#brass is made up of which metal

[stoopidpigeonxx]

⋆˚｡⋆୨✧୧˚ 𝑶 𝑪𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏, 𝒎𝒚 𝑪𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏. ˚୨✧୧⋆｡˚⋆ (PT. 2)

OKOKOK I MADE THE PART TWO PLS STOP YELLING AT MEEEE

NSFW under the cut. MDNI.

Characters/fandoms: Captain Curly, Mouthwashing Content warnings: Smut, obvi, p in v whatt, curly being a SLOPPYYYYY eater, praise (from you and him), boobs, tits even, curly being 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂, alot of dirty talking, etc. Our boy curlys a bit of perv.

-Manners? What manners?

Curly is a, what do you kids call it... a munch? Yes. If he goes down on you, and he most likely will, he will be SLOPPY with it. I'm talking drooling all over your cunt, licking it from top to bottom, shaking his head side to side and pressing wet kisses to your clit. It's ironic, really, since he's so polite in and out of bed, but he doesn't really care about a mess if it means pleasuring you. What's a little mess? Sheets can be washed.

"Sorry *kiss* about the mess, sweetheart.. *kiss* can't *kiss* help myself."

-Beautiful tits. And rack. Love it.

When asked the question 'ass, tits or thighs,' he's gonna pick tits. He's a titty guy. Sure, your ass and thighs are nice too, and he gives them an equal amount of love, but nothing can beat the feeling of shoving his face into your boobs when he's thrusting in and out of you. It has something to do with hearing your heartbeat and how fast it is, but mostly he just likes suffocating between your twins. And if he's particularly stressed, he'll just set you on his desk and lift your shirt up and go to town. Sucking, squeezing, rubbing, all that. His favorite stress balls. And god forbid the day you get nipple piercings... He's mindlessly playing with the metal with his teeth, enjoying the feeling of the cold brass on his tongue. You'll have to wear bandaids. (which he'll apply, apologizing profusely.)

-Praise me for sin.

Call this man a good boy and he's whining and shaking. It goes both ways with him. He loves getting praised, and he loves praising. A few of his favorites.. "You're doing such a good job." "Look at you, taking everything like a champ." "God, you're gorgeous." "Good girl." "You're so pretty, baby.." "Atta-fuckin-girl." He knows you fold every time for that kind of talk, so he makes sure to say at least one while you're getting naughty. On the other hand, some of his favorites to hear.. "That's a good boy." "Thank you." (Manners.) "I love you so much." "You're too good." "Fuck, that's good." Hearing how good of a job he's doing is only fuel for him to keep going, and gets him hard as a rock. So, use that mouth. (Unless its occupied, wink wink.)

-He babbles when he comes.

When he's right on that edge, he goes a bit dumb. You feel so warm and good, and he's so fucking close, and his brain just loses all ability to form coherent thoughts. So he just mumbles whatever comes out of his mouth in that adorable whiny subby voice. (You know the one.) "Fuuuuck too good too good too good.. baby.. g'na make me come, coming, coming." Or just a chorus of 'yes' over and over. Its really cute because he tries to be quiet with it, but his brain is so broken that he can't control his volume too well. He has to shove his face into your shoulder or a pillow to muffle himself so the crew doesn't overhear.

-Can't stop, won't stop.

Will not give up until you come, no matter how sore his cock is or how cramped his legs are. He wants you to come as many times as possible before the night is over, and he's willing to overwork himself to achieve that. You've told him its okay, but he doesn't really care. Feeling you clench around him and ride out your orgasm is the best thing he's ever felt, so he's gonna have you coming at least 3 times each session. Unless, of course, you're begging him to stop since its too much. He'd never want to hurt you. He'd pull out and lay with you for a while and let your body calm down before starting up again. "Take it easy, angel. I'm right here. It's okay, you're doing so well." (Why does his dirty talk sound like him coaching you through birth?? 😭)

[aspenmissing]

Hi again I love your works they are amazing and they bring me so much comfort. Can you do one for the Arcane characters and the reader is really tired and overwhelmed so the reader just like zones out a lot and the Arcane character keeps having to bring them back to reality. Sorry if that made no sense but you work your magic. Love ya 🫶🫶

ᴢᴏɴɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ || 6239 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴏᴠᴇʀᴡʜᴇʟᴍɴᴇꜱꜱ, ᴢᴏɴɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ! ɪ ᴀᴍ ɢʟᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ʙʀɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ, ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴀʟʟ ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ! ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʙʀɪɴɢꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ! <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx

JAYCE

The lab is quiet.

Not silent—never silent. The ambient hum of arcane machinery seeps into the bones of the room, a gentle, ever-present current beneath the air. Faint blue light pulses from a hextech core on the far table, casting slow-moving shadows across the stone walls. Runes flicker softly along crystalline filaments overhead, like stars half-hidden by cloud.

Jayce glances up from his workbench, fingers stilling on the edge of a brass conduit. His eyes catch on you immediately—frozen in place.

You’re sitting at the other table, shoulders curved inward, your posture a fragile echo of your usual self. Your hands hover inches above the keyboard like you forgot what they were supposed to do. The screen glows faintly before you, code half-written, abandoned mid-thought.

He frowns, setting his tools down quietly. “Hey,” he says, his voice breaking gently through the quiet. “Y/N?”

You blink. Once. Twice. Your head turns slowly, almost like you’re underwater. “Hm?”

Jayce crosses the room in a few careful steps. He doesn’t want to startle you—just reach you. “You’re zoning again,” he murmurs, crouching beside you now. “That’s the third time in the past hour.”

“Oh.” Your voice is thin, brittle at the edges. You shift in your seat like you’re trying to shake off the fog, trying to pretend it’s nothing. “Sorry.”

He immediately shakes his head. “Don’t apologize.” His hand finds your thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles into the fabric of your pants, grounding you. “You’re overwhelmed. I can see it in your eyes.”

Your gaze drops, shame warming your cheeks. He can tell you’re trying not to let it show, trying to seem okay. But your body is betraying you—slouched, tight, tired in every bone.

Jayce gently lifts a finger to your chin, guiding your eyes back to his. “Hey,” he whispers. “Stay with me, sweetheart. Just for a second. Breathe.”

You inhale too quickly, chest hitching, shoulders tense. It’s a shallow breath, the kind you take when your mind is buzzing too loud to find stillness.

He leans in closer, his presence anchoring. “Alright. Let’s try this.” He takes one of your hands, which is colder than he’d like, and lifts it, guiding it to his chest. He presses your palm flat over his heart.

“Feel that?”

The steady thump-thump beneath your hand is rhythmic, strong. Real. You focus on it.

“Match me,” he whispers, voice low, soft. “Just breathe with me, love. In… and out.”

You try. At first, your breath skips ahead, too fast. But he’s there, holding your hand to his chest, letting you feel the calm rhythm of his breathing. He exaggerates each inhale so you can follow. In… two… three… Out… two… three…

Eventually, your lungs fall into step with his.

The fog in your head doesn’t vanish—not completely—but something shifts. The buzzing eases. Your shoulders fall a little lower, and the room stops spinning just enough for you to notice the smell of oil and metal, the faint citrus of Jayce’s cologne, the warmth of his skin under your fingers.

“There you are,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your knuckles. His eyes are so full of softness, it almost knocks the air out of you. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you breathe, voice barely above a whisper. Your chest feels tight in a different way now. Not from stress—but from the sudden, overwhelming sense of how deeply this man cares for you.

Jayce leans in, lips brushing your temple in a feather-light kiss. “You don’t have to push through everything,” he says against your skin. “Not alone. Not while I’m here.”

You nod, the movement small and tired, but it means everything.

“I’ve got you,” he adds. His hand slides from your thigh to your lower back, rubbing there in comforting strokes. “How about we take a break, hmm? Just you and me. I’ll make some tea. We’ll sit by the window for a bit.”

You’re not sure you can form words yet, but the quiet hum in your chest feels like yes.

Jayce stays right there beside you, still crouched, holding your hand like he’s got nowhere else to be. And for once, the weight in your body doesn’t feel quite so impossible.

You don’t say anything else for a while. You don’t need to.

VIKTOR

The hum of machinery was familiar to Y/N now—the constant whir of gears, the soft click of metal components being carefully placed. It was Viktor’s world, a world she had come to love as much as she loved him. Yet today, it felt distant, as if she was standing on the edge of it all, barely tethered to the moment. The rhythmic sounds that normally brought her comfort now felt like a faint echo, disconnected and hollow.

Y/N leaned against the desk, eyes unfocused, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of a blueprint. Her thoughts, tangled and heavy, drifted away from the present, slipping through her mind like sand through fingers. She barely noticed Viktor moving closer until she felt the soft pressure of his hand on her shoulder, his touch grounding in its gentleness.

“Y/N?” His voice was warm, but there was a concern threaded through the words, soft but insistent. "You seem distant."

She blinked slowly, her eyes struggling to focus on him. The words didn’t quite register at first, and when they did, they felt foreign—almost like they were being spoken to someone else. Slowly, her consciousness began to clear, like rising from underwater, and she realized how long it had been since she’d truly been present. She hadn’t even realized how much her exhaustion had taken hold of her. She smiled weakly at him, brushing her hair behind her ear, trying to hide the fact that her head was spinning. “I’m fine, Viktor. Just tired.”

Viktor’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the faint tremor in her hand as she set the blueprint aside. His gaze softened with understanding, but there was no mistaking the worry there, the quiet concern he wore so carefully. He sighed softly, the kind of sigh that carried a thousand unspoken words, and his cane clicked against the floor as he shifted closer, standing just behind her.

“You’ve been working non-stop for days now. You need rest,” he said, his voice a little firmer now, though not harsh. It was a statement, not a suggestion, but it came with the gentleness of someone who understood how difficult it was to let go of the endless tasks.

Y/N let out a small, hollow laugh, her lips trembling for a moment before she found her words again. “I don’t have time for rest,” she replied softly, her voice trailing off. “There’s always something more to do. Always something… to fix.”

Viktor’s brow furrowed slightly, the concern deepening. He could hear the frustration in her voice—the frustration of someone who had reached their limit but couldn’t bring themselves to stop. His fingers brushed through her hair gently, his touch a soft reassurance, before his hand found her face. He tilted it toward him, the motion tender, and her eyes slowly met his, filled with that quiet weariness he knew so well.

“I understand,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw as though memorizing the softness of her skin. “But you can’t keep pushing yourself like this. You’re human, not a machine. I’m here. Let me help carry some of it.”

Y/N felt the weariness in her bones, the aching exhaustion that had been slowly building up over the last few days. Her body begged her to slow down, to rest, but her mind—her mind refused to relent. There was always something more to do, always another project that needed attention. She closed her eyes, pressing her face into his touch, feeling the weight of everything that had been pressing down on her.

Viktor didn’t release her, not yet. Instead, he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her temple in a soft, tender kiss that lingered a moment longer than usual. His kiss was a reminder that she didn’t have to carry the world on her shoulders alone. “Y/N,” he whispered, his voice a grounding force, “I’m not going anywhere. You’re not alone in this.”

She nodded faintly, the warmth of his touch starting to seep through the cold exhaustion that clung to her. His words settled deep inside, like an anchor pulling her back to the present, away from the swirling fog in her mind. “I know… it’s just... everything feels too much right now.”

“I know,” Viktor said again, his words a gentle promise that wrapped around her like a protective cocoon. “But I’m here to remind you that it’s okay to take a break. You’ve given so much already.”

Y/N let out a small, breathless laugh, but it was strained—more of a sigh than anything else. She wanted to be strong, to meet the demands of their world with the same precision and focus that Viktor did, but at that moment, all she wanted was the quiet, the comfort of his presence, and the chance to close her eyes without guilt. To not feel the weight of endless expectations.

Her gaze flickered back to the desk again, her eyes scanning the papers, but the details began to blur. The lines of the blueprints twisted and faded, the letters becoming unreadable. The weight of her thoughts pressed in harder, her vision narrowing, and she couldn’t focus anymore. Viktor noticed the change instantly. His hand moved to her shoulder, steadying her before she could sway, before she could slip further away from reality.

"Láska," he said, his voice much firmer this time. "Look at me. Focus on me." (Love)

Her eyes struggled to focus on him, her mind desperately trying to latch onto the present. But the fog was thick, suffocating, and it felt like it was dragging her under again. His presence was the only thing she could hold onto, and his voice—deep, calm, unwavering—was the anchor that pulled her back.

She took a slow breath, trying to clear the fog that clouded her mind. Her vision was still blurry, but she forced herself to meet his eyes. “Sorry,” she whispered, feeling the exhaustion wrap tighter around her. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t apologize,” Viktor interrupted gently, his voice filled with understanding, and maybe even a little frustration for her. He could see how hard she was fighting, how much she wanted to keep going despite everything. But he also knew that this wasn’t sustainable. He reached out, his hand resting on the small of her back, guiding her toward the nearby couch. The cane in his other hand tapped softly against the floor, echoing in the quiet of the lab.

“You’ve given enough for today,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm. “Now, let me take care of you.”

Y/N let out a small sigh of relief, her body finally giving in to the moment, the weight of the world easing off her shoulders just a little bit. She collapsed onto the couch, feeling the softness of the cushions swallow her, and Viktor settled beside her, his cane leaning against the armrest. His hand never left her side, staying steady and warm, offering her the comfort and support she so desperately needed.

“Rest, moje srdce,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His touch was gentle, but it held a quiet insistence, like a promise. “Let the world wait for a while. You deserve this.” (My Heart)

For the first time in what felt like forever, Y/N allowed herself to close her eyes. She breathed deeply, slowly, feeling the air fill her lungs, clearing some of the fog. She allowed Viktor’s soothing presence to carry her away from the overwhelming chaos of the world, even if just for a moment. In his arms, she didn’t have to be strong, didn’t have to push through anymore.

It was enough. And for the first time in days, it was all she needed.

JAYVIK

The dim light from the lanterns flickered softly across the room, casting gentle shadows on the walls of their apartment. The air felt thick with the weight of the day's work. Y/N sat slouched in one of the chairs near the window, staring blankly at the sprawling city of Piltover below. The glowing lights of the city’s towers were a stark contrast to the weariness settling heavily in her bones. It had been another long, exhausting day—one that had left her mentally and physically drained. Her mind was foggy, the day’s tasks drifting in and out of focus. Every part of her felt like it was fighting gravity, yearning for rest that she couldn’t quite allow herself to take.

Jayce stood by the desk, his back slightly turned, deeply engrossed in some schematics. His brow furrowed in concentration, but the quiet ticking of time in the background kept pulling his attention. His gaze wandered back to Y/N. She hadn’t moved for several minutes, and he noticed the subtle way her body sagged into the chair. It didn’t take much for him to sense when she was slipping away, lost in the fog of exhaustion.

Viktor shuffled slowly across the room, his cane tapping gently on the wooden floor, each step deliberate. He caught sight of her first. Her shoulders were hunched, her eyes unfocused, and there was that faraway look in her gaze that both of them had come to know all too well. It was like her mind had wandered off to a place only she could go, leaving her body behind in the apartment.

"Y/N?" Viktor’s voice was soft, but there was an edge of concern beneath it. He moved closer, leaning slightly on his cane as he reached her side. His eyes softened as he noticed the subtle tremor in her shoulders.

Y/N blinked slowly, her gaze still unfocused. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, the movement barely noticeable. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came for a long moment.

"Y/N?" Viktor repeated, this time placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, the warmth of his touch a grounding presence.

She blinked again, her attention shifting, but there was still a fog around her thoughts. She looked up at Viktor, eyes heavy. "Hm? Oh... yeah... just tired." Her voice was distant, thick with exhaustion.

Jayce, noticing the way Y/N’s posture was slouched and how her hands lay limp at her sides, set his schematics down on the desk and approached, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. "She’s zoning out again," he muttered under his breath, worry threading through his words. He moved closer, crouching down in front of her, his hand coming to rest gently on her knee.

"Y/N," he said softly, his voice gentle but insistent, trying to catch her full attention. "Hey, sweetheart. Look at me."

She blinked again, but her eyes drifted away as if the effort to stay focused was too much. Her eyelids fluttered, and for a brief moment, it seemed like she might slip back into the haze of exhaustion.

"Y/N," Viktor said again, his hand now gently brushing through her hair, his fingers soft against her scalp. "Láska, you can’t keep pushing yourself like this."

Y/N gave a soft, almost imperceptible shake of her head, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I’m fine… really…" she muttered, her words losing strength the more she spoke.

Jayce exchanged a brief glance with Viktor, both of them silently agreeing. The concern in Jayce’s eyes deepened, and Viktor’s own face softened with both affection and frustration.

"We can't let her fall asleep like this again," Jayce said, his voice barely above a whisper. "She’s been running on fumes for days now."

"Help me," Viktor’s voice was firm now, a tone that left no room for debate. He reached out, gently cupping Y/N’s face with one hand, trying to bring her attention back to them. "We need to get you to bed."

Jayce didn’t need further encouragement. He moved swiftly, kneeling beside her and wrapping his arms around her, lifting her effortlessly from the chair. Y/N let out a soft protest as she was hoisted into his arms, her head lolling slightly against his chest.

"Hey—what? No, I’m fine…" Y/N mumbled, barely able to keep her eyes open, her voice thick with the weight of her exhaustion. She rested her cheek against his chest, the rise and fall of his breath a faint lullaby in the background.

"You’re not fine, love," Viktor replied, his tone kind but unyielding. He stepped closer, brushing strands of hair away from her face, his gaze gentle but filled with concern. "You’re beyond tired. You need rest. You can’t keep doing this."

Jayce, ever the strong one, adjusted her in his arms, lifting her with ease. She leaned into him, too tired to resist or protest. The warmth of his embrace was a quiet comfort, the feeling of safety she’d come to rely on.

As they made their way to the bedroom, Viktor moved ahead, pulling back the covers and fluffing the pillows, preparing the bed. The weight of the day seemed to hang heavy in the air as the soft creak of the bed greeted them. Jayce laid Y/N down carefully, the soft sheets catching her as she sank into them, her body yielding to the comfort beneath her.

"Lay her down gently, Jayce," Viktor instructed, his voice softer now, but still filled with that steady, authoritative tone. His presence was calming, reassuring.

Jayce did as instructed, setting Y/N down with the utmost care. She let out a quiet noise of protest as her head hit the pillow, but her eyelids fluttered closed, her body sinking into the softness as though the weight of the world was lifting off her shoulders.

Viktor followed suit, laying down beside her, his body warm against hers. He moved closer, pulling her back into his embrace, his chest pressing against her back. He wrapped his arm around her waist, anchoring her with his presence, his touch grounding. She relaxed into him, a quiet hum of comfort escaping her lips.

"Stay with us, love," Viktor whispered, his breath warm against her ear. "You’re safe now."

Jayce climbed into bed beside them, his hand brushing gently against her arm. He caressed her arm softly, his touch light and tender, offering her the reassurance she needed. "We’re here," he said, his voice low and comforting. "We’ll take care of you. Don’t worry about anything right now."

Y/N let out a contented sigh, her body finally yielding to the rest it had been craving for so long. Viktor’s steady presence was a weight she could rely on, and Jayce’s warmth beside her made the world feel just a little less heavy. Slowly, she drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, her body relaxed and free of tension. The soft sound of their breathing and the warmth of their embrace were the only things that filled the room, a quiet promise of protection and love.

VANDER

The dim light of the tavern flickered faintly as Vander wiped down the bar, his brow furrowed in concentration. The rhythmic motion of the rag across the wood was almost meditative, but even as he focused on the task, his thoughts were elsewhere. There was a heaviness to his heart, an unease he couldn’t shake, and it wasn’t from the usual weight of running the place or the constant danger lurking in the Undercity. No, it was something far more personal.

Y/N.

She hadn’t spoken much tonight. Her usual energy, the spark that always lit up the room when she was near, was missing. She sat quietly in the far corner, tucked away from the bustle of the tavern. Her head rested in her hand, elbow propped against the table, and her eyes stared blankly into the flickering glow of the single oil lamp casting its soft light across the room. It was as though she wasn’t really here, not fully present. She was somewhere else, somewhere distant.

Vander glanced up at her again, his gaze lingering longer than usual, a knot tightening in his stomach. She was always so strong, so full of life, but tonight there was an unmistakable weariness about her. Her shoulders were slumped, the lines of her face softer with exhaustion. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her this drained, this distant.

“Y/N?” His voice was gentle, but beneath it, there was an edge of concern. He set the rag aside with a sigh and slowly made his way over to her, his boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. He didn’t want to disturb her, but he couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine when she clearly wasn’t.

She didn’t respond at first, and the silence between them stretched out, thick with unspoken tension. Her eyes remained unfocused, distant, as though she hadn’t even heard him. Vander crouched down next to her, his hand reaching out to brush a lock of hair from her face. Her skin was warm, but her gaze remained far away.

“Hey, you okay?” His voice was soft, his concern bleeding through every word.

It took a moment, but eventually, her eyes fluttered. She blinked slowly, as if she were awakening from a dream, and she let out a small, slow breath. Her lips parted as though she wanted to speak, but no words came. Instead, she simply shook her head, her eyes glazing over once more.

“I’m… I’m fine,” she murmured, the words coming out in a soft, unconvincing whisper. The slight tremor in her voice told him all he needed to know.

Vander studied her face carefully, his heart sinking. “You don’t look fine, love,” he said quietly. “You’ve been zoning out all night. Something’s going on. Talk to me.”

Y/N let out a shaky sigh, her fingers twisting around the edge of her cup absentmindedly. Her gaze flickered over to the kids running around in the background—Vi, Powder, Mylo—each of them full of youthful energy and mischief, just like they always were. Claggor was nearby too, chatting with some patrons, but Y/N couldn’t bring herself to join in. The noise of the tavern, the chaos of the kids, none of it seemed to matter. It felt like she was on the edge of everything, watching it all from afar.

“I’m just… so tired,” she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers tightened around the cup, knuckles white. “I don’t know how to keep up with it all anymore, Vander. It feels like everything is piling up, and I’m… I’m losing myself in all of it.”

Her words hung in the air between them, and Vander’s heart clenched at the vulnerability in her tone. He had always known her as someone who could take on the world with a fire that never seemed to burn out, but now he saw the cracks beneath that strength, the exhaustion that had slowly built up, until now, when it was too much for her to carry.

He reached for her hand, his touch firm but gentle, as if grounding her to the present moment. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, warm and steady, offering a silent promise that she wasn’t alone. “You don’t have to do it all, love,” he said softly. His voice held the calm assurance he’d always tried to give her, the kind of reassurance that made her feel safe, like she could let go, just for a while. “You’re not alone in this. The kids… they’re growing up fast. They’ll help. They’re learning, and they’re capable. You don’t have to carry it all on your own.”

Y/N met his gaze then, her eyes flickering with a mixture of exhaustion and a quiet yearning for something she couldn’t quite put into words. She searched his face, looking for some confirmation, some reminder that things would be okay. Vander’s hand squeezed hers gently, offering her the strength she needed in that moment.

“We’ll make it through this, together. You and me,” he continued, his voice low, a steady anchor. “I’m not going anywhere, love, and neither are you. We’ve built something here, something strong, something worth fighting for. I’ve got your back. You’ve always had mine.”

She let out a soft, shaky breath, and the faintest of smiles tugged at the corner of her lips. It was tired, but it was real. That small smile was enough to bring warmth to Vander’s chest. He knew she needed this, needed to hear him say it, needed to feel like she could let herself rest for a while.

“I know,” she whispered, her voice still tinged with the weight of her fatigue. But there was a subtle shift in her expression. The tension in her face softened just a little, as though his words had reached her, just enough to begin unraveling the tight knot of worry and exhaustion. “I just… need a moment. Just to breathe, you know?”

Vander nodded, his thumb continuing to caress her hand in soothing circles. “Take as many moments as you need. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N.”

For a while, they simply sat together in silence. The noise of the tavern swirled around them—laughter, shouting, the clinking of glasses—but in that moment, it felt like the world outside didn’t exist. It was just them, here and now. Vander rested his shoulder against hers, offering her the quiet comfort of his presence, while she let the weight of the day slip away, piece by piece.

And when the world outside felt like too much, when everything seemed too overwhelming, Vander would always be there to bring her back to reality. To pull her into the present, to steady her with his love, one gentle touch at a time.

SILCO

The warm, flickering light from the lanterns cast soft shadows across the room, filling the air with a tranquil ambiance. Silco’s fingers tapped rhythmically against the polished wood of his desk, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet space. But his focus wasn’t on the documents scattered before him. His attention was on you.

You sat across from him, your posture slumped slightly in the high-backed chair, your eyes unfocused and distant. The weight of the day seemed to have settled deep into your bones, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion. The usual sharpness in your demeanor was gone, replaced by an almost palpable weariness.

Silco’s gaze softened, his sharp features betraying a flicker of concern. You were always strong, always in control. But tonight, you seemed different. Quiet. Distant. He had learned over time how to read the small changes in you—how the tone of your voice could shift, how your shoulders would stiffen when something was weighing on your mind. And now, he could see it in the way you sat there, barely present.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice soft, a note of worry threading through the words. “Love, talk to me.”

You blinked slowly, your gaze drifting toward him. It took a moment before your brain caught up, fully recognizing his presence. “Hm? Oh, sorry… I didn’t mean to zone out.”

He exhaled a quiet breath, his eyes never leaving you. His fingers gently brushed the side of your cheek, his touch warm and grounding. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” he murmured, the words almost a soft reprimand. “I can see it. You need rest.”

A tired sigh escaped your lips. “I’m fine, Silco. Just… a lot to think about.”

He shook his head, his lips curling slightly with a mixture of fondness and concern. “Come here.” The command in his voice wasn’t harsh, but it was insistent.

Without waiting for a protest, he stood and moved around the desk, his presence looming over you like a quiet storm. His hand, warm and steady, took yours, guiding you toward the plush armchair near the window. As you sat down, he followed, sinking to his knees in front of you with a care and precision that was only reserved for you.

His hands moved with purpose, untying your shoes and slipping them off gently, his touch light but firm. “I can’t have you like this,” he said, his voice smooth and calm, as he began to massage the soles of your feet. “You’re worth more than running yourself into the ground.”

You let out a soft sigh, the tension in your body slowly starting to melt away with each press of his fingers. “Silco, you really don’t have to…”

He chuckled, a quiet, amused sound. “I want to, Y/N. Let me take care of you. You’ve always taken care of everything else.”

The warmth of his touch spread up your legs as he moved his hands to your calves, working out the knots that had formed over hours of stress. Every touch, every press of his fingers seemed to pull you further into a state of relaxation, your muscles loosening beneath his careful touch.

His gaze never left you, his eyes sharp but filled with affection. “Better?” he asked softly, his voice nearly a whisper.

“Mhm…” you murmured, your eyes half-lidded, barely able to keep them open. A small smile tugged at your lips as you leaned into his touch, the exhaustion lifting just enough for you to feel something else—comfort. “Thank you, Silco.”

He smiled back, a rare softness in his features. “Anything for you. I won’t let you burn yourself out. Not when I’m here.”

Your eyes fluttered open a bit more, catching the sincerity in his gaze. “You spoil me,” you whispered, half-laughing as you sank further into the chair, your muscles growing heavy with contentment.

Silco’s lips curled into a small, amused smile. “Only the best for you,” he replied, his voice low, full of a possessiveness that was both comforting and calming. His hand brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture tender, almost protective.

As his hands moved back to your shoulders, kneading the tight knots there, you let yourself melt further into the chair, surrendering to the care he was giving you. For a brief moment, the world outside seemed to vanish—there was no work, no expectations, no chaos. Just the two of you, and this quiet space where time seemed to slow.

His fingers dug deeper into your shoulders, each movement thoughtful, almost intimate. The weight of your worries felt lighter, as though his very presence was enough to carry some of the burden for you.

When you finally allowed your eyes to slip shut, it was with a deep, steadying breath, your mind slowing, the tension easing away. Silco’s steady, gentle presence kept you tethered to the here and now. In his care, you felt like you could truly rest. And for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to.

JINX

The workshop was a cluttered chaos of half-finished gadgets, sparks flying from welding tools, and tools strewn haphazardly across every surface. The faint smell of gunpowder and metal lingered in the air, mixing with the sharp scent of oil and solder. Despite the mess, Jinx moved like a whirlwind—hopping from one spot to another, her eyes gleaming with excitement as she hummed something that could only be described as chaotic, an off-key tune that matched the frenzied atmosphere of the room.

Y/N barely registered it.

Her head felt like it was going to implode from exhaustion. She hadn’t slept properly in days—no time between research, late-night meetings, and Jinx’s constant stream of wild, unpredictable ideas. The weight of the day, the constant pressure to keep up, was becoming unbearable, and Y/N’s focus was fading fast. Every few seconds, her vision would blur, and she would find herself zoning out, her mind wandering to places it didn’t have the energy to explore.

"Y/N!" Jinx’s voice cut through the fog in Y/N’s mind, yanking her back to reality. She blinked, rubbing her eyes as she tried to shake off the haze.

"Yeah, just... tired." Her voice was thick, heavy with the exhaustion that had seeped into her bones. She tried to focus on Jinx, but everything felt out of focus, like her body was still too heavy for her mind to catch up.

Jinx, never one to stay still for long, hopped up on the table next to her, her boots kicking up some stray bolts and scrap metal as she landed with a mischievous grin plastered on her face. "Tired? Nah, we don’t do tired here, buddy!" She beamed, her wild eyes practically sparkling with energy as she swayed from side to side. "We’re having fun, right? Right?"

Y/N’s gaze drifted to Jinx’s hands, watching as she twirled a makeshift wrench between her fingers. The motion was rhythmic, almost soothing in the midst of the madness, and Y/N couldn’t help but nod absently. It wasn’t that she wasn’t enjoying herself; it was just that her body was running on fumes, and the mental exhaustion had her drifting in and out of awareness.

The overwhelming feeling pressed against her chest like a weight, suffocating. She tried to shake it off, but it wouldn’t budge.

"Y/N!" Jinx’s voice was suddenly sharper, her face dangerously close to Y/N’s, her exaggerated concern making Y/N blink in surprise. "You’re starting to drift again! If you’re gonna sleep, you gotta do it in a bed, not on my workbench!" Her wide eyes glinted with playful mischief as she leaned in closer, almost nose-to-nose.

Y/N startled, her breath hitching as she jerked back slightly. "Sorry... just... a little overwhelmed." She rubbed at her eyes again, feeling the exhaustion creep in even deeper.

Jinx didn’t buy it for a second. "Overwhelmed?" She scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest as if the very idea was absurd. "You know what happens when you zone out too much, right?"

Y/N frowned, too tired to keep up with Jinx’s high-energy antics. "What?"

Jinx’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous kind of delight, and Y/N knew exactly what that look meant. "I’ll tickle you until you can’t think straight! That’s what!" Her voice was a mock threat, but Y/N knew there was no escaping it once Jinx decided on something.

Before Y/N could even get a word out, Jinx pounced, her fingers darting to Y/N’s sides with quick, practiced movements. The sensation caught Y/N completely off-guard, and a startled laugh burst from her lips before she could stop it.

"No, Jinx! Stop—!" Y/N gasped, her body squirming in an attempt to escape, but Jinx was relentless. She had her pinned, hands flying with precision, making it impossible to avoid the ticklish torment.

Jinx laughed gleefully, the sound like a bell in the chaos of the workshop. "Told you to stay with me!" she teased, leaning back just for a moment, clearly satisfied with her successful mission. Her grin widened as she saw Y/N’s exhaustion-laden face light up with a reluctant smile. "See? You’re back! No more zoning out for you!"

Y/N gasped for breath, a shaky laugh escaping as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "Okay, okay... you win. You really don’t let up, do you?"

Jinx’s expression softened for just a moment, the wild grin fading into something softer. The gleam in her eyes was still there, but now there was a hint of protectiveness behind it. "You're my best friend, Y/N," she said, her voice gentler than usual. "And I’m not gonna let you fall asleep on me, alright? Not when there’s so much to blow up."

Y/N chuckled weakly, her shoulders sagging under the weight of the day. "I think I might need a nap first... before the next explosion."

Jinx snorted, a mischievous glint returning to her eyes. "You always need a nap!" She wagged her finger at Y/N with mock disapproval. "Fine, but you better be awake for when the fun starts. I’m serious!"

Y/N managed a smile, but it was weak, her eyelids threatening to close despite her best efforts. "I promise I won’t fall asleep on you," she murmured, feeling the tug of sleep creeping in again, despite Jinx’s energetic antics.

Jinx’s grin returned, wider than ever. "Good! Because I’m gonna make sure you stay awake!" She leaned over her workbench, rummaging through one of her many bags of random things before pulling out a small firecracker, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "You’re gonna need this to keep you up, right?" She held the firecracker up like it was the solution to all of Y/N’s problems.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her exhaustion pushing her to the edge, but there was something about Jinx’s unpredictable energy that was just... comforting. It made everything feel a little less heavy, if only for a moment.

Y/N shook her head with a soft smile, despite the exhaustion weighing her down. "You’re insane," she muttered, but there was affection in her voice, the kind of fondness that only Jinx could inspire, even when she was being a whirlwind of madness.

Jinx merely beamed back at her, unbothered by the exhaustion that clung to her best friend. "And you love me for it," she teased, clearly expecting no less than complete and total agreement.

"I do," Y/N whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyelids finally closing despite her best efforts. "I really do."

[undyworld]

the spine and his humanity : a very unorganized deep dive. this will be split into different paragraphs, each with a different topic, just to try and make things easier to digest.

The Spine, as we know, was the walter robot that was built to look the most human. named after his spine, which used to be a smoke stack, before he his spine was rebuilt out of titanium alloy. before a lot of the war stuff was retconned, he was built to look more human to do special ops - so they could send in the spine instead of risking human lives.

throughout their albums, The Spine has several songs in which he’s the lead vocalist that talk about how he feels the need to apologize for being a robot, or talking about how robots cannot feel the way humans do, both physically and emotionally ( hot on the trail, wired wrong, electricity is in my soul, a life of un-delightment, etc. ) and he seems to be the walter automaton that hates being a robot the most ( save for the jon, but that’s a completely different topic altogether ). he talks to humans, sure, but when he has the choice - he holes himself up in the hall of wires and stays on the computer. it’s almost as if he doesn’t believe he shouldn’t to talk to them because he’s not human enough.

this brings me to my next topic of stage bits. now, a lot of these are played for laughs ( and are improv ), but an overarching character choice i’ve noticed for The Spine is how he interjects things whenever the topic of them being robots comes up. the one that sticks most in my mind is the 10 year anniversary show, where Hatchworth tells them the goldfish they ripped up were made by a third grader. Rabbit says that they’re monsters, to which The Spine replies “we’re robots, we’re almost monsters.” now, this could mean a lot of different things ─ but it all comes back to the fact that The Spine does not see himself and, by proxy, his siblings, as people. they’re living things, sure, but by referring to them as monsters, he’s saying they’re something to be wary of. something to gawk at, or even something to fear. ( there’s also the whole phone conversation in which they say that The Spine hates The Spine more than anyone else, which i could also write an essay about ). 

the topic of stage bits also ties into his relationship with food, eating, and drinking. during some performances of brass goggles, they have tea time, where the walter workers come out and serve the robots tea. while the robots’ reactions to the tea vary from show to show, The Spine is the only one who consistently never drinks it - either dumping it on himself or throwing it over his shoulder. he also consistently never eats anything, and even goes as far as to tell the other robots that robots can’t eat. no matter how much he tries, they usually disregard him and go on eating anyways. now, he’s also the Rule Follower of the walters, with both Hatchworth and Rabbit having snuck out of the manor unaccompanied using disguises ( rabbit wearing a fake mustache and hatchworth wearing a fake mustache on top of his mustache ), so he may not be eating simply because he doesn’t want to gum up his gears. but, it could very well be that he refuses to eat because he doesn’t want to make himself feel more human than he actually is.

my final point : the spine distances himself from humans and his humanity far more than the others do, and i think that’s because he wants nothing more than to be human. but because he can’t, because of the metal he’s made out of, he refuses to allow himself to indulge in the things that humans do. he doesn’t see himself as human enough, so why act human? why allow himself to enjoy the thing he so desperately wants? instead, he folds in on himself, repressing his deepest wants, desires, and even his emotions.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

A Curse [Chapter 10: Pacific Palisades]

A/N: Only 2 chapters left 🪄

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent…at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon’s right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, mentions of sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap situationship, illness/death, minor injury and blood, a wild Becca appears, a super relaxing beach day! 😍

Word count: 5.4k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

🏝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🏝️

“I’m so sorry,” you say as the green jasper buttons on the coat won’t quite close. “My agent keeps buying me Cherry Cokes and vanilla lattes.”

The costume designer, mid-forties with box-dye red hair, laughs. She ceases the tugging she’s been doing, ultimately in vain. “The wardrobe is supposed to fit you, sweetheart, not the other way around.” She sweeps the coat off your shoulders and hangs it back on the rack full of Gilded Age-style garments, some faux, some genuine. “We’ll take it in here and let it out there and get everything sorted out.”

“Thank you,” you tell her sheepishly.

“For what? It’s my job.” Then she gestures to the rack. “Which one was your favorite?”

You scan the assortment: chemises, corsets, hoopskirts, stockings, dresses, tea gowns, evening gowns, nightgowns, hats, gloves, fans, shoes, seemingly endless bejeweled ropes of necklaces and bracelets. “The yellow tea gown,” you say, beaming. “I love the ruffles and how flowy it is. And the buttons down the front.”

“Oh, it’s exceptional, isn’t it?” the costume designer agrees. “I found that at an estate sale a few years back, it had been squirreled away in a collector’s attic. It’s authentic, probably made in the 1890s.”

“You told me not to touch the buttons when you put it on. And you wore latex gloves.”

She nods. “They’re brass gilded with gold and mercury, which was common back then. People didn’t know better. But mercury can be absorbed through the skin. We can’t be careless and end up with heavy metal poisoning, now can we?” She grins at you. “But you don’t mind a little danger.”

“Everything worthwhile is a risk.”

“How long have you been in Los Angeles?”

You do some quick math in your head. “Almost six months.”

“Planning to stay long?”

“Forever, hopefully.”

The costume designer smiles warmly. “Good. We need more people like you here.” And as she pulls the rack of clothing out into the hallway on its four small wheels, the director strolls into the room. He is in his thirties, bald, black rectangular glasses, always wearing a suit jacket over a graphic tee. Today’s shirt features the Jurassic Park logo.

“Hey!” he says excitedly, clapping his hands together. “How’d it go?”

“Hi, Dusty!” His name is Dustin, but everyone calls him Dusty. “It was amazing. I love all the weird vintage clothes, they’re so modest but also very sensual, you know?”

“Yeah, it’s fascinating, I feel like with those restrictive modesty standards people really had to get creative to evoke ideas of playfulness, flirtatiousness, power, vulnerability, seduction...and of course, we’ll be experimenting with all of that in this film. You felt okay in everything?”

“Yeah!”

“Because...I mean...I know some of the chamises and nightgowns are a little sheer, but we’ll do a closed set on those days. I won’t even be there, Camille can handle it.” Camille is the assistant director, young and quiet but very sharp. “So it’ll just be her and the camera operator, also a woman. And if you want anyone else there to be your advocate, that’s open for discussion.”

“Can my agent be there?”

Dusty looks a little surprised. The grumpy middle-aged dude? his face says. “Aegon? Yeah, sure, he can be in the room. If you want that.”

“He’s gotten me out of some uncomfortable situations before, so I trust him.”

“Oh yeah, well in that case, I get it,” Dusty says. “Totally. And things with Santi have been fine?”

“Santi is wonderful. Always completely professional, but very inspiring to work with.”

“You guys have great chemistry. Platonically, I mean.”

You laugh. “I know what you meant.”

“And I’ll keep checking in with both of you, to make sure that’s going well and you’re happy and comfortable. I want you to start seeing a personal trainer, by the way. It’s not to lose weight or get toned or anything, it’s for injury prevention. He’ll help you get flexible and teach you tricks for how to move without hurting yourself when we do some of the more physically taxing stuff, like that scene where you and Santi are chasing each other all over the house and slamming into the walls and stuff.”

“That makes sense. Who’s the trainer?”

“His name is Roy, he’s in his sixties and a former Marine. I’ve worked with him before and he’s really chill, I’ve only ever heard good things. But if you end up not liking him, just let me know and I can find somebody else.”

“Dusty?” you say.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for caring about what I think.”

He chuckles uneasily, like he’s not sure if you’re serious. “You’re welcome...?”

Aegon walks in—hair gelled back, wrinkled black suit on—carrying two Starbucks beverages; he left fifteen minutes ago to fetch them. He keeps the Frappuccino topped with whipped cream and chocolate syrup for himself and hands you the iced latte. You take a sip and are startled. “Cinnamon Dolce?”

“Isn’t that what you like?” Aegon asks.

And before you let yourself think poisonous thoughts—he doesn’t care, he doesn’t remember—you consider a different explanation. He might be sick. He might be dying. You give him a radiant smile. “Absolutely. And it’s delicious.”

“She must think very highly of you,” Dusty tells Aegon. “She wants you there on the closed set days.”

Aegon raises his eyebrows at you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you admit, a little shyly.

“I’ll send out the filming schedule as soon as we get it finalized,” Dusty says. “Like I said earlier, we’ll start sometime in mid-September. Some soundstage stuff here in L.A., some on-location work in Ontario—that’s where they did Crimson Peak, there’s fantastic Gilded Age architecture—and maybe a trip to London if we can scrape the budget together.”

“Huh,” Aegon mutters to himself, like he suspects Dusty will soon be receiving a sizeable and anonymous donation for the project. He pulls out his iPhone and texts someone.

Dusty shakes your hand. “Thanks for being here today and suffering through approximately one thousand costume changes. I really appreciate you being such a good sport about everything.”

“I told you she had the right temperament,” Aegon says.

“She does.” Dusty smiles at you. “She really does.”

You and Aegon leave Dusty’s suite, office space rented in Downtown, and take the elevator from the tenth floor to the ground level. It’s Wednesday, August 13th, and it’s almost a hundred degrees outside, the sunlight drenching you like a downpour. Fortunately, it’s a short walk to your Honda. Aegon was serious about not driving when you’re in the car anymore; you picked him up in Elysian Park before your appointment with the costume designer. Now you walk together across a pavilion and towards a concrete staircase that will lead you down to the street with the parking garage. You’re wearing a pink floral sundress, matching TOMS wedges, and a pinkish-gold sheen across your eyelids: Fathom by NARS, Phenomena by Natasha Denona. You slurp on your Cinnamon Dolce latte, sweet and warm and blameless like a treat you deserve.

“You know I won’t be there for filming,” Aegon says. “That’s going to be after my wedding. I’ll be long gone, I’ll be in Houston.”

“Maybe not.”

“Uh, I definitely will be.”

“Maybe you’ll fly back to be here for certain things because you know they’re important to me.”

Aegon stops and whirls to you, his voice low but cutting. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” you ask, bewildered.

“You know I wish I could be here. Don’t guilt me for something I’m already torn up about.”

“Nothing is stopping you from flying back to L.A. for a few days. Houston isn’t a prison, you can come and go as much as you want to.”

Now he’s somber, quiet, repentant. “I just can’t. I’m really sorry.”

“But who’s going to look out for me?” How could I even begin to forget you?

“I found you a new agent. Her name is Kristen, and she’s great.”

“I don’t want her,” you say immediately.

Aegon sighs. You begin to descend the staircase together. “Look, I know this isn’t easy for either of us, but I need you to—”

“Oh my God, it’s the girl from the Maroon 5 music video!” a young man shrieks, and then he sprints up the concrete steps. You smile when he shoves his phone in your face, recording for TikTok or Instagram or wherever he’s planning to post this...or maybe he’s even streaming live. “Hi!” he bellows at you as Aegon glares. “I love that video, you did an amazing job!”

“Thank you so much,” you say, and you mean it down to your bones. You’re beaming without reminding yourself to; you’re focused on him as you continue to descend the staircase. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Jonathan!”

Aegon snaps at him: “Back up.”

“Hi, Jonathan,” you say, wobbling on a step. “It’s so nice to meet you. Where are you from?”

“I’m from a town in Iowa that you definitely haven’t heard of.”

“That’s okay, I’m from a town in Minnesota that you definitely haven’t heard of.”

“Hey, back up,” Aegon says again.

Jonathan either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t listen. “What was it like working with Adam Levine? I’m kind of obsessed with him. He was my first crush.”

With those tattoos? you think but blessedly don’t say out loud. You have barely ever interacted with Adam Levine, and certainly not in a meaningful way. But of course you don’t say this either. Jonathan’s phone is only inches from your face; it’s practically all you can see. “Oh, it was an incredible experience. He’s so talented and kind—”

Your wedge slips off a step, and you go sprawling; one knee hits the concrete, is scraped raw, begins bleeding down your shin. Your latte flies out of your grasp and spills down the staircase. You clutch for the metal railing, find it, and haul yourself upright. And even through the searing pain you’re already laughing, embarrassed, relieved.

Jonathan is saying as he reaches for you, though he’s still filming with the phone in his other hand: “Oh no, are you okay?!”

“I’m fine, I’m totally fine—”

But Jonathan isn’t, because Aegon’s knuckles connect with his face, draw back, hit him again, and blood is gushing from Jonathan’s nostrils, and Aegon’s hand is stained red. “I told you to back the fuck up!” Aegon is roaring, and he goes to punch Jonathan again as he’s staggering down the steps, blood drops splattering to freckle the concrete.

“Aegon, don’t!” you scream, grabbing his arm. People on the sidewalk below are staring and pointing. “He didn’t do anything!”

“If you get hurt, you can’t act—”

“Aegon, I’m alright!”

And when Aegon turns to you, wayward flecks of blood on his cheeks and in his sand-colored hair, he’s not just furious but afraid: I couldn’t stop. You remember when he put a dent in the wall of the Beverly Hills mansion where Dan had planned to film you practically naked, and you wonder if that was a symptom, volatility, rage, a transient blindness to consequences. Is everything he does a symptom? Is what he’s done with you?

“Aegon...?” Jonathan says from several steps down the staircase. “Aegon Targaryen?!” He’s wiping the blood off his face with the back of one hand but still holding his phone with the other. Now he’s filming himself. “Holy shit, I just got punched by a Targaryen! This is going to go viral! I’m going to be rich!” He dashes off, still dripping blood.

Aegon looks at you, dazed. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

You’re trying to catch your breath; your knee burns. Pedestrians on the sidewalk are still gawking. “No, you shouldn’t have.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to fuck up anything related to your career. I’ll fix this, I’ll get Aemond to make it go away.”

“I’m not mad, Aegon.” I’m worried about you. I’m scared for you.

“Are you okay?” He’s scrutinizing the thin tendrils of blood snaking down your leg, the crimson stains on your pink sundress.

“Yeah,” you say gamely.

“No you’re not.” Aegon takes your hand, leads you swiftly to the parking garage, doesn’t stop to talk to any of the people who are staring and pointing and taking out their phones to record him.

You drive your Honda back to Elysian Park—just a quick jaunt northeast on the 110—where Aegon scrubs his hands clean and then plays doctor with equipment supplied by the first aid kit in Brandon’s desk. On the scuffed wood floor of Aegon’s office—mint green walls, cluttered haphazard desk, photographs of him and Becca together sneering down at you—he disinfects the raw patch on your knee and gingerly wipes away flecks of dirt, then slathers it with gooey transluscent Neosporin, the kind that dulls pain. As he is trying to peel the backing off a large rectangular Band-Aid, his hands begin to shake.

“Aegon, here, let me help you—”

“I can do it,” he insists; and it takes him a while, but he does.

~~~~~~~~~~

Baela is back in Paris; Jace is eating a Chipotle burrito on the velvet orange couch and spilling leafy shreds of lettuce everywhere. You are arranging the dried sunflowers in a yellow vase you found at T.J. Maxx. You are careful not to dislodge any of the fragile preserved leaves, curled and brittle. When you are done, you position the vase on the kitchen counter near the refrigerator. The calendar there, affixed with pineapple-shaped magnets, is filled with red-ink appointments related to your indie film, the one you still sometimes can’t believe is real: workouts with your personal trainer, table reads, costume fittings, meetings with the dialect coach, lunches and drinks with your new coworker Chloe. She has third billing, and she’s from Maine, and she loves hiking and flannel and granola and the lobster rolls at Saltie Girl in West Hollywood. You teach her about makeup and dresses; Chloe teaches you about nature and hiking boots. You might even let her talk you into horseback riding lessons on the beach one day.

Jace asks from the couch as he scrolls through his phone with his non-burrito-occupied hand: “Hey, random question, but did your agent beat up a kid?”

You sigh deeply. “He wasn’t a kid. I don’t know why people keep saying that.”

“The TMZ article says he’s a teenager.”

“He’s nineteen years old. He’s legally an adult.”

“Oh.” Jace keeps reading. “But your agent did beat him up.”

“Aegon punched him twice, does that count as beating someone up?”

Jace looks up from his phone. “Yes. Yes it does.”

You sigh again.

“You’re lucky he’s not suing,” Jace says as he resumes reading the article. “Damn, he’s gotten 200,000 views on the video so far. He called it STORYTIME: Targaryen Terror!! I almost died!! The thumbnail is a close-up of his bloody nose. Let’s see what derangement we can find in the comments.” Then Jace recoils, squinting at the screen. “Whoa, the whole article just disappeared.”

Thanks Aemond, you think. “I’ll be back around dinnertime if you want to order Thai food and watch True Blood or something.”

“Cool,” Jace says, and chomps on his burrito. A glob of guacamole drops onto the couch.

In Elysian Park, you park on the curb and step out into sweltering mid-August humidity, the humming of air conditioning window units, ambient dog barks and car radios. You’re wearing flip-flops, a purple maxi skirt, and a black tank top; on your eyelids shimmers Natasha Denona’s silver-and-violet Bolt.

You can hear the shouting before you open the front door, heavy footsteps, chairs screeching as they are pushed out. You run inside to find Brandon standing beside his desk. He looks at you wide-eyed, as if he doesn’t know what to do. From within his office, Aegon is yelling something you don’t understand—“I don’t want it! No, get rid of it, get out of here!”—and then Becca appears through the doorway, backing away from him, fleeing from him, confused and heartbroken. She’s dressed like a bride, white lace and long beachy waves. She is crying and holding two sealed envelopes in her hands that gleam with rings.

“What’s going on?” you ask her.

Becca freezes when she sees you. She’s too stunned to be angry. “I don’t know, it was supposed to be a surprise, we were going to open them together and it would be fun, but now he’s...he’s...he’s freaking out, he’s completely lost his mind!”

You peek into Aegon’s office; his chair is knocked over, and there are papers and photographs and Honeycrisp apples on the floor. He’s slumped against the wall with his knees to his chest, gazing out at you with vast, glassy eyes, tears painting rivers down his flushed cheeks. “Open what?” you ask Becca. And then you read the artful black lettering on the envelopes: Legacea: Discover All the Wonders of Your Heritage!

“Becca,” you say softly. He’s been caught. He can’t hide it anymore. “Aegon’s dad died of Huntington’s disease.”

“Okay,” she replies, puzzled, not understanding.

“And it’s genetic, and he doesn’t want to know if he has the gene.”

She stares at him, thunderstruck. He hides his face in his hands. And you feel a compulsion—an instinct, a gravity, a predestination—to go to Aegon and hold him, comfort him as much as you can, ward off all the world’s curses here in this undistinguished alcove of Los Angeles where you first met him.

“Here,” Becca hisses, grabbing your hand and pressing one of the envelopes into it too quickly for you to resist. “You’re the person he always wants to talk to anyway.” Then she shoves you so hard your back hits the doorframe, storms across the lobby, slams the front door as she leaves.

“I’m sorry,” Aegon says hoarsely from the floor. “I’m sorry she did that, I...I...” And then he swallows with effort and shakes his head and covers his face again. In the lobby, Brandon sinks into the chair behind his desk and tries to disappear.

You step into Aegon’s office and close the door behind you. You cross the scuffed hardwood floor until you are right in front of him, and then you sit down amidst the bruised apples and splintered glass panes of photographs, close enough to reach out and take his hands if you tried. You look down at the sealed envelope and skim your thumbprint across the black ink. You don’t say anything. You wait for Aegon to realize the inevitable: If Becca paid for these tests, she can access the results anytime she wants to. He’s going to find out one way or the other. He can’t keep running. The answer is right here. Maybe it’s even good.

“You can open it,” Aegon says, barely a whisper.

“Are you sure?”

He nods and wipes his face with his sleeve, the same wrinkled tan sport coat jacket he was wearing for your very first appointment. Beneath that he wears a t-shirt the color of the ocean, a placid royal blue. Then he watches as you carefully rip open the envelope, unfold the stack of four papers, and scan the results. He tries to read the lines and color of your face; he waits for you to say something.

For a long still moment, you don’t say anything. And then at last you look up at him. “Your family can afford the best doctors, you’ll have access to the most advanced treatments—”

“No!” Aegon wails, a mourning, a surrender, and he collapses across the floor, and decades of fear and grief and fury come hemorrhaging out, and you expect that when you try to hold him he’ll push you away, but he doesn’t. He claws for you and his fingernails leave half-moon indentations in your skin, but you don’t mind because soon he’ll be gone: he’ll be flying to Turks and Caicos to marry Becca, he’ll be moving to Houston, Texas, he’ll be dying there of something horrible and painful and inglorious and unfair, he’ll be a secret and then a myth.

“I’m sorry,” you say over and over again, his head in your lap, your fingers in his hair, your voice fracturing and your throat burned to ashes. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve this. I wish I could change it. I would do anything to change it.”

And after a while, Aegon goes quiet and pulls away, and he sits on the floor as he absorbs it, staring vacantly at the photographs and the apples and the walls, dragging his hands through his disheveled hair to slick it back again. Then he turns to you and asks: “Do you want to go to the beach?”

~~~~~~~~~~

You’ve already been to Venice, and Baela and Jace once took you along with them to Santa Monica to walk the pier at dusk; and so today Aegon tells you to follow the 110 south, the 10 west, and finally the 1 north—and if you stayed on it you’d eventually hit Malibu, Santa Barbara, San Francisco, Point Reyes, Eureka, the Oregon border—to Pacific Palisades, where the water is calm and endless and the beach quiet, a few families picnicking on loose golden sand, a few amateur surfers bobbing on docile waves. Gulls flap and caw in a cerulean sky. From a boombox drifts Under the Bridge.

“I always felt like I had it,” Aegon says. His skin glows with the sunscreen you insisted on buying from a surf shop on the way here, SPF 50, but there is nothing in the world that can stop the poison his cells are already making, copying the defective gene’s lethal instructions again and again and again. You look at the crinkles that spring out from the corners of his eyes, the lines around his mouth, and you can see that he is aging—lack of sleep, lack of care—and you have the instinct to pull him back from the ledge of mortality. But for all the wonders of humanity, pyramids and chapels, submarines and satellites, for some reason the most essential magic eludes you.

“But you hoped you didn’t.” You hold the Legacea papers, still creased from where they were folded into thirds inside the envelope, as you and Aegon sit together on the sand. You keep reading the results: cystic fibrosis—variant not detected, hereditary thrombophilia—variant not detected, Parkinson’s disease—variant not detected, he’d be perfect if it wasn’t for one tiny thing, and that seems so unfair.

“That’s why I never told people. That’s why even though I was pretty sure I’d never have kids, I didn’t do anything permanent. Never got a vasectomy, even though I should have. Never saw a specialist. Never joined any support groups. I always thought...you know, maybe. Maybe I was wrong, and I was fine. And I wanted to have that to fall back on, so whenever I started thinking about it and got freaked out, I could say: You don’t know for sure. You might not have it. Aemond got tested because he felt it was the responsible thing to do, and Helaena and Daeron followed his lead because they trust him. I was the only one who didn’t want to know. And I’m the only one who has it.” He shakes his head; his blonde hair blows in the wind. “They had to deal with what happened to my dad. I can’t put them through that again.”

You re-read the results, the only one that matters: Huntington’s disease—variant detected, mutation of the HTT gene. “You’re so young, Aegon. Aren’t you too young to have symptoms? When I was researching, it sounded like it usually starts around forty, and then people can live into their fifties or even their sixties.” That’s almost a normal lifespan! you have to stop yourself from blurting out. That’s thirty more years we could have together!

“A lot of the time, that’s how it goes,” he says. “But there’s this thing in genetics called anticipation.” And then you remember what you overheard Aemond saying when you found him in Aegon’s office a few days after the charity gala: Because you’re still pretty young, but with anticipation...

“Aegon, what’s anticipation?”

“It means that in each generation, the disease shows up earlier and gets more severe. In Huntington’s, that’s especially true when it’s inherited from the father. My dad had visible signs in his late-thirties, got diagnosed at forty-five, and died at fifty-five. I’ve had symptoms since my twenties.”

So how many years does he have left? you think with horror. Five? Ten? And most of them will be bad. “Is that why you left acting?”

Aegon nods, looking out over the waves. “Every time I forgot a line or tripped over a step or something, I’d think it was proof that I had the gene, and it would send me into a spiral. And then because I was so nervous...fuck it, because I was so scared...I would make more mistakes, and get more panicked, and I just couldn’t deal with the...the emotional rollercoaster, I guess. So I got an office in Elysian Park far away from my family and all their industry friends, and I found an assistant I liked, and I met Becca...and I got everything lined up so if...” He shakes his head. “So when the time came, I could slip away without any drama or unnecessary pain for my family.”

“But you’re still mostly okay. You don’t have to leave Los Angeles yet.” You don’t have to abandon me yet. “I can drive you places. I can remember things for you. I don’t mind.”

Aegon gives you a sad, patient smile. “By the time people with this disease get really bad, they stop being able to tell how far-gone they are. And they aren’t competent to make decisions, and they hurt the people who are trying to help them, and it’s not so easy to disappear anymore. I can’t wait around for my brain to get hollowed out enough that I have no good days left. I can’t wait around until you’re finally convinced it’s the right time. You’re always going to be looking for excuses to keep me here. You’ll always see glasses as half-full.”

You think of the countless YouTube videos you’ve watched of Huntington’s patients since that night in Silver Lake when you learned what killed Woody Guthrie—people struggling to walk, to speak, to swallow, to recognize their loved ones—and you break down in sobs, covering your face with your hands as tears flood down your cheeks, the rivulets turning cold as the ocean breeze skates over them. “I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“None of us get a choice, sunshine,” Aegon says gently, laying a palm on your shoulder.

“Am I a symptom?”

“What are you talking about?”

You take a tissue out of your purse and sniffle into it, too mortified to meet his eyes. “Impulsive decisions, poor judgment, erratic emotions. Those are all symptoms of Huntington’s. So is this thing between us...is what you have with me, is it just...just...?” Just your brain dying, just a mistake like punching a fan or wrecking a car or forgetting that I was born in the Year of the Dragon?

“No,” Aegon says. “No, this is real. And the way I feel about you isn’t how I feel about anybody else.”

“But all those other women—”

“I fucked around because life is short and I didn’t want to miss out on things. And I felt like...you know...there will be a day when I’m never going to be able to have sex again. Just like there will be a day when I can never drive again, or help a client get a job, or make it through a barbeque at my family’s beach house without acting insane, or collect stars in Super Mario 64. But you’re not some maladaptive coping mechanism. I don’t sleep with clients. I genuinely really, really like you, and you make me feel better about the world, and I want to be around you all the time. But I can’t do that without ruining your life, you know? So what the fuck am I supposed to do with everything I feel for you?”

His hand is still on your shoulder, warm and safe and steady, and his oceanic blue eyes are resigned. You’re too late to change his mind. You’ve been too late since he watched Viserys crawl towards the grave over the span of a decade. “I would take care of you,” you tell Aegon, something you’ve offered before, and you mean this no matter how irrational he believes it to be.

“You’ll be sad for a while,” he says. “But then you’ll get busy with more roles and the promo tour for your movie, and you’ll have a nice normal boyfriend—maybe that Jace guy—and you’ll forget about me. And you can be an actress and have healthy kids and stay here in Los Angeles forever. You’ll have everything you ever wanted.”

Not everything, you think. Not you. “Why did you invited me to your wedding? It’s actually a really messed up thing to do. I’m supposed to celebrate you marrying Becca? Toast champagne and dance on the beach and eat hors d’oeuvres and then fly back here like nothing’s wrong?”

Aegon sighs and lies flat on the sand, lets the hot midday sun beat down on him, takes his black aviator sunglasses out of his jeans pocket and slides them on. “I invited you because my wedding is supposed to be the happiest day of my life, and I want all my favorite people there. And you are definitely one of my favorite people.”

You frown at the wave crests, glittering with daylight. “I can’t go to Turks and Caicos.”

“Why not?”

“Because Becca threatened to break my leg.”

Aegon bursts out laughing. “She what?!”

“She said she would push me down the stairs so I’d break my leg and wouldn’t be able to do any acting for months until it healed.”

He’s cackling. Circumstances aside, it’s nice to see him smile again. “Ignore her. She’s not serious. She tells everyone that.”

“She threatens all your mistresses with bodily harm?”

Aegon shrugs. “Her playbook is limited.”

You debate whether to tell him something, then decide this isn’t the day for secrets. “She pushed me outside your office one time. I fell over. That’s how I sprained my ankle.”

“Fuck, really?” Aegon says, peering up at you from the sand. Deep troubled grooves appear in his forehead, glistening with Coppertone Sport. “I’m so sorry. That should never have happened. I’ll talk to her.”

“I’m sure that’ll go well.”

“She’ll listen to me,” Aegon insists. “She’ll cave. She always does.”

You look at him, accusing, certain. “You don’t love her.”

“I couldn’t marry her if I did,” he says casually. “But she chose this. She could call it off anytime she wanted, but she won’t. I’ll go home tonight and find out she’s bought twenty books on nursing from Amazon. And it’s not forever. I’m a curse, not a life sentence. My clock is ticking down a lot faster than everyone else’s.”

What if I want that time with you? you think helplessly. What if I love you?

Aegon pushes his sunglasses up into his hair so he can study you with no obstructions, so there’s nowhere to hide. “The wedding might be your last chance to see me, you know?”

“Right,” you say, listening to the shrieks of circling California gulls and the dull primordial rumble of the ocean, a beast that swallows sunlight, a titan with no lifespan.

As you take the 1 southeast back towards Downtown, Elysian Park, Harbor Gateway, Aegon tells you to stop at the Getty Villa Museum. You don’t argue; you don’t want to go home yet either. You don’t want to lose a second of the time you have left with him.

There is an extensive collection of ancient Greek and Roman art, gods, goddesses, heroes, monsters, coins, weapons, magic. Here is an altar carved with the myth of Adonis, here is a horse made of oxidized bronze, here is a Breccia marble fertility goddess whose name no one remembers, here is a bust of Caligula, the emperor who went mad. You pause to admire a statue of Medusa, snakes instead of hair and a face twisted with wrath.

“Don’t look, she’ll turn you to stone,” Aegon whispers as he covers your eyes with gentle, feather-light hands. “That’s the last thing you need. Another curse.”

[rakhalofthestars]

Trust Fall

Synopsis: Boothill loves eagles and wishes to mimic their courting ritual with you <3

Tags: Boothill x gn reader, Boothill's backstory mentioned, Pre-IPC boothill, Fluff, Humor, Light angst, Established relationship, courting rituals, Boothill is native american and latino a/n: This fic also has a bit more heavy usage of cowboy slang than all my other fics

Warnings: None !!

wc: 1 496

The people of Aeragan-Espharshel had many different beliefs, each one spread through word of mouth from parent to child. From the burning hot sun that gave life to the organisms on the planet to the tiny, hard-working ants. There were stories and legends behind each and every single thing, each having their own little tidbit of wisdom to learn from. Nothing was too small or too big for the people believed that we play our own part in the cycle of life, no matter our size or role. These beliefs reflected the tribe that inhabited the planet and the respect and love they held for the land.

Naturally, it’s no surprise that there would be stories and beliefs surrounding the eagle, which was seen as the mightiest of all birds. Its feathers symbolized that which is highest, bravest, strongest and holiest. Eagles were the symbol for a warrior.

It must be why you could find the bird all across Boothill’s person. The eagle feathers in his cowboy hat, which he had once fondly told you to have found one day with his siblings whilst running through the grassy fields. The small eagle on his left shoulder, attached to the burnt red sarape that he had managed to salvage from that fateful night. The small eagle insignia on his favorite 9mm gun, one that he had commissioned to be made from brass. The eagle on the back of his leather jacket which he had carefully painted using bleach, having even added a little cowboy hat to the bird to match him. You can easily remember how eager he had been to show you his more artistic skills, at least when it came to drawing eagles.

Boothill had always admired eagles. It was one of the few aspects of him that remained from who he was before the bombing. Before everything had quite literally turned into ashes.

Him and his fellow gunslinging friends of the past would often sit by a fire at night and yarn the hours away. Boothill would be lying on the soft grass, chewing on a piece of straw, his expression thoughtful for once as he’d stare up at the vast universe up above.

“Bee in yer bonnet, [REDACTED]?” One of them would always ask, having noticed the absence of his voice amongst the crude songs they’d have started singing by then.

“Jus’ thinkin’...”, would be his short reply, followed by one or two or the whole bunch prodding at him to spill the beans.

“Share yer wisdom, why dont’cha, O’ Great [REDACTED]”, they’d all tease and the young cowboy would laugh along good-naturedly.

“Was jus’ thinkin’ that I’d like to be one a’ them eagles up in the sky. Be as brave and courageous as them.”

“See, this is why I tell y’all to keep an eye on him. He’s an odd stick, ain’tcha [REDACTED]?”

But no matter how much his friends would tease him, Boothill’s admiration for eagles would never fade. He’d look to the great birds of the sky whenever he felt at sea. An age old habit that would stick until he fulfilled his role in the cycle of life. It’s what he did when the IPC had first arrived on his planet in their foreign and menacing spaceships, spouting off what he and countless others had thought to be taradiddles. It’s what he had done when trying his damndest to keep the corporation away from disrespecting the soil he had grown up on. It’s what Boothill does now when the weight of carrying out revenge gets too heavy for his shoulders, no matter whether they were flesh and bone or cold, hard metal.

Unsurprisingly, the man knew countless facts about these mighty birds. He had made sure to infodump about them when he took you bird-watching on planets that were similar to his home, thus housing the same or similar species of birds and the like. You were always curious and wishing to know more about your partner and his roots and who was he to deny you?

“See that one right there? That’s a bald eagle”, Boothill murmured softly one time against the shell of your ear once, pointing to the sky.

“How can you tell all the way from down here?” You asked, squinting into the binoculars that you were holding in your hands.

“Well, sugar, it’s because of that white noggin of theirs. No other eagle got that same appearance.”

“Did ya know that the eagle sound you hear in Penacony’s films ain’t actually the sound they make?”, Boothill would continue, ready to tell you the same little factoids and stories that his parents had told him.

You listened while watching the eagle. Well…you weren’t really focused on following the bird’s movements anymore. You were too focused on how the cowboy’s voice had softened its usual gruffness and laced with the aching feeling of nostalgia and homesickness.

During such moments, you usually rarely interrupted the man. It was clear as day to anyone with functioning eyes how much this meant for him.

However, your eyes caught a change in the eagle’s movements and you let out a surprised gasp when you see another bald eagle locking its talons with the one you had been following. To your horror, the birds had begun hurdling down towards the hard ground below, spinning in some form of cartwheel.

“Oh no! Are they fighting?”

Boothill looked questioningly at the sky, looking for what had caught your attention and chuckled fondly.

“Naw, don’t worry darlin’. That right there is what we call a death spiral. It’s like a courting ritual. Think of it as a type of trust fall.”

“What’s the point? Won’t they get hurt?”

*I just said it’s a trust fall, didn’t I?” An exasperated tone which quickly backtracked upon receiving a fierce glare from you.

“As I was sayin’... it’s a trust fall. That pair trusts each other to let go at the last second unless they wanna bite the dust….See?”

You had sighed with relief to see the bald eagles separating just before hitting the ground, quickly flying back up to the sky.

“Thank goodness… You still haven’t explained why they do it though?”

“It’s for courting each other. Eagles are one helluva adrenaline junkie. S’pose they want a partner who can give ‘em that rush.”

The two eagles interlocked their talons once more, spinning once more in the air as they fell. You watched in awe while Boothill watched you carefully, an idea taking root in his mind.

“Say…I reckon we should give it a shot too, sugar”, the man suggested and flashed you a toothy grin.

“Absolutely not. We’re not eagles, Boothill”, you refused almost immediately.

“Oh c’mon sugar, have some faith in yer man!”

The two of you went back and forth on the matter before eventually forgetting about it. At least, that was the case on your part. Boothill on the other hand…

–

“Your bounty is complete. How would you like to land?”

“...Good question.”

In truth, Boothill wasn’t too worried about the landing since he already could see you zooming towards him on an air-hover, ready to catch the cyborg. Oh, you were mad as a march hare alright.

“I’ve told you time and time again to have a better plan for these things!” You nag at him, your pretty face contorted with exasperation.

“Don’t get yer britches in a stir, sugar. I know what I’m doin’ “, Boothill drawls, looking too carefree for someone who was free falling through the air.

“You sure? ‘Cause it sure as hell doesn’t look like it!” You roll your eyes, following him down towards the ground on your hovercraft.

“I do, thank ya kindly. I got trust in you and mahself.”

“Take my hand then, you bag of bolts!”

“Not yet.”

It takes all your strength to not just up and leave the cowboy to fend for himself in such a situation but the thought of him potentially becoming a metal pancake stops you. You decide to trust his judgment, against your own better judgment. This wasn’t your first rodeo after all.

The two of you speed towards the ground, Boothill simply leisurely holding onto his hat while you were locked in completely, waiting for his signal.

Just a few seconds before you two would’ve crashed into the rock-hard ground below, Boothill whistles and with all your strength, you pull him onto your air-hover and promptly speed the vehicle back up into the sky once more.

“This is the last time we’re doing this”, you sigh, wiping the sweat off your brow.

“Come now, lovely. Ya gots to admit that it’s fun!” Boothill grins as he wraps his strong arms around your waist and nuzzles his face against your neck. You grumble at his actions but leave him be, opting to savor his closeness instead.

“Haven’t gotten your fill yet, lil’ eagle?”

“How can I, when I trust ya’ll catch me each time?”

[saphig-iawn]

Bondage in Brushstrokes

One of the things I can provide is what I call a narrative hypnosis session. Its a longer trance in which I weave a story in your ears that begins to feel very real.

My subject today wanted one such session and we settled on a wonderfully transformative idea: sealing her inside a painting.

After some gentle fractionation, lulling her up and down, she settled deeply on my lap ready for a little tale.

She's stood before a grand wooden door, the brass of the doorknob warm from the sun in her hand. She felt a knot of nervousness as she turned it, even though the letter I sent her said that she was to just come in with no need to knock.

A wide and bright hallway greeted her, natural light spilling in from every window. The floor was clean and polished white tiles with smaller black tiles nestling at the intersections. A curved staircase winded up and out of sight. The walls were clad in a vibrant dahlia scroll with painted wood panelling at the bottom.

"Come on through, my doll!" my voice calls from the beyond the kitchen at the end of the hallway.

Her shoes echo in the hall as she moves through, and a rustic well-loved kitchen greets her. The smell of fresh baked bread fills her nose, almost lifting her up as if it was a cartoon. There was a wonderful spread of cheeses, fruits, pastries, and meats on the island.

"We'll tuck into that later, my doll, come come." Her fingers snap away from the roll of salami she was about to snack on.

She rounded the door and found herself in a tall domed conservatory. Glass and white painted metal arced above her. It felt like an exhibit at a World's Fair at the turn of the century. Deep verdant plants lined one side, massive monstera leaves bathed in the sun.

I stood up from my stool, wearing green overalls already splashed with paint, a soft, loose blouse underneath it, with a green bandana keeping my dark auburn hair away from my face.

"We're going to have a lot of fun, my doll."

SNAP

Her eyes widened as she began to strip. Her hands worked at the buttons of her dress automatically. She wondered when I wove this spell into her, but before she could finish that thought her clothes were pooled at her feet.

"Good doll, now for the finishing touch, kneel-"

She was knelt. Like she always had been. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt a ribbon grace the back of her neck. Cool and smooth on her skin, she felt it be brought to the front and tied into a bow. I held her chin with my finger and thumb.

"Perfect. Now pose for me darling." She feels her head moved by my finger and thumb and she sees a green chaise lounge. She feels herself walk over to it and recline. The green velvet is smooth to the touch, no matter which way her skin moved over it.

I move to a table behind her, take a hardback book from it and put it in her hand.

"Flick through the pages, see which one feels right to land on. You'll be looking at it for a while" I giggled.

She pressed her thumb in the side of the book and let the pages rustle past. Just before halfway she stops and looks at the page and felt a touch confused. The page was filled with one sentence over and over and over.

"I'm a good doll"

Confused, she goes to say something but finds no words leave her lips. Her eyes widen once more and tried to turn and look at me but her head will not move.

"It always takes you by surprise, doesn't it? But you're a doll, being still is what you're made for."

A warmth blossomed in her chest as those words entered her mind, and she began to embrace the stillness I had woven into her from the first time we had a session.

"You see, my doll, I had everything painted already, I was just missing my subject..."

I trailed off as I began to paint, the sound of the bristles on canvas tickled the air as I began my work painting her feet.

She then began to feel strange. No- not strange... different. Like her feet were being compressed, wrapped in tight bandages.

She was unable to say a thing.

Then the feeling rose, her calves, then thighs, like they were being tightly wrapped and encased.

"You have such pretty legs my doll" I mused, bringing deep blue shadow onto the chaise lounge where her legs rested.

Now she began to feel strange. Like the chaise lounge was pulling her in, like it was being flattened out wrapped around her, the velvet caressing her skin.

But still the feeling rose, a tight encasement creeping up her still form.

She wondered if her eyes had been open too long because the text of the book was becoming so blurry, but then she realised that her eyes were fine. The book had changed. The words now nothing more than close approximations, scattered marks of paint across the page.

But even then, when her eyes drank the facsimiles in, she felt their meaning deep in her body.

I'm a good doll

Soon the feeling was up her arms, her hands seemingly part of the book she was holding. Soon her chest and shoulders became part of her surroundings.

Then she felt the bristles of my brush across her lips.

A single stroke sealed them shut.

She wanted to bite her lip, to moan, to tell me how good she was feeling, but those feelings melted away when I dabbed my brush on the canvas for the last time.

A wave pleasure washed over her from head to toe. Every part of her sang with pleasure her total bondage was complete.

"Now where do I put you..." I wondered aloud.

Like a soft jolt on a car ride while she was happily asleep, she felt a shift as I took her off my easel. Confusion rippled in her painted mind.

She oblivious to the fact that the chaise lounge was now empty.

That the book was gone.

That was she was now nothing but paint on my canvas, encased and sealed.

Everything clicked as she felt an impossible warmth on her cheek. It was like resting her face on a loved one in a cuddle. The warmth moved down her body, across her breasts, down her arms, over her sensitive areas, and down her legs.

She felt so good beneath my fingertip.

"Now... I could put you in the living room, let all the dolls enjoy you knowing you're bound in there. Or I could put you in the bedroom, deliciously restrained from joining in the fun. Or maybe the kitchen so you could watch the dolls go about their day in their cute maid dresses."

I brushed my finger over her sensitive area.

Her whole body pulsed with pleasure. Every part of her connected in her bondage; the perfect conductor for pleasure.

I continue caressing the canvas, knowing the pressure is building in her. That delicious ache growing with every passing second.

She needed to scream. She needed to buck and rut and bite and dig her nails in. But my brushstrokes kept her still, the pleasure building even more.

But the rubbing wasn't stopping, and the pressure kept building, and the climax was coming, and the rubbing wasn't stopping, and the pressure kept building, and the climax was coming, and the climax was coming, and the climax was coming, and the climax was coming!

Her mind flooded with pleasure as she climax. Her painted bondage holding her still as the pleasure stormed across her. There was no part of her that wasn't lost in pleasure.

Her bonds cradled her as the afterglow settled in, easing her muscles, soothing her body, slowing her breath.

"I think I'll put you in the bedroom."

[okay-babe]

this is for your prompt game- word count: 800

human!alastor whos starts to feel a bit guilty when he sees his darling worry about him after hearing about the various murders near his studio. maybe some cuddling after alastor comes home especially late, and reader freaks out?

tyy!!

Nothing on This Earth

tags: human! alastor x human! fem! reader, established relationship, alastor and reader are married, anxious reader, fluff, very mild angst note: This was such a cute request to fulfill, I had a really fun time with it :) I hope you enjoy, anon :)

"And in some rather frightening news, the police have revealed the recent discovery of yet another body, this one found partially buried just outside city limits, mere miles in fact, from this very radio station that I'm broadcasting live to you from now. Presently, the authorities have yet to reveal the identity of the poor soul, but he is believed to be yet another victim of our infamous NOLA killer."

Alastor hummed a popular tune as he made his way across the walkway that led from the drive to the house that he and his wife shared.

From outside, he could hear the oh-so familiar static of the radio as his late night replacement droned on and on endlessly between the evenings pre-selected songs.

With a marked lack of haste or impatience, Alastor listened on vaguely to the words his coworker spoke, scarcely paying them any mind as his long legs carried him casually along the stone path and toward the steps of the house.

Instinctively, his hand reached into his pocket as he grew closer to his destination, long fingers seeking the familiar chill of cool metal until they finally found what they were feeling for, allowing for him to properly grasp his keys between them.

Humming the same pleasant tune as before, the radio host smiled to himself as he slowly ascended the three wooden steps that led creakily up to the deck, upon which the front door could be clearly seen.

Quietly, his shoes tapped against the old wood as he made his way closer, the keys in his pocket jingling familiarly as he moved to pull them out.

Still clearly in no rush, Alastor moved casually as he raised the now slightly warmed metal of his house key to its empty socket.

Much to his surprise though, the brass device had only just grazed the mechanism containing the deadbolt lock when the door swung inward quickly, revealing quite the alarming sight on the other side.

There you stood, his darling wife, all wrapped up in that slightly sheer white robe of yours that his mother had gifted you for your wedding, arms crossed and expression fixed firmly into a frown.

If he hadn't known any better, perhaps Alastor may have even believed you angry at him, your jaw clenched and your eyebrows furrowed just so.

But, of course, as your ever so observant husband, he did know better.

He could see the anxiety hidden behind that veil of vexation as clear as day, made obvious by the constant shifting of your gaze and the way you nibbled at your lip.

Wordlessly, your love reached forward, pulling your trapped flesh from between your worrying teeth, his ring finger tilting your chin upward as he did so.

"Why hello there, my doe."

He all but purred as he stepped swiftly inside, his ankle moving to kick the door closed behind him.

"How very kind of you to wait at the entrance for me. Although, I do have to wonder," He began, leaning down toward you so that his breath fanned across your lips, "What a lovely, delicate creature such as yourself is doing up so late."

He teased, pressing a quick kiss to your mouth before pulling away and turning around to shrug off and hang his jacket.

"I was worried about you."

At those words, Alastor halted all movement immediately before his brow quirked and he spun on his heel, grin wide.

"Worried about me?" He asked incredulously, both of his hands finding yours before offering them a squeeze of reassurance. "Whatever for, my dear?"

You swallowed thickly, your words becoming caught in your throat as if the sheer weight of them were too much to manage.

"There's a killer on the loose, Al." You said fearfully, your returned grip on his hands tightening as you spoke.

"So when you're out so late like this, I can't help but think-" You paused there, as if unable to finish that thought for fear of it coming true.

Regardless, it seemed that Alastor understood your worries plenty.

He squeezed your hands once more.

"Oh chère," He all but crooned, "You're very sweet to worry, but I promise you that I am in no danger." As he said this, you felt him start to pull you in closer, until finally, you were chest to chest.

You sighed wearily, leaning into your love's touch almost instinctively in spite of your concerns. "But how can you be so sure, Al? There's no telling when or where-"

"My dear," Your husband interrupted gently as he began to sway the two of you rhythmically in time with the jazz that was now flowing through the speakers of your radio, "I can assure you that as long as I have my wife to come home to..." He paused to tuck a few stray hairs behind your ear, his gaze upon you filled with an almost overwhelming adoration as he did so,

"There is nothing on this earth that could keep me away from her."

[panharmonium]

Bookbinding: The New Deal by Closer

Moar bookbinding! This one is a Suits fanfic that I bound for @brambleberrycottage's birthday (pictures shared with the author's permission).

[Same disclaimer as always applies: I do this for fun; no money has been made from this project!]

Notes on the binding: This was my third leather book, but my first time sewing on cords (my previous leather books were both split boards). The actual sewing process was definitely...something. Sewing is usually my favorite step of a bind, but not this time. (Possibly because I was sitting on the floor at the base of the stairs sewing the book on a shelf under my desk, as that was the easiest sewing frame hack I could come up with - once I rig something that will allow me to sit up like a human being and not be scrunched up like a hermit crab, I am sure I will enjoy the process more.)

So the sewing itself was a bit painful, but I did really love how the board attachment played out in the end, with the cords laced into the boards. It is SO satisfying not to be doing case bindings anymore! It's the same feeling of relief I had when I first learned how to do split board bindings - you have so much more control over the placement of the cover boards, so much less opportunity for skew, so much more stability. No more casing-in anxiety necessary. (You do acquire all-new steps to be anxious about, but for me, it's worth it).

Notes on the design: I've never actually watched Suits, but the fic itself takes place in and around Harvard Law, so I used that as my inspiration for the book's design. The book is covered in crimson leather from Siegel. Endbands are handsewn with metallic red and gold threads. The blind tooling on the cover is a street map of Cambridge, MA, which I drew onto tracing film and then tooled through the film onto the leather. (So far I've only used a foil quill heat pen to do this, because brass tools are expensive. I'm taking a class on traditional tooling soon and I'm VERY excited for it, but for now, this is what I have access to.)

The gold outlines in the design highlight the buildings of Harvard Law. (These lines are also not actual gold tooling - paint pen for now.)

^ early design work, featuring unsightly eraser smudges.

I followed a similar theme/color scheme for the interior. For the endpapers, I used acrylic paints and a dry sponge to make a crimson and gold pattern:

For the title page, I modified an image of Harvard's Veritas shield to display the fic's title and author.

The chapter headers may not immediately ping an association for anyone who doesn't live here/spend a lot of time on the T, but they were the first thing I came up with - they're designed to look like the signage for the Red Line, which is the subway route that serves Harvard Square.

Notes for future me: The one thing that went "wrong" with this bind was that the endpapers ended up being short at the foreedge. I knew this was going to happen before I pasted them down, but I had to make a choice between two undesirable results - the boards were already VERY slightly curved inwards after doing the fill-in, and if I used paste on the endpapers (so they would stretch), I was worried it would pull too hard as it dried and make the boards curve too much. But if I used PVA, the endpapers wouldn't stretch enough and would end up being short. I decided I would rather have short endpapers than warped boards, so that's what I went with, but next time I might try doing one less lining inside the boards and hope that the pastedown will handle more of the counterpull.

Despite little things like that, I had a great time with this! Every time I make something I learn new things, and every time something goes "wrong" it's good to look back and be like "ten years ago I was duct taping the spines of loose pages that I covered in cardstock! i'm doing fine, actually." Lots of progress has happened and lots of fun has been had, which is ultimately the point.

Big thank yous are owed to @brambleberrycottage for letting me send her all my bookbinding experiments, and also to Closer for a) writing this fic in the first place and b) okay'ing the sharing of photos! Much appreciation goes out to both of you :)

[fab-bladesmith]

A Carolingian Sword and Scabbard, 9th century.

The blade has a 3-layer core of mild steel over high carbon steel, and high carbon steel edges.

Hot-welded in the fullers are the famous "+ULFBERH+T" mark on one side, and "III XX III" on the other, in pattern-welded 1075 and 15N20 steel - this latter thing being, in my educated opinion, no less important than the other side. Many things have been said about such marks, but the most important thing about them is that they exist (otherwise, to paraphrase Sir Terry Pratchett, it wouldn't be a real sword, just a very dangerous bit of sharp metal) and that they are but one aspect of the continuous function of the sword to carry a message/prayer/ritual thing, a thing appearing as early as the Bronze Age and which would continue up to the Renaissance if not after - working in conjunction with the scabbard to utter/read these spells when the sword is drawn or put back in the scabbard.

The hilt is inspired by sword FG2187 of the Germanisches National museum, found near Mannheim, and is mild steel overlaid in brass and silver (thanks to Matt Bunker for the close-ups), with silver details.

For the grip I drew inspiration from a sword found in river Shannon in 2012 for the placement of the linen threads under the leather cover, which provide both a decorative function and a nice feeling in hand. The overall shape of the grip was determined by stylistic elements of various swords of other types.

The scabbard is leather over linen over steam-formed wood, and lined with 100% wool cloth, stitched at the throat with pure silk thread. I chose not to give it a chape, the end being reinforced by a thick wrap of folded linen bands, as according to Dr Geibig's works. Decoration was made using thread glued under the leather cover.

Cheese glue was used for all this.

The suspension system of leather and brass is loosely made after the finds from the Isle of Man (Cronk Moar and Balleteare). The main issue I had was the bottom D-ring/strap thing, and here I propose a simple arrangement of a leather strap riveted to the buckle plate, and made to fit tightly the scabbard when wet. Upon drying, the strap would shrink and securely fit between the two risers.

The strap ends are in the Trewhiddle style, and were made using the historical process of drawing out a billet and chiselling in the decoration, accordingly to the PhD by Gabor Thomas. No casting involved there.

The making of this project owes a lot to the labours of Dr Mikko Molainen, to whom I address all my thanks.

This whole thing needed an awful amount of trial and error, and I am well aware that not everything is perfect there. Apart from the issues mentioned above, the main difficulties were the hot-inlaying/welding of the marks, but I do thing that most of them came from using modern steel - old/bloomery iron, especially with the proper content in phosphorous (wink at @gaelfabre) would have made the welding easier I think. I'll have to give it a try some day.

[north-peach]

hello transformers hyperfixation, it's been awhile.

Okay, so some of y'all with me at the devil's sacrament, specially follow me for the transformers stuff.

i am so sorry to yall cause i've been dancing with pretty much every single other hyper fixation beyond that, so this one's for y'all!

Mecha Pilot!Jazz AU! Specifically, the one by @keferon

yall

this is now gonna be a significant part of my personality, cause it has me in a chokehold. I have read every single one of the 46 fics on ao3 and spent twelve hours combing through tumblr so BUCKLE IN.

For fic-ish headcanons and brainstorming ideas because this ain't a fic.....yet.

.

MechaPilot!Jazz, who is first generation and has done so well with a mecha, barely any body-dysmorphia due to the transition from small, quishy human to giant metal being with- while similar- different anatomy.

He's good. He's so good.

He alive too, which is a pro in this project considering what i imagine has led to a considerable body count, especially if you factor in a drift aspect of the mech.

getting your body to withstand the movement, your brain to operate a very large machine to combat efficiency, dealing with either being hooked into systems so hard you feel the pain, or don't, but you still remember the way it felt when you were stabbed, only to walk around after mission's end like nothing happened.

Jazz lives and breathes in this mech and his superiors are pleased.

However, this means that Jazz gets the experimental tech. He gets the new gadgets, the customized weapons, gear, he gets special treatment.

This, in part, is both good and bad.

The freedom Jazz gets is great. He gets his mods, his music and for starting out as an orphan without any documented education, that's pretty great for him.

On the other hand, the constant supervision at base, the medical exams, the doctors, the politicians- regardless of the paycheck, of the food, equipment, Jazz hates that the cons are so negative, but the pros really do make up for it.

His mecha is his baby.

However, all good things must come to an end. Just like Viktor was consumed by Vortex (and haunting the narrative just as surely as he was the mecha), just like Ratchet reached his limit with all the dead bodies piling up, just like how Blurr's death meant the end of Shockwave's life, just like- well.

With the ever-increasing numbers of dead, if not missing people, with the alien invasion of Earth in a precarious balance of giving and gaining ground.

Something had to be done.

Jazz had always known- the longer he'd survived, that he thrived, the more he became one with his mecha, the more he excelled, and surpassed expectations- it was always going to be him. He was the best the program had to offer, after all.

With the increased number of brass walking through the base, with the extended hours in the medical halls, with the bigger and better technology that was integrating into his baby and how Jazz's own body was made better, well.

It was only a matter of time.

He's told the program is expanding to space.

He's told it'll be him to lead the way.

An outpost on one of the moons or asteroids in the solar system.

A mecha program, beyond the confines of their own planet.

Jazz cannot refuse.

So he does as he does best.

He puts on a smile, jams out his tunes and does his absolute best to make sure First Aid knows he's the squirreliest nerd he's had the pleasure of meeting. Even if he is a bit too engrossed with the alien's anatomy in all it's gooey and tentacled glory.

Ratchet gets a phone call, some good old-fashioned teasing on his secret boyfriend he still hasn't met and a promise to drop by for a visit. One he hopes he can keep.

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe get smuggled out of the base to street race in fast cars at fast speeds and Jazz makes sure their asses are covered so they don't get caught.

Hot Rod gets Jazz's old comics, Wheeljack gets the confiscated "illegal" contraband Jazz can smuggle out (the more flammable, the better), Onslaught gets locked in a closet with Blast Off, Nightbird gets a human-size set of ninja weapons that brings a smile to his usually blank face, Swindle gets a pair of fluffy dice and Brawl is presented with a new pair of boxing gloves.

Jazz bargains for Cosmos to be brought down from his lonely space station for a week of down time, and sics Red Alert on him because Cosmos needs friends beyond Jazz and Red Alert needs someone who can keep up with him.

As Cosmos once said, nothing better to do in space then to imagine all the ways everything could go wrong.

Jazz has high hopes for the two of them.

He also takes the time to go visit Blaster, bent over his workbench as he works on his smaller, deployable drone mechas.

Eject and Rewind are powered down on their recharge pads while Steeljaw remains in several pieces, his mechanical paws carefully laid out and disassembled.

Jazz pokes around, suggests some cool feature Blaster's new project could have, such as a rhinoceros base form, because the man's already got a lion, amirite?

A dozen mecha pilots. Thirteen if you count Vortex and First Aid as two.

Expansion into space means expansion of the mecha program. Jazz isn't sure how to feel about that, but regardless longer missions in his baby can excuse a lot of unpleasantry. Especially in the name of preventing the amount of mass casualties and reshaping of landmass on the planet they're currently trying to live on.

Still, a custom shuttle, more spaceship designed for his baby then himself, an AI as a pilot, five years of supplies and material and equipment, all double checked and tripled checked is a whole lot of freedom for one guy.

The aliens deciding the moment Jazz's ship- the one he affectionately calls Cowboy Bebop- is set to launch on his first official mission to cause a mess is pretty much par for the core.

Cosmos coming in clutch, leaving Red Alert behind on his space station to assist Jazz's mission give him just enough time to send confirmation and data back to base that the aliens are entering their solar system via a giant space door.

One that Jazz falls through, riding the wave of destruction from the ships that were attempting to enter their solar system and he thanks anything or anyone that is listening that his Bebop makes it through safely, his own fragile body protected by his mecha.

Landing covertly as possible on an alien planet God knows how far from Earth is probably the most exciting and nerve-wracking thing he's done in the last decade.

Which is saying something, considering the life Jazz lives.

In the end, Jazz will label this is the best day in his entire life, all thirty two years of it, including the last eleven years of piloting his baby through all her ups and down and close calls.

You see, this day, which has led to him being launched to God knows where in the vast, unmapped corners of the universe, to another devastated planet that Jazz has no idea is even in the same galaxy, has a native people he needs- maybe?- to avoid, has a bug problem-

Had a bug investation, oh God if this is what defeat looks like Jazz can't even begin to argue with Shockwave's increasing demands and general creepiness.

Jazz is stuck and on his own, at least, until he meets Prowl.

Prowl changes everything.

Because you see- not that Jazz noticed for a good solid bit of time there- Prowl is not a human. Not only is Prowl not a human, he is NOT a pilot in a mech suit, PROWL is a MECHANICAL LIFEFORM from a MECHANICAL PLANET.

Jazz is going to forgive himself the amount of time it took for him to notice.

In hindsight, a mecha being that pretty? That expressive? The different between the two of them? Jazz should of noticed, but considering the day he's had, a bit of leeway is the least of what he deserves.

Outrunning, outmaneuvering and outsmarting the aliens- Quintessons?- to get Prowl's damaged form onboard Bebop and away to somewhere not crawling with bugs is going up there, straight up to top three moments Jazz can't believe his bullshit worked, right next to an impromptu team up with Vortex, when First Aid was definitely passed out in the pilot's seat.

(Jazz knows how Viktor piloted that mecha, very little has changed since he became Vortex)

Jazz being given directions, a translation data thing, and safe harbor with others, just like Prowl was not in the playbook but he's flying by the seat of his pants here and honestly? Since no one knows where Earth is, he can't get back and it's not like the Quintessons aren't pulling their special brand of bullshit on them as well.

So he helps out.

To the amazement, horror and confusion of everyone around him because oh, yeah.

Jazz hasn't told anyone he's a squishy, operating a shell.

Exactly like their stories of a specific boogeyman.

Nightmare fuel for their entire race.

...

He debates on telling Prowl, sometimes.

When the mech seeks him out, when he gets him to blush when Jazz teases him. When he gets in over his head and can't deny he's fallen head over heels for the second alien Jazz has ever met.

His luck is gonna run out one day.

With the weird truce and meshing of both Autobot and Decepticon troops, he can only hope- or dread- it'll be Prowl. An Autobot over a Decepticon.

Still, Jazz knows he's exactly the kinda guy to push his luck, to get a mile outta that inch he's been given and he ain't about to stop now, no matter how guilty he feels.

[thescrapwitch]

WIP Word Train

Rules: tagger gives a word, then for each letter of that word you share an excerpt from your WIPs that start with that letter.

Tagged by @queerofthedagger Thank you! My word is HOME (which is very fun considering I've been working on some fics with that as their theme)

H - This is Not a Second Chance (Celebrimbor gets dragon-amnesia post-fall of Nargothrond and gets found by his father and uncles; canon still happens after that and I try to make all the readers cry)

He did not know what that word Tyelpë meant. Could only hold the dog and shake as that one order - run, run, run - began to fade away, leaving him empty and hollow. “Help,” he said, the word a cracked whisper. The word choked with smog and burning and terror that erased every thought. He held tight onto the dog as he spoke. “Help.”

Time after that turned into a blurr. There were hands that lifted him up. Gentle, careful of his burns and scratches, cradling him close. More words, some in a language he understood and others in a language he felt that he should know but could not remember. The dog left when he was placed onto a horse. He cried but did not know why. 

Had he run far enough? Had he been caught? 

“Easy, Tyelpë,” said the moonlight-haired elf. “We’ll be at Amon Ereb soon. Just hold onto the horse and trust me to lead, all right?”

He said nothing. The elf’s words fell on him like snow: cold, making him shiver, disappearing through the gaps in his mind. 

O - Oh Sing, Defiant Stars (all SoF survive the kinslayings but Maglor gets amnesia at Sirion and still does a twin kidnapping; very NOT canon-compliant)

One hand was made from metal, glinting like polished brass. The lord, Lindir guessed, from how everyone else backed away or bowed to him. The leader and the one who would decide how best to hurt him. 

But the lord’s hands, when he reached out, only ghosted over Lindir’s shoulders. “Laurë,” he said again, that strange word.

Should he bow? Lindir had not bowed for the orcs no matter how much they kicked him, but they had been servants of Morgoth. These were elves - but they were also murderers. The words stayed stuck in his throat, and all he could do was stand there, dumb and shaking, eyes dropping to the ground. He couldn’t look at the red-haired lord, or the beautiful horses, or the bright, eight-pointed star that decorated the deep red banners. His heart ached. His head screamed, as though something deep within the back of his mind was trying to tear it apart. 

“Bring the healers,” ordered the lord. He may have said other things, but Lindir could barely focus on his words.

M - To Haunt These Golden Halls (Maedhros searches and grieves for his lost brother; Maglor misunderstands and thinks he's happier without him - happy ending don't worry)

Maglor said nothing, could only stare up at his brother, drinking in the sight of him. Centuries upon centuries had dulled his memories, tarnishing the image of Maedhros. Now, there he stood, alive again, and there were a thousand things Maglor wanted to say. 

I missed you, I’m sorry I could not reach you in time. That I threw it away. I was right to throw it away. Do you forgive me? I’m sorry I was not enough to keep you in life. Please say you forgive me. Maedhros, Maitimo, Nelyo, I missed you. 

His mouth stayed locked shut. 

Would Maedhros yell at him now? Chase him out of the garden? Welcome him and kiss his forehead, like he had when Maglor was small and woke up from a nightmare? He tensed and waited. 

But Maedhros only stared down at him and said, “What is your name, stranger, and what are you doing at my home?”

E - Little Crab in the Big City (Fëanor forgets his crab son in the Valinor shopping district and so Maglor and Bilbo go on an adventure together. Maedhros is never trusting his father to babysit ever again)

Even Aman, with all its power, could not prevent a mortal mind from slowly breaking down. Or so Gandalf had sadly warned him. 

The crab scuttled a little to the left and then a little to the right, giving Bilbo a few more clicks of his claw. Above their heads came the cry of a bird - a seagull, perhaps, though Tirion was far away from the coast - and the poor thing hid behind Bilbo’s leg. 

“There, there, do not fear. I will not let such a well-mannered creature such as yourself become dinner.” Bilbo held out a hand. “A busy street such as this is no place for someone so easily trampled. Would you care to travel with me?”

The crab let out a series of fast clicks, eagerly scurrying forward. Carefully, Bilbo lifted him up and placed him on his shoulder, wrapping one long end of his scarf around the crab to keep him warm. 

“Excellent. It has been far too long since I’ve had a companion on an adventure.” Bilbo opened up his notebook and readied his pen. “Now then, where was I? Oh yes…”

Tagging, with your word being CRAB: @dreamingthroughthenoise @lordgrimwing @beatles4ever65 @thelordofgifs @camille-lachenille @whovianofmidgard @leucisticpuffin @awwyeah107 @veilder @starspray and anyone else who wants to. No pressure, of course!

[dcdreamblog]

How many metal men there were? I remeber them being 6 when i was little but then a bunch appeared and dissappeared and stuff.

And does Steel from metropolis have anything to do with them?

There are 7 siblings in their family and 6 members of the team. Which is the interesting part.

(A publicity shot of the Metal Men and their creator, Dr Will "Doc" Magnus.) Doc Magnus is one of the foremost minds in both robotics and elemental chemistry, creating a lot of more mundane marvels that you and I use everyday. However his famous magnum opus was the Metal Men, showing off his invention of a device called the Responsometer. Now the science of it all is WAY above my head but down to brass (hehe) tacks, basically when a Responsometer is implanted into a sufficient amount of a pure metal, the device is able to animal that metal into a thinking, feeling robotic automaton. The personality contained within the Responsometer is able to animate every part of the metal body independently, allowing each of the Metal Men to shapeshift as if they were made out of a stable liquid and then instantly resolidify without limits. All of this without losing any property of the metal in question. The original six Metal Men were Gold, Lead, Iron, Tin, Mercury and "Platinum" (although her chosen name is Tina, which is how I will refer to her from now on). They're the hometown heroes of New Jersey if you happen to live outside the Gotham Metro and despite the unfortunate mental stability of their creator, father and patriarch Doc Magnus, the team is still getting up to their super scientist shenanigans to this day...save for that one little lady on the left. THAT, is Copper. She is the team's "baby" having been created well after the rest of the group during a manic episode of Doc Magnus' run in with a cult of super scientists (another time maybe). Helping him to escape that situation she was introduced to the rest of her siblings. ...and then almost instantly discovered she had no interest in the superhero life. Don't get me wrong, she did what was needed of her. She saved lives. I'm not calling her a coward, or a screw up. I'm saying that after about a year fighting alongside her family she found that all she got out of it was stress and injury and heartache. So she quit.

(Copper Magnus' official staff photo at STAR Labs of Gotham. OOC: phil-cho on DA)

This story isn't as tragic as you think, it's not like she walked out on her family or anything. She just decided to go to college, she now has a major in Security Services and she works at STAR Labs in Gotham where by all accounts she's a model employee and makes the same commute into and out of the suburbs as the rest of us. It's just interesting that the odd on out in their family is the one who went to college and got a respectable 9-to-5.

[cambion-companion]

Teaching the Devil how to fuck

We all know Haarlep says Raphael is a terrible lover blah blah, and I certainly believe Raphael to be a very selfish lover. It's also hard for me to imagine he's taken someone other than Haarlep to his bed in a very long time. Scheming and planning ya know, it's time consuming lol And how would he be in bed with someone who isn't an Incubus, with whom he doesn't feel double the pleasure? Well, that's why I am writing this.

Raphael x Altheara (my female Aasimar OC) because I wanted to write wings and needed a warm-up

"Raphael, do you ever stop talking?" Altheara brushed her long golden hair, the entire time she'd been listening to Raphael wax poetic about his latest contract with the whole city council.

She turned on her vanity stool, tossing her sheet of hair over her shoulder and mirroring Raphael's terse expression back at him. "Have you any idea just how little I wish to hear about your newest soul conquest?"

Raphael raised an arch brow and his lips turned down in a sneer. "Were I a less magnanimous being..." He gestured with his hands, describing the scene. "...I would pluck your feathers and leave you skinned upon a rack for your continual impudence."

Altheara rose to her full height, still head and shoulders shorter than Raphael's devil form. She approached him in measured steps, her eyes glinting like topaz in the firelight. "You're more full of bluster than an autumn evening." She flexed her feathered wings and tilted her head up at his glowering face. "You need me."

"Ah, pet." Raphael's voice had taken on a gravelly edge. He took Altheara's chin between finger and thumb, stroking her cheek gently. "You are wearing out your welcome."

"Yet you are here, in my chambers, lingering long after my 'use' to you has expired." Altheara's amber eyes flicked between his. "Why?"

Raphael pulled in his chin, once again momentarily bemused by her directness. "Perhaps I want to see just how far I can make an angel fall."

During their long and tenuous partnership, Altheara had felt the tension between them building like water behind a dam. It was finally about to burst.

The fabric of her deep blue dress rustled as she moved, her wings urged on her movement with one sweeping motion. She pressed herself against the heat of the cambion, his hands cradling her hips as she kissed that ruby mouth of his. At last, silencing him.

Raphael met her embrace with surprise, then curiosity, which melted into fascination. He tugged her closer, his fingers exploring how her soft flesh felt under his probing touch, the silk of her dress slipping like water under his hands.

Altheara guided him non-gently to her bed where he sat, a brow raised as he looked amused and intrigued up at her.

"You are aware," Raphael mused, his hands resting either side of where he sat as she moved to straddle him. "That I have an incubus at my beck and call?"

Altheara ignored him, she began pulling at the heavy metal of his skull-adorned belt. "This is utterly hideous, by the way."

"That whatever pleasure you offer dulls in comparison to what they can give me."

Altheara glared at him, her teeth clenched, her brass wings folding slightly as an innate sign of her sudden doubt. "Yet here you remain, quite the willing companion."

"I admit my curiosity, yes." Raphael indulged the Aasimar, his infernal eyes glimmering from within. "I've made no secret that I find you a most alluring creature."

Altheara leaned into him again and kissed at his neck and throat, her hands sliding up under his shirt to caress his sides. "Then stop being an ass."

"So spoke the 'aasimar'." Raphael groaned quietly as Altheara bit the skin of his shoulder in response, then he chuckled, still not touching her in return. "Shall I set the mood, my dear?"

He clicked his fingers and Altheara breathed in sharply, pulling her head back as both she and Raphael magically lost all of their clothing.

Her eyebrows raise and she fought to not grimace. "Raphael...that does quite the opposite to 'setting the mood'."

A slight frown tainted Raphael's confident smirk. "Not the response I was seeking, angel."

"Put my clothes back on, devil." Altheara spoke firmly, her hands moving to cup his face and smooth down to his shoulders. "It seems I am to educate you on how passion is played out."

Raphael was loathe to obey orders from anyone, especially a celestial entity. However, he found himself intrigued what she wished to have happen.

He magicked their clothing back onto their bodies and Altheara smiled. "Good. Thank you."

Altheara took her time. She slowly undressed Raphael, her lips following where her hands went, never touching but close enough for him to feel her warm breath on his skin.

She pressed her weight against the cambion's towering form, her mouth almost touching his heated chest, teasing, until with a low grumble he pressed forward against her in return. She smiled as she began pleasuring him, allowing him some control yet also taking an equal amount for herself.

Reticence turned into heated exchanges, hands ran over flushed skin and Raphael at last carefully pulled Altheara's dress over her head and tossed it blithely to the floor.

His hands explored her, and she gasped as he groped her chest roughly, grabbing his wrists with a furrowed brow. "Gentler." She showed him and after a moment he took over, squeezing and pinching.

Raphael reclined onto his back, pressing into the bed as he gripped her thighs possessively. "Show me more of what you can give."

"I'd think a devil would have better grasp on the concept of give and take." Altheara sighed through her pleasure, her wings spreading behind her for balance as she began moving more earnestly. "This is an exchange, Raphael."

The reply was torn from his lips as she sunk upon him, connecting their bodies with her own gasps of both pain and bliss.

She leaned over him until their mouths met in yet another fierce kiss. Raphael ran his hands up her back and into her downy feathers, his sharp nails digging into them. Altheara tensed and broke their kiss to look into Raphael's lidded eyes. "We have a contract."

"I will not harm you." Raphael's touch was sharp but didn't pierce her skin. "So eager, but still a flighty little thing."

"Move with me." Altheara pressed her hands to his chest, then his sides, gripping him tight as her wings flapped gently, her body shuddering as Raphael began to move his hips as well.

"So demanding." Raphael groaned again, his pleasure building slower than her own. "It's a wonder I tolerate you."

"You want me." Altheara's breath caught in her throat.

Raphael gripped the arc of her wings, his torso flexing as he curled up into her. "Yes."

The little death that followed led to many others. Many more nights of exploration exchanges of intimacy. Like twin fire suns orbiting each other, Raphael and Altheara could not pull away from each other. And for the first time in centuries, Raphael found himself willing to learn.

[moss-horizon]

thinking about knives again ,,,, the eroticism and elegance of a blade. how for a fool it's just a weapon but in experienced, practiced hands it's so so much more... how it can be a tool, an expression of bloodlust, a device through which sensation can be delivered, not only pain..

the blade's capacity to ravage, brutally and uncaringly. its capacity to dissect and cut with surgical precision, pinpoint accuracy. the capacity to lovingly caress. and the capacity to terrify.

the flat being pressed against skin, the cold metal creating a mixture of excitement and anticipation and fear. the edge's lightness, how you may not even feel it cutting you until it's already a few centimeters deep.

and if it opens you up just right? in time you'll never know it opened you at all. i cut my palm open with a pocketknife once, trying to demonstrate that it wasn't all that sharp (it was). the wound's gone now. but i can still feel the scar on my thigh from an injury i had as a child. nothing quite matches the blade's elegance

and nnh.. the sound. i sent a friend an audio recording of my favorite knife leaving and entering its sheath, and the sound made it shiver, as it listened over and over and over. the rattle of cold brass, the scrape of metal against metal. the blade itself is flimsy, and too soft to sharpen, and yet the knife holds power in concept alone. what other implement matches it?

[fickstueck-fs14]

THE HUMAN PONY - HARD RIDING

„PICK YOUR FEET UP! KEEP THAT BACK STRAIGHT!“

i LISTENED MUTELY TO THE COMMANDS GIVEN BY THE IMPOSING BARONESS. i LONGED TO LASH OUT AT my TORMENTOR, BUT THE METHOD

OF my BONDAGE LEFTHIM LITTLE RECOURSE EXCEPT TO FOLLOW MEEKLY WHERE i WAS LED.

„TAKE HIMTO A STALL AND CHAIN HIM ON HIS KNEES. I WILL BE ALONG SHORTLY.“

ONCE INSIDE THE WOODEN STALL i WAS FORCED TO KNEELON THE STRAW ROUGH BOARDS. THE LEAD ON my BALLS WAS MADE FAST TO A RING SET IN THE FLOOR. WITH my WRISTS AND NECK CHAINED TOGETHER HOLDING me SECURELY DOWN ON ALL FOURS...

„I HAVE A LITTLE HARNESS HERE TO IMPROVE YOUR CONFIRMATION. ... THAT'S A GOOD BOY! JUST STAY CALM WHILE I FASTEN THIS ON YOU, NICE AND SNUG“

THE BARONESS LAID THE TANGLE OF COLD LEATHER OVER my BACK AND BEGAN TO ARRANGE AND TIGHTEN THE STRAPS THAT HELD THE BIZARRE HUMAN SADDLE IN PLACE. SHE CINCHED THE BROAD BAND UNDER my BELLY SO TIGHT i COULD HARDLY BREATH AND FASTENED THE LONG LEADS ATTACHED TO IT OVER my SHOULDERS, BACK BETWEEN my LEGS. EVERY BELT WAS PULLED UP TILL IT CUT PAINFULLY INTO my FLESH, ASSURING THAT THE SADDLE COULD NOT SLIP AN INCH!

„OPEN WIDE“ 

my GAG WAS REMOVED FOR A MOMENT, ONLY TO BE REPLACED BY A CRUEL BIT DEVICE WITH REINS AND BLINDERS.

UNMERCIFULLY THE PERVERSE TRANSFORMATION CONTINUED AS THE BARONESS MOLDED me INTO A GROTESQUE PARODY OF A HORSE. ma ARMS WERELACED INTO LONG SHEATHS AND my LEGS WERE BENT AND STRAPPED INTO LEFTHER BNDERS BOTH OF WHICH HAD METAL HORSESHOES RIVETTED TO THEM, FORCING me TO BALANCE UNSTEADILLY ON THE POINTS OF my KNEES.

„WE'RE ALMOST DONE WITH YOU NOW!“

AS A FINAL HUMILIATING TOUCH THE BARONESS TOOK A WHIP MADE OF HORSEHAIR WITH A SMOOTH LEATHER HANDLE AND SHOVED IT INTO my EXPOSED ANUS THROUGH AN OPENING IN THE HARNESS.

SHE TIED IT SECURELY IN PLACE TO A PAIR OF CONVENIENTLY PLACED BRASS RINGS, THEN STOOD BACK TO ADMIRE HER EFFORTS...

„COME ALONG, HORSIE!“

THE PREPARATIONS WERE DEEMED COMPLETE AND i WAS LED OUT FROM THE STABLE ...

THE BARONESS LED me BY my REINS OUT INTO AN ARENA RINGED WITH SPECTATORS. SITTING ALOOF IN A SHADED PAVILLION ABOVE THE SUN SCORCHED SAND OF THE RINK SAT my OWNER. GLANCING AROUND i SAW TWO OTHER UNFORTUNATE WRETCHES, HARNESSED AS i WAS, WITH WOMEN DRESSED IN RIDING CLOTHES AND BOOTS SEATED ASTRIDE THEIR SAGGING BACKS....

„YOUR ANIMAL IS READY, MY DEAR“

i THEN FELT my OWN BACK BEND AS THE BARONESS LOWERED HER SHAPELY BUTTOCKS INTO my SADDLE. GRABBING THE LEADS TO my BIT SHE PULLED my HEAD SHARPLY UPWARD, TO ATTENTION, AS THE ANNOUNCER ROSE TO SPEAK...

„NOW, LET THE CONTEST BEGIN! "

WHEN THE GUN WENT OFF i FELT AS THOUGH my WORLD EXPLODED WITH IT! THE CROWD ROARED AS THE RIDER'S WHIPS LASHED INTO THEIR MOUNT'S FLANKS. THE REINS JERKED BACK CAUSING me TO REAR UP IN PAIN AND SPURS DUG INTO my THIGHS URGING me FORWARD. LIKE THE DUMB HORSE i RESEMBLED i STUMBLED AWKWARDLY WITH THE OTHERS ACROSS THE HOT SAND OF THE TRACK!

„GIDDY- UP BOY!“

WITH CROPS FLAILING IN ABANDON THE RIDERS DROVE THEIR MOUNTS FORWARD.

STILL i WAS IN THE REAR AND EVEN THE FRANTIC THRASHING OF THE CROP WHICH RAISED A MASS OF BURNING WEALS ACROSS my RUMP COULD NOT DRIVE me TO MOVE FASTER.

THE BLOOD POUNDED IN my HEAD AND SWEAT STUNG my EYES. i WAS PANTING FROM THE EXERTION AS THE BIT DISTENDING my JAWS FORCED me TO BREATH THROUGH FLARINE NOSTRILS. THE STRAPS CHAPED AND DUG CRUELLY INTO my BODY. i COULD FEEL my MUSCLES REACHING THEIR BREAKING POINT! THEN, JUST AS i WAS ABOUT TO GIVE UP AND FACE WHATEYER PUNISHMENT THE BARONESS DECREED, i FELT

THE BARONESS BEND FORWARD ON my BACK AND WHISPER INTO my EAR....

„YOU MIGHT BE INTERESTED TO KNOW, fickstück, THAT YOUR OWNER PLANS TO HAVE YOU BREEDED BY THE OTHER HORSES IF YOU LOOSE! IF YOU VALUE YOUR PRECIOUS VIRGINITY I SUGGEST YOU WORK A LITTLE HARDER!“

AS THE BARONESS SPOKE THESE LAST WORDS SHE CUT VERTICALLY WITH HER CROP BETWEEN my BUTTOCKS CATCHING me ON THE BALLS, TO EMPHASIZE HER POINT!

WITH AN ENERGY BORN OF DESPARATE FEAR AND PAIN i LUNGED THE FINISH LINE INCHES AHEAD OF THE OTHERS. i COLLAPSED ONTO THE DUST OF THE ARENA, GASPING IN AGONY.

my OWNER DESCENDED FROM HER SEAT ON THE PAVILLION. AMIDST THE CHEERS OF THE ASSEMBLED SPECTATORS SHE CONGRADULATED HER BARONESS.

„WELL DONE, MY DEAR! I KNEW YOU WOULD NOT DISSAPOINT ME“

„YOU DID WELL TODAY SLANE YOU SAVED YOUR VIRGINITY AND WON YOURSELF A CONFINEMENT WITH ONE OF THE REAL HORSES! BUT I CAN SEE YOU STILL ARE IN NEED OF TRAINING“

THE BARONESS DRAGGED me TO A KNEELING POSITION. MY MIND REFLED AT THE RAPIDITY WITH WHICH THIS WOMAN HAD REDUCED me TO THE DEPTHS OF DEGREDATION, AND THERE APPEARED TO BE NO END IN SIGHT!

[tassjis]

I want to talk about the Vault Gods and my design process

Each idol was drawn as though they were statues or altar peices, something of worship not necessarily what the gods look like but what the villagers would interpret their looks to be.

First I wanted to ensure that they looked like villagers, or have a villager template. The initial drafts has them with their arms together in a villager pose.

Each design had multiple aspects I gave them, a material, a gem, a minecraft mob, and an item

Idona The Malevolent, kill and sacrifice the marked to appease this god

The idol is designed after cinnabar a toxic red material with high levels of mercury.

Idonas item is the vault hunters altar with reference and designs inspired by Mayan and Aztec sacrificial alters.

They are designed to look like a bat and a Wolf with lots of sharp angles and shapes, with cultish and sacrifical undertones

The eyes are rubies, a gemstone that symbolises life force. They are cut with a 5 point star facet and bezel with means the eyes are also pentacles, there is also a hidden sacrificial knife in the eyes.

They say experience makes you wiser, but is it wise to give it up for treasure? Sacrifice your experience and knowledge to Tenos the Omniscient to be granted treasure beyond your wildest dreams.

Tenos is made of silver or iron, a pure metal that is reflective

Tenos has the enchanting table book, a potion of enchanting and xp balls

They are designed with a lot of softer rounder shapes compared to its counterparts and is based on a polar bear with angelic bird wings to give it a wise and pure vibe.

The eyes are sapphires, with a gemstone meaning of focus and inner vision. Tenos also is the one one to wear a gemstone accessory to give the allusion to a third eye.

Velara The Benevolent, sacrifice your health, sacrifice yourself to appease Velara, only then will you gain the riches

The idol is designed to look like oxidised copper. I wanted Valara to look like an old and ancient god from a forgotten religion, the kind where you find a forgotten statue in a forest overgrown with new life.

The like all the idols, it focuses on a theme relating to what you use to open the altars, so Valaras design is health or in this case life.

Velara has the fern and tall grass as its minecraft item.

Initially designed to be more rabbit like the design ended up becoming vague in animal and more bug like.

The eyes on Valara are emeralds that symbolise rebirth and growth.

Wendarr The Timekeeper, you only have limited time, will you sacrifice some of it to this god for riches?

Wendarr is a brass idol, a very common metal for clocks and timepieces to be made from.

Wendarr is designed to look the most like a villager with wings similar to that of DaVincis flying machine.

Unlike the other gods, Wendarr did not receive a minecraft item as I felt the minecraft clock did not fit the ancient and old aesthetic. Instead, they received an hourglass and an alluded clock face in the background, and some rococo inspired designs in the foreground.

The eyes are made of topaz, which apparently stands for manifesting clarity and astrology?

Anyway that's my thought process and some small details about each God and my designs.