#display/parade is a strange one to me

[dhm-rising]

Pale Ground

Male Dusthide - Arcane Rare

Ivory/Buttercup/Cream

Display/Lode/Dewlap

[aimfor-theheart]

to break first

|| mel medarda x reader, jayce talis x reader, viktor x reader || E/18+ || messy dynamics/hurt/comfort || wc: 6k || ao3 ||

minors and ageless blogs dni, 18+

Your lovers are strange, demanding types.

a/n: idk man. but this revived my writing so. pls take it. dividers by @/cafekitsune

tags: messy dynamics, light smut/smut mentioned and implied, implied rough/hate sex, some hurt/comfort, ends on a hopeful note. not beta read/edited.

You've never liked Jayce much.

And you might just be the only person he doesn't like, either.

He plays nice, though, especially around Viktor. You think Jayce has teeth that he tries to hide, but you catch the flash of them from time to time. He smiles at you and it doesn't reach his eyes. It's just shy of contempt.

It makes your grin cheshire and sharp. You like watching him squirm. You like watching him wrestle with his distaste for you, try to keep his teeth hidden. Especially here, at this gala, all gold and sparkling and pristine, for all the world to see.

Bubbling rosé is bright and fruity on your tongue. You're shoulder to shoulder with Viktor, the two of you half-miserable together, stuffed into formal wear and ripped from your respective labs and studios. Which is why Jayce lingers; he's hovering in that annoying way of his. Bumbling a little. He's trying to make Viktor feel more at home but—

You have something Jayce doesn't.

Only you can do that.

You're Viktor's childhood friend, thick as thieves and twice as inseparable. You're an artist from the Undercity—a painter, a poet, a musician. An artistic genius, the world claims, an artistic savant. And one of the rare, lucky few who has been exalted and raised above your station to be paraded around Piltover like some trophy of success from their lowest. It's mostly Viktor's fault, you claim—the moment Heimerdinger found him, he also accidentally found you.

"Ah, if it isn't one of the most brilliant and groundbreaking artists of our generation." A smooth, easy voice floats through your thoughts. You turn your head to find Councilor Medarda, swathed in what could be a starry sky of silk and gold.

She's even more beautiful in person somehow; if you were to paint her, she'd be all easy, graceful lines, curved and long. A lily stem. The arch of a tiger.

"Just the person I was looking for." She muses.

"Me?" You balk, at the same time that Jayce gaps, "Them?!"

You swing your gaze to glare at him and even Viktor wrinkles his nose. Jayce tries to clear his throat, clear the mistake.

Councilor Medarda raises a brow at Jayce, but then her eyes flicker to you, honing in on you. Hazel and gold and reflective; a kaleidoscope of color. And with such—intensity. You feel it in her. Thrumming. "Yes, you." She says smoothly and she smiles in the elegant way of royalty; perfect and mysterious.

"Are you sure you have the right person, Councilor Medarda?" You joke, "you know I'm just—"

"I'm certain. And please—call me Mel. I'd love to commission you for several art pieces to be displayed in the council chambers."

Viktor whistles a little, impressed, though you can tell it's a little dry.

(He both rambles and rants about Councilor Medarda from time to time and you can never tell if he adores her or resents her.)

Jayce startles at this, but again, he tries to play it off. He places his hand on her lower back, "I didn't know the council chambers was looking to display art."

Mel allows his hand to remain, but she tilts her chin up and her eyes flash somewhat—quick, sharp. There's a silent conversation there that you can't decipher.

But you can tell there is something more than just coworkers happening between them.

"I'm looking to display art in the council chambers." Mel then says.

Jayce looks away, cowed somewhat, tail tucked between his legs in a way that makes you smile.

Mel drifts from Jayce's hands, offering her arm to you, "will you walk with me? I'd love to discuss what I have in mind."

If only to steal her away from Jayce, you finally peel yourself away from Viktor's side and the wall. Your shoulder, where it was touching his, goes cold. But Mel's arm is warm as you twine it around yours.

She draws you away from the scientists, into the fray of swirling, dazzling people.

You glance over your shoulder only once and catch Jayce's eyes, and let your smile curl into something a little smug, almost vicious; baring your teeth as if to gloat at his own, still tucked behind his lips.

***

"Mel's an artist." You say to Viktor, offhand. "A good one, too. You should see her paintings—"

Viktor sighs heavily, snatching one of the little tools that you'd been fiddling with out of your hands. "You sound like Jayce."

You wrinkle your face in disgust, reaching back for the tool and grappling with him a moment for it. You press all against each other, squabbling, before you win out and take it back from him. He stares at you, almost in some form of a glare and you stare back, watching his eyes, dark in the low light of the lab. He glances at the tool in your hands like he might try to take it back, and when he moves, you move faster, and hold it out of his reach.

"Are they together?" You ask.

He gives up on the tool.

Then, he lifts his shoulders in some form of a crooked shrug, eyes going skyward. "One can only assume."

"She's out of his league." You sigh, throwing your weight back in the chair in despair.

Viktor snorts at that, returning to his work, "I'm sure few are in league with Councilor Medarda."

His voice is dry. A little brittle.

"I don't know what you have against her." You then venture, speaking more to the ceiling, returning to fiddling with the tool. It twists in your fingers, the sound of metal whirling and softly grinding.

"I have nothing against Councilor Medarda." He says too evenly.

"You know, I've never been able to tell if it's contempt or adoration you have for her." You continue, as if he hadn't said anything to contradict you. "But either way, she gets under your skin."

"She does not—"

"Are you jealous? She took your big, dumb partner away?" You press, twisting and twisting away at the tool.

"No—" Viktor says sharply, but it rings with a note of truth. It's not quite that then.

You pause. And then.

You crack your eye open, "I think she likes me."

Viktor pauses now too, metal clinking quietly with the sudden stop of his work again. He knows that tone of your voice. His face pulls; distaste. Frustration.

(Jealousy.)

His speech is slow as he tries to parse through what to say, "Councilor Medarda is charming and—"

"She invited me to dinner." You say and now you're watching him carefully, "at her personal suite. Just us."

Viktor rounds on you, "you're going to get yourself into trouble."

You can't help but smile, slow and amused, "I feel like it's good for the art—fool around with a politician—"

"You know, I have always wondered if you would learn your lesson," Viktor continues over your monologuing about drama and passion and politics, "—maybe this time, you'll finally learn it."

He snatches the tool from your hands and throws it down on his desk.

"I love learning." You chirp innocently and he shakes his head, face flushed with passion.

He looks at you again when he can, shakes his head some more, some of the irritation fading from his features. He never stays mad at you for long; doesn't have it in him. Besides, he causes his own trouble. Doesn't learn his own lessons. And when the dust settles, the two of you are still here, beside each other. The artist and the scientist, making messes, breaking things—all for some higher purpose only the two of you have ever understood.

(You've loved him your whole life. Sometimes, you think you carry half of the other's ribs inside one another. He must have twelve of yours, and you must have twelve of his—)

You lift your foot, nudging his calf beneath the desk with it, then up to place it in his lap. An olive branch, of some kind. Your affection is unsurprising to him and he sighs. He drops his hand to your ankle. He squeezes.

"She's going to eat you alive." Viktor finally warns.

"One can only hope."

A laugh startles out of him, rough and raspy, before it dissolves into coughing.

You lurch up to give him water, sitting near you, and bring the glass to his lips on reflex, like you used to as children. And on reflex, he drinks—he doesn't try to take the glass from your hands right away or push you away. Instinctively, you care for him, and instinctively, he lets you.

(You think you're the only one he'd ever allow to do this, born out of years of pressed side to side in the same bed, listening to him weather the nights. Born out of years of your love and stubborn care for him.)

After a moment, he lifts his hand and slowly replaces yours.

You hover over him. He sets the glass down. The water is almost gone. You'll replace it for him before you leave the lab.

He settles back into his chair, eyes returning to the pieces in front of him; all the odd metal scattered like little silver stars in front of him against a vast, dark sky. He picks up one, and then another, and tries to fit them together.

Then another. And another.

You watch him twist and turn, put the puzzle together.

He says, "Lately, I feel as if—" his fingers are careful, almost shaking, as he tries to create something of the scattered, broken pieces, "everything is quite fragile. And it's all just going to—" he presses a little too hard, and the metal all splinters apart, clattering back to the desk, "break. At any given moment."

After a moment, he looks up at you, still hovering over him, "I fear you're heading towards a breaking point."

You hum a little.

"What is it you scientists say?" You ask, running your fingers through his dark hair, thick and tousled. You twirl a strand around your finger, let it fall;

"It has to break first, before you can discover anything."

***

You'd say Mel Medarda is a wolf in sheep's clothing, but she doesn't feign anything so harmless or lost as a sheep.

You do think she's—

A little like Jayce, where she hides her teeth. But where Jayce irritates you because he's certainly trying to seem better than he is, or more harmless than he can be, Mel does so with intention. Mel hides her teeth to lure you closer. She doesn't pretend she doesn't have them; she waits until you're in range before you catch a glimpse of them.

And by then, well. It's too late.

You realize this over dinner, as she laments about what art she'd like from you and she's adamant about not censoring you.

(You're known for you controversy; whether in your physical art, your poetry, or music. Once pulled to the light of the Upper City, you refused to let them defang you. Where Jayce pretends he doesn't have teeth, you bare yours proudly, and sometimes wish you could tear the tender parts of Piltover open.

You strive to do it with your art. And while applauded in some vague capacity, you are also kept on a tight leash. Your patrons are warily supportive of you. Your commissions are strict. You're treated the way you think a wild animal is; with utmost care and fear and awe.)

In fact, her only rule for you, is to not hold back.

Which, given the growing tension between the Upper and Lower Cities, you realize this cannot only be from the goodness of her heart or for the integrity of art but—

You tilt your head and consider her.

"Am I a political move, Mel?"

She smiles in that enigmatic way of hers, her teeth flash, "isn't all art?"

You narrow your eyes, "perhaps. I wonder of it's effectiveness when it's employed by the people it often critiques." You lift your chin and pretend to be hurt—or perhaps, mask your hurt within dramatics to make it seem ironic, "and here I thought you really liked me—"

"I do." Mel assures, "I've admired you a great deal from afar. And getting to know you, your mind, it's—" she considers her words, "it's been nothing short of mesmerizing. Astonishing."

She sounds sincere. But you wonder if she always sounds that way.

She can tell she hasn't convinced you because you've never been able to mask your emotions well, so she leans forward and says, "unfortunately, everything I do is a political move, whether I'd like it to be or not. Both can be true—" she says, "I can adore you. And I can also need you to make a public point, wield you like my own elegant weapon."

"Artists make for disobedient weapons, usually." You say.

She laughs a little at that and agrees, "True." And then she lowers her voice, looks at you through the fan of her dark lashes in such a way that seizes you—arrests you, holds you right there, caught, in her heady gaze;

"But I don't need you to be obedient."

"I can never tell if you're trying to seduce me or persuade me." You blurt out, the words running from your mouth like a rabbit from a wolf. Your desire bursts from you like frightened birds taking to flight, like most of what you feel does, all of it spilling out of you in a gush of rawness.

She stands gracefully and again, you think of how you'd draw her—how you'd capture her in a poem or a song. The sharp curve of her waist, the predatory grace she carries effortlessly. You think her song is a croon from the deep part of your chest. You think her poem looks like an hourglass on the page and she slips from your fingers as easy as time does, too.

She rounds the small table to your side.

You look up at her. Your heart kicks up into a quick dance.

She brings the back of her knuckle to your jaw and gently—with all the carefulness in the world, strokes you.

(She touches you the way one does a bird, as if they know it's fragile. Perhaps as if they know it might fly away.

Or maybe she touches you the way one does an animal they're not sure of; will you bite? Will you lean into the touch?)

"Both can be true." She finally answers.

When she kisses you, it's fiercer than you're expecting; a lightning strike, a blow to the heart.

Your teeth come up against hers.

She gasps when you drag her further down to you, greedier than she's ever known, meeting her fierceness with your own, like the clashing of blades, or the destruction of stars.

And you think, if you don't want obedience, then I'll show you.

I'll show you.

***

"What are you playing at?"

Jayce's voice is a vicious little hush in the caverns of the council chambers. Mel has just left you after peaking over your shoulder to view the preliminary sketches.

You lift your head and blink up at Jayce slowly, dragging yourself from your sketch; from your world of art.

(It sets his teeth to grinding because Viktor makes that same look, when he's so deep into his work and Jayce disturbs him. It's a face he finds endearing on both of you, unfortunately. He imagines your minds are in heaven and he's selfish enough to drag you both back down to earth.)

"What do you mean? For the art piece?" You ask, glancing down at your lap, at the series of gestures and lines that you've been lost in. Maybe you're feigning innocence a little. But you want him to say it, if he's going to pick this fight.

Jayce's eyes flash like the too-hot part of the flame.

You have to bite back a smile.

Come on, you think wildly, say it. Let's fight. Here in the chambers, where you try so hard to be their golden boy.

"What are you trying to get out of Mel?" He asks and it makes you laugh outright, because he's dancing around what he really wants to ask.

Your laugh echoes in the hall, bouncing off all this marble and gold. It's out of place here, too loud, too free.

"The better question is what she's trying to get out of me." You say, "do you think I have it in me to manipulate the Mel Medarda?"

He goes quiet at that.

"Are you doing this to get back at me?" He asks after a moment and it's so close to what he wants to ask, so close to what he really wants to talk about.

"She kissed me first." You answer. "Have you had this conversation with her?"

You can tell by the shadow of uncertainty that passes over his face that he hasn't. You stand, easily setting your sketches and pencils aside, and drift nearer to him.

"Oh," you hum, "you didn't know. She didn't mention some plan of seduction to you? Maybe she really does like me."

He rounds on you so sharply that you are genuinely surprised. You gasp when your back hits the wall and he's got you caged in, a snarl on his lips and you finally get to see those teeth of his—

"You just always have to push me, don't you? In all the years I've known you, you've only ever tried to get under my skin. I tried so hard, for so long, for Viktor's sake to get along with you." He says lowly and distantly, you think, does he cage in Mel like this? With his big arms and broad chest? Or does she have him on a tight leash, underneath her?

"This time, I didn't mean it. Surely, you understand—" you say slyly, "when she comes onto you like that, all honey-voiced and half-lidded. She's hard to resist, isn't she?"

The grip he has on your biceps tightens to a point of pain—he'll bruise you. You'll be tender there, where his big hands gripped you, and it only makes you smile.

"Stop it." He snaps.

But you can't help yourself now, because once you've got something between your teeth, you've never been able to let it go;

"I just want to know if she kisses me the same way she kisses you? Does she play nice with you? She's quite fierce with me—"

When Jayce kisses you, it's a crush of aggression.

You laugh into his mouth wildly as he shoves you harder against the wall, teeth mean in the tender part of your bottom lip so that your laughter melts into a groan of pain. Of pleasure.

You claw at his back and wonder if Mel does, too.

You fight and hiss and snarl, show him your teeth when he sinks his into the fluttering pulse at your throat. You try to draw blood. You think he tries to bruise.

And well, you always wanted to see his teeth—

Just never thought you'd end up with a ring of their mark on your neck.

***

You're not really sleeping—nights are long. Days are longer. You're in the studio too much. This art piece is strangling you, wrestling with you and you're losing. Your lovers are strange, demanding types. Jayce comes to you at his lowest, and Mel at her highest. She licks the wounds Jayce leaves on you, purrs about how good you're being for her, goads you into putting up more of a fight that she likes to quell. She asks, have I stolen your bite? Are you going soft on me? Until you try to wrestle with her, too.

Mel subdues you the way snakes do—constricts and tightens and puts all that pressure on you until you just burst.

Until you go slack in her grip.

Jayce takes his anger out on you and he's not so cunning or delicate as her. You think Jayce struggles with you the way he must with his hammers, with high heat and all his strength.

Your art is starting to look like pieces of them; brutal and brilliant and cunning and beautiful. Tricky to capture, even more difficult to mesh together.

You're covered in paint when Viktor comes to visit you, frustrated with the canvas in front of you, which you think you'll end up scrapping again.

(This is the fourth one. You've been trying to fit all the components and pieces together but none of it's working, all of it's a mess. Splintered apart on the canvas. It looks like a disaster on the page.)

"Have you eaten?" Viktor asks as he comes to stand behind you. He gazes at the canvas n front of you.

You sigh heavily. "Have you?" You return.

He snorts at that, "No. I'm coming from the lab and thought I'd check on you—Mel mentioned you were here."

He pauses and then, "that you'd been here. For awhile now."

You hear the layers in his voice; the worry, but then the—

Irritation? Disdain?

"Are you asking me to dinner?" You say instead, dashing the canvas with a sudden great, horrible X. It's your meager attempt at some sort of joke or flirting, but your voice is perhaps too thin for it. You stare at your canvas, now dripping with that great X, the paint slipping down and marring it further.

When you turn to look at Viktor, he regards you warily. He glances at the canvas you've just ruined, and then back to your face.

He takes in your appearance; your disheveled hair and the paint all over your clothes and skin. And then his eyes skip down to your throat, to your arms. All marked up and bruised, unhidden and worn proudly here, in the safety of your art studio.

"Should I be concerned?" Viktor asks instead and you've always loved his bluntness. His lack of tact is like coming home. It's a relief, when you're constantly with Mel and Jayce lately, who talk in riddles and niceties and flowered language that hides their intentions or feelings.

There is a bitterness in Viktor's voice that you know well, too.

"About?" You prod.

"I'm no fool." Viktor answers, "I know you're sleeping with Councilor Medarda."

"Is that all you know?" You return, tilting your head.

"Is there more to know?" Viktor asks, eyeing you.

"Jayce hasn't said anything?"

You watch a strange shadow pass over Viktor's face as he slowly comes to the natural conclusion that you've lead him to. He's right, he is no fool. And then you watch his eyes catch fire, catch jealousy.

"I warned you—" he starts, suddenly.

"And I told you, it's good for the art—" You joke.

"Obviously it isn't!" He snaps, gesturing to the canvas behind you, ruined and glaring at your back. And then he heaves out a rough, agitated breath, dragging a hand through his hair. "Do you ever think of consequences?" He demands.

"Sure," You say, "I'm exactly where I want to be."

"You know, they are my colleagues. What am I supposed to do if—?!"

You laugh at that, enough that it startles him out of his beginning tirade. He comes up short and his shoulders bunch with tension as he glares at you.

"Is something funny?" He hisses.

"Your colleagues?" You repeat, "that's all they are to you?"

"Well—yes, technically." He stumbles on his words here.

"Are you jealous, Viktor?" You ask. "You don't have to be."

"I'm not jealous—" He refutes, even as his cheeks grow ruddy. And for a moment, you could be twelve with him again, his face flush as he looks at you after you'd kissed him for the first time because he'd never kissed anyone before. Or twenty-two and drunk, kissing one night under the stars when you felt so lost and disorientated in the Upper City—just wanted to feel like yourself again.

Or now, at thirty-two, staring at the man you've loved your entire life and whatever mess you've made out of everything.

You reach out and touch his cheek, glowing with color, and at first he winces away, but when you persist, he relaxes. He presses his cheek to your open palm and looks at you; raw and frank and so Viktor that you can't help the faint smile that touches your lips. Even as he frowns at you.

"What are you meddling with?" Viktor murmurs, turning his face into your cupped hand. You feel the faint brush of his lips, a little dry, and soft. Warm.

"Apparently our political landscape." You respond and that at least gets a laugh from him. You feel it against you and some spark shimmers through you, shudders and opens itself to you.

(Your desire for Viktor is something always with you, ambient, perhaps dormant, that always resurfaces like the great fins of some horrible, huge monster in dark waters. Your desire for Viktor is a symptom of your love. You've never know what to call it except that, except his.)

"Have I upset you?" You ask now as his laughter fades, and with it his amusement.

He sighs deeply and you feel his breath against your skin. You draw nearer. He leans back onto his crutch only slightly, only for a moment, before he allows you further into his space.

"I don't—" He struggles for the words before admitting, "yes, somewhat. For some reason."

"Are you feeling neglected?" You ask and try very hard to keep your amusement out of your voice, lest you irritate him further. He's always had a jealous streak in him, even as kids. If you made another friend, he would pout until you draped yourself over him and showered him in your attention again.

Even your previous relationships had bred some sort of jealousy in him; he's never liked any of your partners.

(It's so endearing to you that you have to tuck your teeth into your own lip and hum a little.)

You lean towards him, ducking your head so that your nose dips to brush against the line of his jaw. You feel his body shudder more than you see it. His breath goes tight. Your eyes flicker, a flash in the sun-spun light of your art studio;

"Do you want me to kiss you the way Jayce kisses me?" You murmur, your lips hovering over his. You watch his face gutter, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. His breath goes shallow.

"Or would you prefer Mel?" You murmur, just before you close the distance and kiss him with a certain fierceness, a meanness that you don't usually have with him. He stumbles back a little with the force of it and your hand that had been holding his cheek, slips into the hair at the nape of his neck.

A groan startles out of him when you tighten your hand into a fist and pull.

You part from the kiss, panting a little, and he looks down at you, eyes molten gold and burning.

You're about to kiss him again, when he murmurs, "I want—" he swallows hard, "I want you to kiss me the way you do—I want—"

You press back into him instantly, suddenly overwhelmed with the thought, with the notion that his desire, his jealousy—

You kiss him like you always have, overeager and desperate and messy. You urge him backwards, towards your workbench, all cluttered with paints. His crutch clatters against the ground uselessly as you grab for each other. You knock over a jar of brushes half-haphazardly placed on the floor.

You're overwhelmed with the thought that his jealousy might've been for you, too.

When he braces his hand against your work bench, he knocks over a cup of paint. You laugh into his mouth as you paw at his stupid, perfectly buttoned vest. When he touches you again, he stains you blue—and later red and violet. Burnished gold and paint so silver it makes the stars look dull.

A mess, he tsks, impossibly fond, as he looks at you and himself and the work space.

At all that you'd done.

***

"You've been pulling strings," Mel says as you lay in her lap, letting her pet and stroke you. Her fingers dance over the ridge of your brow.

You blink up at her slowly, eyes fluttering. "Shouldn't that be my line?" You ask.

"I'm not naive to the way you've been pulling our strings." She muses, fingers tumbling into your hair. She's gentle here, careful as she cards her way through your hair, her fingers nimble.

"Pulling strings is a far too sophisticated thing to call it." You snort and lean into her touch like a cat, preening a little.

"What would you call it?" Mel asks and the smile she wears is less of a mystery to you now, and you can tell there's a fondness to it.

(She does really like you—she is really being sincere, you've learned.)

You think about this for a long moment; you toy with saying a fucking mess. Or digging my own grave. But neither feel quite so full—while true, in many ways, there leaves little room for—

Well, this.

The way she holds you. The cat's curl of her smile, pleased and mischievous. Her fingers, gentle and coaxing, urging you to unfurl and bloom.

Or Viktor's rasping laugh that you can pull out of him. The fondness you hold for him like a pearl held inside a clam, growing and glowing. The way you drape yourself all over him, and he accepts it as easy as the day accepts the sun, or the night accepts the moon into its skies.

And even Jayce and the strangled back-and-forth that the two of you dance; it's still yours. It's still his. And the way he cups your cheek admist the violence or how he let's no one speak ill of you in front of him.

(Or the way Jayce and Viktor's minds work together, or how tactical Jayce and Mel can be; sharpened like daggers and twice as pretty. Or the creativity you pull out of Mel, allowing her to see the world like a boundless piece of art. Or the way Viktor's science influences your art; how your art influences his science. The fierceness you bring out in Jayce—the passion he brings out in you.)

It doesn't quite account for all the parts that make you burn and grow and shake out your great, big wings to fly.

Finally, you say, "it feels like I'm trying to find the melodies and harmonies and how they mesh—or the composition of a painting, or the feeling of a poem, but some of the words are still missing. It feels like when I chase art and try to break it open, to reveal what it wants me to learn—or show me."

"Have you figured it out yet?" She asks and she's genuinely curious, almost quiet in her desire to know.

At that, the door creaks open and there are several hushed whispers before Jayce suddenly strides into the room with all the false confidence in the world. Viktor looks sheepish behind him.

You sit up sharply, trying to detangle yourself from Mel.

"I told you they were here—" Viktor hisses to him, "and we shouldn't—we shouldn't be here."

Jayce isn't listening, though, and he's clearly inflating himself to get out, "I've come on important business of the council."

Mel raises her brows and throws you a sideways glance. She then says, "then come in, Councilor, since it's so important that you've come to my personal quarters. Unannounced."

Jayce at least has the good sense to look a little sheepish now, too. You can't help the laugh that springs out of you.

He throws you a dark look before clearing his throat.

"Councilor Haskel and Salo are seeking to strike down the art deal." Jayce announces and your heart drops a little, sinks in your chest.

You look at Mel. She purposefully keeps her face a mask of coolness. She rolls her shoulder briefly, which is your only tell of irritation or concern.

"Come in, Jayce." Mel finally says, "and you, too, Viktor. Shut the door behind you."

Both wander into the space and it's such a surreal moment, all four of you, for once, in the same room, that you can't help but laugh again.

Mel sighs in a way as if to say, I suppose this would happen eventually.

Jayce and Viktor can't quite look anyone in the eye and they both take uneasy seats int he living room.

Again, you feel like laughing—you're not sure what all the trepidation is for. Each of them have you seen you naked; you have seen them naked.

"What's their angle?" Mel asks, ignoring both Jayce and Viktor's shyness.

Jayce clears his throat, "they don't think it's worthwhile to support an artist from the Undercity at this time."

You wince and Jayce adds, "their words, not mine."

"Well, that won't do." Mel tsks and she suddenly moves to stand, graceful as ever, her robes trailing in a wave of silk and the smell of lillies. She likes to pace when she's thinking, and she pads over the window, to look out at the city.

Eventually, she says, "we'll need a grander plan. Something they can't refuse."

"What are you thinking?" Jayce asks.

She turns and all around her, she's doused in gold light, glowing in the evening sun as if she was born to it. "Perhaps combining some science with it." Now she looks at Viktor, "something symbolic to the current advancements with Hextech, perhaps."

Viktor looks at you, then back at Mel, "I can do that."

"Jayce, I need you to talk to the other Councilors and be sure they're not swayed by Haskel or Salo." She then adds, "and I want more publicity around it—and around our artist and scientist."

Our artist.

Our scientist.

"Ah—" Viktor starts, "I don't want to be in the public eye."

Our, our, our.

"It'll put pressure on Haskel and Salo if the people are behind you both, too." Mel presses gently, though her gaze has softened on him; she's sympathetic to his desires.

To assure him, you chirp, "I can do all the talking."

"Not sure that's our best idea." Jayce remarks.

"I am certain I can name several worse ideas of ours." You quip without thinking, and then you toss one of Mel's throw pillows at him; the beautifully embroidered one that's likely far too expensive and made from the rarest threads.

It hits him with a dull thud. And for a moment, he's shocked. The room is silent.

Still, your heart sings our, our, our.

But then Viktor snorts, before breaking out into his low, soft chuckle. And then the twinkle of Mel's giggles, coupled with your own laughter that bursts from your chest like a bird taking to flight.

And Jayce watches a moment, all of you laugh and smile, and if you could paint him in this moment, you would—

A little awe-struck. Tender around the edges, burnished gold. Breath stolen from him.

(Oh, he does really like you, too. All of you.)

But then laughter rumbles from him, too. And the tension slips from all of you, drains from your bodies with each bubbling sound.

And all of them together—finally together—are the melody you've been looking for, the words you couldn't place. The color on the canvas that finally brings it all together.

It's all the broken pieces like a mosaic, finally put together to create something whole.

And it's all ours, you think, the sun a flare of light and beauty bursting through the room, bathing all of your favorite people in it's gold and glory;

It's all ours.

[fureliselost]

Dpxdc twin au in which Danny and Damian are fraternal twins

It's a classic "the Fentons misunderstood Danny's name and registered him as Daniel" but they accidentally transe Danny's gender and Danny never corrects them. Strangely, Danny likes it.

Eventually, the Fentons figure out, but Danny says he doesn't mind and they go with it.

(note: In this Danny is kinda nb/transmasc/gender weird, gender is neutral to him and he's fine with being called whatever, although male pronouns are the ones he uses the most)

Cut to Danny being dragged by Vlad to a gala (Vlad can be good but annoying in this idc) and Vlad is proudly displaying his "godson".

Duke: Hey, Damian, did you see the kid Vlad Masters brought?

Damian: I thought father said he wouldn't go into business with Masters.

Duke: He still attends for appearances. (Shrugs) Anyway, got any twins you didn't tell us about?

Damian: Yes.

Duke: 'Cause that guy looks just like—what?

Damian: I said I have a twin you don't know about.

Damian explains to the batclan that Danny was sent on a mission (as punishment) to keep track of the Fentons, since they studied "Lazarus Water". And then they forgot about it. The last time Damian heard of Danny was right before the accident.

On Danny's side, he knows Damian will be there before he goes — he's kept track of his twin's public persona (and vigilante life). He'd been doing a great job of not interacting and keeping from being spotted, as was protocol for if two agents ended up on the same field — he knew Damian wasn't an agent anymore, but assumed the protocol still applied. He knew, the moment Duke Thomas spoke to him and then went straight toward Damian, that he'd failed that protocol.

Now, Damian was trying to convince him to leave the League.

"Daniyah, there is another way."

"I know there is another way," Danny replied, "Except I told you about it for years and you never listened." During the years away from his family, Danny had missed them, his memory softened the feeling of anger at the way his twin always moulded his ideals to whoever ruled him. "We aren't supposed to be speaking, I'm still an agent, I'm breaking protocol by being here."

They'd sneaked off to a room along with Damian's siblings, who watched attently and and silently. "You don't have to be an agent anymore."

"Yes, I do." Danny spat, "You don't seem to have realized, but some of us don't have the privilege of being the favorite. I never had the privilege of being saved."

Damian scowled, "Being saved is not a privilege."

"It isn't," Danny agreed, "You're just forgetting that when you got freedom in reward, I got sent on a mission as punishment. You're still free and I'm still being punished, so I'm not sure you understand exactly what my position is." He moved to leave, "I'm not a damsel in distress, and I don't need your furry parade to save me."

[bookwyrmbutch]

First Time on The Land

It is an eight hour drive to the Land, and I’m anxious the entire way. I’ve never liked meeting new people, and I’m terrified that my wife and I had wasted a ton of money on what would inevitably be a miserable experience.

But when we arrive at the gate, my anxiety is thwarted by a parade of helpful womyn who guide us through the check-in process. I drive through the Land at 5 miles per hour, and wherever we look, there are womyn. They're busy unpacking or talking to one another, but when a car comes by they all wave and smile, shouting "welcome home!" The Land itself is beautiful, a pristine forest with a blanket of ferns covering the ground. Everything is green except the asphalt walking path that shimmers with leftover rain. As we get further in, tents pop up everywhere, nestled side by side. Plastic flowers are staked into the ground, and clotheslines strung between the trees bear Pride flags and handmade tapestries that flutter in the breeze. All of this is woven so seamlessly into the natural forest that I can’t quite believe it’s temporary.

There is an opening ceremony before the first concert. A womyn stands onstage and sings, and hundreds of womyn join her. “I am open, and I am willing, for to be hopeless would seem so strange. It dishonors those who go before us, so lift me up to the winds of change.” I am already crying and I know if I lift my voice with them that I will sob, so I keep my head down.. I’m not ready to be open.

The next day we wake up to a choir of women singing in the morning chant circle, and BMG starts in earnest. Womyn of all backgrounds volunteer to share their knowledge in participant-led workshops on writing, poetry, drumming, quilting, whaling, massage, salsa dancing, indigo dyeing, lesbian history, Nordic runes, plant identification, body painting, detransition, butch identity, and more. There is an archery range, a movie tent, and a large vendor space where womyn sell their wares. Shuttles driven by volunteers trundle up and down the dirt path, ferrying womyn across the land. The days pass in a flurry of activity, both of us exhausted but unwilling to rest. We try to do everything, much to the amusement of the older lesbians watching. They know what we don’t, which is that being here is enough of an event by itself, and the conversations we’ll have before and after these workshops are as valuable as the workshops themselves.

I’m continuously stunned by the generosity on display. One womyn cooks breakfast for two hundred, and another makes lunch the next day. We overhear a womyn give a stranger her spare air mattress. My wife tells me she has a headache and a passerby gives her an electrolyte packet and an apple. A woman offers me a comically huge blunt during a night concert, and another shows me where she stores her food when I compliment her ciabatta.  Everywhere we go, womyn stop to talk. In workshops, I stand up (tits out!) and speak my mind, and womyn listen. I smile at everyone and say “good morning” to whoever I pass. And at some point I notice... I’m not anxious. I’m talking to strangers all day and it feels wonderful.

At the closing ceremony a womyn sings to us again, and everyone joins her. “I am open, and I am willing…” This time, I’m able to join in on the second chorus.

Sunday is bittersweet. My wife and I wake up early and cry into our oatmeal. We decide to take a walk before going back to our tent, unable to face packing up. I could sense the fear - absent for five glorious days - waiting for me outside the gates. Once we’re all cried out, practicality takes over and we pack our things, load the car, and head out. 

Two womyn stop us at the gate. 

“Are y’all coming back next year?” one asks. We say yes.

“Good, because I know your faces now!"

The other pipes up, “Faces? I’m going by breasts!”

The knot in my chest loosens as I laugh, and we drive home.

We have our wristbands, our sunburns, and a new labrys necklace. We carry a warmth, a brightness, in our chests. But a few days in, the feeling disappears and I can feel my walls going up again. That unconscious tension in my gut. A week after re-entry, my bruise from archery fades, and with it the feeling of being on the Land that I could once call up so easily just by taking an extra-hot shower, or a long walk outside. Now as I write this, I can hardly remember the person I was this summer. She’s waiting inside me to make her appearance again. 

There are times I feel her stirring: when I connect with other womyn like me. When I feel grounded and at peace with myself. And sometimes I can feel her revolting when I try to duck back under the yoke of other people’s expectations. I’ve seen what life can be like without that now, and I can never really go back. It feels like there will always be a part of me waiting under the trees.

Thank you @nansheonearth for challenging me to write about my experience on the Land, and for helping me find it in the first place.

[clockwork-ashes]

All You Have Is Your Fire - Part VI

Find Part I here :)

Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.

Note: A huge, huge thank you to the lovely @bettdraws who literally deserves all the credit and whose post inspired me to start writing this. I could not stop thinking about this head canon, and it was so kind of you to let me try and make a story from it :)

And a huge thank you to everyone reading!

Tag List: @anishake / @nocasdatsgay / @mybestfriendmademe / @talibunny30 / @halfbutneverwhole

Part VII >>

Elain held tightly to Lucien’s arm, her fingers linked with his, her other hand clutching at his wrist. An anchor, his heartbeat a comfort as they were led down the winding halls of the ancient Forest House. 

Lucien looked entirely unbothered, hardly troubled now that he was no longer in the presence of his family. Elain asked herself how, considering she very much felt as though she had woken from a nightmare. Her thoughts were foggy, her knees shaking in relief with every one of her steps. Elain wanted to sob. 

Lucien’s thumb traced the curve of her knuckle and Elain breathed in deeply to calm her nerves. 

It was almost humiliating, being paraded past the Autumn guards stationed at every corner as she clung to Lucien. She had to remind herself that it was expected of mated couples to behave so attached, that she was not amongst human nobles that would judge her for any open affection that was displayed. 

Elain briefly wondered what Cora had done in her absence, and whether the other woman had been made aware of the change in their plans. Elain’s thoughts turned quickly, though, to what her sisters would say. Elain was sure that Nesta, more than Feyre, would be furious. 

Elain assumed she would have the Inner Circle’s complete support, but she could only guess at their displeasure with how the night had unfolded. 

Elain had told a High Lord that she was marrying his son, and she was only just beginning to realise the weight of such a promise. Elain felt her stomach flip, panic starting to creep along her spine. 

Just when Elain’s anxiety started to take root, Lucien’s hand gripped hers more tightly. Elain felt as he tried to reassure her through the bond, and her annoyance was enough to redirect her thoughts. 

The Forest House was strange and unlike any place she had ever been to. The rough stone walls were a warm grey, closer to the colour of sheep’s wool than to the cool toned rock she had become used to in Night. 

Elain was surprised to see all the wooden furniture considering all the torches, flames dancing and sparks falling but never setting anything alight. She walked by a couple elegant fireplaces set into the walls, but she saw no chimneys, no soot or ashes. 

Like the roots of an ancient tree, hallways connected and split off into different directions, an unnavigable maze. Elain wondered how anyone was able to find their way around. 

One of the guards shoved Lucien towards a flight of stone steps, urging him to turn. Elain frowned when she felt him tense, thinking perhaps he had been offended by the gesture. It was only as a voice rang out beside them that Elain guessed Lucien had scented someone’s presence. 

“Your services are no longer needed,” the words were rough, a demand. “I can take the prince and his lady to their shared suite from here.” 

Much to Elain’s surprise, the guards obeyed. In the time it took for them to leave, Elain had turned her attention to the new arrival.  

The man was handsome, Elain could admit. His short hair a more copper shade of red, his eyes a bright hazel. He was pale, like most of the people she had seen in Autumn, and he looked battle-worn. A slashing scar cut across his throat, just visible above the fabric of his jacket. 

Even if Elain had not just been in a room with Beron Vanserra, she would have still been able to see the resemblance between the High Lord and the man who so obviously was another one of his sons. She took a step beck, knocking into Lucien’s side. 

The man raised a brow, but other than a passing glance, he paid her no mind. His focus was on Lucien, the torches on the wall flared. Elain wondered if that always happened, if flames simply responded to those in Autumn, a reflection of their emotions.

“Where’s Eris?” He snapped, like he had no patience for either her or Lucien. 

Her mate’s shoulders were stiff. “Is the loyal dog looking for its master?” Lucien’s drawl was taunting, as though he was expecting a reaction from his brother. His words were obviously meant to offend.

Elain could feel Lucien’s shock flooding the bond between them when his brother merely shook his head. 

“You always did cause so much trouble, Lucien,” he frowned, looking very much like Eris. With a sigh, he angled his chin to the flight of stairs in front of them. “Follow me.” 

Not like they had a choice, Elain thought. She could feel as Lucien turned to look at her, to check in, but she stared at his brother as he led them to a pair of thick oak doors. His attempt to comfort her was appreciated, but Elain truly thought she could not look at him without her anxiety once more taking hold. With a wave of his brother’s beringed hand, the doors opened to reveal a cosy space. 

The fireplace was already lit, comfortable carpets covered the stone floor, and by the arched window on the room’s other side was a large bed, fit for two. Elain blushed, forgetting for a moment that Lucien and her were to be married, of course their shared suite would have only one bed. 

Elain watched as Lucien’s brother waved his hand once again, this time lighting the candles littered on some of the wooden tables and nightstands. “I hope the rooms have been set to your liking. Should you need anything, let one of the guards know.”

Elain spoke for the first time since having left the throne room, “My lady’s maid was with me, I was wondering…” She trailed off, unsure of what to say next. 

“I’ll let Eris know,” the Autumn prince offered. “I’m sure he’s thought of everything.” There was no bitterness to his words, only an acknowledgement of his eldest brother’s very thorough planning.

Elain dipped her head in thanks, but he had already begun to leave. Elain looked to Lucien as he watched his brother warily, and he hardly seemed surprised when the other man paused at the room’s threshold. 

“Congratulations to the both of you on your engagement,” he said flippantly, over his shoulder. Elain could hear a flicker of doubt in his tone, perhaps a suggestion that he was not entirely convinced by their act. She wondered if Eris had mentioned it to him, if they were close enough to have shared such information. 

Elain noticed the irritation that flashed in Lucien’s eye, how the other one whirred. “Thank you, Callum.” 

It was clear to Elain that there was bad blood between the brothers, and while she was curious, Elain also knew that it would probably be very rude to ask Lucien about it. She watched as Callum left, glad that she no longer needed to play the role she had given herself.  

The doors slammed shut behind the Autumn prince, and Elain promptly let go of Lucien’s hand. She already missed the feeling, but to reach for him would be like an admission of how she so often longed for his touch when he was near. She put distance between them, almost tripping on the edge of the carpet in her rush. 

“Gods,” she mumbled, running her fingers through her curls. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. Lucien’s scent, apples and summer mornings, lingered in the air. 

What have I done? 

Elain decided that she was a fool for coming to Autumn. She had no idea what she had gotten herself into, had been so desperate to save Lucien’s life that she had doomed them both. 

When Elain opened her eyes, she saw Lucien flexing his fingers, like the memory of her hand in his was enough to unsettle him. He had dark bruises along his jaw, clenched in what she thought was concern. There were blood stains, brown and aged, along the collar of his white shirt. A smear of dirt was on his temple and Elain could tell he had been treated poorly until she had come. 

Lucien was still the loveliest man Elain had ever seen, and she hated herself for believing it.  

“How in the hell did Feyre convince you to come for me?” Lucien asked, voice tired, like his own thoughts were weighing him down. 

Elain furrowed her brow, frowning at him. “Feyre?” She echoed, incredulous. 

At her question Lucien seemed to anger, only for a moment, before he spoke once more. “Rhysand, then, made you do this?” 

“No one made me do anything,” Elain hissed, keeping her voice down, remembering how careful Eris was with his words even when they had been alone. “I came for you because I chose to.” She was frustrated, angry that everyone assumed she could not make decisions for herself. It was with great effort that she kept her hands at her sides, that she did not begin pointing at Lucien with an accusing finger. 

“Why would you do such a thing?” Confusion and disbelief lingering in his words. 

“Because I felt like it,” she snapped, feeling very much like a child. Elain did not share with him that after so much death, so much change in the last few years, she did not think she could bear more. “And you should be thanking me, not questioning my motives.” 

Elain watched as he bent ever so slightly at the waist, the smallest of bows. He did not take his eyes off her as he said, “You have my thanks, Elain.” 

At the sound of her name falling from Lucien’s lips, Elain took a step towards him, the movement almost involuntary. “You shouldn’t call me that,” the impropriety of it all had Elain blushing, she attempted to tell herself that was why she could feel her heartbeat quicken. “You don’t have the right—”

“I think I do,” Lucien said with a shrug, “considering we’re about to be married.” 

It looked like he wanted to say more, but Elain interrupted. “It means nothing,” she was shocked at how snarled the last word was. “Nothing has changed between us,” her words held a finality to them.

Lucien ran a hand through his hair, “Not for one moment did I believe otherwise.” He sounded exhausted, Elain noticed. 

Briefly, Elain felt guilty for being upset with him.

Lucien shook his head, and as he spoke he did not look at her. “You shouldn’t have come to Autumn.” Elain could not say it with certainty, but she could have sworn fear leaked slowly down their shared bond. 

“Next time I’ll let you be killed,” Elain waved her hand dismissively. “What’s done is done, I can hardly tell your father I’ve changed my mind.” 

“I think we’re well past that,” Lucien confirmed. The silence between them was awkward, and Elain wished they had separate rooms, despite knowing it was for the best that they were together.

She could feel Lucien’s gaze on her, but Elain was looking at the comfortable armchair by the fireplace. She cleared her throat, “You take the bed.” 

Lucien did not argue with her, a testament to how utterly drained he must have been, Elain concluded. 

“Thank you, Elain,” he said softly, sincerely.

Elain was left with the impression that Lucien was thanking her for more than just the bed.

[dayas]

Prompt 13 "Kiss Me" - Fiyeraba, in a universe where he’s not with Glinda cause I don’t like cheating 😄🙈

Drabble Prompts

Fair enough Anon! I took the universe thing a bit too literally, though 😁 so without further ado, welcome to the spy au 🥰

—

“Agent Emerald, do you copy?”

Glinda’s voice buzzed in Elphaba’s ear, though there was no visible piece to be found. The wonders of modern technology.

“Yes, Agent Bubble. I copy.”

“Agent Scarecrow?” Glinda prompted next.

“Right here, Bubble,” came the voice of her current mission partner, Fiyero Tigelaar. He was renowned throughout their organization as the suavest spy they had, hence why he’d been paired with her. She was the newbie at S.H.I.Z., and Madame Morrible (a rather curious code name for the co-head of an organization, Elphaba thought, though perhaps not as strange as their technical leader, a nameless, faceless man known only as The Wizard) insisted on the three of them working together, despite having enlisted Elphaba for her singular talents.

She should have been where Glinda was, in the chair, directing them and watching their backs, acting as the eyes in the sky, as a perfect spy would. Instead, she was on Munchkin Street, keeping her eyes peeled for their mark during the grand parade. Burning a dark figure in effigy wasn’t exactly what Elphaba would consider ‘fun’, but everyone on Munchkin Street was in high spirits, gallivanting their way down a brick road strewn with yellow poppies.

“Dr. Dillamond should be coming up on your right, Scarecrow,” Glinda told them. “Emerald, once Scarecrow engages, you extract. We rendezvous in Oz.”

Their meeting point, which was a warehouse miles outside of the city they were currently in.

“Cheer up, Emerald,” Fiyero hummed from her side, “we’re supposed to be at a celebration, remember?”

To that, Elphaba shot him a saccharine smile, sarcasm sprinkled through her gaze.

“Better?”

“Much.”

“I know no one else probably has the guts to tell you this, but you’re an asshole.”

Fiyero gasped mockingly, placing a hand against his chest.

“You wound me.”

Elphaba rolled her eyes quickly, and both of their expressions took on curiosity tinged neutrality. She made a vow to herself then and there. He was not going to mess up her first mission. She wouldn’t allow it.

“Uh, guys?” Glinda’s voice sounded off again. “There’s a complication.”

“What sort of complication?” Elphaba hissed.

“Winged Monkey at eight o’clock.”

The code for an enemy agent.

Fucking perfect.

They couldn’t grab the Doctor without being made, but if they continued to stand there, they’d be made either way.

“They’re closing in.”

Glinda’s voice took on a higher pitch, a soaked sheen of panic bleeding through her tone.

“Exits are blocked right now, they’re starting to close off the streets.”

Fiyero’s voice washed over her, calm and collected. They still needed a plan. Elphaba blurted out the only thing she could think of.

“Kiss me.”

“What?”

She wished she could have reveled in the satisfaction of watching his eyes pop for a little longer. Instead, she said, “Kiss me. They haven’t seen us yet, so as of right now, they don’t know we’re here. Besides, public displays of affection make people uncomfortable, which means they’re less likely to — ”

Fiyero cupped her face, pressing his lips soundly against hers. Elphaba tilted her head for him, holding onto the edges of his jacket.

They broke apart, nose to nose, both of their eyes scanning for the enemy spy.

Glinda’s voice rejoined them a moment later.

“… safe to say that worked. Get out of there now, you two.”

Elphaba realized she was still holding onto Fiyero. She released him quickly, clearing her throat.

“Nice thinking back there,” he murmured to her once they were safely back at their base. She shrugged.

“I’m quick on my feet. It’s part of the reason Madame Morrible wanted me here.”

He gave her a nod, an unreadable gleam passing over his eyes. She blinked and it disappeared, replaced by his trademark smirk.

“Still… if you wanted to kiss me, Thropp, you could’ve just asked.”

Elphaba glared at him, her elbow ‘accidentally’ finding a home against his ribs when she walked past him to return to her room.

“Asshole!”

[sephirothsplaything]

DNA| Sec.80 high power-chapter 21

a/n: kind of short but very satisfying-the moment we have all been waiting for. I get to introduce you to rhaella entering her prime!!

TW: blood, violence womp womp (Aemond eat ur heart out), the beauty and horror that is my babygirl Rhaella!!#slide4princessrhaenys 

/barley edited im tired srry/

enjoy<3

This is the story of Lady Rhaella Targaryen the I;the strange one and her role in the Dance Of Dragons. Loved by few and feared by many.

The blood of the dragon runs in Targaryen's veins. Something else runs in Rhaella.

BLACK TARGARYEN OC/READER

PARINGS: Aemond,Cregan, slight Jace, slight Addam, original charecter

read the last chapter here!

𝐀𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐗 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐑𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄.

There she stood, clad in her dress that had been magically repaired overnight. Her father had not come to see her off, and Rhaella felt largely impartial to the fact.

"I have never known a dragon to leave its rider." Alys's voice appeared behind her.

He comes when I need him," Rhaella responded, hoping that Aegarax would swoop down and take her away from this place.

"Will you not bid your father farewell?" Alys questioned.

"Why should I? He didn't bother with me." Rhaella snapped childishly.

Alys nodded as if she had already expected the answer. Rhaella felt horribly uncomfortable in the witch's presence. She saw right into her.

"Do you know what it means to be loved by death, my lady?" Alys asked,her eyes fixed on the sky as if she were waiting for something.

"No," Rhaella stated plainly. "But I suppose you shall tell me anyhow."

"It is quite a selfish lover, death is," Alys said. "It is not at all interested in sharing you with the others."

Others? Rhaella took care to think carefully. In truth, there might have been one man in this life she'd consider a lover—Her enemy.

"If you wish for me to understand, then speak plainly," Rhaella said.

"There was a parade in Kings Landing today," Alys said. "The head of your grandmother's dragon was displayed for all to see."

Rhaella paused for a moment, her mind stilling completely.

"You lie." Rhaella's voice didn't waver, though the venom's flames slowly licked their way up her body.

"You can see through me as well, can you not?" Alys said. "They are parading around the city as we speak."

At that moment, Rhaella felt an incomparable rage in her soul. She had surely felt anger before, but not like this.

"What benefit do you reap from this?" Rhaella questioned. "I am not so stupid to believe you pay obeisance to my house."

"My obeisance is to the Gods," Alys said. "There are things in this world that are ancient."

A great roar shook the yards of Harrenhal, alerting Caraxes nearby. Rhaella's eyes never left Alys's, though she could feel the presence of her dragon.

Aegarax landed behind her, flapping his wings protectively.

"Let us see then." Rhaella said finally. She hiked up the skirts of her dress and mounted her dragon easily.

"Let us see how the Gods try to stop me."

Rhaella clutched the Cannibal's spines tighter as he prepared to fly. She gave no verbal command—Her mind was far too troubled to speak clearly.

—

RHAELLA DID NOT RETURN TO DRAGONSTONE.

Instead, she found herself gliding over Driftmark. Even from the skies, she could see men hard at work repairing her grandsire's damaged ships.

The screams at the sight of her dragon didn't deter Rhaella in the slightest. Her eyes darted around for a landing place, deciding on High Tide.

The soldiers that stood guard lowered their swords upon seeing Rhaella descend, parting the way for her.

"Where is my Grandsire?" Rhaella questioned one of the soldiers who stiffened at the sound of her voice.

"He is in Hull, my lady," a guard managed to stutter out. The presence of her brooding dragon was both imposing and off-putting.

Rhaella walked off into the direction of the town, she was sure Aegarax would find something to occupy himself with.

The town of Hull was not unfamiliar to her as Corlys had often shown her his many ships when she was a child. Rhaella was not particularly interested in the doings of the sea, but she had a keen interest in ropes.

"Granddaughter." Corlys greeted upon seeing her. "I am told you have scarcely seen as of late."

"I have found myself quite busy." Rhaella placed her arms behind her.

Corlys smiled,his eyes drifting up towards to skies.

"That beast put the fear of the Gods in my men." His tone sounded prouder than anything her father could've managed.

Rhaella's deadened eyes watched her grandsire carefully, despite his best efforts, it was clear to her that he was not himself.

"Grandmother fought well," Rhaella said. "Aegon is on death's door because of her."

Lord Corlys's face was instantly stricken with grief at the mention of Rhaenys. The hole in his heart was not invisible to Rhaella.

Rhaella stepped closer to him,her face warped with a look of sudden intensity.

"I cannot offer you comfort," Rhaella said. "I only promise vengeance for what they've done. "

"And what do you plan to do?" Corlys asked. Rhaella's gaze drifted again. He'd surely try to stop her if she were honest with him.

"I'd need proper armour first" Rhaella looked down at her haggard dress. "Lest I ruin all my gowns."

Before Corlys could respond, another voice cut in.

"The boat is mostly finished, my lord, save for the ropes."

Rhaella turned to the source—A scrawny boy, around her age possibly. Likely one of the many common-borns working for her grandsire.

The boy stopped short at the sight of Rhaella, unable to continue. Rhaella stared him down as if ascertaining something.

"Right. Thank you, Addam." Corlys gruffly cleared his throat. He turned back to Rhaella, but she was unmoved, eyes glued to Addam almost eerily.

"The lady Rhaella requires some assistance regarding a commission," Corlys said. "Would you mind escorting her there?"

"Yes-I mean,no my lord." Addam stuttered out. "At once."

Rhaella allowed Addam to walk a few paces in front of her before catching up. Something about his face was striking to her,she could not quite place it.

"How long have you been in my grandsire's service?" Rhaella broke the silence first.

Addam quickly glanced away from her when she met his gaze. "Since I was a boy, my lady."

'A bastard' Rhaella thought to herself. 'It is plain to see.'

t was not a far away conclusion, Rhaella had since learned that men of the realm rarely hold any deep loyalty towards their wives—Another reason why she'd never marry.

Loyalty was most precious at times such as these.

"I see," Rhaella said. "He treats you well, I assume?"

Rhaella saw Addam's face flash with something brief, confirming her suspicions.

"He has been most gracious to my brother and I."

"I am glad of it," Rhaella responded.

As they stopped in front of the shop, Rhaella's gaze raked over the different swords and daggers arranged on the table. She longed for her own, cursing herself for being so careless in dropping it.

"What can I do for you, my lady?" The Smithy asked.

Rhaella was quiet as she took in all the armor pieces. In truth, she hadn't the faintest clue what she wanted for herself. She refused to have anything similar to Baela and Jace, but not something particularly bulky like her father.

"Armour," Rhaella stated blankly as if it were obvious.

"Ah." The Smihty said. "Gift for the lord?"

Rhaella scrunched her face slightly in displeasure. "It's for me."

Addam flitted between the two of them,worried the smithy would say something to further irritate her.

"If I may, my lady," Addam said. "Perhaps there is something you had in mind?"

Rhaella stared at Addam vacantly, suddenly feeling rather foolish.

"Something..light,I suppose." Rhaella pondered. "I am not too keen on being shot out of the sky."

Addam nodded, somehow understanding Rhaella's admittedly vague descriptions.

"Chainmail then?" Addam nodded to the smithy.

"I have no need for a cape, it will only get in the way" Rhaella added. "And I require trousers."

Rhaella could not stand the premise of wearing skirts during battle.

"I think valyrian steel plates could be useful," Addam said.

Once the smithy handed over everything she'd asked for, Rhaella spun on her heel with a tiny pleased smile on her face.

"Do you need any help,my lady?" Addam rushed by her.

"You've helped me more than you know," Rhaella responded. "Thank you."

Addam smiled to himself. For the first time in a while, he felt useful —Perhaps she could put in a kind word for him to Lord Corlys.

He had seen the Lady Rhaella a few times before, in truth. As a boy he'd duck behind the ship hands as Lord Corlys led her to the docks, proudly showing off the spoils of his conquests.

That had been years ago, and Rhaella had changed much since then. Her silver hair had grown wild like a lion's mane, and her body had outgrown its girlish frame.

One thing remained the same, though—Her eyes, equal parts frightening as well as striking.

He stood a ways behind her as the dragon flew down to meet her. He could only assume this was a recent development, and not a moment too soon considering the realm was at war.

"Addam." Rhaella tossed her things on the dragon's back before turning to him. "Take care of yourself"

Her tone wasn't nearly as cold now,there was a tinge of mystry in it. It made him stand up straighter.

He longed to respond with something witty in hopes of seeing her smile properly,but was unable to conjure anything up.

Addam watched in amazement as the beast adjusted to her commands. He had never been more sure—Targaryens were indeed Gods among men.

—

QUEEN RHAENYRA'S FACE FELL AT THE NEWS.

Meleys's head being shown in the street as some sort of spectacle was the greatest of insults.

"Allow me to respond on our behalf." Rhaella insisted.

"I'm worried what that entails." Rhaenyra shook her head. "You will do nothing."

"You expect me to stand by as the Greens disrespect my grandmother?" Rhaella scoffed.

"What I expect, is for you to respect my authority." Rhaenyra took a step forward. "If not as my stepdaughter, then as your queen."

Rhaella flinched. She had no need for Rhaenyra to mother her, the thought fully repulsed her.

"Is this how you plan to carry on, your grace?" Rhaella said venomously. "They will think you weak."

"So let them," Rhaenyra said. "That shall be their downfall."

Rhaella shook her head. She refused to return to weakness to life of invisibility. She had a dragon, a large one at that—She fully intended to make use of him.

For now, Rhaella conceded, choosing to return to her chamber. She passed by Baela's room door and paused for a moment. They had not spoken so much as a word to each other in days—Baela was famously good at holding a grudge.

She couldn't be bothered with her now; No, her mind was occupied with more pressing issues.

So, Rhaella sat on her bed, staring down at her newly acquired riding clothes. She waited till night fell across the sky.

It seemed obvious what she should do. Rhaella heard no whispers of madness in her mind—these actions were all her own, and she was mostly sure of that.

Rhaella dawned her armor as quietly as possible, sneaking out into the halls and venturing outside.

Aegarax was lying outside his cave as if already waiting for her. When she came closer, he lazily raised his head.

"Ūndegon skoros īlon kostagon gaomagon hēnkirī, hm?" Rhaella placed a hand over his head.

'Let's see what we can do together.'

Rhaella mounted him and they took off into the air. Aegarax glided easily as she directed him. Excitement boiled inside of her as she got closer to her destination.

Oldtown.

The Cannibal circled over the pious town a few times as Rhaella mulled over her next moves. She was high enough and the cover of night would cloak her well.

Rhaella's eyes fell onto the Starry Sept—There it stood, mocking and tall like the influence of the Hightowers in the Red Keep.

She hated them. Hightowers,the faith—They thought their Gods more powerful than dragons.

Rhaella readjusted herself, tightening her grip on Aegarax's spines. She descended onto the sept, diving just low enough to be in range.

"Aegarax," Rhaella said, her voice had never been more calm.

"Dracarys."

The Cannibal bathed the sept in his green fire. The smoke remnants brought a wonderful sting to Rhaella's eyes.

The screams of the townsfolk began to ring out, panicked and coated in desperation.

"Dragon!" Some of them screamed. "We're under attack!"

Rhaella's mouth twitched in amusement. Oldtown adored the color green, and she'd given them just that.

The guards lined up with their bows, trying their best to aim for her. Although they could not see her properly from such a distance, Rhaella couldn't help but toy with them a little.

"Embrot," Rhaella said. 'Down.'

Aegarax obeyed, swooping down towards the soldiers. His mouth opened wide, a sure treacherous sight for the enemy. He managed to eat half of them, the gushes on blood-coated Rhaella's face.

She allowed on guard to flee, a rather badly burned one. Rhaella hoped he'd drag himself all the way to Kings Landing; She hoped he'd tell the whole pack of those arrogant cunts what she had done this night.

'Let him tell Aemond what I have done on my grandmother's behalf.' Rhaella thought as she let the Cannibal go wild unabashedly.

"May the Gods help us!" A septon screamed towards the skies.

Rhaella scoffed at that. The only Gods that were in the sky were her and the dragon she rode. No mercy would come for them so long as she lived.

The silver locks of her hair whipped around in the wind as she sharply turned Aegarax away when her hunger was sated.

Her gluttony for death had at long last been satisfied.

[dazedantics]

Loki x His Variant's Reader

- Love in the wrong timeline -

Pt 3

●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○

Loki hid in the hypogeum of the arena as Anneli and the other warriors went out to fight.

Obnoxious hollers and whoops from the audience practically shook the earth. The scent of dust and sweat filled the air and was sure to mingle with the coppery taste of blood by the end it of it.

None of which was something he was particularly happy to be living through again.

So Loki busied himself with the tempad instead. If all went well, he'd be able to leave before the battle was over and at the latest, he'd be gone like a whisper in the night.

No time for goodbyes or excess attachments.

Neither party would be able to handle it.

As he tinkered with the device, the young girl ambled up to him, slapping a hand onto his shoulder.

"I'm all ready, Dad, gonna do ya proud tonight!"

He rolled his shoulder, holding back his scowl. "Yes, yes, have fun, I'm watching and all that ...."

He pause as he scanned her over.

She was a grinning bundle of nerves, clad in golden armor with twin blades at her sides. Accompanied by a familiar crown of horns upon her brow, she looked the spitting imagine of him.

Only, he had never been so enthusiastic about such things.

"Geez just having you around is making this ten times more nerve-wracking." Her fingers rubbed the gold band on her head. "I've dedicated all my matches to you, so to have you here now is just ... wow ...."

Feigning pride, Loki smiled and began to nudge her forward. "Ah is that so? Don't worry, Dear, in a few minutes it'll be like I was never here. Now go on out there, hurrah and such-"

"But, dad-"

"Oh and don't look back. Can't have you getting distracted now, can we?"

"Dad!"

The girl dug her heels into the ground and spun around.

"What?" Loki grumped, facade waning.

"Thank you for coming. And spending the day with me. You probably could have gotten situated sooner if you'd gone to the palace first. And you'll probably be out for weeks after this to get things back to normal. But it really means a lot."

The girl suddenly wrapped her arms around him.

"I ... I love you."

She stepped back. "Alright, time to get my head in the game. See ya from the arena!"

A strange feeling bubbled up inside Loki as he watched her bound for the battlefield. Though he couldn't quite pin what it was yet, the diety had been experiencing the same emotion ever since he found himself involved with duplicates and tempads. Or maybe, he already knew what it was and still hadn't found the courage to acknowledge it ...?

As the hours grew later and the sky darker, Loki found himself transfixed on Anneli's match.

She was loud and agile, roaring to the tune of the audience, each hit vigorous and sharp. Her snide grin and boisterous guffaws did wonders to fuddle her opponents. It was a strange display, like a stoat trying to parade around as an ox.

Clear habits wrought by his brother's influence.

He wondered what her tactics would look like if he had been the one to train her ....

But soon, the whole ordeal was over and he looked on as his daughter was lifted into the air by rowdy Asgardians. The cheering applause was thunderous and only grew louder as Thor approached, tossing the young warrior up onto his shoulder.

Something inside him gave a dull ache, and Loki found himself backtracking into the dark of the hypogeum, the roars dimming by a fraction.

And still the tempad sat fractured in his pocket.

***

Loki stayed away from the girl that night. It was to allow her to enjoy her celebratory feast, he was sure she'd be better off that way. Plus, it's not like he could just introduce himself to his ruling brother and expect himself to get home any faster. This was the best choice for him.

And those banquets lasted ages, he knew from experience, there would be nothing but ample to time to get up to some mischief. Or in this case, fix his ticket out of here.

He teleported himself back to the girl's home, scrounging around for spare parts.

Though there wasn't much, he was able to tinker around enough to replace the screen and external casing.

Caught up in a silent appraisal of making progress, Loki missed the sound of the front door clinking open.

He stretched languidly, planning how he'd get the power needed to turn on the device, then stood.

Right as he was about to head to the kitchen for a break, he was shocked by a visitor.

"Loki...?"

A woman ladden with worn leather packs and dressed in travel garb stood in the doorway.

Her expression was weary, shoulders sagging with fatigue. She looked about ready to collapse.

But her e/c eyes were wide and alert, scanning him over with an air of disbelief.

The two stared at each other for a moment, both at a loss for words.

He watched as quiet tears steadily built up in her eyes.

She ran.

His body tensed and he prepared to counter an attack if need be.

But his being couldn't comprehend anything afterward as she threw herself at him, trapping him in a deep kiss.

It was desperate and warm and he could feel his heart racing to match hers. She kept her lips to his for an eternity and if he had even the slightest chance of hoping to recognize the woman, her actions completely threw it out the window.

When they finally broke apart, Loki was able to rack his brain for the information he'd gained from this world.

"I missed you so much." She murmured, a forlorn frown trembling at her lip.

...?

So, she knew him. Who else in this world-oh.

His eyes clocked on the framed photos decorating the house ...

"Your hair's gotten shorter. Fluffier." Her hands tangled in his raven curls.

... this world's Loki cuddling up to a h/c haired woman ...

Then she smiled.

... a ring on both their fingers ...

"I like it."

[themculibrary]

Pride Masterlist

another love letter you’ll never read (ao3) - eurydicees steve/bucky G, 6k

Summary: For Pride Month 2019, The Met has put together a collection celebrating the LBGTQ+ community in the first half of the 20th century.

AKA Bucky writes Steve letters he never sends, and somehow they turn up in a museum a hundred years later. Also everything post-Winter Soldier never happened because I say so.

Clue Her In (ao3) - MCUsic_to_my_ears G, 1k

Summary: Peter’s friend MJ is coming over to the cabin for the first time and he and Tony want to keep Morgan from misgendering them.

Days of Sunshine (ao3) - norsellie (flamewarrior) peggy/angie E, 9k

Summary: After Peggy leaves New York for Los Angeles, Angie and she lose touch. But a chance meeting on a DC street brings them back into each other’s lives — and brings questions about both her present and her future for Peggy.

For You (ao3) - StarryCosme maria/natasha G, 1k

Summary: There was a flag in Maria's office, and it didn't belong to any country.

Girls Like Girls (ao3) - Mx_Night steve/bucky, carol/maria G, 2k

Summary: Captain Marvel has been seen sporting a new rainbow suit. The rest of the team discovers something that surprises no one except Steve. They have a heart to heart and somehow Carol gets to play matchmaker for the oblivious super-soldier. Everyone decides to come to her with their questions regarding sexuality and she decides that she likes helping these confused idiots figure out who they are.

June (ao3) - xoxobuckybarnes steve/bucky E, 3k

Summary: Steve and Bucky attend Wakanda's Pride festival.

Kiss Me Quick (ao3) - JuniperLemon steve/tony G, 700

Summary: Tony kisses someone in a mask while at a Pride march. Only when he comes home does he realise it was Steve and what implications that holds.

local lesbian finds out gay marriage is legal (ao3) - cynthiagay carol/maria T, 303

Summary: After Peter tells her that gay marriage is legal in the US, Carol has a very important question to ask.

no cops at pride, just spiderman (ao3) - tempestaurora G, 3k

Summary: Peter and Tony attend the Pride parade as Spiderman and Iron Man. They have a good day.

Pride (ao3) - lockedlocke steve/bucky E, 7k

Summary: So here he was, at Pride despite the fact that he’d rather be at home. It’s hot, boiling and his feet hurt a bit from standing all day. Converse might be nice shoes, but Jesus they were terrible for his knees.

He had lost Natasha a little while ago, and had given up on finding her. He just wants to sit down for a moment. As soon as he spots an empty bean bag by one of the workshops he sinks down in it and opens his Coke bottle. He’s exactly one sip down his drink when someone slides down beside him on the ground.

“Can I draw on your cast?” A blond man asks with a toothy grin. There’s a light sunburn on his shoulders and Bucky can see the faint hint of freckles on it.

Pride (ao3) - ottertrashpalace mj/peter T, 7k

Summary: MJ considers it her honor and her duty to take Peter to his first pride parade after he comes out to her. Needless to say, this involves blue lipstick, famous drag queens, and incredibly attractive displays of spider-strength. She considers herself lucky.

Pride (ao3) - Meatball42 steve/tony G, 1k

Summary: This year, Steve wouldn’t have to watch the Pride parade from inside a cold, lonely suite while other New Yorkers like him celebrated. He would be a part of it, free to speak his mind, in this strange new world, in a way he’d never dared before.

Pride (ao3) - Fighting4Fandoms carol/maria G, 1k

Summary: A night in front of the fire, with the two people she loves more than anything else in the world. Carol Danvers was a lucky woman

Pride Ain’t A Sunday Picnic (ao3) - flawedamythyst bucky/clint T, 4k

Summary: Bucky’s second Pride parade goes even better than his first one, for both him and Clint.

Rainbows (ao3) - SilverMyfanwy steve/bucky T, 2k

Summary: Peter’s been getting bullied for joining the Queer Alliance Group at school.

So when Peter’s class go on a field trip to the Tower, the Avengers get their pride on.

Save A Kiss (ao3) - grimeysociety darcy/wanda, steve/bucky E, 2k

Summary: Darcy’s crush on Wanda is out of control, and denying her feelings isn’t going to work anymore, especially during Pride.

Steve’s First Pride (ao3) - breathedeep222 steve/bucky G, 1k

Summary: Steve goes to his first pride parade. Bucky is a jerk about it until he isn’t.

This is Me (ao3) - happyaspie ned/peter G, 3k

Summary: Tony likes to tease Peter about getting a girlfriend and Peter very much doesn’t want one. Because he’s already dating someone. Ned. He’s dating Ned and he doesn’t know how to tell the man that he’s got it all wrong. But after having a mini-crisis right in the middle of his boyfriend’s bedroom it was decided that he should just bite the bullet and tell his mentor that he’s gay.

Or:

A coming out fic starring our favorite neighborhood Spider-boy and his extremely supportive superhero mentor/father figure.

Times Have Changed (ao3) - Wolfcry22 steve/bucky G, 6k

Summary: Times may have changed and adjusting to it can be hard.

What May Doesn’t Know (ao3) - MCUsic_to_my_ears ned/peter G, 1k

Summary: Peter is confused as to what his feelings toward Ned mean. A couple on the street help him figure it out.

When you're ready, if you're ready (ao3) - itsalltheory yelena/kate G, 1k

Summary: Yelena wants to stay home during Pride, something that Kate isn't used to.

When she's being cuddled by a gorgeous Russian, Kate finds that she doesn't mind the change one bit.

you’ve got your passion, you’ve got your pride (ao3) - steviepie steve/bucky, joaquín/sam E, 20k

Summary: They’d stuck it out together even after they both got shipped out of Brooklyn and off to the war, where somehow being gay was just as taboo even off of American soil. Bucky supposed it had made sense in a way. It’s hard not to care about stateside law when your lover is Captain America.

Not that Steve is Captain America anymore, though he is still Bucky Barnes’ lover- and as of two months ago, legally he’s even more. Because while they are back in Brooklyn again, it’s been a long time since the war, and while this isn’t where Bucky thought they’d end up by a longshot, he can’t help but thank his lucky stars that they no longer have to worry about being caught.

(alternatively: steve and bucky get some of those stupid corporate pride packages.)

[sendpseuds]

WIP Wednesday: Perfect Spiral

In honor of everyone being so helpful in my quest to find Anakin's perfect ass tattoo, we've got a pretty long snippet from the beginning of chapter three [Practice].

Extra special shout out to @amadwinter and @palfriendpatine66 whose suggestions I combined for the final ass tattoo design.

Enjoy 🖤

[PERFECT SPIRAL]

It’s not difficult to understand why the locker room is so often a setting found in porn.

A room full of men in peak physical condition, shamelessly stripping down to nothing but their naked flesh, standing beneath the steaming spray of the shower to wash sweat and hours of excretion from their skin.

On paper, it sounds downright erotic.

In reality, there is nothing even remotely sexy about a football locker room.

There is nothing seductive about several dozen flaccid dicks parading around. 

Nothing arousing about catching an accidental eyeful of a teammate’s hairy ass crack.

There is absolutely fucking nothing enticing about that smell.

There is, however, something strangely, stupidly, unexplainably comforting about the whole sordid situation.

Already, the little cubby emblazoned with Anakin’s nameplate feels a bit like home.

Already, this team feels a bit like family. 

It’s part of the reason, Anakin assumes, that even professional locker rooms — which are otherwise decked out in all kinds of luxuries like TVs, couches, gaming councils, etc. — still have communal showers. Because if hours of training to play a sport that is, essentially, the modern equivalent of a gladiatorial game doesn’t bond you with your teammates, showering together sure as fuck will.

A form of forced vulnerability to balance out the violence.

It’s all part of the game.

And it’s always the same.

Confidence is, obviously, extremely important, but it’s never good to tip over into arrogance. Being surrounded by men who look as if they should be on display in a museum makes humbling oneself a bit easier, but overcompensating is not hard to do, and no one gets put in their place faster than a cocky rookie.

So far, Anakin has managed to fly under the radar for the most part. There were a few pretty predictable whistles that first day, and more than one mention of fattening him up from Jabba and the other linemen — whatever the fuck that means — but most of the comments have been about his tattoo. 

Not the tattoo on his arm — the one that extends from his right elbow to his knuckles — black ink in the broken blistered pattern of burnt wood turned to coal, cracked and carved apart by flame. The one that had taken months to design and three multi-hour sittings to complete.

No.

Most of the comments have been about the tattoo on his ass.

The one he got his first year at Mos Eisley State because when the five coolest guys on the football team tell the scrawny redshirt quarterback that something is a great idea, it’s very easy to believe that it is, in fact, a great idea.

As it turns out, it had been a terrible idea.

The next day in the locker room, the same teammates who had encouraged him to get his own lip print tattooed in bright red ink on his left ass cheek tore him to pieces in front of the entire team. 

Anakin had gone back down to the tattoo shop as soon as the lips healed to add BITE ME in big black letters. 

None of them could have known the monster they created that day.

He knows better than to shy away from it — honestly, he’s grown quite fond of the little tattoo and the way it seems to disarm people — but trying to cover it up would only draw more attention to it in the end.

It’s not that modesty is an issue, a lot of guys are certainly more on the reserved side — a wrapped towel is totally normal, no need to strut around bare-assed just for the sake of it — but hiding, turning away, avoiding the showers altogether — that will draw attention and comments faster than just about anything else.

Well.

There is one thing that is almost guaranteed to make someone the butt of every locker room joke.

There’s always one guy with a big dick.

[simptasia]

Tell me all about LOST all I know is from Dane Cook

that is. such a funny sentence

aw shucks, its tempting, but i don't wanna give ya spoilers. and there are truly things in lost that must be experienced by your own flesh

...yes im aware of what my blog is like

so i guess i'll give a vague spoiler free overview

so. a group of plane crash survivors find themselves on a mysterious island and have to deal with the strange happenings + their weight of their individual traumas

the show is serialized and one ep more or less flows into another, so literally no ep can be skipped (no matter what anybody says) or else you'll miss something

its a large ensemble cast, ranging from the 13 to 20s range, all in all i think theres like 35 main characters

the show follows a flashback structure, each episode dedicated itself to a main plot on the island intercut with flashbacks to one character. we call these centric episodes. eg. this is a jack centric episode. sometimes an ep will have multiple characters have flashbacks in one ep. while this show didn't originate the concept of a large cast or flashback storytelling, it did popularize it in the early 2000s. so a lot of post 2004 shows wanted to be lost so bad and it shows

at first lost was a survival show but they gloss over this very quickly and its more about the weird shit going on. as time goes on, plots and mysteries stack up. this is to create intrigue, as the shows main focus is an endless parade of character studies. with the added bonus of some cool and twisty shit going on too

but because lost had so much plot, over time it got accused of being confusing and convoluted and Not Answering Questions and well. your mileage may vary. but i think its confusing if you watch it too slowly. like, it aired over a 6 year period, no wonder people got confused. its better to watch nowadays, way easier to handle

the genre of lost is: drama mystery action paranormal sci fi romance with a dash of comedy. lost is full of the saddest fucks you'll ever meet but the show contains enough levity and great colouring to make it not a huge misery fest

pretty decent racial diversity. next to no LGBT rep. more women than the average tv show. then and now

the score FUCKS

not a single bad actor in this entire show, the performances on display are fucking outstanding. and every emotion is like up to 11, which is great for my autistic brain

for those of you who find sex scenes to be tedious, i have a bit of trivia for ya: all sex in LOST happens off screen. not a single sex scene to be found. pre sex, yes, post sex, yes. making out, yes. but sex itself? footage not found. i'm neutral on the concept, i just thought that was something to point out

i highly recommend lost to, like, anybody. ever. its a masterpiece of television. even the low points are better than most shows. sometimes i take lost for granted and then i watch any other drama series and im like "oh right, lost is incredibly good"

its my third favourite show. and thats only cuz star trek and doctor who exist, and nobody is beating those fuckers

anyways do you like to see beautiful people cry and scream but it isn't cringe?* well, i've got a show for you! *okay there is some cringe. as a treat. the leading man of this show has the social grace of a cold pancake (affectionate)

thank you for your time

[immobiliter]

@apocryphis sent: "thank you for dropping by, furina. i was keen on finding a moment today in what i suspect will be a packed schedule for you..." the iudex has heard of clorinde's and navia's plans for their former archon - and far from him the thought of taking any time out of this very special programme indeed, but, he dares hope they will all forgive him a brief moment of selfishness. after all, all he wants is a moment of privacy to deliver his own gift for her in person. "i have something i wished to give you in person. just a moment..."

the iudex rises from the sofa and steps towards his office, upon which a small, square package carefully wrapped in blue and white rests. with a gentle (perhaps even pleased) smile, he returns to his guest, takes seat at her side once more, and hands her her gift - one of a somewhat special nature. "when thinking about what to gift you for your birthday, i remembered your many lessons about the meaning of fashion, clothing, and jewelry over the years - here is to hoping i applied them correctly, after all this time."

upon opening her gift, furina will find a brooch, in the shape of a lumitoile, just a little bigger than a coin of mora; its heart carved out of the pristine nacre of beryl conch, and adorned with intricate patterns made out of small, polished and glimmering transoceanic pearls, all held together by an elegant silver frame. "i must give credit where credit is due - while i may be the hand behind this brooch, the melusines insisted on helping me gather the finest materials to craft it." he dutifully reports. "and there is something else... please, go ahead and instill a fraction of hydro power in it."

and as furina does, the heart of the brooch glimmers; and a soft, delicate music begins to play gently at their ear. neuvillette's smile grows softer. "and this would be a gift from scylla... a fragment of a memory from ancient remurian times and their famous symphonies. it can only be played by fueling this brooch with hydro elemental energy of vishap or dragon origin... such as your vision." a gift from dragonkin, for fighting for five hundred years for them without even knowing it. a gift of gratitude, and of friendship, and acceptance. "happy birthday, furina."

        “ Of course. ” Furina smiled warmly at him as he rose from the sofa, casting her gaze idly around his office as she waited for him to retrieve her gift — unchanged, as always, but no longer a place that evoked in her such a debilitating sense of panic that she couldn't so much as walk through the door. No longer was the Palais Mermonia her gilded cage, a place she could only associate with the painful memories of centuries past. Now, it was a place she could come and go from as she pleased, a place where she could still find her Iudex hard at work — and while she no longer barged in uninvited these days, he was still always pleased to see her. “ You've been at my side for nearly every single birthday of mine — all the ones I can remember, at least. I couldn't possibly break that tradition. ” Though this year there were no speeches, or parades, or eleventh hour tempers on display because arrangements hadn't matched her exacting standards. “ I'm still trying to decide if I should call this my five hundred and... twelfth, I think? — uh, five hundred and something birthday, or my... first birthday. You know, seeing as I'm actually a year older this year. ”

       It was perhaps a strange thing to be happy about to those who did not know what the true significance of this day was, but she knew Neuvillette understood.

       As he returned to sit beside her, handing over his gift, Furina smiled fondly to herself. An initially challenging, though always extremely attentive, student, she had no reason to doubt the contents of the small, square box in front of her — thoughtfulness had always been something that Neuvillette had excelled at, in her opinion. Still, nothing could have quite prepared her for the intricate, detailed nature of the brooch that she unwrapped her package to reveal. She recognised the shape at once: a lumitoile, one of her favourite creatures populating Fontaine's beaches. Slowly, she ran her thumb over the shape, quietly marvelling at it for a moment. “ You made this, Neuvillette? ”

       His next instruction, surprising as it was, gave her his answer. Cautiously, Furina held the brooch in her open hand and closed her eyes, willing a small, controlled amount of hydro power to the surface of her gloved fingertips ( as she herself had been taught in return for her own efforts all those years ago ). She was rewarded by the start of a gentle melody, emanating from the small object in her hand. Furina turned to Neuvillette. Scylla. Remuria. She recalled Neuvillette telling her about Petrichor and the secrets contained in the seas beneath it not so long ago. Hydro elemental energy of vishap or dragon origin... such as your vision. Her eyes widened, realising just how deeply personal a gift this was. Not just from Neuvillette, but from one of his kin that she'd yet to even meet. A gift unique to her, the first to have been granted a hydro vision not from Celestia or via their edict to the Seven, but from a dragon sovereign.

       What had been done here in Fontaine for all of the dragons in Teyvat, the shattering of the order wrought down by her divine half, was purely accidental on her part... but had not gone unappreciated, it seemed.

       Words surely could not do such a gift justice, not with the rush of emotions that had currently rendered Furina a little speechless. She carefully placed the brooch and its box down on the empty sofa space beside her, before reaching up and wrapping her arms around Neuvillette's shoulders, pulling him into a hug. She expected him to tense a little in her embrace — after all, affection like this had never been their way, not in five whole centuries. But that did not mean that it couldn't be their way forward now, human as she was, finally unburdened by her last devastating secret as the two of them were. Either way, she needed him to know. “ Thank you. ”

[pure-garbage]

Philosophical Mosshead? Eloquent Inner Thoughts Of The Swordsman

Punk Hazard presented one bizarre anomaly after another to the straw hats in what felt like a never-ending freakshow parade that defied everything Zoro knew about nature. He wasn't fazed by it, just curious. He accepted that there was a strong possibility that the island's multitudinous eccentricities would never be explained to him, and he was at peace with it.

Even so, nothing, not the bifurcated weather, not the human-animal hybrids, not the talking autonomous legs, none of it prepared him for the shock of seeing his crewmates personalities randomized among their bodies. His friends had been swapped around in a way that was mind-boggling.

'This circus is almost hilarious. Such an existentially challenging display of the superficialities of physical form,' Zoro mused privately as he watched his crew interact.

Zoro kept his thoughts to himself. He had two priorities. The first was keeping his bearings and not letting the situation rattle him.

The second was finding Lana. His eyes swept the cavern, taking in the befuddled straw hats, captive centaurs and gigantic children. The scene was incredibly chaotic in a quiet, dazed way. Even so, he felt like he should have spotted her by now.

"Think we should tell him?"

Zoro's haki caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. Despite the fact that Nami hadn't said his name, he knew she was talking about him. Her intent invoked his presence and drew his attention preternaturally.

"I don't know. I doubt he would take it well. And she can take care of herself, right?" Franky replied, voice low. Not low enough. Zoro bore down on the two, hands firmly on his hips, eyebrows knit with concern and suspicion, lips pressed together in a hard, humorless line. His crewmates unconcealed intents betrayed the identity of the 'she' they mentioned.

"Where's Lana?" he demanded, drawing their attention for the first time. Franky squeaked, jumped and gulped, shrinking back a little from the imposing presence the swordsman was projecting. Nami, by contrast, crossed her arms obstinately over her chest, squared her stance, threw her shoulders back and met his gaze with no sign of intimidation. A second later, she cast her gaze down, eyes tripling in size as she realized the effect the change in posture had on her breasts.

"Wow, Nami! They're so full from this angle in this pose!" she exclaimed, expression enamored.

"Idiot!" Franky scowled. He raised his hand, but then seemed to think better of it and held back. "Stop looking! If that wasn't my body, I would have knocked you clean out by now!"

The strange behavior reminded Zoro that he couldn't take his crew at face value at the current moment. Sanji was in Nami's body and Nami in Franky's. He made a mental note. He wouldn't confuse the two again.

"Hey! Both of you cut it out!" he scolded the pair. He needed them to focus. "I know you were talking about Lana! What is it you're not going to tell me? What won't I take well?"

Nami and Sanji shared a look, then Sanji shrugged with Nami's delicate shoulders.

"He's wise to the fact that something's wrong," he sighed. "Might as well tell him what we know."

"For all the good it'll do," Nami sighed. "Not like we know much anyway."

"Nami! Spit it out!" Zoro barked.

"Cool the aggression, moss-head," Sanji scowled. "No one's happy with what's going on, don't take it out on Nami-swan."

"If someone doesn't tell me where Lana is," Zoro seethed, patience quickly wearing thin.

"We don't know," Nami cut him off. "That's all. She's... been missing since we all woke up after being gassed. She wasn't with the rest of us in the cell and we didn't see her while we were escaping the lab."

"The last time anyone saw her was on the ship," Sanji informed him.

Dread curled in Zoro's gut, but he clamped down on it with every shred of discipline and logic at his disposal.

'She's fine. She can take care of herself. Wherever she is, whatever happened, she'll be alright.'

Even so...

"Missing... you should have said something sooner," he grumbled. He reached inside his robe, down into the left pocket of his pants, rustling through its contents until he came up with a scrap of folded purple paper. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

'Not singed. She's fine. Still... just because she's not dying doesn't mean she's not in trouble. She should have been with the others when they were captured... why wasn't she with them when they all woke up?'

"Luffy!"

Zoro left Sanji and Nami to find his captain cavorting with the gigantic children like he was one of them.

"No one's seen Lana since we left the ship," Zoro informed him. "I'm going to look for her, that alright?"

"Don't see why not," Luffy shrugged. "Want me to come with you?"

"No, that's fine," Zoro shook his head. "You've got enough to deal with here."

"If you say so! Hey, Mocha peeked!"

"I did not!" the enormous child squealed.

Zoro walked away from his captain, leaving him to whatever game he was occupying the children with. He held the vivre card on his flat palm, watching as it slowly, surely tugged toward his thumb. He set off at once in the direction it indicated, but only made it a few paces before he came face-to-face with a wall. Unconcerned and determined to carry on in a straight line, he drew Shusui. The hum of tempered black steel caught Usopp's attention, who shrieked and rushed over to restrain his friend, frantically grappling with Zoro's wrist.

"Zooorooo! Whaaat do you think you're doing?!" Usopp howled, pulling Zoro's arm back with his entire body. Zoro submitted to his pulling, raising an eyebrow at him.

"I don't see any doors, so I'm going straight through," he explained, tone implying this should have been obvious.

"Are you crazy?! We know the marines are on the island, and Nami made it sound like Luffy's warlord buddy Trafalgar isn't acting as friendly as Luffy expects him to!" Usopp scolded fiercely. "How about moving through this place with at least a little attempt at subtlety?!"

"I don't need subtlety," Zoro growled. "I'm going to find Lana and I'll slice up anything or anyone who gets in my way!"

"Can't you at least put some distance between yourself and our little hideout before you start wrecking things?!" Usopp moaned desolately.

"Get off my arm, Usopp! You're slowing me down!" Zoro scowled, shaking his arm lightly in an attempt to dislodge his friend. Usopp just shook his head and held on more stubbornly as the waving motion of Zoro's arm pulled him off his feet.

Robin approached with a smile that was equal parts amusement at her friends' antics and a kind offer to help in any way possible.

"Why don't you let me accompany you, swordsman?" she proposed. "I can help you find the doors so you don't have to slice through any walls."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I'll move faster on my own," Zoro grumbled. He raised and lowered his arm violently with Usopp still clinging to him, yelping through clenched teeth.

"And if you mistakenly slice Lana in half by cutting down a wall while she's on the other side?" Robin mused morbidly.

"Yeah, Robin, that's it! Psyche him out with the power of your secret inner darkness," Usopp cheered. Zoro finally managed to shake him off and he fell to the ground in a dazed heap. "So dizzy..."

"In addition to helping you locate the doors, I can help keep a lookout as well," Robin informed Zoro. As if to prove her point, she materialized a dazzlingly bright blue eye on the wall at eye level with the swordsman. "I may even be able to locate Lana in advance."

"I'll know when she's close," Zoro retorted. His observation haki was still rough, but he imagined he was familiar enough with Lana's presence that he would be able to feel her when he drew near to her. He sheathed Shusui. "But... I guess a few extra sets of eyes couldn't hurt."

"You two have fun," Usopp called after them, recovering and hauling himself back to his feet. "Robin, try to make him be subtle! And don't let him get lost!"

"I'll see what I can do," she promised in parting.

_________________________________________

<== Previous Chapter

Next Chapter ==>

== First Chapter ==

[flamurai]

❛ let me stay like this in you for a little bit. ❜

answered prompt for @mizukokyu ! ( selectively accepting. )

     𝐒𝐎 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄, 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐓𝐇 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐒. withdrawing from him, only to push back inside in one swift motion. eyes glimmered, observing as though mesmerized and thoroughly taken by the display set so beautifully before him. their breath mingled, those elegant hands stationed behind knees compressing, keeping them raised and only tightening with progression. bruises decorate freckle peppered skin, appearing harsh and yet harboring something akin to 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 ! markings worn, no shame to forfeit should they be seen. however, there is a semblance of shame carried through his timbre. curdled whines bubbling from chest, trembling thighs squeezing around hips as words form breathlessly. ❛ please , giyu. ❞ that name, sweet upon tongue, spills through the crevices of fingers meant to stifle. you're always too loud, they'll hear you. it doesn't concern them now.

     it feels good, you can't stop. nothing short of 𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 and yet cheeks bloom with scarlet. was this how it felt ? such irony, now pleading, pining after it. his own desires burning through to move against him despite opposing wishes. alas, they would remain ever stagnant : that hold is unrelenting, demeanor calm but seeming to lose himself. ❛ you need to move ! ❞ voice no longer found strength to properly command, sounding so desperate and coaxing for release. a moan befalls parted lips, fingers encircling himself between flush abdomens, every stroke dragging forth a rasp whimper. it's not enough ...

     strange, the wanton 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐇 parading his mind. that primal urge to be filled, and spilled into as though it were nature running course. perhaps that is the sole reason for his embarrassment. flesh always betrays, unveils your vulnerability when bared. ❛ i can't ... wait , i need to ❞ then hips drift, crashing as waves would the shore, and sending his head aback. the gasp to tear from his throat would diminish stealth, alerting any passerby to their misdeeds. but pay them no mind, the world no longer existed.

[theopenbookwigtown]

🏡 Back home in Shropshire, but what a week it's been. 🌟

Grateful for everyone who joined our journey - the locals' warmth, the visitors' love for The Open Book. 😍

It's been the most wholesome week we've ever had.

🗓 18th - 23rd July 2023: ⏰ 41 hours open 🤝 319 people greeted 🐶 16 adorable dog visitors 📚 81 books found new homes

As I've been doing all the posting this week, Gary wanted to say something...

I did not want to be a bookseller. I wanted even less to pay for the privilege.

Stephy had other ideas, however, and it’s in my nature to follow her lead even when I’m convinced she’s gone off the deep end. And so, in 2017, we booked our place at the end of a 3-year wait and Stephy impatiently dreamt of our upcoming trip. This, I believe, is called “foreshadowing.”

2 days before our trip in 2020, we were all locked in our homes for the foreseeable future. And so, in 2020, we booked our place at the end of a 3-year wait and Stephy impatiently dreamt of our upcoming trip.

I tell you this to emphasise that, despite two 3 year waits and a pandemic, I was no more enthusiastic about our bizarre little holiday. I was convinced that we would see too few customers and I would be bored out of my mind or, much worse, that we would see too many and I would be forced to relive the retail experience that made me promise “never again” as a teenager. Either way, I was terrified that my anxiety and my atrophied social skills would leave me trapped in a solid week of awkward interactions and uncomfortable silences.

I ran these scenarios in my head, preparing myself for any eventuality, but I could never have anticipated that I would fit in almost immediately. We were soon visited by many of the locals, invited to events and welcomed into their stores as though we were regulars. This strange, wonderful place embraced us with everything from casual Good Mornings shared across the quiet road as we all set up our signs and displays, to conversation in the street to compare notes after closing. It is rare that I feel a sense of belonging, but I found it here and instantly fell in love.

With the help of Stephy's boundless energy and contagious enthusiasm, I fully discarded my shell within days and, by week's end, was actively greeting everyone who walked through the door with a genuine “How are you today?” like some kind of crazy person.

It was in this question that I found the real treasure of this place, the thing that makes The Open Book far more than the sum of its parts: Those who visit, do so looking for a story or two, sure, but if you ask them, and if you listen, they often gift you a story in return. We encountered people bursting with the kind of joy and wisdom that only comes from a life well lived and learned important life lessons that we will carry with us forever. All it took was a word and an ear.

The dream, the one I didn't understand, can be found here in Wigtown but you are missing the point if all you are looking for is a quaint, cosy stay in a bookshop. The Open Book wouldn't work anywhere else because The Open Book is Wigtown. There is a perfect storm here. The right people in the right place at the right time with the right idea have created something truly magical. How else can I describe something wonderful that shouldn't exist, but does anyway?

This is a place where a modern shop with modern comforts exists but the penny sweet is alive and well, where a parade of 40 horses might run right by your front door and bagpipe music can be described as "spontaneous", where a "little concert" is both cosy and breathtaking in equal measure, where you can enter a store to the sound of live banjo music and learn of the owners attempts to purchase a life-sized triffid, and where you will learn the secret to a long happy life is to pull up your socks, always be curious, never stop learning, and buy a second TV for your spouse.

In just one week, a bookstore had become a home, a handful of strangers had become neighbours and friends and a holiday I would gladly have missed had become a memory that I will cherish always. I leave this place healed and inspired, thankful for the kindness and the stories that I will take home with me, and saddened beyond measure to say goodbye so soon.

I did not want to be a bookseller, but I will be forever grateful that I was.

Until next time, Wigtown.

💛 Stephy & Gary

[lovemylegcasts]

The midday sun warmed the pavement, casting long shadows behind parade floats and flags. Music pulsed through the streets, echoing off high-rises. Rainbow confetti fluttered down like snow, and the cheers of the crowd made the city feel electric.

Brett sat in a lightweight wheelchair, his leg stretched out in front of him, wrapped in a loud and proud rainbow fiberglass cast that extended from just below his knee all the way over his ankle and arch, stopping just before the toes. The colors were vivid—red fading into orange, yellow, green, blue, and finally violet curling around his heel. His toes were the only part of his foot left bare, slightly elevated, entirely visible, and catching more attention than he expected.

His boyfriend, Jordan, walked behind him, pushing the chair with steady hands and a broad grin. Jordan’s tank top matched the cast—rainbow stripes over his chest, a small trans flag pin on the shoulder. He leaned forward, speaking into Brett’s ear over the noise.

“Feeling alright, babe?”

Brett smiled, shifting slightly. “Yeah. A little weird, to be honest.”

Jordan slowed them down to a stop beneath a shaded tree at the edge of the crowd. “Weird how? Pain?”

“No, not really,” Brett said. “It’s actually pretty comfortable right now. Just… my foot feels exposed, you know? Like I’ve got half a sock on, and the rest of me forgot to get dressed.”

Jordan crouched beside him, one hand resting gently on Brett’s shin, just above the cast. His eyes traveled down to Brett’s toes, sticking out of the vibrant fiberglass like they were on stage.

“Well,” Jordan said with a mischievous grin, “you do have your toes sticking out for the world to admire.”

Before Brett could respond, Jordan reached forward and lightly brushed his fingers across the ball of Brett’s foot—just under the toes where the skin was soft and bare. Brett twitched instantly.

“Hey!” Brett yelped with a surprised laugh.

Jordan chuckled, clearly not done. He gently used two fingers to trace between Brett’s toes—slow, deliberate strokes that made Brett’s whole body jolt. His leg gave a tiny involuntary kick.

“Jordan!” Brett laughed again, voice half-scolding, half-gasping. “That’s evil!”

Jordan’s grin only widened as he leaned back on his heels. “What? I was checking your foot for signs of… you know… sensitivity.”

“Between my toes?” Brett shook his head, still smiling. “You’re lucky I didn’t knee you in the face.”

“I figured it was safe,” Jordan said, glancing at the cast. “There’s nowhere for you to run.”

Brett smirked, wiggling his freshly-tickled toes. “They’ve been cold all morning, and now you’ve officially made them hyperaware of their existence.”

Jordan stood and leaned down to press a kiss to Brett’s big toe. “You’re cute when you squirm.”

Brett sighed dramatically. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I know.”

They sat a moment as the parade continued. Brett looked down at his toes, still flexing now and then from the lingering sensation. It was strange how vulnerable he felt—but not in a bad way. The open air, the movement, the freedom… it made him feel more seen than ever.

“You know,” Brett said, voice quieter, “I wasn’t sure I wanted to come today. After the break, after surgery, I thought I’d just stay in bed.”

“I’m really glad you didn’t,” Jordan said.

“Me too,” Brett replied. “Even like this… leg wrapped up, foot on display… I still feel like I belong. That I’m part of something.”

“You are part of something,” Jordan said. “And you’re rocking that cast better than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

Just then, a group of drag performers passed by and one pointed at Brett’s leg with a joyful shout. “Yes honey! That cast is serving rainbow justice!”

Brett laughed. “That might be the best compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

Another person asked if they could sign the cast. Jordan handed them a marker, and soon the orange and yellow bands of the cast were decorated with messages like “QUEER STRONG” and “Toes Out, Pride Out.”

As they moved on, Jordan gave Brett’s shoulder a squeeze. “Want me to push a little slower now, or are you ready for round two?”

Brett smiled down at his toes—still warm from the sun and that ridiculous, perfectly-timed tickle—and gave Jordan a playful look.

“Only if you keep your hands to yourself this time.”

Jordan smirked. “No promises.”

And together, they rolled back into the swirling, joyful current of Pride—colorful, connected, and completely themselves.