#ish???? very vaguely???

[deimosatellite]

billy nooooo

og post:

[elementarycomic]

Elementary #31 and #32

[comfymoth]

and to you, my favorite character, i give the highest honor i can bestow………… an incredibly specific religious headcanon

[hrokkall]

What's gabriel in this au?

Some loser, probably.

[kathinkapng]

Some doodles I did in my sketchbook today ☺️💖 You could say that I was on a roll <33

They're DnD OCs: Misaki (the changeling) is my player chara and Mere (the water genasi) is my friend's NPC!

Also, I am adding some older doodles of these two down below because I wanna have them in one place:

[sweaterkittensahoy]

You know, months ago when someone (iykyk) got mad I wrote a fic they liked because I was a zionist, I thought, "Surely this is as fucking stupid and awful as it can get. Some fucking rando in my new fandom mad at me because I believe Israel has a right to exist, and their inability to not suck off Hamas press releases as the truest truth is a weird, outlier problem.

And wow. But I was fucking hopeful, wasn't I.

Live and fucking learn.

I actually looked up the person mentioned above the other week, curious if perhaps someone had gotten through to them. I blocked them back when they got mad I was writing fic of a Jewish pilot in World War 2 and I had the audacity to be in favor of Israel. They have gone full Hamas dick suck, including saying Hamas is justified in all their actions no matter how awful because Israel has it coming (paraphrase).

So. Yeah. I'm not shocked this person has gone full Nazi (when you're saying Hamas is justified, you're a fucking Nazi), but wow. WOW.

[leiawritesstories]

The Heroine: A Piratical Comedy

So I mentioned this earlier, but I took the inspiration for a fanfic piece that I wrote called "swords and sea breezes" and turned it into an original short story. and I had so much fun writing the original work that I'd love love love to share it with you all :D

it is...quite different from my fanfic style, primarily because the heroine is supposed to be completely ridiculous and shallow and maybe a little self-centered, which was a challenge to write but a very very fun challenge. anyway. here is the story, and i hope you enjoy!!! please please please let me know what you think (i'm nervous)

word count: 3,854

warnings: none ;)

enjoy!! hopefully *nervous quiver*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To say she “hadn’t wanted to be on this ship” would have been a gross understatement. There was not a single molecule of Lady Cassandra Antoinetta Ellianna Worplesmith’s being that had not resisted this journey, but despite her valiant, eloquent attempts to stay off the ship, there she stood. Apparently her meddlesome parents would stop at nothing to force their only child into marriage with a foreign prince. 

It was positively medieval. She was sure that was the correct word. Cassandrietta—as her darling friends called her—was always receiving compliments for the wondrously dizzying quality of her speech. However, she was not prideful about her vocabulary, because her nurses and her tutors had been ever so careful to instruct her in cultivation of humility, and Cassa—which was the beastly nickname that her rotten little brother used to taunt her—was most cultivating of her humility. It groweth and bloometh’d like the flower of a rose, as she recalled that the poets said. 

Where was she? 

Ah—the ship. Positively medieval. She was entirely certain that her parents had laced her evening tea with a soporific sedative, because the honey and chamomile brew had tasted suspiciously of citrus. Cassandra loathed citrus; it tasted far too much like that ghastly orange juice that her governess insisted upon drinking every morning instead of a perfectly normal and acceptable cup of tea. 

When she awoke from her drugged sleep, Cassandra had locked herself in her cabin for three whole days and sat firmly on her bed with her arms folded across her dècolletage (which was a polite term for a lady’s, erm, chest), only emerging when the growling in her stomach increased to something akin to a lion’s gentle roar. The moment she cracked open her bedroom door, she immediately discovered a rotating patrol of soldiers posted outside in the narrow hallway, and it took her all of a week to convince the blue-jacketed young men that she was perfectly capable of relieving herself without supervision. They had blushed most endearingly when she first fluttered her fair lashes and implied that she required le toilette, because young men of course did not understand that proper young women like Lady Cassandra Antoinetta Ellianna Worplesmith required personal relief. 

It had taken her two additional weeks to convince her guards that her daily stroll about the deck was decidedly not enough fresh air for her delicate complexion, and they had finally allowed her to walk around the ship throughout the day, provided there was at least one guard tailing her at all times. She had taken to standing at the polished railing and staring off longingly into the horizon, affecting a pose that the heroines of her favorite romance novels always assumed whenever they were taken captive at sea and faced a fate most horrid. Those beautiful young ladies’ longing stares and sighing sighs always brought a handsome, wealthy, noble young man to the rescue. 

Cassandra had always dreamt of being rescued from a fate most horrid by a handsome, wealthy, noble young man. 

She folded her arms delicately upon the railing and propped the smart little point of her chin upon her gloved hands. Her favorite white silk gloves were unthinkably filthy after three full weeks without the proper staff to launder them, but a lady must not be seen without her gloves, even when said gloves were horridly speckled with dust and dirt from three entire weeks at sea. Besides, if a handsome, wealthy, noble young man were to suddenly appear for her rescue, she certainly could not be seen with bare hands. 

As the setting sun drifted airily beneath the horizon in a waterfall of pink, coral, rose, blush, mauve, and orange hues (oh! she did so love when she could exercise her artistic vocabulary), Cassandra felt a sea breeze ruffle her hems, and rather than risk exposing her ankles, an unspeakable offense against ladylikeness, she gathered her skirts in one hand and cleared her throat delicately. 

“Ahem! Corporal, I believe I shall retire to my chamber.” She lowered her gaze and peered up at her current guard ’neath demure lashes (another expression that her favorite romance heroines always wore on their dainty faces), for a proper lady could never look a man in the eye, particularly not one so shy as Corporal Smyth. 

The corporal cleared his throat several times. “Of-of course, my lady, p-p-please allow me to escort you.” Off he went, tripping over his oversized boots as he stumbled to open the door to the stairs. 

Cassandra graced the gangly young corporal with a sympathetic smile. She was fond of the boy soldier; he reminded her of the butler’s boy at home that she always sent on the most trivial errands purely because he had the prettiest manners. And—unlike Sergeant Wilbur, who was old and crotchety and communicated solely in surly commands—Smyth actually conversed with her. 

She was just about to ask Corporal Smyth if he would help her select her dress for dinner when the ship’s bell started up the most obnoxious clamor. “Why on earth must it be so loud?” she complained with a frown. An instant later, though, she smoothed out her expression, for frowning led to wrinkles, and wrinkles were worse than bare hands. 

“I-I am not certain, my lady,” Smyth replied. “Shall I—?” 

“All hands on deck!” bellowed Sergeant Wilbur, rushing past in a flurry of red cheeks and heavy, thumping bootsteps. “That means, you, Smyth!” He reached over and grasped the door to Cassandra’s room. “You—stay put.”

He slammed the door in her face! 

Cassandra was so incredibly outraged that she stood stock-still, gasping for an adequate retort. She snapped her mouth shut and crossed firmly to the door, but found it barred from the outside. No matter how hard she pushed or pounded the wood with her sensitive, small hands, it refused to budge. 

Incensed, she searched for an appropriately horrific epithet. “You absolute spinster!” she shrieked. There! Mamma always did say that a spinster was the worst fate that could befall a woman. That should be satisfactorily offensive. 

Cassandra returned to her bed, sat down, crossed her arms, and glared at the solidly barred door, counting her heaving breaths until her pulse slowed to a more ladylike pace. Up on deck, she heard all sorts of noises—yells from the sailors, barked commands from Sergeant Wilbur, clangs of metal, assorted booms and bangs and pops that sounded oddly like the annual fireworks show for the King’s birthday. If she had been locked in her room to prevent her from watching, Cassandra might have to become quite indignant. She walked to the small window and peered outside, squinting in the darkness. 

Something bright and fiery streaked across the sky in a blur. She gasped—it was fireworks! And those awful sailors had locked her in her room! 

Cassandra became quite indignant. 

She picked up a book from her valise, one of those terribly heavy, stuffy, dull books on etiquette that her governess made her read, and beat upon her door with the thick volume. To her surprise, she found it strangely satisfying. “Can none of you gentlemen hear me?” she cried, indignant. Goodness, but it was fun to be indignant! “I must see the fireworks!” 

She stopped hitting the door with the book when she ran out of breath, and she sat back down upon her bed and hurled the book at the door. It collided with her door with an immensely satisfying thump, but the door did not so much as budge. Cassandra scowled, her arms once again folded crossly over her dècolletage, and leant down to retrieve another horrid etiquette book to throw at the door. 

Just as that book thudded into it, the door collapsed inwards in a shower of splinters. 

Cassandra squeaked in shock and ducked her head under her pillow for safety. After a very long time (she counted all the way to twenty-five), she lifted a corner of the pillow and peeked out. Her door had been ripped clean off its hinges and laid in shambles upon the floor. Gaining confidence, she sat up slowly, picking up one more smaller book. She must ensure that the door was truly down, because she had once read a story wherein the heroine thought that her door was open but had discovered that she was dreaming, and Cassandra could not possibly risk that fate. So she threw the book. 

It hit the man in her doorway squarely in the nose. 

Cassandra shrieked. 

The man dropped his knife and clamped his hand across his profusely-bleeding nose. 

The book hit the ground with a dull thunk. 

“Alack!” It seemed the proper thing to cry as she hurried out towards the upper deck. 

She made it all of four steps before a rough, calloused hand wrapped around her upper arm and cut her escape short. “I don’t think so, my lady.” She was spun around to face the sailor with the bloodied nose, which was swollen and turning purple. 

Cassandra was so stunned by his flagrant breach of decorum that it took her ten full seconds to recover her speech. “One does not simply touch a lady!” she snapped, swatting his hand with her fan. A lady always had her fan tucked discreetly into her sleeve, of course. 

The man hissed, removing his hand. “You’re a fiery little thing, aren’t you?” 

“I am not the one who violates proper manners,” she retorted coldly, treating him to a blazing stare as her favorite heroines did. She huffed and turned on her heel, but once again, he stopped her. 

“I wouldn’t go up there if I were you, my lady.” This time, her fan was useless against his vice-like grip. To her horror, he lowered his scruffy jaw towards her ear. She squirmed in his grasp, tilting herself as far away from his smirking face as possible. “There be pirates up there.” 

Pirates?

Unable to recall a better solution, Cassandra swooned. 

~

She blinked awake to the familiar scent of salt water and the decidedly unfamiliar sensation of unblocked sun beating down upon her brow. With a sudden start, she roused herself and reached for her parasol, only to discover that her hands—her bare hands! The horror!—had been restrained by a roughly knotted length of rope. 

For a moment, she became so incensed that she could only stamp her dainty little foot and utter muffled squeaks of rage. “Untie me at once!” she finally managed to utter. “I am a lady!” 

“Aye, that we can tell, lassie.” A very large, very dirty, very grinning man with innumerable stains and rips in his shirt and trousers and a leather patch strapped across his left eye loomed up in front of her. “Why’d ya think we took ya?” 

Cassandra gaped in shock before she recalled that a lady must never allow her teeth to be visible and snapped her jaw closed. “And where, pray tell, have you taken me?”

“Welcome to Haitch Hemm Hess Cleavage, me lassie!” boomed the stout, redheaded, grossly unkempt sailor, his wide grin revealing atrociously crooked teeth and rancid breath that nearly caused Cassandra to swoon. And furthermore, he had the most vile Liverpudlian accent, which no doubt marked him as a man of ill repute. Her mother always said that men of ill repute spoke with Liverpudlian accents. 

“Ach, don’t ya be scarin’ the lass, now,” interjected another man, forcibly shoving the redheaded boor out of her view. This one was mildly easier on the eyes, with brown eyes and a patchwork kerchief tied around his dark hair, and he had the decency to sheathe his bloody dagger before he bowed to Cassandra. “After all, we have just kidnapped her.” 

Cassandra nearly swooned again—indeed, she would have swooned if it were not for the fortitudinous remembrance that heroines in romance novels were often kidnapped before a handsome, wealthy, noble young man could rescue them. “I do not recall seeing you upon my parents’ ship,” she sniffed, staring down her nose as best as she could when looking up at the abominably rude man. 

“’Twould be because he was up on deck, cutting down the idiots you called soldiers.” Oh, she knew that voice. 

Very slowly, Cassandra turned half around, her gaze descending upon the man who had rudely broken down her door (yes, she knew her etiquette books could not have made the stubborn thing implode) and lain his hands upon her person. It gratified her somewhat to notice that he bore a bandage on his swollen, crooked, purple-blue nose. She sneered. “Do explain why you saw fit to remove my person from my ship, sailor.” 

“Ah-ah, miss.” He clicked his tongue as if she were some impertinent child. “Please, allow me to introduce myself. I am Captain Kit Lancelot of this very fine vessel, Her Majesty’s Bosom, and if you would direct your gaze upwards, miss, you will soon discover just what kind of a ship we are.” 

“That is a ridiculous name, not to mention incredibly inappropriate.” Cassandra blushed but covered it by clicking her tongue as she looked upwards, her gaze tracing a vast expanse of sails, ropes, and dirty sailors lounging around in those ropes before alighting upon the black flag atop the tallest mast. As the flag bent in the breeze, it revealed the viciously grinning skull stitched upon its surface. 

And the rather artfully wrought…erm, bustier…beneath the skull. 

For the second time that day, Cassandra gaped. “You…pirates!”

“I did warn you, miss,” the pirate captain chuckled. He turned his attention to his crew of ne’er-do-wells, which was her novels’ common term for pirates. “Gents! This here is the Lady Cassie—”

“Excuse me!” She huffed furiously, wishing her hands were free so that she could throw another book at Captain Kit Lancelot’s smug face. “My name is Lady Cassandra Antoinetta Ellianna Worplesmith, and you may address me as ‘my lady’ or ‘Lady Cassandra.’” 

The pirate had the absolute gall to quirk up one eyebrow, stare at her, and laugh. 

“I was not brought here to be the object of your amusement,” Cassandra huffed. 

“Ah, that’s where you’d be wrong, Cassie.” The pirate captain strolled down from the slightly elevated deck and stopped just in front of her, so tall that she was forced to raise her eyes to meet his mirth-filled gaze. He apparently drew delight in calling her by an abhorrently shortened version of her proper name, the rogue. 

Although…for a rogue, he was quite handsome. 

Cassandra nearly slapped herself clear across the face. This man was a pirate—precisely the opposite of the handsome, wealthy, noble young man that would no doubt come to rescue her. Handsome he may be, but noble he was decidedly not. But he was quite handsome…

“I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay here on the fine ship Her Majesty’s Bosom,” Captain Lancelot drawled, raising one hand to his brow in a mocking sort of salute. “Allow me to show you to your chamber.” He looped her arm through his and escorted her (though his pace was so swift that he might as well have dragged her) below decks, down a corridor, and into a surprisingly clean room with a freshly made bed and a proper washstand in the corner. 

It was, if she could admit it, quite a noble act. Which made him both handsome and noble. 

“This is—I—” Before Cassandra could formulate a coherent sentence, the captain strode out of her room and barred the door, and in that instant, her flash of surprise curdled like spoilt milk into sour bitterness, and she spoke an epithet so horrific that her mother had threatened to slap her hands with a leather strap if it was uttered. “Blast you, pirate!” 

Though, if she told the proper truth, she quite wanted to kiss him, not blast him.

~

Three weeks passed upon the pirate ship with the name that Cassandra still could not hear without blushing, and her fate had yet to change. She began to wonder if these pirates (who, it was to be admitted, although begrudgingly, seemed almost decent men save for the fact that they practiced piracy) were in truth going to bring her to their lair and keep her in captivity forever, as the redheaded one had suggested. During her daily walks, which Captain Kit Lancelot had allowed her to take after she protested that her delicate complexion was wasting away in the belowdecks dampness (her beloved romance heroines were always complaining of belowdecks dampness), she always paused at the railing and stared across the empty ocean for a moment, wondering if she lived in a waking dream. 

That evening, as per usual, she paused at the railing, her bare hands clasping the weathered wood, and stared out over the endless expanse of waves and skies. Is this truly to be my fate? 

When the cannonball blazed across the pirate ship’s deck, there was no soldier by her side to order her to duck. 

Cassandra screamed and dropped to the deck, her heartbeat immediately racing. She half wondered if her sighing and wishing had brought this attack upon the pirate ship, but there was a tiny, soft voice in the back of her head that reminded her she was aboard a pirate ship. Attacks on pirates were as regular as rain in London. 

“Get below, Cassie!” Captain Kit Lancelot roughly yanked her to her feet, his firm grip around her upper arms shocking her back into reality. 

She gasped, outraged. “I am perfectly capable of walking without your assistance!” 

He smirked. “There’s that feisty spirit.” 

“I am not ‘feisty,’ Kit.” She spat his name with as much vitriol as she could muster. 

His smirk only widened. “Ah, Cassie, I do like it when you say my name.” He released her arms from his grasp. “Now get. Below.” 

Before she could whirl about and head for the stairs, there was a mighty chorus of yells as a group of blue-jacketed sailors stormed onto the deck of Her Majesty’s Bosom from the naval ship that had grappled itself to the pirate’s side. The leader of the group, sword in one hand and pistol in the other, charged straight for Kit and Cassandra, righteous fury smoldering across his handsome, noble face. 

The pieces suddenly clicked in her mind. 

Her rescue! She knew he would come for her. 

Swiftly, she ducked behind a nearby barrel, crouching down so that she could witness the fight unfolding before her but still have some protection from the battle that raged across the ship’s deck. Pirates and soldiers flung punches, kicks, swords, blades, guns, and curses at each other, darting back and forth in a sort of deathly dance. 

And none were more closely locked in deathly, mortal combat than Captain Kit Lancelot and Cassandra’s rescuer. 

Kit slammed the hilt of his dagger into the other man’s gun hand, knocking the pistol away. “Just what d’ye think yer doing on me ship, Lord Richard Emsberry?” 

Lord Richard Emsberry. Goodness, but it was a lovely, noble name for a lovely, noble man! 

“I’ve come to take the Lady Cassandra from your clutches, of course.” Lord Emsberry’s sword clashed with Kit’s, and she could have sworn that sparks flew from the impact of the blades. 

“That’s a delightfully noble plan, Lord Dick.” Kit laughed as he lunged. “Too bad you must fail.” 

“No more unfortunate than your remarkable ego,” Emsberry returned. He struck low, catching Kit off guard and slicing a crimson stripe across the pirate’s upper leg. 

Kit grunted. “You’ll pay for that.” 

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Emsberry glanced over towards Cassandra’s shelter. “I shall be with you in a mere moment, my lady!” He delivered a vicious punch to Kit’s shoulder, and Kit swore filthily, causing Cassandra to cover her ears and avert her gaze. 

She never could stand it when there were men swearing in her presence. 

A long moment passed, and when she ventured another peek, the deck had gone eerily quiet. She crept out from behind her barrel, delighted hope swelling within her heart when she beheld the wondrous sight of Lord Emsberry holding a weakened Kit by the collar, sword poised to execute his justice. It was a scene straight out of her favorite romance novel, and she could scarcely believe that her own romance would contain the same scene. 

Emsberry flourished his sword. “Come, Lady Cassandra! You are safe with me!” 

Cassandra stepped forth, gaining confidence with each stride she took. She envisioned the scene as it would be written—a noble young lady crossing the embattled deck to her handsome, noble, wealthy rescuer, who awaited for her blessing. She was two paces from Lord Richard Emsberry when she stopped and lowered her lashes, remembering that she must recall her demure, ladylike manners. “I thank you for your most noble and virtuous rescue, my lord.” 

He released the pirate captain’s collar, letting Kit drop to the deck, and extended his hand to Cassandra. “My ship awaits your fair presence, my lady.” 

“Oh, I do believe I’ve dreamt of this rescue!” She delicately placed her fingertips over his palm. 

Metal screeched against wood as Captain Kit Lancelot shoved himself to his feet, sword grasped firmly in his bloodied hand. “Cassie, don’t tell me you see this as your ideal romance.” 

She sighed plaintively, like the heroine always did at this juncture. “Perhaps, if you had turned out to be noble, I might have cast you as the hero.” 

Kit scoffed. “There is no world in which I am a hero.” She opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off. “And you should really think twice about believing everything you read in books.” Sunlight glinted off Kit’s blade as he thrust forwards in a powerful, brutally beautiful arc. 

It plunged clean through Lord Richard Emsberry’s chest.

And as Kit jerked his sword free, the lord stumbled backwards and toppled into the sea with a pathetic final splash. 

Cassandra’s entire being froze, stunned to the core. “You…he…my lord!”

Kit tipped his head back and laughed, wild and raucous. “Like I told you when we first met, Cassie, here there be pirates. And I’m king of them all.” A breeze brushed across the deck, tousling his dark hair in a delightfully artful way. 

She did appreciate the sight of a handsome man with windblown hair, and the men who won the heroine did always have windblown hair. And…well…if a proper lord was not in her story, could her story end with a pirate king?

Kit’s hand wrapped around her arm. “Gents, take Lady Cassie to the brig.” 

To the—that was not what the hero of the novel was supposed to do! 

As the iron bars of the brig door slammed shut with a resounding clang, Cassandra dropped to the floor, her formerly perfectly coiffed head falling despondently into her hands. Melancholy (it had to be melancholy, as always behooved a proper lady in dire straits) swept over her, and for the first time since she’d been taken to the pirate ship, she…doubted. 

She doubted happy endings. 

She doubted her happy ending most of all. 

~~~

Tags--please lmk if you want to be tagged for original work :)

@renxzs

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@mariaofdoranelle

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@silentquartz

[fictionadventurer]

Maybe I need to write Cardinal's Map so there's a contemporary book about the power of literature and reaching for a world beyond the mundane that isn't wall-to-wall inspirational platitudes with vague worldbuilding about the battle between the forces of good vs. evil.

[wainwrightjakobshammerlock]

"Vengeance on a dumb brute!" cried Starbuck, "that simply smote thee from blindest instinct! Madness! To be enraged with a dumb thing, Captain Ahab, seems blasphemous."

[orcelito]

OK MORE ANALYSIS

towards the start of trimax, we get this little bit here. aka Meryl's birthday, & ALSO when there are official sightings of Vash reappearing. so we can assume that Wolfwood finds Vash again in February (ish) of 0113

this. the beginning of the end. happens on July 21st of 0114, the exact ten year anniversary of the July Incident (July 21st of 0104)

and Vash & Knives' birthday.

which that's a whole big can of worms that's gonna have me needing to run through my fic again for dates bc i didnt realize it was Literally exactly 10 years passed between then and now.

but MORE IMPORTANTLY...

when you think about the dates. between february 0113 and july 0114, that's 17 months. Vash spent 7 ish months on the arc (maybe 8, sometimes they say 8)

this means that Vash and Wolfwood traveled together for a total of about 10 months, give or take.

ten months, largely just the two of them.

i think i need to sit down lmao

[nuevemeister]

I forgot tumblr is the kinda place youd have a whole ass convo on the reblogs thats sum to get used to lmao

[xappetites]

jouissance

Phillip Graves x Reader | political marriage, i saw a hc about Graves being old money and thought: that tracks, reader is a menace and Graves radiates youngest sibling energy so they realize they make a great team | word count: 2,118

The girl is pretty, at the very least. Sensible jeans and a simple sweater, white sneakers as the only indication of the likely tennis lessons she must’ve taken every weekend. Scuffed, against his expectations. All in all, a very East Coast kinda look that almost makes Phillip roll his eyes.

Money’s not the same in Texas as it is in the Hamptons, which is why Phil’s been saying that this is a bad idea from the start, kept dodging this particular ball and chain long as he could. Spent all his time away, off with his Shadows. Busy, busy, busy.

Too fucking busy to be offered up in the altar of the Graves’ family need for strong allies in the Senate.

In simpler words, Phil really, really doesn’t want to marry a pretty little senator’s daughter, but he’s run out of rope and if he struggles too hard, he’s sure his father will not hesitate to garrotte him to get what he wants.

So, he sits there, staring at the ridiculous picture the senator’s boating loafers paint against his old man’s boots and pretending he can’t feel Pete’s eyes on him —golden, first born, married correctly and spitting out grandsons, fucking Pete—, laughing at his misfortune on the other side of the big bay windows.

He’s still a soldier though, he keeps hyper aware of the room, even against his will. So it’s mostly instinctual to follow the movement in his peripheral, an accident to make eye contact when the senator’s girl shifts. Track as she moves in, across the no man’s land of old fashioneds and pigs in blankets scattered over every available surface, until she’s half perched on the armrest of his loveseat.

“What’s so funny?”

Her voice is surprisingly neutral, not a finishing school affectation in sight. And Phil won’t admit to tensing up, won’t —on his life— cop to the rush of liquid heat that has him edging his hips forward at just having her pretty fucking eyes on him.

“Your brother,” she clarifies, looking back out to the yard for a split second of relief. “He seems tickled pink out there.”

“Don’t mind him, he’s just an asshole.”

“He looks it.”

She leans back, casual and relaxed and close. Too close. Enough that Phil’s fingers could dig into the soft flesh of her thigh, could pull her into his lap and taste the bitters on her tongue.

The fantasy shakes a smile out of him. He won’t have to worry about not finding his wife sexually enticing, if this goes the way his father planned it.

Silver linings, he tells himself, and he can’t help teasing her. Testing her confidence against the Graves’ family resemblance that makes Phillip a shadowbox copy of his older brother.

“That mean I look like an asshole too?”

Her laughter shakes her shoulders; she smells like the orange peel in her glass and a solid undercurrent of musk and vanilla that must be her perfume, the scent of an afternoon bumming it out on the lake and cocktails after dinner. She doesn’t answer, but her eyes take on a playful glint, pulling up at the corners until they match her crooked grin.

Then the minute is over. She’s whisked away to dazzle the eldest Graves, tucked under her father’s arm. And it occurs to Phil that she might be a soldier of sorts too, a hostile caught in the same trench.

…

Phil doesn’t linger on it because, again, he has more important matters to attend to on a daily basis. Sure, he doesn’t need to have his proverbial boots in the proverbial ground that his actual boots on the actual ground are currently working on, but things just go smoother when he’s there. And he does so love to see whichever motherfuckers get in his way go up in flames; quite literally on occasion.

So, by the time his father asks, faux casual as all hell: How’s it going with the senator’s girl? Phil’s pretty much forgotten about her.

And he could, all things considered, tell the old man to kick rocks. It’s an itty bitty spark of rebellion, though he’s not gonna do it. Not with the inheritance that could make the Shadow Company into an empire on the line.

What he does do, then, is make a call posthaste, begging for this not to be another fuck up he has to bury, because he’s had enough of those in his career and he never fucking likes them. But she does answer, bless her heart, voice as unbothered on the phone as it was in person; giving him a date and time with as much excitement to see him as a DMV employee.

Consequently, he doesn’t expect much from the meeting. Maybe to get the brush off, officially. Or that she’ll want him to grovel, which isn’t gonna happen.

He’s not braced for the slow drag of a cigarette as she waits, reading a print paper, of all things. And, for sure, not for the smile that lights up her face when Phil finally takes his seat across from her.

“Blink twice if you’re here against your will.”

Her comment comes on the tail of a smoke plume that rises and rises, past him, missing him completely. He hates that he didn’t want it to, that for a single millisecond he wished to take her in his fucking lungs, smoke and black coffee and all of her.

“I look that bad, huh?”

“You look coerced,” she crushes filter against ashtray until it stops glowing. Lets the thing sit between them like a flag, claiming territory.

The whole scene —the pretend familiarity, the friendliness he can’t tell if it’s fake or not, the sexual attraction he can’t quite ignore— makes Phillip snap. He rides the delightful rush of adrenaline before he fully realizes he’s leaning forward, with his elbows on this very polite coffee shop table at eleven in the morning.

“You’re a smart one. So you have to know exactly what they want from us, right?”

Silence stretches for a long moment and then she’s slouching with that same lopsided grin she’d graced him with at his father’s. One of her knees knocks his apart, her foot settling inside the bracket of his own shoes.

Phil’s not an innocent man and he sure as hell ain’t a virgin, but out of the field he’s used to keeping a degree of distance when it comes to intimacy. Sure, he fucks, and he might groan a little praise straight into the mouth of whoever he’s inside of; he doesn’t just sit with someone ��someone who hasn’t covered his back in a fire fight or helped him figure out whether the blood on his vest is actually his— this close, legs intertwined while fully clothed. The thing that’s so easy for this woman that it makes him prickle, tightening his stance until he’s sure she’ll need a sharp tug to free herself.

“Political marriage?”

“You see, it’s this blasé attitude that makes me wonder,” he pushes further into her personal space, settles his hand over one of hers just to show her he isn’t intimidated by the way she takes and takes from him. He’s good at this, keeping it civilized even when his intentions are decidedly not. “Why isn’t a girl like you bothered by it? What’s the damage that won’t let you get a husband the normal way?”

“I’m just not the kind of person that falls in love. And Dad’s always made it clear that there’s a suitable husband out there for me, like it or not.”

This is the most honest Phil’s ever seen her look. There’s no mockery in her smile now, at least not at anyone’s expense but herself. And her hand twists until his hold looks natural, affectionate, taking his threat and making it into something no one would look twice at.

He doesn’t ask what she means. He wonders, not to get him wrong; he’s simply trying to pinpoint the exact moment when his annoyance turns into the thrill of the game. When he looks back on this, Phil figures it might be the way she squeezes his hand, giving him nothing more than a hint of nails to prove that he isn’t the only one capable of causing pain or willing to do it.

That or the way her mouth forms the words that seal him as an unlucky sucker, too addicted to the battle high to stop himself.

“You’re easy to look at, Graves. You don’t give much of a damn about me, you’re gone most of the year and you won’t expect me to miss you. You’re the perfect husband.”

And the answer he can’t bite back, all madness and the familiar ache of rising to a challenge, the sting of the muscles before the jump.

“You wanna bet on that, sweetheart? Not missing me?”

“Do your worst.” She laughs at him, straight up giggles at the suggestion, like it’s a dare she’s come out on top of before.

He chuckles along, takes it in stride, because she doesn’t know what it’s like playing against him; not yet.

…

“Sex?”

If Phil was a liar he’d say that he doesn’t know why he asks it. But he does, and he means it. He stands there on the sidewalk, offering his hand for her to dismount the decorative step outside the restaurant, completely possessed by the urge to try and crack her open. Irredeemably charmed by the fact that she just gave her implicit permission for him to do it.

“Right now?”

He gives her a genuine bark of a laugh, stepping into her until she’s left in a halfway state of touch. The kind Phil is good at: strategic, purposeful. His arm hovering around her, his chest barely close enough for him to feel her breath where it disturbs the collar of his shirt.

“So it is on the table?” Philip words his response as a question, but the tone is wrong: statement-steady, as he watches her slowly submitting to the gravity of this position.

And fuck the entryway they’re pretty much blocking when she leans her weight into his forearm, angling herself to look him in the eye.

“I just told you, I find you attractive.”

She does. Goddamn she does. It’s crystal clear in the sleepy sort of look she hits him with. Unashamed. No faux demureness or power games or self protective bullshit; just the way he flexes, nudging her closer still and she goes without complaint, eager for the hip to hip contact, the warm pressure pooling at the base of his cock.

“Oh, we’re gonna get along just fine, ain’t we, sweetpea?”

“As long as you don’t cheat on me.”

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes this time, those stay sharp. And he’s almost offended.

He knows Pete does it, his father too. Now this raises the possibility that the senator might be fond of keeping a mistress too. It’s normal for Phil, all things considered, though he’s never had to give it serious thought. Not a soul that’s shared his bed has expected him to be faithful, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of it.

Doesn’t mean that he won’t broker his own sexual exclusivity against her shark’s grin, all bared teeth and malice, just to demand the same consideration from her in return.

The notion is whiskey gold on his tongue. Fills him with a rabid, territorial joy.

“Any other rules of engagement?”

“Between us? It’d be code of conduct, right? We’re on the same side.”

The clarification pulls his eyes away from her mouth, to look at her.

“Against the world?” Phil attempts to make a joke of it, he has to. Hiding the way he preens at the thought behind arrogance and a mocking tone.

“Against your fucking brother at the very least,” she leans in, brushes her lips to the corner of his. Soothing, as if he could be mad about her bad mouthing Pete, “I don’t like anyone laughing at me and getting away with it.”

His traitor heart beats double time with the secret core conviction that this is exactly what he deserves, after having to forcefully drag himself out from his brother’s fucking shadow for his entire goddamn life.

Orange twists and honey gold, the hidden fire in her eyes she’s only let him glimpse.

“Right.”

Phil’s first kiss tests the waters, a second of caution while he figures out what someone likes to do with their mouth. Then pressing forward, close, a solid enough contact to have her making a satisfied noise in her throat.

“Let’s make him regret it then, shall we?”

[sokkas-art-corner]

The family that sleeps together... actually doesn't; it's 3AM and they're all wide awake 😅 (Changsheng is offscreen, asleep LIKE A NORMAL PERSON)

a rough little Dottozhu sketch! ill probably do a clean render in the future but i wanted to post this before i got too busy and forgot

[megabuild]

you don't do a series called survival guide without learning a little bit about surviving

[divinekangaroo]

Started reading Lymond Chronicles after @deadendtracks' comment that SK must've read them too / based Tommy on Lymond....

and like i'm what, at ch3 or 4 maybe and...

yeahhhhhhhhhh XD

[umbracirrus]

WIP Wednesday 💛

Wednesday again!!! I've been trying to work some more on the next chapter for The Perfect Storm, because this Friday marks a year since I posted the first chapter!! I'm honestly so so happy that I'm still working on it now, after years without the heart to write, seventeen chapters in with many more to go!

Some more festival shenanigans with Elyse and Balgruuf, inspired by my discovery that one of Balgruuf's primary skills in Skyrim happens to be archery.

---------

Elyse groaned quietly as her arrow feebly clattered to the ground some feet before the target, and Balgruuf had to stifle a laugh as she started muttering to herself quietly. All that he could hear was her blaming both the cold and the bow, pale wisps of air dissipating around her as she grumbled. He had never expected her to be the sort of person who took losing or failing badly, but given how stubborn she could sometimes be… perhaps it wasn't as far-fetched as he had first thought.

Unfortunately, she heard him trying to conceal his amusement, and she continued mumbling for a moment longer before staring at him. “I saw that, and it isn't funny! This was a fluke, there’s only two bows I can use properly, and this isn’t like either of them!” she huffed, before taking a deep breath, walking over to him, and thrusting the bow into his hands. “How about you try? If my attempt was so amusing, then that must surely mean that you can do better than me.”

He barely had the chance to protest before she had more or less pushed him onto the mark indicated on the ground to shoot the target from. “Elyse, I wasn’t laughing at-“ He stopped speaking when he saw her hands on her hips and the raised eyebrow that she was giving him. “Oh, for the love of... Fine.”

Seemingly satisfied with his decision to go along with her demands, she called Elrindir over to ask for three more arrows.

It had been a while since he had used a bow himself, so he didn't have any high expectations of what he would be able to achieve, but… well, Elyse's arrows had barely made it halfway to the target. He was confident that he could manage at least a bit closer if he hadn't allowed himself to get too rusty in his abilities.

Balgruuf could feel Elyse’s eyes on him expectantly as he took one of the arrows he had been given, held the bow up, positioned his hands and arms, before letting the arrow loose. It sailed through the air, passing over the scattered arrows from her failed attempts, before embedding itself into the target. It wasn’t quite on the centre, but was decently close enough all things considered.

A quiet tut came from his side. “Show off. Probably just luck...”

The same happened with the second arrow. It was much closer to the edge of the target, but the wind had ended up picking up and no doubt had an impact on his aim. Elyse inhaled sharply at the very moment the arrow had landed, and from the corner of his eyes he could see her start fidgeting.

When the third arrow landed on the target she didn’t audibly react, but when he turned to face her, she had a dumbfounded stare plastered across her face. That look was quick to turn into a pout accompanied by her folding her arms over as he started laughing once more. She genuinely didn't take losing well at all.