#has me cut him some straight copper

[vaguelydefinedshapes]

omg someone give this guy an award for Most Annoying Customer

[marvelfanfics1]

Saving Him

Summary: You save Rafe from being attacked by Groff, getting hurt in the process.

Pairing: daddy!rafe x little!reader

Warnings: age regression (briefly at the end), hand injury, blood, knife, cursing

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The bike comes to a stop near a well and Rafe waits for you to get off first before he slides off as well, taking off his goggles and you do the same.

You cough, your throat burning from the sandy wind and lack of hydration, wiping the sweat from your forehead.

Rafe stands in front of you, placing his hand on your arms he lowers his head to meet your eyes. "You good?"

"Mhm...just thirsty." You rasp and he turns to Groff.

"Get some water." He demands and you all walk over to the well, only to realize there's no water in it and Rafe sighs. "Don't worry I'll get you something soon, yeah?"

You simply nod, going to sit on the edge of the well while Rafe talks to Groff.

"Tell us about this crown. What is it worth? Street value, rough estimate." He crouches down in front of you with a hand on your knee he points a finger at the man you don't trust at all, having had a bad feeling about him the whole time. "This shit better be worth our time. Do you understand?"

"Oh, it's worth a fortune." Groff states. "It's one of the most sought-after relics in the world. Owned by Caesar, hunted by Napoleon, said to grant wishes and make the bearer indomitable."

"Holy shit! Holy shit!" Rafe curses, standing back up straight again to face Groff. "That wasn't even close to answering my question. What is it worth?"

"Hundreds of millions."

Rafe purses his lips, almost scoffing. "You're full of shit."

"Am I?"

"Hundreds of millions." He repeats. "Wait I- what, you got a buyer or something?"

"Yeah, I got a buyer." Groff answers confidentially.

"Where?"

"Ever been to Lisbon?" He smirks and you scoff at the way he talks as if this whole situation isn't bothering him. That he screwed Rafe freaking Cameron over 400k.

Rafe smiles, approaching him. "Look at you, Groff. A'ight. Always got a plan. Well, you screwed me and my girl. And then you lost my money to those mercenaries, a'ight? So now you're gonna be my bitch."

You smirk at that, that's your man right there.

"And if you're lucky, I give you a little taste on the back end, okay?" He continues, leaning a little closer to whisper so you can't hear. "If I let you live."

On Rafe's demand Groff rolls out the map beside you, showing you both how to read it with the strange necklace thingy that shows things you can't see on the map.

Rafe hands it to you so you can take a look as well and you gasp that it actually works, now this is something you'll rub in his face whenever he says magic is not real, your little self beaming at the sight and begging to make a remark. "That's crazy..."

You give it back to Rafe, not listening how Groff talks about how the crown gives power, only lifting your head when you see him pulling something out of his pocket in your peripheral vision.

Suddenly Groff lungs at Rafe and you instantly react before Rafe even gets the chance and push him to the side just as Groff wields the knife.

You yelp when the knife cuts the inside of your hand, taking a few steps back to clutch your wrist, hissing in pain.

Rafe hurriedly gets back on his feet and takes control of the situation, seeing how Groff now balances himself to not fall into the well behind him, giving him a little nudge to make him fall backwards.

Groff's yell has you sighing in relief momentarily, knowing he isn't a bother anymore, seeing how Rafe leans over the edge.

"HA HA! CHECKMATE BITCH!" Rafe screams.

You whimper, screwing your eyes shut tightly and trying to blend out the stinging pain in your hand, starting to sniffle. "Daddy..."

Rafe turns at the sound of you crying for him, rushing over to you. "You idiot. C'mere let me see..."

You yelp when he takes your hand. He examines the injury and your bottom lip quivers at the amount of blood, the scent of copper penetrating your nostrils. "Hurts..."

"I know, I know. Come, we gotta wrap it up." He shushes you, leading you back over to the bike.

He rummages through the sidecar for anything that resembles alcohol, luckily finding a small bottle together with a rag and unscrewing the cap of the bottle he grabs your hand again. "A'ight, this is gonna sting...here bite into my arm yeah?"

He pushes back the sleeve of the jacket and the shirt he's wearing, lifting his arm to your mouth so you can bite into it which he knows you most definitely will.

"Okay, one, two-" he pours the alcohol over your hand without waiting to three, knowing it would hurt a little less when it's unexpected.

You bite into his forearm with all your might, a loud whine escaping your throat, your eyes shut tightly again.

Rafe doesn't even wince, continuing to disinfect the wound thoroughly all the while soothing you with assuring words.

"There we go. All over, you're so brave, I'm proud of you..." He murmurs, pulling his arm away from your mouth he wraps the rag around your hand, tying it securely to prevent any more blood loss.

You're still sniffling, burying your face in his chest. "M'sorry...had to save you, daddy."

Rafe sighs, wrapping his arms around you he kisses the top of your head. He's actually so fucking proud of you for your courage but he's also mad that you got hurt only because he let his guard down for a second.

"Don't be sorry. Everything's okay." He says, pulling back to look down at you. "Let's go get this crown."

Taglist

For everything:

@my-river-lilly @pauntedblacknails @fanfictioniseverything @devilslilbabysblog @buckymydarlingangel @hallecarey1 @daybreakwinter @loveshineslikethesky @wandaslittlewhore @vase-of-lilies @white-wolf1940 @simpingbutch @mischiefsemimanaged @alina02 @teddybearsgrr @doozywoozy @angelbabydoll28 @glxwingrxse @lilymurphy03 @veryvaughnny @lokigirlszendaya @youngstarfishdinosaur @little--baby--bear @minideathgoddess @rach2602 @gh0stgurl @flourishandblotts-inc @lovelyy-moonlight @yoruse

@mythixmagic @iris-xoxo-juhu

For Rafe:

@chiaraanatra @chimindity @erikasurfer

[the-heartlines]

ablaze

jacela | {e. 1.7k}

just some smutty jacela consummation post their secret valyrian wedding 😌

"My prince," his princess whispers in his ear, sending a shock of pleasure down Jace's spine. He bit his sliced lip dried with blood, remembering how hers had tasted. Bittersweet, twangy with copper and he longed to taste more, which causes him to tense under her hand.

Her hand that has a firm fist wrapped around his cock...entirely. 

"How does it feel, my husband?" Baela repeated, licking her cut lip, eyes mesmerized by her husband's girth wrapped wonderfully within her hand. Jace could only gasp, his thoughts and words leaving him, as he bit into the meat of his tender lip harder when she squeezes around the base of his shaft, starting to milk him slow and steady now.

Baela quickly licked the blood that began to drip from it again, almost moaning when her husband's taste hit her tongue. "Tell me it feels good, Jacaerys." She said breathlessly, her cunt already wet, since the moment she eyed Jace hard and leaking, aching for her touch.

"B-Baela," he groans her name now, his eyes opening, staring straight into hers and he swears he can see the light emanating from her violet eyes, the pure blinding, burning brightness lingering beneath her skin; the depth of her heart and soul staring back at him. It makes his heart race faster, her hand stroke faster over him in tandem.

"Fuck," Jace curses, blushing, bucking upwards when she traces the crown of his cock, spreading his seedy fluids along his length to aid her precise movements. "You fit so perfectly in my hand, Jace. You were made for me. Say it, husband." Jace's stomach tenses, love and lust spiraling inside him like a huge storm ready to break. Her words are a balm for his wounded heart, each syllable sewing him back together, making him whole once more. 

"I n-need-"

You. Is what Jace wants to say but her lips are on his, her mouth stealing his kisses beautifully, sealing tightly to him, never wanting to let go.

"I know." Baela murmurs against his mouth, pressing her forehead to his, smiling stunningly against his lips, before her hand stills and she unwraps it around his length. 

"Wait," Jace whines, biting his lip once more, embarrassed at the desperation in his voice, because he was close; so, so to the purest and holiest ecstasy of his life.

"Patience, my sweet prince," Baela only laughs, playfully chastising him and the sweet sound echoes of his bedchambers, making his heart beat a hundred times faster.

Then her violet eyes are gazing fiercely back at him, full to the brim with a fire that threatens to burn through Jace-both of them-like the most delicious fever.

And Jace wants her to burn him, scorch him, set his skin ablaze, until his bones are anything except ash.

"I have needs as well, my husband." Baela steps away from him and swiftly discards her Valyrian robes, pulling them over her head along with her underthings, until she is as naked as Jace, her copper skin glinting a deeper golden color by the light of the flames. Jace's breath catches in his throat, for he's never seen a sight more beautiful, more brazen, than his wife with her silver-white hair wild and framing her face. The curves of her breast tipped with brown nipples beckon his mouth to them and he's swallowing, salivating with a need to wrap his lips around them, to suck and savor the sweetness of her. "And only you can fulfill them, Jacaerys."

Baela strides towards him gracefully to their bed and Jace hungrily eyes the sway of her hips, the crux of silver-white that matches her curls, that tantalizes him cruelly, hypnotizes him into the most blissful state of silence. His mouth gapes open, drool seeping down his chin, when she climbs astride him, licking the saliva mixed with his blood from his lip and chin, at the same time grasping him by his cock once more, pressing his head into her heat that threatens to suffocate him wickedly. 

"Baela, w-wait!" Jace hisses, but it's too late because she's wrapping her arms around him and sinking her tight, slick cunt onto him in one torturous movement which causes him to thrust all the way inside her, sheathe himself into her body to the hilt, until he's groaning, gasping, cursing at how wondrous, wonderful his wife feels wrapped wholly around him.

"Wife," Jace growls, hugging her breasts to him, placing gentle kisses into the crook of her smooth throat, murmuring his words of praise into her flesh. "You feel exquisite." Baela trembles against him, goose pimples raising along her golden skin, constricting her cunt around him even more and he jerks into her just slightly, barely.

"Oh, fuck, Jace, w-wait!" Baela cries out and Jace pulls his lips from her neck, eyes wide with concern when he sees pain painted onto her face along with tears shiny against her loveliness. 

"My brave princess," Jace presses his lips against hers gently, before his tongue licks away the salt that stains her cheeks, "my brave wife. Let me help you, sweetling. " He snakes his finger in between their bodies clung tightly to one another, joined for always, knowing how to ease his wife's pain, for he is his mother's son. Always observant, an apt listener, learning everything he can.

"Oh gods, Jace." Baela moans when his fingers stroke over her hidden jewel and Jace smirks against her lips when she relaxes her body into his, her body melting into his like lava. "It feels good doesn't it, my wife?" He watches her face relax, contort into one of pure pleasure, eyes opening, lilacs laced with the utmost lust, outlined in love. 

"I love you, B-Baela!" Jace confesses finally when her body lifts off his only to thrust down upon him once more.

"Then fuck me, my love." She hisses into his ear, all her fire and blood coursing through her veins and into him, making him tremble with the utmost need, to satiate and satisfy the dragons awakening beneath the surface.

And this time he meets her half way, with as much passion and intensity that burns through him; for he shall always burn for her, be the other half of her whole, completely, until the end of his days.

"Yes, wife, yes!" Jace cries, a loud sound that echoes off their bedchambers, along with the sounds of their bodies melding, becoming one soul, one heart. 

"Finish in me please, Jacaerys, please." This admission spurs Jace on as he grips Baela to him tighter, one hand pulling her hair back, one hand on the plush flesh of her hip, watching his cock disappear inside her slick heat, eyeing her creamy fluids upon him. His sac tightens at the sight, but Jace wants to see her shatter around him, to drown in the drenched honeyed juices of her cunt. "Fingers, husband. I need more." Baela begs, panting, hips humping against him desperately, and it awakens the feral beast lurking beneath fully, and he yanks on her hair harder, hard enough for his wife to whimper out. "Then use yours, my sweet wife. Touch yourself for me, my brave girl."

"You're cruel, Jacaerys Velaryon." Baela grits out, groaning, beginning to expertly rub over her clit, closing her eyes. But Jacaerys has other plans, latching onto one of her nipples, sucking and nibbling on it lightly with his teeth. "Ah! No teeth!" But her cunt clamps around him tighter so he bites harder, releasing her nipple from his mouth with a lewd pop. "Keep your eyes open, on me, wife." Jace wraps his mouth around her other nipple sucking it between his plump lips, fondling the other bitten one, watching his wife's hooded eyes, her lips part, if to cry out, so Jace bites into her other nipple, tearing a strangled cry from her lips, followed by his name.

"Jace!" Baela shrieks, rubbing over her clit faster and harsher, before she's reaching the highest point of her peak, body shaking, convulsing, clinging on to him for dear life, less she fall, crumble around him. 

So her dragon prince, her husband wraps his arms around him, hugging his princess to him, clinging to his wife for dear life.

"Baela, Baela, Baela," he grunts, against her tender breasts, "give me everything." And she does a second time, flooding him with her release, her honeyed sweetness that  takes and takes everything in him, milking him, and then her lips are on his stealing the breath out of his lungs.

"Yes, yes, sweet husband, now give me your son." Baela pants against his lips dreamily and Jace is the one shouting, gritting his teeth, crying out, convulsing against hers. Because he will give her a son. A son with his father's chestnut curls, with his mother's deep golden skin, with eyes the color of dark amethysts. 

"Our son," he croaks hoarsely against Baela's lips and tears of happiness spring forth from his eyes as the last of his seed is milked from his body, flowing and flooding into his wife's womb. One that will flourish, will bring forth their babe.

They fall onto their marriage bed together, into each other's arms, made whole by their union, their joyous love-making.

Jace's head is nestled in between Baela's chest, listening to her heart beat slow, his fingers lazily stroking over her toned belly, dreaming of it swelling underneath his hand.

"Lucerys," she strokes over his curls and Jace glances upwards, confused at her smiling, satiated face, until the realization dawns on him at what she means. 

"Yes," Jace mumbles, kissing the skin in between her breasts, running his tongue downwards over, dipping the tip of it into her navel, hearing her breath hitch. "Yesss," he says more hoarsely now, mouth watering and nostrils flaring, the scent of both him and her hitting his senses. "Yesss," and then his tongue is languidly licking her folds, tasting, savoring both seed and slick, ravenously beginning to devour the more of his wife's little noises that fill his ears.

And Jacaerys keeps his hand upon Baela's stomach the entire time, cock hardening at the thought of doing this a thousand more times, with his wife's belly swelling, growing with another strong seed. Another son born of fire and blood to replace one loss. Their Lucerys.

[sparxwrites]

you were asking why (i just couldn't let it go)

title is from devil and the deep blue sea’s “ashland”, which you should ideally listen to on loop while you read this. ambiguous hermitcraft slash life series modern au sort of setting. bon appetit. [ao3]

“Scar.” Grian’s got his legs spread comfortably wide in the passenger seat. The left one’s bouncing. Knee knocking against the car door like a drum beat, off-tempo with the thrum of the engine. Thump thump thump thump. “Let me take a turn driving.”

Gaze turned ahead, staring straight through the windscreen, Scar says nothing.

“Scar,” says Grian, again, and this time he turns his head to look at Scar’s profile. Curve of the nose, slightly crooked from– and the cupid’s bow of his lips, incongruously feminine, the furrowed eyebrows, same shade of chestnut as his hair. Skin just a bit too pale. On the greyish side, even, maybe. It wasn’t like that half an hour ago. “Scar, let me drive.”

“It’s fine,” drawls Scar, sing-song insincere. There’s a specific tone of voice he only pulls out when he’s lying. It’s this one. “I’m fine! Perfectly good for another hour’s driving. We’re not even halfway there yet. And what sort of a friend would I be if I made you drive more than halfway, hmm?”

He’s still looking straight ahead. Straight through the windscreen.

Grian falls silent again. Leg still bouncing. Thump thump thump. Thump thump thump. Thumpthumpthump– 

“Stop the car.”

“What?” Scar finally looks away from the road, finally, finally turns to look at him, and there’s those eyes, green as the light before a storm– that crooked nose, head-on– that scar that cuts from forehead to the corner of the mouth, wide and purple-red despite a year’s worth of healing, right side of the face, invisible in profile when he’s in the driver’s seat, thank fucking god it’s invisible, or Grian would have–

“I said stop the fucking car.”

–he’d have– already–

“I told you, Grian, I’m fine. I’m not a baby, I don’t need to be coddled–” 

Scar’s eyes are still off the road, and than god it’s mostly straight, thank god it’s somewhere rural, thank god there’s nothing and no one else on the road, or they’d be risking an accident with Scar looking at him like that for so long. Thank god. Thank god it’s just them, alone, in this car, on this endless coastal road in the middle of nowhere, with nothing for them to but fucking look at each other, because– otherwise– an accident–

“If you don’t stop this car right now, I’m going to be sick in it,” says Grian, as though from very far away.

Scar hits the breaks like it’s an emergency stop. He’s precious about his car, his Swaggon, his copper-blue baby. Doesn’t want any vomit in it. Thank god they’re both wearing seatbelts, because they don’t need– not another–

“Grian! You should have said!”

His voice is a little indulgent, a little worried, and Grian’s not listening. He’s pawing at the seatbelt catch, at the door handle, like he’s some dumb little animal that’s forgotten it has opposable thumbs. He’s scrambling out the seat. He’s half-falling out the door. He’s on all fours, knees in the grass, sea air in his lungs, pushing himself up with his heart hammering in his chest.

Behind him, Scar climbs out too. He’s a bit too long-limbed for how low down the seats are, has to unfold himself out of the car. He’s just a bit too slow about it to be quite right, too. Probably for the best Grian can’t see it, but he can hear it, and he know what it looks like, saw it at the petrol station they stopped at for snacks and the bathroom, remembers the twist of his guts at the caution–

Grian picks himself up, slowly. The damp of the grass has left little circles of wet on the knees of his trousers. Clamminess on his palms.

Scar meanders round to stand on the grass, too, rather than middle of the road. Rural or no, probably a good idea. He’s stretching the fingers one hand, a spidery little gesture, fumbling his phone out his pocket with the other. Grian’s not missed the way his hands are shaking. Grian’s not missed the way he’s rotating his wrist, like it’s hurting him, like it aches, deep, bone-painful, post-surgery ligament. Chronic.

“Should I text Cleo or something?” he’s saying, as he does it, like he’s not in pain, like it’s not Grian’s fault. That broad and expansive warmth Scar always has in his voice. The sincerity of it is nauseating. He doesn’t seem bothered at all. “How long do you think you’re going to need? If it’s more than half an hour, I should probably text Cleo and let her know. Let everyone know, but Cleo’s the most likely to check her phone. And the most likely to chew me out if I don’t tell her, which is the most important– I didn’t know you got car sick! You should have said something earlier, Grian. Oh– I might have some pills for uh, uh, nausea, in my bag, do you think they’d help with car sickness? Grian? I’m not pressuring you, take as long as you need, I just think we should let the others know if we’re going to be–”

Except Grian’s already gone, striding off, off over the grass, towards where the ground falls off into sky and sea and endless horizon.

“Grian! Where are you–? Grian! Wait! For– goodness’ sake, I–” Grian hears the footsteps, the odd stumble-hiss as a knee gives way, the bitten-off curse. “Grian, wait, I need to get my–” Car door opening, the clunk and clatter of Scar trying to get his cane out the back seat, thunk of his knee against the doorframe as he leans his bodyweight against it and tries not to fall over.

Grian doesn’t stop walking.

It’s not fair, of course. On Scar, that is. Not fair that he’s striding off like this, and Scar’s going to exhaust himself stumbling to catch up over unsteady ground. Even with the cane, it’s going to leave him tired and aching for the rest of the day. Grian knows this. He keeps walking anyway, because there’s nothing else he can do right now, and maybe if he just doesn’t think about the consequences–

“Grian–!”

It’s more distant, now, behind him. Could be miles behind him. It feels like he’s run for miles, though he hasn’t gone faster than a brisk walk, hasn’t been going for more than a minute or two. His chest is very tight, breathless. His head feels very empty, for something so full.

The closer he gets to the sea, the more the sky swallows up his vision, like he’s falling forward into nothingness. There’s clouds rolling in, carrying a storm with them, a thick wall in white to black-grey right across the width of the sky. The temperature’s dropping. The breeze is picking up. It tastes like salt on his tongue, half-bloody, the electric tang of ozone on his molars.

Grian’s suddenly three feet from the edge of a cliff, and all he can smell is sea. All he can see is sky.

“Grian!” And finally, finally the saccharine is gone from Scar’s voice, finally he’s speaking from his chest, low gravel, genuine fear. “Grian, come– come away from the edge, come on, that– it might not be stable– just a few feet back. Come on now.”

Grian turns his back on him, turns his face into the breeze, and closes his eyes. Inhales. Exhales.

When he opens them again, glances over his shoulder, Scar’s still fifteen feet back. He’s leaning heavily on his cane, bent a bit at the waist, panting. It might just be the light, but he looks more sallow than he did before. The wind’s tossing his hair around. There’s grey in it, now, Grian realises, on the underneath and the back. That’s new. That wasn’t there a year ago.

“It’s not fair,” he says, distant as the clouds, light as a bird. Almost as if it’s not him speaking at all. “What happened, I mean. It’s not fair.”

Scar’s face is unreadable, under the exertion, the pain, the knife-edge of fear. “Grian,” he says, voice flat. “I’m not going to comfort you about the fact that we were both in a– an accident, and I got life-changing injuries and you got a mild concussion. That’s ridiculous. Come on, let’s– let’s go back to the car.”

It wasn’t an accident, and they both know it. It’s kind of him to pretend that it was, though. To the police, and to their friends, and now to Grian’s face. Very kind of him indeed.

Too kind of him, as a matter of fact. Grian sort of hates him for it.

“I’m not– that’s not– you don’t understand–”

“What, then?” And oh, now he’s lost his patience. Now Grian’s annoyed him. Grian’s always been good at that. Getting under people’s skin. “Come on, you tell me what it’s about, Grian, because right now it seems like that’s exactly what it’s about! In fact, it seems like that’s what this whole damn drive has been about, actually, because you’ve been like this ever since I picked you up! And, oh, you know me, I’m a patient man, Grian, I’m a nice man, but I’m not really in the mood for playing a second round of games on a clifftop with–”

“It should have been me!” The words burst out of him. Detonation, flock of startled doves, landslide. For half a heartbeat, he is somewhere else entirely. “It was– it was my stupid idea, and it was my stupid fault, and I was the one that organised the stupid bloody trip in the first place, and– and now we’re about to go back, and do it all all over a-fucking-gain, another stupid bloody trip, like nothing ever happened. And I wanted– I want it to be– it should have–”

Scar’s face creases, then. Folds itself something gentler than frustration. Something like pity presses in, corner of his eyes, set of his mouth.

Grian preferred it when he looked halfway to mad.

“Grian. Grian,” says Scar, softly. “Okay. Hey. Grian. Come on. You went over that edge, too, G. Right after me. Remember?”

And I fucking walked away from it, Grian doesn’t say, and I didn’t want to walk away from it if you weren’t going to, and That was supposed to be my penance. His chest feels like it’s about to explode.

“It wasn’t the same,” is what he settles on, hands curled into fists, voice tight. Chin raised like he’s looking for a fight.

“...No.” Scar looks at him, level, eyes as green as the light through the clouds. He’s leaning heavily on his cane. He’s seeing too much, and Grian knows it, but he doesn’t look away. “It wasn’t. And there’s not much either of us can do about that. Is there?”

And it’s true. That’s the worst part. It’s true. There’s not much else to say, really. They both know what happened. They both were there when it happened.

Grian is, all of a sudden, not sure he has the energy for a fight about this after all.

“Never did work out how you went over the cliff edge, actually.” Scar’s voice is too even. His eyes are too fucking green. “None of the others were around, I’ve been told, so they don’t seem to know either. And, now, I know my brain was a bit scrambled by the whole thing, but… still. I seem to remember you were a little ways back from me. When it happened. Out of range, maybe, even.”

Grian says nothing, but he does look away. Looks up at the sky. The wall of clouds is almost above him now, pure black underneath, a physical presence bearing down. The tender little bits inside his ears hurt with the change in atmospheric pressure. The first few drops of rain hit him as he stands there, face upturned. They land just below his left eye.

“Grian,” says Scar. He sighs. Holds out a hand, the one not curled around the top of his cane. It shakes. “Come back to the car.”

Grian goes not move.

“G. Come on. Come on, I– you. You’re my friend.” Scar’s voice cracks on the word friend, like a knife slid clean between Grian’s ribs. His face creases again, with something more complicated than understanding, something deeper than fear. Something worse than forgiveness. “I… you’re my friend. Okay? I need–” He says it like a confession. “Come on, G. Step away from the edge. Let’s go back to the car.”

“...Only if you let me drive,” says Grian. It’s stupid. It’s stubborn. It’s inane. There’s nothing else he can find it in himself to say.

He should say sorry, probably. Perhaps. But he doesn’t.

“Yes, yes, fine, you can drive! You can drive. …Honestly, you might have to, after making me chase you all the way over here.” It’s barely a hundred yards from the car, which Scar doesn’t seem inclined to mention, and so like hell is Grian going to. “I’m not a young man any more, Grian! Can’t be running around, fro– frolicking in meadows and all that. I’m too old for that now. Too old…”

“Pushing forty, even, some have said.”

“Hey! Watch it, you.”

Grian can see the way Scar’s shoulders drop when he takes the first step away from the cliff edge. Back towards Scar.

“Some people! Some people. Not me. I would never say something like that.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Scar grumbles, still watching Grian like a hawk. “You know, I’d have let you drive when you first asked, if I’d known you were going to be such a drama queen about it.”

“Eh. You know me. Can’t resist a bit of drama.”

“You hate drama.”

“Do not.”

“Ren’s been trying to get you to go LARPing with him for years, and every time he brings it up, you say, oh, no thanks, I don’t like–”

Grian gets within three feet. Scar lunges.

He drops the cane to throw both arms round Grian’s neck, like he’s clinging to a lifeline. He’s too tall for this, and not steady enough on his feet, and Grian’s too short and too shocky to support him right, but Scar doesn’t seem to care. He grabs, and clings, limpet-like. His hands find the back of Grian’s knit jumper, the soft little hairs at the nape of his neck, tangle into them. His breath is very hot against the side of Grian’s face.

Grian, dumb little animal, is too shocked to do anything but stand there and take it. 

After a moment, he blinks once. Twice, for good measure. Exhales like it’s been punched out of him. “Scar,” he says, weakly, “I–”

“If you throw yourself off a cliff for me again as some weird sort of pin– peen– penat– you-know-what-I-mean, I will kill you myself, Grian.” Scar’s voice is low, and deadly serious. Grian can feel the rumble of it in his ribs, where they’re pressed chest to chest, plastered together through the sheer force of Scar’s terror. He can also feel the way Scar is trembling. “Do you understand?”

Grian thinks it’s a rhetorical question until Scar shakes him – as best as he can when he’s leaning on Grian for support like a human cane, anyway.

“Grian. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, yeah, I understand,” says Grian, and gets shaken again for his troubles. His teeth rattle, a little. Scar’s still got some force behind his movements, despite the chronic pain and the balance issues and the fucked up joints. He must have a good physio, Grian thinks, and then wishes he hadn’t. “...Yes, Scar. Yes. I understand.”

Grian doesn’t mention the trembling. Scar doesn’t press on the again. They’re both kind like that. Only to each other, though.

“Good.” Scar’s voice is firm, like he isn’t trembling. Though, come to think of it, maybe that’s less shock-fear and more pain. Grian’s fault, twice over. “Good, okay. Okay! So. Here’s what we’re going to do, then. Here’s the plan.” 

He half-releases Grian – hand still clutched in his shirt – and bends painfully, stiffly, to pick up the cane. Nearly falls over. Grian doesn’t help him, and doesn’t know why he doesn’t, still stood half-frozen in Scar’s grip. Scar doesn’t ask him for help, but he also doesn’t let go.

“We’re going to sit in the car for at least fifteen minutes–” Scar straightens up, gets the cane settled, starts off at an unsteady lope back towards the car. Hand still tangled in Grian’s shirt. “–and we’re going to eat our snacks, and drink some water, and I’m going to text Cleo that we’re going to be late so she doesn’t shout at us–” As he warms up to his monologue, some of the trembling eases off. Not enough, not nearly enough, but some of it. Grian breathes a little easier. “–and you can take some of my uhhh. Those pills. The ones that stop you feeling sick. Oh, shoot, though, I don’t think you’re supposed to take them while driving–”

“Scar,” says Grian, quietly. “It wasn’t car sickness.”

“Oh.” 

Scar pauses a moment, thinks about that – though he might just be catching his breath, too. Grian silently switches sides, to the one without the cane, and nudges his shoulder against Scar’s ribs until Scar wraps an arm around him with a grateful sigh. The height difference makes it clumsy, but they make it work. They’ve done this before. 

”Okay, in that case, twenty minutes of sitting in the car with snacks, and you have to be the one to text Cleo. As punishment for threatening to be sick in my poor baby. What’s she ever done to you?”

Grian ignores that last bit entirely, and focuses on the more important tasks at hand: helping Scar back to the car, and winning the argument. “Yeah, but if you text her, she’ll be nice to us. If I text her, she’ll bite my head off. And fifteen minutes sitting, not twenty. I’ll go crazy after twenty. Have to go for another walk about it.”

“If you go on another walk to the cliff edge, mister, I’ll kill you. Remember?”

“And then how are you going to get to the campsite? You can’t drive anywhere in this state.” Which is Grian’s fault, but they’re both kindly not mentioning it.

“Hmm. Fair point, fair point.” Scar hisses through his teeth, frustration and pain. “Okay, counter-offer. Fifteen minutes sitting, you text her, but you can blame the delay on poor old me to minimise the biting.”

“Fifteen minutes, I text her and blame you, and you take some painkillers.”

Scar pouts, as only Scar can pout. “They’re gonna make me all sleepy, though, Grian! I’ll sleep through the rest of the trip.”

“That’s fine,” says Grian, easily. They’re less than three feet from the car, now, and it’s starting to rain, and Scar’s putting more weight on Grian than on his cane, but that’s fine. Grian’s not going to mention it. “I can drive the rest of the way. Take a nap, if you’ve got to. I can get us there, no problem.”

Even as he says it, he remembers the last time he told Scar he could do something. Remembers just how much he couldn’t, actually.

Scar doesn’t mention that. Instead, he smiles, indulgent, and ruffles Grian’s hair. “I know you can,” he says, easily. “I trust you.” Just like that. As though it’s that simple.

And for Scar, Grian supposes, maybe it is.

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

Fake It Till You Make It

Arthur Curry x plus size reader

Never pair two borderline insane superheroes together on a mission.

Warnings: black eyes, some injuries, fluff, fake marriage

WC: 716

Minors DNI

Picking up strange undercover missions was your specialty. You couldn’t even count the number of times you had to wear some crazy disguise and sneak into a drug running ring or a mobster dinner party. You have been in outfits ranging from heels taller than your will to live, covered in makeup and wearing jewels worth more than your life, to oil stained coveralls who had last been owned by Superman himself.

But this, this tops the lot. 

“Let me get this straight, you want me to pretend to be married to Aquaman so we can infiltrate a wildlife sanctuary which has been using great white sharks to smuggle drugs and guns over international borders.” Batman’s face remained stoic, as always.

“Yes.”

“And you actually expect this to work.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck, fine I guess. I’ll do it but I expect appropriate compensation.”

“You can’t drive the batmobile.”

“Five minutes.”

“No.”

“I sit in the passenger seat and you drive but I pick the music.”

“…..Fine.”

“Hell yeah! I guess the only thing left to do is to actually meet this fish man.” His eyes narrowed at you from behind his cowl.

“Don’t call him fish man.” You rolled your eyes and huffed.

“Jesus Christ, old man. Lighten up a bit.” His scowl deepened. But before he could reprimand you, there came a mighty yell from down the hall, causing both of you to turn and look at the source. A man, who could only be described as a giant, was barrelling down the corridor, long curly hair flowing behind him wildly as he ran. He was topless, which you greatly appreciated, considering the fact that he was built like a linebacker with tattoos covering every inch of his copper skin.

“Wifey!” And the next thing you knew, his broad shoulder was firmly planted in your soft stomach and you were moving backwards. Your back met the cold floor of the tower and a huge weight settled on top of you. It took you a second to realise what had happened.

“Did you just rugby tackle me?” His head tilted as if to say ‘duh’. He straddled your plump thighs, keeping you pinned to the ground, his hands were planted firmly by your head. Dark curls framed his face as he leaned forward, your noses almost brushing.

“Hi there wifey.” And he smiled brightly. Maybe this mission wouldn’t be too bad.

——————

You were soaked from head to toe, one eye swollen shut from a particularly good punch, your body completely sore from running and a chill that settled on your bones. Arthur wasn’t much better off than you; a few cuts along his arms and stomach, a dark bruise on his jaw.

But you were both smiling widely, still holding hands, your wedding bands glittering in the low light of the batplane.

Batman looked thoroughly exhausted. “What do you mean you’re married for real?”

Arthur shrugged. “We had to make it believable.” You nodded, backing up his point.

“He’s right, we would’ve been caught otherwise.”

“That’s what the forged documents are for!” You glanced at your counterpart, both of you trembled trying to contain your laughter.

“But those are fake, you could tell that from a mile away.”

“So your solution was to get legally married?!” 

“Yep.” “Pretty much.” You spoke at the same time. The older hero collapsed into one of the many seats on the plane, rubbing at his temples.

“I’ll have Alfred draw up the paperwork to get your marriage annulled.”

“No can do pal!” Bruce glanced at Aquaman, already dreading what was about to come out of his mouth next. “We’re married in Atlantean culture too and divorce is not an option.” 

Bruce sat there for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as his brain attempted to comprehend the sheer stupidity of the two people in front of him. And yet, he could only blame himself. Then, he said something he thought he would never have to say: “I should’ve listened to Superman.”

“Yeah you really should have.” You agreed, giving Arthur’s large hand a squeeze as you glanced up at him. “But hey! Now we’re permanent partners and we work really well together!”

“You blew up the wildlife sanctuary.”

“We got all of the animals out first!”

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Arthur Curry 

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[withered-tears]

HERE HE IS. FINALLY.

Meet my dronesona, William.

Many thanks to @1-800-hellyeah for sharing some fantastic refs with me, made the modeling process WAY easier.

Lore dump under the cut for anyone who wanna check it out

W-023 worked on Copper 9 for YEARS, back then life was pretty straightforward for a worker drone. You work. Thats it, thats your life.

Fast forward a couple of decades, the newer workers have started to choose names for themselves. W-023 likes the idea, so he goes with Will.

Fast forward some more, Copper 9's core just collapsed, and Will is EXTREMELY annoyed by it. Because for the last couple of months, Will had actually been building the nerve to revolt and kill a human.

Not for some grand revolution or something like that, nah, he just really, REALLY hated the human in charge of the factory Will worked on. Straight up LOATHED him. Will knew that if he ever attacked a human, it would mean instant disassembling, but fuck it, it was worth it.

Then the core collapsed and killed al humans. Including the one Will was about to bash in the head with a wrench. Years later and he's STILL salty about the timing.

Fast forward some more, drones had begun to build a life for themselves, with many choosing to form communities and staying together. There's also plenty of drones that choose to live by themselves, Will is the later.

Unfortunately, those are the first targets of the DD once they arrive. Only reason Will makes it alive is because there were a LOT of targets running around, and Will happened to be one of the few that made it away.

Not unscathed tho, one of the DD grabbed him by the head and used him as a projectile to hit some other drones. He was able to reattach his hardhat/scalp but now its permanently crooked.

Years of living in hiding on the surface has resulted in many, many injuries. William (he decided that Will sounded to juvenile for him) was forced to mod himself using machinery from his old factory, becoming a scrap drone (like Alice)

His jacket sleeves kept getting caught in the seams of his new arm, so he just cut them off.

He doesnt need the glasses, btw. He stole them from the skeleton of the one guy he wanted to kill.

Although he does fear the DD a reasonable amount (as any sane drone should) he holds zero resentment towards them. Being angry at a DD for killing is like being angry at a worker for working. Its literally what they are made for. its chill.

But he does finds them EXTREMELY suspicious. Something doesn't add up about the DD. He is old, he has seen JCJenson products come and go for a long time, and those three? theres NO WAY those were designed and manufactured by JCJenson.

William becomes a bit of a conspiracy theorist about the DD, trying to figure them out.

[snailsgoingdowntown]

Written at 3am on mobile.

Plz come home blade, this is the "fluffiest" idea I have for you rn, I promise to write a genuine soft fic if you come home soon.

Blade x fem! Reader

Warnings: blood, murder, violent thoughts towards reader, slight dubcon, fear/paranoia, possessiveness, toxic relationship. Like, extremely so. Even blade hates himself for it lmao. Slight (?) Yandere blade

Minors/blank blogs dni.

In which you realize you'll never be able to let go, regardless of what happens.

==

The scent of copper and sight of crimson makes your head dizzy.

He's never killed anyone in front of you before. You always had an inkling that he does, considering he would return from other missions given to him by other people in blood, some wounds healed others not. You've also patched him up before too, wincing at the sight but said nothing.

You wanted to ignore it. Play pretend and smile, but once you learnt his name, the bounty on his head, his actual job...

It wasn't long until you fully cracked, and before you knew it, you started to be fully afraid of him. And yet, you couldn't let go, despite every fiber in your beings screaming at you to run away.

Maybe you should have.

Because the sight you're greeted with is nothing short of horrific -

Seven dead bodies, cut straight through the chest. Some had their skull split open, his sword covered in crimson. You didn't see it action, he told you to cover your eyes.

But it just made everything worse. Their screams still echoing in your head, ears ringing, mind-space blurry and unable to comprehend just what exactly happened here.

You knew he would come even if your brother didn't tell him to. He would always come, and while it seemed romantic at first, it started to worry you later on.

Because he's the only one 'allowed' to hurt you.

This group had chosen the wrong target. You almost pitied them, but as Blade turns around, suppressing a maniac grin, your world comes to a halt. Your ears are buzzing and you can't make out the words he's saying.

"... Why? You - you didn't have to kill them - "

"They would have killed you if I didn't." His voice is steady, so unlike your trembling form. He takes three steps towards you, stopping in place when you scoot away, bare knees surely bruised by now.

"You could have - you could have just taken me before they did anything. You're just - you're just using me as an excuse to - !"

You bite your tongue. Blade wouldn't kill you, right? But from the way his hands would tremble around your neck, how his bites draw blood from your flesh, the bloodlust that hanged in the air even as he would stroke your hair oh so gently. He probably would, someday. He wants to love you whilst killing you.

He's incapable of loving you normally.

You don't move away again when he walks closer. You don't cry when he squats, eye-leveled with you. You don't push his hand away as he gently takes your cheek in his hand.

Blood gets smeared on it, tainting you. From the smile on his face, you think he likes the sight. He always told you how red is a lovely color on you.

You just wish he didn't look at you with dreamy eyes, just right after looking at you like prey.

His thumb wipes away the tears you didn't know you were shedding. More blood smears across your face.

"They hurt you."

"Like you don't?"

Blade hums, free hand moving some stray hairs out of your face. "You know I love you. Right?"

You breathe in. Does he even know the meaning of 'love'? Why does his definition of it has to be so twisted? Why is he so possessive yet distant?

"I wish you would love me normally."

"I can't love like you do." A single kiss to your forehead. And then another to your nose, and then you let him kiss you on the lips. It's soft, gentle. So unlike the grip he has on the back of your neck. Firm enough to keep you in place, fingers twitching as he imagines cracking it.

While at the same time imaging how sweet you look, how he's 'happy' that he came in time -

How much he genuinely loves you.

He's too lucid to deny he wants to hurt you. But he's also too possessive and 'lovestruck' to let go, even when it's common sense.

You're also too deep in to push him away. When his lips start to move against yours, you return it hesitantly.

Why can't you make up your mind?

When Blade pulls away, you think you can see the slightest hint of guilt and self-loathing within those eyes. It leaves as quickly as it's shown, and you're left pondering if you just imagined it.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not sure if I can stop loving you."

[lamaenthel]

Bite Down On This

[read on ao3] [Febuwhump prompt: "Bite Down On This"]

Bly has to do the unthinkable to his General to save her life after a mortar strike wipes out their company.

Characters: CC-5052|Bly, Aayla Secura, Quinlan Vos Wordcount: 868

" …hear me? Bly? Bly, are you alive?"

Bly blinks, takes a deep breath, and almost passes out again. He's face-down in a pile of… something. Something that smells like copper, fire, and human shit. He pushes himself up, his head spinning, and vomits on top of the bisected abdomen of the clone trooper he landed on.

"Get up!" He's yanked sideways, dragged on his back away from the body. Bodies. They're everywhere, he can see that now. "Get it together trooper, I need you."

"Yes, General," Bly tries to say; it comes out more of a blurry, slurred yrrrs gurnnnll.

"Hold on, Blue. We're coming. I got him. See? You were worried for nothing." General Vos tugs him up and forces him to walk on nerveless legs.

"Bly?" His stomach flips at how weak she sounds. "Oh, Bly, I—ah!" She breaks off with a shriek of agony. His stomach flips again.

"We're here. We're here, Blue." General Vos lets go of Bly's cuirass and drops down beside her. "I'm so sorry, honey. This is going to hurt. Bite down on this and take a deep breath, okay?"

Bly focuses on not falling down. His brain is unscrambling, reassembling his memories like scattered puzzle pieces. Aayla was leading their small scouting company from the front, trying to keep up with her old Master's massive stride. Bly was bringing up the rear, avoiding Vos and the looks he kept throwing over his shoulder. There was a whistle over their heads, then…

Mortar! Spread out!

He was at the rear. She was at the front. He was thrown back. She…

"It's okay, Blue. I know, I'm sorry it hurts. I've got you." Vos tightens the tourniquet around her ruined leg, right above what used to be her knee. 

They had some sausages once on Dantooine, made from roba hogs by the locals. They were so grateful for the Republic's arrival. They donated crates upon crates of fresh meat, vegetables, and fragrant blue rice. They'd never eaten so well. Aayla helped them all find sticks to cook the sausages on over the bonfire—her skin glows like midnight in the firelight—and laughed like a bell when he burned his mouth. 

Bard had overcooked his sausage. The end had burst open and split apart in strips, just like Aayla's leg.

"Get down here, Commander." General Vos adjusts them so that Aayla is cradled in his lap, his tree-trunk legs sticking straight out. He puts a hand on her forehead and whispers something Bly can't hear. Her head falls to the side, lekku drooping limp and lifeless. "Take my lightsaber and cut above the tourniquet," Vos orders, tossing it to the dirt in front of him. 

Bly's legs give out. He falls hard onto his shebs, head spinning. "What?"

"You heard me, Commander." Aayla stirs to life in his arms. Vos scowls and closes his eyes. "Sleep," he orders her, loud enough for Bly to hear this time.

There's two sabers laying in the dirt in front of him. Bly unsteadily reaches for the one on the right, grabs a handful of dirt instead. 

"Now!" Vos growls at him. "Sleep." His voice turns gentle when it's directed at her. He's like a father to me. "Good girl. It'll be over soon."

Aayla is dripping sweat and drooling around the leather strap her Master shoved in her mouth. Her head tosses from side to side, struggling to stay awake. Her lekku come to life only to curl up in tight, distressed spirals.

"I…" Bly swallows down a second surge of vomit. They need a medic. Where's their medic? He suddenly remembers the paintjob of the trooper he woke up on.

"Do it!" The Kiffar General—both of them—shoots him a glare that could melt beskar. "I can't keep her unaware much longer, Commander, she's fighting too hard. Do it before she wakes up!"

"Wake up, Commander," she whispers, her lek curling lovingly around his wrist. She trails a graceful finger down his nose, tickles his lips, chases the touch with a delicate kiss. 

"Do it, now!"

Bly pushes the button, goes blind from the green light. He blinks away the spots, stares down at his Aayla's beautiful leg—she hooks it over his hip, uses it to pull him closer as she cries out his name—and stops. "I can't," he says hoarsely. "I can't hurt a Jedi." My Jedi.

"You want her to be awake and screaming while you cut her leg off?" Vos' fury is incandescent, burning like a corona. "Do it, you useless son of a bitch!"

Bly's double vision isn't helped by his tears. "I can't."

"If you don't I will fucking gut you." Vos means it, but he still can't bring himself to bring down the beam. "Do it now, or so help me—"

"Bly," Aayla whimpers around the strap. Her big, beautiful brown eyes flicker open.

"SLEEP." Vos mouths the command directly against her ear cone. Her eyes close, her head falls limply to the side. Vos' eyes meet Bly's, and his vision is finally steady enough to see that the Kiffar is crying. "Do it. Do it while she's asleep, I'm begging you." 

Bly swallows hard, nods, and brings down the blade.

Taglist: @starwarsficnetwork, @febuwhump, @soliloquy-of-nemo Divider: @saradika-graphics

[aqueousablution]

(January-February 2023) Don't mind me, just transing a vintage OC's gender

I opted to skip the original palette proposals for her and jump straight to the finalized one (which later got revised with dark sclerae), and that pistol concept is slightly edited from the initial posting to have a shorter barrel, for reference

Original post bodies under cut (warning, long as fuck):

Post 1 (sorXa & her armor)

Update (1/31/23): Now with mostly-finalized color schemes! The design of sorXa's armor itself needs a little more work, but I think these palettes fit her pretty well (I swear I wasn't intending to make her vaguely cohost-colored)

-

When I woke up I miraculously had the energy to draw, so instead of getting up and taking a shower I spent a few hours brainstorming a massive overhaul of one of my old Lego OCs, because while looking for Zero's missing right hand in my bedroom (as mentioned here) I stumbled upon his old mech walker in a drawer, with him inside it, and because he was vaguely self-insert-y (in the way that many of my long-term D&D PCs tend to be, in that they're not meant to be me per se, but they definitely borrow heavily from my IRL traits) I decided to make him a trans girl¹. I then very quickly hit upon the idea of making her an android (or more properly gynoid, I guess? I'm gonna call her that, anyway), and then further the idea that her old lore was in some capacity canon, but at some point her consciousness was transferred from her old AMAB supersoldier body into a more feminine artificial body untouched by the processes that made her original body a supersoldier. I'm not 100% sure on her name, though I particularly like the Gaelic name Sorcha since it's roughly equivalent to my IRL name, Clara, and I have both Irish and Scottish ancestry²; I might sci-fi it up a bit, maybe, since her deadname was sci-fi nonsense based very loosely on my deadname (same first letter, same ending phoneme, same number of syllables). Maybe borrowing a character from a different alphabet to transcribe the "ch", like Sorχa or something? Possibly just Sorxa, since the voiceless velar fricative is rendered as "x" in the international phonetic alphabet? I'll figure that out later, I guess. Edit: I think I've settled on rendering it as "sorXa"; starting with a lowercase letter gives me vibes similar to chaos from Xenosaga, which I think fits the sci-fi setting (not to mention that her design has some similarities to chaos's, now that I think about it)

I'll transcribe the notes under the cut since I know my handwriting is pretty illegible here (it's not always this bad, but when I'm cramming notes to myself around a drawing on a 3"x5" card, it tends to get sloppy)

Image 1: casual wear

Sorcha(?) | she/her | gynoid, formerly AMAB human

glowy eyes when needed

auburn hair (pointing to darker part of hair)

strawberry blonde? orange? gold? plat. blonde? (pointing to lighter-colored bangs)

chromatophore-like tech allows face markings to be hidden & hair color to change, among other aesthetic things

Image 2: armor

Sorcha(?) | she/her

glowy gold visor

black helm (blue accents? red accents?)

black w/ gold (or copper? rose-gold?) accents (pointing at breastplate and spaulders)

black? (pointing at forearm)

blue? grey? blue-grey? red? (pointing at upper arm, abdomen, and thigh)

poleyns? (next to knee)

MMZ-style big boots (next to side-view of one such chonky boot)

Bridget-like? HJB-like?³ (next to another boot, but with something on the ankle à la Bridget's GGST design)

speaker? (pointing at circle on the bevor of a mildly revised version of her sallet)

add earpiece?

Notes from another drawing I'm not posting on this page but that I think might be relevant:

modular limbs? (i.e. could attach extra limbs or swap out some of her normal ones)

not actual choker, just pigment per... (has arrow pointing to next bullet point)

chromatophore-like skin pigment - can change colors, good for both camo and looking more organic (can hide cheek lines, but thinks they look cool)

Notes: (I feel like I have these on every chost, I guess footnotes are my Cohost calling card now??)

I remember, actually, that one time I played out this scenario where he ran into an alternate universe version of himself who was a girl, and they... teamed up or something? Hung out? Fuck if I remember, and it actually may have been a different sci-fi Lego-based OC, but I'm pretty sure it was an early version of him which had a very different appearance barring the red hair and laser sword (though even then, the not-lightsaber went from yellow to blue). I do remember that their first interaction was passing each other on their not-speeder bikes as she came out of her universe, which was linked to his universe by some sort of cave opening or whatever? I'm getting way off track, the point is this isn't the first time this character has been a girl, even if at the time my younger self had no idea that might be related to me being trans. #JustEggThings

I'm not exactly sure how much Scottish ancestry I have on my mom's side, but in terms of Irish ancestry on my dad's side, my grandfather and grandmother were from a town in County Fermanagh and a tiny village (really more of a homestead, it's only a few houses in a small cluster) in County Leitrim, respectively (my dad and my aunt were born in New York, though). I actually visited Ireland in Summer of 2019 for a family reunion, and we visited the (heavily renovated) house where my Nana Bridie grew up (one of the families who lived there when she was young is actually living in that house now, though it's substantially more modern than the dirt floor and hearth farmhouse she grew up in), as well as the rowhouse my Pop-pop Mickey designed and had built in his hometown when he and my grandmother briefly moved the family back to Ireland in the 60s because of the rioting in NYC (which was, as you might image, the exact wrong time for a family of Catholics to move to Northern Ireland; luckily they were unharmed, but they still returned to New York after only about a year or so).

"HJB-like" refers to the high jump boots from Metroid, which add forward-facing spikes to the ankles of Samus's power suit. In case you couldn't tell, this armor leans heavily on the character design aesthetics of both Metroid and Mega Man Zero, with a splash of late medieval/early renaissance European armor (hence the sallet and poleyns). I'm a huge sallet fangirl, if you hadn't noticed (did you know that some designs of Samus's helm have a very sallet-like shape? I did, and I pogged IRL when I noticed it, like the fucking dweeb that I am)

---

Post 2 (updated unarmored palette and weapons)

I think I've finished all the designing I need in order to finish this drawing of sorXa that I've been working on, namely the dagger/beam sword and handgun she carries normally, plus an update to her color scheme.

A general note that applies to both the sword and the gun: energy-based weapons in the setting I'm developing around sorXa require too much energy for a compact power source to fuel for any significant length of time, so they often have cords to be plugged into an external power source for added functionality. Normally this would be something like a clunky battery pack or generator, but being an anthropoid¹, sorXa's abdomen can open up like KOS-MOS using the X-Buster (Xenosaga Episode 1 spoilers in that cutscene btw), but instead of the X-Buster it contains a set of jacks for said cords, and then she can plug a weapon in to draw from her internal power supply à la Heavy Metal L-Gaim.

To briefly touch on the updated color scheme: Pink is a pretty color. Simple as. (Well, okay, the idea is that it's more of a white jacket with reddish-pinkish iridescence, or maybe it's just a very pale pink, I'm not sure)

Weapon descriptions under the cut:

Dagger ("Devilhorns")

Based primarily on a cinquedea and the version of the Z-saber wielded by Girouette in Mega Man ZX, but also a kabutowari. I need to update the design to reflect that the guard flares out into more proper quillons when it's powered, but still I'm quite proud of the idea of the wire spool being in what would normally be the palm-swell of a typical cinquedea hilt. The name "Devilhorns" is in reference to the fact that relative to a cinquedea, it's missing about 2 "fingers'" worth of physical blade, not entirely unlike some variations of the "devil horns" hand gesture (particularly a hypothetical variant where the thumb is raised flush with the index finger, but I don't know that I've ever seen or heard of that version being a thing), though I'm not particularly married to the name since it feels... clunky? Also, the yellow beam blade is in reference to an ancient iteration of her², when she was some sort of Lego bounty hunter whose main weapon was a lightsaber with an opaque yellow blade (since I didn't have a translucent yellow blade for her to use and wanted hers to be ~special~).

Handgun (unnamed)

Based on the two handguns most heavily associated with Mine Fujiko from Lupin III, the Browning Model 1910 and the Remington Double Derringer (based moreso on the appearance of the Browning than the Remington), combined into what's essentially a MMZ/ZX-style buster pistol. Normally it relies on a magazine-shaped battery that can power... 12 shots, maybe? before it has to be swapped out, but when plugged in it can shoot effectively indefinitely without needing to reload, or it can draw on the internal battery as well as the external power source to fire a charge shot³ (which consumes what would have been 1 or 2 shots from the battery normally) in the vein of Mega Man and Metroid. The ventilation on the obverse (which in this case is the left side, since this is meant as an off-hand weapon for a right-handed character) is meant for releasing excess heat, meaning that while it wouldn't be pleasant to have your hand there when it shoots, it's certainly not going to blow your hand off like the small drawing in the middle might make it seem. I went with Fujiko's iconic guns as a basis for this pistol since they're both relatively small and concealable, which suits the needs of this particular gun as an emergency sidearm to use in self-defense when sorXa isn't necessarily looking for a fight. Considering that this is literally the first time I've ever tried to design or even draw a semi-realistic gun (in no way, shape, or form do I consider myself a gun enthusiast, I'm much more of a "medieval and early-renaissance hand-powered weapons" kinda gal), I'm surprised by how happy I am with how this design turned out (though it probably helps that this borrows so heavily from the real-world Browning Model 1910)

I'm leaning toward "anthropoid" as a gender-neutral catchall for humanoid robots in the setting, since "android" is explicitly masculine, and while I have no problem calling sorXa in particular a gynoid, I feel like having a broader term is important. Apparently I'm not the first person to arrive at using the term in place of "android", but I personally learned of the word via... anthropoid-hilted Celtic swords, of all things (though "anthropomorphic" seems to be the more common term to use for that hilt shape these days).

We're talking, like, gradeschool here, maybe early middle school at the latest. She also had a starry black cape (which would have been from a Harry Potter Hairy Pooper set; the mild irony of a character who previously incorporated something tied to a Rowling IP in their design winding up as a violently anti-fascist trans girl is not lost on me) and a red bandana on her head, if memory serves? A later version of her had a more traditional translucent blue lightsaber (maybe 2 of them?), but that version of her is now part of her backstory when she was a (less-than-willing) supersoldier (I need to flesh out that lore better, so I won't go into it here, but there's a lot going on there), so I'm going back to the classic yellow for her new beam sword.

This particular pistol is actually meant to be a fair bit more robust than some others in the setting, at least when it comes to charging shots. I had the idea that in a firefight while using a temporary civilian-grade body (while her custom combat-grade gynoid body was still being built), in an act of desperation when faced with a hallway full of enemy soldiers advancing toward her, she'd have tried to power a weaker pistol plugged into a port on herself that wasn't designed to handle the amount of power drawn by a charged shot and, in the process, blew up the gun, wrecked both arms, launched herself backwards into a wall, and severely damaged her body's power core (as well as accomplishing her goal of killing everyone in her line of fire, of course, essentially following Mega Man charged shot rules, i.e. they pierce any enemy they destroy). This incident, in addition to helping her gain the trust of her new comrades (who would have mistrusted her as a former member of the enemy forces), also led to her receiving a pistol capable of firing charged shots without destroying itself (the one shown here). (As an aside, she didn't count on the charged shot having that much blowback, since she was used to using military guns while wearing power armor, as opposed to a relatively flimsy pistol scrounged up by rebels while in a body that's not much more resilient than a relatively sturdy but otherwise ordinary human; she certainly figured it would be a risky maneuver for her, but nowhere near the "possibly get yourself killed in the resulting explosion" kind of risky that it wound up being.)

[lunamkardas]

COZY GAME?

So last night I saw this really cute looking farm sim game, yes another one, called Grimshire. It's just a demo but the pixel art is charming and it seems really interesting. So far you can only be a bunny or a fox so I picked bunny.

Game opens with a boat horn sounding. I and some random goat lady have been rescued from The Capital where Some Shit Is Going Down and we are both unconscious, dragged to safer shores by an otter named Fin. He lets the town know shit's going down and he's going back out on his boat to see if he can get more info.

We get taken to the town healer and I'm just a little banged up but fine. Goat lady is hurt much worse so she's going to take longer to wake up.

Day 1 Basic "hey welcome to town here's a run down farm house for you to live in new dude, we'd really appreciate it if you contributed to the town's root cellar by growing some stuff" tutorial. Quickly followed by the "You should talk to all 26 people in town newbie!"

They got a small town/hamlet version of Animal crossing's museum thing going on so any stuff I forage or catch for the first time can go there.

They gave me a pump and water pipes straight off the bat so it was SO MUCH easier getting the watering down for my baby farm.

Holy shit fishing is so much easier than Stardew valley my god I love it.

Day 2

Goat lady died in the night from her wounds.

None of us knew her name. The town burned her atop the mountain peak with all in attendance.

Everyone is pretty down about it. Some people mention they hope Fin gets back with news, especially since him and his boat are such an important part of their food supply because they're an island.

My eyes lock onto the root cellar and then to the previously mildly annoying but NOW VERY IMPORTANT game mechanic of food spoiling.

I immediately start selling everything I own including the swank new bed and bookcase I got for collecting specimens and begin rapid fire purchasing as many drying racks as possible, throwing every fish, fruit and mushroom I find onto them to start stocking up.

Day 3

Normal day of collecting and throwing stuff onto the drying racks. Selling junk to buy more drying racks. The game refuses to tell me how to make them myself.

Get a crack at the mines which has an interesting quirk where you actually mine out the rock from the walls and if you remove too much of the supporting walls it can cause a cave in. Also you can very easily find the ladder to lower levels, which I appreciate.

Learned how to make more pipes to improve my pumps range.

Did some logging for the woodcutter. Mining for the Smith.

Day 4

The Mayor and his assistant come get me and start walking me through the root cellar tutorial while telling me that they will no longer be expecting me to pay ANY TAXES under the circumstances. (Waaaaay ahead of you dudes I already pieced together I'm now the most important person on this island and I am panicking a little bit because I'm pretty sure Covid just entered your reality and thank FUCK we burned Goat lady.)

Thank you kindly can I PLEASE get back to foraging and fishing and drying so I can keep both herbivores and carnivores alive while we Quarantine.

Healer lady and her assistant had the same idea about us suddenly being cut off from the outside world. No one's saying 'disease' yet but I have my suspicions.

Anyhoo they put the town up to a vote over what we should build, a new medicine herb garden she definitely knows how to maintain and use or a mushroom hut to alleviate the island hamlet's food needs even though no one on the island knows the first thing about mushrooms.

I am sitting on a fucking throne of fish jerky and dried fruit/veg. WE ARE MAKING THE HERBAL GARDEN.

The other villagers agree and I immediately bum rush the donation box and slam all the wood and rocks we need into it.

Day 5 Herbal Garden is complete and Healer lady is excited to start researching new medicines.

I am desperately mining as much copper as I can to make more water pipes because I only have so much energy each day and I can't be wasting it watering 30 plants.

I also start planting the tree seeds I've been shaking out so I can have fruit trees. Fishing is easy but the island has both carnivores and herbivores and the plant supply is harder to come by every day plus Drying takes Time.

Day 6 The town gathers because Fin is FINALLY back with news!

It ain't covid.

The Capital is Gone and most of the other landlocked population centers are too.

But they weren't empty.

It's Zombies.

It's Zombies and the only places that still exist are boarded up and armed to the teeth refusing all entry or trade because it's ZOMBIES.

Thank FUCK we burned Goat Lady.

10/10 I need this shit now

[dewedup]

Here's some degradation/humiliation Aether/Swiss I wrote to celebrate @jimothybarnes follower milestone! So proud of you my love, everyone say thank you Jimothy for being a stellar human being who deserves the best life has to offer (I hope you like it 🥹)

unbeta'd because jim is my beta and i wanted to surprise them so if you see any mistakes close your eyes please

a little over 1k of absolute filth, including begging, crying, blood and heavy degrading under the cut

18+

Swiss stands completely naked in the middle of the room, cock painfully hard and standing at attention. The tip is swollen red, pre dripping like a faucet. He’s so turned on he’s starting to sweat, perspiration beading at his brows and cascading down his too hot body. He’s surprised it doesn’t evaporate with how his skin feels like it’s on fire.

Aether is sitting in front of him, sprawled casually in the red velvet recliner as he picks at his nails disinterestedly. He’s fully clothed and mildly horny, but this is his favourite part. He plans to push it for as long as he can. 

They’ve been here for an hour. Swiss displays himself with no modesty while Aether watches from underneath his lashes, feigning boredom. 

A low whine escapes Swiss at the lack of stimulation, Aether’s eyes cut to his face instantly, his expression turning hard. 

“Do you have something to say, pet?” Aether presses, rolling his neck as he sits up straight, eyes burning a hole in Swiss at the sudden attention. Swiss knows better than to say anything, fearing the repercussions, he bows his head in submission and tries to stifle the pathetic mewl that builds in his chest. 

“You should be embarrassed, baring yourself like this in front of me. It’s laughable really, how turned on you are, and I haven’t even touched you yet. I don’t think I will,” Aether’s words are cut off by the desperate whimper Swiss couldn’t contain even if he tried. “So needy,” he tsks, shaking his head as he leans back into the recliner. Aether kicks a foot up, hitching it to his knee as his hand taps a rhythm on his shin. His posture is lazy, relaxed, the exact opposite of how Swiss is strung so tight that one wrong move would launch him into the ceiling. 

Swiss’ eyes follow the movement of Aether’s fingers as they continue to dance, envying his fucking shin that he’s touching it so casually and not putting those fingers to use on his body. More pre leaks out, the splatter of it hitting the ground sounds like an explosion in the quiet room. His nerves feel frayed as he grips his hands tightly behind his back, claws digging into his palm hard enough to draw blood. The smell of copper floats around the room and Swiss swallows audibly as he waits for it to hit Aether’s nose. He can see the twitch of his nostrils as it finally meets its mark, and the disdain falling across his face is instantaneous. 

“Stupid bitch,” Aether spits out, launching to the edge of his seat, feet planted firmly on the ground as he leans forward. His amethyst eyes sparking with the quintessence magic that courses beneath his skin. Swiss keens, fighting every urge in his body to drop to his knees and beg the ghoul to fuck him into oblivion. 

He knows that won’t work, has tried it before with no success. If it was Dew, he’d watch the fire ghoul’s eyes light up in ecstasy, sparing no time to break the scene and fuck Swiss into the next dimension. Mountain would have taken pity on him fifteen minutes in, spending the rest of the time opening him up carefully to prepare for his monster cock. Hell, even Rain, who has a hidden mean streak of his own, and a well-deserved one at that, wouldn’t commit for this long. But Aether has a sense of control that he envies. He loves feeling completely in thrall and letting him take the reins. 

“Pathetic little Swiss with his pathetic little cock. I bet you’ve never been able to please someone with that. I could fit the entire thing into my mouth and not even feel it. Would you like that, pet? Me putting that tiny cock in my mouth and wishing I could have a real dick instead?” Aether purrs as Swiss burns with shame, wanting exactly that. He’d tickle the back of Aether’s throat with his cock, but the quint ghoul would stubbornly refuse to gag on principle.

“I should get Dew in here, even his cock would give me more pleasure than that sorry excuse between your legs. Look at you standing there and leaking all over the floor. You’re making a mess. Clean it up.” Aether snaps and points a finger down to the ground, Swiss dropping instantly to his knees. He leans down to the floor, tongue lapping up the salty pre that forms a puddle below where he was standing. He goes to stand up when he finishes but Aether hisses down at him, eyes practically glowing at the sight. 

“Grovel slave, stay down there and beg me to let you come.” His words are sharp, biting. Swiss laces his fingers together like he’s praying to a higher power, braving the risk of making direct eye contact so he can see if his words please Aether. 

“Please sir, please let me come. I’ll do anything, I’m such a good slut for you. I’m a pathetic little cum whore. I’m useless, worthless. I’m a cocksleeve who shouldn’t speak, the only thing I’m good for is a warm hole to put your dick in.” Swiss pleads, the words flying out of him as he tries desperately to find the magic combination, the secret code that will make Aether see he deserves to come. 

“Cock craving whore,” Aether coos patronizingly, sitting back in his chair with a relaxed pose. The only thing betraying him is the tent in his pants that looks almost uncomfortable. “You’d be lucky to even see my dick, I wouldn’t bother trying to stick it in your stretched hole.”

Swiss is so close it’s painful, his cock throbbing with every second that passes. 

“I think we’re done here,” Aether states, raising himself to his feet as he looks down at Swiss in disgust. “You’re so pathetic that the thought of you coming all over yourself untouched doesn’t even interest me. I’d rather watch paint dry than see your embarrassingly small cock kicking as you make even more of a mess on the floor. How does it feel to be a constant let down? Unable to please your partners, leaving them wanting someone who can actually make them come. No one wants you; this is a waste of my time.”

Swiss flushes in shame, tears building in his eyes as he takes the words Aether tosses at him, embarrassed at how his cock jumps at every degrading word that leaves the ghoul’s mouth as he makes his way to the door. The tears spill over, Aether pausing with his hand on the doorknob as he turns back to the multi-ghoul. 

“I didn’t think you could get any more pathetic, yet here we are.” Aether is taking slow steps back to the centre of the room, his gaze burning into Swiss as tears fall down his cheeks, his chest heaving with deep breaths as he watches Aether stalking like a predator circling his prey. 

“Please sir,” Swiss begs once more, a pathetic last attempt to capture the attention of the ghoul before him. Aether comes to a stop before him, so close Swiss could touch him if he was worthy of such contact. 

Swiss inhales the spicy scent of quintessence in the air for a second before it tingles along his body, wrenching an orgasm from him with every lick of energy that zaps his nerves. He’s coming instantly, shooting without a target, splats of his ejaculation landing on Aether’s shoes from where he stands. 

Swiss’ body shakes in the aftermath, his head blissfully in the clouds as he stares at Aether in adoration. Aether smiles down at him, reaching a hand out to softly cup his cheek.

“Good ghoul,” he says fondly, and Swiss knows he’ll have to clean up his mess later, but Aether lets him bask in the afterglow of his orgasm with the kindness he reserves for the end of their play. Aether runs his fingers through Swiss’ hair, massaging gently at the base of his horns and whispers sweet nothings, a complete turn from how he’s acted over the last hour, but exactly what Swiss needs to ride the high of his well-deserved subspace.

[narukoibito]

Ah, I want to ask about all of them for the WIP game!! Can I be greedy and ask about Unravel Me and Librarian Harry? And the FWB one 😅

You CAN! Your excitement excites me! 💖 It makes me want to write them!

Unravel Me

I'm still stuck on chapter 7 (gahhhh). I have a draft and everything, but something still isn't fully clicking yet. Here is a snippet that may or may not make the final cut:

Ginny cut through his hesitation and bridged the gap between them. Her lips brushed against his, a seeming invitation that made him shiver. He could taste the extra sugar in her latte that chased away the bitterness left on his tongue. As she retreated, he pressed forward, deepening the kiss.  He was never meant to be this lucky. Finding a magical world where he belonged came with being hunted by the darkest wizard of his time. Finding Sirius only led to losing him.  Harry couldn’t help but wonder what the might cost him.

Librarian Harry

This is my muggle!librarian!Harry and witch!Ginny story, in which they meet at the library Harry working part-time at to pay for his meager apartment and student debt. Fresh out of Hogwarts, Ginny is working for her dad in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office after a curse during the war prevented her from trying to be a professional Quidditch player. Here are some previously shared snippets!

And okay, so this is so out of context but I really loved the comedy at play with Ginny being super bad at knowing common Muggle things, like:

"What’s that?" The alarm in her voice made him snap back, his fingers nearly fumbling the packet. “Oh, erm,” Harry said, flustered, “a, a condom. Don’t worry, it’s new — not expired or anything,” he added with a cringe because he really wasn’t sure what else could be bothering her about it. He wasn’t exceptionally experienced, but he wasn’t one to just carry a wrapper around all the time, hoping beyond hope. Ginny pulled back with both fascination and caution, glaring at the shiny wrapper as if it could detonate at any moment. “What's it for?” He blinked.

(Do I want to write the story just for these moments? ...Yes. Yes I want to write about Ginny setting his microwave on fire.)

muggle au fwb

Still untitled, but this is the OTHER FWB fic I have had in my brain even before Unravel Me. It's a muggle au, childhood friends, college au, friends with benefits mash-up, but very different feel from Unravel Me (I swear). Much more build-up in their more intimate moments.

Previously shared snippets. And a new one:

Harry leans in, slow and tentative. He has kissed his fair share of girls at this point, but his heart has never thumped so painfully against his ribs before. He can’t help but take her in, that pretty pink on her cheeks, the freckles he’s never seen so up close, the way those freckles trickle down her collarbone. Her chest rising and falling to match her short breaths. The air feels different between them, the tension almost painful as he hovers, suddenly hesitant, the space between them dangerously small. He can’t feel the heat of her breath intermingle with his own. What if this is a mistake? What if this changes something between them? More than her other kiss already has? Her eyes flutter, and her brown eyes gaze up at him through her copper eyelashes. “Harry?” The whisper of her breath ghosting over his lips. It’s the uncertainty in her voice that does it for him. Ginny is always so sure, so confident, unyielding and back straight through every challenge. Hearing her sound so small ignites a fierce protectiveness in him that he couldn’t reign in if he wanted to. “I’m here,” he murmurs back.

GOD I forgot how much yearning is in this one. asjfakg can someone please write it so I can read it?

I hope you enjoyed these!!! Feel free to send me asks on any of my WIPs!

[too-many-blorbos]

Jarlaxle leaned against the wall to catch his breath. His heart pounded with adrenaline and exhilaration.

He’d been playing it safe too long. He’d forgotten the thrill of a good chase. Xanathar’s men had given him an excellent workout; it took every trick up his sleeve to manipulate them into position for a clean kill. But he emerged triumphant, spotless except for the blood on his magical daggers. Another victory for Jarlaxle Baenre.

The timing was unfortunate. He’d have to spin a convincing story to satisfy Drizzt’s inevitable questions. And perhaps cut their trip short to ensure there were no other nasty surprises. But lying to his nephew was its own kind of fun, and he did love a challenge. 

His phone buzzed–Zaknafein’s assigned ringtone. Ah yes, he’d best call off the cavalry. He answered with a flourish.

“False alarm, my friend! All is well. I’ll let Drizzt know at once.”

“He won’t answer.” Zaknafein growled. 

Jarlaxle paused, thoughts derailed. “...Pardon?”

“Drizzt called me but hung up at once without saying anything. He didn’t answer when I called back. And now his phone’s going straight to voicemail. I called you–” Zaknafein said the word like a curse. “–because you are supposed to be with him. You promised you’d know where he was every second of your little jaunt.”

Dread washed over Jarlaxle like a cold rain.

“Where is Drizzt?” Zaknafein demanded. “What happened to my son?”

****

On the other end of the phone, Zaknafein paced around the room like a hungry tiger, hands restlessly strangling the empty air. Distance was the only thing stopping him from wrapping those hands around Jarlaxle’s neck

“My son has been abducted by a beholder, who is also a crime lord and one of your rivals.” Zaknafein summarized what Jarlaxle had told him, his voice strained from the effort of holding in his rage. 

“Maybe. I haven’t confirmed it yet.” Jarlaxle had sent men to scour the city and confirm that Drizzt hadn’t simply dropped his phone or gotten lost while fleeing. But he was too wise to hope for that possibility. 

“He could die, Jaraxle. He could be dead as we speak!”

That was actually one of the best-case scenarios. Jarlaxle had the means to commission a Resurrection, and if the death was quick enough, the boy may not even remember it. 

But his rivals were not the type of people who gave quick deaths. Beholders, even less so. Jarlaxle’s mind worked in five directions at once, calculating the most effective play in this most dangerous game. He wasn’t panicking. He couldn’t afford to.

“If I haven’t found him within the hour, I’ll send word to Xanathar and offer a ransom pre-emptively. Drizzt will fare best if he’s seen as an easy payday and nothing else.”

“Xanathar’s minions weren’t looking to mug you! What did he want that was worth risking cornering you directly? What are you up to in Waterdeep?!”

“I’ve done nothing but buy a theater! All my dealings here have been completely above-board!”

“And you intended them to stay that way?”

Jarlaxle did not answer. His silence said all that was needed.

“I ask again: what are you up to?”

“...Have you heard of the Neverember Scandal of ‘29?”

Jarlaxle could hear his friend’s teeth grinding at the tangent. “No. I have not.”

“Some seventy years ago, over the course of a decade, Lord Dagult Neverember embezzled a full fifty million from Waterdeep’s coffers. It wasn’t discovered until he was ousted from power in ‘29. It’s not known what he did with the money; he died in apparent poverty and his heirs had every copper of their assets accounted for. After a few years of frantic searching, Waterdeep’s new officials claimed the funds were found. But accounting records, or the lack thereof, suggest otherwise. More likely, Neverember perished before he could reclaim the money and it’s still wherever he stashed it. And if he had the sense to store it as an asset, like gold, rather than currency, its worth would have increased tenfold by now.”

“...You brought Drizzt to a bloody treasure hunt in a city on the brink of a gang war.”

“I genuinely did not think it’d be an issue. I’ve only been laying my groundwork for a month, and all of my dealings have been under disguise and pseudonym. I didn’t even set foot in the city until a tenday ago. No one should have known me as Jarlaxle Baenre.”

“Your entire livelihood is based upon knowing things no one should’ve known.”

“I misjudged,” Jarlaxle whispered. “I know that, my friend. I swear on my life I will make it right–whatever it takes.”

Zaknafein was silent for an uncomfortably long time. “...Regardless of how we proceed, nothing will be the same after this. Not for him.”

That hurt. By the gods, it hurt just to imagine it. 

Again, Zaknafein was right. Even if Drizzt was retrieved without incident, he’d know the truth now. That his eccentric uncle was a gang leader known and feared across the Continent. That his father worked for a criminal and always had. At best, his trust would be shaken. At worst… he may hate Jarlaxle and Zak for the rest of his life.

[sunshinebingo]

@gwynrielweeksofficial Day 9 - Tropes

The Princess and the Knight

A/N: I dropped some classic tropes, Azriel and Gwyn in a bag. Shook it a few times, and this came out.

Tropes included: Damsel in distress, Love at first sight, Mutual pining/Idiots in love

Synopsis: Azriel rescues Gwyn from an evil sorcerer.

Word Count: 1.6k

More chapters

Read on Ao3

Deep in Oorid Forest, the Knight who had been riding for hours finally slowed to a stop near the sorcerer’s tower. Sir Azriel had made a vow; to protect the Princess. He would bring her back to the castle of Sangravah. When the evil Hybern had dared steal the Princess away from her home, Azriel had felt guilty for not being there to protect her. Then he had been filled with so much rage that he had not even listened to his Queen’s response before he was atop his white mare and riding straight into the forest to find the sorcerer’s tower.

After Azriel dismounted from the mare, he drew out his sword and smashed down the door with all his force. The scream of the Princess from the top of the tower turned his blood cold. He tightened his grip on his sword and ran up the winding staircase as fast as his feet could carry him. At the top of the tower, Princess Gwyneth thrashed as Hybern tried to place a gag in her mouth.

‘’Let me go,’’ the Princess screamed. The sorcerer had bound her hands and feet after Gwyn has kicked him so hard in the nose that blood was still running down his face and soaking his black robe. Using his magic, Hybern had managed to infiltrate her private quarters and transported them both to his dusty tower. But Gwyn was no fragile princess who would give up without a fight. Her mother would be proud of her. The Queen must have had already sent an army to her rescue. She just had to ensure that Hybern did not get a single drop of blood out of her. If he did, the sorcerer would be able to bind her life to his and make her his bride. The old man was even madder than she thought if he believed that Gwyn would let that happen.

‘’Be quiet Your Highness or -,’’ Hybern was tackled to the ground before he could complete his threat. Gwyn let out a sigh of relief at the realisation that this would all be over soon. She noticed that instead of an army, only one man had come to find her. Even with his big, heavy armour, Gwyn would recognise this man anywhere. She knew that this Knight was worth at least 10 others. She watched as the Knight raised his mighty sword and brought it down on Hybern, severing the old sorcerer’s head in one swipe.

‘’Are you alright Your Highness,’’ Azriel asked the Princess after he cut off the binds on her hands and feet. She nodded. Azriel felt grateful for the helmet covering his face. He did not want her to know how afraid he was. He was not afraid of the sorcerer but of the idea of something happening to the Princess. He would never forgive himself if harm has come to her. Not only would his reputation and pride as one of the strongest Knight of the Kingdom be wounded, but losing her would create a void in his heart that he was certain nothing and no one would be able to fill.

‘’Let me see your face, Knight,’’ Gwyn told him, voice slightly hoarse from screaming for so long. She wanted to look in the eyes of the one she has cherished in secret for years now. Azriel removed his helmet and bowed his head. Gwyn lifted a hand to his face. ‘’Thank you for coming to my rescue, Sir Azriel.’’

The Knight gulped. When he looked at the Princess, it reminded him of the first time those beautiful bright teal eyes has met his. She was sitting on her throne next to her mother, Queen Orla, wearing a white and gold dress. Her silver crown adorned with diamonds and blue sapphires was shining atop her bright copper hair. When he had knelt to pledge his life to them, Azriel had also unknowingly pledged his heart to the Princess. He imagined then that, as a Princess, Gwyneth would never see him as more than a servant of the crown. But when he had risen as Knight of Sangravah and looked into her eyes again, Azriel knew that he would love none but his Princess.

Azriel rised to his feet first. When Gwyn stood up, her feet felt slightly wobbly from being tied for so long. She placed her hands on Azriel’s chest to steady herself and blushed furiously when he reached out to support her by the waist.

‘’May I, Your Highness?’’ his deep, unsure voice made her cheeks heat even more. She did not even know what she was agreeing to but, not willing to put any distance between them, she nodded,. Azriel placed his broad hands behind her back and knees. He lifted Gwyn up in his arms and carried her out of the room, down the long staircase of the tower. She closed her eyes and imagined that, beneath his armour, his heart was beating as fast as hers was.

For a moment, she allowed herself to be foolish enough to think that he was also a little affected by her. After all, why would a Knight who was as strong and handsome as a God be interested in her. She might be a Princess, but she knows that, for a man like Azriel, there must have been an endless amount of attractive and outgoing women waiting in line for him.

Azriel whistled when they exited the tower. A smile broke on Gwyn’s face when Isis came of out at the line of trees and ran to them. She had often daydreamed about going horse-riding with Azriel; her riding Shadow, her horse who was as black as night, and him riding Isis, Shadow’s complete opposite.

There was an odd contrast between Azriel and Isis that has always fascinated her. Whenever Gwyn has caught glimpses of Azriel riding towards danger, she could not help but see him as a dark warrior crafted from death and darkness on top of the white mare that emanated a sense of light and life. As if life and death could not exist without the other. She sometimes dreamed that she was also a source of light in his life.

Azriel placed Gwyneth on the mare, making sure she was comfortable before he mounted to sit behind her. When he placed his hands on her sides to grab the bridle, she sighed and leaned her head back on his chest. Azriel’s heart fluttered in response and he bit his lip to stop the smile that threatened to give him hope that she was doing it on purpose.

They rode in a comfortable silence, alternating their pace along the way and stopping occasionally for a few minutes. The ride took longer now than when he rode at full speed without rest to get to her. But he would not mind spending months like this with Gwyneth. This might be the closest that he would ever get to the Princess. Azriel would do everything in his power to prevent her from being taken again, even if it meant going back to loving her from afar.

Gwyn tried to start a conversation on several occasions but gave up because she felt too nervous to come up with anything she thought was interesting enough to tell him. After about halfway to the castle, Gwyn fell asleep with Azriel’s arm wrapped safely around her to keep her from falling off. She smiled when she woke up with the feeling of his head resting on top of hers. Her smile faded away at the sight of the castle. She was glad to be home safely and not married to an old fool. But she also wished that the journey back was much longer.

Azriel helped her down when they stopped in front of the stairs leading to the castle. He looked at her and tried to remember the feeling of his hands around her waist, of her own hands gripping his arms.

They kept staring at each other until Gwyneth rose on her toes. ‘’Thank you Azriel,’’ she whispered in his ear before she kissed him on the cheek. She had already thank him before, but this time, with all titles removed, it felt more intimate. The sound of his name coming from her lips instantly made him fall harder for her. When she pulled back, Azriel noticed the deep blush that was spreading on her face. He opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by the voice of Queen Orla calling her daughter. Gwyn let go of Azriel’s arms and ran to her mother.

The Queen cried as she held her precious daughter in a tight hug. ‘’I am so sorry for what happened to you my jewel,’’ she told Gwyn. ‘’I was so worried about you.’’

‘’It’s alright mother. I am fine,’’ Gwyn smiled at the Queen to reassure her. ‘’Plus you sent your best Knight to get me.’’

‘’Gwyn I think this man is as besotted with you as you are with him.’’ Gwyn’s face paled and her eyes widened at her mother’s statement. Orla smiled at her daughter’s shocked expression and cupped Gwyn’s face between her palms. ‘’Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? I am your mother my dear.’’

Gwyn looked down and did not even try to deny her attraction for the Knight. Most of all, she did not dare let her mother know that it was much more than just a simple attraction. ‘’He is not besotted with me mother,’’ she mumbled.

The Queen tilted Gwyn’s head upwards to make her look at her again. ‘’I did not send Sir Azriel my dearest. He went to you on his own before I could even ask.’’ Gwyn was hit with another wave of shock. Her eyes immediately searched the yard of the castle to find her Knight, but he was already gone.

Thanks for reading! ♥️

[scifrey]

NINE-TENTHS

Part Nine

"So what do I call you?" I ask when he gets back. I'm trying to offer an olive branch, or whatever it is when you've been an ass to the regular who has accompanied you to the hospital, even though he didn't have to.

Part of my question is because I don't know his name. But part of it is me realizing he's a dragon—I mean, I knew he was a dragon this whole time, the eyes give it away—which means he's probably got a fancy title. Duke McSootyClaws or something. 

They're always dukes in books.

"Oh." He freezes. "Dav, I suppose."

"You suppose?" I slouch, trying to find a position where my arm doesn't throb. I’m not having any luck.

"Alva-draig Tudor." This is the first time I've heard him actually sound miffed. 

He looks out of sorts for the first time, too. His pants are creased and smeared with ash, and his waistcoat is hanging open like a regency rake. His hair, normally straight out of an Errol Flynn flick, with a severe part and careful swoops on top, is a sort of frizzy orange flop across his forehead. He pushes it back irritably. He's rolled up the ragged ends of his sleeves so his shirt looks less like he stuck his hands in fire—which he absolutely did—and more like it's a sartorial choice. And wow, forearms. Trim, and muscley, and flecked with more of those intriguing gold-dust freckles and spun-copper hair and, yeah. 

It makes something in my middle flippy. Or maybe that’s the pain meds? One or the other. I’m too hot, and too cold, and sticky with pain-sweat, and kind of nauseous, and I want to close my eyes and lean against his shoulder and sleeeep. Ugh.

"Dav it is," I concede. "Middle name for a middle name, then. Colin Fergus Levesque."

I'm blinking dumbly, my eyelids heavy in a way that sucks because there's no way I a) could actually fall asleep here, and b) should fall asleep here, and c) will probably not be able to sleep later when the shock of being lightly-stabbed in the middle of my first (and hopefully last) industrial fire has worn off.

"A pleasure," Dav says as he sits. His whole face twists up when he realizes what he's said. "Well, not the part where I hurt you—and set fire to the—it's not actually been a pleasure—"

"No, I get what you mean," I say, cutting off his increasingly-desperate word-deluge.

I shimmy, looking for some moment of relief because this is awful. I just want to cry and I’m not going to, I’m not. The fingers of my right hand have started to tingle. Maybe something’s wrong with my arm. I could be paralyzed, or disfigured for life.

Shit.

"Though, draig is not my middle name," he adds softly. His voice sounds like it's coming through a tunnel. "It simply means dragon. We often append that to our given names. Rather like saying, ah, Joe and Not-Human Joe."

"Huh?"

"Dear lord." His voice is now deep in the cave, his face suddenly blocking my eye-line to the scuffed linoleum floor. One slender hand cradles first the back of my neck, then my cheek, then is laid against my forehead, then is gone. Gosh, he's warm. A miserable full-body shiver crawls over me. I wish he'd put his hand back on my nape. "You've gone dead pale. Colin?"

I wiggle my fingers, to prove to myself that I can, and the pain it stirs up is excruciating. 

Am I about to vomit? 

I might be about to vomit.

That wouldn't be even remotely cool and sexy.

"Hold still," he says, and then he's gone. 

Ha, like I have anywhere to go. Or the ability to get there.

The flip in my stomach is starting to feel more like a flop.

"He's coming out of shock," a new voice says over my head. A blanket whumps onto my lap. "Keep him warm. The painkillers have started to wear off."

"Then give him more," Dav says, and this is the first time I've heard him leader-ly. "He should be lying down."

I bet he's a duke. Maybe a baron. Do I address him as 'Lord' or…? Boy, he sounds authoritative. Why is he never bossy around me? It’s sexy.

"There's no beds," the nurse (the voice must be a nurse) says. "We'll push him up the queue."

"I'll get you some water," Dav says, and the nurse tells him not to. No food, either. He tucks the blanket around me, aggravated, and I swat him away.

"Hurts," I tell him when he yanks. "Knock it off." He steps back, lets out a frustrated sort of hissing noise that I had no idea dragons made, and is absolutely not adorable. "Go for a walk or something."

"I don't—"

"There's a Timmie's in the lobby."

"Their coffee is wretched."

"It's hot."

"It's not yours."

At some point my eyes closed, because I need to pry them open to squint at Dav. 

"Say what?"

"It's not…" he starts, but my head is swimming and I don't catch the rest. "...-lin? Colin?"

"Don't drink it then. It's just an excuse to get you to stop fussing."

"Do you want me to go away?"

His stupid wounded expression hooks into me, tugs at the squishy bit behind my breastbone where my heart is working overtime. A part of me wants to, so badly, say No, please stay, hold me. I'm actually scared. I want my Mum. Instead I say: "I’m fine on my own."

"I don't think you are," Dav says quietly. He crouches down in front of me again, slacks pulling tight across his thighs. "The nurse said no food or water. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

I open my mouth to say shush and let me sleep, but what comes out is: "My sister used to read to me."

Fuck. 

I did not mean to say that.

Now he knows I have a sister, and maybe he thinks I'm some sort of lame pansy for reading romances, and I'm not ashamed, but what if he thinks it's something shameful, and how could I ever like someone who thinks having a nice relationship with his sister is shameful and— I'm panicking, I realize belatedly.

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[eli-writes-sometimes]

Seven Snippets, Seven People

Tagged by @lyssentome, thanks for that!

Rules: post seven snippets and tag seven people.

This is gonna be a long one so snippets will be under the cut

1.

“Right, here’s two black roses. That’ll be five coppers, if you’ll be so kind.” I start as Hunter returns, clutching a small glass with two delicate black roses in them, and waves her hand in the air as my father reaches into his pocket for the money. 

“I’m sure you know what you’re doing, Hunter, but I have to ask. Why are you doing that thing with your hand?” I ask, and hope that the question doesn’t come across as offensive - I can’t be seen as intolerant towards others, even if their actions make no sense. 

“Oh, don’t you know? This is how I water my plants! There’s a lot of water in the air that we can’t see, and I can manipulate it to get enough water for all my plants, like this!”

She pulls her hand sharply back towards herself, and droplets of water begin to appear in the glass, quickly filling it up past the stems of the roses, which almost begin to look fuller and healthier, although that might just be a trick of my imagination. 

“Very impressive.” I say, and she smiles. I’m glad to hand out validation when these people probably don’t get it from elsewhere.

2.

“I thought that we were going to pay our respects. She is dead, after all.” “Well, I can see why you might have thought that. But, due to…” His eyebrows start to come closer, only slightly, but I instantly recognise his face reserved for considering the exact words to say to someone that means that they will agree with him and stay calm. Finally, he sighs, and gives me whatever version of events that he believes that I will take the best way. “Due to the manner of the incident that has occurred, it would be best for our public image for us to make a statement, separating this incident from our name.” “Yes. You said.” 

The comment slips out more deadpan than I intended, and my father clearly notices. 

“Excuse me?” “Well, you’ve been very clear that you want to separate our name from this incident, but you’ve been adamant on just changing the subject, or saying that I wouldn’t believe you. But here’s the thing. Every time that you say that I wouldn’t believe you, it makes me more and more inclined to not believe you. So, are you going to give me a straight answer, or am I going to turn around and walk back home, sending you to your little reputation-ruining eulogy with nothing.”

3.

“I- What are you talking about?” “Trust me. Please.” “I can’t! How can I trust you when you keep avoiding the question like it’s an assassin with a knife?” “I- It’s hard for me to talk about this. Can’t you have some respect for your father for once?”

He’s wrong. I know that he’s wrong, he probably knows it too. But he’ll never back down, and we both know that, as long as no-one saw it, it never happened. 

The beauty of politics, he calls it. The horror, more like, but I’d never tell him that. 

He looks back at me with that smug, smug look on his face, and we both know that there’s nothing I can do or say that will ever come close to outsmarting him.  I sigh, defeated. “Sorry, Father.” “Of course. I can forgive you this, because this must be a lot to take in. That comment may have been slightly uncalled for, and I apologise for that if that will help you calm down. I need you to be upset but not in a state in which you cannot deliver a speech.”

4.

“Now, get dressed quickly. Formal attire, obviously. Wear something black, and have a rose in your hair.” “A rose? Who’s dead?”

Wearing a rose is the highest form of respect for someone who has passed, and people of our societal level would only wear it for someone incredibly important or close to us. 

“Alya Maxwell.” His tone is as monotonous as ever, and he looks almost surprised when I recoil in horror. “Alya’s dead? Gods, Father, break it to me gently!” Even as I say it, I wince and shrink back, hoping he won’t notice me taking the name of the Gods in vain. 

He gives me a withering look, his purple eyes boring into mine, but quickly replaces it with an uncharacteristic look of sympathy as he takes in the look on my face. Alya never meant that much to me, but I still find myself feeling upset on her behalf. Unlike my father would like to believe, I do still have feelings.

5.

My father would never admit something like that. He always wants to keep up his image of a perfect man with a perfect life, and not just in front of the crowds. He’ll never admit he doesn’t know something, not even to me. 

“I- no reason. Sorry, Father.” “Hm. Well, we’re nearly here. Ah, but let’s make a stop here. I see you haven’t got the rose I asked you to get.” He gestures at a flower shop, and I feel my face growing red.

“We didn’t have any!” He smiles as I start to get defensive, and I fight off the defeated sigh that is attempting to force its way up my throat. I’ve always hated when he does that, when he laughs at my pain. I just tell myself that it’s because he has a lot on his mind, and hope that, if I say it enough, I might start to believe it. 

“Right, right, of course.” He says, almost chuckling at the expression on my face, and I fight down the urge to get even angrier. We’re in public, and I know what happens when I make a scene in public. If I embarrass him, then I embarrass myself, and if we fall out of public favour, we’re ruined. Reputation is everything, and we both know that. 

6.

“Wait a second. Memorial?” “You think something like that could happen and Alya would survive?” “Maybe! She’s a resilient woman!” “Right. But not that resilient. Someone tried to go in and look for her, and the shadows flew out at him, knocked him to the floor like a ragdoll.” “They’re physical things?”

This is bad. I’ve never heard much about shadow manipulators - there seems to be some kind of town wide taboo on the subject, and no one seems to be able to broach the subject without getting really paranoid, looking over their shoulders like the law-enforcement officers are going to jump out behind them and arrest them for disturbing the peace - but of the few nuggets of information that I’ve been able to get out of them, the shadows created by those that could control them were never physical things, and only the most powerful could actually solidify them. 

7.

My job isn’t as bad as it could be, and my charisma has to count for something, because I probably wouldn’t be here today if I didn’t have it. I’ve managed to make at least one “friend” with the personality that I built for myself, and they seem to tolerate me, for now. I don’t know what will happen when they find out what I really am, but I suppose I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it, just like all the others. There's a reason that I took the name Ashes. 

But, all things considered, the people here do seem to tolerate me, at least. They trust me enough to open up to me, at least, so that’s why I’m not as surprised as I maybe should be when Kallisto Ried, my only “friend”, and a regular of the Black Swan. 

I’m polishing the glassware, just like any other day, facing away from the door towards the area in the back where I can hear Jett, the owner of the tavern, chastising Alekto, the guy supposed to be helping me on my shift, for being late again, and him once again pleading guilty to spending too much time with his boyfriend. I sigh, not being one for romance, and turn back to the door, where I hear a loud crash, and the door suddenly swings inward violently, and Kallsito runs in.

Tagging - @mariahwritesstuff @elizaellwrites @druidx @writeintrees @ehlaaaaaaaa @rms-writes @e-lisard