#the lore is colliding the words are colliding

[onlyswan]

summary: in which you want to turn back the clock and jungkook wants you to stay.

idol!jungkook x reader, est. relationship / angst, fluff / word count: 5.8k

content/warnings: mistreatment of service workers / oc felt inappropriately touched by a customer (only mentioned in passing) / (oc works part-time in a restaurant) (then quits) / another dive into oc’s lore / allusion to death / grief grief grief / lots of crying :( / jk wants to move in together :") / mention of s*x (24/7=heaven?) / mention of period blood (they’re in diff contexts js to be clear lol) / u will get pissed and cry and laugh it’s fun <3

playlist! knees - iu ; chinese satellite - phoebe bridgers ; love wins all - iu

> in which masterlist

note: contains lil flashblacks from the giving up drabbles ^^ can be found in the timeline masterlist above this incase u haven’t read them and want to ^^ listen to love wins all when jungkook tells oc to wear their seatbelt (trust me). tried to encapsulate the epiphany of oh. everything’s going to be okay because i am loved when i’m at my lowest. as always reblogs & feedback are appreciated :") come chat!!

—

the rusty swing-set creaks as you unsteadily swing back and forth, staring lifelessly at your white socks and shoes stained with burnt orange. you look up to the sky but the moon and the stars are shrouded by the clouds. not even your favorite snack can poison your sadness with optimism. mouthful of bungeoppang, but you taste nothing, and every swallow only adds to the heaviness weighing on your chest.

your shift should be ending by now, which means you probably should be heading home, but your limbs have given up and refuses to move.

jungkook’s special ringtone ceaselessly disrupts the night scene’s quiet, but there’s no point in answering his calls when you know no words would come out of you.

“are you an imbecile?! you can’t understand basic instructions?!”

“ma’am, i’m so sorry. i’ll take it back and give you the right ord-”

“we’re fucking starving! move faster!”

you flinch as the bowl collides with the tiled floor, producing an ear-splitting sound that reverberates throughout the entire restaurant. you want to give the woman the benefit of the doubt and believe that she just shoved the bowl a little too harshly due to her frustration, but you have a hand over your mouth not due to shock, but the inexplicable pain of having your skin burnt by the piping hot soup… and she’s just… there.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry! please understand. she’s just in a bad mood. she’s not- she’s not usually like this.”

you stand on your spot, frozen and speechless, as her husband profusely apologizes. you’re only jolted out from trance when you feel him wiping your legs with crumpled tissue papers, a little too farther up for your comfort. a fleeting tug-of-war ensues when you forcefully rip them away from his hands. you thank him despite not meaning it.

you grip the edge of your skirt as you sit on your heels, picking up the broken shards of glass scattered across the floor. a concerned co-worker swoops in with a broom and you instantly jump the opportunity to save yourself from the mortifying stares, mumbling another thank you as you take your leave.

“you said table six.”

“____, i’m sorry. that was a fault on my part.”

your manager observes your current state. his stare lingers at your feet.

“but they don’t know that! she literally burnt me!”

“look, we don’t have to take this too far. it couldn’t have been that hot. we can see you’re still walking.” his condescending tone makes you feel so small, but it fuels the anger inside of you. “you don’t have to pay for the damages, so let’s just put this behind us.”

you gasp in disbelief, and it borders on a laugh. you feel crazy. you can’t believe this is actually happening to you. he can’t be fucking serious.

the workers in the kitchen remain quiet as tension arises, minds a tornado of thoughts but mouths remaining shut in fear of getting on the bad side of their superior.

“well you…” you hastily strip off your apron, bunching it up into one big ball. “don’t have to pay me anymore, because i fucking quit! i hope this place burns down!”

and you ensure that it hits him on the face before you turn around to march out of the kitchen. on the way out of the restaurant, you nonchalantly grab a bottle of water from the fridge, twisting off the cap as you push the door open. you leave a wet trail behind your steps as you pour the cold water over your feet, a poor attempt to soothe the sharp pain of the injury.

you know it will be alright eventually; you will heal, but this… this is leaving a permanent scar on your dignity.

with a vexed groan, you retrieve your vibrating phone from your pocket.

LAST EVICTION NOTICE— you do not even bother reading the rest of the words that come after that.

“fuck!” you scream, throwing the bottle at the nearest wall, hands coming up to your hair to roughly pull in frustration. the heels of your palm dig into your eyes and your knees give way to the ground. “this is a nightmare.”

it dawns on you that you’ve finally arrived at a surface on the rock bottom that you so awfully dread. you find yourself standing here— infront of the atm machine, staring blankly at the large number displayed on the screen. this money isn’t yours. this didn’t come from your blood, sweat, and tears. it’s an amount that you’re supposed to accept as a payment for the eulogies you had to deliver. you swore you would never do this, but desperate times come when you’re forced to swallow your pride and allow it to rot you from the inside.

you’re once again faced with the ugly difference between surviving and living.

you grab the cash, hastily pushing them inside the pocket of your jacket as if you’re being burnt by them. you feel so nauseous; if only emptying your stomach would untangle its knots.

you don’t need anything from anyone. this is the first and the last time, you swear to yourself in place of your defeated oath.

you don’t want jungkook to see you like this, helpless and hollow, the antonym of the sun he willingly flew too close to. you look pathetic seeking for solace in an abandoned playground, unfortunate soul stuck at fifteen, in denial of the passage of time.

but there goes your lover running towards you, calling out your name, and you begin praying for yourself to disappear into thin air.

much to your disappointment, no wiser being grants your plea, and now you have a man tucking you in his safe embrace, uncaring of his knees being bruised by the ground.

does he need to surprise you when you least anticipate his presence?

“i’ve been looking everywhere for you! i went to pick you up at the restaurant but they told me that you quit! what happened?”

he pulls away, tenderly cupping your cheeks in his warm hands.

“was it your boss again? it’s him, isn’t it? what did he do?”

jungkook dies a little inside. your glassy eyes study his face, a clear picture of distress and concern, but at the same time, they seem so far away… like you’re not certain if you’re truly here.

you unconsciously squirm— your feet retract themselves, escaping underneath the swing; and your ankles twist, and twist, one hiding behind the other.

this doesn’t feel like being stripped naked.

you feel like you’re being turned inside out.

“what’s wrong? baby…” he utters sadly as tears drip from your lashes—one by one— even they are lost and hesitant.

your distant stare remains.

he doesn’t know if you’re even aware that you’re crying. it’s a frightening sight and he doesn’t know what else to do. he holds you in his arms but you feel too stiff for this to be comfortable. the time passes, and he lets it do so in silence.

he waits for you to come back to him.

he waits, and waits, and waits.

“jungkook… i want to go home.”

“okay. i’ll bring you home, baby.” he strokes your hair, breathing out in relief. “yours? or mine?”

only for his world to crumble into pieces.

“my mom…” you whisper, breathless, releasing yourself from his embrace. “i want to be with my mom.”

and only then does he see traces of emotions written on your face.

“i miss my mom so much.”

the crack of your voice gives him an opening to catch a glimpse of your heart, that is but a mosaic of broken parts. pain, grief, longing… the past two years haven’t been enough to make him well-acquainted with the anatomy of your afflictions. he has only witnessed you speak of your family with a proud and affectionate beam; old stories that spark the agent of joy. and despite knowing that you must’ve been battling your pain all these years all alone, he couldn’t bring himself to meddle with how you handled your grief. however, if he’s going to be completely truthful, he was terrified of this— of seeing you so unmoored and broken. his pain is no comparison. quite frankly, it is an insult to yours.

“i miss her so, so, so much. what do i do? i…” you sobs become uncontrollable, overcome by the weight of the world crashing down on you.

how is it possible that you feel nothing and too much at the same time? is what you would often ask before, but today you realize that your pain simply goes beyond what any of your human parts is able to fathom.

“this is too hard… it’s too tiring. i can’t- i can’t. i don’t want to be here anymore. i’m always so scared. i don’t know what i’m doing anym-”

“shh, shhh, baby- baby, breathe for me-”

“how did my life end up like this? i don’t understand! the world- it’s so cruel- i can’t stand it.”

jungkook wipes away your tears, but it’s no use. once you break down, it becomes impossible to remedy. nonetheless, that doesn’t deter your boyfriend from trying. he gathers your weeping and trembling vessel in an attempt to glue you back together, and in while doing so, he also wills himself to be strong for you.

“why did she have to go after them and leave me all alone here? am i not her child too?”

the obtuse questions you’ve been too afraid to ask out loud are being brought out in the open, spilling out from the torn seams of your soul as they’ve become too agonizing to annihilate over and over and over again.

you know the answer. you know she didn’t want to leave.

but you can’t help but to be angry at the fact that her heart gave up. you don’t understand why it had to happen and why you’re being grinded in the mouth of the world.

“i’m tired, i’m so tired. it’s so unfair… i need her with me too…”

jungkook squeezes his eyes shut, gently rocking your tangled bodies — a defense mechanism. you’re succumbing to defeat as if it’s been long overdue; even your voice is giving up on you.

if he had to imagine, the earth must have shared his current dread when it witnessed a solar eclipse for the first time, wired to assume the worst of perpetual darkness.

“jungkook…”

your weak fists desperately grasping at the fabric of his hoodie— the final thread you are hanging on. your words break into stutters and hiccups, salty tears slipping past your lips and stirring their bitter taste.

“i just want to go and be my mom’s child again.”

and he would truly fucking hate to try and get into the implication of your words, but if jungkook is going to be completely truthful— he is terrified beyond words can say. of this; of witnessing you slip away from everything you’ve ever known; of losing you. maybe he’s being selfish, but whatever it takes, he will make you stay.

he swallows the lump in his throat, hurriedly drying his eyes with his sleeve before facing you.

“listen to me, okay…?” his voice isn’t enough to pull your head from underwater; he lightly taps your cheek, even though it breaks his heart. “hey, hey, hey. look at me, baby- look at me.”

he searches for your eyes, begging them to focus on him. and it’s silly, what he does next, pressing a kiss to your lips as if this is a fairytale. but then it works— you tilt your head to subtly nuzzle your cheek against his palm— and he has to quickly recover from being taken aback. you effortlessly make a slave out of his heart.

“you never stopped being her child. and that will never happen! because even with them being gone, you haven’t stopped trying your best to be a good child and older sibling to them. i… i’m a witness to that. every single day. are you hearing me?”

can he get some sort of sign whether he is doing this right or wrong?

“you’re not alone here because you have me. you do know that, right?”

and you want to believe him… you do. but just like how you’re clinging onto him right now for dear life, you can’t forget how you had to beg him to stay.

“so stop working all these jobs! please, i’m begging you! it must also break your mom’s heart to see you torturing yourself like this. it’s not healthy! just focus on studying and let me take away your burdens, please?”

you stop breathing; your features soften like you’ve made it out of a nightmare.

“jungkook…”

“let’s live together, baby.” he sounds sure; he sounds steady, but the waver of his eyes beseeches you. “you’ve been so good to me, even when i didn’t deserve it. please… let me love you in my own way too.”

“stop. i told you… i’m still thinking about it.” you say meekly, avoiding his intense gaze. “i mean, let’s be honest. what would your family even think of me? your aunt already hates me. what if she uses this to prove that she was right about me and-”

“fuck what everyone else thinks. i couldn’t care less.”

the reminder of the disrespect you were subjected to because of him has him seething all over again. his jaw clenches in anger, and he feels obligated to take a deep breath so he can keep himself composed. growing up, he was always taught to be the bigger person, but he simply can’t implore himself to do that if it means turning a blind eye to your hurt.

“i won’t let her get away with that type of bullshit so don’t even bother thinking about her anymore. i’ll take care of it. we can’t let that get into our heads. right, baby? we said that?” his thumb caresses your cheek softly, and you hold on to his wrist, silent as you try to understand him through the thick haze clouding your mind. “i want to be with the person i love. how could that be so wrong?”

you slowly shake your head in response, a little hesitant.

“i won’t leave again. no matter how hard you push me away, i will stay within your reach.”

and here he is, kneeling infront of you, seeking to make true of what he solemnly vowed to you.

are you going to take this away from him? after everything you’ve gone through together?

he is the only thing you have left to lose.

“i love you.” you whisper, initiating the hug this time.

you’re holding him tight, like you don’t ever want to let go, and it brings jungkook to the brink of tears once more.

“i love you so much.”

he sweetly kisses your cheek, but when you pull away to give him that look, a wordless command for more, his lips finally meet yours for the first time in forty-eight hours. they slowly curve into a smile, not at all surprised that he’s tasting sugar. he’d go through hell and back to experience this kind of kiss one time, only to do it all over again.

“let’s go home?”

you blink at him cluelessly. you don’t know why he’s wearing a dimpled smile out of the blue, neither do you know which home he is referring to. nevertheless, you intertwine your fingers with his, choosing to save yourself from this forlorn neverland.

there’s just… one teeny… tiny problem…

“shit,” you mutter to yourself, freezing on your tracks.

“what’s wrong?”

you awkwardly glance down at your shoes, the origin of the squeaky sound that was impossible to be missed by your ears. after inspecting you from head to toe, a worried expression morphs on his face, and you can only show him a shy wince in response.

“i don’t want to make your car dirty.”

“baby…”

his chest feels so much heavier. he is nearly blinded with red. he wants to scream and be infuriated. what the fuck happened back there?

you merely shrug, sending him a forced smile. “do you still have those extra slippers?”

—

“jungkook, i can do it myself.”

he clicks his tongue, his hand around your calf gripping. “stay still!”

you watch him from the passenger seat, your legs dangling from the edge as he carefully takes off your shoes and socks, yet again kneeling on the ground.

“does it hurt a lot?”

“not… a lot.” you answer through gritted teeth.

perhaps the stinging never did quell; it was just pushed to the back of your mind when more painful things surfaced succeeding it.

“who did this to you, huh? i need to go back there and make them pay! what kind of decent human being would do that?!”

“a miserable woman in a miserable marriage.”

in her eyes, you may be naive and she, the decades old wiser— but who is the one with a lover who would wash not their dirty hands, but their feet that have walked a million miles?

“i feel bad for her.” you comment absentmindedly.

you’re too far deep in awe watching jungkook gingerly clean your bare feet with his hands and a bottle of cool water, doing what you were meant to do earlier, if only granted that you weren’t erupting with rage.

“____, you’re too nice.”

“you’re too nice.” you argue. “also, those shoes are hopeless. just throw them away.”

he glances at you with fondness, shaking his head as he softly pats you dry with a clean towel. you stifle a gasp. it’s no longer as bad as before, but your skin still feels warm and raw. this wasn’t in the job description. you decide that you can practice empathy, as well as your strong belief in karma, at the same time. at this moment, you hope that the universe is already crafting tricks up its sleeve, because you’re in a world of fucking pain.

“there you go. wait until we get off the car before you wear the slippers, alright? and you’re not allowed to wear tight shoes.”

he rises to his feet, not wasting the opportunity to steal a kiss.

“yeah, it was wildly uncomfortable.” you mumble against his lips, tugging at his collar to properly respond to his display of affection. “thank you.”

“wear your seatbelt.” his eyes shines with a glint of with uncontainable excitement. “we’re going home.”

—

you stir as jungkook gently shakes your body awake, his muffled voice gradually becoming clearer as you gain your consciousness.

“wake up, baby. we’re here.”

you tiredly rub off the sleep from your swollen eyes, discovering your boyfriend waiting for you where the door of the passenger seat should be.

“let’s get you some more rest.” he places a chaste kiss on your forehead, before standing aside to make way for you, offering his hand as a gentleman.

you must still be dreaming. you assumed he would bring you to his apartment, but you do not recognize this place. this is a different parking space, a different parking lot.

“um… t-this is…” you stumble on your words, feeling lost. “where are we?”

“home,” he smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes and turn them into little crescent moons.

you must still be dreaming. the clock attached to a nearby pillar strikes midnight, and unbeknownst to you, a brand new day awaits beyond the dark and empty sky.

you were so thoroughly convinced that you’ve been living a life past the point of salvation… but life stands before you overflowing with hope and glowing with ardor.

you take his hand and allow him to whisk you away to another world.

—

this is beginning to feel real, jungkook thinks as he presses the elevator button. earlier’s excitement becomes interweaved with nervousness. he’s a little dizzy as the giant box ascends. if you feel his hand’s growing clamminess, you don’t show it, your clasp still as firm as before.

“you bought another house…”

“hmm, but this one is a secret.” a confession that is yours truly. “this one is ours.”

your eyes wordlessly speak with each other. neither of you imagined following your hearts could materialize your future plans to the present time. what goes beyond dreaming of beautiful things is still foreign to the both of you, but jungkook is here, willing to free fall with you.

the elevator dings.

he guides you through a well-lit hallway, to a door, and you pay close attention as he punches in the passcode— another set of numbers you ought to have memorized alongside birthdays and anniversaries and id numbers.

your heart races but everything else moves in slow motion. the door opens and you get swallowed by the need to remember every moment so vividly as if you’re reliving it.

the first time you set foot into your own apartment,, the empty space daunted you despite its modest dimensions. however, right now, your head is tracing half of a circle, from left to right, just to study this large space in its entirety— and all you can think about are the endless possibilities forming intimate images of a sanctuary in your head— a place where fears and sadness can co-exist with tenderness and joy.

beside you, jungkook patiently holds your hand.

“this one is ours…” you repeat the words, more so to convince yourself, and they drip with disbelief.

you follow his lead as he walks to the other half of the room, bare feet sliding across the floor.

“this is the living room, and the other side is the kitchen.”

he faces you with a wide grin, the kind he wears when he wants to tell you something he is proud of.

“i was thinking that if we get a big television bolted on the wall…”

he gestures to the blank canvas, letting go of your hand to draw an invisible rectangle on the air with his arms fully outstretched.

“then we can easily watch even from the kitchen.”

he puffs up his chest, side-eyeing you expectantly.

“genius, right?”

“and greedy.” you blink. “i don’t think that’s safe to do while you’re cooking.”

“but i’ll be very, very careful!”

“that’s the bare minimum when you’re holding a knife.”

“okay! i look forward to arguing with you about that on a different day!”

his enthusiasm doesn’t waver. in fact, it is fueled. how could it not? when you’re starting to sound exactly like a couple who lives together?

he captures your wrist and tugs you towards the other side of the room, but you pull him back with a noise of protest.

“are we not going to address…” you hang on to your words, eyes wandering to the floor where there are signs of living. “whatever is going on here?”

a single mattress with a single pillow; a folded blanket neatly sitting on top of it. surrounding them are bottles of water, a laptop, a speaker, and a basket of what you assume are skincare products.

“i’ve been sleeping here lately…”

“i can see that.”

“i didn’t want to buy furnitures yet while you haven’t given me an answer… i just thought that if we’re living together, then we should decide on those things as a couple.”

…he dips down to kiss you. “it was hell without you…”

his teeth captures your bottom lip, nipping at the supple flesh.

“going to build a life with you. i’ll build furniture, and they’re going to be ours.”

jungkook feels your stare. oblivious of your thoughts reigning chaos, he tilts his head in question.

how long has he been planning this?

“you okay?”

you blink away the tears brimming your eyes. you shake your head, clinging to his arm. “where were you taking me?”

“this is the kitchen!”

a smile of contentment graces your lips. you’re guilty of admiring the pure, unadulterated joy on jungkook’s face instead of what he is passionately endorsing to you.

“this is the fridge!” he presents to you, swinging the door open. “but there’s nothing inside.”

“what are you saying? there is something.”

the two of you peer at the green can of soda, chilsung cider, left at a far corner. the refrigerator light casts over your curious faces.

“oh, that’s still there?”

the animated sound of your giggles prompts him to look at you, and he couldn’t be more glad to be laughing with you again, bellies aching at the same time.

“do you want it?”

“it’s not peach.”

“let’s move on then!”

there are cups of ramyeon and packs of dried seaweed on the countertop, the photo of his dinner that he sent last night still vivid in your memory. your hand daintily brushes across the white marble, stealing a feel as jungkook drags you to a new space.

“this is the second kitchen and laundry room!”

he waits for a reaction as you survey the room and its overhead cabinets.

“it’s not supposed to be the pantry…? eh, you know what? cooking and doing laundry are more of your thing so you can have them however you want.”

you turn on your heel to walk away, and jungkook follows behind you, celebrating his victory by punching the air and whisper-shouting a yeah!

“what’s here?”

you reach another hallway beside the living room.

“what’s here?” he zooms past you to open a door. “bathroom. there’s a bathtub! but i still need to install grip bars so no one will slip.”

he needs to stop saying things that make you want to make him your husband on the spot.

“and we have my favorite part! the master bedroom, of course!” he swings the door open on the other side. “where else would we spend the most time in?”

“wow, really? i thought you were also endorsing the living room as the bedroom.” you jokingly quirk an eyebrow.

“nonsense!” he cheekily chides you. “you deserve better than that.”

you take a step, peeking inside the empty room that you estimate to be as twice as larger than yours. you can’t say that you care so much about its size, because behind the white curtains, you reel at the prospect of the natural light shining over your face every time you wake up. your mornings have been gloomy since you arrived at seoul four years ago.

he sneaks his arms around your waist, your back resting against his chest, and your being feels so light you might just begin floating when he lets go.

“let’s stay like this for a while.”

“okay,” he puts his chin on top of your shoulder, his soft smile becoming permanent.

the two of you stand at the bedroom’s doorway; the cusp of what could be your entire lives.

“what’s that other room?”

“which one?”

“i don’t know. i see it from the side of my eye.”

he cackles at your humorous nonchalance. “i have more to show you. there’s a guest room… if we decide it to be.”

“cute. i have somewhere else to sleep when i’m mad at you.”

“that’s fine,” he replies after a beat of silence. “at least i’d know where to find you.”

“don’t make me change my mind.”

he cries out your name childishly, burying his face by the crook of your neck. he hugs you tighter. he wants to sleep every night drowning in the sweet scent of your hair. if he had to choose, it would be the most peaceful way to go.

“we have a walk-in closet too!”

“i expected nothing less.” you giggle, not a stranger to his lifestyle. “what’s exciting is that we can finally have a big bed.”

“but i like our small beds.”

“cuddling isn’t all that fun during the summer. trust me, you’d eventually want space.”

“nuh-uh! that’s what aircons are for!”

you roll your eyes at his persistence. “then why did you choose such a huge apartment if you wanted a small bed?”

“so we can have all the space to slow-dance to love songs.”

jungkook, ever the charmer. the butterflies in your stomach come alive beneath his embrace.

“why are you suddenly quiet?” he laughs. “was that too cheesy?”

“no!”

“really?” he spins you around, and heat creeps to your cheeks when he leans in so close that you can perfectly distinguish the brown in his eyes. “so have you given it more thought?”

“given what more thought?”

“there’s nothing to be scared of. it’s only the two of us here, see?” he tells you like overeager puppy. “will you move in with me?”

if this is a dream, you wish to never wake up from it. to have a person care for you this deeply and unconditionally, you want to believe that you have done something right to deserve it.

“i just don’t think you understand what you’re getting yourself into.”

his eyebrows knit together in defense. “what does that mean?”

“the thing is… yeah, sex 24/7 and cuddling and having first times together, that sounds amazing and all… but living with me would probably drive you crazy.”

a tired yawn almost interrupts the end of your sentence, and you cover your face out of courtesy. you sniffle and wipe your teary eyes with the back of your hand.

“i’ve lived on my own for so long. i’m messy and clumsy and i’m used to having everything my way… i mean… i’m willing to compromise, but i can’t promise i won’t be insufferable as hell about it.”

“ah, seriously! you scared me for nothing!” he exclaims, throwing his head back with a groan. “baby, i’ve been living with six other men for the past decade. you know that there was a time when we even slept together in one small room. can you imagine how that must’ve been like for a bunch of teenage boys…? you? messy? think about it again. living with you can’t possibly get worse than that. you don’t have to worry about me! really, i can take it! watch me!”

“but i bleed every month.”

“i’m a man. seeing a little blood doesn’t faze me.”

you make a face. “it’s actually a lot.”

“yah, why are you acting like we haven’t been together for two years?”

“it’s different living together!”

“it’s only natural! i don’t care!”

a noise of complaint bubbles in your throat when he shakes you by your shoulders, coaxing you with an whiny “please baby.”

your chest deflates in defeat. “sure, i guess… as long as we have the big bed, and the slow-dancing-”

“done!” he doesn’t waste his breath, not keen on wasting this opportunity. “anything you want, you have it!”

you narrow your eyes. “and i’ll keep my tutoring job.”

“will you punch the next guy that insists you study at his dorm for me?”

“or i can just keep saying no firmly, baby boy.”

and with that pet name, he instantly folds. “okay.”

“okay?”

“okay, since that’s the only one that you genuinely like.”

“you-” your teeth unconsciously finds your bottom lip to dig into, and you inhale sharply. “…you really love me, don’t you?”

suddenly, you’re raising your voice and waving your hands in the air. you’re feeling too many emotions at once; it’s like when you mix all the colors in a palette and end up creating black. you’re angry and happy and you may be fucking crying again.

“you were just picking up speakers one night and a pretty stranger offers you some boring food and now you want to be stuck with me forever?”

your fist throws a restrained punch to his chest, shoving him backwards.

“oh my god, you’re so stupid!”

jungkook finds this too amusing, tries to hide that he is enjoying this but a smirk is plastered on his face.

“you are loved by so many,” he brushes away the hair that has fallen over your eyes. he tucks them behind you ears and tenderly holds your face in his warm hands. “but i’m confident that i love you the most.”

you are the muse in his dreams. your perfume clings to his clothes. you make him the happiest man on the planet and your pain torments him. what is this, if not love?

“and if that makes me the stupid one? then so be it.”

“when did it become a competition?”

“since you got yourself a competitive boyfriend!”

“okay, fine! let’s make it my fault!”

you throw your arms around his neck, peppering kisses all over his face until he’s an uncontainable giggling mess.

“i’m drowning in kisses! nobody help!”

and you hope you’re hugging him close enough that he can feel the love and gratitude flowing through your veins. your eyes flutter shut, and you sigh— tranquility triumphs over chaos.

“are you falling asleep standing up again?”

“no!” you blatantly lie, drawing back with innocence masking your drowsiness. “we still need to go online shopping!”

“what are we buying?”

your face lights up. “appliances first?”

“appliances?” he cheerfully says. “sure! let’s get you new shoes too!”

as he gets dragged to the living room where his laptop is, he mumbles something with an enamored expression. “i should keep working hard.”

—

“yah, why are looking at me like that?” jungkook chuckles upon feeling your poorly concealed stare, diverting his attention away from the laptop over his stomach. “i’m the real deal. the tv is over there, on the screen.”

“just because…”

you snuggle closer to his side, heart fluttering when his arm that is your pillow moves to also hold you. you don’t really mind a small bed. this is the most favorable consequence a nuisance could have.

“i feel sorry.”

“sorry? for what?”

“because i made you sad, didn’t i? i hate that so much.” you sniffle, hand coming up to pat his cheek affectionately. “i know it must be hard for you too.”

“you’re the one who’s in a lot of pain.” he means to firmly speak, but the tremble of his voice rudely refuses to cooperate. “how could you even think of me feeling sad?”

“because i love you. of course i always think of you.” you argue, bottom lip jutting out into a pout. “i can’t do that now?”

he sighs. “you know that’s not what i meant.”

a kiss is planted on your forehead— tender and cherishing.

“let’s be happy, baby.”

the sharp edges of jungkook’s fears are eroded in a way. in a universe that relentlessly challenges you to be optimistic, your heart that is well-versed in loving continues to rise above it all.

you echo his words wistfully. “let’s be happy.”

—

taglist in the reblogs! send an ask/dm if you want to be added (or removed) :D

—

[gladiatorcunt]

summary: leto atreides x afab concubine!reader

cw: daddy kink, pregnancy, power imbalance, dark fic coded, implication that the other concubines “disappeared”, overstimulation, body worship, i would do anything to be in reader’s position here i’m being so real, not included but got reader pregnant in the full nelson position, the smut is in a flashback, mention of the reader having hip dips, mention of leto with others but he realizes you’re the one after lmao, probably dune world/lore inaccuracies, reader’s a member of the duke’s breeding program, mention of choking, intended age gap but you can read it as otherwise

wc: 1k+

block & move on if uncomfortable !!!

do not repost, translate, or give ai my work

kinktober masterlist

“It’s to wake up, my love.”

Your eyes flutter open to see Duke Leto Atreides standing over your bed, one of his hands brushing back some of your hair away from your face. He smiles warmly when you tiredly meet his gaze, and holds out an open palm. You take it and let him help you sit up, though that’s as far as he’s willing to let you go. Leto hovers his hands over your baby bump, borderline paranoid about you doing anything that could jeopardize the health of the baby.

“I thought my appointment with the doctor wasn’t until next week, my lord…” You yawn, resting your hands on your belly as you fight off sleep. Being heavily pregnant was no easy task, and most days it feels like you have as much energy as a corpse.

“It is, I simply wanted to see you.” Leto answers, petting your hair and curling one arm around your lower back to support it. “When we’re alone, get rid of the ‘my lord’, what we have is more than the results of an obligation.”

You sigh, leaning into his touch as you consider his words. Months ago, you were just another member of the Duke’s harem. One of many meant to produce heirs until your body shriveled up. Your family was noteworthy but not noble enough to stay afloat, you heard that the Duke was looking for breeders and you left without looking back. Though you will admit that Leto Atreides is not the worst man you could’ve taken inside you. He was gentle and the way he kissed you suggested that he felt more than just gratitude.

You pretended to not mind the sounds and stories you heard from the other concubines in the beginning. You knew perfectly well what you were signing up for, the feelings came from nowhere, you swear.

Leto’s mannerisms during sex were impossibly adoring and intimate, and he would tell you were special every time in the midst of the afterglow. You stopped hearing heart dropping noises and nauseating stories, and the day after you found out you were pregnant you heard nothing at all. The Duke took longer than usual to meet with you that night.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” Leto calls out, wrapping his arms around you from behind as you get ready for bed.

You finish tying the strings of your nightgown and turn around to face him. There are strange little flecks of red in the wrinkles on his face, but they could be a trick of the light so you brush the curiosity off.

“I am always waiting for you, my lord.” You repeat the same thing you say everyday, noting the way the corners of his smile flatten in displeasure.

He cups your face and walks the both of you backwards towards the bed, shooting his hands out to keep himself from crushing you when you inevitably fall on it.

Time passes by in a blur, every moment filled with cries of “Daddy” and overzealous movement from him that punches the breath of your lungs. He’s not incredibly rough, just passionate enough to have tears dot your lashes and his thumb buried in your mouth. Every kiss is a hot swirling mess of saliva and tongues colliding that gets you so wet, you really believe it could kill you.

“Mm, your tongue feels amazing, clumsily chasing after mine.” Leto grunts at some point, rutting and slamming his balls against your ass with no rhyme or reason. “The tightest cunt i’ve ever had, fuck-“

You hum around his thumb, suckling on it like he’s your god and his thick fingers in your mouth are your only reason to live. He grinds his teeth together when you make eye contact, and you struggle to keep it up as you hollow out your cheeks around his coarse digits.

“Wanna make you proud, Daddy, gonna be so good for you.” The words are muffled past the point of comprehension, but your eyes allow him to get the gist.

If you were not already pregnant, the flood of fresh cum in your pussy would’ve done the trick. You clench around your lord’s fat cock and let yourself break, squirting all over yourself.

When you come to, Leto’s busying himself with latching onto your tits like a leech and bullying your battered pussy.

“These are already so sensitive, aren’t they? And to think that I made them that way…” Leto trails off, licking a broad stripe over your nipple and pinching your clit.

You jolt and throw your head back, “Yes, Daddy, you did.”

He groans at the frequently used name, pinching your clit harder and digging his fingers in deeper. You’ve had more orgasms than you ever thought possible in the last hour alone, but your lord was insatiable like this. His head is too high in the clouds with visions of his future family to calm down.

Your legs shake but he takes his hand away from your clit and smooths his palm over your thigh to steady you.

“It’s alright, you know i won’t be too rough honey, you can take it. You’ve already taken my seed beautifully, growing my son in your womb.”

You know there’s no chance of stopping until Leto’s sure that he’s kissed and lavished every inch of your delectable body in Daddy’s attention. He gives each of your buds a ‘Goodbye for now’ kiss and wipes down the dips in your hips with his tongue, soothing the love bites and caressing the necklace of bruises around your neck he left when he lost control.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The bed sinks with Leto’s added weight, and your cheeks warm as you come back to the present. You look down at your joined hands to see a box clenched tightly in his free one. Like he’s scared of dropping it. You gaze up at him questioningly and he smiles once again before softly kissing the skin between your eyes.

Next thing you know, Duke Leto Atreides is kneeling before you and opening the box to reveal a large ring. It’s magnificently crafted and all the details align with your taste perfectly.

“Will you marry me?”

[ahhhwomen]

The calm before the storm.

Vampire Empire

Part 7.1

Pairing: DarkVamp!Wanda Maximoff x DarkVamp!Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

A/N: Well... here it is. I changed the graphic parts, but it's still violent. This was supposed to be a hurt/comfort chapter, but it just turned into hurt, so I divided the chapter into two, this is the hurt part... and I will try my very best to make the next one a comfort... Writer block hit me like a truck with this one so please excuse bad writing...

AU Warnings: Human pets, abuse, violence, possessiveness, probably incorrect vampire lore, angst, panic attacks, hurt/comfort, kitten play (?), also this is not a Carol positive fic (I have nothing against her, but I needed a villain), death  Minors DNI 18+

Word Count: 3k

CHAPTER WARNINGS: Extreme violence, slightly explicit violence, talk of torture, scars, violence against a child

Taglist

(26 hours before the slaughter)

“Come on pretty girl, I know you can do it, keep your head above the water baby.” Gentle hands try to coax you, pushing against the back of your neck in an attempt to force your muscles into action.

It’s strange, the only other times you have been in the bath is when they were drowning you, perhaps you enjoy this more. It’s hard to tell, you can’t feel much of anything anymore.

Her grip loosens for a moment and your head lolls to the side, foamy bubbles collide with your left ear, the earlobe barely having made contact with the hot water before soft hands return with full force to catch you.

“Hmph.” A frustrated sigh gets drowned out by the insistent buzzing inside your mind. The sound consumes you from the inside, eating away any emotion that slipped past the initial reaping.

A creak slices through the still air as Natasha grits her teeth together, white bone clumsily gliding against itself, barely missing the inside of her cheek. She has been hunched over for the better part of half an hour, but she can do nothing but uncomfortably shift the pressure from one knee to the other, her hands occupied with you.

Wanda had insisted they set you into a routine. So, every night Natasha was tasked with bathing you, though you weren’t making it easy for her.

As her rolled-up sleeve dips into the water for the fourth time while she adjusts, Natasha debates yet again if she should call on Wanda for help, but as her eyes drift over your empty ones, she thinks better of it.

Guilt eats her alive as she works on finishing up your bath and tucking you in.

Three days ago (96 hours before the slaughter):

A wet washcloth is continuously dragged across your forehead as Wanda wipes the sweat away, her fingers follow the path of the moist trail as she feels your temperature and sighs in relief.

After two intense nights, your fever finally broke, but you had yet to wake up. She is just about to tuck you back in when her wife’s voice rings through the spacious room.

“How is she doing?”

Natasha leans against the doorframe while she watches her wife care for you. The wood digs into her shoulder blade, but she ignores it in favor of keeping her distance. As much as the younger redhead craved to be near you, she was cautious to interact with you when Wanda was there.

After the fever gave them quite a scare the day before, Natasha came just as close to losing her life as you. Wanda had fallen asleep with you clutched in her grip after an hour of settling your shaking frame from a nightmare. After a while, Natasha attempted to remove you from Wanda’s possession.

She was merely concerned about Wanda’s heated body irritating your flushed skin, but after almost losing an eye to a sleep-deprived redhead, she left the primal care to her other half.

Wanda hums, her fingers stroking your hair delicately as she kneels beside the plush guestroom bed. As she rakes through them, your hair strands lay clumped together, loosening them strand by strand she soothes herself.

“She needs a bath,” her fingers move from your hair to your face, gently tracing your features. When the pad of her pointer hits a sensitive spot beneath your jaw, you let out a breathy giggle in your sleep, and Wanda can’t help the lift of her lips into a pleased grin.

However, her smile is quickly wiped away as a familiar jingle of metal rattles against your throat as you shift in your slumber.

Natasha hummed her agreement, unaware of her wife’s fleeting attention.

The layers of filth that covered you had to be weeks, if not months, in the making. She was aware that you got a weekly hose down by the shelter, but depending on when Carol loaned you out, you could very easily have missed it.

“Should I get one started?”

With a huff, Wanda nods slowly. Her irritation radiates off of her as she looks you over.

Natasha tilts her head, at her wife’s strange reaction, her shirt gliding against her cheek. “Is there an issue?”

The older redhead looks down for a moment. The sheer uncomfortableness that settles within her very bones is not without reason. Her skin is cold with prickles and goosebumps. Perhaps it’s a ridiculous reaction, but the significance of what she is about to do is crucial to you, she knows that.

However, as the filth and stench of a certain blondie coats itself around the stark leather surrounding your neck, she knows it needs to be done.

She needs to remove your collar.

“Her collar. It needs to be removed.” The words are sneered, almost growled, as Wanda wills the uncertain into existence.

Natasha stiffens, her clothes which were perfectly fine a moment ago now feel disgusting against her soft skin, every stitch piecing it all together feel wrong and patchy.

A collar is a safety net in the power dynamic between a vampire and a pet. It’s always been a part of vampire tradition that the collar is a reminder of good faith. Removing the collar, without the owner’s specific request, means punishment.

If you wake up without your collar, you will never forgive them.

“I will do it.” With her head hung low, Natasha closes the distance between herself and you, crouching down beside her wife. Her knees creak as she sinks into position, her hands reaching toward you.

The sorrow that builds and sinks within her is laughable. They barley know you, and you definitely don’t know them, yet the pull between yourself and them is undeniable. In a lifetime of grief, Natasha was hoping it could symbolize a new beginning, a lifeline of sorts.

Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be.

Just as her fingers struggle against the metal clasp, smaller, softer hands glide over her own and hold them gently.

“No.” The clan leader sighs out calmly.  

Natasha furrows her brows in confusion.

“But-“

“No. I need to do this.” With a sad smile, Wanda removes her wife’s hands and holds them to her lips, “She likes you.” It was the simplified truth.

To be frank, Wanda scares you, she can tell by the way you never find peace around her, even while you are asleep. You wouldn’t trust either of them when you wake, but at the very least she could lessen the burden that will lay on her wife’s shoulders.

With her tail tucked between her legs, the younger girl nods silently and raises herself into a standing position. The loose thread beside her zipper takes over all of Natasha’s attention, she refuses to watch.

Wanda removes your collar in an almost medical procedure, leaning slightly over your tiny frame surrounded by plush pillows and warm blankets, she finds the point of no return and she places her fingers lightly against your skin as her fingers work on opening the clasp.

She knows immediately.

As soon as the back of her ring finger touches your neck.

She knows she will beat Carol Danvers until she is unrecognizable.

“Oh.”

The leather feels rough and scratchy as she clutches it in her grip while looking you over.

“So that’s why she is leased,” Wanda mumbles in a monotone voice.

That finally catches Natasha’s attention again. With a curious glance over Wanda’s shoulder, Natasha falls void of any emotion but one. Pure, unfiltered, hatred.

Back in the day, rouge vampires had a specific way of marking their property.

They called it The Noose of Misery. A name bound in irony, a mockery, as they scarcely felt sorry for this sort of thing.

It was deemed a form of entertainment.

The noose of misery; was to slit your victim’s throat repeatedly, leaving gruesome slashes through thin skin. The first slice was always the same, they would cut the vocal cords. It wasn’t precise, nor pretty, it was merely a rouge slash against vulnerable anatomy.

Due to this, they would often miss their target.

Which would prompt them to hold down their victims until they were satisfied, it wasn’t hard to tell when they succeeded as their victims would fall silent. Or a form of silence as they attempt to refrain from drowning in their own bodily fluids.

The vampires found it most entertaining when their prey ran around like headless chickens, choking and gurgling on their blood, trying their best to scream for help.

Despite the intensity of this game, their food would rarely pass away from it.

A vampire’s blood has a certain healing ability, and contrary to popular belief, drinking the blood of a vampire does not turn you into one. Only a clan leader could sire a new vamp.

So, the youngsters would often find new and innovative ways to watch their victim suffer, and only when the life seeped out of their eyes like the blood did their body, then and only then would the vampires slash their wrists and force it down their preys partially slit throats.

However, even with its healing ability, the blood of a vampire is considered poison. The pain that would sear through you after consumption has often been compared to being burned alive.

That never stopped them.

The ritual would be repeated until the owner was satisfied. Then the last round of slashes would be healed with a singular drop of blood, enough to keep them hanging on by a thread, but no more than that.

When the nasty gashes healed to raised scars, it would be proof of ownership.

In 1898, The Noose of Misery was banned across all clans.

Wanda Maximoff made sure of it.

Yet, there were always those select few that never listened.

Given the scarring, you couldn’t have been older than nine.

Nine?

Nine…

Nine.

There is an audible *click* as two sets of sharpened canines force themselves present as the two redheads look down at the horror.

There was a difference with yours; the first slash was precise and professional, cut right through the vocal cords. It was a given who ordered it to be done, but it was clear she was not the one to do it.

Or rather, she was not the one to do the first slice.

That also explained why you were a less permanent commitment to the shelter. It must have taken place during the trial.

There is a trial period when it comes to buying pets. Some test them for a week, others for a year, it all depends on the customer and how much money they are willing to pay. If they deem the pet unfit, they can return them for half price.

However, shelters and kennels alike have a strict policy against marking their brand. If the pet is marked before being sold, the responsible party is banned from buying said pet, and they have to pay a heavy compensation.

That whore must have paid half a fortune to make up for what she did to you.

Leased pets are damaged goods.

They will never be bought.

Anger crawls like ants within the older redhead.

“And so, the war begins.”

Her expression is blank as she speaks clearly. The anger within her digs in deeper until it mends with her very being. She means every word of it.

Just as the last syllable was worded out, Wanda looked down to see your scared eyes staring right back at her.

There is no telling how long you have been awake while Wanda was preoccupied with staring down at the scars, willing them to dissipate before her very eyes.

With a sigh, Wanda pats your head one last time before you cower away from her touch.

It hurt, but she knew what would happen once your only line of defense was taken away from you. The redhead stares down at the collar held firmly within her hands. She wished she was stronger, that she could return it to you and pretend as if she never knew.

But as you both glue your eyes to leather almost as old as you, the ants turn into giants, a soundly crack can be heard as the dirty material is ripped into pieces right before you.

And with it, you too fall into a disarray of pieces that will never fit back together.

That collar was all you had.

It was all you were.

Without it…

You are nothing.

Nothing but hers.

“Romanoff.” A chill runs down Natasha’s spine at the tone of her wife’s calling.

“Contact the Thor clan and inform them that they have 96 hours to give over Carol Danvers or I will kill them all.”

The command was said so bluntly Natasha could hardly believe her ears. But as she looks over to Wanda’s hunched frame, her nose snarled and her eyes a dangerous glowing red, she breaks out of her trance and excuses herself.

She can comfort you later, but there won’t be a later if she does not obey her wife.

Current time (24 hours before the slaughter):

Wanda has woken up screaming in terror many times in her lifetime. It’s not easy to live as long as she has, to see what she has seen. The same horror burdens Natasha.

So, the older redhead has lost count of the timeless times her slowly beating heart has broken at the sight of her wife crying and screaming in her sleep.

There was nothing more painful.

Or so she thought.

What she could never imagine was how it would make her feel to watch someone attempt to sob their long overdue sorrows, only for them to flail and choke against their own vocal cords silently. Nothing but weak gasps and hoars coughs, the sound itself making her wince in pity.

Breathing through her nose slowly, Wanda has to close her eyes to collect herself before turning toward her wife, who carries an expression not far from her own. With her lip peeled back and her eyes narrowed, Natasha cringes at the sound of your tiny frame fighting the bedsheets.

As her eyes glue themselves to the nanny cam, she set up on their bedside table, Wanda thinks of what limb to start with.

Carol seems awfully attached to those claws of hers…

She is quickly brought back to the present time when a loud gasp emits from the speakers, followed by a heavy thud as you fall off the king-sized bed.

Wanda is on her feet and halfway down the hallway before Natasha can get a word out.

You saw more of the ceiling that night than you did the floor.

Your hands swipe against empty air. The sounds around you are like a cold hollow inside an unexplored cave. Nothing but echoes of lies surround you as you desperately try to grasp the situation in a literal sense. Like a zombie, you growl and groan as your hands seek the source of your misery.

You can’t see her. With your neck split in half, you would have to use both hands to hold your head up.

However, it doesn’t hurt.

Not yet.

So, you fight.

You are far shorter than them, Master is almost double your height, and the other lady isn’t much shorter. If you could just get closer, your hardened hands may be able to grasp them and beg for forgiveness. You can’t really talk though…

The side of your vision darkens as the blood gushes and pools beneath your feet. You can’t see it, but you feel it, it’s like ice pouring down your body.

Streams like rivers, split and thicken into canals, as they cascade down your stomach and glide down your thighs.

Like a switch-

A sneaking wave hits you, suddenly the adrenaline is gone, and the crash is horrendous.

Your knees crash into the floor, your body following behind shortly. The weight of your own body fights against you as you attempt to push yourself upward. With your hands grasping and slipping against amber liquid, your elbows give out under the pressure, and you fall into a heap.

Cracks of a weak child’s bones bounce off the wall as you lay defeated.

Soon, your mind and body become self-aware of your soon-to-be decapitated head, and you can do nothing but gasp and flop like a fish out of water.

It’s really scary.

The small hands of a nine-year-old child claw and paw at the cold floor as two adult women watch for the fourth time that night as a young pet watches Death seek her out.

They break your jaw open, then a wrist is forced into your mouth.

You are scared.

The blood hurts.

It hurts a lot.

“Again.”

“Again.”

“Again.”

“Again.”

“Aga-“

*GASP*

On the other side of town (96 hours before the slaughter):

Carol learned at a very young age that vampires like Wanda Maximoff and Natasha Romanoff think they are invisible. And they were, not a single creature, human, vampire, or otherwise, ever came close to breaking them.

Weren’t you just full of surprises.

A puff of smoke surrounds the blond woman as she leans against the truck. With one leg crossed over the other, her pants rustle against each other as she swishes lightly to one side.

Men and women alike continue to shout and argue in the back as they finish loading up their gear.

Just as she flicks the cigarette to the ground and her boot crunches it against the pavement, her phone chimes.

BabyBoss:

You have 96 hours to give yourself over to the Maximoff clan or I will personally slaughter your entire hometown. Including your fucking childhood dog.

Read 2:13 am

Rolling her eyes, a chuckle builds up within her.

God, you really are full of surprises.

“You ready boss?” A gruff man in his late thirties asks her as she walks over to the back of the truck.

Throwing in her own bag she nods. “Lead the way.”

21 hours. 54 near deaths. 198 slashes. 32 scars.

Nine years old.

(This chapter really wasn't written well, I'm sorry.)

Taglist:

@thinking1bee, @tobiaslut, @esmeseasle, @skittlebum, @tia-thesimp, @maximilfsworld, @leenasayeed, @scarlethexelove, @itsalwaysskorpioszn, @observeowl, @tekanparadiae, @adelareys, @anqyuicka, @ichala, @thalia-is-not-ok, @lovelyy-moonlight, @wandamaximoff-simp, @opossumking03, @confidant-thoughts, @delivery-bird, @esouliie, @geydumbbetch, @dorabledewdroop, @mousetheorist, @herwagonempathkid, @mommysfavouritegirl, @auroraromaximoff, @roman0ffsheart, @morganna-la-faye, @kaosrsing, @marvelwomenarehot0, @lizzieswife101, @og-kxsh-420, @chibilauren, @sgm616, @cyber-juipter, @falloutboy-lover, @xxxtwilightaxelxxx, @likefirenrain, @cole2907, @rahhhha, @taliiiaasteria, @dehydratedcoffeeaddict, @viktoriaromanovaa, @julz2000, @ahintofchaos, @consti-ss, @broimjustadepressedlesbian, @rowiebear, @crispychaosmaker, @mary-20, @romanoff101, @alexawynters, @dinno-nuggets, @riddlesknot

(Does it work when I tag yall like this?)

[loafgeto]

FREAKS — 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭. kamo choso

synopsis | at your university, choso is a student one would normally not associate with. however, you— a popular, attractive, and smart student can’t seem to disagree with that.

contents | fem!reader, no curses au, explicit language, college au, small lore, fingering, unprotected sex, rough sex, deep penetration, squirting, creampie, overstimulation, breaking the bed (somewhat), pet names

word count | 3.4k

notes | i’ve been craving choso content lately so here it is

“are you guys going to the party tonight? i heard that dude naoya is hosting it,” one of your friend’s mention. it’s a friday night, you all were walking out from the library and back towards your sorority hall just five minutes away— after a long and busy week of classes, clubs, activities, homework and assignments, it was finally time to celebrate the start of the weekend with a party.

“naoya’s pretty hot, don’t you think? his rude attitude strikes off five points, but he’s fuckable,” another one of your friend’s reply, earning several snickers from the other girls. “but he only wants to fuck [name] though,” she adds on as they all turn their eyes to you, but you weren’t even paying attention to anything they were chatting about.

your eyes were glued to your phone, messaging someone with a small grin and your friends exchanged quick glances. with a gentle tap on your shoulder, you finally shift your gaze to your friend beside of you. with an awkward stance, you place your phone screen against your chest.

“what’s wrong?” you question, blinking several times. your friends acknowledged this behavior of yours several months ago, they questioned frequently at the beginning— however this occurred consistently, and they stopped pestering since you never gave them a specific answer on what’s causing you to smile and distract you. “oh nothing. just wondering if you’re gonna go to the party tonight,” one of your friend’s reply.

“party?” you repeat— shortly recalling to the moment when one of the boys from a fraternity verbosely conveyed about another frat hosting a party to you in your calculus class. though, you briefly listened and didn’t continue to listen to the rest of what he was saying. but you already made plans for the night, so attending this party was never an option. “probably not, geto-sensei wants me to attend his 7pm lab. and as his teaching assistant, i can’t say no.”

“ahh, right right. but why not come the last hour?”

“that’s only if i feel energized enough,” you reply, flashing your friends a smile but of course, it indicates as an absolute no— since your plans may cause you to spend the night somewhere else. by the way, you weren’t actually going to attend professor geto’s lab, he didn’t even have one scheduled for friday’s. your friends just naturally believed it since you’re always a helping aide to him.

as your eyes weren’t directed ahead, you couldn’t detect another group of students walking in the opposite direction towards you and your friends— your shoulder collides with another student’s, someone taller, more muscular and could cause you to nearly stumble back but instead, it’s your phone slipping past your hand.

you gasp, eyes immediately following after your phone. as you were about to reach it before it fell, the other person you bumped into snatches it. your heart nearly stopped, in relief that your phone didn’t drop flat to the concrete ground beneath. you hear your friends take a quick breath and begin whispering upon the scene.

your eyes raise to meet the empty gaze of choso kamo, a relatively known student at your university. your phone is in his hands, secured and safe, however, none of that matters.

“your phone,” choso speaks— his voice sending immediate chills down your spine. you weren’t afraid of him, but his demeanor and attitude spikes dominance over you, threatening you— and you didn’t dare to look in his eyes any longer.

“thank you..” you quietly share your gratitude as you reach for your phone and quickly scatter away with your friends.

as you’re leaving, you can feel choso’s icy gaze following you and not once did you look back.

“you gotta get a new phone, [name],” one of your friends utter as you all reached the area of your sorority.

“what? i just got this phone, you know it’s not cheap,” you reply at an instant, sighing after as you all reach the steps of the large building. your friend chuckle, setting her hands on her hips.

“what? you’re saying you want the freak’s germs on it?”

“this isn’t middle school, and besides— he saved my phone from falling and potentially getting damaged,” you reply, as if you’re defending him, but your friends can’t continue to argue since he practically did do what you just said. “anyways, i have to get ready to go to professor geto’s lab. have fun at the party,” you add, passing through your friends to enter the house first.

you reach your room and step in, immediately shutting the door behind of you.

to begin with, why was choso called a freak? well, you attend a small, private, and prestigious university that has 3,000 students maximum. it’s perfect for the kids who are born in wealthy families, have excellent education and grades, and are worthy to present the school with honor. in the eyes of the public, the school is perfect— but nearly every student isn’t.

parties, drugs, and sex happen— per usual at every university, though information doesn’t normally spread across due to reputations.

choso just happens to enter the school due to the fact that he’s the chairman’s son, but it wasn’t like he wasn’t smart— in fact he is. choso, along with several of his freaky friends, run around campus not necessarily giving a damn about anyone or anything. they attend class of course, maintain grades and whatever like a normal student.

you never engaged with him as much, no one really wanted to. you don’t know what he did to earn his reputation, given that he’s two years older than you— but you’ve always heard it’s because he mumbles weird syllables in class, sometimes stares at a wall and hysterically laughs, or something similar to what a psychopath would do. it didn’t make anything easier because of the mark tattooed on his face. even so, you didn’t necessarily believe the rumors— as, you had to find out yourself, right?

when your friends leave for the party, you’re left completely alone. well, you make sure you’re alone before slipping back into your room— switching out your pairs of underwear and bra into something more laced, expensive and revealing. you throw on a small tight skirt and a shirt that just perfectly shapes your boobs. after retouching your makeup and hair, you looked like you were going to a party.

but of course you weren’t, and you put on a large jacket and a mask, not wanting anyone you know to see you in such clothes— after claiming you’re going to a lab lecture.

now, recalling to when you had to find out the rumors of choso yourself— it eventually happened, several months ago. you fortunately slipped into a small class with him and after a months observation, you came to conclusion that he’s completely normal. just a laid-back, stoic and bored dude who just wants to leave class, like all of the other students.

your impressions on him eventually changed when you became partners with him on a project.

from there, it was history.

“c-choso.. slow down~” the soft pitch of your mewls ring choso’s ears like a melody, arousing him to curl and thrust his fingers faster into your wet and needy cunt. he groans, feeling you squeeze around them as you’re kneading your nails into the his back muscles.

clothes discarded and scattered on the floor of his room, you’re laid back on the mattress of his bed, legs pushed apart so that choso’s between them and allowing him to insert his fingers into you easier. your moans whirring in the room, merging with the dirty sounds of your pussy yearning inches of him even more.

“the sound of your voice doesn’t seem to want me to slow down,” choso replies in a low purr, sending vibrations to your core, causing you to pulsate around his fingers. he presses gentle kisses against your ear, down towards your neck as he digs his fingers deep, coating them with your slickness. “how does this pretty girl want it tonight?”

“fuck- rough, tonight choso. need you s’bad after this week.. missed your touch so so much,” you reply, pulling him close to you as much as you could, trying to enclose the space between you both. you feel choso’s warmth all over you, yet you crave for more.

most people wouldn’t expect you to be begging to choso the freak, hardly anyone would— however, they didn’t know choso like you did. they didn’t know how good he is at sex— they didn’t know how much pleasure and satisfaction he brought to you, more than any other guy has. when they say he’s a freak, he definitely is a freak.

“sure about about that? sure you’re missing my touch? weren’t you just being touchy with those guys earlier at the library?” choso remarks with a grin, slipping his wet fingers out and circling your sensitive clit with his middle finger.

“t-they were just partners for a project!” you reply, a short moan following after as he pushes his fingers back into you.

“partners? do your partners usually stare at your ass and tits? what about the shoulder touches and head pats? did you like that? is that apart of the project?” choso’s trivial questions have you squint a puzzled look at him— was he serious right now? your expression of disbelief only causes him to chuckle, and of course, he’s joking for the matter.

“i only think about you- choso,” you choke out the response as you feel him rub the pad of his fingers against your g-spot, stimulating your climax at a gradual pace. the movements of his fingers have your mind stirring towards another thought, squeezing around them in order to sink them into you deeper. choso teases your clit again with his thumb, smiling at your reactions.

“do you?”

“yes—”

your words are interrupted as choso fastens his pace, knuckles slapping against your wet folds and creating lewd, wet noises in the room. you can’t even respond to his words properly because you’re so focused on the addictive pleasure, and choso’s using that as an opportunity to tease you.

“how much do you think about me? i want to know,” choso hums against your ear, and you can imagine a wide grin on his lips as he speaks.

“so, so much, choso. i imagine you fucking me every day—” your replies are so filthy and unimaginable— no one could ever guess you or anyone to be saying this to choso. but your words are genuine, you think about the man a lot, more than you anticipated. during the night, you can’t help but touch yourself, imagining choso pleasing you just like now. the amount of times you almost got caught moaning his name was innumerable.

“is that right?” choso whispers and leans to give you a kiss, a rough kiss. pressing his tongue against yours and moving his lips as if he’s devouring you. he’s uncertain if your words are genuine, but at that moment, it didn’t matter whether it was or not— he just liked to hear it.

of course, choso didn’t expect himself to be in situation like this— especially with you: a smart, diligent and popular student who has loads of friends, and dozens of men chasing after. he figured the attraction started when you both had class together, and eventually grew into you two fucking. choso didn’t complain though, besides: once you both finish college, you two will never cross paths again.

“choso- please, fuckfuck- ‘m about to cum-” you cry out when your lips parted, faint tears glossing your eyes. the erotic noises of your pussy and your moans mix, before you feel your legs tremble and your toes curl. you orgasm to satisfaction, squirting all over choso’s bed and hand when he pushes his fingers out.

the air feels heavy as your heart pounds, mouth gasping for breath. you didn’t even realize how much you came, and even choso was surprised with it. he smiles slightly, watching as you’re in a short daze. and when you look up at him, you see him already positioning his hard, thick pre-cum spilt cock at your entrance.

“w-wait choso, i’m still sensitive-”

but your words are in vain when choso pushes his cock into your cunt, instantly spreading your sensitive walls and causing you to reach another orgasm. you gasp, feeling choso fill your hole as he pushes your legs back further, putting you in a mating press position.

“my girl wanted it rough tonight, didn’t she?” choso says, already beginning to thrust hard at a moderate pace. your moans echo as a response to his words, walls clenching around him when you hear my girl.

choso lowers himself down, grunting softly as he sways his hips forcefully, slamming his cock into your pussy before having a hand wrapped around your neck. you feel a squeeze as his thrusts quicken, and chokes of moans falls from your mouth. his bare cock was fucking into you deep, rubbing every spot of your gummy walls and stimulating you towards your next high.

by now, anyone beyond the walls of the room could hear the moans and cries you were making, but it wasn’t like you two cared about it or the consequences.

as of now, choso was roughly pounding into you. a hand still around your neck as the other is pressing hard against the mattress, his hips thrusted quickly, creating loud sounds of skin slapping. you feel your core tightening, twisting from the amount of times he has already made you cum. the bed shook slightly underneath you and the frame nearly was railing against the wall.

your arms that were once around him had dropped above your head as your mind slowly starts to fog and thoughts no longer processed, aside from choso and the current moment. the mewls and other erotic sounds were reaching a higher pitch, and a knot was quickly forming in your stomach.

“choso- i’m gonna-” the warning was interrupted as choso’s cock grinds against your sensitive g-spot, making you cum at an instant. your short cry was muffled when choso presses his lips against yours, capturing your sounds into his mouth.

the night lead towards choso repeatedly making you cum with the rough pounding of his cock, and you couldn’t fathom the amount of times you came. the man hadn’t even came yet, as if he was saving it for the very end.

now lying on your chest, choso had lifted your hips towards his as he slips his cock in and out of you from behind. your loud cries and moans sink into the mattress as choso presses your face down against the material of his bed, grasping his hand around the strands of your hair and grunting along each thrust.

the sounds became sloppy, dirtying the bed that choso would have to clean again, and the smell of sex filled up the entire room.

“shit, princess—” choso moans when he feels you pulsate around him each time you came. he nudges his fingertips into the fat of your ass, possibly marking the skin. however, you’re unable to formulate words as he’s overstimulated you to an extent, your moans and the calls of his names only told him how you felt that moment: addicted to his cock. “that’s right, fucking take it.”

“choso.. fu-fuck,” you sob into the mattress, tears rolling down your cheeks as you feel him penetrate the deepest parts of your pussy. his hips slam against your ass harshly, sending stinging sensations throughout your entire body. “i can’t.. it feels s’good..”

“yeah, it does huh, baby?” choso cooed, caressing the side of your ass, watching as your uncontrollable moans proceed to fall out. “so good that you’re forgetting about everyone else?”

“ngh.. huh..” was all you could respond, it may look pathetic to be in a state like this— however, choso just knows how to make your mind flurry with so much thoughts that it blocks your focus of the outside world.

“i guess that’s a yes then,” choso smiles, pushing your head down further against the mattress as he abuses your hole with his cock. the bed frame continued colliding against the wall, creating louder creaking sounds as if the bed was about to break apart with how rough he was fucking you.

your eyes roll back as the ecstasy pumps through your veins, enough to make you cum again and again. it was too much to handle as much as it felt good, and choso wasn’t intending to stop anytime soon. he can see how much of a mess he’s made you, drunk all over his cock as usual.

choso never interacted with anyone on campus besides his siblings— only times happened to be during group projects or discussions, but they always ignored him each time. honestly, he didn’t even know where his reputation came from. maybe it was the fact that he had a tattoo on his face, but he did that out of spite of his father. however, he didn’t think it’d lead to people thinking he was some criminal or bad luck.

when he partnered up with you during a project, he thought you would just leave him to do it by himself and join another group. but you actually reached out to him and asked for his number, wanting to work on the project together like a normal partner. of course, he was surprised, that a girl like you would approach him despite the rumors.

the day you two shared a kiss and had sex for the first time on his bed, choso knew he had became addicted just as much as you’ve became addicted.

you two fucked anywhere and anytime you could: the backseat of his car, your sorority house’s kitchen, the gender neutral bathroom in the library, and even behind the bleachers in a field. even through all that, you two pretend not to know each other when crossing paths on campus. you’re in your own world, and he’s in his own.

but lately, choso couldn’t hold back the feeling of just claiming you as his. it was impossible to stop these lingering feelings he’s trying to hard to bottle up.

“fuck- i’m gonna cum, baby,” choso groans as his body slightly slumps over yours.

“cum in meee. please, choso-” you manage to beg out, gripping around him and trying to milk him dry with your cunt. “it’s my safe day— please—”

“anything for my girl,” choso replies, eyes lowering to his cock that coated with your wetness— slipping in and out repeatedly at a maintaining rough pace. his pace caused the bed to creak even louder, and a sharp snapping sound is heard— but neither of you pay attention. “gonna fill your pussy all the way up then, ‘kay? take it all like a good girl. and you better not waste it.”

“n-never! mm- choso!” you couldn’t stop crying out his name as your hands grabbed the sheets when he pounds his heavy load into you.

as choso groans, his warm cum spills into your baby room, milking the walls and filling you entirely. your eyes roll back, mouth open to heave air. your body shook and choso pulls out shortly after, sitting back and gasping for air.

you both watch as his cum slowly leaks out from your swollen pussy and streams down your thighs.

it becomes silent between the two of you, but your eyes lock shortly after and choso grabs a tissue box nearby to wipe the remaining cum streaming on your thighs.

“ch-choso…” you murmur as your body sinks into the bed, now, something felt odd.

“what is it?” choso questions when he tosses the tissue to the trans can near by and he climbs over you. he kisses your cheek, then down your jaw and back towards your lips. it was a sensual kiss, shared between two people who were slowly developing feelings for each other.

“i think.. we broke the bed,” you reply as he pulls inches away.

“oh, so that’s the sound i heard earlier.”

“what the fuck are you gonna say to the ra’s? you know these bed frames were new this year too! they might cost a lot of money..” you spat, giving choso a look of hesitation and concern. but he only chuckles before pressing a gentle kiss on your forehead, and you pout.

“i’ll just tell them two freaks were fucking.”

LOAFGETO. thank you for reading! please do not copy my work or publish in another media without my permission.

a/n: hello dear readers, i apologize for so much delays, but i promise im getting back into writing again! i’ll be working on more content and publishing fics, so look out for those 🤭

[kckt88]

Byka rūklon II.

Summary:

Prince Aemond Targaryen has never given much thought to any of the maids who worked in the Red Keep, until he met Y.N.

In her Aemond found comfort and solace, the two of them kindred spirits until the Dance of Dragons forces them apart.

*Features an Aemond POV

Warnings - Angst, Drama, Secret Relationship, Discussion of Non/con Brothel Visit, Kissing, Smut - Oral Sex, FIngering, Loss of Virginity, P in V, Mention of Betrothal, Mention of Death, Vulnerability.

AEMOND TARGARYEN x Y.N

Word Count: 8382

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8

Aemond Targaryen strode through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep, on his way back to his chambers after an extended study session in the library.

His mind swirled with the weight of the lore and histories of his ancestors. As he rounded a corner sharply, he collided with someone, a small figure who tumbled to the ground with a startled squeak.

Aemond looked down, his single eye narrowing. At his feet lay a young maid, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she scrambled to collect herself. “Watch where you’re going,” he demanded, his voice cold and imperious.

The girl’s eyes widened as she hastily bowed her head. “Apologies, my prince,” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.

Aemond’s gaze fell on a tatty book that had slipped from her grasp. Curious, he bent down and picked it up, the worn cover rough beneath his fingers. “What is this?” he asked, his tone carrying a hint of disdain.

The girl lowered her gaze further, her eyes fixed on the stone floor. “It belonged to my mother, my prince” she murmured.

Aemond’s curiosity piqued. “And where is your mother now?”

“She-she died twelve moons ago, my prince.”

“And what of your father?”

“He sold me as a maid to the Red Keep because he couldn’t afford to keep me,” she replied, her voice trembling slightly.

Aemond studied her for a moment, a mixture of annoyance and a flicker of something softer in his gaze. “What is your name?”

“Y.N,” she replied, her voice steadying as she looked up at him through her long lashes.

Aemond extended his hand, and she hesitated before reaching out, her fingers trembling as they met his. He helped her to her feet, the moment stretching out as she steadied herself. Handing back the book, he watched her clutch it to her chest.

“Thank you, my prince,” she said, her voice sincere.

Aemond gave a curt nod, a thoughtful “hmm” escaping his lips before he turned and continued on his way, leaving the young maid standing in the corridor.

Aemond stood in the training yard, the clashing of swords echoing off the stone walls as he sparred with Ser Criston. Each swing of his blade was precise, fuelled by a combination of rigorous practice and a relentless drive to prove himself.

"Good, my prince," Ser Criston praised, parrying a strike and stepping back. "Your form is improving."

Aemond took a moment to catch his breath, lowering his sword. As he did, the sound of jeering voices caught his attention. He turned; his eye narrowing as he saw a group of men gathered near the entrance to the keep.

In the midst of them was Y.N, her arms laden with food procured from the markets, her gaze fixed firmly on the ground as the men made lewd comments.

Anger flared within Aemond, and he gritted his teeth. Without a second thought, he shouted, "Don't you all have something better to do than harass the maid whilst she attends to her duties?"

The men immediately fell silent, their faces paling as they recognized the volatile one-eyed prince. "Apologies, my prince," one of them mumbled, and the group quickly dispersed, not daring to disobey his command.

Y.N looked up, her eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and gratitude. She bowed politely to Aemond, her movements quick and respectful. "Thank you, my prince," she said softly before rushing back inside the Red Keep, the food still balanced precariously in her arms.

Aemond watched her go, his expression unreadable. He then turned back to Ser Criston, his grip tightening on his sword as he prepared to resume their training.

Over the next few weeks, Aemond found his attention increasingly drawn to Y.N. It began subtly, his gaze lingering on her longer than intended whenever she was in sight.

During dinners, as she moved gracefully among the tables, pouring wine, he noticed the quiet efficiency with which she worked, her eyes always downcast, her presence almost ghostly.

Unlike his older brother Aegon, whose hands were notorious for wandering where they shouldn't, Aemond had always maintained a respectful distance from the maids.

Aegon's unseemly behaviour brought dishonour upon their family, especially upon his wife, Helaena, a fact that irked Aemond to no end.

He was the second son, a scholar of history and philosophy, a dedicated swordsman, and the rider of Vhagar, the largest dragon in the world. His life was defined by discipline and a relentless pursuit of knowledge and skill.

Yet, despite this, he couldn't help but feel drawn Y.N. She was different, and that intrigued him.

He found himself observing her while she swept and scrubbed the floors of the Red Keep, her movements methodical and precise. There was a quiet dignity in the way she carried out her duties, a stark contrast to the bustling activity around her.

What truly captured his attention, though, were the moments when she thought she was alone. He noticed how her eyes would linger on the sky, a look of longing and wistfulness in them. It was as if she were dreaming of a world beyond the confines of the Red Keep.

He also saw the way she smiled when she took a moment to rest and read from the tattered book she carried. Her face would soften, and a gentle smile would grace her lips and he would often find himself wondering what she was thinking in that exact moment, if she ever thought of him the way he thought of her.

He wondered about the softness of her skin, the arch of her lips and the shade of her eyes.

Thinking about her was tormenting his mind, she was maid and he a prince of the realm, he should be focusing on his duties, but he couldn’t help himself.

Night after night as he laid in bed, he would picture her in various stages of undress, and the two of them laying with one another.

He felt ashamed, his thoughts were wrong, he prayed in the sept for forgiveness and understanding but none ever came.

Even escaping the confines of the Red Keep and taking to the sky with Vhagar did little to quell his curiosity over Y.N.

He did think that if maybe he stopped watching her and tried to avoid her, then his interest in her would fade and he would be able to resume his duties without suffering any further distractions.

Aemond was returning from a rigorous training session, his muscles aching, and his mind filled with the day's drills. As he approached his chambers, he heard an almighty crash followed by a raised voice, “Foolish girl!” The sound of a pained wail echoed down the corridor, drawing his attention. His steps quickened, his curiosity and concern growing with each stride.

Rounding the corner, he saw Y.N. slumped on the floor, her face contorted in pain. An older maid stood above her, a thin wooden rod in her hand. With a cruel expression, she whipped Y.N. on the back again, eliciting another cry of pain from the girl.

“What in gods’ name is going on here?” Aemond's voice was sharp and commanding, cutting through the tense atmosphere.

The older maid turned to him, startled. “My prince, this girl is a clumsy fool who has caused a mess. Her behaviour needs correcting,” she said, raising the rod for another strike.

Before she could bring it down, Aemond reached out and snatched the whip from her hand, his grip like iron. He threw the rod down the corridor with a forceful flick, his gaze burning with anger. “Don't let me ever see you do that again—do I make myself clear, or I will have you fed to my dragon.”

The older maid’s face drained of colour. She nodded fearfully, bowing her head. “Yes, my prince. I understand.”

“Good. Now get out of my sight. And from now on, Y.N. will be assigned to me.”

The older maid bowed again and scurried away, not daring to look back. Aemond watched her go, his expression stern and unforgiving. Once she was out of sight, he turned his attention to Y.N., who was still on the floor, her body trembling.

Aemond knelt down and gently helped her to her feet. “Come,” he said softly, guiding her back to his chambers. Once inside, he sat her down in one of the chairs and fetched a piece of cloth, offering it to her. She took it gratefully, using it to wipe her nose, her breath still hitching every so often.

“Thank you, my prince,” she whispered, her voice shaky.

Aemond nodded, his expression softening as he looked at her. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asked, concern evident in his tone.

Y.N. shook her head. “No, my prince. Just my back. I’ll be fine.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened at the thought of the older maid’s cruelty. “You will not be subjected to such treatment again,” he said firmly. “You will be under my protection now.”

Y.N. looked up at him, her eyes filled with gratitude and something else—something like hope. “Thank you, my prince. I don’t know how to repay you.”

Aemond waved off her thanks. “There is no need for repayment. Just-rest for now.”

As Aemond sat in his chambers, the reality of his impulsive decision began to sink in. What was he thinking, demanding that Y.N be assigned to him? He was supposed to be avoiding her, not drawing her closer into his daily life.

This arrangement was bound to complicate matters, and the thought of Y.N reporting to his chambers every day, attending to him, drove him to the brink of madness.

Aemond leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair in frustration. His mother had been surprised at his request. She knew of her son’s wariness towards women being in his personal space. It was a trait that set him apart from Aegon, whose indiscretions were a constant source of shame.

When Aemond informed her of the caning incident, however, Alicent's demeanour softened. She had always trusted her favourite son, confident in his sense of honour and integrity.

She knew he wouldn’t hurt Y.N., nor would he violate her trust. Reluctantly, she had relented, allowing Y.N. to be assigned to him.

In the days that followed, Aemond found himself both anticipating and dreading Y.N.'s presence. Each morning, she would appear at his door, her demeanour respectful and quiet.

She would tend to his chambers, bring his meals if he chose not to dine with his family, and assist with whatever tasks were required. Aemond watched her closely, noting the way she moved, the way she carried herself. There was a grace and resilience about her that he couldn't ignore.

Despite his initial reservations, Aemond found a strange sense of calm in her presence. She never pried, never asked questions. She simply did her work with a quiet determination that he admired. It wasn’t long before he began to appreciate the small moments of interaction between them, the subtle exchanges that spoke volumes without words.

Alicent observed the changes in her son with a mix of curiosity and approval. She trusted Aemond’s judgment and saw that he was handling the situation with the same meticulous care he applied to all aspects of his life.

Y.N., for her part, seemed to thrive under his protection, her confidence slowly growing with each passing day.

Aemond, however, continued to wrestle with his own feelings. He couldn't deny the growing attraction he felt towards Y.N., but he was determined to keep his distance. He reminded himself of his duty, of the expectations placed upon him as a prince of the realm.

Yet, despite his best efforts, Aemond found himself drawn to Y.N. more and more each day. Her presence was a constant reminder of the delicate balance he had to maintain, the fine line he walked between duty and desire.

One day, as Y.N. was attending to her duties in Aemond's chambers, changing the bedding with meticulous care, she heard the door open. Aemond entered, his face contorted with pain, his hand pressed against the left side of his face.

With a sharp yank, Aemond pulled the drawer too forcefully, causing its contents to spill all over the floor—clean rags and various salves scattering across the room. He ripped off his eyepatch in a fit of anger, revealing the sapphire that took the place of his missing eye.

At that moment, Aemond noticed Y.N. standing there, her eyes widening briefly before she immediately lowered her gaze. "Apologies, my prince," she murmured, gathering the bedding, and making a move to leave the room.

"Stay," Aemond commanded, his voice strained but firm. "Help me."

Y.N. nodded, setting the bedding aside and moving cautiously towards him. He sat down, his head tipped back, his fingers still pressing against his eye. "The dirt from the training yard has aggravated my eye," he explained, his tone softer but laced with pain. "Clean it with the rags and salve."

She knelt beside him, picking up a clean rag and dipping it into the salve. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached up to touch his scarred cheek. Aemond hissed in pain when the rag made contact with his skin.

"Apologies, my prince," she said again, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Stop apologizing all the time," Aemond snapped, his frustration more with himself than her. He noticed her gaze remained lowered, avoiding his face. "-Look at me," he demanded.

Y.N. hesitated, then slowly lifted her eyes to meet his.

"Are you afraid of me?" Aemond asked, his gaze intense and searching.

"No, my prince," she replied, her voice steady despite her initial hesitation.

"Does my scarred face repulse you?" He scrutinized her expression, looking for any sign of disgust.

"No," she answered firmly. She took a breath, her eyes meeting his directly. "I think you are beautiful."

Aemond was taken aback, his eye widening in surprise. He had expected pity or fear, but not this. There was no trace of deceit in her gaze, only sincerity. Her words hung in the air between them, a stark contrast to the pain and anger that had filled the room moments before.

Y.N. continued to clean his wound, her touch gentle and deliberate. Aemond watched her, his earlier anger dissipating as he absorbed her words.

As she finished tending to his eye, Aemond caught her hand in his, holding it for a moment longer than necessary. "Thank you," he said, his voice low.

Y.N. nodded, her eyes meeting his with a quiet strength. "Anytime, my prince."

Without fully realizing what he was doing, Aemond began to move his face closer to hers. The world around them faded into the background, leaving only the two of them in that quiet, intimate moment. Y.N. gasped softly, her breath hitching, and he paused, searching her face for any sign of discomfort or hesitation.

Instead, he saw something else—a spark of anticipation, a flicker of desire that mirrored his own. Encouraged, he closed the remaining distance, his lips brushing against hers with a tentative, almost reverent touch. For a moment, they remained still, the kiss delicate and uncertain.

Then, Y.N. leaned in, responding to his advance. The kiss deepened, growing more assured and passionate. Aemond's hand cupped her cheek, his thumb gently tracing the line of her jaw as he savoured the warmth and softness of her lips.

Y.N.'s free hand came up to rest on his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic as she responded to the kiss with equal fervour.

When they finally parted, both were breathing heavily, their foreheads resting against each other as they tried to catch their breath. Aemond's eye searched Y.N.'s face, his heart pounding with a mixture of exhilaration and uncertainty.

"Y.N.," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "I-"

Y.N. placed a finger gently on his lips, stopping him. "It's alright, my prince," she said softly, her eyes shining with the same intensity he felt within himself.

"Y.N.," he began, his voice soft but firm, "I want you to call me by my name, not my title. Call me Aemond."

Y.N.'s eyes widened slightly in surprise. "My pr— Aemond," she corrected herself, her voice filled with a mixture of wonder and hesitation. "Are you sure?"

He nodded, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Yes. When we're alone like this, I want you to see me as I am, not just as a prince. Can you do that for me?"

Y.N. smiled back, a warmth spreading across her features. "Of course, Aemond."

Hearing his name on her lips, spoken so softly and with such affection, sent a thrill through him. It was as if a barrier had been lifted, allowing them to connect on a deeper, more personal level.

He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, feeling a sense of contentment and clarity he hadn't known he was missing.

"Thank you," he whispered, his breath mingling with hers. "It means more to me than you know."

Over the next few weeks, Y.N. continued to diligently attend to her duties, her professionalism unwavering. In public, she maintained the expected decorum, her interactions with Aemond strictly formal.

She served wine during meals, cleaned the chambers, and carried out her tasks with the same quiet efficiency she always had, ensuring that no one could suspect the growing bond between them.

However, in the privacy of Aemond's chambers, things were different. There, they could let down their guards and be themselves, free from the watchful eyes of the court.

One evening, as they sat together in the dimly lit room, Aemond took her hand in his, his gaze earnest and sincere. "Y.N.," he began softly, "I need you to know that I will not take what isn't given willingly. It's important to me that you're with me because you want to be, not because you feel forced."

Y.N. squeezed his hand gently, her eyes meeting his with a steady, reassuring gaze. "Aemond, I feel safe with you," she said, her voice filled with conviction.

As they kissed, their connection a palpable energy that neither could ignore. Y.N. found herself fumbling with the fastenings of Aemond's tunic, her hands eager to remove the barrier between them.

However, Aemond suddenly pulled away, shaking his head. "No," he said, his voice strained.

Y.N. looked up at him, her cheeks flushed with both embarrassment and confusion. "I'm sorry-" she whispered, her voice trembling. "I thought we could take things further."

Aemond's eyes softened, and he took a deep breath. "I want to, Y.N., believe me. But I'm scared." He looked away; his gaze distant as he gathered his thoughts. "I-I need to tell you something."

She waited patiently, sensing the depth of his unease. He took another breath, then began to speak, his voice low and hesitant.

"When I was thirteen, Aegon took me to a brothel," he said, the words heavy with the weight of old memories. "He declared it was time for me to become a man. There was a woman there, Sylvi. She was much older than me. What she did, I didn't like it. It made me feel-dirty. Afterward, I returned to my chambers and scrubbed my skin raw in the bath. I never want to feel like that again."

Y.N.'s heart ached for him, understanding dawning in her eyes. She reached out, her hand gently cupping his cheek. "Aemond," she said softly, her voice filled with compassion. "I'm so sorry you went through that."

He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes briefly. "That's why it's so important to me," he continued, his voice steadier now. "The trust and willingness. I don't ever want to feel like I'm taking advantage, I need to know that you're with me because you want to be, not because you feel obligated."

Y.N. nodded, her eyes shining with empathy. "I understand, and we can take all the time we need," she assured him. "I'm not going anywhere."

As Aemond's name day approached, Y.N. found herself determined to present him with a gift. Despite her limited coin, she scoured the markets, seeking something meaningful and unique.

After days of searching, she finally discovered a small, intricately carved miniature of Vhagar, Aemond's dragon.

On the morning of Aemond's name day, Y.N. felt a mix of excitement and nervousness. She had carefully wrapped the miniature dragon in a piece of soft cloth, and now held it close as she made her way to his chambers. She knocked softly on the door, waiting for his familiar voice to bid her enter.

Aemond looked up from the book he was reading as she stepped inside, a smile spreading across his face. "Good morning, Y.N.," he greeted her warmly, his tone lighter than usual.

Y.N. took a deep breath, stepping forward and holding out the small, wrapped bundle. "Happy name day, Aemond," she said, her voice gentle. "It's not much, but I found this in the market and thought you might like it."

Aemond's curiosity was piqued as he took the gift from her hands. Carefully, he unwrapped the cloth, revealing the miniature carving of Vhagar. His breath caught as he examined the intricate details, of his beloved dragon.

"Y.N.," he said softly, his eye gleaming with genuine appreciation, "This is-incredible. Thank you."

She smiled, a mix of relief and happiness flooding her features. "I'm glad you like it”

Aemond placed the miniature dragon on his desk, then turned back to her, his expression tender. "You've given me more than just a gift," he said, reaching out to take her hand. "You've shown me thoughtfulness and care, and that means more to me than you can imagine."

Y.N. felt a warmth spread through her at his words, her heart swelling with affection. "You deserve it, Aemond," she replied softly. "You deserve to be celebrated."

Aemond pulled her into a gentle embrace, holding her close. "Thank you, Y.N.," he whispered into her hair. "Not just for the gift, but for everything. You've brought a light into my life that I didn't realize I needed."

As Aemond held Y.N. in his arms, he felt an overwhelming surge of emotion. He gently pulled back, his eyes searching hers for any hint of hesitation or doubt. Seeing none, he leaned in and kissed her, softly at first, then with a growing intensity that spoke of his deep, unspoken longing.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the intimate space between them. "Y.N.," he whispered, his voice filled with a mixture of desire and tenderness, "I'm ready. I want to take you to bed."

Y.N.'s eyes widened slightly at his words. She bit her lip, her heart racing. "Aemond, are you sure" she asked softly,

“Yes-I want this. I want you” replied Aemond.

"I-I've never done it before” muttered Y.N.

Aemond cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs gently caressing her cheeks. "I promise I will be gentle," he vowed, his voice low and earnest. "I want this to be as special for you, as it will be for me."

Y.N. felt a wave of warmth and trust wash over her. She nodded, a soft smile playing on her lips. "I trust you, Aemond."

Taking his hand, she allowed him to lead her towards the bed. The room seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in their own private world.

"Tell me if you want to stop," Aemond whispered, his breath warm against her ear. "At any time."

Y.N. nodded, her trust in him absolute. As he began to undress her, his movements were slow and gentle, giving her time to adjust and ensuring her comfort. She did the same for him, her fingers trembling slightly but steadying as she felt the warmth of his skin beneath her touch.

When they were both bare, Aemond took a moment to simply look at her, his eye filled with awe and admiration. "You are beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

"So are you," she replied, reaching up to touch his face, tracing the line of his jaw.

Y.N had lost most of her senses the moment Aemond had pressed her onto the bed and knelt down between her legs.

“My girl-my sweetest-” whispered Aemond.

Y.N’s eyes rolled into the back of her head as Aemond’s tongue swept across her slick wet folds.

Y.N bit the back of her hand to keep herself from screaming as Aemond began using his long fingers to tease her entrance.

“None of that. Let me hear you” growled Aemond.

“A-Aemond. Oh god. Please” moaned Y.N.

“I know your almost there. Let it happen my sweet. Come for me” whispered Aemond, his tongue moving across her pearl.

Y.N arched her back and let out a loud scream as her pleasure erupted.

Aemond crawled up Y.N’s body, placing gentle kisses on her skin as he moved higher and higher.

Y.N blushed furiously when she saw that Aemond’s chin was shining with her slick.

“Calm yourself byka rūklon” muttered Aemond (Little flower).

“W-What does that mean?” asked Y.N

“Little flower-” whispered Aemond as he slowly reached out and ran his hands over Y.N’s breasts, marvelling at the stiffened rosy peaks.

Goosebumps erupted over Y.N’s skin as Aemonds hand then began to move lower.

“I-I need to prepare you a little more” whispered Aemond.

“P-prepare me?” whispered Y.N

“I don’t want to hurt you” replied Aemond.

Y.N gasped when she felt Aemond’s fingers rubbing her folds.

“Aemond” exclaimed Y.N as he slowly slipped a finger inside her, the slick from her first peak easing the way.

Aemond buried his face in Y.N’s neck as he began peppering kisses along her smooth skin as he added another finger, moving them in and out slowly.

“I-I think I’m ready” whispered Y.N

Aemond removed his fingers and then laid between her open legs, supporting his weight on his left arm as he reached down and took his hard cock in his hand and placed the tip of it against her slick entrance.

“A-Are you sure?”

“Yes-I want you Aemond-all of you” replied Y.N

Y.N shut her eyes tight and took a deep breath as Aemond sheathed himself within her.

“Your doing so well-” muttered Aemond trying to control himself.

“I-It hurts-“ whimpered Y.N

“If it’s too much I can pull out-“ offered Aemond.

“N-No just give me a moment” replied Y.N softly.

Aemond’s cock twitched and throbbed with need, and he released a shuddered breath while Y.N sighed in relief. 

“Are you ok?” asked Aemond.

“I-I think you can move now” whispered Y.N her hands running along the smooth plans of Aemond’s back.

Slowly Aemond withdrew and then moved forward, his cock reaching deep inside her.

“Are you ok?” repeated Aemond as he thrust inside her.

“Y-yes-I think you can move faster” muttered Y.N

Aemond rested his head in the crook of her neck as he thrusts faster, his quiet moans muffled against her skin.

“Ooh Aemond-that feels good” whined Y.N

“Your perfect-“ whispered Aemond.

Feeling a spark of pleasure Y.N dug her fingers into Aemonds back, holding him close.

“P-please Aemond. F-faster. H-harder” exclaimed Y.N.

“Y.N-“ moaned Aemond as he began to pound into her, his hips slapping against hers.

“OH-Aemond. My Aemond”

“Fuck-that’s it Y.N” muttered Aemond as he slipped his hand between their bodies and began rubbing her pearl.

“AEMOND” screamed Y.N as her peak exploded, making her entire body shake.

“Avy jorrāelan-Avy jorrāelan” moaned Aemond pushed into the hilt for one last time, his cock throbbing as he spilled his seed (I love you-I love you).

“A-Are you ok?”  Aemond as he gently pulled his softened cock from Y.N

Y.N nodded, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, wanting to keep him close.

As they lay together in the quiet aftermath, Y.N. felt a myriad of emotions swirling within her. She turned her head slightly to look at Aemond, her eyes searching his for reassurance. "Will it always be like that?" she asked softly, a hint of vulnerability in her voice.

Aemond smiled, his fingers gently brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "It can be," he replied, his voice filled with tenderness.

Y.N. felt a sense of relief and happiness at his words, but another thought quickly surfaced. "I need moon tea," she said, her tone serious.

Aemond nodded understandingly. "Of course. I will have some brought to my chambers for you."

Y.N. hesitated, concern etching her features. "Is that wise? Surely the prince requesting moon tea is bound to raise suspicions."

Aemond frowned, considering her words. "You’re right," he admitted.

Y.N. gave him a reassuring smile. "I will sort it out when I return to my room”.

Aemond looked at her with a soft expression. "I trust you”.

In the months that followed, Aemond and Y.N.'s relationship deepened. Every night, Aemond would take her in his chambers, sometimes more than once. His appetite for her was ravenous and he revealed in it.

Sometimes during the day, Aemond would find her and then take her in the hidden alcoves within the Red Keep, her legs wrapped around his waste as he thrust deep inside her, his hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her screams of pleasure.

However, as the nights turned into months, Y.N. found herself troubled by thoughts of the future. Despite the happiness she found in Aemond's arms, a dark cloud of uncertainty loomed over her.

She knew that Aemond was a prince, bound by duty and expectations that extended beyond their private world. Eventually, he would be expected to take a wife worthy of his title, a woman who would stand by his side in public and bear his children.

The thought of Aemond with another woman, of being replaced in his life, filled Y.N. with a deep and aching sorrow. She could not imagine a future without him, yet she knew that falling in love with a prince could only lead to heartache.

Many nights, after their passionate encounters, Y.N. would lie awake, tears silently streaming down her face as she thought about the inevitability of their separation. She would cry herself to sleep, her heart breaking at the thought of losing the man she had come to love so deeply.

Despite her fears, she never let Aemond see her pain. In his presence, she remained strong, giving him all the love and devotion she had. She treasured every moment they spent together, even as the spectre of the future loomed ever larger in her mind.

Aemond, unaware of the depth of her inner turmoil, continued to hold her close, whispering words of affection and desire. To him, she was a source of solace and strength. He did not realize that each tender word, each passionate embrace, was tinged with the unspoken fear that one day, their love would be forced to end.

As the death of King Viserys plunged the realm into turmoil, Y.N.'s worst fears began to unfold with chilling clarity. Instead of Rhaenyra, the king’s passing saw Aegon crowned king, setting the stage for a bitter and bloody conflict known as the Dance of the Dragons.

Aegon's ascent to the throne sparked immediate unrest, with factions forming behind either Aegon or Rhaenyra, his half-sister and rightful heir.

Amidst the escalating tensions, Aemond found himself thrust into the heart of the storm. He was commanded to secure alliances, and so he flew Vhagar to Storm's End to offer his hand in marriage to one of Borros Baratheon's daughters in exchange for their support.

However, the political manoeuvres quickly turned deadly when Lucerys Velaryon arrived, seeking the same alliance.

In the skies above Storm's End, Aemond and Lucerys clashed, and in the chaos of battle, Vhagar tore Lucerys and his dragon Arrax too pieces. The act branded Aemond a kinslayer—a stain that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Devastated by the consequences of his actions and fearing for Y.N.'s safety, Aemond made a difficult and heart-wrenching decision. He ordered her to leave the Red Keep immediately, to board a ship and sail across the Narrow Sea to safety. He gave her what money he could spare and promised that once the war was over, he would come for her.

Y.N. listened to his words with a heavy heart, knowing that their love had become a casualty of the conflict. Tears streamed down her cheeks as they spent one last night together, with Aemond making sure Y.N felt every ounce of his love and sadness, with every thrust of his hips and touch of his lips upon hers, Y.N was left clinging to the hope that they would one day be reunited.

The departure of Y.N. weighed heavily on Aemond's heart as he watched her ship disappear over the horizon, bound for safety across the Narrow Sea.

With her gone, a deep sense of sorrow and longing settled over him, but duty called him back to the Red Keep and the tumultuous affairs of the realm.

However, the peace he hoped for was shattered by a devastating blow—news of his nephew Jaehaerys' murder, orchestrated by Daemon's orders. Assassins had infiltrated the Red Keep, claiming the young prince's life as vengeance for the death of Lucerys Velaryon. "A son for a son," they had said, leaving Aemond reeling with grief and fury.

Amidst the chaos and grief, the war continued to unfold with relentless brutality. The Battle of Rook's Rest saw the demise of Rhaenys and her dragon, Meleys, while Aegon lay severely injured and Sunfyre crippled.

In the wake of these losses, Aemond found himself thrust into a position of greater responsibility and authority—he was named Prince Regent, tasked with leading the realm in Aegon's stead.

His first command as Prince Regent was clear and decisive: take Harrenhal.

Aemond knew the strategic importance of the ancient fortress, and he understood that securing it would bolster their position in the ongoing conflict.

As he gazed out over the waters of Blackwater Bay, thoughts of Y.N. lingered in his mind. He wondered if she was safe across the sea, if she knew of the turmoil consuming Westeros, and if she would ever forgive him for the choices he had made in the name of duty and honour.

Aemond and his garrison of soldiers, led by Ser Criston, arrived at Harrenhal with swords drawn and banners flying high. They had anticipated a fierce battle against Daemon and his forces, prepared to reclaim the ancient fortress at any cost.

Yet, as they breached the gates and entered the sprawling, desolate halls of Harrenhal, they found the castle eerily quiet and abandoned.

Confusion turned to elation among Aemond's men—they had won without striking a single blow. They revelled in their victory, boasting of their prowess and the cowardice of Daemon who had fled before their might.

Aemond himself allowed a fleeting moment of triumph to wash over him, believing that his uncle had indeed chosen to retreat rather than face him in battle.

But the taste of victory soon turned bitter as grim news reached Aemond's ears—King's Landing had fallen to Rhaenyra.

His uncle's apparent retreat from Harrenhal had been a ruse, a calculated manoeuvre to deceive and divert Aemond's attention while Daemon struck at the heart of the realm.

Enraged by the betrayal and the realization of his own folly, Aemond's temper flared into a storm of fury. In his wrath, he exacted a brutal reprisal upon Harrenhal.

The ancient castle, already steeped in dark history and ominous legends, became a scene of carnage and slaughter as Aemond unleashed his fury upon its strong inhabitants, determined to wipe out those who lived there, all except for one a healer named Alys Rivers.

In the aftermath of the harrowing events at Harrenhal, Alys became an unexpected presence in Aemond’s life. Despite the devastation and bloodshed, she had witnessed, she proved to be invaluable with her skills as a healer.

Her knowledge of herbs, poultices, and remedies helped tend to the wounded and sick among Aemond's soldiers and her ability to see things in the flames granted Aemond a number of small victories against Rhaenyra’s forces in the Riverlands.

As days turned into weeks, Alys remained by Aemond's side, a constant companion in the grim reality of war and turmoil.

Yet, one evening, as Aemond sat in his chambers, nursing the ache in his heart that thoughts of Y.N. brought, Alys entered quietly.

She carried a basin of warm water and clean cloths, her dark eyes watching him with an intensity that was both unsettling and intriguing.

"You should let me tend to your wounds, my prince," she said softly, setting the basin down and approaching him.

Aemond nodded absently, allowing her to clean the cuts that adorned his body.

"-My prince," she whispered, her voice soft and inviting, "you bear so many burdens-"

“I’m not-” said Aemond quietly.

Her hands moved from his wounds to his shoulders, her fingers kneading the tension there. She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear. "You don't have to be alone," she murmured, her lips brushing his skin. "I can give you what you need, you are a man, You have needs, just as any other. Let me comfort you"

Aemond stiffened, his mind instantly flashing back to Y.N. and the love they had shared. He hadn't laid with a woman since her departure, his heart belonging solely to her. The idea of being with someone else made his stomach churn and it felt like a betrayal.

"Alys," said Aemond, his voice firm despite the turmoil within him, "I appreciate your care, but this-this isn't what I need."

She pulled back slightly, her eyes searching his. "You don't have to be alone," she repeated, a hint of desperation in her voice.

Aemond shook his head, moving away from her touch. "I'm not alone. My heart belongs to someone else. I cannot betray her, not even in thought."

Alys looked at him with a mixture of sadness and understanding. "I see," she said quietly. "If ever you change your mind, you know where to find me."

Aemond nodded, his gaze distant. "Thank you, Alys. Your skills as a healer and your visions are valuable to me and my men. But being with you in that way-it is not something I can do”

She bowed her head slightly, acknowledging his words. "I understand, my prince."

From that day on, Alys continued to serve as a healer and discussing her visions in the flames, they never spoke of her attempts to offer him comfort again, Aemond remained steadfast in his loyalty to Y.N, his heart aching with the hope that one day, he would be reunited with her.

Aemond stood amidst the haunting ruins of Harrenhal, his heart heavy with grief and fury. He had received the news that Jaehaera and Maelor, were dead. His sweet sister Helaena, tormented by her grief and despair, had taken her own life. Aegon had simply vanished without a trace.

Rage boiled within Aemond, a tempest of emotions threatening to consume him. This had to end. The losses were unbearable, the pain unfathomable. With grim determination, he issued a challenge to his uncle, Daemon, the rogue prince.

Two weeks later, Daemon arrived at Harrenhal atop Caraxes. The tension between uncle and nephew was palpable as they faced each other amidst the ancient stones of the cursed castle. Aemond's eye burned with fury as he declared, "You have lived too long, uncle."

Daemon's reply was terse, acknowledging the bitter truth they both shared. "On that much, we agree."

With their words echoing in the air, the two Targaryen’s mounted their dragons and ascended into the skies above the Gods Eye. The clash of dragon against dragon, unleashed a spectacle of fire and fury that seemed to shake the heavens.

In the midst of the aerial duel, Aemond's neck seared with agonizing pain as Caraxes flames licked at his flesh. He writhed in agony, his vision blurred with tears and smoke. Through the haze, he saw Daemon descending upon him, Dark Sister raised for a fatal strike.

With a surge of desperate strength, Aemond drew his own sword and managed to impale Daemon through the stomach, just as Daemon’s own sword connecting with the side of his head. Their dragons roared and spiralled downward, tearing chunks of flesh from one another.

As Vhagar and Caraxes crashed into the dark waters of the Gods Eye, Aemond was still strapped to Vhagar’s saddle, the both of them sinking beneath the murky depths.

In his mind, he saw Y.N., her face a beacon of hope and love. Sending out one last desperate prayer for her safety and happiness.

But then, the strap binding him to Vhagar's saddle snapped, and Aemond managed to claw his way to the surface, gasping for air. He dragged himself to the muddy shore of the lake, his body battered and broken, consciousness slipping away.

Face buried in the cold mud, Aemond's world faded to black,

Aemond awoke in a dimly lit chamber, the flickering light of a single candle casting long shadows on the stone walls. Pain radiated through his body as he tried to move, but his muscles screamed in protest, and he let out a groan.

"Stay still," a soft voice instructed. He turned his head slightly to see Alys kneeling beside him.

"You took quite a beating," Alys said, her voice steady and calm. "I've been applying a salve to your burns and managed to stitch the wound on the side of your head. You lost a lot of blood, but you will live."

Aemond's mind raced, trying to piece together the events that had led him here. The battle above the Gods Eye, Daemon's sword, the plunge into the icy waters... He should be dead.

"I should be dead," he rasped, his voice rough and weak.

Alys met his gaze, her eyes filled with an intensity that belied her calm demeanour. "The realm believes you are," she said quietly.

Aemond's heart skipped a beat. "Daemon?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Dead-" Alys replied.

"Why did you save me?" he asked, opening his eyes to look at Alys.

Alys paused; her hands gentle as they applied a cool salve to his burns. She met his gaze, her expression unreadable. "Because everyone believing that you are dead is a chance for you to reunite with your lost love-"

Aemond's breath caught in his throat. The thought of Y.N., the woman he had been forced to send away, flooded his mind with a mixture of hope and longing. He had been so consumed by duty and vengeance that the idea of seeing her again had seemed an impossible dream.

"In death, you are no longer a prince," Alys continued, her voice soft but firm. "You are simply a man. And simple men can choose their own fate. They can live without the constraints or expectations that come with a title."

Aemond closed his eye, the weight of her words sinking in. The realm believed him dead, which meant the burdens of his name and his duty no longer bound him. He could be free, for the first time in his life, to make his own choices.

"But what of the war?" he asked, opening his eyes to look at her. "What of my duty to my family, to the realm?"

Alys' gaze softened. "The war will rage on, with or without you. Your family is all but gone or soon will be. You have given so much, sacrificed so much. Of course, you may return to Kings Landing, and you will be made King within the year, but with such a title as King there comes certain expectations. A wife to call Queen, you will lose yourself as the lords of the realm pick at you until there is nothing left”.

“Alys-”

“The choice is yours my prince, I only pray that you make the right one. The crown or your heart, but you must know that your Queen will never love you-not in the way your little flower does-”

“The choice is a simple one-“ muttered Aemond.

Alys's hands were gentle as she continued to tend to his wounds. "-Rest now," she said softly. "-You have been given a second chance, Aemond. Use it wisely."

Aemond stood on the shore of the Gods Eye, staring at the calm waters that now served as the grave for his beloved Vhagar. The weight of loss pressed heavily on his heart, mingling with gratitude and sorrow.

"Thank you, old friend," he murmured, his voice barely audible above the gentle lapping of the waves. "For everything."

With one last lingering look at the watery expanse, Aemond turned away and made his way back to Harrenhal. Alys stood at the gates, waiting for him.

"Farewell, Alys," he said, his voice steady. "Thank you for all your help."

She nodded, her eyes holding a mixture of sadness and understanding. "Where will you go now?" she asked.

Aemond smiled, a rare softness in his expression. "You already know," he replied.

As he walked away, Alys called after him, her voice carrying on the wind. "Be happy, Aemond. Enjoy the flowers' bloom."

He glanced back, offering her a small nod before pulling the hood of his cloak over his head, concealing his face and silver hair. The coins Alys had pressed into his hand that morning clinked in his pockets, a lifeline to the future he was determined to find.

Aemond made his way toward Duskendale, he  hoped the port town would have a ship, and that the coin he carried would be enough to secure passage across the Narrow Sea. Every step brought him closer to the promise he intended to keep, to the woman who had never left his thoughts.

Reaching Duskendale, Aemond kept his head low, avoiding the curious gazes of townsfolk. The harbour was bustling with activity, sailors and merchants shouting and haggling over goods. He approached a grizzled captain, offering the man a handful of coins.

"I need passage across the Narrow Sea," Aemond said, his voice firm despite the cloak of anonymity he wore.

The captain eyed the coins and then Aemond, a sceptical look crossing his weathered face. After a moment, he nodded. "We sail at dawn."

Aemond spent many weeks in Pentos, tirelessly searching for any sign of Y.N. The bustling city, with its narrow streets and crowded markets, offered little solace as he combed through every corner, asking questions and following every lead.

To earn coin, he worked as a sell sword, protecting merchants and nobles alike. It was far from the life he once knew.

His princely leather garments were replaced by more practical attire, and his hair braided and kept covered in public, he briefly considered cutting it but lost his nerve at the last moment, he felt foolish as it was just hair, but it was all he had left, the last remnant of the prince he used to be.

Without Vhagar, the search was infinitely harder. The vastness of the world stretched before him, and he often found himself wondering if Y.N. had simply moved on to another city.

The thought of her slipping through his fingers, and living a life without him, gnawed at his heart. Yet, he couldn't give up. He wouldn't give up. If it took the rest of his days, he would search every corner of the world to find her.

Dark thoughts occasionally crept into his mind—fears that some accident had befallen her, that she had died. But he quickly dismissed these notions. If something tragic had happened, he would feel it, he would know she was gone.

Yet in his heart, he knew she was alive.

One day, while sitting in a small, dimly lit tavern, nursing a cup of ale, a hushed conversation at a nearby table caught his attention. A woman matching Y.N.'s description, working as a seamstress. His heart pounded in his chest as he strained to hear more.

"Aye the seamstress, she's been there for months now, the high borns send her plenty of work-" one man said, his voice rough and low. "Quiet sort, keeps to herself.”

Aemond's mind raced. Could it truly be her? He had to find out. Finishing his drink, he stood abruptly, tossing a few coins on the table before leaving.

He made his way through the town and toward the hills, the landscape growing wilder as he left the city behind. Each step brought a mix of hope and anxiety. What if it wasn't her? What if it was just another dead end? But he couldn't let doubt deter him.

Aemond stood behind one of the trees, his breath catching in his throat as he watched a woman kneeling on the ground, her back to him as she dug vegetables in the garden.

His heart hammered in his chest; every sense heightened by the significance of the moment. Then he saw a small child sitting on the ground, playing with his toys. The boy’s silver hair shone in the light, a sight that made Aemond's heart skip a beat. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the child.

Was the child his?

When the woman turned toward the child, Aemond's heart stopped. It was Y.N. She looked the same, yet different—stronger, more determined, but with the same beauty that had captured his heart so many moons ago. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out from behind the tree, his movements deliberate and slow.

Y.N. paused, sensing his presence. She quickly straightened up and reached for the child, hauling him into her arms before withdrawing the small knife hidden in her sleeve. Her eyes were fierce, and her voice steady despite the fear coursing through her veins.

"Stay back. I’m no weakling woman—I will slit you from cock to throat if you dare lay hands upon me or my son," she commanded, her gaze unwavering.

"Byka rūklon-“

"Aemond”

[david-talks-sw]

I got a good feeling about "The Acolyte"

Not even kidding. Like, I've spoken before about why I'm wary of it.

George Lucas' Star Wars is something that intentionally has black and white morality, rather than shades of gray. Those movies are meant for kids and projecting a "gray" morality onto them then proclaiming it was George's vision all along is doing so in bad faith.

The narrative of the Prequels doesn't frame the Prequel Jedi in as negative a light as Leslye Headland, Dave Filoni, etc etc do.

See here for more details, but bottom line: yeah, a show that has a darksider as the underdog is bound to demonize the Jedi (who are the actual underdogs in the Prequels), and obviously that rubs me the wrong way.

BUT.

The trailer looks fucking cool. It really really does.

And more importantly? I've done some research... and Leslye Headland is ticking a lot of good boxes, in my book.

1. The Acolyte won't be a 10-hour movie.

I've criticized Disney Plus shows before, explaining that a big source for most of their issues is that these series are being structured as "long movies" rather than, y'know, actual shows.

But in this interview with Collider, Headland addresses that: it'll be a series. Not a long movie that you need to watch across four weeks.

Thank God. You have no idea how much that comforts me. Finally a showrunner who's, y'know, actually running a show.

And this goes hand in hand with what she told IGN, here, about how she's going about building suspense.

Yes! Exactly! That's how it's supposed to be!

Like, compare this to Baylan Skoll's storyline in Ahsoka.

In no possible way was that emotionally-fulfilling. For 8 episodes we had no idea what he was after, and the season ended where we still don't know. What does he want? What is he after? Your guess is as good as mine, it's something Mortis-related.

So yeah. Maybe getting the Emmy-nominated trained screenwriter on board to run this was a good idea.

2. Maybe the Jedi will not be as demonized as I originally thought.

Don't get me wrong. 80% of what she says about the Jedi makes me cringe. It's the typical fan's interpretation and y'all know I disagree with that interpretation.

It's painful to see her refer to the Jedi as an institution (not how the Prequels' narrative frames them) and to see her frame "Balance" in the "oh there's so many of them and just two Sith, that means the Force is out of balance" meaning... but at least she acknowledges the Jedi are a benevolent institution.

They're not an "elitist force hiding in their ivory tower" as others have described the Jedi.

Moreover, there'll be a variety of Jedi POVs, many personalities.

Yord Fandar, is described as a strictly by-the-book Jedi Knight and guardian from the Jedi Temple, is an overachiever and a rule follower.

The question now becomes: will the narrative frame him as "your typical Jedi" or is it just this one guy? I'm hoping it's the latter.

I also like how her reasoning goes re: Jedi drawing their lightsabers.

Which explains the hand-to-hand combat seen in the trailer.

This teenager is coming at Carrie-Ann Moss with a dagger, of course the Jedi won't draw her saber.

3. She's a fan of Star Wars... but a screenwriter first.

You can tell in the interviews she's a fan. She's using words like "BBY" and "EU" casually. In the above-linked interviews she's bringing up the Nightsisters, Timothy Zahn, The Clone Wars, she mentions she has a tattoo of Ralph McQuarrie's concept art of Leia, the High Republic books, etc.

She's done her homework. She's a fan.

But the vibe I'm getting from these interviews is that she's weaving in these various lore-elements in a more organic way, rather than in the "fan-servicey" way Dave Filoni has been doing in his shows.

The references and Easter Eggs will be there, but the narrative won't bend over itself just so you can get it. Crafting a good story comes first, and Andor is a beautiful illustration of why this is true.

Which is why I was never bothered about one of the writers never having watched Star Wars before getting the job. You need those fresh eyes when you're tackling something of this scale.

That makes sense to me. Maybe it's because of my own screenwriting experience, but yeah. That out-of-the box perspective is precious.

And like, obviously, that writer watched the films eventually, but for some reason everyone who bitched about Headland omitted that detail and opted for a more bad faith interpretation.

Hm. Wonder why.

Maybe it's the same reason that months ago this clipped audio circulated socials without context, in which she debates whether Star Wars only came from George Lucas and only Lucas is the key.

The FULL context of that interview reveals that she's actually:

debating the "autheur director" myth and positing that it was achieved by a collective of excellent filmmakers and craftspeople that George was skilled and smart enough to recruit...

the studios now think it's a simple as hiring one guy and throwing money at him, because they have no idea what the fuck they're talking about. See Napoleon (2023) for example.

Yes, she also does a jab to the Prequels, which speaks to the generation of fans she's a part of... but overall she's giving Lucas props whilst also stating an ideological difference, that's it!

George is a proponent of the "autheur" theory, Leslye isn't.

However, guess what, in like half the talks George gave post-selling Star Wars? He's giving shoutouts to everyone who helped make the first film, even remembering their names.

So I'm not even sure he'd vehemently disagree with Leslye, in fact they'd prolly have a conversation about it and immediately bitch about how stupid studio executives are :D

But that's not as incendiary, is it? Again, the more I do the research, the more it feels like the reason most of these influencers are hating on her is purely sexist.

I mean, on IGN she's even acknowledging that she does plan on taking stock of fan reactions for Season 2.

It's not a guarantee that she'll incorporate the feedback, but at least that's more consideration than, say, JJ Abrams or Rian Johnson gave the fandom.

She's even bringing the moral ambiguity that the Gray Jedi-loving edge-lords love so much.

"No, she's a woke feminist! Anything she does is evil! Eww, girls!"

🙄

Needless to say... I'm gonna give it a shot.

I think it's gonna be a good show, I think it's gonna be a solid story.

I'm crossing my fingers that they won't as biased against the Jedi as it seems they'll be. Even if they are... if it's still an enjoyable experience, I'll gloss over it.

As @gffa states in this post:

Worst case? It's not a story from George. I can dismiss it from my headcanon without a moment's hesitation :D

[lale-txt]

𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓 𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐇 (𝐎𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐮 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫) ❦ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟎𝟒: 𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞

♫ Adrienne Lenker - Angels

I don't really like you, I just wanna kiss you I don't know how to love you, but somedays, I miss you Oh I just wanna see you there, sleeping on my floor With the ache inside to ride the mighty wind and nothing more

✰ 𝐜𝐰: discovering more y/n lore in this one. implied child neglect (no detailed description), brief death mention but in a more lighthearted way (if that still squicks you skip the 8th slide of the convo between Makki & y/n) written part between the handwritten collage and SMAU parts.

⭅ back to m.list

Another sold out night. The lively sea of voices is slowly quieting down, familiar and new faces going either home or out dancing for the night. Onigiri Miya attracts all kinds of people, there’s a plate for everyone. He wouldn’t want it any other way. At the end of day, everyone needs to eat, no matter their background or story. And if they all collide in the tiny universe of his shop, even better.

There’s only around a handful people left when Osamu starts his nightly routine of cleaning and preparing for tomorrow. Ever since he opened his own shop, he understands his old captain a little better. Repetition, perseverance, and diligence–it does feel good. Helps him to unwind after a long day of shaping rice balls, mincing ingredients and ringing up orders. Wherever a hand is needed, he is there.

“It’s on the house,” Osamu says smiling, placing two cold bottles of ramune on the counter where Bokuto and Akaashi are sitting, huddled together like two lovebirds.

It’s the same spot where he saw her crying, her hands jittery when she wiped her cheeks, obviously flustered but unable to stop the tears from falling either. He could see how hard she tried to hold them back, the small wobble of her bottom lip, the clenching and unclenching of her fists. How she still took photos of her plate, clearly knowing which angle and lightning was best, practiced. The small gleam of excitement despite everything in her glassy eyes. Her palms pressed together in a silent gesture of appreciation after she finished her meal. Osamu couldn’t help but think that this wasn’t her first time holding her crown up like this, when everything inside of her was cracking. 

He hasn’t stopped thinking about her ever since. 

Not when he ran after her to find her on the empty playground, dimly lit by the light of the vending machine. Not when she hesitantly accepted the brown paper bag he shoved into her still trembling hands. Not when she kind of magically pulled out a box of the tastiest sweet treat he ever had in his entire life, her voice suddenly more calm once she started rambling about the process of making it.

Osamu felt drawn to her in a way he couldn’t fathom in words, like an invisible pull inside of him.

Had he been upset over her bad review? Maybe a little. But whatever hint of annoyance he felt when reading it over his morning tea quickly vanished once he dove deeper into her blog. There was so much love between every line she wrote. She was witty and smart and always a little hungry; for life and the next plate in front of her. He found himself nodding along when she shared about her experience in culinary school and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of deep admiration for her openness about mental health and the cruel sides of working in food service. Osamu knew best how grueling it can be, striving to do better. 

Three whole days. That’s how long it took him to read through her entire blog, more than ten years of her life. He read it over breakfast, in between short breaks at work, leaning against the backdoor while waiting for the daily delivery, at night when he brushed his teeth. Several times he told himself that he should just close the damn tab, that it was just a drunk and petty review and that they’ll never cross paths again.

Here lay the problem though–he wanted to see her again. 

Preferably when she was not upset over something (or worse: him), but honestly any scenario would do. The cap she forgot at his shop is now hanging from his coat rack at home, silently greeting him every night after work. He can’t help but wonder if she’ll really come around again one day to pick it up. Osamu was no dick, just a little petty himself, and he'd send the cap off with her roommate Akaashi if there was no way in hell that she’d ever return to Osaka again. But when she unblocked and followed him on Twitter the other night, that must have been a glimmer of hope, right? Even though she’s been mostly hostile so far in her replies.

But they’d get there. 

Some day.

Probably.

“Samu? Saaamuuuu?” 

Osamu blinks out of his daze and realizes that not only has he been polishing the same glass for five minutes straight now, but Bokuto is also leaning over the counter, shoving a phone under Osamu’s nose for him to see. He throws the kitchen towel over his shoulder and takes it, eyes on the bright screen. 

��Look, look,” Bokuto urges him with a grin while Akaashi next to him smiles a bit more subtle, but knowingly. “Keiji just talked about how they were having a barbeque a few days ago on their rooftop. Y/N prepared a feast for them, see?”

The photo is bright and colorful, a whole arrangement of various small plates assembled on the table, each holding some delicacy. Dips, grilled veggies, pita (which looks like it was handmade), olives, stuffed peppers, a small cheese platter, cut fruit, pastel purple drinks (lavender syrup, Osamu remembers)... but what Osamu ends up zooming in is not the food but her, sitting at the table with the sleeves of her oversized shirt rolled up casually and smiling brighter than the late summer sun–wearing his cap.

No. No, no, no. 

His heart did not just skip a beat, no fucking way. 

Oh, he was in deep. 

“She won’t admit it, but she likes it,” Akaashi says as if he read Osamu’s thoughts. He hands the phone back to him and a small voice in the back of his head is tempted to ask for the photo, just so he can stare at it a little longer (for the food, he lies to himself), but he knows she wouldn’t want that. Osamu is not sure if he wants it, either. It doesn’t feel right. Maybe he can get her an Onigiri Miya shirt as well as a matching apron and snap his own photo one day, and then… 

Fuck.

What was he even thinking?

But the stupid, wide smile on his face just won’t falter.

✽ 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫…

like i said, this chapter is a love letter to Makki in disguise

y/n would spend all big holidays at the Hanamaki family home, even her own birthday would be celebrated there lovingly

she has gone no contact with her birth family after she graduated from high school

the cooking TV show has been one of the most stressful events in her entire life and she still can't watch clips from it without wanting to die from cringe (she did really great though)

her approach to anything in life is a constant "oh shit oh no oh bad bad bad" and "fuck it we ball" and it amazingly works for her. most of the time.

y/n always leaves some money on the table when she's gone for longer than 24h because she is afraid the food in the fridge might not be enough (it's always enough)

no one of the roommates knows where the Hello Kitty condoms came from but they've been a staple in this household ever since

also a first Osamu POV!! i was waiting to finally write this

Akaashi is PLOTTING isn't he

y/n was very tempted to deep fry the cap but then came to the conclusion that it would be a waste of oil probably

or maybe she's just lying to herself. we'll get more into this later

✰ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

@brithedemonspawn @gigiiiiislife @yuminako @notverymarley @krissiekris

@wyrcan @kentocalls @simp-simp-no-mi @uncovered-mad-man @honey-deku

@yukichan67 @dailyakira @nu-suave @zq13 @morgan-lowell

@ellouisa17 @toges-cough-syrup

send me an ask or dm to be added (or removed, no hard feelings ♡)! minors DNI!

[asksythe]

Is there any cultural significance or reasoning for Xiao Xingchen giving both his eyes to Song Lan, instead of just one?

I can certainly see there being plot and/or thematic reasons for it (like it makes a better parallel with Wei Wuxian who couldn’t give just half his golden core; it’s necessary for Xiao Xingchen to be completely blind for the Yi city tragedy to play out as it did; etc.) but I’m wondering if there is more to it then that.

Your insights on other bits of MDZS lore have been really interesting!

That’s a tough question. The short answer is: yes. It’s a cultural thing. 

The longer answer is that I’m not sure I can adequately answer your question... because I feel that I'm not qualified. It goes deep. This is reaching the DNA of Chinese culture and the value system itself. I would say it’s probably better if you read more Chinese classics or immerse yourself in the culture. This is one of those things that are immensely difficult to put into words. The best way is to experience it.    

But since you asked me, I’m going to at least give it a try. 

The reason that Xiao Xingchen gave both eyes to Song Lan and the true root of the Yi City tragedy includes three different cultural concepts: Jishi 济世 (the Chinese ideal of saving the world), Enyuan Yinguo 恩怨因果 (Karma and Karmic Debts), and the quest to find Dao 道 (truth). 

1/ Jishi 济世 

济世 Jishi is a Chinese term denoting a philosophical ideal pursued by certain classes or castes of people since ancient times in China. It means to sacrifice and save the world. It’s self-sacrificial heroism in the most ideal and purest sense of the concept, similar to our modern-day Doctors without Borders.   

This is Xiao Xingchen’s higher calling, his chosen purpose. Xiao Xingchen came down from Baoshan Sanren’s mountain at 17 years old with one purpose: to make the world a better place. He rejected no one who needed his help. He went out of his way to reject the invitations from the cultivator Houses to join their ranks and enjoy the wealth and privilege it might bring because he didn’t want to be distracted from a higher calling.

Using modern Western vernacular, Xiao Xingchen is a hero. That’s his religion and identity. That’s on top of a personality that already holds high self-responsibility. So is there any wonder he feels he’s responsible for Song Lan’s loss and must give Song Lan both eyes?  

2/ Enyuan Yinguo 恩怨因果

恩怨 En Yuan. Yuan is resentment, spite, hatred, grudge. But En is a lot harder to nail down in English. It’s commonly translated as favor, but ‘favor’ has none of the cultural weight and encoded social obligation of En. The pure meaning of En is ‘a good deed done from the heart.’ A kindness. A mercy. A gift. 

For example, Jiang Fengmian taking Wei Ying into Jiangshi is En. Wen Ning saving Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying is En. Wen Ning reclaiming Jiang Fengmian and Yu Furen’s corpses and artifacts is En. Big En, comparable rebirthing an entire household. Wen Ruohan teaching Zhao Zhuli (later on known as Wen Zhuliu) and granting him a chance to prove himself is also En. Nie Mingjue doing the same to Jin Guangyao is the same level of En (granting critical knowledge and opportunity to completely change one’s life). Jin Guangyao taking in Lan Xichen and hiding him from Wen pursuers before the Sunshot campaign is En.   

因果 Yinquo = Karmic Bonds, the fruits that bloom from the seeds one sow. It’s also understood as a link between people’s life. Our lives collide, intertwine, and diverge like threads on a tapestry. We are each bound to each other by the threads of Karma and our debt to each other. This is yinguo. 

There is a deep-seated belief in China that a person’s life is a ledger. To live is to constantly add to and take away from the ledger. When other people perform En for you, that means you take from their ledger and add to yours. When someone takes from your ledger, a yuan/grudge is born. From the moment you were born, you were granted the greatest of En, the gift of life from your parents.   

In Chinese culture, it’s believed that one must try one’s best to square the ledger. One must repay En and reclaim Yuan. Entangled Enyuan eventually leads to tangled Yinguo, and that’s just a big headache nobody wants because it directly impacts your afterlife, your next life, your descendants, and sometimes even your ancestors that are already dead. 

To strive your best to repay En is seen as a virtue. Of course, not everyone is capable or even wants to reach this ideal. Like when we say it’s good to be honest, but being truly and completely honest in daily life is… a task, shall we say. Sometimes, it’s very hard to truly repay what you owe. And sometimes, your Enyuan with a person or with a House is so entangled that it’s either hard to really say who owes who, or hard to admit to the fact that you are the one in the reds.  

You are seeing parallels between Xiao Xingchen and Wei Wuxian because they both embody this ideal to the extreme. Both would take it upon themselves to repay. Xiao Xingchen paid with his eyes. Wei Wuxian repaid Jiang Fengmian’s En by giving Jiang Cheng his jindan, helped Jiang Cheng rebuild Jiang Shi using Guidao (Path of the Dead), gave up all his war achievements for the rebuilding of Jiangshi and left Jiangshi without a penny to his name despite being a major contributor to victory, and then… repaid Wen Ning, Wen Qing’s En to Jiang Cheng and Jiangshi in Jiang Cheng’s place when the other didn’t.  

In some ways, you can say that both Xiao Xingchen and Wei Wuxian are flawed in that they underestimate their own value and well-being and overestimate what other people do for them. You can even say that they are foolish because they pay for En that isn’t theirs to pay, and that eventually leads to their suffering and death. But this is just the kind of people they are. They are true idealists who genuinely believe in a Truth greater than mortal squabbles. They are pure, uncorrupted Daoists, the kind that holds the founding precepts of Daoism in their heart.  

In the novel, there are many examples of different people and how they see Enyuan Yinguo and how much value they put in them. 

We have Su Se, who was saved by Wei Wuxian twice but didn’t even acknowledge it. Instead, he saw that as a Yuan because he probably hated the fact that it showed how weak and insignificant he was. Yet Jin Guangyao merely remembered his name and gave him some support to create his House, and he was willing to be Jin Guangyao’s attack dog, going so far as to abandon his own House members in Fuma Cave when Jin Guangyao’s plan failed and using his life to buy time for Jin Guangyao in Guanyin temple. 

We also have Jiang Cheng, who was well aware that he owed Wen Ning and Wen Qing, but didn’t want to acknowledge it because he was poisoned with trauma and hatred at the hands of Wen Chao and felt that because of his relationship with Wei Ying, he was entitled to Wen Ning’s En. And yet he is rational enough to understand that admitting to owing this ginormous En and not repaying it is a huge stigma on House Jiang, and so even when he answered Nie Mingjue, confirming that the Wen remnants did have En with him, he answered in such a way that downplayed the enormity of En. Answering truthfully would have exonerated Wei Wuxian and the Wen remnants because the laws regarding Enyuan are so foundational that no one could have blamed the Jiang for saving the Wen remnants. But answering truthfully would have been admitting to his owing the Wen, setting House Jiang against House Jin, and turning House Jiang into a target of ridicule for other Houses because such an En should have been paid long before Wei Wuxian had to take drastic measures and jailbroke the Wen remnants from Quiongqi Path.   

We also have Lan Xichen, who effectively compromised his entire House and compromised his own judgment because he saw Jin Guangyao as having granted him a huge En (which is not wrong, per se). 

And then we have Jin Guanyao, who killed both people who bestowed En on him (Wen Ruohan and Nie Mingjue both gave Jin Guangyao critical knowledge, opportunities, and elevated him above his station. And yet when it came to Lan Xichen, despite his effectively pushing the Lan to death in the second Burial Mound Siege, Jin Guangyao still acted like Lan Xichen was in the wrong for not paying Jin Guangyao’s En even more than he already had. 

Then finally, look at these Enyuan and consider the way it binds the various characters in both good and bad ways. 

So it’s a deeply embedded and very nuanced concept that manifests differently in different characters.  

3/ The Quest for Truth 道 Dao:

Dao/Tao 道: the truth, the path, the knowledge, the faith, the ideal, the natural order of the universe, that from which everything comes and that from which everything returns. 

What does Dao have to do with Xiao Xingchen? 

Well, because Xiao Xingchen is a Daoist. Remember when he reminded A-Quing to address him as Daozhang? That. 

He’s not the only Daoist in MDZS, either. The man who created Dao as a philosophy and spirituality, Laozi, is also the man who created the concept of cultivation in the first place. So every single cultivator in MDZS, indeed every single cultivator in xianxia genre, treads in Laozi’s footsteps, takes from his wisdom, and stands on his shoulders in their quest for heavens. 

The first sentence in Laozi’s definitive work on Dao, the Tao Te Ching, says: 

‘Dao that can be told is not Dao. Truth that can be named is not truth. Path that can be walked is not the right Path.’

The Tao Te Ching is a foundational Chinese Classic. It is the shortest but also the most complex and hard to understand. 

This first verse of the Tao Te Ching means: truth is not something that is fixed. Truth is nuanced. Knowledge is not something that can be given to you by words only. You must find this knowledge by yourself. Path is not something that anyone else can tell you. Your path must be walked by your own feet. Faith is not something that can given to you by someone else. You must find faith in yourself.  

So then, apply this sentence to Xiao Xingchen’s journey. Do you see it? Xiao Xingchen choosing Jishi is his journey to find and prove his Dao. Jishi is Xiao Xingchen’s Dao. 

Yi City is not a tragedy. Yi City is Xiao Xingchen’s tribulation and the unavoidable consequences of choosing to remain pure to the founding precepts of Dao while the rest of the cultivator Houses, including Nie and Lan, have long betrayed their origin. 

Even if, by some miracle, Xue Yang and Xiao Xingchen never entangled with each other, there will always be a Xi City or a Zi City for Xiao Xingchen. Because it is a consequence and a price to pay to find the truth that he desires. And he did find that truth. Song Lan, who he had left in a decisive gesture of severing their Karmic Bond, returned and would likely spend decades if not centuries walking Xiao Xingchen’s path, waiting for the day Xiao Xingchen awoke. And A-Qing never left Xiao Xingchen, never gave up on him either. 

   

Ugghh, such a heavy topic. I usually don't like to write too much on such topics because... it's hard to write and it's hard to read, and most people don't really have the patience to read. But it is a question. So I tried. In any case, have this fanart I commissioned from Nguyen Linh.

[nihilityuniverse]

𝟎𝐭𝐡 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 | 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐱 𝐅𝐄𝐌! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ 𝗦𝗲𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘁 𝗖𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿 ᴏꜰ ᴛᴇʏᴠᴀᴛ 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗕𝗼𝘀𝘀.

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MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

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Story inspired by Acheron's Lore, Power, and Personality...

ENG is not my First language

I do not own Genshin Impact or any of the pictures used.

Do NOT Repost

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Story is also available on Wattpad: Chapter 0 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Chapter 0 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟓

𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐀𝐫𝐦𝐬

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

In the early morning at Liyue Harbor, the streets were alive with activity. People moved about with purpose, hanging posters that featured a silhouette of a lady adorned with delicate flowers.

As you continued down the cobbled streets, the scent of peach blossoms filled the air, mingling with the morning breeze. The community was busy planting peach-colored flowers, their vibrant hues adding a gentle blush to the town's decor.

Petals danced gracefully in the soft wind, landing on shop signs and gently fluttering down to rest on the ground. The air was fragrant with the sweet scent of peaches, creating a serene and uplifting atmosphere throughout the harbor.

You inhaled deeply, savoring the delicious fragrance that permeated the air. "Another festival, so soon after the Lantern Rite?" you murmured to yourself, intrigued by the bustling activity.

Your eyes landed on one of the many posters scattered around, depicting a figure reminiscent of the story the Traveler had shared with you - the nameless lady who, coincidentally, bore the same name as you. The realization made you suspicious; the parallels were too striking to ignore.

A sense of urgency welled up inside you, compelling you to uncover more about this ancient tale and your potential connection to it.

"Y/N!" Aether called out, running towards you with a tiny pixie flitting anxiously behind him. "Good morning," he greeted, his smile radiant.

"Aether! Why are you running like that?" the pixie, catching her breath, complained as she struggled to keep up.

"Good morning, Aether," you replied, stopping in your tracks, "Did you sleep well?"

Aether nodded, "Yes, I did. How about you?"

The pixie finally caught up, colliding with Aether's head. Just as she was about to voice her displeasure, her wide eyes locked onto you, and a look of horror crossed her face. "I-It's you!" she gasped, quickly darting behind Aether for cover. "How do you know her?"

"I met Y/N last night," Aether explained.

"In the night?" Paimon exclaimed, her eyes widening in shock. You crossed your arms and offered a reassuring look. "We just had a brief conversation, little one," you clarified.

"Paimon! My name is Paimon!" she huffed, puffing her cheeks while still peeking out from behind Aether's head.

"And Paimon remembers how scary and angry you were with Zhongli!" Paimon exclaimed. "Oh, right, I wanted to ask you about that," Aether added.

You began walking slowly, "It's a bit complicated, but I'm willing to explain," you said, passing by them. Aether and Paimon exchanged glances before falling into step beside you.

"I don't really know Zhongli. But when I first saw him, I felt like he was someone... significant," you said, searching for the right words. "...I felt like something bad had happened between us... But I don't know what."

"Something bad?" Paimon echoed, now more curious than afraid.

You glanced at her, then back at the bustling streets, "...My instincts told me that this man had caused me great pain. That's why I was so defensive and cautious," you explained.

"What was the other reason?" Aether asked.

You hesitated, "The other reason is... my name. He knew my name." Your eyes narrowed. "It shouldn't be possible for my name to exist in this world."

"Huh... I don't get it. Why shouldn't your name exist?" Paimon asked, puzzled.

Aether thought for a moment, "Are you from another world too?"

"Yes," you confirmed.

Paimon and Aether exchanged knowing looks. "Oh... Well, that makes sense, I guess," Paimon said, rubbing her head. After a moment, she suddenly exclaimed, "Wait a minute!" causing both you and Aether to stop and look at her.

"What is it?" you asked, a bit startled by her outburst.

"Your name," Paimon pointed at you, then gestured to a poster depicting the silhouette of a woman. "Your name is Y/N! And you have the same name as the Unknown Lady from the love story!" Her eyes widened in realization.

Aether looked at you, "Then you are..."

"If you connect the dots, it's very likely that I'm the Unknown Lady from that story," you said, your voice quieting as the weight of the revelation settled in.

"You don't remember anything..." Aether said, his voice tinged with sympathy. Paimon's expression mirrored his concern as she glanced between you and Aether. "Do you have memory loss...?" she asked softly.

You didn't respond immediately, choosing instead to continue walking. As you looked up at the sky, the peach-colored petals from the flowers danced in the breeze, their delicate scent filling the air.

"I rely more on my feelings than memories to guide me," you finally said.

Aether and Paimon remained silent, sharing a moment of quiet empathy for your situation. "Maybe you could talk to Zhongli," Aether suggested gently. "He might be able to tell you more about your past... or the story that involves you."

You considered his words, the idea lingering in your mind. "Talking to Zhongli... It might not be a bad idea," you mused aloud. "It could help me piece together what I've lost."

"Then let's find Zhongli!" Paimon exclaimed, flying up to you and grabbing your hand. "Come on, let's go!" She tugged at your arm enthusiastically, her energy infectious. Aether chuckled at the sight, smiling as he followed along.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Zhongli's lips curved into a smile as Xiao reports about everything, including You wanting to speak with him. Finally, after decades of meticulous patience, the moment he had yearned for was within his grasp. The thought of claiming you as his own sent a shiver of anticipation through him.

He had waited so long - far too long - to touch you, to inhale your scent, to hear your voice, and to have you beneath his control.

The agonizing jealousy he felt whenever he saw you with Osial was unbearable. The mere idea of such a gentle and exquisite woman in the company of a lunatic like Osial had always filled him with a barely contained fury. He could never fathom how you could tolerate such a union.

The years of planning and scheming were finally about to pay off. Your memory loss, a convenient twist of fate, would make it all the easier to mold the past to his liking, to rewrite history with him as the central figure in your life. He relished the thought of filling in the gaps, of shaping the narrative to satisfy his obsessive desires.

Zhongli's anticipation was almost palpable; he couldn't wait to see you again, to begin the process of weaving himself into the fabric of your life. His heart raced at the thought, his obsession teetering on the edge of madness. You would be his, and this time, nothing and no one would stand in his way.

"Zhongli! Good morning!" Paimon called out, waving eagerly as she led you toward him. Aether trailed close behind, his expression cautious.

As soon as Zhongli's gaze settled on you, his smile widened with an unsettling intensity. "Good morning," he replied, his voice smooth and controlled. He sat at a balcony overlooking Liyue, the perfect vantage point to keep an eye on the bustling city below.

The moment your eyes met his, a shiver of unease ran down your spine. There was something deeply unnerving about the way he looked at you-like a predator finally closing in on its prey. You tried to shake off the feeling, reminding yourself that your goal was simply to learn about the past, nothing more.

"...Good morning..." you murmured, hesitating before adding, "Zhongli." You stood before him, every instinct on high alert, wary of the beautiful yet intimidating man before you. His amber eyes were striking, filled with a quiet intensity that seemed to pierce through you, making it hard to maintain your composure.

Zhongli's gaze never wavered, his eyes drinking in every detail of your presence with an almost obsessive fervor. His smile held a mix of satisfaction and something darker, something possessive. He had waited so long for this moment, and now you were finally here, within reach.

"I came here merely to speak with you... and to apologize for my actions yesterday," you continued, your voice soft but steady. Despite your calm exterior, the weight of Zhongli's gaze felt like a physical force, pressing down on you, as if he was trying to imprint himself onto your very soul. There was a palpable hunger in his eyes, a yearning that was both unsettling and unnervingly intense.

Zhongli's smile softened, but the obsessive gleam in his eyes only grew stronger. "There's no need for apologies," he said, his voice velvety smooth. "I'm just glad you're here." The way he spoke, it was as if he was savoring each word, each moment you stood before him. It was clear that, to him, this was more than just a conversation - this was a long-awaited reunion, a step towards fulfilling his obsessive desires.

He watched you with a predatory stillness, his mind already spinning with plans and possibilities. The thought of you, so close and yet still out of reach, only fueled his obsession. Every gesture, every word, was carefully calculated to draw you in, to ensnare you in the web he had been weaving for so long.

"Why don't you have a seat?" Zhongli suggested, gesturing gracefully toward the empty chair across from him.

Aether and Paimon exchanged a glance, sensing it was best to give you two some privacy. "We'll take our leave then," Aether said with a friendly smile. Paimon nodded enthusiastically, adding, "Have a great time, you two! See you later!" She waved her tiny hands cheerfully before they both departed.

You watched them leave in silence, then took the offered seat. Across from you, Zhongli held a delicate glass teacup, his expression calm yet unsettlingly warm.

His eyes were fixed on you with an intensity that felt almost tangible, a loving smile playing on his lips. The air between you was thick with a palpable tension, a mix of longing and something darker.

As you settled into your seat, a fragrant aroma filled your senses, a delicate blend of floral and fruity sweetness. Your eyes fell on the teapot from which the enticing scent emanated, the soft pink hue of the tea matching the ambiance.

"Everything here smells so fragrant, with a light sweetness..." you murmured, almost to yourself.

Zhongli's chuckle was smooth and rich, like the finest silk. "It's a lovely scent, isn't it?"

He poured the warm liquid into an empty cup, setting it before you. The steam rose in delicate curls, carrying the intoxicating fragrance of peach blossoms.

You picked up the cup with your right hand, your fingers adorned with a silver claw-like metallic guard, and took a sip.

The flavor enveloped you, a perfect blend of ripe peach and subtle floral undertones, sweet yet not overpowering. It was a taste that brought back a flood of memories, a familiar comfort you hadn't realized you missed. The sweetness lingered on your tongue, bringing a rare smile to your usually stoic face.

Zhongli's eyes never left you, watching every nuance of your reaction with an almost obsessive focus.

To him, this was a precious moment, one he had orchestrated with painstaking care. The way you savored the tea, the way your expression softened - he absorbed it all, as if storing these moments deep within himself.

"It's a lovely tea," you said, pulling the heated glass cup away from your lips. Zhongli's gaze remained fixed on his own cup, where the pink liquid swirled gently. "This tea is crafted from a rare and unique variety of peaches," he explained, looking back at you with a smile that seemed almost too perfect. "Legend has it, this was the Unknown Lady's favorite."

"Peaches, hm..." you mused, watching the peach-colored petals dance in the breeze. "They symbolize life's delights and pleasures-"

"-but are equally fragile and short-lived... Such regret is inevitable," Zhongli finished the sentence seamlessly, causing your eyes to widen in surprise. He chuckled softly, savoring the moment. "You once told me this, as you held a peach with such tenderness. I've never forgotten that day," he said, his tone thick with nostalgia.

You met his gaze, a complex expression crossing your face, one that Zhongli seemed intent on deciphering.

You sighed and closed your eyes for a brief moment, collecting your thoughts. "...I am the Unknown Lady, aren't I?"

A dark glint flashed in Zhongli's eyes. "You are correct," he confirmed.

"And you must be the Geo Archon... Morax, who faked his death," you continued, watching as a petal floated gently into your tea. "I had forgotten the Tsaritsa made a contract with you."

Zhongli hummed in acknowledgment. "None of that matters now, as long as you're here, by my side." He reached out and gently took your left hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "I've missed you, my love," he whispered, squeezing your hand with a tenderness that felt suffocating.

A strange warmth spread from where your hands touched, an unfamiliar sensation that both comforted and unsettled you.

As you glanced down at your intertwined hands, a fleeting image of Osial flickered in your mind. His marine blue eyes held a familiar, tender gaze, lips moving as if whispering words you could no longer hear. You blinked, and the vision dissolved, leaving you staring into Zhongli's intense, unwavering eyes.

Osial.

There he was again, as clear as day. Why now? Why here?

A sense of unease began to creep in, tightening around your chest. Something wasn't adding up. You lifted your gaze to Zhongli, his serene expression betraying nothing. But you knew — deep down, you felt it — this man was hiding something, something crucial.

"What is this festival about?" you asked, your voice steady but probing.

Zhongli's smile softened, his eyes darkening with an unreadable emotion. "It's a celebration of guiding the Unknown Lady back to Morax's arms," he said, lifting your hand and pressing it against his lips. The kiss was gentle, almost reverent, as he lingered on your smooth, delicate skin.

You watched him closely, feeling a faint warmth spread from where his lips touched your hand. It was a sensation that once might have comforted or excited you. But as the seconds ticked by, that warmth quickly faded, replaced by an unsettling numbness. His touch, his kiss — there was nothing there. No spark, no connection, just an empty gesture that left you cold.

You sighed and withdrew your hand from Zhongli's grasp, noticing the flicker of disappointment in his eyes.

"Thank you for answering my question. I'll take my leave now," you said, standing up from your seat.

But before you could take a step, Zhongli rose abruptly, his hand shooting out to grasp your wrist. "Where are you going?" he asked, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of something darker. He stepped closer, cupping your cheeks in his hands, his touch firm and unyielding.

You felt a shiver of discomfort at the intensity of his gaze. "I have a mission to complete. I've already lingered too long," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

The truth was, you were weary of this conversation, eager to finish your task and return to some semblance of normalcy.

Zhongli's grip tightened, and he tilted your chin up, forcing you to look directly into his amber eyes. "What mission?" he demanded, his voice soft yet edged with a possessive undercurrent. "I'll gladly assist you, my love."

You hesitated, weighing your words. "I need to find Osial."

The mention of that name seemed to strike a nerve. Zhongli's eyes widened in shock, then quickly narrowed, darkening with a dangerous glint.

The gentle caress on your chin became an iron grip, rough and unrelenting. A shadow of murderous intent flickered across his face, gone as quickly as it came, but not before you saw it.

The mere mention of Osial's name had clearly disturbed him, revealing a chink in his composed facade. It was as if you had uttered a forbidden word, one that threatened to unravel whatever plan he had so meticulously crafted.

"I don't know if you're aware, but you're hurting me," you said flatly, meeting his intense gaze with a deadpan expression. Your words were a subtle challenge, a reminder that you were not as pliable as he might wish.

"I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean to hurt you," Zhongli murmured, his voice dripping with faux remorse. He released your chin, only to slide his hands down to your waist, pulling you closer until your bodies were pressed together. "Hearing that name... I lost myself for a moment."

"... I see." You trailed off, a strange weariness settling over you. You had felt perfectly fine that morning, but now, a fog of fatigue was creeping in.

Sensing your growing boredom, Zhongli decided to be more direct. "I heard from Aether that you use your feelings to guide you because of your memory loss..." He tightened his grip on your waist, his fingers pressing into your skin in a slow, deliberate rhythm. "Do you feel anything for me, love?"

His touch seemed to seep into your bones, relaxing you despite the unease gnawing at the back of your mind. You leaned unconsciously into his chest, drawn to the security and warmth he exuded. There was something about him that felt... familiar, almost comforting, even though logic told you to be wary. His knowledge of your preferences, his ability to predict your thoughts — it all made your cheeks heat up with a soft pink hue.

"To be honest, when I first saw you, I wanted to kill you..." you confessed, your voice barely a whisper as you looked up at him through your long lashes. "But now... it's different."

Archons, you looked so cute and precious in his arms that Zhongli could barely contain his desire. He had dreamt of this moment for so long, longing to replace Osial in your affections and claim you as his own.

His hand trailed slowly up your back, and he felt you shiver under his touch. His amber-golden eyes fixated on your soft, peach-colored lips. Cradling the back of your head, he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours in a deep, possessive kiss. They felt like silk, tasting faintly of the sweet peach tea you'd just consumed.

Your legs trembled, your mind becoming foggy and dizzy. You couldn't think straight, couldn't breathe properly. You felt weak, defenseless — a sensation you hated but simultaneously craved. Being in his strong arms felt inexplicably right.

You broke the kiss to catch your breath, a thin string of saliva still connecting your lips. "M-Morax..."

Zhongli's breath was heavy, his eyes dark with desire. "I love you so much," he whispered.

"I love you too..." you replied softly, your voice trembling.

Zhongli hugged you tighter, pressing your head against his chest as he rained kisses on top of your head. His smile twisted into a dark smirk, his eyes gleaming with triumph.

The effects of the special peaches had finally kicked in.

Every flower, every petal swaying in the breeze, every cup of sweet tea you'd consumed, and every breath of the peachy scent had been working as a drug.

A drug designed to make you weak, submissive, and utterly dependent on his touch alone.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Reblog if you like this story

[oh-koenig-my-koenig]

Fit for a King - WIP - "You are tiny"

Fit for a King - Masterlist

König fanfiction scenes and chapters that do not yet have a coherent plot

planned content/TW: rivals to lovers, König x fem!character (not too descriptive to make it accessible for more readers), social anxiety killing machine König, badass friendly FMC, dual POV, secret relationship, switch energy, NSFW, adult themes, strong language, violence (more details are still unclear, gonna update as I go), authentic austrian german

a/n: well, my brain isn't letting go of this newest obsession of mine, so I will appease it and write some scenes/chapters that come to mind. i have written more original work and less fanfictions and our boy (and KorTac) is hard to research, but I'll try my best to stay some-what cannon to the lore. it'll also probably get darker down the road.

if your character doesn't have a tragic backstory, why not give him one?

A not so meetcute

(CW: some mature language)

I strut along the hallway, I'm already late to report for duty and turn the corner abruptly. I collide with somebody else at full walking force and almost get pushed to the floor, if the big figure blocking the light shining from above wouldn't have caught me. "Ouch.", I yelp, more surprised than hurt, even though I feel like ran over by a truck.

I steady myself to look at the "truck". I look up and I keep looking up and up. At first there's just this chest, a huge chest, in a simple compression shirt, but oh boy. The weapon holster is what I see next, sitting snug at the side of his torso. Shoulders, big broad shoulders, and normally you would expect to have a head sitting on top of them and a face looking back at you. I guess, he has one as well, even though I don't see one bit of it. I strain my neck to finally meet his eyes.

But all I see is the dark black of a… sniperhood? A T-shirt? I mean, it looks like a t-shirt, that somebody cut holes in to fashion themselves a kind of mask. The front is stained with bleach, two streaks coming down from the eyeholes... My eyes widen as it sinks in who this is. König. KorTac operator, field combatant and one of my superiors. Shit. I've heard some rumors about him. And it seems like at least some of them ring true.

"You are tiny.", he states matter-of-factly, his Austrian accents shining through the uttered words. It's the first thing he says to me. "And you are... not.", I retort. I can't make out his expression as it so obviously is hidden by his mask. He nods, turns around and heads down the hallway where he came from. I shake my head. What the hell was that?

I stretch myself, feeling the impact of the collision already. My god, that was like being hit by a battering ram. I heard that his specialty is breaking down doors with brute force. I thought this to be ridiculous, but now as I watch the gigantic muscled man strut down the hallway, quickly disappearing, I do believe it. 6'10" killing machine. Ridiculous.

I shake my head again and make my way to the meeting room. Ridgeback is already waiting for me.

______________________________________________________________

Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Verdammt. Ah, des hast du ganz super g'macht.* I tell myself sarcastically in my head as I basically run down the hallway. She must be one of the new hires. Must be. And you almost turned her to mush. Mus. Brei. Human remains splattered against the wall. I curse myself again. I didn't even apologize. "You are tiny." No shit, Sherlock, everybody is tiny compared to you. I continue to mock myself. Fuck, Shit, Fuck.

"Ridge, since when do we hire children?", I ask him as soon as I enter the room. He doesn't even look up. "We don't." He keeps reading. "Then why did I just almost run over a recruit that didn't even reach my waist?" – “Because compared to you, everybody seems tiny.” He sighs and looks up at me. “None of our personnel are under 6’, not even the women.”

“Even the new recruits?”, I ask him again. He furrows his brow. “What did you do, König?”, he wants to now. “I may or may not have almost trampled one of them.”, I say, kleinlaut***. He sighs again. “I think that was Müller, she’s actually on her way here.”, Ridgeback says. “Müller? Is she german?”, I ask in surprise. I didn’t hear such an accent on her, but to be fair, she only said like three words… and I wasn’t really paying attention to her words anyway.

On cue, the door opens and I fall silent. “Permission to enter, Sir?”, she says with a clear voice. Not at all seeming like I almost turned her into pulp. I take two steps back to stand in the back, trying to blend into the wall behind me – which I already know from experience is not going to work. “Come in.”, Ridge says. “Müller, right?” She nods and approaches. My focus is fully on her, all the small bits I noticed about her before are still there. She’s not wearing a mask because it’s not necessary off mission. You know, like you normally would. She has laugh lines. Around her eyes and mouth. Fucking laugh lines. She doesn’t look like she belongs here.

The two of them are talking, but I catch every single time when her gaze lands on me, even if it’s just from the corner of her eyes. I fight against the urge to turn away every time she looks at me, when I hear Ridgeback drop the old s-word. Sniper.

My ears perk up and I finally pay attention to what they’re saying again. “Your track record is almost immaculate, Müller. You’re gonna be an asset to the team on the next missions.”, he says to her. I can see that she tries to hold back a proud expression or smile on her face, but she doesn't really succeed at that. God damn it, a sniper. I groan and make my way to the door which doesn’t go unnoticed. “König.”, Ridgeback pipes up. “You wanna show Müller the way to the dorms?” as I already have my hand on the doorknob.

I still for just a moment and the roaring sensation of anxiety seeps at my feet and crawls up my body until it’s nested at the back of my head. I can’t talk to her. Not after embarrassing myself before. “Nein.”, is all I say before I’m out the door.

*God damnit. You did a really bang up job. ** two different words for pulp/mash *** meekly (word for word: 'smallloud')

[imgonnabethatone]

I want Fit and Pac to collide on what love is for them, I think.

It's amazing to see all the content on them and I immensely enjoy every single piece of fanart/fanfiction that goes

when Fit gets broody and upset over not being gentle enough for Pac and Pac has heart eyes because Fit is completely drenched in someone's blood and then they kiss over Cellbit's corpse.

But maybe I also like the idea that Fit wants to be gentle to Pac, wants him to be a special little someone that deserves the softest he has to offer. And then Pac doesn't get it!

Idk, maybe they talk, and Pac confesses that it's "really cool" or whatever to see Fit absolutely rocking people's shit and Fit goes "So... you find me attractive because I am dangerous?" and initially he thinks like "yeah you know what fair enough" 'cause Pac absolutely can fall in a cave and just stay in one place and wait for Fit to help him despite being perfectly capable on his own. Maybe he likes being taken care of and feeling protected by someone - Fit can certainly provide. And it's all true, but in the moment Pac lightly responds with "Oh yeah! You could break me in half no problem, it's really hot" and Fit goes Huh. It's Unusual to like a person that you assess as a potential danger to you. And he worries that Pac is afraid of him, so goes in to reassure him, something along the lines of:

"Well, first of all, you are very strong, so I probably wouldn't win against you in a fight--"

"Oh, I wouldn't fight you, what?" And it's worse, actually.

"--But I'd also never just, what? Attack you for no reason? Murder you? I'm not going to do that to you, Pac!" He finishes anyway, desperately hoping to get his point across.

Pac gets nervous immediately, like he always does when he feels that his words or actions have somehow been unpleasing to the people around him and he needs to fix his behaviour asap. He sounds a bit hurried, a bit pleading when he starts with "No, of course not, of course not!" and Fit relaxes, because it's all a big misunderstanding-- "But, I mean, if you have to! For some horrible, sad, lore reason. Or if-- for any other reason, not lore. I'd let you, you know? Whatever you need." And Pac hugs his own arms, and his voice gets kinda quiet and stuttery to the end of that sentence, as if he can't tell whether he is redeeming himself or making it worse (he is absolutely making it worse - Fit feels sick to his stomach - but he has no presence of mind to tell Pac that). And still, he looks directly into Fit's eyes, sure, determined, even, as he lays himself out like a lamb to the slaughter. As if he has no worth outside of what others can take from him. As if in his head there is an outcome where Fit will hurt Pac and Pac has preemptively forgiven him for it, is looking forward to it.

(There isn't such outcome, because hurting Pac is never an inevitability or fate - only a choice that Fit will not make. But Pac seems convinced that this betrayal of trust is not only expected, but is also somehow desirable.

And it makes Fit... not scared. But very, very worried.)

[moltenwrites]

Alright it’s time for the long overdue

MOLTEN WRITES INTRO/HOME POST

Heya everyone, I’m molten writes. I just go by Molten though. I’m a writer who loves to write fantasy!

Most of my projects are told in a large universe know as the “ Souls Collide Universe. “ It’s named after the first story I ever came up with in this universe, and it’s a story I intend to finish someday.

Current project(s) - HOW OUR WORLD ENDED

Word count -87397

Progress - It feels almost surreal to say, but the first draft is done. Time for ✨Editing ✨

PAINTINGS

READ HERE

Word count - 2941

Progress - Chapter 3 is finished, but may go through some revisions. Chapter two needs some minor changes, and then will be posted. I also have the plan for chapter 4 finished!

Asks are probably always gonna be open, and I’m more than happy to answer any questions.

IMPORTANT/TOPICAL POSTS

Annnd that’s all! Hope you stick around for the future. Have an amazing day, and remember to work on that WIP

Also, you’re all welcome to tag me in anything.

[steamberrystudio]

31/12/2023 Devlog

Hey everyone! Time for the bi-weekly tumblr update for Steamberry stuff! Except I skipped one because I can't remember why.

I half-wrote it but I think I just wasn't feeling up to finishing and posting.

I haven't been doing extremely well health-wise lately but still powering through.

Summary

Finished writing Chapter 5.5 (the new chapter in WSC)

Finished editing Chapters 6, 7, and 8 of Asher's path

Finished all the profiles for the GS lore book

Have started wrapping up the "side stories" and additional content for the GS lore book

Ramble

Okay so in my last update I was in the middle of editing chapter 5 and was nearly to the start of chapter six in editing Asher's route. I finished up chapter 5...

At that point when I was looking ahead, I started feeling like I wanted to add in a transition scene to move between Chapter 5 and Chapter 6.

As I started plotting out this scene, one of my ideas took on a life of its own and I realised that it might be better to interject a new, fleshed out story incident that would allow me to slow the pacing as well as flesh out the setting and universe a little more. This incident would also let me tie into some earlier events and connect them to something that occurs in chapter 6, also foreshadowing the chapter 6 incident.

Ultimately, this became too much to call a "scene" and I decided to branch it off into a supplementary chapter (IE a chapter a bit shorter than the others and meant to be released along with another chapter.)

Then that chapter ended up being 30,000 words.

So that happened.

After finishing that I went on to finish editing chapters 6, 7, and 8. I am currently on chapter 9. I only have a few more chapters before I'm finished editing Asher's path. As always, during my edits, one of the main things I do is flesh things out.

So obviously the word count has grown from that (and, you know, the 30k extra chapter I invented).

Currently the word count is 468,000 words.

Other Stuff:

I have received several new BGs and a new BG sketch. BGs are continuing to come in at a fairly steady pace.

I now have all the BGs for The Ophelia and the artists are working on other locations finally. OwO

I've also been, here and there, doing small tweaks to the sprites, small additions and fixes.

Gilded Shadows:

As I mentioned, I finally got through all the character profiles. There are so many more characters than I remembered in this game.

Then I got halfway through and realised that I forgot five. And had to insert them, which...meant rearranging pages, which is a pain in the butt. However, that is now complete.

What I'm working on now is finishing up some of the short stories and drabbles I have planned or partially written out and getting them into the lore book. 

As well as gathering any other content. The lore book is currently about 350 pages. And I am really hoping to wrap it up soon.

Upcoming Weeks:

Next couple of weeks I will be trying to wrap up the lore book and wrap up editing Asher's Path.

When I finish editing Asher's path I'll be moving on to finish drafting the end sequences for the four remaining characters. I'm starting to have an idea of where the word count is going to end up but will have a better idea for sure when Asher's edit is complete.

I have written over 100,000 words since mid-August, just plugging away and trying to hit at least 1000 words a day.

I hit my year end word count goal of 466,000 words for When Stars Collide but unfortunately did not finish the draft because the draft has grown in size.

But I am really hoping to finish it early next year so we can fully move into phase 2 of When Stars Collide.

I am also hoping to get the final KS stuff resolved for Gilded Shadows early next year as well (the lore book, art book, and some residual art and stuff).

For now, I shall just keep plucking away at it until it's all done.

And that is all for now. I will see you all next year.

[sgiandubh]

Loringrandolphny has a story with possibly Cait. Looks like her hair. She might be wearing a jacket. And you are right no 🧛

Dear Jacket Anon,

You mean this, I suppose?

If so, my red arrow could very well point to C. I think it's her, too and the jacket makes sense, for many reasons.

I also noticed Mrs. Randolph tagged Levy, who (we now know) escorted C at the event. So maybe they were introduced to each other, even if they do not mutually follow on Insta (but Randolph also has a secondary private account and so, all bets are possible).

Who is this poster, though? A very sophisticated American contemporary art expert and curator - one of the top 10 in the world, judging by her credentials (Frieze is probably the world's leading contemporary art magazine and resource portal, to which I would add Sotheby's) :

Currently, she manages the Nasher-Haemisegger Collection, based in Dallas, TX, but she's doing it from Brooklyn, which tells me a lot (irreplaceable expertise):

(sourced at: https://www.artnews.com/art-news/news/loring-randolph-frieze-new-york-director-steps-down-1202697196/)

Enough said. The facts that Mrs. Randolph also follows Dua Lipa (behave!), reads The New Yorker (so does this humble blogger) and is interested in getting the planet's oceans rid of plastic are not enough for me to infer anything. These can at most sketch a profile, placing her into the well-heeled and Democrat New-Yorker crowd, bikram yoga on top. Nothing less, but nothing more.

I would like to add something. There are no 'more' and 'less' important events when it comes to these two people networking at the same damn time (isn't that uncanny?). There are different events, attracting different crowds, with different purposes. You would, however, have to be very parochial or quite idiot not to think worlds collide very easily at that level of wealth and rolodex power. And the more you climb up the social scale, the less degrees of separation it takes to connect the dots. In other words: most, if not all of the people present at the Keepers event or the Loewe Foundation one (or the Harrod's, FWIW) know or at least heard about each other. You'd be surprised.

Last, but not least, I am going to ask a very cruel and reactionary question: how do you think Tracula would fit in such company?

I'll mercifully leave this unanswered. But I hope my long rant satisfied at least your curiosity, Anon.

[take-everything-you-can]

Tell us more about the Ugly Truth!!! I love the concept it looks so intriguing

Ahhhhhhh TJ !!!!!!!!

Okay so....... The Ugly Truth is a enemies to lovers meets soulmate au ..

An Eddie Munson x Harrington Fem reader story

So in my little world when you and your soulmate make eye contact for the very first time a word is then scribed to your skin basically a little tattoo reminder of your attachment. (I've got a little more lore on this but for now this will do lol )

The word that is granted is the one thing that brings peace to your soulmate , it's the thing that makes each part of the couple stronger.

The thing about this story is that you are a Harrington by blood. Steve's older sister by three years. You've never felt like one though. You've never been the golden child , more the rebel with no direction.

There is no upside down within this story but Steve and Eddie have managed to somehow end up in each other's lives ..... It was Dustin ....

Dustin was the glue that holds all.

Except you had not even an inkling into Steve's world. Nope your world revolved around you and what you want to do. A selfish brat your father would call you time and time again.

... That all changes when a word appears on your shoulder ... Out of place and hard to see.

It didn't stop you in your tracks ... If anything it made you derail.

The world you once thought turned on its axis for your amusement collides into one of a very opposite nature and it turns yours into stardust.

An angsty little fic about finding yourself. A quest to find yourself romantically, platonically, wholly.

You just never thought you'd have someone to ride shotgun...

Ask me anything about the wips 😊

[qingxin-dream]

As the World Falls Down

a/n | this is partially inspired by one of my fav scenes in the 1986 movie labyrinth, i just really love the imagery and bowie’s song (literally the title haha). always got me daydreaming🥰 hope you enjoy!! (art credits: @/myu-chan on deviantart)

warnings | poisoning, suffocation, profanity, hallucinations, reader wears a dress, implied death, crying, vague references to scara lore, not really proofread it’s 1am

genre | angst, romance

word count | 2.6k

pairing | scaramouche x reader

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“I found some mushrooms and berries,” you announced upon returning to camp, a hand-woven basket tucked into the nook of your elbow.

“Good. We can have fowl with it too,” stated your nonchalant traveling partner, the rogue Balladeer, who nods. His eyes were lost in the growing flames of the fire he was tending to, not caring to spare you a glance as you take seat next to him to sort through your basket.

An amusing thought crossed the puppet’s mind and past his lips with haste, “It’s not poisonous, is it?”

The crackling of the fire grew louder amid the absence of your answer, reaching up to the darkening sky in a flurry of hot ash. After flipping a log over in the campfire, Scaramouche begrudgingly looked over at you, annoyed and prepared to chew you out for ignoring him. “Hey, what are you—”

“Sc-Scara… c-can’t—” you struggled to put words together as suddenly a dense fog settled over your mind. Eyelids unbearably heavy and jaw becoming slack, your consciousness was fading rapidly.

“(Y/N)?” his voice nearly cracks out of surprise, lunging toward you to catch you as your limp body collided with the ground. A single purple mushroom tumbled away from your grasp when you collapsed, the mark of your teeth engraved on the cap of the little fungus.

Scaramouche tried to shake you out of your delirium to no avail. He cradles you closer in his arms, curses pouring over his lips in a panicked state, trying to find your pulse. “Fuck, fuck… idiot, how could you be so careless!”

His fingers against your dainty wrist did not feel a thing. You weakly rolled your head toward the frantic puppet, it seemed you were blissfully unaware of how the puppet was scrambling to save you. A glittery haze swirled ominously behind your eyes—you certainly weren’t lucid—almost as if you were admiring the man holding you tightly on your deathbed.

Grazing the back of his index finger along your neck, you were still warm to the touch. It wasn’t until Scaramouche placed an ear against your chest did he hear the faint thump of your heartbeat and feel the rise of your rib cage as you breathed slowly.

You were still alive, but who knows for how long? He cursed once more, scanning over your features frantically. You no longer fought against the wave of drowsiness crashing over you, eyelids beginning to close and the small smile disappearing from your lips.

“H-Hey! Are you listening? What the hell did you eat?” the puppet growled, lightly slapping your face awake. Your eyelashes fluttered momentarily, but it was evident you weren’t comprehending anything that was happening. “Where is it? Don’t you dare close your eyes, (Y/N), I swear.”

Scaramouche recklessly searched through your basket of foraged items, tossing aside every last godforsaken wild flower, mushroom, and berry you worked so hard to collect. Looking you over, a small sparkle caught his eye.

A violet little shroom, glimmering under the setting sun, sat half-eaten on a patch of dirt next to you. It sported a mesmerizing pattern, twisting and contorting into the strangest unrecognizable shapes. His eyes trailed them through and through, a deceptively beautiful tango that drew him closer and closer with promises of pleasure, but what lurks beneath the surface of such an alluring potion?

A comforting warmth spreads across the puppet’s cheek, snapping him from his thoughts. You were cupping his cheek, half-lidded irises glistening with the reflection of a faraway realm. Scaramouche blinked.

“Where did you go?”

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The echo of a grand piano was just within earshot, weaving a gentle melody so lovely your ears would happily weep if they could. A few string instruments join in, a sweet violin contrasted with a deeper cello sound, if only you could find them. Light laughter swirled about, amid the clink of wine glasses and romantic whispers.

Pulling the lavishly purple curtain back, you are faced with the extravagant ballroom packed with guests. Each of them exuded pristine elegance in their magnificent, jet-black suits adorned with freshly bloomed flowers. It was a sight to behold, truly, with their faces masked behind brilliantly intricate Fatui-esque designs, boasting tall feathers or shiny rhinestones.

As they led their beautiful partners draped in pastel ballroom dresses and the finest jewelry, something was familiar about them yet no one appeared to recognize you. Was it the soft white Cecilia clipped to the raven-haired musician plucking away at the harp? Or the exquisite Glaze Lily on the tall gentleman nearby whose ponytail faded to a golden caramel hue?

The ebb and flow of the dance pushed you to and fro, distracting you from your thoughts. It was difficult to weave through the crowd, you find it quite suffocating with no exit is in sight. Then, without warning, a small clearing was made as the guests silently danced around you and the lone man who stepped into your path.

His mask was unlike the others: an angelic shade of white that shimmered like gold under the chandelier, dotted with tiny diamonds beneath the eyes in the shape of a tear. Deep indigo locks of hair perfectly framed his face, and as your doe-like eyes took in his ethereal form you noticed his boutonnière was unique—a vibrant, wine-red dendrobium rested upon his breast pocket.

He lowered the mask, yet no one seemed to pay any mind as they swayed to the surrounding symphony. Your jaw dropped in shock, the act of revealing his identity like breaking a sacred oath. Twinkling lavender irises rested on you, drinking in your immaculate visage dolled up in an exquisite, lacy ball gown that rivaled the purest snow on Dragonspine.

You were utterly and completely awestruck, lips parted but words would never take form.

It was him—Scaramouche in the flesh.

He approached you, leaning in until he lingered but a few inches away. You swear by the Archons if someone had said he was ambrosia incarnate you would have believed them without question. It was intoxicating, the way he made your cheeks burn with warmth and searched your eyes endlessly as if it were truly the window to your soul.

His hands delicately brushed against your waist, moving to guide you into the rhythm of the crowd. Your arms wrap around his neck, just as lost in him as he was within you. The mesmerizing serenade of the orchestra drowned out any banter around you, and you felt safe in his hold.

Your voice softly broke through to him, “Who are you?”

An amused hum escapes his lips. Scaramouche gazed at you with adoration, pulling you closer against his torso like he never wanted to let you go. His husky voice answered into your ear, “Who do you think I am?”

You bit your lip. Part of you had secretly dreamed of Scaramouche returning your feelings one day. All of this felt too good to be true. Was this reality? Would he embrace you like this? Would he—

“(Y/N),” he quietly chastised, seeing you lost in thought. Strands of violet hair tickled your face when his nose brushed yours, you couldn’t help but steal a glance at his lips that were so close to meeting your own. You could hear his breath hitch, a tint of pink dusting his cheeks. “Tell me what you think of me.”

“I-I don’t know what you mean,” you nervously replied, averting your eyes as the butterflies in your stomach began to become unbearable under the weight of his affectionate and alluring gaze. “And why does it matter? You never cared about what other’s think anyway.”

“You are correct, but… you aren’t like the others, now are you?” Scaramouche smirked, a glint of mischief flickering across his features before pulling away to twirl you around.

As you returned to him, dress flourishing in tandem, you flash him a sly smile. “Well, if you must know, I do think of you fondly when you are away.”

“And what of when you are here with me?” he teased, joining the two of you at the hip again. He could practically hear his heart pounding, desperate to leap out of his chest. Scaramouche tucks a loose tuft of hair behind your ear, whispering into it once more, “You are in the presence of a god, after all. It only takes three words and I am yours.”

An insatiable rush of heat flusters your face at such a proposition. Your hand cupped his cheek and you caressed it with your thumb, committing his every perfect curve and edge to memory, as if confirming he was real and not made of paper mâché. He leans into your touch lovingly, a prince hopelessly enamored by this chance encounter.

This was really Scaramouche, and he wanted you. He chose you. In what world would you possibly deny him?

The sweet sound of the string quartet marked the end of the musical piece, drawing your attention as the crowd fell to a low hush awaiting the beginning of the next song.

When you turned to answer him, he disappeared. You flicked your head around, searching the ballroom for his face, his mask, his unusual violet hair, anything that resembled his unmistakable aura—but ultimately found naught. The guests spared disapproving looks at you through their masks, though you couldn’t discern if it was pitiful or mocking.

Your adrenaline began to kick in, not caring to push through the crowd just for the opportunity to catch a fleeting glimpse of Scaramouche’s beautiful mask. The orchestra began to play faster, heightening your sense of anxiety as guests moved in tune and nearly fought against you.

Was it something you said? Was he no longer satisfied with you? Were you just a plaything to him and nothing more?

Finally, you broke through the edge of the crowd and found yourself face-to-face with a distorted mirror of the room. Your reflection curved and blurred as if the ballroom itself was contained in an iridescent bubble. You were wrong. So horribly wrong.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted the electrifying stare of Scaramouche watching you from the outskirts of the crowd. Your skin crawled with goosebumps once you noticed he was sauntering toward you, mask covering his expression.

You had to find a way out of this nightmare. Grabbing a chair from a nearby table, you held it above you, prepared to burst out of this false dream.

Suddenly a firm hand gripped your wrist painfully tight and yanked you away from the mirror, causing you to fall backwards into the perpetrator. Scaramouche growled in anger through his teeth, “I won’t let you do this. You can’t abandon me!”

“You lied to me!” Wriggling under him, you attempted to pull away with the chair but he was too strong. He ripped the chair out of your hands, toppling you over on the floor helplessly. You scrambled to stand up, carelessly tearing through the frills of your dress with your heels.

Scaramouche threw the chair aside and reached for your arm again, this time pleading with you, tears pricking his pretty red-lined eyes. “(Y/N), please. I’ve turned this world upside down and I’ve done it all for you. Stay here with me. Devote yourself to me. It’s all I ask.”

You hesitate at the sound of desperation evident in his voice, looking back at him one more time. He had lost his ephemeral sheen, hair tousled and scattered messily across his pale face. He was hanging on to your every word, hoping you would reconsider an eternity in paradise with him. It hurt to see how sad of a state he was reduced to, begging you to be with him.

He was right. This was everything you wanted—an endless night in his arms as lovers, but this was not how it was meant to be.

“I’m sorry,” you hoarsely choked back tears, smashing the mirror into a million pieces.

Infinitely small shards reflected the horrified look of betrayal on Scaramouche’s face as the dream was lost to space.

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You woke to the sound of crickets and a crackling fire. A cool, wet rag sat on your forehead, contrasting the warmth of the campfire and causing you to scrunch your nose as you stirred. Your heart raced when you were squeezed by the shoulders into someone’s chest, wet drops falling on you.

“Hm?” you mumbled against the fabric of their clothes, resting your hand against the left side of their chest. After a moment, you realized this person lacked a heartbeat. Your eyes shot open. “Scara… mouche?”

Your eyes took a moment to adjust, eventually focusing on the man who was cradling you close and gently rocking you back and forth. His divine features were contorted into despair, eyelashes speckled with the glistening residue of his tears. You spoke up again, “Scaramouche, what happened?”

“I thought you fucking died, that’s what happened.”

Oh. Your memory proved to be fuzzy—you remembered foraging for dinner, picking all kinds of edible berries and mushrooms. You remember returning to camp, but trying to think of anything beyond that worsened your headache. Were you attacked?

“How long have I been out?” you asked apprehensively.

Scaramouche swallowed thickly, hollow eyes wandering up your form to meet yours. It was gut-wrenching, he was never this vulnerable—this exposed—with you. “Six hours.”

He told himself he would never allow foolish mortal feelings to defile his heart again long ago, but you had gotten under his skin more than he realized. You sunk your claws into his heart so easily, so readily, and he was complacent in it. Maybe part of him wanted to believe it would be different despite his deep-rooted cynicism.

When you passed out cold and lifeless, you might as well have gored his heart right out of his fragile puppet body.

Scaramouche wanted you to, for all of the self-hatred, regret, love, and mourning he felt over you eating a stupid purple mushroom.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered shamefully, gripping his robe in your fist. You really fucked up this time. Had he held you the whole time, wishing you would come to or saying his goodbyes? The thought welled hot tears in your eyes.

He gave you a bewildered look, appalled by your pathetic apology. “I should kill you.”

“I would understand.”

The puppet had enough. After suffering in the depths of darkness and despondency for hours thinking you had succumbed to your mortality, Scaramouche could bear it no longer. You were alive, your heart was beating, and you were breathing—you were in his grasp once more and he wouldn’t dare waste this newfound chance with you.

“To hell with it,” he swore with a hasty whisper ghosting your pink lips, cupping your cheek softly, taking in how beautiful you looked in the moonlight even as you laid ill. “I love you, (Y/N), and don’t you dare do this to me again.”

Scaramouche brushed his chapped lips, salty with the remnants of his tears, against yours, relishing in the sensation of how plush and warm you felt. He rubbed his thumb over your cheekbone and down your jaw delicately like you could break underneath him at any moment. His hand trembled slightly on your skin, prompting you to hold his palm to your face to quell his fears.

When you moved your lips and pressed further into him, reaching up to lace your fingers in his hair, he swiped his tongue to ask permission before deepening the kiss. You tenderly smiled, greeting his tongue with your own. Scaramouche treated you with the utmost reverence, dedicating himself to tasting every saccharine drop you would offer.

He poured his heart into you until you were desperate for air and had to break away, much to his dismay. You were more than addicting. Indulging in you was beyond euphoric, to feel complete and whole at last was indescribable.

Recovering your breath, you huffed out a contented laugh and sealed your fate with one more peck on his lips. “I love you too.”

For the first time in hundreds of years, the puppet genuinely smiled, interlacing his fingers with yours.

“So… what did you dream of after you ate that mushroom?”

thanks for reading! reblogs are appreciated! my masterlist