#i love drawing this jons skin

[mxwhore]

some monster intimacy commission for @chrisis-averted of their AU "Rewind. Reset. Rewrite"

commission me!

[greenglowinspooks]

Honestly I think the fics where Danny’s a Kryptonian have a lot of potential, so here’s me throwing my hat into the ring

Danny was born a human. He was born to two loving (though slightly neglectful) human parents in the painfully mundane state of Illinois.

Then, he died, but he didn’t do it right. He became a Halfa; too alive to be a ghost, but too dead to be human.

Then, through strange, uncontrollable circumstances, that changed as well.

He had been heavily injured, missing a large percentage of body mass, and was at the cusp of either dying fully or just fading from existence.

(Perhaps it was an ordinary fight. Perhaps it was the GiW, or his parents. Perhaps it was a simple accident. That didn’t matter now.)

He fled, phasing through the ground, trying to bury himself as deep as possible.

(Perhaps he didn’t want to be unmasked in death. Perhaps that was already too late, and he just wanted his body be able to rest in peace.)

Unfortunately for him, he was in Metropolis, and ended up in a secret genetics lab below the earth.

Danny detransformed, completely exhausted, falling onto a table covered in different labeled specimen containers. He closed his eyes, and prepared himself for what would happen next.

And… nothing.

Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes.

Danny sat up, brushing off the foul-smelling liquid from the specimen jars, petri dishes, and assorted vials.

He felt…fine.

No, better than fine. He felt normal. Healthy.

He felt like he wasn’t missing most of his internal organs anymore.

Danny looked down at his stomach, and saw that the wounds that were killing him had completely disappeared.

(The blood blossoms, if there had been any, were still there, but they no longer hurt. At most, they itched a little, or maybe just tickled a bit.)

He wanted to question what in the hell had just happened, but he didn’t want to jinx it. He just quietly changed back to Phantom, going invisible and phasing out of wherever he had found himself in, ignoring the loud alarm system that had begun to blare when he broke the samples on that table.

Life mostly went back to normal after that.

If, like Danny, you ignored all the physical changes in a valiant effort to remain in denial that something was horribly wrong.

His skin was tougher, now; he didn’t get scrapes or cuts, even when he accidentally fumbled a knife while trying to cook. His ghost form was stronger, too; he was barely knocked down by his old rogues anymore.

He could fly, even in his human form. Though, admittedly, the flight was much different. It was like using a muscle he hadn’t known existed beforehand. He didn’t just ignore gravity or wind resistance, though he felt more graceful in the air now than he ever did as Phantom.

There were more powers popping up, lasers and cold breath, x-ray vision and super strength. His lungs and heart were larger, and he could handle temperatures much easier. He didn’t have to transform to handle the pressure and cold of space anymore.

His reaction time had improved, becoming much faster than ever before. His senses were much stronger, and he had even seemed to gain a sense of electric fields, like a shark.

The only thing that separated him from a Kryptonian was that he had developed electrokenesis, which he had never seen any of them use on TV.

So, surely, he was fine.

Everything was normal, he hadn’t been transformed by alien DNA in a sketchy lab, he had just had a really weird and specific metagene activation.

—

Clark Kent, Kal-El, was panicking.

It had been around a month and a half since a particularly brutal fight between Intergang and an unknown assailant, and it seemed that Intergang was determined to draw out whoever had scorned them.

Their method of doing this, of course, was trying to level the city.

He and Jon were doing their best to stop them, but with both Kon and Zor-El away on their own business, it was difficult.

And by difficult, he meant almost impossible.

Slowly but surely he was driving them back, but not without massive amounts of damage to the city, especially with only Jon on dedicated rescuing duty.

He was distracted, trying to draw a group away from a heavily occupied building, when a projectile hit him in the back of the head.

The world spun for a moment, and then it went black.

(It was, probably, then, some sort of Kryptonite-metal alloy. Intergang at its finest.)

He woke slowly, forcing his eyes open. He felt like he had been hit by an eighteen wheeler.

Clark jolted up, preparing for the worst.

To his shock, though, the city hadn’t been reduced to rubble while he was out.

Jon seemed to still be working on evacuation, either unaware that he had went down or forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.

Then, a lightning-quick figure flew into view, and Clark’s mind went blank.

He thought, for a moment, that Kara was back. But, no, that wasn’t right, she was supposed to be off-planet for another week or so.

Besides, this new figure didn’t move like her. They were lankier and more slender, and they flew quicker than any member of his family.

Their powerset was different, too; they focused mainly on using blasts of ice and electricity to drive enemies back, only occasionally using their strength or lasers—ones which came from their hands instead of their eyes.

He had woken up at the tail end of the fight, it seemed. The remaining Intergang members were fleeing from the mysterious metahuman.

They stayed in the sky, motionless, watching them leave.

As if they could sense him staring, they turned.

They were small, still clearly young. Probably around Kon’s age, or maybe even younger.

Instead of the colorful clothing he had inherited from his family, the stranger wore black and white clothes which looked similar to a hazmat suit, their face covered by some sort of gas mask.

Interestingly enough, instead of the S-shape crest that he was so used to seeing, the stranger wore the letter D on his chest.

Kal’s heart sped up.

From up in the sky, he heard the stranger’s heart, on the left instead of the right, speed up in return.

But before he could say a word to them, they sped off, disappearing into the deep blue sky.

[fox-guardian]

[ID: Two digital drawings of Jon and Martin from The Magnus Archives in lovecore themed outfits. Both are on pink backgrounds covered in hearts with a larger heart behind each of them. The first image is of Jon, a thin Arab man with brown skin and long curly black and gray hair and a matching mustache. He's wearing a pale pink button down, a lilac argyle sweater-vest with pink hearts, pink flared trousers and lighter pink shoes. He's also wearing pink half-moon glasses with a matching chain with heart beads. He is posed as though floating with his knees bent and he has one hand over his chest and is holding a bouquet of roses in the other as he smiles to the upper right. There is a large shiny pink heart over his actual heart.

The second image is of Martin, a fat white man with freckles, a tooth gap, and long red hair pulled into a low ponytail and body hair. He's wearing a pale lilac button down and a long hot pink cardigan with the sleeves rolled up, pale pink trousers, hot pink loafers, a magenta neck scarf, and a gold belt, cuff, and scarf ring all with pink hearts as the buckle or charm. He is also wearing gold round glasses with pink lenses and gold ear gauges and two gold ear cuffs. He is posed as though floating with his legs tucked under him and his arms outstretched, holding out a floating shiny pink heart, smiling towards the bottom left. end ID]

~~~~

happy valentine's day gamers!! i wanted to do a lovecore jon cuz he's just so full of love and i thought well, i can't just NOT make a matching martin, so here they are!!

[thefrogdalorian]

Nowhere Else To Run

Din Djarin x GN!Reader

Summary: Despite the fact that sharing a cabin with you and Grogu on Nevarro has given him the peaceful life he was searching for, Din cannot escape the nightmares of his past which haunt him most nights.

Although he feels unworthy of your love, the only time things make sense is when you take him in your arms and dutifully put his pieces back together. Even on nights when he feels he does not deserve it.

Word Count:  3.4k ✯ Rating:  Teen ✯ Content Warnings: ✯ PTSD, nightmares, descriptions of canon-typical violence, survivor's guilt, Din feeling unworthy of love, Din's violent past, reader's hands described as being smaller than Din's. Author's Note: I created my blog six months ago, so here is a little Din drabble to celebrate. Title is taken from 'All These Things That I've Done' by The Killers (which is so Din coded) and I also listened to 2 Rocking Chairs by Jon Bellion a lot recently, so that might have inspired some of this too! Really hope you enjoyed it and here's to many more months of Din Djarin brainrot ☺︎

✯ My Masterlist ✯ Read on AO3 ✯

On the nights he startles awake, haunted by the nightmarish, twisted visions of the worst things he has done, he is certain that he does not deserve you. With all his evil deeds laid bare as his mind plays cruel tricks on him, Din Djarin remains convinced that he could live a thousand lifetimes and never be worthy of your love. 

His eyelids fly open as his bare, muscular chest heaves. His golden skin is covered with a sheen of sweat. Din raises a trembling hand to wipe the moisture from his furrowed brow. Disorientated and afraid in the darkness.

His sharpened senses, honed thanks to his previous life as a bounty hunter, begin to function with all the effectiveness which once led to him being deemed the best in the parsec. He cringes as he remembers his narcissism, disgusted by how dishonourable it was to take pride in such an epithet. 

First, Din feels your presence at his side. A warm mass of flesh in the dark, coldness of the night. So close that he could reach out and touch you if only he were not petrified that doing so would shatter your beauty. He yearns to draw comfort from you. Yet, he is too afraid to bring you down to his level, to defile your splendour.

Then, Din hears your soft snores. Truthfully, the sweet sounds you make are not quite snores at all. Merely the even, shallow sounds which indicate that you are peacefully resting. He relaxes slightly, relieved that his unwanted awakening has not disturbed you. 

Emboldened by your continued slumber, Din sits up and gazes at you. Your stunning features are barely illuminated by the faint moonlight which streams in through an ill-fitting blind, yet even such a simple glimpse leaves him overwhelmed by your beauty.

As he quietly watches you, Din wonders what he could have done to deserve you in a past life. He certainly is not worthy of you in this one.

How could someone as wicked and treacherous as he ever be worthy of the love you envelop him in each day of your lives?

The guilt creeps in, then. It snakes its horrifying tendrils around Din's entire being and suffocates him under the weight of his regret and his pain. 

He feels guilty that he has even found himself in a position to receive love like this in the first place. Especially after everything he has done, all the pain he has caused and contributed to.

Din wonders whether it is cruel to keep you around. To have intertwined his life with yours in the way he has. Surely you deserve someone better than him.

Inviting you to move in with him changed so much for Din. It deepened and strengthened his relationship with you while opening him up to experiences he had missed for much of his life. How to share space with someone else, to show affection and receive it in return.

Sharing a bunk with someone for the first time meant Din could not continue outrunning his past. It was a race that had begun decades prior on the day he lost everything on Aq Vetina, a marathon which continued well into adulthood. 

The race was almost won when Din took the job that changed his life and led him to Arvala-7 in the hunt for the bounty who eventually became his son.

Yet it wasn’t until Din found you that he had finally crossed the finish line. 

He still remembered the horrified look in your eyes when he awoke for the first time in your presence, thrashing and screaming as the night terrors plagued him. Terrified by the haunting visions that made his past as vivid as though it was happening right before him. 

The nightmares are indiscriminate when they strike. Extensive in their scope. 

In slumber, Din is confronted with the shameful jobs he took from the most reprehensible individuals in the galaxy, reminded of the ego he once possessed.

He relives how readily he hunted people for his gain, collecting bounties without a care for who he hurt. Who was he to be the law? To be judge, jury and, on occasion, executioner? Din is pained at the memory of the life of sin he led. 

Din sees the job on Alzoc III in harrowing detail. The unspeakable acts of violence he had a hand in. As much as he tries to downplay his role and blame the atrocities on the disgusting band of crooks he ran with at the time, deep down, Din knows that he was a willing participant in the barbarity.

He replays the moment when, in a cruel, unforgiving tone, the gold-helmeted woman he had always idolised coldly informed him that he was a Mandalorian no more. Din is tormented time and again by the knowledge that he rendered himself an apostate in the eyes of the people who saved him; who taught him how to live. Being a Mandalorian and swearing the Creed were the only things aside from violence Din had truly ever been successful at. Walking The Way of the Mandalore was the only thing which had brought him anywhere close to achieving inner peace.

But most chillingly of all, Din is reminded of the gravest transgression of his life. An act of cruelty he knows that he will never truly forgive himself for committing, for as long as he lives.

Night after night, Din is haunted by how he had given up the child you both adore beyond comparison, who sleeps peacefully next door, to the Empire for the measly sum of a camtono of Beskar. 

Was that truly all Grogu’s life was worth?

Of course, Din knows that there is no sum in the entire galaxy which would prove comparable to how Grogu has enriched his life.

Even though Din has seen the error of his ways, as he thinks back across the decades and counts his mistakes, Din Djarin knows that he is not a good man. 

Yet, somehow, he has found you. 

You are the greatest blessing to happen to him, matched only by his son.

He thinks of the way you still look at him with such love in your eyes, even after knowing the atrocities he committed in a past life; it almost embarrasses him to be loved in such a manner. 

Somehow, Din has secured your unconditional love. A fact which proves every now and then, both suns shine on a womp rat’s tail. That even the most undeserving of rodents can occasionally have the greatest of fortunes.

Even when the terrors overcome him, you have never contemplated deserting him. No matter how dark and disgraceful the visions he divulges to you are.

When he wakes up yelling for his parents or screaming for Grogu, whom he is momentarily convinced the Empire have recaptured, you are always there to reassure him and to hold him while he sobs; to kiss his pain away with a touch of your soft lips against his tear-streaked cheeks.

Even knowing all he has done, you still look at him as though he is responsible for hanging all the stars which twinkle in the sky above your cabin on Nevarro. 

Din recalls evenings spent on the porch with you outside the unassuming cabin you share by the lava flats of Nevarro. Watching the sun set beneath the horizon as he holds your smaller hand in his, while he admires how your hands fit together as they rest on his lap. He thinks about how smooth your skin is there, how it is so unlike the calloused roughness of his own.

You are softness and humanity in the face of his wickedness. 

A wave of nausea overcomes him. Din is stricken by an overwhelming urge to get away from you. To put some distance between himself and you before he corrupts you with his immorality once more.

He ponders that perhaps he will find some relief on the porch in the dead of night. A solitary figure, save for his thoughts and the ghosts that haunt him. Sitting in total silence, apart from the bugs which chirp in the distance, is an appealing prospect.

So Din slowly swings his legs off the edge of the bunk, careful not to disturb you. He cringes at the way the sheets rustle. It is a minor offence compared to the many sins Din has already committed. Still, he does not want to add disturbing your peace to that list.

He sighs in the darkness as he perches on the edge of the bunk, a forceful exhale which causes his shoulders to droop when he realises you are still sleeping soundly. Din is relieved that you are unaware of his distress. 

He is tantalisingly close to the door when the moment of solace is cruelly snatched away. His careful steps across the wooden floor were evidently not soft enough.

The gentle sound of your voice cutting through the darkness stops him in his tracks. Din turns to face you.

“Din?” you whisper, voice thick and husky with sleep.

The wave of guilt that washes over him is immediate. It threatens to wash him away, to drown him. 

“Go back to sleep, cyare,” Din shakily responds, hoping he sounds convincing to someone so attuned to his every mannerism.

“Did you have another nightmare?” you ask, clearly unconvinced by his display.

Din Djarin may be many things, but he is not a liar. 

Even under the merciful cover of darkness, when he would not have to look you in the eye as he skirted around the truth, he cannot bring himself to lie to you.

“Yes,” Din finally responds. His voice cracks as he struggles under the pressure of admitting his weakness. 

The light is on before he can protest, and you rise from the bed before he can insist that there is no need. Din blinks rapidly for a few seconds as his retinas adjust to the rude intrusion into the darkness.

When his eyes finally focus, you are standing right before him, already moving to gather him into your arms.

It is strange to him, this notion that he ever needed someone to pick him up and dutifully put his shattered pieces back together. A human needing repairs is an alien concept to Din Djarin. While he has always been adept at finding and fixing faults in his impressive arsenal and starships, he was never able to identify his weaknesses and repair himself. Until he found his Clan.

It wasn't until Din saved the kid that he realised he had been running from something for his entire life. Since that terrible day, when he watched over his father's shoulder as the bodies of his neighbours hit the dusty floor. Crumpled heaps, which used to be people until moments ago, were clad in the same distinctive red robes as him. The terror he felt as his parents ran through the streets, determined to save him, their only son. 

On his worst days, Din wonders if their sacrifice was worthwhile. He frets over what they would think if they could see what became of their precious boy. Whether they would be disappointed to see the life he followed. A life of such violence, such mercilessness. 

Your warm presence against him, as you take him into your arms, snaps him back to the present. Din willingly melts into your embrace, relishing the human contact. 

“Talk to me, Din,” you whisper as you hold him to your chest.

When you run your fingers through his hair, he loses all composure and breaks down into small sobs. Din shudders in your arms as you trail soothing fingers through his hair with one hand and rub your hand in circles on his back with the other.

“I don’t deserve you,” he eventually murmurs, voice quivering. 

Din feels the way you shake your head. You gently place your hand underneath his chin and tilt his face up. Din's eyes meet your gaze and he notices how your eyes are full of concern for him. He can hardly look at you, feeling mortified at being studied like this. 

Allowing himself to be vulnerable like this is still so fresh to him. To have his soul laid bare like this is uncomfortable and unnatural.

“You are not the worst things you have ever done, Din,” you whisper as you gently wipe the tears he was unable to prevent trailing a hot path down his cheek with your fingertips, “You cannot change the past. I know that you are a good man, Din, and I love you. All of you. You would not be the man that I adore without those parts of you. For better or worse, they shaped you into the man you are today.”

Din trembles under your gaze, under the weight of your words. Unsure whether he can allow himself to accept the unconditional love you offer so readily to him, time and again.

The tears stream steadily down his cheeks, as you continue to soothe his soul:

“In you, I see a caring father. A considerate man who will do anything to protect his Clan. A fearless Mandalorian warrior who has turned his fighting prowess towards a more noble endeavour. To rid the galaxy of any threats, to build a better life for your son. That is an honourable undertaking, Din.”

“I am not an honourable man,” he scoffs, instantly rebutting such a compliment. He is far too undeserving of such praise.

“You are,” you sigh, gently stroking his cheek with your thumb. There is such tenderness in your gaze and in how you touch him that he struggles to keep his emotions at bay. His bottom lip trembles at your next words, “Your life is not defined by your most evil deeds. I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. I adore you, Din. There is so much of you that is loveable.”

Din sighs. In his current mental state, he is unable to believe your words. Unable to let them sink in, to find solace in your reassurances. He looks away from you, shaking his head in a silent response.

When he finally feels able to find your gaze again, he watches as something shifts in your eyes. A tether of patience snaps. 

There is a firmness in your tone the next time you address him.

“Do you know how empty our lives would be without you? How much the little boy in the other room adores you?" you plead in an exasperated tone. "He’s asleep right now, surrounded by a mountain of plushies that his father bought for him because even though you intimidate most you come into contact with thanks to your appearance, I have seen firsthand that, beneath your armour, you have a pure heart. And you are wrapped around each one of his little green talons.”

At the mention of his son, Din cannot help the way his lips curve upwards, the ghost of a smile crossing against his features. A welcome respite from the tortured look he has worn since he awoke from his nightmare. 

“Grogu adores you, Din. He idolises you. You would do anything to secure his happiness,” you nod, “And mine. How lucky am I to know a love like that?”

“I do love you," Din nods, "And I’m going to spend the rest of my life taking care of both of you,” Din vows, the cracks in his voice replaced with steely determination. 

Din notices the way you seem to loosen at his words, knowing that the man you know and love is gradually returning to you. His insecurities and devastation have been replaced by his determination to protect you from anything in the galaxy which could harm you.

“Then, let’s get some more rest, honey,” you whisper as you press a soft kiss onto Din’s stubbly cheek.

Din nods and laces his fingers with yours, allowing you to lead him the few steps back to the bunk you share. He slides underneath the covers, watching you as you round the bunk to join him. Once you have slid beneath the sheets, you turn the light off and plunge the room back into darkness. 

Yet, the darkness which permeated every atom of Din Djarin’s being has vanished. He can only see the light now. The way your love illuminates every part of his life. How unrelenting, yet not overbearing, the way you adore him is. 

Especially when you gently encourage him to roll over on his side so you can wrap your arms around his tight waist and nuzzle into the centre of his back. Your nose and mouth nestled between his broad shoulders.

Din lets out a sigh of contentment. 

In your arms, there is tranquillity. The necessary remedy which soothes his anguished spirit. 

✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯

Later, when Grogu is finally sleeping soundly after another long day of being doted on by his parents, Din finally makes it to his intended destination. Although he tried to reach the porch in the middle of the night, he would rather be here now. Especially since you are by his side, sitting next to him. It is a moment of rest after a hectic day spent entertaining a hyperactive Force-sensitive toddler with a voracious appetite.

With your presence in his life, Grogu has only continued to flourish. Din’s chest swells with pride as he thinks of his son's progress and all the milestones he has reached. Din knows that being a good father to Grogu is the most important role he will ever fulfil. He treats it with as much seriousness as such a responsibility warrants.

But Grogu is asleep.

Now, it is just Din and you. He smiles as he looks at your hands together, and appreciates how your fingers are intertwined. Din relishes the comfort he draws from your physical presence. He feels soothed by the knowledge that he has hidden nothing from you, that you can still love him regardless of his past transgressions. 

Din looks out across the landscape towards the rolling volcanic hills of Nevarro, dusted a pale pink and orange colour in the fading light of dusk. He thinks about how he will grow old with you here in this little cabin. If fate grants him such an honour. 

He cannot help but smile as he thinks about how you will sit out here on this very porch, holding hands with each other. When his patchy facial hair is flecked with grey and even when it is entirely white. When the wrinkles on his face are as lined and drawn as the crevices which scar the surface of Nevarro. Perhaps Grogu will be old enough to run around by then. Maybe he will have gained the gift of speech.

Regardless, even many rotations from now, Din knows with absolute certainty that he will still think you are the most beautiful sight in the galaxy. Even after years of adoring each other, he will still wonder how he was ever so lucky to be worthy of your love. 

Din is excited to spend the rest of his life proving to you that he is the good man you repeatedly inform him you still see, even amongst all his flaws. It is a heavy task, yet one he relishes. Love had terrified him for so much of his life. When he discovered its beauty, he was determined to make up for lost time.

It is a heavy thought that he may never exhaust his capacity and reach the depths of all the love he has realised he possesses.

For now, though, Din turns his head to look at you, a soft smile lighting up his face as the sunset illuminates his features. The colour has returned to his cheeks. You return the gesture, gently sweeping your thumb across the back of his hand. 

In the fading light, your face glows golden, only accentuating your beauty. Din wonders again how he was ever so lucky to know a love like this. 

Except now, he does not doubt that he deserves it.

Now, Din Djarin allows his chest to be flooded with the warmth he feels when he embraces your love.

He accepts it, even after all the things that he’s done.

[wanderingblindly]

omg i’d die for a flip flop for landos pov during the scene where oscar is having a lowkey meltdown bc he *feels* something wrong with lando and is trying to find him in It’ll Pass. like dying for it in fact

(ask game) (original fic)

Yeah fuck it, let’s write Omegaverse in the laundromat lmfaoooooo

Lando’s been playing a dangerous game for too long, toeing lines too narrow for his brash nature. He knows it; he’s known it since the first time he met Oscar at the MTC, since he crossed his arms and made some side comment about Oscar being quite tall.

But it’s hard to stop a game with no clear end, no clear winners. It’s even harder to stop a game that, frankly, Lando wants to keep playing. Race car drivers aren’t in the business of quitting, they’re in the business of greed.

And Oscar pulling him into a hug in Miami, the solidness of his body like honey-thick relief against his electric nerves, that’s greed.

And, Lando immediately realizes with wide eyes, a mistake. A step too far. More than a toe over the line, but his entire body flung over the threshold.

He doesn’t hear what Oscar says — whispers — into his ear, doesn’t feel the light puff of his shell-shocked laughter against his fevered skin; Lando can’t register anything beyond the slight shift in his skin, the delicate cross between adrenaline and more.

No.

No.

He slips away, Oscar pulled elsewhere by the post-race masses and Lando back into his teams’ loving arms; subtly, in a way only they know, Lando grabs Jon’s hand — a plea in the haze of excited tears and relentless Miami sun. They lock eyes, Lando’s silently urging: we have to go.

---

His breathing is getting heavy, skin starting to feel too tight too quickly. It’s too soon, building too rapidly. Jon shouldn’t have to be shouldering him like this. The air shouldn’t hurt like this, his knees shouldn’t be wobbling as they stumble through the hotel’s back door.

The elevator doors slide closed.

“No,” Lando manages to get out, eyes focused on Jon’s hand — reaching for the elevator buttons. The wrong floor.

“We gotta get you inside,” Jon looks at him, leaned against the elevator wall, cheeks a brilliant pink. “It’s… you didn’t forget your meds, right?”

“Oscar’s.” His breathing feels too labored, hot and heavy like something’s sat on his chest.

“Lando,” His voice drops soft, grazing Lando’s cheek like a father’s loving hand. It makes him whimper, sliding down the wall and finding home on the floor. Jon follows suit, crouching down to his eye-line. “We have to go to your room, you know how —”

“I need.” A shaking breath, Jon’s concerned face starts to blur. “Him. Can’t, hah, breathe.”

It’s panic. Deep in his nerves, burrowed in his bones, is the subconscious understanding that something’s wrong. The onset. The speed. The tugging deep in his heart that he left part of him back at some fucking football stadium parking lot.

His pulse is throbbing in his teeth as he talks, heat building under his skin like a weapon.

Jon’s still staring, a familiar hand reaching for his neck. Feeling his pulse. Feeling for scars. Finding nothing but racing need and unfamiliar fear.

“You know that you can’t… Lando, it’s too dangerous to try…” He sounds torn, but Lando can’t find the pieces. The world’s going fuzzy, both soft and hard around the edges and fading fast.

He tries to grab Jon’s arm, hand flopping uselessly in the space between them. “Get me there.” Lando’s words are shaking, chest heaving under the weight of his heat. “Now.”

---

It’s like coming in and out of a light, summer sleep. Laying in the field behind his childhood home, distantly aware that the sun may set soon, more intimately aware of the wildflowers in the air; perfectly warm, dusted in sunshine sifting through the leaves above.

Lando shoves his face in deeper, flexing his fingers in the soft cotton of his sleeves.

The door clicks.

The sun feels closer, that painful tension in his heart finally easing — like he can finally draw in a full breath. “Osc?”

His muscles ache, somehow overly tense and pliant all at once. And he’s sweating, damp around the hairline and under his layers of Oscar’s clothes. But it’s. His mind homes in on the smell of him, the perfectly glistening, wonderfully orange glow of him.

And he needs it. Needs it needs it needs it —

So he shifts over, spurring a thousand needles under his skin but he’s too tired to care. Too desperate to feel whole and safe and like he’s holding the world in his hands. “C’mere,”

“Please.” He begs into the sheets, skin prickling with the awareness that it’s lacking. Missing. A touch so far, lingering at the foot of his nest.

It feels like becoming whole, the moment Oscar’s fingers — shaking, scared — graze against him. Better than whole, it’s. Fulfilling something greater. Balanced, maybe. He feels a purr building in his chest, skin finally soothed, heart awash in light.

He can finally breathe again.

[ai-manre]

Following the Roses: A Meta

Having remerged into the fandom now after a long break, I was surprised to see all the currently prevailing ideas on a lot of things. It looks like the longer we go without the books, the more cycles and counter-cycles of convictions we have as a fandom, as our echo-chamber gets more intense and the contexts that much matter so much in canon fade. It was interesting to see all the different ideas and head-canons of people regarding R+L now in particular (with many now stalwartly characterizing Rhaegar as a prophecy-obsessed lunatic who impregnated Lyanna, with or without her will, and that Lyanna later grew to hate him). That made me curious into delving back to see what the books tell us and try to see where the narrative is leading us. Or maybe, more specifically, it's the roses I want to follow. The winter roses.

**The Introduction**

GRRM does a beautiful misdirection in the first book. Having Ned associate Lyanna again and again with the winter roses in his thoughts, by the time the origin of the winter roses is shown in Ned's last chapter, we have already associated Lyanna singularly with the roses. Rather than feeling the full impact of them being associated with her. So I'd like to go through the winter roses chronologically instead, according to the timeline.

**What is the narrative telling us?**

>Yet when the jousting began, the day belonged to Rhaegar Targaryen. The crown prince wore the armor he would die in: gleaming black plate with the three-headed dragon of his House wrought in rubies on the breast. A plume of scarlet silk streamed behind him when he rode, and it seemed no lance could touch him. Brandon fell to him, and Bronze Yohn Royce, and even the splendid Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.

>Robert had been jesting with Jon and old Lord Hunter as the prince circled the field after unhorsing Ser Barristan in the final tilt to claim the champion's crown. Ned remembered the moment when all the smiles died, when*Prince Rhaegar Targaryen urged his horse past his own wife, the Dornish princess Elia Martell, to lay the queen of beauty's laurel in Lyanna's lap. He could see it still: a crown of winter roses, blue as frost*.

>*Ned Stark reached out his hand to grasp the flowery crown, but beneath the pale blue petals the thorns lay hidden. He felt them clawing at his skin, sharp and cruel, saw the slow trickle of blood run down his fingers, and woke, trembling, in the dark.*

>*Promise me, Ned, his sister had whispered from her bed of blood. She had loved the scent of winter roses. "Gods save me," Ned wept. "I am going mad."

This is the origin of the winter roses according to the timeline. We do not get mentions of Lyanna with the winter roses before Rhaegar crowned her with them. When Bran looks back in time and sees Lyanna, she's not seen around those roses. When the Northmen discuss her in her childhood, they don't mention her roses, only her horse-riding skills. In Howland's story of the wolf maid, she is not associated with them. Winter roses start featuring prominently around Lyanna Stark only after Rhaegar crowns her with them. Considering this to be the origin of the roses, I would find it safe to interpret that the roses don't solely symbolize Lyanna, but rather *the bond that grew between Rhaegar and Lyanna*. This way, the roses also work as a great narrative device for Ned to covertly think of R+L without directly giving it away to the readers.

This interpretation fits in very well with the next words, where Ned reaches out to touch the flower crown and feels the thorns underneath that claw at him. The beauty of the petals was hiding the "sharp and cruel" thorns underneath which could draw blood. Just like R+L's love which likely seemed a thing of great beauty to them, but resulted in pain and suffering for both of them and all around them. If, as some other interpretations go, the roses were meant to symbolize only Lyanna as a Stark maiden or represent her connection to Winterfell, it would make no sense for the sharp and cruel thorns to appear underneath.

In the words after, Ned describes her words from bed of blood and again, seemingly out of nowhere mentions how she had loved the scent of winter roses. Why was this sentence put here? In the middle of a seemingly irrelevant of her death? Following the narrative flow of where the roses began a few sentences ago, the meaning is clear. Lyanna had loved the scent of winter roses, loved the beauty of her bond with Rhaegar, maybe ignorant or uncaring of the thorns underneath.

>"And now it begins," said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light. "No," Ned said with sadness in his voice. "Now it ends." As they came together in a rush of steel and shadow, he could hear Lyanna screaming. "Eddard!" she called. *A storm of **rose** petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as **blue** as the eyes of death.*

This is our next memory of Lyanna after the crowning at Harrenhal. Ned clashes with the Kingsguard trying to get to Lyanna, Ned's subconscious and the narrative associates this clash against a background of *storm of rose petals as blue as the eyes of death*. Again, the rose petals are associated with things like pain and blood and death. The blood-streaked sky is the background of the war, the war sparked by R+L's actions, the beautiful petals are still blowing, though they are "death". Rhaegar who is dead and Lyanna who is dying, their love that has started the fire that killed them both and many more including all the kingsguard and many northmen here here. (Though the situation was far more nuanced than just R+L being responsible for all the bloodshed that happened).

> "I was with her when she died," Ned reminded the king. "She wanted to come home, to rest beside Brandon and Father." He could hear her still at times. *Promise me, she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses.* Promise me, Ned. The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister's eyes. *Ned remembered the way she had smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the **rose** petals spilling from her palm, dead and black.* After that he remembered nothing. They had found him still holding her body, silent with grief. The little crannogman, Howland Reed, had taken her hand from his. Ned could recall none of it. "I bring her flowers when I can," he said. *"Lyanna was … fond of flowers."*

Now we come to her death. Ned remembers her room which had smelled of blood and roses. More importantly, he recalls the rose petals spilling from her palm as she died, implying that she had been holding on to them until the point of the death. The fact that her room smelled of roses itself implies that she had been making an effort to keep the roses around her, nothing was forcing her to have them around considering Rhaegar had left her months ago and died as well. (Unless anyone thinks evil Rhaegar ordered his Kingsguard to keep bringing roses to her against Lyanna's will? Or that the Kingsguard wanted to force her to continue having the roses around her? Imo that's ridiculous). It seems clear if we follow the narrative that the only roses these can be are the winter roses which connects her with Rhaegar. The fact that she took the effort to keep surrounding herself with roses, that she held onto the roses *until the moment of her death*, seems pretty irrefutable proof that she loved Rhaegar till the very end.

I have seen interpretations before that she was holding onto the roses as they symbolized her connection with Winterfell and her home. Apart from the reasons I had already mentioned above regarding why the roses clearly don't represent Winterfell, there is also the fact that if Lyanna wanted a connection to her home, her brother Ned Stark should be a much clearer option to cling onto rather than the roses connected heavily with Rhaegar (who according to this interpretation, she must have grown to hate). If it was only about her desire for home, we would have only gotten mentions of how hard she clung to Ned, there was no reason to mention the roses. But they were mentioned. And she did. She clung onto the roses as hard as she'd clung on to Ned, until death forced her to let go. This is capital R romanticism, Rhaegar died with Lyanna's name on his lips, Lyanna died with his roses (the last remnant of their love) in her palm. They died thinking of each other. And the roses, the roses are now "dead and black" just as both of them are.

After remembering that moment, Ned tells Robert that he brings her flowers. That Lyanna had loved flowers (note the ellipses). Lyanna had loved the scent of winter roses, even as they'd brought her death. She had loved Rhaegar, even as that brought her so much pain.

> Her eyes burned, green fire in the dusk, like the lioness that was her sigil. "The night of our wedding feast, the first time we shared a bed, he called me by your sister's name. He was on top of me, in me, stinking of wine, and he whispered Lyanna." *Ned Stark thought of pale blue roses, and for a moment he wanted to weep.* "I do not know which of you I pity most."The queen seemed amused by that. "Save your pity for yourself, Lord Stark. I want none of it."

Next, Ned thinks of the roses when he speaks with Cersei. And this, I love this!! Ned having to confront Robert's love for his sister and all that had cost him (not getting into Robert's vices here), knowing that Lyanna had loved Rhaegar. To see his friend cost himself a life and the love of Cersei by not getting over Lyanna, unknowing that Lyanna had never loved him! What Ned doesn't know but the narrative enriches is "I do not know which of you I pity the most" because Cersei had wanted Rhaegar as much as Robert had wanted Lyanna. Both were defeated so thoroughly by R+L's love for eachother.

>He was walking through the crypts beneath Winterfell, as he had walked a thousand times before. The Kings of Winter watched him pass with eyes of ice, and the direwolves at their feet turned their great stone heads and snarled. Last of all, he came to the tomb where his father slept, with Brandon and Lyanna beside him. "Promise me, Ned," Lyanna's statue whispered. *She wore a garland of pale blue roses, and her eyes wept blood.* Eddard Stark jerked upright, his heart racing, the blankets tangled around him. The room was black as pitch, and someone was hammering on the door. "Lord Eddard," a voice called loudly.

Nothing much here, just Lyanna again with her garland of roses (aka R+L) reminding Ned of his promise to protect their only son. This is a covert reference to R+L=J. With this, we end Ned's POV and move on to the next references of winter roses.

>She smiled again, a flash of white teeth. *"And she never sung you the song o' the winter rose?" "I never knew my mother. Or any such song."*

The next time the mentions of winter roses crop up again is in Jon's story, where Ygritte asks him if his mother had never sung the song of winter rose to him. To which he responds that he'd never known his mother or such a song, unknowing that this song was the hint to his mother, that this song represented her life.

>North or south, singers always find a ready welcome, so Bael ate at Lord Stark's own table, and played for the lord in his high seat until half the night was gone. The old songs he played, and new ones he'd made himself, and he played and sang so well that when he was done, the lord offered to let him name his own reward. 'All I ask is a flower,' Bael answered, 'the fairest flower that blooms in the gardens o' Winterfell.'"

>*"Now as it happened the winter roses had only then come into bloom, and no flower is so rare nor precious. So the Stark sent to his glass gardens and commanded that the most beautiful o' the winter roses be plucked for the singer's payment. And so it was done. But when morning come, the singer had vanished . . . and so had Lord Brandon's maiden daughter. Her bed they found empty, but for the pale blue rose that Bael had left on the pillow where her head had lain." Jon had never heard this tale before.*

A singer and a Stark maiden. The Stark girl who loved Bael so much that she'd given him a son (just as Jon himself was born) and who later threw herself off a tower when her son brought her Bael's head. Quite a few narrative resonances here, death of the Stark maid in a tower, a relative who had a hand in the death of her love. "No flower so rare nor precious". Is there anything so rare and precious as true, unconditional love? As Maester Aemon says, "We are only human after all, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory and our great tragedy."

> But there were others with faces he had never known in life, faces he had seen only in stone. *The slim, sad girl who wore a crown of pale blue roses and a white gown spattered with gore could only be Lyanna.* - Theon V, ACOK

The next mention is, oddly enough, in Theon's prophetic dreams. Again, Lyanna is associated with the crown of roses Rhaegar gave her and death. The white gown might represent marriage as it is an interesting detail to have mentioned (instead of just calling it a gown) but I don't have strong opinions on it either way.

The next mention is the most interesting to me, as for the first time, the roses lead to the future rather than the past.

>Then phantoms shivered through the murk, images in indigo. Viserys screamed as the molten gold ran down his cheeks and filled his mouth. A tall lord with copper skin and silver-gold hair stood beneath the banner of a fiery stallion, a burning city behind him. Rubies flew like drops of blood from the chest of a dying prince, and he sank to his knees in the water and with his last breath murmured a woman's name. . . . mother of dragons, daughter of death . . . Glowing like sunset, a red sword was raised in the hand of a blue-eyed king who cast no shadow. A cloth dragon swayed on poles amidst a cheering crowd. From a smoking tower, a great stone beast took wing, breathing shadow fire. . . . mother of dragons, slayer of lies . . . Her silver was trotting through the grass, to a darkling stream beneath a sea of stars. A corpse stood at the prow of a ship, eyes bright in his dead face, grey lips smiling sadly. A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness. . . . mother of dragons, bride of fire . . . - Dany IV, ACOK

>"Perhaps," she said reluctantly. "Yet the things I saw . . .""A dead man in the prow of a ship, a blue rose, a banquet of blood . . . what does any of it mean, Khaleesi? A mummer's dragon, you said. What is a mummer's dragon, pray?" - Dany V, ACOK

And what a lovely image it is. Jon, the sole child of Rhaegar and Lyanna, the only remnant of their love, growing at the Wall. For once, the imagery is overwhelmingly positive. The beautiful blue rose, against all odds, flourishes in the harshest of environments and what's more, it "fills the air with sweetness". Rhaegar and Lyanna might have died, but the child that resulted from their bond is making the world better.

The Conclusion

What's more, even in the latest calendar illustration GRRM had [commissioned](https://www.reddit.com/r/ImaginaryWesteros/comments/1093bgk/2024_calendar_cover_art_by_justin_sweet/), we know instinctively that it is Rhaegar and Lyanna thanks to the winter roses. Rhaegar who crowned Lyanna with these roses. Lyanna who died clutching them till the last moment. Their son who fights to protect the realms of men, doing the duty of a King without even knowing that he is one, that he is the King of the narrative. The blue rose who continues to bloom in the harshest of places.

The significance that in the text, it's Jon and only **JON** who is connected with/represented as the blue winter rose is important. Neither of the Stark maidens, Sansa or Arya, are ever connected with the blue rose in the text itself despite both having love for flowers. No other Stark has this motif in their story. The motif belongs solely to Bael and his Lady Stark, to Rhaegar and Lyanna, to Jon himself. It's the motif of love. Prince Rhaegar had loved his Lady Lyanna and thousands died for it. Lady Lyanna had loved her Prince Rhaegar and their child is saving the realms of men.

The roses that bloomed for them and between them. That showed how beautiful their love was and how painful. The world is cruel, the world is beautiful.

[crit20art]

[ID: a digital drawing of Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood from The Magnus Archives. Jon carries a comically large stack of paper, his posture bowed slightly backwards as he struggles to keep the tower from falling. Martin, with an expression of alarm, reaches to steady the paper stack, one hand still mid-air and the other covering one of Jon’s. Jon, staring wide-eyed at Martin over the rim of his glasses, blushes. He is depicted as a short, thin British-Pakistani man with dark skin and professional attire—except for the cardigan he wears, which has slipped off his shoulder in the commotion and is crumpled around his lower arm. Martin is depicted as a tall, fat Vietnamese-Polish man with light brown skin and freckles. He wears glasses, a suit jacket, and a button up with a retro 80s/90s pattern. Both have short dark hair. End ID]

anon asked for Jon being flustered by Martin’s attention so i thought it was time for some s1 shenanigans……. don’t u hate when ur trying to loathe your employee but he happens to touch your hand and you fall in love with him for .7 seconds………

[jaehaeryshater]

“[Would he] become the Lord of Winterfell? It seemed an easy choice when he thought of it in those terms . . . though if Ygritte had still been alive, it might have been even easier.” - Jon XII ASOS

Part 1 in any crown design series, art by: @nataa.draws on twit

For about a year, I have been thinking about creating a series of artworks with my designs of crowns that either canonically existed in the ASOIAF universe but went without description (Ceryse’s crown, Jaehaera’s crown, Naerys’s crown, etc.) or crowns that could have existed but didn’t due to deaths of the ladies involved or a break in betrothal (the Ygritte one above and a Sansa QOT7K crown, which is what I’m hoping to do after this one). The only problem is, I’m awful at drawing! The design I can get down to the smallest detail and envision it in my head, but it simply doesn’t translate to paper. And because this is a series rather than one piece, it was a bit difficult to find an artist that both drew jewelry like I envisioned and also could make a commitment for an ongoing project. Luckily, I did end up finding Nata, which I was SO happy about because she was somehow able to commit exactly what I was envisioning on paper, and for that I’m so grateful. She is a lovely and talented woman.

I do want to talk about the designs a little bit, because I have been working on it for so long and absolutely in love with it, but I do want to make one thing clear first. This is not necessarily ship art, and the crowns I work with Nata in the future most certainly will not be. (I mean, Jon and Ygritte are my top ship of all time lol, but that’s not the focus of the art and I get why people don’t like her or them together). The relationship between Jon and Ygritte is problematic at best, and the other Queens I have mentioned above have even more abusive relationships with their husbands/betrothed (with the exception of Jaehaera and Aegon III, whose relationship was practically nonexistent and the problematic elements came from the situation and not from either of them individually). The focus of this series is on jewelry and designs that reflect the culture the person is from and their personality, rather than their relationship to their husbands. So I hope even if Ygritte and Jon are your NOTP and/or if you absolutely despise Ygritte, I hope you can still appreciate the art and cultural influences. The art was originally just supposed to include the crown and therefore be up for interpretation of it was Ygritte or Val’s, but I got carried away with the dress design I had thought of and because it was green which goes beautifully with red hair, I went ahead and asked for Nataa to draw Ygritte.

Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, I can talk about the design, which I’m sooooo excited about. The main idea was the merging of Freefolk and Northern culture, but I still did want to remain relatively true to the 15th to 16th century English time period that ASOIAF is roughly centered around. I understand the idea that Ygritte would never be caught dead in such a thing, but you must understand!!!! Jon designed it for her himself when preparing to ask for her hand. So she grumbled and griped, but was secretly chuffed, so she wears it. From the beginning, the main element that I think Ygritte needed if expected to wear a dress is that she needs lots of furs lining it. Not only because of the cold, but also as a symbol of where she came from the make her feel more comfortable in her skin. The puffs are meant to be general fashion at the time, something more common in the Vale or the Reach, but I imagine that could be more of a Sansa influence on the North. The emeralds’ only purpose is to contrast and compliment Ygritte’s hair and to show the wealth of the dynasty. There are two different weirwood embroideries implemented in the dress design: the one on the top that is by the wolf, which of course represents the Stark dynasty that she has now married into, and the bigger weirwood at the base of the dress which has mammoths walking underneath it. Mammoths are one of the symbols of the Freefolk, and weirwoods are very sacred to both the Northern people and the Freefolk, and their shared religion following the Old Gods. I imagine that when Jon was designing this dress for Ygritte, he was more attentive and involved than men in this universe usually were, and his ultimate goal was her comfort and for her to feel included in her new position instead of feeling like a commodity for Jon and the North.

As for the crown, which was the reason for the commission in the first place, I wanted it to follow the same general design as the King of the North crown. I know there’s lots of different ideas of different crowns Jon could adopt as King of the North instead of somehow either regaining possession of or replicating his brother’s crown, but there were way too many options and it made my head spin, so we’re doing this. So the structure of the crown is the same, but the main difference is that instead of being made of metal, this crown is made of weirwood. Of course, weirwood is very special to both cultures, but I figured that metal wouldn’t impressive Ygritte or her culture as much as weirwood would. Therefore, the texture is very different. There are emeralds around it to compensate the lack of metal and extra agency, and to give the crown more of a feminine look as well as to compliment Ygritte’s hair. The tops of each bar are meant to look white and as if capped by snow. This is meant to symbolize the Beyond the Wall influence and I was also thinking about the Crown of Winter when creating this part of the design. The Crown of Winter was given up by Torrhen Stark when yielding to Aegon the Conqueror. We aren’t given a description of it, but I have always imagined it having those snow caps and generally being mostly white. I’ve thought of Jon bringing back the design of the Crown of Winter, but because we have so little to go off of, I chose for there just to be a small influence included instead of going off nothing and trying to create something from scratch. Lastly, there’s the three engraving in the middle. The two mammoths are meant to show who Ygritte is, where she’s come from. She is a member of the Freefolk, and becoming a Northern Lady is not meant to erase that or get her hide that part of her (not that she’d ever agree to that anyway), but it is a part of her and a part of the future of the North merging together. There’s a wolf in the middle as well, because she’s married in to that family and she is a representation of the Starks. But her and Jon and their resulting family is part Stark, part Freefolk, and both of those cultures are meant to be displayed and remembered. The next generation is a merger of the Freefolk and their ideals, and the the traditions of the North.

Okay, that is all, thank you so much if you read all of this! I loved working on this so much and I want to thank Nata again, because she did an amazing job. I hope this is enjoyable to someone else like it’s enjoyable to me. I think the idea of Ygritte as Queen of the North is hilarious, although probably bad for the health of Northern Lords. I can’t even imagine what unhinged things she would do, or how violent archery practice could become. The only thing I can say in her favor is that I think she would get along great with Rickon and be a good (well depends on what you think a good upbringing is, manners would lack, but I think he would be happy) mother figure to him. They would be the worst duo to terrorize Winterfell. I also like to think that Theon and her, although she would not like him, could build up some sort of beneficial relationship between them and she could help him regain his strength and his love of archery, because that is something they share. Anyway, I’ll see you soonish with my next commission ^_^

[pumpkinstrawbrew]

💀_is this deviant enough for you, my dear? _💀

or jon makes some deliberate changes to his outfit, after catwoman said that he's not 'a real pervert'.

...

(i was re-reading all those 'crow vs 'cat issues recently, an' i gotta say i don't ever get tired of how much those two genuinely loathe one another. there is smth beautiful about one part of my otp pretty much having it out for a character, who is canonically supposed to be the 'main' love interest for the other part of my ship. internalized jealousy is delicious.

that's bit aside, i do find crane n' selina's antagonistic relationships pretty entertaining in the void as well. they are both petty n' tend to take a lot of things personally, while dehumanizing others with ease. looking at selina n' jon side by side, their hatred toward one another makes a lot of sense. they are similar in certain *smaller* ways. selina might have not crossed the line n' becoming a murder, but in few versions, it came very close to it. or even come to it. not to mention, that while her own motivations are different from crane's, she also driven by her bitter life experience, when it comes to how she sees others n' how she acts. at times, she'd be doing shitty things just bc she felt like it. her sociopathy is latent in most cases, but it is there.

but regardless of complexity of all those themes, this whole thing was born only bc i found it funny how out of all things, selina n' jon had an argument about who get offs on fear harder lol. n' then, bc of how the very moment catwoman hallucinated batman, jonathan was literally almost in her face lol. listening to all those things with rapt attention.

as result, i ended up thinking about what if crane took selina's comment a bit too seriously. i imagine, he was sitting there trying to study what makes 'pervented' n' 'sexy'. but in like very nerdy way. drawing diagrams an' all.

the scarecrow historically has no impressive man bossom or ass, so he has to be clever about it. expose some skin, but like 'naugthy' bits. it helps that the way his costume is structured, fabric will always poof up a bit. so even his semi-muscular man pecs n' narrow hips can work too. an' then it should be short too. v-cut. n' stockings? yeah, sure. the greatest detective would take it upon himself to figure out what they're cliping to. an' what else is hidden underneath.

i still stan by my belief that jonathan can only be seductive or sexy by pure accident. but it is fun to think about how far he can go, if he's challenged n' his pettyness is what drives him to go out of comfort zone.

in general, i love how different this version of jonathan's costume is compared to his other looks. it's still classic, but so colorful an' whimsical. i wish he wore it at least one time in front of batman in canon. like come on, let my dude live out his goth fantasy. n' let bruce have some fun on his usually hard n' grim job.)

[feyhunter78]

Chapter Twelve - Banished from your sight on the day of Queen Margaery's nameday celebrations, Jon seeks comfort in the Godswood.

This is pure wish fulfillment, okay?

Ch 13

Jon finds himself in the Godswood of Highgarden, kneeling in the dirt, his head bowed. You have dismissed him for the day as you will be spending the whole of it with the queen preparing and primping for her nameday feast this very night.

The Three Singers lay before him, so intertwined it is as if they are one. Their blood-red leaves do not stand so stark against the landscape as they do in Winterfell. The lush gardens surrounding it blend so seamlessly, Jon loses himself in the view of it, mesmerized by the sway of the flowers and leaves in the wind.

Ghost lies beside him, stretched out in the sun, tongue lolling out happily.

Jon prays for strength, for the safety and health of his family, for his own health, for yours and Margaery’s. He prays that the Gods give him the strength to continue on the path Ser Jaime has set before him. This stilted, honorable path that he must follow so not to shame himself or you. But it is torture, the distance he must hold you at, the way he must keep his eyes from you, must keep his hands to himself even in private moments. Though he has lessened the private moments, and in turn you have sought solace in the queen. At least you will have a strong relationship as good-sisters, Robb will arrive and Jon can present him with an already bonded family, an apology for not being able to come home, not being able to stand by their father—Robb’s father, his uncle’s side, when he was accused on treason.

Ghost’s head rises, his ears swiveling, and Jon pivots towards the intruder, not even needing to get to his feet to draw his sword.

“Whoa, peace, friend, I have not come to harm you.” A tall man, older, around Lord Stark’s age, with dark brown hair that fell to his shoulder, and piercing eyes. Though Jon could not tell the color with the sun at the man’s back. He was well muscled, the body of a man who had trained and fought hard for decades, the strength of his form clear. He would be a beast in armor, a terrifying sight to behold, Jon is sure. His skin is tanned, not like Lord Martell’s but perhaps a few shades lighter, and he is dressed in finery, a sword strapped at his hip.

“Apologies, My Lord.” He says, bowing his head in the direction of the older man, and getting to his feet. “I shall leave you to the Godswood.”

“No, stay, I would enjoy the company.” The man says, giving him a crooked smile, a scar running through his upper right lip.

Jon returns to the ground and the man sits beside him, his eyes on the weirwoods. “I often find only Godswoods can offer me the solitude I need when I am tormented by my own thoughts.”

“My Lord?”

“I am not a lord, have not been for many years. We are both knights, let us address each other as so.”

Jon nods, staring at the trees as well, wondering why the man wished for him to remain if he wanted solitude.

“You are wondering why I asked you to stay, and perhaps how I know your mind weighs heavily upon you.” He says, his voice accented, Dornish perhaps? Jon is not quite sure.

“Aye.” Jon says, scratching between Ghost’s ears.

“I have seen many a young man kneeling in a holy place wondering if his course is true.” He says a hint of sadness in his tone. “It helps to share your burdens.”

“I do not think that is wise…” Jon says, eyeing the man out of the corner of his eye.

The man laughs. “Who will I tell, I do not know you, you do not know me, but we are both knights, sworn to uphold our codes. Your words will not leave this place, I assure you.”

There is something about the man that Jon finds strangely comforting. He has carried the weight of his decision for moons now, and it is slowly suffocating him until one day he fears he will wake up and no longer be able to breathe.

He lets out a slow breath. “I am in love with a noblewoman, and I know she loves me, but I am not worthy of her.”

The man hums in acknowledgement.

“But her father has allowed us to court as he feels even with my...strange parentage I am worthy of her hand, but it must be kept a secret.”

The man shifts his weight, stretching out one leg. “Why, if her father finds you worthy?”

“Because…there are things out of mine and her control, things that could tear us apart, and I believe he wishes to spare her the heartbreak but I—I…”

“Slipped up, overindulged, made an error?” He asks in a wry tone.

“Yes, but I did not go too far, I restrained myself, but now…now I must pull back even further, and it saddens her.”

“And her sadness in turn causes you sadness.” The man supplies, nudging Jon with his shoulder. “It is a good man who is saddened by his beloved’s sadness.”

“And now her aunt wishes her to dance with suitors, and I cannot interfere, but I do not think I can bear the sight.” Jon grabs a fallen stick and stabs it into the ground, feeling a bit childish.

“Might I tell you my own tale? Perhaps you will gain some wisdom.”

“Of course, I would be grateful for any advice.”

“Wisdom, not advice, I would not advise following my course of action.”

Jon can see the man’s eye color now, a dark gray, nearing purple.

“When I was younger, a bit older than you, I was in a frighteningly similar situation, though it was not unknown circumstances that kept myself and my lady love apart, but my closest friend. He was convinced that they must be wed, his assurance bordered on obsession, near madness, but I said nothing because he was my friend, I trusted him with my life.” The man sighs and runs a hand down his face.

Jon swallows hard, stick still in hand, staring at the hole it had made as if it will give him answers, a way to react to what he believes he is being told. You have always said he was intelligent, he believed it, he always thought himself intelligent even as a boy, but intellect was no shield against this kind of revelation.

“I continued to meet my love in secret, I adored her, would have laid my life down for her if she asked, but I knew she never would. Then my friend snapped, and we did a horrid thing, and in my cowardice, I did not break away and take my love to safety, I kept her with us. Against all odds she still loved me, I had dishonored her many times before, and she began to show, I thought this would dissuade my friend, that he would see sense…”

“But he did not.” Jon says a sinking feeling in his gut. Was this man truly who he believes him to be? How would he even be here, and why, why now?

“No, he did not. He thought to have the child born then taken away so that he could seed her. It sickened me, sickened her, but the gods intervened. Neither I nor him got to keep her, got to live with and love her. My cowardice, my devotion to my friend, got her killed.”

“I see why you said not to follow your example.” Jon jests grimly.

The man laughs, it is watery, hoarse, and the sound of it pierces Jon to the bone. “Do not be a coward, boy. No code is worth the life of the woman you love.”

“Did she love you, at the end?” He is afraid to hear the answer, afraid his father is a monster.

“Yes.”

“And the child?”

The man he is sure is Ser Arthur Dayne smiles sadly at the thick roots of the weirwoods beneath them. “Blood is proof of our devotion, she bled for our child, and so did I.”

“Her bones are in the crypt of Winterfell.” Jon says quietly, testing the waters.

The man says nothing, only gets to his feet, squeezes Jon’s shoulder, and walks away.

For a moment he is a child again, a pit in his chest, fear tugging at his limbs, a desire to reach for and call out to the man he is sure is his father surging through him. Against his better judgment he gets to his feet and runs, Ser Dayne—his father turning, his instincts still as honed as the legends said, and braces himself.

Jon embraces him, burying his face in his father’s finery. Jon is tall, but his father is taller, the top of Jon’s head reaching his father’s neck, and he breathes in the scent, finding it oddly familiar, though he knows he could only have smelled it nearly a lifetime ago.

His father wraps him in his arms, burying his face in Jon’s curls. “I should have fought harder, my boy, my son, I did not wish to abandon you, I swear to you.”

Jon bites his tongue to keep the tears from falling. “Lord Stark was good to me, he treated me as a son, I was not beaten or starved. I have siblings who love me, who think of me as their own.”

His father’s tears hit his shoulders, his body trembling. “That is good, he promised my sister he would take care of you. My household guards, they told me that when they came to retrieve my body, they thought me dead, but I could not let the Stranger take me. Not when I did not know what had become of you.”

“What did she name me, is Jon my true name?” It has been a question long on his lips.

“Yes, yes, I would never begrudge her the naming of her child, nor would she let me. She wanted you to have a strong Stark name, to set you apart from all the other Dornish boys, she told me. She was brilliant, strong-willed, and witty, she never ceased to make me laugh, even near the end.”

His father pulls back, drinking in the sight of him, his voice trembling. “You look so much like her, apart from your eyes, she was so happy that you had my eyes.”

Jon blinks away the tears, willing himself to be strong, he will need to digest this information, he will need to find you, and tell you what has occurred.

“And you are so strong, look at you, Oberyn did not lie, you inherited my strength. And I have heard that you are a skilled swordsman as well, you have done so well, my son, I am proud of you.” His father says, cupping Jon’s face with calloused hands. “I am sorry, I should have sought you out sooner, but the reports said you were thriving, that you were happy, and then you were taken to King’s Landing, and I could not show my face there. Too many people would recognize me, Robert would have me killed, and Oberyn said you had found love. I could not take you from that.”

“Then why are you here now?” Jon asks, overwhelmed by his emotions, his mind a blur, his heartbeat in his ears.

“Because I asked him to be.” Tyrion steps out of the shadows, and Jon nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Lord Tyrion?”

“I know, a Dornish man working with a Lannister, it is a sight to see, but you cannot say much my son, considering you wish to wed his daughter.” His father says, releasing his face and turning towards Tyrion.

“Come, let us bring this happy reunion inside.”

Jon sits beside his father as Tyrion fills him in, this plan has long been in the works, since his parentage was revealed.

“It took some convincing, your father did not think you would wish to see him.” Tyrion says, inclining his head toward Jon’s father.

“Does Lady y/n know of this?” Jon asks, unsettled by the very fact that you are not in the room while pertinent information is being revealed.

“See, I told you, besotted. ”

“You did.” His father chuckles.

“I will inform y/n of this development when we break fast in the morning, she should be able to enjoy one more night of merriment before meeting her future good-father.” Tyrion says.

“Is it official, then? I may have her hand?” He glances between Tyrion and his father.

His father claps him on the shoulders, then kisses both his cheeks. “Yes, my son, we have come to an agreement, you will wed your pretty lioness.”

Jon is floating, his mind clear, the joy that will alight in your eyes, the smile you will shine upon him, the way you will throw your arms around his neck and embrace him excitedly, it is all he sees. He gets to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process, “I must tell her; she will be overjoyed.”

“No one will be telling y/n anything tonight. We cannot tip off my sister.” Tyrion orders. “You just remain as you have these past few moons, it will be safer for her.”

His jaw muscles twitches, he is sick of waiting, especially now that his father is here, that he could be claimed, his title of bastard shed like snakeskin. “Why must we hold back, King Tommen loves Lady y/n, he would marry us tonight if we asked.”

“Calm, Jon, I know the Dornish sun burns in your veins as it does mine, but you must trust us, soon all you have been promised will come to be.”

Jon forces his jaw to unclench and nods. “I will hold my tongue until morning.”

TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz, @idohknow, @bdudette, @pluraldoggo, @legolastheleafyelf, @faerie-film

[tzaraat]

i'm broke and have hospital bills to pay. in better news, i'm selling art!

sketches and small drawings on paper, size ranging from 5x5 cm to an A4 sheet. various mediums. price ranging from $10 to $30 US.

example pieces:

[image ID: six drawings in pen, oils, pencil and watercolours, three in each image. they are all relatively realistic. /.End ID]

disclaimer: being sketches, many of these pieces have miscellaneous text on the backside and/or were not painted on the highest quality paper. these sorts of issues will be handled on a case-by-case basis.

illustrations from my new skin for the old ceremony project, each the size of an A4 sheet. various mediums. price ranging from $35 to $50 US.

example pieces:

[image ID: four drawings in pen and oils, two in each image. each piece contains an illustration and sone handwritten text - the lyrics to the songs from new skin for the old ceremony. /.End ID]

larger paintings. oil on glass (approx. 70x100 cm), oil & watercolour on paper (100x140 cm), oil on embossed metal plate (approx. 55cm diameter). prices in the $200-$250 US range.

[image ID: an oil painting of two grappling figures, painted on a window. /.End ID]

[image ID: a watercolour and oil painting of two bare Chested figures, one lying down and the other kneeling. /.End ID]

[image ID: an oil portrait of Jon Moxley, painted on an embossed metal plate. /.End ID]

if you are interested in any of the above, feel free to contact me through tumblr DMs, email at rush43837@gmail.com, or discord at tzaraat. i'll show you which pieces are available, and provide all necessary information.

disclaimer: much of my work is done on medium-low quality substrates (i don't like dropping entire paychecks on supplies, and i am no longer in school) or on found objects (like the window and plate). in addition, i often work on improperly primed or entirely unprimed substrates, or experiment with paint chemistry and the likes. as such, i can't really guarantee archivability. if any painting seems to me particularly fragile, i will disclose it and we can discuss what should be done with it.

i'm open to negotiation re: pricing and the like. feel free to contact me even if you can't afford it right now, and would like me to reserve a piece for a later date.

i also have a ko-fi:

thank you all ♡

[samwise1548]

JonMartin week, Day 3: Victorian Times // Confessions (prompts by @jonmartinweek)

This is the last one I got done haha

------

[ID: A Magnus Archives drawing of Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood. Jon is a short, brown South Asian man, with black and grey streaked hair, and skin speckled with scars. Martin is a white, fat man, with curly ginger hair turned white at the bangs, round glasses, and a yellow and pink jumper on. Jon is kissing Martin's cheek and whispering loving affirmations to him. Martin laughs as his kisses tickle him, holding him close to his chest. They're both happy in this moment. \End ID]

[soapskies]

Could you write yandere Nolanverse!Jon general yandere hcs ? your writing is amazing btw ❤️

GEN. YANDERE NOLANVERSE SCARECROW

MALE READER. ROMANTIC HCS. CW FOR SUGGESTIVE/YANDERE STUFF.

— edit: deleted credit because I didn’t actually end up using their divider :,)

Jonathan can’t stand being away from you for too long. You invade his thoughts every waking hour, and it’s starting to interfere with his work…

He thumbs through every file of yours he can get his hands on; you seem to be a pretty average guy, so what draws him to you? For once the psychologist struggles to understand his own thinking.

Surely you wouldn’t mind it if he… observed you from a distance, right? On your way home, and to work, and so on…

It fills him with rage when people try to get close to you, but he’s able to keep his cool. He likes to have his hand in yours, or around your shoulders, glaring down whoever dares to bother you. Not many are willing to cross him.

God does running his hands over your rough skin bring him such ecstasy, especially when he inches towards your groin…

Lotta situations where the two of you end up in locked rooms together, either “coincidently” or because the good doctor only wants to discuss something with you... so he says.

He steals anything of yours he can get his hands on, mostly clothing. He likes to bury his face into them. Your scent is enough to make the blood rush to his face…

It doesn’t help that his obsession with you makes him fumble his dark secret.

“Do you like the mask? It looks better under the effects of the toxin…”

He won’t make a mistake like that again. You might be tougher than he thought.

He loves forcing you to stare at him when you try to look away, especially when he’s doing things to you… that spark of terror in your eyes excites him.

“It’s alright, you’re okay… You can’t help them anymore. They’re so lost in their fear, they can’t console themselves.

Jonathan will make you listen to the screams of your loved ones while he pins you to the wall and whispers sweet nothings into your ear…

Oh, are they scaring you? They don’t deserve a man like you. I can make it all feel better. Let me take care of you.” 🎃

[redhead-batgal]

Sneak Peek of She’s So Gone Pt: 2

Here's a sneak peek of She's So Gone Pt: 2, a Fem! and Best Friend! Reader x Damian Wayne/Robin, I did not expect y'all to love the first part this much so yeah. Unexpected, but I'm working hard to get this second part where I want it for y'all! Anyways hope you enjoy!

Here's She's So Gone (Pt: 1) in case you haven't read it but want to: Part One

Standing in the doorway, disheveled and sweating was none other than Damian Wayne. The two of you made eye contact and you felt the air and color leave you. Heart hammering, you froze for a singular moment, long enough to see the recognition and relief in his eyes.

Something warm blossomed in your chest, a wave of joy that wrapped around your throat. It squeezed at your heart as a bitter taste coated your tongue and you weakly took a breath in. He was here, he was here. It was almost instinctual to lean in and hug him. To start some sort of physical contact as if you make sure he was here-truly here. Then the tight pulsing of your veins and breathing of your lungs yanked you back into reality. He- he had betrayed you, he- he had abandoned you. Pulling back, you squeezed your hand into a fist, eyes raking over him before noticing the movement just beyond his shoulder. No, the person behind him. She looked a little frazzled, but still as perfect as ever. Looking back to Damian the sluggish feeling of betrayal up your spine.

A wave of emotions fierce and roaring climbed up your throat as you backed away from the door. For a moment you couldn't breathe, and the world was spinning as a realization crashed down around you.

He was here.

Why was he here? Why did he have to come just as you were starting to get numb to all those emotions? Why did he have to come after you just made it past an episode? Why did he come? Why? Why?!

Swallowing you pushed back your worries and fears, back the questions and pain. Gripping your hot chocolate tighter as you let out a slow breath, then you began walking towards the door. Hoping your nonchalant attitude would make them ignore you or so baffled you could slip past. As you made it to the doorway, you began to slide towards the street, outside of the store-the place with no escape, to the open and free air that allowed you the opportunity to turn and leave.

Unfortunately, your hopes were in vain. A hand clamped down on your arm, pulling you in. And you blinked, looking to find Damian Wayne practically towering next to you. Eyes frantically racing over your face and body, worry covering every feature as you felt his heavy breaths on your skin. Hell, his heaving chest nearly touched your arms as you felt his heat.

"Y/N."

Taking another breath you gave him a blank look, your eyes instantly drawn to your sister loitering behind him. A muddled mixture of emotions on her face.

"If," You began calmly, your eyes locking on his nose, so you don't have to look into his eyes, "you're here because you think I'm trying to steal Jon or poison him against you, you should know I'm not. And there's no reason to worry."

You saw his jaw twitch and his grip tightened on your arm as he pulled you in even closer. Faintly, you could feel Jon lingering behind you. Clearly watching and waiting for a moment that deemed too much for you or a spot to intervene.

"I am not here because of that."

You bit the inside of your cheek as you looked away from Damian's face. Eyes once again drawing to your sister, whose brow was furrowed, a scowl of sorts on her face.

"Then why are you here?" You softly asked nails digging into your palm as you looked towards the floor.

"I'm here for you."

Tag List:

@legendarylearner18 @hermiona18 @sylum @kalulakunundrum @ginger24880 @blu3cheesecheesecak3 @alishii @duckyyy70 @rossy1080 @nyxiesstuff @rukia-uchiha-98 @cyb3rg0th666 @jade-digital @damianwayne0 @pansyitcanton @greenbench @andromedaj2003 @thomasbeloved @instabull @zvtanna @daemonnix96 @neon-scenery @ssak-i @achromaticerebus @1lellykins @hyperfixiation-station

[jesncin]

i was imagining kal-el bc i wanted to draw him a few days ago and he just. registers in my brain as a POC nowadays. like ik in dc canon he’s white but it just looks weeeeeird to me and i think it’s bc im used to seeing your drawings of him

oh I still draw Kal-El as white passing actually, haha. I follow the reading Gene Yang has of him:

from Polygon, read it- it's good!

I know some artists (including my friends!) reimagine Clark as a POC for a variety of reasons, some even seeing STAS!Clark that way because of his tan skin color on that show. And all those are valid and so fun! I just have a different story to tell that relies on Clark being white passing. Like how Clark's able to assimilate into american society better than Lois Liando, and has to essentially come out as an immigrant because citizens didn't think otherwise. Which makes the Clois dynamic and love triangle so interesting for me. I also think it makes his legacy characters like Conner and Jon Kent refreshing since they're like Superman but they expand on his themes when they're visibly marginalized in comparison.

[watercolor-hearts]

norrussell + “I can never find my own pulse.” 🧡

You sent the best possible prompt from the list, love at first sight for me, really good idea for it, and then... A day of struggle with actually writing it. Nice. 😃 Also, I said I'd write a scene or something short, the plan was around 300 words, but... 1K it is, I guess, especially for you. ❤ My first Norrussell, charaterization is not my strongest skill but I tried. I hope it's not too bad. 😊

Lando/George • 1027 words • pulse taking • Ao3 link

-

“Shit,” Lando curses when realizing his wrist feels empty. Jon asked him to take notes of his pulse before, during, and after training and he forgot the most important thing. “Wait, I need to get my watch!”

“Here’s mine, mate” George lifts his hand so his watch is in front of Lando, “You can use it.”

“No, that’s…” Lando says, biting on his tongue because he got himself into a situation he isn’t sure can get out of without George laughing at him. He tries to think about a solution but then quickly realizes he fucked up and there’s no way out,t so he finishes the sentence. “...That’s not smart. Not a smart watch I mean. To monitor my pulse.”

“But… You can still use it for that,” George says, brows furrowed, and yes, he’s right and Lando knows it, but… “You know, press your finger on the artery and count while watching the clock. Eas—”

“I can never find my own pulse,” Lando blurts out and then waits for George to make fun of him for not being able to do such a basic thing. 

But… It doesn’t happen. Instead, George takes his left hand.

“Wha—”

“I’m gonna show you where to find your pulse,” he says, “It’s actually quite easy if you know where to look for it.” George turns Lando's hand over to see his palm and wrist and supports it from below with his left hand. “So, the first thing you need to know is that the pulse point in your wrist is on the outer side,” he touches Lando’s forearm on that side to help visually, too. “The artery you’ll feel there is called radial artery, it’s the artery that supplies your hand with blood” George explains, looking at Lando to see if he’s actually paying attention. When Lando looks at him at the same time, George’s smile turns into soft laughter.

“I’m paying attention,” Lando exclaims, “Don’t laugh!”

“Right,” George chuckles, “So, what was the name of the artery again?”

“Radial,” Lando replies, receiving a surprised head tilt from George.

“Blimey, you’re actually paying attention!”

“What a surprise!” Lando rolls his eyes, “But I won’t for long if you don’t finish the lesson soon, Dr. Russell.”

“Oh, so now we’re onto role play, Mr. Norris?” George plays along for a moment but then turns his attention back to Lando’s wrist. “Before we turn this into something else, let’s get back to your pulse. What we already know is that the point we’re looking for is on the outer side of the wrist and it’s the radial artery that runs there. The pulse point is located at the base of your palm and the easiest way to find it is to draw a line from the side of your thumb.” 

George puts his pointer and middle finger on Lando’s thumb and slowly draws an imaginary line all the way down to his wrist, the gentleness he does it with makes Lando’s heart flutter. There’s something in George’s touch that always does this. Lando hopes George doesn’t see the redness that’s probably on his face.

“It’s right here,” George announces, stopping at a certain point, and lightly pressing his fingers to the skin. Lando has to take a deep breath because he knows he’ll be in big trouble if he doesn’t tell his body to behave. 

“Sometimes people can’t find it because they press too hard and it stops the blood flow. You have to be gentle and pay attention to the soft ‘tap tap’ feeling against your fingertip.” When George finishes the explanation he lets go of Lando’s hand. Lando lets out a sigh of relief, happy that the lesson is over and they can go and train finally, but then George drops the nightmare bomb.

“Now try and find it, and then I’m gonna hold up the watch for you to count,” he says, waiting expectantly. Lando takes a deep breath and nods. Alright. He can do it and then they can finally move on.

He turns his hand upwards and draws the imaginary line with his fingers just like George did, hoping that he’ll actually find the pulse point. When he reaches the base of his palm, he glances at George, hoping for some encouragement.

“Yes, just like that,” George nods, smiling, and puts his right hand on Lando’s back, not knowing about the effect his touch has on Lando’s heart. “It’ll be there, a little bit lower. Press your fingers there and see if you can feel it. Sometimes it takes a bit of time to find it.”

In the next moment, Lando’s face lights up when the ‘tap taps’ George mentioned appear beneath his fingertips. They’re there. He can feel his own pulse. He can’t believe it.

“Now that you’ve found it,” George’s voice brings him back from the heights of this experience, “It’s time to count. You can count for a minute, for half a minute, or even for a quarter of a minute, you just have to multiply if you count for less than a minute. I think you should first try counting for a minute.”

“Alright, I’ll try,” Lando nods and looks at George’s watch and then starts counting the little tap taps beneath his fingers. After a while he realizes that it’s not as difficult as he thought, he was probably just looking for the pulse point in the wrong place or pressing too hard in the past before giving up and buying a smartwatch. But… If he’s honest it’s quite comforting – feeling his pulse. He just wishes it wasn’t so fast, but he can’t control it when George is there.

When the time is up, George lowers his hand and looks at Lando, studying his face.

“Be honest,” he tells him, a smile growing on his face after seeing Lando trying to mask his real reaction. “It’s fast, right?

“That’s none of your business, Russell.”

“Oooh, then it’s even faster than it was when I felt for it,” George grins, “Is it like that because of m—”

“I know what you’re thinking, George Russell,” Lando says, smirking, “I know you way too well…”