#the discreet shape of fish

[liswee]

. ۫ ꣑ৎ BUSY BEING YOURS…

❀ synopsis. in which you and kento live together and you still haven't gotten home from work—but he’s a worried boyfriend.

wc. 2k

notes. i have a very specific soft spot for any scenario in which nanami lives a quiet, domestic life—no worries beyond wondering where his beloved is and what he’ll cook for the two of them for dinner. that said, i once read that there comes a point in a relationship where you trust your partner so deeply that you stop fearing betrayal and start fearing something bad might happen to them instead. i wanted to capture that—along with the fact that kento is completely whipped. hope you enjoy it! just a reminder that english isn’t my first language, so there might be some mistakes. <3

The rain starts small, almost shy. An indistinct noise on the roof, a whisper of droplets over the tiles like hesitant fingers tapping on frosted glass; soon after, it thickens and gathers breath in the form of a discreet drumming against the window. Somewhere between the half-finished tea and the sluggish reading of a book that won’t hold his attention, it grows heavier and heavier. The droplets trail lazily down the glass, bumping into one another in minimal, inevitable collisions, joining and forming small chains of water that slide quickly toward the windowsill, where they gather for a moment before vanishing into the wood.

A grumpy thunder grumbles in the distance. Outside and behind the half-open curtains, the streetlights—once so defined and bright—blur, diffused by the humidity, by the droplets, casting long shadows across the wooden floor.

The apartment is small, but it has never felt cramped. It’s never seemed smaller than it should be, never gave the sensation that it lacked space for anything that mattered. The table in the kitchen has always had just enough room for two plates, even though he eats dinner late, waiting for you even when he doesn’t need to, even when the food goes cold and the rice loses its combative steam against the cold that seeps in through the cracks. A habit that wasn’t born from any verbal agreement, but from something instinctive, repeated so often it became part of the structure of the house like a piece of furniture. Time passed, and now he doesn’t know if he waits because he wants to or simply because he wouldn’t know how to act any other way.

The gaps—always open, even on drizzly days—let in a lazy midnight breeze, bringing with it the scent of petrichor mixed with your perfume, which still floats through the apartment, stubborn, clinging to the sheets, the towels, the folds of his clothes. He sometimes smells it on his own skin, in the creases of his elbows where you usually bury your nose when hugging him from behind at the kitchen sink, and he wonders how many washes it would take to erase it. He’s never tried to find out, and doubts he ever will.

You still haven’t come home.

Kento is sitting on the gray couch, his back sunken into the soft fabric—the kind of softness only achieved after years of use, of bodies shaping themselves into the furniture like obedient clay—a cup of tea resting on the coffee table and a book open on his lap, though he hasn’t read more than a page or two in the past half hour. The book open in his lap is an old edition of The Stranger , cracked spine and yellowed pages from the humidity, bought at a street fair one morning when you laughed at him for haggling over two bucks with the seller.

The tea has already gone cold by the time he gives up pretending to read, its surface covered by an opaque film that reflects the lamplight like the eyes of a dead fish. The words in front of him blur, the pages becoming mere intervals between the glances he throws at the window, merging into a single block of text his retinas pass through without absorbing. Every now and then, he lifts his hand to adjust the glasses already perfectly in place, runs his fingers over his face, massages the bridge of his nose in a gesture done more out of habit than need.

The clock on the wall reads 10:23 p.m., and he’s never one to text asking about time. Never has been—it’s never been necessary. That was something you both agreed on without needing to say it: one’s time is not a debt owed by the other. It’s not late enough to worry; you’ve always had a habit of working more than you should, but time has a way of stretching when waiting drags on, so he worries anyway.

He crosses his arms, then uncrosses them. Props his elbow on the armrest, drums his fingers on the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt, feels the fabric wrinkle under the touch. His leg moves without him noticing, heel tapping the floor in a short, uneven rhythm. The clock’s hand moves without sound, but Nanami still hears it—a muffled tapping at the back of his mind, along with the echo of his own blaring thoughts.

The house has no sounds but his. Just the occasional rustle of pages when he shifts, the wood creaking under his weight, the sound of his pants fabric when he changes positions, trying to find some comfort that, deep down, won’t come until you’re there. Kento doesn’t like this unnamed tightness, this sense that something is out of place even if there’s no objective reason for it. He knows you’ll come back. You always do. That doesn’t stop his chest from constricting in the exact spot where his heart should be comfortable, secure, untroubled by things outside his control. And yet, there he is, still strangely restless, staring at the empty street as if he could summon you back by sheer force of will.

In the blink of an eye, the rain worsens, blurring the city until everything looks like a huge, distorted reflection on the windowpane. The streets are empty, and the usual urban sounds seem to soften, swallowed by the water. He knows the paths you take to come home. He’s walked them so many times to pick you up from the flower shop where you work, has imagined them many more. He can picture you pulling up your hood to cover your beautiful hair, the earbuds hanging from your neck, your steps quick and certain like someone who knows the way as well as the back of their hand and no longer needs to pay attention. Maybe you’re humming softly to keep the cold at bay—an unconscious habit.

He wonders if the coat you took before leaving is warm enough, if your sneakers are soaked now, if you’re checking your phone to see if he texted. The thought doesn’t exactly comfort him. It only makes him want to see you more, to hear you laugh and say his name, the way you always do.

Now, while waiting, it’s easy to recall other memories. He thinks of the strands you pull from your shirt and wrap around your fingers before tossing them away. The way you tie your own shoelaces and then check his, as if expecting him to one day mess up the knot, even though he told you he learned to tie bows when he was five. How you press your cold feet against his calves during winter, laughing softly when he grumbles in fake irritation—and never actually pulls away. The way you close your eyes for one second longer when he says your name slowly, like the sound carries a tingling you like to feel. Nanami had always been a man of measured gestures, bound to an exact and predictable sense of timing, but when it comes to you, that same time betrays him. Every moment and second stretches and sinks in deep, until he finds himself trapped in a web of small details that become essential simply because they belong to you. Because since the day he met you—three years ago, when he bumped into you at a bookstore and saw you frowning at the philosophy shelf—his heart had already taken root, thick and firm and blooming, the kind that tried—and still do—to escape through his ribs, his muscles, his veins, through every golden layer of his skin, as all they seek is to reach you.

For you, oh, his heart itself became a garden, condemned to bloom until you returned to pick your own name, written on every petal.

It’s only when the doorknob turns that he realizes he’s been holding his breath.

Kento doesn’t move immediately. He stays still, fingers tense on the edges of the book, while his heart races in a rhythm that exposes the farce of his composure. You enter in a breath of wind and rain scent, your coat clinging to your body, lips pink from the cold. Your hair, darker now than its usual color under the humidity, sticks to your temples and neck, revealing the soft curve of an ear he knows as well as the lines of his own palms. You shut the door with your foot, half-distracted, half-accustomed, and look at him with that expression of someone who doesn’t quite understand the worry, but accepts it anyway, with a small smile curling only one corner of your mouth. You drop your bag on the chair—exactly where he imagined you would—and your keys into the ceramic bowl by the door.

Nanami releases the breath he had been holding, uncrosses his arms, and finally stands in a single movement—the cup is left on the table, the book on the sofa, the floor creaks under his weight as he walks toward you. His ribs expand with the brief relief of seeing you where you should be, whole, safe, just a little colder than he’d like. You open your mouth to say something, maybe to explain why you took so long, maybe to say the rain caught you off guard, but you can’t get the words out, because any explanation is swallowed by the sudden closeness.

Kento is already there, already too close, his large hands already on your face, warm and steady. His thumbs trace the lines of your cheekbones, brushing aside wet strands of hair dripping warm water onto the collar of his shirt, his almond eyes scanning your face like he wants to memorize every detail—even though they’re already carved into every corner of his brain.

“You’re soaked,” he says, as if it’s the most important thing in the world.

You laugh softly, and the sound fits perfectly, blooming in his chest where there had only been tightness before. Instinctively, your hands—cold and nimble—rise to cover his, trapping the warmth there between your fingers as if you could absorb it.

“You worry too much, love.”

Nanami sighs but doesn’t argue. There are things he doesn’t need to deny, and this is one of them. Instead, his fingers slide behind your ears, lose themselves in the damp mass of your hair, and pull you closer until your foreheads touch, feeling the cold rain in your clothes, your fingers slowly trailing up his back. For a moment, the whole universe compresses and expands into this: his broad shoulders, the remnants of rain evaporating off your skin, the weight of the hours you spent apart dissolving in the contact.

You slip away before he can get lost there—but only enough to let the heavy coat fall from your shoulders, to shed the soaked weight and let Nanami follow you without a word. The sneakers are kicked off carelessly and neither of you care. He watches as you walk to the couch, exhausted but comfortable, your cold fingers rubbing your temples in an effort to shake off the fatigue, as if you already know the exact path to rest. He knows what comes next even before it happens—the way you sink into the couch with a long sigh, the way your legs fold as you settle in, the precise way your head finds the corner of the pillow like that spot was molded just for you.

Kento watches you for a moment, as if weighing whether he should do the same, but there’s no real doubt in the question. He recognizes where he wants to be and is not one to doubt his own will; gravity pulls him to you naturally, without resistance, a magnet realigning to its polarity.

So, without hurry, without hesitation, he slides closer, knees sinking into the couch, his weight leaning gently over yours. He buries his face in the hollow between your shoulder and neck, where the scent of wet earth mixes with that of home, of familiarity, of everything he already recognizes without needing to look. With the same intimacy he recognizes the smell of the coffee you make every morning—a little stronger than he prefers, but he drinks it anyway, because it’s made by you. The same way he knows you like to read lying on your side, your back against the couch, cold feet seeking shelter beneath his thigh. In the present, his hands find a safe resting spot beside your waist before he lets himself collapse there, head resting against the curve of your chest, like someone who’s done it so many times the gesture has become instinctive. And indeed, it has.

The tip of his nose brushes the exposed skin of your collarbone, and Kento inhales deeply, as if wanting to absorb the moment completely, to carry it in his chest for when he needs it. At the same time, your fingers find his hair and slide through the golden strands still meticulously aligned, loosening them slightly into softer waves. You draw soft circles on his nape, at the root of the hair he never lets grow too long. It’s a distracted touch, yet constant. Nanami feels his entire body relax, an invisible tension leaving his shoulders, his ribs, his breath. Then he closes his eyes before whispering:

“I told you it was going to rain.”

“I like the rain,” you murmur, your voice hoarse and warm with sleep. The knuckles of one hand slide gently downward, along the line of his collarbone, finding the edge of his chest, and Kento realizes your heartbeats are starting to sync.

In response, he lets out a low sound, somewhere between a sigh and agreement, because the truth is that it no longer matters if it’s raining or not. It doesn’t matter if the night is cold outside, if the wind howls between the buildings, if the world keeps spinning at its usual frantic pace. What matters is that your touch against him is warm now, that your fingers keep tracing lazy paths over his scalp, that you can stay there for a while without saying anything, without needing to.

For a fleeting moment, he wonders if you’ve fallen asleep, but he doesn’t open his eyes to check. He’d rather believe you have, that you gave in to sleep before him, that you trusted him enough to surrender first. He knows that if he says something now, if he breaks the silence that’s settled between you, you’ll answer. That you’re not really asleep, that you’re still there, half-awake, half-adrift. But he also knows that if he stays quiet, if he lets himself remain there a little longer, maybe time will freeze and he’ll be able to exist like this for a few more minutes, a few more breaths, a handful more heartbeats.

So he stays.

He just needs to feel that you’re there, that you came home, that you still own every piece of him, without even knowing it.

[belit0]

I love how you write these characters, always eating smh. Also hope this isn't too much but founders trio+ Izuna's reaction to grown Tobirama's daughter having this as her day to day outfit

AAAA thank you!!!!

Also, how can your request possibly be too much?! Just look at that beauty!!! Is this your art? Does our girl here have a name, by any chance? She's one hell of a wonderful concept, and your talent is fucking incredible!!

Please, do share detailsssssssssssssssssss with ussssssssssssss

The war room was quiet, thick with the scent of ink and parchment, charcoal coals burning low in the corners.

A large map stretched across the central table, riddled with notes and red string—Madara’s handwriting tangled over Tobirama’s, Izuna’s glyphs in sharp slashes between the two.

Tobirama stood at the head, hands clasped behind his back, voice precise as a blade’s edge.

–Flanking here would split the reinforcements. If they follow the topography—

The shoji doors slid open.

She entered with the soundless grace of water over polished stone.

Late.

Unapologetic.

Hair like freshly fallen snow, red eyes cutting through the dimness.

The open yukata framed her like a deliberate choice of armor—soft, revealing, dangerously unbothered. The deep fold parted down her chest, drawing attention not just to the generous curve of her breasts but to the matching crimson markings that descended over the swell of her skin like a cursed blessing.

Tight at the waist, tied with care, deliberate enough to hint that yes, she knew exactly what she looked like.

Tobirama didn't move.

He didn’t have to.

One sharp inhale was all that betrayed him.

Across the table, Madara’s eldest son blinked, jaw tightening. His hand came up subtly, brushing the side of his mouth as if thinking—then stayed there.

The other, Izuna’s boy, narrowed his eyes once, then dropped them with measured restraint.

Madara didn’t miss a thing.

Izuna didn’t either.

–Apologies for the delay.– Her voice was soft but never meek, perfectly even.

She moved to her father’s right, expression unreadable, like him in every way but wrapped in a feminine shape too devastating for a room full of Uchiha to process without minor divine intervention.

–Continue.

Madara cleared his throat, just once.

His son muttered under his breath. –I’ll step outside a moment.–

The words were calm, but his posture stiff—polite, discreet, hands casually falling to the front of his robe, hiding the reaction his body had without permission. He bowed his head and left the room without elaboration.

Izuna’s son stayed, eyes pinned to the map with almost exaggerated intensity. His brow twitched once. Twice.

Hashirama, sitting cross-legged by the window where he’d been admiring a particularly lovely flower blooming in a crack in the stone, burst out laughing.

–Oh gods, this is too much– he cackled, wiping at his eye. –Tobi, my niece is causing a tactical collapse without lifting a weapon!–

Tobirama said nothing.

His eyes didn’t move, but his jaw flexed once, subtle.

Izuna smirked behind his hand.

–Shall we take a break?– he offered mildly.

–Ten minutes.– Tobirama’s voice could’ve frozen a hot spring.

//

Outside the war room, Madara leaned against the courtyard rail, arms folded, watching the koi with the idle attention of a man definitely not watching fish.

–So…– he began.

Izuna grinned, already ahead.

–Your daughter.

–Dresses like she doesn’t care who dies.

–Or who sins.– Izuna added with a low whistle. –She’s got your energy, Senju. Just… weaponized.–

Madara tilted his head, amused. –And she knows it. You saw how calm she was. Not a flicker of shame. That’s power.–

Tobirama didn’t answer.

Not right away.

He stood near the wall, arms crossed, eyes closed.

Maybe meditating.

Maybe killing them in his mind.

Izuna's son could only watch, sensing blood in the air.

Hashirama wandered into the group still chuckling, hands on his hips like a proud uncle. –She’s incredible, isn’t she? Like moonlight on still water!–

–Like a blade you want to touch even though you know it’ll cut.– Izuna's son muttered, then caught himself. –Not that I’d touch. Obviously. Not if I wanted to live.–

Madara’s son returned, composed once more. No one said anything. But Madara clapped him on the back with a knowing look and didn’t hide the smirk.

Tobirama exhaled, finally speaking:

–The next one to comment on my daughter will be reassigned to supply patrol.

Hashirama raised a hand. –What if it’s a compliment?–

–Especially if it’s a compliment.

[snickerdoodlles]

📔 📔 📔 Three short wips, please?

😂 love and appreciate u nonny<33

okay, 2+1: first two are fics i'm not writing because they're small ideas i'll just slip into something else if given the chance, and +1 of a short wip i swear i am actually writing.

pickpocket Chay

this was a headcanon i picked up from before kp aired, from... @faillen 's fics i think? it's been a billion years since i read whatever i picked it up from so i am fuzzy on the details, but it's burrowed in my head since. for starters, i think it's SUCH a good skill to give to Chay, i just really like it. but i also really like thinking about other people's reactions to it, namely Porsche teaching Chay and making him practice on his friends, and (obviously lol) KIM's reaction

because Kim would love it. he'd find it so hot, and any time Chay stole something off Kim, Kim would just. swoon. swoon so hard he hits the ground. their entire courtship in my head is just music and hidey-holes and thievery<333

picture with me Kim and Chay on a date, Kim decked out in jewelry, and his accessories just. slowly migrate onto Chay over the course of the date. either Kim doesn't notice at first and swoons when he does, or he realizes but still can't catch Chay in the act, swoons harder.

...possessive jealous kimchay?

realized i am. not sure what to title this one, because it's barely an idea and more a collection of vibes. anyways, people mayhaps have picked up on my not-so-subtle love for Kim and Chay being obsessed with each other, and more than a little clingy/grabby about it<3

so, vaguely, Kim and Chay agree that it is not a good idea to announce their relationship for Wik related reasons. or maybe mafia related reasons? honestly, idk, point is they both agree to keep the relationship under wraps, and then Kim is too sulky about their mutual decision to notice Chay is frowning just as much about it. but like. it's fine. there are so many good reasons not to be super public as boyfriends. Chay says he's fine, he's probably only frowning because the conversation keeps coming up. and Kim is a totally reasonable person who does not get pouty over rational decisions. he is.

anyways, these two out on a date, where they are being super discreet, and Kim is so enchanted by Chay he maybe misses the fan following the two of them. and Chay, who's situational awareness isn't the best and usually relies on Kim noticing something and himself noticing Kim noticing things, doesn't see the fan either. this is not something either would deliberately ignore after all, not after they agreed it would be smarter not to go public.

except then. photos of them circulate online. beans are spilled and all their rational reasons are in tatters around them and Kim likes it SO. MUCH. he is Chay's and Chay is his and people know it. he worries briefly Chay might be upset (after all!! they agreed it was a bad idea!!), except then he sees one of the fan-taken date photos set as Chay's lockscreen and Chay is smug when he clings to him in public and oh yes, fuck the reasons, this is the best.

ANYWAYS, the wip i am writing i SWEAR, writing brain just minorly stuck, is a gone fishing spin-off (drum rolls):

The Many Lives of Mr. Gold

Summary: Kim and Chay raise one(1) fish.

so, does anyone remember from gone fishing the joke at the end where Kim confirms he fed Chay's goldfish to a koi? probably not, it was very offhand, but a little while back i was hit with the silly idea where Khun somehow acquired a goldfish with a cute little heart shaped(ish) spot on it, and got so excited he gave it to Chay and Kim to raise so they could bond as fish fathers.

and so begins Kim and Chay's trials of attempting to raise a stupid fish, except they somehow keep killing the poor things. Khun was so excited and they are suffering trying to make this work for him. they keep replacing the fish and pretending the replacement's spots are totally the same, until they finally can't deal with all the fish deaths on their consciences and decide to release the thing back to Khun, except they have to be sneaky about it...and release it to the koi pond...where the big fish live. needless to say: gulp.

here's a little teaser of it, because it is a very silly spin-off that brings me a lot of joy:

Chay googles the pet store's hours as though they don't already have its schedule perfectly memorized by now. "I'm pretty sure us just owning a fish counts as animal abuse now. How bad's our karma after our latest Mr. Gold, you think?" "Oh, we're definitely getting reborn as fish in our next life," Kim says over the rattle of the glass rocks he's cleaning. Chay laughs. "Should we make merit at a temple before we go to the store? On the off chance it helps the slightest bit?" Kim puts his hands together and bows his head reverently. "May we earn just enough that we don't wind up with owners like us." Chay giggles, louder, and that's all the merit Kim ever needs in this life. "We could also stop risking our next life and just come clean to P'Khun." "Oh fuck no, I'd rather face my karma. At least it's known to be forgiving."

[[ ask me about fics im not writing ]]

[viennacherries]

Hiya!! I finished Kiss the Cook a little bit ago and loved it!!! Your writing has such good pacing to it, I really enjoyed reading it!

I also have a request, if you're interested: Rolan (or Gale tbh, works with any spellcaster) is in the middle of casting a spell but Tav/reader wants to tease him so they either 1, pin his hands together so he can't do somatic components, or 2, stick their fingers in his mouth to keep him from doing verbal components. This ofc leads to some nsfw shenanigans lmao

(My ao3 is Nightreader13)

Hope you're having an amazing day, and tysm for making such wonderful content, love ya 💜💜

tried to post it as a gift but it didn't let me! sorry about that.

this got away from me a bit but i hope you still like it! as requested: fingers in mouth to shut up a spellcaster. rolan/tav because i have brainworms.

thank you for the lovely message and prompt and for enjoying my writing! hope u love it <3

read on ao3 here

~~~

Summary:

NSFW, Rolan/Tav

"His hands curl into somatic shapes by his sides, and you realise he's speaking the incantation for Ice Storm. You're both backed into a corner like fish in a barrel, if he lets the spell loose you know you're done for.

You don't think. You shove your fingers into his mouth."

~~~

Rolan's temper lands you both in an alleyway, hiding from Flaming Fists, and you do what you have to in the name of shutting him up. In the end, neither of you stay very quiet.

~~~

Rolan has a fierce temper, when it comes down to it.

It surprises you somewhat, after seeing how he let Lorroaken walk all over him. Sure, he'd backed you and Aylin up when it mattered, but it had taken weeks for all of the bruises from the previous 'master of the tower' to heal. Though, you suppose you saw hints of it at Last Light, when Cal and Lia were missing.

It has its uses, admittedly. When you were ambushed by Bhaal worshippers in Bloomridge Park, and an innocent woman was struck down by one of them, his subsequent attacks were absolutely devastating. You could've stood back and left him to it, and he would've more than managed.

The fact he looks rather pretty when he's angry is an additional bonus; all tense muscles and sharp breaths. You blame your physical reaction to watching him fight on the fact he's the first male tiefling you've been around for an extended period in years. Your stupid infernal hindbrain had been telling you to bed him since he first raised his voice in front of you at the Grove.

Unfortunately, his temper has its downsides too. Like right now, for instance.

The two of you split from the group to search for Mol, who still hasn't turned up after being snatched from the inn in the Shadow-Cursed lands. Pairs made the most sense; more discreet than the whole troupe travelling together while still ensuring everyone had back up. Astarion had smirked when suggested you and Rolan pair up, arguing it looked less suspicious if the tieflings travelled together.

"If anyone asks, you can pretend you're lovers," he'd chortled. "Oh! And if you need to hide you can stuff yourselves into an alley and-".

You had elected not to let him finish that sentence, dragging Rolan away from camp before he had a chance to protest.

It had actually been reasonably pleasant. Despite initial impressions, Rolan is rather delightful company. Sure, he's still a dick, and nearly every other sentence that comes out of his mouth is an insult, but that just makes things more interesting. You'd found you were actually enjoying spending time with him.

Well. You had been. Until now.

It was your fault. You were distracted. He'd laughed at something you said, and you were busy looking at him. You could see a peek of his canines as he threw his head back, and the movement had pronounced the sharp line of his jaw and the muscle in his neck. You'd been so struck with the sight, and the awful realisation that you were actually starting to become attracted to him, that you'd smacked straight into the chest of a Flaming Fist.

"Oi! Devilspawn! Watch your fucking step!"

The man's voice was laced with malice. It's been years since you've been to Baldur's Gate, and it seems in your absence the city has become remarkably less tolerable. You suppose it's something to do with Elturel's descent, but the casually thrown slur stung either way.

"Sorry," you'd averted your gaze in a display of faux meekness. Usually you'd have him out on his arse for talking to you that way, but the streets are crowded and full of Fists. It's not worth the hassle. "Won't happen again, Manip."

"You sure as shit better hope it doesn't, or I'll put you and your Hellspawn boyfriend in the ground where you belong." He sneered around every word, flitting his eyes between you and Rolan. "Fucking foulblooded freak."

You'd grit your teeth, and started to nod, but just as the mercenary was about to step away Rolan had piped up.

"What the fuck did you call her? Watch your fucking mouth, Nul'zereb."

And now you're here. Next to a seething Rolan, in front of a Flaming Fist Sergeant, being slowly surrounded by other Fists as they take note of the commotion.

You raise your hands up in front of you defensively, "easy, please, he didn't mean it. We've had a long journey and-"

Rolan scoffs, seemingly intent on digging his own grave. "Bullshit , I meant every fucking word. They call us Foulbloods but these imbeciles probably can't tell a shit from a stew."

You shoot him a glare, but he doesn't look at you. Clearly he plans on dealing with this the hard way. Idiot. You feel your core twist. He's going to get you killed, for sure, but the fact he's willing to fight a crowd of people because they insulted you is unfairly attractive. Stupid. Dangerous. But really fucking attractive.

"You cheeky demon bastard!" The Fist shouts at him, and yep, the hard way it is. "I'll fucking flay you!"

Rolan is shouting back now, and his tail whips around violently behind him in a display of his mounting rage. "I'd like to see you try, you spoon-eared piece of-"

Okay, yep, that's more than enough of that.

You grab his wrist and utter the incantation for Dimension Door as quickly as you can manage, teleporting the both of you out of reach of the group of mercenaries surrounding you. As soon as your feet hit solid ground again you break into a sprint, dragging Rolan with you as he makes an indignant noise behind you. You hear the group shout, and the thunder of footsteps on the pavement as they pursue you.

Luckily, clad in robes compared to their metal plating, you and Rolan are quicker. You drag him through a few side streets, and then at the last minute you duck into an alleyway. It's a tight squeeze, but it's better than nothing.

You hiss your admonishments through your teeth at him in an attempt to keep your volume down. "What the fuck were you thinking, Rolan? I thought wizards were meant to be smart! You almost got us fucking killed!"

His eyes widen in shock, and he hisses through his teeth back at you as he argues. "Are you joking? What was I doing? You're the one that fucking walked into him! Besides, did you hear what he fucking called you? I can't believe you just-"

"Shut up!" He's raising his voice with every word and you have no idea how close behind you they are. "Of course I heard, but the middle of the street isn't the ideal spot to pick a fight with a group of Flaming Fists! They would've fucking flattened us!"

He scoffs, "as if, I fucking had them."

"Oh sure , sorry, I forgot how great and mighty you are. You obviously could've taken on a crowd of twelve blokes with military training."

He grits his teeth, "I still will if they fucking find us, what sort of hiding place is this anyway? If they spot us we're fucking cornered."

"You didn't give me much choice, did you? It's better this than-"

You cut yourself off at the sound of footsteps in the street. Rolan opens his mouth to say something but you place a finger over his lips to shush him. His mouth clamps shut reluctantly.

You can feel your heart beating in your ears as the footsteps get closer. They're right within earshot now, the slightest noise will alert them to where you are. You hold your breath.

Six of the Flaming Fists round the corner, and suddenly you're peering at them from the alley perpendicular to the street they stand in, barely 10ft away. You're shrouded by darkness, but if one of them happens to look this way carefully you're sure you'll be spotted. You daren't move.

You hear muttering and turn to look at Rolan, and you realise he's preparing a spell. His hands curl into somatic shapes by his sides, and you realise he's speaking the incantation for Ice Storm. You're both backed into a corner like fish in a barrel, if he lets the spell loose you know you're done for.

You don't think. You shove your fingers into his mouth.

His head whips back around to look at you, eyes wide in shock and anger. It suddenly dawns on you that. Well. You've got your fingers in his mouth. Three of them.

Not the most elegant solution to a problem you've come up with, that's for sure. But hey, it works.

He tries to draw back to free himself, and you can tell from his eyes that he's absolutely seething, but you can't risk him speaking and alerting the guards. You press your fingers down on his tongue and push them further into his mouth. His head backs into the wall, leaving him nowhere to go, and he writhes around the digits in his mouth. You press a little deeper. He makes a quiet, strangled noise in the back of his throat, before he finally resigns himself to his fate.

You stare back out of the mouth of the alley. The mercenaries are still there, pacing through the side-streets searching for you, but they haven't spotted you yet. After a few moments, they're all out of view, and you hear their voices disappear into the distance.

As soon as you can't hear them anymore, you let out a sigh of relief.

It's at this point you remember rather suddenly that your fingers are, in fact, buried in Rolan's throat.

You turn back to look at him.

He still looks angry, absolutely. But his eyes are softer around the edges, a little glazed over, and his tail whips around wildly where it's pinned behind him. He's panting a little around the digits, and you realise there's a weight against your thigh that wasn't there before. You raise your eyebrows and smirk.

"Is that a quarterstaff in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

He scowls, and makes a noise as if he's trying to speak, but you press down a little harder on his tongue and it turns into a whine.

This is an interesting development. Not an unwelcome one, but definitely unexpected.

You feel the smirk on your face widen, "you know," you say, as if you're pondering something, "you're much less annoying with your mouth occupied."

He scowls, but his breathing harshens. You grin.

"This is the problem with wizards," you know you're goading him, but you can't help yourself. Your hindbrain has kicked in, and he's right where it wants him. "They're all talk, aren't they? Take away your hands or mouth and what are you? You couldn't even cast a simple cantrip right now, could you?"

He makes a noise like a growl, and you can feel yourself rapidly approaching the point of no return, but you're finding it hard to care with his length pushed rock hard against your leg. You push your weight against it experimentally, and he whines around your fingers.

"Gods, you make some pretty noises. You look fucking delicious when you're angry, you know that? Defending my honour in front of all those people, spitting infernal curses at them. You wanna be the only one who talks to me like that, huh?"

His eyes are locked on yours, and he hesitates.

"Go on, now, tell me the truth."

There's another brief moment of pause before he shuts his eyes and nods.

"Good boy." He groans at that, and the noise sends heat rushing to your core. "Maybe you'll get a chance, but not til I'm done with you. Wanted to fuck you since I heard your petulant grousing in the Grove, I'm gonna fucking enjoy this."

He's writhing against you now, seeking pressure against his erection, but you pull back enough that he can only brush against you. The noise he lets out is pitiful.

"Shit, Rolan. You look lovely like this. Mouth wrapped around my fingers, all needy and desperate underneath me. Suck my fingers, show me how much you want this."

He responds instantly, hollowing his cheeks around you and stroking the length of your fingers with his tongue. You moan at the feeling. His mouth is hot and warm and his tongue is enthusiastic in its movements. Your noise seems to spur him on, and his eyes roll into the back of his head as he closes them, redoubling his efforts as he works your digits. You can feel slick pooling in your small-clothes.

You adjust your stance, rearranging your bodies so that his cock is rubbing against you between your thighs. The friction is delicious, but not enough between all the layers of clothing you're both wearing. Even so, he still moans as you grind into him.

Undoing the clasps of his robes is difficult with just your non-dominant hand, but eventually you free him from the confines of his robe and undergarments, gripping his cock in your fist. The noise he makes is completely lecherous, and it has you tightening your grip and twisting your wrist on the upstroke. He's not sucking your fingers anymore, just moaning around them, but it doesn't matter. He sounds fucking obscene and you're completely addicted as you wrench every lewd noise you can from him.

He's grabbing at your own robes now, trying to undo them, but he's struggling between the movement of your hand on his cock and the distraction of your fingers on his tongue. You pull your hand from his mouth, and the minute you do he groans and pulls you into a bruising kiss. It's feral and uncoordinated, both of your hindbrain's completely running the show now, overcome with the need to rut into one another. You release your grip on his cock to give him better access to your own robes.

He makes quick work of them, pushing them out of the way and pulling your small-clothes to the side to rub his cock against your slit. You both groan, and you lean backwards into the wall behind you as you hoist a leg up to plant it on the wall opposite.

He leans into your ear, hissing in a low tone that has your walls fluttering, and you bring your hands up to clutch at his chest. "Is this why you really dragged us down here? You're that desperate for my cock that you have to accost me in an alleyway? Fucking sorcerers. So full of yourself, when what you really need to be full of is a nice fat knot."

You moan wantonly and he groans against the shell of your ear, rubbing himself against your clit. The action has you keening.

"Gods, Tav, you're fucking dripping. Not sure you even deserve anything after pissing around like that earlier. Tell me how much you want my knot, maybe then I'll consider giving you it."

The logical part of your brain knows he's as desperate as you are, hard and heavy against your core, but the feral infernal instincts that have taken over would rather die than risk him stepping away without fucking you. The words spill from you easily without a second thought.

"I fucking need it, Rolan, need your fucking cock in me. Need you to bite me and mark me up while you split me open on your knot, need your cum inside me."

He teases his cock against your entrance, but he doesn't sink in. His words are breathless. "Yeah? Yeah you need it? Need my knot?"

You wail, "yes, fuck, please I fucking need it. Had me so wet, defending me like that, wanted to mount you then and there-".

The noise he makes is absolutely ruinous, and you moan back in answer. There is absolutely zero upper brain function going on in your skull anymore, you need him to fuck you into this wall right now or you might actually die.

He seems to feel the same, and slowly he eases his length into you. He buries his face into your neck and you wail and shudder as you feel the ridges on his cock drag against your walls with every inch he sinks further. By the time he's sheathed fully inside of you, his pelvis against yours, you're panting and writhing around him. His tail reaches around and wraps around yours, and they snake together in a tight coil.

He's shown remarkable restraint given the circumstances, sinking his cock into you slowly, but as soon as you clench your muscles around him his resolve snaps. He pulls his hips back and snaps them back into you, setting a brutal and rapid pace that has you sobbing. The angle, with your leg hoisted up, has every thrust hitting the soft spot inside your walls, and when you close your eyes at the sensation you swear you're seeing colours that don't exist, that's how intense and all-consuming the pleasure is.

He teases the soft skin at the base of your throat with his canines, and the sharp drag has you whining and baring your throat to him on impulse. It's pure instinct, your body begging for a mating bite, and he growls into your skin as he gives in to his own instincts and sinks his teeth into you.

The pain shoots through you like ice in your veins, but your mind and core sing . The pinch and sting is the perfect crescendo to the mounting pleasure, and with several shaky, panting moans you come undone around him, crying out as your whole body tremors. It's the most intense orgasm you've ever had, and your toes tingle as your release crashes over you.

He cries out, releasing his hold on your throat, and his hips stutter and pace falters as he chases after his own release. You feel his knot growing every time is catches against the rim of your cunt. Just as you start to cry at the feeling, half convinced it's going to rip you in half, he sinks it fully into you and it pulses and expands as he empties himself into you with a loud shout of pleasure. With every rope of hot spend he spills into you, his cock twitches hard into that perfect spot inside you, and without warning you're met with another orgasm which has you squeezing around him as he finishes. He groans at the feeling, low in his throat, and grinds himself into you as his cock finally gives its last, valiant pump of seed.

He groans into your neck, nosing his way up your throat and planting open mouthed kisses under your ear. You whine, and slowly lower your shaking leg back down to the floor. The change in position pushes his cock into you again, and you both grunt, overstimulated and spent. You stand there, locked together and panting for breath. He laves his tongue over the spot where he bit you, sucking a mark over it. The pain is almost too much, but the primitive part of you loves the feeling and you moan despite yourself.

There's silence after that. It stretches for a long moment as you both attempt to catch your breath, stuck together in the tight space of the alley with Rolan's knot keeping you tied together. When you speak, your voice comes out hoarse and blissed-out.

"I'm sorry for. You know. I didn't actually mean to, if you believe me."

He laughs into your throat, and rubs his nose into the pulse point under your ear in an uncharacteristically intimate gesture, "I'm not sure I do, but I'm not sure I particularly care anymore, to be frank."

You laugh too, "fair enough. I'd do it again, to be frank."

You both break down into warm, breathless laughter as you hold eachother. Slowly, you feel his knot shrink and he slides out of you. His spend gushes down your thighs, and he bends sideways to look, before moaning and throwing his head back against the wall behind him.

"That's absurdly hot. Fuck . You're lucky I just knotted you or I'd have you again right here."

You rub your thighs together, and whimper quietly, "I'd let you."

He moans again, "don't fucking say shit like that. That's not fair at all."

You shrug, "wasn't trying to be fair. If you don't like it, maybe you should do something about it."

He rolls his head forward to look at you, opening his eyes and levelling you with a hooded-eyed look that has your core pulsing. "Shut your mouth, or I'll have to shut it for you."

You shrug, then smirk. "I dare you."

In hindsight, you think Rolan was onto something earlier. Doing things the hard way is much more fun.

[limerental]

ficletvember 2024 - day 2

roche/twn!jaskier

Captured and bound with his least reliable regular informant, Roche ends up in an embarrassing situation.

Dazed and disoriented, Vernon Roche blinked into the sudden dark. A weight pressed down on his ribcage, and his arms met the resistance of bindings when he shifted, his boots a solid wall. He'd been drugged, maybe, his thoughts sluggish and blurry at the edges.

Panic seemed the appropriate response in this situation, but he forced his breathing to steady and willed his mind to clear.

Last he remembered, he'd been in the market near Novigrad’s docks, following a coded message from an informant. He may have been there sooner, had said informant followed an established code rather than hiding his message in the syllable count of a poem published in a university journal.

The message may have been obscure and so discreet as to be nearly useless, but the spy who penned it requesting a meeting in person had been far from obscure or discreet, performing a ballad on a makeshift stage amidst the market stalls and wearing bright blue silk and a gaudy hat with an exorbitant feather.

It was difficult enough to sneak into the city while avoiding detection, let alone to deal with the overblown headache that was the bard known as Jaskier.

It took the ridiculous man only a few moments to spot his hooded figure on the edge of the crowd. With an absurd wink in his direction, Jaskier bowed to his audience, turned on his fashionable heel, and disappeared into the crowd of onlookers.

A more competent informant would have simply left a message in a loose brick in the third alley to the left, rather than put on an impromptu performance while waiting for him to arrive, but Roche knew not to expect competence by now. Occasionally, the performance contained the message, which was nearly as infuriating as counting syllables all night.

In said alley, Roche had found Jaskier leaning against a dusty stack of crates, and he would have said something like if you start talking in riddles, I won't hesitate to pummel you if a sudden blow to the temple had not interrupted him.

He next settled back to awareness in the dark.

It wasn't full-dark, slats of light slipping in from a wall beside him and from a ceiling a foot or so above. Re-orienting himself soothed the claw of anxiety behind his ribs. There was the cry of gulls and the distant murmur of the market, the stink of fish guts and shit and piss. Damn it, he hadn't left the alley and neither had–

“Oh fuck,” groaned the bard that pinned Roche's chest, shuffling his arms in a way that pinched the bindings tight around both of their wrists. “Fuck, am I dead?”

“If only,” Roche grunted. “Quit moving, you little-"

“Agh– ouch. No need to be rude. Your fingers are quite pointy, you know. Hardly even need a dagger with those things. You could stab people right to death with those things. Ack! Do you ever trim your fingernails? I'd taken you for a chronic nailbiter but apparently--"

“Think, bard. Were you followed? Intercepted? Who knew you were publishing that poem?"

“Most of Oxenfurt,” said Jaskier. “I publish in that column weekly. Great place to hide little messages.”

“Yes, very clever. Next time consider leaving a message that doesn't require studying meter all night.”

“Hmm, well I personally would have gotten it straight off, you know– ouch! Is that a horribly talon-like fingernail in your pocket or are you happy to–”

“Quiet.”

There was the sound of booted feet passing through the alley. Possibly someone who could free them but just as likely one of their captors.

Either way, knowing Novigrad, a stranger would be highly likely to hear the muffled shouts of someone calling for help from what appeared to be a coffin shaped box and firmly mind their business. Roche wouldn't really blame them.

Though quiet for the moment, the bard seemed unable to still his errant shuffling. Jaskier was regrettably taller than Roche, which in the limited space left little room for his bent legs, especially with all the unnecessary movement. Roche's chin dug into his shoulder, chest thoroughly pinned. The man's breath warmed his neck as his silk-clad thigh slipped between his legs.

As the moments passed and the stranger's steps faded away, the shifting of Jaskier's body seemed far too deliberate to be coincidental. And that was certainly not the weight of a hefty coinpurse in his pocket Roche felt clearly pressed against his own thigh.

“Are you–” Roche grunted. “Are you doing that on purpose?”

“Well, ah– no but a man can't be blamed for– listen, my body is a well-tuned instrument and therefore, the proximity of a warm body, especially given er– well, that night in Maribor was memorable wasn't it? And we were quite drunk in Flotsam but I'm certain you must remember–”

“Can't say that unfortunate past encounters are really at the top of my mind given the circumstances.

"Those circumstances being pressed against a handsome and alluring former lover somewhere dark and private?"

"Shoved in a box with an imbecile.”

“Rude,” said Jaskier. “I don’t recall you finding the whole thing all that unfortunate in the moment. That thing you did with your–”

“Hopefully our kidnappers hurry back and kill us both.”

“Vernon–”

“Keep still. And shut it.”

“Fine, fine.”

Jaskier obeyed. He went as still and quiet as seemed possible for him.

Unfortunately, some quirk of adrenaline and yes, the heat of the body that pinned him, the sense memory of the bard's preferred fragrance and the whisper of his breath, spurred on by a lingering dryspell in bedding anyone at all, left Roche unfortunately hopelessly burning with arousal as he lay there wishing all the harder for their captors to arrive and put an end to it.

Speaking of all the harder–

“Vernon,” Jaskier whispered, shifting his weight again. Roche truly disliked the sound of his name spoken in his lilting voice. “Is that really a dagger this time or would you like to–”

Tossing aside all good sense – perhaps the blow to the head had addled his mind more than he’d thought – Roche gave in and rutted his hips up in a deliberate grind against Jaskier's thigh.

For a breath, that shut the idiot up, and then he groaned wantonly and aligned their hips better to thrust in equal measure down, the silk that cupped his erection slipping in an insistent tease against Roche's own.

And that, of course, was when the lid of the crate cracked open and Geralt's face hovered over them as they blinked into the sudden light.

“Hm,” Geralt said as his brow furrowed, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. “Should I shut the lid and go stand over there for a few more minutes?”

“Oh fuck you, Witcher,” sputtered a hot-faced Roche.

Later, when their captors had been tracked down and dealt with and the whole business had led back to the contents of the very message Jaskier had wanted to relay to him, Roche downed long swallows of ale in the corner booth of a shitty tavern. He offered a rude gesture when the bard peacocking about with a company of minstrels winked in his direction.

“Don't look like that, Vernon,” said Geralt beside him. “I've caught him with his pants down in worse company. Under worse threat of imminent death even.”

Roche made a far ruder gesture his way.

Even so, he was soft on Geralt and could never deny him much at all, not after everything. When he was beckoned to join them later in the bard's room for a “private performance”, he went willingly enough to his likely doom.

[eolewyn1010]

Downton Abbey Fashion 86 - evening dresses in 1925

Mary’s evening wardrobe of the season is surprisingly varied – her old jewel colors don’t make a full comeback, but she is seen in several colors that I wouldn’t expect on her. Also, because someone has mercy on me, her evening gowns are a far cry from the frumpy day styles she prefers these days.

I’ve come to realize that I like Mary’s hairdo when it either has additional volume or less volume than in its natural state, just not the default. I’m kind of on board with this flat-combed shingle style with spit curls. Cute headband, too; it gives the otherwise very black outfit a bit of a contrast point. The black beading on her dress is interesting, combining plant motives to both sides with a geometrical art deco band down the center and around the neckline.

This is a dress out of which Mary gets a lot of wear over the season, and this has to be the first time that I see those small figures that seem to be leaning on ancient ceramics paintings on her. Usually, this style element would be very much Edith. Or perhaps Rosamund. The dress itself is still fundamentally Mary, a sharp cut between the brown and the ivory section, simple, clear lines, and while the fabric does a lot of work here, she stays conservative with the cut. I love the color pairing, the labyrinth motif on the yoke, and the slits in the front that allow for a little movement in her skirt.

Introducing gold into her wardrobe like Cora suddenly did, Mary jumps on the bandwagon that Edith is leading. Granted, this dress would be very difficult to mistake for Edith’s; she works with more flowing shapes and soft glows, her sequins often making up curlicues. Mary is all sharpness, triangles, one big, sparkling, metallic overstatement. I’m wondering why she puts on so much glamor for a dinner with the family and maybe two or three guests, but she must’ve intuited that the next love of her life would happen to come over. Also note the color-matching gloves that become a staple now when she mostly either wore black or ivory ones so far.

Finger waves! I hate Mary in this scene because she’s so blatantly fishing for compliments I find it vulgar, but no complaints about the hairstyle. She says she had to borrow a dress from Rosamund; that may be true because brown and gold are Rosamund’s dominant colors of the season and all the Crawley women are tall and skinny, but we never actually see this on Rosamund. It’s a pretty chestnut number with black beading and delicate gold thread embroidery, more discreet than the last, but subtly elegant. Cute earrings, too.

Mary really owns her head bandeaus this season; this one has more elaborate beading on it than the little meander she had for the brown-and-ivory dress. Here, we either have a bright copper or gold; I can’t quite tell with the translucent upper tulle layer with all the black sequins. The look is nice in theory, but I blame this style for the too-tight, too-short, covered-in-sequins dresses that are sold as cheap “flapper costumes” these days. At least Mary’s dress probably doesn’t need fringe to even cover her knees.

And for a dinner at the… Criterion? Ritz? I forget, but Mary puts on her other highly glamorous evening dress of the season, and like the gold number further up, this seafoam is usually Edith’s color. In fact, Edith does wear a seafoam-and-golden dress this season that, like Mary’s here, comes up in a peak over her chest and leaves much of the shoulders in the open. I prefer Edith’s, but for matters of personal taste; this dress is objectively a beauty with its flaring skirt and golden lace panels. Frock Flicks commented that Mary’s bandeau looks like a cheap Christmas ribbon up close. Unfortunately, they’re right. Love the green teardrop earrings though.

A curiously white dress for a dinner with family and boyfriend – I suspect this is nodding at wedding fashions because Mary wears it the evening when she’s all lovey-dovey over Henry; the next dinner, when she breaks up with him on the phone, she’s in black. This is not a color we see a lot on her, but I’m here for the lovely flower embroidery and the cute glittery fillet, so I don’t care. The fillet plus this white, drapey dress when Mary went for fitted sleekness and modern glamor just before makes me think she’s trying out a taste of inspiration from ancient Greek fashions.

Heh. I will never get enough of Mary’s face when she learns that Edith is about to outrank her. But what on earth is that headpiece? I’m not sure I’ve ever seen such a head necklace thingie on any 1920s fashion. Maybe on Miss Fisher, and I’m not sure if even she could pull it off. It looks stupid on Mary, which is a shame because the dress is glorious. The glittery stripes running into staggered tassels around her waist? I love it. Also, the under layer seems to be a dull purple silk satin, so Mary is bringing in another unusual color for her.

She really should stick with the bandeaus. When they try out something new with Mary’s headwear, the impression I’m getting is always that they were too cowardly to commit to the actual 1920s styles. What is this weird net thing and shouldn’t it have been a skullcap instead? Other than that, the dress is like the antithesis of her golden one – it’s all sequins and looking massive in that regard, the only extra decoration it’ll allow itself are those triangles in the neckline, but it’s black all over because Mary doesn’t want to be alluring here; she’s trying to intimidate. Not a look I personally like for the lack of structures and shapes, but it works for her.

For her final evening dress of the season, Mary not only returns to jewel colors with this brilliant cranberry shade, she also waltzes up in Fortuny pleats. In fact, I’m pretty sure this exact dress only in white is a Fortuny design, with the top draped over the skirt like that. Quite lovely; I’ll admit that this pleating makes up for an otherwise very simple look. And Mary chose some darling earrings to go with it.

[corneille-but-not-the-author]

Family's in town

Most people would say that having family coming is a good to very annoying thing. Families are, after all, very complicated. Sometimes, they fight, sometimes they make peace. Sometimes, a family is all someone have.

Today, in my opinion, the idea of my family coming leans towards the "very annoying" side.

I have never been too close with my brother. Ian and I are, after all, polar opposites. He's a very careful man, and crafted his reputation as the perfect judge, father and husband with utmost perfection, while being a non mage. Most of the time he's a very polite man, discreet, some would say timid, applying the law day by day and being a model citizen, while I'm this country's president, and one of it's most hated public figures. Staying at the head of the country for the last five years has been a nightmare, and I'm, now more than ever, navigating on thin ice, because I'm a mage.

Even physically, we are so different. He's short haired, with brown eyes, someone not so special, except for his clothing, the white and gold of the Guilds looks pretty good on him. In contrast, I wear only black and gold, traditionnal atttire of the Inkan President. My hair is long, and i've got blue eyes. The only thing that would sell us as brother and sister is our nose. The exact same nose, to the tiniest detail.

A burden, for most of my life.

So, having to welcome him to my office this evening feels like a burden too.

When he steps through the door, though, he looks a lot different than last time we've seen each other. His eyes are haunted, his suit looks a bit dirty. Even though he still has this unsefferable smile, this time it's wavering.

"Ian ! Come, come !" I welcome him with a smile of my own. Because I'm the older sister, and I should always be in control. Of everything. Mother and Father taught me well.

"Cassandra, by the Gods...if you knew how i'm relieved to see you in good shape."

Those types of dithyrambic comments are not that common from him. Most of the time, he tries to stay very calm, very polite, so seeing so much affection while I go for a handshake, and him for a hug, is very, very strange.

"Ian, you worry me. What is going on ?"

"I'm on a case. A big case. Did the Guilds warn you ?"

Not at all, no. I walk him to a chair, while i get behind my desk. They are gone, the days when the Tyrant was sitting in a tiny room to work. Now, Inkan Presidents get at least a very big office, with the best view possible on the largest and most populated city in the world.

Not that it soothes me, most of the time. Rather, this vision is meant as a way to see our own responsability, to this city, to this country.

"I needed to warn you, as fast as I could. "

"Warn me of what ? Speak up, Ian, I do not have all your time."

His smile wavers. I hate when he does that. Coming and talking and saying he knows best only to reel whenever i express anything else than contempt or false joy.

"Cassandra, I'm investigating the cliques."

My blood freezes. I turn around slowly, look at my brother. My own smile disappear.

"What...?"

"The cliques. We have found something big. A list of all donators to the Order Party."

I feel my heart thumping. Maintaining a straight face is not easy. I was worried about my brother coming, now, I'm worried for him.

"I see. It's a big case indeed."

"Yes ! We have about a hundred names on this list. All proeminent figures from the Cliques."

"And don't you think that's too big of a fish to fry, Ian ?"

His eyebrows raises on his face, while he crosses his legs, uncertain of what to answer.

"What do you mean, Cassandra ?"

"Look outside."

He hesitates, for a bit, before standing up and looking at the window. The city may seem calme, today. But everybody with even a tiny neuronal connexion knows it's an illusion.

It boils, under the surface. It reeks. It stinks.

Some are throwing the forbidden word. Revolution.

"Do you see, Ian ? They want the mages dead. They want a whole part of society dead. By investigating the Cliques, you're going to light a spark. And this spark..."

"I can't...it's about justice, Cassandra. You're the president, goddammit !"

He's angry. That's unusual, too. Why does this particular case makes you so passionate, Ian ? Do you happen to know more than what you revealed ?

"Peace, Ian."

"No. I need an explanation. Why would you try to stray me from giving justice ?!"

I sigh.

"Because I need some public order in this forsaken city. And your ability to stir the pot has been nothing but a trouble, those last years."

"I was trying to help you !"

He stands up, slams his hand on the desk.

"That's enough, Ian. Hear me, now. You will go back to the Guilds and tell them that if I hear about such a list or anything similar in the next six months, i'll make sure their budget is cut in half by the end of the year."

He stays silent. Why wouldn't he ? He's always thought he was so much better than me.

But if I have to bribe the entierety of both chambers so that he never talks about such a list ever again, I'll do it.

Because i simply cannot let him destroy this country. Even if he's my brother. Especially because he's my brother.

He looks at me in disbelief. Grit his teeth. Please, show your true self, Ian. Show me you're just a prick, and not someone I respect despite our differences. Show me a beast, I'll show you a mage.

But after a few seconds, he just walks to the door without a word. There is a moment I'm tempted to stop him.

The door closes.

Without me knowing it, this would be the last time I would see my brother alive.

[alphascorpiixx]

A Hatchday Gift

Miphlink Week Day 6: Hatchday

Link tries to think of a gift for Mipha's hatchday.

Rating: G

Words: 1924

Tags: Grief/Mourning, Memory Issues, Flower Symbolism, Canonical Character Death

Read on AO3

@miphlinkweek

---

He didn’t have a proper gift for her. Link rifled through his collection of materials for the third time. He had flowers, fish, and precious stones. Enough memories of his past had returned to know that nothing in his possession was Mipha’s favorite flower, fish, or stone. No matter how hard he tried to remember or how many times he sorted through his belongings, he still failed at picking which could be her favorite.

At least he’d remembered her hatchday.

After several days and a few discreet questions to the other Zora, Link nearly sobbed with relief when the date finally came back to him. It was still a week away, giving him time to find the best gift to lay at her statue. He just had to find out what an adequate gift would be.

For the next three days, Link laid flowers at the base of Mipha’s statue. Chrysanthemums grew on Lanaryu’s mountain slopes and riversides. He collected a bundle of red and white chrysanthemums and gently placed them at Mipha’s feet. If the other Zora saw him do so, they gave him the space to grieve. Each day, Link brought new flowers to replace the old ones while silently wracking his brain for a more personal gift.

On the fourth day, Sidon met him by the statue holding a bundle of rosemary and purple orchids. They weren’t native to Zora’s Domain, so Sidon must’ve found a traveling merchant or trekked beyond the Domain to find them himself. Link nodded wordlessly, but his smile conveyed his gratitude. They placed the flowers together.

-

By the fifth day, Link still remembered nothing about her gift preferences, and Mipha’s hatchday was two days away. Guilt gnawed at him for delaying his journey to Goron City. Vah Ruta had been calmed, but the great lizard shape of Vah Rudania still circled Death Mountain.

He glanced at where Vah Ruta now stood sentinel over the Zodobon Highlands. He’d considered leaving the flowers at the foot of the Divine Beast rather than the statue, as the statue was a memorial and not her true grave. But a whisper in his heart assured him she would have favored this choice. Her spirit no longer haunted the Divine Beast, and her statue was in her home and surrounded by her family.

Link cleared the dying flowers from her statue. He hadn’t brought new ones to replenish them. His mind recalled a conversation they’d once had while basking in a field of wildflowers. Mipha had enjoyed the sight and scent of flowers, but bouquets weren’t her choice of gift. She preferred flowers wild or cultivated but not cut. She’d said they were better off growing in their natural life than dying in a day. The long-lived Zora rarely decorated with cut flowers. They used jewelry and metalwork or occasionally textiles. The flowers Link had brought were more to soothe his own soul while he thought of something more suitable.

The thought of jewelry sparked an idea. Mipha always wore jewelry in silvers and blues that complimented her lovely red scales. Link had sold his last sapphires a few weeks ago. But the hills of Upland Zorana had mineral deposits. He placed a single chrysanthemum before departing. Sidon watched in solidarity but did not place anything himself. They shared a silent agreement that the flowers were not meant to make the statue a shrine to Mipha. From the Zora’s stories of the Champion Festival, it was Mipha’s wish to be remembered rather than mourned. The gifts from Link and Sidon were gifts of remembrance from a lover and a brother, not offerings from worshippers.

Equipped with a hammer from the Hammerhead workshop, the armor Mipha had crafted, and her Lightscale Trident, Link swam up the waterfalls. He’d polished the armor to a shine that morning, and he glimmered like a Zora in the water. The armor also protected him from the enemies he encountered. The bokoblins fell to the Lightscale Trident, but the spitting lizalfos got a shot in before he struck it down. He avoided the Guardians’ searching eyes and hunted for mineral deposits. They mostly contained luminous stones, which would make a suitable gift in a pinch if he could not find a sapphire.

But the golden goddesses smiled on him, and the last ore deposit gave him two sapphires. He had no time to travel to Gerudo Town and have them crafted into jewelry, so the uncut gems would have to do.

He returned in the afternoon. Sidon remained in his place beside the statue. He gave a soft smile at Link’s approach.

“Will you ask Dento if these could be added to the statue’s base?” Link said, showing Sidon the sapphires.

Sidon nodded. “I will. It’s a good gift. She always loved sapphires and opals.”

Opals. The memories struck Link like the lizalfos. An opal in his hand as he presented her the gift for her hatchday. The delighted smile on her face and shine in her eyes. Her melodious voice explained how she loved the iridescence of opals.

"They contain all the colors of other gemstones within them."

Mipha’s favorite gift was opals. And Link had none for her and two days left until her hatchday.

“Link?” The concern in Sidon’s voice brought him back to the present. “Are you all right?”

“I’m—I’m fine,” Link said through a choked throat. He blinked the tears from his eyes. “I forgot about the opals,” he whispered. “I didn’t find any.”

Sidon flashed his grin. “I’ll help you! We’ll search Tal Tal Peak first thing tomorrow!”

Link managed a grateful smile.

-

He left the Domain at dawn to meet Sidon, hammer in hand. Sidon had arrived first and cleared out most of the monsters lurking on the peak. Link lended his aid, and the Lightscale Trident sang through the air. Although the sword was his main weapon, his body fell back into the familiar movements of spear combat. Sidon fought very differently from Mipha, wielding twin spears rather than one and with fewer flips than Mipha’s graceful dance. But he was no less skillful, and they dispatched the monsters with ease.

“It is always a pleasure to fight alongside you, Link!” Sidon said, slightly breathless from the fight.

Link smiled and shrugged at the praise. It was unnecessary for such a quick skirmish, hardly a battle at all, but he was used to Sidon’s enthusiastic admiration. It was a wonder this young adult Zora was the same as the small child he knew a hundred years ago, always at Mipha’s heels and giving Link the disapproving frowns of a younger brother. They were true friends now, united by shared grief, warrior spirit, and easy companionship.

They searched the entire morning. Sidon passed the time with a mostly one-sided conversation about the day-to-day life of the Domain. Link contributed a word or two occasionally, but Sidon never required anything more. He was happy to fill the silence, and Link was happy to listen.

They paused at noon for a quick bite to eat. Sidon fished in the water while Link lit a fire and cooked a few apples. The Sheikah Slate swung against his leg when he sat down. Link bit back a curse. They’d wasted half a day when he could have used the slate’s sensing technology Symin had upgraded it with. He flicked through the compendium for a picture of the ore deposits. He couldn’t use the sensor for opals specifically. His fingers hovered over the map. Wouldn’t it just be easier to see if any opals were available to buy? Gerudo Town was known for gemstone jewelry, there were likely some to purchase.

Link shook his head. He’d spent this much time looking for Mipha’s gift already. He’d find an opal with Sidon’s help or not at all.

The sensor indicated southward. Link paraglided down while Sidon leapt off the side of the cliff and dove into the lake below. They explored the small valley between Tal Tal Peak and the mountains above the reservoir. There was a lake—more of a pond—in the center of the valley. The Sheikah Slate’s sensor increased frequency as they drew near.

A stone talus rose out of the water. Link threw the hammer at the ore deposit on its body. The hammer chipped off amethyst and pieces of luminous stone. Sidon descended on the talus, spears a whirling storm.

The talus’ arm caught Link's shoulder. The armor absorbed the worst of the blow, but his shoulder burned with pain, and he could not raise his trident. Sidon directed the talus’ attention away from him while the cool light of Mipha’s grace washed over his body and soothed his arm. His lips moved in thanks to her spirit.

Sidon wore down the monster, and Link ran in for the final attack. The mineral broke under the Lightscale Trident, and the stone talus burst into smoke.

Link rolled his shoulder, a minor ache still lingering. The prizes of the fight were scattered in the water. Mostly luminous stones, but Link spotted a few gems among them.

“Link, look!” Sidon shouted. He grabbed a gem from the water and held it out for Link to see.

An opal. The opaque white surface shimmered with a rainbow of color in the sunlight. Link covered his hands over Sidon’s and said, “Thank you.”

-

The talus battle had not lasted long, and they arrived back at Zora’s Domain before evening. Link placed the opal and the two sapphires at Mipha’s statue. Sidon spoke with Dento, who said the job could be finished in time by Mipha’s hatchday anniversary tomorrow. Link offered his help in cutting the gems, but Dento waved him away. They both knew his skills were fighting with weapons, not smithing or crafting.

He spent the rest of the evening sitting at the top of Veiled Falls, listening to the water and resting the Lightscale Trident on his knees. He and Mipha would sit here at nightfall and watch the Domain glow with the otherworldly light of luminous stones. The stones’ light was said to be the souls of the dead. When he walked through Zora’s Domain, Mipha’s spirit resided among every stone and gilded rail, every drop of water and beam of sunlight. The Zora people held her spirit in their own souls, her memory living on within them.

-

Dento finished his work mid-afternoon on Mipha’s hatchday. The day was not an official holiday in Zora’s Domain. The Champion Festival was meant to honor Mipha and her trident. But there was a palpable air around the Domain that day. Even though Mipha wished her people to remember her with joy instead of grief, the heart often had a difficult time letting go of old hurts.

Link knew that well.

But sorrow was not the only emotion in the air. There were smiles and well-wishes. The Zora loved their fallen princess, and with Vah Ruta now freed from the Calamity’s control, they could at last begin to heal.

Link found Sidon in his customary place at Mipha's statue. He greeted Link with a wide, gleaming grin and stepped aside so Link could see the new additions to the statue. Dento had shaped the gems into the three-crescent symbol of the Zora. The top crescent was the opal and the other two sapphires. The sunlight caught the gems in a perfectly glimmer of blue and prismatic iridescence.

His fingers brushed over the symbol, and he gazed up at Mipha’s tranquil face.

“Happy hatchday, Mipha.”

---

A/N: From what I could find about flower symbolism:

Chrysanthemums - love

Rosemary - remembrance

Purple orchids - admiration, royalty, respect

[sonicasura]

Dart herded the Changewings away from dripping acid on people. Truly, the invisibility capable dragons were doing less damage than even the Outcasts did. They watched tensely as Skystinger when Fishlegs brought the dragons their last egg. Being discreet could go to hell if a boy was about to be burned by acid… But, no.

Dragons understood more than Vikings could ever hope to imagine and Fishlegs got off with a very stern frightening warning. Dart made sure he was breathing, then retreated back to the Warren for a sudden spark of inspiration.

—————————

He very much panicked when he found an multiple color emitting egg-shaped object in his bedroom… Except it was just a glass egg filled to the brim with different colored sea glass to mimic the Changewing eggs. Not a real one!

A note was left underneath the egg in familiar if still messily scrawled handwriting:

‘It takes real strength to be kind, to be oh-so-very considerate without thinking about it. You are among one of the most. Not everyone would willingly walk into the Eel den like you did—especially at risk of acid burns. You aren’t being a bother when you speak up, you know.’

‘I know you didn’t believe in the “stone of good fortune” thing, nor should you have when it turned out those were dragon eggs… But? Hopefully this will do as a substitute.’

‘…Post Script: For the Book of Dragons, Fireworm eat honey/honeycomb and only honey/honeycomb. Smothering Smokebreaths eat crab and mutton in addition to the usual fish.’

—ROB’d Anon.

Hiccup is definitely going to get even more suspicious when Fishlegs comes over with new information for the Book of Dragons and mentions the odd gift he gotten.

[starrylexlaura]

I'm going to answer this as unseriously as I possibly can

1. L'Manberg meant free drugs for all its members. Wilbur blew it up 'cause he was going through withdrawl

2. Dream pursued villainy 'cause he's a little beta bitch that's why

3. Quackity created Las Nevadas because he needed to feed his gambling addiction and drugs. His principles originated from the fact that L'Manberg blew up and he couldn't get free drugs anymore

4. Techno views his allyships as "We need to destroy the government and kill as much kids as possible" and then got hurt because Tommy was like "no". Unfortunately for Techno he also owed a homeless guy a favour so more unreliable people for him

5. Sam was on a honeymoon with his beautiful wife Ponk and wasn't able to hear Tommy's scream from the romantic slurping of drug laced spaghetti

6. Schlatt died because he decided he really fucking hated his liver and taste buds. Bro choose drinkable piss over his drug ridden country

7. Wilbur asked the people for forgiveness because he really needed more drugs. Limbo Rehab was shit

8. Ranboo,by saying he was factionless,meant it as a more discreet way of saying he was born with a genetic disease which causes a lack of the bones commonly known as "spine".

9. Philza is a bird that had a human son that fucked a fish and had a fox son. He then proceeded to neglect said son because mmmmm drugs

10. Your honour, the king was being a bad bitch and saying no to drugs. Can't she serve and deliver cunt once in a while?

11. The inbetween...you mean the thing that didn't matter in the end and wasn't expanded upon because the ccs decided to nuke everything? I guess it meant something for sure

12. A red pulsating egg that escaped from someone's fridge. Its power are hallucinogens and its weaknesses are rehab

13. Tommy's discs signified vinyl music discs and they showed just how much of a LITTLE WHINY BITCH dream was (hate that little fuck)

14. Because of the drugs

15. I feel like enderwalking was a state Ranboo got in when he did too many drugs and smoked so much weed he reverted back to his primary enderman headspace

16. The community house exploded because dream was a little whiny annoying cryptic blubbering greasy bitch

17. You can revive someone by simply shoving coke up their nostril. Dream didn't have that though so he used his dead cat's bone ashes

18. Limbo,as said before,was Rehab and all the deads experienced the stages of grief through it. Schlatt= denial Wilbur= anger MD= bargaining Tommy= depression Ranboo= acceptance

19. Phil killed Wilbur because he couldn't bare with the fact his son was a gay junkie

20. Sam was unfortunately targeted by the egg's hallucinogenic shrooms and spores

21. The outsider's perspective is really important because Phil and Michealmcchill were the only sober people on the smp therefore they could see just how high everyone was 24/7

22. Pandora's vault was built for Tommy who started telling everyone he was the messiah after having eaten strangely shaped mushrooms near some red vines

24. The overall attempted general theme of the dsmp was trying to show what happens when you give drugs and weed to already mentally ill people

25. I would've changed the dsmp by saving everyone and making sure drugs didn't exist (or I would've made them rain from the sky every full moon just to see what happens)

Dsmp actually stands for "drug smp"

fuck it. ultimate dsmp quiz because i want to hear people deliberate about it again. answer some (or all) of the questions in the tags/reblogs, but do not start fights!

what did l'manberg ultimately mean to each of its members, and why did wilbur blow it up on november 16th?

why did dream pursue the path of villainy?

what was quackity's justification for the creation of las nevadas, and where did those principles originate?

explain how techno views allyship, from his more secure allies in the syndicate, to shorter-lived allies like with dream and tommy

how did sam justify why leaving tommy in the prison was a safer option, even if it meant risking his death?

why did schlatt die, and what did his short-lived arc in manberg represent?

what was wilbur truly aiming for when asking different members of the smp for forgiveness?

what did ranboo mean by his preference of being truly factionless?

define wilbur and fundy's father-son relationship (bonus if you can extend it to phil)

what did eret's betrayal signify for the dream smp's overall theme?

what did the inbetween and the other side really mean?

describe the egg, its powers and its weaknesses

what did tommy's discs signify?

why was memory such a prevalent issue in the dsmp?

what is enderwalking?

how did the community house explode?

how do you revive someone via the revival book?

what is limbo and what were the different states of limbo each dead person experienced?

why did phil kill wilbur?

how did sam have multiple bodies/personas?

what was the importance of outsider perspective, both found in phil and michael mcchill's respective lore?

who was pandora's vault built for?

who is dreamxd?

what is the overall attempted general theme of the dream smp?

how would you have changed the dsmp?

[timelesslifetreasures]

3 Reasons To Choose Zodiac Jewelry Trends

Jewelry has always been a way of representing one's style and fashion. Each piece of jewelry adds to your personality, from rings to pendants and necklaces. These days, many jewelry enthusiasts are opting to wear zodiac necklaces. 

Zodiac signs are linked to the positions of celestial bodies at the time of a person's birth, serving as deeply personal symbols that reflect and express one's unique personality traits. At Timeless Life Treasures, a jewelry store in Marblehead, you can explore your zodiac pendant, whether in the form of your zodiac constellation or symbol. 

Here, you can explore why choosing zodiac jewelry pieces can become a fashionable way to demonstrate your personality traits. 

Personalized Storytelling

Your zodiac sign plays a significant role in shaping your personalities, preferences, and destinies. By wearing a zodiac necklace, you can proudly wear your story around the neck. You open the door to a world of personalized storytelling by choosing a chain corresponding to your zodiac sign.

Every zodiac sign possesses distinct traits, symbolism, and attributes. For example, a Leo might choose a necklace featuring the zodiac symbol or that of the lion, representing qualities like strength and leadership. At the same time, a Pisces might opt for a necklace featuring fish or the zodiac sign itself. This personal connection and symbolism make zodiac necklaces a meaningful and unique choice for self-expression.

14Kt Yellow Gold Leo Zodiac Disc Necklace

14Kt Yellow Gold Pisces Zodiac Disc Necklace

Connecting With The Cosmos

For centuries, humans have been fascinated by the cosmos and celestial bodies. Stars and planets have captured the human imagination for generations through zodiac necklaces. Whether you love looking at the stars or are intrigued by the celestial world, wearing your zodiac sign as a necklace is a way to connect with the cosmos personally.

These necklaces often incorporate the constellation associated with your zodiac sign, allowing you to wear a piece of the night sky close to your heart.

14Kt Yellow Gold ¼ CTW Natural Diamond Scorpio Necklace

Versatile Style

You can make a versatile fashion statement with zodiac sign jewels. They are available in various designs at Timeless Life Treasures, a trusted jewelry store in Salem, MA, for all things jewelry and beyond, from minimalistic and understated to elaborate and ornate. Our jewelry pieces complement every wardrobe. 

Whether you prefer a small and discreet pendant or a bold statement piece, zodiac jewels can cater to your style. You can layer them with other jewelry or wear them as standalone pieces.

14Kt Yellow Gold ⅙ CTW Natural Diamond Taurus Constellation Ring

14Kt White 1/10 CTW Diamond Constellation Earring Climbers

Thus, the charm of zodiac jewelry is beyond just fashion. They embody your personal identity and connection with the Cosmos and are a versatile expression of style. Whether you're an astrology enthusiast or someone drawn to the beauty of the stars, zodiac jewels offer a unique and personalized way to tell your story and celebrate your individuality in the ever-evolving fashion world.

Look no further than Timeless Life Treasures for an extensive selection of zodiac-inspired jewelry. Our assortment features various zodiac jewels, gemstone pieces, diamond jewelry, and more. Additionally, explore our personalized services, including the option to have your timepieces equipped with watch batteries in Swampscott. Visit us to discover unique and meaningful pieces that align with your astrological preferences and style.

Original Source: https://bit.ly/3RgHu7f 

[writinglittlebeasts]

find the word tag game

i was tagged by @outpost51 to find a handful of words in my wips!

flood from resurrection blues

She quickly adds, “I’m not regretting that we brought him back. It’s something else.” “I wouldn’t have thought otherwise,” he assures her, and it works; relief floods through her, as if she had been fearful of her own motivations. That’s so fucked up. She needs to lie down.

stumble from book punk

She cannot overstate the wonder and uniqueness of each and every book in their catalogue, but even amongst spines and covers of all shapes, patterns, colors, and sizes, those children bring heretofore unseen life and color to the Library. Harriet, herself, has always been Zelda's light, but now with the company of Quentin, Zelda can see a new happiness in her daughter. Some loneliness that Zelda had never thought to look for has been shed. Some stubborn disobedience has been replaced not with its opposite but with something more pleasantly adjacent; thoughtless disregard, innocent curiosity. Harriet has always experimented with the Library's technical, magical limits, but her experiments are bolstered by the extra set of hands. Librarians stumble on towers of encyclopedias. Shelves hum unhappily when biographies find themselves in the company of cookbooks. Discreet, colorful 'X's mark the locations of interesting volumes on the shelves themselves. Disorder, Zelda thinks with a frustrated turn of her smile, has come to the Library. Disorder has come to her sacred Library, but with it has come the frequent sound of children's laughter, and rambling, hand-fluttering stories at bedtime of mother-- Librarian --censored adventure in the stacks. If her responsibilities have expanded to include the fallout of two little hurricanes, then Zelda finds that she'll accept it gladly.

retreat cut from kill my heroes

It's phrased flippantly as anything but Eliot still speaks in that wistful tone of voice. And he speaks of breaking gods' hearts! Does he know that he occupies Quentin's every spare thought? He must know that when they're apart Quentin fantasizes that Eliot fantasizes about him; that saying this out loud is as effective as any coy retreat. Suppositions that Quentin hasn't allowed himself to give serious thought start to pool in his mind like water from underground and the flood follows quickly; a torrent of shameful thoughts about Eliot's intentions, but also his mouth and his hands and the heat of his body when they touch. Eliot really and truly wanting him, beyond entertainment. Even half-mortified that these thoughts surface, unbidden, with Eliot inches away, Quentin's heart swells and he hopes that he isn't only imagining things.

brink from resurrection blues

The infirmary is as calm as it can stand to be, with its two convalescent occupants returning from the brink of death. Healing students do their rounds hourly but for the most part they drift past the recovery room on their way from anywhere to anywhere else. They're very professional, walking the length of the hallway outside without ogling, giving the impression of fish in an aquarium.

kneel from kill my heroes (and there is no other instance of the word 'kneel' anywhere else in my wips; i looked Everywhere lol)

Quentin turns with a short laugh. "Finer than this? A king's tomb has less gold. There's a brocade under that chair."  "And silk woven by oracle swans somewhere beneath my mattress. We are gods." In Eliot's hands is a woven basket, and he places it on the bed at the same time he kneels up onto it. He pats the space beside him. "But you didn't come to gossip about War's lacy underthings. Sit."

and i will tag (no pressure!) @nailamoonsi @void-botanist @thewardenofwinter to find the words... groan, mope, fire, and learn

[snow-and-saltea]

#god yea#its sooo good#its about 10x better than the novel its based on too#the nuance! the silence! realistic relationships!#a villian thats makes me so uncomfortable even when shes not doing anything at all!

from @nugget-bones

FOR REAL everytime the fourth princess appears i feel a mixture of annoyance + unsettled. i don't know any spoilers beyond like ch 98 of the manhwa bc i don't read the novel so maybe i'll be proven wrong but like. she's so creepy. and yeah part of it is bc of the way she acts but also like, she has this sort of dead-eyed fish look that betrays her (maliciously) childish and spoiled behaviour? throwing a tantrum when she doesn't get what she wants and just offhandedly saying things that break social decorum (when she poisons pereshati she doesn't even have a villainous monologue lined up; just, "oh, did she die?" - as if she's a child doing a science experiment with trial and error).

as an aside i love how we have different treatments of characters with "blank" eyes, like no whites in their irises(?). we have the lapelion family who all have ominous looking dark red eyes, but even the times where they're happy or emotional, they still don't change colour. i like how it kinda feels like that's a permanent characteristic of them, and how it consistent it stays throughout the story. yes both the princess and the ducal family have blank/flat-coloured eyes, but it doesn't necessarily mean they're evil. there are some panels that come to mind where i thought that the dark eyes looked even more emotional and human than the antagonist princess, particularly the episode where celphi gets mad when the maids gossip about pereshati.

it's just so. ugh. i love it. they look inhuman but all of the ducal family members to me (and to pereshati in her experience being around them) just seem like reasonable people. they're not bloodthirsty just bc the ML fits the duke of the north trope, they don't fall head over heels for the FL overnight, they're understandably skeptical about her appearance and new information that she brings to them when they've been trying to research the curse for decades and died trying. none of them are particularly "warm" or are shown to be cold-with-a-heart-of-gold types, and they don't make it super obvious that they appreciate her presence and input but they still look to her to see what she says, because pereshati has the even-tempered disposition to speak her mind in a room full of (seemingly) scary, powerful people. i love them!! this is one of the few manhwas where i truly felt that the characters were raised as nobles because of how discreet and subtle they are most of the time, maybe it's because of the age rating. but still!

AND YEAH i freakin love the way almost everything in this manhwa, especially emotional dialogue exchanges / climactic moments, are silent. there's not thump thump sfx, no much difference in colour palette, just that everything gets darker and sometimes we don't even see the character's face or expression because it's blocked by something else or we just see the shape of their body. OUGH . really feels like a private moment that i shouldn't be looking at. o(-(

(the artist said this was their first webtoon?? how??? they are so skilled???????)

n e ways. thank you for leaving your thoughts in the tags heheh i rlly enjoy talking abt manhwas!

something about titles for stories that sound utterly generic but it ends up being a masterpiece you binge read for two days straight. i love it so much. go read "my in laws are obsessed with me" on webtoon

rambling under the cut; some spoilers but nonspecific and vague

i fkn love so much the show not tell element in this story, it never feels like i'm being spoonfed information by having five speech bubbles in one panel. characters rarely say what they truly think or feel, atmosphere and mood are set solely by composition and art, some of the most heartbreaking and scared ive felt reading this manhwa had NO speech bubbles at all and there was no fancy effects or sfx you'd normally see in comics. the world goes on normally while you see a character in pain, full body wailing with grief at the ache of heartbreak. i teared up and i didnt even know what her voice sounded like, i didnt know what thoughts were going through her mind or the overwhelming bodily sensation of emotional pain that must've wrecked her. the build up of seeing an adaptable, grounded and sometimes cute and awkward person you've gotten to know over 50 ish chapters, only to then see her doubling over in pain and screaming, soundlessly to my ears. one of the most visceral experiences ive had recently.

i don't even care if i sound like im being biased or gassing this manhwa up btw Who Give A Shit bc not me!! i will talk about the things i like about bc i like them!

i love the mc / fl most of all because of how she's such... a neat vessel to the world. not spoiling it about her backstory and disposition and such, but the way she, on paper, sort of fits into that niche of people who don't know how much they matter to people around them. usually in regression / revenge stories with an insecure low self esteem FL, they start out really defensive, angsty / edgy, and then mellow out as they receive love. but our FL is reasonable, even-tempered and logical - that her emotional "insecurity" in regards to being tethered to people around her is mostly rooted in her own "seeing is believing" mentality and understanding, somewhat sympathetically, why people wouldn't / don't like her, and she doesn't really take it to heart.

what's funny is that even when people are subtly showing adoration and love for her, she doesn't know how to take it to heart, and she gets uncomfortable and awkward about it. not in a usually fluffy "this is so moving that i cant respond sensibly" way, the way most loved FLs usually pass by as a marker to Growth, but because it puts her in an awkward situation and she doesn't know what to do about it. she gets a little embarrassed but doesn't overreact, because she probably doesn't realise the depth of their affection and doesn't attribute it to herself directly, but rather by other people's kindness. multiple times she's been surprised at when someone (who didn't before but has now warmed up to her) responds kindly to her inquiries, and while i understand her surprise, it's still funny and a little sad to me that she was prepared to take it in stride if people STILL didn't like her after all the ways she's benefitted them.

in other words pereshati you're my queen and i love you. literally who would not love her. her ease and understanding at being distrusted makes her ironically easier to trust because she doesn't hold anything against you and understand that you need to form your own judgement, even if it doesn't turn out well for her. literally who is doing it like her. queen

[caiminnent]

my demise, my downfall [kylux, rated M]

Summary: Hux had no idea that Ren, his bedmate and partner in crime, was actually Ben Organa-Solo, the sole heir of First Order's biggest rival in the industry.

He didn't know Ben had a girlfriend, either.

Fandom: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy

Tags: Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, Use Your Words, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Armitage Hux is Not Nice, Kylo Ren isn't Much Better, Canon-Typical Behavior, Unhealthy Relationships

Notes: Photo by Mitchell Griest on Unsplash, cropped.

2.9K || Also on AO3

Hux wakes up to gentle caresses, a feather-light finger drawing unrecognisable shapes over his shoulders, down his back.

His eyes ache behind his eyelids, that didn’t-sleep-enough taste in his mouth. Torn between giving in to his body’s demands for rest and enjoying the soft touch while it lasts, he drifts on the edge of sleep and wakefulness, basking in the pleasant warmth.

Something rattles far behind him, jerking him fully awake. The touch withdraws.

Pushing his disappointment down, Hux takes a deep breath and rolls onto his back. Ren is sitting up in the middle of the bed with his legs stretched out, tapping away at his phone.

“Go back to sleep,” Ren says without looking, his tone sleep-gruff. “’s not morning yet.”

“Why are you awake, then?” Hux mumbles, though he doesn’t particularly care about the answer. A short night wasn’t enough to make up for six weeks of absence; Hux won’t be settled without at least a few more hours of sleep, another round and brunch.

Thank fuck it’s Sunday.

Ren doesn’t respond, focused on whatever he’s doing on his phone. Stretching languidly on the bed, “Come back here, Ren,” Hux purrs, kicking the covers away in the process. Ren’s eyes latch onto the bared skin.

“Can’t,” Ren says, shaking his head. The phone buzzes again, as if reminding them of itself—as if it gave Ren a chance to forget it. “Got plans.”

Hux’s mood sours. Plans. Ren has barely returned to the Core Worlds and he’s already making plans with others.

“What plans?” Hux asks, keeping his tone mild. It can’t be work; they don’t hide Snoke’s various demands from each other, if only so Snoke won’t be able to blindside them later. Ren doesn’t have any friends in this sector, either—none that Hux knows of, at least. Is it that girl? Is Ren running out of Hux’s bed straight into her arms?

Hux has never woken up in Ren’s bed, but he now knows how it would feel to be kicked out of it.

Ren is still typing, not even acknowledging the question. What the hell is he writing, a novel?

“Let me guess, then,” Hux says, poison-sweet. “Early breakfast with your sunshine?”

Ren freezes.

A vicious delight fills Hux. “Unless you two had urgent business to take care of at the Resistance HQ,” he continues evenly, ignoring the tension that thickens in the air between them. “First Order’s latest requisitions have put them in quite the bind; your mother is right to want you on-site, now that you’re—”

—pinned on the bed with Ren’s overly warm body covering his, Ren’s forearm across his throat and knees on Hux’s shins. Ren’s other hand presses Hux’s wrists into the mattress; so close to the knife Hux keeps between the mattress and the headboard, but at the entirely wrong angle to grab it.

“Bastard,” Hux hisses in Ren’s face, the bed groaning as he feebly tries to shake Ren off. Ren presses his knobbly knees harder into Hux’s legs in answer, as if trying to dig grooves into Hux’s bones. The pressure on his neck remains steady, only hard enough to make it uncomfortable to swallow. A half-hearted threat at best.

What a bloody embarrassment.

“You’re not supposed to know any of that,” Ren snarls, his nostrils flaring as he glares down at Hux. Hux stares back, keeping his gaze steady and his breathing even. He’s never been afraid of Snoke’s hound; that won’t change now. “I know Snoke forbid you from investigating me. Have you been fucking—fucking digging anyway?”

Hux scoffs. As if he’s got the time to dig into Ren’s life. “I was having a business dinner at the Starkiller last month, when you walked in with your lovely girlfriend.” It’s quite telling that Ren didn’t even notice Hux there, so captivated by her. “Have you ever noticed how her voice carries, Ben?”

Ren growls low in his throat like the beast he is, his shoulders and neck tensing. Inhaling deeply, Hux waits for the moment Ren will put his crushing weight on Hux’s windpipe, visualising his hands clenching and unclenching as his body struggles to draw air into his burning lungs, unable to even scrabble at Ren’s forearm. The spots in his darkening vision until he can’t see Ren’s face anymore. Waking up with bruises on his tender neck—or not waking up at all.

Ren can’t kill him, though. He isn’t allowed to, not until Hux outlives his usefulness for Snoke. Killing Hux now would mean Ren signing his own death warrant.

“That name,” Ren says lowly, his breath warm on Hux’s face, “isn’t for you to use. Nobody—nobody—can find out that you know it, or there will be consequences.” He gives Hux a long look, anxiety shining through the ebbing fury in his eyes. What happens if word of Ren’s real name gets out? What’s so important about it? “Hux. Do you understand?”

Hux scoffs. “Yes, damn you. I won’t tell anyone.” He wasn’t planning to anyway; this sort of personal information is more valuable as a bargaining chip. When the time comes, he’ll benefit from having leverage over Snoke’s protégé. It just might turn the tide in Hux’s favour.

Satisfied, Ren rolls off and away from Hux. For a moment, Hux can only breathe as his blood rushes back into his feet and hands with that pins-and-needles sensation. Something dark and ugly gathers in the pit of his stomach, a need to sink his teeth into Ren’s throat until he tastes blood rising in him.

Later. His chance will come later.

Ren’s found his trousers on the floor, putting them on. Hux feels oddly naked, vulnerable in only soft trousers while Ren dons his armour again.

Well, Hux is clearly not going back to sleep. Might as well start his day.

“I hope you realise that this cannot continue,” he says conversationally, stepping into his slippers. No point of pulling the sheets up; he’s going to throw them all in the wash as soon as Ren leaves anyway. “This double life of yours, I mean—it’s too much of a risk to allow.”

“It’s not a double life,” Ren grumbles, trying to shake the wrinkles out of his shirt. The spiteful part of Hux hopes that Ren won’t have time to change out of the mussed state Hux put him in before his plans.

“Well, what would you call it?” Hux asks, raising a brow. “Polished, charming Organa-Solo heir on one side, Snoke’s brooding enforcer on the other? Unless I’m wrong and you’re mixing business and pleasure, in which case Ben’s dry cleaner had better be very discreet.”

“I’m not—” Ren cuts himself off with a huff, his unbuttoned shirt hanging off his shoulders. His glare isn’t quite effective with the entire bed between them. “Look, Snoke knows. Okay? He encourages me to keep Ben Organa-Solo alive—to have past connections we can use. I’m doing his bidding.”

“Sunshine—or whatever her name is—she’s one of your honeypot assignments, then?”

Ren runs his teeth over his bottom lip. “I didn’t say that.”

The space behind Hux’s eyes is throbbing, the beginnings of a headache making itself known. Kriffing Ren and his kriffing inability to say one thing straight.

His robe hangs off the hook behind the door—a strategic mistake. “What, then?” Hux asks as he strides over to it, the luxurious fabric his lifeline to feeling a little more put-together. A little more like himself. “Care to explain how she fits into the picture?”

“None of your fucking business,” Ren mutters—suspiciously like around something. Hux is unsurprised to turn and find one of those death-sticks between Ren’s lips and a lighter in his hand, though annoyance is another matter entirely. “I’m doing my damn job; what more do you care?”

Hux fishes out an ashtray from his vanity with a pointed sigh, throwing it vaguely Ren’s way on the bed. Ren picks it up before dropping himself on the edge of the mattress, balancing the ashtray on a thick thigh.

“You wouldn’t be so cagey if you were only following orders,” Hux points out, ignoring the light tickle at the back of his throat. If Ren drops a smatter of ash on his carpets, there will be hell to pay. “What is it? Does she know something she shouldn’t?” Hux can make it go away, if she does.

“No, of course not. She knows nothing.”

Right. Very convincing.

Crossing his arms over his chest, “Is that so?” Hux asks, leaning a hip against the vanity. Ren barely glances at him before turning to the closed window, blowing the smoke out of a corner of his mouth. “Say, Ren, what does she think that you’re doing for a living? Snoke’s bodyguard works only so well when the man is bedbound. How do you explain your long trips abroad? Or the nights you return smelling of sex?”

Ren releases a long breath, loud in the otherwise quiet room. He ashes his cigarra and takes another drag, cool as you please, while irritation crawls underneath Hux’s skin.

It’s like Hux isn’t even kriffing there.

An odd desperation tugging at his chest, “Or maybe she already knows that you’re fucking someone on the side,” Hux throws, spitefully hoping for it to land.

Ren’s jaw works, his lips pressing into a line.

There.

It’s all of ten steps from his spot to Ren’s. “You’re loyal as a dog; I don’t imagine I’m your dirty secret,” Hux adds as he takes them slowly, satisfaction buzzing through him. Ren’s shoulders grow more rigid with each word, the ashtray moving as his legs tense. “Maybe it’s a thingbetween you two. Is that why you never shower here—because she likes smelling another man on you, feeling how open you still are from—”

“Rey’s my cousin, you jackass,” Ren snarls, a vein pulsing on his forehead. A knot unravels in Hux’s stomach. “What the fuck is it to you anyway? I know you don’t get lonely without me.”

The anger Hux was aiming for—the unmissable undercurrent of hurtin Ren’s tone gives him a pause. Hux hasn’t taken a lover since he and Ren started their… arrangement. He could have—and perhaps should have, instead of relying on his hand alone to get him through Ren’s weeks-long disappearances—but he didn’t even want to.

It worries him, sometimes.

“It’s a matter of security,” Hux says, waving it off. “Secrets have a way of leaking during pillow talk, you know that better than anyone.”

Ren laughs, bitter and hollow. Something in Hux twists at the sound. “Security,” Ren spits out, putting out the cigarra like it offended him personally. “Do you wanna do background checks on everybody I slept with while I was gone, then?”

Sharp hurt jolts through Hux.

Ren is staring at him with an intensity that borders on uncomfortable, waiting. Hux unclenches his jaw, breathing through his nose. “You’re an old hand at this; I’ll trust your judgment,” he responds, turning away. What is he doing, reacting to Ren? What the hell is wrong with him?

Ren grabs him by the wrist, jerking him to a stop.

Irritation rises in Hux again. “Ren,” he bites out in warning.

“No really, I think you should,” Ren says, a dark look shining in his eyes. “I don’t remember every name, but I can give you some other details. I’m sure your network of stalkers—sorry, slicers can find out enough.”

“My slicers have more important intel to chase after,” Hux bites out, looking pointedly at Ren’s hand around his wrist. The grip is loose enough that he might break himself free, but suffering the indignity of struggling doesn’t quite appeal to him. Once was enough. “Will you let me go?”

“Only if you admit it.”

Hux scoffs. “Admit what, exactly?”

“Admit that you’re jealous.” Hux goes ice-cold all over. “You hated thinking about me with Rey, didn’t you?”

Of course not. What a ridiculous claim. Hux holds a certain dislike for missing out on critical intel—understandable given his line of work—and finding out that he’s been left entirely in the dark about Ren, Snoke’s other right-hand man and the only person Hux remotely trusts in the First Order, was a bit of a hit. That’s all there is to it. He’s got no reason to be jealous of some girl who calls Ren by his given name, who can laugh and joke with Ren, be seen in public with Ren, who can loop an arm around Ren as they leave—

The dismissal gets stuck in his throat.

“Because I hated it,” Ren murmurs, looking into his eyes. Hux wants with his whole being to escape the depth of feeling in Ren’s earnest gaze—can’t look away. “Thinking about others warming your bed while I was fucked off on some bullshit mission that barely needed me—it killed me, Hux. Tell me you hated it, too. Tell me you want me to be only yours.”

Only Hux’s. As if Ren, with his constant need for attention and validation, wouldn’t chafe under Hux’s negligence.

Hux shakes his head, wishing he could shake off this spell just as easily. Ren must be similarly addled if he’s talking of fancies of flight like exclusivity. “You don’t know what you’re saying. This isn’t what we agreed on, Ren.”

The light in Ren’s eyes dims. Hux hates himself.

“You’re right,” Ren says, his tone just above a whisper. A glance downwards—he starts buttoning up his shirt like he’s being timed on it, only barely getting the order right. “Sorry I ruined it, I thought—never mind what I thought, I’ll just see myself out. You won’t see me again unless Snoke summons both of us, promise.”

Ren rushes past Hux and out of the bedroom, pulling the door closed behind himself. It hits Hux in the next moment that perhaps he should’ve stopped Ren.

Stars, what a kriffing mess. Hux intended only to stop Ren from jumping off a cliff in the hopes that Hux would follow, not to end what they had. Leave it to Ren to take it as an absolute rejection.

He takes a deep breath, running his hands through his hair. All right. All right. First step: He can’t let Ren storm off. Ren will be damn near impossible to get a hold of if he leaves like this; Hux’s network truly has more important matters to take care of. Hux needs to make him stay long enough to listen.

As for what Hux will say to fix this, well. He supposes he can tell Ren what Ren wants to hear. He can set his pride aside for a moment. It should be good, shouldn’t it? It should be enough.

It had better be enough.

Inside, Ren is nowhere to be found, his jacket and trainers gone. Hux hasn’t heard the Silencer’s roar, though. Hoping he’s not too late, he grabs his keys off the hook and dashes down the front stairs, catching up with Ren just as Ren reaches his bike.

“Ren,” he says, embarrassingly breathless.

Ren turns to him with wariness etched on his guarded face. He’s waiting for beratement, Hux suspects, or the tongue-lashing that Hux is famous for.

“I was lonely without you,” Hux confesses in a rush, words tumbling out of his mouth in his haste to get them out before they clog up his throat. “When you were away, I—I missed you. I did.” Do whatever you want with it.

A series of emotions cross Ren’s face, too fast to parse. A part of Hux—a part that will always remain Armitage no matter how hard Hux tries to purge it—wants to curl into a ball and hide from the moment Ren will laugh in his face for falling for such a blatant prank.

“Hux,” Ren breathes, breaking into a wide grin. It’s the goofiest, stupidest expression Hux has ever seen on his face—and entirely devoid of any mockery. “You missed me?”

“I won’t repeat it,” Hux says, ignoring the growing heat of his cheeks. Least of all in the middle of the street, where all his neighbours would overhear them if it weren’t shit-early on a Sunday—wearing nothing but his robe and slippers.

Stars. What a disgrace.

Ren’s phone buzzes loudly in his pocket. He fishes it out only far enough to silence it, letting it go to voicemail. “I really have to go,” he says with a touch of regret in his tone, running the backs of his fingers down Hux’s cheek. “But I’ll come back right after, okay? I’ll come back to you.”

Such coddling. Hux wants to roll his eyes, but the look on Ren’s face, the same one as when he said tell me you want me to be only yours, stops him.

“You had better,” he mutters instead. It’s a new sort of thrill, getting a genuine grin out of Ren.

Cupping Hux’s face, Ren presses a hard kiss on his lips before getting on his bike. Hux watches him leave with an inexplicably heavy heart.

He misses Ren already.

[bludboy]

             [     ...     ]               𝐀𝐒   𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂   𝐀𝐒   it   is,    this   isn't   the   first   time   he's   been   in   a   situation.    not   in   his   line   of   work,    anyway.    the   whole    :    manipulatable,    kicked   puppy   thing   just   comes   with   the   territory   of   being   marcus   arguello,    the   mercenary   with   a   death   wish.    at   least   he   has   a   mean   right   hook   and   some   swifty   legs   to   make   sure   he   can   make   a   run   for   it.    the   very   same   ones   who   help   anchor   him,    steadying   his   figure   until   he   can   stand   straight   and   take   a   few   easy   steps,    letting   a   boyish   face   with   an   untold   story    (    that   no   one   ever   wants   to   hear    )    come   into   full   view.    "    trouble   in   paradise,    huh    ?    "    he   doesn't   mean   to   pry.    WELL    ...    maybe   just   a   bit.    at   least   it   can   take   his   mind   off   the   pain   in   his,    everywhere.    "    you   have   like,    more   than   one   apartment   in   this   fucking   city    ?    what   are   you,    like    ...    a   billionaire    ?    "    oh,    marcus    ...    you   sweet   summer   child.    "    well,    uh    ...    if   you   want   a   break   from   your   husband,    i'm   super   discreet.    like   a   pocket   vibe   shaped   like   a   lipstick,    "    kidding    ?    not   entirely. at   the   mention   of   food,    marcus   nods   towards   his   pockets    :    remembering   another   integral   aspect   of   keeping   himself   alive.    he   fishes   out   the   wrapper   from   his   pocket   and   tears   it   with   his   teeth,    letting   himself   have   a   bite   of,    quite   possibly,    the   first   thing   he's   eaten   in   weeks   not   fished   out   the   trash.    "    this   organic    ?    it   tastes   organic,    "    just   be   glad   you're   alive,    marcus.    "    sorry,    uh,    didn't   mean   to   complain.    just    ...    never   had   anythin'   called    ...    "    eyes   squint   at   the   name.    wholly   unfamiliar.    "    wheatfit    ?    fucking   hell.    okay,    "    never   look   a   gift   horse   in   the   mouth    :    another   survival   skill   you   should   remember    !!    "    oh,    yeah    ...    "    carefully   grabbing   the   scraf   from   shiv's   hold,    he   does   as   he's   told    —    dutifuly   so.    "    this   feels    ...    expensive.    how   much   am   i   costing   you   already    ?    couple   hundred   bucks    ?    "

"IT'S FINE,"            shiv says, because if he really is about to die, she'd love for it to be guilt-free on her end. she's not interested in gaining wings or getting into heaven but, unfortunately, there's something in her chest and something in her head that stops her from being totally stoic. she feels like she just hit a deer on the drive home.   "well, uh, take your time."   she's got all day. which is not to say she had nothing to do, but rather, she dictates the schedule.

shiv's brow flickers just slightly in offence.   "husband."   though live-in boytoy earns a stifled laugh from her.   "that positions still open if you're interested."   she brushes it off with a hand-wave,   "no. my husband doesn't even know about this apartment,"   oops.   "i mean, it's mine. it was my dad's. i just haven't sublet it yet."   she sleeps the night there very occasionally. somewhere to escape. shiv watches as he stands, she doesn't make an effort to keep the distance between them as her comfort grows in spite of how he looks.   "oh, no. no. it's, not, yeah. it's whatever. hey, eat."   the granola bar, it's basically nothing. sugar-free, gluten-free, nut-free; oats, honey, ginger and some other crap. she glances forward, huffs a sigh to herself.   "do you, uh, want my scarf?"   shiv reluctantly begins to pull the silky, patterned scarf from around her neck,   "maybe, wipe your face down a little? no offence, but if anyone sees you, they're gonna call the cops."

[femininenachos]

Make America Gay Again (10/?)

Previously: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

“You don’t have to go.”

In the lazy, hazy comedown after a really fantastic orgasm, Clarke’s mouth has a tendency to engage before her brain does. There’s a second or two of lag before the sex fog lifts and her mind catches up, before she registers that Lexa has gone perfectly still, frozen to the spot on the other side of the room.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Clarke kicks herself mentally.

Because of course it’s too much, too soon. Lexa has barely dipped a toe out of the closet in years. She’s probably having a discreet, controlled mini panic attack over there, like Clarke just asked her to fucking U-haul, not spend the night together cuddling and shit.

Just because they wasted the day and most of the evening screwing on the couch (a couch she’s probably going to have to get professionally steam-cleaned before Linc returns from his weekend getaway with O), it doesn’t necessarily mean Lexa wants, or is comfortable with that level of intimacy yet. Sleeping over. Waking up beside one another. Doing that whole tentative dance of navigating the morning after.

Okay, it’s fine. I can handle this, Clarke reasons once she’s done castigating herself. No need to blow it out of proportion. Maybe she can save face and rescue things if she downplays the suggestion.

She licks her lips, and it really doesn’t help that all she can taste is Lexa.

“I mean,” Clarke clears her throat to rid her voice of its extra raspiness, a little hoarse from the ragged noises Lexa had coaxed from her many times over. She adopts her most casual, unaffected tone. “It’s already late so… no big deal.”

At last, Lexa turns around slowly. Backlit by the diffuse yellow glow of the uplamp in the corner, her expression is hard to decipher when it’s shrouded half in shadow, but Clarke’s attention is soon diverted elsewhere.

In the past several hours she’s been treated to Lexa in varying stages of undress, but there’s something about this in-between state—blouse open and only partially buttoned—that’s unbearably erotic. It’s been forever since Clarke last felt the urge to pick up a pencil and sketchbook but, God, Lexa like this makes her itch to draw.

Transfixed, Clarke drags her eyes up the slope of Lexa’s ribs, over the small swells of her breasts encased in pale satin, the sharp jut of her collarbones and the graceful length of throat that Clarke had the reckless audacity to leave her mark on. It gives her such a thrill to see those mouth-shaped pink splodges, knowing that Lexa might have to put on concealer and wear scarves for the next couple of days until they fade. It makes her want to suck deeper bruises into Lexa’s skin, ones that can’t be hidden with makeup and a high collar.

“Stay,” she blurts before she can stop herself, doubling down on her complete inability to exhibit any fucking chill around this woman. “Just, stay tonight. And in the morning we can get coffee and bagels from the deli across the street, and—”

“Clarke.”

It’s no louder than a whisper, but that single soft exhalation of her name is loaded with so much longing and hesitance and regret.

Lexa draws in a breath, about to say more when they both hear a faint buzz, accompanied by the trill of a musical ringtone that sounds far too obnoxiously cheerful right now.

Sitting upright, Clarke runs a hand through the tangled mess of her hair, in quiet observation mode as Lexa hurries over to fish her phone out of her coat pocket. She makes a face at the screen then wanders closer to the window before she answers with a neutral, “Hello.”

Despite her burning curiosity, Clarke makes a concerted effort not to eavesdrop. All she can hear is a garbled male voice on the other end anyway. But green eyes flick towards her briefly, apologetic, as Lexa tells the caller without inflection, “I’m fine. I’m with a friend.”

Then, in a sharper tone, “I don’t have to explain myself to you, Roan.” Silent for a tense stretch before she sighs heavily. “Just inform her I’ll be home shortly.”

After the call ends, Lexa bows her head for a moment. Like she needs those few seconds of silence and stillness to collect herself.

Clarke waits.

Gnaws on the corner of her bottom lip, reluctant to pry into what was clearly a thorny personal matter, but her care and concern wins out.

“Everything okay?”

Lexa straightens her posture. Tucks her blouse into her skirt, and when she faces Clarke again, her small smile is strained around the edges.

“Just my step-brother checking up on me at Nia’s bidding.” She rolls her eyes a bit and resumes buttoning up her blouse. “Roan isn’t around much. He runs a VC firm in New York, but he’s agreed to join the final campaign push to present a united front.”

Her lip curls.

“Unfortunately, that means I’ll be seeing a lot more of him in the coming weeks.”

Clarke tries to be attentive, she does, but there’s something mesmerising about the nimble movements of Lexa’s hands when less than thirty minutes ago those long, slender fingers were buried inside of Clarke, fucking in deep while she frantically ground her hips into Lexa’s open mouth.

The recollection makes her flush hard, a fresh trickle of arousal pooling between her thighs.

When she finally snaps out of her trance, it’s to find Lexa watching her intently too, that dark stare trained on her chest. Clarke had pulled on a loose, oversize t-shirt after a trip to the bathroom, and she doesn’t need any visual confirmation to know her nipples are half-poking through the thin brushed cotton. They already feel tight and sensitive against the soft fabric but under Lexa’s heavy-lidded gaze, they stiffen to aching, fully erect points.

“You can’t keep looking at me like that and expect me to let you go,” Clarke warns.

Lexa’s jaw grinds a little before she forces her eyes up, and the undisguised hunger Clarke sees reflected back at her only makes her wetter.

“I wish I didn’t have to.”

There’s a rough catch to Lexa’s otherwise soft voice. Like it pains her to even contemplate going anywhere else when there’s the guarantee of more orgasms if she remains. She appears to have some kind of internal debate, weighing a decision before her resolve hardens, a determined glint in her eyes as she strides over to where Clarke sits.

Wordlessly, Lexa pulls her up by the wrists and draws Clarke’s arms around her waist. Cups Clarke’s neck. Kisses her with such depth of feeling that it scrambles her brain and leaves her swaying on her bare feet when they separate for air, Lexa towering over Clarke in her expensive black pumps.

“I would love to get breakfast with you someday,” Lexa says, the warm gust of her breath hitting the bridge of Clarke’s nose. “Hopefully once this election is over. Is that alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Clarke nods slowly, distractedly, trying to piece her scattered thoughts back together while eyes and lips compete for her attention. She flattens her palms at the small of Lexa’s back, feeling the warmth of her skin soak through the silk blouse. “Uh, so... are we still on for tomorrow? Dinner, I mean.”

The fingers that are curled around Clarke’s

neck shift and thread into her hair, wreaking havoc on her nerve endings, sending a cascade of shivers down her spine. Without conscious thought, she pushes her hips forward, brushing against the tops of Lexa’s pencil skirt-clad thighs.

“Mhm.” A smirk plays at the corner of Lexa’s mouth. Far too pleased with the reaction she’s gotten from a simple touch. “Should I bring anything?”

Clarke tamps down on her first instinct to say “an overnight bag and no PJs” and instead shrugs, “Wine or beer, whichever you prefer.”

“Planning to get me drunk?”

“I think you proved you’re uninhibited enough without any alcohol being involved.”

That raises a faint blush, Lexa’s tiny ears tingeing pink as her eyes slide away. Charmed by this sudden bout of shyness, Clarke pulls her bottom lip between her teeth in an attempt to curb her grin. A second later, she gives up the ghost.

“Never would’ve guessed a temptress lurked beneath that twin set.”

A pout. “Now you’re just making fun of me.”

“Sorry,” Clarke says in a tone that expresses the opposite. “You surprised me, that’s all.”

Lexa shoots her a cautious look. “In a good way?”

“Well, duh.”

Clarke squeezes Lexa’s waist in gentle, genuine reassurance, and with it the slight tension in Lexa’s frame ebbs. Hands wander further south, rounding the tight curves of Lexa’s perfect, perfect ass in that skirt.

“Apparently, GOP girls gone wild really does it for me.”

She chuckles at Lexa’s subtle eye roll, the slight pinch of full lips.

“Although, it doesn’t have to be like that every time.” Clarke tightens her grip, earning a hitched breath. “We can take it slow too.”

Dark lashes flutter oh so prettily.

“Okay.”

But then Lexa gives her this long, searching look. Deep and penetrating. Growing more pensive in the lull, and Clarke isn’t really sure how to interpret it.

She moves her palms back up to safer territory.

“What?” she prompts, offering what she hopes is an encouraging smile.

Lexa moistens her lips and Clarke does her best to ignore her body’s automatic response to that brief glimpse of tongue: the sudden leap of her pulse, the heat that curls low in the pit of her stomach.

“I wanted to ask—well, to clarify.” Lexa stops short and takes a breath. A tiny grimace pulls at her mouth, but she seems to gather herself and forges on. “Are you… dating anybody else?”

For a moment, Clarke just stares.

Does a slow blink.

Her face must have rearranged itself into a particular expression, because Lexa rapidly backtracks. Literally. She shrinks back a step when it dawns on her that the question didn’t land the way she intended.

She noticeably flusters and under any other circumstances it would be endearing, but right now Clarke is just… floored.

“What I mean is, I’d like for us to continue,” Lexa waves her hand in a euphemistic manner that alludes to boning. “And if you’re seeing someone, or even multiple people—”

“Right,” Clarke scoffs. “Because I’m bi I must be a big ol’ slut?”

Lexa blanches.

“No! That’s not…” Her jaw drops as she stares in mounting bewilderment and dismay at how this conversation took such a disastrous turn. She clamps her mouth shut. Knits her brows together, looking chagrined now. “Clarke.”

It feels like someone dumped ice water in Clarke’s veins, dousing her earlier ardour.

“For your information, I don’t fuck around.” She sees Lexa wince at the acidic bite of her words. “When I’m into a person, I’m not busy scoping out other options. Jesus.”

Clarke folds her arms and angrily stalks away, needing to put some distance between them.

Seconds pass before she hears Lexa’s quiet, cautious footfalls on the carpet as she draws nearer. And despite Clarke’s annoyance, her body is attuned to Lexa’s proximity. It makes the skin on the back of her neck tingle, raises goosebumps along her forearms.

“I realise I’m making a horrible mess of this but, please,” Lexa says from behind, voice so soft and earnest that it tugs at Clarke, even as she stubbornly fights to hold onto her aggravation. “Will you give me a chance to explain?”

She stares at a spot on the wall. Heaves a sigh. But after a prickly stretch of silence she turns her head a fraction, just enough to show that she’s listening.

“I was going to say that I’d understand. If you did choose to see other people. If you wanted a romantic partner who’s open and unafraid and available in all the ways I can’t be right now.”

Her frown deepening for a different reason, Clarke turns around. “Lexa...”

“Please, let me finish.”

Lexa might be putting on a brave facade, but Clarke doesn’t miss the watery gleam in the corners of those sad, solemn green eyes, and it thaws her frosty mien a little more.

“Alright,” she says evenly.

A small, grateful nod.

Lexa’s gaze barely flickers.

She weighs her words before she speaks.

“Clarke, you deserve so much more than clandestine hookups with a closet case. And it isn’t fair to expect you to wait around while I untangle myself from my hellish family.”

Her bottom lip does an almost invisible tremble, but then she sets her jaw and the planes of her face become tense and drawn, and Clarke kind of hates that she finds it so damn attractive.

“So I can’t—won’t—ask for us to be exclusive,” Lexa goes on. “Because all I want is for you to be happy and fulfilled, even if it isn’t with me.”

At this point, Clarke doesn’t know whether to kiss Lexa or yell at her for this stupid, misguided martyrdom. Instead, Clarke gravitates closer until they’re almost nose to nose. This time Lexa holds her ground, although her lips tighten and her throat bobs, betraying her unease.

“You keep talking about what I want,” Clarke says, “Like you’ve made up my mind for me without consulting me at all. Well, I’ve got news for you.”

She prods Lexa lightly in the chest.

“You don’t get to decide.”

“Clarke—”

“No. Listen. Did you miss the part where I said I’m emotionally invested?”

Another poke; hard enough to force Lexa a quarter-step backwards. Entirely worth it for the flash of surprise on her face.

“I was talking about you, Lexa. I am into you. Not the hypothetical dozen or so lovers you seem to think I should be juggling.”

Lexa‘s mouth twitches. “That’s a gross exaggeration.”

“Hey, if I’m going to be a ho, I’ll be the best one I can be.”

“I admire your ambition.”

They share a wry look.

And just like that, the chord of tension that’s been strung tight between them slackens.

Relief visibly drains through Lexa, her features softening, a ghost of a smile there now. The absurdity isn't lost on Clarke either. She cracks a small smile too, and when she touches Lexa again, it’s to run a conciliatory hand down her arm, all the way down until she catches Lexa’s fingers.

Clarke gives a little tug.

“You have got to get this idea out of your head that you’re somehow not worthy just because you’re not out yet.”

Lexa dips her head and expels a quiet sigh, avoidant of Clarke’s gaze.

“Coming out is a process—a lifelong one—and everyone moves at their own pace,” Clarke says. She squeezes Lexa’s fingers. “So what if you weren’t going to Pride when you were fifteen? It doesn’t invalidate your experiences or make you any less gay.”

Lexa glances up, raising an enquiring eyebrow. “Did you go at that age?”

“My Mom and Dad were like the poster children for PFLAG, so yeah, they took me.” She chuckles in fond remembrance. “The summer I told them I liked boys and girls, they stuck a ‘best bi’ bumper sticker on the car and flew a huge fucking rainbow flag from our front porch.”

“Quite a statement.”

“Mm, the neighbours thought so too. We even got some anonymous hate mail.” That part she remembers less fondly. “But anyway, the point is, I was lucky to have a strong support system.”

She lifts her other hand to cradle Lexa’s cheek, sweeping a gentle thumb over the apple of it, heart tripping at the way Lexa leans perceptibly into the touch.

Clarke lets the weight of the moment settle before she half-whispers:

“I could be that for you.”

A glimmer of wetness returns to Lexa’s eyes, and it makes the lush, deep green of her irises all the more vibrant.

“I’ve had to stifle this part of myself for so long in order to survive,” she confesses thickly.

Clarke nods and strokes Lexa’s cheekbone again, doing what little she can to soothe the hurt of untold years of anguish. Her hand drops to the ball of Lexa’s shoulder, rubbing slow circles there.

“I can relate. Our community can be biphobic as fuck. In the past, I didn’t always correct people when they assumed my sexuality because I just didn’t want to deal with the prejudice and hostility.”

“At least your parents, your friends and associates never made you feel ashamed, made you believe your entire existence is a mistake.”

“No,” Clarke allows, “but I’ve been told to pick a side. That I don’t belong in queer spaces when I’m dating a guy.”

Lexa is silent, but her eyes soften with sympathy.

Clarke draws in a deep, cleansing breath and blows it out slowly; an attempt to course-correct, to reset the conversation, because this isn’t about her.

“I just—I want to help you embrace this aspect of your identity. Because you’re a lesbian Lexa. Such a lesbian. And when you hide that, you’re hiding one of the best parts of yourself.”

Lexa regards her a little dubiously. “It’s a sexual orientation, not a personality trait.”

“Yeah, well, for many of us our shared queerness confers a sense of belonging and solidarity. It’s a source of strength.”

Clarke slides her hand to Lexa’s nape, nails scratching lightly back and forth over warm skin and through the short curls that escaped Lexa’s hastily put-up bun.

“Look, being gay doesn’t have to define you any more than being a Republican does.” Clarke allows herself that small barb, smirking at Lexa’s answering eye roll. “But if you open your heart and your mind, on both counts, you might be surprised at the acceptance you’ll find.”

In lieu of a verbal response, Lexa slips an arm around Clarke’s waist, pulling her in closer until they’re pressed tightly together along the length of their bodies. And Clarke melts at the soft kiss Lexa dusts against her temple, how Lexa rubs her nose into the fuzzy shaved hair above Clarke’s ear. Her own lips seek the tender skin of Lexa’s throat, that spot where her pulse beats strong and fast, where the faint trace of perfume lingers, mixing with the natural scent of Lexa’s skin.

For a full minute they just absorb the heat and comfort of one another, their breathing and hearts in sync.

Lexa is the first to withdraw, leaning back to meet Clarke’s eyes. Under that infinitely soft gaze a warm feeling washes over her, Lexa’s affection a tangible thing that causes a wild flutter below Clarke’s ribs.

“Our people are extremely fortunate to have you as an ambassador, agitating for change,” Lexa murmurs, and Clarke can’t get over the way her eyes appear to glow, even in the low lamplight.

It takes Clarke a second to latch onto the “our.”

The subsequent small upturn of Lexa’s lips is like a personal attack.

It’s impossible not to kiss her then. Clarke, living for Lexa’s whimper as she licks over that plump lower lip and dips inside. She gets consumed by exploring Lexa’s mouth, kissing her deep and heavy, directing every movement with a hand on Lexa’s jaw.

When they separate, several heated minutes later, Lexa’s pupils are blown and her breath is coming in quick, shallow puffs. She has Clarke’s t-shirt roughly bunched in both fists, her grip only loosening gradually.

While every cell in Clarke’s body is screaming at her to drag Lexa back to the couch for one last tryst, she reminds herself this is a marathon not a race, and she needs to conserve some energy for their date tomorrow. Because she has plans. Plans that involve stretching Lexa out on her bed and keeping her captive there, possibly for hours.

So Clarke lands a final kiss on Lexa’s parted lips and extracts herself, twisting out of reach.

She adores Lexa’s pout.

Does nothing to hide her grin when she says, “What? Gotta leave you wanting more, right?”

Dark, dark eyes run up Clarke’s bare legs and over her body.

“I do, Clarke.”