#yes the script calls for him to be thin but there is something about a gargantuan anti-Santa

[danascullysjournal]

“Let’s Paint the Town Red :)”

Heinrich Unheimlich and his new best friend Alice.

Detail of Alice here-

She’s so “well shit I guess this is happening now.” to me. I adore her.

[to-the-stars8]

The Waynes' Nanny

Batfamily and Reader/Bruce Wayne x Reader Chapters Ao3 I might have to explain the title on this one, but it's just a play on words of Jeff Buckly's song, 'Lover, You Should've Come Over'.

Nanny, You Should've Come Over

You had nothing against Julie Madison. Really. She was charming, laughed at the right time, and smelled like vanilla. Hell, she probably donated to charity in her free time. 

Your only gripe about her?

She called you Nanny.

Not Nan. Not your actual, human, first name. Nanny. Which would’ve been fine if you had introduced yourself as Nanny. But you hadn't. You told her your name. You shook her hand. You made eye contact. There was a whole moment.

Still, you smiled, because Bruce was there and he was grinning like an idiot at his girlfriend. He brought her into the gaming room right as you were arranging a carefully balanced tray of apple slices, peanut butter, and the exact number of goldfish crackers necessary to keep Duke and Damian from yet another fight about one getting more than the other. 

Julie looked like she’d stepped out of a movie. Curly black hair that bounced when she walked, a figure straight off a pin-up calendar, and bright grey eyes that practically could have left anyone breathless. Honestly, you couldn’t even be mad. If Bruce hadn’t fallen for her, you might’ve.

You introduced yourself with your government first name—not Nanny—and took a polite step back as Bruce did the whole “this is Jason, Damian, and Duke” thing. The other kids were elsewhere, probably trying to do something that surely needed adult supervision.

Julie knelt next to the little white table where Duke and Damian were pretending to eat and quietly plotting her downfall. They both shot you identical looks that said who is this and do we have to talk to her.

“Guys,” you said brightly, hands on your hips, “why don’t you tell Miss Julie what you’re doing today?”

Duke was the first to launch into a long-winded speech about how you were all going swimming later and how the Slip ���n Slide was coming out. That was apparently the main event of the day. Damian, on the other hand, retreated like a suspicious cat and reached quietly for your hand. You gave it to him without hesitation, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze as you nudged him to say something.

After a long pause, Damian finally mumbled, “I like your dress.”

Julie had a heavenly laugh. Musical, warm, probably rehearsed in front of a mirror. Bruce’s eyes stared at her with a wonder only a man so infatuated with a woman could have. 

“Thank you. Green’s my favorite color,” she said, beaming. “Do you like the color green?”

Damian gave this question the level of consideration most people reserved for life-altering decisions. Then he nodded solemnly. “Jay-Jay has green eyes.”

Jason, slouched on the couch with his Game Boy, looked up like someone had just called on him in class. His mouth flattened into a thin line, clearly looking like he wished he could vanish right then and there. He really should’ve made a break for it with the others when he had the chance.

“Yes, he does! And, they’re very pretty,” Julie remarked with a smile. 

Bruce gave Jason a look that quietly told him to give thanks. The one every kid knew: pinched mouth, raised brows, and that sharp look with the eyes. 

Jason squirmed as he muttered, “Thanks.”

Julie stood and smoothed her dress with the kind of effortless grace that felt scripted. Then she drifted over to sit beside Bruce on the couch, settling in like she belonged there. When she nuzzled his cheek, he leaned into it. 

A pit opened in your stomach. Sharp and cold, like you were on the biggest dip of a roller coaster. You sucked in a breath and noticed Duke and Damian’s empty plastic plates. Perfect. An excuse to escape Bruce and Julie’s love-dovey showcase before you threw up.

“I’ll be back. Be good,” you told the younger kids with a mock-stern voice. Then, more politely: “Anyone need anything from the kitchen?” 

No response. Glorious. You turned and made for the door. Almost made it when she said it.

“Oh, Nanny,” Julie’s angelic voice called. 

You stopped dead in your tracks. Initially, your knee-jerk reaction was to passive-aggressively correct her, but you couldn’t. Those big doe eyes blinked at you from over the back of the couch, wide with innocence and actual sincerity. She wasn’t being mean. She wasn’t even being dismissive. She’d just forgotten your name. And somehow, that was worse.

You forced a smile so tight your cheeks ached. “Yes?

“Could I trouble you for a glass of water?” 

“Oh, yeah! Sparking or still?” Since I’m a fucking waiter now, you added in your head. 

“Sparkling, please.”

Of course she drank sparkling water. She probably drank expensive wine in a silk robe that cost more than you’ll ever see in your lifetime every night, too. Socialites, ugh. 

In the kitchen, you dropped the plates into the sink, a little harder than necessary, and leaned on the counter. You felt furious. Whether it was at yourself for being such a bitch or at the fact that you could never be Julie Madison. 

The worst part? You didn’t even want to be Julie Madison. You just wanted to feel like her. 

Looking at your reflection in the microwave door, you couldn’t help but wonder what Bruce even meant when he said you and Julie were 'similar' the other day. 

It had to be a joke. Because standing there in the kitchen, holding a bottle of overpriced fizzy water after scrubbing peanut butter off a zoo-animal plastic plate, it sure didn’t feel similar.

Swallowing your pride, you went back to the playroom. 

Julie and Bruce were curled in close, whispering to each other with the kind of soft intimacy that didn’t belong in that colorful, kid-infested room. You’d never seen him like that with anyone outside the family. You rounded the couch, bottle in hand, and waited, awkwardly, silently, until Julie finally noticed you. 

“Oh, Nanny, thank you!” Julie said brightly as she took the bottle from your hands, her voice all joy and genuine sweetness.

She twisted the cap with a little pop, just about to take a sip, when Jason’s voice broke the lull: “That’s not her name.”

Everyone turned to him. He didn’t even look up, still hunched over his GameBoy like he hadn’t just thrown a conversational grenade into the room. This fucking kid, you thought as you bit back a smile. The warmth blooming in your chest was immediate.

“I’m sorry?” Julie blinked, smile faltering.

You moved to Jason, putting a hand on his shoulder, but he was already repeating himself, “That’s not her name.” Then, calmer, like he was explaining something obvious to someone, he added your actual name.

Bruce, still seated beside her, shifted uncomfortably like he wasn’t sure if he should jump in or vanish through the couch cushions.

Julie’s eyes went wide. Her hand froze mid-sip. “Oh my God, Nanny—no, shoot, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Please, don’t worry about it,” you said quickly, waving it off before it got any more awkward. Then, turning to Jason, “C’mon, how about you go find Tim, Cassie, and Dick so they can meet Julie?”

He groaned. “Do I have to?”

You were already steering him toward the door. “Yes, I think you definitely have to.”

Once you were just outside the playroom doors, you stopped and turned him gently. You cupped his cheek and planted a couple of loud, obnoxious kisses on the top of his head. He squirmed and giggled, trying to duck away.

“Thank you, Baby-Jay,” you whispered against his hair.

He wrinkled his nose. “I hate it when you call me that.” He didn’t, not really. 

You gave him a little push forward. He ran off down the hall, muttering something under his breath but not without a smile.

And when you turned back to glance into the playroom, Bruce was watching you.

Not Julie. 

You.

[lavenderangell]

This isn’t like my usual put-together posts, so bear with me.

I’m a Law of Assumption girlie. I've known about shifting for years but I've never been interested in it.

After getting the 20th "can i manifest this" question from the same person, i decided to take a break. I was about to close the app when I saw a post about how easy shifting is. I thought, why not?

I read Twisted Love by Ana Huang last year. That man, Alex Volkov? Cold, possessive, emotionally constipated. Built like a dark secret. Did I like the book? Yes. Did I want to live in it? Not particularly, but again, why not do it for the plot?

So I didn’t do anything fancy. No method. No scripting (big mistake). I just closed my eyes and whispered:

"I’m already there."

And let go.

When I opened my eyes, I immediately knew I wasn’t in my room anymore. The sheets were too soft and the air was too masculine. I sat up slowly, heart pounding. There was a faint scent in the room, clean linen, citrus, and something dark and expensive.

And then I saw him.

Standing beside the bed.

Looking very angry.

Shirtless, abs, tall, green eyes, sharp jawline, abs and messy dark hair. Incredibly handsome

Alex. Freaking. Volkov.

Now keep in mind, he's not really my type. Too guarded and intense. I like softies. Golden retrievers, guys who say "aww" when they see baby ducks and cry during pixar movies. If you've read the book, you know Alex is the complete opposite.

"You’re not Ava," he said slowly, dangerously.

"No," laughed nervously. "I'm not. I think I messed up. I didn’t mean to land here. It’s like, I was just trying something out, you know? I think I got the coordinates wrong?"

“Who the hell are you?” he asked, deadpan.

I blinked. "I-I shifted here."

"…you what?"

He looked at me like I was insane

"Shifted," he repeated, like the word disgusted him.

Then he turned around and walked out, muttering something about calling security.

I closed my eyes IMMEDIATELY and affirmed my way back like my life depended on it. I was definitely not sticking around to find out what happens next.

"I am back in my original reality."

And just like that, poof. I'm back home.

10/10 visual experience.

0/10 welcoming energy.

Note to self:

Maybe bring a laminated PowerPoint explaining shifting. Or better yet, just script that I'm not a stranger who appeared out of thin air.

Next time, script that we’re already in a relationship before dropping into a morally gray man’s bed uninvited. Just a thought.

Would I go back?

...maybe

........

Romance novel lovers, which book should I shift into next? Drop your favourites below! Softies or villains, I’m curious what fictional worlds you think I should shift to.

Quick Note: I'm still on a break, so I’m not responding to loa related asks or dms. Thank you for understanding, I’ll be back soon ❤️

[slvtrlv]

~ HUNT YOU DOWN ~

part 3. Baby, I’m praying on you tonight

Summary: «...Baby, I'm preying on you tonight. Hunt you down, eat you alive…» It’s time to film the sex scene — brief in the script, tender in tone. But once they start, everything shifts. His hands are rougher. His voice lower. Their movements become real. The room is quiet, but the tension screams. When the camera keeps rolling and no one calls cut, something primal takes over. And afterward? Nothing is the same.

Relationship: Cillian Murphy x Female Reader.

Warning: smut, 18+, age-gap, forbidden attraction, actor x actress, sexual tension, obsession.

Words: 1520

A/N: comments and reblogs are appreciated

_ _ _

They cleared the set with quiet efficiency, like they knew, every one of them, that something sacred or dangerous or both was about to happen, and the fewer people bearing witness, the better. Only the essentials remained: two camera operators, expressionless but focused. John, tucked behind the monitors, headphones already over his ears, jaw tight with intent. Elise, the intimacy coordinator, calm and composed and almost invisible in her stillness; and us. Me and Cillian.

I heard the soft snap of the tent zipper as it was pulled closed behind the last crewmember, sealing us in like some last breath of air had been exhaled from the world outside. Inside the bunker, everything had changed. It was lit differently now: not the cold greys and muted blues from earlier scenes, but something warmer and stranger. Candlelight flickered from iron holders bolted to the walls, casting shadows that trembled when we moved. It made the metal look softer somehow. Made the air feel heavier. Made every sound feel louder.

The cot had been stripped and re-dressed with fresh white sheets, clean and rumpled just enough to look real. Just enough to look slept in. Lived in. Loved in. But there was nothing clean or soft about the way my body tightened when Cillian stepped into the frame beside me, his presence dragging my breath from my lungs like it belonged to him.

He didn’t say a word at first. He didn’t need to. He looked at me once, just once, and the weight of that single glance pressed into me like a vow already spoken. There was no asking this time. No space left for maybe. Only inevitability.

It’s happening. And there’s no going back. Elise approached us with the same calm she always carried, her voice quiet, grounding.

— We’ll keep the top half mostly covered - she said, speaking gently but clearly — Shoulders, backs and skin, we’ll see some, yes. But this isn’t about the body. It’s about longing. Memory. The way Emmett held onto the feel of her. You’re choreographing your own rhythm within the beats we set. If anything crosses a line: tap, pause, red word, whatever you need.

She looked between us. And then he spoke, his voice rough, deep, just above a whisper.

— We’ll know.

Elise’s expression didn’t shift. She nodded. She knew, too. Something was already thrumming beneath the surface. Something unspoken but felt in the marrow.

She stepped back. John stayed at the monitor, eyes shadowed under the brim of his baseball cap. The room fell still.

— Rolling - came the quiet cue from behind the camera. And then — Action.

We were already beneath the thin blanket, the sheet pulled just low enough to expose the curve of my bare back, the slope of my shoulder. I was half-draped across him, my torso aligned with his, my legs folded into his thigh: his jeans rough beneath me, the button still fastened, though I could feel how taut the denim had become beneath my body. I was straddling one of his legs, barely. Not moving yet. Just hovering in that electric kind of stillness that precedes a storm.

His hand rested lightly on the curve of my hip, his thumb brushing small, hypnotic circles there. His skin was hot, rough with the faint rasp of hair. The kind of texture that felt real, like the memory of touch never fully faded.

And when his eyes found mine: steady, storm-dark, full of something I couldn’t name, I forgot for a second how to breathe.

— This is the scene - I told myself. But there was no comfort in that lie. Nothing about the way he was looking at me felt rehearsed.

— I forgot what your skin felt like - his voice, low and uneven, caught in the space between us. It wasn’t in the script. Not in any version I’d read. But it tore something open in me anyway.

I lowered myself until my lips hovered near his jaw. I spoke the truth back to him in the voice of the woman I was supposed to be but it felt like mine. All mine.

— Then remember me - his hand slipped up my spine, deliberate, unhurried, like he was mapping a path he thought he’d lost. His other hand cupped my cheek, pulling my face toward his until our foreheads rested together, breath mixing, skin brushing. And for a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t kiss me. Just breathed me in like scent. Like heat. Like something he hadn’t allowed himself to want in a very, very long time.

And then slow and reverent his mouth met mine. It started soft. Almost innocent. Like we were strangers again, remembering how to be familiar. The first touch of lips, warm and open and almost tender. But then something changed. Something inside both of us pulled taut and snapped in the same breath. The kiss deepened. Tilted. Tilted again. His mouth opened against mine, and mine responded before I even knew I was moving.

His tongue traced the seam of my lips, slow and deliberate, and I parted for him without hesitation. My hands, until now obedient and still slid up his chest, palms flattening against warm skin and muscle, fingertips tracing every sharp edge and hollow.

He made a sound into my mouth. A breath. A groan. I couldn’t tell. But I felt it in my stomach, low and heavy.

My hips shifted once. A quiet, instinctive motion that sent fire curling through me. He stilled. Just for a breath. And then his hand gripped tighter at my waist, anchoring me, like he needed that contact to stay grounded.

The kiss turned desperate, no longer shaped by the story but by some deeper, darker hunger. My hands slid into his hair, fingers tightening. His thigh flexed beneath me, and I gasped at the pressure where our bodies met, clinging to the heat of it. He was hard. Unmistakably. And I was soaking.

I tried to pull back, just slightly, just to breathe but he followed me. Pulled me back down with a sound that bordered on a growl, his voice low and cracked with need.

— Don’t - he said — Don’t stop.

It wasn’t Emmett speaking. Not anymore. It was him. And whatever boundary we’d kept between character and reality had vanished like mist in firelight.

He held me tighter. Pressed against me harder. And I gave in. Let my hips roll again. A little deeper this time. His breath caught, sharp and unfiltered. His hand slid slowly from my waist, trailing under the blanket, fingers tracing the dip of my lower back, grazing the curve of my hip. When they found the edge of my underwear: thin, damp fabric clinging to my skin he paused.

His fingers brushed the seam of my underwear: I was still wearing them, thank God, thin and cotton and soaked through. I gasped when he pressed the heel of his palm there, grinding slow and hard, lips still on mine.

— Fuck… - I whispered, broken. His voice was a low, hungry rasp.

— Say it again.

I moaned instead, hips rolling into his hand. My body had stopped caring about the cameras. The scene. The world. All that existed was his. The way he touched me like he owned me. The way his mouth devoured mine like he was starved. And then his mouth brushed mine again, voice hoarse.

— I’ve been thinking about this since the first rehearsal - that broke me. I whimpered against his mouth, hips moving, desperate for more friction. My body was trembling now: open, aching and completely unguarded. And I didn’t care who was watching. Didn’t care about the camera. All I knew was him. The way he moved. The way he touched me. The way his voice sounded when it unraveled.

He held me like he was the only one allowed to. Like I was the only thing he wanted to remember.

I gasped into his mouth, grinding harder, losing myself entirely. My legs shook. My core clenched around nothing, desperate for more. And he knew. He fucking knew.

His fingers pushed the fabric aside just slightly and he stroked me. Bare. One perfect slide through the wet heat of me. And then…

— Cut - the word landed like a slap of cold water. Reality roared back into the room.

We froze. Breathing hard. Still touching. Still tangled. My lips were swollen. His chest heaved beneath me. No one said a word at first. Just the soft, clinical sounds of headset movement and a quiet murmur from John that we had what we needed.

Still, Cillian didn’t let go. His forehead rested against mine, breath still uneven. When he finally spoke, his voice was raw silk.

— You okay?

— Yeah. Are you? - I nodded. He pulled in a long, ragged breath. Exhaled slow. Then his mouth brushed mine again gentle this time. Possessive. A kiss meant for no one but me.

— For now, - he said, the words against my lips — But I’m not done with you.

And neither was I.

[shadyfestivalperfection]

Hi! So I have this really specific niche of x reader fics that I like where it's _____ x Fae!Reader.

Not really like booktok Fae but leaning more into like classic interpretations of them, so I'd love if you could do Loki x Fae!Reader (Gn, or Female). Maybe meeting on Asgard or somewhere similar and having somewhat of a forbidden romance type deal?

Could be fluffy, could be angtsy, I really don't have a preference I'd just thought I'd ask. It's okay if you don't though 💜

Where Starlight Dies~Oneshot

Summery: Where Starlight Dies follows a forbidden love between a Fae princess and Loki. When their secret is exposed, betrayal forces them apart—but not even realms or chains can stop them from finding their way back.

Characters: Loki x f!reader

||Main Masterlist|| ||Oneshot Masterlist||

Asgard-

The silence in the Grand Library was never quite still.

It was heavy—a hush pressed tight into the polished gold walls, heavy with the weight of forgotten knowledge. A thousand candle flames flickered across inked parchment and gilded scrolls, casting restless shadows on the floor like ghosts. Somewhere in the far corridor, a page turned. Somewhere else, a rune whispered against stone.

And in the very heart of it all sat Loki.

He looked entirely out of place—too alive in a place so ancient. His long black coat, his dark hair swept behind one ear, the thin scar along his jaw barely visible in the golden light. He was hunched over a table of forbidden texts, eyes glittering with something dangerous.

Curiosity.

The kind that killed gods.

His fingers traced the torn edge of a scroll—fragments of ink fading from time. He had pulled it from behind a sealed shelf, behind a false wall, behind another illusion. It should not have existed.

And yet.

“The Realms That Were Lost: Before the Time of the Nine.

The script was old,It pulsed faintly beneath his hand, reacting to him.

“I knew you were hiding something, old man,” Loki muttered, voice a silk-wrapped blade. “You always are.”

He flipped the page.

“Beyond the Nine Realms lie those that chose to disappear. One of which was Elarindor, Realm of the Fae—beings of starlight and memory, born before war ever touched Yggdrasil’s roots. Once allied to Asgard, until the War of Silver Night.”

His eyes narrowed.

“The Allfather struck first—”

And there, the text stopped.

The rest of the page was burned clean through. A jagged tear of ash and magic.

How convenient.

Loki leaned back in his chair, the candlelight catching in his green eyes. He tilted his head, thinking—not like a prince, not even like a sorcerer—but like a predator.

Elarindor.

The name rolled across his tongue like crushed velvet. He had heard it only in myth. Songs sung by wandering bards too old to be trusted. The Fae were said to be illusions, not people—spirits shaped like mortals, living only to trick the weak-hearted and seduce the strong.

And yet… the name was real. Hidden. Erased.

He didn’t know why that unsettled him so much.

But it did.

“Loki.”

He didn’t jump. Thor’s voice was far too loud for stealth.

Loki turned with a patient sigh. “Yes, Brother?”

Thor stepped into the candlelight, arms crossed. “What are you doing here? The council meets in an hour.”

“The council can survive one day without me insulting them.”

“I’ll tell them you’re sick.”

“Tell them I’m dead,” Loki offered brightly. “They’ll be more optimistic.”

Thor frowned, noticing the scroll. “You’re not supposed to have that.”

“I’m not supposed to have many things.”

“What is it?”

Loki hesitated. Then tapped the parchment. “Do you know anything about a realm called Elarindor?”

Thor blinked. “That’s… a Fae myth, isn’t it?”

“It was. Until I found this.”

Thor walked forward and scanned the remaining lines. His eyes flicked to the burnt mark. “Fae are dangerous.”

“So are we.”

“They manipulate memory. Bend time. Their queens are sorceresses older than the Void. We don’t speak of them for a reason.”

“Because Father made it so?” Loki snapped. “He erased this realm from record, Thor. Burned history. Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

Thor frowned again. “You don’t trust him.”

Loki’s voice lowered. “Neither should you.”

There was a long beat of silence.

Then Thor shrugged, the discomfort twitching at the edge of his jaw. “You’re chasing smoke. Don’t let it burn you.”

Loki smiled tightly.

“Too late.”

Later that night, Loki stood at the edge of the Northern Forests, just past the invisible border of Asgard’s wards. The air there was different—thinner. Wild. He could feel it in his veins, like static rising beneath skin.

He held the rune-stone he had stolen from the vault.

Whispered an old word in a dead language.

And the world cracked.

It wasn’t a loud noise, but a pressure. The air shimmered. The trees groaned. And then—

—a slit.

No wider than a heartbeat.

But through it, he saw stars. Not the ones above him. Different stars. Purple and white, low in the sky, twisted in spirals that bent like ink in water.

And then—green.

A forest beyond the veil.

A realm that should not be.

Elarindor.

Loki took a breath.

And stepped through.

The moment he crossed the veil, the magic hit him like breath in winter.

Everything was quiet.

Too quiet.

The ground beneath him was soft and silvered. Trees towered in impossible arches above, their bark glowing faintly. The sky pulsed like moonlight caught in a mirror. Every blade of grass shimmered, and the wind whispered in languages that didn’t belong to any realm he knew.

And then he saw her.

She stood at the edge of a small lake, no more than twenty feet away, barefoot on the moss. Her hair was long, pinned back with strands of glowing vine. Her robes looked like spun mist and indigo silk, wrapping around her body like clouds.

Loki stilled.

He did not speak.

She was humming.

Softly. Like the wind.

A tiny moth—bright blue, glowing—circled her hand, then settled on her wrist.

When she turned—

Her eyes met his.

And for the first time in centuries, Loki felt something hit his chest that wasn’t rage or ambition or bitterness.

He didn’t know what it was.

He only knew he never wanted it to leave.

“You’re not from here,” she said, her voice like rain in a dream.

Loki blinked. “No,” he replied.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

A faint smile touched her lips.

“You’re an Asgardian.”

He nodded, cautious. “Is that a problem?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

She tilted her head. “Whether you plan to lie to me.”

Loki smiled—genuine, amused, curious.

“Not yet.”

—

She watched him vanish between the trees.

The moment he passed back through the Veil, the moss beneath her feet stopped humming.

Only then did Y/N exhale.

The stranger—no, the Asgardian—had left her realm alive. That alone would enrage the council. Her aunt, Verity, most of all.

But she hadn’t stopped him.

Worse—she had let him speak. Had listened.

And stars above… she had wanted to.

The way he had looked at her—steady, alert, curious, but not like a predator. Not like a conqueror. His words were veiled, yes, but not cruel. He didn’t speak to her like a myth, or a threat. He spoke to her like she was real.

And he hadn’t run when he saw her eyes.

She sat on a smooth stone near the lake and let her fingers trail over the surface of the water, watching the ripples dance. Her voice was quiet, half to herself:

“What kind of fool steps into a realm no one returns from… and smiles at the one meant to guard it?”

Later that evening-

Elarindor’s heart—the capital known as Velaris Taloré—was built in curves and glass. It shimmered with magic older than time. Her people did not walk in straight lines. They moved like wind. Like smoke. Like sorrow.

And so did Verity.

“You spoke to him.”

Y/N looked up from the small woven blossom crown she was crafting by her balcony. “He found the Veil, Aunt. I didn’t invite him.”

“That realm is sealed,” Verity hissed, stepping into the moonlight. Her gown shimmered like liquid obsidian. Her white hair, braided with dark leaves, glowed faintly. “Not even Odin can pierce it anymore. You think he found it on accident?”

“I don’t know,” Y/N admitted. “But he didn’t come with weapons. Or soldiers.”

“He came with a name,” Verity snapped. “That’s worse.”

Y/N went still.

Verity softened, but only slightly. “Do you know who he is?”

Y/N nodded. “Loki. Of Asgard.”

“The Trickster. The Son of Lies. The one Odin shelters even now.”

“He asked about us,” Y/N murmured.

Verity’s lips pressed into a thin line. “They always do, when they want something.”

“But he didn’t take anything,” Y/N countered. “He listened. He watched. He was—”

“Careful?” Verity barked a laugh. “They all are. That’s how you lose yourself.”

Y/N stood now, straightening her back.

“I’m not a child.”

“No. You’re worse.” Verity’s voice lowered to a whisper. “You’re your mother’s daughter.”

Silence.

And then—

“Keep away from him,” Verity warned, turning toward the arch. “No matter what he promises. No matter what he makes you feel. A serpent can sing like a dove before it strikes.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

She only stood in the soft dark, crown half-finished, heart aching with something she didn’t yet have the name for.

She saw him again on the seventh night.

He stepped through the Veil slower this time, as if not wanting to disturb the forest.

She was waiting, arms crossed, a single glowing moth perched on her shoulder.

“You came back.”

“I was invited.”

“I never invited you.”

Loki smirked. “Your eyes did.”

Y/N blinked, thrown off balance.

“You’re not what I expected,” she muttered.

He tilted his head. “And what was that? Hooves and horns? A glamour and a blade?”

“No. I expected fear. Or at least arrogance.”

He took a slow step forward.

“I’m saving that for the third visit.”

She rolled her eyes—but the corner of her mouth twitched upward.

They walked together in the grove. Slowly. Like they were both afraid of what might break if they stepped too fast.

She told him her name.

He told her about the Bifrost. About how Odin kept records of old realms—only to destroy them. About how most Asgardians believed the Fae were long extinct.

“We aren’t,” she said quietly.

“I know that now.”

He looked at her then—not like a god looking down, but like a man looking across. With respect. With quiet fascination.

“I’ve never met someone like you,” he murmured.

“And I’ve met too many like you,” she replied. “But somehow… you’re different.”

“Because I listen?”

“Because you look like you don’t believe yourself half the time.”

He laughed. “I’m still deciding who I am.”

She tilted her head. “That’s dangerous. Especially here.”

“I like danger.”

“I am danger.”

They both smiled.

And neither of them walked away.

Later That Night – Y/N’s Chambers

She couldn’t sleep.

Not because she was restless—but because her mind was full. The kind of full that made everything else seem pale.

She could still hear his laugh. See the way he looked up at her, not like a threat—but like a secret he wanted to unravel. He hadn’t tried to charm her. He hadn’t tried to kiss her.

And gods help her… she wanted him to.

She stared at the ceiling and whispered to herself.

“This will not end well.”

But she didn’t stop smiling.

Elarindor, Three Weeks After the First Crossing-

He kept coming back.

At first, Y/N thought it was just curiosity—some trickster’s challenge. Then perhaps a fascination. But now?

Now he came like someone starved.

And she, like someone starving.

She didn’t ask why he always found her by the moonlit lake. Why he walked the same moss-covered path or whispered the same phrase when passing through the Veil.

She didn’t need to.

She was already waiting.

Every time.

They never met under daylight. Never in the palace or the gardens where Verity’s spies wandered like shadows. Only here—beneath the trees, with the soft hum of starlight above and water below.

Tonight, he brought her a book.

“It’s Asgardian poetry,” Loki said, handing it to her gently.

She raised a brow. “You stole it, didn’t you?”

He grinned. “Only from a vault no one visits. It’s practically charity.”

She flipped through the first page. Her fingers slowed. “This one… it’s about a lover turned enemy. A union that ended a war.”

He watched her carefully. “You believe that can happen?”

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “But I believe war ends far slower than love begins.”

Loki didn’t answer.

Not with words.

He simply looked at her.

And Y/N felt her breath catch in her throat.

Asgard, Two Days Later-

Frigga stood beside Loki on one of the lesser balconies of the palace, her pale blue shawl wrapped around her arms as the morning breeze lifted her silver hair.

“I haven’t seen you at council,” she said gently, eyes not leaving the horizon.

“I’ve been… busy,” Loki replied, gaze distant. “Studying.”

“You’ve always been clever,” she said, “but never this quiet. This careful.”

He didn’t respond at first.

Then: “There’s someone.”

Frigga turned slowly.

Loki’s jaw clenched. “She’s not—what you’d expect.”

“Is she kind to you?”

He blinked, surprised. “Yes.”

“Does she see you? Not as a prince, or as Odin’s son. But you?”

He swallowed hard.

“Yes.”

Frigga smiled, almost wistfully. “Then she is already more precious than any throne.”

“But she is Fae.”

Frigga did not flinch.

She only nodded.

“Then you must be ready for a war no sword can win. Not against realms. But against those who think love is a weakness.”

Elarindor – Verity’s Private Garden

“Your sister’s daughter is losing herself.”

Verity didn’t look up as Alaric spoke. She was tending to her black-glass roses, her fingers glowing faintly as she trimmed a thorn.

“She is finding herself,” Verity corrected. “In a way that leads to ruin.”

Alaric folded his arms. He was taller than most Fae, eyes as sharp as onyx. Where Y/N wore starlight, he wore shadows. Protective. Scarred. Loyal.

“She’s not naïve. She knows the risks.”

“She knows only half of what he is,” Verity hissed, finally turning to him. “Odin’s serpent son. A liar. A master of illusion. He cannot love her.”

“Maybe he already does.”

Verity’s gaze narrowed. “Then she is already doomed.”

Alaric was silent.

Then: “If you harm her to protect her… you’ll lose her anyway.”

Verity’s lips twisted into something unreadable.

“I’d rather lose her to hatred than to the chains of a god.”

Asgard – Later That Night

Thor leaned against the doorframe of Loki’s chamber, arms crossed.

“You disappeared again.”

“I go where I please.”

“You don’t answer summons. You vanish for hours—days. And when you return, your mind is somewhere else.”

Loki looked up from his desk, where old star maps and realm charts lay scattered.

Thor stepped in. “Is there someone?”

Loki didn’t reply.

“I saw you looking through forbidden texts. About the Veils. About realms that no longer speak to Asgard.”

Loki stood.

Thor’s tone dropped. “Is it her? One of the Fae?”

“You would not understand.”

“I understand betrayal. And what it costs.”

Loki’s voice was ice. “Then perhaps you should consider why our father tried to bury them in the first place.”

“Because they are dangerous!”

“So are we!”

They stared at each other.

Then Loki softened.

“She’s not what they say.”

Thor’s voice cracked. “Neither were we. But they still feared us.”

Elarindor – One Week Later

They didn’t talk about politics that night.

Or war.

Or family.

They simply sat. Barefoot at the lake’s edge, shoulders nearly brushing. Their hands rested between them, fingers curled in separate worlds.

Y/N spoke first.

“What if we were just… people?”

Loki glanced at her. “Without names or crowns?”

“No history. No expectation.”

He chuckled softly. “I think I’d still find you.”

Her lips curved. “I’d still pretend not to notice.”

He looked down.

And then—

He reached out.

His fingers brushed hers. Just barely.

But in that instant, the magic between them hummed—soft and warm, like candlelight behind silk.

Her breath caught.

His thumb gently traced the back of her knuckles.

Neither pulled away.

The wind stilled.

Even the moths above them paused mid-flight.

And then—very softly, almost like a question—he whispered, “Tell me to stop.”

Y/N turned her palm, letting their hands intertwine.

“I can’t.”

Elsewhere – Deep in Elarindor’s Spire

Verity stood before an obsidian mirror. It shimmered with memory, showing Y/N and Loki—fingers linked, eyes glowing, bodies leaning toward one another like the world had narrowed down to just them.

A voice echoed from behind.

“You were right to start the watch.”

Verity didn’t look at her spy. “Love is the most dangerous illusion of all.”

The mirror pulsed.

And her eyes burned cold.

Elarindor – City of Velaris Taloré

Y/N had never snuck out of the palace before.

She had wandered the outer forests, bathed in the moonlake’s quiet silver, played hide and seek in the veiled ruins with Alaric when they were children—but never the city.

Not like this.

Not cloaked in illusion.

Not with him.

Loki’s disguise wasn’t elaborate. A change of his coat into something longer, simpler—stitched in threads of deep forest green with a hood that fell low over his brow. His magic dulled the blue shimmer of his eyes into something gentler. Mortal.

“You’re certain we won’t be recognized?” he asked, the edge of a smirk on his lips.

Y/N turned, lips tilting. “Only if you forget how to walk like someone who isn’t a prince.”

“I’m insulted,” he murmured, stepping beside her. “I can be perfectly common.”

“You wear secrets like armor,” she replied, brushing her fingers along the stone railing. “There’s nothing common about you.”

“And you speak like someone who’s trying very hard not to fall in love.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Let’s go.”

He grinned.

They slipped through the lesser warding gate behind the Summer Courtyard, stepping into the nighttime pulse of the city.

Velaris Taloré was unlike anything Loki had seen—even in dreams. It was alive. Floating gardens drifted on glowing lotus pads down pale rivers. Bridges of woven light arched across streets lined with wind-chimes and mirrored glass. Music drifted from balconies where fae strung harps of silver hair. Every scent was soft spice, crushed fruit, magic.

Y/N tugged him down a spiraling path lit by hovering fireflies.

“No one here knows us,” she whispered, her hand briefly brushing his. “We can just… be.”

He let the words settle.

Not princess. Not prince. Not daughter of ruin or son of lies.

Just two people in a city that had forgotten their names.

They reached the open square at the center of Velaris, where lanterns hung from ancient branches of the Worldtree fragment buried deep beneath Elarindor’s capital.

A low melody played from an elven horn—haunting and beautiful. Fae couples drifted between ivy-covered columns, dancing barefoot beneath moonlight.

Y/N turned to him.

Her hand was outstretched.

“Come on.”

Loki hesitated. “If I step on your foot, consider it a political offense.”

Y/N grinned. “Then you’ll owe me a war.”

Their hands touched.

Warm. Real.

And then—

He pulled her close.

They danced beneath the stars.

No titles.

No histories.

Her dress spun like mist in the wind as Loki guided her through slow turns and winding steps. He didn’t lead as a king might. He followed her rhythm, matched it. Like he was listening. Like he wanted to learn her language.

“You’re better than I expected,” she teased, catching his eye mid-spin.

“I’m full of surprises,” he murmured. “You should know that by now.”

He dipped her low, and she let out a surprised laugh—quick and bright, like birds scattering from a tree.

She didn’t realize how tightly his hand held her waist.

He didn’t realize how her gaze burned through him more than any spell.

Later, they slipped away from the crowd and climbed a vine-laced stairwell that led to a secluded garden rooftop overlooking the river.

They lay on their backs, side by side, breath still shallow from laughter and running and almost being seen.

Y/N handed him a vial of glowing nectar from a local stall. “Fae dream tonic,” she said. “Drink it and see your truest dream.”

Loki stared at the blue liquid. “And what if I already know mine?”

Y/N turned on her side, chin resting on her hand. “Then say it aloud.”

He hesitated.

Then: “It’s here.”

She blinked.

He glanced toward the river, then back to her.

“This city. You. A night like this with no gods watching, no duties waiting. Just us. I didn’t know I could want something so… quiet.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

“I used to dream of burning Asgard down,” he continued softly. “But then you showed me a world where I didn’t have to destroy anything to feel real.”

She didn’t speak.

Not at first.

Then, without thinking, her hand moved toward his, resting gently against his palm.

“I don’t want this to end,” she whispered.

And that was the truth.

Moments Later —

They heard footsteps.

Too heavy.

Too sharp.

Loki’s head snapped up.

Y/N pulled back, panic flashing through her expression.

“I know that stride,” she said, grabbing his wrist. “It’s Noren. One of my aunt’s inner sentries.”

Loki’s hand was already glowing with illusion magic.

“Stay quiet,” she whispered. “Come with me.”

She led him down a side stair, through an old alley beneath a fallen archway. The walls shimmered faintly—traces of old protection runes.

But the footsteps grew louder.

And then—

Y/N stumbled against a hidden root in the stone, and Loki caught her.

Pressed together. Hidden in the shadow of ivy.

Her back against the wall.

His chest against hers.

The breath caught between them.

Her hands gripped his coat, and his fell to her waist to steady her.

“Don’t move,” she breathed.

His forehead rested gently against hers.

And suddenly, silence fell.

Except for the sound of their hearts.

Except for the way his gaze dropped to her mouth.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Loki whispered.

Y/N blinked. “Why?”

His smile was soft, aching. “Because I’ve wanted to since the lake. Because I may not have another chance.”

Y/N’s hand slid up to his jaw.

“Then don’t wait.”

And he didn’t.

The kiss was slow.

Warm.

Not a battle—but a confession.

Their lips pressed in the hush of the alley, a moment stolen from time. It wasn’t desperate or hungry. It was soft. Reverent. As if each of them were terrified the other might disappear if they kissed too hard.

She tasted like moonfruit and breathless laughter.

He tasted like salt wind and something deep beneath the surface—bitterness softened by wonder.

When they pulled apart, he rested his forehead to hers again.

“I don’t want to go back.”

She nodded. “Then don’t.”

But they both knew he had to.

The moment passed like the shadow of a wave.

But the kiss remained.

Asgard – The High Tower

The air in the High Tower was colder than usual.

Thor stood in the shadows of the observatory, hidden behind the pillar of a golden arch, eyes locked on the Bifrost’s horizon.

He had seen Loki vanish again that morning.

Not for errands. Not for mischief.

But for her.

His brother’s voice had changed—softer, like he’d been speaking to someone who saw him. And that terrified Thor more than any blade.

Because love made Loki reckless.

And recklessness always drew blood.

Thor turned and began his descent through the stone halls, jaw set.

Tonight, he would follow him.

Elarindor -

Verity didn’t scream.

She didn’t curse or raise her voice or strike.

She simply stared at her niece with a silence colder than winter.

Y/N stood in the chamber like a girl awaiting a sentence, though she wore no guilt in her posture.

Only dread.

Verity’s hands were folded neatly in front of her. A single glowing crystal hovered beside her, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“A scout saw you entering the city alone,” she said at last.

Y/N didn’t move.

“No escort. No warding. And,” Verity stepped forward, “you left with someone.”

Y/N’s fingers curled at her sides. “It wasn’t unsafe.”

“You are heir to a realm that bleeds starlight,” Verity snapped. “You don’t have the luxury of wandering. Especially with Asgardians.”

The silence shattered.

Y/N’s voice was calm, but the tremor in it betrayed her. “You’ve been watching me.”

“I’ve been trying to protect you.”

“From what?” Y/N asked, louder now. “From him? He hasn’t hurt me.”

Verity’s eyes flared. “Not yet.”

Y/N took a step closer, chest rising. “He’s not what you think. He listens. He doesn’t see me as a title or a pawn—he sees me.”

Verity turned her back.

And in a voice colder than iron:

“He will break you.”

Y/N whispered, “Or save me.”

Verity didn’t reply.

Only dismissed her with a flick of her hand.

But her heart raced behind her ribs.

Because love was the most dangerous war.

And Verity had lost it once before.

The Forests Between Realms-

Loki landed softly, boots brushing the moss. His hood still low, illusion spell humming faintly around him.

But the wind had shifted.

He sensed it immediately—something tense in the branches, something sharp in the magic.

She wasn’t at the lake.

He found her pacing near the willow glade instead, arms folded, brow furrowed.

“Y/N?”

She turned too quickly.

“You shouldn’t be here tonight.”

Loki frowned. “What happened?”

“My aunt knows.”

The words hit him like frost.

“How much?”

“Enough.”

He stepped closer. “Did she threaten you?”

“No. Not yet.” Her jaw clenched. “But I saw the way she looked at me. Like I was already lost.”

Loki reached out, fingers grazing her sleeve. “We don’t have to stop.”

Y/N looked up sharply.

“You say that now. But you weren’t born here. You weren’t raised to obey Verity. You don’t know what she’s capable of.”

Loki’s hand found hers. “Neither does she.”

They stood in silence, hands linked.

Until—

“I’m not afraid of your aunt,” Loki said. “But I am afraid of losing you.”

Asgard – Frigga’s Private Garden

Frigga found Thor seated on the marble bench, arms crossed, head bowed.

“You followed him,” she said softly.

Thor nodded.

“I saw them. Together. Laughing. Dancing like children under lanterns.” He looked up. “She’s not like the stories. She’s not a monster.”

“I know,” Frigga said.

Thor blinked. “You knew?”

Frigga nodded. “He told me weeks ago.”

“And you didn’t stop him?”

“I saw what I never have before in his eyes, Thor. Hope.”

Thor’s voice broke. “But what if it ends in war?”

Frigga looked toward the horizon. “Then the realms must decide whether to protect peace or punish love.”

Elarindor – The Observatory Tower

That night, Verity met with Alaric.

The room was dim, carved from living crystal that hummed with truth-sensing spells.

“She’s crossed the line,” Verity said, circling the stone table.

Alaric leaned against the pillar, arms folded. “She’s in love.”

“Then we must stop it before it costs her everything.”

He said nothing.

“She is your sister,” Verity continued. “Your blood. Don’t let her be blinded.”

“I see her,” Alaric said at last. “More clearly than you do.”

Verity narrowed her eyes. “Then choose.”

He turned away.

And in that moment—without a word—Verity knew she was losing him too.

The Lake – Later That Night

Loki and Y/N sat beneath the tree where their first real conversation began.

She rested her head on his shoulder.

He was quiet.

“I saw something once,” Loki whispered. “A vision. Years ago. I was falling. Through smoke. And there was a voice—yours, I think—telling me I wasn’t meant to be alone.”

Y/N turned to him.

“What if we ran?” he said. “Tonight. Before they tear this apart.”

“Where would we go?”

“Anywhere the stars still shine.”

She paused.

And then—quietly, heartbreakingly:

“Would they follow?”

He didn’t answer.

Because he knew they would.

The Hidden Chamber – Elarindor

The chamber was cold, its walls lined with silver mirrors that reflected the flickering light of the hearth. The air hummed with ancient magic, the scent of dust and burning incense heavy in the room.

Odin stood before the stone table, his one-eyed gaze focused on the array of maps sprawled across the surface. The veils between realms shimmered under his scrutiny. But it wasn’t the maps that occupied his thoughts.

It was the choice his son had made.

The sound of Verity’s soft footsteps approached. She entered without a word, her presence a shadow in the dim light. The Queen of the Fae didn’t need to speak to make her power known. Her very being thrummed with it. And now, it seemed, her power would be used for something darker.

“We can’t let them go,” Verity said, her voice low and steady. She didn’t need to elaborate. The weight of the words was enough.

Odin turned, his single eye piercing. “They’ve crossed the line.”

“She’s the heir of Elarindor. My blood,” Verity snapped, stepping closer. “And Loki is—”

“A fool,” Odin finished, his voice colder than the northern winds. “I’ve watched him play with fate for too long. This ends now.”

They stood in silence for a long moment, their thoughts interwoven. Both of them understood the consequences of what had just transpired: Loki and Y/N, the forbidden lovers, had gone too far. They had taken it upon themselves to defy the realms—defy them.

And now they would pay.

Verity clenched her fists at her sides. “We will imprison them,” she said, her eyes burning with resolve. “I’ll personally make sure Y/N can never cross the Veil again. We’ll lock her away, where she can’t tempt him.”

Odin’s lips twitched in a semblance of a smile, but it was anything but warm. “You’re not doing this alone. We’ll use the chains of silence. The ones forged in the deepest forge of the Fae realm. They’ll keep them bound. And the Veil will be sealed.”

“Not even love will breach it.”

“Not even love,” Odin agreed, his voice dark with finality

The Edge of the Forbidden Forest – The Night of Their Escape

Loki and Y/N walked beneath the canopy of stars, the night air thick with unspoken promises. The quiet hum of their magic blended as they walked hand-in-hand, hearts light for the first time in days.

They had made their choice.

There was no turning back.

Loki’s magic wrapped around them like a cloak, hiding them from the eyes of any who might be watching. They passed through the forest silently, and yet every step felt like a victory. Every whisper of the wind carried the memory of their last stolen moments in Elarindor.

Y/N looked up at him. “Where will we go?” she asked, her voice soft, unsure. Her grip on his hand tightened

Loki smiled, his eyes warm with the intensity of his love. “Anywhere the stars guide us.”

But as they neared the edge of the forest, something shifted in the air.

A crackling sound. A ripple in the wind.

Y/N froze.

“What is it?” she whispered, sensing the change in the magic surrounding them.

Loki’s expression darkened. “They know.”

“What?”

“The Veil is closing. They’re coming for us.”

Suddenly, the ground beneath them trembled. A surge of raw, unstoppable power pulsed from behind them—a wave of Fae magic that made the air grow thick and oppressive.

Y/N’s heart raced. “We have to move. Now.”

But it was too late.

The Hidden Chamber – Elarindor

Odin and Verity stood together, their hands weaving through the air, the power of the Fae and Asgard combined. The Veil had already begun to thin, the air warping with the raw magic they summoned.

“It’s done,” Verity said, her voice cold with determination. “They’ll be ours.”

Odin nodded. “Loki will understand what it means to defy me.”

They both turned toward the shimmering, thin veil of magic—a rift that connected the two realms. With a flick of Odin’s hand, the rift began to close, trapping Loki and Y/N in a web of impenetrable magic.

“We move now,” Odin commanded, his tone cutting like a blade.

The Edge of the Forest –

Loki pulled Y/N to him, his eyes scanning the trees.

“Run!” he shouted, but the words were barely out of his mouth before a blinding light consumed them.

A crack echoed in the forest as the Veil shimmered into existence around them. A prison.

They had fallen into it. And they hadn’t even seen it coming.

Loki’s heart pounded in his chest as his magic flared to life, but it couldn’t break through the barrier. The chains were already forming.

Y/N reached for him, her eyes wide with terror. “Loki—”

A figure emerged from the shadows.

Verity.

Her eyes were like cold stones, her expression sharp and unforgiving.

“You should have listened, child,” she said, her voice icy.

Y/N’s voice broke. “Aunt Verity, please—”

“You’ve broken the laws of both realms,” Verity interrupted, her hands glowing with Fae magic. “And for that, you will pay the price.”

Before Loki could react, the chains of silence descended upon them, wrapping tightly around their limbs and locking them in place.

Y/N screamed, but the sound was muffled, as though the very air was smothering her.

“Stop it!” Loki shouted, his voice rising with panic as he struggled against the chains. “You can’t do this!”

“You both belong to us now,” Odin’s voice came from behind Verity, cold and commanding. He stepped forward, his single eye narrowing in fury. “There is no escape, Loki. You were warned.”

Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat, and she turned to Loki, fear flooding her chest. She could see the helplessness in his eyes, the same despair that she felt.

Loki’s voice cracked as he looked at her. “We won’t be separated. I swear it.”

But even as he spoke, Verity raised her hand, and the magic around them tightened.

They were trapped.

And their love, as powerful as it was, could do nothing to stop the chains that bound them.

Moonstone Spire –

They called it the place where starlight died.

It stood alone on the cliffs of Elarindor’s northernmost edge, where even the winds refused to sing. Carved from pale obsidian and moonstone veined with old magic, the spire rose in a spiral of silence. Its halls absorbed voices. Its windows let in only enough light to make shadows.

And in the highest chamber, behind three locked doors and a veil-charm thicker than memory itself, the heir to the fae throne sat in silence.

Y/N had not spoken since they locked the gate.

Not to the priestesses who brought her food.

Not to Verity when she appeared at the threshold, sorrow bitter in her eyes.

Not even to the ghost of Loki in her mind.

She sat with her legs folded, her back straight, her hands clenched in her lap.

Each day passed in a blur of dusk-colored light and quiet meals untouched.

The stone walls began to whisper. Not with sound—but memory. With grief. With the way her heart screamed in the hollows of her chest.

Her fingers still held a small river stone.

From the lake.

From the night he made her laugh until she cried.

She gripped it so hard it left bruises in her palm.

But she did not weep.

She would not.

“Speak to me,” Verity said softly, her silhouette ghostlike in the doorway.

Y/N sat unmoving.

“I begged them not to hurt you,” Verity went on, stepping closer. “I did what I could.”

A pause.

“I thought love would make you stronger. But it made you reckless.”

Still, no answer.

Verity’s expression wavered. “He is not one of us. You don’t know what he’s capable of. Loki will destroy everything.”

Y/N’s voice—when it finally came—was hoarse, sharp as splintered glass.

“You already did.”

And then she turned her back.

Verity left without another word

The cell stank of iron and magic.

Deep beneath Asgard’s golden palace, where light could not find the corners, Loki lay chained to the wall in silence.

His wrists bled where the cuffs bit too deep. His shoulder had dislocated during the struggle and was still out of joint. His magic—it pulsed behind his ribs like a trapped animal, but it could not escape. The chains had seen to that.

When the footsteps came, Loki did not flinch.

He expected Thor.

But it was Odin.

The Allfather stepped through the barrier without ceremony, his golden cloak dragging ash along the floor.

“You shame me,” he said simply.

Loki did not look up. “Then look away.”

Odin moved closer, voice low. “She is a distraction.”

“She is my salvation.”

“She is your ruin.”

Loki turned his head, just slightly, and spoke through cracked lips.

“She is the only reason I didn’t burn every realm that ever spit your name.”

Odin’s eye flared.

“You would betray your blood?”

“You did it first,” Loki hissed. “You killed hers. You buried her family beneath diplomacy and lies. Do not speak to me of betrayal.”

Odin’s silence was heavy.

“You are nothing without Asgard,” he said at last.

Loki’s smile was soft.

“I was nothing with it.”

Odin left him in the dark.

But Loki’s eyes burned brighter than ever.

The war room of Elarindor pulsed with residual magic. The air was thick with enchantments—every map hovering, glowing, twitching like something alive.

Alaric stood before the central sigil, his jaw clenched, his hands curled.

“She hasn’t spoken in three days.”

Verity turned from the map. “She’s grieving.”

“She’s suffering.”

“You think I don’t know what this does to her?” Verity snapped, her voice breaking. “I gave her everything. And she threw it away for an illusion.”

“No,” Alaric said, stepping forward. “She found truth. Something this court hasn’t shown her in years.”

Verity’s mouth tightened.

“If she continues—if she tries to escape again—she will lose her title. Her place in the realm.”

“She already lost you,” Alaric said.

And he walked away before Verity could stop him.

That night, Alaric opened a forbidden book hidden beneath the Hall of Bones. He traced the Veil-breaking runes with shaking fingers.

He whispered her name into the dark.

And the dark answered.

The first cut was shallow.

A line across her palm.

The blood was red—but shimmered faintly silver under the moon.

Y/N pressed it to the stone.

And began to whisper.

The words were old. Older than Verity. Older than the realm. Taught to her in songs by a mother who sang to stars no longer living.

They spoke of bridges between souls.

Of flames that outlived death.

Of spells that no chain could bind.

With each word, her magic answered—hesitant at first. Flickering like a dying flame. Then stronger. Stronger still.

Symbols bloomed across the walls, invisible to fae eyes. Runes that twisted like vines. They grew behind her bed, beneath the floor, in the cracks of the tower’s stone bones.

And when she finally opened her eyes, the room felt different.

Less like a prison.

More like a seed.

Waiting to bloom.

—

The spell bloomed slowly.

Y/N could feel it beneath the stone, weaving itself into the bones of the Spire, defying the silence that had once smothered her. The runes she had carved with her blood pulsed softly now, invisible to the untrained eye, but thrumming with ancient power. With memory.

The tower didn’t fight the spell—it welcomed it.

The Moonstone Spire had always been a prison, yes.

But it had also been a tomb for starlight.

Now, it began to wake.

Each day, the wind that slithered through the narrow window whispered a little louder. Each night, the shadows curled into shapes she could understand. Her magic stirred in her blood, and for the first time in weeks, her hands did not tremble.

She no longer cried when she touched the stone.

She listened.

—

Alaric stood before the Spire’s sealed gate as dusk bled across the cliffs.

Two guards stood at attention—young, loyal, oblivious.

He dismissed them with a wave of his ring. The seal of the fae royal blood still held power, and his voice—stern, controlled—left no room for question.

He climbed the spiral alone.

The Spire moaned under his boots, as if warning him, as if remembering another time.

He reached the chamber door and pressed a hand to it.

“Y/N.”

Silence.

“It’s me.”

More silence.

He let out a breath.

“You can hate me. You can scream. You can curse my name. But I’m not leaving until you look me in the eye.”

A pause.

Then—a soft voice. Faint.

“You’re late.”

The door creaked open.

She stood on the other side, thinner than he remembered, her skin pale, but her eyes glowing like embers.

Alaric’s throat tightened.

“I thought they broke you,” he whispered.

“They tried.”

A pause.

“I’m still me.”

He stepped forward. The runes caught his attention instantly—faint, tangled symbols etched into the cracks of the floor, hidden between shadows.

He met her gaze, suddenly fearful. “You’re using Veilcraft.”

“I’m reclaiming it.”

Alaric swallowed hard.

“If Verity sees this—”

“She won’t,” Y/N said softly. “Not until it’s too late.”

—

Thor stood before the throne of Asgard, golden armor glinting beneath the high glass dome. Odin sat atop it, fingers drumming on the carved lion’s armrest. The Hall was empty, save for them.

“I’ve come to speak of Loki.”

Odin sighed. “I’ve heard enough of him.”

“You haven’t heard me.”

The words struck like a challenge.

Odin’s eye narrowed. “Speak then.”

Thor stepped closer. “You always feared him. Even when he was a child. You feared his mind. His power. You punished him for using it.”

“He was manipulative—”

“He was alone,” Thor growled. “And now, for the first time, he isn’t.”

Odin rose slowly. “She is dangerous.”

“She is what he chose.”

“And what happens when she chooses vengeance?”

Thor’s voice dropped. “What happens when we are the ones deserving of it?”

Odin froze.

“You’re becoming what you once fought,” Thor whispered. “A ruler who fears love more than war.”

They stared at each other, thunder pulsing between them.

Odin turned away.

And Thor knew: the storm had only just begun.

—

Loki lay still in the darkness.

He had stopped counting the hours.

Stopped measuring the passing days by the water trickling through the cracks.

Stopped hoping.

Until tonight.

A breeze touched his cheek—impossible, in this sealed cell beneath Asgard.

His eyes snapped open.

And then he saw it.

A single white moth.

Its wings shimmered with moonlight and stardust. Not conjured. Not illusion. Fae-born.

Loki sat up slowly, every nerve humming.

The moth fluttered toward him, landing on his bound wrist. Its wings beat once, twice, and then—collapsed into a single line of ancient runes.

He read them slowly.

A message.

The walls are cracking. I remember the stars. Do you? — Y

Loki’s breath caught in his throat.

He pressed the moth to his heart, whispering a shaky laugh.

“Yes,” he said.

“I remember.”

—

Later that night, Y/N sat cross-legged in the center of her chamber, hair braided back, eyes closed.

The spell was nearly complete.

Alaric had returned to her with stolen pages—ripped from books Verity thought long buried. Fragments of enchantments used in the first war between realms. Runes that once unmade the Veil itself.

Y/N’s voice was steady as she chanted.

Every word carved into the stone. Every note resonating deeper.

As she whispered the final phrase, the walls of her prison breathed.

Not crumbled. Not shattered.

But responded.

Like they were no longer holding her back—but holding her up.

The stars blinked through the slit window above.

She raised her head.

And for the first time since the day they were torn apart—

She smiled.

The walls of the Moonstone Spire had stopped humming. Now, they listened.

Y/N stood before the sealed archway that had held her for weeks, her hand glowing softly with silver and violet light. The runes she’d etched into the floor were complete now—threaded with Alaric’s power, stitched with the spells of the oldest Fae bloodlines. They shimmered, rising in thin glowing lines like vines around the door.

And then, with a breathless whisper—

The lock gave way.

The ancient seal cracked.

And the door that should never have opened for anyone—

Opened for her.

Alaric was waiting in the corridor, hood drawn over his dark hair, his sword glowing faintly with ward-breaking magic.

“Now,” he said.

She nodded once, heart hammering. “Let’s go.”

They vanished into the corridor’s shadows like starlight dissolving into mist.

—

The escape through Elarindor was a test of blood, bone, and memory.

Y/N knew the palace well—but not like this. Not from its underbelly.

Alaric led her through forgotten tunnels buried beneath the royal archives, crumbling halls from the time of their great-grandmother’s war. The stones whispered of betrayal and secrets and spells long buried, but they let them pass.

“I laid false tracks,” Alaric murmured as they ran, his voice tight. “Verity will think you’re still in the tower.”

“For how long?” Y/N asked.

“Long enough.”

They reached the outer chamber—the edge of the Veil.

Here, reality shimmered like a curtain underwater. It was not a door but a boundary. One only a fae with royal blood could tear.

“Are you sure this will work?” she asked.

“No,” Alaric admitted. “But if it doesn’t, she wins.”

Y/N placed her hand against the Veil.

It recognized her.

And it parted.

They stepped through.

—

Asgard smelled of fire and metal and old thunder.

The tunnel they emerged in—carved from deep stone and long abandoned—led straight beneath the Golden Palace. Y/N felt the weight of Odin’s kingdom above her like a pressure behind her eyes.

“This is reckless,” Alaric muttered. “Even for you.”

“I’m not leaving him here.”

Y/N gripped the spell in her hand—the one she had bound to the moth. She could feel him. Weak, fading, but alive.

They reached the base of the prison.

Wards shimmered along the walls. Sharp, furious, ancient.

Alaric studied them quickly. “I need three minutes.”

“You have two.”

She pressed her hand to the wall. The magic resisted—then bent, recognizing the same signature she’d sent in her message.

A door appeared.

The scent hit her first—blood, sweat, iron.

And then—him.

Loki lay against the far wall, bound in gold-threaded chains, pale but still burning. His eyes fluttered open at the sound of her gasp.

“Y/N…”

She ran to him, fell to her knees beside him.

“You came,” he whispered, dazed.

“You think I’d let them keep you?”

His smile broke something in her chest.

“I told you,” she said, reaching for the shackles, “they can’t keep me from you.”

Her spell hit the chains like fire on dry parchment.

The gold snapped.

The room shook.

Alaric shouted from the hall, “We have to go—now!”

Y/N hauled Loki up with shaking arms. He was weak, but his strength returned with every step—his magic bleeding back into him like a tide returning to the sea.

They ran.

Behind them, alarms began to sound.

Faint, distant—but rising.

Verity stood in the Moonstone Spire, her hand on the cold stone where Y/N’s blood had once dried. Her eyes widened as she saw the runes—twisted through the walls like veins.

“Alaric,” she whispered. “You treacherous fool.”

She turned toward the horizon—toward the trembling Veil.

And for the first time in centuries—

The Queen of Elarindor looked afraid.

—

They emerged in a clearing on the borderlands between realms—the forest where the stars grew low and warm, hanging like lanterns above the trees.

Y/N collapsed to her knees, gasping. Loki fell beside her, leaning heavily into her side.

Alaric dropped to one knee, pressing his palm to the ground. “We’re hidden—for now.”

Loki turned to Y/N, reaching for her hand. “You broke the Spire.”

“I sent a moth,” she whispered, eyes shimmering. “You followed it.”

He laughed, breathless. “Gods, I missed you.”

She kissed his forehead, trembling.

“You’re not going back,” she whispered. “Not to Asgard. Not to chains.”

-The end……(?)

[i-drop-level-one-loot]

Happy New Year! (Yandere!Fortune Teller x GN!Reader)

A delighted squeal sharply cut through the quiet chatter of the line for the fortune teller. It was a small little illegal shop that popped up overnight and was all over (Reader's) feed. Their best friend, and the reason why they were outside in the cold so early, tugged on their coat sleeve.

"They must have gotten a good one." She smiled playfully, and still a little drunk.

The fortune teller was apparently incredibly accurate. Even skeptics had been posting all morning about how this guy was able to tell them full names of people in their lives and dates of events that already happened he shouldn't have been able to guess on the first try.

"Missy, it's cold as hell.." (Reader) whined, their head also hurting a tad bit from the amount their friend had them drink a few hours earlier to welcome the new year. ".. and I just want a burrito."

Missy clicked her long acrylics in front of (Reader's) face. "And I want a girlfriend. C'mon, just a few more minutes! Please! You don't even have to get your fortune done, just stay with me, emotional support!" She huffed and stamped her boots while dramatically letting her arms fall to her sides heavy enough to make a loud whump against her coat.

They knew their friend wasn't actually a brat, but it was a fun little "act" ; she enjoyed putting on, especially when she was all dolled up (as she called it). So, as what usually happens, (Reader) rolled their eyes theatrically in a show of pretending to give in. The woman with the pink and blonde fashion wig smiled wide and squeezed (Reader's) arm lovingly.

‐---------------------------------------------------------------------------

At first, (Reader) thought that the man was a mannequin. A beautiful body propped up at a table, with a veil over the top of his head and silk clothes, but other than the fact that he was beautiful, there was something too basic about his features and too perfect about his skin to be human. Like a mall mannequin: with a dusty pale skin tone with zero blemishes or imperfections, his eyebrows looked so fine that they were maybe painted on, and the blonde hair under the veil was so light in color, (Reader) thought he was bald and that the lightly golden coloring was more silk.

Yes, he was beautiful, but looking at him was uncomfortable, like people describing the uncanny valley of robots.

He opened his eyes, revealing dull grey irises, that helped humanized him (at least, in (Reader's) opinion).

"Welcome, Miranda and (Reader)." His voice was also weirdly perfect, making (Reader's) skin crawl, but looking over at Missy they saw she didn't feel anything other than awe.

"Ohmygawd, how did you know our names?!"

He smiled very softly. "It's my job." A thin hand with long, delicate fingers motioned for the two friends to sit before him.

As the cards were laid out (Reader) allowed their mind to wander. Not only did the guy in front of them weird them out, but they believed that fortune tellers were scam artists. They knew it could be fun to just see what your future might look like, and wanted to be respectful for people who actually believed in tarot and stuff like that, but people setting up businesses promising to read your future and then just reading some generic script then charging you a hundred bucks is how you get vulnerable people to fork over their life savings. (Reader) only agreed to go because to make sure the "fortune teller" didn't try and change the price on Missy or sell her a bunch of unnecessary shit.

The man clapped loudly, startling (Reader) back into focus. "You will meet a woman this year.

You will meet her in two months, at the book store across from your job. The two of you will be searching for the same book, and it will feel like fate. Don't be afraid to ask her out for coffee, because she'd love to discuss the series with you."

Long nails scratch the back of (Reader's) hand as Missy impulsively grabs it. "Are you.. sure she's.. y'know..." she raised her eyebrows.

The man looked puzzled for a second before responding with, "The ending you always wanted for NaNa."

Missy nearly cracked her neck turning to (Reader) as quickly as she did, whining happily "Oh my god...." before burying her face in their chest. Then (Reader) felt the tears, and realized Missy was more drunk and exhausted than they realized.

"Uh, thanks, did she already pay, or?"

"Would you like your fortune read now?"

He seemed unfazed by Missy's minor meltdown.

"Ah, no thanks."

"I'll give it to you free. Call it a two for one deal."

Alarm bells were ringing in their head. "Why?"

He was silent for a second, like he was listening to something, just as he was when he told Missy she was going to be living out her headcannon fantasy. "Something's just telling me I should give you a fortune reading."

Missy wiped snot across (Reader's) chest before raising her head. "Oh, are you getting read too?"

"What? N-"

"Can we get burritos after this?"

They looked down at their best friend in the entire world, and sighed. "Yeah, if it's completely free."

‐---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Even compelling completely scrunched up in concentration, there was a concerning lack of wrinkles, leading (Reader) to the conclusion that if this man was in fact human, he most certainly had botox.

Suddenly, his eyes shot open wide. He looked up at (Reader), staring deep into them without blinking.

"What?"

He didn't answer. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. But his face began to change into an odd shade of pink.

The wig wearing woman loudly gasped "IS THEY DYING?!" while clutching (Reader's) arm in mock horror.

"I'm not dying!" (Reader) shoved their friend off, feeling overwhelmed by their current situation.

The fortune teller reached across the table, and without asking, grabbed one of (Reader's) hands, observing their palm intensely. But he could only do so for a second before they yanked their arm back and stood up.

"Missy, let's go, I told you this guy was a fucking scammer."

Like a switch had been flipped, Missy held up her middle finger and called the man a creep, apologetic for not trusting her best friend. "Why did he grab you like that? So gross!"

The two left. They would later get burritos and watch half a movie before passing out. This moment was creepy, but ultimately, nothing to them.

He had always been gifted.

But when they left the gifted medium on the floor, images of what he had just been shown were still fresh in his mind.

The tarot cards were a gimmick, just there because that's something people associate with being able to see the past, present, and future. Was he a scam artist? Maybe, to some. He never gave people the fortunes they didn't want to hear, and only reminded them of memories they liked. You don't get tipped if you tell someone their child is going to die. And we all need money.

Then (Reader) came into his pop up shop, another skeptic, and he figured if gave them a reading for free and made it really good they would be the type of person to tip him out of guilt. But for their future all he saw was... him.

Him?

He had never thought about himself. He was creepy and disgusting. His presence made people uncomfortable. If he focuses hard enough he can speak to the dead. No one wants to be friends with that. No one wants to love that.

No future is set in stone. There are hundreds of thousands of possibilities, and he can see them all. And while (Reader) sat in front of him, staring at him with their beautifully tired eyes, he searched through every single one.

It was.. exciting, he had to admit, seeing himself with someone. He didn't know this person at all, but it wasn't hard to feel some kind of affection for them seeing a future where they felt affection for Him.

He couldn't even remember the last time someone willing held his hand. Maybe when he had to cross the street with his mother? No, she required him to wear gloves.

While staring at his client, he couldn't help but watch their entire life. He was supposed to look through their memories briefly to get a sense of the "past", but like time didn't exist, he watched their entire life play out. They made him feel things.

Even when (Reader) called him a scammer, he still loved them. After all, he did kind of lie by omission to their best friend: Missy's new relationship would only last five months.

But it was okay if they thought he was creepy or a scam artist. Because he already saw the future.

And he knew every single correct step to take to make sure they were smiling at him like they were in that vision.

‐---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Happy New Year everyone!!!!!!

Let's hope that this upcoming year is better than the last!

I'm a really pessimistic person, so I'm trying to be hopeful. I'm also trying to find ways to reduce stress since I can't afford to take care of my mental health (haha). I'm getting white hairs. White. Ain't that crazy? It's stressful trying to not stress out lol

Does anyone else play future telling games on New Year? As a kid my family would all play MASH to see what our future is going to be like hahaha and a lot of my younger coworkers this year were talking about eating grapes under tables? Very cute <3

I hope you all had a great new year, and didn't get too drunk, stay hydrated, and if you have and future telling game memories for me years tell me about it!

Let's make 2025 better than 2024!

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

The last few things I wrote were quite sad, and so I had a HC that little Éowyn was a real menace to the women who wanted to date Théodred and I had a few hours at a boring work conference so…here’s a thing, presumably less sad! Less than 1,500 words!

Théodred is 26ish and Éowyn is 9ish.

“What do we say, Éowyn?”

Théoden put a hand behind her shoulder and lightly propelled her toward Théodred, who sat quietly a few feet away. Her lips were pressed into a thin, straight line and her eyes still burned with a fiery gleam, but, lacking any other choice, she complied with her uncle’s direction.

“I am sorry, cousin, for calling your visitor a Donkey Face,” she muttered, the words hard and cold as she glared down at the stonework on the floor.

“And?” Théoden gave her another small prod.

She sighed heavily, as though he had burdened her with the weight of the world itself. “And for putting a spider in her hair. And for laughing while she screamed and danced around to get it out.” She shot a look up at Théoden, her eyes accusing. “Even though the spider was perfectly harmless, and you didn’t need to squish it.”

“No commentary, please. Just continue with what we talked about.”

She drew another breath to spit out the rest of the scripted apology, feeling the distastefulness of the words in her mouth already. But when she turned back to Théodred, looking him in the face this time, she stopped short. His eyes were soft and a small smile played across his lips, a look of fond affection that somehow felt more damning than any of her uncle’s stern reprimands. It was easy for her to meet anger with anger, but to sustain a sharp temper in opposition to Théodred’s quiet warmth was nearly impossible, feeling somewhere between absurd and callous. Her voice faltered, its prior edge dulled by the first stirring of true regret.

“Uncle says that I made myself look bad, but also him and also you.” She swallowed hard, her words sticking in her throat from contrition now rather than petulance, and she took another small step toward him. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I hope that you aren't angry with me, and I promise not to do it again. A real promise this time. Do you forgive me?”

Théodred’s small smile widened, blooming into a grin, and he waved a hand, a little brushing gesture to push the whole matter behind them. “Of course. Consider it forgotten.”

“Not forgotten,” warned Théoden. “Forgiven, yes. But let us remember in the future that we are not to treat guests this way, especially very important guests who are here at my personal invitation.” He nodded to Théodred and then turned for the door. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have some ruffled feelings to smooth in the other room. I’m not sure Éowyn’s first apology went over as well as this one did.”

Théoden walked out and Éowyn was about to follow when Théodred’s hand caught her elbow.

“May I ask you something, little cousin?” He released her arm and pointed to the chair next to him.

She had hoped to escape the room, to run off to a branch of her favorite tree from which she could watch the king’s guards go through their daily combat drills and pretend the whole morning had never happened. But instead, she perched hesitantly on the edge of the proffered chair and waited for him to speak.

He sat for a long moment in silence, fingers tented in front of his chest, and studied her face. “I’ve always loved your mischievous spirit,” he said at last. “It reminds me of your mother, and it brings a sense of laughter and fun into what used to be a very somber place. But your mother never turned her mischief against unsuspecting strangers, and neither did you until recently. One incident is a fluke, two is notable, but four is a pattern. Is there something troubling you lately that would explain this change? Anything that you’d like to talk about?”

“No.” The answer came out quickly and defensively, an attempt to ward off further inquiry, but it seemed only to encourage him to keep talking instead.

“I can’t help but notice that the targets of your mischief have all had one thing in common. They’re all noble ladies, daughters of your uncle’s closest friends and allies, that he’s brought here to visit with me. Have these women done something to you that would perhaps warrant your dislike?”

The straight line reformed at her lips, and she shook her head.

“If you don’t know these women and they’ve never caused you offense or given you reason to view them unfavorably, then why are you so intent on tormenting them?”

A hot blush came to her cheeks, and, embarrassingly, some tears to her eyes. She looked down to hide them, staring intently at a small crack in the floor, and tried to think of what to say. But all her thoughts only brought the threat of more tears and so she shrugged her shoulders instead.

“How about if I tell you what I think, and you can tell me if I am wrong?” He paused just long enough to see her reluctant nod and then continued. “I think perhaps you dislike the fact that your uncle keeps bringing women here in the hopes that I’ll choose one as a bride. I think you know that things will change once I have a wife, and perhaps you worry about what those changes will mean for you. And I think you’ve been trying to run these women off, so that maybe you won’t have to find out.” He leaned forward and put a hand gently on her arm. “Does that sound right?”

She shrugged again, keeping her head down, but she couldn’t hide the big, round tear that dripped from her chin and landed heavily on the back of his hand. And once the first was seen, the will to hold back the others quickly crumbled. Whatever response she might have made was lost in an instant, and she began to sob.

“Oh, Éowyn, come here.” He gestured her toward him, and she stumbled forward into his open arms, her little frame swallowed up in the big, tight embrace he wrapped around her. “Getting married is something most of us will do some day. And if we’re lucky, we get many happy years together with a beloved husband or wife. Your uncle was cheated out of that chance, and he wants to see me enjoy what he was denied. But when I find a wife to love, that doesn’t mean that I’ll then love you any less. That’s not how love works. A heart always has room for more. And I’ll guard your share like it’s one of my most cherished treasures, because it is. I promise, cousin.”

He let her cry for another few minutes, releasing the fear and sadness that had been trapped deep within her for the last several weeks, until eventually the tears began to slow and her breathing to calm. A little sniffling noise emerged from somewhere inside the embrace, and he felt her dry a wet cheek on his shirt before pulling back to look up at him, all wide eyes and creased brow. “Your favorite cousin?” The tiniest shadow of a smirk appeared on her lips.

He laughed, and then she did, too. “I won’t be snared in your trap that easily just to see Éomer angry with me later. But you’re my one and only Éowyn, and that is a special thing indeed.”

She smiled, wiped her face again on a sleeve, and returned to her chair, dropping back into it more comfortably this time. “If you do have to pick a wife, I hope she’ll be much better than the ones Uncle has brought so far. All they do is sit there and smile and agree with everything you say. And they all laugh too hard at Uncle’s jokes. There hasn’t been a good one in the lot.”

He laughed again. “Would you like to know a secret?” He leaned forward and switched to an exaggerated whisper. “I don’t much like them either.”

“You don’t?” Her eyes widened but she worked hard to keep a note of gleeful triumph from her voice.

“That doesn’t mean that I condone calling them names or covering them with bugs, of course, but no, they’re not right for me. It’s not their fault, and I know that your uncle means well in bringing them here. But I intend to find my own wife, in my own time. And when I do find her someday, I am certain that she’ll meet with your approval. No insects or dirty looks or ‘accidentally’ spilled tea required. After all, you trust my judgment, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“Good.” He smiled and held out a hand. “Now let’s go out to the garden and see if we can find you a new spider friend.”

Dividers by the lovely @quillofspirit!

[caliburn-not-calculator]

New au? Kinda fairy tale logic, prince Veerle and a genre savvy dragon Emerson.

They will end up cute and fluffy but be warned at the early stage there is some light dehumanisation and a vague sense of possessiveness. Mostly its just Veerle being justifiably annoyed at having been kidnapped by a dragon. Also, implied but very vague angst about Veerle's former home life. This isn't too bad tho

Unprincely as it was, Veerle couldn’t help but mumble curses to himself as he staggered through the maze of grand shelves and carpeted floors. No matter where he stepped metal would clink and clatter underfoot, often sliding out beneath him and leaving him grasping a shelf for support. Irritating as it was to traverse he had to admit, the home of his "host", was a fascinating one. The vast network of caverns was filled with stacks of scrolls, books and art objects from cultures and times even he hadn’t heard of. The floors glittered gold, the carved walls housing troves of old knowledge, and the ceiling so distant above all he could see was a false night sky.

He’d already wandered from his designated nest of fine fabrics and furs more than once, intent on exploring his new residence. At first, he’d been searching for escape, or at least a place to hide should the creature that kept him become less hospitable. However, it was awfully difficult not to get distracted. The library of his palace was grand, yes, but this… He trailed his fingers over the impeccably kept spines of books that might have been older than his kingdom. Most seemed to be novels or collections of histories, myths, and folklore, though many were in tongues he could not read.

He paused at one with a pictographic script impressed into a clay tile cover. As he was stepping closer to get a better look, his foot hit a smooth plate buried beneath the loose debris. Instantly it tipped beneath him. He let out a short yelp as his feet slid from under him, gravity twisting his stomach, but just as sharply as he fell he came to a jarring stop. Veerle’s back hit something smooth and cool. A faint rumble thrummed through him, and his eyes widened.

“There you are,” the creature crooned in its hissing melodic voice, lightly jostling him as he was essentially laid back on its snout.

Before he could scramble away or reply, smooth thin points brushed the back of his neck. Teeth. He tensed, an embarrassing alarmed squeak slipping from him. Rather than sinking in flesh they caught the back of his shirt and scarf, snatching him unceremoniously into the air. With a lurch and a snap of the creature's glimmering green wings, the ground fell away beneath him.

A few months later he was deposited into the nest arranged for him with a soft thunk. Head spinning from the flight he toppled into the pile, barely preventing himself from falling right onto his face. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself to his knees. Apparently oblivious to the glare it was receiving, the creature (or Emerson as it liked to be called, though Veerle had no desire to be on a first-name basis with a being who had essentially kidnapped him) made a lazy circle and looped himself around the nest.

If Veerle were a little less annoyed he may have taken the time to appreciate the majesty of the creature. It had a long sinuous body covered in jewel green scales, though beneath sun or firelight undertones of silver and jagged swirls of gold could be made out. It was beautiful, undoubtedly, but equally deadly. Veerle had little doubt it could kill him with a single snap of its whiplike tail or fine toothed maw. Why it hadn’t was something of a curiosity.

For all he knew, he was not food but rather… A prize? A pet? Perhaps a living repository of knowledge to add to his collection of more traditional tomes?

Settling around him, the creature huffed, and let out a low warbling sound that might have been a chuckle. “You really must stop doing that, you could get lost! Or damaged! It is far safer for you to remain just here.” Veerle jumped as the tip of his tail unexpectedly and rather teasingly tapped his chin. “If you want to read I can bring you books.”

Veerle narrowed his eyes at it, being met with its steady gold stare. “I am not some— some art object! You can’t expect me to just sit here all day,” he snapped, though it was less steady than he’d like.

“My apologies little thing,” Emerson seemed to chuckle again, his eyes in amused crescents as he watched Veerle bristle. “I had quite forgotten how opinionated humans could get when bothered. I suppose I should have expected nothing less from a prince, though, perhaps I thought you may be more open to sitting back and being taken care of.”

“You have an interesting definition of care,” Veerle grumbled, slumping into the cushions which were, admittedly, awfully comfortable.

The dragon's eyes narrowed and wings twitched. “Is there something I am missing that you so desire? Are you in need of more food perhaps? Or entertainment? I am a little out of touch in regards to human needs, I suppose.”

Veerle could have almost convinced himself there was an edge of concern in its tone, but through its strange melody and the echo of the cavern he could not decipher anything close enough to human intonation to be sure. He crossed his arms and levelled his best snooty stare at the dragon. It saw a shockingly rare amount of use in the castle, so maybe he was a little out of practice. Despite his position no one particularly listened to him, whether he was pleasant, petulant, or otherwise. But, perhaps it could nudge this creature along.

“Yes. Freedom. I, am, not, treasure.”

For a moment they stared at each other, his words reverberating faintly through the cavern. He tensed as loud most certainly laugh broke the quiet.

Emerson shook faintly with his mirth and coiled tighter around the nest. “Oh, but you are my dear prince. That’s precisely what you are.” Veerle scrunched his brow in confusion, and the dragon needed no encouragement to continue talking. “Stories are the most precious thing of all, and what is the most classic of them but that of poor captured royalty? It’s all well and good having copies of stories, but I should like to have my own to live.”

Veerle blinked at the dragon, struck silent by the pleasure and frankness in his words, like they were the most logical things in the world. It seemed to wait patiently for a response, watching him with glittering eyes like faceted topaz.

“You mean to tell me that I’m… part of your hoard?” he said slowly.

Emerson dipped his head. “Of course, until some valiant hero manages to rescue you. However, I do not intend for it to be an easy feat. Either it is a gruelling and inspirational tale of triumph where the prince is saved and I suppose I am slain, or, a tragedy where your hero falls in vain and you remain mine forever more. I am not phased either way.”

Veerle was once again reduced to baffled and shocked silence.

At his lack of response, Emerson gently tapped him with his tail again. “Now, hush my treasure, you seem quite dazed. Perhaps rest your head.”

His words were enough to pull Veerle back into the world and he batted away the tail which was prodding him to lie back. “No— No! I may be part of your… hoard, I suppose, but I am still a person! Not an old book or pretty painting. Understood?” He did his best to glare at the dragon, and though he doubted he was all that intimidating, comparatively rather small and slumped back against a pile of plush pillows, Emerson did tilt his head in consideration.

“I suppose this is true. Though you must forgive me for forgetting. You are a lovely looking thing and it is hard to imagine you are real and indeed not an imagined image or fine sculpture,” he seemed to tease, tail gently curling beneath his chin and tilting his head.

Veerle had no clue what to do or how to respond to the flush of heat beneath his cheeks. Apparently in shock, it only took a slight nudge to send him fully falling back. Emerson made no action to prevent him from rising again, but he didn’t bother fighting it either. He slumped into the bedding, trying to parse his situation as the dragon continued.

“I do have impeccable taste after all. I only collect the most perfect of things,” he said through a briefly rumbling yawn as he settled around the nest. “Sweet dreams, treasure, and tell me them when you wake. I want to hear all of your stories.”

Veerle stared at the darkness above him, rest far from his mind as he considered what had been said. That, and the nagging worry of what would happen when Emerson realised there would be no hero or grand tale for a prince like him.

[bovndlcss]

the pursuit of knowledge. elegant script. a splash of ink on the cuff of your sleeve. organising your thoughts. solving a riddle. looking to the past for answers about the future. a teetering pile of books. a meeting of the minds. correcting someone’s mistakes. unfurling a piece of paper. renaissance man. a phrase that does not translate. the intimacy of being understood.

statistics.

full name: etienne st juste nickname(s):  the antiquarian, tienne (to few) name meaning:  garland age:  thirty-four date of birth:  february 11th star sign:  aquarius place of birth: unknown current location: tortuga, st dominigue gender:  cis-male pronouns:  he/him sexual orientation:  demisexual occupation:  archivist aboard the harbinger family:  honoré st juste (father figure, deceased), unknown biological parents education level: highly educated living arrangements:  lives on the harbinger financial status:  surprisingly well off, as he rarely spends his share of any prizes the harbinger takes

inspiration.

henry winter (the secret history), cole (dragon age), the archivist (the magnus archives), bruno madrigal (encanto), viktor (arcane), leonardo da vinci (historical figure)

biography. (slavery tw, death tw, discrimination tw, murder tw)

Like witty Odysseus before him, Etienne St Juste was Nobody once. His earliest memories are of the dark hold of a ship, of the tight press of frantic bodies, of the smell of death and decay that lingered on the stale air and threatened to choke the life from any that remained. He doesn’t remember his mother. Perhaps it was her that had died.

A ship brought him to France from ports unknown, a skinny boy of six short years who had already forgotten the blinding sun and white sands of his homeland. He didn’t cry like the others he arrived with, just stared and stared with his huge dark eyes, unnerving and quiet and undesirable to any potential buyers.

Well, all except one. Honoré St Juste was a scholar from Paris, who had come to Bordeaux in pursuit of a candidate for his pet project. He took one look at the strange, scrawny boy, who had yet to speak a word, and saw his potential. There was raw intelligence shining in those dark eyes, and he intended to mould it into something greater.

Honoré wasn’t really in the market for a slave, only for a pupil that would prove his theory: that a person from any circumstances could be educated, if given the opportunity to try. He expressed his intent to emancipate his young charge on their return to the capital, and seeing as the boy seemingly had no name, he gave him one befitting a citizen of France - Etienne.

Their lessons began at once, and under Honoré’s tutelage, Etienne flourished. It was just as the old man had suspected - the boy had a keen mind, incredible skills of retention, and an intellectual curiosity that rivalled his own. He found his tongue after a week, his broken French becoming whole with dedication and practice, and everything else suddenly fell into place.

Together, they studied everything under the sun: languages and poetry, philosophy and mathematics, science and astronomy. Etienne loved it all, but more than that, he loved Honoré’s approval. They were birds of a feather, and he was comfortable in the elderly scholar’s company even if he was rarely comfortable anywhere else - he was Etienne’s benefactor and tutor, yes, but he came to view him as a father too.

Outside of the St Juste household, there was no one Etienne could comfortably call 'friend'. He had no occasion (or any real desire) to meet people his own age, and any novelty he held for Honoré's peers in the salons of Paris quickly wore thin as he aged from boy to man. They resented him for speaking his mind, for daring to correct them when he knew them to be wrong, for such arrogance from a man of his background.

But Etienne was an academic in his own right, and as deserving as the rest of them. He didn't care for their disdain, not when he had Honoré to assure him of his place in the world, and he continued to devote himself wholly to his studies.

Things continued in this fashion until, one night, Etienne returned home to find Honoré on the floor of his private study, his life’s blood soaking into the rug. The obvious culprit? Etienne himself, who held the only other key.

It is here that memory and actuality diverge - Etienne remembers staring impassively at the body of the man he had called 'father', accepting his death and the fact that he had been framed, and making the decision to flee. The truth? He cradled the old man's body in his arms and wept for longer than was sensible, his clothes stained scarlet and his thoughts black with grief.

Ultimately, he recovered himself enough to pack up the most important aspects of Honoré's life's work, and vanished into the night before the arrival of the gendarmarie. He made his way to port in silence, and paid a handsome sum to be transported elsewhere - away from the only life he'd known, and the rapidly cooling body of his only friend in the world.

The passage he had bought saw Etienne to the distant Caribbean sea, to the island of Tortuga and the pirates that called it 'home'. He learned the reputation of the ship called Harbinger, and that of her crew and captain, and readily proposed his candidacy for the position of archivist, without a doubt in his mind that Vidar the Voiceless would find him fit for purpose.

Now called the Antiquarian, Etienne has single-mindedly dedicated the last seven years of his life to the web of knowledge housed within the Harbinger's walls - to its maintenance, to its study, to its expansion. He is not so arrogant as to think he will ever know everything about the world, but perhaps, by the time his name is called, he will know more than anyone else.

other things.

A complete pack rat, Etienne’s quarters aboard the Harbinger are full to bursting with various curiosities he’s gathered throughout his time at sea. It looks like chaos to the uninitiated, but he knows exactly where everything is, and keeps it all meticulously.

Etienne has developed his own form of shorthand over the years, which is completely indecipherable to anyone but him.

When it comes to vices, Etienne is sorely lacking. He doesn’t drink or smoke, and is uninterested in both games of chance and the Sirens of the Nest - except from an anthropological standpoint, of course.

Pirate he may be, but Etienne has never yet taken a life, and prefers to keep out of any fighting, if he can.

Etienne is a polyglot, and can boast fluency in a number of modern languages, as well as Latin, Ancient Greek and Arabic. Although he can and often does for simplicity’s sake, he hates speaking in English, and refers to it as the common tongue.

Etienne doesn't actually have a last name, but he took to calling himself 'St Juste' after Honoré's death. If you asked him why, he wouldn't be able to tell you.

[anemonia13]

Thoughts about Diavolo and Doppio

Introducion

All that ton of text exists because I didn't believe it was DID since my first time watching and reading Golden Wind. Literally from the first time seeing their actions and interactions, I thought it looked more like some sort of supernatural thing than that condition, to which I only found more confirmation as I watched. I still want to call the following examples thin, since there is a very high probability that Araki was simply going way too wild with all this mystical mysterious secrecy of the antagonist, and everything that I will give may turn out to be just the fattest wicked technique for exaggerating this, but I want to express my thoughts nonetheless. Plus, I think it might be a narrative trick after all, so I may turn out to be right in the end of the day.

Point

So, let's get it straight: the theory is that there's no DID in that story, Diavolo is not an alter-ego, but something else and probably not a human at all. And now to the specifics.

Let's start from afar: his (to make it easier to read, I'm talking about Diavolo in a generally accepted way) mother, in her words, became pregnant from an unknown man who died 2 years before his birth, and, moreover, she has been sitting in isolation from the outside world for 2 years, in a specifically women's prison without any men at all. AND, MOREOVER, the anime adaptation shows that the fetus develops in just a few hours (I’ll say a few more words about the validity of David's version later). Well, it’s impossible, well, it’s a huge nonsense, even if we consider from a seemingly scientific point of view of this universe, with which Araki tried to explain, for example, the change in physical parameters when switching egos. Here's mystical supernatural shit number 1.

Further. This particular point is relevant only for anime adaptation. Unfortunately, I haven’t found any data on how much Araki took part in its creation, I confess, but I have the right to assume that if it was approved by him and released the way we see it, it is quite a canon by which we can argue. It came out after the manga and this is quite possibly a more correct representation of events from the point of view of canon details. In the same scene, after birth, the baby's eye color momentarily changes from hazel to red, then back. This move, I want to note, is often used to show a character’s possession, usually with supernatural forces or the like. Yes, it is also used to refer to a "second personality" or some hidden nature of a character, but newborns do not have DID, it is a disorder that develops after severe repeating trauma. Mystical supernatural shit number 2.

We smoothly move on to the extreme turbidity and ambiguity of DID, and I’m not even going to talk about body changes when switching. So, DID develops, as, by the way, even in the original source is noted, as a result of a deep shock or trauma. A person dissociates from the traumatic experience, which, if severe and repetative to the point when their mind can't really survive it, results in violation of an identity integrity. It does not develop immediately and is noticeable to others, while commonly not being noticable to a person expiriensing it. And what do we see on this topic there? Nothing, only Doppio shows symptoms of dissociation, and only in situations where something threatens to expose the boss’s identity (or in other situations related to him, that’s the only way), which is strange, because I can’t even imagine such a trauma can be (i.e., it becomes a chicken-and-egg paradox: the trauma, in theory, should be related to the boss, to alter, but without the trauma there should be no boss, no alter). Other trauma is either not shown, which is a serious omission from the script, because this is no longer a mystery, but a hole, or it simply does not exist, because in the village, as far as can be seen, the attitude towards him was near normal, and his foster father is caring and loving, and has a trusting relationship with him (judging by the phrase casually thrown by the drivers from a flashback with his youth, where they warn him not to complain about an accident on the road to the priest, which seems to refer to the fact that this has already happened at least once before, and as if he would hardly have gone to him to complain if he did not trust him). Mystical supernatural shit number 3.

The same muddy and unclear story with his mother under the floor. Why is she there? For what is she there? How did she survive there? But who would know. In my opinion, it looks like some kind of some ritual-related bullshit, or at least a sacrifice to something, but I don’t undertake to make any special statements or comments here, I’m just noting and thinking. Mystical supernatural shit number 4.

Let's get to non-flashback events. POSSIBLY Diavolo is able to influence Doppio's consciousness (which does not happen in the opposite direction). This is indicated by the latter’s holy faith in the fact that he is talking to his boss on real work phones, well, that’s how he sees them, as well as the clouding and memory lapses that suddenly occur after the end of the call, which is strange, but still convenient for Diavolo, what a goddamn lucky coincidence, huh? I don't think alters are able to perform such tricks. Mystical supernatural shit number 5.

In the SCR arc, characters mutually switch bodies with closest persons. What's going on with Diavolo in that situation? He, like a self-respecting individual soul newly revealed to the audience (!), not like everyone else, not like a sucker, "attached" to someone else’s soul (it was kind of similar with Doppio before), and for time secretly sit happily in one body for two. And now, this is no longer a person suffering from DID (that is, a soul with, in our case, an ego split in two (that's PSYCHE thing)), but a whole separate being, moreover, also capable of ruling his soul as he pleases. Mystical supernatural shit number 6.

We will need some of the things from the previous point now. At the end of the arc of Ciocolatta and Secco, Diavolo not only immediately knows from somewhere that Bruno can only see souls, but he also, in order to make Doppio look like Trish for him, lends him a fucking piece of his (let me remind you, separate, like we have already found out) soul. A piece of his soul, God damn it! He (again) not only knows some unreal information about souls, he, as already said, is able to manipulate at least his own. Mystical supernatural shit number 7.

His eyes (iris and pupil), already extremely unique in themselves, are the eyes of his entity, but not his body. When he takes control of someone's body it is visible, when Bruno is in his body it is visible. Worth a mention. Mystical supernatural asshole number 8.

The last, probably the most interesting mystical, but not so supernatural screw-up lies in a small detail: when the souls of the characters in the final battle return back to their bodies, we are shown all of them, except for Diavolo's (well, more precisely they showed King Crimson as it, but this doesn't count (otherwise Diavolo is KC, lol)). Coincidence? I don't think so. More likely it was done on purpose, and this is not even attributed to the supposedly yet another creation of an aura of mysticism around his personality - at this point we seem to already know very well what he looks like... Or we don't, actually?

Conclusion

That's all, actually. The bottom line is the same: Diavolo is something supernatural, I don’t presume to say what he is exactly. This is probably all the fairly significant evidence (meaning those that are less than half conjecture) that I had. There were a lot of strange things in JoJo, inspired by some things from the real world, and then blown up to the point of "incredibility," but here they tried to tie it into some kind of pseudoscientific nonsense that I didn’t believe in. In any case, this is not the first "spirit" in this universe (it’s worth remembering Anubis), so this theory, I think, is more than valid.

So thank you for reading, it's open for discussion, since we'll never know the truth for sure (DID was the assumption of the characters of Vento Aureo, and they called it "assumption" themselves (I want to believe with all my soul Araki fooled everyone, being an unreliable narrator so Diavolo will be even more of an enigma)).

[guster-animations]

Kamen Rider Gavv Episode 47 Production Blog Translation

I’m On It

this one was so worth translating oh my god

TOKU TRANSLATION MASTERPOST HERE

translated from this page

Looking at the Next Episode

Nyelv…! The schemer is bested by his schemes… It’s been written countless times, but this character has steadily grown thanks to Takizawa portraying him. Not only that, but he’s also been active in many other things, like talks, events, songs, and choreography. He may reappear on the Final Stage as well…! We are very grateful to him.

One-year-long series are long, so there were plans for the enemies to power-up over time… Like a vicious mafia family appearing and replacing the Stomach family. That morphed into the President and Lizel, but there was also a plan for the Stomach family to be completely eradicated midway through the show. But since all of the actors had built up their roles so much, they became characters who are even active in the movie. That’s what happens in a Rider series that goes along without having everything fully decided. (Even though the filming starts earlier now, it’s finished at the same pace, so the program still reflects the previews and their reactions.)

Now there are only three episodes left in “Gavv”. Next is the second half of the Nakazawa arc. Each character is heading toward the finale. What is this unexpected AmazinGummy? Please don’t miss the final decisive battles of “Gavv”!

(Written by Naomi Takebe)

The Episode in Short

Thank you for watching episode 47!

How are you supposed to beat the President?! The full-blown war heats up even further! The relationship chart has been cleaned out considerably, but juicy things will happen until the very end!

Gummy Gochizos Rule the World

Guided by Director Nakazawa (?), Jiip and Lizel release gummy Gochizos developed by Nyelv… or at least things that look like them!

Lango: (What the…)

Oh yeah, these are called Dummy Gochizos (on-set nickname: Nye-Gochi). The pink one’s codename is “PLE” (Pleasure) and the blue one’s is “OPE” (Operate).

Conditions like “I want them to have a [???] face that looks like they’re on guard when they’re shut!” and “There are green-screen shots, so we can’t have any lime green…” were given, and so their designs when open and closed are very different! The lower parts were designed with the Stomach family’s monster forms in mind.

They give off immense authority from their tiny bodies. They seem to do well against humans.

Oh nooooo!! Mr. Masaru!!! (Laugh)

The “bewilderment” shows on his face even from here.

The difference in enthusiasm between the rooms is amazing.

By the way, this was filmed when we were just beginning to feel the start of spring. Watermelons are in season now, but they obviously weren’t in stores at the time, and we decided to order what was also on sale at the start of spring.

I’m sure there are many people wondering, “So why did you specifically decide to do a watermelon splitting game?”. Yes, it seems like we’re hiding something, but in reality, this scene at the script draft stage was Sachika and Masaru working hard at nagashisōmen (thin white noodles).

HOWEVER!

Pay attention to this scene from the final part of episode 45, where everyone is about to begin their meeting after work.

Shoma has these noodles on standby~~ (Laugh)

Well… We could’ve still had it, even if it was redundant, but it’d be more exciting if it were a different thing, so there was a watermelon-splitting game in this episode instead.

As also stated in “Looking at the Next Episode”, the on-set rhythm is going as usual despite the production schedule being ahead of time, so scripts for an arc are made while not knowing the direction or decorations in the previous arc (as they’re not yet set due to timing). So occasionally anomalies in the space-time continuum with things not lining up will occur.

Thanks to the director team’s quick wit and the responsiveness of the on-set crew, this problem was turned into an opportunity! There are many times where new and wonderful direction choices have been made from things like this. They were also saved by the wisdom of their predecessors.

And speaking of responsiveness, Rakia discovers the shocking truth that the Happy Parade has a back door (which of course was decided from the start!). The camerawork had to be in sync with the many movements like the timing of Rakia turning around, the strength with which an assistant director closed the door, and the speed that he runs up at, so this was a really technical cut. It was thoroughly rehearsed and many takes were done, but it was wonderfully overcome with teamwork and concentration! Good job, everyone!

I wonder if he’ll get mad at the Dummy Gochizos, who do nothing but dumb things… And they’re misusing his toxins too…

Oh, he smiled to say it’s on sale to good reception! ☺️ On that note, please get this very dangerous set, which is packed with Nyelv’s hard work! There are also versions with alternate expressions available to buy individually. Please take in Nyelv’s imaginativeness (Laugh).

Oh! There’s also a photo where the President strangely makes the same pose.

Truly a wonderful partner. 💎 [TN: i looked it up and yep, masashi takada, who is bocca’s suit actor, also suit acted kiramei silver]

A Sudden Parting

Nyelv’s tactic to win Shoma over failed, and nothing’s guaranteed anymore! He’s now forced into a predicament where he’s reached the very limit of what he can do. It’s heartbreaking.

Director Nakazawa, who gave the order, ”How about we… put cracks in Nyelv’s glasses”, had the same sparkle in his eye two years ago when he said, “I want to break Buffa’s horns…”. 🐮

I like how cute and yet merciless they are. The nasty way that the President moves his hands was also carefully demonstrated by the director.

The part where Nyelv’s chains are broken was filmed while matching the performance and timing of his reaction with dropping the parts of the chain. Bocca and Lizel are completely devoted to being bad guys (Laugh).

Nyelv has subtly survived by changing his standpoint and enemies. With this method that he’s managed to survive this far on, he shifts in the shocking direction of the President. Until now, he’d always escaped when he wanted to, even during battles, but now it feels like what he’s been working towards, something akin to treachery, has become visible.

The TTFC members who participated as extras were probably shocked by the wound makeup on Nyelv…! Now they’ve finally found out why.

A proper call-and-response type of greeting (Laugh).

The planning team had many different opinions on how to depict Nyelv’s final moments. One idea was for the schemer to die nobly without even knowing that it was his schemes that did him in. In the end, it ended up being him getting a pill box [?]… no, pressing a switch and going, “Huh?”.

The voice-overs for the defiant words he says just before pressing the switch were spectacular!

When Siita made her exit, Takizawa thought he would surely be next. But despite his unease, he made it to the next year, returned many times, and became a character who put up a fight at the show’s climax. Nyelv might have been a science type who caused a lot of inconveniences (Laugh), but Takizawa himself is truly impressive, and it makes me want to give him many different roles. [?]

Thank you for adding your unique flavor to the program! Good work!

Now all of the scientist types have been done away with, but if you go and see the movie, there are two more. I think these new scientists will definitely pique your interest, so if you haven’t seen it yet, please do so.

💤 (The Nakazawa arcs… episodes 39, 40, and 47… Dente, Glotta, and Nyelv… mumble, mumble…)

WAIT!!! Director!! Did you say something to me? Please look forward to next week!!!

(Written by Minami Takijima)

[vernalloy]

(Lastly, for the ask game) 😎: Would you recommend this song to me based on what you know about me?

[music ask game]

Thank you fur the ask Dru! You can basically assume I’m always taking ask games :) (This ask was sent with three others:💡🥰🎬😎)

💡 - do you associate the song with something? if yes, what?

Spleen - Ruth White: Mmy Tivern :-) Tivern was a character who started the story as a corpse, at which point he was isekai’d into a shoddily-coded game, and fused with a camera and the game’s NPC AI, who puppeted around his corpse. He was revived in the game, which resurrected the original consciousness, who was confused and upset at these lost and new friends who knew him as someone he never was. While he is not a character I still use, he was fun for the brief time I had him, and he still has an impeccable musical genre— early electronica, intentionally unsettling spoken word (such as this song), and what may be called “hauntology”.

🥰 - what’s your favorite part of this song? (instrumental bit, lyric, etc)

Noel’s Lament - Ride the Cyclone: In general I am knocked over by the acting. Flamboyant morbid gay teenager is played brilliantly here, especially in the hissing… “At night I burn myself with cigarettes / just to somehow prove I'm still alive!” There aren’t any particular standout lyrics for me, not because they’re bad or mediocre, they’re all charming, just nothing knocks me flat on my back. And it’s not supposed to! A fun ride all the way through.

🎬 - if you scripted/directed a music video for this song what would it look like?

Dr. Bones - Cherry Poppin’ Daddies: Singer in front of a projection— it would be a mix of animation and live-action like Minnie the Moocher. When the instrumental parts take over, the singer goes to silhouette so that the movie behind them is at forefront, while verses are focusing on the singer’s acting. The animation would have the Bimbo-esque protagonist go to a poolroom in hell, playing against a stick-thin, sharply-dressed and highly animated figure.

😎: Would you recommend this song to me based on what you know about me?

Domino - Stereophonic: Yes! It’s a comfortable little rock song with a good mix of parts— breathy verses and more hang-back choruses, and a nice guitar section. I think the person behind the music previously worked in the emo/alt movement adjacent to Dallon Weekes, but this particular album is from a play, and as such tries to sound like 70s music.

[heart-full-of-lust]

The Portrait

Chapter One: The Commission

October 1897

The brass nameplate on the studio door read "James Whitmore - Portraiture" in elegant script, though the paint had begun to chip around the edges. Beyond the frosted glass, Eleanor Ashford could hear the soft scratch of charcoal on paper, punctuated by the occasional muttered curse that no proper gentleman should utter in mixed company.

She hesitated, her gloved hand hovering over the brass knocker. The October fog had settled thick over Bloomsbury, muffling the clip-clop of horse hooves and the calls of street vendors, creating an atmosphere of secrecy that made her feel complicit in something illicit before she'd even crossed the threshold.

"Mrs. Ashford, isn't it?" The door had opened without her knocking, revealing a man who looked nothing like the refined portraitists who frequented her husband's social circles. James Whitmore was perhaps thirty-five, with dark hair that curled rebelliously over his collar and paint-stained fingers that spoke of hands-on artistry rather than genteel dabbling. His waistcoat was rumpled, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, and there was something in his green eyes that made Eleanor's breath catch.

"Mr. Whitmore," she replied, grateful that her voice remained steady. "My husband sent word that you were expecting me."

"Indeed." His smile was warm but somehow dangerous, like sunlight on a blade. "Please, come in. I was just preparing the studio for our first session."

The studio was a revelation. Afternoon light poured through tall north-facing windows, illuminating canvases in various stages of completion. The air smelled of linseed oil and turpentine, with an underlying warmth that spoke of coal fires and creative industry. It was utterly different from the sterile perfection of her husband's mansion in Belgravia, and Eleanor felt something inside her chest loosen for the first time in months.

"Your husband spoke very highly of your beauty," James said, moving to adjust an easel near the window. "Though I suspect his words were inadequate to the reality."

Eleanor felt heat rise in her cheeks. Frederick's compliments, when they came at all, were perfunctory things—observations about her dress or her deportment at social functions. No one had called her beautiful with such frank appreciation since... well, perhaps never.

"You're very kind," she murmured, removing her gloves with careful precision.

"I'm honest," James corrected, his eyes meeting hers with disturbing directness. "It's a professional requirement. I can't paint what I don't see clearly."

He gestured to a velvet-covered chair positioned near the window. "Shall we begin with some preliminary sketches? Just to capture the basic composition."

Eleanor settled herself in the chair, arranging her burgundy silk dress with the practiced grace of a woman accustomed to being observed. The afternoon light caught the auburn highlights in her dark hair, and she saw James's eyes narrow with the focused intensity of an artist seeing his subject truly for the first time.

"May I?" he asked, his hand hovering near her shoulder.

At her nod, his fingers brushed against her collarbone, adjusting the lace collar of her dress with touches so light they might have been accidental. But Eleanor felt each contact like a spark of electricity, her skin warming beneath the thin silk.

"The light is perfect," James murmured, stepping back to study her with professional detachment that somehow felt more intimate than any lover's gaze. "Turn your head slightly to the left... yes, just like that."

For the next hour, Eleanor posed while James worked with swift, sure strokes, capturing her from multiple angles. She found herself relaxing under his attention, her natural animation returning as he coaxed expressions from her with gentle conversation and the occasional amusing observation about his other clients.

"Lord Pemberton insisted I paint him with his prize-winning mastiff," James said, adding shadow to the curve of her neck with confident strokes. "The dog was considerably more cooperative than his lordship."

Eleanor laughed, the sound bright and unguarded in the intimate space of the studio. "Frederick would never allow an animal in his portrait. He considers them... undignified."

"And what do you consider them?" James asked, looking up from his sketchpad with curious eyes.

"Honest," Eleanor replied without thinking. "Animals can't pretend to feel what they don't."

Something shifted in James's expression, a deeper understanding that made Eleanor suddenly aware of what she'd revealed. In society drawing rooms, she was Frederick Ashford's perfectly mannered wife, decorative and accomplished and appropriately grateful for her elevated position. Here, in this sun-soaked studio that smelled of creativity and possibility, she felt like Eleanor again—the girl who had dreamed of traveling to Paris, of writing poetry, of experiencing grand passions before pragmatism and family expectations had narrowed her world to morning calls and charity committees.

"I think that's enough for today," James said, setting aside his charcoal. "The light is beginning to change."

Eleanor rose from the chair, surprised by how stiff her muscles had become. The sketching session had felt like minutes, not hours.

"When shall I return?" she asked, gathering her gloves and reticule.

"Thursday afternoon, if that suits. I'd like to begin with oils." James moved to open the door for her, and as she passed, Eleanor caught a hint of his scent—soap and turpentine and something indefinably masculine that made her pulse quicken.

"Mrs. Ashford," he said as she reached the threshold. "You have remarkable eyes. Most people look at the world as if they're afraid of what they might see. You look as if you're hoping for it."

Eleanor walked home through the October dusk in a state of confused exhilaration, James's words echoing in her mind. Frederick greeted her return with perfunctory interest, asking only whether the artist seemed competent and likely to produce a portrait worthy of hanging in their dining room.

"Quite competent," Eleanor replied, and spent the rest of the evening trying not to think about green eyes and paint-stained fingers and the way her skin had felt when he'd touched her collar.

Chapter Two: The Sitting

Thursday arrived with surprising swiftness, bringing with it a nervous energy that Eleanor couldn't quite suppress. She had chosen her dress with unusual care—a deep emerald silk that brought out the green in her hazel eyes and required minimal undergarments due to its modern cut. Not that such considerations were relevant to a portrait sitting, she reminded herself firmly as her carriage rattled through the afternoon traffic toward Bloomsbury.

The studio felt different this time, more intimate somehow despite being exactly the same. James had set up his easel and palette near the window, and the sight of his prepared oils—rich cadmiums and ultramarines squeezed fresh from their tubes—sent an unexpected thrill through Eleanor's nervous system.

"Punctual as promised," James said, wiping his hands on a paint-stained rag. "How do you feel about beginning the actual painting today?"

"Nervous," Eleanor admitted, surprised by her own honesty.

"Good," James replied with that dangerous smile. "Nervous subjects are more alive. Relaxed ones tend to look like they're posing for their own funeral portraits."

He guided her to the chair, his hand warm against her elbow even through the silk of her dress. "I've been thinking about the composition since our last session. I'd like to capture something more... essential than the typical society portrait."

"What do you mean?"

"Most portraits of wives are about possession," James said, loading his brush with warm sienna. "Pretty objects displayed for their husbands' credit. I'd rather paint the woman underneath all that careful training."

Eleanor's breath caught. "And if there's nothing underneath?"

"Then I'm a very poor judge of character," James replied, beginning to block in the basic shapes of her form with confident strokes. "Which seems unlikely, given how successfully I've avoided painting boring people for the past ten years."

As he worked, Eleanor found herself mesmerized by the fluid motion of his hands, the way he mixed colors on his palette with the unconscious grace of long practice. There was something hypnotic about watching her own image emerge from the canvas under his skilled brushwork, as if he were calling forth a version of herself she'd never quite managed to see in mirrors.

"Tell me about Paris," James said, not looking up from his canvas.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You mentioned dreaming of traveling there. What draws you to the city?"

Eleanor considered deflecting with some polite response about the museums or the architecture, but something in James's focused attention invited honesty.

"The freedom, I suppose," she said finally. "I've read that Parisian women smoke cigarettes in public and attend art schools and have passionate affairs without society ostracizing them. It sounds..."

"Appealing?" James suggested when she trailed off.

"Terrifying," Eleanor corrected. "And yes, appealing."

"What would you do there, if you could?"

"Write poetry. Learn to paint. Drink absinthe and discuss philosophy with artists and writers." The words tumbled out before Eleanor could stop them, years of suppressed desires finally finding voice. "Dance until dawn and wear gowns that scandalize respectable people and have my portrait painted by someone who sees me as more than a decorative object."

James's brush stilled for a moment. "You write poetry?"

"Used to. Before..." Eleanor gestured vaguely at her elegant dress, her marriage ring, the careful construction of her public self.

"What changed?"

"Frederick discovered my notebook and suggested that such pursuits were inappropriate for a married woman. He wasn't unkind about it," Eleanor added quickly. "Simply practical. Poetry doesn't produce income or enhance one's social standing."

"And what does enhance one's social standing?" James asked, beginning to work on the fall of her hair with careful attention to each auburn highlight.

"Being an ornament," Eleanor said with unexpected bitterness. "Looking pretty at dinner parties and producing heirs and never expressing opinions that might make one's husband uncomfortable."

"Is that what you are? An ornament?"

Eleanor opened her mouth to give the expected response, then closed it again. In James's studio, with afternoon light painting golden rectangles on the wooden floor and the smell of oil paint creating an atmosphere of creative possibility, she couldn't bring herself to lie.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't remember what I was before I became Mrs. Frederick Ashford."

James set down his brush and moved closer, studying her face with an intensity that made Eleanor's pulse flutter.

"There," he said softly, reaching out to touch her cheek with paint-warmed fingertips. "That expression. That's what I want to capture."

His touch was gentle but electric, and Eleanor felt her carefully maintained composure beginning to crack. "What expression?"

"Longing," James replied, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone. "The look of someone who remembers what it feels like to want something beyond what she's supposed to want."

Eleanor should have pulled away. Should have reminded him that she was a married woman and he was overstepping the bounds of professional propriety. Instead, she found herself leaning into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed as warmth spread through her body from the point of contact.

"This is..." she started, then lost the words as James's other hand came up to frame her face.

"Inappropriate?" he suggested, his voice rough with something that sounded like barely contained hunger.

"Yes," Eleanor breathed, but she made no move to step away.

"Good," James murmured, his lips hovering inches from hers. "The best things usually are."

The kiss was inevitable, as natural as breathing after holding her breath for years. James's mouth was warm and tasted of coffee and possibility, and when his tongue traced the seam of her lips, Eleanor opened for him with a soft gasp of surrender.

Her hands found the lapels of his waistcoat, pulling him closer as he deepened the kiss with gentle urgency. She could taste his desire, could feel it in the way his fingers tangled in her hair, and the knowledge that she had inspired such want in a man like him was more intoxicating than champagne.

"Eleanor," he whispered against her lips, and the sound of her name in his voice made her knees weak.

"We shouldn't," she said, even as her body pressed closer to his.

"No," James agreed, his mouth moving to the sensitive skin beneath her ear. "We absolutely shouldn't."

His lips found the pulse point at her throat, and Eleanor's head fell back with a soft moan as he lavished attention on the spot that made her entire body sing. She could feel the warm oil paint on his fingers as they traced the neckline of her dress, leaving faint smudges of color on her skin that felt like the most intimate form of artistic collaboration.

"So beautiful," James murmured, his hands mapping the curves of her waist through the silk. "I want to paint every inch of you."

The words sent liquid fire straight to Eleanor's core. "James..."

"Not today," he said, pulling back with visible effort. "But soon. If you're willing."

Eleanor looked into his green eyes, seeing promise and patience and a hunger that matched her own newly awakened desire. "Yes," she whispered, hardly believing her own daring. "God help me, yes."

Chapter Three: The Seduction

Eleanor spent the days between sittings in a state of constant, low-level arousal that left her distracted and restless. Frederick, mercifully, was too absorbed in his business affairs to notice his wife's preoccupation, but Eleanor felt as though her desire was written across her skin in invisible ink, visible to anyone who cared to look closely enough.

When Thursday arrived again, she dressed with trembling hands, choosing a deep blue dress with a lower neckline than her usual selections. The silk whispered against her skin as she moved, and she found herself hyperaware of every sensation—the brush of fabric against her nipples, the cool air on her exposed throat, the way her pulse fluttered in anticipation of seeing James again.

The studio was warm when she arrived, heated by both the coal fire and the afternoon sun streaming through the tall windows. James was waiting for her, dressed in shirtsleeves and a paint-stained waistcoat that somehow managed to look more elegant than Frederick's perfectly tailored formal wear.

"Eleanor," he said, her name a caress in his voice. "You look..."

"Nervous," she finished for him, attempting lightness even as her hands shook slightly.

"Radiant," James corrected, moving closer with the predatory grace she was beginning to recognize. "Absolutely radiant."

He led her to the familiar chair, but instead of beginning to paint immediately, he moved to a small table where he'd set out an array of brushes and paints.

"I thought we might try something different today," he said, selecting a fine sable brush and loading it with warm ochre. "A more... collaborative approach to portraiture."

Eleanor's breath caught as understanding dawned. "You want to paint on me."

"With your permission," James said, his eyes holding hers with steady intensity. "It's a technique I've been exploring—using the human form as canvas rather than simply subject."

The proposal should have shocked her. Should have sent her fleeing back to the safety of her proper life in Belgravia. Instead, Eleanor felt a rush of excitement so intense it was almost dizzying.

"Where?" she whispered.

"Wherever you'll allow," James replied, setting the loaded brush aside to frame her face with gentle hands. "We can start slowly. Just a touch of color here..." His thumb traced her lower lip. "And here..." His fingers skimmed along her collarbone.

Eleanor's mouth fell open on a soft gasp. "Yes."

The first touch of the brush was feather-light, barely more than a whisper of pigment across her throat. James worked with exquisite care, using the warm ochre to highlight the curve of her neck, the delicate line of her collarbone. The paint was body-warm from its proximity to his palette, and the sensation of the soft bristles against her skin sent shivers of pleasure racing through Eleanor's nervous system.

"Beautiful," James murmured, stepping back to admire his work. "The color brings out the warmth in your skin."

He selected another brush, this one loaded with deep crimson, and Eleanor's breathing quickened as he approached her again.

"May I?" he asked, his fingers hovering near the neckline of her dress.

At her nod, he carefully folded back the silk, exposing the upper curves of her breasts. The crimson paint followed the elegant line where fabric met flesh, creating an abstract design that was both artistic and utterly sensual.

"How does it feel?" James asked, his voice rough with barely contained desire.

"Wonderful," Eleanor breathed, surprising herself with the honesty. "Like I'm becoming someone else entirely."

"Not someone else," James corrected, loading a thin brush with gold paint. "Someone more yourself."

The gold went along her jawline, tiny brushstrokes that caught the afternoon light and made her skin glow. James worked with the focused intensity she'd come to associate with his artistry, but there was something different this time—a sensuality to his touch that made each stroke of the brush feel like a caress.

"The dress," he said softly, his eyes meeting hers with question and invitation. "It's beautiful, but it's hiding the canvas."

Eleanor's hands went to the buttons at her throat, her fingers trembling with anticipation and nerves in equal measure. "Help me?"

James set aside his brushes and moved behind her, his fingers warm against the nape of her neck as he worked the small pearl buttons free. Each release of fabric felt like a small liberation, and by the time the dress pooled around her feet, Eleanor felt drunk on her own daring.

She stood before him in only her chemise and stockings, the thin cotton doing little to hide the curves of her body. The paint on her skin caught the light, transforming her into a living work of art that made James's breath catch audibly.

"God, Eleanor," he said, his voice rough with want. "You're perfect."

He selected a wider brush, loading it with deep blue that reminded Eleanor of midnight skies. "May I paint your shoulders? Your arms?"

"Yes," she whispered, beyond caring about propriety or consequences.

The brush moved in long, sweeping strokes across her shoulders, the cool paint a delicious contrast to her heated skin. James worked with reverent attention, using her body as his canvas to create abstract patterns that enhanced rather than concealed her natural beauty.

When he knelt to paint delicate spirals around her ankles, Eleanor thought she might collapse from the sheer sensuality of his focused attention. The brush tickled against the sensitive skin of her feet, and she had to grip the back of the chair to keep from swaying.

"Exquisite," James murmured, looking up at her from his position at her feet. "You should see yourself—you look like a goddess."

He rose slowly, his hands skimming up her painted legs without quite touching. "There's one more place I'd like to add color," he said, his voice low and hypnotic. "If you trust me."

"Where?" Eleanor asked, though she thought she already knew.

James's hand moved to the ribbon that held her chemise closed, his fingers playing with the silk without untying it. "Here," he said softly. "Where your heart beats fastest."

Eleanor's breath caught as she understood his meaning. He wanted to paint her breasts, to complete his masterpiece by decorating the most intimate parts of her body with his art.

"Yes," she breathed, hardly believing her own daring. "Yes, James. Paint me."

The chemise fell away like mist, leaving Eleanor naked except for her stockings and the paint that decorated her skin like jewelry. She should have felt exposed, vulnerable, but instead she felt powerful—transformed into something magnificent under James's worshipful gaze.

"Perfect," he whispered, selecting the finest brush and loading it with silver paint that shimmered in the afternoon light. "So perfect."

The first touch of the brush to her nipple made Eleanor cry out softly, the sensation so intense it bordered on overwhelming. James painted with exquisite care, creating delicate patterns that made her breasts look like they'd been decorated for some ancient ritual.

"You're shaking," he observed, setting aside his brush to cup her face gently.

"I've never..." Eleanor started, then trailed off, unsure how to explain the magnitude of what she was feeling.

"Never been seen," James finished for her, understanding immediately. "Really seen, as you are, not as someone expects you to be."

Eleanor nodded, tears prickling at her eyes from the truth of it.

"You're magnificent," James said softly, his thumbs brushing away the moisture from her cheeks. "Every inch of you. And I want to worship every painted curve until you forget you were ever anything but this—beautiful and free and absolutely perfect."

The kiss was inevitable, as necessary as breathing. Eleanor melted into James's arms, her painted body pressing against his clothed form with desperate need. She could taste his desire, could feel it in the way his hands roamed over her decorated skin, and the knowledge that she had inspired such passion was more intoxicating than any wine.

"I want you," she whispered against his lips, the words torn from someplace deeper than conscious thought.

"Are you certain?" James asked, his voice rough with barely leashed control. "Because once we cross this line, there's no going back."

Eleanor looked into his green eyes, seeing promise and passion and a future she'd never dared to imagine. "I've been going backwards for years," she said with sudden clarity. "It's time to move forward."

James's smile was brilliant as sunrise. "Then let me make love to my masterpiece."

Chapter Four: The Masterpiece

James undressed with efficient grace, his clothes joining Eleanor's on the studio floor until he stood before her in magnificent nakedness. His body was lean and strong, painted with afternoon light streaming through the tall windows, and Eleanor felt her mouth go dry at the sight of his obvious arousal.

"Come here," he said softly, drawing her toward the settee he'd positioned near the easel. "Let me finish painting you."

But instead of reaching for a brush, James's hands moved to her waist, lifting her onto the velvet cushions with careful reverence. "I want to paint you with my hands," he murmured, his palms skimming over her skin and mixing the colors he'd already applied. "With my mouth."

The first touch of his lips to her painted throat made Eleanor arch with pleasure. James kissed and licked at the pigments he'd applied, his tongue following the gold line along her jaw, tasting ochre and desire in equal measure.

"The paint," Eleanor gasped as he worked his way lower. "Won't it make you ill?"

"It's made from natural pigments," James replied against her collarbone, his breath warm on her sensitized skin. "Completely safe to taste. I planned ahead."

The implication—that he'd deliberately chosen body-safe paints in anticipation of this moment—sent liquid fire racing through Eleanor's veins. He'd planned this seduction, had prepared for the possibility of worshipping her painted skin with his mouth, and the premeditation was somehow even more arousing than spontaneous passion would have been.

James's lips found the crimson paint along the swell of her breasts, and Eleanor cried out as he laved the pigment with broad strokes of his tongue. The sensation was unlike anything she'd ever experienced—wet heat combined with the slightly textured feel of paint being slowly dissolved and consumed.

"Delicious," James murmured, moving to her other breast where silver spirals decorated her nipple. "You taste like art and sin and everything I've ever wanted."

When he drew the painted peak into his mouth, Eleanor's vision went white around the edges. The combination of suction and the slightly rough texture of dissolving paint created a sensation so intense she thought she might shatter from pleasure alone.

"James," she gasped, her hands fisting in his dark hair. "Please..."

"Please what, darling?" he asked, his lips moving against her sensitized flesh. "Tell me what you need."

"You," Eleanor breathed, her hips moving restlessly against the velvet cushions. "I need you inside me."

James's eyes went dark with want, but he shook his head gently. "Not yet," he said, his hands moving to the blue spirals he'd painted around her hips. "I haven't finished tasting my masterpiece."

His mouth followed the path of paint lower, across her ribs, over the gentle curve of her belly. Each kiss sent shockwaves through Eleanor's nervous system, until she was trembling with need so intense it bordered on pain.

When James's tongue found the delicate patterns he'd painted on her inner thighs, Eleanor nearly sobbed with frustrated desire. He was so close to where she needed him most, but he seemed determined to worship every inch of decorated skin before giving her the release she craved.

"Beautiful," he murmured against her thigh, his breath hot against skin still damp from his ministrations. "So beautiful and responsive. I could spend hours painting you and then hours more tasting every drop."

"Hours?" Eleanor managed, her voice pitched high with desperate need.

"Days," James corrected, his hands gently parting her thighs to reveal the most intimate part of her. "Weeks. I want to paint patterns here..." His finger traced the edge of her sex without quite touching where she needed him most. "And here..." His thumb brushed against her inner lips, making her hips buck involuntarily.

"And then I want to lick away every trace of pigment until you're screaming my name."

The first touch of his tongue to her center made Eleanor cry out so loudly she was grateful for the studio's relative isolation. James licked and sucked with skillful enthusiasm, his mouth working against her most sensitive flesh with the same focused artistry he brought to his painting.

"So wet," he murmured against her, the vibrations of his voice sending fresh shockwaves through her system. "So perfect. I want to paint you just like this—spread open and desperate and absolutely magnificent."

Eleanor's hands fisted in the velvet cushions as James's tongue found her clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with maddening precision. The pleasure was building to impossible heights, her entire body drawing tight as a bowstring as he worked her toward climax with relentless skill.

"Come for me," James commanded, sealing his lips around her clit and sucking gently. "Let me taste your pleasure."

Eleanor's orgasm hit her like a physical blow, pleasure so intense it bordered on transcendent. She screamed James's name as her body convulsed, wave after wave of sensation crashing over her until she thought she might pass out from the sheer magnitude of it.

When awareness finally returned, James was kissing his way back up her body, his lips and chin glistening with evidence of her pleasure. The sight should have embarrassed her, but instead it sent fresh heat pooling in her belly.

"That was..." she started, then shook her head as words failed her.

"The beginning," James said, positioning himself between her spread thighs. "I want to paint you from the inside, Eleanor. I want to fill you with my desire until you're as marked by me as if I'd signed my name across your skin."

Eleanor could feel the hard length of him pressing against her entrance, and she lifted her hips in shameless invitation. "Then paint me," she whispered. "Make me your masterpiece."

James entered her slowly, his eyes holding hers as he filled her inch by exquisite inch. Eleanor had never felt so complete, so perfectly matched to another person. The stretch and fullness was exactly what her body had been craving, and when he was fully seated inside her, she felt as though she'd found a missing piece of herself.

"Perfect," James breathed, his forehead resting against hers. "You feel absolutely perfect."

He began to move then, slow and deep and devastating, each thrust sending fresh pleasure spiraling through Eleanor's oversensitized nerves. She met him stroke for stroke, her painted body moving in perfect rhythm with his as they created their own form of art together.

"Harder," Eleanor gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. "Please, James. I need..."

"Everything," he finished, his pace increasing as he drove into her with growing urgency. "I'll give you everything."

The sound of skin against skin filled the studio, punctuated by their mingled moans and gasps of pleasure. Eleanor felt wild, feral, completely divorced from the proper society wife she'd been that morning. This was who she really was—passionate and hungry and absolutely alive.

"I'm close," she warned, feeling the familiar tension building in her core.

"Look at me," James commanded, his hand tangling in her hair to hold her gaze. "I want to see your face when you come apart."

Eleanor's second orgasm was even more intense than the first, her body clenching around James as pleasure exploded through every nerve ending. She saw her own ecstasy reflected in his green eyes, and the intimacy of that shared moment sent fresh aftershocks racing through her system.

James followed her over the edge with a hoarse cry, his body shuddering as he spilled himself inside her. For a moment they stayed locked together, hearts racing and lungs gasping as they slowly returned to earth.

"God, Eleanor," James whispered, pressing soft kisses to her paint-smudged throat. "You're incredible."

Eleanor smiled, feeling languid and satisfied and utterly transformed. "When can we do this again?"

James laughed, the sound rich with satisfaction and promise. "How does tomorrow sound?"

"Perfect," Eleanor replied, and realized she meant it completely.

Outside the studio windows, London continued its relentless pace, but inside their sanctuary of art and desire, time seemed suspended. Eleanor traced lazy patterns on James's chest, mixing the paint from her fingers with the perspiration on his skin, and thought that she'd never created anything more beautiful than this moment.

She was no longer Frederick Ashford's decorative wife. She was Eleanor—artist's model, lover, muse, and most importantly, herself.

And she'd never felt more like a masterpiece.

Epilogue: The Exhibition

Six months later, the portrait was complete—though not the one Frederick had commissioned. That formal piece hung in the Ashford dining room, a perfectly respectable rendering of Eleanor in burgundy silk, her hands folded demurely and her expression appropriately serene.

The real portrait—the one that showed Eleanor as she truly was, eyes bright with passion and lips curved in a secret smile—hung in James's private collection, where only she could see it.

Eleanor visited the studio three times a week now, ostensibly for painting lessons that Frederick indulgently allowed as a harmless feminine pursuit. In reality, she spent those afternoons learning to paint with more than brushes, discovering the artistry of bodies and desire and the infinite canvas of human connection.

She'd also resumed writing poetry, filling notebook after notebook with verses about light and shadow, about transformation and rebirth, about the difference between existing and truly living.

"Ready for Paris?" James asked one Thursday afternoon, setting aside his brushes to pull Eleanor into his arms.

"Are you serious?" she asked, though her heart had already begun racing with possibility.

"Completely," James replied, his lips finding the sensitive spot beneath her ear that he'd mapped so thoroughly with paint and passion. "I have a commission there. Six months, possibly longer. Come with me."

Eleanor closed her eyes, imagining cobblestone streets and café society, art studios filled with natural light and the freedom to be exactly who she was without apology or explanation.

"What about Frederick?"

"What about your happiness?" James countered gently. "You only get one life, Eleanor. How do you want to paint it?"

Eleanor looked around the studio that had become her sanctuary, at the canvases that bore witness to her transformation from ornament to artist, from wife to woman, from canvas to creator.

"In every color imaginable," she said finally. "Starting with Paris blue."

James's smile was brilliant as he kissed her, and Eleanor could already taste the freedom on his lips—wild and intoxicating and absolutely perfect.

She'd finally found her masterpiece, and it looked exactly like the life she'd always dreamed of living.

[zyntifada]

alright, I am back!!

so i have a few ideas for how I think this could play out, and yes I do believe either a hook up or a confession would break the loop. maybe both.

it could be interesting to have them fuck, (for no other reason then undeniable subconscious want or need, after maybe a week of looped days. desperate times call for desperate measures…), and nothing really comes out of it, because there was no confession. something like that.

—

While I do think Hasan is probably used to how… repetitive streams can be, he would get worn out fast. The surprising amount of patience he does have would be worn thin so quickly. Literally living by a script. Imagine that being applied to the rest of his schedule. That opens the door for a good amount of angst.

Working out with no real results because the days reset? Doing everything the same unless he made the conscious choice to do something different? With the possibility that it wont change anything at all? Really makes you question everything.

Not to mention Austin and Hasan possibly living together because of circumstance (Austin staying over the day the loop started for the podcast?). Even if it’s the same day. Some forced proximity there. A taste of everything he could have 👀. Will Neff haunting the narrative in some way by being the knowing caring friend he always is. and depending on if you write her in, QT is probably haunting this too.

and bottom Hasan for the win!

okay, I think that’s everything that I’ve got, at least for now. this sounds kinda crazy towards the end, sorry it’s a bit all over the place.

And it could be a kinda shit day too, just to make it worse. Can't go ball in the park cos it's raining. some appliace broke. forced to cover the same piece of disheartening news over and over again, forced to hear the same chatters ask the same dumbass questions over and over.

at least Austin is there. he's supposed to be on stream too, but he's too busy. the first time, the second time, the third time. Austin is in his fucking house and Hasan is stuck having to accept that he will be in the other room forever. Austin is RIGHT THERE and he won't even come on the stream. how long until Hasan snaps and forces him to join him? LMAO

because Austin is in his house and Hasan still barely gets to see him (which happened like last week btw, he was so sad that Austin was leaving). And this happens every day. because he's stuck. so he starts doing things differently just to see what would happen.

tbh he's autistic enough that at first he would just continue to do the same exact routine and when he starts straying from it he probably develops a system of some kind to test different routes and see what changes in what circumstances LMAO

the tension that would build between them... and entirely one sided because Hasan has been stuck in the same house with Austin for a month but Austin has only been there for a day, technically. So he's just the normal amount of horny for Hasan, while Hasan is fucking losing it

Anon come here... let's have some tea and talk about this. be my friend

[malsfefanfics]

Hubert and Medee C-Support

Summary: Hubert comes to check in on patients. Medee tries to strike up conversation. Note: Medee supports are only available after you unlock her by completing the Paralogue: My Past, a Curtain Call. Written in script format under the cut.

Hubert: Lady Medee. How are the patients fairing?

Medee: ….

Hubert: Lady Medee?

Medee: ….

Hubert: [SIGHS] Mother?

Medee: [TURNS TO LOOK AT HIM WITH A LOVING SMILE] Ah, my little rook. How are you, my child? Are you eating enough? You look so thin.

Hubert: I am eating plenty. You needn't worry about that.

Medee: What about sleep? You look tired. If you need to, you can rest here for a bit.

Hubert: That isn't nessecary.

Medee: Very well. Perhaps I can brew a potion for you while I'm here. I have everything I need for an energy tonic. Or perhaps something for joint pain-

Hubert: Mother, please. I am trying to do my duties.

Medee: As am I, little rook. As am I. But I will not allow our duty to keep me from remaining close with my son and caring for his health.

Hubert: I am her Majesty's-

Medee: Yes, yes, you are Lady Edelgard's right hand. But before that, you are my son and the brother to your siblings. And now that we are all out in the open, there is no need to try and distance yourself as you have been. Unless you still see us as a burden.

Hubert: You misunderstand. I never thought of any of you as a burden.

Medee: Then why is it you are trying to be so formal with me now that I am here? Is it because you wish to prove that we will not distract you now that we are in the public eye? Or perhaps….

Hubert: I just wanted to check in with you about the patients, mother. I will take your attempts of analyzing my every move and phrasing to mean that they are well enough. Pray, pardon me for interrupting your work.

Medee: Why not stay? I can brew some coffee. We can chat for a moment.

Hubert: Respectfully, I must decline. As much  as I would like to stop for a respite, I have other duties to attend to. Now, if you'll excuse me.

Medee: Hubert. Do not walk away from me.

Hubert: [WARPS AWAY]

Medee: [SIGHS] I should have seen this coming….

[skyb0ssmandarian-43gem--rubix]

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Is ride or share on Theresa was n one of those hand books until on e cf the teachers skills got mis guided(banana guild)

# censored...w cnt sho u*p

Taxi"_".....

_ was thinking, maybe th*t wasn't recognized by someone I looked and it was another person_

No F*ck ,,..You can't start doin, it (but let him dial press sequence)

...*"____" effects _affects ine saame one********** repeating again

Ø*..................................(Minut...) let's ride...

,,gets in taxi

soimgonna read business*** script..untilaybe f......completion legal apt

...,,🤔I(f) ...no yu ,oooo📞then thers certain things we go through...

Brandy,s but it on ton*ii"ii"ii"ii*ii" of really I were supposed. ,,,to kn_

,,they doit different therapist(stillrecyc?cle).... y? ,l** doit lk sup ...land of wemon 

............y ,coumberft cu ,I I ye-ee (but it on 

D**** ni _ didn't look at the .......(lyric)

🤔📞Boy!,......"__" y, I f))( rea,..making a difference too you o that person it's th

Ahaha, it's hard t,, te ll_, ...looking at the artist in ,94 nineteen 94,, 49 her,hrtnn-,, hoooaooou nttn,, hoooo it was nt supposed to b...

...radio if he desnt need to see a doctor"...caller...,, you're on,you need ibel...to see w here that changed,, artist areaphalel,, look more like aan maybe really thinking about his dad (no) the youngerm ale that was in 19 94

? *'s that ,man w_ the shared rider ø,ah energy drink instead cf throwing it away ,,gonna get massive gains..in weight gain gain,, weight n,..it not real co q 1o........

Mix it _th scme broccoli sodas & salads "they" do

...to pay$$$$ ,to get the place for see.

,available now,

Bo...w*ho....a ,,they'll get the fuckk s ,the boys t,, hn,n the pieces cf the c old technogy toō I(f) they'll they might fit

No turn on green ,red,....damnit four traffic signals

Radio ,,severe storms today no where in the area though as ,stratus continue to rollllllaceoss the sk

(#memo left by DeGama ...or study of memory l*"s) # unsolved