#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]

[slaytheusurper]

⭑ Our sweet sister ⭑

Masterlist

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x Sister!reader x Aemond Targaryen

Summary: Aemond has been waiting for years to marry his favourite sister, Aegon agreed it was the only way of keeping her close of making sure she only belonged to them. But her being given away to a dornish prince changes everything.

Warnings: NSFW, +18 mdni, targcest, murder, threesome (my first), making out, mastrubation, grinding, fingering, oral (both m and f receiving), vaginal sex, breeding kink, mommy kink, titty sucking, creampie, switch Aegon, dom Aemond and Aegon being drunk as always.

Word count: 3.3k

The early morning rays shone through your window in the Red Keep as your handmaiden finished up with your hair. She always had a need to have your hair perfect, not one strand out of place. With some pins she adjusted the headpiece with the sheer black fabric and green and gold details. Your mother, Queen Alicent, could arrive any moment with your twin sister Heleana, to pick you up for prayer at the sept. 

You absolutely despised it but you could never disobey your mother. You were her favourite daughter after all. She always tried to get close to Heleana but you knew your twin preferred to keep her distance from everyone. Even though you were twins, you didn’t really look alike. Both of you of course had the silver hair and lilac eyes of house Targaryen but your facial features were different from hers.

The door opened and your mother and sister entered your chamber. “My dear, how did you sleep?” Alicent asked as she adjusted your headpiece a bit, at which your handmaiden frowned. “Fine, shall we leave?” You stood up and Alicent stopped fussing with your hair, following you out instead. Strolling through the halls with your mother and sister in front of you, Aemond walked passed giving you a small smile. To which you mouthed a silent “Help me”, he chuckled as he gave you one last sympathetic smile over his shoulder. 

You thanked the gods the morning passed swiftly, for you were already on your way back to the Red Keep. When you reached the door of your bedchamber you hurriedly went inside as your handmaiden stood at the ready for your, often daily, dragon ride with Aemond. She helped you quickly change into your dragon riding attire. You and Aemond have always been extremely close, always there for each other, both the favourite children. But ever since Aemond started to grasp for more power, he started to lose the favour of his mother, her now fully turning her attention to you. 

Your eldest brother, Aegon, had never been much loved by your mother. And because of your maturity and grace, he started to cling to you instead. This was the root of your complicated but deep connection with your older brother, everytime he got scolded or drunk he would turn to you. Now this used to be in an innocent way but lately the winds started to shift, Heleana was more distant from him then ever, his mother had just been ignoring him and his father on the doorstep of death. You hadn’t seen him yet today, so you assumed he was still asleep, you would check on him later. 

As for now, you would take to the skies with your other brother. You couldn’t admit it but the way people were terrified when the two of you flew together made you feel so powerful. Yes the two biggest dragons of the realm were a godly sight indeed. You claimed Vermithor, The Bronze Fury, at age ten and two. That evening at Dragon Stone with your family was an interesting one. Everyone either preparing for bed or still drinking and talking was disrupted by the notice of your absence and the terrifying screeches and roars from the Bronze Fury below. Your mother demanded you to be rescued at once, for Vermithor was known to be relentless and fierce, having not accepted a rider after the old king died. But you were much like the dragon when it came to fierceness, you weren’t afraid. And so when the guards, dragon keepers and your family arrived at the cave where the dragons resided. You stood there, in your nightgown, hand on Vermithor’s nose. After years the Bronze Fury had been claimed... by a little girl.

Aemond joined you in the training yard where your horses were waiting to take you to the outskirts of the city, for Vermithor and Vhagar were both too big for the Dragon Pit. You were both quick to mount and race through the city to get to your dragons. When you arrived, Vermithor and Vhagar were both resting next to each other, they too, formed a close bond, as they only had each other outside the dragon pit. Both of them lifted their heads and grumbled and roared at the sight of the two of you, knowing they could fly with their riders again. You both climbed on your mounts and took to the sky, frightening the shit out of towns beneath you. 

It felt good to be with Aemond, natural but powerful at the same time. You knew his desperate want for the throne but that still couldn’t change how you saw him. By the time you came back the sun had begun to set and you both knew supper would be soon. So you returned with your brother to the Red Keep where two guards were waiting to take you to the dining room. As you both entered your mother wore a disapproving look on her face, she didn’t like the two of you flying for so long but when it also cut into her time with her family she really got annoyed. “You stink of dragon.” She began. “We only just got back mother, time gets away from us on dragon back.” Aemond defended. You took your seats next to each other, Aemond to your right. Aegon to your left. Heleana to his left. Her head down as she mumbled to herself. Aegon slumped in his seat as always, probably already drunk and waiting for supper to end so he could sneak out to his whores. 

There was a tension in the air, your mothers and grandfather's eyes were on you. Only then did you really take in your mother, teary eyed, red cheeks, looking down. Weird. You thought, you looked at your grandfather, the hand of the king, questioningly. “You are twenty years old already,” He began, you still looked at him confused but deep down you knew where this was heading, again. “For 4 years I have been searching for a good match for you, I have tried again and again to match you with someone you could grow to like, maybe even love and yet, you refuse them.” Otto stood up from his chair, “Alas, I have had enough. Your father, sadly, cannot make these decisions anymore, so I have. Now an opportunity has arisen, one that I have been waiting for.”

“House Martell is looking for a fine lady to marry their second son, prince Robyn. I sent a letter a while ago and they have agreed to accept your hand.” Two hands slammed on the table as Aemond stood up in rage. “You will do no such thing! She is a Targaryen princess! She will not be married off to some Dorne cunt!” He yelled, you could only look down. You knew this day would come, where they would be fed up with your defiance and force you to marry. But it seemed your brother would not give up without a fight. 

What you didn’t expect was for Aegon to stand up as well. “My sister is the most beautiful and fine Targaryen princess of the realm, I stand with Aemond. You will not marry her off to some plain man of house Martell.” You were taken by surprise, Aemond’s reaction was expected but you didn’t know Aegon cared so much too. Otto Hightower leaned slightly over the table. “She will marry him, he and his family should be here on the morrow. End of discussion!” He sneered. You stood up and left without a word. You went to bed that night knowing your calm, easy life in King’s Landing was alas over. Aemond however, thought otherwise. 

After everyone had gone to bed he was still awake, mauling over the dinner. In a fit of rage at the memory he left his chambers and almost ran to his older brothers. He could hear the disturbance inside yet he did not care, not when his beloved sister was about to be sold off like a broodmare. He passed the guards and pushed open the door. Aegon's bedchambers were completely destroyed, cups, tapestries, pillows, blankets were everywhere, glass and wine splayed on the grounds and walls. Aegon was standing over a small table that used to hold his wine. “Brother.” Aemond urged. Aegon looked up, his eyes bloodshot and fist balled up. “There is only one way to stop this, to keep her here.” Aegon didn’t even respond, he just nodded. They were very different from each other but they both had one thing in common, they loved you.

You woke up from a restless sleep to the entire Red Keep in disarray, you could hear shouting and arguing from inside your bedchamber and just as you were about to open the door. Heleana entered your bedchamber, hands covering her ears. You knew if Heleana looked to hide with you, it was bad. “What is it? Hel, what happened? Tell me.” She looked at the ground and muttered. “They’re dead.” Fear struck your heart as you thought the worst, her children? Your brothers? “What?! Who is Heleana?” You grabbed her hands and sat her down on your settee. “House Martell, at least, the prince and his father. Qoren Martell is now to be their new king.” You couldn’t help but smile. “How did they die?” Heleana finally looked at you, “They say Aegon and Aemond left in the middle of the night. No one could stop them as Aegon mounted Sunfyre and Aemond mounted Vhagar, they burned them on the Fork Road until nothing but ashes were left. Grandfather is furious as you might have heard.” 

That was the end of a short betrothal between you and the prince of Dorne. It took two weeks for things to finally calm in the Red Keep. But the two brothers' plans to keep you here were not completed. Sure their enemy was dead but it would be sooner or later the hand found a new match so they had to make sure you couldn’t marry. You were sitting in your bedchamber on your settee, in your nightgown, your long silver hair down while reading a book about The First Men. When all of a sudden your bedchamber creaked open, as you looked up from your book both Aegon and Aemond entered your bedchamber. You weren’t allowed to speak to them, for two weeks you hadn’t been able to leave other than to pray by your mothers request. You couldn’t help but smile as both of them entered with a mischievous grin on their faces. You also noticed the guards outside were gone. 

“You know you aren’t allowed to be here.” You said closing your book. They didn’t say a word as Aegon went and sat down on the settee in front of you, while Aemond settled next to you. “For two weeks we have lived in agony of not seeing you, not speaking to you. But as you know, Aegon and I have taken matters into our own hands. You, are ours. And we will do anything and burn anyone to keep you here.” Aemond spoke as he moved your hair behind your ear, placing a featherlight kiss on your neck making your eyes flutter shut. A fire started to burn inside you, heart thumping in your chest and a tingling feeling in your abdomen. When you opened your eyes you saw Aegon looking at you through half lidded eyes, his lips parted as you noticed a bulge in his pants. You weren’t stupid, you knew what sex was and you knew what they wanted and oh did you want it too.

“You, I think, know how we can keep you here. If your innocence is ruined, you’ll have no choice but to marry Aemond. You’ll stay here and have his children and of course you can keep taking care of me as well, right sister?” Aegon spoke, now standing up and moving to sit at your right side. You could only nod as Aemond groaned and moved his hand up your thigh, while Aegon grabbed your chin and smashed his lips on yours. Moving his lips feverishly against yours. Teeth clashing, tongue entwining and hands moving to rip off any clothes that were on you in the first place. Aemond finally had you bare next to him as his hand moved between your thighs, his lips and tongue moving over your neck. You moaned in Aegon's mouth, even your filthiest fantasies couldn’t compare to the real thing.

“Need you so bad mommy.” Aegon whined against your lips. You could hear a faint chuckle from Aemond who now used two fingers to tease your wet folds. “Listen to him, you haven’t even touched him yet and he’s already begging for it.” You couldn’t even speak as Aegon refused to stop kissing you. Aemond now circling your clit with his fingers making your free hands grip the fabric of the settee. Aegon started to remove his own clothes while never leaving your lips as Aemond paused to take off his as well. Both men now in their breeches, their hard ons evident between their legs. The effect you had on them made you feel like a goddess. You had them wrapped around your finger and they had you wrapped around theirs.

Aemond moved off the settee and kneeled between your legs, you looked down at him as he undid the clasp of his eyepatch, the sapphire in his eye socket twinkling in the candlelight. Aegon moved his lips down towards your chest, taking a nipple in his mouth and suckling on it like a babe. Aemond started to kiss between your thighs moving further until he reached your aching cunt. Tongue darted out as he began to lap at your folds. You could barely breathe as pleasure consumed you. Aegon sucked and licked at your breast hungrily, holding the other in his hand and using his right hand to pull down his breeches enough to free his cock. As Aemond continued to eat you like a starved man making you moan and whine, Aegon started to pump his cock, eager for that pure bliss. "Fuck- mommy-" Aegon mumbled.

Both brothers groaned and panted against you, Aemond now palming himself through his breeches. He couldn’t help it, he was too impatient. Precum started to leak from Aegon’s tip, he moaned and whined around your nipple. You couldn’t take it anymore, the erotic sounds, the feeling of one brother fucking you with his tongue and the other sucking on your breast while he was pleasuring himself, with a gasp and a plead you reached your peak. Seeing spots of how hard you squeezed your eyes shut. Your thighs clamping together around Aemonds head, which he forced right open before he stood back up. You hadn’t even noticed he removed his breeches as well. His cock stood proud, also leaking from the mere sight of you bare before him.

Aemond eyed Aegon hungrily, also seemingly turned on by the noises he made. Not to mention the sight of him at your breast while fucking his own fist. Aemond pulled Aegon of your nipple by his jaw and forced him to face his brother, before pulling him in a harsh kiss. Aegon made a strangled noise at the action and stopped pleasuring himself to hold the back of Aemond’s head, not wanting to let go of him. Then Aemond pushed his knee between Aegon's legs right against his hard cock. 

Aegon gasped against his brother's lips, you whined at the sight, never had you seen such an erotic scene before you and you were begging the gods to not let it stop. Aemond didn’t stop there but started to move with more pressure against Aegon’s cock, capturing his moans in his mouth. Aegon removed himself from Aemond’s lips for a moment. “Please- don’t stop- feel so good.” He mumbled. Your hand unconsciously slid down your body, touching yourself was the only way to relieve that nagging ache that returned again. But to Aegon and to your surprise, Aemond did stop. Making Aegon whine at the removal of the contact. “On the bed, both of you.” Aemond commanded, and both of you scrambled towards your bed. 

Aemond followed, positioning you like you weighed nothing. Putting you on your hands and knees, commanding Aegon to move towards your head while he stayed behind you. Aegon knew exactly what Aemond wanted and already held the base of his cock to smear his precum across your parted lips. Aemond grazed your other lips with his cock, smearing your arousal around. He reached out his hand to Aegon. “Spit.” Aegon did as told immediately and let his saliva drop onto his little brother's hand. Which Aemond used to coat his cock making it easier to breach your maidenhead. Aegon entered your mouth and hissed at the feeling, somehow this was better then any whores cunt. His sister and his brother sharing the bed with him was better than a thousand whores. 

You softly sucked on Aegon’s cock while Aemond pushed the head of his into your cunt. You whined around Aegon while Aemond sank further into you, a shuddering breath leaving his lips at the feeling of his sister's tight hole around him. He had waited so long, feeling sure that the two of you would be wed but that day never came, and it would never unless he took the matter into his own hands. Moans, gasps and panting filled the moonlit room, it was almost an ethereal sight. Three silver haired bodies becoming one. When Aemond felt you relax and Aegon started to carefully fuck your mouth, he started to move as well. Wanting nothing more than to fill you with his seed that would hopefully take root so he could finally make you his wife and mother of his children. "Oh mommy feels so good-" Aegon whined.

As your moans grew louder, Aemond started to fuck into you harder. Gripping your hips so he could move you against him as well. Aegon was the first to finish, being already so pent up and horny he didn’t last long in your warm wet mouth. With a gasp of your name he filled your throat with his cum, fingers entangled in your hair for support. He pulled his softening dick out and laid down next to you catching his breath. Aemond started to now pound into you like a wild animal, it seemed as if he was so lost in pleasure he couldn’t hear or see anything else but you. Aegon however, with a clearer mind, sat up and moved closer to you. Letting his hand trace your body to where you and Aemond were connected. 

Moving his fingers until he found your clit, you confirmed with a moan. He let his fingers rub against your sweet spot adding to the pleasure of your building orgasm. You pleaded for more, and Aegon started to move his fingers in rhythm with Aemond. This was all you needed, all you needed to scream out their names while gripping the sheets in ecstasy. Your walls clenched around Aemond, making him see stars. Aegon removed his fingers and watched in awe as his brother fucked you relentlessly. 

However Aemond’s thrusts were getting sloppier. And his cursing and groaning made it clear he was about to peak as well. With a couple of final thrusts he came hard. Making sure to go as deep as possible, he spurted his cum right against your cervix. Surely filling your womb with his spent. Giving you a couple of lazy trusts he made sure to be completely milked empty before pulling out. Letting himself fall on the bed next to you so he could pull you against his side. Aegon, not wanting to be left out of it, crawled against your other side, cuddling up next to you. What you didn’t notice, was how the door was accidentally left ajar. Your brothers made sure the entire Red Keep knew of your bedding. Surely they can’t deny Aemond his sister now?

[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.

[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… :)

[renlyslittlerose]

Heartbeat Drives You Mad - Chapter 24

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 💖

[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!

[infamous-light]

A Dance with Danger Ch. 1

Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal

AO3: A Dance with Danger

Summary: Sheriff Agatha, a determined and relentless law enforcer, has been obsessed with pursuing the notorious outlaw Rio Vidal for years.

As their cat-and-mouse game intensifies, Agatha finds herself torn between her duty to uphold the law and the thrill of the chase.

Word Count: 2.7K

Warnings: none for this chapter

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a deep amber glow over the dusty little town of Westview, painting the buildings and cracked sidewalks in hues of warm gold and burnt orange.

A lazy wind drifted through, stirring faint whirls of dust that danced playfully along the ground. Despite the gentle breeze, it did little to cut through the oppressive heat that settled over the town like an unwanted blanket, heavy and suffocating.

Inside the sheriff’s office, the air was thick, a dense mix of leather, gun oil, and stale ink that seemed to cling to every surface. Shelves along one wall were overloaded with case files, their edges frayed and yellowed, some tilted at precarious angles, held up more by sheer luck than organization. On the main desk, an old tin of fountain pens lay on its side, scattering a few loose pens and ink-splattered nibs across the visitor sign-in sheet.

Near the back of the room, Sheriff Agatha sat alone at her desk, shoulders hunched forward, the familiar creak of her wooden chair filling the silence as she leaned in. Her fingers brushed along the edges of a weathered, creased wanted poster that had been thumbed through countless times, almost reverent in its well-worn state. It was a face she knew all too well, one that lingered like a ghost around the edges of her mind.

The name stared back at her in bold, black letters: WANTED: RIO VIDAL

Beneath the name, the photograph of a woman’s face was captured in startling detail.

The sepia tones gave her skin a bronzed, sun-kissed hue, emphasizing the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the narrow line of her jaw. Strands of dark hair spilled loosely over her shoulders, framing her face with an almost careless elegance. It looked as though she had just run a hand through it, leaving a few rebellious curls to fall forward, drawing attention to her lips. The faintest hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth – a teasing, almost arrogant curve that hinted at some private amusement, a secret she only knew.

But what stood out to Agatha the most were her eyes. Even through the grainy photograph, they gleamed with a challenge beneath her dark lashes, the kind of look that dared anyone who met her gaze to try their luck.

Agatha clenched her jaw, her eyes narrowing into a glare that could burn holes right through the aging poster. Her fingers tightened on the edges, and a crease ran down the center, splitting Rio’s infamous face in two as her knuckles turned bone white.

Agatha’s gaze continued to shift downward, landing on the words etched across the page: DEAD OR ALIVE, stamped in thick, unforgiving block letters.

It sent a fresh wave of heat through Agatha. She’d be damned if she allowed Rio to die – no, she didn’t deserve the luxury of death. Not after everything she had done, the way she’d humiliated Agatha at every turn. She wanted to see Rio alive and locked behind bars, stripped of her freedom, and forced to face the consequences of her actions.

She wanted Rio to feel the bitter sting of helplessness.

The image of Rio, shackled and powerless, ignited a fire deep within Agatha – a desperate need to reclaim the honor that Rio had so effortlessly taken from her but also to seek justice for all the wrongs that Rio had done.

The thought brought forth a memory, one still raw and sour, as if etched into her bones.

It was the day Agatha had come so painfully close to capturing Rio – an ambush that still haunted her dreams. The stagecoach had been rolling along a winding, desolate backroad, carrying precious cargo. Agatha had been tracking it for days, certain that Rio would target it. It was a simple enough plan: wait for Rio to strike, leap into action and take down the notorious outlaw, and finally end the relentless chase that had consumed her life for far too long.

But Rio, as always, had been one step ahead.

Agatha could still see it – the moment when everything went wrong. She and her deputies had been crouched low behind a cluster of twisted, gnarled bushes; their breaths held in anticipation. Then, without warning, the sharp, heart-stopping crack of gunfire shattered the air. Agatha’s fingers dug into the dirt as her heart skipped a beat. The sound had barely settled before she sensed a shift behind them.

Slowly, as if out of a nightmare, Rio emerged from the tree line, astride her imposing black horse.

In a heartbeat, chaos erupted.

A piercing yell cut through the air, and in an instant, Rio's group swarmed them from all directions.

Agatha fought with everything she had. Bullets cut through the air, each one a breath away from striking; her heart thundered as she fired back, every shot aimed with precision. Her eyes darted through the frenzied blur of figures and smoke, searching with a fierce urgency. Then, she caught a flash of dark hair – Rio. A wicked gleam danced in her eyes, amusement mixed with something darker, something tantalizingly dangerous. The sight of that sly grin made Agatha's pulse stumble.

But before Agatha could steady her aim, Rio was gone, dipping over the crest of a hill atop her horse.

Instinct ignited within Agatha as she swung herself up onto her own steed, her muscles coiling with tension as she gripped the reins tightly. With a fierce resolve, she spurred her horse forward, galloping hard to close the distance between them. The ground thudded beneath her as she urged her horse faster, the wind whipping through her hair and stinging her cheeks.

Before Agatha could grab her trusty rope, coiled neatly at her side, a stray bullet whizzed past, grazing one of her horse’s legs. It reared back in fear, its powerful legs kicking wildly. Agatha barely had time to react before she was thrown off her saddle, the world spinning erratically around her as she hit the ground hard. Pain lanced through her side, and she gritted her teeth, rolling quickly to the side as she braced herself against further injury, her muscles seizing from the impact.

Frustration surged through her veins, raw and boiling. The sting of failure bit deep as she lay there, watching Rio slip away with that familiar, insufferable smile tugging at her lips. It was the kind of smile that twisted like a knife in Agatha’s chest.

She would not – could not – let herself be humiliated like that again. The memory of that shame burned like an unhealed wound, refusing to fade away.

Agatha forced herself to refocus, her gaze shifting down the page, catching on to the reward sum printed boldly beneath Rio’s picture: $100,000

The number loomed like a challenge, larger than life, impossible to ignore. It hadn't always been this high. The bounty had doubled after Rio's latest stunt – robbing a U.S. governor’s train. It was an act so brazen, so recklessly daring, that it had turned the entire state of New Jersey on its head.

For a fleeting moment, Agatha’s hand trembled, though she clenched it to keep it still, forcing herself to remain calm even as the anger bubbled inside of her chest. It was infuriating to think that Rio would dare pull off such a move under her own nose – the very place where Agatha had worked tirelessly to maintain order.

It made her look bad, weak even.

Agatha gave a sharp shake of her head as she shifted in her chair, trying to focus on the current moment. Just as she decided to review another case file lying on her desk, the office door swung open with a hard creak, and Deputy Herb burst in, his face slick with sweat, chest heaving with each hurried breath.

“Sheriff!” He huffed; his hat clutched tightly in his hand. “Rio just hit the Westview Bank downtown!”

Agatha straightened, every muscle in her body tensing as her gaze sharpened. “What!?”

Deputy Herb leaned heavily against the doorframe, sweat dotting his forehead as he struggled to steady his breathing. “She robbed the bank not even fifteen minutes ago,” he panted, his voice ragged. “Cleaned it out – every coin, every bill. One witness claimed he saw her heading north.”

Agatha stood, her fingers brushing over the cold steel handle of the revolver holstered at her hip.

“She’s taunting us.” She muttered, almost to herself.

She knew what Rio was playing at. This latest bank heist was another provocation, a deliberate slap in the face to the law – and to her. It left Agatha simmering with a mixture of anger and anticipation.

She turned to Herb, her face setting into a hard mask. “Gather any available deputies. We’re going after her.”

Herb gave a quick nod and vanished into the streets. Agatha wasted no time as she grabbed her leather gloves and headed toward the door. But before she stepped outside, she paused, her gaze drawn back to Rio’s wanted poster lying on her desk. The image of Rio’s smirk seemed to mock her from the faded paper, and Agatha's lips curled into a snarl.

“Not this time, Vidal,” she spat, each word sharp as a blade. “This time, you’re mine.”

With a flick of her wrist, she pulled her hat low over her eyes, the brim casting her face into a shadow, and stepped out into the fiery light of dusk.

***

Agatha sat tall in her saddle, the leather creaking softly beneath her.

Her eyes narrowed against the harsh glare of the sun, squinting as she scanned the horizon for any signs of movement. Dust swirled in the air, kicked up by the pounding hooves of her horse and the horses of her deputies, who rode closely behind her.

“Sheriff!” Called out one of her deputies, a young man named Norm, his voice strained as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Do you think she’s still in these parts?”

Agatha's grip tightened on her reins.

“She is.” Agatha replied firmly, her voice steady as she kept her gaze fixed ahead.

The fresh horseshoe imprints they followed wound through the dry desert, dotted with scraggly bushes and rugged rock formations. Each measured step deeper into the wilderness felt like a step closer to finally bringing her to justice.

As they continued north, the terrain grew increasingly treacherous, the ground shifting beneath their horses' hooves. The deputies exchanged wary glances with each other, the unease settling over them like a thick fog. The heat of the day began to wane, casting long shadows across the landscape. It was the perfect time for an ambush and Agatha could feel the hairs on the back of her neck prickle with warning.

“Hold up,” Agatha signaled, raising a hand as they approached a narrow pass flanked by steep cliffs. This is where the horseshoe prints ended. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

Agatha's heart thudded in her chest as she listened intently, straining her ears for any hint of movement or sound. It was quiet, too quiet, and that made her gut tingle with unease.

Suddenly, a distant echo of laughter reached them, light and melodic. Agatha’s pulse quickened as she recognized it – a sound that sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through her veins. It was unmistakably Rio.

Agatha silently motioned for her deputies to dismount, each one slipping from their horses.

“Everyone, fan out,” she commanded, her voice low and firm. “We’re close.”

Agatha crept forward; her senses heightened. Each step felt heavy with expectation, the weight of their pursuit pressing down on her shoulders.

As they rounded a bend, Agatha’s breath caught in her throat.

There, just a few yards ahead, stood a large wooden shack, abandoned and half-hidden by the jagged rocks.

“Stay sharp.” Agatha whispered to her deputies.

They nodded. Agatha could feel the tension radiating off them like heat rising from the desert floor. As they drew closer, the door suddenly swung open, and there she was.

Rio leaned casually against the doorframe, silhouetted by the warm glow inside. She was clad in an all-black ensemble that hugged her figure, the fitted leather jacket accentuating her curves. Beneath it, a dark, form-fitting shirt clung to her. The neckline dipped subtly, revealing a hint of delicate lace that peeked out from the collar. Her sleek black pants, tailored to perfection, hugged her legs with a high-waisted cut that added to her height. Perched atop her head was a black cowboy hat, from which her hair cascaded over her shoulders in wild waves.

A wicked smile graced her lips as she caught sight of Agatha.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Sheriff Agatha,” Rio drawled, her voice smooth and velvety. “I was wondering when you’d finally catch up.”

Agatha’s heart pounded in her chest as she withdrew her revolver out of her holster, the metal cold and familiar in her grip. She pointed it at the outlaw, her aim steady despite the tension crackling between them.

“It’s over, Rio! Hands up!”

Rio chuckled lightly. “Oh, but where’s the fun in that?”

Agatha's grip tightened on the revolver. “You think this is a game?” She snapped. “You’ve crossed the line one too many times.”

“Crossed the line?” Rio arched an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth curling into a sly smile. “I prefer to think of it as… dancing on it.”

Rio took a deliberate step closer, hands raised in a mock gesture of innocence, fingers splayed as if inviting Agatha to join her in this twisted game. Agatha felt the heat rising on her cheeks, an unwelcome flush that betrayed her resolve, but she refused to let it get to her.

“Get back, Rio,” she commanded. “I won’t ask again.”

“Such a serious little sheriff.” Rio purred, her voice dripping with honeyed mockery.

Before Agatha could muster a retort, Rio flicked her wrist with a flourish, sending a knife spiraling toward her. Time slowed as Agatha's instincts surged to the forefront; she ducked quickly, narrowly avoiding the deadly projectile. It buried itself deep into the rough bark of the tree beside her with a solid thud, splintering the wood around the impact.

Regaining her footing, Agatha shot a seething glare at Rio who only gave her a devilish little smirk in return.

“Come on, Sheriff,” Rio said, her tone playful. “You don’t believe I’d let you take me in without a fight, do you?”

In a flash, Rio darted back inside the shack. Agatha immediately sprinted after her without hesitation, her deputies following closely behind.

“Agatha!” She heard Deputy Herb call out, but the words faded into the background as determination consumed her. She couldn't afford to lose Rio again.

“Rio!” Agatha shouted, her voice echoing in the open space. “Show yourself!”

A flicker of movement caught her eye, and Agatha turned just in time to see Rio slip behind a stack of crates.

“Do you think you can hide from me?” Agatha growled.

In quick, short strides, she moved toward the crates, feeling the weight of her deputies’ gaze at her back.

Just as she reached the back of the shack, a sudden rumble jolted the ground beneath her feet. Dust and debris fell from the roof in a choking cloud, swirling around her as a landslide above shook the very structure to its core. Agatha stumbled back, her breath catching in her throat, the air thickening with the gritty particles that filled her lungs. Rocks and dirt continued to pour down around her like torrential rain, blocking any chance of escape. She couldn’t see anything.

When the chaos finally settled, Agatha found herself pressed against the wall, the wood splintering beneath her palm. Her heart raced, a wild animal fighting for freedom as she fought to regain her composure; though, panic clawed at her throat, hot and suffocating, as thoughts of her deputies flashed through her mind. Were they safe?

“Hey!” Agatha shouted, her voice cracking with urgency as it echoed through the dust-laden air. “Can anyone hear me?”

Each second stretched into an eternity, amplifying the silence until, finally, she heard Deputy Herb's voice break through, gravelly yet reassuring. “We’re fine! Just a bit shaken!”

Relief flooded through Agatha, momentarily lifting the weight of her worries. But that fleeting comfort was quickly followed by an overwhelming sense of disbelief. She couldn't believe that Rio had rigged the entire place with dynamite!

Just when Agatha thought she had a handle on the situation, Rio had slipped away again.

[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!