#but his hands still look pretty veiny a few panels later so

[benjingle]

Thistle's hands will literally go from this to that

Please hydrate yourself GOOD GOD

[prince-toffee]

If Only

---

As his eyes opened, he began to gain consciousness, and that all too familiar view of the ceiling seeped in. As on most days Hordak’s first word of the day a grunt of irritation. He was immediately exhausted, just from the weight of existing in the present. His ever-present chronic pains gnawed at his body, like sharp needles slicing through nerves. Thanks to the armour built by his beloved Entrapta the pain wasn’t overwhelming. It was manageable, but it was always there.

  His blood red and toxic waste green eyes adjusted to the brightness of the room. The curtains were swung open, letting the light of the morning enter. He turned his head over to the right, just as he suspected, no one in bed. His loving partner was already up and buzzing around. Per usual. She always had so much energy; it was so exhausting. He knew it was time to rise and shine, he could never go back to sleep after waking up. He took a deep breath, long groan, and he pushed himself up. The ill clone sniffed and snuggled with the blanket one last time.

  He whipped the blanket off himself aggressively, he dragged his lazy legs over the edge of the bed, they were naked, unarmoured. His armoured boots waited by the side of the bed. He dangled his feet over the armoured boots, it took a second for them to respond, but the boots automatically opened like a flower, revealing a soft comfy inside combined with mechanic technologies to help the armour respond to his nerve impulses. The armour was an extension of his body, a second skin.

  He slipped his feet into the boots, and they enclosed around them up to his knees. Then he stood up, he achieved balance a few seconds later. He couldn’t walk without them. He couldn’t support his own weight; his shins would have snapped in half if not for their help.

  He was still a little groggy, but he got up on his own two feet and wobbled his way out of the bedroom. He, of course, forgot his lenses. He forgot things often. The clone mind was a complex, complicated, and troubled entity. Some days his memory was worse. Some days it was better. Today it was worse.

  Hordak had briefly checked the rafters and vents as those were Imp’s favourite napping spots. They weren’t in bed with him, which was strange since Imp was not at all an early bird. He found no trace of the little baby bat. So, he chose to move on to look for his beloved, who often occupied similar spaces. He found her once again tinkering with the communication array. The floor panelling was scattered around among a dangerous number of wires and cables. Her prehensile hair dancing around, from tool to tool. She made it look so easy, like it was second nature to her, like all machinery was an extension of her. Her gloved hands, and purple hair tendrils assembled and disassembled complex machinery in seconds. It was astounding, Hordak was mesmerised by her talents, every time, forever and always.

  He spotted Imp cuddling in Entrapta’s hair, wrapped it around himself, their little wings and pointy ears wiggled up and down as they snored softly. He kneeled down and gave the little batling a little chin scratch.

  “May I?” He always asked permission before physically touching her. Entrapta nodded. She flipped up her wielding mask, allowing for Hordak to plant a kiss on her soft cheek.

  “You forgot your lenses.” Of course, he did, he almost facepalmed. Entrapta didn’t mind obviously, she enjoyed looking at his real eyes. She found them extremely pretty. Most people who had seen Hordak in person, though a rare sight, all believed the alien had blood red pupilless eyes. When in actuality they were contacts, protecting his vulnerable misfunctioning eyes. However, really, his eyes underneath the lenses had each a long thin vertical slit pupil, dividing the eye into red and green on each side. Unhealthy veiny patterns ran across the eyes, the green and red crashed and clashed with each other.

  “Ah, I wondered why my eyes were watering. I theorised it must have been because I laid my eyes on you.”

  She playfully patted his face as she attempted to contain a chuckle, “Pfft, stupid.”

  A moment of silence followed afterwards. On many days the two enjoyed such quiet moments, simply observing the other work, it was a delight. But nowadays, those quiet moments were in short supply. And they knew it would not last.

  Hordak began to stand back up, Entrapta sighed, “Do you have to go? Today’s Forever Day! It’s meant to be celebrated as a family.”

  “I- You know I have to.”

  “We barely see each other anymore.”

  “If we don’t adhere to Queen Glimmer’s conditions, we will not see one another at all.”

  Entrapta spun around and elevated herself using her mechanical hair and wrapped herself around Hordak.

  “Mmmmm, I know, but...” She sighed to herself, “...yeah... I know, I just... miss you. Imp misses you. If it’s not you going off to fix a Queendom, then it’s you flying off on some suicide mission. Or me going off on Princess Alliance business or buried under an avalanche of paperwork at BrightMoon. We’re barely in the lab together at all. Think what that’s doing to Imp!”

  “But he goes with you. He’s safer off with you than me.”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t see you anymore. He’s just a baby! What if he forgets your face! Or your name! Or you!”

  “He will not.” He gently stroked one of her pigtails to reassure her, he gave her his best smile, “I do not like this arrangement either. I despise it in fact. On some occasions all this makes me believe that they are doing this on purpose to split us apart. For I think they believe I am a threat to you.”

  “If only they could see the precious cuddle bat that you are.” She booped his nose, or nose-like structure.

  “Heh, yes, if only.” He hoped his smile would reassure her; he was not quite sure what else he could do.

  He made his way out of Dryl. A transport to the Salineas was already waiting for him, staffed with BrightMoon guards with electro-staffs at the ready. He tried to ignore them. He rather preferred to focus on the falling snow. He had never experienced it, The Fright Zone was a desert, no life, no greenery, no snow. And he was sure that if not for his heated armour he would have hated the precipitation. But in that moment, he didn’t. He knew the falling of the flakes marked the beginning of The Forever Day. A special festive celebration on Etheria. The day of family and togetherness. He heard Entrapta talk about it for months on end. Unfortunately, he would not be able to make it this solar rotation.

  The doors to the transport craft opened, revealing The She-Ra. She was awaiting his arrival. With a smile.

  “She-Ra Adora. Why are you here?”

  “We’re cleaning up the rubble and debris in quadrant B at the Salineaian capital, aren’t we?”

  “You are joining me?”

  “Of course, that’s kind of what heroes do. And while we’re at it, I was hoping we’d catch up a little.”

  “...Oh...Kay...”

[caffeinatedtimdrake]

40, 17, and 53 with Jason Todd. Love you!!! You deserve way more than 200 followers.

love YOU!!! sorry this is so late! 1.6k words of Jason x reader fluff in which you’re stuck in an elevator. 

17.“Did you just… agree with me?” “Oh, I wish I could take-““Nope! You said it! No take-backs!”

40.“You’re a psychopath.” “I prefer creative.”

53.“I hate you.” “Why? I’m lovely.”

In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t such a wise idea to take the elevator during a raging storm, but you could only be so functional after a three-hour British literature final exam. 

Massaging the palm of your hand and gnawing anxiously on your bottom lip, agonizing over your concluding paragraph, you hit the down button with your elbow and had barely half a mind to acknowledge the torrential downpour outside the walls of Gotham Academy. 

The elevator dinged dismally and you trudged inside. 

Wordsworth said to fill your paper with the breathings of your heart but you couldn’t stop worrying that you dumped the jumbled thoughts of your mind onto the lined pages. You were fretting so intensely that you barely heard the pleas to keep the elevator door open. 

“Wait! I need to catch the elevator! Pretty please!” 

You startled and moved to press the open button, but a body barreled in through the doors and hit the wall with a slightly concerning bang before you could do so. 

The figure was broad and sinewy from behind, a backpack hanging off toned shoulders and veiny arms showcased thanks to a snug black t-shirt. Something about that admittedly nice butt was awfully familiar, and then the human canon turned around. 

“Oh. Hey, Y/N.” 

You stiffened and braced yourself, though you were unsure what you were bracing yourself for. “Hi, Jason.” 

He cracked a smile, slow and warm, and your heart skipped several beats before settling into a panicky rhythm. 

Oh. That was why you braced yourself. 

He quirked an eyebrow and nodded to your hands. The fingers of your left dug into the palm of your right so hard, your knuckles turned white. “Still recovering?” 

You dropped your hands. “In more ways than one.” 

Something about Jason always had you on edge. You two were notorious for getting into heated debates regarding humanist theory and the best Romantic era poets, and you’d nearly lost your mind when you worked together because the professor assigned partners for a literature analysis presentation – he pushed your buttons excessively. 

Maybe it was because he was so hard to read, but he was able to read you with startling clarity. You didn’t know much about him, only that he was a few years older, enjoyed blasting Bobby Brown, had strong opinions on bread, and knew Keats better than his own name. You had known him for four months, but he already knew that you despised untied shoelaces, snapped a rubber band against your wrist when you were nervous, and owned two cats. Your guard was highly fortified because people who’d known you for years barely knew one of those tidbits; who did Jason think he was, waltzing into your life and making you self-conscious every time you exhibited a nervous tick?

Your unease around Jason Todd might also have to do with the fact that he was so beautiful, he left you flustered and babbling angrily much more often than you’d like. 

“How’d you feel about it?” 

“About…what?” 

Jason laughed and you blinked in surprise at the sound of sunshine on this rainy day. “About the exam, Y/N.”

“Oh. Uh. I wish I felt better about it. You?” 

His shoulders lifted in a dismissive shrug. “I’ve been through worse.” 

“Who’d you focus on for the last question?” You asked as the doors glided shut with a groan. 

He snorted. “Coleridge, of course. Who else?”

You frowned. “Barrett Browning.” 

He shot you a dubious look. “Is it because of Sonnet Forty-Three?” 

Flummoxed, your frown deepened. “No…” 

“Mmhhmmm,” He nodded, mouth sliding up into a playful smile. 

“Well. Maybe a little.” 

“Quite the hopeless romantic, aren’t we?”

You opened your mouth to retort defensively but betrayed yourself; you locked eyes with him and suddenly found yourself lost in a sapphire ocean. “Yeah,” You sighed in resignation. 

His eyes widened, eyebrows raised in bewilderment. “Did you just…agree with me?” 

You blushed deeper. “Oh, I wish I could take –”

Jason waggled a finger accusatorially. “Nope! You said it! No take-backs!” 

You jutted your chin out and crossed your arms over your chest. Maybe you should have been concerned when the elevator groaned a little in dissent, but you couldn’t hear much above the little voice at the back of your head scolding you for not being more vigilant around him. 

“Fine.” 

His smile softened, gentle like the Caribbean, and much to your dismay, so did you. “It’s not a bad thing.” 

“I-I guess. I don’t know.” 

You did know when the lights flickered and died with a buzz and a few concerning sparks. 

You also knew when the elevator jolted and dropped a few feet, bouncing unevenly because it pulled a shriek from your throat, and you flung yourself at Jason Todd. 

He stumbled back a little with an “oof” but didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around you. 

He smelled of jasmine and old books and some kind of spice. You were in the middle of a third deep inhale, safe in his arms, when the elevator groaned again, reminding you where you were. You wrenched yourself out of his embrace and slammed against the wall opposite of him with a jolt, pressing the help button frantically – but to no avail, it looked like the whole array was shot.

The elevator made another agonized noise and panic seized your lungs. 

“Well. I think the elevator’s stuck.” 

“It still m-moves. What if – what if it falls all the way d-down? We’re gonna – oh, fuck, we’re gonna die in here, aren’t we?” You warbled, slowly sliding to the ground. 

Jason’s brow furrowed, shadows dancing against his skin beneath the dim emergency light. “We’re not going to die in here, Y/N.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut when thunder rumbled irately, practically shaking the walls. “You can’t guarantee that.” 

“We’re probably not going to die in here.” He simpered, taking steady strides over to you and the buttons. 

You had to choke back whimper when the elevator tilted slightly. 

You heard him shifting slightly, setting his backpack on the ground and kneeling next to it. 

His knee bumped your knee and your eyes snapped open, but he continued shuffling around in his bag, unbothered by the physical contact. 

You didn’t want to die before you could find out who scored higher on that exam, but you refrained from voicing this aloud. For the moment. 

“So, you’re scared of centipedes and dying in an elevator. What else?” He asked in a low voice. 

In spite of the slightly dire situation, you flushed, reminded of the unfortunate insect incident in the library a few weeks ago. 

The answer left your mouth before you could swallow it. “You.” 

You were unsure of how serious that response was and maybe he was too, because the corner of his mouth quirked up into a smirk. “Me? I’m harmless.”

As these words left his mouth, he unearthed a daunting piece of technical equipment from his backpack. 

You wanted to tell him that he was actually quite harmful to your emotional stability, but instead you asked, “What the hell is that?” 

His smirk grew into something even more dangerous, setting your heartbeat awry again. “Our way out.” He pressed a button and what might be a laser flashed and buzzed menacingly. 

“You’re a psychopath.” 

“I prefer creative.” Jason told you cheerily, turning away from you to wiggle the suspicious tool beneath a panel near the bottom row of buttons. 

There were some more unsettling buzzing noises, but he must have known what he was doing because several moments later, all of the lights blink on. 

He pressed the help button with his knuckle, and it rang shrilly in acknowledgement. 

“Now, we wait.” He scooted back a little so he could sit in front of you, cross-legged and almost boyish in the way he looked at you expectantly, more like a patient puppy than a muscly twenty-something with threatening equipment and novels in his backpack. 

You felt your face heat up again. “Oh. Great.” 

He leaned forward a little, one dark brown arched in inquisition. “Are you really scared of me?” 

Your stomach flipped a little because he was striking up close, pink mouth and strong nose framed by handsome angles, earthy olive skin littered with storybook scars, and eyes that whispered the most tragic of poems in a language you couldn’t quite understand. 

“I’m trying to figure it out.” 

“You must not be completely petrified because you seem quite calm, considering we’re in a confined space together. Also, you threw yourself at me.” 

You gaped at him indignantly. “I hate you.” 

“Why? I’m lovely. At least three different people tell me on a daily basis.” 

It was your turn to arch an eyebrow. “By people do you mean drooling college girls?” 

That smirk returned. “Old ladies crossing the street and soccer moms occasionally, too.” 

You crinkled your nose in distaste. “Bleh.” 

“Beauty is meant to be appreciated.” Jason stated, fixing you with a look of saccharine reverence that made you think, perhaps, he wasn’t referring to himself through the eyes of appreciative grown women. 

Bashful, you broke away from his gaze, finding sudden interest in your sweaty hands and playing with your fingers. 

“That’s why poets exist.” You muttered. 

“Shakespeare, sonnet eighteen.” 

You narrowed your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Now, his smile was all sunflowers and chirping birds on a summer morning. “It means you’re beautiful and I want to compare you to a summer’s day. And take you on a date when we get out of this elevator. If you’ll let me.” 

It took a few moments to shake you out of your daze. “If we can get out of this elevator and avoid a Shakespearean tragedy, sure.”

[wendynerdwrites]

Recovered Jonsa Fics #5: Petyr the Voyeur

Next on my fic reposts!

Fists.

Rarely does Petyr Baelish make them, but he does now. One hated hand fists his cock, the other is in his mouth to bite down on, so that he isn’t heard.

All of his self-loathing is felt most keenly right now, as he hovers behind bales of hay within the stables of Winterfell. It’s dawn, and the first rays of sunlight shine through just enough to illuminate the scene before him in the second empty stall.

More than anything, he wishes to scream. What hasn’t he given her? He has made her. Her life, as it is, is his creation. Without him, she’d be some lordling’s broodmare. But she is Lady of Winterfell and the Vale. She has a child ruling The Vale, sired by the husband he’d arranged for her. She is the Chief Lady in the Seven Kingdoms, after Queen Daenerys. Thanks to his clever bookkeeping, she has riches despite the harsh winter and wars. Without him, she’d be up to her eyes in debt, recovering from the various wars, famines, and sackings of her domains. She plays her vassals and courtiers like dolls, thanks to the things he’s taught her.

Apparently, he has taught her too much.

Sansa has rejected him repeatedly, despite the fact that he is still Lord of Harrenhal and of a rank to wed her. He has presented her with prospects, gifts, made her every promise. But she refuses him repeatedly.

Long has Petyr dreamt of wedding her in Eddard Stark’s own halls, feasting her before the men Brandon Stark was meant to rule, in more grandeur than either man ever offered Catelyn, having the Stark vassals themselves, Ned’s own men, strip his daughter down for him, lay her upon the bed where Eddard Stark bedded Catelyn Tully for years, all for him to finally, at long last, take what was his.

As he’d told her repeatedly, he’d be a good, proper husband to her. He has no bastards, and he’d sire none. He’d not stray from her bed. After all, why fuck the whores he’s had for years in a random brothel when he could make love to the Tully princess he’d always wanted atop satin sheets and silver furs in the birthright castle of the man who took his first Tully princess from him? He’d make her moan while she wore nothing but the jewels he’d bought her.

She could have all of this and more.

Instead, he finds her here, in a stable stall like a milkmaid, being frantically kissed, groped, and stripped like a milkmaid with stableboy.

But it’s not a stable boy that is with her. It’s not a stable boy with his lips on hers, tongue against hers, hands in her hair and around her waist. Though one might mistake him for one, given his plain clothing. But no, Petyr knows the bastard by now. The bastard backs her up against a wall and pulls his mouth down to her neck as his hands reach for her bodice. When it’s torn open, the bastard’s mouth goes lower, suckling at her rosy-tipped breasts like a famished newborn. Sansa tugs at her sleeves impatiently to free herself from her clothing, as if she cannot stand another second being clothed around him.

Once her upper half is totally free and her gown hangs off of her hips, she pulls Him up to yank off his tunic, his doublet already on the ground. Petyr bites down harder on his fist, not out of lust at the sight of her breasts, but out of anger. The so-called prince’s back ripples with muscle and sinewy, as do his arms. He is not an overpowering collection of veiny, pulsing flesh like many knights, but his form is elegant, sinewy. He had the sort of build Petyr had always wished for.

This so-called prince has everything Petyr has always wished for.

When the “prince” reaches down to undo his breeches, Petyr finds himself craning his neck. If there were any gods with a shred of mercy out there, then, at the very least, the “prince” would have a much, much smaller cock than Petyr. Small enough to make a woman go, “Is it in yet?”

But no, he bloody doesn’t. Petyr has to look back and forth between his own and the prince’s manhood to compare, and he finds that it is hard to tell, at least from his angle. He knows enough, at least, that’s it’s sizeable enough to fill her up well. He bites down on his knuckles, officially hard enough to draw blood.

But he cannot stop pumping himself, despite this. Seeing her glorious head tipped back in ecstasy, her skin flushed, her pretty bosom exposed, her panting with arousal and utter abandon is too much for him.

The prince’s pants drop, and then, oddly enough, so does he. Right to his knees, as if in prayer. His hands go to the sash holding her gown up and his lips go to her lower belly. Sansa’s hands reach back, her fingertips digging into the grooves between the planks of the wooden paneling behind her. Seconds later, her skirts fall to the ground. Petyr realizes with a jolt that this is territory the prince has traversed before. How many times has he had her?

Sansa is down to her stockings and smallclothes now, snowy white linen that speak of an innocence that she doesn’t possess. The bastard yanks the smallclothes off--- not even down her legs, but off. There is a ripping sound. She moans at this.

The bastard’s head blocks that core, precious part of her Petyr has dreamt of for so long. As much as he internally begs the “prince” to move, it is clear from how Sansa’s hand snakes down to clutch at the bastard’s curls that she has other ideas. And she moans his name.

“Joooooooonnnnnnnnnnn….”

Petyr wishes to scream. At least before, when he closed his eyes, he could imagine that her moans thus far were for him. But there is none of that now. And she keeps saying it. In loud, deep moans, in breathy whimpers.

He can see her getting closer, closer to her peak as her breathing deepens and quickens. She comes with a loud cry and a fall forward, her hands landing on her lover’s shoulders to steady herself.

The bastard pulls back a bit, but not enough for Petyr to glimpse her dripping cunny. Her lover looks up at her cheekily. “My my, Madam, it seems that you are utterly undone.”

Petyr is amazed to hear that glum, dull aurochs make a joke. Ned Stark never made jokes, and the bastard, whatever his parentage, was essentially a copy of the man who had raised him.

Sansa grins back, blue eyes gleaming. “Is that so?”

And she pushes him, pushes the “prince” back so he ends up flat on the ground, his cock stiff and prominent.

At last, Petyr sees it: her perfect, red-clad cunny, dripping fluids down her inner thighs. There’s a little protrusion of pink amidst the red hair. All of it framed by perfect, white thighs. Those thighs part as their owner begins straddling the royal hips. She hovers just over the tip of his cock, looks down at him, and says it: “I love you.”

Petyr knows, just knows, that she means it. It is worse than he could have imagined.

“Love you… Love you…” The bastard whimpers. He, like others before him, is at her mercy.

She sinks down onto him, and the look of relief and delight on her face as she does makes Petyr see red. She begins moving her hips, grabs her lover’s hands, and places them on her breasts. The bastard’s thumbs immediately start playing with her rosy nipples. Her hands go to his chest in kind, clutching at the dark hair that covers it. She bucks her hips, cries his name.

Petyr is coming before he even realizes it, his seed squirting out and landing on the yellow straw that serves as his hiding place. Minutes later, it’s apparent by the bastard’s cry that he has spilled his seed within the depths of Sansa Stark’s core.

She grins at this and leans forward to kiss him, to lay her face into the crook of his neck. She takes a deep, sad breath. She says something which catches his attention. Petyr, unable to take anymore, leaves before whatever it is between them is resolved.

Later that day, she takes a meeting with him, and he can take it no longer. He calls her what she is: a slut, a whore, a trollop. A slattern, a strumpet that lets men fuck her in the stables like a barnyard animal. She says nothing as he rails at her and when he is finally done, too out of breath to say anymore, bending over and clutching his chest, she calls for guards. He finds himself outside Winterfell’s gates with all of his things in a collection of carts a few hours later.

Three moons later, an announcement comes to Harrenhal from the Red Keep that Prince Jon of House Targaryen is to wed Sansa of Houses Stark and Arryn, Lady of Winterfell, the Vale, and Warden of the North. The announcement is not accompanied by an invitation.

Petyr looks around the dark, decrepit, burnt walls and realizes that the legends are true: every Lord of Harrenhal is cursed.