#still part of a WIP btw

[afterartist]

The glow up babessss

It actually looks like I know what I’m doing now (<- I still don’t)

[ganondoodle]

so, i read your comments and really liked the idea of the glowing mane only when hes attacking- though i have changed it to only be when hes using magic instead, especially longer charging and large range ones, plus i added the details (though the attack examples are still missing)

however .. i still cant decide on which side i like which color best .. (meaning darker upper half and pink on the underside and vice versa)

heres both examples, with dark braids and with glowing ones, of darker on top and red on the underside (version 1)

here it is with red on top and darker on the underside (version 2)

(botw2 project, aka totk rewritten, beast form ganondorf/ganon concepts)

[elderwisp]

ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴏᴛᴛᴀ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ ᴀ ᴅᴏᴏʀ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ᴀ ᴡɪɴᴅᴏᴡ

[royaltea000]

[wipinf] thinking bout that one part in jttw96 where nezha and hong hai er fight in a dream

[amogus-real-not-clickbait]

part 1 of a little comic / art sequence that i've been working on! :D it's part tribute, part experimenting with brushes n colors and trying new thingz :]

| 1 | 2 | 3 | ... |

and thus continues my endless quest of spreading the carrot fics like a plague! if you've seen my art floating around you probs already figured that this au holds a very special place in my heart, forever and always!!

if you haven't heard of it, it's a fic series by @crowned-ladybug called carrot soup!! it made me wish i could speak colors and i need more people to share my struggle xd

go check it out if you're into sweet voice lore and qpr level gayness and just wanna feel warm and soft and warm (hurt/comfort my beloved) <333 there are some heavier themes cos everyone's traumatized but they're working through it! be sure to check the tags and stay safe! <3

[acetrappolad]

riddle wip

[hyakunana]

Let's just say I got hit by them once again 🐮🦝

[wuthering-tempest]

A little misty told me you have a sinner oc and I haven’t been able to find an oc tag or anything, so please tell me about em or gimme the tag or whatever you’re comfy with!

-Ink Anon

OHHH HI!! I don't really have a tag for her here because I haven't actually posted her much on this account and I'm always really shy about fan ocs but 👉👈 i'll put most info/extra drawings under the readmore, a lot of her outfit/design is still a wip so forgive the messiness

Meet Captain Nemo! She's based directly around Jules Verne's Nemo of 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea/Journey Through The Impossible/The Mysterious Island! She is an extremely intelligent and knowledgeable woman, but alternates often between calculated aloofness and bouts of impassioned agitation and can occasionally be provoked into furious outbursts, especially now that she's been dredged up from hiding.

She's got a very complicated past with many fixer associations and syndicates alike, and her place of origin is a complete mystery, as is her real name and reason for why she's so averse to life in the City and disdainful of it's many rules. Whatever it is that caused her to be this way is what pushed her to craft the Nautilus, her beloved magnum opus made of various tech from all across the City. She originally intended to use the ship to completely escape the City and it's rules, but due to mysterious circumstances that she refuses to speak on, the ship and much of it's crew have disappeared without a trace.

Her distinct habits include introducing herself to strangers by a wide variety of pseudonyms, a knowledge of many languages and codes, her general quietness unless something directly involves her input or expertise, smoking very particular cigars, and a strong dislike and surprising inability to remain impartial when matters of the impoverished people (especially children) of the Backstreets are involved.

As for actual gameplay, Her base ID does slashing Gloom and Pride, with some applying bleed count and others applying rupture potency. Her weapon, Nautile, is composed of three chakrams inlaid like an astrolabe, with the largest having a handle in the middle. It seats into a glove on her right hand, but can also connect to either side of a tactical harness she wears and can be hidden by her LC coat in case she doesn't need it ready! Her base E.G.O., Infini Vivant, is Wrath affinity and themed upon the electric ampoule-based gun Captain Nemo used to hunt underwater, and does piercing bleed damage and adds rupture count.

Although I like to think of scenarios where she would interact with canon sinners (she would have a preference for those like Ishmael and Meursault and a dislike of those like Outis and Hong Lu), she's more treated as a Sinner who exists in a noncanon smaller mobile unit dedicated to working with the LCD and handling things like Monoliths and Distortions.

[electric-plants]

listen sometimes i just think that when cyno heard alhaitham was going to be acting grand sage he immediately started begging and pleading to be able to go and personally rub it in azar’s face

[spiderin-space]

Lamb unfortunately was Not dainty in their escape 😔😩

(Feat. @paintpaintpaintman’s Petra in the third sketch)

[inkyucu]

Haha, I have finally gotten a new art device after years of annoyance from it!

I haven't really talked about this before too much (though I'm sure people have caught on), but I've had plenty of issues with my used-to-be current art tablet

But finally, I have a new device! (That fixed my MAIN issue with the previous

That being said, there's a lot of wip pictures that just.. Never got finished, or never will get finished

So this post includes both old and new wip that I was passionate about at the time, buuuuut never got to be finalized (I would put ALL of my wip pictures, but Tumblr has a limit on how many images you can have in one post....)

Some of these I'm sad never got finished, while others.... Not so much.

Sometimes it was a lack of motivation, other times it was frustrating me, and then occasionally is was just a change in art style

While it is kind of sad for me since this is what I've used my entire time on Tumblr, I'm glad at the same time

I would probably post this closer to new years, but I'm just going to post this now

Happy (Earlie) Holidays, everybody

[vacantgodling]

HE WHO SMITES THE SUN : Dori-Tsokhizhemasonen

CHAPTER 1: SANO'NYON KI MANYENYA (The Rain Dance)

The light of the bonfire was so bright, that even standing atop of the outside wall of their ancestral city, far removed from the center of their encampment where it blazed, Tsokhizhe could still see it. The flecks of stray warmth and light traced its paws against his dark skin, still drawing him into its orbit. The flames rose higher than they would ever dare at a normal pyre, but tonight was a special night, and so special exceptions were made. Every clan and tribe south of the Gingi’nga Nanmoso would be celebrating tonight; there would be no need to worry about an attack, safe within their wall with guards like Tsokhizhe to keep it. There was a mysticism in the air tonight—one that made the flame’s reds closer to oranges, and oranges closer to white; and the colors danced, interlocked and interwoven against the backdrop of the pitch black sky. Music and laughter fueled the mirthful, heady flame, up to the very heavens above where the Affinities, named and unnamed, lie; surely enjoying the spectacle. It was a celebration worth the ages, and then some, better yet than any they had before.

Yet, unsurprisingly, Tsokhizhe was purposefully left out of the festivities. While other guards may have traded posts with one another to each take their turn at the pyre, the dances, or the feast; he was not permitted; despite being the Khoda’s own eldest child. However, he was used to this. His mother, Khoda’nga Kori-Yadeno, approached him with quiet steps at his lone hut—sequestered away from the rest of the clan’s residential huts, or the nobles grand estates; hidden in the overcast of their city’s walls—just before dawn had risen that morning. Her face was hardened, yet there was no other expression he was used to from his mother. When she spoke, her words burned, with quiet disgust barely hidden on her tongue:

“You are to be stationed at the Eastern Gate tonight.”

Tsokhizhe quickly got out of bed, still in his sleep-dress, and knelt at her feet, his head bowed respectfully to the earth. “Yes, Khoda’nga.” He said, devoid of all inflection. It was hard to be hurt by something he already knew was coming. When he was a child and first took watch-duty during this festivity, he hadn’t understood why he was not allowed to join. But now, he knew, even if no one said. He knew it in the way that his parents avoided him, the way other Kori and Dori avoided him, how even those of the diminutive gender would not meet his eye when he walked past. Every meal he took alone, hunted by his own hand. Every mission he braved alone, only speaking to his father for duty and his mother for instruction; never an affectionate word or hand given to him. These sins he bore, and wore, not with pride but obligation. 

“Kori-Tsokhizhemasonen, do not disobey me.” His mother scolded. Even his name: She Who Smites The Sun, spoke of this great transgression of his: his very birth, under the most evil of all nights, and that omen of misfortune would forever follow him, to the rest of his days.

“You are to be alone and you are to stay away from the festivities. Do you understand this?” 

“Yes, Khoda’nga.” If Tsokhizhe could bow his head lower, he would. He could feel his mother’s steely gaze lie upon his back for a moment too long, then she finally turned on her bare heel, whisking herself away towards the main grounds. Still, out of a long borne habit, Tsokhizhe stayed that way, waiting until he no longer heard the pad of her feet against the ground before he allowed himself rise. 

The Eastern Gate was the furthest away from the festivities of the night. It is why, whenever they were short on guards, he was stationed here. Even the guards did not meet his eyes, and instead kept their gazes turned away towards their mounts, or their sword hands that always rested just so on their scabbards when he passed. They were ready to strike him down at a moment’s notice, he knew. But he did not bow his head in defeat, nor shame. He only bowed to his Khoda, and father, Dori-Darada’ngomakhadzonki—Chief, He Who is Master of Mounts; his mother, Khoda’nga Kori-Yadenomanyozhango—Chieftess, She Who Guards The Store; to his younger sister if their parents bore witness to an interaction; Kori-Chazomakenan’nyopinyi—She Who Breaks the Dying Season’s Song; and most of all to the power of the Affinities named, and unnamed, who lorded above all. He may be cursed, and he was not proud, but Tsokhizhe knew better than to show weakness. If his mother taught him anything, it was to bear your sins for they define you and it is folly to expect another to bear that burden in your stead.

Still, watch duty was Tsokhizhe’s least favorite occupation. He would rather be hunting—out in the far off fields away from the reminders of his misdeed and the ire of his betters. But kenan’nyo had fully set in now—the nights were long, and the frost had begun to pepper the ground with its kisses of chill. The store was full and there was no need to go out—only perhaps, for water runs. But even that had been circumvented by the canal that as of last year had been finally completed. Now, freshwater flowed through their ancestral streets, confining Tsokhizhe more and more to these walls of clay and mortar.

Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice the shadowy figure coming to approach him until a friendly hand tapped his shoulder. Tsokhizhe was long practiced in never startling—and he was thankful he hadn’t—the moment he recognized Yanyado, the shorter man was immediately throwing his arms around Tsokhizhe in a hug, a joyous cry of  “Sonenko!” leaving his lips. The momentary discomfort at the ko at the end of the fond name, did not stop Tsokhizhe from putting his arms around Yanyado in turn.

Yanyado—or, Yanyanagape’nyodo, Moon Crier— was his closest friend—only friend. And despite their friendship spanning for nearly two decades, Tsokhizhe still had never become accustomed to the affection that his friend handed out in doles. Yanyado was the only one who never besmirched him. Why Tsokhizhe never knew. But even if they were from totally different worlds—with Tsokhizhe being a Kori, and Yanyado being of a lower gender, nevermind the omen that hung about Tsokhizhe like a frightful, impenetrable cloak; he never seemed to mind this. Like the sun, Sonen, and the moon, Yanya, the two of them were inseparable and complementary, and despite his mother’s warning from this dawn, Tsokhizhe still found some part of himself happy to see him.

“How did you find me here?” Tsokhizhe asked when they pulled apart. 

“Your mother always stations you here when she does not wish for anyone to find you.” Yanyado’s voice was coy. “She is not as subtle as she thinks.” He said so conspiratorially, as though it were a lighthearted and playful secret between friends but instead a lump of basalt lodged itself in Tsokhizhe’s throat; he nodded along. “I see.” 

“Don’t look so sullen!” Yanyado lightly punched his shoulder. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” Tsokhizhe nodded, but he could tell that his expression must still be far away since a frown pulled over his friend’s features. “I know what will cheer you.” From the folds of his brightly colored parka, he pulled out a wrapped cloth. “Take it, take it!” He urged, holding it out to him. Eventually, when Yanyado did not pull his hand back, Tsokhizhe took the proffered parcel. It was warm to the touch, and the sweet smell of freshly cut herbs and flowers, rolled in sweet dough hit his nose. He had not eaten anything since sunrise, after his mother visited him and informed him of his disinvite, he charred one of the rabbits he felled the day before, gnawing on its grisel, then armed himself for the day’s activities—namely, to make himself scarce. His stomach growled, but still he could not bring himself to unwrap the parcel.

Yanyado noticed his hesitation. “I will be upset if you do not eat it. After all the work I put in to make it, I would hope you appreciate it, Sonenko.”

Something that could have been a smile tugged onto Tsokhizhe’s face, and he slowly unwrapped the cloth. “You made this?” Yanyado puffed his chest out, beaming. This made the traces of a smile that tried to bloom fully blossom on Tsokhizhe’s face. “My Yanyado does not know how to cook. Are you sure you aren’t a sopiro?”

Sopiros—fables told by parents to scare their children into behaving. People who denounced the order of things, such as the genders assigned to yokhe’nyo and kenan’nyo, who believed themselves mighty enough to hold even a speck of power that the Affinities wielded. Outsiders, hated by everyone, and shunned from all the Southern Tribes; forced to wander the wilderness unto the end of their days. Even if they warred amongst each other for resources, hunting routes, ancestral cities and land—they all agreed that sopiros were not to be trusted. 

Tsokhizhe himself, perhaps in another life, could’ve been a sopiro. He wondered it when he was small; and he heard snatches of stories around the campfire of those treated just as he. But try as he might, no otherworldly confidence came to him. No sparks of affinity flew from his fingertips or burned strong in his chest. And after the first time he was discovered and was beaten for it—he tried no more. It was then that Tsokhizhe learned that sopiros could not be feared; it was those who feared them who posed the real threat.

“Do you really think a sopiro could be so handsome as I?” Yanyado asked indignantly; but the jest was heard in his light tone. “But furthermore, I have the burns on my hands to prove my labor for you.” Yanyado held his hands out in the far off light of the bonfire, and even further light of yanya and the stars that attended it—there, on his forefinger and his thumb, Tsokhizhe saw the telltale angry welts from a few burns from a hot iron pan.

“Yanyado.” He tsked, but it was fond. “You ought to be more careful. For my sake.” He added when he noticed Yanyado’s mouth open to protest. He tucked the parcel of food underneath his arm to take Yanyado’s hand into his own. There wasn’t much he could do to heal the burns, but he did still rub them between his hands, the cooling of his skin hopefully a balm to heal it. Yanyado smiled—he was always smiling around Tsokhizhe. Tsokhizhe still hadn’t learned what fondness to his friend he held, but it did warm something broken in him. 

“For my sake, my burns will be for nothing if you don’t eat.” Yanyado reminded him. Tsokhizhe gently let go of his friend’s wrist, and finally took a bite from the doughy treat. It melted in his mouth and the taste of lemongrass and chamomile danced along his tongue. He hummed appreciatively, but before Yanyado could say more off in the distance, the songs began to grow louder, as though every voice in their clan were joining as one to cry out to the heavens their thunderous, joyous celebration. They both turned their heads. After a moment of listening, Yanyado’s eyes lit up, recognizing the melody.

“They must be doing the Sano’nyon Ki Manyenya.” Yanyado held out his hand invitingly, the beads of the colorful bracelet around his wrist jangling just as joyfully as the sound. Tsokhizhe… hesitated.

“I… do not know the steps.” He slowly admitted. 

“I know you do!” Yanyado replied. He didn’t wait for an answer and grabbed Tsokhizhe’s hand anyway. The wall was too narrow to do the dance properly, and Tsokhizhe really did mean it when he said he didn’t know it—at least, he didn’t know the ko part; the follow. They bounced together awkwardly trying to find the faint rhythm’s steps, and it was everything Tsokhizhe could do to try and keep with his do’s lead. Their hands were tangled awkwardly together; just as their feet marched arrhythmically in place. Tsokhizhe’s scimitar bounced at his hip and the jangle of the ties and beads of its scabbard just added to the confusion. At last Yanyado gave up and released him with a breathless laugh. 

“You have two left feet, Sonenko! I have not danced the steps that badly since my mother showed me how nearly a decade ago!” 

If his dark skin would allow him to blush, perhaps Tsokhizhe would’ve; but not of embarrassment but shame. The only part of the Rain Dance that he knew was the lead—the do. That is what he taught himself, observing from a closer wall station as a child; when he was yet too young to be fully left alone but still wholly excluded from the festival’s activities. He’d returned to his little far off hut at the end of the night and while all the tribe slept, whisper sang the words that had entranced him all evening until his voice went hoarse:

Ki yin nana ma’sen

I do not talk much

Ranmi renin ke petono’ni sikhona’nyo

But the rhythm knows my desires

Manyenya naro ke, ki’ngi da zhazhana

Watch me dance and I will show you

Nimon da soson da ki’ngi chon

If you leave I will follow

Nimon da kasachi pon ke, ki’ngi zhino dechi soson da

If you tell me to stay, I will never leave you alone

Nimon da sano’nyo ki’ngi yangipan

If you are water then I will drink it

Sano’nyon-ki’chi. Ki’ngi yangipan. Ki’ngi yangipan.

It’s raining. I will drink. I will drink.

“I’m sorry.” Tsokhizhe could hardly find it in himself to make his voice louder than a whisper. Even in his mirth, Yanyado was still attendant to his friend; a frown pulled down over his round, heart-shaped face, and he stepped into Tsokhizhe’s space, pushing his friend’s twisting blue locs away from his eyes.

“Old friend, you have nothing to apologize for!”

“You believed in me, and I failed.” It was childish, how much the thought of failing Yanyado hurt to admit—but Tsokhizhe admitted it anyway because he was not proud. He was honest. But Yanyado wouldn’t have it. He quickly reached for Tsokhizhe’s cheeks, squishing them together until Tsokhizhe tore his golden hazel eyes from the space between their shoes. 

“To not know is to partake in the joy of learning.” Yanyado was always wiser than his youthful face would suggest. He squished Tsokhizhe’s cheeks harder. “And anyway. If you wanted to dance the do part, why did you not tell me?” 

Tsokhizhe felt as naked as the day he was born. “Wh… Why would you assume that?”

“You didn’t deny it, no?” Yanyado smiled cheekily. “And anyway, we kept messing up because you stepped the same ways that I was. I hop right, and you hop right with me. You must know enough of the dance to know do hops right, unless you knew not at all, where perhaps you would only stare at me.” 

“I would not stare.” Tsokhizhe sputtered.

“You stare during every other festival that I have seen!” 

“And when have you seen me during other festivals?” Tsokhizhe countered—a fair question. Now it was Yanyado’s turn to look bashful, but it too seemed borne out of shame rather than embarrassment. 

“I have sought you out, on occasion.”

“Perhaps?” Tsokhizhe asked, and Yanyado nodded, confirming it. “Why have you not approached me until now?”

“Our Khoda—”

“I understand.” Tsokhizhe didn’t want to hear anymore. Tomorrow would still come, and he would face it as he had faced any other day.

“Would you like to try leading me?”

“I would not want you to disgrace yourself.” Tsokhizhe grunted. The music from the pyre had finally died down, and with it, the flames, as their stokers departed, perhaps to the awaiting feast. The warm glow that touched and glimmered on every far off rock and blade of grass outside of their ancestral walls, was now bathed in the serene light of yanya. It was too dark for Tsokhizhe to see Yanyado’s expression.

“You are above me, Kori-Tsokhizhemasonen.” Tsokhizhe winced when Yanyado used his full name—even if it were true. “That I should lead you at all is not fair to you. Ki’ngi chon da.” I follow you.

Tsokhizhe pulled away from his friend, turning his back to both him, and their city. He looked out into the night; willed it to swallow him. “The feast has begun, and I would not wish you to miss your meal.” 

“Just one verse.” Yanyado held out his hands again, palms flat and inviting. But Tsokhizhe did not turn back to his friend; he was not weak. He crossed his arms over his chest until Yanyado finally sighed and began his descent down the wall—back to the rest of the clan, where he belonged. Tsokhizhe belonged here. Guarding him. Them. From those like him, who would expect others to bear their burden.

[piningpercussionist]

transfem scott getting lots of support from ramona and kim in the early 2000's when shit's very taboo but they all 3 have a fire forged bond and lord if they aren't going to make sure they're all as happy as they can be because they've come this far and I dunno it just makes me happy all three of them

YES YES YES

It makes me very happy as well,,

Like I've said before. General Trans Scott enthusiast here- I love the idea of their little support network *violent coughing* I (we?) mean polycule *violent coughing* so fucking much.

Ramona I think has a bit of a more gentle hand with reassuring Scott with gender issues, but sometimes she just can't help herself from some pointed banter or teasing- how could you with someone so dense? (Said w affection)

And then Kim I think is more blunt. But like, in a good way mostly, you know? The kinda blunt that makes you snap to attention and go "Oh. Yeah that was silly of me." And if Ramona's started some sort of banter? Kim is SO piling on. Maybe sometimes she's a bit TOO blunt with it- but it's only because she's so firm in her support. She wants Scott to Get It Together- and be happier for it. So if some ribbing now and again is in order, then goddamnit she will do so! Anything to crack that shell.

And ohhh can you imagine how they would react to some transphobic bullshit?? Unholy terror would be driven into the offender before they walk off with an absurd amount of coins between them. I can feel it in my bones. Scott doesn't even have to lift a finger (if the transphobe is even noticed/processed at all, bc I honestly can see Scott just. Not realizing someone's being transphobic.) Kim giving someone a lashing with her tongue as distraction and then Ramona coming in with the hammer- BAM! Free Money! Paying literally with your life for your transphobia. A Better And Just World.

And of course (transfem Scott more specifically, here,) the way Scott would start to flourish under their support... cagey and maybe a little (perhaps a lot-) resistant to start- but Kim's blunt affirmations and no nonsense attitude for bullshit (which is what Scott insisting on "being cis" would be, c'mon now,) and Ramona's also low bullshit tolerance but less Stabby (bc I won't lie, that's probably how Kim's comments would feel,) assurances? Ough... My Heart... Be Still-

I would Kill for them, Your Honor-

(Ran out of tags so putting this in the body of the post- I am SO tired someone pls sound off if this isn't as coherent as I am hoping this is. I WAS trying to nap and get the extra sleep I desperately needed but the writing bug... it Bit Me.... only a little but enough to stop that process-)

[the-sparkling-diamond-satine]

texture chapter 2 PLEEEK

WIP Ask Game! tw: ableism

At first the itchy shirt had merely felt bothersome but by the time they’d made it to the church it was utterly intolerable. Without even choosing to do it Christian had found himself face down in the church’s front lawn, kicking and screaming like a toddler having a tantrum. When it had passed he’d felt so horribly embarrassed and still unable to articulate what he was feeling. His parents had called him all sorts of names, utterly humiliated by his behavior. “No one believed me, of course,” Christian continues. “They still don’t. It isn’t something anyone can see so they don’t—they think I’ve made it all up or I’m being dramatic or—” Satine’s hand enters his line of sight, reaching for him but stopping halfway there as if she’s unsure whether or not Christian wants to be touched. Christian takes it in his own. “I believe you,” Satine says, and Christian looks up, able to tell by the look in her eyes that she means it. “I don’t have to see it,” she continues, placing her other hand over Christian’s, warmly squeezing his hand between both of her own. “You’ve told me it’s so and that’s enough. I believe you, Christian.”

[jdorian]

Snippet Sunday ☔️

I was tagged by @daffi-990 @wikiangela @fortheloveofbuddie @disasterbuckdiaz @exhuastedpigeon @eddiebabygirldiaz and @jeeyuns MWUAHH 💛

Mm I finally got over that slump in the mudslide fic that was giving me a headache and I was hoping to get to 45k today but I was busy editing pictures all day and didn't really get a chance to write.

Anyway, this part is from yesterday and it's still pretty raw, but if you couldn't tell they are disgustingly domestic and just totally gone on each other... losers. 🫶

After dinner, Eddie put Christopher to bed, taking him twice the time as it usually would, the kid asking for another and another story until he couldn’t even keep his eyes open. Buck listened to the tales from the living room, his head resting on the back of the couch and his eyes closed, letting Eddie’s hushed words wash over him; he never really got the voices quite right, only changing the pitch of his own voice enough to make it clear that he was trying, but never really allowing himself to get fully lost in the silliness of it all, unlike Buck, as Chris would remind him every now and again.

Still, despite continuously raising complaints about it, the kid loved to listen to him read — and Buck couldn’t blame him one bit. Eddie’s voice was deep and mellow, like syrupy resin running down the side of a splintery bark of a tree and Buck could’ve listened to it forever, if given the chance.

“Hey.” The voice came from much closer this time and Buck opened his eyes — only to realize that he had closed them in the first place.

“Oh uh, sorry, did- nm did you say something?” He blinked up at Eddie, grunting quietly as he slowly took in the blinking lights of the TV washing over Eddie’s body, drenching half of it in light and the other half into darkness.

“No.” Eddie smirked down at him with obvious amusement. “Long day, huh?” He asked as he walked around the couch, letting his knee brush against Buck’s before dropping down beside him.

“Something like that.” Buck hummed and without lifting his head away from the couch, he turned to look at Eddie. His face was illuminated by the ever-shifting lights of the screen, painting the entire living room into a cavalcade of colors, only leaving the corners to sulk in mysterious darkness. “Hey.”

Eddie looked back at him, shifting a little to mirror his position. “Hey.”

“Are you okay?”

[charmwasjess]

yesssss please "welcome" for the WIP guessing game :D

Okay, this is hilarious: both you and @purple-ant (who chose "spoon") picked words that appear only ONCE in my billions of drafts, and it's the same small section of Twelve Months to Murder Count Dooku, the upcoming chapter "Lost One." So I'll answer you both with a snip of the scene. “No!” Kenobi lifted his elegant hands, palms flat, fingers pointing up in some motion of disarming. “Yoda wanted you both to know that you would always be welcomed home, but no, I don’t think that…” 

“If you’re lying to me to get to Dooku, we’re going to have a problem, I don't care whose Padawan you were.” Sifo-Dyas didn’t have a lightsaber anymore, but he gestured with his spoon. “You…you had better not be lying.” 

Obi-Wan raised his eyebrows. He actually looked a little bit interested instead of threatened. “You’re a Master of Soresu.” 

“I was,” Sifo-Dyas admitted, returning the spoon to the soup and giving it a stir. “Once.” 

“And… and of cooking?” The younger Jedi’s eyes followed the path of the spoon. 

“I like to cook.” Sifo-Dyas leveled his dark eyes at the younger man with as much menace as he could summon at the moment. “You have a problem with that?”