#i gave up on trying to draw his right hand from a certain pose/angle so i'm leaving it as is now

[talietikasero]

this is probably the most detailed i've drawn him. like ever

[a-n-conrad]

Painting (Steve Rogers x Reader)

[Summary: You decide to paint your friend, Steve Rogers, realizing that no one had ever painted him without his uniform. However, things start to get heated after you start to daydream during your painting session. (She/Her pronouns)

Warnings: SMUT (18+, but with emotions), Not Canon Compliant (Because fuck you, Marvel.), Swearing, unprotected vaginal sex

Request: From my request survey (https://forms.gle/D9rsJtkERoBPaKvv8)]

You and Steve Rogers were widely considered to be an unlikely pair. There were a lot of things that you didn’t exactly agree on. Steve was a lot more social, being bold and outgoing. You were a bit quieter, preferring to avoid the company of a crowd. Steve was prone to waking up early to exercise. You stayed up into the quiet hours of the night, choosing instead to get a majority of your sleep in the morning. You weren’t exactly fond of Steve’s workout routines either, though you would join him on a short jog on occasion.

While you were technically considered an Avenger, you were really only brought out to fight for emergency circumstances. You had some incredibly powerful, incredibly volatile powers, but you really had no interest in using them unless it was completely needed. So you ended up making a few deals. You’d be treated like an Avenger, but you were basically benched unless some drastic, world-ending issue came up. So until then, you were kept on hold in Avengers Tower, spending most of your time painting in the studio that Tony had gotten set up for you.

Despite this power, and despite your title as an official Avenger, you were still a bit of an outsider among the team. You tended not to talk to them a lot, becoming a bit easily overwhelmed by the chaos that the team seemed to radiate. But surprisingly, you and Steve got along incredibly well.

You had originally bonded over your love of art. You loved Steve’s drawings. You admired the linework and shading in his drawings. He could do so much with just a pen, let alone if you gave him a few colors. He admired the amount of emotion you managed to instill into every single painting that you made. No matter what you painted, whether it was a portrait, a landscape, or something entirely different, it was always filled to the brim with the emotion that you had felt while painting it. It was like looking through a window into your soul. It was so honest and refreshing.

Eventually the two of you started to talk a bit more while you worked. It started pretty tame, just discussions of how your day was or general questions about each other like “What’s your favorite color”. But eventually you moved on to the harsher topics of your lives. Steve would talk about how exhausting it was to be the face of America, to be held on such a pedestal while also being expected to sacrifice everything at the drop of a hat. You talked about how cold and dehumanizing it felt to be seen by the American government as nothing more than a weapon, a walking nuclear bomb.

Your struggles overlapped at certain points. You both spent a lot of your time being used by the government. You were both seen as tools more than you were seen as people by a lot of the general public. You were a weapon and he was an idol, some sort of trophy. So you bonded a lot over your shared struggles as you talked to each other and worked on art side by side. And when the hard stuff got a bit too heavy, you’d sit and talk about art. About subjects that you just loved to add to all of your work. About what each shade of every color meant to you, about the emotions that you saw in every tiny color shift.

It was so nice, for both of you, to have something like that. The studio that you spent time in was so safe and peaceful for both of you, since the other Avengers tended to avoid it. And the two of you had started to see through each other’s masks enough to truly get to know each other. Steve couldn’t remember the last time someone had known him as Steve Rogers more than they had known him as Captain America. He had Bucky, but Bucky was far too busy with his own issues for Steve to even consider burdening him with anything else. But with you he could truly be himself, even if that meant getting angry, sad, or frustrated.

So the two of you had become incredibly close, despite your differences. And every day that you had some free time without any big meeting or mission, you would be in the studio helping each other with art. It was a good way for you to relieve stress, just relaxing with each other. It was one of those days that you came to a realization.

- - - - -

“Has anyone ever painted you?” You asked suddenly one day as the two of you sat side by side in the art studio. He looked a bit surprised, and then he looked confused.

“Of course. There are murals of me up all over the place, (Y/n).”

“No, there are murals of Captain America,” you responded, shaking your head, “They don’t really look that much like you. You really only look like that when you’re working as Captain America. So has anyone ever painted you? As Steve Rogers?”

He looked surprised again. And you could tell as the emotions cycled through his face that he didn’t really know how to respond. You supposed it was a bit of an odd question. And you knew that it was a bit odd to think of someone and their superhero persona as two different people, but Steve couldn’t disagree. He wasn’t Captain America all the time, and he loved that you understood that, “I suppose I’ve never really thought about it, but I guess not.”

You hummed a bit, “That’s a shame. It feels like a waste that everyone paints a costume. You should let me paint you sometime.”

You said it in a way that he wasn’t sure if you were serious. Your face was entirely serious when you said it, but you said it so casually, not even really looking at him, “Really?”

You finally looked up at him, noticing the pure confusion on his face, “Of course. I mean, you’d have to sit still for a while, but honestly, you could probably just sit and sketch for a while. You just seem too good of a subject to not be painted without the costume.”

Steve wasn’t really one to blush, but it was quite the compliment coming from you. He had women trying to hit on him all the time now, being Captain America, but that never really felt heartfelt. It had been a fairly long time since he had actually felt a real connection with someone. But to hear you compliment him, thinking of him as Steve Rogers instead of Captain America, made his heart flutter a bit. And the fact that he knew that you were rather picky about the subject you painted only made it more effective.

“I, uh, think that’d be cool,” He responded as soon as he was sure that he could trust his voice not to crack, though he couldn’t hide the slight stutter. It was honestly endearing how much his personality changed when he wasn’t working. While he was still headstrong and stubborn, he was a bit less confident. He knew he could win a fight. He knew that he looked good on television. But he didn’t really know how to interact with people in the new modern age. He was lucky to have the friends that he did. At least, that’s how he felt about it.

“Wonderful,” You hummed, starting to put away all of your supplies, “Why don’t we pack it up for the day and I can start painting you tomorrow if we aren’t too busy?”

“Yeah, sounds like a plan.”

- - - - -

The next day was surprisingly slow. You had to say that you were thankful. You had been looking forward to getting to paint Steve, even though you knew it was making him a little nervous. You were honestly excited to have a new project, and part of you was excited for the opportunity to stare at Steve for a bit without it being considered weird. He was easy to admire, both physically and on a personal level, so you found yourself staring more often than you’d like to admit. You were pretty sure that you had been lucky enough to avoid being caught though.

He was physically gorgeous. Obviously. But something about the way that he looked when he was drawing was nearly angelic. The way he furrowed his brows just a little and turned his paper at odd angles to make sure that the proportions of his sketches were right was adorable. The look in his eyes when his work started to come together made your heart melt. When he got a bit frustrated and would run a hand through his hair you could feel your heart skip a beat. You felt a bit dumb to be drooling over your friend, but you had to admit you were falling pretty hard for him. So you’d use this painting as an excuse to admire him without any questions.

He was already blushing a bit when he came into the studio, and you had a feeling that part of it was from Tony teasing him. He had a habit of giving the two of you a bit of a hard time about how much time you spent together. But the blush was still adorable. Something about Steve when he was nervous stole your heart. He was surprisingly soft when he had the space to be.

“So, uh, what’s the plan?” He asked as he strode over to your work station that you had already gotten set up.

“Just pull a chair up in front of me. You can get comfortable, start sketching, and I’ll get a base outline and block out as much as I can. Just let me know if you need a break and try not to change your pose too much. At least until I can get all of the base shapes right,” You instructed, trying to keep your voice even. You were surprised at how well you managed to hide the fact that you were completely lovesick.

“Alright, sounds good,” He responded, pulling up a chair and getting himself situated. He crossed one of his legs over the other, resting his ankle on his other thigh to give himself a place to set his sketchbook. You tossed him his pencil once he got himself settled, and then you got to work.

You had to admit you had started to get a bit frustrated with how easily you managed to get distracted by him while you were trying to paint. You had hoped that maybe painting him would help. You had no reason to get distracted from your painting when you were painting him. At least, that’s what you had thought before you started sketching out the form.

You felt yourself losing focus as your brush moved smoothly, the incredibly thin, light paint building a form that you found yourself wanting to know a bit more intimately. You tried your best to stay focused on the canvas in front of you, but you couldn’t stop your mind from drifting. You imagined what his body looked like under his clothes as you blocked out the lights and shadows of the fabric that rested over his abs. And the vivid image in your brain, the detailed picture of his body that you had conjured up in front of you, followed your brush as you worked.

The brush slid smoothly across the canvas, outlining his muscles, almost all of which showed through his thin t-shirt. Your brain almost instantly conjured up a matching image, the fantasy becoming more and more dynamic as you went on. It shifted from regular images of what his abs looked like when he was shirtless to more detailed images. Thoughts of his biceps flexing a bit as he held himself over you, his arms covered in sweat. Thoughts of his hands sliding across your skin. It only got worse as you moved down, eventually reaching the point between his legs.

“(Y/n)? Are you alright?” Steve’s voice finally broke you from your thoughts, his eyes which had been focused intently on his drawing when you had last looked were now trained on your face, scanning for any sign as to what was causing you to space out, “You don’t normally get distracted when you’re painting, is everything alright?”

“Oh,” You tried your best to pull yourself back to reality, though the fantasies seemed to be burned into your brain, “Yeah, sorry. I was, uh, spacing out a bit.”

“Do you want to take a break for a bit? Maybe we should get up and stretch,” He suggested. You nodded in response, hoping it would help you refocus on your painting.

It didn’t help much, though, as Steve stood, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt lifted up just enough to show some skin, and his pants were riding fairly low. Your eyes almost involuntarily moved to look at him, landing right about the button to the jeans that he was wearing. The muscles in his hips and stomach formed an almost perfect V shape leading into his pants.

“(Y/N)?” You had been caught staring. You tried your best to look casual, relaxing your posture. Your mistake was to try to lean on the table, setting your hand directing on your palette, which was covered in paints.

You froze, and Steve’s eyes landed on your hand, the red and blue paint gushing out from the sides. You felt like an awkward teenager, doing stupid ridiculous shit in front of your crush. You watched intently for a reaction from Steve, not really knowing what to do and hoping that the way that he reacted would give you something easy to respond to.

He raised one of his eyebrows at you, a look of confusion, with a small hint of amusement under the surface painted across his face, “You seem to have set your hand in your paint.”

“Uh, yes, it would seem so,” You responded awkwardly, finally lifting your hand out of the paint. You still really weren’t sure what to say, and not knowing where to put your hand so that you wouldn’t smear any paint anywhere wasn’t really making you feel any better. You cleared your throat a bit, trying to think of something smart to say, something that wouldn’t signal exactly how far gone you were into your fantasies, but instead you just signaled to Steve how flustered you were.

You knew that Steve had never been the biggest ladies’ man. From what he had told you, he was actually pretty awkward growing up, but the confidence that washed over him as he finally figured out what was getting you so flustered was visible. He walked closer to you, standing close enough to emphasize how tall he was, “Got something on your mind, sweetheart?”

“Oh, uh,” You stuttered, not sure what to say. You could tell that he knew from the smirk on his face, but you could feel your face heating up as you thought about explaining your fantasizing to Steve. He smirked even more as you got visibly flustered.

“It’s okay, honey, I don’t mind if you stare a little,” He said, standing a bit closer, his hand moving to hold your chin. You swallowed deeply as his fingers brushed against your skin softly. Your eyes locked with his as his hand tilted your chin up just a little.

As much as he was keeping up his confident, masculine persona, you could see the complete warmth in his eyes. He softened completely when you looked at him, pure admiration in your eyes. He had to admit it warmed his heart to see you looking at him like that, like he was your whole world. And maybe it was because he felt the same way. He had been falling in love with you slowly, and as he looked at you, he wanted to find every way possible to express it.

“Can I kiss you?” He whispered, his voice soft.

“Please.”

His lips were much softer than you thought they’d be, but you didn’t think about it too much as his lips moved against your own. It was soft at first, but it began to escalate quickly, getting rough and more passionate. His hands moved to your waist, pulling your body into his own, and your hands moved to his face, too focused on the kiss to notice the fact that you were smearing paint across his cheek.

He pulled back, allowing you to get a breath of air. That was when you noticed the red and blue streaks across his cheek, “Shit, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about,” He brushed it off, before pulling you into another kiss. He truly didn’t seem to care at all about the paint, choosing instead to focus on you.

This kiss started off much more passionate, building even further. Before long he pulled away again, pulling a groan from your mouth as you instinctively wanted more. Your complaints were silenced, though, as he began to kiss down your neck, nipping slighting at a few select spots, leaving marks for you to see later.

“If you want me to stop, just say it,” He said, as his hands started to move towards the hem of your shirt. He was moving slowly, giving you the chance to stop him at any point. You didn’t.

Before long, your clothes were entirely discarded, scattered haphazardly across the floor. Steve’s followed shortly. Neither of you could keep your hands to yourself, feeling the curves of each other's bodies as you continued to kiss. Both of you were desperate, the tension that neither of you even realized had been building finally crashing to the ground around you, any sort of restraint being thrown out the window.

However, you had to take a few moments to admire his body. You knew that it was perfect, he was a super soldier, of course it’s perfect, but you didn’t really know how perfect until it was right in front of you. There was no way you could’ve imagined it in a way that did it true justice. The warmth under his skin, the pace of his breathing, the firm feeling of his grip on your waist. Those were things that you could never have imagined fully.

He lifted you up without any issue, placing his hands under your thighs, carrying you to the work table and setting you on a clear section of the table without breaking the kiss. His hands slid across the tops of your thighs before grabbing your hips. Yours moved from his cheeks to rest on his bare chest, smearing a bit more paint across his scalped chest. You could feel his erection brush against your leg as he leaned over you, the two of you trying to get as close to each other as possible.

You were breathing heavily, your brain clouded with need, both new and left over from your earlier fantasies. Fantasies that were coming true, “Please, Steve.”

“What is it, Sweetheart?” Steve asked, looking down at you, his pupils blown wide with desire, “What do you want?”

You began to grind against his thigh without really thinking about it. He had to admit that something about you needing him this much turned him on, but he wanted to wait until you said it before he did anything, “Please fuck me.”

He would’ve liked to have a bit more foreplay, but both of you were so needy, having built up to this for so long with so little release until now. So he complied with your request. He pulled you quickly to the edge of the table. You were forced to lay your upper body down completely so that he could pull your hips to hang over the edge a bit. He took a few moments to rub himself against the entrance to your pussy, coating the head of his cock with liquid that was practically dripping from your pussy. Finally, he pushed himself into you slowly, making sure to monitor your reaction for any sort of discomfort. You were indulging in the feeling of him slowly stretching you out, completely enjoying the feeling of having him as close to you as possible.

He started moving after he was sure that you were comfortable, his hands beginning to wander your body, squeezing at your hips and breasts, basically any part of you that had a bit of squish, something for him to grab. His mouth latched on to the base of your neck, leaving a deep, dark hickey. You could feel every movement of his hips, his cock brushing against your internal walls again with each thrust.

You couldn’t hold back your moans as he found the perfect spot to hit, one of his hands gripping one of your hips tightly to hold you in place as his thrusts gained momentum. He started picking up speed a bit, taking care to continue to hit the spot that made you moan the loudest. His other hand slid down further, his fingers making their way between your folds. He was surprisingly quick to find your clit, not that you were complaining. Your eyes practically rolled back in your head as he started to rub small circles over it, keeping pace with his thrusts.

You were practically putty in his hands, falling apart as he found every way to make you moan. Touch, squeezing, kissing, and biting exactly where you needed him to. You had no idea how he knew exactly what you wanted, but you didn’t really care as a knot began to build in the pit of your stomach.

You practically screamed his name as the knot finally snapped, Steve continuing his motions, continuing to rub your clit, as you rode out your climax, your whole body feeling as though fireworks were shooting through your veins. Your walls tightened with the waves of your orgasms, the fluttering feeling clear to Steve as he continued to bury himself inside of you. Soon after your climax finished, you could feel his thrust begin to get a bit sloppy, focus clear on his face as he tried his best to hold on longer.

He couldn’t hold on that long, though, soon giving in to the building pleasure. He came hard, his hips snapping into your own and his head being buried in your neck to hide his curses as he came completely undone. You could feel the thick hot ropes of his cum coating your insides as he finished. You both stayed like that for a few moments in order to catch your breath.

As you started to come back to reality, you finally noticed the mess you had made. Steve’s hair was a mess, blue paint sticking some of the tips together. You couldn’t even remember when you had grabbed his hair, but the paint smears left a clear map of where your hand had wandered. The blue and red stripes across his face and chest were clear, too. In fact, you had gotten paint all over his sculpted body, the blue smears outlining his muscles.

“We should probably clean up and get back to work, huh?” He eventually sighed, his eyes never leaving your body.

“I suppose.”

(A/N: Thanks for reading! If you want to send me a tip for my writing feel free to tip me over venmo! My venmo is Al3x13l. Tips aren't required, but as a broke college student, they are appreciated.)

[wereallsaloonaticshere]

Fight blackmail with blackmail

Summery: Eduardo blackmails Edward and Thompson to steal money for them, but Juan feels bad about it so he gives Edward and Thompson blackmail to use against Eduardo. 

Tw internalized homophobia, blackmail

Fandom: Eddsworld, Saloonatics

Word count: 3144

This was a collaboration I did with @aubdawgdrawz, they made a drawing for the story and I wrote it basically.

It’s quite a lovely night. Twinkling silver lights glow above them, highlighted by the pitch black a lack of sun causes. These nights are a constant for everyone in the town of Spit bucket, including a certain detective and sheriff.

“I quite liked that one.” Edward says, walking side by side with Thompson, “I felt it had a nice flow from scene to scene, and the character’s romance wasn’t forced at all.”

“I liked the horse.” The two men paused and looked at each other. Then chuckled and continued walking up the steps to their house. 

“I liked him too.” Edward takes out the keys and fumbles, looking for the right one, “I was surprised he turned out to be the killer in the end. Even I didn’t find any signs for that.” 

“I think they just wanted ta shock the audience. The people who made it aren’t ‘xactly what I’d call geniuses.” 

“Oh, and I am?”

“Nope.” Thompson says, then directly after Edward breaks out in giggles. 

“Oh, how sweet. My eternal love.” Edward places his hand on Thompson’s shoulder and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Make it a real one.” Thompson teases, and pulls Edward down by the collar, kissing him on the lips. 

“Oi, Thompson!” Edward says, after they’ve pulled apart, “Someone might see us!” He smiles as he opens the door, and the two walk into their home. 

It would’ve been a perfect night, had Juan not overheard it from the other side of the house. Had Juan not taken pictures of their kiss with his new camera.

A fist slams onto the counter, and Eduardo smirks as Thompson turns to face him in his chair. Thompson tackles him, pinning him to the floor. 

“Lotta nerve ya got, ta come back here.” Thompson stretches his arm toward his desk, trying to reach the handcuffs. “Why are ya smilin’, anywho? What’re ya planning?”

“I know about you.” Eduardo said

“What’re you-”

“I know about you and Edward.” Eduardo says, and with that, Thompson freezes. “Disgusting.” He adds for unneeded clarity. 

Gritting his teeth, Thompson lets go, and they both stand up. He leans against his desk, trying to stay cool. 

“What do ya mean?” 

“My partner in crime took photos of it.” Eduardo takes a few out of his pocket and shows them to him. Thompson bolts to grab it but Eduardo holds it high above his head, and grabs Thompson’s arm. 

“Give ‘em ta me. I’ll do...I’ll do anything.” Thompson says, with his eye wide open. Eduardo’s lips curls. He crosses his arms.

“Anything? Is that so?” 

~

“Man, I sure do love being a bandit!” Eduardo says, lying on top of a literal pile of gold coins and paper money. 

“Yo también.” Marco says, cleaning a mirror with his shirt, angling the reflective part away from him to avoid seeing his reflection. 

“What?” Eduardo asks. As Eduardo complains about Marco only knowing Spanish, Juan tinkers with his camera on the other side of the room.

Recently, when a professional cameraman moved to town, wanting, “...a breath a fresh, countryside air...”, he left his door unlocked. The three bandits saw their chance and ransacked the place, taking everything they could see. The cameraman was devastated, obviously, but for Juan it was one of the best things to ever happen to him. He got his very own camera! And a good one at that; the latest model. 

“Pose!” Juan says, taking the camera in both hands and pointing it at his partners. 

“Juan, you don’t need to take pictures of everything!” Eduardo says, sitting up and crossing his arms.

“Lucky I do though! ‘Else we wouldn’t have all this stuff!” Juan takes the photo. Eduardo runs a hand through his hair, and turns to Marco, continuing his mildly racist one-sided conversation. “I’ma head out and take more-”

“Bye.” Eduardo says, still looking at Marco.

Juan rolls his eyes and walks out. He wanders here and there, without a real destination in mind. 

A blue butterfly in the corner, just about to land on a leaf. A cactus with pink flowers dotted across it. A house with two men talking through the window, which probably wouldn’t turn out too good, considering the time of night. Time had flown by, apparently. You wouldn’t really be able to see anything other than a clouded swirl against a black backdrop. 

Wait. The two men were the British man and the Sheriff! And they were talking...Juan could just about make out what they were saying.

“I just feel so guilty.” Edward says, running a hand through his hair, voice tainted by exhaustion. 

“Don’t be. They’re savages, the lot of ‘em.” Juan frowns as Thompson says it. 

“Maybe we should just...let them tell the public.” A pause as Thompson stares with wide, judgmental eyes. “I just think-”

“What? You think ruinin’ our lives is the right answer? How?”

“How could it not be? I know it’ll be rough-”

“Rough? We’ll get killed! You already know how harshly people treat people like us! Or were the bandits ruining our lives not enough evidence for you?” 

“Well, my apologies if I don’t like stealing from the bank!” 

“And I do?!” 

As they continued arguing, Juan started to break into a cold sweat. 

Cops don’t like stealing. This is information he already knew, of course, but...they were doing it anyways. To keep each other safe, even though they hated it. 

Juan had told Eduardo and given him the picture because he knew that would get the gang more money. But seeing how it affected them, how it broke apart something special and private...Juan didn’t need all that gold, and neither did the others. 

But Juan isn’t as stupid as he looked. He knows just asking them wouldn’t work at all. His mind wandered a tad, as it tended to do, and he thought of the phrase ‘fight fire with fire’. The thing to fight blackmail with was more blackmail, clearly. But what would convince Eduardo to give the pictures back?

Juan’s blood ran slightly cooler. The sketches. Juan, of course, still had them all. He knew what the right thing to do was. He ran back to base.

Back at base, Eduardo and Marco were already asleep. Juan doesn’t bother walking on his tip-toes, since both men are heavy sleepers. He uncovers two floorboards in the corner where he slept, and gingerly pulls out the box, opening it. 

Eduardo used to be an artist, until he stopped, along with other things, drawing. He’d draw whatever he wanted to remember. And boy, did Eduardo want to remember Juan exactly. The slope of his jawline, his crooked smile, his soft yet calloused skin. 

So he drew him, filled entire sketchbooks with Juan and him. Holding hands, kissing, other things. Anything he could think of. At first they were drawn few and far between, but when Juan thumbed through one of the books and said he loved them, it seemed like Eduardo had a dip pen attached to his hand.

But it didn’t last. Eduardo’s dad found the books, and he wasn’t exactly okay with what was in them. The two were just younger than 18 when that happened. A few years later, after Juan decided to become a bandit, they met again. Juan went to hug him but got shoved away. Eduardo acted like he had never met him before. It hit Juan in a soft spot, but he went along with it, knowing whatever Eduardo’s dad did to him wasn’t the greatest. But Eduardo was a different person, harsher, meaner. There were still times when his old self would come out, but it would so quickly be stifled Juan would wonder if he imagined it.

Juan looks in the box and pulls out a thin pad of paper, about 20 or so pieces. Juan, throughout the years, had probably seen these a million times, but that didn’t stop him from looking again, blushing at his past, at the feelings he used to know. At the boy he once loved, and the man he wasn’t sure he knew. Each drawing, each stroke of the pen, was carefully done, the signature in the corner of every one.

He put the pad in his coat pocket, closed the box and put it back in the floor, as if nothing has been or ever was there. He looked across the room at Eduardo. He hadn’t been the nicest, or least hypocritical person lately. He deserved this. 

On his walk back to the sheriff’s house, he thought about their time together, all those years ago. The jokes, the spats, the love. Juan had loved Eduardo, and these drawings had love written all over them. 

He wondered if Eduardo even remembers making them, or if he forced himself to forget.

~

There’s a knocking on the door, and Edward gets up first to answer it.

“Hel-” Juan shoves past him and walks over to their dinner table, placing the sketchpad on it, face down. 

“I’m really sorry, I am. So, so here,” Juan points at the pad, his other hand clenched in his pocket, and walks back towards the still opened door, “tell Eduardo that if he puts the film out you’ll put the drawings out. I really didn’t, I really didn’t mean to, to hurt you guys.” Why were tears flooding his eyes? 

Thompson, a little taller than him, blocks the exit.

“What’re you sorry for, boy?” Thompson says, balling his hands into fists.

“I...I told Eduardo about you guys.” Juan added quickly, “But I’m making it right! I gave you fire to use against his fire!”

“He’s going to burn our house down?” Edward asks, with more disbelief than fear.

“No, no, I-I just meant...” 

“You’re helping us get back at him?” Thompson says and squints.

“Yeah, ‘xactly!”

“Pardon, but I find it hard to believe you’d help us when you’re the one who got us here in the first place.” Edward glared. 

“Yeah, and how’d we even use these? It has his signature, but he could just say he didn’t draw them and that it’s another Eduardo. He ain’t famous or nothin’, no one’s gonna recognize it.” Thompson says, walking over to the table and inspecting them. He raises his eyebrows. “Though, if he did make ‘em...”

“Then...I could vouch for you, ‘cause I saw him draw them. Eye witness, right?” Juan tries to bargain.

“...The man in these drawin’s is you, bandit.” Thompson says, slowly. “Ya know that’d-”

“Put me in danger. I’m okay with it.” Juan stands straighter. “I just feel...guilty. I shouldn’t’ve let this go so far.”

“You shouldn’t have done it in the first place.” Edward says, and crosses his arms.

“Yeah, I know, but...I dunno. I guess I just did it because it’s us against the world, and I wanted to win.”

“That’s incredibly childish.” Edward rolled his eyes.

“So ya try an’ ruin our lives? We could lose our jobs, or get murdered over this!” 

“I’m sorry.” Juan says, and inches toward the door. “But just...when ya show Eduardo that, don’t tell him I gave it ta you guys.” 

“Hey! We ain’t done yet here-!” Thompson started, but Juan had already started running out the door. 

Edward began looking over the drawings . 

“These are actually...we could use these.” Edward says.

“I think it’d be kinda-”

“We would never actually publish them, of course.” Edward says, closing the door. “But we could simply bluff. I mean, they held it over our heads, why not return the favor?” 

“I like the way you think, Ed.” 

“Thank you dear.” He kisses him on the forehead. “Do you want to go fuck up that bastard’s life now, or shall we wait ‘till sunrise?” Thompson, slightly taken aback by Edward’s swearing, smiles.

“Hmm...I reckon we should wait until the next time we meet up for demands. Then spring it on him.” Thompson grins. 

“Swell idea, love.”

~

A knock on the door.

“Oh?” Edward asks, “Who is it?”

“It’s me.” Eduardo says from behind the door.

“Oh, right!” Edward opens the door, “Come in! Come in!” 

“...Why are you being so pleasant?” Eduardo glares, crossing his arms, “Ya know what? I don’t even care. So, what I want you two-”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” Edward slams the door shut. 

“Oh?” Eduardo laughs, “Then, I guess I’ll just have to-” Edward whips out a certain drawing pad. 

“What?” Eduardo’s eyes suddenly widen, and he takes a step back. Just as he’s about to pounce, Thompson jumps on him, pinning him to the floor again. “What’s-”

“Hand over the pictures, or we release these,” He waves the book just above Eduardo’s head, “to the press,” Edward states, standing over him.

“What do I care what the public thinks of me?! They already hate me!” Eduardo thrashed against the man, but Thompson had a strong grip.

“Maybe they do, but will fellow criminals? What’ll they think of ya then?” Thompson spits, “No more help from fellow gangs.”

“...How did you even-”

“Juan.” Edward and Thompson say at the same time. He might’ve helped them in the end, but he did start this whole thing, after all. Some anger was still harbored for the short man.

“Ugh!” Eduardo yelled. “...Fine. I’ll give you the pictures by sundown. But destroy those in front of me first.”

“That’s not how things work around here.” Edward crouches down, “You give us the pictures first. We wouldn’t lie to you - we’re cops after all. You’re more likely to con us then vice-versa.” 

“...Fine. I’ll do it.” Eduardo says, “Just don’t tell anyone. I’m not like that anymore.”

“...Go.” Thompson lets go of Eduardo and he walks out of the house, frazzled and angry. Betrayed.

~

“Hey, Juan?” Eduardo says through gritted teeth. Marco knew this tone; he walks out of the base and goes for a quick - or long - stroll. 

“Uh, yeah?” Juan focuses his eyes intently on his book, not looking up from it. He swallows.

“May I have a word?” Fists shaking with white knuckles, Eduardo glares with all that’s left in him at the man across the room, staring at his book in the corner. 

“Sh-sure. Just, um...just…” Juan’s hands start shaking. His eyes scan for Marco. He isn’t here. No one to help him if things get out of hand.

“JUST WHAT?!” Eduardo stomps his foot on the ground and storms over to Juan. Juan stands up, but it’s too late to move. On second thought, perhaps the corner of the room wasn’t the smartest place to hide. Eduardo lifts him by the collar and slams him against the corner. Juan’s trapped. He cowers, pressing himself further into the wall. “YOU...” 

Tears prick Eduardo’s eyes. Oh, how he hates it. He squeezes his eyes shut, his teeth grind together. 

“You ruined everything.” Eduardo seethes, “You’ve always ruined everything. You ruined. My. LIFE!”

“Hey! I didn’t - I didn’t ruin your life!” Juan defends himself, “Your dad did!” 

At that, Eduardo’s blood turns to freezing cold slush. He drops Juan and takes a step back.

“You...” Eduardo begins visibly shaking now, and crosses his arms as a short-hand to hugging himself. He shakes his head, “I-”

“We could’a ran away together, just you ‘n me! I swear, ‘Duardo, you were the best thing that’d ever happen ta’ me.” Juan gripped his arms, “But then you had to leave, and when we met again, it was like you were a different person!” He took a step forward and gestured that he wanted to hold Eduardo’s hands. Eduardo puts his hands in his pockets, then crosses his arms again, taking a step back. “You were - we were so happy back then. I guess I kept them because I wanted to remember that for a while.”

“Maybe you were happy,” Eduardo paused for a second, “but I wasn’t! Maybe I never wanted you, maybe you just heard what you wanted to hear!”

Juan narrowed his eyes at him. “I know what I heard. I know all those times we’d talk for hours about our future, about anything, about each other.” He clenched his fists, “You didn’t say platonic things to me, bunny.” 

“...Whatever I did when I was a punk-ass kid means nothing,” He tried to keep his voice from shaking, “you betrayed me, and went behind my back to the cops! What we said to each other years ago is worthless, so get out of my face about it.” 

“No, I won’t, because I refuse to believe those dozens of books filled with drawin’s don’t mean nothing to you, because throughout the years, they’ve always meant somethin’ to me, whenever I’ve looked at ‘em.”

“...what?” Eduardo asks. 

“Uh...the drawin’s?” Juan squints. “I still look at ‘em all the time.”

Eduardo sucked in a breath at the realization. He couldn’t believe he had kept them. All of them. And still cared to look.

“Did ya really think I’d just throw ‘em out?” Juan says to fill to gap in conversation. “They really are pretty-”

“Just, shut up.” Eduardo runs a hand through his hair. He’s blushing, slightly. Then, in a much softer voice that resembled defeat more than gentleness, “...Please.”

Juan opens his mouth to say something, but cuts himself off. He almost offered a hug, but stopped himself there, to. He hears Eduardo mumble something about his habit of drawing biting him in the ass twice, and he pauses, and decides to sail into uncharted territory.

“What your dad did ta you must’a been awful. I…” Juan can’t quite find the right words, “I don’t know how to make it better, but...can I try?” He stepped forward and again held out his hands for Eduardo to take. Eduardo just stared at them with a fixed gaze. “You-you don’t have to if you, if you don’t-”

Eduardo pulls Juan into a hug, and before either of them really have time to process it, Eduardo pulls out. 

“...Sorry for, uh, hurting your head.” Eduardo looks at his feet. He adds softly, “I’ll...try to not get so angry in the future.” 

“It’s fine -”

“No, it’s not.” Eduardo massages the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry.”

“...I accept. I just want you ta be happy.” Juan says, and smiles, “Like when we were kids.”

“I don’t think I can ever be that person again.” Tears fall from his eyes just as fast as he can wipe them up, “I just can’t. Not after everything.” 

“Well…” Juan says, “then I’ll settle for happier.”

[zombriekid]

Exposure Therapy [Alucard/Gender Neutral Reader]

Series: Hellsing

Summary: the “long awaited” sequel to inhuman; “... this pseudo exposure therapy meant to suture the scabbed rift that severs the burgeoning bond between you and Him. Because you weren’t the only one afflicted that day...”

Warning: body horror; mentions of a developing panic attack

In the dark space behind closed eyes is where you dwell, drawing in slow, deliberate breaths through your nose until your lungs expand to max capacity, and then gradually pushing them back out through pursed lips. It’s an exercise in composure, done in the hopes of barring your heart from its incessant lofty flutters and reigning in your mind before it runs off with itself- and oh how it wants to run.

As stubborn as the skull it occupies and twice as thick, your brain is relentless in its pursuit of diving headfirst into the depths of your psyche where a veil of writhing black shadows and glistening fangs patiently wait for a mere glimpse, the smallest window of opportunity to present itself so the trauma can swallow your anxiety whole and gnaw and chew until you’re nothing but a raw, mangled mess left for an endless audience of red eyes.

But in this moment, contained within the dark walls of sir Integra’s study with said employer standing in as something of a mediator, you can’t allow your abysmal memories and hellish imaginations to roam amok. You need to do this.

So you roll your shoulders back and lift your chin with eyes sealed shut still; when next your vision clears you want Alucard to be the first thing you see. “Okay, I think I’m ready.”

“’You think?’” A familiar baritone questions, tone clipped and pronunciation short. Something in your gut tells you that He’s just as perturbed as you right now.

Which brings to mind the precise reason why you’re enduring this psychological torture- this pseudo exposure therapy meant to suture the scabbed rift that severs the burgeoning bond between you and Him. Because you weren’t the only one afflicted that day, when a squadron of very human and very panicky soldiers mistook you for a shambling corpse and in your moment of hesitation- they weren’t monsters, after all- this unit of bullet proof vests and combat rifles perceived you a threat. A barrage of deadly, metallic projectiles fired your way, poised to shred your body into grisly confetti were it not for Alucard and His impeccable timing. That was lucky for you. However, the method of which He saved your skin rained pure hell on your simple mortal understanding.

“Are you absolutely sure, Murray?” You hear sir Integra ask, it being the first she deems her intervention appropriate since opening her office door to you tonight. “You must be certain that you’re truly ready.”

Because this isn’t just for your sake, is the unspoken line and you don’t dare to outwardly acknowledge it. The air in the room is already volatile enough, there’s no need to strike a match by dragging His vulnerability further into the light when He’s allowing you this favor. After all, He doesn’t have to forgive you or your rejection.

“I understand,” you say with a quiet voice that’s quickly succeeded by a single firm nod, “and I’m ready.”

What follows next is a moment of silence, a heavy one, the tension pulled taut like an elastic band ready to sever and snap. But when the moment trickles into two, then three, and the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner of the study becomes too loud, it’s only now that you have clarity of the situation.

Alucard isn’t ready.

You’ve seen this side of Him before; He’s revealed Himself to you once in all of His abominable glory, and though it was under less than favorable conditions He still posed no threat to you then, and yet you... you couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t take it. And when you fully recovered from that episode, cleared to go out on missions and be a productive Hellsing employee again, you went back on your bullshit and withdrew from Him once more- entirely far too reminiscent of when you first worked together.

The intent was to allow your mental health to sort of grow metaphorical callouses, become accustomed and then desensitized to the fact that you came face to face with the physical embodiment of His monstrous and so very negative energy- that a large group of people were killed because of your incompetence. Be jaded enough so that you wouldn’t be reduced to a puddle of anxiety and panic attacks whenever He came near.

But you never conveyed any of this to Him.

An educated guess on your end, He likely interpreted your deliberate absence as you shunning Him; you can accept Him when He’s subdued and complacent and obediently following the orders of His master, but underneath the pretty facade? When His emotions overwhelm Him and all of His terrible power outgrows His vessel and literally tears Him asunder? That you can’t accept. Again, it’s all your own unconfirmed speculation, but from His perspective you rejected the real Him.

And by scorning Him you had hurt Alucard, and that’s why He’s apprehensive to reveal this part of Himself again.

And truth be told you did reject Him, as unintentional as it was, and you should’ve found a way to tell Him that you were working past this before the silence gave an answer for you. But you didn’t and now you’re dealing with the consequence.

You have one shot at this so don’t fuck it up or you’ll lose Him forever.

Hands curl into fists until the nails dig into the meat of your palms, you feel your spine straighten out and harden and both of your eyes peel open to the sight of fear.

Alucard’s fear, complete with a furrowed brow and rigid frown and red eyes scanning the scene before Him, and judging by the way His shoulders are glued to His chair you note that He’s bracing Himself.

There’s an ache in your sternum.

You look Him in the eye and tell Him that you’re ready, and if He notices the tension of the skin around your knuckles then He doesn’t say anything.

His energy shifts.

You draw a full breath into your lungs.

The air crackles.

You feel queezy.

His body splits open like a plastic bag melting from fire.

****

Breathe.

Repeat this mantra.

Inhale through your nose, one, two, three; exhale through your mouth, five, six, seven.

A whirlwind of noise entangles all around you, of screechy scurrying vermin and disembodied howling and inhuman whining; hundreds of voices topple over each other in a cacophony of horror and discord, all vying for your recognition yet never enough to make your ear drums bleed. Still you feel your own body trying to rob you of oxygen.

Look for Him, find Him. Ground yourself. You’re in no danger here.

No.

Your eyes widen with the dawning realization in your head. 

No, you’re not seeking Him out. You match the attention of a particularly large eye towards your right side and you know that He’s here. The coils of rolling impenetrable shadows, the rows upon rows of jagged teeth snapping and snarling at the air, the congregation of numerous red eyes- unblinking, ever searching- solely focused on your every move... is Him. This assembly of chaotic entropy is Alucard- no matter how much your human psyche tries to, you cannot separate the monster from the man.

Your chin quivers; and you either accept all of Him, everything of who and/or what He is, or nothing at all and you forgo the bond between you two.

Swallowing around a hard knot lodged in the middle of your throat, willing yourself to just fucking breathe despite the fact that your skin is prickling with the tell tale signs of a mounting panic attack, you gently reach out into the darkness with an open palm until your fingertips breach a smoky, far too cold plume.

To your surprise, it solidifies into cool flesh.

_______________________________________________________________________

a/u: i don’t think you guys realize how genuinely proud of this i am; like it’s probably arrogance on my part but i don’t think anyone’s tried to tackle something like this with alucard/reader-insert fanfic before? or at least from the angle i’m comin in at? i dunno, like i don’t think this is the absolute best thing i’ve ever written but this development just feels freakin organic and unique to me y’all and i’m so happy/proud that i did it! teamwork makes the dreamwork so if you guys liked it then please hit the heart button, leave a comment about what you personally liked- or if there’s something that doesn’t sound right to you then lemme know- and reblog this fic so other people can see it! and i’ll catch you gorgeous people on the next piece <3

[alkhale]

modern au ace modeling???? PLEASE????

you caught me in an ace kinda mood, anon, u sneaky u

“You know it’s four hours, right?”

Ace’s cocky little satisfied grin settled over his lips. Hoku snorted in amusement, setting up her work station.

The art room toward the west wing of the high school building was fairly spacious enough. Windows lined the outer wall of the room, curtains pulled up for privacy in particular to today’s focus of study. Her fellow classmates and club members were somewhat acting in usual fashion, the few unaffected by the new presence helping to hand out easels and boards, sharpening their pencils and getting ready for the four hour anatomy study.

The rest however, were lost.

Majority of the girls in Hoku’s art club–majority of which had been the ones always eager to rifle through her sketchbooks and swoon and sigh over her choices of drawings–she did join in when it was the occasional Shanks though–were gathered in clusters around the room. They watched with adoring eyes, fixing their skirts and their hair, whispering and chirping back and forth to each other as they watched today’s focus of study.

Who, clad only in a red satin silk robe that actually complimented the sun kissed tan of his body ridiculously well and also revealed the muscular ridges of his chest and the toned muscle of his arms and calves and that he was naked as the day as he was born under there–

Portgas D. Ace.

Her–metaphorical brother? Friend? Housemate? Kin? Very important person. One of the very important people in her life she happened to somehow manage the hassle of living with.

Ace scratched his neck. The robe shifted, revealing torso and abs and more Ace.

A few of her classmates swooned, cheeks flushing and one flustered boy rushed from the room.

“Your teacher’s paying me twenty bucks an hour for this,” Ace said, lips curling as he crowded her station and Hoku continued setting up all her stuff and getting comfortable. “With a break and food–this is the easiest job ever!”

“And you’re fine with the fact that you’re only getting a sheet up there, right?” Hoku added, pulling her hair back into a ponytail. Ace’s hands instantly went up in grabby motions. She sighed through her nose, relenting and handing him her hairtie. Ace shuffled behind her, gathering up her hair with long, larger fingers carding through bright white locks.

“I always wear the same at home–”

“That’s right, dumb question, you’re an exhibitionist at heart.”

Hoku squawked when he pulled back on her ponytail a little harder. She reached to smack his arm, but Ace simply grinned, the constellation dusting of freckles along his cheeks and nose more prominent. “Come on, you love having me here! Isn’t it a nice change of pace? You’re always drawing us at home anyway, now you get the real deal.”

“I’m foaming at the mouth,” Hoku said. Ace pulled at her cheeks. She swatted his hands away. “I only told you about the request cause they kept asking and you could make some cash, try not to fall asleep, yeah?”

“Sure, sure,” Ace drawled. He finally relented with one last tug to her ponytail–Hoku hissed at him and he grinned, crossing his arms behind his head as he sauntered off to the platform like one big cat. “Get my good side, shooting star.”

Hoku mimicked him behind his back. Her teacher came up, explaining to him the different types of poses he could consider. One of her classmates took a seat down beside her, finally in place.

“He’s so hot,” she whispered, face flushed.

Try not to get mauled by the high school girls. Hoku considered mouthing to him. Instead she laughed, shaking her head at her classmate.

“He’s the biggest, narcoleptic dork you could ever meet.”

“But he’s so hot.”

Hoku shrugged.

She tried.

Ace was an absolute bastard.

And she was absolutely going to get back at him when this was all over.

It had all started the way it normally should. Ace took position on the platform. Their teacher explained today’s assignment, four hours, four different poses meant to be captured, an hour for each. Hoku settled that she could probably finish them sooner or try something new while she was at it since she’d drawn Ace plenty of times as it was.

Their teacher gave him free reign of his choice of poses, saying to do whatever made him the most comfortable.

Ace had scratched the back of his head, looking around curiously while the entire class watched with avid, waiting eyes. He finally shrugged, grabbing the folded bedsheet and holding it up to his waist.

Ace let the satin red robe fall to his feet with a flourish, pooling around him like a ring of fire.

People swooned.

Hoku adjusted her easel, waiting for him to pick a pose. There was a bit of shuffling on the platform until Ace finally settled down. Hoku looked up.

Charcoal black irises smoldered right back at her. Straight at her.

Hoku blinked once. Twice.

Ace had one hand tangled in the thick mess of ink black locks, fingers propping up his head. He’d stretched out along the platform like a large jungle cat soaking up sun, bed sheet pooling dangerously over the sharp dips of his his, following a defined ridge line and teasing anything else. People positioned behind him were furiously working at the line of back muscles presented before them and Hoku stared back in disbelief.

Ace continued to stare.

Right fucking at her with that ridiculous face and those stupid hooded eyes while he was butt ass naked because he knew she’d get pissed off and–

You’re so stupid. She mouthed at him.

Ace merely winked, keeping still, looking absolutely content with himself.

An hour had passed since then–Ace had switched positions as asked, seating himself on a chair and turning it around so his legs hung on either side of the back, the chair’s back the only thing shielding his very naked front while he propped his arms on the top of the chair, leaning his head on them and dogging her down. His eyes smoldered mischievously, watching her intently and refusing to look anywhere else.

Hoku was almost certain the girl beside her was about to pass out. Or lose blood. Or both.

Stupid Ace with his stupid jokes and his stupid fucking staring. Hoku grumbled.  Knows I hate being stared at for no good reason, asshole. Hoku glanced back to where chips of coal kept watching her and she almost groaned something ugly aloud, turning a page.

She’d drawn four of the ugliest figures she could possibly manage at first out of sheer pettiness. She contemplated drawing a ridiculous, gross caricature of Ace to top it off, but she had to turn something in and…

Hoku frowned at the blank paper in front of her. She glanced back to Ace.

He waggled his brows briefly, obvious grin hidden behind his arms before he returned to his intense, stoic staring.

Her eyes flickered to the potted flowers in the corner of the room. Hoku sat there for a moment, playing with the worn down pencil in her hand before she sighed through her nose, setting to work.

She might as well try something new out then.

She’d just tell Sabo on him later.

“C’mon, lemme see, how’d they turn out?”

Hoku ignored Ace, shoving her supplies back into her backpack.  

A break–where many of her classmates rushed to Ace offering to bring him food and water and he promptly fell asleep three times before responding (he fell asleep four times during the modeling)–and two more hours later, they’d finally finished.

Ace had promptly chosen a cross-arms-behind-the-back look as his third pose, flexing a line of muscles and ridged abs from all the hard work he poured outside into all his jobs. The sheet had almost come undone until the teacher hastily rushed to reknot it (to some of her peers’ disappointment and her uncontrollable laughter). His final pose had been a simple one, sitting down with his legs spread–and the sheet over his hips to cover–and his arms resting on his knees. A comfortable position he fell asleep in until someone managed to wake him up.

And he’d never stopped staring at her.

Fucking once.

“Come ooooonnnnn,” Ace wheedled, crowding in her space. Hoku searched the room for a moment before crossing past him to her designated spot. Ace trailed behind her, sheet trailing behind him like a long train. “What’s it look like? Did ya like the angle I gave ya? What’d you draw–”

Hoku shoved his discarded clothes at him. Majority of the class had already dispersed, eagerly thanking Ace and graciously declaring that he had to come back and model for them. 

“Put some clothes on, you dork,” Hoku said. “I’m hungry, so let’s get going.”

“Hoooookkkkuuuu,” Ace whined. “I wanna seeeeeee.”

Hoku reached for her sketchbook. Her stomach demanded retribution, reminding her that Sabo was making hamburger steak tonight and Luffy would be home before them.

Ace’s eyes lit up like an excited puppy, crowding even closer. She shoved at his chest, rolling her eyes and flipping the page he could see.

A stick figure with a triangle as the bedsheet and a stupid smile stared back.

Ace stared at it for a minute before tipping it down so he could peer at her over the top. Puppy eyes flashed at her as his lip wobbled, a pout on his face.

“You’re stupid,” Hoku said mercilessly. “I can’t believe you got paid just to be a naked idiot.”

“All bark no bite,” Ace teased. He played with the edge of her sketchbook, peeling back the next page. Hoku didn’t fight him, humoring him this time as she leaned back onto a desk and Ace turned it fully so he could see.

Ace stopped. 

The other paper hovered in the air, blocking his face from her view.

“I draw you guys a lot,” Hoku said, only a bit sheepish. “I figured I might as well try exploring with something new with it. Your poses were pretty unoriginal.”

Hoku had sketched out with soft shading, Ace’s grinning, laughing face. The rounded curve of the wrinkles around his eyes when he laughed because he could only laugh fully and heartedly–just his kind of laugh. His head was half turned, eyes half peering back as though to talk to someone who’d just said something to make him that happy.

Ace turned the page.

His lips pursed into a sort of pout, head tipping to the side as though in deep thought. He looked dumb. Stupid. Arms crossed over his chest and–

Ace turned.

Several sketches of his face–different versions of himself perhaps from her imagination of what he might look like older. Different angles and grins and his older visage laughing about something and the future and the last one–

Ace stared at the drawing. A heartbeat. Two. He quietly lowered the paper.

Hoku was already turned around, shoving the rest of her supplies in. Her shoulders were relaxed, face content.

“C’mon,” she said. “I’m starving–”

“Hoku, c’mere.”

“I’m going to get–huh? Why?”

Ace set her sketchbook down. He stretched his hands out, fingers curling in grabbing motions. His face was set in utter determination, facing her down.

“C’mere.”

“No,” Hoku said suspiciously. “What the hell do ya want–I swear if you–”

“I really need to freaking touch you right now or I’m going to explode.”

“No! You’re making a gross face–no! Ace–no! Put some fucking clothes on first, I swear to god–ACE IF YOU COME ANY CLOSER I’M CALLING SABO!”

“JUST LEMME–”

“ACE–”

Ace laughing, in the last drawing, lips pulled wide, eyes shut from the force of it. His head was tipping forward a bit, hair curling all around him, hugging his chin and brushing wild and wavy like it always did. He looked alive and bright and full, full, full of life and–

Hoku had sketched a flower to tuck itself behind his ear. She’d started inking it in with red and pink ink, not quite finishing.

Bonus:

“Sabo, I have to thank you again for getting your friend to come in last minute for this shoot–it’ll only take a second! It’s for the midnight summer line and her tan is just like Ace’s, so she’ll compliment the color really nice with her eyes and–”

“It’s no problem,” Sabo laughed, walking into the shooting floor with his clipboard in hand. A pencil was tucked behind his ear–one of Hoku’s left lying around and she’d found it recently and thrown it at him to hold on so she wouldn’t lose it again but forgot to get back from him, so it was his now–white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and a dark, navy blue tie knotted impeccably around his neck. “She said she could use the spare cash anyway.”

Hoku had also come rushing to him from the dressing room–wearing a bunch of clothes with curlers still in her hair where hair dressers rushed out after her, frantic about how to make her white hair look right–freaking out and gushing about the free cakes on the table outside and ah, Hoku.

“When you smile like that, it worries me,” Koala said absently, checking her own clipboard before glancing to the photo shoot set up. “Alright, let’s get started everyone! Is Hoku ready?”

“All dressed!” a worker shouted.

“Good to go,” the photographer for today said, fixing his lens.

Sabo heard Hoku’s muffled voice, asking something about a to-go box. He chuckled, turning on his heel as the door opened and she stepped out and–

Sabo blinked.

Satin white silk draped around Hoku’s bare arms. A few thin scars peeked through. Soft, thin straps of fabric looped around her neck like a halter, cropping short dangerously and loosely below the curve of her chest. Bare, smooth stomach showed for what seemed to be miles on end. Finally a pair of silk shorts hugged her hips, riding dangerously low and stopping just a short–thin straps started where the shorts ended, tight to her thighs before they stopped above her knees in thinly laced–wasn’t that basically a garter belt? Wasn’t that a–

The entire outfit, little that was there, was colored entirely in dark, satiny navy blue and–didn’t he love that color? 

Sabo stared.

Hoku turned. She met his gaze and offered a lazy wave. Her eyes brightened and she pointed to the snack table in the back.

“Try raising your arms over your head,” the photographer suggested.

Hoku promptly raised her hands up as though she’d been ordered by a cop to do so.

Her top inched up.

“No, no, like behind your head, cross ‘em, hun.”

Crack!

The clipboard in Sabo’s hands snapped in half.

“Sabo? Oh my gosh, Sabo! What the heck–” Koala started, turning wildly. “Someone get some water and a tissue–Sabo’s finally cracked!”

- :)

[steve0discusses]

Yugioh S3 Ep 43: Tea Can Just Knock Over Joey Wheeler With Her Index Finger

Guys guys guys, my favorite Character is back. That’s right--the storyboarder!

So this episode looked helllla nice for a Yugioh episode (again, this is Yugioh, it will win no awards.) It wasn’t as nice and fluid as the episode where they temporarily killed off Joey Wheeler, but I give it a good 2nd place.

You can tell we’re getting to the climax of the season because they’re throwing down their most entertaining art people onto the screen, giving us about 5 zillion dutch angle fashion close-ups of Marik’s cabbage face, and a whole lot of zany and hard to very hard to draw fish-eye lens angles of Pharaoh.

Also, everyone wears flared bell-bottom pants now. New stylistic decision, as decided just now. Everyone in pants now has flares. Even if their pants are cargo pants. How very 00′s. (my pants were flares from like birth until 2006, it was a good trend, super comfy, bring it back.)

(read more under the cut)

First off, Evil Marik decided to rewrite Marik history a little bit with some hilarious retconning that only the most evil Marik would think is legit.

I mean I was there when Marik was introduced and was a complete asshole all of S2. I remember when Odion considered murdering the hell out of his little brother because this Marik guy was such freakin tool and his Dad was an evil cultist bastard. I...I’m gonna go on a limb and assume that calling Marik a “loyal servant” is a freakin stretch. Marik made his choices. Yes, his bad side killed his Dad, but they have made sure to indicate that yes, this is the evil inside of Marik, something that he himself caused--but most of the things that Marik has done (with the exception of killing his own Dad) is still Marik. He did that.

The fact that his evil side can’t quite connect that his good side and evil side are at all the same however, is fitting for an evil Marik to think. More and more, Marik and Marik are becoming 2 different people, and this game is the deciding factor to finally give this guy full autonomy of his other half.

We’ve seen this type of contrast before with Bakura and Ryou--where Ryou and Bakura don’t really get along but have always been clearly different people, so the culpability of what they do tends to fall on Bakura. (which is a pretty GRAND assumption, I still think Ryou is a precious but absolutely still shady little bastard) So, it’s a little different that Marik considers himself two completely different people when it’s just...not the same. Marik’s alter ego is just an ego. More like how Yami was in Season Zero but a little bit more evil. Both Marik’s have the same upbringing and the same source.

It’s been kind of an interesting progression now I can look back on it, where slowly the two have been clashing to the point that they are in fact different, disparate people now. The fact that Marik points out how his situation similar to Yugi and Pharaoh being a host is almost like “well yeah, it would have been nice to see how the whole Season Zero Yami evolved into more of a separate person over time, I’m glad you inferred that, and I’ll never get to see it, thanks” But again, all that is inferred. Whether Yami Yugi eventually became Pharaoh over time or whether Pharaoh is a big retcon of Yami Yugi for the new series in order to keep the culpability for what he does off of Yugi Muto was never directly spoken in the show so it’ll be left to your fanfictions.

Meanwhile, Yugi has decided that they’re going to try and purify the Marik situation and save the good side. This is sort of the Yugioh thing, to dispel the bad forces from people and leave behind hollow husks, so yeah...it tracks. I mean...there’s very little Marik left to save, but it’s better than a husk, amiright? Better than what happened to freakin PaniK, RIP. I’m sure erasing over half of your identity will go over real well for Marik and be absolutely painless.

And then we had a lovely scene that, for those people doing scene redraws from anime, as has been a popular trend on art blogs lately--this is your episode for Yugioh. This episode’s got moody lighting, we’ve subdued all our weird ass colors into one concrete palate (remember how green the carpet used to be?) we got interesting elements of Marik being here despite being chopped into pieces. We got so many ellipses drawn in perspective (y’all I could write an entire posts just about ellipses but I’ll spare you). It’s like Yugioh gave itself a redraw.

I can’t believe this shot came out of freakin Yugioh.

Also, this guy was an ASSHOLE for the past 2 seasons but the show was like “time to make him likeable” and so they dropped some good ass cinematography and sung that sad backstory tune on the trumpet and you know what? It works.

+++++++++++++++RANT ABOUT REDEMPTION ARCS FEEL FREE TO SKIP THIS MASSIVE WALL OF TEXT++++++++++++++++++++++++

Now I think the arc of Marik is pretty simple and people are pretty chill with it. But, I’m gonna talk about villain redemption arcs just in general--gonna sidetrack a little from Yugioh for a moment. Partly because I watched 6 seasons of Once Upon a Time, which is basically Villain Redemption Arc Controversy: The Show.

It bothers a hell ton of people when TV shows have to make a villain redeemable, but there’s only one episode left so they put their hands up and say “but I swear the good side of him was always good” But, does that mean Marik’s going to make up for all the murder and sending people to the shadow realm? No. He never will. Even if Marik was completely his bad half the whole time, it still wouldn’t make up for the damage done. Dead people are...DEAD.

Marik can’t actually make any choices right now to redeem his character. All he’s doing is accepting he will never be a full person ever again. Hence why he is in slices and pieces, and in several shots is trapped either in an empty glass or a window. The choice to redeem him is entirely on other people.

And that’s the thing about redemption arcs that I want to bring up--how much of a character’s redemption relies on what the villains do to “Make up for what they did”, and how much relies on everyone else to redeem them. I think the tendency is for people to assume that the villains should be doing 90-100% of the redeeming, but unless they have a time machine--they can’t do any. Even if they freakin die to sacrifice themselves it’s still like “that character was basically little Stalin, right?

I’ve seen like a million ways to write a redemption arc, but none of them, not a single one that I can think of, can ever truly make up for the things the villian has done. There’s no way that Darth Vadar was suddenly going to become a good Dad, no matter how many Palpatines he can toss into a...whatever that was at the end of that movie. That’s the riddle behind what makes redemption arcs so engaging--By all cultural standards these villains should always be tagged a “bad guy” but, we, the audience, are being challenged to ignore those standards.

And I know a lot of people see redemption arcs as a quasi-religious sort of adventure into atonement, where we’re supposed to see ourselves as the villain searching for some type of forgiveness from a higher, most-likely-a-reference-to-Jesus-power, but I don’t really see them that way. Maybe it’s because, I dunno, I haven’t killed anyone recently or possessed other people’s minds or strung them up to anchors and dropped them into the ocean. But if you see yourself as a Marik, then go for it, I won’t stop you.

But, to me, a redemption arc is more of a question posed for us as viewers. Since it is impossible for the writers to ever fully redeem a character, the only ones doing the redeeming are the people watching it, who’s reaction will differ wildly from person to person, and that’s what makes it fascinating.

And like, that’s my thesis here at the very last paragraph of this long meandering rant. Redemption arcs aren’t about “hey is this person good enough to be redeemed (because that will never happen)” it’s “are you too good to redeem that person?” It’s a large scale experiment on the viewers watching and that’s why it makes people so freakin pissed and uncomfortable. Every redemption arc calls them out directly, and for some people it’s just like--the world ends or something. I have seen actual internet mobs develop over...a villain redemption arc. Which is weird.

And so I’ll leave it with my other spicy take that...you don’t have to redeem every villain when the question is asked. I mean these aren’t real people. The questions of “would you redeem this person” is asked entirely hypothetically. And that’s what makes up stories, not just the interaction of the people inside the stories, but when it affects the moral structure of the readers directly, and seeing how for some people, that can be a very intense and deep reflection. (which usually leads to a hell ton of either retconning fanfiction or a hell ton of really, really angry posts)

bro’s just told me that Yugioh is just a redemption arc for season 0 Yami Yugi. Bro and his spicy headcanons. This one holds some water though, lol.

++++++++++++END OF A SUPER LONG RANT ABOUT VILLAINS THAT I HELD IN FOR THE ENTIRE 6 SEASONS OF ONCE UPON A TIME, WOW A LOT OF PEOPLE HAD OPINIONS ABOUT CERTAIN CHARACTERS THAT THEY JUST EXPECTED EVERYONE ELSE TO HAVE, AMIRIGHT????+++++++++++

Anyway, back to jokes.

Again, Storyboarder just...nailing these weird ass shoes that are somewhere between a dress shoe and a boot. Shoes are hard to draw, y’all. This storyboarder. And they even made sure that the shoes looked very small and precious the way Yugi shoes would be. Little Cinderella size 5 Yugi shoes.

Oh finally.

So it was only a matter of time before the people who actually care about being possessed noticed this situation, it just took like...a season longer than I thought it would. I’ll be honest it was quite cathartic for them to actually address for the first time in what feels like a long time “SHOOT, GHOSTS!?!?”

Although it was kind of funny that the biggest reaction to all of this came straight from Joey. Yugi still doesn’t care, Tristan’s decided to just accept this, and Duke is just slowly backing away. But Joey’s going to try and do the work that Yugi should have done last episode.

HOT DAMN.

So, lets go over the Yugioh power chart here. Tristan can punch out Bakura. Tristan can also defeat Seto Kaiba with a broomstick. Joey can kick Tristan, even when Tristan is armed with a broomstick, so hard that Tristan flew through a metal door and bent it completely over backwards. Tea, however, can knock Joey completely over with one single index finger.

How has this girl ever been abducted? Was she just bored?

Bro wants to bring up that she once incapacitated a man with her butt. Just falling on top of a guy and hitting him with her butt of steel. Was she even in danger from the shipping container when she could just bat it away? She once choked out Season 0 Yugi Muto. She was always fine.

Credit to Joey, he keeps trying, and it gives us, for the first time, a sneak peek into what it must be like for Yugi and Joey to hang out on the offtimes that Yugi switches over and Pharaoh hasn’t quite gotten the memo.

This is in fact, the second time that she’s done this.

(meanwhile, sitting next to Odion, is one single cargo pocket floating in the air, gently smoking a purple haze like incense)

Welcome back Odion! I only now just realized how freakin jacked your neck is.

Like y’all his neck is wider than his head, hot damn.

Anyway, this show is secretly all about the power of big brothers, so I assume he’s going to start the mile long crawl to the top of the tower and then just...walk in...just walk right into a shadow game...?

...no one thought to stay with Odion? Like not even Serenity? Or at least leave him a weelchair? what the hell?

Odion always gets the worst wrap, this poor guy.

Anyway if you just got here, this is a link to read these recaps in chrono order from the beginning and watch my progression of knowing nothing about Yugioh to knowing a lot about random facts about Yugioh but still knowing absolutely nothing at all just like Socrates.

And here’s that shot of Marik for y’alls anime scene redraws, knock yourself out.

[pkbrand-pk]

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Completions

In the wake of guaranteeing the nature of the canvas, you need to take a gander along the edge of the completions. Consistently, the more the pants will have propelled completes the higher the cost. In addition, the completions will make it conceivable to separate two pants which appear to be comparable, however which at last are not really so. By and large, I award you, the completion of a couple of pants remain generally close starting with one set of pants then onto the next, it's each of the issues of subtleties. A few brands additionally separate themselves because of these completions, similar to a brand signature. Creases fasten, pocket lining, chain join or bolts, we will filter through each finish:

The creases

The creases on pants are significant, as they will decide the life span of the piece. By and large, great sewing brings about tight, thick join, or more completely adjusted and standard. To check their quality, there is no mystery, simply pull on the various bits of denim and check whether the fixing is there or not. On the off chance that, despite what might be expected, the strings are excessively slender and there is an absence of consistency in the plan, it is not out of the ordinary that the pants won't hold over the long haul. To acknowledge and additionally confirm the quality of the creases, don't spare a moment to turn the pants over and break down the legs within, the groin, the fly or even the pockets. Additionally, it is regularly between the legs that denim faces the most torsion and scraped spot.

The covering of the pockets

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Any individual who has never had pockets with openings at any rate once is a liar (I'm joking, obviously). The reality remains that in the event that you need to save your pants for quite a long while, you should focus on the nature of the coating of the pockets, in light of the fact that indeed, confronting numerous ports and particularly against scraped spot (keys, entryway cash, and so on.), they may wind up being torn or even torn. We will support a quality get together with specifical bolts and/or strong creases and particularly a thick and safe material!

Breakpoint or support

Frequently, over the ports, the back pockets will, in general, disfigure and in some cases even destroy. Erosion and pressure are altogether the more present when you put your mobile phone or XXL wallet, for instance. Right now, is smarter to support pants with a halting point or as here a fortification with an extra crease. It is likewise normal to discover them at the fly (this one is additionally extremely mentioned)

w to pick pants?

HOW TO CHOOSE JEANS?

By Gurvan says "Chamber head gasket", October 06, 2019 (article refreshed on February 27, 2020)

Among all the nuts and bolts of the male closet, jeans without a doubt the person who rules! For a long time, this indigo-colored bit of cotton has been a vital piece of our closet. Crude or somewhat washed, the pants are a bit of character that will age and advance over the ports to receive an excellent patina and a decent wash. To get great outcomes, there is no mystery, it is basic to pick it well. Regularly, we pose inquiries about the texture (Italian denim, selvage? How thick? 11oz or 14oz?), Then come different inquiries regarding the cut, the size and the various completions that we have to pick or not. Try not to freeze, here we will attempt to reveal some insight into every one of these inquiries!

The most effective method to pick pants

Outline

1. The little story of pants

2. The distinctive denim textures

3. The various loads of pants

4. How to perceive quality pants?

5. The various cuts of denim

6. How to pick the size of your pants?

7. Where to discover pants?

1. The little story of pants

Everything begins with two men, Levi-Strauss and Jacob Davis. In 1870 Davis claimed a prestigious Nevada turning business and Levi-Strauss a textured business. At some point, a lady requested that Davis plan strong jeans so her significant other could wear them for more than one work season. She paid development of and he acknowledged. He at that point worked with a move of cotton canvas bought from Levi-Strauss and made common jeans until he had the possibility of ​​adding copper bolts to keep up the texture at certain delicate purposes of the jeans. The thought prompted the structure of progressively strong and increasingly tough jeans. Regardless of whether he just sold a couple of jeans the main summer, the notoriety of his items before long developed and deals expanded. Davis in this manner looked for an accomplice and promptly thought of the person who had sold him the crude material, Levi-Strauss (1872). On May 20, 1873, was distributed the patent-related with this new revelation, entitled "Improvement in Fastening Pocket-Openings". Along these lines, we consider that this date is that of the introduction of the pants. After 1880 (because of the lapse of the patent), different brands assumed control over the idea and built up their own strong jeans. Pants will at that point become the leader bit of production lines and farms before spreading in the second 50% of the twentieth century to most by far of dressings. this date is viewed as that of the introduction of the pants. After 1880 (because of the lapse of the patent), different brands assumed control over the idea and built up their own strong jeans. Pants will at that point become the lead bit of production lines and farms before spreading from the second 50% of the twentieth century to most by far of dressings. this date is viewed as that of the introduction of the pants. After 1880 (because of the termination of the patent), different brands assumed control over the idea and built up their own strong jeans. Pants will at that point become the lead bit of plants and farms before spreading from the second 50% of the twentieth century to by far most of the dressings.

history of pants

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Aren't our American ranchers attractive with their pants and their hatchet in their grasp? (photograph was taken during the 1930s)

The history and cause of pants

2. The distinctive denim textures

Today, the market is loaded with pants textures, to such an extent that you can discover them at all costs. To lay it out plainly, we will recognize two textures of pants: great denim and selvage denim. Note that regardless of whether the most renowned pants are produced using selvage textures, this canvas isn't constantly an assurance of value. Obviously, I'm not discussing Japanese or American selvage textures (like once in the past Cone Mills), yet rather those found at low costs in significant brands. Surely, much the same as us, you more likely than not saw as of late that some quick design brands have taken on the expression "Selvedge" thusly.

Jean selvage japan

Try not to blend tea towels and towels, it is smarter to be cautious what you purchase. Here, we follow the creation of selvage pants in the unadulterated convention!

jean selvage versus selvage

dual account, a couple of months prior, I went to Galeries Lafayette in Rennes. In the wake of halting at a few corners, I moved toward pants and I began to take a gander at it from all edges (since truly, I frequently have this tick). Quickly, I understood that it was neither more nor not exactly a FALSE jean selvage. Within the pants was sewn a piece of texture, unequivocally at the area of the selvage outskirt. I saw it quickly on account of the numerous wires that were standing out. In addition, among the quick design brands that offer selvage pants, we will see that the canvas needs character and that it is frequently excessively dainty. A while later, sometimes (very uncommon), we can run over parts that will age rather well. This to disclose to you that it is smarter to make a stride back and dissect the piece that is in your grasp before propelling and that non-selvage pants (an Italian denim for instance) aren't really lower quality pants than section level selvage pants.

False selvage pants

Alright, Do you see the blemish? (this isn't my finger)

A. Great denim

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We start with the canvas that we locate the most on the pants showcase, the most famous, exemplary denim. Initially, it was a safe French canvas that was produced using fleece and silk from the celebrated city of Nîmes. We are toward the finish of the XIXth century. The canvas is then utilized in the production of work pants. Along these lines, this twill is sent out to California and goes with most by far of gold miners. This is the means by which the legend of denim was conceived (only that).

The correct hand twill

On exemplary denim, this extremely tight weave is produced using a chain colored blue and an unbleached or white weft. The weft strings are interweaved at a 90-degree point with the twist strings. The weave (or weaving configuration) is structured from three weft strings sliding under a twisted string and afterward a weft string ignoring this equivalent twist. The balance of this weave on four strings gives corner to corner lines, a trait of the twill. On most by far of pants, we find what is known as the correct hand twill or S-side twill. Right now, the inclining of the texture runs from the lower left to the upper right.

Italian denim canvas

Jean Norse Projects made in Italian denim: right-hand twill weaving

The left-hand twill

You should realize that a few brands of pants like LEE have decided on a left-gave weaving, which is called left-hand twill. It is essentially the switch of the correct hand twill. This weaving system carries a specific delicate quality to the texture since the heading of turn given to the string makes it conceivable to draw out the angle delicate to the touch.

right-hand twill left-hand twill

A correct hand twill weaving on the left against a left-hand twill on the privilege

The messed up twill

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At long last, there is denim that joins these two weaving methods. It is a canvas that has no particular direction, that is, no correct hand till or left-hand twill. It's known as the messed up twill. A weaving utilized by the American brand Wrangler in 1964 (the 13MWZ model). The objective is to abstain from turning among both ways gave textures, yet additionally to oppose every day scraped spot. The drawing is effectively conspicuous since it is a crisscross that can be seen when turning the part.

[sentofighta]

modern verses for [ EINAR ]

------

Basic:

name: einar vilho

age: 24

status: single

occupation: cat cafe owner

family: parents. Uncle [Gustav]

resident: second floor flat [lives with his uncle]

cafe location: first floor flat (to his residency), near the local high school, across a flower shop, next to a maid cafe.

-------

Background:

Einar is the only child for his parents. Being the only kid, he was raised in a good moderate lifestyle condition. As he grew up, he took more interest in cats. He would forget himself whenever he spots a cat. He wanted to raise one but sadly, his father was allergic to them. His father did his best to take medication, be away as possible from the cat when he adopted one for Einar but no use. His father would stay sick for several days until his mother kindly explained that the cat is no good in the house as long as his father gets sick. Einar was not a spoiled child, he personally went back to return the cat but his mother stopped him. She gives him another suggestion ‘why not give it to uncle and every now and then you can visit him?’ the idea was perfect!

 Einar already goes to visit his uncle on summer vacation since he is an ex-soldier who lives on his own. Gustav declined to live with the family saying he got used to being alone and having people around is actually taxing for him. More to say, he is afraid of his own trauma and nightmares. How can he explain he cannot sleep for days to a kid like Einar? For Einar’s sake, he refused to stay with them. So, Gustav lived on his own because it was hard for him to find someone who would accept a broken man like him.

Immediately, the mother calls her brother and asks if they can keep the cat, [ Vitalis] V for short, with him. At first, Gustav said he remains in his antique shop on the first floor so taking care of a cat might be hard for him but he thought about it for a bit and agreed. It is the first favor Einar asks him for (more like his mother but) so he felt like he should act like a good uncle and be there for his nephew. Later that day, Einar with his parents travel to the part of town where Gustav lives in and drop Vitalis to him. Einar was emotional to leave V alone but he gave Gustav the ‘I know you will keep him in good shape’ kind of look, filled with trust and love. 

Since that day, Einar often gets home pretty much late because he travels to his uncle to check on V but with time he got accustomed to not having the cat around and focused on his study. 

Graduating from high school, Einar decided to move into his uncle’s place. He is not a kid anymore and he understood that his uncle needs someone to be with him despite how he says he is perfectly fine and does not want anyone to ruin his ‘party time with the ladies’ His parents supported his decision even his mother thanked Einar for trying to stick with her brother. Gustav was against this because he didn’t want to take responsibility for Einar but he found the boy in the apartment with his stuff whether he liked it or not. Gustav was upset but came around it once Einar lightened up the lonely atmosphere he lived in. The boy kept talking about what he is going to do now he graduated from school, and how much he Vitalis..and him, too. 

Einar enrolled to uni in the upcoming months in physics major. He was smart so he could not just enroll in anything that does not interest him nor pose a challenge for him. Einar did his best to complete his study in a short time. Ironically, he had a hunch that he was not going to work using his degree but find something...for him.

The reason Einar chose to run a cafe, to begin with, is to give a place for people who need a place of their own. A place they can eat, relax, and wind up from their hectic life. A place that can have the things they love--cats! as well as food of course and a good drink. When he was a student, he had to go back home or the uni library to study and honestly, with time, you get bored and mundane. If there was somewhere he could have went to that could provide some peace and entertainment at the same time for him. So, the cafe idea was something he thought about and prepared from it before his uni graduation.  

Running a cafe was not as easy as it sounds. Einar had to take a couple of workshops, between his classes. on how to run a business in order to know the ins and outs of such business. A fool would just dive right in business without looking at from different angles. Seeing that he could startup with a small shop, not extravagant, just ..a home-y like a shop as possible.  

As someone as anti-social as Einar, running a cafe sounds so out of character but he thought about his passion for cats. Any job beside this does not allow him to have enough time to be with his uncle and raise cats. So, in the truth, he just wanted a place he can feel comfortable working in, with his own rules, around cats, and pay well. He wants to be the boss of his own work and not working under someone.

The cafe’s location is Gustav’s old antique shop. Gustav gave Einar the place as a gift since he only opened the shop to fill his time which does not require moving and serving. Einar at first did not accept but Gustav insisted. He told him that a cafe on the first floor is a great idea since they can make sure all cats remain in one place and not constantly move them around from the house to the cafe if Einar decided to buy a new shop somewhere else. In name, Einar is the manager but on papers, it is Gustav because Einar wanted Gustav to feel he owns something and not feel he just rob him from his shop and home. 

Once the cafe was furnished and cats were adopted, Einar opened the cafe doors at the age of 22. As for its name, he reluctant wanted to give it a name but as a property, it had to be named so he left that part for Gustav who named it [Cake and Nyan] partly to get Einar to say ‘nyan’ every time he had to introduce the cafe. Einar was pissed off by the name but it was his fault for letting Gustav name it when he knows he would cook up something dumb like that. The fault is all his. But gradually he ignored it because it was easy for people to remember especially it was a hit for the schoolgirls who liked to ....play dumb and say it over and over in front of his shop while doing the ugly hand movement. As for the logo, his mother scribbled something for him after hearing about the cafe name. It looked silly but Einar accepted it. The cafe for Einar is created by all his family efforts.

The cafe when it started, it only had about 7 tables and the longish counter for customers to sit if they just want to drink and not eat something. As for the cats, there were about 12 of them. It was hard to adopt that many at first but he had the passion to impress the cat care center to let him adopt them all at once. The breeds were different going from Scottish folds, ragdoll, birman, chartreux, munchkin.  

After a year, the funding was not bad to increase the space, tables, cats and even hire a worker to help with cleaning and serving. Essentially, the cafe is the help yourself kind of cafe because einar was not keen on going around tables to get their orders so there are food containers/boxes to the right side where food is neatly and hygienically preserved and the customer. Customer is to choose from which box they want the food by writing down on a paper and then when they finish their orders they leave it in a tiny box and einar comes to pick up the papers and deliver the food based on what is written in the paper. Gustav was and still against this kind of system because it does not allow Einar to talk to people but enforce his ‘I don’t care’ attitude more but he can’t help it. 

Cafe layout (under construction because what is drawing a blueprint?)

From the left to the right:

Food sample corner.

This corner where food is presented, Einar makes sure to change the menu every day to give the customers a variety of choices. The presented food is actually plastic well made by one of his university acquaintances who knew of his little business endeavor. Each box is labeled with number and letter, in total there is 20 box. 10 are light meals, 10 are the snacks and sweets. Each box contain 3 items with (a,b,c) letters. For example, box 3 contains [(a) fruit salad, (b) steak, (c) vegetable soup ] so if a customer wanted steak they will tick down on box 3, letter b and write a number of serves, for one person, two etc, as well tick down the table number. the paper is placed in a box on the counter. Einar will prepare the requests shortly and bring them later on to the table.

Tables area:

Customers can sit there if they don’t want to sit in the Cats area to eat then walk around. 

Kitchen:

Off limit to customers, only workers can be there.

Counter corner:

Customers can sit there too especially if one person on their own comes and just want to enjoy a cup of coffee or tea. Einar often the customers on the counter by talking with them though not quite often especially when he does almost everything on his own.   

Couch:

Another comfortable place for people to sit down and watch the cats. Einar might allow customers to nap if there are not many customers around. But that is a rare case.

Cat area:

Filled with all sorts of cats toys, feather, wands, puzzle, electronic, sleeping bags, climb stairs, scratchers, etc. Anything you can imagine for cat entertaining is there. 

Take pic corner:

Is a corner dedicated to customers to take a picture with their favorite cat. Since taking pictures and filming is banned inside the cafe, this is a way for customers to get a chance to take a pic using the cafe polaroid camera. 

The cafe is open at certain hours, depending on the cats actually. The whole theme is for people to sit down and enjoy the company of the cats so if they are asleep and tired people will get bored. So, the cape is open at 7am and closes at 12pm. Cats at this time, eat their second breakfast and tend to sleep. Plus, at this hour, people are still at work so not that many come over and even if someone does, they are either asked to come back in an hour or Einar will let them in if they don’t cause much noise. 

The cafe reopens after 2pm till 7pm which usually most shops around closes. After 7, some students come over to study especially who want to have company are let in because they usually just sit in a corner and mind their business while watching tired and sleeping cats laying around, minus the hyperactive ones. However, Einar might not let them in every time, depend on his mood (and how they can convince him.) 

After the remodeling, Einar gets more cats to have in total 25 cats in there and he is planning to get more different cats. of course, each cat has its own name engraved on a cute stylish collar so the customer can converse with the cats and call them by their names. 

Gustav occasionally comes to play his guitar every now and then and sing if he feels like it, which is often a very popular segment in the cafe, most customers find it lovely to hear live music in the cafe.

List of the cats, names, types and personalities.

The new cats are generally younger than the previous dozen.

Einar remembers every cat names and what they like to eat and what they hate. He often encourages customers to feed the cats the things he personally gives them to bond with the cats. Female cats wear pink collars and Male cats wear Blue collars. A sign in each corner to remind customers that there are cats with disabilities and they should take note of that. Also, how to handle the cats if they don’t know what they should do. Instructions of some sort. Also the list of the cat’s names so customers can know the cats without looking at their collars. Regular visitors often get special treatment like they can take more pictures, eat the special dish for that day, etc.

Einar is very, very adamant about the rules in the cafe. 

no recording whatsoever, or taking pictures. (unless it was for a good reason like report, newspaper, school project, etc.)

hit a cat, and you are banned from sitting one foot in here after being personally kicked by einar.

do not be rude to anyone in here

the cats for everyone, do not monopolize a cat UNLESS the cat prefers you

do not feed the cats!!!!! DO NOT! 

no fights inside the cafe

no date quarrels in the cafe

bathrooms are not for lovemaking

keep the place clean or you will be banned from coming in

Do not sleep in the cafe

and of course, do not try to steal a cat

verse tag: ⌈⌈verse[modern cat cafe]. (einar)

more information when verse is developed!

[crisisdeltax]

Fear is but a moon revolves around Saturn 4

Because of his arrogance and underestimation of the balance he served, Amanda sent Nines down on earth with a mission to guard an unborn human.

Ch1  Ch2  Ch3

Chapter 4

When his shadows informed him of an unusual presence at the home of his mission, Fear didn’t expect it to be-

"Footprints?!" The wish gasps a little too close to his ear, as she rises, alarmed, over his shoulder.

Fear's grey eyes narrows, taking the scene in. The mother who very recently started bearing his mission, is going about through her morning routine in the kitchen unaware of his presence, leaving in her wake a trail of black and blue flaming footprints that doesn't seem to fade.

"How is she doing that?" The wish seems fascinated by it.

"She’s not."

"Then who did?"

He crouches, eyeing the small bluish fumes before he extends his hand to investigate it further, it was cold, "Death..." he whispers to himself.

"Why?" The wish asks.

"A warning."

"A warning? About what?"

"Dead man walking,"

"What?"

"It's a human saying..." He pauses, his focus is on the mortal mother, who sits at the dining table with a cup of coffee in her hand, " when one of their condemned prisoners walks to their execution,"

"But she isn't a condemned prisoner," The wish stats confusingly, watching the human’s face for any indication.

The mother looks calm, staring at the rain drops across the window.

"She seems fine," the wish muses.

"Not her..." Although all mortals are prisoners condemned to their death in a way, his mission isn't  the mother herself but her unborn offspring.

"Nines are you certain? Maybe it's some kind of a sibling prank thingy, or maybe you are reading so much into this with your super calculative mind, I mean, how can you be sure of this, baby is not yet born—" the wish babbels.

It's the first time in 3 months since he had known her to finally grasp a sense of her fear.

He is prepared for this moment in his mind, now as it unfold before him, he can't help but find it... unsettling.

Fear still feels the flow of sands in the hourglass. He reaches inside his pocket, if his brother went out all the way to warn him, then this is it.

"—and... I'm sorry, what is this?" The wish lookes skeptically at the coin Fear holds in his hand.

"This is a human currency, I believe it is called ...a coin" He mildly mocks her but she seems unaware as her fear fades into confusion, he resumes his explanation, "throughout the ages humans placed... Gifts with their deceased ones, in order to gain Death's blessing, unbeknown to them that my brother has no power beyond. However for all the gifts that are bestowed upon him, the coin... Has been his favorite."

"Ooh, I get it now!  With this coin, we are going to bribe him!" She exclaims enthusiastically, and he gives her a side-glance.

"No... to summon him," He flicks the coin into the air with a tinge, the air stills, once it landed back onto his open palm everything around them stops.

"Hello, brother."

***

Death stands before them, hands clasped in-front of him almost as if to show politeness, or simply a pose he is used to perform, he looks like a perfect replica of Nines, or in this case Nines is the perfect replica of him, after all, Fear is but a result of Death.

Death's face remains stoic, his eyes however is quick to spot the feline addition over his brother's shoulder.

"You heeded my warning," Death says, eyes back on his brother as Nines put the coin back in his pocket.

"You weren't subtle about it."

"You were running out of time, brother"

"Were?" Wonder exclaimed.

Death's eyes were back on her again, his head tilted slightly as if trying to see her in a different angle. His eyes seems to gleam of something upon meeting hers, it is not unkind, but it should have made her feel uneasy, it does not.

Unlike Nines’s colorless eyes, Death's had a set of brown ones that gave him a softer edge, less intimidating than his brother's sharp ones, in fact Death seems more approachable, unlike what his name indicates.

Wonder wonders if her ease towards the grim reaper is drawn from her bond with Nines, as he probably feels the same way.

"You said were, does it mean that the baby is now safe?" Wonder asks.

"No, I meant that time is no longer an issue as we speak" Death explains to her, she was confused, should she be thankful or panicking?

"Look," Fear pointed towards the human mother. The footprints still stands, the mother still looking through the window, and the rain is still...  perfectly still, it took Wonder few beats to see it.

"You stopped time." Wonder murmurs in awe and Death's posture changes slightly as his hand raises to fix his already perfect looking tie.

"A gift to help me in my purpose, Death is nothing but punctual,"

"Like Nines's shadows."

"Nines?" Death raises an elegant eyebrow at his brother, who looks as calm as ever.

"It's the name I gave him, it's fitting, right?"

"Indeed." Death says, amused

"With the introduction out of the way, maybe you can now tell me what you are warning me about"

"You already know, brother... this is not my first warning, the hourglass you carry is void of any name, I have been watching you bring out the hourglass to check every so often, and I'm curious, what does it make you feel..."

No name hourglass means they will never be born to gain a name, Wonder watches Nines's emotionless face. She didn't notice that the fact that he stares at the hourglass means anything suspicious, she thought he was just entranced by the flow of the sand. Now that Death mentions it, Nines never let her touch the hourglass or stare at it for long enough to notice it has no name

"Did you feel anxious then? What about now? Do you feel... Helpless? Is it bothering you?" Death asks, "talk to me brother, I can help you. We may never have the chance again," his brown eyes looks so deeply humane in their search within Nines's glassy orbs.

Nines keeps quiet, the slight tightening of his jaw is the only indication that he is, infact, not a statue.

Wonder interrupts, "this doesn't make sense, the baby has no emotions yet, if it dies, then it won't be out of fear and the mission will be over before it even begun,"

Death's brows slightly frown, a mild sadness washes over his features for a split second before he regains the same emotionless mask that seems to run in the family as he turns to Wonder.

"Now that would be a waste of time, even for me," the last thing Death says before he pulls himself to the side, pulling a coin out of no where and starts flipping it flawlessly between his hands.

The ting of the coin was so loud in the quietness of the room, time was back, Wonder can now hear the rain drops again, like a fast paced clock ticking and it is disquieting.

"What are we going to do now?" Wonder speaks into Nines's mind, feeling the urge to keep her conversation private from Death.

Nines strides towards the woman, "What we should have done all along," he says, crouching before the human, "prove my brother wrong," Nines stares straight into the human's eyes as one of his shadows snakes up her body, slowly but securely rounding her.

***

The mortal's fears lay bare in front of him, all her nightmares, all her insecurities clashing and turning within her like the tides of a dark bottomless ocean whirling in a storm of her emotions. She appears exceptionally calm but he can see beyond.

She fears the future, she fears regret, she thinks she is not ready, the baby was not planned and her whole life is nothing but cautious steps towards progress, she is a thinker and this is a mistake she needs to undo.

Fear pulls back from the mortal, as he stands taller, his cold eyes downcast on the deep thinking woman.

"She will kill her offspring.." Fear states to the wish who was patiently quiet.

"Why would she do that?" The wish asks in disbelief.

"Fear..." He opens his palm creating a new shadow, letting it join the one which rounds the mortal, as it starts to squeeze her gently, coming up to her ears, it starts whispering to her in tongues.

"Are you... Doubling her fears?"

"No, I'm adding a new one"

"I'm sorry, but how can this help in anyway?"

Fear glances at the wish, thinking seriously about not answering her, but she seemed scared rather than questioning his abilities, he decided against it, "Nothing is better to counter fear but another fear," he turns his eyes back to the woman who takes a sip from her coffee unwillingly listening to the shadows over both her ears, "soon, she will imagine what her life will be like if she remains childless, she fears it will be empty, she is growing older each day, better now than later."

"Will it... be enough?" The wish murmurs in his head and in all truth, Fear doesn't know the answer, he doesn't reply.

The shadows squeeze the human harder, even if he was able to help her now, these shadows will engulf her in too much darkness and it will ruin her for another time.

"Why don't you let your new partner help?" Death's voice broke from behind, he plays his coin between his fingers expertly.

Fear looks at the wish weighting the idea in his mind.

"No, I tried before, it didn't go well," the wish says with a shrug.

"Yes, the human girl Yuki, I know, I was there," Death says, he continues flipping the coin but his eyes seems unfocused, "despite it's title, great doses of painkillers will make a human spasm in pain for hours before their time come, some even lasts days in torment," he stares at nothing for a moment pause before he looks at the wish, "too much is what killed Yuki."

Too much brightness, too much darkness, Fear understands the point his brother is so not subtly trying to make. He turns to the wish.

"Nines, are you sure, I may—" The wish starts to murmur again.

"If this is the end for you too, I would find in unfair if I don't let you try for yourself." Fear speaks to the wish, drawing an end to their private communication.

The wish seems unsure for a moment, the coin Death flips tings louder, no doubt reminding her of the running time, she jumps over the human's lap, cautiously reaching her paw into the snaking shadow, emitting few dots of light that spread inside the shadows like veins.

The whispers stop and the wish quickly pulls her paw out, jumping away from the human as the human rises, towards her phone, trailing more footprints.

Fear sees her fears fading as her mind is clearer now to take the decision, she searches for the doctor contact number, her finger swipes through contacts before it hovers over one contact and she pauses.

It is then that his shadow’s whispers resume, different in tone and within a perfect harmony with the wish's aspirations mild music.

Fear stands next to the mother, curious to know what she saw that gives her a pause.

It was her mother's contact number. Years after she had passed and she still keeps her contact saved, as if one day, somehow she will call her and annoy her about her most embarrassing childhood stories.

She loved her mother, she imagines that if her mother was still alive she would have been over the moon about the baby, talking nonstop about her plans to be the perfect grandmother her grandchild  would want.

She loves her mother so much, the human wonders if her unborn baby would love her the same, and yet before it even tries to show her anything she would betray it's love by being selfish, her mother was never selfish with her.

The human wipes her tears away, putting the phone down, she laughs ironically about how everything have turned now.

"I warn you, I'm told I'm gonna be a very weird mother," the human speaks to her barely visible stomach as she descends to the floor laughing and wiping her tears.

The wish stands before her in awe, Fear looks around to see the footprints disappear into thin air.

"I had eight brothers before you, none of them has reached this point, none of them were given a test by Fate and none of them were able to understand the balance they served," Death speaks to Fear, standing beside him with a smile on his face, "I'm proud of you brother, I think it's time for you to check your hourglass, for today you have saved a life."

Fear pulls the hourglass and sure enough he saw the name carved deep in the wooden base of the hourglass, it says "Gavin Reed"

Y/N: When an impossible coin trick is done successfully, a handsome softie Death will appear. Its a well known fact heheheh. There will be no pairing in this story, I plan to blow up your mind as hard as I can with this story, I hope the name Gavin Reed made u shoooock. Also maintaining a present tense through out the whole thing turned out to be harder than I thought, please point out any grammatical mistake, my English is still improving.Thank you ^^

@the-darklings @randomfandomgirl1996

[impregnant-imkidding]

Disgusting

I’ve often wondered just what disgusting things he was whispering in her ear. This is smutty RPF. Don’t like, don’t read.

He was ready first, and he took the opportunity to chat with the photographer, trying to get a read on what the goal for this particular shoot was.

It wasn’t terribly uncommon for the photo shoots to involve the both of them at this point, for the network knew what it was doing, and right now the chemistry between their characters – and them, for that matter – was a huge draw. TV Guide wanted to do a shoot and an article about the show, with the main focus on the budding relationship between two of the leading characters on the hit drama.

Going out on photoshoots with Cote was becoming more and more common, but he couldn’t seem to find it in him to mind very much.

She emerged from the dressing room and he noted that she was also dressed in blue, coordinating with the blue suit they’d fitted him into. She looked divine, with her hair wavy and the makeup artist’s emphasis on her eyes, and he felt a surge of want at the mere sight of her.

Then again, it didn’t take a whole lot for his beautiful costar to enchant him these days, not with the way his body remembered the feel of her pressed against him in the throes of passion. The network was pushing them together, sure, but they’d done plenty of that on their own.

“Ready?” she said, a casual greeting as she eyed him, her gaze lowering just enough to indicate that she knew exactly what he had been thinking about.

Oh, it was going to be one of those days.

This particular photographer liked to allow them the freedom to pose themselves, and so with little direction they had started, shifting positions and facial expressions every few seconds while the photographer snapped away, capturing moments in the hopes of securing that one perfect shot.

“Angle this way a bit more,” the photographer instructed, and they obeyed, turning in the indicated direction. Michael leaned in, appearing to pose for a more intimate shot and she immediately became aware of the way his hand was wrapped around her waist, and the way his aftershave seemed to waft into her orbit, reminding her of the last time she’d smelled it – a steamy night in his trailer where her legs had been wrapped tightly around him as he rode her to pleasure.

She sucked in an involuntary breath, one which he immediately picked up on. “You’re thinking about the other night, aren’t you?” he breathed softly, not wanting anyone else to overhear. She turned to look at him, noting that his expression appeared innocent, as though he hadn’t just mentioned their clandestine encounter in front of a photographer who would be publishing these photos online within a few hours.

She ignored him, trying to focus on the camera and helping the photographer get his shot.

Michael had other plans, however. “You look good enough to eat,” he growled when he leaned toward her again, turning his head immediately thereafter and giving a facial expression to the camera. Another click sounded and she shifted against him, accidentally rubbing her ass in his crotch.

Okay, maybe not so accidentally. Two could play this game.

His next opportunity came within seconds, and he whispered, “You see that bench over there? I wanna bend you over, hike up that skirt, and fuck you til you scream my name,” he practically growled, and it took all the effort she possessed not to shiver at his words as she glanced over at the bench. There was no way they would get away with it, but she allowed herself to briefly imagine what it would feel like to have him pounding into her, his hands groping wildly at her breasts as he drove into her, hard and fast.

She couldn’t stop the slight gasp she elicited at the image, and shook her head, trying to clear the image from her mind. Michael had caught it, though – he always did – and he grinned, giving the photographer a great shot at that signature smile of his.

He was wrapping his arm around her and pulling her back against his chest, enveloping her in his warmth, and the camera continued clicking away, their bodies moving slightly in time with the rhythmic sounds of the photographic dance they were doing. She smiled for the camera one second, then gave a sultry look the next, hoping that something she was giving would be acceptable. She was an actress and not a model, though the two seemed to overlap more and more often these days.

Michael leaned his head down, angling behind her own so that his words wouldn’t be audible to the others in the room, whispering, “You won’t be able to walk when I’m done with you,” causing another stab of want to shoot through her, settling between her legs, where she wanted his full attention at this point. She pressed against him, hoping that she looked like she was just trying to give a good shot for the cameras, but she wanted him to know that she was definitely onto his little game and that she would play back.

She turned around in his arms, facing mostly forward while he was faced backward, changing up the ways in which they could pose. Michael still had his arm around her waist, squeezing her tightly, and she gave a sultry smile for the camera as he leaned forward again, whispering another dirty secret for her ears only: “You’re already dripping wet, aren’t you? I can’t wait to stick my head between your legs and taste how bad you want me.”

That one made her flush, and she looked at the photographer, explaining, “He just keeps whispering the most disgusting things in my ear.” Maybe if she tried to look repulsed rather than turned on, it wouldn’t appear as if she was seconds away from ripping her costar’s clothes off and riding him right there in front of the entire photography crew.

To be honest, she was pretty close to doing just that.

And he didn’t stop. Every time he got the chance, he was saying something else, another dirty tease that left her wanting, and most assuredly as wet as he suspected she was.

“Will you ride my hand with your hips? Rocking yourself onto my fingers?” Snap.

“I like that lipstick on you. I can’t wait to see your lips wrapped around my cock.” Snap.

“I’m going to make you come harder than you’ve ever come in your life.” Snap.

She was certain she must be panting by this point, her body so tight with desire, but no one seemed any the wiser about her current predicament, and soon the photographer dismissed them back to their dressing rooms, stating that he’d gotten what he needed. Whatever these photos looked like, she would never be able to look at them without remembering the things Michael had whispered in her ear, nor the way she had been so fraught with desire that she was ready to jump him as soon as she got him behind closed doors.

Their opportunity came when they reached her dressing room, and Michael pushed her forward, shutting the door and locking it behind her before sweeping her into his arms and attacking her mouth, groaning his desire into the kiss as he backed her onto the counter where she’d earlier had all of the items needed for hair and makeup.

She felt her ass hitting the hard surface and Michael released her lips, kissing down her neck and causing her to gasp, her hair flowing behind her as she leaned back and gasped with pleasure. Oh, but he was sinfully good at making her entire body come alive with desire.

He lifted her hips off the counter and hiked her skirt up to her waist, not even bothering to remove her panties before shoving his hand roughly inside, dipping his finger between her legs and into her moist center. “You are fucking soaking, just like I thought,” he groaned as he stroked her roughly, causing her to hiss against him and widen her legs, giving him better access.

“Michael, please,” she begged, rocking her hips toward his hand, just as he’d predicted she would. A devilish glint flashed in his eyes at that, but she said nothing, merely allowing her eyes to fall closed as she reveled in the way even his hands could make her feel. He was fucking her slowly with his fingers, brushing his thumb against her clit and reaching with his free hand to remove her panties, pulling them roughly down her legs and allowing them to fall slowly, dangling off the toe of her shoe until she kicked that off, as well.

He desperately wanted to taste her, just as he’d said, and he knelt down between her legs, inhaling her scent and groaning at the way she twitched toward him, offering herself to him. He wasted no time diving in, his tongue ravaging her folds, furiously tasting her delicious center. Almost instantly, Cote’s hand came down to pull at his hair, her hands running through the soft strands, pulling at him when he hit a particularly good spot. “Michael,” she groaned, raising her hips up and into his face, bucking roughly against his chin as he sucked and tasted and teased, reveling in the way she wantonly moved toward him.

He growled against her center, feeling slightly drunk on the sweet taste of this wild woman who pretended to be unaffected but then chased his mouth when he ate her, her head thrashing wildly and her breaths coming in loud, unrestrained moans.

Pausing for a second, he pulled back to catch her gaze, practically murderous in response to him stopping. “Don’t stop,” she said, irritated at this sudden lack of stimulation, and he reached his hand back between her legs and began to stroke her, his thumb rubbing her clit furiously as he stuck his fingers deep inside of her, causing her to moan in relief as the pressure continued to mount.

“I want you to come all over my cock,” he breathed, for as much as he was enjoying eating her out, he desperately wanted to feel her heat wrapped tightly around him as he buried himself deep inside of her, fucking her to oblivion.

“What are you waiting for?”

He wasted no time freeing himself, unzipping his pants and pulling his cock out, tossing the jacket to the side as he stepped forward, his eyes dark with desire as she reached for his tie and pulled him toward her. Cote licked her lips at the sight of him, his engorged member dripping precum and straining toward her waiting body. She spread her legs further in anticipation, her hands wrapping around his neck as he lined himself up, grunting roughly at the feel of her moisture coating the tip of his dick.

Christ, she was going to feel incredible.

He slid forward roughly, unable to hold back. She moaned loudly as his hips crushed into hers, his cock buried fully inside of her. She clenched around him, her eyes glinting mischievously, and he pulled almost completely out, holding himself just at her entrance, slowly rocking himself back and forth between her folds and denying them both the feeling of completion for as long as he could stand it. “Michael, please,” she begged, desperately trying to rock her hips up and take him fully, but he continued to tease, biting his lip as he held out, knowing that the next time he surged into her would cause them both to scream with pleasure.

When he finally did so, she cried out so loudly he was sure security would be at her door and he groaned in unison, reveling at the way she clenched around him as he stilled inside her. “You feel fucking good, Cotes,” he breathed, leaning forward to take her lips roughly, his fingers curling in her hair as he began to move against her, that primal push and pull that left them both panting for breath as they crashed together again and again.

He had one hand holding her thigh up as he rutted into her, the other caressing the wavy locks of hair as he kissed at her wildly – her mouth, her cheek, her ear, her neck, her collar, and back to her mouth. She was pulling on his tie with one hand, twisting it around as he leaned closer to her, and the other hand was braced on his arm, her nails digging into his skin through his shirt, holding on for dear life as her ass teetered off the edge of the counter while he fucked her. She was so close to falling, in several ways, but she trusted him to hold her, to guard her, and she was right on the edge of bliss.

“Michael,” she breathed, the word barely a grunt, indicating that she was nearly there, her hips canting frantically toward his, meeting his every thrust with a short moan.

“With me,” he begged, his face knotting in concentration as he began to thrust more erratically, his cock throbbing with the need to come. She felt tight and hot and warm and wonderful and perfect, and she clenched around him expertly at every thrust, driving him even closer to completion with every rut.

“Faster,” she cried, her own face twisting with need, her head flying back against the wall as she finally began to feel the waves of pleasure washing over her, her entire body trembling with the sensation of Michael’s cock driving into her again and again. “Look what… you do to me…” she breathed, her voice strained as she rode it out, goosebumps dotting her flesh as she shivered in his arms.

“Same… to you,” he croaked as his entire body tightened and then loosened, that deep coil finally unraveling as he shot into her, his entire body seeming to spool out of him as he came, his pulse beating rapidly and his breaths beginning to slow as he collapsed on top of her, her legs wrapping tightly against his thighs, securing him against her.

Chests heaving as they leaned against each other, Cote leaned her head up and kissed him gently, a soft, simple peck that slowly deepened into a more thorough kiss, her head turning to allow him access as he practically devoured her. He couldn’t get enough of her, and it was almost like he couldn’t seem to stop himself whenever he was alone with her, his body coming alive in a way it never had before.

“You’re killing me,” he breathed into her ear, and she shivered, leaning closer to him to seek the warmth of his body.

“You love it,” she teased, and he chuckled at that, still reluctant to move, to part from this perfect moment in time, despite needing to get changed and get the hell out of this photo studio.

“I do,” he confirmed, finally pulling out of her with a hiss, reaching to tuck himself back into his pants and attempt to straighten up. He wasn’t supposed to have this with her. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

But he couldn’t seem to bring himself to stop.

“Meet you at the car in ten?” he asked, gathering up the rest of his belongings, no doubt to pick up whatever he had left behind in his dressing room. She nodded, not for the first time wondering how she would walk out of this building without looking like she’d just gotten fucked into oblivion by one Michael Weatherly.

She was finding it harder and harder to care whether she looked like that or not.

He stepped from the room then, and she began to gather her belongings. She would change her clothes, put her hair up, and go back to acting like she wasn’t affected by him, the way she had when they were being photographed, and maybe tomorrow she would be able to finally resist this pull he seemed to have over her.

“Sure,” she said to the empty room, smiling despite herself. Sure she would be able to resist him, to keep from touching him and feeling him and taking him between her legs, where he would give her the greatest pleasure she had ever known. Sure.

She took one final glance around the dressing room to ensure that she had all of her belongings and then opened the door, shutting the light before stepping out into the corridor and out of the studio, and back to pretending that she wasn’t in love with a married man who made her toes curl and her body sing.

Read on Ao3

[raendown]

As it turns out, I have no idea how to blatantly seduce someone. This might explain my awkward teenager stage. But I did give it a try!

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 2385 Summary: Madara didn't believe Tobirama could seduce anyone until he witnessed it happening - and found himself seduced in the process as well.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

Fingers In The Honeypot

“Obviously we can’t kill him.”

“Obviously.”

In tandem, the two men let out a quiet sigh of disappointment. They might not agree on many things but they definitely agreed that they wished they could kill the diplomat across the room from them. He was loud, abrasive, smug, and boastful even when his stories were nothing to truly boast about. Even worse, he looked down on all shinobi as lesser beings. Were he anyone else he would have been dead before the first hour of the party had finished.

As it was, his status protected him from such retribution as they would have preferred to deliver him. Akinori Tanabe was the Daimyo’s closest advisor and the only man with access to the information they needed on the noble who was their true target, one who had been doing everything within their power to sabotage Konoha’s efforts to spread its roots. They were going to have to employ some other method than violence to retrieve that information from the smarmy braggart if they hoped to foil the noble’s latest plan.

“So what do you suggest?” Madara grumbled. “Hmph. Wish your brother had sent me here with a Yamanaka instead of you.”

Tobirama sent his companion a withering look and deliberately took his time before answering. He tilted his head and observed his target, considering the problem from all angles. Which would be the course of action least likely to draw attention? Most of the things which came to mind were loud or violent and he discarded them one by one until at last he shrugged.

“We could always fall back on the classics.”

“Be more specific,” his companion demanded flatly.

“Rumor states that he prefers the company of men. One of us could seduce him.”

Madara stared at him for perhaps fifteen long seconds before turning his head and holding a hand to his mouth, muffling the laughter that threatened to ring throughout the entire room. Having sort of anticipated this kind of reaction, Tobirama waited patiently until the other man was able to calm himself down a little.

It took a while. Every time Madara turned back to look at his mission partner he burst in to a fresh round of mocking laughter. The very idea of Tobirama trying to seduce someone was hilarious to him for a number of reasons. Who the hell would be attracted to someone with such a stiff stick up their ass? And did the Senju even know what sex was? He could hardly imagine Tobirama unbending enough to attempt anything even close to seduction. In his head it was the most awkward thing in the world.

“Are you done?” Tobirama asked eventually. Madara sniggered once more.

“You’re not serious, are you?”

“Why not? The human male predilection for giving up pretty much anything in return for sex is rather well known. I don’t see why it’s not a valid option.”

“Are you kidding me?” Madara shook his head. “Because it won’t work, that’s why. The man detests me and you probably couldn’t seduce yourself in to jerking off. The very idea of you attempting to seduce anyone is laughable – literally; how long was I laughing for just now?”

Rolling his eyes and sniffing with insult, Tobirama set off across the room with a flippant, “Watch and learn.”

Madara didn’t even try to call him back. The mere prospect of getting to watch him try to awkwardly flirt and fail miserably was enough to make this entire stupid mission worth it. So instead he wandered slowly after the other to place himself closer to what was sure to be some prime entertainment. He was already amused to watched Tobirama run a hand through his hair as he walked, ruffling the strands until they fell in artful disarray.

Actually, he noted reluctantly, the effect wasn’t half bad. It softened the man’s face in a way.

“Akinori-sama,” Tobirama murmured in a surprisingly deferential tone, “If I might have a moment of your time.”

Pausing in the conversation he was having, their target turned to see who was interrupting him. When he spotted Tobirama there his eyes seemed to light up and he immediately shooed the other person away. A sinuous smile crossed his face as he motioned Tobirama closer.

“Call me Tanabe, please,” he said. “I confess, I’d been hoping I could steal you away from that untamed beast you arrived with. Truly I pity you for having your sensibilities constantly offended by such boorish behavior.”

“Your sympathies are most appreciated, Tanabe.” Tobirama’s voice affected a rolling purr as he shaped the syllables of the diplomat’s name like a lover’s caress. Akinori leaned towards him unconsciously and Madara rolled his eyes in disgust from his hiding place. “It’s so loud in here, don’t you think? Perhaps it would more pleasant if we could speak somewhere…quieter.”

“I would like nothing more.” One could almost see triumph flashing in Akinori’s eyes at the suggestion, a clear bid for privacy more so than a request for a less noisy venue. Tobirama was obviously not bothering to play subtle but there was no doubt that his tactics were already working. In merely four sentences he had managed to convince the target to go somewhere alone with him as well as capture his interest in what basically amounted to a voluntary honeypot mission.

Madara slipped unseen in to the shadows and followed the two of them from a distance as Akinori led his partner out of the main hall and in to an empty one which took them a few minutes to reach. Actually it sort of looked like a servant’s hallways, which would guarantee that no one important could discover them here.

“What was it you wished to discuss?” Akinori asked, leaning back against the wall in what he surely believed was a seductive pose. It really wasn’t but Tobirama’s surprisingly was as the pale shinobi stepped up in to the other man’s personal space and put all his weight on one arm, palm resting just beside the advisor’s head. He flashed a wicked grin which succeeded in weakening two different sets of knees.

“Nothing in particular,” he admitted. “Mostly I just wanted Tanabe-sama’s attention for myself – but of course it would be terribly improper of me to admit to something like that. We should find something to talk about.”

“Truly…” Akinori appeared to suddenly be having trouble breathing.

“Pointless gossip should do. Nothing we wouldn’t have spoken of before.” Tobirama gave a careless shrug as he leaned a little closer, lifting his free hand to draw one finger almost casually down his target’s chest. “Something I don’t really need to listen to so that I may concentrate on…other things.”

“Anything you like,” Akinori mumbled. “Anything at all.”

“The Ishii clan are sufficiently boring. Surely there can’t be much gossip surrounding them and such a quick conversation would leave us open to discuss those ‘other things’ I mentioned.”

From his spot unseen only a few feet away, Madara swallowed thickly and hoped to kami that his partner was putting all of his attention on what he was doing, sparing none for him. It simply wouldn’t do for the pale bastard to know how much Madara found himself affected by the wicked tone Tobirama had pitched his voice in. He could hardly imagine the horrors that would be visited upon him were the other to discover that just a few words spoken in that manner had turned his knees to water.

Where had someone so cold learned to speak like that, anyway?

Akinori very clearly agreed with him. Diplomatic training to stayed poised at all times flew out the window as he leaned more heavily against the wall, chest heaving and fingers coming up to boldly trace the shapes of Tobirama’s arms. Although Madara was certain his companion would have preferred otherwise, he watched with a tightness in his gut as Tobirama allowed the touches and leaned even closer to whisper in the man’s ear.

“I trust you to keep up the conversation for me, Tanabe. Should anyone walk by it would be terribly inappropriate for them to hear anything else, yes?”

“Oh yes.” The response sounded more like a moan than anything else and Tobirama tutted lightly.

“The Ishii clan, Tanabe. Bore me with whatever they haven’t been up to while I tend to…more important matters.”

“Actually one of their lesser family members was just seen – oh...” Pausing nearly in the middle of a word, Akinori went up on his toes as his entire expression twisted with pleasure. Madara couldn’t quite see what Tobirama was doing to the man’s neck but whatever it was the effort appeared to be appreciated. It took the advisor a moment the collect himself and attempt to continue speaking in a breathy tone. “They were, um, seen in the village of Nakatsugawa. Buying…buying…”

Tobirama hummed, making his target shiver, and asked in a rumbling whisper, “What were they buying?”

“Weapons,” Akinori whimpered.

“Hm. And here I thought their home village was famed for its weapons production.”

“It is!”

Madara shifted very carefully, ensuring the motion made no noise. His own neck felt cold and hot at the same time, burning for such attentions to be lavished on himself and chilly at being denied. As reluctant as he was to admit it to himself, he was incredibly jealous of Akinori right then. His pride took a rather heavy blow as he silently acknowledged that he wished it was him in the advisor’s place with Tobirama’s touches on his own skin, being allowing to take such liberties as the hand he could see slowly making its distracted way down his partner’s back.

With minimal prompting the information continued to flow. Akinori mumbled without seeming to really pay any attention to his own words or even care that what he was revealing what might be considered sensitive information. The exact moment Tobirama decided he had enough was visibly obvious. His body language went from relaxed to tense in under a second, although the man before him didn’t seem to notice and continued to blather on.

The man never even noticed a thing as Tobirama casually raised a hand and pressed two fingers against the base of his skull, sending a carefully controlled pulse of chakra in to his brain stem. Akinori crumpled, instantly unconscious. Tobirama didn’t bother to catch him.

Slipping out of the alcove he had concealed himself within, Madara gave the body on the floor a disdainful sniff.

“His mouth runs like a leaky faucet,” he observed. Tobirama snorted.

“Indeed. Did you happen to note where his rooms are? We can leave him there and you can implant some memories of what I’m sure he was expecting to happen. That should keep him docile.” Madara froze at those words, giving his companion a suspicious look.

“You assume I can do such a thing with the Sharingan?”

Tobirama rolled his eyes and, seeing he wasn’t going to get help with the heavy lifting, heaved Akinori over his own shoulder. “Anyone who knows your clan can attest that each Mangekyo-stage Sharingan has a unique ability and I happen to know that one is yours. Although I am happy to burst any questionable fantasies you might have had by pointing out that it wouldn’t work on me. The technique implants your chakra in to your victim. I would most definitely feel that.”

As he turned to walk away, Tobirama gave his partner a cocky wink which sent Madara in to a fit of spluttering. It took a few moments for him to gather himself enough to follow the other down the hall, still lost in his thoughts. Sensing his chakra being transferred in to an opponent would certainly explain how Tobirama knew he was doing something, although most likely he would have had to ask one of their brothers for clarification on what exactly that something was. Just the idea that Tobirama had taken the time to ask about him did funny things to his insides.

Once their burden had been dropped off in his bedroom, enough memories implanted in him to keep him happy but not obsessed, the two of them briefly debated going back to the party. It would seem a little suspicious if they didn’t, although they hadn’t exactly been subtle about Tobirama removing Akinori from the room. In the end they decided to simply allow the rumors of something scandalous happening to fly freely and headed back towards their own set of rooms.

For the entire journey through the twisting corridors Tobirama continuously made expressions of mild disgust, running his tongue over his teeth and opening his mouth as though to air out his tongue. It looked just ridiculous enough that Madara let it pass without comment, enjoying the show.

That show came to a rather abrupt end, however, as they reached the corridor in which they were staying and Tobirama reached over without warning to reel him in with a tight grip around the back of his neck. Such was his shock that Madara froze entirely, standing completely still while Tobirama ravished his mouth in what was quite possibly the best kiss he had ever taken part in. Not that he was taking much of an active part. The very second he gathered enough of himself together to respond Tobirama was pulling away with a self-congratulatory look on his face, smacking his lips in satisfaction.

“My utmost apologies,” he purred. “I needed to get the taste of that idiot out of my mouth and replace it something more pleasant.”

“Uh, alright.” Madara blinked rapidly, unsure of how to respond to that.

“Now to wash his touch off the rest of me.”

Madara watched dazedly as the other stepped away from him and continued down the hall towards the chambers he had been given for their stay. Tobirama unlocked his door and opened it, then paused with one foot in the room to look back at the man still staring blankly at the empty air around his own head.

“Aren’t you coming?” he asked in a teasing tone, so many filthy promises hidden in those three short words.

Without giving the matter another thought Madara found his feet moving to follow. Suddenly he really wanted to know what those promises were like.

[sipeudepeine]

Setting: Stormlight Archive Point of View: 3rd Person Past Tense, Shallan Characters: Mraize, Iyatil, Shallan/Veil Chapters: 1 - Complete Words: 8,779 Contains: mentor/apprentice dynamic, first time, threesome, m/f/f, rough sex, table sex, oral sex, cunnilingous, penetration, pinning hands, safehand kink, scar kink, tattoo kink, oral fixation, finger-sucking, fingering, rewards, orgasm control, and orgasm denial.

Scene takes place place a few days after Shallan’s events in Words of Radiance Chapter 64: “Treasures,” in which Mraize sends Shallan a missive via spanreed that she is officially a member of the Ghostbloods. This is meant to be their first in-person meeting after that night.

Additional warnings for D/s elements without negotiation. Expect some possessive/predatory behavior on Mraize’s end. The scene is not noncon or even dubcon on either side, but the actual discussion of consent leaves something to be desired. They’re fully consenting, they just don’t… talk about that very well.

Originally posted as a fill on @cosmerekinkmeme.

The Ghostbloods’ secret basement was much emptier than the last time Shallan had attended a meeting here. The small cadre of Ghostblood members that she was coming to associate with meetings were nowhere to be seen, and the long dining table in the center was empty. A rich-looking tablecloth of thick fabric covered it this time, she noticed, and the room's sphere goblets were arranged on the wall shelves to bathe the room in the soft, even glow of Stormlight.

The basement’s sole occupant stood by the room's hearth, his back to the ladder as she climbed down. Mraize always cut such a striking figure in his sharp suits. He turned as she reached the floor, regarding her with an expression that was, as always, difficult to read. It might have been pride, tonight. Perhaps satisfaction? His scars made it difficult to tell.

His was a face she had collected more than a few times in her sketchbooks. She liked to tell herself that she needed more depictions so that he could be easily identified when she finally decided to act against the Ghostbloods. However, her artist’s sensibility knew that the asymmetry of his scars created an intriguing aesthetic, one she couldn’t seem to stop trying to capture from all angles. Perhaps she wasn’t quite to the point where she would use the word ‘handsome,’ but she would admit that they were visually fascinating, certainly.

“Good evening, Brightlord,” she said, standing by the ladder.

“Veil.” Mraize picked up two goblets setting on the mantle, each filled with wine.

Violet wine, she noted. Dark and intoxicating. She rarely drank anything of that color, but it seemed that Mraize was in a mood to celebrate. She walked across the room, taking one from him with a small nod. She only hesitated a moment before taking a sip. He’d said in his letter that she had nothing more to fear from the Ghostbloods, and she didn’t think he would have called her here just to poison her.

Besides, she’d gathered from their first meeting that if he ever decided to kill her, there were other methods to do so  which he would find much more… entertaining.

“How does it feel, little knife, to be a Ghostblood?”

“It is an honor, Brightlord,” Shallan said smoothly. In truth, she was in a celebratory mood tonight as well. Her efforts had paid off. She had successfully infiltrated the Ghostbloods. She was in.

“You are already more proficient than many we initiate,” he said. “Truly, we were lucky that Tyn found you. You are a much better acquisition than I believe Tyn ever would have been.”

Shallan hid a pleased smile behind her glass as she took another sip of wine. She knew that the Ghostbloods were her enemies, and yet, there was something very satisfying about gaining their approval. Mraize’s in particular. Iyatil had confirmed what she herself had guessed: that Mraize was a very difficult person to impress.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

“There is no need to thank me,” Mraize said, his odd accent tugging at the vowels. “You have earned your place among us.”

And she had. Though Shallan’s intentions in joining the Ghostbloods had been duplicitous, there was no denying that the things she had done to earn that place were real. She had managed to sneak information out of Amaram’s secure room. She’d scouted out Dalinar’s hidden madman. She’d talked her way out of Mraize’s intent to kill her upon their first meeting, and she’d managed to keep herself from being assassinated by any of the other Ghostblood members.

She took pride in those accomplishments, and in the praise they elicited from Mraize. She deserved this.

“In our last correspondence,” he said. “I gave you a task for your initiation. Has it been completed?”

The tattoo. Mraize’s instructions over spanreed had said she was to get the Ghostbloods’ symbol tattooed somewhere on her body, and that he would be checking to ensure she had.

She nodded. “It has.”

She had, of course, done no such thing. She had no intention of permanently marking her body for a group for which she held no loyalty. Thankfully, the Ghostbloods didn't ever see her real appearance anyway. She'd simply added the tattoo to her sketch as Veil and created it as part of the disguise.

At first, she'd been tempted to place it somewhere that would be easy to display to Mraize. After all, she wouldn't need to worry about hiding it around her everyday life. However, she feared he would be suspicious of a mark that was not well concealed.

Eventually, she decided to place it on her upper back, directly between her shoulder blades. It was a spot that was usually clothed, so as not to be suspicious, but also not too immodest, so she wouldn't have a problem showing Mraize.

Knowing that he would ask to see it tonight, she'd chosen to wear a sleeveless shirt which tied behind the neck underneath Veil’s longcoat, which left her upper back bare. The neck and lower back ties on her undergarment, which she very seldom had to worry about showing beneath the havah, were carefully arranged to stay beneath this shirt's fabric.

Shallan turned, shrugging the longcoat off her shoulders and lowering it. To her surprise, Mraize took hold of the fabric as she did so. Though she'd only intended to lower the coat far enough to reveal the tattoo, Mraize pulled it all the way off, like a gentleman helping a lady out of her overcoat.

She tried to stifle the embarrassed reaction she felt, standing there with bare arms. At least she still had her gloves on.

Mraize let out a slow breath, sounding impressed, though it was a very simple design. Shallan had checked the illusion in the mirror before coming, and it looked just like the sketch he'd sent. She had even managed to add a bit of redness around it, as the tattoo was supposed to only be a few days old.

“It is perfect,” Mraize said.

He placed his hand on her back, running his fingers across her skin. Though his hands were not cold, she had to suppress a shiver at the unexpected touch. Perhaps she should have expected it. He was probably checking to make certain the mark wasn't just paint that would rub off.

Well, he's right to be suspicious. It is fake, just not in any way he would be able to guess.

“And thus you are officially a member of the Ghostbloods,” he said. His hand moved to her shoulder, turning her so that they were facing one another again.

She smiled. “I look forward to serving more closely in the future.” The deeper she went into this organization, the more she'd learn.

Her phrasing seemed to amuse him. “And I believe you will. You have demonstrated remarkable skill in a number of areas, Veil. Iyatil remarked upon your ability to move about unseen and to shake tails. She also spoke of how well you formulated and executed an objective in a short period of time, as well as your… methods of persuasion in convincing her to join you for that task. Your powers of memory and observation are remarkable, as is your skill in visual arts.”

He sat down on the table in a half lean, one foot still on the ground, the other propped up. After a moment, Shallan sat beside him, mirroring the pose. There was no chair here at the head of the table today and it was wide enough that they could sit beside one another. Close, but not touching, with the length of the table and chairs extending behind them.

“I find myself wondering what other skills you might possess and simply have not had a chance to demonstrate yet.” He regarded her, and she felt a twinge of wariness. “Tell me, Veil, before you… succeeded her, did Tyn teach you anything of seduction?”

Shallan’s heart seemed to miss a beat. Did he have some kind of mission in mind that required this? Or was he simply curious? Surely he wasn't personally interested...

“I…” Mraize was looking for skill; Shallan knew she needed to appear competent. “She taught me some as we traveled, yes. How to catch the eye of a mark. How to direct a conversation to your own ends. How to keep contact in ways which leave the mark pursuing you.”

Mraize nodded, considering, then he leaned forward, his stare holding hers. “And what of the more physical aspects the art?”

Shallan felt she could summon a Shardblade in an eye-blink with how quickly her heart was beating. “Ah, not exactly, no. We… hadn’t gotten that far, I don’t think.”

“A pity,” he said, though he didn’t sound very disappointed. “You are blessed with natural gifts which would make such things easier. There is great potential in such beauty.”

Gently, he placed a hand beneath her chin, turning her head from one side to the other. As though she were a work of art to be examined.

Considering this face is sculpted from one of my drawings, perhaps that idea is apt, she thought. A small swell of pleased surprise welled up within her at the praise. Veil’s features were not soft, delicate, or pretty. She hadn’t considered the stark lines and sharp angles of her disguise to be particularly beautiful, though it seemed Mraize’s taste disagreed.

“That is... very kind of you to say, Brightlord.”

“Do not mistake my words for an empty compliment, little knife. I speak of your potential, but potential must be tended if it is to become talent. Honed, sharpened. Practiced.” Shallan was suddenly aware just how close his face was to hers. “There is much I could teach you, Veil, now that you are truly one of us. Would you like that?”

Shallan’s mind seemed to stutter and race at the same time as she realized what he was implying.

Her thoughts turned, first, to Adolin. She couldn’t do this to him. She shouldn’t! Stormwinds take her disguise, she was a lighteyed lady of moderate rank and she was causally betrothed to a prince. Dalliances and trysts were an excellent way to ruin everything she’d worked so hard to achieve there.

And yet…

Another side of her mind whispered that she was already living a double life. She was already lying to Adolin. In the event that someone found out a connection between herself and Mraize—or, Almighty forbid, Mraize figured out the connection between herself and Veil—she would have much larger problems to deal with than whatever physical interactions between them might have occurred.

Besides, that argument continued, technically she wasn’t lighteyed right now. She wasn’t Shallan here and if she tried to have Veil make decisions based on her other life’s considerations, the duplicity would trip her up. When she was here, she needed to be Veil, act as Veil would. How would she react to this as a darkeyed conwoman, rather than as the lighteyed lady? She’d come to accept that Veil was not a different person, she was another version of Shallan. A version with a different background, from a different place. The persona of Veil was Shallan underneath it all, but Veil had different priorities.

Veil, even a version of Veil intentionally trying to infiltrate the Ghostbloods to undermine them, would see this as an opportunity. She needed to get close to their leaders, gain their trust. Whatever interest Mraize had taken in her, she needed to capitalize on it and use that to her advantage. If he wanted to teach her the ways of seduction, all the better, because she needed to get as much as she could from him.

The hand Mraize held lightly beneath her chin turned over, taking hold of her face now. Mraize cocked his head. “Well, little knife? I will only ask once.”

A small rush of heat ran through her at his words. Though Shallan was very good at lying to herself, there was a realization she was having difficulty denying: there was a part of her that wanted this. Not for strategy, not as a method to manipulate. There was, terrifying as it was to discover within herself, desire.

She was fond of Adolin, truly, but she also remembered how many of their outings were tinged with annoyed frustration at the restrictions between them. These Alethi could be so prudish, so uptight. She could hardly give her fiancé a peck on the cheek in public without drawing disapproval from society as a whole. She’d had embarrassingly detailed trains of thought regarding the things she wished to do with Adolin. The simple truth was, she wanted more.

And here more was, sitting before her, face inches from her own, making the offer. It was a possibility that she couldn’t consider as Shallan, but as Veil she had more freedom. And he wasn’t simply offering an intimate encounter. Mraize wanted to teach her, to show her how to turn this into a tool she could use.

He was her enemy. She knew that, of course. He was dangerous, a man of skills, secrets, connections, and resources. Yet, in this moment, the risks of associating with a man so powerful thrilled her. Tyn had spoken of the addictive nature of the con, how the higher the stakes rose, the more difficult it became to step away. There was a piece of her that needed to see how far she could take this.

His hand still holding her chin, she leaned forward quickly, letting a sudden kiss serve as her answer. It was brief, only a few seconds before she pulled back, raising an eyebrow at him in challenge.

“Whenever you’re ready to begin, Brightlord.”

Mraize chuckled, standing up. When Shallan moved to do the same, he held up a hand, motioning for her to stay seated.

“The first rule of seduction, little knife,” he said, “is that you must always be focused on your mark. Their wants, their desires, their reactions must all come before your own.”

Shallan’s knack for quips, especially the more risqué responses favored by the crew of The Wind’s Pleasure, supplied a response that she only barely managed to keep herself from speaking aloud: And so, too, should your mark ‘come’ before yourself, I assume.

Mraize stepped close to her again, laying his palm against her cheek. Where his touch before had been possessive, this gesture was gentler. Softened. “You must discover that which your mark seeks, the touches they yearn for. When you understand how best to please them, you can control their pleasure. And in controlling their pleasure, you control them.”

He kissed her again, hand cupping her face. This was deeper than the kiss she’d given him, and she closed her eyes, her mind seeming to still as his lips parted hers. In seeing others kiss from afar, Shallan had always thought the practice would be a sloppy endeavor. Yet Mraize kissed with precision, every movement of his mouth against hers perfectly controlled.

As they lingered in the moment, his hand moved to the back of her neck, pulling her face to his more forcefully. Then he moved downward, the hand gently dragging its way across the exposed skin of her back. He lingered at the place where the tattoo was drawn, then continued on toward her hips, fingers slipping beneath the gathered fabric of her sleeveless shirt at her lower back.

Within the kiss, his tongue drew a line across her bottom lip once, and then he broke away. He watched her carefully, a small smile on his face as he tried to gauge her reactions. “What is it that you desire, little knife?”

As Shallan struggled to think of an answer to that, Mraize pressed his lips to her neck, trailing kisses from her jawline to her collarbone. Hands tugged at the knot of fabric behind her neck holding up the shirt, but it wasn’t until she heard a voice behind her that she realized those hands were not Mraize’s.

“Something tells me she does not know the answer to that, yet.”

Shallan jumped, turning sharply at the unexpected, yet familiar voice. Iyatil, masked as always, crouched barefoot on the table behind her. Shallan hadn’t even heard the woman come in. Or… Surely she couldn’t have been in here the whole time, hiding somewhere. Could she have? Iyatil did have a habit of appearing and disappearing when she wished to.

She ran a hand through Shallan’s hair—dark and straight under the guise of Veil. “She seems nervous, Mraize. Could it be this is her first?”

“I had considered the possibility, yes,” Mraize said, sounding amused.

Shallan looked back at him sharply for an answer, disconcerted by the way that the conversation was occurring as though she wasn’t here.

He smiled. “Do not concern yourself with Iyatil, little knife. She is here to observe and assist. If you are to learn, you must stay focused on me.”

“As I informed you on our mission,” Iyatil said, hands rubbing at Shallan’s neck in soothing motions, “he is my student. Just as you are to become his.” For the moment, she did not finish untying Shallan’s shirt, focusing instead on the massage. “The tattoo is lovely, Veil.”

Shallan let out a soft groan as Iyatil’s fingers dug out deep-set soreness from her neck and back. Mraize began to lay kisses across the length of her arm, starting up at her bared shoulders and moving downwards. It took her until he was already past her elbow before she realized the significance. Her left arm. He was moving toward her safehand.

Her breath caught with a subtle hitch, and Mraize smiled. He raised her arm, looking into her eyes as his lips touched her wrist, just above the edge of the thin leather glove she was wearing. She’d worn a pair tonight; her freehand was gloved as well, but her right side was all but forgotten right now.

“Many make the mistake of assuming that the use of allure regarding safehand lies only in distracting Vorin men,” Mraize said. He took her safehand in both of his, rubbing circles through the leather. “While this is, of course, a valuable technique, one should not ignore the ways in which Vorin women respond to the safehand. In my experience, they can often be more fixated upon it than their masculine counterparts.”

His hands slid down to the ends of her fingers, tugging at each of the glove’s fingertips. Then, once loosened, he met her eyes and pulled the glove free in one smooth motion. Shallan had a moment of strange reversal, feeling her freehand clothed and her safehand bare. Opposite from usual. It felt wrong, but in a thrilling sort of way.

With the glove removed, Mraize began rubbing her hand again, turning it over to press his thumbs into the back, then the palm. Gently, he pulled on each of her fingers, stretching the joints as he applied careful pressure to each. It worked as a counterpart to Iyatil’s continued treatment of her neck and upper back, and Shallan sighed softly, wondering how something improper could feel so wonderful.

Shallan’s hand was lifted again, and this time, Mraize pressed his lips against the back of her hand. It was almost like a gentleman’s greeting, but on the wrong side. The formal and the forbidden together in one action. Shallan had believed she would be able to keep her composure, even as his mouth moved to her palm, right up until the point that he took two of her fingers into his mouth.

The feeling was electric, the way he pushed his tongue against them. A sudden flash of heat ran through Shallan as he gently sucked on the digits, and she knew she must have stiffened, because Iyatil’s hands dug into her shoulder blades, forcing her back towards relaxation.

Looking entirely too pleased with himself, Mraize released her hand, leaving a small kiss on her fingertips as he pulled them from his mouth. “Quite diverting, is it not?”

Shallan found she was having difficulty making normal speech work properly. Words appeared to have fled her for the moment. Her silence was answer enough for Mraize, it seemed, for he leaned in closely again, taking hold of the back of her head to kiss her again.

While Shallan was distracted, Iyatil went back to the neck tie of her shirt, and the already loose knot gave up its hold with little fight. The garment fell free, gathering on the table around Shallan’s hips as she sat, leaving her wearing nothing but her undergarment and the glove on her freehand from the waist up.

The undergarment was traditionally Vorin, the kind she normally wore under her havah. Little more than a square of cloth to cover and support her chest, with two string ties to affix it at the neck and lower back. As the shirt fell away, Mraize’s unoccupied hand splayed against her stomach, caressing the smooth skin of her midsection, then moving upward. His hand ventured beneath the square fabric cupping her left breast. Another hand, Iyatil’s, found its way to her right only moments later.

Iyatil’s lips touched the back of Shallan’s neck, taking the thin undergarment string there in her teeth and pulling the simple knot free. The strings on her back followed in like manner. The skin of her upper body entirely exposed, Iyatil began trailing kisses down the line of her spine, as Mraize did the same down her front from her collarbone. Shallan let her eyes drift closed, head lolling back to rest on Iyatil’s shoulder behind her.

This was bliss, and for a few moments, Shallan simply let herself float in the pleasurable sensations of being touched. She came to the slow realization, however, that she didn’t simply want to be a passive recipient in this. Perhaps she could blame that on the Stormlight. With an extended illusion like this, she’d taken in a good amount to sustain her image. Though it wasn’t visible on the surface, it spun and twisted within her, pushing her to act, to do, to be.

Iyatil was behind her—the woman must have been sitting on the table, Shallan realized—which made her a difficult target to reach. Mraize, however, was within easy range of her hands, so, opening her eyes, she reached forward and began unbuttoning his sharp suit coat. He seemed to appreciate the initiative, making a noise of approval and shifting so that she could pull off his jacket, then the vest, then the shirt.

Shallan drew a quick breath at the sight of his chest, blinking to take a Memory without even thinking about it. She supposed she should have guessed. With the way his face was scarred, it stood to follow that the rest of his body would have withstood similar punishment. She couldn’t help but marvel at the extent of the scarring, imagining how much pain such wounds must have caused.

They were also beautiful. It felt wrong to to think such a thing of features which represented so much pain, but it was undeniably true. The scars were deep gouges, altering the contours of skin with marred muscle beneath. They were snatches of different color, in striking contrast with his normal tones. There were some which were so fine and delicate they immediately made her think of lace or filigree, tracing lines and arcs across him.

She reached forward, fingers trailing across the marked skin. “They're striking.”

Mraize was amused by her fascination. “A true enough observation. Acquiring many of them involved being struck.”

She pulled back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

He took hold of her wrist, bringing her safehand back to touch the skin. “It was not an admonition, Veil.”

Behind her, Iyatil pressed herself flush against Shallan’s back and the feeling of skin on bare skin told her that the woman had stripped as well. A hand pulled her head to the side as Iyatil leaned over Shallan’s shoulder, catching her mouth in a kiss.

Shallan let out a soft groan, eyes drifting closed again. Whereas Mraize’s kisses had been careful and controlled, Iyatil kissed with a demanding hunger. Her lips forced their way against Shallan’s pushing them apart. Her teeth pulled at Shallan’s bottom lip, tongue tasting and prodding. Shallan felt as though she were struggling to keep up in the exchange, and this wasn’t helped by the aggressive way Iyatil’s hands squeezed her breasts, teasing the nipples.

Something tugged at her waist, but Shallan barely noticed, occupied as she was with Iyatil’s ministrations. Then Mraize’s hand slowly slid up the inside of her thigh and she jerked, eyes snapping open to focus on him again. While she’d been distracted, she noticed, he had undone both her belt and the line of buttons from her waistband down on her trousers. He had unbuckled her boots and now set to pulling them off, setting them underneath the table and out of the way.

Mraize met her eyes, then slid his hand beneath the waistband of the pants, though he stayed outside of her smallclothes. A moan escaped Shallan as he made small motions against the fabric. Iyatil, with Shallan’s lips out of reach, contented herself with claiming the skin of Shallan’s neck with soft sucking kisses.

Mraize gave her only a modicum of motion and Shallan found herself growing frustrated. She shifted positions, trying to push her hips against his hand. He chuckled as she did so, pulling back to deny her.

“Not so quickly,” he chided. “This is not an experienced to be mishandled in a rush. If you wish to continue, lift your hips, Veil.”

She took a deep, even breath, trying to slow her racing heartbeat. The decision felt like a threshold, a point of no return. She could still back out of this now before something truly dangerous happened.

No, she told herself, you crossed the point of no return the first night you entered this room. The moment you picked up that spanreed and agreed to meet the Ghostbloods. There’s no turning back now.

Iyatil pulled on her shoulders to help her lean backward and Shallan planted her barefoot heels on the table, raising her hips. Mraize slipped her trousers off in a smooth motion, and she sat down again, lifting her feet to let him remove the garment entirely. Only her smallclothes remained, and a quick tug at the side tie released these to fall free as well. Despite the hearth, a chill ran through her as the slick wetness between her legs was open to the air.

Mraize paused, appreciating the sight of her nude at last. “Pay attention, little knife. You've much to learn.”

He placed his hand just below her navel, with slight pressure. “What you must remember is that there is no perfect technique to please a mark, though with practice, you will learn to master those which produce… more favorable results.”

His hand slid downwards and Shallan gripped the tablecloth trying not to squirm. One finger parted the fold there and slowly circled the tab of her clit. Mraize’s lazy, casual motions stood in stark contrast to the reactions they were eliciting from Shallan, who had to bite at her tongue to keep from making noise.

Iyatil laughed in her ear, still keeping Shallan leaned back against herself. “She tries very hard to seem composed, Mraize. It does not seem to be working very well.”

“She may pretend at composure as long as she likes,” Mraize said, changing his pattern. Two fingers drew long strokes from bottom to top, teasing the sensitive skin. “I will enjoy drawing this out.”

Shallan sucked a breath through her teeth as she felt him move backward and forward, fingers never following the same path, lest she grow accustomed to what he was doing. At the base of one stroke, he ringed her entrance, playing as if he would go deeper before drawing away upwards once more.

“Lie back, dear,” Iyatil said, running fingers through Shallan’s hair.

Shallan did as requested, feeling Iyatil shift backward to give her room to lie down. She settled on her back, head resting in Iyatil’s lap as the woman continued her very thorough massage. Iyatil dug fingers against Shallan’s scalp, then down around her neck and shoulders, then long and smooth motions across her chest, and back up again. She realized, at some point, Iyatil had removed the glove from her freehand as well. She hadn’t even noticed.

Lying back as she was now, she could see the value in the rich tablecloth. The thick fabric padded the hardwood surface quite well, thankfully. What likely would have been a terribly uncomfortable experience in positioning without it was instead quite suitable, if not actually comfortable. That said, she had the sense that she wasn’t the first person to whom Mraize and Iyatil had done this kind of maneuver, and they knew how to move and adjust her posture best.

She felt Mraize’s breath against her skin of her thighs a moment before he spoke, shockingly close to her. She couldn’t see him anymore and she hadn’t expected him to move. Certainly not that his face would be close enough to her for that.

“And of course, one must use all of the tools at one’s disposal. It can be difficult to tell which will be the most effective without trying.”

Shallan tensed. No. Surely he isn’t planning to–

The line of thought cut off abruptly as she felt his lips press against her. His tongue delved into the fold, raking a long stroke beside her clit, then another on the opposite side. This time, Shallan wasn’t able to stop the quiet moan that caught in the back of her throat. Mraize gave a pleased hum to have elicited the sound from her, then his lips pressed forward, sucking gently around her hood before backing away again.

His hands, now freed to other tasks, took over the responsibility of pleasing her just below where his mouth worked. Fingers traced rings around her entrance, edging as close as possible without actually going inside. Then, unexpectedly, he stilled, not moving at all for a moment. Shallan frowned, eyelids starting to open in confusion when she felt it.

With an excruciating slowness, Mraize pushed his finger against her slit, and then on further inside. Shallan arched her back slightly, eyes going wide at the sensation of feeling of something inside her, of being touched somewhere deep within that she had never experienced before. The way he then withdrew the finger just as agonizingly slow. No sooner was it out than he slid it in once more.

He continued with this, mouth working above and on the outside, hand working down and in, and Shallan squirmed slightly beneath his ministrations. A tense kind of heat was beginning to pool within her core, and all she could think was that the way he drew this out was the most pleasurable torture, but that she also never wanted to stop.

“Enjoying yourself, Veil?” Iyatil asked. “I hope you have been paying attention, girl. I think it’s time for an assessment.”

Shallan didn’t have attention to spare to the task of deciphering the comment, but she quickly realized Iyatil planned to let her actions explain what she meant. Lifting Shallan’s shoulders slightly, the woman shimmied out from under her, then gently set Shallan’s head down on the table. Shallan blinked, trying to focus on what was going on, only to see a leg passing over her head as Iyatil moved to kneel over her, legs straddling her face.

Iyatil had disrobed entirely, as Shallan had guessed, though this was the first time Shallan got a truly good look at her tonight, albeit from an odd angle. Iyatil reached down, running soothing fingers through Shallan’s hair as she looked down upon her.

“Now then, let us see what you have learned.”

Her hand slid down to the back of Shallan’s head, pulling her upward as Iyatil lowered her hips. Shallan, realizing belatedly what Iyatil intended, barely had time to steal a quick breath before her face was pressed against the folds between the woman’s legs. She floundered for what to do, the shock of the experience superseding everything else. It was warm and wet, more slippery than she’d have expected. A touch of an unfamiliar taste—Iyatil’s arousal—coated her lips, though Shallan had made no effort to taste for more.

Iyatil kept her hand behind Shallan’s head, starting up the massaging motions she’d been using before. “Now then, Veil. You cannot expect to simply receive with giving nothing in return. Haven’t you picked up anything from Mraize’s demonstration?”

Shallan pulled away, giving herself a moment to catch her breath and focus her thoughts. Iyatil was right: she was supposed to be learning here, not just enjoying herself. She’d had a demonstration, now her learning needed to be more hands-on. This was just another test. Another opportunity to impress the Ghostbloods. She needed to figure this out and she would.

She reached up, taking hold of Iyatil’s backside with her safehand and pulling the woman back down. Remembering the intensity with which Iyatil had kissed, Shallan decided that Mraize’s drawn-out, tantalizing motions wouldn’t be the best strategy. She pressed her mouth hard against Iyatil’s folds, tongue darting out to lap at her with long strokes.

Iyatil made a pleased noise of surprise, spreading her legs further to give Shallan a better vantage as she settled down. “There you go. Harder against the skin, Veil. Quicker. Don’t miss any spot. One shouldn’t leave any part of the canvas unpainted.” She paused, letting Shallan try something new. “Ah, there. Focus on that spot. Suck a bit, then the tongue. Short strokes.”

It was difficult, trying to keep up with Iyatil’s demands. If there was one thing Shallan could say for the woman, it was that she knew exactly what she wanted, and she did not hesitate to direct Shallan to it. In a way, she was grateful. In many situations, being ordered about in such detail would likely have frustrated her, but in a time like this, where she lacked any kind of personal experience, she appreciated the direction.

Iyatil’s comments were endless. Higher, to the left, to the right. Deeper, faster, harder. More tongue, more lips. She told Shallan what rhythms to use, her length of strokes, every aspect of the task. Shallan could almost forget what it was that she was doing, letting herself get caught up in the challenge of meeting the endless demands.

Mraize still worked between Shallan’s own legs, though he’d simplified his technique. It was just his fingers now, and rather than teasing and enticing with new touches and rhythms, he’d settled into a simple, even in-and-out. She could guess that he was trying to allow her to focus on Iyatil and what she was doing, but didn’t want Shallan’s own pleasure to die away entirely. It was a way to keep her aroused without escalating to anything further.

When Iyatil seemed satisfied with what Shallan had accomplished with her mouth, she continued. “Now the finger, girl. Gently, but all the way in.”

Shallan fumbled at this, trying to use her freehand to find Iyatil’s entrance by touch alone. She paused once she believed she’d found the right spot, then sank her index finger in to the knuckle. Iyatil moaned, shifting her weight to help Shallan find the right angle. Shallan’s safehand still held the smooth skin of Iyatil’s ass, giving her something to hold onto as leverage as she tried to find the best angle.

“Yes, just like that,” Iyatil directed, her voice having taken on a breathy quality. “Two fingers, Veil, and work them fast. I do not wish to be played with.”

It took a few tries to get the technique right with this, and focusing on what her hand was doing made her tongue sloppy, Iyatil chastised. There was so much she was doing, Shallan found it difficult to concentrate. She tried to make up for her lack of finesse with effort alone, pouring more energy into working quicker, deeper, more powerfully.

She must have started doing something right, because the corrections and critiques began to taper off, replaced with moans and affirmations.

“There, there, yes…” Iyatil said, sounding distant as she began to lose herself in Shallan’s efforts. Her hips moved above Shallan, pressing down against her to match the way Shallan was pressing upward. “Keep going. More, more. Yes. Yes.”

The words of affirmation devolved into meaningless noises of pleasure, little noises and cries. Shallan redoubled her energy in response to the escalating tension she felt from Iyatil. There was a breaking point they were reaching toward, and the nearer they drew, the more desperate the masked-woman seemed to grow. Shallan might have been inexperienced in these things, but she could realize that tipping Iyatil over that point depended on her performance.

And then, they were over it. Iyatil’s moan broke into a louder exclamation and the motion of her hips switched from the rhythmic grinding to a shuddering halt. Iyatil’s fingers dug against her scalp, pulling her hair in a way that just bordered on painful. Shallan continued what she was doing, trying to see if she could extend that moment of exultation for as long as possible.

It seemed to end too quickly for the amount of effort it had taken to achieve. Iyatil, however, seemed more than satisfied. She slid off of Shallan’s face, pulling her leg up and over and moving to lie down on the table behind where Shallan lay. She laughed lightly, breathing deeply in the aftermath, face flushed.

“Well, Mraize,” Iyatil said, sounding almost dazed. “She has potential, at least. You might be able to make something of her eventually.”

Mraize chuckled again. “So it would seem. The little knife can cut well.”

Shallan lay there, feeling exhausted after how difficult that had been. Then, without warning, Mraize crooked his finger as he pulled it free of her and she felt as though she were on fire. She was long past the point of being able to hide her reactions, and the motion drew a low groan free of her.

She propped herself up on her elbows, trying to get a look at him again, only to find here was already leaning out over her. As she sat up, his hand caught her chin again, pulling her forward for a kiss.. His mouth was demanding, forcing her lips open roughly. She could taste her own arousal on his lips.

There was something more intense about this encounter than the way he’d acted towards her before. There had always been desire in the way he regarded her tonight, but it had been hidden beneath a layer of composed control. Now, Mraize seemed to be acting much more on impulse, giving in his own wants rather than simply trying to manipulate hers.

“You have done well tonight, Veil,” he murmured as he broke the kiss. “I believe you have earned your reward.”

She had a feeling she knew exactly what he meant. “Thank you, Brightlord,” she said, and though her voice was breathless, she sounded more composed than she felt. “Happy to be of service.”

He trailed forceful kisses down her jawline and neck. “You have been more than serviceable, my dear.”

The hand not currently between her legs trailed its way down her back, directing her to sit upright. Then it moved lower, pulling her forward to the edge of the table. She couldn’t help but marvel at the strength of the maneuver. She wasn’t terribly heavy, but he managed to shift her almost effortlessly.

He withdrew his fingers from within her, placing his palm on her thighs to spread her legs. She felt the tip of his length press against her without entering, and with as much as he had teased her, she couldn't entirely stop herself from trying to rock forward and take him in.

He, frustratingly, stayed out of her reach. He relished being the one in control, in denying her the things she sought until he saw fit to give them.

“Patience, little knife. One must wait until the moment is… right.”

That moment apparently fell on the last word, for with a sudden thrust he slid in to the hilt. Shallan cried out—in pleasured surprise, not pain. His fingering had prepared her for this, and it didn't hurt.

For a moment, he simply held himself there, moving only infinitesimally, savoring the feeling of her. Shallan was astounded by how it felt to be full of him like this, so much thicker and deeper than his hands had reached. Slowly, Mraize pulled back and then pressed in again with long, thorough strokes. Shallan’s hands grasped at the tablecloth, taking hold of it in bunches.

“Now then, little knife,” he said, voice low and commanding. “Ghostbloods must follow orders. You will not finish until I say you can. Is this clear?”

It wasn't, not really. For one, Shallan had never done anything like this, and she wasn't entirely sure what ‘finishing’ would be like. She had some idea, considering Iyatil's reactions, but Shallan didn't know what something like that would feel like. Much less how she was supposed to control it.

But it sounded like a challenge, and if there was one thing she wanted to do, it was exceed Mraize’s expectations. She'd just have to figure it out.

“Of course, Brightlord,” she said trying to sound confident.

Mraize smiled, pleased at her compliance with his demands. Gradually, he started to increase the speed of his timing, the smooth and even motions giving way to something more forceful. Shallan tried to shift, hoping to find a better angle to give herself leverage, but he had other ideas.

Without changing his rhythm, he grabbed her with both hands beneath her ass and pushed her backward to lay down on the table. The tablecloth slid with her, gathering around the two of them in folds as Mraize took full advantage of his new position atop her to work with even greater force.

He seized her wrists, holding her tightly enough to be just shy of painful and pinned her hands down on either side of her head. She struggled against the restriction at first, more out of instinct than anything else, but he kept hold of her firmly. After a moment, she stilled, accepting this as simply part of the course. Mraize seemed to crave control, from manipulating her reactions to his calm demeanor. Everything was done to keep her right where he wanted, acting just as he wanted her to. Restricting her movement was simply a more tangible expression of that desire.

Besides, Shallan thought, it wasn’t as though she’d know what to do with her hands for this anyway.

Iyatil, meanwhile, seemed to have recovered from her dazed aftermath and moved over to rejoin them. Shallan, lying on her back with Mraize above her, had a rather intriguing view as Iyatil knelt with her knees on either side of Shallan’s head. The woman, entirely nude aside from her ever-present mask, leaned forward over Shallan and took hold of Mraize’s head in both hands, catching him in a kiss more forceful than any she’d used with Shallan earlier.

Something of a pleased growl sounded in the back of his throat as he kissed Iyatil back, mouth working furiously against hers. He plunged into Shallan with sharper motions, as though he were trying to force himself forward towards Iyatil only to find Shallan blocking his path. Either that, or Iyatil’s aggression had inspired him to match with his own.

As the experience continued, Shallan started to realize that following his instruction was going to be more difficult than she’d expected. Earlier, Shallan had felt hints of this kind of  rising tension before when he’d been using his hands, but then he had been careful and slow, trying to ensure he wasn’t pushing her very far. Now she could feel that sensation escalating, coiling tightly in her core like a spring preparing to burst.

She bit her lip, trying to hold down that feeling. She had some small manner of control over it, but she was inexperienced and it was hard to keep it from winning. Everything Mraize did only made it more difficult. There was pleasure in the way she felt in the moment, because it felt good. But as everything felt better and better, the craving for that release intensified. The more she got, the more desperately she needed more.

Her breath hitched, small cries slipping free as she found that tantalizing pressure building past what she felt she could control. Her body’s desires warred with those of her mind. Every physical instinct she had wanted nothing more than to succumb to the feeling and stop holding back, but her stubborn desire to prove herself was winning out, for the moment. This, like every experience she’d had with Mraize to this point, was a test, and she intended to pass.

Mraize noted her difficulty, breaking away from Iyatil with a smile. “Not yet. We’re not done, Veil. I’ll let you know when we are.”

Shallan let out a small whimper, but she refused to give in. A small taste of blood told her she’d bit her lip too sharply and broken skin. Her arms pushed against Mraize’s hold again, struggling to find something she could move or control to alleviate some of this challenge, but he kept her pinned.

She found herself, somewhat irrationally, drawing forth anger at his composure. His face was flushed, but his voice was steady. She could tell he was enjoying this as much as she was, if not more, and yet he could still speak with reasonable clarity, keep some kind of semblance of calm, even as his actions belied him. It wasn’t fair that she should be so undone by all while he could keep up a façade of aloof superiority, even in the thick of it. It just wasn’t fair.

The end, that glorious edge, loomed closer and closer as the tension grew even further. She wanted nothing more than to fling herself off the end of it, but she scrabbled for purchase, for handholds, nonetheless. She was sliding towards it anyway, she knew, as her will’s tired grip weakened against the onslaught of sensation.

She was too close. She couldn’t do this anymore.

“I… I can’t…” Shallan stuttered out, the words refusing to work. “Mraize, I’m going to…”

“Not yet,” he said, leaning down so close she could feel his breath against her skin. “Not yet, Veil.”

A cry of frustration slipped past through her gritted teeth. “I… It’s too…”

“Not yet,” he said again, voice no more than a whisper.

“Mraize,” she begged. “Please.”

The thrusts continued, heavy and fast, colored by Mraize’s own lustful desperation. Shallan burned at the edge of that dangerously tantalizing breaking point. Then he spoke the words, barely audible, directly into her ear:

“Veil, come for me.”

It was as though a dam shattered within her, and she cried out  in stunned ecstasy. All of the pressure building up behind that dam was breaking free, crashing over her in indescribable waves. Shallan succumbed to the torrent of heady pleasure, letting it course through her body as she savored every instant of it.

Seeing and hearing her release seemed to trigger a reciprocal reaction in Mraize, and she felt him shudder as he let out a deep moan. A sudden warmth blossomed deep inside, and Mraize’s thrusts slowed as he spent himself. He seemed lost to the moment, staring with hooded eyes into an indefinite distance as he came down from the rush.

Shallan lay against the table with him still atop her, chests heaving as they both breathed deeply from the exertion. The blazing, overwhelming surge had begun to fade, leaving a blissfully intoxicating glow in its wake. Shallan felt as though she could drift in this moment forever, suddenly understanding the pleasant daze she’d seen in Iyatil earlier.

Mraize seemed to return to himself, recovering much more quickly than Shallan herself did. He withdrew, standing and walking to one of the shelves. He didn't ask her to move or follow, for which she was grateful. She thought she could lie here, content, for the foreseeable future. He was gone for a few moments before he walked back.

The table shifted a miniscule amount as he sat back down on the edge, carrying something with him. His hands lifted her leg, then something warm and soft pressed against her skin. A washcloth, wetted with steaming water, ran down the length of her legs, cleaning away sweat and some of the dust she'd gathered on her walk over.

Mraize paused to dip the cloth in the water again to rinse it, then wrung it out and moved closer. With smooth strokes he moved up her thighs and cleaned between her legs, wiping up the slick mess of his seed and her own arousal there. It was a markedly different experience than what he'd just done. Whereas before everything had been focused on exciting and tantalizing, this calmer work was gentle. Soothingly pleasant rather than passionate pleasure.

He must have already cleaned himself up, for his pants were refastened. She noted—with some satisfaction—that he hadn’t chosen to put his shirt back on. She enjoyed the view. As Mraize finished he held a hand out to help her sit back up.

Iyatil came to sit beside her, also now wearing pants but no shirt, and held out a bowl and cloth to her. “Did you enjoy the lesson, Veil?”

Shallan’s sense of decorum seemed to be slowly returning to her, and she was sure she was blushing as she took the cloth. “It was… quite unlike any teaching I’ve had thus far.”

She ran the cloth across her face and neck, then down each of her arms. The cloth was warm, but the evaporating water left her skin feeling fresh and cool afterwards. Her Vorin sensibilities whispered that she should feel bad about this, that she should feel dirty or wrong for breaking oaths to Adolin. And yet, all she could feel was a pleased satisfaction as she enjoyed the afterglow and the feeling of being clean.

“Yet it seems you learn quickly,” Mraize said, eyeing her with a look that was quite obviously seeing what she could do for him rather than actually seeing her. “Great potential indeed.”

Shallan began to retie her undergarments, feeling the disparity between Mraize being partially clothed and her not. “As I said, Brightlord, I look forward to being of service to the Ghostbloods.”

“And so you shall be,” he said. “And so you have.”

He helped her dress, handing her articles of clothing and helping cinch the ties behind her neck. He pulled his own shirt on, but made no move to button it, leaving the garment loose. Between one sighting of Iyatil and the next, Shallan saw the woman had fully dressed, looking as mysterious in the mask as ever. Shallan couldn’t fathom how she’d managed to put everything on that quickly, but it was hardly the most puzzling thing about Iyatil, she had to admit.

As Shallan tugged her gloves back on, she turned to find Mraize holding her coat for her. “I will contact you via spanreed, Veil,” he said, helping her slide her arms into the sleeves. “I believe you can go very far with us. The Ghostbloods welcome you to our ranks.”

Shallan picked up her wide-brimmed hat, tipping it towards him as she pulled it back on. “Thank you, Brightlord. It’s been a pleasure.”

[hoodeddeamon-blog]

LifeDrawing Portfolio

Piece 1: Movement Studies with a rotating pose (20 mins each)

I am very much a beginner to life drawing and this is my first time putting together a portfolio of work that I am somewhat proud of. For this piece I was given a pose and chose to focus on the form of the model rather than the detail in their muscle structure. I chose to draw box forms in hope of understanding proportions and perspective better since those are some of the places I struggle in when drawing the human form. I made a few mistakes that could be fixed up on the future of in a future piece but this was a good stepping stone into understanding the human form as well as the shadows light can create around it, the model had one source of light that didn’t change like he did. Focusing on that light helped me to understand how light works, therefor helping me with my light studies for future characters I create/ draw.

Piece 2: light and shadow study with cloth background (20 min pose)

This piece is a single source light pose where we had to study the effects of a bright light bouncing of a dark, cloth background and onto the model. This pose really helped me with from and perspective when drawing models, the definition that the light created was a big feature to when it came to studying how the human form was built. I started this by drawing the models basic pose in a stick figure then started developing on the muscles structure, after getting the form down I moved onto the lighting and worked my way up, starting with the lighter shades and then moving on to the darkened tones as I saw fit. This process helped simplify the process of shading the body.

Piece 3: Light and dark study with cloth and prop clothing (20/25 min pose’s)

This was my first attempt with drawing draped clothes in class, we were given a base wizard costume and use the single source light. I was lucky with this piece since I had a nice perspective where the model had already created a triangle composition for me, I started with his base pose, a stick figure sitting on a chain and then started to add the layering of cloths where it was overlapping the skin of the model. I made sure I knew were all the important parts of the model where beforehand so that I didn’t lose the position of the hands and feet as most of the arms and legs are covered by the drapery. Once the form of the model was drawn I focused on the shading, again starting with the light tones and slowly darkening what I thought was necessary, looking back at this piece I think I could have pushed the darker tones further and got a better result.  

Piece 4: Shading and anatomy study (30 min pose)

I was given a standard pose where the model posed, wielding an axe and cape. For this piece I was given the option to do whatever study I wanted, I chose to start with a quick focus on the hand and try to get the dramatic lighting with the fingers. Something that I commonly told to me is that a lot of people struggle with drawing hands so I made sure to draw them when I can in hopes of improving my hand drawings, after the hand I chose to study the form of the model and really get the shadows in that the cape and the lighting created on the model. I started with getting the angles of the boxes right and then started to build his form using a basic structure pose that I had quickly drawn underneath. After I was happy with the box forms the lighting came quite easily, most being focused on one or two of each boxes faces, this study really helped me with understanding how to act around certain feature of the model being either behind or in front of another.  

Piece 5: prop poses with perspective (15 min each)

Before this piece I had only worked with a base model where he would only pose with his own body. This pose, using a stepping latter was good practice to draw with a unique perspective, being lower than the model for once rather that his posing at eye level. My work process for this was stating with a base pose for both the model and framework of the ladder, I then worked in box forms to make sure that I found the right angles for things such as the chest and the pelvis, after getting those down I moved onto getting the body into a box form pose and with the extra time I started to work in some of the finer details in the models pose. I had a little bit of difficulty when started this as it was the first time that our model has worn shoes and I had gotten so use to him being bare foot that it tripped me up a little bit even though I wasn’t adding details in the feet.  

Piece 6: back to back gesture drawings (18 poses, 1 min each)

These quick poses were to help me understand form and movement and expand my range of dramatic poses for future characters. For these poses we given 3 sets of poses, the first being poses where the model used his body to create dramatic forms, the second being combat poses using a sword and the third being tribal/ hunting poses. This wide range of poses helped me understand the balance of a character and make sure that when I am creating a pose for the character that I make sure that it actually works and would make sense. Doing these poses within the limited amount of time really pushed me on how fast I could push out content as I started with not being able to keep up with the timer and how after a good amount of practice can pretty much get the form down for every pose.  

Piece 7: gesture pose with movement study (1 min each)

For this piece we were given a base pose and each minute the model slowly shifted into the next pose, we had to try draw each form with the subtle movements to simulate animation a character, the model started on the ground and made only short dramatic movements so that we could see the change in the form and understand how the body would situate itself when doing these actions. When doing this study, I struggled with keeping perspective as when the model would move I would start he drawing again and didn’t have the time to make sure that each pose was the same size, I thing this really lowered the quality of the piece but I think it is still worth showing the understanding behind the movement of the model.

Piece 8: gesture pose with dramatic posing (1 min each)

This study was a more intense study on forms with relations to different characters or scenes, each pose we had to identify what the pose looks like and link it to a scenario that we thought I t would suit. This study really helped with understanding from in the context of a character as it is really important to add a sense of personality to the character when you are deciding the different poses that that character would be in, depending on the situation.  When finishing each piece, I followed the same process, starting from the ground plane and moving my way up, after finishing each pose I went back and did a study on the curves of each pose, to try understand what makes the pose a dramatic one and the importance of the influence on the forms of the character. Doing this study really helped me understand how someone can tell how a character feels just by identifying their body language.  

Piece 9: light and shadow with upper body anatomy (30 min pose)

This was a long pose I was given where I had the option to study the models pose as a whole or go into a specific area and do an in-depth study on that, fortunate I had the additional time to somewhat do both. I first started with drawing the model in her whole form while resting on the couch, first getting the couch skeleton and the models form down and then moving on to the box and the proper proportions. Once I had given the basis to the character I made sure to give extra detail to things such as the hands and some of the chest area, I thought I needed more practice around the arm areas so I decided to give the character an additional set of arms so that I could explored the models form a bit more that juts the pose that was given. The second study that I did was on the models upper chest and heat area, where I moved to a different point in the class and started to draw her form the perspective where the couch blocked most of her form, I chose to do this because I noticed that I hadn’t really done any studies where the model wasn’t facing away from me, therefor having no practice on areas such as the upper back and neck area.

Piece 10: anatomy with a costume (20 min pose each)

Some of the areas that I notices I needed to work on more were the upper sides of the chest, lower half of the upper arm and the neck area so I made sure to study them, for this pose we had the model in a gladiator type costume that covered areas such as his shoulders and lower half. The first one I did was the under arm area where the character has his arm up holding a sword, ready for combat. I made use of this pose and got a good angle on the under arm areas where the light was showing off the back half of the muscle so that I could show the more dramatic extension of the muscle and use the light to show the dramatic form. The second piece was a pose where the model had pulled up a shield and used that the block most of the light coming from out single source, this really restricted the lighting and gave a good amount of detail around the neck area. I used this pose to take advantage of the lighting and focus on how the shadowing of the model effects the neck area specifically.

[dualectic]

the alfie revamp: part II

(part I, which was a semi-successful attempt to whiten the yellowing on a nearly nine year old doll, can be found here)

So, where we left off from last time, I was concerned about the s-hooks in Alfie’s hands and feet digging and wearing away at the resin, and I wanted to reinforce those spots before they became truly structurally unsound. 

This was a pretty simple and quick fix - I just made the bars in the hands and feet thicker with epoxy carefully patted in with a toothpick (I used Milliput, as I’ve worked with it before, but I don’t think you have to). If you have dolls that are older and that are starting to see serious wear here, I’d definitely recommend trying this out! This was about a 2-hour project, not including downtime when the epoxy is curing. 

The only tricky thing about this is making sure that the reinforcement to the resin bar is still cylindrical so an s-hook will still smoothly glide over it. I initially made the bars too thick, and had to pry my s-hooks to be a little wider in order to accommodate the reinforced bars. You can also smooth and thin things out with a piece of sandpaper cut into a long, thin strip that’s the exact width of bar, looped through where the s-hook would go. A few back and forths with a coarser grit sandpaper did the trick for me! Since this is an area that’s totally hidden from view when the doll is assembled, I didn’t bother matching the epoxy to the resin, or making the thing particularly aesthetically appealing. 

Then I went ahead and blushed the hands, although this was a bit of a learning curve! I’m not really thrilled with these results, but it was my first time in almost three years working with pastel on resin and I think need to get my touch back. These feel overblushed, though I was trying to compensate for the fact that the peroxide-baking soda bath over-whitened his hands. I’m mainly upset about the wrinkles, because they’re too thick and read as lines of paint rather than realistic texture. 

So, that was sort of the easy part! At this point, Alfie’s been lightened up, is no longer pee-yellow, and has gotten the resin equivalent of some glucosamine and chondroitin in his old creaky joints. I redid his hot glue sueding and he’s holding poses much more stably. But boy, the real plunge was deciding to modify his face. 

This is Alfie, two weeks ago. In 2010, I gave Alfie a slight nose job to make his nose match the one I’ve always drawn for the character - it’s got that distinctive tip you can see in the profile shot above, and has a little bump on the bridge. That’s me - bulldozing the arguably more classically beautiful nose of the original Migidoll Ryu for my own ends. But the much bigger problem I’ve always had with this sculpt is its lack of jaw. Alfie, as I’ve drawn him since I was a wee teenager, has always had something of a Manly Jaw. 

pictured: super embarrassing drawing from circa 2010 where Alfie Has a Manly Jaw (also, Nell, a character currently housed in a modified migidoll Jina, but she’s another story)

One day, I’m going to sculpt Alfie from scratch and get his face exactly right, and I debated for a while about undertaking a more drastic additive mod to his current face. What’s the point of owning a Migidoll Ryu, a sculpt I admire immensely in its original form, if I’m going to do something that’s going to make him not look like a Ryu? Prior to this, the only other additive mod I’d ever done was a slight eye closing on my Migidoll Jina. Excuse this ancient image that’s super JPEG-lossy. 

Not only was that mod much less extensive, it was seven years ago and I haven’t touched epoxy since. In order to test the waters, I used some translucent Sculpey to quickly sketch out what the mod I had in mind would look like in the round. 

As it turns out, this test is nothing like the final epoxy result, because Sculpey behaves very different than Milliput and I think it’s a medium that leads to a different sculptural result than epoxy. Since it’s infinitely malleable until baked, I ended up tweaking and tweaking forever and ever until I felt like I had totally lost my intentions. But it did give me the guts to go forward with a large additive epoxy mod. 

The blessing of Milliput (or nightmare, depending on how you prefer to work) is that it starts to stiffen up at about the half hour mark, so it forces you to be decisive about your choices. I think I sculpted using larger, lumpier masses, with the knowledge that the stuff responds very well to sanding and that refinements could take place at that stage. Milliput can be smoothed out with water, and I did do this, but I didn’t stress about textural inconsistencies too much. 

My goal for this mod was to drastically build out the jawline, reinforce the rather thin undereye with epoxy so I could then later go back and carve out a more hollowed eyesocket without compromising the thin parts of the resin, and make the brow a little more prominent. Think of it as Doll Puberty!

The additions took place over the course of about three days, since I thought going overboard would have been really easy. I really wanted the avoid the kind of “puffy” face look I got when I did the test run in Sculpey. 

Nonetheless, the mod ended up colonizing way more of the original sculpt than I expected. I was referencing various stock images of men’s faces along the way in order to try and maintain some semblance of an understanding of the underlying structures of the face, and in doing so I realized exactly how much stuff needed to be added to his face to get that ~cut~ cheekbone and jaw situation. 

After that, it was all about sanding. So much sanding. While I was mainly sanding down the epoxy, I also inevitably sanded the base resin to get a smooth transition between the two. I wore a face mask and sanded wet, to minimize the amount of dust kickup, because resin dust is not something you want to inhale. In order to put less strain on my hands and wrists and provide a shape to carve with, I molded pieces of kneaded eraser into the desired shapes and then wrapped sandpaper over them, and used that to do most of the heavy sanding. It definitely makes a difference when you’re doing it for hours on end. 

And here’s the dude, all sanded up! I did most of the heavy subtractive sculpting with 200 grit sandpaper, and worked up in stages to a 3000 grit for the finishing and polishing. As you can see here, there’s a little pock mark on his cheek, from where an air bubble presumably got caught in the middle of my mods. I could have filled it in, but I kind of liked it and decided to keep it to later paint as a blemish or something. I also thought the end result here kind of just looked cool, like the inverse of a pattern of facial vitiligo or something. 

I initially thought (rather foolishly) that I might be able to color correct the epoxy to match the resin with pastel only. Here are two layers of pastel over MSC. As you can see, while it worked somewhat and gave the epoxy a cool texture, it just couldn’t get opaque enough. An airbrush is the ideal way to go when doing this, I think. 

Wel, I don’t own an airbrush, so I ended up hand painting, which gives...definitely a particular look, and one that I think not all people might like. I used various acrylic paints thinned out with water and matte medium. Since paint applies rather more thickly and with more visible brushstrokes when hand painting than when airbrushing, this gave his head a rather pasty, flat appearance initially, and also created a lot of texture. I decided to embrace it rather than fight it, and tried out a technique that Helene of @deleted-dollshe / @that-venitu / Rugged Realism / generally one of my favorite BJD people ever mentioned on her Instagram where she applied matte medium thickly over a doll head and then stippled it while still wet to create a pore-like texture over the resin. 

I have mixed feelings about this - I think it would look fantastic on a doll whose face wasn’t painted over with an opaque acrylic, because resin has a slight luminosity that’s lost with the acrylic “foundation”. Alas, it was unavoidable in this case. I think I am moving more towards a more “imperfect” style with my faceups where evidenced of the human hand is more apparent anyhow, so I worked with it. I added lots of very light mottling (dip a toothbrush in a very diluted mix of pastel and water or acrylic paint, and flick from a distance onto your doll, it’s ~magic~), veining, faint wrinkles, and shadows. 

And of course, the eyebrows. Who could forget? Alfie needs to be fleeky af or something. 

Hopefully you can see some of the detail and texturing in this closeup! I think this is a technically stronger faceup than the previous one I did on Alfie. I’m not mad at the linework, anyhow. 

And the other side, for good measure. After I sealed everything with MSC to make everything Very Very Matte, I actually went back in with matte medium on strategic points of the face. Contrary to its name, matte medium is in fact slightly more reflective than MSC, without looking outright glossy, so I dabbed some on the lips, waterline of the eyes, and down the nose, chin, and a bit under the eyes. I think it gives his face a more lifelike appearance in person, and you can see that it does photograph with a slight sheen. 

And here’s the guy wigged and dressed! I’m still getting used to photographing him with the new face, since this is a pretty drastic change from his previous appearance. I’m finding that while I’m generally happy with my mods, there are certain moments when I’m shooting him and I realize that the form doesn’t work 100% at every angle, but this was my really sculptural mod, so I’m trying not to beat myself up about it too much. Overall, I’m just thrilled that I had the guts to do this and finally try and make Alfie look more like how I draw him. I’m waiting on some eyelashes in the mail, and I have a backup wig that I want to try styling for him, but he’s pretty much all finished otherwise! Thanks for coming along for the ride!

I’ll leave you with this horrifying compilation of faceups and stages that Alfie’s been through with me since I got him in 2008. I have no doubt that he’s going to continue to change as I grow and get older, but here’s to 2017 Alfie anyhow!

[cyb-by-lang]

OSF AU - All the Little Children (1/?) points

Fū and certain other characters don’t get a whole lot of spotlight in OSF proper, so here’s an AU of an AU and at this point I almost feel like referencing Inception.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Part 1: In which a fairy saves a small child, bugs have families, and everyone is lost. (Takes place ten years prior to the start of One Piece.)

Fū sighed. “Chōmei? Chōmei, you can stop laughing any time now.”

“You’re upside-down in a tree, Fū! This is about the unluckiest I’ve ever seen you,” Chōmei squeaked in response, his voice much higher than it had ever been in Fū’s life. He sounded like a child, not a mighty Tailed Beast. He didn’t sound like the beetle she’d spent her whole life befriending.

Then again, Fū thought as she reached up to undo the vines tangled around her legs, he’s never been this small before. “Well, you’re not wrong. I guess it’s a change for both of us.”

Chōmei made a sad little humming noise, angling his head upward toward her as she dropped from the canopy. Her best friend had either shrunk or gotten way younger, because he didn’t even have his signature orange wings or blue armor anymore. Instead, he was a red-eyed beetle larva the length of her forearm and about four times as wide. While he had tiny nubs for legs, and seven longer ones to represent the spots where his wings and tail would someday grow in, Chōmei was almost helpless now.

Fū knelt next to him, and he climbed into her lap. He didn’t feel slimy, just cool and a bit squishy. Fū ran her hands over his head, then let him grip her fingers in his mandibles. “I don’t know where we are, Chōmei. None of the trees look the same.”

“They look almost the same from my viewpoint.” Chōmei clambered up her arm and onto her back, to where her empty scroll-holster sat strapped to her back. “It’s lucky you have this, Fū. You can carry me without hands.”

“I’m just worried you’re gonna be stuck like this, Chōmei,” Fū replied, helping her beleaguered companion into his new carrier. “Don’t you wanna just fly?”

“I do, but maybe you should check if you still can? That would be a lucky break, wouldn’t it?” Chōmei sounded cheerful, his tinny voice accented by the thumps of his tail-stubs against his fabric seat.

Fū grinned at her friend’s attitude, then put her hands together. “Let’s try it, then!”

While Chōmei was small, his chakra flowed through her body the same as it always did. Orange wings, identical to the ones that Chōmei should’ve had, sprouted from her back just below the edge of her shirt. She flapped her rings rapidly, making them go almost invisible to the naked eye through sheer speed, and then hopped experimentally.

In no time at all, she was flying as though Chōmei hadn’t lost size and mobility.

“This is so different from when I’m flying!” Chōmei said, sticking his head out of the carrier as they flew through the lower sections of the trees. “You know, once I get back to normal, we should try this again. It’s nice relying on you instead.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Fū said, as they skittered through the air a few more times to get their bearings, “but help me look out for trees!”

Really, it wasn’t all that different from flying with any old weight on her back. Fū already knew how to compensate for training devices, her bedroll, and a million other things. Chōmei being alive and occasionally moving was a little weird, but he was so happy about the situation that Fū didn’t feel the slightest bit discouraged. He was her little pep-talk in a bag.

Practicing, though, was necessary. Fū remembered how tough it’d been to learn how to fly in the first place, and she needed to be careful in case Chōmei wasn’t as tough as he used to be.

“ Fū, I have a suggestion,” Chōmei said, after they’d been flying level for a few minutes. “Can we go that way? I feel like it’s a lucky direction.”

“North?” Fū asked, coming to stop on a high tree branch. “What makes north so lucky?”

“I think I can feel other Tailed Beasts over there! Meeting with two of my siblings would be really lucky.” Chōmei wriggled his tails. “I haven’t seen them in a really long time.”

Fū paused for a second. She’d never met Chōmei’s family, but she had heard that they were stuck with other hosts. Would the other jinchūriki be friendly or not? Regardless of the answer, she owed it to Chōmei to make sure he could see his family again. She didn’t really know what else to do.

“Okay, we can do that.” Fū flitted into the air again. “Oh, can you tell me stories about them as we go?”

“Of course, Fū!”

Fū and Chōmei didn’t go nearly at their highest speeds, because the warm forest was way too dense. Flying too fast would lead straight into a crash, and Fū didn’t need to have another one of those under her belt. That flying slowly meant Chōmei’s voice could soothe her during the trip was a great benefit, too. His voice was different now, but he could talk for hours and hours without needing to breathe or to drink water for a break. Even with the noise in the jungle, it helped to have one consistent, friendly face along for the ride.

“Aaaaaaah! Somebody help meeeee!”

Fū jerked to a stop in midair, wings buzzing anxiously. “Someone’s in trouble.”

“Go,” said Chōmei, and Fū flew in the direction of the screams.

Fū zipped through the warm forest air, weaving around and over trees and underbrush as she made her way toward the sounds of both screams and wolves howling in the afternoon light.

She hit the ground and rolled when she reached the edge of a ravine, then dove down toward the screams without hesitation, feet-first.

She landed on a wolf the size of a cow, shoving its whole head straight into the dirt below under the weight of her flapping wings and her chakra-charged stomp. Its jaw slammed shut mere centimeters from a screaming kid half Fu’s size, sending bits of teeth and blood everywhere. Before jumping off to face the rest of the pack, Fū gave it one more stomp for good measure.

“Six on one’s not a fair fight, you jerks!” Fū shouted, as the wolves near the back of the pack started to reconsider their choices. “Let’s make it three!”

“A fairy?!” screeched the kid behind her.

Not the best reaction to a heroic entrance Fū had ever heard, but she’d take it. Dropping into a taijutsu pose, even with Chōmei on her back and her wings still buzzing, Fū said, “Chōmei, ready?”

Chōmei spat a glob of silk directly at the face of a wolf coming up behind Fū, hitting it perfectly. “You know it! Let’s show them it’s not their lucky day!”

“D-don’t forget about me!” said the kid with the straw hat, and the three of them fought the wolves together.

Sure, most of the fight came down to Fū’s punishing kicks and her wings battering the wolves when her legs didn’t, but the kid did what he could even if wild flailing punches was the extent of it. Chōmei kept both eyes on him, for the sake of making sure their rescue went all the way through. And shot more silk at the wolves.

In the end, Fū left a pile of broken wolf bodies lying all over the rocks. Some of them had silk on them, of course, but she didn’t have time for getting rid of that kind of inconsequential evidence. All she did was blow on her knuckles to make sure they hadn’t split, then went to check on the little rescue-ee.

Fū ’s new friend was actually a little older than she had thought. While was tiny and round-faced and skinny-limbed, he had a curved scar under one eye and a set to his jaw that she didn’t usually see in the younger village kids. At least, not before their parents pulled them away from her. Sure, the straw hat he wore was way too big for him, and he was covered in scrapes and debris, but he wasn’t panicky or crying (that much).

Fū liked him instantly. Without hesitation, she crouched down to his eye level and held out a hand. “Hi! Are you all right?”

“I-I’m fine!” The kid put on a brave face. Though his lower lip wobbled for a second or two, he took a deep breath and grabbed her hands in his. With his eyes and nose running like faucets, he stammered, “Y-you were really cool!”

“I was, wasn’t I?” Fū said, smiling at the compliment. “Thank you!”

“What about me?” Chōmei wanted to know, sneaking out from his carrier. “Am I cool?”

“Uwaa!” The kid looked like he was over the moon, despite his injuries. “Your bug talks? Bug, you’re the coolest thing ever!”

“His name is Chōmei, and I’m Fū.” She said in a fake-serious voice, “Chōmei and me were gonna meet up with his brothers, and then we heard you! So before we go, Chōmei wants to know if you’re okay. For real.”

“I’m fine, really!” the kid insisted, more confidently this time. With one hand on his hat, he said firmly, “I’m—I’m gonna be the Pirate King someday, so this is nothing!”

“What’s the name of the future Pirate King, then?” Chōmei asked.

“Monkey D. Luffy,” said the kid. A thought struck him. “Hey, can you join my crew?”

“You got a ship?” Fū countered playfully.

“Uh… Not yet,” Luffy admitted, a little shamefaced. Then he puffed himself right back up and added, “But I will someday! Once I do, then you can join and we can have adventures, Fairy! And Coconut, are you going to join too?”

“After you’re a little bigger,” Chōmei promised. “But first, I need to see my brothers and tell them what is happening.”

“That makes—wait, bugs have brothers?” Luffy blinked, his eyes huge as he thought it through. He covered his mouth with both hands. “Bugs have brothers waiting for them?”

“This bug does,” Chōmei said, his tails waving in the air. “I’m a rhinoceros beetle! Just small.”

Mostly, anyway.

“So cool!” Luffy squealed, in awe.

“Hey, Luffy? Can I see your arms?” Fū asked, drawing the boy’s attention back to her. She folded her wings back so they barely brushed the ground, keeping them out of the way. “You look like you’ve had a tough day.”

Luffy fidgeted before he complied, then said, “Only a little bit.” He was a lousy liar, pursing his lips and refusing to meet her eyes. He even innocently whistled a note or two. “I definitely haven’t been out here for three days!”

Fū’s eyebrows rose. Three days in a jungle like this was no small thing, especially for a boy this young. With his arms all scratched up like this, though, she believed him. Though there was something weird about his skin and his arms. Neither one really felt normal, not like Shibuki or any of Fū’s old teammates.

Still, Luffy appeared to either not want her to worry, or be trying to preserve his pride. She let his arms go and said, “Why are you out here all alone, though?”

“I’m not alone, not really!” Luffy insisted. “Uh, I definitely wasn’t following Ace around. And I’m not lost!”

“Well,” Fū began slowly, choosing her words with care, “even if you’re not lost, I am.”

“Eh?! But you have wings! Can’t you just…?” Luffy flapped his arms, totally confused.

“It’s not that easy,” Fū said, eying his movements. Did… Did his elbow just bend…? “Ah!”

“Hm?” Luffy stopped flapping, his arms coming to a halt at his sides. Even so, his limbs bounced like rubber, not like normal arms! Not even like Fu’s.

“How are you doing that, Luffy?” Fū asked, taking his hand. Before she realized it, she stretched his hand a lot farther away from the rest of him than made any sense. “Whoa…”

“I ate the Gomu Gomu no Mi!” Luffy explained cheerfully, hooking his other hand around his mouth and pulling. His face stretched like it was made of— “I’m a rubber man!”

“This is so cool,” Fū breathed, her eyes shining. “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen!”

“How far can you stretch?” Chōmei asked, crawling out onto Fu’s shoulder.

“I can stretch really far!” Luffy let his cheek snap back to its normal dimensions, then grinned widely. “And my punch is like a pistol!”

“What’s a pistol?” Fū asked.

“It’s, uh, it’s a gun!” Luffy said. Clearly, this was supposed to make sense.

But it didn’t. “What’s a ‘gun’?”

Luffy made a face, then frowned as he thought. It was quite a frown, with his face pulled into an awful exaggerated grimace. Then, “Um, Dadan has one? I can show you!”

“Okay,” Fū replied, since she could still make it to Chōmei’s brothers before sundown. This was okay.

Luffy held out his hand until she took it and started to tug Fū along, then froze mid-step before his arm could stretch out when she didn’t immediately follow. Twisting his head all the way around without moving the rest of his body, he screeched, “I’m not lost!” He fidgeted in place again, hopping from foot to foot. “I, uh. I just don’t know how to get back to the bandits…”

Fū got fully to her feet, sending her wings buzzing rapidly. She put her free hand to her chin in an exaggerated thinking pose, then said, “Hey, Luffy? Maybe we should fly around until we find it! You can ride with Chōmei, and he can tell you all about how I do it.”

“Really?!” Luffy squeaked, looking up at her with an even more awestruck expression. “Can—can we go really fast? Really, really fast?!”

“You got it!” Fū said, giving him a thumbs-up.

“Yay!”

“Just be sure to hang on tight,” Chōmei warned him.

With that, Luffy bounced over to give Fū the biggest hug he could. His whole body wasn’t that much bigger than Fū’s torso, so when he wrapped his legs and arms around her a couple of times to be secure, her wings still had plenty of room to maneuver. Chōmei was forced to move up toward her shoulder blades, but he and Luffy could still talk to each other.

They ended up flying together for about twenty minutes, though Luffy didn’t know how to find “the bandits.” While Fū hoped silently that he only meant his family and was calling them a funny name, she flew around the forest until she could hear the sounds of shouting in the distance. Unlike when she met Luffy, the voices were nearly all deep enough to belong to adults instead of lost kids, and most of them were just rowdy. If Luffy wanted to head toward all that noise, though, Fū wouldn’t tell him she couldn’t take him there. After all, she could fly.

Fū twisted her wings around so they could hover, just at the edge of where the forest turned into a little clearing. Amid the short grass and on a little hill, there was a building that looked a bit like a village longhouse. There were three sections, and the door had a pair of crossed swords on top like a pair of beetle horns.

Luffy unwound himself from Fū’s stomach with a snap, turning back into just a little kid with a straw hat and not a walking rubber band. He stumbled a little bit, but dashed toward the hut without a backwards glance. “Hey, I’m back!”

Fū rocketed up into the trees, leaping instead of flying so she didn’t make any noise.

“Luffy came back alive!”

“He’s still alive?!”

“Where the hell were you?!”

“Where have you been?”

Luffy responded to all of this with a loud, “I was running from wolves and got chased off a cliff and a fairy and a bug saved me!”

Fū saw Luffy turn in the doorway, then look around in confusion.

“Eh?! She disappeared!” A pause. “Oh, right! She’s gotta find Coconut’s brothers and go back to the fairy kingdom.”

“…Did you hit your head on something?”

“Nope! I bounce.”

“Sorry, Luffy, but a heroine must be mysterious and cool!” Fū whispered, so only Chōmei could hear her. Crossing her arms dramatically, she added at the same volume, “I’ll see you again someday, but for now I have a mission for Chōmei. Until then, goodbye!”

[winterskywrites]

how do u think victor and chris took that poolside picture in ep 10?

Being a pool boy was a pretty boring job in the winter.

Daniel didn’t particularly mind. At least it was quiet, and he didn’t have to deal with too many obnoxious customers. The pool was open all year round, but very few people actually used it during the winter months. Daniel still had to clean it, of course, but the chances that he would find abandoned swimsuits was significantly lower. The chances that he would find people in the pool, especially considering he normally cleaned it fairly late at night, were very small.

And yet, as Daniel approached the pool one cold December night, he could distinctly hear two people chatting in… Was that French?

As he got closer, he was able to discern that it was indeed French that the people were speaking, they both seemed to be men, and they were splashing around in the pool. Daniel shook his head as he walked out, wondering who the (probably certifiably insane) men at the pool were.

And then he saw them, and he came this close to turning around and walking back inside.

Daniel had never cared much for figure skating. His sister, however, was a different story, and she’d done her best to drag him into the obsession after her. Daniel had never really gotten into the skating part, but he was but a young gay boy, and he’d had no chance against the apparently universal attractiveness of male figure skaters. Two of his favorites (based mostly on how goddamn pretty they were) had always been Viktor Nikiforov and Christophe Giacometti.

And they were currently in the rooftop pool, splashing each other and wearing nothing but tiny swimsuits and acting like they’d just jumped out of some horrible, horrible porno.

Daniel was going to die.

For a moment, he considered just not cleaning the pool. Surely it wouldn’t kill anyone if it didn’t get cleaned just the once, and it might kill him to go out there while Nikiforov and Giacometti were doing whatever they were doing. But it was his job, and his sister would never forgive him if he passed up the opportunity to actually meet two of the best figure skaters alive, so Daniel took a deep breath and stepped forward onto the rooftop.

Nikiforov noticed him first, elbowing Giacometti and hissing “Chris!” under his breath. Then he gave Daniel a dazzling smile and called over a cheery “¡Hola!” His Spanish accent was terrible, the Russian accent bleeding too much into it, but his smile was beautiful enough that Daniel would forgive him for pretty much anything in that moment.

Giacometti followed Nikiforov’s gaze and grinned in a way that Daniel was pretty sure came dangerously close to melting him into a puddle of goo. “Well, hello, there,” he crooned. “Are you here to join the fun?”

“Chris!” Nikiforov cried, shoving Giacometti into the water. He turned back to Daniel and smiled again. Daniel wasn’t sure his heart could take it. “I apologize for my friend. Is there something you need?”

“I, um-” What were words? Daniel’s vocabulary had dwindled down to nothing, but if he didn’t say something soon he would sound like an idiot in front of two of his celebrity crushes. What were words?! “I’m- I have to clean the pool.”

It wasn’t the most brilliant sentence ever, but at least it was a full one. Daniel was very proud of himself.

“Oh, of course!” Nikiforov scrambled out of the pool and reached in to help Giacometti out as well. “We’ll leave right- CHRIS!”

Giacometti laughed as he pulled a spluttering Nikiforov into the pool headfirst. “That’s what you get, Viki Niki.”

Nikiforov scowled as he swept his wet hair out of his face. “How many times have I told you not to call me that? How many times?”

“Um,” Daniel said eloquently. He was actually quite pleased that the sound hadn’t been a horribly guttural moan, because he’d been a bit worried that it would be the only sound he could make. All of his higher brain functions were completely gone. He wondered absently if he’d ever get them back.

“We’ll get out of the pool,” Nikiforov promised, pulling himself out again and pointedly not offering Giacometti a hand. “You can clean it now, yes?”

“Oh, um, yes,” Daniel stammered as Giacometti climbed out of the pool as well, dripping wet and looking unfairly hot. “I can- Yes, thank you.”

“Wait,” Giacometti said as Nikiforov started heading towards the door.

“I’m cold!” Nikiforov whined.

“You’re Russian,” Giacometti dismissed. Turning to Daniel, he added, “Could you take a picture of the two of us?”

Daniel squeaked. “Um, sure? What do you want?”

“Hmm.” Giacometti frowned. “Viktor, any ideas?”

NIkiforov tapped his bottom lip pensively. Daniel wanted to kiss that lip so badly. “We could pose by the side of the pool,” he suggested.

Giacometti dropped onto the ground immediately and lounged on his side. Batting his ridiculously long eyelashes at Viktor, he cooed in a horrible and yet strangely seductive falsetto, “Draw me like one of your French girls!”

Daniel was pretty sure he had died and gone to either heaven or hell. It was a toss-up as to which one it was, really, but he was thinking hell was a little more likely. He thought he’d been a pretty good person. He didn’t deserve this.

“Not like that, Chris,” Nikiforov scolded, nudging Giacometti with his foot and pushing him back into the pool. “Oh!” He looked apologetically at Daniel. “Sorry.”

Viktor Nikiforov, apparently, was absolutely adorable. It wasn’t a word Daniel had ever really thought he’d apply to an almost six feet tall grown Russian man, but there was no other word for it. “It’s okay,” Daniel replied, his voice a little too high.

Giacometti clambered out of the pool. “Do you have any bright ideas, then?” he asked Nikiforov with a dirty look. “Coach Viktor is supposed to be good at taking the lead, isn’t he?”

“Yuuri’s very good at it too,” Nikiforov replied with a far too innocent look on his face. Giacometti began laughing so hard he almost fell back into the pool.

Well, it seemed like any doubts as to the nature of Nikiforov’s relationship with his Japanese student were gone. Daniel silently mourned the death of all of his teenage dreams about meeting Viktor Nikiforov and having a whirlwind romance that led to sharing a house and a lot of dogs. However, Giacometti could still be single, so perhaps his dreams of having hot sex with Christophe Giacometti and eventually sharing a house and a lot of cats could still come true.

“Here.” Nikiforov sat down next to the pool and posed dramatically, his knees bent, his toes pointed down and just touching the water, his arms at his sides, and his head tilted back. “Like this.”

Giacometti eyed him for a moment, then picked up Nikiforov’s sunglasses and placed them on his face. “Here. And, hmm, there’s still something missing.”

Nikiforov straightened one leg, still keeping the same dramatic look. Daniel watched in shock as he extended his leg perfectly straight and kept it there with apparently no effort at all. Figure skaters were amazing.

“Yes!” Giacometti pressed his phone into Daniel’s hand - their fingers touched and Daniel almost swooned - and sat down next to Nikiforov, mimicking his pose. “Can you take a photo of us now?”

Daniel’s hand shook a little, but he made an effort to steady it as he began snapping pictures. “Try a few angles!” Giacometti called. Daniel almost tripped over his own feet as he went to the other side of the pool to take a few more pictures.

“Um,” he stammered as he finished, “I can take more, if you want, but-”

“This is perfect,” Giacometti replied, standing and taking the phone back. His fingers brushed against Daniel’s again. “Merci,” he added with a look in his eyes that made Daniel want to jump him right there.

“Wrong language,” Nikiforov scolded. He offered Daniel a dazzling smile and chirped, “¡Gracias!”

Daniel was going to die. At least he would die happy, if really really sexually frustrated.

“This is the one,” Giacometti stated, flipping through the pictures. He showed the shot to Nikiforov first, then Daniel.

“Perfect,” Nikiforov agreed.

“Um, thanks,” Daniel squeaked.

“What’s your name?” Giacometti asked, typing rapidly. “I’ll give you photo credit. Do you have an Instagram?”

He did, but there was no way he was going to tell Viktor Nikiforov and Christophe Giacometti that it existed, since he knew it had some incredibly embarrassing posts about how much he wanted to bang both of them (possibly at the same time, if they were okay with it). “Um, my name is Daniel García,” Daniel replied. Viktor Nikiforov and Christophe Giacometti now knew his name. Oh God, he was going to die.

“Thank you for the picture, Daniel,” Nikiforov said, a wide smile on his face. “And I’m sorry we’ve kept you from your work for so long.”

“We can go inside now, if you want,” Giacometti told Nikiforov. “Since you’re ‘cold.’”

“You say that like you don’t believe me,” Nikiforov muttered.

“I don’t,” Giacometti replied bluntly. “I’m pretty sure you miss a certain little-” Here, he said something in French that Daniel didn’t understand but made Nikiforov flush.

“Thank you again,” Nikiforov told Daniel, now clearly desperate to get back inside.

“No problem,” Daniel replied, his voice squeaky. He was pretty sure everything he’d said had been awkwardly high-pitched. Nikiforov and Giacometti were going to think he had an awkwardly high-pitched voice. Daniel regretted all of his life choices that had led to this moment.

Nikiforov and Giacometti left, chatting in French again. Daniel watched them go - they had such nice butts! - and then sank into a poolside chair and pulled out his phone, sending a text to his sister.

just met viktor nikiforov and christophe giacometti at the pool. i’m so gay.