#i need to get back into drawing covers for my own fics like i did for good omens

[gossippool]

ok this is An Attempt at visualising these lines from my fic:

The thing is that it's mostly Wade that makes him trip balls, as it were. He's encountered many people who are as boring as a single shade of grey or blue or orange, speaking in monochrome and dulling Logan's senses to the point of utter disinterest. Wade, on the other hand, shits Skittles and vomits unicorns all by himself, and wears clothes that are garish and mismatched—and that's on the good days. Combined with his constant flurry of movement and machine gun dialogue, he's a lethal assault to all of Logan's heightened senses. No one has had such a hold on him in decades.

i tried. yippee

[always-just-red]

A multi-headcanon request please. How the boys react when they discover their s/o has been hiding a wound from them because she had it under control and didn't want to give them something else to worry about

Hi! Thanks so much for the request and all the support! Have written a little fic for each of the guys, starring... - Xavier, Deepspace Hunter extraordinaire ✨ - Linkon's worst best baking partner, Zayne 🍪 - Drama queen Rafayel 👑 - King of self-care, Sylus 💅

Putting On A Brave Face

L&DS Boys x Reader

Summary: Sometimes, a certain hunter likes to say things are fine when they definitely aren't...

Genre: A lil bit of angst, mostly fluff + comfort!

Warnings/Additional tags: female reader, established relationship, swearing, canon pet names, some injury details/blood mentioned, teeeeency bit of suggestion (I'm looking at YOU, Sylus...)

| Word count: 4k (1k each!) | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Xavier ⭐

This is bad. Not ‘end of everything as we know it’ bad, but definitely ‘an obscene amount of paperwork’ bad.

You clutch one of your pistols to your chest— deep breath— and you listen carefully, your head leant back against the rock you’re using as cover. Your mind latches on to every sound: each growl, each rumble of earth that marks the movements of the Wanderers that have trapped you here.

You’ve fought worse odds, but then again, you don’t usually have to do it with a broken leg.

Or maybe just sprained? You shift a little, trying to move, and the pain that sears through you settles the debate in an instant. Your teeth sink into the back of your hand to keep you from crying out.

You hope Xavier’s ok. You sent him your co-ordinates minutes ago, and the lack of response has worry gnawing away at the deepest parts of you. You check your hunter’s watch.

Still nothing.

Another deep breath, and you readjust your position as much as you can. Balancing on your good leg, you manage to peer over the top of the rock to get a visual of your surroundings.

There’s four, no— five Wanderers. Stupid no-hunt zone; you’re never not outnumbered.

You can see your second pistol, abandoned in the middle of the clearing where you’d dropped it. There’s flickers of movement, too: further in the woods. More Wanderers. Shit.

You duck behind the rock you’re starting to think might be your new home. Then your watch flickers, broadcasting a map of the area, and there’s the co-ordinates of another hunter, closing in fast.

Something flashes in the clearing, lighting the dark of the forest like a stutter of lightning. Then again. Then again. There’s a blood-curdling roar, and it ends— abrupt— with another flash.

Everything goes silent, save for a familiar voice calling your name.

“Xavier!” you call back.

You peek over the rock to see your partner jogging towards you, dead Wanderers littered behind him. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice soft as always, but his sword is still dripping blood.

“I’m ok.” You clamber up, using the rock as a seat when the small effort almost breaks you. “You?”

Xavier draws close— his gloved hands on your face, cupping your cheeks. His thumb grazes over a shallow scrape on your brow. “Yeah,” he answers.

“Did you find that weird Wanderer?”

He shakes his head: no. Steps back to check his watch. “It’s probably moved on to a different zone by now.”

“Then we should look for it,” you say, standing up. All of your weight is on one leg.

“Ah,” Xavier ponders, rubbing his neck, “really? I thought we should maybe head back.”

“No need.” And what’s the plan here, exactly? You can’t walk. You definitely can’t fight. Maybe you can wait here while he— no. He’s never going to leave you. “I told you I’m ok.”

“But you’re not.”

“I am,” you assert. You’re determined to convince him and your own, useless body. It’s just a sprain. It is just a sprain. You take a step forwards and stumble, your bad leg crumpling beneath you.

Xavier catches you, strong and solid, and he's holding you like you’re something delicate. He sets you down on the rock again. The pain is making your vision swim.

“You’re hurt,” he reasons gently, even though the truth of it is a knife that’s twisting in your heart. He seems to sense your reluctance: “There’s no shame in admitting that. It happens. Let’s go back.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m slowing you down, Xavier!” you gush. Your heart is split open and it has to bleed somewhere. “You have no idea what it’s like… being your partner.”

He’s looking at you with so much guilt and gods, you wish that somewhere was anywhere but his hands. “What do you mean?” he asks on a shaky breath.  

“I love working with you.” Soften the blow. “I love being with you, but you don’t need me. You’re this incredible hunter. This figure of legend, of everyone’s stories. You can do so much on your own and I just don’t know how to keep up. I mean, look at me— I can’t.”

You feel sick. Empty. “You shouldn’t have to hang back for me,” you finish limply. “You’re you, Xavier. You can fight like a hundred Wanderers and still come out unscathed.”

The blue of Xavier’s eyes has grown understandably more turbulent, though it settles a little. He seems to relax. “Yeah… about that,” he mumbles hesitantly.

He turns around and your mouth drops. A savage cut drapes like a crimson sash down his back, splitting the white of his uniform. It’s not deep enough to be fatal, but it’s not good, either.

“Wha— Xavier!” you exclaim, trying to surge forwards, but your pain keeps you rooted. “You said you were ok!”

“So did you,” he frowns, bewildered. “Can we get out of—”

“Yeah, yeah.” You let him take your arm and help you to your feet.

He leads you through the clearing and into the forest, supporting your weight as you hop along beside him. There’s a murmur about how he should carry you, but you’re quick to reassure him he’s doing enough. You’re both hurting; you both just need to survive the short walk out of the no-hunt zone, where a med team can take over.

“You don’t slow me down, you know,” Xavier says quietly, after a minute of silence. “You’re the reason I can keep going.”

You squeeze his arm affectionately, mustering a smile even though you’re nauseous with pain and the idea that he’s been dwelling on your speech this whole time. “Well,” you chuckle through gritted teeth, “you’re gonna have to learn how to get by without me.”

“Huh?” He gives you a curious look.

You glance down at your leg. “Zayne’s gonna kill me...”

Zayne ❄

“I’m a doctor.”

You stop what you’re doing to fix Zayne with a questioning stare. “Ok…?”

“I’ve published dozens of research papers. Pioneered new surgical techniques. My work on Evol-based regenerative properties still has lasting implications for my field, and I’ve the accolades to show for it. The Starcatcher Award. The Linde Award, too— I was the youngest ever recipient.”

None of this is news to you, and you can’t help chuckling at this change in your usually-humble physician. You humour him: “The youngest ever recipient, huh?” There’s a crack as you split an egg on the side of the bowl in front of you. “That’s very impressive.”

“Is it?”

Zayne stands from his seat at your kitchen table: you hear the chair draw back. You feel his presence arrive behind you as you continue to stir your soon-to-be cookie dough. “Yeah,” you lilt with a smile.

“Really?” he pushes again, and his arms wrap around you as he bends to speak into your ear. “Because someone seems to think I can’t even recognise a—” he nips at it— “sprained ankle.”

His breath is warm on your neck and you let out a giggle. “Keep speaking to me like that and these cookies are never making it into the oven. Or your stomach.”

The man relents. He releases you, not returning to his seat but opting to lean against the kitchen counter instead. You glance up at him; he stares back, waiting for an actual answer.

“My ankle is fine, Zayne.”

There’s a sigh as he crosses his arms.

“It is,” you insist, even though you did sprain your ankle at work today, it does hurt like hell, and you do just want to sit down. You reach for the flour you’d measured out previously, tipping it into the larger bowl. “If it wasn’t, would I really be here— making you cookies?”

“Yes,” he says plainly.

“You’re delusional.”

“Ok.”  

Well, that was a little too easy. Don’t overthink it, and definitely don’t read into the fact that he’s standing there oh-so-smugly, like he knows something you don’t. You finish stirring the flour into the mixture, then add the last of the ingredients. Just a pinch of salt, and then…

Where did you put the chocolate chips? You glance about yourself but they’re nowhere in sight. “Hey, Zayne? Have you seen the—”

“This cupboard,” he indicates with an upwards nod of his head. His eyes are relentless. “Top shelf.”

Ah. That’s ok. You’ve totally got this. You move beneath the cupboard, opening it and gazing up into the contents. You can see the pack of chocolate chips. You can get up there somehow, right?

“Would you like me to—” Zayne starts, but you cut him off:

“Nope.” You put your hands on your hips. “Please— if I can climb the back of an alive, awake, and very angry deluge wyrmlord to put a sword through its skull, I think I can make it onto the kitchen counter in one piece. Lemme just…”

Your knee lifts. You make it about a centimetre from the floor before Zayne’s hands are on your waist, grounding you. “Stop,” he instructs, and it's not a tone that allows for any rebuttal. Satisfied by your silence, he brings the chocolate chips down to you.

“Thanks,” you say quietly as they’re placed on the counter.

“You’re welcome."

Sheepishly, you spill a generous amount of chocolate chips into the cookie mixture. Your throat hurts in the way that keeps you from saying anything more. You already feel like an idiot, and your eyes are watering, threatening to make you look like even more of one.

Zayne’s hand appears in front of you, hovering over the bowl. You laugh in understanding: giving the half-empty bag another shake so chocolate chips fall into his palm.

“You… don’t have to explain yourself,” he says as he lifts them to his mouth. His next words are muffled: “But you can tell me anything, my love. I never want you to feel as though you can’t.”

You chuckle again; you can’t help yourself. Look at him: your oh-so-serious doctor shovelling chocolate into his mouth. He raises an eyebrow at you, his lips still on his palm.

“I know I can tell you anything,” you smile, the ache in your throat receding, however much the rest of you hurts. “I did sprain my ankle. It’s not that I wanted to hide it from you, it’s just—” you stop stirring the mixture— “it’s just that your whole life is taking care of people at the hospital. You should get a break from it. You should get to be Zayne, here… at home. Just Zayne, not Doctor Zayne.”

Zayne’s hazel eyes have taken on a hue of regret. He pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, buying himself a few seconds as he contemplates. “Are you a doctor?” he asks after a moment.

“No?”

“And yet, here you are, taking care of me.” He reaches for the abandoned packet of chocolate chips. “Tell me, does it feel like work to you?”

“Yeah,” you tease, drawing the packet away from his stretching fingers in explanation; you’re both grinning.

“Well, it never feels like work to me. Just Zayne likes taking care of you. And right now? He wants to bundle you up on the sofa and finish these cookies for you.”

You purse your lips: that’s some dubious wording. “Zayne, hell will freeze over before I leave you and this cookie dough unsupervised.”

He shushes you, pulling on the cord of your apron until the bow at your back comes loose. Before you can protest, he’s wearing the apron himself.

“Zayne, I’m not kidding. I know what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna get rid of me, and then you’ll—”

“Shh,” he coos again, whisking you carefully off your feet, because it’s time for a taste of your own medicine. “You’re delusional.”

Rafayel 🔥

“Mmhmm. Mmhmm.”

“Raf, who are you—”

He holds out a finger to shush you. “Mmhmm.”

You cross your arms impatiently. Who is he even talking to, anyway? His lilac eyes are locked on you as he continues humming away, apparently very invested in whatever the person on the phone is saying; you’ve never seen him go this long without talking.

He narrows his eyes at you. You narrow your eyes right back.

All around you, guests of the exhibition are milling about, all dressed to the nines and minding their business, however much they want the attention of the man in front of you. A few of them linger as they pass him, like they want to say something, like they’re going to say something…

But they don’t.

It’s a wonder that Rafayel stands out in the crowd as much as he does. You’d seamlessly located him, back from your third trip to the bathroom to check on the bandages you’ve managed to conceal beneath this dress. He’s still holding your purse for you, his phone in his other hand, except—

That’s your phone. That’s your phone! “Rafayel!”

He shushes you again. “I understand,” he says solemnly, notably not to you, “thanks for letting me know.” The call is ended. He takes a deep, collected breath, then looks at you. “I knew it!”

“Knew what? Who was that?”

“Zayne.”

“You called Zayne?”

“Like I had a choice!” Rafayel retaliates. It is true; he’s spent the entire evening trying to get you to admit something was wrong, and you had no intention of giving him that pleasure. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital! What kind of idiot breaks out of the hospital?”

The lack of irony in the question almost breaks you. “Umm… you?! Like every other week?!”

He shrugs. “That’s different.”

“Rafayel, I swear, I’m gonna— ah!” you gasp in pain. You’d stepped forwards too quickly— maybe to strangle him, but that’s neither here nor there— and the wound on your side is clearly on his side. It stings like hell: punishing you, and you know the pain is self-inflicted.

Rafayel frowns in concern, maybe even guilt, and that’s why you didn’t tell him. “C’mon, we should go,” he insists gravely.

“It’s fine, Raf. It doesn’t even—”

“Stop lying! You said you wouldn’t hide stuff like this from me. You promised, remember?”

You’re losing track of all the promises you’ve made to the Lemurian, but you do remember that one. Guilt has its teeth in you, too. “I know,” you grumble, “I’m sorry, ok? I just knew—”

“What?”

“That you’d act like this! You’ve been working on this exhibition for months, Raf. Tonight is supposed to be about you. Not me— you. And I want it to stay that way. Everyone’s here to celebrate you and your work, and that’s how it should be. That’s what I want. To support you. To be here for you.”

Your voice has gone timid. You finish meekly: “Can’t you let me do this for you? Please?”

Rafayel’s eyes are wide and still the prettiest things you’ve ever seen, even in a room full of masterpieces and jewels you could never afford. They shine with uncertainty, but soften as he smiles, full of fondness and affection. “That’s sweet. But also? Really dumb.”

“Raf—”

“The only— and I mean only— reason I’m here tonight is because you are. I don’t care about what anyone thinks about me or my paintings. Just you. And you can see this?” He gestures around the gallery. “Anytime. My life’s your private exhibition, cutie. Exclusive access, 24/7, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

He steps closer to you: close enough that he can see the tear that’s made it halfway down your cheek. He wipes it away with a chuckle. “Plus,” he adds, “I know you know I’m amazing. You don’t need these old sourpusses to tell you that, do you?”

You laugh tentatively. “No, I don’t.”

Your injury protests as you use the lapels on Rafayel’s blazer to pull him closer; you have to stand on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He’s still grinning as he draws away, a light blush on his cheeks, but the sweetness of the moment vanishes as his gaze drifts lower.

“My eyes are up here, Rafayel.”

“Yeah…” he concedes mindlessly, but then he points: “you know you’re like, bleeding, right?”

You glance downwards to where the red of your dress is turning darker. There’s just a small splotch, but it’s growing. Shit. You must have reopened the wound.

“Thomas?” you hear Rafayel call, and then he’s stuffing a silk handkerchief into your hands— helping you apply pressure. “We have to get out of here,” he explains as a figure joins you.

His agent folds his arms; this is not dissimilar to stunts you and Rafayel have pulled before. “Fake blood, guys? Really?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You can’t leave, Rafayel. I can just see the headlines tomorrow…”

“Dashing artist selflessly flees exhibition to save devoted bodyguard,” Rafayel concurs with a nod.

Thomas groans. “That’s not what they’re going to—”

“Help me out with this, cutie?”

“Yes, sir,” you mock salute.

A moment later, Rafayel has scooped you up into his arms. Your hero; he gives you a conspiratorial wink before glancing about frantically. “Quickly!” he cries out. “Everyone out of the way, please!”

“For the love of—” Thomas starts.

“Oh, gods!” you shout in agony. “It hurts. It hurts!”

Heads turn. Cameras flash.

Tomorrow morning, half of Linkon will be talking about one of their favourite celebrities and his long-envied bodyguard. A news article will pop-up on her doctor’s phone, and he’ll see the pictures and sigh.

Sylus 🩸

“It’s not too late to back down, sweetie,” Sylus sneers.

“Aw, but you got all dressed up for the occasion.”

Your eyes rake over the outline of the man’s abs, courtesy of the tank top he’s wearing, and it does take the sting out of the fact that he’ll be trying to hit you. He holds his wrapped hands before him, ready to defend, ready to attack. He’ll probably attack, right?

“Last chance,” he growls.

“Is it, though?” This is the third ‘last chance’ you’ve been given in the five minutes you’ve been teetering on combat. You beckon him with a curl of your fingers. “Come on, Sylus. This is getting old.”

He scoffs: “How do you think I feel?”

“Like you’re about to get your ass kicked?”

“Alright, enough.” His hands drop and it feels like you’re back at the academy, about to be scolded for not taking something seriously. Sylus turns his back on you. Moves to the edge of the boxing ring so he can retrieve a stool from outside of it and sit down in a huff. He starts peeling the wraps from his knuckles, and— wait, is he mad? Like, actually mad?

“What’s wrong, Sy?”

He laughs as though you’re missing something dreadfully obvious. Maybe irony.

“Sylus?”

“You really are heartless, sweetie. You know that?”

The words steal your breath away, if only for a moment. Yours is a relationship of pulled punches, but he won’t meet your gaze and that one was real, wasn’t it? He wanted it to sting. “Why—”

“I could have hurt you,” he snaps, his dishevelled, snowy hair falling to cover his eyes. His discarded wraps slide from his hands, pooling by his feet like blood. “You were going to let me hurt you.”

He looks at you, finally, but it’s not in the way you want. His gaze is cast low, trailing over your body and making you feel every bruise, every closed cut that wants to reopen and every ache, rooted almost to bone. You’d done your best to hide it, even going so far as to press make-up hastily over your purpled skin.

That Wanderer really did a number on you yesterday.  

“You should have told me,” Sylus says, since you’ve made it onto the same page. “Honestly, kitten. Why would you—”

“Because Luke and Kieran told me, ok?”

Oh, they’re going to kill you. It was supposed to be a secret, and here you are, spilling like a fresh wound because you can’t stand the thought of Sylus being upset with you. You step closer, scrambling to dissect what you’ve done right in front of his eyes— holding it out to him: this is why. This is why. “They said you had a rough week. Some deals of yours had fallen through or something. And I’ve been too busy. I haven’t called, I haven’t even texted, and…”

You need him to understand, but the truth is a mess in your hands and how do you even start to explain it to him?

“You wanted to do something for me,” he finishes for you, and you don’t have to explain a thing.

“Yeah…” you confirm, bittersweet and still sad. “You do so much for me, Sylus. I just wanted to do what you wanted, for a change.”

Maybe it’s a round of boxing. Maybe it’s a dozen illicit dealings where he needs you to play enforcer— it doesn’t matter. As long as he’s happy.

“Come here,” he orders gently.

You close the rest of the rift between you, letting him reach for you and pull you closer. His knees have spread so you can slot against him, and his arms circle around you— trapping you— as he nuzzles into the warmth of your stomach.

“I’m sorry I called you heartless,” he speaks into you, his voice muffled as he gives you a chaste kiss. He then cranes his head upwards, resting his chin against you so he can profess more clearly: “I do worry about you, kitten.”

“I know—” your hands move to his head— “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have lied to you.”

“Mmm,” he hums in accordance, maybe even forgiveness, and his eyes close as your fingers card through the soft of his hair. “I lied too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he confesses on a contented sigh. “I didn’t want to spend today… boxing.”

“What do you want to do today, Sy?”

His eyes flicker open and his hands find your hips. “What I really want…” he contemplates, as his thumbs slip under the hem of your shirt to rub circles on your skin, “is to take care of you.”

There are lifetimes of need in his gaze.

“Won’t you let me take care of you, sweetie?”

…

“If he finds the terms so disagreeable, then he’s more than welcome to take his business elsewhere. Although—” Sylus’s voice is cold— “he might find his other options less… amenable than when he saw them last. Less communicative, too. You can tell him I said so.”

He ends the phone call. Smiles. “Sorry about that, sweetie.”

“Are the boys ok?”

The smile widens, even though you can’t see it. “They’re fine.”

Phone set aside, Sylus carries on with the important business Kieran’s call had distracted him from. You’re half asleep, your head in his lap as he brushes your hair: rose-scented and soft from the bath he’d drawn for you, hours ago. Every bandage is fresh and clean. Every ache has been dulled with a lazy massage and more chaste kisses, for good measure.

“Perfect day,” you mumble blissfully.

“Perfect day,” Sylus agrees.

[wasteddmoondust]

little family || remus lupin

pairing: remus lupin x reader 1,258 words, single mom! reader, established relationship, FLUFFY FLUFF, kid fic, maybe i just crave domesticity a/n: back to back fics like who is she... (had this in the drafts for a WHILE) omfg guys this was soooo crazy indulgent I'm gong crazy no i did not proof read but i hope you like it anway

Remus is just about to leave work when he gets the call. He sees your contact name pop up on his screen, Y/N <3.

"Hello?" he says when he picks up the call.

"Hi, Re," you reply. You voice sounds rushed and anxious. "Do you happen to be free today?"

"I am, love. What is it?" he asks softly, stopping in his tracks to listen to you.

"Something came up at work today that I have to stay and handle, could you pick up Lyla from daycare?"

Lyla, a little girl equivalent to a ball of sunshine. Though you had only been dating for over a year, he sees her as his own.

"Of course I will. I'll bring her back to yours?"

"Yes please, thank you so much. I'll buy takeout for dinner when I'm done. You okay with that?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll go pick her up now."

He hears you heave a sigh of relief over the phone. "I appreciate you so much, I love you."

He smiles. "I love you, too. I'll see you later."

Remus reaches the daycare and realises he doesn't know what he's supposed to do. He walks by the window and sees Lyla colouring in her classroom. She notices the movement and looks up from her drawing. He can't hear her through the window but she's jumping around and cheering at the sight of him, waving excitedly.

He waves back at her, smiling, then notices one of her teachers gesturing to meet her at the entrance.

She gets past the gate to the classroom, leaving Lyla behind. "Hi, I know you're here for Lyla but since you're not her mum I'm going to need your ID," she says pulling out a file from one of the shelves.

He pulls out his wallet and gives it to her and watches her scan a list of what seems to be names of parents of the children.

She takes a few seconds and finally says, "Ah yes, Remus Lupin. You're on her list. I'll get her for you." He watches the teacher look into the classroom and call Lyla.

And then he realises. He's on the list. He's on the list of people who can pick Lyla up from daycare. You put him on the list of people who can pick Lyla up from daycare.

He's snapped out of his thoughts when he hears Lyla's voice. "Remoose!" she yells, running up to him.

"Hiya, angel," he says and picks her up. His heart melts as she immediately wraps her arms around his neck for a hug. "Mummy will join us later, but for now it's just you and me, okay?"

"We can watch TV?" she asks. "And then- then play toys?"

"Mhm, that sounds like a good plan," Remus replies, and they head to your home.

Later, you turn your key to your flat and open the door. You can hear the television playing a movie and the sound of your daughter's laughter. You kick off your shoes and walk into the living room.

Remus is covered in the fake makeup from Lyla's child-friendly kit. His hair is also adorned with little flower hair clips. He sits cross-legged on the floor while she sits in his lap.

"Looks like you had a lot of fun without me, hm?" you say. Lyla jumps at the sound of your voice, immediately running to you.

"Mummy! Remus fetched me today!"

"I know, darling," you kiss her cheek. "I asked him to. Did he take good care of you?"

She nods aggressively. She runs back to Remus, who is already walking up to you.

"Well don't you look pretty today," you tease. He smiles and breathes a soft laugh.

"My makeup artist is talented. She's very serious about this," he presses a kiss to your forehead. "You hungry? I can heat up dinner."

"That'd be great, and then it's time for this bug to go to bed," you pick up Lyla. "Isn't that right?"

She lays her head on your shoulder, visibly getting sleepy as it gets closer to her usual bedtime.

"Say good night to Remus?" you turn your body, so she faces him.

Remus bends down to kiss her hair, "Good night, angel."

Lyla slowly closes her eyes, "G'night..."

Putting your baby to bed goes smoothly, and she easily winds down as she is tucked into bed. She snuggles into her blanket and looks up at you.

"I like it when Remus fetches me from school," you hear her mumble.

You smile at that. "Really?"

She nods. "I really like Remus."

"I really like Remus too, darling."

"I think you get very happy around him, Mummy," she whispers. "You were not very happy last year, but now I see you be happy with him. So I'm happy."

You feel your heart do something. Jump? Lurch? Lyla was right, being a single parent comes with its challenges and you can admit a lot of late nights were spent biting your nails and wiping tears from your cheeks. You tried your best to prevent her from seeing you in that state, but you know she's observant enough for her age.

And that's why you're so thankful to have met Remus. He accepted you despite the fact you had a whole child. He saw you not only as you but also as the mother of your child. He understood that Lyla would always be a priority to you over romance (unlike most men you've met). Despite all its complications, he has been able to fit into your lives as if he's already meant to be there.

A prime example could be taken from today. Surely he could've said no to picking up Lyla from daycare, he's just her mother's boyfriend, after all. But he agreed and handled the rest.

"He does make me really happy," you say to her. "Does he make you happy too?"

"Mhm! He always plays with me and watches shows with me. He also hugs me and kisses me. He makes me happy. He's like my Daddy."

You chuckle, trying to hide the way your heart is going crazy at that. Somehow, you take the leap. "You want Remus to be your Daddy?"

"Can I call him my Daddy?" she asks, her eyes hopeful.

"You'll have to ask him tomorrow," you say, and you wonder what his reaction would be.

"Okay, I'll ask him tomorrow. Good night, Mummy."

You kiss her forehead, "Good night, darling."

You walk out of her room to see Remus placing your plate of food on the table for you. Without saying anything, you approach him and hug him. He hugs you back.

He is silent for a while, swaying your body slowly as you hug. "You were in there for a while, what were you talking about?" he mumbles into your hair.

You take a deep breath and look up at him, chin resting on your chest. "I love you," you say.

He furrows his brows but nods anyway. "I love you, too."

"Lyla wants to call you her dad."

Remus stops swaying. What is he thinking?

"Okay," he says, simply.

You jerk your head back, "Really?"

"Of course, I love her too, you know. I'd be honoured."

Chuckling, you bury your head into his chest and squeeze him. You feel him press a kiss into your hair.

"We're like a little family," he whispers to you. And you can see it too. You, your daughter, and Remus altogether as one.

And there's honestly nothing you want more than that.

a/n: SO LIKE UM this has been in the drafts about the same time as the james one like i said this is just very very indulgent brainrot i still have plans for the james series!!!!!!! ty sm for your support <3 likes and reblogs are always appreciated.

[cvpidzcvrse]

𝔐𝔦𝔡𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔖𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔰

MDNI, pretty pls with a cherry on top

✫A/N: I’m rlly just pushing these fics out my pussy with no hesitation. talking abt pussy if u have one ur gonna love this one. this on is kinda shorter than my other ones but as always, enjoy this one loves!

⋆.ೃ࿔*･Synopsis: You were ovulating and you wanted dick, bad. But it’s almost 2 in the morning and your boyfriend is asleep, so what are you gonna do! You didn’t want to wake him up just for dick, or did you

⋆.ೃ࿔*･wc: 1,673

⋆.ೃ࿔*･Warnings: degradation, masturbation, praise, backshots, slight somno, riding, free use, oral masc!receiving, squirting, gentle, soft mdom, finishing inside (practice safe sex)

(the reader is black)

During ovulation, most women turn into sex-addicted monsters or cock sluts. You’re leaning more towards cock slut. It was 1:30 am on a Tuesday night and your vibrator has become your best friend. You were currently assaulting your clit with your vibrator, going on orgasm number 3. The vibrator wasn’t enough though, you needed him. You let out a quiet moan before reaching your now third orgasm. You feel so pitiful, in the bathroom with the door locked, and sitting on the sink watching your pink bullet vibrator go crazy on your clit. You let out a sigh before cleaning up the mirror where juices flew. 

“Fuck, this sucks..”

You mumbled, fixing your bonnet and then sitting on the sink. You get your phone and start texting your friends. 

1:45 AM

(♡): “I’m so horny rn and nothing is working”

Sashaluv: “I know you are not telling us about your pussy problems at 1 am :/”

Mikamika: “Have you thought abt going to bed and not telling us abt it??”

You chuckle at Mikasa’s response before sighing and leaving the bathroom. You walk to your room and throw your phone somewhere in the room, not paying attention to where it went or what was open. 

You notice your semi-muscular and very shirtless boyfriend sleeping on your bed. Your clit is basically screaming for him, there’s no way you're turned on just by looking at this gorgeous man. His hair was down, messily framing his face, his toned chest moving every time he took a breath, and the hem of his pajama pants hanging low. You wish you could just pounce on him right now and grind your hungry pussy on his dick. Your hand travels down to the hem of your Pajama shorts. You fiddle with the edge of your underwear before finally reaching down and drawing small circles on your clit. 

“F-fuck…”

You use your other hand to cover your mouth as you trace the outline of your lips before finally putting 2 fingers in. You let out a shaky moan, and the grip on your mouth tightens as your speed increases. Eren’s facial features are even more beautiful now than ever, the moonlight is hitting his body just right. You can see every muscle, hair, and tattoo. Is this how he feels whenever fucking you? If so you now know why you guys fuck like rabid animals. Your vision gets cloudy as you soak your hands in your sweet juices. 

“I can’t take it anymore…I need him”

You huff before walking to the bed and climbing on top of him. He groans a bit at the sudden shift in weight before falling back into a daze. You start grinding on his cock slowly, your head dips back in pleasure. 

“Mama…”

Eren utters a breathy moan before rubbing his eyes. You’re lustful brown eyes meet his tired green ones, the way he looks at you drives you even more insane. 

“I hope I’m not dreaming, and my pretty girl is grinding her wet pussy on me…fuck”

He groans before putting his hands on your hips and making you grind harder. You bit your lip tightly, trying to keep a moan in your mouth. You feel his cock twitch inside his pants, you grind harder in response.

“You couldn’t sleep so you took matters into your own hands? Fuck…keep going.”

The bed creaks slightly every time you thrust your hips. Moans flooding out of your mouth like a pornstar. The way you and Eren fuck all the time you’re surprised your neighbors don’t think you are one.

“I can’t let you sleep like this mama, you wanna get fucked until you cum baby?”

You nod again, almost making it to orgasm number 5 of the night before he stops you. His long big hands bring your hips to a halt. You whimpered and looked down at his now lustful emerald eyes. 

“It’s never that straightforward baby and you know that. I’ll let you use me to your heart's content, but you’re not done until I say so.”

You nod in agreement and start untying his pajama pants before he grabs your wrist to stop you. 

 “You have to clean up after yourself afterward, I don’t want my pretty slut riding a messy cock.” 

His fuckboy smirk enveloped his handsome features. God…you hated that smirk, it only means he has something up his sleeves. But it gets your pussy wet every time, you're soaking through your shorts during this hot and heavy interaction.

“Fine, but just let me use you. Please.”

You gave him the best ‘give me dick.’ look you could muster, and it worked. He groaned softly before nodding. You quickly untie his pajama pants and pull them down. You take off your shorts and pushing your panties to the side. 

You grab the base of his cock and adjust yourself before sliding him into your cunt. You both let out deafening moans, you slowly grind on him still trying to adjust to his size.

"Good girl, show me how much you love my cock."

You slowly start bouncing on his cock. Eren admires the way your tits jump every time you bounce on his wood.

“Fuck…you’re so big…”

Eren grins before muttering curses under his breath. He grabs your love handles, forcing you to keep a slow and steady pace. You groaned at Eren’s stubbornness to let you do what you want. 

"I know mama, I know. Just do this f'me ok?"

You melted at his sweet words and his silky voice. Eren is the type of man to make you cum with the snap of his fingers. He’s fine, funny, a sweet talker, and has a big dick. What’s not to love? You got brought out of your own mind when Eren started tracing circles around your clit. 

“M-my clit…it’s sensitive! E-Eren, please.” 

He shakes his head, chuckling at your sudden change in character. 

“You were just begging for my cock, what happened? Did the cock slut finally have too much cock?” 

His pink lips gave you a fake pout to add to the condescending tone of his voice. Eren thrust his hips into you, leaving tiny kisses on your cervix every time. Your hands run down his chest and to his abs, feeling every muscle and vein on his torso. Eren feels you clench around him, causing a breathy moan to leave his mouth. 

“Ma, fuck…you can take it come on, cum on my cock.” 

You cry out as your juices cover his cock, Eren is hypnotized watching his cock slide in and out of you. He grunts before sliding you off of his cock. 

“You’re so pretty when you cum, now clean up your mess.” 

You’re completely cock drunk, the only thing you can think about is Eren's big cock in your cunt. You nod before crawling under the covers and grabbing his dick in your hands. You feel him jerk from your cold touch. You lick up the side of his shaft a couple of times before putting his full length in your throat.

“That throat feels good baby. Let me fuck your throat.” 

He grabs the top of your bonnet pushing you as far as you can go. Tears start forming in the corner of your eyes before you start bobbing your head. You can hear Eren mumbling your name under his breath, you take that as a sign that you’re doing a good job.

“Fuck ma I’m about to cum…”

You use your hand to stroke his cock while you suck it, sending him over the edge.

“I wanna cum inside of you, get back up here.”

You do one last stroke of his cock before he pulls you under him. With your face stuffed in the pillow and your ass in the air, it doesn’t take long before Eren rubs your entrance with the tip of his cock. 

“You’re so wet for me baby, show me who this cock belongs to.”

He whispers in your ear, trailing soft kisses up your back before shoving his dick inside of you with no warning. You yelp in surprise, his cock spreading you apart so good. He starts with a steady pace before it turns into violent backshots. Your moans are muffled in the pillow and you’re clawing at the sheets. 

“Eren! Fuck…slow down.”

You don’t even have to see him to know he’s grinning ear to ear. You hear him click his tongue in response 

“No mama, you can take it. I’ve trained this pussy well. Come on, say ‘I can take it’. Say it”

You sobbed into the pillow, not daring to move your hand back to try to stop him. The pleasure is too much, and truthfully you enjoyed it.

“I…I c-can…mmph…take it…”

You were able to get the statement out even between the torment Eren is putting your cervix through. 

“You can take what ma? Say for me and I’ll let your pretty pussy cum.”

He whispers in your ear, his hands running up and down your body. He’s leaving hickeys and bite marks all over your neck. 

“I…fuck…I can…I can take it! I love it! Fuck…I love your cock!”

You look like a pornstar right now and Eren is loving it. The drool hanging from your two-toned lips, your pink bonnet slipping off your head exposing your knotless braids, the way your plump ass slams against his pelvis, and your puffy pussy wrapped around his cock. 

“I’m about to…mmph…cum!”

You sob before coving his cock in more of your juices. He follows closely after, shooting white ropes inside of you and leaving a rim of your mixed fluids around the base of his cock. Eren collapses on top of you, leaving a trail of passionate kisses along your neck. 

“You did so well mama, you're such a good girl…”

He trails off, tracing small shapes into your skin.

“Thanks…for the help, I love you…”

“I love you too…”

3:29 AM

(♡): [Audio message]

Sashaluv: “I’m guessing she fixed her pussy problem…:/”

[guiltyasdave]

jana hi me again 🫣 could i have the prompt 28 "No one ever cared about me like you."

with either javi p or joel 🫠❤️🤎

take my hand, wreck my plans

pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

word count: 557

summary: Javi seeks out your company after a rough day.

tags/warnings: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, alcohol consumption, mention of food, able-bodied reader, no use of y/n, idiots in love because of who i am as a person (let me know if i missed something!)

a/n: i have once again been possessed by angsty thoughts and somehow, this came out of it. i hope you like this eden @reddedmiller and i’m sorry that it took three months lol. thank you @catchallfangirl for beta reading 🫶🏻

dividers by @saradika-graphics as always because they’re the best <3

find my full masterlist here & follow @guiltyasdavenotifs for fic updates :)

He knocks on your door at 2 in the morning, all but collapses into your arms as soon as you swing it open, tired eyes and heavy limbs that melt into your embrace.

Your colleagues had warned you when he started coming over to your desk, inviting you out for lunch, about how he would chew you up and spit you out, like he did with half of the female staff at the embassy. You hadn’t listened, waving them off and going out with him anyway. First for a quick lunch break, then for after work drinks, then for dinner.

It was fun, a distraction, something to do and someone to know in this city where everything was foreign to you and where you felt more alone than ever before in your life.

It’s more, now. It doesn’t have a definition exactly, but you both know it. You’re the person he turns to when he needs somebody, and you’ll gladly be that for him.

“Do you have something to drink?” His face is sullen as he slumps down on your couch, like the weight of the world crushed him today. You furrow your brow.

“When was the last time you ate something, Javi?”

“‘M not hungry,” he grumbles, confirming your suspicion that he most likely survived the day solely on cigarettes and coffee.

You lean over the couch, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders from behind. His head falls back against you like he can’t help himself.

“I’m gonna make you a sandwich and get you some whiskey, okay?” Inching closer, you press a gentle kiss against his neck, just below his ear.

He sits up a little straighter and turns to you, reluctance in his eyes.

“Querida, it’s the middle of the night, you don’t have to-”

You shake your head and kiss him again, on his cheek this time. “It’s okay. I want to.”

He leans back hesitantly but doesn’t seem to have the energy to fight you on it, so your lips find his face once more before you head for the kitchen.

Watching him all but devour the food has you hiding your smile behind your own glass of whiskey. He already looks a little better.

“Not hungry, huh?” you tease, your voice light.

“Shut up,” comes his short reply, but his lips are twitching.

He has half a mind to stumble out of your flat again afterwards, but you convince him to stay, that it’s really no problem.

He takes a quick shower, mumbling about washing the day away, and you wait in bed, the warm light from your bedside lamp illuminating the room, until he slips under the covers beside you.

You wrap your arms around him again and hold him close, your fingers drawing shapes on his chest. He clears his throat, shifting awkwardly.

“Thank you,” he eventually mumbles, his voice low in the darkness.

“Of course, Javi.” He tends to get like that, struggling to receive any kind of affection or care when he feels like he has nothing to give back.

He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “No, seriously. No one ever cared about me like you. I- thank you.”

You sigh and pull him tighter into you, your face buried in his hair. You’ll care for him as long as he lets you.

thank you so much for reading! if you liked this, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment because they make me really happy 🤍

[cecilyv]

Graffiti on my body

(buck/tommy, 9-1-1, mini-fic)

Sometimes being multiple time zones away from @liminalmemories21 sucks, and sometimes you have a vision, you write up the basics, and you wake up to a moment of joy. Today we both got to say, "Good morning to me; and yes, exactly."

++

Tommy’s body has always been utilitarian; built and nourished for what could it do, how far it could be pushed. As much as he thought about it at all, he vaguely considered what it needed — food, water, exercise. Mostly it was a nuisance that never did enough, never as much as he wanted, as his superiors wanted — so he focused on how he could build it to hold more, help more, save more.

But now, wrapped in Evan’s sheets, bolstered by Evan’s body, he wonders, maybe for the first time, what his body wants, what his body can accept, what his body can give. Evan’s hands make him question what he’s been missing, what he could have been wanting, asking for. He wants to see what Evan sees; he wants to look down and see more than a job, a soldier, a firefighter. 

Evan touches him like nobody else ever has — there's desire and hunger, and those he's used to. He’s seen them before; maybe not to this degree, and that’s a trip all of its own.  But Evan touches him with wonder, too — like he's precious, like he could be hurt and Evan wants to keep him safe. Nobody's ever touched him like that. 

Evan lays with his head on Tommy’s chest, drawing on his skin with his finger, intricate swirls and whorls, tracing a pattern that Tommy can't see, but Evan clearly can because it's the same each time  — wants to ask what it is, but also doesn't, just feels it, lets it sink in until he can almost trace it himself. He lies there and takes it, skin still sensitive, flushed and slightly sweaty and, over time, he realizes he needs it, he wants it — Evan marking his place, claiming what’s his.

When he looks down at his skin later, he can almost see the love that Evan has inscribed into his skin. 

And one day, when Evan’s on a 48 and Tommy’s just lying in bed, he traces one of Evan’s favorite spots, the one he always goes back to — and he wouldn’t say he’s impulsive; he’d argue that he has good instincts— he pulls on his clothes and goes to the local tattoo parlor. He stands in parade rest, staring at the art on the wall, abstract colors and details and designs that he doesn’t understand but knows are beautiful. When she asks if she can help, he tries to explain what he wants but he can’t get it quite right. She looks at him with exasperation, with pity, and tells him to come back when he’s sure about what he wants; she doesn’t want him to regret his decisions. 

He leaves, buys a pen and when Evan gets home, when they’re lying in bed again and Evan starts absentmindedly tracing the pattern on his skin, he reaches into a drawer and pulls out the pen and hands it to Evan, and tells him, he wants to see what Evan sees, he wants to wear his mark, he wants to be covered in Evan.

And he goes back to the artist the next day, with Evan sketched on his skin and she examines Tommy in a new way, like he’s a work of art, like he’s changed, improved, special. She sees what Evan sees. 

And Tommy points at the design on his hip, just below his scar, and the woman tilts her head, consideringly, just breathes, “Yes.”

And he lies there and lets her permanently etch Evan onto his skin.

Evan’s eyes go wide when he sees it. “You,” he swallows, voice hoarse, “…show me. “

He knows it was actually pretty impulsive, that they haven’t really been dating long enough for tattoos. But he also knows he won’t regret it if they break up. It’ll break his heart — in so fast he can’t feel the bottom anymore — but he won’t regret it.

“I like the way you see me,” he says simply.

[salamander-spark]

My first fanfic! I'm proud of it even if it's a little rushed. I barely managed to get it out within the day. Tomorrow's prompt might just be a drawing.

Day 1:

Hug/Cabin 7/Shapeshifter

Fic below:

TW: very brief depiction of a panic attack, description of nightmare.

It had been a month since Vee's mom and sister came back from the boiling isles.

The stress Vee felt the few days it took for the return was immeasurable. A worry for her family took root in the back of her mind, it made sleep nearly impossible, and gave her nightmares.

Waiting for months, no contact, no words, no way of knowing if they are alive. No magic. She'd be found out, spreding herself too thin with Camila and Luz's responsibilities, inevitably slipping up. People from the town gazing upon her demonic form. The eyes of Belos's monsterous form looming behind everyone. her family, Luz's friends all dead they couldn't stop him THEY COULDN'T COME HOME THEY WERE DEAD HE KILLED THE —

In the present, Vee shook her head to dispel the images her imagination made. She remembers the dreams vividly, still occasionally seeing them in her sleep.

The week following their return, she found the pamphet Masha handed her. Blushing (But NOT because she remembers making a fool of herself in front of them), she decided it was time to take up their offer. 

And it turned out AMAZING, Masha's gradoise flair really fitting the tour guide gig. It was just like back at Cabin seven when They waxed poeticly about the many pagen dieties and what they did. 

Vee kept up with Masha's narration, interjecting questions when she thought of them, keeping the conversation flowing. Vee told Masha about herself, and Masha shared stories about their friends. An aching Vee didn’t realize she had in her heart began to fade talking to her friend after so long, but only slightly.

Masha didn't know that she knew them. For all they knew, they were talking to a complete stranger. The person they talked to couldn't possibly be the shy, anxious girl they shared a cabin with. She couldn't be the friend they helped bring out of her shell, who looked at all things mundane with innocent wonder. She wasn't Luz Noceda.

The insecurity persisted, became even bigger after Masha invited Vee to hang out with their friends. Diego, the tall, relaxed boy who let his hair fall onto his face and probably had a million zits on his forhead. Samantha; or rather Sam, who had a love for video games and anime, and rambled about them to the captivated audience of her friends. 

Neither of them knew her as Vee either. It was awkward, but managable, getting to know them a second time. She noticed that they were each more comfortable in conversation than when they were back at camp. They were all less reluctant to share the information about themselves that took them weeks to share at camp. Vee supposed she was also more confident, staying in a cabin with each other must have been to thank for that.

She didn't know how long she could keep lying to them, for her own sanity.

"Say," Masha began, "What about those kids you were hanging out with? They're your other friends, right?" 

Vee, lying belly down looked up from the Cosmic frontier book she was reading. "Huh? She got so invested in the plot it took her brain a while to process Masha's question. 

"Y'know, at the historical society, right before Halloween," Masha clarified. "You guys asked me about that rebus remember? That one kid was going on like, 'Grahh chop off my ear' or something," Masha giggled. 

Oh. Luz's friends. Vee knew the witches also considered her part of the group, but it was easier thinking of them as her sister's friend group.

Wait... They didn't have a proper cover story! Vee was terrible at lying on the fly, but she needed to start talking now!

"O- OH YEAH, that was Gus. H-hes pretty fun. Then theres uhhh, Amity with the pink hair, Willow had glasses, and... oh yeah Hunter too but he was at our home that day." Vee needed to stall so she could come up with something.

"Is he The Blond cosmic frontier fan?" Masha asked, which confused Vee.

"When did you see him? I don't remember him going to your job after we left."

"No, I actually saw them at the haunted hayride! oh, I guess I only told you two-" Masha points two fingers at Sam and Diego respectively "-about that since you weren't hanging out with us back then. Whoops~"

Suddenly, Diego piped up. "Wait, you said 'Our' Home. So they like, live at your place or something"  

CRAP!

"Uhhhh well... you see." Think of something Vee, just spit it out. "Foreign excange students?" she thought out loud. "-From out of state not another country!" she amended in a panic.

"O–kay?" Sam raised her eyebrow "I've never seen them at school before, and you know I watch people like a hawk." It was true, back at camp, Sam compiled a list of the campers from other cabins activities in order to know who to watch out for. 

It wasn't a skill she thought would be used agsinst her.

"Well, There are other schools in the area you know? I think they went to, yknow..." She didn't know the names of any other high schools. "...Not Gravesfield high?" She finished with a shrug. And also, they went back to their own rea-" DONT SAY REALM "TOWN like, right after Halloween, so yeah, that's why you've never seen 'em" She finished with a shrug and a manic chuckle.

How did she keep this up for thee months straight? She must've lost her touch. Then again, she considered not having to lie as a good thing.

"Sure, I'll accept that." Sam relented.

"Hold up, am I missing something, or does that like. Not make sense." Diego once again came in with his terribly timed questions. "Cause like, you said they lived in your house, why wouldn't they go to the same school?" How is he so perceptive!? It must be because he doesn't devote much energy into responding so he can listen better.

Masha put a hand on her shoulder "Hey, sorry about him Vee, if theres something you don't want to tell us, you don't have to." assured Masha. "We didn't mean to push so far." Masha turns toward the offender, "Diego." They enunciate.

Vee didn't her most of what Masha said. Where Masha tried to reassure her, Vee only heard an accusation. 'something you don't want to tell us' sounded more like 'You're hiding something, aren't you Vee.' And what did that last part mean? Could they tell she was panicking? WHY DID THEY SOUND ANGRY?

They'reGoingToForce AnswersOutOfmeNobodyTrustsMe-

Everything turned blurry, she was hyper aware of all the sounds of the room closing in on her. Her heartbeat was in her ears, everyones voices blended into a cocophony She needed to get away She's clammy and very sweaty-

It's queit, what changed, is there still danger?

She heard breathing, not her own, someone elses, not her own, and it makes her realize how quick she's breathing. She tries to slow down, matching the pace of the other person. 

When she finally steadied herself (it felt like several minutes but also less than one) She opened her eyes (They were closed?) and sees Masha sitting on her knees on the bed in front of her (She doesn't remember getting into this corner). They continued to demonstrate the breathing exercise, which they also did with their hands.

Vee thinks she remembers something like this happening at camp, but isn't sure right now. Masha gestured their hands out wide, clearly asking if it was okay if they could give a hug. 

You don't deserve one, her brain tells her. No, she shakes her hehead.

Masha sits with her, and they both breath. Such a simple act, filled with so much understanding. You doesn't deserve Masha. 

She's now aware enough to know how mean she's being to herself. She spots her other friends sitting in the middle of the room, Dego on the floor while Samantha sits in the desk chair. She gives a meek wave and they wave back without keeping eye contact. They look ashamed, Masha must've given them a talking to.

"Hi guys, sorry you had to see that," she knew she shouldn't be apologizing, but this whole situation never would've happened if she was truthful from the beginning. 

"No Vee, this wasn't your fault." Says Masha

Sam adds in "We're sorry. Diego said he should've realised before he asked that. And I'm sorry for getting so uptight about answers." Sam makes eye contact at the end, though it almost looks like she's scrutinizing Vee's face-

-She spins to look at the mirror and sees a splotchy mess of skin on her face. One could confuse it for vitiligo -a skin condition she learned some humans have- if not for the fact her face was previously a single solid shade of brown. 

Her hair is now completely blue, and a bit shorter, exposing her ears in their full glory. They must've been flapping like crazy during her panic attack.

Her sclera was blue, and took on the glossy sheen of an amphibious creature. 

None of those are human traits.

Her head snaps back towards Masha, cringing while waiting for a reaction.

"So..." They began. "I um. I like your ears?" They clerly want to say more, but refrains to be polite. "Once again, I don't wanna force you to answer. I've just got a lotta theories in my noggin right now and I would like to know the truth. But again, no pressure. Whetever the truth is, I'll try not to react badly." They finished by putting their hands up and smiling. 

Both looked at their friends who nodded. "Hey I'm cool with you being a shape-changing spirit, or some cryptid, or whatever you are. Again, I'm sorry." Sam smiles.

Diego nods and says "Ditto, what she said."

"And if you're not ready right now, we trust you. We just want you to be comfortable with us. You can talk later

Now was the time to come clean to her friends. It wasn't because she was backed into a corner. They let her keep her secrets if she really needed too.

Her eyes tear up, and the tears wetted her cheek. They trust her.

Hopefully they stayed true to their words. Here goes nothing.

"Um, Let me tell you about a place called the Boiling Isles"

She shapeshifts into her true skin for the first time in their presence.

Sam fellbackwards off her chair while Diego simply said "woah." After squeaking in a high pitch, Masha just stared, taking in the details of her true for  from her tail to her hair.

She could’ve eased the group in better, could've given them a better idea of what to expect. But flowery speeches were Luz’s deal, and Vee wanted to rip off the bandaid.

She hoped they  would share Mom and Luz's opinions on how non-threatening she looked. Masha looked far from disgusted at least, but she had no idea what was on Diego's mind.

Sam lifted her chair to defend herself, before realizing how it looked and set it down. Vee only now remembered Sam has a fear of snakes, Ophidiophobia if she's correct. 

She considered apologizing, but decided against it, given this whole thing was mostly Sam's fault. She could be petty, she deserves it. She's definitely getting around to it later though.

they let her explain herself in full, with no interruptions. She told them about the titan, demon and witches. She wasn't quite ready to tell them how she was born, but she told them she pretended to be Luz for the summer.

Everyone's eyes grew wide at the admission, and it looked like they had something to say. Then they looked in her eyes and she gave a look that said she never wanted to hurt them.

She didn't expect them to start joking around so quickly after several earth shattering revelations, but she could tell that they wanted to lighten the mood before discussing them.

They were also being super frustrating about the cute comments.

“I'm not cute. Luz calls everything cute, like. Possums, for one.” She scrunches her face, “and she didn't even bat an eye at a bunch of talking rats!” 

“Your face looks like a cat,” says Diego, his mouth curved in an uncharacteristicly mischievous grin. “But like, a bald cat that fell in a can of green paint.” He teases. 

"Hey, you up for that hug yet, Vee?" Masha smiled that pretty gap toothed smile, and Vee felt her resolve shatter. 

"Y'know what? yeah. I could use one." Vee agreed.

"Want to make it four?" They asked, to which Vee nodded.

Vee tightly hugged Masha, and they embraced. With Vees hace in the crook of their neck, she wrapped her tail around Diego who had moved behind her. "Sweet" he simply remarked.

Masha looked at where Sam sat crisscrosed, hand hovering over Vee's tail hesitsntly. "Hey, you know she's not slimy, right?" Masha indignantly asked. "She's also warmer than I expected, she barely even feels like a snake. More like what I imagine a dragon would be like." Masha blinked "Can you turn into a dragon?" Masha almost shouted.

Vee shrugged, Sam insisted "But do I have to?"

"Yeah, get over here dummy!" Vee wrapps the end of her tail around Sam's midsection. Vee thinks she looks a bit pale.

"Geez it must be 'everybody bully Sam hour' today! Really, I'm still sorry," Sam defends. 

"You were a jerk, you owe me something expensive!"

Diego and Masha laughed at Sams expression, Vee leans deeper into Masha's hug. 

"You okay Vee-Vee?" masha softly asks.

"Yeah," Vee looks around at her friends. getting an idea.

"Cabin seven!"

"HOO HAA HAA!" chorused four voices

"I love you guys." whispered the shapeshifter amongst her closest friends.

[truly-neutral-art]

Din/Luke Pacific Rim AU pt.2

Pt.1 | Pt.3 | Pt.4

Another addition to this AU because It's been living in my head rent free for ages. I can't do a Pacific Rim AU without recreating the iconic Kwoon scene. Also, I was too lazy to draw backgrounds so I just stole them from the movie  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Under the cut is a teaser of the fic I'm trying to write. It's a first draft, so there's probably some mistakes. Also, I'm still kind of in Screen Writing mode from school, so please don't mind if there's not a lot of internal character narration.

“Four points to two,” Luke calls after the final candidate falls. His emotions are carefully masked on his face but Din can see how tense he is. 

“We’re wasting time, Marshal. He’s barely compatible with any of them, this isn’t going to work,” Luke says.

“What do you suggest?” The Marshal raises a brow. 

“Put me in charge, I’m drift compatible with several cadets. We don’t need him.” Luke gestures towards Din. The look on his face makes Din’s blood boil. Contempt. What did he ever do to Luke to earn this?

“What’s your problem, Skywalker?” Din stomps towards the edge of the mat. 

“I’ve already told you, I don’t think you're the right man for the job,” Luke replies. He’s now turned squarely towards Din, his face back to that eerie calm. It sends a shiver down Din’s spine. 

“No, there’s more. You’ve got a problem with me.” Din steps closer, trying to ignore the piercing blue of Luke’s eyes. 

“Enough! both of you.” Marshal Skywalker turns to them both. 

“If you think you’re so much better, then let’s go.” Din points his bō at Luke. “If you win, you can pilot the Crest. If I win, you back off.” Din holds Luke's gaze, projecting his challenge. 

“Neither of you are in the position to make that decision,” Anakin states, breaking the spell. 

“What? Think your own blood isn’t good enough to beat me?” Din didn’t know Marshal Skywalker that well, but from what he did know, the man was prideful. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest move, but it got him what he wanted. 

The Martial turned towards Luke, earning his attention. No words were exchanged between them, the Martial simply gave a nod. A brief look of satisfaction washed over Luke’s face. Din turned towards the mat to prepare for the fight before Luke’s eyes turned back to him. 

Luke stepped to the edge of the mat, shoes and outer shirt removed. He bowed at the waist before stepping forward. He was in a simple black tank top and the standard cargo pants. It was the first time Din had seen any of his skin exposed beyond his face. His arms and neck were covered in pale, lightning-like scars that looked like they extended beyond what Din could see. He wasn’t sure what to make of them. He knew almost nothing about Luke when he really thought about it. Only what he heard from the news from the past four years.

He had to admit, it made him earn a little more respect for the kid. At first he’d seemed like a petulant child who was getting his favorite toy taken away, but now, Din wasn’t as sure that was the case. He had no more time to think on it as he and Luke passed each other on the mat, walking to opposite sides, then turning to face each other. 

In the blink of an eye Luke swung his bō with the finesse of a warrior. He moved forward before stopping in the middle of the mat as he pulled his bō up in defense. Din followed suit, taking on a more aggressive starting position. He could tell Luke was analyzing him, eyes flitting around to every point of his body. Din took the opportunity to attack. In one swift moment he had his bō mimicking a strike at Luke’s skull. 

“One, Zero.” The words had barely left his mouth before Luke made a counter attack. In a flash Luke had reversed their positions with a satisfied smirk. 

Without wasting any more time the two began to fight again in an explosion of movement. The people in the kwoon reacted to them, but Din’s focus narrowed in until it was only them in the room. He watched Luke’s movements carefully, anticipating and blocking every attack that came and returning his own. He picked up on a franticness in Lukes’s movements and took advantage, landing an attack on his ribs. 

“You’re too eager, you’re projecting your moves,” Din commented as they reset. 

“I don’t need your advice.” Despite his words, Luke waited, ready for Din’s next move. 

Luke swiftly blocked everything Din threw at him and pushed back even harder. In the next moment Luke attacked with a flurry of blows, catching Din off guard. He was stronger than he looked. 

“Two, two.” Luke had once again evened the score. 

There was barely a pause before they were at it again. This bout lasted longer than the others, both having picked up on each other’s gambit. They danced around each other, the only sound in Din’s ears were the clacking of their bō staffs and their heavy breathing. Neither was holding back. 

In a blur of motion Luke darted towards Din’s legs, throwing him off balance. Din rolled out of the throw but as he lifted his head he was met with Luke’s bō to his throat. Luke's eyes were no less intense this close. 

“Two, Three.” Luke stepped back into a ready position. “Better watch out, Djarin.” There was a satisfied smirk on his face. He was winning. Din wouldn’t give up that easily. 

He pulled out every trick he had, but Luke seemed to always be a step ahead. He was too fast, almost as if he could read Din’s mind. From the outside it would almost look like this was rehearsed. In the end, it was Din’s weight advantage that won him the point. He moved in close and pinned Luke's arm before throwing him down to the mat. The blond hit the ground on his back, breath escaping his lungs from the impact. 

Din almost went to help him up but Luke threw his legs backwards into a handstand before standing back up. He barely looked affected, the only sign of fatigue on him was the sweat on his forehead that matted down his blond hair. 

“Three, Three,” Din called. “And there’s no need to show off.” 

The next point would declare a winner. There was a smile on Luke’s face, different from the ones before. This one was more open, leaving Din feeling dizzy instead of insulted. 

Din tried to understand it but there was no more time to ponder as Luke set on his next attacks. He was more aggressive than he’d been the rest of the fight but Din pushed back, not without some difficulty. Luke danced around Din with a frightening agility. The only thing that kept Din in the fight for so long were his reflexes. He knew he had to end this fight soon or Luke would eventually wear him down. 

In a decisive move Din attacked at Luke’s head, trading off his defense for offense. He had Luke on the move, nearly pushing him off the mat. However, before he could land a finishing blow Luke darted to the side, slipping his leg between Din’s and toppling him to the floor. When Din processed what happened, he was pinned under Luke’s hips on his chest and his bō at his neck. 

Cheers erupted from the gathered crowd, but Din’s view had narrowed into Luke as he stood up. Din stayed on the ground, still a bit stunned from the end of the fight. He wasn’t really sure how to feel about its outcome. But one thing was for certain, he and Luke were drift compatible. Very drift compatible. 

Din was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t even realize Luke was reaching down to him until his hand was in his face. He took it and allowed Luke to help him to his feet. 

“You felt it too, didn’t you?” Luke asked.

“Yeah.”

[zexapher]

Vacuan Nights, Like Vacuan Days

They’re just so great together! I’d love for Jaune and Weiss to get a little downtime in Vacuo to live out a moment like this. They really deserve it, and I’d love to see Jaune’s guitar make a reappearance.

The comic here was inspired by u/Silverstar1243’s excellent piece of art, A Serenade Under the Moonlight. Send some love to them on their twitter, commission some art if you’re willing and able, they’ve made some great stuff.

You folks may have noticed I threw in a couple of references for those in the know; the Golden Oreos behind Yang (double stuffed, I might add) for the trio’s ship, Weiss liking it rough for Mallobaude’s great fic, and of course I made a whole theme around the Arabian Nights Disney song. A song, along with its Aladdin compatriots, which I spent the better part of a day finding covers for just to listen to on repeat while I worked.

This one’s now officially my longest comic project, with 14 panels, two over the past record since I added the White Knight kiss at the end. I’m pretty happy with how it turned out. Not sure I’d say it was more difficult than my Vanity of Vanities post, but for this one I actually knew how to use my editing software going into it (at least somewhat).

Put a lot of work into this one, been working on it on and off since February. Took a few breaks for vacation, to make my memorial post for Rooster Teeth, and another five meme edits or so, but I came back around to it. First half was pretty easy, relatively minor edits inserting characters into scenes and so on. The second half with Jaune and Weiss was tougher though, with color correcting, merging poses, redrawing features, drawing Jaune’s entire head to fix some lighting issues, etc. Really like how the edit to make Jaune strum his guitar turned out.

The time it took to make the whole comic got me down a little, until I did a bit of math. Including my side projects since starting this, all the scripting and editing and all, I’ve been pumping out a panel every two days. That seems pretty good to me, that kind of accomplishment makes me a little proud of myself.

Really need to get around to watching the second part of the Justice League Crossover movies. It’s got a few Vacuo scenes that might make things a little more authentic instead of me just using Saphron’s house and pretending it’s a suite in Vacuo. I do love taking yet more character stills from Jaune and friends experiencing deep trauma and turning it into something positive, been making that a bit of a personal habit. And I’ve got to say, the background for Jaune and Weiss’ scene is really beautiful, pulled it from when Sun and Neptune hear Ruby’s message about Salem. That’s just a really good shot all on its own, I even saved a copy for my computer’s wallpaper after editing out the two.

Posting a big RWBY White Knight edit, watching not one but two RWBY Beyond episodes, and all on the trail of the news that RWBY’s found partners that they’re negotiating with and that the creative team is expected to stay on. And I'm sipping bubble tea. Life is good.

Anyway, pardon the long write up. I’m invested in this one, and am quite pleased with how the comic turned out. I hope you all get a kick out of it as well!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Napoleonville [Chapter 6: The House Of Salt And Scales]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, infidelity, Evangelical Christians, kids, parenthood, Willis Warning, (Mis)Adventures With Aegon, Targ family dysfunction, bodily injury, blood, alligators, ANGST!!!

Word Count: 7.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @dr-aegon @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @libroparaiso @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbell @urmomsgirlfriend1 @fudge13 @strangersunghoon

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 🥰🧁

“Did you hear that Willis is single again?”

Ugh. “Yes, Mama. I heard. You told me already.” You linger in the doorway with a white bakery box in your hands: your mother’s favorite, grasshopper pie, straight out of the 1960s. She allegedly ate through two a week when she was pregnant with you. Cadi has already dashed inside and made herself at home; she’s probably jamming the movie she got from Blockbuster—Predator, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Amir recommended it—into the VHS player. “You told me, Willis told me, all his deputies told me, Cadi told me, my mailman told me, the checkout ladies at the Piggly Wiggly told me, literally every resident of Napoleonville has informed me in no uncertain terms that Willis is single again. And I could not possibly care less.”

Your mother sighs and presses a hand to her forehead, wounded and incredulous, like she’s just watched a 60 Minutes segments about a tsunami or a genocide. “I just don’t understand it. In my day, people married for life.”

You glance back longingly at your Chevy Celebrity. “Yeah. I know they did.”

“When your father, and God rest his soul, when he was young, he was a hellion,” your mother says, as if you don’t remember it, as if you weren’t there. “He’d get his paycheck every Friday and stay out all night with his buddies, sometimes he didn’t come home the whole weekend. I’d lay into him when he finally showed, I’d say, ‘Rene, how on earth am I supposed to put dinner on the table if I don’t have any fish in the icebox?!’ Once he punched a hole in the kitchen wall and I had to cover it up with a picture of President Eisenhower! And I never even thought about leaving. How could I have done that to you? Forcing you to grow up in a broken home? Mothers and fathers living apart, whoever heard of such a thing? It’s unnatural.”

You’re brainstorming recipes to distract yourself. Caramel pretzel cookies. Banana chiffon pie. Cheese Danish cupcakes with diced cherries and a hint of vanilla. “Everyone draws their own lines, Mama.”

“But it’s not just about you,” she implores, her eyes shimmering with sympathy she never had for other women. You remember what she said on the rare occasions you confided in her about your frustrations with Willis: Of course a man isn’t going to want you bothering him with your feelings when he’s had a hard day at work. Of course a man—after you’ve had his baby, after you almost died to do it—is going to be crossing off days on the calendar until you can have sex again. He keeps a roof over your head and he never hits you, what more could you ask for? “What about Cadi? What if she grows up thinking that her marriage vows don’t mean anything? It’s the foundation of society, marriage. If that goes, everything goes.”

It’s the foundation of a lot of coercion and unfairness and misery, that’s for sure. “I wouldn’t want Cadi to stay in a situation that makes her unhappy. Would you?”

Your mother throws her hands up, like you’ve told her you’re converting to communism and catching the next flight to the USSR. “Life isn’t just about happiness, sweetheart! It’s about commitment, it’s about responsibility! If everyone did what they wanted all the time, no one would stay married!”

“Maybe that speaks to the value of marriage as an institution.”

“And morality is already falling apart in this country,” your mother continues, ignoring you. That’s what she does when she can’t refute facts, logic, evidence. “Young people living together, women having babies with two or three different men, people doing drugs, people on Welfare, people shooting and stabbing each other, sex shops everywhere, naughty magazines at gas stations, men wanting to marry other men—”

“Okay, Mama. I really have to go now.”

“Alright, I’ll shut up. I will, I will, I swear.” She makes peace with a brisk kiss to your cheek like a stamp on an envelope. “Enjoy a nice quiet night to yourself. Do you have any plans?”

Well, Mama, I’m trying to resist the temptation to call my engaged dominant oil tycoon not-boyfriend and tell him to come over for kinky adulterous sex. “Not really. I’ll probably take a bubble bath and then watch something Cadi would think is boring, like 20/20.” You hand over the bakery box, and your mother’s face lights up.

“Grasshopper pie?!”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. You know it’s hard for me to make it myself anymore. This rheumatoid arthritis, it’s got me all twisted up.” She nods down to where her fingers grip the box, knobby and increasingly useless.

“When’s your next appointment?”

“I’ve got one in…oh…about three weeks, I think. I’d have to check my daybook. All the way over in New Orleans with some specialist that Dr. Cormier recommended.”

“Okay. Want me to go with you?”

“Yes, that’d be fine.” It would be more than fine; she wants you to go, though she won’t say it. You aren’t sure if she doesn’t want to impose or doesn’t want to admit how reliant she’s becoming upon you, like growing up in reverse.

“Mawmaw!” Cadi shouts from inside the house. “Hurry up! I want to watch Predator!”

“You quit your hollering, I’ll be right there!” Then your mother looks to you and offers one last piece of very unsolicited advice. “Just be kind to Willis, alright? Give him a chance. I don’t think he’ll ever find a woman he likes as much as you. That’s what everyone says.”

“Mama, he has no idea who I am.” And he’s not interested either.

“Sure he does. You’re the mother of his child, and you always will be. Maybe you’ll find your way back to each other.”

“I’ll think about it.” You definitely won’t. “Goodnight, Mama.”

“So long.” She shuffles into the house, and once she’s shut the door you hear her muffled voice: “Arcadia, come on over here and help me slice up this pie…”

You drive home with the windows down and blasting St. Elmo’s Fire. There’s still an hour or two of sunlight left; the world is painted in gold and blood orange, the soybeans, the sugarcane, the grass growing tall and wild, the Spanish moss swinging from the trees, the earth ripening as its revolution hurtles towards the apex of summer. Cadi is out of school until August. Amir will be announcing his looming departure to San Francisco. Aemond will be getting married.

The adolescent alligator that Aemond is so afraid of is in the far corner of the front yard, basking in the last of the daylight. You walk into your room, flop down on the bed, lie there staring longingly at the pink phone on your nightstand. You reach to pick it up, then stop yourself. Aemond hasn’t fucked you, hasn’t kissed you, has rarely touched you at all since you found out about Christabel. But he stops by your house and invites you to his; he stitches himself into your life like someone somewhere once sutured his face back together.

I can’t. It’s wrong. He’s engaged.

Aemond doesn’t know you’re home alone. It’s Friday, and usually Cadi would be here with you until tomorrow morning.

Maybe it’s not really cheating until he’s married. I mean, if Aemond and Christabel aren’t sleeping together, if they almost never see each other…is it even a real relationship?

Wistful thinking, yes, denial, yes; but with each passing minute your resolve not to pick up the phone weakens.

We don’t have much longer until the wedding. Our time is slipping away.

He’s a robber baron. He’s arrogant, he’s delusional.

And I want him. I still do, and I can’t stop.

The phone rings. You sit up, startled. It’s not Aemond, you tell yourself so you won’t be disappointed when it isn’t him. But it is.

“Hi,” Aemond says; he sounds out of breath. “I’m really sorry to bother you.”

“No, it’s okay, Cadi is actually having a sleepover with my mom. They’re watching Predator. My mom has no idea what it’s about, she’ll be clutching that Bible she got signed by Jerry Falwell a little extra hard tonight. What’s up?”

“This is going to sound random, but…you haven’t seen Aegon, have you? He hasn’t shown up at your house, he hasn’t called? You don’t know where he is?”

Aegon? Why would I know anything about what Aegon’s doing right now? “Um, no…?”

A long exhale, a lull that’s full of dread.

“Aemond, what’s going on?”

“He and my father got into it a few hours ago. They were screaming at each other, kicking furniture over, which isn’t all that unusual, honestly. But then Aegon ran away.”

“Wait, like, he’s gone…?”

“He stormed out the back door, went down to the lake, and then headed north into the trees. And I assumed he’d be back by now, but it’s getting dark and he’s not here. He never came home. His Porsche is still sitting in the driveway.” There is a pause. “I think he’s out there.”

“Out where?”

“In the woods,” Aemond says, shellshocked, terrified. “In the bayou.”

Your eyes dart to the window; the golden daylight is dwindling. “Aemond, he can’t be alone in the bayou. It’s dangerous. He could die. There aren’t just alligators, there are wild boars, cottonmouths, copperheads, snapping turtles, brown recluses, fire ants, I don’t think there are any black bears this far south but it’s always possible, he could drown, he could get trapped in quicksand, you cannot let Aegon spend the night out there.”

“I don’t know what to do.” You’re not used to hearing this in Aemond’s voice: the panic, the vulnerability. “No one else seems worried. They said he disappears all the time, and that’s true. They’re convinced he’s found his way to a strip club or a Waffle House or something and will drag himself home eventually. No one will listen to me. My father has forbidden me from getting anyone else involved. He doesn’t want gossip getting around town and overshadowing the new rig project or…you know. The wedding thing. My wedding. And I can go over his head, sure, I can make calls, but when investigators show up here to start searching my father is just going to tell them to leave. How is it even possible to find Aegon? At night in a fucking swamp? Is anyone going to be willing to go out there before morning? Do I need people with bloodhounds or a helicopter?”

No way, you think as soon as the idea hits you. But it’s the right thing to do. It’s the only thing to do. “I can think of someone who knows their way around the bayou.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s just after 7 p.m. when Willis arrives to pick you up: grinning smugly, mullet fluffed, Plymouth Gran Fury hauling his brand new 20-foot jon boat. He’s dressed for night fishing in boots, camo-colored waders, and a grey hoodie with SHERIFF printed across the front in black letters. You climb into the passenger seat wearing sneakers, denim shorts, and a blue raincoat over your Pepsi t-shirt. You haven’t been fishing since you were married to Willis, and you’ve never missed it. It’s a grisly business: hooks through lips, hooks through eyeballs, hooks swallowed and tangled up in some doomed creature’s guts.

Aemond is waiting at the mouth of the Targaryens’ driveway, just out of sight of the mansion they call The Last Desire. He gets in the back seat and sits there testily with his arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line, glaring out the window as an indistinct blur of primeval vegetation passes by outside. He has on his Marlboro jacket, light-wash jeans, and Adidas sneakers. You hope he doesn’t ruin them; although you suppose he can always buy more. He could buy a hundred more, a thousand more, and it wouldn’t make a difference. You can’t fathom what it’s like to live that way. It seems to conflict with all the laws of man and nature.

Aemond speaks grudgingly to Willis, a quick flat statement that invites no conversation. He didn’t call Willis to explain the situation, you did. You’re afraid to leave them alone with each other. You aren’t sure who would be more likely to end up a corpse decomposing in the muddy silt at the bottom of Lake Verret. “Thank you for agreeing to help with this.”

Willis chuckles warmly, either oblivious to Aemond’s prickliness or unbothered by it. “Bien sur! It’s my job, son. We’ll hunt your brother down.” Then he glances over at you, smirking, prying. “So, sugar…how’d you two make each other’s acquaintance?”

“Amir and I baked the cakes for his engagement party.”

“Engagement party, huh?” Willis looks at Aemond in the rearview mirror. “You gettin’ married?”

Aemond is still staring out the window. “Obviously.”

“So you ain’t single?”

“Legally, I am in fact single until the day the marriage license is signed.”

Willis returns his attention to you. “So he ain’t the petit ami you’ve been so secretive about.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend, Willis. I really can’t be more clear than that.”

“Oh, I know you got one. I know all your looks, sugar. Some days you come ‘round my office lookin’ lovesick, like you’re just a-floatin’ on a cloud. Other days you’re real mean, like you don’t want me takin’ none of your time, like you got somebody more important to spend it on. And then sometimes you just look…” He smiles, mischievous. “Well, how can I put it? Satisfied. The cat who ate the canary. And I recall exactly what that looks like on you. It’s been a while, sure. But I remember.”

From the back seat, Aemond sighs irritably. You say to Willis: “Can we please focus on finding Aegon?”

“Sois calme, sois calme. That’s why I’m here. We’ll be in the water in ten minutes.”

There is no more discussion; the only sound is the radio, Holding Out For A Hero by Bonnie Tyler. Willis turns onto a winding dirt road that leads to a boat launch about a mile from the Targaryens’ property. He spins his Plymouth Gran Fury around and backs it down the concrete ramp towards the rippling, slow-moving currents of Lake Verret. It’s difficult to see from the driver’s seat—most people would have someone get out to guide them—but Willis knows the way by heart. He’s been on boats since before he could walk; Willis’ daddy knew the bayou, and his daddy knew the bayou, and his daddy did too, all the way back to before the Louisiana Purchase. Your family are newer arrivals (relatively speaking), having only been in Napoleonville for about 100 years and keeping mostly to the town. You remember your 11th grade science teacher saying once that alligators have been around since before the dinosaurs went extinct. Maybe that’s what Willis is: a relic of a distant time and species, afflicted with a cunning ruggedness that won’t allow his kind to go extinct.

When the trailer is mostly underwater, Willis gets out of the car to unhook the straps that keep the boat moored to it. You go outside to help and Aemond follows, though he doesn’t know what to do. He’s never handled a boat this size and it shows; perhaps a yacht would be more his speed. He stands aside and watches, frowning, hands buried in the pockets of his Marlboro jacket. His lack of expertise riles him. He’s not used to being the incapable one. He hates not having control.

Willis already has a tow rope tied to a metal handle at the bow of the jon boat; he lifts it out and gives the free end to Aemond. “Hold onto that, will ya? Don’t let her get away.”

“Sure,” Aemond replies ungenerously. Willis returns to his Plymouth Gran Fury to finish backing the trailer into the lake until the boat floats. Standing on the shore together, you and Aemond stare at each other, unable to speak honestly, unable to decide what you’d say even if you could.

The jon boat bobs in the water, and you show Aemond how to pull it away from the trailer using the tow rope. Willis drives the trailer back onto dry land, parks his car in a flat area near the boat launch, and then joins you and Aemond by the water’s edge. He walks to where the boat is floating just to the right side of the concrete ramp and, with some difficulty, clambers inside as the boat rocks under his weight. Then he stands in the middle of it and gestures for you to approach. “Let’s get goin’, sugar.”

You take Willis’ hands when he reaches for you and let him help you into the jon boat. When you stumble over a bench seat, he steadies you with a hand on your waist, familiar but in no way erotic; not for you, at least. Still, from where he is standing on the lakeshore with the tow rope, Aemond glowers venomously.

“Your turn, son,” Willis calls to him, winking. “And I promise not to get too sweet with ya.”

But Aemond doesn’t need any assistance to board the vessel. He has long limbs, good balance, and an ironclad determination not to let Willis see him falter. Aemond sits at the bow of the boat. You claim a spot in the middle. Willis takes a seat at the stern, starts the outboard motor, and guides the boat into the treacherous swampland that lurks like a stalking animal at the edges of Lake Verret.

In the bayou, the water is sluggish, currentless, thick with vivid green salvinia and duckweed. Towering bald cypress trees grow out of the opaque depths and are adorned with greyish, anemic bundles of Spanish moss like spiderwebs. Mangrove trees with their myriad of semi-submerged roots are sanctuaries for catfish, turtles, baby alligators. Larger gators—as big as the female that lives in your yard, and some up to seven or eight feet—prowl with only their nostrils and ancient yellow eyes peeking out from under the water. Great blue herons tiptoe along the shallow shoreline and stab at fish that unknowingly flit between their long skeletal legs. Cicadas shriek in the trees so loudly they almost drown out the hum of the boat’s motor. When the last of the daylight vanishes, Willis tells Aemond to turn on the spotlight mounted to the bow, and the water becomes a soupy, greenish, primordial witch’s brew beneath its glow. Aemond lights a cigarette and puffs on it as he ponders this alien corner of the world that he’s found himself in.

Willis has a number of items stowed on the flat aluminum floor of the boat, you notice now: nets, paddles in case the motor fails, bottles of water, ropes, fishing poles, flashlights, hunting knives, a few sturdy wooden walking sticks. He’s wearing his sheriff’s pistol on a belt fastened over his waders. This makes you uneasy, though you can’t recall ever seeing him use it. It seems wrong to be able to end a life with so little effort.

“Aegon!” Aemond shouts from the bow, using a flashlight to look to the sides of the boat where the spotlight’s luminescence doesn’t shine so brightly. You grab your own flashlight to help him search. “Aegon! Where are you?!”

There’s something burning in your nose and throat as you lean over the side of the boat to peer into the shadowy wilderness. Salt, you realize, but that doesn’t make any sense. Lake Verret is a freshwater lake. You turn towards where Willis is steering the boat with the rumbling gas-powered motor. “Do you smell that?”

“Yup. Sure do.”

“But…how…?”

“One of the rigs mighta hit a salt dome while they were drillin’, I figure,” Willis says. “There’s been talk for years that we got salt domes under the lake. But that don’t stop these oil companies.” He stares meaningfully at Aemond. Aemond glances back, rather abashed. “And ya know what that means. If the water turns brackish, most of the fish’ll die. And who’s got to live with that for generations to come? Not the Targaryens or the Rockefellers, that’s for sure.”

Aemond resumes shouting for his wayward eldest brother. A dark snake, perhaps six feet long, slithers down the length of the boat through the murky water. “Aegon! Aegon!”

“What did he and Viserys argue about?” you ask.

Aemond is cagy. “It’s…kind of personal.”

“Personal like he got a stripper pregnant or personal like he murdered someone in a drunken hit-and-run?”

“Neither. But closer to the first option.” Then he roars into the darkness: “Aegon!”

“Maybe the bon a rien already found his way back home,” Willis says. “Maybe—”

And then there is an echo through the bayou, faint but vaguely human, a ghost, a phantom. “Aegon!” Aemond shouts back. “Where are you?!” Willis cuts the boat engine so you can hear the reply.

Faintly, very faintly, his disembodied voice drifts out of the trees. “Over here! Help me! Quickly! Seriously, really really quickly!!”

“Keep talking!” Aemond yells. Willis is listening intently, trying to pinpoint a direction. His thick, dark eyebrows are knit together in concentration that is rare for him.

Barely audible over the screams of the cicadas: “What the fuck am I supposed to say?! Just get over here and save me!”

“We’re trying to figure out where your voice is coming from, so don’t stop talking!”

“Help me! Come help me!! Right now!! My arms are getting tired!!”

“What? What are you doing with your arms?!”

“I got him,” Willis says. He restarts the motor and steers the boat down a narrow corridor of the swamp. The path is only about ten yards wide and bordered by mangrove trees with nests of exposed, labyrinthian roots. The water is probably relatively shallow: five feet, ten feet, just deep enough for secrets. The breeze is cool and wet, almost chilly. On the shore, you spy a snapping turtle the size of a golden retriever. Its long prehistoric claws are coated with mud and green blades of marsh grass. It ogles you as if to say: What are you doing here? You don’t belong here. This is where the dinosaurs that survived the asteroid live.

“Aegon?” Aemond calls.

“Here! Over here! I can see you, I see the lights! Oh my God, I’m not gonna die! Thank you Jesus!”

Aemond laughs in relief. “I didn’t think you two knew each other.”

“Shut up and save me, you muppet!”

And then you see Aegon—the spotlight hits him, he is illuminated in a stark white glow—and your stomach plummets, your blood goes cold. In an alcove of the bayou, right where the water meets the shore, Aegon is up in a bald cypress tree. He’s about five feet off the ground and standing on top of a branch just thick enough to hold his weight. It’s too narrow to balance comfortably on; he is hugging the trunk to ensure he doesn’t fall, and a fall would be catastrophic. Sprawled on the muck surrounding the base of the tree are a plethora of alligators, all approximately ten feet in length. That’s big enough to be lethal humans. That would be big enough to kill a bear, a horse, a shark. When the spotlight shines on them, the gators begin to squirm and hiss, glaring with soulless reptilian wrath at the boat. Willis shuts off the motor, and the boat bobs placidly.

“Oh, fuck,” Aemond says.

“Yeah, exactly!” Aegon pitches back. He’s wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and tiny turquoise blue shorts. He is barefoot. “So what’s the plan?! By the way, hey, cake lady.”

“Hi, Aegon.”

Aemond says: “How the hell did you get up there?”

“I was pissed off about the dad thing and I was walking for a long time, then I realized I was probably in the wrong neighborhood for someone with two legs and no desire to get eaten. I tried to find my way back but then these pig-looking things started chasing me and I freaked out and climbed up here to hide until they left. But as the sun went down, alligators started showing up. And the more time went by, the more alligators there were. And that’s the whole story, can you get me down now?!”

Aemond asks Willis, petrified: “How do we get him down?”

Willis surveys the scene for a moment, thinking. “Alright. Here’s what I reckon. We can toss him one end of a rope and he can tie it to the branch above him, right at the base where it’s real thick. Then we’ll hold the other end of the rope, and he can kinda shimmy on down it into the boat.”

Aegon says: “But what if right before I get to the boat, when I’m like four feet above the water, an alligator jumps out and bites me?”

“They don’t usually do that,” Willis replies.

“Usually?!”

“Look, we don’t have a lot of options,” Aemond tells his brother. “We can do the rope plan now, or we can leave you here, backtrack all the way to the boat launch, get the car, get some help, and hope they magically have a better solution for you. Or you can wait up there until morning to see if the alligators leave. You pick.”

“Isn’t that the hick sheriff guy? Can’t he shoot them?”

“Gators got brains ‘bout the size of a walnut, son,” Willis says. “And if I don’t hit ‘em where it counts, I’m just gonna make them angrier. That ain’t good for any of us.”

“Okay,” Aegon concedes. “Throw me a rope.”

Willis grabs one from the bottom of the jon boat, hands an end to Aemond, and tosses the other to Aegon. It takes the eldest Targaryen boy four attempts to catch it; the rope keeps falling and smacking the hissing alligators in the face before Willis lugs it back to the boat to try again. Once he finally obtains the rope, Aegon knots it—double, triple, quadruple—around where the branch above him, just barely within reach if he stretches as far as he can, meets the massive trunk of the bald cypress tree. Willis tells Aemond: “Now ya gotta hold the rope real tight. No slack at all, or it’ll dip and he’ll end up in a gator’s lap.”

“Yeah, Aemond!” Aegon says, his voice shaky. “No slack!”

“Got it.” Aemond loops his end of the rope around his waist, makes a knot, and then grips it with both hands and tugs it until it forms a straight diagonal line from the tree to the boat.

“Ya sure you wanna do that?” Willia says softly, nodding to Aemond’s waist. “If somethin’ goes wrong and he ends up in the water, you’ll be goin’ in with him.”

“I’m sure.”

“Alrighty.” Willis grabs one of the heavy wooden walking sticks from the aluminum floor of the boat. “If a gator tries to cause a problem, I’ll whack ‘em good. Don’t let ‘em get their jaws ‘round ya, not an arm or a leg or nothin’. If they get ahold of ya, they’ll roll and rip your bones right outta the sockets.”

“Awesome,” Aegon says from the tree. “I’m so glad you told me that. Yeah. Great. Any more super helpful alligator trivia, Sasquatch?”

“Yes sir. If one chomps down on ya, poke it in the eye with your fingers. A whack to the snout or a poke to the eye is the best way outta a gator’s mouth.”

Aegon gulps and clutches the rope, steeling himself.

“What should I do?” you ask Willis. “Should I get a stick too—?”

“Nothin’. You don’t do nothin’. You just sit down right in the middle and keep the boat steady. And if your petit ami starts goin’ overboard, maybe try to snatch him. But don’t ya fall in. Ya don’t want to be in that water. If there are gators above the water, there are gators below too. I guarantee it.”

You sit in the precise middle of the boat, using your weight to reinforce the vessel’s center of gravity as Aemond and Willis stand at opposing ends. Right before Aegon begins his descent, Aemond snags your attention. He makes a motion with one hand, a slicing, a prohibition. Don’t do anything insane, he means. Don’t risk trying to drag me back into the boat if I start going over.

“Whenever ya ready, bon a rien,” Willis says. And no one else but you knows that what he’s calling Aegon is a good-for-nothing.

Aegon begins scurrying down the length of the rope, rapidly closing the distance between himself and the bobbing jon boat. He passes above the hissing gators congregating at the base of the bald cypress tree and then over the water, where there are ripples that multiply out from epicenters and flashes of movement just beneath the surface but no homicidal alligator activity. When Aegon nears the boat, Willis seizes him and helps him into it; and then Aegon ruptures into hysterical giggles.

“I almost died, can you believe that?” he asks Aemond, who is untying the rope from his waist and beaming, the first real smile you’ve seen from him tonight. “Because I ran away from Viserys?! What an idiotic way to go. I’ll never let that bastard convince me to off myself. I gotta outlive him. I gotta do Jello shots on that motherfucker’s grave someday.”

“Yeah, you do,” Aemond agrees, squeezing Aegon’s shoulder.

“Goddammit,” Willis grumbles. He’s using his walking stick to jab at the water near the rear of the boat. “We’re hooked on a mangrove root or something.”

“Do you need help?” Aemond asks, headed towards him.

“Yes sir, if you’d be so kind. I don’t…I can’t see…what the hell is it stuck to?”

“The motor…? The blades of the motor?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, you’re right. Yup. There it is. We musta drifted into it while we were preoccupied. Okay, we gotta push the boat off the root and then we can get movin’ again. Grab a stick, let’s start pushin’.”

“Should I get a stick too?” Aegon says, joining them. “I can hit stuff with sticks. I really want to get out of here…”

There’s a bit of a commotion at the back of the boat as the men try to propel it away from the mangrove tree. Willis is complaining that the water is too deep to touch the bottom with his stick. Aemond’s stick keeps slipping off the mangrove roots when he tries to get leverage. You aren’t sure what Aegon is contributing, if anything. The boat has begun to rock.

You look to the tree where Aegon had been imprisoned. The alligators are fully awake now; they are headed into the water and disappearing there, unseen, unheard, and yet all around you.

“I think we need to go now,” you say, but no one is listening to you. They’re still wrestling with the mangrove root. You rise, taking a few steps to the left to offset the boat’s listing towards the right. “Guys, we need to—”

The boat is freed from its organic jailor and lurches sharply towards the left. As the men cheer triumphantly—completely unaware of what’s happening—you are jolted off your feet and tumble backwards over the side of the boat.

The shock of hitting the water stuns you. It is cold and impossibly dark; when you open your eyes to try to find the surface, the boat, you can’t see anything. You paddle blindly. Something brushes your leg, and you scream bubbles of mute terror. You can’t breathe, you can’t think, you are picturing those ten-foot gators slinking into the water that you’re now thrashing wildly through. You swim towards what you think is the surface and strike unyielding metal—the underbelly of the boat—hard enough to put stars in your skull like the flashes of lightning bugs. You get turned around and don’t know where you are again. Something glides past your arm, and you gasp before remembering that there’s no air. Dark water—salt and silt and decomposition—surges into your lungs, your stomach, sinking you like an anchor from within. There is a whirlpool of motion around you and muffled shouting. Then something closes around your wrist.

The eyes! you think frantically. I have to poke out its eyes!

But the vice around your flesh has no teeth. It’s not a reptilian jaw, you realize now, but a human hand. It leads you and you obey.

When you break the surface, you cough bayou water from your throat and blink it out of your eyes. Willis is leaning over the side of the boat and stabbing at gators with his stick, shrieking at them in French. One lunges at him from the water, jaws snapping. Willis whips the pistol off his belt, aims it squarely between the creature’s eyes, and fires. The boom is deafening; the bleeding gator sinks into the water. Aegon is kneeling in the boat and offering his arms to help you climb up.

You look beside you. Aemond is barely keeping his head above water. “Go!” he orders you. “Get in the boat!”

With Aegon’s help, you heave yourself over the side and collapse to the aluminum floor, lungs aching, skull pounding, heart thudding mercilessly, soaked to the skin. Then you force yourself to your hands and knees to see where Aemond is.

“Aemond?!” Aegon is yelling. “Aemond, where are you?!”

He’s gone; you don’t see him in the water. You try to scream for him too, but the water still in your throat strangles you. Your hands close around the edge of the boat, and Willis grabs your raincoat to yank you backwards. “Other side!” says, pointing. “We’re gonna capsize, we need weight on the other side, go there!”

You scramble to the opposite end of the boat, sobbing now, still hacking up muddy water. Where’s Aemond?? Where is he??

Both Willis and Aegon are grasping for something. They’re shouting and stabbing into the water with their walking sticks. And then they’re hauling him into the boat: Aemond, blood pouring down the left side of his face, a gash by his temple, another on his forehead; something bit him or clawed him. He’s wearing only his jeans and a white tank top; he ripped off his Marlboro jacket before diving in after you. You don’t see his Adidas sneakers anywhere. They must have been kicked off in the water. His glass eye has been knocked out and lost in the muck. What’s left in its place is a void, gaping, pink; it’s difficult to look at, you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t. It has the visceral, gory quality of organs never meant to be seen. His fingertips go to the socket to feel for his prosthetic. When he confirms it isn’t there, he covers his face with his hands and moans.

He saved me. He jumped in after me.

You crawl to him. “Aemond—”

“No!” He pushes you away, and you see that there’s blood and ancient silt from the bayou in his empty eye socket. It will have to be cleaned out. Willis watches, astonished, bewildered. For once, he is at a loss for words.

“Aemond, please…” You’d do anything to help him. You don’t know how to help him.

He saved me.

Aegon reaches for Aemond. “Hey, hey. It’s not that bad. Hey…” He drops to his knees, presses his forehead against Aemond’s, stains himself with his brother’s blood. And when Aemond tries to pull away, Aegon doesn’t let him; he’s got his fingers tangled in Aemond’s wet hair. “Thank you for saving me. I’m always almost getting myself killed and you’re always saving me. What would I do without you, huh? None of us would be okay without you. Thank you, Aemond. You hear me? You’re not gonna get this again anytime soon, so listen up. Thank you. Thank you.”

“I’m just so—”

“I know.”

“I hate that I’m like this.”

“It’s not a big deal. You’ll order a new one.”

“You know what he’s going to say.”

“Fuck him. Why do you care what he thinks? Because you think he’s the one who gets to decide what you’re worth? He isn’t. He’s not qualified.”

Aemond nods, but he doesn’t seem to be convinced. He still doesn’t look at you. He turns so the left side of his face—bloodied, eyeless—is angled towards the water and out of your view. Willis goes to the motor, starts it, and begins guiding the boat back towards the launch where he parked his Plymouth Gran Fury.

Aegon glances over at you. “You okay, cake lady?”

“Yeah.” But your voice shakes. The rest of you is shaking too; now that the adrenaline is wearing off, you can feel that you’re shivering in your wet clothes.

“Put it on,” Aemond says softly, and at first you don’t understand. Then you see that he’s pointing to his Marlboro jacket, left hurriedly flung on the floor of the boat. You unzip your dripping raincoat and don Aemond’s Marlboro jacket instead. It smells like him: smoke, cologne, effort, secrets.

“Thank you,” you tell him, wanting to say more. Aemond doesn’t answer. He stares into the murky water, greenish under the glare of the spotlight, and says nothing to anyone all the way back to the boat launch. Wordlessly, he helps Willis re-hitch the jon boat to the trailer. He remembers the steps. He’s a fast learner. The blood on his face is drying; his right eye won’t allow itself to look at you. The only sound on the drive to the Targaryens’ mansion is the radio of the Plymouth Gran Fury, which Willis turns up to cover the silence: In A Big Country.

At the end of the cobblestone driveway, lights are on in the vast house called The Last Desire. Everyone gets out of the car. Willis shakes a rather puzzled Aegon’s hand, then turns to Aemond, who ignores him. Willis chuckles, more curious than offended.

“So ya are the man who’s been givin’ her that satisfied look. I knew it. Yes, I knew what I saw. What’s your secret, son? Ya must really know your way around a woman if ya got her so mad about ya with a face like that. Ya look like the Rougarou got ahold of ya—”

Aemond grabs Willis by his hoodie, yanks him off his feet, jacks him up against the side of the sheriff’s vehicle. Immediately, you and Aegon are shouting and trying to break them apart.

You plead: “Aemond, don’t!”

“Aemond, he’s got a gun!” Aegon screeches.

Fortunately, Willis isn’t grappling for his pistol. He holds both palms in the air, open and empty, like he’s surrendering; but there’s still a smile on his face. Aemond doesn’t act like he’s heard anyone. He leans in close to Willis, his voice low and dark and snarling, his sole blue eye glinting. “You had so much in your filthy fucking hands and you just threw it away.” Then he slams Willis against the car one more time, tears away from him, and strides up the porch steps and into the house.

Aegon hurries after him, casting you a quick glance and a beckoning wave. It’s an invitation. You coming? Aegon mouths, and then vanishes inside.

Willis peers up at the house: stained glass windows, immense white columns. You don’t see any signs of Vhagar the Great Dane. Willis speaks calmly and without looking at you. “I think he’s in love with you, sugar.”

Improbable. Impossible. If he was, he couldn’t marry someone else. “He’s not.”

Now Willis’ eyes flick to you. “All I’m sayin’ is that I’ve been fishin’ on that lake since as long as I can remember, day, night, sun, storms, and nothin’ on earth would have gotten me to jump into that water. Not even Heather Locklear herself.”

“Just go, Willis,” you say, exhausted, heartsick. “Thank you for what you did tonight. But please go now.”

“How ya gonna get home?”

“I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about me.”

“Of that, I am incapable,” Willis drawls. Then he climbs into his Plymouth Gran Fury and is gone. You sprint up the porch steps in your soggy sneakers, searching for Aemond.

In the white-and-gold foyer, Viserys is just arriving. He struts across the marble floor until he is close enough to his two oldest sons to embrace them, to hit them, to extract their teeth with his knuckles. The others pour through the doorways—Alicent, Criston, Helaena, Daeron, Otto—but while they gape in horror and fascination, they don’t speak in anything more than murmurs amongst themselves. Viserys steals only a glimpse of Aegon, swift and disinterested, then examines Aemond: wet clothes, no shoes, grime and blood, dazed fury. When his cool, pale gaze reaches Aemond’s empty eye socket, Viserys flinches and looks away.

“So you lost another prosthetic,” is all he says. His face twists into a grimace. And you expect Aemond to do something, to jab back, but he doesn’t. He’s frozen, he’s paralyzed. His right eye is misty. He’s biting his lips so they don’t tremble. And suddenly you hate Viserys Targaryen, you hate him more than you can imagine hating anyone. You think that you could watch his entrails unspooled from his body without feeling a thing. The Targaryen family patriarch hasn’t spoken to you; you don’t register to him at all. You might as well be an oriental vase or a house plant.

“You’re the one who did it, Viserys,” Aegon says, stepping in front of Aemond seething and sharp like a blade. “You remember that part? I do. I remember. The North Sea, 1968. I remember him trotting around after you, always so desperate to prove himself, always doing anything you asked, anything you could dream up, worshipping you like you were God. And where were you when he was getting his eye socket debrided at Moorfields Hospital? In fact, where were you when he got his hands caught in a winch when he was eleven? Where were you when he fell off a pipe deck and broke six ribs because one of your idiot employees forgot to close a safety gate and he couldn’t see it? Where were you then? Where are you now?”

Viserys scowls down at him—revolted, repelled—but he doesn’t reply. He feels no instinct to defend himself. He is unable to internalize shame; it rolls off him like raindrops.

“You’d love me so much if I was dead,” Aegon says, grinning, baring his teeth like an animal. “How sick is that? You can love bones in a box, but not someone standing right in front of you. You love Aemma, a ghost. You love Baelon, and you never even knew him. You’ve got nothing for me. That’s fine, I don’t care, I’ll be alright without you.” He points to Aemond. “But you’ve got nothing for him either, and he’s everything you always wanted. You’re disgusting, you’re broken. You belong in a box too. The part of you that was human is gone. I don’t give a fuck about what’s left.”

Aegon shoves Viserys, hard, and then storms past him. As he crosses into the kitchen, Helaena grabs for his wrist. You can hear her whisper: “What the hell happened?!”

Then Aegon remembers one last thing. He whirls around and bellows at Viserys, his voice reverberating off the vaulted ceilings: “And I’m not getting my vasectomy reversed! You can’t make me! It’s bioethics! I asked the lawyer!” He stomps off and disappears, Helaena in tow.

Alicent shoots Viserys a hateful glare and then flees from the foyer, her long auburn ringlets streaming out behind her. Viserys goes in the opposite direction. Daeron and Otto share an awkward glance and then depart as well. Only you, Criston, and Aemond remain in the room, surrounded by treasures that might as well be handfuls of earth, flour, swamp water, salt.

Cautiously, Criston lays a hand on Aemond’s shoulder, on his right side where he can see it. “Aemond…”

“Don’t touch me,” Aemond says as he wrenches away. He leaves like a hurricane, like a flood, receding until there remains only wreckage and memory.

Criston sighs deeply, and then he asks you: “Do you need a ride home?”

You don’t respond. You haven’t decided how to yet. You stare at the place where Aemond stood, a void like a star that died out. Do I follow him upstairs? you think.

Do I?

[the-boy-meets-evil]

as wild and untamable as the sea | l.c (teaser)

pairing: greek god!chan x reincarnated sea nymph!f!reader genre: angst, smut | (very minor) reincarnation, fantasy, greek gods!au rating: explicit, minors DNI (for full fic, nothing in this teaser) word count: 850 for the teaser (TBD on full fic, prob 10k+) warnings: none for the teaser (full fic: explicit smut, past unhealthy relationships, plays with greek mythology, etc) post date: november 16th (hopefully)

summary: Chan remembers everything. Every little thing that's happened to him since his days as one of the twelve olympians. Poseidon to be exact. Even though he tries not to think about it now that he's living in modern times running a sad little aquarium, some memories are more vivid than others. Then, you stumble into his life and he can't explain the draw. You can't seem to figure out how this man is keeping an aquarium like this running when it seems like it's not that busy. Something about him really seems to put you off, despite the fact that he seems drawn to you. None of it makes any sense...until you start to remember.

a/n: this is for the 13 Gods of Olympus collab that @beomcoups & @wooahaeproductions have been tirelessly working on. thank you so much for hosting this! it's been fun (even if it's a challenge) to get lost in an entirely different world.

if you want to be tagged when i post, leave a comment or join my taglist here

Another day, another dollar. 

Wasn’t that what the humans said about another day spent working at some mindless job? Despite all the years he’s spent blending into their world, Chan still doesn’t really understand the humans. Doesn’t really understand why they put up with so many things they seemingly hate. Doesn’t really understand why they waste their short lives on something that makes them miserable. But, in fairness to the humans, Chan has also never had to worry about the trivial things that come along with working like money, possessions, or a home. When you’re one of the original gods of Olympus and life is seemingly infinite, money isn’t really an issue. 

That’s who Chan was in another lifetime: Poseidon. The God of the Sea, among other things. At least, until Olympus fell. A painful thought that he usually tries to push from his mind.

In the early days after Olympus fell, Chan still went through life acknowledging who he was. He leveraged his powers for favors or for payment. He used his control of the water and everything in it to get him what he needed. But, the years went by and the Olympians became the stuff of myth. Of stories. The kind of characters that you read about in books. Only the most eccentric members of society continue to worship the Olympians as if they’re real. Which they are, Chan reminds himself. Or, they were. As the faith faded, so did the Olympians’ belief in restoring themselves to full power. One by one, they gave up the task of finding a way back until it was only Chan and Zeus left. Two of the brightest minds of Olympus. Even they had to admit their own defeat. 

Which leads to the present day. Chan has taken on a new persona, for the…well, he’s lost track of what number this one is. He’s just thankful for his ability to shapeshift into someone new whenever he needs to. Takes a new name every time, too. At first, he tried to keep in touch with his siblings and the other Olympians. That, too, fades over time. It’s been at least a century since he’s spoken to any of them. Though, occasionally, he’ll catch wind of something through the chattering of local sea creatures. Something that says at least some of them are still out there.

Chan sighs. There’s really no reason for him to be wandering down memory lane in this way. He thinks, not for the first time, that maybe he needs to pick a different cover job. One that will keep his mind a little more occupied. The reality is, though, he’s tried nearly everything he could think of over the centuries. Changing professions is a frequent occurrence when he doesn’t want to let his body show too many signs of age. Not that he minds, it’s just that people start to ask too many questions about how he’s handling things someone “his age” shouldn’t be able to handle. In the end, working with sea life has always been the best. And this set up, where he’s running a smaller aquarium off of some long forgotten boardwalk in an area that doesn’t get much traffic, is also great. It isn’t even that Chan doesn’t like being around people. He finds humans entertaining in most senses. It’s just that nothing in this life is permanent for him. He’s not going to fall in love and grow old with someone. Best to just keep things at arm’s length. 

Most days are more or less the same and Chan works the majority of them. On the rare days off, he’s not far away since his little house is within walking distance of both the aquarium, the boardwalk it’s on, and the water. He trusts the limited staff that he has because he pays them well. Better than any other similar business, but he values loyalty. And they don’t seem to question how he’s able to make things work. That is largely due to the anonymous donors that make monthly contributions to the aquarium. Really, it’s just Chan funneling money that he’s earned over his many years on Earth so that he can keep a business afloat. Nobody seems to have anything to say. Beyond the staff not asking questions, they are all very good at their jobs. It makes life easier for Chan that way because he doesn’t have to micromanage them. Everyone knows what they’re supposed to do and will only ask questions if they hit an actual block. No, the aquarium runs very smoothly. It just doesn’t get a lot of business.

Since every day kind of blends together, Chan almost never realizes as days or weeks or even months pass by. He’s in a sort of autopilot where he also knows what he has to do and just does it without question. It’s just rinse and repeat day in and day out. 

Until it’s not. Until the first day that he notices you in his small, out of the way little aquarium. Until the day that everything starts to change.

[z00oo1]

Collin and Penelope Fics Pt 2

Ran out of room on my last list so I'm starting a new one here! I do not own any of these fics these are just recs. Some summaries have been shortened to save space.

Knock First by Lilyofthevolume

Penelope and Colin are tired of being interrupted by his catty secretary, Marina. What happens when they stop caring about getting caught?

for you are my fate by maxmayfield

After dancing with Penelope at a society ball for the first time, Colin begins to see his friend in a new ligh

I Wanna Be Yours (Polin Prompts) by Lovelymagnolia

just a bunch of polin prompts

The One With Colin's Flemish Kiss by bridgertonbabe

Colin's secret relationship with Penelope is nearly rumbled when he slips up and kisses his girlfriend in front of his sisters-in-law. In order to cover up his blunder he makes a bold impulsive choice to provide Kate and Sophie with a distraction - but it's a choice which his brothers don't take kindly to in the slightest. Friends AU

and it was all yellow by ninjamanda

Canon divergent AU one-shot where Colin and Pen actually "communicate" and talk through their issues on their wedding night!

all the strings attached by penelopecolin (sexymonk)

Penelope struggles to draw boundaries with her new roommate - and when Colin starts behaving peculiarly towards her, she finds herself headed for a downward spiral.

The Honeymoon Period by Rachel_writes_plays

A little story about one specific day between the ending of episode 8 and the events of the epilogue.

blue dress on a boat by missparker

Penelope's efforts to find herself a husband on the marriage mart are going poorly. Benedict Bridgerton needs a wife they strike a deal to marry. Colin comes home from his travels to discover the engagement, he handles it poorly, to say the least.

Broken Glass by Radomizedusername

When a happily married Colin and Penelope briefly move back into the Bridgerton house during the late stages of Penelope's pregnancy, Anthony finds his temper rising. He expected that he would hardly notice their presence back in his home. Little did he realize he would hardly notice anything else.

Six Pomergrante Seeds by jerrymander

Colin's heartbreaking words to Penelope lead her to make different choices just days away from their wedding.

Friends, Foes, and Fernes by Mariequitecontrarie

When Colin and Penelope run into Lord Debling as a couple for the first time, their awkward conversation unearths lingering doubts and insecurities.

Matchmaker by Readingchef45

 how Eloise ensures that Penelope will be her sister from the ages of 9 to 25.

wherever you will go by nojamhands

Penelope's job requires her to finally settle in London, while Colin's asks him to take on one last trek to the Pacific. When Penelope doesn't hear from him for nearly two weeks, she starts to panic, then gets a phone call that changes the course of her life forever

still i can't get enough. by stolemystark17

Anthony is looking for his Viscountess and Penelope made the list. Colin does not care for this development. (But not because he's courting her).He is NOT courting her. He's just looking at her respectfully. As a friend.

The Family Life by alexxou_stories24

One-shots about married/parents Polin (Regency/Modern/Fluff/Smut).

you got me overnight (just let me be close to you) by marriedpolin (bisexualoliviab)

Or, a 5+1 fic about respecting the sanctity of a shared bedchamber.

EpiPen by everlarktoast

“This is Penelope. She moved into the house across the way. She’s allergic to nuts, but she has her EpiPen." Five times Bridgertons decide to stop eating nuts, and the time Colin realizes he’d given them up a long time ago.

When Lady Whistledown has a hangover by Luna1994

Penelope looked at the paper confused, it was the newspaper of Lady Whistledown.

"I would like to end this edition with probably the most scandalous thing that happened in last night’s ball, Penelope Featherington had a change on her appearance, I would not blame you dear reader for not noticing it, this author often forgets her existence, however Colin Bridgerton apparently did notice it, the two of them were seen in a dark corner

Juvenile Assumptions by NLovett

The one where Hyacinth runs away from home...yeah, all the way to Colin & Penelope's house across the square.

To London on Brooding Wings by FrenEdits95

As her world slowly devolves into a haze of lust, blood, and what can only be described as madness, she finds herself wondering if she should let her friends help her or if she should try and save them from herself.

The Love of Older siblings by Remus2039

This is a version of how Kanthony reacts to the lovers quarrel of Polin. And Kanthony's affection for Pen.

All Will Be Well by BritishGirl93

Polin AU - Medieval times

Promise Me by Jennnnyyyy

Penelope is nearing child birth and is worried that Colin might have to make a difficult choice, she has Benedict promise to be there and decide instead. Will he be able to keep his promise?

The First Draft by kws136

Colin is privy to the first drafts of the letters Pen wrote to his mother. He doesn't handle it well. Then again, maybe he does.

Echoes of You by Penny_Feathers_Bright

Edmund Bridgerton sees a little redheaded girl fall into a mud puddle at Hyde Park. Little does he know that she's his future daughter-in-law. A fluffy oneshot where Edmund meets Penelope before the events of the main series.

[navybrat817]

Any chance we'll see tattoo artist Steve soon? 🥺

Here's a bit of Steve's birthday, nonnie.

By Any Other Name

Pairing: Tattoo Artist!Steve Rogers x Teacher!Female Reader Summary: You're the only thing Steve wants for his birthday. Word Count: Over 900 Warnings: Implied sex, implied oral sex (f. receiving), future couple, Steve Rogers (he's a warning, okay?). A/N: Meet Thorn and Rose, set in the same AU as Hottie and Sugar. ❤️ Thank you to @jobean12-blog for chatting with me about this! Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the amazing @firefly-graphics and Steve edit by the wonderful Nix. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

The first thing you thought when you woke up was that you couldn't believe how well rested you were. The sun was already up, shining bright through the window and curtain. You didn't normally sleep in and had no idea what time it was, but you didn't care as you nestled back into the pillow. It was going to be a good day.

If indicated by the wonderful ache between your thighs.

Your eyes widened when the figure beside you wrapped an arm tight around your waist. For a second, you almost forgot that you weren't alone and weren't in your bed. The large body was so warm and solid, practically a furnace. The beard that tickled your neck made the ache in your core throb with need.

So, I did actually sleep with my tattoo artist. It wasn’t a dream.

"Morning," Steve rasped, his lips lightly brushing against your skin as you held back a whimper.

“Morning,” you whispered back.

Your heart fluttered when he raised his head, his deep blue eyes focusing more as he smiled. His blonde hair was slightly dishevled, but he managed to still look perfect. You probably looked like a monster. It didn’t stop him from pressing a kiss between the center of your eyes.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his muscular arm pulling you a bit closer.

"I'm okay," you replied after a moment, lightly tracing one of the tattoos on his forearm.

"Just okay?" he asked, concern in his eyes.

You weren't sure how to respond. The gorgeous man who talked you through getting your tattoo was practically a stranger. And you slept with him. To say he rocked your world was an understatement. The man shattered you and you couldn’t believe how he was able to put every piece of you back into place.

“Steve, Steve, Steve!”

“That’s it, sweetheart. Scream my name when I make you come for me. I’ve got you.”

The mere memory, along with his chest against yours, made your nipples hard and made you damp between your legs. You didn’t draw any attention to it though. While he didn’t seem like the type to kick you out of his bed, you had no idea where he wanted to go from here.

“More than okay. I slept really well,” you admitted, backing up just a little. He didn’t need your morning breath in his face.

Steve only pulled you closer. “So did I,” he smiled, cracking his neck a little. “And how’s your wrist feeling?”

“Just fine. Thank you,” you said as he gently took it to check. You still couldn’t believe you ran from the chair when he turned the tattoo gun on. Needles weren’t your thing. He managed to get you through it and you were glad for it.

The rose and single thorn tattoo was beautiful and worth conquering that fear.

“I’m glad you went through with it. And I’m not afraid to tie you down if you try to run from me again,” he winked, making your cheeks hot. “I have to say, this is the best way to wake up on my birthday.”

“Wait, it’s your birthday?” you smiled when he gave you a sheepish look. “Happy birthday, Steve. I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything.”

To be fair, you didn’t know and you hadn’t expected to go home with him last night.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said, slowly tugging the sheet away. “But do you want to give me something?”

Instead of trying to cover yourself up, you let him fully see you in the sunlight. The way his eyes darkened, he liked what he saw. “What did you have in mind?” you asked, your voice huskier than before.

“Well, Bucky and the guys are having a small thing for me tonight,” he said, lightly running his fingers along your torso. “Would you, maybe, want to go?”

Not what I thought he’d have in mind, but that kind of sounds like a date.

“Sure,” you smiled, happy that he wanted to see you again. “I’d love to go.”

Watching his face light up was almost like you gave him a real gift. “Is it selfish to ask for one more thing?” he asked, bracing himself over you before he leaned down to capture your mouth.

Any self-conciousness about your breath and anything else disappeared as desire took over. His cock was hard, trapped between your bodies as he lightly grinded against you. “That all depends on what you ask for,” you teased as he moved his kisses down your neck.

“Scream my name again. Do it while my tongue’s deep inside you,” he said as you bit your lip. It sounded more like a command and one you knew you wouldn’t be able to resist. “And do it again when I give you my cock.”

“Steve,” you whimpered, slipping your fingers into his hair.

“Louder than that, Rose,” he said, nipping your collarbone and making you giggle at the reference of your tattoo. “And since it’s my birthday, I get to eat as much as I want.”

“You really are going to be a thorn in my side, aren’t you?” you asked affectionately.

“I prefer to be the ache between your gorgeous thighs,” he smirked. “So open up and let me eat.”

Your legs spread without another word. You’d let him have his fill. It was his birthday, after all. And it would’ve been wrong to deny him.

Steve deserves it, right? Love and thanks! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Steve Rogers Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[luxury-nightmare]

mom says it’s my turn on the writing

(I haven’t written for Doai but I haven’t seen much new stuff for the Sitcom Au and I refuse to let the flame die out)

For the first time in years, Dr. Hebert Lankmann had no control over the situation.

Sirens blared across the asylum, bathing it in red as the doctor rushed down the hall. He didn’t look back, he couldn’t look back, because he knew what was behind him, and he didn’t have the luxury of not knowing who it was.

Alex Willams. Specimen 03. The immune. That damned employee to nosy for their own good. Lankmann needed to know what made them immune, for the good of Eastridge and all of humanity.

(And maybe to cure his own sickness)

This was not what he expected.

Velidgun conversion was unheard of before Alex. The idea that a human could become one of those creatures had never crossed the doctor’s mind and he cursed himself for not seeing the signs sooner. How Alex seemed tired since inviting the Demon into their home, the frailty, the eyes.

But he hadn’t. And here they were, Demon chasing Human, as it should be.

Something grabbed his ankle, he didn’t look down, he just kept running. It pulled, causing him to fall. He scrambled to get back up, but it dragged him towards his pursuer. Lankmann finally got a good look at the thing, green and striped and sharp. A tail.

Something hit him on the side of the head, blood pooling from the wound. Alex went in for another hit, but the doctor swung his hands up to block it. “Alex please!” He cried, staring up at them. Far to many eyes looked down at him, crooked and yellow and staring down from a face covered in shadow.

Alex went in for another hit. Lankmann threw his hands up to block again, but missed, and they hit again. Lankmann got a look at their weapon, where the hell did they get a crowbar?

Thwack. Obsidian black claws gripped the crowbar, a purple eye staring back at the doctor from the back of the palm

Thwack. The tail dug deeper into his ankle, spines drawing blood.

Thwack. Wings, green as the forest, blocked Lankmann’s vision.

“Alex, we can be reasonable about this!” Thwack. The crowbar hit the side of his head again, forcing him back. His back hit the wall.

“Please Alex, I can give whatever you need!” A pause. Alex didn’t lower their crowbar.

“Let them go”

Lankmann paused. Alex’s voice was clearly stolen, like most Velidgun, but not from another person. It sounded identical to the silly cartoon Lankmann that was shown around the facility in training tapes. Alex did the voice for those right?

“Patient 66, Mortimer, Kruger, Winfrey, everyone. Let them free”

Lankmann paused, that last name. “Specimen 02-“

“It’s NAME” Alex interrupted “is Winfrey”

“You know I can’t do that Alex, those things are to dangerous-“

Thwack. The crowbar came down onto the doctor’s head once more, and as he looked up at the Velidgun before him, he knew he had sealed his fate as a dead man.

“Wrong Answer”

it’s jarring, to hear your own voice repeated back at you

Thwack

Thwack

Thwack

Lankmann looked back up at his attacker, but looking back at him wasn’t Alex Willams.

Looking back at him was the Angel of Silence

Angel of Silence idea was from @secret-spirit, and the overall idea was inspired by @redleaderdemon fic

[c0smoshit]

req since it says theyre open!!! sky fluff and gn reader is preferred!! either reader or sky need to relax bcs yk life is stressful, so they have a bath together and its just rly brain rottingly sweet

Of course!!! I love these lil fluffy Zelda prompts, thanks for the request 🫶🫶

Warm weather ࣪.⋆ ♡

⋆ ࣪. ℙ𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘 ≫ Sky/gn!reader

⋆ ࣪. 𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤 ≫ fluff!! nothing suggestive! // not proofread

⋆ ࣪. 𝔸/ℕ ≫ this reminded me of a Leon fic I wrote a while ago😭

⋆ ࣪. 𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕕����𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥 ≫ 1.073

Laying down on the sofa with a popsicle in between your teeth you were trying to cool down from the ravishing heat of summer here in Skyloft.

Looking outside you then peeked over the wall clock; 21:15.

He was late, again.

Sighing, you got up, closed the window and became hopeless of the thought that the temperatures were going to cool down. Turning on the floor fan you had begged Link to help you buy, you were about to sit down again until you heard a loud noise by your right.

Stumbling over your feet your eyes met those dirty blonde locks of him, sticking a bit to his forehead from what you assumed was the heat outside.

"Link!"

You squealed as you ran to him, thankfull of the shortness from the living room to the entry hall. Opening your arms to hug him you widened your eyes and stopped dead on your tracks.

"Woah- you look like you fought a Bilocyte on your way home"

He grunted, closing his eyes wearily as you took in his not-so-radiant mien; Messy hair, sweaty skin, reddened cheeks, his back slumping down as he stabilized himself with the handle of the door and those dark circles below his gorgerous sky eyes.

"What happened?"

He stayed silent for a bit and you let him inside the house, watching as he sighed, finally able to take off his gear.

"I'm fine, just tired"

Your eyes didn't soften a bit, painted with a worried look while your hands helped him off his despair. His sword on your hand and his bow on the other you spoke outloud.

"You're having a bath"

"Later, I have to finish up cleaning my bow for tomorrow"

Your iris instinctively searched for the piece of polished wood, taking note of his awful aspect. It's paint was just forgotten under the layer of dirt that was covering most of the drawings and the grip and arrow rest were both messed up too.

"Don't be silly, I'l help you out with that later"

His brows furrowed as if he wanted to open up his mouth to refuse until-

"Now you're coming with me"

And with that, you grabbed his forearm tightly, almost dashing off to the bathroom as you put your hair down.

. . .

"Gotta get my boy cleaned up"

You said huffing as you helped him out of his absolute nasty clothes, all sweaty and messy. Trying to to oogle too much to your very handsome boyfriend you started to squeeze some fresh camomille soap an old lady gifted you the other day at the store, telling you how "calming and soothing you would almost feel your bones soften up from it" it was.

"It smells good what is it?"

You looked at his perked up ears, a sign that he indeed liked the smell. You giggled, talking about that cute old lady who seemed to be pretty happy whenever he saw you with Link, telling you to marry him before anyone else did.

At that last comment he went a bit quiet, almost blushy before you took in your own looks. Messy hair, sweaty skin... Hylia how you hated hot weather sometimes.

Seeing that he was already laying peacefully on the bathtub, the bubbles almost covering his chin you decided to get inside too. Sneaking your way in he wasn't alerted by your presence until he felt your body crash against his own, some water spilling out the tub as he instinctively grabbed you.

"Hello"

Your words were muffled by the bubbles around you, some of them hitting his cheek as you smiled before he answered with his own

"Hi"

Your arms hugged his whole back, his did too, pulling you up with him so you both could get a better posture.

"What have you done today-"

You said, cutting your own words as you removed your arms from him, sitting up straighter as you inspected his face like a mother would with his child.

"-to be so messy, Link?"

His name almost sounded accusatory as you furrowed your brows, now starting to part his blonde locks. Chest pressed into his face before drawing away, you grabbed a small bucket, moving so much even more water was spilled out.

"I was outside, helping out a little girl with her lambs..."

He spoke and was interrumpted by a splash of water directly on his head, shutting his eyes tightly as he let you manage his hair around.

"-that's why I'm so messy"

You sighed out, always helping others, you thought.

The room was filled with silence and often interrumped by soft groans as you massaged his hair, having squeezed a bit of his usual shampoo into your hands beforehand.

You liked- no, loved having such precious moments like this with him; being able to caress the head of your lover into your arms, massage his skin, his hair, his hands, whatever he felt sore for. And of course he loved it too, however, he always felt like he was making you work too hard for him.

More often than he prefered he had to come home like this; late at night and you were already sleeping, eating the cold dinner you had prepared for him too, having to tend his wounds...

He didn't want to think about it right now, having you sprawled out on top of him, taking such great care for him and the feeling of warm water around you was enough for him to forget.

"I wanna be the one you put the ring on, yknow"

He opened his eyes from their slumber, brow quirking in confusion before he saw your softened smile, looking down at him with such adoration he felt as if he was going to melt from all your love.

"Earlier, when I told you about that lady..."

Oh

So that's what you were talking about.

"I don't want anyone else to marry you"

He didn't know why you were acting so lovely with him now and you didn't know either, he just looked too cute.

Splashing more water on his hair you finally finished washing it off, chuckling at his wet puppy appereance with his hair almost blocking his view. He fixed it, looking at you with changed pupils, grabbing your shoulder and pulling you down with him.

Your head was now laying on his chest, listening to his steady and strong heartbeat, his hands drawing circles on your spine, sometimes tracing it with his index up and down slowly.

"I'm not marrying anyone that's not you, y/n"

You smiled and he could feel it on his skin, making him copy you.

"You're the only one that has been through all, with me"

[skell3]

Mage's Ball

Just a little blurb I did for @occudo 's fantasy AU thing. My writing isn't like... flowery or anything, but it at least put down the start of a brainworm THIS comic gave me. There's more to it but like. I'm really bad at being able to continue/finish fics (I do better at RP) so this is what you get.

It was the middle of the ball, and Tim had been left on his own. By choice, mind you, but he still wasn’t particularly happy about it. Sir Timothy Stoker, knight to Mage Sasha James, had come along to keep an eye on his charge and perhaps… well. He didn’t entirely know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Sasha focused on… Jonathan Sims and his knight, Martin Blackwood. Focused, and chatting so animated about their latest trials and tribulations in the aftermath of the Prentiss incident. Tim was not pleased, and therefore he was incredibly distracted. 

“A knight without his mage- that’s a rare sight. Did they abandon you?” A deep, smooth voice croons in on the knight from nearby.

“My lady can chat without my help.” Tim turns to see who was addressing him, only to find another Mage. “I don’t see a knight by your side either, Lord-” “Delano.” Gerry removed the sheer fabric that had been covering his head to better view this pouting guardian. 

Standing at attention, Tim reached for the mage’s hand to draw the back of it to his lips in greeting. “Sir Stoker. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His eyes fell to the fabric at the mage’s waist, only for his eyes to be guided up to the bared skin of his chest. Lord Delano had a considerable amount of tattoos; eyes decorated his skin all the way up to the collar at his throat. 

“Likewise,” Gerry responds, smiling at the display. His eyes traced over the knight for possibly the sixth time this evening, having noticed him earlier in the evening. “I never felt the need to employ a bodyguard for myself- way too much work if you ask me.” Pale gaze lifting, it seems like his interest has yet to bring his eyes back up from his chest, and he sighs in amusement. “Also- my eyes are up here, Sir Stoker.”

“With all due respect, they are also down there, my lord.” Tim couldn’t help but find himself mesmerized by them, among… other things. This was a fancy ball and somehow Lord Delano managed to get away with having so much skin exposed. It was daring, it showed off his nature as a Seer Mage, and it was… well. Distracting. Very distracting. Finally, he manages to tear his eyes away from ink and look back up to the other man with a flush across his cheeks. “I think you’re the only one who got away with going casual,” he jokes with a smile. 

“Casual?” The response comes with laughter, Gerry lifting a hand to cover his smile briefly as he turns to glance around the room. He notices Stoker doing the same, and together they take in all the grandeur of the Winter Mage’s Ball. “That would mean some of those here are a bit over-dressed, wouldn’t you think?” The knight’s own lady was in quite a gown, and he watches with a smile as she laughs and converses with her two current companions. He catches the eye of the shorter mage over there, and enjoys the rather disgruntled look he gets out of it. “Want to get away from here for a little bit?” Tim had been distracted again, both to try and not openly ogle at Lord Delano again, but also because those three looked like they were having quite a good time. Over-dressed? His gaze manages to move away to fluffy dresses and gents looking so prim and proper. Plenty to look at, nothing to see. Hearing the laughter, he looked back at the trio just about when Gerry spoke up again. “E-Excuse me?!” Tim sputters, turning to stare at the taller man. Gerry offers him a smile, and then a hand. “My rented quarters aren’t too far, and it looks like she’s well entertained. There are guards posted everywhere and the room is full of mages. I think she is quite safe, and I’ll admit you have me feeling a little under-dressed.” Tim’s eyes are roaming again, but fortunately it was more than just at his chest. He watches the man sputter again, trying to find words for what he wanted, only to get a- “...give me a second, please. If you would?” Tim has to check in at least once, and that was probably the quickest shuffle he has made to Sasha’s side outside of danger. A quick conversation, with no small amount of glaring from Lord Sims, and Lord Delano gets gestured to. More conversation happens, and Lady James nods her head and offers the other Seer Mage a polite bow before returning to her conversation. Tim returned to Gerry’s side shortly after, offering him a bow of his own. “My services are yours for the evening, My Lord.”

“Well. I’m going to have to get you to say that a few more times while I have you, then,” Gerry muses. He beckons for Stoker to follow, turning to head for the exit doors that would lead them outside. “Come along, then, Sir Stoker.”