Any - Command Tower, Transguild Promenade, Rupture Spire
Any with Stipulations - Exotic Orchard, Forbidden Orchard, Reflecting Pool, Pillar of the Paruns, Primal Beyond, Mana Confluence, Ancient Ziggurat, City of Brass, Grand Coliseum, Haven of the Spirit Dragon, Ally Encampment, Rainbow Vale, Sliver Hive, Spire of Industry
Charge Counters - Vivid Grove, Crag, Creek, Marsh, Meadow, Mirrodin’s Core
“You’re looking kinda green around the gills, Spock.”
“That would be due to my Vulcan blood, doctor.”
“No, I mean you’re growing gills.”
At first, Spock thinks, surely McCoy is joking. But the assumption quickly fades when he sees the look on McCoy’s face. He touches the side of his neck and his fingers come away slightly slimy. He looks at his hand and see scales.
There’s the usual panic whenever unexplainable phenomena occur. He winds up in the isolation ward with Chapel, who is in full hazmat gear and is carrying a bottle of water with a spray top. She spritzes him occasionally and that helps with the itchy, dry skin, but it doesn’t stop the slow progression of the disease. If it is a disease.
It takes only a week for his legs to fuse together, skin growing first dry, then rough, the scaly. He forgoes pants and mourns the fact he can no longer wear his favorite boots with the little black heel. His feet flatten and shift into flowing fins. The scales are smooth to the touch now, and match the pale green scales on the back of his hands. Thankfully his upper body remains relatively the same, but now he’s heaving trouble breathing.
McCoy discovers the diseases isn’t communicable and then spends four sleepless nights in his room, along with Scotty and Chekov, and together the four of them build a tank that Spock can submerge himself in. At least he won’t suffocate in the meantime. It takes days for them to get the salinity right and meanwhile Spock is sluggish and tired all the time. Sulu transplants some seaweed and rocks into the tank and Spock tells him it’s illogical, but secretly he feels better anyway.
After the tank is complete McCoy refuses to leave, even though Spock is fine for the time being. Spock curls his tail up to his body and watches as McCoy eventually passes out, slumped against the glass. The glass is warmer where his body is, and Spock presses against it. He thinks he can feel McCoy’s dreams through the glass, but they are muddied by the water. Fuzzy and disjointed. Like passing through a haze.
Work on a cure is slow. Or perhaps a cure will never come. Spock has trouble parsing McCoy’s increasingly vague updates. He finds himself growing isolated. Alone. He can’t even work, because he can’t bring the electronics into the tank with him.
He calls McCoy in and demands to be let out.
He touches his hand to the glass as McCoy lists all the reasons that he shouldn’t be out and about. Spock neatly negates them all and finally McCoy stops and sighs. Spock thinks he’s smiling.
“Got something for you.”
It’s a breathing device.
He still has to be fully submerged once every four hours, and he needs to use a wheelchair to get around, but now he’s free. He tries to go to his quarters but McCoy stops him.
“Oh no, no more slacking. You’re fit for duty.”
McCoy wheels him, protesting, to the turbolift. He’s shocked to find that ramps have been installed along the way. And on the bridge Jim’s chair is gone, and in its place is a sunken wading pool.
“Sulu and Chekov already love it,” Jim tells him with a grin. “They’ve been competing to see who can get the most ridiculous swimwear past dress code.”
Spock looks over to where Sulu is at the helm in a command-gold bikini and Chekov is wearing three pairs of Bermuda shorts, one pair on his legs and another on each arm. He’s fairly certain none of that meets dress code, but he says nothing. He’s too thankful.
He feels McCoy standing by his workstation. When he looks up, McCoy is smiling.
“I’ll get back to work on that cure.”
“Take your time, Doctor,” Spock says, his voice accented now with the sound of popping bubbles. “There is no urgency.”
He curls his tail up to his body and gets to work mapping the stars.
This one is for you and I hope you enjoy it! Liam is so young I find it difficult to romanticizes him but I hope I could overcome that, if not I’ll make another drabble at your request :) Have a wonderful day!
The door slams before you can even think about they type of room your in. Somewhere between the seconds that your heart stops hammering and your breath comes out in a white puff, the chill of the room prickled up your spine like a slow crawling spider. You look around the compartment you crammed yourself into, wrapping your arms around yourself to ward away the cold as best as you could. Webs and lines of dust clung to the ceiling, hanging like bats in a cave. Somewhere from the distilled quietness of the room, you could hear the tiny squeaks and scuffle of rats moving on floorboards.
Sunken Gem is a sci-fi idea I’ve been working on for the last little while. Inspired by illustrators like Wayne Barlowe and Moebius, and the surreal scenery found in the early films of Hayao Miyazaki and Mamoru Oshii, I wanted to explore what weirdness might be hidden deep in those ancient, haunted-looking backgrounds so prevalent in the era.
A girl called Wisp investigates a watery alien planet, and has business with someone, or something in the ruins.
How to Charm a Witch Who Hates You ( AO3 / FF.net )
the inevitable fourth chapter to a series that was only supposed to be three, thanks to @yatorihell who commissioned it. <3 (also ties in pretty strongly with this artwork by @eerna)
…it so happens that this is by far the longest chapter, and disgusting with fluff.
Chapter 4: The Incident At the Three Broomsticks
Yukine rushes along the abandoned corridor, slinging his Hufflepuff scarf haphazardly around his neck. His designated meeting spot with Yato is beneath one of the gargoyles—affectionately and accurately nicknamed “One-Eyed Carl.”
He turns a corner, sees Yato waiting under One-Eyed Carl, and lets out a yelp.
Lexa came to her that evening, her knock softer than it had been the first night she came to Clarke’s door. She even waited for Clarke to open it herself, rather than sweeping in, and Clarke took a kind of pleasure in blocking the doorway with her body for a moment before turning with a sigh to let the Commander in.
Lexa entered the room almost tentatively, like she was testing for traps, and Clarke was so tired of the battle between them.
“What do you want?” Clarke said, and even she could tell there was not enough demand in her voice.
Lexa flexed her hands, looking as though she missed the hilt of her sword to rest them on and wasn’t sure of their purpose otherwise.
“I know you wish to leave,” Lexa said. Clarke nodded and Lexa squared her shoulders, “But I was commanded to bring you to Polis. You are to meet with the 12 leaders of the clans.”
“And if I refuse?”
Lexa didn’t answer, and Clarke shook her head, “When is this gathering?”
Lexa spoke carefully, eyes trained to the middle-distance, “Five days from now. We are waiting for–”
“You want to keep me locked up in here for five days?” Clarke said, finally finding her bite. She had already hidden the small knife they had left her to slice oranges with beneath her bed, and she could lure a guard in by overtipping the coals in her brazier and catching something alight. She was far from the main gates of the city, but under cover of darkness she could find refuge in the many twists of Polis’ darkened streets.
“You would be allowed to explore Polis,” Lexa said calmly, as if she could read the thoughts behind Clarke’s eyes, “With supervision.”
Clarke sighed, thinking of the dull knife in the other room and how much she didn’t want more blood on her hands, “The 12 leaders should know I don’t speak for my people. If they’re interested in making alliances or threats they should make them to the Chancellor.”
Lexa stared at her silently and Clarke knew her argument hadn’t swayed her; the Commander believed more in destiny than democracy, and Clarke guessed so did the rest of the grounder compact.
“Clarke,” Lexa said finally, breaking the quiet that had fallen uneasily between them, “You may not wish for an alliance with me, but it would serve you greatly to meet with the other clans. You may come to understand the danger better.”
“Who commands the Commander?” Clarke asked, finally settling on what had disturbed her about Lexa’s initial invitation.
“A goddess,” Lexa replied, and her eyes were worried.
“When you first saw me in the woods, you were going to let me leave.” Clark asked, “Why?”
Lexa led her through circling streets, the stone roads running perpetually at an angle. Clarke felt as though she were walking on a clock face, living the turn of the hours as the sun dropped lower, the red stones bruising to purple as darkness came.
“It was the first time I had seen you since,” Lexa paused for only a moment, “The mountain. You were angry, and I was weak. There is no time for weakness now,” Lexa met her eyes briefly as they walked, “We are needed, Clarke.”
The streets were quiet, but there were still those who parted before Lexa’s steady stride, still murmurs of Heda, but there were more smiles than in Trikru territory, more excited pointing, and this more than anything convinced Clarke that Polis was a city of peace– that its people could look at their warlord Commander and smile at her presence.
Lexa remained unaffected, her eyes slipping past her admirers with a practiced indifference and Clarke wondered how she could care so deeply about her people without actually seeming to connect with them. Perhaps it was the only way she could make decisions like TonDC. Clarke wondered if that was how Lexa had chosen to see her at the mountain– an indiscernible face in the crowd. Clarke couldn’t decide if she envied her detachment.
She matched the Commander’s unflagging pace, wishing once again that her escort would slow down and let her enjoy the city, but Lexa had been adamant about their destination.
“There will be a feast to celebrate the victory at the mountain,” Lexa had told her, and Clarke had resisted the impulse to demand an explanation for which victory she meant, “The 12 leaders will be there and it is worth making,” Lexa had stopped, eyes sliding away from Clarke almost shyly, “An impression.”
The baths were sunken below ground, caverns of half reclaimed subway tunnels and painstaking excavation. Dim lights were recessed at intervals in the walls, and coals burned a low red in the corners. The water moved lazily, casting shifting golden waves along the mosaics pressed into the stone and concrete.
Clarke ran her fingers along the tiles, their perfect edges from a time before the world ended, but the design clearly grounder.
“I am told it took a year to complete,” Lexa said.
Clarke nodded absently; she could believe it. Her eyes tracked the design around the room. It was a map of sorts. Polis was easy to pick out, a city of circles and lights, a strange figure floating above it, shrouded by clouds. There was the forest, and the mountain, a brooding black amongst the green. Clarke’s hand traced the space where Camp Jaha resided, “They’ll have to rework this part.”
Lexa nodded. “There are other baths, but I thought you would prefer this one. It is the most…” Lexa gestured to the wall and trailed off, like she was struggling for the word. “Beautiful,” Lexa finally settled on, though she looked as if she wasn’t entirely happy with her choice.
Clarke gave her a sidelong look, “I don’t see you as a great art lover.”
“I’m not,” Lexa agreed, inclining her head slightly, “but I have not seen yours.”
Clarke looked away, clenching her fists. The baths were quiet, just the hushed lapping sound of moving water and the occasional hiss from coals where water perpetually dripped to sweep steam through the room. The warm humidity and the dimness made Clarke feel like they were farther below ground then they were, creatures hibernating beneath the earth, pressed together and still. Clarke’s skin was damp and each breath she took felt half water, a dreamy light headedness enveloping her. Everything smelled of lemongrass. They were alone, and Clarke suspected that Lexa had ensured they would remain so.
Without preamble Lexa pulled her shirt over her head, and Clarke caught a glimpse of tan skin, the stretch of muscles along her side, and the shifting web of scars across Lexa’s stomach before she looked away, focusing her eyes determinedly on the mural. It was nothing she hadn’t seen before while stitching and dressing the Commander’s injury, but Clarke felt off-balance all the same; the absence of trauma and adrenaline keeping her from entering the clinical survival mindset she’d been in before.
Clarke closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She could hear the sounds of water moving as Lexa stepped into the sunken pool. With one more steadying breath, Clarke turned, taking in the sight of Lexa descending, the ink of her tattoo and the map of kill scars on her back disappearing beneath the water, the scar of her most recent injury still sharp and pale against her skin. Lexa kept her back to Clarke, her hands already beginning to untangle her many darkening braids, fingers catching in damp curls.
Clarke’s chest ached and more than anything she wanted to be angry– angry with herself for the longing to touch her, angry with Lexa for the unspoken offer, angry enough to keep herself sane and safe. But they were alone and there was no one to judge Clarke’s weakness, and it was dark, and she could pretend her pale skin next to Lexa’s wasn’t her own, and it was warm, and her skin burned with missing another’s. Clarke pulled her own shirt off, stepping out of the rest of her clothes, and slid into the water.
The water was hot, and Clarke gasped with the pleasure of it, a luxury she had never known. The floor of the pool bottomed out with the water hitting just below the line of her collarbone, her hair trailing behind her. Lexa turned to watch her approach with a restrained alertness, green eyes tracking her like she was reviewing a battle plan or trying to work out the mechanisms of a trap. Clarke smiled at her, unsure whether she wanted to spring one, but enjoying the power of knowing she could.
Lexa’s head tipped back, like she was trying to retain the regal disinterest of the Commander, but the way Clarke could see her visibly swallow as she moved closer spoiled the effect. Clarke’s eyes fell to the water surrounding them, the mineral deposits in the stone making the water a cloudy web of shimmering gold, like the galaxies the Ark Observation Station had studied. Lexa was only three inches away but there were a thousand stars between them.
“Clarke–” Lexa began, but her words shuddered to a surprised stop when Clarke reached beneath the water, ran her fingers lightly across Lexa’s side, palm pressing against her stomach. Her skin was soft between the raised lines of scarring, and Clarke could feel the muscle tension beneath her fingers from how rigidly Lexa was holding herself.
“Clarke,” Lexa sighed her name, eyes almost closing at the contact, body pushed flush against the stone siding of the pool, trapped by Clarke’s presence.
Clarke moved closer, and Lexa’s head inclined slightly, anticipating the kiss. Clarke ducked away instead, running her thumb along Lexa’s bottom lip, bringing her mouth to kiss behind Lexa’s ear. Lexa caught Clarke’s thumb between her teeth as Clarke continued to kiss down her neck. Clarke nipped at Lexa’s throat and she gave a low hum in response, the sound disappearing into Clarke’s mouth as she moved to finally capture Lexa’s lips. The kiss was hungry, and Clarke pushed deeper, keeping Lexa open to her, tasting her breathless warmth. Lexa kissed like she was losing a war; all retreat and surrender under Clarke’s intensity. Clarke bit Lexa’s lip until she pulled away with a gasp, trying to catch her breath. Clarke refused to let her regroup, pressing her body fully against Lexa’s, revelling in the feeling of Lexa’s breath hitching against her own chest, the way her skin burned against Clarke’s.
“Clarke,” Lexa growled low against her. Clarke scratched a line down the Commander’s side, tearing her fingers across her skin.
“Clarke, Lexa said, voice sharper now with pain, her hands still held rigidly at her sides.
Clarke pressed her mouth to Lexa’s neck, drawing her teeth along the line of the Commander’s stuttering breath, pressed her hands against Lexa’s chest roughly.
“Clarke,” Lexa gasped, grabbing her wrists and pulling Clarke’s hands away from her.
Clarke jerked her hands out of Lexa’s grip, meeting the Commander’s eyes with all the intensity of her want. Lexa was breathing hard, green eyes guarded.
“Commander,” Clarke said, never dropping her gaze as she set her fingers in the space between Lexa’s collarbones, dragging her nails down her chest, gratified by the sight of red and Lexa’s hiss of pain, her green eyes still trained on Clarke’s own. Clarke gave a frustrated sound of impatience and lunged to kiss Lexa, biting at her lip angrily, copper in her mouth, and something in the Commander finally snapped. With a snarl she grabbed Clarke’s arms, twisting them around and pushing Clarke against the stone edge of the pool with a force that made Clarke gasp as she lost her breath. Clarke gave a feral smile, licked her lips, and pushed against Lexa’s hold, trying to reach her mouth again. Lexa growled and shoved Clarke back in place, eyes wild and running hungrily over Clarke. They stood still a moment, silent except for panting breaths and the sound of water around them, Lexa’s gaze scraping across Clarke like she wanted to tear her apart, a vicious want. Clarke shivered.
Lexa moved fast, grabbing Clarke’s jaw, her fingers bruising, turning Clarke’s head so her neck was exposed, biting at the soft space under her jawline. Clarke whined, running her nails down Lexa’s back, trying to pull her closer, aching for Lexa’s thigh between her legs.
Lexa jerked back, grabbing Clarke’s wrists and spreading her arms against the stone siding, pressing fierce kisses along Clarke’s collarbone, Lexa’s tongue tracing the hollow of her neck. Clarke made sounds halfway between moans and growls, torn between begging and demanding more. She fought against Lexa’s grip on her wrists, desperate for more contact, but Lexa’s hold was like a vice, Clarke twisting her skin into a bruise with her struggle.
Lexa stilled her fight with a kiss and there was no hint of surrender in the rough force of her lips, in the way she claimed Clarke’s mouth.
Clarke was still dazed when Lexa broke their contact, spinning Clarke around so that her front was pushed against the stone, hands gripping the siding, Lexa pressing into her back.
Lexa’s teeth set into her shoulder and Clarke groaned as Lexa bit down. As the pain sharpened Clarke began to twist under Lexa’s hold, but Lexa just gripped her hips and bit harder, waiting for Clarke’s body to still into submissive twitches.
Lexa’s fingers settled at her center, pausing for the briefest moment to allow Clarke to prepare, and then Lexa was inside her, teeth holding Clarke in place like a predator as Lexa pushed into her, Clarke crying out from the pressure and the pleasure and the pain.
Lexa’s other hand was over Clarke’s own on the stone ledge, steadying them both, her fingers white knuckled in their twisting grip through Clarke’s fingers, painful and grounding.
Lexa’s fingers curled inside her and Clarke gasped, reaching back with her other hand to sink her fingers into Lexa’s unravelling braids, wet curls snarling in her grip, Lexa’s teeth tightening in her shoulder as she pulled.
Lexa moved in her with ferocity and a steady determination, fingers pushing deeper than Clarke believed she could stand, her pace unyielding and unforgiving, the certainty of her motions making Clarke twist against her, afraid of the intensity of the pleasure bearing down on her, the sharp edges of her building orgasm threatening to tear through her skin. With one more excruciating and perfect curl of Lexa’s fingers inside her, Clarke’s groans turned to a yell, her fingers tightening in Lexa’s hair, her body buckling, tightening around Lexa’s fingers, her only source of gravity.
Lexa’s pace slowed, but did not stop, and Clarke moaned, exhausted and not ready for her body to be wound back up to such high tension. Clarke leaned back and Lexa supported her weight, untangling her grip on Clarke’s hand to slide it down her front, slipping it between her legs to stroke at her clit as she pushed her fingers deeper inside Clarke. Clarke hissed and moaned, jerking on Lexa’s fingers as she came again, Lexa finally releasing her shoulder and pressing a tingling kiss to the bite.
Clarke shook, gasping, tears caught somewhere in her throat and unable to pull enough air into her body. Lexa pulled her close, arms tightening around Clarke’s chest, her body pushed flush against Clarke’s back, her grip feeling like the only thing keeping Clarke from flying apart. Her voice was soft and her breath warm against Clarke’s ear.
Belle isn’t much for seeking out her master when she doesn’t have to, but with all her chores done for the day, boredom has overcome her and drowned any reservations she might have previously kept about courting Rumplestiltskin’s company.
Loneliness, her nemesis, drives her along the castle’s corridors in search of Rumplestiltskin’s room.
She doesn’t know where it is, of course, in this vast and sprawling maze of stone, but she hadn’t been able to find him in any of the usual places he haunts, so she assumes he must be in his quarters, and this, to Belle, is adventure-worthy.
She finds suits of armour that she’s never dusted, and tapestries that she’s never admired, and secret little sets of stairs that she’s never traversed, and, upon one of these staircases, she finds a window that she’s never had the chance to look out of before.
Curious about the view, her master the furthest thing from her mind, she rubs her little dustcloth that she always keeps at the dusty pane, and who should she happen to spy but the man she’s been looking for.