#that’s the beautiful part of creation!!!

[rafecameronssl4t]

The Wedding + Honeymoon || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: IM SO SORRY IM ONLY POSTING THIS NOW 😭😭

Warnings: angst, r smoking

Word count: 2,909

A/n: want to walk down the aisle to the instrumental of young and beautiful 🙏 ALSO I was kinda picturing Hailey Beiber's wedding dress for this but of course you don't have to imagine it like that if you don't like it :)

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

The golden sun dipped behind the verdant hills of Lake Como, casting a warm, golden glow over the shimmering water. Every detail of the wedding was pristine, carefully curated to exude opulence and elegance. Towering floral arrangements framed the ceremony site, their sweet aroma filling the cool breeze, while the gentle hum of a string quartet echoed across the villa’s courtyard.

Guests dressed in their finest murmured in hushed tones, their polite smiles hiding the intrigue and judgment bubbling beneath the surface. You stood at the edge of your suite’s balcony, your heart pounding in your chest. Your gown—an opulent creation fit for royalty—was a spectacle in itself.

The bodice was adorned with shimmering crystal embellishments that caught the light with every movement, cascading into intricate floral embroidery that wound its way down the fabric. Layers of silk and tulle fanned out into a dramatic, sweeping train that seemed endless, trailing behind you like a cloud of ivory and gold.

The weight of it wasn’t just physical—it was a burden, a reminder of the life you were stepping into. The veil, edged with delicate gold thread, framed your face like a halo, adding an ethereal quality to your reflection. The gown was breathtaking, designed to inspire awe, envy, and admiration from the guests below.

“You look stunning,” Astoria murmured, her voice soft but filled with practiced poise. She adjusted a stray piece of your veil, her eyes meeting yours in the mirror with a faint smile. “God, I feel like I’m going to be sick,” you muttered, your hand instinctively pressing against your stomach as a shaky exhale escaped your lips.“You’ll be fine,” Charlotte interjected gently, her cool hand resting on your bare shoulder.

Her tone was reassuring, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of worry. The room fell silent, the tension thick in the air. The distant hum of conversation and soft strains of music drifted in from outside, reminding you of the hundreds of eyes waiting below. You swallowed hard, your reflection blurring momentarily as tears threatened to spill, but you blinked them away.

This was your reality now, no matter how much you wished it wasn’t. “Miss de Loughrey,” Anita’s voice broke the silence, gentle but firm as always. Her tone was steady, but you could feel the hesitation behind it, as though she knew she was pulling you toward something inescapable. “It’s time.” You inhaled sharply, trying to summon the strength you didn’t have.

our hands trembled as they smoothed over the intricate beading on your bodice, a futile effort to steady yourself. “It’s really happening, isn’t it?” you whispered, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. Anita paused, her usual words of comfort failing her. For a moment, her resolve cracked, and the pity she tried to conceal flickered in her eyes.

"Yes,” she finally said, her nod small and measured. The weight of her confirmation settled over you as you turned toward the grand staircase. Each step closer to the aisle felt heavier than the last. The train of your dress, trailing behind you, seemed to anchor you to the ground, each inch of its intricate lace reminding you of the promise it bore: till death do us part.

The soft strains of a string quartet drifted up to meet you, their melodies as delicate as the tension that filled the villa. At the base of the staircase, your father waited, his face a mask of pride, but his approval was cold comfort. His beaming smile spoke of satisfaction, of accomplishment—but not of your happiness. This wasn’t about her happiness; it never had been.

It was about the de Loughrey legacy, the alliances your marriage would secure, and the image your family had cultivated for generations. The ceremony space was breathtaking, almost cruelly so. The glimmering waters of Lake Como served as the backdrop, framed by arches adorned with cascading flowers in soft whites and blush tones.

Standing at the end of the aisle was Rafe, the man who was now to be your husband. He was a vision of composure in his perfectly tailored tuxedo, his features sharp and unyielding as ever. His piercing blue eyes locked on yours, unreadable but unwavering. Was he as reluctant as you? Or was he simply enduring this as another obligation, another deal made in his father’s name?

The guests rose as the music began to play. Their eyes swept over every inch of you—the shimmer of your gown, the soft cascade of your veil, the careful control of your expression. Polite smiles were the only thing that masked their curiosity, the whispered judgments and speculations that hung in the air like an unspoken agreement. They were there to witness, not just the union, but the spectacle of it all.

Your father’s grip on your arm was unyielding, a silent command to maintain your composure. Each step you took felt like an eternity, each footfall louder in your mind than in reality. Your breaths were shallow, each step a countdown to a future you had no control over. As you neared the altar, you turned your head just slightly, your eyes scanning Rafe's family, their gazes fixed on you, expectant.

They were poised, their expressions unreadable but heavy with meaning. Then your gaze flicked to your own family. William stood tall, his presence solid and unwavering; Edward gave you a slight nod, his smile small but genuine—a flicker of something comforting in the sea of cold, calculating faces. Astoria’s gaze was sharp, her lips pressed into a thin line, but Charlotte’s eyes softened as she met yours, her silent support like a breath of fresh air in the suffocating tension.

Your mother stood at the end of the aisle, her eyes flickering with a complex blend of pride and something else—something less discernible but just as heavy. You felt their eyes on you, but it was Edward’s small, reassuring gesture that grounded you, even if only for a fleeting moment. When your father placed your hand in Rafe’s, the coolness of his touch sent a shiver through.

Rafe’s gaze locked on yours, his jaw tight. Was that regret flickering in his eyes? Or annoyance? You couldn’t tell, and it didn’t matter. You would never truly know what he felt because he never let anyone in, least of all you. The ceremony unfolded like a perfectly orchestrated performance. The officiant’s voice became a blur, the words washing over you like waves you couldn’t fight against.

Rafe’s vows were steady, precise, and detached—more like a contract than a promise. When it was your turn, your voice wavered, each word tasting bitter as it left your lips. You felt like a performer reciting lines in a play you’d never auditioned for. And then came the words you dreaded most: “You may now kiss the bride.” Rafe hesitated, a brief pause so subtle only you would notice.

He stepped closer, his hand brushing against your cheek in what should have been a tender gesture. But to you, it felt hollow, rehearsed. His lips met yours, soft but impersonal, a kiss meant to satisfy the onlookers rather than the two of you. A tear slipped down your cheek, unbidden, followed quickly by another. You tried to swallow the sob rising in your throat, but it escaped, fragile and raw.

Rafe pulled back slightly, his brows knitting together as he noticed your tears. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—regret? Guilt? Confusion? He didn’t say anything, though. What could he say? This was the life they had both been forced into. The applause erupted, deafening and hollow, as you turned to face the guests. The petals they tossed felt like a cruel mockery, their smiles oblivious to the turmoil roiling inside you.

Rafe’s arm was linked with yours as you walked back down the aisle together, his grip steady but impersonal. When you reached the edge of the courtyard, away from the prying eyes and flashing cameras, Rafe finally spoke, his voice low and tentative. “Are you okay?” You turned to him, your eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Does it matter?” For a fleeting moment, his composure faltered.

He opened his mouth as if to respond, something unspoken lingering on his tongue. But then his jaw tightened, and he looked away. “No,” he muttered. “I suppose it doesn’t.” And with that, you both stepped into the waiting car, leaving behind the applause, the guests, and the illusion of a perfect day. But the tension between you remained, a reminder of the life you had been thrust into—a life neither of you had chosen.

~

The flight to Lake Como had been a quiet affair, its tension palpable in the stale air of the private jet, but the journey to your honeymoon destination on the Amalfi Coast felt even more stifling. The jet’s engines hummed softly, a sound that seemed to amplify the silence between you and Rafe. He sat across from you, his tie loosened, his gaze fixed on the landscape beyond the window.

His eyes, though seemingly focused, saw nothing—only the storm within him. He hadn’t spoken much since the wedding reception, and for you, it was impossible to tell whether that was a blessing or just another layer of silent condemnation. It felt like a judgment of your shared fate, this life that had been handed to you both, neither of you fully grasping how to navigate it.

When you arrived at the cliffside villa overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea, it was exactly as you had imagined: stunning, otherworldly, a place that promised beauty but held no solace. The sprawling estate bathed in the soft golden light of the setting sun seemed almost unreal, its pristine white walls gleaming against the lush greenery

A private infinity pool sparkled in the courtyard, and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below added to the ambiance of serenity—serenity that felt just out of reach. Your chest tightened at the sight, the beauty only intensifying the ache in your heart. “It’s beautiful,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper, as much to yourself as to Rafe.

The words were hollow, a futile attempt to hold on to some semblance of normalcy. Rafe nodded curtly, his jaw clenched, as he handed his jacket to the waiting staff. “It’s what they wanted,” he replied flatly, his voice devoid of emotion. They. The families. The ones who had orchestrated every detail of this—this nightmare masquerading as a dream. You swallowed hard, forcing back the tears that threatened to spill.

You had cried enough at the wedding; you couldn’t let yourself break down here, not when the weight of this new reality pressed so heavily on your chest. Your luggage was swiftly taken away to the master suite, and your stomach twisted at the thought of sharing the room with Rafe. The villa was vast, yet you felt trapped in its grandeur.

It didn’t matter how many rooms it had; there was no escaping him, no escaping the suffocating awareness of his presence that clung to you like a second skin. It felt like a constant reminder of the life that had been chosen for you both, a life you had never asked for but were now forced to live. Dinner was served on the terrace as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink.

The table was set for two, an intimate setting that only deepened the awkwardness between you. You sat with your back to the view, trying to ignore the uncomfortable tension in the air. As the waitstaff began to serve, you pulled out a cigarette and lit it, drawing in the smoke slowly. You let the warmth of the cigarette ease some of the tension in your chest, the familiar burn helping to steady your nerves, even as it made the air feel heavier between you and Rafe.

You watched the thin ribbon of smoke curl upwards, the sharp scent mixing with the salty breeze from the sea. The rich flavours of the meal were lost on you, your mind too distracted by the palpable silence and the feeling of suffocation that lingered in the villa. Every now and then, you stole a glance at Rafe, but he was focused on his plate, his jaw tight.

His eyes flicked briefly to your cigarette, but he said nothing. “You’re not eating?” he asked, his voice cutting through the silence, but his tone was neutral, almost indifferent. You took another drag, watching the smoke swirl in the fading light. “I’m not hungry,” you said softly, the words laced with an unspoken truth. It wasn’t the food you needed; it was the way the cigarette soothed the restless tightness in your chest.

Rafe leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on you now, though his expression remained unreadable. “You’ll need to eat eventually,” he said, his voice calm but insistent. “Skipping meals won’t change anything.” The words hit you harder than expected, and you looked up, a spark of frustration flaring inside. “I know that, Rafe. Believe it or not, I’m not trying to starve myself out of this situation.”

His frown deepened, and he ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “I didn’t mean it like that.” “Then how did you mean it?” Your voice was sharp, the anger you’d been holding back bubbling to the surface. “What, are you worried I’ll embarrass you by fainting in front of the staff?” “That’s not what I—” He cut himself off with a harsh exhale, frustration lacing his tone. “Forget it.”

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow in the quiet of the terrace. “Of course. Forget it. Just like we’re supposed to forget the fact that neither of us wants to be here.” His eyes hardened, his jaw clenching. “Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I asked for this?” “You certainly don’t seem to be fighting it,” you shot back, your words sharp. “You’re just as complicit as everyone else in this—this arrangement.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Rafe’s voice rose, snapping in the quiet of the evening. “Just like you didn’t. So stop acting like I’m the villain here.” You pushed back your chair, the legs scraping against the stone floor as you stood up abruptly, cigarette dangling from your fingers. “You don’t get it, do you?” Your voice trembled with barely contained fury. “You’ll always have more freedom than I ever will. You’re Rafe Cameron, the golden boy. You’ll get to live your life the way you want, no matter what. But me?”

You shook your head, the words leaving your lips in a bitter rush. “I’m just a pawn. A vessel for heirs.” For a moment, Rafe froze, his gaze hardening into something unreadable. He clenched his fists, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “If that’s what you think, then maybe you don’t know me at all,” he said quietly, his voice sharp and laced with bitterness.

Without another word, you turned on your heel and walked away, the sound of your heels clicking against the stone as you retreated into the villa, your heart pounding in your chest. You didn’t know where you were going, only that you needed distance—from him, from this place, from the suffocating reality of your new life. The master suite was dim when you entered, the moonlight casting faint shadows across the room.

You sank onto the edge of the bed, staring out at the sea beyond the open balcony doors. The cool night breeze brushed against your skin, but it did little to quell the ache gnawing at your heart. Your mind was a whirlwind, thoughts spinning in every direction, none of them providing any clarity. Minutes passed before you heard the door creak open behind you. You didn’t need to look to know it was Rafe.

His footsteps were slow, hesitant, the sound of his approach almost a whisper. He stopped a few feet away, his presence filling the room without the need for words. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low and almost uncertain. You turned to look at him, surprised by the softness in his tone, by the lack of his usual bravado. “For what?”

“For... everything,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair, his eyes searching the room as if he couldn’t quite find the right words. “I know this isn’t fair. To either of us.” You blinked, startled by his candor. For a brief moment, you saw something human behind the walls he��d carefully constructed. Something fragile, something real. “It’s not,” you agreed quietly, your voice barely a whisper.

Rafe sighed, sitting down in the armchair near the balcony, his eyes distant as if he was searching for something in the dark expanse of the sea. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he confessed, the words heavy with uncertainty. “But I don’t want us to hate each other.” You studied him, noting the tense line of his shoulders, the way his eyes avoided yours.

For the first time, you wondered if he was just as lost as you felt. “I don’t want that either,” you whispered, your words fragile, as if they might break under the weight of everything you had left unsaid. You both sat in silence, the sound of the waves below filling the space between you. It wasn’t an answer, not really. But it was something—a fragile, tentative start.

[hrtwayne]

Home || Lady Alcina Dimitrescu

Pairing: Lady Alcina Dimitrescu x Wife!Reader [Resident Evil Au!]

Summary: Where Alcina watches you and Bela tending to the castle's flowers!

Note: English is not my first language!!

Warning: None!

MASTERLIST

Y/n walked gracefully through the Dimitrescu Castle's garden, sunlight filtering through the canopy of ancient trees. Her steps were firm and confident, embodying a woman who had become an essential part of the intricate workings of that majestic place. The title of Second Lady, once unimaginable, had become her official role alongside Alcina Dimitrescu.

Among her daily tasks, one peculiar responsibility always awaited her: tending to the flowers. Bela, Alcina's eldest daughter, often accompanied her during these moments. Their relationship was more than just stepmother and stepdaughter; it was a bond of genuine affection, a connection that transcended blood ties. To Bela and her sisters, Y/n was not only a maternal figure but also a friend and confidant.

As they strolled through the colorful flowerbeds, Bela expressed her impatience with the task, a reflection of the Dimitrescu family's fiery temperament. However, Y/n, with her captivating serenity, turned every moment into an opportunity for learning and joy.

"Mother, these roses are taking so long to grow!" Bela exclaimed, frustrated.

Y/n smiled, gently stroking the delicate petals.

"Flowers have their own time, dear. We cannot rush nature, but we can appreciate every phase of its growth."

Y/n watched as Bela slowly began to relax, finding enchantment in patience and meticulous care. She taught her to prune delicately, water attentively, and speak to the plants as if they were close confidants.

Meanwhile, Alcina observed from afar, a tender smile gracing her lips. It was a portrait of the harmony Y/n had brought to her world—a presence that not only filled gaps but also strengthened existing bonds. Beside her, Cassandra, one of her younger daughters, voiced what Alcina felt in her heart.

"Having her in our lives was the best thing that ever happened to us, don’t you think, Mother?" Cassandra said, her eyes shining with admiration.

Alcina nodded softly.

"Yes, my dear. She brought light to our shadowed castle, turning it into a true home."

As the sun set slowly on the horizon, the garden bore witness not only to the blooming of roses and tulips but also to the flourishing of bonds and affections between a woman, her stepdaughters, and the castle's matriarch. There, in that garden, the seeds of love, care, and understanding grew as vividly as the flowers they tended.

"Y/n," Alcina murmured sincerely. "Thank you for everything you've done for me and my daughters. You’ve brought a light I never could have imagined into our lives. The love and care you give are priceless."

Y/n lifted her gaze slightly, meeting the eyes of the woman she loved. A tender smile graced her lips as she listened to Alcina’s words.

"Alcina, I only followed what my heart told me to do. Taking care of you and your daughters is what completes me, what brings me joy and purpose. There’s nothing I desire more than to stand by your side, supporting and loving you and your girls," Y/n replied calmly.

Alcina's eyes glimmered with deep gratitude and overflowing love. She gently cupped Y/n’s face, cherishing every moment as if it were too precious to let slip away.

In that moment, Dimitrescu Castle bore witness not only to the grandeur of its towering spires and imposing halls but also to the simple, intangible beauty of a love blossoming between two women bound by ties beyond time and creation. A love that echoed through the corridors, enveloping not just Alcina and Y/n but also her daughters, transforming that shadowed place into a home filled with affection and warmth.

[sunlighthroughthe-ashes]

i'm just going to focus on the good parts of this episode. i don't think it was in character of yu-yeon to leave heejoo without any explanation or prior notice; knowing full well the hell she's been through. i also don't think inventing a fake country rife with rebels and racist undertones was in good taste; but that said — i do like the idea of yu-yeon seeking redemption.

we tend to think of redemption as something holy — something lofty and impossible; the spires of some distant and unreachable dream of absolution just barely in our sightline — but i think it's beautiful that no matter how long yu-yeon has been punishing himself; it's only when heejoo takes him into her arms and kisses him that he finds himself free from darkness. maybe redemption isn't grand — maybe it's just someone who loves you looking you in the eye and telling you that they're always going to find you, no matter where you go. maybe redemption is just two arms wrapping around you, embracing you home.

i also love the soft use of buttery light during their bed scene: it's intimate; but also sacred — the sincere language of skin-on-skin; the sweetness of that gap between two people that can only be bridged by one body against another.

in the novel; yu-yeon asks heejoo to give him a name; and i'm sad that they didn't show that in the drama — but i love the meaning of "paik yu-yeon." names are special — they're the cornerstones of one's identity. in its most ancient meaning; names are a kind of summoning — a call to creation. "paik yu-yeon" — being reborn in the name of love: being formed anew in tenderness — it's a powerful ending. one that they both deserve.

ultimately, i'm glad to see that heejoo and yu-yeon received what they have always longed for — an everyday existence; friends laughing around a dinner table; someone to call after work. an ordinary life — and an extraordinary joy at being together.

it's the greatest gift in the world. ♡

[thestarswillguide]

I felt the same way!! I started making a bot of him on janitor ai a few months ago, so I had to look at the wiki, and it said that Startouch elves formed Xadia 5000 years ago.

Aaravos is around 5000 years old, so I thought that he helped create Xadia. Regarding the Primal Sources, I assumed that he, and maybe along with other Startouch mages, did that part, since the magic includes spells and everything, and only mages can do spells. Also the fact that Aaravos is known as the master of the six Primal Sources, so it'd make sense for him to be the creator of them.

So I thought that he, along with Leola, were the only ones who actually appreciated and cared about the world... But when he said this season that the world was made by cruel, unfeeling hands, he revealed that he didn't help form it... While the others of his kind stayed in the heavens, ignoring Xadia, Aaravos was the only one who actually loved their creation... The only one who didn't focus on his own beauty and superior, extraterrestrial powers, and instead desired to learn about the other Sources; to actually LIVE in the world rather than the vast HEAVENS. He & Leola were the only ones who actually cared about humans, while the others didn't care for even the fate of MORTALS, which includes the other elves! They only cared about things being in order.

I can't emphasize enough how much this means. For him to be one of, if not the ONLY Startouch elf to not be arrogant and actually caring towards mortals. That's why I always say that him and Leola are special Startouch elves.

So for Aaravos to say that Xadia is an instrument of pain, of torment... To say that even death provides no relief or escape from it... I felt so bad for him. And I believe he was speaking for humanity as well. He feels depressed, empty, hopeless, and full of unending hatred...

All I can say is that the Startouch elves have ruined the best one of them. They have taken the only pretty much GOOD one of their kind, and made him both their and Xadia's worst fear. They have taken a heart made of gold, and poisoned it until it turned almost entirely black...

But we continue to see that Aaravos is still loving and empathetic inside; that he still cares. We've seen that in season 6 and even more in season 7, towards Claudia, Terry, humanity as a whole, and even Viren. He's still our precious Startouch elf, and even while he's being the villain, selfishly seeking to destroy everything, he still proves himself better than the other Startouch elves 💜

"The stars have never smiled upon their creations. This is a world made by cruel, unfeeling hands."

"It is an instrument of pain, of torment. To exist within this world is to suffer, even death is no reprieve."

-Aaravos

It is criminal that no one talks about this part. You can really get an insight to his mental state here. He's depressed. He hates being alive. Sure he was in a prison but the world is still a never-ending prison of suffering.

It's backed up when he says about Claudia, "She is my last light in this world."

Its depressing that he no longer feels happiness in anything. All his light is gone. All he has inside is pain and there really is no way to get rid of all that hurting 😔

[anon-e-miss]

Storm's End - 4

“Seems like everyone on Damaxus comes here to fuel,” Jazz told Prowl.

They had split up, each taxed with scouting a different corner of the island for a spot that might serve as a base of operations. Jazz had looked around the coastline near the inn. He had found the smuggler’s cave Lockdown had once sailed his ship, the Death’s Head into, destroyed. No one had mentioned an earthquake or maybe Lockdown had done it himself. It would have been poetic to take over one of his roosts but that was fine. Ori and Rico were not back yet and so when Jazz had spotted the innkeepers’ pretty creation carrying a crate, he could not resisting walking over. Prowl was just as pretty in his neat and conservative armour as he had been nude. The Praxian was perfectly elegant, walking with a delicious swap of his ample hips.

“Did ya need any help?” He offered. The crate was full of empty bottles. The Damaxians were a hard drinking crowd when they wanted to be.

“If you wanted to grab one of the crates over there,” Prowl replied. “We sterilize the bottles and then reuse them. It saves on needless waste.”

“It’d be my pleasure,” Jazz replied.

Prowl let him through a storage room and down a flight of stairs into the cellar. Swerve had been spot on, this would have once been part of Lockdown’s lair. Where weapons and trophies would once have been held were barrels of engex and the tools of the distiller’s trade. The beauty unloaded the bottles into a sterilization system and then turned to face Jazz. There was an audible ping, at least to Jazz’s own audial horns when Prowl dimmed his optics. Jazz leaned back against the counter at his back as the Praxian leaned in. He smelled like salt air and flowers. His plating tingled as Prowl tinkled his digits down his arm.

“Perhaps I can thank you for your assistance?” The beauty asked. Jazz swallowed.

“Don’t know that I did anything that big,” he replied. “But if ya wanted to...”

“Oh I do,” Prowl assured him as he traced Jazz’s codpiece with a long, clawtipped digit.

“Oh frag,” Jazz cursed as his spike pressurized the nanoklik he authorized his panel to retract. Prowl was a soft sound, maybe a giggle as he took Jazz’s spike in his servo and stroked it twice before leaning in and wrapping his mouth around it. “Oh frag!”

Jazz did not dare risk harming Prowl in anyway.... what if his progenitor walked in? That very thought should have nullified the saboteur’s charge but he had always enjoyed a risk a little bit too much. He leaned back against the counter and watched the beautiful Praxian swallow his spike as he unclasped his armour. Prowl’s heavy wells bounced when they were freed from his armour. It took everything in Jazz’s power not to overload right then and there. No one had ever looked so perfect sucking his spike. Prowl hummed as he sucked and Jazz clenched his denta to keep from overloading too soon. The way the beauty rippled his throat around his spike, there was no way Jazz was going to last that long. He saw Prowl reach between his own legs and touch himself and he knew he was about to lose it.

“‘M gonna cum!” He warned Prowl who just leaned in and sucked a little harder. There was no helping himself, Jazz overloaded with a quiet groan, rolling his helm back as Prowl audible slurped and swallowed every last drop. “Damn, y’re somethin’ else.”

“Mmm,” Prowl hummed, licking his lipplates. “I will take that as a compliment.”

“Let me return the favour,” Jazz offered.

“Oh please do.”

They switched places. Prowl covered his mouth as Jazz knelt between his thighs and leaned. He stroked the Praxian’s node as he spread his wet folds and flicked his glossa between them. It was not long before Jazz felt his spike returning to pressure. He held Prowl’s thick thighs open as he pleasured the beauty with his mouth and digits. Though Prowl muffled his cries of pleasure, Jazz knew when he overloaded from the torrent that covered his face. Jazz rose to his peds, stroking his spike as he looked at the flushed mech below him. Prowl reached between his own thighs and held his wet, swollen folds open, inviting Jazz in. It was an invitation Jazz felt no call to ignore. He stared between the Praxian’s legs and watched himself insert his spike into the beauty’s molten centre.

“Oh frag, ya feel good,” Jazz groaned as he leaned over Prowl. He held the supine mech’s legs behind he knees as he rolled his hips, spiking the mech slowly, giving him the whole length of his thick spike before he pulled out and sank home again.

“Uhn,” Prowl moaned, tossing his helm. “That’s good. Oh... oh... You are so big.”

“Am I hurtin’ ya?” Jazz asked.

“No,” Prowl moaned. “No... harder... frag me harder.”

The gel plug of the Praxian’s gestational duct had started to reform since their last encounter but it was hardly a barrier. Jazz buried his spike in the beauty’s gestational tank and basked a moment in the tight grip of the Praxian’s rippling tunnel. Prowl squealed with delight, calling out praise for Jazz’s spike as he fragged him. Wet squelches and clangs echoed off the cellar’s stone walls. If the innkeepers found him like this... Jazz leaned his helm down and nipped the tip of the Praxian’s chevron as he spiked him with quick thrusts of his hips. Prowl crossed his legs around Jazz’s hips calling out with a throaty cry as he overloaded around Jazz’s turgid spike. His tunnel rippled around Jazz’s spike. There was no escape, not that he wanted to escape.

“Frag, y’re so fraggin’ tight,” Jazz groaned. “Gonna cum...”

“Do it,” Prowl moaned. “Oh frag, cum in me!”

“Oh frag!” Jazz obeyed, flooding the Praxian’s tank with litres of transluids before he collapsed against him. He had a bit more clarity this round than the last. “I think ya might be trouble.”

“Not to worry,” Prowl assured him. “I have an implant.”

“I shoulda asked,” Jazz apologized.

“Neither of us were quite in our right processors,” Prowl replied. They climbed up the stairs after the made themselves presentable. Cleansing wipes removed the telltale signs. It did not bother Jazz knowing that Prowl had them. He was not exactly in a position to question the other mech’s promiscuty when he was no different. In any case, Jazz saw no shame in it. As the stepped from the storage room, Prowl gasped with surprise as he looked out the window. “The sky is red!”

Jazz followed as Prowl ran from the in. He was not the only islander that ran for the docks. A crowd was gathering with those who had been waiting out the storm on their boats had climbed the masts and were pointing to the horizon. It took a few kliks before the battered ship appeared. As it limped into dock, Ori and Rico jogged up and joined Jazz in watching the spectacle. Downshift threw a roped to the beleaguered vessel so they could secure themselves to the dock. It was listing, Jazz realized. The masts were gone, blown away not by rogue waves but canon balls. The signs of a violent battle covered the sloop. Its hull must have been built from ununtrium to have survived such an attack. Prowl joined his progenitor in helping the crew off the vessel.

“We can’t have fuel leak into the bay,” Downshift said. “Might you give permission for one of our shipwrights to make emergency repairs.”

“By all means,” the mech was a curious frametype. He had features of a Urayan but not the stature. There was kibble on his back but it was no door wing. “Whatever the bill is, I can pay it.”

“No charge,” Downshift replied. “Damaxus aids any who sail into her harbour.”

“Damaxus?” The mech looked around, He held a audio player tightly in his arms. “All the stories do you a grave disservice.”

“We don’t complain,” Downshift replied. “Our inn is full but we’ll find berths for your crew.”

“Thank you. I’m Tracks, and this is Blaster,” the Urayan halfbreed replied. As he did, he threw the audio player up and it transformed into a tall mech. “We’ll only need one room. We are the crew... more or less.”

“Downshift. My creation Prowl.”

“I can bunk wit my creations,” Punch offered. “That’d leave a room free.”

“Thank you, Mech!” Blaster replied, shaking Punch’s servo. “And you, Sir. Though I was hallucinating your island.”

“Come to Storm’s End and we’ll get some fuel into you,” Downshift declared.

“What happened?” One of the fishermecha asked.

“Pirates,” Blaster said. “We sailed in the fog ‘n storm. Thought we were clear from those slagtard but then we heard the canons. Next thing, we see them firing at the waves ‘n some beast pulled ‘em down.”

“A beast?” Punch asked.

“Kraken,” Blaster replied. “Saw its shadow, a giant beast.”

“Kraken?” Someone asked. “But those are just stories.”

“Warwhale aren’t that big,” Blaster said. “‘N they don’t got that many arms.”

The pub was full of mechanisms wanting to hear their miraculous story over and over. The crew was more than just the two mech. Blaster was a cassette-carrier and his Casseticons serves as the rest of the crew. They were out of their docks, enjoying a meal as Blaster regaled the crowd again. Tracks nodded along. It seemed like Blaster did most of the talking in their relationship. Even after the beast had ripped the pirate vessel in two and dragged it into the deep, they had realized they were doom. They had already been taking on water and without sails and their engine hardly doing more than sputtering. Blaster said he heard something, like a bird call and as he bullied the shop starboard the horizon turned red and he made the decision to point their ship in that directions. The waves as much as their engine power had washed them into board. It all sounded like a sparkling fantasy but Jazz imagined he might imagine worse in the same situation.

“Ya find anythin’?” Punch asked now that they had retreated to their one room.

“No...” Jazz said. There was a knock at the door. It was Prowl with an armload of bedding. “Thank ya.

“We can drag up a cot,” Prowl offered. “Though it is not terribly comfortable. We have them in case we need to turn the pub into an emergency shelter.”

“We’re fine,” Jazz assured him. “Rico ‘n me’ve bunked together before.”

“Thank ya,” Punch said. “I don’t think I want either o’ them sulkin’ bout sore backs. ‘N it would certainly be one o’ them ‘n not me.”

“I should hope so,” Prowl agreed. There was a rumble above their helms. “It would appears the eye is passing.”

“Those mecha couldn’t o’ gotten more lucky,” Punch declared.

“I could not agree more,” Prowl said.

“Do ya normally repair broken vessels for free?” Jazz asked.

“Damaxus relies on a healthy sea,” Prowl replied. “Some ship owners pinch their shanix and will let their ships sail with cracked hauls and worse. As a community, we all agreed it was better if we see the work done ourselves for the sake of our island.”

“Shipwrights gotta fuel,” Ricochet spoke up. “Someone must pay’em.”

“We have a fund,” Prowl explained. “Everyone who can pays into it. Few on Damaxus dream of reaches. We only want to live our lives in safety and comfort. When we work together, we stand the best hope o’ it.”

“Straxus would sooner cut out in his optics,” Punch said after Prowl took his leave.

“Wonder how long it’ll last once more mecha realize that Damaxus is a paradise?” Jazz wondered out loud.

“Ya’d think they’d be tryin’ to carve out their stake already,” Punch said. “Damaxus is so close to Polyhex, I don’t know why Straxus ain’t heard o’ the boon already.”

“Maybe his scouts got eaten by sharkticon,” Jazz offered.

“Ya joke, but...” Punch hummed. “These mecha are saintly, no question. But we best remember saints can be the most ruthless killers when dealin’ wit sinners. We gotta keep our guards up, ‘cause we ain’t saints.”

[cece693]

Day 3 of lestat pleaseee

Forever Muse

pairing: lestat de lioncourt x male human reader tags: lestat is readers muse, mentions of Claudia and Louis, thoughts of turning, lestat has a crush, no specific lestat was used for inspiration (can be seen as either the movie or show timeline)

The studio reeked of turpentine and linseed oil, a fragrant cocktail that clung to the air like an old, familiar ghost. You were accustomed to it, the scent of creation and frustration blending into one. Yet tonight, it seemed to mock you, curling into the corners of your mind as you stared at the canvas before you.

Another failure.

Lestat sat in his usual spot by the window, moonlight spilling over him like liquid silver. He was effortlessly ethereal, a living contradiction—sharp angles and soft curls, danger and beauty woven together in a way no mortal hand could replicate. You had tried, God knew you had tried, to capture that allure. The piercing eyes, the self-assured smirk, the way his every movement seemed to command the world to revolve around him. And yet, every brushstroke fell short.

He knew it, of course. How could he not? Lestat always seemed to know everything, even the thoughts you dared not voice. His lips curled into a faint smile, equal parts amused and indulgent, as he watched you pace back and forth like a caged animal. “It’s not fair,” you muttered under your breath, glancing at him. “You sit there looking like some fallen angel, and I’m supposed to, what? Summon the divine with paint and canvas? It’s impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible, mon cher,” Lestat replied, his voice a lilting melody that sent shivers down your spine. “You just lack the proper inspiration.”

Your brush hovered in midair, a sigh escaping your lips. “Oh, I have inspiration,” you said, letting your gaze linger on him. “What I lack is…God, I don’t know. Skill? Luck? Whatever it is that would make this look even half as good as the real thing.”

Lestat’s laughter filled the room, rich and warm, and for a moment, it dulled the edges of your frustration. “You flatter me,” he said, standing with the grace of a predator and crossing the room to stand behind you. He peered over your shoulder at the painting, his proximity making your pulse quicken. “But you’re wrong, you know. You underestimate yourself.”

You glanced at him, your brow furrowed. “What are you talking about? Look at it. It’s lifeless.”

Lestat tilted his head, studying the work with a critical eye. “It’s not lifeless. It’s longing. There’s a difference.”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you masked it with a scoff. “Longing? For what?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned to face you fully, his gaze locking onto yours. There was something unreadable in his eyes, a depth that made you feel like you were teetering on the edge of an abyss. “Perhaps that’s a question you should be asking yourself.”

The words lingered between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. You wanted to look away, but you couldn’t. He had you ensnared, as he always did, with a power that was as intoxicating as it was terrifying.

The truth was, you had spent months trying to capture him on canvas because it felt safer than admitting the truth to yourself. Lestat was your muse, yes, but he had also become your obsession. You found yourself craving his presence, his voice, his laughter. And yet, there was something about him that felt just out of reach, like chasing a shadow in the dark.

Unbeknownst to you, Lestat found your company equally intoxicating. Your studio had become a sanctuary of sorts, a refuge from the storm that raged within his home. Life with Louis and Claudia had grown tense, every conversation teetering on the brink of an argument. He could feel their resentment festering, their plans forming in the shadows. It was only a matter of time before they turned against him.

And so, he sought solace in you. There was something refreshing about your presence, your unfiltered frustration, your raw vulnerability. You didn’t tiptoe around him like so many others did. You challenged him, fascinated him. For the first time in decades, Lestat felt truly seen.

The thought had crossed his mind more than once—to turn you. It was a selfish desire, he knew, born out of his fear of losing you. But there was also something else, a darker longing that he couldn’t ignore. You appreciated him in a way Louis never could, in a way Claudia never would. You saw him, not as a monster or a god, but as something in between. And that, perhaps, was what drew him to you most of all.

“You’re staring again,” you said, breaking the silence.

Lestat’s lips curved into a smirk. “Can you blame me? You’re quite the sight when you’re brooding.”

You rolled your eyes, though your cheeks flushed under his gaze. “Well, stop. It’s distracting.”

He chuckled, stepping closer until there was barely a breath between you. “Perhaps I like distracting you,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Perhaps I like being the reason you can’t quite capture what you’re feeling.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of you. Lestat reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek, and you felt a jolt of electricity at the contact. “Tell me, mon cher,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours. “If you could capture me perfectly on canvas, if you could finally get it right…what then?”

You didn’t have an answer. Or perhaps you did, but the words felt too heavy to speak aloud. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you, hoping it would be enough. But Lestat, as always, was not one to let things go. His smile turned wistful, almost sad, as he took a step back. “Perhaps it’s better this way,” he said softly. “Some things are meant to remain unfinished.”

He turned and walked back to his place by the window, leaving you standing there, your heart pounding and your mind racing. You didn’t know what to make of his words, or the way they seemed to linger in the air long after he had spoken them.

What you didn’t see was the way Lestat watched you from the corner of his eye, a faint smile playing on his lips. He had made up his mind. You would be his, in time. Whether you knew it or not, your fate was already entwined with his. And soon, the artist who had spent months trying to capture his soul would discover who truly was Lestat de Lioncourt.

[crowleave]

ok so the thing is, the kiss really was the best way crowley knew to convey his feelings to aziraphale because nina and maggie were right, they do talk but they never say what they mean.

but that doesn’t mean they don’t understand each other, at least to a certain extent.

and crowley knows aziraphale

he knows that he loves books and plays and the stories made by humanity. he watches his angel learn magic the human way and finds out he learned french the human way and knows better than anyone how much he loves human food. he throws a ball to get nina and maggie together because that’s what the humans in jane austen novels would do.

crowley knows that aziraphale romanticizes humanity, loves the drama and the stories and every little thing that makes humans human.

and what could be more human than a desperate kiss asking someone to stay

[monards]

my second wokest opinion is that I think it’s demeaning to the story to make quick and purely shock value angst that throws away the foundational elements of the characters for the sole purpose of “making something sad”

crepe's wokest opinion is that she hates when a majority of people fixate on a mlm ship in a wlw focused media

[sableeira]

there is something about magic systems that borrow from a specific craft that makes them so special. Maybe it’s because they feel more tangible and it’s very easy to get swept away by the passion for the craft that is clearly written on every page.

Whether it’s the art based magic system in Witch Hat Atelier. Or the translation based magic system in Babel. Or the alchemy/chemistry based magic system in Fullmetal Alchemist.

The relation to a specific craft makes the characters passion for their magic feel so personal and relatable. Because there is magic in art, in translation, in chemistry and any other craft that people partake in. The magic system becomes a love letter towards creation and everyone who creates and there is nothing world building wise that could be more charming.

[doriana-gray-games]

Thoughts on mc's that have headcannon use of mobility aids? Canes, wheelchairs and the like?

🤔✨ might be tricky, as the game might feel like it contradicts it, with some things mc does or if W’s condition is brought up with no mention to MC’s, etc.

But other than that, if you can look past what might be immersion breaking, then feel free 😌 Not that y’all need my permission, but HC away.

❤️❤️🥰 I hope it works out for you, anon!

[emptymilk-bottle]

H O T T O G O YOU CAN TAKE ME HOTTT TO GO

[sluckythewizard]

THEY could give me the surgurey i need (inspired alot by evojellys designs for em. GREAT STUFF)

[sun-e-chips]

You ever scrolling through tumbler and you see everyones beautiful au’s of these beloved jesters and think

Damn am I lucky to exist in this world at this time

[evil-dsmpconfessions]

Sometimes I feel really guilty about some of the stuff I’ve written. Like, I know I shouldn’t, but I look back at the fics I’ve written with Wilbur in it, or with Techno in it, and I just feel guilty, but at the same time I don’t want to delete them. It’s a weird feeling.

-crazy rp anon

.

[m0e-ru]

it sucks that p4's final antagonist had to be a woman. it sucks that p4's final antagonist had to be trans. it sucks that p4's final antagonist had to have an ambiguous gender identity. it sucks that p4's final antagonist had to be inhuman. it sucks.

[tleeaves]

Damn, I'm looking back at some of my fandom/media discussion posts from 2023 in particular on TSC and The Hunger Games, and wow. Past Me really cooked. Why do I only reblog other people's stuff with minimal tags these days? Where did all that energy and passion to do original character and text analyses go?