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judeswhore · 1 year

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dreaming ‘bout you; jude bellingham

summary: jude cant help but find your over active imagination adorable even if it does leave him in your bad books

pairing: jude bellingham x fem!reader

requested: yes

notes: you can find my masterlist here.

you poked your finger into jude's ribs, once lightly and the second time a little harder, glaring down at his sleeping form. his arm had slipped around your waist when you'd twisted and sat up, settled now in your lap and you pushed it off you with a soft huff. again your finger pushed into the bare skin of his side and he finally squirmed, his dark brows drawing together in a harsh frown, face contorting into a tired grimace.

"jude." you hissed his name with another jab and he wriggled away, threw one arm over his eyes while he swatted you away with the other.

"stop it."

"wake up."

"what're you-" he grumbled when you tugged his pillow out from under his head and he fell flat on to the mattress. "babe, seriously what the fuck?" he finally managed to pry his eyes open, narrowed them in your direction before pushing up on to his elbows. he glanced at his watch, left on the bedside table before groaning again, pulling his pillow back from you only to smush it over his face. "have you seen the time?"

"you cheated on me." your words were muttered low in the dark room but you knew jude had heard you when his entire body went stiff. he was silent for a second before poking his head out from behind the pillow, complete confusion and bewilderment mixed with his sleepy expression. usually the half asleep look and the groggy voice would have you melting, pushing into his body so he could wrap his arms around you and kiss your head. but not now, not when the images of those same arms wrapped around someone else were so fresh in your mind.

"i did what?"

"you cheated on me."

"what?" your words had rattled the sleep completely from him and you watched as he pushed into a sitting position, the pillow falling back into place. his eyes tracked your face as though something in your expression would give any indication that you were joking. "what are you talking about? i haven't cheated on you." jude rubbed the heel of his palm into his eye as your frown slowly slipped into an over dramatic pout.

"in my dream. you were away and i kept getting all these messages and-"

"your dream?" he cut you off with a shake of his head, his chin dropping down a little as he stared at you in bewilderment. it was a little after four a.m, the sky still dark out, not a single sound coming in from the street below and here you were, prodding him awake because he'd cheated in your dream.

"yes. everyone kept sending me pictures and videos of you with some girl in a club. she was all over you and you kept grabbing at her. you kissed her forehead!" jude raised his eyebrows and rolled his lips inward in an attempt to keep the laughter bay but his amusement was quickly overriding his previous confusion. the betrayal in your voice over the forehead kiss admittedly caused a slight pull in his chest because forehead kisses were your thing, he kissed you there constantly, left his lips lingering for moments at a time as his silent way of saying he loved you. he understood why that might have annoyed you most. but still it was a dream and he couldn't quite believe you were actually upset with him.

"i did this in your dream?"

"yes."

"and you're annoyed at me? because of something i did in your dream?"

"yes, keep up.” you were still half glaring at him, the slight upward curve of his lips adding to your momentary annoyance. of course it was ridiculous, you had no reason to actually be upset with jude because he hadn’t actually cheated but you couldn’t help what your brain made you think about in your sleep. you also couldn’t help the nauseous twist in your stomach and the tug in your chest that wouldn’t go away every time you thought about jude’s hands on someone else.

“but i didn’t actually do anything. you can’t be mad at me for something dream me did. what if i got mad at dream you for stealing the last of my cookies?” he was trying to joke but it only pulled a bigger pout from you, your fingers prodding into his side again.

“that’s different. you were practically fucking her in front of everyone.” jude groaned low in his throat and flopped back on the bed, his arm once again falling over his face. he kicked your leg with his foot beneath the duvet.

“i wasn’t! i can’t believe you’re pouting over this.”

“m’not pouting.” he threw you a glance and lifted his hand to poke at your lips, his fingers playfully shoving your cheek.

“that right there is a pout, sweetheart. and you’re glaring at me like you’re tryna explode my head. it wasn’t real.” with a grimace you shoved his hand out of the way and jude gave a little grin, his attempt at hiding his amusement futile. his fingers wrapped around your wrist and he tugged, pulled your body towards his. “stop giving me that look and c’mere.”

despite the lingering jealousy that was still settled inside of you you let him draw you into him, pulling until you were settled into his side, your arm against his chest to keep you propped up. jude was leant back against his pillow, his own body half propped up and he pressed one hand against your lower back, his other resting on his elbow so he could cup your cheek. he brushed a soothing thumb beneath your eye.

“if you keep glaring at me like that your face will get stuck.”

“i can’t believe you kissed her forehead.”

“i can’t believe you’ve got your knickers in a twist over a dream.” jude was smirking, his lips tilting further and further into a grin, nose scrunching when he gave a light laugh. he lifted to press a kiss to your mouth. “you’re an idiot.”

“it’s not funny!”

“you’re cute when you’re angry and being ridiculous.”

“it could definitely happen. y’know how many girls would throw themselves at you if you were in a club?”

“i dunno? a lot.” you narrowed your eyes, flicked beneath his chin but he only laughed, a tired sort of giggle that managed to make your tummy flutter. he took ahold of your hand and held it firmly against his chest to avoid any more of your quick jabs. “why’s it matter? i never even think about entertaining other girls whether they throw themselves at me or not. and i didn’t actually cheat why are you being mean?”

“because i’m mad.” you let your head drop, face pressed flat into against jude’s chest so you could hide away from his gaze. he was warm and still smelled of soap and his body shifted against yours, his hand slipping a little further up your back, fingers teasing as they inched your top up higher. “forehead kisses are my thing. how am i supposed to let you kiss me now without thinking of her?”

“i forget my dreams all the time, maybe if you’d gone back to sleep instead of trying to beat me up you would have forgotten about it by tomorrow.”

“god, i’m gonna feel sick whenever you’re near me.”

“you’re so fuckin’ dramatic y’know that? it’s a shock to me that you weren’t a drama kid.” jude tugged lightly on your earlobe, tickled his fingers over your side until you squirmed against him.

“least i’m not a cheater.”

“ridiculous, you’re honestly ridiculous.” he was mumbling under his breath and with quick movements he’d flipped the two of you, your back landing on the mattress as he hovered over you. “have a guess how many weird dreams i’ve had about you, i don’t start accusing you of anything.” soft lips found the tender skin of your throat, hot and teasing as they skirted your pulse, teeth nipping lightly. “what am i gonna have to do to say sorry that dream me is a whore?”

“you can stop making fun of me.”

“awe baby,” jude kissed over your jaw, bumped his nose against yours with that heartbreaking grin. he pecked your mouth. “s’not my fault my girl is all jealous and dramatic.”

“my jealously is reasonable.”

“you’re jealous over someone you made up, doesn’t sound very reasonable to me.” with both elbows settled by your head he was pressed completely against your body, warm and heavy and comforting and you didn’t miss the subtle press of his hips to yours. he pressed another fleeting kiss to your lips and urged one of your legs up and around his waist. “i promise not to sleep with any girls in clubs or give them forehead kisses.” the tilt to his mouth and the lilt in his voice was a clear indication he was still teasing you and in response you rolled your eyes, turned your head to avoid his next kiss.

“you’re not funny.”

“i’m a little funny. maybe that’s why i was so popular in your dream, you made me too perfect.”

“are you seriously defending your slutty self right now?”

“you know i would never.” jude rolled his hips forward again, eyes sparking with mischief, growing just slightly darker when the sound of your hitched breath met his ears. “why don’t you let me say sorry hmm? remind you that i’m all yours?” he kissed you soft and slow, his mouth hot and sinful, just desperate enough to tug a low moan from your chest. “gonna give that brain of yours something new to dream about.”

#jude bellingham #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham one shot #jude bellingham blurb #jude bellingham fic #jude bellingham fluff

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marciaillust · 13 days

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How long does it take for you to finish drawing?

I'm an artist (beginner) and i unconsciously set unrealistic goals for myself and need a reminder of how long it takes to complete a drawing, Thanks.

Hi! In the context you presented it in, that is a really interesting question, so I'll try to approach it thoroughly. I hope I won't make you roll your eyes too much.

Where to start, where to start... I guess the first thing I should say is that there is a difference between time I spend preforming the action of <drawing>, and the time I spent <working> on a particular piece. The first would be counted in hours, the second one - days. I'm a big believer in slowing things down, and giving things time - going through options, gathering research and references, taking breaks every 1h of sitting and drawing - and seeing things through until I achieve the goal I set at the beginning of the process.

The goals are usually different each time: "quick design", "character exploration", "analysis of an artist's linework and experimenting with the knowledge gained", "creating an aesthetically pleasing image", and so on and so forth. Of course I don't write these down like it's a school assignment, but knowing in the back of my head what I'm actually doing helps me manage my expectations. I also enjoy being conscious of why I create - when I was younger regardless of what I was doing I had the thought "AND IT MUST LOOK GOOD AND PRESENTABLE! BECAUSE PEOPLE WILL LOOK!" ...and I think that obsession is the cancer of creative process.

Since the goals for each picture are different, the time I'll spent on achieving each one will be different as well, because the "satisfactory results" lay in different places. For example, the Marcile sketchpage was created in one afternoon, and took approximately 3 hours. The goal was to play around with a brush that has no opacity forcing my lines to be more decisive. I did that and so it is "finished". There's nothing else I want from it.

On the other hand, the cover of Asterism took about 10 days to create, the goal of which was to make "an aesthetically pleasing cover picture taking colour inspiration from the works of (specific list of artists)". I took my time designing it so that it looks aesthetically pleasing, made sure the anatomy is "correct" (a nebulous statement when it comes to stylised humans), took my time masking, and picking colours, and shading. I wanted it to "look good" to my own eyes so if something was not working I would go back, change it, alter it, move it around... that's the wonderful thing about personal art, you can take as long as you like making something satisfactory.

The funny thing is, with what the Asterism cover actually is (a cellshaded image), it could have been done probably in 4 days by the me 4 years ago. But that person was willing to sit 8-10 hours a day to draw with no breaks, she had little social life, and treated herself as a little circus seal performing tricks so that people clap around her, and the clapping was soooo nice because it meant that people remembered her and she mattered. And it worked for her! For long 10 years! Until her arm gave out, and the reality of never being able to draw again became more tangible than ever, and it's been following her like a fog ever since for the past 4 years. The me today works about 4 hours a day and every hour I take about a 30 minute break. I also don't post half the stuff I draw. There is also another aspect that dictates the speed of creating and that is familiarity with the subject matter. The less you know something, the fast you'll draw it! But as you get to know the intricacies of the process, and see all the building blocks, it will start taking *longer* because you will start accounting for every block. But then you'll eventually get familiar with the blocks and so the time spent on a picture will go down again! The cool yet overwhelming thing about art is that, there are always hundreds of building blocks. Form, composition, ambient occlusion, saturation, hue, light balance, line form...... and those are just the *some* of the generalised *categories*. And each category will have it's own subsection of building blocks! And then those blocks will interact with each other to create completely new area of expertise! This is crazy! Marcille sketch page took me only 3 hours to create because I am already quite familiar with linework - I have drawn 3-4 comicbooks worth of linework. This also means I am familiar with believable anatomy, more or less, which got utilised in the Asterism cover - the main bulk of linework got created during a 3h livestream. So.... what's the answer.... "It's all relative" is so unsatisfactory and probably not what you looked for. But you can draw something in 3 days and kill your body over it. Or you can become an expert in a field and dish the same picture out effortlessly in 8 hours. You can also split that 8h block over multiple days bringing you back up to 3 days. You could even add a whole day of visual research which might make your picture only marginally better. And even if we calculate it in terms of raw working time, pen-to-paper, like a self-inflicted capitalist tumor, that time can fluctuate still due to personal visual library and knowledge base. If I asked Tom Fox how long it takes for him to create his sketch pages his answer would probably be downward of 30 minutes. Yet I need whole 3 hours to create something *less* anatomically correct than him. And so here we are at the end of this perhaps unnecessary essay. And all we learned is this: it depends. Dry, not nuanced tl;dr, my personal timings: single sketch - 30mins; single linework pic 1-2h; Cellshaded illust - 16h; Rendered illust: 20-25h.

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klausysworld · 11 months

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Are request still open and if they are can you make a Klaus Mikaelson one shot the girl is Tyler Lockwood sister and she hates Klaus so she rejects him as her mate but at the end she accepts him so like fluff at the end

What are you doing to me?

Finding out your mated to the all powerful original hybrid who ruined your brothers like and forced him to become half vampire while also terrorising your childhood friends and what not isn’t exactly at the top of my bucket list.

Him being a willing participant when it came to the whole ‘soulmate’ arrangement was also not meant to be in the cards.

When I realised we were mates I was 99% sure he would immediately reject me as a mate. As strong as a soulmate makes you, it will also always be your greatest weakness. I would be able to kill him far easier than anyone else and I was certain he would want to kill me first.

So him leaving me expensive gifts was…unexpected to say the least.

Detailed drawings of wolves and the full moon in the sky with a poem hand written on the back had my heart fluttering in ways that I should not have enjoyed.

But he had destroyed my brothers and the people I consider my family’s lives.

And so, despite the utter agony I was inflicting on both him and myself, I rejected him as my mate.

It’s a rare thing for wolves to reject their one, the side affects are awful in a way to force your mind into reconsidering.

The crippling pain was emotionally tormenting and physically exhausting. After the initial rejection I was barely able to leave my bed, eat, drink, I barely spoke a word and each time I fell asleep I was haunted by a similar image of Klaus.

Damon had messaged me letting me know Klaus had been out of sight for nearly 3 weeks after.

The pain lingered, never truly gone but it had dimmed. Though a sharp pain would shoot through me when he was too close, when the bond knew I was purposely ignoring him, and i could always see him wince at the same time.

The few times I didn’t shove him away, well I felt much better. He brought peace to my wolfs inner battle between soulmate and family because in reality I knew that he was both. I was just too afraid to admit it fully.

Though I couldn’t help but occasionally step a tad bit closer to him, to feel the warm buzz that ran through my bloodstream.

He was a lot less subtle though.

Often, as soon as his wolf sensed mine approaching he was all over me. Hands would be rubbing up and down my arms, his lips on my neck in a desperate instinctual need to mark me. And what was worse was that my wolf was all the more compliant and for a few wonderful seconds I could indulge in the blissful sensations. My head back, hands firmly gripping his henley and moans leaving my lips, my wolf having the desire to present myself in a truly embarrassing fashion.

Though he would always push it a tad too far, a grope to my ass, his canines about to pierce my skin, and I would be pushing him away. My wolf panting as I nearly tripped over my own two feet to get away from him while ignoring the intense feeling of my heart being squeezed unpleasantly.

I always managed to just scrape past him.

Suffering alone in my room again at the recurring torture of rejecting a mate.

His continued flow of presents didn’t help either, only made me feel worse seeing effort put into paintings of me and my wolf. He hadn’t turned into a hybrid, not yet at least, he probably knew that would be my last straw and id maim him.

But I knew he had followed my wolf on the full moons, I always woke with brand new clothes beside me, lead on a cotton blanket with a pillow under head and the snapping of twigs in the distance as he walked away.

And even though I should have said absolutely not when he personally delivered an invitation to his family’s ball, with those stupid puppy dog eyes, I couldn’t bring myself to.

“Please love, just one dance and if you don’t like it…then I’ll leave you be and accept your decision” as soon as the words left his mouth, both our souls twisted in agony making my teeth grind.

“Fine, just one” I whispered and he nodded, pulling me into a quick hug to calm down both our pain. Which it did like water on a fire, entirely putting out the flames and leaving us calm and quiet.

And then the dress arrived at my door, with matching shoes and accessories and I realised I actually had to do this.

Walking into his house sent a chill down my spine, my body felt much warmer and my wolf was howling inside me.

A hand on my shoulder had me whimpering softly making an arm wrap around my waist and pull me aside to another room.

“Shh love, we don’t want the rest of the guests hearing such lovely sounds” klaus murmured into my ear and I pressed against him, a small moan leaving my lips.

“This is too much for you isn’t it my love?” He whispered, his hand tilting my head making me look up at him.

The entire house smelt like him, I had seen parts of it in the dreams of him when he was suffering from my rejection. Which now intensified my guilt, my emotions were running haywire. I was in his home; I was in the wolf’s den.

Without thinking my hands tugged at his blazer, pushing it down his arms before my fingers began to pull his shirt open

“Woah love, it’s alright” he muttered, his hands grabbed mine and before I could blink we were outside. The cold air cooled down my boiling skin as I panted and he stroked my hair away from my face

“There we go, it’s okay” he cooed, the back of his hand pressing against my forehead.

“I hate this stupid bond” I whispered, covering my face.

“I know love…we can have our dance another time, I’ll take you home” he uttered, his tone was sad and my heart ached again.

“Stop it” I whispered “please stop it”

“Stop what love? What’s wrong?”

“Make it stop fucking hurting! I rejected you weeks, months ago! Why does it still hurt!? What are you doing to me?” I whispered, tears filling my eyes and spilling over. I looked up at him to see him in a similar state though no tears had fallen from his eyes yet.

His hand moved to cup my face and I couldn’t help but lean into it.

“It will only stop hurting us when you truly reject me. Somewhere, inside you, you still haven’t truly given up on the idea. You either have to reject the bond once and for all or accept me” he explained softly

“I would’ve been able to reject you if you left me alone. You kept sending all those things and being so kind, you did this to me” I whimpered

“I wouldn’t have done that if I couldn’t feel your soul still reaching for mine” he uttered “I would never intentionally harm you”

I let out a quiet sob as my soul pleaded for his.

I leaned forward so my head could press against his chest, my eyes closing at the content feeling that rose in me. I could feel myself giving into the bond, our souls slowly binding together. His hand held the back of my head, I could hear his heart speeding up as mine mimicked it.

His other hand moved around my waist, pulling me to him. “Good girl” he whispered “you’ll feel so much better now” he reassured “I promise I’ll make it better now sweetheart”

He kissed my head softly, his hand rubbing my back “let the bond form my love” he encouraged.

I focused on the connection trying to relight the candle.

I could feel the second it happened, my knees growing too weak to stand making him chuckle quietly and wrap both arms around me. He lifted me so my face could be right infront of his, prompting me to lean forward and press our lips together.

Our souls entwined as we did so, endless amounts of passion poured into one act.

The silent appreciation that this was real and it was only just the beginning.

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layla4567 · 9 months

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I'm just a librarian ✿

Steven Grant/Marc Spector x Fem!Reader

Summary: You work in a library in the middle of London, you get paid well and you love your little reading space surrounded by books that rise to the highest ceiling. But one day your normality will be turned upside down when a guy comes looking for some books on Egyptian history.

A/N: Ok first of all I must say that this idea arose from a little dream I had (and I also wanted to use the image from the movie The Mummy, I mean, just look at her, she is beautiful, she looks like Belle) second, I don't know if this will have more parts the truth is I'm not good at making long stories because then I leave them unfinished or I run out of ideas so, yes, I'm building this as I go along, sorry.

Part 2

And here I am once again, sitting behind the counter where you could see an old green lamp, a couple of books stacked one on top of the other, a typewriter and a little badge where you could read my name. With my legs crossed I moved my airborne foot rhythmically back and forth following a silent melody while my face rested lazily on my hand. My view was always directed towards the large windows that were near the line where the roof began. They were in the shape of a half circle and had a nice drawing similar to a stained glass window through which the sunlight passed in a warm way.

I loved being around libraries just for the sake of being a bookworm. I could spend hours reading old books sitting in a comfortable chair enjoying the silence without realizing it. But it was kind of boring to sit and wait for people to arrive so that you could help them with whatever they needed. I had already finished arranging the books with the help of the ladder, I loved doing it, it was fun to slide from one side to the other, it was almost like skating.

I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn't realize someone had entered the library until they were in front of me so I gave a little jump in my seat.

"Oh so sorry! did I scare you? It wasn't my intention"

The person who addressed me was a very polite and kind middle-aged man, he had an innocent look in those pretty dark eyes he had. He was wearing a jean jacket and underneath was a white shirt, he was also wearing khaki pants and had a brown shoulder strap on one side.

"Don't worry, It's okay, I was just thinking, can I help you with something?"

I could not stop seeing his eyes, his look gave off a peculiar innocence glow, I could sense a genuinely beautiful aura like that of a child

"Well, yes. I was looking for books on Egyptian history, you know, gods and pharaohs, myths, pyramids, etc."

Every time he spoke his face would light up with enthusiasm, it was admirable to see

"Sure, we have several. Follow me please"- I said while my smile deepened

I led him through the aisles looking for the "Ancient Egypt" section by the gigantic shelves. The man meekly followed me like a lap dog without taking his eyes off me as he clung to his backpack. When we had reached the section, I took out 4 books, stacking them one on top of the other and numbering them as I handed them over to him.

" "History of Egypt", "Gods and mythologies", "Encyclopedia of the pyramids" and "The 10 most famous figures of ancient Egypt" And remember to return everything within 15 days "

I piled the books in the arms of that man who tried with effort to hold them since they were quite large and hardcover while I raised a finger and recited the prayer from memory. Even though the books were about to fall out of his hands, the man looked from the books to me with a beaming smile.

"Of course, yes, miss, I will do so. Thank you very much for your help"

I smiled generously at the man's good manners and walked him to my desk to finish the paperwork. I sat as the middle-aged man patiently watched me with his books in his arms like a child waiting for his Christmas present.

"Ok, I will give you a paper with the exact date where you must return the books along with our address, I would only need to know your name to write it down please"- I looked at him expectantly

"Steven Grant, Steven with a V"

I couldn't help but laugh at the clarification as if I didn't know how to write his name

"I clarify it just in case. A lot of people always misspell it, sometimes they call me Stephen. But surely you wrote it well, you seem to have nice handwriting hehe"

Steven giggled nervously as I smirked in amusement. What a singular man that Steven was

"No problem, what a nice name you have"- I smiled warmly

Steven got more nervous and his face begins to take on a cute reddish color as he stuttered and mumbled a thank you.

"By the way, my name is Y/n"

I told him, pointing with a fingernail to my badge that was resting on the desk. He looked at it for a while and smiled

"Now I won't forget"

And with one free hand he gave me a childish wave as he uttered a sweet "Laters gators" and headed for the exit. With one elbow on the table and my hand resting on my cheek, I watched him until he disappeared through the door.

"Steven.."

I pronounced his name slowly delighting myself with the syllables, it was sweet as honey and resonant as a bell. I was wondering if I would see him around here more often. I sighed with a lopsided smile and went back to staring at the stained glass windows waiting for someone else to come and help them.

The days passed and I didn't hear from Steven, he hadn't returned the books within the agreed period and I was beginning to worry. He supposed that this man was a little distracted or had forgotten or was busy with something important, anyway it was very common for people not to return the books on time and to be a little late. My head was full of thoughts hoping nothing bad happened to Steven and hoping to see him again when someone stormed through the library entrance.

"I'm really sorry!! I got there as fast as I could, apparently I fell asleep and woke up in a place full of sand. I have a sleep disorder, I'm sorry"

Steven was talking fast, spitting out the words like a machine gun, he looked agitated and his hair was messy. And on his face you could see the nervousness and concern. I tried to reassure him

"Steven, Steven calm down, it's okay. I get it, you don't have to apologize."

I grabbed his hand and squeezed it hard trying to provide warmth and protection. Steven giggled nervously and his cheeks turned pink, it was adorable.

"Oh by the way, here are the books"

Steven took out of his bag the books in perfect condition that I had given him. At least he was a man of his word

"Thank you very much Steven, do you want any other books?"

"Well actually yes, if it's not a bother, wouldn't you have one that talks about the moon god Khonsu?"-he said something nervous

I laughed in amusement

"Of course! We have many books on Egyptian gods, take the ones you want"-I said tenderly

Steven for some reason gave me a strange feeling, a maternal need to protect him, he looked so helpless at times. I can't even imagine how chaotic his life must be

"You know something? Why don't I buy you a coffee? I'll give you the new books and then we can hang out and chat, I have a break in 15 minutes."

Apparently Steven didn't expect that so he got even more red.

"I-Is it some kind of date?"

"If you want to see it that way, yes"

Steven smiled like a kid in a toy store and followed me back to the bookshelves. After giving him everything he needed, he waited for me at the entrance of the library like a true gentleman. I left my position in charge of my partner Selma who answered me with a grunt and left with Steven towards the nearest cafeteria.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

We sat at a table close to the street. The cafeteria was decorated with flowers and vines, it was my favorite, it made it look Parisian. We both ordered a simple latte and to eat I ordered a croissant with chocolate and he asked for a kind of vegan burrito, then he explained to me that he doesn't eat anything that comes from animals.

"Well Steven tell me something about yourself, do you have a job?"

"Yes, I'm working in a gift shop at the British Museum. But I would really love to be the one who makes the guides"

"Really? Amazing! who'd say? You are a museum and history enthusiast and I am a bookworm willing to provide you with all the information you want."

We both laughed happily forgetting what was happening around us. Steven's laugh was like sweet nectar to my ears that made all my worries disappear. Except for one that was still on my mind

"Wait a second, how come you woke up in a place full of sand? Where exactly?"

"I have no idea, I wish I knew. But it's not the first time it's happened to me, one day I woke up on top of Everest"

Steven started laughing downplaying it and I laughed too but with less enthusiasm. I was worried about him.

"Well I think I should go back to my work, thanks for everything I really needed to talk to someone and distract myself"

I looked at Steven tenderly, thinking that I was probably the only person he could talk to broke my heart.

"Anytime Steven. Anyway, I also have to go back to work, the time flies by when you talk"

I left a tip on the table and was about to go to the library when Steven stopped me with a question.

"Would you like to visit me one day at the museum? It's that I always visit you...-"

"I'd love to"

We said goodbye with a smile as if we were lifelong friends and each one went their own way to continue with their work on that beautiful afternoon in London.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sorry if it was boring and there wasn't much interaction with Steven but this is just the first part of the story

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halo-desert-rose · 5 months

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Some old traditional Jon Jarchivist Sims drawings because my ipad had an unfortunate encounter with milk tea and it did not pass the vibe check

Btw I used India ink to outline his hair, ace ring and boots because it’s darker than black fine-liner

Image description under cut :)

[ID: three photos of two traditional ink drawings of Jonathan Sims from the Magnus Archives.

The first photo is a full body of Jon, who has long black hair with streaks of white throughout it. He is facing the right in a sitting position, with one leg crossed over the other, though the chair is not illustrated. He wears a dark green jumper with waved white lines and black dots so that they look like somewhat subtle stylised eyes. He wears a white collared shirt underneath but it barely visible, and a long, brown skirt and black boots. He rests his chin on his right hand which has a black ring on his middle finger, while his other hand rests on his leg and has a gold wedding ring. The hair, jumper, skirt and boots are coloured in with fine-liner with hatching. The colour of the skirt is composed of one layer of light brown lines, and other layer of dark brown.

The second photo is a bust of Jon, his head angled slightly downwards and to the side, a sceptical expression on his face as he side-eyes something to the viewer’s right. His hair only reaches his shoulders, half of it pulled into a bun. He is wearing glasses as well as eye-shaped earrings that hang from his earlobes. He wears a light green cardigan over a buttoned white shirt. The pointed ends of the white collar have a dot and three lines embroidered them, and there is a dark green ribbon tied under his collar, tied into a loose bow and pinned with a neck brooch shaped like a stylised eye. The hair and cardigan are also coloured in using hatching, with the cardigan composed of a layer of light green ink under a layer of dark green.

The third photo is a close-up of the first image, focused on Jon’s face.

END ID]

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #my art #tma jon #tma fanart #the magnus archives fanart #btw the milk tea was oolong #I was so looking forward to it too skjckskckdjs #tma

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sugurusdiscordmoderator · 3 months

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gojo braiding sugurus hair 🥹🥹🥹🥹

this is the first time I’ve written fluff in a while so thank you for the practice 🤭

au where Geto didn’t turn bad and they are co-parenting

It was a sunny spring afternoon with a little chill in the air when Satoru had pick up duty of the kids from school. Although they were different ages, Tsumiki, Megumi, Nanako and Mimiko all went to the same school a few blocks from their luxurious Tokyo apartment. Tsumiki and Mimiko walk a little ahead of the rest, talking about their art projects they they both are carrying. Megumi, silent as ever tends to look at the trees and sky and bugs when walking, observant to everything but the people around him. Nanako is talking about drama of a girl in her class uninviting another girl to a birthday sleepover as Gojo dramatically responds with “NO WAY,” and “girllll”.

After Nanako pauses to catch her breath, dramatically breathing hard she stops walking which in turn causes Gojo to stop and Megumi who was holding his other hand.

“Dadtoru,” she asks, the nickname that the four kids worked together to give him given they had two dads, “Can you braid my hair tonight? Papaguru always does it…” She twirls her blonde hair around her finger giving Satoru the most puppy like eyes she could. Megumi can be heard in the background with a “tsk” and releases Gojos hand to catch up with the other two girls.

“Yes hunny, I’d love to braid your hair,” Satoru smiles and pats her head, grabbing her hand again to catch up with the other kids as they approach their building. The doorman smiles and greets all of them, but Satoru is too distracted by the fact that he now has to learn how to braid hair. He thought he’d always be able to get by because Suguru knew how to. He grabs a lollipop from the front desk and watches as the kids argue over who gets to press the elevator button today. “Megumi it’s your turn,” Satoru says quietly. He’s not really sure but he’s secretly his favorite so he pretty much gives him what he wants. They make their way upstairs, Mimiko singing some song they learned in music as Satoru takes a selfie in the reflective mirror surface of the elevator to send to his better half.

‘Suguru, look how good I’m doing at pick up duty!’ *1 attached image*

A few seconds later a ding goes off his phone ‘Nanako’s fly is down, Megumi’s shoe is untied, Tsumiki has her backpack hanging open, and Mimiko is just making a weird face’ He can tell Suguru is just kidding but he still is offended.

‘She was singing’ Satoru responds, ignoring the rest as the elevator dings open to their apartment.

“You know the drill, shoes off, wash your hands, homework at the table.” Gojo is in total dad mode on his day off, a rare day where he didn’t have a mission or meetings or teaching. Tsumiki being the oldest of the four helps them all wash their hands, and the four sit at the kitchen table, 6 seats, the two heads of the tables open for Satoru and Suguru. Gojo stands in the kitchen, chopping apples and celery, arranging a snack plate for the kids.

“Dadtoruuuu,” Mimiko whines, “you didn’t take us to your favorite mochi place like you usually do on your days off!”

Satoru chuckles and brings the snacks over to the kids, saying “papa would not forgive me if I ruined your appetite for supper again.”

The kids eat their snacks and go over their homework, Gojo helping when needed but mostly reading up for the mission coming up where he has to leave the country.

The kids finish their work one by one, the twins opting to play dolls with each other while Megumi plays on his iPad on the couch and Tsumiki draws in her room. Satoru gets started on dinner, taking over some responsibilities while he is actually here. He looks over at a photo on the fridge, a picture of him and Suguru with Rico Amanai, the star plasma vessel they saved and who is now one of the kids babysitters while she’s in college. That was their first big mission where it felt like they made a difference in jujutsu society. Next is a photo of Kento Nanami with all 4 children when they were much younger, hanging off his large muscular frame like little monkeys. He also helps out at times when Suguru has to work late and Satoru is not present. And last but not least, is a photo on Satoru and Suguru’s wedding day, Shoko Ieiri as their flower girl / officiant / ring bearer. She gets to watch the girls sometimes when they need a female in their lives (but not often, Suguru doesn’t think she’s a good influence).

As the pot on the stove simmers and Satoru comes back from zoning out about their past and hears keys jingling outside the front door.

Suguru Geto has become Jujustsu tech’s newest principal, and also has gotten into the high ranks of sorcerer society. He is wise, level headed, and ethical, in which everyone has respect for him. The story of how the two men saved these 4 kids earned them quite a lot of credibility, as everyone had previously seen them as immature teenagers being the two strongest sorcerers in the world. Principal Yaga decided his time was best spent elsewhere in the jujutsu world but still occasionally visits.

As Suguru comes through the door Nanako and Mimiko come flying down the hallway to greet him. He sets his briefcase down on the table, pushing his bangs behind his ear before picking both of them up for a big hug. Giving them both a kiss on their cheeks he asks, “How was school today my loves?”

“Good!” They say in unison giggling.

“How ‘bout you ‘Gumi?” Suguru glances over at the boy on the couch and the boy simply holds up a thumbs up. He walks into the kitchen, seeing Satoru cooking, and walks up behind him, wrapping him in a warm embrace and kissing the side of his head the best he could since he is a little shorter than the white haired man. Satoru turns around and gives Suguru a long kiss, to which the black haired man responds “hmm you missed me that much,” with their lips still partially attached.

“Yes I did. It’s so hard being a stay at home dad.”

“Toru, you do this like once every three weeks, give it a rest please,” he fake rolls his eyes and takes off his suit jacket, heading to their shared bedroom to change into comfy clothes. Satoru follows him, leaving his food unattended for a minute.

“So Nanako gave me some homework today,” he says watching Suguru raise his eyebrow at him in the mirror while he undoes his tie. “She wants me to braid her hair.” The concerned look on Satoru’s face makes Suguru chuckle while unbuttoning his dress shirt.

“I can teach you on Tsumiki. And then you can try on my head.”

Satoru smiles, “look at you, teaching me something for once.”

—

After dinner it is bath time, bed time stories, and off to bed for the youngest 3. Tsumiki reads on her own, in which Satoru interrupts her “Hey can we borrow you for a minute?” The quiet girl quickly obliged following him into the living room, where Suguru has a mirror, hair brush, and some elastic hair ties laid out.

“Can I braid your hair?” Suguru smiles at her and she takes a seat on the floor sitting in front of him on the couch. Tsumiki continues her reading while Suguru goes through all the instructions.

“So first you have to brush everything through and make sure they’re no knots, just like you do with mine. And then you grab a decent sized piece from the top and separate it into 3 parts. Then you start alternately weaving them one through the other, adding a little chunk of hair from the sides each time.”

Satoru watches intently as Suguru’s large muscular hands work gently through the girl’s black hair. Her hair is a little longer than the rest of theirs so it takes a little while, but Suguru has been doing this for a few years at this point. He’s pretty confident he can do it, it may not be pretty but a braid is a braid right?

As Tsumiki’s braid is finished she stands up and gives both of her dads a kiss on the cheek before heading to her room. Satoru calls after her “lights out by 9 okay ‘miki?”

“Mhm” she responds back.

Now Suguru is sitting on the floor, flipping through the tv station patiently awaiting Satoru to play with his hair.

They both are reminded of a time in their high school when Suguru’s hair was shorter. He wore it in a bun with just his bangs sticking out, and after long missions he would ask Gojo to come lay with him in his dorm bed. Satoru always cuddled up to him like a koala, releasing his hair from the bun and running his fingers through it.

Satoru grabs the brush off the coffee table, gently brushing through his lovers soft long black locks. He follows the steps he was instructed and Suguru watches him in the little handheld mirror.

“You can pull it a little harder.” Suguru says.

“That’s what she said,” Satoru quips back and winks at his husband in the mirror.

It takes significantly longer than it should but by the end, Suguru’s beautiful locks are braided into a neat, precise French braid. The two proceed to cuddle on the couch and finish watching the nightly news.

“You’re such a good dad,” Suguru mumbles as he holds Satoru close.

“You are too,” Satoru smiles back at him, kissing his forehead.

In the morning Gojo has to leave a little earlier than usual for his teaching at Jujutsu high. He goes into the twins bedroom to wake up Nanako so he can do her hair. She sleepily follows him to the bathroom before realizing what he is doing. She has the cutest little smile on her face watching him concentrate to get her hair perfect. Right as he finishes Mimiko stumbles into the bathroom sleepily. “You want a braid too?” He asks and she nods as she wipes her eyes and yawns. 10 minutes later both twins have their hair braided and are eating their breakfast when Tsumiki comes out with her also braided hair, a little messy from it being slept on. Suguru is in the kitchen making lunches with his braid left in, likely because he forgot about it.

“I’ll see you at work babes,” Gojo pecks Geto on the cheek before rushing out the door, it being Suguru’s turn to walk the kids to school.

Satoru zones out in the elevator, thinking about his sweet family, 4 of them walking to school with matching braids in, and little Megumi with his spikey hair.

bonus: a rough sketch of it but Gojo looks like he’s on crack

#satosugu #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gego #geto suguru #gojo satoru #suguru Geto #Satoru gojo #mimiko and nanako #megumi fushiguro #fushiguro tsumiki #one big gay happy family #jjk fan art #jjk fanart #sugurus discord mod asks :)

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angelkissiies · 1 year

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Ive had this image in my head all week and i need to excorcise it so im writing it here. Feel free to ignore.

I really think Abby should get to rip open a clicker's skull by jamming her hands into that... I have no idea how to describe it... you know that split up their faces where the two halves of their explodey mushroom heads meet... jam both hands in there and rip it apart like whichever Chris splitting that firewood in that MCU movie... where he... does that... I'm vaguely remembering a gif...There's a reason why you write and I send asks on anon and it's not cos I'm articulate.

But yeah, whoever plays Abby in the HBO show should get to do that, as a treat! :)

Also, for us Abby x Reader nerds, just picture it: You think you're fucked, there's a clicker crawling toward you, you lost your weapons somehow (stay with me). You're scrabbling backwards but its faster than you, there's nowhere to go and all you can do is accept your fate. Out of nowhere, Abby jumps on its back, grabs the motherfucker's face as its inches away from yours and pulls it into her chest to rip it apart. Blood everywhere. She's breathing heavy. You can't believe she'd be so stupid to put her hands IN a clicker's FACE. She can't believe you thought she wouldn't try everything to save you. Then you make out. You know?

Exorcism complete

i kinda just threw this out because you seriously inspired me !! i hope this is an okay rendition of your vision !!

You’d run out of options, dodging behind a half wall to escape the roaming clicker that you’d gotten trapped with. The floor to the room you’d been searching caved in and left you empty-handed, scrambling around in the dark to gain your bearings- though before you’d had the chance to dig your flashlight out of your pack, you heard the telltale clicking noise come from down the hall. It was one bad situation after another, leading you to where you sat now, clutching the only useful thing you could find in the array of items you’d retrieved from the building.

The light from your flashlight bounced off of the ceiling, illuminating your surroundings as you peeked around the corner, seeing the cordyceps ridden being shuffling around the stairwell. So far, it only seemed like it was the one, which sounded easy enough right? Wrong, without a knife you were almost certainly fucked- seeing as their growths served as a king of armor for them. “Goddamn it.” You mouthed, hearing the floorboards above where you sat squeak- catching the clickers attention.

You quickly moved, taking refuge in a small corner, having no place else to go now. The room only had one exit and as you used a hand to cover your mouth, you saw the hypersensitive infected shuffle in- whipping its blinded head around as it made a hellacious screaming noise. It knew, somehow, that something was down here. Its legs drew it further and further into the room until it was just feet away from you. You knew this was it, do or die- and the circumstances had forced your hand to choose the latter- squeezing your eyes shut as you braced yourself for the inevitable lunge.

Abby had made it, just seconds before it was too late- not even thinking to draw her knife as she saw your unmoving figure coward under the clicker. She moved too fast for it to counter her, her heavy boot coming into contact with its knobby kneecap- causing it to fall before her. Her heart was racing, hands jamming inside the monster's mouth- fingers securing on the flattened beds of its teeth as she forced the bones apart- a sickening noise of pain emanating from its mouth as the pieces came apart in her hands. The blood from the kill didn’t phase her, not wasting a second as she threw the pieces of the skull onto the floor, coming to her knees before you. “Baby?” She whispered, rubbing the blood from her hands onto the legs of her cargo pants.

You could barely hear her over the sound of your heartbeat echoing in your ears, only jumping when you felt her calloused fingers brush the hair from your face back. Your eyes darted up, slightly blurry from how tight you’d screwed them shut- arms immediately latching around her shoulders as you launched yourself at the girl. “Fuck, oh god, Abby.” You shuddered, fingers digging into the dark blue of her jacket, burying your face in her neck. “I thought it was over.”

She let out a shaky breath, thinking the same, as she wrapped her arms around your waist- pulling you impossibly close. “I’d never let anything happen to you.” She said matter-of-factly, mind still racing as she took a deep breath- inhaling the sweet scent of your coconut shampoo. It had been a gift, something you only used once in a while due to its scarcity, and she thanked god you decided to use it today- feeling the nerves dwindle as she melted into you. “Would do anything to keep you safe.”

#abby tlou #abby the last of us #abby anderson #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x you #abby anderson ff #abby anderson brainrot #tlou #tlou2 #the last of us ff #the last of us angst #the last of us fluff #the last of us

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bunnyinatree · 5 months

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I had played through Celestia half a dozen times already, but it wasn't until I was questing with my friend @amselrose that I realized what was happening with the Pisceans. They use mural pieces for their currency, and because we need to reconstruct a mural for plot purposes, we have to recover those scattered pieces from them. In essence, we are robbing the Pisceans! 😱

Through the game's chat feature, I told my friend, "We stole from them! 😭" and without missing a beat, she replied, "We stole from them! 🥳" This is my recreation of that moment :P

[image ID: a digital drawing of two original characters from Wizard101, based on the "nothing in life matters" Nihilism meme. In the first panel, an Ice wizard in the Royal Fusilier's outfit buries her head in her hands beneath the words, "We stole their money..." In the second panel, a Balance wizard wearing the Vest of the Dawn and the Halo hairstyle grins and gives a thumbs up, beneath the caption, "We stole their money!" End image ID.]

#wizard101 #w101 #celestia #my art #amselrose

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machine-saint · 11 months

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weird tarot story time

so as background: i'm non-spiritual, a believer in philosophical materialism. have been for a decade and a half. but i'm a sucker for the symbology of tarot cards and the art people make for them. so a few years ago i decided to write a little simulator.

now, obviously if you're gonna do tarot you have to shuffle your deck, right? and shuffling a deck in code is easy; take a decent random number generator, use fisher-yates, done. hell, you don't even have to shuffle if you just pick a random card and remove it. but that's not fun. and part of tarot, as i'm told, is your intentions.

so instead what I do is I write an intentionally bad shuffler. you type your query in, and it converts it to a number using a bad hashing algorithm (CRC32) and then converts that into a stream of random numbers using a really bad algorithm (an LFSR), and then implements a shuffler that's intentionally not perfect (some hand-written thing I don't remember). i run it a few times and verify that there aren't any obvious clumps or patterns and go, okay, good enough.

(the other reason is i get to do cool UI design stuff like this)

so I decide to test it. I type in the query "Is this real?" or something like that, let it shuffle (it intentionally takes multiple seconds to shuffle), and draw the top card. and i get this:

X - History, reversed

now, if you're passingly familiar with Tarot, you might not recognize History. if you're more familiar with it, you'd probably go "wait, 10 is Fortune, what the hell". that's because I decided to use the Tarot of the Silicon Dawn by Egypt Urnash, which adds a bunch of fun extras (including some that, in the sadly-out-of-print physical deck, are gloss-on-black. very fun.) the image here is from the high-res images the artist posted on her site; she let me use them with permission, and I wrote the ascii-ifier myself because I figured it fit the aesthetic. i also did the same thing for the Neon Moon deck, which is more conventional in design (aside from renaming the suits) but has a very nice striking cyberpunk-y color scheme.

so anyway. i'm not an expert in interpretation, and Silicon Dawn comes with a booklet that i'd integrated into my program. so i look over at it and see the first paragraph, emphasis mine:

She bends the world around herself, and binds it about her with a story. Or is she the world, bending into itself, and trying to explain itself with narration? Just the whole cosmos finding a way of talking to itself. At the very least this card may be a reminder that the whole deck can just be an elaborate way of talking to yourself – what story do you bring to these cards, what begs itself to be connected in ways you wouldn't let yourself connect normally?

and I think: "well, I asked it if the occult is real, and History upright is 'this can just be an elaborate way of talking to yourself', so if it's reversed..."

and, like, I know this is just a coincidence. i i know that in a 99 card deck, the odds of getting a specific card reversed are about .5%, so it's not impossible. it didn't change my mind about anything. but it's still the only time i've had a, i guess, genuinely low-probability occurrence with occult stuff.

if you want to play around with it, here's the tarot simulator! nothing ever leaves your computer; i can't see your queries or anything like that.

#tarot

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atomarium · 6 months

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Wawa!

Now for real tho, how did You manage the iterator cube in the first place, I think My computer would explode just being near half the polygons

Have a 3d scug as a treat tho

Waw!

The question can be interpreted in three ways.

Technical:

just... Pain...I have an old 7th gen Intel i7, 16 gigs of ram, and RTX 3060. The thing is. When It comes to meshes, or hard surfaces (the polygons) blender is actually very good at handling a lot of them. But guess what blender does NOT like. Clouds, textures and displacments. I did the details in the cube first, and then sufferd through the pain and lag of clouds and textures.

Render times don't increase with polygons. This many poligons render a 1080p image in 40 seconds. You just have to be smart about hiding stuff you don't need when editing.

I can send you the model. It's really not a huge problem.

Creating detail kind of technical:

well it is indeed hand made. It doesn't take long if you blender very aggressively with energetic music. The first wall took me, ~30-40 hours. The second is barely visible so just a copy of that with modifications. I premade greebles and assets that I have later scatterd. You can see I reused a lot of stuff. In the project I am currently working on it will be different. But in this one, I tried to follow the doctrine of hiding the flatness of the cube. So it doesn't look like a cube with stuff on it, with fairly decent results. Made some holes some structures etc.. The plugins that I used mostly are discombulator, blenders inbuilt panel gen. And we'll uh. That's Pretty much it. Made a geonodes modifier, for the pipes. So it's easier, so that's a thing.

And the rest is just me trying to be creative and stuff.

The "how do I come up where goes what"

I domnt funkin know.

I'm an engineer. And that means I solve pracital problems. Such as, will this pipe going from here to here make sense? Or does it make sense to make this thing here if there is another nearby? I can barely be called an artist, or creative for that matter. I can't draw like at all,I just get anxiety when I try, I can't make anything that is alive in blender. Like genuenly anything.(including scugs :<). I am pretty darn new to blender with barely even 1 k hours. I looked at references of Cappins (the creator of the original 3d model found in OE.) Model, I got some inspiration from there.

Here is his model.

And here is mine ( low quality because I don't have the original on my phone)

You can defenetly see the similarities. I took inspiration from a lot of the stuff on Cappins model. Unfortunately I for some reason never figured out that iterator cube is not a cube. It's a uh... Pancake shaped cube. What I also like a lot about Cappins model, is that it's very very well balanced. Perhaps some technical details are questionable but at that scale that can be ignored. I later talked with him. And he explained me the meaning of primary secondary and tertiary detail. Wich is actually very useful. Go google it if you draw or model. As for my model. I'm happy that people like it but I'm not happy how not canon it is compared to other iterators. Perhaps, it's an older model of an iterator. It took me nearly a third of the time cappin took to make his, that explains the quality difference. And we'll he had to start from scratch.

I hope that answers all the questions, otherwise ask again. It's not like I'm gonna go anywhere.

(also pls gimme de scug model if it's okay)

#rain world #rainworld #rw downpour #rainworld iterator #rain world downpour

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rarephloxes · 8 months

Text

A Feeling So Peculiar

Elain Appreciation Week, day 7 - Free Day

Hi friends! Long time no see:))))

I've been extra busy with life and med school, but this fic has been brewing for some time now, and what better moment than @elainarcheronweek to share it? This is part 1 of what I endearingly call the Healer!Elain story. It's officially my first fic with a Taylor lyric as a title and I'm very proud!!!

Anyway, here is this fucking thing <3

(1)

A ghost slides through the flaps of a tent into its cold, vacant interior.

The space is cramped, a rough bed of furs, a small table filled with piles of heavy tomes, ink-splattered journals, and clothing. The heavy smell of mold, grass, and candle wax permeates the air, almost tangible like dust through a shaft of yellow light.

There’s a slight tremble to the hands which reach for the half-burned candles sitting sadly on the far end of the table, lighting them with slow, feeble movements, the only survivors of a dreadful day.

Hands that are not blue and translucent, but pale and corporeal, numbed from the cold but filled with blood.

The ghost doesn’t contemplate any of it, set in her chore. There are things to be done, still. It is night and she’s gone inside. Yet it repeats, a loop inside her mind, there are things to be done.

A swoosh of breath sparks a coal-smudged piece of timber which quickly develops into a sickly fire. It barely warms the minute space. It’s necessary, nevertheless. Like her, it does its job.

Tent.

Light.

Wash.

Lay.

A book with its spine cracked allows a weary mirror to lean on it, a lonely figure moving through it. The specter in the mirror finds a copper bowl, frigid water inside, a ring of humidity staining the book cover used as its resting place. A smudge of soft pink and crimson reflects on the rust-speckled surface. A braid of what used to be bright brown hair lays limp on a tired, curved spine, brown eyes with deep purple half-moons underneath - the only hint of color on once flushed features.

Her face remains impassive as her hands dip a cloth beneath the icy surface tinting the water brown.

The amount is insufficient to wash away the grime and blood of the day, but Elain will not leave her tolerably cold tent for more, so she makes do.

Alone she lingers in her chair, the only creature inside, water dripping from her hands and drawing patterns in the dirt powdering her arms.

An image intrudes her mind, for a few seconds. Warm tan hands bringing a deep bucket of water they would heat themselves with a careful touch. She thinks of the thankful smile she’d give for it. She wonders, the thought whispered like a swish of butterfly wings, of what his face would say as he cares for her. Maybe his scar would reflect firelight just so, and she would forget where she is and allow herself to blush. She welcomes it, for the minute it sparks until the next when it fizzles.

As predicted, the water is only enough for her arms and face. Once, the disgust alone would be a reason to risk outside, maybe dare the nearby stream, or else sleep would escape her stench, running away with a hand plugging its nose.

Elain plops down on her pallet, fur covers warming her body, her tight muscles consoled by the rough structure beneath. It is in no way comfortable, only it’s reliable and quiet. One of the best tents in their camp, the one privilege the High Lady’s sister has, if only because it is the only one to be had.

Most importantly, it doesn’t die or spray contaminated blood into her face. It does its job as it is, with all its faults. It stays still through the night and belongs to her.

There’s sleep to be had. Poor, fitful sleep. But it does its job as it is.

Tomorrow, she knows, she’ll immerse herself in the unforgiving cold from the stream, and a faerie will emerge, dress, and present herself to her duties at the main healer’s tent.

There’s always work to be done.

(2)

The first time Elain sees a healer, there’s a woman screaming. Loud, painful bellows that have harried maids coming in and out of heavy wooden doors with buckets of steaming water, clean and in turn, bloody towels. Nesta holds her shoulders, small fingers digging absently into Elain’s clavicles through her pink cotton nightgown. Barely a year older than Elain, yet she sees such wisdom in her eldest sister’s eyes, as if Nesta knows all the secrets of the universe at the soft age of 7. There’s no place in Archeron Hall Nesta could go where Elain wouldn’t follow. They’re supposed to be asleep, but there are no dreams to be had during a storm like the one that has been pouring down, soaking the garden soil into swimming pools for frogs and threatening to bring down even the wisest and sturdiest of oak trees.

Soon, there will be a deafening quiet, quickly followed by a babe’s booming cries. Elain thinks it just like the noise that sounds right before one of her father’s ships is about to leave the shore, taking fairy dust and bright-colored jewels to the continent, where they will be sold to queens and wizards. She knows it because Nesta is always explaining the world around them to her.

It’s Feyre, born in the bleak hours of the night, lighting tearing down the sky like a claw through silk.

Their governess catches them, huddled by an alcove, spying on the birth of the smallest of them as if they are as inconspicuous as flies on a wall.

“Come,” she demands, a small smile on the tough line of her lips, “Your sister awaits you.”

It’s the only time a healer was the bringer of fortune and good news.

(3)

Madja had her fingers pressed around Elain’s wrist.

The ancient healer’s brown eyes were focused on the time counter ticking on the wall, steady knobby knuckles cradling Elain’s palm.

If Elain had feeling in any part of her body, if even a single inch of soft, hollow skin wasn’t as numb as a reflective glacier tip, she would have been able to feel her own heartbeat fighting against the High Lord’s favored healer’s fingertips. Her wooden eyes, however, remain filmy, like coffee sat still cooling outside for too long.

The bedding should have been the downiest she ever felt, the warm hug of a thousand sheep who only survive in the mountain range closest to Dawn Court. Called Woolen Peaks, because during spring one would be hard-pressed to find a stretch of land free of the bleating creatures, also known for secreting iridescent mucus from their blue snouts. A sea of endless white.

Elain should’ve loved to have known that, should’ve giggled, and maybe even requested to see such charming animals.

Once, she might have.

There were no sounds in the bed chamber but those of instruments being enclosed in a lovingly used leather bag, which promptly vanished into the fold between worlds for later use.

“I believe tea is in order” Madja said in the rough monotone of age, voice traveling through the air, her gaze watchful like a wise tree, leading Nesta and Feyre to exit the sunlit room.

Elain was profoundly grateful for the silence, the stillness of her mind, her whole being stripped down to understanding the heat around her, registering the passage of time solely through decoding the illumination, no previous knowledge guiding her thoughts, images of old folded into drawers, only an amalgam of threads in her mind, the fear to pull at any of them curbed, until any will was pressed so flat it vanished into particles. The effort, like stopping water with a barrage of hands, to tune out rhythmic drumming in her ears.

There were the dreams, of course. Sad. Unavoidable. Drenched in foreign sentiments that left her dizzy and breathless, trembling through the aftershocks of a rumbling earth no one else seemed to notice. Those came and scrambled her meticulous system of calmness. Elain, in her excruciating bouts of clarity, hated them with a strength her strange body found unfamiliar, hated how they made Nesta look as though she was watching a duckling swim into a waterfall through a looking glass. How they made Feyre’s face contort into hopelessness.

Hated how they made her see.

Those are not mine; she’d plead silently on particularly violent nights; I would know, I once would have known.

Elain closed her eyes and searched for the wall of dark swirling steel delimitating her mind. The ivy branches were nearly covering every inch of cold metal now, blooming in sleepiness. Her closed lids allowed the sun breaching the skin to paint her vision a newly comforting shade of red.

Red had always been Nesta’s color. Nesta’s dresses, Nesta’s fire, Nesta’s anger. Or the insubstantial maroon of the fire in her family’s frozen cottage, the violent crimson of the carcasses Feyre brought home. Those had never awakened thoughts of safety before. Protection, maybe, like a cage made of thorns and spikes. But never the safety of a hearth, of burgundy crackling fire.

Now, when her thoughts gently explored the unknown paths in her mind, red would forge itself into crisp Autumn leaves. Bergamots and warm skin

Elain buried herself deeper into the covers.

She left before contemplating any of it.

⠀

(4)

There is a house on a land that is surrounded by ivy-covered iron walls.

A wrap-around porch cracked open by vicious thorns that sprout from the ground, the rotten wood gouged open, foliage like teardrops on every crack, splinters shimmering on air, spores in the wind.

A felled roof, with a mighty willow trunk through it - a stab wound on a soft, white underbelly - warms the rain inside in a mother’s embrace, a shroud of dark green moss slipping from the gable into the stillness inside

The front door is open, a beckoning hand of wispy white smoke so thin one wouldn’t be sure whether it is only a trick of the pressing nebulous light.

If a breeze like the grey finger of an ancient hand were to curl around it and move the hinges in a half-moon motion, a woman would be seen on the inside.

She is tucked upon herself, sleeping on disintegrating wool and dye, the remnants of a beautiful rug. The slope of her waist breathes up and down like the rolling of a hill.

The room around her is filled to the brim, clocks covering an entire wall, some pointers spinning madly onto themselves, some turning with the patience of a grandfather reading a book to his lineage.

Rain, it reads on the chipped blue label of a numberless clock, a hand circling in a rhythmic tick, a mass of angry black clouds where midnight should be, the drawings changing around the wheel from April showers to jolly drizzle.

There are rusty gardening tools beneath a boarded-up window and opened sacks of humus bleed into the abandoned floors. Unnervingly arranged dead seeds form a stream towards the shadow beneath a hand-painted chest of drawers.

An open portmanteau rests on the wall framed by rays of moribund light squeezing through rickety walls; lavish ragged dresses and dusty stuffed bunnies swimming within; pink baby shoes and over-washed underskirts having a tea party at the bottom.

Lined-up novels on bookshelves lay on top of each other in the comfort of touch, interspaced with torn childish letters in alphabetic order. A tiny cloak made of velvet hangs on a chair as if a visitor dropped by for tea.

A precarious chandelier hovers watchfully over the lonely sleeping woman, unsafe chain links repaired with strong white threads that spread unevenly on the whole ceiling.

Guarded by an unnatural radius of clean floor, a white gown lies.

Sewn to perfection, beaded with gleaming pearls and the most delicate of laces. Impeccable seams, regal lines.

A dress made mindful of love, of promise. A dress fit for a future princess.

A rumble of thunder shakes the house as the pointer in the blue clock approaches woeful clouds.

Next to it, a black clock with eight bent lines shooting from the sides of its mechanism box moves from sleepy lids to the daunting indication of bug wide eyes in a resounding clang.

Come see, flurry black bodies with milky white eyes descend on long lines of silk hanging from the ceiling. Siblings, mothers, and children crawl over the mold, spidery legs fortifying supporting beams, the walls, covering memories in a shield of white.

Come see come see come see come see

I do not wish to open my eyes; she mumbles.

I do not wish; she rolls to her side; her nightgown catching in the shards beneath.

I do not want; she covers her face with a feeble palm.

I do not feel; she insists.

You must, the wind howls, rattles her clothes, scrapes down her skin. Your house is dying.

The hearth coughs soot, black and filthy like a diseased lung.

I do not see; she screams, eyes sewn shut, tears fighting to slip through the sutures, cracked fingernails pulling at the roots of her hair, weeds from soil. I am no longer this body.

The unstoppable hand of time reaches midnight.

Storm water slides down the walls in a furious current, washing away the grime and dislodging all the clocks. Those crack and splash onto the rising puddles on the floor with various clangs, cuckoos flailing madly in their springs before falling into final silence.

The bookshelf cracks under a stretch of ceiling that collapses, books losing themselves from each other, weeping in their solitude as they drown in now waist-deep water, loose papers with family drawings (Mum, Dad, Nesta, Me, and Feyre) soften and rip, the colors bleeding and blending into undistinguished blobs of ink.

Seeds of all shapes twirl wildly in whirlpools, and a window box of dead flowers floats aimlessly in the chaos. In the aquatic graveyard beneath them lays a dress of snow, pulled until it is trapped below the floorboards; a bunny covers itself in an old velvet cloak, lingering tragically hopeful underneath the hand-painted dresser.

Cobwebs are unwoven by each violent raindrop, supporting beams breaking like bones.

The woman stands limply in the midst of it all, eyes unseeing, unaware of the fatal torrent around her.

There is a cause to her silence, just as there is a cause to a collapsed house.

I am made of fear, she mulls under the debris, quiet in the wreckage, silent in the aftermath

There’s nothing else for me but forever.

(5)

The House of Wind’s library was the biggest private collection Elain had ever seen. Rows upon rows of carefully curated stories, some ancient with cracking leather covers, tell-tale signs of use staining the spines, dented with the accumulated pressure of readers’ hands. Other books seemed new, the residual smell of press machine oil and ink lingering on the pages, spines unbroken.

Nesta had smuggled romance books from their old village’s dusty bookstore for years, kept them below a loose floorboard in their cottage, discreetly wrapping them in old, moth-eaten clothes to prevent damage. Nesta had cherished those books, had wished for them, and would come into a nasty mood when it was time to return them to the store to avoid the wrath of a deceived salesman with the law by his side.

Old habits die hard, Elain discerned, as her sister slipped a pocket-sized, pink-covered booklet into the folds of her dress. Even with permission to own the piece, Nesta still chose to take it for herself like a criminal. Never conceding, never compromising.

Elain eyes remained unmoving while she made her inspections, the unbending lids to the husk which sheltered her thoughts. She had been counting the organized shelves, internally categorizing books within her eyesight.

83 with single-worded titles, 6 – 12 letters.

102 with double-worded titles, the first being predominately articles.

329 with three words in the title, a maximum of 27 letters.

A small fold in her brow flattened into the clear glass of her forehead, all the muscles in Elain’s face relaxing as the shallowness of her research settled her bones.

Elain was perched on the window’s nook, manufactured lightness to her sentience, while Nesta was lounging straight-backed on a velvet armchair, both hawk-eyed towards their worries. Biscuits grew stale and tea turned cold in gleaming silver trays between them.

There was one volume, Elain noticed, with undisguised and not yet restrained annoyance, which clashed horribly with her elegant system of grouping books by minimalist names. There’s control in succinct titles. There’s calmness in brevity. No space for subterfuge, for mazes or threads leading to somebody else’s memories, eyes not of her own.

A raging woman made of flame, screaming screaming screaming-

One blink of cavern-like pupils.

514 publications with respectable construction.

Not that one, though.

Norton’s Concise Manual for Swift Diagnosis and Treatment of Battlefield Injuries

First, it blatantly lied. There was no brevity of title or length, the heavy-looking tome glaringly thicker than a closed fist. A deceiving book. Elain’s head moved to the side, instinctually, the skin of her neck folding into the unpracticed movement.

A deception not even attempting to remain cloaked. What a disagreeable structure.

No balance, no harmonious restraint.

11 words in the name, what indisputable distaste.

70 letters made tiny to fit into its obnoxious shelf back.

Elain wanted it gone.

(6)

The guest room was soft, like the lingering feel of worn leather.

There was light everywhere, reflecting from mirrors and vanity vials, bleaching the dark wood floors. It created the most delightful shapes under her eyelids if she gazed out the window just right.

Incandescent.

Perfectly blinding.

Elain could stay inside all day, motionless above uncreased bed linens.

Frozen in the armchair with a book resting in peace on her lap.

Unless, of course, it was night.

There was nothing uncovered beneath revealing starlight.

No cave, no shelter, only the stoic awareness of a seasick mind.

Melting snow; ethereal crestfallen swans; the breakage of a woman who would have never begged; a lake so deep it is bottomless.

Bottomless black eyes, all-seeing, swirling, a current so strong it is the hands that push you down, down into the whispering voice that loves you while killing you.

The shards of porcelain on the floor were still beautiful, if only someone mended them.

Elain grabbed each one and placed them delicately on a tray, using a finely made doily to sweep the warm tea spilled on the floor

She padded slowly down the stairs, nightgown dragging around her feet.

Broken china rested on the kitchen countertop, Nuala would take care of it, see to it with the loving touch of an artisan who was ageless and immortal.

Elain reached for the multicolored leaves inside a mason jar under the window, setting them inside the copper pan with boiling water over the stovetop.

Only her hands, if she blinked, started to wither with age, and a black box of fury appeared between them-

The coolness of the counter beneath her young, translucent fingers.

Her mind stalled for half a second, hesitating, unsure, then searched until it found it.

Anger for the unpalatable book.

Elain had something to do.

⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ

Libraries are known for their solitude. A place for reflection, for diving deep between words, for biting into a book and spitting out a seed-shaped thought.

Elain walked barefoot on the soft expensive carpet beneath her feet. Sangravah patterns, she noted, not quite sure of how she had known so.

The book still stood where it always had, after Navigation for Beginners (3 words, 23 letters). It was just… there. Like its existence wasn’t a disrespect to the Mother herself.

Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared, clumsy and irritated hands grabbed the dark blue cover and, unprepared for its weight, let it fall with a muted thud.

The pages fell open, a warm invitation, into the carefully drawn figure of a lacerated spleen. ( when the pages fell open, her eyes couldn’t help but see)

Mindful of the spleen’s vascularization, a Concentric Mending Spell (page 278) must be placed using the middle, ring and little finger, pinpointing the magic into the gash and closing it quickly thus avoiding fatal hemorrhagic shock. The healer’s pointer finger and thumb must only locate the laceration, while the palm concentrates the spell, and the latter three fingers expel it. Previous use of whole-hand magic in repairing interior cuts has led to unwanted tissue adherence and is advised against when in treatment of internal organ damage (see Index for Whole-Hand Magic).

Elain blinked once, then twice.

Smoothness replaced the furrow in her brows and with a short tilt of her head, Elain brushed back her golden curtain of hair with an absent hand as she ran the pad of a curious finger along the lines, her knees completely pressed down on the rug.

Those instructions sounded nothing like the healing she had experienced from Madja.

The ancient fae had only felt her, placing her palms on either side of her head or using unfamiliar copper tools to measure some information she deemed important but escaped Elain’s logic. Madja had moved her hands over Elain’s body as she had once seen a Child of the Blessed do over a clear glass orb during a town square fair.

A quiet, expanding bubble of pressure grew from the pit of Elain’s belly until it lay underneath her skin, soft light shimmering behind once dulled, wooden eyes.

The intricate directives from the book were precise and sure, based on wisely curated knowledge and the pure need to guide those who could be good to others. Save them, even.

Elain held the book kindly in her hands, resting it on her arms as she skittered over to her room in fastened steps so as not to attract unwanted attention.

Under the shy rising sun of the following morning, a side lamp - a friend to a sleepless, captivated woman in a sunlit room – rested with its oil completely burnt.

(7)

The townhouse was empty when Elain woke up.

It wasn’t an unusual occurrence, most of the house’s occupants were busy, political figures with a multitude of urgent daily tasks.

Not that Elain was particularly aware.

She had been furtively reading every healing book she could get her hands on, and the more fascinated she became, the less she seemed to register the comings and goings of the routine around her.

She could barely help it, could she? It was an entire world she was becoming privy to. It had never occurred to her as a human to be curious about such things. In fact, she doubted anyone in the Human Lands had any notion of the delicacy and potency of Healing. The healers back home had to rely on herbs, cold or warm wet cloths, and wishful thinking to cure someone, if they were even able to achieve such a feat.

Not home anymore, she would think, instinctually, and remember the towering walls she longed to be housed within, of luxurious balls, of blue eyes so bright they were sapphires, of a simple band of iron on a delicate finger.

Elain turned to her books.

Mending charms, diagnostic spells, potions. Instruments with the most varied, peculiar purposes. Special needles could be used to draw blood, and expertly assembled lenses could reveal what lay within it. Armbands imbued with magic could indicate the strength of a patient’s blood pressure.

The body was made of such intricate systems, which worked together magnificently to perform delightful, orchestrated functions. She was mesmerized by all of it.

Elain had also taken to helping in the kitchens as well. Nesta and Feyre tended to worry and watch Elain much more closely whenever she stayed in her room too long, and it was exponentially harder to read what she wanted when they were around.

You shouldn’t concern yourself with these things, she feared they would say, the shadow of a winged male behind them. Maybe you should try reading something else, something with nicer pictures, or lighter stories to ease your mind.

Those kind words, seemingly thoughtful advice, and concern would dwindle her precious books one by one, and then she would have nothing again.

Elain hated it too, how they were always looking at her with disheartened gazes. Not only her sisters but of all the Inner Circle. They never understood anything of what she had to say, would never credit any of her thoughts. Even the fox twitched its nose and bent his head to the side with confusion - on the occasion his face wasn’t drenched in pain and longing.

But she had tried. She had told them of the changed woman with feathers set aflame. Warned them of the tempestuous owner of the onyx box, only for it to fall on seemingly deafened ears, her speech only another line added to Feyre’s forehead, another bolt of iron in Nesta’s spine, another worry for someone else had to deal with.

Only Elain could see, and for that, she remained invisible.

The dough flattened smoothly under the roller; Elain’s arms loosened into the motion. The floured surface of the worktable was crammed with little jars of sugar and jams, multipurpose cloths, and an open cookbook. She would finish her pastries, leave them resting on the windowsill then hurry upstairs. Hopefully, her sisters would see them and take much longer to search for her, allowing Elain to have the afternoon she was carefully crafting for herself.

With the soft ding of an egg-shaped time counter, Elain took out a tray of perfectly golden crusted squares and placed them on the cleared table.

There was, if she was honest, a soothing quality to baking. The gentleness of each step lulled her mind and made it easier for her to tune out external and internal frictions, focusing only on the motion of her body.

As she dried her hands in her apron, pastries gleaming with homemade poisonberry jam, Elain heard the soft padding of boots down the hallway, a slithering shadow curling around the doorframe and disappearing as quickly as it came.

With haste, she fled the kitchen and went to her room to find the singularity of calmness.

⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ

Dinner was a loud affair, as it always was, so Elain waited until they were all overtly satisfied and tipsy to approach her sister in the drawing room. The looming threat of war had yet to diminish the utter happiness Feyre’s return had on Rhysand and his friends.

Feyre was sprawled on the couch, the spot next to her newly vacated by a stumbling Mor, who had claimed the need for beauty sleep.

“How are you feeling today?” her sister asked, her long fingers dragging lovingly over Elain’s arm. A caress she is sure her sister would have never allowed herself to even try, if it weren’t for the drink-induced fog on her mind.

“Just fine,” Elain said, and then with the planned drop of her chin and the openness of seemingly unsure eyes, she continued “I was wondering if you could call for Madja again,”

Fey sat up in alarm, which could attract Nesta’s piercing, preoccupied gaze, so Elain hurried to add “She mentioned some sort of sleeping draught the last time, I believe I could make good use of it,”, watching the other side of the room with the corner of her eye to make sure Nesta was still in her hushed conversation with Amren.

“Oh,” Feyre visibly relaxed, and some of the tension harbored between Elain’s shoulder blades loosened. “Of course, I can send for her,” her youngest sister confirmed, and the tight fist of anxiety in Elain’s gut released its tight grip, replaced by tentative anticipation.

“I’m so glad you’re taking care of yourself.”

⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ

The calendar on the wall indicated the start of the weekend.

I believed it Monday still, Elain thought to herself.

She was sitting in the living room, having a late breakfast by the window.

An odd sight, the antonym of the barely acknowledged empty chair below early sunlight, collecting the friendly conversation around. There was no one else to notice so.

Feyre had told Elain the previous afternoon – while hurriedly moving down the hallway, rushing outside for some appointment she didn’t even consider explaining - that Madja would come to the townhouse at ten o’clock in the morning, and that she would try to join the appointment, but was unsure if she would be able to.

Nesta was, as she so often was those days, in Amren’s apartment, strengthening her magic. Elain thought she’d heard why that was but couldn’t remember.

Maybe a dream, then.

Distantly, something in Elain longed to also have that privilege. A tutor, someone to guide her in learning this well of uncharted territory inside, but that consideration was swiftly swept under a sodden rug.

A knock on the front door had Elain on her feet, shaking her head as if staving off an unseen fog.

It had been considerably hard, trying to maintain herself awake. She had reached and held so strongly to the absence of her mind that it had become nearly impossible to keep herself lucid on the rare occasions she had wanted to. There was a particularly interesting book on the history of Healing Magic, thankfully written in the common tongue – unlike a large part of the Medicinal Section in the library – that had Elain repeatedly dozing off, either proverbially or literally, in the same way, she had gladly done numerous times. Before it had been a welcoming state, the static of nothingness, but it was consuming her now in a way she hadn’t understood, glad as she had been for the reprieve from her life.

These epiphanies often came and went like waves. Sometimes she would allow the ships to go in with the high tide and return with small storytelling orbs of white light. Sometimes the boats would be swallowed whole by the tyrannical sea, drowned to the bottom until only a clear empty surface stretched on, the reflective glow of crystal spheres crushed in the sand below.

Now, she wanted something more.

There were things she wanted to know.

Madja stood on the front steps in her healer robes. The magic surrounding her was cool and soothing, the relaxing breeze on a perspired forehead. Elain wondered if the old fae is the type to enlighten a room simply by standing in it.

Elain ushered her into the already prepped sitting room, an open notebook, its pages organized in scribbles, sat on the arm of the host’s armchair.

“You seem to be in better spirits,” Madja began once they were both comfortable sitting, pleasantries exchanged. “But I was called in to see the need to prescribe sleep medication.”

“I asked my sister for your presence, yes” Elain stammered. “I have questions, and was hopeful you could aid me in finding the answers,”

Madja sipped her tea with steady hands and eyed Elain with a look she had seldomly encountered directed at her.

Interest.

“My time is yours, Lady Elain.”

The leather-bound notebook was humid from the sweat in her hands, some ingrained sense in her mind making the back on her neck pinprick and her knuckles curl as if afraid of a straight ruler.

“Well,” she breathed in once, then blinked. “In most medical texts, there are numerous examples and experiments on healing fae bodies. I found in one of Joseph Norton’s books many references to the need for quick healing, done with moderate care, and modest effectiveness rates yet high survival chances. Practices are much more rudimentary than the ones from Annabelle Rite’s manuals. She maintains through all her works the extreme need for balanced, methodical, time-consuming procedures, which allows her to utilize whole-hand magic with minimal side effects, and it seems so curious to me that she would even attempt to do so with so many predecessors discouraging it so deeply...”

She shook her head again, blushing – truthfully! - in a fashion she hadn’t for years,

“But I am unsure of why would fae people even need healing practices, if there are entire collections dedicated to explaining the varied ways in which the body heals itself, at higher rates than any other known species. Wouldn’t the spells muddle the body’s own magic? It sounds unnecessary, why isn’t it enough?”

Madja settled her teacup down and laid back further in her armchair, eyes crystalline and lips tugging at the side for an aged smile.

“It would depend on what sort of injury we’d be discussing. Internal bleeding, for instance, if small enough will be dealt with by the body’s own magic. It is noticeable in the evolution of hematomas, as they change colors as the blood is reabsorbed and the blood vessels are restored. Now, when internal bleeding comes from blunt trauma – falling from a high distance, for example - the body would not be effective in healing itself quickly enough. The simplest reason for that is, as much as some try to state otherwise, faeries aren’t perfect. The healer’s job, in this case, would be to work with the patient’s own natural healing magic, potentialize and organize it to ensure they would be able to regain all their functions. It can often, in presentation, be much more complicated. Norton’s protocols would be a particularly safe choice, seeing as they prioritize promptness, and in high-risk situations, those are inevitably what a healer with a multitude of variables to solve will likely tend towards.”

“A stab wound, on the other hand, is much more critical, and with hemorrhage comes the diminishing of the natural magic. Then, suturing charms or manual stitching might be required with the danger of losing the patient completely if not done in proper haste.

Rite’s protocols, I’ve found, are much more appropriate for long-term care. You seem to have read her book, so perhaps you may remember that most of her case studies and examples center around lasting injuries or chronic illnesses. I’ve seen impressive improvements in previously immobile limbs, once from almost permanently dormant to near full range motion from her Wavelength Spells.”

“Mind Injuries, which differ greatly from both, are perhaps the most elusive sort of healing. It tends to be intuitive, and it takes considerable skill to allow the healer’s magic to run unbound in the patient’s body without any harm, and an even greater amount to ensure recovery.”

“I would add that Faeries, High Fae or otherwise, tend to see themselves as infallible due to their perception of immortality, but healing magic and healers came from the tested and true knowledge that there is much frailty in being fae, to the utmost displeasure of the others of our kind. A healer’s job, as I’ve discovered, lies in giving them a second chance.”

“Oh,” Elain said still flushed, and resisted the urge to press her palms to her cheeks.

She could barely believe she had dragged this female from her prior, likely much more important engagements to come and explain to her the seemingly most logical and obvious concepts she had ever heard.

No wonder no one took her seriously if even with the amount of literature she had consumed in the past days (weeks? or months?) she couldn’t make sense of the most common of concepts.

How could she think— How delusional she must have been to even consider herself able to understand such a complex subject –

“Thank you, sorry for taking up so much of your time.” She made herself say, prying her stiff knuckles from her notebook, five crescent moon shapes on the once plain black leather cover. Her teacup clattered mortifyingly on its plate as she moved to pick it up, brown eyes irreflective.

“That was quite refreshing, Lady Elain. I haven’t had a chance to mull over healing in such a long time… Most of my protocols are so inherent to me, I find myself doing them instinctually.”

Elain wouldn’t learn this about herself for many years, but her ears twitched most daintily, disturbing some strands of her golden-brown hair.

“That is very kind.”

“There is a Healing Program here in Velaris if you find yourself with time. It is mostly lectures and debates. There is a selection process, but from what I gathered, you’ll have no problem enrolling.”

“I want,” she whispered, half dazed, teacup clutched tightly in her hands.

“If you believe I could… Yes, Ms. Madja, I want it.”

✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿

Thank you for reading! I would LOVE to know what you feel about it ;)

I'm working on part two, if you want to be tagged to find out what sort of crazy shit imma put my baby Elain through, let me know.

Special thanks from the bottom of my heart to @bittermuire and @sunlightsage for being the sweetest most supportive and most amazing beta readers I could have asked for! You mean the world to me :)

#elain week #elain archeron #elucien #if you squint #you guys i love this one ok #elain archeron fanfic #elucien fanfic #elucien fanfiction #acotar fic #ana writes #i went full nerd mode on this #elain archeron week

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theoakleafpancake · 3 months

Text

The Ties of Fate

[Image ID: A drawing of two emblems, one a leopard’s eye and the other a snake’s eye. The leopard is red and the snake is yellow, and both of them have a sort of lightning strike reaching towards each other. /End ID]

::: ::: :::

The bells were ringing again. It was a sound they all dreaded, a sound that dampened the usual cheer of the dawn of a new day.

It was the sound of war.

Will Barret lowered the bow—the bow he’d made from a tree branch—and turned to watch as the single rider made his way along the road. A coil of unease slithered inside him, and without a second thought, he leaped through the little woods, towards the farmhouse in the field.

Daniel was already outside, carrying the shovel back into the barn. “Dad!” Will shouted. His father looked up and waved a hand, stopping as he waited.

“Is everything alright?”

He slowed down, panting. “Rider,” he said, letting out a slow breath. “There’s a rider coming.”

::: ::: :::

This is my AU submission for the Ranger assessment! (More info under the cut)

It’s kinda of a reversal AU, but also not really because about half of it remains the same. It’s also still very rough so I haven’t figured out all the logistics yet.

Morgarath was never defeated. In fact, the original war continued on much longer, with each group taking heavy losses. So much so that it came to a point where a tense truce was offered.

Unfortunately, Morgarath’s advances reached from Gorlan to a shaky line across Araluen. Thus Araluen was split into Duncan’s land and Morgarath’s land (now known as Tenebris).

The erasure of the Ranger Corps did happen. And Crowley did end up uniting the Originals to help Duncan. Unlike in the main timeline, he did it alone.

Halt O’Carrick, once heir to the throne of Dun Kilty, faced the same assassination attempts from his brother Ferris. It was around the third attempt that their father grew extremely ill.

Instead of allowing Ferris to take the throne, Halt was determined to keep his brother’s corruption from spreading. So he stayed. Caitlyn was the first to know. Halt had his own ensemble that was loyal to him, and managed to keep Ferris compliant for the time being. And so when the King died, Halt took the throne.

In this AU, he still met Pritchard and trained with him. His main weapon is still a bow and arrow. He has his own guards practice the weapon as well. For a while, everything went relatively smoothly.

There was no Ranger to save, and Daniel survived. The other two who ransacked his home in the original story (I can’t remember their names) still tried to pull their stunt but were unsuccessful. His wife lived and so did Will. For fifteen years, all was still.

(For reference, I gave them the last name of Barret. Vira is his wife and Will’s mother)

When the war commences once more, Will is forced back into it as well as his father. Will proves to be not so competent in most weaponry and finds himself with the archers.

The rest of the Wards are still in their respective places. As Morgarath plans, Battleschool students, Diplomats, and Scribes are all doing their own part.

Horace is a natural when it comes to swordsmanship, but not when it comes to fitting in. His mother lives alone, and he worries about her every day. Alda, Bryn, and Jerome make his life a living hell every day and he almost wishes he never joined.

Alyss strives to be everything Lady Pauline is. Her family is still gone, and so she did grow up in the Ward with George and a few others. Coincidentally, a popular baker in town frequents Castle Redmont to help with any major events. Her daughter, Jenny, often tags along and spends time with Alyss and George.

Never given the opportunity to choose another path, Gilan is a respected knight in Caraway. He still looks to the Rangers with longing and envy, but he knows it’s far too late to join. And besides, this is what everyone expected of him, right? As the Battlemaster’s son, it’s only natural.

At the start of the AU, Cassandra is placed in Celtica. Which geographically speaking is still weird because I have no idea how she would have made it even with a truce, but I’ll figure it out. The war did start again some time after she had arrived, so there’s that. Madelydd and her get into all sorts of antics and enjoy spending time with one another.

As the war starts, Crowley and Duncan are noticeably concerned about the growing size of Morgarath’s army. They will need more support if they have any hope of winning, but international relationships are not so well off. Fortunately, though small, an army from Hibernia decides to cut in on the decision of one of the six Kings - Halt O’Carrick

And of course, Ferris sees this as the perfect moment to strike. His brother leaves Caitlyn and Ferris in charge, not without sparing a few of his men to keep an eye on his brother. Unfortunately, Ferris has his own loyal followers. If the King were to leave to fight a war and never return, no one would bat an eye, after all.

No one except Caitlyn.

Anyways, that’s all I have for now! Everything will tie together eventually, I just have to figure out how to get there, lol.

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horsesteak · 7 months

Text

“Now thank the good lordy above this absolute belter of a nook is still open in the wee hours of the day!”

The sudden blast of energy the newcomer radiated as his voice joyfully boomed through the tiny, cramped eatery was an immediate overdose for the overworked waitress. It was far too late (or rather, early, according to the man) for this sort of social interaction.

Check out Everything and Nothing by beans (with 6 e's and 6 a's) on AO3! Also check out my co-artist @gearbroth 's (!!!) art on their blog!

For the 2023 TF2 Big Bang! @tf2bigbang

~~~

See below for bonus sketches and infodump!

It's been a while since I did a big art piece like this. It was fun, and it got me experimenting with watercolour pencils for the first time. I'm still learning the craft, and as much as I want my first ever watercolour painting to be perfect, it'll have to do. I'm satisfied with my attempt this time.

Although I do wish I could capture the painting in a higher resolution; phone camera and scanner couldn't cut it, everything is still a bit blurry. Here's the best I can take on my phone:

It's also the original colours, before digital shenanigans were done to it. The work of a sleep deprived art wizard waving his silly little magic wand tool to get everything to look nicer.

The original concept for this mini-comic came to me while I was sitting under a tree, halfheartedly trying to study for my two exams the next day. I quickly sketched this:

I honestly like the lineart of this sketch better than the final. What could be better than demo's sparkley anime eyes?

I was excited I finally came up with an idea after being high and dry for weeks. Basically my mental state:

I was going to have Demo stride in, burst through that door with exuberant energy that filled the Spy's shitty dead-end cafe. And also showcase his traditional Scottish garb, which let me tell you is a whole rabbithole that I eagerly leapt into while researching for cultural accuracy. (I tend rely on real life references alot. Trying to branch out to stylised drawing would be cool.)

What happened next were these little sketches on post-it notes. I draw on them first before committing paper because...it's fun :)

Also in this case, this is a comic, so I could rearrange the drawings how I liked, so this was actually goated.

In the second image, see another case of liking the lineart more than the final. I had half a mind to keep that sketch of Spy and paint over it, but that wasn't watercolour paper, so no... :(

I was surprised how well the sketches turned out. Bloody hell, I'm an artistic genius! Now lets see how that translates to paint, eh? Well, you already know.

Some things to improve on, personally, is to make the lineart cleaner next time, so the paint doesn't mix with the pencil to make this weird greyish colour. Anatomy, always. Clothing folds is another big one. And finally, time management. Man, art is a passion, but damn does having too little time screw my art quality over. Well as they say, scarcity breeds innovation.

If you've made it this far, I am putting a virtual turtle (vurtle) in your hand, because turtles are cool, and you are too.

As a bonus bonus to this info-dump, have the original concept sketch while I was feeling out how to draw Demo in formal Scottish suit and kilt.

THAT IS ALL.

#tf2bigbang2023 #tf2 #demoman #tf2 spy #demospy #bomb voyage #tf2 demoman #might add image descriptions later if people want

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notyour-valentine · 2 years

Text

Don't forget to smile :-) ~ modern!Tommy Shelby & Reader (platonic fluff/angst)

[Masterlist] [Taglist]

Summary: Tommy can't think of anything more ridiculous than the cheery messages the Barista keeps scribbling down on his to go coffee cups

Note: Written for @mrsalwayswrite auparty - I know I am super late, but life was busy and I was more representative of this Tommy than this reader. Despite the delay, I still hope you still enjoy it. At least, by now, I have the element of surprise on my side!

I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other. This hasn't been beta'd so I apologise for typos or mistakes

Warning: anger? car crash, violence, mention of blood, a tiny bit of politics? Depression, mention of suicide. Also Crypto Bros. Expect canon confirming tone and mention of violence.

Wordcount: 2282 words

Don’t forget to smile :-)

The letters were mocking him.

The four words added in sharpie to the to-go cup, in such a haste that the drawing had been smudged slightly.

Don’t forget to smile :-)

There was very little to smile about in the life of Thomas Shelby, especially these days and so it felt like a personal attack.

He turned the cup so that he wouldn’t have to look at them.

The most annoying thing about it was that stupid smiley. It made him want to punch a hole through the to-go cup with his pen just to be rid of it.

It was as if she was trying to insult him, not just with that idiotic drawing and those empty words she always scribbled down on his cup, but with her whole demeanour.

She was always smiling.

She was always wishing everyone a “fantastic day!”

Tommy always knew some people were born with less than half a brain but very few had decided to be as blatantly obvious about it.

Always smiling, always cheery, always adding messages like these that sounded like they had been taken straight from the pages of some overpriced self help book - or from one of these idiotic motivational instagram pages that would put cheesy phrases over the backdrop of some UFC fighter who would probably subcome to CTE before he turned fifty but he looked tough so what did it matter when you could turn it into an ‘inspirational image’ with ‘good energy’

That entire generation was nothing but a collection of fools living in an echo chamber and throwing phrases like “vibes” and “energy” about, although if he told them that, they’d probably “call him out” for his “toxic masculinity” and “bad vibes”.

The fact that he knew all these things made him want to curse Ada even more, who had written her second dissertation about said ‘toxic masculinity’, or maybe third - he didn't remember, and to Finn, who only last week offered to ‘connect’ him with one inspirational speaker he really liked who was doing a podcast and really wanted Tommy to be a guest on it.

He’d rather eat broken glass.

But like most awful things in his life, that barista was unrelenting.

Apparently she was always the one doing the graveyard shifts, because it was always her handing out his coffee at the drive through in the earliest morning hours, always smiling, always with those stupid useless sayings.

The whole business would work better if their employees didn’t waste time with meaningless scribbles no one would ever bother to read.

You’re doing great!

As if Tommy Shelby needed a little barista to tell him that.

He knew he was doing great. He knew how far he had come, straight out of the social estate housing in Birmingham to the penthouses of London and New York, with businesses on every continent and a company on the stock market (and several that would never be connected to his or his family’s name).

Be proud of yourself!

Especially on a day like this with the Chinese business close to blowing up, it made him want to crumple up the cup in his hand, and preferably her idiotic smile with it.

It was just so unnecessary - a waste of time and energy, even of ink itself.

But no matter what, he could always count on those few words of writing to ruin his morning.

Today again.

You are loved!

He didn’t feel loved, if that even was a thing, not after Polly had been screaming at him for an hour straight, making his ears ring.

Then again -

Today’s a great day to have a great day!

What did that even fucking mean?

And what if some other car crashed into his on the way to work and squashed his skull to mush? That would be a sight for the firefighters that would be called to scrape his brains off of the asphalt.

The next time he’d have to teach one of his rivals a lesson, he should send them something with that saying on first, before blowing up their car or setting fire to their restaurant.

It was funny in a way.

You’ve totally got this!

He had stared at the writing for longer than he should have, having been up for nearly twenty hours now, running only on stubbornness, caffeine and desperation.

You’ve totally got this!

Tommy stared at it and thought of the little barista with her silly apron covered in coloured buttons on the side, filled with meaningless slogans and symbols.

As if putting some logo on a badge would fix things.

She was only pretending to care about these causes, about him, about all the other customers she smiled at.

But at least she’s pretending, a voice in his head reminded it. No one else is fucking doing it.

Least of all himself.

These days, Tommy was too tired to pretend, but it didn’t matter, did it?

Not really. After all, everyone was busy, everyone was desperate.

Ada was up and about changing the world, writing books and fighting causes, trying to pass laws in at least six different countries at once, while Polly was somehow at the Met Gala, the Biennale and Cannes at the same time, hardly spending half as much time in England as she was spending in Monaco or St. Tropez or the Maldives.

Arthur was already stretched to his limits, in and out of the clinical rehabs Polly and Ada put him in and the church retreats in Iowa that Linda recommended, and talking to his wife was tricky these days, after it came out that she had donated to some politician Ada hated.

At first she and his sister had been throwing insults, then food, and in the end even fists had flown.

There was no talking to any of them now.

Just him, always him.

“You’re earlier than usual!”, she remarked when he pulled up to the drive way.

Tommy only huffed.

“Have a great day!”, she told him as she handed him his coffee and a sandwich he probably wouldn’t eat.

Some days he even wondered if they would notice if he would disappear.

They would, of course, at least when the money dried up.

She was doing it for the same reason. He might not like her but he was a fair tipper.

Still, she’d notice before they would.

Which was - something? He didn’t know, and he didn’t have the energy to think about it.

London inner city traffic allowed him to glance at what she had written today

You are blessed!

Rolling his eyes, Tommy took a sip.

So meaningless. So childish. So useless.

Every single day, like an endless stream of blind idiocy.

Don’t forget to smile =)

People look up to you!

You WILL achieve your goals!

Today is EXTRA good!

You matter!

I believe in you!

Don’t forget to do what you love 🤍

You do a great job being you!

Meaningless at the best of times, mockery at the worst.

Countless times he had thought of changing the coffee place just to be rid of her needless pestering positivity, but it was the most convenient spot, besides, doing that would mean he had to concede a reaction to it and to him it was a sign of defeat to indulge fools.

Still, it was nagging at him.

This rainy Thursday she had written something particularly irritating on it.

Not only had she greeted him with a smile “You’re back!” on the first day he had returned from a work trip to Paris.

“Yeah.”, he muttered as he waited for his coffee impatiently.

As she handed him the cup, he glanced at it.

People are grateful to know you

This was reaching new depth. No one in the history of his life had ever been grateful for that.

Not a single person.

Even those people who were cursed to love him weren’t. They were grateful for his work and money, but not knowing him.

Unless -

Maybe it was the exhaustion, or simply because he couldn’t be bothered to go back to the bank to exchange his change.

Fuck it, he thought. In a way, he was only doing himself a favor as it would be useless to send someone.

So Tommy circled around the drive through and ordered some cinnamon roll from her colleague at the first window.

“You again, did you forget something?”, she asked with her beaming smile.

No.

“Ever been to Europe - “

Tommy had to squint to read her nametag.

The name suited her, in a way, even if he hadn’t suspected it.

“No, but I’d love to go to Rome!”, she said as she handed him the brown paper bag.

Tommy noticed the black writing from her pen, but didn’t read.

“Cash this time.”, he said, handing her a pound bill, and then whatever had remained in his wallet from his trip to Paris.

It wouldn’t change the world, but there was enough green and purple in there to finance a little trip for a barista.

He shoved them into her hand unceremoniously and drove off before she had the chance to react.

If she was smart, she’d hide it in her pocket, but if she chose to put it in the tip jar and share it with her colleagues, that was her business.

People are grateful to know you.

She was a fool, and Tommy couldn’t change that, but at least today he had made sure her words didn’t make her a liar.

It kept raining all through the day, and into the late afternoon, through phone calls and meetings, through Michael throwing a fit and Polly being unreachable, through everything.

“Tommy,”, Lizzie said, popping her head in through the tinted glass doors, “there’s a woman at the front desk to see you.”

“What woman?”, he asked, taking off his glasses.

“Some girl. She has something for you, something you lost and she refuses to give it to the security.”

Fucking really?

Lizzie only shrugged.

“She says its important. They’ve checked her. No weapons. She says she’s fine waiting downstairs until you come down.”

He had half a mind to test that theory, but then he shook his head.

“Send her up then.”, he muttered. The only thing less appealing to him than having to deal with some stranger was having to deal with some stranger after a long day’s work.

Five minutes later Lizzie came in again.

“I can’t send her in here, Tommy - she’s soaking. It’ll ruin the floors.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his strength before getting up to Lizzie’s office.

It took him a moment to notice her without her hat and apron, but her smile gave her away.

“Hi, so sorry for disturbing-”, she began. “I’ll be right off, I promise, but ah - you made a little mistake earlier.”

She really was soaking, from head to toe drenched and dripping, her clothes clinging to her skin. Still, she smiled.

“What?”, he asked in utter disbelief.

Reaching into her back pocket she took out the folded Euro bills he had passed her hours earlier.

“You always give my five quid - so maybe you got the colours mixed up cause this one’s green too.”

She bit her lip in embarrassment as she handed out the bills to him. Each and every one, green, yellow and purple.

“So yeah - this is yours.”

He only stared at her in disbelief.

“Are you for real?”, he demanded to know.

“Yeah.”, she said immediately. “I mean, I’d like to think I’m good at my job, but I’m not - three thousand six hundred and seventy five Euros good at my job.”

When he didn’t take the money, she put it on Lizzie’s desk who was watching the interaction with wide eyes from the window.

“Nothing we got is that good, not even the blueberry muffins.”

Tommy only stared at her.

“Anyway, that’s all.”

She was already halfway out of Lizzie’s office, her worn Converse making squelching sounds on the floor, when Tommy called her back.

“That money was for you.”, he insisted.

She stared at him with wide eyes.

“Oh but that’s a bit much.”

“So?”

She shook her head.

“Well, it's too much.”

If he thought her a fool before, he considered her little more than an idiot now.

When his disbelief kept rendering him speechless she spoke up again.

“Why don’t you put it into your charity? They’ve got a lot of flyers in the lobby and the kids probably really need it. I’ll be alright.”

Lizzie gave him a look which he tried painfully to ignore.

“I really need to go now.”, she said with an apologetic smile, “sorry for interrupting and sorry about getting the floor all wet.”

“Can I ask you something?”, Tommy asked.

“Sure.”

“Why do you always have to smile?”

She tilted her head and frowned, but then - oh wonder - she smiled.

“I read somewhere once about a man who wanted to kill himself - wanted to jump off of the Golden Gate bridge or something and was already on the way up but he didn’t do it ‘cause someone walked by him and wished him a good day and smiled at him. Made his day and saved his life.”

She shrugged.

“Don’t know if it’s true, but you never know I guess. Anyway, I really have to go or else you’ll have a proper puddle to remember me by.”

With that, she turned and opened the door.

“Have a great day!”, she chirped, the way she always did when he drove off, only this time it was her who was leaving.

The End

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed and as always I'd love to hear your thoughts!

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@lilyrachelcassidy @jyessaminereads @chlorrox @watercolorskyy @books-livre @quarterpastmidnight @lilyevanswhore @polishcrazyone @zablife @just-a-harmless-patato @stevie75 @flyingjosephine-blog @runnning-outof-time @cillmequick

Tommy

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#mzauparty #valentineswritings #don't forget to smile :-)#peaky blinders #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #modern thomas shelby #modern! thomas shelby #modern! tommy shelby #modern!tommy shelby #modern!tommy #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby imagine #tommy shelby imagine

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