Hello!! I haven’t posted any art in a while I’m sorry/// I’ll try to post more frequently from now on !! Those of you that follow me on Twitter might know that I recently finished Persona 5, so here are my favourite characters from the game!☆ (/∇＼*)
One of my favourite episodes when it comes to K/S is “And the Children shall lead”, S3E4. The episode is pretty famous because of the turbolift scene above, which is something we really need to talk about.
KIRK: I’m losing command. I’m losing the Enterprise. The ship is sailing on and on. I’m alone. Alone. Alone. I’m losing command. SPOCK: Captain. KIRK: I’ve lost command. I’ve lost the Enterprise. SPOCK: Jim. KIRK: I’ve got command. I’ve got command. I’ve got command. SPOCK: Correct, Captain.
The most heartbreaking thing here is probably that Jim believes he’d be alone in the universe as soon as he loses his command, which tells us a lot about his character development throughout the series. When people flirt with him he usually shuts them down with the knockout argument that the Enterprise is his only mistress. And it’s true that he lacks a social life because of his demanding post.
But it’s quite telling that he thinks no one will stand by his side as soon as he loses his title or his ship.
Spock who recognized Jim’s rapidly approaching panic-attack and pulled him into the privacy of the turbolift in the first place.
Spock, who tries again and again to pull Jim back, to calm him down. He calls him captain over and over to remind Jim that the panic-attack is unfounded, that the aliens on the ship induce them in everyone except Spock himself (the lucky Vulcan). But Jim continues to panic, Spock seems unable to reach him in this state.
And than Spock calls him “Jim”, something he usually only does when he is emotionally compromised or feels especially affectionate towards Jim. And it works like a charm.
Being reminded that Spock is more than his first officer, that Spock is his friend is what pulls Jim finally out of his state of panic. Because, as it is evident in Star Trek III later, Jim loves his ship and his command, but more than that he values Spock in whatever capacity one chooses to interpret their relationship. And he knows he is not alone as long as Spock stands by his side. For all his ship and his job can give him they can do nothing to take away his greatest fear: dying alone.
But Spock is there with him and he can.
And there’s even more in this episode worthy of addressing. Because after they left the turbolift and tried to fix engineering there is this little scene that wouldn’t be remarkable (apart from Spock voluntarily touching Jim to reassure him) if it weren’t for the lighting. Directing a TV-show is a very delicate affair, especially when the budget is as limited as it was in TOS. So to get great effect one has to use whatever is at hand. In this case: the lighting of the scene. I absolutely refuse to believe that the shadows of Jim and Spock move the way they do by happenstance.
There is a connection between our two heroes that is in it’s very essence something hidden, something subtle. Something one needs to take a closer look at to see. Shadows have ever since been used as tools to show hidden agendas, desires (there are quite a few disney moves that come to mind, just as an example) and, yes, also feelings.
This episode is in the third season, Jim and Spock already survived Spock’s pon farr, they traveled back in time together, they were both accused of mutiny and treason, they risked their lives countless times for each other up to the point of endangering the entire crew for each other and they made it this far.
Bones already spoke with Jim about his “affection for Spock” (Operation Annihilate) and the good doctor witnessed Spock basically admitting a “genuine, warm, decent feeling” (Bread and Circuses) for their captain. And now THIS^ happens and I’m supposed to believe that it’s an accident? I don’t think so.
as for you lot out there, listening to this recording - we’re never too busy for new initiates. if you have the blood of the pharaohs, what are you waiting for? don’t let your magic go to waste. brooklyn house is open for business.
“he never really explained to me what exactly that book was about. but i suppose it doesn’t matter considering it was burnt along with all the others.”
in the middle of the syrupy afternoon light, tucked under blankets and the thick duvet with magnus’s chest right up against alec’s back, every word that spilled from his lips was a rumble that was making alec feel even warmer than he already was. it was supposed to be spring, alec was sure it was supposed to be by now, but somehow the east coast hadn’t really gotten the memo. or at least for the past couple of days alec hadn’t felt like it had. there was a chill that seemed to penetrate his bones even on the warmer days. but now, tucked up in bed with magnus, he couldn’t feel it. all he could feel was that radiant warmth as they curled up on their days off, magnus’s fingers splayed over the exposed skin of alec’s stomach, thumb dragging up the tight muscles of his abs.
but alec wasn’t thinking about the chill and how he couldn’t feel it now. he wasn’t even thinking about the story magnus was telling, a story he knew wasn’t true and had been making him laugh moments ago. he loved magnus’s stories but no, it was hard to think about anything with the way his ass was slotted right up against magnus’s hips. it was hard to think about anything with magnus’s thigh pushed between his legs in a way that had pressure pulling and heat rolling.
I donno why but I really, really, like really like Yoann’s Supergroom design. it honestly beats any and all superhero design I’ve ever seen ever. except for like some designs from the black panther movies
For the anon who requested the bed-sharing trope. It kind of turned out peculiar.
“make it look pretty, but train it to kill”
The timer sharply ran at ten o’clock, and Nesta plucked the micro-device out of her ear, tossing it onto the soiled Earth. Her heels crushed the piece of tech, and soon her legs stalked forward, hands holding the edges of her ruby gown swishing around her. Once her high-stiletto shoes reached the marbled tiles, she dropped the silky fabric, a slight breeze in the crisp night kissing her skin.
Rounding the corner of the castle grounds, her eyes darted over the faceless security patrols who spared her a passing glance, some daring glance over the high slit of the dress on her right leg. She merely smiled prettily, running a tongue over her lower lip, painted with blood-red lipstick. Her fingers dipped into the curve of her breasts, and she smirked at the dazed and glazed looks cresting over the younger guards marching past her. Snapping the golden embroided invitation out of her bra, she winked at the flustered males, and continued her walk. Fanning the invitation against her face, she studied the towering columns and dark, tinted windows peeking from the upper walls.
Flipping her brown strands gleaming with golden flares, Nesta Archeron stalked to the entrance, listening to the faint whispers of orchestra’s melody and courtesan’s small talks.
She considered it a shame midnight would end with cacophonies and rumors. Pressing the papyrus into the butler’s white gloved hands, she stared down the escort who stepped from the long line of males and held out his elbow to user her up the gilded stairs. The escort swallowed and she dismissed him with a sparse look, striding up and into the gleaming castle. Inside, drafts of warm currents pierced her flesh, the beating sounds of blended notes spiraling throughout the domed room with glass chandeliers sparkling from several quadrants. Low murmurs arose as she stalked through the entrance, a bland smile curled onto her face. When an arm reached out, slightly bent, Nesta gladly took it, and stepped into the lines of circles to dance. Faces turned away from her, the attention of wave’s receding lapping into the back of the mind, as she disappeared from the main sight, and the next guest walked in.
“You didn’t walk with an escort,” the male voice murmured. “Meaning your date’s not here or you want to be scooped up by some other higher ranked—more than a courtesan in the royal courts could offer.”
Nesta offered him a sharp smile, one cultivated from dancing with the viper and drowning in poisons. Her eyes turned towards the warm body offering pouring heat, and blinked at the hazel eyes intently studying her under those dark brows that framed his rough, unshaven face. Wide shoulders corded with thick muscles roped around to his arms, and the black coat hung unbuttoned across his buttoned shirt.
He dipped her low, and leaned back as his eyes skimmed over her exposed collarbone.
“If it’s the first, I frankly don’t believe you’d be stood up,” he leaned down to caress a breathe against her collarbone. “But you already look powerful enough to not need someone else. So what is it?”
They arched back up, and resumed their small circles of steps and little twirls.
A third option, she silently mused, allowing the music to bounce around them, their bodies swaying together in synchrony. Noting the guards slipping behind the curtains and hugging the shadows along the walls, she cocked her head. A distraction fit perfectly as all the royals would be dining and dancing in the other secluded areas, choosing to grace the other invitees later on in the night.
“Want to go somewhere else?” she murmured, weaving her around his chest, each step they took too precise and full of the tensions lurking beneath the luxuries exteriors.
A flash of a grin. “Anything to loosen you up, sweetheart.” A hand strayed near the small of her back, guiding her to one of the dimly lit hallways. Goosebumps flew over her skin as she felt focus slipping from her.
A hush fell over the crowd, the faint tinkling of the glorious music halting. From the opposite direction of the entrance, two goldened and darkened double doors had flung open, one shadow of a figure descending the curve of slanted stairs.
A crown of pure obsidian—no fringe of gold or silver or diamonds or rubies. Not when the King’s own phantom absorbed all darkness and riches. Not when the King’s soldiers had pillaged her own village, one lower-ranked cornering her into the barn the night her house had been set afire. Not when she’d been separated from her own sisters, and then sought her revenge for seven years.
A cold smile settled on that square face—ancient and heavy, full of curses and endurance, eliciting pulses of hatred and demise to pound through her veins and echo within the crevices of her own heart chamber.
Every shape and figure bent, bowing to the King. Nesta let out a low hiss, clenching her teeth.
The music began, sharper and faster, and clean cut blade caressing her ear.
“You still want to get out of here?” the male muttered, not bothering to mask boredom.
“I’m going to greet the King of Hybern,” Nesta said, and started to detach herself from the male’s arms.
A hand wrapped around her wrist. “This is your first time attending this type of event, isn’t it?”
“What?” she snapped.
“Talk to the King and have your head disconnected from the rest of your body.” Those hazel eyes stared down at her, contemplating more than she liked.
She arched a brow, and debated whether slipping out her opinion. She refrained.
“No one’s allowed to infect his presence,” the male recites. “Unworthy to near his space, and worthy to watch from afar.”
That complicated things for a bit. Her information briefing hadn’t been exactly accurate, it seemed.
“But if you want to catch his attention, I suggest you tug down that dress.”
Nesta shot the male a sharp glance. “Excuse me?”
A shrug. “These things get quite dull. I wouldn’t mind a little blood spilled.”
She matched his grin, and they sashayed towards the fringes of the east hall. Rolling her shoulders, she tilted her head, and watched the dark robed King stalk through the corridor, the backs of guards swallowing up his form.
She pressed her hands against the male’s chest, and said a bit loudly, “Let’s find some privacy.” Tucking her face in the crook of the male’s neck, she allowed him to guide her into the darkness and away from the glamor of the middle of the ball.
“Anything you want, sweetheart,” he whispered, stroking her hair. Nesta noticed the patrols closing in towards them, most likely about to command them to return back into the ballroom. Nesta wrapped her leg with the open slit around the other male’s, and kissed him fully on the lips.
A cry of protest rumbled from the male’s throat, but he quickly absorbed her lips, wrapping her around him, one hand grounding around her hips, the other pressing against the small of her back. A low growl thundered from the base of his throat as they broke apart for air, a crazed and wild look flailing within those hazel eyes, and those orbs raked across her form as if seeing her for the first time.
He leaned down and slammed her against the wall, the shadows of metal and steel streaming away from them. Nesta watched a guard retreat from them, shaking his head, and resumed soaking in the warmth of the stranger of a male. He held her tightly, emanating warmth beyond her once dreams, and devoured her. She groaned as he slowly nipped his way down, exposing the pale column of her throat. A thumb stroked lower from her waist and fingered the fabric of her gown. Her finger lashed out and she tilted his head back up, capturing his mouth within hers, and they waged their own war between teeth and tongue, soiled in the seconds of heat and devourment. His own fingers travelled up over the curve of her shoulders and down, leaving lingering sensations of desire and need erupting within every pore.
A loud crackling sound of metal grinding had Nesta peeling away from the male and mentally scolding herself. She’d gotten too cooped up in the moment, and allowed herself to become too exposed. By the cold, dark eyes of the one wearing the blackened and solid crown, the King of Hybern had spotted another prey, those fathomless eyes staring at her tousled state.
He jerked his chin at the male embracing her, dark eyes flickering. “Out,” he droned.
The hazel eyed male smoothed his hands down her back and tightened his hands on the small of her back, grasping the folds of the back of her gown. A second later, he abruptly released her and stalked into the light where the tinkering of music sounded.
Coldness flooded her once again, an emptiness settling within her core.
The King stalked towards her, and Nesta flattened her back against the wall. She knew that predatory look, the one who forged her into the pillar of ice and steel.
Her hand itched down, as if covering her slit in the dress.
“You dare disrupt my halls,” the King mused. “To lose yourself in feeling.”
Dark eyes, dark heart.
“I wonder what it would be like for a damsel to lose all sense of feelings,” the King pondered.
Nesta spotted the syringe, and danced around the first stroke.
Cold eyes, cold heart.
“You cannot escape,” the King warned, and reached out a hand, which Nesta realized was dripping with blood. “The end of this hallways lies for my…experiments. You’d do your country an honor to join them.”
Nesta knew, knew of the experiments, of the agony, of the horror, of those who walked out there, and were never the same.
Not when Tomas, her first lover of six years, had volunteered service to the King, and returned with dark eyes, a dark heart, cold eyes, and a cold heart.
Nesta unsheathed a dagger from her knife strap, and allowed the reflection of the blade to arc within the darkness.
A weapon to match that inked soul.
A sick smile. “I see,” the King said slowly, and tossed the syringe to the side, the sound clattering.
He lunged towards her, and grabbed her wrist so harshly the knife dropped. He tossed her against the wall, her head colliding with the hard surface. He reached down and ran a finger against the blade.
The strength the King possessed—but the deed had been done.
Nesta smiled, and watched the King prick his finger.
Dark to flame, shadow to madness, lunacy to bone.
Nesta stalked to the syringe and tucked into into her thigh strap securely. Then she strode the King of Hybern, who stared at the domed ceiling with criss crossing beams with an empty look. That ancient face now glazed over, the pulse at his neck fading.
Nesta leaned in. “Not so fun to be experimented on, is it now?” she whispered. “Took me six years to concoct.”
Blood gurgled from the King’s lips, the strangled sound lighting her veins.
“I know you’re going to die. Slowly. But I have to leave now. So,” she twirled the hilt of the dagger around her fingers, her red nails flashing in front of the King, “I’m going to have to speed up the process.”
Nesta Archeron drove the blade. Not through the heart where layers of armor awaited, but across.
She’d practiced this move too many times for too many years.
In utter patience into utter completion, where the head flew across the spine and body and rolled across the ground, coming to a halt. The crown slithered off the black hair and crashed against stone, the sound of the rim of the onyx and ink symbol echoing through the corridor.
The King’s body crumbled at her feet.
Dark eyes lolled up and dark heart unbeating. Cold eyes ripped from this world and dark heart ceased. Picture perfect.
Footsteps neared, and Nesta braced herself.
She stared at the hazel-eyed man, who merely looked at her, and then at the body—and the head.
“Cauldron boil me,” he managed to gasp out, and crossed his arms.
Nesta waited, finding herself oddly rooted to the ground.
“What the hell?” the man snarled, and Nesta angled the knife carefully under her arm and wrist. “You killed my kill, with less blood. Damn my ego and mission.”
She blinked, and stared at the large sword in his hand.
Too obvious, yet obviously typically male.
She silently scrutinized the male in front of her, hearing the distant and clunky patter of footsteps. Slipping the knife into his free hand and damning the aghast look on his chiseled face, Nesta tossed herself against the wall, mustering one of the facades she knew too well.
“Hands up!” Large seas of coats and suits swam through one end of the hall, swords, metal, and steel pointed towards them.
A tear leaked down her face, and Nesta reminded herself to not wear waterproof mascara again. By the looks on the castle’s guard’s face, she’d successfully portrayed herself as the damsel in distress.
“He—” she hiccuped, and stared at the body and head, waving her arms frantically. “He killed the King of Hybern!”
Nesta booked it, slipping out and pushing past the guards, slicing those limbs who reached out to ensnare her. It was another maddening dance, one learned from monstrosity, and living as a corpse within.
She hurried away, away from the male and from the dead and from the memories.
Her eyes turned away from the castle as she stalked away and leaped out the entrance, the stares of many driving her away. Hitting the rendezvous point, she didn’t cast a look back at the towering, tall, and dark castle. She slipped off her shoes and unhooked the rope wrapped around the stern of a slim boat, and pushed the vessel into the river, quickly jumping in. Balancing the boat, she picked up the paddle and rowed, ignoring the beat of the drums of the peals of alarms.
She didn’t bother to catch her breathe her arms continued to move in synchrony, once to a longing beat of music and desire. The cold air kissed her skin, whispering little slivers of words and gentle caresses.
Nesta stared at the moon as she quickly rowed, hours seeming to pass by as she passed by, listening to the chirping of crickets and unidentified howls. In the wilderness, she coexisted.
The vessel hit the edge of the river, and she dragged it under the cover of mosses and overgrown leaves. Trudging up the bank, Nesta listed the edges of her gown, and slipped back on her heels.
She caught the light from the distance, and followed it, ignoring the branches reaching out with ghostly hands to chain her back. Nesta picked apart the sharp tendrils and trudged forward.
A hand wrapped around her elbow, and she jerked back to no avail, only to have her entire body encased by another towering one.
Her body flared in response to the other male’s heat.
She stopped squirming and hissed lowly.
“Kill the King,” the voice snarled. “And frame me? Whose damned side are you on?”
She shrugged as well as she could. “Saw the opportunity and took it.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She twirled around, not before she shot him her infamous viper’s grin, her knee flashing out.
Through the darkness, the moon shining down faint rays of shine, Nesta could recognized the hazel-eyed male.
“How’d you escape?” she bit out.
A roll of eyes—that much she could decipher. A closer look, and she saw flecks of blood coating his hands.
She walked forward, her back to him.
Nesta didn’t understand the underlying feelings running undercurrent through her, her heart vying to trust him, her mind accepting him.
She continued her trek forward.
Those bloodied hands found the small of her back.
“You wondered about the contact who gave you the false invitation?” the male murmured. “That was me. My dealings include women desiring to meet a courtesan or indulge in royalty for one night. Their fantasies fill my pockets with gold.”
The orange glow grew brighter, and Nesta picked up her pace, the male behind her easily matching her strides.
“I didn’t pay your dealer one trove of gold to merely worm into a man,” she noted.
A pause. “No. I plan on returning the trunk to you.”
Nesta faltered a step, and the male crashed into her. His arms instantly wrapped around her, and she sucked in a breath.
“Because you killed the man that killed my parents,” he murmured against her ear. “For having more balls than I.”
Nesta could make out the lanterns of the inn, and jerked her head to it.
The male released her and gave her a nod.
They stalked through the clearing, and Cassian opened the doors.
The receptionist gave them wary looks, observing the muddied fringes of Nesta’s gown and the red painting the other male’s black tux.
“A single room,” said Nesta.
“A single room for me as well.” Cassian winked at the receptionist, while Nesta surveyed the dimly lit entrance, too small for a large command of troops to search through. The back alleys had potholes to impeded vehicles, while the insides did have the array of tables and chairs to use as shields and weapons if utilized correctly.
The receptionist coughed. “I only have one spare room available. You’ll have to share.”
Nesta glared at the male next to her. He merely held up his palms and leaned across the front, winking at the receptionist. “Are you sure?” he said lowly.
The other woman flushed. “I’m sure.”
Nesta held out her hand. “I asked first. Give me the key.”
Cassian slapped a bloodied hand over her palm. “No way. You owe me.” His eyes bored into her.
The receptionist coughed, and Nesta reached out with her other hand for the key.
Cassian’s other hand went into his suit and came out with a thick wad of bills. “One night, one room. Give me the key.”
The traitorous female handed him the key, and Nesta’s jaw hardened. She attempted to disentangle her hand from the male, but he gripped her tightly.
The receptionist took out a pen, and scratched something down. “Name?” she asked.
The male looked at Nesta, full of surety. “Cassian,” he drawled out, and stroked a thumb down the back of her hand.
The receptionist cleared her throat, and eyed both of them. “The room may be single, but has a King’s bed.”
Cassian dragged her deeper into the inn, a cocky grin etched onto his face. No doubt the fate had worked in his odds.
“Release me,” Nesta snapped, but her heart snapped back the opposite. Cauldron, what was happening to her?
The male released her hand, but wrapped an arm around her waist. “You think I’d let you sleep in the wild?” he asked, and guided her up the first step of stairs. “We’re sharing the bed.”
“No,” she simply said.
“Oh really?” he arched a brow. “But who paid for the room?”
Nesta said nothing, and stalked down the hallway until he reached her, those hazel-eyes dancing over her.
“You owe me,” he repeated. “You killed the man I wanted to kill.”
“The King was not a man,” she sneered. “A monster beyond humanity.”
The male inserted the key through the last door, and pushed it open. He beckoned her in, and she pushed past him.
“I don’t see why you’re full of ire,” Nesta continued. “When you were the one who allowed the King to look at me.”
“Because I decided to have you use your feminine wiles so I could get close to him. You think I expected you to be the King’s assassin?”
“Sad you didn’t claim the title?”
Cassian leaned forward, his nose pressed against her forehead. “I’m sad that you’re going to make me sleep on the floor, Nesta Archeron.”
Her eyes flashed. “How do you know my name?”
That cocky grin. “I do make it my business to know those who request false papers, sweetheart.”
She crossed her arms and kicked off her heels. “How’d you escape?”
Cassian unabashedly started to undress himself, shrugging off his coat. “While I didn’t have a damned boat, I did have legs that walked at the same snail pace you were rowing.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “Excuse me?”
Cassian leaned down and took of his shoes, displaying the soles, beaten and reinforced with secondary material. “Once I killed the guards, I followed the trail of red, and followed the sounds of the rowing through the river.”
The male flicked the buttons of his shirt, and displayed the toned and muscular, thick skin underneath. Nesta felt her body warm up, and she took a step back when he stalked towards her.
A hand yanked the frills of her dress up, wielding the torn scraps of fabric. “The layers of your gown were my breadcrumbs.”
Nesta cursed. This was too sloppy.
Cassian seemed to read her mind, and shook his head. “Looks like you’re going to have to destroy that dress, sweetheart.”
Before Nesta could open her mouth, Cassian ripped her dress off of her.
Nesta’s knee lunged up again, but he caught her kneecap. “A cheap shot.” His hands released her knee, and he grinned. She steadied herself, and grabbed a pillow and blanket, tossing them on the floor. Within the movements, she stuffed her thigh strap within the pillow covers.
She wouldn’t risk more mistakes tonight.
“What are you doing?” Cassian growled.
Nesta stripped the remains of her gown, and yanked the complimentary bathrobe, hanging over the single chair, over her shoulders. “Sleeping on the floor.”
She laid on the floor, ignoring the cramps shooting through her back from the paddling, and wrapped herself within the blanket.
Seconds later, her body was lifted within her cocoon of warmth, and tossed onto the bed. The pillow slammed into her face a beat later. Snarling, Nesta started to disentangle herself from the blanket, but a body hovered over her.
“I will not force anything on you, if you are worried about that,” Cassian snarled equally back. “You are meaner than you demons, Nesta.”
Her name sounded seemed to be filled with more life, rolling off his tongue.
“You don’t know me,” she hissed. “Who I am, what I’ve done, or what I will do.”
The body rolled off of her, and daftly whacked her with a pillow.
She arched off the bed and crossed her arms.
The male laid across the bed, his chest decorated with scars. His eyes locked on hers. The pillow rested within his fingers again, and when he moved to whack it again, Nesta pounced, and landed on top of him.
Cassian stilled. And then slowly reached out to move a piece of hair that had fallen across her face. “Who says I can’t try to learn?” His breath fanned across her face. “I want to know the woman who can dance like hell and put a royal in hell.”
She laid a hand across his chest, and traced some of the scars, noting the rise and fall of his chest.
“I don’t think—”
The pillow hit her squarely across the jaw.
“I’m trying to knock some sense into you.” He chuckled, the sound vibrating from his chest, deep and rich, and full of life. “Don’t think,” he whispered, and dropped the pillow. “Feel.”
Nesta looked into those hazel-eyes and damned her brain.
She leaned down and kissed him fully, and surely, staring into those warm eyes and warm heart that opened for her, and felt her veins spark with the sensation of desire, shivering into the heat and security in the single room with a King’s bed.