#strands of bronze and gold

[alley-cat777]

Book Review: Strands of Bronze and Gold by: Jane Nickerson

Lucky Beauty. Her beast was a man in beast trappings. Far scarier is a beast in the trappings of a man. Strands of Bronze and Gold by: Jane Nickerson Initial Thoughts: It is not easy to write a retelling of the story of Bluebeard. It is one of those stories where you know how it will end, or at least you will have a vague idea. The way to get the readers invested is to trick them into believing…

[crowlion]

[harrietvane]

So, you can buy one of the books from the 1999 The Mummy at the upcoming March 2024 Propstore auction.

From the listing for Lot #250:

The heavy book is primarily made of resin finished in gold paint to resemble solid gold, and features several intentionally tarnished bronze components. The book's embellished metal spine displays 12 individual strands attached to each internal page. Designed to hold the front cover in place, four metal vulture-like clasps are inserted into the scarab emblems and are adjoined to uniquely designed hinges. Located within the book are 12 resin tablet pages covered in ornate hieroglyph detailing. To open the book, the circular mechanical emblem on the cover must be twisted in an anticlockwise direction, which causes the two clasps on the right side to pop up. To close the book, the two clasps should be pushed down into their corresponding slots and held. The emblem should then be turned clockwise, causing the locks to fix back into place. Intentionally distressed for the production, there are some small chips on the cover. Dimensions: 14.5" x 14.5" x 4.75" (37 cm x 37 cm x 12 cm) Estimate: $50,000 - 100,000

The clasps and lock mechanism are fully functional. BYO key, though.

[avtrbee]

dragon blood

✢summary: daemon doesn’t often love, and when he does he deals with it in the worse ways possible

✢tags: daemon targaryen x reader

✢tw: reader is implied to be a targaryen so typical incest

✢a/n: ik i don’t write things with reader bring preggy and kids because the very thought of it disgusts me, but seeing as the story is set in the game of thrones universe i doubt any woman can refuse to have children especially if they are highborn.

Daemon loves many things. He loves his girls down in Flea Bottom where every whore would approach him like flies to honey at the sight of his white hair for a chance to sleep with a Valyrian prince. He loves his role as the commander of the City Watch and his gold cloaks who are loyal to his demands, he loves the violence, the blood that slicks his hand red when he slits the throat of a criminal or the painful look of a rapist’s face when he cuts his cock off. Daemon loves war, this war for the Stepstones is something he has craved for a long time. The weariness of it, the frustration, the battles and the sword fights- Daemon loves every bit of it.

Daemon loves his ancestry, his Dark Sister who fights with him in every battle, his Caraxes, his pride and joy, whom he rides on to war like a god as cold wind wooshes through his hair in the sky. Daemon also loves his brother, despite popular belief. Viserys who was there from the start, a peacemaker to his violence, someone soft to Daemon’s harsh lines. Viserys, who Daemon bends every rule and law for his attention. Viserys just makes it so…hard to love him sometimes.

Viserys has also given Daemon a wife, who he does not love.

Viserys did not realize that Daemon wanted to choose his wife, not to be given another as soon as his previous marriage was annulled. He does not love his wife, but the Lady Y/N Targaryen is far easier to look at than his old bronze bitch. They both have the blood of the dragon in their veins, strumming chaos and fire in their blood, making it enjoyable to bed her. And so Daemon did, over and over again, until her screams rang across the Red Keep, eating his lovely Targaryen wife until she fainted but even then Daemon did not stop- until her peaks were just short shivers, until she was heaving heavily with no thoughts in her head but his name.

Daemon likes the way the court averts their eyes every time he sees his wife, yanking in her hair to expose her neck to him. He likes the way her neck feels in his hands, so soft and delicate, but he likes the sultry gaze Y/N Targaryen gives him more.

There was only one moment where the thought of loving his wife came up in his mind was when he had held his son in his arms, still freshly birthed and red from blood. “Jaehaerys,” she whispered, taking his attention away from the babe to her. “A name of a great king to a great babe.

Daemon merely nodded and drunk in the sight of her. Y/N’s cheeks have sunken and eyes have darkened after long hours of labor. Her hair was tied to her back by a handmaiden in the middle of her labor but some strands had managed to escape. She was wearing nothing but loose robes with no jewelry on her neck or hair, a far cry from the the Lady Y/N Targaryen of the Viserys’ court. Daemon had never seen her so beautiful. And now, she had given him his son.

Before he could even stop himself, Daemon leaned over and pressed a kiss on her sweaty forehead. “Thank you.”

Y/N have him a surprised look.

Perhaps this was it. Perhaps he could stay here, in Dragonstone, with his wife and Jaehaerys without a thought of the world. Perhaps he could love her as he already loves his son. Kings Landing could die and he would not care, but…

Second sons must make a name for themselves, Daemon’s head echoes the words of Corlys Velaryon upon his summons at Driftmark.

Daemon gives Jaehaerys one last kiss before giving him back to his mother. He had ridden Caraxes to the Stepstones by sundown.

-

You had barely even finished your fast when you were suddenly rushed by your handmaidens to dress quickly. “The King has called for an audience, Princess,” said Mhyra, gently guiding you to your vanity as you sit down before it.

Alys, your other handmadien, scurried to you from your closet with a red and black dress in hand. Your eyes squinted on her bold dress of choice. It was one of your ‘strong’ dresses that boasts your house with two dragons on your shoulders while rubies are bejeweled to the embroidered third dragon on the back. “Audience for what?” You asked.

Behind you, more of your ladies in waiting scurry around in a flurry. “Get the Price Jaehaerys!”

You turn at the mention of the prince, watching as three of Jaehaerys’ maids walk briskly out of your chambers. “Wha- what is happening?”

“Prince Daemon has returned with victory from the Stepstones, my lady.” Mhyra answers, as you immediately tense.

You almost fail to hide your displeased grimace.

Within minutes you are dressed in your best dress directly below the Iron Throne as is your right. You watch as the Kings Guard fill Viserys’s court first, then sworn shields, then the lords and ladies of Kings Landing flock to the hall until it was full. Chatter and whispers fill up the hall of the Iron Throne with rumors of Daemon’s victory, Daemon’s defeat, or god forbid- Daemon’s rebellion from the Iron Throne.

From the corner of your eye, you spot Rhaenyra’s platinum head among the chatty crowds. You give her a questioning raise of your eyebrow as she should have been in Dragonstone while she sheepishly smiles in response.

Silence holds the room immediately as Daemon finally walks through the halls. He walks slowly, taking his time like he was strolling through a garden. He is still arogant, it seems. Though the crowd wa already split into two, you think that Daemon was like a shark swimming through schools of fish as the crowds take a step back when he passes by as he walks towards the throne.

The first thing you notice him was he was wearing a crown of white bark held together by a dark strings. You raise your head up to the Iron Throne and almost immediately, Viserys’s purple eyes return your worried gaze.

You turn your head back to the exiled prince. The second thing you notice- his hair. Gone was his flowing white locks of hair that passed by his shoulders. His hair was now sheared short that ends before his nape. He looks as handsome as ever.

Before he can take another step towards the Iron Throne, Daemon is stopped by a sword. The crowd hold their breath as Daemon raises his own sword to the King before dropping it to the ground. “Add it to the chair.”

The sword echoes as it falls to the ground.

“You wear a crown,” starts Viserys, looking down at Daemon with the legendary sword of Aegon the Conquerer rests sheathed on his hands. “You also call yourself king.”

“Once we smashed the triarchy, they named me King of the Narrow Sea,” Daemon shrugs in explanation. A wave of tense anticipation rolls to the shores of Viserys’s court. You do not fail to see the Kingsguard slowly grasp their sheathed swords. Beside you, your own sword shield has moved from your side to your front, ready to defend you if chaos arrives.

You do not blame them, as you yourself had already calculated an escape plan. You would hand Prince Jaehaerys to your shield, and run towards fastest way to the dragonpit to mount your dragon. Lords and ladies flicker their gazes back and forth to the King and his brother, waiting in anticipation of his next words. Would this be a surrender or Daemon’s rebellion?

“But I know that there is only one true King, your Grace,” Daemon’s words were sweet as honey as he kneels in genuflect infront of his brother. Viserys turns to his Otto Hightower in silent contemplation, then he turns his gaze to you.

Viserys cranes his neck to the crowd as he searches for his former Master of Ships. “Where is Lord Corlys?”

“He sailed home to Driftmark.” Answers Daemon, still on his knees.

“Who holds the Stepstones?”

“The tides, the crabs, and 2000 triarchy corpses stakes to the sand to warn those who might follow.”

Viserys descends down the steps of the Iron Throne and takes Daemon’s wooden crown. He looks at it in discontent before passing it to one of his Kingsguard, as it pales in comparison to his own crown and all the riches House Targaryen has to offer. “Rise.”

Viserys holds a hand to Daemon’s shoulder as a fond look appears on his face. As if he was weak to his brother’s touch, Daemon’s head immediately falls to Viserys’s shoulders.

The court finally breathes free as a thundering applause echoes across the hall. Any rumors of Daemon’s rebellion has now faded away to praises of ‘King Viserys’s mercy’ and the brothers’ love for one another.

But the clapping soon faded as soon as Daemon soon removed himself from Viserys’ loving embrace to face you.

“My lady,” he starts, and the crowd goes silent again. “I have won the war at the Stepstones for you and out King.” Daemon walks to with a smile that you can’t decide is charming or apologetic. Your face is stone as you remember how Daemon left so abruptly, the ladies that whisper at your back in court, the pitying stares Jaehaerys gets when he walks down the halls of the Red Keep.

You see Daemon’s eyes pan to you, then down to your dress to look at the boy who looks so much like his father, who has been clutching your skirts like it was a shield. For a moment, you see Daemon soften infront of his son like he did three years ago when he held him first.

“And who might this little prince be?” He breathes so reverently that you have never heard Daemon sound so gentle before. There was no question as to who the father was. Jaehaerys’s Valyrian looks hav attested to that. Jae’s tiny fists curl tighter around your dress as Daemon kneels infront of him.

“I’m Jaehaerys,” came the little voice from behind your skirts. Normally, Jae would be a cheerful child, a far cry from the shy on that Daemon sees now. Jae is a ball of restless energy, eager to please and talk. But this stranger is someone else.

“And do you know who I am, little Jaehaerys?” Daemon’s head tilt at the child.

Immediately, you regret telling your decision to tell Jaehaerys’ stories of Daemon- of his brave acts in battle, and how he is strong as he is brave. You remember his sad words as Jae asks why Daemon isn’t here when his Aunt Rhaenyra’s father is with her like how his cousins Laena and Laenor has Lord Corlys by their side. You regret telling him that he has sadly left to defend the realm when in reality he had left Jaehaerys as soon as he was born at the first mention of a war.

“You’re my father.” Jae answers bravely. “Isn’t that right, mother?” Your hand instinctively moves to rest on Jae’s head as he looks up to you in confirmation. You look down at Jaehaerys’s purple eyes that looks at you to innocently, but you also feel the gaze of hundreds of people at court.

A nod from you was all it took before a wide smile appeared on his face. His shyness was tripped away as he let go of your skirts and jumped to Daemon’s arms with no fear. Applause filled the room again as the court adored the sight of a loving father-son reunion, paying the scorned wife no mind.

if you like this, check out my masterlist!! as always, please don't hesitate to leave your throughts through comments. they keep me going :))

[dxckgrxsonx]

The dick pic storyline is driving me absolutely feral, I need more, my love. Please, I am on my knees begging you 🙇‍♀️ 🙏

im chewing my laptop and maybe committing a few crimes because of the feelings. they're going to fuck eventually i swear!!

**

Sunlight yawns bright and weightless over the horizon, dawn dappled in lazy diluted watercolour brushstrokes.

Bronze scatters across the sky, endless wavelengths of vibrant colour sliding seamlessly into the other; gold hooks into blue and smudges talented fingers into the soft line of pink.

It’s been a long time since you’ve seen the blinding curve of the sun in the morning. You’ve missed the quiet plethora of colour. The silence. The absence of responsibility.

Watching the dawn break over the horizon is easy, it’s beautiful; makes you want to swallow the world whole.

You think of Jason and how sometimes, when you really make him smile, you get the same endless feeling in your chest.

“I don’t remember you being here when I went to bed.” Jason rumbles as soon as he spots you standing by the window, voice thick and lazy with sleep. He rubs a hand through his hair, confusion thumbing gently against the tired lines of his face. “More importantly, I can’t remember the last time you were up this early. Everything okay? Do you need me to beat someone up for you?”

Your smile is automatic, reflective.

“I don’t need you to beat anyone up for me. I can do it myself.” Jason wanders forwards, steps eerily silent, and grabs you from behind, tucks you soft and warm against his chest. His fingers interlock against your stomach, trapping you in place, and you tip your head back to look at him.

Jason meets your gaze and doesn’t let go. It’s almost unnerving having his undivided attention. You find that you’re suddenly unsure.

It feels like the ground is shifting under your feet, feels like a fracture, a planetary faultline; like if you take one wrong step the floor will simply open right up, leave you falling into a hole with no bottom.

The look on his face is sleepy and thoughtful, you see him swallow.

“Just because you can, doesn’t mean you have to.” Jason says after a careful silence. Pressing his mouth to the crown of your head he mumbles into your hair, “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you safe.”

Your heart swells in your chest and you think of how goddamn lucky you are to have him as your best friend.

“Oh good.” You sigh, relieved. “Because the real reason I’m here is because there’s this spider in my apartment and I think it wants to kill me.”

Jason laughs softly against the top of your head and then ducks down to tuck his face into the crook of your neck, “I’ll get my gun.”

“Breakfast first?” You choke, shivering at the feel of his lips so close to your pulse point.

“You just want free food from me don’t you?” Jason grins, teeth scraping the thin, sensitive skin under your ear. Your stomach flips, excitement snaking thick down your spine. Part of you thinks he knows exactly what he’s doing, and thinks he’s doing it on purpose.

“Well,” You admit, “I do love your cooking.”

Shuffling out of his hold when the sensation of his mouth against your neck becomes unbearable, you turn and finally settle your attention firmly on the chaotic mess of Jason’s hair. Strands stick up at odd angles from where he’s slept, soft curls knotted together on the side of his head above his ear. He looks dishevelled.

He looks unbearably domestic.

You feel suddenly fond, maybe even warm. But not in the same way you get when he sends you a video, or a photo. It’s different. It’s softer. Almost like stumbling into a patch of warm sun when you’re just starting to feel cold.

Unexpected. Comforting.

Jason yawns and stretches his arms above his head. The thick curve of his biceps catch your eye and you’re reminded of his strength, of how utterly big he is.

The sleeves of his t-shirt pull tight over the muscle and there’s something almost unhinged tugging at your ribs, wanting you desperately to sink your teeth into him.

A relieved little groan slips out of his pretty mouth when his shoulder cracks and you respond with an almost silent whine.

Glancing down you watch as his shirt starts to ride up, exposing a thin strip of warm skin. The sight of his tummy makes you lightheaded, makes you press your tongue to the backs of your teeth.

Dragging the tips of your fingers over his exposed stomach Jason sucks in a sharp breath. It’s almost like a flinch with the way his entire abdomen tightens up, muscles preparing for a hit you would never land.

It reminds you that not everyone touches him with the intent of gentle, almost innocent exploration. Even worse: it reminds you that the action is so well ingrained in his head that he’s been hit there more than once; that he’s been hit enough that every touch there is expected to bring pain.

It fills you with a quiet sort of hurt.

It’s the same hurt you get when you catch sight of bruises scattering dark and heavy over his skin. When you see his knuckles swollen and discoloured. When you watch him move out of the corner of your eye and see him wince because he’s pulled at a still healing wound.

Endless. Agonising.

The pads of your fingers sweep slowly against his skin, tracing the dips and grooves of his navel. You brush lightly over multiple thick, angry lines of raised scar tissue and Jason makes a small, desperate noise in the back of his throat—the healed skin horribly sensitive—and you can’t ignore the way you ache between your legs.

There’s the slightest brush of his happy trail against the pad of your pointer finger and you follow it down until you meet the elastic of his sweatpants. Tucking your finger just underneath the waistband Jason’s abdomen flexes and he quickly clears his throat, making you look up.

His cheeks are flushed.

You realise a little too late that he’s not wearing anything underneath his sweats.

“Can I put my arms down now?”

“Only if you make me waffles.” You reply, removing your palm from his tummy. “And let me use your shower. And also maybe take a little nap with me.”

Jason sniggers, amused. “Anything else?”

Your eyes slant to his mouth.

You think of the nights spent having his head in your lap. Fighting over who gets the last bite of food. Playing hide and seek in the middle of the supermarket because it makes him laugh. You think of the silly way you send each other stupid selfies. The way he plays pranks on you when he’s bored.

You think of how when he’s hurt and bleeding out somewhere in Gotham he calls you, says your name in that quiet, revenant way he does when he’s scared; almost like calling your name will save him.

It would be so easy.

“Uhh–no, that’s it.” You manage to get out, voice thick, distracted. “But I'll let you know if I think of anything else.”

**

[namidew]

Here’s the next part of the design concepts for my story, this time featuring Athena, Ares, and Aphrodite !!

Normally in depictions of Ares and Athena, they would wear armor, but I drew them without it because I wanted to try to incorporate their other motifs !!

Details below for design ramblings !!

Athena - The design of her face and the shape of her hair combined is meant to have a faintly owlish resemblance, her expression stern to represent her domain of wisdom and connection war. For my story, she’d be a bit more steely and essentially logical, showing more of wisdom than knowledge by her actions being based on past experiences. Her peplos is in reference to greek pottery with its black and orange, and her epiblema is in reference to her birth from Zeus’s head (the version which I am going with for my story) with it weaved to resemble the brain from a side view on either side. Lastly, the shield on her back is the aegis (or aigis?), which in this version, is a shield. Her having a shield but no spear represents defense and more “distance” from battle (despite hoplite soldiers using both) to represent strategy, and Ares having a spear but no shield represents offense and closer proximity in fights, thus closer to see the uglier side of war: the bloodshed and death.

Ares - He and Athena have complimenting details in their spear and shield, and in their color palettes. Both of their weapons are bronze, but appear brown due to the shading. Both have very fiery colored clothing, showing their connection of war despite their differences. Said differences include Ares’s (at least, within my story) tendency for impulsiveness and better emotional intelligence. He has scars not because his injuries didn’t fully heal, but because he (within my story) thinks they’re cool. His near-black, dark red(ish) chiton and hair represent blood and death, both common on the battlefield. his himation is red for blood, with orangey details for the metal of weapons or metallic taste of blood, and in resemblance of vulture wings. He has a more boyish appearance in reference to the young age in which Ancient Greece (as well as many other civilizations and modern day countries) could draft men to war.

Aphrodite - Her hair is red due to its perceived beauty in Ancient Greece and its rarity within the global population. Several strands of her hair are shaped like hearts. Her face is meant to resemble a dove, with eyes blue like the sea. The pearlescent jewelry is in resemblance of the sea foam from which she was born (the version I’m using), her ionian chiton colored in resemblance of the sea behind the sea foam (and funnily enough, it is sea foam in color.) In addition, her necklaces resemble the pattern of feathers (dove) or scales (sea theme.) Her hair color is exactly the same reddish-orange shade as the details on Ares’s himation. If you look closely, there is a very faint heart shape within the shading of her forehead. A consistent element in my designs of the Olympians drawn so far is a metallic element, as seen in Apollo, Hermes, and Dionysus having matching gold jewelry, Artemis having silver hair bands, and Ares and Athena having bronze war gear. I’m not entirely sure what Aphrodite’s jewelry is made of, perhaps pearl, or perhaps white opal? Maybe the metallic design element will be a “children of Zeus” design choice.

Thank you if you’ve reading all this rambling, it’s much longer this time. All in all, I’m fairly happy with the designs of these three, but now I have to go back and add more details to the other designs to balance it out a bit. Anyway, if you have any ideas or suggestions for future designs, please do tell me !!

[no-name-publishing]

El Dorado and Peregrine by @nigeltde-fic

Very excited to finally have these two incredible stories on my shelves, and grateful to the author for having written them. Some extra glamour shots and writing below the cut like always

The bookcloth is plain linen bookcloth that I've painted with gold and bronze fabric paint and set with an iron. I struggled for a while to decide what materials this should be done with, and ran some experiments that all kind of blew up in my face lol. Sometimes the tried and true is such for a reason.

The top endbands are sewn with a single strand of satin finish cotton sewing thread, around a worsted weight cotton yarn core coated with PVA glue. The bottom, 'golden' endbands are sewing with a single strand of yellow polyester thread, so that it can be kinda shiny looking.

And a cheeky little video to show the insides, including original art. The fonts used were Century for the main body, and Calfine for the decorative. Thanks for lookin!

[violetpixiedust]

based on this sinful gif set of joe keery ౨ৎ

making out with older!businessman!steve in his study, straddling his lap as he sits atop his herman miller chair, the mahogany door to the cozy room is locked shut. his facial hair is slightly grown out, longer than usual. dusting across the mature angles of his jaw and upper lip like flecks of bronze and gold, illuminated by the amber light of the emerald desk lamp. you giggle softly as the coarse hairs tickle you when he nuzzles the angled bridge of his sun-kissed nose against the perfume scented crook of your neck, large hands splayed behind your back as he pushes you closer to him. the gritty scent of tobacco and aged whisky envelopes you as he sighs hungrily, intoxicated, before his pearly teeth sink into the silky skin of your racing pulse point. he had been imaging the delicious jump of your heartbeat between his canines all throughout the charity gala he had hosted earlier that night- before he came home to you. all throughout his speeches, various introductions, countless firm hand shakes, one too many toasting’s of champagne. a soprano gasp tears through your bared throat, manicured fingers running up the rogue buttons of his patterned dress shirt, before meeting the smattering of curly chest hair from where it peaks out between his wide open collar, decorated with a gold chain that glints with every breath he takes. steve’s raspy grunt echoes between you two as your acrylic nails rake between the long, glossy strands of his chestnut / silver hair, scratching his scalp idly before playfully tugging on the thick roots at the nape of his neck. his large, calloused hands reach below your pleated skirt, squeezing the petal soft skin of your behind that escapes from the lacy panties you were gifted last week, relishing in your responsive squirm. steve had bought them for you while he was away on business, along with another twenty pieces just like it. baby pink and handmade in italy. you moan melodically, and steve swears it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. beating the endless symphonies he’s had to sit through in his fourty-five years around the sun by a landslide. his muscled forearms are on display, sleeves rolled up below wrinkled elbows. the bracelet he had gifted you for your most recent birthday, a delicate 14k gold piece encrusted with your birthstone, meets the genuine leather strap of his classic cartier watch as he lifts your hand in his, placing a firm kiss to the pulse of your wrist. a searing gentleness. a trembling moan escapes your strawberry chapstick coated lips as one of his long pointer fingers outlines the expensive panty hem that showcases the delightful curve of your bum, tracing the line all the way down to where it hugs just outside of your trembling mound. his slightly chapped lips pull up into a wicked smirk, before they smother your sweet sounds in a bruising kiss. the elder man unconsciously rolls his starchy dress pant covered crotch against your ever slicking heat, almond toned eyes practically rolling back into his skull at the delicious friction. your tongues meet. the tangy taste of lavender honey that emits from your mouth prompts him to sigh longingly, his wedding ring cold against your cheek as his left hand cups your angelic face. you languidly pull away from his dominating lips, a trail of saliva connecting you two as steve moans breathily at the sultry sight, attempting to torturously roll his hips up into yours once more. your plush pout forms a perfect ‘o’ shape much to his carnal longing, letting the soft wetness of your tongue brush the underside of his ring finger, before you enclose your mouth around the thick digit skillfully. you watch with glazed doe eyes as the almond ring of steve’s iris’s disappear within the blown ink of his pupils at your sinful actions. with a sharp ‘pop’ the gold band comes loose, sliding up his finger with the tight force of your warm little mouth, dizzying him with desire as you carelessly drop the offending piece of jewellery atop the imported carpet below you two. forgotten for now. you were only the babysitter after all… :)

[bokutizer]

early mornings with them.

Includes : Kaeya, Thoma, Ayato Tags : fem!reader, fluff

kaeya : it’s bizarre. seeing this witty, charming man look so relaxed, at ease, and so... quiet beside you. it's bizarre having him lying next to you but not hearing the suave voice of his that never fails to warm your cheeks. speaking about warmth, he tends to run hot during the night, which leads to you often catching yourself unconsciously pulling the blanket a little higher over his naked torso. the morning sun casts a light shimmer over him, the messy blue strands look brighter, his bronze skin taking on a caramel like hue, and his long lashes move with every little twitch of his eyes. only archon knows what is going on inside his head, let alone his dreams. yet as soon as those eyes blink open and that usual smirk graces his lips, your soft expression turns into rolling eyes and pouty lips, masking the rapidly beating heart inside your chest.    "like what you see, princess?"

thoma : it’s like having an overly large lap dog sleeping beside you. finding sleep without being physically close to you is for him nearly impossible. he doesn’t care whether his arms are wrapped around you, his hand is holding yours, or whether your leg is limply thrown over his waist; he needs to feel you. knowing that you, his love, his friend, his family, his everything, are near him is enough to let any uneasy thoughts and doubts disappear. and once he wakes up, it’s like experiencing the sunrise for a second time. blonde hair shining like gold and a smile so warm that not even the sun itself could compete with it. sleeping with thoma is all sleepy smiles and giggles, shy kisses, and tender words of encouragement for the upcoming day. sleeping with thoma is giving each other comfort and refuge as well as strength and energy for any approaching hardships. "good morning, beautiful. did you sleep well?"

ayato : a man of politics and justice, so reliable, so independent, so strong. and yet seeing his light blue hair softly fall along his temples and frame his exceptionally pretty face, his skin as light as porcelain, and the dark circles beneath his eyes that could never make him look anything less than maybe a little more human; you know that he'll soon have to get up and pursue his duties. so all you can do is gently wrap his arm around your waist while burying your face in his neck, savouring this tranquil moment with him. his busy life has taught the both of you to enjoy each other's company as much as possible. so when you’re slipping way too quickly back into dreamland, you don't notice his hold on you tighten a tiniest bit, don't feel his lips against the top of your head, and don't hear his words. "i'm missing you already."

[klance-dreams]

Okay but please imagine Keith’s reaction to seeing Lance after he’s finally spent some time at the beach again? In his natural element, bronzed like a literal god, burnished from the sun? freckles like constellations?? Lance with wavy, curly salt water-hair, eyes soft and relaxed.

+ Keith meeting back up with the paladins after too long away with the blade. 👀

He loves space of course, but even after his time in the quantum abyss, he’s still not used to the way all warmth & body heat was constantly leached away. Despite his memories of cursing his time in the relentless summer heat of the shack, he’s found himself beginning to miss the hot scorch of the desert sun against his skin.

The blade gave Keith a rare opportunity for downtime that somehow happenes to align with an impromptu holiday/break that Allura has planned for the paladins on a sunny, earth-like planet filled with tropical islands, flora & fauna.

To Keith’s surprise, Lance was the one to call and invite him to join them; sunshine already infused in his voice at the idea of seeing a beach again.

For Keith, the mere thought of getting to see Lance in his natural element? He wouldn’t miss it for anything.

He promises to Lance on the spot (he would promise Lance all the moons and stars if he could) to meet him there later in the day.

When he gets there, everyone has already been enjoying the sun & surf for hours. Pidge is sunburned and squinting at the glare against her datapad, glasses reflecting at a sleeping hunk whose legs have been covered by a crude sand castle. He’s spooning a large collection of fruits that look strangely similar to the ones Keith remembers from earth.

Shiro and Coran seem to be playing a complicated Altean beach game that Keith intends to avoid; Allura lays out on the sand, the mice resting in the shadow of her hair.

Keith thinks someone might have called out a greeting to him, but he can’t be sure, because the second he sees Lance? All thougts leave him, head empty.

It’s too soon to blame the redness in his cheeks on the sun, but he can feel how hot his face has gotten anyway.

Lance is sitting in the sand, waves lapping his ankles. His hair is wild & curling behind his ears from the salt water breeze.

The sight of him alone is enough to warm the cold ache Keith has been feeling.

Sand sticks to the bronzed slope of his back, glittering like flecks of gold, effervescent in the bright sun for Keith’s eyes to follow.

His shoulders are broad and already tanned and freckled where Keith knows his own would be red and sore.

His eyes sweep over the scar on Lances back, and the ones on his arms and sides that Keith wasn’t there to protect him from.

But here? With the blue of the ocean to rival his eyes? Lance looks untouchable.

Looks like a god, burning bright and warm and full of life, and when he turns around at the sound of Keith’s name being called out, Keith’s breath catches in his throat because this sight?

This is one he got to see in the quantum abyss. It was one of the visions into his future that he held onto like a lifeline, like a treasure.

The image of Lance’s smile, a true joyful smile, playing behind Keith’s eyelids and keeping him sane on the worst of those nights spent stranded in space.

Lance, eyes dancing bright and smile brighter as his wide mouth forms Keith’s name on a joyful laugh and he hops up to throw his arms around Keith in a hug that feels like /home/ in a way Keith hadn’t known before Lance.

For one delirious moment, the déjà vu is so strong that he’s afraid he and Krolia never made it back at all. That they were still stuck out there in the cold emptiness of the abyss. The way the vision blends with the Lance he has in front of him makes Keith want to hold on tight and never let go.

Especially when Lance leans back and their eyes meet and lock, electric.

Keith still hasn’t even said a word, but Lance only smiles brighter and knocks their foreheads together.

Says, “hey samurai, it’s been too long”

One traitorous hand drifts up against Keith’s will to trace the new freckles dotting Lance’s cheeks, which flush the lightest pink at the attention or maybe the intensity of Keith’s gaze as he floats into Lance’s orbit, pulled to him like the moon to the sun.

Lance’s leans into the hand Keith cups against his cheek, and finally, finally their lips meet; Keith’s cold and chapped and Lance’s, warm and soft, tasting of the ocean.

When he has to pull back to catch his breath, he finally murmurs back a warm and gravely, “hey sharp shooter,” lips pulled up into a crooked grin and eyes tracking the way Lance melts into him at the nickname like always.

They stay like that for a while, catching up on what they’ve both been up to when Lance says offhand, “hey where’s Kosmo?”

Before Keith can answer, they’re both knocked into the surf by 200 pounds of excited space wolf.

Keith wants to be mad, but the way Lance pops up from the water sputtering makes him grin through the hair plastered to his forehead.

Lance takes one look at Keith, waist deep and fully clothed down to the fingerless gloves, mullet drenched, and bursts out laughing at the sight

and Keith can’t even be mad. He pretends to be, crossing his arms and ‘sulking’. He tries to blow his bangs up and out of his eyes before he remembers it won’t work and that sends Lance into tears. Keith sits back watches Lance laugh for a minute, committing the sight to memory.

He’s gonna get revenge on Lance for laughing, but first he needs to level the playing field.

Lance’s laughter slowly winds down as he watches Kosmo run off to greet the other paladins, laughing again when the wolf shakes water all over Allura and Hunk.

While Lance was distracted, Keith had taken his shirt and gloves off, tossing them back onto dry sand and adding his soaked jeans to the pile for good measure.

Keith was slicking his hair back from his face when Lance turned back toward him and froze at the sight, suspiciously quiet.

// …tbc? transferring twitter treads. original thread here!

[renlyslittlerose]

Heartbeat Drives You Mad - Chapter 22

Tags: Alternate Universe - 1980s / Getting Together / Explicit Sexual Content / Depression / Grief/Mourning / Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism / Older Man/Younger Man / Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms / Loneliness / Anakin Skywalker in Booty Shorts and Tube Socks / Codependency/ This Fic is a Horny Depressing Mess / Just Like Obi-Wan Summary: Anakin was wearing his customary shorts - blue with yellow banding today - and a cut-off shirt. He was dark all over, skin an even deeper shade of brown that made him look like liquid honey and bronze, supple yet sturdy. The sun had bleached his hair, bringing out the blond tucked away in the brown strands, curls on top of curls shimmering like spun gold. He leaned back next to Obi-Wan, hot against his side and smelling of cigarettes, clean sweat, and the sun. — After a devastating loss that Obi-Wan can’t seem to recover from, he decides to pack up his life and move to a small lazy town on the outskirts of a desert. Depressed and alcoholic, Obi-Wan figures fucking his pain away with the pretty nineteen year old neighbour boy is a good idea. Turns out, it is anything but a good idea.

Thank you to @tideswept for the moodboard 💖

[thoughtsafterdark]

Veni, Vidi, Vici

She exists, breathes, quirks her neck to the side, thinks, breathes. Breathes. Breathes. Soft air escaping baby pink lips like a moan, floating away and away. Her breaths are the kind you dream of. The deep contended sighs that carry you to sleep on a soft bed, toes burrowing into cold sheets. The peach haze memory of flaring nostrils in the backseat of your parents car on a late night trip when you were 3, the sound of rain pattering on the roof. The weight of your mother's arms around you as she carried you to bed. The comforting voice of your father in the next room.

And I think to myself, oh to be dead. To slash at my jugulars and pour myself all over her. To bathe her and tarnish her, pale white gooseflesh turned red and sticky, thighs matted together. To lie dying and festering at her feet, to rot and fill the grove with heat as her tears water my grave. To feed the nightcaps and worms until my nitrates become sweet nitrogen and at last she can breathe me in too. To be on the inside of her chest, rising and falling like the rolling tide. Pillowy and graceful like that of a swan. To mark her and paint in her a tapestry of indecency. An insult to the virgin goddesses she reminds me of. To love is to destroy. To collapse a wave function. We cannot see without touching, touch without seeing. Our hungry hungry eyes grow teeth.

She sits against windowsills, legs tucked underneath her, making notes, sipping coffee. I take her in before she notices me and the cold glass silence around her breaks. She is so gloriously mundane it exerts a kind of regal stillness. Her hair is chocolate brown, tinged with bronze. Like salted caramel on my tongue. Like straw spun to gold by cursed princesses in tales of old. She ties it into an effortlessly messy bun, stray strands framing her face, she is running late but is still put together. She is organised chaos. She is that girl. The one we all wanted to be, with the alarm and the watch and the bag and the car, the sports captain who eats pizza over the sink by the window. The one men want and we are meant to hate. She is voyeurism made flesh. She exists to be seen, a walking wet dream.

What kind of monster am I, who loves like a man. The way Orpheus loved Eurydice. Faithless and desperate.

She is steely moonlight across a grey green plain. Tendons and muscles gleaming, lithe and strong and leaping. Teeming with ichor. Amber eyes burning with resolve. Leather bow and quiver hitched over a shoulder as she glides across creaks, crouches in the underbrush. Nimble as a doe, fierce as a lioness. The huntress with the unforgiving gaze and the unwavering arrows. The one who skewers men and whispers to wildlife amongst the pines. Who nurses a tender and loyal heart. Artemis the eternal maiden, voice of the wilderness and protector of the young.

As I sit here on another grey drizzling morning in the hum of traffic I wonder if you remember. The sound of splashing water and girlish laughter, tangled limbs in freshwater lakes, honey sweet kisses like freshly pressed olive oil and figs. The crunch of red earth between toes and the hard rock cliffs at Ephesus, the glittering aquamarine of the Aegean below as we run and chase and hunt and spar until the copper tang burns our lungs.

I look at you now as you drive and I know that I would clutch at your putrid corpse and tell it stories of my pain, until my mother and comrades dragged you from me until I dragged your murderer three times around his own city until his father begged me for mercy until they mixed our ashes and laid us to rest on the hill.

Do you see it with the clarity I do? Our story already written? I know how this will end, as it has a thousand times before. But I wait for you every morning anyway, on the curb we've agreed on. I get into the car, I watch you drive. And every day I lose a little more of myself to the thing we will become .

[adore-laur]

FOXTAIL

— two lovers being blissfully domestic while living in the countryside of france 🪴

——

LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE

The melodic humming of his wife faintly echoes throughout the greenhouse kitchen, her voice hidden under the more pronounced noises of glass jars clinking together and the faucet running.

As Harry hunches over the granite countertop and gingerly trims the miniature bonsai tree he proudly helped grow, his ears tune into Nadine's movements. He's acutely aware of the soft padding of her slippers against the tiles and the slight graze of her robe against his sweater vest whenever she passes by. It's as if she's some soundless angel who doesn't like to make her presence known yet can't help but enthrall everyone with her heavenly poise.

He will often glance up while snipping away with his garden shears and follow her figure as she gracefully floats around the kitchen and pickles various vegetables that will eventually be donated to the orphanage on the outskirts of town. The cucumber she's currently slicing is from one of his many gardens on the property. They are Harry's pride and joy. He plants abundant seeds every season, then tends to the soil and sprouts until he can harvest them. Their primary use is to be thrown into either jars or on dinner plates, resulting in whatever his wife wishes to cleverly concoct.

"Nadi, can you please fill this up for me?" Harry asks, fidgeting with the fragile pump of the plant mister in his hand.

In a second, she's by his side, carefully taking the empty glass bottle from his grasp. "Hot or cold water?"

He smiles dotingly at her lack of knowledge about succulent maintenance. She has more expertise relating to culinary uses for fruits, vegetables, herbs, and spices, while he takes care of the botanical aspect.

"Lukewarm since we've had sunny weather lately," he replies as he checks how dry the compacted soil in the pot is. "Thank you."

She nods and heads to the sink, turning the handle to the left. Harry pauses what he's doing and admires how her smooth, bronzed skin and silky black hair glimmer in the natural light pouring through the greenhouse panels. He often finds himself wanting to splay his hands on every part of her warm body and let his ceaseless love seep into her, sweet and absorbent like caramel drizzle on a dessert. Whenever she innately reacts to his touch, it melts him into a puddle of molasses the same color as the deep pools of her irises. And when the sun hits her brown eyes just right, he becomes entranced. She's his saccharine daydream.

Once Harry is satisfied with the trimming of his beloved bonsai, he moves on to the second task he planned to finish this morning. A woven basket sits beside him on the floor, holding a bundle of eucalyptus and myrtle leaves he broke off from the trees in the front yard. He had already cut a piece of gold wire to form the brittle blades around it, but he didn't know where to go from there. He wants to make a leaf crown for Nadine. However, he's never attempted a crown with leaves before, only with the lily of the valley and jasmine flowers he grows by the windowsill in their bedroom. The two white blossoms represent femininity and sensuality, a perfect blend of his wife's soul.

"You are standing so still, lover," Nadine says, setting down the filled plant mister. "What are you doing? What are those leaves for?"

"You ask too many questions," he teases with a prolonged kiss on her forehead.

She frowns halfheartedly. "Laisse-moi entrer dans ton jardin de secrets."

Harry's neck flushes from the way she effortlessly switched languages. "Seulement si tu me laisses entrer dans ton pot de secrets," he murmurs against her temple, jerking his chin toward her glass jars, all neatly arranged in a row.

"I'm making pickled cucumber and carrot salad for lunch since I have leftover scraps," she says enthusiastically.

Running his fingertips through her hair, he twirls the short strands and says, "I'm making a leaf crown for you."

"Why?"

"Why not? Are you worried it won't be as good as the ones the kids make you at the orphanage?"

Nadine doesn't answer and just stands on her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around his shoulders to pull him down for a slow kiss. Harry exhales blissfully and relaxes in her hold, placing his hands on her waist and moving his mouth against hers. He could kiss her lychee-colored lips for eternity if possible.

When she separates her lips from his with a wet pop, Harry begins swaying her to the mellifluous lullaby from the summer birds and wind chimes outside the greenhouse. He grabs her left hand and interlocks his fingers with hers, his other hand tenderly cupping her cheek. A sunrise dance happens frequently, whether it's in the kitchen, bedroom, or garden. Most of the time, they don't even involve music or the ambiance of nature; just their hushed voices and synchronized heartbeats fill the space.

"Are you planting anything new today?" Nadine asks quietly.

Harry smears another kiss on her lips. "Just some arugula and parsley."

What she doesn't know is that yesterday, while she took a trip down to the valley by herself, he planted her a bed of foxtail lilies in a concealed flower bed behind the tall grape trellises. He precisely calculated when they would bloom into tapered pink and yellow spikes so they could be her birthday surprise when late spring rolled around.

Nadine tilts her head to the side and smiles dreamily. "Can I watch you do it?"

"I'll let you if you smoke with me in the bath later."

She raises her thick eyebrows. "You want to get high before noon?"

"My body will be aching from crouching, and I want to relax before your family visits tomorrow."

"Of course, mon chéri."

Harry hums contently and strokes the pad of his thumb across her plump bottom lip. "Let me finish your crown, and then you can ogle at me in the garden, oui?"

——

"Sacré bleu, Nadi!" Harry shouts dramatically when she walks through the patio door, completely nude.

Her curves and soft skin look ravishing under the European sky, and the sunbeams gloriously cast upon every stretch mark and blemish. He notices she's wearing his misshapen leaf crown from where he sits naked in the outdoor bathtub, reading yesterday's newspaper with a lit joint perched between his fingertips. Thankfully, no neighbors can see them in their vulnerable state since the backyard is closed off with a high wooden fence shaded by clustering chestnut and poplar trees.

Nadine gasps and kneels next to the tub, stealing the joint from him and taking a quick hit. She beautifully exhales two rings of smoke before saying, "You started without me."

"Pardonne-moi, ma reine," Harry says lowly as he flings the newspaper onto the grass and grabs her wrist to help her into the warm water. He plucked some red petals off the nearby rose bush to let them float on the surface, and he also brought out some bars of natural soap that Nadine had handmade with excess fruit peels and herbs. She's craftier than him, but he thinks they make a good pair. He grows the plants, and she makes use of them.

Nadine's back meets his bare chest, and every muscle in his body instantly eases with the pure and healing touch of her skin. He spent hours in the sunlit garden planting autumn seeds and sneakily tending to the foxtail lilies, so the tendons in his shoulder blades feel inflamed and his hands are decorated with new calluses. The dirt under his fingernails had been scrubbed clean while he waited for Nadine, yet there were still scrapes and aching muscles he wanted her to take care of. He's not embarrassed to admit that he likes to be babied by her.

"I brought your razor and shaving cream," Nadine tells him, setting the two objects on the edge of the tub.

Harry's lips downturn with confusion. "For you or for me?"

She turns in his arms to face him, bending her legs crisscross applesauce style. "You, miteux."

"Translation, please."

"Scruffy," she whispers, like it's confidential.

A whiny laugh escapes his mouth. "I thought you liked it," he drawls, stroking circles onto her hips.

"It's too itchy when you kiss me." She takes another hit before passing the joint over to him.

"Like this?" he asks before leaning forward to rub his cheek against hers and puckering multiple kisses against her skin, making a high-pitched laugh bless his ears.

"Oui, like that!" she expresses through giggles and a wide smile.

He lightly nips her jaw and murmurs, "What do I get in return for letting you shave my face?"

Nadine chews on the inside of her cheek, her dark eyes dancing over his entire body. "I think," she says while placing a wet rose petal on his collarbone, "you know exactly what I'll give you."

Harry swallows, his eyes fluttering shut. "Is that right, my darling?"

"That's right. You need to behave right now, though, or I might nick you."

"What a shame that would be, hmm?" His hands flex on her hips. "Can't go ruining my pretty face."

She cups water in her palms and pours it over the petal on his skin until it delicately falls off. "Your reflection in the bathwater is turning you into Narcissus."

"That's funny, considering your crown makes you look like Echo," he says, tucking a loose eucalyptus leaf under the wire. Are you going to start repeating everything I say?"

"No, but I'm obsessed with you like she was.

Who knew mythology could be so erotic? Harry feels his cock throb and harden as he softly kisses her neck and mumbles, "Such a sweet girl."

Nadine has an amount of self-control beyond comprehension because she suddenly scoots back and picks up the razor and container of shaving cream without another word. She begins applying a layer of the foamy cream to his scruff, spreading it on his neck and Adam's apple.

After inhaling from the joint, Harry blows the smoke toward the afternoon sky and casually rests his arms on the tub's edge as his wife shaves the stubble above his lips. She looks adorable with a concentrated furrow to her eyebrows and her tongue poking out slightly. Her body leans close to him, the curve of her breasts touching his chest and the tip of her nose grazing his own every so often. Her unoccupied hand tilts his chin to the side so she can work on his cheek. The soothing nature of her movements and the warm water engulfing his sore body feel more delightful than the weed that permeates his lungs and senses.

"Don't fall asleep on me, moonflower."

Harry's eyes blink open and blearily focus on her. He didn't realize he nodded off. A lazy smile makes its way onto his face when he sees her eyes rimmed with red from the joint she apparently took for herself while he wasn't paying attention.

"Tu me rends le bon genre de somnolent," he replies with a slur of impeding tiredness.

Nadine washes off the remnants of shaving cream on the right side of his freshly smoothed cheek. "You ramble such nonsense when you're high," she says, quickly finishing shaving the rest of his face. "Excusez moi. I'm not high… yet."

"You are. Know how I can tell?"

Harry settles his hands on her thighs. "Humor me, sunflower."

"I know because you are hard, and I haven't even done anything yet," Nadine whispers in his ear.

She's not Echo; she's the goddess of love. His Aphrodite, ironically surrounded by rose petals and wearing a crown adorned with myrtle leaves, sets the razor in a safe place under the tub and then straddles his thighs. She knows exactly how to make him putty in her hands.

Extinguishing the lit end of the joint in the water, Harry flips his palms up in invitation and says, "Do your worst, dove."

——

The euphoric high reaches Harry's fingertips as he touches the blades of grass he lies on. To the touch, they feel as soft as a cloud. To the eye, they are feathery and verdant.

The blue and white striped shirt he put on after the bath warps due to his spinning mind, the lines bending and blurring until they make his eyes cross. He and Nadine went through three joints each. Maybe four. Either way, the aftermath of sex while high and then proceeding to get higher has Harry feeling like he's levitating outside of his body. Although he can't complain when Nadine lies beside him, laughing infectiously over something he doesn't remember saying mere seconds ago.

"What did I do?" he asks, his speech slower and more drawled from the weed that passed his tongue.

"You were going on about"—she pauses for a moment to regain her breath—"your dream that you had last night."

"Oh." He rubs his eyes and begins giggling over whatever is making her so happy. "Where did I… what part did I leave off at?"

"The part where, apparently, our thirty nonexistent children were blooming in the garden, and they were all wailing so much, but the only way to get them to stop was to water them."

"Shit, that's right. What a bizarre dream."

Nadine reaches over and pinches his stomach. "Could you imagine having to take care of thirty children? Oh, mon dieu!"

"We could do it," he says with faux confidence. "Babies are sort of like plants, right?"

She snorts and replies, "I would rethink that statement."

He's thinking ahead and can't stop the thought from crawling across the crevices of his brain like scandent stems. "One day, we'll have little snap peas running around the garden," he muses, the words sounding far away when he speaks them.

"Snap peas, like bébés?" Nadine asks for clarity.

Harry looks over at her, his heart melting like candle wax at the innocence that laces her question. "Oui. Tant de bébés."

"Where is my say in this?" she asks with a prod to his sock-covered foot.

He smirks, rubbing his eyes again. "You have all the say in the world, dove. Just tell me when, and I'll drop everything for you."

"When what?"

"When you're ready for bébés."

He sees it. He wants it. He needs it. He feels a deep yearning for the possibility of them having Nadine's eyes of maple syrup and heart of sweet honey. If they'll laugh in three caught breaths like her and have her lustrous hair, or if they'll cackle obnoxiously like him and inherit his wild curls. He'd like either outcome. A lot.

"I think I will be ready in the spring," Nadine says. "I do not want to be pregnant in the winter."

"How come?" Harry murmurs, dizzily rolling over and nuzzling his face into the velvety skin of her stomach, which is exposed below her cropped tank top.

"I don't thrive in the cold, so it would be a living nightmare for me," she says, tilting his face upwards. "And I wouldn't be able to show off my baby bump if it was cold all the time."

"Nadi baby," he says while letting her poke his dimples, "do you realize that if you get pregnant in the spring, you'll be ready to pop during wintertime?"

"I can't do math when I'm high. Too many months." She uses her strength to switch positions and lay on top of him, squishing his cheeks—her favorite thing to do. "But you have to promise me a bébé in the spring."

He hooks his right pinky with hers and says, "The foxtail lilies should be in full bloom by then. They'll be our good luck charm."

He didn't mean to say that out loud, and now he just utterly ruined the surprise. Damn those three or four joints.

"Hmm? Foxtail?" Nadine bemuses, tracing the slope of his nose with her pointer finger.

Sighing to himself, he knows there's no faultless way to dig himself out of the hole he created. "For you," Harry says shyly. "I planted a bed of foxtail lilies for you that will hopefully bloom in time for your birthday."

She goes silent, spreading her hand on his cheek and parting her lips. Harry wishes he could have kept the details of his romantic gesture locked away in his conscious mind, but the way she's looking at him right now makes the mistake worth it.

"My heart," she whispers sweetly, pressing a long and tender kiss to his lips. "My love. You did that for me?"

"It was supposed to be a surprise," he says with cheeks the color of the peonies by the patio.

"Hey, listen. Don't fret about it, all right?"

"Okay. Oui."

Nadine rests her head on his chest. "Oui."

"Oui, oui, oui," he repeats with a ticklish breath in her ear during each staccato syllable.

"T'es chiant," she grumbles, pushing his face away.

Harry cradles the back of her head, resting his chin on top of it and soaking in her presence, which she graciously allows him to cherish. What a wonder to be able to hold a daydream in his arms.

Idyllic paintings could be inspired by her ethereal face and figure, especially when accented by her smile in the sunshine. She could be sculpted and hidden at the back of the most grandiose museum, yet Harry would always find her under the spotlight. She bears fruits of devotion that are seductive and sweet between his teeth, seeds from pomegranates and nectarines coated in aphrodisiacs.

His goddess of love will soon be surrounded by a bountiful bed of foxtails, and if the spring season is kind to him, little snap peas will grow alongside it.

——

[emdashedem]

“Okayokayokay, shit,” Ava calls out, crouched over with one hand on her knee, the other waving in surrender. “I yield. Have mercy. Uncle. Whatever.”

Her legs are jelly beneath her, her lungs burn as if she’d inhaled a pint of rocks, and there’s a stitch in her side that may just be a heart attack in disguise. 

“I just need a minute,” Ava pants as she collapses, a breathless, sweaty mess, into the grass that lines their usual path. “Or five. Or a nap.”

A crunch of gravel steadily approaches, and before she knows it, Beatrice is standing over her, shielding Ava from the blinding blue sky with her hands on her hips and eyebrow arched in amusement that Ava doesn’t especially appreciate at the present. 

She could be dying.

She’s in no fit state to be mocked.

“Are you alright?”

“I think you killed me.”

“I thought you said 'today was the day', Warrior Nun,” Beatrice says, and — yep — definitely being mocked. There’s nary a hair out of place nor a bead of sweat on her brow, and frankly, it’s rude. 

“That’s not—”

“You said—”

“Bea—”

“—and I quote—”

Ava slaps her hands over her ears.

“Lalalalalala, I can’t hear you—”

“‘—I’m gonna make this run my—’” Beatrice cuts off abruptly and Ava lowers her hands, now rapt with attention. It’s all the wind she needs in her depleted sails.

“Make it my what, Bea?”

“You know what you said.”

“Mm, maybe,” Ava concedes, grinning as she sits back up on her elbows. She taps Beatrice’s shin with the toe of her shoe. “But I wanna hear you say it.”

“No.”

“C’mon, Bea. It’ll be our secret.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll do laundry for the next month.”

“You do know that I already accepted your laundry bribe last week when you were trying to get out of inventory, don’t you?”

“Okay, but I’ll actually do it.”

Beatrice sighs, rubbing her fingers into her forehead. 

“Ava.”

“Beatrice.”

“I will not be taxed into saying biatch like some—”

“Aha!” Ava shouts in triumph. 

Beatrice groans and rolls her eyes in response, but there’s a light there, a flicker of mirth that slips through the cracks of Beatrice’s facade that seems to deteriorate more and more with every day spent under Ava’s relentless pursuit of Beatrice. 

Not the sister warrior, pride and joy of the OCS, likely successor to Mother Superion.

Not Sister Beatrice, her designated watcher, handler, trainer — whatever.

Not the Beatrice that hides behind layers of masks and mastery and perfection.

Just Beatrice.

The real Beatrice. 

The one that maybe Beatrice, herself, has yet to find. 

Every day, Ava gets closer, and every day, she’s desperate for more.

She grins, eyes closed to relish in her victory.

“See? I knew you had it in ya, Bea.”

“Yes, well,” Beatrice snorts and settles into the grass next to Ava. “If anything is going to drive me to curse, I suppose it would be you.”

Ava cackles with delight and earns another eye roll as her reward as Beatrice lays back, head next to Ava’s, face turned up toward the sky with a contented sigh, and Ava can’t help but stare.

She swallows as her eyes trace the slope of Beatrice’s nose, the quiet curve of her smile, the gold strand of hair tucked behind her ear that’s too short to tie back with the rest.

Summer in the Alps has done Beatrice well. 

It’s not like she ever needed the help. 

Still. Her skin glows, bronzed, the highlights in her hair and the constellation of freckles on her face more pronounced. But more than that, so much more than that, the tension in her shoulders steadily unwinds, and her smile is quicker to ignite with every day they spend under the mountain sun, and the sum of it all keeps the air out of Ava’s lungs for reasons entirely unrelated to their morning jog.

And then honey-brown eyes find Ava’s and Beatrice’s lips twist into something adorable and self-conscious, her brows quirked in a question.

“What?” Beatrice asks, and Ava can only blink in response.

And maybe it’s the uncharacteristic spark of heat in her cheeks, or the blossoming in her chest that could rival the flare of the Halo that’s only grown with time.

Because it’s barely past eight — the sun has barely finished its ascent, the birds still sing their morning song in the trees that tower over them, and the chill of the previous night still clings to the bed of grass beneath them. 

And yet, Ava has never felt warmer.

“I —” Ava fumbles, beginning without a plan, without a roadmap. Because what does she want to say? What can she even say? What words could do justice to the swell of her heart except — “Bea.”

But then an icy cold drop lands on her forehead, then another, and another, and another.

“Oh.”

And the sun that goes on shining, the brilliant blue sky devoid of any clouds as Ava blinks away frigid mountain rain that hits her like a freight train, and she’d find the entire thing completely disorienting if it weren’t so wonderfully enlightening.

Beatrice jumps to her feet, forearm pressed to the crown of her head as though that will protect her from the sudden deluge, and she reaches out with her other hand and pulls Ava to her feet like she weighs nothing at all. And then they’re sprinting through the forest, puddles splashing up around them, the pounding of their shoes against the ground drowned out by the thundering of the rain, their shrieks of laughter ringing through the trees and echoing through the town square as they race home.

They collapse in a fit of winded giggles, Beatrice into the brick wall and Ava into Beatrice, when they find shelter under the awning of their tiny apartment building 10 minutes later, as the rain washes the world around them away, and Ava’s face threatens to shatter under the force of her grin.

There’s a flush in Beatrice’s cheeks, her eyes shine, dancing with light, the strands of her bangs slicked to the sides of her face, and her smile is just as bright, just as delighted, and Ava wants to bottle it — all of this — for the days when it’s all too much, when the world calls them back to duty, when the universe rests heavy on their shoulders.

“So, how’d I do for time, boss?” Ava asks as she tucks her hair behind her ears, and her cheeky grin isn’t enough to budge the delighted one that’s mirrored back at her.

Beatrice laughs — loud and unbound — and Ava thinks she ought to bottle that, too, but then Bea is clearing her throat, her eyebrows drawing into something serious and stern.

“Passable,” she offers with a shrug. 

“Oh, come on,” Ava howls in affront. She points an accusing finger at Beatrice, taking full advantage of a functioning body that lets her gesticulate as emphatically as she pleases. “Admit it. Admit it. I totally made that one my bitch.”

“Ava,” Beatrice sighs, but it lacks all the weight of its usual exhaustion as she struggles to contain her laugh.

They’re breathless and soaked to the bone and Ava’s skin is slick, still humming from the constant pelt of rain.

And still, Ava has never felt warmer.

[theghostofashton]

wip wednesday

thank you @heartstringsduet @welcometololaland @paperstorm @strandnreyes @carlos-in-glasses @lemonlyman-dotcom @alrightbuckaroo @liminalmemories21 for the tags <3

Carlos exhales, letting his body flop down to the mat, and closes his eyes. The gym is quiet around him, just the everpresent hum of the AC and sound of his own breath. He’s starting to relax, sinking heavier into the vinyl mat underneath him. He’s so tired he could fall asleep right here. It’s happened before. Taken conditioning days too hard and been way too worn-out to drive back. Startling awake and squinting under the bright lights, completely disoriented. He remembers being so glad he’d decided to move out in that moment, otherwise he definitely would’ve had a bunch of worried texts from his mom when he never came home. He loved those days. Working so hard that he felt it beyond his body, that the glimmer of the world stage and Olympic gold was crystalizing. It was in his hands. He just knew it. He used to wear those days like a badge of honor, so confident in the work he’d done. He’s trying to hold on to those moments. The feeling is so foreign now. Eventually, he hoists himself off the floor and makes his way into the locker room. “Hey.” He startles and whips his head around to lock eyes with TK Strand, who’s sitting on one of the benches with a towel over one shoulder and a small smile on his face. “Good practice?” Carlos shrugs and opens his locker. He thought he was the last one here. “You?” He asks, because that’s polite and it doesn’t feel fair to be anything else. “Not my best,” TK admits, strangely forthcoming. Carlos isn’t sure why he would ever want anyone to know that. TK starts to talk about the skills he’s having trouble with, his dismount on high bar and this new floor skill he’s trying to learn. Carlos wonders, all the while, what he’s getting at. TK won gold on floor and silver on vault, and he helped the team win bronze. He has nothing to worry about. This Olympics for him is just icing on top of an already stellar cake, and Carlos can’t help but feel like TK is playing mediocre to make sure he knows that.

bit late to this so i'll just tag @sanjuwrites @reyesstrand @bonheur-cafe @lightningboltreader and leave an open tag for anyone else that wants to share!

[when-i-wake-if]

Some quick important information before we get to the ros descriptions!

Firstly I have lovely nicknamed the MCs to differentiate them easily

MC 1 is Dawn and when I mention them I will use Orange colour!

MC 2 is Dusk and their colour is Purple

Secondly, this game is technically a side project to @wanted-game-if and will update in shorter parts but will still probably be as long as my other IF

If you have any questions about the game, MCs or anything really feel free to send asks!!

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Dawns ROs

Xeno || Xe/Xem || 21 || Human

Description ~ Short coily dark brown hair, lean build with a Bronze complexion, dark green eyes, Nubian nose, Xyr height is 5’11, Xe has a full tattoo sleeve on Xes right arm and a tattoo on the side of Xyr neck when outside of work Xeno tends to wear ripped black jeans, no sleeve neck length shirt, runners and a bunch of rings, necklaces and one stud earring.

Selena || She/Her || ?? || Ghost

Description ~ Shoulder-length ginger hair that is curled at the tips, She has a chubby build and pale skin, greyish blue eyes, a button nose, height if she could stand on the floor would be 5’3, freckles kiss her face and shoulders, she forever dressed in a light blue tea length swing dress and stockings with a pair of black flats, adorned in pearl earrings and necklace, to most she appears slightly translucent

Brier || He/Him or She/Her || Gender selectable|| 228 || Vampire

Description ~ Chin length afro-textured dark brown hair, Slim build and ebony complexion, Dark red eyes, button nose, height 5’7, outside of work they typically wear wide cuff pants, cropped blouse with a sweetheart collar, 4-inch heels or black dress shoes, round glasses, realistic heart shaped earrings, ruby necklace, silver rings

Míng || They/He || 30 || Dragon

Description ~ bleached white shoulder-length hair, lean build light brown complexion, black sclera and piercing yellow iris, flat nose height being 5'7, scales litter their body colours mainly being yellow and orange with some red ones sprinkled in, typically wears graphic tees , with a worn-out black bomber jacket, cargo pants and platform boots

Both MCs

Is || she/her, he/him or they/them || Gender selectable || ??? || Minor God of death {and dreams}

Description~ Long straight black hair that reaches past their ass typically in some kind of intricate hairstyle with silver jewellery woven in, curvy build with a tanned complexion, pale white eyes, roman nose, height 8,5 when not forced to dress modestly they are always wearing a short dress with a marabou robe or a satin robe and six-inch heels, adorned in many silver bracelets, necklaces, rings and flower earrings and they have belly button piercing

Dusks ROs

Sire || He/Him || 26 || Kelpie

Description ~ Shoulder length wavy dark green hair so dark it almost appears black Sire's hair always seems to look wet/damp, he has a dad bod and Ivory complexion, black eyes, Greek nose, His height is on the slightly shorter side standing at 5’4, usually wearing black leather pants, dress shoes and a button up shirt that never fully buttoned up

Loralie || They/Them || 24 || Siren

Description ~ Mid back length black goddess braids, Athletic Swimmer build and Dark brown complexion with dark blueish grey scales scattered about, piercing grey eyes, Flat nose, height 6’2, a large scar down the middle of their chest, gills most noticeable upon their neck, outside of work they typically wear cargo pants, muscle shirt, converse shoes, a gold locket, dangle earrings, spectrum piercing

Joshua || He/They || 20 || Werewolf

Description ~ Short messy dirty blonde hair, muscular build and tan complexion, amber eyes, Greek nose though it has obviously been broken in the past, scar along the right of their jaw, freckles speckled over his face, height 6’0, typically wears work boots, jeans and a muscle shirt with a flannel jacket

Z || She/He/They || ?? || Undead

Description ~ Messy straight chin length black hair with strands of grey hairs throughout, skinny build and pale olive and appears slightly greeny yellowish, black eyes, hawk nose, the height of 5'6 the left corner of her mouth is carved away revealing most of their teeth and flesh and their left hands pinky and ring finger are just bone the surrounding area seems to have a hideous burn scar though he typically covers it up by wearing white gloves, black turtle neck, beige torn pants and two different pairs of dirty runners

So this isn't absolutely everything but it is the most prominent thing of their appearances

The synopsis for the story will be coming hopefully by the end of May along with some more technical side I hope for the demo to come out in late August or early September we will see how things go