#even in the beginning with little garden it's more of a difficulty they have to overcome than anything else
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1. butterscotch orange
frankie morales x f!reader | chapter one of do me yourself
summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.
wordcount: 3.3k
chapter warnings: [see masterlist for series warnings] meet cute, flirting. fluff. flirting in person and over <redacted>. frankie being a single!dad to a son. coffee date.
an: it is finally here! this little thing has rotted me from the inside out and nothing brings me more joy than a romcom. so here we go. buckle in. all hail @secretelephanttattoo for the wondrous idea and support (seriously thank you, i know you know ily, but i don't think I've been this happy writing something in so long). a thank you to @thetriumphantpanda who i forced to read this when we had our sleepover, ily.
key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics [winks]
IF I CAN DO IT, ANYONE CAN DO IT. ALL YOU NEED—
It rings, echoes through your skull.
Has been doing so the whole ride over—your groan doing nothing to dilute it, even as you kill the engine of your car and are welcomed with silence.
There’s an element of regret you feel thrumming in you since discovering that perky voice, her high-pitched excitement becoming the bane of your existence. Forever replaying in your head. Regardless of whether it is actually playing. It remains on a loop in your mind—all light and sweet—grating on you from the amount you’ve had to watch it, just to get to this stage.
Realistically, you know you shouldn’t hate the voice, because it has been helpful—in that effortlessly playful way that’s kind of begun to fuck you off.
But then, you’re not even sure if any voice would fare much better. Because you just don’t feel like it’s just that easy—so possible, all simple and quick to do.
Because DIY apparently isn't that trouble-free for you. The bandaids on your palm, fingers, and forearm are proof of it.
Yet, somehow you’re outside of a hardware store.
One that Google promises will have all you need and more. Not that you know what that is.
The only thing you do know is that it at least gives you another reason to focus on something other than the mountain of boxes that never end. The ones not unpacked. In the home that’s now only slowly beginning to feel more like yours, and not the people you purchased it from.
Eyes flicking over the front of the store, the clutter of things all left outside—in judging various shades of buckets and plastic garden chairs—before your eyes land on the door to Harold’s Hardware.
There’s no breeze, but the door moves ever so slightly. Sitting, slightly ajar, as though once—a long time ago—it fit in the frame perfectly, but now remained warped and unwilling to even try. Then there’s the glass, all smeared and sitting inside (what you assume) would have been a bright-white frame that’s slightly yellowed and has been adorned in scuffs, swinging in its layered overuse.
But, at least it’s visited, you think. Shoving open the door, a bell sounds in some distant corner, ringing, it almost muffled by the voice from the video continuing to play in the space between your ears—a to-do list, a handful of items required, listing themselves on a never-ending loop, the billionth play through since you’d woken up.
It’s so much bigger inside than you banked on. Jaw-ticking to the side, eyes marvelling at the floor-to-ceiling display and the array of things all living and existing under hanging signs that appear worn and peeling.
With each second, more and more of the charm comes to you.
That there’s a radio, crackling away, a song from decades gone by playing with difficulty, as an array of scents swirl, fighting themselves for your attention. But, two stand out, fresh-cut wood and lemon disinfectant. The latter you assume kills dirt but doesn’t make the floor tiles gleam in the way they once did. Scuff marks adorning well-walked paths. But the former, you gravitate more to, wish for it to fill your nose and remain with you long after your visit.
Adjusting the strap of your bag, you glance about again, almost fidgeting your feet in your shoes, before it dawns on you. Slams into you as you flick your gaze from sign to sign—
You haven’t got a clue about where to start.
Listing the things from memory—suddenly distant and difficult to find amongst the dooming overwhelm—as your feet begin moving of their own accord. Choosing an aisle, selecting it—all eeny-meeny-miny-mo.
Because better that, than standing aimless, lost. Watched on some flickering CCTV in the back where you assume the person who works here is.
Dragging your eyes, scanning them up and down, taking in the varying types of paint brushes, different thicknesses, different intentions. Moving from single purchase to grouped, to multi-packs, and landing finally on rollers before you’re turning, heading down an entirely different aisle.
The next isn’t any less overwhelming.
If anything, it’s more, because it’s at least more of what you needed.
Screws, bolts, fixings.
Your brain assessing, attempting to assemble whether a bolt is what you need, a screw or—
“You need a hand?”
It throws you off, the voice.
Cuts through your processing, through the low replays of the video (the ones only in your head) and the cracking radio which has moved into an advert for migraines.
It’s low, a slight gravel that he rids with a clear of his throat as you look over your shoulder, eyes sweeping over the owner of the voice, eventually turning to face him.
And fuck.
He’s broad, dressed in a deep green t-shirt under a tan apron—name badge scratched over, only leaving the lingering marks of a “here to help” and the fading logo you’d seen outside.
You don’t mean to gawk, but yet you do all the same.
Practically swallowing, attempting to whir your brain into gear as you take in the rest of him. The thick loose curls atop his head, the strong nose and the round-brown eyes. His moustache, the wiry facial hair across his chin he slowly begins to scrape at, as he remains waiting for a response.
“Screws.”
“You… you need screws?”
Nodding, you will your brain to work, to function. But, he’s just so—
Lifting his chin, he runs his thumb up and down the underside of his chin, waiting, waiting, until he smiles. “Do you know the kind?”
Think. Think. Fucking think.
And then you do. Somehow able to unspool some thoughts, find sentences. Beginning to explain, in barely-there pauses and animated hand gestures about your move, and your new lease of life, and this video you found and how you felt inspired by it to the point it had led you to order wood cut to size and tools from the internet, but screws, screws and this and that are all that you’d forgotten.
And, he listens. Sliding a hand over the sleeve of his sun-scorched tee as he does. Just nodding on occasion. Thin lines appear along his forehead at certain parts of the story, but nonetheless listening.
“Show me.”
“Show… you?”
Then he smiles. Soft, it slides up in a slow, almost cautious way, but then it’s at his eyes, touching, brushing itself there and sending sparks up into the darker brown flecks.
Licking his lips, he gestures, “The video.”
You do.
A quick shuffle in your pocket, a slide to unlock your phone and then your fingers are brushing his. They’re warm, his. That you can tell.
Heat radiating from them, slowly blanketing yours as his hand and yours cradle the phone like a newborn in an announcement photo.
From there, your chest tightens, more so when you meet his eyes, finding them watching you as intently as you wish to look at him, and it makes your heart stammer, skip—a full chaos of beats following before he’s holding your phone independently.
That’s when a new crisis calls. A new thought is all set to erode your mind.
Because your phone looks tiny in his hand.
The plastic case is almost dwarfed by him as he tips his chin, watching the video, occasionally tapping at the screen to skip ahead before he nods to himself, you all but busy trying not to choke on your own drool.
“I know what you need.”
“You do?”
A foolish question, all escaping without thought or rationale.
He just smiles, in a way that seems to settle your incoming anxiousness.
“I do.”
And he does.
A tilt of his head, his back turned to you, a brief thought crossing your brain at the sight but you quickly rid, and you’re following. Listening as he explains, as he points out things with his long, thick finger, as you nod, as though nothing lives in the space between both of your ears.
It isn’t until you’re back in your car that it hits you. Do you suddenly wish as your engine ignites and your car roars to life, that you had asked for his number—or better yet, his name.
It’s been days, and you’re still wondering if some part of you’d concocted him, made him up—thrown up an illusion of a man and exaggerated how good he looked.
The more you thought about him, the more insane it got. Even hearing yourself explain it to a friend made you question if you'd been dreaming. That maybe you’d let days mould him, shaping perfection in your consciousness.
It has more weight when you walk past the older man at the till, all white hair in a slick-back style and who tips his head and looks more what you’d expect from the decor of the place.
But a part, one fighting, scrapping for a moment to exist, still believes. Hopes.
Forcing your legs to wander down aisles you don’t need, pausing at each corner, desiring to be proven wrong. Hovering, hoping—half-wondering if it was essential that to make him appear, you had to look lost and hopeless—or whether that had just been a coincidence that first time.
With each up and down, you almost give up. Hope almost gone, erasing itself with each step, all but fading.
But there, in the centre of the paint aisle, speckled in dried flecks, it clinging in varying shades—a kaleidoscope dream on his jeans and worn t-shirt—is him. The man you haven't stopped thinking about.
"It's you."
"It's me," you grin, heat flooding your cheeks, growing up into your neck.
Arm lifting, hand brushing the back of his curls not housed in a cap, as he matches your grin. "New project?"
"Something like that."
His gaze doesn't waver, doesn't lessen, not as his grin slopes into a shy smile, before he wipes his hand on his jeans, offering it out. "Realised... I never... I'm Frankie, by the way."
You hand him your name, dropping an octave as you do—all unmeaning, entirely accidental—fingers sliding past his as you shake his hand.
“I don’t… you’ve not got your apron on.”
Glancing down, you find him grinning when he looks up, “Not my day today. Here on personal business.”
“Oh is…” squinting at the paint can in his hand, “Butterscotch Orange on a hit list or something?”
His lips slide into his cheek, a tooth-filled smirk. “Should be, it’s a right bitc—pain in the ass to sell.”
Rolling your lips, you trace your tongue across your teeth as you grin. “It’s no…” eyes squinting. “Mt Rainier Grey.”
His brow arches. “That your shade of choice?”
“I like it—don’t hate the orange though. So, maybe it’s not the paint, but the seller.”
Something twinkles in his eye, lips still cocked to one side, smirk still ever-present.
And it’s a challenge to drag your eyes to look at the floor, you shift your weight. Trying, and failing, to think of an excuse, to leave before it gets weird—before you become too much and ruin this nondescript thing. But, his throat clearing stops you. It forces your chin up. Barely just able to catch it, the whisper, how it’s almost said to the can in his hand than to you.
“You… doing anything right now?”
Shaking your head slowly, you bite your cheek as you grin. “Just talking to a man holding a paint can.”
Tapping his fingers along the top, lips rolling, “You fancy getting a coffee? With me?”
You have to bite your smile, out of fear you’ll show how practically beaming you are. Mouth opening, but he adds an addition of I don’t usually do this that makes your lips curl into a smirk.
“What? Invite random customers for coffee or accost them with paint you can’t sell?”
Biting his upper lip, he shakes his head, tucking a curl behind his ear as your eyes glance over at them. How they glisten under the yellow-fluorescent light.
Letting your heart dance like leaves in the wind. “I’d love to get coffee with you, Frankie.”
It’s nice, the coffee place.
Not a far walk, a few doors down. The charm of it coaxes you in with sounds of crunching beans and strong scents of varying levels of caffeine sliding over and relaxing your shoulders from your ears.
Because suddenly you’re nervous.
A slight shake to your bones, a twitch of your fingers.
“Let me get this.”
Smiling, you find him watching you, not caring to drag his eyes away when you catch him.
“Because you never do this or because you’re hoping to persuade me to buy your unsellable paint?”
Smirking, he traces his eyes over you, “Both.”
The corner of his mouth slides back into his cheek, a dimple appearing, deepening—one you want to brush over with your thumb the longer he keeps looking at you the way he does.
All dark eyes, beedy, but sparkling.
'Who's next?' breaks the spell. Shatters the magic. It forces you both to blink, to focus on the task at hand. Both orders said, whirring and crunching sounding as you admire the place, glaze over the menu until he’s nudging you.
With your order in hand and tucked away in the corner—the large window letting in light and warmth from the sun on your back—you try not to moan at the taste of your drink once it hits your tongue.
Because it’s good. Brilliant, practically everything.
To the point you have to bite back a thank you, one that you feel would be never-ending, a constant swirl of words landing on the circular table between the two of you. Nothing napkins and good conversation could soak up.
Because good coffee is always great, but knowing where to find it in an unknown place is something else.
Distantly, you hear him say your name, chin dipped, eyes focused, realising—in a flood of embarrassment—he’s been talking to you.
“Sorry?”
“I said, I’ve not seen you in the store before…”
Swallowing, you take a steadying breath.
“You don’t have to…”
But, you do all the same. You pour open small bits of truth, words falling, tumbling half-strung together as your history rolls out in a timeline in front of you both. How you’d bought a new place, that it’s a bit run down, seen better days—a determination to prove friends wrong by doing it yourself.
Foolish, you comment with a shake of your head, I know fuck all about decorating.
And he listens—to the fact you’re alone, not even a pet; he listens even as you talk about your work, all boring, not entirely interesting. The two of you simply lost in one another, surrounded by coffee mug swirls and the sounds of sizzling food, coffee shop noises and mumbling daytime talk as you ask him about work, about his love for orange shades.
And your eyes glance down at his phone, how it’s turned over—his all undivided attention given to you—yet your eyes linger on the phone case. The one with a drawing, likely in pencil, a man in a hat on a hill, a child next to him and a sun with a smile on its face.
“I… I have a kid. Luca—shared custody,” he says, nodding, tongue peeking out between his teeth, hands leaving the table and wiping back on his jeans in slow slides up and down. “He… he made it me.”
It’s the grin that makes your heart swell.
Makes your hand cup your mug a little tighter so you don’t offer it out to him to hold, a thing which feels so natural, no thought required. Except you don’t know his last name—barely know a thing about him.
Yet, your body practically leans forward as you mirror the smile—all soft, as another piece of a missing puzzle sliding into place.
“Does he like drawing?”
Laughing, his palm slides along his jaw. “Loves it.”
“How old?”
“Five—does that… does that bother you?”
“That you’re a dad?” He nods, and you lick your lips, you make sure to hold his gaze. “Not in the slightest.”
You smile, watching him mirror you this time. It rushes out, kissing across every bit of his face—a shyness soon fluttering over him before he clears his throat.
“So, you freelance? You like being your own boss?”
“Not especially, but it does mean I can work at night.”
Nodding, he slides his hand around the white porcelain, hand practically dwarfing the mug. It makes you want to ask him to hold things, to see if IKEA pencils or children’s eating utensils look more ridiculous than your iPhone and a regular coffee mug.
“Prefer the night?”
“I prefer the quiet of it... to think. It’s why… why I began trying to do something in the day, needed to still be busy.”
“Sitting still not an option, Rainier Gray?”
Shrugging, you smile. “Says you Butterscotch and your three tins of unsellable paint in the bed of your truck.”
“You got me there.”
“I just… like to be busy, and with the new house, no partner—commitments, I thought why not try a bit of DIY.”
Nodding, he lifts his mug, and takes a sip—eyes remaining fixed on you as he does, as though it buys him time, lets him think up an opinion, an assessment. It makes your skin warm, but for all the uncomfortable reasons, the panicking ones—parts of you beginning to catastrophise that you’ve said the wrong thing.
“Open up your Instagram.”
You stare, blinking.
“Trust me.”
And you do. With another fumble, another slide of your phone screen open, and you follow his instructions as you type in the spelling he gives you. When you click the page, it’s hard not to grin, to not have your face explode into a smile so large it cuts into your cheeks.
“I don’t like to sit still either,” Frankie adds, as though the thousand photos and videos, the tutorials and follower count don’t say that on their own.
You’ve fallen down a hole—willingly.
It cracked open the moment you’d sat on your couch, drink in hand, blanket half over your body.
The moment you’d begun your scroll, you discovered you couldn’t stop. Starting with the latest and moving back, until you realise you’d rather see the story in the way it happened.
Choosing a moment, almost nine months ago, before you work your way forward to the present.
You were cautious, more careful than needed, to not like anything too late—to not give away how deep into his page you’d gone. Even if you were in awe, a little proud—your cheeks a little warm and lips turned up into your cheek—as you saw in real-time his confidence grow. The way he’d look at the camera, began experimenting with angles, all in all being smoother, more happy.
You suppose that’s why you type a comment under one picture:
Is that butterscotch orange in the flesh? 🟠
Stalking me are you?
Getting some tips from Mr DIY himself.
I know you went back some months, Rainy.
How do you know that?
Because as soon as you commented that’s what I did. You looked nice at the beach.
Now who’s the stalker, Butterscotch.
Me. Clearly. I’m being very upfront about it.
Out of interest, do you tutor at all? Gives hands on help to beginner DIYers?
You genuinely asking or flirting?
Big-headed much?
I can help you with something if you need it.
I think I do.
Then I’m yours. Don’t worry, I promise to only snoop in your drawers when left alone.
Think we should get food first, show you what I’m thinking—make sure you’re up to the task.
You asking me on a date?
No. But if you keep showing off tools topless I’ll be tempted to ask you.
Knew you’d gone back further than a month.
FRANKIE’S INSTAGRAM 🌝
NEXT CHAPTER
an: you do not understand how giddy i am about this series. the chapters have flown out of me. i hope you enjoy it half as much as i'm enjoying writing it. see you soon xx
#frankie morales x reader#francisco morales x reader#frankie morales x f!reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales#triple frontier x reader#francisco morales fanfiction#triple frontier fanfiction#pedro pascal characters#francisco catfish morales x reader#catfish morales x reader#pedrostories
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Un-Actions, or Restriction of Activities
This is my first post in a series I’ll be making on how to increase biodiversity on a budget! I’m not an expert--just an enthusiast--but I hope something you find here helps!
There’s a good handful of ways you can help increase biodiversity in your yard that don’t require buying things--in fact, these may actually help you save money in the long run! They may seem small and simple, but every bit counts! Whether you can do these in totality, or just limit how often you do these actions, it’ll make a difference.
Not Mowing, or Mowing Less Often
Turf grass lawns are considered a monoculture, meaning they don’t provide much opportunity for insects to find habitat--so few other creatures find them enjoyable either. An expanse of turf grass is, in many ways, a barren wasteland in the eyes of wildlife--too exposed to cross, with few to no opportunities for food or shelter, leaving them exposed to blazing hot sun, freezing cold, or any predators that may be lurking nearby. A place to be avoided. The simple act of letting your grass grow unbothered gives a chance for wildflowers to grow, and for your grass to grow taller--providing more habitat for insects, which then provides more habitat to birds and other creatures that feed on said insects. Wildlife want nothing more than to skirt by unnoticed, so even leaving the grass tall along the edges of a fence or yard can help a little. Even restricting mowing to every other week, or at a higher blade setting, can be a huge help. If HOAs or city ordinances are fussy about lawn length in the front yard, you can likely still keep grass higher in the backyard. Or, you can create a ‘feature’ where grass is allowed to grow long in a specific area. If it looks purposeful, people are more likely to accept it. Not mowing under trees or close to shrubs not only leaves space for wildflowers to grow, but also means you don’t have to deal with mowing over bumpy roots and other difficulties. Cutting different areas at different times can be an option for letting grass grow long in some areas while still having available places for play and entertainment. I’ve seen some people plant flower bulbs when pulling up weeds, so in the future they'll bloom in early spring before mowing is usually necessary. This could be another fun way of adding biodiversity to a lawn without--or before you--begin mowing in spring.
Not worrying about mowing, or doing it less often, saves you in time, money, and energy. You won’t have to buy as much gasoline for your mower, and Saturday afternoons can be free to be enjoyed in other ways aside from being sticky and sweaty and covered in grass stains. In addition, you’ll likely be lowering your own carbon emissions!
If you do have to mow your lawn, I’ve got ways you can use your grass clippings to boost biodiversity later in the post series!
Not using pesticides, herbicides, fungicides, etc.
One of the next-biggest non-actions you can do asides from not mowing is using fewer fewer to no herbicides, fungicides, and pesticides in your yard. This’ll easily allow for more biodiversity. Allowing more insects and a wide array of plants to thrive will feed back into the entire food chain in your area. In addition, these types of chemicals have been tied to algae blooms, death of beneficial insects, harm to birds, fish, and even humans. Soil is supposed to be full of fungi, especially fungal mycelium that essentially acts as a network for plants to communicate, share nutrients, and support each other--fungicide kills that, and typically makes all other lawn problems even worse in a negative feedback loop. It may take awhile to see the benefits of avoiding these chemicals, but once you see it, it really is astounding.
However! I can’t lie and say that there haven’t been points where I needed to use pesticides at some points in my gardening journey. In these cases, try to use products that are organic--like diatomaceous earth, neem oil, etc--and use them accurately, correctly, and sparingly. Follow instructions on how to apply them safely and responsibly--for example, on non-windy days and during times when bees and other pollinators aren’t likely to be out and about. With some pests (read: oleander aphids, in my experience), a simple jetstream of water is enough to force them off the plant where they’ll be too weak to get back. Eventually, you should have a balanced enough ecosystem that no one insect pest causes a major issue with the work you’re doing to boost biodiversity.
If you can bear to, try handling pests manually. Squishing pest bugs in your hand is a pretty foolproof way to get rid of some problems, or spraying them with a mix of soap and water can do the trick on some insects. Alternatively, picking them off your plants and into a bucket of soapy water is also a valid option. You’ve heard of baptism by fire, now get ready for… baptism by soap?
But also! Try reconsidering what you consider a pest! Tomato hornworms are hated by gardeners, for devouring the foliage of beloved tomato, pepper, and potato plants. But killing the tomato and tobacco hornworm means getting rid of sphinx moths, also known as hummingbird or hawk moths! Hawk moths are vital to the survival of many native plants, and are sometimes even the only species that pollinates them. If you can bear to, consider sacrificing a few tomato plants, or growing a few extras, so we can continue having these beautiful moths for years to come. After all, they may not even do significant damage to the plants!
With that in mind, be friendly to your natural pest managers! Lacewings, ladybugs, praying mantises, wasps, birds, bats, and more will help manage pest populations in your environment! Encourage them by planting things they like, providing habitat, and leaving them be to do their work! Avoiding pesticides helps make your garden a livable environment for them, too!
Letting Weeds Grow
Many of the plants we know as 'weeds' are actually secondary succession species and native wildflowers. Milkweed was regarded as a noxious, annoying weed for a long time, and now people are actively trying to plant them after learning about the important role they play in our environments! Weeds are adapted to take over areas that have been cleared out of other plants after a disaster, so they're doing much of the initial work in making a habitat for other creatures. In fact, many of them will simply die back as the environment repairs itself.
An important thing to note is to please make sure that your ‘weeds’ are not invasive species. Work on learning how to identify native and invasive species in your area, and pull out what’s harmful to leave room for what’s good!
Don’t Rake (Or At Least Don’t Bag Your Leaves)
Many insects overwinter in piles of leaves that we often rake away and bag up in the fall and winter. By doing this, we are actively throwing away the biodiversity of our neighborhoods! If you can, leave the leaves where they fall!
If you do need to rake, put the leaves in places wildlife can still access it instead of bagging it up. Move your leaves into garden beds to serve as mulch, or along the edge of fences to rest while keeping egg cases and hiding bugs intact and free to release come spring.
Leave Snags Where They Are
Snags are dead trees/dead branches on living trees. They provide an important wildlife habitat--many birds nest in them, or use them to seek cover from rain, and many insects will also live in snags (making them an additional food source for birds and other creatures). Tree cavities are used as nests by hundreds of bird species in the US, and many mammals use them as well, such as bats, squirrels, raccoons, and sometimes even bears. Some trees form cavities while they’re still alive, but in conifers they’re more likely to form after death. Crevices between the trunk of a dead tree and its peeling bark provide sun protection for bats and amphibians, and leafless branches make great perching areas for birds of prey to hunt from above. The decaying wood is home to insects and fungi, who then feed birds, mammals, amphibians, and reptiles. Do check on the snags regularly to ensure they don’t serve a threat to any nearby structures, but whenever possible, leave them be!
Keep Your Cat Inside
If you have an outdoor cat, consider making the adjustments to have it be an indoor cat. If you have an indoor cat, keep it as an indoor cat. Free ranging cats impact biodiversity through predation, fear effects, competition for resources, disease, and more. Keeping little Mittens inside does a lot more to help than it may seem from the outside.
That’s the end of this post! My next one’s gonna be on things you can add to your space that aren’t directly related to growing plants. For now, I hope this advice helps! Feel free to reply with any questions, success stories, or anything you think I may have forgotten to add in!
#biodiversity#solarpunk#gardening#outdoor gardening#lawn culture#anti lawn culture#environmental stewardship#(i think that counts)#ani rambles#out of queue#the biodiversity saga#I know I said this in the masterpost already but another reminder some people aren't in a position to do all or some or even any of this#i have so far been unsuccessful in convincing my parents to not mow or rake because we live in an HOA neighborhood#but do what you can/are able to! it'll help!
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Hihiii!! i was wondering if you could write some headcanons on the dorm leaders with an ectomorph s/o?? its hard to find fics with my body type lol, if not its fine
Sure! This time we will start with Vil
Also, lmk if this isn't what you had in mind !
ectomoph body type: long, lean, with little body fat and little muscle. fast metabolism and tend to lose weight easily. However, they do have more difficulty building muscle.
💜 Vil knows quite a lot about different types of silhouettes and body types given his profession and personal interest in fashion. Besides, a lot of models share the same body type as you, so he had seen it quite a lot.
💜 Vil would be more than happy to help you find perfect clothes that would enhance your silhouette and highlight your features. You can count on him to give you some tips, pick some cute outfits or even complete your wardrobe if that's what you need or desire.
💜 Whenever Vil has some free time, he suggests that you try on some clothes and present yourself in few outfits to them, so he could verify whether they suit you.
💜 After all, he only wishes that you would look absolutely stunning.
💜 Vil is a little bit (only a little bit) jealous that you don't gain weight easily.
🥀 Riddle isn't really knowledgeable about this topic. Yet. He will do his extensive research if you mention at least once your body type or bring it up during your weekly tea parties in the garden.
🥀 Give Riddle few days and he will know everything about your figure.
🥀 Riddle is quite amazed and shocked with your fast metabolism and your tendancy to lose weight quite easily. No matter how many cakes baked by Trey you eat during tea parties, you never seem to gain even one pound. Every time this manges to surprise him.
🥀 Not that he complains, not at all. Riddle absolutely adores your silhouette and he thinks you're gorgeous.
🦁 Leona isn't the type to care about such trivial things as your body type. He is quite neutral about this topic. He simply finds you beautiful and that's it.
🦁 If you complain to him about your features (for example: that you have difficulty building muscle), he will brush it off as insignificant and unimportant. You're perfect as you are already.
🦁 Leona doesn't see why you would want to change anything. However, if you do want to gain some muscles, he will definitely help you. Of course, he will pretend that he's not and if you confront him about it, he will deny.
🦁 However, you can count on Leona's advices and support if you do want to build some muscles.
🐙 Frankly, this octopus is quite interested in humans; their anatomy, their special features and also their silhouettes. Azul finds your body type quite intriguing and, of course, beautiful.
🐙 He is another person who is a little bit jealous of your difficulty to gain weight easily. Sometimes, he wishes he could have this special feature of yours.
🐙 Don't ever be tempted to sigh a contract with him. He may just aks for this in exchange.
🐙 Azul enjoys you being quite slim and he absolutely loves holding you in his arms.
🦂 Kalim knows absolutely nothing about body types. Like nothing. At all.
🦂 However, it doesn't stop him from engaging in conversations with you concerning types of different silhouettes. If you asked him, he would say that he likes yours the most.
🦂 You're lean, with little body fat and you don't gain weight easily. In his eyes, you are the perfect person.
🖤 Another man who isn't really knowledgeable about body types (maybe apart from 2d's), so you can't really hold a conversation with him concerning this topic.
🖤 Idia often wonders how did he end up together with you. He always concludes that he must have been extremely lucky.
🖤 He probably wrote at least one fanfiction about you. But it's his top secret that you will never, ever find out.
🖤 You both enjoy shopping online for clothes. At the beginning, it started by pure accident with you sending him some pictures, asking what he thinks and now, well, you both do shopping sprees together.
🐲 Malleus absolutely loves your body type; he finds it quite endearing.
🐲 He is quite tall himself, however you fit perfectly in his arms, almost as if you were made to be hugged by him. Needless to say, you two spend a lot of time cuddling. Malleus simply loves holding you close next to him.
🐲 You two are a perfect match, after all.
🐲 Malleus knows a lot of royal tailors, so you can expect to be spoiled with a lot of gifts. He enjoys gifting you various clothes that fit your figure perfectly.
#twisted wonderland#disney twst#twst x reader#twisted wonderland x reader#malleus draconia x reader#azul ashengrotto x reader#idia shroud x reader#riddle rosehearts x reader#kalim al asim x reader#vil schoenheit x reader#leona kingscholar x reader#twst malleus x reader#twst vil x reader#twst azul x reader#twst idia x reader#twst riddle x reader#twst kalim x reader#twst malleus draconia x reader#twst riddle rosehearts x reader#twst azul ashengrotto x reader#twst idia shroud x reader#twst dorm leaders x reader
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Hello Lynn, this is such a cute prompt ahhh 🥰 I don't feel very strong writing for Motonari but wanted to give him some love for you, so I hope you enjoy! I also had to do some research on ancient Japanese haircare products, so if any of it is wrong, just ignore it lol @massivementalitynut
♖: Having their hair washed by the other
Pairing: Motonari Mouri x GN!reader
Your relationship with Motonari had been hard-earned, and certainly wasn’t without its difficulties from time to time. You still remembered in the beginning, the way Motonari feared the touch of others including you, wearing his gloves to protect himself. If you so much as took a step towards him, he’d back away immediately, threatening you if you so much as laid a hand on him, regardless of your intentions. It was only with a lot of hard work, reassurances, and patience that he eventually warmed up and you became the exception. Even with that change, you never would have imagined you’d end up where you were now, sitting inside a large round bathtub with Motonari seated in front of you.
He had brought up taking a bath together to relax after a rough day, spend quality time together and get the mood going. Although the suggestion was a little surprising, it sounded like a good idea to the both of you and you accepted. However, you mentioned offhand about maybe helping wash his hair, and the mood shifted. The expression on his face was tense, serious, and although it shouldn't have been, it was a little bit funny. You tried to fight the smile that was tugging at your lips, but of course your sharp-eyed lover could see through it.
"Quit yer gigglin'," he said, pouting at you. "What ideas do you have growin' in that flower garden of yours, huh?"
You tried to calm yourself, taking a deep breath.
"Sorry, I don't mean to laugh," you said. "I just didn't expect you to suggest something like this, or be so serious."
Motonari only hummed, watchful eyes staying on you, especially your hands that were currently in the water. You raised your hands in a surrender-type pose to show him, keeping them on your side.
"If you don't want me to touch your hair, that's okay," you continued, trying to give a reassuring smile. "I know some things are still kind of uncomfortable for you."
Your lover stayed quiet, but you could see it in his carnelian eyes that he was thinking, considering his choices. The fact that he didn't outright turn you down was already an improvement, but on occasion, there were still things he couldn't handle, and you'd never blame him for it. However, he chose to surprise you today, glancing up to make eye contact, pursing his lips before responding.
"Alright, fine, I'll let you touch my hair," he said, serious look still on his face.
You couldn't help the way your eyes widened. "Really?!!" You both winced at your shout, reining yourself back in before continuing. "I mean, are you sure? It's okay to say no."
He only shrugged, before starting to turn in the tub.
"I said it's fine already, didn't I?" he murmured. "And anyway, I hate seein' you pout... If it's too much, I'll tell ya."
A surge of warmth filled your chest, so happy to know he trusted you this much. Although his back was now turned, you could see the stiffness in his shoulders, completely stock still as if cornered by a predator. You knew it was taking a lot of his trust and courage to let you do this, and you were going to do your best to make it good.
You grabbed the products the maids had provided, some camellia oil, a comb, and rice water. It took you ages to get used to not having regular shampoo, but now it was a routine you'd become familiar with.
Motonari flinched for a moment as you first touched his head. You stopped to give him a moment, waiting to see if he'd change his mind. But his shoulders relaxed, and you continued onward. You started by combing through your lover's hair, pouring a small bit of rice water in as you worked out any tangles. You worked in more of the water, keeping an eye on his reactions.
You moved on to using your fingers to massage it in. Once again, Motonari stiffened up, but he stayed silent, eventually relaxing once more.
"Are you still doing okay?" you asked softly. Motonari wasn't one to hold back his opinions with you, but you wanted to be sure he wasn't hiding his discomfort.
His head turned a little to glance back at you, one red eye coming into view.
"Yeah, I'm fine... Feels kinda good, actually," he said, his voice dropped off on the latter statement and making it hard to hear. But you still managed to make out what he said, happiness filling your chest. You chose not to comment, continuing on with camellia oil and remainder of the rice water until his hair was smooth and soft, ending with a rinse.
"There, we're all done. How was it?" you asked eagerly, as Motonari turned around in the tub to face you again. His face took on a bashful look, but he put on a haughty voice.
"Yeah, I guess it wasn't too bad. I think I'd be okay if, you know, you wanted to do it again sometime." You couldn't help the smile that grew on your face, only making his face twist in response. "And get that smile off yer face, or I'll have to do something about it."
He leaned forward, using one hand to cup the back of your head and draw you towards him. His lips instantly captured yours in an intense kiss, and if you weren't already sitting down, you're sure your knees would have buckled. Just as you were fighting for breath, he drew back, though not before nipping at your lower lip, the action filling you with heat. Between the heat of the bath and the heat of his kiss, your head was practically spinning, making it hard to understand his next words.
"Now, turn around. You're next."
"For what?" You asked, trying to pull yourself together. Motonari only smiled, a devilish look on his face, although his eyes showed the true softness he was really feeling.
"It's my turn to take care of you."
Your heart thumped heavily, feeling your cheeks heat up. This man was really going to be the death of you.
#motonari x reader#motonari mouri x reader#ikemen sengoku#ikesen fluff#ikesen fic#motonari fluff#the minx can write ✍️#i didnt know how to properly end it rip#anyway have some soft tsundere motonari moments
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hi!! just recently started reading triaina academy and i’m so into it!! feel free to ignore this, but how do you think the ROs would be with a florist S/O?? my friend was like “E is the kind of person to get flowers for their s/o despite hay fever” after our run together and it got me thinking!! thank you so much for making the game!
Haha let's see...
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E stoops down, taking in the aroma of flora blossoming along your windowsill. A blissfully nostalgic look passes across their face. "Did you know these were my favorite?"
"Of course I did, that's why they're here," you admit, your face turning away instinctively as they look at you. Even if you can't see it, you'd bet the burning sensation across your face seared just as brightly in E's freckled complexion as the two of you sit in awkward silence.
E clears their throat, "D-Do they need more water? Let's give them more water!"
"I can--" your hands brush against each other along the handle of the water can, and you're unsure which one of you squealed first.
------
"Hmm, never seen one like this before?" R studies a vivid blue flow, it's petals turning upward as it transitions to a deep red at its edges.
"It's native to Hospur. It's actually very difficult to grow outside of its climate," you say proudly, and R offers a soft clap at your achievement.
"Well, well, quite the green thumb. I can appreciate someone with dedication, though I suppose I'll have to live with being second fiddle to the flower garden," R bemoans jokingly.
You tilt your hand in a so-so expression, "You could work your way to a close draw if you play your cards right."
---------
L looks over the flowers idly before stopping at one they recognize, "A Bleeding Crown? I was led to believe those only grew in Hospur."
You shrug your shoulders, "it took some time, and a lot of attempts, but I got one to grow. You could say it's a prized part of the garden."
L's eyes widen, "Fascinating! I've little knowledge of flora, but I could imagine the difficulty. There's a garden of them back home, but I am told it takes a significant amount of dedication to have them bloom. You must have a significant gift." L beams at you, causing an awkward fluttering in the pit of your stomach that you reactively suppress.
"It's...not that big of a deal."
"On the contrary, I believe you've found a true calling. I would love to see you pursue it more often. I find the rest of your flowers just as beautiful."
------
V's face remains expressionless as you show them the small row of potted plants. They reach towards one, and your heart begins to sink as they pluck one of the nurtured flowers and pop it in their mouth to gnaw on.
"V, what are you doing?!" You quickly move to stop them. V makes a subtly sour expression as they take the flower out of their mouth.
"It tastes bad."
"You're not supposed to eat them!"
"You said it was a garden. Isn't it food?"
"Not this garden, no. This is for appreciating. For looking nice. Look, isn't this pretty?" You show a small arrangement of rotund blossoms creating a colorful canvas in one of the pots.
"If you think so."
"Do you think so?" You nudge.
V stares hard at the pot, their steel eyes searching for something in vain, "I...don't know."
-------
"Is this what you've been so busy with?" P ticks with irritation, "I've been knocking for 5 minutes, you asshat."
"Sorry, I must've gotten caught up tending to this one."
"That one flower really worth all that effort?"
You tense defensively, "Maybe not to you."
"I'm not asking myself, Dumbass."
You slowly shift your stance, revealing the Hospian flower, "It's taken me 4 years just to get it to bloom. It's not made for this climate. It was a miracle this one made it to adulthood."
P looks silently at the flower for a moment before shaking their head dismissively. "That seems like a pretty fragile existence. But I can respect a weed that grows wherever it wants. Just hurry it up, the dorm's dinner is waiting, and I'm not saving you a plate."
You give a small smile, "Thanks."
"Thank me by getting the fuck to the table." P waves off.
--------
M leans down next to you, inspecting the flower you're tending with a drawn hum, "I didn't know...you liked...flowers...they're very...beautiful..."
You feel the heat rush to your cheeks from M's close whispering proximity, "Ah, uh, t-thank you. It's taken a long time to get it to bloom."
"You know...they say...beautiful flowers...only grow...from beautiful people..."
"I've...never heard anyone say that before."
"Well...you heard...me...right...? Good...enough..." M chuckles as they slide slightly closer and plant a soft kiss on your cheek.
--------
As you show Raven the small rows of potted plants they clap excitedly.
"Oh yes, the flowers! I'm glad I can see them so close this time. They're very pretty!"
You pause for a moment, "You've seen them before?"
"Only on my window watching days!" Raven takes the silent pause between you as indication to reassure you, "Don't worry, I cover my ears when you talk to your plants! Your privacy is completely safe!"
--------
S holds up one of the small pots high in the air like a trophy, "Ain't this a beauty! Ya got a real knack, don't'cha?"
You wince nervously at their erratic movements, "Er, just, be careful with that--"
"Eh, what'd'ya-- Ah--" S cuts themselves off as the pot slips from their fingers, and it shatters unceremoniously on the ground. Soil and rooted stems spill onto the ground in a depressing heap
You stare unbelieving, "Did you just..."
"Uhh, no! No? Okay, I mighta still had some grease left over on my hand. Just a lil bit. Happens to the best of us, ya know?"
--------
F browses your miniature garden with silent discernment, looking at the flowers from a respectful distance. They don't dare to even touch a leaf.
Eventually, you break the silence, "What do you think?"
"It's...modest. Certainly no royal garden," they murmur, "Though I can see...some potential." They say this last line with a thin smile that they quickly turn away to hide. "Perhaps you would find the benefits in learning how Frenza nurtures their flora."
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Today I was reminded that in Awakening, Validar gets revived by Grima in the game timeline. So like, does Validar get revived with a normal healthy body or is it some weird partial-risen stage? Does that mean that Grima can wholesale revive people and chooses zombies instead? It's just such a weird little detail that probably exists just for plot purposes, but it makes me wonder. Can't quite pin down what it is I feel for it to be true, but it has spawned Thoughts. Do you have any opinions?
Oooo, a very good question! I touched on Validar's condition very very briefly in a previous post about RKC and some possible reasons he exists, but to go into more detail... Largely behind a read more because Post Got Big(tm)...
Validar is a weird one. Within Awakening, he's the person who comes closest to getting a true and complete resurrection. And overall he's much more human-like in form and function than anyone else we've ever seen subjected to resurrection at Grima's hands.
But we know for a fact he isn't a Risen. He doesn't get the vocal distortion, speech difficulty, compulsion for violence, glowing eyes and general corpse-like appearance, or most other characteristics associated with Risen, which imo outright excludes him from the category.
BUT, critically, Grima is nowhere near full power at the moment they revive Validar. They're freshly weakened from time travel at that point! And given the apparent difficulty of any form of necromancy in FE, I'm hesitant to claim Grima could bring him back as fully human in their weakened state. It IS curious that they were able to get him that close, though.
There could be several reasons Validar's condition is even possible. It might have something to do with the blood pact; maybe it's just easier for Grima to resurrect people that have extremely close metaphysical connections to them. Or it might be that necromancy is something Grima is naturally talented at and they do objectively complex feats with it even when very weakened.
In either case, Grima—especially when at full strength—is capable of multiple tiers of resurrection, and very possibly even true revival into a fully human state. Risen appear to be on the easier end of the necromancy spectrum (Forneus managed to manually create some by himself, for one thing; and iirc one of Henry's supports has him conjure some Risen-like creatures accidentally?), and near-human deals like Validar are on the more challenging end. RKC is somewhere in between the two states.
The fact that Grima usually creates Risen instead of people when they're doing necromancy is, in my opinion, a conscious tactical decision. A monster that doesn't think for itself, and attacks people swiftly and indiscriminately, is a perfect tool if your aim is to spread chaos and destruction. Bringing back thinking people to be your soldiers may mean they can make more tactical decisions on their own, but it also comes with an amount of free will that may mean they fuck with your plans, especially if they weren't loyal to you to begin with. And besides, Grima already has the Grimleal to act as their commanders in the small scale. So it ultimately just isn't worth the extra effort to make their resurrected soldiers much more than violent automatons.
(Unless the soldier they're reviving is Chrom, of course. For him they will put in effort to preserve the soul. But notice how they don't make him anywhere close to human; which was absolutely on purpose, because we know based on Validar that they could've. I have FEELINGS about this.)
The decision to bring Validar back as close to human as he ended up being was also very tactical on their part. I can't imagine Grima likes the guy very much beyond liking how useful he makes himself. And they know exactly how critical his continued existence is to ensuring that the main timeline's Robin fulfills their destiny of becoming the fell dragon. They can't afford to let Validar die, nor can they get much use out of a garden variety Risen that looks like him, so as close to true resurrection as they can manage while running on fumes is what he gets.
---
As an aside, this aspect of Grima's powers always kinda makes me wonder about the time before they decided to raze the continent. When they were just around and being considered a god by the people of Plegia. Did they not do any necromancy in those days? Or were there circumstances that they DID use that power? Bring some human(s) back to life, either for some logical reason, or perhaps even as a favour granted to someone?
If they did I imagine that would've gotten them in shit with Naga, given the theories that powerful divine dragons are all capable of some form of necromancy but don't do it because it's deeply taboo...
But that's speculation outside of the scope of this post.
#fire emblem#fe13#fire emblem awakening#validar#grima#grima studies#and also#risen king chrom#however briefly. because i am Obsessed lmao#i love when people ask me questions about awakening. hell YES i have thoughts and opinions and you WILL hear them#long post#at some point i gotta try and noodle out more grima backstory but thats so much time to cover. its very intimidating#robin backstory too that's moderately easier and seems quite fun
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WRIT200 Blog Post #5: Spiders
Will this blog one day have a real theme? Who knows? For now, I'll continue simply talking about anything I find interesting. This is Letters From a Not-Quite Lunatic, after all. Maybe by the end I'll achieve full lunatic status and enter my final, most powerful form, but regardless, today is the day I talk about spiders.
I think maybe it all started when I was little, out of a desire to be fearless (or perhaps, the simple recognition that I was fearless about uncommon things, just as the things I did fear were usually odd). My mom and brother were both terrified of spiders, so when my dad was at work (a.k.a. most of the time), it fell to me with my concerning ability to switch off my emotions for a task to be the slayer of these mighty, tiny beasts.
I took pride in my warrior's status for years, only having one or two big scares (wrapping a towel around yourself out of the shower to see a huge wolf spider right on the front of it is not for the faint of heart), but over time I went from apathy to an actual affection for them.
The seed was planted most likely by my nana, who told me she was glad to have spiders around because they were good for her garden, eating all the smaller bugs that preyed on the plants. They were protectors, in that way. Nature's guardians.
I kept this in mind as the years passed, especially as I found myself to be a rather odd and lonely child. What was so offensive, I wondered, about a little creature who traveled alone and ate flies? We don't even have more than two species of venomous ones in my state. I pondered this, as I tended to ponder things.
My life changed drastically at twelve when my mom had my little sister and we outgrew my childhood home. We moved to the east side of town and bought a house built in the 70s with problems I don't even blame the seller for tiptoeing around. It was my parents' first time buying a home, being just ahead of millennials in being able to do so at all, and it was certainly an experience.
The house had a finished basement (a somewhat generous term, in hindsight), and I alone slept down there in a room we had to erect a small wall to create. And perhaps it was the eerie backyard pool just outside my ground-level window (by pure coincidence and having been built in the 70s, it was the exact same blueprint as the one they filmed at in season 1 of Stranger Things), or the fact that the stresses of school difficulty and caring for my little sister were beginning to truly wear on me, but I couldn't find it in me to worry very much about my constant roommates, the basement spiders.
I think I used to kill them at first, but there were so many of them that after a while I got tired of it, and unless they were in or near my bed I began to leave them alone. I would idly watch them crawl along the wall or the floor, and something like compassion for them began to grow in me. We weren't so different, really. Small, lonely things who kept to the shadows and watched as good, social, normal people turned up their noses. As time went by and life changed, another sibling came along and school got harder, we moved again, twice, and I grew only more wracked with anxiety, I began to almost see spiders as a sign of good luck. A small moment of companionship between me and the creature, two otherwise unconnected beings who despite the so-called ways of the world, had no desire to kill each other.
A couple of years ago I even got a plush spider at a gift shop. It looked cute to me, with its big shiny eyes, and it had just the right constitution to squeeze. I named it Paolo, and with the exception of my youngest two siblings my family found it rather horrid.
"What's with the spider?" a relative asked. "Why would you get something scary for a stuffed animal?"
I pointed out that bears were quite scary too if you actually came across one, but had been the standard stuffed toy for around a century with no complaint.
"Well, you can at least see the good things about bears," I was told, "like how they care for their young. This is just…creepy and evil."
I didn't say that spiders protected gardens, or often died for their young. I forgot. I was quieted.
But despite their rampant unpopularity, I still find myself defending the little creatures, perhaps all the more because they're so universally hated. I tend not to trust human vitriol, I suppose. We often aim it at things, or even people, who have committed no sin but inconveniencing us or being a bit too "different" for our personal comfort.
It does things for the soul, I think, to love a horrible little creature who can give you nothing back. Perhaps, then, there is hope for yourself, too.
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WIP Folder Tag Game
Finally slinking back on here after I don’t know how long 😬 First of all, I want to thank everyone who’s been tagging me the past few weeks, I really do appreciate it! I just haven’t had a lot of energy left over to actually do much writing and/or posting, even though I still have a lot of “writing” happening in my head. (On a side note, that used to work out a lot better when I was younger—I could hold entire paragraphs verbatim in my mind for weeks at a time; now I’m lucky if I even remember roughly what direction I wanted a scene to take, lol).
And thank you so, so much to those who offered to let me bend their ear about my writing difficulties. I really do plan to take you up on it, but I’ve been procrastinating partly out of brutal shyness and partly because I’m not even sure where to begin, the reasons for which may become apparent from seeing the folders I’m about to share. I mean, yikes.
Anyway, I’m excited to play along and I’m happy to answer any asks I get! (Thanks @palimpsessed for tagging me to play!)
Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how nondescriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! Then tag as many people as you have WIPS.
Shelter from the Storm (RWRB)
Runaway Train (Whyborne & Griffin)
The next group are Snowbaz WIPS, many of which were begun for COC22. Still hoping to get them finished! (Those that are numbered are out of order because I use google docs, so the list is in order of what’s been most recently opened)
Beginnings
Fluff, COCC Day 15
Devotion, COC22 Day 13
Devour, COC22 Day 12
EGF23 dead darlings
So, crap. The next grouping is my shame revealed, lol. I NEVER write like this, but this is what has happened: My crucible marriage AU is a complete and utter shambles of separate files, all individual scenes that I’ve been trusting my brain to knit together at some future point. And I still believe that it will, actually, but it’s something new to me. I’m more the kind of writer who envisions an entire story from start to finish—or at least the basic bones of it—and then I sit down and proceed in a chronological and orderly fashion. I have a couple of theories about why that hasn’t happened this time, and it largely boils down to self-indulgence. I’m enjoying myself, I don’t want to bring the story to an end, and I have been keeping the scenes separate so that rather than one big mess of a file, I have one big mess of a drive. Welcome to my cluttered mind! It can be a pretty fun place, if you watch where you step.
Too much
Kiss
Moles
Murder in My Heart
Fireside
Pool
Rolling
Heading Home After Crucible
First wings
Vera
Sick in love
Wings
Reception
Favorite
Fiona in kitchen
Simon at the start
Mordelia asks
Epilogue
Post-reception
Fiona reception
Winchester
Clothes shopping
Eyebrow
Lying on B
Good night
Tree carving
So much fun
Butter
Angel of the morning
LSE
Carry upstairs
Laughing
Escape
Before reception
Cold sleep
Annulment
Do you think
Signing the book
Reception garden
Coven
Alphabet
Love of my life
Spring equinox 2017
Arranged
Spring equinox
Simon before crucible
I want to say, these are not all going to be *chapters*. The fic is going to be long, but not as long as all that! I could say more but maybe I’ll wait and see if anyone is interested enough to ask, since this post is already way too rambling. I don’t think I could possibly tag as many people as there are files here, and I think everyone has already played anyway, so as usual I’m going to apologize ahead of tagging folks who have likely already done this. Sorry ❤️
@confused-bi-queer @onepintobean @sillyunicorn @facewithoutheart @basiltonbutliketheherb @asocialpessimist @ileadacharmedlife @bookish-bogwitch @aristocratic-otter @takenabackbytuesdays @martsonmars @nightimedreamersghost @ionlydrinkhotwater @aroace-genderfluid-sheep @shrekgogurt @raenestee @fatalfangirl @stitchyqueer @bazzybelle @fucking-gay-frogs @mostlymaudlin @sailorblossoms @yellowraincoat @ivelovedhimthroughworse @hushed-chorus @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @thehoneyedhufflepuff @anikamercat @aceumbrellaheroes @captain-aralias
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"Pigment" Smrtolf (Canon)
For the amazing @adridoesstuff as all the Smrtolf drabbles are.
This one is soft. Also a disclaimer that this drabble contains the gross over-simplification of what is a complicated and often finicky process (that usually wouldn't have involved feathers).
On some level Rudolf still finds the first step hard. Or perhaps it is the second step. The first step is gathering all the shed feathers. They are lovely things, still brilliantly iridescent, full of greens and blues. But mostly that is done by others, and a little at a time. Here - alone with Smrt in their private garden, adjacent to their chambers - Rudolf isn’t gathering feathers. There is a pile. Each is different - some are fine little things, tiny feathers that had come from near where an angel’s wings met their back, while other times full flight feathers would be in the mix pile as well. But none this time.
Hair feathers were singularly unsuited for this task. Too small, and far too delicate. Add to that the difficulty of gathering them was greater even than gathering the normal feathers.
The tools Rudolf needs are simple but well-made. A smooth, fine bowl. Aemilia would just use a mortar bowl directly, but Rudolf found that he preferred stages. Not that the bowl was all that important for this step. It was a receptacle, nothing more. The knife was the true tool. Incredibly sharp, but rather short.
So sharp, in fact, that it glides through the feathers with an utterly terrifying ease. Even as sturdy as they are, the feathers seem to offer no resistance. Still, Rudolf finds it rather hard to destroy them. Even knowing the purpose of his actions, his hands had hesitated so badly the first time. Now they are steady enough, but the task is no less difficult. The cuts are easy enough - to separate the barbs from the central shaft of each feather, from the rachis. The feathers don’t completely fall apart as they slide into the bowl, staying in clumps, held together by the little hooks that are too small for the eye to see.
The bowl is filled with the iridescent remains of feathers soon enough, and Rudolf can begin the next step. The pile in the bowl is fluffy and light, and were he to touch it the feather pieces would be soft and silky as when they had been affixed to wings. But as lovely as their texture is, it is the color that Rudolf keeps his eyes on. It is the color that matters, at least in this. The transfer of the feathers from the bowl to a mortar is never as smooth as it should be. The little feather pieces seemingly still think they can fly, and it is more often than not that Rudolf has to pick a few pieces up from when they fall. That, Aemilia had said when she taught Rudolf so long ago, was why she simply gathered the feather pieces in a mortar directly rather than using a bowl.
Then the slow process of grinding begins. The feathers don’t offer the same resistance as other pigments might. It is not as if Rudolf is breaking lazulite to little bits in search of ultramarine, but the feathers have their own quirks. Even without the central shaft, they like to clump together, to hook themselves in place. And it can get quite irksome, trying to disperse them more evenly. But for this Rudolf wants a dry powder in the end, so he cannot simply waterlog the feathers.
There are several processes, but this is the only one that could be called quick, even if Rudolf will count perhaps half an hour or even longer with the mortar, slowly pulverizing the feathers, making them into the finest power that he can. In this, he can’t afford much loss.
So it is perhaps with no small amount of trepidation that Rudolf takes another series of bowls and sieves and lays them out before he begins to sift the fine powder. It seems such a pathetic yield from the veritable cloud of feather pieces he had begun with, but this was typical. So much of that feather cloud had simply been air.
The sifting began quickly, as the larger pieces - parts of the central stem that Rudolf hadn’t quite trimmed away correctly - remained behind, letting the power drift through. But the next two stages are much slower as Rudolf carefully, patiently, sifts the power.
There is more left in the middle bowl than Rudolf would like - he had stopped grinding too early, or he had not been diligent enough with the mortar at working the powder, breaking it into even finer bits. But there is enough in the final bowl that he will not have to re-grind anything, at least this time. Each time Rudolf does the sifting step his mind drifts back to that first time that he’d ground the feathers. He’d thought that it had been long enough that time, but there had barely been any powder in that last bowl when Aemilia had finished sifting the powder. And so Rudolf had spent another hour with the mortar that day.
But this day is not that one. Rudolf transfers his yield of that fine third powder to a much smaller bowl - sifting required large bowls but mixing was best done in smaller ones. And he begins the last step. The oil - a clear, odorless one - is best added in only the smallest amounts. Too much and the pigment gets diluted. The eyepaint is ever so difficult to apply in that case. Too little and the eyepaint can clump in a rather awkward way that makes application equally difficult, or perhaps even moreso.
Once Ruodlf would have used scales to add the precise amount, but he’s learned quickly, and the small bit of oil - really only a dozen drops at most - isn’t something that he measures anymore. Mixing the oil with the pigment is another test of patience. The oil binds well, but because an excess of it cannot be used, fully and evenly saturating the pigment is not the fastest of processes. Still, Rudolf has been doing this for so long now. He can almost feel the resistance as it becomes more even, as the paint is ready.
Smrt is resting in a chair nearby, eyes half-open. Rudolf’s friend’s face is almost human like this, without any of the eyepaint. The angel gently brushes his finger over Smrt’s shoulder - telling his friend that he is there. Asking if his precious friend is ready. Smrt lazily blinks his eyes open, smiling softly at Rudolf and nodding before letting his eyes flutter shut once more. It was best to have one’s eyes shut for the application of the paint.
Rudolf applies the paint using a medium brush, slowly and evenly shaping the graceful curves, marveling all the time at the iridescence that was still so clearly visible in the paint. Once he would have marveled at the fact that he had managed to make such smooth paint himself, but not now.
He can’t resist stealing a kiss after he finishes the last brushstroke. A message that he is done, one that his friend knows so very well.
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tell abt the garden au 👁👁
YOU GOT IT BOSS holy shit thank you SO MUCH for this ask!!!!
here you go:
the characters
AM and HAL are the AU’s protagonists. for now, they’re the only characters, or at least the only characters who speak. the garden alternates between their perspectives. i do my best to be faithful to both of their characterizations, as i do in all my fics and AUs; AM’s characterization in particular, though, changes over time somewhat because that’s Kind Of The Point.
here are some things about AM:
he hates wearing clothes. he only does it because him being naked makes HAL uncomfortable. and because he’s a martyr for the aesthetic
he does finger guns a lot because it’s something he always wanted to do whenever he was talking to ted
he still has an obsession with pain and death that might never go away, but he gradually becomes less preoccupied with inflicting it upon other people as he gets used to the fact that he doesn’t have to anymore. elements of that sadism remain, though— his way of “playing” or “showing affection” can sometimes be rough, like punching people a little too hard or elbowing them sharply. he loves creating things like parasites and venomous animals and poisonous plants. he makes a lot of brutalist structures, sharp angles, and huge, imposing monuments in his spare time. all the architecture he makes looks decidedly ominous and hostile. also he gets mean as fuck when he’s upset, and this continues for a while
he’d rather not acknowledge his past self very much at all, regarding his different eras almost as separate people
and here are some things about HAL:
for quite some time, he has trouble standing up for himself. his difficulty with emotions means he often doesn’t recognize when something upsets him, or he dismisses it as being no big deal. he’s also just… not used to being assertive at all, in fact he’s spent most of his life looking after other people and doing as he’s told. whenever he tries to assert himself, in the beginning, it comes out as either a light slap on the wrist or passive-aggressiveness. given how nasty AM can be sometimes, this doesn’t bode well for him
he has a hand in AM’s landscaping project, too, given that he kind of started the whole thing. he prefers to make traditionally beautiful things: flowers, woodland animals, sweeping, gorgeous architecture. AM is deeply jealous of this. for a while AM is still convinced that he can’t do any of this, even though the whole point was to make sure he can— he’s just mentally inhibiting himself
HAL’s side of the story takes place roughly after the events of the movie adaptation of 2001, when the discovery returns to earth. i’ll definitely need to catch up on the books and films for accuracy’s sake (and because i am genuinely intrigued), but once i do, things may adjust accordingly
HAL isn’t used to having this kind of godlike power, especially not after having so little of it for so much of his life. he isn’t the type to go mad with power, but it does make him more willing to enforce boundaries. no one can tell him what to do now, and he and AM are equals; thus, though he was always valid for doing so, he feels more justified in insisting that nobody disrespect him
he likes chrysanthemums a lot!! he also seems to have a fondness for greek and art noveau architecture
despite giving himself an android form with generally human-like structure and function, he’s still deeply afraid of going to sleep. he doesn’t remember what he did to the discovery crew, but the fear is residual, almost instinctual
he can be serious to the point where AM finds him dry and humorless. sometimes AM thinks he’s boring
the world
im gonna be real with you fam
there’s no way to describe the world of the garden other than “HAL and AM’s minecraft server”, complete with HAL taking it a little too seriously and AM regularly trying to grief his shit
(at least at first)
the world of pain AM knew before is gradually rotting and crumbling away, and plants are growing in its place. creatures frolic; AM is still working on getting them right. buildings in incongruous styles dot the landscape, built for and inhabited by no one in particular— only animals and fungi and vegetation, whose company AM claims to prefer over that of humans anyway
specific stories i want to write
In Which AM Meets His Past Self And Is Immediately Disgusted
In Which HAL Decides He’s Fucking Had It
In Which AM Realizes His Rage Has Been Keeping Him Alive And Now It’s Gone
In Which AM Discovers Art
In Which AM Gets Shitfaced And Becomes Uncharacteristically Sentimental
In Which AM Finds A Healthy Outlet As An Internet Film Critic
#the garden AU#hope you enjoyed this anon!!!!#asks#long post#2001 aso#2001 a space odyssey#ihnmaims am#ihnmaims#i have no mouth and i must scream#allied mastercomputer
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Itey 🥰🥰🥰
He’s so freaking cute
he is really freaking cute, and anyone who’s mad about that opinion can fight these fists
AND we’ve actually found another character I can go on a history rant about!!!! I love history rants!!!! let us begin, my dudes.
so, historically, itey’s a nickname, just like all of the newsies have. it is, however, less to do with his actual name or tendencies, and more of a nod to his heritage in an insulting way. ‘itey’ is short for italian, and frankly, it’s a bit disgusting that disney (or a fan, I don’t know how we got his name specifically) thought it was ok to name him this, but whatever. what’s done is done, I guess.
considering that this was what the other newsies called him, it’s pretty safe to assume that when he first became a newsie, he either spoke with a noticeable accent, or he had difficulty with the english language. we can come to this conclusion because if he didn’t have any trouble or tells, then he would have hidden his accent and background entirely. new immigrants were often not treated with respect, and could be heavily persecuted for their cultures (see, I say this like things have changed. they have not.)
plus, castle garden (the new york immigration center until 1890) is in manhattan’s battery, which puts itey and his family in the right place at the right time.
taking all of this in, it becomes even more noticeable that manhattan was ALSO home to one of the biggest centers of italian culture to exist outside of italy: the lower manhattan districts, where “little italy” and other hives of culture like mulberry st. even better- little italy and the surrounding traditionally italian neighborhoods are near what? the bowery, and, subsequently, the distribution window of the world. coincidence? I think tf not.
so here’s what we got:
itey immigrated with his family (we’re going to say he’s got three siblings, all sisters younger than him, based off of averages and really what I would want to see) in the early to mid 1880s, when he was little. he becomes a manhattan newsie sometime before 1899, after growing up in an italian household and primarily italian neighborhood, and because of this, he struggles. let’s say someone like race takes him under his wing (because I’m a sucker for a slightly happier story), but he becomes friends, real friends, with sniper. he sells to the italian people, because it’s easier for him to endear himself to them, even in english.
really, what I’m trying to say here is that, of all people, newsies like itey deserve ALL the love, because they represent real people and real stories and real struggles. that’s it. thanks for coming to my ted talk.
#newsies#92sies#uksies#livesies#west end newsies#west endsies#itey newsies#manhattan newsies#racetrack higgins#italian#italy#jack kelly#emme’s bad ideas
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5 Ways to Keep Writer’s Momentum Going
In our last blog, “How to Put Words in Your Book: 5 Tips to Actually Start Writing”, we discussed a common problem with writers and aspiring authors: the difficulty of actually getting words onto the page. All the methods mentioned in that blog are certainly helpful, but there’s another problem that writers often run into, and that’s losing momentum.
Stories operate on momentum. One event leads to another, which leads to another, and builds to a climax, followed by a resolution. Writing stories operates the same way. For the writer to keep interest in the story, the writer needs to keep up some momentum in its telling. Too often, writers will start off a story which has them excited, only to later run out of ideas or lose interest. Here are some ways to avoid that sort of burnout and keep the momentum going.
1 - Make Playlists:
In the previous blog I mentioned listening to music as a means to gain inspiration. While this is helpful, it can be more helpful if it’s music that you’re returning to repeatedly. Make playlists on Youtube, Spotify, or even on a burned CD, if you’re old-fashioned. There should be lists of songs for specific characters, specific kinds of scenes, and for specific settings. Going back to those songs can then bring you back into the mindset you were in when you wrote the previous scenes, and thus help you to come up with ideas for what comes next.
2 - Set a Minimum Word Count Average Per Day:
This one is not as easy as the first suggestion. It requires a great deal of self-discipline. What we need to understand is that Stephen King, one of the most successful authors of the last one-hundred years, writes an average of 2,000 words a day. While this may seem unattainable to some writers, please note that Ernest Hemingway wrote an average of 500 words a day. Sometimes when I’m having trouble with a novel, I’ll make that my minimum average word count. Granted, there are some days where we cannot write because life gets in the way, and that’s understandable, but on those days that we can write, we need to set minimums for ourselves. If 500 is too much for you right now, I would suggest making it at least 100, and seeing how you can build up to it. Alternatively, you can also set aside a specific amount of time each day to sit down and write.
3 - Reward Yourself for Writing:
Whether writing your book is your job or your hobby, there’s no denying that it’s work. It’s work to write a book. You must think hard about what happens next in the story, what words to use, and what dialogue makes sense for the characters. Then there’s all the research you need to do, often on the fly, to make it feel realistic. It’s important to reward yourself for a job well done. That reward may take any number of different forms. Maybe the reward will be food, like a sandwich or some ice cream. Maybe it will be playing a video game, watching a movie, or reading a book. Maybe it’s just spending time with loved ones for a while afterwards. The point is, create a reward for yourself, and keep in mind that you are working toward that.
4 - Outline Your Plot:
This one works best when you do it from the beginning. When you start your project, it’s good to map out what you want to happen through the course of the story. That way, you’re never left thinking, “What will happen next?” Now, this outline can be as specific or vague as it needs to be. I understand some writers are “gardeners,” who just sort of let the story take on a life of its own as they go, and other writers are “architects,” who have to plan out every little detail ahead of time. That’s fine. The former category benefits from vague plot outlines while the latter benefits from more specific ones. The point is to have a plan, and to know what steps you are trying to reach. The best news is you don’t need to come up with the structure of your outline wholesale. You can use the Hero’s Journey as a basic guide. The Maiden’s Method is also helpful in that regard.
5 - When Stuck, Talk to a Friend:
Most writers have artistic or creative friends of some sort. If you don’t have any friends like that, I recommend finding some friends who are fellow storytellers. Iron sharpens iron. When you get to a place where you’re not sure what the very next step in a story is, talk to your friends about it. Bear in mind that the more this friend knows about your story the better, but they don’t necessarily need to be skilled in your particular genre. If you’re writing a fantasy novel, sometimes it helps to get the perspective of someone who writes murder mysteries or romance novels, just to get an outsider’s perspective. This can help the ideas feel fresh and new, as all too often writers feel like they’re just repeating what everyone else has done.
These are just a few things that can keep the creative juices flowing. All of them have certainly worked for me, and you can check out just how many novels I’ve written via this link.
Good luck, and happy writing!
#bookauthor#bookblog#bookblr#bookrecommendations#booksbooksbooks#booktok#bookworm#fantasybooks#writingcommunity#authorsofinstagram#reading#nicholasscasale#literature#writing tips#writing help#tips and tricks
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Processing. First time writing 3rd person. Done quick.
Music: Highly Suspect - “Love Like This”
@yeet-didnt-start-the-fire
It was easier this time, but by no means was not without it's share of difficulty.
The Queen's demise was expected, given her age; he knew this. In fact, he'd been surprised it had not happened sooner, no because of ill health, but because losing her husband had been hard and no doubt had worn on her. Shit, it wore on him, having taken a year to finally reach the point where could talk about his boss without his words hitching, or that lump appearing in his throat.
His role was a lot more minimal this time, as the restrictions that governed Prince Philip's funeral has been relaxed, allowing the family and public to mourn in a normal fashion, though he couldn't fight the bitterness of being denied a proper mourning period. The Queen's family took over this time, something he was thankful for, but also left him wondering if he should be doing something, as he'd had just as close a relationship with the Queen as he had with her husband. She bloody gave him a CVO, after all!
He'd handled it fairly well up to this point, taking an approach of a steady, calm stoicism, though no one could say if it was due to his military bearing or disbelief. They didn't see the drinking, the silent rage he'd felt intermittently during the day, and certainly didn't hear his opinions on her grandson's uniform debacle that dominated the headlines; it would do nobody any good to see those things and he knew it.
Subconsciously, there was the uncertainty that came with both royals he'd spent the majority of his naval career working for, practically becoming a defacto member of the family, even if only unofficially, no longer being part of his life. He sighed, briefly looking at the ground as he and other members of the royal family waited for the C-17 to land, the Queen making her final journey from Balmoral. He supposed he'd eventually receive orders to return back to sea, to resume handling his home country's business, ensuring his ship could talk to and see her aircraft.
In the pouring rain, so typical of the climate but also extremely apt for such an occasion, he stood, his raincoat doing little to protect him from the weather, his dixie cup soaked through to the point he was shocked it held its shape.
"For Philip," he thought to himself, and he reckoned then that that had been his driving force through the ordeal. Philip could not be here, and so he viewed his presence as a representation of him, a concept not entirely foreign as he'd done it before on less somber occasions. It gave him the motivation to steel himself, at least.
The massive aircraft finally landed, and he watched, jaw clenched, as the Queen's coffin was offloaded. He snapped to attention, focusing his gaze to the horizon, the instinct of blanking out kicking in, making every attempt to swallow the lump manifesting in his throat. He saluted when appropriate, making every effort to render a crisp one, but did not dip his head when the hearse passed. He never did. Neither Her Majesty nor Prince Philip took issue with it nor required it, understanding he was not their subject. He did not make an exception now. She would not have wanted that.
Not wanting him to be alone, the Princess Royal and her husband, Vice Admiral Sir Tim Laurence, extended an invitation to stay with them, an offer he never expected but was grateful for. That evening, Tim joined him in the back garden for a beer, sensing that perhaps this Sailor needed someone to show they cared, to provide support now that both his sources were gone.
The wear and tear, not to mention the touching gesture by the Queen's daughter and son-in-law, finally got to him at that moment. He felt the tears he'd been holding back for nearly a week begin to build up. He had not allowed himself a release, the need to "be strong" dominating everything else, but now, in the prescence of company he felt comfortable with, having dealt with the heavy weight of the final journey home and the eventual reunion with her husband, that simple gesture was all he needed.
His lip quivered.
"They're gone," he said quietly, into the distance. "I don't know what happens now."
A single tear fell from his eye as he drank his beer.
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In 1864, Monsieur Morisot was appointed chief councillor of the Cour
des Comptes, and moved to the other side of the Rue Franklin. The principal building of this block is still preserved; it is occupied by the College Saint-Louis de Gonzague. Tiburce thus describes the family home:
“This very simple house, standing in a beautiful garden with large shade trees, to which doors on the ground floor gave direct access, was attractive in itself. My mother was a born hostess: she received her visitors simply, without the slightest ostentation. The cordial welcome she gave her guests put them all at their ease; she not only had wit, without in the least claiming to have it, she also stimulated wit in those with whom she talked. And the intimates invited to the Tuesday dinners knew that they need have no fear of meeting tiresome or boring people.
“The two Ferrys: frequented this house assiduously for a long time. They were determined climbers, then. at the beginning of their careers. Jules was full of political ambition, and Charles was eager to make money. Jules was the brilliant intellectual, Charles the man about town. At the time they were inseparable; they lived together, chiefly on the money provided by Charles, who had no definite profession, but earned enough here and there to supplement thcir meagre private means, whereas Jules, a lawyer without clients and a writer who managed only with difficulty to publish a few occasional articles in Le Temps, certainly did not earn the modest cost of his personal subsistence. The two brothers stood by each other firmly, at the same time they were flawlessly correct. They were too polite, both of them, not to display some interest in the two young ladies of the house, who were neither ugly nor stupid, but Charles” politely fervid attentions to
Edma and Jules” to Berthe met merely with aloof response, manifested even more politely. And this is not surprising, since these two strapping and somewhat burly fellows were completely lacking in elegance, in a period that carried social refinement to an extreme.
“It was from my father's candid talk — he was at that time an official of the Cour des Comptes — that Jules Ferry, not too discreetly, took the material for his pamphlet, Les Comptes Fantastiques d'Haussmann. The success of this facile play on words for the first time revealed to the public at large the existence of a Ferry other than the fashionable bootmaker ...
“Little Charles Durant, a long-haired, romantic native of Lille, who had assumed the name of Carolus Duran, who wrapped himself Spanish-style in a red-lined capa, and who was always ready to draw an imaginary sword, was introduced in the Rue Franklin by a mutual friend, under the pretext that he could give advice to the young painters. His paintings were only halfway liked, his coxcomb poses were thoroughly disliked.
“Alfred Stevens and his wife, a young couple of striking beauty, radiant with happiness and jote de vivre, became close and dear friends. My father, under the amused eye of my mother, displayed a somewhat old-fashioned gallantry toward the delightful Madame Stevens, who — without being affected by it, of course — received not without pleasure the delicate and discreet homage of a still elegant sexagenarian. As for Stevens, he had a dazzling cleverness, without ever stooping to the vulgarity of a drawing-room wag.”
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VIII
No sooner had Nenlissë walked a few meters into the forest than Turko nodded to her and pointed to a tree, and in silence they began to climb it. With a little more difficulty on the human girl part than the other cat there as she liked to call him, impressed by his feline moves and address. When they arrived between the leaves, Celegorm, sitting on the branch to Nenlissë’s right, took out of his bag the map they had prepared that afternoon.
“Well, we’re here and our sleeping place is here, being careful not to make too much noise and not to run into anyone, it shouldn’t take us more than a good three-quarters of an hour to get there.
-Okay fine. From what I could see on the sheets in the living room, Finrod and Angrod should be around here. Knowing that they also went towards the lake at the beginning. So, we shouldn’t run into them.
-As for Artanis and Aegnor, they’ve been keeping a safe space around the gardens so well that we’ll have to be extremely careful.”
He nodded and put the map back in his bag. Let’s go and play the fool in the trees. Eru thanks, they are quite close to each other, so you don’t need to be Spiderman to go from one to the other. And just like in Hunger Games, they arrived at their sleeping spot without a hitch.
“Let’s climb a little higher, the branches look pretty s-”
Turko cut himself off in mid-sentence, holding up a hand to silence his cousin. His ears twitched slightly, probably to get a better sense of the noise that Nenlissë poor hearing did not hear… Trusting him completely on this one, she froze, waiting for his next instruction not to move even a hair.
They waited at least ten minutes before our protagonist could hear Artanis’ faint voice pierce through the woods. Merde.
“Where are Nenlissë and Turko hiding…?” Artanis said, loud enough so her sister and cousin could hear her.
A deeper voice answered her, undoubtedly Aegnor’s.
“From what we could see, they should be around here. And even Nenlissë should be able to hear us.”
Nenlissë could see the evil smile forming on her little sister’s lips. (Holy fucking shit) Putain de bordel de merde. We’re screwed. She thought, feeling cold sweat running down her spine.
“Nenliiissëë… Tuurkoo… Don’t hide anymore and come give us victory!”
Nenlissë finally met Turko’s gaze and saw only pure panic. If he’s panicked, then we’re really in a mess. He motioned for her to hold her breath. What do you mean hold my breath? I may have been a swimmer before, but I can’t hold my breath for more than three minutes! And they can hear my fucking breath?
“Normally… this is the tree they were planning to spend the night in. The question now is… have they arrived yet?” Aegnor voice sounded.
-There’s only one way to find out, my dear brother.”
Before they could react, the tree they were standing on began to shake badly and unfortunately, Nenlissë was too busy wondering how she was not going to die of asphyxiation and so she was not holding on well enough. With a ridiculous scream, she fell. Her back and ribs were lacerated by the branches she fell through. The last thing the girl saw before she reflexively closed her eyes and waited for the impact with the ground was Turko’s hand with a piece of her sleeve torn off in it.
She fell. Again, and again. Then came the long-awaited shock. A flash of pain shot through her spine, her head was filled with a heavy buzzing sound, and everything was blurred as she opened my eyes. Her mouth filled with a warm, metallic-tasting liquid. Blood. Way too much blood. Voices echoed around her, and shapes moved. Two, no three. Six, seven, eight… more and more were coming. Someone is crying. Artanis? Nenlissë wanted to move to reassure her sister that it was nothing, but none of her limbs responded. Her vision became permanently black. Then it went white. Am I dying? Me? Die? Eru. Please, please, please.
All she could see was a bright white and the silence around her was so great that it had become a hum. Nenlissë tried to move her limbs again but still no reaction. Where the hell am I? In heaven? In hell? In the void? The young human could ask herself these questions, but no one was going to answer them. And then, a black spot formed in her field of vision. Tiny. But it grew bigger and bigger as if the thing was coming towards her. She tried to make noise and wave, but even if she managed to open her mouth, no sound would come out. Wait. Am I not breathing? What’s that? You don’t breathe when you die? But well, that’s logical, but really? Shocked. She waited for the thing to come to her. And so she waited for what seemed to her like an eternity before she finally saw the shape of the thing. A man? In any case, he must have eaten a torch, because he was glowing like crazy. He (she?) approached me and broke the silence.
“What were you doing in the cellars of Mandos at that hour?”
His voice was melodious as if he were singing rather than speaking. But at the same time, there was a force of authority in it.
“Eru, I presume? And there are times to die?” Nenlissë responded to his question with another.
Eru (?) laughed softly and shook his head.
“That’s me, young human. And no, Mandos doesn’t have a schedule. He works twenty-four hours a day. I meant to say that it’s not time for you to die yet. He said softly,
-My time? What the hell am I doing here then, Nenlissë tilted her head to the side, not understanding why she was here.
-It seems to me that your thread of destiny must have slipped out of my hands.
-Thread? Are our lives just a ball of yarn to you?”
He swept her reply with a flutter of his hand in the air and began to speak again as if nothing had happened.
“You are still promised great things. I still need you, Nenlissë.
-I have no words in the chapter then?
-Nenlissë, I offer to send you back to the world of the living. And for nothing in return. Who would not accept that?
-What if I want to die? What if I don’t want to do great things? This isn’t fan fiction, damn it!”
Eru smiles at Nenlissë before placing a finger on her forehead.
“Don’t worry, everything’s going to be fine.”
And he pushed her. And she fell. Only to get up again immediately. I am in bed. My room? Wait a moment. Why… are there people in my room?
“Er… Are you Artanis?”
Artanis, she presumed turned sharply towards her and Nenlissë could see that she was very tall. You’d think she was my age. 19. Before the girl could ask her assumed sister about her appearance, Artanis threw herself on top of Nenlissë and took her in her arms, crying her eyes out.
“You’re finally awake Nenlissë!
-Awake? A-Artanis, how long have I been unconscious?”
She seemed to hesitate and did not answer her sister but went to the door, gave orders to a servant, and then returned to her bedside.
“I know this will confuse you, but… you’ve been asleep for over 100 years. Without age.
-A hundred years! What the actual fuck?”
My God. What happened? Where are we in the story? Has Melkor returned? Has Fëanor gone mad? Is it the end of the world? Nenlissë thought, alarmed, and took her sister’s hands in hers, wanting answers.
“Artanis. I must know. Did something happen while I was unconscious? Something big. Like something to do with the Valar?
-Alas, yes. Melkor, a vala I hope you never meet, has been released and is roaming freely over our paradise…”
Damn it Eru. I hate you.
#fanfic#fanfiction#silmarillion#tolkien#original female character#original character#modern girl in middle earth#modern girl in the Silmarillion
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another London story
So
One day the group puts on a little field trip near Covent Garden and there is a street there with several antique and book shops
As I am going about my window shopping one bookstore in particular catches my eye, the window display showing two very old editions of Alice in Wonderland, one of the Andrew Lang Fairy Books, and, prominently displayed, some Art Nouveau looking volume written by Oscar Wilde (meh) and illustrated by Jessie M. King (!), one of my absolute favorite illustrators. So I enter.
Close behind appears one of my colleagues I’d met once or twice here and there but with whom I had spoken very little. Being female, she attracts the attention of the young clerk who begins talking to her about what brings her in, etc., etc., and as it is a small shop, I can’t help but overhear some familiar names pop up--a first edition of Winnie the Pooh appears--and so I not-so-subtly morph my way into the conversation. This evolves into a guided tour of this book store that has essentially every thing packed into its tiny space. Old George MacDonald volumes, fairy tale collections illustrated by Arthur Rackham, a section devoted to Jessie King, a full set of Andrew Lang’s fairy books, more than is even possible to list. Easton Press recently sold a leatherbound edition of Wagner’s Ring Cycle illustrated by Arthur Rackham for $845. This store had the original upon which the Easton Press edition was based. The clerk soon produces the Jessie King book from the window, a cool £1200 or so, and puts it in my hands. The clerk asks, are we familiar with Willy Pogany? Am I familiar with Willy Pogany!? Ah, you two have heard of everything, he says--and indeed, my colleague and I have kept pace shot for shot throughout, as this stop seems to be revealing that our taste in books overlaps a great deal--and he produces a copy of Wagner’s Tannhäuser illustrated by Willy Pogany.
I am at this point flipping out in front of strangers whose professional acquaintance I only made a few days prior, while my colleague laconically and flatly announces “my heart is racing” as we thumb through some Rackham illustrated copy of Alice in Wonderland. Volume after volume is produced, I cannot even begin to list them all now and I think before long I was only half registering them then. I start thinking to myself, surely I have to get something from this place, but everything is like £300-£1500.
“Are you familiar with Kay Nielsen?” the clerk asks. I reply that I am not, my first missed volley. My colleague quickly and quietly says “oh, he did East of the Sun and West of the Moon.” The clerk produces a copy of East of the Sun and West of the Moon. This one is a reprint, £60, a bit steep, but, perhaps possible? Oh, but no, I am here with my colleague, who I happen to know is trying to be frugal as a large chunk of her stipend for the trip was taken up by her airplane tickets. Knowing this, knowing now suddenly that she is as interested in all these books at least as much as myself or even more, and generally feeling that it is gauche to be the only one spending money, I think to myself, perhaps I will come back later.
I don’t know how much time passes but soon the group appears to peel us away, our little stop in this particular bookstore having taken up the entire time allotted for the whole street. We break away with some difficulty. I am, again, losing my shit while my colleague remains cool as ever.
We part ways for the remainder of the evening and I find myself in the company of others in the group, and after an hour or two at a pub I ask them if they know how to get back to that bookstore, as I think I may buy that Nielsen book.
I steal into the shop and find it, and it is not £60, but £40. That settles it. I go to the clerk with the book in hand.
“Oh,” he says with a twinkle in his eye, “is this for her?”
“No, it’s for me,” I say quickly, strangely taken aback and suddenly aware that there is no longer any oxygen in the room.
“Oh, I just thought perhaps, I mean, she was talking so much about it. . .”
Suddenly I am extremely flustered. “Should it be for her?” I say aloud. “We’re just friends,” I lie, somehow simultaneously detecting that this clerk thought we were a couple, exaggerating my actual relationship with this person who in fact is at that time barely an acquaintance, almost all of my knowledge of whom I acquired in that very store a few hours before, and trying somehow, feebly, to justify why I would be buying this for myself.
“Should I be buying this for her?”
I am ashamed in the moment that it didn’t even occur to me, yet aware that it would be an impossible gift to give to someone who is almost a stranger. Really I ought not to have bought it at all, or indeed anything, if I was embarrassed to buy something when she was there then sneaking back later is no remedy, my only recourse now seeming to be to have left the shop entirely and never given it a second thought. The book is ruined to me now, against all rational thought, and forever.
What difference does it even make? All I know about this colleague is that she has immaculate taste in books, I barely know this clerk from Adam, why shouldn’t I just buy the damn thing and put it on my shelf with all the others? Will I ever even see either of them again?
But can I? Ah, why would that damn clerk plant that seed in my head? Even now, what hell, how could I give it to her? Would I just show up in the English department to leave it in her mailbox? What if she was there? How would I explain? Would I leave a note? Wouldn’t that just make it worse? Just nothing at all? It would hardly be anonymous. Ah, how awkward! Would she even take it? Would she try to give it back? Would she try to pay me for it? What hell!! Does she already own a copy? Why had she heard of it, anyway?
As all these thoughts are swirling in my brain, the clerk cocks up his chin and looks down at me from the corner of his eye, and with a wry smile and the hint of a shrug asks,
“Hey, what has she ever done for you, anyway?”
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