#guileless-art

[guileless-beast]

uhh take this while i procrastinate work on requests <3

twisted sprout has been following me around on my runs lately. he’s fought past decreased main chances TWICE now and I haven’t seen twisted pebble in a solid month. I think he challenged dandy to a fistfight and won too because no matter how much i piss dandy off he never appears

[cece693]

EVEN MONSTERS HAVE A SOFT SPOT

pairing: hannibal lecter x gender neutral reader synopsis: When one thinks of Hannibal Lecter—sophisticated, has a refined taste, intelligent—are merely some words that come to mind, so it surprises even him when he becomes bespoken by an individual who's the complete opposite.

The relationship begins, as so many of Hannibal’s fascinations do, with an aroma: fresh-cut thyme carried in on a January draft as you push through the frosted doors of the Johns Hopkins atrium. You are there to drop off hand-bound sketchbooks for a pediatric art-therapy fundraiser; he has been asked to consult on a delicate cranial reconstruction.

Hannibal hears the shuffle of paper, the careful thank-yous whispered to each nurse you pass, and turns on an instinct older than speech. The halls smell of antiseptic and fear, yet the sprig of thyme tucked behind your ear—careless, uncurated—rises above it all. Mischa once wound the same herb into her braids to disguise the smell of campfire smoke. It stops him mid-stride.

You notice the tall man in the immaculate three-piece suit studying you like a still life, and instead of shrinking away you smile—open, guileless, inviting him to share the moment rather than conquer it. “Does it look ridiculous?” you ask, touching the herb.

"It looks honest,” he says, and means it.

That is the first crack in the marble.

It had been easy to catalogue you— an act of clinical triage Hannibal performed on everyone he met. Most novelties dimmed under the fluorescent glare of his scrutiny; even the rare ones, the ones he kept, were arranged on mental shelves like curiosities: a pocket watch of precise conversation here, a porcelain mask of manners there. But you would not stay still. Your sweetness tasted of movement—of sap running in thaw, impossible to pin beneath glass.

The second crack came a fortnight later, when he found himself altering his schedule—voluntarily lingering in the pediatric wing to “review charts” he had already memorized, just in case you appeared again with arms full of art supplies. He would claim afterward that he needed the walk to clear his thoughts, but the truth hissed at the edge of self-deception: he wanted to hear your gentle “excuse me” as you navigated the hallway, wanted to watch nurses straighten their posture under the lift of your smile.

Crack three: the wine-red sketchbook he couriered to your door. He wrote and rewrote the invitation card four times, adjusting the slope of a y, sanding away the faintest curl of a d, until the script looked as measured and effortless as his pulse seldom felt anymore.

Your yes arrived by phone—soft static laced with gratitude—and something inside him slipped an inch toward hunger. Not the crude appetite he sated with curated flesh, but a subtler craving: to be worthy of the tone you used when speaking to friends. To be invited, one day, into the small, sunlit domesticities you seemed to create wherever you went.

The night you crossed his threshold with that Mason-jar candle, the fissures spread like roots beneath frost. You apologized for the jar’s label—hand-inked, a little smudged—and he caught himself wanting to apologize back for every silver spoon he had ever polished to razor acuity, for every dinner served immaculate yet devoid of this raw, beeswax honesty. The flame bobbed inside cloudy glass; his resolve bobbed with it.

From then on, softness became a symptom. He noticed it first in the kitchen: how his hand hovered above a cleaver, unwilling to strike until your laughter in the dining room subsided, as though the crash of steel on board might frighten you from the next breath. He noticed it at the symphony, when the woman in the fur stole behind you whispered that you were “quaint”—and the back of his throat flooded with copper and snow, the memory of rifles in pine trees. By the scherzo’s final chord he had already decided which of her organs would prove most eloquent when removed.

He told himself these protective urges were logical—defensive medicine for a fragile but necessary part of his life. Yet he knew. Every quiet kindness you extended was another brushstroke across the portrait of Mischa his mind refused to hang. You were not her, would never be; still the echo persisted: thyme woven into braids, warmth hoarded like contraband against the winter outside. It left him both soothed and flayed.

So the murders quickened, as if some internal metronome had accelerated to match the beat of your footsteps on his stairs. A barista’s sarcastic arch of eyebrow, a critic’s oily sneer, the casual cruelty of an academic who dismissed your hand-stitched notebooks—all of them sprouted in his ledger like black mold begging to be cut out. Each removal felt cleaner, swifter, almost merciful; he was pruning the world into a shape where your kindness could continue unbruised.

And with every body that fell, Hannibal’s voice with you grew gentler, his touch nearer to reverence. He learned to breathe through your hair as though inhaling penance; to accept your crookedly knitted gifts with a gratitude that shocked him into silence; to sit across from you at dawn, watching you stir honey into tea, and feel—for the length of a single heartbeat—content.

He never says the word love. He thinks it, sometimes, in Lithuanian, French, the brittle Latin of anatomy texts, but all translations seem too narrow. What he feels is not an emotion but a geology: plates grinding, landscapes upheaving, rivers rerouted to spare one emerald valley from drought.

One night, long after you have fallen asleep against his shoulder, he studies the candle stub on the mantel—glass smudged by your fingerprints, wick stooped like a priest at confession. The flame gutters once, twice, then steadies. Hannibal brushes an ember of wax from the rim, commits the gesture to memory, and understands that the marble has shattered clean through. The statue is gone; in its place stands something living, something pliant yet unbreakable, defined by the simple fact that your light is inside it.

He will feed that light. He will guard it with butcher hooks and bone saws and lullabies. And when the world asks, with trembling voice, why the Ripper’s knife swings faster these days, he will answer—in the privacy of his own mind—that every heartbeat spared from cruelty is another second you spend unspoiled.

That, to Hannibal Lecter, is the only measure of decency worth counting.

[bannock-freak]

the disparity in how the girls view saiki entertains me also btw

rifuta imagines saiki as a debonair and oh so dangerous playboy with his shirt unbuttoned, shimmering eyes, and glamorous hair. she's actually completely replaced a memory with this scenario too instead of making something up wholesale.

yumehara imagines saiki as soft and rounded with big guileless eyes - completely nonthreatening in other words, which she somehow combines with the edward cullen creep factor because in her imagination he likes to sniff her hanky....?????

teruhashi imagines him as mostly himself, just with a complete personality switch. unless it's during art class in which case you either get plainer-than-satou or bishoujo-romance-kun. so apart from those instances, you could say that she understands certain pieces of his character, but overrides the others completely to her own preferences. IE 'Kunio' vs 'Kusuo'.

aiura doesnt have nearly as many imagine spots iirc, probably since, of the girls, she knows saiki the best? and iirc she seems to know it's more fantasy than reality. she accepts that this version of him lives in her head. but she's probably the closest of all of them there, too, albeit she's ramped a certain part of his personality WAY up. saiki is prone to giving mischievous and charming grins like below but he wouldn't say that in a thousand years.

(i also think it's very funny that yumehara and kaidou's interpretations of saiki are very freaking similar)

of the girls, rifutas and aiuras fantasies are the most similar and yumehara and teruhashi's are the most similar. i think they all have things in common with saiki - if you mash them all together, you might get a character that's somewhat similar - but ofc they're certainly not him.

it's also interesting which pieces of him they play up and play down, and who of them most commonly use him as a prop to uphold their egos. rifuta makes up a completely different character, yumehara idealizes him to an enormous extent, teruhashi doesn't mind his appearance but doesn't prefer his natural personality (though i think she warms up to that aspect of him as they get to know each other) and aiura, well... manga readers know whats up there. but again, she likes his face and she really likes it when he shows his domineering side - but that's only one aspect of his personality.

it's too bad that of the boys the only one who has imagine spots of him is kaidou, at least to my recollection. would've been fun to compare and contrast those too. for example what do 'shadow leader' and 'partner' and 'master' look like?

anyways idk. just thinking lol

PS some Official Saikis that alignish with the above headcanons

aiura - rifuta

teruhashi - yumehara

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Reading The Mysteries of Udolpho (second try, much easier in physical book rather than ebook form) to get context on Northanger Abbey, but so far (about a hundred pages in) it’s mostly giving me context on Marianne Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility.

The focus on dramatic natural scenery, and poetry and music, and the emotions these things evoke, and bonding with people over these things…it’s what Marianne is all about. It’s the Romantic sensibility. The Mysteries of Udolpho has one line in particular: Virtue and taste are nearly the same, for virtue is little more than active taste, and the most delicate affections of each combine in real love. Another line says that only a person with some true “simplicity of heart” (honesty, innocence, guilelessness) can truly take joy in nature.

This fits with so many of Marianne’s sentiments. She wonders how Elinor can love Edward when neither poetry nor nature evoke any passion or particular taste in him. She falls head-over-heels for Willoughby – not just from their dramatic meeting, or compliments, or his looks, but because they express the same tastes and loves in poetry and in nature. The comfort and pleasure of a small home with family rather than a mansion with many guests are the theme of the start of Udolpho; Willoughby’s paean to a cottage is right in line with it. And if taste is virtue, then how can Marianne be wrong to trust him?

Northanger Abbey is Jane Austen’s first written (though not first-published) novel, and it’s a lighthearted satire on the Gothic melodrama of novels like The Mysteries of Udolpho. But Sense and Sensibility, though still having some comic figures and situations and plenty of satire, feels more urgent in its themes in this context – as though, along with her other reasons for writing it, Jane Austen was trying to say to young women of her time, question this, doubt this, a young man’s expressed views on art and literature and poetry and natural beauty, when talking to a pretty and romantic girl, are not necessarily a sure guide to his character.

[blackjackkent]

banner art by the amazing @eluvisen !

-----

Open Your Eyes and It Will Blind You - Chapter 6

Pairing: Jaheira/Rasaad Characters: Jaheira, Rasaad, OC Bhaalspawn (Caden), Aerie, Imoen, Minsc Rating: G Warnings: None Descriptors: Angst, Avoidance, Fix-It, Slow Burn, Romantic Tension, Canon-Typical Violence, Fake Character Death, Grief Fic Word Count (Thus Far): 31k Chapter Word Count: 5.8k Setting: Several years after BG2 TOB Summary: Years after the defeat of Irenicus and Melissan, Jaheira and Rasaad are both still haunted by the things they have lost, and neither of them is much good at opening up despite how deeply they’ve come to care for each other. When Rasaad decides he must travel to Calimshan to face up to his brothers in Sun Soul, she and their friends insist on accompanying him, and the two must begin to come to terms with their unacknowledged feelings while uncovering a deep darkness that has infected the place Rasaad once called home. (Chap 6/?) Chapter Summary: Jaheira and her companions break into the Selunite monastery in search of information about Gahan and his Sharran loyalties - and discover far more than they expected. read on ao3 | send me fic requests!

It takes them the better part of the day to track down an entrance to the tunnel system. 

Jaheira remembers Rasaad describing a passageway from the markets, but most of the shopkeepers in the khanduq merely seem baffled by the idea. Others squint as if they expect an amlakkar trap, and say nothing at all. But gold paves many roads, and the combination of Caden's purse and utterly guileless sincerity ultimately gets them what they are looking for, from a young apothecary's apprentice hauling crates off the back of a wagon.

“Sure, I know what ya mean." The girl pauses in her work, her dark eyes sweeping over their odd little group with mild and wary fascination, as if she is examining a bit of unexpected and exotic wildlife. Then she shrugs and hoists herself up to sit on one of the loose crates, rattling the bottles within. "You're talkin' about the tunnels to the harbor. Master Adel uses 'em plenty when he’s shipping in rare herbs; Cal’port’s taxes are murder.”

"That does sound like it might be what we seek," says Caden. His eyes are shadowed from grief and lack of sleep and there’s a touch of stubble on his jaw, giving him a ragged and exhausted look. But with the girl, who can’t be more than fifteen, he is instinctively gentle, his voice soft and his smile good-humored. "Might those tunnels go elsewhere besides the harbor as well?"

She relaxes, drawing herself into a cross-legged position on top of the crate, and returns his smile with a cautious one of her own. "Where ya trying to get, stranger?" she asks. "Most places ‘round here have a plenty good front door."

"Hypothetically speaking... perhaps the door is closed," Caden answers carefully.

"Ah." The girl lifts her eyebrows with a knowing nod. "Amlakkar trouble, eh?” This seems to cheer her up a little; apparently it’s a motivation she can easily fathom. “Well - there's plenty 'a branches off the tunnels, for sure. My master and I don't touch 'em, though."

Jaheira stirs, rousing herself with effort from her own thoughts. "If you can get us into the tunnels," she mutters, "I can find our way from there."

Caden produces a handful of gold from his pouch, offering it to the girl. "You can tell us how to get in, then?"

"Sure. Furthest boat slip west, there's a door marked with blue paint. Anyone asks, tell them Adel sent you." The girl grins, pocketing the coins. "Hope you enjoy the trip. Place stinks something awful," she adds with some relish.

"Stinks?" Aerie asks politely.

The girl laughs. "Well, of course. It’s the sewer route; what else d’you expect?"

Read More on AO3

Tag List:

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@scribblingface @writer86 @thedarkstrategist @marigoldbaker @krawwan

@eluvisen

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[barrenclan]

HI i just finished reading the comic and it's so so incredible!!!! your art is gorgeous and your work with the story is completely unmatched <3

I've been listening to the song Butcher Vanity by Vane Lily a lot and it strikes me as a Deepdark song!

Thank you! I'm so glad you like the comic. I agree, Deepdark's desire to kill and eat and never stop consuming is what defines him. I'll use the chance to share a PMV by my pal Katti, the creator of The Exiled comic who made a really excellent PMV with the song :)

I think someone else had the same idea as well, it looks like it's already been suggested before :) but yes it does fit very well! Any song about a land/town/etc that's been cursed and rotten forever works great.

Tell me now of the very soul that look alike, look alike Do you know the stranglehold covering their eyes? If I call on every soul in the land, on the moon Tell me if I'll ever know a blessing in disguise

The curse ruled from the underground, down by the shore And their hope grew with a hunger to live unlike before

I never knew this song was from the Justice League movie?? Wow, that's wild. It is a good song for PATFW as a whole.

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed Everybody knows the war is over Everybody knows the good guys lost Everybody knows the fight was fixed The poor stay poor, the rich get rich That's how it goes Everybody knows

I have! In fact, the song "Hellfire" is the character theme song for Cootstorm. I made a drawing of it awhile ago.

Did you know that in fact someone made an animated video with Rainhaze to this very song? It's really cool, you should check it out!

Yeah, it's pretty Rainhaze! Especially in his post-Asphodelpaw murder manic phase.

If you knew what I knew, if you saw what I see You’d look through illusions, hallucinations, and lucid dream And I know that meaning can be such a pretty thing to keep But I got facts and I’m not afraid to use ‘em, take the good with the bad, take off the back you make a new front Some days I'm glad that I am a madman and I’d rather be that than An amicable animal, mild-mannered cannibal

Aww wait :(

Looks like the cat did a number on you Vienna, oh He took a brick off the side of the stoop Poor vienna It'll be over soon Your mamas waiting for ya But you're not coming home

Your mamas been so worried Cause you never came home Beneath the ground you're buried In memoriam

Yes I think it could be! Even more, I think it's exemplary of Deepdark's general charisma and desire to recruit people into Defiance, reminiscent of his speech from Issue 28.

You and me should go outside And beat 'em, beat 'em, beat 'em, beat 'em, beat 'em All pathetic flag waving ignorant geeks And we'll eat 'em, eat 'em, eat 'em, eat 'em, eat 'em

Come join the cause, come join the cause Who wants to come with me and come join the cause? Hide in the sky, hide in the sky Who wants to come with me and hide in the sky?

Oh, my mom loves this album, I grew up listening to it. This does remind me a bit of them, how sweet and sad.

And instead of saying all of your goodbyes Let them know you realize that life goes fast It's hard to make the good things last You realize the sun doesn't go down It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round

Do you realize That you have the most beautiful face? Do you realize?

What a unique take on their relationship! I do like the theme of Ranger guiding Rainhaze's hand, and the parent-child energy is very interesting for them. Interesting take on Mordred, for that matter.

Guileless Son, I'll shape your belief And you'll always know that your father's a thief And you won't understand the cause of your grief But you'll always follow the voices beneath

Loyalty Loyalty Loyalty Loyalty Loyalty Loyalty Loyalty only to me

[lottiesnotebook]

happy thedas weekend!! im sorry but I see Cara Hawke Laidir/Emmrich Volkarin on your list and I just gotta ask 👀 maybe "I want to learn. Teach me." from the sugar and spice prompts?

So this turned out rather more sugar than spice, because it turns out it is actually VERY DIFFICULT to make Cara and Emmrich actually hook up, but I think I have made a Start here, which I hope counts for Something...

Emmrich Volkarin/Cara Hawke-Laidir, age gap, terrible flirting, Cara is a Horrible Brat

@guacamolleee | @thedasweekend

keep a tender distance

“I’ve never seen anyone talk to spirits the way you do.” Cara Laidir’s eyes are wide and guileless as she gazes up from beneath her lashes, which is, to Emmrich, already suspicious. He’s proud of his optimism, his open-hearted faith that there’s good in everyone, mortal and spirit, if only one can reach out to touch it, but something has him unsettled even before she finishes her sentence: “I want to learn. Teach me?”

She finishes with a bat of those shadow-dark lashes, an unnecessary gilding of the lily. Emmrich has never been anything less than a passionate teacher to any student with the slightest interest in spiritcalling or corpse-speaking, but he has, in his day, met plenty of students who’s interest lay in passions more carnal than charnal. From the way Cara flutters her lashes, arches her back so that he cannot miss the shadow between her breasts, darts out her pink tongue to moisten scarlet-painted lip, he suspects she is of that latter kind, and such entanglements have never been to his taste.

For some, he knows, there is allure in that particular kind of forbidden romance, but he’s always found the idea a little sordid, a little tawdry. Pyrite and cheap paste in place of grave gold, a mockery of the art of love, an art he has always held holy.

Still, he does not know his young leader well enough, yet, to know for certain she is being insincere, for all that she seems to flirt more easily than she breathes: leaning close to Neve’s shoulder as she unpicks a ward, clinging to Davrin’s strong arm as they trudge through the filth of the Hossberg Wetlands, flinging herself recklessly through the air to be caught by Lucanis (or, more often, Spite).

They are not, as a rule, a particularly tactile people, in Nevarra, in the Necropolis. Tenderness is reserved for children, lovers, and the dead. He would know — in his youth, he’d recalled hands covering hands in his mother’s kitchen, in his father’s yard, and applied the same technique to helping his classmates with autopsies, with the drawing of runes. Then, he had received only flinches away, only looks of disgust. He has become accustomed, with the wisdom of age, to keeping a careful distance between himself and his students, lest he risk the appearance of impropriety, of lines becoming blurred that he would never consider crossing.

Cara, as a student, is not content with careful distance, with detailed instruction. “I can’t get this gesture right,” she sighs, lips knotting into a thwarted pout. “I think the angle’s wrong. Could you show me again?”

“Of course-” he begins, and raises his arms to demonstrate. She takes it as invitation, or possibly, as an opening he did not mean to leave, and slips herself into the circle of his arms, head tilted up to gaze studiously at the positioning of his fingers. Her hair smells like salt, where it brushes his nose, like the wild, white-capped sea. Like a distant storm, caught on the wind, brushing his skin with the promise of rain.

“Oh,” she breathes, and he can feel her voice reverberate between his own ribs, low and sweet as a beating heart. “It’s like this?”

There is a moment — only a moment — where he forgets what she was meant to be learning, and then she outstretches her hands and positions them an inch or so below. He can tell, from the flex of the tendons in her wrist, that the magic will not flow through her smoothly with the awkward angle of her thumbs. It should be the most natural thing in the world, to cover her hands with his own, to correct the positioning of her fingers and let the magic spark free, untangled from the nerves and sinews of her flesh.

But there is something artificial in the way she gasps and shudders against him, in how she leans into his touch like a tomb-guardian cat demanding her due. Not the desire — in truth, he cannot read her well enough to tell if her attraction is genuine or feigned, a display she thinks he expects of her — but its expression. In her least-guarded moments — in battle, in fear — she is sharp-edged, shattered glass, ruthless in a way he half-recognises.

In her least-guarded moments, she reminds him of Johanna, and perhaps, knowing what he knows of his former love now, that should repulse him. Of course, as it did with Johanna, it fascinates him, the more because even in her most ruthless moments, she does not slide into needless cruelty. She does what she believes is necessary, and then slips back behind her laughing mask of the heartless pirate princess, as if such matters of life and death and apocalypse are far beyond her ken.

For all Emmrich plays the gentleman necromancer, the fastidious, dapper professor, he has always been a spirit-caller, a corpse speaker, a scalpel born to slice through the illusions of this world to the truths hidden at the heart of theFade. And when Cara pouts and bats her lashes and plays the wicked student in need of Teacher’s reprimand, he itches to pull away her illusions, to cut through to the bones of her and reveal whatever her games and her masks and her secrets attempt to conceal from him.

His first attempt is a failure, of course, perhaps because it follows close on the heels of her own mistake. Spite snarls out something that is, in its own way, a joke, and before he can retort, Cara giggles, and Spite preens. That is, in itself, an offence to his pride — that she’d begged him for lessons for a skill that clearly came as naturally to her as breath, and that he’d been blind to her mischief until she herself slipped up.

“You know, my dear,” he murmurs, a note of chastisement creeping into his voice as he hands her over a brook, “if you want something from me, you need not make a game of it. You need only ask.”

She glances over her shoulder at him, expression darkening momentarily to a scowl before she smooths it into a prettier, less-pleasing pout. “Now where would be the fun in that?” she retorts, and dances ahead before he can muster a reply, dark hair flying in the wind, her personal banner of defiance.

That is the puzzle of her, and he admits, reluctantly, the attraction, too — as Johanna hid her softer, more vulnerable heart behind the sharpened edges of her brilliance, Cara conceals her sharpness, yes, but also her heart and its hungers, behind a glittering verneer of fun. A girl who cares for nothing but glittering trinkets and games that mimic love without its pitfalls and heartaches — a girl like that cannot carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. Perhaps her games and her tricks and her petty deceptions are less a mask than a hiding place, one she has carved out in her own mind, her own heart.

He should, he knows, allow her her secrets and her games, but sometimes — sometimes, still, he catches a glimpse of the bones behind her pretty lies, and, ever-true to his nature, he itches to uncover them.

[mosquego359]

𖤐One Kiss and A Quidditch Match — Chapter 1: Destiny's Invitation𖤐

Prologue (recommended to read)

Pair: Cedric Diggory x Male Slytherin Reader

Word count: 3.1K words

Summary of the book: You and Cedric Diggory hate each other. It has always been this way. But everything changes one night when you kiss each other at a party. Now, it seems you can’t escape each other — from being partnered up in Herbology for an important project to having to help Cedric during the Triwizard Tournament.

Summary of the chapter: It's the first day. You and your four closest friends have Defence Against the Dark Arts first thing, but you meet the teacher even before class starts and he surprises you with information you didn't realised he had. After first period, you and your group get a surprise invitation to a party.

Notes: This is my first Cedric fanfic so please forgive me for any OOC moments. Please comment anything I should change to improve this. Also, this first chapter will mainly focus on your friends, but there is an interaction with Cedric. Additionally, I am not British so I am not 100% sure how to correctly write people from the UK.

Content warning: There are a couple curse words in this chapter, but they are not too frequent. I may also write a few sexual scenes in later chapters if people request it.

!PLEASE DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION OR CREDITS TO ME!

...

“Just a few more days and I’ll be old enough to participate in the Triwizard Tournament. Fuck, (Name), I kinda pity you for being born in March,” one of your close friends, Alistair Campbell, ranted about his latest obsession, small pieces of chewed toast flying out of his mouth.

“Don't talk when you eat, Cambell,” another one of your friends, Elsie Wilson, gagged, removing her Slytherin cloak and draping it over the chair to your left. She sat down in an almost royal manner, carefully smoothing her skirt.

Alistair leaned across you to get close to Elsie, chewing, mouth open, intentionally being noisy, and spitting bits of mushy toast onto her lap. Elsie gasped and got back up, wiping the bread off her skirt with a napkin and a disgusted look on her porcelain face.

“It’s the first bloody day of school, Alistair. Calm down.” You pushed your cackling friend back into his chair, wondering how the hell girls were attracted to a moron like himself.

You had to agree Alistair was a looker with his curly hair dyed bright red — faded to burgundy from many Quidditch practices under the rain and days during the break where he went swimming — strong, square jaw, and flawless brown skin, but it didn’t excuse his rude behaviour.

Whenever he walked anywhere with you and the rest of your clique, girls would ogle at his pretty face and muscles, giggling and sometimes latching onto his brawny biceps, attempting to start a casual conversation. If they were smart, they would notice he wasn’t interested and walk away. If they weren't — which was most of the time — one of you had to ask them to leave.

“Blimey, Elsie! I didn’t notice you were here,” Alistair’s twin sister, Winnie, said from the other side of her brother, brushing her frizzy black hair out of her guileless eyes with a toothy grin.

Winnie spent most of her day zoning out during class or lying face-down on her bed to think about whatever she was currently obsessed with. So, one of you had to help her rush through homework or revise using your notes.

Elsie smiled painfully, sitting back down with an irked expression, “Hey, Winnie.”

You glanced around, “Wasn’t Brian supposed to come down with you?” You asked, eyebrows furrowed.

“He’s skipping breakfast,” she sighed. “He insisted on studying for our Defence Against the Dark Arts class — Mary, could you pass me the bacon?—and when I mean insisted, I mean insisted.” Elsie emphasised as she scraped the platter full of bacon on her plate.

“Of course he is,” said Alistair, waving his fork around like a wand.

Brian Ashmore was the final person to complete your friend group of five. Quiet and studious, he was, like you, a Half-Blood. Lucky for the both of you, no one in the school apart from a few close friends and some teachers knew about it, so you two fit right in with the Purebloods in your house. But it also made people see you as just another stereotypical Slytherin. 

After finishing your breakfast, you and your friends left the dining hall.

“Should we go find Brian or should we go to class without him?” asked Winnie. She twisted one of her black locks around her finger and skipped along next to Elsie.

Alistair waved his hand. “We all know that nerd won’t be late. Can’t be missing out on slobbering over the new DADA teachers and getting good grades,” he mocked in a pestering voice, causing you to roll your eyes in exasperation.

“Merlin’s beard, Campbell, you are such an ass.” Elsie shoved him.

“Aww, you’re so grumpy without your boyfriend,” he jeered.

"He is not my boyfriend."

You slid in between them to dissipate the argument before it escalated any further. One of your least favourite things in school was whenever those two idiots argued. Alistair always found a way to get under Elsie’s skin, and it seemed as if you were the peacekeeper of the group. Winnie usually wasn’t paying attention, and Brian didn’t care enough to solve any argument.

“Do you know what the new professor will be like?” you asked your Pureblood friends to ease the air around them, adjusting your book bag so it didn’t fall off your shoulder. “I heard he is an Auror, but that’s all I know without assuming based on looks.”

That seemed to do the trick because Alistair nodded with interest, “Yes. He’s called Mad-Eye Moody. From what I heard from Pa, he’s a rather crazy old bloke.”

Mr. Campbell was a professional auror and rather famous with a knack for violence. While Winnie aspired to be as recognised as her father in the same field of work, Alistair’s dream was to soar in the air and be a famous Quidditch Beater.

"Well, it’s unfortunate that you both share a name, then.” Elsie commented, obviously still peeved from your friend’s previous comment, “If we try to refer to the “insane Alistair”, people won’t be sure which one we’re talking about.”

“Wait what?” He stopped walking.

Elsie flashed him a quick smirk, “You didn’t know? Mad-Eye isn’t his first name, you eejit. You’re both called Alistair.”

“And all of you will be late if you keep stopping in the middle of the hallway,” a gruff voice said behind them.

You turned to be faced with a savage-looking man roughly the same height as you, with a balding head of greasy ginger hair. He had one normal-looking eye while the other was electrical blue, rolling around as if scanning his surroundings. His wrinkly, squashed face reminded you of a mean pitbull.

“And it’s Alastor Moody, young Miss,” he pointed a thick finger at Elsie, who recoiled in embarrassment and mild fear. “Not that’s any of your business; you’ll be calling me Professor.” 

“Sorry, Professor, it’s just playful teasing; my friends didn’t mean anything,” you jumped in as you gripped your bag’s brown strap, noting how you were the only one of your friends who wasn’t too affected by his odd appearance. You remember your parents raising you to never judge people based on looks.

The man leaned closer, seeing you eye-to-eye, “Hmm, you look familiar, Lassie. What’s your name?”

“(Name) (Surname), Professor.”

Moody barked a laugh, a sudden sound that caused you to flinch in surprise. “That’s why you look so familiar. I knew your mother, (Mom’s Name) (Maiden Name). It was unfortunate a brilliant witch like herself married a man like your father.”

You looked away at the mention of your Muggle father. It wasn’t the fact that he wasn’t a wizard that bothered you. Well yes, it was, but what frightened you was what the school would do if they found out. Many Purebloods were discriminatory towards any wix with Muggle ancestry, and being known as a Half-Blood or Muggleborn would greatly affect how students saw you. That was why you and Brian only informed people you were close to about your parentage.

You remembered, at first, Alistair was rather rankled after being revealed that information, but quickly got over it. You were aware that many others wouldn’t be so merciless.

But Mad-Eye Moody didn’t elaborate, only holding eye contact with you for a couple of seconds until he turned to walk around your group with a clickety-clack of something inanimate hitting the floor. Did this already odd man have a peg leg?

Winnie waited until he rounded a corner to speak, “He’s a little weird.”

Alistair shuddered. “He gave me chills. It’s so eerie how he just sneaked up on us out of nowhere.” He glanced towards you. “I also find it strange how he knew who you were, (Name).”

You were still turned to face where Moody disappeared. A peculiar smile stretched across your face.

“This is gonna be a good year.”

“What was that madman talking about? Late? We’re practically the first ones!” Elsie growled when you and your clique entered the spacious classroom.

“You have an unpleasant habit of insulting teachers, Elsie. One day, it’ll get you in real trouble.”

Mad-Eye Moody was nowhere to be seen, but behind a desk at the front of the classroom stood a boy with slicked-back hair streaked with a big slash of grey across the brown. He was twirling a quill; grey eyes focused on the object so you could see him from his side profile. His tired, unsmiling face turned to look at you and you spotted the burn scar covering the bottom half of his left side.

“Briaaannnn,” Winnie whined, dramatically swaying to the scar-faced teenager and enveloping him in a warm, Winnie-coded hug. “You need to eat! It’s unhealthy to be skipping breakfast.”

Brian Ashmore set the pen on a nearby desk and patted her head softly, bored eyes now focused on her form. Silence was his only response.

A mutter of voices came from the entrance behind you. It must have been five boys — four voices you didn’t recognise, one that you were very very familiar with. 

“Excuse me, could you please move out of the doorway?”

You turned around to be met by Cedric Diggory’s striking grey eyes. He stood, one book tucked under his arm, slightly ahead of his friends. His sweet smile slowly faded as he realised who he was talking to.

You eyed one another, and he and your friends fell silent watching the interaction.

“Of course, I just had to share my favourite class with Diggory,” you thought. “I forgot we had Defence Against the Dark Arts with the Hufflepuffs this year. Don’t we also have Herbology together?” You felt slightly ticked off that you shared most of Hufflepuff’s favourite class with Cedric and the 6th year of his house. If only the schedule was similar to last year, and Snape’s class was the one you had with him. At least there, you could flaunt your skills with flamboyance.

You saw a muscle tick in Cedric’s square jaw as he forced a polite smile, “Sorry, (Surname), I neglected to simplify my words so you could understand the point I am trying to make.” A couple of his friends snickered. He opened his mouth to continue speaking, but you cut him off.

“I find that wouldn’t be necessary; a prodigy like myself can comprehend simple Hufflepuff dialect,” you responded as calmly as possible, keeping yourself from punching his stupid face.

Cedric let out a sarcastic laugh. “Of course, I forgot that you defined smart as using a couple pretty words in your sentences.”

Your face contorted into a snarl, “Oh really? How’s your Exceeding Expectations in Potions doing, Diggory?” You practically spat at him, teeth bared and hands on your hips. You rolled your shoulder back to prevent your bag from slipping, keeping your aggressive attitude.

Cedric’s nostrils flared, and you knew you hit a nerve. 

But he didn’t do anything. Instead, he shoved past you to the desk at the second row furthest from the door. His friends followed suit, settling in a couple of seats near him.

You smirked triumphantly, walking over to Winnie and Brian with Elsie and Alistair confidently strutting behind you. You honestly found it rather funny how your group was sometimes more passionate about your and Cedric’s bickering than either of you.

You placed your bookbag at the desk closest to the door and chatted with your friends, waiting as students slowly filtered into the class and filled in the spots left.

Finally, as Alistair was recounting one of his dates with his girlfriend over the summer break — Elsie looked peeved, while Brian emphasised his surprise at how long their relationship was lasting — you saw the rough-looking professor limp through the door, his peg leg tapping against the wooden floor.

All of your classmates’ conversations halted at the sight of the strange man. They already saw him at the Great Feast yesterday, but they couldn’t help but stare, your friends included.

The students who weren’t seated settled into their desks. Alistair pulled back the chair to your right, the girls were at the desk directly to your right, and Brian was behind them, one of his and Cedric’s mutual friends, Leslie Westmore, to his right.

Professor Moody hobbled to the front of the class.

“Right then,” he said, “I’ve had a letter from Professor Lupin telling me of the subjects you’ve learned from last year. Seems you’ve covered rather interesting creatures — Merfolk, Basilisks, a bit of Dragons, and Phoenixes, ain’t that right?” 

A murmur of agreement rippled through the students, and you nodded, mildly interested.

“A bit disappointing that you didn’t finish the unit on Dragons, but what you know right now is alright. But you are behind — very behind — with dealing with Dark Curses. Now, Dumbledore believes that you are old enough to study these curses only in 6th year, but I disagree. It’s never too early to learn about them. If you’d be in 3rd or 2nd year, lacking understanding would be acceptable. But you are already in 6th year, and having no knowledge of the Dark Arts — the real Dark Arts — is very very unfortunate.”

Brian raised his hand but didn’t wait to be called on to speak, “Actually, sir, Professor Lupin informed us quite a bit on the subject of the Dark Arts — specifically the Unforgivable Curses.” 

“Is that so?” Professor Moody stared directly at him with his normal eye, his prosthetic one zooming around the room, before settling down on two girls at the back, “You need to put those candies away, Miss Armstrong and Miss Hilton; my classroom is not a restaurant.”

The girls blushed and frantically put their candy back in their bags, eyes downcast with embarrassment. You felt remorse towards them, but not enough to be distracted from the lesson.

Moody continued without skipping a beat, “With that new information, I think I know where to start this lesson. Alright, everybody knows what the Imperius Curse does, yes?” After a short second with hesitant nods of approval from the students, he continued, “Good, because today you will learn how to resist it.”

By the end of the first period, a red-faced Brian, a distracted Winnie, a sore Alistair, a smug-looking Elsie, and a sympathetic you walked out of Professor Moody’s classroom.

After a couple of paces, Brian shoved his face into his hands and let out a dejected groan. You placed your hand on his shoulder, gently petting his deltoids, a solicitous smile on your lips as you tried to comfort him.

“Hey, it’s not that bad.”

He took his head out of his hand, and you saw his cheeks were rose-red. “Well, you weren’t the one who played Princess Fairy in front of the whole class, Mr. Perfect.” He sighed miserably, “One word goes around the school, I’ll be ruined!”

“Oh please,” Alistair jumped in with a hand massaging his coccyx, “I’d much rather do that than have to sit out for a single Quidditch practice because of a butt injury of all things. Blimey, he’s truly a madman…”

Next to him, you could hear Winnie humming as if she had never eaten that spider not even twenty minutes prior. Even the thought of doing the same nauseated you, so seeing your friend looking serene made you question her morality. 

Elsie shrugged, joining the conversation, "Well, at least everyone else in the class had to go through a similar experience as us, so if they are daft enough to mess with you, you could just blackmail them.” It was nice that Elsie acted sympathetic towards Alistair, but you suspected she was actually talking to Brian.

“Funny. The two only students who managed to break from the curse are comforting us,” huffed Brian.

Elsie gave him a confident half-smirk and raised her eyebrows while you shrugged with a chuckle, tugging on your bag’s straps.

“Puddings!”

The four of you engaged in the conversation halted, and you grabbed Winnie’s arm so she didn’t wander off. This snapped her back into reality, and you turned your heads to face the direction of the noise.

A pretty girl with honey-brown eyes and wavy, blond hair tied into a low ponytail ran up to your group.

You saw Alistair’s pained smile turn into his typical, white-toothed grin when she wrapped her skinny arms around his torso. She was over a head shorter than him, so she buried her face into his chest with a sing-song sigh.

Once she pulled away, Elsie eyed her repeatedly, “What do you want, White?”

The pretty blonde — a popular Pureblood Hufflepuff named Destiny White — frowned at Elsie’s cold comment, “You shouldn’t be so mean, Elsie, aren’t we friends? We don’t treat friends like that.” She paused momentarily before giving her a slightly satirical smile, “Or maybe Slytherin girls are just rude like that.”

Elsie narrowed her eyes, but when Brian touched her shoulder, she held her condescending tongue. As much as you disliked Elsie’s outbursts, you agreed that Destiny was a reasonable person to yell at.

Destiny turned back to a haughty-looking Alistair, handing him a paper envelope, “Anyways, the Weasley twins are hosting a little get-together for all the students 16 and up. We’re meeting up at 11 PM tonight in front of the Gryffindor common room so they can let us in.”

“Why would they host a party in a common room?” You inquired, confused, “Wouldn’t it wake up the younger kids?”

Destiny let out a little giggle, “The party isn’t in the common room, silly. I’d tell you the location, but that’s a little secret, and we don’t want the professors to overhear.” She lowered her voice as she spoke, “All the info is in the invitation.”

“Are we invited?” Winnie spoke up from behind you. She eyed the envelope her brother held in his hand with piqued interest.

“Of course,” Destiny stuck her hand into her pocket to retrieve four other letters, handing them to your group. Elsie was the only one who hesitated before begrudgingly plucking it from Destiny’s hand. 

Brian eyed his envelope suspiciously, “How did you get so many?”

“Fred and George want my help since I’m friends with tons of people here!”

“Thanks, Babe,” Alistair smirked, leaning down to peck her cheek, and Destiny giggled. “We’ll be there.”

They shared a quick kiss on the lips, and Destiny slowly backed away, waving her hand, “I hope to see all of you at the party,” she spun around before stopping and turning her head, eyeing Elsie with a cheeky expression, “Even those who might ruin it.”

Immediately after she was out of earshot, Elsie hissed at Alistair, red-faced with vexation, “Leave her; she’s a bitch.”

Alistair laughed, “No way. One of the perks of dating her is the way she always manages to piss you off.” He elbowed her arm playfully before advancing to his next class, too ignorant to notice the faint blush spreading across Elsie’s cheeks.

...

Thank you for reading, please comment any suggestions you have or any issues I should fix. Like I said in a Tumblr post, I will only post on Thursdays at 12 AM BST. I may post every week or every two weeks, I don't really know. It depends how long I take. For those who are interested, here's how I imagined Winnie would look like.

Chapter 2

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

Do you think Arwen has ever destroyed someone in an argument so thoroughly that they had to leave Rivendell out of sheer embarrassment?

Ah, now this is a story worth telling.

Picture, if you will, dear Anon, a grand gathering in Rivendell’s halls, where lords and dignitaries had assembled for a discussion of great importance (or so they believed). Among them was a certain Lord Faelion—an elf of considerable age, impressive lineage, and an ego so vast it could have its own postal system.

He was the kind of elf who believed wisdom was dictated by years alone, and that any who had not seen at least three Ages of the world should remain silent in the presence of their betters.

Unfortunately for him, Arwen was four years old.

Now, young she may have been, but Arwen had spent her years listening to her father and his advisors, absorbing the art of debate as naturally as she did the Sindarin tongue. She was also, at this tender age, under the impression that she was already an adult—because, as she reasoned, she could read, she could write, and she could (as she often reminded those around her) put on her own shoes without assistance. This made her eminently qualified to participate in any and all discussions.

And so, when Lord Faelion made the grave mistake of dismissing something she said with a condescending "Little one, this is a conversation for those who understand such matters," Arwen straightened her spine and proceeded to annihilate him.

With perfect posture, a deceptively sweet voice, and the cutting precision of someone who had spent a lifetime (or, well, four years) observing her father handle insufferable dignitaries, she launched into what I can only describe as a verbal disembowelment.

She began with a simple, innocent question:

"Lord Faelion, how many books have you read about this?"

He scoffed. "Many, child."

"Oh," she said, tilting her head. "Then why does Ada always say that the wise do not claim to know everything?"

The room fell silent.

Lord Faelion’s lips parted, as if attempting a rebuttal, but Arwen was not finished.

"And," she continued, "if you were really wise, you would know that speaking down to people makes them not want to listen to you, which means you are not a very good teacher, which means you cannot be as wise as you say you are."

She clasped her hands delicately in front of her, blinking up at him with large, guileless eyes. "Ada always says that wise elves help others learn. So maybe you should read a few more books before saying you understand everything."

I watched Lord Faelion’s soul leave his body.

The assembled company exchanged stunned glances, the kind one gives when witnessing something both horrifying and awe-inspiring.

Lord Elrond, always the composed ruler, pressed his fingers together in deep contemplation and very diplomatically told Arwen that it was not polite to dismantle others in front of an audience.

Then, later that evening, when he thought no one else was listening, I saw Lord Elrond settle Arwen on his lap at the dinner table, handing her his untouched dessert without a word. She accepted it with the grace of one who expected such tributes, happily digging in as he smoothed a hand over her hair.

"Next time," he murmured, pressing a proud kiss to the top of her head, "try not to do it so thoroughly, my dear."

He was grinning.

Lord Faelion left Rivendell a week later. He has not returned since.

[saintfelina]

Vintage Perfume Spotlight: Chloe Innocence

Launched in 1995, Chloe Innocence was supposed to be the epitome of fresh faced girlhood. Inside it's frosted bottle contained a sugar-water floral that was dewy and soft, giving the impression of dewfrosted flowers. This was many a girl's first fragrance and for many it made them feel elegant and mature.

With the ad campaigns blonde haired, blue eyed model, she was every bit the ingenue, gazing past the viewer with a sort of timid sensuality. She just doesn't know what she does to people! Like many things of the 90s, this ad is a subconscious nod to Nabokov's famous nymphet, straddling the line between child and woman. Her skin is blemish free, and the sort of mirrored image displays both well--innocence and alertness. She looks both past you and through you. Woman and child.

The bottles were available in many shapes, giving it the aura of uniqueness, and its slightly phallic appearance was quite common in what I like to call 'sexy baby' perfumes: scents both seductive and guileless, barely containing burgeoning sexuality.

Yet their sculptural qualities akin to a modern art piece and frosted pearl blue color adds to its allure. While innocent, she's no baby. She's maturing, she's curious, she's artistic.

Crafted by Nathalie Lorson, this is a perfume of my dreams and one that continues to allude me due to its near obsoleteness on the resale market. And I don't have $500 to spend. So instead, I'll reread this review over and over.

[forthegothicheroine]

Film noir's enduring power was recently underline when the American Film Institute's fin de siecle balloting voted Bogart the century's preeminent screen legend. Such popularity contests once were won by old school romantics like Clark Gable and Cary Grant. Bogart's legacy, by contrast, is one of hard-earned wisdom rather than guileless optimism- noir distilled into a single lonely figure. Off-screen, he was cut from similar cloth: caustic, shrewd, loyal to a fault, a dedicate professional. His celebrated marriage to Lauren Bacall was bittersweet: they had little more than ten years together before cancer took his life at fifty-eight. Often overlooked in retrospectives is the man's courageous refusal to cling to the idealized Casablanca persona he'd worked so diligently to attain. He embodied the sardonic loner in To Have and Have Not, The Big Sleep, and Dead Reckoning, yet was convincingly despicable in Conflict, The Two Mrs. Carrolls, and most memorably, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. His on-screen portrayals, so varied and rich with nuance, constitute a body of work that simply defies categorization.

Eddie Muller, The Art of Noir: The Posters and Graphics from the Classic Era of Film Noir

[fluentmoviequoter]

Muse

Pairing: Victor Vale x fem!artist!reader

Summary: You find your muse at Lockland, but know he'll never be more than that. A decade later, you're approached by the man whose picture filled your sketchpad.

Warnings: brief angst, r becomes an EO, fluff

Word Count: 1.6k+ words

Image from Pinterest

Masterlist Directory | Victor Vale Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

“Isn’t Professor Ballard the best?!”

You scowl, your eyes locked on the blank sketch pad balanced precariously on your knees. Most art students would probably agree with the over-eager, overdressed blonde girl bouncing down the sidewalk with her clique. Professor Ballard gave you complete control over your final project. The only catch was she said you have to find a muse. You’ve been drawing for your entire life, experimenting with other media forms for as long as you can remember, and your skills and knowledge have undoubtedly improved during your time at Lockland. Yet, you haven’t found the one thing that sparks your creativity every time… no muse.

“Maybe my muse is silence,” you murmur. “Haven’t encountered that in a while.”

Sighing, you pull your sketch pad into your lap and look away. It’s overcast, and the dark clouds above you make Lockland even more gothic and dangerous. In the gray stillness, you wonder if you could make it your muse somehow. There isn’t much inspiration in the expensive façade of the university around you, though.

“Wait,” someone exclaims sharply. They grab the arm of the person walking beside them and lower their voice to hiss, “Not that way. Don’t you know who that is?”

You follow their gaze. Victor Vale, you realize. Murderer. Monster. Other students on this campus would have looked away already, but something about Victor draws you in. He’s intense, dark… perfect. His sharp edges and icy eyes consume you. You spin your pencil in your fingers, then begin drawing short, light lines on your paper. Without looking at the page, you truly see Victor Vale. He might be innocent, he might be just as malicious as people say, but you see something else. His eyes are hard and pensive, but there’s something just behind them. A weariness, a sense of guilelessness clinging to the person he used to be. You’ve never met Victor, but as his likeness fills your sketchpad, you feel like you know him better than anyone else ever has or will.

Victor Vale, you think, murderer, monster. Muse.

Your face softens as you look down at the image on your sketchpad. You’ve found your muse, but he’s untouchable, inapproachable, and worst-case scenario, a murderer.

Tapping your pencil against the metal spirals of your sketchpad, you wait outside the main science building. Victor Vale is hard to miss, yet you scan every face that comes or goes, looking for the man you’ve grown to crave. There’s a deep beauty in his form and how he conducts himself, and you can’t get enough of it. Being separated from your muse gives you an artistic hunger you can’t replicate, so you leave the mystery and the space between you. As you draw his expressions, movements, and appearance from a distance, you realize that your taste has developed not only for his effect on your art but for him. As you work on your final, using a model who has no idea he’s filling your mind, dreams, and sketchpad, you slowly become attached to him. But he will never know.

With a smile, you exit your final class. Your final project was a completed drawing of Victor Vale standing in a cherry blossom orchard. His face is obscured by the blooms, but the sense of weariness, fleeting beauty, and renewal were communicated – according to Professor Ballard, at least. The original drawing is back at your dorm, safe and preserved for your enjoyment.

Blackness invades your vision, and as you fall, the only thing on your mind is that you may never see your muse again.

Merit, 10 Years Later

“It will work,” Victor insists.

“Because Eli is crazy,” Mitch deadpans.

“Simplification. But yes. He can’t walk away from this, not without knowing.”

Mitch shakes his head as he opens his laptop, and Victor lets his eyes wander around the small coffee shop. Sydney is back at the hotel with Dol, expecting the largest cup of hot cocoa Victor can find, and he trusts Mitch differently than her, so he leans back in his seat and observes.

Victor’s eyes move smoothly around the room, gliding past faces as if searching for a target. He’s a predator, and despite his intense gaze, the discomfort he sends out ensures people don’t notice his presence. In the back corner of the café, Victor stops. His pale brows raise slightly, and he looks back to the table he previously looked past.

The woman in the far seat, with her back to the wall, is sketching quietly. There’s a forgotten mug beside her, and her pencil moves across the page with effortless grace. She raises her eyes toward Victor several times, never quite meeting his eyes.

Victor’s mind should be racing, thinking of how this woman could be working for Eli or Serena or any of the other enemies he’s made in the last decade. He should be planning to rid himself of this new threat. Instead, he notices her and takes her in.

“I’ll be back,” Victor murmurs to Mitch, who raises one finger in acknowledgement.

Victor walks silently to her table, turning the dial in his mind up slightly. He wants her comfortable enough to answer a few questions but would prefer she push this encounter out of her mind and forget it.

Standing directly across the small wooden table from her, Victor observes her eyes, posture, and body language. That pain he uses is an instrument to her. She embraces it and channels it into the pencil between her fingers. Whatever she’s putting on the pad between her stomach and the table is telling the story of heartbreak and sorrow the pain coursing through her tells. Based on how her tongue peeks out from beneath her teeth, she adds the triumph she hopes comes after. Victor should have known better than to give her something to use, he thinks as he clears his throat.

“You were at Lockland,” he says.

“Victor,” Mitch calls, his voice tight and concerned.

You feel the mild discomfort from before worsen but it doesn’t stop you from drawing. You’ve been trying to reclaim the artistic magic of your muse for a decade, and the man in the black trench coat sitting across the room from you is a promising inspiration. When he stands, you focus on your paper.

The moment Victor speaks, your hand seems to move on its own accord, attempting to capture the essence of his voice, of who he was and is, and will always be. You can’t bring yourself to look up, to see him again, because both everything and nothing has changed. Victor was never yours; he was an unknown and likely unwilling model. To you, he was everything. He was your dream and desire, something you desperately craved but knew you’d never have. As Victor walks back to his table, you look at the back of his head, his silhouette like a lighthouse after a decade of being lost and rocked mercilessly in the pitch-black sea. But he’s walking away, and there’s no promise of a next time.

Victor fights the urge to look back at you as he walks to Mitch’s side. There’s an image pulled up on the laptop, but it’s not just any picture. It’s yours, and beside it, your obituary. He looks up, scanning your face for any sign that you look like the girl he saw but never approached at Lockland but aren't really her. Victor and Mitch know better than most that they may be looking at you a decade after you died, but there must be more to the story.

“Get up,” Victor demands as he returns to your table.

Your pencil slows but doesn’t stop.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he promises – though you didn’t think he would. “I just want to talk… somewhere a little quieter.”

You nod, stow your pencil in your bag, close your worn sketchpad, and stand. Following Victor outside, you don’t miss his large friend standing behind you, a sentinel, a bodyguard, maybe even a friend. Victor stops in an empty alley and turns toward you, his coat billowing gracefully.

“What’s your name?” he and his friend ask together.

“Call me Muse,” you reply lightly.

“What can you do?” Victor inquires.

You look at him, truly see him for the first time. His sharp edges remain, his eyes have lost the last trace of innocence you saw at Lockland, and the desperation has morphed into a fierce determination. This Victor Vale is who you knew and somehow completely different, yet you remain inexplicably drawn to him. Your artistic hunger becomes more.

“I can draw things I’ve never seen,” you answer. “I had a brain aneurysm that affected my vision, died on the operating table. Somehow, I woke up in the morgue and could see much more than before. It’s hard to communicate these… visions, whatever you want to call them. Drawing them is easy.”

“Is it random?”

You smile and say, “I can draw where Eli is, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Why would he be asking that?” Mitch interjects.

“Because only one of them wore a mask, and I’ve got a talent for capturing masks and the people beneath them.”

“You don’t have to help,” Victor offers.

After passing your sketchpad, you watch him flip through pictures of him, interspersed with unexplained visions you’ve had over the years. Victor considers it answer enough until he reaches the back cover and narrows his eyes.

“Lockland,” you say softly. “Final project.”

“Why didn’t you just ask for a model?” he counters.

As he returns the book, you whisper, “Maybe I will now.”

“Mitch, we need to get Muse a new sketchpad.”

“Reduced to an errand boy,” Mitch grumbles as he exits the alley.

“So,” Victor begins, “Where we do start?”

[crack-fic-casey]

Catra captured Adora during the war, and she's tied up in a meeting between Super Pal Trio. She's tied up sexily like she was in the Crimson Waste, and nobody is noticing. Nobody is noticing very, very hard.

Catra hadn't thought about it, of course. Obviously she liked seeing Adora tied up, because they were enemies. And she didn't think about the arrow one being tied up because he wasn't really her enemy, he was just a guy she needed to beat. And if she'd occasionally thought about Princess Sparkle Fist tying her up that was just because she was dangerous and it made sense to plan how to resist an interrogation and distracting her royal highness with--

These thoughts weren't appropriate for a briefing. Catra put aside Glimmer the annoying pink one and looked at handsome Adora again.

Adora especially didn't look handsome tied up. She was kneeling, peeking just over the table to see how the Horde forces were arranged. She shifted her shoulders a little which tightened the ropes across her chest and cricked her neck. Catra smiled and patted her on the head condescendingly. Adora flushed, clearly hating how helpless she looked, and glared at the ground. She didn't move her head away from Catra. She probably wants to take another peek at the Horde plans when she thinks I'm not looking.

Catra put Adora out of her mind. She leaned forwards and pointed to the map. "What's this?"

Scorpia frowned. "A block of wood with a--"

"No, Scorpia." Catra pinched the bridge of her nose. "The thing it represents. Which unit is that?"

"Ha, right, yeah!" Scorpia consulted her tablet, and hummed thoughtfully. "As a matter of fact, I do not know."

Catra blanched. Adora was supposed to see how well Catra was running the Horde, not Scorpia's... Scorpia-ness! "How can you not know?"

"I mean, I didn't want to say anything," Scorpia tapped her claws together nervously. "Because I believe art should be encouraged, but actually. Um. Don't feel bad but all the stuff you made for the different stuff on the map kinda. Looks the same."

Catra gaped. Scorpia twitched nervously. That twitch was enough to break the tablet she was holding, but Catra had budgeted three more for her to go through. "It does not!" She snapped. "Look, this one has a turret on top, so it's the tank platoon."

"I got that," Scorpia said. "I'm not dumb." Her tone brushed up against annoyance, but immediately shied away. "I mean, if you think that then whatever but my point is that, it, like--" she pointed to a second tank. "All the tanks look like all the other tanks."

"They do not!" Catra snapped. She picked one up. "See, I carved a little Lonnie one this one. That's her platoon."

Scorpia squinted. "Oh, I see! I thought that was Entrapta."

Catra sputtered. "Why would Entrapta be out here?!"

Scorpia held her claws up placatingly. "I don't know! I thought they were decoration!"

"She doesn't even look like Entrapta!"

Adora frowned. "She's got wires coming out of her head."

"That's her hair!" Catra snapped. "It's the-- rope thing that her hair does."

"You mean dreadlocks?" Adora asked.

"I know what they're called," Catra said derisively. She hadn't, and that was even a very cool-sounding word. "It's not like I care. I just did it so you can tell them apart from Kyle."

Adora's gaze swept the map, along with Scorpia. "...So which one--"

"THIS ONE! Obviously!" Catra grabbed it and pointed it at Adora's face. "See, it's got his dumb face."

"Oh," said Adora. "I thought that was someone's head exploding." She considered this. "Though that's probably still a good representation of Kyle."

"It's not," Catra growled. "The one I made is a good representation. That's why I made it."

Adora nodded. "Bow says the same thing," she said, smiling guilelessly. Catra really should have noticed how suspicious Adora's guileless smile was, but she was not on her game. "Bow says that making figures is really cool, no matter what Glimmer and Mermista say."

Catra digested the fact that she had something in common with the latest member of the princesses. Adora kept going. "His figurines are so detailed! And painted, so everyone looks like themselves."

"Psh," Catra said dismissively, because she was a cool person who didn't care. It wasn't a big deal that he'd found paint that stuck to wood; Catra could have made the paint she'd scrounged up from the mechanics work if she wanted to. She just didn't care."That's a waste of time," Catra continued. "Who needs that?"

Scorpia hesitantly raised a claw. Adora matched her by raising an eyebrow. Catra's patience fell. "Well, you paint them then!" She snapped. "I'm busy winning the war."

"Are you winning?" Adora asked.

Catra smacked her face with her tail. "Why wouldn't I be," she asked her pet PRISONER pointedly.

Adora shrugged, which made the rope on her chest move in a way Catra wasn't interested by. "You haven't actually attacked or anything yet," she pointed out. "So all the land is still in the same place, so the Alliance is still winning."

"But they don't have She-Ra," Catra sneered. She poured contempt all over She-Ra, letting overflow into the next sentence. "What good are they without you?"

Adora blinked, apparently surprised. "Gosh, you really think I'm that special?"

Again, the 'gosh' should have tipped Catra off. But this wasn't Catra at her most focused. "Wha- NO!" She snapped. "Obviously!"

"So you aren't winning yet."

Catra gave Adora her best glare. Adora looked stupidly back, letting her brain stay smooth so that the glare passed right through. "We. Are. Winning." Catra growled. "Obviously."

"You keep using that word," Adora said. "I don't think it means what you think it means."

Catra closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "You are that important," she reluctantly admitted, "to the loser princesses and their loser kingdoms. You aren't important to the Horde, because the Horde has me."

Adora didn't say anything. Catra opened her eyes and was rewarded with a crestfallen look on Adora's face. "Yeah," she said. "I wish I'd known that before. I'm sorry."

Every neron in Catra's brain locked up at hearing Adora admit she was wrong. Every part of her brain sent a message to her mouth with instructions on how to respond. All of them arrived at the same time and there was an extend scuffle. After an eternity had passed, Catra managed to say, "It's too late to switch teams now."

It's not. Say the word and I'll make you my number one. I'll overthrow Hordak if you want to stay, if you appreciate me, if you say I'm right just one more time I'll--

"You're the reason the Horde is a threat," Adora continued. "If you joined us, then they'd collapse."

Catra half of Catra's brain crashed into the other half. Rage that Adora wouldn't give everything up for her wrestled with the fact that Adora correctly placed Catra at the top of the food chain.

In the absence of Catra sharp wit, Scorpia attempted to make do. "Hey!" Scorpia snapped. "Just because we weren't really making any progress before doesn't mean we couldn't now! Entrapta's fixed all the science stuff that used to suck! So now it's a fair fight."

The wit of a brick does have a sort of edge around the corner. Adora glared at her. "Well, what good will that do if you can't read Catra's map?"

"I can read it!" Scorpia snapped. "I just don't understand it!"

Catra's thoughts began to flow again. "Scorpia, shut up. Adora, you're not helping."

Adora shrugged. "I'm not really trying," she said.

Catra stared. Adora smiled, and Catra finally noticed it turning into a smirk around the edges. "This is nice, chiming in from the side," Adora continued. "Is this how you feel all the time?"

Catra hissed. The smirk grew. "And, hey," Adora said. "You're doing a great job of being me."

[cringefailvox]

Somehow, this exchange felt more intense, more intimate than their hookup several weeks ago. He’d had Lucifer writhing and gasping like a whore while he got himself off in Vox’s bed and it was this, playing footsie and talking about how much they liked each other like little kids confessing to their schoolyard crushes, that was getting him all hot under the collar. Vox was equal parts mortified and captivated, spellbound by the contradictions of Lucifer’s everything: guileless and wicked, pathetic and cruel, foolish and clever and terrifyingly ancient. He was fascinating. Vox had gotten only a small taste, and now wanted nothing more than to open him up and see what made him tick.

or: vox and lucifer finally follow through on their fake dating plan, but you know what they say about doing things ironically

huge shout out to @moth-bytez's absolutely fantastic staticapple art + applemedia week that inspired a lot of this!! go check them out fr <3

[scatter-snz]

@stormyweaver, sobbing my eyes out at your reblog, thank you SO so much for reading and for the very kind words ♥️ The support from the community and from readers like you genuinely makes me so happy ^w^ And thank you also for your interest in Omicron's appearance! I'd love to share!!

At the beginning, I didn’t put much thought into the main trio, but over time they’ve solidified more in my mind. I’ve rambled indulgently about all three under the cut for those who are curious, but for anyone who enjoys imagining their own descriptions for them, please ignore!

First up, our leading man Agent Omicron! I wanted to empower the folks reading to transpose the most gorgeous fantasy man they could imagine on top of him 😂 We all have different tastes, so I kept him purposefully vague. My only canonical rule is that he’s a short king haha 👑 My personal comps for him are Apollo Justice from Ace Attorney and Edamura Makoto from Great Pretender. I picture Omicron as a lean, dark-eyed brunette that keeps his hair slicked back for a professional look. When he’s lounging at home, he leaves it scruffy and wild. At work, he’s usually seen in a three-piece suit, or at the very least a vest. In his civilian life, I think he’s pretty trendy. He’s got resting bitch face, and his expressions give away his inner thoughts more than he’d like to admit. At first glance I think he looks very delicate, which leads folks to underestimate him on sight. He uses this to his advantage, but he’s got a chip on his shoulder because of it.

Second, Dr. Anita Voster! Stormyweaver mentioned she reminds them of Octavia from Spiderverse, which is a great comp! She’s got a lot of enthusiasm for her work and delights in getting a rise of some of her more serious coworkers. It’s probably why she’s got such a soft spot for Omicron. Cynthia Moore, also from Great Pretender, was both a visual and personality comp for her. I see her as a green-eyed, bespectacled red-head, with long hair she often ties up out of her way. She’s a fan of low heels, usually choosing comfort over style, and because she struggles with insomnia she often uses concealer for her dark circles. Her features are angular, with striking cheekbones and jawline. She’s probably much tougher than she appears.

Last but not least, Agent Delta! He’s looks straight up like J/on H/amm to me LMAO. Like, completely. Is that weird?? I’m not sure why. It might be because of his performance as Gabriel in Good Omens, specifically season 2. No spoilers, but he’s very different from season 1 and his performance in the first few episodes feels similar to the guileless, good-natured cheer that Delta exudes to those around him. Even while he projects friendliness, there is an underlying experience and authority to his bearing. He’s got strong features, a big solid build, and an exuberant smile 💕 He’s particular, so he’s the type to get rigidly scheduled haircuts and regularly iron his clothes.

Of course I cannot take credit for any of the art or images (or Mr.H/amm LOL), so shoutout to those creators! And thank you again for reading!

[folcanta]

so i'm thinking about how allen schezar is consistently passive and constantly late to everything and takes every L on earth without knowing why. he's like a dog running headlong into a wall and not knowing why it keeps banging its head. it's artful. he does exactly what his dad does And what his dad says he regrets doing lol. he tells him straight to his face and then allen repeats him almost word for word later. he gets so confused and dejected and spaced out when he sees hitomi and van working in perfect synchrony, rendering him the biggest third wheel of all time.

this is the kind of hubristic shit-eating bimbo i can mostly only find in live action media! mind you, i know i'm using a lot of rude words here, but my feelings are very very positive! it's really good writing! his drama is compelling! my one wish is that folken got even a fraction of the screentime given to allen, i think it's a little excessive, but as a character i think he's great.

i was thinking about this anyway and reflecting on how i felt as a kid, and then i saw someone say that when they were younger, they didn't clock how "creepy" his behaviour is + the actions btwn him and hitomi or millerna are, and that's fair because, like, they are. and while as a kid it had me at times exasperated, i really do think that discomfort is purposeful. like however you feel about it, it's not a failure of writing but a success of it.

compare this to everything else... by showing how naturally and mutually van and hitomi's relationship unfolds, where they trust each other from the jump so easily that they don't even think about it, and van being so earnest and guileless, and every time hitomi voices being upset with him, his behaviour changes. he apologises. versus how shallow and posturing allen is (folken: this guy is a clay doll and i'm fixing to haunt him) and how he realises "hmmmmmmmmm............................................. oh yeah, maybe i don't like her actually i think i'm just kind of extremely fucked up," and knowing that the series is breaking conventions on purpose, i also think this is on purpose.

they're saying, hey, you're not wrong for feeling how you do. it makes sense you feel that way. and, also, allen is the guy you Think you want, but he's not Good/Healthy for you. he's the Beautiful Chivalrous Guy who actually is very selfish and spends no time on forethought. he's just as obsessed as proving himself through battle as van, but... well i was going to say that his idea of conquest/achieving stability is done thru securing himself socially, but then i also remembered he's a cop forever. which is like, so true. yes. meanwhile van, although he's a king, is half responsible for disrupting the whole system. the fabric of reality. does he stay a king? we don't know, right? lmfao so coooool. AGAIN I HAVE TO STRESS: i think allen is a MIRACLE of a character. bizarrely rare. so subtly done, but not that subtle either. this is a story told very much in contrasts and comparisons, that's why there's so many foils, no? anyway i love that he's here.

but they have no reason to flat-out Tell this stuff to the younger girls/women watching it like some kind of lecture. while the show is an analogue, it's not a stand-in for parents. to do so would be unkind-- because with any part of the narrative, the goal doesn't seem to be to talk down to their audience. it would also stand in stark contrast to everything about the show that's purely implicit. and that's a LOT of things! there are so many subtleties or unspoken truths with visible, definable effects.

what they can do instead, though, is show that neither hitomi NOR millerna is ultimately dead-set on allen. also, folken is 25, right? gaddes is 27, and dryden and allen are both 21? so we have some good comparisons for what other adult men are like lol. i think i said it before, but with hitomi and van, they're so used to being in the position of chasing what they want that they don't realise what they want is to be comfortable and trusting with another person. this they also don't flat out tell us, but it's plainly obvious; think of their conversation in the woods after they leave asturia.

van is aware (perhaps subconsciously) of his feelings first, maybe, but he has no reason to trust his feelings, and no reason to think hitomi will return them. but iirc... lol, is it after allen is like "yeah i asked her to marry me lol" and van is like "ok.jpg" where the next immediate thing is van being EXTREMELY POTENTLY HARDCORE RAW SEXUALLY UNHINGED WHEN HE SHOWS HER THAT HE WILL FIGHT AND KILL FOR HER IN BATTLE LOOOOL? or was that another time. well, the point stands.

anyway. both allen and van have seen what forcible, unexplainable separation from their children does to a parent. but allen says he wants to keep her on gaea, while van promises her From The Beginning that he'll find a way to bring her home. he never wavers in that promise. and he accomplishes it. they both do, together. none of us want it, i know, but he does do exactly what he said he'd do from the jump. and all they have to do is think of each other... right? and they can't not... right? right??? and we can also trust that fanelia, if not the rest of gaea, will undergo serious reform. folken and van both come to understand that their traditions yield only painful results.

with a series operating on multiple different levels, i think i can trust them that the discomfort they allow us to feel is intentional. the kiss between allen and hitomi is uncomfortable and we know that because it's being artificially engineered, chain.mp3 (one of the best moody songs tbh) is spooky, allen is given uncannily human movements lol, hitomi isn't overjoyed before during or after, in fact i'd say going forward she's much more uncomfortable/confused about him in general? and then van sees it and he doesn't get angry, he doesn't say anything, he's just crushed. they're telling us how to feel without telling us. it's awesome.

it makes sense this would miss us at a younger age, and it makes sense that it would hit you with new feelings on rewatch. with how grand and painful and beautiful a series/story it is, and going by the rest of their oeuvre, i'd be disappointed if it were anything else. i think it's pretty special the way this series reveals more of itself to you per different life stages.