#( flecked with ash. )

[circusgoth-dotcom]

Situations Ask Game

🏖️ - Describe a beach date with your f/o! What outfits do you wear? What activities do you participate in?

🎡 - Describe a state fair/carnival/boardwalk date with your f/o! What are your favourite rides? What do you eat while you're there? What carnival games do you play? Who wins the other a prize?

🎞️ - Describe a cinema date with your f/o! What snacks do you get? What genres do you like?

🛝 - Describe walking through the park with your f/o! Do you like to revisit your childhood and mess around with the playground equipment? Do you and your f/o have a kid you'll bring with you? Is your f/o perhaps a sibling that's tagging along instead?

👗 - Describe going shopping with your f/o! Do they like to shop? What are you shopping for? Is it for fun, or are you running errands?

👾 - Describe an arcade or roller rink date with your f/o! For the arcade, what kind of games do you like to play? Do you seek out multiplayer games to play together, or do you prefer to split off to play the single player games? What's a game you or your f/o is really good at? For the roller rink, do you and your f/o know how to skate? What colour skates do you have? What song is playing while you're skating around?

🛏️ - Describe you and your f/o's bedtime routine! What pyjamas do you wear? What does your bedroom/bed look like?

📖 - You and your f/o are going to take a skills class together! What do you choose to learn more about? How do the classes go? How many do you attend?

🚗 - You and your f/o are on a road trip! What sights are you going to see? What have you brought to entertain yourself on the way?

🔦 - What do you and your f/o do if the power goes out?

a/n: feel free to interpret "date" as a synonym for "general outing" if you wish to respond to these questions with platonic or familial f/os! it's also good etiquette to practice reblog karma! also also please check my pinned post before interacting 💜

[rosykims]

love living in western aus. it's raining ash over here rn <3

[pikaclan]

Moon 558

Season: Leaf-fall

Ceremonies

Time has taken its toll and Snipgorse has noticed themself slowing down. They have worked timelessly for many moons, but it is time for them to retire

Spikemouse gives Ashpaw a friendly nudge when the leader calls the young cat's name. They watch with pride as Ashpaw steps forward to receive their new name, Ashreed, and are honored for their daring

Deaths

Snakedaisy was found dead near the LionClan border

Misc

Snipgorse tripped over a small trunk but only their pride bruised

Fleckflit went for a long walk this morning, deep in thought

Ashreed tries to convince Pheasantprickle to run away with them, scared of all the death and murder, but fails

Health

Airecho's heat exhaustion abated Hollowminnow got whitecough Maplelaurel got whitecough Crestfreckle leapt from a rock but didn't land quite right Mintyrise's broken jaw healed but scarred

Patrols

The patrol finds an injured loner. The loner ass for help and Jamilahjump agrees. They can't leave a fellow cat to die

Dude (female) joins the Clan with a torn pelt. She is intact

[sorceresssundries]

Of Pain and Pleasure

Warnings: Talk of chronic pain. Masturbation.

Length: 2.5k of self-indulgence.

Summary: A wizard cursed with a volatile, dark magic discovers that his growing sexual frustration is making the Netherese orb embedded in his chest more painful and unstable. How does he deal with this issue? By having a wank, obviously!

The once-charmed locket lay useless and stripped in the dew-damp grass. The usual feeling of relief—a fire smothered and a hunger sated—was absent. The Netherese flames still licked at him, his breathing not yet back to its natural rhythm, and his ribs felt as though they were stretched and warped around something too big for them to hold. They were. The pain was too big for his flimsy mortal bones to contain.

Panic began to mix with the dull, pulsing ache, making it worse. Any kind of spiral, any desperate feeling that tightened his chest, slipped down into the relentless pit and antagonised the gluttonous curse that was settled there. The tendrils of the orb had not only marked his skin but coiled their way around his nerves, fraying and gnawing. They wrapped around him so intently that he could no longer tell which hunger was his and which belonged to the orb.

Count, he thought to himself between audible, struggling breaths. You have to count.

He imagined climbing the stairs of the tower, with morning light spilling over the walls as Tara’s soft pawprints padded along beside him. One step at a time.

He imagined picking up a book he had the luxury of lazily savouring by the fire on a rainy day, feeling the thrum of pages against his fingers, counting each one until he found where he left off. One page at a time.

He counted the times Tav had touched him. Seventeen. There had been seventeen touches. The last time was when she had taken his hand for no other reason than that she thought he needed it. He had. He always needed it. He had wanted to raise her hand to his lips and brush his mouth against her bloodied knuckles. He craved her touch like a bare branch craves spring.

The yawning ache stretched itself out again, threatening him, pressing the jagged edges against his lungs until each breath felt like it would split him open.

Okay… bad… not helping.

At first, he had been confused - he had spent over a year in his tower absorbing slivers of weave from various magical items, and it had been enough. He could live a relatively normal, albeit isolated, life. The pain would arrive every now again like a familiar stranger and he would be able to keep it at bay, there were rules it obeyed and patterns it followed. 

Then he met Tav...

He thought of her smile, and another flame licked at his insides. The realisation struck him like a blow: it was his hunger for Tav that was making the orb unstable. His discontent, his desperation for her, was becoming dangerous. The orb’s power wasn’t growing stronger—his resolve was crumbling. The barriers he had erected to contain the orb’s influence were weakening. His control was slipping through his fingers, and the terrifying truth was that he didn’t know how to stop it.

He hurt pretty much all the time now, but the greatest ache of all was from not touching Tav the way he wanted to. The ache of not peeling each piece of her sweat-soaked, blood-spattered clothes from her and kissing his way across every inch of her skin. He wanted to find each and every scar that flecked her skin, pale and iridescent like the inside of a salt-licked seashell. He wanted to lose himself in each hidden, secret place. The restraint of keeping himself from her was becoming too tight, too choking. His desperation stoked the already barely contained fire within him, threatening to burn him from the inside out, reducing him to nothing more than flecks of weave-tainted ash—and a crater the size of a city.

A few hours ago, with the dregs of adrenaline from a fierce fight still swirling through their systems, she had removed her shirt in front of him. and used it to wipe sweat and blood from her skin before dunking it in the river to clean. She had caught him staring at her, topless and unabashed. Why should she care? They were soldiers, not etiquette-bound nobles. But gods, the sight of her… Another wave of pain rocked him.

Something would have to be done. 

He managed to stumble his way back to his tent without attracting any attention. It was late, and most were still in bed or out hunting. The camp was quiet, the darkness a blanket that shielded him from prying eyes. Once inside, he collapsed onto his bedroll, finally giving the pain the attention it craved. Instead of pushing it down as he usually did, he let himself sink into it, hoping that by opening the door and inviting it in, the pain would take up residence for a while and then, having exhausted its welcome, eventually leave. It was a gamble, a desperate hope that by embracing the torment, he could somehow hasten its departure. But it didn’t seem to work. His thoughts kept drifting back to Tav, and his need for her was an ember that kept the pain simmering and spitting.

He lay there, hurting, and considered his options.

He could leave and eradicate the threat of harming everyone around him. But what would come first—the orb detonating or ceremorphosis? He couldn’t risk becoming a mind flayer with all that raw, destructive power nestled within him, waiting to be unleashed. God knows what kind of monster he would become, what horrors he might commit with such power at his disposal.

He could tell her? What if he confessed how much he wanted her, how every time he heard her laugh it was like a wave of pleasure sinking under his skin and rolling down his spine? She would be kind about it, he was certain. But would it be more painful to be open with his feelings and have them unreciprocated? To be both desperate and embarrassed? That could make things worse, he realised with a painful twinge. He could become the wizard who literally blew up from rejection. Not exactly how he imagined his legacy.

But what if she wanted him too? What if those moments when he felt her eyes on him were not from judgement, but from desire? He thought back to the magic lesson they had shared. It wasn’t what he had expected—just a few minutes where her scent and the sound of her rapid breathing danced in the air alongside the weave. Two opposing forces mingling and crackling around him, skimming across his skin in electrifying waves. Threads and caresses of purple and green, the scent of rosewater mingling with the spiced cinnamon that filled his lungs like warm cider on a cold midwinter night in Waterdeep. He had wanted to reach out, to slot his aching, starved fingers between hers. He wanted to feel warm again, to be warmed in the way only another person could offer.

Then, an image of a kiss slipped into his thoughts—simple and electric. She was thinking of kissing him, and he could almost feel the feather-light brush of her lips against his. The thought of kissing her back, of letting their fantasies intertwine so vividly that it was impossible to tell who was leading, filled him with a desperate longing. But as the desire for it to go further awoke within him, so did the pain. Doubts crept in, whispering that it was nothing more than a fleeting moment, two people getting carried away. 

The magic extinguished, the weave unravelled, and the sweetness died.

“How easily things slip away from us,” he had lamented, before bidding her goodnight and leaving in pain and embarrassment.

Now, he sighed as he thought of all the ways he wanted to touch her. His hand lay flat against the skin of his abdomen, and he closed his eyes, trying to imagine that the weight and warmth of his hand were hers. 

Every time she offered him a smile, he ached to kiss it, to taste the joy that bubbled up from within her. Yes, she was beautiful, with hips that swayed like music and eyes that contained entire universes, but it was her mind that truly captivated him. The quick, sharp bite of her wit, the effortless way she dispensed kindness…  It wasn’t just that he wanted to touch her—Gods, how he wanted to touch her—but he longed to know her, completely.

The pain blazed and the orb glowed in warning, but… perhaps… if he were slow and cautious…

The ache of his erection was tormenting him. It had been so long since he had pleasured himself, since he had even allowed himself to consider it... His need had been buried under layers of control and discipline, suppressed by the fear of what might happen if he let go. But now, that control was slipping, overshadowed by his longing for her. He wondered if indulging, even for just a moment, might offer some relief—even if only briefly.

He settled himself, letting out a slow, measured breath as his fingers traced across the soft skin of his navel, following the line of dark hair down to where he was rock hard. At first, he held himself gently, the sensation unfamiliar and almost foreign after so long. But it wasn’t long before the softness gave way to urgency, his hand gripping more tightly as he began to move his hips into his own grasp. The thought of Tav pleasuring him like this was too delicious to be subtle, and the fantasy burned bright in his mind.

He imagined drawing sounds from her that no one else had ever heard, sounds she herself didn’t even know she was capable of making. The thought of it sent shivers down his spine. and he began to stroke himself faster as he envisioned her losing herself to the waves of pleasure he would bring. Her taut, practised muscles losing control as they wrapped around his head, her body writhing with each flick of his tongue.

In his fantasy, he saw himself having to be more and more forceful to keep her still, his hands gripping her hips as his tongue pressed and stroked, building her up only to make her fall apart. He wanted to unravel her, to take her to heights she had never imagined. He audibly moaned as he imagined the sounds she would make, the way her body would respond to his touch. The thought of her yielding to him, of her body quaking with ecstasy, was almost more than he could bear.

He stopped himself before he came, not wanting the fantasy to end. He was desperately close, and already leaking. He wanted to make the most of this time with Tav, even if it was only in his own head. The pain was still there, but he paid it very little attention.

It had been such a long time since he had luxuriated in the raw, primal pleasures of mortal sexuality with another person—the slick sheen of sweat on skin, the burn of stretched muscles, the sound of uncontrollable lust released in ragged, blissed-out breaths. Yes, the merging of souls and the celestial sharing of pleasure was an experience beyond compare, a union that transcended the physical, but it never quite sated the hunger that still burned within him, a hunger that was flesh-bound and raw. He was a chosen, a prodigy of magic, an illusionist of unparalleled skill. He could bend reality to his will and conjure wonders from thin air. But, he was also a man. A man who now lay in the dark solitude of his tent, his hand wrapped tightly around his hard, leaking cock, aching for the very human experience of sinking into Tav’s eager cunt.

His breath quickened as he stroked himself again, and In the quiet darkness of the tent, he surrendered to the fantasy, his mind painting vivid images of Tav’s body arching beneath him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her fingers digging into his back as he thrust into her with a fervour that bordered on desperation. He could almost taste the salt of her skin, almost feel the quiver of her thighs as she reached the peak of her pleasure.

He was a master of illusions, but this—this was no illusion. It was a deep, salacious desire that nothing could dispel. And as he lay there, his hand moving faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps, he knew that no amount of magic could satisfy the longing he felt for her. He needed her in a way that was as ancient and undeniable as the stars themselves.

As his pleasure built, his pain receded. It was becoming nothing more than a background pulse to the roar of his fantasy. Nothing else mattered at that moment. All he knew was Tav. He lost himself, letting himself be carried away to another place, where pleasure eclipsed pain, and desire became the only reality.

He was the orb, and her touch were the slivers of magic he needed to keep himself together. 

He imagined her gasping out his name in pure, undiluted pleasure and it sent him crashing over the precipice. He choked out breaths as he came, imagining he was spilling inside her cunt or down her throat. 

He lay there, spent and mellow in his post-orgasmic state, waiting for the inevitable return of the pain. He braced himself, expecting the familiar surge of agony to claw its way back, to push into his ribs and split him apart once more. But... it didn’t. The hurt was still there, a steady throb beneath his skin, but it was different now—muted, like a muffled voice through a wall rather than the blaring, all-consuming force it had been. 

He exhaled, more content now that he had allowed himself some release. The tension that had coiled so tightly within him had eased, and even the orb seemed to sense his momentary peace, its energy dimming as if it, too, had curled up for the night.

"Oh Gods," he thought, the embarrassment flooding in like a tide. He turned over, pressing his face into his pillow, his cheeks burning with shame. Was this really what it would take to keep the pain at bay?

An orgasm?! Was that the solution he had been desperately seeking? The idea was almost too absurd to entertain, yet the evidence lay in the calm that now settled over him. He couldn’t allow this to be the answer.

An alternative had to be found, and quickly. 

[ashscarce]

|Fire and ash|

had some designs for these two laying around and finally got around to properly drawing them.

in the little headcannon I made, fire scales are bright blue because blues the hottest fire. then you have Ash scales, rarely they survive and those that do are a dark grey with flecks of fire across their feathers. sky in this design has patches of feathers missing due to being in contact with peril just after hatching.

here's the designs-

[targaryenimagines]

My Khaleesi

Dark!Daenerys Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,586

Summary: Daenerys claims more than the Iron Throne on the day she takes King’s Landing.

Warning(s): Smut and G!P Daenerys.

Notes: Wasn’t sure if you wanted Dark!Dany (in a sense) or not, but decided to just do it that way for this one shot! If you’d like another one with a non dark Dany, I’ll be more than happy to do that. Also, this is definitely the most graphic smut I’ve written… I apologize if it’s bad.

Series Masterlist

Ash still falls from the sky like distorted flecks of snow— rubble shifts under foot as you make your way through the courtyard of the Red Keep. You didn’t have to turn your head far to see the destruction that had been wrought across King’s Landing, a destruction that had come at the hands of the woman you love the most in this world.

Fire and blood had come to Westeros, you think, side-stepping a charred corpse. And penance seemed to have been paid in full.

The sights, along with the smells, that assault you the farther you trek into the once great city aren’t something that sits well with you, nor does the knowledge that Westeros had pushed Daenerys, your Dany, to this point. That all of her grief: Viserion, Jorah, Rhaegal, and Missandei, along with all of her men that she lost in the North, had forced her spirit into shattering so completely.

I don’t want to be Queen of the Ashes…

A saying that had constantly been thrown towards Daenerys, that had been used as a means to control her, keep her in line, and what better way to do that then remind her of her father’s legacy, a tale that’s haunted her ever since she discovered it, and had been continually repeated until Daenerys spouted it out as if she was simply talking about the weather. Her drive, the passion that had carried her through Essos, slowly being driven out of her the longer she spent in the toxic landscape that is Westeros; forever surrounded by the tales of her ancestors, by the fear and hatred that the people she saved showed her, at the clear refusal to ever accept her as anything more than a Targaryen Whore.

Rounding the corner of yet another hallway, you pause just outside of the throne room, or what you believe to be anyway, and think over everything that had transpired. Think of the darkness that had seemed to have only grown in intensity since the Night King had been dealt with. Would Daenerys, after all of this, still wish to see you? Would you still have a place by her side?

Only one way to find out…

With a deep intake of breath, you step fully into the debilitated area that had once been a source of great pride— at the head of it all being the almost legendary throne itself, a mass of melted together swords, and standing before it?

Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

At the sound of your approaching footsteps, Daenerys turns from her perusal of the throne, and a warm smile quirks her lips at your nearing form.

“Ñuha jorrāelagon,” she murmurs, adoration clear within violet eyes. Slim arms wrapping around your middle the moment your close enough for her to grab. A single gloved finger gently tracing down the expanse of your cheek, rubbing away the hints of ash that still remained. “I’m glad to see you unharmed. I don’t know what I would have done if that hadn’t been the case.”

You lean into the hand still resting on your cheek, a happy smile of your own making an appearance. “Burn down the rest of Westeros?” A dark look flashes through violet eyes, your joke suddenly taking on an all too serious light that you desperately wanted to veer away from. Bumping into her slightly, you disentangle from slim arms, warmed by the smallest bit of hesitance she had at letting you go, you step closer to the throne. “This is it? The Iron Throne?”

Daenerys settles next to you. “It is.” She touches the arm of it with an almost reverent air. “After all these years, all the trials and tribulations that I went through, I’m finally here. A Targaryen is finally the holder of the Iron Throne once more. I’ve brought honor back to my family.”

“You’ve honored them for years already, Dany. You simply being alive is honor by itself.” You angle your head, not surprised at all to see that she had already been looking at you. “This just exemplifies you into the ranks of Aegon.”

Violet eyes gleam with an almost childlike wonder, the hand closest to you touching your cheek with the same reverence she had shown the throne. “Aegon had his wives, he had his queens.” She steps away from you, taking her rightful seat on the throne. “Something that I’ll be in need of moving forward.”

Your head dips. “Anything I can help you with?”

Daenerys chuckles lightly, the sound rumbling from deep within her chest like one of Drogon’s roars. “There is, Y/N.” Gesturing for you to come closer, a command that you listen to without question, she gently maneuvers you into a kneeling position before her, slender fingers tangling themselves within the strands of your hair. “Say yes.”

“Your Grace?”

“Say yes to marrying me, to becoming my wife and queen.” Her holds tightens, forcing your head to tilt back. “Say yes to becoming mine and I’ll make sure everything you could ever want becomes yours.”

A small smile twists your lips upward. “Everything that I could ever want already is.”

At the words a small growl escapes Daenerys, her head dipping downward to press a heated kiss to your lips, maintaining that you’re kept in place by the iron-clad hold she still has on your hair. And, like with everything else, Daenerys didn’t hesitate in conquering what is hers, tongue barely brushing over your bottom lip before she plunders into your mouth, taking you for everything you have. The taste of you, the submission in which you’re showing her, along with the location no doubt, makes Daenerys almost frantic in her need for you.

Barely pulling away, giving you both a moment to breathe, before she’s claiming your lips once more— it’s wet, filthy in a way that makes your mind fog over in lust, and you can’t quite get enough air into your lungs through your nose, something that constantly ensures her scent is all that you’re surrounded by, but you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Wouldn’t want to be in any other position than where you are now; kneeling in front of your Khaleesi, her pleasure becoming yours.

Finally, with a ragged breath, Daenerys fully pulls away from you, a thin trail of saliva still connecting you both, before she shifts too far back and it snaps in half. Violet eyes, blown nearly black in lust, pin you in place as Daenerys slowly undoes the buckle of her pants, and jerks it down, the actions clear on what she expected from you. And, without preamble, or any sort of prompting, you help Daenerys with removing them, gently taking off her boots, before pulling her tight-fitting pants off her slim legs. The sight that greets you once you look up almost causing your mouth to dry up completely.

Daenerys Targaryen sat in all of her glory, bare from the waist down, her thick member jutting out from the apex of her thighs. The look in her eyes, in the darkness that lurks just out of reach, tells you all that you need to know, how your Khaleesi wished for you to service her next. Something you didn’t have a problem with doing, damn the consequences of potentially being caught in the wide open throne room.

Taking her into your hands, feeling her warmth, and the way that she twitches ever-so-slightly at your touch, is a heady sort of power that you’re never going to get used to.

Taking her into your mouth, jaw stretched wide to accommodate her girth, feeling the way she arches into the wetness it provides, hands tightening even further into your hair, the wonderful concoction of pain and pleasure, fuels you more than anything ever could.

Bobbing up and down, taking her deeper and deeper into your throat, listening to the breathy sighs she lets loose whenever she completely bottoms out, is a drug you never want to get off of. Her flavor— musky with just the barest hint of sweetness and something spicy— spreads across your tastebuds, your tongue lovingly swirling around the tip of her cock, taking in as much of her as you possibly could.

“Iksā doing sīr sȳz syt nyke.” The Valyrian praise escapes her in a low snarl, hands now guiding you in the exact way she wanted, your own simply being braced on her thighs as you let her use you. “Issare iā sȳz riña syt nyke. Ñuha sȳz riña.”

All you can do is moan in response, mouth completely stuffed full of her, but the vibrations makes her tense even further, another snarl rumbling from deep within her. You know that she’s close, can tell by the way her thighs were beginning to tremble underneath your touch, and the quickening of her thrusts, and your head moves even faster because of it— wanting nothing more than to feel her release down your throat, for your tongue to be coated by her cum.

“Issi ao jāre naejot gūrogon ziry mirre? Gūrogon everything bona nyke tepagon ao?” Daenerys groans out the question, clearly fighting with herself to not succumb just yet to the pleasure of her release. Peering up, you’re instantly met with darkened violet eyes, a rosy hue predominant across fair cheeks. Clearly waiting for a response, all you can do is gurgle around the cock currently in your throat, hoping that your eyes gave her all the answers she needed, which, by the tightening of her hands, absolutely did. “Sȳz riña.”

Within the next moment, jets of Daenerys cum shoots out, going straight into your stomach as you desperately swallow to make sure you don’t lose any of it. The feeling of warmth as her seed settles deep within you is one you’ve long since grown familiar with, but the possessive heat in her eyes as she watches you swallow it all down is definitely new. A reaction that causes your own arousal to come to the forefront of your mind finally, wetness clearly coating your thighs, waiting for your Khaleesi’s touch.

Daenerys pulls her cock from your mouth a moment later— the still hard length shimmering with the combination of leftover cum and saliva— allowing for you to take a deep lungful of air at last. Remnants of her still on your tongue.

Her thumb brushes across your bottom lip, briefly pushing into your mouth for you to suck on, before she retracts her hand and tugs you up onto her lap. Slim arms bracing your lower half perfectly against herself, settling her own body more fully on the Iron Throne.

“You did so good for me,” she murmurs, trailing slender fingers down your thighs. Nowhere near where you needed her the most though. “Do you want to continue?”

You nod. “More than anything, Khaleesi.“

Daenerys hums at the old title, hands gripping your hips in a hold that you know would leave bruises, lips ghosting across your jawline and down your neck.

“You’re mine, right?” Teeth nips into the sensitive flesh beneath your pulse point. “No one else can have you this way, fuck you the way that I can, or hear the beautiful noises you make when you fall apart.”

“Only you, Dany,” you whisper, nuzzling your nose against hers. “It’ll only ever be you. I’m yours completely.”

There isn’t need for more words after that, Daenerys simply hikes your dress higher up your waist, tearing your small-clothes away completely, before rubbing her hardened member against the wetness that has collected between your legs, a deep groan escaping her at the feeling of your clear want for her.

Within the next heartbeat, she’s buried to the hilt within you, a sharp keen being ripped from your chest at the feeling of complete fullness, the delicious stretch as your body tries to acclimate to the feeling of her, and begins to rut roughly into you. Hands slide from their place on your waist to settle on your hips, guiding you up and down as you begin to bounce in response to her thrusts.

A breathy moan falls from your lips, arms wrapped tightly around Daenerys neck, tugging her closer to you, continuing to ride her in complete abandon, wet slapping noise, intercepted by occasional grunts and moans, filled the air, echoing out across the empty throne room. A part of you thinks that you might even be able to be heard down below, the ripped open wall next to the throne offering an excellent siphon to the noises, but then Daenerys twists her hips in just the right way and everything, that doesn’t have to do with the mind numbing pleasure she gives you, vanishes from you mind in an instant.

Nails make crescent moons in the soft flesh of your hips, bruises no doubt already forming on your lower abdomen from how hard Daenerys was thrusting up into you, but the knowledge that your Khaleesi is marking you in such a way, that she’s lost parts of her control because of you, makes you not care in the slightest— you were hers, completely and irreversibly. Her pleasure was your own.

With another strangled gasp, your head falls to her chest, still clad in her formal garb, the metal cool against the heated expanse of your forehead, no longer being able to keep yourself upright. You could feel your climax approaching— coming faster and faster as Daenerys brushed against the spot within you every time she pulled out. Your core clenching around her desperately, trying to keep her within you, milk her for all that she’s worth, and the tight constriction causes a strangled sound of her own to resonate from your Khaleesi.

Feet planted firmly into the floor, she begins to piston fully into you, your body arching into her, allowing her to move you as she saw fit, clearly chasing her second release and your own.

“I’m going to mark you in a way that no one ever has.” Feverish violet eyes meet your own, strands of silvery-gold hair sticking to her heated cheeks, torn from their intricate braids, as her grip on you tightens more. “You’re going to bear my children, you’re going to continue on the Targaryen name. Would you like that?”

You moan. “Yes.”

The thought of carrying her children, of continuing on the Targaryen Legacy, filled you with a sense of purpose, a sense of warmth.

Pushing your head further into her chest, you plead. “Do it, Khaleesi. Claim me.”

With a ragged snarl, Daenerys’s hips stutter and before you know it jets of warmth fill you up, going straight to your womb. The feeling triggers your own release, a broken moan leaving you as you milk Daenerys for everything she has, everything that she’d be willing to offer. Harshly panting, Daenerys settles back onto the throne, hands gently running down your spine, holding you as closely as she possibly still could, still buried inside of you.

��Thank you,” she whispers, nuzzling you before she presses a kiss to your damp temple.

You sigh, content in her arms. “Always.”

Pressing another kiss to your head, Daenerys angles your face in order for you to look at her, the open look of adoration on her face one that’d only ever be reserved for you and her son.

“My beautiful love, my lovely wife.” She drops a chaste kiss to your lips, her hips beginning to move once more. “My eternal queen.”

“My Khaleesi.”

[sashiavi]

Modern! Wriothesley with his large hand around your throat, teasing a soft squeeze. He'll raise his brow, pulling a long drag out of his cigarette, collecting the spicy smoke in his lungs before shotgunning you. He breathes into your lips dragging you into a sloppy, tongue and teeth filled kiss.

Modern! Wriothesley fingering you so, so sweetly. He's in awe at your pretty slick pooling around the rings on his fingers. He's rough and fast until he's pulling away, slapping your clit meanly, bringing his sticky digits to your lips.

"Clean em' up, Sweetheart.."

You wrap your lips around his fingers, licking up your own creamy mess, tasting the tangy metallic brine around his expensive rings. Your teeth clip into the curved metal, tongue lapping and sliding between the webs of his fingers.

Modern! Wriothesley post sex. Loose sweatpants barely clinging to his hips, the man leaning his forearm over the balcony railing of his expensive apartment. He flicks the ash of his cigarette over the balcony, watching the dusted red flecks fall, head lulled on his shoulder. His bare back stings with scratches in the crisp night air, flaring red and striped for you to see from his plush, cushy bed.

[dolldefiler]

This is a longer piece inspired by something the gorgeous @kittrins said. It's a W|W post by the way :p hope you enjoy it?

C/W: CNC

With a final flick of the knight's sword, the villain’s head was sent flying into the foamy sea. A crimson flower bloomed from where it fell, but its vivid petals were quickly consumed by the marble foam of the shimmering sea.

The princess, dishevelled and trembling, sat atop a nearby rock, her knuckles white as she grasped fistfuls of sharp pebbles. Clearly the battle between her kidnapper and her saviour had her enraptured. And now her worries were over.

As the knight, decked in half-plate and the pale blue shades of her royal house, walked to her, she noticed one distinct feature of the knight that she could not help but mention.

“You're no knight! You're a woman!”

The woman that was apparently no knight, decked in a knight's armour, with a knight's sword strapped to her side, and a billowing knight's cape on her back, paused.

“I am a knight, my lady. The Lord Commander of the Garrison knighted me himself.”

The princess sneered at the imposter.

“Women can't be knights. Everyone knows that. You're too weak,” said the princess, as if she weren't a woman herself.

Crashing waves and the distant sound of rolling thunder flooded the air. The woman that was no knight stared evenly at the princess. A single word could break this precious balance. The little princess had a few.

“Ugh, what a disappointment. If only you were a man.”

And before the princess could blink, the knight’s face was pressed up against her own. The wind picked up. Her long, pretty hair whipped around her face and through it she finally saw the truth.

The person who stood before her was neither a man nor a woman, but a knight. A knight that had ridden day and night, crossing river and storm to find the one she was pledged to protect. At the end of that treacherous journey, she had fought hard, only to be met with the complaints of an ungrateful wretch.

Through fluttering eyelids and a pounding heart, the princess felt it, that sickly, sweet emotion she constantly craved.

Fear.

The knight stood solid in the tempestuous wind, her dark eyes glaring into the princess's own pale blue. The knight's breath was heavy and hot on her lips. She was so close now. So very close.

Pools of hazelnut flecked with ash grey, fixed and frozen on her own eyes. Almost as if the knight herself couldn't believe she'd snapped like this. Like an avalanche, nothing happened at first and then everything happened at once.

Two hands, one on her throat and another spreading her legs apart. The princess could not move. She was a woman after all. She was weak.

“Is this what you wanted? A strong hand to slay your foes and to show you your place?” came the knight’s snarl, whispered viciously into her ears. The princess could feel the knight’s hot breath warm her up. This was oh so dangerous. 

Lost for words, the princess said nothing. She felt the knight’s hand slide along her thighs, calloused fingers on smooth skin drawing closer to her heat.

“Y-you can’t do this. This is wrong,” the princess said, shakily, before gasping. The knight’s rough fingers were on her pretty little pussy. 

“If this is so wrong,” the knight said, a cruel smirk stretched across her face, “then why are you so fucking wet, princess?”

The princess didn’t need to look into a mirror to know she was blushing. She could feel it. And she hated it. She hated that her silly, royal hole had betrayed her like this. The knight pressed into her again. Her hands, fiddling with her pussy. Her armour pressed against the princess’s dress. And her lips on hers.

The princess’s head went blank.

The knight’s lips tasted of wine, but with her hand on the princess’s throat and the hard, long kiss, the princess could hardly register this. Without realising it, she found herself exploring the knight’s mouth. ‘No, no, no, this isn’t right. You’re my rapist, not my saviour!’ the princess wanted to scream out. 

But she didn’t. She allowed herself to melt into the knight’s lips, moaning as she strong fingers play with her slit. She grinded back cautiously. Subtly. Not subtle enough.

The knight pulled back and flashed the princess a lewd grin, even as strands of saliva hung between their lips.

“Yeah? You like that? A woman’s hand fingering your perfect little royal flower? Don’t you hate that I’m not a man? That I don’t have a cock to fuck you with?”

With those words, a firm hand still choking the princess, the knight drew out her long dagger. It held a slight, wicked curve to it. The hilt was long for a dagger and a simple pommel prevented it from slipping from one’s hand. The knight pointed it at the princess.

Fear.

The princess paled.

Regret flashed through her head. Fear mixed with lust, even now, coursed through her as she prepared herself. The knight flipped the dagger across her hand, so the pommel faced the princess. She lowered it, pressing it against the tip of the princess’s entrance.

“Do you hate it? That I have no cock…?” the knight whispered, plastering short kisses across the little brat’s neck. “If you hate it so much, you should tell me. Tell me… Tell me and I’ll fuck you like this.”

The princess hardly hesitated.

“I hate it.”

The knight shuddered, and the princess realised they were both getting off to this. The realisation made her bolder.

“I hate it so fucking much. I hate that you can’t fuck me with a cock. I hate it, I hate it, I HATE IT!”

And with that final yell, the knight plunged the hilt of her dagger into the princess. It was unfamiliar and exciting. The princess almost lost her mind as she clung onto the knight, her eyes closed.

“Fuck, I hate this. I hate you so much. I hate—I HATE THIS—FUCK.”

The princess spewed a near incoherent string of curses and hate. The knight seemed to fuck her harder with each word.

“Go on, baby. Tell me how much you hate me. Tell me how much you wish I had a cock. Fuck, tell me everything.”

“I hate you…”

That was all the princess could let out before her knees gave in. Before time sped up and she felt herself cum again and again on the knight’s dagger. It was euphoric and draining all once. Sweat gleamed as it trickled down her panting, lewd body. This knight had treated her like a woman. Just the way she deserved.

“Thank you, darling,” the princess said in between heavy gasps. “God, I needed that. Can you believe that bastard was going to rape me? ‘I’ll take your maidenhood and the kingdom with it.’ The cunt didn’t even realise you’d taken it ages ago.”

The knight flinched slightly. The king would have her head, were he to ever learn how she’d taught his daughter the foul, colourful vocabulary of soldiers.

“I’m glad I could make you feel better. I brought some extra clothes and food. You must have been terrified, you poor thing.”

“Eh, not really. I knew you’d come. You always come for me. But we’ve not finished. I still need to make you cum!”

The knight glanced off into the distance, watching the dark clouds menacingly roll across the skies in their direction.

“Best not. It’s going to storm soon and I would much rather keep you out of the wet and cold for much longer. When we’re back in the palace, I’m expecting a very, very big thank you, my love.”

The princess grinned toothily and in a very unladylike manner. “Your wish is my command, princess.”

The knight shuddered. “I told you to stop calling me that! It’s… I’m not… You’re the princess, for heaven’s sake!”

“I can be the princess in public but when it’s just the two of us? You’ll always be my adorable, cute princess, darling.”

Hiding a slight smile, the knight rolled her eyes before helping the princess up on her horse, which stood nearby.

[jolapeno]

but he does have you

joel miller x f!reader

summary: because he hasn’t got a lot of anything, but he does have you.

warnings: reader gets hurt off-screen, so tending to wounds. protective!joel. no reader age specified, joel is canon age. brief mention of alcohol. slight mention of smut. idiots who are together but don't admit it. jo-angst

an: i wrote half of this when i was tipsy. i don't even know how. i did it. a huge thank you to @guyfieriii for her eyes, her smile and the title.

wordcount: 1.5k

He wakes to throbbing, churning and a dry throat.

Eyes squinting, the sunlight peering in, casting too much goodness over a sorrowful sight, even if the shadowy flecks try to leave paths to greatness.

All it does is highlight it all over again. That it is still there. A reminder, memories recalling yesterday, eyes tracing the scored marks across your face, all illuminated by warm, golden rays.

It’s all in vain, because even a sunny morning couldn’t make it better.

It couldn't rid the tightness in his chest. Couldn't fix what had already been done. Joel had tried to do it all himself last night.

"You should see how I left them."

As soon as he'd had a chance to really see you, see what had happened, he’d done what he used to do with Tess. By that, he cracked open a bottle, placed little pills in your palm, and cleaned out the brick dust from your cuts and scrapes.

But you weren’t anything like Tess.

Where she was like fire, you were more fury. His silence worsening your mood, spoiling the air.

Instead of saying a biting comment, you pushed his hand away. Staring, burning holes, until your fingers yanked him by the denim of his shirt, crashing his lips to yours.

He remembers how warm they were, cracked, but still as pleasant as always. Craving each second more than the last until he lost himself completely—just like the first time the two of you stepped over the line together. His feet sliding, willingly, off the metaphorical ground and straight into you.

Because before, he used to put up more of a fight. Keep his distance, be aloof in the hope you’d turn your attention to another. You didn’t, and thank fucking shit you didn’t, because ever since, when the two of you are alone, he’s been freefalling—without worry or care.

It's why he let his fingers lose themselves on the back of your neck, keeping you close, tasting whimper after moan—preferring the taste of Miller to the swears that fall as he walks you to the bed.

The one on blocks of concrete, covered in messy sheets that likely still smell of the two of you from a few nights ago. The one he shares with you, even if only for a night or two a week.

It had been different a few nights ago, than it is now.

A different kind of need, seeking a different resolution or proof of being alive. Your body vibrates with it, the adrenaline of keeping your head above water, knuckles cracked with your determination and your body bruised with your unwillingness to bow to anyone.

He suspects that’s why his back throbs, aches—thrumming and thrumming as it twinges, unable and unwilling to slide his arm from under or over you.

Because this isn’t something the two of you do.

It’s not something he does.

But he likes it, having you close. Little to no space between you, your neck warm on his arm.

He shouldn't get to experience mornings like this, so he clutches it closer. He ignores the fact he's stained and marred with what he's had to do to live and focuses instead on the softness of your skin.

Because he didn't deserve you to begin with. So much so, a while ago, he’d forced a list, all in his mind. One thing after another as to why he should keep you away, push you away.

He knows last night isn't what ripped up that list, he'd done that months ago. But he’s sure that last night is when it truly turned to ash. When he torched it, shredded it, lit a match and watched it burn. All of those reasons why he shouldn’t be this close to anyone—never mind someone like you—gone, as though they’d never occupied any space in his mind before.

Because how could he not want you?

A thought which had hammered in him on the day his resolute had finally snapped. All you'd done was smile, blessed him with a laugh all because of something he’d said. A fleck of nice in a wasteland of detestation.

Somehow, unbeknown to him even now, you had managed to keep a part of yourself alive even after all the horrors. A slither of humour, snark and wit. You, who had seen, done and experienced things, yet bore no real scarring from any of it.

It’s why he knew, deep down, whatever semblance of himself remained, he wanted to enjoy moments like this. He squirrelled it away, sneaking it into a box in his mind different from the one he usually buries things in. Placing it on a shelf beside the one stuffed with memories, voices, and butterflies.

Brushing his hand over his face, he opens his eyes across the room—and sees the catalyst of your pleading, begging arranged in scattered clothing across it.

It all comes back to him, all the hours that had ticked on by as the place filled with moans, sweat and skin-on-skin sounds. How good you'd felt, how solid and firm you'd been on top of him, reminding him, over and over, how alive you were.

If he focuses hard enough when he drags his tongue over his bottom lip, he can almost separate the taste of how alive you are from the bottle of cheap liquor the two of you had attempted to finish.

The one he managed, one glass off, maybe two.

You're determination outweighing his in your pursuit of burning the epinephrine from your system, desperate to feel him, have him scorch bruises over the ones you'd gained from other hands.

Not that he'd have drank much more anyway. It's an effect of having you close. Finds you remedy more things, calm more storms and flickers on a light that is otherwise fading.

Especially when he makes your back arch, when your chin tilts up, and he buries grunts along the place where your neck and shoulder meet. When he feels you tighten, tense—body electric, nerves alive and buzzing.

Then, there’s the way you always say his name—not Miller, not Misery or Grump, but Joel.

It’s all elongated. Heavy.

Kissing the air with a breath encased all around it, that ricochets around his skull and buries itself in an abandoned part of his brain.

It being further proof, a receipt (in a world that doesn’t care) that the two of you are more than what you’re willing to admit, acknowledge. No label, no conversation. Just continuous acts that layer and layer.

He lets his eyes fall back to you, still sleeping soundly. Chest rising and falling, the thin sheet clinging, trapped under your arm. It’s clearer now, where they'd grabbed you. Where their hands had been.

It's much more evident now, even if he’d seen them all in their beginnings last night—the ones you’d not admitted to—spotting, mentally noting all the little swollen patches, surrounded by grazes, cuts.

Now, they're magnified by the morning light.

And it makes his blood boil all over again.

His palm wanting to gently slide over them, heal them in some way—and then later, use that same palm to squeeze the life out of the person who inflicted them. Find them, drag them down an alleyway until their teeth sit amongst the pebbles and weeds.

You’d begged him not to leave to find them last night. You had asked it of him between heavy kisses. All whispered, a promise he’d handed you because you were naked, all wanting and sat on top of him, full of him, every inch of him buried inside of you—

“Please. It’s nothing.”

The latter two words were what you’d said when you’d knocked on his door with a faded, dusty med kit. The exact two words you’d repeated when you’d winced as he cleaned the cut above your brow. Them repeated again once you’d taken you'd caught your breath from sliding his cock inside of you, all unwilling to move until he agreed.

You'd even splayed your fingers across his chest, eyes determined, flickering with flames sitting on him so prettily.

“You don’t want me to hurt them today, I won’t.”

Joel isn’t sure if you caught it. But you were intelligent, clever—far more devious than you looked or acted. But, you said nothing. Rocking your hips, taking his hand and resting it on your thigh, words falling, littered with praises and gratitude.

Each washing over him, temporerily making him forget—able to live in a lie when he closed his eyes. Able to pretend the air was tinged with liquor because of celebrations, and not because you’d fought to keep ration cards.

“You’re so good to me, Miller.”

He sighs, remembering it falling from your lips. His heartbeat quickening like it did when his fingers had rested at the base of your neck, watching in awe as you fucked yourself on him.

It’s a line you say infrequently, but it slams into him with the same force as it did the first time. The words rattling and clanking around until they fall through and are processed. That’s when they almost take the air from his lungs, knock him to his knees, breaking and fixing, ripping and soldering, him all at fucking once.

Because he’s not good, but then neither are you.

There’s no good, no evil. Living and surviving being all that remains.

Something he finds hard to believe when you’re back is flush to him. When your is skin bare, hand under your face, curled so your face is buried from the window you face.

Joel supposes that’s why he’ll get up soon. Pull on his jeans, grab some clothes, throw water on his face and head out.

Because you are warm, while he’s cold—and deep down, while he pities those who get between the two of you, he’s not sorry for them. He’s not sorry for the precipitation that catches them off guard, how they’re trapped in a storm that never lessens when they cross the two of you.

They should know better. Do better. Be better.

“Goddamnit—can’t say those words to me—“

He’d meant it, likely in the same way you meant the ones that followed. An array of admirations that fell and tumbled.

The muscle in jaw twitched, fingers drawing a line up and down your side. Watching, as he does sometimes, as you wiggle, shift. Moving further into him, leaving no amount of gap between his body and yours.

“No? Why not, Miller?”

He still doesn’t have an answer, and it’s been hours. Mainly, because there's not just one, but rather an amalgamation of many, smashed together to make a thing, rather than an explanation.

Because.

Because he lost a lot, practically everything. Because he hasn’t got a lot of anything, but he does have you. Because you’re not something he never wanted, but he wants you all the same. Because he prefers you here, in the place you are now.

Because it’s you.

And no one gets to breathe, never mind talk if they try and take that from him.

No one.

And honestly, he's not entirely sure what to do with that knowledge.

[mbari-blog]

#tfw you don't know which way is up #HumpDay⁠

⁠Volcanic activity on the seafloor creates scattered oases known as hydrothermal vents. These underwater geysers spew superheated water rich in dissolved minerals. When that scalding-hot water comes in contact with frigid deep-ocean water, the minerals crystallize, raining tiny flecks of “ash” to the seafloor. Those mineral deposits build up over time, creating breathtaking spires and “chimneys” that can grow to hundreds of feet tall.⁠ ⁠ Less than 25 percent of the seafloor has been mapped at the same level of detail as the Moon or Mars. MBARI’s mission is to advance marine science and technology to understand our changing ocean—from the surface to the seafloor. For nearly four decades, MBARI has explored the deep ocean, recording thousands of hours of video with our remotely operated vehicles and mapping thousands of kilometers of seafloor using advanced robots. Together, these tools are helping to create a clearer picture of the amazing environments hidden in the ocean’s inky depths. ⁠ ⁠ The astonishing communities that live on and around hydrothermal vents have evolved to flourish under extreme temperatures and chemical conditions. The remarkable tubeworms, crabs, clams, and more that thrive here are found nowhere else on Earth. Now, with more companies looking to extract mineral resources from the ocean, it is more important than ever to study the deep sea and the wonders it holds. The maps we create and data we collect can help resource managers make informed decisions about the ocean, its inhabitants, and its resources. Together, we can safeguard these unique biological and geological treasures.

[raayllum]

It's not structurally sound, so Zym walks beside him, one wing tented protectively over his head just in case. At least that's what Soren said, eyes still with a fading yellow hue to them, traces of magic still stubbornly clinging on when Ezran had finally arrived.

The sky was still grey, flecked with smoke and embers, Callum slamming into him in a banther hug before Ez had even gotten his bearings—both sobbing a little, exhausted, relieved. Callum cupping his baby brother's cheeks and brushing away tears, till—Ezran had spotted him lurking over Callum's shoulder, dressed in greens and all too terribly alive.

The shouting match that had followed hadn't been pretty, but—

Opeli had stepped in. Soren had ushered everyone else away.

"He just needs some time to mourn," Corvus murmurs.

Ez had cried at the wedding, and cried on the way home. The putrid air stings his eyes now as he walks amongst the ruins, though no tears fall. His eyes are too full of something else, reconstructing everything around him perfectly. There's where the eastern tower stood before it crumbled into the courtyard. The balcony by the king's chambers where Ez had taken his first steps, toddling confidently towards his father's face. Half the battlements are blasted apart, barracks and weapons in splintered disarray. The rest of the castle isn't in much better shape.

His family's home, his family's legacy, all the precious things he hadn't taken with him to New Aurea, because why would he have? A box of mementos from his mother—the tie from her braid, a pressed flower from her wedding bouquet, a letter she'd written and sealed for him for his sixteenth birthday—buried in ash. Burnt to a crisp.

Every portrait of his father, his throne, his... A lump rises in his throat.

Gone.

It's all gone.

Opeli has the grim work of consulting everyone to make a list of the dead, all the guards and servants and people—families—wiped out. Ez knows there will be names he recognizes. Even worse, there will be names he doesn't, people who lived and died here, in his castle, in his kingdom, and as king, he didn't even—

His vision blurs as he picks his way over charred brick, Zym following dutifully behind him with a tiny whine. He staggers over the collapsed walls, the massive pile, but picks out a spindle of what he knows is a rocking chair, sticking out from the side.

"My mother sat here," he explains to Zym, sitting down slowly on the pile of bricks. It's as comfortable a seat as anything else could be. "When she rocked me to sleep." He sniffles. His shoulders shake. "This was my nursery, Zym."

His Dad had kept it preserved, just for him. For whenever you want to feel close to her. And after his Dad's death, to both of them.

Zym presses his snout to Ezran's arm as they settle together, his castle consumed by dragon fire.

Ezran weeps in the middle of his nursery.

This is where tiny children are supposed to cry, after all.

[disco-archetypes]

SHIVERS - All around you, rain falls on the great city of Revachol. Rain drips from the eaves and floods the gutters, washing the filth away.

SHIVERS - Winter's grip on the city is loosening. The spring thaw is here.

YOU - Finally. What now?

SHIVERS - Your shirt sticks to your chest. The shoulders of your disco blazer grow heavy. The cold finds its way in under your skin. You shiver, and the city shivers with you.

YOU - What is in the west?

SHIVERS - Sheets of rain over the water. A flight of stairs leading into the ocean. Wave after wave washing the coast of Martinaise, with its motorboats and gently swaying reeds.

SHIVERS - The ruins of a half-sunken seafort crumble on an inlet. Beyond the Bay of Revachol, ghosts rise into the sky.

YOU - Who are you, ghosts?

SHIVERS - The skyscrapers of La Delta, the financial district. Faint golden light seeps from the office windows.

YOU - What is down the shore?

SHIVERS - Urban coastline, rain dripping off eternite-covered roofs. Cinder blocks left over from half-finished construction. A defunct research and development building once seized by revolutionaries. An old wooden church stands on stilts above the water.

YOU - And beyond that?

SHIVERS - Coal City, end of all lines.

YOU - Run your fingers through your dampened hair.

SHIVERS - Your hair is an oily mess flecked with ash from neighbouring coal plants. Smoke stacks rise somewhere in the distance.

YOU - What's in the east?

SHIVERS - The great gates of the industrial harbour are locked. A chill runs down your back. You shudder like an animal trying to shake water from its hide.

YOU - Clench your teeth to stop shuddering.

SHIVERS - Behind the gates -- heaps of supply crates. Red and blue metal shipping containers slick with rain. The Greater Revachol Industrial Harbour is an artificial mountain range. Immense wealth resides within, and immeasurable poverty in its shadow.

YOU - And beyond that?

SHIVERS - La Drisienne, King Dris's Passenger Harbour. Cruise ships flanked by dock arms. Cranes watching over the mouth of the river distributary.

YOU - What is across the distributary?

SHIVERS - Couron, the lower middle class. Distributary after distributary cuts the city blocks in half. Seven-story buildings trail off into the rain.

YOU - What is beyond the Couron?

SHIVERS - A silvery curtain of rain over the houses. The class divide.

YOU - What's in the north?

SHIVERS - Capeside apartments -- tower blocks crowd one another, 4.46 mm bullets still lodged in their war-torn stone walls.

SHIVERS - Hallways collapsed from the mortar hits of a war that was lost long ago. Clotheslines go to waste in the rain. Radios play.

YOU - And closer to here?

SHIVERS - A yard. Rain falls onto the roof of a woodshed. Filthy water pools around a body. Droplets of rain slip from the dead man's cold cheeks.

YOU - What's in the south?

SHIVERS - A traffic jam. Rain thrumming on the roofs of motor vehicles. Inside, drivers watch water streaming down their windshields. The statue of a king shudders, he too is cold. The canal bridge has been raised.

YOU - What's on the other side?

SHIVERS - The road ascends; a raised motorway loops above the ghetto. Beneath its concrete columns -- a sea of rooftops, woodwork, and tar stretches northward. Four-story buildings as far as the rain can fall. The snows melt in Jamrock.

YOU - Why am I not there?

SHIVERS - To be in Martinaise, where no one goes. At the run-off point of a long-forgotten canal, in the whitest part of town. In the shadow of the day the Revolution failed.

YOU - What am I doing here?

SHIVERS - Standing in the rain, looking north, where Jamrock Rock City stretches inland.

YOU - Where do I live?

SHIVERS - On a street there that flows like a muddy river in the snow, with fire traps rising on either side. A film rental opens its doors to the rain, an armoured motor carriage rushes past the corner where you used to walk together... Suddenly, the hair on your back rises.

SHIVERS - YOU CANNOT RETURN.

YOU - Shudder, look further...

SHIVERS - In the rain-swept distance above the rooftops of Jamrock, a re-purposed silk mill stands perched above the motorway exit. Precinct 41 hunches in the rain.

SHIVERS - Your vision blurs. You wipe your face with your hand. The rain stings your eyes, making you look up and blink.

YOU - What's above?

SHIVERS - More coalition aerostatics. Way up there -- where rain forms -- rotors flutter silently. Your sight clears.

YOU - What's below?

SHIVERS - Collapsed storm drains. Old sewage systems flooded with rainwater. Hidden weapon caches from the Revolution. Doors leading down to Le Royaume -- the catacombs to which, for three centuries, they delivered the blue-blooded dead.

YOU - "Motherfucker." [Finish thought.]

SHIVERS - These spring thaw will not last. The winter will return to Revachol.

[rustedhearts]

the one where steve is a hometown lover from the past that you’ll never outgrow (also mechanic!steve, also the same steve as in asleep)….

moodboard

“hey.”

he’s on the front steps of your trailer with a cigarette between his lips. the afternoon sun has gathered and festered under the weight of thin cotton down your back. it’s glowing bright orange on his bronzed cheeks. he spent a lot of time outside this summer. he spent a lot of time away.

but here he is, at 5:00. just off work. just like you, holding your keys in one hand and an empty lunchbox in the other. holding pulsing aches in your feet, suffocating in a pair of high heels.

“hey.”

one eye shutters closed when he tips his head back to see you. to inspect you the way only he ever does. his lips curl sideways to release a furl of smoke.

“uh…what are you doing here?”

steve pats the rickety wood beside him. his knuckles are scabbed, fingertips dirtied with soil and grease. 5:00. just off work. the navy blue collared shirt hand-stitched with his name.

your lunchbox swings when you step forward, whirl around, and sink down. it clunks with a hollow tupperware container when you set it on the concrete.

steve pulls the cigarette away from his mouth and rests his elbows on his knees. a fleck of ash flings toward the patchy grass near his feet. he reeks of chemical car exhaust. when the wind whispers through the park, it wafts the cheyennes toward your just-washed-hair.

just like old times.

"wanted to see you," he says.

you kick your legs out and cross one over the other. steve's eyes wander their way, hazel mutating into amber in direct sunlight. you haven't seen them this close in ages. haven't felt the solid heat of him in months. longer, if you thought about it.

you aren't sure what to say to him, and the quiet sound of lips latching to paper fill the space. he sighs the next cloud of smoke out. the sheen of sweat on his skin makes it glitter.

"how’s, uh…how’s your mom?”

you glance at him, lip between your teeth. “better. been clean a couple months now.”

he hums, mouthing at the cigarette butt. it’s getting smaller and smaller by the second. the crackle in his lungs feels better than the silence.

“how’s your brother?” you offer.

another bout of ash springing toward the concrete. it lands on the toe of his boot. they must be sweltering cages in this heat.

“back home.” you know that means not good.

using the pointed toe of one, you kick off your heels and wiggle your swollen toes. the cheap, glossy shoes scrape the sidewalk where they fall.

a few rows over, the hiss of charred meat erupts into a stream of smoke. the grill lid slams. a dog yips until someone snaps at it.

“we should’ve gotten outta here.”

it’s steve that says it and he’s shaking his head. head tipped back to the sky like it might be different elsewhere. but it’s always been the same shade of blue above the trailer park.

you watch his bicep spill over his knee. a bead of sweat drip to his elbow. you can’t help but lean forward and drop your head to his shoulder. above you, his head snaps aside with the swiftness of lightning.

the cigarette is gone now. steve stubs it on the porch and flings it toward the grass. you watch it nestle between overgrown blades, just behind a dandelion.

he folds his arms together over his tucked-up knees.

“it wouldn’t have been different,” you tell him.

steve turns away. tufts of hair cling to the back of his neck with sweat. patches grow dark where it’s damp. the chain of a dog tag peeks above the navy collar.

it’s his brother’s. the one who didn’t make it home.

a gust of wind rushes through the park. it flutters through your hair, flaps through the bottom of your skirt. steve tips his head back to feel it. you watch the sun gather and sit glowingly on his nose. he has a new freckle under his jaw.

“i think it would’ve,” he murmurs. it seems like a remark mostly for himself.

you felt your hand sneaking through the warmth under his arm before you knew it. worming through the gap, looping over his forearm until it comes back to you. once intertwined, you feel a relief waiting to be released. balled up for months in your chest, soothed only by steve.

steve drops his head down on yours. the weight of it like a paperclip, holding you together. you let your eyes close and imagine what he always said leaving his mouth right now. i love ya, kid.

you hum against his arm, cheek pressed into soft, slick flesh. in your mind, it mimics the same sounds of your usual response. i love you too.

"wanna stay a bit?" you say instead.

steve shuts his eyes. "okay," he says back.

when the pair of you finally move a few minutes later, you hook your fingers in your heels and steve takes your lunchbox. he kicks his shoes off near the door on the outside, sets the lunchbox on the coffee table.

he takes the hand that reaches for him, angled behind you at the base of your spine. your feet journey toward the bedroom without question.

he forgets the dog tags around your bed post when he leaves.

a familiar excuse to return again.

[pikaclan]

Moon 549

Season: Leaf-bare

Overarching Events

Not enough medicine cats

Ceremonies

PikaClan welcomes Jadekick as a new warrior, honoring their consideration

Crowdawn sits in the crowd, chest puffed out in pride as they watch Spikapaw be named Spikemouse, and honored for their zeal. They consider themself lucky to have been able to train such an amazing young cat, and look forward to seeing the warrior they become

Births

Runningleaf brought a single kitten back to camp, but refused to talk about their origin. The kit is not caught to have outsider roots

Whiskerkit (male) is born!

Smokylily brought a litter of 2 kits back to camp, but refused to talk about their origin. They are not caught to be Half-Clan (FightClan)

Shrewkit (male) and Frostykit (male) are born!

Misc

Snipgorse and Cinderstar see each other in a different light; after Cinderstar talke with Cloveflower, Snipgorse and Cinderstar have become mates.

Fleckflit's rejection of Shiningfrost was very . . . public. Everyone's still feeling awkward about it

Gorseflight bunts their head against Flutterbumble's as PikaClan celebrates the new mates

Ashkit was playing with jay feathers earlier and decides to wear some

Health

The medicine cat apprentice from FlightClan asks for daisy and we provide Popreed misstepped and slipped from a rock, dislocating a joint Snipgorse's infection abated Shiningfrost got greencough Hemlockroar saved Snakepaw from a hawk but got hurt Blazepaw fought a fox and was barely hurt, only bruised! Smokylily got yellowcough

Patrols

Spikemouse finds a loner who offers their healing skills in exchange for shelter but after hearing more, the cat declines

The patrol met Lightning

[luxurychristmaspudding]

Chucho's Records // Javier Peña // Secret Springs

it's a warm night in secret springs when you step into javier peña's record store.

half an hour before closing time, you step over the worn threshold to the chime of a bell and the soft croon of a saxophone, duke ellington gliding through the dust motes to greet you.

a tired looking man looks up from his book behind the counter towards the back of the shop, a cigarette cradled between two fingers. you stop short at his appraisal. the way his eyes roam over you, the way his tongue wets his bottom lip.

he's handsome. so very handsome. lovely dark hair swept over his forehead, pouted lips parted beneath his moustache. his eyes warm and serious, alight with a curiosity.

'looking for anything in particular, cariño?'

his voice, low and inviting, breaks the spell. you smile, and he places his book gently down on the counter, cigarette crushed into an ash tray by the old register.

you accept his help at first, before he leaves you to peruse the records alone. you're lost to the feel of them beneath your fingers - music lost to time, voices you have yearned to find but couldn't anywhere else. you wonder whether you'll have to invest in a second suitcase to bring them home in, almost forgetting the quiet man here with you.

when he flips the sign hanging on the back of the door from 'open' to 'closed', you're pulled from your reverie, turning to face him as the sunset cools through the glass.

'it's okay,' he says, 'there's no rush.'

time slips by easily in javier's company. he passes you records to turn in your hands, places them on the turntable for you to hear. the shop is lit with a warm glow as he pulls a second stool out for you to sit at by the counter, and between glasses of whisky, you swap tales of places you've been, where you've come from. he's lived a dangerous, remarkable life, but doesn't like to hear your wonder and amazement. he's a man who believes in morality, rights and wrongs. a man looking for a fresh start.

he's a man awash with so much sensuality, you don't even realise how much time has passed with you staring at his lips, wishing to taste them.

it's dark outside when he checks his watch, and your belly swoops with disappointment. you follow him with your eyes as he turns lights off, silences the voice floating through the speakers. you step with him into the cool night, and he locks the door behind you.

you gladly accept when he offers to walk you home.

the streets are quiet, secluded as you reach your holiday home. the closeness of the evening is intimate, romantic, and your cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

when you turn on the doorstep, he is so close. you can see the flecks of grey through his dark hair, crows feet in the corners of his eyes. smell the leather of his jacket, the scent of his cologne.

there is no surprise when he leans in to kiss you. soft, plush lips against yours - chaste. mint and smoke and something sweet. one large, warm hand cradles your jaw, the other squeezing your hip.

when he pulls away, you're breathless. his pupils are blown, eyes searching your face for something. for everything he's been looking for.

he presses his lips to your forehead as he wishes you goodnight, and when the door closes behind you, you press your hands to the heat of your cheeks, giddy.

sleep is fitful, strangely lonely. you promised you'd go back again tomorrow, but when you open the door to a knock the next morning, it seems natural for him to be stood there.

blush pink roses in the same hands that held you, that smile, those eyes.

'i couldn't wait,' he says, 'there's so much more to show you.'

@secretelephanttattoo <3

divider from @saradika-graphics

[letters-unsending]

No. 52

////

"We have to get up," Hero slurs, their words tinged with delirium.

From beside them, laid flat out of their back and heaving vaporous breaths into the night, Villain laughs. The cold shapes the sound into thin whirls.

"You're fine here," Villain sighs, "they'll find you. They'll heal you." Snow trickles down the back of their neck and wets their torn suit. It feels as though they're melting into the ground, flesh pooling off of bone.

"No, we're getting out of here." Hero grunts, hands scraping along the ice for purchase. His arms and chest tremble with the effort. Pausing, he twists his head. Snow burns his cheek as he glances toward Villain, whose profile blurs, formless in the wintry dark.

“I was aware of the consequences, Hero,” Villain coughs, “it's fine.”

“It's not.” Hero insists, forcing their weight onto their wrists, lifting themself to their hands and knees. Pain sloshes down between their eyes as they rise and they blink at the ground through fiery tears. “The Organization won’t believe me. I can't defend you, even after everything you've done for me."

Nausea stays Hero’s tongue. Between their palms, the ground spins, a churn of snow, ash, and bloody grit.

“Stay down,” Villain fingers twitch, “you’re going to hurt yourself.”

Hero pushes off their hand and reaches over to squeeze Villain’s shoulder. They pull, trying to pry Villain from the ice, but their back screams, muscles lactic and overstrung, drained by the overuse of their power. Their hand slips off Villain’s shoulder and Hero catches themself, palms beside Villain’s ears.

Villain stares up at Hero. The far-off blaze glints in their eye and rounds the side of their nose and jaw.

“It’ll be okay,” Villain breathes.

Hero squeezes his eyes shut. The wind scrapes along his fingers and sings a chill up his arms. “I'll free you,” he swears, slumping down, “I'll find a way.”

Villain shudders as Hero’s weight drapes over them. Their frostbitten nose fits beneath Villain’s chin and their hair itches along their jaw. The warmth passed between their chests is so sudden that Villain’s skin aches, shocked by the transition in temperature.

“You can't stay like this,” Villain whispers, stock-still.

“We've got time,” Hero murmurs into Villain’s neck. The city alarm blares far away, quiet, an almost pleasant encore to the shrill breeze.

Villain’s throat and ribs constrict as Hero breathes against him. The comfort is jarring in the wake of adrenaline, searing like hot water spilled over cold-swollen knuckles. Villain’s eyes sting as they stare into the gray sky.

A few snowflakes drift down, twirling alongside flecks of ash. One melts along Villain’s temple.

“What happens once you free me?”

“Anything,” Hero replies, “anything you want.”

In lieu of a reply, Villain lifts their arm from their side, reanimating the nerves in their numb fingers. A screaming pain connects from elbow to shoulder, but they pull. Their hand lands on top of Hero’s back.

Hero trembles beneath their palm.

“I want to believe you,” Villain croaks, fingers digging into Hero’s skin, “I really do.”