#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

[hcneymooners]

⋆ angel of mine; i’m probably gonna think about you all the time.

biker!sevika x stripper!chubby!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: when you get news of your grandmother’s declining health, you pack what’s left of your life in miami and begin to head home. on the way you meet enigmatic stranger sevika, who gives you a ride.

wc: 10k

cw: age difference! stripper!reader, chubby!reader, fem!reader, mommy issues, implied melvika, implied melvika x reader, strangers to lovers, roadtrips, biker!sevika, resolved sexual tension, codependency, found family, dysfunctional families, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, praise kink, exhibition kink (implied), degradation, name-calling, dom/sub, dom!sevika, sub!reader, hyperfemme!reader, lowkey sugar mommy!sevika.

notes: you can definitely tell i’m southern in this piece. i love the south despite it not loving me (black, sapphic, & female) back. so much of florida contains my family and love though i left it. i hope that comes through. i’m really proud of this and i hope you enjoy. so sorry for any typos i may have missed. let me know what you think & if you want a full melvika x reader pt. ii ! i love you. 𓆉⋆｡˚⋆❀ 🐚🫧𓇼 ˖°

playlist: lana born to die: paradise album. listen here.

The white teeth of Miami were always going to eat you alive.

That’s what your grandmother used to say, her voice crackling over the phone, sweet but certain, the way only old women could be. She didn’t say it to scare you—just to remind you that the city, for all its glitter and heat, had sharp edges. She was a lioness, and you were good meat.

You’d felt it too, walking barefoot along the highway, heels swinging in one hand and your purse in the other. The sunset was dying behind you, streaks of cotton candy pink, baby blue, and tangerine smeared across the horizon like someone had finger-painted the sky in haste.

Your cheeks still sparkled faintly under the fading light, remnants of glitter you hadn’t scrubbed off from work. It clung stubbornly, refusing to let go. You’d braided the front of your hair into two plaits that went straight back, falling apart in the middle to join the rest of the mass—wavy and tinsel-streaked. It was your “mermaid hair” as your younger sister loved to call it. You blinked heavily, your 60s-style lashes dragging their soft bodies across your plush cheeks.

The ache in your feet was grounding though, pulling you out of the haze of the club—the strobe lights, the bass that rattled in your ribs, the haze of too many eyes on you.

You’d gotten through the night, but just barely. Grandma’s sick. That had been the thought looping in your head as you swayed under the lights, pretending to be something more desirable than tired. Your mother had called, her voice small and broken. She wouldn’t tell you where she was. I’ll be home tomorrow, you’d promised anyway and then you climbed back on the stage.

You’d scraped together what you could tonight, but not enough for both a cab and the medicine your grandmother needed. The last bus out of town was fucked, something about a technical failure. So, you walked, the stretch of highway endless, the heat still radiating off the asphalt like it was sinking into hell.

You were so distracted by both your raging anxiety and oncoming hunger that the headlights caught you off guard. A single beam at first, low and flickering, until the growl of the engine grew louder, sharper, swallowing the silence. You turned instinctively, lifting a hand to wave—desperation bleeding through the gesture.

The motorcycle slowed. It wasn’t just a machine; it was an extension of her.

Its rider was tall and broad-shouldered, her presence filling the space before she even spoke. A thick, short braid of dark hair hung over her shoulder, catching the light like polished onyx, and her face was all hard angles—sharp jaw, strong brow, a faint scar cutting through her upper lip. She leaned forward slightly, resting her weight on a prosthetic arm that gleamed silver in the twilight. Her eyes, cold at first glance, raked over you, measuring.

For the millionth time that night, you became painfully aware of your appearance. You hadn’t had much time to change before rushing out, so you were stuck in a turquoise spaghetti-strap tank that clung uncomfortably to your skin and a pair of low-rise grey sweatpants, the faded mall-brand logo on the hip barely holding on.

Your purse—a tiny baby pink crossbody clutch—was stretched to its limit, struggling to close over your overstuffed Polo Assn. wallet, its dark brown leather warped by thick stacks of crumpled bills and nearly maxed-out credit cards.

A single white earbud perched in your left ear, the mile-long wire snaking under the loose neckline of your tank and into your hands, where your phone gleamed faintly in the glare of her headlights. Glittery gold, covered in 3D bubble stickers of pale pink and cream roses—your little sister’s handiwork.

Between the heat of the phone and the plastic of the case, you’d tucked a Polaroid: you, your sister, and your aunt, all dolled up in perfect makeup and hoop earrings, the three of you grinning wide enough to make the moment feel permanent. Behind the photo, folded neatly, was a note.

The faintest whiff of smoke clung to you, softened by bellini, cherry, and peach. You’d tried hard to be sweet, always sweet, but it wasn’t enough to cover the night’s work. Especially not tonight.

“You lost?” she asked, her voice gravelly, low, like the rumble of her engine hadn’t entirely faded.

“Not lost,” you said, voice softer than you intended. “Just… trying to get home.”

You were always trying to go home.

She raised a brow, glancing at your bare feet and the glitter still dusting your face. “Long walk.”

You shrugged, exhaustion pulling at the edges of your face.

“No choice.”

For a moment, she just stared at you, her expression unreadable, before she nodded toward the seat behind her.

“Hop on. I’ll get you there.”

You hesitated, your gaze lingering on the gleam of her prosthetic, the way it contrasted with the calloused hand gripping the throttle.

“What’s your name?” you asked, finally, your voice quieter now.

She huffed faintly, tilting her head. “Sevika. And you?”

You gave her your name, your voice carrying the weight of gratitude but a lack of trust. You weighed your options—you had none—and decided that you could only hope she wasn’t insane.

You thought of the note in your phone case.

“Lord, I confess i want the clarity of catastrophe but not the catastrophe. Like everyone else, I want a storm I can dance in. I want an excuse to change my life. Lord if I say bless the cold water you throw on my face, does that make me a costume party. Am I greedy for comfort if I ask you not to kill my friends if I beg you to press your heel against my throat - not enough to ruin me, but just so I can almost see your face.” (x.)

Then, without another word, you climbed onto the bike, your fingers brushing against her shoulders as you steadied yourself.

The engine roared, and the wind hit your face, carrying you forward into the night. You bent your neck, tucked your head into her back, and began to pray.

❀

You woke to a soft hand on your skin.

“Hey. You up?”

The words were quiet, almost careful, but they pulled you from the thin edge of sleep. For a moment, you were disoriented. The ceiling above you was unfamiliar, white with faint water stains bleeding outward like bruises. The couch beneath you creaked as you shifted, and smelled of saltwater and lavender. There was a thin blanket draped over your shoulders but it felt impossibly heavy, anchoring you in place.

Sevika was leaning over you, her face shadowed but sharp in the dim light spilling from another room. Her hand lingered on your hip, her touch surprisingly gentle.

“Come on,” she said, her voice low and gravelly, rasping against the quiet. “Mel wants to meet you.”

“Mel?” you asked, your voice still thick with sleep.

“She lives here. She’s… persistent,” Sevika said with a dry edge, stepping back to give you room to sit up. “And she’s got a thing for taking care of strays. Don’t worry, she’s nice. Nicer than me, anyway.”

The apartment was small, but the stomach of it was softened by a clear effort to make it feel like home.

The walls were painted a pale cream, though the paint was peeling in the corners, and the floors were scuffed wood. The furniture was mismatched, but there was a warmth to it—a knitted throw slung over the back of the couch, a row of half-burned candles on the coffee table, the faint scent of coconut and vanilla lingering in the air.

The windows were open, letting in the salt-thick breeze of the early morning, and a line of photos pinned to the wall swayed slightly, the string barely holding on.

Mel appeared in the doorway to what must have been the bathroom, her figure backlit by the soft, yellow glow. She was taller than you’d expected, her frame lithe but strong, and her black braids pooled over her shoulders like an oil spill, gleaming in the dim light. She held a cherry red hairbrush in one hand and a small bottle of lotion in the other, her brown skin catching the light beautifully.

“You’re awake,” she said, her voice rich but cautious. Her eyes lingered on you for a moment, warm but searching.

Most people tended to treat you this way. It was as if you were a scared animal and they were trying to coax you in.

You nodded, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

“Yeah. Sorry—I didn’t mean to intrude here.”

“You didn’t,” Mel said quickly, stepping closer. Her tone softened, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Sev doesn’t bring people home unless she has a reason. You must’ve needed it.”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Your gaze flicked to Sevika, who leaned against the wall, her arms crossed over her broad chest, her prosthetic glinting faintly in the soft light. She was watching the two of you, her expression unreadable.

“I’ve seen you before,” Mel said suddenly, drawing your attention back to her. Her smile turned wistful. “At The Siren, right?”

The mention of the club sent a ripple of recognition through you. You nodded slowly, and Mel’s expression shifted, her eyes softening further.

“I thought so,” she murmured. “You helped me once, in the bathroom. I was… having a bad night. You were so sweet.”

The moment came back in pieces. Her face streaked with tears, her voice trembling as she spoke about her mother, about leaving home. You’d handed her a tissue, touched her shoulder lightly, said something comforting.

“I remember,” you said softly, your voice catching in your throat.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Mel said, her gaze steady. “But I’m glad you did.”

She knelt in front of you, holding up the brush. “Let me help you. You’ve had a long night.”

You hesitated, but something in her expression, in the calm warmth of her voice, made you nod. She guided you to the bathroom, which was small and tidy, the mirror rimmed with salt stains and seashells.

As she brushed your hair, her touch was careful, her fingers grazing your scalp like she was afraid of breaking something fragile.

“You’ve got beautiful hair,” she said softly, almost to herself.

“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice faint. “You smell nice.”

Her laugh was quiet, and you felt the warmth of it root deep in your chest.

“Coconut oil,” she said, but there was a blush creeping into her cheeks. “Mixed with vanilla. I like to smell dewey and sugary. Kind of like you.”

You smiled tiredly at her in the mirror, lifting a hand to pat at her wrist. The tender powder pink of your acrylics were bright against it. Behind you, Sevika leaned in the doorway, her presence as steady as a shadow.

“You’re making her shy, Melly,” she teased, her voice like gravel underfoot.

Mel glanced at her, rolling her eyes, but you caught the faintest smile tugging at her lips. As a final touch she added a large bow clip to your tamed strands; it was lilac and worn at the ends.

When you were cleaned up, you reached for your purse, pulling out a crumpled bill.

“Here. Let me—,” you began, holding it out.

Mel’s expression shifted, her smile fading into something more serious as she cut you off. She pushed your hand back gently.

“Honey, you don’t owe me anything.”

The sincerity in her voice caught you off guard, and you tucked the money away, unsure of what to say.

Sevika cleared her throat. “Where are we headed, anyway?”

“Tampa,” you said.

She raised a brow, her smirk returning.

“Figures. You seem like a Tampa girl.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

Sevika just shrugged, her mouth twitching.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

The three of you stepped into the early morning light, the ocean-heavy breeze brushing against your skin. You didn’t even know you could live this close to the ocean in Miami.

You turned back and caught Sevika and Mel in silent conversation. There was something unspoken between them, between you, something you couldn���t quite name. For now, though, you let it rest.

Grandma’s sick, you reminded yourself. You had to keep going.

❀

The rest of the day swelled with humidity, the horizon bruised with the threat of rain. The Cadillac’s engine purred low, its growl humming beneath the croon of soft rock spilling through the speakers.

You kept your eyes on the window, the world outside blurring as heat shimmered off the asphalt and smeared the palms into a haze.

Sevika hadn’t said much since you got in her car. She didn’t need to.

There was a quiet kind of ease in her presence, a stillness that somehow made the grief gnawing at your chest feel less unbearable. She drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the window frame, her fingers idly toying with a cigarette she hadn’t yet lit.

The smell of the car had settled around you—leather, faint smoke, and something warm you couldn’t name. It was the kind of smell that made you think of safety, though you didn’t know why.

Your phone buzzed in your lap, the screen lighting up with a message from your mother.

Sorry, baby doll. Grandma’s on the brink.

You read the words twice, three times, and still they didn’t make sense. Your fingers tightened around the phone, your nails pressing into its glittery gold case, and something sharp and hot clawed its way up your throat.

Sevika glanced over, her brow furrowing.

“You good?”

You nodded quickly, your lips pressing together to hold back the tears that were already welling. But it was no use. They spilled over, fat and hot, streaking black mascara down your apple-round cheeks.

You turned your head, pretending to watch the passing trees, but your reflection in the window gave you away.

“Shit,” Sevika muttered, low and rough. She took one last drag from her cigarette, then flicked it out the window. “Hold on.”

She pulled off the highway, her movements smooth and deliberate, and guided the car into the gravel lot of a diner. Its neon sign flickered faintly against the gray sky, Chuck’s written in soft pink cursive. The building was small and sweet, painted robin’s egg blue with white shutters and lace curtains framing its windows.

Sevika parked and cut the engine, turning to look at you.

“Come here.”

Her voice was softer now, but it still carried that unshakable steadiness. You hesitated, your hands trembling in your lap, but the look on her face left no room for doubt. You leaned toward her, and her arms came around you, solid and warm, pulling you into her chest.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, her hand smoothing over your hair. “Come on, angel. Just let it out.”

And you did. The sobs came in waves, ripping through you until you were shaking, your fingers clutching the fabric of her shirt like a lifeline. She didn’t flinch, didn’t tell you to stop. She just held you, her hand a steady weight against the back of your head, her thumb brushing small, grounding circles into your shoulder.

You couldn’t remember the last time someone had hugged you like this.

When you finally pulled back, your face was hot, damp, and streaked; your mascara smudged into shadows beneath your eyes. Sevika reached out, her thumb catching the tracks on your cheeks.

“Messy,” she said softly, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

The diner’s door chimed as you stepped inside, the scent of fresh coffee and bread washing over you. The interior was impossibly charming, with its pastel booths, checkerboard floors, and the low hum of a jukebox in the corner. You slid into a booth by the window, the vinyl cool against the back of your legs.

Sevika sat across from you, her body filling the small space like a storm cloud, heavy and unshakable. You stared out the window, watching the rain slip down the glass in delicate rivulets. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled, low and faint.

“You’re strong, you know that?” Sevika’s voice broke through the quiet.

You turned to her, startled. Her eyes were dark, but they were the softest you’d seen them so far, almost tender.

She reached across the table, her fingers brushing your chin. The touch was light, but it sent a jolt through you, her thumb catching against your skin.

“It’ll be fine,” she said, her voice low and certain. “You’ll be fine. You have to be.”

Outside, the rain fell harder, the sound of it filling the silence between you. And then Sevika let go, her hand retreating back across the table.

The rain continued to blur the diner’s windows, the soft pink neon outside flickering faintly against the new gloom. You stared down at your coffee, the chipped porcelain mug warm in your hands, but it wasn’t enough to steady the tremor that had worked its way into your fingers. The realities of the world felt too sharp, too close, like you might unravel right there in your plain sight.

“Talk to me,” you said suddenly, your voice thin and unsteady. “I feel like I’m about to have a panic attack.”

Sevika’s eyes lifted from her coffee, dark and knowing. Her expression didn’t shift, but something gave in the set of her jaw. She leaned back, one arm slung over the booth’s edge, her other hand absently brushing the lip of her mug.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything.” You exhaled shakily, your gaze flicking out to the rain before returning to her. “Tell me why you drive a beat-up Cadillac.”

That pulled a small, low chuckle from her, quiet but rich. She tipped her head, the motion slow and deliberate, and for a moment, you felt less like you were shuddering into beautiful pieces.

“You think she’s beat-up?” Sevika asked, her lips curving faintly.

“She’s held together by rust and prayer,” you said, almost smiling. “I’m just saying.”

Sevika’s laugh came fuller this time, a sound that filled the air without disrupting the other patrons.

“Hey. She’s got character. My dad gave her to me when I was nineteen. She used to be pristine—white leather, a real beauty. But time does what it does.”

You blinked, caught on the number.

“Nineteen?” you asked, hesitant. “How long ago was that?”

Her smirk grew, slow and sharp. “Longer than you’d guess, angel.”

Your brows furrowed, curiosity blooming against the weight in your chest. “How old are you?”

Sevika’s gaze lingered, the kind of look that made you feel seen in a way that was both unnerving and magnetic.

“Old enough to remember when you had to rewind your mixtapes with a pencil,” she said, her voice dry, teasing.

You couldn’t help it—a small laugh slipped out, barely there, but it felt good.

“I’ve always had a thing for older women,” you said absently, the words slipping out before you realized what you’d said.

Her smirk deepened, her eyes sharpening in a way that made your stomach flip.

“That so?” she murmured, her voice low and rich, a swatch of velvet dragged through smoke. “You looking for a mommy, angel?”

Heat flooded your face, vicious and unbearable, and you pushed back from the table, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor.

“I’m, um—gonna order something at the counter,” you mumbled, refusing to meet her gaze.

She chuckled, soft and lazy, her voice following you as you turned toward the counter.

“Go on, sweetheart. Take your time.”

The diner felt warmer, brighter, as you made your way to the counter, the fluorescents buzzing faintly above. You kept your eyes on the menu board, your pulse still thrumming in your ears.

❀

It’s four more hours to Tampa, but it’s the most excruciating period of your life.

You’d left the diner a little steadier, Sevika’s arm brushing yours as you climbed back into her car. The Cadillac rattled like death, its leather seats sticky against your thighs.

You leaned your temple against the window, watching as the flat Florida landscape blurred into soft greens and yellows. The air outside was still thick with heat, even with the sun reducing its intensity as it slunk away.

The highway stretched out like an open wound, raw and endless. You fiddled with the radio dial until a bouncy indie pop song filtered back through the speakers, filling the air with a thousand wailing guitars. Sevika didn’t complain, her focus locked on the road ahead.

At some point, she pulled off into a gravel lot in front of a boutique. The building was small and unassuming, its pink paint faded by time. A hand-painted sign swung lazily in the humid breeze.

“We’re stopping?” you asked, your voice hoarse from exhaustion.

“You need other clothes,” Sevika said simply, stepping out of the car. “Come on.”

The shop smelled faintly of coconut wax and dust, its racks crammed with mismatched pieces that managed to appear more curated than random. Sevika leaned against a rack of jeans, her arms crossed, as you wandered through the aisles.

“We’re strangers,” you said eventually, holding up a knit top to your chest. “Why are you taking care of me?”

Sevika didn’t answer right away. Her gaze dropped to the floor, her jaw tightening in thought.

“I remember being twenty-one,” she said finally. “The world was a lot to handle back then. Some days, it still is.”

You lowered the top and gazed at her, mouth dipping in understanding. She was so beautiful here, despite being far from at home in this confectionery store. Her arms flexed gently as she shifted in place, and you resisted the urge to press her hair out of her face.

“I’m sorry that you know what that feels like.”

“You don’t have to pity me,” she said, the response clearly a reflex.

You smiled crookedly and didn’t press further.

The outfit you picked—a striped knit and high-waisted jeans—felt soft against your skin. The knit hugged your curves, the soft plum-colored neckline slipping just low enough to expose the plush swell of your shoulder. When you stepped out of the dressing room, Sevika gave you a once-over, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

“You’re a girl with expensive taste,” she teased. “Is that cashmere?”

“It’s my stage name for a reason,” you shot back, smiling softly. “And everything is overpriced here.”

“You look like a doll,” she said, her tone amused.

You rolled your eyes, brushing past her to the counter.

“I’ve got to look a little more appropriate.”

“For what?” she teased. “Tampa doesn’t care.”

“Well , my Aunt Kenna will.”

Unsurprisingly, you found yourself overpowered by Sevika at the register. She pressed her card down, its body sleek and black with silver lettering. Once again, you were struck by the kindness of strangers and you felt your throat tighten.

She gave you a look, as if to quiet your self-effacing urges. Behind the counter, the clerk smiled to herself as she observed the two of you. She was petite and had a pinched face, her hair short and a creamy blonde. Maddie, her tag read. She reminded you a lot of your mother, possessing the same shifty energy of a runner as she racked up your total.

The drive resumed, and with it, you revealed more of yourself to Sevika. You told her about your grandma, about the way she used to braid your hair with fake frangipani from the craft store and sing to you in the evenings where your mother would be gone. How her hands were always soft, even when they were tired. How you used to tuck yourself under the desk at the hospital where she worked when your heart was crumbled by women you definitely shouldn’t have been involved with at eighteen.

You spoke of your aunt, the way she fought to keep the family together, even when it wasn’t hers to save. You spoke of your little sister who in a way was also your child, how you did most things in life for her sake.

Sevika listened in silence, her hand resting on the wheel, her gaze never straying from the road. There was something in her stillness that made you feel seen, even when the words caught in your throat.

When you finally crossed into Tampa, the sky was dyed indigo and gold, the houses lining the street glowing faintly in the dusk.

You rolled the window down and leaned out, your phone poised to capture the image forever on your cracked back camera. You were such a tall child.

The warm air stroked against the moon of your face, tugged at the ends of your hair and dried your lips. You felt Sevika’s hand slide to your thigh, just below the crease of your ass, heavy and grounding, and you froze. Her palm was rough against the soft give of your flesh, her fingers splayed just enough to keep you steady.

“Don’t fall out,” she muttered, her voice tinged with quiet amusement.

“I won’t,” you said, but you sat back soon after, your heart beating a little too fast.

Sevika’s hand lingered a second longer before retreating to the wheel.

The butter-yellow house came into view, its shutters glowing faintly in the twilight. Your breath hitched. It looked the same as it always had, though the paint was more weathered, the steps chipped at the edges.

Sevika pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. The silence was deafening. You fumbled with your purse, fingers trembling, but before you could open the door, Sevika’s hand found your chin. She turned your face toward hers, her thumb brushing just beneath your jaw.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Always is.”

Her eyes held you in place, dark and unflinching.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure if you believed her. Before you could think too much of it, you leaned forward and brushed a kiss across her cheek. Over her scar.

“Thank you.”

Her mouth parted, but the screen door creaked open, and you saw your aunt step onto the porch, her arms crossed and one brow raised in quiet judgment. You hesitated, glancing back at Sevika.

“You could come in,” you offered, the words heavier than they should have been.

She hesitated, her gaze flicking to your aunt before landing back on you. She pushed off the seat and got out to follow you, her presence like a shadow at your back.

The porch light hummed faintly as you step inside, and a creamy warmth filled your chest. Your sister cheered when she saw you, and you laughed—your eyesight blurring. For the first time in hours, you felt like you could breathe.

❀

As always, you dived in headfirst and sought out your grandmother’s room.

It was a terrible mistake. You couldn’t handle seeing her like that.

Almost immediately, bile surged up your throat, sharp and acidic, and you bolted—pausing just long enough to set the medicine down on her nightstand with quaking hands. You burst outside, where the air was sweltering with salt and the sudden impact of your new reality.

You weren’t good with death, not in any of its forms.

When your daddy died, something inside you cracked clean in half, the break jagged and irreparable. You’d felt a piece of yourself slip down into his grave, like a loose flower. Since then, you’d clung to the hope that love—your love—could somehow keep the people you cared about alive. At least until you felt ready for the loss.

Your chest ached in a way that felt both too familiar and entirely new, like grief had leveled your ribs to construct a home in your body. You rubbed at it absently, trying to dull the pressure blooming there, blinking hard against the rising tide of tears.

She was going to die. You knew this. It settled into your stomach like lead, poisoning you.

Behind you, the woods creaked, the trees’ chorus soft and low, like they were joining you in mourning. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Hey, angel,” Sevika said, her voice low and warm, the kind of soft you wouldn’t have expected from her. It caught you off guard every time. “You alright?”

“I’m not going back in there,” you said quickly, your voice brittle and thin.

“You don’t have to.” There was a pause, long enough to make your chest tighten. Then, quieter, “Can you look at me?”

You hesitated, staring down at your hands, at the chipping polish on your grown out tips and the way your fingers trembled. You could feel her waiting, patient and steady, like she’d stand there all night if you needed her to. Finally, you turned, slow and reluctant, until your eyes met hers.

Sevika stood at the edge of the porch, broad shoulders framed by the faded light. Her face was unreadable, but not unkind.

“Come here,” she said, barely above a whisper.

You didn’t think. You moved, inching forward on unsteady legs and stepping into her orbit. Her hands came up instinctively, one curling around your elbow, the other hovering just above your waist, as if she wasn’t sure where to touch you.

“I can’t go back in there,” you repeated, your voice cracking.

“[Name]—,”

“She’s dying.”

“But you knew that. You can’t leave her when she needs you the most.

“I’m tired of people fucking needing me.” You crossed your arms over your torso, holding yourself. “They all just leave anyway.”

“When you love people, that’s the process. That’s life’s price.

The words hit you like a perfect blow, and before you could stop yourself, you were crying—big, fat tears that streaked your cheeks with warmth and made your mascara run. You tried to turn away, but her hand found your chin, tilting your face back toward hers.

“Hey,” she murmured, her thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s unfair, I know. Trust me, I know. Let it out.”

And you did. You let the sobs take you, let them rip through you wave after wave, until you were clinging to her shirt, the fabric balled tightly in your fists. She held you through it, solid and unfaltering, her hand steady against your back.

When the tears finally subsided, you felt drained, like you’d been wrung out and left to dry. But her arms stayed around you.

❀

Sevika managed to coax you inside, shivering and bleating like a lamb, but the house was newly unbearable.

Every room smelled like antiseptic and something sweetly rotting beneath the surface, a scent that clung to your hair and the back of your throat. The walls felt too bright, too alive for what was happening inside them.

It was like the house was mocking you. Every sound—your grandmother’s labored breathing, the clock ticking too loudly in the kitchen, your little sister’s restless movements on the couch—seemed to close in on you.

You couldn’t stay. Not in that room, not in that house. Maybe you took after your mother more than you liked to admit.

Your sister looked so small on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her and her face blank as she stared at the flickering TV. She was holding onto the hem of her dress like it might unravel if she let go and the man on the screen promised to get her a spot in heaven, under God’s thumb. Bullshit.

When you spoke, your voice was soft, barely audible over the droning hum of the television.

“Get your shoes on, bug,” you said. “We’re going to the beach.”

Her head snapped up, her wide eyes searching yours for a moment before she nodded and slid off the couch.

You were almost out the door when your aunt caught you, her voice sharp but quiet.

“You better know what you’re doing with that woman.”

Kenna’s words stopped you cold, the strap of your bag digging into your shoulder as you turned to face her. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her face shadowed by the dim porch light.

“I don’t know what I’m doing with her,” you admitted, your voice low. “But I know I trust her.”

Your aunt studied you for a long moment, her gaze heavy and cutting. Finally, she stepped aside, her expression softening just enough to let you know she wasn’t angry, just worried.

“I know what infatuation looks like. I know what love looks like too, even when it’s still on its way. It’s coming, baby. Just—,”she sighed, breaking off.

“Just be careful,” she finished.

You hugged her tight, sagging as she slid a hand over her hair before letting you go.

Sevika was waiting in the car, her arm draped over the steering wheel, her face unreadable in the twilight. Your sister climbed into the backseat, curling up immediately with her Lisa Frank coloring book, and you slid into the passenger seat without a word.

The drive was quiet, the low hum of the city filling the space between you. Sevika didn’t push, didn’t ask what had happened inside. She just drove, and you were so grateful you could’ve kissed her.

The beach was nearly empty when you arrived, the sun beyond gone now. You spread a blanket out on the cool gray sand, letting your sister run down to the water. Her laughter echoed faintly, carried by the breeze, and for a moment, you let yourself relax.

You pulled off your woven cover-up, revealing the soft orange bikini you’d slipped on. The well-loved fabric clung to you, accentuating the plush curves of your body in a way that made you stall for only a moment. But then Sevika looked at you, and the way her gaze dragged over you made all air flee your throat.

She swallowed hard, her jaw working as she tore her eyes away and stared out at the water instead.

“You look nice,” she said, her voice gruff.

You snorted, sitting down on the blanket.

“Nice?”

“Very nice,” she amended, but the rasp in her voice gave her away.

“You do too,” you told her and you meant it.

She was gorgeous in her black cropped tee and little black cargoes. This was “as beachy as she was willing to get”. You didn’t give a damn. You wanted to eat her alive.

The sky deepened into a hazy indigo, the stars faint and scattered. Your sister danced along the shoreline, her feet splashing in the shallow waves. You watched her, your chest aching with something you couldn’t name.

“I wish this was my entire life,” you murmured, more to yourself than to Sevika.

She turned to you, her brow furrowed.

“What do you mean?”

“This,” you said, gesturing to your sister. “Taking care of her. Taking care of my daughter with my wife. No illness, no bills piling up, no—” Your voice broke, and you swallowed hard. “No worries. Just a quiet life.”

Sevika didn’t respond right away. When you finally looked at her, her face was so soft in a way you knew was probably a rarity. Her prosthetic raised in an aborted motion, as if she’d thought to touch your face.

“I could take care of you, baby,” she said quietly, the words slipping from her lips like a promise.

Your breath caught, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

“Come back with me, [Name],” she said, her voice low and steady. “Stay with me and Melly. Bring [Sister’s Name]. You don’t have to do it alone all the time.”

The fantasy of her words pressed against your chest, warm and overwhelming. For a moment, you let yourself imagine it: her, Melly, your sister, a life where the world's heaviness couldn’t crush you.

Your sister called out from the water, waving a piece of driftwood she’d found, and the moment broke. Sevika’s hand brushed yours, solid and grounding, and when you turned back to her, her eyes were still on you, waiting.

The tide lapped at the shore, the sound mingling with your sister’s laughter, and you felt a rising pulse in your mouth, on your tongue.

“They do fireworks at the docks. You have to pay, but we sneak in all the time. You wanna see?”

“Sure,” Sevika said.

The answer came so easily and you knew she’d give you everything. Maybe even love you forever. The thought made you tingle and you dug your toes into the sand.

“Let’s go,” you said, your pinky twisting around hers.

You both knew you weren’t talking about the fireworks.

With a wry smile she rose and set about taking you home again.

Your sister—forever your baby—was curled fast asleep in the back seat of Sevika’s car by the time you pulled out of the lot, her face slack with the kind of peace only children seemed capable of. Her soft snores filled the space between you as Sevika drove back to your grandmother’s house, the streets quiet and warm, lit faintly by streetlights. The evening air hung heavy, sticking to your skin like a second layer.

You glanced at Sevika as she drove, her profile lit in flashes by the passing lights. Her grip on the wheel was loose, but her fingers drummed absently against the leather, her thoughts somewhere else. Maybe with you.

You wondered if she was nervous. You wondered if she knew how much you were.

“She’s out like a light,” Sevika murmured, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Guess it’s just us.”

You swallowed, your fingers playing with the hem of your cover-up, and nodded. “Just us.”

Your aunt was waiting on the porch when you arrived. She was perched on the railing, her vape glowing faintly in the dark. You knew the scent without looking: cucumber, apple, and sour cherry.

Her sharp gaze moved between the two of you as Sevika carried your sister inside, her long stride easy and steady despite the weight of the little girl in her arms.

“Enjoyed your family outing?” Aunt Kenna asked, teasing but pointed, as you lingered by the door.

You blinked at her, startled, heat rising in your cheeks. “It wasn’t like that.”

She snorted, taking a long drag. “Sure it wasn’t .”

❀

The docks were quieter than you expected when you arrived. Most of the families had settled in their little corners, kids running barefoot across the wooden planks, their laughter echoing into the open sky. The air smelled of pear, peach blossoms, and distant charcoal grills, a mix of sugar and fire that felt like the very essence of where you’d been born and raised. 

Sevika parked far enough away to avoid the crowd but close enough for you to see the shimmering reflections of the boats swaying in the dark water. She leaned back against the hood of her car, her long legs stretched out in front of her, and watched as you wandered closer to the edge, the creamy orange of your tiny bikini glowing faintly in the dim light.

You should’ve been illegal.

“Careful, angel,” she called, her voice warm, fond. “You fall in, I’m not jumping after you.”

You turned, smirking, the breeze tugging at the bow sitting pretty in the middle of your full breasts. 

“I can swim.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to fish you out,” she said, but her smile gave her away. She was watching you so intently, her gaze loaded, as if committing you to memory.

You walked back toward her, your arms wrapped around yourself, and stopped just a foot away. The tension between you was almost tangible now, electric. You could feel it humming in the air, in the way her eyes lingered on the curve of your wide hips, the dip of your collarbone. It made your breath hitch.

“I’ve always loved the docks,” you said softly. “They feel… timeless. Like you could stand here forever and nothing would change.”

Sevika hummed, tilting her head to look up at you. “You think that’s a good thing?”

You shrugged, your lips curving faintly. 

“Sometimes.”

The first firework burst above you then, a bloom of pink and gold that lit up the sky and reflected off the water. A shock of red followed shortly after. You both looked up, the moment suspended, the sound of the explosion echoing in your chest.

You glanced at Sevika, her face bathed in the soft glow of the fireworks, and felt something shift inside you. Something undeniable.

The show continued, and you moved to lean against the hood of her car. The metal was warm and your stomach was buzzing at the nearness of Sevika’s broad body.

By the time the fireworks were halfway through, you couldn’t focus on them anymore. The loud bursts of color seemed secondary to the way Sevika was lounging next to you, her broad shoulders relaxed, her eyes soaking in the way goosebumps bubbled along your arms. It felt like she was daring you to do something, to cross the line you’d been dancing around since she’d swept you off the highway.

You moved closer, your bare feet brushing against hers, and she straightened slightly, her head listing to the side as she watched you.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, her voice low.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding. 

“I’m thinking…” You trailed off, your fingers twisting in the sides of your bikini bottom. “I’m thinking this feels… nice.”

Her lips quirked, just slightly, but her gaze was serious. “Nice?”

“So good,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I feel… safe with you. Things are perfect like this, and—and I’m probably never gonna feel this way again.”

The words hung between you, honest and raw, and you could see the way they landed on her, the way her expression softened, her guard slipping for just a moment.

“I’d never hurt you,” she said, her voice firm but gentle. “You know that, right?”

You nodded, stepping even closer until you were standing between her legs, the warmth of her body seeping into yours. “I know.”

You didn’t, really. She could be selling you a paper thin dream. But your hope had always been the largest part of you. It spurred the flame you felt for her, your aching burning desire to be with her all the time. To ride by her side without question. 

Her hand came up then, hesitating for just a second before settling on your waist. The touch was light, almost cautious, but it sent an electric current straight through you.

“Sevika,” you whispered, your voice stumbling.

She leaned in slightly, her breath warm against your cheek. 

“Yeah?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you closed the gap between you, your lips brushing against hers in a kiss that felt just right, like the tide meeting the shore. Your body lit up, and you collapsed into her—trusting and free. 

She stilled for a moment, as if surprised, but then her hand tightened on your waist and she kissed you back, slow and deliberate.

The world seemed to fade then, the fireworks a distant, glittering symphony in the black sky. All you could feel was her—her warmth, her strength, the way she seemed determined to hold you together even as you felt like you might fall apart.

When you finally pulled back, your breath coming in weak gasps, lightheaded and aching to faint, she rested her forehead against yours, searching your dilated eyes.

Your lip gloss was smeared across Sevika’s jaw, leaving a streak of shimmering peach and rose that caught in the fleeting light of the evening. It clung to her skin, soft and vivid As she moved, the stain glistened faintly, the contrast against her sharp, weathered features sending a slow, aching thrill down your spine. 

It was yours, this faint, glittering mark, lingering in the space where your mouth had been. She made no effort to remove it.

“Angel,” she murmured, her voice rough. “You sure about this?”

You nodded, your hands clutching at her shoulders. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Her smile was soft, almost reverent, as she pressed another searing kiss to your lips. 

“Come on,” she said, pulling back just enough to look at you. “Let’s get in the car.”

❀

Your palm slapped hard against the roof, your teeth almost tearing through your bottom lip as you tried to hold back a loud moan. 

Beneath you, Sevika gripped the copious flesh of your ass as she sucked at your clit. 

“Oh, shit, Sevika. Fuck.”

In the beginning you were so careful, worried about blocking her airway. With a hard slap to your ass she pulled you down, relentless in taking all of you. 

“Hnnnnnh,” you whimpered. “Sevi, fuuuuuck.”

Sevika hummed in satisfaction at that. As she watched your face she grazed your clit with her teeth, relishing in how you arched. 

You were so warm and supple between her fingers, your pussy slobbering over her nose and mouth. You tasted so good, so musky and honeyed. She never wanted to let you go. 

Slowly, she slide you down and pressed you down to her chest as she undid your bikini top so that your tits spilled eagerly against her own. She then tenderly tucked two fingers inside of you, cooing as you whined at the stretch. 

She began to bounce you by the fabric of your bottoms, forcing you to ride her fingers until they were covered in the thin film of your wetness. You moaned at her strength, at how easily she’d decided how you’d take her. 

“Good fucking girl. So sweet, aren’t you, baby? Hmm?”

“Sevi, please. Just—just a little faster.”

She grinned meanly, inserting a third finger and curling them—raking cruelly against your g-spot. You sank further into her, swiveling your hips if only to get her deeper. To take her harder. Your pussy was weeping, emptying itself onto her hand.

“Jesus, sweetheart. You’re leaking all over me. ‘M never gonna get this out of these seats.”

“Good,” you breathed out, smiling impishly.

Sevika’s eyes darkened and she suddenly rearranged you till you were on your back against the leather seats, your legs wholly spread. she lowered between them, licking a long stripe up to your clit experimentally. 

She had you soft and loose. You didn’t realize just how spacious this car was.

You moaned, high and loud, snapping into an arch until you were forced to come back down, Sevika’s arm holding your hips firmly. Your eyes were closed now, and your eyelids were no longer just black, explosions of color staining them, ripping through you.

Sevika lapped at you, taking her time but still intentional with the way she touched you. She used a hand to spread you apart burying her face into her pussy, her nose becoming wet again with your rabid need. She became messy, moving her head back and forth, slurping at you until you were almost shaking, on the edge of something greater.

Settling back just slightly, she spat harshly into your cunt and rubbed it into your clit, pressing down until it was close to painful. You couldn’t breathe correctly. You couldn’t even remember your name.

"Sevi. Sevi. Mommy, oh my fucking God.“

Sevika said nothing, just caught a lip of your cunt between her teeth, biting down as she slid her fingers back in.

"Unh," is what you had to add to the nonexistent conversation and Sevika grinned against you.

She spread her fingers and then curled them, dragging your hips into her lap as she sat up. You couldn’t feel your fucking legs.

"Yes. Yeah. Yeah, just like that. It feels so fucking good."

Sevika was driven and vicious, determined to eat away at the woman beneath her. You curved your back as your orgasm approached, determined to feel it all the way up in the cavern of your mouth. You needed this.

Sevika leaned over you, tilting your head down so that you were looking at one another.

"I want you to keep looking at me as you cum."

You made a faint noise of agreement and clutched at Sevika’s arms. She took your hands and placed them underneath your knees, so that you could hold yourself open. It spread you apart until she was able to view how pink and puffy you were. 

“I can’t wait to get you in bed, honey. ‘M gonna bend you over, open that tight little cunt with my cock, and watch you swallow me.”

“Oh.” You let a little groan of satisfaction as she thumbed at your clit. 

Sevika pressed your foreheads together and thumbed at your mouth. You felt both here and there, brain blanking. 

“Ohh,” she mocked you with a slight smile. “You’re so fucking cute.”

You cast your head back as Sevika returned her mouth to your pussy, suckling at it in combination with her fingers carving a space deep inside of you.

"Come on, angel," she urged. "Be good for me."

You were trying, goddamnit.

"Gonna take a photo of this creamy cunt. Show Melly, tell her that I did this. That you let me."

You let out a high whine, and she nodded in faux sympathy.

“Mmm? Is that what you want to do? Want me to take you to that shitty club and spread you open on stage? Stake my claim?”

A fourth finger now. Her voice dropped as if telling you a secret.

“Maybe I’ll slide some cold, hard cash into this slutty cunt, stretch that slit.” Faster now. Your toes curled. “ Fuck. I’m sorry, baby. Mommy just wants to slut you out.”

She pressed a delicate kiss to your cunt and you were unsure if what came next was just the slam of your hand against the door echoing or another firework going off. 

All you knew was that the world around you was roaring, that she refused to stop. All you knew was her digging into you. 

You imploded.

❀

The drive back was quiet, the tension between you still palpable but softer now, sated and sleepy. Sevika reached over once, her fingers brushing against your cheek and you shifted, pressing the petals of your lips into the center of her palm without hesitation.

When you finally pulled into your grandmother’s driveway, the house bathed in the soft glow of the porch light, you turned to her, your heart full to bursting.

“Stay,” you said, your emotions splayed wide open. “Just for a little while.”

She looked at you for a long moment, and then she nodded. “Okay.”

You both knew it wasn’t just for a little while.

❀ 

The house smelled like hibiscus and coffee when you walked in, the faint scent of six-dollar soy candles lingering in the corners. Your aunt was at the sink, her hands submerged in soapy water, her curls pinned back with a clip. She turned when she heard the door creak open, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly as she took in Sevika trailing behind you, broad-shouldered and quiet.  

“You brought her back?” she asked, not in a disparaging manner, though her tone carried the weight of an older woman who’d seen it all.

“[Sister’s Name] forgot something in her car,” you lied easily, gesturing toward said alibi, who was peeking into the kitchen while rubbing a fist over her eye, her drowsy greeting muffled as she dragged her blanket behind her.  

Your aunt didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t argue either. Instead, she flicked her chin toward the counter. 

“If she’s staying, she may as well help.”  

Sevika looked at you, one brow arched slightly in amusement. You shrugged, trying to play it cool, though the idea of her folding herself into your life—even for something as mundane as this—made your stomach swoop. 

The kitchen was broiling, almost unbearably so, with the old oven humming faintly and the humidity from the day still clinging to the walls. Sevika rolled up her sleeves, revealing the curve of her forearms, the prosthetic gleaming faintly in the soft overhead light. 

You tried not to stare, but your eyes kept drifting—over the way her hands moved as she dried the dishes your aunt handed her, the faint flex of muscle under her skin.  

“You ever wash a dish before?” your aunt asked, a smirk tugging at her lips.  

“Plenty,” Sevika admitted, her voice low and even. “Did a couple restaurant stints when I first came to this place. I was hoping to never do that shit again.”  

You bit back a smile, ducking your head as you reached for a towel to dry the counter. The space felt smaller with her in it, her silhouette filling every corner, her quick movements electric.  

Your aunt glanced between the two of you, her gaze lingering on Sevika before she handed her another plate. 

“You’re a hard worker. Good. She needs someone who can keep up.”  

Sevika’s lips quirked, but she didn’t respond, her attention focused on the task in front of her.  

The radio crackled faintly from the corner, playing some old Cuban bolero your aunt loved, and you found yourself swaying slightly as you worked, the rhythm infectious. You caught Sevika watching you out of the corner of her eye, her gaze soft but intent, and your cheeks warmed.  

“You dance to this too?” she asked, her voice pitched low enough that your aunt didn’t catch it.  

“Sometimes,” you said, keeping your focus on the counter. “Not for free, though.”  

She chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in her chest. “Figures.”  

Your aunt, oblivious or maybe just tactfully ignoring the tension that weaved itself between you, turned to Sevika with a clean dish in hand. 

“Rinse this for me, would you? And don’t let her distract you—she’s been trouble since she could fucking walk.”  

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sevika said, glancing at you with a spark of amusement in her eyes.  

The night wore on, the kitchen growing quieter as your aunt finally finished and stepped out to check on your sister. You stayed behind, leaning against the counter as Sevika dried her hands on a threadbare patch of towel. 

“I can’t believe you were hustling in restaurants,” you said, nodding toward the sink.  

She smirked, tossing the towel onto the counter. 

“Don’t sound so surprised. I can be a delight.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

 “Thanks for helping.”  

“Anytime,” she said, her voice softening slightly.  

You watched her for a moment, the way her shoulders seemed less tense now, the way her hair caught the light. The memory of her hands on you earlier still lingered, watering over your skin. It was a secret only the two of you shared.  

“You okay?” she asked, her brow furrowing slightly as she stepped closer.  

You nodded, though your chest felt tight, your pulse thrumming in your ears. 

“Yeah. Just a little tired.”  

Her hand brushed yours, just barely, but it was enough to make your heart skip. She noticed, her gaze dropping to where your fingers nearly touched before she pulled back, her jaw tightening.  

“We should get some sleep,” she said, her voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” you murmured, though you didn’t move.  

For a moment, neither of you did, the hum of the radio the only sound in the room. Then she stepped back, giving you space you didn’t want, and you let her.  

❀

Your bedroom felt much like the inside of a shell—quiet and strange, the air soaked with a mixture of rose, magnolia, and something darker, something that sat low in your chest. You could still taste the golden slices of your childhood, still feel the ache in your ribs that came from building elaborate forts. 

But now there was Sevika, solid and steady beneath you.

As soon as the door had closed, she’d taken you apart slowly, carefully, as though she’d known you needed it to feel stable again. 

The rough pads of her fingers, the soft murmur of her voice, the way she called you princess like it was the only name you’d ever had. And you had suffered in silence, hand across your mouth as you clenched and shook around her head for the third time, then the fourth. 

You’d finally tired after a good ride on her thigh, holding on desperately to the nape of neck. Her baby hair was soft there, tender. She came when you kissed her nose, slid down to her mouth, and called her beautiful. She’d whimpered, bucked awkwardly around your fingers, and you held her to you as you whispered her name. 

You’d looked it up in the bathroom. Sevika. Of Indian and Sanskrit origin. Servant of God. 

Now, she lay between your legs, her head resting heavy and warm against your stomach. The weight of her felt magical, made your body feel more virginal than it ever had been, and you sighed lowly as the first rays of sunlight slipped through the blinds, casting pale gold stripes across her back. 

The swan wings stretched with her every move, the feathers catching flight as she breathed. Muted ivory and soft grays leaned tenderly into the faintest hints of lavender and navy blue, the delicate gradient of ink glowing against her deep, bronze skin.

You reached out, tracing the curve of a wing’s tip near her shoulder blade. The ink felt warm under your fingertips, her skin soft but unyielding. The swan’s head, nestled at the base of her neck where the wings met, was elegant and sharp, its eyes bright as if they could see into you. You followed the line of its neck with your thumb, your touch lingering at the place where her spine dipped, and she hummed low in her throat, a sound that vibrated through your body.

She tilted her head, her cheek brushing against the softness of your belly as her eyes opened slowly, sleep still heavy in her gaze. 

“You like it?” she murmured, voice rough and low.

“It’s beautiful,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re beautiful.”

You had already said this, and the reminder made you blush in embarrassment. A slow, lopsided smile tugged at her lips, and she closed her eyes again, sinking deeper into you as if she belonged there. You felt her hand slide up to rest on your thigh, her fingers splayed against your skin, holding you in place like she was afraid you’d disappear into the rising morning.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, and you flinched at the sound, the world outside pressing back in. Sevika didn’t move, just let her hand trail lazily up your spine as you reached for it. The screen glowed with messages from your aunt:  

aunt kenna 𓆉: Couldn’t get anyone to cover the rest of my shifts this week. aunt kenna 𓆉: Mom’s still kicking. She’s getting stronger. aunt kenna 𓆉: Ty for coming home. See you soon. Love you, bug x 

Still alive, you thought. The words lit up something inside you, bright and raw and impossible to contain. You laughed, the sound catching on the edge of a sob, and dropped the phone onto the bed.

“What is it?” Sevika asked, her voice filling with concern.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. The words tangled in your throat. Instead, you turned to her, your fingers trembling as they found her face, tracing the line of her jaw, the curve of her full mouth. 

“She’s still alive,” you whispered, the words spilling out like a prayer.

Her eyes softened, her hand sliding up to cradle your face, her thumb brushing against the corner of your mouth. 

“Yeah,” she said, her voice steady, certain. “She’s a strong woman, just like the rest of you.”

The relief hit you all at once, sharp and overwhelming, and you kissed her because you couldn’t think of anything else to do. It was messy and desperate, your hands fisting in her hair as you tried to pour every unspoken thing into her mouth. She let you, her body surrendering to its basest urges . 

“Still alive,” you repeated, this time against her lips, your forehead resting against hers as your tears slipped silently onto her skin. 

“Mmhmm,” she murmured, her voice soft but sure, her hands steady on your hips. “You’re all gonna live forever.”

You kissed her again, because you needed to. You needed her. 

You believed her. 

And the truth was you didn’t know how good it would get for the two (five) of you. 

You’d look back, let go, lose this part of things. Take your baby sister and leave.

You’d still be you, but you'd be free.

taglist: @miles-42-morales @indigopearl96 @marvelwomenarehot0 @vintagelotus345 @queen-simone @uronlymiaa @namuranguinhos @femlesbianbarbie @femme-historian @vikaswife @powderpinkandsweeet @drgnflyteabox @icespiceluva @theirlaliengirl @supermanwifey @nkeyaaa @batmanslittlelover @strawberrykidneystone @shimmerstraps

© hcneymooners

[insidekatmind]

Mission- Bucky Barnes

Wearning: +18,smut

Request: yes!

The jet lands with a jolt on the deserted runway of a private island. Outside the window, palm trees sway in the breeze, and a pink sunset paints the horizon. There’s no time to appreciate it, though. You’re here for a mission, and it’s already off to a bad start.

“I can’t believe I have to do this with you,” scoffs Bucky Barnes, throwing you a look of pure disgust.

“The feeling is mutual,old man,” you reply through gritted teeth. Your name, Y/N, is printed on the fake passport you’re holding, but your real task is far more complicated than maintaining a false identity. The mission requires you and Bucky to pose as a happily married couple to infiltrate an exclusive gala hosted by an international arms dealer.

“Wasn’t there literally anyone else available?” he asks, shaking his head.

“We’re not here for sympathy, Barnes. You’re the only one with a shady enough past to avoid suspicion.”

He laughs, but without a shred of humor. “And you’re the only one who speaks enough languages to keep up with a crooked diplomat. Just don’t expect me to pretend I enjoy being here.”

“And don’t expect a hug from me,” you reply with an icy smile.

---

The villa assigned to the two of you is luxurious: white marble, designer furniture, and an ocean view that takes your breath away. Too bad the tension in the room is heavy enough to crush any promise of relaxation.

“There’s only one bed,” you say, pointing to the massive king-sized bed in the middle of the room.

“Perfect,” Bucky replies, dropping his bag on the armchair nearby. “I’ll take the couch.”

“Not a chance. I need proper sleep for tomorrow night’s gala.”

“Don’t worry, princess,” he says with a smirk. “I wouldn’t come near you even by accident.”

You finally decided to share a bed. You were wearing shorts and a tank top as you stared at the ceiling.

Bucky lies next to you, tense and unmoving. Even without looking at him, you can feel the distance between you both, like a chasm that can’t be crossed. Your eyes wander to the ceiling, tracing the pattern of shadows in the dim light. Finally, he breaks the silence.“Do you expect me to believe that you actually need sleep?” he mutters under his breath.

"What?" You ask, turning to him.Bucky doesn't turn to you, but his voice is still laced with sarcasm. "You heard me. I know you're used to pulling all-nighters for missions. You don't exactly act like the type to need a full eight hours to feel refreshed."

You look at him with a twinkle of sarcasm. "Well this time it's different, I'm on a mission with you and I have to put up with you, so I need sleep".

Bucky rolls over onto his side, finally facing you. “Oh, so I’m such a pain that I keep you awake now?” he says with a smirk. “Is this how you treat all the people you’ve ever worked with?”

"not just old men who think they are better than others" you reply looking at him.“Old man?” He repeats, sitting up on the bed. “You’re really calling me an old man? Aren’t you supposed to flatter your partner on these missions? Or is that just reserved for the men you actually like?” he jokes.

You roll your eyes ignoring him.Bucky doesn’t get ignored easily, though. He scoots his way towards you in the bed, his prosthetic arm brushing against your arm. “What, no smartass reply? I can’t believe I’ve finally managed to shut you up,” he teases, his voice low and quiet.

“Keep your hands or I'll turn your other arm into vibranium too,” you threaten.

Bucky holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Easy, sweetheart. I’m just trying to get a reaction out of you.” He scoots even closer, so that you can feel the heat of his body next to you. “And I think I’ve succeeded.”

“Very funny arm wrestling,” you say sarcastically.“You got plenty of jokes, huh?” Bucky replies, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He leans in a little closer, the distance between you almost vanishing. “You know, I can think of a better way to occupy that smart mouth of yours, princess.”

You turn and find yourself a little too close to him. "Oh really?" you say sarcastically.Bucky takes advantage of your proximity, invading your personal space even further. His face is inches from yours now, his breath dancing across your skin. “You’d be surprised,” he murmurs, a hint of danger in his voice. “I’ve got some ideas….”

Bucky’s fingertips graze your jaw, sending a shiver down your spine. “I wonder if you’d be this sarcastic if I took away that smart mouth of yours.”He shifts his weight on the bed, pinning you against the sheets as he leans over you. He’s so close now that you can feel the heat of his breath on your face.

"What the hell are you doing?" You murmur, looking at him above you.Bucky smirks, relishing your surprise. “What does it look like I’m doing?” he asks, his voice a low growl. His head dips down, his lips brushing against your neck. “I’m testing a theory….”

Bucky's hands roam over your body, the metal one surprisingly gentle. “Tell me your theory,” you manage to gasp as his fingers tease the edge of your tank top.Bucky's lips find your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “My theory is that your smart-ass mouth isn’t as tough as you think it is,” he whispers, his teeth grazing your earlobe. “And I bet I could find a more entertaining use for it.”

“Your theory is wrong old men” you say.Bucky laughs at that, his chest rumbling against yours. “Oh, we’ll see about that,” he says, his hand sneaking under the hem of your shirt. “I’ve yet to see you speechless. I bet I could make you speechless. I bet I could make you forget every smartass comment you’ve ever thought and make you begging for more.”

“get your hands off me” you say looking at him.Bucky's hand stills, pressed flat against your stomach. “Is that what you really want?” he asks, his voice a low murmur. “Or are you just saying that because you’re too stubborn to admit you like my hands on you?”

"Why would I like it, hm?" You murmur, looking at him.Bucky grins above you, his eyes flicking down to your lips. “Oh, I think you do. I think you like me this close to you. I think you like the way my hand feels on your skin….”

His prosthetic hand travels up, pushing under your top until you can feel the cool metal against the skin of your stomach. “I think you’re just too stubborn to admit it,” he says, his voice a sultry whisper.

His fingers trace the edge of your bra through your shirt, a light touch that sends a shiver down your spine. “I think you’re struggling to keep hold of all those smartass comments, aren’t you?” he murmurs. “I think you’re about to lose your words completely.”

“fuck you” you blurt out looking at him.Bucky laughs, his voice a deep rumble. “Now that’s exactly the kind of dirty talk I like to hear,” he replies, enjoying your reaction. His hand slips down, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. “You know, you really should watch that mouth of yours, princess.”

You could feel his hardness touching you and you looked up at him. "You like this kinky game, yes?" you murmur.

Bucky’s smirk turns into a grin, his eyes darkening with want. “I like anything that gets a reaction out of you,” he replies, his hand roaming across your hip and up your thigh. “And you’ve been giving me quite the reaction.”

His hand slips under your top, his fingers splaying across your back. He pulls you closer to him, his hips grinding against yours. “But I have a feeling we could both have some more fun…”

You hold back a moan feeling his hardness more towards you.Bucky’s smirk only widens as he hears your stifled moan. “That’s more like it,” he says, his hand moving to the back of your neck. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to make a noise for me.”

"you won't get anything from me" he murmured not with the same certainty that characterizes you.Bucky laughs, his breath hot against your skin. “Oh, princess, I think you underestimate me,” he replies. “I’ll get you to make all sorts of pretty noises for me before the night is over.”

His lips find your neck, his teeth nipping at your skin. “And you can’t fool me,” he murmurs. “I can feel you shivering, I can hear your breathing getting rougher. You like this, don’t you? You like the way I’m touching you….”

His hand is roaming over your body, pushing your shirt higher over your stomach and your chest. “Go on,” he urges, his voice husky. “Say it. Tell me you like it when I touch you like this….”

“No, I don’t,” you say even as your sighs grow heavy.

Bucky laughs at your stubbornness, but there’s an edge to it. “Oh, princess, you’re a terrible liar,” he says, his hand moving to your waist. “I know you want this. I can feel it in the way you arch your back when I touch you. And I’m not going to stop until you stop pretending.”

His mouth is on your neck now, his teeth scraping against your skin. “Stop playing games, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Tell me you want me. Tell me you need me.”

You moan at the contact. “no, I don’t” you say in a tense voice.

Bucky’s smirk widens, his hand sliding up your leg. “Your moans don’t seem to agree with your words,” he murmurs. “I know you can’t resist me. I know you’re just as much of a mess under my touch as I am under yours….”

His hand moves farther north, slipping under the hem of your shorts. “Give in, princess,” he whispers, his voice a low growl. “Just say the words and I’m all yours….”

You closed your eyes trying not to give in but you could feel Bucky's hand playing with your thong.Bucky lets out a low chuckle as he feels you react to his touch. “There you go,” he murmurs, his fingers playing with the lace of your lingerie. “I know you’re close to breaking, isn’t that right? I know you’re just moments away from giving in…”

His thumb brushes against your most sensitive spot through the thin fabric, drawing a gasp from your lips. “Come on, princess, I want to hear you say it,” he says, his voice dripping with want. “I want to hear you admit that you want this as badly as I do…”

You moan at the touch and arch. “I hate you so much” you murmur.Bucky laughs huskily, feeling your body respond to his touch. “No, you don’t,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. “You don’t hate me at all. You hate how much you want me…. How much you need me….”

His fingers toy with the waistband of your shorts, his hand edging them down your hips. “Admit it, princess,” he whispers, his teeth nipping at your earlobe. “Admit that you want me as badly as I want you….” His hand moves to your inner thigh, his touch light and teasing. “Say the words,” he urges, his voice low and rough. “Say you want me, princess. Say you need me just as badly as I need you….”

You bit your lip to keep from giving in but it was very difficult, you were wavering and you just wanted him to give you pleasure.Bucky lets out a low curse as he feels you resist him. “You’re such a stubborn little thing,” he grumbles, his hand tightening on your thigh. “But I won’t let you keep up this act, princess. I’ll break you, it’s only a matter of time…. Just say the words, sweetheart….”

His fingers slide further up your thigh, edging up under your shorts. “Just a few words, princess,” he urges, his voice rough with want. “Just tell me you want me, and then I’ll give you what you need…”

You moan again but you don't want to give in. "No".Bucky curses again, his fingers tightening on your thigh. “You’re so damn stubborn, princess,” he mutters, his voice tight with want. “But you’re also lying to yourself….”

Bucky finally leans down and kisses you passionately and hungrily.The kiss is almost violent, a clash of need and desperation. Bucky’s lips are hot against yours, his tongue seeking yours as he presses you into the sheets. He bites at your bottom lip, then leans back, his eyes dark with desire. “Say it, princess,” he growls, his hand still on your thigh. “Just say you want me….”

You moan and kiss him. Bucky laughs huskily, his hand moving up your body. “There we go, princess,” he murmurs against your lips. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for…”His lips move down to your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there and causing you to gasp again. “Say it, princess,” he repeats, his hand finally moving up to cup your core. “Just tell me you want me….”

You moan at his words and surrender to him. "I want you".Bucky lets out a low growl of satisfaction as he hears your words. “That’s what I thought,” he mutters, his fingers trailing against your skin. “I knew you couldn’t resist me for long.”

He takes your wrists in his hand, pinning them above your head. His body presses against yours, his weight holding you in place. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it, princess?” he whispers in your ear, his breath hot and heavy.His hand slides down your body, his touch sending shivers down your spine. “But now that you’ve given in, I’m going to have some fun with you…” he murmurs, his voice dark with promise. “I’m going to make you scream for me…”

He kissed you again and put two fingers inside your panties and into your core making you moan into the kiss.Bucky lets out a low chuckle as he feels you arch against him. “That’s it, princess,” he murmurs against your lips. “Let it out. Let me hear how good I make you feel…”He moves his fingers slowly, finding a rhythm that makes you moan again. “I knew you’d feel good,” he whispers, his eyes dark with want. “

His fingers move a little faster, the pressure inside of you increasing. “But I bet I could make you feel even better…” he murmurs, his mouth moving down to your neck. “I bet I could make you scream for me".

“Bucky” you moan and arch once more.Bucky’s smirk is almost feral as he hears you moan his name. “There it is,” he mutters, his fingers working faster as they press deeper into you. “I knew you’d sound like that when you finally let yourself go…”

He bites at your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin. “And I know I can make you moan louder, sweetheart… if you beg me right…”

His fingers move again, finding a place inside you that makes you gasp. “Beg me, princess,” he murmurs, his voice rough with lust. “Beg me to make you feel good. Beg me to give you what you need…”

You felt his fingers go faster and faster inside you and you could feel yourself getting close. “Please Bucky,” you murmur.Bucky grins at your words, his fingers moving even faster. “Please, what, princess?” he murmurs, his mouth moving to your ear. “Say it. Tell me what you want me to do…”

“let me come please” You murmur moving your hips on his fingers.

Bucky grins at your pleading tone, his fingers finally getting the reaction he wanted. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “You sound so pretty when you beg for me like that… so pretty when you ask for what you want…”

His fingers move a little faster, going deeper. “You’re so close, princess,” he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. “I can feel it. I can feel your body tensing up… begging for release…"

He moves his mouth back to your neck, his teeth nipping at your skin as he presses his forehead against yours. “But you have to ask me nicely if you want it…” he mutters, his voice raw with need. “You have to beg me for what you need, princess…”

You whimper at his words. “please Bucky, I’m so close” you murmur.Bucky’s grin widens at your words, his fingers finally giving you what you’ve been craving. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” he mutters, his touch rough yet still gentle with you. “You like it when I make you beg for it…”

“please” you murmur moaning feeling yourself getting closer and closer.Bucky’s fingers move a little faster at your words, his touch more insistent as he moves against you. “Almost there, princess, you’re so close,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl. “But I need you to say those magic words. I need you to beg me one more time…”

"Bucky please" you scream.Bucky grins at your scream, his fingers moving faster than ever inside you. “There it is, princess,” he mutters, breathing hard. “You sound so pretty when you scream my name… now let go for me, sweetheart."

You moan at his words and come on his fingers. “fuck” you murmur, closing your eyes in pleasure.Bucky let out a low growl as he feels you come on his fingers. “That’s it,” he mutters, his voice rough with satisfaction. “That’s my good girl…”

He withdraws his fingers and brings them to his mouth, licking them clean. “You taste so sweet,” he murmurs, his eyes dark with lust. “I knew you’d be sweet"

Bucky leans down, his body pressing against yours. “But I’m not done with you yet, princess,” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. “Not even close…”

You look at him knowing you were in for a long night.

[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*

[05raine]

Human!Optimus Prime

Let’s start this series off with our goat Optimus!

As someone who only recently got into transformers and wants to contribute to the fanart but is too lazy to actually learn how to draw robots/mechs, I’ve decided to come up with human designs for some of the transformers! (Mainly the ones from Transformers Prime, cause that’s like the only show I’ve watched so far 💀)

Ramblings about design under cut vvv

This is the first one I made in the series which I started back in 2023 lmao, so there may be some discrepancies between each design. I only recently came back to it and tweaked his design a bit, but alas, I suck ass at drawing buff people(especially men) so bear with me 😔

I was inspired by cosplayer @/arkhamknight_22.0 on tiktok, so if you see similarities that’s why!!

It was hard to find a balance in casual/comfy and battle-ready for this Optimus cause I wasn’t quite sure what he’d go for in the scenario of TFP. So I went with something that can be seen as both casual and tactical/convenient for fights. Think Jack Reacher.

Something I’m trying to explore with their human designs is the wounds of war; there’s going to be scars and such. So underneath his clothes Optimus wears a sort of battle suit, think similar to the Ironman suit from Infinity War I guess, but also almost a prosthetic at this point. Idk I’m not smart enough for that stuff, I just make it look good 🤷‍♂️

Though I do imagine it’s something he can take off, but with all the fighting he feels better to just leave it on most days.

I tried to convey the tough leader who’s willing to do anything for his people but he has a sort of softness to him if that makes sense. So when he has to take the exo-suit thingy off for repairs or whatever reason, if a certain autobot takes to painting some of the panels on it to make him look less intimidating to other bots…then he doesn’t bother scrubbing it off.

Okay, some smaller notes for his design: he wields weapons(axes, swords, etc..) so he has some scars and blisters on his palms. He’s protected the mostly with the gloves but he finds finger covering gloves to lessen his hand mobility so he went with fingerless. (And with built in steel knuckles for that extra punch!!)

I don’t know what his specific age would be but I’m thinking late 50s-mid 60s, but the fight ain’t out of him yet!

Of course there’s the autobot insignia as a belt buckle, I couldn’t really make it work anywhere else at the time of his first design and I got too attached to it to change it 😔 I also gave him(along with the other autobots) those electric blue eyes that they all share in the show! I thought it was cool

I also had to include the iconic red and blue flame decals, and I think it translated well into his leather jacket!

And for those curious here is his old design from two years ago, not much of a difference but there is an improvement

Like wtf is this?????? I 100% drew his face better good lord… barf, but hey! At least I’m better at drawing black people 💪💪💪

[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.

[iie0y]

SYNOPSIS ♱ Vash thought you were the most beautiful soul he has met in his life, and you deserved everything in the world he couldn't give you.

CONTENTS ♱ fem!reader, mentions of insecurities (vash), reverse comfort, hurt/comfort, angst if you squint, fluff, Stamps!vash in mind, established relationship. NOT PROOFREAD! WORD COUNT ♱ 13.1k

Vash didn’t like to express his feelings, if he did it would have been under circumstances where he couldn’t bottle them up any longer.

It was the first thing you noticed about him when you began travelling alongside him almost a year ago, the fact Vash would rather suffer in silence then having other people worry about him, especially you. He had reasons though, he would mention time to time how he feels like he doesn’t have the right to be sad, he doesn’t deserve that luxury. He truly believes he has hurt people to the point of no rehabilitation.

And it hurts you, you find yourself wanting to just hold him until the soreness leaves his muscles, the stress fades, the world around him falling quiet, leaving only the two of you and the steady beat of his heart. You did just that on the days where his feelings were on the brink of slipping.

Today was one of those days.

All day, there had been something off about Vash. He still smiled, still joked when the opportunity came about – but there was a weight in his actions, a tension around him and his usually bright demeanour. You knew when he forced his laugh – the laugh that made you feel oh so light on your feet. He was carrying himself around like a shadow, his brows constantly furrowed at the nothingness he was spaced out staring at. Normally, his eyes lit up with a warmth that made your heart ache, they now were dim, shadowed by the thoughts behind them she wishes she could hear. He kept his chatter short, he didn’t trail off, rambling away like he was clearing a full storage from his head. You knew he carried a life of pain and suffering, but he always managed to mask it under his bright shine, but right now you could see it was slipping, crumbling before your eyes as all you could do was watch the pieces fall at his feet.

You knew he would come by and that defences would eventually shatter in front of you, but not now. It had been almost a week, you wanted to badly to talk to him, but the fragile look on his face made you hesitate. You worried if you pushed too hard – too abruptly, he might sink even further into himself. For now, you just stayed close, hoping your presence would send him a small message, that you were with him, and you cared, and whatever was eating away and tearing him apart would go away soon enough.

The small hotel room they found for the night was quiet, the only light around the cramped walls was the moonlight intruding from the window, pairing with the cold air – cooling the wooden floor beneath your feet. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon and yet Vash hadn’t moved from where he sat on the edge of the bed. He was hunched over, his head hanging low as his elbows rested on his knees, his prosthetic hand turning a stray thread on his pants between his fingertips. Though you stood near the doorway, you could tell he was tense. The pale moonlight from the window casted a soft glow along his features. He was beautiful. Even despite the frown painted on his face. The air between you both was heavy, thick with the unspoken words and an ache you didn’t know how to ease. Your brows furrowed at his state, finally deciding to take a few steps closer to where he sat.

‘’Vash,’’ You finally spoke up, barely above a whisper but loud enough for him to hear. He flinched at your tone but didn’t lift his head. His shoulders tensed, his fingers stilled for just a moment before resuming their nervous fidgeting,

‘’Hm?’’ He hummed softly, too soft. Almost detached. You could almost feel your heart physically break at his lack of words, the lack of his cheery you missed oh so dearly. You sighed, kneeling in front of the blonde, your gaze landing on his face, noting his frown replaced with a softer expression.

 ‘’What’s going on?’’, you asked, determined eyes never leaving his, searching his face. ‘’You haven’t been acting like yourself for a week now. What’s bothering you?’’

You catch the way his breathe hitched, and just for a moment, you feared he may brush you off again. To your surprise, a wash of defeat landed on his face, letting out a shaky exhale, eyes finally meeting yours. His eyes were glassy, swelled with the emotions he had been hiding away.

 ‘’It’s nothing...’’ He trailed off, swallowing a lump in his throat, as if he was trying to gather himself. ‘’I just…’’.

‘’Vash.’’ You pressed, your voice becoming firmer. You noted the way he hesitated; you were trying to be patient with him, knowing it wasn’t easy for him to talk about his feelings. ‘’Please. Talk to me,’’ His gaze darted away from yours as his fingers clenched the fabric of his pants.

‘’I just…’’ He started again, his voice beginning to tremble. ‘’I don’t know if I can keep doing this to you.’’

Your brows furrowed in confusion, ‘’Doing what?’’

‘’This,’’ he said, motioning to the room around them both. ‘’Dragging you through all of this. The running, the danger, the scraps…You deserve so much more, you deserve better than this.’’ He hesitated. ‘’Better than me.’’

Your stomach sank at his words, your heart finally shattering to pieces, the pain in his voice felt like a knife cutting through you.  You wasted no time to reach out, placing a hand over his, stilling his restless movements. ‘’Vash,’’ you called softly, your voice steady despite the lump forming in your throat. ‘’Why would you think that?’’

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he tried to look away from your gaze again, making you reach out to cup his cheek, forcing him to meet your eyes. ‘’Look at me,’’ you said firmly, ‘’I’m here with you because I want to be, you’re not doing anything to me. You shouldn’t have to carry such guilt around like it’s yours alone.’’ Tears slipped down his cheeks, and his trembling came up to rest over yours where it cradled his cheek.

‘’You don’t deserve this life,’’ he whispered, his voice broken and choked from his quiet sobs. ‘’You deserve a home, not the small hotel rooms we stay in, and not all the hardship I put you through daily. You deserve peace. You deserve a life of luxury, all the fancy rooms and high-quality meals you could ask for, rather than just scraps. Not this mess.’’ He smiled sadly through his words, smiling at the thought of the things he couldn’t give you. You shook your head, leaning closer until your forehead rested gently against his.

‘’You don’t get to decide what I deserve.’’ You murmured quietly, ‘’I don’t need fancy rooms or lavish meals. I chose you because you’re the life I deserve, hardships and all. So, you’re wrong if you think I’d trade any of this – any of you – I’d rather run for days on end beside you then live a perfect life without you.’’ His breathe hitched again, and this time he didn’t hold back the sob that escaped him. He pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the world.

‘’I don’t know what I did to deserve you.’’ He whispered against your shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. You smiled softly, leaving a kiss on the side of his head as you embraced him just as tight, your hand reaching up to comb through his soft blonde locks.

‘’You didn’t have to,’’ you murmured. ‘’Just let me love you. That’s enough.’’

He smiled against your shoulder, letting his body melt into yours.

Home.

AUTHORS NOTE ♱ I'm not the best at writing longer stories but I hope you liked it!! I love writing for vash sm (might consider doing a smut part 2 for this <3).

♱ do not repost or copy ♱

[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.