#I draw rarely and I know the anatomy is quite off in some parts.

[saphiraugen]

Sketch of Paix and Mhenheli

I love @valoisfulcanellideux 's story "These stones remember" (https://archiveofourown.org/works/44866726/chapters/112888387) so much. It is a wonderful and long fanfic of Copper King Pixlriffs and Pixandria from Empires Season 1. If you want to get lost in a fantastic Pixlriffs centric story, then this one is for you.

I would love to see more fanart of this story. So I decided to give it a try myself and draw the two main characters Onorait Paix Al-Lareiff and his Chaperone Mhenheli Al-Q'isaraf in the style of an old desert civilisation. The reference for this drawing was an ancient egyptian carving, although the Paixandrian folk is more based on ancient Arabia.

Paix's outfit, crown and trident is based on @floweroflaurelin's gorgeous Copper King drawings.

I used this carving as main reference/ inspiration:

[slocumjoe]

Do you have any grab-bag headcanons for the companions? (SFW or NSFW, whatever you're in teh mood for!)

COMPANION HEADCANON SAMPLE PLATTER PART 4 I THINK??

Cait; Actually pretty mellow as a person, like, down to her bones, she's...not quite laid back, but she isn't as hotheaded or firey as people think. Trauma and addiction will give you that reputation, though. Once she's off the chems, eased up on the booze, and gotten herself to a healthier place all around, Cait is more like your friend's older, alternative sister in college who buys you Pizza Hut for your sleepovers, than a loudmouth riot girl. It surprises Cait, too. She's got her own way of looking out for people, but once she's got your back, you know it.

Codsworth; functions as a stand-in secretary for the mayor of Sanctuary that is the Sole Survivor. Most people report or complain to him, if not Sturges or Preston. He has a better, less fallible memory, and has a knack for managing things on his own. Sure, sometimes "managing things on his own" means getting a group to fix the water system, sometimes it means personally torching a band of raiders scoping out the outskirts of town. He gets things done. Keeps meticulous record of anything he's told and anything he does "on the clock."

Curie; absolutely loathes working with Wasteland doctors. Very rarely do they stand up to her high, high standards. They have no degrees—understandable, there are no colleges anymore. They don't wash their hands. They don't have basic understanding of anatomy. They don't know what goes in the simplest medicine. Her greatest pet peeve is the more...superstitious healers. If you hold up a rock and say it fixes bones, Curie won't cuss you out, but you'll think for a moment, she just might. Her usual method of handling is to simply guide and educate where she can. But if the week has been full of people just sticking needles in places and praying, her nerves get shot to shit.

Danse; if you end up in a settlement, and Danse goes missing for a bit, just follow the sound of kids. He always attracts kids, drawn to his power armor. Sometimes they just want to watch it move, sometimes they have questions. Usually they want to be picked up. Danse is too soft to say no. He can end up stuck in a loop of playing with local kids, telling the child-friendly stories he has, maybe giving them some pointers with firearms or how to take down a wasteland monster. If you have to pull him way, his puppy eyes are sadder than any of the kids'. Always wanted to have a small family of his own, but resigned to the fact that he'd never have one.

Deacon; Polyglot, but can't speak any language beyond English. He can read other languages, though. Spanish and German are his strongest. This happened largely because his small school growing up had to use books that weren't wholly English. Things just spiraled from there. He can understand a few other languages, but speaking himself...he makes Curie cry with his French. As for his Italian, if he took out some of the, for lack of better word, Mario-isms, he'd be able to hold a conversation with Nick. As things stand, Nick starts hitting him with the fedora until he stops butchering the language.

Gage; really good with kids, though most take one look at him and see a monster. He tends to draw younger adults, fresh off their farm and new in the frying pan that is raider-dom. He usually tells them to go the fuck back home. Most of them aren't cut out for it. They're there because they're scared, they're hungry. They're angry. They want, want, want. Those kinds don't last. Once they're fed, they get the first payout, they get their first kill, they've had enough and want to go home. And Gage, he does get them back home, if they don't listen the first time. You tried. You saw what this life was like. You're still a kid. Go back home, don't tell your ma and pa what you did, and if you see anyone you just worked with, shoot to kill. He doesn't know why he does it. Why he lets them go.

Hancock; Could have been a championship chess player in another life, chems or not. He's smart as shit, quick on his feet, and can read someone's game before they even set it up. He learned to play chess from his neighbor in DC, an older Ghoul gentleman everyone just called Bubblegum. Bubs got his name for always having bubblegum on him, and giving pieces to whoever beat him or just improved at chess. Hancock liked gum, and his parents didn't allow it. So, he was always playing against Bubs after school, hoping to either win, or at least impress the guy enough to get another piece of candy. Bubblegum moved west after the Ghoul exile, but Hancock likes teaching the few young'uns of Goodneighbor chess and any other tricks he knows. If they catch on, they get a gum.

MacCready; Actually a rather quiet, withdrawn person. People he likes/gets close to tend to think of him as more extroverted, more of a rowdy young man like you'd think. Nope. He gets that way once he's really comfortable with someone. If he's not...doesn't talk much. If it's business, he's a bit more sociable, but Mac isn't the type to, say, chat at the bar with strangers, or make small talk with a shop owner. It's a mix of shyness and his more brusque side. If he sticks around one place, he'll open up, and such is the case with Goodneighbor, but if they remember him at all, majority of people will remember thinking he was mute.

Nick; Was a theater kid. The moment he could go into theater at school, he did, and it consumed his teenage years. His favorite play to perform was Hamlet, obviously, and even at a young age, he had a strong voice, so he was often the titular character. This gave him a complex. You don't recite Poe unprovoked without being a little bit pretensious. Aside from the Theater Kid Ego, Nick was different from his peers in that he lacked mental illness (it would come later). Half of his negotiation and de-escalation skills were honed to a fine point, trying to keep Heather and Back Up Veronica #4 from trying to method-act. Nick would later stare down gun barrels and feel less fear.

Piper; Potentially suffers from arthritis, or will in the future. It could be from overworking her hands from writing, or fiddling with her printing press, but the first knuckles on her hands and her wrist joints ache frequently. The pain varies, but putting pressure on her hands usually helps, hence her fondness for fingerless gloves. She wears them a bit too small for the pressure. Piper can always tell when its about to rain or radstorm, because her hands flare up. She jokes that its a superpower, but suffers from anxiety about potentially struggling to use her hands, if she gets older.

Preston; there are few ways to really aggravate Preston, but if you wanna, restrain any limb in any capacity, or touch him from behind or to the side. Y'know how people will sometimes grab another's arm, like, while laughing, but quickly let go and not mean much by it? Preston hates it. He doesn't like any limb being pushed down or held back. As for the touching from behind, he's a bit like a horse. Approach from the front and telegraph the movement. If you try to hug him from behind, or read over his shoulder, God forbid lean on it, you're cruising for an elbow to the crotch. He doesn't mean to, it's just muscle memory, instinct.

X6-88; nosy bitch. He wants to know everything about everyone, and will shamelessly and explicitly poke and prod to get the information. This man will ask pointed questions about your husband that you don't want to answer, not just because it's X6 and you don't know him, but because you don't want to know the answer. He's that kind of person. Oh, you complain about your child? Well, why did you have one? Didn't want an abortion? Kept it for the husband? Well, do you like your husband? No? Did he even want kids? Also no? So, why did you have a kid? Sometimes, X6 isn't even trying to be deliberately confrontational, like a therapist from hell. He has moment of honest, if not overzealous, curiosity. But most of the time, he's just throwing shit in your face.

[kebriones]

Okay here we go.

Reviewing all old paintings of Alcibiades I can find, part 1

Starting off with the classics. THIS HELMET, I HATE IT I HATE IT. What is it supposed to be?? He's wearing it like one would wear a Corinthian helmet in rest (pushed back on the head rather than down over the face) or at least from the shape of the metal part I would assume it's a corinthian helmet, but all the golden thingies on its front?? Are you meant to be blind when wearing this thing in battle? New technique?? And anyways why is he even wearing it. And one last thing about the helmet which you'll see is a reccuring theme: why does it have feathers. Unless i am forgetting something, fancy helmet crests were made from horse hair.

Moving on from the helmet, i have to say that even though I don't agree with it, his color choice for the outfit is....brave. green with pink. It works I guess, because he looks so confident in it. The sash tied around his middle is kinda whatever but the way he's holding his clamys???? I'm swooning. Very good hand.

Socrates' color choices are also quite bold today. Were they going to a fashion show? Is he advertising IKEA? Who knows. His skin is vet nicely painted though, I like it a lot.

Now of course we need to mention the angel behind Socrates who has a bit of fire on their hair. Is that the holy spirit? Is this some criminal anachronism??!! The angel seems to be judging Alcibiades' "sinuous" pose (i learned a new word yesterday and I feel like I'm using it wrong but I wanted to use it okay. "Sinuous". Idk. Sinuses.)

Moving on to something different. Alcibiades and Pericles! How cute is that, they're bonding like family. Or they're discussing the grocery list. I like Alcibiades' chiton and his hair and how his hand is casually draped over a helmet. Speaking of helmets, look how nice and accurate these are. No feathers anywhere. Also Pericles is wearing his helmet to hide his weird alien head presumably, so this is very legal and we won't execute the artist for drawing Pericles with a naked head.

Here's one of many depictions of Alcibiades' death. The anatomy is good, I very much enjoy that. I also really really like his face. Dark haired Alcibiades works better in paintings imo. His pose is kinda wayy too dramatic, that or he slipped on some lube i mean olive oil on his way out. Anyways he's not doing a very good job defending himself. The lady is trying, I'll give her that, but she's not doing enough. The attacker guy is.... wearing pants, but his top isn't very Persian so that's off-putting.

And of course we can see the javelin sticking out of Alcibiades' side but in my professional opinion, if he was lucky he could survive that wound if it didn't pierce any major organs. He just needed some bed rest and he'd be good to go. Alas, he died. But yeah overall I like this one a lot.

Okay so this one I'm 99% sure it's Alcibiades, if I'm wrong let me know. The dark figure on the left is definitely Socrates, I would recognize him anywhere. I really like this even though Alcibiades looks like his twelve, because he's sitting on some lady's lap, surrounded by other ladies, as he's having his actual lesson with Socrates. Like he's taking notes and everything gfhdgsj he's raising his hand he has a question let him speak.

Also how cute is his hair?? Someone give this child some ice cream.

Here we have no Socrates, which is quite rare. BUT we once again have a very stupid helmet that makes zero sense. And a vey stupid sash that also makes zero sense. But at least we have some drama, like, what's going on here? Is she refusing him??? Is she offended?? Who knows. Anyways very cool fabric rendering but why is Alcibiades so.... barrel-chested. It's kinda scary. Also who's that snitch back there. Does she wanna join.

Overall, I like the colors and the environment here, and the poses are fun. Alcibiades looks like he's reciting poetry but he's so drunk the only thing he remembers is the ship list from the iliad, so that's what he's reciting, and his girlfriend is having a hard time enduring this torture.

Old painters really like putting helmets on head that didn't need them. Like they're IN A BEDROOM why is he in full tactical gear.

This one is one of the weirder ones. I don't know why the vibes are just weird. Socrates is holding his oscar. What did he get an oscar for. I like his outfit it's like he's wearing a shower curtain or a beach towel. Alcibiades on the other hand is straight up naked. Like, that's the level of confidence and comfortableness we should all aspire towards. But I don't like his face, they didn't even try to make him pretty.

Not to mention that Socrates fell into a tub of bleach apparently. Blonde Socrates is even more illegal that unhelmeted Pericles. Maybe that's why i find this piece so strange. This isn't Socrates, this is santa claus.

I do however think the pose is very Alcibiades-like. He would absolutely look at Socrates like that.

Last one for part 1, we have this one! The classic, beloved theme of Socrates taking Alcibiades away from his girlfriends. "Why don't you go play with the boys, Alcibiades? " said Socrates.

No wait wrong story.

Anyways i like this because it has some davinci-ness to the colors and faces and Alcibiades' hair is cute and the girl in white is really trying her hardest to pull him back.

I also like that gigantic column in the back, suggesting that these maniacs were planning on having an orgy right at a temple. They even brought a whole bed over there.

Last thing i like about this one is the way Socrates isn't even really holding onto him. Alcibiades has this haunted/far away look and Socrates can make him follow him just by touching his arm, rather than pulling on him like the girl is. That's because Socrates was half siren, his father had actu

[killersfool]

ANATOMY - a snippet of a book I'm writing

a/n: this is literally bridget jones i know!!!!!!!!

I first saw Andrew on Thursday the 14th of October at exactly 8.41am. On the tube. It was one of those busy mornings where time feels like it’s slipping away faster than usual. The train was packed, and I was wedged into a corner, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

I watch him from the opposite seat of the tiny compartment. I watch as his hair curls across his forehead, a dark coat upon his shoulders and engrossed in a tattered copy of Byron. Typical posho, I think to myself, rolling my eyes. I can just imagine him in his teenage years in a private school. I'm betting on Eton. Wearing his pristine uniform waving goodbye to mummy, hanky patting against her tear-stained cheeks.

He sticks out like a sore thumb against the group of fellow tube-takers, opting for an old-fashioned book rather than a phone. My legs are crossed, no phone in my hands because my brain is too fried to have that brightness illuminating my face and my eyes are still glued to this strange man. He flicks the page after a moment and raises an eyebrow in thought. His right hand drifts away from the book and deep into the pocket of his dark brown corduroy trousers and I glance at the belt meticulously strapped through the loops. Out of the pocket emerges a black biro. Then he's annotating in the margins. Or writing some sort of thought that popped into his mind. Maybe he's a writer or a poet himself. Or maybe he just has an adoration for 19th century poetry. In this day and age it seems to be a long-forgotten niche. It's rare to see someone so absorbed in anything beyond their screen. 

The train jolts. We arrive in Westminster. I thought this would be where Mr-Byron-reader would stop. But no. Alas! We continue along. I'm surprised he hasn't noticed my very obvious staring. He seems oblivious to the entire world around him. Even the child who has just sat next to him who keeps screaming at her mother. He hasn't budged a bit, only pressed the briefcase on the ground a little closer to the seat. The briefcase leads me to the suspicion that he is a lawyer. He looks like one alright. Clean-shaven, black shiny shoes, a furrowed brow.

But then, suddenly, he looks up—at me.

We make eye contact for a moment. He raises the furrowed brow and looks at me with confusion. Then he stands up and leaves. Temple is his final destination. The tube station closest to the Courts of Justice. 

The next time I see him is the week after, give or take. Friday the 22nd of October at the same time. About two minutes after. This time we're both stood up. His hand is clinging to the overhead handrail, mine to the one by the door. He's unable to read this time because both of his hands are occupied so he instead looks up at the ceiling, brown eyes focused intently. He looks tired this time. A little bit scruffy. His tie hasn't been done up properly and his hair is mussed up like he's just pulled himself out of bed. He has grey trousers on this time and a blazer to match. I wonder what his name is. He looks like a Tom or a William. One of those classic english names that everyone seems to have.

Part of me wants him to look at me again. I found the perplexion dancing across his features quite amusing the previous time we were in the same compartment. As the train reaches Temple, he stops looking at the ceiling. Once again, our eyes meet. I smile. He doesn't. He's serious. Then he's gone and I'm rooted in place, resisting the growing urge to follow him.

My stop is covent garden. Each morning I walk down to the lab, and look at cancer cells. I started working for a research agency three years ago after finishing university. I always wanted to make a change. This would get me in the centre of the action. My life consists of staring through light microscopes and drawing what I had discovered. I like my job. I like the study of disease and I hope one day I will discover something that will change the course of cancer treatments. But this time, as I stain the sample and turn the course focus knob, my mind falls back to the man on the tube. His clicky footfalls and rugged confidence that beckoned for me to look at him.

Next week, I will speak to him, I assure myself. Next week.

The 31st of October comes around quickly and I enter the tube with a sneaking suspicion that after all of this preparing, he won't even be in there. However, he is. Halloween luck. Countless people are dressed up already, although morning has hardly even broken. The compartment is completely stuffed with people and I have to suck in my breath to fit into the tiny corner I have lodged myself in. I spot Mr.Lawyer in mere seconds. He is sat down once again, briefcase on his lap and this time he has reading glasses on as he glances through yet another poetry book. It's not Byron this time, it's Keats. My whole plan splits into a million pieces and we reach Temple before I can even attempt to push through and murmur a word.

Instead, I have the bright idea of following him. Very much stalker-like. I move past the crowd and leave the compartment at the last moment, milliseconds before the door decides to crush me. I walk down the platform, already spotting his tall, brooding frame walking at a jaguar's pace towards the exit. I follow him up the stairs and then we're on the pavement. Loud London roads catch me off guard and I almost lose sight of him as I'm overwhelmed by the noise and business. I finally catch sight of him again. I make him my target. He stops at a traffic light. T

This is my chance.

I stop beside him. Glance at him. Step a little closer. "In a rush?" I ask, trying to catch his attention

He looks to the side then down at me in the most arrogant manner one can possibly do. He looks at his watch then scoffs. "They expect me to be there bang on 9." He sighs, I'm struck by a thick Scottish accent. "But they can all fuck themselves."

I bite back a laugh. So much for the composed, elegant lawyer I’d imagined. He is irritated, stressed—human.

"Who's they?" I wonder, curiosity bubbling over.

"The idiots who plan out the court hearings but can't seem to give us a feasible time table," he grumbles. "Once, they booked me for three at the same bloody time."

I laugh this time, unable to help it. The traffic lights turn green. I expect him to dash ahead and leave me to walk on my own. Instead, we fall into step together, his pace matching mine. His long strides gradually slow down to allow me to keep pace. I'm not sure what to say but know I should make some kind of conversation.

"Do you always run late? Or is today special?" I ask, glancing up at him. His eyes flicker down to meet mine, and for a second, I think I may have overstepped.

But then he smirks, just a little. "Today's a disaster. Forgot my laptop at home. Can't find my notes. And I've been awake since five dealing with some idiot client who thinks she can ignore court orders."

"Sounds rough," I reply, surprised he's opening up so easily. "Is that what being a lawyer is like? Constant chaos?"

He raises an eyebrow. "You think I'm a lawyer?"

I falter. "Aren't you? I mean... the briefcase, the suit..."

He laughs, a low sound that sends a shiver through me. "Close. Barrister, actually."

"Oh," I say, feeling a bit embarrassed for not knowing the difference. I didn't expect him to correct me so casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

We continue in silence for a few moments, the sound of the city filling the gaps between us. I keep sneaking glances at him—he had this intense, brooding energy, but now that he's started talking, he seemsalmost relaxed. 

 “Do you always follow strangers off the tube?” he questions suddenly, his tone half-teasing, half-curious.

My face goes red. “I—uh… No, I just… You seemed interesting. I see you on the train a lot.”

 “Interesting, huh?” He shoots me a sideways glance, his lips curling into a smile. It's the first time he’s really smiled, and it makes me feel both exposed and intrigued. “

I mean, not in a weird way,” I backpedal, laughing awkwardly. “You’re just… you’re always reading something, and I guess I wondered what kind of person still reads Byron on the tube.”

 He chuckles again, shaking his head. “You should’ve just asked.”

 “Would you have answered?”

 “Probably not,” he admits , amusement still playing on his face. 

“I don’t usually talk to people on the tube.”

 “Neither do I,” I confess. “But here we are.” 

 “Here we are.” He stops walking, and I realise we are standing in front of a grand stone building. The Royal Courts of Justice loom above us, its gothic architecture sharp and imposing. I hadn’t even noticed where we were headed. 

 “This is me,” he says, glancing at his watch. “I��m already late.”

I want to say something, anything, to keep him there for just a bit longer. There is still so much I don't know about him. “Wait—what’s your name?”

He looks at me for a moment, considering whether to answer. Then he smiles, that brief flicker of amusement returning. “Andrew.”

Andrew. Of course, he is an Andrew. It suits him—serious, stoic, a bit old-fashioned, just like the poetry he carries with him. 

“I’m Mila,” I offer, feeling suddenly small under his gaze. 

“Mila.” He repeats my name like he is testing it out. “I’ll see you on the tube, then.”

And just like that, he turns and walks toward the towering doors of the courthouse. I watch him go, feeling a strange mixture of satisfaction and disappointment. He spoke to me. He has a name. But it isn't enough.

[bushdivingbushranger]

What was going to an all girls school like, if you don't mind me asking? :)

OK anon im so sorry this is so long and so convuluted I actually got so carried away jdbKJBGKSDBGH. i'm not even sure i properly answered your question i just got overwhelmed with Love for my same-sex schooling DHGKJSDFBHG anyway, if there's anything more you want to know lmk and I will try to be concise next time 💀

Essentially, my own experience at a single-sex secondary school was fantastic—however, I know my experience isn’t universal, especially since my school was a little bit different to most, I think.

That being said, I still think that sending your daughters to female-only secondary schools is something every parent should strive to do if they can. No other learning environment will ever be as good for girls as a same-sex school.

In terms of school staff, mine was about 95% female, and 5% male. The few male teachers we had were genuinely competent men and decent teachers, they were also watched like hawks. Our principal was female, all leadership positions in the school (such as House Leaders, Year Level Co-Ordinators, Department Heads, even the chaplain) were held by women. Our school psychologists, our nurses, our library technicians, our café ladies, our career advisors, our tutors—all were women. Our school houses (think like Harry Potter houses) were named after important women in our country’s history.

I went to a co-ed primary school. And whilst at twelve you might not have the words to describe it, graduating from a co-ed space, into an all-female space is really a giant weight off of your shoulders. You don’t realise how suffocating co-education is until you’re no longer having to bear it. It feels so much more natural, so much more free! You are welcomed as you are. You can be loud and unashamed of it. We joked frequently with each other and our teachers, laughed loudly and cared not whether our laughs were ‘ugly’. I found that teachers were far more supportive than they were in my co-ed school. For example, in a co-ed school I had been told frequently to ‘pipe down’ or to ‘reel it in’ from teachers, and more vexingly to ‘shut up’ from boys due to my boisterous personality. In high school? My teachers encouraged me to audition for the play because I had ‘great projection’. In every school programme (more on those later) that I was involved in, I was the one asked to give speeches about them at assembly. I was asked to be the lead of our house chants during our sports festivals. I was asked to join the debate team because of my passionate nature, which in primary school, had me known as ‘difficult’.

Likewise, I had a friend who was by nature quiet, and loved to draw. In primary school she’d doodled on the back of a work booklet, and when her teacher returned it, she’d taken off two points and had written a comment saying something about teachers in high school not accepting work that was drawn on.

Do you know what happened when she got to high school? Our English teacher had seen the eye she’d drawn on the back of our Romeo and Juliet test and had written, ‘beautiful!’ above it. The next test, she drew a two-headed cat with witches’ hats on both heads (I remember the left head was called Turpentine and the right head was called Esmeralda). Our teacher wrote, ‘wonderful!’ above it, with a smiley face.

The next day she got an email from our art teacher that had a PDF flyer of information on both in-school and local art competitions.

Anyway, she had questions and that teacher answered every single one of them. She also personally helped her select the works she wanted to submit. She ended up having two pieces shown in the school gallery, along forty pieces made by other girls. About five years later for our final year, on that art teacher’s recommendation (and tutelage!) she took all of the visual art subjects on offer. When she graduated, her final piece was shown at a public exhibition in our state’s capital city, that honoured the best pieces done by select graduating students in the state.

So yeah. Our teachers were pretty amazing. Of course, there was the odd teacher or two you would butt heads with but that’s just a universal school experience. Our humanities classes, like history, for example, often had a unit that would focus on the female experience of a certain time period. For example, when learning about WW2, we did projects on female resistance fighters et cetera.

We had health classes that were actually focused on female health. We learnt about female anatomy (even the clitoris! Though we were all about thirteen/fourteen at this time so we found it incredibly awkward to talk about), as well as symptoms of PCOS during our menstrual unit. We learnt about contraceptive methods and devices (however, as a Catholic school they did have to tell us that whilst these methods are available, the church-sanctioned method is of course, abstinence).

Whilst the majority of the girls shaved their legs and wore makeup, as someone who did neither of those things I rarely felt judgement about it (albeit, I think there was a little for my lack of makeup, but this only lasted the first two years). A good portion of our staff also did not wear makeup, I don’t recall this ever being commented on. And, by the time we’d reached about our third year, a good portion of my year level and the ones above did not wear makeup on a daily basis. Leg hair was not looked down upon by any of us I don’t think by this year either. In fact, if you were particularly hairy often your hairless friends asked to rub your legs!

We were never short of female role-models, our staff made sure of that. We had multiple days per year when guest speakers would come and talk to us, mostly these were women who were experts in their fields—whether that be neuroscience or computer science, linguistics and literature or mathematics, politics, et cetera. The only times we really had male guest speakers was when police officers (one male one female) came to give us an assembly about sexual peer-pressure and laws around sharing nudes that was basically, “these are common (male) manipulation tactics used to pressure you into doing something you don’t want to do, don’t fall for them”.

We were encouraged to take STEM subjects, and those of us that had taken interest in computer programming were sent to coding programmes in the city during school hours! That’s how keen our teachers were to get more women into the field! This was the same with the girls interested in politics, who got to go to Model UN events, as well as mock parliaments in the country’s capitol.

We had a lot of programmes generally. A few overseas ones for girls who were in LOTE (languages other than English) classes. A few interstate ones, too. And of course, local programmes and excursions. Most of them (aside from the LOTE ones which focused on immersion) were volunteer programmes aimed at helping women and girls. The rest were about furthering our own skills or learning new ones. Majority of these were year-level based, but a few depended on the clubs/groups/classes you were in. For example, I was part of the Writer’s Club, and we took an excursion to the state Writer’s Festival and listened to female writers as well as feminist panels. We also had self-defence programmes every year.

In terms of peers I generally found everyone to be quite amiable by the time we’d reached our third/fourth year. There’s a common myth about all girls schools being filled with ‘catty’ girls who are constantly bitching about one another, but I really did not find that to ring true. There were a few fights and arguments in the earlier years, I was part of quite a lot lol but that’s honestly… just something that happens at school, at any school. Largely, we were good to each other. If someone was crying there was always someone who’d ask her what was wrong. If you missed the notes on the slide, there was always a girl willing to share her notes with you.

I think going to an all-girl’s school, and not having that much interaction with the opposite sex generally for that six-year period truly does something, I think, to your psyche. We are socialised to look down on our fellow woman, socialised to look down upon ourselves. But actually being constantly surrounded by women, and almost ONLY women, really helps to undo that. Even now I could not describe the fierce love I have for all those women and girls I came in contact with during my time there—even the ones I bickered with. Each and every single woman I met there enriched my life in some way or another. I think that is the effect of consistently spending time in any female-only space: developing a true appreciation for women. It is the only reasonable conclusion to come to.

I have been out of high school for two years, and in university for one. Among the many men I have met since, none of them have even been able to hold a candle to the any women and girls I know.

Anyway. TLDR: it slapped, send your daughters to same-sex schools!!

[writing-in-april]

The Melody Lives On

Spencer Reid x Gender Neutral Reader

Summary: Seeing Spencer after so long apart makes past feelings come to the surface again.

A/N: Hey heyy 🥰 this is my third fic for my 1250 follower celebration!! It was based on a request that @imagining-in-the-margins passed along to me- if you want to see a photo of the original request it’ll be on the follower celebration Masterlist! It’s got vague references to the prison arc and is also inspired by Grey’s Anatomy 🥰 Thank you to @lexieshuntingsstuff for getting me back to realizing how much I love Grey’s 😊 Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy, and requests are open!

Warnings: Nothing I guess- unless vague references to the prison arc bother you

Main Masterlist Word Count: 2.2k

“Dr. Y/L/N to conference room A please. Dr. Y/L/N to conference room A please. ” Came through the intercom. I was sitting in the hospital cafeteria munching on crackers while reading a book that I honestly wasn’t paying that much attention to because of how dead tired I was. I couldn’t stifle the groan that escaped me, I didn’t want my first break in what seemed like forever to be cut short.

Besides the fact that my bones and muscles ached I willed my body to move out of my chair despite it’s very prominent protests. There was a line of attending that led outside the conference room, I guess I had been the only one they had forgotten to get the memo out too.

Karev then came up behind me with just as much of a quizzical look on his face as mine and the rest of the attendings- I guess no one knew why we were here.

The only hint that the rest of us got to what was going on inside was when Arizona left the room and said it was some sort of FBI interrogation before she scurried off back towards peds.

As the line dwindled down to just me and Karev with Meredith in the room my mind started to wander to the person that I knew that happened to be in the FBI. Well- I guess I didn’t know him anymore, it had been a decade plus since I had seen him.

Of course said person that I happened to be thinking about happened to be in the room.

As soon as I saw his fluffy hair memories came flooding back. He looked so different now, more mature. But, I could clearly tell who it was; it was Spencer.

We had met just as I had been starting my first year of college. At first I had assumed he was the same, a freshman. Then I had learned that he was actually already on his second PHD- which had been in mathematics if my memory serves me well.

I had admittedly gawked at him at first like so many had done to him as well when they found out about his vast valleys of intellect that seemed to go on forever. When I had asked him to tutor me in my own mathematics course it was for the sole reason of bumping up the grade I had let slip. That was until I had gotten to know the sweet boy who was almost a man, though his baby face definitely did try to fight that fact. Guilt had immediately cropped up within me once I realized how much of a fool I was to not want to get to know him deeper than just the ‘child prodigy’ that everyone knew him as. He was one of the nicest people I had ever had the pleasure to come across, plus his bountiful knowledge made conversations with him extremely riveting to say the least. I remember apologizing to him profusely that first night, that was the first time I had gotten the chance to see the true extent of how sweet his kind eyes could be.

What had first been a simple somewhat feigned friendship to get a good tutor turned into the closest friendship that I had ever had. That close friendship had eventually turned into a romantic relationship one that in my opinion rivaled any of the great classic love stories.

Unfortunately, fate is rarely kind to lovers and what had once been sweet turned sour. It wasn’t any one of our faults, I knew that. But, my blossoming career as a surgeon led me to get an internship in Seattle while Spencer was led to the front steps of the FBI.

Every time I thought back on it I bitterly laughed at the irony of us both being led to Washington, though they were different ones that were on the other sides of the country. I had no animosity towards Spencer and the last time I saw him neither did he. But, the memories stung painfully when looking back on them. They stung even worse when I was faced with the sight of the man who had stolen my heart more than a decade ago and had yet to give it back.

His hair had grown out since I had last seen him, it now curled more around his ears and was much fluffier. The color of his soft curls would make anyone obsessed, mousy brown that shined a little bit of a burnt caramel when the tops of his curls hit the light. He had taken to letting his curls run wild which I had always liked to see when he would wash his hair of the gel he used to religiously put in.

A new addition along with his curls was the scruff he had begun to let grow out a little. When I knew him growing out his scruff a little would’ve been a completely foreign concept to young Spencer. I remember him always complaining about how scratchy it felt when he even let it grow out a little. The scruff also used to seem jarring on his younger face, looking out of place on his boyish face. Now his face definitely suited the scruff.

He had changed a lot indeed, but underneath it all I could still see the Spencer I knew. His eyes held a darkness now that matched well with the fluffy curls and scruff. The darkness that deepened his eyes was attractive for sure, but I wondered what had made the sweet boy become so dark. There was a part of me that wanted to know this Spencer as well, even with the darkness, despite the fact that I hadn’t really known him in so long.

His eyes had been piercing right into my own as I took the sight of him in. Those dark eyes felt like they were reaching right into my soul and hooking their claws in deep to draw me right back into him. Though I can’t say I minded much, being drawn back into Spencer’s warmth sounded like something we may both need.

“Dr.?” One of the men that was in the room with Spencer spoke up to get my attention. They must have been talking while the both of us had zoned out looking at each other.

The older man that spoke to me looked like he may have been a bit too old to work for the FBI. If I didn’t know that Spencer worked for them I would’ve thought Arizona had been pulling our legs when she told us what this was for because Instead of acknowledging the other man I turned back to face Spencer and spoke softly,”It’s good to see you, Spencer.”

“You too.” His voice croaked and was hoarse when he replied. His coworkers looked extremely confused with what was happening, especially the woman with blonde hair that was eyeing me up and down. Though in her position I didn’t blame her, I’m assuming nothing had ever been shared with his coworkers ever since he had joined the FBI about someone that had been in his life all those years ago.

The group of us stood at an awkward standstill for a minute, I was unsure if I was supposed to say anything. I fidgeted a bit uncomfortable with a bunch of eyes fixated directly on me before Spencer decided to speak up to break the tension, “Um- well Y/N- there was a suspect that came here a few weeks ago to possibly find some people that would um- be suitable victims for him.”

I pushed my reminiscing thoughts of Spencer out of my mind just so I could properly answer their questions before hopefully snagging a minute away with him to talk. I wouldn’t lie, seeing him after all these years made my feelings flicker in a way I hadn’t felt in so long. And, it was really nice to hear him say my first name again. He was really the only one to ever make those butterflies in my stomach swell and sparks fly. I had even resigned myself to never feel those wonderful feelings of blossoming love again.

But, perhaps fate had decided to give us a second chance, realizing it had been too cruel to us by pulling us apart.

When the questions ended, which unfortunately I had really been no help to them- the only people that would’ve been able to help with the victims were probably Meredith or maybe Bailey who had been in contact with the poor people who had ended up as victims.

I moved to shuffle out of the room, though I purposefully lingered in hopes of Spencer pulling me aside to speak privately. I didn’t want to do it myself, he was on an important job after all.

My heart skipped a beat when I felt his fingers tentatively wrap his fingers around my wrist. Even from just a soft touch it was evident that his hands were not the same hands that I remembered. They were the same shape, his fingers were just as long and nimble and his palms were just as all encompassing, but there was something different in the way they felt. They felt rougher, covered in more calluses then I would think possible on him. The hands I remembered were baby soft as if they had been untouched by the world. Maybe the calluses were just from him handling the gun I saw strapped to his side, or maybe it was the same thing that had made the rest of him harder.

Even though he was an obviously harder- more damaged man compared to the one I knew I still wanted those callused hands to stroke my cheek again.

The yearning to be with him again had already flickered into a roaring fire just from seeing him with my eyes again and with one soft touch. I didn’t care in the slightest how much the world had changed him. The world had battered and bruised him, probably quite literally from my guess. I wanted to get to know this Spencer, even with the bruises he still filled my stomach full of butterflies and sparked my feelings into a roaring fire exactly like he had done so before.

I turned to face him, a little nervous that he’d tell me that he never wanted to see me again despite the fact that I knew he’d never say that to me no matter how much of a changed man he was.

“Do you want to get a coffee while I’m in town, maybe so we can- um catch up after your shift?” His voice was so soft, almost meek, giving me a little taste of what Spencer had been like and who he still was at his core.

“Yeah I’d like that, Spencer, just have one more surgery and then I’m yours.” His two coworkers that he had come with were giving us both looks like they’d be interrogating Spencer on the ride back. Yeah he definitely had never said anything about me judging by their looks I now cared to look at. I couldn’t blame him, the memories had been painful to look back on myself. But, seeing him now made them tinge with a little bit of sweetness instead of growing more bitter with time.

I pulled out my phone that was in my white jacket pocket and asked, “what’s your number?”

I had his old number memorized by heart easily even after all these years. It was as if I had taken a small portion of Spencer’s eidetic memory just so I could hold onto a number that after over ten years is surely not usable. He gave me his new number with a distinctly D.C area code with a sweet smile on his face. As I left the room to scoot over to the surgery I was due to perform I was sparkling with anticipation- I could almost taste the coffee already.

As I started my last surgery of my long shift, someone turned on the music playlist that I always had on a loop during my surgeries. A song that reminded me of Spencer was the first one that came on the shuffle. It wasn’t one that reminded me of the Spencer I once knew, but the new version of Spencer I had just met.

I focused in on the task at hand just as I always did. Cutting with pristine precision, I worked quickly but diligently. I wanted to get out of here as soon as possible, but I wouldn’t skimp on my work. In the back of my mind I was still giddy like the schoolgirl I had been when I had first met Spencer. I couldn’t wait to get that coffee with him- I wondered if he still liked a gallon of sugar with it. Our first song had ended, but the melody lived on- maybe the melody was strong enough to start another.

—-

Tag list (message me if you want to be added):

All Works:

@shotarosleftpinky @oreogutz @90spumkin @kyra-morningstar @s1utformgg

Spencer Reid/CM:

@calm-and-doctor @destiny-tsukino @safertokiss @slutforthegubes

[mochibrokenheart]

SVSSS: Guardian of the Museum

Mobei Jun x Shang Qinghua

Word Count: 2,756

Summary: Of course there's ominous growling and destruction to the building on Shang Qinghua's first night as a museum curator. Of course there is! Besides being desperate to keep the job, he's not sure what possesses him to actually walk toward the dangerous situation. His survival instincts were better trained that! Except...wait a minute...the terrifying creature causing all the ruckus is actually the hottest thing he's ever seen???

My first contribution for Moshang Monsterfucking Month (and my first fic for the fandom in general!) Heavy on the monster part as the nsfw is not explicit. Who knew that it would be hard to write something short. Inspired by the Day 2 prompt: horny.

Also posted on my Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34305571

A nearby bell tolled at midnight just as Shang Qinghua locked up the museum for the night, which meant that he was officially off for the weekend. Being a party of one, he celebrated with a groovy victory dance while turning the key over in the lock.

There was a little click and he rattled the knob, checking that the door was properly locked—if anything was stolen or vandalized during the night, he would most definitely be blamed as the recent hire!

The job was an important stepping stone in his career path plan to being a rare artifacts curator. He really needed the experience. It was hard enough to land the job, so he wasn’t above looking neurotic by double, and triple, and quadruple checking everything before he left.

A chilly breeze tussled his hair and raised goosebumps down his neck. It was October, he supposed while drawing up his hood to block the chill, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to complain.

He was much to delicate for cold temperatures and would exercise his right to curse out the changing seasons. Of course, he could move somewhere further south, so that he wouldn’t have to put up with it anymore, but still!

The only good thing about the loss of summer was the bugs, he decided.

Clearly, Shang Qinghua was irresistible because bugs treated his blood like an all-you-can buffet. If only hot men thought the same. But alas.

Sighing, he turned up to admire the full moon, who seemed to sympathize with the sad state of his romantic affairs, being the moon and all. Something about it’s pale gray-white color naturally emoted a sad, longing reflection.

It was as he was looking up that he heard a growl, loud not because of its pitch—it was actually quite low and gravelly—but because it vibrated the very air around him.

Shit. Shit. He wasn’t equipped to deal with some beast! He had no weapons and there was no way his body was going to get the job done either. He was a delicate flower, just ask the bugs who always feasted on him!

He rummaged through his bag frantically for his phone. That was what the authorities were for.

Opening his phone, his mind was racing. Who did you call when there was a potentially wild animal on the loose? The police? Animal control?

Gasp! What if it turned out to be a demon?

…!!!

He didn’t have any shamans or priests on speed dial. There had never been a reason to until then but if it would save him, he’d buy up every type of religious necklace he could and wear them around his neck daily. It was like insurance—it never hurt to cover all of his bases.

While he was wasting time on the sidewalk, what appeared to be small bits of gravel drifted down from what seemed like the roof. Scurrying to get closer to the streetlight, which casted a circular light on the steps of the museum, Shang Qinghua bent down to get a closer look.

It felt dusty when he rubbed his pointer finger against his thumb and did match the shade of stone the building was…The new evidence presented a bit of dilemma. Yes, he was still itching to call somebody have them do the dangerous work, but at the same time, his boss might fire him if something happened to the museum under his watch.

“Well, if there’s more damage, I guess I’ll take a look,” he muttered. He clasped his hands together. “But please, take mercy on me, moon! I promise that if you get me out of this that my next erotica will be dedicated solely to you, and in very large print, so that my readers know the reach of your mystical power!”

His hands remained clasped high above his head as he waited. So far so good.

There was still the scary growls, of course, but those didn’t count because he wasn’t going to investigate that. It was absolutely common knowledge that people who investigated weird sounds always ended up dead, at least in horror movies, and that was all the proof he needed to wash his hands of it.

No, the only thing that could sway him from his crouch on the front steps was…was…

Tears shimmered in his eyes as more rubble was knocked off from the roof, the fine particles irritating his nose and causing him to sneeze.

Thoroughly betrayed, he used his sleeve to wipe at his nose. Forget the moon. Clearly the bond he felt had only been one-sided, and now he was obligated to actually suck it up and put himself in harms way.

The Shang Qinghua of five minutes ago would’ve screamed and called himself a fool. Why ignore those highly honed flight instincts?! Even the Shang Qinghua of the present was screaming and calling himself a fool when he took the first hesitant step inside.

It was deceptively quiet in the stairwell but that wasn’t enough to calm him. As the saying went, it was the calm before the shit storm and he was about to be right in the middle of it. How careless of him.

Just in case this was the end, he started to draft an epitaph—it’s not like anyone else would put in the same amount of effort. 

His minor following would be too busy wailing about the permanent book hiatus; his boss would have their hands full dealing with insurance over the architectural damage; and that hot-and-cold cucumber bro of his would still be nagging him in the afterlife, criticizing him for his stupid plan when it ‘clearly would’ve been better to do such and such’. But back to him.

We are gathered here to mourn the passing of one Shang Qinghua, a bright hamster that was taken from Earth far too soon. His exhibit work was flawless, his knack for collections cataloging unrivaled. There was never a day without bountiful office supplies with him around. We thank him for his singular brave—foolish?—sacrifice in the name of historical value. Shang Qinghua is survived by several dying houseplants and the stray dog he usually fed on his way home from work.

There. That sounded as good as he was likely to get. Wait. No. He almost left out the most important part: the secret letter of last words meant only for cucumber bro’s eyes. Bro, if you’re reading this it’s because I died a terrible and scary death. Please take pity and wipe all of my search history. It was all for research, honest! It’s bad taste to judge a dead man.

The access door to the roof was large and imposing in front of him, even though there was still no noise coming from the other side. He was going to be mad and then relieved, in that exact order, if this turned out to be nothing.

He inhaled. Exhaled. Jumped around and shook his hands where they hung down beside the length of his body. He’d watched enough athletes—for research!—throughout his short life and getting loose always seemed to pump them up for competition. The same principle should apply here.

The door gave with a loud screech and he suspected that it wasn’t in regular use. Not that there was probably much to see up there anyway. Just roosting pigeons, stone slabs, and—

His mind went blank.

Crouching in the corner, so close to the edge that all it would take was a gust of wind to send him tumbling down, was some sort of winged creature. And the wings were massive things that arched up before curving downward completely over it’s back, the tips draped on the ground. Judging by how large they were, they had to be functional, which nearly caused him to wet himself. 

He didn’t want to imagine that thing taking flight after him. Not that he would be exciting prey. Gods, this probably how a mouse felt when a hawk was flying overhead.

But it was the horns that really caught his attention. They were hulking black spirals and the sharp points were pointed right at him. Even in the poor light, it was obvious that they were pure black. Any other time, he might comment on how cool they actually were, how they were a cosplayer’s dream, but it wasn’t cool when it was a matter of life and death. 

And he would most certainly die if those menacing horns and wings were any indication.

Trying to keep the element of surprise, he slowly let the door swing shut. Until a little bat started flew over squeaking, which caused him to squeak as well. The door hit the frame with a loud rattle. His body went heavy with fear and his eyes snapped shut, a natural prey response. He had never, ever been this scared.  

Not patient enough for Shang Qinghua to turn around on his own, the creature flung him around to face it with an aggressive growl. And he had thought it was loud when he was on the sidewalk. Which wasn’t true at all. It was much louder and more intimidating when it was right in his face.

“Trespasser!” it growled, teeth clicking.

…Okay, so it could talk. Maybe this was a good thing. Now could grovel with it to spare him!

Blinking rapidly, he opened his eyes and looked up, up, up. It didn’t look as horrific from the front as it did the back. In fact, it had a humanoid appearance and was distinctly male. He was the hottest thing he’d ever seen, a total fantasy come to life. How the hell was he real?

His was incredibly tall, his huge wings proportional to his size now that he was standing up. Now that he saw them up close, Shang Qinghua noticed that they were a beautiful shade of blue that started out dark but lightened to pale blue once it reached the tips, which also had sharp spikes—Nails? Claws? He wasn’t well versed in anatomy—attached.

The top of his ears were pointy, too, just like the tops of the wings. Oh, and the horns! There were two of them, both pure, glossy obsidian, that sprouted out on either side of his temple, the bases thick and ridged as they spiraled like a ram’s. The only difference was that his horns were much larger. He could maul someone with those along if he wasn’t careful.

But now that he considered it more—even in times of crisis, he could multi-task when it really counted—the horns only added more to his attractiveness. They were intimating, sure, but also sexy, in a monsterfucking type of way. He gasped as a clawed hand wrapped around his throat. Yep, he could definitely get into the horns and claws. Mark him down as scared and horny.

The growling died down but sharp teeth were still on display, and there was a stylized tattoo-looking mark on his forehead. Despite the snarl, Shang Qinghua instinctively knew that his face was insanely attractive; it had to be to match the rest of him. Speaking of the rest of him…

He dropped down in front of him, making sure to drag his hands down that ripped physique and gave his massive pectorals a quick squeeze before he landed on his knees in a kneeling position. 

His face was right in front of the creature’s impressive package, covered only by a flimsy loin cloth. It fluttered in the night breeze and he had to bite down on his finger to stop his depraved moaning. “Ff-forgive me, my good-demon-sir, but I swear I’m not trespassing. I’m a humble worker here at this museum.”

He quickly took out his employee badge to offer it up to the demon who barely gave it a glance. “Gargoyle,” it said in reply.

“Oh. I’m sorry but I don’t really know what you mean by that.” Wait, why did he say that? He didn’t want to get further in the demon’s bad side than he already was! “I mean no offense, of course. I’m sure gargoyles are absolutely lovely—”

“No,” he interrupted, his face smoothed out into blank slate. It made it harder to read him but Shang Qinghua quickly decided that it was alright. “I am a gargoyle, human. You may address me as Mobei Jun.”

Ohhh. Now that he mentioned it, his wings and horns could belong to a gargoyle. He knew that they were popular parts historical buildings that had a strong Western influence, which the museum did.

“And I am a king. Not a sir.”

Curse his authority kink. He was sure that any new fantasies he conjured up would be staring this particular king and Shang Qinghua as his servant.

“Of course, my king! You’re reeking of kingly handsomeness. As a lowly human, my apologies for the obvious mistake.” The gargoyle king didn’t make any move to acknowledge his words other than a slow blink, so he figured that it was all good. “Excuse me if this sounds rude, but what are you doing up here? And what was all the noise about?”

“Guardian. I was charged with the safety of this place by a war lord.” Jeez. So he’d been with the building for centuries at least, maybe even millennia.

There was a pause and he realized that he wasn’t going to answer the second question. It also seemed like the gargoyle king was waiting on him and a light bulb went off. “S-sorry again my king. I am Shang Qinghua. I am in charge of the rare artifacts inside of the building, so you may see me closing up most nights.”

The gargoyle king nodded sagely and he figured that the role must be acceptable to him. A loud sigh left him and his muscles relaxed just in the slightest way. He might survive this encounter yet. Ever better, survive and be able to go home and break out that new bottle of lube that he bought last week. There was plenty of new material to work with, that was for sure.

Then the gargoyle stepped back, giving him more space, which was actually the opposite of what he wanted. Feel free to punish him for earlier transgressions, king, especially if they were rough in a sexy way!

Unaware of his inner pleadings, he continued walking away to crouch back near the edge of the roof.

“Umm, be careful, king. It’s dangerous to be that close—”

“I am a king. Concerns such as that are not applicable,” he said, puffing up his chest. Those pecs! He might have to put in a request tomorrow to do more work on the roof. It was a crime that no one was admiring that body on a regular basis. “Leave. Return home. The circles under your eyes are hideous.”

He gasped, touching his bags. Rude! He had just finished a long shift and definitely wasn’t at his best. He was going to have to step up his game if he was going to tempt this gargoyle in the future. Trying his best not to show embarrassment, or disappointment, he agreed to leave.

“Whatever you want, my king. I’ll leave for now but if you need anything, I’ll be back tomorrow and the day after as well. In fact, every night, in case you need me.” Screw his weekend off. Who needed one of those when there was a hot gargoyle of legend serving as the guardian of the museum. Not him, that’s who.

He scrambled to his feet and bowed again for good measure. The door was open and he was across the threshold when his dream gargoyle muttered something. “Did you say something, my king?”

He cleared his throat and spoke gruffly. “The pigeons pooped in my hair.”

Suddenly, the growling from earlier made sense. No matter if you were human or gargoyle, having birds shit in your hair, especially hair as luscious as Mobei Jun’s, was bound to make anyone furious.

Determined to keep his laughs to himself if it was the last thing he did, he merely replied, “Yes, my king. I will make sure to chase them away from you next time.”

“See that you do.”

On cloud nine, Shang Qinghua grinned as he bounded down the stairwell. The gargoyle’s comment implied that there would be a next time. And he intended to romance the loincloth off (literally) of the serious gargoyle king.

Hope you all enjoyed! So happy to share this with everyone. Thanks for reading :)

[rfadaydreaming]

jumin han / nsfw abc’s

the ceo in all his glory <3 original post here

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

so attentive to all your needs. needs a minute for you both to catch your breath and come back down to earth, but almost instantly he’s all over you. wraps his arms around you, kisses your neck, murmurs words of affection into your skin. plays with your hair and listens to you talk about whatever you please, you’ll be doing most of the talking since he’s pretty quiet after sex. super casual and even somewhat lazy aura after the whole thing, he’s not lying when he says he gets drunk off of you. not exactly tired, just super calm and relaxed. after some snuggling he’ll offer to clean you up, run a bath, order food, or just stay in bed together if that’s what you’d like to do. whatever you prefer, he’s perfectly content.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

he’s not fond of anything in particular on himself, hasn’t really thought about it much? but if he had to choose, he does like the way his hands look. his fingers are long and soft, they look especially good dancing across your skin, or covered in your cum. the last one he prefers the most <3

for his partner, it's the finer details that really get to him the most. the tiny things that no one would otherwise notice. the back of your neck, inside of your wrists, the softness of the skin between your thighs. even the freckles that dot your skin, every tiny little detail comes together to perfectly form you. that’s why it’s his favorite. finds it beautiful. victorian man over here !! hide your ankles

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

loves finishing inside. theres just something about it for him. stands back to admire as it pools out of you, much to your embarrassment. uses his tip to gather it all up, pushing it inside you again before starting round two. will love if you get all flustered about the whole thing too.

when you come to visit him in the office, he’ll finish inside and quickly pull your underwear up so nothing has the chance to spill out, a mess like that on the floor would be tough to explain. bonus points if you wear them throughout the day only for him to find out when he gets home from work, it will drive him crazy.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

got turned on when you said his name during the phone call the two of you shared shortly after you had joined the RFA. he’s never had that happen from someone’s voice alone, but then again, no one has said his name in such a slow and quiet way like that before. made him feel a little uncomfortable with himself, so he just ignored it and tried his best to forget. but you were definitely on his mind later that night. thats one of my favorite calls skdhksbs he was so surprised

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

no experience, like... none at all. maaaybe has watched porn once or twice but it didn’t really do anything for him, so he never picked it up again. the type to sit through sex scenes in movies completely unphased.

he knows basic anatomy of course—had a good education so he's aware of what’s going on—but only really researches the hidden tips and tricks once he gets in a deeper relationship with you. seven probably sends him know how links out of concern, they do help though !! he’s a naturally observant man as well, so he’s quick to learn what you like, the things that get you moaning and squirming the most. Not afraid to ask what you want from him. honestly if he hadn’t told you, you wouldn’t have a clue about his inexperience. boosts his ego sm <3

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

any position where you’re bent over he loves. doggy style, over his desk, against a wall.

also loves when you ride him while he’s sat at his work desk, gives him a good position to let his hands run wild all over your body. something about sitting in his office with you over him like that, riding him. really likes that.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

obviously he can smile or throw in a few sarcastic quips here and there, but overall takes the whole thing pretty seriously. gets a little nervous if you laugh for no reason, throws him off for a second. it’s pretty serious for him, sometimes there's off moments here and there of course, but he’d rather skip over them than dwell for too long. not a lot of laughs, he’s busy focusing on the task at hand. hold in your laughter please he will get offended

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

doesn’t shave completely, makes him feel weird when he does, but keeps himself trimmed often. prefers the neatness.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

prefers intimacy more than anything else, kissing your neck or wrists while he slowly thrusts in and out of you, whispering sweet words into your shoulder while he does so. he’ll trail your skin with his fingers and leave behind little pecks. loved asking questions or pointing out little things you might not have even noticed that he's absolutely in love with, freckles or birthmarks for example.

but that doesn’t mean he can’t also be rough. he likes bending you over, grabbing a fistful of your hair, making you beg for him. versatile king

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Before he met you:

rarely, he would do it on occasion? If he had a stubborn urge that just wouldn’t go away for some reason, but never really got the feeling for it. If he did, he never fantasized too much, just focused on the feeling until he was done. feels gross for the rest of the day after he does it, makes his head foggy.

After he met you:

still doesn’t do it too often, he has you after all. If the mood strikes he’ll ask if you’d like to help him out with his problem. phone sex is common on business trips, so he does it then, and if you want him to touch himself in front of you, he definitely will without a second thought. but unprompted and alone, no. he’d rather just wait.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

possessive sex. If you spend too much time with zen, someone flirts with you too openly, or even when he just starts to get caught up in his own head, the sex that comes after is intense. especially at events. he’ll make it a point to smudge your makeup, leave marks on your skin, turn you into a drooling mess. he’ll have you repeat who you belong to, make you beg for permission to finish, really gets off on being the one in charge. domination kink

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

home is probably his favorite just because it’s where you’re most comfortable getting loud, you both can spend as much time as you need there without any interruptions. the office is a close second though.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

when you wear short skirts with nothing else underneath them, especially if you come to visit him in the office. bonus points if he’s insanely busy that day and doesn’t have time to bend you over his desk. text him beforehand and watch how many times his eyes shift to your legs, the way he looks at you. really drives him up the wall. but besides that most of the time all you have to do is speak and he’s ready to go, all day every day. say the word and he’s yours.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

no choking, slapping, drawing blood, anything too intense in the bedroom that’s super violent. It just.. doesn’t get him going. he’s not too picky with what he will or won’t do, but that isn’t his cup of tea.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

either or, if you give he’ll always give back and vice versa. prefers giving a bit more honestly, loves seeing you come undone from his mouth alone, but no complaints if you sneak under his desk at work and start undoing his belt.

skillswise it does take him a bit of getting used to at first, but he warms up quickly as he gets to know your body more. again, observant and a very quick learner. will never complain about his jaw hurting, never ever. groans a lot into you while he’s doing it, let’s himself get himself lost in the whole thing.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

it depends on the mood or how either of you feel that day. he does prefer slow and intimate just a bit more than anything else, but isn’t strongly leaning towards one or the other.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

proper sex if he’s able to, only likes quickies when you two are in public and or a time crunch, but they’re definitely not his favorite. If he does have to finish quickly, he’s sure to make it up to you later. they’re surprisingly often though, especially if you drop by his office. you’ll always leave looking way redder than you did before.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

most anything you want to try, he’ll try. He wants to make you happy. I don't see him being overly kinky right off the bat since he doesn’t have much experience? but he’s down for new things. pretty risky, loves public sex after all.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

at first not too long due to his inexperience, but he learns to hold back more as time passes. pretty good at controlling himself, wants to see you come undone as many times as he can before he finishes himself. after a hard day at work he can only last a round or two, but normally he can go for awhile.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

doesn’t own toys for himself, but has a few he’d buy for you. has quite the selection of vibrators. his favorite is a pink one that's controlled by his phone, it gets quite a bit of use, especially during events. handcuffs and blindfolds too !! always super pink, he likes that color for you.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

unfair, making you beg, edging you until you can’t bear it any longer, embarrassing you especially with his dirty talk. doesn’t hold back in the slightest, so it’s never fair for you. he’s selfish after all.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

grunts, groans, little “fuck”s under his breath. more vocal as he gets closer to coming, he breathes heavier and groans deeper in his throat. It’s never super loud, he’s way more on the quiet side. prefers to hear your sounds more than anything else so he's focused on that the most, doesn’t really moan too much.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

cannot send nudes for the life of him. like, it’s bad. super blurry, awkward, or way too dark. it’s cute whenever he tries though. for some reason they’re just so painfully awkward looking. opt for phone sex instead

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

never measured himself officially? but he's on the lengthier side— more than seven inches for sure, he leans up more towards his stomach but overall very straight, no curves or anything. cut, not too many veins except for one prominent one his underside that will absolutely drive him insane if you run your tongue across it, his tip is very red and incredibly sensitive, jumps a little if you go in on it way too fast. he has way more length than he does girth, and the size stays the same all throughout. i know his dick is pretty i just feel it

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

before he met you, low. but after he met you, all those years of repressed sexual frustration really started to show huh, he can’t go more than five minutes without keeping his hands off of you. It’s high, especially at the beginning of the relationship.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

depends on how work was that day !! But no matter what he tends to stay up for a while afterwards. you’re much more likely to fall asleep before him most of the time. he likes think for awhile first.

[chokefriends]

Anatomy model Eustass Kid

By @godims0tired ♡ for my fic Life Drawing

Rating: E

Warnings: None

Characters & ships: Eustass Kid / Trafalgar Law

Word count: 2978

Summary: Law practices his anatomical drawing with Kidd as his subject. With his devil fruit abilities he can see right inside him.

Kidd finds this insanely romantic.

~~~

Read on Ao3 or below the cut. I know it's an older fic by now but I havent posted it here before so here!

~~~

Kidd jerked into full awareness as he lay sprawled in his bed. He checked around himself without moving and sensed a second heartbeat in the room, near enough that the dim echoes of its electrical impulses lapped at his skin like waves. Slow and calm. Just watching then; not yet poised to attack…

There were eyes on him.

It took him a moment to remember that the other heartbeat was supposed to be there. He wasn't used to having bedmates stay overnight.

Red eyes slid open and found keen grey ones fixed on him.

“The fuck you staring at.”

“You, idiot.”

The big redheaded sprawl snorted crassly at that and flopped over, returning the stare with sleepy menace.

Law smirked. He was wedged sideways in one of the heavy carved armchairs in Kidd's quarters, loosely wrapped in a sheet and busily scritch scritching in a large book. His gaze flicked from page to Kidd and back.

Kidd prodded him, “See something you want, Trafalgar? Come over here and take it.”

His limbs were still all loose and languid from when they'd fucked a couple hours before, but Kidd could stand to go another round. Especially with the sharp, evaluating looks Law was throwing him right now.

“Come on, c'mere.”

“Later. Go back to sleep, Eustass-ya.” The pen bobbed.

“Don’ wanna. What are you doing still up?”

“Just passing the time until my brain decides to let me fall asleep.” Law's insomniac woes again.

“A good fuck will do that for you. Lemme do the ligature thing and you'll be out like bam .” Kidd offered generously.

“Heheh. Thanks but oxygen deprivation is not the kind of sleep aid I need.”

“Your loss.”

Kidd burrowed into his cluster of satiny pillows with a sigh. For an infamously brutal pirate captain he sure liked his little extravagances. The whole room was draped with horribly clashing bits of luxurious fabrics and furs, and the odd shiny sharp thing. The manic magpie whims of past raids.

“Nah, that's no good,” Law recrossed long legs over the chair’s arm, well cushioned with some spotted pelt. “Go back to where you were a second ago.”

“Are you…? What, taking notes on me? Writing an ode to the sinful curve of my flawless ass?”

“Something like that. I'm adding my own anatomical diagrams to this medical text. It’s my favourite for reference material but the illustrations are scanty and kinda shit -- it's like they've never dissected anyone before.”

“Nice. Add a diagram of these.” Kidd kicked up a leg.

“Hah. I'm nowhere near the section on genital abnormalities, but I'll look you up when I get there. Turn on your side again, I was doing upper body musculature.”

“Ooo. I got lots of that, yeah.” Kidd complied.

The lamplight was flickering low behind Law. Kidd could see him and his book backlit dimly, the small hairs on his leanly muscled shoulders aglow like a nimbus. Tinged subtly blue.

Wait, blue?

“Do you have a Room up?”

“Yeah, so I can scan down and see the actual anatomical stuff.”

“Huh. That's handy. You don't even have to dissect anyone.”

“Yeah but it’s easier to see everything if you physically open someone up. You can isolate the individual structures that way.” Law peeked overtop of the book. “And it's more fun to do it the old-fashioned way, heh…”

Kidd gave a low laugh. Law wasn't even joking, he knew. He imagined waking up one night like this, to find some part of him delicately splayed open and the dark haired doctor sketching away with the same expression. If Law used his devil fruit power he could do it painlessly and bloodlessly, without even waking him. Kidd had seen him sever heads away from bodies completely within that blue sphere, both pieces still functioning as one. He’d never been the subject of that eerie power himself, though.

He didn’t think so, anyway.

Law untangled himself from chair and sheet, and finally came over to join him on the bed. Kidd was gifted briefly with a full view of the lithe figure. His recent handiwork was beginning to show in the mottling that ran up either thigh and the bites framing his chest tattoos.

The long limbs refolded next to him. “Stay there, I wanna do the neck muscles now.”

“Lemme see that first.”

“Don't be grabby,” Law complained, but gave up the book.

“Holy fuck.” Kidd flipped through studies of his back, shoulders, hands. “So that's how I look without skin, huh.”

He had been expecting more… yeah. Skin.

“I did say I was drawing the muscles.”

“And my bones and everything.”

“Yeah. Good skeletal structure too. Several odd calluses where breaks didn't quite set right, though.”

“You can see all of that?”

“Yeah, of course. Like I said, I can scan down to any level. Though it helps if I know already the shape of what I'm looking for.”

Something about the drawings was just so Law. The lines so precise, so sharp, somehow impatient. A little obsessive and overworked on certain details, like the hollow between his collar bones and the knobbly crook of his index finger, broken at least twice. Many practice studies on loose sheets of paper showed that Law had been trying to get these parts just right.

It occurred to Kidd that these weren't just anatomical studies using him as a model -- these were him.

Jotted notes crowded around the practice studies, but Law grabbed the book back before Kidd could read them properly.

“Trafalgar. Does that seriously say I have 8.2 litres of blood in me.”

“Nevermind that. Just an interesting fact. You have a lot of blood.”

Kidd stole another peek as Law held him off. “And that I have a grip strength of 68 kilograms in my right hand?”

“At least. That’s not something I can see; that's from uh, experience.”

Kidd leaned back with his hands laced behind his head to look at Law. “One might misinterpret this as a target profile of some kind.” Because that's exactly what it was -- a detailed map of Kidd’s strongest, and weakest points.

“Whoa, your blood pressure’s spiking.” Law grinned with more teeth than usual and leaned in to hover over him.

“Now you're just showing off,” Kidd complained.

“Does this disturb you?”

That wasn't exactly the feeling that was spreading through him, no. Or not entirely, anyway. Kidd just cracked his neck, stretching it out for Law's benefit, and raised an eyebrow.

“So you wanted some neck action? It's all yours.”

Law seemed to like the sound of that. He angled Kidd’s head away and up with a gentle press of fingers, so the ear and neck were exposed to him.

Kidd watched his shadow flicker on the opposite wall and listened to the pen scratch across paper. The undulating magnetic field of Law’s heart was so close now, washing over him. His own blood thudded in his ears, senses all on high alert from holding himself in this vulnerable position.

He could be fuckin patient. Sometimes. Well… when he had all of Law’s attention focused on him like this, he’d stay still forever. He could feel the sharp eyes on him like a touch. His own eyes started to wander back over…

He jumped a little when Law did touch him, nudging him back into place. And then trailing fingers over the mound behind his ear.

“Sternocleidomastoid,” Law mouthed to himself. “Levator scapulae…” The hand travelled down to his collarbone and rested there lightly, his thumb tracing little circles.

It was so calm. And strange. Rare for the reserved doctor to be so casually intimate. Even while they were fucking, touch was more like a struggle, hands straining against and into each other. Kidd was rough without even trying, but it was Law who seemed to flinch from any contact not resembling combat. Or medical care. Such structured things. He’d objected -- vehemently -- to being “pawed at” and “pet like a lap dog” often enough. As though anything less than bruising force would hurt more.

He was so guarded. It made Kidd greedy.

“You're hard, you know,” Law breathed onto his neck.

“Yeah I'm aware.”

“Heh.”

Tattooed fingers ran along Kidd’s side, over the tight bands hugging the ribs (“Serratus anterior…”), and pinpricks rose in their wake. Kidd found himself arching up against the hand desperately.

“Ah, fuck, Trafalgar…”

“Mhm,” Law responded, distracted. Or pretending to be. He followed a particular cord of muscle down Kidd’s powerful thigh with his thumb. “Sartorius. Gracilis.”

“Dick.”

“No that's not a muscle, Eustass-ya.”

“Oh for the love of GOD.”

Law made a sound that was probably a muffled laugh. “Hold still. I'm doing anatomical studies.”

“Oh is that what we're doing.”

“Obviously.”

“Where's the book.”

“It's…” Law looked around for a minute. “On the floor.”

Kidd covered his face with his hands and just laughed. Law sighed dramatically.

“Well. Guess I gotta start from the top again.”

 

---

Law could be a pushy bastard when he topped. But he kept up the slow, focused treatment this time and it was driving Kidd fucking insane.

“I'm gonna flip this the fuck around and pound you inside out if it takes any longer.” Kidd growled from under his arm, slung across his face.

This was as close as he could get to actually asking for it. Here he was laid out, so open and ready, core clenching and unclenching. Needing to be fucked, to have hands on him, in him, whatever. All of it.

“Nah you're not.” Law countered smugly.

“F-uck,” was all Kidd could come up with when a third finger twisted into his slicked up hole. His body tensed and spasmed before yielding itself open.

By the time Law was actually fucking him, Kidd had nearly popped a fucking vein.

Law pushed in slowly, slowly. Until they were pressed together as tight as they could go, breath hot on each other's faces.

“Shit, Tr--ahh…”

“Eustass-ya…”

He was done with all the slow shit. Kidd was a shifting mass of need under him and honestly, he was even more worked up. He dragged almost all the way out only to grind back in hard, and the tight body jolted.

“Aw fuck, yeah…”

Law braced his weight on his arms, pressing Kidd’s hips into the bed. He watched the muscles bunch beneath him with each impact, Kidd straining to meet him. Watched through skin so pale it was translucent, glowing and rippling.

Kidd still wasn't entirely sure what to make of that gaze. All hunger and splitting seams, open lips and ragged breath.

He quirked up one corner of a mocking mouth.

“The fuck’re you-- ah --staring at?”

Law didn't answer for a moment. Under Kidd's skin it was like… layers of red ribbons, wrapping him up. The ribbons all pulling and straining against each other when Kidd moved (when Law moved in him), like something inside was trying to burst out. Under them, ribs curving -- jealous fingers. Wetly clinging membranes. Then under that…

“Your heart. It's…”

Their bodies collided, beaded with sweat. Harder. More. Law could see, hear Kidd's heart beating faster as he picked up his pace. God, he could feel it in his palms. In his dick. Beating so strong it echoed in his ears, drowning out his own.

“Fucking perfect. It's perfect.”

Kidd laughed breathlessly. His heart. What the hell. “...You wanna get your hands on that too?”

Law did.

He wanted to grip it, feel it flutter, make it burst …

… What if I could? he thought. He slowed, thinking, and spread a hand over Kidd’s breastbone. Not just to incapacitate through dismemberment, but to cut a piece from the whole, one vital piece…

Kidd watched the pensive eyes flicker and gave him a swift jab of encouragement with his heel.

“You'll just have to get hold of it the old fashioned way. Hahahaaa…”

“Hah.” Law shook himself from his distracted state. He picked up a pace that was slower than before, though not less jarring. “Like… I should court you or like I should cut you open?”

“Whichever ...ah ... But you should fuckin get me off first.” Kidd guided the tattooed hand down from his chest to his dripping cock, and Law obliged, finally.

They fucked with foreheads pressed together and grips slipping on sweat slick skin. Kidd thought of Law digging his hands right into his chest and came in jerking starts like it was being beaten out of him, legs clamped tight around him. Skin thrumming with the echoes of hands and heartbeat.

 

---

Kidd flipped through the last few drawings with some undefinable flutter in his gut.

“That's some shit you won't see in any other textbook.”

“Mhm.” Law allowed himself to press against Kidd just slightly as they lay sprawled out, sweat drying in the cool air. He was in a fuckin good mood, kinda dazed.

“I do look damn good without skin, I'll say that much.”

“Heh. And with. You can see the suprasternal notch really clearly even under the skin, it's nice. I fuckin love all of that. That area.”

Kidd choked a little but Law didn't seem to realize what he'd said. And that's not even what he meant anyway, Kidd told himself.

But the whole thing kinda was the same as a confession, at least as far as Law went. The drawings, as vaguely threatening as they were, betrayed an intimate preoccupation with Kidd's finer points. Maybe even admiration. Definitely possessiveness. Need.

“I wanna do you too.”

Law grinned, “Already?”

“Not that, idiot. Draw you.”

“I didn’t know you could draw.”

“Well, draft. I can draft things -- just basic. For engineering stuff on the ship, mostly.”

“Oh, nice!” Law bounced up to get fresh paper from the floor by the chair. “How does one usually draft stuff? Don’t you need a triangle thing? Compasses, etcetera?”

“Maybe. I’ll just make an outline for now.”

Law seemed right into this whole idea. “Draw me like one of your machines, Eustass-ya.” He draped himself dramatically across the bed and Kidd shoved him with a grin.

“How do you want me, though.”

Kidd appreciated that question for a moment.

“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugged. “I don’t know how to draw from life -- like perspective or anything. So it’s gonna be pretty diagrammatic. I just need a few details and some numbers.”

“Like specifications? How to build a Trafalgar?”

“Yeah, so I can make another if this one breaks.”

That made him laugh.

“Okay lie out flat and lemme measure you.”

“With what measuring tools?”

“I'll just eyeball it,” Kidd insisted.

This turned out to mean that he was going to get his hands all over him, which Law supposed was fair. He tensed and shied but stayed mostly still, letting Kidd explore his dimensions and proportions. Pages filled up with ratios and vectors of movement. Things got off track again around when Kidd was testing the rotation arc of his arms and quickly became vicious rutting. Light, skimming hands could become crushing ones so quickly.

Anyway, turned out that Law could get off while his arms were being hyperextended behind his back. Pretty effectively, in fact.

After, when they were laid out next to each other once again, and Law’s breaths were finally lengthening into sleep, Kidd dared to try another light touch. Without their thin pretense of functionality this time -- just want. He smoothed a hand over all the tattoos he'd taken such careful note of earlier. A large heart on his chest with a grinning skull similar to his Jolly Roger. Hearts on his shoulders. Kidd’s fingerprints blooming dark purple on his upper arms.

Sixty-eight kilograms of pressure and Law hadn't made a sound, but a feather touch over the marks and a quiet ah pushed past his lips.

“Whose emblem is that tattoo?”

Law mumbled with his eyes closed, “Someone who died. Long time ago.”

“Someone…” Kidd repeated to himself, but didn't probe. “You going to get any more?”

“Nah.” His breath stuttered slightly when Kidd trailed knuckles down his jaw. “I just like… your marks…”

He fell asleep with Kidd's lips against the shell of his ear.

 

---

A roll of broadsheet tied with string arrived by carrier gull when Law was back on his sub some days later. He stole away to his cluttered quarters and spread the roll out on the bed.

Inside the broadsheet was a large-format technical drawing.

There were three flat outlines of Law: front, back, side. All heavily marked out in blunt pencil, all surrounded by arcs and lines, dotted and solid, indicating measurements and angles of motion. The insides of the outlines were empty except for perfectly to scale renderings of his tattoos.

[shejustcalledmeafish]

7 + john/tosh !! <3

7 - “I’m not good with feelings, but here goes nothing. My life sucks less with you in it.”

Tosh wasn’t often scared. Uncertain, yes. Terrified beyond measure, far more often than she would have liked. But she rarely felt the fear she felt now, watching John Hart sleep beside her. No, she wasn’t in danger, like most people who had met John would assume. In fact, she felt strangely comfortable knowing that he was in arm’s reach.

No, what she was scared of was that this was the third night this week he’d stayed over. She hadn’t been surprised when he’d come on to her, had been a little surprised when she flirted back. The first night had been more than a little tipsy, the next had been completely sober, and the rest had all blended together. Now it had been months, and they’d both been steadily ignoring the... something growing between them. 

Cause, oh god, Tosh really liked him. He was an amoral bastard obsessed with her boss, but he was charming and surprisingly sweet. Also very handsome, even with his face all squished up against a pillow like it was currently. And sometimes, she thought he felt the same way. Those times, when he looked at her like she was the only one in the world, she felt like she could fly. Then he’d flirt (or more) with a stranger and she’d crash back to Earth.

She wasn’t jealous.  Well, she was. But she couldn’t control her emotions. Logically, she was fine with it. John came from a different time, with different standards. Just because he flirted with anything on legs didn’t mean he couldn’t have genuine feelings for her. 

Although, who was she kidding? He didn’t feel the same. Soon enough he would leave, and he would take a piece of her already-shattered heart with him. She sighed and was about to lay back down, ready to sleep and suppress the typhoon of emotions swirling in her chest. Of course, it was then that John woke up.

She’d never seen anyone who woke up quite like John. His breathing didn’t change, he didn’t move, his eyes just snapped open, fully alert. She tried not to blush as his eyes swept over her slowly, taking in the view. He’d always been a bit of a voyeur, but Tosh felt, not to be a total cliche but well, beautiful under his gaze.

“What time is it?” he asked, voice scratchy with sleep, then raised his arm to check for himself. Tosh had only seen him take his bracer off once, and she considered it a gift that she had at all. It was armor, and while John had no problem being nude, without his brace, he was truly naked.

“Late,” she responded, pushing aside her other thoughts. “Or rather, early.” For a moment, she expected him to get up and leave. He’d done it before, disappeared before the sun rose. But lately, he’d tended to stay. And sure enough, he flipped his bracer closed and pulled the comforter up higher.

“Hmm. Go back to sleep. Jack’ll get pissy if you come in sleep-deprived.” His voice was tired, but his eyes were bright. He took her arm lightly and pulled her closer to him. “Need help relaxing?” he teased before bending to kiss along her neck. She let him for a moment before pushing him off.

“No, I’m alright.” He grinned and rolled onto his back.

“You sure?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m very talented.” This time she couldn’t help the blush that rose on her cheeks, damn it. But she shook her head. 

Normally, this was the part where she’d lay down and they’d get some well-needed rest. But tonight, Tosh didn’t move. After a few moments, John sat up to join her. He pushed a lock of hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking her over with what almost looked like concern in his eyes. “Why are you up anyway?”

“Just... thinking,” Tosh said, avoiding looking at him. Maybe it was time. Draw the line in the sand and see where he stands. 

“About what?” His tone was teasing, but when she glanced at him, there was a genuine question in his eyes. “Because if it’s about your water pressure, I agree, it sucks. You should get someone to look at that.” She couldn’t suppress the laugh that escaped her. God, he was so random sometimes. But Tosh had learned to appreciate the spontaneity. 

“No, not that. Although, you have your own shower if mine is so crappy.” She meant for the statement to be teasing, but it came across as almost aggressive. He had his own flat, there was no reason to care about the water pressure in hers. She’d be a fool to think otherwise.

“You’re right, it’s not that,” John said. He leaned in, not quite close enough to kiss, but close enough that Tosh could easily close the distance. Normally, she would, but something in his eyes stopped her. “Tell me.” She looked away. Here we go, Toshiko. Moment of truth.

“Do you like me?” she blurted out, eyes fixed firmly on the blanket twisted in her hand. 

“Of course I like you, Tosh,” John said, tone light and genuine. Of course, it didn’t stay that way. “What’s not to like?”

“That’s not what I mean,” Tosh bit out. She swallowed her pride and turned to face him. “What is this? What are we?” John looked shocked for all of a second before grinning. Tosh’s heart sank. That was his fake smile, the one that was just a little too bright and had a few too many teeth.

“We’re having fun, aren’t we?” he said casually. She nodded slowly.

“We are, but John-” she reached out and took his hand. “I need to know. Why?” John opened his mouth, and she held up a finger. “And please don’t say any part of my anatomy.” He shut his mouth and considered for a moment before speaking.

“Look, Tosh.” He hesitated and it felt almost wrong. John never hesitated. “I’m not good with feelings, but here goes nothing.” Tosh’s eyes went wide. “My life sucks less with you in it.”

“What?” she breathed. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been that.

“I’m happy around you,” John said. Now, he was the one to avoid Tosh’s gaze. “I feel safe around you. And so yes. I like you. And we’re whatever you want us to be. Well, we’d need to talk if you want a kid, but other than that, I’m down for whatever.” He grinned at her, this time one hundred percent genuinely. She couldn’t help but kiss him, and he responded in kind.

“This,” she panted once they broke apart. “I just want this. Us. For as long as we can.”

“Your wish is my command,” John purred before leaning in to kiss her again.

They didn’t get much sleep that night, but Tosh couldn’t be bothered to care. 

[thanatophobia-thoughts]

I love horror movies.

This would seem at odds with my fear, yet somehow, I have no issues with horror movies.

I have an issue, instead, with anything too clinical or anatomical. In school, when they would show films of anatomy, or even still pictures, it would make me want to look away. If films verge into that area, I start to get antsy and want to stop watching.

That’s when it becomes too real.

I never could dissect any animal. I used to brush it off as my empathy and desire to do no harm, but now I wonder if it has more to do with the fact that anatomy and biology lessons bring me too close to the truth of mortality, that I can no longer stomach it. 

Even the thought of surgery, however minor, brings up a lot of anxieties when I imagine being cut open, and then put back together. The knowledge of what I have inside me, and the fact we can repair it, brings me few comforts when I consider this knowledge was learned from corpses.

Wonderful, fantastic, amazing corpses of people who donated themselves to better humanity as a whole. They can never be thanked enough for the heights they’ve brought humanity to!

But, I can’t watch it. I can’t dissect things. I can’t watch something being dissected, I just cannot. So far as severe triggers go for death anxiety, this is mine. This is where I experience that moment of seeing mortality and it becomes real for me.

I always wondered why I had no issues with horror movies that had extreme gore, but had issues with this. I finally had the epiphany of what it stems from. I always understood the difference (fiction vs real, dissection vs horror-movie slaughter), but never quite connected that because it was more real, it also made the fear that much more real.

However – there is a good thing to learn here, beyond this!

I consider any media I consume to be a sort of catharsis. If I don’t reach a point of catharsis from it, I usually don’t care much for it – and that’s true in even the “comfort” shows I watch. Something has to make me connect with the show, and draw up emotions.

Horror, obviously, is meant to inspire Fear.

It rarely does anymore for myself, but those ones that do are amazing. The ones that also give me a moment’s pause, or make me think more deeply about the situation, are also some of my favorites.

Obviously, I’m not really talking about Child’s Play, Scream, or your typical slashers.

The Ring got me when I was young, though that was terribly circumstantial (tl;dr, seven days after watching it I’m playing a video game. Fire alarm goes off, TV screen inverts colors – NOPE).

It’s hard to consider what was a “good” horror for the horror part, in hindsight. Now, of course, if I were to rewatch it, it wouldn’t bother me. Most of Stephen King’s films fall flat for horror, though his writing doesn’t – the only one I can think of that didn’t fall flat as a film is “The Mist”. Guillermo del Toro’s films are also outstanding, but for horror? I never really found them scary.

The Omen II I thought to be an interesting story about free will and predetermination, but scary? No.

There are many Korean and Japanese horrors I’ve enjoyed, because they usually show the futility of trying to overcome the horror (The Red Shoes stands out from South Korea).

When I do stumble upon that rare gem that leaves me thinking “what the fuck?” or left sitting in terror, there is, eventually, that moment of relief. That understanding that, this didn’t happen to me. I am okay. Everything is okay. Both the experience of the heart-pounding fear, as well as the relief, are cathartic.

It usually follows with some research into what I watched – if it was a particular supernatural entity, a cultural folktale, or something like that, so I can understand it better.

It’s a safe way to feel a rush, to feel alive, and to feel relief. The exposure helps in some way, as well, I’m sure, so far as learning to “remain calm” in situations of fear.

I don’t necessarily recommend watching horror movies if you know you don’t enjoy them. However, if you’re on the fence, or you do enjoy them, then perhaps consider expanding and branching out from your norm. When I needed a scare, I looked to horror films in other cultures for something “new” since the American pattern was so familiar to me. It’s something I certainly need to do again.

It may be triggering – horror movies usually depict death, or other sensitive materials.

However, that can also be useful as an exposure method, and confrontation way of working through the anxiety. You can even read a plot summary full of spoilers before actually watching it, so that you know what to prepare for.

What might I suggest to get into horror?

Pan’s Labyrinth. I think it has enough unrealistic aspects to offset the realistic ones, and plenty of amazing character designs! It is also told mostly from the PoV of a child, so that can help to offset some of the horrors (or heighten them, in some cases). It is a dark story, though, and it is based in the 1940s and presents dramatized historical events.

[hecohansen31]

In The Garden of Evil

Borgia! Michael Langdon+Servant! Reader

(A/N): Hello there, lovelies!

I am not going to deny that I am Ari’s bitch and I write any fic that comes to her mind, but this was just TOO FUCKING GOOD TO PASS UP!

If you didn’t know I am studying th Renaissance for an exam, HENCE I FUCKING HAD TO PUT IT IN A FIC, PLEASE ENJOY THIS LITTLE SELF-SERVING SHIT AND HAVE FUN!

(Also the entire Lucretia-Cesare is only fictional, because people are pretty sure they didn’t fuck, but hey...).

As always: feedback is welcomed and ecnouraged, knowing that you like what I write is a truly beautiful things for me and make me want to write more.

WARNINGS: Male Masturbation, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Mention of Sex and Incest, Blasphemy and Renainssance mentions.

Attending to every little need of Lucretia Borgia was a truly magical experience.

It was such a hard work that you could barely blink without being called over by your ‘domina’ because she needed something and couldn’t wait for you to finish the previous chore.

You had learned this way to be fast and barely noticeable, guarding your steps against making any noise in order to alert the Borgias of your presence beside them.

Sometimes because you were scared by them and some other times simply because you didn’t want to be bothered with any other chores.

And because of your wonderful ability, you had been able to set yourself up in such a situation.

You had been asked by Lucretia to drop some clothes to her brother, since she had them specifically made simply for him.

And you had been drawn in the bathroom by some soft and low mewls coming from it, and expecting your ‘domino’ to be at unease, probably the water being too cold or too hot, you felt the need to help him as every servant in the Borgia residence would have, as you carefully and slowly approached the door of the room.

But as you had walked in, you hadn’t found the second eldest son of pope Alexander VI having trouble with the water.

It was quite the opposite.

He was taking pleasure from it, lazily bringing his hand up and down on himself in a vulgar movement you had seen in the streets and whenever men tried to impress you.

You had been taken aback by that.

Michael Borgia was an example of beauty and grace through the entire cardinal board, although nobody could deny that his place there was due to his infamous father, the pope.

But unlike Cesare, who was ruthless in following every plan he had, completely showing no interest in his position as a cardinal, just wanting war and power, Michele, his golden twin, although he was a bit younger, was a good cardinal, pious and just, even in the face of his family’s scandals.

So, to find him in such a… ambiguous position… it gave you much to think about.

Men were all made of flesh, in the end.

Just because Michele didn’t show his appreciation for flesh in such a visible way as Cesare did, it didn’t mean he was less involved in the throes of pleasure.

You had tried to get your body to move, to spy away from that scene, leaving him to his own… ‘hand’, but suddenly… you were stuck onto your feet as if you were suddenly pasted there with black pitch behind your feet.

You were just too much fascinated by the anatomy of his body, revealing itself to you by the elegant marmoreal bathtub he was drowning in, beautiful drawings on it, matching what the painters of that age called ‘grotesque’, although to you it was simply a mix of strong colors, staining the purity of the white marble.

You tried to move your eyes away from the sinful sight, sure that God would have soon struck you down for your curiosity.

But God didn’t seem to witness the beautiful show that cardinal Michael was putting up, almost as if it was solely for your eyes.

And quickly they shifted from the scenery mimicking a garden to the man himself.

You had never been able to properly stare at him, being more accustomed to Cesare’s antiques, the man not being shy of sending languid glances to any maid that accompanied his sister and even less when he sent those same glances to his own sister.

You tried in those moments to lower your gaze and fake of having never witnessed such an exchange.

But with Michele it wasn’t so easy to simply turn your head and look at anything else, your eyes immediately  tracing the fine golden hair usually styled in perfect curls he owned, although there was no sign of such a blessed hair anywhere else, in a trait that brought his body to seem both younger and masculine, with the way it was lean but strong.

He certainly didn’t own Cesare’s brutality or roughish looks, neither he had the consuming but fascinating age of his father, but he certainly did own a beauty that was timeless in the way it shone.

Your eyes graced lower onto those plump lips he owned, and you wondered whether they would have felt heavy or light on your skin, such a thought making you shiver in your stead.

God would have seriously punished you for such thoughts

Against His own servant, even!

You could feel the flames of hell already enveloping you as a sudden warmth enveloped you, not spreading from any external source, but from inside of yourself.

More precisely your most secret part, the one between your legs, which would lightly brush against each other, making you whimper softly at the pleasure of such a small gesture created coating the inside of your thighs with a wetness that made you wonder whether it was sweat for the burning that was slowly consuming you, or something else.

Being a maid raised in a private palace of clericals made you naïve in many departments, although sometimes your older friends would mutter about the vice that sex was, the more libertines ones even whispering at each other’s ears about the beauty that being taken by a man was…

… and how many men didn’t know how to take a woman properly.

All you knew from their suggestions was that women bleed a lot on the first time was rarely pleasurable for a woman as much as it was for a man.

‘They’ll fill you with their seed and then turn back in their bed’ had once muttered Rosina who was the lover of a smaller cardinal, the distaste of such a situation evident in her tone, and you had always kept yourself away from men.

But, again, you weren’t able to take your gaze away from the elegant way Michele Borgia moved his hand onto his exposed member.

Your eyes didn’t drift there directly, although you took a sneaky look at it, making you blush at the realization that a bit of golden hair coated lightly his lower stomach, in a trail that would have brought you to the road to perdition, had you followed it.

His body was muscled in a way that was unusual for cardinals, no sign of excessive fat or laziness of any kind in a lean body but with lightly highlighted muscles, as Bramante’s creations in a way that made him seem a marmoreal statue, as if he was as marmoreal as the bathtub in which he was steaming, easing off the pression of the cardinal toga with the pleasure of flesh.

At a particular harsh thrust into his hand, his muscles contracted in an harmonic way that immediately tensed his stomach, pushing them up against the surface of his immaculate skin, but the immediately became taunt again as he let out a soft trembling breath, the sound without a doubt catching you off guard, and you admired its gentle tenderness.

A shiver of pleasure went through your body as you felt your nipples grow hard under the coarse fabric of your uniform, a sensation which quickly travelled from pleasant to unpleasant, and you wanted nothing more than relieve it, pushing the hold of the fabric away from your sensitive pebbles.

And some even dirtier thought wanted for you nothing more than to pinch them, feeling as if it would have brought you more pleasure than the way you sought friction between your legs, letting the fabric catch and pass onto a part that brough you pleasure in waves of warmth.

You wanted to run away, but your curiosity kept your eyes linked to discover more.

You promised you’d stay another minute, and then another… and then another, till your eyes reached out for more and found the barrier of the bathtub completely blocking your view, having to risk more as you stepped a bit on your toe so that you could peak in the bathtub.

And finally witness that unholy spectacle.

And it was completely worth the risk of being caught.

Michael’s hand moved onto his length, pushing and pulling on it, getting his manhood to grow and throb under his careful ministration, graceful exactly as the rest of his body which throbbed aching for more, but he kept a slow rhythm that allowed you to completely see each of his movements as he pushed and pushed onto himself, tracing his length.

And you couldn’t help but open your moth as his length was revealed to you, his big hands making a show of his true greatness, which astonished and scared you.

The sole thought of such a beast fitting inside you, made your cheeks red with embarrassment and worry, remembering Rosina’s words and thinking about bleeding onto such a strong length.

He kept on pushing between his legs, moving easily between his hands, some liquid other than water and with a sticky consistence helping in the act.

But you were again curious and shameless, maybe having been made arrogant by the thought of not having been caught yet, and part of you wanted to know cardinal Michael carnally, as the Bible said about husband and wife.

Would Michael’s length have fit inside you?

Would he have assumed a similar rhythm to the one his hands used, or would he have had you in the most ruthless way, as you had seen only animals do?

And you were inclined to believe your latter thought with the way Michael’s body suddenly spasmed, the rhythm of his hands becoming faster, in a chase and an hunt for his own pleasure that made him savage to the brink, as he buckled without even realizing it into his awaiting hands.

His hips lean and taper were the one in control of his body and allowed him to push himself a bit closer and closer, to that ecstasy that only saints knew and welcomed and as his mouth opened in a perfect ‘o’, such as the saints you had seen being pictured in the beautiful churches being tortured to bliss in the knowledge of Gods.

But what Michael had just done wasn’t godly or such.

He kept onto buckling mindlessly in his hand, as his stomach spasmed more, in a way that brought his breath to come out chaotically, as he tried to regain a rhythm, and follow the last drops of pleasure.

As your eyes kept onto following the droplets of the white liquid coming out of his member, sticky and sticking onto his hand as he made quite a mess onto his length, almost playing with it in a languid way that made you even more feverish on that infernal warmth that almost made you feel weak on your knees.

And then Michael’s eyes snapped open.

You had exposed yourself far more than you had expected and immediately tried to hide behind the door, hoping that you had been enough silent not to be caught in your quick shift.

Apparently, you hadn’t.

“… little mouse don’t get shy on me now” he mumbled, his voice being suddenly roughed up by pleasure as he slowly adjusted in the bathtub, pushing himself onto his elbow to hold himself up and stare at you, although you kept on hiding yourself behind the door “… I let you see me, you aren’t going to deny me at least to see you”.

Of course, you were!

To expose yourself would be a direct acceptance of blame.

And although you had been able to spy on the beast when he was asleep, you weren’t able to, now that he was awake and looking around the room.

“That isn’t very kind, ‘madonna’ “ he mumbled lightly, but his tone immediately moved to become more threatening and darker, something you didn’t link to the cardinal “… expose yourself or I’ll ask the guards to search for an intruder”.

You were half thinking of running away, maybe the guards wouldn’t have found you, but you were sure that, by Michael’s tone he would have put the entire palace through the pains of hell, hadn’t he found who had spied onto him.

And some part of you wanted to be caught.

You moved slowly, opening the door and trying not to face him, your eyes pointed to your feet in a desperate attempt to avoid his gaze, as if this could show your penance through the unproper act you had done (and spied upon).

Maybe cardinal Michele just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t take about his ‘fall from grace’.

But by the smart look in your eyes you spied, you knew he would ask you something more devious than to keep your mouth shut.

“My lord I just came here to leave you some clothes on your sister’s order” you spoke fast, in order for yourself to be soon out of the cardinal’s hands “… I didn’t spy on anything, my lord, I just…”.

“Don’t even try to lie, little mouse” he muttered softly, pushing himself into a seated position, which showed you much more than before, making you blush and push your gaze onto your feet again “… I heard your presence since I started”.

The admission that he had known of your presence shocked you, alongside the sequential knowledge that he had wanted to watch the scene.

What sick game was this?

“… you thought you were being so smug, didn’t you…” his question didn’t seem one, but his tone softened from the threat that had lured you out of your hideout “… a pretty mouse wandering on the finest of cheeses, isn’t it what it seems?”.

You would have wanted to argue that he was utterly insane for comparing himself to cheese, but didn’t mutter anything, in fear of the awaiting punishment you would have been subjected to, soon, for trespassing a cardinal’s privacy.

“I gave you quite the show, didn’t I?” his question demanded an immediate answer and you didn’t make him wait, nodding lightly your head, as a smug smirk appeared on his face “… then I think it is only fair that you give me something in return”.

You scrambled nervous, your eyes meeting his in a silent plead: you hadn’t anything that might interest a cardinal and you didn’t understand what he might want from you.

He must be teasing you, as a cat played with a little mouse indeed.

He seemed to love your confusion and lightly shook his head, the water that had drenched his hair leaving in it in small droplets that formed, as light hit it, a small halo.

Unproper for such a devil in disguise.

“I showed you mine, so you’ll have to show me yours”.

You were indignant, not simply scared anymore at his indecent proposal: it was true that you had been noisy and hadn’t acted properly, but what he was asking you went against any of your belief.

“I can’t…” you stuttered, rage and embarrassment clashing in you, meanwhile you tried your best to still your breath to properly speak “… it isn’t proper for you to ask me such a thing!”.

“What isn’t proper, little mouse, is you spying a high cardinal, the son of a pope” he smirked, as his eyes held some kind of angelical madness “… I could easily have you thrown out”.

The thought of such a shameful exit made you shiver and sweat, and you thought that it would be a less humiliation the thought of doing what your body secretly ached for, to satisfy the ask of the cardinal, although you couldn’t help but blush, as you lightly moved closer, Michele’s eyes upon you.

“Good girl” he praised your movements, as he pushed his chest out of the bathtub adjusting himself to properly take a good look at you “… raise that awful gown and show me”.

And you, with trembling hands, meanwhile you tried to lightly raise your skirts, as you showed him the cotton underwear you wore under it, extremely modest and enough covering that although you were blushing more for the situation, you didn’t feel at unease.

“… push away that underwear, now, little mouse” he sang to you, and almost enchanted you did as he told you, without even thinking, as your eyes met his blue ones “…I said I wanted to see what you hid all day, I can already feel the smell of your wetness”.

This was enough to break your movement, as you were made aware of an even more embarrassing situation.

You stilled in your movements, but Michael tutted his tongue and you were brought back to the knowledge you didn’t have much choice.

You tried to close your eyes, shifting them away from Michael to focus onto keeping your eyes closed in the degradation of your body the cardinal was subjecting you to.

You expected him to make fun of you, but there was simply silence and as you opened one eye to catch onto what he was doing, you found him looking intensely at you, examining both your nakedness and rest of the body, in a show that brought shivers to run down your spine.

His eyes held a devilish desire that made you hot again and your knees threatened to buckle under you.

“… you look like a fucking painting, sweetheart” he mumbled, making you blush at his course, but you weren’t unable to stop the little smile on your face at that injurious compliment “… keep that skirt up, no… actually… actually push it away, we won’t need it, anymore”.

And you did as you were told, letting the skirt push away from your legs, detaching the places where the gown was linked to your bodice, in a successful attempt not to be clumsy, meanwhile you did it.

The aroused tone of the cardinal didn’t ask for any mistake.

Or slowness.

Once also the skirt was discarded the devilish smirk had returned on top of cardinal Michele’s meaty mouth and he pushed you to come closer to him with a ‘come hither’ motion of his fingers.

And you did come closer to him, till your legs lightly brushed against the bathtub.

And there you opened your eyes lowering them upon the cardinal who looked sympathetic at you, a devious smile on him, meanwhile his eyes took you in, again and again, drinking the sight of you till he got himself drunk.

“Now touch yourself” he commanded, and a blush and shiver went through your body “… and if you are good, I’ll ask Cesare to join us, next time”.

---

@blakewaterxx​​​ @emmyrosee​​​ @1-800-bitchcraft​​​ @rocketgirl2410​​​ @lovelylangdonx​​​ @kaetastic​​​ @frenchbread4ever​​​ @blackredrose27​​​ @melodylangdon​​​ @duncansshephard​​​

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.), Part XXVI (Baile na Coille)

This is the penultimate chapter of HRH, guys. Much love to everyone who has supported me along the way with writing this story. Your support means a ton, and this would not have happened without @notevenjokingfic, @smashing-teacups, and @desperationandgin. xx. K

Part I: The Crown Equerry | Part II: An Accidental Queen | Part III: Just Claire | Part IV: Foal | Part V: A Deal | Part VI: Vibrations | Part VII: Magnolias | Part VIII: Schoolmates | Part IX: A Queen’s Speech | Part X: Rare | Part XI: Watched | Part XII: A Day’s Anticipation | Part XIII: The Location | Part XV: Motorcycle | Part XV: Cabin | Part XVI: Market | Part XVII: Stables | Part XVIII: Alarms | Part XIX: Visitor | Part XX: Cuffed | Part XXI: A Woman’s Speech | Part XXII: The Harlot Queen | Part XXIII: Rarer | Part XXIV: Balmoral & London | Part XXV: The Ring

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.) Part XXVI: Baile na Coille

For the sake of appearances alone, Fraser’s belongings were mainly situated in Baile na Coille. He had not slept a single night under the gabled roof of the two-storyed cottage. In reality, Colonel James Fraser (“the Queen’s Lover” as all of the nation’s newspapers - from veritable rag to legitimate press - had started to call him) had made his summer home within the same four walls as the commonwealth’s oft-maligned royal matriarch.

Beneath her duvet, his long body and his hand drawing one of her thighs between his (“ye canna be close enough as ye sleep”) before resting along the curve of her waist.

At the breakfast table, the serrated edge of his grapefruit spoon slicing through thick-skinned citrus fruits, the spritz of fruity acid hanging in the air as she read letter after letter as her fingers toyed with her earlobe.

And in the griffon-toed tub that steamed the mirrors and tile floors, her careful step as she shed the skin of a silk robe to the floor and climbed into the water with curls piled atop her head. “Coming?” she asked, looking over her shoulder and letting out a slight sigh as she brought a second foot into the tub’s depths. He would nod, shedding his own robe and following her, marveling at the fact that neither had to shuffle their limbs to fit. With a toe carefully tracing the hollow lines that separated Fraser’s abdomen into pockets of muscle, Claire sank further into the bergamot-scented bath water. “Did you know that this is the only place I truly own?”

The massaging attentions of Fraser’s fingers on Claire’s calves paused for a moment. “I hadna ever really thought about what ye own or dinna own, a nighean.”

She hummed, smirking as his eyes fixated on her big toe, which was traveling the sloped line of wiry hair beneath his navel. “Do you know how Baile na Coille came to be?”

“Ye could use some help wi’ the pronunciation,” he commented as he shook his head. His brows furrowed as he added, “And I’ll ask that ye move yer wee feet from that part of my anatomy.”

Ignoring his pronunciation guidance but swiftly relocating her foot to hook behind his waist and draw him closer, she rolled her eyes. “Queen Victoria had a lover. She built the cottage for him, or so the story goes. All manner of lascivious scandal was born in that cottage and paid off before it passed those front gates.”

“So ye’re sayin’ that perhaps someday yer wee stables’ll become a thing of lore, too, then?”

With a well-worn shrug, Claire rose out of the water just enough to reach for the glass of lukewarm champagne resting on the windowsill next to the tub. “Perhaps. I think what happened in London would already have gone to print if it was going to. I trust my staff here, but it is only a matter of time before the Accidental Queen and her Not-So-Accidental Lover are front-page fodder.”

He massaged a knot out of the arch of her foot, and she moaned appreciatively, finishing the last of the fizzy liquid in her flute. “Do ye think they’ll compare me to Queen Victoria’s lovers?”

“Not sure,” she said truthfully, leaning forward as he caught the green neck of the champagne bottle to fill her glass. “It seems an apt comparison–”

“Ye have a much bonnier arse than Queen Victoria, Queen Claire.”

If she hadn’t been utterly fatigued from their day’s worth of galavanting about the property, she would have asked him to declare as much only upon further investigation.

Neither had done much thinking about what life would be like after the declaration, when the Queen’s speech ended and tellies across Britain went dark. While they had steeled themselves against an oncoming storm at the cabin, their arrival to Balmoral and the subsequent days had been quite ordinary, really.

They picnicked alongside a forested area and a stream, surrounded by a meadow of too-sweet butter-yellow flowers. He made her a posey of the flowers as they ate (bundle tied with the green string that had trapped their egg mayo sandwiches in brown paper). She made love to him on their tartan blanket with the bouquet discarded to the side. He wrapped the tartan around them afterward while their steeds grazed just until their hearts stopped pounding. She tapped his shoulder, suggested they should finish exploring the property. He was dressed first and folded their blanket as she hopped about bare-footed, attempting to coax her riding pants back up over her arse with her curly hair in a floating cloud about her. He felt like a fifteen-year-old boy with wanting her again.

They walked hand-in-hand and talked about things. He wanted children, an admission hastily given with his feet catching and his body stumbling forward. Her hand found the small of his back, steadied him. When he asked, “and you?” in his slow, easy way, her response was quick, but just as easy (“of course” she wanted children with him, fingers flexing into the marred flesh just above his beltline).

She told him that she loved Balmoral more than any other place on earth – the smell of the Highlands, the privacy, the accents of the staffers, and the way mist hung heavy even at the warmest part of the day.

“It feels like the cabin here,” she whispered when they finally exited the bath (his lips kissing each of her pruned fingers, hands smoothing the half-soaked curls at her nape before wrapping a pre-warmed robe around her frame).

The real world felt ten thousand miles away at Balmoral, and he traced a thumb across her cheek – a rounded, glowing place after the bath that topped off a day of exercise, sunshine, and sex. His Queen had the lightest smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. He stilled his thumb, kissed the dusting of pigmentation. “Yer family cabin ‘tis a wee bit grander than my family cabin.”

She smacked his arm, making a rather serious face before dissolving into a fit of giggles when he blew a raspberry against her throat.

There came a time, after a number of weeks, when summer was giving way to autumn and their return to London was imminent.

Fraser was fitted for a number of suits with Claire sitting across the room on the floor – cross-legged and chewing on the end of a pen as she responded to some letters. Her smattering of freckles had given way to what she called “a decidedly un-royal suntan.” It was unspoken, but he would go public in London. As the leaves crisped with the last gasps of the season and fell to signal an oncoming winter, the nation would see him.

The man the Queen saved. The man the Queen loved.

That night, Fraser made the offhand comment that his fitting had made him realize that her arse was fuller after weeks of decadent food. He called it her summertime arse, and vocalized no small amount of pleasure at the way she’d blushed at the declaration. “I didna realize how well ye’d filled out this summer,” he announced, making a determined, awed kind of face and approaching her to take two handfuls of her backside. “It’s as though ye’ve reached yer natural, full-arsed state, and I couldna be happier about it.”

Had he not been pressed against her (his anatomy an urgent and quite unsophisticated lie detector), she might have taken offense. All societal expectations of a slim queen aside, Jamie Fraser did like her just fine. Feeling brazen, she had lowered her nightgown beneath her breasts. Voice low, she whispered, “Show me.”

Later, when they were stretched out on the duvet, and he had shown her quite fully what he meant, she whispered something that verged on a full-throated laugh: “I love that you can appreciate me at my fattest.” Her skin puckered with goosebumps at the first touch of his hands going around her hips.

“I like ye fat. Fat and juicy as a plump wee hen.”

She purred, winding her arms around his neck. “My summertime hen arse,” she continued, holding onto the moment. “I was thinking I would marry you in the autumn; perhaps we can hang onto it for awhile since you hold it in such high regard. Let it fill out a wedding gown.”

His eyebrows rose, his lower lip migrating between his teeth. “Ye want to marry me?”

“I do, yes. In a military uniform made with today’s measurements.”

“I didna ken that today was a fitting for a wedding suit.”

“Do not be an idiot,” she mumbled, sweeping an errant curl from his forehead. His hair had been cut a little closer than was his norm, but she had made it her strictest instructions that the barber leave enough length that it would still curl. Her voice was light, high on the moment and the enchanting power they held over one another. “It was always part that, and this is a proposal, since you have not bothered to do it.”

“It sounds like an order – marrying ye.” He was joking with her, eyes glittering as his hand cupped her jaw, thumb traveling an unmannered perimeter around her lips.

“Well, do you want to marry me?” There was not even the slightest hint of concern in her voice as she asked the question. It was as if she knew the answer, like it was the one thing that lived freely on his carefully-guarded face. A single syllable.

Before he kissed her, the most elemental groan came from him. Something of ancient stock – needy and base, just truth. “Oh God, yes.”

And then he kissed her in a way he’d never kissed her before. Part of her took flight then as he hitched her thigh up over his hip and leaned into her – a part with steadily-beating gossamer wings that lived beneath her breastbone, that had been carefully hatched under his care those first nights aimlessly wandering together on horseback. A part that he had nurtured somehow despite not knowing it existed in her, but that she had tended to all along, equally unknowing. He took her firmly then, in a way that for a handful of minutes drove any tenderness of their earlier encounter in the meadow away, but was no less saturated with their love for one another.

And when they were finished, dark having fallen and the world outside the cracked window gone silent, they were left without even the grayest, shadowiest hint of amorous intention. Eyelids drooping with mutual pure exhaustion, they laid together, completely bared. It was then that they somehow wound their way around a bend in their relationship.

To talk of loss and family, of longing and fate’s plans for them in a way that they never had. Stripped bare, they peeled back their naked skin to expose something deeper, rawer, redder, rarer.

Fraser told her in a clinical, detached way of his parents’ death. The loss of a son that stole the very life and light from his mother’s eyes, molded her like clay into something his mam had never been before (dry hands pouring cereal into bowls with eyes fixed on the window, like she was awaiting someone to round the bend that would never come).

The slow way his father slipped away – an undiagnosed condition that made his eye droop, his body eventually no longer cooperate in the performance of basic functions, until one day he was gone and cold in his bed in the morning (eyes open and dull-blue in their fixation on something beyond the ceiling, his fingers folded over a knit afghan in prayer).

An economy of words described the prison camp (words he learned in German so he would never have to speak aloud in English). The dampness of the cells, the length of the interrogations, the blood on the snow. The wounds that seeped from cracks in the flesh just above his forehead, the never-ending red stream that caked his eyelashes and made him wonder if one could feel an oncoming death. The smell of men shitting themselves and dried vomit on ragged clothes. The way he had slept face-down for two months after his back had been whipped into ribbons that sent red streaks of infection along his ribcage and over his shoulders. How the second time he’d been flogged was worse, each bit of scar tissue giving way so his muscles met the air, this time the odor of infection choking him when he stripped his camp-issued shirt off.

They laid silent for a long time after that, his hand charting a course over her spine again and again and her fingers tracing the scarred etchings of war in his flesh in a way they never had before.

And then he asked her.

So Claire told Fraser for the first time at any length about her parents and her sister.

Before that moment, there had been the natural snapshots of them in casual conversation (locations on the grounds of Balmoral taking on meaning with reference to them – her father’s study, her mother’s dressing room, her sister’s playroom; meals that reminded her of them – her mother’s favorite chicken, her father’s preferred tea, the buttery biscuits that Anne ate smeared in raspberry preserves; the bottle of perfume on her nightstand that had yellowed with age and no longer smelled sweet, but somehow still reminded her of Julia).

But this was the first graphic retelling of it.

The iciness in her veins – the frost and chill of it sucking the life out of her with each of her mother’s screams. The taste of copper in her mouth, the breaking of her bones and the lifeless feeling of no longer gulping for air, of just waiting with the icy water in her throat and lungs. The burning of vomiting the water again and again, her broken ribs screaming at her to just die now as she rid her body of the contents of the creek. How the burning in her lungs and throat had eventually given away to something more primal, a need to survive.

She said their names.

Henry. Julia. Anne.

Claire breathed in, looking away from Fraser as she explained that she hated herself in the back of the ambulance because she was afraid she was going to die. She did not think of them at first – of Henry, Julia, or Anne. She laid still, shivering as the navy-uniformed men tried to warm her, told her she would be okay. She had not thought of them as she willed herself to live.

Papa. Mum. Oh Christ, Anne.

In the retelling of it, Claire did not cry until Fraser reached for her, touched her forearm, whispered “I’m sae sorry, Sassenach.”

She dissolved over their loss then, feeling it new and blooming beneath her breastbone. Under his touch, she leaned into the sensation for maybe the first time in years, since well before her coronation and well before Lamb had passed. A confession: Claire loved her papa and her mum, of course, but Anne was the one she loved the most, a feeling that made her feel sick and wrong. “It was never supposed to be me, Jamie,” she confessed, closing her eyes as he touched her hair. “Anne, maybe, but never me. We played. Toilet roll sashes and our mum’s shoes. She was always Queen. You and me? We could have been free of all of this… gotten a flat in the city, you would not have to live like this–”

He quieted her, shook her head. “Dinna ever think that the tragedy ye experienced, or yer job, has made me do anything that I didna want to do. Being wi’ ye – however I can be wi’ ye – is perfect. Ye canna pull one thread and have an entire tapestry stay the same. I’m no’ sayin’ that yer parents died for a reason. It was senseless. Ye canna wish away yer position for me. It’s how I found ye, and I’d ‘ave found ye somehow, but as it is now, I’m yers, Claire. It’s as it’ll be forever. Irrevocably. In my entirety. And I intend to marry ye come autumn.”

She reached absently for the heavy, well-formed curl just above his temple and ran her fingertip around its circumference, thoughtful for a moment. “I was never really one for planning a wedding, Fraser. Autumn is beautiful, but there is something about springtime. The daffodils and the lilies. The fat bumble bees and the trees coming back to life.”

“Then springtime it is, a nighean.”

But two weeks later, the Queen would realize that she had not had her courses in two months.

The wedding would not wait until springtime after all.

[thewriterfriends]

BALLS, CERTAINLY NOT AT ANY COST

SardarSohan Singh and his family had shifted to Chandigarh. Suddenly, I had lost two close friends. Loss of company of Goga hurt me because suddenly my daredevilry and my pranks had come to a standstill because one needs a partner in such escapades. Anyone who has read the adventure blog will vouch for it. We didn’t need to read the books to plan our adventures but there’s no fun in them unless you have a partner if not many. Since Pali was elder to us and as I have said that he was different, he wasn’t our partner but his resourcefulness was important to our plans. He never questioned us why we needed what we asked him to get because he understood that the children have their needs and intrinsically they don’t like to discuss their projects or divulge the details to others who are not a party to their plans. That is because it entails a risk of a secret becoming an ‘open secret’ and parents have sharp ears and prying eyes. In addition to that, there are spies in the shapes of innocuous-looking young kids who you think have no interest in your games. Maybe, they are not interested in your games but they are the spies- real ears and the eyes of the parents. And if you think that you can buy their silence or their favour by bribing them with marbles, rare empties of cigarette packs, or even priceless pictures of the cricketers, then you are badly mistaken because they are the future voters and they are as shrewd as they come. They will take the bribe and still do what they set their mind upon. Though they also have many uses, like they can be ordered to do your bidding. They can be scolded for being sloppy and they serve as the best assistants when you need extra hands for executing an important task that requires extra hands. But they cannot be sent as emissaries to other peoples’ homes. Parents are as wary of it as they were when we were growing up although the world that we grew up in wasn’t as depraved as it is now. Still, it wasn’t as virtuous either, but then there were demons even the times of Lord Rama and Krishna too. Parents didn’t like their children to go to the homes of the people not know to them and going to the homes of the strangers or talking to them was prohibited.

I wasn’t gifted like Pali in devising methods for acquiring balls nor was I as daring, but after his family left Shimla the tough task of arranging the balls fell upon me because I was the Captain of the Mohalla team and as they say, the show must go on, the game couldn’t be given up. We thought of pooling our pocket money but “Takkas” that we got as daily allowance didn’t add up to much even if the contributions were continued for months. I decided to ask the team members to get donations from their parents like the school authorities would ask us to get from them whenever floods or famine, hit some part of the country.

We knew how they grumbled, winced, and protested but they paid. So, I lectured to my teammates,

“Parents are habituated to throwing tantrums. ”Abusing, cursing, scolding and saying ‘No’ at the outset is essential to good parenting I said, but obstinacy on part of the children, their persistent, steadfastness, whining often pays. I said, “If necessary, you can shed some crocodile tears too. “Try whatever you may have to do, but by next Sunday, if you want to continue to be the part of this team whose popularity is on the rise, you must get a contribution of five rupees each.” “This is the minimum that you should accept from them and because they tend to bargain, start by asking a higher amount, so that it may appear to them that you are grumblingly agreeing for five, but don’t agree for anything less than this.”

“We will start by buying a new ball and then add on other important gear like pads and guard etc.” I said, “The reputation of the team depends on how well it is equipped and the word spreads like wildfire.” “The team that has started getting requests for being played against from as far off places as Lower Kaithu is knocking at the doors of the state-level authorities for recognition and I am sure that some of you budding players will get included in the Ranji Trophy team of Shimla whenever our glorious town gets a chance for having its team and is asked for sending a team for inter-state matches.”

I saw the smiles spreading on all the young faces looking up at me. Their eyes were shining with hope but when my eyes fell on their Hawaichappals and tattered shoes, my own hope fell. However, my confidence in our ability to reach the pinnacle of glory in that quaint Himalayan town soared as if propelled by my own words in our praise. Our team comprised of the boys from the middle class and the poor strata of the society but they were inducted purely on merit. Even Khushal Chand the son of Jiya Lal, who cleaned our toilets was a proud member of our team. I didn’t hear from the teammates about how their struggle for getting five rupees, a formidable sum in those days, was going with their parents as I had my own battle to fight, until Sunil confronted me one day. Sunil was my classmate. He is a member of this group and sometimes reads my posts and may read this too. I don’t know if he remembers it or not. His younger brother, Kapil was one of my teammates. (I heard from him some time ago passed away two years ago.)

“ Haanbhaibahutdehshatfailarakhihai tune.” Yes buddy, you have spread quite a scare, he said. I got his point and smiled. His brother must have been pestering the parents for money as the effect of my speech seemed to have affected him severely. I said, “The contributions are voluntary, not compulsory”, but I realized that making the team a star team of Shimla will be difficult, although it was a “star-studded” team, unfortunately, it was cash-strapped.

I hadn’t got any coaching in the game, but I was good at it or so I thought. Illusion about my own ability has been my driving force. Our neighbour Mr. Raj played for the A.G. office. Their team had a good reputation in the town. They played matches with other local teams on Sundays. I got a chance of playing as one of their team as he used to take me along wherever they played. I played against some teams at Annandale Ground and at BCS when we played against them. I was a young lad of 14-15 years of age and was increasingly becoming aware of the hormonal changes taking place inside me. One Mr. K- of A.G. office team told me that he had some old balls with him at home and he would be happy to give me those. Mr. Raj might have spoken to him about our constant need for the balls. I was delighted at his graciousness and agreed to visit his apartment for collecting those on the following Sunday.

I hard learned about some people being gay but the world still looked pretty safe to the children growing up in the last century. I shouldn’t be saying this with this degree of certitude because a thought of another incident that occurred a few years before this with me has come to mind. I will tell you about that some other time, but being gay is one thing and stalking and trapping the children for realizing one’s perversions is quite another thing. I didn’t know that there were wolves in sheep’s clothing. I reached his apartment at Lower Kaithu in the afternoon.  It was a summer day and he opened the door in response to my knock after getting up from the bed, where perhaps he was taking the afternoon siesta.

The room was small and it was brilliantly warmed up by the sun as the side of the room facing the west had glass panes all over. After opening the door he went and sat on the bed again. As there were no chairs in the room, at least none in my sight, he asked me to sit on the bed. I don’t know if he had any chairs or they had been removed by him. He sat himself in the semi-reclining position with one arm resting on the knee of the leg drawn up while the other leg lay flat on the bed. What struck odd to me was that he was in his undergarments and he hadn’t chosen to put on Pajamas or pants after I entered the room. Though I was a young boy in my early teens, I had learnt enough about human anatomy through analogies drawn with the animals in the General Science books and nature had taught me some through raging testosterones in my testicles. This was fortified with a lot of other data collected in my head through the exchange of information with peers and friends. His sitting in the bed without even a Lungi certainly appeared as indecent behaviour to me.

He asked me if I had a girlfriend and whether I had done anything with her. That was a grey area. My knowledge was limited to hearsays and I could neither brag nor lie. I shook my head. I wasn’t sure about what and how to do, because I knew it wasn’t as simple as was made out to be in the General Science book with a male frog riding on top of the female and pressing her body. The details were sketchy and the scope of enlightenment was lost to us on the day it was being taught in the school by Mr. Hastir, because of the mischief played by Surinder on Upinder at the wrong time. But neither through the book and nor from the peers and friends had I learnt about the male wanting to do it with a male. I had the knowledge of a common cuss word “G&^*u” that we used liberally in the language spoken among the friends, but that was used for someone who was dimwit-stupid. It would be wrong on my part if I say that I was ignorant about it, but truthfully all I knew then was that this if done was more for the purpose of demonstrating brute force or instilling fear and drawing rather sadistic than carnal pleasures.

He put his hand around me and tried to draw me closer in an attempt to kiss me. I pushed him away. I was surprised to notice a stir in his underwear. A tiny drop had wet it too. I was not interested in any of this. Though there had been some attempts on me at some previous occasions, one of which I mentioned in my posts here, but to bargain my “Izzat” for getting some old cricket balls was a bit too much. I got up from the bed and moved towards the door. He realized that he had approached the wrong guy and so for making some amends, he broke into fake laughter and said, “ Bholetu, tebura mana laya” ( Bhole (Bhola Is my pet name)- you got offended). I didn’t answer. He got up and pulled out two old balls from the cupboard and gave them to me. I returned a fake smile, meaning that I will ignore all that happened between us and as a kind of payback for his goodwill gesture minus the largesse he wanted to give along with a set of those old used balls.

An interesting piece of text that I recently read in the book “Hilly Billy Elegy” about a sure test of finding if one was gay or not was told to the writer J.D. Vance by his grandmother when as a child he was overcome by a fear that he was perhaps gay because he had no girlfriend and his best friend was a boy and the..He say:-

I’ll never forget the time I convinced myself that I was gay. I was eight or nine, maybe younger, and I stumbled upon a broadcast by some fire-and-brimstone preacher. The man spoke about the evils of homosexuals, how they had infiltrated our society, and how they were all destined for hell absent some serious repenting. At the time, the only thing I knew about gay men was that they preferred men to women.

This described me perfectly: I disliked girls, and my best friend in the world was my buddy Bill. Oh no, I’m going to hell.   I broached this issue with Mamaw, confessing that I was gay and I was worried that I would burn in hell. She said, “Don’t be a fucking idiot, how would you know that you’re gay?” I explained my thought process. Mamaw chuckled and seemed to consider how she might explain to a boy my age. Finally she asked, “J.D., do you want to suck dicks?” I was flabbergasted. Why would someone want to do that? She repeated herself, and I said, “Of course not!” “Then,” she said, “you’re not gay. And even if you did want to suck dicks, that would be okay. God would still love you.” That settled the matter. Apparently, I didn’t have to worry about being gay anymore. Now that I’m older, I recognize the profundity of her sentiment: Gay people, though unfamiliar, threatened nothing about Mamaw’s being. There were more important things for a Christian to worry about.

In the 1960s the verb sucking could only be understood in the pretext of sucking the nipples as a part of foreplay while indulging in the act with the legally acquired wife and that too with the lights off. I think it was not expected of them and was neither offered as a bonus by the consenting wives in gratitude to the husbands they genuinely loved. I doubt if there were such husbands who fitted the bill and the wives who were willing to please them in bed. At least until I was an active part of the productive society, I never heard of any such things from people I knew, but to think that such camaraderie existed between willing male partners was normal or will become normal somewhere down the line was beyond the imagination of a straight kid who had been brought up in a conservative town tucked in the Himalayan hills.

As an Indian, it is impossible for me to think that such a conversation can take place between any members within the family and I can’t even imagine that any elder can be approached for alleviating such fears and of all the people a grandmother can speak such words to a child of nine years of age.  Maybe it can happen in American homes only. Now when the whole world is becoming sensitive to the needs of LGBTs, perhaps the parents can broach subjects with the children but back in the 1960s, I wonder how such people came to terms with their singularities.

[dragon-fics]

DOS: Crashed [1/2] (Injured Dragoness X Female Elf/Reader)

Chapter summary: You're an elven healer who lives in the heart of a forest. One day when you are reading a book, you here an impact outside your home. You look out to see a dragoness in urgent need of medical attention.

I've lived in this forest for nigh ten years, caring for injured and ill animals and studying the natural remedies the forest could provide--along with making my own from what the forest provided. I've never been a town elf. Always wanting to be at one with nature. So when I was old enough, I moved away from my parents and stayed here. And all though no other elves live in this forest, or anywhere near it for that matter, I'm not alone. Small lizards and birds visit me every day, as do some cats. And bigger birds bring me news from wherever they've just travelled from. It's a quiet life, but it's rarely dull.

Almost every day I come across a sick or injured animal--sometimes more than one. But that morning, no animal had come to me with news of any creature being injured, and so I was relaxing, reading up on dragon anatomy. The sun shone in through the windows of my home--which is in the trunk of a tree. I sipped on my herbal tea, its light scent filling my nostrils. My eyes never left my book, even as I went to put my cup down on the table. And then I felt it. My entire home shook as I heard a loud thud outside. It shook for a few seconds, before standing still again.

I'll admit, I was shaken. Nothing like that had ever happened before here in the forest. So what had happened? I put my book down carefully on the table beside my chair, as to not place it in the puddle of herbal tea that had spilt while the tree shook. I walked over to one of the round windows to get a look at the ground. A shallow, wide ridge had been dug into the ground as if a giant had started to till the ground with his plough. I looked down the length of the ridge, noticing a long, thick, pink furry tail. I gasped; it must have been one of the migrating dragons that flew from the west to get to one of their biannual meetings in the middle of the land.

I spun around quickly, rushing toward my pack full of bandages, healing gels and creams, and my healing spellbook. I rushed out of my home and down the spiralling wooden stairs until I reached the forest floor. I ran along the ridge in the ground--my leather pack hitting my thigh with each bounding step. And then I reached the large reptile. Its feathered wings were sprawled out over the ground and its entire body was heaving; its breathing laboured. I noticed several long, deep cuts on its legs and wings, probably because of it hitting branches on its way down. Black dragon blood oozed from the wounds, staining its fur and feathers. I slowly made my way towards its roughly triangular head. It had tuffs of dark pink feathers under its lilac horns, telling me it was a female.

I slowly got down on one knee. She released a low growl, which made my heart race. I took a deep breath.

"I'm not here to hurt you," I soothed. "I'm here to help you." Her growling stopped, but she didn't open her eyes. I took off my pack and put it near to her nostrils, which were still drawing in breath vigorously.

Her breaths halted as she took a sniff of the pack. She opened her eyes, one looking straight at me, an icy blue sapphire looking straight at me. Her pupils were narrow slits--she was in pain.

Finally, she spoke. "Where did you get these remedies?" She asked warily.

"I made them myself. I got the ingredients from the forest around me." I said. She thought for a few moments.

"All right then," she agreed quietly. She moved the wings closer to her body. She winced with every movement and brought them down, so I could inspect them. I had a look at her nearest wing. I noticed small fragments of bark and branches inside some cuts.

"So, what's your name?" I said as I opened my pack and took out a vial of spirit alcohol and spilled some on my hand, before rubbing it all over my two hands.

"Taffia," she breathed.

"All right, Taffia, I'm going to try to get the pieces of wood out of your wounds, all right?" She let out an acknowledging hum. I picked around inside of the wounds that had bark or wood in them. She whimpered every time I touched her flesh, and I felt bad every time, apologising. After I was done, I rubbed one of my natural healing gels onto her wounds.

She hummed, satisfied. "That's soothing," she sighed, as the gel cooled the wounds. I smiled to myself and continued to rub some on the rest of her wounds.

Once she was ready, I led Taffia to a cave, hidden beneath mounds of moss and grass. She stayed there while she healed. Over the next few weeks, I got to know her better. As I had suspected, she had been flying from the west, to meet up with other young dragons and dragonesses who would compete to find a mate. She had travelled day and night to get this far, and so she crashed out of exhaustion and with the cuts to her wings, it would be much too taxing for her to continue on her journey.

She seemed to enjoy her stop in the forest; she liked the serenity of the forest. She could lie around as she pleased, and she would catch fish daily to keep herself fed. She really was making herself at home here and she didn't seem to be in any rush to get back home, even after her wings were completely healed. Though I didn't mind; it's better to have a friend than to not have one, right? We'd spend most of our evenings together, exchanging stories of our childhoods. She'd tell me of the places she had visited on other journeys around the land; they almost made me jealous at me not having wings.

One night, after sitting in one of the large clearings to watch the sunset, we parted ways, and I got ready for bed. I lay in bed for a while, thinking about what I had achieved today, along with recognising some feelings I had developed for Taffia, though I couldn't quite put my finger on what I was feeling. Maybe it was friendship with s creature that could talk? Or...?

And then I was interrupted from my thoughts. I could hear creaking on the stairs up to my home, it sounded as though three or more steps would be stepped on at once. I listened closely to the creaking. And then the door to my home opened. I silently got out of bed and searched for something to defend myself with, but there was nothing to use; I'm a healer, not a warrior or anything else of the sort.

I saw a dark figure look towards my bedroom through the arch that joined the kitchen to my bedroom. The figure was a tall and burly male. The figure lifted his and waved it forward, signalling two other men to go towards the arch. I froze; the other two were as big and burly as the first one I saw. They went for my arms and dragged me out of my home with ease. I wriggled against their grip, but they kept a firm hold on my forearms. I have never been as scared as I was in that moment. My stomach was sick with fear, my heart was racing and tears ran down my face.

I tried to relax my breathing; I needed to think... Taffia!

I wriggled once more. "Taffia!" I screamed. "Taffia!"

The leader who had been walking behind me and the other bandits chuckled. "There's no one around here, sweetheart. Just us," he smirked. When we reached the end of the stairs, I heard wings, heavy wings. Taffia. She swooped down low, roaring. The deafening sound made the bandits run like the wind. Taffia landed beside me and snorted. One bandit turned around, and she snapped her mouth shut at him.

She stood proudly beside me. "Are you all right, (Y/N)?" She asked, lowering her head down to me.

"Yeah, I'm ok."

[missholoska]

Have you ever considered making a YouTube channel? I would love to see the process of making your art!

I do think it’d be nice to make speedpaints but I currently don’t have any kind of video recording or editing programs with which to make them, ahah… also I can’t imagine anyone wanting to watch a speedpaint without some music on said video, and there is the small issue of youtube and copyright and all the songs I like presumably being Very Copyrighted

so it’s not a possibility I’d write off forever, but I don’t know how I’d make it happen right now :’>

but if it’s my art process you’re interested in, I can at least go through that step-by-step with some screenshots!

step 1: draft! usually either a very tiny chibi or barely more than a stick figure, my art always starts like this so I can figure out the pose without spending like an hour on a full-sized sketch that doesn’t even work in the end

this then gets resized to whatever size I want the final picture to be:

drawing at that size usually means the anatomy is pretty wonky though, and the lines are too thick and blurry to be much help for the actual lineart. if a background is vital to the whole piece it’ll get drafted here too, but with space backgrounds like in this I can just fit it in around the characters. (that’s generally terrible art advice though, please do not do as I do :’D)

step 2: sketch! still very rough, but a lot easier to work with later. I do anatomy sketches as I go but there’s rarely any need to keep those layers

I don’t usually “colour” sketches like this but knowing I’d be sharing this I wanted to make it more readable, since this is still what I would consider an unpresentable mess not worth posting uvu;;

(also if I’m doodling, this part sorta gets skipped in favour of just letting the lines be a bit sketchier and rougher than usual)

step 3: lineart! literally the worst part always.

it’s worth it in the end, but… yeah this isn’t ever the point where I’m like “yes this is a Good Picture that I Will Be Happy With :)”

(I do lineart with SAI’s default pencil brush at a size of 3 to 5, opacity around 75%, if that’s of any interest)

step 4: flat colours! I have probably the slowest possible way of doing this, but after how tiring lineart is I find it pretty relaxing taking my time filling each colour in under the lines. every individual colour gets its own layer so they can all be shaded individually too

if I’ve drawn the same character in that same outfit before this is also where I’ll do the line colours, but those rely on being darker than the shading of each colour, so for a character or outfit I’ve not drawn before that can’t be done until after the shading. fortunately not the case here!

generally shading would be next, but there also comes a point where I have deal with the background now or I’ll be even more frustrated by it later, so - step ???: background! whether I do it lined or lineless pretty much just depends on if there’s any straight lines involved

…backgrounds are kinda too individual to explain in general, but for this specific one all the starry details are luminosity layers. stars are done with this brush but I do quite a bit of erasing and hand-drawing stars too, and I use SAI’s default brush set to spread for galaxies

step 5: shading! aka the best part, the point where I go “oh hey this looks decent actually. when did that happen”

my usual shading style is every colour gets 2 darker shades and 1 lighter shade, each shade getting its own clipping layer attached to each colour. this was more obvious when I used to cel shade but soft shading makes my art look so much better ahah

step 6: layer effects! multiply and luminosity layers have been my go-to for the past 4 years, but I can’t believe I only realised how good overlay layers are in the last year and a half. they’re so good

here’s the specific effects being used here:

aaand step 7: final touches! usually consists of any glowy outlines, text or things that need blurring in photoshop, a final luminosity layer at around 10 to 20% opacity for extra highlights (especially needed for dark scenes like this, those darker layer effects tend to make the regular highlights from the shading less vibrant), slap a watermark on there and call it done

and then you’re ready for step 8: spend an hour staring at every pixel for mistakes, before spending another hour fighting the anxiety about posting it

bonus: even though I can’t make a speedpaint I can throw all those screenshots into a poor quality gif for you to watch, at least!

one final thing I can mention: not including the draft and sketch layers or all the parts of the advent calendar windows, just the finished art itself - this is made up of 102 layers. and that’s with me merging a lot of layers because SAI has a layer limit and takes an eternity to save if there are too many. people who can draw a whole piece on a single layer confuse and frighten me