#digital note-taking tablets

[attleboy]

In your opinion would you say it takes more or less time to make art on a tablet or on paper?

well... for me it takes a little more time to make art with my tablet, because i don't use one with a screen, and i don't use stabilizers... i have to draw my lines in one quick go to keep them smooth, but even with years of practice, hand-eye coordination is still tricky! lots of re-doing lines because i overshot or undershot, etc.... ^-^;

(real-time example)

i definitely prefer doing art digitally if i plan to finish it or post it (my process is... a little all over the place lol and it gets messy on paper, not a good look) but being able to work more quickly with pencil and paper is something i make use of for art studies, concept development, and other practice stuff!

so yeah, paper for quick, low-pressure stuff , and digital for more time-consuming, polished stuff! they've both got their place i think...

#i should also note: if you're new to using a drawing tablet and you're using a screenless one like mine #it will 100% take longer to do digital... takes a while to get the hand-eye coordination down and until then it will be time-consuming #but you should get used to it eventually! #ask response

[noirrelite]

I learned the hard way that Procreate doesn't crop canvases non-destructively for some reason 🥹 I essentially deleted two promising WIPs at the same time by accident (I was using the same canvas for both WIPs while I was trying to crop and export a small doodle) and i feel like death and decay rn

#one of them was for a friend too 😔 #sigh #also dealing with a really annoying cold atm #what a week #on the bright side I don't need to lug my laptop and tablet monitor somewhere just to draw digitally now and I can take notes with it yippe #just need to get more used to how procreate works >u>

[kifu]

#horse art #digital equine art #paint horse #kifuart #another secret santa gift #i ain't waiting to upload this stuff #it gets posted as i finish it because holy fuck do i have enough to do #also soething chewed through my tablet cord and it's taking a long ass time to get the hdmi and usb to work at the same time #not that you can tell if the usb is working if the hdmi isn't #and a new chord is a $50 commitment and time i don't have #so i'm afraid that if i don't finish a picture in one sitting i may not get to finish it #and if that's the case i don't have enough time to wait to finish it #which means i'd need to restart #it's alwys fucking somethign #on a GOOD note #the reference picture of this was my horse and the boarded horse #which are certainly NOT paint horses #it's easy enough to bulk out a TB into a paint horse #give the horse way more tummy and more feet #good enoug #but turning a TWH into ANYTHING other than a TWH? fuck it that's hard #there's a reason i never use BH as a reference #turns out his head is big his neck is short and his back legs are fucking redonk #so as long as i fix all THAT i can use BH #worked ... OKAY in this picture #gotta figure out how i can better draw a LESS massive bone though because he's also big boned. ofc #but anyway this is the fun secret santa #the other one ... i guess i get to work with shiny

[lovifie]

Hormones

When you suddenly find yourself thirsting over your LT!Simon that on any normal day you have to restrain yourself from throwing a chair at.

(please read the note at the end)

It's been a couple of months since you started working with the Task Force 141, an awesome force of men that save the world while the world sleeps.

The same way Soap and Gaz are, you are a sergeant. Not yet included in the task force officially, but still being asked to tag along to some missions.

It's been great! The sergeant's quickly become like childhood friends, the captain took you under his wing like one more of the team, Laswell is euphoric there is another woman and the lieutenant… Well, he's there.

It's not that you would expect him to give you special treatment, THE Ghost from Task Force 141. You are not a nosy person, but c’mon, it's Ghost! Who hasn't heard of him?

In the military world, it was the closest to meeting a celebrity. You were not expecting him to fall head over heels for you, but you were still a bit taken back when the first thing he said to you was:

“The fuck you looking at? Want a pat on the back for making it here without shitting yourself in the process? Get the fuck out of my face, go bother somebody else.”

You were not expecting a kiss on the forehead, but shit, a “Good morning” would have been enough.

Still, as time went on, the interactions between the LT and you remained just as bad. At the end, you stopped trying to talk to him, and just asked the sergeants or the Captain.

Except that bothered him too, like a stubborn toddler.

“Now you are too great to speak to your immediate superior? Need to go cry to the Captain like a brat? Make sure not to wet your nappies, soldier.”

And honestly, what's his fucking problem?

As a sergeant, you are proud to admit you have a wide range of skills and abilities, one of them being your patience to not absolutely destroy all the idiots that you have come across in your life. But honestly, you can feel it run thin as time goes by.

Even the captain had to jump to your rescue on more than one occasion, when Simon attack was completely uncalled for or he got a bit too hurtful.

But unlike your lieutenant, you remain professional. Listening to your captain, getting along with your sargeants and completely ignoring your lieutenant.

Until today.

The summer weather, great when sunbathing, not great when the AC is broken and you get stuffed in a room without windows for a debriefing with the team.

It's Ghost's turn to talk, standing to his full heights, when he finally takes off his jacket. And your eyes follow the movement, and then they just… stay there.

The tablet he is using looks like a smartphone on his hand, digits so thick you wonder how he manages to get them on the weapons triggers. The tendons of his hands moved under the skin as he adjusts his hold of the electronic.

And you follow the line, taking in the tattoo sleeve on his left arm, trying to decipher what they are supposed to be, some damaged with scars, others seems so old the ink got blurry, but still you can tell the way his muscles move under them.

Such a big arm, you know he could lift you with ease. Shit, he could lift everyone in the room. His biceps must be the size of your head, and he seems so unbothered by it, like it is not incredible the way he is built.

He switched his weight from one leg to the other, and your eyes traveled to his hips and waist. A waist that looks small, not that it is, there is nothing small about this man, but the sheer size of his shoulders in contrast makes his waist look small. His shoulders and his back, wide enough that it makes you wonder how he can enter through the door at base. He must enter sideways, there is no other way.

His hips called you again, making your eyes travel down your body, until they set between his legs. The bulge in there makes you feel offended, of course the idiot would be packing even when soft. How dare he?

Would he be a grower or a shower? Cause if he is a grower and this is the soft stage, you wonder how he doesn't get tangled.

You wouldn't mind getting tangled, you think, biting your lip.

Wait.

WAIT.

WHY ARE YOU THIRSTING FOR HIM?!

You look at the front, standing straight, and come face to face with Soap; who is perfectly aware of hour hatred towards hour LT is now looking at you like you just grew a second head on your shoulder. For a moment you don't know who looks more confused with your actions.

A silly thought goes through your head, and you pull your phone out, opening your period track app. And as you guessed, you were right. You show your screen to Soap and as he read: “Prediction: Ovulation. High risk of getting pregnant.” He burst out laughing making you chuckle as well as you shake your head.

Maybe, if you wouldn't have been so engrossed in your imagination, you could have noticed the way Ghost was stuttering while speaking, in ecstasy he finally managed to get a reaction out of you.

Hii🩷

How are you??

I just wanted to let you know I'm planning on making like a "permanent" taglist, for the post outside of the current series that already have their own.

I made this questionnaire (don't worry is anonymous, I'll only ask for your @ so I can tag you), and in there you can let me know if you want to be tag on all the little bits like this post, or only in some series or if you are in one already and want to be removed.

Also, the next series getting updated is Her Royal Highness, so those of you that have been waiting I'm sorry for taking so long and I'll probably uploaded this weekend/early this week.

Anyway, hope you liked this post I don't know if I'll make a continuation let me know if you would like to read that ♥️♥️

#call of duty #ghostsoap #cod x reader #cod #cod smut #task force 141 #call of duty x reader #cod modern warfare #ghost #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost cod #simon riley #ghost smut #john soap mactavish #call of duty modern warfare #cod mwii

[moondirti]

animalic (2)

← chapter 1 // series masterlist

pairing: Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader rating: mature word count: 2.2k summary: a game of cat and mouse warnings: enemies to lovers, canon typical violence, guns, death, blood, angst, no use of y/n (reader is referred to as ‘wraith’) notes: remember when i said part 2 would take a while? i lied. the next chapter is fun as all hell so i wanted to churn this one out as build up. teehee i hope yall like it regardless

He let you go. 

He let you go. 

No matter how Miguel tries to vindicate it, he rounds back to the same conclusion. You weren’t subtle, regardless of what you’d have yourself believe; he’d seen the calculations glaze over your eyes the instant he pinned you to the wall. He knew what was coming, how your heavy breathing was a cover for the clicks of his watch – of which he heard regardless – and your squirming a diversion from the movement of your busy fingers. He had a goddamn plan too, a fail safe in case you decided to attack instead of listening to reason. 

(One he’d settled on for the duration of your lost consciousness, for knowledge that you would.)

So, there is no dismissing it. You’re obnoxious and lack precision, and he could have had you halfway back home by now, which isn’t the case – because he let you go.  

The frigid air of his office thrums with irritation, weighing down on his shoulders until they collapse inwards, his hands coming up to rub the weariness off his expression. HQ has been unsettlingly quiet as of late – occupied by only a fraction of its regular population – and the peace worries him. History betrays its status as the precursor to havoc; lulls in the past have fooled him into believing his mission was drawing to a close, only for another anomaly, another mess, to spin that naivety on its head. 

You were one such instance. A year ago, you’d popped up on an Earth that wasn’t your own, and didn’t leave until you’d drawn all that you could from it. It’s an empty husk now, lacking land to propagate its agriculture. Thousands – millions – dead, from the flap of a butterfly’s wings.

Parasite. A fucking parasite who just won’t quit. 

The mantra surges through him, festering from the base of his gut to the cap of his tongue. It bursts out with a roar right then, the sudden violence finding monitors thrown across the room, smashed to bits of orange light and static. It does nothing to sate him, though, the heady anger filtering out like molasses. His back hunches as he draws in thin breaths. He doesn’t count, nor does he attempt to. Instead, he looks for his only real decompressor. 

The video of Gabriella flickers at him from a distant floor, the transparent tablet wrecked with four distinct claw marks. He exhales, pulling it back to the platform with an extended web. 

“Boss,” 

His mija smiles toothily down at his digital self, winding her small palms in his hair for balance as he carries her. He recalls helping with hers, tying it back into shabby ponytails the mornings before a big game. How she wouldn’t let anyone fix it afterwards, not until her elastic slipped off the ends and her bangs hindered her playing. And she’d run to him, whenever, to get it fixed again. 

“Boss.” 

Her jokes resonate still, echoing laughter from when she’d poke fun at how bad he’d gotten at it, amused by the sudden decline in ability. To Miguel, it was one more reminder that the life he led wasn’t his own. 

“Oh Miguel!” 

So much for calming down.

“Lyla.” He looks up at the virtual assistant, her corporeal character a little fuzzy around the edges. She chooses to ignore his dissociative episode, rather projecting a map of the arachno-humanoid poly-multiverse, a point off centre highlighted in red. His heart skips. Placing the tablet down on his desk, he takes a step closer to survey the pin.

“Managed to track the Wraith down using the day pass you’d given her. Currently stationed on Earth-15, no signs of jumping anytime soon.” 

Parasitic, and stupid enough to forgo destroying a potential tracking device.

Lyla snickers, seemingly able to read the sneer pulling at his cheeks. 

“Seems like she’s afraid of glitching more so than she is you, Boss.” 

His glare snaps to meet her heart shaped sunglasses. 

“Funny.” His assistant shrugs at his admonishment. “Pull up the anomaly cam.” 

A second later, your figure blinks into sight. 

You’re crouched atop a tiled floor, the grout darkened to near-black with grime. In front of you lies a sparse spread of medical supplies; gauze, scissors, and miniature packets of disinfectant wipes. Miguel can’t help but wonder what you think you’re doing, treating your wounds in a bathroom as unsanitary as the one that cramps you. Graffiti littered walls, nests of used paper towels in every corner. You spring up to wash your hands after undoing the old bandages that hugged your forearm, but all that comes out is an inconsistent splutter of grey water. 

His chest twinges, a tug of intrinsic sympathy playing against him. It worsens at the sight of your injury, the consequences of his talons’ assault on you, the puncture points brimming yellow and blackening closer to their middles. He can’t tell whether it’s gotten any better, whether you were good and had it treated by a professional, or made the common mistake of relying too much on your enhanced healing. 

“Gave her a harsh gig there. You always that rough?” 

“When I need to be.” Miguel murmurs, skimming over the conspicuous innuendo.

“Right. Until it comes to finishing the job, that is.” And, despite the offence taken to Lyla’s jest, he can hardly disagree. Newfound resolve hardens within him, sympathy fleeting at its failure to deter him. 

“Set coordinates for Earth-15.” He rumbles, gesturing to his wrist as he walks away. The assistant does as she’s told, shrinking back to an icon on his watch. While waiting for the portal to configure, Miguel cocks his head, taking one last look at your oblivious form. 

“I won't let her get away this time.” 

“Put the money in the fucking bag or she gets it!”

Of all the spider-people you’ve met, you don’t believe any have been the hostage in an armed robbery situation. You imagine that they’d come in at the last minute, valiantly swinging through the window, accentuating their arrival in a shower of shattered glass. They’d demand the money be remitted, and all’s well that ends well. But – of course – there’s got to be a first for everything; your record just so happens to be the lamest of the bunch. 

The masked man presses the gun further into your temple, bursting capillaries until the spot starts to ache with a raw tenderness. His body wraps around you, other arm waving wildly outwards, extending a plastic bag to the poor soul behind the register. You take a great gulp of air, staring at the buzzing fluorescents above, and pray. 

Lord, now would be a really good time to phase out. 

“P-Please, leave her be.” The owner throws a potful of crumpled fives into the bag, as if to punctuate her plea. The man is dismissive in face, urging her for more, shaking the receptacle with comedic insistence. You purse your lips, blinking up at the ceiling once more. 

Or make this more exciting, at the very least. 

“And you!” You’re jolted out of being a passive observer, rattled when the man diverts his attention to you. His gun thrusts harder against your forming bruise, adding to the list of damages sustained in the past week alone. You peer at him from the corner of your eye. His roll incredulously, pointing to the bill in your grip. “The twenty!” 

“Is that a real gun?” 

“Wha– Of course it’s a real fucking gun! Put the money–” 

“In the bag. I know.” 

His hold on you slackens, expectant. By contrast, you ball your fist and punch him square in the nose. The hit sends him reeling farther than it should for the amount of space you had in winding back, the feat prompting a deluge of pride to wash over you. It’s bolstered when he drops the spoils in the process, toppling into a rack of chips and cup noodles that consequently cushion his fall. 

Your first save. 

Filled with bravado, you snatch and pass over the bag to the cashier. 

“Here you go, ma’am.” 

But she doesn’t look at you. Rather, her stare remains trained on the man you’d just disabled. Nerves maturating, you join her line of vision, only to be met with the barrel end of his weapon. You catch the vicious conclusion in the way his hand trembles, veins protruding from the pale skin, supplying courage to the finger hovering right over the trigger. You process it all, aware of the ways it can end, at how fast it can sour.  

Before you can so much as act on it, he shoots. 

Your skin prickles. 

You’ve heard stories of people who don’t realise when a bullet strikes them. Their bodies take time to catch up to the pain, cells stuck in paralytic shock, stimulus signals held somewhere between the existential and a will to delay the inevitable. You think you understand what they mean, your mind dragging in a rare bout of silence. Things slow, for a perennial moment, and you wonder how fast the blood loss will kill you.

You can do nothing but follow the man, who scrambles to a stand, letting him take the money – with whatever else – and watching as he runs out onto the street. 

And even still, the pain hasn’t caught up to you. 

Looking down, the case starts piecing itself together. No blood sticks to your shirt, the fabric still as pristine as it had been upon purchase. You check your arms, then your legs, then reach up to smooth over your head. Nothing. You’re okay.

The relief is short-lived when the morbid sound of gurgling meets your ears. Slowly, you turn, bracing for what you knew you’d find.  

The scene unfolds with a distressing intensity as crimson liquid blooms from the cashier’s throat. The torrent is never-ending, every gush of ichor bringing forth a new momentum, splattering its macabre scene over the register. Her eyes gloss over with an unshed panel of tears, and she looks to you for help. 

She looks to you. 

(You don’t admit it to yourself, but it’s the novelty of that fact that pushes you into action.) 

With a swift leap over the counter, you intercept her mid-fall, carefully cradling her weight as you guide her down to the ground. Scanning your surroundings, you search for a means to call for help. A rotary phone catches your recognition, situated a ways off by the back exit. Despite the inconvenient placement, it stands as your sole option at this stage.

In a split second decision, you sling your backpack off, hastily rummaging through its contents. You find solace in your hoodie, gathering its folds to tightly bunch it up, converting it into a makeshift compress.  Knowing she lacks the strength to apply pressure to the wound, you move to wrap it around her neck, hopeful that it’s tight enough to stem the bleeding while leaving enough room for air. 

Urgency fuelling your every step, you leave her side for a fleeting moment, dashing over to call an ambulance. Your medical knowledge only extends so far, and some selfish part of you itches to pass on the responsibility to someone more competent. It’s an impulse that derives from an innate acceptance, that resoundingly insightful voice in your head telling you it's too late. That she’s already dead, had been from the moment the bullet – that was meant for you – missed. 

Perhaps your help isn’t really helpful at all, then. Perhaps it’s your attempt to wash your hands of the sin. You think back to the grey water in the bathroom, how exasperated you had been at your inability to stay clean. 

(You don’t think you’ll ever rid yourself of this.) 

“911, what’s your emergency?” The question crackles through the receiver.

The bell by the entrance jingles, the chime accompanied by heavy footsteps. You press yourself against the wall, the concept of the robber returning filling you with such dread that you feel your stomach tighten and congeal. It’s a heavy lump, icy cold and slippery, and it seems to weigh a hundred pounds.

“Hello?” The operator says. 

But if it was the man, then he'd have to have changed into a navy and red suit. Somehow, your terror worsens. 

“Hijo de la chingada…” The whisper is barely legible, but the deep baritone is discernible enough to validate the assumption pulled from your brief glimpse. You’d recognise him anywhere. 

Shrinking in on yourself, you cup your palm over your mouth. “Hello,” 

“Ma’am? Can you describe your emergency?” 

“There was an armed robbery at the convenience off sixth and Third. Someone’s hurt.” You hardly register the words as they escape you, eyeing Miguel when he crouches over the lady. You’re propelled back to the conclusion of your last meeting; how his claws tore into you, how his persistence didn't falter until you pressed yourself onto him. 

That kiss. 

He runs a finger over your hoodie-turned-compress, wavering, like he can’t quite place where he’d seen it before. 

Or, maybe he can, for he spins to meet your wide-eyed stare. 

You drop the phone, bolting out the back door, charged on a paroxysm of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated panic.

chapter 3 →

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#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #animalic #x reader #spider man: across the spider verse #spiderman: into the spiderverse #spider man across the spider verse #oscar isaac #spiderman 2099 #spiderman into the spiderverse #spiderman #spider man 2099 #spider-man 2099 #marvel #enemies to lovers #spider-man #angst #miguel o’hara x you #miguel x reader

[aealzx]

Don was quick to return with a modest sized tablet, tapping in several different passwords as he opened folders and applications to pull up each video feed that was relevant on screen. Only then did he pass the device over to Leon, who took it with a half voiced thanks before leaning back against Leatherhead and Donnie. Lil Mikey was then pulled fully into his lap with a follow up pat before Leon silently skimmed through the videos. There was hours worth of data, but at least it was easy for Leon to speed up the feed to get through it quicker. A convenient toggle on screen pulled back and forth to fast forward or rewind.

Leon honestly didn’t care how the others had broken into the base, and it seemed it wasn’t on record anyway since the beginning of the heist was masked by looped video. It was strangely easier to see the torment Donnie went through without having the emotions to go with it, but Leon still clenched his jaw in residual anger. A slight smirk briefly interrupted the mood when he watched the Donnie in the video chomp down on someone’s arm. Served them right. Everything that he saw in the video ended up lining up with what Don had explained to him, and where Donnie was currently bandaged. Though Leon’s eyes did furrow watching them place two bags of his brother’s blood on their cart. If he hadn’t already been told Donnie had destroyed the entire base, Leon would have added draining the same amount of blood from them to the list.

At the point of Donnie breaking free Leon switched over to the video with Lil Mikey. There was no sound with the visuals, he didn’t want Lil Mikey to get overly curious about what he was seeing. But while he couldn’t hear what they were saying Leon still noted the way the others, the adults, treated his little brother. Their hands were careful, their patience long, and actions willing to help. It was… strange. Their group was the first on the move, so Leon had to switch through several video feeds to follow them, smiling in pride for a moment as Lil Mikey definitely stole the highest knockout count by a long shot. But it was obvious after a while that the mask Don had given him wasn’t as efficient. The pessimist in Leon’s mind accused them of faulty gear. But it was easy to quickly confirm that Lil Mikey’s head was just too small.

Then, once again, these new mutants took care of Lil Mikey almost as if he were one of their own brothers. Leon easily followed the bullet hitting his brother, and watched curiously as Raphael pulled Lil Mikey close and most likely called for help once they were behind a barricade. And Leon had to raise a brow and give a soft huff of amusement at Mikey taking down the one responsible. The first three hits were more than enough. The next five hits to the unconscious soldier calmed the rage that had been budding in Leon’s heart.

Moments later Leon watched Donnie break through the wall, causing him to pause on that video and go back to the others to track Donnie’s course. There wasn’t much to follow, once Donnie reached the rooms the feed tended to go black moments after. But seeing the rooms beforehand, one had been where their stolen equipment had been stored, and another had been where the employees had taken the samples from Donnie. A separate video feed from outside that room showed a vibrating camera, and smoke trailing out of the room soon after. Apparently Donnie had annihilated everything in that room long before blowing the base up as well. Of course he would make sure nothing of them remained in Augustine’s hands. That was one of the main responsibilities he’d adopted from an early age. To make sure no one found them, physically or digitally.

Going back to the video where everyone else was, Leon only watched for a moment more before he relatively sped through the end. Donnie had protected them. He had trusted the others to take care of Lil Mikey, and protected them as well. Both Lil Mikey, and Donnie, had faith in their counterparts.

It was enough.

Skimming through Leo kicking Augustine, then addressing Donnie with the same tenderness as the rest of his brothers. Leon eventually let out a sigh and tilted his head back. He felt exhausted after having a large source of stress massaged out of his mind. He was still wary, but only because that was how he always was. Looking up to Leatherhead, who had just patiently been staying still for the near half an hour Leon had been researching, Leon gave him a regular smile.

Seeing the change in demeanor, Leatherhead rumbled a soft chuckle. “I take it you’ve found the answers you sought?” he asked, returning Leon’s smile with one of his own.

“...Most of them,” Leon responded, pushing away the necessary emotions starting to bud. There was no need for sheepishness, or indignancy, or any of those other hindrances right then. Sitting up again, Leon fondly rubbed Lil Mikey’s back, noting that Lil Mikey had fallen fully asleep now. Good. He needed it. Pulling his gaze up to the others, who were also patiently sitting where they had been, Leon eventually held the tablet back out to Don, his gaze sliding to the air off to the side as he pouted slightly. “...Thanks.” He spoke more clearly this time, expressing actual gratitude for what he’d seen, as well as what they had done with him. Then, remembering recent events, he shrank in on himself slightly. “...And sorry… For kicking your ass…”

“Hey!” Raphael blurted, though his retort broke off in a laugh as he shook his head. That wasn’t a fully proper apology according to someone else’s book, but Raphael didn’t care. It was an apology in words Leon chose, and that was better.

Don and Master Splinter also chuckled quietly, which made Leo unable to hold back a smile as well. When Leon wasn’t being aggressively defensive, he actually wasn’t that threatening at all.

“Are you feeling a little better?” Don asked, eyes flicking to the bandage on Leon’s head, as well as giving him a visual once over once again. Raphael ended up rubbing his nose to hide a smile, knowing Don was holding back from jumping forward and giving Leon a full exam.

“...Yeah,” Leon admitted, feeling a little subdued. “I still have some questions, but… Let’s get these two back to proper beds first…”

Let’s. Raphael noted the all inclusive term and had to grin. It seemed the kid was willing to start trusting them now. “Sure thing. Want some help with the lil guy?” he agreed, gesturing to Lil Mikey.

“No, I got him. Just…. Show me where you want him to stay for now,” Leon requested, still finding it hard to fully relent to being taken care of and directed around by them.

“Back in the infirmary would probably be best. Just in case,” Don directed, getting to his feet and gesturing to the room next to them that was obscured by patterned drapes.

Scooping Lil Mikey up in a well practiced motion, Leon looked back to make sure Leatherhead was going to follow them as Don led them beyond the drapes. It was only once he crossed the barrier that Leon got to absorb just how much they had. Equipment Leon had only seen in media. Dozens of cabinets of supplies. Eight beds easily filling only part of the room. A surgical area in the back. Leon helplessly let out a coo of awe as his mouth dropped open, scanning the room with wide eyes and completely missing Raphael snickering at the reaction. Turning to Don, all the other questions Leon had had fled his mind to be replaced by the single one he blurted. “Can I borrow your infirmary?”

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I totally crashed and slept like 45 hours straight other than pee breaks and water X'DD Then aside from that I've been working on a behemoth Fate collab, so I didn't get to this one until today.

#my art #rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #cross dimension kidnapping #rise + 2003 crossover #writing #fanfic #long post

[pinkacademiaprincess]

Hi! I’m about to start uni in October (law)

Can you give me a list of to-dos to mentally and physically prepare for this new journey? Like, things to bring, items to buy, notebooks etc 🥹💘

Operation Straight-A Student: A Comprehensive Guide to Prepping for a Successful Uni Experience 🎀📚💗✏️

ty for the ask! i'm not a law student, so this is gonna be more general uni advice that i hope can apply for you. best of luck in your journey, you're gonna do amazing things!!

step no. 1: plan, plan, plan!

for me, being organized & prepping ahead of time has been so helpful. even if things get a bit hectic or tough, having a routine to fall back on is key. here's how i do it!

google calendar

as soon as i have my class schedule, i input all my class meeting times on google calendar. then, based on whatever free space is left over, i allocate time for schoolwork and studying. here's the schedule i designed for this upcoming term:

make sure your study/ classwork time accounts for whatever online courses you're taking too. you should also include blocks for work, club meetings, etc. if they're recurring. i have google calendar linked to my phone so i get notifs for each time block.

planner

i recommend having a good planner. whether this is online or physical, depending on your preference, a weekly planner of your own is helpful for staying on top of work & having peace of mind.

the planner i use is the moleskine weekly planner. here is what it looks like inside:

on the left side i write all the tasks i have on each weekday (similar to the google calendar). on the right side, i list all the tasks i have to complete during that given week - i open the syllabi for all my classes and input whatever hw, assignments, projects, etc. are upcoming. i write them down in a checklist along with the date they're due. then, during my study blocks, i can check this page & decide what to work on!

note-taking & classwork

you should also have supplies for note-taking. some ppl prefer to take digital notes, so this means using your laptop or a tablet & stylus. personally, i like to take handwritten notes, so i bring loose-leaf lined paper & pencils to my lectures. i write the class name & date as the header for each page. when i'm done taking notes, i write the key topics in the top left-hand corner of the pager (in "no-man's land") so i can easily find the notes on specific topics when i'm flipping through them.

in terms of classwork, i recommend having a folder for each of your classes where you can store notes, assignments, tests, etc. i know some people use one big binder for all classes, but if you have a separate folder for each, you don't have to carry them all around on days when you only have two or three classes. i like the brand five star bc the folders are very durable and i've had the same ones all throughout uni!

for me, i've never been a huge notebook person b/c i like to keep my subjects separate so i rarely fill up an entire notebook. you can buy one to start with, and see once school starts if you think you need more!

other supplies

in terms of supplies, i'm honestly pretty minimalistic. the necessities for me are my planner, a folder & loose-leaf paper, and a pencil pouch with plenty of pens & pencils. i also bring my laptop & charger with me to school bc i use that for my online classes.

i do enjoy having cute supplies! i have a cute pink pencil pouch, glittery mechanical pencils, and fun pens. i also put stickers all over my laptop to give it a personal touch. i did a bit of embroidery on my backpack as well. you don't need to spend tons of money on aesthetic supplies, especially if it's something you won't have for long. but, finding simple ways to add a personal touch to your items can be fun & motivating!

step no. 2: make an action plan

i feel like it's easy to tell yourself you wanna do certain things or be a certain person during school. for example, i always want to be super studious, outgoing, & involved, but i used to struggle sm to actually do that. instead of only thinking of how you want to be, create actual steps/ tasks for yourself. here are my action items for inspo:

sit in the front row of every class - this can be daunting, but in my uni experience, wherever you sit in the first week becomes your (un)official assigned seat. get to class early, take a deep breath, and sit yourself down at the front! you'll be forcing yourself to stay at the front, but i promise it's fine! i really prefer this b/c if you & the prof get to class early you can chat a bit. also, when i wanna participate, i can speak at my regular volume & they'll hear me (rather than if i'm in the back row and had to scream). if nothing else, you'll become a familiar face!

attend office hours for each class at least once - i sometimes felt nervous/ anxious to go to office hours and talk to the professors & ta. but when you do it once, you realize they truly just want to help! getting to know the ppl who grade your assignments can be super useful. they might give you advice or info you don't get in lectures. plus, they are super knowledgeable!

raise your hand once per week - this forces you to be engaged with the content. i used to have such horrible social anxiety & the thought of speaking up in class & getting an answer wrong was my worst nightmare. and when i set this rule & began forcing myself to participate, i did make mistakes. but guess what... everyone moves on immediately. you might feel like the world is ending. it haunted me for weeks after 😢 but no one else cares! in the end, ppl will only remember that you were confident enough to raise your hand & speak up, not what you said. pls don't let your education suffer just b/c you're afraid some classmates might judge you! if raising your hand to answer problems is too daunting, start with asking clarifying questions & slowly build up to whatever you're able to do.

start a conversation with a classmate - having classmates that you're friendly with is so important. if you miss a lecture, need help on a concept, etc. you'll have someone you can turn to. and that's the least of it - you can end up making long-lasting friends! yes, it's scary to talk to a stranger. so, force yourself to do it as early as possible in the semester. an easy one - if you see someone sitting by an empty seat, ask if that seat is taken. if not, yay! it's go time 😊 sit by them and find something else to talk about - give them a (genuine & non-creepy) compliment, ask them if they've seen the syllabus, ask if they know the prof, etc. just something to get the convo started!! figure out their name, major, and other stuff too. once you've talked with them long enough to feel like you're getting along (whether that's after one class or multiple) ask for their number/ discord/ whatever so you can keep in touch! if they share your major, you should keep in contact with them b/c you might have other classes together in the future. but, again, in the best-case scenario, you have a new friend!

wear a cute outfit once per week - sometimes i would get a bit embarrassed or self-conscious to dress up for class. i forced myself to do it once per week, starting the first week of class, to set a precedent for myself. slowly i eased my way into wearing cute, fun outfits every day! no one is judging you as much as you are judging yourself, so have fun & be true to you.

step no. 3: study smarter, not harder

attending class is one thing, but you've got to put in the effort to study if you truly want to succeed. but, not all study methods will work for every single person. figure out how to study so you don't waste time with methods that don't work for you.

determine your learning style(s)

there are a few widely accepted learning styles. you've probably tried all of them throughout your time at school, so think back on which learning experiences have been most and least successful for you. then, connect them back to these learning styles to figure out ways you can most effectively study.

visual:  if you learn by seeing info visually, such as with maps, graphs, diagrams, charts, etc.

auditory: if you learn by getting info in auditory form, aka when it's heard or spoken

kinesthetic: aka hands-on, if you learn by doing & applying

reading/writing: if you learn info best when it’s in words, aka by writing it down or reading it

you might find that multiple of these learning styles are effective for you, maybe there's one that sticks out as the most similar to your style of learning, or maybe one that just doesn't work for you. now, you don't need to assign yourself one and forego the rest, but you can adjust the time you spend on various study methods based on how well they work for you.

for me, i've realized over time that i am NOT a reading learner. in high school i would diligently read all the textbook assignments, spending hours getting through the chapters, only to retain none of it & do poorly on assignments & tests.

on the other hand, i respond really well to kinesthetic learning - when applying concepts hands-on, such as with practice problems, i have a much better understanding of concepts & retention.

fast forward to college - i spend very little time on assigned readings. in fact, sometimes i skip them all together 🫢 b/c if i spend an hour reading the textbook but retain none of it, that's an hour wasted. especially if the content from the textbook is going to line up with the lecture, i'm much better off paying attention & taking good notes in class, and then spending my study time doing practice problems. if i really do need to read the textbook, i have to make it interactive for myself - i answer the questions at the end of the chapter, take notes, quiz myself, etc.

now, my advice here isn't to skip textbook readings!! that's not something i recommend b/c for so many people, it IS effective and helpful! when it comes to studying, play on your strengths. don't try to force yourself to learn in a way that doesn't work for your brain. make modifications & prioritize your learning! here is an awesome guide to different methods that work for the various learning styles.

find your ideal study environment

you can also maximize the effectiveness of your studying based on the environment you're in. if you can decide what factors help or hinder your studying abilities, it will help you decide where you should make your go-to study spot!

at home or in public? sometimes, studying in a public place can be unproductive. it might make you feel more stressed (like the sensation of having your teacher look over your shoulder during a test 🫣) or distracted. for me, studying in public is actually useful b/c i'm less likely to get disctracted. if i'm in my room i might get tempted to open up tumblr or pinterest, but in public i feel like ppl might see me get off topic which deters me LOL. however, studying at home is nice b/c you're in the comfort of your own personal space - you can change into pjs, cuddle your pet, grab a snack, etc. i do a mix of studying in public & at home b/c i feel like they both have their benefits

quiet or noisy? do you study better in a silent environment, or do you like some sound/ white noise? personally, i cannot deal with ANY noise when i'm trying to study, it totally breaks my focus 😭but some people like the ambient/ white noise of a coffee shop

music or silence? similar to the last one, does having music help you stay focused, or distract you? i know ppl will swear by different things - classical music, upbeat music, songs in different languages, etc. again, i personally cannot handle any sounds 😅 but if music keeps you alert, plan accordingly - have earbuds or go to a coffee shop that has a playlist going

nature or indoors? maybe you find it stuffy to be indoors all day & studying out in the open air helps you stay grounded and calm. on the flipside, being exposed to the elements might just make you more distracted. if you like studying outdoors, try public parks with benches, and also see if your campus has outdoor seating areas. some libraries do too. for a happy medium, you can study someplace with large windows/ nice view.

independent or collaborative? do you study better on your own or in groups? you can join a study group or go to office hours to get a sense of studying in a group setting vs. alone. group studying can help hold you accountable, make it more interactive, and keep you focused. that being said, i def prefer studying independently. i like to go at my own pace, and tbh i get easily distracted w/ others and will begin to just chit chat

based on how you answer those questions, you can decide what your ideal study environment is & pick a go-to place! for me, based on my preferences, my most effective study environment going to the library alone or studying in my room.

that's all for this post! i feel it got very long but i had so many tips to share. there's no "one size fits all" guide to navigating uni life. but i think everyone can benefit from prepping in advance & being mentally prepared. knowing your own strengths + having a plan of attack will guide you in stressful/ uncertain times!

overall, take the time to get to know yourself & figure out how you can be at your very best. apply whichever bits of advice resonate, and ignore anything that's not gonna serve you. this is YOUR journey!

and remember, even with all the planning in the world, things can go unexpectedly. you are more than equipped to deal with whatever life throws your way! when you are faced with unexpected things - pause & think, assess the situation, & determine your best course of action. above all, YOU'VE GOT THIS! 💗

#pink academia princess #it girl #becoming that girl #that girl #wonyoungism #pink academia #pink blog #girl blogger #studyblr #studyspo #study motivation #glow up #motivation #self care #self improvement #dream girl #academia barbie #girlblogging #pink pilates girl #clean girl #self love #pink pilates princess #pink aesthetic #study blog #study aesthetic #university #student life #study tips #study tumblr #study techniques

[nebulablakemurphy]

Moves & Countermoves (Part 1)

Haymitch x Fem!Reader

Summary: No one ever wins the games, even fourteen years later, Y/N is still playing.

Prologue

“Well,” Haymitch grunts, rising from his seat in the bar car, “that’ll do it.”

Y/N knows the drill. Busying herself with the game plan, preparing the devices for her tributes. Loaded with resources to aid in their training.

Haymitch leans down, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head before stumbling away toward their train car.

He won’t even see them, not until it’s absolutely necessary. Haymitch has no desire to make small talk; he doesn’t want to know them. Just makes it harder in the end.

His wife, on the other hand, is either a saint or criminally insane by Haymitch’s account. She insists on knowing them, allowing each to take a little piece of her off into the arena to die.

He used to spite her for it, for her inability to simply stop running herself into the ground trying to save kids who are already dead. He doesn’t anymore. That’s who she is and he learned to love her for it. Still, Haymitch doesn’t want to watch. He was always better at picking up pieces than keeping things in place.

“Y/N Abernathy!” A shrill voice scolds when the set of doors behind the youngest victor open without warning.

“Effie Trinket.” Y/N waves a hand in her direction.

“What are you doing? Where is Haymitch? The two of you are meant to be-”

“Look, you’re new at this. I get it, everything is exciting. Can’t wait to make these kids arena ready in just a few days.” Y/N grumbles, never looking up from her tablet. “But it doesn’t work like that. We’re stuck on this fucking train until tomorrow morning with no weapons to train them and no cameras to wave at. There’s no rush.”

“Language!” Effie gasps at her choice of words, coming to stand in front of Y/N with both hands on her hips. “The tributes are waiting.”

“How many people have you killed?” Y/N asks, turning her eyes up at Effie.

The woman simply balks at her, speechless.

“Have you ever held your intestines in your hands? Or fought your way to the top of an hourglass that was slowly filling with sand?”

Effie narrows her eyes into slits. She’d been warned that Haymitch might be hard to manage, but no one said a thing about her.

“It’s ok, not many people can say yes.”

Ms. Trinket stomps her foot like a petulant child.

“I don’t tell you how to do your job, stop telling me how to do mine.”

————————————————————————

When Y/N is good and ready she makes her way to the dining car, Katniss and Peeta are sat patiently there. The boy’s fingers picking anxiously at the satin blue arm rest of his chair. Y/N takes a deep breath. Here we go again.

The pair of tributes snap their heads in her direction, waiting expectantly.

I can’t save you. Only you can do that.

“I’m Y/N. Good to meet you. Katniss Everdeen, Peeta Mellark.” The woman says, more cool and calculated than Katniss expected. She has a digital pad in hand, jotting down notes with her stylus. Giving one to each of them in turn.

“Oh, uh- thank you.” Peeta accepts his gratefully.

“Beginning at the main screen, let me know if you have any questions, there are diagrams of strategies for attack and defense-”

“Where’s Haymitch?” Katniss asks, tapping at her screen with inexperienced fingers.

“He may join us later if it suits him.”

Katniss visibly recoils. This is not the woman the Capitol shoves down their throats on television. Sweet and demure in nature, with a smile to sugar coat even the darkest of thoughts.

“Contingent upon your strengths and weaknesses, this is a playbook of every effective strategy that I’ve seen, heard of, or performed. With different arenas come different challenges, so you’ll need to do some adjusting to meet your specific goals.

If you are skilled in hand to hand combat, I suggest numbers eight through eleven. If you’re skilled in a long range combat, numbers one through five. If you’re skilled in both, I suggest a combination, otherwise known as numbers six and seven. If you’re skilled in neither, I suggest you do the best you can to prepare yourself. Number twelve is for my non fighters, my hiders, climbers and camouflagers. People tend to overlook that strategy all together, but not me. It buys time, if you’re lucky, it buys enough to wait out the masses.”

Peeta nods, hanging on her every word.

“Which one did you use?” Katniss wonders, trying to digest the harsh angles of the first diagram.

“Seven.”

Six and seven are combination. “I thought you won with a knife?” Katniss was only two at the time, but there is no shortage of recap. From the people who love Y/N and the ones who believe that the Capitol ate her soul.

“I took the last career out hand to hand, my partner covered the distance.” Y/N explains. “Axe to district one’s back, gave me a fighting chance. Allies are invaluable weapons if you pick the right ones.”

————————————————————————

Climbing into bed that night Y/N feels Haymitch stir, tossing a lazy arm around her as he nuzzles against her back.

“Well? What’d you think?” He asks, reeking of whiskey. “They gonna last a couple minutes? Hours?”

Y/N feels her jaw tick. “We owe these kids the same care and preparation as we gave the rest.”

“As you gave the rest.” Haymitch says pointedly. “I’m a shit mentor, you told me that.”

“You did this for a long time by yourself and I,” she breaks off, tapping anxiously at his fingers. “I commend you for that. But I can’t do it alone. I’ve tried, it doesn’t work.”

“That is not on you.” Haymitch says, under his breath. “The kids have been too young, too weak-”

She sighs, “if we don’t try, that is on us. Haymitch, what if they were our kids?”

“If we aren’t careful, it will be our kids.”

“Even if we play our parts; ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ like a couple of good little show animals, they could get reaped anyway.”

“We made them the most beloved children in Panem. Nobody will be lining up to watch them fight to the death.” Haymitch tries to brush it off. He can’t even think about shit like that. From the moment they were conceived, the odds were put in their favor.

“There’s never been a child born of two victors, people are curious.” Y/N feels him tense.

“Someone told you that?”

She nods, “Finnick’s heard it a couple times now.”

“Heard it where?” Haymitch demands.

Y/N lowers her voice, “Haymitch, you know where.”

From his patrons, the ones Snow forces on him. They pay with secrets.

Part 2

#haymitch fanfic #haymitch x y/n #haymitch abernathy x reader #haymitch abernathy #haymitch x reader #haymitch abernathy x you #haymitch abernathy fanfic #hunger games #hunger games fanfiction #haymitch abernathy x y/n #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #effie trinket

[januaryembrs]

LAST KNIGHT IN SOHO | Marc Spector/Steven Grant x Reader [9]

Description: Layla, Steven and Dove set off towards Ammit’s tomb across the dunes, only Steven and Dove have a heavy confession they’ve each been meaning to make.

Word count: 10.8k

Trigger warnings: MINORS DNI. 18+. SMUT UNDER THE CUT. (What the heck) Fingering, F!reader, blood, flares, guns, canon level murder. Hints at grooming (not between Steven/Marc obviously), hints at toxic relationship. (Based on Last Night in Soho dir. Edgar Wright)

Authors note: I have never written anything smutty in my life, I hope this is okay. It kinda hit me out of no where. Also there will be a full smut chapter when the series is finished as a little treat.

main masterlist | series masterlist

Life seemed to have this horribly funny way of ripping goodness out of Dove’s hands.

Just as Layla had found a match on her tablet for the constellations, coordinates popping up on the screen like a digital bat signal, Khonshu gave a groan of pain even a god couldn’t hold back. He dropped to his knees, one of his boney hands falling to steady himself on the warm sand, the other jutted into the night sky to hold the stars where they watched him weaken.

Dove watched in frozen shock as in a matter of seconds he slipped away into the darkness, though dragged seemed a better term for it.

The Ennead had imprisoned him, just as they said they would.

A flash of relief ripped through Dove as she watched the cruel god slip away, finally freeing the shackles he held around her Steven. A prison that kept him scared, kept him quiet, even more so than that of his own body, was gone.

Though with that went his suit, she thought with a moment of abject horror, frozen in her limbs as if waiting for her god to be ripped from her too.

Her breath caught against her chest, waiting, waiting to be freed from the chains around her legs, the leash around her neck. She wanted this over, wanted to be a gift shoppist again more than anything. She would take hours of Donna’s shrill voice berating her over merchandise any day than this sense of ownership he held over her.

Because if it was just Khonshu imprisoned, the mission would fall onto her shoulders. And she couldn’t do any of this alone, any of it without Steven. She could do none of it without Marc. She would be alone in this again.

She’d rather die than live long enough to see either of them hurt for real this time.

Just get it over with. She near begged the gods. I can’t be the one to save them. I couldn’t even save her, I’m not the one you want for this.

That is, until she watched Steven’s legs give out from beneath him and his eyes roll to the back of his lids, his body going limp, and she felt her heart drop into her stomach.

“Steven-Steven!” Dove called, lunging to grab him under the arms to hold him steady. But it was no use. His breath gave a rattled huff, his body completely yielding to unconsciousness, nearly toppling her over herself had she not put a hand out to stop the two of them face planting into the course sand.

Hoisting him over to his back, she brought a hand up to his cheek, his eyes flickering closed in REM, shaking his head with more care than she knew she should. She couldn’t find it in herself to strike him any harsher.

Layla fell to her knees beside her, more forceful with her shoves as she pushed his muscled body with a desperate sort of anger, begging him for the both of them to wake up.

“Marc? Marc, come on!” The other woman yelled, bunching his jumper in her fists until her knuckles turned just as white as the alabaster fabric, “Come on! Where are you?”

Then she heard it. Dove felt her ears prick up, an engine stuttering in the distance, tires crunching over sand, a metal rattling of bodywork against a motor.

A car. A truck, full of bodies. Full of guns.

She could hear the bullets rattling in their chambers, hear the men’s breathing, jeering to one another.

Harrow’s men. Or maybe even Mogart’s. She didn’t know anymore. She just knew they spelled danger.

“We have to go,” Dove said exasperated, scrambling to her feet despite the sand shifting under their weight as the sounds approached, “We need to leave now.”

“Leave him, they won’t shoot him if he already looks dead,” Layla huffed, dropping Steven’s arm, grabbing the scruff of Dove’s collar ferociously, “Leave him,”

“We can’t leave him, what if they fire for good measure?” Dove asked, smacking Layla’s hand away from her with a scowl, “I’m not leaving him-”

A blinding light lit up their faces, their heads snapping to where headlights lit up the dunes surrounding them. The wind seemed to hold its breath as the women stood, spooked deers with targets on their backs.

“Stop being so god damn stubborn for once,” Layla seethed, grabbing the younger woman’s arm tight enough to pinch, “We’ll come back for him in a second, now move,”

It took everything in her to listen.

She was all but dragged into a run towards their own vehicle where they had been piecing together the map not even twenty minutes earlier. She hated how funny time was like that.

They waited on bated breaths, hoping the truck would drive past them with no consequence, no interference.

Though of course, that would never happen. That would be too kind.

Bullets whistled past their legs, something bigger than the pistol Layla had held from what Dove could tell, something made for killing quickly, killing messily.

The women winced hearing the trucks engine slow to a low rumble, carefully rolling down the dune as it shot blindly into the dark where they ducked behind the body of their car, Layla’s breath panting loudly in her ear.

She felt her heartbeat in her throat, praying on everything she’d ever believed in that they didn’t see Steven, that they didn’t shoot Layla. It was redundant worrying about herself, though part of her wondered if the God of chaos had been forced into a ushabti too, she wasn’t willing to figure it out by throwing herself in front of the barrel of the gun.

Layla reached up for the cold metal of the handle, clicking it open and practically forcing Dove in by the scruff of the neck into the wagon end of the truck, the grains of sand crunching under her boots as she lay still, waiting for the truck to hopefully pass.

Clambering in after her and shutting the door quietly, Layla ducked down next to her, the sound of their exhausted breaths cutting through the quiet night. She had faced worse than these men, than this one big gun, yet she felt without Marc there to tell her where to hit them, without Steven there to hold her face and tell her how brave she was, she was nothing.

“I saw them running!” One of the men called out, the two women freezing in their spots, “Check around the truck!”

The flickering of the headlights filtered in through the dirty truck windows, dust smattering the glass though Dove still got a clear view of the vehicle cruising around them, circling like a shark in bloodied waters, searching for the rest of the kill.

She felt Layla tense next to her when her boot hit something near the door, a red satchel with a muddied flame printed on the front.

Flames. Fire. There was a crate full of ammunition she could hear rattling around the back of that truck which only meant one thing. Gunpowder.

“Layla,” She whispered, grabbing the woman’s arm and pointing to the red bag, “Are there matches in there?”

“Flares- why?” Layla murmured back, a scowl on her face at the stupidity of the girl to be talking.

Dove hesitated a moment, keeping an eye on the truck as it rolled past them and looped back towards where Steven lay unconscious still. They didn’t have alot of time left. They would surely shoot at him to be sure, and without the suit anymore-

“There’s bullets in that truck,” Dove whispered, meeting the woman’s eyes through what little light the stars gave them, “Flares set on fire when you pull them right?”

Layla’s scowl seemed to drop as she understood what the girl was suggesting. The woman scrambled for the satchel, ripping the zip open to reveal six red, waxy tubes, the metal hooks hanging off as the triggers.

Shoving one into Dove’s hands, she took one for herself, head snapping to the girl nearly ten years her younger.

“You know what you’re doing?” Layla murmured, the two of them looking through the front windscreen where the headlights seemed to zero in on Steven. Steven, who was running out of time. Steven, who would throw himself in front of endless amounts of guns if it meant she was safe. Steven, who would wake up any second now and meet his end in the middle of no where because she wasn’t fast enough.

“You throw yours to get them away from him, I’ll go after them,” She replied hushedly, her hand opening the door quietly, sliding forwards until her legs dangled off the edge of the carriage. That is until a hand latched onto her shoulder to drag her back.

Her head whipped over her shoulder, worried they had been seen already, only to see Layla’s brown eyes unsure. Remorse ate away at her expression, twitching her eyebrows, scrunching her mouth bitterly.

“You had better be careful,” Layla bit, though Dove knew what the meaning beneath it was. Don’t die. Don’t get hurt. I’m sorry for what I said.

Dove nodded, dropping onto the sand silently, waiting for Layla to slip out of and throw her flare away from Steven.

She lost sight of the woman, her soft, tight curls bouncing around the corner of the truck, her own fingers crossing that the woman would stay far out of harm. She knew she was sorry, knew Layla had a way of exploding at her because she was the easiest target, she was the only one who would actually give her the reaction she’d wanted. She’d always known that hurt people, hurt people. And that’s all Layla was. Hurt, at the fact her ex-husband seemed to dodge every phone call, spill every lie, brush off every argument. She couldn’t say she agreed with how Marc handled the subject of Layla, but in the same way she was hurt, Marc was hurt too.

It’s just who they were.

Seeing a flash of red fly into the dunes, and the rumble of the truck's engine as it practically turned on two wheels and flew towards the commotion, shooting at the flare in the hopes of hitting one of them. She saw where the sand sprayed behind the wheels, stepping out behind their car and drawing her arm back for the shot.

Pulling the metal hook out of its socket, a small crack like a party popper sounded from the palm of her hand, and the red flame sprayed out the end. Before the men even had time to switch the gun onto her, she’d thrown it towards the rear of their vehicle, where she now saw a heavy artillery weapon, the clink and rattle of bullets rolling in the seat as the car came to a stop in front of Layla’s distraction.

She heard a shout of shock as her flare made contact, bouncing into the rear, before a white spark flew into the air and fizzled, like a star reaching its supernova within the inky black night.

She worried for a moment that that was it, that was all her brilliant plan could give, until ten more shots of the same ivory light flew into the sky, a crackle lingering in the truck before a huge ball of flame engulfed the car whole. Yells of fright from the passengers were cut off with one final whoosh and the yellow blaze licked into the black once more, silencing whatever protests the men had.

They had died. They had burned at her hand. And yet, thinking back to how suddenly they could have stuffed Steven full of bullets, she struggled to fight the relief that had filled her body.

Steven.

Steven.

Spinning on her heel, she nearly jumped out of her skin when she collided with a hard body, one that seemed to have watched the conflict splayed all over her face in the warmth of the fire. She readied herself to shove them away, to call Layla for help, until she snapped out of her haze and saw a very tired, very sandy face that looked at her as if he’d seen an archangel lighting his way.

Steven.

She said nothing, though she wanted to tell him how pretty his eyes looked in the dark. She wanted to tell him how she’d thought of him every single day since the day they’d met, that he’d be the one to drag her out of the shadows that smothered her, that if there was one thing that could take away her pain, her sorrow, that could make her feel alive again, it was him.

But she didn’t. Because there weren't enough words, wasn’t enough time, to tell him how she felt.

So she pulled him into the tightest hug she could muster instead.

She felt her breath leave her when his arms went around her waist, nose burrowing into her neck, sighing. She didn’t care he was dirty, so was she, didn’t care that he was breathing so close to her skin, she revelled in it in fact. Her every hair stood on end as he kissed her shoulder, bare from where her shirt had ripped, kissed it again for good measure, her whole body shivering under his lips. He was so warm compared to her, she’d felt cold ever since that night she’d died, like a constant reminder she was just a body, and he was so full of life. He was so Steven it filled her heart until she thought it would come running out of her eyes in tears.

“I missed you so much,” He whispered in her ear, as if utterly unaware how receptive she would be to the sound of his voice, “I thought I was going crazy,”

“You’re never crazy, not to me,” She murmured back, feeling him kiss her cheek.

She begged him to kiss her lips next. God she’d missed him. She wanted him more than the syrupy air they stood in, had a greed for him she’d never known before. One kiss hadn’t been enough, she needed more.

She needed all of him.

The pit in her stomach that had laid stagnant for weeks, that had been a dormant pit flared with heat as he pulled away from her, his eyes soppy and dizzy as he watched her, her heart caving in through her chest.

She could kiss him right there and he would kiss her back. She didn’t know how she knew it but she did.

Sighing as she heard Layla shuffling behind her, crawling out of her hiding place behind the truck, she tilted her head forwards until it met his forehead, the feeling of her nose brushing against his having her squeeze him tighter.

“I missed you too, Steven,” She whispered, feeling his body tense as her words fell in blankets on his lips.

Her mouth was right there for the taking, his head screamed to him. Her plush lips were seconds away from his, the scene he’d imagined for himself over and over and over was right there.

Yet they both pulled away, meeting each other's longing gaze once more before they turned back to the truck.

The drum and bass was pounding in her chest, constricting her throat. Her top rode up her stomach, breasts hiked up enough to touch her chin, the mini shorts hugging her legs much too tight for comfort. But this was what they paid for. For her.

It wasn’t so bad as far as nightclubs went. It was fast paced which kept her shifts moving quick, the drinks were easy to memorise, and for the most part she was behind a thick bar that separated her from the handsier customers. But tonight she was on shot duty, her job was to entice as many willing buyers into slamming little vials of jäger that would only drain their wallets. She knew it was unethical, knew she should have more shame, but life was shit like that sometimes.

Matty had brought home a whole baby, Billie, who she loved more than life itself, though the poor little girl couldn’t escape the colic no matter how hard the five of them rocked her, burped her, winded her. She kept them up most nights, and who’d have thought babies were so expensive.

Billie and Matty alone took the majority of their funds, if not the bills on the house, if not them then it was Sammy being bailed out of the holding cell every other weekend for “disturbing public peace”, that one she could believe.

Joey, her clever clever boy, had managed to get a scholarship to see him through most of university, but that didn’t negate the fact he was so busy with his extra classes, being the genius child he was, he hadn’t the time for an extra job to contribute to the family.

And then there was Mikey.

Mikey, who she had pretended to ignore came home with bloodshot eyes or a manic sort of excitement, or a slackened jaw. Mikey, who had done what he did best and tried to make friends, only to get mixed with the wrong crowd and end up addicted. Mikey, who needed to be sent to the very expensive rehab downtown quickly if they had any chance of pulling him out of this habit before he found himself too deep.

Times were tough, eighteen-year-old Dove liked to think she was tougher.

She pretended to ignore the way the men’s eyes trailed her body like a public footpath, barely any acknowledgement in their eyes that she was human and not just a nice ass and a tight top. She pretended they didn’t brush against her one too many times for it to be an accident, or even the fact they tipped her bigger if they were brave enough to brazenly touch her stomach, the soft of her arms, the plushness of her legs as she walked through the sea of dancers.

They began to blur into one horrid mess of men she choked out thanks to as they handed her a twenty and told her to keep the change.

“You’re worth more than that, you know?” A voice interrupted her, where she stood near the bar, the waitress refilling her tray with shots.

Golden painted eyelids flicked up as she caught sight of the man, ready to give a catty remark when she saw someone leaning against the glass countertop, sticky residue of sweet alcohol under his neat suit. Certainly out of sorts in a place like this.

“You think?” She asked, boredly, picking at her fingernails as the man spoke. She couldn’t lie to herself, he was handsome. Not the most handsome man to ever flirt with her, though the others usually were slurring and asking if they would get their drinks free if they give her something nice in return. This man seemed sober, however, his drink small and barely touched, “Good to know,”

“I think a girl like you deserves to have the drinks brought to you on a silver platter,” He said cheekily, sipping his drink slowly as the bartenders looked between her and the man with teasing smiles.

“Don’t bother, Frank,” Eddie said, shaking a cocktail over his shoulder with little more than an eyelid batted, “She’s hard to get. Even said no to a date with me a few times,”

“How could I ever be so cruel to turn down such a stud?” She sneered, though the grin on her face told an entirely different story. She was kidding, ofcourse. “Such a pretty boy, and yet my answer is still the same. I don’t have time for boys,”

“Who said anything about boys?” Frank asked, aghast, placing a hand on his chest, “I would never expect a grown woman like you to want a boy. It’s a man you need.”

She was painfully aware of how much older than her he looked, easily approaching his thirty year mark if his grown attire and mature voice was anything to go off of.

It had been her birthday two weeks ago.

“A man, huh?” She asked cockily, rolling her eyes at the lust in his eyes as she became meaner to him. Men were so predictable. She treated him nice, he was interested. She was a bitch to him, he wanted her more. “Let me know if any of you find one,”

With that, she slid the silver tray of shots off the bar and took off into the sea of people, a little snigger leaving her lips at the way Frank watched her like a hawk.

She had certainly not been expecting a hand to grab her by the belt loops on her shorts, spinning her back to where she had just come from, only to be met with the grey eyes of the man at the bar that she thought she’d left in the dust.

“Are you out of your mind-” Dove cried, slapping his hand off her, though his smile only widened with a snicker of his own.

“One date?” He asked, tugging her closer by the front of her shorts, “One date is all I ask,”

“You don’t even know my name,” She bit back, back when she had it in her to be mean, when he hadn’t ripped the disobedience out of her.

His finger came up to flick the name badge on her chest that she purposely stole from someone else, the one reading Sandie. She never gave out her real name, not just for her safety but for her boys too.

“One date, Sandie,” Frank said, producing a business card out of his pocket, “Just your start date,”

She recoiled. This wasn’t what she’d been expecting what so ever. She’d thought he was flirting, she’d been so sure of it. But a job offer, that was something else.

Ripping the card out of his fingers, she read the sparkly red writing on the front.

for a good night, simply follow the yellow brick road

-frank osbourne

“This is the fakest looking piece of shit I’ve ever seen,” She retorted, which only made him laugh at her attempt of damaging his ego, “I bet this number isn’t even real,”

“No?” He goaded, stuffing his hand even further into his pocket to pull out a wad of twenties.

Her eyes widened as he wedged the roll of money into her front pocket, squeezing it into the fabric where it clung to her skin. Her mouth bobbed open once, perhaps to ask what he did for a living or if he was compensating for something smaller elsewhere. But the usual smartmouth she had on her was gone.

In fact she couldn’t even say anything when he picked up a shot off her tray and slammed it back right there and then on the dance floor, the black liquor dripping down the corner of his mouth.

He smiled at her, wiping it away with the back of his expensive cuff, diamond cufflinks she’d missed at first glance flashing under the strobe lights as the beat in the song dropped and rattled through her chest.

“Keep the change, honey,” He yelled, winking at her smoothly and disappearing back into the crowd as if he had never even been there.

She was embarrassed at how fast she pocketed his number.

Her body was jolting forwards, saved luckily by the seat belt wrapped over her chest, a small gasp crawling out her lips.

She realised with a quick look out the front of the window that they had come to an abrupt stop, a terracotta mountain face staring back at them through the bullet holes cracking the windscreen.

Seeing Layla’s stoic expression and the tension that immersed the car as she woke up, she felt whatever words had been said while she slept bite at her skin, rubbing the sleep dust from her eyes.

“Damn, girl. What did the brake pedal ever do to you?” She muttered, and she hated the way her tummy flurried at the sight of Steven’s bemused smile. She loved making him smile. She saw the bags that dragged at his soft doe eyes, wanted to grab his chin and force him to look at her to get just a moment more of his honeyed gaze, his pretty eyelashes, his expressive brows.

“We’re on foot from here,” Layla ordered, unbuckling herself and hopping out the side of the truck, slinging her rucksack over her back. Dove thought for a moment if she should ask what had happened while she had been asleep in the back seat, yet then she thought better of it. Layla was a bear she never wanted to poke with a stick, let alone more than she already had.

“Good sleep?” Steven asked, swivelling around his position in the passenger side, watching her carefully with a giddy smile.

She licked her lips, fiddling with the tips of her nails, where the odd one had begun healing, where they didn’t hurt as much since she’d stopped gnawing at her loose skin.

“Not as good as our sleepovers,” She mumbled into the quiet of the car, the air like the inside of a candy floss machine; sweet and wispy as he giggled.

“Never,” He replied, the two of them sharing a childish glee. They near jumped out their skin when Layla’s knuckles came down on Dove’s window, harsh and interrupting.

“Are we going, or what?” The woman said loud enough for them to hear the frustration in her tone even through the thick glass.

Guilt flashed across the younger woman’s face as she unlatched her door, the desert heat smacking her in the face like a hand.

Layla simply rolled her eyes at the two bumbling idiots, the way Steven seemed to half tumble out of his own seat just to be near her faster, the way it was clear from the way their hands kept falling to their sides they itched to touch even for a single moment.

She kissed her teeth, spinning on her heel as they looked to her for direction, feeling more akin to a babysitter now Marc didn’t have the body. She hated him when he was in control, hated him when he wasn’t. The entire idea of him was exhausting her, the knife twisting deeper when Steven told her Marc had agreed to disappear without a single goodbye for Steven’s sake.

It wasn’t that she wanted him back. But she was only human. She would have appreciated a real goodbye at least.

“This way. Map says they should be just on the other side of this gorge.” She called behind her, Dove and Steven trailing after her mindlessly, their eyes flicking up to one another wordlessly every few steps.

They took it that Layla wanted some time to herself as she took off on her own, muttering under her breath with a sneer from what they could see. She would keep close enough to listen for trouble, but far enough that she had some peace with her thoughts.

Dove felt a guilty sense of gratitude that her and Steven had a moment alone. She hadn’t known such calm in weeks.

“Marc said-” She started after a few minutes of quiet, “He said you didn’t know about all of this before. How are you doing, finding out you’re sharing your body with a whole other person I mean,” She prompted, chancing a glance at his face, his lip tugged between his teeth.

“Honestly,” He sighed, his tired eyes falling on her face that gazed back with nothing but worry. No judgement, no fear. Never from her. “Honestly, it’s frazzled me a bit. I mean it’s like being in a dream where I’m watching everything happen around me but I’m stuck in the backseat shouting how shit a driver Marc is-”

She couldn’t help the small chuckle that fell from her lips, the one that had him smiling too, not missing the way her shoulder bumped him lightly.

“It’s like I’m yanking on the reins, trying to get my own body back to being mine, and yet no one’s listening, you know?” He continued, and she felt the lump shift in the bottom of her throat.

Yes. I know exactly what you mean, Steven. I think you’re the only person who can ever know, only person since Grace who has ever known me-

And Marc. They were the only two to understand.

She nodded silently, unwilling to meet his eyes.

“Oh god, what am I saying?” Steven muttered cursing to himself, looking at her with sorrowful eyes, “Seth still has you, doesn’t he? It was only Khonshu who they punished.”

She nodded again, keeping an eye on the ground as the terrain became a bit more rocky, stepping down carefully where she saw Layla’s boot print.

“Love, you have to know, that evening in the museum-” He began, following in her footsteps, stopping when his foot slipped on the grainy bank, feeling her hand grab his own, the very touch catching his breath as he stepped down safely to the rest of the sand. “Thanks- in the museum, I never meant for you to get hurt-”

“Steven, it’s okay, you don’t need to say that,” She brushed off bashfully, turning her head to the ground and pulling away from his saccharine touch.

But he wouldn’t let her. She needed to hear it. Needed more than the fair and few nice words Marc had given her the past few weeks. Not when she’d endured so much, so much for him.

He grabbed her hand again, feeling the cold skin under his warm palm, not letting her slip away so fast this time as her eyes flicked up to his and stuck as they traipsed through the sand.

“No, you shouldn’t have been hurt that day. You shouldn’t have had any of this happen to you, and I’m sorry, Dove.” He said perhaps the most serious she’d ever seen him and all she could do was nod wordlessly. “I’m sorry you’re in this mess because of me,”

“It’s not your fault, Steven,” She murmured, squeezing his hand with a frown, “It’s not Marc’s either. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, end of.”

“Still, I’m sorry it happened,” He said, bambi brown eyes falling over the planes of her face, “I promise, Marc and I will find a way to fix it when this is over,”

She smiled again, and he could swear he could feel his chest rattling with his own heartbeat. It was terrifying the effect she had on every inch of his body, the way his stomach and heart seemed to butterfly the moment she looked at him, the way her eyes softened under his gaze, the same woman he’d wanted even after so much hurt.

“It’s not so bad anyway,” She said, her attention returning to the path Layla trekked along, her chocolate curls glistening in the sunset, her lithe figure just close enough to see where she followed her tablet’s directions, “Marc has been a big help, although I wouldn’t be surprised if he never wanted to see me again after this. I can’t imagine he likes me very much,”

“Who wouldn’t like you?” Steven asked, as if it were the most obvious question out there. He felt Marc writhe with a flick of sorrow inside the body, the feeling of being on the outside still unusual to him. “I think he likes you just fine.”

She shook her head with a doubtful smile, “If you say so, Steven,”

“No, honestly!” He pushed, and she only snickered more as he pulled her closer, lowering his voice to a whisper, “I mean don’t tell him this, but I think he likes you more than he even likes me,”

“Me?” She giggled, entertaining the cheeky look in his eyes with another nudge to his shoulder, “Why? All I’ve done is annoy him since the day I saw him in my room and thought he was you,”

“Well, you’re my best friend for one,” Her cheeks heated at that, “And you’re the kindest person to ever walk the planet. And you’re honest, most honest person I know,”

Her smile dampened, not that he seemed to notice as he was lost in a dizzy world of his own, his thumb stroking the back of her hand gently. Honest. That’s what he valued about her. That she was honest.

She felt the life suck out of her stomache.

“Steven-” She started, her chest sunken. She was sure she could feel every breath rattling around the empty chamber, grabbing her throat.

Liar. They whispered. Liar, liar, liar.

“No, I know you’re going to go all shy, but you are, you’re the only one who doesn’t hide stuff from me like I’m a child, like Marc, all he does is keep things from me,” It was torture. Actual torture. It was as though he was bringing the knife down onto her chest with every sweet word, words that he meant to soothe and warm, words that tore and mutilated her. “You would never do that, now would you?”

It took her a moment to realise he asked a question, took a moment for her to snap out of the wallowing guilt that threatened to drag her under.

She needed to tell him. Needed to have it out with him, tell him what a disgusting, used up mess she was, tell him what she had done to Frank, tell him what she had let happen to Grace. He would be horrified, he would hate her.

She needed to tell him.

But instead she said;

“Never, Steven,”

They continued through the crevice in the land until they came out the otherside, onto a wide sandy ledge, Layla already scouting out across the remaining land.

“There they are,” She called over her shoulder as Dove and Steven caught up, the former much quieter than she had been initially, “Let’s keep moving. Looks like they’re already inside. We’ll need to find another way to beat them to Ammit.”

“After you, love,” Steven said with a besotted smile, holding a hand out for Dove to follow, “Promise I’ll save you if you fall,”

She smiled at him kindly, the ache in her chest weakening as she focused on the task at hand. He would understand. He would understand her reasoning for lying, he had to understand-

She stepped on in silence, carefully following Layla’s bootprints down the steep decline, the sharp rock edges scrutinising her every footstep. It wasn’t for another thirty minutes until they stepped foot on even ground, nearing the deserted campsite, fires reduced to a pile of small embers, not a soul in sight.

That is, until the trio talked to the centre of the camp, all three of them on high alert for any of Harrow’s men lingering for intruders.

Dove had barely seen the taupe four legged creature behind her until it bleated in her ear with a low grunt.

She squealed, stumbling back into Steven’s awaiting arms that wrapped around her shaken figure, her eyes wide as she turned to see two large onyx eyes blinking down at her through inch long lashes, munching happily on some hay.

A camel.

She felt her face warm as she heard the other two begin to snicker at her skittishness, Steven’s chest rumbling behind her with laughter. He stroked her hair softly, “Told you I’d save you,”

“S-sorry,” She muttered, releasing herself from him with a sheepish grin. Her hand came up to the camel’s snout to give it a short rub, the peach fuzz tickling her palm.

“You’d be scared of your own shadow following you,” Layla teased in probably the nicest tone she’d used all day. It seemed a brisk walk where you could curse out your ex all you wanted did the world wonders.

“You try having a god of violence following you, see how comfortable you are with bastards sneaking up on you,” Dove retorted, using the tips of her nails to scratch behind the camel’s ear, his lashes batting sweetly down at her.

Layla set off further into the camp, now it was clear they were the only ones there, urging them towards where an old mine shaft entrance seemed to open up into the middle of another mountain crest, undoubtedly where Harrow’s men had entered.

“Let’s check for supplies,” The older woman suggested, tightening the strap of her backpack with a small squint, the last of the Egyptian sun beating down on them.

Dove nodded, heading off towards one of the nearest tents, seeing a handful of tools resting against crates, small army grade beds set up, raised off the floor. She dug around the few crates, to find the odd bit of clothing, jackets she didn’t need, a torch she flicked on only to find it had run out of battery.

She snagged a few bits of mountaineering rope, tucking it into her satchel Layla had given her from the truck, a pickaxe she held and quickly saw how impractical it was to carry around.

The knife stared at her from on top of the bed. She should pick it up, she knew it was smart to defend themselves, if not for her then for Layla. Or for Steven. Sure, she would be fine, but they were human.

Her hand shook as she held the leather handle, the blade a good eight inches and covered with a rusty brown liquid she didn’t want to acknowledge.

She wasn’t there anymore, she repeated to herself in a mantra, she wasn’t with him anymore. He was gone, he could only haunt her now. She did what she needed to-

Dove was quick to wipe the blood off the metal onto one of the nearby jackets, stopping only when she could see her dishevelled appearance staring back at her in the shine of the blade. Chucking it into the backpack with the rest of her find, she stepped out the tent, heading towards the big canopy she’d seen Steven head towards.

Their conversation from earlier still gnawed at her gut, twisting and writhing inside her like a rot that ate at her. She needed to tell him. He would despise her, he would find her sickening to so much as look at, but she needed to. He deserved the honestly he thought he found in her.

Once they’d stopped Ammit she would tell him. She would hate herself every second until that moment, hate herself every second after too. She would be alone again, she understood. But even if her sweet, sweet Steven forgave her and wanted anything to do with her, there was not a chance in any hell that Marc would allow her around him. He might even turn her in himself, he’ll probably regret saving her life after all. He might even carry out some of Khonshu’s vengeance, might just finish her off, make her pay for lying to Steven, lying to him, liar, liar, liar-

“I know I’m not alone-” There was shouting. But it wasn’t that of Harrow’s men, it wasn’t angered, it wasn’t an order. It was Steven. It was raw, wounded. “I know I’m bloody not alone. I’ve got Layla, and I’ve got Dove. She’s got my back more than you ever have, Marc,”

This was wrong. She shouldn’t be eavesdropping, especially when Steven and Marc seemed to be at odds with one another, it seemed intimate, like watching family fight. But Steven sounded upset, god she hated that sound, he sounded like a dog backed into a corner, unsure, lashing out.

There was no verbal response as she stepped closer, one hand on the drape that acted as a door, preparing to call for him, ask him to tell her everything so she could just fix it for him.

“I appreciate your concern, mate, I really do-” Steven continued, a bite to his words she rarely heard, a snappy tone worlds away from the sweetness he addressed her with. This was violating his privacy, this was wrong, she needed to go in, needed to help him- “So what if I do? You and Layla are divorced, and I definitely didn’t sign any papers or say any vows. The way I see it, I love her and even if theres the smallest chance Dove feels the same way about me, I don’t want you being a grumpy git ruining it for me-”

Her eyes widened. I love her. He loved her? Her heart pounded behind her chest, far harder than anytime it had from fear, from anger, from guilt even. It consumed her lungs, swelling with a warmth that numbed her legs, her hand drawing back the flap to enter the tent.

She had to see him. Had to hear him say it for real.

He cut himself off hearing her enter the tent, his breath catching in his throat. He prayed for a second it was Layla, it would be so much less humiliating, less to explain if it were, though he was sure he was about as flushed as a school boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar as he spun on his heel to see her gobsmacked face staring back at him.

“D-Dove?” He spluttered, nearly knocking himself on his arse as he stepped back, practically falling away from her, the very sight of her burning him, “W-we were talking- just talk about-”

“Say it again,” She said quietly, yet it spun the room into a stifling silence of its own.

Steven breathed heavily, gasping for a breath that seemed to come too late as he felt his brow begin to sweat, his ribs rattling with a difficult sigh.

“I don’t-don’t know what-what you’re…” He hadn’t even the heart to finish his sentence as she stepped fully into the tent, the drape slipping over her shoulder fluidly, her eyes wild, desperate.

“Say it again, Steven,” She begged, and he could hear her laboured breaths about as hard for her as it was for him.

He gulped, his mouth becoming as dry as it was outside of this little bubble they were stuck in, bringing the cuff of his jumper up to swipe away the sweat that bunched up at his temple.

“Well, the thing is,” He started shakily. He had to tell her, rip the plaster off. He could only hope she would ever, could ever feel the same, even if he was enamoured with her and she just wanted him to entertain herself for a while, he could die happy. Even if she realised he really was the weirdo everyone at work avoided like the plague, he would live forever grateful to have been given a chance. He had to tell her, her eyes were too big, too warm to say no to, “See, the thing, love, is I think- no, I-I know, I-” He continued, his arms and legs numb with the shock of seeing her here, shock of what he was confessing after so long, “I love you,”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, her mouth gaping open, showing off her teeth that blew a held breath past them, her chest rising and falling irregularly as they settled under the weight of his words.

“You don’t need to say anything- or do anything-” He carried on after she stared at him with a gobsmacked expression and he began to fear the worst, “or even feel the same-” He felt like an idiot, felt like his face, chest, body was on fire, “If you want to stay friends, that’s alright with m-”

It only took her two full strides before she had grabbed his face with a fervour she had only ever dreamt about and taken his lips onto her own, silencing his bumbling words hotly.

Her body melted against his, pressing up against every crevice as he gasped into her mouth, hands squeezing into nervous fists at his sides before they seemed to wake up and grab her hips, feeling the plush fat underneath her shirt.

He made a sound, somewhere between shock and joy, something that slipped into a whine as her fingers wove through the curls at the nape of his neck.

“Wait-” He gasped in the small moment they broke apart, his eyes fluttering open to see her face more at peace, more blissed than he’d ever seen, “Dove-”

“More.” She mewled, her face scrunching in desperation, brows pulling together as if in pain to be parted.

It took little to no thought on his part what came next after hearing her plea. Steven had never been one to take control, never thought he would be kissing a woman with so much heat, let alone her.

He tugged her closer, harder than before, so sudden she all but fell into him where he was waiting with dry lips that pressed against hers so hard she could feel his teeth behind them. His hands wrapped around her waist, clawing at the bottom of her spine, fingertips pressing into her skin as if worried he’d feel her slip through them like sand.

She breathed heavier into his mouth, whining like a dog for affection, her fingers weaving further into his chocolate curls and squeezing.

He gave an open mouthed bleat of surprise as she bit down on his lip, his own hand migrating up, up under her shirt, following her bare spine, feeling every groove, every mole, every millimetre of skin with a fire that burned her with feverish tingles. He seemed to freeze when he got to her bra, as if to forget such things existed, because he really did forget where and who and what they were wearing, his mind entirely unravelled, shedding all thoughts other than her, her, her.

He didn’t care that her shirt rode up as his arm pushed on, blunt nails pawing at her skin, until they reached the base of her neck, further until he grabbed at the roots of her own hair. He didn’t care for the surprise in her yelp as he flipped the two of them around, pressing her against the post in the centre of the tent, the thick wood scratching at her back, his hand protecting her head as he kissed even harder.

“Steven-” Marc’s voice pulled him out of his paradise. He couldn’t believe he was kissing her, that she was letting him kiss her. He couldn’t believe the way she grabbed at him just as tight, as if she felt the same frenzied need for his body on hers that he did, as only shown by the way she tried to pull him back when he disconnected their lips, “Steven, stop it. Steven-”

“Steven-” She whined, and if there was any chance of him listening to the American man screaming at him from the mirror, the same mirror he had been in a heated row with when she had first entered, that flew out of the window the moment he heard her soft voice in his ear.

He was so sure he had never wanted anything so badly in his life.

“Steven, stop it. This isn’t safe.” Marc tried to command again, his voice a venomous hiss, thick with something sad, only Steven didn’t listen.

Instead, his lips migrated to the bottom of her lips, catching the corner of them, his hand in her hair tugging tighter as she whispered his name again, the laboured breaths rattling against her chest that pressed impossibly closer to him. His hand reached up past her head, ripping the mirror from the nail on the wooden beam, tossing it far enough away he barely heard the clink of the glass breaking into three pieces.

“What was that for?” She whispered, her breath catching when he moved further down her face, a nip to her jaw, before he reached the soft, velvety skin of her neck, the air sucking out of her at the point of contact.

“Marc talks too much,” Was all he said, before he dove into kissing her pulse point, the beat jackhammering against her plush skin, vibrating on his lips as he settled back into kissing the very soul out of her.

She gasped a laugh, right hand remaining in the thicket of his hair as the other detached to reach for the toned fat of his hip bone, the sensation making him groan, flinching as her fingers glided under his own shirt.

He was a man starved, kissing harder and harder with every whimper of approval he received, a note to not stop whatever it was he was doing if it meant she would keep sounding so heavenly.

He tensed as her hand moved over his stomach, feeling over the wear and tear scars he had always wondered how he got. Ofcourse, being who he was now, he knew they were from Marc running all over the world, risking his skin for a moon god they both despised, the same skin she stroked softly where they raised in ugly white lines from his stomach.

He wanted to say something clever, say something to make her laugh, maybe about how Marc wasn’t as good a fighter as he seemed, but his every brain cells vanished when her fingertip so much as traced the hem of his trousers, teasing him with a slight tug at the material.

He felt the cotton brush against where his boner crushed against his soft tummy, harder and more vulnerable than he had ever felt it. The months spent pining after this woman did him no favours, granted him no justice as he melted at the knees under her touch. He felt her smile, not cockily nor with any semblance of lust, just happy. Happy to have him so close, feel him pouring over her with an affection she never deserved.

Feeling no signs of rejection, she tugged at his hemline again, her fingers looping under his boxers this time, the sensation of the warm dusk air flooding his underwear and hitting his sensitive tip like a freight train, the feeling enough to rip him from kissing at her throat with a gasp, his forehead falling down to rest on her collarbone, eyes squeezed together in a near pained mewl.

“Love-” He murmured, hand still grabbing at the back of her locks, pulling tighter when she tugged his clothes again, exposing him for the briefest of seconds to the thick air they’d found themselves in, “You make it so hard to think when you do that,”

“Do what?” She asked, the innocence in her tone snuffed out by the lust twinkling in her eye as she looked to him, gaze bleary, face puffing out from the thrill of it all, her chest rising between the two of them, taking in enough air to sustain a bird mid-flight.

He smiled back at her, a look of adoration and pure, unbloodied happiness smothering his face as he leaned in to kiss her lips a few more times, each one a little braver than the last as he nibbled at her lips, albeit a little too excited. But she didn’t care, it only made her smile wider.

“I want you so badly,” He said, the tips of their noses meeting as his forehead pressed against hers, sharing each other's breaths as her eyes shut in a dizzy sweet glow.

“Have me,” She replied without a beat of hesitation, pressing a kiss to his lips again, “I was always yours to have,”

If he thought he couldn’t get harder, he was sorely mistaken.

His stomach flurried with what felt like a sea of warmth that spread down to his legs, numbing his body as it crawled over his olive skin. He wanted to devour her with a hunger he had never known, wanted to commit every inch of skin to memory, wanted to kiss her until they both lost breath and then kiss her some more, even if his lips turned blue and his brain shut off from deprivation, because he was already feeling giddy from the taste of her alone.

“Really?” Steven asked, his nut brown eyes fat with puppy love, the hearts practically swirling in his gaze like a comic book, “I’ve wanted this for so long. Pictured a bed and candles and chocolates, the whole shebang,”

She giggled at his Steven-like ways that hadn’t faded away even when his lust was as clear as the boner that poked at her leg.

“The whole shebang?” She echoed with an amused smile, but the desire for more had yet to die out, “That sounds lovely, Steven, but there’s just one problem.”

“Which is?” He asked, the frown that flashed over his face smoothing out when he felt her kiss him again, a sharper bite to his lip than before, a harsher tug at his boxers to where she stood patiently waiting, her touch edging even closer to where he wanted her most.

“I want you now.” She whispered, trailing off into a whine, “Please,”

He stared at her with a slack jaw, only spurring her to kiss along the bone with a sweetness soft enough to rot teeth.

Pulling her hair back firm enough to move her away, not hard enough to hurt, he forced her back into his line of sight again, his eyes darker than she would have thought possible for a sweetheart like him.

“You ask me like that ever again and I’ll give you anything,”

A breathy laugh bled into a gasp as his hand released her head, moving down to her flowy trousers, the elastic waist giving in almost too easily as his large, warm hand skirted across the skin of her stomach, goosebumps chasing after the tips of his fingers as they brushed gently over her skin too quickly.

He wanted to kiss every spot of the velvety plushness he could get to, but he could save that for another day, instead he knew exactly where he wanted the most.

“Are you sure-”

“Please,” She whined, his fingers that lingered at her bare hipbone, freezing for a moment before they edged towards the lacey hem of her underwear.

The two of them gasped as his shaking hands went further, crossed the line in the sand, went further down. Steven was sure the air was sucked entirely from his lungs when he brushed over soft, neat hair, as if the feeling of it woke him up from whatever trance he was in.

“Oh my god,” He whispered against her cheek, nose pressed against her temple as she mewled under his palm, melting into where his other hand held her waist, “Oh god-”

He dared himself to go further, though he was sure his heart was in his throat. He could stake his life on waking up in his bed any second now, ankle tied up, a raging boner against his sleep shorts. This was too much for his poor, tender pulse, the sound of the thumps ringing loud as her voice in his ears.

Shaky hands ventured down, until they reached her waiting entrance, already soaked from where his kisses had weakened her insides, melting her into putty under his saccharine lips.

Fearing she would moan all the louder, her hands returned to his shoulder blade, looping under his arm that was busy trailing light touches over where her cunt waited patiently for more of him. She pulled his face back to hers, kissing him hard where she could groan comfortably, the sheer thrill and terror congealing in her gut if they were found in this position. It made her want him more, because no one had ever wanted her, her, so much as to risk their own life.

She felt herself squeak into his searing lips, a drawn out kiss that branded her for all to see, all to know that she was entirely his, when his index fingers curled up, exploring, mapping out what got the best reaction.

“You’re so-” He tried to say. Wet. But she had pulled him back for more the moment he tried to pull away, groaning as his digits slipped between her sex effortlessly.

It was then that he braved another finger, pushing just that bit further into her, still relatively unsure about what he was doing.

“You can go harder,” She seemed to sense his hesitation, but then why wouldn’t she. She knew him sometimes better than he knew himself. Read the exhilaration that faltered on his face as if as easy as flipping a page in a book, “You won’t hurt me,”

Steven nodded, the confirmation exactly what he needed to push his fingers into her further, eyes wild with lust as he watched her face contort in pleasure, her cushion walls squeezing his fingers tightly as he went deeper.

“Like that?” He said, the bite of her lip taking his attention wholly. He tried to hide the glee, the smugness in his tone as he said it, but when he pulled them out only to enter her again and she gave a mewl under her breath, his face was entirely cheshire cat.

“Yes,” She said, and he could have sworn it was something out of a dirty movie. Her face was something out of this world as he kept up with his movements, his mouth watering as her eyes flicked open to stare up at him, entirely at his mercy.

His breath was swept from him for the fourth time that day.

The thousands of years of faces passing this early, the sculptures and paintings even the greatest of hands had crafted, and yet it was his rough, tired digits that created the pinnacle of them all.

Feeling sure of himself with how his ministrations so far had been received, he pulled his fingers from her cunt, trailing back up gently to where he knew her clit would be. He fumbled for a moment, the spur of the moment confidence he’d found dwindling as he realised he was still as inexperienced as he had been the day before, that although he knew women’s anatomy, he had never actually touched a woman like he was now.

Again feeling him waver beneath her, his chocolate eyes dopey and pleading for help from anyone listening, she grabbed hold of his wrist and moved him to where she needed.

“Here, Steven,” She whispered, jolting into his chest when his warm digits met her sensitive nerves. She gave him a soft, loving smile and kissed his lips gently, not pitying but simply adoring his Steven-ness that she felt herself bathing in, felt his entire being shooing away every dark speck of dust that crowded her head too often these days.

“Here?” He asked, circling the small bundle gently, her head dropping to his shoulder with a knee weakened neediness. She drew a sharp breath, the bliss wiped from her face and met with a hot ecstasy, raw and soul sucking as he continued to kiss her cheek where her face buried into his neck more.

“There,” She moaned again, her fingers pulling harder at his hair, clawing at his back like an animal begging for mercy, “Fuck, Steven,”

It was muffled into his jacket, and yet the sound of his name said like that only had him pulling her closer, practically keeping her standing as her legs went to jelly, and he rubbed over her nerves faster, her arms shaking as she yanked at his clothes, his hair, anything she could hold onto.

“I love you so much,” He confessed into her hair; he just needed to say it again. If this, all of this, even without what they were doing, even if it meant he could hold her in his arms tight enough to hear her hummingbird heart against his for the rest of existence, he would die happy.

“I love you-I love you so much,” She returned in a needy whine that made him growl and move his fingers all the more faster. He pressed into her more, his cock raging against his seams to be inside her, to have her as much as she’d asked for, her body pressing harshly against the wooden post behind her as his legs straddled her thigh that shook weakly.

He was everywhere. His voice was in her ear, his chest was in her face, his scent was in her nose, his fingers were inside her, his hand tugged her even closer where it spread widely across her spine.

She felt it pooling in her stomach before she could put a name to it, her squeals and pants getting lost in his neck as he moaned with her, and she realised his own sex was pressing angrily against her, a problem that only made her cry out more, grab at him harder.

“Steven-I’m gonna-” She gasped, pressing her forehead to his jaw, “I’m gonna-”

If Steven wanted to say something, it seemed lost to his glazed eyes that watched her like a man on death row, took note of every facial feature as if he’d ever be able to forget how she looked when she came.

She felt the heat in her stomach fizzing up, felt the whole of her pelvis knotting together, her legs jittering as they fought to hold her up, Steven’s body taking the brunt of it as she all but fell into him, dragging his lips onto hers in a harsh, toothy kiss, her moans spilling onto his tongue, his fingers never halting or slowing in their circles.

“Fuck-” She cursed, the last of her pleasure seizing her body, ebbing and flowing away from her until the touch on her clit became too much and she grabbed his wrist desperately and pulled him away, “Steven,”

Fearing he had done it incorrectly, he pulled away as if burned, his free hand immediately freeing her waist to cup her cheek, eyes searching her face for signs of disappointment.

“Was that not it? Was that not right?” He whispered, face heating in regret, only to be met with a breathless smirk before she pulled him back towards her with a quick yank of his sweater.

She kissed him much sweeter this time, a worn out giggle weaving in between their lips, pulling away with dazed eyes that stared at him as if he’d handed her the entire universe in one go.

“That was perfect, Steven,” She said, pecking him again when he seemed unconvinced, “I’ve never been so happy as I am right now, here with you,”

“Neither have I,” He said, his gaze entirely dopey with love as he watched her breaths even out, lips twitching into a sweet smile as she stared back at him.

He wasn’t lying. He’d give her anything if she asked for it.

She seemed to snap out of their honey glazed daze, fingers fiddling with the somewhat softening pull at his trousers, her nail that had surprisingly not been mauled by her stress for a week or so, trailing over where his sensitive tip pressed at his leg, the sensation drawing in a breath from his chest once more.

“Wait,” He started, holding her wrist gently, pulling her hand up to his mouth where he gave her palm a gently kiss, “I want to just be here with you, we don’t have to do that,”

She smiled, though her eyes seemed incredulous that he would deny such an offer. She couldn’t say she was entirely surprised however, Steven had this way of proving her wrong about everything she worried he would be, had this way of making her feel ridiculous for ever expecting anything but softness from him.

“Don’t you want a turn?” She asked quietly, his nose brushing against hers gently as he shook his head, “I just want to make you happy,”

He pulled away then at those words, smiling at her disbelievingly, “If you think that didn’t make me happy, then you’re a very, very silly girl who needs convincing, I guess,”

Without giving her much room to reply, he grabbed her in for another searing kiss, before pressing small pecks all over her mouth sweetly.

“Don’t worry,” He said with a smirk and a mischievous twinkle in his otherwise soft brown eyes, “I’m more than happy to convince you over and over and over again once we get home,”

Her cheeks ached from the smile that grew at the thought of home, home for the two of them.

There was no place like home.

Taglists:

KNIGHT IN SOHO TAGLIST

@shirukitsune @s-u-t @ahookedheroespureheart @willowseason @imonmykneessir @acceptedbyace @broadwaytraaaaash @mythicalmo @stevenknightmarc @avery88 @fandombrackets @thelostlovedone @raythecomputerart @nyctophile-moon-child @unknownduck0 @emily-roberts @cheshirecat484 @lockleywife @strangeobsessed @thebestrouge @0bsessedwithfictionalcharacters @dumbhxeredrose @badbishsblog @jvexoxo @sxftie-mari @mythical-goth @cillmeslowly @wildwallflower24 @ameliashideout @moonsua1 @latenightcravingz @blackqueengold @jesfreedark @uncle-eggy @onefinnedwonder-fm

#marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #marc spector fanfiction #marc spector imagine #moon knight x reader #moonknight imagine #moonknight x reader #steven grant fanfiction #steven grant smut #Marc Spector smut #not safe for minors

[thevirginwitch]

The Origin & Evolution of Correspondences in Witchcraft

This post was shared a week early over on my Patreon! Working a day-job and running a blog full-time is a ton of work, so any support is insanely appreciated! Patrons will receive early access to content, exclusive content such as research notes and book recommendations, free tarot readings, access to a private Discord channel within my server, discounted products from my Etsy store, free digital files, voting power on my content, and MUCH more! Check it out here for as little as $2/month.

If you’ve been a witch for a while, you’ve probably asked yourself: where do correspondences come from? Who decided that lavender was good for calming, or that obsidian was good for absorbing negative energy? Where does the concept of correspondences come from in the first place? To answer these questions, we must first look at something called “correlative thinking”: Marcel Granet (1884-1940), a French sociologist, coined the term “correlative thinking”, which can be defined as “thinking of an item of one class by correlating it with an item of another class”, typically organizing and relating “natural, political/social, and cosmological data in highly ordered arrays or systems of correspondence.” Sound familiar?

Correlative thinking takes many forms throughout religion, philosophy, and humanity – even showing up as early as Mesopotamia, where they believed events on earth ran parallel to events in heaven: “each city-state had its own patron god and every change in the balance of power between the city-states was seen as the direct reflection of a change in the relationship of the gods.” (Cavendish, pg. 12) In ancient Greece and among Hellenic philosophers, they came up with the “macrocosm/microcosm” analogy, which describes the relationship between the smaller, human being (the microcosm) with the much bigger, seemingly infinite cosmos (the macrocosm).

This correlative thinking is prevalent in many magical texts throughout the years – including The Emerald Tablet (late 8th-early 9th century), The Picatrix (a 9th century Arabic grimoire), The Key of Solomon (1312), and the Three Books of Occult Philosophy (1533). After the publication of The Three Books of Occult Philosophy and the boom of new-age spiritualism in the 1970s, there have been a massive number of publications related to witchcraft, correspondences, ritual magic, and more. For the purpose of this post, however, we’ll be focusing on these foundational texts to better understand the evolution and origin of correspondences.

The Emerald Tablet, dated around the late 8th-early 9th century, is one of the most highly influential texts within the philosophical and occult realm. An English translation of a line of text within The Emerald Tablet provides one of the most popular terms among new agers and modern pagans: “That which is above is like to that which is below, and that which is below is like to that which is above”. A shortened version of this phrase, “as above, so below”, can be found in Helena Blavatsky’s work, Isis Unveiled (1877), where it became massively popularized among the modern pagan community. This phrase, along with terms related to correlative thinking, tie back to many cultures – including China, India, and more.

The Picatrix, 9th-century Arabic grimoire on astrological magic, is yet another influential piece of text. This text contained astrological magic, magical potions and spells, and different Hermetic, Neoplatonic, and Aristotelianism philosophical passages – and it also included the explanations of links between planets and intangible objects such as colors and perfumes/fragrances.

After a few series of translations in the 12th and 13th centuries, the information within the Picatrix (and other sources) were recorded and arranged by Henry Cornelius Agrippa (1486-1535) in his work, Three Books of Occult Philosophy in 1509 (not being published until 1533). From there, Dr. John Dee (1527-1604) expanded on Agrippa’s work in the 1580s and 1590s.

Shortly after, in 1620, the Magical Calendar was published, which compressed much of the previous material. This calendar, amazingly recorded on one page, “contains tables of correspondences arranged by number, from one to twelve. The material is based largely on the extensive tables in Agrippa, book II, but goes beyond this, especially in its inclusion of sigils.” (Skinner, pg. 14)

Moving onto another incredibly influential text, The Signature of All Things, published by Jakob Bohme in 1764, covers a similar concept to correlative thinking known as ‘the doctrine of signatures’: God created everything on Earth with a “signature”, or sign, that tells you what that object’s purpose is. The idea is that any plant, herb, or object on earth should resemble what it’s purpose is – for example, walnuts (which look like brains) are used for brain health, and tomatoes (which are red, plump, and contain ventricles like the human heart) are used for heart health. Obviously, this concept was adopted in the context of medicinal use – by looking up an object’s signature within this book, a physician could theoretically find treatments for specific illnesses. While the contents of this book (and similar texts) have been debunked as pseudoscience, the influence of the doctrine of signatures is prevalent in witchcraft correspondences today.

In 1888, the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn was founded, and during that time S L MacGregor Mathers (1954-1918) and Dr. Wynn Wescott (1845-1925) prepared knowledge lectures for the Order, which eventually led to the generation of a Book of Correspondences (unpublished). According to Adam McLean in his edition of The Magical Calendar, this book circulated among members of the inner order of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, and was later published by Aleister Crowley as his own work, Liber 777 (1909). Meanwhile, in 1908, The Kybalion (an anonymously written text, though often attributed to William W. Atkinson [1862-1932]) was published, including topics like “The Principle of Correspondence” and “The Planes of Correspondence”.

From here on, we have an uproar in magical texts, thanks to the new-age/spiritualism movement of the 70s and 80s – popular authors like Gerald Gardner, Scott Cunningham, Ray Buckland, and many others published works on the subject of magic, often including their own correspondences, typically influenced or inspired by the works of Crowley, Mathers, and Atkinson. Of course, the contents of these modern texts are what is most recognizable to practitioners today – we usually find tables of information, relating astrological signs, herbs, planets, feelings, colors, and more to their “meanings”: protection, anti-stress, happiness, love, etc.

As it stands, correspondences are a by-product of the ‘correlative thinking’ concept we covered earlier – this correlative thinking shows up in Mesopotamia, and evolved throughout magical texts and grimoires, eventually becoming these “tables of magical correspondences” that we are familiar with seeing in modern witchcraft and pagan books and resources.

As I round off this post, I want to share a quote from Richard Cavendish in his book, The Black Arts: “Man is a tiny replica of the universe. If two things are naturally associated together in the human mind, which is an image of the ‘mind’ of the universe, this is evidence of a real connection between the two things in the universe. Many of the important magical analogies and connections are not natural to most people’s minds today, but have been handed down by tradition from the remote past. This enhances their value for occultists, who believe that humanity was a great deal wiser in these matters in the remote past than it is now.” As practitioners, particularly modern practitioners, I feel we put too much emphasis on older concepts and traditions. While there’s nothing necessarily wrong with sticking to traditions and building off of older magical systems, I think it’s just as important that we work on our own magical systems – what does the color red mean to you? What about the planet Jupiter? Find out what works for you – you may find that it makes you feel more connected to your craft and your practice, and your workings could become more powerful, too.

Sources/Further Reading:

Dictionary of Gnosis & Western Esotericism by Wouter Hanegraaff

Three Books of Occult Philosophy by Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa

The Signature of All Things by Jakob Bohme

The Black Arts by Richard Cavendish

A History of Magic, Witchcraft and the Occult by DK

The Complete Magician’s Tables by Stephen Skinner

Neurobiology, Layered Texts, and Correlative Cosmologies: A Cross-Cultural Framework for Premodern History by Farmer et al

https://youtu.be/p0z3MuuB9uc

https://youtu.be/gYSGSjU84vE

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gx1av438mLY

https://www.patheos.com/blogs/matauryn/2018/06/03/magickal-correspondences/

https://howardchoy.wordpress.com/tag/correlative-thinking/

https://www.researchgate.net/figure/An-abstract-diagram-meant-to-illustrate-the-perfectly-correlative-structure-of-the_fig4_237249544

https://swedenborg.com/emanuel-swedenborg/explore/correspondences/

#correspondences #thevirginwitch #witchcraft #witchcraft 101 #witchcraft 102 #witchcraft 201 #witches #witches of tumblr #pagan #beginner witch #witch history #reading materials #witch #magic #grimoire #book of shadows #astrology #astrological magic #astrological #planetary magic

[rfxiii]

Love your writing sm🩷 could you possibly write something for the main three with a artistic s/o like their home is covered in their work (specificly paintings)

(This is such a cute request! I can honestly see all of them being so enamored seeing their S/O’s art 💕)

TW: none

Trevor, Michael, and Franklin with an artistic S/O:

Trevor Philips:

He doesn’t understand a bit of it. But he loves it! He’s a fairly on the nose guy. If your art doesn’t practically spell out what you’re trying to say, he probably won’t get it. But he appreciates the effort you put toward it, nonetheless.

He’d love to do Jackson Pollock-esque splatter painting with you. Take him outside, set up some canvases, and just let him throw shit and make a mess of paint. You’ll both probably end up with more paint on yourselves than on the canvas.

Will criticize art you’ve bought like he’s a professional. He has no idea what he’s talking about, but he’s always so confident about it. But art you’ve made, he talks about it like it should be worth a million dollars.

Would absolutely be the “oh, you paint? Paint me then!” type of guy. He will not stop until you’ve at least done a small sketch of him.

Michael De Santa:

He has more appreciation for art and your artistic eye than Trevor. That being said, he still has no idea what he’s talking about. He’ll learn to parrot things you’ve said in passing though to fake like he gets it though.

Loves to sit back in silence and watch you draw/paint/etc. He could sit back for hours watching you with your whole focus on the canvas. He honestly thinks you’ve never looked more perfect than when you’re focused on something you love like this.

He takes note of any new project you’re working on, or any new additions to the collection of your works on the wall. He’s the first to point it out and compliment you on it.

He’ll buy you expensive paints, good canvases, the newest tablet if you’re into digital art. He’ll even try to get your art put up in galleries. He’s your biggest supporter, always.

Franklin Clinton:

He used to draw on his binders or in the margins of his pages during school, and he and Lamar used to do graffiti down at the tracks on the parked trains and on nearby abandoned buildings. He’s not as into art as you are. But he does have some talent and would love to work alongside you while you’re drawing/painting.

He’d ask to hang some of your paintings in his house. He puts them up in places where they’re the main focal point. It lets him brag to people who ask where he got them- then he can proudly say that you made it.

He’s actually really eager to learn from you. If you want to show him how to paint or draw, he’ll sit there for hours listening to you. But, he’ll want to return the favor by showing you how to do graffiti art.

He wouldn’t ask you to paint him. But he’s super handsome, so how could you not want to? So, even if you could just take his picture and paint him from that reference, he’ll offer to sit the whole time for you. He’d literally do anything you asked if it made you happy.

#gta v #gta 5 #grand theft auto v #grand theft auto 5 #trevor philips #michael de santa #franklin clinton #gta x reader #x reader #/reader #franklin clinton/reader #franklin clinton x reader #michael de santa/reader #michael de santa x reader #trevor philips/reader #trevor philips x reader

[housewife-noire]

Depression Master Post

I AM NOT A DOCTOR OR THERAPIST, JUST SAYING WHAT WORKS FOR ME

Tips that work for me:

♡Utilize your audio notes apps on your phone as an 'audio diary', talk to yourself like it's a podcast, interview, imaginary bestie etc

♡warm wet rag, toner (I use a bottle type and a spray type), moisturizer, Vaseline for a 'lazy' skincare routine. You can also use rose water to cleanse your face. This takes literally five minutes

♡modified stretches/workouts are your best friend, it's actually very easy to do stretches without getting outta bed or even moving your blanket!!

♡open up your blinds!!!!!

♡ensures and similar brands w/ extra protein for days you absolutely can't get out of bed

♡can't shower? No problem. You can get bathing cloths at any pharmacy otc (you can purchase with an HSA card as well!) Just add water to the pack no soap or rinsing needed

♡any food is better than no food!!!

♡90 minute rice + tuna packs are good 5 minute meals w/ some substance. You can add any add ins you want(I add fried egg and avocado)

♡download the finch app!! It's super cute and like a self care tamagotchi

♡allow yourself the time to rest

♡have a self love/feel good Playlist ready

♡rewatch your fave childhood show/movie. Anything that's been longer than 5 years since you've seen it works best imo

♡pedialyte AND water to keep hydrated, add a pinch of pink salt to the water

♡mix water, rubbing alcohol and essential oils to make an air freshner spray for bedding and clothing

♡if you're not on any medications, combine l-theanine and st John's wort supplements for mood health (can also add St John's wort, damiana, lavender and mint/catnip to a tea or smoke blend)

♡pure tart cherry juice before bed to help you sleep

♡download the I Am app and repeat the affirmations you see out loud thrice

♡can't brush your teeth? Get a water flosser and add a bit of mouthwash & peroxide to the reservoir to kill bacteria and remove stuck food

♡use pink or brown noise as your background for sleeping, you can find these on youtube

♡download MindDoc & Gratitude if you have the spoons to have prompts and questions to answer about your mood

♡digital coloring books!!! I use infinite painer and sketchbook on my Samsung tablet

♡if you scroll any app, pick the one you see the most positive or nontoxic feed (lemon8 and tumblr for me), this way your consumption is potentially bettering your life

♡charge your phone and other devices in a separate room/a few feet away from your bed to reduce scrolling and help promote getting out of bed to turn off alarms etc

♡daily shower spray cleaner, helps keep your tub clean. I spray after I get out

♡use Groupon to schedule yourself a moodboosting self care activity for the month (massage, tanning, filler, facial)

♡eat with a tray in bed

♡spray your fave body spray before bed

Hope these tips help someone!!! Add your own in the tags or reblog ♡

Happy House Spousing ♡♡♡♡

#black housewife #black women in femininity #homemaker #bunni boo babblz #cooking #high maintenance #skincare #mental health #good advice #self isolation #keyewed

[05112005]

sigh okay i saw this twitter post earlier and i already responded on my twitter but it’s been bugging me endlessly so i want to. like. talk about it in a longer form here

i started out drawing fanart. when i was about 9 or 10, when i was lucky enough to have access to a drawing tablet to make some truly atrocious digital art for the various fandoms i was in (so much jeff the killer fanart. good god) it was NOT good.

BUT!!!!! i did it because i loved the fandoms i was in. i loved the characters and the fanfic and the fan spaces and i wanted to make something and contribute. i can’t hate the artwork i made earlier because i did it purely out of love and adoration.

my early days in artwork were definitely rocky but so is everyone else’s. like any other skill it takes so much time and patience and practice. an important thing for me to realise was that art isn’t a skill alone, it’s a combination of a thousand things — color theory, muscle memory, knowledge of anatomy and lighting, etc.

if someone had included my art in a thread like this i probably would have given up entirely. getting hate comments (which, ftr, i definitely got my fair few lmao) was bad enough — but having my art reposted to be publically humiliated and laughed at? i probably wouldn’t pick up a pencil ever again. i was a kid! and many of these artists probably are too.

even if the original artists will never see this thread, the hundreds of other budding artists in this fanbase who want to start drawing, or have just started, who are mustering the courage to post their art online, will see this and be discouraged.

we should be fostering creativity in fan spaces rather than mocking it!!! support fan artists!! like and reblog and leave comments and notes!! we love it :) <3 make this a safe space for all fan artists, not just those who you deem “good enough”

#please don’t send any hate to op! #rant #auughh

[nyashykyunnie]

Sung Jinwoo x Bubbly Reader

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚𝕊𝕦𝕟𝕘 𝕁𝕚𝕟𝕨𝕠𝕠˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

﹢　˖    　✦      ¸ .　﹢　 ° 　¸.    ° ˖ ･ ·̩　　 ｡　☆.     　﹢　˖    　✦      ¸ .

He is whipped. Thats it. Really./j

Your smile, your giggle, that wide grin along with your twinkling eyes that shines whenever you are joyous— He is weak to it all.

Jinwoo will do everything he can in order to protect and cherish that beautiful smile of yours

How are you this precious really? But either way, he wants you to be that joyous all the time.

He adores your sunshine personality, he loves it so much that even the thought of you while he does his work makes him grin stupidly. Look, Jinwoo is really whipped okay?

There’s no such thing as someone who is completely pure and without a taint of “Those Human Emotions”. He knows that, but when it’s you he forgets that. 

Please smile, please do so.

You dont know how much a single grin from you can relieve him of his burden as the world’s strongest hunter and as the shadow monarch. There is pressure in his shoulders even if he looks so casual and nonchalant most of the time. 

Even with just a short glance, he feels as if it is the gentle breeze of morning spring. 

Jinwoo will treat you so preciously. 

No matter how overly hyper you can get, no matter how fixated you can get and how wild you wave you hands around— Or or even shake and pace around!

He will gaze at you with a pair eyes that are just full of love. 

He can’t help it fr. Your energy can melt a thousand old year frozen lake and blossom it into a beautiful scenery of fresh spring. 

Yes, a lot of emphasis on spring.

What is it that you want? Do you love talking about sea animals? He’ll take you to the aquarium or if time is in favor he will take you out on a date to the open seas and fly around atop Kaisel. Do you love books? He will always pass by the bookstore to grab you books, he’s even  asking the cashiers for reccomendations. He would also be taking notes of genres you like and take a long time to pick just so he can make sure you will love that book. Oh, right, he will also be buying the limited edition versions of those books. Do you love to dress up? Wanna go shopping with him when he’s free? He’ll love it no matter what kind of aesthetic you love. Dark academia, streetwear, light academia, cottagore, lolita— Whatever it may be! Do you love art? What medium do you use? He’ll gift you those art materials in a cute boquet. Of course, he makes sure those art materials are safe for you to use! Unless of course you are a digital artist, no problem! He’ll buy you a huge pen tablet or maybe a 12.9 inch ipad. Who’s he kidding? He buys both!

Hm? What’s that? He’s speding too much? Heaven’s no! He has the money and therefore will put it to good use! And part of the good use is spoiling you to bits!

Okay, okay, materialisticness aside— Jinwoo loves to indulge in your warmth. The love that you spread with your presence, that precious sunlight you give out— He really...Really loves it. 

He isn’t a man of words. So he compensates by soft and romantic touches.

Jinwoo holds you gently but also firm enough to have you know that you are in his arms. He actually get’s scared sometimes, he fears that he might accidentally squeeze tight that he’ll crush your bones. Your existence— No matter the height difference between the both of you; He feels as though you are a tiny snowflake that will melt away because of his touch.

Because of the darkness that he embodies.

“How strong do you think I can get?” “You shadow is connected to the darkness. You will become as strong as your shadow’s depth in the dark.”

And we all know that depth is eternal.

He doesnt want to harm you in any way. If anything, he wants to use his capabilities to keep you and his family safe.

You? You’re so precious to him.

Words and actions cannot suffice.

He thinks he’s bad with both but for real, what he does is bayond the bare minimum.

A/N: I might fully come back to tumblr doing both artworks and headcanons<3

#sung jin woo #solo leveling x reader #sung jinwoo x reader #sung jinwoo headcanons

[punkxcalibur]

redraw time!! ft. five hargreeves

2020:

2023:

under the cut are some thoughts on my digital art progression + my redraws from 2021 and 2022 + more versions of the newest drawing

as you can see, the first drawing looks like shit. i started out with digital art in late 2020 and this was drawn in firealpaca after i got my first drawing tablet. (the brand was gaomon but i don't remember the model, basically it's a really cheap, screenless one.)

the linework is so wonky oh my god. no linewieght variation

the anatomy just. sucks. i did not use a reference back then

i was obsessed with putting those sparkles in people's hair and yeah, it does not look great.

no sense of color, i just picked whatever, really

for the shading i just used a darker shade of the color underneath and then blended the shit out of that

that weird ass composition with the mug help

for the 2021 drawing i still used FA, but switched to a huion tablet because the old one broke

luckily got rid of the mug

improvement on anatomy, but the neck is still way too long

really generic artstyle

kind of got a better understanding of colors and shading, but i relied wayy too much on blending modes

on that note, something with the blending modes went really wrong here

on the top right is my old instagram handle, ignore that.

i discovered the noise tool, which i still use a lot

absolutely no blending

i still relied way too much on multiply without actually taking the effort to learn about color theory

CW blood for the next one

i switched to ipad pro and procreate in may 2022 but decided to draw this in FA with my old drawing tablet

actually put in the effort to understand his features

better and more detailed linework

got rid of the weird background lines

better understanding of anatomy, planed of the face and color theory

version on the right is without shading, because it think it looks cool as well. kind of has a pop art vibe

that's it i guess. i'm mostly happy with my improvement, but i hope there's more to come

#umbrella academy #the umbrella academy #tua #tua fanart #five hargreeves #so many people are weird about this character which is fine ig but some of them are weird about the actor too #just. no. #he was like 15 when they filmed season 1?? #aidan gallagher #umbrella academy fanart #punkx draws #art improvement #art

[stil-lindigo]

It’s been a while since I’ve looked at an illustration and honestly thought: “I want this, i want to emulate key components of this. But I have no idea what those components are and it will take me a long time to get there.”

This used to happen a lot 3 or 4 years back for me, because at that point I had just decided that I wanted to do digital art; but I didn’t have a tablet. So in the meantime I would just look at lord of art and save it and try and take notes. And overtime my tastes evolved until now when I look at a piece of art and admire it’s composition and art style, I know almost exactly what I like about it and can analyze and deduce the things I would need to learn to achieve it.

I look at your comics and for the first time in months, I’m utterly lost.

It’s refreshing

I’m considering looking into studying comic making for real some time soon, and your comics are absolutely complex, genius, honest, gut wrenching and breathtaking. There’s something about them that I want to learn from but for the life of me I don’t know what that is and that’s exciting. Something completely new to learn and grow in. Like, even your creative notes just wash over my brain and over my back like it’s nothing because I’m simply too far back to be able to immediately take them into consideration and apply them mentally to my process. I’m looking at something of a masters work and it has things I’m inspired by but am not yet at the level to–you get the point, I feel like I’m repeating myself

Anyways, yeah, you’re art is a blessing, the poetry that comes with it sinks into my bones and rejuvenates me, and your work has given me invaluable inspiration.

Thank you

haveagreatdayyyyyy💕

thank you for having such a generous take on what i do! it honestly seems pretty mundane to me, but you're always your own worst critic i suppose.

I really encourage anyone to pursue making comics. I think it can be such a powerful medium if done right, and personally I find it cathartic. And I unfortunately don't really have a great crashcourse on how to learn other than just doing it a lot. I've been making comics semi-regularly since 2019, and just by trial and error I've learned a lot about what looks good and what doesn't, and what I'm capable of and what I'm not.

I hope if you do pursue this, you find comics fulfilling. And if you ever need any specific guidance, feel free to shoot me a message and I'll see if i can help :)

#youre extremely kind #ill save this to read again on my bad days #askbox