#we only existed for a Dance in a single scene

[gemini-queen42]

Tmw u miss an oc but aren't in the vibes to draw them again so u just go and refind ur old art of em.

Anyways meet Florence Cowle and my art from a little over 2 years ago♡

(In a vaguely chronological order?)

[talesofesther]

what once was mine | ch 1

Loki x Reader

Summary: When watching what once was supposed to be the rest of his life, in an empty room in the TVA, Loki sees someone he can't recognize; a girl who's all tenderness and loose smiles, and most importantly, she was smiling at him.

A/N: A long overdue mini-series for one of my favorite characters of all time. I had this idea when season one of Loki first came out, but never got to writing it, and now with season two coming, I decided to finally do it. There are two important things that need to be said before we head into it though; firstly and most importantly, I will not be following the show's plot at all, this story will only be focusing on the relationship between Loki and the reader, after all that's what it is about and I don't want it to be unnecessarily huge; secondly, this story will be mostly told in moments, which means that not every single scene happening between the characters will be written down in length. Lastly, I do hope you can all enjoy it. <3

Masterlist

Things felt worthless. Everything suddenly seemed unimportant. His whole life, everything he knew, felt small and frail. Because here, infinity stones were mere paperweights.

Loki scoffed as he pushed himself up from the floor, one hand coming up to tug at the collar still wrapped around his neck. This place made him feel as if his brain was melting, it was all too much, too sudden—sacred timeline, variants. A sense of utter helplessness started to weigh heavily in the pit of his stomach.

Yet he couldn't hold himself back from sitting at the single table in the middle of the dim-lit room. The checkered image of the Avengers right in front of him seemed to be taunting him.

This was still the same day, right?

Or maybe not, Loki wasn't certain anymore; it sure didn't feel like the same day.

For a split second, as he looked down at the red, round device resting on top of the table, he thought about how everything here looked so old-fashioned. It was almost ironic, for a place out of time.

Loki couldn't help himself. His curiosity got the best of him eventually. But if anyone had their whole life just a click away, they'd probably do the same.

So he watched, through glimpses passing on a screen, a life that was supposed to be his. He watched his mother die, and then his father; he watched as Thor called him a brother with a smile on his face again, and as they made earth a new home for Asgard. Loki's eyes were already a pool of tears as soon as his mother's lifeless body had appeared in front of him, they cascaded down his cheeks freely, leaving behind a damp path of a lifetime worth of mourning, now seen in less than a minute. The loss somehow felt greater, because now he wouldn't even have those moments to begin with.

But suddenly, amidst the moments of suffering and mistakes, an unfamiliar face appeared. She had a smile on her face most of the time, and even through the static of the image in front of him, Loki could clearly see the glint in her pupils, the crinkle beside her eyes. She was quite captivating, maybe that's why it took him a second to realize she was smiling at him.

A frown etched itself in Loki's eyebrows, he leaned forward on his chair as he pressed play again. Curiosity and... apprehension twirled wildly inside his stomach.

The moments with her were endless. Walks on the beach, shared ice creams, quiet nights watching a movie, dancing together in a dark kitchen, the golden rays of a sunset shining against her hair in a memory tucked away like a treasure; and even a moment of her talking with Tony Stark and the others, while her hand held tightly onto Loki's, the other Loki, that is. All of them looked futile, a simple existence Loki would never have considered fit for him; so why did these moments feel important?

Inside TVA's lonely room, Loki held his breath until his lungs ached. His heart was threatening to jump out of his chest and his eyes were stinging for a whole new reason. He could feel the shaking of his own hands. That look in her eyes, it was one of love, anyone who saw would know it. But the cause of the sudden lump in Loki's throat was the fact that this look was always directed at him. That love in her eyes, that smile on her lips; was for him.

Several minutes went by with him silently looking at the paused image of her on the checkered screen. A few stray tears rolled down his cheeks, and he wasn't sure why yet. If it was for the shock of learning that someone could love him this much; or because of the envy, the longing for something that wasn't even his, not really, he never got there after all.

There was a hole in his chest, a missing piece of something he never had. Loki didn't even know her name, yet a part of him was screaming it anyway.

He eventually moved on, and almost threw up when he watched Thanos take his life from him. Loki watched his brother cry over his lifeless body, yet he wasn't seeing her.

And despite the boatload of information thrown at him, the questions clouding his mind were only; who is she? Where is she?

Lost. Loki felt more lost than he probably ever did in his entire life. He had just watched what was supposed to be the rest of his life, yet... it wouldn't be. So what now?

He sat down on the small stairs of the room, burying his head in his hands.

And then there was this girl; smiling and laughing and holding his hand as if he had been the best thing to ever happen to her. This feeling, warm and heavy, squeezing Loki's heart, was a foreign one—he couldn't quite place why that look of pure adoration in her eyes was directed at him.

He needed to know who she was. He needed to find her and ask her why. He needed to know what she was, or- would be to him.

The sudden sound of the door opening startled Loki, he watched as Mobius walked into the room, his steps overly cautious. "Loki? Nowhere left to run."

Gulping back a sob clawing its way through his throat, Loki took a deep breath. He slowly glanced up, voice calm and defeated as he asked a question he already knew the answer to; "I can't go back, can I?"

Mobius simply looked at him, his eyes holding some kind of sympathy as he spared Loki from hearing the truth out loud.

Loki pursed his lips, his gaze slowly trailed back to the screen on his left that again adorned a paused image of the mysterious girl. Her lips were turned up just slightly, dark sunglasses covered her eyes, and she held a slowly melting ice cream in one of her hands. "Who is she?" he asked quietly.

Placing his weapon on the table, Mobius let out a long sigh, "I was hoping you wouldn't ask about her."

The words made Loki snap his head towards him, a frown coming to his eyebrows immediately.

"She..." Mobius hesitated, "she is someone almost as annoying as you."

"That doesn't answer my question." Loki nearly sounded offended. He got up then, taking slow steps towards Mobius. "She seemed... important, yet I don't know who she is."

"I'm afraid you haven't met her yet."

"Then tell me who she is."

Mobius grimaced; "I don't think it's my place to say it."

"That's absurd," Loki scoffed, "it's my life we're talking about here."

"How about we help each other then, hm?" Mobius offered, and when Loki only frowned at him, he continued; "a fugitive Variant has been killing our Minutemen."

Loki narrowed his eyes. "And you need the God of Mischief to help you stop him?"

A small smirk came to Mobius' lips; "That's right. You help us stop him. I get you an opportunity to meet her and you can ask her whatever questions you want to know."

A meeting with someone didn't feel like much for his end of the bargain, but that same voice inside Loki was still screaming a name he didn't know how to spell. He had to know.

"Deal."

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Read ch 2 here

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keeps me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3

You do not have permission to repost, copy, or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.

Loki’s taglist:@milkiane @v1ci0us

[armageddidnt]

Welcome to My Collection of Random Thoughts during my nth* rewatch of Good Omens Season 2

*only amazon prime knows the exact number at this point but I’m fairly certain it’s in the double digits

Episode 1: Gabriel’s fly lurking in the box when Aziraphale first takes it inside 👀

Crowley’s promise of “two minutes” basically means that he’s been homeless and living in his car for the past 4 years strictly so that he can be within 2 driving minutes of Aziraphale at all times in case his angel needs him I’m not crying you are

So here I think the key word is “fragile,” Crowley knows they are ostensibly safe from their respective sides but that could change at any moment so he’s basically spent the last 4 years in anxiety-ridden terror hovering as close to Aziraphale as he can to try and protect him from heaven, hell, and anyone else that would want to bring him harm after all that business they pulled in season 1 with stopping Armageddon

Episode 2: I just happened to pause the episode while Aziraphale is lying to the angels about his miracle and LOL Michael really outdid himself here (Sheen, not the Archangel)

Gabriel trying to swat flies and almost smashing the repository of every single one of his memories

I’m cAckling

So if Good Omens exists in Good Omens, does that mean Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett exist in Good Omens?? Do you think they based their Aziraphale and Crowley characters on Aziraphale and Crowley??

Episode 3: So I’m trying to find any hints or foreshadowing of the Gabriel Beelzebub thing bc tbh I did kind of feel like it came out of nowhere which is really the only issue I have with them. I found this one scene where Beelzebub almost ?? seems to be concerned about Gabriel ?? But it’s blink and you miss it and there could be lots of other reasons why Beelzebub doesn’t want to fail in locating Gabriel (pressure from/leverage over heaven, etc) so idk

More Foreshadowing Fly content 🪰

Episode 4: So here we’ve seen that Shax can just appear inside the Bentley bc she did it earlier to talk to Crowley. Shax only pretended to be a hitchhiker so she could be invited in because Azirpahale was driving so technically she needed permission to cross the threshold of an angel 👀

This scene will never not destroy me the 1941 flashback is the absolute sOFTEST thing ever to happen on this show

We really need more context here I need to see the Crowley-Furfur Monkey Rides

Episode 5: ahahaha thank you google translate for absolutely destroying my sanity this evening

POP goes the Ziraphale

Okay I know you can’t hear it in the gif but just before Nina takes Maggie’s hand, there’s a very quiet miracle noise, like Azirpahale literally MADE Nina dance with Maggie, he said I’m writing a Mina Jane-Austen-Ball-AU and my otp will KISS godDAMMIT

Azirpahale seems lowkey kind of manic this whole scene tho, he’s controlling literally everyone to force Nina and Maggie together and whenever Crowley says anything that pokes holes in Aziraphale’s Magical Jane Austen Ball Fairytale, Aziraphale just straight up denies it. He wants Nina and Maggie to dance and he wants him and Crowley to dance and he refuses to acknowledge anything beyond that.

Is this just Shax insulting Crowley for how much of a nuisance he’s been or a reference to his former status as an angel ???

They’re both completely dismissive of each other when they’re trying to say something important and that’s the main issue they’ve been having this entire season tbh

Episode 6: I think it’s funny that Crowley describes the angels as bees here because in the book, Neil/Terry describe humans the same way. Guess we have more in common than we thought huh?

So the metatron was the one who originally decided Gabriel would be memory wiped and not sent to hell, and he was also the one that decided not to sound an alarm about Gabriel for some reason and said ��just go find him yourself’ instead. The metatron has definitely got his own agenda and you can bet he doesn’t want Aziraphale up there in heaven because he’s a “leader” and he’s “honest” like that’s exactly what Gabriel was and look where it got him 👀

There’s just something I can’t quite put my finger on about the metatron bringing Aziraphale a coffee from “give me coffee or give me death” and then asking Aziraphale if he’s going to take the coffee he’s giving him…

I have not seen a single person talk about this since s2 came out but Nina literally calls Maggie “angel” because that’s the term of endearment they hear Crowley using for Aziraphale !!!! I’m still going fERAL over this and I can’t believe no one else is eitHER

Something about this part of The Final Fifteen compared to this scene from the first episode is so representative of the entire season. Azirpahale keeps saying “my way or get out” and Crowley finally hits a wall and can follow Aziraphale no further. So he does just that. He goes.

I’m sure a lot of us by now have seen this post that brings up how Aziraphale literally pushes the remains of Crowley into his mouth and swallows and it’s the only thing I see when I watch this now

We still don’t know for certain if Crowley queued up this song to play on their way to the Ritz or if the Bentley started playing it all on its own and it’s driving me insane

Basically how I am doing after my Truly-Alarming-Number-th watch of this traumatizing episode/season. WELP hope you enjoyed this garbage dump of my thoughts and feelings time to go cry for a bit again BYE

[ghost-proofbaby]

OH SAY LESS 14 WITH ASTARION PLEASE

so this is my first time publicly writing and posting astarion, so please be gentle. higher word count solely because i felt the need to add lore because, ya know, first time writing him! also, i changed the line just a tiny bit to better fit the character and scene. ALSO, uh... this is a little fade to black. i'm sorry. it just got too long.

14. "Oh, you're hard to please."

warnings: foreplay, sorta fade to black smut (it's there if you squint your eyes), an ungodly amount of pet names, mentions of past sexual abuse and healing from it, technical game spoilers, not edited, 18+ so minors do not interact

pairings: astarion x afab!reader (no pronouns used)

wc: 4.4k+

join the smutty party! send me one of these smut dialogue prompts with a character

How long had it been since Astarion had actually enjoyed sex? Craved it, even? 

If he recalls correctly, it had to have started to become tainted well over a century ago. Somewhere between the first and the third victim, when he’d realized how every single beautiful soul he had entrapped were simply being lured to their own death. And then, the sour taste left in his mouth only became more pungent the longer it went on, the more he came to the realization of just how used he felt. His body was no longer his own – it technically hadn’t been his from the very second he’d emerged from his own grave, and Cazador had been waiting for him – and everything about the act became an old rehearsed dance that he’d grit his teeth through. A chore, something to make his stomach churn, something to regret. A means to an end. 

Plainly put, it had been a while. 

But then you happened. You, who hadn’t blinked an eye when the first time you met him, he’d literally threatened you with a gods damned blade to your throat. You, who had repeatedly trusted him, even when it had been an objectively stupid thing to do. You, who had always offered him the utmost patience and genuine understanding, to the point in which if he thought about it too hard, he’d probably cry. You, who had led your group of misfits with brain worms right into victory, with plenty of personal demons defeated along the way. 

Personal demons including Cazador. 

Maybe that’s when things changed for Astarion. He’d already fallen for you before your group had reached Baldur’s Gate, he’d already gotten to know your body intimately before ever laying eyes on that ridiculously oversized brain you somehow made look easy to defeat. But that had been different, hadn’t it? He hadn’t really wanted to do that (not meant as an offense to you – certainly not after all was said and done), but had thought he needed to. To gain your trust, to gain your protection. And in the end, it turned out he never needed to do such a thing. You’d never said it outloud, probably at risk of making him feel even more regret after you’d learned all his secrets and darkest corners, but he knew. 

And knowing that you didn’t view him as something purely sexual, as a means to an end, as an item to use – well, it had the opposite effect of his request to no longer be viewed in that light. 

“What are you doing?” he says as he quickly looks up from his current book he’d been pursuing the moment you’d entered the room. He hardly cared for the words on the page – he just needed a way to pass the hours until you were available again. 

It was a hard habit to kick. Being so codependent on you, even with the end of the world resolved and the gift of safety being handed over to him on a silver platter. 

“We received mail,” you’re grinning wickedly as you hold up an embellished envelope, delicate fingers pinching the parchment as if it were the greatest gift to ever exist. He’d argue the real gift at hand was the last three months – time spent with you, in a place he can call home. But nothing could impede on your good mood as you throw yourself down on the mattress beside him, “From Withers, of all people!” 

His brows shoot up for just a moment before his face twists up with something akin to distrust, “Withers? What in the Hells does that sack of dust and bones wan-” 

“A reunion,” you cut him off, the look on your face warning enough against his attempt at an insult. “He’s reaching out to all of us to bring us together for a celebration, to check in on everyone, let us see each other again. Apparently, we were the easiest of the bunch to find.”

Astarion quickly lets out a tut as he snaps the book shut and discards it on the bedside table closest to him, “Well, we certainly need to fix that. Soon enough all of those little shits are going to end up on our doorstep, preaching about the power of friendship and how they want to check in on us.” 

You snort at that, laying flat on your back with your hair wildly spread out in a makeshift halo behind you. The sight causes something to stir within him, his gut twisting as he watches the way your knees knock together before slowly falling apart, your legs settling down as flat as the rest of your body.

He hadn’t taken you since that night at his grave. Before the epic final battle, before the two of you had made the decision to settle down somewhere for some well-earned peace and quiet. 

The moonlight dances past the open curtains, and his breath catches in his throat at the way the blue shadows dance across your skin. It almost reminds him of the first time he’d seen you fight. It hadn’t just been the blood splattered across your cheeks that had really gotten the better of his curiosity (even if that’s what he had told you when you asked), it had been the sunlight. Those rays of gold that had mingled with your own aura of warmth after you had helped the tieflings for the first time. 

You put the sun to shame, truly. And he missed it – Gods, did he miss it – but he was content to bask in the peace of night for a few months more before he finally cut you loose from the leash to begin your next phase of adventures to find him a cure. You had promised him you would, had already dedicated plenty of free time to research, and all you really needed was his word to begin. 

He’s selfish. The two of you can find a way for him to walk in the sun once more another day; all he wants right now is to bury himself in your warmth, to slot his body between your thighs, to hear every breathy gasp and the way you’d practically sing his name-

“Star?” you’re looking up at him from an awkward angle, eyes owlish and chin tilted painfully far back as you clearly await an answer to a question he’d been too lost in a daydream to overhear, “Did you hear me?” 

He clears his throat and adjusts the pillows behind his back, keeping him propped up as he admires you, “Of course I did, darling.” 

“Then what did I just say?”

“Something about how we’re absolutely not going to this reunion, yes?” 

Your smile is nothing but patient as you flip onto your stomach. He watches the way your shorts ride up your thighs, how the top of the soft fabric bunches at your waist. His fingers practically twitch with the need to weasel their way under it, to press his cold fingertips into warm flesh and hear you preen. 

Whenever you’re ready, you had whispered to him one night shortly after saving the world. Just tell me when, and I’m yours. 

He was ready. Insatiably ready, really. 

“Very funny. I said we should go, though. It’d be nice to see everyone again, wouldn’t it? All our friends?” 

You’re still talking about this damned reunion. Astarion has half the mind to figure out a way to summon the insufferable skeleton right here, right now, and drive a dagger into his bones until he’s truly nothing but dust. Solely for the distraction. 

“Your friends, my dear,” he corrects gently, “We both know they’re only overly fond of one of us in this relationship, and it certainly isn’t the one that they repeatedly threatened to stake.” 

The furrow of your brows is impossibly cute – he knows that look of determination. It’s the same one you wore when he mentioned it was likely that the two of you would never find a cure to his condition. 

“Our friends,” you insist, “Karlach adores you, Star. And Wyll has always been proud of you, whether he told you as much or not.”

“And what of Gale?” 

Your lips twitch at that, “Gale… certainly wouldn’t stake you on sight.”

“Ah, yes,” he flourishes, trying to keep his eyes from wandering anywhere but where your hands press into your cheeks as you prop your face up to speak to him, “Not staking me. The ultimate sign of kinship.” 

Focusing is a losing battle when you roll your eyes, and he finds his mind overtaken with insatiable lust again. Imaginative ways that he could have your eyes rolling for him under different circumstances. 

“You’re not getting out of this. They are your friends just as well as mine – so argue all you want, but we’re going to the reunion.” 

“Are you sure there’s no other way I might be able to…” he pauses with intent, finally lifting one of his docile hands to your cheek, letting his finger graze the skin with a feather light touch before it travels back into the mess of your hair, “Persuade you otherwise?” 

You almost fall for it, too. Your eyes flutter shut, your head tilts into his touch as if you were starved for the connection. But even with the lack of sexual intimacy, you both know there hasn’t been a day that has gone by in the last three months where Astarion hasn’t found a way to get his hands on you.

Holding your own, resting his cheek on your shoulder, spinning you like a child in the kitchen – he had quite the sudden arsenal of romantic gestures that didn’t involve old wounds. It had been awkward here and there, some of them landing and some of them leaving you both looking like fools, but he was trying.

Almost as hard as he was currently trying to not jump your bones. 

When you recognize the innuendo for what it is, however, you harden immediately. Your shoulders set, a frown settles, and your eyes open with set determination he knows he can’t falter without speaking plainly to you. 

“No.”

“No?”

You’re quick to lift yourself up onto your knees, putting distance between yourself and his hands, “The days of weaponizing sex are over. I don’t even want to joke about that.” 

And, oh, he’s finding himself in quite the mood tonight, because as soon as you’re retracting, he’s following. As you settle on the haunches of your calves, he’s lifting up from his reclined position, leaning forward so that his face is breaths away from yours. 

“I mean it,” you warn, narrowing your eyes and holding up a finger in that small space between you two. 

He tests his luck, wasting no time in snapping his fangs just millimeters from your skin. You both know he wouldn’t actually bite you, but it still humors him to see the way you whip your hand out of his reach. 

“Were you not the one who insisted that we ask before we bite?” you snap, and his smile only worsens. Like a cheshire cat, like a child never scorned by the world – he’s radiant and basking in the moment. 

He lets out a small hmph before saying, “You’re no fun, my dear. Come on – just play with me for a moment, won’t you?” 

Your face softens at his teasing tone, and he can see the way he’s withering away your defenses one by one. There was once a time where he’d done it with malicious intent, but this time around, it’s with nothing but good intentions. 

If you asked him, he’d go as far as to swear it on his own grave. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize as if you’d done something wrong, and it makes more than half of his own playfulness drain from his face in absolute displeasure. Before he can so much as open his mouth to scold you about unnecessary apologies, you’re continuing on, “I just… After everything we’ve been through, it’s not something I find particularly joyous to joke about.”

What a rare thing, to have found someone to bare your soul and all your burdens to, and watch them offer to help you shoulder the weight without second thought or regret. 

He’s never met someone like you in all his years, and he might never again. 

“And if I told you I wasn’t joking?” he asks slowly, carefully, trying to choose each word with the utmost care, “I’m not weaponizing – I’m offering.” 

Whenever you’re ready. Just tell me when, and I’m yours.

He was ready. Very, desperately, sorely ready. 

The topic of the reunion is all but forgotten as you process his words, nose twitching as you decipher all that’s he laying out before you. “I want more than an offer.” 

“Excuse me?” 

He can’t help the small laugh that leaves him as he sits up properly, leaning into your space fully now with one hand pressing into the mattress just beside one of your thighs. He can feel the heat radiating from you, smell your blood rushing to your head as you try to be sensible. It’s a pitiful excuse for an internal war; all he has to do is close that conveniently small distance between your lips with his own, and you’ll have lost all sense of logic. 

“You’re…” you trail off, searching his eyes as if he holds the answer you’re currently looking for, “You’re sacred to me, Astarion. You must know that. And it will take much more than some joking offer to convince me to have sex with you when I know-”

“I’m not joking,” he’s nearly whining, letting his forehead fall forward to press to yours, “Gods, I am not joking about this. Cross my heart and hope to die again.” 

If he has to beg, he will. 

He’s spent two hundred years in an insufferable position of pure misery, pure shit, and the realization that he’s finally free has everything clicking into place. Proof of the change exists solely in the fact that he could have resorted to his tired old seduction routine from his life before to get what he wanted, but instead, he’s trying to just communicate. 

It was a novel moment. 

But he could appreciate it later, when the crotch of his pants wasn’t becoming increasingly uncomfortably tight and he wasn’t watching you closer than prey. When his stomach wasn’t so tight with desire and anticipation, just waiting for your word to indulge. 

“Do I need to beg?” he sighs, his lips brushing against yours ever so slightly from proximity. He catches the shiver that runs up your spine. “We both know I’m not particularly fond of it, but if I have to get on my knees for you- well, actually, that’s the entire point of what I’m asking.” 

You laugh at that, and his gut twists again, because it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever had the opportunity to hear. Something more breath than any vocality, something sharp and spelling out the loss of words on your tongue. 

Your silence is enough for him to push it all a step further. Forehead still leaning against yours, he properly presses his lips to yours this time, slotting them between softer than a feather’s caress. Finding home as he can physically feel himself steal your breath away. His fangs just barely nip your bottom lip, unintentionally but still eliciting a delicious reaction of a gasp that makes him graze you a second time just to feel the way you’re leaning into him more, becoming absolute putty in his hands. Pliable for his taking, and Gods, he wants to take you. 

Something snaps. 

All hesitation has vanished as he grabs at your hips quickly, making use of the way your brain has gone blank from a simple kiss in order to lay you out below him. He moves you with ease, incredible speed in slotting himself between your legs before he’s caging your entire body in with his own. The squeak that leaves your lips from his manhandling affects him even more than your gasps had, a low growl shaking his chest as he kisses you deeper. Tasting, begging, searching – he wants this, but he needs to know that you want this just as badly. 

Your hands find purchase on each of his shoulders, squeezing tightly as if needing something to tether yourself to. You pull him in closer for a second, eagerly returning the kiss, almost feverish in the way you drink him in. But the next, you’re pushing him away, a game of want and sensibility still clouding your judgment impossibly. 

You always were stubborn about things like morals. And, well, it wasn’t very moral to just jump right into sex with your traumatized boyfriend who had explicitly said not to view him in terms of sex, was it? 

It was Astarion’s own damn fault. 

He could have just acted like a normal person, initiated a normal conversation in which he renegotiated his boundaries. But you’ve been on his mind all day, and he’s long since proven since the very day that you met him that he has little to none impulse control. 

“My, my,” he murmurs, pulling back from the kiss, eyes wild, looking at you with even more hunger than he had the first night you’d given him a taste of your blood in camp, “You’re just an impossible thing to please, aren’t you? Do you want me near, do you want me far? Tell me, my love, what do you want?” 

He settles all his weight onto one of his forearms as the other slowly brings his hand to your side, caressing over the soft fabric of your shirt – a shirt he’s quickly realizing is actually his own. He recognizes those flowy sleeves, that lacing across the chest, the off-white tone that had seen better days. Given all its wear and tear, he’s almost sure that it’s one of his shirts he had grown most comfortable wearing during the nights of your adventures against the Netherbrain. 

It’s cute. A sort of domesticity that he can ponder over later, when your legs aren’t hanging on his hips and your breaths aren’t coming out staccato as he hovers just out of reach from you. 

“I want whatever you want,” you whisper. Your eyes flutter open, looking at him with pupils so dilated they could swallow him whole. 

“Let me be very clear, then,” he hums, cold fingers creeping their way to the hem of the shirt, slipping beneath with practiced ease to find the smooth skin of your hips below. They dance and skitter up, up, up until he’s brushing against your ribs, “I want you. I want that warm cunt of yours, I want to feel every gasp and breath as your walls squeeze around me. I want to fuck you until you’re unable to walk on your own two legs, until you can only remember my name. I want to watch you come undone, my dear, and for it to be my own undoing.”

Your lips quiver in anticipation, and he feels your thighs tighten their hold on him, “Such pretty words. And… and no ulterior motives? No sense of obligation?” 

“None at all,” he smiles, a predator closing in on his prey, “I’m choosing this. If you want it, if you’ll have me, then I’m ready, pet.” 

Pet. The nickname rolls off his tongue, and he can imagine your walls fluttering just as your eyes do. 

Your hands lift from his shoulders to bury in his hair instead. One cradling the back of his head, the other resting on the nape of his neck as you toy with a snowy curl. It unfurls him further, has him humming lowly as he dips down to recapture your lips and bring you into him even closer. Closer. He needs all and any space between the two of you to become nonexistent. To feel every inch of your skin pressed to his, to allow you to physically curl up into his chest just as you had his mind all those moons ago, to make a home in a room with your name on it already somewhere between his third and fourth rib. 

“Do you really have to doubt if I’ll have you, my love?” you mutter against his mouth, smile breaking the kiss momentarily before he’s back with a vengeance. You don’t care – you’re apparently in a chatty mood, dodging his kiss to get your last words in, “There’s been a space in my heart for you since the moment I first met yo-”

“Yes, yes, very romantic,” he interrupts urgently, suddenly tugging your shirt up, “But, truth be told, love? I’m hoping there’s a space between your legs for me at this moment.” 

You snort, eyes pinched shut as you attempt to shake your head at the ridiculousness of the words that just left his mouth. At any other moment, you might point out how the outrageous comment is just another defense mechanism, veering him away from having to acknowledge the gentle sentiment behind your own words, but now’s not the time. When you open your mouth, probably to say something exactly along those lines, he rolls his hips down against yours, pinning your lower half deep into the mattress. You feel just how hard he is through his trousers – it’s impossible to miss, but he’s deliberating being sure that you feel it as he lets the tips of his fangs sink into your bottom lip. 

The resolve of fighting against his wishes is quickly dissolved. One thing after another, and Astarion has you bare beneath him before any other distractions or annoying conversation can send the two of you further off track. Your, his, shirt is tossed to one side of the room. Your parents fly to the other side of the bed. Only once he has the entire spanse of your body nude and vulnerable to him does he take the time to pause, to look down at you with absolute adoration. 

“Gods, you’re beautiful.” 

He’s said those words to you a million times before. Consistently greeting you with them, muttering them in the dead of night, whispering them as he kisses you awake. But they never lose their weight. And certainly not now, as he’s looking down at you like it’s the first time he’s ever seen that freckle on your chest or the curve of your stomach barren before him. 

“Please, if you’re comfortable with it…” you start, voice laced with desperation, but he shakes his head. 

He’s full of interruptions tonight, “Consider me comfortable with anything unless stated otherwise for this moment, my sweet.” 

“Take off your clothes, Astarion.”

His giddy smile should annoy you. That smug satisfaction in finally, finally getting his way as he undresses himself at almost twice the speed that he had stripped you. And yet he knows you’re enjoying yourself just as much as he is. You’re reveling in drinking in the bare caricatures of his body, every inch and every curve exposed to you just as you are to him. And when his cool skin meets yours again, his body sinking right into that space between your thighs that you’ve granted to him, you let out a short gasp that reminds him that you want this just as badly as he does.

You’ve waited just as long as he has. 

It almost mirrors that night on his grave. The slow descent of his body against yours, the way he slides a leg up to spread your own even further for him as he crawls his way back home to your lips. Unlike that night, however, he isn’t taking quite as much care, his movements far faster and far more needy. 

He’s been waiting long enough. He’s denied himself long enough. 

It really doesn’t matter when the last time he had enjoyed sex had been, because all that he cares about is that here and now, in this moment with you, there’s not a trace of imperfections to taint his enjoyment. 

Cazador is dead. The brain has long since been defeated. You are both safe. 

As he sinks into your heat, the only thing on his mind is that contentment, overwhelmed with the feel and smell of just you. 

He’ll never be a slave again. Never be viewed as something to simply be used and disregarded again, if you have any say. And one day, some day, he’ll even feel the warmth of the sun again. Thanks to you.

But until that day, the warmth of your love is enough.

When you sigh his name out so delicately, jaw all but unhinging itself in bliss as your back arches in reaction to his touches, he knows he’s made the right choice. 

And he supposes he lied, in a way, earlier. 

You’re not that hard to please – not when it comes to him, at least. Not when it’s his hands trailing along your skin, not when it’s his lips and fangs nipping at every opportunity. And certainly not when it’s his name that’s being chanted like a prayer from your lips in time with every thrust, every stroke, every single movement with the sole purpose of making both of you come undone. 

Astarion no longer questions when the last time he enjoyed sex was in the aftermath of it all. With you, pressed into his side, sweaty forehead nuzzling his chest, the only thing he cares about is the next time he’ll be able to do so. 

“We’re still going to that reunion,” you murmur, half asleep, fading away from him quickly to fall into blissful unconsciousness. 

He almost doesn’t breathe in fear of disturbing you. He’ll waste the night away, laying here, still as a statue for your comfort. 

It’s no surprise when he refuses to put up a fight, instead his hand simply drawing soft stars across the back of your bare shoulder blades as he sighs, “Yes, dear. We will. Now sleep.”

“I love you.” 

The words tumble from your lips so carelessly, so easily and without hesitation, he nearly shakes you awake to hear them once more. Again and again, he needs to hear them, to be reassured that you feel for him as ardently as he does you. 

But he has the rest of your forever to hear them. So he lets you sleep, sending you away with a simple press of his lips to your temples as your breathing evens.

“And I love you, my dearest sun.”

[andy-wm]

Back to WHO : the MV

This is a continuation of the earlier post that discusses the song WHO, by Jimin. That post was a first impression focused on the lyrics - while this one looks more closely at the MV.

(Remember this is my interpretation, not an official statement by Hybe)

The more times I watched the music video, the more I wanted to yell, because look...

IT'S REALLY STARING US IN THE FACE.

And again, kudos to Jimin's team because it's the most obvious thing in the world ever but only if you ALREADY KNOW what's going on.

Here's a summary:

The music video loosely represents Jimin's attraction/sexuality/love life as a timeline.

New colours - a new spectrum shall we say - filter into his life even though he's trying so hard to 'keep to the program'.

He searches high and low for a girl to love, but alas, nobody makes the fireworks happen for him. Then Billboard Boy crashes into his life, threatening to destroy everything. Jimin has to weather the storm and figure out where his place is because Billboard Boy is a major disruptor - a tornado in fact. In the end, the fireworks are popping and the chaos is happening, and Jimin has to just go with it and finds his place again. His colours have been getting brighter and louder as he goes along and in the end he's prepared to walk away from everything in order to be the spectrum he is.

<<I'm not saying it's literally a count of how many girls or boys or enbys he's kissed. I hope his kissed all of them and then some, frankly, but that's none of my business.>>

A few things to pay special attention to:

Burning cars > cars = masculinity. fire = hot. 1+1=2.

Dancers > people he's interacting with

Rough weather, as represented by the wind-whipped papers and eventually even cars being tossed about the set > His attraction to men (and dare I say it, culminating in a focus on one man in particular)

Colour flares, machine text, and marks on the tape (horizontal lines etc)

Are you ready? Let's go...

Jimin enters the scene looking like sex on legs (no surprises) and strolls casually onto the road. Immediately our view of hm is blocked by a pop-art style poster blowing across the screen. It's immediately followed by a car coming around the corner onto the road. The car is on fire. Jimin watches it pass by and follows it.

He follows the burning car.... and so it begins.

The narrative starts from before BTS even exists. Jimin encounters several female dancers who he has brief and sexy interludes with. In fact i don't think there's a single woman in this MV who he doesn't at least look at. He really does try everything (and everyone) in his efforts to find HER.

BUT WAIT.... rewind...

Let's go back to the poster... it depicts a street scene much like the one we see here, with the words:

WHO IS!! TORNADO OF LOVE

Note: those are exclamation points not question marks.

It's not a question. This is telling us UP FRONT IN BIG LETTERS that 'WHO' is tornado of love.

I could probably stop here and just say 'ok go watch it again' but it's too much fun to go through all the details.

So let's continue...

Jimin has a little more steamy choreo with the female dancers before the lyrics tell us he has so many people to see and places to go, and he leaves them and joins 6 other men in what looks like a work environment....

Hello we are BTS!

Yes you guessed it... like Yoongi did in Haegum, Jimin has his members represented here. (Fan chant going off in my head...) and more delicious choreography follows.

Notice that while Jimin was dancing with the girls, the only signs of rough weather were a few glittery specs floating through the air, barely noticable. Those bits of glitter multiply when he joins the 6 men, and instead of a sprinkling of glitter, it starts looking like a light snowfall.

That's all about to change....

The first moment of reckonning:

At the end of this section of choreo, as Jimin sings 'who is my heart waiting for' and moves into the next phase we have a barely visible flash of light across the screen and rainbow colours bleed into the footage (at 1.14).

This is also the moment the significant rough weather starts. I'd say this is where Jimin starts noticing how he feels, and the turmoil begins, because this is also where he makes eye contact with the camera (1.23).

He sees us watching.

Fuck. I had a moment here. There's a look on his face as he walks past the camera and stares right into it.

AUTO CALLIBRATION...

As another millisecond flash of light and rainbow colours seep into the footage, The machine text 'AUTO CALLIBRATION' appear on the screen and flash there for a couple of seconds.

CALLIBRATE: To standardise... by determinning the deviation from a standard so as to ascertain the proper correction factors (Meriam-Webster definition).

"Get a hold of yourself, Jimin. Reset (your behaviour and desires) to correspond with expectations"

Jimin makes a very determined bee-line for the nearest girl and dances with her, ignoring the burning car in the foreground.

This brings us to the next phase of the narrative, and the next location - the performance space in front of the OASIS cinema.

(Do you see the doors of the cinema - BTS referenced again).

As he dances with this girl, the camera zooms out and we see that a crowd has gathered outside the cinema, watching them, but the crowd does not seem friendly and the dance seems performative - the movements are exagerated and obvious. The girl has Jimin in a headlock at one point and then she pushes him away and leaves. All in all it's an unpleasant event.

At this point the BTS members return (Although now there's one missing) and they dance with and around a number of female dancers. flashes go off in the crowd as the choreo is performed.

As they dance the wind picks up quickly and papers and cans are blown about. Even when Jimin is obviously interacting with female dancers the weather continues to pick up. Dancing with the girls isn't helping.

The camera pulls back and we see the same car as before, still on fire.

This is the moment when the penny (or billboard) drops.

All the other dancers scatter, dissapearing in a matter of seconds as the billboard comes crashing down. The billboard blocks his path. Wherever he had been planning to go - or whatever course of action he had planned to take - this man on the billboard forces a new decision. Jimin has to rethink his plans.

Jimin turns and goes in the opposite direction to everyone else. (A similar scene occured in Like Crazy, Jimin going the other way, rejecting the norm, going against the tide).

The machine text flashes "REWIND ... REWIND" on the screen and we see Jimin heading back to where all this started... where the original car on fire was seen.

He's travelling his own path now, but as he walks, alone in what seems to be the wrong direction, we see the store lights brighter, reflecting off cars and filling the space around him.

He's going through the motions with the girls he passes but the interactions are brief and in one case he actually dodges the girl completetly.

He retraces his steps amidst the chaos, and the weather really goes nuts. Now there are cars being thrown through the air, streetlamps exploding. The storm is almost upon him.

As Jimin steps into that original street again, the one with the neon letters spelling BLISS, the machine text reads PLAY. It's almost ike he's having a redo, where he accepts who he is from the start and allows the chaos to happen. And the chaos DOES happen, because the tornado has arrived.

THE TORNADO OF LOVE.

There's a flash and the whole screen is flooded with colours, blanking out the footage.

Jimin can no longer dance in step with everyone else at this point. He's doubled over, belting those high notes at the climax of the song while the chaos rages in the background. Without the music to give his actions context, it almost looks like hes in agony.

Sparks fly, lights flash, even the film itself is affected...

He eventually gets it together and rejoins the choreography, picking up his life so to speak. But his callibration is forever changed. the colours that bled into his life are there for good now, and and as he walks away after the music stops, we see that those colours are not just for the performance, they exist outside of that.

A note about the light flares we see throughout the MV:

It was really hard to catch these, some of them were literal milliseconds. I had to slow the MV down to play at .25 original speed and even then they were fleeting - well hidden.

Only the one at the very end was really visible.

In this one, the word PAUSE appears, as the MV ends. I wonder if that relates to their military service?

The flares of light and colour, those rainbow flashes, aren't always easy to find. Youvhave to be prepared to seek them out.

We will find them if we look for them, but i think Jimin won't show his true colours until after the lights go down and the performance is over.

I respect his decision (if that's what that is) and i will continue to meet him here his stands. I'll support everything he does knowing what I know and I'll continue to search for and uncover the hidden messages he sends us.

[celtigxr]

THE PINK DREAD - CH. 33 (Masterlist)

Chapter Summary: As the Valyrian houses gather for the anticipated dinner party, King Viserys has an unexpected announcement to share. Word Count: 6070 CHAPTER WARNINGS: We're still talking about menstrual blood. I also only proof read this once, cause ya girl is getting lazy. So apologies for types/grammatical errors, and odd sentencing/wording.

Series tags: Aemond x Plus size!OfC, Aegon x Plus size!OfC, Celtigar!ofc, Plot with Smut, mdni 18+, Aemond End Game, Angst, Comedy, The Dragons Don't Dance, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers.

Credits: Lace Banner by Aquazero, pearl divider by Pommecita

Notes: This is another one of those chapters I'm not particularly happy about. I think my problem is that I absolutely LOATH writing scenes where there are more than four people. Because there are just too many moving parts and I feel like I need to acknowledge everyone's existence. It's tiring. Anyway, I hope this reads better than I feel like it does.

The Small Council Chamber was at its fullest for the first time in years. Though there was a single marble left unclaimed in the centre of the table, a white and grey granite sphere that would belong to the Master of Ships. Alas, with Lord Corlys occupied near a decade in the Step Stones, and now incapacitated to near death, the subject of anointing a new master of ships was broached several times in the past, and that day was no different. 

“Word has it that the Cannibal has moved all the way north west, settling in the mountains around Iroman’s Bay. Dalton Greyjoy told me himself that the Ironmen have begun preparing ships with scorpions, and arming themselves with harpoons, ready to take down the beast,” Larys leaned back in his chair, eyes casting over the nearly full table before landing on the King. “He said that he is willing to take down the nuisance at your pleasure, your Grace, and all he asks is for a seat on this Council and a bride with a generous dowry.”

“Of course he did,” Lord Bartimos rolled his eyes.

“Your Grace, we do need a Master of Ships,” the Lord Hand reminded, and everyone’s eyes strayed to the lone marble in the hexagon. “Lord Dalton is an exceptional sailor and captain, and has one of the largest fleets in the Seven Kingdoms, next to the Redwyne’s.”

“Yes, but might I remind you of his reputation,” Daemon shot Otto a look. “He’s done far worse than I, and yet you kept me farther away from this Council.” 

“Daemon, please,” Viserys lifted his hand, already tired. “We are not going to bring up the past today…” He turned to look at Barty, who appeared to agree with Daemon, predictably. With a sigh, Viserys lifted his arms, “Tell Lord Dalton I will think on it. Until then, there are many others that we must consider.” 

“Like who, your Grace?” Lord Wylde raised an eyebrow. 

“Lord Manderly, for example, or Ser Cedric Redwyne, Lord Corwyn’s most accomplished son,” The King answered swiftly. “Not to mention, Lord Clement and Arthor Celtigar, Bartimos’ sons. Clement has possessed the seas since his youth, and knows Lord Corlys personally.”

At the mention of his sons, Barty’s chest swelled, “It would be a great honour, my King. My boys would make you proud, should you have them.”

Rhaenyra glanced at the Hand of the King; he appeared as if he was holding on by a thread. His mouth opened to say something, but instead he clamped it shut after sharing a look with his daughter beside him.

Having a Celtigar on the Small Council again would impede Otto’s ambitions. With Bartimos back, Rhaenyra could tell that the Hand was becoming more irate and impatient, making his motives clearer with every desperate attempt at salvaging Hightower power. His plan was thwarted when Viserys’ health improved; he was no longer addled with Milk of the Poppy and strained with pain, making it easier for Otto to manipulate by the power of suggestion and urgency. Ever since Lyonel Strong had stepped down as Hand and was tragically killed in the Harrenhall fire, Otto’s re-admittance into the position was merely due to the lack of better prospects. At that point, Viserys’ relationship with Bartimos was strained, otherwise the Claw Isle lord would have taken Lyonel’s place. 

However, now they are friends again, it was only a matter of time before Viserys realized he could replace Otto with him. The man’s presence in the Small Council while not having a title to belong there was enough of an implication. It would only take a few pushes until Otto finally snaps, forcing the King to do so. Ultimately, that would be a win for Rhaenyra, ensuring that there is no more Green influence whispering in her father’s ear.

Rhaenyra swiveled her eyes to Alicent for a moment, before moving her gaze onto her hands folded on her lap. She and the Queen have been cordial since Visenya’s funeral, though they have yet to share any true moment of reconciliation. At most there were glances of pity, sadness, longing, mutually understanding that they both wished to bury the axe. It was just a matter of who was going to lower their weapon and make the first wave of the white flag. After her conversation with Jacaerys the night prior, it would appear that she would be one to do that. 

Otto was wrapping up the final details of the Tourney, after making suggestions for possible low-born men to be knighted and even chosen to be a Kingsguard. Then he asked if there was anything else that needed to be brought up before they departed, and Rhaenyra felt a sense of deja vu. 

“Yes, there is, as a matter of fact,” she stood up slowly as everyone remained seated. “Several years ago, I stood in this Council Chamber with what I believed was a wise and honourable offer… I said it then, that we are one house, but we have since been divided all these years.” Her eyes roamed the table, noting everyone's expressions one by one. Daemon looked expectant, Otto looked too controlled, Alicent appeared conflicted, and her father’s pleasant smile of encouragement filled her with hope. The first and last time this was mentioned in this room, Alicent barred more mental strength than he. 

“His Grace wishes this to be a season of peacemaking, which I heartily agree… As does my son, Jacaerys, who was the one to bring this up to me.” Bartimos tilted his head towards Daemon, his brow furrowed.

 Rhaenyra turned to address him first, “Lord Bartimos, your daughter is simply lovely. You know well that I adored her when we both resided in the Red Keep, as I did her mother… A union between our families would have been ideal, yes, but I made a promise to my son that I would give him the liberty to choose, as my father gave me when I was his age.” 

The Lord of Claw Isle seemed to deflate in his seat, his eyes seemed to age as he blinked defeatedly, “My Princess, I would like to apologize for any insult my daughter has—”

Rhaenyra smiled and lifted her hand up to stop him, “Apologies are not necessary. There was no insult to be had… On the contrary, Jacaerys and Valeana got along well enough, but nothing beyond cordial companionship. Instead, your daughter has inspired my son…” Rhaenyra trailed off and looked back to Alicent. “He has approached me to inquire about the possibility of taking Princess Helaena’s hand in marriage. As it happens… He has already discussed it with her privately.” 

Alicent straightened in her seat, her mouth hung open with the incapability of articulating a response. Her eyes casting over to her father did not go amiss, and neither did Daemon’s look towards Bartimos. 

“Helaena has not mentioned this,” Alicent stated, her tone betraying her need to disbelieve her ears. 

“It appears to be a new development,” Rhaenyra folded her arms in front of herself diplomatically. “Though Jace has said he wished to court her quietly and without stress to ease Helaena’s mind.” 

“Well now,” The King finally spoke, his smile widening. “I did not wish to say it… But this was something I always wished had happened all those years ago.”

“But your Grace, we have already discussed betrothing Aegon with–” Otto was promptly cut off by Viserys.

“It was discussed and I made the decision of it not being discussed further,” Viserys looked at Otto, his purple eyes wide with the unquestionable authority of a King. “Helaena is too soft for Aegon. You of all people understand his appetites, as you spend most of your day containing the deplorable truths he hides in Flea Bottom. I know he loves his sister, but it does not go beyond that… And I believe everyone in this very room could all agree… He does not wish to marry Helaena, as much as she does not wish to be married to him.” 

The Lord Hand visibly sunk into his chair, his hands lifting in a feeble attempt to convey surrender. “Aegon is your first born son, your Grace. If there were anyone to marry first, it would be him. He is well past the age.” 

“I’m aware, Lord Otto,” The King smiled ironically. “Though as you are all aware by now, Aegon is in a very unique situation. And if the whispers have any merit,” His eyes flickered over to Larys, “It’s the same situation as my other son.” 

The King fell quiet, looking down at his four fingers as they drummed the marble sitting in its nest in front of him. Then he moved his eyes onto his friend, Barty, who sat at his right. Bartimos stared back, his jaw taught as they silently communicated the obvious. 

“I am inclined to allow the chips to fall where they may,” Viserys finally says, lacing his eight fingers in front of himself. “For my daughter, Helaena, however, I wish the world for her… And what better world can I give her than one where she is to be a future queen of the Realm, to be married to a honourable, compassionate, and strapping man like my grandson? Alicent, my dear, do you not agree?”

The question was a challenge, to gouge a reaction out of his wife. If Alicent did not agree, she would voice it. But something kept her lips buttoned, and she looked wide eyed between her husband, her father, and her former friend. If only Rhaenyra could read her mind, to know what she knew, to feel what she felt. Instead, the Princess waited with baited breath. 

Alicent slowly stood up from the table, her fingers anchoring her body on the table as she did. Her eyes found Rhaenyra above everyone else’s, effectively avoiding the imploring eye of her father. With a swift movement, she grabbed her goblet, and raised it to the Princess. 

“I agree,” her answer fills the room, stirring emotions. “It is time we repair the rift between our families, and make our house whole again.” 

When Valeana woke up that morning, it was earlier than she typically would find herself in. Shyla was missing from her bed, which only reminded her of her dream. A wave of nausea hit her; it felt like guilt, it felt like loss. It was so much simpler then, to choose both and have them willing. But it was not reality, as much as she curled back into her pillows, hoping to fall back into that dream that ended so unsatisfyingly. 

There was a distinctive squish between her thighs when she moved, and she internally groaned and threw her head back. She must have bled through her rag during the night. Carefully she moved her body over to inspect the sheets underneath her, finding it clear, thank the gods. Then, Valeana quickly strapped on Lady Footlyn so she could clean herself at the washing basin in the corner. A meticulously humiliating process she had to do every single morning the last few days; every moon for the last 8 years. Only 40 more to go. 

Though when she pulled up the damp cloth, she didn’t find what she expected. Her moon’s blood was over, what remained was slick, translucent, with a pinkish hue (likely remnants of her blood). Cringing at herself, she resumed her cleaning, ensuring that her thighs were thoroughly dry. At least she didn’t need to plug herself with cotton anymore. 

Over breakfast, it was collectively decided that Shyla should no longer suffer another night trying to sleep next to Valeana. Apparently, she had snored so loud and stuttery, Shyla had to check to make sure she was breathing several times.

“You sounded like you were a street cat being mounted by a direwolf, Val,” Shyla rubbed the corners of her eyes. An apt description, considering what she was dreaming that night. Unfortunately, there was a lack of Cregan. Perhaps another night. 

Floris was violently reluctant in giving up her single bedroom, but it was put to rest when Shyla expertly handled it. 

“It’s alright, Floris. The settee is kind of comfortable… I guess I can stay there for, what…two more moons? My neck won’t hurt forever.”

So, it was decided. Floris’ single room would be Valeana’s. The transition between rooms was a series of glares and muttered remarks as trunks of clothing were moved from one room to the other. When it was all settled, Val collapsed on the larger bed with a sigh. Floris’ former bedchamber was smaller, situated just above the one Valeana shared with Shyla. Stairs lead to it, a circular room in the spired tower above their family’s wing of the Holdfast. There was a larger tower on the opposite end, where her parents’ were. Unlike her former accommodations, this one’s balcony was considerably smaller, just enough for a lounging chair and a tea table.

Aemond would have a harder time climbing up there. 

Val lolled her head towards the inconspicuous bookcase, now empty of Floris’ belongings. Almost forgot about that. She lifted herself up on her elbows and looked around the room, now truly taking in how blissfully removed it was from the rest of the apartment.

A smile crept on her face, slow and devious, just as her hand moved up the hem of her skirt. 

The highly anticipated, but even more dreaded gathering of the Valyrian houses would take place that evening for supper. Valeana had spent the entire day making Queen Alicent’s dragon dress with Rosy in the private confines of her new bedquarters to kill the day. While her maid could not talk, she was actively listening as Valeana imparted ideas for her own gown for the Creature Ball. In the end, she decided to be a white lioness, a homage to her mother.

By the time it was time for her to get dressed for supper, the Queen’s dress was practically finished. All that was left was a final fitting to ensure everything was in place, which they had plenty of time for. The Creature Ball would not happen for another moon, at least, some weeks after the Tourney and the Victor’s celebration in the pavilions was over.

There was, however, a formal dress code for the evening. Everyone must wear the colours of their house, which meant that the Celtigars will be garbed in whites and reds, including Floris. 

“Why was she even invited,” Valeana ranted to Rosy as the girl helped her pull the solid vermillion dress over her head. “She’s not a Celtigar, she’s not Valyrian.”

And yet Floris wore Celtigar colours, a red bodice with matching tiered layer, an ivory skirt underneath and trumpet sleeves. A ridiculously extravagant dress that expressed something that she clearly is not. All that was missing were crabs embellishments, like Shyla’s. 

Her younger sister’s dress was mostly white, save for the inside of the corset in the front, and the stripe of red on the hemline of her skirt, sleeves, and square neckline. Her mother wore a solid red dress, much like Valeana’s, but hers had far more bedazzlement with pearls and polished quartz, which matched her statement necklace. 

Valeana had a fair amount of vermillion and ivory coloured dresses, enough to fill two trunks over had she brought her entire wardrobe with her to King’s Landing. Though there was one in particular that was her favourite, one that she had only worn once at her coming out ball on her 18th name day two years ago. It was a bit romantic, perhaps a little much the evening, but the King did request his guests to wear formal attire. And Valeana was feeling particularly romantic that evening. 

The skirt was slimmer than her usual gowns, but still held a petticoat underneath to keep shape. Though unadorned with embroidery, it was flowy and delicate. What made the dress her favourite work was the sleeves and the neckline. The sleeves were trumpet shaped, though entirely made out of vermillion dyed veil-type lace that exposed her arms from shoulder to wrist. The dress itself was designed around this fabric, so the lace was the focal point. The bodice had a lace corset in the front, and the neckline was sweetheart shaped, bordered by more lace that framed the tops of her bosom, clavicle, and over her shoulders with a patterned fringe. 

Rosy plaited her hair intricately, though its loose appearance made it appear effortless to anyone who didn’t look too close. Four smaller braids beginning from her scalp met in a knot at the back of her head, and the rest of her hair was pulled into two thick messy braids. 

Valeana stood after strapping on Ser An-toe-knee Woodsby, then shook her hips around, making the dress swish around her legs. Looking up at Rosy, she asked, “How do I look?”

The mute girl communicated with her hands, a language that Val slowly learned over time. Her fingers made a crown on her hand, and then she covered her left eye before pointing at her heart. 

Prince Aemond will love it. 

Valeana smirked bashfully, “And what about Prince Aegon?”

Rosy stared at her with a tilt of her head as she considered the question. Then she motioned with her fingers around her chest, and made a squeezing motion. 

He will enjoy that part.

Valeana threw her head back in a laugh, then turned around to go find her shoe for her right foot. Her eyes glanced at the bookcase, the one that hid the hidden passageway, and she couldn’t help but involuntarily swallow at the mere possibilities this room offered. 

The dinner was being hosted in the Holdfast’s private ballroom, designed for family-only events and intimate parties. The Celtigars are the first to arrive, Bartimos leading the charge in his ivory doublet, trimmed in red, marching red grabs on his shoulders. Ursula behind, then Clement in a dark red doublet, and Arthor wearing similar. The girls filtered in right after, Floris, Valeana, Shyla. 

There were two tables positioned in a T shape, but separated by a platform. The smallest table sat horizontally on the platform with larger chairs. Two in the middle that faced the hall itself were the tallest, and the most ornate, a visual indication that it belonged to the King and Queen. The longest table was placed vertically below the platform some distance away; it had a total of fourteen chairs.

“I suppose that is where us kids sit,” Arthor comments as he moves around his family to take a gander around the ball. 

There was a band in the corner, playing lightly to create a background ambiance. Drapes were pinned to the ceiling, red, black, white, aquamarine; the colours of the Valyrian houses. Valeana noted green was distinctively vacant in the decor, as were the Hightower banners. On poles that flanked the fringes of the ball room, the sigils of House Targaryen, House Velaryon and House Celtigar stood proudly one after the other. At the very end of the ballroom, beyond the modest dance floor, was a statue of a dragon with three hands, candles were placed on its pedestal, illuminating it from below. 

Valeana stared at it for a moment, examining each head closely, particularly the one in the center that faced the room, eyes trained forward. 

The dragon must have three heads, a voice echoed in the back of her mind.

Not long after their arrival, Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon strode in with their litany of children, save for the younger ones, Viserys and Aegon, who likely were put to bed by then. After the obligatory formal greeting, the growing crowd began to mingle. Clement went to crowd Daemon, and Jacaerys slowly made his way towards Valeana, who lingered around the statue. 

“The milkweed plant worked,” Jace said cheekily, his hands behind his back. 

Val grinned at him, “I told you. Did you talk to your mother about it?”

He nodded, “I did. She told me she had wished for it years ago, but was thwarted by Alicent. I’m guessing the Queen wished Aegon and Helaena to be wedded, but that was not going to come to pass…”

She hummed in understanding, “And what does Helaena think of it?”

“She has told me she cares for me, but she does have reservations about being Queen. I assured her that if she wishes it, she will be Queen in title only, and that she does not need to be obligated in affairs of the court. I only wish for her to be contented, and not forced into a loveless marriage where she is not appreciated.” 

Valeana smiled softly and placed a hand on his bicep, “You’re a sweet man, Jace. She is very lucky to have you.”

He looked down, suddenly overcome with bashfulness. Jace nodded his thanks, and then lifted his gaze up at her, “You look very pretty, by the way. That colour suits you.” 

She pursed her lips sheepishly, “Thank you, my Prince.” 

“Are you sure I can’t change your mind about us? Aegon the Conqueror had two wives—”

“Don’t push it.” 

Upon entering the ballroom, Aemond’s eye immediately found her, like a moth to the moon. The vibrant red of her dress contrasted greatly against the canvas of grey stone and wooden floors, like an orange-red rose growing on a vine along the face of the castle. He barely registered the formal greetings towards the King, he was too busy examining the narrow space between his Valeana and Jacaerys. He locked eyes with his nephew, and the insufferable bastard smirked at him before turning to her and saying something. 

Aegon appeared at his side, just in time for Jace to walk away from her, “Does he believe he still has a chance with her?”

Aemond could only grumble in response as Jace strode by them. “Uncles,” he greeted with a short nod of his head, and a faint smirk at the end of his lips. Aemond’s body prickled; he was so worried about Aegon, he had forgotten about Jace. He did not seem to appear a threat anymore, with Valeana very obviously showing disinterest in the forced courtship, but that was contradicted by their show of friendliness. 

Did she grow close to him during that day in the Godswood? He didn’t ask how the ride had gone when he was on her balcony, he was too consumed with the need to be with her, he had pushed it out of his mind completely. 

His father and mother moved to their centered seats at the table on the platform, which signaled everyone to do the same. Without being instructed, it appeared that everyone knew where they were to be seated. The elder generation took their place at the King’s table; Bartimos on Viserys’ right, and Otto on Alicent’s left. Rhaenys sat across from him, Daemon across Alicent, Rhaenyra across her father, and finally, Ursula sat across from her husband. 

At the longer table, it was a bit more chaotic as people scrambled to claim seats next to people they wished to be rooted next to, and actively avoided those they didn’t. Aegon and Aemond shared a look before they practically scrambled towards the approaching Valeana, who was about to take a seat next to her brother. Aegon, though, rested his hand on the small of her back, and guided her to the other end of the table. 

“Where do you think you’re going, Lady Valeana?” He smiled against her ear as he pulled out a chair near the end of the table. After he tucked her in, Aegon settled into the seat on her right, next to Helaena. Aemond took the seat on Valeana’s left, the very end of the table. 

Even though everyone in the room presently was aware on some capacity of his affection for Valeana, Aemond still had to keep the appearance that he wasn’t. He hadn’t the opportunity to end things with Maris, and the servants and guards that milled the room were just as responsible for the whispers as the ladies of court were. The last thing he needed was for Borros Baratheon to learn about his dishonourable snubbing of his daughter through a maidservant. 

Aemond was about to place his hand discreetly on Valeana’s knee underneath the table, but he looked up to realize he was sitting directly across from Lucerys, who watched him with oppressive entertained scrutiny. Valeana must have sensed the tension, because she turned to him with concern etched in her features. No words were said, but her hand reached under the table and squeezed his thigh comfortingly. The corner of his lip twitched at the contact. 

The long table was quiet as everyone settled, only the sound of music and the shuffling of servants were heard. Even the King’s table was subdued with its chatter, reduced to murmured compliments. The tension hung in the air like the wrought iron candelabras that were suspended from the ceiling with thick chains. The weight of Vaemond’s sudden and brutal execution was still a fresh memory, but there was also something else amongst the adults that appeared to keep their shoulders squared. Particularly the Lord Hand, who’s eyes were darker than usual. Aegon caught his eye before their grandsire moved it onto Aemond. A silent reprimand, though neither prince knew what they were being scolded for. 

The first course was gradually spread along the tables; smaller fare such as mutton stew, fresh bread and soft butter, cured sausages and spiced olives. Grilled vegetables and various sliced cheeses, accompanied by jams from different fruits; fig, grape, strawberries. Salt water oysters were piled high on a bed of salt, next to it were steamed mussels in a red sauce. 

“Let us pray before we begin,” Queen Alicent said loudly enough for all in the room to hear. Her piousness is not shared with most in the room, but none seemed to protest, save for the slight exasperation found on Daemon’s features. Everyone collectively bowed their heads and wove their fingers on their laps, everyone except for the Blacks, who only folded their hands. 

Aemond respected tradition, even if it was from his mother’s side. He and his siblings may have been raised to worship the faith of the Seven, but They held very little value in their life. Aemond, too philosophical, too agnostic, would say that Their existence is both plausible and impossible. If the Father was just, the man sitting in front of him would have paid for the sin of slicing Aemond’s eye clear from his head. If the Mother was merciful, the woman sitting next to him would have both of her legs. Life was not fair, the gods less so, but out of respect for deities that he may one day face, he bowed his head and prayed when he was supposed to.

Aegon, on the other hand, was different. He believed in the Seven, sure, but also believed they didn’t love him; that they turned their backs on him the day he was born, and decided that he was their mistake that they were trying to forget. It should have been Baelon that survived, not him. Baelon would’ve been the heir his father always wanted. 

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love,” Alicent led the prayer. “May the Smith mend bonds that have been broken for far too long. May the Maiden shower us with love and light during this Royal Conclave. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest.”

There was a notable shift to the atmosphere that could be tasted on the tip of everyone’s tongue at the mention of Vaemond. Lucerys’s mouth pinched and his eyes roamed the table before resting them on his lap; his step-sister beside him blinked rapidly, as if she was trying to keep a stoic face; Rhaenyra stared vacantly at a spot on the table, her nostrils flaring; Daemon rolled his eyes to the back of his head; Valeana gave a barely audible sigh through her nose, the creases between her brows deepening. 

Before people could tuck into their meals, the King pushed himself up, his weight held up by his cane; ivory and ironwood, a dragon nesting on the top. Everyone looked up at him expectedly and he looked at all their faces with a smile so contented, so peaceful, it was enough to forget that all other individuals in that room hated the other for one reason or another. 

“This is an occasion of multiple celebrations, it seems,” his mouth widened as his teeth peaked from behind his lips. “Tonight is the first night in generations that the three great Valyrian houses are united under one room. The Targaryens, the Velaryons, and the Celtigars all survived the Doom of Old Valyria.”

Aemond’s eye drifted over all the faces here present. There wasn’t a single true Velaryon by name present; the only two that held blood of a Velaryon were Targaryens by name. No, the Velaryons were nearly a dead line. Vaemond’s sons were the last true Velaryons, but they were not here. They were no older than Aemond’s nephews, Viserys and Aegon the younger, and by now they would be learning that their father was dead. That half his head rolled around like a flipped coin on the flagstone floors of the Throne Room, less than a minute after he shouted ‘bastards’ at the top of his lungs.

“And we sit here today, as one house: The House of Valyria. Proud, ancient, and forged in fire and blood, in salt and sea,” Everyone raises their goblets in murmured agreement. “It truly gladdens me to be part of this historical moment. Our families will now no longer be divided, but blended. My grandsons, Jace and Luke are set to be married.” 

Aemond felt his blood drain from his body instantly. His brow furrowed, his heart ached in a pang of betrayal. His brother felt no different; they both turned to the woman seated between them. Valeana hadn’t seemed to notice this, as she was looking at Jace with a slight smirk upon her lips, and that made it all the worse.

The implication of their father’s speech was thick in the air, and hard to ignore. Both Princes exchanged glances of disbelief, and yet the way Valeana and Jaceaerys were speaking with each other when they first entered… What the hell was going on? Was… did Valeana…? No, no, surely not…

Aemond’s fingers were visibly trembling under the table, his eye prickling, and his ribs felt like they were going to crack under the pressure of his rapidly beating heart. Aegon was less conserved than he; his mouth twisted as if he was trying to swallow down bile. He lifted his hands and placed them on the edge of the table, ready to push his chair away and leave the room. 

But then the King continued. 

“Luke will marry his cousin, Rhaena, and together they will one day become Lord and Lady of the Tides. And as for my eldest grandson, Jacaerys, my daughter’s heir… Well, he has asked for the hand of the purest soul in this room. It fills my old heart with immense joy to announce the betrothal between Prince Jacaerys and my little butterfly, my daughter, Princess Helaena, the future King and Queen of Westeros. I wish them a lifetime of happiness, peace, and prosperity.” 

“Here, here,” someone had said through the sounds of clapping. 

Aegon had made a brief screeching noise with his chair in his failed attempt to leave. He instead spun to Helaena sitting next to him, who held a sheepish, shy smile, lavender eyes avoiding everyone in the room, other than Jacaerys who was watching her with fondness. 

“Helaena and–” He began, but cut himself off, turning back to Valeana. “Were you aware of this?”

Val leaned back into her chair, her fingers laced innocently in front of her, “I kind of had a hand in it.” 

Aegon practically sunk in his chair, his hands raking into his scalp. The adrenaline seeped out of his pores and landed on the floor. He lulled his head to look at his sister, and then back at Valeana, “I do not know if I feel better.”

Valeana raised her eyebrows, “Did you think he was referring to me?” 

He leaned into her, his voice a whisper, only loud enough for her ears, “Darling, I was very nearly going to kidnap you right here and now.” 

Aemond physically felt like he nearly avoided a landslide; visually, he remained impassive, if not a bit bothered around his one expressive eye and flared nostrils. Still his shoulders relaxed once the relief washed over him like a cool breeze on a humid day, which softened the blow of the knowledge that Jacaerys was marrying his fucking sister. A development that he realized was his second least favourable probability, right next to Jace marrying Valeana. 

No, he thought as he glanced at Aegon, leaning into her space like she was the only source of heat in the middle of winter. The third least.

Facade be damned, he could not sit silently by while his brother was allowed to publicly stake his claim on his woman, like she was some newly discovered, unoccupied patch of land. Aemond leaned back in his seat haughtily, and without a word spoken, he reached under the table and scooped up Valeana’s left hand that sat idly on her thigh. Ignorant to his intentions, she instinctively wove her small fingers in between his large ones, likely believing for a split second that he simply wanted to convey relief in the shadows. However, he had no intention of keeping it in the dark any longer, not now when the stakes were growing too high. 

It was a simple gesture, but one that conveyed a very large statement. Aemond pulled their conjoint hands above the table and laid it between them, his thumb moving rhythmically over the back of her palm. Those closest to them had their attention ripped away from their plates and conversations to stare. He could feel her hand tense in his, and he watched her in his peripheral as she turned to him, mouth ajar, eyes wide. 

Aemond tilted his head in her direction, eye lifting to meet her marbleized peridots, blinking up at him in shock. His smile coiled at her reaction.

“Ao jurnegon gevie isse bona grēza, ñuha jorrāelagon (You look beautiful in that dress, my love),” his voice was velvet on bare skin, soft, sensual, erotic. “Absolutely stunning.”  

On her otherside, Aegon leans forward into the table to openly glare at his brother. His jaw rotates as he grinds the back of his teeth; the only visual proof of him trying to contain himself. In the end, he huffed an ironic laugh, and then smirked at his brother’s brazenous. 

Aegon moved his chair closer to Valeana, the legs roughly screeching against the floor hollowly. With his side now flushed against hers, he draped his arm around her shoulders and leaned in to give her a peck on the corner of her mouth. 

“How lucky am I to have the most gorgeous creature on earth at my side,” his tone was saccharine and sanguine, his eyes were predatory and possessive. 

Valeana could do nothing but remain trapped between them, not knowing where to rest her eyes. When she found the most neutral point, it was Lucerys and Rhaena who sat across from them. The latter looked partially mortified, partially intrigued, and the former seemed like he was about to combust from amusement. 

On the other end of the ballroom, on the platform, seated at the end of the shorter table, Otto Hightower watched the whole thing from his perch. His chest swelled with a sigh of exhaustion and growing impatience. He was getting too old for this shit. 

“Seven bleeding Hells,” he muttered, loud enough to garner the attention of his daughter beside him. 

“What is it?” Alicent asked in a low tone, her brow creased in concern. 

Otto turned to her slowly, “Your fucking sons.” 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR SNEAK PEEK Slowly he turned around, his one eye peeking over at Luke over the bridge of his nose. His nephew was laughing; eyes squinting in a mischievous glint as he stared at Aemond, and then back at the roasted pig…  And then onto Valeana, who was unaware of it all.  Suddenly the table jostled, the bang of Aemond’s fist on the table immediately halted everyone’s chatter and movement, bringing their collective attention to his side of  the table.  Fisting his cup, Aemond ascended from his seat and extended his arm, his eye trained on his nephew in front of him. “Final tribute...”

Notes: F I N A L T R I B U TE Get ready for a whole chapter dedicated to fucking speeches XD Because by god... I'm never...I'm never gonna watch that episode again, I've seen it too many times to write this chapter and the FemAegon oneshot.

Tag: @queen-of-elves, @keylin1730, @anakilusmos, @weepingfashionwritingplaid, @sugutoad, @desireangel, @t0biasparabatai

( if you wish to be tagged for this story, just give me a reply! )

Please do not re post, redistribute or plagiarize my work. The only other place this story is posted on is ao3 under the same username.

[bobbimorses]

what do you think of matt fraction's hawkeye run? obviously its very highly regarded but i have seen criticisms on how he portrayed clint's character and that some people also had issues with it because all the mcu fans used it as substitue characterisation after avengers 2012 left them with not much and "became insufferable about it." also that other good hawkeye comics were ignored in favour of it.

well idk if i would characterize "became insufferable about it" with regards to reading a comic as it is released bc comics have so much trouble succeeding. but i think what you're getting at with pointing to 2012 is a sort of revisionism that's occurred. and it has! i think many have forgotten, and many more are now unaware (bc time disgustingly marches on for all of us) that the avengers movie, in fact, came out before hawkeye v4 (the fraction & aja run we're discussing) even began.

i would like to gently grab you all by the shoulders when i say this--bc i realize we've reached a point where some of you were literal kindergarteners when this movie came out and don't have the cultural consciousness to know not only was hawkeye not (never!) a household name, but neither were "the avengers" for the most part--but whenever you say "i can't BELIEVE the mcu didn't include/start with [storyline from hawkeye v4. page from hawkeye v4. panel from hawkeye v4. dialogue/"catchphrase" from hawkeye v4. relationship from hawkeye v4. retconned backstory/fluency from hawkeye v4 ]" regarding clint, know that that literally did not exist at the time.

mcu clint showed up wearing all black in 2011. mcu clint in the movie "the avengers" wasn't even wearing purple. mcu clint was actually not even that clinton francis barton. the mcu started off as the ultimates. "i can't believe the mcu didn't make clint like clint barton in this page from 2015." mcu made clint like clint barton from an entirely different line of comics, the ultimates, with an entirely different clint barton, bc the 2010s had just started crawling out of the Grit and Realism and We're All Wearing Black Leather of superhero movies from the 2000s. and practically none of those were comic-accurate. the mcu still isn't by god but a current mcu movie can resemble a specific storyline and have a recognizable costume whereas a lot of superhero movies in the 2000s (not you spider-man and hulk costumes) were like "here is the character, bulleteater foxtrot. he is based on the celebrated indie comic where someone shoots at a lonely boy making friends with a fox in the forest and, after a bullet grazes his face and kills the fox, he avenges his friend by championing the survival of forest critters over encroaching aggressive habitat destruction. in this movie, some hitman in the mob that eats shrapnel-os for breakfast every day gets intel from a woman named foxy and 35% of the scenes are in a seedy club with gratuitous dancing. nobody has the same name as a single character in the series. 80% of our viewers will not know this was based on a comic when it airs at 10pm on showtime. godspeed."

digressing psa over. that wasn't your question at all but we went through that journey just now together.

ANYWAYS i see what you're saying about "substitute characterization." when clint had so little non-mind controlled scenes and characterization available from the mcu at all, you can understand people pulling from the comics for their characterization. as they should! comic book movies have characters from comic books! whooo, comics! it's fair that people were reading the currently releasing comic to supplement their fanworks of this character with a lacking portrayal. and bc of the popularity and acclaim of the series, well that just made it easier. but these elements combined meant past portrayals of clint were kind of overshadowed, bc people were unfamiliar with the clint barton of the past 50 years. why? bc clint barton wasn't a household name! hey, it all ties back! that digression wasn't a digression after all!

well as you all know, the avengers made a billion dollars. people did not know clint barton, but now people do. only they don't know clint barton, they know the name, clint barton. oh cruel household name irony, our journey is not over. and the people reading hawkeye v4, perhaps even their very first foray into comics (or still unsure of how to access comics so they see piecemeal panels of it second-hand), now that they're curious about all this? well they're like "hey, wait a second...where was this clint barton?" so now you can have vocal contingents of fans of popular and acclaimed comic hawkeye v4, like "yo, that's not clint barton!" people would like comics portrayed accurately in movies that are purported to be comic books based. god knows that would be wild. but using hawkeye v4 as all examples means our purple-masked friend is, well, purple-maskless. but them's the breaks.

now back to your actual question. i've actually typed way too much explaining this weird set of circumstances about mcu vs 2012 bc i think it helps explore the second part of your...statement? but as to your actual question, which i think would be more comics-centric than criticisms with mcu fans, i've touched on that a few times before. not to link to other questions to answer your question, but yeah. it's a great comic. there's a reason it did so well. it just so happens that that may have led to historical portrayals of clint being eclipsed with subsequent writers trying to replicate its success haphazardly. no reason for us all to do the same. we love reading the source material don't we folks. for more unnecessarily long tangents about clint barton, feel free to peruse my meta tag. we are all lovers of a certain clint barton on this here planet earth

[vpgoldenrod]

Aziraphale's Haunted Look: On Being Forcibly Outed and Exiled From The Garden

While we're all talking about Aziraphale's reaction to the kiss, I'm surprised by those who thought Aziraphale looked disgusted because that's not an emotion I'd seen in him at all. There's sadness, and confusion, and anger, but I couldn't remember seeing disgust. When I watched the scene again I realized there's something else going on that really struck a chord with me. It's an uncomfortably familiar look.

He feels exposed. And I know what it feels like to be exposed in such a violent and intimate way.

Stay with me, I promise this is relevant to my analysis.

I didn't know what being transgender meant when I was a kid. Being raised in a fundamentalist Christian house meant that I wasn't exposed to those ideas, so I lived my life feeling like something was always just kind of broken. It was like I was looking right through the problem at other things, trying to alleviate symptoms without understanding why they existed in the first place. I eventually met other trans people, who gently nudged me in the direction of my truth. I even became aware that I had experienced some minor dysphoria. Every time I came close to acknowledging the truth however, my eyes would once again begin to glaze over the problem. I always managed to subconsciously shove it back into a little box and move on with my life. It was like I accidentally “did a big miracle” and hid this truth from myself so well that I continually forgot it was there.

Til one day I had an encounter that changed everything.

We're friends now but oddly enough, it was only meant to be a fling. I won't go into too many details because it's not just my story, but it was a lovely time that culminated with us meeting and doing what adults do. The person I was with, a cis man, silently clocked me the minute we were face to face. For reasons I now understand, without warning and in the middle of our shared intimate experience, he decided to talk dirty to me as if I were a gay man.

No one had ever spoken to me like that before. It had never occurred to me to ask anyone to do that, or that anyone would want to. I was in an intimate space and filled with the typical emotions and endorphins one has during sex, but it was a fling. I had walls up. So for the first time in my life, in this incredibly vulnerable position, someone grabbed me by my lapels and forced me to face a deep truth about myself that I'd spent decades silently dancing around. It was a blunt, irrefutable truth and it hit like a sucker punch to the solar plexus. He saw me when I was very much not trying to be seen, and there's few things more terrifying than that.

Even now, years later, I have such a hard time putting into words the overwhelming emotions I felt that night. There were so many, and yet somehow I can see every single one of the emotions I felt in Aziraphale's face when Crowley lets him go. My heart breaks all over again seeing how exposed he felt. He can barely make eye contact until he stumbles onto the one emotion that gives him his agency back: anger.

Gabriel shows up to the bookshop completely naked. When a bewildered Aziraphale points it out Gabriel says, “Who told you I was naked?”

But that's not how the story goes.

God looks for Adam in the garden, but he hides from her. He eventually tells God, “I heard your voice in the garden and I was afraid because I was naked, so I hid myself.”

Then God asks Adam, “Who told you you were naked?” And of course Adam knows he is naked because he ate the apple.

I've made jokes about Crowley being the apple that bit Aziraphale, but I forgot the bit that happens afterwards. He is aware of his own nakedness. He is exposed. To God, to Crowley, and to himself. As a result he is exiled from the safety of his Eden. Man, if this isn't the perfect analogy for being forcibly outed I don't know what is.

This show is so gay you guys.

[strawberrystepmom]

izuku x f!reader. enemies to lovers au, suggestive but not outright smutty. more about these two can be found here, this idea was workshopped and is co-brainchild of @izvmimi <3333 | wc 1.2k

You roll your shoulders back and smack your lips together, presenting that glowing smile to a crowd of voracious cameras. Izuku shifts uncomfortably in his seat, all too aware of the way you keep glancing at him out of the corner of your eye no matter the distance between you. 

“Our organization, Victims of Hero Sanctioned Violence, thanks you all for your time this evening. With your contributions and willingness to report the truth, we will someday truly have that brighter future we have been promised for all of these years.”

The crowd erupts and Deku rolls his eyes, resting his cheek against his raised fist. There’s no need for over the top formality, you sat him at a table with hecklers who have long since abandoned him to go and spend their evening at the front egging you on. His tie is loosened and his shirt is unbuttoned, messy green waves drooping now that the gel he slicked them back with has started to lose its effectiveness.

You’re only here for her, he reminds himself. 

Whatever exists between the two of you is tentative and unnamed at best yet he’s nothing but a moth to your flame, floating frantically around the light you emanate with so little effort. Everyone in this room is obsessed with you, devouring every single thing that you say like animals drinking from a lake after a drought. 

He hates them. 

His fist flexes against his face and he shifts his posture again, legs spread beneath the tablecloth. A petty part of him hopes that you see his unbotheredness through his positioning alone, clearly disinterested in hearing the latest stats regarding property damage and long term disabilities caused by pro heroes. It’s not his business. He has people who regularly deal with this sort of thing yet here he sits, reaching to further loosen his tie when he feels your dark eyes drift to him, your heels carrying you from the stage and through the crowd that attempts to stop and speak with you every few feet.

This is where he rises, pushing his chair out from the table in front of it, ready to act as a shield between you and these people who believe they’re entitled to access to you merely because they agree with your beliefs. Sauntering toward you, he positions himself between you and the crowd, and places a hand on your shoulder.

“Nice of you to finally do something to protect someone for once, Deku.” 

A member of the crowd spits and he turns his head, emerald eyes gleaming, ready to bite back. You lift your hand and wrap it around his forearm, squeezing once, silently begging him not to make a scene. Scoffing loudly enough that you can hear it, he raises a brow and keeps his gaze trained on the man who apparently has so much to say, watching him realize how outmatched he is in mere moments. The man bows his head and heads in the opposite direction of where the two of you are going, the hallway outside of the banquet room. 

“How can you let them talk to me like that?” He asks and you giggle, squeezing his arm. 

Your fingers don’t meet where they’re wrapped around it and heat rises in your face envisioning something else that your fingers don’t quite meet when they’re wrapped around, gaze dancing up Izuku’s body until they reach his face. Equal parts chiseled and boyish. Perfect. You hate even looking at him yet here you stand, sharing space and four of your five senses with him. 

The final sense, taste, will come later if the way you are looking at him has anything to do with it.

For now though, there is more important business to attend like the intense hunch of his shoulders and the line that is developing between his brows from all of this scowling. 

“They have the right to say what they’re thinking, Midoriya.” You finally speak now that you are released from the overheated hall, taking a deep breath of fresh cool air to calm your nerves and send that rising warmth in your body back to where it came from. “Being a pro hero doesn’t shield you from criticism, it only makes you less likely to hear it in the first place.” 

He chuckles and that heat you were attempting to will away returns in an instant, cheeks and chest and parts even lower aflame just at the sound of his voice. You shouldn’t even be humoring him, much less actively wanting him, silently scolding yourself to keep it professional despite his obvious attraction to you. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want you, the woman beneath the carefully crafted facade you keep up.

“Yeah but it’s not very nice, is it? I didn’t call that guy a loser to his face and I should have.”

Snorting, you shake your head and glance up at him, those doe-like eyes blinking so prettily all he can do is match you. Open, close, open, close. Perfectly synced like your breaths. Easy, just as he seems to have found the coat closet, pushing the door open and pulling you in behind him. 

“I can’t force them to be nice to you. Remember, you volunteered to be here to represent all pro heroes, not just yourself.”

Izuku spins you so that you face him, chest pressed against his torso, face barely coming chin level to his massive pectorals. Your eyes dip to the exposed skin at his collar and you bite your lower lip without thinking, his hands sliding over your hips and ass, gently squeezing and massaging the flesh beneath your silk dress.

“Okay but how are you going to make it up to me?”

You roll your eyes and look up at him, letting your arms rest near his belt, taking your time undoing the buckle.

“Why do I need to make it up to you? As I said, you’re here voluntarily.”

He shrugs, his own lower lip tucked between his teeth momentarily while he watches you work, slowly sinking to a squat position with your heeled feet pressed together. Manicured fingers pull the zipper of his tuxedo pants down, his already half hard cock pressing against your cheek while you rub your face against it.

“Would this make you feel better?” You ask, glancing up at him with those same pretty eyes he fell for the first time he ever saw them in person. He nods once, gaze remaining locked on your elegant movements while your fingers slip beneath the waistband of his boxers. The leaking tip of his cock springs free and you lean in to lick it tentatively, Izuku bracing himself against the row of luxury label coats behind him. 

For being an upstart, VOHSV sure has some wealthy donors. It’s a thought for another time though, his mind melting out of his ears while your tongue dances around the underside of the head of his dick, a whimper escaping him.

“Quiet or you get nothing,” you mumble around the salty taste of his skin. 

All he does is nod and purses his lips, pressing one large palm over the bottom half of his face.

[ableism]

Okay as promised to my instagram followers: My Review Of The Substance 2024 ❇️ Spoilers ahead! Tread carefully!

To qualify myself… I’m a body horror buff. If you ask me to list my favorite movies, 80% of them will be about people experiencing horrific transformations and acts of fantastical violence. Body horror is kind of my whole thing! I love French New Extremity, I’ve seen every Cronenberg, I can only get off if something nauseating happens to somebody’s body. I’m very drawn to body horror as a vessel for visualizing experiences of sexual violence and desire(re: Crash 1996, Titane, Hellraiser) or dysphoria/dysmorphia (also Titane, Being John Malkovich ((I will fight you to death, it IS body horror, die mad)), Tusk) but I think a lot of the genre leans into the ways our lives and bodies are altered by technology and the possible consequences of these extremes (The Fly, Crimes of the Future 2022, Tetsuo the Iron Man, and you guessed it, Titane AGAIN).

Immediately I’m thrilled by how The Substance hits every single one of these genre concepts. It makes the concept feel more suffocating and inescapable than other films that deal singularly with their messaging. Elisabeth is trapped by perceptions of her body on all sides; she takes the drug because she’s been deemed undesirable and devoid of value by the same people who made her famous in the first place. To escape this, she creates (through a disfiguring and grotesque process) a conventionally desirable vessel. The chase to obtain beauty is worth the most violent of undertakings. For her prime self, it generates more self loathing and degradation of her self image. For the secondary self, she continues to experience profound amounts of objectification, still valued only for her desirability, her youth, her performance of childlike naïveté. I saw an excellent review that stated The Substance holds the viewers accountable through the scenes of full nudity and salacious dancing to interpret the way we’ve been trained to default to a sexual view of bodies, physical movement, behavior. We’re made complicit in Elisa/Sue’s dehumanization.

The Substance depicts dysmorphia through body horror in the most articulate way I’ve ever seen. Logically, the viewer knows; This is not how aging works. This woman is not decrepit and wasting away, she’s just middle age. But in the digital age, youth is capital, and youth is sexually desirable and attractive. It may not be the reality of aging, but this is how we’ve been conditioned to feel about the natural course of our lives. The solution is not self acceptance. It is products, procedures, adapting diets rooted in a culture of systemically encouraging disordered eating. Elisabeth’s body becomes worthless, just a source to be used as a fountain of eternal youth. Her pain, deformity, depression, are all irrelevant if it means she can temporarily experience youth. When she tries to stop the procedure, deformed into a funhouse mirror of what an elderly person actually looks like, Sue beats her to death in a blind rage. Her appearance makes her worthless. Her perversely obtained youth is the “only good part” of her. The metaphor frankly could not be clearer and Im not… shocked per se to see people not getting it online, because I know media literacy just isn’t for everybody, but it’s straightforward and concise. That isn’t to say that The Substance isn’t full of other commentary and room for interpretation.

A lot of people in me and D’s screening were laughing during the Mostro section of the film. I spent a decent chunk of it crying! Again, media literacy isn’t for everybody, and I’m the ideal audience for this one with the existing body of knowledge to appreciate what was done here, but we still found it quite distasteful. It’s terrible and grotesque and is the most robust and “bashing you over the head” part of the metaphor. To make it abundantly clear what was being said: The best version of yourself that you could ever be is the person you are, and the person you have always been, exactly where you’re at.

At her most fantastically deformed (HUGE credit to the practical effect work in this movie, which we’ll talk about a little more in a second), she wishes she could just go back to who she was before any of this happened. None of it was worth the terror, and now she’s trapped in a monstrous body, with the same soul and character she had the entire time. It offers the sense that her body is simply something that is now happening to her, rather than just existing, or being contended over, as previously seen. It’s a level of constant infliction she could not have imagined. Loss of control is a large theme of The Substance, the point being clearly that you cannot stop the natural progression of your body’s changing, and intervention only worsens your ability to perceive your body as your own. She dresses up to perform anyways. She tries to curl her few strands of hair. She stabs earrings through her almost inconceivable skull. She just cannot stop trying to be beautiful. It’s all she’s ever been allowed to be. When she goes to perform, she is screamed at in horror by the audience, while calling out “It’s still me! It’s still me!” to no avail. Nobody ever cared who she was or how she felt, only what her body could do for them.

That’s my general plot analysis but for Other Bullshit… I cannot gush enough about the homages paid to Cronenberg in this film, and the follow through on visual language borrowed from Carrie and The Shining. It was viscerally satisfying and just a lot of fun for horror enthusiasts. The director spends so much time being totally original, while still occupying the sandbox Built by other pioneers of the genre, and I absolutely loved seeing a female director in body horror taking up the space to say “You did this, it was incredible, and here is the fresh and enthralling ideas I’m bringing to the table.” It was a body horror movie my beloved Cronenberg could not have made. That’s not to decry his skill and vision, but to praise The Substance for its bold direction and fierce representation of uniquely woman-centered body horror. To hype up my favorite little things, I adored all the flies buzzing around in the beginning of the movie before she undergoes any transformation, I love that the catalyst for her taking the drug is getting into a car crash, I love that all the sets full of evil male directors are stylized after Kubrick’s Shining (because FUCK that guy! I piss on his grave!), I love love love that the beheading at the end is the same as the head pop scene from the beginning of Scanners, and I just cannot get over the Mostro suit. It’s sublime, and the actresses deserve joint best actress Oscar’s for what they accomplished in them. Holy fucking shit! Oh my gd! Wow!!!! It’s the same feeling at the end of The Fly, but with such a fresh take, the same sharp attention and reverence for practical FX work, and drawn out for much longer, with much more modern capability to enjoy the suit for longer, from more angles, with more gritty detail. It’s not trying to emulate or elevate anything. It’s just a perfectly present and challenging addition to the genre at large.

I love that none of the men in this movie were fully formed human beings. They’re the most uncanny and robotic part of the whole film. They question and belittle the personhood of the women they encounter, so the director takes the time to strip them of theirs. It’s really not about the men here. Hell yeah! I’m also glad that there was no sexual assault scene in this film. I don’t mind this content at all and I’ve seen many done in an incredibly visceral way, I’m pro-depiction of everything and anything, but The Substance didn’t need one. The whole thing is an act of sexual violence. It’s stronger that way and was the perfect decision. And since you knew it was coming… The Substance is one of the best , if not the best, addiction allegory I’ve ever seen. The other you, the real you, is just a life source for the impostor, It takes and it takes until there’s nothing left. I felt it strong and will definitely be looking for more readings on the same page so I can expand more at some point, but I found it very clear through the visual language of IV drug use, tooth loss, aging, etc. that there was a strong point on addiction being posited in The Substance.

So that’s my enthusiasts review!!! If i was unclear: Go see this movie. If you’re a sensitive soul or new to/unsure about body horror and specific types of gore, Please check online for trigger warnings, because it is a very graphic and brutal piece of film. I’ve seen pretty much every indie horror released in 2024 and as much as I did enjoy Longlegs and Cuckoo, The Substance blows them both out of the water. We’re in the age of women in horror and I love it!! It’s fucking awesome!!!! Go watch The Substance and then eat a bug. Stay vigilant I love you 🦩

[archeolatry]

Go take a look at this beautiful trove of old SparkSound magazines someone is selling on eBay. For the price they might as well be made out of gold, but the seller's been nice enough to take big, largely readable photos of so many of the issues. Is there a similar digital hoard of scanned versions? I'd love to see more! (I've seen photo pages in full but only snippets of the rest.) The absolute like... raw, sloppy, fanzine chaos of these as as official publications from a major label band is blowing my fucking mind, even if it is just for the fan club. It's literally their mom cutting and pasting and cramming mentions from both Melody Maker and TV Guide onto an A3 sheet of paper, layouts be damned. The apostrophe on her typewriter is broken for a couple issues but she carries on with an asterisk. She's also around 60 by this point and banging this out to an audience of hundreds or thousands like it's a local Kiwanis club newsletter. But she's doing it with gusto, by gum, and it's punk as hell. The best thing about it is that the lack of style is made up for by the absolute top-tier access to the band, and her being surprisingly on top of pertinent details.

For those of you who weren't in a fandom before the internet, those behind-the-scenes photos were like your favorite band's proof of life. There was no Instagram or Twitter, or anything that proved they existed between national TV appearances and touring in your area (besides those mentions in Melody Maker anyway). If you were lucky, your fandom had the capacity to trade videotapes and people in Scranton could see local TV appearances in Los Angeles and vice-versa. If you were really lucky they weren't all copies of copies with potato quality sound and video. Likewise, if you wanted the 12" extended European dance mix of a song with a B-side unavailable in the US, you had to either special order it somewhere and pay through the nose, hope it was in the imports section of a record store (and still pay through the nose), or you had to trade cassettes or burned CDs and hope the other person didn't flake on you. The fact that she's saying "Don't go running to the import section yet, the single will be out on ____ record label on this date with this track listing" is WAY more info than we usually got from our official sources. All "Mary Martin" needed to do for exclusive content was take pictures of her sons on vacation. On one page she's absolutely dunking on Russell them in wry cut-and-paste captions and on another she is the perfect hype man, telling people shows at The Greek Theater are gonna sell out so get your tickets early (but hold your horses on travelling- they're working on Japanese dates for September so you may not need to fly to the US). The personal thank-yous! The CARE! *slams fist on table* If any other band had their mom as the head of their fan club it'd be the most contrived shit in the universe, a complete lie, or both. I fucking love these guys.

[deke-rivers-1957]

Fun In Acapulco Review

Elvis Presley never set a single foot in Mexico. And yet he was deemed a persona non grata due to a controversy involving quotes Elvis made that legitimately never happened. Unfortunately, because of this official status disallowing Elvis from entering the country all on site shooting had to be done with a body double. Elvis himself filmed the rest of the movie entirely on a Hollywood studio.

This movie marks the beginning of the rivalry between Elvis Presley and The Beatles. Beatlemania had taken hold in the UK in 1963 with the US quickly following behind it. While their appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show wouldn't be until another few months, Elvis' place on top of the pop culture pyramid was being challenge. Does this movie put those fears at ease, or is this an early indication of Elvis' irrelevance? Let's find out.

"Fun in Acapulco" is surprisingly low key and pleasant. It genuinely gives you vibes that you're waking up in Acapulco at a resort by the beach. Then you see Elvis on a boat as a small group of Mexican singers come up and immediately realize none of his scenes will be in Acapulco. Instead, we're stuck with very obvious rear screen projections and Hollywood soundstages throughout the whole movie. There's a small moment of humor when Elvis just yells at the top of his lungs for the Mexican band to be quiet. It's not loud at all but you can tell he had to project to be heard.

Meanwhile we get a very uncomfortable interaction where a heavily implied teenaged girl named Janie is flirting with Mike Windgren. I don't like this plot point especially when we get a male gaze shot of her skirt as she walks away. Again she's heavily implied to be a minor and even in the movie it's seen as being inappropriate for an adult to show interest of any kind. It simply feels unnecessary to include that and doesn't age well at all given what we hear about Hollywood.

Mike goes to a Mexican tavern to meet up with the musicians wearing the ugliest shirt I've seen. Usually the wardrobe does a good job of making amazing outfits, but this is personally a miss. Along the way he meets a young Mexican boy named Raoul in an act of foreshadowing about the relationship they're going to have. "Vino, Dinero Y Amor" and "I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here" are both ok. This is when you realize the main goal of the movie is to sell a soundtrack. Mike also meets Dolores for the first time and I think this was a great way to establish their character dynamic since you easily believe that she's just looking to have fun while she's in town. It's also incredible how so many people smoked back then, to the point where the whole room looks hazy.

Before they get too involved in their dance, Mike sees Janie at the tavern drinking alcohol. I have no idea what the drinking laws in Acapulco was in 1963, but everyone treats this as being illegal. Janie's dad sees her at the tavern despite having no idea that she'd be there. She blames Mike for bringing her there and buying her the drink and of course gets him fired because that's the most obvious set up in the world. There are so many issues with this scene I won't take the time to explain it all. It's just so pointless to even have this plot point since we literally never see anyone outside of Dolores' camp ever again and only exists because we needed to have some reason to have Mike leave his job to team up with Raoul.

Raoul informs us with something that will never lead to anything important plot wise. Mike would need to have a very specific VISA to work in Mexico. This actually makes sense given that Mr. Harkins isn't a Mexican citizen and therefore didn't require Mike to have a VISA. But since Raoul has an insanely high amount of connections he's able to get Mike a singing job while he fills in for a singer we literally never see in person and is always "out".

The logic of this surprisingly works since it's clear Raoul has genuine connections with numerous businessmen, but I'm just bummed that we never see who the actual singer is since it could've added conflict. You would think that the conflict would involve Mike working without a proper VISA and his rival planning to reveal that fact. But no, it's never brought up in a way that makes you think Mike has to worry about possibly being deported.

Raoul picks up Mike on his bike. As much as it's cute to have them sing "Mexico" Raoul's singing vocals just didn't sound right. I know he's a pre-pubescent boy but at times you just cringe when he hits the high notes. So we get introduced to Moreno but uh oh Mike looks nervous about seeing him jump off a diving board because we need foreshadowing. Mike agrees to work as a lifeguard during the siesta so no laws are being broken. Mike gets on top of one of the diving boards and we surprisingly get a backstory. Mike is a trapeze artist and we see with no dialogue how during a performance he dropped his brother. The silent horror on his face when he saw his brother lying on the floor dead, was so well done by Elvis. It isn't realistic to have everyone react to a trauma by screaming. With Mike he felt instant shame to the point where he had to look away.

That memory was so brutal, Mike of course stepped down from the diving board feeling haunted. The worse thing about the incident is that it could've been avoided. Circuses started using safety nets in the mid 19th century, so the fact that you never saw one indicates overconfidence. Sadly when you're a trapeze artist, there are people who are so confident in what they do, basic safety precautions are neglected. In Mike's brother's case, it sadly costed him his life and Mike now has to live with that guilt. He sends a telegram to his parents and it's obvious that this is a deep trauma that he couldn't recover from at home. This should've been the focus of the whole movie because it's the only thing I feel invested in. The aftermath of someone's death, especially in avoidable circumstances, rarely gets to be the focus and this would've been the perfect way to change that.

Mike sees Moreno and a woman named Margarita Dauphin. Moreno has a lot of issues with Mike being interested in her, and it's genuinely reasonable since they're actually dating. Mike meets Margarita and her father where he works as the head chef. I'm impressed he can cook so well knowing that he's a former Duke. We get a brief history lesson that they came from an unnamed European country (I personally believe it was Hungary since their monarch was abolished in 1946). This basically means that Mike is talking to a Duchess despite no longer having the title.

"El Toro" is a great song with an even better outfit. In a way it really honors the history of bullfighting and the bravery bullfighters have to possess. After his performance, he turns down publicity pictures. As much as it's rude, you understand why he doesn't want the attention. He's still working through his grief and doesn't want word getting out that he's in Acapulco since that would result in people asking him very uncomfortable questions. Mike runs into both Dolores and Margarita. Despite dating Moreno, Margarita is clearly jealous that Dolores has Mike's attention as well. Mike goes to see a man dive, and he's clearly traumatized from looking over the railing. Raoul organizes for Mike to sing a song at the restaurant. "Margarita" while good, is just a drag in terms of the story. Mike tries again to dive, but of course is too scared. He climbs back down and I love that Margarita and Raoul don't make fun of him. They surprisingly handle his trauma with respect.

Mike performs "The Bullfighter Was a Lady" and he looks even better in this scene than "El Toro". This time he's specifically honoring Dolores since she's one of the best in the business. Female bullfighters even to this day are rare because of how dangerous it is. Margarita of course is jealous despite outright being on a date with Moreno. Dolores of course knows this and doesn't care. Because at the end of the day, Dolores isn't doing anything wrong. Margarita is the one who wants to 2 time with Mike.

So the two leave and we get a "serious conversation". Dolores makes it very clear that she has no interest in marriage and only wants to have casual relationships. I love that openness since for the 1960s, a career girl wasn't as well respected. "(There's) No Room to Rhumba in a Sports Car" is the clunkiest song ever. You could just cut it and nothing is lost.

"Bossa Nova Baby" is great and there's a reason why it's so iconic. If you slowed down the playback you would see that the average person couldn't replicate this. After his performance, he wants to go see Margarita but notices Dolores is there too. Dolores is tied up with a tourist couple that I wanted to be Mike's parents so bad. Instead we never see them again. It just makes you wonder, what was the point?

In the morning, Raoul asks Mike what club he wants to work for. We see a different filming technique by showing these phone calls in a split screen which I thought was a neat touch. Mike however stalls since he still wants to get with Margarita. He meets with Moreno and Moreno things happen. Moreno meets up with Dolores manager, Jose. Jose reveals that he knows about the Flying Windgrens. Absolutely nothing important will happen because of this. Dolores arranges for a party to be arranged the next day. Margarita of course doesn't like it and makes an offhand remark to her dad that he should poison Dolores. The former Duke though has a dream to have her get married to an American so they can both get VISAs.

This is when the movie drags. Even though he reveals his trauma to Margarita it's just so shallow because the scene quick cuts to Moreno finding the truth. That's also so rushed since as soon as he finds the newspaper article we immediately cut to Dolores' party. This is the only time we see Mike's family and it's such a waste of a good story to not see them interact with Mike in person.

"You Can't Say No in Acapulco" is pretty good for a poolside ballad. In a way it really reflects the sadness Mike feels. We see Moreno dive in preparation for his upcoming cliff dive and to entertain Dolores' guests.

Raoul tells Mike about Margarita's desire to get a VISA, and Moreno tells Dolores about Mike's traumatizing past. Dolores becomes cold for no reason as she acts so disappointed that Mike is a "chicken". Mike despite feeling very hurt just walks away. Raoul meanwhile never leaves his side and it's pretty sweet that he does care about Mike beyond what he could do for him.

The former Duke clears things up with Mike. He explains that it was really his idea to get the VISAs. It was never meant to hurt anyone. He tells Mike that Margarita has gone to see Moreno dive for a famous astronaut.

As he leaves, Moreno somehow knew he would be there and follows him out of the staff's kitchen. He keeps making fun of Mike for being a coward and I have no idea what this is meant to accomplish. Moreno was already a jerk so him knowing this information doesn't change anything. While I can see how it'd be him going too far, the timing is so off. Mike should've confronted him about it as soon as told Dolores.

We see Red West in the background who cameos in a couple scenes and it's amazing that he doesn't interact with Elvis at all since usually Elvis' friends had a line or two when they did cameo. They get into a fight and I have no idea why no one's stopping them. This is essentially a crowded entrance so you would think security would break it up because of the other guests possibly getting hurt from it. Moreno gets badly injured and Mike is able to just walk away with no resistance which would never happen in real life. Unable to see Margarita he goes around the club and hears from Raoul that the dive would otherwise be canceled. I understand a lot of people think this was a cheap way to resolve his PTSD, but given how the 1960s didn't really acknowledge it outside of the military I thought it was a good shot.

The cliff scene is one of the best scenes in the movie. Mike had no obligation to fill in for Moreno, but he did it anyway. This wasn't a rash decision where in an act of heroics he stepped in. He knowingly did it with the full knowledge that it could get him killed. The near silence that comes with watching him ascend even though it's a body double for most of the scene is beautiful. Everyone watching this knows it's a risky thing to do.

Even though I'm not religious, it's very important in Mexican culture. Seeing Raoul cross himself and Mike pay tribute to the shrine on top of the cliff was absolutely necessary. Given the danger involved, it makes total sense to send a prayer. Mike had to do this before he made his jump. Symbolically speaking, he's asking for his brother's spirit to keep him safe and him diving into the water served as his baptism or rebirth. He's no longer consumed with the grief and guilt of his brother's death. He's a new man that's willing to go back to his family with his new love Margarita and his friend/manager Raoul.

"Guadalajara" is a well deserved happy ending. Moreno at least admits he was wrong to call Mike a coward. I guess with him being interested in Dolores, his relationship with Margarita is over. The song itself is good but it does drag a bit. It's almost like they didn't know how to fill in the runtime which is so weird.

Margarita despite somehow getting back with Mike still looked a little jealous when Dolores kissed his cheek. I don't think this couple will last. Mike had more chemistry with Dolores but she out of nowhere turned standoffish. It's all boring and forced to the point where Mike has his best relationship with Raoul who's a 10 year old. I just really wish that Mike's relationship with his family had more focus. The pieces were there. It's just very unfortunate that a man expressing grief wasn't something worth focusing on back then.

I think this is the first time reviewing these movies where I felt bored watching it. As much as I love the diving plot, the romance is a drag. It feels like the writing took a step backwards regarding what makes an Elvis vehicle interesting. Instead of making the romances engaging they're instead so forgettable that it's like they just included it because it's part of a checklist. I will say that it did do a good job highlighting La Quebrada Cliffs by making them integral to Mike's character arc since to this day it's a popular tourist attraction.

Because the diving plot gave me something to feel invested in, with the final dive providing a genuine sense of tension I give it a 7/10. If you're a new Elvis fan this should not be the first one you see since the songs can be very distracting, and nothing is developed enough to keep your attention. Now if you're a seasoned fan is it worth re-watching? Yes. I think you can watch it every now and then, but it's definitely the film equivalent of cotton candy: something you consume and forget relatively fast. Genuinely the first stumble in the road for Elvis' movie career where I didn't feel overly passionate about anything. And for someone in the entertainment industry, that's practically a death sentence.

Tagging: @thelonelyheart @whositmcwhatsit, @hooked-on-elvis, @smokeymountainboy, @atleastpleasetelephone,

@stitchlover0112, @tupelomiss, @vintagepresley, @eapep, @almightybigbrain,

@coltswael, @cieloestrelladoluna, @huhhhhsthings, @arrolyn1114, @peaceloveelvis,

@peskybedtime, @mercsandmonsters, @tacozebra051, @valloos, @ilovequeen978,

@elvisvideos, @presleyhearted, @depressedfairie, @kawaiiwitchy, @swingdownsweetchariot,

@ruggednessworld, @southcarolinawoman, @atrophyingaphrodite, @jrbrandi13, @summer56,

@elvismylove04, @eptodaytommorowforever, @lookingforrainbows, @araiarts, @fharysa,

@lett-them-eatt-cake, @fryb0rg, @wanderlustingtomboy, @slayingjd, @wildhorseinkansas,

@somethingaboutelvis, @jhoneybees, @elvisbooty76, @iloveelvisss, @presleyheart,

@anakinsvault, @illtakeyouhomeagain, @callieselvisobsessed, @50sexyshadesfashionista, @memphisflash,

@arianatheangel-girl, @madslovesmaws, @lucy114505, @presleygarden, @earthbaby-angelboy,

@nicferg068, @xanatenshi, @elvispresley1935, @iloveelvisss, @underthememphissun,

@cccayliexx, @thelonelyheart, @theelvisprincess and @ilovemyrockstarboyfriends.

[strnqer]

chapter one: his voice

pairing: lip gallagher x afab!reader

series history

i hate his voice. i fucking hate it.

it's the same voice that used to compliment me, day after day, when we lay side by side under the stars. i remember how he would glance at me out of the corner of his eye, a small, secret smile on his lips. the same gentle voice once asked if i was okay the first time we made love. i had even fallen in love with his moans and those infuriating, teasing remarks.

you giggled softly at the face lip pulled, your laughter echoing, dancing around you both like a familiar song. "i told you, mom bought the rich people cheese. it had like--like mold or some shit like that." you scrunched your nose up at the neatly cut squares of cheese her mother had prepared, the dark green spots on its shell betraying its age.

"well, in that case, why dont we give it back to nature?" lip said with a mischievous grin, snatching the small container and tossing it toward a tree in the distance. "not the whole container- lip! i need to take that back," you whine, rising to your feet from the small blanket beneath you. "oh, c'mon. it's a shitty container, you won't need it." before you can take a single step, lip grabs the hem of your shirt, pulling you down with enough force to make you yelp as you land on top of him.

"motherfucker," you grunt, but he only scoffs playfully.

"whining?" he teases, his eyes bright with laughter. "you weren't the one who just got squashed by a fuckin' hippo," you gasp, smacking his arm while a laugh bubbles up from your chest. "says the whale himself," you shoot back, rolling your eyes. "you'd eat me with that ginormous mouth of yours if you ever had the chance."

his grin widens as he leans in closer. "eat you, huh?"

your brow furrows, and you let out an awkward laugh, "fuck off." you move to stand but before you could, lip rolled you underneath him.

"no, let me hear it. what else would i do to you, hm?"

that night was the first time you slept together, under the stars--a scene right out of a dream. you remember the warmth of it, the tenderness you'd both tried so hard to pretend didn't exist. lip, your best friend, and the guy you've been in love with forever. you cherished that night, convinced he felt the same way. but the next day, it was as if you didn't exist. he didn't act any differently; or even bring it up. he just went right back to karen, like he always did. and that hurt more than you'd ever admit.

it's his voice that tears me down now, too. the same voice that would tell me such pretty things, now spits such cruel words. that same voice screams about how worthless i am when he was the one struggling.

"i told you to fuck off."

you roll your eyes. you know him too well--he's stressed with everything going on in his family. you made it your mission to help but lip has reached his limit.

"lip, i told you i'd help you and your family with whatever i can. you can count on me. always." you reach for his hand, but he pulls back, raising his fist. instinct makes you flinch. his face flickers with regret, but it's gone before you can hold onto it. "i--i just want to help," you whisper, hands pressed close to your chest. "and i told you to fuck off," he spat. "we don't need your help. we've got karen now, alright?" his words come faster, louder. "you hear me? no one fucking needs you. we don't need your stupid jokes to lighten the mood, and we definitely don't need your 'helping hand.' so take it somewhere else!"

he walks back without a backward glance, lighting a cigarette as if nothing happened.

i swallowed the pain. i kept my mouth shut and went by the following day to offer my help. i excused his behavior, like i always did, for being stressed because he's dealing with bigger things. i would, however, never admit how deeply his words cut... because as much as i hate him, i still fucking love him.

next chapter

[heycarrots]

Importing my Twitter musings for maximum emotional damage. I’m . . . sorry? 😬

@jaynovz actually inspired this because we were talking about memories and trauma and how they relate to Silver in our chat for her episode of Reading Between the Lines Podcast. She mentions memories in a vault, which got me thinking about how James is doing the exact same thing. Oh! Which made me realize something else! Holy shit . . . that’s WHY he prods Silver for his past! That’s why he tells him how important all parts of him are, his present, his past, his trauma, it’s all important to embrace. Why?? It’s a lesson he learned from Miranda. One of the last.

Okay, I’ll stop screaming and just continue with my Twitter thread . . .

Once again thinking about how those flashbacks dance around James’ and Thomas’ love story up until episode 2X05. You can certainly hold to the belief that the only reason was to drop that twist mid-season, but let’s think about how we engage with memories.

Some memories are so overwhelming that we avoid them. We don’t have time for them. We tuck them away in a drawer in the darkest corner of our mind where we are convinced we will be safe from them. That’s all well and good if those memories aren’t shared with anyone else.

The flashbacks, we realize very early on, aren’t simply exposition. They exist in Flint’s present reality; memories triggered by Flint’s quest seemingly nearing its end . . . Thomas’s dream finally within his grasp. Equally important, they are triggered by Silver.

It’s very important to remember that we don’t get a single flashback until they are triggered by Silver working with Flint. He begins to remember Thomas because Silver reminds him, not of Thomas, but of himself. He’s now understanding how much of Thomas he’s embodied himself.

In season one, Miranda chastises James for never addressing his loss. For tucking Meditations on a shelf and hiding it away from himself. He’s angry not just because she shared that book with Richard Guthrie, but because she’s reminded him of its very existence.

The flashbacks are all from Flint’s perspective, as he’s focused on his goal. He’s remembering their vision for Nassau, pushing on that bruise to continue spurring him onward, no matter the cost, no matter the casualties. He never brings up Thomas by name. Not once.

It’s Miranda who brings him up by name. Miranda who is desperately trying to get him to remember the love. Remember the true reason he’s doing what he’s doing. She knows he can’t. It’s too much. It’s too painful. And so every single flashback is from Flint’s perspective . . .

Until episode 2X05. When we see that dinner scene with Alfred Hamilton again, when we see that first kiss, it’s Miranda who is thinking of it. That’s HER memory of it because James still can’t look at it. It’s like staring into the sun.

The writers weren’t skirting around the reveal, it was simply being told to us by a character too traumatized to give us the whole story. We needed Miranda’s perspective. She hands him the book and it’s the inscription that finally breaks him. Finally gets him to open that drawer.

But the memories tucked inside that drawer are not Miranda’s. He doesn’t go back to the dinner scene, to that kiss. What we see is what Miranda didn’t see. We see James’s memories of the book.

He couldn’t look at that book because it wasn’t the memory of a tender first kiss at dinner, it was the unbearable intimacy of sharing that book, the private intimacies and love that’s had time to breathe for a bit. Miranda calls it shame because she doesn’t have those memories.

So while it’s true that Black Sails was planned to build up to this reveal from its infancy, it’s equally true that James’s story is told in one of the most organic and ultimately honest narrative arcs I’ve ever seen.

So much of the beauty of this show is derived from the absolute mastery of the writers creating at the very peak of their craft and we should all remember that, during a time when those same creators, who have given us so much, are fighting to be compensated fairly.

Black Sails is the gift that keeps on giving, and onion one might never reach the center of. Considering all of this, I’m beyond excited to see what we are served up with the Percy Jackson series. If it’s anywhere close to the quality of Black Sails, we’re in for a real treat.

[penguinlife]

Observation

I think that the intimacy coordinator tried to convince L and N that their feelings weren't true and it messed with their heads.

They definitely had real feelings. N was just a little more transparent. What will you miss most from filming? N: I am going to miss Luke.

Her favourite episodes were 5 and 6. When Polin was in post engagement bliss.

She enjoyed filming the intimacy scenes. They stayed under the blanket (basically cuddling) between takes.

Then, take into account everything L said. "It was really intimate and real," just one example out of many. He was there on the last day of the shoot to support N. And don't forget the last intimacy scene N snuck her tongue in. Lastly they way they speak about Polin's relationship. "They will die on the same day" and "They have the perfect relationship."

N was filming Big Mood and Bridgerton at the same time at the end and I think she just made a quick escape.

L then did the play, met A, and started hooking up with her. I am not going as far as calling it a relationship, but it was a casual situationship. (I am basing this off of their body language during papgate and pap water pics and that awkward birthday party where they were watching fireworks).

N & L reconnected during the reshoots in Dec 2023. Feelings were still there. But L was in the situationship.

Weird New Years kiss vid, and A and L are still hooking up.

Jan 6 WT starts. It starts a little uncomfortable, but N & L reconnects again. I am convinced they hooked up somewhere between Brazil and Italy. They were both officially single, so all good. They get a little closer, but then A pitched up at the London Premier. L was definitely uncomfortable that day. He could barely look at N. They had their little moments, but something was off. Here, I would like to mention that L didn't do anything wrong. He might have just been exhausted from the WT or nervous about his family bring at the E5 screening. N left the party early and started filming The Magical Faraway Tree. Another quick getaway.

This is where my mind started making a comparison between their bridgerton characters and irl. Pen basically runs away from Colin every opportunity she gets. In the garden, the first ball, after everyone finds out Colin is helping her, after their first kiss, from under the tree, from the dance floor, into the carriage and then he catches her. She ran again the morning before F&Js wedding. It does feel like N is doing the same thing.

L and A go their separate ways but still "friends." I don't believe there was an NDA signed. It is hard to break up something that barely existed.

N started hanging out with her friend J. I am still not sure what is between them. It is confusing. I know a lot of people think he is gay. I had a guy friend at Uni when I was about 22, and we were very close. So I can relate. The only thing I can't move on from is the pic on her background on her phone. But maybe it's an inside joke. Him changing his IG profile pic to a pic of him as a child, just as we referred to him as such, has made me like him a little more.

Back to the main characters L and N barely talked between the WT and S4 filming.

They reconnected at the start of filming S4. Now L is more transparent. N is more guarded.

Pls don't go on JDs social media and attack him. The same goes for A. Less attention she gets the better.

We are here to witness, not intervene.

Lastly, I would like to mention the interview for people. L said that he is more strong-willed than his character. Is not a pushover like Colin. But then he says he is more of a secret admirer. Is that not kind of a contradiction. The ball is in his court. If he wants N, he should declare it.

So where are we now. L is in Italy (IYKYK Thanks) filming White Mars. He should be returning soon. He did not like Ns last 2 IG posts. I get it. He is busy. N is hanging out in London with her friends. I would guess L and N mostly film Bridgerton at the same time. There are 5+ months left of filming S4. That is a lot of happy Polin with their cute baby to come. I am hoping they get together.

[misc-obeyme]

unchained - epilogue

masterpost read the chapter on ao3

NSFW MDNI word count: 3893

GN!MC x Arsenios [demon OC] a/n: Here we are, at the very end of the story. The full thing ended up being 70,035 words. This scene does not take place at Cocytus Hall, but I used that image to indicate that it does take place in the past during the Nightbringer timeline.

I want to thank everyone who has read the story! Thank you for sticking with me all this time! I wouldn't have felt inspired to write it at all if not for all of you. There were times when I felt like just not posting the rest of it because it was so bad in my opinion. But your tags and comments kept me going! And I appreciate every single one of you.

I don't know what's next for Arrie. Only time will tell. I might explore some of the other OCs, too. I've been thinking about more Barbatos stories, though, because I miss writing about him. And I'm working on some original stuff as well, which you can find over on my new side blog @misc-chronicles if that's something you're at all interested in.

Thank you so much for loving my silly self indulgent guy. I'm so happy I got to share him and his story with all of you!

Anyway, enjoy this smut, but also be prepared for it to end on a cheesy note lol. Warnings: penetration and oral (reader receiving), pact control, biting, tail play (not fucking though lol), uhh I think that's it...

When you arrived in the Devildom's past, every pact mark you had faded. It was a simple matter of obscuring them even further with magic to make them invisible. The demons they connected you to couldn't know that such ties existed in their future. These versions of them didn't know you, hadn't fallen in love with you, hadn't accepted you as one of their own.

It was the same for the pact mark on the back of your dominant hand. You had been here for some time now. You had settled into your routine at Cocytus Hall, navigating the challenges of establishing relationships with demons who should already know you. But there was one demon you had yet to reunite with, here in the past.

You didn't know the timeline of his life well enough to be certain of his location. So soon after the Celestial War, you supposed he was still making pacts in the human world. He regularly traveled back and forth during that time. Where did he live? Where did he spend his time when he was in the Devildom?

Even if you saw him again, would it matter? He wouldn't recognize you.

And yet you couldn't stop thinking about it. You saw him everywhere you went, only to look closer and discover it wasn't him at all. You would hear his voice or a mysterious piano music on the wind, but there was never anything there. The knowledge of his existence was like a phantom, playing tricks on your weary mind.

There was no RAD for you to wander through, no dance hall to find him playing alone in the dark. The building you knew as his home didn't even exist here. Cafe Lament had no regular pianist. Angel's Temptation hadn't even begun to be an idea in a demon's mind.

For some time, you tried to focus your attention on other things. You had pacts to re-forge and a timeline to get back to. But even as you did this, the ache of missing him clutched itself like ice around your heart.

You had neglected to realize that there was another demon who might know where Arsenios was.

This timeline's version of Barbatos should not know about your relationship with Arsenios. He should be unaware of everything that would happen in your future. And maybe he was. You would probably never know for certain.

But it was very clear how he deliberately waited for you to follow him through the streets one day as you were on your way home to Cocytus Hall. He glanced over his shoulder, a brief wink and a swish of his tail somehow all you needed.

You could've been imagining things, but you followed him anyway. He pretended not to notice you.

Barbatos brought you to the most dilapidated ruin of a mansion you had ever seen. It took you some time to get there, following him on an overgrown path through the forest. The roof was mostly gone and the rooms were so full of plants and ivy that it was nearly impossible to tell what they had once been.

But there was an old piano in the broken remains of one room. And a demon played it.

It was a grand piano, made of wood that was clearly decaying, black paint fading away. Despite its condition, it wasn't out of tune. You supposed this was due to Arsenios's magical influence. He looked just as he always had. He was dressed casually, his hair obscuring most of his face as he played some melancholy song.

You hid in the trees while Barbatos made his way into the ruin. You watched Arsenios stop playing, stand up to meet him. They spoke to each other for a short time before Barbatos left. You wondered why he came all this way for so brief an exchange. And then you wondered if perhaps it was because it was only an excuse for him to show you the way to Arsenios.

You couldn't emerge right away. You waited. Arsenios started playing again.

When you felt like enough time had passed, you stumbled out of the trees, hoping you looked like you were lost.

Arsenios stopped playing abruptly and looked over at you.

You stood there in the path, the gaping holes of the empty windows and half rotten away walls giving you a clear view of him as he sat there. His eyes met yours and you had to suppress a shudder, even from this distance.

"You play beautifully," you said.

Arsenios stood up from the piano and came out of the ruin, walking easily across the path to stand before you.

"Who are you?" he asked.

There was an edginess to him that he didn't have in the present.

You told him your name.

"The devilsitter," he said. He looked you up and down, frowning. "They said you're a demon, but you aren't, are you? Your song…"

You hadn't expected that. He was onto you already?

"I-"

"Don't worry about it," he interrupted you. "I won't tell anyone. How did you get here and what do you want?"

"I'm sorry," you said. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I just got lost."

Arsenios tilted his head. "You just got lost? No. Your song is going crazy. It's far more than just getting lost in the woods."

There was a silence where he seemed to be listening to something. Of course, you couldn't hear it yourself.

And then his eyes narrowed and he took step closer to you. The aura around him had gotten dark and dangerous.

"Why do you sound like that?" His voice was low and ominous.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you said. "I don't hear anything."

Arsenios reached out a hand and placed it gently on your neck. Although his movement was soft, it felt like a threat. "You have the melody of someone who has a pact with me," he said. "But I've never met you before."

Of course. You still had the ability to control the brothers with their pacts. Some remnants of those old pacts remained, something that even these past versions could sense.

His reaction was not what you were expecting. You raised your eyebrows. "Does that scare you?"

Arsenios snorted. "No," he said. "But it should scare you. People who make pacts with me don't live long."

"Is that because they don't understand how pacts work?" you asked.

Arsenios's hand tightened just a little and the tension between you rose. "You're trying to provoke me, aren't you? You're bold for a human."

The desire that had begun to pool in your belly spiked for a moment. Then your eyes caught a glimpse of the back of his hands. There were no tattoos there. You thought perhaps you had even found him in a time before he had ever met Caligo. Should you take this opportunity to try and prevent that situation from happening at all? If you did, would it change the course of time so drastically that you would never meet him in the present?

All those thoughts that had begun to race screeched to a halt when Arsenios took a step even closer to you. "Your music is giving you away, little human. What are you so frantically trying to figure out beneath all that lust?"

Your heart hammered. He was more intrusive with the way he listened to your song. In the present, he was more contained. He didn't deliberately try to read what you were thinking or how you were feeling. But now it was clear he was using every advantage he had.

"I'm waiting to see what you'll do about it," you said.

Arsenios shook his head in amusement. "What do you want me to do about it?"

You summoned the power of your pact with him. "I want you to show yourself to me."

His eyes widened. He could feel the power of the command running through his veins. He backed away from you and immediately fell into his demon form, as suggested by what you said to him. He couldn't help it. He was compelled to show himself.

You didn't move as his tail unbraided itself, all the ends twitching in uncertainty before they braided themselves again.

Your eyes traveled over him, taking in the familiar harness of his demon form, noting the absence of both the pact mark and the scar on his chest from Caligo's scythe.

You were expecting Arsenios to be worried or afraid. He had been surprised, at the very least. But now he simply watched you, head tilted again as though listening. He was trying to read you, trying to figure out who you really were and what you really wanted.

"What is it about you?" he asked, almost to himself. "Any other human commanding me like that would be dead by now. But you…"

"What about me?" you asked.

Arsenios came close to you again, taking your hand, pulling you slightly toward him. "For some reason, all I want is to follow every command you give me. And I'm not the kind of demon to deny myself. So what do you want from me, MC? Just say it. You don't have to command me."

"Kiss me," you said.

You didn't use the power of your faded pact and just as he said, you didn't have to.

Arsenios gathered you into his arms and kissed you. It wasn't a soft gentle kiss. It reminded you of the first time he'd kissed you in his apartment - hot and heavy, but this time also full of some undercurrent of danger. Like Arsenios was barely suppressing his more demonic tendencies and he was only doing it because he wanted to. It was so thrilling, you responded to him without thinking, opening your lips, entwining your tongue with his. Your hands moved up to his chest, your fingers playing with the barbells in his nipples.

He broke away from you, breathing heavily. "You want much more than just a kiss," he said. He grinned at you. "I'll do whatever you want. Take me anywhere."

You looked past him at the ruins of the mansion. "Take you anywhere? What's wrong with here?"

"Hmm," he hummed thoughtfully before simply picking you up. You managed to hold onto his harness to steady yourself. "I didn't think you'd be interested in a dump like this, but if that's what you want, I don't mind."

You didn't protest, only let him carry you into the ruin, past the room with the piano until you found yourself in a room that was far more intact than the rest of the place. It might have even been a bedroom before it became a ruin. It was simple, but there was a door that closed and a roof overhead. The main attraction was an enormous four poster bed with surprisingly well kept bed curtains. The only light came from an ashy looking fireplace in the wall near the bed.

"It's cleaner than I expected," you said.

"I might live in a ruin, but I still keep it clean," Arsenios said before putting you down on the edge of the bed.

You forgot entirely about the state of the room as he stood between your knees and started leaving hot kisses down your neck. His hands tugged on your shirt for a bit before finally dislodging it and pulling it over your head. His kisses moved down to your shoulders and chest.

You needed him in a way that you couldn't describe. It was painful and full of memories from the story you shared with him back in the present. This version of him knew you but didn't know you. He was going along with the inexplicable pull of your song, the one that matched his magic just enough to let him know the pact was real. That you meant something to him.

You reached around and tugged on the base of one of his tails. It unbraided itself from the others to wrap around your waist.

"MC," Arsenios said, leaning over you, his face pressed to your neck, breath hot and voice muffled. "Are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" you asked, breathlessly.

"Making me need you," he said. "Making me want you so bad I can't think straight."

"I'm not doing anything," you said. "Not on purpose."

He pulled back for a moment, looking into your eyes. His own purple ones were almost magenta with the fire of lust burning inside of them. "Who are you?"

This was dangerous. What you said to him now could change the course of your story in the present. If you told him too much… but you had to tell him something. You wanted him to know how much he mattered to you.

You put your hands on his cheeks. "If I told you I was from another timeline, would you believe me?"

Arsenios stared blankly at you for a moment. Then something seemed to clear his confusion. "Yes," he said. "Barb talks about timelines a lot. It's a magic I'm not familiar with, but I know it exists."

You smiled softly. "That's all I can say about it. It's dangerous to manipulate the past. But I just want you to know… that I love you."

Arsenios looked like he might pull away at that. You could see it in his eyes, the sudden distrust. He could accept an unexplained lust, but love? If you did love him, you loved a version of him that he didn't know. A version of him that might as well not exist.

You felt the tears fall down your cheeks unbidden. He was processing the fact that it wasn't him that you loved. Right in front of your eyes, he was putting together the understanding that even if he believed you, it was a different version of him that you loved.

To your surprise, he reached out to wipe away your tears. "No," he said quietly. "Don't do that. It's okay. So you love me in another timeline. It hurts you to be here, doesn't it? It hurts that I don't know you. Maybe there's a you in this timeline that I'll meet one day. But if you need me like this now, if this will help you with whatever it is you've got going on here in this timeline, I won't deny you, okay?"

You blinked, which only caused fresh tears to fall. "You won't?"

Arsenios chuckled and kissed away the new tears, a sweet gesture that squeezed your heart. "Never," he said. "If I love you in one timeline, I love you in every timeline. I don't need to understand it. I can hear it in your song. I never question the truths that I can hear in music. Now tell me what you want. But command me, MC. Use your power over me. Let me feel it."

You shuddered. The gentleness had left his voice to be replaced with the heaviness of his lust. You could hear it so plainly in the way he asked you to command him. You wanted him so badly you thought you'd explode and he was offering himself up to you.

"I want you on your knees," you said.

Arsenios fell to his knees immediately. You didn't have to say anything else as his hands went to work on the rest of your clothes. You could see the edges of his back tattoo when he bent over you. As soon as your soft skin was fully exposed to him, he began to bite his way up your thigh. You sucked in a breath. His actions were harsh, like he was barely holding himself back. It was unlike the version of him in the present, always so soft and gentle. In the past, he was more wild, living out here in the woods in a ruined mansion, playing a decaying piano, making pacts with humans that died quickly. His demonic nature could not be denied.

When he finally put his mouth on you, it was like an explosion that ran through every limb. You gasped, your hands finding purchase on his horns. His hands held onto your hips, keeping you steady as he used his tongue in ways you didn't know were possible. One of his tails was still wrapped around your waist.

Arsenios lifted your legs over his shoulders and they clenched down on him as the pleasure built up inside you. The feeling was so exquisite, your mind blanked for a moment as you came on his tongue.

Arsenios didn't pull away, lapping up every drop of your cum before it could even make its way down your thighs. When he looked up at you, framed by your legs, the look on his face was ravenous. As though this was just the beginning. As though he was ready to eat you entirely.

You let go of his horns, reaching out to touch his face with your fingers. The glint of fire in his eyes sent shockwaves through you. "Do it," you said, the power of command in your voice.

You knew you likely didn't need to command him anymore. But he had asked you to. And there was something about having the magic control him, having him respond so compliantly to your words, that made you feel dizzy.

Arsenios's eyes seemed to be glowing with intensity. He lifted you again, putting you down on your feet in front of him, your back pressed against his chest. You could feel the chill of the harness's chain against your skin. It was a sharp contrast to the heat of his mouth, which was on your neck, his soft hair brushing against your shoulder. One hand was on your belly, the other on your chest, and he seemed to be humming deep in his throat, like he couldn't contain it.

The light of the fire danced across your bodies, the sweat that had already accumulated glistening brightly. His teeth grazed against you for a moment before he bit down on your neck and then your shoulder.

You moaned and pressed your body back against him. You could feel the state of his erection through the pants he was still wearing. You reached behind yourself to tug on them.

"Take them off," you said, your voice now just a hoarse whisper.

Despite the state of your voice, the command magic was still running through it. Arsenios responded instantly, compelled to take his hands off you long enough to remove the pants in question.

You turned around while he was slightly away from you and caught hold of the harness chain when he tried to step back toward you.

"This too," you said.

He might have hesitated if the magic wasn't controlling him. The slight confusion in his eyes indicated as much to you. But the pact ensured that he simply did as you asked, unclipping the chains from the choker, unbuckling it and letting it fall to the floor.

You had never seen him in demon form without the harness. There were light lines on his skin left behind and your fingers traced them, making him shiver. He was still, but his tails were out of control, all three of them whipping around behind him.

You let your hand travel down his chest, taking his erect cock into your hand. You met his eyes. "What are you waiting for?"

The tails stilled, one of them wrapped around your thigh while another one wrapped around your waist. The last one found its way into your mouth as his hands pushed you back onto the bed.

You wrapped your arms around his neck as he lifted you by your hips, pulling you closer to him. He was not careful as he finally entered you, the neediness and desperation of his movements making him careless. You didn't mind, you were ready for him. Your legs hooked around his waist as he leaned over you, pressing his forehead against yours as he began to thrust, the movements much slower than you had been anticipating.

Your mouth was still full of his tail, but you managed to moan around it, the vibrations of your voice traveling through it and making it twitch. The tails around your waist and thigh tightened as Arsenios sped up. He lifted himself just a bit, his hair draping around your face, his eyes half closed as he looked down at you. Even still, you could see the way they flared, that odd magenta color returned to indicate his state of lust.

Not that you needed such an indication, you could feel the power of it in his touch, his every movement. He was wild now, not holding back at all, his fingers curling into your hips so hard it would likely be leaving bruises.

Arsenios repositioned you slightly and the new angle caused his thrusts to become so deep, you couldn't think straight as he hit that perfect spot inside you over and over again. It was hard and it was fast and it was overwhelming, your mind going blank and your vision going white as you came hard on his cock.

He continued on through your orgasm, leaning back as he did, his hair half covering his face, puffing out with the heaviness of his breathing. And then he went still and you felt the heat of his cum inside you as a growl ripped itself from his throat.

It was a slow descent, the two of you panting for some time before finally things became soft in the afterglow. Although the fire inside him had died down, it wasn't gone completely. You could still sense the coals burning quietly within him. But Arsenios was gentle with you now, cleaning you up and taking care of you and making you comfortable. He even talked you into staying the night, though you were sure you would hear about it from Solomon the next day when you didn't come back to Cocytus Hall. Somehow, you didn't think you particularly cared.

Though even as you spent the night nestled in Arsenios's arms, you couldn't stop thinking about what this past version of him was like. And what he still had to go through. It was clear to you that he hadn't even met Caligo yet. This was Arsenios before he had been broken by betrayal. He was more dangerous, but he was also more free. He wasn't chained by old wounds that forced him to deny himself.

You knew this version of him had a story still to live through. And you also knew that he would inevitably find you in this timeline. And maybe, through this encounter, he would open up to this timeline's version of you just a little bit easier. But even if he didn't, you would love him either way.

Arsenios had not put out the fire and the orange glow of it still dimly highlighted the edge of his shoulder, the brown of his skin and the gleam of his hair. He was leaning into you, half on his stomach, and his back tattoo seemed to be on fire itself, the red roses gleaming. You knew that no matter where or when you found him, Arsenios was the demon that you would always give your heart to.

masterpost | chapter twenty-two

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masterlist | Thank you for reading!