#and under all that face paint and prosthetics too

[moobrvoobl-moobmoob-oobmpoobroom]

no because Ariana Greenblatt shows the emotion on Ahsoka’s face so perfectly in every single scene: the confusion when she first looks around and sees the war, the frustration and anger when she’s arguing with Anakin, the pain when she holds the wounded clone’s hand. I don’t know, there’s just something so perfectly Ahsoka about it, she’s just a magnificent actress

[girlboypersonthingy]

i’ve never really asked before but i just read all of your sally face stuff and BFBSVAVAX so i was thinking….

(preferably afab) reader coming home tired and needy, walking in sal and their shared room sighing as they rip off their work shirt and stare at sal who’s practicing a new song. waiting for him to put his guitar aside they fall dramatically into his lap and start COVERING his mask in kisses, stopping suddenly to ask for a real kiss:3

just some fluffy stuff pls it’s been a LONGGGG few weeks:D

A D O R A B L E ! ! ! This week has def been a ‘I want to come home to Sal and collapse in his arms’ type of week for me like oof 😔…I’m sorry this took me a while to get to, I hope you’re alright. Hopefully you’re doing better by now and if not, plz feel free to message me and we can chat 🖤 thanks for requesting and enjoy!

Notes: fem!reader, this is really fucking silly I’m so sorry…

TW: a bit suggestive, lots of swearing, making out, spit/drool, boobs lol 18+ only!!!

Sal x reader- Hard Day 🌙

(Imagine Sal practicing this song while you read this 🖤)

“Fuuuuuuckkkk…” You groan loudly as you drag your feet through the doorway of the house, stomping loudly on each step of the stairs. As you near the door way of your bedroom, you see the light is on, the music is loud and you can hear Sal playing his guitar along to it, occasionally hitting the wrong note. As you step across the threshold of the room, you let loose a big breath of air as you slouch over a bit, catching Sal’s attention for a moment.

“Hey babe!” He shouts over the music while continuing with his playing. He was sat up on the corner of the bed, guitar in his lap, slouched over with his prosthetic still on. You couldn’t help but watch his fingers on the strings for a moment, black painted nails moving oh so smooth but still making little mistakes. “Hi…I’m so tired.” You say but it falls on deaf ears. Sal is just so close to nailing this one part of the song, he’s been trying for two and half hours now and he’s too close to quit.

Disappointed and a bit annoyed, you quickly shed your shirt and continue giving Sal a cranky but needy glare, only covered by a bra up top. “Sal!!!” You finally shout, making Sal look up, making his hands freeze for a moment. He quickly leans over to turn the music off, his blue hair swaying over his shoulders as he moves. “I’m sorry…uh hey…babe. You okay?” Just by the tone of his voice, the way he’s hesitating and stopping to lick his dry lips under his mask, you can tell he’s equally flustered and excited by your lack of clothes.

“No…I’m not…” You pout for a moment, sighing as you rub your aching temples. He sets his guitar aside and puts one hand out towards you, offering it as a comforting gesture. You gladly accept, grabbing his hand then quickly approaching him and sitting in his lap. “This week…was the fucking worst!” You cry out dramatically, turning to the side so he can hold you bridal style. “I just wanna stay home with you all day, every day.” Sal chuckles softly, one arm tucked up under your knees, the other cradling your back while his hand ruffles the hair on the nape of your neck. “Me too, babe. Me too…” He replies before he gently nuzzles his prosthetic up against your face, making kissy noises under it.

After enough of his cuddly kisses, you decided to return the favor, covering his mask in kisses. You pepper kisses everywhere, all over his prosthetic very quick and soft. Until finally, you pause and place a long kiss on the lips of his prosthetic, humming as a smile grows on your lips. “You know what would really make me feel better…?” You really drag out the words, using your best flirty voice as your finger traces the side of his mask. “What?” He quickly clears his throat, your faces only inches apart. His rapid breathing echos inside his prosthetic as his hand slides up to fully cradle your head.

“Kiss me for real…please?” Your flirty tone turns to a very soft, comforting type of tone, smiling up at him as you watch him blink down at you. There’s a pause, he hesitates for a moment before gulping nervously. Although you’ve seen his face many times before, mouth to mouth kisses were hard to come by with Sal. With a shaky hand, he grabs your own hand and guides it to the back of his head, gesturing for you to unclip his prosthetic for him. He was far too nervous to do it himself, he figured he’d let you set the pace.

To his surprise, you’re pretty quick with the buckles and the mask falls into your lap within seconds. Immediately, your lips meet, Sal uses that hand on the back of your head to push you into him further. As your arms snake around his neck, hugging him close to your nearly bare chest, his other hand is gently kneading your hip as you move your lips against his. The kiss began to rapidly pick up pace, his tongue occasionally licking along your bottom lip.

It was always a delightful shock when your lips or tongue would meet his teeth accidentally where they peek through his cheek and the corner of his mouth, now was no exception. Any time this happens, Sal usually shies away and assumes it grosses you out, especially when he knows he’s probably drooling. Expecting this would happen, you move one hand to the back of his head, matching the grasp he has on you to keep him engaged in the kiss.

A low moan comes from him as he deepens the kiss along with you, tilting his head and running his tongue along your own. Suddenly, clumsily, Sal grabs ahold of your legs and slowly lays back on the bed, pulling you along with him, trying to keep his lips on yours. He fails at this, your lips parting for a moment, him awkwardly shifting under you until he pulls you up closer to his bright red and slightly sweaty face. You can’t help but laugh, not at him, he’s just too cute when he gets like this,

A chuckle rumbles from his chest as he holds you closer, squeezing you tightly against him as he places a final kiss on your nose. “Are you feeling better?” He quickly leans back in for a few more tender lip kisses, smiling brightly as he pulls back. “Yes, sooooo much better. You know what would really make me happy though, Sally?” Your hands run slowly through his long, blue hair as he hums in response. “Hm?”

“Let’s do all of that again…but in a nice hot shower~”

Cue Sal getting a gruesome bloody nose as he glances down at your barely covered chest and thinks about having a shower with you. 🥴🖤

[lady-griffin]

Did Ekko Make Jinx’s Prosthetic Finger?

I’m curious what other people think, but I don’t think Jinx made her prosthetic finger. The only thing about it that screams JINX to me is the painted smiley face. That’s it.

It’s far too practical and simple of a design to be made by Jinx; seriously, if you remove the smiley face, you wouldn’t be able to tell this was her finger.

By comparison - Fishbones was a complete and total surprise to me when I first watched Arcane and yet I didn't question his existence for a single second; because of course Jinx made a giant shark bazooka. That makes perfect sense given everything we know about her.

With this finger though, I’m like... maybe she made it under these specific circumstances, but even then, I doubt it, because she’s so committed to her aesthetic.

She consistently goes all out, even when there's no reason to.

She individually painted each of her moth bombs, you know the things designed for the sole purpose of exploding. And yet, I'm supposed to believe she made her own finger and only drew a smiley face on it?! Really?!

Are we sure we’re talking about Jinx?

Jinx’s two guns from S1 are her most practical and aesthetically simple designs and even they have more flourish, I mean one’s pink for fuck’s sake.

So, if Jinx didn’t make her own finger, then who did?

Ekko!!

He's the only one who makes sense to me.

Now maybe this is just my delusional Timebomb wishing heart, it's certainly a possibility, but looking over the Firelights’ hoverboards, accessories, and home, Jinx’s prosthetic finger doesn’t look out of place.

There’s no perfect match to Jinx's finger; but overall, the design itself, plus the color and the specific way the metal looks worn and is clearly repurposed – looks very Ekko/Firelights to me.

To be clear, beaten up or repurposed anything (especially metal) is not an Ekko only thing, not by a long shot, as it’s found throughout Zaun.

It is Zaun.

Still, the way Ekko and Jinx’s aesthetics come through their designs and inventions, usually makes them very identifiable and this finger looks far more like Ekko, than it does Jinx. Even the color says Ekko to me.

Neither one exclusively uses a single color/type of metal, but Jinx tends to favor metals that are grey, while Ekko favors more bronze or coppery colored metals - like Jinx's finger.

The color is by no means a smoking gun, it’s just this bit of extra oddness.

It already felt super odd the design is so simple and practical but on top of that - she also didn't opt for her usual grey metals? Even in the smallest of details, this finger doesn’t feel like Jinx; and Arcane is so specific and detail oriented with its designs.

Now, obviously Ekko is not the only other inventor in Zaun, but I can't see Jinx using something just anyone made, let alone a new body part. Maybe she would for practicality’s sake, but as soon as she could, she would either customize it to her own aesthetic or just make her own.

She's so specific and intentional with her everything, so why would she make an exception for her new finger; something that's going to be attached to her body and used by her for a decently long time.

The fact this design seems to be Jinx's permanent new finger makes me assume whoever made it, did a good enough job that it met Jinx’s standards and they're important enough to her she was content to just draw a cute little smiley face on it and nothing more.

And right now, I only see Ekko being that person.

Also, I just think it would be really cute and sweet. Seriously, think about it –

Jinx: Look at what my boyfriend made me! *Gives you the middle finger*

[celtigxr]

THE PINK DREAD - CH. 27 (Masterlist)

Chapter Summary: Jace and Valeana go for a horseback ride in the Godswood. What could possibly go wrong? Word Count: 4492 CHAPTER WARNINGS: menstruation blood, menstruation talk

Series tags: Aemond x Plus size!OfC, Aegon x Plus size!OfC, Celtigar!ofc, Plot with Smut, mdni 18+, Aemond End Game, Angst, Comedy, The Dragons Don't Dance, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers.

Credits: Lace Banner by Aquazero, pearl divider by Pommecita

Notes: Tryin' to to be upset over the fact that I didn't get as much reception from last week's chapter than I thought it was.... But's fine. I'm totally fine [says in a Ross voice]. lmao, but for real, thank you to those that did. Aside from Aemond motorboating dem tiddies, it was the first ~real~ smut scene that wasn't a dream sequence, so I hope it was enjoyable.

“You’re quiet,” Jace pointed out at last, now that they were sufficiently down the walking trail in the Godswood. 

“Sorry,” Valeana apologized, looking down at her hands as they clutched the reins. “Had a long night of fretful sleep.” 

Not a lie, but a half truth. The aftermath of her tryst with Aegon had left her more indecisive than she previously was. Outside of Aemond’s love affair with her breasts that night, what she had with Aegon was her first sexual experience. The first time she had seen male genitalia (that close, anyway, and on a grown man), the first time she had ever touched a man in any intimate capacity. Hells, she had never even kissed anyone, and yet she had a cock in her hand, twitching and hard until it painted her fingers with pearlescent seed. 

His member was intimidating at first glance, though she had no basis of comparison. Were all men of that size? He was heavy in her hand, her fingers just barely wrapped around the width of it. How is something like that supposed to fit anywhere in her body? Yet despite the intimidating size, it filled her with a primal need, something inborn in every living thing that needs to procreate. Had Valeana not started on her monthly bleed that very night, things might have progressed to a point of no return. Perhaps the Mother did that on purpose. 

Her face heated up, mostly from embarrassment. With her legs straddling his thigh, hips rutting into the rough fabric of his breeches, she had nearly forgotten about it. That was the closest thing to man touching her privy parts, and contact that wasn’t her own conscious fingers, was a new sensation entirely. The roughness assaulting her pearl, while at the same time being prodded internally by the twig of cotton she had inserted before bed. It had never occurred to Valeana that she was even allowed to be sexually aroused while she was bleeding, or if her body was even capable of it. But Aegon lit the match and it was immediately a forest fire.

 It was more intense than those moments she satisfied herself, but then again maybe it was the added stimuli. Unfortunately, she had not reached her peak that night. Her anxiety got the best of her, and she was concentrating too hard on Aegon’s pleasure than her own. When she reached her bedquarters, she desperately wanted to finish herself off, but she was forced to pull out the sopping wet cotton and replace it, effectively killing the mood. She had leaked right through it, decorating her lenin shorts in pink streaks of blood. Surely she bled on Aegon’s thigh as well, and that thought brought her immense dread. 

Her middle cramped, as if reacting to her musings. Valeana ran a hand over her stomach when Jace wasn’t looking, and tried to keep her face neutral.

“Sorry to hear that,” he glanced over at her, giving her a once over.

She was wearing riding clothes, the first time in weeks where she was in breeches. Her prosthetic was well hidden under the leather, and she was wearing a pair of tall riding boots that lace all the way above her knee. Her cream coloured tunic was tucked into her breeches, but she wore a long leather vest with a belt that fit snugly around her waist. 

Valeana raised an eyebrow at his staring, “Are you undressing me with your eyes, Jacaerys?”

He gave a short laugh, galled at her boldness. With a tinge of pink on his cheeks, he turned and took a glance at their shadow. Ser Steffon, riding an intimidating red stallion many yards away. He was too far away to hear a single word, but his eyes never strayed away from them. 

“No–” He fumbled with his words, then cleared his throat. “It’s just… I’ve never seen you in breeches. I’m surprised you’re riding astride. Don’t most young ladies prefer side saddle?”

“No one prefers side saddle, Jace,” she adjusted herself on the speckled white and grey mare, aptly named Snowflake. “It is uncomfortable, and easier to fall off if you do not keep balance.”

Jace nodded, “I suppose. But doesn’t riding astride… cause your maidenhead to break?” Valeana turned to him with a look of disbelief, and he quickly tried to save himself. “I only bring it up, because I’ve heard it can be painful–”

“Do not worry about my maidenhead, Jace,” Valeana shook her head, laughing despite herself. “I’ve been riding for years now; my gelding back home is a racing horse, and I take him jumping frequently. If it were to break, it would have happened already.” 

Shaking his head with a smile that betrayed his amusement, Jace conceded, “Fine. I shall not think about your maidenhead any longer.” 

Valeana raised an eyebrow at him, wondering if she should take the bait. A mischievous little smirk coiled across her face, “Until you have to.” 

Jace’s head whipped in her direction, which caused her to cackle. His expression was priceless; brown eyes wide, face a deep rouge, mouth agape.

“Val-Valeana!” His grin slowly widened at her gall.

“Sorry! Sorry, my Prince, I could not resist,” Val took in a deep breath to steady herself. She blamed Aegon for her sudden crassness. 

Jace peered at her, his grin pulling into his own fox-like smirk, “Is this your way of saying you wish to marry me, Valeana?” She scoffed at that, but he went on. “It is a rather churlish way to propose to me, but I am not against it.”

“Do not get ahead of yourself, Jacaerys,” she rolled her eyes. “I am merely pulling your leg.” 

He hummed, leaning his head back to shake out the curls from his eyes. Jace went pensive for a moment, the sound of hooves on dirt and birds chirping filled the gap. “I have been hearing a lot of things about you.”

Valeana gave a slow blink of irritation, not because of him, but because she is constantly being told a new addition to her reputation almost every day. It was getting tiresome. 

“Things that are not flattering,” he goes on, his lips in a pout. “Things that I do not think people will want for a future Queen of Westeros.”

She sent him a quick glare. Her teeth dug into her tongue. Like your mothers reputation? It was quite hypocritical if Rhaenyra rejected Valeana as a daughter-by-law due to an unsound reputation, given the one she obtained. One she got at an age younger than Val. 

“Rejecting me already, Jace?” She wasn’t entirely sure why she was so angry about it, it wasn’t like she was taking this courtship seriously. Jace complicated her life, even if he was in all actuality, the safest choice out of the three. Her mind briefly thought about what Daemon said the other night about her mother settling for her father.

“No,” he turned to her, his brows knitting a bit in concern over her sudden change of demeanor. “My family is no stranger to conjecture and rumour. My mother has been subjected to it her whole life. I just wish to hear your side of the story, so if it comes to it, I will be able to defend you and your honour.” 

His answer honestly surprised her. Her mouth popped open and shut like a fish, at a complete loss for words, “That’s… That is kind of you, Jace.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Only because the only impression I have of you isn’t a positive one.”

He shrugged, smiling a bit, “I am a man now.”

Valeana gave him a once over, “Oh, look at that. So you are.” 

The prince chuckled. His teeth ran over his bottom lip to contain it, so he could resume their more serious discussion. “So, tell me, what is true, and what isn’t?”

“That depends on what you’ve heard,” she sighed, idly stroking Snowflake’s mane. 

“You ran all over the castle in the dead of night, completely inebriated.”

She sucked in her lips; the word ‘guilty’ written across her forehead.

“Are you serious?”

“I was not alone,” she waved him off. “It was me, Lady Wylla and Lady Ellyn.”

“You got drunk with Cregan’s sister, and Lord Borros’ daughter?”

“They’re very good drinking companions.” 

Jace shook his head, though out of amusement, not disappointment. “Alright. How about a tryst with Aegon in a closet?”

Heat bloomed at her cheeks, “He was trying to flee my sister and pulled me into a closet as his captive. He was a nuisance, that is all. And because I know this will fill you with joy, I beat him with a broomstick afterwards.” 

Jace grins broadly, “You are right, that does fill me with joy.” He then clears his throat, “And your courtship with him… is that conjecture too, or…?

Images of Aegon’s cock in her palm flashed in her mind. 

“No,” she forced herself to say. “That… is true.” 

He stared at her, face full of incredulity, “I was hoping that to be untrue. Valeana, why on earth would you be courting Aegon, of all people? He has not changed, at all.”

“It is a long and complicated story,” she sighed, “One I am tired of explaining.” 

Jace was unconvinced, though. No matter the reasons, whether they were rational or not, he was determined to convince her otherwise. 

“You remember how Aemond was the only one amongst us that did not have a dragon?”

Valeana stared at him for a beat, “...Yes. And you lot teased him relentlessly for it.”

“Aegon the most, if you recall,” Jace briefly glanced at her before returning his eyes to the path. “One day during our training at the Pit, Aegon told him that he–we had a dragon for him. Luke brought forth a pig with wings strapped to his back, and they called it The Pink Dread. Later on, I heard from Aegon that Aemond tried to claim a dragon in the pit, and nearly got burned alive for it.” 

Her brow was furrowed as she digested what he told her, “He never told me about that.” Aemond rarely told her about any of the cruelties that his brother and nephews inflicted on him, but she was usually aware. A lot of the times it happened right in front of her, or she would spot it from a distance. But he’d never let her defend him, as much as she wanted to, as much as she tried. However, she felt that would have been something he would tell her about, given that he made an attempt at claiming a dragon.

“Probably because Aegon jested that you were his pig mount. Called you  Sowleana Pigletar,” Jace chanced a look at her, and regretted it when he did. Valeana was looking down, her face pulled into a full frown, and the creases in between her brows were deep. “Valeana, I had little part of it. I was not even aware of it until the day of.”

“But you were complicit,” She shot back, not bothering to look at him. Instead she gently spurred her horse so she was trotting forward to get ahead of him. It all made sense now: the oinking from Aegon and Lucerys, Aemond’s avoidance of her during the last weeks of their friendship. “You realize that had it not been for the three of you, Aemond would not have pushed me? You drove him into hating me.” 

“Valeana– you cannot blame others for what Aemond did to you,” he spurred his horse, trying to catch up with her. “He made the choice. He chose his pride over his friendship.” 

It was true, but she scoffed at it nonetheless, wanting to hear none of it. She spurred her horse more, but just so she could pull the reins and have the mare cut Jace off on the trail, forcing him to look at her. 

“You never answered my question at the ball. Would you be trying this hard if I was still fat?”

“Valeana, I–”

“You wouldn’t,” she answered for him. “You know you wouldn’t. You have no interest in who I am beyond my body – just like every other man. And the only reason you are trying is because you realize that pleasing your mother is now more worth it than it would have been if I still looked the way I did when we were children. But you now have obstacles that you did not think would be in your way. 

“Jace, we are simply not compatible. I do not wish to be with a man who only loves me with conditions, because he was told he has to by his mum.” 

They both stared at each other, she with challenge and pain in her eyes, and he with guilt and a crumbling resolve. Finally, with a taut jaw, Jace nodded, conceding to her words. 

“You are right. You are right… I do not want that for myself either.” 

Valeana nodded, then inhaled deeply to sigh, “I know you aren’t the same person, Jacaerys. And you must believe me when I say that neither is Aegon, as much as he appears to be.”

Jace nodded, despite the fact he was not willing to accept what she said was true. “Is he what you want? Is he going to love you without conditions?”

“I do not know,” she surprises herself by admitting the truth. “And… I don’t know what I want.”

A small smile crept on his face, “Aemond.”

“What?”

“You want Aemond. And he wants you… I’ve seen how he looks at you. All of the damn court sees how he looks at you.”

Biting her lip, she looks down at her fingers. She didn’t want to talk about Aemond, at least not with Jace. Another complicated matter that she didn’t even know how to explain to herself, let alone to others. 

“And what do you want, Jace?” She changes the direction of the conversation, pulling the reins of her horse to move back toward the trail, before Ser Steffon could catch up with them. “Mayhaps I can help point you in the right direction.” 

He considers her offer while resuming his trot alongside her, “My position makes it so that I do not have much of a choice. I have accepted my fate of simply being a piece on the chessboard, and I know that my future bride will have to be one that would benefit my mother’s side, should there be… contention after my grandfather’s death.” 

She eyed him as he talked. The impending possibility of a war of succession was a taboo topic amongst the courtiers. Everyone thought about it, but were afraid to bring it up. Valeana loathed the topic of war above all else, and tried to avoid thinking of the possibility. What she dreaded most was having to choose a side, when she was so hopefully in the middle. 

“I want peace. That’s really all I want… And–and,” His cheeks reddened a bit as he struggled to find his words. “There is only one who could ensure that will be the case. One woman in the entire Seven Kingdoms that is capable of helping me achieve that goal.” 

A slow smile crept on Valeana, instantly knowing exactly who he was referring to. “Have you talked to her since you arrived?”

“I tried to,” he admitted. “She is…”

“An enduring mystery,” She finished for him.

“Indeed.” 

“Have you thought about this for a while?”

“Since we were children…” He trailed off, suddenly bashful. “I’ve never thought she was strange, just simply… unique. Always thought that we would be betrothed; it made the most political sense, uniting our families. But the proposition was thwarted in a Small Council meeting… I had assumed that Alicent wanted her to wed Aegon. Yet that did not happen.” 

“It would be the King’s doing that they are not already,” Valeana added. “Though I fear that the Hand and the Queen will try to make it happen.” 

“Unless you choose Aegon,” Jace smirked jokingly. 

“Unless Helaena chooses you,” she mocked back, earning her a sheepish smile as he looked away. 

“You should talk to her, Jace. See if she is interested in a courtship… Because I agree with you. Alicent would not want to make a natural enemy out of her daughter, and Otto wants at least one of his grandchildren to be a king or queen. Helaena is smart enough to understand that.”

He nods, “I say she is the wisest of us all. The problem is approaching her… It is difficult to understand her mind, as much as I wish to.” 

Valeana thinks for a moment, tilting her head up to look up at the branches that blocked the sun. “Bring her milkweed.” 

Jace tilted his head at her like a confused puppy, “Bring her a weed?”

She nodded, “Milkweed. It is what Monarch butterflies use to lay their eggs, and their caterpillars will live upon a leaf until it is entirely devoured. Then they will cocoon themselves to be transformed. She will love it, especially if there are eggs already attached to it. And, I dare say she will understand the symbolism immediately. Monarch butterflies, Jace. It’s practically a proposal.”

He pouted his lips as he considered it, “Alright. I trust your wisdom… But I am going to need help identifying milkweed.” 

Val snorted, “Of course you do.” 

The rest of the walk fell into casual chatter. Along the way, Valeana pointed out the milkweed, even so much as getting off her horse and pointing out what the eggs looked like. When he asked how she knew, she just told them she actually paid attention to Helaena when talked about her insects. 

“Men need to listen to women more often; you’ll learn a thing or two.” 

After a while, they had made a lap around the forest, and were not far from the gate. Looking over her shoulder, Valeana could make out Ser Steffon, still a distance away, and has not dawdled too far. 

“That knight of yours has a stare that could burn down castles,” Jace remarked after looking over at the knight. He gave a tentative wave, but was not given a response back. 

“Yes, Ser Steffon is terrifying. Let’s outrun him.”

“What? Are you serious?” 

“We’re almost there, and I’m sure Snowflake would like to do something other than trot along a path. Isn’t that right, girl?” She gave the animal a pat on her neck, receiving a little snort in return. 

“Alright, but if he pulls a sword on me, I am hiding behind you.” 

“That’s fair,” she turns to look at Steffon, and even from a distance she can see that he’s starting to grow suspicious; they keep on looking over at him. “On the count of three… One…two…”

“Three!” Jace kicked his horse and darted off. Valeana shouted after him after doing the same. The two stared to speed along the train, hooves kicking up dirt and thumping loudly, causing birds to fly away. Ser Steffon did not take long to react though, and was soon cutting through the forest shouting for them to stop. 

“I’m going to beat you, princeling,” Val shouted as she galloped next to him. 

“We’ll see about that, Celtigar! Last one to the Heart Tree owes the winner two golden dragons!”

She guffawed, “You’re on!”

Valeana leaned forward, spurring her horse faster and getting ahead of him by a foot. Every once in a while, they had to duck and move around branches that would flick in their faces, or rocks that were in the way. Eventually, Val veered off course when the pathway got too narrow to have them both racing side by side. Steffon was also closing in behind them, yelling at his charge for not staying on the path. Too exhilarated to listen, Valeana continued her pursuit of victory. Despite the uneven terrain, she was able to get ahead of the two men, until a fallen tree blocked her way. Undeterred, she urged Snowflake forward and the mare took no hesitancy in leaping over the log. 

The jump was high, the leap was far, the motion made Valeana’s body lift in the air and fall squarely on the saddle. It was like a gut punch when her bottom landed on the hard back of the horse. She let out a loud groan, and immediately folded in on herself, hands grasping at her pelvis as Snowflake slowed down to a trot before stopping. 

“Lady Valeana!” Steffon raced over to her, followed by Jace. 

“Valeana!” The prince got to her side before the knight had. “Valeana? Are you alright?” 

As the dull ache started to subsided, she lifted her head to glare at Jace, “I’m fine.” 

“Lady Valeana, did you break anything? Should I fetch a maester?” The knight trotted to a stop on the other side of her horse, his hand reaching out to grasp her shoulder. 

“I broke… something,” Valeana sat up straighter, huffing away a strand of her hair that fell out of her braid. “But I am fine, Ser Steffon.”

The two men eyed her curiously. The younger glanced down to where Val’s hands balled in front of the apex of her thighs, and that was when he started to chuckle uncontrollably. 

“What did I tell you?”

She growled and glared at him, “Ser Steffon, Jace is making fun of me! Unhorse him!” 

Valeana was in desperate need of a bath and the moment she had returned to her family’s apartments, she demanded one to be made. Her thighs were sore, though not quite as much as her core, or her pride. She still can’t believe she broke her maidenhead while horseback riding. How incredibly cliche. And with Jacaerys as witness, no less! 

Her family’s wing was blessedly empty when Rosy prepared her bath. She stripped off her leathers one by one, starting with her boots, so she could free her left leg. All the while, she told Rosy of what happened, and the maid did everything in her power to conceal her amusement. 

The bath was infused with lavender oil, raspberry leaves, and dried chamomile flower buds. As predicted, her cotton plug was sopping wet once again, though she wagered it was from the fractured hymen. At least it would save her from a painful first-coupling, but she couldn’t help the feeling that she was worth less now. Afterall, it was drilled into the heads of all gently bred girls that their worth is determined by their virginity, and the proof of that was a piece of stretched skin tucked deep inside her.

And now that was gone. 

When Rosy left, Valeana submerged herself in the tub and sat in the water for a while. She did not know how long “a while” was, but when she surfaced, she was still alone, and the sun was lowered sufficiently enough for the sky to have an orange and purple ombre. 

Minutes later, after Rosy returned to help her out of the tub, Valeana stuffed herself with more cotton before redressing into a much more comfortable dress. A simple burgundy thing, with long sleeves and a belt loosely hanging at her hip. While she strapped in her leg again, Rosy plaited her wet hair after she wrung it free of any more water.

Once all cleaned and dressed, Valeana found herself far too exhausted to even leave the apartment. Instead, she trailed into her shared bedroom, closed the door, and slumped to the end of her bed before collapsing in it nose first. Grumbling in the covers, she moved around to make herself comfortable, resting on her cheek as she stared at the balcony doors…. That were slightly ajar.

Beyond the window she could spot something blue sitting on the stone bench that was situated in the center of the modestly sized balcony. Blinking and furrowing her brow, Valeana pushes herself to get out of her bed despite the protests of her exhausted limbs. As soon as she opened up the door, she instantly recognized the bouquet of blue and purple hydrangeas; the branches were tied with a piece of white lace. 

Val slowly approached it cautiously, as if it were a trap.

 And it was. 

“You take incredibly long baths.”

She jumped, yelped, and twirled around ready to give the fight of her life, but when she saw who it was, she growled, “Seven Hells, Aemond.” 

He hummed his laugh, the curve of his smile dimpling his cheeks, effectively melting her into the floor. Oh, what she would do to see that smile every hour of every day. Aemond was sitting on the balustrade railing, one leg hanging off the end, the other laying straight while he rested his back against the castle wall, away from the window’s view. When she took a step towards him, he pulled himself off and met her halfway with a few short strides. 

“How did you even get up here?” She cranes her neck to look up at him. 

His hands reached out to run it down the length of her thick, long braid, still damp but not enough to soak the fabric of her dress. “I climbed.” 

“You climbed?” Val looked over the railing, and then back at him, “Aemond, we are four stories above ground! You could have fallen.” 

“Heights do not frighten me,” he gave a shrug, still toying with her braid. “It was worth it… Though I could have used your hair to help me onto the balcony.” He gave the plait a playful tug, making her swat at his hand. He silently laughed again before moving his hands to cup her face and pull her close. Aemond then pressed his nose against the crown of her head and inhaled deeply. Like muscle memory, her arms grabbed onto his sides to fill the gap, laying her cheek on his chest while her arms circled his waist. 

“I’m sorry I did not come to you sooner,” he said while his hand smoothed down her hair, and rested his chin upon her head. Aemond’s arms caged her shoulders, enveloping her into his embrace with a sense of desperation. “I was detained at every corner.”

“It’s alright,” she spoke to his chest, inhaling his scent deeply, trying to wash her mind of her transgressions. Valeana suddenly felt incredibly guilty, now with Aemond in her arms. Part of her thought he was a dream, a trick of her mind, a delusion she came up with at the Ball in her inebriated state. But he was here, on her balcony, risking his life on a steep climb to give her a bouquet of hydrangeas. And here she was, willfully debauched by his brother… with a broken maidenhead, thanks to a horse. And Jacaerys.

“You’re here now,” she buried her face into his chest, trying to hide her shame. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT SNEAK PEAK

“Lord Borros visited me today, proposing a betrothal between you and his daughter, Lady Maris,” His father began, surprising Aemond little as he had suspected this topic would come up eventually .  Aemond’s tongue rolled around in his mouth, his eye not meeting the King’s. “What did you tell him?”

Notes: This one and the next may be a little on the short, but I promise you, it's worth it, and the next two chapters are heavy on Aemond. I honestly think the longest chapter I have so far is actually 29. So, couple of things: I'll be posting the cast list hopefully soon. There will be two, one of the main cast, and one of the side cast. Another is I decided that I'm going to wait until TPD is over before posting Aegon's spinoff, because of how much I've been dragging my feet with these chapters. I need to focus on catching up to my original 10+ chapters ahead I had before.

Tag: @queen-of-elves, @keylin1730, @anakilusmos, @weepingfashionwritingplaid, @sugutoad, @desireangel, @t0biasparabatai

( if you wish to be tagged for this story, just give me a reply! )

Please do not re post, redistribute or plagiarize my work. The only other place this story is posted on is ao3 under the same username.

[fizzigigsimmer]

PLEASE I'm begging you tell us a little bit about how the photoshoot goes

“Harrington?” Billy stares at Jonathan in disbelief. He can’t have heard that right. It was disconcerting enough to find out that Steve was involved with the calendar at all - Jonathan is the only one that Billy has kept up with from high school, but he knows by adjacency that Byers still talks to others. Then again his roots were always deeper in Harrington’s world than Billy’s were, even when it made little sense. If Jonathan had swooped Billy’s ex, they certainly wouldn’t be in a position for Byers to ask him favors.

It’s been more than two decades, so on some level Billy understands why Jonathan hadn’t thought to mention that ‘hey, I’m putting together a holiday calendar for a charity campaign for three legged kittens rescued from fires. I’ve asked a few personal friends to model, but I could really use your star power’ meant that Billy was volunteering to spend an afternoon pretending to dom Steve Harrington in front of at least five of their old classmates. But considering how the non-relationship between he and Steve ended, he’d have thought to at least run the concept by himself if he were in Jonathan’s shoes, before letting that name roll off his tongue over coffee as if it were no big deal.

Then again, maybe Jonathan knows exactly what he’s doing. Because with a whole company to run Billy’s not exactly searching for things to fill his time with, and yet he cleared his schedule just for the chance to see Harrington up close and personal in what can only be described as the worlds barest attempt at a costume. Apparently a pair of skintight pleather pants and a string of Christmas lights around the neck is all that’s needed to convey the idea of a Christmas elf. Admittedly the prosthetic ears are a nice touch, but still. Jonathan babbles about a series of mini storylines involving sexy santas and their naughty submissives, each culminating in what basically translates to soft porn. Nothing you couldn’t see on a movie poster or the cover of a romance novel, but something to get the people excited.

Billy hears none of it. All he sees is Steve’s skin, bathed in LED glow illuminating the dark trail of hair down his chest. Fuck. He can’t even swallow for a moment, his mouth is so dry.

“Harrington?” He finds himself repeating later, this time softer and with far more imbued questions, to the man himself.

“Hargrove.” Steve straightens from his slouch in the chair as Billy approaches, and that doesn’t mean anything, like at all, but something inside Billy still thrills at it. Wants to walk away just to call his name again and see him rise to attention. “Hey. Small world huh?”

Steve sounds nervous, but Billy relaxes at the obvious attempt at small talk that Steve makes. This is run of the mill polite awkwardness, and not any of the other things it could have been.

“Yeah. Jonathan roped you into this too huh?”

“Jason actually. You remember him? He was the year below us.” Steve says, the golden bell on the end of his striped hat jingling as his fingers alternately tug and tuck at the long strands of hair falling out from under it. Skittish. It’s criminal how good he looks in a derpy hat with soft brown hair framing his face. Stepping up to the edge of the chair he’s sitting in Billy can see the dark eyeliner and the shadow painted on his eyes to make them pop. Whatever Jonathan is paying the makeup artist he needs to double it, because the innocence of those big bambi eyes looking up at him. Fuck me. Like Harrington needed any help in that department. Like the memory of Steve staring up at him from the gymnasium floor isn’t seared into Billy’s hindbrain already.

Steve coughs a little in the back of his throat and shifts in his seat. It’s the minutest little movement but Billy’s gaze latches onto it like a circling bird of prey. He suddenly becomes cognizant of their position. Stood toe to toe with the legs of his chair, Billy is looming over Harrington, blocking both his escape and his vision but Steve isn’t signaling his discomfort or telling him to move. He’s attempting conversation despite the obvious nerves, prolonging the interaction.

“Yeah I remember him. Played for the JV team right?”

Billy wants Steve nervous and afraid - because in this moment he kinda wants Steve’s everything - but not like that. He doesn’t want Steve afraid to talk to him, over some misconception that he’s still hung up on high school bullshit, so he gives ground and lowers himself into the empty seat beside Steve to watch the way his chest falls with the first release of relieved breath before legs, followed by the rest of him, angle themselves toward Billy and he rewards Billy’s good memory with small smile.

“Yeah. We were roommates for a while in college before he and Eddie got together. You know -”

“Yeah I know Munson. Hand me that, will you?” Billy leans against the arm of his chair and into Steve’s space to interject, because you’d be hard pressed to find a former student of Hawkins High school who didn’t remember the resident dealer, and because Steve’s shoulders are tightening with each word along with his grip on the chair arms; because he’s talking to Billy and it’s obviously uncomfortable, and Billy just wants him to stop thinking about it. Steve blinks as he stutters to a stop in surprise, before his gaze follows the direction Billy indicated with the nod of his head and finds the pitcher of water on a little tray with drinking cups that some PA has set upon the coffee table.

“Oh! Yeah sure.” Steve smiles, relaxing now that he knows what Billy wants. And it shouldn’t be possible - all Billy wanted to do was give him a reason not to think - but he’s watching Harrington’s pupils widen and the tension in shoulders unwind just that easy, like his whole body is grateful for this new purpose, as he leans forward, bending that beautiful body over the coffee table, fixing Billy a drink like that’s just the natural conclusion to the realization that he has a thirst.

“It’s crazy how hot it gets under studio lights right?” He’s talking, smiling invitingly as he turns to offer Billy the glass of water in his hand and shares some memory involving a theater and the kids he apparently teaches. And it’s not that Billy isn’t listening to every word coming out of those perfect lips. It’s just that there is no room to process them right now in the face of Steve Harrington unfurling like a butterfly out of a cocoon, finally at ease in Billy’s presence, all because Billy gave him an order to follow.

[alextydaisuda123]

They sit like a trio without their prosthetics and talk about how they got their injuries. And you, too, are probably wondering how they got them. And here's how it was:

Noise, as was mentioned about him, he lost his hands at work. One of the workers gave him not a fake bomb, but a real one. He didn’t have time to react and the bomb tore his hands to hell. How then was the face not damaged? Well, he was wearing “protection,” a gas mask, and the goggles he needed for the scene. Because of this, he was absent from work until he moved into the tower. With all his work and care, his beloved Noisette helped him.

Vigilante, as was also mentioned, lost an eye at work. At night, he was chasing a petty criminal who robbed an explosives store, who shot him in the eye. Because of this, he managed to hide, but Vigilante never caught up with him and was left with nothing.

The situation with Pepperman is more interesting, since I didn’t even say the reason why he injured his legs. One day, he came to an iron bridge that went over the railway tracks to paint a landscape. It would seem that everything is fine, but that was not the case. It started to rain, and at that time an airship flew to this bridge and began throwing bombs on the bridge itself and on those who were there. Since the bridge was very old, it began to break down. Plus it was slippery, so Pepperman couldn’t resist and fell down. He miraculously survived, but to his misfortune, a large iron slab of the bridge fell on his feet, sticking into the ground. Despite his muscular strength, he was unable to remove the piece of iron. Due to the situation around him, no one noticed him and he lay there under the rubble of the bridge for 3 days, until Pizzahead found him, exhausted and wet under a three-day downpour, and cut off his legs completely in order to carry him to the tower.

Such are the things. Oh wait, that's not all. It's funny, but all these situations were connected into one single chain of history, thanks to one person who traumatized these three.

[kassandras-one-braincell]

I need to ramble into the void about Arcane season 2 act 2 because I'm a fucking wreck, but genuinely overjoyed too. Mostly sobbing, though. There is a smidge of LoL lore under the cut too but that's just me being autistic.

This show is genius. I have so many thoughts. The Glorious Evolution is at the forefront of most of them.

Viktor's commune is so cleverly designed, and brings in different elements from the whole of Runeterra. The architecture is distinctly Ionian, the foliage is Ixtali, and the colour palette is Demacian but with the iridescence of the Arcane. It's such a brilliant design choice. And immortalising Skye as this symbol of curiosity and progress, the epitome of true scientific partnership, is beautiful. It's amazing to see Viktor becoming a fully fleshed-out character with a complex and appealing motive.

Speaking of, Singed???

Singed's experimentation finally makes sense. I was always hoping to see Orianna in Arcane, and this was the best possible outcome. A villain gains a motive, my first ever main has her lore integrated into the events of the show, and his little music box has so much more meaning. Every single character has a moral plight in this show. The gasp I gusped upon seeing that ballerina figurine literally woke my dad up.

Jayce, Piltover's face of progress, being the undoing of the commune is just poetic. I'm living for biblically accurate Jayce.

Vander made me ugly-cry at least three times. Making him into Warwick was the right choice. And the 2D animation of the bloodlust, replicating that in-game mechanic, was so good. That oil-painting-style flashback sequence with Vi and Powder and their mother was a bloody masterpiece. I'm really glad there was an act dedicated to him.

Mel. Fucking Mel. The Black Rose is one of the most interesting factions in LoL, and god, am I glad they kept Mel's arc going by intrinsically tying her into them. The integration of Noxian lore has been impeccable thus far. Ambessa explaining the three core values to Caitlyn was a lovely touch.

I'm glad Ambessa's right hand (forgot his name) Pantheon't bit the bullet, because his resemblance to a certain Targonian Aspect was starting to freak me out. Very curious where her arc is tending towards.

As soul-destroying as it was to see Isha's sacrifice, it was essential to Jinx's character arc. Sweet baby girl. She will live on happily in fix-it fics. I haven't cried this hard at a piece of media since the first season. Her innocent joy at having her hair dyed and braided like her big sister, and the montage in the Powder-like sketchy art style before she pulled the trigger on zap... They couldn't have written a more gut-wrenching sacrifice if they tried.

And finally, while it was contained within the more light-hearted episode of the Act, Sevika. I have no quarrel with the fuckass bob. She cannot catch a break, or keep a prosthetic together. But the payoff was getting to see her organic arm in its full thick, muscular glory. The calm before the storm. Happy thoughts.

1000/10, cannot wait for the final Act, as much as it will wound us all, probably.

[seiya234]

for @dril-cipher because this is your fucking fault. also @marypsue for giving this perfectly good ape anxiety.

-----

Ian looked around.

Well, this certainly wasn't his beautiful house, that was for certain.

It looked uncomfortably like one of the designs for Grauntie Carla's house that Worris did for MTM. He sat at a kitchen table that had clearly been handmade by someone who mostly knew what they were doing; the table had been sanded down and sealed, but the surface was still bumpy and uneven. The walls were dressed with plaid wallpaper and covered in pictures, paintings, taxidermied creatures both real and unreal, old bottles, and a Bobby Big Mouth Big Boi Big Bass that had been popular when his grandparents were alive. The rug underneath him was a t-shirt rug, but Ian never knew they could be made big enough to cover an entire room. There was a cup of coffee poured for him, in a cup that read "Eye miss you!"

Ian sighed. This place was practically crumbling under the weight of all the meaning.

"I am getting a little tired of the Symbolism Room," he muttered to himself.

"Have you considered that a plain, empty room is in and of itself also imbued with symbolism?"

Ian whipped around.

A cartoonishly tall man walked into the kitchen. He was dressed in all black- black jeans, black dress shirt, black belt with a small silver and turquoise buckle- save for the white priest's collar around his neck. He had hair just like Ian's, albeit curlier, bare feet, and-

"Antlers?" Ian asked. It was probably rude but he was getting really tired of the Dreams of Great Import so....

"A long story," the man said with a grin, sitting across from Ian at the table. He too had a mug, though his read "I'm horny!" He caught Ian looking at it and smiled wanly. "My wife loved puns, though to be honest this isn't a pun so much as a bad joke."

(past tense)

Ian took a drink of his coffee; it was aggressively mediocre. "Alright, can you tell me why I'm here, so we can resolve whatever emotional issue has come up again, and I can get back to my regularly scheduled nothingness?"

Ian's words didn't get the slightest rise out of the other man which was... concerning. He worked best when people were mad.

"Certainly. I'm here because you're scared."

"I'm scared of a lot of things, you're going to need to try harder than that."

The man paused to take a drink of his coffee, grimacing slightly at the taste, then leaned back in his chair. "I'm here because when you get into the groove for Mizar the Magnificent, everything feels right in a way you don't feel most other times. I'm here because sometimes you turn off your prosthetic because it feels... right to only have the one eye. I'm here because... despite everyone assuring you that Bill can't come back, that you can't bring him back, you know that's not true." Another drink. "It would just take you fifteen minutes, if that."

Ian felt the blood drain from his face, spread his hands on the table to keep them from shaking.

He hadn't told even Mira about the first two things.

"Congratulations," Ian managed to drawl, "you know my deepest, darkest fears. Have a fucking cookie." It took some effort but he pushed himself back from the table, got out of the chair. "I'm done with this little game, so snooze you later, hit the road Jack, GO-"

The antlered man held up a hand. It was wreathed in blue flame, like the fire from a room he tried not to think about, like Alcor's fire

(like MY fire)

like the fire he felt blazing in lieu of his implant.

"Who are you?" Ian asked.

"I'm Henry. Henry Pines."

"I- oh." Well that was all the wind out of his sails right there. "Okay, wasn't expecting you to actually just tell me that, I thought there would be at least another two pages of banter before we got there. Thanks?"

"Of course."

"Though that name means like, nothing to me."

"Ah. I should have k-"

Henry disappeared. Ian was still in the room.

A minute passed.

He drank his coffee, which was now getting cold and sludgy.

"Oh, sorry about that."

Ian jumped, again, and turned around to face Henry, who was still barefoot and all in black, but now had laundry hanging from his antlers. "Seriously, I know this narrative calls for jump scares, but can you try to stop that?"

"My apologies. I'm still being digested."

"Digested-" Ian paused.

The blue fire.

The antlers.

The girl told him about one night.

"You're... you're Paloma."

A flash of long dark hair and flowering antlers and back to the man in black. "Among many other names, but yes."

"So when you say digested..."

"Di-Alcor ate me."

"He what."

Henry very primly sniffed. "I can see how my phrasing can be taken as a reference to oral sex but could we please attend to the matter at hand?"

"Which is? I feel like we're wildly off track."

"Fair. More coffee?"

Ian held out his mug and Henry poured from a handmade pitcher that somehow managed to perfectly recreate the effect of googly eyes in clay.

They sat for a moment, and drank their coffee, which was slightly better this time.

Finally, Henry began. "M-Mira is pregnant."

"She is... Oh stars is this going to be a weird fatherhood talk? Because full disrespect, I've gotten one of these from Alcor and that was bad enough."

"What on God's green earth did Di- Alcor have to say to you about that?"

"I think he was trying to tell me I would do a good job, but he ended up damning me with faint praise for about fifteen minutes and then ghosted me so, a solid 3 out of 10, points for effort I guess."

Henry frowned. "I am a little concerned that my- that he hasn't learned any social graces or niceties in a thousand years, or has willfully forgotten them-"

"It's not that," and now Ian just felt... cold. Empty. "It's Bill. It's always about Bill, always fucking WILL BE-"

"Your hair is on fire," Henry calmly noted.

It didn't feel like it was. That probably wasn't a good sign.

"Every time I think we're done with him, done and gone, something comes up, and we have to have the same conversation over and over and OVER-"

Ian ran a hand through the flames on his head. "And the worse thing is, this time it's all me. I can't stop thinking about Bill. And the baby. And what that means. Maybe it means nothing. Or everything. And Bill, Bill is like an itch under my skin

(a fire)

and the more I itch it, the itchier I become, and I can't. Stop. Thinking. About Me. No. Shit, wait. Him. Do you See?"

The room was silent for a minute.

"I held a knife to her throat once," Ian finally managed to get out. "Infants, they're so, so much easier than adults. Their bodies are so soft and squishy." He looked at Henry, who had been patiently listening, hands folded, collar white as bone. "I have no idea why I'm telling you any of this."

"I have been told by my wife before that I have a 'secret telling kind of face.'"

"Sounds like something Mira would say."

Henry smiled wanly, but went on. "I'm here because I know what all of this feels like."

"I sincerely doubt that."

"No, honestly, I do. I thought you could use an ear and some advice-."

That old familiar feeling of squirrels eating his brain, of his heart stuttering in his chest, the great massive snarl barely contained in his skin up and out and "You have no idea what I need to keep inside of me."

Henry reached across the table, and laid a hand on Ian's arm and-

(ian was in a forest. it was dark and he tried to walk, tried to run, but he couldn't he was pushed down face first into the dirt from the feeling of anger, anger that at one point may have had a reason behind but that reason was long forgotten and now the anger was a self feeding, self regulating beast

ian was in a forest and he felt small, so horrifically small, so viscerally aware that there were things (people) that could hurt him, hurt him and even kill him, and nothing or no one in the forest would DO anything about it.

ian was in a forest and rising above him was a tree but haha not really that wasn't a tree that was a beast a monster a thing no it was

Death.)

-patted it gently.

Or at least, Henry would have if Ian was still sitting at the table, and not, say, with his back against the wall and his chair toppled to the side of the table.

"You're-"

"I was. He came from me. I birthed him."

Even shit scared, Ian must have given Henry a look, because Henry said "Metaphorically. I've never gotten the full details about how that works because to be perfectly honest, Alcor doesn't even know."

Henry got up, and walked around the table.

"Hand up?"

"You going to inflict yet another horrific mental scar on me?"

"No. And my apologies. I really need to be better about telling, not showing." Henry paused. "Or is it the other way around? I am a little embarrassed to admit that despite my occupation, I am not well versed in the mechanics of storytelling."

"It depends," Ian said, and let himself be hauled up.

"It's... hard," Henry began as they sat back at the table. "To have to control yourself. To feel like if you loosen that control for even one second, all hell will break loose. Especially when you have had all hell break loose before."

A dark look passed across Henry's face, and Ian remembered that there were limbs on those limbs in the forest.

A lot of them.

"I tried, for several years, to keep myself as tamped down as firmly as possible. And even before-" he waved a hand to indicate the antlers, the weird dreamscape symbolism bullshit room- "all of this, I kept fighting myself, every single day, to stay in control. Because control was all I had. Because control was the only thing that could save myself, could keep me from harming others."

"Okay, so what extremely traumatic life changing event happened to you that made you change your mind?"

"I won't bore you with the details, save to say I have never liked trophy hunters. But I realized in that time that my control.. it was brittle steel. It was weak from having to hold in so much, for so long, and then it shattered under stress."

"Okay, but most people don't have monsters tucked up in their souls."

"Fair but look. The point is, the power you have inside of you. It's not inherently good or bad- let me finish Ian Thomas Beale-"

(Ian's mouth audibly snapped shut)

"- it just is. Bill used his power for ill. Just because that power is there doesn't mean you have to use it. Or if you do, that it would be for ill."

"That's too much like temptation for me," Ian finally said, quietly.

"I know. I'm not saying you have to. Hell, I'm not even saying that this dream is going to magically cure you of your fears and control issues-"

"Because that would be too easy."

Henry nodded. "Oh of course. My apologies, I am all over the place today-"

"On account of being digested."

"Yes, lets go with that. No, I guess I just wanted to say, as trite as it sounds... try to relax."

"What if I hurt them?"

Henry rolled his eyes, which was a little incongruous with the impression Ian had gotten from him. "There is no universe where Ian Beale as he is now, would hurt Mira Ramachandran, or their baby. Honestly, you're more likely to hurt other people who hurt them, which probably is not great, but I am certainly not one to judge."

(so many limbs)

"I have literally been under tremendous stress my whole life, even before finding out about the past life murder triangle."

"Trust me, I know. But just... from one monster to another? It's okay to relax. It's okay to let that control loosen for a minute. The world won't end-"

"But it almost did. Twice. Maybe three times? It's hard for me to remember."

"But it didn't."

Ian... he must have looked as lost as he felt, because Henry smiled, sadly.

"I know you hear this from Mira, and from your friends, and even occasionally from Alcor, but I thought it would help to hear it from a stranger too."

Ian thought for a second.

"I think... it kind of did? Or maybe I'm just saying this to get out of this dream because I'm getting tired of talking. I don't know."

"You probably won't remember this dream up here-" Henry tapped his head. "-but you will here-" and he tapped his chest. "-and that's all that really matters to me."

"That's kind of corny."

"I was not a corny man when I was alive, let me indulge a little bit."

Henry leaned over, and gently kissed Ian on the forehead. "Keep her safe."

Ian realized, far too late, who he had been really, truly talking to this whole time, and it felt like his bowels were turning to water. But he managed to creak out an "Of course," before everything went dark.

---

The last few weeks had been hard for Mira, considering the massive amount of emotional labor she was doing for both her brother and her husband. Alcor was probably a lost cause at this point, but with Ian...

She sighed.

She understood, really, she did, but she was tired and-

"Hey."

She rolled over, to see Ian looking at her. "Hey back. You seem... relaxed?"

Ian smiled, and laid a hand on her stomach, which was still relatively flat.

"Yeah. I don't know I think... I think I've had my head up my ass for the last month, about all of this."

"You have."

"And I owe you an apology."

"Apology accepted if you can grab the peanut butter for me before I throw up."

"Of course."

Ian got up. He wasn't sure why it felt like the fire under his skin had died down, why it felt like he could handle his shit a little better today than even yesterday, but for once, he was not going to look this gift horse in the mouth.

[courier-roku]

Favorite Colour

Summary:

Everything about him reminds Solas of her

Or

Solas being weird about Rook because he pines Lavellan.

Tags under post:

The Lighthouse has a small office area connected to a bedroom of a particular member of the Veilguards, the small study has a doorless balcony, looking over the ever-changing sky and a view down at the Courtyard. Solas visited this part of the Lighthouse often, almost a habit in fact.

"Good Morning Fen."

As if on cue, a dark haired man dressed only in their purple sleeping robe entered, a hand over his mouth as he yawn, holding a mug in his other hand. The smell of faint floral aroma in the air as the man approached him.

Solas looked to the side, to the man's face especially. He is not used to put a face on Rook, now that they had revealed his face to the whole team. Even shocking Varric and the Scout.

The man, Rook looked older than his years. Handsome, yet drawn and haggard just like what Solas assumed if the man's father is in his 30s. His short dark hair is a fluffy mess, the slightly pointy ears almost covered by it, he just woken up after all. Faint red paint job streak across his face. There are visible dark spot, bags under his eyes, Rook has been giving it all to help him, and sleep is luxury he couldnt afford at times.

"Good Morning, Rook." Solas replied "Did you have a good night sleep? " The elf asked, more as a small talk. Rook leaned against the railing, resting his elbows as his lips touched the edge of the mug. His eyes looking out the horizon, cheeks slightly puffed as a smile formed above the edge of the ceramic after drinking. "I had never experienced something like that before, is that what dreamers experience in their sleep?" Rook asked, his voice coming out gruffly. "More or less, being in the Lighthouse might have effected your focus." Solas replied, Rook nodded in understanding. For the elf, this scene is all too familiar to him, green eyes bright as the Fade staring at him amazed, her cheeks would flush from being embarrassed for being childishly excited about dreaming lucidly.

Rook reacted mostly the same, yet in a calmer manner, it is more of the man's ego than anything, but he does seems genuinely grateful. Some mages think dreams arent the most comforting thing to look up to every night, Rook is the same as them.

"I do apologize, i didnt know you reacted strongly of my presence during your slumber." Rook let out a small chuckle, retracted the mug from his lips as he faced Solas "Countless dreams of demons, i would strike immediately given the chance." The man rubbed his thumbs gently on the side of mug "Thank you for restraining yourself then." When Rook away once again, Solas kept his gaze on the human-half elf to be exact, mind wandered but fixated on one thing.

Everything about Rook reminded him of her

When Rook and him are on bad terms at first, he didnt think there could be something between them, regardless if it is friendship or fondness towards the human.

Because he is so much like her.

At first it was the way the man in forced to use other than his blade, the way he slamed the greatsword and would kick the enemies as before recovering, It is a rusty move, but it is a learned one. She is always been a curious person, and so did he. He is a gentle soul, trying his best to save everyone, so did she.

The elf might have been reaching, but there is a a feeling in his gut. And it was proven when he finally put a face on the silver helmet. He saw someone else, yes- he looked like so much like his father, and Rook barely looked like her. But he is hers, because she said so.

She looked at her child, glossy eyes with visible wrinkles under it. Her prosthetic hand cupped the human's cheek, the same look Solas saw when she mourns the loss of her lover, guilt aching her very soul. The elf wished he could comfort her the way he wanted to, but who is he to her? Rook's strong reaction to him could be considered one of the few version she could have reacted to seeing him again. Rook spats, hate in his gaze, Rook only respected him because Varric told him to get along with Solas. To not further complicate things, but that is all in the past.

"Something wrong, Solas?"Solas blinked, he didnt realize he is out of it for a while, the elf noticed how Rook looked at him, red bright eyes staring at him worriedly.

"No matter da'len. Since i am here, would you like to discuss something?" Rook straighten his body, retracted from the railings "Wait, hold on lets talk in the courtyard, i want to show you something." Solas watched as Rook patted his shoulder before setting down his mug on the desk, quickly making his way to his bedroom.

The elf looked out the balcony, tint of green under the artificial sky. It is his favorite colour.

[randomwriteronline]

And what then.

Little pierrot that you are, sitting about with painted cheeks and an arm stuck in a brace. Your prosthetic calf and knee flare up under the dress, phantom pains sinking into them like needles.

And what then.

There's a scratched growl in your neck that you hide behind the singing of someone else, the woman you heard the song from's voice spilling from your red lips. Nobody knows that: you're just talented.

And what then.

Your hair has grown. You draped it over your eye stuck in-between open and closed, dampened its blinding white in black paint. Your sulfur iris sticks out less on your face with all the make-up.

And what then.

You make for a pretty girl. They like your voice, your singing, you smile. They like your flat chest and the way clothes fit upon it. They like everything about you when you sing, so they let you stay.

And what then.

You pick and keep the conversations that matter, store them away inside long socks, in the folds of your bra, in the pockets of skirts, between the tacks of your garterbelt. Useful things for others' ears.

And what then.

You slip your real voice in slowly. Gently. They like the growl. They like the low notes. They like how you can sound like a man. They put you in suits and gawk, awestruck, at the girl in a bowtie and tuxedo.

And what then.

The conditioning dies down too. They still like you. You still use it, when someone looks at you too intently, and not because you're such a cute chanteuse. It's not murder if others do it, after all.

And what then.

You aren't gentler. Oh, no. Some lessons can't get lost in pretty shoes. You need to be careful with heels, that's true - you never had piercing weapons before. You're more of a bludgeoning girl.

And what then.

When did you start? To think of yourself like that. When did you stop being their clean boy? No: that happened when they died. You're far from clean in anybody else's eyes. You only ever were in theirs.

And what then.

When did you start? You didn't even notice the disguise becoming your self. You slipped into it easily, naturally. Maybe you always were. You just never thought of wearing blue armor instead.

And what then.

Sometimes you hold your entire face in your hands to compress yourself into something small, to replicate the hold of much larger palms against you. Sometimes you curl up inside the basin you wash yourself in to pretend you're underneath the rolling waves. Sometimes you completely eliminate all sound around you; sometimes you slowly crush yourself within walls of noise.

And what then?

You thought of dyeing your hair red, but that's too morbid even for you. Even with white hair it would require too much blood, and you mustn't kill. Besides, it would clump up horribly when dried.

A little smile.

There is a sort of grim, relieved satisfaction in knowing you cannot bury yourself all on your own.

That you can change skin and body and mind and clothes, and yet still not your core.

That you're the Order's clean boy, sweet and horrifying, all the same.

And what then.

You shave the buzzcut under your curled up hair carefully, smooth the skirt of your dress, adjust your arm brace, look in the mirror.

Hopefully your friends will enjoy the music.

[rubirenegade]

Experimenting with costume designs I might have preffered to the excellent work they did for The Lords In Black :)

(LONG POST WARNING: UNNECESSARY RAMBLINGS AHEAD)

I did find them enjoyable as heck and the performances were damn excellent, just wanted to try to imagine how I might have brought them to the stage to satiate my own desire for THE TERRIFYING LORDS IN BLACK

Clarification: I have zero stage experience so PLEASE, give me comments and ideas of your own to fix potential issues of my design, if this got your imagination going ❤️

Goals:

1. Maybe less comfy outfits, but not overbearing.

2. Closer to the dolls' design

3. Still on a budget: no crazy heavy dragging full suits like Ursula or Pinsir puppeteering.

4. Creep factor increase, meaning: Less visible faces! One of the creepiest traits for the lords is that they have no clear faces, making them uncanny and disturbing, lovecraftian and unreachable. Think the hive controlled people in tgwdlm or the giant spotlight eyes in Black Friday, gazing at you from a paranormal abyss.

5. Keep the things I liked in the originals, especially the acting.

Details:

1. Pokey: Singular Voice, keeper of many faces

having a mask under the mask he is holding will give him a more uncanny phantom-of-the-opera vibes and less visible facial expressions, leaving much to be desired

Also: more masks to cover his jacket, as his voice speak from many mouths.

Other idea: a Jacket made of realistic skins he stiched from faces (a bit much though, probably)

2. Tinky: horns is all you need

Curt's facial expressions are the exception to this "no face" concept. Just too damn good not to leave it as is. Goats horns will do as an addition, simple. Maybe face paint to have dark circles around his eyes, giving him a sleepless maniac vibes, could help- making his crazy eye looks stand out.

3. Wiggly: glowing eyes in the dark

The one I changed the most. I want to really FEEL the Wiggly from Black Friday. I want the glowing eyes in the dark, the creepy tentacles, the lack of a visible mouth under them.

A pair of glowing goggles will do, or two lightweight flashlights on some flashy headgear would do.

The mouth prosthetic might be a bit much, I'll admit. Maybe a mask, Scar-From-Twisted style, could work here just as well (again, this is a relatively short screen tim).

And claw hands and feet, for him to open all his deliciously loud screaming presents :) not critical, but adds dangerous vibes to our Wrath Fuel Frendy-Wend

4. Blinky: Eye think it should work

Big mask. Eye shaped. Done. (Again, Scar-masking could also work, probably even better)

(I assume that if its too hard to sing in the mask, another cast member could sing from backstage)

5. Nibbly: YUM YUM

Probably the hardest for me, it's just so damn good and Kim fucking nailed this. The giant lolipop and cutesie outfit are AMAZING and just easily floor me.

So, I went with simple facepaint to give her a giant mouth. Might not work in practice, but if they gave her a see through blindfold colored in her skin tone it might make her eyes vanish, leaving only the mouth to focus on. Maybe the hat goes town to shade her eyes instead. Anything to bring the mouth to the front and have the eyes disappear (decided now Im gonna painted that next)

Other ideas: blood smeared into a giant smile (might make mouth seem smaller though) or a realisticly painted giant mouth nask (which will make Kim's bite lifeless, so not a fan of it)

Conclusion:

I love these characters and brought my own idea of how to put them forth on screen to keep their lovecraftian horror vibes while keeping it realustic viable for a Starkid production. Hoped you liked it!

SUMMON US ONCE!

SUMMON US TWICE!

YOU GAMBLE IT ON THE ROLE OF THE DICE!

[mrmxlemons]

Funeral Cake (1/5)

Art the Clown x gn!Reader / Original Character | AO3 Link

EXPLICIT 18+ ONLY, this is a black comedy but it will feature heavy content. I would recommend checking the tags more thoroughly in ao3 if you want a forewarning of future tags to avoid triggers/squicks. Warnings at the beginnings of the chapter are only for that specific chapter.

Chapter 1: Wash, Rinse, Repeat

summary: Sometimes the best way to handle murderous demon clowns is to not handle them at all.

warnings: gore and blood, magical lore elements, demon Art the Clown, stalking, implied murder, minor wound kissing, minor sickness

It was Halloween, and you were dressed up as a clown. Albeit a sad one.

The frown on your face was exaggerated with blue finger paint, a tear immortalized on your left cheek in the same shade. The ensemble was the cheapest you could find at Party City, complete with Pom-Poms and a jester hat that jingled with every motion.

Not your best work, but by far from your worst. It was, however, one of those investments that you had to wear all day just to break even how much you paid, which meant picking up your clothes from the laundromat in full makeup and costume.

You’d had to throw a couple of things back in to cycle for a few more minutes, somehow still not dry despite having gone through a total of three times now. It was quiet except for the tumble of clothes and the soft pop music crackling through the speakers from the local radio station. Outside you could hear the bus taking off, the sound overshadowed by the soft gurgles of the child staring at you from over it’s mother’s shoulder.

The baby didn’t seem deterred by your appearance in its ogling. There was still a minute left on the timer. Bored, you look back to the kid and muster your best silly face, feeling as though you owe it a performance for attentively watching you, only for the chubby cheeks to screw up before a wail came pouring out.

The mother turned and affixed you with a scalding stare for destroying the peace as she pat the child, cooing to calm it down. You had enough dignity to turn away, blushing under the waxy white painted across your cheeks.

Sheepishly you shuffled to the machine, hastily swiping out your socks and throwing them in the basket you’d lugged with. Should’ve just hung them up back at your apartment. Now you have to walk two blocks with a bag full of laundry dressed like a clown, feeling like a clown. Whatever.

The makeup hides the way you mope after being silently tongue lashed, but it doesn’t stop you from staring abashedly at your shoes as you jerk for the door. Even when you see another pair enter your vision, black and huge, you can’t manage to stop yourself. It’s too late.

You collide with someone, and it’s like running into a brick wall. You make a sound of fear and shock and nearly collapse, barely managing to stay on your feet. The person you run into is oddly silent. If it weren’t for the sound of the plastic garbage bag in their hand shifting you wouldn’t be sure if you touched someone else at all.

The jester hat was akimbo on your head, you righted it. Luckily nothing had spilled onto the floor, but the person you’d run into sported an expression of annoyance that rivaled the scorned mother. He was, however, ironically enough, also dressed like a clown—just a far more menacing, creepy, and fucked up looking one.

He was a lot more committed to the look, edging equal parts into sinister mime territory with a cap that finished where makeup couldn’t reach, and a suit that glimmered as though it were made of silk. If you weren’t standing close enough to see the grit of the threads appearing in the basic cross stitch you might’ve thought he was a professional.

Even the makeup was clean. The eyebrows were penciled in, thin and looping in a tall arch, and on the tip of the long prosthetic nose was a single black dot. All of the lines were starkly separated, strong cuts of black and white that framed the whites of dark, soulless eyes.

The heavy gaze pinned you in place. For all of your attempts of quickly leaving, getting out of dodge had seemingly completely escaped you in that moment. You felt weighted down by the heavy, oppressive stare and the snarl on tar-black lips. And the teeth—

You really, really didn’t want to have to think about the teeth. You really, really just wanted to get home.

The words tumble out of you. You’re not even sure where they came from. “Nice clown costume,” you say, “lot funnier than mine.”

You don’t find anything about his costume funny. Somehow you’re sure he can tell, with the way his eyebrows raise and lips start to slowly curl in a spine-chilling, too wide smile. His shoulder opens, and you can see the door behind him.

It feels like permission, and while you don’t necessarily need express permission from a complete stranger that you can leave, you feel better hastily sweeping past him with it.

You don’t look back.

Your cheeks are red. But you don’t look back, and you forget it all happened before the night is over.

—

You head back to the laundromat three days later. You’d gone out Halloween night and lost your hat, spilled a drink down the back of your shifty Halloween costume. So much for returning it.

Figured you’d at least try and wash it out before throwing it in the donation bin. But the laundromat was closed, there was caution tape all around the front door and the inside had been torn up. Weird, it hadn’t looked like it was about to undergo construction when you’d been there, what, less than a week ago?

You also didn’t remember the tiles being red, but you also had a really shit memory these days.

The nearest laundromat is another ten minute walk in the opposite direction. Not ideal but you’re already out, so you resign your fate and start making your way there.

The place is actually cheaper than your old mat of choice, but only by twenty five cents. And it’s completely empty. You push the change in and wait until the clothes start tumbling before you head for outside. Might go get a pack from the corner Bodega. Might just get some candy. You should really, really quit smoking.

You don’t make it to the door, and thankfully you don’t run into him like last time. You’re not sure your stomach could’ve handled it.

He stands in the doorway steadily dripping a thick, miasmas liquid that was so dark and pungent you nearly mistook it for something else entirely. Something that wasn’t very clearly blood.

The smell was unmistakable. You could taste it in the back of your throat—the tang of iron rolling gently down your esophagus until you choked on it.

And there is—there is so, so much of it. An ungodly amount. The black and white suit that you had only glimpsed before shines a bright and lurid red, staining the front and up the side in a wide gash. An arc. You almost forget if he had truly ever been a black and white thing, or if you had somehow missed this when you’d run into him the other day.

You hadn’t. You would’ve noticed this. Red splatter on his cheek, turning his hands a muddy brown. You wouldn’t have been able to run away from the smell without noticing, wouldn’t have been able to forget such a distinct, awful smile.

You hadn’t forgotten about running into him, no matter how hard you’d tried. He hadn’t done anything besides weird you out, but it was Halloween. Weird shit happened on Halloween. You chalked it down as that and got plastered, pushing him from your mind (even though he kept swinging back, a steady pendulum of obsession).

And he appears in front of you so suddenly, so starkly, that you almost wonder if you’d somehow summoned him. As though he was a figment of your imagination, a manifestation of your paranoia drenched in all the gory possibilities of what hid behind that horrifyingly exaggerated expression.

Panic courses through you like lightning, but instead of pushing you away it pushes you towards. Your feet move until you are right in front of him, hand outstretching.

“That’s a lot of blood, man.” Your voice is quiet when you ask, almost besides yourself, “Are you alright?”

You reach out against your better judgement, against any judgement, and touch a particularly deep bruising of crimson on the white costume. It looks clotted, and it doesn’t occur to you until the tacky, cold red touches your fingertips that all of this blood might not actually be his.

The realization makes you freeze. The sheer amount of blood on him would be enough to make any grown man go into shock, if it was, in fact, his blood. Yet here he stands, unshaken, with quiet and even breaths that make your own rapidly speeding heart rate feel like a drum in your ears.

Your eyes flicker up. The point of contact between you harrows at the hooded, knowing stare the clown gives you, the grotesque menagerie of black and white twisting into an inhuman smile with too-dark gums. His eyes are black, eclipsed of their humanity as they pin you into place, dead and starless. A void that rivals the night.

You stifle the urge to run as you withdraw your hand. Somehow you know as you look at him that if you turn and high tail it you’re going to enact a chain of events with consequences you’re not ready to consider. Set yourself up to be the perfect unwilling prey to a waiting, hungry hunter.

“Are you hurt?” More words spoken out of thin air, these far enough that you wouldn’t be sure you said them if the other party wasn’t mute.

The dead smile falls into a considering look, the eyebrows furrowing as if to say, do you think I’m hurt?

You know he’s not. You’re shocked when he nods his head in ascent that he is.

‘Liar’ sits on your tongue. Instead you ask him where, waiting on baited breath in and out of your mouth when he raises a single, bloodied finger.

It’s almost funny. No—it is funny, and you laugh. Just a little bit. Not enough to be mocking, but enough to show that hey, you get it. You get the joke.

Beneath a layer of dirt and grime on the very tip of one of his fingers is a small cut, barely big enough to qualify as a paper cut. When he holds it up there is blood beading along the seem, welling and waiting to get enough viscosity to pour down his finger. Become another inconsequential marking on the canvas of horror that is the rest of him.

The implication is nauseating. If that is truly the only place he is hurt then the rest of the enormous amount of blood painting him really isn’t his, and that warrants so much more concern than you’re willing to offer. Willing to consider.

“Does it hurt?” He doesn’t give you a response, he just pokes his finger up again, pouting in a way that reminds you of the clown face you’d worn no less than a couple of days before. “What, do you want me to kiss it better?”

You try to swallow the sick feeling even as you ask. Maybe you shouldn’t have, because the clown’s face splits into an enormous grin, surprised but happy, and then he nods.

Of course he doesn’t know what a rhetorical question is. But also, of course you aren’t going to be the one to tell him. If he wants you to kiss his finger you’re very damn well going to do it.

You look at his finger again. Gross doesn’t even begin to describe it. There is a definite red-brownish hue to the skin that looks too deeply caked on to be anything less than revolting, and a stain of similarly haunting color clings to the palm of his gloves.

Apprehension swirls in your tightening chest. You feel as though you are toeing a very precarious line between playful and something else by making him wait, but you can’t help but stare at your fate and wonder if there’s some other way.

You force steel into your spine and, without thinking more of it, you take his hand and press a firm, solid kiss to the cut. You can feel his blood and whatever else smearing across your lip, and before you can stop your tongue’s reaction it flickers out and catches the rest.

It tastes like rust, and rot.

Regret is the acid rearing in the back of your throat. You can hardly muster the ability to keep yourself from gagging as your face screws up in disgust. “All better?”

You can’t hide the expression from him, as hard as you might try to. Thankfully he seems positively tickled by the way you play along, his shoulders shaking and mouth falling open in silent glee.

The clown nods enthusiastically. You mimic the nod in a much less enthusiastic manner. Fuck quitting smoking, you really needed a cigarette now.

“Well, I’m just going to—to go around the corner, get a sandwich and some cigarettes.” You clear your throat, hiding the urge to gag. “Do you want anything?”

You don’t expect an answer, you only ask so that you can sidle past him without cause for alarm. The clown let’s you, though the cheerful countenance withers as he watches you curb around him.

Something painfully snags at your leg, the sound of plastic shifting pulling your eyes down to the large trash bag plopped nonchalantly at the clown’s side. Somehow you hadn’t noticed it before but now that you look you cannot unsee all the possibilities it’s presence infers.

Blood rolls off the large black boots and onto the linoleum floor. You can’t imagine why a clown would be carrying around a plastic bag brimming with things that poke sharply and rattle eerily when moved, and, to be frank, you don’t want to know whys or whats. You don’t want to know what’s in the bag or what caught on your pants.

You tug yourself free, unable to hide the terror lancing up through your tensed shoulders and stiff neck. Why would a clown covered in blood carry such a mysterious bag of things that poke and prod in the most painful way? Better not to know.

You hope, at least, that the acquiescence shines through your eyes. The clown tilts his head, the amusement slipping for a slippery and prying emotion you can’t pinpoint, but you can feel it trying to pin you in place.

“I’ll be back.” You say.

The pencil-thin eyebrows pinch together, the eyes glinting sharply. You’d better, they respond.

You walk past him, but it’s a farce. You’re not escaping. He’s letting you get away.

Why is he letting you get away?

He knows that you’re aware of what he’s done. Even if you managed to keep your cool well enough not to break down in front of him there is no way he couldn’t detect the apprehension rolling off of you. The pure, rancid fear.

You feel like a ghost, his eyes hollowing you out from behind until you’re out of sight. Then you’re leaning on the nearest brick wall, knees shaking so badly you nearly cave to the ground.

It takes every ounce of strength in you not to break down right there, to not start sprinting in any direction and never look back. To get the fuck away—wherever that may be. But even the minimal distance you’ve put between yourself and the clown brings no relief, and miles would do no different. Because the fact remains that you haven’t gotten away.

You have to go back. There’s no choice. If you don’t go back to him he’ll come to you, and with him entails an entirely new set of rules to abide by. Rules that he sets.

Rules to live by. Rules to die by.

You don’t walk to the closest station, even though you know it’s less than two blocks away. You don’t try and dial the police. You definitely don’t look behind you.

Somehow you’re sure that if you change the course of your actions because of him then he will suddenly become real. Right now he is just something you’re encountering, but the moment he enters your world, the moment you let this shift from a chance meeting to a confrontation, is the moment you go under the knife.

Fuck, this is so fucked. You couldn’t even think of eating a sandwich anymore. How long did you have before you had to get back to the laundromat? How long before he’d come looking for you?

A part of you fantasizes about this being something you’ve deluded yourself into thinking is real; the clown is really just a harmless, if a bit creepy man that doesn’t see a reason leaving Halloween to be the only day to dress up. Who knows, he could be a professional clown.

Its the same part of you that fantasizes telling the lady at the counter what you’ve seen. ‘There’s a clown covered in blood at Al’s Laundromat, he’s got a bag of tricks and I don’t think it’s the fun kind. Yeah, Al’s, right down the road.’

You ask for cigarettes instead, the long ones. It’s a lot easier to say that, a lot less words. Besides, you know he’s expecting you. You know what will happen if you don’t show up.

Your hands tremble as you light the tip against the struggling wind and make your way back to the laundromat. You want the life of the cigarette to be lackadaisical, to last you longer than the walk back to the laundromat, but you chase the buzz with quick steps. Antsy to get back.

Not eager. You don’t want to go back, but you don’t want to keep him waiting. It makes the buzz fade quicker than you’d like, the numbness slipping through your fingers before it can fully set into your spine.

You can see the sign of the laundromat gleaming in the sun, dim and dusty and likely filled with mosquitoes. People were walking by the murky panes of glass. None of them looked in. You almost prayed they would, just so you wouldn’t have to go inside. Likely they’d be better people than you and call the cops after seeing a murderer drenched in blood sitting inside, but who knows these days.

The panic trapped in the rib-woven confinement of your chest doesn’t ease as you take the final drags of your cig. The moment you’re in the line of sight you feel the eyes back on you, and it makes the end almost burn brighter, as if the cigarette is also too impatient to wait for you to return to the clown.

“The fuck has my life come to,” you grumble, stepping on the lit butt until it dithers out.

When you look up he is, of course, staring straight through you. You wave pathetically as if to affirm ‘hey, I’m back. Just like I promised!’ but the clown doesn’t look like he feels any particular way about it. In fact, his gaze is cold enough to make your stomach curdle, the hot ball of anticipation inside your gut hardening into the choking weight of fear.

Your fingers are slick with sweat as they press on the door. The clown is sitting in a chair conveniently close to where your outfit is still tumbling away in the dryer, and leading to him is a grossly vibrant trail of blood in the shape of comically large footprints

His expression doesn’t change as you drag you feet over to where he’s lounging, the black trash bag lopsided at his feet. Decay drips off him and onto the plastic seats, pooling in the curved bottom before dripping down the backs.

You change the clothes from the washer to the dryer. Thirty five minutes. How the fuck are you supposed to survive thirty five minutes with this guy?

If you sit right next to him you’ll get a proper whiff of his sins, if you sit too far maybe it’ll be your blood spilling on the floor. Not great options either way. Maybe it’s better to butter him up, though it’s hard to tell which he wants with the way he’s staring at you like he wants to skin you.

You choose what you think is the lesser of two evils and sit next to him, casual. You try not to let the look he levels you with steal your voice, not with the way his brown gunk-covered fingers tap impatiently on his thigh. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for you to step over the line so he can do something.

The time left on your machine reads thirty two minutes. Fine.

“You got a name?” You ask after looking back at him.

He bats his eyelashes playfully, why, little ol’ me? The expression warms up as you enter the arena of the game again, his game, watching as he digs through the bag before pulling out a square piece of paper.

It’s a business card. Your breath stops in your chest when, for a moment, you wonder if you really had read this whole thing wrong—was he just a really convincing mime that you’d happened to run into twice, eager to share his business?

The thought is short lived. When you take the card you can see the printed text is scratched out sloppily with a crayon. In the margins is the scratch of sloppy, childish writing:

“Art the Clown,” you read out loud, voice quiet.

Art folds his hands in front of himself and presses them under his chin, once more batting his eyelashes at you as though to say, guilty as charged.

It’s a mockery of sweetness, especially with such disgusting yellow teeth baring themselves at you like a shark. At least he doesn’t seem angry anymore.

You hand the card back to him, careful not to touch where the blood soaks through his gloves, before sitting down next to him. You try not to make it too obvious that you’re sitting as far from him as possible on the seat, but Art seems completely unaware of personal space as he leans in, thigh touching yours.

Wetness seeps through the place of contact. Iron is rich and burning in your nose.

You dig through your pockets and start talking as soon as you have four quarters in your palm. “Well, Art—if I were you, I’d wash that. Otherwise all the red is going to stain.”

You place the quarters into his palm, lean back in your seat, and close your eyes. You’ve got thirty more minutes, might as well try and fit a nap in. It’s not like anyone is going to bother you while Art is here, though that thought doesn’t bring you much comfort.

You count backwards from ten, breathing out of your mouth, and try to let the vibrations of the machines lull you to sleep.

[buccaneeering]

Silly questions about Julien and his mustache (because I love his mustache)

1) How did he come to own it? (Did he make it himself or perhaps buy it from somewhere?)

2) How on earth does he get it to stay in place?

3) Does he own more than one?

4) Has he ever experienced mustache mishaps? (Like it falling off in front of others, getting paint on it, ect.)

5) What are Erik's thoughts on the mustache, and does he know it's fake?

If you couldn't tell, it is one of my favorite parts of Julien's design, lol :)

1. He was allowed to keep it after a play he was in in his teen years!

2. Spirit gum! It's a sort of adhesive made to stick prosthetics onto an actor's face, and it holds up under stagelights. (It's so painful to get off without proper remover, though. Speaking from experience.)

3. No. He has kept this one in great condition, and it would be far too expensive to afford another!

4. It has had mishaps: he's not been able to find it before work and it sends him into a hectic, often tearful search every time, he's applied it crooked, or hasn't used enough spirit gum(which caused it to turn and slide), and I could imagine things like his fingers getting hung on it while he's trying to part it in the morning.

Thankfully, he got used to most of these in his teen years. He's practically a pro these days.

5. I don't think Erik finds out until late in their friendship... Julien is(obviously) very closed off about being a transman, not only due to his own insecurity, but the time period.

When he DOES tell Erik, or Erik finds out upon walking in on him... Well, you might imagine it calls for a conversation.

But, in the end, I think all is well(I mean, Erik makes a realistic mask/prosthetic so he can live a normal life in theory, so I think he'd understand).

Erik just wants to be loved, and wants to do the same.

Incredibly devoted.

--

GAH! THANK YOU ALWAYS FOR THE ASKS! 💛💛 I hope this helps(and I love the curiosity and questions!!)

I hope you have a good day. 😊

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

this is so self indulgent of me to ask but let me embarrass myself by asking for tummy kisses for Prem and Bug

FGSGHSH I LOVE YOU POSH. I'm sorry this took so long - Christ I feel so rusty - and the ending is a blunt as a gunshot, but I THINK IT'S CUTE and I hope I didn't butcher Bug too much 💖🥹

Prem is taller than Bug. That’s a fact of nature. Even on flat-feet, Prem’s a good five inches taller. But. Shit. She’s got this pair of five inch Louboutin heels—the fuckin’ sharp-an’-pointy kind, flashy black patent leather, with those retina-searin’ red bottoms Bug’d only seen in magazine pages until Prem had pulled ‘em out of her luggage. 

She wears them with a Barbie Doll heel foot on her prosthetic, walkin’ well balanced with a sleek, dark-oiled teak cane with the silver head of a mallard for a handle. Looks a bit vampiric, but not in a bad way. Sort of way that makes Bug’s mouth run dry, and reach for Price’s sipping whiskey to quench her pinching-parched throat.

“Mm?” the man hums, rubbing his recently trimmed beard, following her eyes, and then he gets that fuckin’ pinched up, pleased smirk on his face, like he knows somethin’ about somethin’. “Yeah. The heels always have me fucked up, too.”

“Piss right off,” Bug grunts, taking his glass in full, and he only chuckles to himself, joining her in watching Prem swim her way through the gallery show. Feels strange to Bug, a bit, to see Prem’s death masks mounted on black grids of metal, lit harsh and bright from above with studio track lamps—but by no means wrong. No, more was like seeing an old friend finally finding a place they belonged. Been on the woman’s ass long enough to get her to agree to a show. 

Prem—true to her callsign, Premonition, the woman that sees the future and all that lies hidden—must feel the eyes on her, because she turns her head to look over a sleek shoulder, and a smile warps her painted-burgundy lips. She lifts a hand and waves with a little wiggle of her ring finger, right at her.

Bug can just feel Price making that goddamned quokka face again, staring dead at the side of her face. She swills the giant cube of ice around the dregs of his whiskey, and she jabs him where it smarts, but only a bit, “Think Soap’s gone and let your mutt get picked up by the RSPCA yet? Or you think he’s still wanderin’ some back road like a bum?

Price shakes his head. “Nah. Dog’s fine, probably making moon-eyes at Bordelon,” he starts, but he shrugs his shoulders with a thoughtful look, “Soap’s probably up with Agnes trying to dust her crypt.”

“Oh, you dirty old fuck,” Bug snorts, pulling a face of disgust, “Agnes’s taste is so much better than that. Disgusting you’d even suggest that.”

“Mhmm,” Price purrs, leaning back against the bar, resting a hand on the small of her back, rubbing his blunt fingers into the small pad of soft pudge he finds there.

+

Prem is the one to pinch Price’s jaw, giving it a good jiggle around eleven, when the crowd’s gotten thicker with the hipster art scene rats, and she can no longer functionally give a fuck about showing face. “John. My darling. My dear love. My...sweetest, closeted Nine Inch Nails boy—”

“Fuck’s sake,” he grunts, jiggled.

“—can you please, please find us some good scran?” she finishes, leaning heavily on her cane, her weight bent toward Bug’s figure. He rolls his eyes, but there’s a smirk pulling at his mouth under the chops—just a little one, like it’s a bit shy of showing itself. Prem knows she’s won the moment she sees it, pulling him in for a *pap!* of a kiss before giving his cheek a chummy clap. “Good man, crack on.”

Bug slides right into Prem’s free side, sliding an arm around the woman’s waist as one of Prem’s snakes around her shoulders. “So, what was the trick for pullin’ that off, eh? He gives me all sorts a’shit when I try to boss him,” Bug laughs, sinking into the scent of Prem’s perfume.

“Y’just have to get his dick a little bit hard, that’s all,��� Prem hums in return, waggling her brows. “You’re a dabhand at it, y’know? Just gotta harness it, eh.”

“Ooh, I’ll have to practice on that then, won’t I?” Bug is beaming, and she knows it. Doesn’t try to hide it, either. Neither does she try to hide the way that she keeps glancing at Prem’s lips when she looks up into her face, tugging her toward down the sidewalk in the direction of their hotel.

Prem’s eyes—already dark under the streetlamps, wet and deep like pools of ink—go half-lidded, and she dips her head, tucking her nose under Bug’s heavy mane of curls. Fuckin’ embarassin’ it is, how fast Bug grows wet between the legs as she feels Prem’s lips pressin’ slow and warm against her neck, where the print of her lipstick will remain hidden.

“Mm,” Prem begins to murmur, “wanted to do that feck-off bad all night. Kept seein’ you and John standin’ together, and don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Her eyes squeeze tight, still breathing against Bug’s skin. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about watchin’ you two fuck the daylights out of each other. Him on top, feckin’ you all slow, and hard—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bug barks with laughter, shaking her head, yoking Prem’s throat loosely in her hand, pushing her back a bit, burning head to toe with a bright flush and a thumping desire that starts in her cunt and booms out to her fingers, toes and lashes. “Can’t even wait ‘til we’re back in the hotel, huh? We got you in that bad of a way?”

“Always!” Prem sniffs, grinning.

+

There’s only a single lamp on in the room, and Prem is wearing only her prosthetic, and her panties, with a tube of her lipstick tucked in the band. Demon of a woman had the gall to let Bug get all the way dressed down to one of Price’s black t-shirts and her drawers before she made her move. Bug had to admit, though—good fuckin’ move, that one. Might have to tuck it in her own pocket for later.

Bug snorts as Prem’s hands slide up to her hips, gripping the softness she finds there, and deeper, until her fingertips knead tight muscles. Bug’s hands slide directly to the woman’s neck, resting with her thumbs over the pulsepoint, urging her down to kiss, and Prem falls right into the trajectory of it.

“Oh, aw, feck,” Prem laughs, pulling back from Bug’s lips, and the remorse sounds utterly put-on, “I’ve gone and shitted up your face. Look at you, you’re all smudgy. Didn’t mean to do all that.”

“And you’re a shit liar, darlin’,” Bug tosses back, feeling wild as she runs wide-open, letting Prem move her back to the bed, urging her up onto the pillows.

“Yeahhh—you’re right.” Prem has the audacity to fuckin’ giggle, burying her face against Bug’s neck once again, sliding between her spread legs, her hands moving farther up Bug’s shirt, savoring the soft curve of her waist, the structure of her ribs. But, goddamn, does she touch Bug as if considering her angles and construction like a well fine piece of art, wanting to pick up the techniques to copy into her own repertoire.

Up trails Bug’s shirt, a slow and subtle climb as Prem cups her breasts, rolling her nipples beneath her thumbs, pinching and tugging them slightly. Her grin’s impossible for Bug to ignore as her lips press more and more burgundy prints into her skin, and they both just find themselves laughing for no reason at all apart from sheer delight.

Prem’s knee slides up, coaxing Bug’s legs further open, and Bug sighs heatedly with the move, letting Prem push her shirt up over her breasts. “You’re a wicked-ass little thing,” she accuses, and Prem nods in emphatic agreement as she begins to kiss Bug’s freckled sternum.

She's kissed Bug's breasts, teasing her nipples with her soft, warm tongue, leaving behind prints of burgundy lips on the areola, the bottom swells, the top. Made herself right at home, groping Bug's hips tight before she leans up enough up to smart-ass-casual swipe more color onto her mouth, leaving Bug squirming and laughing under her. It only turns into a cackle when Prem dips to her stomach, kissing a belt across her waist, her bellybutton (where she dips her tongue, causing Bug to howl a surprised laugh and buck), and just—all over.

Makes Bug's head swim, it does. “Think you're just showin’ off at this point, sweetheart,” she snorts, brushing her fingers over Prem's short curls, slipping down to draw nonsense over the nape of her neck.

“Oh, no,” Prem hums, and Bug can feel her grin as it meets her hip, “am just stallin’ for…”

The door of the hotel room groans open, and Price's heavy steps are unmistakable alongside the shuffle of a paper bag in his arms, and the wrestling-out flap of his fleece lined denim jacket snapping. He doesn't stop what he's doing, but he sure takes a long look, and Bug can't help but grin wide under crinkled eyes and stick her tongue between her teeth as she gives a little wave. “Hi,” she says, simple as can be. 

Price drops the bag on the empty dresser— they'll find out in an hour or two he'd somehow managed to find cut italian hoagies by some miracle—and he sits on the other bed, looking at them as he unlaces his boots. Prem kicks her feet up in the air, crossing them at the ankles while she pressed her cheek to Bug's belly. 

“Am I early or late?” he grunts.

“Course he don't wonder if he's invited,” Bug teases, but she continues to smile. They've all three caught each other in compromising enough positions to play grab-ass about it—Price is the only one that acts caught when it happens. 

“Actually,” Prem sighs, rising to her knees in a well practiced movement, sliding forward to kiss Bug's lips as she goes, “you're right on time.”

Prem's got the audacity to sneak launch a playful clap between Bug's legs—over her soaked, but clothed crotch—earning herself one wicked bark of indignation and a swat at her arm for making Bug's neglected pussy throb. But Prem continues regardless, ordering lightly, “Get your shite-arse over here and eat her. Poor thing's tremblin’.”

[omies-odd-writing-spot]

Doom prompt 08: Store

ended up not being exactly what was meant on the prompt. Might try redoing this but still, have a Valen on earth!

.

8: “One of the Argenta end up in a miniatures store “

Valen tilted his head, looking at the storefront as he considered going inside. It was one of many places he had to have this moment of debate on going in. The once Commander was walking past the store and paused again at the last second. Looking through the glass to see something that looked semi familiar. 

Valen finally recognized it as being like the figurines Lily had. Sea creatures around reefs or stylized waves. He knew it was just a few pisces his charge had, most showed signs of being broken and fixed several times. The Argenta man reached out to touch the glass lightly with his prosthetic hand. He looked up, thinking as he scanned the now street, then down to himself.

The armored man shook himself, getting the worst of the demonic blood off himself before stepping back to the main door. He tapped it, surprised that it opened easily with a little bell chime and Valen had to duck to get in. Standing still in the store as he took in the layout as he looked for any corrupted. There were signs of some sort of struggle, leading from inside to the deep towards the door that Valen stood at. 

He knelt, carefully, having to be so careful with his natural bulk compared to humans to find the splatter of blood had long since been dried out. The edges of his armor could catch on all the… small things. No one had been here in months, so Valen looked around again.

Glass, clay, metal, wood, all the little things and trinkets.

It was a painful reminder that the humans were, mostly, as far as Valen could tell in a time of peace. Able to afford to spend resources on arts, to give in and spend errand resources to hobbies that were not all dedicated to their warriors. 

Valen lifted his right hand, touching a tiny… cat figure on a shelf with others. It reminded him of Lily’s feline pets. Even curled up like they did in her room or the ‘cat room.’

He had to ease himself slowly through the narrow aisles, Valen slightly regretted his choice now to come in. He did pause off and on to pick something small and slip into his subspace like storage, thinking of the small humans on the Fortress.

Valen paused, looking at what looked like a display of Wintherin-like creatures. Some were pretty close to what he knew all too well, but the heads were wrong. Too small and the wrong kind of horns. Or the body was too thick around the forearms and chest.

It made him wonder if something was missing in translation from the Argenta group the humans were descended from, to now. Or then, before the hell invasion.

Valen picked one up, pale and pearl like with hints of blue on the Wintherin like creature. Holding a chest with painted clay pearls. His gaze softened under his helmet, thinking of the old Wintherin his wife favored so much. That was slid into the hidden storage as well, it was not quite the same shape of a proper Wintherin but the color was almost perfect. He looked up, carefully stepping over to this side of the window display, finding not just the… then…

Shark.

That’s what Lily called it, some sort of ‘hammer’ shark that was curling up a coral spire. Valen very carefully picked it up, humming in appreciation at the craft used in this piece. It was surprisingly hefty, being the length of his forearm, but there were so many little details in it. Smaller than small fish in the reef. All painstakingly painted by hand, little imperfect details that proved it.

That was safely stored as well, before Valen paused to look at a glass sculptor on this side of the display. For a confused moment it thought it was a gorgon sitting up on a flaring shell or waves? Then Valen saw the flowing fins on the slender lower body. No details of face but still alike enough that it gave the impression of the long hair as the odd little creature held up a glittering, gold marble like pearl. It was the only color in the clear glass.

Valen was not sure what to think, he never saw a being like this, it was impressive skilled work… and he did not like how it reminded him of his charge’s possible fate.

The argenta man carefully set down the glass sculptor, saddeningly needing to make his way out. Not making much sounds as he looked at this still place. Valen stepped back out onto the street, he had things to do, supplies and materials to get for hopefully keeping the Fortress free of the Maykrs influence.

[oops-all-leos]

I think writing out my au stuff will be better than attempting to draw everything so I typed this out! It’s just a small intro to see how people react, I hope that whatever small amount of people that find this will like it ^^

(Actual story/writing under the cut)

“The chem bomb is finished.”

“I know.”

“This will kill everyone, not just the Kraang, Nardo.”

The blue clad turtle goes silent for a moment at the words of his last remaining brother. He knew this. 𝘚𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘴, he knew. But they’re fighting a loosing battle and this solution was the last resort. If they can at least take the Kraang out with them and spare another planet from the disgusting grasp of those pink fleshy monsters before they’re all wiped out, then shouldn’t they take that chance?

He goes to open his mouth and explain his thoughts, a manic desperation building under his plastron, but his twin raises a hand to silence him.

“I know, Leo. I agree. But are you sure?”

“Yes. Almost everyone else left agrees too. Detonate it, Dee.”

Donnie nods his head, and then hesitates for a moment. He lurches forward and wraps his arms around his twin in a desperate last hug.

“I’m sorry. I can’t let you die, dum-dum.”

Something heavy settles in Leo’s gut at those words but before he can ask what Donnie meant, he feels him attach something heavy and metallic to his shell. His eyes widen and he tries to pull back from his brother’s arms, confused. Donnie’s grip tightens, holding him in place.

“Donnie!? What are you doing?”

A small chime goes off as Donnie does something to whatever the hell was now attached to Leo’s carapace. He then releases Leo from his grasp, giving him a sad smile and a pat on the shoulder.

“Making sure at least one of us makes it out alive.”

He grins, that familiar smug know-it-all look from their childhood painted on his face in an attempt to comfort. It doesn’t take long for that look to crumple into something akin to grief though.

“Lee… I’m so sorry but I only had enough material left over for one pod after finishing the bomb, and I refuse to use it on myself.”

Leo feel’s his heart drop down to his stomach when he catches on, hot tears already welling up in his eyes. The metal spreads over his shell, quickly forming into a reinforced DonniePod. He immediately stumbles forward, heavy prosthetic fist smashing against the small window.

“Donnie no! You can’t do this! You can’t- how am I supposed to live on my own?! I- I need you! Don’t make me live without you!”

He begs, fist thumping against the tempered glass over and over again. His idiotic genius of a brother simply gives Leo a heartbreakingly rare smile full of love before one of the mechanical arms from his battle shell deposits the detonator for the chem bomb into his hand. He hesitates for a moment before pressing down on the button. In the last few seconds before the explosion, he can feel Donnie’s ninpo brush against his own in that familiar way, a whispered ‘Anata wa hitori ja nai’ curling around him like smoke.

And then, a series of loud explosions shakes the earth and a blinding light fills the air. The force of it causes his small prisonshelter to jolt, his head smacking against the metal and causing everything to go dark.