthew sat in the corner of the sad makeshift medical section of the trenches, his back firm against the cold, damp wall.

His once-piercing blue-grey eyes were now clouded over with milky white cataracts, rendering him completely blind. The newly used gas had stolen his sight. His skin, once tanned and healthy, now bore the sickly pallor of a much older man who had endured unimaginable suffering.

Matthew's uniform, discarded in favour of his worn down undershirt, was now a tattered and stained relic of his time in the trenches. The not-white-anymore shirt clung to his emaciated frame as if decency still mattered in hell. The physical toll of the war was clear on his body. Not that Matthew would have to worry about seeing that any time soon. His hands, which had once held a rifle with resolve, now trembled even while resting on his thighs.

Despite his physical and emotional anguish, Matthew remained seated upright, his back pressed against the unforgiving, stained wall. A testament to his resilience if there was any left, a silent protest against the horrors that had taken his sight and left him broken in body and spirit.

As he sat there, his spirit reduced to a hollow shell, Matthew's face bore a mixed expression of utter defeat and complete indifference. His lips were drawn into a thin, lifeless line, and his cheeks were gaunt from the weight of his suffering. His blank, unseeing eyes stared into the abyss, as if waiting for answers and also hoping they'd never arrive.

In that moment, Matthew was not a representation of Canada; he was a young man who had been scarred and broken by the senseless brutality of war. The trenches around him buzzed with activity, but he remained isolated in his silent world of darkness and despair. The young medics job was done. He had patched Matthew up and left him to his own misery. Matthew was grateful.

Arthur stood there silently under the doorframe for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few seconds. A strange and unfamiliar twinge of emotion plucked and pulled on his conscience. He hadn't felt guilt in quite some time. This feeling was reserved for drunken nights spent in solitude with the doors to the room he resided in firmly locked so that his sliver of self-deprecating emotion wasn't witnessed by any but himself, while he drunk himself to unconsciousness.

He preferred the emotional solitude to this.

Arthur had believed himself to be capable of most things. Especially conversation and confrontation. He was quite good at those as centuries of existence had proved. He believed himself quite skilful with words. Most of the time he knew what to say and when to say it without it resulting in unwanted and unforeseen consequences, while still making sure his opinion was heard.

Arthur had no words forming as he stood in that doorframe. If Arthur was a good man, his reasoning would be that he felt such strong empathy and sadness that words wouldn't be enough to express the sorrow he felt at that moment. If Arthur was a good man he'd run to his son, assure him that this wouldn't happen ever again and that he was safe. If Arthur was a good man he would fall on his knees in front of his oldest son and beg for forgiveness.

Arthur wasn't a good man.

He could admit to his shortcomings, but to act on them was not in his nature.

So he stood there for another 5 or 6 minutes watching his son shallowly breathe in and out, hearing the boys lungs struggle to keep up with his muscles contraction and need for air.

He must have made a noise, as Matthew's head tilted slightly to the left, almost looking at Arthur but definitely not seeing him. Arthur looked back at him.

The room was quiet, save for the desperate plea of Matthews lungs to be put out of their misery.

Sensing nothing after a few moments, Matthew turned his head back towards the blank wall ahead.

Arthur silently turned his frame around and slowly started walking the path he had taken to get here. As he took a few steps, he released the breath he didn't know he was holding.

How he longed for that whiskey bottle and that dark room where he could lock himself in and slowly drift out of consciousness instead of facing his own mistakes.

Arthur definitely was not a good man.

[pandoraslxna]

📝forbidden romance Neteyam X omitikaya fem lover

Neteyam x female omatikaya reader, minors dni 🔞

It feels better when it’s wrong. When it’s with someone you’re not meant to be with.

"How long do we have?” Neteyam asks, letting you pull him behind a tree a little far off the village. Not much, though, just enough to be out of view.

He watches your face go from smug to flustered as your knees hit the forest floor, shifting to sit back on your haunches. "I’m meant to be at a clans meeting with the eldest, you know? My father is already waiting for me," he reminds you, a smirk pulling at his lips. "And your father will be there as well, wondering where the olo’eyktans second of command is and why he‘s running late. Again."

"Probably…," you start, and then bite your lip when you pull down his loincloth just enough, exposing his already hard cock to the air. "Probably five minutes," you grin up at him.

"Five minutes?" He chuckles, but then you curl your tongue out to taste the underside of Neteyams cock, making it bob before you take it in hand and stroke down his length and- yeah, yeah you can probably make him finish in just five minutes.

You dip your head and close your lips over it then, taking in as much as you can on a single stroke and pulling back, sucking in hard until you feel your cheeks hollow with the force of it. Neteyam lets out a strangled groan, and suddenly there’s wetness pooling between your thighs like a river. He’ll take care of that later, you know it. There’s just no time for it now.

Passing your tongue over the slit in the head of his cock, you taste the salty bubble of pre-cum that rises there, and your fingers work over the wetness from your own mouth, dragging them over the stretch of skin your lips can’t quite reach.

"Eywa, woman", Neteyam pants, throwing his head back in bliss.

You pull off for a moment then, thread of pre-cum still joining your lips to him.

"Maybe a minute more?" You guess with a teasing giggle, licking your lips, and when Neteyams only reply is a long, low moan of "fuck, no, I’m about to come", you quickly take him in again, head bobbing quickly, tongue swirling and pushing up on his sensitive spots.

Neteyam bucks his hips hard, gasping, looking down as you take him in deep, then pulling back out, and another droplet of pre-cum springs from his cock for you to kiss and lick away.

"Tanhì [little star]," Neteyam warns, hands finding the roots of your hair to gently tug as you part your lips over him again.

If you shift your hips just right you can feel the seam of your loincloth rub against your clit, so you do just that- moaning around him, closing your eyes and trying for one last push, sinking down, down, pressing against him with your tongue and Neteyam lets out a deep groan, jerks his hips a bit and holds your head still as he spills warm and bitter over your tongue.

You finally pull back when the tension in Neteyams thighs releases, and swallows, wiping your fingers around the outline of your swollen lips to catch any stray wetness. Looking up, you’re met with his dazed expression, pupils blown wide, with sweat beading at his forehead, and entirely spent from this race-like run of an orgasm.

"You good?", you ask in amusement as you raise to your feet, but all that comes as a response is a, "Hmh", before he pulls you flush against against him. You feel his hot breath on the shell of your ear as he kisses his way down from there to your throat.

"You’re already running late, chief‘s son," you giggle, moaning softly once his hand finds the path between your thighs. "What will your father think, hm?" You purr teasingly.

With a rumble of disapproval coming from deep within his chest, Neteyam then manages to detach his lips from your wonderfully soft skin.

"Fine," he sighs defeated, before pulling up his loincloth. It’s when you’re about to walk away from the scene, that he grabs your upper arm and spins you around, backing you up against the tree with a hand next to your head, while the other tips your chin up. "But I will return the favor tonight, paskalin [honey]."

You send him a sheepish little smile, cocking your head to the side as you inform him, "not happening. My father will be home tonight, skxawng [moron/idiot]."

Neteyam holds your gaze for a long moment, his grin spreading impossibly wide, until his fangs come into view, sharp tongue licking over pearly whites before he chuckles, "not anymore." Your brows raise at that. "The olo’eyktans second of command has just informed me that your father will be out on patrol tonight. What a coincidence, hm?"

[s-4pphics]

A/N: me vs writing what i’m supposed to aka moth aka vampire possession aka anyway here’s post santa barbara angst don’t ask questions im not really sure LOL

“You’re back.” 

Determined hands freeze in the dirt, the freshly watered daisies glistening under the beaming sun rays. Your soiled fingers halt all movement at the soft acknowledgment from behind. A sigh leaves your lips. 

“… I am.” 

An exhausted one, and it’s not from your strenuous labor in the garden. Your body refuses to turn, but holes burn in your spine, leaving behind lasered streaks of green. 

“Can you look at me?” Ellie pleads gently. The softest you’ve heard her be in months. 

What she doesn’t know is that you’ve been back. For a week actually, hiding out in other people’s homes throughout Jackson, assisting in places where Ellie’s least likely to go. The garden in particular; Pollen makes her sneeze. 

Time is vital and interesting; Dina left her and Ellie’s farmhouse with her son when you fled Jackson. She sought you out, but you weren’t there. You spent most of your time alone, walking, running, killing what you had to. Searched for peace, internal and external. The sight of the waterfall was worth the months-long trip. Your home is different now. Eerily quiet. The kids you helped teached to read don't play outside or laugh as often anymore. You hardly see Tommy or Maria around. Jesse is dead. Joel is dead. Dina isolates with JJ. Hugs him like she’ll die if she lets go. 

Ellie’s forever changed. The town’s forever changed, and you’ve finally accepted that it’s for the worse. 

“Is listening not enough?” 

Cordiality is beyond you. Spite is evident. Even the flowers can feel it. 

You tried to be patient, to coddle, to mourn and aid and tend. Sacrifice your own wellbeing for the sake of hers. You tried, Dina tried, Tommy didn’t but he did at the same time. Oddly, destructively, but in his own way. You blame him and don’t. Hate him and don’t. He’s violently and permanently scorned, but so are you. So is Ellie. She says nothing from behind you. You rise with a pop in your knees and an upturned lip. 

When you face Ellie, your knees wobble. Scarred: emotionally, physically, mentally. Permanently. Her eyes are more breakable than glass, the shattered hand that displays defeat hid shamefully behind her back. But her cheeks are fuller, no longer the hollow vacancies they were before she left. Maria was always on her back about finishing her meals. 

Grief is complicated. Hurt. Anger. The flowers wilt. Listening isn’t enough, and neither is sacrifice.

Ellie’s nose always twitches when she thinks. Your heart gives a sporadic pulse, but not enough to revive the shell you're trapped in. 

“I don’t want an apology from you.” 

She shakes her head, “I know.” 

“Then why are we talking?” 

Another twitch of her nose. She searches for something. “I—“

But then she flinches away from you, a bent arm coming up to cover her nose and mouth when she sneezes. A painful jerk thrums through your chest, but still not enough. 

“Bless you.” 

One more sneeze, but softer. A bit squeaky. Remnant of when you first met her at 13 and she followed you out to the greenhouse to watch you water the orange trees. 

“Thanks.” 

You nod stiffly. When she doesn’t say anything, you move to leave. Your work is done and she knows you’re back; There’s no point in being alone with her. 

Ellie doesn’t follow, but she does speak. 

“I’m trying.” 

You pause, one foot in front of the other. A doe learning how to walk for the first time. 

“I’m trying to be normal. I’m trying to be okay but it’s not working.” Her voice trembles.

You weren’t expecting a confession. Normal. An interesting use of the word. No one feels that anymore. 

“It probably won’t for a long time.” You state, just as quietly as she, “But if you stop trying, you’ll rot from the inside. If that’s what you want, then fine. But if not… That's all you can do now.” 

“Will we ever be okay?” 

‘We’ means many. ‘We’ means two. Your back’s to Ellie, but you can see her. Unmoving, but frantic. Her mind cranks at a million miles a minute. You feel her eyes on you. Too familiar. 

You’re not sure how to answer, so you don’t. You take one last look at her before you walk away. 

Flowers never look the same the next day. 

[rosegasly]

Lavender Haze.

⇢ summary: “I like your stupid face. It’s so stupid. It’s so… I like it. Can I touch it?”  ⇢ genre: tipsy & risqué  ⇢ pairing: max verstappen x best friend reader ⇢ a/n: taylor inspires all my titles i'm a basic bitch like that

You should know by now that you are terrible with alcohol after one too many puking sessions and horrible hangovers. Still, when Max—your reigning best friend, now world champion—crossed the checkered flag in Abu Dhabi, there was no other way the night was going to end. 

 Feeling the burn of bile creep up your throat again, you push forward on your knees, clutching the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl with all your might as you throw up what feels like days worth of food. 

 The cool touch of said best friend’s hand rubbing soothing circles across your back is as much a relief against your scorching hot skin as a knife moulded with thick, unadulterated guilt that is digging into the gaps of your rib the longer you are awake and thinking. His other hand busy holding your hair back over your head. While your thoughts aren’t entirely coherent, the fact that you are ruining what is probably Max’s best night yet isn’t exactly lost on you either. 

Tears sting your eyes as your stomach finally settles, only a hollow sinking feeling where there was once turbulence, and you can’t decipher if it’s the lack of food or the drunk realisation of what a shitty friend you make at the moment. 

 “i am sorry,” the apology comes out meek, liquid pooling into your eyes and blurring your vision. 

 “Schatje,” his voice is every bit the affection, love and exasperation that you don’t deserve and you tuck your face away between the protective curl of your arms over the toilet bowl. If you were a little less drunk, maybe you’d be disgusted, but all you want to do right now is hide away so you can’t see the forgiveness swimming in his gaze. 

 “You trying to hide the running mascara? Come on, you know you can do worse,” Max teases and the sound coming out of you is equal parts sob and snort. 

 Strong arms curl across your chest, resting slightly above your breasts and your heart goes into overdrive as you sit there torn between feeling grounded by his presence and your stupid crush rearing its head again to mess with you. “You gonna come out of the toilet bowl anytime soon?” 

 His breath tickles the shell of your ear as his chin finds home on the curve where your neck meets your shoulder and you can’t hold back the shiver that races through you at the warm sensation. 

 With a firm tug he pulls you back, your head lolling to the side of his chest and burying itself in his warmth and safety. 

 “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” 

 Another steady pull and he has you on your feet, guiding you to the sink nearby. The angle of your neck turns awkward as you wrap your arms around his waist, face still nuzzled against his signature white tee secured tight between the clench of your fingers. 

 Touch as gentle as it can be, he holds your chin, tilting your face towards the basin and you wordlessly turn the tap on. You are half tempted to drink the water but stop yourself from following through on that urge, gargling and washing the acidity from your mouth instead. 

 The angel of a man you blessedly call your best friend drags your ass out, giving you bottled water which you finally gulp down like the parched woman you are. Sated and no longer reeking of bile, you nuzzle back into Max’s chest, half-formed apologies spilling from you in an endless stream. 

 He keeps quiet, allowing you time to let things off your chest. After years of being there through the others most vulnerable, he knows you better than he does himself and as much as the sight of your pink, blotchy cheeks and drunken apologies makes his chest tight, he realises how much you need it. The weight of unsaid words always weighs heavy on your shoulders, and he has never cut you off when you open up. Instead, choosing to console and talk through those thoughts after. 

 What seems like hours, but is probably only minutes later you finally bring yourself to move away from his chest, the death grip you had on his shirt loosening enough to allow you to look up. 

 In the club’s dim lighting, out of focus, eye to eye, crystal blue spilling into the dark of your eyes, your grip on reality slips a little more. 

 “I like your stupid face. It’s so stupid. It’s so… I like it. Can I touch it?”

 Dark lashes shutter your view of the endless blue as Max blinks, a little taken aback before a smile breaks out. Rosey lips and pinker cheeks and the faint dusting of freckles over the bridge of his nose and high of his cheeks. It’s him. With every breath, you breathe him. Amidst all the cigarette smoke and stale of old carpet under your foot and the sweat in the air; all you register now is him. Max. Your best friend. The one person you would give up everything for, knowing he would do the same. 

 “Go ahead. Touch me.” You can’t tell if his voice has gone lower, deeper, or if you have just pressed yourself too close to him. The vibrations from his chest travelling to you through yours from where they are against each other, not a hair’s breadth of space in between as you near. The lines between close and too close blurring in your inebriated state of mind. 

 The last thing you see before your eyes fall shut is the blue of his. Cerulean and crystal, the faintest blue in the light, edges coloured a dark green in the shadows and its endless. Their depth, his gaze, the twin pounding of both your hearts, the heavy breaths and the sweat from the humid club over your skins. 

 His lips are every bit as soft as you had imagined them to be. Sweet like your most beloved candy, light as a feather as they brush against you. Hesitant, then sure. Worried for what could be lost but realising what could be gained. Gentle, then a little more forceful as your back slams against the wall and you groan. 

 It’s relief. It’s desperation. The way you have starved to touch him, have him feel you. Breathe in his exhales; let them become one in you to make them yours. Kissing him to mark him yours, having him in your arms and knowing you could never let go. 

 He grinds into you and it’s dirty and messy, more the high of your hip bones and the thick of his jeans than anything else, but his fingers still dig into the curve of your waist almost painfully. His ragged breath making you shiver when his nose grazes your skin and you hear more so than feel him inhale your scent. 

 He bites your lip and licks it better. You tug his hair, then caress his face. 

 It’s sexual and innocent and when its finally too much and you can no longer hold your collective breaths, you smile instead. Your lips curled into a smile over his grin and it’s suddenly okay. Everything the night has been and every sleepless night that you two have spent tormented over unreciprocated feelings leading up to it. 

[mitsvriii]

self-talks

・❥・aventurine x reader

★ wc: 730+ノ★ no reader type or pronouns used or specifiedノ ★ cw: aventurine is his #1 hater, mentioned death/ways to die, set during 2.1 quest, written by a mentally-tired high schooler, lowercase intended, lazily proofreadノ★ no summary for this one, notes at the endノ★ if you get what’s happening i’ll give you a cupcake

“[name] doesn’t really love you, y’know.”

that voice. the same, agonizing tone that held itself high as if the owner knew every secret in the world. how aventurine hated how it followed him like an ant and he was a basket filled to the brim with succulent insecurities - as if they themselves were ripe, appetizing pieces of fruit.   

the tinted shadow, or should he say figured, of himself wouldn’t stop drilling those words into his head. aventurine tried to prevent the words from bothering him but he couldn’t shake them. it was agonizing having to hear his ‘future self’ talk about you as if you thought he was the last pawn left in a chess game, waiting to be used for the greater good. 

“that’s not true.”

because he knew you. then again so did he. future is often wiser than present but if that’s the case then why did he feel anxious at his words? 

shaking his head like a parent who caught onto their child’s lie, the ‘shadow’ tsked in mock disappointment. “honestly, i thought you were self-aware of the majority of one’s actions. are you so blinded by the scorching love that [name] provides that you cannot even see that you’re burning?”

he wasn’t burning, and you weren’t so bright that he wouldn’t be able to see anything else besides you, either. it was infuriating how this version of him - more of a shell than aventurine was in the present time, hollowed out and left to rot on a tree branch of desolation - seemed to believe that he was wiser than him about the love of their? his life. 

aventurine was as loyal as he could be to you without pushing past his boundaries (which were often as weak as a dam made out of twigs when it came to you). he could say the same about you, the absolute truth to anyone but him. bringing a hand up to his hair aventurine scratched it roughly in discomforting thought. all of this ‘he said, he says’ was making him go crazy.

or crazier than he already is in this deforming dreamscape of twisted memories and second-takes. if he ever gets out of this ‘living nightmare’, the first thing he’s going to do is charge up to veritas and-

“i wonder if [name’s] flocked to ratio yet. clutching onto him as soft weeps leave puffy eyes.”

okay, buddy.

“what’s your deal?” aventurine hissed at the amusement drawn on his face, covered hands digging crescent shapes into his gloves. “you seem so adamant in getting me to believe [name] doesn’t love me, yet i’ll probably never-“ cutting himself off with a quick bite down on his tongue, letting it go swiftly when metallic laced his taste. 

he couldn’t think like that. that anxious feeling that sunk into his stomach as if it were made of quicksand tried to open and claw its way out of him.

if aventurine could not ever see your face or hear the voice (that he wanted to put on a record and play it repetitively), he feels as if he would rip out all of his hair that you adored combing your fingers through, floss it through his teeth, tie it up, and ha-

a shaky exhale, “there’s a high chance i’ll never see [name] again, so what’s the point of getting me to openly despise everything that pertains to…what’s the point?”

he only smirked in response, the expression on his face was akin to looking in a mirror of opposition to aventurine’s own. he hated how he looked.

oh. so that’s it, huh? could it be that his ‘future’ version seemed to be nothing more than what aventurine himself already imagine what his future would be like, was that it? whom was molded with clay laced with nothing but pure self-hatred without you being there to swat them away.

inhaling sharply, pain shot up through aventurine’s head as he doubled over. he clutched his head and gritted his teeth as if he had a severe brain-freeze, shaking it as he stomped a foot to the ground as if he were in a tantrum. in all honesty, he looked like he was. 

puffs of frustration left him as he glanced up, eyes meeting his own heavy, irritated ones as he stared into them with ferocity. “oh aventurine”, he spoke to himself as he blinked away.

“you’ve got to stop talking in mirrors.”

me if writing bad characterization for my fics was hilarious 😹😹😹 seriously though i need to character study him more. take this while i go cry into my pillow over exams 🙏 this didn’t go as i originally had in mind but we ball!!! i hope this flops harder than a fish on a deck after it has just been caught i hate it sm

[sorreysorren]

what it is to be hollow

soccer was a testament to kaiser's existence.

a file was given to you, withholding information about kaiser that probably only 5 people in the world knew.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

you argued to the man at your door, one last time, that forcing someone won't prove effective. neither would sessions for just about a month. it was a desperate measure on dark’s behalf.

your words were disregarded.

and kaiser couldn't play until he went to therapy for the entirety of a month.

–––

kaiser didn't like you.

he didn't understand how talking to a stranger was going to solve all of his “problems”– as the people around him liked to call it.

of course, he wasn't going to voice his dislike for you. he knows how to act in front in front of people– he knows how to keep an image.

acting must've run in the bloodline.

he just had to pretend he was well.

you would only see what he wanted you to see– he thought he had you wrapped around his finger.

this way, he still had some form of control.

but you only smiled.

you smiled like you knew exactly what was going through his head. like you knew what was going to happen. like you knew everything about him.

– – –

it was cold in your office.

your shelves were filled with books, board games, and art supplies.

there was a mirror beside your desk, and right next to it hung a painting: a fish about to be eaten by a shark.

you asked him about himself, basic things; things you already knew. you wanted him to speak though. but he stayed silent. right now, his goal was just to make it through the hour. to just wait it out. even if it wasn’t his choice to be here.

“i can’t help you if you don’t talk”

he didn’t have to choose to open up to you because his demeanor did so involuntarily.

the little glances; when his eyes would widen for a split second; when his knuckles would tighten from how tightly he held them in a fist– you saw it all.

this was very different from the kaiser you’d seen on tv. the one who carried himself like he ruled everything around him.

and yet, in front of your eyes was hollow-like shell of a man.

right now, maybe, kaiser wasn’t a "real" person. there was no sense of self within him. he was a mess of thoughts, memories, and sensations. whatever bit of “self” that existed within him was molded by everything he went through.

maybe in different circumstances, he would’ve resorted to his cocky attitude you’d see on tv and interviews.

knowing his background, you knew he wouldn’t be opening up soon. but if you both had to be here, some use must be made out of the time, right? that was your thought process, at least. you understood not everyone wanted help, even if it was evident that they needed it.

right now, what he has is an open wound. right now, all he’s been doing is pressing a bandaid over it– a piece of cloth, even and continuing a reckless path. he’s stepped over the steps he should be taking; disinfecting, stitching, and healing.

the unfelt emotions in him eat away at his wounds.

– – –

the hour passed by, mostly in silence. the sound of your keyboard interrupted the silence every now and then. through the corner of your eye, you kept an eye on him, watching for anything.

he left as soon as the clock read 5:00 pm.

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the following week, he was late by 20 minutes.

“you’re late.” you didn’t really care if he was late or not, but you wanted to get something out of it. “do these sessions get in the way of something?”

he glanced at you, “you know they don’t.”

and he’s right.

to him, this is a punishment– not being allowed to play until he’s done with this. he has nothing else to do, if not play.

i’ll make it work, he tells himself.

“i’m not here to change you, michael. there’s a difference between change and adaptation. i’m not here to judge you either. i can help you alleviate whatever you’re feeling. i can listen to you. i can give advice. but i also don’t make any decisions in your life. whether you like it or not, we are here for you.”

“my…” he trailed off, not finishing his sentence.

there was an indistinguishable expression on his face and you could almost see the way the gears twisted and turned inside his head.

he didn’t say anything about you going on a first-name basis, but he didn’t speak again, only staring at the floor, waiting for the hour to be over.

you looked at his file again.

he had a history with violence, which had you brainstorming techniques that could help with that. when agitated, there are two pathways you think he would choose.

the first is immediate violence.

the second is pushing the thoughts away. doing so aggressively will only cause them to slip through the cracks, and then resurge ten times worse.

“have you heard about compartmentalizing?” you were certain he hadn’t, but this is how you chose to proceed

you explained that when in a calmer state, he should attempt to visualize putting the thoughts in little boxes inside his head.

sure, the method wasn't perfect, and it couldn't be used forever, but it was a step forward

he thought it was stupid.

he thought it was as stupid as the fish painting on your wall, but then again maybe that wasn’t the best comparison since it did catch his eye after all.

another method: EFT

before he left, you handed him a brochure that highlighted how it works.

during EFT, individuals tap certain points on their body – similar to the points used during acupuncture, to send signals to the part of the brain that controls stress.

on the margins, you recommended the side of the palm and the collarbone– this was closest to his neck and his tattoo (roughly 2 inches below it).

when he skimmed over it on his way out, he assumed it was some sort of placebo bullshit.

he didn’t see how this was going to help him, but then again, he wasn’t seeing a lot of things.

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“ –the wound will never really be gone, but it won’t ache in the way it currently does.”

you were explaining how cooperation on his behalf will benefit him.

it was the third week, and there wasn’t much time left. you had been aware that a mere month wouldn’t be enough for effective progress, but you hadn’t expected time to pass so quickly.

here you were, unaware of whether anything you’ve said for the past few weeks has stuck to his head or not. you did know, though, that you’ve somehow gotten to proximity with the line which figuratively served as a barrier between you guys,

the next thing you asked would either bring progress or fuck up everything.

“a lot of people in your situation would decide to kill themselves” you started, “why haven't you?”

his head shot up, before going to its previous position. he thought he must’ve misheard you because what kind of person just asks that? sure, it did make him think, and– it made him think.

it made him think, which made him realize he had no answer. maybe he wouldn’t have said it out loud, but he would’ve had an answer in his head. why hasn’t he?

was it soccer? it had to be.

He lifted his gaze to look at you, and you were already looking at him. You smiled knowingly.

yeah, your office was cold, but you reeked of warmth– and he thinks if he knew what it was like to be human, he would relish in it.

the thought made him sick.

– – –

if he doesn’t believe it, it doesn’t exist.

that was why it was crucial to find a reason; if he wanted to be “human” that is. and he does. you could tell.

the next week, the last week, he was in your office, for probably the last time.

he never said it out loud, but he had a new goal.

the facade he once had– the mask he once wore, was fractured. it was what he sculpted throughout his time in bastard munchen. it was broken, as now his image has been stained.

but now, he will not only rebuild the mask, or build to cover the exterior, but rather build a skull, and a sternum; he will build what makes him physically human.

he will learn to function with his head, his heart, and his bones.

he finally engaged in conversation. you talked about hypotheticals and “what ifs” and turning them into reality.

if you didn’t care about that, then you wouldn’t be human

what you believe to be impossible– make it possible.

“you're alright, kaiser.” it's an observation. he wasn't sure what you meant by it. you think you weren't sure either.

you also see he truly is resilient.

he’s made it this far, after all.

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a/n: I tried not to make him too ooc... I envisioned him with the mindset he had when he was younger and was arrested,, where he looked like he'd completely given up on everything (so none of that cocky facade bs) I TRIED TO DO HIM JUSTICE.

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