#anatomy who i just drew this on a whim

[yuzuuu4]

(rkgk) after sparring

[rainbowangel110]

OKAY OKAY

Y'all, there's the girl who sits next to me in my anatomy physiology class, and oh my god she's really AN I MEAN REALLY GOOD at drawing. She has this big ol book of references that are all anatomically correct, a small one for poses too. It's so freaking coo! She's so cool!!

So anyways, for the last week or so, I've been drawing this landscape thing with all my Community OCs with from Essence Unleashed. A small moment with them all at the local park. So out of all of them (8 total) who do you think is the hardest for me to draw? The two who's designs I literally just pinned down and drew on a whim? Nope.

Vanessa. MY ACTUAL MAIN OC- okay look I had everyone else down but her?! I couldn't figure it out. Was she on the bridge? Was she flying? Sitting down? I couldn't figure it out for the life of me. Eventually I drew her laying down on the grass, a moment of calm for her.

But I didn't like how it turned out.

So I eventually decided "Hey what if I asked the girl in Anatomy? Maybe she can point me in the right direction? Hope I don't bug her though."

So when class was about to end, I asked her.

And she looked at the part I pointed out to her and said

"Well, I'm not really good at that sort of thing.... but-" and then she turns around, to her bag. Pulls out one of her reference books

AND GIVES IT TO ME

You could have dropped a million into my hand and I would have been less shocked.

What the fuck.

"I don't use it all that much, might as well lend it to someone who'll actually learn from it."

Bluescreen. All the way to the bus. Some one pinch me am I alive.

[sunsodas]

*distressed kaminari noises*

[moorishflower]

but what if pirate/siren dreamling

(TW for gore and very brief cannibalism mention (is it truly cannibalism if it's your deep sea predator lover taking a friendly nibble of an organ you aren't using))

The problem with having a lover who has multiple arms, Hob muses, is that when one does something foolish, that means there are that many more limbs with which they can hit you. He thinks this as a tentacle pelts him on the top of the head, not hard enough to sting, but definitely enough to bring him to attention.

"Hold still," Dream says, quite casually, in Hob's opinion, considering the fact that he is currently two hands and one tentacle deep in Hob's entrails, and has been rooting around down there for some time, and shows no signs of stopping. Hob has, within the last ten minutes, taken to staring fixedly over Dream's shoulder at the map mounted on the wall of his cabin. Hic sunt monstra, it says, at the very edge of the ocean, and Hob feels a half-drunk laugh bubble up out of him. Christ, if only that mapmaker had known.

"You're lucky my spine's what got hit," he says, "else I'd be screaming and you'd have to knock me out," and Dream hums softly. His voice, even above the water, has a tonal quality that Hob always has trouble defining in any meaningful way. It's like the cry of gulls at twilight, just before they settle into the darkness; it's like the hum of whales moving below the surface of the sea, their huge backs breaking the surf in plumes of silver and grey; it's like the creak of the masts and the beat of the sails when the wind is high and the sky is so clear it feels as though the ship might leave the water entirely.

A siren, Hob had thought, when he'd first found the man washed up upon the strand. One of those beautiful creatures of the deep, what tempted Odysseus and drew men to their dooms upon the rocks.

He's rather certain no siren has ever been depicted with tentacles, though.

Blood slicks Dream's pale arms up to the elbow as he pushes aside loops and coils of Hob's intestines, glistening grey-pink and pulsing faintly in the lamplight. The blood will not stop -- it drenches the bed, despite the oilskin tarp they've laid down, and pours in steady rivulets down onto the planks of the deck. Lucky that the men he's picked to crew his ship all have strong stomachs, for he's sure that some of his blood is going to drip down into the mess, and he is already dreading having to explain himself come morning. It's common knowledge that Captain Robert Gadling cannot die -- he's favored by luck, they say, the Lady herself, he's made a deal with the devil, he's drunk from the pure blood of Christ and now death cannot touch him.

There's a kernel of truth in every rumor, he thinks, as Dream finally reaches where one of the bullets has lodged itself. He knows Dream has found it, because he hears the gentle hum become a clacking of teeth, a chitter of excitement.

"Have you got it, my love?" he asks, and thinks himself wildly magnanimous when he does not try to bite the slender night-blue tentacle that pats vaguely at his cheek.

"You are very complicated inside," Dream says. "More so than fish."

"I'd hope so. How many did that cunt actually fire, anyways?"

"I have found…" There's a distressing squelching noise, and then Dream's hands emerge, gore dripping from his fingers and wrists, but, triumphantly, bearing several blood-drenched bullets. "Three. Including the one. In your spine."

"I didn't even feel you pull it out," Hob says wonderingly. Dream casually drops the bullets to the deck, where they roll, and scatter in several directions, trailing blood according to the whims of the listing ship.

"You would not. Your spine, as you said. Was what got hit."

"Nothing some good rest won't fix. Can you, ah. Pile me back inside, darling?" He looks pointedly down at his belly, still a gaping wound from Dream's careful, knifelike talons.

Dream, ever helpful, but without much of a grasp on human anatomy, slops his intestines loosely back into place, and then sits for a while, the tentacles of his lower half writhing, snuffing along the blood-soaked floor like eager hounds. He tastes it through his skin, Hob thinks -- or something to that effect. He tastes it with his mouth, also, fastidiously cleaning the scarlet from his hands and forearms with a tongue as pink and soft as dawning, and if Hob hadn't spent the past half-hour steadily bleeding out, reviving, and then bleeding out again, he thinks he would find the sight almost unbearably arousing.

You're fucked in the head, he thinks to himself, though not without a certain amount of wry affection. 'Fucked in the head' is one way to describe the man who cheated Death at cards. He blesses every century that passes that she was a good sport about it.

"Am I to your satisfaction?" he asks, beginning to feel woozy, again, the lightheaded feeling of bloodloss so close to drunkenness that it seems an old and faithful friend. Dream pauses with his tongue still partly out, and Hob wishes he were able to move, that he could lean forward and take it into his mouth, and suck the taste of iron from it until all that's left beneath is the iodine tang of the sea.

"Always," Dream says, and lowers his arms, and slinks closer, his upper half as still and calm as a tidal pool, and everything below that a roil of constant movement. He shapes himself legs when he must walk among men, but here, in the relative privacy of Hob's cabin, he rarely bothers. Hob should find that less attractive than he does, perhaps. But he has already established that cheating Death has, in some ways, rendered him insane.

"Then can you please start stitching me up," he says sweetly, with just an edge of gritted teeth. "I'm about to go out again. Good time to practice your. Your." Hob feels his eyes cross. Can feel his heart stuttering.

"Your needlework," he manages to get out, just before his vision blacks, and the last thing he sees is Dream peering closely at him, concern in his eyes, the fractal flare of luminescence sparking across his cheeks in a mimicry of the night sky. Stars, Hob thinks. Death had told him he would sail the stars if he only wanted it for long enough, though she'd expressed her doubts that he would last that long. You'll be asking for me within the century, she'd said. No human is meant to live much longer than that. Your minds aren't wired for it.

Yet here he is. Three hundred years later, and no signs of stopping. Other than the blood loss, of course, but as he feels his heart give a final, thready thump he feels reassured in the knowledge that Dream has, in fact, been practicing his sewing, and has been getting fairly good at it when he helps to repair the sails, and he's probably not going to try and sneak a bite of any of Hob's organs, because he loves him, and you don't eat the ones you love. Probably.

(If he wakes up missing a small chunk of his liver, well. His spine is still broken, and everything below his breastbone is a fuzzing numbness, and it's not like the organ won't grow back, eventually. These are the things he tells Dream, anyways, when he comes to at last, and finds his belly stitched neatly closed, and his otherworldly lover rubbing his gore-sodden mouth against Hob's neck in fitful ecstasy.

"My love," Dream is murmuring, and Hob cannot help but pull him close, and let all the many arms and limbs wind around him, a sweet parody of drowning. "My love, my love, inside you taste of the sea.")

[youngdreamer3214]

Parting Words

Disclaimer- I don't own the Teen titans or anything related.

Jason Todd is Red X.

The titans are in their mid- twenties. Raven and Jason are living together in Gotham after the titans were taken over by younger heroes; but they still go on missions assigned to them by the league.

Strong winds blew as dark clouds adorned the sky. Thunder raked through the skies and the clouds were desperate to shed the water they had been holding. A storm was brewing.

But it was nothing compared the storm of emotions which trapped Raven and Jason which was ready to swallow them whole.

"How can you not tell me Jason?" Raven said in anger, a few objects rattled in dark magic. Jason sighed in frustration "It wasn't important."

Raven sharply turned to face her boyfriend and hissed "How can you think it wasn't important? You took three bullets Jason near your heart...three bullets! You almost died."

"I'm not dead, so how is it any important now?" he said, anger and frustration creeping in his voice.

"You are my boyfriend Jason, it is important to me." She yelled, a few more objects rattling now. They had been fighting for about an hour now and they both were incredibly thin on their patience.

"I am fine now, so why are you making it a bigger deal than it is." He yelled back.

She took a step towards him and exclaimed "It is a big deal because you are important to me. Don't you get that?"

He also took a step towards her and yelled "No, what I don't understand why are you so mad?"

"I am mad at you because I love you." She spat turning away from him in frustration.

Raven and Jason had been dating for two years now and were living together. Jason had just returned from a long mission and Raven got to know that he didn't tell her that he nearly died had Batman not intervened. Which was also why Jason didn't want to talk about it, he was pissed off because Batman saved him; needless to say he still had some issues with his adoptive father.

After Batman found out that he was the anti- hero, Red-X; he tried to get Jason to join the family again, Jason was a little reluctant about that but he became a hero again.

Jason growled and grabbed her arm to make her look at him, his eyes were pulsing green from the pit as he snapped "Maybe that's the problem" Raven gasped and looked at him with shock and hurt.

"...I can take care of myself, I don't need anyone and even if I did I am sure as hell that I don't need a pathetic demon like you." He added after a couple of moments of shocked silence, his eyes still pulsing green.

They were silent for a couple of moments as his words hung between them like poisonous daggers. Raven looked at him with tears welling up in her eyes, his eyes lost the green tint as the realization of his words dawned upon him. He took a step towards his girlfriend who was on the verge of crying and reached out to touch her and protect her against his harsh words but she stepped back and chanted her mantra to teleport away from him.

He was reaching forward to grab her before she teleported away but he was too late, he looked at the spot which was previously occupied by his beloved girlfriend and he sunk his face in his hands and pulled his hair a little roughly.

This wasn't how today was supposed to go; he wanted to spend time with his beloved girlfriend after being away for so long. He had missed her so much.

He honestly wasn't thinking when he spoke, he just saw red at that moment and he didn't mean anything he said. He loved her, more than anything in his life and her love was one thing he treasured more than anything and that would never ever be a problem; and he couldn't live without her.

He knew that his words hurt her, despite her emotionless appearance Raven felt everything very deeply and she had told him that she never felt like anyone needed her or wanted her and hearing those words from him would have really broken her heart.

He grabbed his phone and his gear and rushed out of their apartment to find his girlfriend while he dialled her number and tried to track her phone.

Meanwhile Raven teleported herself away from their apartment, she wiped her tears but they continued to fall, she slowly walked to the nearest bar and sat ordering a drink for herself. His words had cut deep and had hurt her a lot more than she could fathom and the only thing she wanted to do now was drink.

Yeah, many of her boyfriend's habits had rubbed onto her.

She sighed and placed her head in her hands, silently crying while his words repeated themselves in her mind. She was brought out of her thoughts when she heard her phone ring.

She pulled it out of her pocket and saw the picture of her boyfriend and his name flash on the screen. She cut the call and switched off her phone so that he couldn't track her and shoved it back in her pocket.

As she drank she thought about her options, she could go to her big brother but he was off on some mission with Kori. So the alien was also out, maybe she could speak to Richard, no she stopped that train of thought.

After her last encounter with Damian and now with Jason, she couldn't speak to him. She couldn't deal with bats anymore. 'Maybe what they said was true, why will they need me?' she thought sadly and ordered another drink.

Damian Wayne, the blood son of Bruce Wayne was her close friend but even he tended to say things without thinking. And what he said last time to her had felt like he had stabbed her.

Yeah, she wasn't having good days.

After a few hours, she sat in the bar almost drunk when she felt a familiar presence approach her but she didn't bother to look. Nope, she didn't care who it was or what they wanted, they could all go to hell.

"Finally Raven, Jason is going crazy looking for you." Came the familiar voice of her good friend, Richard as he sat beside her on a bar stool.

Richard was actually worried because if Jason had called him for help finding Raven then they must have had a bad fight. Jason usually stayed distant and didn't call for help unless he was really desperate. And now his worries increased as he saw Raven drinking, many glasses surrounded her and she was holding one also. Raven was usually level headed and logical; and if she was drinking heavily then she must be really upset.

"Don't care...leave me alone." She slurred and continued drinking from the glass in her hand. He sighed and turned to look at her, her shoulders were slumped in defeat and she was holding onto the glass as if her life was depending on it. He couldn't see her face as it was shadowed by her now long wavy hair.

He was about to say something when he saw a few tears drop on the bar as she finished her drink. She placed her glass on the table and extended her card towards the bartender to pay for her drinks. "What happened Rae? Tell me" he said calmly but also firmly as he placed his hand on her shoulder in a friendly way.

"Nothing...just leave me be." Came her low reply. Raven internally snarled at her demon anatomy, she couldn't even get drunk fully; she was just tipsy right now. She got up, shaking off his hand and turned to leave the bar when he grabbed her hand to stop her from leaving. She just jerked her hand back.

"You are one of my best friends, please tell me." He pleaded again. She wrapped her hands around herself and mumbled "Damian and Jason are right."

And she walked out of the bar leaving a confused Richard behind, what were his brothers right about. He ran to catch up with Raven who was walking slowly; he jogged beside her and asked "Where are you going?"

The streets seemed a little empty for it deep in the night and a storm had just passed, leaving puddles of water in its wake.

She didn't have a destination in mind, she was just walking. "Jason doesn't need me." She mumbled again, her eyes droopy and her legs shaky. Richard turned towards her as he walked, not seeing where they walked.

Richard had directed all his attention towards the young woman in front of him who was a very strong demon, who was the queen of hell and could destroy the world on a whim but right now she was vulnerable and sad. He was trying to understand and maybe then solve what was troubling her but he couldn't understand anything from her cryptic answers.

Before he could say anything, a light flashed behind him, Raven turned and pushed him away. He was caught off guard by this and he fell and as he fell he heard a crashing sound and a sound of a vehicle stopping forcefully. His heart skipped a beat as he realized what happened.

He got up quickly and ran towards the truck; he hadn't realized that they were walking on the road. When he reached he saw the bleeding body of Raven near an electric pole with sparks falling from the pole because of the collision and a few wires laying near her, and a man panicking as he dialled a number. Richard ran towards his friend and saw her clothes seeping blood, she was bloodied and bruised with a deep gash on her forehead.

He drew her to his lap and said frantically "Raven...look at me." Her eyes were half hooded, there were silence as he quickly scooped her up and made his way over to the cave as that was the place nearest to them and one of the very few places equipped to help her. His heart was jumping loudly, his friend saved him but maybe at her cost. "Jason." She mumbled and passed out; her body limp in his arms as he rushed.

'Oh God, Jason! How would he handle this?' Richard knew that he had to call Jason but right now his priority was making sure that his friend would survive.

He jumped quickly but carefully and ran as to not hurt the empath, he didn't care if his clothes were bloodied, and he just had to make sure she was all right.

Richard didn't want to think about the worst, he pinged the emergency button which he always had on his belt to alert the cave. He was panting for air by the time he reached but he quickly entered the pass code and saw his mentor, his father standing there with his younger brother, Tim.

"What happened Richard?" Batman asked as he took the young woman from Richard's arms and rushed her to the medical wing. "Accident...she saved me." He said in between long intakes of air.

Batman carefully but swiftly took the young woman to the medical wing, blood was seeping from her wounds and her bruises were turning blue-black for some reason.

Batman was quite fond of the young empath, at the beginning he did not approve his second son dating an inter- dimensional demon's daughter but she had slowly won him over. He saw that she made Jason happy and made him feel loved and honestly he didn't want anything more than that. After everything Jason had been through he deserved happiness.

With extreme caution he did a scan of her and started her treatment.

Richard sighed and saw his hands and clothes which were covered in the dark beauty's blood. He sat with Tim; they didn't say anything for they were sad and worried for their friend. Richard rubbed his eyes and took out his phone and dialled his younger brothers' phone.

After a couple of rings Jason picked up his phone.

"Did you find her?" Came his desperate question. "Jason...something has happened."

Jason reached the cave and yelled "Where the hell is she?!" his heart was thumping so fast and loudly that he could hear it over the lightning raking the city outside the shelter of the cave as he approached Richard and Tim.

When he saw his older brother, time stopped for him and his heart started beating faster if possible, adrenaline pumped through his veins. Richard's clothes were stained in dark blood along with his hands; Jason tried to steady himself when he saw that Richard didn't look at him.

He growled and asked again in a dangerously low voice "Where is my girlfriend?" Richard looked at him with concern and guilt lacing his expression and sighed sadly "In the medical wing..." Jason pulled Richard's collar so that they were eye to eye as he roared "What the damn hell happened?"

Richard freed himself from his brother's grasp with a deep breath and told him everything. Him finding her in a bar, she almost drunk and unwilling to speak to him, and her saving him from being hit by a truck but getting hurt instead.

Richard turned and saw fury and concern on his younger brother's face, before Jason could say anything Batman walked towards them. Jason ran towards their mentor and asked frantically "How is she? Is she okay?"

Batman sighed and looked at his son who was fidgeting in his worry and was two seconds away from running towards his girlfriend. "Jason, she hasn't woken up yet and is very weak. We won't know fully about her condition until she has woken up."

"What happened to her?" He demanded. Batman sighed and said reluctantly "She has lost a lot of blood and has four broken bones and one fractured rib."

"But she can heal herself." Jason stated in anger. Batman took off his cowl and said "Her powers are exhausted after protecting her heart from the current."

Wordlessly Jason ran towards the medical wing and towards his weak girlfriend. He opened the glass door with a shaky breath and saw his strong and beautiful girlfriend now looking pale and fragile. Her head was bandaged as were some parts of her hands and she was hooked onto several machines, he slowly walked towards her and saw her midriff also bandaged.

He carefully held her hand, cautious enough to not cause her more pain than she already is in. He kneeled beside her on the floor and kissed her hand "Wake up, love...if only to be angry at me; but please wake up...I need you." His heart beat was mirroring the thunder that was echoing in the city.

He said the last part shakily and rested his head beside her, trying to blink away the tears forming in his eyes.

Bruce, Richard and Tim saw the scene before them and were astonished seeing Jason like this, so broken over someone. They all hoped that Raven would wake up soon, for she was the only one who could heal Jason also.

Jason woke up to a hand on his shoulder, shaking him slightly. He lifted his head hoping it was all a bad dream but when he met with the bandaged body of his girlfriend his face fell. He looked over his shoulder and saw his father standing with a concerned expression.

"She'll be okay Jason; she loves you too much to leave you." Bruce comforted his son. Jason sighed sadly and rubbed his eyes saying "I screwed up Bruce...I said some things I didn't mean, I hurt her...I am the reason she is like this. If I hadn't said all that then she wouldn't have left...and then she wouldn't have been in this condition."

"Thinking like this won't do you any good Jason, all you can do right now is learn from your mistakes. And I am sure that she will be okay, she's very strong." Bruce said wisely.

"You haven't slept in two nights, go on. I'll sit with her." Bruce added. "I can't leave her." Jason said stubbornly.

Bruce sighed and said "At least go shower and eat something...until then I'll sit here."

Jason thought over his mentor's words and then reluctantly nodded and kissed his girlfriend's hand which he had been holding and got up "I'll be back soon, love."

Bruce watched his son walk out and then turned his attention towards the young empath in front of him and said softly to her "Jason needs you, he's happy with you and I haven't seen him this happy since a long time."

After a couple of minutes the dark knight saw a twitch of black magic on the empath's fingertips; he sighed a bit in relief knowing that she was in there somewhere.

After an hour, the glass doors swished open and Bruce met with the face of his eldest son, "Where's Jason?" the older hero asked.

"He passed out on his bed." Richard said with a slight chuckle and the dark knight just smiled a little and then turned his attention back to the dark beauty.

0O0

"Where's Raven?" Jason roared as he saw the empty bed in the bat cave, his fury was surfacing as Tim approached him and said softly "Bruce and Dick shifted her to the Manor while you were sleeping...they are with her at the moment."

"Thanks replacement." He nodded at his younger brother and approached his old home through one of the many secret entrances to his old home. He approached the medical room, situated in the depths of the manor and saw Raven still unconscious and Richard sitting on a chair beside her and reading some novel to her sleeping form.

Jason walked inside and grabbed a chair, and pulled it so that he could sit with by his girlfriend. Richard paused from his reading and said with a tiny smile "Bruce said that her wounds are healing rather quickly."

"Then why isn't she waking up?" Jason said with desperation and worry lacing his voice. Richard placed a hand on his brother's shoulder "She'll wake up, Jaybird...she is too stubborn. It will just take some time."

Jason didn't reply instead he just looked at his girlfriend.

After a couple of long, slow moments "I'm sorry...if only I had paid more attention to where I was walking then she wouldn't have to save me."

Jason turned and looked at the guilty expression of his elder brother, he couldn't pretend that he wasn't angry at him for not protecting Raven but then he remembered that his girlfriend was Raven, and if the choice came to save herself or others then she would chose others in a heartbeat.

Her selflessness was something he both admired and hated at the same time.

"Don't apologize Dick, I asked you to help me find her...in a way it's my fault." Jason muttered. Richard placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and picked up the book again and began reading from where he had left off.

Jason didn't say anything instead he lightly kissed her hand before holding it tightly between his. He also noticed the light flame of magic on her fingertips and smiled in relief internally, knowing that her magic was slowly coming back, which would help her heal.

A week went by; Raven was still unconscious; she had begun to show signs of rapid healing when one day her heart beats started to slow down. The whole bat family started panicking but Bruce had restarted her heart via electric shocks. Jason was two seconds away from losing control but when he heard the rhythmic beating of her heart, he calmed down.

And since that day he refused to leave her side but after his brothers, Alfred's and Bruce's constant coaxing he was made to eat, shower and sleep. And he was not to be given entry unless he did all that, Jason grumbled as he left his girlfriend's side after kissing her jewel lightly and muttering an 'I'll be back.'

Today Damian was watching Raven; he hadn't come to see her ever since he found out that she was in the medical wing. He couldn't face her as he remembered his last words to her. His heart was filled with guilt when he remembered how hurt she looked.

"I didn't mean anything I said." Damian muttered softly.

"What did you say exactly?" Richard asked from the door. Damian whipped his head towards the source of the voice and sighed knowing that he cannot lie to his elder brother.

"I said something I didn't mean...I said that she was a mistake and when Todd realizes that fact he will also leave her."

There was a moment's silence, Damian looked at the carpet in shame; unable to meet his brother's disapproving stare.

"You said WHAT to my girlfriend." Jason yelled from the entrance of the room, which had Richard and Damian's gaze snapping over to him. And he looked furious with his eyes pulsing green. Jason stalked towards the ex- assassin but before he could say anything Richard came in between them and placed a hand on Jason's chest, holding him back so that he wouldn't bruise the youngest Wayne.

"He didn't think before he spoke, Jaybird and he regrets it." Richard said.

"And that makes it forgivable!" yelled Jason. "No, it doesn't. Let me speak to him while you sit with Raven." Richard said calmly.

Jason glared and growled as he sat on the chair near his girlfriend as Richard pulled Damian out of the room.

They stood outside in silence; Richard's glare was piercing into Damian. "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologize to me...you need to apologize to Raven when she wakes up...and next time think before you speak, your words did hurt her a lot and made her think that what you said was right." Richard said and walked off.

Damian walked in the room when Jason had left for a minute or so; he walked over to the unconscious form of his best friend and said "I apologize for my cruel words Raven, I didn't mean any part of it...we are lucky to have you in our lives and I hope that you wake up soon." He saw her fingers twitch and her magic seep through her fingers.

That evening, Bruce was watching Raven and Jason, as he had slept with his resting beside her on the bed and his hands holding hers in a gentle but firm grasp. Bruce silently did a scan of her and saw that all her wounds were healing quickly.

Suddenly the young girl gasped lightly and blearily opened her eyes, she felt a heavy weight on her hand and when she turned she saw her boyfriend sleeping with his head near her and her hand in between his. He stirred a bit but didn't wake up.

"Finally you're awake." Bruce said with a soft smile towards the girl he was coming to think of as a daughter. "H-how?"

"Dick brought you here." He replied softly. When he saw that Raven was about to say something he added "Sleep, we can talk after you have fully rested."

Raven wanted to protest but her eyes were droopy from the medication, she slowly gave in and slept. The dark knight looked at the now sleeping young woman and smiled in relief, she was awake and all right. He then turned to his son and lightly shook him awake to give him the news.

Raven slowly opened her eyes and was met with the beautiful aquamarine eyes of her boyfriend and his smiling face. "There she is, sunshine." He said softly.

"You gave us quite a scare Rae." Richard said; Raven turned towards the source of the voice and saw the Tim, Richard, Damian standing near the opposite wall with Bruce standing on her right side with relief shining in his eyes and Alfred standing at the entrance with a small smile. Jason helped Raven sit up as he placed pillows behind her to support her.

Bruce saw the confusion on her face and said "Let's give them some privacy; we can speak to Raven later." They all nodded and shuffled out of the room, as the door closed behind them, Raven found herself crushed to Jason's chest.

"I'm sorry Rae...I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean any of it." He said frantically. Raven could feel his tremble as he pulled her tighter against him and kissed her hairline.

She slowly pulled away and saw the worry written on his face "Don't let me go again." She placed her hand on the right side of his face and he leaned into it "Never little bird, never again." He kissed the inside of her palm and pulled her closer so that he rested his forehead against hers. "I was so scared little bird...so scared."

She looked up at him with the dark, enchanting eyes of hers and said softly with a smile "I know...I could hear everything." He then leaned forward and kissed her passionately, pouring all his love and worry in that kiss. She responded with equal passion and wrapped her arms around his neck.

They parted and Jason kissed her nose saying "I love you...I love you so much." Then he saw the smile that made his heart beat a little faster and she replied kissing him lightly "I love you too."

Jason smiled at her words and then saw the tiredness in her eyes, he grinned and said "Come on, rest for a bit...your body hasn't fully healed." She smiled and laid back on the pillows, Jason was about to get up when she caught his hand and muttered "Stay..."

Jason kissed her hand and saw her making space for him on the bed; he smiled and got on beside her. He curled around her and placed his hand around her waist, carefully enough to not hurt her injuries. She placed her head on shoulder and her hands on his.

He kissed her temple and pulled her tighter against him and muttered "You're my little bird and I am never letting go ever again." And he could feel her smile against his skin before she slept and after a few moments of watching her sleep he also gave in.

And that's how the bat family found them later, Jason curled around Raven with her head on his shoulder; both having happy and peaceful expressions. They didn't have the heart to wake the couple up so they left silently, letting the couple find comfort and love in each other.

[vellawrites]

One Night || Sherlock x Reader (smut below cut)

He showed up minutes to noon.

You’d been up late studying, pouring over textbook after textbook that you’d been too tired to bother putting away when you finally crawled into your bed in the young hours of the morning. Your flat was as cluttered as it had ever been with a disarray of notes occupying every surface the eye could see and beside your open laptop, a cold cup of tea sat forgotten amidst the middle of it all, half empty with a shallow ring forming on the wood beneath it.

Your eyes were slow to open at the sound of the incessant knocking on your front door and you stretched with a groan, your half asleep mind fumbling to remember if you were expecting company then. The knocking grew louder, faster, and only after determining that the visitor was definitely not going to stop did you throw your legs over the side, the wood cool cool beneath your feet.

You didn’t bother to move a single hair, despite how atrocious your bedhead surely was, and your eyes fought against every instinct to fall back shut and crawl back into your bed as you stumbled to the front door. Whoever it was had the indecency to wake you from your near-coma and as punishment, they would be forced to endure your unkempt state and most likely harrowing morning breath.

You had barely unlocked the bolts when the door flung open, nearly knocking right into you, and the tall dark blur of the consulting detective swept past you into your flat.

“Y/N, you won’t believe what I saw on my way here.”

You blinked at him, your mind suddenly on as high alert as it could be, and you pushed the door shut behind you. He’d yet to even spare a glance in your direction as he rushed through the room like a storm, his hand running along every surface he passed until he plopped unceremoniously to the spot you’d occupied most of the night before. You watched him fumble with the teacup and he took a sip before promptly spitting it back out into the porcelain.

“Gah, it’s cold.”

“Yeah,” you rasped in a tone that called him out for stating the obvious. “It’s been out all night. Why would you just drink from random cups?”

“Not random,” he mumbled, “it was yours. And I love tea. Can we make tea?”

Your arms crossed as the cogs in your head started to turn. Leaning against the arm of your chair, you peered down at him as he begun to flip through the pages of your various textbooks with both hands, eyes flitting wildly from one page to the next as though he could absorb all the different passages simultaneously.

Though, this was Sherlock, so perhaps he could.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

The question went ignored.  

“These are boring.” A look of disgust curled the edges of his lips as he moved on to the other open books spread out, finding nothing of interest in those either. “Why are you reading these, Y/N? They’re so boring.”

“They’re for my classes, Sherlock.”

“You already graduated,” he protested, at last turning those bright blue eyes your way. His brows furrowed. “These aren’t for forensics. Why are you studying anatomy now?”

“I enrolled in a nursing program.”

“Why?”

“Because—because I needed a change.”

“Change is upsetting.”

You rolled your eyes at that. “I’m not surprised you would say that.”

“Oh. Oh!” In an instant, he was at his feet once again, all but leaping over the coffee table to cross the room to you. His hands clamped onto your arms and he leaned in, like he often did when he had a breakthrough on one of his cases. “Y/N, you’ll never believe what I saw on my way here.”

“You said that before. So what was it?”

“I was on my way over here and there was a car parked down near Mr. McGillis’s shop—you know the one, with the knives and the clocks?”

“Yes. You took me there two weeks ago on one of your cases.”

“Yes! That one. Well you’ll never believe it but the car—a dog was driving it!”

You cocked your head with a most perplexed expression, one eyebrow raised in disbelief—and not because of his story, but rather the enthusiasm with which he was relaying it.

“I know! Isn’t that the oddest thing?” He let out a burst of laughter and his eyes shined wildly. “Well, of course it wasn’t really driving, but there were two dogs in the front seats and the small one had its paws up on the wheel—here, I have a picture. You have to see!” As he fumbled to reach into his pocket for his mobile, his grip on your arms fell and you took a step away.

“Sherlock.”

His hands abandoned his search and he looked at you once more, a stupid little smile that, in any other circumstance, would have been charming gracing his lips. “Y/N.”

You held out your hand. “Sherlock, give me your list.”

This time, it was he who looked at you in confusion. “My list?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Your list.”

Recognition hit and for a moment, he said nothing.

“I don’t have it,” he lied.

“Yes you do. You always do. Give it here.”

“No.”

“No?”

Like a petulant child, he crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his chin.

“If you want it, you have to take it from me.”

You eyed him up and down, reading everything from his posture to his stubborn glare and letting out a resigned sigh, you took a step forward. Your hand slipped into his pocket.

“It’s not in there.”

You glanced at him. “Then wh—“ As your understanding took root, you drew back and glowered. “Sherlock.”

“Go on, love. Take it.”

He was challenging you, his eyes glinting playfully—dangerously—and he pulled the corner of his lip between his teeth with a smirk. You took another step forward as he lifted back the side of his coat and cautiously, as though you could be burned, your fingers slipped into the pressed pocket of his trousers, brushing the crumpled note hidden inside. Before you could pull away, his arms wrapped snugly around you and all but pinned your body against his own, chest and legs and hips pressed firmly together.

“You’re so warm,” he groaned. “Are you always this warm when you’ve just woken up?”

“Sherlock, you’re crushing me.”

His arms loosened ever so slightly but he didn’t let go and he didn’t give you any space to escape from his embrace. It was enough, however, that you could pull your hand out from his pocket, clenching the crumpled paper between your fingers.

“My god,” he groaned again, his deep voice rumbling against your form in a most confusing and pleasant way, “you smell absolutely divine. How is it you always smell so delicious?”

His head dipped and you felt his nose bury into the skin of your neck, into your messy hair, and he hummed against you, sparking tiny shivers that wracked up and down your spine. You were nearly distracted enough to forget the entire purpose of standing so intimately close to him but with how oddly he was behaving, it didn’t stray far from your thoughts. You unfolded the note and did your best to smooth it with the little dexterity your single hand would provide.

As you struggled to see the words from over his shoulder, your eyes widened.

“What the fuck, Sherlock? Ecstasy?”

“It’s fascinating. I can’t believe I’ve never tried it before.”

“Sherlock, why would you take ecstasy?”

For a man who so seldom felt any strong emotions and even rarer still wanted to feel them, it was a most peculiar whim and you found yourself at a loss for words.

“For a case,” he mumbled. His face was still so close to yours, the tip of his nose drawing a delicate path along the line of your jaw. “The victim was drugged at a nightclub and the assumption is that it was the dosage that killed her. Obviously I had to adjust it for my stature.”

In your younger years, you had become well acquainted with it while you were away at university. You were no stranger to its effects or the dizzying euphoria that it created, but seeing that high experienced through Sherlock was jarring and alien to say the very least. You read over the number written out beside the long pharmaceutical name and your eyes widened again.

“I can’t believe you took this much. Jesus Christ—“ you tried to push away but his arms held you against him with alarming strength. “So you, what, figured you would overdose to see if it would kill you?”

“No,” he murmured so softly against your neck. “On the contrary, I’ve never felt so alive. Do people feel like this all the time?”

“When they’re high, yes. That’s what makes it so dangerous.”

“And appealing.”

It would have been impossible not to notice the way his firm hands began to slide across your back, fists curling and uncurling in the fabric of your sleep shirt as though it were an instrument he was all too eager to learn.

His breath fanned warmth against the shell of your ear as he gasped your name. “I feel so strange. And you feel so good.”

This was getting to be too much.

“That’s the drugs talking, Sherlock.”

Your hands rose up between you and as they slid over the smooth fabric covering his chest, he let out a moan that once again left you shivering, unsure if it was your body reacting to the proximity of your situation or if it was a thousand tiny alarms setting off at the sound.

“Fuck, it feels so good when you touch me.”

At that, you shoved him back with every ounce of strength in your body. He stumbled on his feet and looked at you in confusion—dare you say dejection—and his lip pulled down into a pout.

“Why did you do that?”

With the distance returned between you, you were able to clear your mind of the strange illusion he’d cast. Your hands fell to your hips, lips pulling into a most unpleasant scowl. “Damnit, Sherlock, how could you be so foolish?”

“Please.” In an extravagant motion, he waved the pesky thought away and his eyes remained locked on your form, raking up and down over and over in a slow way that made you feel far more exposed than you were. “I’ve done much worse than this.”

“Yes, as though I need the reminder.” Your eyes clamped shut and you pinched the bridge of your nose.

What were you going to do with him? How long has it been since you’d had to deal with someone this high on this particular drug—he might as well have taken Viagra with the way he was carrying about. You let out a sigh, mind searching everything you’d read about drug interactions since beginning your studies and everything you knew from before then, scrambling to remember if you had anything useful for the situation at hand.

You had nothing.

You couldn’t think clearly.

Your eyes snapped open, suddenly, when his face was buried into your neck again—only this time, his tongue lapped out, tracing a lazy pattern against your skin up to your ear and before you could properly prepare for it, his lips closed over the sensitive flesh of your lobe, nibbling and pulling and breathing in a way you never—not in a million years—would have expected from him.

“Sherlock.” Your voice was needy, pleading, but whether you were pleading him to stop or to keep going, you hadn’t the foggiest.

“You’re so bloody soft,” he moaned against you. “Softer than velvet. I wonder if you’re this soft everywhere.”

His warm fingers squeezed your fleece-covered thigh, running up and down with enough force to bruise and his other hand had somehow snaked its way underneath your shirt in your momentary distraction, sliding up and up and up along your ribs until he could very nearly—

“Sherlock Holmes, watch your hands!”

You all but jumped away from him, catching yourself on the edge of the chair to keep from falling backwards in the clumsiest way.

Focus. You needed to focus.

The man looked almost as dazed as you were sure you did and his lips were moist and red and if you weren’t so utterly astounded, it would have turned you on like nothing ever had.

Okay, so it did that anyway—

“I’d like to watch my hands touching every inch of you.”

Fuck.

When his lips stretched into a smirk once more, you almost lost it. You stepped around behind the chair and held your hand up, signaling him to stop before your hormones could cloud your judgement.

“Sherlock, stop it. This isn’t you and I’m not going to take advantage of you when you’re high as a kite.”

He made that face again—the one that relayed the depths of his confusion, looking a breath away from upset with his bright blue eyes as wide as could be.

“But I want this.”

“Now you do. Tomorrow you’ll regret it.”

“I promise you I won’t.”

He took a step closer, around the side of the chair you hid behind, and your feet mirrored his to keep distance between you.

“No, Sherlock, please. Your not thinking straight. You need to go sleep this off.”

“Sleep is the last thing I need right now.” His voice was the embodiment of pure sex. He took another step and so did you.

“Then go take a shower. I recommend a cold one.”

“I’d be more inclined if you joined me.”

The thought crawled into your mind and made a nest of its own and for a single moment, you thought your feet might betray every rational thought you had and take him up on the offer.

You couldn’t let that happen.

You darted past him in a quick burst and plucked your purse from its spot beside the door.

“No. I—I have to go to work. I’ll be late for my shift.”

Sherlock stared at you, expression unchanged. “No, you’re lying. I may be ‘high as a kite’, as you put it, but I can still read you like an open book. Or open—“

“Nope.” Your voice pitched and you shrugged your purse onto your shoulder. “Not lying. Gotta go.” Your hand twisted the knob. Without sparing a glance back at him, you called out to him over your shoulder. “The towels are under the sink.”

You slammed the door shut behind you and lasted all the way to the stairwell before you fell back against the wall and let out a long-held groan.

What the hell was he doing to you?

You returned late at night, just past midnight, after having opted to work a double to cover for your coworker who desperately wanted to leave early to meet up with a date. It kept you from returning to your flat and that was enough motivation for you to power through your sleepless fatigue, haunted mercilessly by the memory of Sherlock’s mouth and his tongue on your sensitive neck and the memory of his hands pressing you together as close as your clothes had allowed.

The walk home from the tube was long and cold and you took it at a slower pace than you normally would, both hoping and dreading to find him there when you returned—so you could make sure he was alright and that the drugs had passed through his system in the twelve hours since your confusing and frustrating drug-fueled encounter. Your pyjamas were in a wad in your arms, keeping your hands sheltered from the sparse snow that had started to fall and since you had rushed out before grabbing a coat, you forced yourself to focus on that small bit of warmth instead of the biting chill that burned at your bare arms and legs. By the time you pushed inside your building, you swore your legs were going to fall off and you shivered violently the entire way up the three flights of stairs.

Your flat was quiet when you pushed your way inside and the sound of the bolt sliding shut was next to deafening. You glanced, your heart beating in alarm, to the couch—his normal spot—to see if it had awoken him, but a mild wave of surprise filled you when you found it to be empty and untouched despite his coat hanging beside your own as a clear signal that he’d yet to leave. In the scant amount of light streaming in from the window, the mess from your studying appeared to have been straightened, all your textbooks closed and aligned neatly in the middle of the table, stacks of your crumpled and loose notes beside each one correspondingly almost as if the mess had never been there at all.

You crossed the floor to your bedroom but before you even stepped foot over the threshold, you spied his curly mop of hair spilling over your pillow as he lay curled up in your soft blankets. Sound asleep. In your bed.

You shook your head. Of course he’d taken up residence in your bed. This was Sherlock and why you were surprised by his intrusive approach was a surprise in and of itself.

A quick trip to your kitchen had you returning with a small tray of toast and a tall glass of water. As you drew near to the bed, he stirred and rolled over. His eyes blinked at you blearily, neither asleep nor awake.

“Hey.” You whispered, unwilling to completely rouse him from his slumber more than you already had. Timidly, you sunk into the mattress at his side. “I brought you some food.”

“Ugh.” His expression soured and he closed his eyes once more. “Thank you for the gesture but I couldn’t possibly eat.”

With a disapproving frown, you slid the tray onto the table beside your bed and scooted closer to him, pulling his arm out from underneath the blankets. He groaned, objecting loudly against escaping the warm cocoon he’d created, but with your trek through the wintry streets you had little to no sympathy for the complaint.

Your fingers pressed steadily against his wrist and your eyes followed the ticking on your wrist watch. As your focus wandered from him, he pushed himself up to sit against the headboard. His eyes were clearly still halfway caught in sleep but they were much more clear than when you’d left him earlier and his pupils no longer fought to swallow the sky from his eyes.

You let his hand fall gently onto his lap and leaned back, propped up by your arms as you continued to survey him. “Your vitals are back to normal.” You hadn’t needed to say it aloud as you both already knew it to be true, but your need to fill the silence in hope of forgetting the strange events of earlier overpowered the comfortable quiet.

“Your hands are freezing.”

“I’m freezing,” you corrected. You curled  your legs beneath you to get closer the the heat from his nap that radiated from the blankets beneath you. “I forgot my coat when I left.”

“You did run out without even changing out of your pyjamas.”

Your supervisor had been furious about the fact, too, and you’d had to borrow an extra uniform from one of your coworkers who was  quite a bit shorter and decidedly less endowed and had only a spare skirt to cover you from the waist down. Your entire shift had left you feeling the burn of leering gazes as you moved from table to table in the clothes that were just a bit too fitting and as the night settled in, you had begun to curse yourself for running out as quickly as you had instead of just sucking it up and getting ready beforehand. You could have locked Sherlock in the bathroom and shoved him fully clothed into an ice bath or something while you dressed and then you wouldn’t have had to deal with any of that or the heckling you’d awkwardly received when you explained you’d had a restless night and the other waitresses assumed less innocent things than the truth.

Of course, the light mark he’d left on your neck definitely didn’t help you plead your case.

You shook your head and reached over to the bedside table to lift up the glass of water and passed it to him.

“So was it the drugs that killed her?”

“No.” He gave a wry smile as he took the aspirin from your outstretched hand and threw them back. “I knew that from the beginning, I just had to prove it.”

You just shook your head. “You’re absolutely insane. You’re the only man I know who would put their body through that just to prove something you already knew.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He finished the glass and returned it to the table at his side, straightening his posture as he stared at you quizzically. Silently.

The cold was getting to you. That was the only reason why you were shivering.

“So you’re feeling better then?”

“More normal, at any rate.”

“Good.”

With a soft pat to his covered knee, you swung your legs off the bed and walked to your chest of drawers across the room and pulled out your warmest pair of pyjamas. You could feel his eyes trail after you—there was no mistaking the burning way they bored into your back—and your bare legs shook as you thought of the warmth of your plush bed he had overtaken, a tinge of jealousy touching you when you realized what you’d be giving up after such a long day for the sake of his well being.

“Okay. You should get more rest. I’ll sleep out on the couch tonight.”

“No, wait.”

Before you can walk away, he grabbed you by the wrist and you hadn’t realized he’d even stood at all until you slammed firmly into his chest.

“I meant what I said before, Y/N.” His grip dug into your hip and a finger trailed across your cheek as lightly as a feather, brushing the stray wisps of hair away. “I do want this.”

Your breath caught in your throat and you tilted your head to stare up at him in the darkness, trying to make sense of the strange words tumbling from his mouth. Strange, too strange, even for him.

“I don’t think you do.”

The littlest sound escaped his lips, trapped somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh and those gentle, warm fingers trailed so delicately around the curve of your ear, slowly making way down the slope of your neck. This time, there was no denying the cause of your shiver and it took everything not to lean into his touch.

“It’s been on my mind for quite some time—and you know how prone to obsession I am.”

You didn’t trust his words and you didn’t say a thing, you just continued to stare up at him with the slightest crinkle on your brow. Your hands had come up to rest against his chest but you weren’t sure if it was to keep this strange, imaginary connection between the two of you real or if it was to quicken your ability to push him away.

“I’ve been thinking about the way you must taste,” he whispered, leaning in, brushing his lips like a ghost against the shell of your ear. “And after the small glimpse I managed to steal earlier, I can’t get it out of my mind—I can’t think clearly. You always smell like firewood and nutmeg and I can’t help but wonder if your skin is just as intoxicating.”

His lips moved away from you, your skin cold and empty at the loss of contact. “It’s quite inconvenient, how distracting you‘ve become to me.”

Inconvenient.

He had such a way with words.

A familiar thought spilled into your mind—what was he doing to you? You were sure he didn’t even realize what he was doing or that he was at all, but it tormented you just the same.

Your breath shuddered. “This doesn’t sound like you.”

“No, it doesn’t. I’m not very familiar with this sensation—this need. I don’t understand it in the least,” he confessed. He tilted your chin and studied the planes of your face, the depth of your eyes, as though there were answers hidden somewhere should he only seek them out. “I don’t like not understanding.”

“You know, you don’t have to understand everything.”

“Yes, I do.”

How could you have expected anything less from him? You shook your head and scoffed. He pulled back but his fingers continued to toy with the hem of your small shirt, just barely still tucked into the high waist of your skirt. The warmth from his touch was so pleasant, so inviting, that even though your head told you otherwise, you did not pull away or make any move to stop him.

He cocked his head. “How long has it been since you were with Mark?”

You almost whipped away at the question.

“Michael.” You knew he knew the man’s name but his insistence to ignore social pleasantries always had him playing the same game with those he considered insignificant. “We ended it three weeks ago.”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “how long has it been since you were with a man?”

What business was that of his? Truly, it wasn’t.

Still, you answered. “Two months.”

That toying, teasing smirk returned to his face. “Then you want this too, I imagine. From what I understand, that’s a rather long time to go without fulfilling this particular need.”

Your mouth opened so slightly to deny it but before you could squeeze out a word, his fingers slipped underneath your shirt, splaying across the soft skin of your stomach and squelching your objection in a single heartbeat.

He leaned in and his sweet breath fanned across your cheek. “Don’t lie to me. I can see it in your eyes,” he murmured, skin so close to yours you could feel the electricity humming between you. “You like the way I’m touching you.” His touch moved seamlessly from your stomach beneath the band of your skirt, softly caressing the top of your hips and you had no control over your resulting shudder.

“I can feel your pulse racing—right here.” A spark shot through your body when his lips closed in on the bare skin at the base of your neck, his lips soft and warm as his tongue moved so gently there just like he’d done earlier when the sun was bright in the cold sky.

“Of course my pulse is racing,” you managed to whisper. “You’re making me nervous.”

His chuckle tumbled against your throat, resonating down through your stomach. “Nerves and excitement can be easily confused.”

“How would you know?” You hadn’t intended the words to come out as bitterly as they did, as harsh, and once they were out your voice softened. You weren’t sure he ever would truly understand. “The only emotions you’re familiar with are boredom and arrogance.”

He hummed. “You call it arrogance; I call it confidence. And right now I’m confident about two things—I’m confident that I want this, I want you, and I’m confident you want me too.”

As usual, he was right.

You did want him. His teasing words from earlier had taunted you all day, sullied by the confusion between what you knew to be Sherlock and this strange behavior he was displaying, muddled by the frustration that had been building that you were sure he would never feel in the same way you did.

You weren’t in love with him, no. But god you wanted him.

He waited as you mulled over your silence and the lack of affirmation thrummed in his chest like rejection.

“If I’m wrong,” he rasped, deeply and needing, “just say it. Say it and I’ll stop and we’ll never speak of this again.”

He had laid the line before you and now it was up to you whether you would cross it or not.

You let out a soft breath, tongue flicking out across your lips to wet them—a motion that did not escape his attuned senses.

“And what if I do admit to wanting this?”

Finally, your hands trailed up his chest, curing around the loosely unbuttoned collar of the crisp dress shirt he’d fallen asleep in while you were gone. Your fingers toyed with the third button, gently brushing the pale skin just beneath and his eyes darkened as he watched you. They darkened more when he caught your gaze, challenging and fierce but still so reluctant to push him into this unfamiliar territory you both seemed to want so much.

“What would happen in that case, Sherlock?”

“Then,” pausing for effect, he leaned down to press his mouth against your ear again, like it was only natural. “I believe I have a few ideas that we would both enjoy.” His hand slipped down your thigh, playing at the hem of your skirt, and he pulled you taught against him with the other, your hips flush in a strange and new and magnetic way. “And each and every—single—one of them ends with you saying my name.” As if on command, he found the spot just below your ear and clamped onto it with delicious pressure, pulling his name from you in a soft moan. “Just like that.”

You hardly even recognized the sound of your own voice.

He pulled back and smiled down at you, lips brazen and cocky but for once, you didn’t care. Any objection, every inhibition, that you had melted away under his touch, under his hands as they slid to your back and those long musician’s fingers slid the zipper of your skirt loose around your waist. Under the fabric, he groped at the soft flesh of your hips and you hadn’t known it to be possible to get closer than you were but he managed to make it happen, always surprising you.

“Oh, fuck it.”

You’d no sooner said the words before you were working his shirt open, taking care not to snap the buttons despite your frenzied want. More and more of his lean, toned chest came into view and your nails trailed softly over the newly exposed skin as you went. You lurched up on your toes, wondering if his neck was as sensitive as your own, but just before you could, he pulled away and he held your weight against him, staring down at you with lust blown eyes and a grin.

“You want this?” His fingers brushed again and again over your hips, slowly sliding the skirt further and further down.

“Sherlock, please,” you keened, “stop teasing.”

His laugh shook straight to your core and as he leaned in to his new favourite spot on your neck, his leg slipped between yours and the fabric of his trousers raised goosebumps all the way up your spine.

“I need to hear you say it, love.”

“Yes. Fuck, I want this.” Your hands carded through his hair, curls soft against your fingertips. “I want you,” you moaned. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you but I want every second of it that I can get.”

That was all he needed to hear.

In the space of time it took for you to process what was happening, his hands slid down and grasped the back of your thighs and he hoisted you up his waist with all the strength of a man possessed. He pulled you against him by the back of your neck before finally—finally—your lips crashed together, his tongue slipping greedily between yours and you opened your mouth to him without a thought as the delicious warmth sent you reeling. His lips, his tongue, were softer than you would have ever imagined and his sweet breath had you pushing harder against him, your nails raking through his dark curls and legs tightening around his waist with desperation.

Closer. You needed him closer.

Your back sunk into the soft mattress and only then did he pull back, panting as softly as you. His blue eyes locked on yours and he slid the unbuttoned shirt from his shoulders, casting it away carelessly to land somewhere crumpled on the floor of your room. Where he knelt between your legs, he had the perfect view of the length of your entire body and he followed with those fathomless eyes the trail made by his hand, starting at your knee and to your hip, brushing the skin of your waist and along your side that your shirt had ridden up to expose.

His swollen lower lip pulled between his teeth in concentration as he watched your every reaction, every shiver, that his touch elicited. You leaned forward, eager to pull that lip between your own, but his hand pressed firmly against your hips and pinned you in place.

“Patience, love.”

The whine that tore from your throat rose a blush along your cheeks.

“You’ve been teasing me all day.”

Even if he didn’t realize it—which at this point you were sure he did—it was the truth.

Sherlock hummed in response to your protest. He leaned in closer, his breath fanning across your collarbone before his lips touched there as well.

“I had to make sure that you wanted this as much as I do.” His hand slipped up underneath your shirt, dragging lazily along the curve of your breast—teasing, taunting, but never moving any closer to where you wanted. His dark hair tickled your neck and he murmured against the soft mound, still shrouded from view by the white cotton.

“I’m still not sure I’m convinced.”

His lips clamped around your nipple through your shirt and you gasped immediately. He pinned you in place still through the arching of your back and when he added his teeth, sucking and nipping and playing at the sensitive bud, your knees clamped tightly to either side of his hips, trying and pleading and begging for the friction he’d abandoned.

“Sherlock,” you moaned, “please.”

He hadn’t even really touched you yet and you were sure you were going to cry out from sheer frustration.

The cocky bastard chuckled, his lips pulling away from your pert nipple and leaving it open to the chill of the room.

“Shall I find out how badly you want this?” He moved his hand at last to your nipple  beneath the fabric of your shirt and deft fingers squeezed and rolled in just the right way that had you squirming under him.

“I wonder just how wet you are.”

Your chest heaved and his hand slid past your hips, past the scrunched up skirt, and for one glorious moment moment, his hand sunk down to cup your dripping core.

But all too soon, he pulled away.

What the fuck?

If looks could kill, you would have struck him down as he rocked back on his heels and swiped your skirt down to reveal your absolutely bare legs, devoid even of the knickers he’d expected to find.

“Well,” he gushed, “this is a pleasant surprise.”

“I was in a rush,” you snapped.

He grinned down at you wickedly and once again you flushed. “It’s all the same—even if you hadn’t run out on me earlier,” he pressed a quick, suckling kiss to your stomach, “I wouldn’t have let you leave with them on.”

You panted incredulously, beyond frustrated by his games.

“You’re so sure about that.”

“Mm.” One after the other, his legs slipped from the bed and little by little, he tugged your skirt down past your ankles. Tauntingly slow. Once get offending garment was thrown, he lifted your leg and his mouth closed around the skin of your inner thigh, inches north of your knee.

“I’m positive.”

His fingers traced small circles against your hips but he didn’t move any closer, even when you let out a small whine, even when you wriggled in place, aching and begging without words. He watched you squirming in your distressed state, his expression a blank canvas as he studied your every curve splayed out before him in waiting.

You glared at the cracked plaster of your ceiling.

“You know, Sherlock,” you hissed through your teeth, “you’re talking a big game but you’ve yet to have anything to show—“

A harsh tug pulled you to the edge of the bed and before you could finish spouting out the word, two long fingers slipped inside of you and he smiled as he nibbled at the apex of your thigh.

“Fuck.”

His fingers pulled almost completely out before he pushed them back in, twisting just so and the pad of his thumb brushed over your clit. A moan fell through your lips like honey before you could stop it, before you could deny it.

That familiar, arrogant chuckle broke through the walls of your momentary bliss. “What was that were you saying?”

“Nothing,” you gasped. “Just keep going.”

“Mm-hmm.” The sound rumbled against your thigh. “That’s what I thought.”

A third finger joined the others, stretching you around him like you hadn’t felt in a while and somehow only serving to make you wetter, needier for his touch. His thumb moved away from your sensitive bud and briefly, you considered shouting out to him.

Not again.

But before your dry mouth could gasp a single protest, his tongue had already taken its place.

That was unexpected.

He lapped delicately against you, drawing the sensitive flesh between his lips as his fingers continued to work you—play you, like a well-known melody. You felt his lips release your clit and trail down, drawing a stripe from your dripping center up over your hooded nerves and your legs began to quake.

This time, you gasped soundlessly—what was he doing to you?

He was here, touching you, but you still weren’t entirely convinced any of it was happening. That it was real.

The still of the room filled with your heavy breathing, with your mewling whimpers, and every sense you had was focused on him and the way he moved so warmly between your thighs. Everywhere he touched was on fire in the most pleasant way and by now you had completely forgotten the cold you had suffered what felt like hours earlier.

Somehow, he’d found a way to go deeper, curling just so, fingers strong and eager as they worked you so deliciously. They slid in again before sliding completely out of you, drawing a whimper as you pleaded for the fullness they had given you. His hands moved to knead the curve of your arse, pulling you closer to him and in a sure motion, his tongue flicked out and his lips teased and sucked in a way that was so different from his fingers but so good. Naturally, instinctively, your hands twisted into the sweat dampened hair at the nape of his neck.

“You taste even more exquisite than I imagined,” his deep voice rumbled against your core in the most delightful way.

You’d always known he had a sharp tongue but if you’d known how good he was with it, if you’d known how it could make butterflies fly through your stomach as well as it could cut, you might have begged to sit on his face years ago.

You whispered his name and pulled him closer, guiding his head in the way that drove you wild. Your hips ground wantonly against his face as you chased the blinding, numbing ecstasy that you could feel breaking way to the surface. That tight and hot and desperate feeling pitted deep within you, begging to be freed.

“Oh my god—“

Then, all too soon, he was gone. Again.

You groaned. “Sherlock—“

With both hands still cupping your thighs, he lifted you up, his face burying in the flushed crook of your neck. His teeth nipped and he sucked against your pulse, harder still when you curled into him and dragged him down with you. His thigh ground against your aching core, rubbing just enough with the friction from his trousers to keep your excitement mounting and building but never spilling over. Every sigh and every gasp you made, he moved further up your neck, his hands groping and sliding until finally his lips reached yours.

He moved closer, so close you could feel his breath but he kept that scant distance with his arms caging around you on either side of your head.

Your mouth fell into a pout. “Sherlock, please.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were enjoying this.”

You wriggled beneath him, trying in vain to catch his lips. “And if I didn’t know any better,” you panted, “I‘d think you were enjoying it, too.”

He brushed away a lock of your hair. “Oh, I am.”

“Just kiss me already.”

He did. Finally, he did. You could taste yourself on him, the soft and salty and sweet flavor so exotic and unlike anything you’d ever tasted before and to experience it through him was so heady, so primal, you wanted nothing more than to soak up all of it. You pulled his lip between yours, suckling and tender and the dangerous thought that you were sure you couldn’t get enough of the intoxicating way he made you feel swam around you, filling your ears with a symphony composed of his touch and the deep, rumbling tones of his voice. Your tongues moved together in a gentle duel, curling against the unspoken whispers of desire.

Clothes. He was wearing far too much.

“Trousers,” you managed to mutter against his lips. “Take them off.”

He didn’t stop kissing you and when his hands wandered lower, they caught on the hem of your shirt, sliding the cloth higher up your ribs.

You pulled away roughly. “Take them off. Now.”

Blue eyes glazed from the intimacy between you met your own and your eyebrow rose, both ordering him and begging him to heed your command. You needed it. You needed him.

His tongue dragged lazily against the bare skin of your stomach but he did as he was asked. You heard the telltale sound of his belt clattering against the hardwood and a few seconds later, he urgently—clumsily—kicked them away.

You took a second to soak in his form and though you’d never really taken the time to do so before, you weren’t disappointed. Beneath the layers of dark clothes he elected to wear day after day, he hid a well toned physique, his waist tapering softly where a trail of dark hair dove just beyond your line of sight from where you lay sprawled before him.

He climbed back onto the bed, hovering above you with still so much space—still too much space—empty between you. Those hands glided up your ribs, like he had before when you’d pushed him off, and this time you didn’t stop him as he pulled the tight shirt up over the mounds of your breasts, baring them in all their glory to his feasting eyes. You laughed when the collar snagged on your chin and laughed harder still as he pressed closer, trying to finesse it off of you without pulling your hair any more than doing so already had.

Finally, your sight returned to you as your borrowed shirt was cast far off into the darkness of your room without a thought.

His hot palms slid along your sides, starting at your narrow waist until he reached your supple breasts, cupping you, kneading you.

Stalling.

“You’re not wearing anything here either,” he mused just before nodding his head and flattening his hot tongue over your hard, peaking nipple.

“Like I said, I was—“

“In a rush. Yes. Running away from this.” His teeth raked gently at the startled nerves, your back arching with him as he pulled. “Trying to hide from your desire for me.”

His hands skirted down your hips, brushing your inner thighs. He spread them open, sinking into the crevice between, and his hips rocked so gently against your own.

“Sherlock.”

In an instant, he pulled away and he wasn’t touching you at all; not with his hands, not with his mouth. Nothing.

“I need you to tell me what you need, Y/N.”

“More. I need more.”

He hummed, taunting you with, “I thought you weren’t interested in taking advantage of my curiosity.”

Oh, this was just cruel. If you weren’t so desperate, if you didn’t want him as badly as you did, you would have shoved him away.

“Fuck you,” you spat.

“That’s sort of the plan, love.”

And then he slid into you, roughly, until he was sheathed as deeply as could be. Hips flush against your own in a way that sparked every sensitive nerve alive, the way he twisted had you shaking beneath him and the groan that tore from your lips was nothing shy of pornographic.

For a second, he paused. Your eyes had closed, head tilted back into the sheets, and his hands fluttered helplessly at your waist.

“Did I—“

“Do it again,” you gasped, finally finding your voice. “Please.”

That had been a good sign after all.

And so he did, again and again. His movements were clumsy at first, not quite sure where to put his hands or how he should move, but he was a fast learner and this, it seemed, was no exception.

Soon the clumsy pace and tentative touches lead way to confident thrusts, dragging unintelligible noises from you both and his hands grew bolder in all the right places, sure to leave bruises though you couldn’t find it in you to care. He hiked your legs up around his waist and you were more than eager to oblige as flesh pressed firmly against flesh, his lips sucking and tongue curling from your collarbone to your chin, leaving no inch of skin untouched. His mouth met yours, hot and hungry and full of desire, and his tongue begged for access as his hips did the same, both moving in slow, languid strokes that tingled through your spine.

You reached up for him, tugged at the long hair at the back of his neck, pulling him closer and your hips bucked up against his own, begging—pleading—for the release he’d been building you up to for so long. You felt him shiver as your nails raked down his back, felt him pulse inside of you and in a flash, he gathered your hands in his own and stretched your arms far above your head.

Your hands struggled in his grip.

“I need to touch you.”

“You’ll get your turn,” he promised gruffly, grinding into you without pause. “Right now, it’s mine.”

And though a part of you yearned to disobey and pull at him, to touch him like he was touching you, you submitted to his mercy with very little complaint. His lips, his hands, his teeth, his tongue moved all over you in perfect harmony, his thrusts just the right strength and speed to send your head reeling, make you see colors around you like the cosmos.

He kissed you tenderly, he kissed you roughly, and every touch of his lips hummed against your skin. His hands continued to wander in their mindless, greedy path, fingers reaching between you as you tightened almost unbearably around him.

His name tumbled from your lips like a chant, a mantra inspired by the intimacy between you.

Overwhelmed by everything about him and overtaken by the mindless, numbing sensations that overtook you, he lead you to the very edge like he had time after time that night but this time he didn’t hold you back, he didn’t pull away, he didn’t stop even when you were screaming out in pleasure that left your throat raw and your mind spinning. This time, he tumbled right along with you.

Neither of you moved, content in the silence spoiled only by the rise and fall of your heavy breathing as you both let the beating of your hearts return to normal. His head fell into the crook of your neck, your skin hot to the touch and slick with sweat that he didn’t seem to mind.

Moments trickled by before he moved, pulling out of you with a soft groan, and then he lay at your side. He folded his arms beneath his head, keeping the space between your naked bodies as though they hadn’t been pressed together so tightly only moments before. Your knees fell together at his side, the throbbing between them the only tangible evidence of what had transpired between you from out of thin air, and your hands brushed away the sticky, wild tendrils of hair that stuck to your face.

You didn’t need him to say anything, you didn’t need to hear anything, but something inside of you wanted to hear his voice thrumming against you again.

And at last, he spoke.

“Most enlightening.”

You took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling.

“So that’s—you got what you needed?”

For a moment, the disappointment in your tone was nearly palpable and while your mind was still struggling to come back down to your body, you wondered if his words of rejection would hit you as hard as the pleasure he’d made you feel.

But to your surprise, the rejection you expected never came.

Legs still shaking from his touch, the calm tingling still coursing through you, he pulled you on to his lap and his hands raked up your form without a moment’s hesitation. With alarming fervor, your lips crashed together, searing and greedy. He pulled back shortly after and the smile he looked down at you with was purely wicked, lips swollen from your kiss and his hair a mess across his forehead, and the way his dark eyes drank you in made you swear you could nearly come on the spot.

“Oh, not even close.”

————————

You sat on the fire escape outside of your window dressed in his half buttoned shirt, a cigarette lit between your lips. Wrapped in only your dark sheet, Sherlock sat beside you, arm snaked around your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder. Without a word, you passed it to him. His chest rose and fell against your back with his deep inhale and he blew a stream of smoke before you both, out into the snowy morning.

Your mind was clouded, your body still tingling from his touch.

“One time,” you whispered softly, fog spilling into the air with your breath. “That’s all this was.”

You’d loved every moment of what had happened but that’s all it could be. He admitted to being especially prone to obsession, driven by impulse and understanding and when his mind set to something, he pursued it with no exception. But much like him, you too were prone to the whims and the draw of addiction and you knew that without a doubt, this was something that would absorb you if you let it. The feelings he brought out of you were nothing short of intoxicating and the way he touched you with such determination, such fascination, left you craving more and more.

It was the only way you knew to keep from driving yourself mad. Declaring an end meant you had control. It ensured your ability to separate what was real from what was fleeting and Sherlock Holmes was known for wants of the fleeting variety.

You might have allowed yourself to get high off of him but you wouldn’t allow yourself to get hooked.

“Two times, technically.”

You were quick to smack your hand to his chest. “You know what I meant.”

“One night,” he offered in compromise. His hand slipped from your waist to the bare skin of your thigh, still warm from his touch. His fingers trailed, in a touch that was barely here, higher and higher and you shook as they moved closer to your most sensitive area. “I’m not finished discovering all the ways I can make you quiver.”

“Sherlock.”

With a deep chuckle, he pulled you tighter into his side and kissed your neck tenderly in the spot where a dark bruise had already started to form. You shivered against him.

“I’m not sure I’ll tire of hearing you say my name like that.”

“Of course you will.” You took in another puff. “I’ve never met anyone who tires of things as quickly as you.”

“Mm. Perhaps.” He didn’t stop and his lips fell to your shoulder. “But I find this quite intriguing. I’m enjoying the opportunity to expand my knowledge.”

“One night,” you whispered, reminding him of the words he’d just spoken. “Just one night.”

“If one night is all we have, then I intend to make it count.”

He pulled you easily onto his lap and kissed every inch of exposed skin as his fingers slipped loose every button of the only clothes you wore. Despite the bone-chilling cold, your skin was warm beneath him, burning from his touch so much that you hardly felt it at all.

He pulled just far enough away to smile at you as he slid the fabric from your shoulders like he was unwrapping something fragile. “Call it narcissistic if you must, but I think I like the sight of my shirt falling from your body as much as I enjoyed watching you put it on.”

The sheet fell from his chest as he pulled you tight against him, hands roaming shamelessly over your naked skin, over your hips and thighs, fingers brushing so intimately close to your heated core. He pulled your earlobe between his lips and with his hot breath fanning against your cooling skin, the shiver that overtook you had nothing to do with the winter air.

You leaned into him before you realized you had.

“Sherlock, we’re outside.”

“Yes, we are.”

With your attention so easily distracted, his fingers slipped easily inside of you, drawing out the softest mewl from your lips. That didn’t stop him, however, and his hands moved faster, fingers sliding and rubbing and before you could gasp out a word, his mouth latched eagerly to yours as he swallowed every moan, every whimper, every cry that he pulled from you.

And then for an instant, he pulled away. He grasped your jaw, still toying with you with devious, delectable ardor. You squirmed in his lap and he merely smiled, that lazy sexy smile with so much challenge in his eyes that would have made you weak in the knees if you were standing.

“I suggest you do try to keep your voice down. We wouldn’t want to wake anyone up.”

[equalstrashflavoredtrash]

❄️❄️Snow day drabbles! ❄️❄️

Requested by @romanchronicles  with the prompt

13 This wasn’t meant to be a date, but we’ve had such a good time and now it’s 2 a.m. and I should really go home and Hvitserk

ok so i started having fun and got carried away so i guess this isnt a drabble...

warning for dry humping with soggy ends

word count: 1,776

FIngering the gold coin, the young shieldmaiden studied the embossed depiction of the now deceased saxon king. Ælle was dead, blood eagled in the grove by the sons of Ragnar, and so now they and the Great Army were celebrating. The northmen then pillaged Ælle’s villa, taking whatever they pleased, especially anything shiny and gold. Easily manipulating the round metal disc in her hand, she balanced it along her bent index finger, tucking her thumb underneath. With a simple flick she released the tension in her hand, launching the coin through the air.

The light caught the rough lip, glinting as it spun over itself, tumbling towards it’s target. With a simple ‘plop’ the coin landed directly on point, into the bucket of saxon wine sat in the center of the table. A cheer went up from the small crowd around her as she turned to face her opponent. The Shieldmaiden didn't need to say anything as she stood with her arms akimbo, the obvious victor. “Who’s next?” she called, laughing gaily while collecting the wagered spoils and watching the defeated Viking slump away, downtrodden at his loss.

“I’ll go,” a voice spoke, coming from another who nudged his way forward through the forest of shoulders, “But I have a different bet.” The green eyes of the middle Ragnarsson gleamed with mischief as he made an entrance and stared down the undefeated champion. He needed no introduction, everyone present knew who the young prince was.

“Careful, Hvitserk, she’s yet to miss once tonight,” an older, bearded fellow warned him, but the young man’s smirk didn’t falter.

“Well then, what’s your ante? What treasures are you willing to part with?” The Shieldmaiden challenge, eyeing him.

“No treasures,” he spoke with a smug expression, trusting the luck that had been with him to not falter in battle or drinking games. “Best of three. If you win then I will be your thrall for the night, answering you beck and call, catering to your every whim.”

Her brows shot up at the proposition, her interested piqued. “And if you win?” she prompted, folding her arms—obviously wary of what he would counter with.

“If I win, you must spend the entirety of the feast,”  he paused for dramatic effect while she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, jutting one hip out to the side, “Sitting on my lap.” A chuckle broke through the crowd at his terms, none of those watching surprised by Hvitserk’s antics.

She took a moment to weigh her options, certain he would not make such a bet if he didn’t have a plan to win. Still, if she backed down she would be shamed, and quite the number of spectators had gathered to witness the prince and her square off.

“Fine.” She quickly spat into her hand before holding it out to him. Hvitserk copied the gesture before clapping his palm with hers as they shook.

He went first, carelessly tossing the gold into the air. If this was extent of his method she was sure to beat him. It should’ve landed just short of the goal, but miraculous the gold hit the lip of the bucket, changing the trajectory so it dropped into the wine.

With a grumble she gathered the small pile of saxon gold infront of her—all spoils from earlier challenges—and readied her first shot. Carefully lining up the foreign coin, she tried to ignore the audience pressing closer behind her, each vying for a better view, along with the way Hvitserk stood next to her, near enough she could feel his body heat. She exhaled through her nose and flicked the coin into the air. It was not her best shot—she should’ve arched it higher—but still it fell in the bucket.

She turned to him, quirking the corner of her mouth up and challenging him with her eyes. In a lackadaisical gesture, the prince drew another coin before giving a careless wave of his hand, all while keeping his eyes on her. They both knew it made it by the sound. She could barely believe it though she could easily see the ripples on the surface circling outwards. There was a flurry of hushed excitement through the crowd around them—some even making their own bets on the outcome—as she pivoted away from Hvitserk.

Determination set over her as she went for her second try. Her skill had to outweigh his luck, she knew what she was doing. Again her coin flew over the wooden rim of the bucket and landed with ease.

They were tied. Their spectators waited with baited breath, eager to know who would be the victor. Hvitserk actually appeared to make an attempt for the last round. The coin went in all the same, just as easily as it had before..

It was her final chance. If she missed this then he’d win and she’d be obligated to warm his lap for the evening. The space around her felt suffocating now, caused by both the eager onlookers crowding in and her opponent who stood so close now she could feel his breath ghosting over the skin of her cheek. She did her best to block out the distractions and ready her aim, but just as she released her thumb, she felt a sharp pain in her left but cheek. Jerking in surprise, she sent the coin flying in the wrong direction, yards away from the bucket of wine.

“You fucking—!” the Shieldmaiden roared as she spun on her heel to slap the prince. He reacted on instinct, easily catching her wrists before her palms could make contact as he laughed with the men surrounding them. “You cheated! You pinched my ass!” she screamed at him over the noise while struggling to free her arms.

“Still, you missed.” Hvisterk grinned, the majority of those around the pair seemed to agree. He eventually released her hands, and she glared at him through her lashes.

“Fine. I will see you at the feast,” she spat before collecting her winnings and storming off.

——-

From the moment she entered the grand hall, she could feel his eyes on her like a magnet. It was obvious she would had no respite from him in the foreseeable future. Dropping her gaze to the stone floor, she trudged past the never ending long tables before arriving at the head table.

The oak table lined with Ragnar’s sons was situated where Ælle’s throne had been, the floor slightly raised above the rest of the landing. In the center, facing the hall was Bjorn—the oldest. At the end furthest from where she sat was Ivar, with Ubbe to his left. To Bjorn’s right sat Sigurd, who seemed preoccupied with his instrument as his fingers spent more time on the strings than his food. Finally, directly in front of where she stood, at the foot of the tabe was the middle prince. Hvitserk couldn’t control his grin as he held a hand out for her to take.

The Shieldmaiden was positive everyone in the hall knew about their wager by now and were watching to see what would happen. Reluctantly she accepted his hand, and lowered herself to rest just on his knees, as far down on his lap she could get. She propped her chin upon her palm, resting her elbow on the table and facing Sigurd.

She sipped at her endless cup of ale—any time she was close to the bottom a thrall was quick to replenish—as she spent most of the night talking and singing with her seat’s younger brother. Though Hvitserk tried to keep her attention with teasing touches, or letting his fingers drift north under her tunic. Still, she did her best to ignore him, mindlessly swatting away his wandering hands like flies.

The more she drank the more she eased into Hvitserk. Shifting slightly in his lap every now and then, slowly inching away from the table, closer towards his chest.

The Shieldmaiden was feeling the weight of the ale in her eyelids by the time Floki was commanding the attention of the room. The boat builder stood at the fire, his gangly anatomy appearing all the more skeleton with the harsh illumination of the flames.

In the dimly lit corner of the room she settled into her seat, reclining to rest her head on Hvitserk’s shoulder while adjusting her hips against his.

The Prince was quick to grab hold of her waist, halting her motions and hissing a warning in her ear, “Careful with that.”

“Oh?” she teased, her voice registering in a lower, drunken timber. Lifting her chin she let her lips tickle his ear while her words dance over his skin as she nuzzled into his neck. Tempting her luck, she raised one arm to lace her fingers into the roots of his braids. Curling her hand she pulled at his hair, and pushed her hips back, letting out an airy gasp when she felt the breadth of his erection against her ass through the leather.

“Fuck,” he hissed, quiet enough so only she could hear while his hands snaked their way under her tunic. Every set of eyes in the room—even those of Sigurd next to them—where trained forwards the storyteller, paying no mind to the way she rutted against Hvitserk in his chair. One of his hands finally found its way under her tunic to her breast, palming at the soft and malleable tissue as his finger tips teased her nipple. She continued to shift, rubbing her bottom against him while his other hand dug into the flesh on her hips hard enough he was sure to leave a bruise.

She could feel Hvitserk panting against her neck as she let her head lull back onto his shoulder, giving him leeway to guide her hips as he wished. Muffling his groan in her skin, he bit at her shoulder. The Shieldmaiden could tell from the way he shuddered against her he had reached his climax.

Staying still for a moment, the pair basked in the rhythmic pattern of each other’s deep breathing. After a moment she managed to gather her strength, sitting upright to stretch her arms. “It’s so late, I should get going,” she announced innocuously to the table, moving to rise.

None of the other brothers seemed to notice—or care—when Hvitserk yanked the girl back into his lap trapping her so he could hiss in her ear, “The only place you're going is to my bed.”

hope you liked it 😀 @ariwolff14 @beautifulramblingbrains @mandalorian-slut@captstefanbrandt @titty-teetee  @whenimaunicorn @sweetvengeancee @ivarinleatherpants

[hiekkis-blog1]

Sun god Prompto

This is a FF XV/Percy Jackson Au no-one asked for. I was listening to Prompto’s voice actor Robbie Daymond reading The Trials of Apollo, The Hidden Oracle, and I came up with this silly Au. Listening to that voice being vain, self centered and whiny was wayyyy too fun. 

Not betaed, all mistakes mine. Also, apparently I can’t write anything in this fandom without turning it into promnis. Rated T.

Sun god Prompto

“How is he doing?” Gladio voiced their common concern when the doctor left their shared bedroom. Ignis was unaccountably silent and Noctis was guilt ridden, leaving the shield to speak.

 “He’s had a severe electric shock, yet he has managed to escape severe burns. I suggest that you keep an eye on him for tonight. He should wake up sometime tonight or tomorrow at the latest. If he doesn't wake up by mid-day, bring him to the hospital. He'll need an IV for nourishment. However, I doubt things will progress that far." Doctor didn't mention that a recent surge of daemon and magitek attacks had filled the hospital to full capacity, and they really didn't have time or space for a patient who absolutely didn't need to be there. "I've seen a lot worse burns on the power plant workers. Your friend should be fine with some rest. Full extent of his possible neural damage is impossible to say while he hasn't regained his consciousness. We'll do a checkup in the hospital just in case."

 “Thank you, doctor." Ignis managed to say.

 "How did you say your friend got injured?" doctor queried. They had somehow avoided the specifics earlier, when they had returned to Lestallum and Leville after a hunt gone horribly wrong.

 "A hunting accident with some coeurls" Ignis replied.

 They had been fighting against a pack of vicious coeurls when the magiteck troops had joined the fray. The fight had dragged on and on until Noctis had managed to attain some godly help from the Astrals. They had been relieved when they had seen the Fulgurian's silhouette loom in the sky, but their reprieve had turned in to horror when, in addition to magiteks and monsters, the thunder god had attacked their gunner. Prompto had been sprinting though the fight when the lightning bolt hit him square in the chest and had expanded all around him, killing all their enemies. Ignis had run to his boyfriend’s side while the earth was still blackened and crackling, elixir on the ready. The fight was over, but Noctis had been too shocked to do anything. Even an elixir hadn't done more than a first aid. Prince's best friend didn't regain consciousness and Gladio had to carry him back to Regalia. Noctis had broken all speed limits while driving them back.

"He's going to be okay?" Noctis asked, hating how weak his voice sounded. He hadn't meant for the Astral to blast his friend. Usually only his spells did that and they never did this much damage. The Astrals were supposed to have a much better finesse with this kind of thing! They had never targeted his friends before.

 "I can see no physical reason why not. As I said, just give him some time. He got shocked so recently that it is a miracle if he wakes up before tomorrow anyway." The doctor left after making them promise to bring Prompto in tomorrow, when they would be better prepared to receive him at the hospital. Ignis was unhappy with the result, even though a very small voice in his head that was always on top of their monetary situation was pointing out the tiny bright side. He didn't want to think about money when his loved one needed medical attention. But his elixir had helped, right? That was why there hadn't been any physical damage and doctor could be so relaxed. She had said it. No any visual physical damage and exhaustion wasn't any news when it came to relying on healing items. Prompto was just resting.

 *  * *  *  *

 Apollo woke up feeling miserable. Everywhere hurt and he had a splitting head ached. On the positive side, he was in a soft, queen sized bed, and he had someone in the said bed with him. It was dark, so the headache wasn't aggravated by more light. He turned around to see a man, taller than he was, with a tawny hair and beautiful face, had draped his arm around his waist. Well, this certainly an improvement to the last time he had been exiled to be a mortal. Maybe his father truly loved him for allowing him such a companion from the very beginning of this punishment.

 There was a rustling noise coming from another bed he hadn't noticed earlier. In the dim light he could make out the shapes of two more young men. Bigger one had some truly spectacular inkwork in his skin. He would be more than happy to experiment and explore everywhere on that fine sculpture of a male anatomy. After all, he loved the arts. Maybe these men were muses in male form? He would have to find out later.

 Carefully he slipped out from under the arm holding him loosely. Or tried to, at least. The arm around him tightened, holding him tighter against a nicely toned chest. This was off to a good start! He turned around to give a languid kiss to a stranger in his bed.

 "Hello gorgeous," he muttered when the man answered his kisses, held him closer, then jerked back.

 "Prompto? How are you feeling?" the man asked, retreating a bit and scrutinizing him.

 "Hush, I’m feeling fine. Let me taste those lips." Apollo leaned back to kiss him. Man was certainly handsome and had his priorities in order. It had been a while since a mortal's first words had been over his welfare. Oh yes, this was certainly an improvement.

 Except the handsome stranger drew back and help him at arm’s length, his shiny green eyes suspicious. "What are you doing? Noct and Gladio are in the same room with us."

 "Doesn’t bother me" Apollo smiled lazily. "They can join us in pleasure if they so please."

 "You're not yourself." the man reached for the nightstand and took a pair of spectacles that had been resting over it. He scrambled out of bed and lit a small lamp. Soft glow filled the room and Apollo could admire his reluctant lover. They were lovers, right? But why would they be wearing pajamas if they were? The other man must be shy then, due to the other men's sleeping presence.

 "You’re up to speed fast. Are you shy? I can make them sleep undisturbed until the morning if that's the case."

 “Prompto. In the name of The Six, what the hell is wrong with you?” Now spectacled man pulled away. He sounded angry. That couldn’t be. Finding a half-naked sun god in your bed shouldn’t be upsetting, it should be joyous. Apollo stretched lazily and sat up.

 “It’s like you said. I’m not the usual habitant of this body. I’m Apollo.” His declaration made his companion dumbstruck. Naturally, now that they knew who he was, they’d be awestruck and provide him with pleasing sacrifices and offer to fulfill his every whim. Curious, the man didn’t get on his knees, but sat on the bed and put his hand very gently on his forehead.

 “The doctor never mentioned any psychological problems as a side effect.” He mumbled in a quiet voice. Apollo felt humiliated and slapped the hand away.

 “I’m the god of sun, arts and healing. I can assure you, I don’t have a psychological disorder.” He rose from the bed as gracefully as he possibly could, only trip over the cover that was laying on the floor. He could feel his cheeks burning from embarrassment. “I see my presence upsets you. Let no one say I’m not gracious or sensitive. I’ll be in the bathroom while you can collect yourself.” So saying he rose from the floor and left the room. He felt shaky and dizzy. What had this body been doing?

 Light bulb showed a pathetic small bathroom. No gold or fresh flowers anywhere. What a dump. Apollo washed his face and reached for a towel hanging from a railing over a bath tub. He peered at the foggy mirror.

 Slowly he let the towel drop and leaned over to watch closer, wiping the fog away from the mirror. This couldn’t be happening.

 *  * *  *  *

 In the other room, Noctis and Gladio woke up to a blood curdling scream. Both stumbled out of the bed battle ready, summoning weapons and looking for the threat. Had the MT’s attacked the hotel? Was Loqi on their trail? Ignis was already running to the bathroom, and yanked the door open to find shirtless Prompto covering his face and staring wide eyed at the mirror.

 “NO! DON’T LOOK AT ME!!!”

 “Prompto!” Noctis barreled inside. “Man, are you all right? What happened?”

 “DON’T LOOK AT ME, I’M HIDEOUS!”  Everyone froze, not believing their eyes. Prompto sobbed. “I have a face and body of a monster. These blemishes are everywhere!” Noctis was amused by his friends problem, mainly because he was so relieved to find his best friend had finally woken up.

 “Dude, you’ve always had freckles. Iggy loves them.” A cough from the advisor. “Why are you freaking out? It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

 “Then this ‘Iggy’ has a remarkably bad taste. This body is hideous! It’s short and has a flab instead of my eight pack! It still has ZITS!!!” Prompto had leaned over the sink and wailed again as he saw his visage. One of those spots was definitely a red spot. “And will you look at these arms? These are not the arms of the best archer in the universe. They are way too weak!” Gladio had joined them and looked at the blonde wailing at the glass.

 “Knock it off blondie. You know how we react to false alarms.” Gladios’s voice was harsh. “This isn’t a right time for your sudden drama.” Prompto made a rude humph sound.

 “Like expected from a son of Ares.” Gladio’s face turned in to a grimace. He never talked about his dead father and didn’t appreciate his dad being called names. Even when he didn’t understand the reference. “And these scars! Stretchmarks are just as unacceptable as flab. Despicable!”

 “Scars are just another kind of memory…” Ignis tried to quote Prompto’s own philosophy back at him, but he sounded angry. Only Noct had heard Ignis that angry. Ignis has balled his hands in to fists, trying to hold on to the last shreds of his self-control.

  “Dude, why are you talking like a videogame character?” Noctis beat Gladio for an answer.

 “He has been acting out of character ever since he woke up. I think we should take him to hospital sooner later than later. Maybe the lightning bolt triggered a schizophrenia or there must be some other reasonable explanation.” Ignis turned to Noctis, pointedly not looking at his boyfriend.

 “I’m not acting out of character and I don’t need to go to a hospital! I doubt this little backwater town has a hospital of such renown that any of my children work here.” Propmto huffed when Ignis ignored him. “Silly mortals, who do you think I am?”

 “Until this night, we thought you were our friend.” Gladio growled. “Who do you think you are?”

 “I am Apollo. The sun god. Patron of music, archery and healing.”

 “That’s a character from the Percy Jackson games.” Noctis recognized. “Knock it out, Apollo was always so annoying.”

 “What!?” Apollo squeaked, indignant. “You have a game of Olympian gods and it’s named after a demigod? No, no, no! It should be The Amazing Adventures of Apollo.”

 “Noctis, pray tell what is going on. You seem to be only one understanding his nonsense.” Ignis was pinching the bridge of his nose.

 “It’s a RPG. Main character is this dude, Percy, who finds out he is half a god and he goes to this camp Half Blood, where everyone is a demigod.” Noctis’s sleepiness evaporated when he started talking about his games.

 “That place exists. My children have been trained there.” Apollo commented but was ignored.

 “Basically, the game is about his adventures when he tries to save the world from destruction. Trying to make all the selfish and arrogant gods cooperate isn’t easy. It’s like they want to die.”

 “HEY!” Apollo protested.

 “Are these so called gods The Astrals?” Ignis inquired.

 “Nah, they’re make believe. They’re called god’s of Olympus and they are like a really big, crazy family. Their leader is Zeus, a thunder god. Kind of Like Ramuh except he likes to have kids with all weird creatures.”

 “Can we please not talk about my dad’s sex life? Or call my whole my family make believe while were at it?” Apollo whined. “This mortal thing is way too embarrassing to begin with, you don’t have to try and make it worse with your ignorance.”

 “Do you think this is because of the lightning bolt?” Gladio asked Ignis and Noctis, completely ignoring the whiney blonde.

 “Definitely, we need to get him to hospital as soon as possible. He could be danger to himself at this point.” Ignis declared. “We should take him now.”

 “But what if he is right and this actually is Apollo and not Prompto? Is it possible that the Fulgurian could have changed them?” That led to a long argument between the three of them. Ignis refused to entertain even slightest possibility, that his boyfriend’s body had just changed the hosts. Noctis pointed out that Apollo was also a god of prophesy, and he really could use some help with one. Gladio asked Apollo to prove his godhood so they could solve this. That led to Apollo punching Gladio’s shoulder and then freaking out that his super strength was gone. He had also bruised his knuckles with the punch and Ignis ended up dragging him to the Hospital in the middle of the night.

  AN: I have no idea where I’m going with this one, if this will stay as a one shot or morph into a longer fic. If you like it, let me know! I’m also open for prompts for this one. 

[icanteatcake]

Long text post

So before I go into this whole spiel I’ll just throw out the heads up that it’s about philosophy examining the nature of the self as well as the artist’s relationship to art. If those things don’t sound connected, well they are in my personal case because being an artist has become a part of my core identity and if nothing else occupies a lot of my time.

So, anyways.

At art school I developed a huge heap of anxiety over this sort of dissonance where I would feel myself getting better, inflating my ego, and then there would be people around me really quick to criticize it in a way that had no resonance with my understanding of what made art good or bad. People were bitching that it was like anime. So my fear of people’s perception of me  coupled with my personal ego and my own self dissatisfaction over my giving into anxiety and never letting myself do what I actually want to do came to a head. I decided that I would draw more anime-esque whatever nonsense but it’d be so good that everyone would have to admit that it was good and people would stop judging me. This was basically entirelly a fear propelled ego balloon, with me somehow thinking I’d be enough of an artistic genius to create works that everyone would have to like and hating myself every time I failed to do that (which naturally, was every single time.)

And then I told my friend what my goal was and they said something that set me on the right path. “That’s impossible. No one is ever going to think you’re the best.” Which like, while ouch, was also completely true. There was no way that my anime loving inner self and my anime hating peers were ever going to get along in a way that’d leave both parties satisfied as to call me “the best.” Because what is “the best” really? Art is subjective, there’s types of good that have nothing to do with each other and that’s okay. So I set up a new goal : try to please just one person, myself. This turned out to be harder than it sounds.

Now it makes perfect sense on paper. If I enjoy what I make then I’ll probably make more of it, and the more of it I make, the better I’ll get at making it. And the people around me who see someone who is really into their work can probably respect me for that at least. So that led to the question of “what do I like?” and honestly? I’m not completely sure.

I realized while looking at designs and drawings that I could pretend that it was me who drew/made it, and my perception of it changed completely. “Would I be proud if I were the one who made this?” This led to some interesting revelations. There are plenty of things I enjoy and respect but would not be comfortable making myself, especially if it has some sort of aspect I don’t really understand. Like if it’s a robot, for example, and it has an overall shape that I think is “kinda weird” I probably wouldn’t be confident  publishing it. Plus, I can only draw what exists within my own ken, and frequently when looking at other people’s designs I’ll encounter something which I’ve genuinely never really seen before and that pretty easily leads to “I like this, but I don’t think I would have liked it if I made it myself.” So the list of things I want to draw is already significantly shorter than the list of things I just like. Coupled with the fact that I know there are some things that are fun to draw but I don’t really like (like uh, neckties, or old men with weird funny faces) means that pleasing this “critical self” is a tricky endeavor indeed.

Then I tried starting to think of the things that I know I really like a lot. Like girls. And then I started to question “why do I like girls?” And I’d be lying if I said that there wasn’t a significant portion of that fondness that had to do with my own identity and orientation. I am a girl who is attracted to girls, but those things are sort of biological, you know? Like I didn’t choose either of those things. Actually I attempted to choose the opposite of both of those things, and was forced to accept reality both times. So would I still like girls if I wasn’t a girl who was attracted to girls? Is it really liking something if you had no choice in the matter? What if girls are secretly awful? I’m sure I would like them anyways, but my point is that my liking them has nothing to do with how good or bad they are. It’s just programmed in because I’m an animal. Plus, a lot of the other things I like I think I might like more or less due to pure exposure. Like I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be very into anarchy if it didn’t pour down my tumblr feed long enough for it to start making sense. Like I’m basically two things : A lizard who likes things because they were instinctual and they were there since birth, and a snowball which is tumbling down life slowly picking up the tiny objects around that. I’m a fucking lizard snowball and that upsets me because it makes me feel like I have no agency in the matter. And all the agency I do have in my life I end up acting on the whim of the lizard snowball.

The other problem is that it’s not always obvious what I really enjoy doing and what I don’t. There’s definitely a bit of a worrying dissonance between the things I like doing, the things I’m good at, and the things that I “want” to do. End of first semester sophomore year I just got into Kim & Kim, Snotgirl, and Alters, finally seing comics that appealed to me and weren’t just men in tights or whatever, and I thought very strongly that I wanted to be a comic book artist. But actually trying to do comic book art was another thing. It’s time consuming and hard, both of those things exacerbated by my tendency to lean towards detailed designs with really specific proportions and strict anatomy and perspective. When you’re drawing something that’s more cartoony, I can see just how much more manageable it would be. So to really do comics, comics that look like the comics I like, I’d end up fundamentally drawing different things and I was not liking that idea. The comics that were as detailed as the art I usually draw all also have a whole staff working on it, not just one person. That also troubled me, because the idea of doing just the lines or the pencils or the colors or the characters or the backgrounds seemed kind of... incomplete to me. The closest thing to what I wanted was probably DOGS :Stray dogs howling in the (dark? Night? I forget which) which Shirow Miwa wrote and illustrated all himself. But he was also 25 at the time, it wasn’t super successful even when marketed to it’s core audience properly, and that man is also a god that does perfect figures in perspective without a rough sketch. 

Where was I? Oh right, what I want to do. I “want” to do concept art. This is despite not really ever doing concept art before. I’ve never in my life made a turn around and if I end up hating doing that I’ll probably be shit out of luck and hopelessly confused. But I want to do concept art because i want to work in games and I want to work in games because I like games and games have robots and I think robots are cool and my school wouldn’t let me change my major to game art so I have to rely on my drawing ability somehow which basically just means concept art.

Looking at all this now I think it’s sort of obvious that I should just ... try drawing things... like drawing one of each and every...thing and seeing what I respond well to. Pretty much the spaghetti at wall technique. I hate throwing spaghetti at the wall because then I end up with a bunch of perfectly good spaghetti all over the floor but really I’ve tried rationalizing this from all angles and it seems the only way I’m going to find the truth is just by doing things and sticking to whatever feels the most fulfilling and enjoyable.

In substitution for an actual useful conclusion. For anyone who may read this I’ll leave you some advice : If it feels like you’re not liking whatever you try, and your thought is “maybe I’m too picky?” the problem is most likely that you’re not being picky enough.

[phantomlim]

Answer all 50 of them for J'Toc Pls :)

I actually didn’t read any of the asks and jumped the gun so I’m an idiot BUT if there are any questions that can be answered about J’toc I’ll do that!!!! (I’m so sorry I’m really dumb). I’ll make sure to introduce new characters I talk about!!!! I’ll keep it easy and talk about a few of them. 

Thank you so much for asking though!!!! It means a lot. 

1. Your first OC ever?

Don’t laugh, my first OC ever was a Sonic the Hedgehog fancharacter because I was like 12 and really into Sonic. Her name was Ree and she was purple, and I’ll find a picture of her.

2. Do you have a personal favourite among your OCs?

Oh..... Honestly it changes a lot. It flips through my courier Dustin, my SoSu Birch, J’Toc, or my personal OC Cherry, he’s a sweet boy.

3. Have you ever adopted a character or gotten a character from someone else?

I think I have? It was a long time ago so I can’t remember.

4. A character you rarely talk about?

I haven’t talked about my boy Cherry a lot, but he’s one of my favourites. I’ll talk about him more.

5. If you could make only one of your OCs popular/known, who would it be.

Aghhh it’s my dream to have at least one of my OCs be someones favourite, I would be so happy. Um, either Cherry, J’Toc, or Birch.

6. Two OC’s of yous that look alike despite not being related?

I’m about to go far back, but I’m making a new OC (I have too many and I can’t stop making them) named Dogwood and he looks a lot like one of my older OC’s from when I was 15 named Jagg. 

7. Are your OCs part of any story or stories?

Birch is my SoSu for Fallout 4, Dustin is my Courier, and J’Toc is my Dragonborn, but otherwise no. I considered making a story for Cherry, but it never sounded good so I kinda gave up

8. Do you RP as any of your OCs?

Not really, but I honestly wouldn’t mind doing it.

9. Would you ever be willing to give any of your OCs to someone else?

NO. Unless it was an older one, I never would.

10. Introduce an OC with a complicated design?

I initially made Cherry to be some sort of “plant demon” or whatever, but honestly I confused myself with it so I dropped the design. I just liked how he looked. I’ll probably draw it again soon.

11. Is there any OC oof yours you could describe as a sunshine?

Dustin and Cherry! Cherry is the character that reflects my personality, because he’s outgoing, optimistic, and adventurous, and those are things I struggle with doing, but they’re things I want to do. Dustin is just a happy boy.

12. Name an OC that isn’t yours but who you like a lot.

Oh man, so many people I follow have great OC’s. I really love @goodsprings Courier, Eli, he’s such a handsome dude. Also, @courierhell‘s Andres is really cute, I like him a lot as well. (I’m on desktop, and I dont have the short cuts for the accent sorry!)

13. Do you have any troublemaker OCs?

J’Toc is THE troublemaker. He doesn’t care to follow the rules, and generally follows his own rules, so he usually gets into some sort of trouble. 

14. Introduce an OC with a tragic backstory.

I don’t think I have an OC with a tragic backstory now that I think of it...... some of my older ones do.

15. Do you like to talk about your OC’s with other people?

YES!!!!!!!! I absolutely love talking about my OC’s with people! If anyone wants to talk about them please talk about them with me, it’s the only true way of letting me open up to you.

16. Which one of your OCs would be the best at biology?

Probably Cherry, considering he’s the biggest loser for plants and flowers. The others wouldn’t care too much.

17. Any OC OTPs?

No, not really. I romanced Danse in Fallout 4, so Birch is with him, and Dustin flirts a lot w/ Arcade and he has a thing for him. J’Toc doesnt like getting attached to people. 

18. Any OC crackships?

No, I really don’t like crackships and that stuff.

19. Introduce an OC that means a lot to you (explain why)?

Cherry means a lot to me, definitely. I made him when I was struggling a lot with depression and paranoia, and I drew him a lot to help me keep my mind off things. I made him represent everything I wanted to be to kind of make the goals I had personally seem more realistic to me. He’s a big mix of the things that make me happy and the things I want to be so he means a lot to me.

20. Do any of your OCs sing? If they sing, care to share more details?

Dustin sings pretty decently. He sings to the radio as he’s traveling across the Mojave, and Arcade is quite fond of his voice. It’s soft and it sounds warm, so he doesn’t complain when Dustin breaks out into song.

J’Toc went to the Bards College in Solitude, so he’s pretty talented when it comes to music. 

21. Your most artistic OC? 

Probably J’Toc. When he’s not traveling, he’s sitting at home making music or practicing enchanting or alchemy. He finds that to be artistic.

22. Is there any OC of yours people tend to mischaracterize?

No, because no one really talks about my OCs

23. Introduce OC that has changed from your first idea concerning what the character would be like?

Birch definitely. My plan was to make him this strong, big character who’s kind of an asshole, but in the end, he’s a really friendly guy who loves helping people. 

24. If you could meet one OC of yours, who would it be and why?

Either Cherry or Birch. Cherry because of the struggles I’ve been through and he would be a great friend, but also Birch because he has a few of the same struggles as I do, so I would love to talk to him about that stuff.

25. The OC that resembles you the most.

Cherry.

26. Have you ever had to change your OCs design or something else about them against your will?

No. Never have, never will. My OCs are mine and no one elses.

27. Any OCs that were inspired by a certain song.

Probaby all of them honestly. When I was 11, I made a lot of characters in my head based off of Muse songs, but as of late, not really. I think.

28. Your most dangerous OC?

J’Toc. He’s patient, but he’s really strong after learning what he’s capable. After finding out he’s the Dragonborn, its as if he learned so much more about his strength, so he’ll unleash it at you.

29. Which one of your OCs would go investigate an abandoned house at night without telling anyone they’re going?

Cherry. His sense of adventure takes him too far.

30. Which one of your OCs would most likely have a secret stuffed animal collection?

Cherry, definitely. He’s a softy. 

31. Pick one OC of yours and explain what their tumblr blog would be like. 

Birch would have a trans positivity blog. It would be bright, colourful and welcoming to all who had questions about their identity. 

32. Which one of your OCs would be the most suitable horror game protagonist and why?

Not J’Toc, he’s stonefaced. Nothing really scares him. Probably Cherry because he’d do the stereotypical white person thing and investigate an abandoned house. He scares easy too.

33. Your shyest OC?

Oh god. I don’t have one I think! All of my OCs are really outgoing. Which is ironic because I’m scared of new people and it’s so hard for me to open up to people.

34. Do you have any twin characters?

No, but that sounds rad.

35. Any sibling characters? 

No.

36. Do you have OC pairs where the other part belongs to someone else?

Birch and Sakura are cousins. Assuming that’s what the question is asking?

37. Introduce an OC who is not quite human.

J’Toc. I kinda modeled him to look quite, non human. I always liked the idea that he could sprout multiple limbs on a whim (honestly, just to be able to play the flute and lute at the same time). He also joined the Companions so he’s a werewolf. But because he’s Dragonborn, I made him more dragonlike. I liked the idea that he could shapeshift into a dragon, but that’s something I messed around with outside of Skyrim.

38. Which one of your OCs would be the best dancer?

Birch. He’s thin and nimble, and extremely fast, so I feel like he would be the best if he learned how to dance. (Honestly, every time I typed dance I typed Danse first.)

39. Introduce any character you want.

I’ll link this question to a bio of Cherry as soon as I have the time!

40. Any fond memories linked to your characters? 

When I was 16, we had a project in English where we had to make this website about anything, I think it was about a problem in our lives? I can’t remember. I made a website about depression and anxiety, and I used Cherry to be my persona of the project. It made me feel good that I could project my feelings through him to show people what its like to struggle with anxiety and depression.

41. Has anyone drawn fanart of your OCs?

Yes actually! A mutual of mine on Instagram drew Cherry in a new years or a follower celebration post. I would share it but it included other people’s OCs so I wont today! 

But y’know if you wanted to draw my OCs I would totally let you all you want and I would reblog all of it. 

42. Which one of your OCs would be the most interested in Greek gods?

J’Toc. J’Toc has dabbled with Daedric Princes, a lot of them actually, so I feel like he would love learning more about gods in other cultures as well.

43. Do you have any certain type when you creat your OCs? Do you tend to favour some certain traits or looks? 

All my oc’s happen to be dudes...... But when I draw, I usually like to give men curves, so really curvy men are all my oc’s. I have a few female OCs but I haven’t practiced enough female anatomy to be really good. 

44. Something you like about your OCs in general.

They’re all what I want to be in the future, so they’re my inspiration to become a better person. 

45. A character you no longer use.

All of the characters I made before I turned 14. 

46. Has anyone ever told you that you treat your OCs badly?

Probably, the only person I had to talk about my OCs with kinda abandoned me because of my opinion on characters. 

47. Has anyone ever claimed any of your OCs as their child?

Person from previous question yes. But no one talks to me about my OCs anymore. 

48. OC who is a perfect cinnamon roll, too good for this world, too pure. 

Dustin! He’s such a sweet guy. 

49. Which one of your OCs would most likely enjoy memes.

Dustin, he annoys Arcade constantly with memes. 

50. Give me the good ol’ OC talk here. Talk about anything you want.

This is like, so much privilege. I’ll just go ahead and throw out the fact that Birch is trans and represents basically the personal struggle of figuring out my identity, but he represents how I hope I can handle it. Through acceptance and calmness. He’s managed to get as far as he needed too, and I want that too. 

[magificantamericandonger]

My dad bought it on a whim. He knew my broster ( @wreckitywreckityricked ) and i like most like Rockey Horror, Little Shop of Horrors, The Raven, and he thought it sounded pretty damned interesting so he brought it home and he and I watched it.

I fell in love.

It brought back the memories of the first time I watched Rocky Horror Picture Show when I was nine and it just ignited a child like love in me for this movie. Everything about it resonated with me. The beautiful costumes, how fucking extra all the characters were, the set design, the actors, the wonderful must and singing. I think what drew me in the most was how clear it was how mich the actors enjoyed doing this movie from the background characters to the main cast who looked like they just had a blast. With low budget, high gore slashers the acting usually leaves something to be desired, but there was so much heart and soul behind so many of the deliveres that it touched me.

So imagine my surprise after watching this movie and trying to find others who liked it and finding NOTHING. No one was talking about this movie at all. So I watched the movie with my broster singing the songs and learning every line and searching the details and sharing theories with each other, great bonding experience. Now I turn around and I see a wonderful fanbase who love this movie as much as I do AND that the same guys made similar movies the Devil's Carnival/2 that I must absolutely watch. I'm already trying to get more people to see this movie and already have a friend hooked on it too, not surprising to anyone here but Zydrate Anatomy is what see the deal and had him all for this story and world.

How did you discover Repo! The Genetic Opera?

I’d love to get some fan conversations going here so we can get to know one another and celebrate the weird little goth opera we all love!

So I’d like to start at the beginning!

How did you first discover Repo!?

I had just graduated college, and I had never enjoyed scary, gory, or horror type movies - and I found things with surgery in it disturbing. But a bunch of my friends were suddenly obsessed with this dark movie, and my best friend at the time had even started writing fanfiction for it and planning cosplay ideas. She assured me that no one was going to pressure me to watch it, but I felt left out dammit! My friend had become obsessed with GraveRobber, and mused that Shilo was a LOT like me, and the two characters were often paired off so it would be easy for us to portray them/interact as them - which was another draw for me to go ahead and watch it. So, on Halloween night in 2012, my best friend and our mutual friend who had gotten her into it in the first place and maybe a few other people gathered in their dark dorm room (they were all a few years younger than me) to watch it.

And even though it was not my usual genre AT ALL, I fell madly in love with the film - which is saying something too, because I was a writing major and have always been hypercritical of books and movies. But I went head over heels and whipped up a Shilo cosplay from things in my closet and my friends’ closets that very night. And I only got more obsessed from there!!!

Join in the conversation! How did YOU discover Repo!??

[booksandcafesblog]

Book Review: The Wedding Date

Book Title: The Wedding Date (The Wedding Date #1) Author: Jasmine Guillory Purchase: Amazon Rating: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ Description from Goodreads: A groomsman and his last-minute guest are about to discover if a fake date can go the distance in a fun and flirty debut novel. Agreeing to go to a wedding with a guy she gets stuck with in an elevator is something Alexa Monroe wouldn't normally do. But there's something about Drew Nichols that's too hard to resist. On the eve of his ex's wedding festivities, Drew is minus a plus one. Until a power outage strands him with the perfect candidate for a fake girlfriend... After Alexa and Drew have more fun than they ever thought possible, Drew has to fly back to Los Angeles and his job as a pediatric surgeon, and Alexa heads home to Berkeley, where she's the mayor's chief of staff. Too bad they can't stop thinking about the other... They're just two high-powered professionals on a collision course toward the long distance dating disaster of the century--or closing the gap between what they think they need and what they truly want...

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars 

After thoroughly enjoying Jasmine Guillory’s lighthearted rom-com The Proposal (read my review here), I couldn’t resist hopping onto Amazon to grab The Wedding Date as an ebook — like I couldn’t even wait for the two-day shipping, I needed it immediately. And it turned out that I enjoyed The Wedding Date even more than The Proposal (though Sandra is bewildered by this sentiment). In my opinion, Jasmine Guillory writes the adult versions of Sarah Dessen books. She’s consistent — you know you’re getting a great meet-cute, steamy romance, and stories of personal growth with a great cast of supporting characters. These books are perfect for fans of Sex in the City, which I also recently started watching for the first time (I know, I know, what took me so long?!).

The book introduces us to Alexa Monroe, Chief of Staff for a California mayor, and Drew Nichols, a hunky pediatric surgeon and BFF of Carlos Ibarra from The Proposal. As I’m realizing is standard for Guillory, the chapters switch between Alexa’s and Drew’s perspectives, giving the reader insight into both their thought processes as they try to guess what the other is feeling because, y’know, many of us struggle with open communication.

Alexa and Drew meet when they get stuck in a hotel elevator together. This particular meet-cute resonates with me, as someone who’s also been stuck in an elevator. Unfortunately, my own experience didn’t lead to a hot date or really any romance at all — I just ended up late for work on my first day at a new job, while the men stuck in the elevator with me became increasingly aggravated. Hard pass.

Thankfully for Alexa and Drew, they aren’t stuck for too long — just long enough to realize they have a natural chemistry and ease between them. On a whim, Drew asks Alexa to accompany him to a wedding that very weekend; his date canceled on him last-minute and he figured he had nothing to lose. To his surprise, Alexa agrees and the two end up having a blast together at the rehearsal dinner and reception. One thing leads to another, the two spend the night together…and the next day…and so begins a series of sexy hookups. Drew lives in LA and Alexa lives outside San Francisco, so neither of them sees this turning into a real relationship. But the more time they spend together, the more likely it becomes they’ll have to confront some increasingly real feelings.

Alexa Monroe is one of my favorite protagonists; I found her infinitely relatable, from her body insecurities and love of doughnuts to her poor impulse control when texting the Hottie McHottie she’s dating. She’s an admirable friend, incredibly hard worker, and she knows how to bring out the best in those around her. If you enjoy an honest and hilarious inner monologue, Alexa will be right up your alley.

And Drew is a perfect complement to Alexa. This book demonstrates that career-oriented couples can thrive when both parties celebrate each others’ successes and support each other through the tough times. These characters are multi-dimensional and authentic, so it’s all the more exciting to watch their relationship blossom. The cherry on top is that their chemistry is off the charts; Guillory’s writing is romantic without being flowery; it’s hot and undeniably thrilling — not unlike the early seasons of Grey’s Anatomy.

Both characters have substantial sub-plots and important life events outside of their relationship. Alexa is personally invested in advocating for the creation of a teen arts rehabilitation program, while Drew is equally invested in a special patient. As much as I enjoy the characters together, their separate lives are authentic and gripping, leaving you feeling closer to both. I went into this book with limited knowledge on what a Chief of Staff really is or does, so it was especially interesting to learn more about this role.

Overall, a solid contemporary read with lovable characters and a cute premise. The chapters fly by, and each of Guillory’s subsequent novels build on the same cast, so the more you read, the more invested you’ll become. I’m looking forward to following Alexa’s best friends, Maddie and Theo, in The Wedding Party next.

[rose-coloredlights]

A Kit in a Box

Roselight walked down the dark street, Iacon’s sun just barely starting to peek over the horizon. She had an early morning shift at the hospital today, and she’d decided on a whim to walk instead of fly from her apartment. 

She passed an alley when she heard a soft cry from down it. She stopped and looked down, but couldn’t see any mecha hanging around. Maybe it was her imagina- there it was again, more a whine this time. 

She glanced around, but again no one was to be seen, so she carefully made her way down the alley, looking for the source of the sound, which was becoming more pitiful as she made her way. 

Finally, she found it -- a overturned box with a hinge lid propped open with something small underneath it. For a nanoklick, she thought someone had abandoned a sparkling, but quickly dismissed it when she knelt down and saw what actually was there. And it made her vents stutter in a gasp. 

A turbofox kit, laying on its side, three paws stretched out while was was curled close to its body, the paw laying at an awkward angle. It was dirty, but she thought it’s plating might be white or silver once it was clean. But the gasp was not because of its state, but because of its existence. As far as she had known, turbofoxes had been driven to extinction by the War.

“Oh, hello, sweet thing,” she said softly, slowly extending a servo towards it, palm up so it could sniff her digits. It drew back and she stilled, not wanting to startle it. After a klick, it tilted its helm towards her servo, its nose snuffling as it took in her scent. It took a lot of willpower not to giggle at the adorable sight. Finally, it nudged its muzzle against her hand, and she reached back to scratch behind its ear. 

“That’s right, baby, I won’t hurt you.” She looked at its paw again. “But it looks like someone has.” She considered her options; she could leave the kit where it was, and likely someone less than savory would come and do something to it. Or she could take the kit with her, try to help it. Except she had no idea what do do about a injured turbofox, all she knew came from old datapads that were more picture books than anatomy and medical text. But if she could find someone who did...

Decision made, she took the box and tilted it back upright, noticing there were some holes in the top of it. Good, she wouldn’t need to make any herself. She very carefully slid her servos under the kit, and it probably said something bad that it let her with only a slight whine as its injured paw was jostled. “Sorry, sorry.” She set it into the box, watching it shift into as comfortable position as possible before shutting the lid. It whined again, but she cooed softly and it settled. 

She picked up the box and walked back down the alley, the sun shining in the street. She activated her comm and called the first person she could think would know anything about turbofoxes. 

::Ratchet? I need some help.::

[magdaleneswift-blog]

MEN EXPLAIN ORIGINAL SIN

Little Georgie, the Leaf Spring Cross Bow and the Real Serpent in the Garden of Eden.

My father – in – law liked to tell this story about growing up during the Depression.  He was the youngest of at least half a dozen children and as such had a unique position in the family.  He was sometimes lucky to survive.

One day his older brothers found an abandoned leaf spring from a Model T Ford and decided to use it build a cross bow.  They assembled it, got a bolt, and cranked it back.  They then drew a target on a local barn and gave Little Georgie the ‘honor’ of being the first to try it out. i.e. If anything went wrong, Mom was less likely to punish him.

When the trigger released, George immediately realized he was in trouble. He threw the barrel up to keep it from dislocating his shoulder.  Even still, the force was enough to knock him to the ground.  His brothers were horrified.  Georgie, are you all right?!  His shoulder was sore, but he was ok.  The next issue, “Where did the bolt go?  It’s not on the barn.  You missed the barn!”  

“I did NOT miss the barn!”

They looked all over the barn and found an entry hole.  They couldn’t find the bolt inside the barn either.  They did however; find an exit hole on the wall opposite the entry hole.  They lined up the two holes.  The path led to the local gathering place where the old timers congregated to shoot the breeze.

No one was there.  They didn’t wait to find out if no one had been there or if everyone had scattered when the bolt had come flying out of the side of the barn.  They went home and didn’t mention the episode to anyone, nor attempt to use the cross bow again.

I am also reminded of the book Look me in the Eye When you Talk to Me.  The older brother considers his younger brother and object to torture for his amusement.  My co-worker talks about how her son idolized his older sister when he was little.  She would do nothing but torment him.

Let’s compare this to another story about the youngest in the family; one often discounted by atheists because, “Snakes don’t talk.”  They are wrong.  There is one snake that does talk.

Many definitions exist for the exact nature of original sin, but nearly all agree it involves mankind trying to ‘become’ god.  What one piece of anatomy is most likely to result in an individual believing they are god?

According to the rabbi’s sermon to the Knights of Columbus and the foot notes in my Bible, when God created the second member of humanity, Adam didn’t give her a name,** only a designation.  The term ‘woman’ in Hebrew is a pun on the words ‘her man’**. i.e. Something that has no existence apart from him. So Adam’s statement is essentially – God gave me this really neat appendage to do whatever I want with.  He then continues to prove it.  Is there any other human trait that creates a hell on earth more than looking at each other as an ends to a means?

The serpent is defined in the Bible as “The most cunning of all the animals in the Garden.”  Reptiles are not known for intelligence in Old World mythology.  What is the only animal believed to have_ ‘intelligence’_ in the Garden? The serpent asks the woman what will happen if the fruit is eaten.  She replies that she would die.  He then tells her that the fruit is good and she would be like a god knowing good and evil.  Hunger for Power is usually not a trait associated with women. Blind trust in a spouse is considered more typical. After the woman eats the fruit, she gives it to her husband – WHO WAS STANDING RIGHT THERE! So what was ‘Adam’ doing during all this? – Waiting to see if she really would die!

Then the eyes of both were opened when they had both eaten.  It then dawns on Eve that she has been nothing more than a patsy and Adam realizes that he really screwed up.  St. Paul reiterates this – Through one** MAN** all were condemned. When God asks what they have been doing, Adam immediately blames his wife.  He had already marked her out as the scape goat for this function.  All of the gangs, KKK, other terrorists.  This is SOP.  First convince your recruit do something illegal, immoral, then you can control them by threatening to go to the police, having them thrown out of their families, etc.

God then talks directly to Eve as a real live human being.  When Jesus came again into the world, he continued to talk to women as real live human beings and not furniture and shocked the ‘religious’ leaders of the day.

She replies that the “serpent” tricked her.

God then bans “the Serpent” from all other animals to crawl on the ground and eat dirt. – Only humanity is separate from the rest of the animal kingdom.  Humanity is condemned to survive by the sweat of your brow. Ask any farmer how tired they get and how much dirt they eat.  Hunter gatherers take about 25 Sq mile per person to survive and take a lot of running to run your prey into the ground.  Agriculture expands the number of people per square mile who can survive. I will put enmity between you and the woman. – The domestic violence statistics prove this. I have also heard that the majority of women in prison are there because they trusted their male partner, who set them up as the patsy for their illegal activities.

He will strike at your head while you strike at his heel.  Many translators use the feminine and say this is a reference to the Virgin Mary. No, the pronoun is masculine and it is Christ who kills the serpent by being the complete opposite of selfish.  Rather than sacrifice another to save himself, he sacrifices himself to save us all.  He is the opposite of Adam, looking out for our benefit rather than his.  

This statement also foreshadows the power balance between men and women. I will intensify the pangs of your childbirth – The human head is larger in proportion to the birth canal than any other mammal make child birth difficult.  The greater’ intelligence’ for survival is the trade off.  (God’s ‘curses ‘ are usually not ‘curses’ of a vindictive god, but usually are observations of messes we have gotten ourselves stuck in.  . Llike the mother’s curse and the ‘curse’ of the Bajoran Prophets of Star Trek Deep Space 9 warning their messiah of “great sadness” are observations [Mother’s Curse – When you grow up I hope you have a child_ just like you_ – Works even if you have no biological connection to the child.])

The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the sons for 7 generations.  How many generations since the slavery of the African American?  The African American community is STILL recovering. That time frame is also about how long it takes the gossip to die down in small towns and how long it can take a family to rebuild from a disaster.  Yoyo Ma says the Chinese have a saying.  “It takes three generations to create a musician.”  Keep in mind that your mistakes can have multigenerational consequences. “Your urge shall be for your husband and he shall be your master” – Humanity will learn nothing from this story and will continue their same errors.   Adam’s wife chose her husband rather than God as her ‘master’ and will continue to do so.  Men will continue to brow beat and lord it over women as long as we let them get away with it.  Remember ladies, your first loyalty is to God and your minor children, not your fathers, brothers, husbands, or the ‘pope’ especially when it is essentially bragging about molesting children.

By ‘cursing’ them both God sends several messages.

To quote the signs in china stores – “You break it. You bought it.”  No. He is not going to give in to Adam’s whims and create another partner for him.  He will have to live with his wife and creation was not made for man.  The fishermen who had fished the species to extinction and said it was, “No problem, God will just make more.”  should take note. God also lets him know just who is ultimately at fault.  Adam finally gets it and gives his wife a real name – Eve – Mother of all the living – i.e. second in creative powers only to God. (Eve – Humanity 2.0) (My engineering professor said the prototype is just to check the concept.  You keep improving with each model. The Virgin Mary is humanity 3.0.  Christ would be 4.0, but that is cheating since he is also the creator.) God also tells Eve exactly what the judges in the Nuremburg trials said. – Just following orders is not an excuse.  You are responsible for your own actions.

This story is often used by ‘religious’ leaders to show the inferiority and evil of women.  I say it does the opposite.

Another huge ‘curse’ is the trait of humanity to know what is the best course of action AND TO DO THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE because it is ‘exciting.’ Usually a synonym for stupid** and** dangerous.  God doesn’t tell us not to do things to keep us from having ‘fun’.  He does this to try to keep us from killing ourselves and others.  It is a sorry statement on humanity that good behavior doesn’t come from a heartfelt desire to make the lives of others and ourselves better but from a fear of punishment. So the atheists are wrong.  This is not a meaningless story, but one with a lifetime full of meaning; none of which involves a talking reptile.  Other themes involve the fact the both men and women were created in the image of God and our choice of fear being necessary for humanity to toe the straight and narrow.

 My biggest theological question is “Why didn’t God quit on the 5th day when he was ahead of the game?” and “Are you** SURE** humanity counts as a sentient species?”

Does this interpretation also relate to the practice of circumcision?  Did God impose this practice on the Hebrews as a reminder and penance directly on the trait that resulted in this mess?  It is a very impractical tribal marking.  And how did the penis become the source of all sanctity as joyfully proclaimed by the proud pagan pedophiles in the vatican? If pedophiles are happily chosen to represent Christ at the highest level while excluding women, then the vatican vision of Christ is a deranged predator sacred only because it is male and our children are nothing more than prey to be sacrificed to their penises. If your read all the Old Testament prophets, nothing ticks God off more than sacrificing children to** false gods**.

All the clergy are also informed that the only thing of theirs that matters is their penis. It would certainly solve the world wide unemployment crisis.  Walk into a bishop’s office drop your pants, and immediately receive a guaranteed lifelong job. (Another pedophile was just hired to teach college in Rome last month.  He wasn’t able to find a job in the U.S.)

This parable is also a reminder how we constantly lose the important by choosing the trivial.  In the opening story, someone could have easily gotten killed for what benefit? My son chose to play computer games rather than attend his college classes.  My** ex** chose his little pieces of cardboard, bankruptcy, and death (POGS, Pokémon, Magic the Gathering, Star Trek) over the unconditional love of his children and my income and access to health care. We choose affairs over loyalty to spouses.  We choose to drink and drive with the resulting carnage.  We choose drugs and addiction which pay thugs to take over countries.  We choose trinkets made out of gold and jewels for the ecological and societal devastation.   The vatican joyfully threw away the keys to heaven so that they could worship their dicks and molest children.

Back to the future and beginning – How did this theme start?

(More on non-chronological time later.)