#trying to mold into each other like clay

[myuminji]

"Smile, Vash!"

#trigun #trigun maximum #vash the stampede #nicholas d wolfwood #vashwood #myuminjiart #I want a reunion that's a MESS. incoherent sobs. words reduced to babbles #clinging to each other like they're each other's lifeline #trying to mold into each other like clay #''smile Vash'' ''smile Nicholas'' but none of them were fucking smiling and just bawling their eyes out #bcs god knows how many times they ever dreamt of a time they can be peacefully together and now is the time and #i was listening to I hear a symphony if it helps u get why i drew this

[thegnomelord]

PLEASEEEEE UR IDEA WITH MAGE M!READER AND MONSTER!COD MEN I'D LOVE THAT SO FICKING MUCH AND YES I AGREE THERE IS A LACK OF ALL THE VIOLENCE

Pov of how the world sees the reader Vs how TF141 reader :D. I'm in the middle of writing the first chapter of a fic with this idea, but guess who contracted TB like some coal miner 😞, me! So here's a sneak peak for the sort of vibe I'm going for while I'm trying to recover:

P.S: Ya'll are free to suggest/requests with this idea cause!

P.S.S: Check out bluegiragi who came up with this AU and give her some love!

Mages and Monsters

Mages are strange creatures.

In a world so full of monstrous hybrids and mythical creatures, mages sit on the proverbial line separating man from monster, stuck in both worlds without any hope of fitting in either one.

Because outwardly, they're average. No different from the billions of other humans. They're not born with the marks of monsterdom; they don't possess horns or leathery scales to shrug off small caliber bullets like dragons do, nor the claws and bone crushing jaws of werewolves, not feathered wings and razor sharp talons of harpies, nor the wraiths ghostly ability to become immaterial.

Outwardly, they're average. Ordinary. Mundane. Human...

Almost.

Because Price and Ghost are experienced enough to see the thing laying beneath the paper thin veneer of normality, are seasoned enough to quickly notice the one thing that puts an 'in' before a mage's 'human' description — Magic. Not the smoke and mirror kind magicians or charlatans use to swindle tourists out of money, but real magic.

The ancient kind, the capricious kind, slumbering like a beast inside the hollowed out cavern of a heart until it awakens with a terrible bloodlust. Each of them can attest to this; Price sports gnarled patched of scar tissue on the scaleless parts of his arm from ice burns, his draconic breath having saved him from frostbite that had devoured more than a few good men. Though Ghost doesn't show much skin, one can sometimes catch sight of branching fern patterns on his neck where lightning magic had shot through him. Gaz's back is peppered with hundreds of little cuts where a glass mage's summoned elegant ornaments had shattered into millions of shards, aiming to take out his wings.

And now Soap sports a mark of his own, his side tender red and blistered with a second degree burn. It could have been much worse, your flames were hot enough to melt steel, the only thing having kept him from an early cremation being the two solid concrete walls your magic had had to travel through to hit him and the enhanced regeneration of his thick hide.

But such power demands a cost — one paid in blood. For magic is as fickle and capricious as a rabid dog, just as eager to lunge for your throat as it will at the enemies, leaving lasting wounds for all to see; rough and calloused palms, skin blackened from blazing heat and freezing cold or marked with fern patterns of electricity, fingers stiff and marred with cuts from thorns and crystals and rock and glass, bone deep cuts where the liquid mana had burst out from the skin, leaving faintly glowing scars that never heal right.

All mages are born with this grievous gift, though one never knows whether it will present itself with a pitiful flicker of embers in a man's dying breath, or with a maelstrom of an infant's first hiccup. That's why most mages are sealed, by choice or force, a process which puts chains on the magic, making it and the mage docile.

But you are unsealed. And you flaunt that fact readily by melting the tail of their APC helicopter with one spell, not even waiting for them to crash before flooding the terrain with suffocating ash, the lenses of their gas masks already fogging up from the heat as they get out of the cloud of heavy sediment before it bursts to flames.

Sometimes the magic becomes unsatisfied with the weakness of the body, demanding more than just its pound of flesh and molding the body like clay to better suit it— Mage Marks, they're called — the subtle glow of magic in your eyes, the mana visibly pulsing inside your chest, the skin of your arms slipping away like wet paper before growing anew, this time mimicking the surface of magma, or the rocky barnacle encrusted reef, the gnarled bark of a tree, the crystalline inside of a geode, the ice spiked ground of tundra, or any other form that suits the magic in your veins.

The process is excruciating, the mana burrowing and gnawing on every nerve like a parasite that replaces what it eats with itself. But to you, that's an acceptable loss, because marked mages far surpass their unmarked fellows, your magic stronger and wilder, feral and viscous like the primordial force of nature.

So it becomes concerning when you're laying on the floor, captured, battered and bruised and calm.

Ghost had been waterboarding you for a while now, your body tied to a chair that had been tipped back so you were parallel with the ground. With water pooling around your head, your top half would have been soaked to the bone had your magic not been simmering in your veins, the magic suppression momentarily reducing the raging inferno in your chest to a meager flicker of flames.

They can't kill you, but limiting your magic for even a second is death in and of itself.

Your breathing is harsh as Ghost pulls away the cloth over your mouth, asking you a question as steam rises from your skin. Most would give in long before this point, but you just grin, eyes glowing with a burning glow, and make a comment about how good his arse looks from your viewpoint.

You manage only one small note of laughter, pitiful embers sparking at the corners of your lip, before Ghost drops the rag back over your face and begins anew.

Price watches all of this, sharp draconic eyes noting how the mana glows in your chest, pulsing like a second heart (assuming you had one to begin with), noticing how the water turns to steam a little faster when it splashes over your skin.

And Price knows.

You... You are going to be trouble.

#trinkets from the hoard #male reader #cod mw2 #modern warfare #john price #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #gaz mw2 #monster au #mage reader #violence #reader is not a good guy #reader is a feral gremlin #monster 141 au #captain john price #reader x cod mw #x reader #centerpieces of the hoard

[nevertheless-moving]

Hesina Willshaper AU

Step one canon divergence: Amaram's army doesn't do the kind thing. Kaladin's listed next of kin are sent a letter stiffly informing them that their son is a deserter and, thanks to the highmarshall's mercy, has been sold into slavery.

Step two canon divergence: a light spren has started following Hesina around.

The letter reaches hearthstone.

Hesina cries the bones of the first ideal through labor pangs. Their wretched diamond lamp grows slightly dimmer during childbirth.

Hesina and Lirin discuss if there's anyway they could possibly find their son and pay his slave debt. They're not optimistic.

Hesina talks with her lightspren.

Lirin and Hesina talk again about trying to find their son, now that Oroden is starting to be weaned.

Hesina appears to have grown taller. No one but the two of them seem to be aware but they're worried other future changes might be more noticeable.

Hesina and Lirin realize that she can mold rock as if it was clay with stormlight. A spark of hope for freeing their son emerges.

The two leave town.

They find a slave market in the nearest city. They see other parent's sons, but not their own.

Hesina swears to free those in bondage. Stormlight starts coming easier.

They make a tunnel. Rebellion follows. Lirin is horrified by the violence (the violence is not actually that bad all things considered. a couple guards dead. some bystanders frightened. Fair amount of property damage as they rob the military barracks food supply, steal every sphere that's not nailed down. and also steal the spheres that are nailed down. (Lirin won't admit it but the stealing from lamps part is kindof fun.)).

Many of those they freed flee. Some return to slavery willingly, scared of retribution. Many decide to follow the Radiant woman who has vowed to see others like them freed.

The group proceed to the next town. They find another slave market. They make a tunnel. There is more resistance than last time, clearly they were warned something might happened. Hesina kills a man.

Lirin is terrified by what his wife is becoming.

Hesina swears to shelter those without homes. The lightspren forms an unbreakable hammer, perfect for knocking crem free from buildings. And for knocking down men.

A now larger motley group seeks shelter in a mountain town razed in one of Alethkar's many skirmishes over the last decades. Hesina builds homes. Lirin begs her to stay here, to stop fighting before she goes to far down this path, not to go to war. The slaves they've freed are split, many wanting to stay, hide, some wanting to fight and free more, with a radiant at their head, there's a real chance to change things. Hesina lingers, practicing, spends some time falling in and out of shadesmar.

Lirin and Hesina separate.

Lirin stays with Oroden and the noncombatants. Hesina leads those who want to fight to another city, still trying to find their son, still trying to free everyone's children.

The town settles into a routine. Hesina and Lirin miss one another. This is the first time they've gone longer than two days without seeing each other in the last 25 years, and the two days was only when Lirin had to travel to where someone had overturned a cart on the road nearby and Hesina had to stay and watch the children, too young to travel. besides that, it had been every day. they keep turning to talk to each other.

While the army is gone, the free town is attacked by those trying to reclaim her property.

Hesina swims deliberately through shadesmar for the first time. reaches lirin just in time.

Lirin accepts that not fighting won't stop the violence. (It breaks him just a little bit)

Hesina shouts that one person's freedom ends where another's begins. She vows to fight against powers which would rather see their people in cages then homes. A thousand light spren rise up to grant her strength.

(yes I know she's moving fast through the oaths. but she's always been a thoughtful woman and she raised two children who asked difficult questions and now shes mother to another several hundred. honestly she had already worked through some of these concepts before they became actionable on such a grand scale.)

Lirin vows to support his wife through whatever trials the Almighty seems inclined to put her through.

The lightspren, who has started to get some memories back, remembers Oathgate Spren not terribly far from here by physical realm measurements, guarding a hidden human city

the stone remembers the way the radiants once traveled.

The path to a kingdom in the sky is slow — there are many cages to break on the way.

Kaladin doesn't know it right away, because people weren't exactly telling slaves about the freedom riots, but slave wagons start having harder and harder times reaching the shattered planes after him.

Someone mocks Lirin for having a wife so determined to pursue the masculine art of war. Lirin gets pissy and decides to show them by learning to read and write to help support the administrative side of his wife's kingdom wide asskicking.

The highprinces lead a fairly successful misinformation campaign about the slave riots, lots of accusations of rampant violence, the dregs of society lashing out, you can probably imagine

The ongoing rebellion is large enough that word trickles to the bridge crews, encouraging bridge four's hope for escaping, while also making it substantially more daunting, as the crews are even better guarded than canon.

Rumors of a female radiant swirl around. Most people assume it's a woman in shardplate with some sort of tunneling fabrial, which is still pretty crazy, but several major players Take Note

A very large and tired huddled mass of people reach Urithiru. there's just enough squires, and two new willshapers with their own oaths, to make tunnels through the shattered planes and reach the oathgate without being seen by the alethi armies

the parshendi army is another story, but some are willing to take a chance listening to the neshua kadal, and come with them.

The political implications of Dalinar freeing 1000 slaves is slightly more complex, especially considering the rebellions have been impacting Sadeas the hardest

About a week after being freed, Kaladin hires a spanreed intermediary to write home and find out if his hometown is alright (again, a lot of misinformation and rumors about the violence of the riots)

Is informed by Laral that his family left town looking for him shortly before the riots started, were presumed dead

Kaladin is under the impression that 1) his parents are dead because of him 2) the Rebellion is not the righteous fallback plan that he and the men were hoping it was.

Hesina has many reasons to go to the shattered planes. Nearest part of the trade network for food and necessary goods. Many slaves to be freed from there, and a part of her still hopes to find her son, even thought its been so long. Home of Alethkar's political leaders, the source of Alethkar's slavery.

I have spent. A LOT of time imagining many possible reunions between kaladin and his mom in my highly specific high oath hesenia au. She has a couple faces she could wear when visiting the planes. Brightlady. Radiant. Cagebreaker. Queen of Urithiru (not her real title, they're tentatively trying the Listener council model, but they know what the Alethi will understand). Even darkeyed mother, if she and Lirin approach slowly from a different direction. Honestly, pleased as I am with all of the above, a lot is flexible, the key here is kaladin going "MOM??" In some fashion

Thank you @sorchasolas for conversation and the urithiru ideas and for leading me to actually write all this down <3

#stormlight archive #my au #stormlight au no 2 #hesina cagebreaker #the stormlight archive #stormlight au #Hesina willshaper au #ok for the growing taller thing: hear me out! #like she's a tall woman #she can reach the crem on most rooftops with her crempick #like 95 percent of the rooftops #and that 5 percent of rooftops that she can't quite reach she always forgets to bring a stepstool #so she's a tall woman. but her Identity is that of an even taller woman. #do you see my vision #Lirin leaves to bring her the little stepstool because she always forgets when she's hired to clear the baker's building. #but she doesn't need it #he had noticed...but he had honestly just assumed he had gotten shorter. musculoskeletal atrophy happens to men of a certain age. #he's on the younger side but the heralds know it's been a difficult few years. he didn't bring it up but neither did his wife #now he's looking at his wife and is: #Lirin: I am certain you needed a ladder to reach this roof before #Hesina: I did? Are you sure? #Lirin: yes I'm sure you always—Hesina! #Hesina: what? #Lirin: i am. CONFIDENT. that for the last 20 years my eyes have been level with your chin. #Lirin: not your... #Hesina: not my...? #Lirin: #Hesina: #and then they go bone #ok i'm done thank you for listening <3

[nymphofnovels]

How to Make Replicas of Your Own Teeth: A Cosplay Toothtorial

This is a method to safely use a molded mouth guard to make duplicates of your own teeth without destroying a potentially expensive piece of dental equipment. Everything that goes into the mold—clay and mold release aid—must be nontoxic/edible so you can wash your mouth guard at the end of the process and continue to use it as normal. 

Benefits: No mold-making or casting experience required Lightweight end result Adds a truly personal touch to your project :)

Downsides: Must own a molded mouth guard/retainer End result can be fragile and needs proper sealing for durability

Supplies

Molded mouth guard/retainer (referred to as “mold” from here on)

Cornstarch

Soft/fluffy brush

Non-toxic white air dry clay (I used Crayola Model Magic)

Craft knife

Jewelry wire (I used 20 or 22 gauge)

Pins/yarn needle/any various household implements you can sculpt or smooth small details with

Acrylic paints and a variety paint brushes

Clear glossy top coat (I used Mod Podge (satin) and UV Resin)

Prep

Brush or otherwise clean your mouth guard if you haven’t already, especially if there’s build-up.

If you’re using your container of cornstarch for cooking, set aside a small container specifically for crafting. No accidental cross-contamination here!

Dip your fluffy brush into cornstarch and brush into your DRY mouth guard. Lightly coat the entire mold and distribute any clumps. This coat of cornstarch will make it easier to remove your teeth from the mold.

Molding

Firmly press clay into the mold so that approximately half is in the mold, half is sticking out for root sculpting. Make sure there are no air pockets or you won’t pick up the details. 

Use detail scissors/craft knife to cut away excess material and indent to mark out the divisions between teeth as visible on the gum lines (see above)

Reference a tooth diagram like the one below and separate out the roots for each tooth. Front teeth tend to have 1 leg, middle teeth have 2 legs, and some molars have 3+. I personally found that my limit was 2 roots. Sculpting 3+ roots on a single tooth was more difficult and more fragile than anatomical accuracy was worth. 

Demolding

You can demold immediately after sculpting or wait up to an hour. The faster you remove the teeth, the easier they are to reshape. The longer you wait, the more they resist unintentional denting BUT the more touch-ups you'll have to do to clean the edges between teeth.

Gently lift the full row of teeth from the mold. If it won't release when you tip the mold or or push at it, try using a pin to stab one of the end teeth and use that to pry up the teeth. The rest of the row should follow. If they don't, try repeating for the other side. If they're still not lifting, set aside to dry and try again ~15-30min later.

Gently cut apart the u-shape into individual teeth.

Press raw cut edges in and smooth with various tools, like a yarn needle. Use a craft knife to help trim off any excess clay.

Touch-ups

In the case of air pockets or if you accidentally remove a root, wet some clay and use a very small amount to fill in gaps or add on roots. Don't forget the water! It makes the clay stickier and smooth out better. This is where tools come in handy, wet clay sticks less to smooth objects than your fingertips!

Once repaired, set aside any wet pieces to dry for at least 15min before doing any more sculpting work.

Set all teeth aside to dry for several hours on a wax paper or other non-stick surface. Make sure it's not textured or it will leave an imprint on your teeth!

Flaws like the chip on the top left tooth and the cracks on the middle bottom teeth are great candidates for smoothing out with a little extra clay.

**PAUSE HERE AND CLEAN YOUR MOUTH GUARD**

I personally like to rinse it out with water and clean it with a dissolving denture cleaning tablet to make sure it’s fully sanitized. It also doesn’t hurt to properly brush the mouth guard to make sure there’s no clay or cornstarch residue stuck in the crevices.

Holes

Test a tooth to check if it’s dry to the touch and doesn’t immediately deform to your touch. If it’s holding shape, you can move on.

Bore a hole into the tooth with a pin or jewelry wire. Consider how you want them to hang. A) For the central dangling teeth on Harrowhark’s choker, I punched holes as close to the tip of the root as possible without tears, perpendicular to the teeth so I could hang them on jump rings directly from the center brooch. B) For the teeth intended for Harrow’s tabard, I punched two sets of holes parallel to the jaw to prevent teeth from flipping around. One set just under the tooth cap, approx. 1/8in down, and one set about the same distance from the roots.

Once a hole has been punched with a pin, wiggle it around a little to open the hole or thread it on a piece of jewelry wire.

Leave teeth on a piece of wax paper or strung on a thread/wire to dry for ~48hr (or as recommended for your clay).

Painting/Weathering

Mix a small amount of yellow-brown paint with water to create a wash (middle palette above). Paint all of your teeth with this first to establish a base color and help define any hairline cracks.

Paint with less diluted yellows and browns (right palette above). Refer to photos like the below for reference (try searching "teeth" and "archaeology"). NOTE: The root tends to be darker and more weathered than the main tooth because it isn't protected by enamel.

Dry brush ivory or white mixed with some yellow/brown onto the tooth cap to bring out highlights.

Finishing

Your air dry clay teeth and paint job will need a top coat for protection. I highly recommend a glossy clear top coat to give the look of enamel. Below is a comparison of the two sealants I used, but there's many more options out there!

UV Resin (Left) Pros: Harder/more durable Cures faster Cons: Need to work during daylight or use a UV light Harder to get a thin even layer Requires more set up and safety precautions

Satin Mod Podge (Right) Pros: Can be applied with a brush Air dries Cons: Takes longer to dry Teeth tend to stick together unless kept below room temp or kept from touching each other (I solve this by storing unused beads in an old pill bottle in the fridge. Yes it's cursed and Yes I've had comments from my housemates.)

As mentioned earlier, thread teeth on a wire or pin down to dry. This method also works well to set up for spray painting a clear coat.

Now, go forth and enjoy everyone's reactions when you tell them that you're wearing your own teeth! :D

#cosplay #cosplay tutorial #crafting tutorial #cosplay ref #harrowhark cosplay #the locked tomb #harrowhark nonagesimus #the locked tomb cosplay #locked tomb cosplay #craftblr #tutorials #tutorial #Nymph rambles #the scraps of NoN #I'm accepting my fate to potentially be know as the Tooth Harrow to a swath of people slkdfskljfsdlf #teeth #cw teeth #juuuuuust in case

[ririglow]

Here With Me | Joe Burrow

pairings: joe burrow x artistic reader

warnings: short fic, sexual innuendos, language, an abrupt ending (I really wanted this out my drafts)

genre: fluff

synopsis: joe becomes needy for his girlfriend who is too occupied in her workshop to notice.

You felt two things: relaxation and inner peace. The clump of earthenware clay spun softly before you on the pottery wheel. In the right-hand corner, there was a small bowl of water you could dip your fingers into. It took several tries to mold the stubborn clay into the desired shape, only for you to huff and groan in frustration. After it finally turned out to be in your favor, discouragement gradually turned into elation. Pottery has been in your life since high school you've found it to be relaxing and has the ability to showcase your creativity. As music blared throughout your charming workshop and natural light filtered through the open windows, it was clear you were in a happy mood. 

Guiding the long blade-shaped tool along the brownish-red terracotta, you smoothed out any imperfections. Holding in a breath you carefully looked over it a couple more times without making any mistakes like you did before. Your mood is perfectly portrayed by the next song on your playlist, Lizzo's "About Damn Time." As you look over the unfinished vase you smile widely. 

Oh, I've been so down and under pressure

I'm way too fine to be this stressed, yeah

Oh, I'm not the girl I was or used to be

"Uh, Bitch, I might be better!" You sing along noisily, bobbing your head along the beat, still intensely focused on what you're creating. The last thing you want is to make a major blunder in the sculpture you've been trying to perfect for the past thirty minutes? Or is it forty five? Regardless, you've come too far to mess up now.

'Babe, It sounds like you're having a party without me,' Joe's voice comes from the small walkie that's been attached to the front pocket of your worn-out overalls. Your workshop was on the opposite side of the fairly large house, where you spent most of your free time when you weren't working. To stay in touch if you couldn't get hold of each other, you thought of having walkie-talkies. At first, Joe was hesitant about the proposal, wondering why not simply use our phones? "Because walkies are way cooler," you responded. And the fact you've always wanted one.

"Babyyy," Joe says again. "Are you finished yet? I miss you, and Joey B Jr misses you as well."

He did not just say-

You rolled your eyes at the last part; even if you wanted to respond, you couldn't because your hands were caked with clay and you were currently preoccupied with something far more important than sex.

"Fine." He mutters disappointed at the fact he was met with silence. "I made dinner and it's your favorite." He stated in a persuasive manner.

Okay, now that definitely piqued your interest You couldn't stop your mouth from watering at the mention of food; you hadn't eaten since that morning, and it was now quarter past five, and you were long overdue for a good meal. However, the persistence of completing the task at hand continues to shape you. You continue the main project while ignoring your needy boyfriend.

Joe huffed in the middle of the kitchen, thwarted by your lack of response. You'd been gone all day, and the last time he saw you was when he kissed you goodbye before heading off to Black Sheep for his daily workout. Joe arrived home, exhausted from the intensity of the exercises, looking forward to finally having you all to himself. You have little time together these days, whether he's on a trip for endorsement deals or you're being a conscientious worker by working the extra hours at your job. It's been a literal hell, and he needs you now more than ever. He remembers his mood boasting when you mentioned that your job had granted you a day off, much like an addict who has finally gotten their fix.

When he entered your shared home, however, the expectation was that you would eagerly engulf him in your sweet embrace. But he found you occupied in your creative craft space, muttering obscenities at the disfigured clay in front of you. He had no worries since he knew that eventually you'd get fed up with it and come spend the remainder of your spare time with him. But that never happened, and the minutes he waited quickly turned into hours. You were still not out of that damn craft cave, so Joe picked up the plate of food and headed in the same direction you were.

He walked in to find you in your own little world, noticing that you were in the early stages of creating—whatever you had planned. Joe walked over to the blaring music coming from the Portable speaker and turned it down, almost completely off.

You quickly look over your shoulder to see your boyfriend standing there in just a pair of grey sweatpants, holding a plate of delicious provisions you were sure made by the chef—not him. His hair looked slightly wet as a few strands drip down his forehead giving off his usual post-shower look. Joe examined your appearance, noting how adorable you looked with clay on your cheek, and arms along with some scattered on your light-washed overalls, which barely covered your bare breasts underneath.

You looked so fucking cute and hot at the same time, not either, but both. He mentally groaned, wanting nothing more than to just hold you, kiss you, bite you, anything to satisfy his need for you among other sinful fantasies.

Call him dramatic but not being near you for nearly half the day has made him miss you terribly.

"Okay! Time to wrap this up." He announced walking further into the room.

"What? No!" You couldn't stop now not when you were in the rhythm of things going good.

"What do you mean no? You've been in here for hours and you haven't even eaten anything." He said as he gather a nice amount of food with the fork before shoving it in front of your face. "Say-ahh"

Not taking your eyes away from the clay you immediately opened your mouth welcoming the delicious food. He was right you had been in here for quite some time but you didn't want to stop not when this adorable pink mug is turning out the way you wanted it to.

"Ten more minutes?" You knew he was growing angsty considering this was one of the rare days you two have the opportunity to spend time with each other.

He wanted to protest and question the veracity of the time you provided. Ten more fucking minutes what were you going to do with that mug in ten minutes? It seems already finished to him. To be honest he was quite curious. Instead of whining that he in fact can't wait much longer, he took a seat by your workshop bench that had all of the previous work you had done earlier each one was better than the other. He admires your persistence and determination especially when it comes to your craft whether it's painting, sketching, or gardening.

"Babe, how many did you make?" He chuckles analyzing the different shapes and sizes of mugs, miniature vases, and even a bowl.

They were definitely eye-catching in a good way, every single one of them had different patterns and colors. So bright and bubbly. Just like you.

"Huh? Oh! They're for my co-workers." You looked up for a split second before returning back to you task.

Joe immediately furrowed his eyebrows. "Babe...."

There are times when he dislikes your overly kind nature. As selfish as it sounds it sometimes gets in the way of you and him. Like now.

"I know, I know! But Reece made his rounds around the office showing everyone the cup I made him for his birthday. And the ones I accepted I promise to have them done by tomorrow." You explained.

"Wait Reece is a guy?!" Joe asked. He'd heard you mentioned the birthday present last week and but didn't know it was for a guy at work

"He is married and has kids that's around our age Joe." You said rolling your eyes.

He shrugs and grumbles. "So why he couldn't ask one of those kids to make him one then?"

"Because they don't got the skills like do." You said smugly.

"You sure do got skills." He smirked watching your hands place a new clump of earthenware on the wheel watching your wet messy hands gently cradled it into shape. "....a helluva technique too."

Like clockwork all the cockiness you expressed prior now turns into bashfulness. He watched the shy smile crept on your face as you tried to intensely concentrate on the clay. He finds it incredibly amusing the demeanor you show now is the complete opposite in the bedroom.

"Shut up, you are messing me up." You said trying not to laugh dipping your hands into the bowl of water.

When your hand made contact with the water it made a high pitched slapping sound.

"I know that noise all too well." He says leaning his elbow on his knees to get a better look at your reaction.

"Oh my god, would you stop?" You laughed your face began to become warm as you flickered droplets of water in his direction.

"Okay fine." He said with a chuckle. "Can I try?"

You looked at him surprise.

"Really?!" You asked eagerly.

Joe smiles at your excitement and nods his head. "It looks easy, plus you have five minutes left, and I would rather help you in the last few minutes."

"Are you giving me the opportunity to live out my Ghost fantasy right now?"

"I don't know what that means." He grimaced.

"You know the movie Ghost? With Patrick and Demi?"

He looks at you puzzled. "What?"

"You seriously never watched Ghost?"

"Babe you know I don't watch horror."

"It's not scary." You exclaim looking like he got three heads. "Oh, we have some work to do on your movie tastes."

"I know, you never fail to remind me." He playfully rolled his eyes.

You peeked at him expectantly. "Well? What are you waiting for? Get over here."

He immediately stood up and practically rushed over. You told him to sit behind you on the bench that was big for the two of you. His large legs enclose yours comfortably and his arms followed suit.

"Finally!" He exclaimed muffled by his face buried in your neck as he squeezed you tightly around your midsection. As he breathed in your sweet scent, he became enchanted. Like always.

"Joe!" You giggle softly due to his lips tickling you. Loving every second of it.

After a couple more minutes of him smothering you with tiny kisses alongside your neck. He finally let up and focus on the task at hand. You instructed him to control the pedal as you guided his hand movements. Your smaller hands cover his large ones.

His bare chest is pressed against your back and you couldn't help but to lean into him. There is no doubt that you missed his touch as much as he missed yours. You look at him and are surprised to see him focus intensely on the clay, it was a blubbering mess and completely ruined due to how heavy-handed he is.

Speaking of his hands...They were oddly attractive covered in clay and water.

"Babe? Are you listening?" He said snapping your away from your thoughts.

Clearing your throat you quickly compose yourself. " Sorry, I was zoned out for a bit."

"Jesus, am I really that bad?" He places his chin on your shoulder titling his head slightly to get a better look at you.

You glance down at the disfigured clay that's continuously spinning. "It's fine to play with it sometimes."

Joe's entire body tenses up. His mind stuck in the gutter.

"Oh yeah? well, what if I want to play with something else?" He takes his foot off the pedal stopping the spinning wheel. Your faces were just inches apart he could make out the tiny freckles across the bridge of your nose. That's one of the features he loves most about you.

The first is being those bright and dazzling eyes staring back at him that are now darkened with familiar lust.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow x black reader #joe burrow x oc

[slytherwrites]

Yandere House of Black Headcanons

Characters: Narcissa, Andromeda, Bellatrix, Cygnus, Druella, Walburga, Orion, Sirius, and Regulus

It was Narcissa who latched onto you first. A fellow first year Slytherin who was a pureblood, but not familiar to the British Wizarding World before this, for whatever reason.

As a Black, her word was law for any Slytherins her year of the years under. At the start of first year, that wasn't many people except for their peers. Though, that was enough power to be able to make everyone else avoid you, so you would be running to her for everything.

Narcissa hated sharing with others she deemed as unworthy. And even other Sacred 28 purebloods were not worth your attention like she was.

Her sisters however, they were fine. They were allowed to be in your presence. They were worthy.

And that's where her mistake was made. Because Andromeda and Bellatrix both became as attached as she was with you.

She only went to them because they had more status then she did. Andromeda was smart, beloved with professors and students alike. And Bellatrix was feared.

But she didn't think that they'd be attached like she is.

Andromeda thought you were so kind and out of your element, wanting to teach you the joys of power and the good parts of being here with them.

Bellatrix found you fascinating, wanting to put you through the ringer in order to help mold you into a strong member of the House of Black.

Because sweet you were going to be a member no matter what. No matter what deal with the devil (their parents) they had to make, they'd get you as a sibling.

They brought you home for winter holidays. Cygnus was interesting. Very rarely his three daughters ever asked for the same thing. Very rarely they all accepted one person to this degree. Druella was concerned, knowing how fixated they were. After all, they are their father's daughters.

But it didn't take long for them to get attached to you too.

Cygnus is the first to crack, seeing you like a daughter as well. Like you were the last piece of the puzzle. It didn't matter that he didn't have a male heir. You were who they needed to round out the family.

Druella's concern only grew, but the obsessive nature of the family quickly watched over her. You were now her favorite child. Even if she didn't birth you, you were hers. She knew it. Her children knew it. That's why they brought you to her.

The Annual Black Family Yule Celebration was coming soon and you were invited, treated like the royalty they saw you as. And that's when the other half of the family finally met you.

Druella and Cygnus introduced you to Walburga and Orion. The girls had obligations to mingle with their betrothed and their families. But you were mingling with Walburga and Orion. All four of the adults knew of the intent: getting you arranged to be married to Sirius.

Sirius, their heir, was the one way to get you into the family forever. Marriage would bind you to them eternally.

It doesn't matter that your parents aren't here. They never really cared did they? Not like Cygnus and Druella do? Not like Walburga and Orion will.

Orion finds you of interest first. He holds a conversation with you, silently judging you to see what you're worth. And you've been taught well. Moldable, but he'd love to mold you into the perfect pureblood. He doesn't see you like he sees the others. It's potential he's glad to exploit.

Walburga isn't as impressed, but she likes seeing you squirm. The way you try so hard, but shy away from compliments is delicious. You're just like the girls she would lead during her school days. Though, she doesn't want to break you completely. You're like a piece of clay, able to become a prized piece of art.

They lead you to Sirius and Regulus. Regulus isn't impressed at first, but he grows as you indulge his childish instincts. And Sirius becomes jealous of that. He holds no claim to you yet, but something snaps into place in his mind. The once in sync brothers become at odds, each wanting your attention.

By the end of the break, your life is being planned out. Married to Sirius, becoming a Black yourself. Holding no power except to indulge your in-laws with your time. After all, they're making you into the best you can be. After all, they'll be your family now. After all, they'll be all you have left, once they get rid of the family you belong to now.

#i think this might be fem reader but i intend going forward to try to have most of my posts (unless requested) to be gender neutral #yandere harry potter #yandere hp #yandere house of black #yandere narcissa #yandere andromeda #yandere bellatrix #yandere cygnus #yandere druella #yandere walburga #yandere orion #yandere sirius #yandere regulus

[vashhanamichi]

Sorry for the number of asks/questions. I am curious on what you like about Tomarry and Grindledore. Also what are your honest thoughts on Dumbledore/Tom Riddle, Drarry, Tomione and Wolfstar. What other HP ships appeal to you?

So, first of all, I'm very sorry for taking so long to answer! And second, never apologize for sending me questions, I love getting them even if I take a while to answer. If you'll forgive me, I will only talk about one of those ships in this ask, but you can ask me about the other ones in other asks, it's just that talking about all of them in just one ask would turn my answer into a (even more) giant rambling I fear. Also because I only have true strong opinions about some of these ships, so I chose a single one, the one I have most opinions about, the one I have loved for the longest time.

That ship is, naturally, Voldemort (Tom Riddle)/Harry Potter.

I want to preface this by saying that I see them and ship them in a sort of unusual way, or at least it seems so, because I haven't found my particular interpretation of them in the fandom so far (though I've read fanfics that shook some of its branches) in more than a decade of shipping this ship. But I guess all authors are like that -- we're all trying to fill a void shaped as our own want.

It's true, too, that there's many ways of interpreting canon and molding its clay. I'm not constant in my characterization of Voldemort (though some things repeat themselves) for example: in some fics I make him an experienced philanderer, in others he's as virginal as Harry, or even more so. He's angrier at times, but softer, milder in some others. More or less irrational depending on the context. More or less bloodthirsty. Harry's well of patience dries with diverging speeds. So does his sanity.

With that said, what do I like about them, the basis?

I like a combination of two main rivers of characterization regarding them. Those are: 1) Voldemort as the Monster Groom, the Fairy Tale Villain, the Nightmare, The embodiment of fear and Harry as his favorite Victim, his killing, his bride. 2) Voldemort as a Father, Harry as his child. Voldemort as a son, Harry as his Mother. Voldemort as God (or Satan), Harry as his creation. It's important to note that these are fluid and fund with each other -- God is also a Groom, God is also a Father. A bride is a victim, is a deer, is a son, is a killing, is a meal.

Alright, so on with it.

Trigger warnings: discussion of CSA, incest So, Voldemort as the Monster, Harry as his Victim:

I think it’s very interesting how for four books Voldemort haunted Harry from beyond the grave, so to speak. Until his resurgence in the graveyard Voldemort was, in his own words, “less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost . . . but still (…) alive.”

That, along with his self-appointed title, the awe and terror he inspires, his seemly unlimited power, gives him the aura of being more monster than human.

It’s also telling that their first meeting — when Harry was a baby — happened in Harry’s nursery, in the bedroom. It’s been written before by scholars who write about the slasher genre that the violation of the bedroom can be read as a violation of the victim’s own body. Even after coming back as flesh Voldemort keeps on haunting Harry in his dreams — again, violating him in his bed. Throughout the fifth book he entices Harry to leave the safety of Hogwarts to meet him again.

Candyman (1992)

A nightmare on elm street — the dream master (1988)

There’s an element of fairy-tale thrill to Voldemort and his relationship with Harry; his self-given title and his true name are both keys to understand him, even to defeat him. It’s only by discovering the truth about “Tom Riddle” that Harry acquires the weapons needed to defeat “Lord Voldemort”. By turning him from monster to human — uncovering his past, something the protagonists of horror movies usually have to do to defeat the monsters trying to kill them.

Candyman, for example, is called forth by having his name said aloud three times in front of a mirror. A similar taboo is put upon Voldemort’s name in the seventh book.

In more romantic terms, Voldemort seems to me like Mr. Rochester when he calls Jane Eyre — his strange, almost unearthly thing — and she hears his call all the way across the moors. Voldemort and Harry’s connection is an supernatural one and thus surpasses the physical obstacles in their way.

Then there’s Harry, Harry as a bride, Harry as a victim, Harry as The Final Girl — the one who got away. The Boy Who Lived.

Nancy in A Nightmare on Elm Street

Harry’s existence and his title — The Boy Who Lived — are defined by Voldemort. He was a survivor before he could speak, he was marked. Like many Final Girls he’s a teenager, virginal, brave. He’s also not taken as seriously as he should be. He survives but there’s always a cost. In the fifth book (imo the best in the series) he’s explicitly traumatised. A final girl wanders into the Death Realm. She comes back but brings something with her. She’s changed. Voldemort changed Harry, Voldemort touched Harry, Voldemort violated Harry. He comes back from the graveyard (the Death Realm) but he’s not the same.

In the fifth book Harry displays a lot of signs of trauma and, many times, the trauma of someone who was raped. After Nagini’s attack he feels deeply unclean:

There’s a deep sense of inevitability when it comes to Harry and Voldemort. He’s transformed, marked, from an ordinary baby to a Christ figure, The Chosen One. He’s made. Voldemort’s touch transforms him.

He lives between two deaths, like Hannibal’s Abigail:

Twice-killed, Abigail lived a borrowed amount between one father and the next. Her scar was a sign that she was marked for death, like a bride wearing an engagement ring. Harry was the same — his time was borrowed, between one Avada Kedavra and the next.

Harry’s becoming from ordinary child to redeemer of Wizarding Kind was done through Voldemort’s tempering. It’s as if Voldemort is God to Lily’s Mary and James’ Joseph. It took Voldemort’s decision to make him into The Chosen One. Harry as we know him is Voldemort’s creation.

That makes Voldemort, in a way, Harry’s third parent. Harry collects father figures throughout the books, he finds them in Sirius, Lupin, Dumbledore (Snape too arguably). They all abandon him by dying. The one who endures, the one who’s always there, is Voldemort. Voldemort never disappoints. His parenting of course it’s a painful one but we can’t forget that pain is what Harry knows given what he faced with the Dursleys. A child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort.

Voldemort is obsessed with him and hurts him. But he’s there, always there. Indifference and neglect often do much more damage than outright dislike, Dumbledore says. Voldemort is many thing but not indifferent to Harry.

And that’s the thing. That’s the pain of it, the way I like them — fiction is not reality after all — as a unhealthy, tragic pairing. Harry can’t live without Voldemort because he’s too deeply his. Alice Notley says it best:

Harry belongs to Voldemort. I ship Voldemort with other characters, like Dumbledore and Bellatrix, but they all have extensive pasts and lives (even Bellatrix, who's so devoted to Voldemort) beyond Voldemort. Harry was created for Voldemort, scarred by him, mauled by him. This sort of prison, the fact that Harry can't ever escape Voldemort, his Father, his Maker, his Killer, is part of what draws me so much to them.

It's getting very late here and I'm making less and less sense as I go. This is the longest post I have ever wrote I think, on years and years of tumblr, and to be honest I could keep talking about them, using other metaphors, other references. I hope it's not completely nonsensical. I really like them.

That's all for today, and I apologize again for the delay in answering it, if you want you can ask me about other ships in separate asks! Thank you for the ask and I'm sorry for all of this rambling.

#harrymort #asks #sorry for being insane etc #tomharry

[fafnir19]

Naughty or nice

Kathy and Ben lived in the same apartment building. They often bumped into each other in the lobby or elevator, exchanging casual small talks. Kathy, with her charming smile and endearing laughter, always managed to brighten Ben's day, but he was never quite sure how to respond to her presence. Since Kathy had broken up with her boyfriend, she had been turning to Ben for help quite often, seeking his company and assistance even for the smallest matters. Ben had treated Kathy had never sat well with Ben. So, when Kathy constantly asked for his help, Ben couldn't help but feel a growing annoyance. Perhaps she had been never been a fan of Kathy's ex-boyfriend. He considered him to be an arrogant snob, and the way he treating her ex-boyfriend like a servant because she came from a wealthy family, Ben assumed with a tinge of bitterness. "Hey, Kathy, I can't keep doing this," Ben said one day, his frustration bubbling over. "I'm not your personal assistant, you know. And just because your parents have money, doesn't mean you can make others do whatever you want."

It was St. Nicholas Day, and Kathy pleaded with Ben for help again. "Please, Ben, it's important! I promise I won't ask for anything again," she implored. "You always say that," Ben shouted, his patience wearing thin. "I'm not your servant, Kathy!" Storming out of the apartment building in a huff, Ben collided with St. Nicholas and his helper, Knecht Ruprecht, who were spreading joy and cheer in the neighborhood.

"You've been good this year, young man?" St. Nicholas asked with a twinkle in his eye. "Save that question for the kids," Ben replied, irked by the joviality around him. Without warning, Knecht Ruprecht swiftly stuffed Ben into his sack, ignoring Ben's shouts and struggles. Before Ben could even comprehend what was happening, he found himself in the workshop of St. Nicholas with no way of escape. St. Nicholas's voice filled the workshop as he explained Ben's predicament. "You have refused to help Kathy too many times, young man. As a consequence, you will now work in my workshop until you understand the true spirit of Christmas."

In the following weeks leading up to Christmas, Ben toiled alongside the cheerful Christmas elves in the workshop. The air was thick with the scent of fresh pine and the sound of little hammers and chisels transforming old, forgotten toys into new ones with magical craftsmanship. However, instead of feeling the joy of the season, Ben's heart grew colder as he was forced to immerse himself in the work. Furthermore, the elves had also forced Ben to wear a green tuxedo, a symbol of his servanthood that he couldn't shed. As Christmas drew nearer, St. Nicholas took Ben aside and revealed to him the truth about Kathy. "She is lonely, and she has turned to you because she cares for you. Her constant requests for help were her way of trying to connect with you." Before Ben could process this revelation, the Christmas elves lined up, thanking Ben for his hard work. "Only one thing remains to be done," they declared. Ben was puzzled, for all the old toys had been transformed into new ones. The elves surrounded him, molding him as if he were clay, their nimble fingers shaping his features with delicate precision. As if guided by magic, his once unremarkable visage transformed into that of a dashing, handsome young man with captivating charm. A radiant smile graced his chiseled features; his eyes sparkled with newfound allure, and he stood in stunned silence as he admired his own reflection.

On Christmas Eve, St. Nicholas took Ben on his sleigh to deliver gifts.

But instead of taking him to his own home, St. Nicholas placed him under Kathy's Christmas tree. "Wait, I can't be here!" Ben's panic rose in his throat, but he couldn't move a muscle. St. Nicholas's words echoed in his mind: "You are nothing more than a gift now, a toy for the big girls.". He was a gift now, and a gift couldn't simply walk away from the Christmas tree.

Kathy's gasp filled the room as she laid eyes on the extraordinary Christmas surprise. "Oh, my goodness! This is amazing!" She lifted Ben, who could only watch in shock as she reveled in her new companion, oblivious to the turmoil within him. As their days together unfolded, Kathy found herself ecstatic with the new Ben, soon realizing that he was not only the perfect boyfriend on the outside but was also unexpectedly better in every way, especially in bed. Despite his protests and struggles, he was perceived by everyone as an ideal boyfriend, a mirror image of Kathy's previous beau.

However, Kathy was enamored with her new companion, and Ben couldn't help but notice her joyful laughter and contented smiles. And in the privacy of their moments together, Ben noticed another change – she moaned with delight and found solace in his embrace, making him question the depth of his own feelings.

#male tf #male transformation #servanthood #servant #st. nicholas #christmas elves

[mangoisms]

i'll be the dangerous ledge (you be the parachute)

━ chapter seven: you be the parachute | read chapter six

━ pairing: tim drake x f!reader

━ word count: 4.2k

━ warnings: none

━ masterlist

After making a hearty dinner — tomato soup and grilled cheese like he did when you were hurt — you change out of your work clothes into something you’re more willing to get dirtied and you advise Tim to do the same. 

You have a specific pair of jeans that have several paint stains on them, as well as one streak of dark clay that refuses to leave. The same goes for your shirt, though with less stains and more just ratty and old, something you don’t mind getting dirty. Tim does the same, changing into an older pair of jeans and an old t-shirt from his time in high school. Though the both of you need to don windbreakers for the biting winds and drizzles of rain, you shed them when you enter the class, hanging them up along with your belongings and pulling aprons over your clothes.

Hana, the one who oversees the class, waves at you. “I don’t think we’ll be getting many people, so just help yourselves. You know where everything is and what to do.”

You give her a thumbs up and lead Tim towards the back of the class. A few other people are here but they are already working on their own things, talking softly to each other, voices drowned out by the spin of the wheels.

His eyes take in the class curiously. Several wheels are near you, along with some modeling stands and other desks for glazing and painting. You go over to the shelving unit at the back, where in-progress projects are kept. 

You have a little figurine of a duck that you made for him that needs to be painted and fired again after that. You aren’t sure if you can do it without him suspecting who it’s for, though. It’s a joke gift, really, after talking to one of the science aides about the lethal geese that hang around the Reservoir at Robinson Park and the considerably calmer ducks. It’s a birthday gift, though you’ve been thinking you want to do something else in addition to it, something a little more meaningful. You just haven’t found out what yet.

“So?” you prompt.

“What are you going to do?” 

“Not sure, to be honest. But for you… I think just to be safe, we should start you off with the molding stuff.”

He narrows his eyes slightly at the wheel, then the molding table. 

You smile. “Or, let me guess, you want to try your hand at throwing?”

“It can’t be that hard,” he says. 

This is a not-so-familiar side to him but one you’ve noticed regardless. Tim can be a bit… arrogant. Or at least, come into things assuming he can do it without issue. This, you guess, is a byproduct of the rich boy upbringing, which makes sense. Truthfully, it is not so bad compared to some of the other breeds of rich boy in this city but still. 

“I know you were reading how-to guides while we had dinner —” he opens his mouth to protest but a raise of your brow silences him, a slightly sheepish look coming over his face “— but it really isn’t as easy as it may seem.”

“Well, I have you,” he says, which flusters you — the intended effect, you think, by the small, satisfied smile that tugs at his lips.

“Alright, fine,” you mumble. You don’t try to get him to just sit down and wait for you to collect things, spying the curious look in his eyes, so you let him shadow you as you collect everything you — he — needs to get started.

“I want to make a mug,” he tells you when you ask, since you need to wedge and weigh out the clay. 

“Alright —”

“For you,” he adds, and you jolt. 

“You don’t need to —”

He says your name softly, stopping you. You two are close, with him hovering right near your elbow, body heat palpable in the scant few inches between your bodies. 

“I know I don’t need to,” he says. “But I want to. When are you going to understand?”

“After you make me a wonky mug, maybe,” you say, lips twitching to fight off a grin, face heating again.

Tim smiles, too, the lightest you’ve seen him today, like a weight physically taken off his shoulders — for the most part. 

Your heart skips a beat and you look back at the clay, weighing out a chunk for a mug. 

At the wheel with a bowl of water, towels, and the clay, you walk him through everything. You pull up a stool on his right side, to give you control of the pedal and thus, the speed. You run through sealing the clay to the bat — the actual surface of the wheel that spins — then centering it. After you make a divot in the center with your thumbs, you are ready to push into it, to start creating the walls.

Well, he is ready. Under your watchful eye and careful instructions, of course. And inserted reminders about his stance. 

“Elbows on your thighs.”

“You didn’t do it like that,” he complains but does as you say, anyway.

“I’ve been doing this longer than you,” you remind him, grinning. “Okay, come on. We can start making the walls now. Use your index and middle finger to slowly push down.”

Your foot finds the pedal again, the wheel humming as you press it, making it spin once more. 

Tim, hands now covered with wet clay, hesitates.

Your foot eases off. “I promise you, this clay is more scared of you than you are of it.”

“I’m not scared,” he mutters, but you know him. Tim Drake is a perfectionist. There is little that escapes his sharp eyes. You would wager a guess that he doesn’t want to mess up. And how can you mess up if you just… don’t touch the clay anymore?

Yeah, you get it. 

“Think of our ancestors. We’ve been making pottery for thousands of years. They made mistakes, too. Those mistakes are treasured now, you know.”

“But I don’t want to make a mistake. This isn’t for future anthropologists and archaeologists,” he says, a little petulant. “It’s for you.”

Oh, wow.

Your breath hitches in your throat. You clear it. 

“Well, perfection is a false ideal, anyway. The nice thing about things like this is that it’s handmade and that it’s not perfect. So, here.”

You lean forward, inserting yourself into his space (for the sake of this clay, that’s it) and pressing your hands over his. Your hands are covered in wet clay by now but because it’s still wet, it’s not too unpleasant. His hand is warm, too, which is… not what you should be focusing on.

“Like this,” you say, folding your index and middle finger over his, tilting your head sharply to get a good look at the clay. Your foot finds the pedal again and the wheel hums, abiding by your wishes for more speed. 

You instruct his other hand to hold against the outside, to help shape it more. But he hesitates again, so you scoot further into his space, until your knee is pressed to his, your arms brushing, and you can place your left hand over his. 

“Sorry,” you mutter. “I know I’m in your space.”

“I don’t mind,” he says quietly, breath ghosting over your ear and you have to suppress a flinch at how close he is. Everything about it makes your pulse jump to unhealthy heights but you force yourself not to let it carry you away. Trembling hands won’t help anyone right now. 

“Alright,” you say, and together, you slowly, slowly pull the walls to dimension. Every motion flows into the next. Two fingers to lower the bottom inside with his left hand. Three on the outside from his right hand. Tim is pliant under your instruction, when ordinarily you might expect some pushback.  

But you can’t do everything.

“Three fingers inside, one thumb outside. Gotta keep going while I grab the sponge.”

He grunts quietly in acknowledgement, seeming to focus more now as he does as you say. Your hands are only away from each other for a short few seconds as you grab the sponge, lightly pressing it to the bottom, pulling excess water to prepare to pull up the walls even further. 

“Here,” you say, and he takes the sponge from you, holding it still against the bottom of the clay. “Good. Keep it there. We’re in the home stretch now.”

He lets out a slow breath. You can feel the exhale against your cheek and resist a wild shiver. His breath smells like spearmint, the gum he’d chewed on the drive here. 

You swallow, staring at his hands, which doesn’t really help your pounding heart, just cause… Tim has really nice hands. Long, slender fingers, surprisingly calloused but still soft, somehow. The knuckle of his left pinky is a tiny bit wonky and he says he accidentally broke it playing football with a friend when he was a teenager and it didn’t heal quite right. 

You should stop thinking about his hands. Too bad that’s kind of a thing with pottery.

“Four fingers inside. Keep your thumb out.”

He says your name. “Help me out a little.”

“You’re doing good.”

“But I can do better if you’re guiding me,” he says, a little beseeching, breath warm against your cheek in a way that has your heart skipping a beat.

Jesus. 

You think you might spontaneously combust. It’s not the weirdest thing to ever happen in Gotham. And no one could blame you, either. Frankly, you’d like for anyone to be in close quarters with Tim Drake when he asks you to do something for him and try to say no. Or retain full function of their brain. Impossible. 

“You’re doing good, way better than I did on my first try throwing a mug, but alright,” you mutter, sliding your left hand over his, forcing you once more into close proximity with him. His right hand holds the sponge as you instructed. 

With his left hand, four fingers press to the inside and a thumb on the outside, helping further lengthen the walls slowly. 

You feel the fingers of his left land part just a little, yours nearly slipping through the gaps, and you knock your knee against his. Doesn’t affect him, either, since, ignoring your earlier reminder, his elbows aren’t sitting there anymore. 

“Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t need to,” you grumble, face heating. 

You know what he’s thinking about. That stupid scene from that movie from the, like, eighties. You know the one — the one with the… weirdly sensual pottery scene. Hana told you all about it on your first day of class. That that wasn’t how things went and if anyone did want to do it, they could do it in the privacy of their own home. Not, you know, in class with all of you.

And, to be clear, that isn’t what is happening here, either. He knows better than that.

(You think.

Probably.)

“I’m sorry,” he says, in a tone that tells you he is not very sorry at all; it’s teasing, if anything, in a way that makes you want to catapult yourself across the classroom to get a little space between you. 

That is the unbearable part of this. 

You kind of want to shove your stools back, put your hands on his cheeks, and kiss him for, you don’t know, a really long time. Forever, maybe. Of course, that’s not biologically possible but it’d probably be a nice way to die and in Gotham, crime capital of the United States and of horrible, miserable deaths, that’s, like, gold, right?

 The thought shrivels something inside of you, reminding you sharply of what did happen today. That six people are dead. 

You shove the train of thought away immediately. Now isn’t the time to think about that and you don’t want to set him off, either. This is about him and you would hate for him to notice the shift and start comforting you.

It’s a two-way street, you know that, and it’s fine for you both to be equally comforted but thus far, you haven’t been able to do much for him. You want to, though. He seems to be handling everything that happened today worse than you, for reasons you aren’t sure of, and you want to be there for him. 

Luckily, it seems like he didn’t notice. 

“Have you seen it? Ghost?”

“No, and I am not interested in seeing it,” you say matter-of-factly. “I’d like to keep my experiences with pottery untainted, thank you very much.”

Tim laughs and the sound goes straight to your head. Literally. He’s still close to you, so you feel the warm exhale from his lips, spearmint tickling your nose and making you want to do inappropriate things. To him, preferably. 

Anddd you don’t need to be thinking of that right now. Okay. Alright. You’re chill. You’re cool. 

“Look,” you say. “We’re nearly there. Just a little bit more length…”

He focuses again, actually concentrating on lengthening the walls of the mug now. A minute passes before you nod and pull your hands back. He does the same. Your foot eases off the pedal. 

You grab a ruler, recalling the measurements you two had agreed upon, and measure the height of the walls and the width of the cup itself. It’s bigger than a normal mug, but since he insisted on it being a mug you didn’t have to baby, it’ll have to be high fired to get that durability, which will make the clay shrink. 

Tim waits as you work, seemingly bracing himself.

“Looks good,” you say, pulling it back and setting it to the side, sending him a small smile. It does look good. The walls need to be smoothed with a rib and there’s one part of the rim that looks… a little wonky but it’s not bad. Not bad at all.

When Tim scrutinizes it, reaching forward, you gently push his hands away. “It’s fine.”

“But —”

“It’s cute.”

“Not the word I’d use.”

“And supposed to be mine, so, I think I get the final call.”

“You know what you are?”

“The soon-to-be proud owner of this mug?”

He doesn’t expect that and you know he doesn’t expect that because he flushes, pink rising in his cheeks in a… decidedly tempting manner. 

But of course, Tim Drake is not one to let himself be overtaken so easily. 

“No,” he says slowly, leaning forward, into your space, holy hell, you think you might actually spontaneously combust now as he gets close enough for you to see the silver flecked in blue irises, thick dark lashes framing them, the sharp but not unpleasant scent of eucalyptus clouding your senses and, huh, you know, this isn’t very platonic of him, not very platonic at all but the thought of Tim Drake flirting with you is a laughable one —

And naturally, as you think that and promptly freak out internally because it unfortunately makes logical sense, you are an adult, you’ve never been in a relationship but people have flirted with you before, thank you very much — well… Tim takes advantage of your brief moment of shock. So, you don’t see his hand dip into the bowl of water, softening the clay on his fingers and then —

“You’re bossy,” he finishes, eyes twinkling in a way that tells you he doesn’t seem to actually mind and then you’re gasping, jerking away as he smears some of wet clay on your cheek, facade breaking as he grins, the force of it making his eyes crinkle.

“What are you?!” you hiss. “Twelve?!”

You would know. 

He laughs, of course, and you can’t truly be mad at him, no, not at all, even if it’s the kind of messing around that Hana would side-eye you for, but fortunately she has her back to you two, deep in conversation with the few pairs of people who came to class today. 

Absolutely no one is paying attention to you, so, you think it’s only fair that you return the favor and he lets you, well-aware of you dipping your hand back into the water and then smearing an even bigger streak over his cheek. (While you also ignore the feeling of the soft skin, warm to the touch, warmer than usual, his flush having not left quite yet.)

And the fact that he lets you, watching you with a gaze full of affection and a mischievous grin, has the rapidly-unspooling warmth in your chest become too much. Like you are a star about to go supernova. 

But with that comes relief. To see him back to himself, no longer looking so… haunted. You can’t tell the full extent of what you would do to protect it, to protect a small bit of happiness for him to have whenever he needs, but you think it’s a lot. Anything short of murder, maybe.

(Even that depended, though.)

“Here,” you say, shoving the rib into his hand. “Smooth it out. You’re on your own now.”

Tim doesn’t protest, still smiling faintly as he does as you say. You scrunch up the side of your face, feeling the clay on your cheek. 

He does an okay job — not the worst, anyhow — and then you guide him through taking it off the bat and centering it upside down for trimming the bottom. After doing so, you work on pulling the handle just using the molding stand; instead of waiting for it to dry, you apply a little bit of heat, then you apply it to the mug. 

“That’s it?” he asks, going to the sink to wash his hands. 

“That’s it,” you affirm, putting the mug in the shelving unit right beside it. “It needs to be fired once before you can glaze it. Then again after that. You can come in whenever, just tell them you were with me.”

“Are you going to work on anything?” 

You hum thoughtfully, glancing at the clock. You got here at seven and it’s about to be eight. The center doesn’t close until ten but if he has places to be…

“I was just wondering,” he adds, stepping away from the sink to let you take his place, drying his hands on a paper towel. Clay is still smeared on his cheek, grey standing out against the pale skin. “That way I can help. Or watch if you’re tired of my… amateur efforts. Either way. This is… nice.”

You soften considerably at that, glancing down at your hands, watching the clay fall away under the warm water and soap. After everything… you think you finally have an idea about what you want to do. 

“You can help me, then. Think I’d like to make a mug as well.”

Tim nods and tears another piece of paper towel, running it briefly under the water, presumably to clean the clay from his cheek. 

You finish washing your hands just as he finishes cleaning the clay off his cheek. Your hands will get dirty again but the clean feel is a nice break before you do. 

You dry your hands, then, still using the damp paper towel, attempt to clean the clay off your cheek. 

Tim snorts quietly. 

“Am I close?”

“No.”

“Aw.” 

He smiles and holds out a hand. You relinquish the paper towel to him and he dampens it under the water, then reaches up to press it to your cheek. 

You resist letting tension take hold of you as his eyes focus on your face. Like always, you are unused to the sharp attention he gives you but part of you is endeared, too, seeing him dedicate himself to the task. Tim doesn’t do things in halves. Only absolutes. It’s not great for your heart.

To distract yourself, your eyes stray to where his streak was once. The skin is clean, but this close, you spot a few leftover flakes of grey clay. 

“There,” Tim says, gently patting your cheek with the dry end of the paper towel.

“You’ve still got some,” you mumble, taking the paper towel from him and switching to a cleaner patch on the damp side, then gently dabbing his cheek. 

“Thanks,” he says, his eyes on your face, the look there making your heart pound out of rhythm. 

You pull back, not as gentle as he was about patting the spot dry — his cheeks are still warmer than usual; the thought of it being because of you is a dizzying one — then toss the towel. 

“Ready?” you ask, fixing your apron.

Tim clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck when you glance at him, his gaze elsewhere. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do it.”

“Right.”

You two spend another hour there throwing the mug. Tim is the one sitting adjacent to you this time, helping in the beginning but seeming to settle as you go on, apparently happy to just watch you do your thing. 

You… try to prod about any preferred glazes or designs, mostly by asking what he thinks would look good, and you get some useful bits of information that you’ll be able to use the next time you come here. Or, well, sometime after that. This mug requires a bit more work than usual. At least for what you have in mind for it. 

But it should be ready by the time July rolls around. 

The sun has set when you two step out. The rain isn’t coming down as hard as earlier but it’s still drizzling, making streets and sidewalks glisten under street lamps and traffic lights. 

In a considerably better mood than earlier, the two of you stop at O’Shaughnessy’s for a shake and fries, then return to Rose Oaks. You keep the food at your place while he heads up to change and you do the same. You check on the boys while you wait for him to return, finding Manny and Diego climbing into the little shelf on the side, while Sid dips in the saltwater pond.

You smile faintly and go back to the couch. On the coffee table, for once clear of schoolwork as you are officially caught up before finals, the bag of fries sits next to the drink carrier, holding two medium chocolate shakes.

Tim returns a few minutes later, letting himself in with the spare key he has, now dressed in sweats and a black t-shirt that stretches flatteringly over his shoulders. 

In the mood for something light and nostalgic, you switch on Ice Age, the two of you relaxing on the couch and eating your dessert. Sleepiness weighs down on you with more time that passes. 

Tim finishes his shake and fries after you, leaning forward to set them on the coffee table. When he sits back, he is closer to you, your arms pressed together. The warmth of his body and the faint scent of eucalyptus lulls you. It doesn’t help that you shut off the lights, the only light coming from the TV, showing the white snowscapes from the movie.

The sound of your name is a surprise but not unwelcome. Especially not from him and how he says it, syllables wrapped in a sleepy kind of warmth. He’s tired, too. You understand. Even if he may have been at his place for most of the day, it must’ve been emotionally draining to deal with everything else.

You lean your head on his shoulder, eyelids heavy with sleep. “Yeah, Timmy?”

His hand finds yours in your lap, slightly calloused fingers gliding against yours, a softer palm following. 

You feel his head lean against yours. “Thank you. For today.”

“Thank you for letting me do it for you.”

Tim squeezes your hand and you think he’ll pull back.

He doesn’t.

Instead, with some movement, you find the blanket thrown over the back of the couch now draped over your laps. 

With his hand in yours, the comforting scent of eucalyptus surrounding you in tandem with his body heat, you surrender too easily to the pull of sleep.

(Later, in the early morning when the sun hasn’t risen but is just about to break the horizon, you stir, not finding yourself in your bed like last time but instead held tightly in his arms, your legs tangled beneath the blanket which isn’t really necessary, with the body heat he emanates. In his sleep, Tim breathes slow and soft, warm exhales of air tickling the skin of your forehead as you two share a pillow. And too sleepy and warm to care, you burrow into his arms, which tighten around you in his sleep, close your eyes, and drift back to off to dreamland.

A few hours later, you’ll wake again, but alone this time, disappointment gnawing at you at the realization. 

At least until the bathroom door opens and Tim steps out, his hair mussed, pillow creases still on his cheek, and he bids you a sleepy smile and asks what you want for breakfast.

And this is when you will realize you are past the point of no return. But you don’t care that the chances of him returning your affections are so laughably low that it actually isn’t funny. You don’t care about any of that. You just care to keep him around. For as long as you possibly can.)

reblogs are appreciated!

#tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #dc comics x reader #dc comics imagine #tim drake imagine #red robin imagine #tim drake x y/n #tim drake x you #red robin x y/n #red robin x you #batfam x you #batfam x y/n #batfam x reader

[thornilee013]

Push and Pull

[Instead of a WW for today, you all get (unfortunately only part of) a new project I started because I made myself emotional thinking about it. Thankfully it will be quite short.]

[Summary: Jean is an art major specializing in clay/pottery and goes through some introspection while working on things.]

[Enjoy!]

Jean frowned at the slab of clay sitting in front of him. He was certain that it was mocking him in its readiness to be shaped into something–anything–other than a cone, daring him to try and mold it into something else. Normally Jean handled taunting with a rough check or an even more scathing remark, but clay could not be insulted. It was literally part of the dirt. If he wasn't careful with how much water he applied to the cone, it could very easily become mud underneath his fingers. What kind of insult would be capable of hurting a clay heart? Jean knew that if he was struggling to think of an insult, that there likely were none that would be applicable.

Still, there was a peacefulness in the blank slate that the clay provided. A blank slate that he could always bring back, regardless of how many times the side of the pot caved or the clay slipped off the wheel or if he started the pot off center by accident. No matter what, he could always peel it off the wheel and start again. There was excitement in seeing what he’d be able to create out of the earth, and of seeing just how much the clay would reveal to him of its final purpose along the way. 

Jean Moreau always began his pottery projects with the same approach: by building solid walls that he could later adjust through pushing and pulling. When he’d first started making pottery he’d worried that his crooked fingers would hinder the process. That somehow, his hands would be too broken to properly shape the clay. As a result, his first pot had ended up with walls that were too thick and were uneven on top. And yet, when his professor presented the final, fired result, Jean could hardly believe that his lumpy, misshapen pot had been able to withstand its true test. 

He’d turned it over and over, searching for clues that it was a fake. He’d been convinced that there was no way that it was his project; after all, the professor had to have recreated it so that it would boost his confidence. Instead, as he’d reacquainted his hands with the clay and examined its curves and flaws, he realized that it fit perfectly in his misshapen hands. It was like holding a piece of himself─a single piece of the puzzle of his selfhood that had, until then, been lost. Then, he found the ghost of one of his fingerprints in the fired clay and all his doubts had been put to rest. 

It was still his favorite piece he’d created. It stood as proof to him that he wasn’t too broken to create something new, and on days when he doubted that fact, he would pick up the pot and turn it over once more in his hands and line his thumb up with the fingerprint.

He pulled the clay out in a bold curve, careful to stretch it in a way that would make it expand gradually, only to pinch it back in at a steeper slope. 

He’d improved with practice, of course. Soon he’d created bowls and cups and small vases. But for each project that he turned in, his professor would always say the same thing: he needed to work on making the walls thinner. But he’d refused to believe that he could handle anything thinner. He was convinced that his hands were meant for two things: hurting others, and being hurt. Already he’d proven that he could create, but convincing himself that he wouldn’t destroy something was another hurdle he had to overcome. 

It hadn’t been until his professor came to stand in front of the station where he’d been working that day and challenged him to create a bowl with a wall thinner than his pinkie. 

“But what if it folds on itself? What if it tears?” he’d asked. 

“Then you can scrape the clay off the wheel, wedge it, and start over. There’s no limit to it. You can always go back to the beginning. The clay doesn’t mind, and neither do I. As long as you lock up behind yourself when you leave the studio,” his professor had said with a shrug and a smirk.

Sure enough, he’d made the bowl too thin. It ended up tearing and folding in on itself in a pattern that almost resembled a ribbon. Jean had swallowed the defeat and followed his professor’s instructions, and the next time he’d pulled up the walls, he was almost able to maintain a consistent thickness in the walls throughout the entire bowl. 

Jean finished the vase by flaring out the top of the project, careful not to let the clay at the top of the piece get so thin that it wouldn’t be able to support its own weight. While other students in the art major program would typically get rid of the slip and any signs of the work being thrown on a wheel, Jean was careful to preserve the imperfections in the surface of his new vase. He was even more nervous to slide the wire under his project, especially given how much he liked how the vase had turned out. 

To keep his anxieties at bay, he shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and reminded himself that it was all temporary anyway. Nothing in the world is permanent, and this vase is no exception. But I can make it again, if I want to. It wouldn’t be the same, but I wouldn’t want it to be an exact replica anyway. Once he made peace with the fact that his work was only partially over, he slipped the wire through the clay as close to the base as possible, holding his breath the entire time. 

It came off the wheel cleanly, with only a thin layer left behind on the wheel that he scraped off and tossed back into the bin with the rest of the clay they used in class. Once his vase was set aside to air out for the next stage of its creation process, Jean plucked one of his projects that was nearer to completion from the shelf─a plain, relatively small tea cup─and brought it to one of the tables meant for detail work and for glazing. 

He was done with the glazing in less than thirty minutes, having picked a unique glaze that was designed to react to the firing process by changing hues and developing a melted appearance. 

Jean placed his completed project into the open kiln, whispering a quick prayer under his breath before shutting the lid. Part of him expected that each and every project of his that his professor put into the kiln wouldn’t survive the heat. And if that happened, it would take out the other projects around him as well. 

He’d told Betsy several times that he had the same fear about himself─that he would snap someday, and that it would mean that those around him would get hurt in the process.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

MASTERPOST

#lee's writing shenanigans #aftg #all for the game #aftg jean #jean moreau #THANK YOU to Ash for letting me use her as a soundboard and also for encouraging meeeee #I did steal your comment about the kiln process bc man it was too good to pass up #tfc #the foxhole court

[static-radio-ao3]

saturday snippy

a lil late but thank you for tagging me @veryinnovative and @imdamagecontrol <33

Remus snorts, short and derivative. “The day you find your perfect companion will go down in history.” “I doubt such a person exists,” James murmurs. It is not an uncommon thought, but it saddens him nonetheless. James is not afraid to admit that he craves it sometimes. The ease and familiarity of a lover. He remembers the way his parents used to be around each other. His father always said that his hands had been made for creating, but James knew better. He knew that Fleamont’s hands had been made for holding. They would curl over Euphemia’s hips, a slow sway in the middle of the room to a song no one else could hear. And fold over James’ own, showing him how to mold clay. And they would card through Euphemia’s hair, pushing it out of her face so he could admire her better. James craves it, a love like that. But he does not know how to crave. He only knows how to carve. And James had tried, truly, but he was known to leave his lovers lonely. Most people did not take kindly to waking up alone and finding James in his studio, his hands occupied with another body. “You are only four and twenty, I do not think you should give up on love so soon. It may find you yet,” Remus says. He still has his eyes trained on the dance floor. Someone seems to have caught his eye. James cranes his neck to try and catch a glimpse, but the room is so crowded, it is hard to follow Remus’ line of sight. “My perfect companion would know they will always come second to my art.” “And that is precisely why you are going to die alone,” Remus sighs. He turns to face James again. The song changes. Something soft and slow. James wants to sway with it. “I will not be alone,” he says eventually. “My art keeps my company.” James does not need to look at Remus to know he is rolling his eyes, equal parts frustration and fondness. “Impossible, I tell you.”

no pressure tags: @itsjaywalkers @xjustakay @spacexcowgirl @magswrite @carniferous @messrsage

#humbly offering a longer pygmalion snippet that i JUST wrote #so if it's bad no it isn't #a little treat before i go sleep <33 #pygmalion au #mil's writing #fic: all the wanting in the world

[evilwriter37]

💗 with Vigcup? 🥰👍

The kiss wasn’t unexpected. Where and when it happened was. 

Viggo had just returned the Dragon Eye to Hiccup, as was part of their new deal to help each other defeat Ryker. 

It wasn’t completely dark, the moon shining behind Hiccup, casting him in an outline of silver. 

Viggo wasn’t surprised because, well, he’d been trying to seduce Hiccup this entire conversation. He’d lowered his voice, puffed out his chest, done anything he could to seem appealing.

And he guessed that he was, given that Hiccup was the one that kissed first.

Well, almost kissed. He came over to Viggo, Dragon Eye still in one hand. Toothless made a confused sound, but didn’t move to stop his Rider. Their mouths were close. Viggo could feel Hiccup’s breath on his face.

The younger man looked looked up at him, clearly wondering what he was doing. Viggo found himself reaching up a hand to cup Hiccup’s face. He could feel himself stroking the anger out of his features with his thumb, like he was clay to be molded. In a way, he was: a piece just for Viggo to play with. 

Viggo closed the final distance between them. He didn’t kiss hard, not wanting to scare Hiccup away, or scare his dragon either. Being mauled by a Night Fury because he’d kissed someone wrongly wasn’t something he wanted. 

Hiccup made a sound at the kiss, but it was a quiet one, one of slight surprise and a smidgen of desire.

Viggo went slowly, but surely, exploring Hiccup’s lips with his own. He felt the tension leak out of Hiccup’s body through the kiss, and he couldn’t help but smile against his lips a little before going back in. 

Hiccup didn’t try to stop him when he did. In fact, he kissed him back. 

Though it was the eve of battle, Viggo couldn’t have been happier. He was getting exactly what he wanted. 

He would sleep well tonight. 

#emoji kissing prompts #asks #requests #vigcup #viggo grimborn #hiccup haddock #httyd #httyd rtte #rtte #how to train your dragon #race to the edge #fluff #fanfiction #writing

[crownofmirrors]

Crown Of Mirrors is an interactive high-fantasy story where you get to choose how your own adventure unfolds. The story is set in a medieval and dystopian world where several magical races populate the sphere of men. It is entirely text-based, use your imagination to help shape and build the main character's individuality and abilities, and influence their relationship with a vast array of distinct characters.

General content warnings: Injury to major characters, gore, body horror, trauma and PTSD, death and sexual content. Rated +18. More specific content warnings will be provided at the start of each chapter.

Bonus content, like detailed character sheets (+18), exclusive maps, and different P.O.Vs, will be posted on my patreon. Be sure to follow me there if you are interested. Patreon

During ages uncounted the three main races of the world of Ada have battled against each other over the control of reality itself. The merging of the celestial spheres happened more then millennia ago, an apocalyptic event that fused the world of men with the magical races of the elves and the monsters.

The prophesied return of the Mirror Shard is whispered among few, no one dares to bring it up the events that let to the signing of the luminous concordat, and yet, this mysterious individual may be the world's only hope.

You assume the role of the Royal Mage. Considered by many the most powerful magic wielder in the world, you are feared across the continents, you answer only to the ruler of Hoasir and their wishes are the clay you shall mold into a masterpiece.

Don the crown of mirrors, but beware for the burden is heavy and its shards piercing.

Play as male, female, or non-gender specific, along with transgender choices;

Customize your appearance, race, background, personality;

Romance any of seven different gender-selectable love interests, featuring three distinct poly routes;

Choose one of five magical specialties, they are divided in five major Schools of Magic—Elementari, Vectorix, Witherblossom, Shadowbright and Mirage;

Pick between five magical races, each with entirely unique backgrounds and different obstacles for you to surpass—Human, Half-ork, Elf, Duwende and Giant;

The gift of magic is followed by a terrible bane, struggle against the shackles of madness trying to take hold of your psyche, find out who is behind the mysterious voice that caused your tragic awakening;

Save the Emperor/Empress and their empire from certain doom, or don the crown of mirrors, accepting your true calling and bend the spheres to your will.

Maëdhredonor “leaf-licker”

Maëdhredonor, or simply Maë, is well known not only across Elsyum but the world of Ada for their role during the merging of the celestial spheres. As all elves go they tend to be arrogant and spiteful of other races, particularly the race of monsters.

Also extremely notable for their title, Lord/Lady of the Shimmering Waters, Maë is solely responsible for the well-being of everyone residing in the ethereal city of Maia Galadon. They have long icy white hair, deep blue eyes, and among the elves they are considered to be one of the tallest, standing at 6'8''.

If you choose the Elf path you will be able to able to meet them early on.

Nassir / Nassira “keeper of the mirror shard”

The first to be granted the title of "Keeper of the Mirror Shard", Nassir/Nassira have trained their whole life, shaping their body through endless training sessions until they became a living weapon—shield—for the sole purpose of safeguarding Ada's only hope of salvation, you.

The Keeper, for the most part, remains a distant but reliable shadow that you can always count on. Their devotion comes with great respect towards everything you do, your safety is not only the most essential part of their life but the reason why the world keeps spinning.

They stand taller than most humans, with deep black skin and bright amber colored eyes.

If you choose the Duwende path you will be able to able to meet them early on.

Emperor Ulysses / Empress Ulyssa “child of the gods”

The de facto ruler of the continent of Alma, also known as the main continent. Legends say the blood of the ancient gods runs through their veins, if this is actually true or not remains to be seen. You could actually run some tests to confirm their divine ancestry but would the world of men be ready for the results?

After their mothers were struck with a terrible kind of bane curse the empire fell into despair, the fear of magic grew once again, fed by the death of the Empress and the terrible fate set upon her wife.

Faced with impossible odds the child of the gods then rose to power, will you help them douse the fire of fear forever?

Sun and Mun “filthy traitors”

Half-ork twins who were sentenced to die for crimes they may or may not have committed in their homeland, the monstrous continent of Mun-Dol. Fortunately for them they were able to escape the unforgiving clutches of death thanks to “divine intervention”—if that is what truly went on remains to be seen.

For some time now they were left with only one option, to live among humans. With their monstrous appearance, light green skin, superior height and tusks slightly smaller than their full-ork ancestors, they are sure to attract the attention of the humans by their outlandish looks and odd behavior.

If you choose the half-ork path you will be able to able to meet them early on.

Knight / Dame Commander Dandelion “the lion’s teeth”

As Hoasir’s army leader, they are responsible for all the kingdom’s divisions and troops. Dandelion rose through the ranks of the army during a period of intense conflict between the kingdoms of Alma and the Free Cities of Aiya. Exploiting this time of unrest, they’ve earned the complete loyalty of their men through fantastical displays of bravery and aspiring devotion to their homeland.

Their distrust and fierce animosity towards mages are notorious as it is well-founded, and they won’t hold back on their criticism of your role as a Royal Mage. With arms the size of tree trunks, many suspect they carry ork blood through their veins a possibility which is quickly dismissed by the alabaster tone of their skin and the thick mane of flaming red hair.

If you choose the human path you will be able to able to meet them early on.

Kassian / Kalliope “the slave”

The first slave to be gifted to the king/queen of Hoasir as one of many olive branches by the Matriarch and Slave Master of Lysorno, the Emerald City. Captured at a young age, and harboring a tragic past—like most of the slaves enduring life long servitude in the free cities—they were trained and punished accordingly to their ancestry alone, in a cruel attempt to draw the primal need for defiance out and instill unwavering obedience.

Their kind yet defiant demeanor is a clear example of the sort of monstrosity humans are capable of specially to one of their own. They have a well built, muscular body, bronze skin ravaged by endless hours under the unforgiving sun and merciless whippings. With dark-brown curls cut just above the ears, and the mellow glint on their coffee-colored eyes, their ancestry are distinctly Aiyan.

LINKS

DEMO | FORUM | PATREON | KO-FI

#cog #choice of games #if #wip #cyoa #interactive fiction #choice script #hosted games #if game #crown of mirrors #CoM #interactive novel

[kasumikoujou]

idk for the words for the process so bair with me. but how do you paint. like i usually have my layers as like sketch, linart, color, shade, but when people do stuff thats more detailed beyond that (like haratake) i just see people like, build the drawing from very little actual sketching and basically mold paint like its clay

i tried to answer this ask twice before with different speedpaints but each time it gave me an error.. so i have no idea how to upload videos here. here are some speedpaints i posted onto twitter ! spp1 spp2

ill explain the process a bit too.

i start out a work just like you normally would with lines; i do not really paint from scratch because its not to my liking. i do not draw with a sketch; the initial linework is both the lineart and the sketch. i refine everything later by painting over or with the liquify tool. after that, i select everything within the linework with a gray base on which i clip every single color i need until i have the base colors. from there i also just shade each individually like normal.

when the shading is done, i start coloring in the lines: i apply a lock to the lineart so i do not go off of it and eyepick a darker color than the one i need at the time for a smooth lineart; i also paint over and dont leave the lines as thick as initially to make it more uniform (see below on the skin parts of the lineart)

only things i do paint from scratch are objects, or other details i deem would rather be easily drawn from shape (like her trident and tail in this case)

i hope this was useful ! dont forget to also try things out yourself your own way if youve got any other ideas how to work in a style like this if you wish to

#the sumi rambles #art process

[mommyofkittens]

A Court of Fallen Heroes: Chapter 7 - A Tale of Time

           " Thousands of years ago, before there was Prythian with its faes or the humans with their concept of time, even before the original death creatures who haunted our legends ever existed. Before the veil between the worlds fell in place and the universes started to build on top of each other, there were only two brothers, two geminis, two separate faces of the same coin, two sharp ends of the same blade. They were made by a Higher Power, an androginous specter of dust floating alone into the void, overlooking his kingdom of nothing. They were treated as his children. The two of them played together, ate at the same table, wore clothes made by the same hand, but they grew bored of the emptyness surrounding them. Always icy and friendless. So they asked their parent figure to make new beings around them.

          Because this High Deity loved his children so much, he indulged them and made several other creatures. But before he began his creation, he asked each one of them what kind of friends they'd like to have around them. That's when he realised the dramatic difference between his kids and the terrible mistake he'd made.

          The boy was the first one to be molded out of clay, but because his parent was in a negative state of mind, stroke by sadness, loneliness and surrounded by darkness, the child came out... hollow. His skin was olive and his hair and eyes were made with the most abysal black, so black that sometimes smoke seemed to dance around them. His beauty was ravishing, poisoning, unforgettable, like a dark temptation creeping inside your mind. That's one of the reasons he had many wives after he grew older. But his personality was sour, his gaze was ominous and his mouth was mean. A hyena in disguise.

          Because he missed his son's love and warmth, he sculpted out of marble a daughter. His pride. His power. She came out at the opposite end of her brother. The Deity just came out of his depression, so the girl was carved with love, hapiness and light. She was as beautiful as her brother, but she held a golden crown of blonde locks around her heart-shaped face and her eyes were full of patience and kindness. A smile was always decorating her full mouth. The Joy of the Void, her parent used to call her.

          No doubt who was the favorite child.

          To the Deity's luck, he made them powerless. Immortal, but no magic to pass through their veins. So, when they asked to have their own pantheons, their preferences came through.

          The son wanted a black castle, shielded by obsidian mountains and surrounded by bottomless rivers, so no one could disturb him. He wanted the power to make his own servants and people, shaped to match his wicked soul. So his parent, aware of his mistake and willing to make things right, gave him a tiny bit of magic.

          Big fucking mistake. Those were the first deities ever created to rule over the underworld, Hel, as the boy liked to call his new home.

          The daughter didn't need any magic to change things in her favour, but wanted her parent close as she made her choices. She learned the art of spellcraft throught plants and books and incantations from the Deity's whispers. She learned how to properly draw a sigil and how to infuse it with her intentions. She showed her friends what she learned and teached them how to use this magic for good.

          Those were the first Gods to rule over the kingdom in the sky, Elysium.

          But one particular night, after the son grew power hungry, he asked to have a meeting with his sister and told her his plans: to murder the Higher Deity, their parent and steal his power for themselves.

          The woman was shocked and denied giving him any support on his idea, trying to convince him it was the wrong path to choose. She even wanted to show him how to gain his own power through his own work, through their own beings. They were a direct bloodline to this Primordial Deity, the magic was in them, they just needed to know how to access it.

          Good thing she didn't get to.

          They argued and fought each other and by mistake, with the minuscule power his Father gave him, the man blinded his sister.

          With their brotherly relationship wasted, they both went to their palaces.

          The woman tried to regain her vision with her spells. The other deities tried to help her, but that was raw magic, her Father's magic. It couldn't be broken. Knowing what her brother wanted to do next and knowing there was no way she could stop him, she created a protection spell for her father and drew the mark under his bed.

          She never had the chance to alert him of what his son wanted to do. As he came back from his latest creation, a poisoned arrow, imprinted with that tiny specle of power he gave his son, pierced his heart.

          With a last beat, his heart exploded, shattering into an infinite of pieces who grew and created universes.

          He knew what his son's plans were. He had eyes and ears everywhere, so before the man came and collected his powers, he transfered as much as he could into his crying daughter, then urged her to hide. Before she left, he handled her his latent creation: humankind.

          After this, the battle over this artwork started. The dark forces wanted manking as their slaves, another conquest to his territory, while the daughter tried to save and protect them.

          They fought long and bloody battles, they created several armies with different powers, they crushed the ballance in the human world. Until the daughter sigilled the dark forces below, in their dark terittory, using her own blood. Everything with a cost: she sealed herself as well, in the skyes. This was the only way the humans were never to be touched by their evil power.

          To thank her, the people called her " The Mother of us all ", the protector of their kind, " The Joy of the Void " , " The Banisher of Ghosts " .

          But years passed, the veil started to crumple and with a mistake, Prythian came to life. The Cauldron was spilled and with its spilling, negative energy floated like mist inside the world and people and faes began to be corrupted by the dark forces. Peace was gone. As humans were slaughtered and brought to slavery, they gave the King of the Hel a name, " The Destroyer of Peace ", " The Butcher of Life " , but only one remained sealed into our minds, burned with fear inside our very core. " The Devourer of Worlds ".

          Because her powers couldn't have a direct effect on our race, she tried to help them and gave them the knowledge of The Wall and how to be created and a promise. She prayed for them and that prayer was sent. You are that prayer, Cyan, " Prayer of the Lost " , " The Vespertus " , the tale of salvation, the sword of revenge.

          She promised that she'll send her first daughter to bring peace to our world. To kill the evil. To restore balance. A Vespertus, a Mother's Sacrifice for her mistakes.

          So she sent several families to wait for your coming. A burning star across the skyes. But The Devourer found out and sent creatures to kill them. We are one of those families, Cyan, one of The Benefactors. We've been waiting for you for thousands of years. Many like you came through the dessert where I found you, but none of them were you: The prayer.

          This is why Shum kept saying all of those hateful things. He lost his hope. I'm afraid the darkness might got to his head, but he made peace with you.

          You are our hope, girl. And I am here to guide you to the next point. We need to find you your next guardians. "

          Standing there, listening to their story, I felt overwhelmed with contempt. I wasn't used to the idea of being the one. My whole life I was a second choice, a side character in someone else's story. I felt displaced and unsure, despite of my dreams of finally being chosen for something great. These people threw a handfull of great compliments: the saviour, the prayer, the first daughter of the Mother. 

          Silently, I denied each and every one of these titles. I wasn't worthy of them. At least not right now when the only thing I did was cry myself to sleep and attempt to kill myself in the process of hopelessly trying to find a way back home.

          Cynthia mentioned that I was some sort of legend long forgotten, deleted even from the oldest of oracles, erased from scriptures and sculptures. " The Benefactors ", as they were called, had gone great lenghts to hide me from prying eyes and evil spirits that might seek me out to kill me. Cynthia also stated that her mental health started to diminish after the Mother herself sent her dreams and premonitions of me. That's how Niven found me in that deserted field. That's why Cynthia never left the safety of the farm.

          The stove didn't produce as much heat as I felt in the air around. Maybe the news turned my hypothalamus all the way up, messing with my thermoregulation. My cheeks were burning so hard that I could feel them with my tongue from the inside. They were probably as red as they were hot.

          A part of my fervent refusal was also the fact that I didn't recall such plotlines in the conflict of the other books. I was aware of the Mother being real, so was the Cauldron and its spilling and the formation of Prythian, but a daughter was never mentioned, The Devourer of Worlds was also new. How much did everything change with my coming?

          Suddenly, that ominous voice that haunts my dreams chants again in the back of my head, his only condition before he pushed me here: ' you'll change the course of events '. Although I tried my best to not interfere with anything in what was going to unfold, maybe my mere landing here was itself an interference. Or maybe the fact that Eris saw me in Thaibar. That's why things had changed so drastically.

          I open my mouth to tell them about that creature, the unsummoned one, but the words feel heavy in my throat, burning like hot coal between my vocal cords. I swallow them, feeling every letter like a bunch of unchewed food forced down my esophagus. I tried again. Every word I thought about was blurry, the vocals kept mixing, like I suffered from dyslexia. My mouth felt smeread with pitch, impossible to get it to open and form the sentence.

          That son of a bitch bewitched me so I couldn't expose him.

          That's why only Nimue's potion had managed to bring up some of my memories.

          After their speech was over, eight pair of eyes followed me with expectation. Not once had I moved my body from that wooden chair. The cotton robe hanged heavily over my shoulders, black as a raven's feathers. I looked like I was taking part in a funeral, not a family gathering. 

          Honestly, I didn't know how to react. If I smiled, it would seemed sadistic and distasteful for the context, I was running out of tears and depression. I used them all in the beginning, while grieving my old life which, apparently, wasn't any better than this. I couldn't even be completely shocked, I would be a hypocrite. I always hoped to be more than a secondary character, even if it suited me quite well to be a healer. I was good at it. After all, that's what I was preparing to do for several years now, in my previous life. I was confident in my abilities and the classes with Nimue only helped me develop further on the practical side.

          But to hear that I, a mortal doctor, can save them from a so-called '' Devourer of Wolds '', well, excuse me if I want the chance to refuse or to rethink my life decisions or if I need a second to properly shit my pants. I wasn't able to put myself in opposition with a damned God, not when he could snap my neck with a flick of his fingers.

          There were two major aspects to consider. First of all, I was human, my life spawn was of maximum seventy years, I had fragile bones, my hearing was not as developed and I was not fast. I bruised easily, I was sensitive and the only weapon I truly owned was my sarcasm, which could also be used against me. The only formidable thing I did was fell from the sky and somehow manage to not fracture my pelvis. Very weird, I must admit, but even this made me question a lot of aspects. Starting with the fact that every time I tried to end my line of life here and hoped to restart back in my other universe, something, someone, seemed to hold my head over the water, forcing me to stay alive. Mockingly enough, every time I tried to swallow Nimue's death poisons, I seemed immune. Other than a terrible stomach ache and dizziness, I felt numb. Every time I tried to slit my veins near the river where I was washing clothes with Cynthia, the knife got blunt on the way, magically. Not even the dagger I stole in my dreams didn't do the job, my skin growing thicker every time I put the cold blade on my wrist.

          However, if I ever cut myself by mistake with something sharp while preparing our dinner, I would bleed. If I ever hit myself by mistake, it hurt like hell and the next day I would have a pretty nasty bruise.

          Secondly, as I mentioned, I was just a doctor. My skills went as far as my mind could process the information in books. I couldn't fight in the front lines in any form. I had to master the art of healing before going further and starting combat lessons. And I needed a master. I didn't know how to use swords, I didn't know anything about close combat, I didn't know how to use a bow and I lacked strategic logic. I didn't feel magic running through my veins, neither electricity pinching my fingertips. I couldn't cast spells like Nimue did with me and Aoife while we ran from the town, I wasn't telepathic or a necromancer. 

          The only time something had reacted to me was between those black diamond mountains, when a bolt of electricity shocked my muscles, charging my core. But that could very easily be from the oasis itself and not from me. That place seemed spiritualy loaded, full of religious symbolism, sacre to the animals that live in that place. I remembered the stag: glorious and tenacious, trying to guide me out. 

          In my previous life, I read tarot cards and loved to use crystals. My intuition was fairly developed and everyone for whom I did a reading for said that my facts about them were true and that what I predicted happened in the next days. Could this classify me as a witch? Doubtfully. Was I a fraud? It depended on how you wanted to look at the matter. I also liked to curse the shit out of people and situations when they pissed me off. 

          The weekend after our ' family ' talk, I remained as silent as a tomb stone. Kallus and the rest didn't push me either, leaving the decision to be made only by myself: would I step in the game or would I choose to step out of it. The only problem here was that eventually, even if I was passive, everything would come after me. Destiny doesn't forgive anyone, after all. If I was pulled here to achieve something, things would start to happen in that favour, forcing me to go with that flow. So this decision makind bullshit was just a facade, a placebo, to make me feel less burdened. I very much knew what the outcome would be.

          I remained locked in my head, turning the situation upside down, thinking at every possible end. I didn't get the courage to ask if I would die in the process. I wanted that, after all. Might as well have a saying in my life, fight a little. I already changed the course of events. 

          I received sympathetic looks from everyone those few days of silence, shy smiles, encouraging touches. Maybe I was getting them before too and only now I was aware of them. It was clear they knew more than they told me. 

          I went outside several nights, when I was sure everyone slept soundly. I had only one companion, Misty, who now was my cat, following me nearly anywhere, admiring me throughout the day exactly as my Icarus used to do. She wasn't a cat that liked physical love. I wasn't a touch starved person either. But I appreciated her omnipresence, the way I felt a little more protected with her near me. Misty made my loneliness more bearable. There was no pity and expectation in her yellow eyes, only patience and adoration. 

          At this point I wasn't even mourning my fate anymore. I needed guidance. Find the guardians, this was the next step on their list. I looked at the moon for a long time, waiting for an advice from her, a call, anything to enlighten my mind. It is easy to imagine that I received nothing, only dead silence. Maybe that was what I needed after all.

          I started my next day with a little more energy. I made notes from the books collected from Nimue during my aprenticeship. I found something interesting: a potion able to make you imperceptible to faes. They couldn't sense your intentions, nor smell you emotions or read your thoughts. You were somehow immune, indetectable. As a spark bloomed inside my chest, I felt like I was going to use this piece of information. I took it as a sign.

          After feeding the animals around the farm, I went to the stables. The mare I healed was waiting for me, hapilly snickering at me. She had grown beautifully, forming an impressive mass of muscles under her now shiny hair. Misty followed me, perching herself on the hay. I rested my head on the mare's muzzle and prayed for the same sign. That's when it truly hit me.

          These people had been waiting for me for so many years to help them. They warmly welcomed me into the privacy of their home, fed me, disguised me, gave me a job, protected me and helped me learn their way of life. I would be selfish to not return the favor. Just the way I did with the horse in front of me. And although I didn't expect anything in return, they didn't either, they left me a chance to decide. 

          I gritted my teeth. I was wasting precious time if I didn't start working for what I came here to do. Instead of wasting my life as I unsuccessfully tried to do several times, might as well put it to good use. Fight and die, if that's what I wanted anyway. Maybe this is the only way to get back home, fulfilling my goal here.

          Aoife had stayed with us. I secretly called Nimue to come and perform the curettage procedure without anyone in the family finding out. I paid. Nimue didn't refuse my money. After that, I announced my decision: I was going to do my best and help them.

          Today was the fourth day we went to that castle, placed in the heart of Hybern's territory. Of course, Nimue refused to send me into the wolf's mouth, but there was no other way to find what we were looking for: the prison. Kallus mentioned that the person we must find is locked up in a cell.

When I asked more about this matter he explained that we were trying to find a woman, a fae, to be more specific, old enough to be present at the creation of Prythian and downfall of several kingdoms. She used to be a part of a long eradicated race of blood thirsty warriors, a beloved and respected leader amongst her kind. But all her titles have no use now that they're all gone and she's the only one standing.

I can't even imagine what lays inside her soul. If she has one anymore, now that she's been locked for hundreds of years in Hybern's prison, subjugated to God knows what treatment they gave her. I bet it wasn't lovely. We don't know what torment she had to endure, physical and mental, if there is still some fight in her left, some will to live on or if the woman is even breathing anymore. All we knew is that she was the next step.

          Nimue instructed us about what behaviours we should have inside the palace, about the dress code and what should or shouldn't be done. She even made a map of the rooms she visited during her service for the King.

          It was the only map of Hybern's castle to ever exist as well.

          Aoife helped Niven and I to sneak inside and choose our work. She stole two pairs of servant clothes and wrote false names inside the ' Working Register of Slaves '. The book held a pretty name. It made my blood boil. Also, we couldn't be seen together, if one of us was ever caught. the other will be put in danger as well. So we separated: I was working as a general maid, cleaning, serving the meals, become a prostitute over night, made into a human chair for fae feet if there was necessary. It was one of the most shamefull jobs I have ever had in my entire life. It wiped out every ounce of my decency and ego. It was... pathetic to say the least. But we had to do what we had to do in order to get our hands on the map.

          Now I started to see why mortals despised this creatures.

          Niven became a chambermaid, cleaning the rooms after orgies, throwing their bed potty, ironing their clothes. It was disgusting as well. Lucky she never ran into one of their sex parties, otherwise she would have been forced to join.

          They were so satisfied to put us in dangerous and embarrassing positions.

          We were also surprised to hear Aoife's wish to join our cause. I wasn't. I felt her need for revenge, I saw that spark inside her eyes die the day she killed her child, how her youth has been stolen from her, how she needed to repay the struggle they put her through. Also, she worked in the kitchen. This way we had a large part of the castle covered.

          After a few days of training with Niven to ride a horse, I started to get the basics. I still wasn't good at it, but I could manage if I ever needed that piece of information. However, she expressly requested that we both go on the same horse, considering I wasn't fully ready to do it on my own. 

          We travelled like this for the next few days: me behind Niven, Kallus on his own stallion and Nimue on her mare. On the bridge that separated the surrounding land from the center of Hybern's castle we were asked to present our entry tickets each time we passed the gates. We were noted on a book covered in leather by our names, our entry and exit data. I was in a state of anguish every time I crossed the stone bridge and looked down at the abyss waiting below. Not to mention the fresh smell of rotting corpses that rises like steam on warmer days. Even if we were separated by a bunch of meters from an imminent death, we could see what happened with the ones that had mean intentions. Mounds of lifeless bodies and bones laid on the ground beneath, shredded by starved animals.

          All around the high stone walls marched entire troups of black knights, following every movement made both inside and outside. Archers, swordsmen and other types of regiments patrolled at well-established intervals of time. No delay. Even down here, guarding the huge, black iron gates there were at least ten of them watching vigilently. Some of them owned an unseen type of dogs, beasts as large as a horse, with cruel eyes and layeres and layeres of sharp fangs. Their fur was so black that not even the light didn't shine on it. They looked like they were dragged from Hell. 

         Good luck with the potion I found. I dosed it carefully, so that some part of our human perfume to still be smelled, so that our fear could still be distinguishable. But out thoughts were impenetrable,

          The obsidian palace, with tall and sharp towers, held a sinister aura around. It was guarded by circular streets and wide town squares with many decorated stalls, rich in vegetable, fruits, silk or velvet. You could find so many things here. Fae kids played loudly outside their homes, adults chatted vigorously, dressed in so much gold, with perfectly tailored clothes. They seemed to have no worry in this world. They walked proudly, with their sharp features held high, pale as paper, as if they owned everything and everyone. 

          I felt a strange emotion every time I passed these places. 

          Behind this perfect portait, if you looked closely, you could see the blood of the mortal servants it was all built on. They were starved in a corner, waiting for the kids playtime to be over so they could take them back inside, they were following a few steps behind the fae couples, with their eyes glued on the ground and their head lowered. They were working their asses off for a few golden coins, sweeping the streets, watering the trees and flowers, wiping the windows of their shops, arranging merchandise on the shelves. 

          It disgusted me every time. Waves and waves of hate fueled my desire to help these people to be free from their slavery. I wanted the faes to suffer as much as the humans. Those creatures came out of their luxurious houses, built in the same gothic style as the castle: gray brick walls, beaten with black, shiny stones. Even the pointed roofs towered menacingly. Everywhere laid a blancket of numbness, of uncertainty and falsity.

          Now I could clearly see why no one liked them in the books. They were thirsty for power, ready to crush and steal any shred of gold, every high position in the court. Despite their dazzling beauty, they had a dirty and poisoned soul.

          Every morning I bit my tongue, refraining from any spiteful comment, averting my eyes from any suffering human that was asking for help. Niven was right to not interfere that day in Thaibar, when that old man was beaten to death by Hybern's knights. I needed to help them in another way.

          Slowly, we parted our ways. Kallus walked towards the small church meant for humans. A barelly allowed luxury. Nimue followed us all the way to the palace, then she nodded her farewell with a glassy fear in her violet eyes. Between the cold and bare walls, covered with tapestries embed with jewels and silver thread, I felt a shiver run down my spine. I looked at Niven briefly, searching for a glimmer of hope or courage in her, but she was as deserted as I was. Her hostility towards the fae race was burning wilder than mine and this rage was sucking the life out of her. The massive chandelier hung like a dusty weapon of justice above our heads, ready to sever them if needed. We didn't even look at each other before leaving the main hall, joining the other servants.

          It was the fourth day of listening behind closed doors, staring intently at paintings and letters, lingering longer when pouring tea, hoping that one of this dumb faes would spill some precious informations. It was in vain, I was looking in the wrong direction. My action were limited anyway. At every corner of the corridors was an armed sentry. They didn't allow you too much, not even to turn your head to stare at a gorgeous necklace on some lady's neck or a splendid tailored dress.

          I knew these hallways as my own palm, looking at Nimue's sketches hours and hours, studying them in case anything bad happens. I knew the print on the carpets that covered the black and white marble, I knew when the corridors splited and how many doors were on each side of the wall. I also knew what type of mosaic was on the ceiling depending on the windows I passed. I was really damn motivated to do my job well.

          I watered flowers, I refrained myseld from spitting in their food, I carried trays and filled glasses with fae wine, I accepted every ' innocent ' indecent touch from the guests who got drunk at the courtyard celebrations and prayed everytime that things would not escalate. You couldn't say no. You kept you mouth shut and took it like a good slut. I was lucky enough to not be their type. But even my luck could run out at any moment.

          We all knew where to find the map of Hybern, but none of us was ready to say it. I had to go in Draegan's chambers. In essence, anyone could go fetch it, but I was the one with a death wish. They had to live, my fate was unknown anyway.

          Altough the most important thing now was finding the prison, something else was on my mind. Where was Eris? I hadn't seen him since I came inside the palace. Neither Draegan was to be found. This made me wonder if they knew something about me, if they saw me on the sky that night, if they were aware of any anomaly. Maybe they were on a hunting trip, just like all masculine fae liked to do in the books or in movies. Or maybe they were discovering new ways to torture humans. The most persistent question was still the same: What business did Eris have with Hybern? Were they trying to sign another treaty? Maybe his father forced him to come here... If the Autumn Court is planning to betray everyone from the inside, the odds are against Prythian and the Mortal Lands. Was I able to get in time to them and tell them about this matter? Would they believe me? It's not like they couldn't test me by getting inside my head.

          I place my cotton veil over my nose and mentally prepare to another risk. Aoife explained to us that the uniform here was very misogynistic. We were not allowed to show our faces, so we wouldn't tempt anyone with our beauty. Our hair must be tied and hidden under a scarf and also, we were covered from our necks to our toes in a black dress, with a red apron attached to our waist. Even our palms were covered with thick, abrasive gloves. Just in case we were clumsy and dropped the silverware on the floor. So toughtful for them.

       I don't look at the servants who pass by me and neither do they. We weren't allowed to make eye contact. I sneak into the servants corridors. In the few days we stayed here, three royal tasters died after it turned out that the food for the guests was poisoned. All of them were humans. Three wasted lives. The kitchen team continued to change and those who had left somehow disappeared without a trace. Everyone knew what happened to them. 

           The palace seemed to be charmed: every peeling painting followed you on the hallway, even the ones with a sunny meadow on it, every hole in the wall was like an ear thirsty for gossip, every creacking floor was a voice accusing you of something you didn't do. The knights who prowled every corner or lined the length of the main hall seemed an empty shell, no body underneath, only an evil spirit. No wonder you could never truly see their eyes: the mirror of the soul. I was afraid to even approach the gloriously exposed armor used by an old fae they worshipped, carved from glittering gold and rubies as red as the blood of fallen enemies. Even if it was empty, I expected it to move at any moment.

          Shielded by the darkness of the servants passages, a wave of courage guided my feet towards what I knew was only doom:  Draegan's north wing. I grab a set of fresh sheets from the laundry room. Although he didn't visit his rooms lately, the bed had to be changed daily. It was the perfect cover.

          Even if I didn't know what was the path to his chambers, I followed the ' N ' carved in the stone walls. The entire North part of the castle was claimed by him after his father's death. I step as quietly as possible on the jagged slabs of the tiny corridors and get a candle on the way. The halls were not as luxurious as the ones Faes used. They had rounded and really low ceilings and in some regions you had to lean forward to pass. The torches were so rare, that most of the way you were spending it in total obscurity. There were no mice yet, but among the dusty stones appeared roots, mold and some herbs that thrived in humidity.

          Someone coughs behind me and I turn, holding the candle like my life depended on it. There goes my crumb of barely gathered courage. I squint my eyes, cursing my bad vision, but I don't see anyone. The last light was more than twenty meters behind. The feeling that I was going to be caught was suffocating. I remember living with the very same sensation in my former relationship, with the fear that my parents would catch me and punish me. I let out a cold breath, still searching the hungry darkness. I turn and quicken my pace, following the carvings. I was alone in this area. Very few servants wanted to clean this wing. Nobody was crazy enough to find a workspace in the lion's den.

          The doors line on both walls, some of them required me to go up a few stairs, others to go down. I listen, biting the dry skin of my lips. Nothing. I don't know if my torch was shaking so bad between my fingers because I was afraid or because the cold chilled my poorly protected soles. I clench the other fist, bracing myself on the ground. I move to another door, located lower than the previous one and listen again. Feminine voices gossiped on the other side. Someone pours tea, another one cuts something on his plate. I stick my cheek closer to the wet door. I couldn't decipher the topic of conversation, they were too careful of the ears in the walls. Clever.

          Fuck me life decision.

          I walk further and stop at another door: someone is clapping, lots of applause actually, pause, a moan, another woman moans louder. '' You liked that, you dirty whore? '' A harsh voice makes me startle and I take a few steps back, '' We should bring a servant. I'd be so horny to watch a human eat you out. '' .

          That's my sign to get the fuck out. On my tiptoes, I run for a distance of a few doors without looking back. The candle was already extinguished from the suddem movement. I forgot that in the North wing Draegan allowed his escorts and his narrow circle to live. The only time luck hits me is when I notice a sign with a crown carved on several doors. I don't even think twice before sticking my head inside.

          ' Well done!... ' I whisper to myself. 

          I look back, noticing the superbly maintained tapestry. The door completely disappeared in the drawing, revealing a gorgeous tree with ruby and quartz flowers, woven on an azure background. All around, a crossed mosaic frames the tree. It was one of the most spectacular things seen in the palace. 

          I spin on my heels, facing the immensity of the room. Abandoned, the bedroom seemed deadly silent, like it was inquiring me of my presence here. There were no splashing sounds in the bathroom, the wide, arched balconies were open, leaving the orange curtains to flow in the cold wind. The huge, wooden carved bed had a canopy over it made of flowy, white veil. Above, there was a carefully painted portait of the last King: shoulder-length black hair framing a pale, rubber like skin, angry, black eyes. He seemed quite young, maybe around his forties. Next to it, almost sketched rather than painted, was a smaller drawing of Draegan: a  faithful image of his father, but with gentler features.

          I leave the sheets aside and take a few steps forwad. This chamber alone was as big as Kallus's entire house. High ceilings with different faces carved in white marble. Several thick wooden stools lay scattered, covered in red velvet.

          I move towards the curved nightstands. Nothing, just a few letters from his mistresses, a ruby ring that I slip inside my bra, a letter knife and a golden comb. I crawl on my knees on the balcony, trying to not make my head visible from the outside yard. I quickly flip through the religious books on the short table. In none of them did he mention any shooting star, not the two brothers: the Devourer or the Mother and neither was the Prayer of the Lost. There were mentioned reforms of the human lands, of the farthest continent, Pryrhian and Hybern. How the oceans were created, on the next page was a chart with several deities and what they brought to the world as gifts. The Benefactors really eradicated any notion of a fallen star. If that was true, in the end.

          In my world, there was this saying: Believe and don't search.

          I move to the bathroom from which I steal a platinum hairpin with jade and agate flowers. I always loved to collect semi-precious crystals, charging them, cleaning them with smoke and fire, then use them in my tarot readings. 

          After I finish, I move to the last door in the room. Here, my luck ran out: it was locked. I turn the brass globe left and right, hoping to hear a click, but I spent my energy in vain.

         '' Shit. " I mutter, cursing in my mother language and refrain myself from hitting the door with my leg.

          The key might as well be with him, around his neck or in his pockets, or maybe he hid it in this room, in this fucking huge room. I put my fingers on my temples and concentrate on the dust particles swirling in the setting sun. A gorgeous orange pours through the thin curtains, bringing an air of melancholy. 

          I turn my back on the scene. A familiar pain settles in my lungs and I breathe through my mouth, forcing the stress out of my system. I focus my attention on the lock, carefully drawing the key in my head, my salvation, made of shiny metal as precious as the items I stole from the room. I visualize the gesture, how Draegan turns the key in the lock, opening the door and revealing the antechamber, an office. I feel filled with peace and hope. I try my best to manifest, everything is going the way I want. I open my eyes and swear again. The door was just as closed as it was a few minutes ago.

          '' I'm losing my mind. ''

          I raise my palms and wipe them on my skirt, then point them on the lock. I keep my muscles contracted, then twist my hands, imagining how waves of magic come out of my fingers and open the door. Nothing happens. 

           Maybe the gloves were the problem. 

          I put them away and try again. I imitate the movements I saw in movies like Marvel and several other series. Nothing. I curse once more, a string of unorthodox words swirling in my mouth. I take another breath in my lungs and raise my hands, close my eyes, feel the warmth on the surface of my skin. I picture the type of power the author used to describe for Rhysand and his brothers. I imagine it working in my favour, not against me, then contort my forearms and let the energy flow. 

          '' For fuck's sake, I'm going to punch someone. ''

          I had no powers. Not even the smallest shred of energy, of magic to come and spark like a firecracker on my fingertips. I didn't feel any ancient whispers cursing through my veins. I actually felt dumb. I came this far, worked up the small amount of courage to reach this wing. Maybe I really wasn't the person these people were looking for. Maybe it was a mistake. I hadn't even asked what happened with the ones before me. Is not like I didn't knew, if they survived, I wouldn't be here. 

          I swear again and hit the door. Goosebumps rose on my skin as I watch the floor. The key, a rusty contorted metal, laying in front of my eyes.

          '' So my powers have a delayed effect or it needed a little kick to start showing? '' I ask myself and grab the cold metal.

          The door opens with a heavy sound, as if it had been closed and opened too many times. I put the gloves back on my fingers and erase any prints from the key. I was finally inside Draegan's office. Or the dead King's office. 

         Three out of four walls were covered with shelves upon shelves of perfectly maintained books. It smelled like leather and ink inside. As much as I hated Draegan, he kept his scripts in impeccable condition: leather spines, exceptional handwork, fresh strings, not eaten by moths. In the middle of the room was a big desk, full of paperwork and a majestic chair, made of black wood covered in red and maroon velvet. On the empty wall was an extinguished fireplace, cleaned of embers, with two elegant red armchairs placed in front of it.

          I rush to the office and search through all the drawers: documents about inheritance, letters from allies from another courts and continets I have never heard of, maps of oceans and lands, registers with numbers and series of soldiers in the army, who died, who was injured and who was still alive, able to fight. I look at the amount of people at the end, where they had summed up all the resources: more than half of their force was destroyed and most of the kingdom's treasury was empty. I look deeper, but all I can find are a few notebooks full of sketches and papers stamped with the initials A.F.. It came from Prythian. I couldn't calculate the beautifully outlined dates at the bottom of the page, because I had no idea of the time I fell in.

          This story must've happened over a long period of time given the stacks of sheets stamped with those initials. I twist my mind in all directions, hoping that some clue would appear out of nowhere. I had a vague idea, but the ' F ' initial was making me feel unsure: Amarantha. There's details of her status in the court of Hybern, about her work as a general, about her sister Clythia and her relationship with Jurian. She talks about her suspicions and about the revenge. There is a list of ships and the routes they followed to reach Prythian, what they transported and to whom, the payments form each High Lord. A detailed description of a treaty, how she searched for a mistake inside it to cancel it. Then, at the end, a terrifyingly large number: ' MORTALS '. 

          I wet my lips, feeling a drop of cold sweat falling on my neck. This woman killed almost two thousand slaves. The ones she refused to set free or tried to fight her. 

          Amarantha talks about her strong ties with the Spring Lord, Tamlin's father, and how they shared ' their honest opinions about what to do with the increasing numbers of the lesser creatures and their despise for the human race '.

          My knees start to shake and I have to sit down on the carpet for a few moments to regain my balance. How can you hold such hate towards someone that didn't wrong you?

          On other pages she writes in great details about a recipe stolen from the King and how she used it to take the powers of every High Lord, about how she managed to build her kingdom from Under the Mountain. Rhysand is mentioned as well, how she took him as punishment for his father's actions, the sexual abuse and how she gouged out the eye of the Spring Court emissary. On the last pages, there are payments for a ball and a list of guests. There was also written the fate expecting everyone.

          The woman was totally out of her mind, power hungry, evil and bloodthirsty.

          I close the registers. It's enough for me. There is so much death in this world, so much torture, so many irregularities, too much people with power. And nobody does anything to stop it, to prevent it from happening again. I had a strange feeling that the history was about to repeat itself. Another five hundred years of torture, of human genocide and slavery. 

          Was I here to stop this? How the fuck could I put up with faes, with whole courts and kingdoms?

          My ears rang loudly. With trembling hands I arrange everything the way I found it. I pick up a scroll tied with a velvet ribbon and open it. My head was spinning and my hear was pumping fear in my body with each beat: fear of getting caught, fear of enduring torture, fear of punishment, fear of pain. 

           I hug the paper to my chest. A very detailed map of Hybern. I found it. I close the door behind me in a hurry and push the lock back in the space it felt out of. 

           Hot lava bubbles in my stomach when I hear heavy footsteps approaching. What were the odds for Draegan to come right fucking now?

          I blink. Torture, torture, torture.

         '' Oh... What is it that you're looking for here... human? '' A masculine voice rings from behind me, warm like a hot day of summer.

          I feel my body temperature ranging from hot to cold in the spawn of seconds. I keep my back to the fae, curled up on top of the white sheets that I had to put on the bed. I count in my mind: one second, two, three... five... seven. My breathing doesn't calm down and droplets of sweat fall from my forehead on the ground beneath.

          '' I'm not going to hurt you. '' His tone is cunning, hardening with a few octaves. He comes closer and I can smell fiery embers all around me.

          '' I... I'm changing the sheets, sir. '' My voice sounds like I was strangled, held by my throat by invisible hands.

          '' Where? Inside the office? '' I can feel the words leaving his smiling lips.

          Fuck. Shit. '' No, I was also cleaning the dust. ''

          '' If that's so, you're doing a poor job. There's some of it flying everywhere. '' He notices, a trace of humor laced between his sentence. '' Turn around. ''

          I exhale and do as I am told, but keep my eyes on the ground.

           A few moments pass before he speaks again, '' I remember you. We met in Thaibar, in the market. ''

          Double fuck. I look at his perfectly polished black boots, then at his tailored emerald pants. 

          '' Look at me. ''

          '' I'm not allowed to. '' I excuse myself, trying to find a way out of this conversation.

          '' I allow it. Come on. '' 

          Slowly, I rise my head. Why was everyone so tall around this place? 

          A sense of calmness passes thourgh me as I finally see who I was talking to: Eris Vanserra, proudly staying right in front of me. I might have been a little overwhelmed by his beauty, because I don't hear the next few words that come out of his thin, pink mouth. 

          Now that I was getting a closer look at one of the most controversial characters from the series, I was a little bewitched. Eris had no equivalent in the human world. His face was royal, high cheekbones, strong nose, cold, amber eyes. He was well built as well, tall and rather thin, with  graceful amount of muscles to stretch his gold and green tunic. 

          '' You might be wrong, sir. '' I defend myself, knowing damned well that we made eye contact in Thaibar.

          He laughs, unamused, showing a pair of white teeth. '' I doubt my eyes deceive me so bad. What do you hide there? ''

          I frown and turn my head to see the map on the floor, '' I have no idea. ''

          '' Liar. '' Eris whispers, knowing that he caught me red handed. He inhales and I thank god for the potion, because he can't feel the mixture of emotions driving me crazy right now. '' What are you looking for in King's Draegan chambers? Sex? ''

         I open my mouth, then close it. '' No. I was just about to leave. ''

          '' Without your scroll? '' He give me a cheeky smile, then grabs the paper from the ground. '' A map. Feeling patriotic? ''

          No, just a little chaotic. 

          Eris circles me like a lion would with it's prey. I straighten my back, following the map held by his long fingers. 

          '' I'll give it to you, don't worry. But only if you tell me why do you need it so badly that you put yourself in such danger. ''

         '' I need it. '' I admit. '' Can you please give it back. ''

          '' I thought it wasn't yours. Why do you need it? ''

          '' I changed my mind. '' 

          His smile falters when he hears something I don't. His eyes catch mine and I see something pass behind them. '' Get under the bed. I'll conceal your scent. ''

          '' I need the map. '' I press, coming closer to him.

          '' Fuck the map. '' He rasps, catching my arm in his large palm, then guides me to the bed. '' I'm trying to save you mortal ass. Do as your told and I'll find you and return it after. ''

          My eyes search his whole face for a sign of betrayal, but his features are serious and fairly worried. I know I was going to regret this, but I lay low and push myself under. Eris hides the map inside his jacket and winks at me before the door opens and he regains his composure.

          '' Eris, I'm glad you arrived. '' Draegan steps in and pats the redhead's shoulder in greetings. '' I have news for you: tonight we're dining with one of our old friends: a winged emissary from the Night Court. ''

!! Chapter is not edited. !!

#azriel #amren #acotar #azriel headcanons #azriel x reader #acotar x reader #rhysand x feyre #rhysand #feyre #nesta #cassian x nesta #hybern #king of hybern #acotar imagine #ao3 #wattpad #ACourtofFallenHeroes #acomaf #acowar #amarantha #tamlin #spring court #prythian

[angelicdevil]

Commission info || Ko-Fi || Redbubble

Some more TADC OCs because I can’t stop myself. Got one more coming up, I’m really having fun with this show. A little info on each under the cut

Needle is obviously based off of Sonic, with a hint of Shadow and some Amy. Mostly Fleetway Amy. She can play the drums, and started out as an asshole because xe was scared and angry. Of course, fae has Sonic/Shadow speed and Amy super strength.

Sugar is an NPC created by Caine to give Needle a companion. He’s based off of Tails, Cream, and Chao. He’s sweet as his name implies and plays the tambourine. Needle resented him because he felt like a bandaid on a bullet wound and more responsibility, but in time she learned to love him like a brother.

Trollfany is obviously based off of the trolls toys. She’s a mean motherfucker and pretty constantly angry. Jax loves to pick on her.

Twina (pronounced Tween-ah) is VERY clumsy and anxious. She’s nice though

Abstractica is me wanting to make a character based off of abstract paintings. It might or might not be the first to have abstracted I haven’t decided. Either way, it has also been here a long time. Bun doesn’t really see zemself as a person anymore, or at least not human. Not in a demeaning way though.

Beansworth is another obvious one based off beanie babies. She’s very nice and cuddly, he loves giving and receiving hugs for therapeutic reasons. They’re also lighter than their size would imply so it’s not really that strong.

Monstilda is based off of Monster High dolls, so I kind of just combined as many different dolls as I could. She’s the youngest at 18, and was close to their 19th birthday. She’s a rather crafty person, and sometimes uses Bob like molding clay. He loves it.

Lady Bot is another version of my AT oc, based off of Murder Drones designs. She was another programmer at C&A and is the second longest player resident next to Kinger by a significant margin. She has very limited admin permissions so she can solve rather small or cosmetic problems.

Alyssa is Bot’s first NPC creation. She’s incredibly anxious and a bit of a mama’s girl. She’s also often seen with her younger brother

Glitch is absolutely a Mama’s boy, being Bot’s younger child. He really likes sweaters and can be given treats in exchange for favors, like odd jobs or bringing something. Jax sometimes drags him into his pranks. He thinks Jax is funny, though he doesn’t like it when he’s overly mean and the others try to not let Jax be a bad influence on his impressionable mind.

#art #artists on tumblr #illustration #the amazing digital circus #tadc oc #hedgehog oc #chao oc #toy oc #troll oc #fairy oc #monster high oc #dragon oc #robot oc #android oc #needle the hedgehog #sugar #trollfany #twina #abstractica #beansworth #monstilda and bob #lady not #alyssa android #glitch