#Helena x OC

[canigetahoyaaa2007]

Love & Legends The Harem Sisters.

New character information.

So this is only a new character info and after this will be first chapter, I try to do it well enjoying but I won't promise it'll be cringe. Let me introduce the new character of the story... Natalia Harem!.

Natalia Harem.

Age: 28.

Sexuality: Lesbian.

Has any abilities?: Yes, she can turn into a wolf if she wants she can be partially wolf meaning she has her wolf ears and tail. Her rank is also an Alpha but as she is a human she doesn't belong to any pack. Her only pack is her sister and their new friends (and future sister in law).

Personality: Protective, cold, soft (if needed), overprotective big sister mode is always on.

Look: Natalia has the same hair color as her younger sister, her eyes are brown, she used to have her hair down with a bun. She mostly wearing black clothes instead others. She always has a cold stare on becouse she promised her parents that she will protect Halsey (MC's name of mine) from anything and anyone also she killed many ex of her younger sister.

Nicknames: Nati (by her best friend and Halsey), Sis (By Halsey), Furry (By Koda (her best friend and older brother of Sophie (idk what Sophie's age might me)), Little Wolf (By Altea Bellerose), Puppy (By Helena Klein).

Was in relationship: Never, but it'll change in the story.

Also story will contain Altea's Route, what later you find out yourself.

That's all. See you in the first chapter!.

[ramshacklerumble]

tried out a different coloring style and skipped lineart all together (coloring without lineart is so scary to me) but this was very fun. i found the meme with the gorgeous buff bride and the lucky groom and i just had to do deuce and helena.

bonus:

i needed to get deuce to stand on something if i wanted the meme to work.

taglist:

@cyanide-latte @inmateofthemind @tixdixl @blithesharem @thehollowwriter @jovieinramshackle

@theleechyskrunkly @skriblee-ksk @boopshoops @the-trinket-witch @twistedwonderlandshenanigans @kimikitti

@felix-cant-ski @nightwingshero @water-writings @beneathsakurashade (dm to be added)

[nightskyfoxyy]

They are proud, immensely so, and yet the realisation dawns that they might have accidentally raised perfect gamblers. Oh well.

(idea by the lovely @niobiumao3 ^^)

[blxkstar]

POV: You're in House of the Dragon

The only thing that could tear down the House of the Dragon was itself

I made a playlist for House of the Dragon. Please check it out!

If the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne

Hands turn loom, spool of green, spool of black, dragons of flesh, weaving dragons of thread…

[kalolasart]

Winter wonderland ☃️

[bobfloydsbabe]

gold rush | eccentric professor!bob floyd x oc

SUMMARY: Everyone knows history professor Bob Floyd is a little eccentric. He only drinks tea steeped for exactly four minutes, his desk is pristine while the rest of his office looks like a bomb went off, he's distrustful of technology, and he definitely doesn't want or need a teaching assistant. Certainly not one who's as aggravating as she is pretty...

WARNINGS: academia au, enemies to lovers (if you squint), age gap (mid-to-late 20s/late 30s), bob being grumpy and rude. strictly 18+/minors dni.

WORD COUNT: ~0.5k

A/N: Eccentric Professor Bob Floyd has been on my mind constantly for the last week, so here we are with a moodboard and a short blurb. This AU will not be a full length series, but a collection of blurbs and drabbles. Special thanks to @ryebecca for raving with me about my new favorite grumpy man. Don't hesitate to send me questions and headcanons!

UPDATE: ADD YOURSELF TO THE TAGLIST

Bob stops dead in his tracks in the doorway to his office, hot tea spilling over the edges of the cup.

Inside, among piles of books and paper, stands a woman with her back turned none the wiser to his presence. She can’t be one of his students–they know not to come to his office unless they have an appointment.

“Who are you?” he asks, not bothered with pleasantries.

She turns around with a startled laugh. “Dr. Floyd, you scared me,” she says with a hand pressed to her heaving chest. “You can’t sneak up on people like that.”

“You’re in my office,” he points out, brushing past her as he walks to his desk in long strides, placing his cup on a coaster to protect the wood.

“Right,” she agrees.

He sits and pulls his books closer to continue preparing for his next lecture, but his eyes drifts back to the young woman. She appears to be in her mid, maybe late twenties. Dark hair falls in loose waves around her face, and she’s looking at him expectantly. “Did you need something?” he asks.

She cocks her head to the side, brows furrowed. “I’m waiting for you to put me to work.”

“Work?”

“Yes,” she answers, incredulous. “What did your old TA do?”

He stares at her, almost convinced he’s hallucinating. “I don’t have a teaching assistant.”

She smiles at him, wide and enthusiastic. “Well, you do now. Would you like me to clean up a bit? It’s a little messy in here.”

Bob suppresses a frustrated groan. Pushing back from his desk, he stands and rounds his desk, stopping in front of her. The scent of her perfume hits his nostrils, something spicy and vaguely floral, and this close, he can see all the colors in her eyes. “I don’t want a TA and I certainly don’t need one. Whoever hired you–”

“Dr. Kazansky,” she interjects. “–made an error. Now, please, leave.”

Walking back around his desk, he ignores the sound of her taking a deep breath and composing herself. She doesn’t speak until he’s fully sat and emerged in his books again.

“You may not want me here, Dr. Floyd,” she begins through clenched teeth, forcing him to look up. She holds his gaze, determination and a hint of defiance in those dark doe eyes. “But you’re stuck with me. So, I’ll be back tomorrow and we can start over. Have a good day.”

The door slams and Bob’s left in the silence of his office, staring at the spot where she stood mere moments ago. Of course, Dr. Kazansky went behind his back to hire a teaching assistant–he’s insisted that Bob needs one for years, but Bob’s always been able to avoid it. Until now, it seems. He wonders how long she’ll last before she realizes he’s too set in his ways to change. But as he imagines the way her nose will scrunch in annoyance, it occurs to him he never even got her name.

likes are nice, comments and reblogs are golden

TAGLIST: @blue-aconite, @sylviebell, @wkndwlff, @ryebecca, @sebsxphia, @rhettabbotts, @lewmagoo, @ereardon, @anniesocsandgeneralstore, @desert-fern, @fantasias-creativebubble, @lostinwonderland314, @luckyladycreator2, @cherrycola27, @flashyourgreeneyesatme, @atarmychick007, @yanna-banana, @fandom-princess-forevermore, @gizmodear, @hangmanapologist, @thedroneranger, @soulmates8, @withakindheartx, @eternallyvenus, @kmc1989, @bcarolinablr, @memeorydotcom, @dempy, @withahappyrefrain, @bradshawsbitch, @daisiesandinvasives, @teacupsandtopgun, @laracrofted

[kalolasfantasyworld]

I'm not posting this on my art account, because it's more of a doodle but Olympics consumed me and I had to do this challenge.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Lay me down (Helaena Targaryen x Reader) 

Summary: Helaena cannot sleep. You offer to keep her company, but find yourself addled by the same malady she has. 

Warnings: None! Just the Princess and the Pea, and grief. Also, friends to lovers. 

A/N: This one was hard. Little hope in regards to comments.

“Helaena. Helaena.” The dowager Queen says, voice harsh. “Helaena, are you even listening to me?” 

And you do not mean to listen in. You really don’t. But her tone is so urgent, and you are only a few benches away from them, hands joined in prayer. 

You had asked the dowager Queen if you could tag along with them today, promising to leave them pray privately. You had your own grief to keep you company, after all. 

The news of your betrothed’s death reached you this morning. He had fallen during a battle near Duskendale, marching with the Royal Army under command of Ser Criston. 

Your eyes were swollen from so much crying, your nose sore and raw. You had liked the man. Perhaps not as a lover, but he had been very cordial towards you, constantly writing and sending you trinkets. You had considered him a friend, and always found yourself excited to open his letters. 

Now, your friend was gone, and your father had callously informed you that you were back in the marriage market. Not even an afternoon had you been allowed to grieve. The Sept was your sole respite from his constant nagging.

“Helaena. Please. Do try to pray.” The dowager Queen begs of her daughter, holding her hands. But the Queen only makes a sound of discomfort, trying to avoid her touch. “It will make you feel better.”

“I have not slept.” She weeps, face twisting in agony. Her whole body cringes away from Queen Alicent. 

“It is only normal, after…” And you cannot bear it. Cannot bear to hear them discuss their loss, their own grief, when you are suffering through yours. You get up, choosing to move towards the altar. 

You will light a candle and leave. The carriage will provide the same solitude you sought by coming here.

“That has nothing to do with it. Something is wrong. Wrong with my room. Can you stay with me tonight?” Queen Helaena untangles herself from Queen Alicent, who seems desperate to hold her. 

“Helaena… I cannot… The lords and…” Her mother is clearly unwilling. A wave of pity for the Queen hits you. Your heart feels torn to shreds already from the loss of a friend, you cannot imagine what it would feel like to lose a son. 

Were you her mother, you would hold her all night if she asked. Or even sit by her, if it helped her feel less alone. The Seven knew you would have liked your father to support you in your grief.

“I’ll do it.” You offer, bravely. A few tears have fallen down your cheeks. You barely realize, focused on her. This is something you can do. You can help her. Comfort her. “I’ll stay with the Queen tonight.” 

“Were you listening to..?” The dowager Queen’s voice is harsh, grating in your ears. A tad embarrassed, you lower your eyes, but do not apologize nor take back your offer. You had been eavesdropping, of course. But they weren’t trying to be quiet either. 

“Yes. She will.” Queen Helaena says, absently. And that is it. 

That night, you find yourself in the Queen’s rooms. After her son was murdered, she moved into a more spacious and better guarded chamber. 

There are no maids in sight, so you draw the curtains shut yourself and blow off some candles as the Queen changes into her nightclothes. When she comes out of the bathing chamber, she sits on the bed and offers you a hairbrush, in absolute silence. 

You wonder if grief has taken her voice, as it has taken yours. You have not brought yourself to even name your betrothed aloud because a knot makes itself known in your throat each time you try. 

Instead of trying to hold what will surely be an awkward conversation, you obey her. You are careful to touch her as little as possible when unpinning her long, blonde hair and brushing it until it shines. Then, she gets under the covers. 

“Lay next to me.” She pleads, eyes closed. She pats the space next to her. 

The bed is marvelous. You are warm and tired, the covers just the right weight for you to feel comforted under them, but not smothered. 

You turn to face her. But the Queen has her back to you. You quietly say your nightly prayers and blow off the candle. 

It is then that it starts. 

Queen Helaena lets out a sigh, rolling on her side. You tense. 

“Can't you feel it?” She asks you, face scrunched up in discomfort. “This bed is so uncomfortable.” 

Buried under her blankets, warm and safe, you disagree. But you sit up regardless. 

“Shall I get you another pillow?”

“Leave it.” She scoffs, throwing her pillow away. 

Her tossing and turning doesn't stop the whole night. You understand why the Queen dowager didn't want to stay with her. 

You continue to offer her to change her pillows, to fix the bedding, but she denies you every time. When sunrise approaches, you have resigned yourself to just laying there, watching her twitch restlessly. You had given up on sleep a long time ago.

But a night is enough to convince you. Something is wrong. Not with the bed, but with the Queen. 

She requests your company again the next night. This time, you come prepared. Your fear of whatever is happening to her has turned into a dull sort of pity. 

“I have brought you chamomile tea, but also Milk of the Poppy. Perhaps it might make you sleep.” 

“I would like to try both.” She says, reaching for the vial of Milk of the Poppy without hesitation. She downs it fully, face strained. The lack of sleep has taken its toll on her. The dark circles under her eyes are darker than they had been yesterday, her cheeks a tad more sunken. 

No one can go without sleep for long. This, you know. 

The two of you lay down on the bed, and this time, she falls asleep. You allow yourself to drift off, knowing that the dose was big enough to have her rest the whole night. 

Milk of the Poppy is addictive. It probably is why the Maester hasn’t given her any, but the Queen needs to sleep. A night of good, deep sleep will be enough to get her by a few days. 

It feels like only a few minutes after when you jerk awake. Still in the clutches of sleep, you frown, wondering what is wrong. You can feel something is; otherwise you wouldn’t have woken. 

You turn on your side and notice the space next to you is empty. Your eyes open. Had someone entered and taken the Queen? You would have thought it impossible once, considering the Red Keep the safest place on earth. But after the death of Prince Jaehaerys…. 

You sit up and find her on the rocking chair, eyes bright as those of a cat. Her gaze is vacant and she doesn’t reply when you call for her. Alarmed, you shake her shoulder. Has the Milk of the Poppy poisoned her somehow? By the Seven, what had you done?

“There is a beast… Oh. It’s you.” The Queen says, after a few minutes of you frantically trying to get her attention. Her voice is rough, as if waking from a deep sleep. Her hands cradle your face, as if committing your features to memory. “It’s you.” 

You do not sleep after that. Neither does she.  For some reason, you do not feel tiredness. You are glad to be awake. Queen Helaena’s eyes are all pupils, and she doesn’t look tired either. You need to keep an eye on her. 

So you do. The both of you pace the room, sit on the bed, alternate places on the rocking chair. Neither of you sleep. 

It is then you realize. There is something wrong with the bed. 

The third night, the two of you ask the Maester for a concoction to help you sleep. A herbal tincture is delivered to Helaena’s rooms, and both of you each drink a cup.

Nothing happens at first. The two of you sit, side by side, on the bed. As you wait for sleep to come, tucked under the blankets like overly excited children, the Queen turns to look at you. 

Her eyes are wide and unnerving. Tonight, her pupils are normal, and she smells of herbs. You find yourself feeling impossibly shy, her gaze too lucid, too attentive. It feels as if she sees you to your very soul. 

“My name is Helaena.” She offers you, after a while. “I would like to use yours, if you allow it too.” 

“Of course.” You mutter, softly. And as you look away from her, the strangest thing happens. You see yourself, sitting on the floor and playing with a silver haired boy. You sit up. 

The image of yourself ripples. You are now laid on the carpet, and the Queen… Helaena cradles your head on her lap. 

You see your mother, sitting on the rocking chair. There is the Queen dowager, kissing Ser Criston. 

“What in the Seven..?” 

“So you see it too, tonight.” Helaena says, voice dreamy. Her hands come to your shoulders, pressing you back down on the bed. “It is like this for me. Always.” 

“What is happening?” You start to panic. You can tell the images around you aren’t real, but more like ghosts. It frightens you. Are they dead? But you just saw yourself. It can’t be that. “What is this?” 

“Dreams. Futures. Some of them. Some shall never pass.” You get a glimpse of yourself again, cradling the boy. The Prince, you realize. Prince Jaehaerys. “They are my dreams, and yours too.” 

“Oh.” Despite your frustration at not being able to sleep, you find them beautiful. You watch the little princess chase the boy, both playing with a ball. It's peaceful. 

The two of you spend the night awake, surrounded by children’s laughter. And if you drift a little closer, no one’s the wiser.

It all seems so peaceful, it doesn’t occur to you of what consequences it might bring. You do not feel your creeping exhaustion, but you begin to look it. There are dark circles under your eyes, your cheeks grow more gaunt. 

As you are having breakfast with the Queen dowager and the Queen, it occurs to you that you do not want to eat plain toast. You wish to ask one of them to pass you the small, yellow cube that is laying on top of a plate. Much to your horror, you cannot recall the word for it. 

“Could you please pass me the..?” And you point because you cannot name it. It’s yellow, and you use it to spread over the toast, but you do not know its name. 

“The…?” The Queen dowager asks. 

“The…” You point to it. You spread it over the toast with a knife, you wish to say, but you can’t remember the word. It begins to upset you. A sudden urge to cry out of frustration hits you, making your eyes water. 

“Oh, not you too.” The Queen dowager says, annoyed, as Helaena passes you the plate containing it. “What are the two of you doing? Playing a game?” 

“What do you mean, my Queen?” You frown. What is she referring to? 

“Helaena and you. Is that what you do at night, plan the tricks you will play on us?” 

Her statement only serves to confuse you further. You frown. 

“You should stop it. If you must, do it during the day, you both look too gaunt for my liking. Honestly, pretending not to know words…” 

“Helaena…” The Queen dowager sends you a withering look, so you correct yourself. “The Queen is forgetting words too?” 

“Honestly! I have had it with you two, girls. We are at war.” The Queen slams her hands on the table. “It is not the time to be playing tricks.” 

She leaves the room, huffing. It is only when she is out of earshot that Helaena speaks: 

“I have been missing words too. I think it’s from the lack of sleep.” 

“Gods.” You say, cradling your head between your hands. You really need to sleep. 

Helaena hums. The two of you start placing small notes on the objects in her room that very night. 

“This is the hairbrush.” You read the next morning, flabbergasted. “It serves to brush your hair. Comb it through.” 

“Pass it to me.” Helaena replies, taking it from you. “I think it is done like this.” 

She passes it through your hair. You wonder how you could forget such a heavenly feeling. 

The next and last night is nowhere near as heavenly. Helaena and you hug on the bed, terrified out of your minds. You had tried drinking another herbal concoction. Tonight, Helaena’s dreams weren’t so pleasant. 

There were two dragons, one large and dark-colored, and a red one. They were shrieking at each other, and roaring. Spitting out flames. And the two of you could only watch as they set ablaze the room. 

“Enough! Enough!” You suddenly jump up, and begin to try to drag a terrified Helaena out of her room. You manage to do so, and you lead her to your room. Both of you settle on the bed, cheeks still wet with tears. 

You fall asleep still holding hands. 

The next morning, a maid comes and changes the sheets on Helaena’s room. As she shakes the pillows and the mattress, a single pea rolls to the floor and hides underneath the dresser.

[etherealperrie]

The Chart (pt. 2)

"...she is not a mirror in which you reflect, she is of material substance..."

Shane Mccutcheon x OC (Original Character) | The L Word

Word Count: 2.3k

Contains: Queer OC | Reader is a PhD Student in LA | playboy era Shane Mccutcheon | "Solid" by MUNA inspired | Mentions of secondary L Word characters |

Warnings: explicit language, references to drinking/alcohol, and explicit sexual activity

...

There’s nothing worse than a hangover. Jules has handled dozens in her time, but all when she was much younger, more agile to bounce back. Nothing could’ve stopped her the morning after a night out in college – hell, she’d taken one of the most important finals of her life hungover and damn near aced it. But now, not even Tylenol is touching the pounding in her skull. 

Sighing, she drops her head into the cradle of her hands, running her fingers through her hair. Her ‘free for the weekend’ motto hadn’t considered that her more productive self made an appointment in the library archives at seven the next morning. She mumbles some half-hearted words of encouragement to herself before shifting in her seat and taking a deep breath. On the exhale she swipes the hair from her neck up into a mangled mess away from her eyes. There’s no one else here – everyone else is home properly recovering, or, maybe waking up with that stranger from the night before in their bed. 

Jules would much prefer that to this. On the circumstance that it might be Shane. She can’t quite shake the vision of her from her mind, having tossed and turned over her all night. Not to say Jules regrets leaving her at the bar, but she can’t stop imagining what it would have been like to stay. The heat of Shane’s fingerprints are burned into the skin around her hip, the taste of Marlboro reds somehow still on her lips. 

“Juliana?” A voice interrupts her daydreams. “Did you want me to get the next box down for you?”

An older woman from the archives stands in front of Jules, her hands perched on the desk for support. Jules shakes her head, clearing her throat. Right, the research. The whole reason she’s here in the first place. The project that quite literally drove her to drinking over the weekend. 

“Please.” 

The woman nods and turns on her heel back down to the front of the room, her skirt swishing with each step. Jules looks back to the papers sprawled across her desk. There are a few photos scattered about, one catching her attention. Picking it up carefully – by the edges as she was instructed prior to entering the archives – she squints to make out the image. 

There’s a blonde woman standing in front of what looks to be a whiteboard full of markings she can’t quite make out. The woman is smiling, obnoxiously big, her pixie cut sticking up in various directions. Jules chuckles, flipping the photo over, a caption scrawled in blue ink on the back. 

Alice Piezecki showcasing ‘The Chart’. Color. 2004.

She can’t stop herself from wondering about the context of the photo. More importantly, how did something this recent make it into the archives so quickly? It’s less than five years old. And into the box she specifically requested, labeled, “A Queer History of Los Angeles County”?. Though, most importantly, how did she not recognize this woman or whatever this chart was? Jules taps her fingers against the desk. It’s maybe not surprising, though, one could study queer history all their lives and never fully experience all its aspects. And Jules’ life has, quite literally, been here – in the California University School of Arts library – since she started her program four years ago. 

Jules flips the photo back over. She stares at the glossy paper, the unintelligible writing on the whiteboard coming to life. It’s a list of names. Well, not a list but a chart, all of the names connected to one another by lines of varying color. Some of the names are emphasized, bolded or circled, somehow noting their significance over others. Most of the names are unfamiliar to her, but Jules jots them all down in her notebook, underlining where appropriate. All of these women, tied together somehow. 

She continues down the line, her handwriting devolving to scrawl, the list impossibly long. Francesca, Marina, Max, Jenny…

Shane. 

Jules stops, her eyes lifting from the paper. A name she recognizes. A name both bolded, underlined, and circled. Her heart pounds in her chest although she’s sitting firmly in her chair. For a second she swears the library has transformed into the club, Shane’s dark eyes staring directly at her. The Chart. The women outside the bathroom. 

“Tell Shane to fuck you in the men’s room next time.” 

Jules laughs to herself. She was so drunk she thought those women were genuinely upset about her and Shane preventing their access to the bathroom. She turns her attention back to the chart, shaking her head with disbelief as she follows the myriad of lines connecting Shane’s name to what appeared to be hundreds of others. She may as well add her own now. She jots it down in her notebook. 

Jules. 

Part of her is angry, her face red with embarrassment. The other part of her can’t believe the discovery she’s just made. Something like this – the chart – would be integral to her dissertation. Before she’s able to make up her mind on her true feelings, the woman from the archives is calling her name from across the room, lifting the next box. Jules listens to the swooshing of her skirt as she approaches, breathing through her cacophony of emotions. 

“Here you go, dear,” she says, setting the box down onto the desk with a thud. “Can I do anything else for ya?” 

Jules smiles, lifting the photo up. “Yeah, could I get a copy of this?” 

…

Sunday morning. Sun streams in through the window, bathing the bedroom in a wash of yellow light. Cars honk on the street outside as dozens of locals make their morning commutes. Shane wakes to the light, crossing an arm over her eyes as she yawns. It’s bright. Too bright. She flips over onto back, knocking into something – no, someone – in her bed as she adjusts to her surroundings. 

The room is familiar, her own. 

“Fuck,” she groans. She made a rule a few months ago to go anywhere but back to her own place. It made things easier, much less messy – figuratively and literally. Shane wouldn’t have to worry about women getting attached and she could disappear without consequence. She’s always been good at that. 

“Well good morning,” the woman mumbles, turning to face Shane. She’s pretty, they always are. Her eyes are brown, doe-like, her chin-length red hair splayed out on the pillows, her bangs hanging just above her long, fluttering lashes. 

Shane smiles briefly before pushing herself up and out of the bed. She can’t linger here with this woman even if she might want to. Anyway, she couldn’t really remember where they met – The Planet? No, that was Thursday night. The club, maybe? A memory washes over her, being left in the bathroom stall by that nameless blonde. She needed to get off, to soothe her bruised ego? Maybe, but Shane wouldn’t admit that to anyone out loud. Rejection is uncomfortable, it doesn’t happen to her often. 

“Yeah, good morning,” Shane replies, crossing the room to slip on a t-shirt. She checks herself in the mirror, ruffling her hair until it settles in a way she likes. She turns back to the woman, whose name she couldn’t remember, who’s now sitting up in her bed, the covers slipping down her nude chest. God, Shane could easily give it all up and dive right back into those sheets. She bites the inside of her lip, holding herself to where she stands near the window. “I, uh, forgot I have a couple of clients to get to today.” It’s a lie. She plans on keeping the shop closed today, one of the perks to owning her own salon. In all honesty Shane doesn’t have any plans. 

“Oh.” The woman sighs, nodding. She’s clearly disappointed. Shane looks away when she rolls out from under the covers, fully nude, quickly dressing in her outfit from last night. When she sees the ‘Kit Porter’ branded t-shirt, it all comes flooding back. The alluring eyes that met her as she left the bathroom, the beckoning finger she gave this woman, and the way she could barely make out the road on the drive home, what with this woman all over her. Shane was shameless, she’d have fucked this woman right in the middle of the club, but she’d already been turned down once. Which is how they ended up here, in Shane’s room. 

“Do you need a ride?” Shane asks, raising an eyebrow. 

The woman shakes her head. “No, I’m good. I just, uh, here –” she bends over to pick her bag up off the floor, pulling out a pen. She pulls the cap off and closes the space between her and Shane in a few small steps. Shane chuckles, shaking her head, women never cease to amaze her. She loves them, loves this game of push and pull. I want you, but I’m going to hope you chase me. But Shane doesn’t chase, she doesn’t need to. 

She doesn’t object when the woman takes her hand and flips it over, writing a string of numbers on her palm. The woman smirks, rolling Shane’s hand into a fist and kissing it when she’s finished. “Call me, okay?” 

“Okay,” Shane replies, swerving when the woman comes in for a kiss. The woman laughs and pulls away. Shane watches as she saunters out of the room and out the front door. 

She wonders where she’ll go and if they’ll ever see each other again. Los Angeles, despite its size, is somehow incredibly small. She’d see her again, Shane knows it, and she hopes the woman won’t be upset when they run into one another months from now, when she realizes that Shane never called. 

It’s not her fault, it’s just the way Shane’s wired. 

She yawns, shrugging her shoulders, and swipes her phone from the dresser dialing a familiar number. 

“I can’t believe it!” Alice laughs, tossing her head back. 

Tina slides into the booth, her hands wrapped around a tall cappuccino. She raises an eyebrow, looking between Alice and Shane. 

“Believe what?” she asks. 

Helena leans in, reaching for an almond croissant sitting on the plate in the center of the table. The Planet is where the girls ‘break bread’, debriefing their nights and latest escapades. Though, sometimes, Shane would prefer to keep things a bit closer to her chest, especially the way they’ve blown up the incident of the night prior back at the club. 

“Shane was left high and dry at SheBar last night,” Helena says between bites.

Tina laughs. “Losing your power, Shane?” 

Shane shakes her head. “We were interrupted, she got spooked, no big deal.” She shrugs and sits back against the booth, sinking down into the leather seat. 

“Just admit it, Shane,” Alice pokes. “This girl had a moment of clarity and didn’t want to fuck you!” 

“What does it matter?” Bette interjects, lifting her arm from around Tina’s shoulders to interrupt. “It’s not like she went home alone.” A smile creeps onto Bette’s lips, feeling smug as she picks at the crumbs of a muffin. 

Shane shoots her a look. She was certain no one saw her leave with her redhead accomplice. Shane should’ve known nothing gets past Bette. She’s always been hyper observant. 

Alice scoffs, rolling her eyes in disbelief. “I’d say I’m surprised, but I should learn to expect nothing less from you, Shane.” 

Max looks up from his computer for the first time since they all gathered at the table. “Fuck, Shane, I just finished updating the site.” 

This elicits a confused look from the entire group, the taunts towards Shane finally ceasing. 

“The site?” Shane asks, thankful for the attention off of her for a few seconds. 

Alice and Max share a look. 

“I’m having Max put the chart online, you know, make it more…interactive.” 

“The chart?” Tina repeats. “The chart from your apartment?” 

“Our Chart,” Max clarifies. He flips his laptop around to showcase the website to the table. There’s a spindling web of lines connecting various names together. Everyone at the table recognizes their own names, following their own little universes of connection. Max taps on his own name to demonstrate, his cosmo filled with two lines, one to Jenny and another to a name Shane didn’t recognize. 

“Alice, this is ridiculous,” Bette says, directing Max back to the mainpage. “These are the intimate details of people’s sex lives.” 

“And they love it!” Alice defends. 

Shane leans back in her seat. It didn’t matter to her. She couldn’t really understand the obsession with the chart in the first place, when Alice first drafted it. She remembers being in her apartment the day Alice created it, snapping a photo of her. She remembers seeing her own name circled in red ink, her web taking up near half of the whiteboard. She didn’t care. Shane never makes it a point to keep track of her sexual conquests, she simply enjoys getting off when and where she can, with who she can. The human connection. The body of a woman – the way it feels, the way they taste, the warmth of skin against skin. 

“Listen, all I know is that we’ve got just over a thousand hits and the site has only been up for a couple of days.” 

“A thousand?” Helena echoes Max’s statement. He nods. 

“Well shit, Al,” Shane chuckles, taking a sip of her coffee. “To Our Chart.” She raises her glass and Alice smiles proudly, knocking their mugs together.

[purpled-royalty]

Birthday gift for @kalolasfantasyworld 🤍! Love these two.

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

“you look like you could use a hug.”

thank you to @thru00thepages22 for this prompt!! enjoy some George x Blakely <3

Word count: 962

Blakely was staring. Brow furrowed, he sat, frowning, at his desk, drumming the tip of his pen incessantly against the edge of the table. Since the moment he'd first laid eyes on George that morning, he'd been unable to look away, tracking her every move with keen attention. Dark circles ran rings beneath her eyes, and she was on what was at least her third cup of coffee. Even more disturbingly, she was distracted. If there was one thing George Aarons never was, it was distracted - she was the best, rolling out messages with such focus and rapidity that none of the Americans had ever quite been able to catch up. But in the last ten minutes, he had watched her lose track four times, tearing the sheet from her typewriter with a sigh of frustration every time she made a mistake.

Yesterday's mission hadn't been good. It hadn't exactly been bad - they'd seen much worse, taken much greater blows than the four planes they'd lost the previous afternoon. As far as Blakely knew, George hadn't even known any of the lost crews, all of whom had been replacements - a group she seemed to make a pointed effort to avoid. Yet there she was, clunking away clumsily at the keys, appearing utterly miserable.

It was almost startling how much it bothered him, so when she got up he made to follow, trailing a few metres behind her as she crossed the floor towards the kitchen, empty mug in hand. Reaching her just as George was about to make another cup of coffee, he held out a tentative hand, scarcely grazing her arm. "Think that's probably enough for one day, huh?" Everett spoke softly, gently prying the cup from her as she looked up at him with a frown.

"S'only my second one," George protested, although she made no physical effort to stop him.

"Uh-huh, well, that's definitely not true," He shrugged, leaning back against the countertop. "So?"

Sighing, she threw up her hands in surrender. "So what?"

"You gonna make me work for it, Aarons? You're fucking up all your work - and I'm saying this from a place of love, but you look like shit."

George sucked in a long, deep breath, and a spark of panic shot through Blakely as it suddenly appeared as though she were about to burst out crying, bottom lip pulled taut between her teeth, eyes welling up with tears. "Ssshit, no-no, hey-" Pushing himself away from the counter, Everett stepped forward, swiftly bridging the gap between them, his hands on her shoulders as he tried to meet her gaze.

She groaned frustratedly, wiping away her tears with such force that her hands left faint, pink marks on the flesh of her cheeks. "Jesus Christ. Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"I dunno... nicely."

Releasing a huff of laughter, he gently squeezed her shoulder. "You want me to stop being nice? That's a new one."

"Shut up," George tittered slightly, shaking her head as she gave his chest a kindly shove. But the moment her amusement subsided, her expression dulled again, and a deep frown creased Blakely's expression.

"Ok, seriously. You gotta give me somethin' here, honey," He sighed.

Looking up at him, she shrugged. "It's just... tomorrow's gonna be one year since Curt died... And I slept like shit, and I'm tired, alright?"

For a moment it was silent, the air suddenly hanging so thick between them that George felt like suffocating. When she'd awoken from the few hours of sleep she'd managed to find last night, Frankie had been in bed beside her, a wordless understanding of precisely what was happening. All she could think about was the moment she'd found out Curt was dead, looping it over and over in her head - she could still hear the beeps of Morse code, could remember so vividly the split second she realised what the message was spelling out, the report falling to her before anyone else even had a clue.

Wordlessly, Blakely stepped forward, closing the gap as his arms wrapped around her, pulling her into his chest. Without hesitating, George reached her arms around his back, cheek resting against his front, his hand against her hair softly holding her in place. She took a deep, steady breath, inhaling the scent of his cologne as his thumb traced back and forth across her back.

"Does it ever feel weird to you?" She asked after a while, voice hoarse and muffled against the fabric of his shirt. "That we're like this, when he was your friend."

"No," Everett uttered, without so much as a pause to think it over. She felt him shake his head, his chin brushing against her hair. "He'd kick my ass if he thought I'd let you be alone."

George chuckled. "Yeah... you're probably right."

"Always am," He nodded, squirming as she pinched him in the side as a silent reply. Letting out a laugh, he pulled back just far enough to look down at her face, sweeping a few stray strands of golden hair out of the way. "Y'know what I think?"

"I'm sure I'm about to find out," She teased.

"I think we should get outta here - take the day. Tomorrow too."

George's brow arched in question. "You want me to skive?"

"I'm just guessing at what that means - but yes."

She snorted, tilting her head to rest her chin against his chest as she looked up at him. Leaning down to meet her, Blakely briefly touched his nose to hers before pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. As he met her gaze once more, a smile was beginning to curl her lip, that glint he always loved returning to her eye.

"Fuck it. Let's go."

"Whatever you say, dear."

[nova1516]

A flock of eagles

(—but eagles don’t fly in flocks?? sh sh shh, these eagles do now!)

A silly little project I was working on! These are all Next Gen-Nozel kiddos!

Credits!

Adrius, Acier II(middle front), Argent, and Adeline belong to me ✨

Heinry, Noureen, and Natalia belong to @kalolasfantasyworld 💕

Acier II, Adalyn, and Alcina belong to @funky-sea-cryptid 💖

Freya belongs to @purpled-royalty 💜

Hunter and Jackie were designed by @cringeyvanillamilk 💞

[nightskyfoxyy]

Storytime at the Genoa House

[starogeorgina]

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬

Warning: Swearing

Pairing: Helena Targaryen × OC

1.04

To celebrate the betrothal between yourself and Cregan Stark, your older cousin Gerold Royce threw one of the finest feats Runestone had seen in years. The halls were vibrating with an electrical charge while fine wine and various delicious-smelling foods were brought out, but your favorite part of the night was reuniting with your former lady in waiting, who was due to give birth within the next moon. As she tells you about her experiences of pregnancy, your mind continues to go back to Helaena, and you wonder if she has anyone to share these moments with within the Red Keep.

As the hours turn late, most of the lords and ladies retreat for the night. You are sitting with a handful of knights who are off for the night when you notice the perplexed look on Jacaerys face while he speaks with Lady Waynwood, an older lady of the court who was known for her sharp words. Concerned, you excuse yourself and go over to him. Linking your arm with his, you ask, “Can you walk me back to my chambers? It’s getting late, and we need to get up early tomorrow.”

Jace raises his brow, surprised but nodding. You say goodnight to the few drunken fools that remain in the hall before you begin to walk back. One of your protectors lingers far enough back so he’s not intrusive in your conversation.

“Did Lady Waynwood say something ill-mannered?”

“No, uh, she says she knew Queen Aemma well. Lady Wayneood said I remind her of my grandmother, that I have a similar softness to what she did.”

“Princess Daella and Queen Aemma are remembered fondly in the Vale, and I’ve heard many times how both mother and daughter were extremely kindhearted. I vaguely recall my own grandmother saying how all the ladies at court would dote on the then princess Aemma; everyone loved her,” you say, offering him a sympathetic smile. You wondered how many times in Jacaerys life he’s been told he looks like someone from his Targayren bloodline. “After Queen Aemma gave birth to Princess Rhaenyra, everyone in the Vale gathered for one of the largest feats that has ever taken place in Runestone, before many of the lords and ladies traveled to King's Landing to join in on the formal celebrations.”

“That I could imagine,” he says. “Although I’m surprised to hear you say it so casually.”

“How so?”

“You don’t like my mother.”

Hearing those words come from Jace’s mouth makes your stomach drop. “That’s not true... I just dislike being around anyone who loves my father so much.”

You value your friendship with Jacaerys far too much to risk losing it by telling him the real reasons you couldn’t take Rhaenyra. It was no secret in the Vale that your father would go to King's Landing to give gifts to the realm's delight and would read her poetry, and they would sneak off during the hour of the owl to brothels together, all while your mother was still alive. Your father would laugh and call her a bronze bitch and say fucking sheep would be a better option than her. They had no respect for anyone in house Royce, but you would never tell Jace that.

—

Before you even step foot on the sandy beaches of Dragonstone, you feel immediately homesick, as a sense of regret lingers inside you. In Runestone, you had friends; you had kin from your mother's side who adored you. You were respected and made to feel wanted and loved. And yet, you found yourself back on the island, trying to fill the void of emptiness of not having a parent. Despite all the horrid rumors of your father cheating on your mother, you still wanted him to care for you.

Jacaerys notices your mood dropping and slows his pace, so he’s walking beside you as you make your way along the beach to meet the knights who are waiting to escort you back into the castle walls.

“They adore you, you know?” Jace says. “You’ve never mentioned how they call you the dragon of the Vale before... I wonder if the Starks will call you the dragon of the north once you’re married.”

Forcing a smile, you nod, “Perhaps they will... When I’m married to Lord Stark, can you watch over Runestone for me? I don’t want to leave my people defenseless, as nothing keeps those who would cause them harm at bay quite like a dragon.”

Jace links his arm with yours, then presses a kiss to the side of your head. “You maintain that you care about nothing, but I see right through it. And I know you care about your family on Dragonstone, even if you don’t like us much.”

“Whatever you say, my prince.”

—

As Jacaerys fills his mother in on his experience in Runestone and how highly the people spoke of the late Queen Aemma, you notice Lucerys eyes keep flickering between the plate of food in front of him and yourself.

Eventually, in a quiet voice, Lucerys asks. “What’s it like to ride a wild dragon?”

“Very painful since he’s not saddled,” you say jokingly, but feel bad when Luke looks disappointed by your answer. The younger boy usually seems scared of you, so it was something that he made the effort to speak with you first. “The only dragon I've only ever ridden on is the cannibal, so I don’t know any different.”

“Lies.”

Hearing your father’s voice, you roll your eyes and pretend you didn’t hear him. “I don’t really remember a time when I wasn’t bonded with my dragon; I first saw him when he flew to Runestone to feed on sheep.”

Luke’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “Weren’t you terrified?”

“Not that I can remember,” you smile, remembering the memory fondly. “My cousin Gerold's lady wife had joined him on a hunting party, so I could go as well. I was being taught how to shoot an arrow when the cannibal swooped down and began picking sheep from a nearby farm with his claws and tossing them into the air to burn.”

“I took you flying on Caraxes when you were a baby, just as I did Baela and Rhaena,” your father scoffs.

“How touching.” Since this was the first time he had mentioned that he took you flying on his own dragon, you doubted it ever happened.

You try to continue telling Luke how you claimed your dragon, but your father cuts in again, “Rhea put a stop to it.”

“Don’t mention my mother!”

“I think it’s time for everyone to retreat for the evening,” Rhaenyra says sternly. Even she seems surprised by your father's urge to provoke you.

Luke holds his hand out for Joffrey to take, “Come on, Joffrey. Time for bed.”

You smile sadly at the young boys; a perfectly fine evening and meal were ruined. When you stand to leave, Rhaenyra stands up as well; she twists the ring on her finger. “Vissera, I’m going to have dresses fitted tomorrow; maybe you’d like to join me. We can sample different fabrics for your engagement and wedding dresses.”

The princess's offer was a kind one, but a knot twists in your stomach, and you're not sure why. Perhaps it was because you felt disingenuous about befriending her. “Yes, that would be lovely. Thank you for the offer.”

—

“I’ve never seen you in a dress before. I bet you’ll look beautiful,” Helaena muses, then abruptly sits up right. “Not that you don’t usually.”

A small smile pulls on your lips. “Thank you, princess.”

Comfortable moments of silence pass with nothing but the sounds of dragons squealing in the distance and the sound of waves crashing nearby as you and Helaena embrace each other in the small cave, sitting in front of a small fire.

Helaena’s lips meet the side of your neck before she lets out a soft sigh, “The sun is starting to rise. I’ll need to return soon to wake my children and then join my mother in breaking fast.”

“Is the queen excited to have another grandchild?” You ask, using Alicent’s official title so as not to offend Helaena.

“She’s happy I’m performing my duty and giving Aegon another heir.” She stares into the flames of the now-dead fire for a few moments before speaking again. “I hope it’s another boy, so that I don’t need to lay with him again for some time.”

Not knowing what to say, you kiss your silver-haired princess on the forehead. It was easy for you to forget how much Helaena has been through by being pressured into having a baby so young because she hardly ever speaks about how much it affects her. Your heart bleeds for her. Helaena was far too kind and innocent; you’d do anything to take her pain away.

[kalolasart]

How are they almost the same people? And their dynamics are so similar as well.

Screenshot from Vox Machina, which is my new hyperfixation

Percy and Vex are my new OTP from this show 💕

Also Vex's brother Vax is basically Gabriel in looks and character 😂

#vox machina bc edits

[bobfloydsbabe]

arranged marriage au | rhett abbott x oc | sneak peek

Author's Note: This story it set at the turn of the 20th century, somewhere around 1899-1901. I haven't quite decided yet, but it's important context for this story. Women did not have a lot of autonomy at this time, which is reflected in Rhett and Lou's conversation in this sneak peek. Is the timeline right in a historical context? Probably not, but it's fiction, so I can do what I want. Enjoy!

Release Date: Unclear

“Louisa.”

“What?” Her face is all hard lines and thundering eyes. Something twists inside him at the sight of her ire.

“I don’t want to own you,” he says and steps closer, dirt crunching under his worn boots. “Your life is your own, even after we marry.”

She shakes her head, tears pooling in her dark eyes, making his chest feel tight. He yearns to move even closer, wrap his arms around her, and assure her that he doesn’t mean her any harm. Despite not having a choice, he wants to marry her. He wants to build a life and have a family with her.

He’s halfway in love with her already. He hopes one day she’ll love him too.

“You say that now,” she says, tears in her voice as she speaks. “But then I’ll argue or refuse to listen, and you’ll remind me you’re the man and you get the final say. You may not want to, but you will own me.”

Now he shakes his head, disbelief coursing through his veins. It’s the most preposterous thing he’s ever heard, and he hates that she thinks that way about him.

“Louisa,” he breathes, her name like a prayer on his lips as he closes the distance between them. “You belong to you. Not your father or to me or to anyone, and I’ll do what I can to prove it to you.”

She meets his gaze, bottom lip wobbling as she tries to hold back sobs. “You swear?”

He nods, lifts his hands and tentatively cups her cheeks. “I swear.”

Tension hangs heavy in the air between them, and without thinking, Rhett bends his head down towards hers. His heart thunders in his chest as their breaths mix, and heat blooms under his palms as Louisa’s cheeks grow red.

Their lips are a hair’s breadth from touching when a horse neighs, making her pull back and Rhett’s hands fall back at his side.

“I should get you home.”

He offers the crook of his arm, and she weaves her hand into it, letting him lead her to their horses. Their boots drag across the dirt, and Rhett helps her up on Sally, the reddish brown mare that belongs to his almost wife.

He settles on Blazer, and they begin the ride back to the Kinney Ranch.

“Rhett?”

If her scent didn’t linger, he might’ve forgotten she was even there. He looks to his right and finds her watching him, maybe even with a smile at the corner of her mouth.

“The house is lovely,” she tells him, tone shy and withdrawn for the first time since he’s known her.

likes are nice, but reblogs and comments are golden

TAGLIST: @bobgasm, @attapullman, @cherrycola27, @bradshawsbaby, @kmc1989, @keyrani