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alittlewhump · 3 years

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Unbidden - Act 3, chapter 7

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Blaise walked in on Morgan after the worst of it had passed, but before he was ready to open his eyes or move. He groaned a protest as she checked his pulse. Her fingers felt hot against his skin. She was repeating his name, he realized.

"Morgan. Morgan. Come on, say something if you're all right."

He tried. His mouth made a couple of syllables but they were incoherent and nearly formless, not the words he'd been aiming for. He took a deeper breath and tried again, producing something not entirely unlike "all right". Close enough.

"What the fuck, Morgan?" Her tone of voice was hard to identify. He forced his eyes open a little. Her tone of face was also hard to identify. Partly relieved, partly annoyed, partly something else. "What the hell are you doing out here? Why didn't you let me know where you were? What are -" There was a clinking as she picked up the bottles. "Are you getting high? Tell me you have a better explanation than that," she said, disgust colouring her voice.

Morgan took another deep breath and pushed himself up into a seated position. He lurched sideways - the golem hadn't responded to his command properly. Wait, no, he hadn't commanded it properly. It was a golem, after all; moving them was not the same as moving his body. That was going to take some getting used to.

"You're going to have to start talking soon. I know it's not easy here, gods know I hate this fucking jungle and everything in it, but this is not an acceptable way to deal-"

"I'm not..." He winced. The pounding of his head intensified when he spoke. He tried to keep his voice low. "... doing that."

"You know I'd love to believe you, but the evidence is all pointing to you doing exactly that. Akarat's beard, Devak is useless after just one of these things and you're half his size. Why the fuck are you alone out here getting knocked off your ass on Alkor's concoctions? No, wait, let me guess - is it for the Balance?" Morgan closed his eyes. The revulsion in Blaise's voice was punishment enough; he wished she didn't have to be shouting, too.

"Yes, actually." As the words exited his mouth, it occurred to him that it was probably not the wisest choice of responses. At least it bought him a few precious moments of silence to gather his thoughts. Blaise was gaping at him open-mouthed when he risked looking at her again.

"You have ten seconds to explain yourself before I fucking lose it," she finally snarled.

"I came out here alone because I needed to focus. I took those potions because I needed the power."

"For what, exactly?"

"To fix this." The golem arm lifted on command this time.

"Fix what?"

Oh, she thought he was gesturing with that arm. His sleeve had fallen down to cover it. He pushed the fabric back up with his other hand, revealing the improved limb. The flesh was smoother than it had been, the valleys of its many scars filled in with new tissue. It was not quite the same colour as the rest of his body, strangely ashen now. It was pleasing to see it was no longer blackened as it had been. Possibly a side effect of integrating such a comparatively large item.

"This arm. It's a golem now."

"What? Really? You can do that? Holy-" She started to reach out, then stopped herself. "Hang on. Is that what Ormus got so upset with you about?"

Morgan wouldn't have characterized it as upset, exactly. The mage had expressed his reservations at length, though, and with some volume at times. He'd just wanted to draw upon the other man's experience, which apparently had included being an observer to some unfortunate experimentation with carnomancy. It had been an informative lecture.

"I considered his concerns." He could tell by the twist of her mouth that he'd chosen the wrong thing to say. "The benefits outweighed the risks," he explained. It didn't seem to help.

"Outweighed - how?" Morgan grimaced as the pitch and volume of her voice rose, stabbing a spike of pain behind his eyes. That particular turn of phrase only had one meaning. So she wanted more explanation, but clearly she didn't want to listen to it at the moment.

"Why are you so angry," he said quietly, pressing his hand to his eyes. Maybe if he just kept his voice low, she would follow suit. "I'm just trying to -"

"Why am - this is dangerous, Morgan!" She had not followed suit. She was just getting louder. "Out here, on your own, fucking - experimenting on yourself. You don't even have a sentry to keep watch. Did you forget about the jungle full of things that want to kill us? You could have died out here!"

That hit him just the wrong way. His head was throbbing, every inch of him was uncomfortable, and he couldn't muster up the energy to figure out how he was supposed to respond. Not when anything he could say was going to be wrong. "What does it matter," he hissed instead.

"It matters because you're my friend, you asshole!"

That snapped his eyes open. "What?"

Blaise turned away, throwing her hands in the air. "You're being an ass! I'm not going to apologize for saying it, honestly there's a lot worse I could think of to call you right now. We have an important job to do, you can't just take a big risk like this without - don't make that face, I said I'm not apologizing."

The rudeness wasn't the part he was having difficulty with. She could be upset for a lot of reasons, they didn't always make sense to him. It was something else that had brought his thought processes grinding to an abrupt halt.

"... I'm your friend?"

"Don't try to change the subject, of course you are, why wouldn't... wait, really? Seriously? Of course seriously, you're always serious. You honestly... all right, so why do you think I'm here in this horrible jungle in the first place?"

"Because an angel told us to come here."

"All right, yeah, that's true. But why was I in that tomb with you when we met the angel?"

"Because Jerhyn agreed you should pursue Baal, to cut off the demonic attacks at their source." He pulled at the hem of his shirt. It was better than it had been earlier, but it was still a discomfort. This reiteration of past events wasn't answering any of the questions he suddenly found himself with, either. At least Blaise's anger seemed to be fading.

"That's also true, but it's not the whole - all right, this isn't working. Look, of course we're friends. We've been friends ever since you buried - reburied - our old commander, at the Sisterhood." Morgan watched in confusion as she seated herself in front of him. It was possible she'd taken the portal lesson as a token of friendship, but... no, that didn't line up with the rest of the evidence.

"You said - after that, after Andariel - you said you didn't like me. Friends are people you like."

"Did I say that? I don't remember... but," she continued quickly, "there's a lot I don't remember. Sometimes I say things I don't really mean. Especially if I'm upset. I just say whatever pops into my mind, and it isn't always true."

"You also hit me several times."

Blaise grimaced. "I did, didn't I? But I apologized for it, I remember that much. I'm - do you really - all this time we've been travelling together, do you still think we aren't friends? That nothing changed? That I don't even like you? Even after everything that happened in the desert?"

"You're a good person," Morgan reminded her. "And you can be kind to someone even if you don't like them. I... yes, I assumed nothing had changed." He kept tugging at the rough threads of his shirt. "You never said anything to the contrary," he added. Between the confusion and the discomfort, he almost wished he could crawl right out of his skin like a moulting lizard.

"You idiot. Look at me." He did, nervously. She was looking into his eyes, eyebrows slightly raised, intense in her focus. No longer visibly angry, which was a positive. "Listen, I really mean this. You're my friend, Morgan. I like you, I like having you around. I think you're a good person too. I care about you, I care about what happens to you, and that's why I'm upset right now. I thought you were dead for a minute there. I know it's somehow not a big deal for you, but I care if you live or die. So talk to me next time before you do something big like this, all right?"

He had no idea how to respond. All he had were questions, mainly why? Why in all of creation would someone like her decide to choose him as a friend? Friends were supposed to be equals, in his understanding, and he was so much less than her in every measurable way. It didn't make any sense. But he would have to grapple his way through that baffling puzzle later. Right now she was looking expectantly at him, waiting for an answer.

"All right," he said. "I'll try."

"You'd better," Blaise said, holding his gaze for a long second. "Now what made you decide to... go through with this? I don't understand a whole lot of what Ormus says on a good day, but he seemed to think it was a really bad idea. And I know your arm was in rough shape, but I thought you had that under control."

At least Morgan had an answer ready for that question. He'd debated it for long enough to reach a concise conclusion. "Andariel left me crippled. Duriel was quick to see that weakness, and we are searching for much stronger demons than him. When I found a way to lessen the damage, I thought it wisest to take it. I do not wish to face a Prime Evil with an obvious vulnerability."

"All right, that's fair enough. I get it. Now, enlighten me. What would have happened if this... process didn't work?"

He looked down at his hands. Why did she have to ask that? Based on the conversation they'd just had, she wasn't going to like the answer, no matter how he put it. "It did work," he tried, turning the golem back and forth in demonstration, flexing its fingers.

"That's not what I asked." There was an edge to Blaise's voice, and Morgan fought the urge to flinch away. "You said the benefits outweighed the risks. I want to know what the risks were."

"I was very careful. Even after I found the dagger, I spent days and days thinking about it before I tried anything."

"Stop dancing around the answer."

"None of the ways it could have gone wrong were very likely to happen. I planned for that."

"Likely or not, what would have happened?"

He sighed. He knew he'd never win this battle of wills with her. "Bodies are complicated systems. Any mistakes could have been fatal."

"Morgan-"

"I didn't realize it would upset you," he hastened to add. "I wasn't trying to make you angry. I just wanted to be stronger, to be able to help you. To help keep the Balance," he added. His priorities were a little confused, between his duty and Blaise and the angel's entreaty, but they all pointed in the same direction at the moment.

Blaise pinched the bridge of her nose. "That's really not what I - all right, ignoring the rest of the problems with that for now, you can't help anything by being dead."

"I'm not dead," he pointed out.

"And I want you to stay that way, understand?" He nodded. It wasn't something he could promise, and he still didn't really feel like he'd grasped why she would want that, but the fact of her wishes was clear enough. She seemed mollified for the moment, giving in to curiosity instead.

"Now tell me about this," she demanded, pointing at the golem. "Was it hard? It must have been hard. You hardly ever use potions. What does it feel like? Did it hurt? Can I touch it? Why did you mention a dagger earlier?"

He held it out for her to examine. "I had to use an enchanted item to fortify it. Like I do sometimes with the clay golems. It was a dagger. The process was more complicated than I expected. It took a lot of energy, and there are some things I still want to try. But the side effects of Alkor's potions are stronger than I'm used to, and I don't want to take any more of them. So I'll have to wait."

She lifted his wrist, running one hand up to his elbow. "That feels so weird," she breathed, but it didn't stop her from repeating the gesture. "It's not quite like regular skin. Can you feel this?"

"Sort of." He actually hadn't given much thought to input like touch. It was nice that it didn't hurt like it had before, and that was as far as he'd considered it. The ache at the connection point was almost ignorable, minor in comparison. He did feel something, but it was hard to tell if it was actually from the physical contact, or if it he just thought he felt it because he could see it happening.

He asked the golem to relay a sense of touch and regretted it instantly. It gave him too much, and not the way he'd hoped - not enough focus on the outside, but a very clear sense of the softly pulsating pressure on each of the individual tendrils buried in the living flesh. It also drew more power from him to accomplish that, which was another new and uncomfortable sensation. He shut his eyes and told it to stop.

Blaise pulled back. "Sorry, was that too much?"

Morgan shook his head. "It's not that, it's not you." He took a steadying breath. "I was just trying something. I should have waited." He squinted up at the specks of light filtering into the building through the thick jungle canopy. "The plan was to rest for another hour or two."

"I guess I blew that, huh?"

"Yes. But I'm glad you came. You don't have to wait with me," he added after a moment's thought.

"Nah, it's nice enough in here. Good spot." She leaned back, propping herself up on her elbows. "I'm glad you finally figured out how to take a break."

"What do you mean?" Of course he knew how to take a break. Everyone knew how to rest, it was a simple matter of not doing anything.

"I mean it's good that you're taking the time you need to recover now. You know, instead of pushing yourself until you can barely walk." She gave him a pointed look. "Like in the desert, when we were looking for the Horadric cube."

"Oh." He had run himself ragged for that. But it had been worth it in the end. It had been essential to get them as far as they were now. Which was, upon reflection, still trailing behind the Prime Evils. It was difficult to know just how far behind they were. Tyrael had told them to hurry, he recalled with a jolt. It was slow going through the cursed jungle. This endeavour had only cost a few hours, but the nagging tug of urgency was starting to pull again.

Morgan took stock of himself. He'd planned to recuperate, but how much did he really need to? The shaking had stopped, his heart rate had returned to normal. He was feeling more than a little drained, though, and his head still ached painfully. "I'm nearly rested enough to start moving," he offered. "There haven't been as many demons down along the river, we could-"

"Don't even fucking think about it," Blaise said cheerfully. "I take it back. When normal, sane people say they're rested, they mean they feel good and they're actually ready to go. When you say it, you just mean you don't think you'll collapse right away. Do you understand the difference there?"

"The difference is that I know my limits," Morgan replied. That was necessary for a priest of Rathma, the ability to gauge oneself accurately, to be able to do the maximum amount of work without walking unnecessarily into death's embrace.

"The difference is that you seem to think your limit is dying!"

"Of course. Don't you?"

"Well, obviously that's a limit for everyone, don't get sarcastic with me."

"I'm not."

Blaise stared at him for a second. "No," she agreed, "you're not. You just... you're missing the point."

"What is the point?"

"Well, you wouldn't ask me to go out hunting demons the next day after being-" She cut herself off abruptly, looking away. "Right after getting seriously injured," she finished, "would you?"

"Of course not."

"But you don't treat yourself the same way."

"No," he agreed. "That's different."

"It shouldn't be different. Why is it different?"

"My duty is more important than my comfort."

Blaise rolled her eyes. "Ugh, your duty. Is it more important than your life?"

"Yes."

"No, it isn't!"

"Of course it is. Long ago, Rathma created our order with the sacred charge to maintain the Balance of the Great Cycle of Being. If it slips too far to the Darkness, the Chaos, humanity suffers. If it slips too far to the Light, the Order, humanity stagnates. Humankind can only progress if the Balance is even. We dedicate our whole selves to keeping the Balance. A single life or death is nothing to the Cycle. Death comes to all living things. And if there comes a time when my death would serve better than my life, I will gladly choose death. That is our way."

Blaise was silent for a time. "You know," she said eventually, "the more I learn about your Order, the less I think I like it."

Despite himself, Morgan's heart sank. The Order was a central part of him as much as he was part of it. If she didn't like it, it logically followed that she didn't actually like him either. That must have been a misunderstanding on his part. He often had trouble with people's intentions. She really just liked having him around, as she'd said - he'd been making himself useful enough for that, at least. That was fine. It was better that way, really. More familiar, easier to understand.

"You're more than just a tool for the Balance, Morgan," Blaise continued. Your life has value on its own."

"No, I - we don't... that's for other people," he said, taken aback. That was not at all what he'd been expecting to come next. And it was wrong. A kind sentiment, to be sure, but still wrong.

"Why can't it be for you?"

It was Morgan's turn to think quietly for a while. The relentless pounding of his head was making it hard to concentrate. Of course there was a reason, but the words to explain it wouldn't present themselves. Priests of Rathma had to hold themselves to a different standard than other people. They were selected to do important work, and in doing so, they shed the conceit of personal importance in favour of the truth. They stepped outside the normal systems of value and worth, for it would be impossible to measure anything accurately from the inside of that sphere. It had to be that way. It was important. There was value in it, a different sort than the value Blaise thought she saw in him.

That was a large and unruly concept, one that threatened to overwhelm the emotional control he'd managed to rebuild. She saw value in him. Not for his work, just for his... self. How strange, how wrong, how tempting. How good that might feel, if he let it. To be worth something in someone else's eyes. A long-buried part of him wanted that, much more strongly than he would have guessed. That part warred with his sense of duty, his obligation to the Order.

He didn't need validation, didn't need to prove himself to anyone any more - he'd been deemed adequate to take on a task for the betterment of humanity, and that was enough. He didn't need friends. That was a want, not a need, and a want that should have been overcome long ago. Personal relationships weren't forbidden per se, but they were dangerous in that they could lead to an erosion of objectivity. But if he could be very, very careful, that hopeful part of him suggested, maybe he could manage it. Maybe he could earn this. The possibility left him feeling strangely, pleasantly light.

"Well?"

Morgan blinked hard to refocus himself. "I don't have an answer for you," he admitted. Strangely, Blaise seemed to be satisfied with that response.

"Well, keep thinking about it. We aren't going anywhere for a while. You just... rebuilt your whole arm. Fuck, that's amazing. Take your damn time recovering."

#my writing #story: unbidden

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monabela · 3 years

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who wants some corny slice of life lietpol? the answer is me! because I had not written anything yet this year and it felt Bad. I might do more of these little..... moments, for other pairings. it’s a fun exercise in characterization.

sunshine (once again)

characters/pairings: Lithuania (Tolys)/Poland (Feliks) word count: 1800 summary: On a sunny spring day, Feliks can only be glad of where he is right now.

Feliks draws idle shapes on his sketchpad, tracing shadows as they pass through the sunlight. The shadow of the brim of his hat is the base—he imagines it’s the surface of a new planet that he can populate as he wishes.

Irrevocably, though, his eye is drawn away from what is supposed to be work and across the small tiled terrace in the backyard, to where Tolys is humming under his breath and kneeling amid the flowers, carefully digging holes for new ones and removing weeds. There is sunlight in the man’s hair, bringing out both the deep gold and emerging silver among the brown strands. His dirt-caked hands are careful with bulbs and flowers, and quick with weeds.

Looking back down, Feliks draws a vaguely humanoid shape on his sketchpad, which he really shouldn’t be doing because it’s expensive, professional paper, but, well, this sheet is already wasted either way, so he can’t do further harm. It’s relaxing.

Tolys interrupts his humming.

“Oh no, you don’t,” he says, gently. “Get out of here. Go home.”

He’s shooing the neighbor’s cat away when Feliks looks, waving his little spade at it.

“Come on, go on. No, I don’t have anything to eat for you.” Helplessly, he looks over at Feliks when the cat drops itself to its back without preamble as if it’s asking for pets. Feliks sketches an amused little wave and gestures at his nose. Tolys shakes his head, unimpressed but amused.

Well, it is true that Feliks doesn’t usually let his allergies deter him from petting any cat. Or dog. He’s not picky. He just doesn’t feel like getting up right now.

“Get,” Tolys tries again, to the cat. And then, “Well, fine.”

After he pets the cat for four seconds, the animal jumps up and races away, leaving his hand hovering in mid-air. Feliks snorts.

Then innocently looks at his ridiculous drawing so he only hears Tolys’s answering huff.

Before long, the large sheet of paper is just about full of nonsense—although Feliks made an effort at the last moment to at least do some experimental sketches of buildings one might find on this planet of his. Just as a thought exercise. He’s pretty sure the geometry doesn’t make sense on at least two of them.

Tolys, who has by now upgraded to whistling the same tune—or downgraded, maybe, Feliks couldn’t say—is patting the ground around the last sprout into place when he checks, reaching across the other flowers carefully. His sleeveless shirt shows off his shoulders, strong and tanned by the late spring sun. Feliks knows he has freckles there, which fascinates him because there are none anywhere else on his body as far as he’s aware.

A shadow falls over his paper.

“I thought you said you were working,” Tolys says, amused and standing in front of Feliks. He shields his eyes from the sun and tilts his head to look at the drawing.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Feliks shrugs up at him, smiling faintly, and Tolys laughs brightly. When he swipes his hair away from his face, some dirt crumbles off his fingers to slide down his shirt, and he looks at his hands. Feliks shivers at the dirt under his nails. He can practically feel it.

“Remind me that we need gardening gloves.” Tolys picks at his fingernails.

“Got it.”

“I’ll go and wash this off, at least.”

Feliks nods, then puts his sketchpad on the bench next to himself and stands, pushing his hat back a little so he doesn’t hit Tolys in the face with it.

“Do you want some coffee after you’re done?”

“Yes, thanks!”

Waiting for him to take his old sneakers off outside and enter the house through the conservatory, Feliks follows him to start up the coffee maker in the kitchen. He stares absently at the gentle drip of fragrant coffee while the water runs in the bathroom, combing his fingers through his own hair where his hat has flattened it, until Tolys come back downstairs, wearing different clothes and with clean hands.

“Almost done,” Feliks mumbles. Tolys pulls their usual cups down from the cupboards.

When they both have their coffee, they go outside again. Tolys takes a banana as well, which he breaks in half to share with Feliks. Feliks, meanwhile, kicks his slippers off and sits cross-legged on the bench, turning his face to the sun for a moment before shielding it with the hat again.

“Are you done with the garden?” he asks Tolys.

“For now, yes.” He smiles at it over the rim of his coffee cup. “It’ll be beautiful come summer.” Resting his cup on his thigh, he flexes the fingers of his free hand, which, while clean, now look quite red and very dry. Feliks frowns, shoving the last piece of his banana into his mouth.

“Give,” he says, beckoning. Tolys startles and raises his eyebrows.

“What?”

“Your hands.”

“I’m holding—”

“One hand at a time.” Turning sideways on the bench, shifting the cushions on the wood a bit, Feliks grasps Tolys’s left hand, which is the one closest to him. The man doesn’t say anything, just smiles and cradles his coffee cup with his other hand.

Feliks tsks as he runs a thumb across the new calluses on Tolys’s index finger and palm, holding his hand between both of his own. Feliks’s fingers are small and pale compared to Tolys’s, graphite staining his left hand but the nails smooth and clean. He pushes his thumbs down gently at the base of the palm, sweeping one down over Tolys’s wrist, where his skin is soft and warm.

“I should really have some, ah, like, some hand cream,” he says absently, and Tolys smiles.

“This is good enough.” With the back resting on Feliks’s knee, his hand is limp while it is gently kneaded, only the fingertips curling inwards. Grinning, Feliks taps them with his own as if pressing piano keys, before moving on to Tolys’s fingers.

They’re always thoughtful, those fingers, gentle with flowers and sure with those old-fashioned fountain pens Tolys likes to use for work. They may not know how to play the piano or how to braid very well, but Feliks trusts them to touch him in a way he doesn’t trust many things to. Because Tolys knows when to stop, and Feliks has learned to tell him to do so in return. And to listen.

He warms Tolys’s fingers between his own in the sunshine until he’s satisfied that he’s comfortable and swipes his thumb over his wrist again.

“Let me guess, you want my other hand now,” Tolys says without looking at him, face turned to the sun and eyes closed.

“Well, you do use both of them.”

At that, he opens one mossy green eye to look at Feliks, inclining his head slightly.

“I use the right hand more.”

“All the more reason, then.” Feliks reaches across his body with both hands and grasps his right one, pulling it towards himself. Although Tolys laughs, it’s gentle, and he shifts just enough to be comfortable. He closes his eyes again.

Opens them.

“Don’t forget to drink your coffee.”

Oh, of course. Reluctantly, Feliks drops the hand to grab his coffee and drink it all quickly. He grimaces.

Tolys snickers, then closes his eyes again and looks perfectly innocent.

“Can’t believe you,” Feliks mutters, but he watches the smile curl around Tolys’s lips with warm affection anyway as he picks his hand up again. Despite the gentleness of the smile, it pulls at his cheek and the corner of his eyes, marking the skin with little lines that speak of something true.

“You keep drinking coffee,” Tolys says mildly.

“You keep buying this brand.” He ghosts his fingertips over the sensitive inside of his elbow, which makes him jump just a little, and laughs.

“Feliks.”

He just keeps smiling. It may be cheating a bit to tickle someone when being tickled himself makes Feliks extremely uncomfortable, but Tolys has assured him that he doesn’t mind, every now and then.

When Feliks is done with his right hand as well, Tolys opens his eyes again, looking a little bleary. He blinks, looking up at him from his slight slouch.

“Where did you learn that?” he asks, as if just now realizing what he was actually doing.

Feliks just shrugs. He honestly doesn’t know where he picked up half the things he knows—it just took him a long time to find his way in life, and he took a lot of detours to get there.

“Well, it’s nice.” Tolys turns his hand over to clasp his knee for a moment.

“I could do your head, too,” Feliks puts in, pretty sure he did a course where he learned about scalp massages once.

“Hm. You just want to get in my hair.”

“You like it when I do.”

In response to that, Tolys just smiles innocently. They’ve spent many evenings with Feliks silently braiding and re-braiding Tolys’s thick hair while he listens to music, the man’s head in his lap. Tolys will doze or read a book propped on his chest. It’s a kind of intimacy that suits them both perfectly, and gives Feliks’s restless fingers something to do.

“My head got quite sweaty, actually,” Tolys is saying now. “I meant to take a shower after dinner.”

“Then can I?”

He grins, nodding so that his hair sways against his jaw. Feliks doesn’t think it looks sweaty, but then, it’s harder to tell with Tolys’s dark hair than his own pale blond, which gets stringy very fast. He sometimes suspects that he is the main reason that Tolys keeps it at the length he does, which is fine by him.

Now, Tolys leaves his left hand resting on his knee and reaches over with the other to pick up his sketchpad. He holds it up as if inspecting the drawing.

“I’m quite curious about this, Feliks,” he says, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah, so am I, really.” Looking at it again, it’s really just a mess, although those windows he drew in the corner are quite nice. Tolys laughs.

“I’m working, he says.”

“I made an attempt.”

“Hm.” With a lingering smile, Tolys hands the sketchpad over, drumming his fingers on Feliks’s leg once. Feliks plays an imaginary little tune on his knuckles in return.

The neighbor’s cat sits down right at the edge of the patch of new flowers, looking quite curious as well, but Tolys has closed his eyes again and doesn’t see it. Feliks puts his finger over his lips before pulling his pencil from behind his ear and adjusting his hat until it shadows the sketchpad again.

Maybe, he can get some actual work done before dinner.

#Hetalia #lietpol #aph poland #aph lithuania #pol's one of those characters I've started to appreciate more over time #I say that like there's lots of those #maybe den too #but yeah #these two have planted themselves p firmly on the ace spectrum in my mind #especially pol #he also got quite touch-averse compared to how I used to write him #but I feel like that fits him better #in other words he's me but instead of languages he knows maths #shrug emoji #w: 2500 #fin #u: human

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isis-astarte-diana · 4 years

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Afternoon Tea

Summary: “Shall we flip a coin?” A quiet afternoon in Missy’s office. Sort of.

Warnings: NSFW. MIHOW. Dark!Missy, except it’s Dark!Missies. Teeny bit of selfcest because, uh, obviously. Dodgy dynamics, bad BDSM etiquette, spitroasting, human furniture, dehumanisation, non-consensual exhibitionism.

Word Count: 2546

NB: You asked, I gave: the return of double Missy. This is stupid and extra and absurd and I loved writing it.

“Well, then. Heads or tails?”

“Oh, I’m in two minds.” Missy crosses her ankles where her feet are propped up on the glass coffee table and smooths down nonexistent creases in her purple moleskin trousers. She turns to you with a raised eyebrow, a perfectly pleasant smile on her face. “Any preference, dearest?”

Your eyes flit between them; your two Mistresses, seated opposite each other in their dark leather armchairs. The fearful symmetry is still a dizzying sight. Of course, there are differences - one imperious in violet, face made with powder and eyeshadow and rouge, the other in her grey boiler suit and vest, her long hair falling loose and untidy - but the only things that matter are identical. Their postures are perfectly mirrored, right up to the delicate hands on the arms of their chairs and the two pairs of boots on the coffee table, one elegant and high-heeled, the other practical and sturdy. The four blue eyes fixed on your face all sparkle with perverse pleasure.

“No, Mistress.” Your voice is breathless. “Whatever you like.”

“Oh, you’re no help.” Tutting, one of them - the double in grey - reaches over to sharply pinch the undercurve of your arse. You squeak, shifting in your bonds. Each wrist and ankle is bound securely to a leg of the hardwood desk in front of the vast windows. Afternoon sunlight warms your naked back. “Shall we flip a coin?”

“You read my mind.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to cough up the goods.” She gestures to her boiler suit. “Left my purse in my other trousers.”

“Good one.” Chuckling, the other Missy reaches into her pocket and retrieves a silver half-crown. She holds it up to the light from the window and squints at it. “I don’t think this one was loaded.”

“I don’t suppose it matters.”

She grins at her double. “No, I suppose not.” With an astonishingly fluid motion, she flicks it into the air, catches it in the palm of her right hand and slaps it down against the back of her left. “Take it as it comes?”

“Why not?” She leans forward in her chair, finally planting her work boots back on the parquet floor. “Just for a change.”

Missy moves her right hand with a flourish, inspecting the glinting silver coin. “Ooh.” She shows her teeth and shivers with obvious delight. “Heads, it is.”

“Well then.” Rising to her feet, she proffers a hand to her past self. Her nails are cut to the quick and unpainted. “Shall we?”

With a quirk of one delicate eyebrow, she accepts. “Oh, Missy, you flirt.”

“Oh, you love it, dearest.” She tugs the other sharply into her chest and Missy’s eyes widen, a pleased laugh bubbling from her red lips. “I know I did.”

“I do look rather fetching in that outfit.” She trails sharp black fingernails over the curve of musculature in the other woman’s bare bicep. “Quite rugged. It suits me.”

“I could hardly wear a purple pea coat down at the coalface, now, could I?” Her firm hands land on Missy’s waist, pulling her closer still.

“We’ve worn it in stranger places.”

“And looked damn good doing it.”

When they kiss, it’s all teeth. You might have expected them to fit together, but it’s more like forcing similar poles of a magnet; they lick, bite, suck in time with each other, chasing their counterpart’s lips and never quite falling into place. The show is awkward, and violent, and impossibly arousing. You can’t suppress a soft gasp at the sight.

They break away and turn to look at you, temples pressed together, two identical faces smirking down at you. It makes you twitch.

“Oh, poppet.” A sympathetic pout. “You haven’t been forgotten.”

“Don’t worry,” they part, circling you slowly. “I play far too rough for myself. There’s nothing to be jealous of.”

One of them disappears behind you and the other - your Missy, the original, though the concept has lost all meaning by now - threads her fingers through your hair. She presses your face into the soft moleskin of her trousers, forcing you to nuzzle against her crotch and the unyielding bulge of the toy concealed by her clothes. You whimper when she tugs on your hair.

It turns into a long whine when cool fingers trail up the back of your left leg, starting at the curve of your knee and following a winding path up to your arse. The light touch is ticklish and sets your bound leg quivering. Behind you, Missy chuckles.

“Lovely.” She lands a firm smack on the left side of your arse. You cry out into the fabric of Missy’s clothes, your open mouth pressed over the shape of the strap-on. “I don’t know why it’s taken us this long to have her like this.”

“Well, we’re nothing if not patient, are we?”

With no warning at all, two slender fingers press swiftly into your cunt. The slickness there is abundant and there’s no discomfort, save for the alarm of being so abruptly filled. Your yelp of surprise is muffled by the purple moleskin. Soft laughter sounds around you.

“Someone, it seems, is rather less patient.” Her fingers crook inside you, putting you apart, nudging the soft part at the front of your walls that makes pressure twitch in your abdomen. You shift your hips as best as your restraints will allow. “I don’t think she’ll have a problem taking what she’s given.”

“Oh, you never have a problem when you’re tied down, do you, sweetheart?” Pointed fingernails drag against your scalp. “It’s when those pesky hands get in the way that I have to get cross with you.”

“I often wonder whether to do something more permanent about them.” A third finger pushes inside of you, the faint stretch sufficient to make you gasp. “But then, I do so love the things they can do when you behave yourself.” She withdraws slowly, twisting her hand as she does, and fills you again with a merciless thrust that makes you cry out. Your restraints rattle with the jerking motion of your hips. Neglected thus far, your clitoris throbs in time with her movements as she begins to fuck you slowly.

The pad of Missy’s thumb finds your bottom lip, tracing it, pulling it downwards so that the inside of your lip brushes against the fabric pressed tight to your mouth. You inhale deeply, savouring the sweet musk of her arousal even through her clothes. Your eager tongue drags along the rigid shape of the concealed strap-on and she laughs.

“Greedy girl,” she admonishes without venom. “I’ve half a mind to make you beg for it.”

“Now there’s an idea.” She withdraws her fingers unceremoniously, leaving you cool and open where she’s put you apart. You let out a shuddering sigh. “I know you’re gagging for it, sweetheart. Pun fully intended.”

“Oh, I really do crack myself up.” Tittering to herself, Missy works at her fly, freeing the black toy from the confines of her trousers with an obscene flourish. You whine at the sight of it. She strokes the length of it almost reverently and rests the tip against your bottom lip. “Let’s hear it, dearest. Persuade me.”

“Please, Mistress.” You press a soft kiss to the end of the strap-on, looking up at her through your lashes. She raises an eyebrow, seemingly unmoved. “Please use my mouth.” You drag the flat of your tongue over the head of the toy, turning it dark and glossy with your saliva.

Behind you, the other Missy tuts. “Oh, I think we can do better than that.” Slick pressure drags at the lips of your weeping cunt as she lines herself up. Your muscles twitch at the contact, as if trying to draw her inside of you, and a breath catches in your chest. “You can beg so prettily for us when you want to.”

“Please,” you try again, louder this time. “Please, my beautiful, generous Mistresses. Please fill me up. Please use me. I’ll be good, I promise I’ll be a good girl for you.” More worshipful kisses and licks to the end of the toy where it pushes against your lips. She hums contemplatively, tugging lightly at your hair.

“Are we convinced?” Lifting her face to her double, she nudges your mouth open and lets the toy rest heavily inside your parted lips. Unconsciously, you wet the end of it with your tongue. “Shall we fill the poor girl?”

“She did ask very nicely.”

Bracing one hand on your thigh, she guides the strap-on inside of you with firm pressure. The ample slickness prevents any pain, but the size of it is significant and you breathe a heavy groan as it stretches you with sweet and aching discomfort.

The sound is choked off in your throat when Missy fills your mouth with the unyielding length of her own toy.

She lets you feel the size of it for a moment, pressing it deep enough to touch your tonsils and make your throat convulse with a vulgar gagging sound, before easing back a little bit. You mewl pitifully around it when her double slides home and her hips cradle your arse.

The walls of your cunt throb and twitch around her length. It stings just the barest amount. In time with your heartbeat, pulsing pleasure echoes from your overfilled cunt and sparks at your clitoris. Shifting as much as your bonds will allow - which is precious little - you relax your jaw and let your eyes flutter closed.

“That’s a good girl.” Gentle fingers comb through your hair in stark contrast to the merciless invasion of your body. “You look delightful when you take me in your mouth.”

Her praise ignites you with fluttering pleasure and you make a contented noise as she starts to withdraw, using her hand on your head to hold you steady. She rocks back to fill your mouth again just as her double grasps your hips and begins to set up her own slow rhythm.

“You take us beautifully, poppet,” she croons.

Pinned and bound helplessly between them, you have no choice but to accept all that they have to give you. The blazing fullness in your cunt consumes your attention. Your toes curl, your fingers clutch tightly to the legs of the desk, and desperate cries and whines tear from your chest only to be strangled by the thick length that nudges at the back of your tongue with every unhurried thrust.

It’s bliss; for a minute or two.

Then, over the sound of your own ruination, there comes a loud knock at the door.

Adrenaline runs hot and cold through you. Missy chuckles when you start to squirm, fighting your bonds for the first time, and she presses deep enough to gag you. You’re forced to fight for breath through your nose and control the spasming of your throat.

To your horror, as her fingers card through your hair, she calls, “come in!”

Your shriek is garbled and barely audible around the toy that nudges your tonsils, and it cuts off when you retch again. Even this most feeble of protests is robbed from you.

“Behave,” she warns behind you, landing a harsh slap to your arse. It makes your hips jerk and your walls clench around her. “You don’t want to make a scene, now, do you, dearest?”

The heavy wooden door creaks open, and a soft feminine voice announces, “your afternoon tea, Missy?”

“Thank you,” she chimes, saccharine sweet, tightening her grip on your hair as she gestures to the unseen woman with her free hand. “I’m terribly parched.”

“Where shall I-”

“Oh, be a darling and bring it over here for me?” Her fingers trail along the length of your spine and you squeak.

You flinch, closing your eyes tightly, when her footfalls approach, but she doesn’t even gasp at the sight of you. Instead, she does exactly as instructed, and sets the silver tea tray down squarely on your naked back.

It’s mirror cold, making you shiver, and has some weight to it; not enough to ache, but enough that you don’t fear toppling it with the barest movement. It rests heavily across your prone body from the bottom of your shoulderblades to the base of your spine.

“Will there be anything else, Missy?” The stranger seems quite unbothered by the spectacle you know you must make, bound to the desk, mouth and cunt stuffed full. Every inch of naked skin prickles and heats under this new indignity.

“No, thank you, dear. This will do nicely.” She pats your head encouragingly and finally eases back to let you breathe unhindered. “I shall call you again to remove the tea things when I’m finished with them.”

“Very good, Missy.”

With that, she’s gone, closing the door softly behind her. A chorus of laughter surrounds you.

“Hypnotised, poor love,” Missy explains, pinching the sore flesh where she’d smacked your arse. “I may be able to get away with a lot, but I can’t allow word to get out that I’m leading my own resistance.”

“It’s a pity, really,” she muses, scratching lightly at the back of your neck. “She’s a lovely thing and I’m sure she would have liked to stay for tea.”

“Perhaps next time.” A merciless thrust makes your abdomen clench with pressure and you jerk in your restraints, setting the contents of the tray to rattling above you. She scoffs and slaps you again, igniting your skin with tingling heat. “If you spill my tea, poppet, I will be very cross.”

“And you will be very sorry.” She lets go of your hair, the tray and saucer clinking when she picks up her teacup. “Though you do make rather a fetching table.”

“Rather a loud table.” As if to punctuate her words, she strokes a single fingertip beneath where her strap-on splits you open, swiping over your clitoris. You cry out around the toy in your mouth, trembling violently as your humiliation is immediately forgotten in favour of the excruciating pleasure that flickers back to life under her touch. “Did you have something to say?”

“Oh, please,” she takes an indulgent sip of her tea and sighs theatrically with contentment before setting it down once more on the tray balanced on your back. “Enlighten us.”

The toy slides out of your mouth with an obscene pop, a trail of saliva strung between its tip and your parted lips. You gasp greedy breaths, working your jaw to release the tension there. Another teasing touch to your throbbing clitoris makes you yelp.

“Please, Mistress,” you manage, hoarse from the treatment your throat has received, breathless from the ongoing stimulation to your overstretched cunt. “Please, please, can I come?”

More wry chuckles, above you, behind you, ahead of you. Sharp fingernails trail underneath your jaw and lift your chin until you’re forced to look up at her. She smiles widely, too many teeth on show.

“Of course you can, dearest.” She purses her lips and guides the head of the toy, slick and warm now from your ministrations, back into your mouth. With a single forceful thrust she fills your throat and makes you gag once more. “Just as soon as we’ve finished our tea.”

#mine #nsfwork #missy x reader #the master x reader #gomez!master x reader #missy x reader x missy

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artificialqueens · 3 years

Text

Galactica, Chapter 35 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica

A/N: Click here if you’re looking for previous chapters (or here if you’d rather read on AO3). 💫

Last Chapter: Violet’s promotion became official, and Bianca set her sights on a certain blonde.

This Chapter: Violet begins her new job, and things are not exactly what she expected.

***

Even though everything was technically all the same, Violet felt like she had walked into a completely different building.

She had greeted Roxy with a smile, the receptionist at her desk when Violet had walked in at 9:30 for her visit with HR, people actually present unlike when Violet usually came in at the crack of dawn. Trixie had insisted that she take a slow morning, almost forbidding her to come in with the rest of the floor, and Violet guessed that it made sense since it was her first day.

Violet walked out of the elevator, her heels clacking on the floor, her stomach filled with butterflies.

Her morning had been a lot more messy than she preferred. She had changed her clothes a million times, unsure what to wear, until she had finally settled on a simple long sleeved top and a full skirt. It was completely Fame approved, but Violet felt comfortable in it, none of it too flashy or attention grabbing. Violet knew how to use a sewing machine in heels, but she still had a pair of flats in her bag, just in case someone truly cared about the company's safety guidelines.

She paused in front of the door, smoothing down her skirt, one, two, three times, before grabbing the handle and opening the door to the first day of the rest of her life.

“Violet!” Trixie smiled brightly, standing up from where he had been leaning over Gia’s shoulder, who was somehow still miraculously working at the company - even after her screw up in the Fall. “Welcome! I’m so happy you’re here.”

“Oh,” Violet stopped. She couldn’t remember ever being greeted with so much enthusiasm when coming into work, but it was nice, very nice. “I’m happy to be here?”

“Yes you are,” Trixie grinned, walking over to her, the man wearing a somewhat ridiculous white t-shirt with a pink and blue band logo Violet didn’t recognise. “We’re going to have so much fun, but first, Everyone!”

Trixie clapped his hands, catching the attention of the entire department who all turned to them.

“This is Violet Chachki, you all already know her as Fame’s assistant,” Trixie smiled, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Say hi.”

“Hello,” Violet said, lifting her hand in greeting. She wasn’t sure what to do with herself, the whole thing horribly embarrassing, everyone looking at her. Violet wasn’t unused to attention, but she disliked it heavily when it was focused on her person, and not on something she had created.

She attempted a smile, doing her very best not to let anyone know how awkward she felt.

“She is going to be working with us now here in the best department of Galactica!” Trixie released her, earning a laugh from everyone. “I want you all to make her feel welcome and settled since we all know what it was like to be new,” he finished with a lot of them looking on with slight smiles and waves.

“You got it coach!”

Violet turned to look at the source of the voice, an incredibly tall bald man with a gigantic smile and a raspy voice the one who had called out. Violet recognized Bob, who was the design department's project manager, though she didn’t think she had ever seen him in Fame’s office.

“Let me show you around.” Trixie looped their arms together, dragging Violet with him before she had the chance to put down her bag, or even take off her jacket.

The design floor was a myriad of various fabrics in countless colors and prints with a multitude of textures to choose from.

Dress forms, in an assortment of sizes, lined the walls under large glass windows that brought in natural light and a beautiful view, of the east side, of Central Park.

The floor had neat rows of long work tables each with their own computers, drawing sections, sewing machines, hanging dress form and a rolling stool.

“Aaaaaaaand this, is your desk!” Trixie smiled brightly, throwing an arm out as he showed Violet her place.

“What…” Violet looked at the big collage that was put right in the middle. “Is that?”

“Right?” Trixie grinned, clearly very proud of himself “I made it for you.”

“Oh…” Violet bit her lip, unease welling up in her body. The gesture was kind, but it was strange to see so many pictures of herself, most of all because she had no idea when most of them had actually been taken. “Thank you.” She was sure she could stuff it in her drawer later, the paper looking sturdy enough to be shoved down there.

“Don’t mention it,” Trixie gave her a halfarm hug, holding her against his side for a minute. “Now, next on the agenda- Jovan, pay attention.”

“Sure thing coach.”

Violet watched as Jovan turned around, the man sitting backwards on his chair, one of his long limbs pulled up in what looked like an extremely uncomfortable position.

“Hello.” Jovan smiled, a gigantic white toothed grin on his face. He was bald, the top of his head somehow not smooth like Bob’s, but instead sort of wrinkly.

“Jovan will be your desk mate.”

Violet had wondered who she’d be seated next to, and while she had never actually spoken to Jovan, he wasn’t her worst option.

“Hello,” Violet held out her hand, “I’m Violet.”

“Please,” Jovan snorted, grabbing her hand in a surprisingly hard grip. “I already know who you are.”

“Jovan is one of our contemporary designers.”

Violet nodded, hiding a smile. It was clear as day that Jovan was in contemporary, his shirt a multicolored almost neon asymmetrical tunic.

“One of the best,” Jovan squeezed her hand, letting it go, “contemporary designers. Don’t touch my stuff, and I promise that you and I will get along great.”

“Jovan-” Trixie started scolding, but Violet cut in.

“I’ll keep my hands to myself.” Violet put her bag on the table. She had never seen Trixie scold anyone, but judging by the furrow of his brow, Jovan was toeing the line.

“What’s on the agenda, coach?” Jovan had somehow managed to cross his legs around the chair, a pencil dangling from his mouth.

“Oh,” Trixie smiled, and Violet reached inside her bag, grabbing her notebook. “Violet has the morning off.”

“Wha-” Violet paused, unsure if she had heard Trixie correctly. “Excuse me, what did you say?” It was only Monday, but Violet knew that design had their weekly department wide meetings every Thursday, and if she was being honest, she had expected to be thrown directly into the work, the Christmas collection just around the corner.

“The morning off.” Trixie grinned. “Decorate your desk, say hi to everyone, get all your little knick knacks in order and later we’ll have cake to celebrate your first day.”

***

Jovan groaned slightly. He was supposed to be working on the holiday collection but he just couldn’t seem to find an interesting angle.

Jovan didn’t like making gowns, and though he had managed once or twice to sneak in a pants suit or something mildly interesting, Raja and Fame had a clear almost inarguable preference towards high classic glamor when it came to the holidays.

He flipped back and forth between his sketches, pencil in his mouth, erasing a line here of adding one there. After a bit, he sensed a disturbance in the energy, his attention shifted slightly across the table to his new deskmate.

Violet was sitting at her desk, tapping her nails on the wood, her lip between her teeth as she was looking out on the department. She was practically radiating nervous energy, her desk already all neatly set up.

Jovan noticed a leather bound planner, a collection of pens and pencils in an empty Dior box, a thick stack of sketching paper, as well as a well stocked sewing kit, a golden pair of scissors sticking out.

She seemed to be in worse shape than he was, clearly not used to being given idle creative time, and Jovan smiled slightly, deciding to take pity on her.

“Hey, Violet.” Jovan pushed his chair out, scooting over to her table. “I’m working on this dress,” Jovan put his sketches down on Violet’s desk, “and I can’t figure out the hem length. Will you check it out?”

“Oh, um, sure…” Violet leaned over the desk table, pushing a bit of her hair behind her ear. Jovan hadn’t noticed the bracelet or her rings before, the golden jewelry clearly well worn, but also well taken care of. “What’s the problem?”

“See, I’m trying it three different ways, but they all feel wrong...” Jovan tapped his sketches, already enjoying how seriously Violet considered the question, examining each sketch closely and looking at them back and forth a few times before attempting an answer.

“I like the length on the second one, but the shoulders on the third one might balance it out more,” she finally said, and he smiled.

“Yeah, good call, thanks!” Jovan stretched, yawning slightly. He was already feeling much better, but Violet still looked lost.

“I need caffeine.” Jovan stood up. “You wanna come for some espresso or a latte or something?”

“Oh.” Violet looked genuinely surprised at his request, sneaking a quick glaze at Trixie’s closed office door before she made up her mind. “Um, alright…” Violet reached for her coat, but Jovan stopped her.

“No,” Jovan smiled. “I just mean the espresso machine we have in the break room.” Jovan pointed over his shoulder, Violet following his fingers, her brow furrowing. “You did know that we have a break room down here, right?”

Jovan had heard the rumor that Fame only drank Starbucks, though he hadn’t imagined that her assistants shared the luxury, but Violet shook her head, the woman both looking mystified and curious, and Jovan realised that he had never actually seen her in any of the Galactica break rooms ever.

“Come on,” Jovan grabbed her elbow, giving it a squeeze. “I’ll show you.”

***

“Stop, omigod, I can’t breathe,” Maxwell wheezed, clutching Bob’s shoulder and practically choking with laughter at his boyfriend’s story.

“No, but listen. Then Acid turned to him and-”

Maxwell reached up and covered Bob’s mouth with his hand, having just spotted Jovan strolling towards the break room with Violet in tow.

“Incoming mole,” he warned, giving a nod with his head.

Maxwell had been working at Galactica for his entire career - over ten years now. He’d seen many assistants come and go from Miss Fame’s office.

Most of the time, they moved on to other jobs in the industry, working for buyers or as stylists. Occasionally, they were promoted within the company. Shangela had started off as Fame’s assistant years ago, and so had Laganja in marketing. But this was the first time anyone had been sent to design. Granted, Violet was one of the more competent and longer-lasting assistants, but still.

He was suspicious.

Bob seemed perfectly ready to welcome Violet to the family with open arms. Maxwell, on the other hand, was more cautious, and the last thing he wanted was for Violet to walk in on some debaucherous story about drag queens.

“Look professional!” he hissed, before removing his hand.

“First of all, I’m always professional. And second, would you relax?” Bob smirked, leaning against the table, his favorite mug in hand. “She seems perfectly nice.”

“Oh please,” Maxwell huffed, “You just want upstairs gossip.”

For as long as Bob has been at the company--nearly as long as Maxwell, he’d been utterly fascinated with senior management. Their weird quirks and tempestuous moods, all the tabloid nonsense.

“Uh!” Bob gasped, holding a hand to his chest. “I resent that!”

“Well, resent it or not, it’s true,” Maxwell quipped.

“You name one time when I’ve been the source of gossip around here,” Bob said, a hand on his hip, in full queen mode.

“That’s...what...all the time!” Maxwell sputtered, caught off guard by that ridiculous defense. Bob was a notorious gossip. He was the only person Maxwell knew who still talked on the phone with multiple people every day, for fun. It was half the reason why they’d never moved in together, Maxwell unable to imagine living with Bob’s need to talk on the phone for hours in the evening. Maxwell enjoyed people too, sometimes, but after work, he more often than not wanted some peace and solitude.

“So you can’t name one specific time? Interesting.” Bob’s brown eyes glittered with amusement, always the happiest when he was in teasing mode.

“You’re impossible!” Maxwell turned to Jovan, who was now busy with the espresso machine. “Bob says he’s not a gossip.”

“Ha!” Jovan snorted. “Violet, what do you want?”

“An americano is more than fine.” Violet smiled, and Maxwell realised that he wasn’t sure if he had ever seen that expression on the former assistants face before.

He had never spoken with her before, Ivy always the assistant who came along to the design meetings, but he had seen her follow Fame down the halls, and he still remembered how bad he had felt for her during Fame’s temperature meltdown at their September show.

“Violet, Violet, Violet,” Bob put a hand down, turning his body towards her. “Do not listen to them.” Bob pouting at both Maxwell and Jovan. “I’m not a gossip. I’m a very trustworthy confidante, so if you have anything you need to share about, you know, upstairs...I’m all ears.” Bob grinned.

“Ah!” Maxwell cried triumphantly, “Case in fucking point you fucking gossip!”

“Upstairs?” Violet looked genuinely confused for a moment.

“You know,” Bob pointed at the ceiling, “Upstairs.”

“Ah.”

Maxwell made a face at Bob, clearing his throat slightly.

Why did he have to reveal everything right away? They didn’t know how trustworthy this girl was yet, and so they should really assume zero percent. It was the only safe and logical conclusion.

“Sorry, assistant code,” said Violet with an apologetic shrug. “My lips are sealed”

“Wow. Okay, I see how it is,” Bob said, and Maxwell rolled his eyes.

“Honestly Bob, what if she’d come down here and started reporting all kinds of rumors? Wouldn’t that make you concerned?” he asked, reaching up to tug on on Bob’s ear.

“Concerned…. Entertained… Potato, potahto.” Bob grinned, taking another sip from his mug.

“Goddammit,” Jovan said, struggling with the machine. “Cracks, can you help me? This fucking thing, we need a new one-”

“Sure.” Maxwell stepped over to the machine to assist. He remembered when Trixie first got it for them, almost six years ago, how everyone had just gone crazy over it. But lately it was acting up, and the designers were not pleased when they needed to wait an extra 30 seconds for coffee. The company should really take care of it before there was some kind of mutiny. He made a mental note to talk to Trixie later.

“So, Violet,” Bob continued, “How’s it going? Is our boy Jovan being cool, or is he in one of his moods?”

“Fuck off,” Jovan cut in, sitting down heavily. “I’m fucking delightful.”

Maxwell chuckled to himself over that, Jovan’s stormy moods something everyone in the department knew intimately.

“He’s been very kind,” Violet said, her hand gripping the edge of her skirt.

“Yeah, yeah.” Bob smiled, rolling his eyes. “Look, Violet, let me give you some advice,” Bob turned to Jovan. “You’ve gotta pay attention to that big vein in his forehead, and when it starts popping out...run.”

“Oh.”

“Eat a dick, Bob.”

“Yours?” Bob looked down, leering at Max’s brown khakis, a grin on his face, “Or like, any dick?” Bob teased, wiggling his brows. “Either way, I’m down.”

Maxwell rolled his eyes, giving Bob a Look intended to say ‘not in mixed company,’ gesturing towards Violet, the poor girl probably scandalized by this kind of talk, judging from her ramrod straight posture and demurely folded hands.

He turned to Jovan for backup, only to find him sitting at one of the tables, big wrinkly head in his hands. Maxwell tapped him on the shoulder, hoping to help him avoid an existential crisis before eleven am.

“How’s the Hanukkah dress?” Maxwell asked, which is what he’d been jokingly calling the blue cocktail number that poor Jovan was working on. Jovan rolled his eyes.

“Killing me. Violet had a good idea though, so I guess I’ll try that.”

“Are you gonna embroider a menorah on the front?” Maxwell teased.

“No, I was thinking that the skirt would just be a giant dreidel.”

Maxwell laughed at that, though truth be told, you could never be too sure with Jovan. He might just do it.

“Did Coach assign you anything yet, Violet?” Bob asked.

“No..” Violet tilted her head. “Is there a reason you call him that?”

“Oh. Yeah. So, Trixie’s the only straight guy around here-”

“Straight identified,” Maxwell corrected, and Violet snorted, quickly covering her mouth with her hand.

“Yeah, so, we like to give him shit. We call him Coach. You know...” Bob made his hand into a fist and punched Violet very lightly on the shoulder, deepening his voice. “Coach!”

“He’s the only straight guy, and of course he’s the one in charge of the department,” Jovan added pointedly.

“Well, yes, there’s also that,” Bob chuckled. “Anyway, have you gotten an assignment for the holiday collection? I’ve seen some pictures of your student stuff,” Trixie had dropped by with Violet’s portfolio, shoving it to Bob who had loved flipping through it. “I assumed you’d be doing gowns most of the time.”

“No-” Violet opened her mouth, but then seemed to rethink it, and close it again. “Not yet.”

“So...Chachki,” Maxwell said, handing her coffee over. “Are you Jewish?”

“No,” Violet said simply, and Bob burst out laughing.

“She said nope,” he giggled, popping the p.

“Well, where are you from? What’s your deal? Tell us everything,” Maxwell continued, undeterred by Bob’s laughter.

“Oh. Um… There’s not much to tell. I graduated from Parsons a few years ago. I’m originally from Atlanta-”

“Hey! Me too!” Bob exclaimed. “I’m from Clayton County. Where’d you go to high school?”

“-But I’ve been in New York since I was 13.”

“Oh, gotcha.”

“I got a job working for Miss Fame, and...that’s about it.” Violet looked around, her lip between her teeth.

“Wow. Fascinating,”

“Sorry, I’m not very interesting.”

“No no,” Maxwell said. “You should write a memoir.”

“Omigod, she’s like twelve years old, leave her alone,” Bob said. “In case you haven’t noticed, Violet, these guys are a mess and you should ignore 98% of everything they say.”

Bob put his arm around Maxwell, squeezing him affectionately even as the insults rolled off his tongue.

“And what about you?” Maxwell asked.

“Me?” Bob asked. “Oh, fully same.”

***

“What,” Violet was staring at the table, a brown concoction staring right back at her, “on earth is this?”

“You never seen one before?” Alexis smiled, getting in next to her, “They call it a cronut, girl. Everyone in the city is obsessed with them,” she grabbed one, “and they’re delicious.”

Violet had spent lunch with Alexis, Gia and April, the three women slipping back and forth between English and Spanish, their conversation practically impossible to follow, but Violet hadn’t minded.

It had been incredibly nice to just sit with someone for lunch without constantly checking her phone, Violet unsure if she had ever actually had an uninterrupted lunch break at Galactica before.

“Huh.” Violet bit her lip, still not too sure about the offered treat. “Are we already-”

“Hey, Violet-” Violet turned her head to see Blu slip in next to her, a big smile on the Irish woman's beautiful face. Her ginger hair was pushed back with a hairband, her grey eyes attentive and kind. “Are you coming to the happy hour?”

“Happy hour?”

“Mmh,” Blu nodded, “a couple of us always go round the corner for a pint on Mondays at 5:30. You know, for bonding and stuff.”

“Huh.” Violet bit her lip. She had seen Blu and Gia working that morning, but it seemed strange to her that they were expecting to be let go at 5:30, the whole thing even stranger since both Blu and Gia were actively enjoying the pastries.

“So, you coming?”

“Oh, no,” Violet did her best to smile, to look genuinely apologetic. “I can’t.”

Sutan had texted her about whether or not she wanted to come over after work, and Violet couldn’t wait to cuddle up on the couch, tucked safe and sound under Sutan’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Blu smiled, though Violet wasn’t sure it actually was based on the look in her eyes, “You can come next time-”

“Violet!” Blu was cut off as Trixie came over, “Blu! Are you enjoying the cronuts?”

“Yes boss,” Blu held up her cronut, over half of it gone. “It’s delicious.”

“Have you had any, Violet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Here.” Trixie grabbed a plate, quickly scooping one up for her. “It’s pumpkin chai this month!”

“Thanks.” Violet took it, unsure what to do. It wasn’t that she hated all desserts, wasn’t that she hated all sweets, but what she did hate was trying new things when she was feeling nervous, and even though everyone had been beyond kind to her so far, she couldn’t help the unsettling feeling in her stomach that something wasn’t right.

“I can’t wait to see your finished blouse,” Trixie was smiling, his hand on Blu’s arm. “I’m counting on you.”

“Mmh,” Blu nodded, pride in her eyes, and Trixie gave her one last squeeze, clearly intending to walk on and make sure everyone was having a good time.

“Trixie-” Violet took a step forward, her now boss turning around to look at her.

“Yes sweetheart?”

“I was wondering, if I could-” Violet wanted to throw herself out the window, the entire thing so terribly awkward, the fact that she was daring to even consider questioning her boss’ process, “it’s about the holiday collection-”

“Oh, that silly thing?” Trixie laughed, “Don’t worry about it.”

“But,” Violet took another step forward, “I’d like to, like to worry, that is-”

“You’ll watch the design meeting on Thursday, see how things are done around here.” Trixie smiled. “Ease into it, take it slow.”

“But I have an idea for-” Violet didn’t know if she was allowed, but she had already picked up a few of the unfavored fabric swatches, a white silk and some crushed red velvet so to Fame’s taste that she knew she had to give it a try.

“If you really want to speed things up, you can spend tomorrow shadowing April.”

“Really?” It wasn’t what Violet truly wanted, but anything, literally anything, would be better than another day of ‘taking it slow’.

“It’ll be perfect for you,” Trixie smiled, “I promise.”

Trixie then took a bite of the cronut in his hand, his eyes going wide. He turned from Violet to call out, “Kimberly! Kim, did you try these pumpkin chai cronuts?! Oh my god...”

As her boss wandered off to wax poetic about his pastry, Violet dug her fingers into her palm. Wasn’t this department supposed to be the lifeblood of the company? Why was everyone so chill?

Violet tried to be positive, tried to believe that Trixie was only doing what he thought best for her, but she couldn’t help wondering if she was still working for Galactica, the feeling of utterly uselessness washing over her for the first time since she had started at the company.

***

“Are you feeling chopsticks or fork?”

“Fork please.”

“Of course.” Violet smiled as Sutan began to dig through his cutlery drawer, soft jazz playing from the radio in the window. She had gotten somewhat used to seeing him without his suits in Paris, early morning Sutan walking around in pajama pants and t-shirts for as long as he could, but there was something special about seeing him in casual chinos and the sweaters he seemed to favor now that it was getting colder outside.

They were in his kitchen, Violet sitting at the table. When she had come over, Sutan had been setting up in the dining room, but she had asked him if they could please sit in the kitchen instead, the room so much cosier and lived in than the dining room.

Violet had been looking forward to her first day in design since she started at Galactica, but now that she had gotten there, it felt like a hollow victory.

She was sure tomorrow would be better, that it’d be more meaningful, but for now, she just wanted to spend time with the man she really genuinely liked.

“Here you go.” Sutan handed her the fork. “You know,” Sutan smirked, crossing his arms, “You should really learn how to use chopsticks.”

“I know how to use chopsticks,” Violet looked up at Sutan, putting her fork down. “I just prefer not to.”

“Sure lovely eyes.” Sutan grinned, grabbing the back of her chair, leaning down to kiss her, when the doorbell rang.

“Ah,” Sutan gave her a quick peck, his lips tasting faintly like peppermint with an undercurrent of cigarettes, his eyes sparkling.

“That must be the food.” Sutan stood up, reaching into his pocket for a wad of cash Violet hadn’t even noticed. “Do you mind finishing setting the table?”

“Of course not.” Violet stood herself as Sutan walked out, and she quickly crossed the room, opening the cabinet she knew housed Sutan’s plates.

The request hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary, Violet helping more often than not, but as she actually looked at the kitchen table, she realized what she had accidentally said yes to.

Sutan’s laptop was sitting in the middle, but besides that, the table was covered in work stuff, Sutan’s laptop, headshots, what Violet could only assume was contracts, folders and modeling portfolios spread all over.

She couldn’t see any kind of system, and if she had been at work she wouldn’t have dared to move a single thing, but Sutan had asked her to take care of it, and take care of it she would.

Violet knew Sutan had an office, but she had never actually seen him use it, or heard him mention it. Violet felt weird moving Sutan’s work things, but as she quickly piled it all on one end of the table, she recognized that this was probably why she liked the kitchen so much.

It was obviously the place in the apartment Sutan used the most, and the one she instinctively felt was more Sutan than Raja; everywhere else, even Sutan’s own bedroom, so obviously designed and furnished by his twin.

It was a strange thought that Raja had so much influence on Sutan’s life, but it wasn’t something she was ever going to bring up, their relationship none of her business.

Violet was just a moment in time for Sutan, so who was she to make any sort of suggestion about anything.

“Ah, great.” She was just setting the plates, when Sutan returned with more takeout bags than Violet had ever expected. “You’re almost done.”

“Are we expecting company?”

“Company?” Sutan looked confused for a moment, and Violet nodded her head towards the food in his arms, which caused him to laugh. “Please. This is just for us.” Sutan put the bags down, opening up the first one. “I figured it was worth celebrating your first day.”

“Huh.” Violet sat down on her chair once again, watching as Sutan produced one white cardboard carton after another. “How much did you get?”

“Oh you know, just a little bit of everything. I have dumplings, wontons and egg rolls, chow mein, orange chicken, beef and broccoli, black pepper scallops, garlic eggplant. I wasn’t sure what you’d like.”

Violet didn’t want to tell Sutan that she only had a very limited idea of what she genuinely liked beyond orange chicken and white rice, a childhood of bland suburban chain restaurants and her years in New York on a tight budget never leaving her much room for indulgence.

“Interesting.” Violet bit her lip, but Sutan grinned, continuing the unpacking. “Have you ever heard of cronuts?”

“What?” Sutan paused, a carton in hand. He turned to her, an eyebrow raised. “Lovely eyes. I may be older than you, but I don’t live under a rock?”

“Hmm.” Violet had no idea that cronuts were apparently so well known, but she wasn’t going to show Sutan that. “We had them at work today.”

“Did you like them?”

“Not really.” Violet took the carton of rice Sutan handed her. “They take a lot of breaks, at work, I mean.”

“Sounds like a nice place.” Sutan smiled, sitting down.

VIolet nodded, opening her rice as Sutan started talking about his day. It was always nice to be around him, Sutan often chatting away in his low baritone, filling out the silence so Violet never felt obligated to speak if she didn’t want to.

“Oh-” Sutan paused, a piece of broccoli in his chopsticks. “That reminds me. What are you wearing on Friday?”

“Friday?” Violet quickly ran through her week in her head, and she was fairly certain that she had nothing on the agenda for friday.

“Yes? For Bianca’s birthday.”

“Bianca’s birthday? Bianca Del Rio?”

“Mmh.” Sutan popped the broccoli in his mouth, quickly chewing it. “It’s her 40th, and I figured it’d be nice if we coordinated.”

“Oh.” Violet bit her lip. Surprised that Sutan was dumping it on her like this, since she knew for a fact that he hadn’t mentioned it until this very moment. “And the birthday is this Friday?”

Violet tried to hide her anxiety, her heart speeding up in her chest. She didn’t have any idea what the dress code was and what to wear or where the party was being held.

“I can invite someone else?”

“What?” Violet’s head snapped up at the words. Sutan looked completely relaxed, like he hadn’t just dropped a gigantic bomb, like this wasn’t strange at all, like it was normal for him to have so many girls lined up that he could find someone with no problem at all.

“If you don’t want to go-”

“No, no.” Violet closed her hand, digging her fingers into her palm under the table. “It’s fine. It’s fine. I’ll figure something out.”

#rpdr fanfiction #thedane #veronica #galactica #vitan #bob x cracker #violet chachki #trixie mattel #yvie oddly #bob the drag queen #miz cracker #blu hydrangea #raja gemini #lesbian au #m/f au #fashion au

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volganic · 4 years

Text

Eyes like yours

[AO3] || [discord] guess who didnt want to write important things like the next chapter of song? or any of my other unfinished drafts? guess who wanted to write a whole new thing based off a song by shakira? it’s me

Hyrule Castle was under siege.

In the blink of an eye, monsters and fire laid waste to the green of the undisturbed fields that surrounded the castle. It was terrifying how quickly the pace of battle moved and washed over the Hyrulean forces, but Link moved quicker. Where the other trainees stood by in the safety of the walls of the castle, Link was out in the thick of it, fighting side by side with his more seasoned captains without a second to waste. Every second counted.

It might have been his first time taking the lives of enemies, but his actions didn’t go unnoticed as he cut his way through the waves of the grotesque monsters. The general herself, Impa, took note of how he took charge of the situation; she mentally thanked the three that there was still hope in light of these rapidly darkening times. She marched over to the rookie soldier after cutting through a duo of raid captains that dared to cross her, and planted a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“There’s no time to thank you properly, trainee,” she began as Link turned to face her, “but the princess is farther out in the field. We need to regroup. The only thing keeping us from accomplishing that is capturing one of the enemy’s vital keeps.” The Sheikah’s eyes scanned the field, drawing the Hylian’s gaze as she pointed to closed doors on the other side of the field. “There! I don’t know what is in there, but start there and I will assist you once our men have control of the field. Understand, soldier?”

The recruit gave a stiff nod and a salute. Impa returned the gesture. “May the goddesses smile on us all.” She turned on her heel back to aid one of their knights in the distance who was beginning to become overwhelmed with another wave of enemies. Link wished he could help there, but the entire weight of the battle weighed on his shoulders with this new task he was given. He swallowed thickly; capturing this keep could easily help them win or lose this war.

Link burst through the large doors of the abandoned fort, finding it seemingly empty. Impa said it was a vital stronghold for their assailants, but there was nothing to show for it; not even a blade of grass was out of place against the pavement. The Hylian’s senses told him to stay on high alert regardless as he inched across the stone path to the other pair of locked doors. His instincts were screaming at him that something was wrong.

He didn’t make it too far — a sound whizzed through his ears and a heavy spear collided into the ground inches away from where he planned to take his next step. He stepped back reflexively when rocks splintered in every direction, and his sight went skyward to the source. A large shadow of a man stood on the top of the stone wall of the keep. He paced along the edge like a predator, staring down at the lone soldier below — at least, Link assumed he was staring. The glare of the sun shrouded him in darkness, making it difficult to discern certain features.

The man lurched forward to meet the ground, and Link’s grip on the hilt of his sword tightened. He ignored how heavy it suddenly felt in his hands as he watched the taller man move with grace to pluck his weapon out from the cracked earth. Adrenaline flooded the Hylian’s veins now that he could fully see his enemy: his built physique, macabre armor, dragon-shaped helmet, deadly weapon in hand — everything was set to strike fear into anyone lesser. He steeled his resolve and kept his sword drawn.

The red-clad knight circled the trainee soldier like a lion. He made no movement to strike. It was intimidating how slowly he stalked around him, just waiting for an opportunity to make his move, and Link knew that he wasn’t fooling anyone with an act of bravery. The man tsk’d with an amused grin on his face, watching the blade in the boy’s hand beginning to shake.

“They dare send only one lowly soldier to take my keep?” His low, mocking tone echoed off the walls, worming into the Hylian’s mind, taunting him. “I do not know whether to be flattered that they finally threw me a bone,” he suddenly frowned, coming to a stop in his pacing, “or insulted that they sent someone not worth my time.”

In a fit of anger, Link blindly ran forward to strike the man down. Rage cried out of his lungs and filled the silence between them, but was replaced with a cry of pain as his side was struck with a hard kick. He crumpled to the ground and watched his only means of attack be swept out of his reach. An armored boot filled his view before it moved, finding a home placed firmly on top of his sternum. The man’s growling was the only thing Link could hear besides his own strained whimpers as he scrambled underneath his boot, his breath being crushed out of him.

“Pathetic,” the knight hissed, digging his pointed heel into the thick metal mail, trying to expose the fleshier bits of his prey’s chest. Some links of the chain gave out under the rough treatment. Pained cries fell on deaf ears. “You’re nothing but a boy playing a sad excuse for a soldier.”

Link screwed his eyes shut, trying to collect himself with the combined force of the crushing weight on his chest and with hearing his enemy’s words. It struck a chord deep in him — he was praised highly among the rest of camp for his swordsmanship, but falling so quickly in battle drowned him in shame. It was pitiful that he wished for this stranger to kill him quickly to spare him the humiliation of returning to what would be left of the castle with his tail between his legs, not only failing his general, but all of Hyrule.

Suddenly the weight was lifted off his chest, and Link’s lungs burned with the rush of air. It was all the reprieve he was given when he was forcefully pulled up by the collar of his blue and white tunic, nearly nose-to-nose with the enemy.

“You must be new to the ways of war,” the knight crooned. “Running headstrong into the fray without so much as a helmet.” He turned the soldier’s head from side to side with his other hand, looking him over with vague interest. “Pity, you are a pretty thing. Stupid, but pretty nonetheless.”

Link couldn’t hear the words the man muttered under his breath. He was completely entranced with the way how the pointed tips of his eye markings moved over his cheeks with each carefully selected word. It drew his attention to eyes which he couldn’t see from a distance, but with him being so close, the Hylian could see underneath the pointed snout of the dragon-shaped helmet. If he couldn’t breathe before, he certainly wasn’t breathing now.

The man’s eyes were an even deeper black than the paint that shrouded his eyes, an expanse of a void that Link felt so lost in, but he was fixated on the way his eyes seemed to pierce through his very soul, irises swirling of emerald and gold, and even a ring of fiery red along the edges. It was unlike anything Link had ever seen before: so daunting, so primal, feral, instilling fear through his veins —

— but also leaving him awestruck in its own twisted sense of beauty.

A strangled gasp managed to worm its way out of the Hylian’s throat as he was pulled off the ground again by the neck, held an arm’s length away from the enemy. He kicked furiously at the air, the toes of his boots barely scraping against the pavement, being held higher and higher up into the air. The knight laughed cruelly at his struggle.

“I’ve wasted enough time with you, boy.” The air crackled with an energy unknown to Link. An aura of red magic covered the knight’s arm holding Link hostage, striking panic through Link as the temperature rose to a dangerous degree, the clawed gauntlet threatening to burn through his tunic and mail. Another swirl of magic caused his arm to distort into something akin to a dragon’s limb — or at least, that’s what Link could only imagine it being — and gripping the Hylian’s throat even tighter. “I’ve only come to fight worthy foes!”

If the dragon squeezed any further, it would surely kill him in an instant if he didn’t suffocate first. Adrenaline surged through him to fight for his life — have to run, get away, do something! — screaming at every one of his nerves to act. His arms slipped through the spaces between the dragon’s claws, hands desperate to scratch his way out of the other’s grip, red scales flaking off with each futile swipe. Link’s racing heart and panicked breathing filled his ears, falling deaf to the man’s threats.

A searing pain struck across his left hand even through the leather of his glove. Link wasn’t sure if the light blinding him was a signal that he was knocking on death’s door, but whatever it was, it also blinded his assailant; its rays dared to rival those from the sun. The ground rushed to meet Link’s body as he felt himself drop to the ground again, no longer being held in a crushing choke hold or close to the heat of his enemy. Through his rattled mind and the ringing in his ears, sound slowly came back into his senses, filled only with curses and snarling from the disoriented knight on the other side of the keep.

Link sat up quickly while he had the chance and scanned the pavement for his weapon. If only he had his sword…

“You—” the man growled, rubbing any streaks of light that distorted his vision, “you can’t be!”

“Soldier!”

Quick footfalls approached the two of them, and soon enough, Impa stood between them, hand steadied on the hilt of her blade and shielding the Hylian from any more torture from the red-clad knight. Her eyes stared at their enemy with a piercing gaze, daring him to make another move.

“Volga.”

‘Volga’ scoffed in response to being called by anything other than his full title. “I am not here to entertain you, Sheikah.” His eyes fell to the boy that lay behind her. “I may have… underestimated Hyrule’s forces. But I promise you this, I will not make the same mistake again.” With a roar and another swirl of magic, a pair of leathery wings stretched outright from Volga’s back. Impa’s stance grew tense as Volga pointed his spear at them — specifically toward Link’s direction. “You haven’t beaten me yet. Next time we meet, boy, I will cut through your shields and mount your head on a pike!”

With that decree and a beat of his large wings, Volga retreated into the sky. Embers filled the space where he had once stood, leaving Impa and Link in a keep that now belonged to Hyrule’s forces. This was the turning point of this battle, but it was far from over.

“The princess still awaits us to regroup. We haven’t won yet.” Impa turned to offer her hand, which her recruit gladly accepted. He couldn’t meet her gaze as he rushed over to where his knight’s sword had lay discarded a few feet away from them, holstering his blade back in its place, half-expecting an earful of reprimands —

Impa placed a hand on his shoulder, much to his surprise. Link tilted his head to look at her in question. The general’s hand pulled his left arm away from his side to reveal the source of the burning pain from earlier, the only thing that spared him from an premature death: the glowing mark of the Triforce on the back of his glove.

“But now that we have found you, perhaps we just might win.”

Link’s fate was now set in stone. There was only one thing that thrilled and terrified him both at the same time: coming face-to-face with Volga again.

#hyrule warriors #fic #volink #its gonna be volink *bdg voice* dw ill get to it

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firelxrdsdaughter · 6 years

Text

A Foolish Undertaking Chp 4

read it on A03 !

In which Azula and Zuko find it impossible to get along.... xD

There’s a chill in the air but Azula pays it no mind. She can keep warm enough through the power of her will alone. It doesn’t stop her uncle from placing a thick cloak over her shoulders to cut some of the bite from the wind, however.

Azula

A week of effort pays off. Azula imagines that part of it is that her uncle is tired of making the trek up and down the stairs every few hours, only to stay for a few minutes while she eats her meal. The other part is likely that he imagines that it will play to her good will, to let her up on the deck for dinner.

Across from her, Zuko stares daggers. She returns the look in kind, stabbing a chopstick through a piece of komodo-chicken instead of lifting it daintily as she’s been taught from childhood. Her chains jangle noisily, the morsel shoved into her mouth pointedly. Azula chews with a certain violence she really only reserves for her brother’s benefit. Across from them, their uncle clears his throat, and heats his tea through the cup with his bending once more.

“What a lovely evening it is,” he says to break the tension and the silence.

“It would be easier to enjoy without these,” Azula answers smoothly, jangling the chains at her wrists pointedly. Iroh hums as though in consideration of this, chuckling. Zuko doesn’t find it nearly so endearing.

“You should consider yourself lucky! Considering what you did, how you tricked us, we should still have you chained to that cell wall with no room to move. Uncle is being more than generous just allowing you to step foot in the fresh air!”

Out of the corner of her eye she catches their uncle’s movement as he places his bowl back upon the low table the three of them sit at. He folds his hands in his lap, watching them in silence. She wonders what good he thinks he might be able to do if this goes badly for Zuko.

She doesn’t reply to her brother right away. Instead, she takes up her other chopstick carefully and squeezes the smooth length of the utensils between her fingers, taking a daintier morsel of food, a thoughtful bite, before setting her own bowl down upon the table as well. Zuko is always so quick to throw his anger in everyone’s faces. He has no tact. She’s known this well for some time. It hardly surprises her.

“Honestly Zuzu,” she sighs finally, expression neutral as she looks down her nose at the table before finally allowing the amber of her gaze to flicker up to meet Zuko’s gold, “it was nothing personal.”

Azula bites back a smirk, settling instead for looking morose.

“Nothing personal?” Her brother’s voice cracks. “How is it not personal for you to be the one to bring me and uncle back to the Fire Nation to be tricked into being thrown in prison?” Zuko’s outrage echoes off of the tall tower of the central structure of the boat. The wind swallows it again but a moment later.

Azula affects boredom, sighing.

“I was just doing what dad asked me to do.”

“As if you’ve ever done what dad asked you to in your life.”

Azula’s brow draws low. He has no idea.

“Please,” she bites out. “You don’t know anything about my life. You’ve never once understood anything outside of your own feelings of inadequacy. Everything’s always about you!” Everything always has been.

Father might give her praise, but he is endlessly wrapped up in Zuko’s failures, always turning his gaze toward her brother rather than her. Mother had done nothing but dote on him, ignoring Azula to the fullest of her ability. When it had become apparent that Azula would not be the little porcelain doll she’d wanted, the tiny clone of herself to dress up as she wished, Ursa had cast her aside.

Resentment builds steadily in Azula’s chest, hot and stinging, escaping its confines deep within the recesses of her subconscious.

“Everything is about me?!” The incredulity is palpable. Zuko breathes out steam, his hand slamming on the table. “Father never once praised me! In fact he never acknowledged me unless I’d done something he disapproved of, which was always! HE BURNED OFF HALF OF MY FACE!”

“Zuko, Azula, please — “

“Shut up uncle!” It’s chorused in one voice, and the old man clamps his teeth shut with a click, lips sealing. They turn back to one another, and Azula says out loud what she’s thought every time that Zuko’s punishment is brought up.

“It was only what you deserved!” The words feel bitter on her tongue.

There is silence then. Zuko’s eyes are wide, his chest heaving. Azula waits, glaring at him icily, expecting him to do something dramatic —

Zuko chucks his hard porcelain tea cup at her, and Azula just manages to dodge her head out of the way, her spine rigid where she sits on her low stool. The cup shatters noisily some feet behind her. She takes a steadying breath, and then another, glaring at her brother across the table where he is still poised, ready, a picture of masculine aggression.

She bares her teeth.

“Now — “

Before their uncle can say more Azula has risen from the stool, taking another sharp breath into her lungs, ready to unleash her wrath upon her brother finally.

Azula bounces in place, intent upon using her upward momentum to shoot flames from her feet. Her motion is stopped short, and Azula feels the breath leave her lungs when there is a swift jerk on her form in the opposite direction, and all of her momentum is redirected downward into the hard metal of the damp deck.

A wheeze escapes through her lips before Azula can draw another full breath, and her chest feels like it is caught in an iron vice as she coughs first once and then twice. Her shoulder smarts.

Azula lets out a growl in frustration, catching the motion of his body as her brother straightens out of his defensive crouch, staring at their uncle in disbelief.

“Princess Azula,” her uncle’s voice is steel, the chains connecting them making a sound akin to bells while he collects the length of it to shorten the distance of her leash. “What did I say about your behaviour?”

“Oh stuff it,” she grinds out, voice stilted with the ache in her lungs, “where am I going to go Uncle? We’re out in the middle of the ocean it’s not like I’m going to overcome the two of you and jump overboard to swim for it! Zuko and I were just about to have a friendly sparring session, that’s all.”

There’s too much venom in her tone for him to take the claim seriously.

“Escape is not what I’m worried about,” her uncle returns dryly. He looks between the two of them, expression hard, and Azula finds that she has yet to recover well enough to at least move to a seated position. Her head falls back against the deck, and she winces when it connects.

“I expect the two of you to act like civilized adults,” he tells them then. His tone brooks no argument. Azula thinks that, for once, he sounds like their dad. It makes sense. More sense than the jolly old fat man act he likes to play continuously. Azula finds she might even prefer it.

Zuko backs down, turning aside at the look that their uncle levels at him. Her brother storms off to the other side of the deck a moment later, swooping his hands back to his sides in a wide, sharp, motion which is trailed by the white-orange of his flames. Iroh turns back to Azula, a deep frown tugging at his brows.

“Come with me,” he commands, stooping to grab the stool which Azula had been seated upon before the abrupt turn in conversation. She sits up painfully, a small groan escaping her throat. Shoulders slumped forward, Azula takes a moment to adjust to the change in her position and then looks up at her uncle once again, eyebrows raised expectantly. She can’t exactly stand on her own with her feet chained the way that they are. Not from the ground.

He sighs and offers out a hand, tugging her upright.

They turn, and Iroh leads her by her chains to the bow of the ship, setting the stool there and gesturing to it.

“Sit down and enjoy the view.” It isn’t a request. Azula narrows her eyes, looking sidelong at the old man as she hobbles around the stool and settles herself down on it once again. The wind picks up her stray strands of hair, whipping them to a frenzy. Azula doesn’t turn her attention from the horizon as her uncle’s footsteps echo hollowly away from her and back the way they’d come.

It’s likely his intention to make her sit here alone and think about her actions. Like a small child. She breathes a puff of steam in agitation, fingernails digging into her palms to leave crescent shaped indents in the skin.

Her uncle and brother’s voices drift back to her on the wind, but they aren’t discernible. She glances over her shoulder at them. They’ve come to quiet conference where Zuko stalked off to to sulk. Iroh’s hand is planted firmly at the center of Zuko’s shoulders. Azula feels her back bow again, curling in on herself for protection from the cool edge of the breeze. She breathes deep, turning away, heating herself from the inside out defiantly.

Her mind wanders. She’s above deck, at least. She’s in the fresh air. She could make her way slowly toward her quarters, if she’s really careful, though certainly she won’t be able to move in any urgent manner.

More likely than not they would see her before she got too far. It’s a silly plan. Azula’s lips pull back from her teeth.

She lifts her gaze to glare out over the empty expanse of the ocean. The moon hangs low and large over the water. That’s the way home, but she cannot guess how many knots it would take to get there.

Azula closes her eyes.

“Zuko…” the way her uncle says it is loud enough for her to hear, and she turns abruptly again to look. Her brow draws low at what she sees. Her brother has taken out his precious knife, the white blade glinting in the moonlight, and sliced through the thick width of his topknot. The ponytail slips from his fingers over the side of the ship.

Their uncle stares gravely, and then reaches out for the weapon. Her brother hands it to the old man. She watches on as he, too, separates his top knot from his head and throws it overboard.

Her stomach roils. They aren’t turning back.

Azula turns herself on the stool, forcing her back straight once again, her chin lifted as she continues to cooly observe her relatives now, waiting. Zuko glances her way. Stops. Glares. He turns back toward the water.

For the moment their uncle ignores her completely, reaching out instead to place a hand at Zuko’s shoulder again, saying something too low for her to even hear the murmur of on the wind. Zuko nods stiffly, turns once more and heads back toward the main structure of the ship. Azula watches him go, not bothering to acknowledge her uncle as he approaches her once again.

Finally, when Zuko is gone from view, she allows her gaze to flicker to her uncle’s stout form.

“What was that all about?”

“Your brother understands that he cannot go back home,” he tells her simply. “I do not intend to go back home either. Not for now, in any case.”

Azula grimaces, though she’s not sure why.

“Zuko has always had a flare for the dramatic,” she says dryly.

Iroh chuckles.

“You hold many advantages over him, princess Azula. As his sibling, it is your duty to use those advantages to help him on occasion. Not hinder him.”

“Please.” She rolls her eyes.

“I know that it is not what your father would want. In many ways, he is like our father used to be. Always pitting Ozai against me, trying to motivate him to be better. I had promised myself that if I ever had more than one child, I would never do such a thing to them. Fate had other ideas, of course…”

Azula scoffs.

“Zuzu just needs to grow up,” she answers shortly.

Iroh is silent for a few moments, slipping his hands into his sleeves. The look he gives her is contemplative.

“Is that what you have done, Azula? Grow up?”

She frowns, uncertain of what he means when he looks at her like it’s a pity.

“Of course I have,” she answers with finality.

“You are only fourteen.”

“So what?”

Iroh sighs. “So, you comport yourself like an adult. You fight in your father’s war. You command his men, and put them in line…When do you get to be a young girl? When do you get to have fun together with your friends, or gossip, or…”

“We’re in a war, uncle, there’s no point in frivolous gossip, and even if there was not a war, I am hardly interested in what’s in fashion in Ba Sing Se.”

His eyebrows raise high on his wrinkled brow, and he lets out a short laugh.

“No…I suppose you have never really been interested in that sort of thing,” Iroh agrees. He lets his shoulders sag in ease finally, stooping to fiddle with her chains where he’s left them bound to the deck of the ship.

“Come,” he says then, “let’s get you back below deck. It’s getting colder by the minute out here.”

Lingering only a moment more on her stool, Azula finally stands. Together, they walk the length of the ship in silence and then descend below into the darkness.

#ooc #A Foolish Undertaking #chapter 4 #drabble

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kariachi · 6 years

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For a moment I wondered why Kevin’s sections are always longer than Argit’s in this au, then I remembered that Argit’s generally have fewer people involved and less going on...

Chapter 6, now with fashion and family time.

They were a few months out from the big day and Argit was done. The constant back and forth that came with trying to plan a wedding he’d love without actually involving him in the planning, he could handle. The feeling like he was arguing with a stranger third-hand and from the other side of the galaxy, he could handle. But when his father had sent someone in to get his measurements so new clothes could be made?

As someone who’d been making his own for what felt like forever he was just not having it.

He’d finally taken control of the situation- dumping the bureaucratic work on his father’s desk with no fanfare, foisting the final stages of wedding planning onto Psyphon, cutting his siblings’ snickers down by assigning them the most menial work he could think of at the time- and given himself a job he actually enjoyed. Ever since he’d hardly left his rooms, locked away with all the fabric, sewing supplies, and inspiring pieces he could dream of. It was relaxing work, the most troubling bit was deciding what pattern to go for in the deep greys and purples he’d settled on, and was mostly working to keep his mind off just how fast time was going.

The more time he spent considering it the more nervous he got, the more he ate, the more grateful he was that he’d already adjusted his patterns to a few sizes larger than normal.

It was becoming more and more clear with time that he had no idea what he was doing or what to expect. Not only that, but that none of the people he’d have felt comfortable discussing this with had any idea either. He was going to be the first one married and the only person he knew who’d had truly serious relationships was his father, who wasn’t an option for obvious, ‘I have five kids by four women who skipped out’-shaped reasons. He didn’t know how to have a relationship, how to get to know someone, what was expected of him in a marriage. As time had gone on he’d found himself spending more and more of his free time looking up everything from Osmosians to humans to marriage advice to housing because apparently setting up a house together was a thing you were supposed to do maybe? Sorta? Kinda?

Anymore if he wasn’t working on his clothes (and his father’s clothes, and his siblings’ clothes, and Psyphon’s clothes-) he was probably on the ethernet going cross-eyed with his researching. Generally accompanied by at least one pie.

Pupating came with a lot of changes, mental and physical, ones that couldn’t be properly predicted for hybrids. There was endless variance there. Which meant not only that they hadn’t been able to do any planning involving Kevin’s looks before he broke free, but that as soon as he’d adjusted enough to the new body to stand and speak his family had converged on him like vultures on a dead buffalo.

“Dress or pants?”

“Whichever’s cool.”

“…we’ll get both made, you can choose on the day.”

Kevin was only really half paying attention to everything. There was a full-length mirror right there and while he wasn’t a vain man between dysphoria and oncoming maturity his adolescent mimicry had felt wrongwrongwrong. Not that things were perfect now by a long shot, but people kept having to drag him back into position as he twisted and turned to admire things like his mane and finally flat chest.

“Straight and relaxed, gyadin,” his gran said with a sharp tug on his mane and he immediately complied, drawing snickers from the rest of his little entourage.

“Yes, memu.” He felt as much as heard the pleased rumble she made as she returned to measuring the base of his tail.

“You know, if we can get this measuring done in time to make you clothes, you’re going to look wonderful. Just like your father.”

“He looks more like you,” his mother countered, fiddling with his hair same as she had been the last fifteen minutes, “Devin was narrower across, pretty much everything really.”

“He’s got Dad’s colors though,” Cody said. He’d been going through a thick pile of fabric swatches for the entire time he’d been there, occasionally whistling for the opinion of Vivi, sat on the floor across from him. Near as Kevin could tell she was trying to figure out some beadwork designs combining the maternal heritages she was part of and the paternal she hardly knew, and Cody was helping her as much as she was him. Finally, he held up swatches of rich blue and golden-yellow that stood in bold contrast to Kevin’s dark adult scales. “What do you think?”

“Gorgeous,” Kevin’s mother said before he could open his mouth. His grandmother got to her feet and smiled brightly down at the selection from over his shoulder.

“And fitting,” she said, turning her smile between him and Cody, “they’re a good enough match for some of your enku’s pack’s traditional colors.”

“So,” Kevin cut in, “I take it I don’t get a say in colors anymore?”

“No.”

“Some advice, little brother,” Cody said, smiling in bemusement, “just roll with it until you’re married, then blame everything on your husband. They can’t pull rank there.” Both older women gave him a critical look.

“Kafan, remind me to talk to Regina about double-checking with Mala?”

“Gladly.” Huffing, the old Osmosian turned Kevin to face her, looking him over. “Do you want some real married advice?” For a split second he wanted to say no, he was fine, but then remembered that he was going to be married in two months and had to lock his knees to stay up straight. Fuck, yeah, he had no idea what he was doing, why had he not got this worrying done sooner?

“That’d be nice, yeah.” Her expression softened back to a smile and she gave him a quick kiss.

“When he’s a dumbass,” she said, “and trust me he will be, all men are-”

“Memu.”

“As your brother proves, giving out his tactics in public.” Again Vivi was snickering. “When he’s a dumbass, give him the benefit of the doubt. There’s plenty of times he’ll do something that upsets you without realizing.”

“Just don’t let him get away with it too much,” Cody added. “He gets three chances for every bullshit thing you correct him on and if he fails you tell us, we’ll bring you and whatever you want right back home.” Kevin chuckled.

“Including the house?” Setting down her designs, Vivi rolled her eyes.

“Kevin, even Sid would dig up a house and move it across the galaxy for you, if just to spite anyone who hurt you. Anyway,” she then said, bringing her attention back to the sketches, “my advice? Don’t be afraid to walk away from a fight and come back later when you’re calmer.”

“Also,” Cody said, “just, be nice. Compliments, gratitude, being respectful.” He gave a bit of a wistful sigh. “The easier and more pleasant you two make things for each other, the happier your home will be and the sooner things will start really working for you.” Kevin nodded along, soaking in the information. Vivi was a wildcard, but Cody was over ten years wed and their grandparents had been married longer than the US had been a country, and he trusted all of them.

“Good advice, all around,” his mother finally said, “but I’ve got more important.” Gently she turned him 180 degrees to face her. “Learn from my mistakes and communicate. Talk about everything, tell him how you feel about everything, any struggles you’re having, any hopes you have, things you want, and encourage him to do the same.” Kevin opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a finger for silence. “I know this is something you have trouble with, because of all the things you had to get from me that was it, but trust me. There’s so much trouble and pain you can avoid if you just talk to your partner. Alright?”

The breath Kevin took was shaky. Everyone knew why, why this was the advice she was giving, and the silence in the room was palpable. With another, steadying breath Kevin nodded.

“Alright. Thanks mom.” You could see the tension wash off his mother’s shoulders as the two of them smiled at each other. Her gaze went soft and nostalgic as she finally took the time to step back and just look at him, before diving forward to wrap her arms around him and bury her face in his chest. It was with a watery smile of his own and a surprised delicacy (fuck, he hadn’t realized until that moment how much bigger than his human relatives he was now…) that he returned the gesture.

“Look at this,” she said with a watery laugh, “my baby’s all grown up.”

#fanfic

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tenrkarchive · 6 years

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event: february evaluation location: sphere dance studio date: february 21st // 3:07pm song: there for you - troye sivan // dance (0:19 - 1:00) // vocal (entire song)

note: short dance clip (tobias ellehammer choreography) inspired song length dance ic

as is typical ten style, he chooses a troye sivan song - because everyone knows ten is the biggest troye sivan fan around. he’d covered a lot of them in the past, but knew he’d never done this one, despite having choreographed a dance for it in his free practise time weeks ago. all he had to do was incorporate room for vocals into the dance, which he hoped wouldn’t be too hard after many weeks of intensive live singing training.

so he spent some weeks working on what he was going to show, making sure his singing was stable throughout the dance, keeping the dance easier on the parts where the song required more vocal power, and putting in a hell of a lot more impact into the breaks in the vocals, using skills he’d gained over the past couple months, pleased with how he could visibly see how much he’d progressed in terms of his skills and especially his vocal ability.

when he’d first become a trainee his singing was weak to say the least. he’d worked and worked to improve, deciding he’d rather go the vocalist route than rapper route, seeing as it definitely fit his image better (at least that’s what he thought). so, going from a mediocre singer, to being able to sing pretty strongly while also dancing at the same time gave him an intense sense of accomplishment.

he was pretty excited to show what he’d prepared - for once looking forward to the evaluation, instead of fearing it.

the day came, and he waited for his turn to be called up to film what he’d prepared, sipping at his water frequently as the nerves began to get to him. of course he’d be nervous, when it came to it, but it didn’t negate the fact that he was pleased with himself and what he thought was a performance that showed his abilities best - it wasn’t too vocal heavy, yet it was enough to show he could sing well. the dance was, as he’d admit to himself, one of the best he’d ever choreographed, he’d like to think.

as he’s called up he hands over the music, taking his position in front of the lights and camera and waits for them to tell him to start. his hearts hammering against his ribcage - it hadn’t fully sunk it yet that this performance would be the first thing the public saw of him, alongside his silly teaser video with hyun and his modelling shots. he hoped their first impression of his skills would be a good one, and that he might gain some fans from this, as he liked to think it would be one of his best performances so far.

so, the music starts and despite his thundering heartbeat he begins his performance - it starts of slower, the dance barely a dance to begin the song - he’s centred the ‘drop’ at the first chorus. so as he begins to sing the movement resides in his arms and head, small, yet fluid motions that have sharp landings on the subtle beats, complimenting the appealing bass of the song. his fingers snap to the snapping beat in the beginning, moving to compliment the faster beat with a quick step as his eyes remain focused on the camera, one hand in his pocket, the other rubbing through his hair to give the song a little bit of attitude.

until the chorus comes and he hits the first beat with a jump into a larger movement, leg swinging out and head tipping back to contrast the smaller movements of the beginning of the song. using his hands to his advantage he’s placed in some vogueing moves an old friend taught him back before he was a trainee, before he hits the ‘there for you’ lyrics with a deep gaze into the camera, a smirk and a loose gesture, hoping it’ll do just as intended, and draw some fans in, making the whole performance feel as if he’s singing just for the person watching, no matter how many there may be

then comes the climax, where he puts in his full energy, the vocals falling by the wayside for a while as he moves to the music as he’d always done - it’s second nature and he goddamn loves it.

but then it’s right back into the vocals and here’s where all the training came in - learning to control his voice and keep it steady, even when he’s moving, or when he’s put so much power just seconds before into his dance, he has to re-route that power into stabilising his voice, finding a balance and sticking his whole heart into it.

once again the dance is slower to match the pace of the song, hitting each beat with subtle, but sharp movements and putting his strength back into his voice, and the feeling of the song, making the people who watch this feel as if it’s just for them, that no matter what he’s going to be a good idol for them, that he’s going to stand by his fans, and hope they stand by him just as loyally.

the vocals rise when the dance softens, and vice versa, till he nears the end and all power he’d slowly lost throughout the song comes surging back with a renewed fury. it’s always been that way, his belief that even if you’ve lost all strength, you can’t end weakly persisting. he’s tired by this point, ready to sit down and gulp down a few bottles of water, yet he knows he cannot leave the song on a weak note, and he finds that energy to force right into the last bit of the song.

the bridge passes, and the chorus nears through the ‘runnin, runnin’ lyrics, music building and energy rising, until that beat drops and a grin breaks out on ten’s lips because this is what he loves - feeling so very tired, yet still putting every shred of energy he has left into putting on his best show, making people know he’s never going to give a shoddy performance just because he’s tired.

he’s diligent, and he hopes it shows through the power he continues to put in. the hardest moves are in the end, wanting to leave off on a high note, making people remember him, his face, his name, how his body mingles with the music like the water lapping at the sand on the beach. his moves are smooth, yet powerful, hitting each shape, each little flick of the wrist or turn of the head on the beats.

then the final beat drop and his moves are still as sharp as can be, small moves intertwined with bigger ones to draw even more attention to them; the fist to his chin, a simple nod and foot tap to compliment a beat, between a wide armed and spinning move. the smile won’t leave his face because despite this being an evaluation, something the public will see soon, it’s still incredibly thrilling whenever he dances - because nothing else matters. he can’t see the people watching, or the judgement or scrutiny, he can just feel the beat.

the levels change more in the ending, move floor movements, until the end comes and the contrast his beginning pose this time he��s sat on the ground, facing in the opposite direction to the one he started in fingers pointing ahead of him, and his head turned to the camera, the smile fixed on his lips.

the music finishes, and his breathing, heavy and laboured in the only sound left, and ten couldn’t be happier in that moment.

#;solo #convex:febeval #;convex #;sphere

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mveloc · 7 years

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Minor Victories

Author’s Note: I originally wrote this after 5x01, but I’ve been too busy to get around to editing and posting it. I seem to have found the time and inspiration after last night’s episode. Enjoy!

She chases after the dreadlocked clone who’d stormed away in such a hurry she nearly left a trail of debris in her wake. Many of the villagers watch in alarm and confusion as she calls out to Cosima, the clone ignoring her cries and continuing on her straight and certain path to the the yurt—their yurt.

This certainly wasn’t how she imagined her day to go.

They had been in the clinic, taking Cosima’s samples to monitor her progress, to assess the effectiveness of the cure and try to determine the speed at which it was working. There had been a slight tension between them since she returned from Sardinia the day before, though they had settled into a comfortable banter. She could tell Cosima was still holding her at arm’s length, still upset over their current situation—or more specifically, their lack of control over it.

She tried to hold her tongue.

She could tell by the look in Cosima’s eyes that there was some sort of disconnect—a numbness. Cosima had always been guarded in her own way, but this was different. There were far more barriers than she ever remembered there being before; she could feel it in Cosima’s unresponsive lips as she stole desperate kisses before being pulled away to Sardinia; she could see it in the glaze of her eyes, in the shallowness of their conversations which remained focused on the science—strictly business with no room for sentiment. She had been awarded a small victory when she managed to elicit a slight smile from the brunette after pressing her lips to the needle’s entry point on Cosima’s arm before pressing a circular bandaid to the wound. It was a loving gesture, a reassuring one—one that was meant to pull the clone out of whatever uncertainty and inner turmoil she seemed to be drowning it.

It almost worked.

The air became lighter for a moment, Cosima stepped in a little closer and met her gaze full-on—and then a knock at the door had disrupted their far-too-brief moment of domesticity. A second later, Westmorland’s messenger was standing in the doorway, informing her that she was to leave tomorrow morning for yet another research trip.

“No. No way,” Cosima had protested. “She just got back yesterday! You can’t send her away again!”

The older man had ignored the clone’s protests completely, his focus fixed squarely on Delphine.

“You have your orders,” he had told her. “You leave at sunrise.”

Cosima had nearly mowed him down as she pushed by him on her way out, desperate to escape them both. Delphine was quick to chase after, to try and mend the damage that had been done with just a few simple words from a stranger. She didn’t care about the audience they were amassing, about the look of judgment in the messenger’s eyes. All she could think to do was follow.

She calls out for Cosima again, watching as the shorter woman slams the door of the yurt behind her. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Mud, though she ignores whatever innocent yet annoying observation the girl is making and slips inside, closing the door firmly behind her. Cosima is standing in the center of the yurt, back turned and chest heaving.

“Cosima,” Delphine says softly in a bid to coax her out of her anger.

Cosima shakes her head, refusing to turn and face her.

“Is this how things are always going to be with us?”

Her voice is low and trembling, on the verge of breaking. Her head hangs just as low and Delphine frowns, her eyes sliding shut as a sigh escapes her lips.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” she admits.

She wants to tell Cosima that she’s wrong, that things are going to change. She wants to tell her that she isn’t going anywhere, that it’s almost over and they’re one step closer to putting an end to all of this chaos. She wants to, but she knows she can’t. She can’t lie to Cosima again.

“I finally get you back and they just keep pulling you away from me,” Cosima says, her voice cracking.

She finally turns around, her eyes shimmering and lip quivering in her tell-tale sign of despair. It’s enough to stab at the blonde’s chest and pull a shaky gasp from her parted lips. Her own eyes become dewy at the image and her legs are pulling her across the yurt as fast as they can carry her until she’s cradling Cosima’s face between her hands.

“No one will ever keep me from you. Do you understand?” she whispers harshly, pressing her forehead to Cosima’s. “I will never leave you.”

Cosima freezes.

The words strike a cord somewhere deep within and she stares up at Delphine, completely rapt. Delphine tries to gauge her reaction, but there’s something happening behind Cosima’s eyes that she’s unable to fully grasp. Whatever it is, it sends the clone propelling forward until her lips are slamming into Delphine’s.

She doesn’t fight it.

A moan escapes as she finds herself suddenly backed up against the door, Cosima’s lips both soft and demanding. She allows Cosima to lead for the moment, to set the terms of their engagement as her mouth slides open to accommodate her desperate affection.

“I can’t take it anymore,” Cosima pants between their hurried kisses.

Delphine nods enthusiastically, cupping Cosima’s face in her hands and embracing the rapid crumble of her many walls. This is the Cosima she remembers—the Cosima she’s longed to see again.

“I know, my love—I know,” she whispers, her voice strained.

Their lips meet again, crashing against each other like violent waves against the hull of a ship; she capsizes beneath the force of it, her knees buckling the second she feels Cosima’s fingers tug at the hem of her shirt.

“I won’t let them take you away again,” Cosima tells her, tears stinging at the corners of her eyes.

Delphine nods again, lifting her arms above her head to assist her lover. Cosima peels her shirt away, tossing it aside and slipping her hands into silky, golden curls. She refastens her lips to the doctor’s and Delphine’s hands find the taper of her hips, leading Cosima backwards until they find her cot—their cot. They both kick off their boots and Cosima twists their bodies, forcing Delphine to sit, straddling her lap.

“Tell me you’ve missed me,” Cosima breathes.

Delphine’s lips go to her throat, traveling up the curve of her neck, her jawline.

“You know I have,” she pants against flushed skin. “Every day.”

Cosima sinks her fingers in deeper, gripping the blonde’s hair at the roots and forcing her head back so they can make eye contact.

“Tell me.”

Delphine licks her lips, staring up at Cosima—at eyes that nearly glow in their intensity.

“I’ve missed you.”

Cosima’s breath catches in her chest, a sob nearly escaping the second she hears Delphine whisper the words. Delphine’s thumbs brush at her damp cheekbones and she smiles, trying to replace the look of heartbreak in her lover’s eyes with something softer.

“Tell me you need me,” Cosima demands.

“More than anything.”

With a hand against her chest, Cosima slowly forces Delphine onto her back. Still straddling the blonde, she tugs her own shirt over her head and discards it, then reaches for her bra to unfasten it. All of the air in the room is sucked out and Delphine struggles for breath, her eyes raking over Cosima’s exposed form. Her lashes flutter and her tongue darts out past her lips to wet them. She slowly works her hands up Cosima’s tiny frame until she’s cupping the clone’s breasts in her hands and they both moan in unison.

“I need this, Delphine,” Cosima sighs, her head tipping back.

Delphine springs up and forward, her face drawn to Cosima’s chest like the needle of a compass pointing north. Cosima's hands find her hair again and she revels in the sensation of deft fingers lightly scratching at her scalp, sighing blissfully as she takes as much of Cosima’s breast into her mouth as she can fit, sucking greedily.

She divides her attention equally between the two fleshy mounds, drawing a pert nipple between her lips and sucking harder until she receives the desired response; Cosima’s back arches and she cries out, her hands moving from Delphine’s head to her shoulders, blunt nails digging crescent-shaped marks into her flesh. She forces Delphine back down onto the flat of her back, ignoring the whine that escapes the doctor’s mouth the second her attentions are denied. Cosima wastes no time pushing forward, reaching to unfasten Delphine’s bra and then moving on to the button of her pants.

Delphine watches with wide eyes as Cosima divests her of her remaining clothes, the brunette’s eyes sharp and focused on the task at hand. Amber pools spark to life the second she has her monitor completely bare beneath her, as if she’s overcome by the possibilities before her.

She decides to start where they left off.

Cosima dips her head to the scar on her abdomen, pressing a gentle kiss to the marred flesh. Delphine can’t contain her moan, can’t stop her wandering hands from finding purchase in Cosima’s dreads. When Cosima traces the wound with her tongue, all bets are off.

“Je t’aime,” she confesses, her voice a breathy whine.

“I love you, too,” Cosima answers without skipping a beat.

Her head dips lower until it’s nestled between Delphine’s thighs and all the blonde can do is stare up at the ceiling and wonder how the hell they got here. All of the lies, the promises and near-deaths have led them to this moment—a moment she never could have anticipated if someone had asked her those many months ago when she was just a girl with a fake transcript to match her name in a lab she had no business being in.

She keens.

She doesn’t care who can hear her—if Mud or the messenger are posted outside of their door—if the whole camp is gathering for the grand spectacle they’re currently making; the feel of Cosima’s mouth against her sex after all this time is too great a thing to stifle.

“You taste the same.”

She can barely make out the words through the haze of her arousal, but there’s a strange and undeniable innocence to them—as if Cosima had been expecting something else and is pleasantly surprised by what she’s discovered, her dormant memories roused into a state of wakefulness. She slowly laps away, taking care to avoid her clit with each teasing lick. She doesn’t want this to end before it has a chance to truly start and so she takes her time, easing into their lovemaking, savouring the sweetness against her tongue.

“I thought I forgot, but it’s just like I remember,” she mutters against Delphine’s sticky thigh, kissing it softly.

Delphine shakes her head in disagreement.

Cosima’s lips on her feel far better than she ever remembers and she doesn’t know how it’s possible; maybe it’s just been too long since she’s been touched like this, or maybe tasting death has made her savour the life Cosima fills her with, each and every touch a sharp, reminding jolt. Cosima gazes up at her, eyes smiling. She returns her focus to Delphine’s wetness, nuzzling her gently before capturing the blonde’s throbbing clit between her lips and sucking softly until Delphine’s back is twisted into a perfect arch, her mouth gaping.

“Yes,” Delphine sighs, biting down hard on her lower lip. “Like that—don’t stop…”

She comes undone slowly, like one of Cosima’s many scarves being pulled apart by each thread. She floats high above them, watching the scene unfold from an elevated perspective; she watches her body contort, watches Cosima lavish her with affection she never knew she craved quite this much. Her release washes over her like some sort of lunar eclipse, basking her in a red glow that cuts through the dark.

Cosima continues with her ministrations, pressing feather-light kisses to Delphine’s sensitive sex, her damp thighs, the wiry patch of hair above her cunt. Her lips tease at her navel, causing the doctor’s stomach to clench and quiver until she can’t take it anymore and she reaches down, catching Cosima’s head and guiding her back up to her mouth. They drink hungrily from each other, Delphine tasting her own arousal on Cosima’s tongue; she’d nearly forgotten what a turn on it is and she feels another pull at her groin, another ache in the pit of her belly.

Using what little strength she has left in the moment, she flips them over so that Cosima is pressed beneath her. The sudden act catches the clone by surprise and it takes her a few seconds to adjust, but the second Delphine presses her lips against hers once more, she sinks and settles into the shift quite naturally.

When they pull apart for air again, Delphine stares down at her lover with a soft smile, lightly stroking at her wisps of baby hair. She traps Cosima’s head between her arms, searching her gaze. Cosima’s eyes seem to peer right through her—at some unseeable force that lingers just above them.

“What is it?”

Cosima’s eyes glisten, her lips part.

The words escape her for a moment, but she grabs them before they can float away completely and reigns them back in as best she can.

“You’re always… hovering over me,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Out of reach.”

The tiniest gasp slips from Delphine’s lips, Cosima’s words echoing in the halls of her head. She hadn’t realized the extent of the damage her abandonment has left, but she sees it so plainly now. Her eyes well with tears, her lungs burn in her chest.

“I’m right here,” she promises.

She presses more urgent kisses to Cosima’s mouth, coaxing her open.

“I’m right here,” she repeats, reaching for the button of Cosima’s pants with trembling hands and popping it open.

She tears Cosima’s pants down her legs with no preamble, underwear along with them. When she has Cosima bare beneath her, she breaks their kiss to drag her lips down her lover’s body, down the slope of her neck and the jut of her collarbone. She wraps her lips around a perky nipple, sucking perhaps a little too hard and pulling a sharp cry from the clone.

“Can you feel me now?” she asks, biting down.

Cosima squirms beneath her, moaning loudly until Delphine releases her nipple and stops, looking up into Cosima’s eyes.

“Tell me.”

Cosima nods.

“Yes,” she squeaks.

Delphine nuzzles her breasts, smiling.

“What does it feel like?”

She waits to hear Cosima’s voice and when she’s met by silence, she looks up again and searches for an answer. Cosima’s gaze is distant, focused on the ceiling. She just barely notices the tears in her eyes.

“I—I don’t know…”

“Yes you do,” Delphine urges.

She reaches lower, gliding her fingers through Cosima’s wetness. She watches the breath catch in her chest, watches her lashes flutter and her mouth fall open as a sigh escapes.

It feels like living—

Like fighting—

Like winning.

“Tell me,” Delphine tries again.

Cosima shakes her head.

When Delphine slides two fingers inside, her protests are replaced by a long groan. She works Cosima slowly, meticulously, just the way she likes. Her fingers curl and reach, hoping she’ll draw her answer out into the open. She’s rewarded by a swivel of her lover’s hips, by Cosima’s hands reaching for her head and pulling her back up to her mouth.

“Please,” Cosima breathes against her lips.

There’s an aching desperation to her words, one that matches the heat between her legs, and Delphine tries her hardest to answer her pleas with a strong and certain hand. She speeds up her once-languid pace and Cosima eagerly matches her movements with an undulation of her hips which quickly grows into frenzied bucking, with nails which claw at the doctor’s back as she tries to anchor herself to the short-lived present—to a stolen moment she knows she’ll have to return much too soon.

The yurt falls silent, save for their laboured breathing, the creak of the cot and the slick, sweet sounds of their coupling; gone is the howling wind at the window, the muted voices that usually buzz just beyond the door. Cosima sinks her teeth into the well-defined muscles of Delphine’s neck, clamping down to stifle herself. She feels as if she’s about to burst beneath the weight of Delphine, the building pressure in the pit of her belly, the exhaustion and frustration and this feeling of being loved so completely that she almost doesn’t know what to do with it. This is what she’s wanted all along—to have Delphine to herself, to share even just a moment of rawness and honesty—so why does she clamp her eyes shut and turn her head away from the blonde’s piercing gaze?

Delphine can feel the resistance begin to build with each thrust of her fingers and she knows Cosima’s close, but she can’t send her over until she has an answer of her own.

“Look at me,” she pants, pleading. “Look at me.”

She brings her free hand to Cosima’s face, her fingertips dancing over her delicate features.

“I’m here,” Delphine whispers with a slight nod for emphasis. “We’re here.”

She traces the plumpness of Cosima’s lower lip, finally coaxing the clone to open her eyes and meet her gaze. They both freeze for a moment, locked in stare before Cosima draws her thumb into her mouth and gently sucks, tugging an elongated out of the blonde.

They’ve made it this far.

They’re going to make it all the way.

Cosima releases her thumb and nods, pressing a kiss to Delphine’s palm.

“We’re here,” she agrees.

They’re going to make it home. No matter how long it takes, no matter how hard they have to try, they’re going to make it off this godforsaken island; they’re going to stop whatever P.T. Westmorland is planning, they’re going to free her and her sisters and they’re going to go home—wherever that is.

It was never Minnesota, but was it ever really Toronto?

No.

They’ll find someplace new—someplace that hasn’t been tainted by all of the lies—someplace that isn’t shrouded in dark clouds or heartbreak. They’ll start all over—on even ground this time. They’ll go on proper dates, they’ll fight about normal things. They’ll cling to each other without the constant threat of death on their tails, without secrets cutting them apart.

Cosima’s eyes grow glossy at the thought.

“Harder,” she whispers against Delphine’s lips, lightly nipping in a bid to goad her lover.

Delphine complies.

Never has she found herself so consumed in a word, all of her focus in her hand as she increases the pressure, the depth of her fingers. Despite their limited space with such a tiny cot, she somehow finds a way to sling one of Cosima’s knees over her shoulder, pressing into the petite woman with her full weight. Cosima cries out hoarsely at the new angle, and when Delphine circles the swell of her clit with her dexterous thumb, she loses all thought completely and cries out, giving herself over to the feeling.

When they’re finished, they lay in the silence of understanding, Delphine blanketed over Cosima’s still-frail but quickly recovering body. Cosima runs her fingers through golden locks, inhaling deeply and finding comfort in the familiar sent of her lover, in their sex. She feels stronger than she has in a long time, even with Delphine’s weight pressing down on her.

“When will you be back?” she whispers.

Delphine tenses.

It’s subtle, but Cosima feels it.

“I don’t know,” the doctor finally answers. “But I’ll try not to be too long.”

Cosima nods, smiling when she feels Delphine press a kiss to her cheek, head resting in the crook of Cosima’s neck. Even though it’s not exactly what she wants to hear, she’s relieved to hear an honest answer from the blonde and so she accepts it.

“But when I do—”

“I know,” Cosima interrupts her thought.

There’s no telling how deep the rabbit hole truly goes. There’s no knowing when all of this craziness will end. She can’t be entirely certain when they’ll see each other again, but she knows that they will—and that when Delphine returns to her carrying a victory flag, they’ll be able to march in a new direction together for the very first time.

She’ll be waiting.

#cophine #cophine fanfic #fanfiction

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90stimkon · 7 years

Text

macaroni and cheese

Rating: PG for gushy romance ew Length: 1,556 words Pairing: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei (matsuhana), background Oikawa Tooru/Iwaizumi Hajime (iwaoi)

Summary: Oikawa insists that Hanamaki and Matsukawa don’t look like a couple. Hanamaki and Matsukawa insist otherwise.

Notes: @cheesyshenanigans made a super cute doodle of matsuhana in these hoodies and it’s been haunting me all day.

my fic | buy me a coffee | commission me

“Oikawa is staring at us strangely,” Matsukawa stage whispers to Hanamaki.

“He always does everything strangely,” Hanamaki stage whispers back.

“I mean the staring at us is strange.”

“Yeah, that is pretty strange. Usually he’s staring at himself.”

“Don’t talk mean about your captain if you know I’m listening!” Oikawa cries, now finally cracking. He looks away pointedly and stomps to the ball cart, not that practicing one of his float serves does anything to deter his two joking teammates, who approach him immediately after.

“So what’s with the staring?” Hanamaki’s the one to asks, but Matsukawa nods behind him, obviously expecting some kind of answer as well.

“I was just thinking,” Oikawa huffs, putting both hands on his hips as though it helps him carry more authority, “that you two don’t look like much of a couple.”

“Well that’s ridiculous,” Matsukawa says. “We’re a couple, so of course we look like one.”

“Yes, I agree,” Hanamaki says. He holds up a finger for silence and attention, and then dramatically showing a hand to his boyfriend: “We finish each other’s--”

“--sandwiches.”

“Ha ha,” Oikawa says dryly. He raises his eyebrow in a way that’s both judgemental and approachable, a way only their captain can manage. “I know that joke already.”

“It’s not a joke,” Hanamaki insists defensively. He does, however, puff out his bottom lip in a mock expression of Oikawa. “I really was thinking about sandwiches.”

“He mentioned it a few minutes ago about what he’d like to eat after practice,” Matsukawa agrees, nodding. He claps his palm on Hanamaki’s shoulder and they both lean their heads in toward each other. It looks about as affectionate as two strangers, but Hanamaki and Matsukawa have never been ones to demand attention in the same way Oikawa does.

Their captain sighs in a rare way. Oikawa’s competitive, mocking, and playful sighs were well known to any Seijou regular, but this sigh sounds…disappointed. “I can never tell when you two are joking or not.”

“We never joke.”

“Ever.”

Oikawa’s honey brown eyes sharpen and by the way he inhales, both of them know he’s about to say something, but whatever it is dies on his tongue the moment Iwaizumi walks up to the ball cart beside them. “You okay?”

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa instantly gushes, wrapping both arms around Iwaizumi’s shoulders and squeezing clothes. “I missed you so much!”

“Hey, not during practice!” Iwaizumi says, but both Hanamaki and Matsukawa note that he’s not trying too hard to push him off. And his insistence that, “it hasn’t even been five minutes since I saw you in the lockers,” is just as weak.

“That’s five minutes too long!” Matsukawa fake gags.

“New couples are so annoying,” Hanamaki says under his breath, just loud enough for Matsukawa to hear.

His boyfriend nods in agreement. “You can never tell when they’re flirting or not.”

Hanamaki frowns while they’re watching Netflix curled up on Matsukawa’s couch, and he hits the spacebar to pause the laptop, where it’s sitting half on his thigh and half on Matsukawa’s. Somewhere out there, he’s sure Oikawa and Iwaizumi are rolling around on one of their beds as if they won’t have the chance to kiss a million other times, a thought that sends an annoyed prickle down Hanamaki’s back. Or it could be the fresh memory of today’s practice. “Do you think we’re not coupley enough?”

Matsukawa presses his lips together in thought for a moment and then turns to meet Hanamaki’s gaze. “Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe we aren’t very typical. But we can’t ever let Oikawa know he might be right.”

“Yeah.” Hanamaki sighs and leans into Matsukawa, idly playing with Matsukawa’s fingertips brushing against his shoulder. “Not that I wanna be like Oikawa or Iwaizumi. They’re too…”

“Flashy.”

“And loud.”

“Try hard,” Matsukawa agrees in a tone of finality.

Hanamaki grins widely at their easy, comfortable banter, and his teeth clack a little when Matsukawa smiles back and kisses him. “We’re totally coupley enough.”

“It’s not like there’s a look all couples have, you know?” Matsukawa muses out loud, as they bump knees during lunch. Hanamaki looks up from where he’s eating the pudding Matsukawa bought, raising a brow in question. “If there’s about seven billion people in the world, let’s say there are three-and-a-half billion couples.”

“Remember to subtract the number of sad people who can’t get dates,” Hanamaki reminds, just after pulling out the spoon from between his lips. “And families, probably. Though who knows.”

Matsukawa’s staring right at Hanamaki’s mouth and it takes a moment before he agrees, “right. So that’s about five hundred million couples on earth.”

“Sounds about right, I guess.” Hanamaki shrugs off the question and lets Matsukawa reach out to wipe the bit of chocolate from his lower lip. His eyes narrow as Matsukawa licks his finger clean like it’s nothing. “But so what?”

“So there can’t be anything in common among five hundred million couples.”

“You’re right!” Hanamaki agrees, pointing the spoon at Matsukawa with a glimmer in his eye. “And if there is, we definitely have it.”

“Definitely.”

Hanamaki groans and shuts Matsukawa’s laptop shut. Somehow he thought Love, Actually would be funnier than it was, but it just leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “Wanna go to Oikawa’s house without telling him and ruin his make out time with Iwaizumi?”

“Yup.”

“Hey, Mattsun, pucker up like we’re the white, heterosexual couple at the very end of a movie,” Hanamaki randomly demands.

Without asking why, Matsukawa does as he’s told, closing his eyes so tightly that his nose scrunches and his lips pucker up absurdly, complete with a really, “chuuuuu.”

Hanamaki would laugh if he wasn’t doing the same, a breath away from Matsukawa’s face. There’s a quick click of the camera’s shutter and Hanamaki pulls away to look at the photo. “Okay, let’s put every ridiculous filter on it and spam Oikawa’s messages with really obnoxious pictures that show we’re a couple.”

“You have to use a soft filter and the ridiculous stickers,” Matsukawa helpfully explains. He points to the most ridiculous stickers with throbbing hearts and I-L-Us written in dainty cursive, stickers that should only be used for the nefarious of selfies. (Oikawa had sent them no less than five selfies of him and Iwaizumi with said sticker in the past two days) “Okay, now draw blushes and sparkles on both of our faces.”

“Oh, that’s good!” Hanamaki chirps, dutifully drawing exaggerated manga blushes and sparkles on them both. “How’s this?”

Matsukawa grins at the parody of romance on Hanamaki’s phone and gives him a thumbs up. “Perfect.”

Hanamaki’s phone beeps fifteen minutes later, just after texting a picture of Hanamaki and Matsukawa fluttering their eyelashes at the camera and making a heart with the shape of their hands.

[From: Still Owes Me Ramen] u both suck!!!!!

Hanamaki grimaces at his phone wallpaper a week later. He and Matsukawa both thought it would be funny if they changed their wallpapers to same selfie from when they spammed Oikawa, but it gives him goosebumps every time he looks at it now. “It’s kind of gross.”

“Really gross, actually.”

“So gross that I want to delete it.”

“I wasn’t about to suggest it, but I’m glad.”

“Agreed. It’s settled then. It’s gone.” Hanamaki deletes the photo and replaces his wallpaper with one of him and Matsukawa purposefully failing an attempt to form a heart shape with their hands. Matsukawa’s arm is pulled over his head to form half of a full-bodied heart while Hanamaki’s hand is held up to form half a heart shape with his hand. Hanamaki smiles at the old photo; it was his previous wallpaper and he missed it.

On a double date with Oikawa and Iwaizumi, Oikawa clings to Iwaizumi’s bicep and cheerfully suggests, “let’s do something fun and say which movie represents our love life! I choose Beauty and the Beast!”

“We’re more like Tangled,” Iwaizumi corrects, bumping his head against Oikawa’s.

Oikawa downright giggles and Hanamaki misses the days when Iwaizumi might have snarkily replied back, ‘who are you calling beast?’ Big sigh.

“How about you two?” Oikawa probes, snuggling impossibly closer to Iwaizumi. “Which movie describes your love life?”

Hanamaki and Matsukawa take one look at each other and say at the same time: “Shrek.”

“Yes,” Matsukawa breathes when Hanamaki points to a window display. “We have to get them.”

The next time Seijou’s third years are on a double date, Oikawa’s nose wrinkles in disgust the entire time.

“What is it?” Matsukawa asks, half out of irritation. After all, he and Hanamaki hadn’t pulled any pranks to receive that look (yet).

“You two look like a couple,” Oikawa says, sticking out his tongue as if he ate something disgusting. Iwaizumi isn’t so overt, but he’s been watching them worriedly the entire date as well. “It’s weird.”

“He’s the cheese,” Hanamaki says dryly while pointing to Matsukawa.

Matsukawa points to himself. “I’m the cheese.”

Oikawa’s gesturing with his hands in the air that signals a long tirade that’s about to happen while Iwaizumi shakes his head in defeat. It doesn’t matter to Hanamaki that neither of them understand his and Matsukawa’s matching You Are The Cheese To My Macaroni sweaters. All that matters is that he and Matsukawa know they go together like macaroni and cheese.

#hanamatsu #matsuhana #iwaoi #haikyuu!!#myfic

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coc-lance · 7 years

Text

Exploration: Giacomo (P#0006)

As you travel, you see another person on the road. He is tethered to a small cart that is overloaded with a hodgepodge of items. He is dressed in a very garish manner, having a broad, multicolored hat, brocaded coat and large, striped pantaloons. His appearance is almost comical and contrasts with his severe and hawkish facial features. The man sees you, smiles and stops his cart.

“Greetings, traveler! My name is Giacomo. I am, as you can see, a humble purveyor of items, curios and other accoutrements. While I am not in a position to show you my full wares as my shop is packed on this push-cart, I do offer some small trinkets for travelers I meet.”

The merchant looks at you sharply and cracks a wide, toothy smile you find... unnerving. The merchant twists his way around to access a sack he has around his back. After a moment, he swings the sack from his back to have better access to its contents. Inquisitively, the merchant turns back to you. “So stranger, be you interested in some drafts to aid you in your travels, some quick pamphlets to warn you of dangers on journeys or...”

Giacomo pauses and turns his head in both directions in a mocking gesture of paranoid observation. His little bit of theatrics does make you wonder what he is about to offer. “...maybe you would be interested in some items that enhance the pleasures of the flesh? Hmmm?”

Giacomo’s grin is nothing short of creepy as he offers his wares to you. What are you interested in?

Potions - Books - Erotica

Potions.

... Which potion or tincture will you examine?

Vitality Tincture: This potent tea is supposedly good for strengthening the body!

Increases strength at the slight loss of intelligence.

Giacomo holds up the item and says, “Ah, yes! The quintessential elixir for all travelers, this little bottle of distilled livelihood will aid you in restoring your energy on your journey and, should you be hurt or injured, will aid the body’s ability to heal itself. Yes sir, this is liquid gold for pilgrim and adventurer alike. Interested? It is 15 gems.”

Scholar’s Tincture: This powerful brew supposedly has mind strengthening effects!

Increases Intelligence at the slight loss of strength and muscle tone.

Giacomo holds up a pouch of dried, fragrant leaves and begins his spiel, “Have you ever wondered how scholars and other smart folk keep up such a mental effort for so long? They make a tea out of this fine mixture of quality plants and herbs. Nothing but the best, this mysterious mixture of herbs in its Orange Pekoe base makes anyone, short of a lummox, as brainy as the finest minds of the land. All you do is steep the leaves in some water and drink up! Hot or cold, straight or sweetened with honey, your mind will run circles around itself once it has this for fuel. Buy it now and I will throw in the strainer for free! Interested? Only 15 gems!”

Cerulean Potion: This is a mysterious bottle filled with sky-blue liquid that sloshes gently inside. Supposedly it will make you irresistible. To whom, and to what, you cannot

Consumable item.

If male or herm, consuming this potion triggers a special encounter the next time you sleep for the night. When you have this encounter, you will receive a replacement potion. The special encounter randomly increases a number of statistics, except for Corruption, which is always increased.

If genderless, consuming this potion triggers a special encounter the next time you sleep for the night. This is a comedic encounter that breaks the "fourth wall" between the in-game setting and the creators and players. This item will not work for a genderless character a second time.

If Champion becomes female after purchasing, this item will no longer work, although any pending encounters will occur if the Champion goes to sleep as a different gender.

Taking multiple doses before sleeping will result in visits for that number of nights, maximum three in the "queue" ("tonight" and the two nights following). Additional doses before sleeping have no effect.

Using this potion too many times results in a Bad End. Only a dose taken after waking and the next night can trigger the Bad End, and the queue will be cleared of additional doses to enforce this.

Giacomo makes his comical over-the-shoulder search and holds up a sky-blue bottle. He grins widely as he begins his pitch, “My friend, you truly have a discerning eye. Even the most successful of men seek to attract more women for pleasure and status. This, my friend, will attract the most discerning and aroused of women. Women attracted by this fine unction will NEVER say no. I GUARANTEE that she will want pleasure every time you demand pleasure! A bit of a caution to you, brother. Some say this works TOO well. If you aren’t man enough to handle the women this urn draws to you, you’d best say so now and I will offer something more to your liking. However, if you have the heart for it, I can sell you this little gem for 75 gems!”

Books.

...Which book are you interested in perusing?

Dangerous Plants: This is a book titled ‘Dangerous Plants’. As explained by the title, this tome provides information on all manner of dangerous plants within this realm.

A Must have for all new players. This gives an in game opportunity to avoid encounters with tentacle beasts, and mysterious plant ladies in the future!

Giacomo proudly holds up a small text. The cover is plain and unadorned with artwork. “According to the scholars,” Giacomo begins, “knowledge is power. It is one of the few things that scholars say that I agree with. You cannot survive in today’s world without knowing something of it. Beasts and men are not your only problems. This book specializes in the dangerous plants of the realm. There exists flora the likes of which will chew you up and spit you out faster than any pack of wolves or gang of thieves. For the small price of 10 gems, you can benefit from this fine book on the nastiest blossoms in existence. Care to broaden your learning?”

Traveler’s Guide: This ‘Traveler’s Guide’ is more a pamphlet then a book, but it still provides some useful information on avoiding the local pitfalls.

This book allows the player an in game opportunity to avoid a dangerous Sand Trap, found in The Desert, that will pull you in an impregnate you. Additionally, this book can be given to a certain albino lizard to advance your relationship.

Giacomo holds up a humble pamphlet. “While you may not find value in this as a seasoned traveler,”, Giacomo opens, “you never know what you may learn from this handy, dandy information packet! Geared to the novice, this piece of work emphasizes the necessary items and some good rules of thumb for going out into the world. You may not need it, but you may know someone who does. Why waste your time when the answers could be in this handy pamphlet! I will offer the super-cheap price of 1 gem!”

Hentai Comic: This oddly drawn comic book is filled with images of fornication, sex, and overly large eyeballs.

May be given to the Incubus Mechanic to avoid a fight, or used while masturbating.

Erotica. (limited current knowledge.)

...Giacomo’s grin is nothing short of creepy as he offers his wares to you. What are you interested in?

Dildo.

Useful during masturbation. Applies for all items

Giacomo takes out a slender tube roughly over half a foot in length. “Since you seek pleasure, this is as simple and effective as it gets. This dildo is a healthy seven inches long and is suitable for most women and even adventurous men. Pick a hole, stick it in and work it to your heart’s content or your partner’s pleasure. The single-piece construction makes it solid, sturdy and straightforward. For 20 gems, you can take matters into your own hands. How about it?”

Plain Onahole. Not available to females. Costs 20 gems.

Giacomo takes out a pink cylinder from his bag. It appears to be sealed at one end and the cap is topped with a piece of rubber that has a vertical slit. “Friend,” Giacomo starts, “when you do not want to go through all of the shit to bag a woman, this is the thing for you. It never says no, it never bitches and it never takes everything you own in a divorce. All you do is get hard, slip your cock in the slit, work it at your pace and unload. Simple is as simple does. Take the top off for easy clean up and there you go! As you can see it is portable and is much safer than risking some social disease from an errant barmaid. I have plenty of these in stock and I can let it go for 20 gems. What say you?”

Deluxe Onahole. Not available to females or genderless. Costs 50 gems.

Giacomo holds up a weirdly shaped lump of rubber. One end is shaped and contoured like a woman’s genitalia while the rest stretches out to almost a foot long. “This thing right here is excellent! While a standard onahole will get you off, this has the look and feel of the real thing! As you can see, the outside orifice looks just like a woman’s privates and,” Giacomo pauses to open the inside for you to view. You see the inner folds and curves that are typical to the inside of a woman’s womb, “as you can see, great care has been taken to make the inside feel as much like a real pussy as possible. You hammer your cock with this thing a few times and you may never want the real thing again! If nothing else, it won’t whine about you running out the door first thing in the morning. 50 gems is more than reasonable for all of the satisfaction this will bring.”

All-Natural Onahole. Only available to hermaphrodites. Costs 150 gems.

Self-Stimulation Belt. Not available to males. Costs 30 gems.

All-Natural Self-Stimulation Belt. Not available to males or genderless. Costs 40 gems.

Dual Belt. Only available to hermaphrodites. Costs 50 gems.

#Adventure #CoC #Fenoxo #Corruption of Champions #Giacomo #Purchasables #Consumables #0006

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evodex · 6 years

Text

Sample Chapter: Koffee with Kiran

DREAM #2

The setup: There is an opulent set inside a recording studio. Vividly coloured plush couches and sofas are placed across the floor which complemented the weird graphic art and mood lighting all around. The shoot is about to begin and the production crew scurries across the floor, making last-minute adjustments. The host, a celebrated producer-director and third-generation Bollywood royalty, Ms. Kiran, walks in. She takes her seat on the awkwardly constructed sofa and welcomes the guest, who is, of course, none other than my weighing scale.

Roll, camera, action!

Ms. Kiran: Hello and welcome to yet another exciting episode of Koffee with Kiran. Our guest tonight is a significant gadget, which has numerous amusing stories to tell about its user, Mrs. Google. So, let’s welcome and hear it from the Weighing Scale!

Weighing Scale: Thank you so much. It’s a pleasure to be here.

Ms. Kiran: Why don’t you start by telling us a little about yourself and your user Mrs. Google.

Weighing Scale: Well, as you have already introduced me, I am Mrs. Google’s weighing scale. I have been with her for almost six years now. There is a ritual that the two of us follow every time we are together. She gingerly steps on me, always standing on the tip of her toes. Then she closes her eyes and gives out a low sigh before peering down at my screen. This is usually followed by a disappointed shriek. She then tries to draw her breath and tummy in, before glancing at the numbers again. Obviously, the readings do not change and she instantly gets off the scale, like a crisp golden bread slice popping out of a toaster.

I always wonder about these four things:

Why tiptoe on the scale? Does she think that standing on her toes instead of placing the entire feet on the scale would make her weigh any lesser?

What’s with the astonished shriek? Does Mrs. Google expect to be 20 pounds lighter every time she stands on me? Like, magically?

Then, ‘inhaling deeply and tucking in of her tummy’ part. How is that ever going to bring down the numbers on scale? If anything, she’s only drawing in more air.

Also, what’s the hurry to get off from me? Will the pounds keep adding like the autorickshaw meter if she stands on me for 30 more seconds?

Ms. Kiran: Hmmm. So clearly, there are some issues here. Tell me, how often does she use you?

Weighing Scale: At least six times a day—with and without clothes, before and after meals, before going to bed, immediately after waking up, ahead of her morning walk and also after the leisurely stroll post dinner.

Ms. Kiran: Okay, let me just set the record straight. Is she…errr…fat?

Weighing Scale: Well, I’ll just say that based on her age, height and body type, she should ideally weigh somewhere between 58 and 62 kilograms. But she leans towards the heavier side. She is 36-24-36 + GST (linked to Aadhar). Now you can do the math yourself as I am ethically bound not to reveal the real numbers.

But Kiran, let me tell you and everyone else watching this show that Mrs. Google is not fat! She is just overweight. And there is a huge, huge difference between being fat and being overweight, especially for women.

Ms. Kiran: I agree. Weight is as sensitive an issue for women as age is, perhaps more so when it is slightly on the higher side. If it is impolite to ask a lady’s age, it is worse to peep into the weighing scale when she’s on it.

Backstage you were telling me how Mrs. Google tried to lose weigh, and there are some hilarious stories you have about that stint, right? So, tell us about her journey from fit to fat and then trying to be fit again.

Weighing Scale: Kiran, a few years back, Mrs. Google was much thinner. Well, maybe that’s a wrong choice of words. Let me rephrase, a few years ago, Mrs. Google was less overweight.

She used to comfortably wear size 10 and size 12 in some brands. Then things started to change. Currently, 80 per cent of her old clothes do not fit her anymore and this hasn’t changed in the last one year. Yet she clings on to them, hoping to fit into them once again. Someday.

Gradually, things started trending from bad to worse. Buttons started to pop out and large gaping areas were formed in her shirts, showing off what should be hidden. Zips refused to close till the end. And whatever she wore defined every curve, crevice and fold of her body. She progressively inflated from every corner, angle and side—a 360-degrees all-round expansion. It was hard on both of us.

Ms. Kiran: Oh poor Mrs. Google and poor you too. Then what happened? Did she do anything about it?

Weighing Scale: Yes, of course she did! So, one day, looking at herself in the full-length mirror, Mrs. Google swore aloud, “Enough is enough! This cannot be happening. I ought to get back into shape.” Immediately, she called her closest buddy, Ms. Kukki, who also suffers from this unfortunate affliction. Both of them decided to meet and discuss the way forward.

Ms. Kiran: Oh goodie! A little teamwork always helps. I’m sure they must have found a way to tackle the issue together.

Weighing Scale: Hah! You must listen to what they did. And don’t ask me how I got all the sordid details. I have my sources inside the house.

So, Ms Kukki arrived in that evening and they hugged and air-kissed like besties. While doing so, both women tried to gauge whose girth was wider. Once they settled down, Mrs. Google ordered the house help to make some adrak–wali chai and pyaaz-aloo bhajiyas as it was raining heavily. Lovely weather like this calls for a little celebration, she reasoned. She also instructed her help to bring along the butter-choco-walnut pound cake that her sister-in-law had brought from Dubai last week.

And it was over tea, bhajiya, cake and namkeen that the ladies discussed their woes and swore to take up an exercise routine ASAP. They chalked out a plan too, starting with brisk walking for 45 minutes and then gradually moving towards the gym, later in the week.

Ms. Kiran: Nice. Things are getting interesting. Then what happened?

Weighing Scale: As she visualised her soon-to-be-svelte figure with child-like glee, Mrs. Google was reminded that all her track pants and tees were either two sizes small or out of fashion. She instantly informed Ms. Kukki about the crisis. And within twenty minutes, both ladies were out to buy new workout clothes.

Seeing Mrs. Google’s dedication towards the new regimen, which was reflected in her eagerness to buy new fitness wear and gear, an inspired Ms. Kukki decided to follow suit. How can Mrs. Google shine away in her new, trendy, branded sportswear, while she lagged behind unnoticed in her three-months-old workout clothes?

After one-and-half hours of repeated trying, changing, selecting and discarding loads of ‘dry fit’ technology-enabled fitness wear, they came out of the mall armed with shiny shopping bags containing pairs of slim-fit tights with contrasting and matching dry fit tees, neon coloured sport shoes, two pairs of socks, a water sipper, a post-workout windcheater and a gym bag. Mrs. Google and Ms. Kukki were all set to enter the world of fitness like divas!

On the way back, Mrs. Google even ordered a fitness tracker watch online and downloaded two exercise tracking apps on the phone to keep track of her fitness regimen.

Ms. Kiran: Hahaha! I can’t wait to hear what happened next. Carry on…

Weighing Scale: Kiran sweetie, now I will give you a detailed day-to-day account of how both ladies took on their workout regime. You better sit tight and listen up.

Day 1, 7.00 am: They met at a common point between their houses, all decked up in the shiny new gear. With sweat bands on, a hint of lip gloss for a fresh look and shoes laced up, both started walking briskly and chit-chatted all along. Due to the constant babble and energetic pace, they began to pant within 10 minutes. So, they slowed down to a dawdling stroll and completed the proposed 45 minutes.

Day 2, 7.00 am: The first day had been a great success for them as they managed to complete their walk, irrespective of the speed at which they finished it. Hi-fives were exchanged and the women patted each other’s back. Motivated, they began day two, again with quick steps and relentless chit-chat. But soon the pace decelerated and within 500 metres, they were breathless. Meanwhile, they crossed a spot where office goers stopped by to have their chai-sutta-nashta. The whiff of freshly made kachori and vada sambhar made the women go week on their knees. Mrs. Google looked at Ms. Kooki and raised an eyebrow suggestively. Ms. Kooki gestured her affirmation with a meaningful smile. Within five minutes, they were seated on the plastic stools outside the tapree, gorging on hot kachoris and sipping steaming adrak-wali chai.

Day 3, 7.00 am: Two days down, they felt exhilarated. After all, they had succeeded in keeping up with the schedule. But already a little bored of simply walking, they decided to enter their society’s gym. Inside, they met several acquaintances and neighbours. The first 10 minutes were spent in casual catching up. The ladies made sure to ignore Mrs. Rana, who ate like a horse in all the kitty parties but God knows how still managed to look like a French bean. She was the obvious object of their scorn.

After socialising for a while and fixing their hair in the mirrors mounted on the gym walls for a different purpose altogether, the ladies finally managed to drag themselves towards the cardio machines.

Speed: 4

Elevation: Flat

All through the ten minutes of their ‘light’ cardio, they kept cribbing about the bland song choice and the ineffective air-conditioning in the gym.

Calories burned – 38

Finishing their cardio, they sat down huffing and puffing. The gym instructor, a tall, handsome hunk, came over and asked them if they needed any help or if they would like to do some stretching.

Dumbstruck by his hotness and abs which were clearly visible through his tight vest, they couldn’t say ‘no’, even though their legs were wobbly and begged for mercy. Mr. Instructor demonstrated a few basic stretching exercises and flaunted his own muscles. Trying their best to imitate his immaculate moves, they kept falling in exhaustion and clumsiness. After four whole minutes of awkward stretching, the sweaty ladies found that the instructor was busy with other more dedicated disciples. Making the most of this opportunity, they bolted for the door.

Day 4, 7.00 am: By now, each and every muscle of their body, not in the habit of stretching or working out, were sore and hurting. The duo decided to keep it ‘light’ and stick to plain walking. Walk to the tempting tapri. Gorge. And walk back.

Distance covered – 2 km

Calories burned – 70

Calories eaten – 250

Day 5, 7.00 am: Repeat performance of Day 4.

Day 6, 6.30 am: As expected, their schedule didn’t last very long. And so, Ms. Kukki called Mrs. Google to inform that she wouldn’t be able to make it that day as it was a weekend and she wanted to sleep till little late. Obviously, Mrs. Google was more than happy to agree. She too receded under the covers and went back to her sweet slumber.

I knew from the very beginning that this wouldn’t last long, monotony would kill it and exercising incessantly would die a natural death.

Day 7: Nobody called anybody. And, as they say, sometimes no news is good news. The unannounced verdict found mutual consent.

The entire exercising routine was soon forgotten as Mrs. Google & Ms. Kukki chose painless mornings over demanding fitness. The whole ‘silly’ idea was thrown out of the window.

Ms. Kiran: Such a sad and tragic ending to a thoroughly amusing story. Did she try other methods of losing weight post this swiftly aborted exercise routine?

Weighing Scale: Well, after coming to terms that exercising was not her cup of tea, she tried her hand at all sorts of diets—starting with a weeklong GM diet, moving on to the low-carb Atkin’s diet, followed by the chhass only diet, then the most obnoxious cabbage soup diet, the much-celebrated vegan diet, keto diet and even two days of the ‘cotton ball diet’, in which she dipped small balls of fluffy cotton into juices and smoothies and ate them up. Sadly, nothing passed the threshold of the experimentation phase of first few days.

Ms. Kiran: ‘Cotton ball diet’? Gosh, now this is incorrigible. So, did she give it all up finally?

Weighing Scale: Well, Mrs. Google has stopped experimenting with all the bizarre diets. Someone recently suggested to her ‘sniff the food’ technique. She is currently trying her luck with that. Less eating and more sniffing. I wonder how that will pan out for her.

Ms. Kiran: Hmmm… let’s see what that results in. Do keep me posted on that.

So, moving on, let’s play our exciting rapid-fire round. I will ask you a few questions and you have to answer them keeping Mrs. Google in mind. But remember, the replies have to be rapid and, of course, fiery!

Ready? So, here we go…what is Mrs. Google’s weight?

Weighing Scale: 62 + 8 – 40 + 50 – 2

Ms. Kiran: Very well. Tell us about her one secret that even Mr. Planet doesn’t know.

Weighing Scale: She secretly eat chocolates and candies. Mrs. Google stashes them at various covert places, like inside the vegetable compartment of fridge, in the lower most section of her cupboard, unused purses, side table of her bed, behind the spice rack and even in the loo.

Ms. Kiran: What does Mr. Planet say when Mrs. Google asks him if she is looking fat in a particular dress?

Weighing Scale: Oh, he has this one absolutely figured out and well-rehearsed. It’s always a big, compelling ‘NO’. The genuinely surprised and ‘are you kidding’ wala expression on his face is priceless.

Ms. Kiran: Has Mrs. Google ever shared her actual weight with anyone? If so, with whom?

Weighing Scale: Yes. To her doctor, dietician, personal trainer, a sales person for health insurance purposes and one more sales guy at a bicycle shop, just so that he could give her the precise recommendations. Also, to a ride operator at an amusement park because the ride had to be correctly balanced. But for rest of the world, including Mr. Planet, it is a dark, well-guarded secret.

Ms. Kiran: Share a recent embarrassing incident of hers.

Weighing Scale: Last week, she met a friend after a long time. After shrieks of excitement and cheek-on-cheek air kissing, her friend stepped back and looking at Mrs. Google’s tummy, exclaimed, “Wow, looks like you have some good news there!”

Ms. Kiran: Hahaha! I am sure Mrs. Google wanted to strangle her.

Weighing Scale: You bet! Wait, I got one more. A few days back, she had to stand in a queue at the cash counter of a mall for almost half an hour due to some technical snag in the billing system. So, by the time things got working, she was visibly irritated. The woman behind the desk looked at her upset face and said, “I’m really sorry about your wait.” Without thinking much, courtesy to her bad mood, Mrs. Google snapped back, “You’re not so skinny yourself, madam. Mind you own business, please.” The poor girl did not even try to clarify her intent and resumed work but the ladies standing behind Mrs. Google were in splits. That’s when she realised what the girl had truly meant. She made a quick, embarrassed exit.

Ms. Kiran: OMG! That’s indeed funny.

Okay, tell us five things that make Mrs. Google flip out every time someone mentions in front of her.

Weighing Scale: Hmmm… Yoga, plus size clothing, health food, skinny jeans and people linking her allergies, acne and hair fall to her weight.

Ms. Kiran: If she wakes up as Katrina Kaif, she would….

Weighing Scale: If Mrs. Google wakes up as Katrina, she would go to her office and meet the big boss. She’d ask for a favour, which of course he would undoubtedly grant, she being Katrina for that moment. The favour would be double promotion and a separate cabin for a friend of hers, Mrs. Google.

Ms. Kiran: Haha, that would be a smart thing to do. Thanks a lot for being such a sport. You did very well. Our signature gift hamper, loaded with goodies is on the table next to you.

Now, before you leave, would you like to say something to her through our show?

Weighing Scale: I would like to tell Mrs. Google that although you eat less but you eat wrong. Having some extra weight is not that ‘fat’ an issue as you have made it to be. Being healthy and happy is more important than being thin and sad. So just remember, we all love you for the ‘weigh’ you are!

Next morning, while still in bed, I couldn’t stop laughing at last night’s dream. The incidents shared in it were all factual and indeed hilarious. My husband gave me a puzzled look, seeing me wake up in a happy-but-don’t–know-why state. Inching closer to him swapping my stupid grin with a seductive smile, I whispered, “Do you also love me for the ‘weigh’ I am?”

Perplexed by my unexpectedly amorous mood, barely an hour away from office time, he fumbled, “Of course darling, I love you the ‘way’ you are.”

Ah! If only men could ever understand what woman want (and mean).

My Stuff Speaks

Author – Sania Siddiqui

Sample Chapter: Koffee with Kiran published first on https://bestbabyinc.tumblr.com

0 notes

ashafriesen · 6 years

Text

Sample Chapter: Koffee with Kiran

DREAM #2

The setup: There is an opulent set inside a recording studio. Vividly coloured plush couches and sofas are placed across the floor, to complement the weird graphic art and mood lighting all around. The shoot is about to begin and the production crew scurries across the floor, making last-minute adjustments. The host, a celebrated producer-director and third-generation Bollywood royalty, Ms. Kiran, walks in. She takes her seat on the awkwardly constructed sofa and welcomes the guest, who is, of course, none other than my weighing scale.

Roll, camera, action!

Weighing Scale: Thank you so much. It’s a pleasure to be here.

Ms. Kiran: Why don’t you start by telling us a little about yourself and your user Mrs. Google?

I always wonder about these four things:

Why tiptoe on the scale? Does she think that standing on her toes instead of placing the entire feet on the scale would make her weigh any lesser?

What’s with the astonished shriek? Does Mrs. Google expect to be 20 pounds lighter every time she stands on me? Magically?

Then ‘inhaling deeply and tucking in of her tummy’ part! How is that ever going to bring down the numbers on scale? If anything, she’s only drawing in more air.

Also, what’s the hurry to get off from me? Will the pounds keep adding like the autorickshaw meter if she stands on me for 30 more seconds?

Ms. Kiran: Hmmm. So clearly, there are some issues here. Tell me, how often does she use you?

Ms. Kiran: Okay, let me just set the record straight. Is she…errr…fat?

Weighing Scale: Well, I’ll just say that based on her age, height and body type, she should ideally weigh somewhere between 58 and 62 kilograms. But she leans towards the heavier side. She is 36-24-36 + GST (linked to Aadhaar). Now you can do the math yourself as I am ethically bound not to reveal that.

But Kiran, let me tell you and everyone else who’s watching this, that Mrs. Google is not fat! She is just overweight. And there is a huge, huge difference between being fat and being overweight, especially for women.

Well, you were telling me how Mrs. Google tried to lose weight, and there are some hilarious stories you have about that stint, right? So, tell us about her journey from fit to fat and then trying to be fit again.

Weighing Scale: Kiran, a few years back, Mrs. Google was much thinner. Well, maybe that’s a wrong choice of words. Let me rephrase, a few years ago, Mrs. Google was less overweight.

She progressively inflated from every corner, angle and side—a 360-degrees all-round expansion. It was hard on both of us.

Ms. Kiran: Oh poor Mrs. Google and poor you too. Then what happened? Did she do anything about it?

Weighing Scale: Yes! So, one day, looking at herself in the full-length mirror, Mrs. Google swore aloud, “Enough is enough! This cannot be happening. I ought to get back into shape.” Immediately, she called her closest buddy, Ms. Kukki, who also suffers from this unfortunate affliction. Both of them decided to meet and discuss the way forward.

Ms. Kiran: Oh goodie! A little teamwork always helps. I’m sure they must have found a way to tackle the issue together.

Weighing Scale: Hah! You must listen to what they did. And don’t ask me how I got all the sordid details. I have my sources inside the house.

Ms. Kiran: Nice. Things are getting interesting. Then what happened?

Seeing Mrs. Google’s dedication towards the new regimen, which was reflected in her eagerness to buy new fitness wear, an inspired Ms. Kukki decided to follow suit. After all, how can Mrs. Google shine away in her new, trendy, branded sportswear, while she lagged behind unnoticed in her three-months-old workout clothes?

After one-and-half hours of repeated trying, changing, selecting and discarding loads of ‘dry fit’ technology-enabled fitness wear, they came out of the mall armed with shiny shopping bags containing two pairs of slim-fit tights with contrasting and matching dry fit tees, neon coloured sport shoes, two pairs of socks, a water sipper, a post-workout windcheater and a gym bag. Mrs. Google and Ms. Kukki were all set to enter the world of fitness like divas!

On the way back, Mrs. Google even ordered a fitness tracker watch online and downloaded two exercise tracking apps on the phone to keep track of her fitness regimen.

Ms. Kiran: Hahaha! I can’t wait to hear what happened next. Carry on…

Weighing Scale: Kiran sweetie, now I will give you a detailed day-to-day account of how both ladies took on their workout regime. You better sit tight and listen up.

Day 2, 7.00 am: The first day had been a great success for them as they managed to complete their walk, irrespective of the speed at which they finished it. Hi-fives were exchanged, and the women patted each other’s back. Motivated, they began day two, again with quick steps and relentless chit-chat. But soon the pace decelerated and, within 500 metres, they were breathless. Meanwhile, they crossed a spot where office goers stopped by to have their chai-sutta-nashta. The whiff of freshly made kachori and vada sambhar made the women go week on their knees. Mrs. Google looked at Ms. Kooki and raised an eyebrow suggestively. Ms. Kooki gestured her affirmation with a meaningful smile. Within five minutes, they were seated on the plastic stools outside the tapree, gorging on hot kachoris and sipping steaming adrak-wali chai.

Day 3, 7.00 am: Two days down, they were exhilarated. After all, they had succeeded in keeping up with the schedule. But already a little bored of simply walking, they decided to enter the society’s gym. Inside, they met several acquaintances and neighbours. The first 10 minutes were spent in casual catching up. However, the ladies made sure to ignore Mrs. Rana, who ate like a horse in all the kitty parties but still managed to look like a French bean (God knows how!). She was the obvious object of their scorn.

After socialising for a while and fixing their hair in the full-length mirrors mounted on the gym walls for a different purpose altogether, the ladies finally managed to drag themselves towards the cardio machines.

Speed: 4

Elevation: Flat

All through the ten minutes of their ‘light’ cardio, they kept cribbing about the bland song choice and the ineffective air-conditioning in the gym.

Calories burned – 38

Finishing their cardio, they sat down huffing and puffing. The gym instructor, a tall, handsome hunk, came over and asked them if they needed any help or if they would like to do some stretching.

Dumbstruck by his hotness and sets of packs that were clearly visible through his tight vest, they couldn’t say ‘no’, even though their legs were wobbly and begged for mercy. Mr. Instructor demonstrated a few basic stretching exercises and flaunted his own muscles. Trying their best to imitate his immaculate moves, they kept falling over in exhaustion and clumsiness. After four whole minutes of awkward stretching, the sweaty ladies found that the instructor was busy with other more dedicated disciples. Making the most of this opportunity, they bolted for the door.

Day 4, 7.00 am: By now, all the muscles of their body, not in the habit of stretching or working out, were sore and hurting. The duo decided to keep it ‘light’ and stick to plain walking. Walk to the tempting tapri. Gorge. And walk back.

Distance covered – 2 km

Calories burned – 70

Calories eaten – 250

Day 5, 7.00 am: Repeat performance of Day 4

I knew from the very beginning that this wouldn’t last long, monotony would kill it and exercising incessantly would die a natural death.

Day 7: Nobody called anybody. And, as they say, sometimes no news is good news. The unannounced verdict found mutual consent.

The entire exercising routine was soon forgotten as Mrs. Google & Ms. Kukki chose painless mornings over demanding fitness. The whole ‘silly’ idea was thrown out of the window.

Ms. Kiran: Such a sad and tragic ending to a thoroughly amusing story. Did she try other methods of losing weight post this swiftly aborted exercise routine?

Weighing Scale: Well, after coming to terms that exercising was not her cup of tea, she tried her hand at all sorts of diets—starting with a weeklong GM diet, moving on to the low-carb Atkin’s diet, followed by the chhass only diet, then the most obnoxious cabbage soup diet, the much-celebrated vegan diet, keto diet, and even two days of the ‘cotton ball diet’, in which she dipped small balls of fluffy cotton into juices and smoothies and ate them up. Sadly, nothing passed the threshold of the experimentation phase of first few days.

Ms. Kiran: ‘Cotton ball diet’? Gosh, now this is incorrigible. So, did she give it all up finally?

Ms. Kiran: Hmmm… let’s see what that results in. Do keep me posted on that.

Ready? So, here we go…what is Mrs. Google’s weight?

Weighing Scale: 62 + 8 – 40 + 50 – 2

Ms. Kiran: Very well. Tell us about her one secret that even Mr. Planet doesn’t know.

Ms. Kiran: What does Mr. Planet say when Mrs. Google asks him if she is looking fat in a particular dress?

Ms. Kiran: Has Mrs. Google ever shared her actual weight with anyone? If so, with whom?

Weighing Scale: Yes. To her doctor, dietician, personal trainer, a sales person for health insurance purposes, and one more sales guy at a bicycle shop, just so that he could give her the precise recommendations. Also, to a ride operator at an amusement park because the ride had to be correctly balanced. But for rest of the world, including Mr. Planet, it is a dark, well-guarded secret.

Ms. Kiran: Share a recent embarrassing incident of hers.

Ms. Kiran: Hahaha! I am sure Mrs. Google wanted to strangle her.

Ms. Kiran: OMG! That’s indeed funny.

Okay, tell us five things that make Mrs. Google flip out every time someone mentions in front of her.

Weighing Scale: Hmmm… Yoga, plus size clothing, health food, skinny jeans and people linking her allergies, acne and hair fall to her weight.

Ms. Kiran: If she wakes up as Katrina Kaif, she would….

Ms. Kiran: Haha, that would be a smart thing to do. Thanks a lot for being such a sport. You did very well. Our signature gift hamper, loaded with goodies is on the table next to you.

Now, before you leave, would you like to say something to her through our show?

Perplexed by my unexpectedly amorous mood, barely an hour away from office time, he fumbled, “Of course darling, I love you the ‘way’ you are.”

Ah! If only men could ever understand what woman want (and mean).

My Stuff Speaks

Author – Sania Siddiqui

Sample Chapter: Koffee with Kiran published first on https://parentcenternetwork.tumblr.com/

0 notes

mredwinsmith · 7 years

Text

Hand Drawing Made Simple: Key Techniques for Confident Results

Drawing hands is one of the most popular topics learning artists ask about. That’s because knowing how to draw hands is essential if you are drawing the figure. But it can also be intimidating. That’s why I want to share with you this article on hand drawing made simple from one of our favorite instructors, Brent Eviston.

The tutorial breaks down the essential steps without overwhelming you! If you have an “ah-ha!” moment, that’s to be expected! And if you want more of them, definitely consider Brent’s Figure Drawing Essentials Kit (also available as a Digital Kit) where he covers anatomy, gesture, shape and more. All the essentials an artist needs, delivered in a way that is simple and straightforward.

Enjoy!

Courtney

My Approach to Hand Drawings

Drawing the human hand takes almost as much knowledge, skill and experience as drawing the entire rest of the figure. However, when drawing the hand, you can adapt many of the same tools and techniques you’re already using to draw the rest of the figure.

In this article, I will walk you through a few key ways to approach hand drawing so you can enhance your skill set and create more confident drawings.

Gesture Drawings of the Hand

Gesture drawing is a foundational figure drawing skill. Although you can approach gesture drawings in many ways, most strategies involve doing quick drawings (anywhere from 10 seconds to five minutes) that simplify the subject into as few strokes as possible, as well as favor dynamism over accuracy and large, general forms over small details.

When doing gesture drawings of the full figure, axis lines are used to capture the angle between a pair of landmarks on the body, most often of the hips or shoulders.

In the drawing below you’ll see how you can use a combination of dynamic directional marks and axis lines to capture the angle of the wrist as well as the line of the knuckles. This is an excellent way to quickly capture the most prominent forms and proportions of the hand. Remember, your gesture drawing will lay a light foundation upon which you’ll build the rest of your drawing, so start off as lightly as you can.

Fig. 1: Demonstration on drawing hands, directional marks and axis lines, Brent Eviston

The Radius Line

When beginning a gesture drawing, start with the radius side of the wrist (the side with the thumb). In the drawing on the left (fig. 1), a line moves from the radial side of the wrist all the way up to to the tip of the pointer finger, ignoring the thumb. If the radial side of the wrist and the pointer finger aren’t easily visible, you can switch to drawing the ulnar side of the wrist to the pinky finger. Pay particular attention to where this line changes direction.

Axis Lines

When gesturing the hands, axis lines can be used in two different ways. The first point is at the wrist. In the middle drawing (fig. 1), I’ve drawn a line from the ulna to the radius. With this angle in place, you can then “square up” the wrist, communicating to the viewer the spatial orientation of the box of the wrist.

Next, just how as you would use an axis line to capture the angle between pairs of skeletal landmarks of the body, you can draw a single line to capture the position of all four knuckles of the fingers. Ask yourself if the knuckle line appears closer to the tip of the pointer finger or closer to the wrist. I recommend taking a proportional measurement and then comparing the distances while placing the knuckle line.

Active vs. Passive

Finally, in the drawing on the right (fig. 1), I’ve gestured each of the fingers and thumb. In this early gestural stage, instead of drawing both sides of the contour of each finger, focus solely on the active side (the outside of the bend) rather than the passive side where the flesh collapses to accommodate the bend when drawing.

Pay particular attention to where on the knuckle line each finger projects from. Also, consider the length of each finger in relationship to the rest of the hand, as well as to the other fingers and thumb.

Keep it Simple

Gesture drawing allows you to capture the most prominent directions, forms and relationships of the hand without getting prematurely mired in details. It’s important to remember: In drawing there are no silver bullets.

Drawing the hand is a challenge, and you should expect to make several attempts and revisions. If done with care, this technique allows you to capture the basic forms of the hand in proper proportion and will provide you with a solid foundation so you can build the rest of your drawing before moving forward with more detail.

Here are a few three-minute hand gestures (fig. 2) relying heavily on the method just described. Remember, there’s not only one right way to do a gesture drawing, so experiment to find a process that works for you.

Fig. 2: Demonstration of three-minute drawings, hand gestures, Brent Eviston

The Basic Volumes of the Hand

Another fundamental strategy of figure drawing is to simplify the body into its most basic volumes. Although there is no single way to do this (and it changes depending on the body of the model, the pose and the conception of the artist), it is usually a combination of boxes, spheres and cylinders.

Work Largest to Smallest

When drawing, you should always try and start with the largest forms first and work your way down to smaller forms. The largest volume of the hand is the box-like form that the fingers and thumb connect to. You can think of this box as beginning at the wrist and ending at the knuckle line (once again, ignoring the thumb).

Finding the placement, proportions and spatial orientation of this box is one of the most powerful ways to begin a hand drawing.

Establish Cylindrical Segments

The fingers and thumb can be simplified into a series of cylinders with the finger tips being rounded off at the ends. Each finger has three cylindrical segments while the thumb only has two.

In the drawings below (fig. 3 & 4), I began with the gesture process described above before first drawing the large box of the hand and then drawing the fingers and thumb as a series of cylindrical segments. I’ve paid particularly close attention to the ellipses of each cylinder because ellipses are what show the spatial orientation of the form.

Fig. 3: Demonstration on drawing hands, using boxes and a series of cylinders, Brent Eviston

Fig. 4: Demonstration on drawing hands detail of boxes and cylindrical forms (notice the prominent ellipses which help show the form’s spatial orientation), Brent Eviston

It’s important to note that the box of the hand may change shape, particularly when viewed from the palm side where the bending of the fingers may appear to alter the knuckle line.

Once the size and placement of the various cylindrical segments are drawn you can gesture in any remaining details, such as the connection of thumb to the box of the hand.

Light Logic

Simplifying the forms of the hand down to their foundational volumes not only helps you orient them effectively in space, but it also helps you understand the overall lighting scheme. Light interacts with basic volumes in a predictable and logical way. Once you understand the basic volumes of a subject, you understand how light falls over them.

Capture Light and Shadow

It’s important to remember that as you add details, and the light and shadow patterns become more complex, you keep the overall lighting scheme intact. For example, if you look at the tendons of the fingers, you can see that although they break up the large flat expanse of tieback of the hand, the larger lighting scheme is still dominant.

Fig. 5: Demonstration on drawing hands, applying lighting scheme, Brent Eviston

In the drawing on the left (fig. 5), the basic volumes of the hand are drawn using the strategies shared in this article. I’ve also drawn in the basic lighting scheme of these volumes. The large, flat plane of the box of the hand is getting a lot of light with the side plane going into shadow, which casts a shadow over the volumes of the thumb. Each of the finger’s cylinders has light on its left side and goes into shadow on the right.

Take some time to compare these two drawings. Hopefully, you can see that even though the more finished drawing on the right contains far more detail, it still retains the same overall lighting scheme shown in the drawing on the left.

Keep Learning New Hand Drawing Techniques

Although studying the musculoskeletal anatomy of the hand is essential for successful hand drawing, the techniques you’ve just learned will get you started and ensure that, when you do add anatomical details later on, they’ll be organized with a believable framework.

With numerous ways to approach hand drawing, I encourage you to learn as many as you can. I tell my students that, whenever possible, it’s best to simplify their drawing process and master the foundational skills, which include gesture drawing, volumetric drawing and light logic. Learning to adapt these familiar strategies to new drawing challenges is an excellent way to streamline your drawing process and distil complex subjects down to accessible and drawable forms.

Meet Brent Eviston

For Brent, drawing has always been his passion and primary medium of expression. After attending Otis College of Art and Design, he has continued to study many forms of drawing, including traditional master draftsmanship, architectural drafting and illustration, anatomical drawing and conceptual drawing.

Brent, who founded Evolution Academy for the Arts in October 2015, has taught and held exhibitions for traditional and contemporary drawing through arts institutions and organizations across the state. He also is an Artists Network Universty instructor for the popular course, Figure Drawing Essentials, which “lays the foundation for masterful figure drawing by introducing multiple methods for approaching the subject and how to improvise with these tools for maximum effect.”

Click here to enroll in this course and start enhancing your figure drawing skill set today. You can also learn more about Brent by visiting his website, BrentEviston.com.

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