#i have a fic for her im working on

[darksorcerer]

I wanted a character who would hate durge no matter how redeemed they were or how much of a poor little meow meow they were, thus Lily

People like "we can't kill durge, for reason x, y, z" and Lily, three and a half feet tall with a glock, is like "I'll fucking do it, since you are so complicated. Get out of my way"

[dollyfetti]

"can you just try?" your boyfriend gruffs, his tone gentle as he folds his arms. sitting across from you at a quiet cafe, his fingers lightly caress the back of your hand, sending a flutter through your chest. he's asking you— again— to order for yourself, just this once. he promised, "it'll feel good, trust me," but the thought of speaking up sends a shiver down your spine. you can't even remember the last time you asked for something from anyone.

"yeah, but it's their job to serve you..." he grunted with a tiny chuckle when you'd told him this the last time.

"i know, but i still feel bad..!" you muttered, twisting the hem of your maxi skirt around your fingers. he had grinned, pressed a kiss to your forehead, and let it go.

until now, of course.

he remembers when you were rambling to him one night, frustrated with how you could never speak up for yourself in any situation. you'd felt like a loser. (you are, but he refrained from saying so at the moment hehe)

"just try." he repeats, offering a rare, almost tender smile. you nod, a tiny smile pulling at your lips in response. the waitress comes back, notepad in hand as she asks for your orders, starting with your boyfriend.

"mapu tofu— please." he says, closing his menu with a small nod as she takes it from him.

she smiles, turning her attention to you. your gaze drops back to the menu, but it feels like you’re studying it for the first time. “what would you like?” she hums.

"umm," you mumble breathily. you blink at the many food choices, even though you already know what you want.

"i'll have the.. kimbap, please." you speak lowly, your voice quiet and tentative. your hands cling to the fabric of your skirt, shoulders slightly hunched as you unintentionally try to make yourself smaller.

the waitress leans in slightly, smiling sweetly. "i'm sorry, what was that?"

you feel them both watching you and shrivel in your seat. you inhale sharply, looking up to meet the waitress's gaze before quickly looking back down. "kimbap." you repeat, your voice a little steadier now, though your nerves still tangle in your chest.

she nods, jotting it down before walking away, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. you can't help but feel a little proud of yourself.

"jesus christ, felt like i was catching your introvertness." your boyfriend teases.

"shut up," you giggle, sliding your drink towards you.

"wasn't so bad, right?"

you shake your head, taking a sip of your drink as if it might help calm your racing heart.

"told ya so." he smirks, nudging your foot with his under the table

bakugou, aizawa, toji, zuko, eren, kuroo, + your favs !

[starry-bi-sky]

im being hit with The Visions again

the Vision this time is a "homeless danny in gotham" au except its pre-robin Batman again because im on a batdad kick. --------------------

Danny finds a car.

Which-- isn't, like, anything super interesting or impressive. It's Gotham, it's a big city. There's cars on every corner, can't throw a stick without hitting one somewhere. And then setting off the alarm.

But-! It's a car, and it's past midnight-- or he thinks it might be past midnight, it's late enough to be. He doesn't have a watch and he left his phone at Vlad's; asshole put a tracker on it after the last time Danny ran off.

It's been over a month since, it's a new record -- last time it took just over two weeks for Vlad to find him and drag him back to the mansion. This time, Danny ran further. Left the state and everything. See how long it takes Vlad to find him now, hah.

People go missing all the time in Gotham.

Anyways-- there's a car, and it's midnight, and it's parked in an alleyway. Danny would've called it invisible with the way he pretty much trips over it, phasing through the wall of the building beside it and not watching where he's going, but it's not. So he doesn't.

Danny runs into the hood and nearly faceplants right into the darn thing with an 'oomph', hands catching himself on the metal as a flash of irritation flashes hot through his gut. It doesn't hurt or anything, but getting the wind knocked out of you sucks always, and he's tired and hungry, and as a result not in the best state of mind.

He's just about to sink his foot into the side of the wheel -- it wouldn't do anything, he's not that big of an asshole, but it's the principle -- when he stops.

Danny pauses.

He takes a step back, holding his hands out 'n' everything, and examines the car. He squints, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness, considering the closest streetlight is twenty feet that way and positioned in a way that none of the light is hitting it.

Danny would not call himself a car guy. He doesn't think he counts, considering his size and lack of everything. But, but, he knows his way around a few cars, and he had an old obsession with older models when he was little that kinda petered out of existence after his accident. Had a bunch of little car models sitting on one of his shelves back in Amity, and Dad offered to get his hands on an old car for the two of them to fix up together so it'd be ready for Danny when he got his license.

...Anyways.

Point is: Danny can appreciate an old car, and this car has an older -- albeit obviously modified, if the matte paneling and plated wheels meant anything -- look to it. That kind of flat top went out of style years ago, and it's got this kinda rectangular look Danny doesn't see often these days on modern cars.

Other than the electrical cars, but he doesn't think those count. That's boxy, not rectangular.

Danny frowns, tilts his hands down, and leans back further as if that will let him get a better look at this thing. "...What model is this?" He mutters, it's hard to tell in this lighting.

Wait, he should see if there's anyone in the car. It's not running or anything, and nobody's come out to yell at him -- or shoot him -- but, still. People are crazy in Gotham, crazier than they've ever been in Amity. The last thing he needs to do is piss off some guy from the mob.

Danny peers into the window and-- there's no window, okay. Well, no window, and no driver. Some idiot left their car unprotected and without windows, in Gotham?

He pulls on the door handle just to be annoying -- it doesn't budge. Okay, maybe not that stupid. Especially since Danny didn't even see it until he was quite literally running into it.

So. Not that stupid.

Danny looks around warily, pulling his hoodie around him tighter, and then starts circling the car slowly. Like a vulture. No license plate; shocker. Hear how shocked he is? Clutching his pearls right now.

"Reinforced bumper. Cool." he says, er- whispers, really, quiet enough that it doesn't even echo. Danny squats in front of the car and runs his hands over the -- what, should he even call this a bumper? It's bigger than his head, and it's covering the grille. He picks at these... things on the side that remind him of leather straps. Probably to keep this bumper up? Like a ratchet strap?

Danny leans back until his butt hits the ground and he can sit back properly, propping himself up on his hands -- maybe not a good idea. There's probably broken glass somewhere here and he doesn't wanna pick shards out of his palms, again. It's like popping the world's most annoying zit depending on if it gets under the skin.

(He could always just phase them out, but the picking gives him something to do. It doesn't hurt that much.)

Eh. It'll be fine.

With one knee propped up, Danny looks the front up and down, and furrows his brows. The style kinda reminds him of a dodger, especially with the placement and style of the headlights. He plants his hands on the concrete -- hissing when he feels something cut into his palms, ow, there's that glass he was talking about -- and leans down to look under the car.

Hm, nothing jutting out that much. Looks pretty normal. Good space between the bottom and the ground.

He gets up and circles the side again, brushing whatever pebbles or glass that could've stuck into his skin off. He's really curious about where the owner got matte plating for it, or if it's just a wrap. The silhouette's definitely sixties or seventies; too angular for the eighties and fifties.

...There's no one here, Danny looks around again just to make sure, cranes his ears to catch anything. Nope, just the typical quiet rumbling of Gotham's underbelly. It kinda reminds him of Amity, or-- no. No, it reminds him of the quiet groan of the Zone.

That's far more comforting, he thinks. Danny's never really liked Amity all that much.

Back to the car: there's no one around, so Danny folds his arms against the side of the door and sticks his head inside the window. No keys in the ignition, should've figured.

Not like Danny was planning on stealing the car anyways -- anyone capable of modifying a car into this kinda beast -- or paying someone to modify -- was not someone he wanted to piss off. Danny's an orphan, not stupid.

Ignore the fact that he's got his head stuck through the window. The interior isn't anything interesting, but the seats are made of leather, which is nice. Must be a pain in the summer or winter, but leather is cool, and gets stains out better than cloth.

No stick shift though, he's a little disappointed.

Danny presses his mouth into a line and then slants it, humming in the back of his throat. Honestly, he's kinda tempted to crawl in and go to sleep. The leather seats look really inviting, and he's been sleeping on the ground or on park benches for weeks, and the car is really well hidden. No need to worry about being kidnapped.

But, it still belongs to someone. And they're probably using it for something shady. They'll come back for it eventually, so he should get this gawking over with anyways.

And, and-- and. He wants to get a look at that fucking engine. 'Cause holy shit!

Danny pulls his head out of the window and half-dances over to the back, his hand curling around one of the bars as a grin spreads across his face. Now, Danny hates Christmas, but this, this is like it came early and good for once.

"You could smuggle moonshine with this thing," Danny says to himself, grinning ear to ear and running his hands over the edge of the metal. The car is too conspicuous for backroads driving, but the engine, wow. What a thing of beauty.

One of Auntie's friends would probably know what engine it is -- or what type of engine it's based off of, it could very well be a bunch of different engines frankenstein'd together. Danny doesn't recognize it.

Which means it could be illegal. Again, what a shocker. In Gotham? He's clutching his pearls.

Fully satisfied with himself, Danny dances around to the front again and holds his hands out. He makes an 'L' with both hands and shuts one eye, getting the car within the frame of his fingers like he's about to take a picture.

"I rate you," Danny makes a camera shutter sound and mimics taking a photo, "one cool fuckin' car."

"Thank you."

Danny doesn't scream. He does not. He's taught himself better since ghosts started popping up in Amity, and honestly he deserves some credit for that considering they only started popping up over half a year ago.

He does, however, gasp. And he gasps hard, the type that has a high chance of giving you the hiccups afterwards; the painful, chest-thumping kind. Danny slams both hands over his mouth and stumbles backwards, eyes wide and his heart kicking into the fifth gear in his ears.

Bleeding out from the shadows is a man entirely drenched in black, Danny can hardly make out his silhouette and barely catches the white glints of his eyes. Fear like a prey animal burns in his lungs, wild and rabid, Danny has half a mind to bolt.

His ghost sense didn't go off, which might just be the most terrifying thing.

The man doesn't move any more than a step, just enough that Danny can barely see him, but he can feel him watching him. Shit. Shit. He should've never stuck around.

His hands are still over his mouth, Danny, shaking, flutters them open, "How-- h-- how--" he wheezes, "how long have you been standing there?"

[dandelion-roots]

[ID: a digital drawing of riz gukgak from fantasy high. in the front is a relatively small drawing of riz juggling books that are falling out of his hand and a phonecall, and he has a huge backpack on. he looks a bit overwhelmed, hair flying in all directions, and has a nervous smile on. in the background is a large shadow of riz, only one glowing eye and a shining gun visible. the background is red, giving an eerie feel. End ID]

Kill your best friend

Cheat your way to your rogue teacher

Announce your presidential campaign

Don't let them know how angry you are

LEARN TO RECOGNIZE A MONSTER

[averlym]

"you're lost, little girl"

[choccy-milky]

Hey just wanted to say how much I adore the Raven and The Snake! It kept me sane during some hard times last year screaming at Seb distracted me from my real problems LOL! In fact I love it so much I would love to print the fic and turn it into a book for my own personal enjoyment of course, would it be okay with you if I did that and posted the final product on Twitter? I'd tag you of course! Don't know if it's a dumb question but I wanted to check. Anyways love your work you are SUPER talented!

YES YES YES??? OMG PLSSS I WOULD DIE!!!!!!!

IM HONOURED YOU LIKED IT ENOUGH TO WANT TO BIND IT!!! AND PLS, TAG ME EVERYWHERE WHEN/IF YOU DO IT😭😭 ive considered commissioning someone to bind it myself just to have as a memento bc im the author, but omg the fact that someone else would wanna do it too......im glad sebs dumbassery (and lets be real, clora's too. if not MOSTLY cloras) could distract you from your irl problems by yelling at those two idiots🥰🥰 THANK YOU AGAIN IM HONOURED ARGHHH🧎‍♀️💖💖

LMFAOOO THE WAY I THOUGHT THIS WAS ANON HATE AT FIRST LMAOOO i mean i guess it kinda could still be considered it??? but i love your love for clora BAHAH bc you are so right, let seb drown, this aint about him✋😔...to satiate you heres a wip of her ive had for a while, and maybe ill finally finish it soon JUST FOR YOU🫵🫵💖

[tiredbogwitch]

In a season without a Noxus plot line, The Hunt for Jinx becomes the story. Without having to rush everything for the dramatic invasion ending, I'd like to imagine they'd have more time to focus on the actual important stuff. Like the development of these characters (primarily the sisters and Caitlyn).

In this, I'd imagine the time skips are longer here. Act 1's major story beats will probably be relatively the same (save for some fiddling, such as making it take longer for Vi to become an enforcer, Caitlyn being less blatantly elitist, etc.). The only extremely significant plot difference is that the confrontation with Jinx doesn't end with Caitlyn hitting Vi and abandoning her. But from there onwards it's entirely different. Tensions between Piltover and Zaun become beyond hostile- they're in an outright civil war. No one can pass between the two cities safely. Blood stains both streets. The bridge hasn't just been closed- it's entirely destroyed, blown up in yet another one of Jinx's big acts.

This is where we get a somewhat similar reading of the sisters to the game. Like in League, Jinx has become the "Joker" to Caitlyn and Vi's "Batman/Robin" (in terms of going out of her way to specifically menace them, etc.), and she seems to be the only one capable of slipping between the two cities and making it out alive. Her acts range from "loud/annoying but harmless" to "loud, annoying, and devastatingly deadly" with seemingly no pattern to it.

As this continues, Caitlyn becomes more irate, more unhinged, more obsessed with catching Jinx to the point that she can hardly function anymore outside of fixating on her evidence boards or patrolling through the streets. This creates a rift between her and Vi pretty quickly, though they both try to brush it under the rug, until eventually they just can't. Vi has been struggling with her own actions for a while now (as well as Caitlyn's), trying to justify them and being less and less convincing to herself each time.

She tries to bottle it, first out of guilt towards Caitlyn and eventually out of guilt for everything and everyone else. People she's hurt, people she's lost, people she misses. She no longer remembers when she was last able to recognize her own image in the mirror. She finds herself to be beyond redemption. After all, Jinx- grave as her sins may be- Jinx was many things. But a traitor wasn't one of them.

As someone who values loyalty so much, to Vi, a traitor is the worst thing anyone could be. Unfortunately, she realizes she's become the thing she hated most. With this self-hatred fueling her thoughts, Vi slowly begins to pull back from Caitlyn. She initially clung to her, seeing her as the only constant left in her life, but after not being able to look at herself the same, she begins to look at Caitlyn- and realizes she doesn't recognize her anymore, either.

She makes a few attempts at trying to rectify this, a part of her not wanting to give up on Caitlyn (or herself) without trying. After all, it was never too late to change, right? To do better? Even if it didn't undo the past, it could keep the future from being worse. However, all of her attempts get soundly rebuffed by Caitlyn, each response being harsher than the last. The last one- whether it's gassing someone, or shooting at a kid, or what have you- ends with Caitlyn hitting Vi. It shocks both of them in that moment, so much so that neither of them seem to breathe for what feels like an entire minute.

Just as quickly, Caitlyn rushes to comfort Vi, apologizing profusely, begging for forgiveness, fussing over her- and Vi lets her do so, lets Caitlyn lead her back home to get her checked and rested. She doesn't address it again- but it's too late. This is Vi's last straw.

She doesn't say anything, but Caitlyn seems to realize she's lost her. She tries to coax Vi back onto her side, "Are you still in this fight, Violet?" And Vi tells her she's "the dirt beneath your nails, Cupcake." It's not romantic. Caitlyn doesn't know what to make of it. She puts Vi on leave to recuperate, opting to lead the strike teams alone, still hunting for Jinx.

Jinx, on the other hand, notices her sister's absence immediately. She tries to tell herself she doesn't care, but that lasts about five seconds before she all but loses it to her own paranoia. Where is she? Jinx's last stunt couldn't have gone that poorly. It wasn't even her worst- it wasn't like she was counting, but she hadn't even brought the nail bombs that time. She doubted more than a handful of people died. (Silco had even bitched about it, the way he usually does when he thinks she's "wasting time" playing around so much. He finds her smaller stunts to be juvenile, and though he never bats an eye at her conduct, he's always insistent on her doing things for "the cause." Like reaching out to Sevika. Or being more strategic with her assaults on Piltover).

Vi couldn't have been injured, couldn't have died. Did she abandon her again? Did she finally grow tired of Jinx?

It drives her up the wall, sends her into the kind of frenzy she hasn't experienced since that wretched dinner party. Who the fuck does Vi think she is, leaving Jinx behind? What gave her the right? What, was she trying to move on? To forget about her sister? Did she really think it'd be that easy? That Jinx would let her walk away? If anyone was supposed to leave, it was Jinx! It was her turn to leave her sister in the dust! To leave Vi begging and pleading on the ground, haunted and so alone. To have her chasing Jinx's shadow, the way Jinx chased hers for years! This wasn't fair, what the fuck, how dare she?

Jinx goes ballistic. Her next act is reckless, more than ever before. She walks right into the heart of Piltover, blowing up important buildings (government, law enforcement, memorials. All of it will go down in a blaze. She'll take them down with her if it's the last thing she does-) cutting enforcers down left and right. She lights everything up around her, blue smoke curling into the sky. She's not leaving until she gets what she came for. She's not leaving until Vi looks her in the goddamn eyes and says it- so Jinx can finally put a bullet in both of their skulls.

This can go several ways. Maybe Vi does go out there, unprepared and horrified, eyes locked on that rising smoke, without so much as her gauntlets as she flies through the streets, desperate to stop her sister- or maybe she doesn't. Maybe she was more injured than she'd previously realized, from not only her previous battle but from years- a lifetime, even- of abuse, of subpar and inhumane conditions, of sleepless nights and skipped meals and constantly running on empty. Of years of stress and grief and anxiety and rage and exhaustion and betrayal. Perhaps that blow to the stomach wasn't all that hard, but it was the straw that broke the camel's back. The last push that sent that massive tree crashing to the ground, if only someone were nearby to hear it.

So for the first time, Vi is told to rest, and she stays there. Not really resting, exactly, she's not very relaxed- but maybe "benched," at the moment. Vi confronting Jinx could go a range of ways that would be delightful to explore, but I'd like to consider what would happen if she doesn't go.

The smoke rises, the city burns, the people scream- and Vi isn't there. Enforcers- whatever remains of them- flood the streets, but Jinx only sees shadows and lights and bodies, bodies, bodies. That she-devil is there, saying something, screaming it, but it doesn't matter. None of it matters, because Vi isn't there.

The voices get louder. Jinx turns up the volume. They're not the only ones who can scream. She sprays brass at the flocking masses of demons. Lets loose another volley of explosives. She's almost out, could only carry so much with her- but Vi. Isn't. There.

Jinx won't be able to recollect what happens next, but eventually it all goes dark. She wakes to the cold concrete of a prison cell floor. In the prison uniform, she's ironically more covered than she's been in years, but bereft of her weaponry, she feels utterly naked. Her braids are gone- not just untied, but chopped off, as if they were afraid she could hide things in them (she could. She has). She tunes Silco out. She doesn't feel like hearing him nag. She doesn't have it in her to feel bad for making him all worried and upset. She doesn't feel like doing anything, at the moment.

People come in and out of the prison, including the she-devil. But none of them are Vi. She tunes them out, too. It's all a blur.

It isn't that the rage is gone. It probably never would be. But it's distant. She's lost the energy to wield it. All that's left is the exhaustion. It consumes her, not unlike a weighted blanket. Or the shackles on her wrists and ankles.

Vi, meanwhile, has regained consciousness. She wakes to fresh destruction around her, breathing in the tang of iron and dust. The taste of ash is impossible to swallow down. Not even moments later, she learns Jinx is in custody, awaiting execution. She feels hollow as she watches the Piltovans celebrate. She ignores the protesting of her limbs, climbing out of bed. She slinks through winding halls with nostalgic ease. It didn't matter how many years its been, her muscles still remember how to sneak through places where her kind are unwelcome. With the right timing, she makes it in unnoticed.

Vi sees her there.

Jinx looks smaller than she has in years. Curled up and despondent. She doesn't turn to the sound of the door opening- it's unclear if she's ignoring it, or if she hasn't even registered the noise. Her hair is all but shorn off. Her hair always grew fast- give it a few weeks, and she'd have a bob, not unlike the one she had as a toddler. Vi approaches after a moment of taking in the sight of her, unnaturally still.

As with many points within this story, this meeting could go several ways. Maybe Jinx doesn't even belive she's actually seeing Vi, and so she doesn't respond for a while. Maybe she tries to muster up some cruel barbs, a cutting remark. Maybe she actually does manage to summon her emotions, maybe she's simply burnt out. But it doesn't really matter what she says or how, or if she says anything at all- ultimately, I think it would end with Vi unlocking the cell door. Perhaps similarly to canon, Vi takes Jinx into her arms. There's no “changing the story” talks, or “using her explosives for good”- Vi buries her face into blue hair, and hugs her sister.

If you prefer tragedies, this could be the perfect “rejected last chance” moment. Maybe Jinx tells Vi to fuck off, or she accepts her fate, having lost all hope, and gets executed, Vi following shortly thereafter in some fashion (by her own hands). Maybe Vi disappears after Jinx's death, from both Piltover and Zaun. But I'm personally very picky when it comes to how tragedies play out, and usually don't prefer them. And so I'll indulge myself with musing a more hopeful alternative.

Many (such as Overton herself) claim the sex scene in the cell to be Vi's “chance to be selfish” and to “Finally get to choose what she wants.” I'm personally of the belief that she's clearly shown time and time again in season 1 (and even a good amount of season 2) that her main desire, above all else, has consistently been to reconcile with her sister. As such, her “selfish moment” in this storyline would be, most likely, to unlock Jinx's shackles. Eyes blurry with tears, she'd fumble to unlock them, and all but rips them off.

Jinx doesn't know what to make of it, if she even wants to- she's tired of hoping. But Vi is here, visibly battered, but here. And Jinx has never really stopped craving Vi's attention, not really. Even if it meant dying by her hands (“it had to be you.”). Even if she tries to verbally protest, she won't stop Vi from releasing her from the cuffs. She won't complain about the hug, though the accusations would start to fly. “Of course,” Jinx might say. Of course, Vi is here now, at the last minute, trying to play hero. Did the cop girl dump her or something?

Vi is past the point of wanting to argue, though. She's all but blubbering. Nothing she says really makes sense. The only thing that's clear is that she's sorry (for what, is unintelligible), that she just wants Jinx back, no matter what form that takes. Jinx might find that too good to be true. But Vi is unyielding. She's at a point where Jinx could probably kill her, maybe take them both out, and she probably wouldn't fight back. Might see it, even, as the better option. They've both stained themselves in blood, now. Zaun reviles them both, Vi the most, but Jinx not far off- she's killed more than Piltovans, and though they stand behind her attack on the Council, some will never forgive or forget.

Vi isn't sure if there's a way out. If any of it even matters anymore. If her and Jinx can ever be “better,” if they could do anything other than die miserably. But she doesn't care anymore, either. Let Ekko pull Zaun back together. Let Caitlyn dive headfirst into battles until she breathes her last- did Vi even have a right to care about anything anymore, with how thoroughly she'd abandoned everything that once mattered to her?

She grasps Jinx’s face. The gentlest hold, on the one last precious thing in the world to her. She's abandoned so many things. Zaun. Her people. Her values. Whatever wasn't already ripped viciously out of her hands, she'd let go of, in the foolish search for comfort, for familiarity, for stability, for everything to be “right” and “make sense” again, in a way it hadn't since it all went up in flames.

Couldn't she just have her sister? If nothing else, could this be the one thing she got to have? Even if Jinx ran off, wanted nothing to do with her ever again- to see her run free, even just in fleeting moments for the rest of her life- she just wanted her sister back.

By the time the guards return, Vi and Jinx would be missing.

[thesunisatangerine]

against all odds (to wait for you is all i can do) – part four

alexia putellas x photojournalist!reader

warnings: explicit sexual content

(a/n in the tags) [parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve]

word count: 4.3k

It didn’t stop after the first and it sure didn’t stop after the third, either. 

Depending on her schedule, you saw Alexia once or twice at most a week; most of the time it was on the night after a Barcelona match and by the next morning, she’d be gone before you even woke up. But you’d noticed her visits had been increasing in frequency lately, not to mention that sometimes she’d still be in bed when you awakened. The first time you found her still asleep beside you, you were dumbfounded, thinking it was a dream image of her in front of you. And what amazed you even further was that it kept happening.

It wasn’t an unpleasant development. In fact, it was something you gratefully welcomed. And it wasn’t just that, either. Sometimes when Alexia came over, you didn’t even have sex you just… talked: about her training and her health, her teammates’ shenanigans–and hers, of course–her family and bits of her personal life. Meanwhile you told her about places you explored and showed her photos of where you’d been. Then she’d tell you about places you could check out, food to try, and even went ahead and promised to take you to some of the places herself when she had the opportunity.

These times were rare, sure, but you found yourself enjoying her company more and more to the point you noticed yourself craving for it–found yourself missing her presence despite your constant back-and-forth messages. And still you didn’t ask where this was going for fear of ruining whatever the two of you had; you were content and you just simply wanted to watch this unfold as it was. And anyway, it wasn’t like you weren’t used to fleeting relationships, situationships–whatever you’d like to call it–because who was to say this wouldn’t end up like your previous dalliances–ending before it could ever truly begin? Despite you hoping otherwise, a large part of you already convinced yourself that this wouldn’t be anything different: just another highlight to your getaway vacation that you’d look fondly back on a few years down the line.

You had a month left in Barcelona, maybe an additional few weeks depending on the client. What could possibly go wrong?

———

A knock took your attention from your work to the door. You looked at the time–it was early evening on a Saturday and you weren’t expecting anyone. Perhaps you just imagined it? But then it came again not a minute later. You were reluctant to open it seeing as it was already dark but a ping from your phone that signalled a message from Alexia asking if you were home had you flying to the door. 

Upon opening it, you found Alexia there with Nala resting in the crook of her arm, phone in hand, and a paper bag in the other. 

“Took you long enough.” Alexia said playfully, all cool and confident but then her brows quirked upwards almost sheepishly as she said in a more tamed tone, “is this a bad time? I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

You smiled at her consideration before you ushered her in. “No, no! It’s fine, really! Come on in. Sorry, I just wasn’t comfortable opening the door when it’s dark without knowing who it was.”

“Ah, it’s my bad. I should’ve let you know before dropping by.” She bent down and let Nala loose before she untied her shoes and left them by the door. Nala bounded to the living charged with curiosity, nose to the ground, tail wagging as she carefully examined the new space. 

Alexia regarded her dog with an amused expression before she looked back at you. “I meant to bring this over after the game tomorrow but I saw the lights as I drove past so… here I am, I guess.”

You reassured her again as you locked the door behind her and you watched as she made her way to the kitchen. As you passed through the archway to the kitchen room, Alexia already situated herself by the counter taking out glass canisters from the paper bag she brought. When she took the lids off, a delicious aroma instantly filled the air, enticing your senses.

“What do you have there?” You asked as you leaned on the opposite side of the counter.

Alexia smiled at the eagerness in your tone and pride shone in her eyes as she spoke, “only the best fideuà and esqueixada in the world. Made special by my mother, of course.”

You peered into the containers and the sight made your mouth water instantly. As if it remembered that you hadn’t had any food yet, your stomach grumbled obnoxiously. Alexia definitely heard it because she fixed you with an amused smile and at that, your cheeks warmed so you tried to divert her attention. “You know what would put this all together?” 

“What?”

“Wine or champagne. Wait–are you allowed to drink?”

“I’m allowed since I’m still not qualified to play yet.” Her visage became somber for a moment–it fleeted so quickly you almost didn’t catch it–before the light in them returned again. “If you have it, white wine is the best complement for this.”

You hummed and tapped your chin, turning to make your way to the cellar. “I’ll have a look. I’m sure Derek has some wine stored in here somewhere.”

You’d mumbled the last part but it seemed Alexia’d caught it because she asked, “who’s Derek?”

Something odd in her tone stopped you and made you look back at her. Her face was unreadable, almost too neutral. She didn’t think Derek was your boyfriend, did she?

“Oh, Derek’s my brother. He hasn’t been here for a while but he owns this house.”

“Ah, I see,” Alexia cleared her throat, looking away and you could just see a hint of redness in her cheeks. “Well, I’ll lay out the plates. I suppose they’re just in...?”

“The bottom drawer to your right and the utensils are in the upper one.” You instructed as you continued towards the cellar.

“Oh, yeah, I see,” came Alexia’s muffled response. 

When you returned with the bottle of white wine, you found that Alexia managed to locate the glasswares by herself and were drying them with a tea towel. There was only one set of plate and utensils laid out though so you fixed her with a confused look.

“You’re not going to eat?”

Alexia shook her head. “I already had my fill with my family earlier. I’ll take the drink, though.”

“That’s nice that you visited your family today. How are they?” You sat at one of the high chairs by the counter, popped the wine open and poured each of you a glass. You noticed that Alexia’d heated up the fideuà for you from the steam that rose from its container which strengthened its aroma and made it all the more enticing. Alexia remained opposite you but she was close enough with her leaning forward on her elbows, her glass of wine in hand.

She sipped her wine and told you they were well, described little snippets of what’s been happening in her family life. She even told you about a prank she recently played on her sister, one that nearly made you choke on your wine. 

You listened as she talked, liking the way her brows quirked and her shoulders move as she spoke, how each gesture became more pronounced the more passionate or interested she was on a subject. You asked questions and engaged with the conversation every now and again as you savoured the rich taste of the pasta and the freshness of the salad. You’d never had anything like it and you told her as much. In response, she said she’d give the compliment to her mother when she saw her next which made your cheeks warm up again. Once you finished, you tidied up and though you insisted she didn’t have to, Alexia helped you wash up anyway. 

Afterwards, the both of you ended up in the living room with your glasses of wine. She gestured at your laptop on the couch with her glass.

“Work?”

“Yeah. Just double checking if I missed anything important and preparing for the match tomorrow.” You sat on the couch and put the laptop on your lap. Alexia opted to sit on the carpet, legs stretched and crossed, back leaned back against the couch, her head just beside your legs as Nala settled by her side.

She turned her head, looking up at you. “Can I see?”

You turned your laptop so she could see better. You flicked through the photos you were sorting through, explaining to her every now and then the thought process behind each shot. On some photos, Alexia asked you to pause so she could soak them in.

“These are great. You have a great eye.” Alexia complimented with an appraising nod as you got to the end. You thanked her as you pulled back. Then a question came to mind.

“Do you ever get used to it? The cameras, I mean.”

A pause.

“I’m not and I don’t think I ever will. I’m more comfortable with it now but if it’s possible to avoid, I’d do it. I know it’s a part of football and god knows how much more exposure women’s football needs,” Alexia released a heavy sigh, “but sometimes it just gets too much, you know? I mean, I really should be grateful, right? To have gotten to this point? But the media side of it is… not without its own set of miseries.” 

There was an inflection in her tone upon her admittance–guilt. You gently carded your fingers through her hair, Alexia leaned into your touch in response, and you replied just as softly, “it must’ve been difficult. It still is and for you, especially. And I don’t know if anyone’s told you lately but you have to know: you’ve given so much of yourself already. It’s not a sin to want a little peace, Alexia, and it doesn’t make you ungrateful for wanting it, it just makes you human.” 

Alexia took a deep breathe before she rested her temple against your knee. Then you heard her whisper, “thank you.”

A silence fell upon the both of you after that but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. She remained that way for the majority of the night, head against your knee as she watched a game of football on the TV. 

By the time you finished up your work, it was already late evening and Alexia’d dozed off beside you. You felt bad as you gently woke her up and groggy hazel eyes found yours when you did. The sight made your heart ache from how much Alexia looked younger and more at peace this way, and you told her to wash up so she could stay the night.

And she did.

Now, your cheek felt warm against her chest despite the slight dampness of her borrowed shirt from her hair. Her skin smelt faintly of the soap you were using and with her arm around your waist, you fell asleep content, lulled to a deep slumber by the steady rhythm of her heart.

———

“Hey, please don’t wear that, it’s dirty,” came Alexia’s reprimand from behind you.

You glanced at her reflection in the mirror: Alexia was propped up on the pillows against the headboard, an arm behind her head, nude except for the bundle of sheets that covered one of her thighs, the marks you’d left on her neck and chest last night and this morning generously displayed for you to behold. 

She was nothing short of glorious, you thought, looking relaxed and content like this. 

You turned your attention back to your own reflection: Alexia’s Barcelona jersey draped over your smaller frame and fell just partway down your bare thighs. It felt comfortable against your skin and the fact that it smelt just like Alexia made it feel all the more special.

When you looked at her reflection again, you found her with an affectionate smile, eyes lidded and brows inflected slightly upwards, and suddenly the attention warmed your cheeks.

“But you only wore it for a shoot, right?”

“I mean, yeah, but you know what I mean.”

You hummed, “do you need it?”

“No, I have spares,” she replied before she raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“That means I have time to wash it before I give it back since you insists that it’s dirty.” You said drily as you turned away from the mirror and padded your way to the bed, crawling on the sheets on your knees once you got there.

As soon as you got close enough, Alexia’s hands were immediately on you, guiding you to straddle her lap before she embraced you fully, resting her chin between the valley of your breasts as she looked up at you. You carded your fingers through her hair to see those fair, hazel eyes that never failed to make you shiver.

“I didn’t say you have to hurry. Plus… I kinda like seeing my number on you.” And then she was kissing your neck and you felt one of her hand creeping its way down to cup your ass. You gasped when you felt the heat of her fingers brushing against your core and you buried your own in her hair as she traced a path from your throat to your ear with her tongue, nipping at your lobe when she got there.

“Fuck… Alexia…” You moaned, “you’re insatiable.”

She kissed your shoulder and then she whispered, “only for you.”

———

Something flashed from the corner of your eye followed immediately by a string of whispered curses and a familiar whirring sound. You put your thumb over the line you were just reading so you wouldn’t lose your place before you looked over your bare shoulder to the corner of the room you knew Alexia was who you found, as expected, holding one of your Polaroid cameras. 

She was only wearing a pair of grey sweats which left her torso bare and–like all the time you saw her nude–you couldn’t help but appreciate the soft curves of her breasts and the carved muscles of her stomach. When she met your gaze, she smiled almost sheepishly at you not dissimilar to a child being caught stealing cookies from the jar.

You raised a playful eyebrow at her but instead of answering, she placed her eye over the viewfinder, aimed the camera at you, then pressed the shutter again.

The film came out with a whir and Alexia immediately tucked it into the pocket of her sweats. She then began to make her way towards you and at every other step, she’d stop to take a photo of you, carefully manoeuvring the camera to get the right angle as she did so. It was an endearing sight, really, and it was one that filled your chest full of warmth. 

Eventually, she ended up on you, turning you over on your back as she straddled your waist, leaving you at the mercy of Alexia and her camera. From this position, you couldn’t help but feel extremely vulnerable and exposed not because of your bareness, but because you knew with the way your chest surged with warmth from how Alexia gazed down at you with a satisfied grin, the dimple on her cheek showing as her tongue peeked out between her teeth at the corner of her mouth, seemingly focused on getting the right shot, that this was a woman who had the power to completely and utterly unravel you. 

As a photographer, you were well acquainted with how cameras had the capacity to capture the essence of a moment–to display in raw details the emotions of its subject and freeze them in time, readying them for the dissection and scrutiny of the viewer. You wondered then what Alexia would see written in the shadow, the light, and the colours in the photos she just took of you once she looked at them, and the thought both elated and frightened you. 

Alexia brushed away hair from your temple but as she was about to pull away, you put yours atop of hers and turned your cheek into her palm, looking directly at her behind the camera. You heard her breath catch and then she stuttered out a breath, and the flash barely registered in your mind because you were too focused on the strength and the warmth of Alexia’s hand as you pressed butterfly kisses on the inside of her palm. 

The next thing you knew, the camera was abandoned completely and you couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out from your throat when you finally felt Alexia’s lips on yours.

———

Alexia sat on one of the high chairs in the kitchen room, hair damp, a game of football on the mounted TV that was left forgotten in place of… something that you couldn’t quite see from this distance. Alexia’s shoulders were hunched over in concentration and you didn’t have the heart to interrupt whatever she was doing so you leaned on the archway, content with just observing her do her work.

“Are you just gonna stand there or would you care to join me?” You rolled your eyes and you didn’t fight the smile that graced your lips. So much for being sneaky–the fact that Alexia was an accomplished footballer who had crazy spatial awareness occasionally slipped your mind.

“Okay, Gwen Stacy, calm down.” Alexia looked over her shoulder then and stuck her tongue out at you, grinning. “How did you even know I was here?”

“Your reflection on the microwave.” She gestured to it with her chin and sure enough from this angle you were instantly visible especially with the white shirt you had on. The dark glossy surface almost made you look like a ghost.

Standing on your toes, you draped yourself over her broad back, arms wrapping loosely around her neck as you peered down. “So, what are we working on?”

“This.” 

A bracelet made of a dark-blue and red string that looped into itself with a singular, small gold diamond-shaped charm right in the middle, a vertical bar at the two corner points of the long edge of the diamond, dangled between Alexia’s fingers. She took your right hand and placed it in your palm so you could look at it: the bracelet was simple but it’s delicate nature made it all the more beautiful and elegant.

“Oh, wow, this is so pretty.” 

“It’s for you.” At that you looked at her, half-afraid that she’d feel the way your heart raced at her words against her back. 

You were so busy trying to find the right thing to say that you didn’t realise that she took the bracelet back until you felt the warmth of her fingers on your palm as she turned your hand over. You watched her as she wrapped it around your wrist, securing the tie. You turned your right wrist over and looked at the delicate bracelet, and something in your heart soared at the small gift. The fact that Alexia made it herself made it all the more special to you.

“Thank you, Alexia. I love it.”

“You’re welcome.”

That night while you were sufficiently warm nestled by Alexia’s side, naked except for the sheets, your head on her chest, a realisation hit you.

“It represents FC Barcelona, isn’t it?”

Alexia hummed in answer, the rumble from the sound a pleasant sensation on your cheek. Then she held your wrist in the space between her thumb and index finger, the width of her palm supporting your hand as she turned your hand just so so the gold of the diamond could catch the light.

“And what else?”

At that, you looked at the bracelet intently. The two bars: one and one–Alexia’s number. So she really was serious when she said she liked seeing her number on you.

You let out a small laugh, then you nuzzled her jaw as you spoke, “you little sneak.”

———

Minding her bad knee, you flipped the both of you over with a strength that even surprised yourself and with how Alexia’s brows raised high, you supposed it took her off guard, too. You settled your weight on her stomach and you bit your lip when you felt her abs tense against your core, and the desire in you blazed into a raging inferno that threatened to burn you inside out.

She grabbed your ass in both hands with a firm grip, making you gasp when her hold made you grind against her stomach, her eyes smouldering as she looked up at you. 

That look was your last straw; you couldn’t stop fighting your desire anymore so you let it swallow you whole. You fell forward, bracing your weight against your elbows as you craned your neck to kiss Alexia, rough and desperate, her lower lip between your teeth. The action rewarded you with a low moan, a delicious sound that shot heat straight down to your core.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Alexia gasped out between your relentless kisses.

“I like being on top,” was your simple answer whispered hotly against her ear, nipping gently at the soft skin there–teasing. 

Then it was your turn to gasp. 

Her fingers dug delightfully into your flesh, kneading your ass roughly before easing them apart with equal force. The harsh treatment caught you by surprise and the effect of it even more unexpected as you immediately melted against her, moaning her name helplessly against the crook of her neck. 

She knew just how to make a mess of you.

“Hmm, do you?” She asked coyly and then proceeded in a deliciously low voice that oozed seduction, smugness, and sex. “Too bad I’m still in control.”

“Fuck.” Your body answered for you in a full-body shiver. Her words turned you on to the brink of falling and you found no purchase as you slipped from the ledge.

It should be embarrassing how you could come without Alexia even fucking you, and it should scare you that she had this much power over your body but in this moment, when her hands were everywhere but your pussy and her filthy words were whispered hotly in your ear, you could care less. So you fell apart, shaking and weak, as you sank on top of Alexia’s firm and soft body, her name barely coherent from the sobs that came out of your lips. Euphoria lit every nerve in your body as you came, the fabric of your underwear latched deliciously on your pussy like a second skin and you were sure that you’d made a mess on Alexia’s bare stomach.

You only realised Alexia had stopped her teasing ministrations until you heard her thick voice through the haze of the afterglow which you barely caught.

“You came.”

It wasn’t a question, really, but you let out a small affirmative moan because what else could you do? You were mush–the intensity of your orgasm caught you off guard and left you floundering that no thoughts formed in your mind, just pure bliss and ecstacy. But as the veil of euphoria began to lift, embarrassment bled into the edges of your consciousness and with it the instinct to apologise. The words were poised at the tip of your tongue when Alexia moaned.

“Fuck, that’s so hot,” she breathed out and when you found the strength to lift your head to look at her, her eyes were lidded, pupils blown so wide they were almost all black.

And then she was pulling you in for a kiss, and then the wet heat of her tongue traced the edge of your ear, and she was nipping at your jaw while she dragged her palms from your ass to the side of your ribs. Your skin burnt at her touch and you could do nothing but surrender, to moan and whimper as your heat blazed anew despite having just been swept away.

“But this time, you’re going to come with my fingers in you.”

She didn’t even let the words sink in. Instead she wasted no time to slip her hand between your bodies and to push aside the fabric of your ruined underwear. Usually, Alexia liked to tease you and ease her fingers in you slowly as she sought as much reaction from you as she could, but the slick she found there must had been enough to satisfy her because she pushed two fingers in as soon as she found you. The thickness of her fingers slid in easily and you nearly screamed her name from the pleasure. 

She was relentless in her endeavour to make her words true with the way she gripped your hip steady with her free hand so you didn’t stray too far from her touch when you moved to meet her thrusts, the pace at which she worked her fingers in you left you lightheaded the same way her teeth on your neck worked to drive you insane.

“Alexia, Alexia, Alexia–” You chanted her name like a holy litany, burying your face into her hair that was now slightly damp with sweat and breathed her in: her scent of sun and freshly cut grass, of faint wintergreen, and an essence that was uniquely hers. The moment left you full with something heavy and warm, something that spoke of and hoped for forever, and clarity washed over you: this wasn’t like one of your previous dalliances anymore because you wanted more with her.

The realisation hit you hard, the gravity of it left your mind in a momentary stasis that when you came back to yourself, the shock of your orgasm knocked the breath from your lungs and you felt yourself being pulled by the tide. So strong was it that you could do nothing but pray the flood wouldn’t take you–that Alexia wouldn’t let you drown.

[volivolition]

DAY 4: DRAMA - Put on your prettiest face for the masses!

gonna start adding silly captions actually. [POINTS ACCUSINGLY] MELTY FUCK (AFFECTIONATE)!!

[merry-fagoland]

making akihiko and chie cops was the dumbest fucking decision ever because i know in my heart that they're actually a physical therapist and professional racecar driver respectively

[moriaarts]

ARC Trooper Corporal Jaig

Blorbo the second, Jaig the ARC of the 343rd. In house mother and bleeding heart in disguise. With the text under the cut.

CT - 8407 “Jaig” has proven herself to be a survivor. Calm, collected and aloof, Jaig comes across as a cold and unapproachable soldier. But its a mask of a hunter observing the world for signs of danger.

The name “Jaig” was given to her early in the war when a B1 droid got in close and disarmed her. It’s not in Jaig nature to go down without a fight. It’s not in her nature to go down at all. All clones are trained in hand to hand combat, made stronger and more agile than base humans. But these are necessary against unyielding mechanical fists. Knocked off her feet by a metal backhand, she remember the raw of the wind across the sands, of the LAAT’s, of blaster fire.

She registers the B1s flooding in and going for her batchmates, her squadron, helmet forgotten she goes for the nearest one and shreds out the wires in its neck. It’s a valiant effort. It’s luck. The droid reaches back, grabbing her by the face to pull her off. It’s joints seize and all thats left as it turns on her is the command prompt to shoot and keep shooting. The fucker took her eye. Tore the skin off around it.

The scar that it left was triangular shaded, the skin too smooth for the rest of her face. A jaig eye, Jai’galaar’la sur’haii’se, a shreik-hawk eye, they said. Said her quick thinking took out a platoon of clankers when the droid she hardwired mindlessly shot a downed LAAT, blowing it, sending it crashing on top of the ones storming their trench. She just remembers being pissed because they knocked her bucket off and didn't finish the job. So she gets to trained as an ARC. It’s an honour. And she agrees but it doesn't feel real. Even assigned to the 21st Nova Corps, under the command of Commander Jet, Clone Marshal Commander Bacara, and General Ki Adi Mundi.

She never really like red. Liked the long kama though. She also had not like General Mundi. The rumour was that he had ten wives. The number changed depending on the battalion they were bunking with. It was more like four. But knowing the jedi’s no string policy she's even less of a fan. Even less in the coming months before. Jaig would be with the nova corps for few campaigns. Used to smile when Block chased her around with hair shears. How Duke would always grumbled getting dirt off his armour, and asked how she kept hers so clean and not smelling of wet bantha. But besides that she hadn't known much about herself until they had met them. Two of General Mundi’s wives met them at a medical station one a doctor the other visiting from a relief mission. Pamania. She was lovely. Covered in simple jedi cream robes all except for her eyes. Eyes of deep pools of dark purple, nebulas set in russet skin. They creased when she smiled. Lashes fluttered when she cried. They visited the medical base often. Pamania was gentle with them. Patient and kind, and fierce as a forests fire when they came back in a state. Jaig thinks she liked her. The first one to call her sister. The first to run fingers through her hair rather than playfully pull it when she gave her some self sacrificing crap. The first person to kiss her on the cheek and tell her she had a right to live in this world. War or no war.

Jaig had been younger then, Naive and unsure what to do with such gentle treatment. Who knew an innocent kiss to a clothed cheek would do such damage? Jet had scolded her and within a week she was decommissioned for improper behaviour, officially. Unofficially reassigned in shiny armour to the 343rd.  

Bonus:

Jaig loves the twins like her own. Especially Lash, whose quiet sarcasm is a family brand of deflection. She wants more with Ro, but Ro has a whole host of issues to make up with before Jaig is next in line. Doesn’t stop her having the ARF troopers back though. They both got on best, both being recon troops and with her 3rd in command and Ro in 2nd, they often share looks of exasperation and concern at the expense of Kiss.  

Here is Captain Kiss x and the rest of the company.

WIP Playlist

[yourfriendlyneighborhoodenby]

*slaps side of cybersix cartoon* this show can fit so many trans experiences in it

like, the genderfluidity of it all? you're is presenting as a man here with this identity and as a woman here with this identity but is always still you. one of the things the story says over and over about our protagonist's love interest is that, in whatever way, he cares so so much about our protagonist in Both of their identities. The story is not just about one it's about both.

a transmasc experience? The coat that's a bit too big for you but makes your shoulders look wider, the shirt that's big enough to hide in, your voice doesn't really pass and you're just hoping it'll be overlooked, you get hurt and you don't want to go to a hospital because they would see through the disguise, you don't want to give your name to someone who might realize it's not official. If they see through the disguise you're in danger. you've finally reached a part of your life where you can make connections freely as a person but there's always this doubt of is this real? do i deserve this? what if they knew? and they can't know because that would implicate them in the same danger. i cannot be this and live this all the time because of how i was created, because of the dangers around me. and at the end of the day, when it comes to the final hour, I'll have to give this up, won't I? you put the glasses down. but you survive anyway, and you can get them back, if you want.

but just. the more I watched of this show the more it's just absolutely hit me in the feels with a transfem narrative? like in the way galaxy the prettiest star has a 'you're in disguise as a man to keep yourself and those around you safe' transfem narrative and like specifically a partially closeted/sometimes in guymode transfem narrative. your childhood photo that you keep with you is ambiguous enough on your gender to not give anything away. you go to work in mens clothes that don't quite fit right with a man's name and you hope no one sees through that facade because if they do you would be in danger. You go home and at night you change your hair, you put on your makeup and nails and heels and you go back out as yourself. and you are incredibly strong and you are in incredible danger but deep in your heart you feel alive. and at the same time there is a voice in your head that says you are not real, you are not a real person. you are not the right kind of person. you are not the right kind of woman. you don't deserve the things that real people deserve. you'll try to turn away someone who loves you because of that but because he loves you for yourself he doesn't care. You face danger and you survive anyway and you're loved. It just. it hits me right in the feels. I love her.

so much trans. very gender.

[arson-09]

tonights acotar thoughts are with the Illyrian women and how rhysand has utterly failed them despite his supposed efforts

Hes ‘allowed’ them to become warriors if they wish. But thats not even the bare minimum. from my memory he acknowledges that he doesnt enforce the wing clipping laws (smooth move) so that’s basically useless and as to be expected of a man, he misses the point of feminism and equality laws. WHERE are the laws and protections for women in marriages?? if the illyrian are so ‘brutal’ and ‘backwards’ the assumption can be made that divorce isn’t a thing unless the man requests it. No women requested divorces and probably no such thing as no fault divorces. As well as forced marriages (which also brings up the consent age) Adding on, what about abortions and other pre natal and natal laws and protections? again, assuming women arent allowed to have abortions or simply any bodily autonomy, where are those decrees rhysand? Im not even getting into the potential of LGBTQ+ illyrians and their rights (Logically there are LGBTQ+ illyrians but ofc sjm wouldn’t mention them)

He makes such a fuss about it being a womans choice (a hypocrite as we see in acosf) yet unless a woman is able too or wants to fight he doesnt seem to care. Which is also a major flaw of sjms writing, women only gain their independence if they can kick ass and fuck as they want. Which is of course valid but thats a very shallow way to view feminism and equality. The whole point is that a woman can choose, wether its to be a warrior or a stay at home mother, but theres nothing done for those women who want that lifestyle.

This has influenced me in my fic writing a lot to where a this topic has become a major focal point in my fic somewhat by accident. I think that logically there would be a rebellion from mostly illyrian women against rhysand, hes promised them so much yet has delivered so little.

[starry-sophrosyne]

Is it maybe a little pretentious to have my persona be more.. god like? Perhaps- XD

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In one manner, Starry is a sovereign of the night sky, the stars at dusk. She watches over the world, spanning across several universes, and her domains resides above them all. She spends her time watching over the little people in their worlds, embarking on journeys, meeting strife, falling to love and loss. She does not instill fate, she simply watches, but she knows of what is to come. She does not exist to any of them, as a concept outside of their universe, the goddess of their gods. And yet?

In another manner, she is nothing. Nothing omnipotent or all-powerful about her, other than her regal/elegant looks. She is a big nerd at heart, kicking her feet and giggling at people's writings and aus. She may have curved horns and stars dotting midnight skin, but she is no more of a god than a human wearing a yellow poncho. She resides our with the community and has the niche ability to summon a blue martini glass that she can communicate through/physically embody if need be. Why? Comedic humor. XD /hj /silly

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Starry & Rosyne's designs :

----------- Self-Insert designs below ----------

Clique's Angel au :

Starry's TTOS au :

Swizard's maidpocalypse "au" :

[sadagios]

(cw suggestive)

great progress is being made for sdgau act 1.... just need to drink plenty of holy water . bathe in it, even

[thesummerstorms]

Long rough draft piece of my Rook de Riva being confronted with her past while Lucanis is stuck trying to reconcile his knowledge with his emotions while feeling protective.

One day, eventually, in the course of many much more impossible events, one day after an entire life time, Arsinoë de Riva finally walks out of an Eluvian and into the gaze of one of her Apostate mother's former collaborators.

After, Arsinoë will explain that he recognizes her because the name she gives the innkeeper was one of her mother's years ago. In the moment, all Lucanis knows is that they're being followed.

Lucanis and Arsinoë both immediately pick up on the fact that this elderly "farmer" has too much interest, is following a little too close. In the slight shift of a stance, a glancing look at the other's face, they come to agreement, easier than even he and Illario once could. They both have weapons ready as they turn into a deserted side street.

(Bellara is not quite as quick on the uptake despite their subtle efforts.)

The glint of steel and then Lucanis is moving. There is light and heat pouring over Arsinoë's gloved hand, a second away from bathing them in fire.

But the Elven man hasn't drawn on them. Instead, he's placed himself between Bellara and a red-crystal blade, swearing back in colorful Antivan when the Venatori exalt the name of the Great God Lusacan. Blood follows, and magic, the sweep of violet wings and the gleam of Bellara's bow.

Blood follows. Then silence as the man turns to look at Arsinoë critically, athame still unsheathed.

Lucanis doesn't move to put himself between them. He is a Crow: she is a Crow; it would be an insult to them both and all their training. Still, the urge is there, amplified in Spite's hissing demands, all of them centered on Rook.

The stranger seems unconcerned by Lucanis or by Bellara's rushed questioning. He keeps one brow raised as he asks "Corina Soldati, huh?" When Arsinoë doesn't answer, he adds 'You look like her, you know. More scars, but the face is the same."

Arsinoë doesn't twitch, but it's actually the stillness that gives her away. It would to any Crow — that unnatural, frozen poise of a child who has been beaten until they learn not to react, not to let the gasp or whimper slip past their lips.

Spite senses it too, his agitation palpable and roiling behind Lucanis's eyes, pushing for movement, to bring steel against this stranger who has FRIGHTENED startled Rook. Lucanis, like that same Crow child, does not react. He holds, ready, waiting for the shift in Arsinoë's stance that will give him permission to strike.

"Corina...Soldati?" Bellara asks, eyes flitting back and forth between Rook and the stranger. "Wait, is that a real person? Am I supposed to know who that is?"

Lucanis has never heard of a Corina Soldati in any capacity connected with the Crows, or in any of Caterina's careful strategizing around the merchant princes and their houses, but that doesn't have to mean anything. The part that matters is why the man cares.

If this is some past job come back to haunt Rook, it would better to end this now, quickly, and make their escape back through the Eluvian towards Treviso, where Viago can be apprised as Arsinoë's Talon. How Bellara would take that, though –

Rook still has not spoken- as uncharacteristic of her as her stony face, and that's setting off its own alarms- when the man interrupts his silent strategizing.

"She had other names. Antiklea, maybe. Antiklea Zangari?" A pause. "Fuck, you two don't know anything, do you." It isn't a question. "Well then, kid, what name are you using these days? When you're not using hers."

ROOK. IS QUIET! WHY IS ROOK? QUIET!

Lucanis couldn't answer Spite even if he wanted; he's never seen Arsinoë freeze like this, but there isn't time to dissect it. Bellara has moved to put herself between Arsinoë and the old man, Crows be damned, so Lucanis jumps in to speak the same way he would watch her back in a fight.

"De Riva." He answers for her. It's the only identity of hers a target has any right to know. "Why do you care?"

"We go back a ways," the man says, and finally sheathes his mage knife. Tucked into his belt, it looks as deceptive as he is, a farmer's hunting weapon without the glinting silverite blade. "You might have been too young to remember though, kid. And Antiklea didn't bring you around much."

"No." Rook doesn't move. She's normally an expressive talker, hands in constant motion, but she is still holding, eyes watchful. Waiting for the signal, as if young and bruised again."No, she didn't. Not when she didn't have to."

WHO. IS IT?

Lucanis bites back the question, instead making a deliberate point of not sheathing Rialto. He doesn't know of an Antiklea either, but something about this is throwing Rook is off her game. He can't afford to make more openings in her guard.

Footsteps go past the narrow mouth of the street and all of them, even the man tense. Spite hovers behind the man's shoulder, violet, violent light spilling over the stranger's face for only Lucanis to see.

SMELLS LIKE. RAIN AND DUST.

"Do we have a problem here?" Lucanis asks, at the same time as Bellara turns to Arsinoë, her back left open, FOOLISH , "Wait, do you know him Rook?"

Arsinoë glances her thumb along the sharpened Everite edge of her blade and shakes her head. "You weren't one of the ones she left me with, were you?"

Left you with???

"No," the man agrees. " You wouldn't have been any safer with me than you were with her. She's dead now, you know. Your mother."

What?

That's what this was about?

Lucanis has known of course, that Arsinoë wasn't de Riva by blood, whether it be Viago's or the previous Talon's. She was compradi, purchased, the same as most Crow fledglings were, and of course she had to have come from somewhere but –

Your mother is dead.

Lucanis blinked away the sudden twist in his chest and saw that Spite had rounded back to leer at the man's face, echoing confused anger. Incidentally, this also put the demon closer to Rook. Bellara had reached out immediately to put a steadying hand on Rook's elbow, but –

Arsinoë seemed to relax, her body shuddering as she released a breath. The mage knife was moving in her hands, but it was the same as the way she fidgeted with her fork or quill, not the intricate weave of a mage casting a spell.

"I assumed she was, by now," Arsinoë admitted, "It's been long enough. And even back then, well... I guess even as a kid I knew she wasn't going to come for me. Either she was dead or–"

Or cutting her losses. The unspoken words hung in the air.

And Arsinoë had been compradi. He knew that, knew the long, sordid history of the Crows and the children they bought to raise.

But... surely not. This was Rook. And even Caterina had-

LEFT ROOK? LEFT! ROOK!

"No, she wouldn't have," the man confirms, but Bellara's face is more devastated than Rook's, "that wasn't Antiklea's way of doing things. A couple of us looked, though, for what it's worth. Got as far as Filomena's widow and a couple of Templars, but then –".

"Then the Circle," Arsinoë agrees. "And then the Crows."

"The Crows? ... De Riva. Fuck, kid."

Lucanis bristles, even though his own thoughts have been circling and circling, twisting around compradi and bruising and silence, the strike of a cane. Arsinoë's free hand brushes his glove in recognition, and then the twist turns to shame.

"Things are what they are," Arsinoë tells her mother's associate with no more defensiveness than a shrug. Finally, the heat and flame of her mage orb flickers out of view. "I'm sorry if using one of her names upset you. I didn't expect it to be recognized after this long."

"Rook-" Bellara exclaims, but the glance Arsinoë shoots her isn't one looking for apologies.

The man shifts a little awkwardly, as if its finally hitting him just how absurd this whole conversation has been. "There are a few of us still around. A couple of the others might have some things of hers, I think. A stave or..."

"No. No that's not necessary."

"Arsinoë... Do you still use Arsinoë?"

"It's fine," Arsinoë waves him off, which doesn't actually answer the question, but the man relents. "I don't...She wouldn't..."

Wouldn't what? Wouldn't want to pass on her weapons to the daughter she apparently didn't look for?

"Still, I could-"

"No. Thank you. But whatever debts were there back then, neither of us owes the other now. I'll be fine."

"Debts?" Bellara asks incredulously, then "Rook, are you sure..."

"Bellara." Lucanis's jaw clicks as he says her name.

Arsinoë gives them all another small shake of the head, then glances at the still cooling Venatori corpses. "We should go. Before these are missed, I mean." Her eyes look to Bellara, to Lucanis, seeking, as if worried they might protest the sudden departure.

As if they would be worried about the groceries right now.

The man relents with a nod. "I'll handle the bodies. We can still do that much. Go safe... Signora de Riva."

Arsinoë turns heel without another glance in his direction. Bellara scrambles after her, leaving Lucanis to follow. He watches even as he leaves, until the old elf turns to the bodies with a sigh.

"So that was-" Bellara begins as he's catching up, but Arsinoë throws a hand up.

"Bel. Please. Not here."

Still Arsinoë accepts when Bellara tentatively links an arm through hers, though Lucanis swears he sees her flinch. Bellara looks back over her shoulder at him, expression still clear and full of all the words Arsinoë has rejected.

That was weird, right? He can almost hear her voice when their eyes meet. That was really weird. And sad.

Unfortunately... Lucanis thinks he understands more than he might like.

"When we get to the Lighthouse," he offers, "I'll send Harding for anything we need urgently and then I can start a pot of ciocalta calda while the stove heats."

Arsinoë gives no sign she heard him, her face distant. He starts revising dinner plans and the grocery list he will give to Harding. The broth can be put towards soup, maybe. Something easy to eat, to sip at, and what's left of the bread to soak in it.

LEFT ROOK? SOMEONE. LEFT ROOK THERE? Spite demands. The demon is unusually agitated, even for Spite.

Lucanis wishes he had a better answer.

But isn't that always how it is with the compradi?

Even Rook.