#this was mostly just caricature practice

[etchif]

luke skywalkerrrrr

[revelboo]

You're feeding my Starscream addiction 😂😂 but I love your writing! Good job and keep at it for as long as your able/want to!! 💕

Everything is Alright Pt 11

• You stare up at him as he shakes the data pad at you in threat. Like it’s a rolled up newspaper and you’re a naughty puppy. Not that he’s going to smack you with it. You’re familiar enough with him to know it’s all bluster. Even if you’re not sure if you want to laugh or if you should be insulted. In your defense, he’d left it on the desk with you. What had he expected? You’d gotten bored and he never bothered to tell you not to touch it. So it’s actually his fault. “You scribbled all over my reports? What is this? Is this supposed to be me?” He demands, wings stiffly up and practically vibrating in annoyance and offense. Oh, he’s insulted by your little caricatures.

• After being stuck with him this long, your arsenal of weapons is mostly playing dumb or catering to that ego of his. “Sorry, I wanted to capture your magnificence, but I’m not much of an artist,” you say shrugging weakly, doing your best innocent puppy eyes. “I just wanted to surprise you.”

• He’s silent, staring at the crude doodles, but his wings droop slightly. And you know he wants to be mad. Is probably wondering why the hell you drew him with shark teeth- absolutely for your amusement. But he just can’t deal with puppy eyes. Something you’re willing to milk if it gets you out of trouble. “Yes, well,” he mutters falteringly. “Don’t draw on my reports.”

• You’re staring up at him with those big eyes and it’s doing uncomfortable things to his spark. That look makes him want to scoop you up and hold you. Certainly makes it impossible to reprimand you. And the drawings aren’t that awful. Well. You’d tried anyway. Venting he reaches to use a servo to tip your chin up. Had you really meant this as a present for him? A gift? You grab onto his servo, smiling at him and it undoes him so quickly it’s frightening. He shouldn’t care about such a silly thing, but he runs his servo affectionately over your cheek. “I’ll see about requisitioning an old data pad for you to make your art on.” Because he wants you happy. Wants you to keep smiling for him and that need is almost frightening.

• When did keeping one little human happy become so important to him? And it is, because he’s not alone. That feeling is something he’ll do anything to protect. Anything.

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[txttletale]

genuine question--would you mind clarifying why the use of trans lesbian is bad in reference to a trans person who is a lesbian? am i missing some context? i tried googling but i got mostly just a lot of vile garbage. nw if you're done talking about this topic, that is understandable. have a nice day (saluting emoji which i dont have but please imagine it here)

sure. 'trans lesbian' is, like, a compound word that means specifically 'a trans woman who is a lesbian', and not just 'someone who is trans and a lesbian', in the same way that idk a 'little finger' isn't just 'a finger that is small'. & obviously i am all for recognizing that labels are just labels, that words are not the things themselves, but 1. this is not, like, some weird backformation or super restrictive definition that people make up to mean arguments, it's how that word is used in common practice by queer orgs, media outlets, the UN, and 2. i think that there is context here that makes it pretty important to be extremely clear about who is and isn't a trans lesbian in this sense.

the context is that trans lesbians (ie, trans women, who are lesbians) are like at the center of the hurricane of transphobia across the world right now. ray blanchard, the fucking pioneer of modern pseudoscientific transmisogyny, specifically singles out the 'autogynophiles' (as opposed to the 'homosexual transsexuals, who are trans women attracted to men') as dangerous perverts. TERF's most hateful transmisogynistic caricatures and canards of trans women as dangerous sexual predators who are threat to Women's Spaces are implicitly about the Trans Lesbian. it's a term that sent the entire transphobia industrial complex into overdrive when it was used in some UN org's tweet:

these headlines are not about Trans people who are also Lesbians--both these articles are filled with all the usual bile about how trans women are really sexually predatory men who want to infilitrate womanhood. neither of the people writing these articles would like leslie feinberg for sure, but they also wouldn't think of hir as a Dangerous Predator Infilitrationg Women's Spaces. & so when the trans lesbian is the fucking like cultural boogeyman that politicians are determined to performatively target and punish, i think that using that language to describe people who aren't transfem is diluting our ability to talk about this kind of transmisogyny.

& i mean like, this is not just an abstract concern, right, because the instant that i initially took issue with was someone essentially saying 'wow, why do you think that people who obsess over SBB specifically and The 80s more generally as the end-all be-all of Queerness and Lesbianhood tend towards a transmisogynist view of thoes things when leslie feinberg is literally a trans lesbian.' like it is explictly and obviously a rhetorical sleight of hand which is why i treated that ask with the contempt it deserved.

[gleafer]

You've probably been asked this before-- but how did you learn to draw like that? It's incredible, your likenesses especially. Amazes me every time I check your page. I know the answer is probably mostly Time and then More Time, but is there anything in particular that you think helped? Timed sketches? A certain way of doing studies? Any book recommendations?

*Runs through wall a la Kool Aid Man to answer this question because HOLY HELL DO ARTISTS LIKE TALKING ABOUT THEMSELVES*

Ahem!

Well! The very best, yet worst, but really best thing I’ve ever done to get good at drawing facial expressions was to do three military tours…er…summer seasons at Great America as a caricature artist!

Nothing will give you the practice needed to up your skillset quite like drawing for 13 hours straight while being heckled by large groups of overly sugared, vicious teenagers for 12 weeks in sweltering summer heat.

YOU SUUUUUUCK! Became my battle cry instead of inner monologue of art student sadness.

Thick skin grew, as did my ability to draw likenesses and expressions. (Granted most of the expressions I drew were of boyfriend’s faces all stupidly sappy, ogling their girlfriend who were drawn extra sassy with obnoxious eyelashes. But that’s just how you do with caricatures.)

Anywho!

I’m not saying you have to go join a traveling circus of caricature artists to test your artist’s metal (though it wouldn’t hurt and you’ll have a bounty of bizarre stories for the grandkids when alls said and done!)

However, practicing everyday, while pushing comfort levels and being brave with your lines, will improve your art/illustrations.

And if you think having groups of teenagers making fun of your art, loudly hinting your fashion sense is severely lacking and “DID YOU EVEN ART SCHOOL??” while sticky, little kids swarm into your personal space to the point of almost crawling into your mouth as their parents wander off to the beer garden would actually help you, Great America is always hiring…

for fresh SOULS!

🎶just keep drawing! Just keep drawing!🎶-Dori, probably

[girl-next-door-writes]

Between the Stacks

Characters: George Weasley x reader

Summary: Snow falls softly at Hogwarts, but George Weasley’s mischief sparks warmth in the library—and maybe, something more.

Word Count: 1247 words

Prompts: Library. Mutual pining. A hug that lingers.

A/N: A lovely sweet anon requested this one, so I hope you see it. I have missed writing my favourite Weasley.

The library was quiet, the soft rustle of pages and the occasional scratch of a quill the only sounds breaking the stillness. Snow fell softly against the windows, casting shifting patterns of light on the stone walls. Christmas was just a week away, and most of the students had already left for the holidays, leaving the Hogwarts library eerily empty. You had told yourself you stayed back for the quiet. The peace. But the truth was, the silence felt heavier than you’d expected, wrapping around you like a too-tight scarf.

“You’re staring at that book like it insulted your gran,” a familiar voice broke your concentration, and your heart did a little flip. George Weasley slid into the chair across from you, his signature mischievous grin firmly in place.

“Maybe it did,” you quipped, snapping the book shut. “I’m not entirely convinced Potions theory isn’t some form of cruel punishment.”

George chuckled, leaning back in his chair, and you couldn’t help but admire the way the firelight turned his hair into copper and gold. He was always so at ease, like the world bent just slightly to accommodate him.

“What are you still doing here, anyway? I thought you’d have escaped this place by now.”

“I could ask you the same thing,” you countered, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugged, an easy motion that somehow felt practiced. “Fred and I thought we’d stick around. Fewer teachers means more room for…creative experimentation.”

“Ah, I see. And by ‘creative experimentation,’ you mean causing as much chaos as possible?”

“Precisely.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and for a moment, his grin softened into something thoughtful. “But what about you? Why spend your holidays buried in books when you could be…I don’t know, having fun?”

You hesitated, twirling your quill between your fingers. The truth was, you’d stayed back partly because you enjoyed the quiet, but mostly because of him. George. His laugh, his jokes, the way he made everything seem brighter. Not that you’d ever admit it.

“Maybe I like the quiet,” you said finally, glancing away to hide the heat rising to your cheeks. “It’s…peaceful.”

“Fair enough,” he said, though there was a glint of something knowing in his eyes. “But don’t you ever get lonely?”

“Not when I have people like you interrupting me,” you teased, grateful for the shift in tone.

He laughed, the sound warm and rich, shattering the stillness of the library. For a moment, the cold stone walls seemed to fall away, and all that was left was him.

Over the next few days, George seemed to pop up wherever you went. In the Great Hall during meals, he’d slide into the seat beside you with a cheeky comment about your “intense focus” on your soup. In the common room, he’d swipe your parchment to doodle absurd caricatures of Snape, complete with a crooked nose and bat wings. And in the library, he’d appear from behind the stacks, always with a joke or a story that left you laughing despite yourself.

“You know,” he said one evening, as you both sat in the library again, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me.”

“Avoiding you?” you repeated, feigning innocence as you turned a page in your book. “Why on earth would I do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, leaning back in his chair and tapping a finger to his chin, the picture of mock seriousness. “Maybe because you’re worried you’ll fall madly in love with me.”

You rolled your eyes, though your heart raced. “Please. I think I’ll manage.”

“Suit yourself,” he said with a wink. But his grin faltered—just for a second, the smallest crack in his usual bravado. His eyes lingered on you, softening in a way that made your stomach twist, before he quickly glanced away.

It wasn’t until the evening before Christmas Eve that things came to a head. You were alone in the library, the faint strains of carols drifting from the enchanted suits of armor in the corridors. The fireplace crackled softly, casting long shadows across the rows of books, and snow tapped gently against the frosted windows. The quiet was almost soothing, and you’d been lost in thought when you heard footsteps behind you.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually studying so close to Christmas,” George’s voice rang out, tinged with mock horror.

You turned, startled, to find him standing there, a box wrapped in red and gold paper in his hands. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, and there was a certain nervousness in the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“What’s that?” you asked, eyeing the package.

“A present,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “For you.”

“For me?” You blinked, surprised. “Why?”

“Why not?” he said with a shrug, though his grin was unusually subdued. He stepped closer and set the box carefully on the table. “Go on, open it.”

Your fingers brushed the crisp paper as you peeled it back, the firelight reflecting off the gold paper. Inside was a small, intricately carved wooden box. You lifted the lid to reveal a quill, its handle engraved with your initials and the crest of your house. The silver feathers shimmered faintly, catching the glow of the fire.

“George…” you began, your voice catching. You ran your fingers over the smooth handle, marveling at the detail. “This is beautiful. Thank you.”

“I thought you could use something special for all those notes you’re always scribbling,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck and avoiding your gaze. “Figured it might make studying a bit less miserable.”

“It’s perfect,” you said, looking up at him, your chest tightening. “Really. Thank you.”

He grinned, but this time there was a softness to it, a vulnerability that made your heart ache.

“You know,” he said after a moment, his tone quieter, “I wasn’t entirely honest earlier.”

“About what?” you asked, though your pulse quickened.

“Why I stayed for the holidays,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the floor. His hand drifted to the edge of the table, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on the wood.

Your breath caught. “Why did you?”

He looked up then, his brown eyes meeting yours with an openness that made your stomach flip. “Because I… I didn’t want to spend so much time away from you.”

The words hung in the air between you, soft and tentative, like snowflakes that might melt if you moved too suddenly. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, before you could think twice, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. He froze for a heartbeat, then pulled you close, his hold firm and warm and lingering just a little too long to be purely friendly.

“You’re an idiot,” you murmured against his shoulder, though your tone was affectionate. “But thank you.”

His breath was warm against your hair. “For what?”

“For staying,” you said softly, tightening your hold for just a moment longer.

When you finally pulled back, his hands lingered on your arms, his touch warm despite the chill in the air.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, his gaze locked on yours.

“Merry Christmas, George,” you replied, a smile tugging at your lips.

And as the snow continued to fall outside, you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something wonderful.

[hey-august]

Word count: Just under 1k Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, buggy x GN!reader, no use of Y/N, mentions of masturbation, sex, and oral.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Buggy who is surprisingly good at drawing.

Buggy who doodles all the time. Ugly little caricatures of people who piss him off. Goofy scribbles of bits that make him laugh. Potential skits. 

Buggy who scrawls on the margins of paper, the corner of napkins, anywhere he can relieve the itch in his hands.

Buggy who designs costumes for his crew. Colored pencils and oil pastels bring the flashy couture to life.

Buggy who carries a small sketchbook in his coat. Deckle edged paper wrapped in leather, perfect for practicing pencil sketches and graphite drawings as he observes the crew.

Buggy who doesn’t share the drawings in his sketchbook, though. Some had to learn the hard way not to look over his shoulder.

Buggy who realizes too late that you are overtaking his personal pages. What started as small forms to study pose and movement grew larger, capturing more of your essence.

Buggy who becomes obsessed with capturing the small details. How your nose crinkles when you laugh. The sneer in your lips when you’re pissed. The way you rake your fingers through your hair when you try to calm yourself.

Buggy who gets curious late one night. Curious and desperate.

Buggy who draws you from memory and fueled by his filthy imagination. The soft sound of pencil scraping along the paper is comforting.

Buggy who fills a page with you in compromising positions. The lewd expressions you might wear. What he thinks you’d look like split on his cock. Or mouth open, begging to have your face fucked. His hands gripping your plush thighs.

Buggy who fucks himself to the hand-drawn porn and cums all over the page.

Buggy who feels guilty and burns the soggy drawings, as best he can. It takes a few frustrating tries and he panics, even though no one is around.

Buggy who tries to ignore those feelings. Trying to draw anything except you. But everything looks like shit now. Proportions are off. He presses too hard when sketching, unable to erase the stark lines. Even his doodles lack life.

Buggy who gives in and scribbles you in the corner of his sketchbook before moving on to something else. And it works. His movements flow better. A weight is lifted off his chest.

Buggy who eventually caves to the nighttime muse once more. Filling another perverted page with the obscene images flooding his mind. This time, he doesn’t ruin the drawings with jizz or fire.

Buggy who revisits that page frequently. Adds to that page. Convinces himself that it’s okay, it’s not hurting anyone. In fact, it helps him by taking away other urges.

Buggy who eventually manages to misplace his sketchbook. He fucking lost it.

Buggy who doesn’t want to bring attention to his lost treasure. If he says it’s missing, some freaks might find it and look through the pages. They’ll realize what a pathetic loser he is.

Buggy who frantically retraces his footsteps, barking orders to keep everyone away from him. 

Buggy who finally finds it in the hallway just outside his room. The book must have fallen out of his pocket and laid mostly out of sight with the brown leather blending into the wooden floor.

Buggy who is relieved. It doesn’t look like the book had been touched or moved. Even the leather string is still wound around the sketchbook tightly.

Buggy who needs to get back to other duties after sloughing them off most of the day. He’s still on edge, reading into everyone’s interactions. No one acts differently, adding to the relief that no one knows about his perversions.

Buggy who doesn’t open the sketchbook until the end of a very long day. Who waits until he’s alone and in his room.

Buggy whose stomach lurches at the note peeking out of one of the pages. A page devoted to your smile. A note with your handwriting. “This is so impressive! I look so happy”

Buggy who slams the sketchbook shut and starts to pace around the room. Fuck. Did you find it first? Did you look through it? Why? What else did you see? What else did you see?

Buggy who freezes at the thought. Who stares at the awful book, as if it would pipe up and tell him in a fluttery voice.

Buggy who grabs the book and roughly throws it into a drawer, ready to lock up his feelings. Ready to deal with his unhealthy actions with more unhealthy actions.

Buggy who tries to go to bed but can’t sleep. He lays in bed surrounded by a carousel of thoughts. Of fear. And anxiety.

Buggy who sends over a hand to retrieve the damn book. He has to know. He’ll die if he doesn’t find out.

Buggy who can feel his hands shake with each heartbeat as he thumbs through the book, looking for more notes.

Buggy who feels both calmed and excited as he finds your commentary on a few more innocuous pages. Praises for his skill and appreciation for scenes he captured.

Buggy who finally flips to the page. That one.

Buggy who’s afraid to read the note you left there. But he does. “Want to collaborate one day?”

Buggy whose stomach and heart are in knots. 

Buggy who keeps reading. “I’d like to see what you look like too.”

Buggy who shows up at your door, panting and red faced. Sketchbook in hand.

Buggy who trails his fingers along your face as he fucks into you, commiting each detail to memory. The shape of your mouth with each moan. Your lust-filled eyes. The little teeth marks left after you bite your lips.

Buggy who can’t help but stare at your sex-tired body. Chest heaving. Glistening.

Buggy who still wants to taste you. To taste himself on you. Who uses his mouth and tongue to memorize more of your body.

Buggy who is surprisingly good at drawing and collaborating.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

A/N: Just want to highlight this line bc I love it "This time, he doesn’t ruin the drawings with jizz or fire."

[rel124c41]

NOW PLAYING ‘EVERYBODY LOVES A CLOWN’ BY GARY LEWIS & THE PLAYBOYS. floyd leech

The truest mark of a jester is not in his ability to make others laugh, but in his capacity to find humor in his own pain.

tags: unrequited love, hurt no comfort, character study, friendship, wishful thinking, angst, floyd is in his stańczyk era, complicated relationships

word count: 2,282

The game is in the first quarter. There are twelve minutes on the clock.

Floyd does not know where to start his confession to you.

As he plays, he tries to come up with ideas of love confessions: a dance, a letter, a bite, or a gentle touch? Planning however puts a damper on the sweetness of what should be a romantic fantasy. Not that Floyd allows the turmoil to show, he plays perfectly. Each move of his is effortless, on the court and when playing with you.

He has been trying for a while to confess. Cowardness ties him up like seaweed.

If anyone were to rival Floyd’s energy, it would be you. You are eudaimonia incarnate. Flourishing with happiness and good spirit, you are a wonderful yet unexpected addition to Night Raven College. Where even Floyd falls into tepid moods of anger or sadness, you stay afloat. Somehow, someway, you are always happy.

Dribbling at practice, Crabby once joked that you were made of sugar, spice, and everything nice. Floyd yearns to know what a combination like that would taste on his tongue in a mating bite, sealing you two in marriage.

The Coral Sea is a triptych of shadow black, unwelcoming black, and cold black. You jump into his world, exploding with the color your soul carries. Through grimacing eyesight, he watches the gaiety of you bounce around even if it is blinding. You are the pinkest of pinks. You are the brightest orange that would rival sunkist shrimps. You are as yellow as the sun or a sky of stars, all consuming.

If shooting stars could fall into anyone’s eyes, they would fall into yours. Making little homes of fluctuating solar energy and the thumping glow of hydrogen and helium. The only eyes worthy of having stars in them.

He can feel the heat of those blazing stars on his neck as Sea Snake passes the basketball to him at midcourt line.

You sit in the bleachers with a handmade poster in your hands. To keep himself happy, Floyd deludes himself with the image of you making it alone. Without anyone handing you certain markers or glue for the glitter, you wrote WIN WIN WIN FLOYD in big, bubble letters for him and him alone. In his mind, you did not ask for the green colored pencil from anyone’s hand to shade in the caricature eel’s skin and you did not hyena-laugh when you accidentally got glitter on someone’s cheek or clothes.

The delusion of a reality where you only think about him 24/7 is sugar, spice, and everything nice. That is eudaimonia.

When Floyd scores twice in the first quarter with the aid of Sea Snake, you raise that poster up. Cheers from you are whole-hearted and never half-assed, you put everything into rallying encouragement you hope reaches and motivates Floyd.

You could frown and it would still motivate him.

When he scores for the third time, there are no vocal cheers shining down from the bleachers. Looking at the sea of unimportant guppies, he finds the reason your lips are silent. You are sharing a kiss with Jade, just two short pecks. Something you definitely initiated as Jade is timid with affection.

As he turns back to the court, Floyd imagines his confession would go like this:

“I love ya, Shrimpy.”

You laugh, almost falling off your seat, and say with a happy grin, “That’s a good one, Floyd. Tell another joke!”

The game is in the second quarter. There are twelve minutes on the clock.

Floyd is a clownfish of an eel. Not entirely like Crabby or Sea Otter, but Floyd has been marked as a class clown enough. Loud and boisterous, he is a presence that fertilizes laughter and amusement with ease. Perhaps the amusement is only shared by him, Jade, and Azul mostly, but it is still a jester’s position he has fallen into.

Nothing he says is ever taken seriously unless his words are threats. Unlike Jade, whose words are always heeded and who is taken seriously as a plague.

Floyd can be serious too though! Him and Jade are cut from the same cloth. Why can’t you see the other side of him? Why can’t your bright star eyes comprehend him as something more than a joking jester?

For a while, Floyd was content in that position. Jingling bells, stomping around in oversized shoes, falling over himself to fish that melodious laughter out of your throat. And then one of Jade’s mushroom puns got you snort in the midst of stomach deep laughter. Since then, no matter how many more quarters he plays, Floyd knows he lost.

Pure laughter is pure love in many cultures. And he, trapped in that monk’s cowl and sea anglerfish bells costume, has failed to make you laugh in that same intensity.

As he dribbles and passes the basketball, blocks shots and runs across the court, Floyd unpurposely distracts himself with a vile memory:

A party in Ramshackle. Not as extravagant as Sea Otter’s but still entertaining. As always, Floyd was like a lamp for tiny moths to gather around. Despite his pendulum-ing emotions, his company is enjoyable.

One off stories and jokes were a jester’s speciality. Capturing the attention of your friends and his fellow second years, Floyd keeps the conversation light and draws laughs out of throats like the Sea Witch once did with the little mermaid’s voice. The corner of where he is in Ramshackle is usually the loudest, brimming with comedy. The kind that should have gotten you to come over and ask curious, “What’s so funny?”

Crabby would have dismissed you but Floyd would have reeled you right in. His little Shrimpy, snug under his protective arm, as he recounted another story.

You do not laugh.

You do not look.

You just do not care.

That fucking party in Ramshackle? You spent it giving Jade a tour around the place, showing him the garden you started in the backyard, and chatting with that magnetizing, permanent smile on your lips. Before you two even were dating.

Floyd knows he does not have your total attention. Your attention is always spread in too many directions in his opinion. But sometimes, he wants more than anything for just one period of twenty-four hours where all you think about is him.

You may hold a sign with his name on it but he is not your focus. Star eyes follow the basketball that bounces from player to player; you watch the game fully, but not him.

Who would ever want to see a crying clown?

The game is in the third quarter. There are twelve minutes on the clock.

And Floyd finds himself benched.

Coach pulls him out of the game when five minutes are left in the second quarter. Coach worries about that rapidly declining mood of his in the second quarter. It is a volatile, gambling choice but the Coach thinks it is the correct one. Better to have him refuel and get back into the swing of the game. “Have a Gatorade and take a minute, Leech. No need to dig yourself down.” Floyd doesn’t want to drink his passion fruit Gatorade, he wants a different drink and he wants a peppermint to crush between his sharp teeth.

Elbows on knees and head in hands, Floyd watches the red clock go down number by number. Anger pulses off him like smoke. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven. Fifty-six. Fifty-five. Stupid fucking Coach. Stupid fucking game. Stupid fucking Gatorade. Forty-nine. Forty –

“Peppermint for your thoughts?”

Stupid fucking Coach, Floyd thinks a second time. As is per tradition, if Floyd ever finds himself on the bench, call in Shrimpy. A small little crustacean that can reverse whirlpools back to sailable water and can make even the hungriest shark swim in the opposite direction of blood.

“It's a penny for ya thoughts,” Floyd grumbles into his hand.

“Nah, I don’t think so!” Is it possible to hear a smile in a voice? Because it feels like you speak in smiles; he imagines an alien language made by grins, one where no words like bad moods or anger exist. “Can’t eat a penny, can you?”

You take a seat by him on the bench. The space is left wide open because no one ever wants to risk being so close to the eel-mer when he is explosive with rage. When you sit, your shoulders bump together and from hip to shin, you two press against one another.

“So, the doctor is in. Doc. Shrimpy.”

Even when you are handing him something, his world minimizes down to the sight of your star eyes. The crunch of a peppermint wrapper in his hand is infinitesimal to the scorch of nuclear fusion and fire.

Still, he pops it in and relishes in the calming breakage of candy in his razor sharp teeth, replying, “I don’t know, just pissed I missed that shot.”

“Yeah, I saw that.” Liar. “I also saw you make two of the cleanest shots of the entire game in the first five minutes of the game.” Floyd hums instead of grumbling. It is the slightest, micro improvement but you still hammer on your past doctor-slash-therapist metaphor. “Say aaah for Doc. Shrimpy!”

This is the hardest part of being a clown. You do sweet, pseudo-romantic things with Floyd and never take it seriously. Everything between the two of you is shrouded under the blanket of comedy. There are zero feelings behind it. Even when you unknowingly partake in eel courtship (opening your mouth wide as you demonstrate your ‘aaah’), it is hollow and satire. And when you learn about his species’ courtship you will really only mean it with intent when you are with Jade.

“Aaah!”

Into his mouth, you pour a drink. His shoulders recoil at bit, premature disgust at the thought of tasting passion fruit which he is not in the mood to drink. Floyd is surprised when the drink starts to fizz in his mouth.

As he savors it, the carbonation and sourness a welcome burn in his throat, you smile and show him the drink you have on hand. “Shit’s good, right?” In front of him, you shake a monstrously bright pink and yellow can with the words Ghost on it. “Sour pink lemonade.”

You take the Ghost you just waterfall into Floyd’s mouth and down your own sip. Be careful, Shrimpy, Floyd thinks. Sharing food and drink is also a part of courtship.

“Gross, Shrimpy. You backwash?”

“Yeah, I did. How does loogie and lemonade taste?”

At that, Floyd snatches up the energy drink from your hands. He downs a much larger sip, going as far as to have some spill around the corner of his mouth. He takes the opportunity too to touch his lips on where yours once were.

Once he robs you of half your lemonade, Floyd brings his wrist to wipe his chin and grins wolfish, “My compliments to the chef! Think Azul’ll add it to the menu?”

You laugh just as Floyd was aiming for, all saccharine and lovely, and joke, “Oh my spit could make a fortune! I can see it now!”

“Shrimpy spit?”

“Oh my God, Shrimpy spit! It has alliteration!”

You two fall into each other, cackling and laughing at the stupidity. When your hair brushes his cheek, Floyd thinks of how easy it would be to find his lips falling to a place more forbidden than the metal rim of an energy drink can.

After you both stop laughing: “Ya gonna feed me some more, Shrimpy?”

“Hm, I don’t know. Mmm, how about this,” you grin, stretching out your sentences teasingly. “I have some takoyaki with your name up there on the bleachers. Jade and I made it yesterday. You can have the rest when you win this game!”

Your star eyes burn him. Floyd melts under their intensity.

The game is in the fourth quarter. There are twelve minutes on the clock.

Everybody loves a clown, so why don’t you?

Has he not been enough? Self-sacrificial to always keep you bright and laughing, giving you his own light, letting you bleed him dry until his skin is sandpaper and his bone rice. This constant fear that he should always try to keep you happy lies in his heart like a nematode worm.

His sugar, spice, and everything nice Shrimpy who does not belong to him.

Standing on the edge of the 3 point line, Floyd, despite his cowardice, sends out the last shot of the game.

The basketball glides across the rim like a ship caught in a whirlpool, once. Then a second time, it makes its circular route around the open mouth of victory, leaning capriciously. With a suicidal fall, the basketball falls to the right. It bounces double on the ground before rolling away out of Floyd’s reach. Over the white tape of the endline, the orange ball is now out of the court, signaling the end.

Though under typical circumstances that losing shot should usher him into despair, a smile grows on Floyd’s face. It is only broken when he starts to laugh, his own joy singular in the groans and moans of his teammates.

He turns towards the bleachers, knowing you are expecting a miserable frown; he waves happily at you when your worried eyes fall onto him. You are out of his court. But … eels mate for life which means … Floyd gets to keep you in his life, just a bit out of reach, as he dreams of your love, not knowin��� where to start.

The game ends in the fourth quarter. There are no minutes left.

[goblins-riddles-or-frocks]

who fit their character more? jessie as alina or ben as the darkling

also, do you think half shu alina was a good idea?

….Neither?

I don’t think either of them really understood their characters. But Ben Barnes was incredibly egregious and I already parasocially resent him for his acting choices lmao so I guess JML was the better fit. It’s relative however

JML’s performance was mostly fine. They had practically nothing to work with. The decision to make Alina into like a waifish introverted ingenue seemed to be more from the writer’s room. But it’s very telling that they said they had to (paraphrasing) invent a character for Alina because there was none! Not to mention that their take was 200% blander

Like JML’s Alina would never dress up as a racist caricature to sneak into a party, nearly kill herself on screen like twice in ten minutes, or be primarily immune to the Darkling’s “we are fated to be together forever” bullshit because her main priority is hanging out with her silly teen friends that she doesn’t even like very much. Instead you just get a very generic protagonist with very little going on internally. But there at least isn’t much that’s antithetical to how Alina functions as a character, unlike another performance!!

The Darkling being an elusive, aloof, vampire is absolutely integral to his character. I’ve said before, but I think he serves as a deconstruction of how predatory the previous era of paranormal romance trends can come across. It just doesn’t work if there’s zero engagement with that in his portrayal. And there was none! Ben Barnes has spoken a lot on record about how he was involved in trying to make him into a more grounded, real person, and I resent him and his ugly beard for that lol

Ben Barnes just played him as such a woobie. He kept tearing up at the drop of a hat. He was like screaming crying throwing up through that entire show. And he was just so bizarrely uncharismatic, even though I’ve seen him have some gravitas in other roles. Idk I just think it was bad writing, bad direction, bad performance

Anyway I thought Alina being half shu could work! I strongly believe it was a choice made to counter the constant thread of sinophobia in the series (Six of Crows…) And I like how that would tie into her feeling isolated and without real community, hoping the Grisha might be that for her, and then that imploding badly. It also added another element to the Darkling fundamentally not understanding her, and not caring to. It could’ve been a really interesting choice!

The problem is that the handling was very clumsy. The racism portrayed is very on the nose and punishing to sit through. I can respect that if it’s going somewhere, but then in S2 the writers presumably folded after the backlash, and completely dropped it as a plot thread. It disappearing like that makes the incredibly heavy handed racism portrayed in S1 feel so much more pointless and aggravating! It was just very poorly handled

[rapha-reads]

To those of you wondering (aka no one), I finished both The Vampire Armand and Merrick and I have a lot of thoughts and feels. I'm skipping Blood and Gold for now to go directly to Blackwood Farm (I'll read B&G later), but first I'm going to read something else, just to take a break.

TVA thoughts: man, Armand is messed up. And extremely compelling. But so messed up. As always, the theme of faith crisis, which seriously reaches new heights with these bitchy vampires, is not something I can fully immerse myself in, but it was fascinating to see his numerous metamorphosis. I liked how he bridges Western and Eastern Christianisme, especially through art. Now I'm thinking that if Rolin Jones makes him originally Muslim in the show, that could expand even more the conversation on how faith, and especially Abrahamic faith, has been in conversation for thousands of years and could be such a rich, diverse and spiritual, intellectual and artistic theme. I can already imagine some fascinating discussions comparing (not in a superior way but in a complementary way) coming from Muslim faith to Roman Catholic faith, the way book!Armand talks about the richness of his life in Kiev Rus despite the poverty and ascetism, and the richness of his life in Venecia despite the luxury and abundance.

As for Benamin and Sybille... I don't have much thoughts about them. Sybille is one of those female characters AR seemingly favors, not so much human as a nymph or a dryad, "perfectly splendid". And Benji is a caricature of an Arab child. Nuance? 401 not found.

Merrick thoughts: David for the love if everything, shut. The. Fuck. Up. Holy moly. I like David, I do, but damn the entire recollection of his history with Merrick was looooooong. I'm here to see Louis haunted by Claudia and haunting Lestat's coma, not how hard you're pining for the kid you practically raised! Also. ALSO. You're just going to leave that whole thing with the Olmec or possibly another more ancient Mesoamerican civilisation without ever giving us more? That was the most interesting part of it all! The vodoo history, the connection between Louisiana and Caribbean vodoo and old Native South-American religions! More about this, less about Merrick's perfect breasts, I am begging you. (It is at this point that the reader of this post realises OP is 100% definitely ace and more interested in books and witchcraft than breasts and whether a 70yo man can still get it up - also, hey, Anne Rice's vampires are practically asexual and their lust and pleasure is mostly derivated from blood, with some notable exceptions like Armand and Marius, and a love relationship between two vampires is then based on romantic love and blood sharing, so can I hear a hell yeah for some ace representation or are we still conflating eroticism with sex)

Another thing I kept thinking about throughout the book is how Louis is perceived by his fellow vampires. Since basically the second book, since we've lost his own POV, everybody who's ever said anything about him (so Lestat, Armand and David) have insisted on two points: how very weak and meek Louis is, and also how irresistible, beautiful and charming. Granted, I've known Louis first through his portrayal on the show (hi Jacob you're so fiiiiiiine), and then through his own narration in the first book, but I've never had the impression that he was weak. Beautiful and seductive, yes. Weak? I see a human man going through tragedies and still enduring, going through vampiric transformation and then suffering for decades the loss of his humanity, struggling with reconciliating both sides of himself, but mostly I see a vampire who rebuilt himself after losing everything without sacrificing his sense of self. I see Louis as very strong actually (up to the point where resilience breaks, because resilience cannot be sustained on a long term, but that's another debate). He knows who he is, and don't you know how hard that is? He doesn't cling to faith or pride. He knows he's doomed, he knows he's monstrous, he knows there's nothing he can do to change that, and instead of railing against his fate, he goes on about his undead life. He gets his books and he reads them, he surrounds himself with literature and what little comforts he thinks in his shattered self-esteem he deserves (his ragged sweaters and soft trousers); let's not lie to ourselves tho, Louis doesn't like himself, or more exactly he doesn't care about his corporeal body - what matters to him is his mind, and once again, this author is extremely ace and also very aro and very nonbinary, so Louis to me is very much ace and agender coded, though really not aro, because his love for Lestat (and sometimes his fondness, shall we say, for Armand) is the only thing that can rouse him up from his literary slumber.

...

Oh, man, I have a lot to say about Louis, for how little he appears in the books so far. Still have BF, BC and the PL trilogy to devour. So I guess you can say, for as much as Lestat is occupying my entire brain, very much like him, my favorite is Louis? Yeah, that tracks. Melancholy, quiet, dark-haired green-eyed monster with more humanity than humans, preferring his solitude and the company of books to anyone else, hopelessly and helplessly devoted to one person, expert in brooding and grieving, literature specialist, not very attached to his physical self. Yeah. I'm not surprised.

[winternightswren]

Of Lattes and Lab Rats- Chapter 10: The Party

(Wattpad version)

(Masterlist and TWs)

!!!!! TW: This chapter discusses topics of discrimination, alcoholism, unwanted sexual advances, sexual harassment, and spiked drinks. Please, please consider skipping this chapter if those things make you uncomfortable. !!!!!!!

"What do you think, Toffee? High heels or flats?"

Toffee licked at her paw, disinterested.

"Yeah, you're right. Flats are comfortable, but an event like this is once in a lifetime. I've gotta look good for him. High heels it is, then." 

You slipped on your shoes and took a moment to admire yourself in the mirror. You had tied your hair up into the fanciest updo you could think of- and manage to pull off without help. The dress you and Jayce had picked out together was absolutely stunning on you, as well.

It was a sparkling floor length gown, with a wide slit going up the thigh. It hugged your hips in a way that accentuated your curves quite nicely. The shimmering gemstone necklace you wore, and the dress's heart-shaped neckline, combined with the built in push-up bra, did wonders for your breasts. You almost felt like a caricature of a woman; someone you'd only seen in advertisements and illustrations. Your matching high heels added about two and a half inches to your height. You were used to wearing heels; but these were so dainty you thought they might snap and break your ankle if you took one wrong step.

From your ears tangled heavy gold chains, sparkling with polished aquamarine stones. You were practically glittering from head to toe; even your eyeshadow. You had planned your whole ensemble around the folding fan Jayce had bought for you the week prior- gold, salmon pink, aqua blue. Mostly, you wanted an excuse to use it in a public setting.

You huffed, pushing your palms against your face. You really were gorgeous; but you felt nothing like yourself. You wondered if you looked like the kind of women Jayce usually spent his time with. You hoped you wouldn't stand out too much-

No. You shook your head, willing your usual pessimism to go away. Tonight was supposed to be fun. You were going to that party to have a good time with your....hmm. Well, Jayce wasn't your boyfriend. You didn't think you had been seeing each other long enough to call him that. It had only been about two weeks since you met him. Lover felt more apt, given your sexual activities, but even that felt like too official a title. You were....friends, you supposed. Then again, friends didn't usually exchange kisses in public, or buy each other fancy dresses and exquisite jewelry...or fuck each other senseless. Sugar daddy crossed your mind for a moment, but that didn't feel right either. You weren't exchanging sexual favors for shopping sprees.

Alright then.

You were going to go to that party and have a lovely time with your friend, and meet new people and drink expensive alcohol and it was going to be fun, dammit. You took a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves. Suddenly, there was a sharp rap at the door. You stumbled over the piles of clutter littering your bedroom floor, wobbling through the living room, and finally opening the door. When you opened it, you found Jayce standing there; and you had a hard time keeping your jaw up off the ground.

He'd traded his usual button-up lab coat and heavy boots for a tailored three-piece suit and dress shoes. His broad shoulders filled out the white tailcoat nicely, accentuated with red and gold patches on either deltoid. He was freshly shaven, hair combed through, and his cologne wafted towards you. It was pleasant- like cherry and something wooden, mixed with the smell of a brand new book when you crack it open for the first time.

'Hey, you," he said through a grin. You collected yourself, fixing your posture.

"Hey, yourself." Your heart fluttered at the knowledge that your joke had become a familiar greeting between the two of you. "Um, I'm just about ready to go. Please, come in." You stepped aside to make room for entry, and he complied.

"Would you like something to drink?" You offered.

"No, thank you. There will be plenty of that soon enough," he chuckled. "You look positively radiant tonight, by the way." He took your hand, placing a tender kiss on your soft skin. You blushed at the gesture, the butterflies in your stomach fluttering about.

"Thank you. So do you. You look pretty good, when you're not covered in ash and grease," you teased.

"Hardy har har. Cmon, we're gonna be late if we don't hurry." He checked his watch, then furrowed his brows. Looking to your clock, then his watch gain, he backtracked. "Actually, never mind. If your clock is correct, then my watch is ten minutes fast. Which means," he stepped forwards, closing the gap between the two of you, "we might have time for a quickie, if you like." He leaned in for a kiss, his hand trailing down your arm- but you stopped him. His eyes widened, taken aback.

"I'm sorry," you cupped his face in your hands and kissed his cheek. "Not tonight, I'm afraid. I'm much too nervous. I don't think I would be able to focus." He pouted, and nuzzled his face in your neck.

"But mi cariñooo" he whined, "that gown looks so good on you. I just wanna take it ooofff."

You laughed at his contradiction and moved your hands to his shoulders, pushing him away. You wanted to get a good look at his face, study him for a moment. His eyes were such a pretty color. You wanted to get lost in them forever- but another thought occurred to you.

" 'mi cariño'? What does that mean?"

He hooked his thumb and forefinger around your chin, bringing your face closer to his. He didn't answer for a moment, only studying your face in return. "It's a term of endearment," he said finally. He pressed a kiss into your lips, and you relished in it for a moment. But you didn't stay there long; you grabbed his face again, pulling away.

"But what does it mean?" You insisted. You had an idea of the translation, but your knowledge of the language was rusty. Instead of giving you an answer, he kissed you again. You sighed into his mouth, feigning frustration. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and he slid his hands around your waist. Your kissing grew slightly more desperate; the physical contact you shared with him was both comforting and deeply arousing. He pressed his thigh into your groin, eliciting a moan from your mouth- but that gnawing feeling in your stomach persisted. You pulled away, breathless, trying to steady your heartbeat.

"We can't. I don't want to. Not right now. I'm...I'm sorry." His disappointment was evident, and you thought he was going to persist- but he didn't.

"Don't be sorry," he removed his leg from its spot. "I would never ask you to do something you weren't comfortable with." He squeezed your arm, trying to comfort you. "I won't try to initiate again, okay? You do it next time- when you're ready."  You nodded, swallowing.

'Okay. Thank you, Jayce." His expression softened, admiring you.

"Gods above, you really are beautiful."

You laughed, feeling bashful.

"Whatever, dork. I'll be right back." You flicked his shoulder and turned away to finish getting ready. You spritzed your favorite perfume on your neck and wrists, snagged the velvet bag from off your bed, and met Jayce back in the living room.

"Ready to go?" He asked. You took a shaky breath, willing the anxiety prickling at the edges of your mind to go away.

"Ready," you said. He opened the door for you and held out his arm for you to take- and you did. It felt more natural this time.

The two of you meandered up the street towards the academy. The party was being held on the rooftop. Jayce had said he was particularly excited about the view of the city from all the way up there.  As he prattled on about this and that, you found yourself spacing out. Your nerves were tingling, setting your skin alight with pins and needles. You tried to focus on the sound of his voice. On the wam summer breeze, the vivid sky under the setting sun. Piltover was truly beautiful at times like this. The gold and white buildings shimmered, almost reflecting the colors like a mirror.

Before long, you were standing on the frost steps of the main building, and Jayce held the door open for you. You curtsied as a joke, thanking him. As he led you towards an elevator, his expression changed- he looked nervous, hesitant. You frowned.

"Are you alright?"

He glanced down at you and opened his mouth, but no words came out. The elevator dinged and you stepped through the ornate gold doors.

"Jayce?"

He worried his lip, then finally spoke:

"Look, um...I don't want to be rude, or insensitive. But the people here...well, they're not as understanding as me." You blinked, flabbergasted.

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, it's just...I mean you should be careful. About how much you drink tonight." He winced. "I'm sorry, I'm trying to put this as delicately as I can. These people, uh...well they don't know about the kind of shit you trenchers go through."

You stared at him, a certain anger rising in your stomach.

"Trenchers," you said, trying to will away the venom in your voice. "I don't catch your meaning."

He took your hands, trying to calm you down. "I just mean that they wont be so forgiving of your drinking problem. They don't get it. So...try to rein it in tonight, okay?"

You snatched your hands back, scoffing. "Drinking problem? What are you talking about?"

Jayce went wide eyed, floundering. "I-"

The elevator dinged again, and the doors slid open before he could finish his sentence.

You glared at him as you stepped through the doors, and joined a line of people being checked in by security.

"You think I have a drinking problem? Just because I'm from the Undercity?" You whispered angrily, trying not to grab the attention of anybody else.

"No- I'm sorry, that's not what I-"

"Ah! Jayce Talis!" Your conversation was interrupted by a booming, pompous voice. You both turned to look for the source, and found a short, plump man with a round face and receding hairline. His mustache was curled upwards with wax, and he was dressed in a regal looking green and gold suit. He chuckled, and held out his hand for Jayce to take. "So good to see you again, my boy. And who's this lovely lady with you?"

He held out his hand for you as well, and when you took it, he kissed yours. The way his lips lingered on your knuckles, and the prolonged eye contact sent a gross shiver up your spine. You tried to hide it, and forced a pleasant smile on your face.

"Professor Cooper," Jayce said with poise, "This is...my friend."

You introduced yourself and took your hand back. "It's lovely to meet you, sir."

Professor Cooper stood up straight and fixed his jacket, chest puffed. "Jayce here used to be a student of mine," he said. "A real prodigy, that one. I think he's going to make huge strides in the progress of our great city." He clapped a hand on Jayce's back and laughed, loud and boisterously. His eyes slid over to someone else in line, and lit up with excitement. "Er- do excuse me, Jayce. My lady. Let's talk more inside." He turned away from you. "Helena! How are you?...."

You grimaced, and Jayce placed his hand on the small of your back. Your dress was cut low, leaving your skin exposed. His calloused fingers on your skin sent sparks shooting across your body- until you remembered your anger. Trencher, he said. You thought he was better than that. You hoped he was. You thought, with all his ambition to help people, and his care for lower class citizens, he would know not to use words like that. Trencher. You scoffed to yourself, blood beginning to boil.

Jayce glanced down at you, his shoulders tense. "Look," he whispered, "I'm really sorry. Please, let's just try to have a good time tonight, okay?"

You didn't meet his gaze. He was right; you were going to put on a pretty smile, and have a good time; he went to all the trouble of buying you a nice outfit and expensive jewels, after all. You could pretend to be a wealthy party animal for a night. But after this, you were certain you would have to reconsider your relationship with him. Trencher. The word rattled around in your brain like a rock stuck inside your shoe.

The line moved up, and Jayce handed his invitation to the enforcer posted at the door. He hardly gave it a glance, clearly bored, before he handed it back and waved you through. You crossed the threshold onto the rooftop, and gasped. People dressed in glimmering jewels and colorful fabrics were scattered about the space. Most of them were holding gold chalices, or tiny plates with even tinier hors d'oeuvres. A live band played smooth jazz in a far corner, and a few couples were swaying together on the dance floor. Tall, golden lanterns lined the railings along the sides of the building. And, Jayce was right; you really did have a beautiful view of the city from up here. And the weather was perfect; what view clouds that were in the sky were small, and fluffy, turned a soft lavender in the fading light of the sun. An open bar sat off to the side, with couches and chairs for people to lounge upon.

"I told you it would be be a nice view," Jayce said softly. He held out his arm for you again, and you almost thought about refusing it; but you took it anyway. He was the only person you knew here, and you didn't want to be left by yourself. "I think I see a few people I know over there. You mind if I say 'hello'?"

"Sure," you agreed. He led you towards the lounge, where a group of four people- including Viktor- stood chatting. Viktor was the first to see you to approaching, and raised a hand in greeting. The other three looked to see what he was looking at, and they all lit up at the sight of Jayce.

"Hey, guys!' He said, genuine cheer in his voice. "Um, this is my friend," he introduced you. Then to you, he said "These are my friends- Ellis, Felix, and Gideon. And, you've met Viktor already."

"Hello," you said, waving your hand sheepishly.

The five of them launched into conversation, talking excitedly as they caught up. You didn't have anything to add, so you stood at his side, observing them. Ellis was tall, lanky, and had a mop of black hair. He was dressed slightly more casual than the rest of them, wearing a plain button up shirt  with the sleeves rolled up, and slacks. Felix Was shorter, and more muscular. His golden blond hair was tied into a stubby ponytail at the base of his neck, and a scruffy beard decorated his face. Gideon was the tallest, but still nowhere near as tall as Jayce. A pair of round glasses were perched on his bird-like nose, and he kept pushing them up frequently- clearly ill-fitted. His hair was short, bright orange, and combed back with way too much hair gel. He looked greasy, almost. None of them were very attractive, you decided, and they all looked like textbook nerds. Which was fitting, you supposed.

Gideon snapped his fingers at a passing waiter, carrying a tray of snacks. Rude. He took one of the toothpicks, ladened with a piece of cheese, and...a tiny squid tentacle? Topsider cuisine was certainly different than what you were used to, you thought. You thought about grabbing one for yourself as well, but the waiter wandered off before you got your chance. You nursed your champagne instead, looking out over the city.

You were brought back to reality when Jayce guffawed, wrapping his arm around your shoulders.

"She really is a wonderful artist," He said. "I think it would look great in a gallery somewhere. You should see it- the way she utilizes color is stunning." You felt your face burn with the heat of embarrassment. You could tell he was being genuine, but you really didn't want to talk about yourself right now.

"That's kind of you, Jayce," you said.

"Really?" said Felix, taking a sip of his drink- something dark brown. "You don't get to meet many artists in a city like Piltover. Where did you study?"

"Oh...!" You floundered, trying to think of an answer. You didn't want to give any indication that you were broke, uneducated- that you didn't belong here. "Um, I studied under a former master. Uh, from Shurima." it wasn't technically a lie; you'd re-read Oil Painting Techniques and Applications by a Shuriman author hundreds of times by now. You couldn't really afford much else.

"Fascinating," said Felix. "Well, perhaps I should take lessons from you, sometime. I can hardly draw a stick figure!" He chuckled at his own joke, the others following suit. You forced a laugh as well. Never heard that one, before you thought sarcastically.

"Please," Ellis rolled his eyes, "you can't even write legibly. I almost failed Professor Cooper's final exam because I couldn't read your damn notes."

"Hey, you're lucky I even let you borrow them in the first place. It's your own fault you skipped class all the time," Felix bit back.

The conversation had shifted away from you as quickly as it came in the first place, and you took the opportunity to look around at your surroundings some more. These guys had nothing interesting to offer you, frankly.

The party was in full swing, now. The space had grown more crowded, more claustrophobic. You felt your anxiety return, like mosquitos buzzing under your skin. You tried to do your breathing exercises; inhale for eight seconds, hold for six, exhale for twelve. Over and over again, you practiced the mantra in your head. But noisy chatter grew louder. Your ankles hurt from trying to balance yourself on the tiny platforms you could barely call a shoe. The heavy earrings you wore made your earlobes ache. The underwire of your bra was itchy. It was too much; you were going into sensory overload. You placed a hand on Jayces arm to grab his attention without interrupting the conversation.

He looked to you, smiling softly. "Yes, pretty girl?" Your stomach fluttered at his flirtation, but you ignored it. You were still mad at him.

"Um, I'm going to sit down for a moment. I don't feel well." You tried to keep your voice low to avoid drawing attention. His face shifted to concern.

"Are you alright? Can I do something to help?"

You shook your head and forced another smile. "No, that's okay. You have fun with your friends. I'll be back in a few minutes."

He dropped his hand from your shoulder, nodding. "Alright. I'll be here if you need me."

Without another word, you stalked briskly over to the bar. The stools were all empty, thank Janna. The bar tender looked at you expectantly- and you realized he thought you were there for a drink.

"Uh- Sorry, I just wanted to sit down for a minute. Is that okay? Do I need to move somewhere else?"

He shrugged. "Whatever you want, sweetheart." He turned around to go back to his work.

You leaned over the counter, tracing the edge of your glass with your fingertip. You continued your breathing exercises, relishing in the relief your aching feet received while you sat. Finally,  you felt the buzzing under your skin wash away, and you relaxed your shoulders with a huff. You downed the rest of your drink in one gulp, standing to return to Jayce- but when you turned around, there was a man standing behind you.

"Oh! I'm sorry, please excuse me-"

"No, no, please," he said, looking you up and down. "pardon me, madam." His spoke in a low, baritone voice. He wasn't that much taller than you, and was muscular, but still soft around the edges. Clean shaven, strong jaw, curly brown hair framing his face. He was rather attractive- but you felt a pit in your stomach. Something didn't feel right. You pushed the thought away, chalking it up to anxiety. He held out his hand.

"Name's Enoch. And you are...?"

You took his hand, and he kissed your knuckles much the same as Professor Cooper. Must be a rich person thing, you decided. You told him  your name, trying to hide your disgust a second time tonight. He repeated it to himself slowly, his eyes landing on your chest. You suddenly felt very self conscious, and wished you could put on a sweater or something to hide your figure.

"Bartender," he said, without taking his eyes off you, "dirty martini. One for the lady, too." The bartender nodded, seemingly unbothered by Enoch's lack of manners.

"Um, that's okay," you said, taking your hand back- you almost had to tug it away, with how hard he was holding it. "I'm not drinking tonight." His eyes flicked over to the counter, where your empty champagne glass sat. He smirked, and your stomach dropped; you were caught.

'Well now, that's not true," he said slyly, "What's the matter sweetheart? You don't wanna drink with me?"

You glanced around, weighing your options. Jayce was too far out of earshot for you to get his attention without screaming, and his back was turned to you. You looked to the bartender for help, but he wasn't paying attention either. You were on your own. Better to play along, you decided.

"I'm sorry, you misunderstand me," you said, taking on a faux vampish tone, "I'm not drinking alone tonight." The bartender slid your glasses down the counter, and Enoch took them both.

'That's more like it," he said. "What's a pretty girl like you doing here by herself, anyway? I'm surprised the men aren't falling at your feet."

You forced a laugh, not reaching for your drink yet. You didn't want to get any closer to him than you had to. "Oh, I was just taking a moment to get acclimated to the atmosphere."

Enoch stepped forward, entirely too close for comfort now. He slid into the stool next to yours, and he gestured for you to sit, as well. You did. Just then, the band stopped playing, and you heard the tell-tale screeching of a microphone being turned on. You looked to the source, grateful for a distraction.

Heimerdinger had stepped up to a podium in front of the band, clearing his throat. "Good evening, fine gentlefolk. If I may have your attention for but a moment?" The space quieted as people turned to look at him, giving him the attentiveness he asked for. "Thank you," he continued. "I want to start off the night by thanking you all for being here for me. Truly, there is no greater gift than good company. And fine wine," he joked. Varying amounts of people chuckled softly. "Today marks my three hundred and eighth birthday- and my, what an excellent three centuries it's been. We've made so much progress in our great city, and I have all of you to thank for it."

"But there's one more thing I'd like to draw attention to. Progress cannot be made without some level of risk involved; I've learned recently that it's just as important as practicing caution. The student becomes the teacher, it seems, because I learned this lesson from none other than Jayce Talis-" he gestured out to where Jayce was standing, and the crowd of people turned to look at him. You tried to as well, but found that Enoch was blocking your view. He winked at you, and you tried to smile despite the growing sinkhole in your stomach.

"I'd like to announce," Heimerdinger said, "with great pleasure, that the council and I have agreed that it's time to move forward with the construction of Jayce's latest invention- the Hexgates. It is our hope that that they can bring about a new era of progress, and put us on the map as a global trade center." The crowd clapped, and cheered; you did as well, still confused. That was a rather vague description.

"Now I know you're eager to get back to the party, so I'll leave you to it. Thank you for listening to an old mans rambles." He bowed, and stepped off his little step-stool before disappearing into the crowd.

"Well, you said, standing, "That's quite exciting news, isn't it?" Enoch hummed, disinterested. His eyes skimmed over your body again, and you felt your arm hairs stand on end. "Perhaps I should offer my congratulations to Mister Talis." You tried to move away, but Enoch grabbed your wrist.

"What's the hurry?" He was grinning, but you saw the malice in his eyes. It was predatory. "We were just starting to chat. Don't leave so soon; I'd like to get to know you a little more." He offered you your drink, and you took it with your free hand.

You swallowed nervously. You grew tired of these games. You tried to tug your hand back, but he didn't let go.

"Come on, sweetheart. We've all heard the rumors; I know who you are. You're the Talis boy's new plaything, aren't you?"

Your heartbeat picked up the pace. How did he know that? What rumors?

"Why're you in such a rush to get back to him? He doesn't care about a sump rat like you. Stay with me, I'll take care of you, baby."

Sump rat. How could he possibly know any of this? Who was this guy? You froze, trying to think. He seemed dangerous; you knew you had to get away. But he had you trapped, and he knew it.

"Come on, baby, drink up. It wont be cold much longer."

"Is there a problem here?" You turned and found Viktor standing there, staring pointedly at Enoch.

Enoch looked him up and down, unphased. "No, there's no problem here. Right, sweetheart?"

Your eyes flickered between the two men, heart pounding. This could be very bad. If Enoch grew violent, there's no way Viktor could get the better of him. Then again, it was unlikely he would start a fight in front of so many people. At least, you hoped. You looked at Viktor with pleading eyes, and his brow creased lightly.

"Perhaps you should let go of her now," he said coldly. Enoch scowled. He finally let go of your arm, and you backed away. He stood, glowering over you, and leaned over to mutter in your ear:

"It's not nice to lead people on like that, slut."

He stomped away, leaving you and Viktor alone.

You exhaled shakily, tears forming in your eyes. Viktor looked to you with concern, speaking gently.

"Are you alright?"

You nodded, wiping the corners of your eyes before you actually started crying. "I'm fine. Thank you for stepping in."

'Of course, he said. 'I am sorry you were left alone with him for so long. It must have been...frightening. I am glad I was able to get to you in time, but I am surprised Jayce did not get to you first."

You shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, and sipped your drink. Viktor's eyes windened.

"I- I wouldn't drink that if I were you-"

God, not him too. "Why? So I don't look like I have a drinking problem and make us trenchers look bad?" You snapped. He looked confused, and you suddenly felt bad. "I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have...you didn't deserve that." You sighed, and downed the rest of your drink anyway. Anything to take the edge off. Viktor cringed, his shoulders slumping.

'Oh, dear-" he muttered, but before you could ask about it, Jayce cut in, calling your name.

"There you are! I've been looking for you. I thought you said you would only be gone for a few minutes, but it's been..." He trailed off, looking between you and Viktor. "What? What happened?"

"Nothing," you said flatly. "Everything's fine." You swayed, your vision swimming at the edges. There's no way you were already drunk; unless the bartender put more vodka in your martini than you expected. Jayce noticed, and his eyes landed on your empty martini glass.

"Are you...you're not drunk already?" He said with disbelief. "We've been here barely an hour. How much did you drink while you were gone?" You rolled your eyes, losing your will to be polite as your stupor grew.

"Barely two drinks," you scoffed. You were growing more and more annoyed the longer he stood there.

"Jayce, I think we need-" Viktor started to speak, but you cut him off as if he wasn't even there.

"I'm fine, Mister Talis." You poked his chest as you spoke, stumbling a little bit. He tried to catch you, but you pushed his hands off you. You'd had enough physical contact for one day. "I'm sorry that I embarrassed you tonight. I know I'm just some poor, poor undercity...girl" You gestured wildly as you spoke, "But I'm not your charity project. I don't need your pity just because I'm..." you squeezed your eyes shut, feeling dizzy. You felt a hand on your shoulder, but you didn't know who's.

"I'm a trencher," you finished, spitting his own choice of word back at him. You finally opened your eyes, prepared to shove Jayce off of you again, but instead found it was Viktor supporting you. You blinked, feeling your anger melt away into something else. You felt...elated?

Both men stared at you, both with concern and also clearly feeling stunned. At least, that was true for Jayce. Viktor pinched the ridge of his nose, inhaling.

"I don't mean to be rude," he huffed, "But if you're quite done having your little argument, we need to get her to a doctor, Jayce." Jayce frowned at him, confused. You giggled, feeling a little bit giddy. You were dizzy, and your head felt heavy, but your body felt warm and fuzzy. You found you had a hard time moving your limbs, or your mouth. It felt like trying to run a marathon under water, the pressure weighing you down and a current lifting you up all at once.

"Doctorrr" you slurred. "What a...what a weird word." Your vision swam, and you found you couldn't keep your eyes open any longer. Your knees buckled underneath you, and the world around you went dark.

[necromancer-mango]

[start image description: Two pages of face drawings focusing on eyes. The first page consists of a few front-facing faces, as well are various drawn eyes and eyeballs. The text reads: “A general rule of thumb people tend to use is the leave space between the eyes for another eye. This does work, but not a hard rule. Eyes can be spaced further apart, as well as closer.I usually draw the upper lid first, which I use to define the eye shape. Then, the lower lid. The eye is a ball, which the lids wrap around. An epicanthal fold covers the inner corner of the eye. What this means is the fold is very close to the upper lid. Sometimes the fold is not as close to the upper lid, in which case it may look like a double lid. It is still very close to the eye, which means if someone were to use liquid eyeliner (*cough* me) and open their eyes before letting it dry, it smears all over the upper lid since part of the skin tucks in. Just make sure you don't end up drawing eyes that veer into caricature. If stylized you can keep them very large, if they look like slits you are in dangerous territory. I have a habit of doing all my eyes in a very similar manner, I just change the top lid a little. I'm very bad at eyelashes considering mine are flat and curve down so they don't stick out, so trying to do them without much familiarity does not always turn out the best. As such, when I do eyelashes they are indicated by thickening the line at the top of the eye and flaring out at the corner. Lower lashes are nice in small amounts. Making eyes perfectly symmetrical requires practice mostly. They also do not have to look identical, just so long as they both fit on the face in the same area.” The second page consists of more front-facing faces, paired with a few heads turned at an angle. The text reads: “Sometimes  when I struggle with front faces, I will copy one eye, flip it on a separate layer, and then rotate it a bit so that it seems to match up. If I don't directly use the flipped eye, I'll draw over it. Drawing one eye and copy/flip it only works completely if the eyes are looking forward, otherwise you will have to adjust the iris. You also can't do this with an angled face. Rotating the head means adjusting how the eye is drawn.”/ end image description] A little more about drawing eyes, plus some things I do when I get stuck. If there is difficulty drawing eyes from the front, a good chunk of that is practice until you have the muscle memory to draw consistent eyes. I usually start from the inner eye and go out when doing the lids personally, and will draw lines on the face to orient the placement. try working on placing lines with confidence and be a little loose about it, for that will help you get more confident about your shapes. Also, they don’t have to be perfectly symmetrical! Most faces aren’t so as long as they look like they are the general same shape and somewhat aligned, then people won’t notice if they aren’t perfectly the same. You could also probably use a symmetry tool, but I have never tried doing that so I have nothing to really say on how effective that may be.

[middleearthpixie]

Something in the Night ~ Chapter Twenty-One

Summary: Following the Battle of the Five Armies, a seriously wounded Thorin Oakenshield returns to Erebor to recuperate and eventually ascend the throne as king. With the deaths of Azog the Defiler and his son, Bolg, Thorin no longer has to worry about the bounty the Defiler placed on his head and can instead concentrate on restoring Erebor to its former glory. 

Nina Carren of Esgaroth has one goal—to make Thorin Oakenshield pay for unleashing Smaug the dragon unto her home—where he destroyed the town and killed her family. The Defiler might be gone, but his bounty remains very much in place, and she fully intends to collect on it. 

Finally, the opportunity shows itself for her to do just that, only to have it go horribly awry. Wounded and now at his mercy, neither Nina nor Thorin stopped to think what might happen, should things not go quite according to plan��

Pairings: Thorin Oakenshield x ofc Nina Carren

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 4.1k

Tag List: @mrsdurin @i-did-not-mean-to @fizzyxcustard @xxbyimm @kibleedibleedoo

@legolasbadass @lathalea @arrthurpendragon @exhausted-humxn-being @knittastically

@notlostgnome @myselfandfantasy @medusas-hairband @guardianofrivendell @jotink78

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@glassgulls @evenstaredits @heilith @asgardianhobbit98 @way-too-addicted-to-fandoms

@sazzlep @night-ace

If you’d like to be added (or removed) to the tag list, please just let me know!

Previous chapters can be found here. 

The infirmary at night was a quiet and lonely place. Especially in the royal chambers, which were closed off from everyone else. Oh, the chambers themselves were lovely, well-lit, with comfortable beds and although she knew the dwarves prided themselves on their gem work, she still gaped at the beautiful stones inlaid in the labradorite walls. Nina wagered her room alone was worth more than the entirety of Esgaroth at its peak, and that gave her such pause. Erebor was built on the riches of the mountain, literally and figuratively, and it boggled her mind just how much wealth it truly held. She’d never seen so much wealth, and certainly not in so small a space.  

But to look at Thorin, one would never think him to be a king. Oh, like every other dwarf she’d ever seen (which, of course, wasn't many until recently, and even now, in the infirmary, they kept their distance from her and she from them) he favored jewelry, and adorned his fingers and hair, as they all did. But he wore no crown, nor any fancy robes. Instead, he dressed almost exactly as he had been dressed when he and his Company first arrived in Esgaroth. A most down-to-earth king, indeed.

Her only experience with any man of power was the Master of Esgaroth, who was practically a caricature in his love of what hie considered finery. Truth be told, he was one of the most physically repulsive men she’d ever seen, with his stringy, red combed-over hair and over-fed body stuffed into shirts and trousers that were at best a size too small. He flashed his wealth, mostly stolen by way of taxes on the denizens of Esgaroth, without shame and yet when one stood close to him, as she’d had the misfortune of doing once, it was apparent bathing was not a favorite activity. Not only that, but he tried to hide the smell of unwashed skin with perfumes that were cloying and sickening. He was, as Lenna once said, a poor man’s idea of a rich man, and that summed it up perfectly as far as Nina was concerned.

However, Thorin was not like that. In fact, he was as far from that description as possible. His dark hair shone when the light hit it, the silver streaks highlighting the glossy black curls, and when he passed by? She smiled into the darkness. He smelled of leather and earth and summer nights and she bit back a sigh now just remembering what it was like to be engulfed by them, engulfed by him. 

Narnerra had told her she could leave come the morning and while she was impatient to get home and assure Sigrid she was all right, Nina also did not want to leave. She knew that when she did, she would likely not lay eyes upon Thorin again. 

She didn't want to think about that. Now that he was no longer furious with her…

She frowned into the darkness. She didn't want to think about that, either. It was best if she didn’t.

The soft knock at the door gave her pause, for in her time in Erebor, aside from that first night, no one knocked on the door past suppertime. 

It had to be a mistake, so she ignored it.

Then it happened again. 

“Nina?”

Her heart leapt at Thorin’s whisper, her stomach fluttering as she kicked back the covers and rose from her bed to pad to the door. “Thorin?”

“Did I wake you?”

She tugged open the door. “No, but what are you doing here?”

He emerged from the darkness to step into her room. “Narnerra told me you were leaving come the morning and since I’ve a meeting in Esgaroth first thing, I will not have another chance to see you.”

“To see me?” She reached for her wrapper, draped across the foot of her bed and drew it on. “Does your girlfriend know you’re here?”

To his credit, Thorin blushed, which unnerved her to a certain degree. It was confirmation of his relationship with the beautiful dwarrowdam, and it was confirmation she dreaded hearing. Up until right now, she could fool herself into thinking that maybe—just maybe—she and Thorin were on the verge of something. 

But that blush changed everything.

OF course, it was silly, not to mention downright foolish, to assume he’d not have another woman in his life. Despite his protestations to the opposite, Thorin was strikingly handsome. And kind. And gentle. And everything any sane woman would want. She’d come so close to be the one he called his… so very close…

Don’t think about that.

“Nina,” he closed the door behind him, leaning back against it, “I had not expected to ever lay eyes upon you again. And I certainly expected to remain furious with you for the rest of my days.”

“So why are you here, then?”

“Because I needed to see you. Before you left.”

“Does she know you’re here? Because judging by how cold she was to me, I doubt she would be happy with you’re being here.”

“No,” he shook his head, “she doesn’t know. And she is not my girlfriend.”

“What is she, then?”

He sighed softly. “At one point, I thought to ask her for her hand.”

That confession was like a punch to the stomach and Nina was thankful for the low light, otherwise he’d see how she blanched. And it had to be terrible, for she actually felt the blood drain from her face. “I see.”

“At one point,” he repeated, stepping up to her. “But I am not so certain that is the case now.”

“Thorin, do not tell me what you think I wish to hear bec—”

“I’m not. I’m telling you the truth.” He caught her face in his hands, his palms warm and his thumbs gentle as they grazed along her cheekbones. “I told you how dwarves do not take lovemaking lightly, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Those thumbs moving along her cheeks made thinking clearly almost impossible for her. Her eyelids grew so heavy, her thought grew just as heavy, and sluggish and she just wished to lean into the gentle caresses. 

She forced her heavy eyelids to open and found him smiling down at her. A pleasant warmth came to her cheeks at the heat in his blue eyes. “Why do you stare at me like that?”

“Do you remember what abnâmul means?”

Nina swallowed hard. “I do. Beautiful.”

“You are beautiful,” he whispered, tilting her face to his. “So very beautiful, indeed.”

With that, he bent and as his lips touched hers, Nina melted against him, easing her arms about his waist, parting her lips to receive his kiss wholeheartedly. 

He bent her slightly back, his tongue slow and teasing as it caressed hers and for the first time since that wonderful night in Mirkwood, Nina’s spirits soared and happiness radiated through her.

She tightened her arms about him, her fingers curling into the rough fabric of his henley to tug it up from the waist of his trousers. He sucked in a sharp breath as her fingertips brushed along the swath of skin she’d bared, and she smiled when he shivered against her. 

He broke the kiss, smiling as he pressed his forehead to hers. “Do that again,” he whispered, and his eyes closed as she did it again. 

His eyes slowly opened to meet her gaze once more. Her heart picked up its pace, trebled it as she managed to whisper, “Why are you here, Thorin?”

“Because I’ve missed you.”

“Missed me? Or missed this.” 

He straightened up then. “This?”

“Yes, this. The feelings. The pleasure. That.” She managed to pull free from him, and looked up. 

“Do you suggest I’m here only for that?”

“Are you?”

“Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Why?” She shook her head. “Well, for starters, you planned to ask another woman to marry you.”

“At one point.”

“Thorin.”

He drew in a deep breath and slowly nodded. “Yes, Nina. I had—at one point—thought to ask Elisin for her hand. But that was before. And now, I find I do not think a match between her and I would be a good one, for I am afraid my heart belongs to another.”

Nina’s pulse throbbed through her temples. “Thorin.”

“And although I had reason enough to be angry with her, this other woman has far more reason to hate me for the rest of her days.” He stepped closer to her.

She took another step backward. “How can you say I have your heart after everything that has happened?”

He moved toward her once more. “Because you have?”

A step back and she found herself flush against the wall, which was lumpy and rough from the gems running through the labradorite. “That isn’t possible.”

“Why?” He brought both hands up to press his palms against the stone on either side of her shoulders. “Who has decided this? Who do you think does my thinking for me?”

“Well, I—I don't think anyone else does your thinking for you, but remember… you are a king and I am a nobody.”

“So?” His eyes softened. “I am only recently a king and you are not a nobody.”

“Very well then, I am also not a dwarf.”

A hint of a smile played at his lips. “Nobody’s perfect, mesmel.”

“You are mad, you know.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been mad.”

“Thorin.”

“I love you, Nina. Now, we can keep fighting about this, or you can just tell me you love me back and then we can make use of that very comfortable bed or the floor, or anywhere else in this room you’d like.”

“I don't even like you at the moment, dwarf. In fact, if I had my steel…”

“You would do nothing, just as the last time.” He leaned in then, and this time, when their lips met, he flattened against her. Not in a dominant way, trying to prove to her he could do whatever he wished to her if the mood struck, but more in a need to feel her against him sort of a way. 

At least, that was what she told herself. 

Because the truth was she needed to feel him that way. And when he pulled away and she met his heated gaze, she whispered, “You love me?”

He nodded slowly. “I love you.”

“But, I was going to collect on Azog’s bounty on you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“But I was going to.”

“But,” he brushed her lips with his, “you didn’t.”

“But—”

“But you didn’t,” he cut her off gently, and this time, he kissed her more deeply. He lowered his hands to catch hers, to lace his fingers with hers and brought them back up to press gently into the stone.

Her eyes closed slowly as the delicious sensations swirled through her, tilted her head back when he swept his lips down over her chin, along the side of her neck. He nuzzled her, whispering, “Maralmizi, Nina.”

Her head spun as the sensations grew stronger, tingling along her neck, through her belly, to slightly lower, where delicate knots of desire formed to tighten within her. “What does that mean…” she managed to whisper, her fingers tightening about his.

He kissed back up toward her ear, his lips brushing it as he replied, “I love you…”

“Mmmm….” She smiled, then bit down on her bottom lip as the tip of his tongue swept over a surprisingly sensitive patch of skin just below her ear. “I love you back, dwarf…”

His thumbs grazed hers, his lips swept down into the hollow of her throat. He trailed soft, teasing kisses down into the hollow of her throat once more, each one playful and tender at the same time. When he lifted his head again, it was to regard her with blazing blue eyes and his gaze never wavered as he reached for the lacings of her tunic. The leather laces gave easily, the cotton parting slightly, and heat swept through her as he let go of those laces to part the throat of her tunic even wider.

He held her gaze, sliding his hands down along her body, over the rise of her breasts, to the hem of her tunic, and then he swept up, whisking it over her head. His gaze burned hotter as it swept over her, and he murmured, “Abnâmul, mesmel…”

As he spoke, he traced the tip of his finger along the inner curve of her left breast. Fire whispered through her, gentle at first, but it grew stronger as he brushed inward, toward its crest. Her nipple beaded in anticipation of his touch, poking up through the thin muslin of her chemise. He brushed it, slowly circled it, and as the sensations rippled through her, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, but couldn't hold back her sigh. 

“Oh, amrâlimê,” he whispered, his voice husky and his eyes smoldering as they met hers, “I have missed you, you know…”

Despite her sluggish thoughts and that delicious heat swirling through her, Nina nodded slowly. “I’ve… oh, I’ve missed you as well…” 

The tingles grew sharper and steadier now as he swept lightly over her nipple, and it took every bit of will she possessed to not simply melt into a puddle. His smile spoke of promises she knew well, and her entire body trembled with anticipation of him. 

He leaned in to capture her lips in a soft kiss as as their lips met, no more words passed. His hand came fully over her breast, kneading and teasing until the heat threatened to devour her. Her back bowed, pressing her breast deeper into his palm, a breathless sigh bubbling to her lips at the sensations running riot through her now. Those knots in her lower belly returned, sweet and tight and dropping lower, where the dull ache of arousal bit into her. 

His lips caressed hers, and as she slipped her arms about his neck, he pressed firmly against her, then gently drew her away from the wall, turning to guide her back until the backs of her legs bumped her narrow bed. 

Thorin urged her down into the soft mattress, and as she sank into it, she smiled at the sight of him above her, dark hair tumbling forward almost as a curtain to keep out the rest of the world. He looked almost feral, his eyes blazing sapphire, filled with desire that mirrored her own, and those eyes devoured her as he caught the hem of her chemise to gently sweep up along her thighs. Heat burned through her as the linen skimmed up over her hips. She waited for him to sweep it over her head, but instead, he bent and pressed heated lips against her lower stomach, which sent fire arcing through her. 

Without thinking, she reached for him, shoving her fingers into his hair and as he moved lower, her fingers tightened. The tip of his tongue swept along her hipbone, following by a teasingly soft kiss. Those knots tightened further. 

Thorin crept higher now, feathering kisses up along her ribs, taking care around the bandage, pushing linen out of his way, until he found what he sought and his lips closed about her aching nipple. The tip of his tongue did a slow, almost lazy swirl about the taut bead, her back bowing of its own as fire tore through her now. 

“Thorin…” His name leaked through her clenched teeth, her fingers twisting tighter in his hair now as he oh-so-sensually tortured her. The ache between her thighs spread slowly through her, her legs parting of their own to let him settle between them. 

She couldn't hold back her sigh as he came firmly against her. She’d forgotten just how amazing he felt like this, how much she absolutely loved being surrounded by him, how the rest of the world simply fell away and left them in peace. She had missed him, had missed everything about him and as his lips claimed hers, she lost herself in his kiss. 

Still, they were in the infirmary and she had no doubt that any strange noises coming from the royal ward would bring Narnerra or one of her assistants running and the last thing Nina wanted was for anyone to burst in on them. 

The bed let out an ominous squeak as Thorin rolled onto his back, tugging her atop him as he did. He grinned even as she froze. “What’s the matter, mesmel?”

“What if someone hears?”

He reached up, catching a wayward curl to tuck back behind her ear. “No one will hear a low squeak. And even if they did, no one would come in here. This is reserved for my family.”

“Which is exactly why someone might, if they thought you were in here. They might think I’m killing you.”

“We both know you wouldn’t, though.”

“We do, yes. They, however do not.”

He trailed his fingertips along her back, which brought a shiver along her spine and had her catching her bottom lip between her teeth even as her eyelids grew heavy. She managed to keep them open, smiling at his murmured, “I’ll take my chances.”

The air stirred, skittering cold across her bare back. “Thorin?”

“What?”

“Why are you still dressed?”

His laughter rang out and when she clapped her hand over his mouth, it did little to dull the reverberation. Peeling her hand from his face, he replied, “You needn’t worry. You and I are the only ones down here this night. And as for your question…”

He gently eased out from beneath her and slid to the edge of the bed to stand. “I won’t be much longer.”

She bit back another sigh as he whisked his henley over his head. Without thinking, she also slid to the edge of the bed, then rose to stand before him. She drank in the sight of him, the flickering candlelight dancing along the swells of muscle along his arms, shoulders, and chest and without thinking, she laid her hand along the curious scars dotting the left side of his chest. “What are these?”

“Reminders to avoid being caught in the jaws of a warg.”

She looked up at him. “What?”

He nodded. “A warg grabbed hold of me, just outside of Goblintown, when I was making my way from the Shire to Erebor.”

She trailed her thumb along one of the nearly perfectly round divots in his swarthy skin. Some were barely visible through the black hair spread wide across his chest, but she could still make them out. Small. Round. White. “And how did you pull yourself from the jaws of a warg?”

“Master Baggins came to my aid.” He must have seen the confusion in her eyes, for he smiled as he laid his hand over hers. “The hobbit who made up the fourteenth member of our company. He came to my rescue with the smallest blade ever forged, but pried me free. It was only one of the times he saved my hide, the last one being after my confrontation with Azog.”

His voice grew so soft, she could barely hear him, and as she brushed her thumb along the tooth mark, she whispered, “You need not tell me if it troubles you to think about.”

“Perhaps some day I won’t mind regaling you with what happened. But there was nothing glorious in any of it. I was a mad king, and warmonger, and I cost many people dearly, as you well know.

“But,” he caught her beneath the chin with a finger, tilting her face to his, “I will spend the rest of my days making it up to you, mesmel. I give you my word.”

He didn't offer her a chance to respond, but bent to her and as their lips met, her questions died on her lips. They no longer mattered and would wait. All that mattered was his warm, bare skin against hers, his arms tightening about her waist, and his lips also warm against hers. 

Her hands went to the falls of his trousers, and a moment later, the heavy fabric pooled at his feet and with a soft laugh, he pulled away to remove his cumbersome boots and hose, then stepped from that puddle of fabric on the stone floor. 

Her mouth went dry and her belly came alive with a million butterflies as he caught her around the waist once more and lifted her easily. Her legs, of their own accord, wrapped about his waist, and when their lips met, it was like a match to dry kindling. One spark, and embers became flames. Flames became an inferno and within moments, he was pressing her down into the bed once more, pinning her beneath him, and when he slid inside her, she was ready and welcoming and melted around him. There was nothing gentle or tender as he drove into her, but pure need and desire fired his powerful thrusts and she clung to him, her thighs tight against his sides, her arms tight about his neck, her body tight about his. 

With swift precision, he brought them both to the edge of madness, every fiber in her body tensed and begging for relief. She pulsed about him, her fingernails biting into the warm skin of his back, and when it was his turn to tense, he crushed her against him, gave a powerful thrust, and shuddered as he came. Nina surrendered to the fiery bliss he sent spilling through her, her body tingling and trembling as his climax triggered hers and she savored every last pulse, every last shiver, every last knot coming undone at his touch. And when he sank against her, breathless, a fine film of sweat along his back, she smiled as she nuzzled him. “I’ve missed you, dwarf,” she whispered, her voice thready and airy as her heart raced and her head still spun madly from the force of their combined release.

He said nothing at first, a hot, husky laugh skimming the curve of her shoulder as he fought for breath. Then, he nuzzled her, and managed to whisper, “Amrâlimê…”

Her fingers slipped through his soft hair, traced along the braid at his left temple. “I don’t speak your language,” she murmured, trailing her fingertip along his cheek as he lifted his head once more. “Teach me?”

“Of course.” His eyes were sleepy, heavy-lidded and seductive without his even trying. “Amrâlimê means my love. And you are, Nina. You are my everything. My kurduwê, my amrâlimê, my mesmel.”

“Thorin…”

“My heart, my love, my jewel of all jewels.” His eyes glittered like perfectly cut sapphires. “And you know how dwarves regard jewels, so… you are my ghivashel, Nina. My treasure of all treasures.”

Nina swallowed hard as her throat tightened and unexpected tears stung her eyes. “I was so certain you would hate me for the rest of your days.”

He carefully eased off her to stretch out alongside her. “I admit,” he began softly, gathering her to curve against him, “at first, that was what I thought as well. But, the more I thought about it, the more time I spent with Elisin—and before you ask, I did nothing with her, not even a kiss—the more I realized I missed you, Nina.”

“Not even a kiss?”

He smiled. “Not even that. I love you, and you are my One. Once a dwarf finds his One, all other women cease to exist as far as he is concerned.”

“But isn’t your One supposed to be another dwarf?”

“Well, yes, but we both know things don’t always go as planned.”

She smiled as she curved against him, tucking her head against his chest, her fingers sweeping lightly along the black hair covering his belly. “I am so very sorry, Thorin. If I could do it over again, I would never have gone to Tarog. I never would have thought harming you would do anything other than make the world darker than it already is.”

“Let’s not speak of it any longer,” he whispered, then pressed a kiss into the top of her head. “We have much to make up for and plenty of time for doing so.”

With that, linens schwiffed softly as he eased over her once more and she lost herself in another magical kiss. 

[glendybluebird]

New DP 2024🥰 Self Portait

I've been practicing caricature, and I'm glad that I'm progressing well. This is what I actually look like in real life.

I've been trying to manage two pages on every platform I'm mostly active on. One is "artby_glendy," and the other is "glendy_bluebird." I really do like the username "arby_glendy," but I just realized there are a lot of people with the same name as me out there. And I don't want to use my last name in my usernames either. So I just decided to keep "Glendy_Bluebird" or "Glendy🐦". I decided to name my brainrot or fanart page "Glendy_Bluebird_2".

I grew up a perfectionist. I'm Asian, and I'm the eldest. I'm very keen on spotting "mistakes" in my crafts, which I guess was feeding my imposter syndrome problem that took out my joy in drawing. It got worse in 2023. I'm doing my best to practice getting over too much perfectionism right now, starting with doing a few drawing exercises or challenges such as this one. I'm experimenting with different art styles.

I really do hope I'll be able to post more after this. Though I am also quite preoccupied with school and work. Plus, lots of things have happened to me in that one year. Again, thank you so much for those who kept supporting me even though I've been mostly inactive these days for quite some time. I'm planning on offering you a gift, but I'm not sure when I'll be able to give it to you guys.

#artist #meettheartist #dp #artistoninsta #artistoninstagramm #animationstudent #artistsupport #dp2024 #art #bluebird

[bookblogblogaboutbooks]

The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides

Spoilers!

Y’all aren’t gonna like this. I strongly disliked this book. I wanted to know what happened just enough to finish the book, but mostly to see if my predictions were correct.

I feel as though the twist was too predictable. I admit, I didn’t know exactly how, but I knew that Theo, the narrator, was going to be involved in the murder somehow. He was uncomfortably adamant to see Alicia as his patient. He was extremely unprofessional. Theo immediately felt like an unreliable narrator to me. I wish that aspect of the book had been more subtle, so that there was a greater element of surprise.

When the element of Theo’s wife’s infidelity came into play, I couldn’t stop thinking of a lesson from my creative writing class. Every element of the story serves to move the plot forward. So where was this plot line going? Was this going to blossom into a weird inappropriate therapist-client relationship? That was my first thought. I didn’t like that idea, though, and hoped for something else. Then, Theo’s inaction in regard to his wife’s infidelity continued, and the unease toward his character grew. I would commend this in another context, I think. But this only served to further confirm what I already believed was obvious, Theo was guilty character.

When Theo’s stalking began, and interspersed we saw Alicia believing she was being watched, I didn’t doubt that it was Theo. Again, I wasn’t sure how, until it was 100% confirmed it was him. Then it was easy to see that the chapters of his wife’s infidelity were just further in the past than I had immediately assumed.

I love when books play with time, but it felt lack luster since I had little doubt that it was Theo to begin with.

Also, how dumb is Theo? After reading the play that inspired Alicia’s self portrait “Alcestis” how could he still question her silence? He is the one that put her in an almost 1:1 scenario of the play. He was there. He, from the beginning, knew the information we the readers did not. The missing element to make sense of her silence was known to him the entire time?? And the gall to provoke her speech only to kill her. Absolutely ridiculous.

Those are my biggest complaints. Although there are more that added to my dislike of the novel.

Him being left alone with a female patient who can’t speak? Immediately after starting? I scoffed. Him not even thinking of her potential discomfort (on multiple levels) baffled me. Honestly, the book being littered with unrealistic psychiatry practices were details that ripped me from any immersion.

I felt that the characters were bland on top of it all. It was like they were caricatures of what they wanted to be. I could see what Michaelides was trying to do with some of them (Max for example), but they fell short of being fully fleshed out, interesting characters.

I would give The Silent Patient a 2.5/5. It’s readable, there is intrigue, but it felt like an idea that would have been wonderful if it had been thought out more. It honestly just aggravated me more than anything else. Not really the feeling I want to be left with when completing a book.

I know this is well loved book. I’d love to hear other opinions. Nicely, if possible.

Thanks for reading!

[pfctipper]

1, 10, and 12 for the violence ask!!

ahh ty for asking!

1 the character everyone gets wrong

i am picky about characterisation and do often find myself being like 'he would not say that' (although that is often bc it's easy for dialogue to end up super anachronistic. people just talked differently in the 1940s) but generally i like seeing different interpretations!

however anytime people draw leckie and web parallels i'm a bit like. hmm

also i think nix can veer off really quickly into a bit of a caricature. i really like @lewis-winters' meta on his drinking. it's not remotely comparable to the military but i went to an insanely high-pressure uni that was 50% private school kids and being alcohol-dependent was just. Normal. it wasn't even interesting enough to be joked about (the other less fun option was to develop an eating disorder)

to me there's something significant in that we only really see him through dick's eyes - he didn't speak to ambrose and doesn't feature much in any of the other men's books, and in the show he almost never interacts with people independently of dick (except the scenes with the german widow) so we don't necessarily get much of a sense of how he behaved around others. so i'm not convinced i quite pinned him down in uprooted and i think the show probably got him a bit 'wrong' too

10 worst part of fanon

oh this one is hard! i don't think there's too much fanon floating around? unless you count stuff the show invented, like web/lieb haha

i have Thoughts on how stanhope nixon gets portrayed in fics (bc he's only in his forties during wwii and also the product of the same environment as nix) but even for me that is seriously niche. blanche and ann sometimes seem to get pigeonholed as the 'sassy female sidekick' too

12 the unpopular character that you actually like and why more people should like them

lt peacock! mostly bc i just feel awful for him. we all know what web thought of him but he was trying his best and the scene where all the men are saying goodbye to him and he thinks they're being sincere breaks my heart. tab described him as a 'sincere and by the book officer but not a soldier' and i think it's a really stark reminder that at any other time in history he would probably just have gone and practiced law and not had to try to be a soldier

also the actor that played him has a great jawline

[cringelordofchaos]

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- NAMES × -- TOKEN, TOKI, ETC ×××❤️‍🔥🎸🐍

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--im; 🇷🇸 - serbian × 🏳️‍🌈 - queer × ✝️ - (culturally)orthodox(+witchy ;))×××

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biggest obsession lately: DISVENTURE CAMP (#dc) (all fandoms)

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• other blogs - pronouns.page - music i listen to - tagging system - characters I relate to

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нЕмА сПаСа Ни ТеБи нИ мЕнИ сВе Је ЛаЖ и рАј сЕ ПеНи (/Ј)

MY FAVORITEST POST OF ALL TIME /hj... (unless...)

I forget to update my pronouns page frequently so it's not really worth checking out.

{o.we,o,qw,qw.qq,o,qw,qw.qe,wt,qo,t,y×one^day.q,qr.wp,i,t,qr.t,ww,t,qi,wt,qt,qr,t.t,qw,qo,t-as.well (wq,qr,qw,t,qo.o.r,qt,qr,wp.e,qt,qe,qw,t,wp,t.qe,wt.journey.w,t,y,qt,qi,t.i,q,qr,r)}

DRAWING REQUESTS R ALWAYS OPEN! though my art skills r not up to everyone's standards, it's like free anyway so

(TMF Sean userboxes made by @speedydestinydream)

Uhm ok nobody's seeing this? Good. Rhea Ripley's hot AS FUCKKKK dude

Uhm and also. Random facts about me

I'm not autistic

I once hit my head so hard it was bleeding (and never got treated for it lmao)

Aaron Mitchell is just like me fr

By blood im actually more aromanian + Slovenian + ashkenazi Jewish + other shit than Serbian but by culture im Serbian (and Americanized... (Spend too much time on the net))

I love opposites attract trope because 100% of the time I relate to both the characters involved

I used to have an identity crisis over what kind of caricature I wanted to be but now I just let myself exist in peace without putting an active effort into just existing

I'm more culturally orthodox christian and tbh I don't really believe in that stuff but I won't give up the holidays and traditions. As for witchcraft it's fun and you can't exactly disprove the existence of spirituality so I am interested but again when I practice witchcraft it more feels like roleplaying so uhm. Not sure if I can call myself s true withx or a christian but who gives a shit.

Potentially alter human but I realized my obsession with alter human labels in the last might've been caused by the fact that I wasn't fully happy with who I was. still act like a creature at times though.

I have been called "fascinating" 6 times, once by a licensed psychiatrist.

I tend to overshare and also I was extremely scared of sharing the fact that I'm mostly aromanian because I thought it would reveal where I hid the money or some shit. I still am scared but oh well

Don't have ADHD either fuck that

I am at risk of a spine deformation. Lmao

I get extremely obsessive over fiction and it tends to last for... Idk? I don't count.

I'm picky yet indecisive as hell

Selfish and extremely lazy

So sarcastic all the time to the point of some people thinking I'm being genuine and then getting mad at me. I mean I dug my own grave there so.

I accidentally ghost people, respond really late to texts, if at all. I am trying to work on this because I have been made aware that this type of behaviour can genuinely hurt people and I don't want to hurt anyone

Had self diagnosed depression in the past

Cisginger

Autistic Craig Tucker real

Heavily heavily HEAVILY relate to Aaron Mitchell from the Mitchells Vs the machines (he is literally me in every way possible)

Unhealthily addicted to my phone

Sometimes draw but I'm horrible at it

My head hurts

Freakblr OG 💪

Suck at sports but like them but I hate working in teams because I'm afraid I'll disappoint everyone. Yaknow???

Experience self suspected social gender dysphoria (recovering)

Otherlink, mild specie dysphoria, possibly therian

Self suspected low object permanence