#she is no shrinking violet!

[adhd-merlin]

Gwen for blorbo bingo Gwen for blorbo bingo :3

[simm-mouse]

Just unloading some art for the end of this year

Some preteens, mainly one of them. I'm changing when Lilibet gets a lazy eye, and glasses. It'll be way earlier. She and Violet are supposed to be 13 in this doodle, but she's still small. Also scene kid Violet hello!!👋🙂

I'll post some art tomorrow of some fanart. Except I'm not drawing Sims, I'm drawing Urbz😎

[cantsayidont]

November 1989 (set October 23, 2994). The first issue of the relaunched LEGION OF SUPER-HEROES series reveals that during the five-year gap following the end of the previous series, former Legionnaire Shrinking Violet, whose real name is Salu Digby, had joined the military when her homeworld of Imsk went to war with the planet Braal, homeworld of fellow Legionnaire Cosmic Boy (Rokk Krinn). By this point, several years later, Imsk has won the war and is occupying Braal, but Vi is in a military stockade.

As the page above alludes, in 2991, Vi and her unit were involved in an Imskian war crime, and she's been imprisoned because she refuses to retract her official protest or agree to keep her mouth shut about what happened.

In the previous series, Vi had expressed a romantic interest in fellow Legionnaire Ayla Ranzz (Lightning Lass), who hesitated, briefly seemed receptive, and then made a panicky dive into an aggressive hetero flirtation with Rokk Krinn's younger brother Pol (who was then killed in the final storyline of the previous series). We learn here that during her imprisonment, Vi and Ayla have been writing to each other, and Ayla has invited Vi to join her on the family's agricultural commune on the planet Winath, where Ayla has gone to live with her brother Garth (formerly known as Lightning Lad) and his wife (Imra Ardeen Ranzz, formerly known as Saturn Girl) since the Legion disbanded. Newly released from the army, Vi finally agrees.

This is an example of the radical shift in the complexity and sophistication of this phase of Legion history. The previous series had had some elaborate plots and characterization, but at the end of the day, it was still a superhero comic. This was something else, and not only in storytelling style. It's regrettable that a pointless series of editorial battles ended up making it such a mess, and even more regrettable that DC later decided to abandon it in favor of a return to cutesy adventures of cute teen heroes with no history. The point in this series was that the characters had BEEN cute teen heroes, but they grew up, and so did the universe around them — both for good and for ill.

[dragscore]

swept away by seafoam

[amatres]

oh i finally realized what i was thinking of in the back of my mind when i thought about layla and lann, it's that meme of a first kiss where one person is like 'okay dont over think this, it might not mean anything' while the other person is just 'let's fucking go!!'

[galpalaven]

The Wardens in this picrew :”)

[orchestralcollage]

"hey hon, you want a drink?" Olivia asked when she spotted Lux coming over to the bar. "No assholes have been trying to get too handsy tonight have they?" she asked them, ready to come around from behind the bar or grab Grayson if she needed to.

@luxluxluxx

[avtrbee]

in the beginning

✢summary: in a final attempt to salvage the rift between your families, you suggest a marriage pact between you and and alicent’s second son

✢tags: aemond x targaryen!reader, reader is rhaenyra and laenor second born child

✢tw: kinda possessive (?) aemond, i specifically mention that reader has one purple eye and the other brown and white hair- other than that its all ambiguous, targcest 😭

✢a/n: gods this man has a chokehold on me fr, and the gif isnt mine

You have never seen your mother so angry. After the disastrous family dinner, Rhaenyra Targaryen all but shoved her children inside her solar. The Princess of Dragonstone walks around in circles with fire in her footsteps and a finger in her mouth to soothe her anxiety, no doubt recalling the events a few moments prior.

Daemon sat comfortably on the seat behind your mother, seemingly amused by the situation. His violet eyes seem to glow in delight as he watches his wife scold her children. You had looked at him for help, but he only looked back as if saying, you’ve woken the dragon.

“I had thought you better than this!” She stops her strides and snaps her neck to the children huddled together on an ottoman. You, Luke, and Jace sit as close as you can together- a pathetic attempt to comfort each other from your mother's wrath. It is what you’ve always done, it’s what Rhaenyra had always taught you to do; protect each other.

Luke was the first to speak. “But he called us St-“

“Those whispers had been used against you since the moment you were born. I was wrong to hope you’d get used to it,” came your mother’s cold reply. An echo of the dinner fills the room. You all seemingly recall Aemond’s words, and all the whispers said before his- Strong bastards.

You feel Luke shrink back to his seat.

From the floor, you dared to gaze up at your mother. It was a mistake. As soon as you looked up, her violet eyes caught yours and the fire in her burned greatly.

“You were always the best of them,” Rhaenyra regards you with a furious gaze and a disappointed tone. “I had expected better from you. But for you to strike Alicent’s eldest son-"

“He called them bastards!” You argue, anger seeping through your pores and out to the air of your mothers chamber. “Aegon deserved it.”

“Them,” Rhaenyra repeats. “Them, not you. I had thought you knew better than to meddle in business you are not part of, Y/N.”

In truth, Rhaenyra is relieved that out of all her children with Laenor you are the one no one would dare question your legitimacy. Rhaenrya’s only daughter did not inherit the dark Baratheon hair of their grandmother (or the hair of a Strong, as the traitorous whispers insist), but the Valyrian features House Targaryen and House Velaryon are so famous for- silver as hair and an amethyst for an eye. It was a pity you are her second born and not her first.

Like Luke, you feel yourself curl back in your seat. “I’m sorry, mother.”

“Do you know what you have done?” Rhaenyra’s voice calls out as you cowardly stare at the floor, refusing to meet her gaze. You feel Luke’s hand sneak to hold yours in an attempt to comfort you. “In any other fight, I would have defended you tooth and nail, but this is a fight that you had started.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, unable to say anything else. In truth, it all began with Aemond, the roasted pig, and Luke’s unstifled giggles. Aemond got angry, but words were only words. You had punched Aegon first, and it became the catalyst of the fragile truce. You were not blind nor stupid, you have felt the tension between your mother and the Queen Regent. It had been made worse with Aemond’s bullying and the loss of his eye. And now you.

You knew how important the dinner was until you ruined it. Foolish, foolish, girl.

If there were to be a war in House Targaryen, history would blame Princess Y/N Velaryon and her temper. The fall of Valyria’s last surviving houses was caused by your hands, and a glance at Rhaenyra’s pregnant belly makes the guilt inside you grow. You have done nothing but cause her stress, especially when she is pregnant with your youngest sibling.

“Y/N is your grandmother reborn,” Viserys whispered as he first held you, back when you were still a babe. Rhaenyra watched as her father caressed her daughter’s cheek in wonder at her mismatched eyes.

Perhaps Alyssa Targaryen is why Viserys had favored Y/N out of all his grandchildren, and perhaps she is the reason why Daemon defends her.

“She was protecting her brothers,” came his voice behind Rhaenyra. Or perhaps he is hungry for another war.

“But it’s true,” argued Jace. “It is no use denying it when it is so obvious.” Rhaenyra regards her son with pity in her eyes, the fire of her anger fading regret. “It doesn’t matter anyway, for the fathers that supposedly sired us are both dead.”

“No,” argued Rhaenyra, finally striding over to all three of her oldest children. Her hands extend to touch you and Jace’s cheeks as Luke sandwiches between you. The Princess of Dragonstone kneels in front of her children and regards them slowly. “Your claim to the throne is not given by any man. You have a claim to the throne because I am its heir. ”

You and your siblings nod in unison.

Jace, your oldest brother, attempts to set an example. “We shall apologize to the Queen and her children for the trouble we’ve caused,” he proposes. You wonder what the realm will be like when he becomes King. “Luke will apologize to Aemond first-” Jace emphasizes his last words, fully expecting Luke’s reaction. “And Y/N shall apologize to Aegon.”

Rhaenyra regards Jace with a proud look. “What a great King you will be, sweet boy. But Alicent won’t accept this. Not after Aemond’s eye.” Beside you, Luke cringes no doubt recalling the past. “Not after one of her sons is harmed again,” Rhaenyra continues and it is your turn to try not to cower at your mothers words.

Rhaenyra stares at her eldest children, waiting for the ferocious anger within to lull and fade to a steady fire. Finally, she takes pity on the three young princes and princess whose gaze remains firmly on their laps.

“Look at me,” she commanded and all of you obey instantly. This action seems to let a small smile loose on her face as your three heads jut up to her command reminds her of a small litter of puppies eager for their mother. But you are not pups.

“My three-headed dragon,” she calls to you all affectionately, before kissing your foreheads one at a time. Is there anything she won’t do for you? “I will handle this. Go to your rooms. We depart for Dragonstone in a day’s turn.”

Luce and Jace stand from your shared seats immediately, eager to leave while Rhaenyra grants them her good spirits. But not you. You remain in your thoughts, the impending dread of the destruction of your House brought by your own foolishness is heavy in your head. You feel even worse as you have left your mother to clean up your messes once again.

“Sweetling?” Rhaenyra calls and you look up to her. She smiles as you gently, with all the love splattered in her face as she jerks her head to the doors of her chamber. It was as if she was never angry in the first place. “You may go.”

“Wed me to Aemond.” Your demand comes fast but quiet, tumbling out of your mouth before you had even thought of what you have said. You were grasping straws, desperate to mend your House in the only way you knew how.

From his seat, Daemon had his arms resting on his knees as his fists joined to cover his mouth in contemplation. He has an eyebrow raised in surprise, but his eyes were elsewhere possibly considering the match. You appeal to him first.

“It is a peaceful option, to end the rift between the two families in our House,” you argue. “And I am of age, and so is he.”

“It is a good match,” Daemon concedes, looking up at Rhaenyra. You follow his eyes and you meet your mother gazing at you with pity or sadness in her eyes- you could not tell.

“Do you know what that means, sweetling?” She asks, her hand coming to hold your nape. “You’d have to stay here, in Kings Landing. You’d have to leave Dragonstone. You’d have to leave me.”

“Aemond and I were friends once,” you reply, recalling fond memories you had in this Keep with your cousins. Aemond had always been a kind, soft-spoken boy and though he definitely changed as the years passed by, you were certain he was still the child you befriended deep inside.

Still, you cannot ignore the looks he had given you at the dinner. You had been seated between Aegon and Luke, far from the end of the table where Aemond was but you felt his stare all night as you ate your meal. The few times you dared to look at him, he had already been looking back with a predatory stare.

There is a hunger in his gaze, like a hunter seizing his prey for capture. You hated how he made you feel so small, for you are every bit of a dragon as he is, if not more.

“He will be kind,” you insist, not believing it yourself. “And I…” You struggle to find the right words. “I am of excellent Valyrian heritage. The Queen and Aemond won’t see this offer as an insult.”

“This mess was created by the Queen and I. And now our children are paying for it,” Rhaenyra kisses your forehead again- longer this time, like she wanted to pour out all of the love she had for her only daughter out through the kiss. “I don’t deserve you. I shall talk to Alicent once the sun rises.” Her hands cradle your face, her thumb stroking your face. “Avy jorrāelan.”

I love you.

“Avy jorrāelan,” you reply.

-

As if tradition, ladies and lords, palace maids, stable boys and aspiring knights have all gathered within the main courtyard every morning in hopes to catch Ser Criston Cole and Aemond Targaryen spar on dirt and rubble. Today, even more people are gathered as the two men have been sparing with live steel. You watch with them today, not being able to catch any proper sleep last night.

The clink-clang sounds of steel swords are heard across the yard, creating a rhythm for the hymn of violence Ser Criston and Aemond are so fond of. You sense the fight coming to its end as Aemond’s shield is smashed by Ser Criston’s morning star. At the loss of his defense, Aemond charges with his sword, clashing and slashing while Ser Criston narrowly dodges. Aemond is slower today, you notice and you are soon proven right when Ser Criston manages to put his palm on Aemond’s chest. With a thud, Ser Criston pushed Aemond to the ground, dangling his morning star in front of the prince’s face. Aemond watches the spiked ball swing once, twice, before declaring his defeat.

“I yield.”

Despite the prince’s defeat, his audience shower him with scattered applause. With the fight coming to an end, so did its audience with servants scurrying back to their duties and ladies heading back to the keep. Some fawning ladies and knights chose to stay to discuss their admiration among themselves.

“Do not be discouraged, my prince,” called Ser Criston as he held out a hand to the fallen prince.

Aemond took it begrudgingly. “I am not discouraged.”

“But you are distracted.” Ser Criston says, matter-of-factly with a raised eyebrow.

From where you stand, you see Aemond clench his jaw in annoyance. He averts his face from Ser Criston’s judging glance to your direction. You see the exact moment his eye light up in fascination and curiosity to your presence.

“Niece,” Aemond greets, dusting off the dirt from his breeches. He looks at you similar to how he stared at you all night at dinner. “Have you come to watch how true swordsmen fight?”

You force yourself to smile, ignoring the obvious slight to your brothers’ inferior skills. “My prince,” you greet, looking at his form. Aemond had become tall- unimaginably taller than he ever was as a child. He carries himself confidently, but your eyes are quick. You stare at his upper arm, and the growing dark stain on his shirt. “Come, my prince, you are wounded. Let me treat you.”

Aemond humors you a dry smile. “You have quick eyes, my princess.”

You watch as his tall figure walks towards you, his long legs making the distance between you seem shorter. You turn and walk with Aemond on your heels following your every step. You have no doubt that his mouth is curled in that sly smirk, wondering what business did the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen have to do with him.

You could feel his curiosity grow as you led him to your solar. He sits comfortably on a chair while you stand, receiving the kit that your servant handed you. You quietly thank her and ask her to shut the door.

“I must say,” Aemond starts, looking around your solar in fascination. He relaxes on your chair like it is his solar he is in, not yours. “I am in confusion as to what I may have done to earn Princess Y/N Velaryon’s special attention.”

You ignore him, heading straight for the bowl of warm water placed beside him before dipping a rag in it. “You must remove your shirt for me to clean the wound,” you say.

Aemond holds your gaze for a moment before following your orders immediately. He shrugs off his tunic without looking away. With his shirt gone, you are greeted by the sight of his pale chest. You immediately take note of his broad shoulders, his arms, and the thin layer of sweat from his previous fight. Aemond is lean, but his physique was hardened by muscles gained from his mastery of the sword. You avert your eyes and try to not let it bother you.

It does, and he notices and responds with a smug smirk.

His arm, finally clear of any clothes, you dab your rag around the wound gently. “I have noticed that there has been a division between your family and mine,” you begin slowly, eyes darting to his face to gauge his reaction. “A division that you have suffered the consequences of the most.”

Aemond gives nothing away from his face but a calm and cool look. If he is in pain from the hot water and his wound, you cannot even tell. You wonder if he is stone cold silent from all the painful memories his brother and your brothers- and by extension you had caused.

No, you remind yourself. Aemond is not with his sister then one would have better chances finding him in your company than his brothers. However, you have always been torn apart by the family, always stuck in the middle as they fight in which you respond by turning a blind eye. You are complicit in his terrible childhood and the loss of his eye.

Still, you have always been polite and kind to Aemond. A bare minimum that he had cherished greatly after the lack of affection found in his family, to the point where your mother suspected Aemond harboring a childhood crush on you after he shyly gave you a red rose from the gardens before promptly running away.

Of course, every semblance of his affection died with the loss of his eye.

“You are angry, I understand that,” you continue, dabbing his wound gently still. “But I was wondering if you would find it within yourself to look past-”

“Look past?” His voice is sharp, but his face remains still. His eye, however, gives his anger away- a blazing violet that echoes the same dragon-like anger your mother had last night. “You ask me to forget that your brother stole my eye out of the goodness of my heart?”

“No,” you reply immediately. “You were both innocent children, but Lucerys should not have come out of that without consequences.”

Aemond tilts his head and leans closer to you. His violet eye searches your face challengingly. “And what do you offer?”

“Me.” Your voice rings out in your chamber as Aemond fails to reply with a sly retort. For the first time, a soft look of disbelief crosses his face. You reach to grasp his hand with your free palm, your mouth ready to list your reasons but before you could even touch him, Aemond had already grabbed your palm and pulled you to him.

“You?” He asked, a darkness filling his eyes. You do not know if he’s giddy or if he is mocking you. His grip on your hands are tight and you feel a tremble wash over you. “If you are to be my wife, you would be mine,” he reminds you.

Aemond’s tone is gentle but his intentions are anything but. You cannot help but swallow in nervousness, and Aemond’s eye follows your throat as the lump travels down. There is a danger lurking underneath your uncle, and he looks at you like he has won a game you did not even know you were playing.

“Yes, I would.” You agree. You try to shift your head to escape his gaze, but his hands capture your cheeks before you could even move. His fingers squish your face gently but with an unheard threat of harm if you dare to move again.

“Mine,” he whispers in awe at you, like he could not believe the possibility. “And what do your brothers think of that?”

“They-” you struggle to speak as his fingers squeeze your face. “They do not know.”

This news brings Aemond a small smile. This is the first time you have ever seen Aemond close to joy after the loss of his eye. “I could do anything to you if you were my wife. You would share my chambers, and my bed. You will bear my children. They surely would not like that, would they?” Aemond looks across the room as if fantasizing the displeasure on your brothers’ face or you growing his seed inside you- you do not know.

You feel his hands crawl to your face, cradling it almost lovingly. “And if I use you for my revenge?” Aemond whispers. “Would you offer me an eye for your brother’s debt, my lady?”

He does not wait for an answer when he continues. “Have you ever seen me without my eyepatch, my lady?”

It takes you a second to recover. You blink at him, wondering if you heard him right. You wring your hands nervously, unsure to where Aemond was getting at. “I can’t say I have, my prince.”

In an instant, his hand leaves your face and snatches his eyepatch off like it was poison before throwing the piece of leather on the ground in disgust. “And now?”

Aemond abruptly stands from his chair, and you are left to scramble away. It was like he was challenging you with the sight of his eyes. You take a step back as Aemond steps forward, leaning down on you to make sure you have a good look at the long jagged line that runs across his left side, and the sapphire that replaced his eye.

You struggle to keep your eyes on Aemond’s bare face as his sudden closeness makes you realize that he still is shirtless. If you tilt your head down, you would be met by his pale chest and if he moves any closer your nose would soon touch it.

“Would you still offer yourself to me, little lady?” Aemond asks. “Even with my sapphire eye?”

A sudden boldness overcomes you. “Are you trying to scare me, my prince?” You tiptoed to his height, leaning in as close as you dared, until your nose had brushed his. You look at him unfalteringly meeting the gaze of his eye and jewel.

“If I am to be your wife, my Valyrian eye is yours by right,” you jerk your head to the right, gesturing to your purple eye. Aemond looks unfazed at your bold declaration, choosing to remain still and stare at you but you see him steal a glance at the right side of your face.

Finally, you take a step back, removing yourself from his personal space and head to the kit your made gave you to get a slave. You turn to face Aemond again, only to find him seated back in the chair.

“My mother is with yours now,” you tell him, scooping a generous amount of salve on your fingers before spreading it across his wound. “No doubt trying to convince her of the possibility of our union. I just wanted to let you hear it from my lips first.”

As if on cue a knock echoes throughout your solar before a maid from Queen Alicent’s staff pops her head in your rooms. She curtsies before she says, “My lady, my prince, the Queen and the Princess have summoned you to the Queen’s solar.”

Before you could respond, Aemond was already walking out the door, eyepatch already back on his head. His arms move to wear his tunic back on. “Let’s go.”

This time, it is Aemond who leads the way as you follow.

-

“Prince Aemond and Princess Y/N, your Grace,” announced the maid as you and Aemond entered.

This is not the first time you have entered Alicent’s solar. The space is often filled with her attendants, as Helaena and her children and Aemond are often inside. Today it is only the Queen Alicent and your mother occupying the solar.

They sit in front of the fireplace to warm them in this cool morning, and a jug of wine on the side.

The Queen and the princess sport wide smiles and a faint blush on their cheeks from drinking.

The ambiance of the room is joyous. Rhaenyra’s head is thrown back from laughter as Alicent’s head is bowed down trying to stifle her giggles. You have never seen your mother look so carefree before, not with your father, nor with Daemon. Thus it baffles you further to see the Queen and the Princess of Dragonstone so comfortable with each other.

Almost hidden behind their thick gowns, you spot their hands interlocked. You turn to the side to meet Aemond’s equally curious stare.

“Oh!” Alicent spots you first. “There you are.”

Rhaenyra turns in your direction at Alicent’s voice. Your mother stands and walks to you, wrapping her hand on the side of your head as she kisses your temple. “Sweet girl,” she coos at you quietly.

“Viserys drones on and on about how she mirrors Alyssa, but she is Laenor through and through,” comments Alicent as her eyes roam your figure up and down. Beside her, Aemond has taken your mother’s seat beside the Queen.

Rhaenyra chuckles warmly. “If you ask me, I find that she is an echo of you, your Grace. Kind, dutiful, beautiful…” She trails off and shakes her head before gesturing to Aemond. “Your son echoes you the most though.”

Alicent looks at Aemond with a fond smile. It is obvious whose child the Queen favors. Out of all the Queen’s children, none have grown to look like her, except perhaps Aemond. He seems like an eerie mirror of his mother’s father with Valyrian coloring, but his eyes and smile are all Alicent’s. “Ah, yes,” she muses. “But his temperament mirrors you, Rhaenyra.”

A foreign look of regret slips on your mother's face like a mask. “Gods help this realm if I were born a man,” your mother whispers. “The things I would have done.”

Alicent and Rhaenyra share a sad knowing look. There is a longing in your mother’s words a deep, old, painful tone. The Queen looks at your mother almost regrettably but filled with affection all the same. The moment feels intimate to both of them, perhaps recalling their childhood when they held each other close to their hearts.

Never have you seen your mother look so vulnerable to anyone, much more in front of the Queen she resents. A quick glance at Aemond shows that this side of Alicent is new to him too.

The moment is quickly broken by Alicent. She clasps her hands together on her lap. “I assume that both of you know the matter of why I have summoned you here?”

You nod at your Queen while Aemond confirms dutifully, “Yes, mother.”

Alicent turns in her seat to regard her son. “I admit I have already consented to the match, but it is your opinion that I value the most. What say you, Aemond?”

Aemond takes a deep breath, his single eye sliding over to look at your mother behind you and finally at you. You know his act of pondering is false. You knew his answer as soon as you felt his gaze at the dinner table, and confirmed it at the glint of his eye when you had offered yourself. You wonder if he is repeating your offer in his head, the promise of your whole being, and your eye if he wishes it.

“I shall do my duty,” came Aemond’s response with a passive face.

Alicent smiles at her son proudly. “Congratulations, Aemond. You will be a fine husband, I know it.” She turns her head to you, “And to you, Y/N. This union is welcome and the realm shall rejoice when it is announced.”

Aemond is before you in an instant, holding out his hand for yours in which you had no choice but to give it. To your surprise, your betrothed merely raises it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “My lady.”

The touch of his lips on your hand jolts you awake and makes your heart skip a beat- from fear or from romance you do not know. A nervous smile spreads itself on your face nonetheless. “My prince.”

“Come,” your mother says, heading for the door. “We must tell Daemon and your brothers of this news.”

The mention of your brothers makes Aemond look more sly as he stares at you to leave. You curtsy to the Queen and now to your betrothed before following Rhaenyra.

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent’s voice rings out.

You see your mother hitch a breath before turning swiftly. “Yes, my Queen?”

“Stay,” Alicent asks, and suddenly it was like the two of them were alone in the room once more. Both Alicent and Rhaenyra were dead to the world when they looked at each other so fondly. There is heavy tension in the air, but different from the fraying truce of last night’s dinner. No one is on guard or cautious. It strangely feels like home. It is healing. “Even for a couple of weeks. The matter is resolved, there is no reason for you to return to Dragonstone so promptly.”

A genuine smile spread on Rhaenyra’s face and she had never looked so happy. “I’d like that.”

A smile tries to spread on Alicent’s face, but she turns around before it grows fully. “You are dismissed.”

-

alicent and rhaenyra: hahaha our children remind us of each other what if they get married

i firmly believe that is rhaenyra was born a boy or if westeros is lgbt friendly, she would have chosen alicent as her wife in a heartbeat.

did you enjoy this fic? check out my masterlist and part two

[ko-core-o]

Lush Redux

Went back to give Lush a bit of a visual update as well, since I felt like she was my weakest Materria dragon. Mostly wanted to change the shape of her legs but also lean more towards a horror aspect. More info below!

While Twikinzy's witchcraft leans towards the alchemy side, Lush is more involved with hexes and spell-weaving! Her stitch-based magic can be used to protect and harm, enchanting her friends with wards while debilitating her enemies with curses!

Pink Thread - Inflicts Hatred

Red Thread - Inflicts Weakness

Orange Thread - Inflicts Pain

Yellow Thread - Inflicts Vulnerability

Green Thread - Inflicts Shrink

Blue Thread - Inflicts Slow

Indigo Thread - Inflicts Silence

Violet Stitch - Inflicts Polymorph

Running Stitch - A basic hex stitch

Back Stitch - Applies a repetitive nature to the hex

Chain Stitch - Binds the hex to another person, place, or thing

Buttonhole Stitch - Attaches a conditional to the hex that causes it to trigger

Feather Stitch - Creates a zone around the target that applies the hex to them as well

Cross Stitch - reverses the effect of the hex

Knotted Stitch - Causes a trigger when the hex is unraveled

Laid Stitch - Actually a combination of two stitches, makes hexes harder to remove

[kinardsevan]

I don't know if it's enough of a prompt but : Tommy says I love you first

i come to you in pieces (so you can make me whole)

He never intends it to be a big thing. He’s done the whole to-do before, made a whole thing out of telling someone exactly where his heart is in the mix of it all. The first serious relationship he had after coming out felt like doing everything for the first time, and in a lot of ways it was. He’d spent so much of his adult life trying to fit into a hetero-normative relationship that when he finally met a guy and fell in love and everything felt the way all the movies and songs described it, he wanted all of it.

And granted, he’s always been a hopeless romantic at heart. Maybe that was a form of self-preservation in the midst of all the loneliness, that he could believe that someone might actually come along one day and sweep him away the way all the movies say happens. Still, when he’s actually had those moments, they never measured up. He’s given his entire heart to someone on a silver platter, flowers and candles included, only to have that moment fall short of what he expects out of it.

But then he meets Evan. 

And it’s a tenuous thing for a while. Because when they first meet, and the first date falls flat on his face with Evan basically shoving them both back in the closet, he’s sure that this gorgeous man he’s felt his heart quickening at is just another passing blip, something he probably shouldn’t let himself get so tied down too. He reminds himself not to get too excited when Chimney or Hen calls about something small; when Eddie wants to know if he wants to rent the next fight and split the price. 

And then Evan calls back and asks him out for coffee. And Tommy knows how much courage it takes, just to take another stab at something when it’s already fallen on its face once. He understands even more how scary it is to suggest the idea that the person you’re dating wants to out themselves to an entire group of people, more specifically their group of people. But for as apprehensive as he was, the wedding went off without (much of) a hitch, save for the awkward glances coming from the Buckley parents. Still, Tommy had long since learned that Evan’s thoughts on whose opinion really mattered about his personal life had more to do with Bobby Nash and Athena Grant than it did Philip and Margaret Buckley. 

He knows it’s coming after that; knows that even if Evan isn’t quite ready to shout from the rooftops that he’s bisexual, that at the very least, he’s okay with his loved ones knowing, and that’s what really matters to Tommy. As it is, Evan becomes the one who takes on a penchant for PDA, whether it’s a hospital waiting room, a bar on a Friday night after a shift, or the middle of the Pride parade. Tommy knows Evan meant it when he wasn’t sure what he was ready for, and he’d never mention it out loud for fear of scaring him back into some need to cower from outside opinions that don’t actually matter, but his boyfriend is no shrinking violet in embracing letting people know just how much he likes Tommy.  And at that point, how is Tommy not supposed to fall back? 

He waits a respectable amount of time. Even though they never actually put an exclusivity label on it all, neither of them are seeing other people. Dates on days off turn into showing up for each other atter a long shift, which turn into overnights, and then long weekends. They still live separately, but Tommy isn’t entirely sure why when one of them is always at the other’s place. Showing up for a loved one becomes a package deal, mostly because they’re just so limited already in the amount of time they get with one another. 

Maddie tells him she thinks it’s cute. Chimney jokes that it’s gross, that he doesn’t need to see his brothers quite that domestic with one another, though he refuses to admit that he finds it endearing. Eddie just gags at the sight of them at this point. Hen never complains, instead only ever commenting that she’s happy to see her two friends finally settled in a relationship, although the fact that it’s with each other was never on her bingo card. 

And Bobby…well Bobby sees it before he ever says a word. In the midst of a family dinner (breakfast) at the end of a long shift for the 118 that Tommy showed up to because Evan’s jeep was in the shop, and they already had plans to spend the weekend together. 

“You should tell him,” Bobby says after sending the rest of the shift off to change into their civies. 

“Hmm?” 

Bobby tilts his head at Tommy. “It’s written all over your face, Tommy. And I think everyone knows it but him.” 

Tommy can’t help glancing towards the first floor then, apprehensive at the suggestion. 

“Besides,” Bobby continues, drawing his attention back. “The whole house is betting on Buck going first, and I’ve got five hundred on you.” 

. . .

They’re standing in the kitchen again. They’d fallen asleep after getting back to Evan’s place when his shift ended, taken some well-deserved rest. After waking up, Evan had mentioned wanting to go back to their place; Miceli’s is only known to them as that now. It’s a Friday night, so Tommy had to call ahead to make sure they’d have the table, but at this point, there’s very little he’s not willing to do to satisfy his boyfriends wants and needs, regardless as to how ridiculous they may get. 

Evan is rambling on about another deep dive, and Tommy doesn’t mind. He enjoys learning little things from the vast amounts of knowledge his boyfriend consumes. More than that, he enjoys the way Evan lights up when he gets on a tangent. As the girls would say, it something about Evan that makes him get all “swirly”. 

“So I said to Eddie, just because giraffes are more likely than people to get struck by lightning doesn’t necessarily mean that they will be. I mean I think I proved-..” 

“I’m so in love with you,” he murmurs as Evan’s midway through his sentence. 

The blonde stares at him slackjawed, eyes unfocused and looking as though he’s just found the answers to a question he never thought to ask but always wondered, the very same way he did the first time they kissed. 

“W-what,” he rasps. 

Tommy gives a small nod, the hint of a smile on his face as his eyes trail down Evan’s chest, the fingers on his left hand rubbing gentle circles over Evan’s hip. His gaze drifts back up, finding those crystal blue eyes he so desperately wants to spend every spare second drowning in. 

“I’m in love with you, Evan,” he says in that monotone voice, like he’s not shifting their entire universe with those six words. “Stay awake after a twenty-four, drink your god-awful idea of good coffee, let all of my limbs fall go numb if it makes you comfortable to fall asleep on me, in love with you.” 

Evan clears his throat then, but Tommy has a front-row view to the way tears run into his waterline, and it occurs to him in that moment, maybe someone has never actually told his boyfriend that he matters that much to them. And on one hand, he’s glad he gets to be the first, but on the other, he wants to fill a room with every person that’s ever claimed to love Evan Buckley in the past and ask them how they could possibly tell him that without explaining just how much.

“You don’t have to say it back right now,” he continues. “I just wanted you to know that; that I love you.” 

Evan lifts his hand to Tommy’s shoulder and takes a step forward, fingers wrapped around the other man’s collarbone as he leans into him, slides his tongue into Tommy’s mouth. There’s such a gentleness about it, that Tommy almost doesn’t need the words. Any clarity of what exists between them burns its brightest when they’re like this, skin on skin, always needing to touch one another to ground themselves. 

He breaks them apart after a time, eyes closed for half a second longer, just taking in the moment. Evan’s hand shifts up, rests against the side of his neck as his thumb trails over Tommy’s jaw. 

“I think I fell in love with you the first time we stood here,” Evan admits softly. “When you asked me if it was okay that you kissed me.” 

Tommy lets out a silent chuckle as a smile crosses his face. Evan tilts his head to the side, that same sheepish smile Tommy has come to love playing on his features. Tommy finally manages to lift his gaze and meet Evan’s once more, bringing a thumb up to brush against his bottom lip. 

“If you had told me flying into a hurricane on a whim would get me here, I think I would’ve called your bluff.” 

Tommy’s smile pulls wider across his face and he leans back in, kisses the corner of Evan’s mouth. He tilts his head up then, whispers into Evan’s ear. 

“I thank God every day that I answered Chim’s phone call because I don’t want a version of this life that doesn’t have you in it.” 

Evan leans into him at those words, buries his face in the crook of Tommy’s neck, and Tommy kisses his shoulder as his hand runs over Evan’s back soothingly. When Evan finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against Tommy’s, eyes closed, swept up in the wave of emotion the conversation has brought up between them. 

“I feel so lucky to get to love you, be in love with you.” He pauses for a tick. “Be loved by you.” 

“There’s no luck involved, babe,” Tommy murmurs to him. Even with his eyes closed, tears slip past them, and then Tommy’s hands are on his face, wiping them away. 

“You are so deserving of it, Evan,” he tells him softly. “And you make it so easy.” 

[marvelsmylife]

Breaking Point

Pairing: Bodhi Durran x reader

Plot: you start ignoring Bodhi after he lets it slip he let Violet borrow his flight jacket before she goes to see Xaden.

A/n I’ve had this idea in my head for a few days. Let me know if you would be interested in a part two

Masterlist

Request

Ever since you started dating Bodhi, you’ve asked him if you could borrow his flight jacket. You knew it was silly, seeing as you had your own. Still, you just wanted to show off that you were with Bodhi, and there was no better way than to wear his clothes.

Unfortunately, each time you asked, he would have an excuse for you not to wear it. You told him time and time again if he didn’t want people to know you were together. He, of course, always denied it. He told you that he did want you to wear it but then proceeded to give you every excuse under the sun as to why you couldn’t wear it.

So you were shocked when he let it slip that he let Violet borrow his jacket when she went to Samara. Sure, he had a valid reason to give it to her; you would have to if you were in his position. It didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt that another girl got to wear his jacket before you, his girlfriend of two years.

You tried your best not to show it bothered you, but Bodhi noticed you were quieter than usual and decided to bring it up during lunch. “Come on, I know something’s wrong. Please tell me so I can help,” Bodhi tried to get you to speak to him for the fourth time in the past twenty minutes.

You were about to reply when Violet strolled into the dining hall and handed Bodhi his jacket. “Thanks again for the jacket,” Violet gave Bodhi a slight nod before she sat next to Rhiannon.

You stiffened when you noticed Bodhi’s jacket, and Imogen put two and two together. “Oh, gods. Are you fucking kidding me, Bodhi?” Everyone looked over at Imogen confused, before Imogen added, “You let another girl use your flight jacket before your girlfriend.”

Bodhi’s eyes widened, and he tried to drape his jacket on your shoulders, but you yanked it off. “I don’t want your stupid jacket,” you threw Bodhi’s jacket back to him and decided to unleash all the anger you’ve been bottling up. “I’m fucking mad at you because I’ve asked you if I could borrow this jacket for the past two years. You’ve had an excuse not to let me borrow it each time, but you give it to Violet like it’s no big deal.”

Bodhi felt himself shrink at your words as he realized he fucked up. He hadn’t realized how important it was for you to wear his jacket. Looking back, all the times you had asked were when other guys would give their jackets to their girlfriends. Bodhi was about to reach out to you, but you stood up and stormed out of the dining hall.

Everyone around Bodhi was telling him to go after you, and he was about to listen to them when Violet said, “You are probably the last person she wants to see right now. I’ll go talk to her.” With that, Violet got up and followed you out of the room.

Violet apologized profusely to you the second she stepped foot inside your room. “Violet, you have nothing to apologize for. This fight was a long time coming, and unfortunately, you got stuck in the middle of it,” you reassured her.

You then spent a solid hour explaining to Violet why you were so angry with Bodhi, and by the end, she started to get upset on your behalf. “I swear, men are such idiots,” Violet commented as you both stared at your ceiling, “Xaden acts like that sometimes, too. Maybe it’s genetic.”

You laughed at Violet’s comment, “I wouldn’t be surprised. Ugh, life was so much simpler when we used to believe boys had cooties.”

“Yup” Violet replied with a sigh, “I wish-”

A loud knock interrupted Violet and caused you to sit up. “Y/n, please let me in,” a frown appeared when you heard Bodhi’s voice. “Sweetheart, please.”

“You have to talk to him eventually,” Violet got up and started walking towards the door. 

She stopped at the door and waited for you to give her the ok to open the door. “Ok,” you whispered and braced yourself for the conversation you were about to have with your boyfriend.

[clockwayswrites]

Danny/Jason, glitchy

@violet-catsarelife Inspired by that liminal gamestop post.

The door was silent as it swung open. The little bell at the top of it didn’t even ring. In fact, the whole corner store was oddly quiet. Quiet in a way that made Jason glad to have the reassuring weight of a gun at his side. He really hoped it was nothing. He had just gotten off a long patrol with Tim— the two of them working a case together— and he really just wanted to get some supplies, go back to his shitty safe house, and sleep for at least ten hours.

But it was too quiet.

Disguising it as if looking for the things he wanted to grab, Jason scanned the shop to try and get a feel for what was going on.

The black haired cashier, looking as tired as Jason was if the bags under their eyes was anything to go by, was tucked behind the counter and the flimsy excuse for a blast shield. They were scanning items from an obscenely large pile scattered across the counter. It seemed that the two teens, likely high off their asses, had just grabbed anything that looked interesting for their munchy state and tossed it on the counter.

The cashier grabbed and item, scanned it, dropped it in the bag. Grabbed an item, scanned it, dropped it in the bag. The one teen stood in front of the counter, watching this happen. The other paced back and forth behind them, eyes on the ground and sipping at a frozen slushy drink as they walked. Five steps to the left, pivot unsteadily on their heels, five steps to the right, pivot, and repeat. A little weird, but not concerning for 4 am at a convince store. But still something wasn’t right about it…

Jason tilted his head and tried to make his sluggish brain continue to work despite the bone weary fatigue he felt.

Noise.

It was too quiet.

There was no beep of the scanner. No crinkle of packaging. No rustle of plastic bags. It was like everything was silent.

Jason ran through a mental check list of his injuries, but there had been no concussive blasts or hits to the head that night. He was, in fact, relatively unharmed. He reached up to scratch at his stubble. It made a faint rasping sound.

The cashier kept silently scanning.

The pile didn’t seem to be getting any smaller.

The red neon lights of the open sign were eye searing.

The cashier kept scanning.

It was too quiet.

Jason glanced around the store. There were three other patrons. A tired mother holding a sleeping child that clung to her knit sweater with a chubby hand. She was in front of the small medicine area, box of children’s fever reducer in hand. She blinked listlessly at it.

The other one was over by the beer section, of course. The door to the cooler was open but the grizzled old man was just standing there.

It was cold in there, wasn’t it?

It was too quiet.

Jason’s skin started to crawl. He should leave. He should just turn around and leave.

The neon sign read open. It was so bright.

The store was so cold.

There was no noise.

The door opened.

The bell rang.

Whoever it was groaned loudly. “Goddamn it, not again. I can’t leave you alone for ten minutes, can I?”

It was like the whole room suddenly breathed at once and then let out the breath of air in a soft hiss of noise. The child fussed in their sleep and the mother shushed them. Beer bottles rattled. The teen sucked loudly at the slushy.

The cashier blinked up with bright aqua eyes as they reflectively scanned another item. The chips crinkled, the scanner beeped, the bag rustled. “Sorry dude, just, big tests this week and I’m so tired.”

“Yeah, but can you like, not dude, seriously? It’s still fucking freaky.”

They just shrugged and their rolled their eyes and got back to scanning the shrinking pile of goods.

Jason forced himself to suck in a breath of his own. Right, he needed some supplies. He was going to get some things and go to sleep. Sleep sounded really good right then, at least ten hours.

The bell above the door rang cheerfully as he left a few minuets later with bags in hand.

Been doing some little prompt fills. Feel free to continue this if you want!

[goteique]

| BLIND + IZUMO HARUICHI.

+cw. — izumo haruichi x f!reader, coworker to lovers, oblivious pinning, flirting, confession, description of panic attack, claustrophobia & coping mechanisms, forced proximity, fluff, angst, character study, smut ( kissing ).

+wc. —3.1k ( shocker )

+syn.— last summer Izumo Haruichi came under your radar but this summer he has managed to get under your skin.

+notes. — part of ‘HELP WANTED’ mini server collab hosted by @interstellar-inn | redirect to blog navigation.

+tags. — @dear-koi @qichun @violet-turning-violet

The refectory of the office is oozing with ruckus this afternoon. It is not unusual but today it is just unbearable. The compartment plate in front of you is still filled with rice, curry, and salad as when you started eating your lunch. The line for the food is still alive; people are gossiping, taking food onto their plates, gossiping, taking spoons and forks, chopsticks— the sound of utensils clanking against each other one after another or sometimes all at once in sync is bugging you today. Your ears should be used to it by now after working for two years straight but it seems like a bother today. It is awfully loud in here. Everything is, even the heat.

Among this hustle and bustle, the only sound that bothers you the most is someone’s voice. It is faint to catch on from where you are sitting but the voice keeps coming to you in bits and pieces, like ebb and flow. Sometimes it is there and sometimes it is not. Sometimes your ears pick up on it but sometimes not and when it does not, your heart waits for it, even searches for the sound to reappear. And the heat is just making it worse. You can practically feel the beads of perspiration cascading through your cleavage as you search, waiting for the voice to turn up again. The air conditioner is on though, and the fans are working perfectly fine but with this kind of crowd, and heat in the dining place is at par with some blast furnaces.

“Well, I can take you there sometimes if you want,” Izumo states as one of the new interns, sitting diagonally to him, places a dumpling from her plate to his. Aoi Kaguragi, Izumo Haruichi, Reno Ichikawa, and Iharu Furuhasi are sitting at one table but Izumo is the most disconnected from them. 

“No. No. Haruichi-san, it’s fine. I can manage.” The girl sitting beside him pleads. A group of four girls who joined as new interns have occupied the table beside them. There is just a slit of partition between the two tables. Most tables are for a group of four people, but cubicle tables are cluttered together to make the team bigger, and better to establish a good workplace culture to some extent. 

Izumo expresses his thanks with a sun-kissed smile to the girl who just gave a dumpling to him, without asking. You make eye contact with him for a second but it's awkward. Aoi's nose shrinks. It acts as a distraction from Izumo’s azure gaze. Aoi stuffs his mouth with the dumpling Izumo just received out of disgust earning an alarming glare from Reno. Izumo does not even bat an eye to it. But the girl protests, “Hey. . .” Aoi glups it before saying, “he hates dumplings.” Iharu is busy eating his lunch. This guy . . . he woke up early, made breakfast for himself, got so busy and immersed with cooking that he forgot to eat. So, he is eating quietly. Reno keeps telling him to slow down but who is he? His dad?

“Well, wouldn't it be easier if you could get some directions and details?” The girl looks confused so Izumo divulges. “I live around there. So, yeah I could get you in touch with some agents if you want,” The girl looks at him with so much hope as if she has a chance to ask for the moon. 

“Oh my God. Really? Thank you so much Haruichi-san,” she chimes

Oh Fuck! Here it comes. Aoi, Reno, and Iharu share a look as you get up. The clank of your spoon was a little too loud to be ignored. Okonogi asks, “You didn’t even eat today too. Are you okay? Do you wanna leave soon today? I can finish your work if you want . . . ” 

“No. Kono-chan. It’s alright. I don’t feel hungry. I will eat when I feel hungry,”

“Yeah, gallons of coffee and tons of cakes,” Kikoru prompts without missing a beat. Your shoulders sink at her statement. She is not lying but gallons? Tons? That’s surely an exaggeration. You take your plate and as you walk past his table he gets up. Please let him not run into you. . . please god, please.

“Going to share the rest with your boyfriend?” He grabs a bottle from its designated section. You watch him walk, pick a bottle, and then come back but he halts in front of you blocking your way. Of course. Why didn’t you expect that? You should have taken a different route. 

“So what if I’m?” you squint your eyes at him since his Adam’s apple shift. Now, that’s different, unlike other days. Your eyebrows jump. Teasing each other is as easy as breathing for you and him. So, you just give in to this golden opportunity. “Your flirt game is so bad, no wonder you’re still single, Haruichi-san,” you snicker emphasizing ‘Haruichi-san’ since you have already been granted the authority to call him by his name but sometimes it is just amusing how he hates it when you do not use it; even if he specifically said that you can call him Izu-kun or simply Izumo. He just wanted to get included in your league of people; the people who you have given a nickname. It's almost like adopting a puppy.

Izumo rolls his tongue inside, along his bottom lip too quickly to pinpoint his frustration. He is pouting now. His hand proceeds to his nape scraping his hair for a moment in the hope of seeking some respite from this heat. Why does he even keep his hair long? Why not just cut it? Or put it in a bun. Your eyes go to the bunch of interns who are eagerly watching you two as if you are big stage actors. “My flirt game isn’t bad, . . . he trails off and then sighs. His hand swings back in his pocket as clarifies, “It’s just that . . . the person I like is a fucking idiot. That’s why I’m still single.”

You scan the group of interns at his valor display of vulgarity. Girls must find it hot, don’t they? That’s why he does it, isn't it? Good for him! He has an audience now. You bet they are practically swooning. Aoi’s face is a sight to behold. Iharu has given up. Even Reno has his head tipped down while holding the bridge of his nose. He is not someone who loses patience easily except Kafka Hibino, his mentor and co-worker.

“What a loverboy.” You opined to him before your gaze switched back to the girl who was trying all the ways to get his number. Yeah, it was very obvious especially since she was practically rubbing herself on him since the day she joined. How do people do that? Get hooked onto someone like the twinkle of a star. That too in this heat. It is hard enough to keep coherent behavior, thoughts, and habits intact but now you have another problem, Izumo Haruichi. He is being spectacularly annoying today. 

You look at the girl before saying anything. You will probably be doing her a favor. 

“don’t waste your time on him, he is going to break your heart, girl.” 

The spoon from her hands falls on the dish splashing a little bit of soup on her dress. People have already started to look at this table by now. 

“You’re just jealous,” the girl sneers back.

You part your lips forming an apology at the tip of your tongue but you realize the damage you have done. She hurriedly tries to clean herself with a napkin to avoid eye contact. 

You should not pick on people’s emotions like that, however small, however meek it may seem to you, it's a lot for them. What’s with you today? This is not like you. This is more like  . . . Haruichi. He has this habit. Maybe it's starting to rub off on you simply because he is now working with your team on this upcoming project.

Izumo has always been like this. Flirting with girls, leading them on, giving them hope, and then, breaking their hearts. Does he realize that? The hurt he leaves in his wake? He is like a swan in a lake leisurely swimming in the evening that attracts ducks, influencing them to be like the swan, elegant and beautiful when there is a surge of fresh batches of interns; every year. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it backfires.

His flirting is not limited to just girls. That’s how he became such close friends with Aoi. But then again, it is not exactly flirting. Could it be he is unaware of how he carries himself? Nah! That’s too much of giving him the benefit of the doubt or maybe has managed to charm a part of you. Yeah! That would happen in any case. He picks up on people’s emotions really quickly and does not hesitate to call them out. It’s a nasty habit. 

That is how much you know about him, as a co-worker. Outside this office, he is a total stranger to you. So, you do not have to look out for him, worry about being among the swarm of ducks, he might turn into one, or fearing if there hides a hawk among them.

“That’s too much talking for an intern,” Iharu remarks, taking his plate and standing up.

“I agree.” Reno nods his head. “Wait, what?” He is not surprised by Iharu’s statement but rather his wit. Before the situation gets elongated you try to put an end in your way but whether the bow will pierce the heart or the head you gamble on that.

“Yes. maybe you’re right. That was so rude of me. But you see,” you bow your head a little to match her eye level since her eyes are on her plate. “ I don’t go for committed boys.”

Izumo’s face is aghast. What did you just say? He is not committed. He is single. Excuse you, did you not hear him a while ago? 

Izumo looks at Aoi, clearly uncomfortable and frightened by your burst of bubbling behavior. That was odd of you. He has never seen you this annoyed. He has always been like this with you, teasing and flirting around you with other people. Maybe the heat is going in your head today. You walk towards the dustbin to empty your plate before keeping it on a designated table. Everyone watches you as Izumo follows you like a kicked puppy searching for his owner. It’s pathetic.

He is not pathetic . You are just dumb. How can you not get it? How can you not see it? His feelings for you? Well, not that he exactly laid his heart out in front of you but isn’t it obvious? Everybody on his team is aware of it. Everybody on your team is aware of it. Are you really that dumb? Or do you just choose to ignore his feelings? If it is the latter then he is done for. Perhaps, the fear of abandonment and rejection compels him to create backups while at the same time, it gives him a refuge to hide his feelings; keep them protected, warm, and soft; so that he can still talk to you, still be around you, breathe the same air as you.

After all, who would look for a leaf in a forest?

“Fancy a candy?” Izumo chimes as he leans against the door frame of the archive room while you slide the access card to open the door.

“No thank you.” You tartly reply with a poker face. God, he followed you here, which means he is gonna yap for as long as he is here and God forbid he better not talk about what just happened in the dining hall. 

Izumo mumbles to himself, stepping into the room, “Guess I’ll have it then,” with a pout.

“Did the storage closet door lock behind us?” you ask as the bang of the metal door sends jolts throughout your body.

“I think so,” Izumo walks towards the door to check. He hopes that you are not playing any prank or something but then again, who would like to be stuck in the archive room? Especially in summer when the air conditioner is out of service and the fans have been hopeless since last spring. Izumo hears a loud thud. As he turns he finds you curled up in a fetal position on the floor struggling to breathe.

“Oh no no no no” you blabber feeling the dread and anxiety piling on top of your body. It is getting heavier. Seeing you like that, Izumo forgets what to do. At first, his feet move slowly though, then he quickens his pace but finally skids towards you since his calf muscles betray him.

“Breath. Look at me.” His voice is so faint or maybe you are already sinking in the depth of the attack. You know what to do. The tactic to overcome this. But with people around it gets harder. Most people do not know what to do and even if they did they are only aware of the ‘321’ rule since it is easier to remember, faster to execute, and the default suggestion before the medic arrives. Right. Medic. You can call, right? You touch your hips for your cellphone feeling only your skin and clothes. Your phone is at your work desk. Fuck. Your only hope is this guy, Izumo Haruichi.

“That’s not. . . it. you inhale barely but manage to say the next set of words in one breath. 

“That 321 rule doesn’t work on me.”

Immediately, your chest starts to feel heavy. Your head feels heavy. Your breathing is labored.

“Yes, I know. I know.” Izumo assures. His voice is so still, so even that it gathers all scattered pieces on him finally. “54321 it is.” He adds. He tries to make you sit but you are so stiff under the influence of fear that even with his strength he is in no luck. Moreover, he does not want you to treat him as a threat rather than a cane to grab on.

“Identify 5 things you can see,” 

Your eyes roam everywhere, to the farthest point it can see things. It has already started to itch and water. You blink rashly before mumbling. “Files—you inhale a long breath. “cabinets, AC, tables, chairs” 

“Next. 4 things you can touch” 

“The wall,” you say and touch it. You can finally sit up now, leg sprawled on the hot floor. Next, you touch your i-card. “My ID card.” Then your hair clip. “my hair clip,” unfastening it from your hair letting your hair fall onto your shoulders; it's a turquoise one today, and finally his ID card. You grab it in your hand and watch closely, flipping it too to glance at the other side . What an awful picture of Izumo .

“Your ID card.” 

Izumo holds you by the arms. His touch feels cold against yours. The full-sleeve dress is the only barrier between his skin and yours. Your palms clamp around his upper wrists. 

“Okay, 3 things you can hear:” 

“A.C.” 

“Fans.”

“Your voice,”

Izumo nods every time but it becomes slow at your third pick. 

“2 things you can smell.” It sinks in him: how in desperation and hunger you seek whatever you can get.

You take your scented handkerchief out of your pocket. Izumo takes it and holds it against your nose. Your exhaustive eyes look at him. His perfume smells rather too sweet today. You fall into his chest, embracing him. “Your perfume,” You whisper nuzzling against him. He is still sitting with his legs folded. You can hear his heartbeat, yours too. You are alive. You are very much alive.

“1 thing you can taste,” He says in a low voice, like the start of a lullaby. Reluctantly you pull your face away and look up. At this angle you can see his tongue, it’s white due to the candy. Could it be lichi flavored? There is still a bit of it left, peeking against his teeth.

Curiosity cascades into your body like rain and soaks him wet in a fraction of a second. It is an entirely foreign sensation for Izumo: Your lips are plush and soft with no hint of lipstick. The way your fingers press into his chest is unforgiving to his taut muscles creating a sense of pain, but a different kind of pain; the good kind. You are desperate and forceful. Your lips taste like spicy and honey. What did you have for lunch today? 

WAIT. You break the kiss. Izumo is as stunned as you are. His azure is asking why did you stop? You are still holding on to him. How did he know that the ‘321’ rule does not work on you? Moreover, how did he know that you have claustrophobia in the first place? 

Ah! Now it makes sense.

The realization paints your mind like it's high on drugs. Before you can think twice, your hands trail up to his nape enveloping his face. He instantly pulls you into his lap folding his legs one over the other to make you comfortable. He is swift and strong. This time, he is the one to demand first. The candy must have melted by now. It was coconut-flavored. You do not remember swallowing it neither does he but only the feeling of your lips on his, his on yours. He pulls away from the kiss gasping for air. His mouth and nose are cherry-tinted. He is getting an earful from Aoi for sure.

“I have texted Aoi.” His hands recoil back into his pocket from under your shirt. “He will be here soon.”

Izumo looks at the ground. Is it awkward? Yeah! Definitely. Does he want this to get over with? NO!NEVER. Damn him for wanting you. Damn him for craving you even at desperation like this.

You give him a long hum. “Why do you look like a crumpled receipt? It’s not like I will break your heart once we are out of the room, Izumo.” You place a kiss on his cheek. “Still have to thank you for saving my life.” 

You get out of his lap. He blinks hopelessly. Yeah, his suffering isn’t going to end . You still are as dense as a cabbage and so defenseless, so tactless, by god it drives him nuts. “I love you,” Izumo mumbles to himself. Aoi opens the door as you look at Izumo. 

“What did you just say?” Both of you walk side by side as you two walk out of the room. Aoi is still holding the door.

“Nothing” You continue to scrutinize him with your eyes.  “I said, I hate you.”

You smile. “Yeah! I hate you too.” 

Poor Aoi is still holding the door witnessing the cheesiest corny confession ever.

—

network: @underratedcharactercorner

[lateatnewyork]

Moonflower

(Flowers part II)

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

Azriel x ex!reader, Rhysand x sister!reader, future Helion x reader

Warnings: angst, brotherly fluff (love u rhysie poo), swearing, elain and azriel slander (minor)

warnings & summary will be updated at every part.

Prompts: N/A

Summary: Nesta and Feyre had taken your wedding dress from Elain and handed it back to you. With the help of Rhysand, you burn it. Rhys suggests for you to go to Day Court and take some time, while he sorts things out with Azriel. What happens when a certain High Lord catches your eye?

a/n there’s going to be so much angst in this series😭 if you ever feel like killing me just know i love you guys, the names of this series are gonna be based off flowers this one is called moonflower as a homage to the night court

I had gone upto my room, not wanting to see the pitying looks of my friends.

Growing up as a High Lord’s daughter made me detached from the world, forced me to hide my emotions. Which is why, I didn’t shed a single tear until I was in the safety of my bedroom.

Shrinking down against my door, I finally allowed the thoughts to catch up.

Every single time he told me he made love to me, he really meant “I’m fucking your brother’s sister in law right under your nose,”.

I don’t even think I can call it making love anymore.

When he told me he loved me, he really meant “I love Elain, not you”.

All of a sudden all his words had double meanings.

“I’m going out,” meant “I’m going to Elain’s”.

“I already ate,” equaled “I ate at Elain’s”.

And at the very end of it all, “I have a mission” was actually “I’m going to get married to Elain,”.

Elain, Elain, Elain. What did she have that I didn’t? I had known him for centuries, been there for him through nightmares, defended him from others, hell I had given my everything to him.

And instead of returning them properly, he had broken them, trampled on my poor heart, fed my mind lies and broken my every being.

Sobs wracked my body as I hunched over myself. My hair was sticking to my face by the tears. Crying quietly, I twisted the ring off my finger, chucking it somewhere in the dark.

Hearing the soft clang of the metal landing made me sob even more. It was a beautiful ring, truly. A silver ring with diamonds encrusted on the top, 3 beautiful gems the colour of Azriel’s siphons. A blue so dark it could pass as black.

My ears were ringing, I could hear a knock on the door, but it was just some background noise compared to the noise of rushing water in my ears.

A talon of power scraped against my walls gently. Getting up, I open the door.

Rhysand stands there with my dress in his hands.

“I said I didn’t want it,” I state, stubborn as ever.

“I know that’s why I came to ask if you wanted to burn it with me,” he says hesitantly.

My eyes flick between Rhysand and the dress, a silent war forging in my violet eyes.

“Fuck it, let’s go”

My meltdown dazed mind didn’t seem to realise that Rhysand hadn’t taken me out through the main hall, but through the back entrances. Too tired to comprehend anything, I didn’t ask even when I realised it.

As if waiting for me a bonfire pit had formed.

Before we had left the room, I had grabbed a box filled with Azriel’s things that I wanted to burn.

With a flick of Rhys’ wrist the dress was positioned on the stand. A stick with fire was commissioned and he handed it to me.

“Would you like to do the honours, little star?” He says waving the stick towards me. I smile slightly at the use of the old nickname.

I grab the stick and throw it at the dress, revelling in the way it burnt.

One by one I added the items from the box.

A human polaroid of the two of us. His comfy grey shirt. All his letters. Flowers he had given me 2 days ago. A glass rose, funny really because my favourite flower isn’t a rose, it’s a moonflower. A promise ring he had got me. The prototype wedding invitation.

Rhysand watched me as I threw object after object into the endless pit of fire. Once the box was empty, I lunged the box into the fire as well.

That’s when he finally spoke up, “Little star, do you want to go visit Day Court for a while, Helion said any one from our court could visit his,”.

I nodded, the anger I had grown from the objects fading into sadness. Rhys held me close wiping my wet, tear stained cheeks. “It’ll be alright” he soothingly whispers.

I had packed my bags the night of the burning and had prepare for going to Day Court the next day.

“Rhys I can winnow myself,” I huffed as he dragged me along.

“I know, I know I just wanted to make sure you got there safe,” he sighs. Understanding, I let him take me there.

If Day Court was beautiful then they’re High Lord was gorgeous.

a/n i need sleep

taglist: @esposadomd @impossibelle @acotarfics-mharmie009 @stqrgirlies-blog @balam-sen @cumuluscranium @witchymomfrien (striked out means i couldn’t tag you)

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Shrinking Violet (Rhysand Smut)

Hi! Happy Friday, my loves! I impulsively wrote this first thing this morning. Don’t exactly know what came over me but I thought I would share it 😏

Also, I’m using my updated General ACOTAR Tag List for the tags, so if you’re not on it and you wish to be, please click the link and comment so I can add you! ♥️

Warnings: Smut, of course! Enjoy!

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The violet-shaded dress had seemed like a good idea at the time. A time when you’d felt daring and mischievous and like you could do whatever the fuck you wanted. 

Now, with a tight-lipped servant tugging your corset strings as you stared yourself down in the mirror, your audacious nature was refusing to rear its head, scattered to the ashes by nerves. 

“I wish to have a gown the exact shade of Rhysand’s eyes.”

Rina, your good friend and the Hewn City’s most reputable seamstress, had looked up at you from the various sketches on her dress. She was snowed-under with orders with the upcoming event — Rhysand’s first visit as High Lord of the Night Court. It was nothing short of a damn coronation.

“Are you sure you should?” Rina had raised an eyebrow at you. The look she always got when you were up to something. “He’s High Lord, now. Things are different. Should you truly make a statement with your gown that most certainly won’t go unnoticed?”

“Should I not?” You’d spun around, palming the various fabrics that made up an entire wall at the back of the studio. “High Lord he may now be, but I know Rhysand more personally. I wish to have a violet gown that is an ode to those depthless eyes.”

Rina had shook her head, but said no more on the matter. You were paying — well, your father was — and you had a design in mind. That was that. She’d known you long enough to know that there was no talking you down from an elaborate idea.

Besides. Besides, besides, besides. You did know Rhysand more personally. 

More personally, in the form of him secretly fucking you in the darkest corners of the Hewn City, when he had just been the High Lord’s handsome son, learning the ways of the court. You were his filthy little secret, someone he would never display publicly on his arm. Would never think of you beyond the haze of lust that clouded him. Perhaps that was what the dress was secretly about. Capturing his attention.

Things had changed dramatically since he’d last had you pressed against a wall, a hand to your mouth to muffle your moans as he’d pounded into you. He was always ravenous for you behind closed doors and totally different in the open. A game — it was a game the two of you played.

But he was High Lord, now. You were excited to see what that looked like. 

Violet gown, indeed. You smoothed your hands over the tight bodice as the servant stepped away. As the daughter of a member of the Night Court council, you would be expected to look every bit the rich, expensive, pretty subject who would bat her eyes at the new High Lord and offer polite well-wishes for his future. 

While wearing a gown so tight it was like a second skin, the very daring shade of his eyes. 

Anything to keep those eyes on you.

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Rhysand had been trained for this, of course. Right down to the finest detail. Any outsider looking in would presume him to have been High Lord for far longer than a matter of months. There was something effortlessly arrogant about the way he lounged on his obsidian throne, one leg hooked over the arm, a chalice of wine in his hand that was constantly being topped up. 

He was the centre of attention, and he was loving every second of it. 

You’d never seen the instating of a new High Lord. Rhysand’s father had been on that throne for your entire life, until he’d gone and gotten himself killed. And now…now it was time for a fresh face. One with a feline smirk and a lilting voice behind it that sounded like music. 

You knew precisely what that voice sounded like when he was close to falling off the edge. 

You hadn’t yet spoken to him or caught his gaze. The evening’s proceedings had been fine-tuned to run smoothly; food and drink and music and dancing. Now, a long line of people queued up to the dais, forcing Rhysand to listen to the same sentence on a loop with every person who knelt before him. 

I welcome you, High Lord, and pledge my allegiance to you as your loyal subject. 

The words had become a monotonous drone. You wanted to spin around in your violet gown and make a show of yourself and catch the High Lord’s gaze. You wanted to be adventurous and fun, just like you and Rhys had always secretly been. 

Your father went before you, prattling off the same oath as those who’d gone before him. He and Rhys exchanged pleasantries, and Rhys’s voice seemed to snake past your father and round to you, caressing every bit of your skin that was on show. The sound was like silk. You wanted to tear your dress off and wrap it around your naked body. 

After what seemed like an eternity, your father was stepping aside and leaving you to wander up to the dais. Feline eyes met yours, the exact shade of your gown that felt suddenly too tight and too hot on your body. You gave a polite acknowledgement to the two Illyrians at the High Lord’s side — Azriel and Cassian — before you offered a flourishing bow.

“I welcome you, High Lord, and pledge my allegiance to you as your loyal subject.” You spoke, your voice slightly lowered. Just for him. 

Rhys’s eyes slowly studied every inch of you, starting at your hair, your painted face, the heavy jewellery that complimented the column of your neck and the lobes of your ears. And then they flicked down to the gown, studying the beaded detail. The way it sinfully clung to your body before flaring around you in layers of violet tulle. 

Heat flashed across those eyes, and you knew — he’d clocked exactly what you’d done.

“Good evening.” He drawled, his head falling on a tilt. His hungry gaze roved you once more. “And what have you come as?”

A subtle smirk tugged at your painted lips. “A shrinking violet.”

The High Lord tugged his bottom lip between his teeth. You wanted to drag it between your teeth, too. 

“There’s nothing shrinking about you, darling.” He purred. He took your hand in his, brushing his lips to the backs of your fingers. “Enjoy your night.”

A dismissal. A teasing one. It was all part of the game. His eyes fell to your gown again, and you spared him one last glance before flouncing away to dance. 

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You liked this game — yours and Rhysand’s.

Dark, shaded alcoves and long, winding corridors, perfect for a session of cat-and-mouse. Huge, unoccupied rooms, the walls of which volleyed your moans back and forth. You’d played the game a hundred times before, and you wanted to play it tonight. 

The party was unending, and so was the flowing wine. All part of the game. When Rhys had merely been the High Lord’s son, his apprentice, the two of you had always waited until everyone was gloriously intoxicated before you would share a heated glance and slip away — you first, and him following moments later. 

The night had reached that point. The frenzied music had become languid and sensuous, the bodies on the dance floor grinding against each other. Not one person in that throne room was sober. And so you set your drink aside. 

You strolled casually past the dais, shrugging out of the numerous dances people tried to pull you into. Rhys’s gaze seemed to find you immediately, and as you passed in front of him, you met his eyes and dipped your chin. The signal. The game was starting. 

But he was High Lord, now. Far more scrutinised and important. Perhaps he wouldn’t follow. Perhaps he was done with your antics—

Mere moments passed between you slipping into an empty corridor and the door opening behind you. A smirk played on your lips. You lifted the skirts of your gown. Kicked your heels off. And ran. 

Your feet slapped against the cold concrete floor as you sprinted away from Rhys. A dark, lilting chortle echoed behind you, and his pace picked up as ran after you. 

You were light as a feather, weightless as a cloud, shoving through doors and empty rooms, skidding along polished floors, climbing huge, ornate staircases. Rhys was always a few steps behind, and you knew he could easily catch up if he wanted to. But he savoured the chase as much as you did. 

You flew up another grand staircase, up and up to the very top of the gargantuan building. You knew precisely what you were doing, and so did Rhys. You took a left, veered down a long corridor. A dead-end. The door at the end led to an enclosed room.

“Where do you suppose you’ll go now, little violet?” Rhys called behind you, his breaths heavy. “I do believe I’ve caught you.”

Indeed, he had. You laughed wildly and opened your mouth to retort, but your already-huffing breaths were stolen from you as his body smacked into yours from behind, slamming you against the door. The wood groaned as he pressed his front to your back. The evidence of his arousal was already waiting for you. 

“Got you.” He hummed into your ear, his nose brushing your neck. “Now, what’s my prize?”

You bit down on your lip as he pushed his groin against you. “Your prize is whatever you wish it to be.”

“Excellent.”

He reached past you, opening the door to that unoccupied, echoing room. His hand splayed over the bodice of your dress, keeping your body flush to his as he walked you both inside. 

“I think I would have you against the wall.” His hand travelled down, fisting in the skirts of your gown. “Or perhaps on the writing bureau. Or the chaise lounge. Tell me, which would take your fancy?”

“Why not all of them?” You bit down on your bottom lip as his hand finally found a way under the fabric, skirting your thigh. 

“Naughty, wicked thing. Why not, indeed.”

You were suddenly being spun in his arms to face him, and there was barely a chance for your eyes to meet before he was claiming your lips with a scorching kiss and backing you towards the wall. Your back hit it with a light thud, and Rhys was boxing you in, settling his knee between your legs and very deliberately pressing it against the very centre of you. 

“You know,” he purred as he broke the kiss. “My father used to tell me to stay far away from you. He said that I should find a female fit to pop out heirs. That females like you like to play games.”

You sucked in a breath as his fingers brushed your neck. Crawled downwards. “Your father would be right about that.”

“Hmm.” He hummed. “But, you see, I like to play games, too. And the bastard is dead now. I am High Lord. Your High Lord. And I’m feeling mighty playful tonight.”

His knee pressed harder against your soaked underwear, and a soft moan slipped past your lips. 

“So play,” you said. 

Rhys struck. 

In a flash, he was sinking to his knees before you. Like you were his High Lady. He lifted the skirts of your gown, throwing them over his head. The sight of him disappearing beneath the fabric might have been amusing had his nose not nudged against your centre, causing you to jerk. 

“Now this,” he yanked your underwear down, blowing a breath against your slick folds, “this is a feast fit for a High Lord.”

His silver, sinful tongue licked a stripe right up you, and your head fell back against the wall, a loud moan breaking free of your throat. Rhys wasted no time in feasting on you. He licked and lapped, his teeth grazing your clit, and you imagined what he must look like beneath your skirts, his face flushed and soaked with your wetness. 

“I love your taste.” He groaned against you, sucking on your clit. “You have no fucking idea how much.”

Perhaps not. But you could hazard a pretty good guess just how much as he damn near devoured you, bringing you to the very brink of bliss. When he heard your moans and breaths hitching in your throat, felt your hips jutting forward, he sank two fingersinto you. 

“Gods,” You gasped, writhing against him, against the wall. Your mind fractured into a thousand tiny pieces as your release slammed into you. Your legs shook.

Rhys licked and pumped all through it, enjoying every moment, every gasp and groan. Only when your walls ceased their contracting around his fingers did he pull away. 

He emerged from beneath the fabric, his hair tousled, his eyes heated. His mouth swollen and glistening. One look at him, and you were fisting your hand around the front of his perfectly-tailored jacket, yanking him to his feet. 

You wanted to taste him just as he had tasted you, but he stopped you from lowering yourself to your knees. His hand grasped your clothed breast, and he kissed you deeply, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue.

You were bored of the dress, now. Pretty as it was, just like his eyes, it was too much of a barrier. You tried to reach behind you for the laces—

“No.” Rhys nipped your lip, staying your hand. “I want you to wear it while I fuck you.”

Your eyes flared. “As you wish.” You glanced down at his lips. “High Lord.”

A guttural groan escaped him, and the tether on his control snapped. The following moments were a confusing, heady circus of heavy kisses and panting into each others mouths, both your hands fighting to undo the laces and buttons of his trousers. As soon as they were loosened enough, he was shoving them to the floor. 

“I think about you, you know.” Rhys said, hissing between his teeth as you wrapped your hand around his length. “I come to the thought of you. How do you manage to make a mess out of me without even being there?”

“Because I wish it to be so.” You squeezed gently. “And so it is.”

“Wicked, wicked creature.”

You silenced him with a kiss as you pumped his cock, savouring the feel of it twitching in your palm, jerking at the very brush of your touch. Rhys emitted a growl, and he was batting your hand away, replacing it with his own.

“If I don’t get inside you,” he dragged the head of his cock through your slick folds, “I think I may bring this city down around us.”

His eyes held a promise to do exactly that, and as the head nudged at your entrance, he grabbed the back of your neck, sliding his lips over yours.

The tip had barely slipped in before thudding footsteps approached, and a knock was pounding on the door. Rhys growled beneath his breath. Ignored it. Pushed into you further. You gasped. 

“Rhys.” Cassian’s voice came from the other side. 

“Not now, Cassian.” Rhys thrust into you, right to the hilt, giving a very audible grunt. 

“You’ve been gone for too long.” The Illyrian general persisted. “People are starting to notice.”

“Not fucking now, Cassian.” 

He pulled out to the tip, his angry words breathed against your mouth. You swallowed them greedily as he thrust right back into you once more, a slight pinch of pain within the pleasure that wrangled a loud moan from your throat.

There was a pause on the other side of the door, a curse — Cassian muttering “Cauldron fucking boil me” — before his footsteps retreated once more.

“Look at you,” you nipped Rhys’s lip. “Keeping your loyal subjects waiting.”

“I am.” He shifted, slamming into you again. “For you.”

Your response because lost amongst the pleasure as Rhys fastened his hand at your hips and lifted you from the floor. 

“Wrap your legs around me,” he commanded deeply. “And hold on.”

You did just that, your legs locking around his waist, your arms around his neck. Rhys pressed his head against your shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin there. 

And he fucked.

“Gods, you feel exquisite.” He groaned, slamming into you harder, faster. “I could spend the rest of my existence buried inside you.”

You moaned, your head falling back. You felt his tongue against the column of your neck. “That seems like a foolish way for a High Lord to spend his time.”

“Nothing about this is foolish.”

He was damn right about that. Words eddied away from your tongues, the room being filled with moans and grunts and gasps and screams. Rhys filled you so utterly, so completely, that you couldn’t imagine anyone else being able to do so. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He grit out, reaching down to circle his thumb against your clit. “I wish you could see yourself right now. Coming undone for me. Coming on my cock.”

“Fuck, Rhys.” You gasped. They were the only words you were able to get out before he sent you hurtling over the edge. 

The fall of your second climax was euphoric, addictive. You were hot and cold, asleep and awake, present and absent, lost somewhere in the ether. Your moans filled the room, perhaps the whole building, the entire city, as your walls clenched his cock hard, his thumb continuing the ministrations to your clit. 

Rhys’s thrusts picked up, the pace frenzied and desperate. You could feel him tightening inside you, hear his breaths and grunts hitching in his throat, the pleasure furrowing his brow. You purposefully clenched around him once more, and he lost it.

“Gods!” He roared, stifling the sound with a hungry kiss to your lips. His hips stilled abruptly, and he was spilling into you, every last drop filling you.

It seemed like ages that he spent moaning and groaning and whining, emitting needy little noises, drawing out a few more languid thrusts despite having emptied himself entirely into you. He was completely at your mercy. Undone by you.

He was your High Lord, and yet tonight, you had ruled him. 

He was still breathing heavily as he pulled out of you. His eyes locked with yours, and a strange, indiscernible expression crossed his face.

“Come back to Velaris with me.” He breathed. 

You snorted. This was all part of the game, the continued teasing. You liked that a lot. 

“Would you give me a crown?” You jibed.

Rhys’s eyes glittered. “Only if I could fuck you in it.”

You smirked, toying with the lapels of his jacket. “And what of your throne? Would you fuck me on there?”

“I would fuck you in every last corner of my city. Over and over until my people have committed our moans to memory.”

Such a poetic, silver-tongued male. Your smirk remained as you let go of him, but he was having none of it. He clutched you against him.

“Come back to Velaris with me.” He repeated. 

You smiled vaguely. “No.” 

“You could live however your heart desires. We could play there, too.”

Your laughter was light, airy. You pushed him off, squirming out of his grasp. “Such pretty words.”

His hand caught yours, and he pressed it to his chest. “Come back to Velaris with me.”

“No.” You said again. 

You smirked at him, and he smirked back. And as you leaned in, he slammed his eyes shut, bracing himself for your kiss. 

You didn’t deliver. You merely swiped your thumb over his lips, erasing the evidence of you ever having been there. 

“Until next time,” you hummed. “High Lord.”

You finally pushed around him, smoothing your dress as you passed, your bare feet padding on the floor. 

“This is inconvenient.” Rhys called as you braced your hand on the door handle. 

You glanced over your shoulder. “What’s that?”

“I am your High Lord. But hearing you call me such makes me desperate to bury myself deep inside you again.”

A soft trill of a laugh left you, and you turned your back on him, opening the door. “Don’t be greedy.”

You stepped out without looking back. That was how this wicked, glorious thing between you went. The best thing you could do to not make it hurt so much when he ignored you before his subjects. Rhys being High Lord hadn’t changed that. Nor had it taken away the mischievous, playful male with honeyed words that you knew him to be. But walking away like that, you had the power.

His laughter followed you down the hall, and you smirked one more.

High Lord, indeed. 

You both knew his control had been obliterated at the first sight of you in that violet dress. 

A gown the exact shade of Rhysand’s eyes.

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[vodika-vibes]

Wait holy shit, anon from 2 seconds ago, hi!, I suddenly had another alpha-17 thought, imagine comforting him after his capture by Ventress and again a few weeks later after being wounded by Grievous. He puts up an impenetrable front but behind it he’s in pain and filled with self doubt and you remind him that it’s all worth it, he’s worth it in the end.

As You Are

Summary: After being tortured by Ventress, and then badly wounded by Grievous, Alpha-17 is confined to a bed under your care. Badly injured and convinced that he’s about to be Decommissioned for being unable to continue his duties, he’s lashing out at everyone trying to help him. Luckily, you’ve never been a shrinking violet.

Pairing: Pre Alpha-17 x F!Reader

Word Count: 775

Warnings: Medical stuff, but not detailed

A/N: I'm still not sure if this was a request, but I turned it into one because it's Alpha, lol.

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“Doctor,” You pause, your hand hovering over the door panel to Alpha-17’s hospital room when you’re stopped by one of your nurses. She’s an older woman, much older than you, and she seems to be fretting over something.

“Something wrong?” You ask.

“It’s…well,” She motions to the door you’re about to pass through, “He’s in a foul mood.”

You arch a single brow, “Well, yes. I would be too if I had been tortured, and then badly wounded. How are his cybernetics?”

“I…well, I’m not sure. He wouldn’t let me check.”

Your other brow raises to join the first, “He wouldn’t let you.”

“No, Doctor. When I tried he snapped at me.”

“So he’s probably in pain then.”

She shrugs, “Perhaps we should leave him to the Kaminoans?”

You shoot her a look dirty enough that she flinches away from you, “Thank you, Nurse. I can take it from here.”

“Uh…Yes, doctor.” You wait until she hurries away before you type in the door code and enter the room. 

“I hear you’re terrorizing my nurses.” You announce as the door slides shut behind you, “Knock it off.”

“I don’t want your medical care.” Alpha bites out, pinning you with a fierce glare.

“Tough shit, you’re getting it anyway.” You walk over to him, and glance at the monitors to check his vitals, “How’s your pain?”

“Awful.”

“I need a number, Alpha.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Thanks, it was covered in medical school between cardiology and pulmonology.”

He shifts in the bed and winces, and you frown at him, “I’m fine.”

“Alpha, you currently have cybernetics running the length of your spine that will allow you to walk. You’re not fine.” You place a gentle hand on his shoulder, knowing that he’s going to hate it, but also knowing that he won’t lash out at you. “Let me take care of you.”

“Why bother?” He grouses, “They’re just going to decommission me.”

You sigh heavily. “They are not.”

He scowls at you, “I’ve known the longnecks my whole life—”

You hold up three fingers, “Point 1, Shaak Ti has forbidden decommissions. Point 2, even if she didn’t, the Kaminoans don’t decommission Alpha class clones. Point 3, even if you ignore those two points, they never would have allowed me to put a multi-million credit cybernetic system in you if they were going to decommission you.”

“...how many credits?”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re not paying for it.” You lightly tap his shoulder, “Anyway, will you let me take a look now?”

“I’m fine.” He repeats.

“Why are you being so difficult?”

A muscle in his jaw clenches, “What if I can’t do my job properly even with the cybernetics?”

“You will. As I understand it, Shaak Ti wants you training ARC Troopers.”

He scoffs, “So I can’t fight anymore.”

“Training the ARCs is an important job, Alpha.” You remind him, “They are the best, after all.” You step around the bed so you’re able to get a look at the cybernetics implanted in his spine.

“It’s not the same.”

“It is important though.” You lightly touch his skin and frown when you see the skin is inflamed. Quickly you put in an order for more antibiotics, and then you scan the cybernetics themselves, “Do you think lesser of Commander Colt for being an ARC trainer?”

He scoffs but doesn’t answer.

You walk back around him so that he’s facing you, “You just have to remember, this is all worth it in the end. It has to be.”

Alpha scans your face for a moment, “No one is going to thank you for this, you know that right?”

“I don’t do this for the accolades, Alpha. I do it because it’s the right thing to do.” You flash a wry smile, “Before all else, do no harm.”

Alpha sighs and sinks his head into his pillow, “I’m not worth all this.”

“You are to me.” You reach out and take his fingers in your hand and you squeeze them gently, “Will you let me help you?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and then he squeezes your hand, “Yeah, I guess. Just you, though.”

“Spoiled.” You chide, “But fine, I’ll make a note that you refuse all medical care unless I’m the one giving it.” You untangle your hand from his and make a note in his chart, “Now. Are you in any pain?”

“Yeah, and my back feels hot.” He admits.

“Thank you, Alpha.” You turn your back to grab some pain medicine.

“I love you.” He mumbles.

“What was that?”

“I said you’re annoying.”

You laugh softly, and favor him with a warm smile, “So are you.”

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