#again I must say I traced these and am using them for practice

[velvetvexations]

Even putting aside what a ridiculous comparison that is, I need it understood that the primary way transradfems engage with "material reality" is through movies from the previous century.

It's hypervisibility vs. invisibility. Trans women were openly mocked and trans men were ignored or just subsumed into a range of experiences for cis women. That's changing now that trans men are getting more spotlight than they had before, although it's still tilted in those directions.

But there was genuinely nothing transphobic about Chihiro's story and to say there was you have to prove his model was trans women and transitioning children when there is an extremely well-established category of AMAB people who present as girls in Japanese culture that is infinitely more talked about in pop culture over there. You have to insist upon the fact that he was ever connected to people who sincerely identify as girls in the first place. If this was America, it'd make more sense, but it is actually just genuinely racist to be told all that and still be like "well, but it makes me think of trans women."

This is why transradfems hate me, too. A trans woman disagreeing with them breaks their rules.

Especially the person who cannot stop fucking bypassing my block to screenshot my blog and then justifying it by claiming I do it, even though I fucking deleted those posts after she complained and have not mentioned her a single time since unless she did first. I didn't screenshot her screenshot calling me a pro-American because I think memes are funny but am not literally unironically in favor of 9/11, but fuck it:

This fucking idiot. Here's the thing: I DON'T THINK NOT WANTING TO ASSOCIATE WITH AGAB LANGUAGE IS UNREASONABLE AT ALL! But it's fucking projecting as fuck to say that people who don't like TMA/TME language must simply want to cling to AGAB. I mean, holy fuck, right? That's not what's being argued dumbass - but she can't think of any other way to divide trans people based on AGAB without referencing it in some way, so her ideal replacement is TMA/TME, that's the two kinds of trans people that exist, you're not AMAB or AFAB you're TMA or TME, this is so fucking masks off it's wild that other transradfems aren't mortified by her saying the quiet part out loud. This should just completely obliterate every trace of protest when someone points out TME is in practice exclusively used to refer to AFAB trans people and no one else ever, unless what she's actually saying is that AFAB trans people are so close to cis women that they might as well just by default be called the same thing and have no other way of identifying themselves when you talk about categories of trans people and their experiences.

But it's so intensely psychologically revealing. I don't think she's ever been misgendered a single time in her life. I don't think she's ever had even the slightest actual barrier to hop in her quest to live as a woman, because this oversensitivity where someone acknowledging transphobes see us as our assigned sex counts as them misgendering you? That's just not the behavior of someone who actually deals with these things in the real world. Or even online. Again, I get pedojacketed and threatened with actual cancelation from my actual career because I engage with actual TERFs. These people never do anything but moan about tee-em-ees misgendering them by discussing how the enemy perceives us. And she in particular is the most desperate to shut that out, because that is the only reminder there could ever possibly be a hypothetical obstacle to her claiming her girl card. I have zero doubt she lives in the queerest city on the planet and if she didn't have internet she would literally be unable to even conceive of transphobia as a concept. And she fucking hates me for not just being a trans woman who agrees with the transandrobros, but also personally identifies with my AGAB. The implication that it's possible for a trans woman to be okay with the term "male" shatters her self-esteem. That is the extent of "misgendering" she has ever faced and ever will face. Me identifying the way I do terrifies her, I have to be objectively wrong about claiming identification with my AGAB because she copes with insecurity by imagining a world where TERFs are right but instead of biology everyone's soul is either Male and Female and you can only be one or the other. Gender can't just be people figuring out who they are and the ways they want to express themselves and live their lives, that's not real enough for her, she has to be Trve Fymyle the way TERFs go on about, except instead of centering around wombs it's this weird vaguely spiritual concept that she forces everyone else to fit into because if they don't it implies her framework isn't the tangible reality she so desperately needs to feel valid.

And that's why she "needs" TMA/TME, because she reasonably wants to talk about the experiences of people who share her category but doesn't want to identify as anything that references what those experiences fucking are (e.g. having been assigned male at birth). And again, that's FINE. I GET THAT. THAT'S UNDERSTANDABLE. I CAN SEE HOW THAT MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE. But that doesn't mean TMA/TME doesn't also have issues and I'm sorry if she's having a hard time coming up with something else because it's difficult to navigate the inherent paradox of wanting to associate with something that unfortunately makes her feel bad to associate with it, but she needs to pick something else, and not say "weh the TMEs are making us change our language" as though (a) transradfems aren't telling trans men what language they can use for themselves and (b) it's impossible to come up with terms that don't explicitly make claims about the experiences of others and 100% defines them by suffering less.

And isn't it strange how other transradfems are insisting they have to call themselves CAMAB and CAFAB, but THEY aren't clinging to AGAB language? Weird, right? I mean there is a group of people insistently arguing that it is simply paramount that we use AGAB language, but they're perisex trans women stealing it from intersex people so I guess it's fine?

But I don't CARE. I don't like her and I don't want to look at her stupid blog and I sure as fuck don't want to report on it. I just wish she'd stop talking about me. I literally just want her to stop block evading me and telling people my identity revolves around wanting to suck up to TERFs*. I do not talk about her except when she talks about me. AND I'M STILL NOT EVEN NAMING HER.

When she complained about me screenshotting her posts, I deleted them. They got zero notes. Her screenshots of me have hundreds and she keeps taking them because she's fucking obsessed because she can't feel like a girl if someone else identifies a little differently than she does. I don't even screenshot other people if they have me blocked but I see other people debating their takes, I make a post that references no one with unspecified prompting. And I've never done even done that with her, not only because she keeps baselessly accusing me of harassment, but because she infuriates me on a level where I just sincerely do not like seeing her fucking content in any way for any reason.

God I fucking hate radfems.

*which she happily admits to knowing is a lie but is like "yeah well I say she's mean so I'm going to keep deliberately fabricating falsehoods about her"

Thank you. <3

I have enlightened another soul!

If you asked these people, ten times out of ten they would say detransition and rape are the worst things that can possibly happen to someone and murder is no comparison, but they'll see trans men talking about their sexual abuse to be like "wow so lucky you guys just have to LARP The Handmaid's Tale, but we get KILLED."

And it's like. Okay. But fuck off, though? It's fine to personally see murder as worse and to grieve more over that, ig, it's like, whatever, but to openly state that it's a PRIVILEGE to be raped and detransitioned makes my brain melt. It's like they are physically incapable of not putting down other trans people. It is the one single area of activism they engage in. That is the war they are waging. They don't give a fuck about trans rights because they live in privileged areas with supportive families. Their battle is with the TME trans people on social media.

lolllll

"I hate how misogynistic Velvet is, she's everyone's cumrag"

^actual thing actually said and believed by the TMA/TME tankies

Before anyone accuses this anon of saying transradfems are engaging in male behavior or whatever, I'll note as I always have that they're just as sexually predatory and entitled to the bodies of others as TERFs are. That is the actual comparison being made. The worst trans women are identical to the worst cis women. Diversity win.

[blazefire2012]

Three more because they’re just too much fun <3

[yesihaveaobsession]

What is Love?

Alastor x female reader

Summary: Alastor consumes a love potion and becomes in love with the reader (you)

Warnings: Al is very touchy.

A/N- RAHH 🇺🇲🔥 Happy Fourth of July y'all!! To the ones who do celebrate! Consider this a gift <3

Where to start? Alastor wasn't paying attention to what was in his 'oh dear' mug. The last time he checked, there was deer blood, but the next thing he knew, a shiver went down his spine, and everything was all lovey-dovey, especially when he looked at you. His "soul mate." He thought you were a goddess; he saw you in a new bright light. He felt like all his darkness that was held within him, the weight that was on his shoulders were suddenly lifted he had a love potion.

You were totally oblivious and were reading a book in the foyer on the couch. It was a literature classic "The Great Gatsby" You honestly forgot you had it and decided to read it again. That's when he walked into the room over to you with the biggest smile. You didn't pay attention because he was stealthy, your eyes continue to move from left to right.

“Ah, there you are, my dear!” he exclaimed, his voice tinged with an uncharacteristic giddiness. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

You looked up from your book, surprised to see Alastor acting so…enthusiastic. “Oh, hi Alastor. Is everything alright?”

“Everything is perfect now that I’ve found you,” he declared, taking a seat beside you, perhaps a bit too close for comfort. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were now soft and filled with an intense adoration that made your heart skip a beat.

“Are you feeling okay?” you asked, concern evident in your voice.

“Never better!” he replied, his grin widening. “In fact, I’ve never felt more alive. Tell me, darling, what are you reading?” He leans in closer, looking at the book. Showing him the cover and it to be "The Great Gatsby." Although he's heard of it, he wanted to hear you talk. So you were explaining its plot briefly. Alastor listened intently, hanging on to every word as if it were the most fascinating story he’d ever heard. His behavior was both endearing and slightly alarming.

“Alastor, are you sure you’re not sick or something?” you pressed, noticing the unusual flush on his cheeks. You placed your hand on his forehead, feeling to see if he was warm or not.“I assure you, my dear, I am in perfect health. In fact, I think I might be…in love.”

What did he just say? Love? Alastor is in love with you? Your eyes widened in shock. “What?”

“Yes,” he said, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m hopelessly, madly in love with you.” That would explain why he was acting weird, but this wasn't just madly in love with you. You put two and two together. His eyes lighter, a lighter and brighter red. You could've sworn you saw practically hearts in his eyes when you were explaining the book. He was under a love spell. But how.

You knew he probably wouldn't tell you so you would have to love it over. So you turned your body to face him, and he was watching your every move. You placed your book aside and scooted closer to him, your eyes softening as you gazed into his. Slowly, you raised your hand and gently cupped his cheek. “Alastor,” you said sweetly, “you’re so wonderful. But I can’t help but wonder, what brought this on?”

Alastor's expression, along with his smile, turned dreamy. As he leans into your touch, his eyes hald- lidded. “Oh, my dear, it’s as if the universe itself conspired to bring us together.”

You smiled, your fingers lightly tracing his jawline. “That sounds so magical. But surely, there must be something that sparked this, don’t you think?” That's when Charlie and Vaggie walked in, and they turned into shock.

You sigh and look over at them embarrassed, you say."Alastor is under some type of love potion. I don't know how, but he's in... love with me." You say the last few parts slowly.

"Oh. um." Charlie said as she looked at Alastor practically in your lap and his face inches away from yours.

"I'm trying to love it out of him." Turning your attention back over to him and turned on your charm. He sighed blissfully, his resistance melting under your affectionate gaze. “Well, if you must know, I did come across a rather interesting potion earlier…”

Your heart skipped a beat. "Where did you find it."

"At Rosies."

You leaned in closer, your lips brushing against his ear. “Can you show me where it is? I’d love to see it.”Alastor shivered at your proximity; his resolve completely undone. “Of course, my love. Anything for you.” He poofted it, and it appeared in his hand held empty.

That's when it started to ware of and he realized how close he was to you and he pulled away, trying not to show how embarrassed he was.

"Are you alright?" You ask. He stood from the couch straightened out his jacket and his bowtie and tuned back over to you keeping his hands on the flaps of his jacket.

"My apologies, my dear, now if you excuse me, I have some tasks that have to be done." He turned into his black shadow and disappeared. You, Charlie, and Vaggie look at each other loss of words. Alastor was seen in his Radio Tower. A part of that wasn't just the potion he actually had feelings, but he wasn't going to let you know.

He wasn't going to let you know that he knew it was a love potion and he was the one who put it in his deer mug. It wasn't just a dream. It was realer than ever.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hi! Super super in love with your writing. Completely just *muah*! I don’t know if you’ve ever done it before, sorry if you have, but would you be interested in writing a little scene where the villain approaches the very tired and very under-appreciated hero (who was once bright eyed and full of love) and offers to make everything better for them. To make the city regret not seeing how much of a savior they are and all the hero has to do is say yes (and maybe even a hint of romance). I’m super in love with the way you write villain and hero dynamics, you’re like amazing! Thank you either way!

"You look worn down to the bone."

It was probably true, but the hero didn't even find themselves jumping or tensing at the unexpected voice. It may as well have been another inevitable shit show that was going to happen one way or another. They did turn, though, after a beat to clock the villain standing a few rows behind them.

The church was empty, somewhere between peaceful and eerie in the solitude, heavy with dust and expectation.

"Am I interrupting your praying?" the villain asked. Their lip quirked, as if amused.

The hero shook their head, and turned forward again, turning their face up to the light filtering through the stained glass windows. A kaleidoscope of sacrifice and martyrdom and suffering.

The villain moved closer, stopping behind their pew, fingers curling into the wood on either side of the hero's shoulders. The hero stayed as they were, leaned back, feeling the back of their head brush against the villain's chest as it rose and fell with metronome breaths.

"People never come and talk to me in here," the hero offered, after a moment of silence.

"I'm not people."

"If you're here to fight, I'd rather take it outside."

"I'm not here to fight."

The hero glanced up at them.

The villain's hand rose immediately, palm tracing the air an inch above the line of the hero's throat, not quite touching. Mapping. "I remember that you used to pray," the villain mused.

"I remember that I used to do a lot of things."

"Mm. You were a bright eyed thing - all shiny. All new. So hopeful."

"I can still kick your-"

The villain laughed, softly, and curled their fingers around the hero's throat. Gently. More like they wanted to cradle the hero's pulse in their hands, like a baby bird, then do anything especially untoward. Or, perhaps, more like they wanted the hero's eyes on them instead of the icons and the saints and old hopes of the city before superheroes came along.

"Yes," the villain said. "You could."

The hero stopped talking, more out of surprise than anything else.

The villain looked down at them with such blazing, breath-taking fondness.

"I told you they'd wear you down," the villain said, and their kindness was almost cruel, or maybe their cruelty was almost kind. The hero wasn't sure which was which, only that the villain loomed over them with enough presence to fill entire cathedrals. "I told you that the tide would turn, and as the miracle of you became mundane, everyday, they would stop appreciating you." The villain squeezed, just slightly. "All gods die. All pedestals crumble. All heroes must fall."

"Ah, I see." The hero kept their hands at their side, unafraid or perhaps uncaring. "You came to gloat."

"Not especially."

"You sound like you're gloating. It's very speechy. Did you practice?"

The villain's lips quirked again. "I have...considered approaching you many times, if you would like to call that practice."

The hero's brow furrowed.

The villain's grip loosened once more, but the hero kept their head tipped back lazily against the bench, watching the villain inverted and upside down.

"I come with an offer," the villain said.

The hero raised an eyebrow.

"You have saved this city from me time and time again," the villain said, "more times than anyone can possibly know about."

"It's in the job description, yeah."

"But they know enough. Enough to know better. Enough to treat you better."

The hero's head tilted. They blinked up at the villain and (perhaps, always perhaps) there was - if not fondness in the hero's eyes, than something more enduring. Understanding. "And you would make them pay for that," the hero said. They finally moved their hand, but only to set it atop the villain's on the edge of the pew. They squeezed, too, gently. "You're always so ready to make someone pay."

"They deserve it."

"Maybe," the hero shrugged. "But I don't."

The villain frowned.

"I didn't work this hard to help them, just to let you have them now," the hero said.

"I know you're tired."

"So you thought you'd try me when my defences were down?"

"That's not - I'm not-"

"No," the hero said, a little wondering, "you're not, are you?"

The villain yanked their hand back. Their jaw clenched.

The hero twisted on the seat, so they were facing the villain properly.

"You're a fool," the villain spat.

"It's the one bit of me I haven't lost yet."

The villain closed their eyes.

The hero's lips curled in a smile. They reached out again, taking the villain's hand and winding their fingers together. "But, in defence of my foolishness, you do give me hope occasionally."

"One day you'll say yes."

"One day you'll say no."

The villain did laugh again at that, seemingly despite themselves, a bitter thing. Their eyes opened and they looked at each other - both exhausted and both relentless.

"I would be your dark side."

"And I would be your good."

"They don't deserve you," the villain said, again.

"And do I deserve you?"

The villain, it seemed, had nothing to say to that.

The hero pulled the villain's knuckle to their lips, and pressed a kiss to it, before letting go.

"Thank you," the hero said. "For offering. Really."

"I'll ask again tomorrow."

And, every day, the villain did.

[stevie-petey]

If I show you my toes, can we have a little bit of stug fluff (im a fluff girly at heart, but you’re writing is so amazing i don’t care what im reading honestly)

pls keep ur toes i can give u stug free of cost <3

enjoy !

"mrs. waters misses her favorite costumer," walking into family video, you breeze past steve and set down the lunch hes asked for onto the register counter. "says its a shame youre employed again."

steve sorts through some movies and chuckles. "what, max and el arent enough for her?"

"no," you dig through the food and take out your own meal. its still warm, the smell of fries and sandwiches floats through the store. "she adores them, but i think she just misses staring at your face."

"i am handsome, arent i?"

"alright buddy, lets not get ahead of ourselves now."

steve places the last movie onto the shelf before he walks over to you. he pouts, places a hand over his heart. "why must you say such mean things?"

"because youre freakishly adorable when you pout," you kiss the tip of his nose, causing him to laugh, and you giggle as well. "youre welcome."

"insults masked with nose kisses. youre evil, henderson."

"and yet you love me anyways."

"and yet i love you anyways." steve kiss your forehead, his hands find yours from across the counter. he doesnt even spare a look at the food youve brought him, hes just content to have you here with him again. he plays with your fingers, hums to himself while you eat, and its a nice, quiet moment.

robin took the day off rehearse for band. its blazing hot outside, no one dares to leave their homes, so its empty in family video. just you and steve and the food. with summer winding down, you try to enjoy every last moment alone with him. soon youll have assignments again, college applications to worry over, kids to watch.

for now, your entire world is steve, and his is you.

as you eat, the strap of your dress slides down your arm. you dont notice it, lost in a comic you brought with you, but steve does. his fingers trail up your arm. the skin beneath his fingers shivers, his touch cascades warmth throughout your body. carefully, softly, steve slips the strap back over your shoulder before pressing a kiss to the skin.

you shiver again, and steves smile can be felt. his lips havent left your body yet, they linger on your shoulder and feel the heat coat your skin. he smiles again, he knows what hes doing, and you release a shaky breath. "t-thanks,"

steve hums, presses his body against yours. he stands behind you, peppers kisses over your shoulder, across your exposed back, the base of your neck, down your arms. he doesnt leave an inch of skin untouched, his back encases your body. you lean against him, your eyes flutter closed as he kisses you.

your comic lays forgotten on the counter. instead, your hand finds steves hair as his teeth now sink into your neck. he nips at the tender skin, soft enough not to leave a mark, but hard enough to draw a pleasured sigh from your pretty lips.

one of steves hands drags around your waist until his palm is flushed against your abdomen. he uses it to push you deeper against him. his other hand cups your jaw, delicately coaxes your head up higher so that he has better access to your neck.

the sensation is almost too much. to have so much of steve, yet enough of him. its intoxicating, having him so close. to feel his body against yours, to feel his tongue soothing the skin he has bitten. steve sucks lightly, still careful not to leave any trace behind, and youre about to tear out of his grasp so that you can just kiss him already, when the bell above the door rings.

"do i smell fries?" robin walks into the store, still dressed in her band practice clothes, slightly sweaty and out of breath.

you and steve jump apart. he quickly fixes his hair subtly places you in front of him so that he can hide the mess that youve made him. you clear your throat and tug your dress down, praying that the flush on your skin isnt so obvious in the stores florescent lighting.

robin, however, catches on immediately. her face morphs into disgust and she shrieks. "ew."

"robin-" your voice is scratchy, breathy still.

"this is my place of work-"

"technically you took today off." steve voices, adjusting himself slightly when robin isnt looking. he cant walk quite yet, his heartbeat pounds in his chest.

the girl scoffs. "so you make out in the store?"

"we werent-"

"y/n i am so disappointed in you right now."

you make a hurt sound. "but-robin!"

"no, i need therapy about this."

"you didnt even see anything!" steve sputters out, absolutely embarassed.

"this store is tainted now. its ruined for me. no longer a safe space. cursed. haunted, even."

"if i give you my fries, will you shut up?" you hold the bag of fries up to robin, which she quickly yanks from your hands.

she smiles. "now, why didnt you just start with that?"

[forecast0ctopus]

Any advice on drawing McCoy? I’m not used to drawing ancient wrinkley bastards (affectionate) and it’s surprisingly tough v-v

FOR SURE lmao i made. a diagram. just a warning that i am going to be irritating and long winded because u just hit a topic i really like sorry lmao

so first off i did some traces just to show whats there vs redraws to show my interpretation

ive said this on other asks but again jsyk, tracing isnt bad!! its a tool. theres some stuff with intellectual property and whatnot but using tracing to study shapes and forms is a really valuable practice.

also just taking some time to learn facial structures and anatomy is super useful, reading what bones and muscles are where and how they interact with one another. taking this info and staring in the mirror and moving your face around and thinking about it. just really furthers understanding of how the face works. trying to sound normal about this but i love anatomy and motion and physics and whatever

anyways im going to go through all the numbered points so there's no confusion. 1. forehead lines - self explanatory. more prominent when brows are raised 2. crows feet - at the outer corners of the eyes, more prominent when smiling or squinting 3. nasolabial folds - the folds that go from the corners of the nose to the corners of the mouth. more prominent when the mouth is wide, like smiling 4. brow furrow - self explanatory, most prominent when brows are furrowed. mccoy tends to have two right next to his eyebrows, kirk has one in the middle. everyones face works different lmao 5. chin crease - caused by how the chin and lower lip interact. 6. nasojugal groove - start from the inner corners of the eye and can extent over the cheeks. everyone has these and idk why people dont like them i think theyre really cool!!!! but Society. i guess. :/ 7. eye bags - caused by the skin sagging beneath the eyes. mccoy isnt even that old in tos i think hes meant to be mid 40s by the end of the 5 year mission, hes just got really prominent eye bags lmao 8. idk what the name is for these, but when the mouth is wide and pushes the skin to the sides, these folds sometimes form outside of the nasolabial folds 9. philtrum - the groove above the upper lip. i dont usually draw this but mccoy's struck me as prominent enough that i usually draw it on him 10. masseter - the muscle that moves the jaw up and down. its a pretty rugged muscle and while i wouldnt say mccoy's is especially prominent, it kind of extends that nasojugal groove from certain angles/positions 11. orbicularis oris - mouth muscle, usually easier to see when lips are pursed or frowns are pulled. mccoy's is pretty prominent from 3/4ths or side, his mouth tends to protrude in profile 12. this isnt a muscle but more of a line defining the planes of the face, but since i drew it i felt i should explain lmao

a few points:

im an animator i tend to exaggerate and emphasize certain things so i usually make him more square.

i like to combine eyebags and crows feet for brevity/flow, same with nasojugal grooves, eyebags, and masseter lines. my approach is always subject to change based on pose, expression, reference image, etc.

i take out details that i deem redundant or cluttering and keep what details i need to make things feel Right

all this info is applicable to any character of any age, its just in how you apply it and facial proportions that willl change how old a character is perceived to be

there's a lot more with drawing a Character rather than an Actor, just because the features are there doesnt necessarily mean things will feel correct? its very much in the mannerisms and poses and expressions

i only went over my approach to his likeness but not really body type or posing or anything idk if u want that i could always try to answer that later haha

_______________

anyways all that info kind of exists nebulously in my brain while i draw its not like im sitting there thinking Must Draw. Nasolabial Fold...... i jsut do what feels right with the visual info i have. also i love specificity in faces.... i dont like to be a hater but when every character is drawn the same it pisses me off a little lmao. so

also dont take my word as The Only Way to do anything i just draw how i like to draw and no one should feel like these are things that Must be done to be a good artist or anything do whatever the hell u wanna do

[holylulusworld]

Nrfth (1) - Dreams do come true

Summary: A dream shattered. A heart broken.

Pairing: Chris Evans x Actress!Reader

Characters: OC Tracey

Warnings: fangirling, nervous reader, language

A/N: This series is a “short” chapter story. It contains of a collection of drabbles.

>> Prologue

“You’ve got this babe. Go in there, show them what they are sign up for if they hire you, and blow their minds,” Tracey is as excited as you are. “I knew you are going to film movies with Chris Evans one day.”

“Trace, it’s only thanks to you and Noah. He’s…a genius. I looked like a movie star in his movie. I’ll be forever grateful for the chance I got because of you two.”

“Babe, invite me to one red-carpet event, call me your favorite bitch when they ask you who I am, and we are even,” she snickers. 

“Fuck, I’m so nervous,” you chew on your lower lip. “What if I fuck this up? This could be the only chance to land a role in the Marvel universe. If I fail now, everyone will remember.”

“I’ll tell you this only once,” Tracy says. She cups your face and forces you to breathe with her. “You are beautiful, strong, talented, and the biggest bitch in the Marvel universe. You can kick ass.”

“I can’t kick ass during the casting,” you laugh at Tracey’s determined look. She believes in you like no one else. “But I’ll give my all to land the role. And, if I walk over the red carpet for the first time, you’ll be by my side.”

The door finally opens again. Another disappointed-looking girl steps outside, sighing deeply. She’s prettier than you, and you remember her face from a show you watched a few weeks ago. If she didn’t land the role. How shall you get it?

“Next,” the annoyed voice of the woman hosting the audition catches your attention. You tear your eyes away from the girl leaving without the role and focus on your chance. 

“That’s me,” you confidentially say. This is it. Your chance to land a role. 

If you do this right, you can film next to Chris Evans. Or at least be on the same set. Your agent said it’s possible that you never even meet Chris. 

It doesn’t matter, though. Even if it’s a small role, you can say you made it. “Hi. I’m Y/N Y/L/N. You called my agent and—”

She raises her hand to stop you from talking too much. “Follow me. This way.”

She guides you toward a different room. You sigh. Maybe you don’t even get the chance to show them that you are a great actress.

“I-I thought you wanted me to come here.”

You follow her along the hallways, sighing as she won’t talk to you. “Go in there and read the lines we sent to your agent.” She finally says. The woman looks you up and down and gives you a half-smile. “Don’t freak out, okay? He’s only an actor.”

Holy fuck…no…really…holy fuck. Your breath hitches in your throat when you enter the room as Chris Evans stands there, holding the script in his hands.

“Ms. Y/L/N, welcome to the audition. You got the script we hope,” another woman asks.

“Yeah. Uh—thank you for giving me this chance. I got the script and practiced the lines,” you say.

Taking a deep breath, you open your bag to get the script out.  

“Alright, can you read the first lines? Just to get into the scene?” the woman from earlier asks. She gives you a quick smile, knowing that you must be nervous around the star of the Marvel universe.

“Sure,” you hastily say. “I’ll enter the room, check the surroundings, and get my gun out,” you recite the entrance scene of your character. “Things get heated, I’m surrounded by Hydra agents, and then…a bullet hits me. The agents storm toward me right when…”

“I break through the wall,” Chris uses his captain voice. He strides towards you, looking you straight in the eyes. “Miss? Miss, are you alright?”

It’s Captain America looking at you, not the actor behind him.

“Captain America?” you fall into the roll. You pant and clutch your lower abdomen. “I got shot,” you fall to your knees, just like described in the script. “My partner…I need to find him, Captain.”

“You got hurt.” 

“I can do this…” you whisper, faking losing consciousness. “Please, Captain. Don’t let them get him.”

That’s the end of the script for you. You want to end the scene and get back up. But Chris drops the script in his hands to pick up in bridal style.

It’s a struggle to not squeal, swoon, or drool when he carries you toward the couch in the room. He’s still in his role when he looks at you in his arms.

“I’ve got you,” he ends the scene with his line, and you are sure your heart stops beating for a moment when he leans closer to whisper. “I can do this all day…”

“HOLY FUCK BABE!” Tracey raises her glass at you. “You are going to be a famous movie star and bang Chris Evans.”

“Babe, I won’t bang anyone. And my role is still small. I don’t even know if my character will survive the first episode,” you try to make her see, this role can mean your breakthrough or just a few bucks on your bank account. “You know how it is. The sidekick always ends up dead…”

>> Part 2

Tags in reblog.

[ramayantika]

The Dancer Immortalized in Stone

Sshh.... Do not be startled, my friend. All of it is real but not terrifying. I am not the alluring spirit who shall lead you to your death. Did you forget that these ruins were once a part of a glorious temple?

Who am I?

I have forgotten my name. It's been a while. Nobody ever reached out to me. I am a stone now, but somehow alive. This stony body is decorated just how I used to decorate my body, warm and full of energy, full of life. I was beautiful, very beautiful when alive. There is a reason I was carved onto the walls of this temple.

Just call me narthaki. What does it mean?

It means a female dancer.

I just know I dance. I danced. I was a dancer. I will always be one.

You wear different clothes now. Do women not wear the clothes like my friends and I have worn in this temple?

No? Oh.

Do you dance? Do you love it?

I loved it too. Wait a moment. Why is that man ogling my body this way? I have never felt the urge to cover myself before. I am set in stone, but I can feel lusty eyes over my chest.

He is tracing his finger over my waist. Make it stop please? I don't like it.

Thanks for getting rid of that touchy man. I encountered some bad men back in my time too. They thought they could own my body, my art, my soul by complimenting my beauty and body. As if I would ever let them taint me.

Ah! You are imitating my dance posture. I remember the sculptor requesting me to model for him, so he could decorate the temple tower housing the Gods.

Stretch your left leg a little. Loosen your fingers as if they are tired. Look to the left sharply. Yes, that's it. See you are standing like me!

I wish I could dance again. What is it to dance now?

I am ethereal? Yes, thanks. The sculptor made me so.

What is dance, you ask? You said you are a dancer yourself. Why should I answer it then?

Fine, if you insist.

For me, dance has been equivalent to living. It is life adorned with music, stories and colourful garbs, each that is changed with time and with the onset of a new tale. As a woman, my dance, my art, is sacred. It is a part of Laasya, of the feminine counterpart of nritya. Fluid, sublime, playful and sensual.

You wistfully smile at the word sensual. Why so?

Oh.

Who says sensuality is bad? I see you rarely move your hips while performing movement.

What? They say it is coquette and the sensuality expressed shall bring lust?

When stories flow through the entire body, through every bone, every muscle, and every nerve; when music fills the blood, surrounds the senses, and you become one with the tale, your body a canvas for the story to be expressed, you must depict it completely with openness, dedication, love and passion. If you contain it, you do not become a true storyteller.

You look from a different time and Time always moves forward. How is that you your lot are so regressive?

What is 'classical'?

Dance is dance. It has been since the days of early men and women, finding movement to express themselves with Time slowly enhancing it, beautifying it. You do not bind it to rules of forced moral standards. You must embrace every story, every character, every music within you.

The later women dancers were forced to sell themselves and cheapen their art? They are now depicted as women who titillate?

No, they were all wrong. Dance can never be impure. It can never serve to only entertain the senses.

What dance do you do? I see my sisters in your eyes, who loved and longed for dance, for the love of art so much. You aren't a part of that dirty spectacle, are you? You know that I speak the truth. You understand my words. You understand us women, don't you.

'I am sorry. I do understand, you, your friends and sisters. So much time has passed and men wrote your history. Your art only served to serve the pleasurable senses, to arouse desire and lust in the audience. This is what they wrote. They don't write about the long arduous hours of practicing and perfecting movement and poetry. They did not write about the penance dancers took. I am sorry. We carry you and your history in us. It is only an essence, but the meaning has changed. There is still hope. There are people who truly understand what dance is, what you, me, us women dancers are and have been. We are your legacy, and I will try to live up to it.'

_XXXX-

Bye, I am hungry, kinda pissed off too because I am tired of seeing female dancers from the past and even now being seen as mere tools of entertainment. I am tired of this constant debate of purity in dance. I also have a test and maybe I was a dancer back in my previous birth or something because I visit old temples only to look at all the dancers immortalized in stone, and I hate how dancers, female dancers have always been pictured for beauty and body, and very less for their art and dedicated practice. Nritya tapasya hai.

Bye.

Tagging: @ramcharantitties @jukti-torko-golpo @alhad-si-simran @krishna-priyatama @inexhaustible-sources-of-magic @houseofbreadpakoda @swayamev @rhysaka @aesthetic-aryavartik

(it's been a while since i have checked my taglist so sorry for not tagging everyone. Will check it and tag you all in my next works. I kinda also want to start a substack lol)

[split-spectrum]

Water and Rock

Chapter 6

Pairings: Obi Wan/FemReader

Warnings/Tags: explicit content, smut (particluarly in this chapter), drug use, dubcon, elements of noncon, mild non-graphic violence, elements of sith!obiwan

Description: There are only so many excuses a master and padawan can make to kiss under "extenuating circumstances" before circumstances stop arising and start being created. You are an expert at your craft - a Jedi knight in service as a spy for the Republic. When your former master Obi Wan joins you on a mission, it's clear things aren't the same as they once were. The trials you face together may break your bond, or turn it into something else entirely.

☆☆☆

The sound of your belt clattering to the floor echoes against the duracrete walls of the cell. His hand is buried in the fabric of your robes, pulling them to the side, and he's kissing you like a force of nature; like the kiss will be the end of you both.

And it will be, and you know it will be, and you're beyond caring.

His hand slips beneath the fabric at last, the feeling of his fingers on your skin making you suck in a breath through your teeth to keep from moaning. His thumb traces over your bare hip, moving up to your back. Then he flattens his hand, pulling it down to your stomach. The tips of his fingers are threatening to finally, finally, drop beneath your waistline and you're unable to resist the urge to squirm, desperately wishing you could reach down and guide his hand where you need it.

But he hesitates, unmoving. You suck in the muscles of your stomach, pulling your body to the side, just to feel some movement - any movement. His hand drags deliciously across your skin, sending shivers all the way up to your neck, but the movement isn't his. It's movement you're manufacturing for him. He's fixed in place, eyes wide and darting over your body like he's not even really present in the room. Like he's watching from a distance, removed from himself.

Slowly, in a way that you could interpret as cruel if you didn't know him well enough to realize he's not intentionally teasing, he leans in to kiss you again. His lips meet yours so tenderly, so softly, that your eyes squeeze shut. It's almost painful to be held so gently by him.

As he brushes his mouth over yours, his hand dips lower. Then he curls his fingers inward, pulling them back. It's as if he's trying to drag his attention away from where his hands are about to go.

You give a soft whine at the denial and he stops kissing you, mouth falling open. He says a word in a language you don't understand, but from his tone and the way he yanks his body away from yours, you can guess it's a curse.

"This is completely wrong."

He pulls away from you, extricating his hand and leaving you burning, alone, and practically trembling. He brings one hand to his chin, stroking it downward, almost seeming to wipe his mouth clean.

He's shaking his head. "I am the one in control, here. You can't move. I must be the one to stop."

Your eyes are drawn to the center of his body. You want to see the evidence against the case he's making, but sadly his tunic is covering everything. Even as impressive as he felt against you, there's no bulge to see when he takes a wide stance.

You shift your hands uncomfortably in the binders, and he looks up at the noise of the chain. You didn't mean to draw his attention to your frustration. Or maybe you did. It's hard to tell anymore.

"What difference does it make?" you ask, trying to mask the desire in your voice by speaking quietly. "We've already broken our oaths, haven’t we?"

He brings his eyes up from the floor and gives you a look that's stern and knowing, and for just a moment he looks like himself again.

"You know the difference," he says in a soft, low tone that shoots straight to your core.

You want him. You've never wanted anything as much as you want him to touch you, right now, looking like that.

"Obi Wan..." you trail off, staring at him.

Stars, he's so perfect... just touch me...

All at once, his eyes lose their coolness. He continues to look at you, determination melting into unabashed lust, and he takes a long, slow blink. He leans into you again. You feel a rising in your chest as he wraps his arms around you and brings his lips to yours, only to halt, achingly close, and pull back with a furrowed brow.

He looks at you. You look at him. When you both realize what's happened, your heart sinks into your stomach.

"Did... you..." he starts to ask, but doesn't finish, just staring, wide-eyed.

You'd tried to mind-trick him. You'd implanted your thoughts into his mind. He'd felt it, and he was strong enough to stop you, even in his state. But you had tried.

"I..." you have no words for the horror you feel at what you'd nearly done. But he interrupts you before you need to go any further.

"This is what I mean. You are not yourself."

"I..." you try again, your head still spinning with the implications of your actions. "I didn't mean to..."

He's still holding you. You're surprised he hasn't pulled away. "I know. You don't mean to do any of this."

His hands are resting lower now, sliding to the small of your back. "This is not what either of us wants. Not really. It's an illusion of the drug. Just focus; try to remember a time before this."

His attempt to soothe you is only making you burn hotter, his voice deep and smooth in your ear. You can't take it.

"That isn't going to work."

"If you just try to remove yourself from..."

"It won't work," you interrupt him, tired of talking and tired of waiting. Your blood is burning and you can hardly wait for him to stop talking so you can feel his lips again.

"How can you say that when you haven't-"

"Because there's never been a time I didn't want you."

His eyes widen for a moment before his brows push together in a tormented look. Then, all at once, he kisses you, and you're lost in a desperate, wanton stretch of whispered groans and dragging teeth.

When he gasps into your neck, "You can't... say... It isn't..."

You simply keep talking over him. You'll say anything to have him like this. "I want you now. I wanted you on Keoth. I wanted you on Pantora."

He lets out a soft, long breath, just beneath your ear. You know you've crossed a line. You're trying to break him, to do anything to keep him touching you. You don't care anymore about what is wrong and what is forbidden.

Pantora was one of the last missions you'd had together as Master and Padawan, before you took the trials at 21. It had almost been Obi Wan's last mission altogether. He had fallen through a crevasse, where his leg had gotten pinned. Your mission team couldn't risk breaking the ice around him, as it could potentially cause an ice shelf to break off and destroy a village below it. He'd had no choice but to painstakingly chisel himself free, and as the only other Jedi on the mission, only you could reach him. No one on the team had ice climbing tools, but you could use the force to jump down to him, and jump back out.

You had spent an entire rotation alone with him, both of you taking turns carefully digging him out, and as the hours passed, you felt more and more devastated by the knowledge that you wouldn't be sharing missions like this anymore; that you'd never be this close again. The stories, the warmth, the intimacy you'd experienced... it was the first time you knew you'd carry your bond with him for the rest of your life. Back then, you'd interpreted the feelings as healthy affection for your Master. Looking back, you could call it what you really knew it was.

This time, when he leans up to kiss you again, you pull on his bottom lip with your teeth, almost digging in. Some part of you wants him to taste the pain you feel when he pulls away. But he doesn't shy away from your bite. He tightens his grip on your waist.

"Touch me," you finally gasp when he parts your lips. "You have to touch me. Please. Please."

You hear your own voice as if it belongs to someone else. You know you're debasing yourself in front of him, but it doesn't matter anymore. You don't care how pitiful you sound when you beg. When he stares back at you, the dim light in the room catching his face at just the angle to illuminate his features, a simple thought fills your mind: You should consider yourself lucky to beg into such beautiful eyes.

He swallows. "Please, don't."

The animalistic part of you that's taken over can't focus on his words; only the way he says them. You can hear his resolve crumbling.

"I... I need it. Anything. Just one touch, just..."

You whimper against his mouth when he closes it over yours.

He pulls back once he's silenced you. "Stop. I can't think with you... like this. You must stop."

You grind your lower half against him. "Fuck. Please. I'm so..."

He's biting his lip, and all at once, he's snaking his hand through your clothes.

Your brows knit together in desperate need, and you stifle a gasp when he makes contact with your skin again.

"Don't stop."

His lashes flutter when you speak, and his hand trails lower while he leans in to kiss your neck. "I'm afraid I'm at a point... beyond stopping. Even if I were to try."

You melt at his words, at first. Then, suddenly, you pull back slightly, using the last of your strength to resist. "I'm not... I wasnt...?"

Fear begins to creep back into your features when it occurs to you what he may be implying. You hadn't felt yourself reaching out in the force. Any attempts at control hadn't been intentional.

You try to read his face, but his expression is unreadable, his eyes glossy. When he sees your reaction, though, he shakes his head.

"No," he says, putting your fears to rest. "No, you weren't."

You let out the breath you'd trapped in your chest.

"And yet..." he goes on. His eyes are dark, his voice thick.

"I can't refuse you."

He captures your lips in a perfectly sweet kiss as his fingers dip below your waist and slip between your legs.

You let your head sink back against your arms, a broken moan ripping out of you. His fingers are even more perfect than you'd imagined - gentle and strong and smooth. He slides further down, to where you're soaking, and when you slick his fingers he lets out a soft sigh, his breath hot against your neck.

He strokes you perfectly, with no urgency, just curious concentration at your body's response to his touch. He pulls back to watch you, his lips slightly parted. His eyes are heavy, lashes flickering up and down as his gaze drags over your face to catch every gasp, every twitch, every movement you make. When his eyes meet yours, he slowly pushes two fingers inside you, holding them there.

You're sure you must have died, because only becoming one with the living force could feel this good.

"Shiiittt..." you sigh, eyes closing, the feeling of him inside you overwhelming all of your senses.

He blows air out softly through the "o" shape of his lips as he curls his fingers and starts to fuck you with them. You can feel his hand getting wetter as he works to build the heat inside you toward detonation. When you open your eyes again, a deep pulse of electricity runs from your center down to your toes. Watching him do this to you, watching him become undone by doing this to you... it's too much. It feels too good. It almost aches.

His fingers - you've seen them so many times, doing so many things. Wrapped around his saber hilt in deadly combat. Writing dilligent notations in his personal manuscripts during late hours in the archive. Straightening the collar of your robe, gently reminding you to present yourself neatly in the temple.

And now they're buried in you, working you steadily and deliciously as you writhe, fucking yourself against his hand.

You moan shamelessly, your hands grasping helplessly up at the ceiling above your head, opening yourself up to him, to whatever he'll give you. He pushes even deeper, hooking the first of his knuckles methodically back toward himself over and over, bringing you closer and closer to oblivion.

You curse again breathlessly, trying to hold yourself at your peak; trying to make it last as long as you can. But he's making it impossible for you.

"Do... do you remember Pantora?" you murmur to him, talking to keep yourself from tipping over the edge.

He misses a beat at the sound of your voice, not answering right away, pumping his fingers a few more times, listening to your breath becoming more and more uneven.

"Of course I remember."

It sends a shiver through you and makes you more bold. Or maybe it's the drug making you bolder. Perhaps both. Either way, you have the courage now to ask a question you never would in your right mind.

"Did... you want me then, too?"

He gazes at you, slowly drawing his fingers out, as if thinking it over, and then slides them back, continuing his curling motion.

"I didn't think of you in... that way, no. You were my Padawan. I saw you as my Padawan. Until-"

He cuts himself off, and you suck in a breath at the word 'until'. You repeat it back to him, questioningly. He pauses again.

"That day in the gardens." His fingers slow. "You always wore your hair up, in braids. The day before you took the trials, we spoke in the garden. And you... wore it down."

You remember the day. "You... noticed."

"I noticed," he says. Then his fingers quicken. "I noticed, and I wanted you. I wanted to touch you, just like this."

The tendons in his wrist clench as he works his fingers steadily inside you, then reaches down, brushing the wet over his thumb and using it to slide over your clit. You jerk and let out a sharp whine at the pressure, feeling like you're about to explode.

"Fuck, don't stop. Oh, stars. Please don't stop."

He groans at your desperation, pulling the arm he's wrapped behind you closer, squeezing your bodies together. "Oh, yes. You like that, don't you?"

No words will form in your mind, only thoughts of the bliss he's sending through every part of you. You nod, mewling through your nose. He slows his movements, sending you spiraling, and you meet his eyes, wondering why.

He curls his lip. "Then, say it."

The words pour out of you at his command, tumbling over your lips, ragged and insistent. You'll say whatever he asks. You'll invent new words if it's what he requires to keep doing this.

"It's so good. Fucking- Ngh- fucking amazing. It's... you're going to make me-"

He strokes you perfectly until your breath hitches and you tumble over the precipice, crying out his name, whimpering and writhing in your chains, pussy twitching around his hand as he draws out your orgasm. You're a shaking mess by the time he finishes with you, leaving his fingers inside while delicately pulls his thumb from your oversensitive clit, your whining gasps telling him you're spent.

When just the two fingers inside you are left, he smirks at you, pulling them out so, so slowly.

"My goodness, we certainly made a mess," he says thoughtfully, the tips of his fingers still inside you, coated with you.

He hesitates. "But, something tells me..." He pushes back in, the filthy sound of how wet you are filling the room. "...You're not satisfied."

You let your eyes flutter quickly at the feeling, and when you open them to look at him again, you suddenly realize how dilated his pupils are. His gaze is hungry, shameless and wanting.

"I..." you can barely speak, you're so drained. But looking at him like this is stirring something within you that goes deeper than the physical. "I want..."

You shudder. Your head is spinning, filled with conflicting feelings. You know precisely what you want, but seeing the look in his eyes reminds you how far gone you both are. Whatever he may be right now, this man is not your master. When he looks at you like this, there's a word you can't quite put your finger on that describes him.

He brings his mouth to your ear, and in a voice you've never heard from him before, he growls, "I know what you want."

At that, it occurs to you the word you've been thinking of is 'dangerous'.

He finally slides his fingers from you, your thighs trembling around him. He doesn't pull your pants down yet, just uses the hand, still wet from you, to palm himself through his own pants. He still has one arm wrapped around you and his eyes are roving over your body greedily, like a starving man about to sink his teeth into the perfect meal.

Some distant part of your mind tells you that you'd normally feel self conscious, but that part of yourself is so far removed and muffled by the drug flooding your mind that it's white noise. Your only present thought is that you hope he gives in to his craving quickly.

"I will give it to you," he says. "I want to give it to you. But first..." he brings his hand up to your face and cradles your jaw. "You must tell me what you want."

You nearly choke at the demanding tone of his voice. It doesn't occur to you to be concerned at how dark his eyes have become. You imagine your eyes have a similar quality right now.

"Master, I need..."

His eyes widen when you speak, but before you can finish the sentence, the sound of footsteps outside cuts you off.

As the footsteps approach the door, Obi Wan releases his grip on you, parting your bodies, but only just slightly. His posture isn't one of a man who's been caught. His shoulders are stiff, and his expression holds irritation as the door slams open again.

A Falteen guard enters, hand on his blaster. When he sees the way you're looking at him, he pulls it and keeps it raised, staying near the open doorway. He clicks a button on his wrist.

"Possibly some effects here. Tell Marg we're bringing the prisoners out for interrogation soon."

"Are you?" Obi Wan asks coolly when the guard switches off his commlink. "Who is 'we'?"

"Wasn't talking to you, Jedi," the guard grunts as he backs toward the door, blaster still raised.

"How impolite. And I thought we were guests."

"Shut up," the guard snaps, then speaks into his wrist again. "Did you hear me? I said the prisoners are ready. Get here, now."

Catching sight of the way Obi Wan is looking at him, the guard abruptly turns to leave and close the door behind him.

"Ah, ah," Obi Wan admonishes, raising a hand that keeps the guard frozen in the doorway. "Keep us company, won't you? Until your friends get here."

The guard's face shows considerable effort in turning his upper body backward and raising his blaster halfway. Obi Wan smirks, and in an instant the blaster is across the room and in his hand. With his other hand, he makes a rising motion, then grips around an invisible throat.

The throat is, in fact, attached to the guard, who is now clutching at it. The guard's feet are off the ground, kicking uselessly. You almost think it looks... amusing.

Obi wan is certainly entertained. "Not feeling sociable? That's quite alright. I don't mind a quiet evening."

The noises of the guard's windpipe being crushed go on for some time. It disgusts you somewhat, hearing the pathetic creature struggle, but finally it comes to an end when Obi Wan clenches his fist, snapping his neck completely and dropping him to the floor.

You sigh, glad it's finally over, and Obi Wan wastes no time in aiming the blaster at the floor where his chain is mounted. He fires off several shots, eventually managing to free himself, the chain still around his leg but no longer attached to the ground. He comes over to you, running the back of his hand down your face.

"It appears it's time for us to go."

You nod. Despite the drug's insistence that nothing is as important as what you were about to do, you still understand the concept of life and death. To your immense irritation, you want to live.

"They took our lightsabers in the first room... I think it was to the south of the main room. They locked them in a grey box," you tell him. Your aching shoulders want you to ask him to blast you free of the wall,  but your hands are too close to the top of the chain. He gives you a nod in return, then walks to the door.

"Don't worry," he says with a casual smile as he raises the blaster in his hand and fires down the hallway. "I won't be long."

You watch as he leaves, frustrated that you can't accompany him, but confident in his promise. It's abundantly clear he's not the one in danger.

Screams echo down the hallway and blaster fire lights up the walls. The sound of bodies being flung, followed with silence, confirms what you had thought. He's gone for what feels like an eternity, but in reality, was probably only a few minutes. When he returns, he's cut himself out of his chain and he's carrying both of your lightsabers. He quickly cuts you down, then holds his saber still for you to push your bound hands into it, separating the binders and then cutting them off completely.

You roll your shoulders. Sharp pain shoots through them, but it's a sweet kind of pain. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," he says with a smile. "Shall we?"

You follow him back down the hallway, now littered with bodies. It seems a stray blaster bolt must have clipped one of the light fixtures on the wall. It's flickering on and off, illuminating the bodies intermittently and casting shadows over Obi Wan's face.

"I suppose we'll need to steal a ship to get out of here," you say, relatively disinterested in the carnage that surrounds you.

"My thoughts exactly," he replies, stepping over a dismembered arm as you reach the end of the hallway and enter the main room again where the large table now sits empty. "I believe our host was about to save us the trouble."

You walk around the table to find Marg splayed out on the ground, looking up at you with an anguished groan. One of his legs is bent at a sickening angle.

You say the only thing that comes to mind. "Oh. Hello."

"Augh," Marg responds, gripping his leg and gritting his teeth at you. "Whatever you want, just take it and go. Remember, I let you live."

Obi Wan raises an eyebrow.

"Let..." the word rolls off his tongue slowly. Then he shakes his head just slightly, circling the table to look down at Marg himself.

"You know, I do owe you thanks, Marg."

The Pyke trembles when Obi Wan comes closer, gazing down at him with an almost bored expression.

"When I was a padawan, my master used to tell me that fear is the path to the dark side. Fear of loss, fear of pain, fear of death..."

His eyes trail over the table as he speaks, a streak of crimson staining the stone where evidently someone's body had been dragged.

"But what is the dark side without fear?"

You watch a grin spread over his face when Marg tries to inch away from him.

"Power."

Your eyes are drawn to the way his jaw sets after he says the word. He's magnificent.

He reaches toward Marg, whose hands suddenly rip at his throat, trying to pull at invisible fingers. "So I really must thank you, for showing me a new path. Now, if you would be so kind as to assist me further, where is the nearest ship with a hyperdrive?"

Marg's eyes are bulging and Obi Wan releases him slightly so that he can speak. Just as he's about to, a handful of guards enter the room. Your eyes snap up. They raise their blasters, training them all on Obi Wan.

You squint angrily at the interruption. How could such insignificant life forms threaten him? They should simply die.

And they do. The instant the thought enters your mind, they turn their barrels toward themselves and pull triggers.

Six bodies hit the floor almost in unison. Obi Wan stares, confused for only a moment before turning his gaze on you. His smile widens.

"Well done, young one. Very impressive."

His words of praise shoot through you, setting every nerve ending on fire. You were already burning for him, and now it's an inferno.

He turns his attention back to Marg, who's still squirming in his grip. "Well?"

The Pyke leader bites out a series of directions to the nearest landing platform and gasps when Obi Wan lets him go. He drops down with a heavy thud and sucks in shuddering breaths, scowling up at you.

You look back into his eyes, annoyed that he does not appear to be grateful at his release. You flick your wrist, lightsaber illuminating in your hand, and behead him.

The dark cloth of his ceremonial headcovering drapes behind his head as it rolls across the floor, and Obi Wan looks at you in mild surprise.

You shrug. "It will take longer for them to organize and follow us if he's dead."

His lips tug into a tight smile. "Very well; have it your way."

You follow him into the main entrance, back the way you'd originally been dragged into the compound, and you follow the dead Pyke's instructions to reach the landing platform, where you help yourselves to the largest ship available.

Obi Wan seats himself in the captain's chair, checking fuel gauges and testing the controls before take off. You busy yourself closing the hatches and preparing the ship. Once everything is secure, you give the all-clear and the ship lifts off, quickly exiting the atmosphere.

Once you've entered hyperspace, Obi Wan keys in the coordinates for Coruscant and heaves a sigh of relief, settling himself back into his seat. You walk over to him and he looks up at you from over his shoulder.

"What an ordeal that was." He looks down at his chest, seeming to notice the blood stain on his tunic for the first time. "And I'll have to get my robes cleaned. Blast."

You gaze down at him, hardly listening. You're still aching for him, and you feel no need to hold back your tongue. "Master... I believe you said you had something to give me?"

He turns his chair to face you, lowering his hands to the arm rests, seemingly unfazed by your bold change of subject. He raises his brows just slightly. "Is that how one should ask?"

You weren't expecting his simple retort, and for a moment you're unsure how to respond. He takes your silence as an answer.

"I was very clear."

His voice is imposing, almost terse. It makes your knees a bit weak.

"I... want you to touch me," you start off low and quiet. You put more effort into your voice for the second attempt. "I want you to fuck me."

His brows flick up, then his face relaxes into an amused smirk. "I'm just not sure..."

"Please. I want you to fuck me."

"It's something in your tone..."

You let out a slow breath, barely able to keep yourself from falling to the ground and begging. You need to convince him, but you can hardly form coherent sentences, just looking into his eyes like this. A thought crosses your mind.

"I... can show you."

His gaze becomes a bit more intense. "Show me what?"

"Now that I'm not tied up, there's a lot I can show you," you say, leaning down to place a kiss on his neck.

His eyelids dip briefly, and then he pulls you into a full kiss, gripping you and pressing his thumb into your jaw.

"Do you think you've earned it?"

"I... what?" You yelp in pain when his thumb presses harder.

"I wanted you to ask me for it, properly. Now, you can beg for it."

He kisses you again, his tongue forcing itself deep into your mouth, teasing until you feel like you're going to lose your mind. You could scream, you want him so badly.

When you break apart, you're panting. "Please, let me show you how much I want it. I can make you feel so good."

You snake your hand down his chest toward the center of his body, but he stops you, catching your wrist.

He pulls you almost into his lap, gritting into your ear. "Have you forgotten your place, young one?"

Your thighs clench together. "I haven't, I..."

His hand tightens on your wrist. "Get on your knees."

You scramble out of his hold to lower yourself to the floor, looking up at him furtively to make sure you're following his instructions as intended. Once you're kneeling, he looks down at you from his seat, his posture composed.

"Better."

You stifle a groan at his encouragement, soaking between your legs.

He leans his shoulders back, spreading his arms wide in his chair, and crosses one leg over the other, with the ankle of one boot resting on the opposite knee.

"You will show proper respect."

You bounce your head in a vigorous nod. "Yes, Master."

Something flickers in his eyes when you say that word, and it's enough to let you know how to proceed. You bow your head down, leaning forward, and press a soft kiss into the heel of his boot, holding it delicately in your hand. He doesn't stop you. He just tilts his head in slight surprise.

You kiss it again, and again, and then without thinking you turn your head sideways and press your tongue flat against the tip of his boot, dragging it slowly up. The heavy notes of leather fill your mouth like a fine scotch as you continue all the way up while gazing into his eyes, which are completely fixed on you.

"That is... " He swallows. "Very good."

When you reach the top of this boot, you want to kiss him, but he's too far away. You would need to stand, and he wouldn't allow it. You place the tips of your fingers on the calf of his boot, looking up from under your lashes.

"I could lick something else for you," you tell him, tugging slightly to move his legs apart.

"Oh?" is all he says in return, his voice deep, more words seeming to be stuck in his throat as his leg follows your guidance, spreading his knees apart. His chest is rising and falling faster now.

Your hand slides between his legs and you palm him through his clothing, your pussy tightening when you feel his size properly for the first time. Your mouth is already watering, imagining tasting him.

"If you'll let me?" you ask, gripping him gently and giving a few tugs through the fabric.

His posture is still stiff, the regal curve of his chin unmoving, but you can see the way he's pressing his fingers into the arm rests. You wait for his response, and he finally gives it. He wordlessly nods, giving himself away with a bit too much vigor, his hair falling forward.

He slides a hand through his hair to put it back into place while you pull the waistband of his pants up and over the head of his cock. There's a spot on the fabric starting to soak through from the leaking at his tip, and you can't help yourself from swiping a thumb over it, watching him suck in his stomach at the contact.

You tug his trousers down further, releasing him the rest of the way, and no sooner is he free than you suffocate him with your mouth. You suck his glistening head between your lips and the taste of him makes you throb with need. You allow yourself the pleasure of swirling your tongue just once before you take him all the way, and when he hits the back of your throat it makes you rock back on your knees a little.

His hips jut upward when you slide him all the way into your hot mouth, tightening your lips around him, and you start to work the length of him, savoring every inch as you look up at him in pure worship. His gaze is locked onto your mouth, watching you swallow him over and over. His jaw is starting to slacken.

You slow your movements and watch as the tips of his fingers go white, grasping at the arm rests. He licks his bottom lip.

"Fuck," he growls, his lower teeth jutting out in a half-snarl.

You pull your mouth off him with a wet pop, dragging your fingertips over him teasingly. "Which do you prefer, Master? Shall I go slow..."

You lower your head, spreading your lips over him again and inching down his thickness with an agonizing lack of speed, sighing through your nose at the way he fills your mouth perfectly. Then you pull back up, continuing the same languid motion, and look at him again.

"...or a bit faster?"

His eyes are cloudy now, his breath ragged. He doesn't answer. He just removes one hand from the arm rest and threads his fingers through your hair, slowly guiding you back to full speed.

He groans as you quicken your pace obediently, and every thought in your mind is replaced with the image before you - your master with his eyes closed, arching forward in his seat, holding your head between his legs as you slide your mouth up and down his leaking cock.

His eyes open again and he's staring down at you with an animalistic, almost delirious expression. He twitches inside your mouth and you can tell he's near the edge. You don't want this to end. You want to keep tasting him, keep unraveling him like this forever. Without realizing it, you've slowed down, and he takes notice.

His hand grips your hair more tightly and he starts to move into you, meeting your rhythm halfway and fucking into your mouth.

He gasps, biting out raggedly, "That's it. Don't fucking stop..." as his hips start to snap forcefully, making you choke for air.

You feel his hand slide from the back of your head to the side of your neck, and suddenly he's pressing into your throat, holding you against himself, moaning your name. Your eyes shut for a moment as your senses are overwhelmed. All you can do is keep your pace, keep sucking him, keep making him feel this way so that he never, ever wants to stop. You can't remember anything before this. The only thing that matters is this moment.

His fingers stiffen below your jaw, he grinds your name between his teeth one more time, and then he cums.

He explodes into the back of your throat, making you gasp to keep breathing as you swallow him, drinking everything he pours into you. You tighten your lips to keep moving up and down while he finishes, pressing your hands flat against his lap while his hips buck recklessly against you.

His mouth falls open as he collapses back against the chair, watching you drink the last drops of him, sucking him more softly. You finally let him slide from your mouth when he twitches, spent, and you run your tongue along your bottom lip, still searching for anything left of his taste.

He lies there, panting, his legs splayed shamelessly with his wet cock still on display, while you collapse sideways, leaning on your hand, looking up at him from the floor.

He looks divine. Literally - a god. His skin glistening, his hair disheveled, and his eyes wild, he's an exquisite mess. When he seems to regain some semblance of consciousness, he looks at you questioningly, still half-dazed.

"You swallowed... all of it?"

You nod up at him, unable to speak yet.

He breathes out, "Good girl. Very good."

It's too much. You nearly moan out loud. You reach up tentatively, grasping one of his hands and pulling him out of his seat. In his satisfied state he doesnt resist and kneels next to you, the muscles of his arm doing nothing to prevent you from pulling his hand beneath your clothes and between your thighs, showing him what he's done to you.

He sucks in a breath at the feel of you dripping over his fingers. You gaze at him desperately. "Good enough to be rewarded?"

He's silent, sliding his fingers in a circle, and then murmuring to himself. "So wet..."

He brings his eyes up to yours. "You're so wet," he repeats, playing with you absently, seemingly not concerned with the way you twitch and moan at his touch.

"Please..." you sigh, chest heaving. The words come out in a hoarse, broken whisper. "Please, I need you to fuck me."

He smirks at you. "My padawan has finally learned how to properly beg."

Moments later, you're spread on the floor, his body over yours, his pants at his knees and your legs hooked around him. He's teased you into oblivion, and you're a weakened, shaking shell of your former self. Your mind is gone. Your only thoughts are sin. Your whole existence is centered on the feeling of his index finger, which is swirling over your clit and dropping back down to drag through your wetness. And all at once, your existence turns to nothingness, because he pulls his touch away.

Your world bursts back into light when he finishes taking off his shirt and leans his body over yours, sliding the head of his cock through your lips, coating himself in your slick. He shudders at the feeling, wrapping one of his hands around your thigh to steady himself.

"Tell me what you want," he rasps into your ear.

"Fuck me," you moan, repeating the only words you can conceive at the moment. "Fuck me, Master."

He slides down, resting heavily between your legs, starting to spread you open. "Say my name."

"Obi Wan," his name wrenches out of you, your brows pinching together with all-consuming need. "Obi Wan..."

"Ah, you'd better remember that," he instructs you, easing your legs apart as he slides inside you. "You're going to be screaming it by the end."

He thrusts his cock deep into you, burying himself in one fluid motion, and draws back to start delivering every inch as promised...

And the next thing you remember, you're awake.

You blink.

The room comes into focus. You're in a bed, unclothed, and wrapped in unfamiliar sheets. You sit up, slowly. You're in pain. Your head is pounding and your throat is parched.

You squint around the room, trying to clear your blurry eyes. This looks like the crew quarters of a ship.

You look down at the bed again, and you realize you're not alone. Beside you, someone is sleeping. Someone with light brown hair and a handsome profile. Someone who smells like sage and spice and comfort. Someone who looks... like...

You flinch in recognition, and it jolts the bed. Obi Wan's eyelids squeeze tightly, then flutter open. He looks at you, bleary-eyed, and makes a confused noise in his throat.

He pulls in a deep breath through his nose and sits up, the sheets falling forward from his bare chest. "Commander?"

Your pulse is racing. Your head spins while he looks around the room, the same way you did. His blue eyes fall back onto yours, wide with confusion. "What is... how did we get here?"

You shake your head. "I'm not sure. The last thing I remember, we were drugged on Oba Diah, and then..."

Your eyes widen to match his, images starting to play in your mind. He's searching your eyes, still lost, and then he lowers his gaze to your neck. He tilts his head to look closer.

"Your neck... you have a mark. It looks like a bite-"

His words stop abruptly, just as yours did, and you see the recognition on his face. He doesn't speak for a long, long time. Neither of you does. Your blood is frozen in your veins, your stomach turning.

He gathers his side of the sheets, leaning over the side of the bed as if he's about to be sick.

He whispers with no emotion in his voice, just blank despair, "What have we done?"

--

Tag List: @cosmicsierra @projectdreamwalker

Feel free to comment/message me if you'd like to be added to the taglist. :)

Masterlist // Next Chapter >>

[dbmars]

New Fic Alert!

Excerpt:

If Jack notices that Will makes eye contact with me – an anomaly for an alleged first meeting, to be sure – he makes no indication. If he notices my smile is laced with a petty sort of satisfaction — one that says, perhaps, this is what happens when you refuse to acknowledge what we mean to one another — he again masks any sign. I’m surprised at myself. Up until this moment I hadn’t realized I was harboring resentment regarding Will’s insistence on discretion. Keeping our affair a secret has benefited me in several ways, the least of which is ensuring I wouldn’t be a suspect, should Will disappear or be found in another of the Ripper’s tableaus. 

But I do resent it, with a strength that borders on fury. 

I slam that particular door in my mind and force my heartrate back into a comfortable zone, chastising myself. This meeting is the culmination of what began a year ago on this day. I am now a friend of the FBI and privy to its secrets. Jack already said he’d show me the Chesapeake Ripper’s file, a scrapbook of my treasured memories. 

“Will Graham. Meet Dr. Hannibal Lecter. He’s a friend of Alana Bloom’s. I asked him to join us today to look at this case – add another layer of insight.”

Will strips off his jacket, tossing it on one of Jack’s office chairs near the door. He fiddles with the collar of his shirt, deliberately not looking at me. How I long to see him in something that fits him well and wasn’t selected from Lands’ End or Eddie Bauer. His figure would be devastating in tailored trousers. Jack glances at me apologetically with a miniscule shrug. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. 

Jack’s administrative assistant pops his head in. “Mr. Graham, can I get you a coffee?”

Black, with two sugar packets.

“Black,” Will says over his shoulder as he pauses in front of the board Jack’s assembled, surveying the bland faces of the victims. I’m sure they all would have made lovely real estate agents or business majors. “Sugar. Two of ‘em.” 

The assistant returns with an ebony mug, placing it on the front of Jack’s desk in reaching distance from the empty chair that Will must soon occupy. Across from Jack and right next to me. As Jack begins the meeting, he takes the seat reluctantly after a time, unable to avoid proximity any longer. “I’ve filled Dr. Lecter in on the details, and your observations at the Nichols house. We were just getting to all the false confessions coming into the tip lines.”

“Maladjusted teens and the mentally ill,” Will grunts, emptying sugar packets into his mug and stirring them with the red plastic stick provided. “Influenced by the media coverage.”

I get to my feet just to pass behind him, get a lungful of his scent, clean and crisp like the woods around his home, carrying soft traces of his dogs and the remnants of engine grease under his fingernails. Delicious, now that I’ve gotten him to stop wearing that abominable aftershave. I lean toward the board, Jack at my side; I pretend to study the map and its connecting lines. I can feel Will’s eyes on me, burning into me with the heat of agonized betrayal. I’ve certainly knocked him off balance – good. “Tell me then, how many confessions?”  

“Twelve dozen, last time I checked. None of them knew the details. Until this morning. Then everyone knew the details.” Jack resumes his seat. I stand at the board, looking at him, feeling the waves of irritation as they roll off Will like smoke. “Some genius in Duluth PD took a picture of Elise Nichols’ body with their phone and shared it with their friends. Then Freddie Lounds ran it on Tattlecrime.com.”

“Tasteless,” Will mutters half under his breath. He might mean Ms. Lounds’ journalism practices, but I think he’s referring to my surprise appearance at his place of work. Again, I feel the base satisfaction of having rattled him. Forcing him to reap what he’s sown, give him a taste of what I’ve endured — his own shame and discomfort transferring to me by proxy when he insisted we keep our affections secret, hiding them like our relationship was something rotten that needed to be buried, decomposing out of sight, out of mind.

“Do you have trouble with taste?” I ask, softly benign. My therapy voice. Will hates it. 

“My thoughts are often not tasty.” I do love watching him squirm. But my enjoyment is clouded by sudden images of comforting Will in the wake of his bloody investigations, holding him through his suffering, waking him when I knew he was having nightmares so vivid they dampened our sheets with terror sweat. 

“Nor mine. No effective barriers.” He knows this. I told him about Mischa. He’s the first person I’ve told, save Bedelia du Maurier. He doesn’t know that I ate her but understands how she was taken from me. 

“I make forts.”

“Associations come quickly,” I say. This may appear to Jack like some brilliant on-the-spot psychoanalysis, but I know because Will’s told me his traumas in return. 

“So do forts,” he insists, looking down into the sweet blackness of his coffee cup with a petulant little turn to his lip.

I continue to twist the knife. “Not fond of eye contact, are you?

Will turns to me. “Eyes are distracting. You see too much. You don’t see enough.” As in, he’s scolding himself for not anticipating I’d do something like this. He looks directly at me now. “And it’s hard to focus when you’re thinking those whites are really white or they must have hepatitis, or is that a burst vein?” Cheeky, yes, but also a jab – I did burst a vein in my left eye during our time at the cabin on the ranch in West Virginia due to a particularly powerful orgasm. He chided me then for my vanity as I lamented the bloody speck marring my sclera. 

[sarcasticsciencefictionwriter]

For the wip bird asks!!

🦜+ 🐧+ 🦉+ 🐦 + 🦩

Thank you! Really spoiling with the birds, thank you!!! 🥰

🦜 a pretty quote (you like the prose, or symbolism, or it's poetic, or you just like how it feels/the word choice!)

The burning was practical, cleansing, respectful. Final. They used traditional methods, even though they had long since moved past needing torches for lighting fires or even needing fires beyond funeral pyres. For a few moments, Ranna didn't think that she could do it. She stared at the body on the pyre, wrapped in a shroud of the traditional colors of the Seneschal family. She remembered being a girl, her family laid out on their pyres, Alaric holding the torch and lighting them, to spare her, even though she was the closest relative of most. She was the only one now. She had to do this for him. Ranna took the torch, not flinching as it shed sparks and burning scraps. The words had all been said. This was all that was left. She touched it to the pyre and rested it there as it caught immediately, only backing off when the flames leapt high and hot, bowing her head for a moment before forcing herself to look at them. There were no tears now and Ranna wondered if that was a bad thing. Her grief was still there, of course, but the tears that had poured out of her were no longer there. Gregory stood on one side of her, Toland on the other, and she felt comforted by their presence, though they were there more for support of her than to say goodbye to Alaric. Which was okay, she found, despite her bitterness towards the turnout. The burning took a long time, as it always did. But at the same time it didn't feel like long enough. Because as soon as the burning was over, it was time for the presentation to Kaanan. The members of the Senate escorted Ranna through the streets to the government building, taking a route that she had never traced before, even in her years of training. In her years of running through these halls as a child, in awe of what she was born for. Ranna no longer felt in awe of it, but she felt like that child again.

Untitled Ranna Fic (angsty, but I like the prose)

🐧 a funny quote (silly! laughs! jokes! puns!)

Nikola rolled his eyes as Ashley came charging over, closely followed by Henry. "No running in the kitchen." Helen scolded as Ashley moved to completely invade Nikola's space, clearly sizing him up. Nikola didn't back down and just looked at her with an arched eyebrow. "I thought you would be taller." Ashley said, skipping introductions completely. "I thought the same thing about you." Nikola returned. Helen's maternal reflex already had her opening her mouth to scold Nikola, because it wasn't the first time someone had commented on Ashley being short in comparison to her parents, but she stopped when Ashley drew herself up and looked Nikola up and down before she grinned. "Nikola, this is Ashley." "The pigeon tormentor." Nikola said, nodding. Ashley looked confused, but took Nikola's hand when he offered it to her. Then he turned to Henry. "And you must be Heinrich." Henry took Nikola's hand with a very serious expression. "Mum doesn't like you." "Henry." Helen said, cheeks heating, partially because that wasn't strictly true anymore. "At least he's honest." Nikola said, shrugging. "And your mother and I have come to an understanding."

Enigmatic Confections (I hope this counts, the Ashley and Nikola was the first funny thing I thought of)

🦉 a clever quote (something you're proud of!)

"You are not property, Helen, but you are valuable. You are the firstborn of Clan Bancroft. The only child of your mother's line left. This clan will be yours very shortly. Whoever takes your hand will be in a high position and must bring an equal sum." "Why must I marry at all?" Helen winced and amended her statement. "Why must I marry so soon? I do not want to try to manage a marriage and my duties all at once, not until I am steady in my reign." "You are well aware of the politics between our clans." "Yes, but--" Helen broke off, biting the inside of her cheek. If she had been a boy, this wouldn't be happening. It didn't matter what her father said. The other clans were offering their sons so that her power could be pushed aside. So that they could absorb her clan into theirs, become more powerful than the others. "How could you do this to me, Father?" her whisper came out small, making her truly sound her age. Her father sighed and clasped his hands on the desk. "I made stipulations in this agreement, Helen. You may choose any of the four. He will take control of his own clan upon his marriage to you. He may not usurp your standing in this clan. Those left out of this alliance will abide by it." Helen leaned back, rocking on her heels. "I don't want this. I don't care if it will be good for the clan. I do not want this. I can not do this."

Untitled Sanctuary Clans and Marriages AU (I feel clever for this because: boom! The Five.)

🐦 a romantic quote (can be sweet or sad or sexy, or just your favorite interaction between them!)

Rana's hand slid gently over her skin as she raised herself and then pressed a kiss to the crest of Helen's swollen belly. "Keeping you awake?" Ranna asked softly. Helen slid her fingers into Ranna's dark hair, holding her close. "Mmm. Not really. They're sleeping." "Like you should be." Ranna said, shifting to kiss Helen on the mouth. Helen kissed her back, taking a moment to simply enjoy it. "What's go through that mind of yours, Helen?" Rann asked as she pulled away. "Do you hate me?" Helen whispered, surprising herself with the words. She definitely would not have asked in daylight hours. "Now why would I do that?" In answer Helen cradled her abdomen, where the baby stirred sleepily. Ranna's eyes, glistening in the dark, softened. "For giving us a child?" "For carrying the child you can't give me. For John and Nikola." Helen's voice was raw and vulnerable to her own ears. She had been telling herself it was simply the hormones of the pregnancy making her feel like this, but she knew that wasn't true. "Helen, we wouldn't have a child any other way." Ranna said patiently. "The next time one of them comes...I will do it again. I love them." "I know. And I knew that long ago." The patient tone was irking Helen and she sat up, wrapping her arms around herself, feeling chilly. The baby kicked, wide awake now. "Why now?" Ranna asked. "Why does it matter now?" Helen didn't answer, standing and going to the trunk where they kept their clothes. She pulled on a shirt she could barely button and walked out. The beach wasn't far and Helen walked across the moonlit sand, trying to untangle the ball of emotions in her chest. Perhaps she was being ridiculous, but the thoughts had plagued her for months. Ranna didn't seem to understand. "Helen!" Of course Ranna had come after her. Helen stood just above the tide, not turning. "What's going on?" Ranna asked, clearly annoyed.

Untitled Sanctuary Island AU, Helen/Ranna (this is my favorite interaction between them right now)

🦩dealer's choice (choose any quote at all! or the summary / ao3 tags thing! whatever! wild card!)

The door opened, but only as far as the chain allowed. A suspicious blue eye regarded him. That eye did not look happy. "Yes?" "Helen Druitt?" "Magnus. I never changed my name. I don't know why everyone assumes I did." she said. Nikola was fairly certain he had just hit strike one without even meaning to. And to be fair to her, he had just assumed. He had only been told her first name, after all. He cleared his throat. "I apologize." Her eye narrowed. Nikola really wished that he could see her whole face, so that he could judge how this was going. "What do you want?" "Can you open the door so we can talk properly?" Nikola asked. For a few moments he thought that was going to get him the door slammed in his face, but it gently closed and he heard the chain slide. The door reopened and he was able to get his first real look at Helen Magnus. She was a tall woman, perhaps an inch shy of Nikola's height. Her eyes were blue, as he had already seen. Her brunette hair was pulled messily into a bun on the back of her head and had a pencil stabbed through it. Her clothes were wrinkled and stained with various colors that he thought might have been from paint. "What do you want?" she repeated. He cleared his throat. "My name is Nikola Tesla. Your husband--" "Ex-husband." Helen said, heat in her tone. Well, now, that was something that Mr-I'm-taller-than-you-and-will-loom-over-you-menancingly-even-during-a-civil-conversation had failed to mention. "Your ex-husband. He hired me." "For what?" Good God, had the man just decide to sic Nikola on his wife--ex-wife--without even giving her a heads up? Nikola wasn't certain that he had liked the man, but he had seemed civil. Had spoken politely and to the point about Helen. "He didn't tell you?" "I've been ignoring his calls." Helen said, face flushing a bit as she tilted her chin defiantly at the same time. "What has John hired you for?" "You."

Untitled Teslen Fic (as a treat)

Okay, I went a little overboard with that and reread a lot of stuff, but I'm not sorry for it, especially since I wasn't having a great day until then.

[trickstarbrave]

writing up more of this silly little idea bc i guess i like torturing nerevar

Riiju-lei and Shamat from @mulberrycafe

Nerevar sighed, slumped against the wall. It seemed Kaidan and Shamat were done having ‘fun’ upstairs, the creaking of the bed finally stopping. It was uncomfortable to say the least; Nerevar quickly came to terms with the fact Shamat wasn’t Riiju-lei, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t strange hearing someone that sounded so much like his husband having sex with and moaning out the name of another man. It made him feel uncomfortable a little nauseous.

Lucien and Inigo were taking turns watching him this time, talking quietly while Lucien struggled to stay awake. They were pretty lax all things considered. Nerevar had heard extensively what this world’s version of him was up to and he wasn’t happy about it at all. But given he hadn’t fought his bonds or done anything in particular, there wasn’t a need to hold a blade to his throat every waking hour.

He slumped his head forward, nuzzling into the scarf wrapped around his neck and shoulders, breathing in the scent. He missed Riiju-lei terribly, and he knew the other must be panicked wondering what could have happened to him. He didn’t know what effect he might have being so far away; did Leilei feel hollow without him again? Or did the pain of missing Nerevar now that he knew what it was like to laugh and smile with pure joy hurt him more than words could describe. He gave a shaky sigh, trying to pretend his arms weren’t bound and that he was instead embracing his chimer husband, holding him gently while the two of them fell asleep.

Seeing the hortator seemingly digging around in his scarf though, Inigo raised a brow, patting Lucien’s arm and motioning toward Nerevar. Lucien also raised an eyebrow, before the two approached.

“I do hope for your sake you aren’t hiding anything in there.” Inigo remarked.

“Honestly, he’s been a bit too well behaved for my comfort. I’m starting to get anxious.” Lucien shuddered. “He hasn’t even gone on a long tirade or demanded to see Shamat or anything! I can’t help but feel like he’s planning something...”

“Let me just see what you have in there.” Inigo hesitantly reached for the scarf, and Nerevar felt his anxiety spike.

“Don’t take that!” He suddenly shouted. He hadn’t raised his voice since he got here, trying hard not to make everyone more nervous than they already were, but he couldn’t just sit back and let them take it from him. “I-it’s from Leilei... He gave it to me.” Nerevar buried his nose in it once more. “It smells like him, like the chill and snowberries of Windhelm and lavender in Whiterun...” He could practically trace Leilei’s journey through the scarf, all the little scents the fabric had picked up in Riiju-lei’s life, all of the places he made a home. He could imagine the happy laughter of children if he tried hard enough, and could almost feel Riiju-lei’s arms around him. “Please, don’t take it...” His voice cracked slightly as he bit back tears.

He could survive this if he had the scarf. He could live through the anxiety and uncertainty that he’d ever return home so long as he had the fabric keeping him going and reminding him of his beloved. But if he lost that--lost the comfort of the soft fabric and the scent that grounded him--he didn’t know what he’d do.

Lucien and Inigo looked at each other, before Inigo sighed, his ears going back.

“Alright. but I am watching you, understand?”

“You sure that is a good idea old Indigo?” Lucien asked, using a playful nickname.

“So far he hasn’t made any sudden moves.” Inigo replied as he went back to his seat. “I would also feel bad just ripping things away from a prisoner because I can.” Lucien still looked at Nerevar anxiously, taking in the way tears shined in his eyes and the sadness deep within them. It was possible the hortator was acting, lying and manipulating to get their sympathy, but even Lucien felt like it would be cruel to take that from him.

“... Hopefully Kaidan won’t be too upset about it...”

[mintytealfox]

here more writing from that one da capo AU im obsessed with cause I couldn't stop lol

Intro chapter: Here

Chapters 2-4

-------

Ch 2 Alice

Alice is bounding out of her living quarters, rushing through the bustling crowds of the city and throwing the doors open wide of the facility her target often frequents. “Today will be the day you say yes” a grin appearing on her face as she stands in confidence.

“Um…excuse me.” A timid gentle voice coming from behind.

Turning around, Alice looks at the gentleman, and notes she is blocking the way through. “Oh, I apologize.” quickly side stepping out of the way so walking traffic can resume.

“At it again are we...?” a familiar soft voice chimes in.

Swinging around once again she spots her target and smiles, “Frederick~”

Frederick is secretly amused behind that bored and tired expression he is sending her way. “The answer is still no” turning away and heading for his desired morning destination.

Alice swallows her gasp and follows him, “Please Mr. Kreiburg, your story would fascinate millions! Might even convince so many of your people to consider choosing the human way of living!”

Frederick winces, “they are not my people, I’m not a leader in any capacity.”

“I know this Mr Kreiburg, I simply meant you were once a giant but chose to come here and live amongst us. I want to know why; the world would love to know why.” Her voice is practically dripping with intrigue and thirst for knowledge.

“I am not the only one, plenty of others have done the same, go interview one of them.” Those soft tones becoming cold and closed off, once again.

The journalist grabs his arm and flinches at her poor form, internally cursing herself, after the look she receives as they now stand frozen in the middle of the grand center of the city, “I’m sorry, but it’s your story that intrigues me, what you’ve been through, what you’ve seen, where you came from. All that is uniquely tied to you and your perspective, and I want to know why.”

“Why what?” His stern retort missing any trace of amusement he had before.

“Why would you choose to come here? It’s not like you were escaping poverty, so…why?”

The business of the morning continues to rush and to swarm around them, occasionally bumping into them and adding to the growing tension of this conversation.

Frederick sighs, “this is not the place for a conversation like this, and we are not close enough for a conversation such as this. I do not exhume the past for just anyone Ms, Journalist….my answer is still, and likely will always be, ‘no’.” He lightly tips his head at her “good day” and leaves. Abandoning Alice to the swirling morning crowds, once again.

“Damn…then maybe tomorrow then…”

Alive hurries off to her office, thoughts racing about how that conversation went. “It was strange, he seemed more open today but immediately closed off after I said ‘his people’…. there is something there, but what? Does he resent who he was? Resent his past? Resent his heritage? Or maybe he is silently passionate about our two people finally coming together. But if that were the case then…wouldn’t he want to join me in this effort of discussing peace and equality? This must go deeper…and I need him to tell me what’s going on out there…what’s going on in that mind of his…what does he know…”

Before she even realized it, she had arrived at her place of work and had been pacing her office there for the past ten minutes. Coworkers just look in the window to her office, watching her pace, and placing bets on how long it will take her to notice.

Alice freezes and stares at them, “…….” And a collective ‘aw maan’ erupts as they all throw money at the one coworker who is basking in their glory of being right.

Alice huffs and presses a button to fog the window. Returning to her desk she opens a drawer to pull out her thought recorder. She places the sticky part to her temple and allows her thoughts to be recorded into the device. Words appearing in a holographic form floating in front of her. With a satisfied nod, she turns off the device and secures it back into the drawer to lock it away.

“There must be a way we can live in true harmony….”

---------------

Ch 3 Melly

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“I suppose that’s a word for it…”

Melly is admiring a particularly rare sort of insect, and her human intern is a bit stressed about it. Her eyes now watch the intern instead of the insect crawling over her gloved fingers. “‘I suppose’ from your perspective a creature this size could be seen as…intimidating.”

“…you could certainly say that ma’am…” a twinge of uneasiness in their voice and refusal to look up at Melly. They could feel her gaze from behind her signature veil and it only multiplied their unease by the hundreds.

There was a reason interns didn’t last long out here. This woman tests the wits of them to their limits.

Placing the insect back into its enclosure, Melly smiles down at the intern on her desk.

Oh no, she’s smiling. The intern gulps waiting for the workday to finally be over and never return, these two minutes couldn’t be longer but somehow felt like eternity.

“Alright, run along…”

Those blessed words felt like the hallelujah chorus to that poor intern’s ears as they quickly ran off to return home.

Melly sighs and leans back in her chair. The exact outcome she desired, she didn’t like humans or interns here and enjoyed scaring them off. It’s not like she had to do much, ‘a threatening aura’ is often used to describe her. She simply must exist and the weak are scared. They have no business working with her insects; they have no respect for them. With eyes scanning her desk her image presenter flashes to her meeting with Alice a few years prior, now that is a human she likes. A genuine smile presents itself as she reminisces about the lovely article that was written about her work with insects and how vital it is.

“Melly…there’s a message for you.”

“How disappointing…send it through.”

Her coworker nods, sending it through and closing the door again as they head out.

The lounging posture is quickly straightening as her eyes take in the surprising information within the encoded message. “Very well then…”

Getting up from her chair she marches for the exit, passing by her coworker on the way out, “message Mr Kreiburg…I need to meet with him in the usual place. Use the secure channel.”

“Sounds fine. Enjoy your trip.” They place a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t get too deep into this.”

“I appreciate your concern. See you in a few days and I expect those monarchs to be healthy and ready to fly by then.”

---

Melly hears the tap of the familiar cane on the marble floor of the rundown gazebo. The one dry place out here as the rain pours. There is a peace that still resides here despite what happened. It has this sense of healing in the air that can only be truly appreciated when resting elbows on the railing of the gazebo and closing one’s eyes.

“Are you disappointed?”

“I would be lying if I said I wasn’t…I enjoy seeing the bees that travel here.” moving from her leaned over position to turn to face Frederick. “Are you disappointed about being yourself again…?”

“It’s a simple change of size…it isn’t that deep.”

“A reminder then...”

Frederick shifts his weight at that, “I will give you that one…”

Melly smiles, “have you found it yet?”

“If I had I wouldn’t still be involved with all this.” He eyes her, “you wouldn’t be here either if you didn’t have your debts to pay as well.”

Shrugging her shoulders, she turns to run her fingers along a pillar of the gazebo, “I don’t know, I might have found this place without all of the drama…I find it works well as a…’happy place’..”

Frederick remains silent but is listening.

“…there is an individual on the outside that wishes to meet with Alice. An interview is being requested…we all know she hunts you down every opportunity she gets. So, you’re going to have to be the one to share this information.”

---------------

Ch 4 Frederick

Frederick arches a brow at the information Melly shared. “Me? Why not you? You two meet for tea once a month.”

Melly shakes her head, “I want her to still be able to trust me. I want to be able to share a word of warning with her…and remain seemingly uninvolved.”

“Lucky you, getting to have ‘wants’…” annoyance present in his tone. “I’m assuming this is you not following the plan then?”

Exasperated “yes, and do please keep it a secret…we are all monkeys in these invisible cages, instead of the real cages we narrowly avoided…”

“Hm….” his gaze falling to the ground.

“Oh Frederick…don’t look so downtrodden.” Melly frowns as she walks over to him. “…being human sized is such a bad look for you…you should stay like this, remember who you really are.”

“A forgotten unwanted failure? I think not. When I’m with the humans I’m unknown and it feels like I can start fresh.”

“You don’t really want that…you want to be remembered, celebrated. It’s why you’re putting all this effort in trying to locate that gem…so you can— “

“Return home and be welcomed…”

“With applause.” Placing a hand on his.

Frederick groans, closing his eyes. It sounds ridiculous when said aloud but it’s true…the applause he used to enjoy…he is simply average and lost in the sea of averages now, but if he finds the unfindable…that could all change.

Shaking his head, he pulls his hand away from Melly. “We’ve known each other a long time…you know full well that this is a lost cause of a path that I’ve been on. Maybe it’s time I just moved on from the past, run from it like you do. Why don’t you encourage that?”

Melly sighs, “running has brought me no peace…I only lose more of myself the further I get, and I don’t wish that on anyone.”

---

Frederick is seated in his nice living space in the human city, returned to human size and living, his conversation with Melly replaying in his mind as he looks out his window at the bustling city. Eyeing all this unfathomable tech, lights and screens flashing everywhere. He recalls how difficult all of this was to get used to, but found things he could appreciate, like the music and how they create it, the fascinating instruments and sounds they add…

“Maybe if we let bitterness go…and embrace all of this innovative living…” he quickly shakes the thought out, “ridiculous.”

‘His people’ have longer lifespans than these newer ones, so he was young, but very much alive when the war was on going, too young to be involved, but old enough to be completely aware. He knew what life was like before the humans showed up, even though those memories are difficult to recall, being just a small child then. So, this bitterness he feels is personal, not one handed down by older generations.

But maybe he should be thanking the humans. For providing a place he can go and not be shunned or endure constant looks of dissatisfaction and disappointment. ……..

His brows furrow and quickly downs some champagne. Enough thinking.

Grabbing his overcoat and cane he leaves his dreary thoughts behind and heads for his favorite art gallery, that always tends to cheer him up.

---

[stlispenard]

‘now I know your name but not who you are.’ 

enjolras said: ‘now i know your name but not who you are.’ 

      in a small, apprehensive gesture grantaire reaches for the side of enjolras’ face. he traces his fingers along the lines he used to marvel at, that he has committed to memory. there are new additions now (although few) and he does not mean to pause at them, but they break the symmetry of his former patterns and forces his fingers to find a new course. the variance is beautiful to him, but the lines are also an expression of the time he has lost. 

      enjolras’ words hang poignantly between them, intangible, but still like an invisible wall that needs to be penetrated, punched through, before they can talk. there is no passiveness in enjolras’ defense, it is quick, brutal and aimed directly at his heart. synonymous with ‘you’ve changed’ or ‘i was always wrong about you’. he knows what vein to cut to bleed him out quickly and efficiently. it contradicts itself and everything grantaire hears in his words, interpreted or otherwise; he knows exactly who he is still. 

      he reaches through that invisible barrier, prepared to see himself and his repulsiveness in enjolras’ reaction to his touch. he waits for the jolt, a flinch or worse. a real stranger would perceive him reaching through it as an incoming threat, but enjolras remains perfectly, perfectly still. his fingers stop moving near the tip of his chin; thumb resting in its cleft and his index finger right under it. he practically cradles it. the touch is cautious, it’s light and completely at odds with the simultaneous rage and confusion he feels. enjolras has already noted the blackness in his eyes and grantaire supposes that anger must be new to him because he never faced it.

      “lies, lies, all fucking lies. you know exactly who i am, matthieu. isn’t it plain to see that i have not changed? my world ended a long time ago and i became the same shell of the man i was before you. right where you left me. i am frozen in time and perpetually haunted by you and all your lies. hah, even your death is a lie!”

      his voice is weak even when his words are harsh. they taste of bile. he laughs so bitterly because he has lost the ability to cry ages ago. there was never any closure for him. enjolras had died that july and grantaire had mourned him, even if he never forgave him for pushing him away. he blamed himself for not being there and time and time again he tried and failed to join him. he never stopped hurting, even seven years later he lives in a perpetual cycle of grief, pining and desire. 

      “you are turning thirty this year. you don’t look it, unsurprisingly, but your face has changed. you weren’t this thin when you left me and you had more colour then. your lips were a pinkish red then, but never purple. now it could be the season, you could have a cold, but…” he hums like he’s thinking, like he’s theorizing and just now coming to a conclusion, but he knew it the second he saw him that the change was caused by something severe, “that’s not it, is it?” grantaire tries not to imagine what might have happened to him in the seven years he has been gone. his imagination is vile and exaggerated and it inflicts so much pain. he will avoid it until he knows what he is up against. even now, i’d kill for you and die for you. even now.

      he removes his hand from enjolras’ face and he reaches for his hand instead. he tugs at it to tell him to follow him: “you have things you want to say, you probably want to yell at me, but i want to draw you while you do it. i don’t care if you walking out that door again in half an hour, but you owe me this much. ten minutes and you can go back to wherever the fuck you came from. hell or heaven. purgatory? the nine circles of hell?”

sentence starters /@andthe6

[hypherr]

Hi, I am contacting you because I saw you mentioned somewhere that you have adhd, and I was wondering how did you still reached such incredible level. I have adhd too, and drawing has always been my passion also. But despite a whole life of practice, and doodling almost all the time, I always had a very hard time to understand anatomy and other technics, and because of adhd, I can’t focus neither motivate myself consistently to learn technics. I am also very inconsistent to draw proper illustrations, and also struggle to get things finished. Because of this, I have the feeling that I will never improve, and I gave up my life dream to become an illustrator. So, I was wondering how did you reached such incredible level despite of adhd difficulties, and if you had some helpful tips. Best regards.

Hey dude! Yeah, I can totally give you some tips that worked for me up until I got medicated :D I know a LOT of folks have to deal with ADHD, so I’m more than happy to try and give you some advice. 

I will preface that I tend to hyperfixate on things like drawing, so I put 200% effort into learning about it and I enjoy trying new methods of painting/drawing/whatever else. It’s still moreso reliant on the individual artist, but the below list is what I do and have done that kept me going:

Make studying into something that is interesting. By that I mean you don’t have to simply draw/study a pose for life drawing, you can make it interesting by drawing a character in that pose/doing that action so that it becomes something you’re more invested in instead of something you’re doing to just get better. I usually draw my OCs in the poses that I’m studying from pinterest or whatever, and it makes the process a lot more fun -

Do what YOU want, not what others say you should do. Not every style or process is for everyone. Stick with what interests you and it’ll make your ADHD brain happier. Getting trapped into the idea of “Oh, I should be good at line art” or “Oh, I should be really good at drawing in X style” when you’re not really interested in either of those things will bore you to no end. Personally, I settled with the fact that I don’t have patience for line art, I loathe using opaque brushes, and I despise having a million layers on my paintings. SO, I don’t do a line art pass; I just clean up my sketch layer which becomes my line art, I don’t use opaque brushes, and I keep my layers really limited. My way of drawing and painting is kinda unorthodox and I always have to explain it to clients when I send WIPs (I’m srs the way I work confuses ppl, especially non-artists lol), but the end result is always what they hired me for, so there are no complaints. Plus, I am MUCH comfier drawing and painting in my own “unique” way, and they’re cool with that. **NOTE: I still recommend checking out tutorials and such, but don’t feel like the artist who created the tutorial is god and that you must follow their teachings to a T. Ex. I love the artist kawanocy, and I have some Patreon stuff from him. His art process is too slow and clinical for me personally, but I still take bits and pieces from his teachings to incorporate them into my own workflow/my own art hacks. -

Only study when you want to. Naturally this doesn’t apply to you being in school for art (sometimes u gotta cry and just study away for an assignment), but if you’re not in the mood for drawing/studying, just don’t do it. It’s fine to take some time off!! I’ve had periods of months w/o drawing, especially during summer when I was in Uni. Sometimes you need to wait for inspiration to find u again -

Study from artists you admire and it won’t feel like studying.  FIRSTLY do not steal from artists you admire, just study their work. It is fine to trace AS LONG AS YOU DO NOT POST IT AND/OR CLAIM IT AS YOUR OWN WORK. DO NOT DO THAT. I REPEAT, DO NOT CLAIM TRACED WORK AS YOUR OWN WORK. IT IS NOT YOUR OWN WORK. IF YOU POST TRACED WORK, YOU ARE STEALING ARTWORK AND BEING DISGRACEFUL AND DISRESPECTFUL TO THE ARTIST. Tracing is fine for STUDYING ONLY because your hand follows the path of the original artist’s hand and you get a literal feel for how they work and where their pen goes. I don’t rlly do this anymore, but I used to, esp when I wanted to do some low-brainpower studying.  The main point of #4 tho is to not be shy abt taking bits of ppl’s style and using it for yourself. Ex: I really really REALLY admire the art of  @/xafeelgood on instagram. I am particularly in love with the way they draw bodies and faces. @/chenbearpig on insta has an amazing style too, and I love love LOVE the way he paints. @/kawanocy has a very beautiful rendering style, and his lighting is v dramatic and impactful.  Obvi there are more ppl I admire than just those 3, but those were a lot of my inspirations with art when I was in uni, and they helped shape my style and made me excited to keep pursuing art and trying their styles/painting methods. You have to find artists who make you excited to keep going, and just study their art a bit, or watch a speedpaint to see how they make such glorious art. It is really fun and I always enjoy trying to breakdown how they do their art stuffs so that I can try and do smth similar!! -

Don’t give a fuck about how fast other people draw, how good other people are compared to you, or your follower count. The most helpful thing I told myself this year that has sent my career and drawing/painting ability into the next level is, “I don’t care.” So what if other people are better than me? So what if I’m not the greatest artist ever? I’m still good. I’m still getting paid. I’m loving art again. I’m still trying hard. I’m just not getting that worked up abt art anymore. It’s HARD to not give a fuck, I know that, but it’s only art. It’s really not that serious. It’s not life or death. You’re just here to have a good time and work towards getting better at illustration/drawing/whatever, yeah? It’s so cheesy, but we all have our own paths to take to get to where we want to go. I have died inside realizing that people who are like 16 are 100x better than me already. I used to feel like shit and like my progress didn’t mean anything compared to how amazing other people are, but now? I just don’t care. I’m doing my own thing and I’m vibing and enjoying my drawing time, and that is all I can hope for!!

That is all I can think of right now u3u I guess a final note to leave off on is that all of these tips probably won’t 100% work for you, and that’s totally cool. Again, it’s highly dependent on the individual, but I still hope some of these thoughts and suggestions can help you find ways to make drawing fun and interesting for you. 

I hope you keep drawing and illustrating, my dude u7u that is the best way to keep getting better

[unbloomingmoonflower]

untitled

mentions of @starrysnowdrop’s Hali. 

Summary: Hali introduces Linari to Haurchefant. 

☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

If Coerthas was once a lush land, Linari could see no trace of it anywhere. 

As it was, the land was covered in ice and snow, bitter winds stinging the cheeks and chilling the fingers of those less prepared than the native Ishgardians who were far used to their land’s new climate. 

Linari thanked the Twelve that her armor kept her warm enough, her lance strapped to her back and never far from reach as she followed Hali into Camp Dragonhead. Despite how isolated it appeared to be from afar, it was bustling with knights and fleeting adventurers. Linari could grant it that much that it seemed to serve its purpose. 

“Linari, are you listening?” Hali’s voice broke through the Dunesfolk Lalafell’s reverie and Linari turned her violet eyes to the pink-haired Sharlayan. 

The dark-haired dragoon rubbed the back of her head. “I’m sorry, what were you saying, Hali?” 

An annoyed groan all but left her companion as she rolled her sea green eyes. “I said I wanted you to meet someone! I think you both will get along well!” she huffed as though tired of repeating herself. 

Linari quirked an eyebrow at Hali. “You could have just brought them to my house,” she pointed out.

“But you’re always out adventuring. It’d be a miracle if we catch you at home,” Hali replied diplomatically before gesturing for her friend to follow. “Now come on, I told him we’d be by!”

He? Oh no. Linari already had a strong suspicion of Hali’s motives this time, following her to the grand doors clearly leading to the stronghold. “Hali--”

“Haurchefant!” Hali called, her voice practically a song as she addressed the blue-haired Elezen that sat at the desk toward the very end of the space. Blue eyes lifted from the sheafs of paper spread upon the desk and a bright smile adorned the features of the knight Hali so casually called Haurchefant. He got to his feet in absolutely no time at all. 

“Miss Hali! A pleasure to see you again!” he greeted, stepping from behind his massive desk to approach the two Lalafellin maidens. “And you brought your friend. You both must be chilled to the bone; come, let us have some hot chocolate!”

This Elezen was sickeningly sweet and nervousness ate at the bowels of the Lalafellin dragoon at this. Why was he such? Especially in this day and age with blood of innocents being spilled and Primals about? “Hali.”

Hali looked over to Linari. “Yes, Linari? What is it?” 

“Who’s Twelve-damned cinnamon roll is this out here in the trenches?” Linari asked bluntly, crossing her arms. 

Haurchefant recoiled in surprise and Hali palmed her forehead. “Linari, do you not have any tact?”

“This is the Miss Linari you’ve told me of, Miss Hali?” asked Haurchefant, complete awe in his voice before he let out a laugh. “Well, I am pleased to see she speaks her mind without hesitation!”

Linari raised an eyebrow at Haurchefant this time. “Hali has spoken of me?” she asked. 

“Rather highly of you, Miss Linari. May I formally introduce myself as Haurchefant Greystone. A pleasure to meet you!”

“Nice to meet you as well.” 

Linari could see Hali practically glowing out of the corner of her eye and she had a feeling her friend was going to relay this interaction as part of her scheme to set Linari up with someone. 

Well, that’s what jovial jests between friends were for. She’d get Hali back for that.