#-> wand get!
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minus-world-of-love · 4 months ago
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Fall themed ask game? Fall themed ask game!
🍁: What are your favorite things about this season, and what are your F/O's?
🌧️: What's your favorite/ideal way to spend a rainy day together?
🎞️: If you have movie nights, what kind of films do you enjoy watching with your F/O?
🕸️: If dressing up in costumes for Halloween, what would your costumes be? Do you two do matching costumes?
🎃: How would carving pumpkins with your F/O go? What do you think their's would look like?
🕯: Who’s more likely to stay up later at night while the other's fast asleep?
🕷️: As it gets colder and more bugs enter your home, who's the one that deals with them?
🥧: What are you and your F/O's favorite Fall sweet treats? (Bonus: if homemade, do you make them together?)
🧦: Who puts their cold hands/feet on the other when cuddling? Unannounced, even?
🌬️: Does your F/O enjoy the cooler weather, or will they miss the warmth of Summer?
🪟: When on public transport, like on a bus or a train, who usually hogs sits by the window?
🔥: Who gets colder easier? And who warms them up?
📀: What songs would be on a Fall themed playlist for your self-ship?
🌄: If you were picking out each other’s outfits for the day, what would your F/O pick for you, and what would you pick for them?
🧥: When outside together on a chilly day, who offers their jacket when the other gets cold?
👻: What are your F/O's and your thoughts on ghosts? Do either of you believe in them or not?
🍊: What does your F/O smell like? Are there any scents you specifically associate with them?
🐌: Do you get along well with your F/O's family?
🌻: Who holds the umbrella for the other when walking in the rain?
🧸: When one of you is feeling down, how does your F/O cheer you up, and how do you cheer them up?
☕️: What are you and your F/O's favorite hot drinks?
🍂: Who's more likely to collect pretty autumn leaves and gift them to the other when on a walk together?
🪐: What small quirks does your F/O have that you love, and what quirks do you have that your F/O loves?
🍯: Between the two of you, who has the bigger sweet tooth?
🌰: What are your favourite hobbies/indoor activities to do together?
⛺️: Do you and your F/O enjoy going on camping trips together? Have either of you gone on a camping trip before?
🦇: What animals do you associate with your F/O, and which ones do they associate with you?
🌙: Do you remember your first Halloween with your F/O? What was it like and what did you do?
💭: If you've ever had a dream(s) about your F/O before, do you remember what happened in them?
📺: Who is more likely to cry when watching sad scenes in movies/TV shows?
🧡: Since it’s a funny and somewhat heated topic, do you think your F/O would enjoy candy corn?
🌾: On a date to the farmers market, what sort of things do you and your F/O buy?
🦔: If you and your F/O have kids, what's your favorite activity to do with them around this time of year?
🫶: What’s something you find the most comforting about your F/O and your ship with them?
🍄🤎: Free pass to gush about anything you want!
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mochasucculent · 1 month ago
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Was looking at refs and since Viktor has two different leg braces I was wondering, do we think he wears them simultaneously?? The refs don't perfectly line up perspective-wise so it's hard to tell but parts of the one he wears during the Hexcore scenes look like they could maybe line up with the brace that he wears over his clothes, but also some parts really don't and look like they'd be super uncomfy. Also HOW does he take these on and off. Experts weigh in
#viktor#arcane#ig my assumption would be that he wears both simultaneously cause in the scene where he injects the shimmer#it seems implied that he just threw off his clothes and kept experimenting#so one might assume he was already wearing the smaller one underneath#tho it is a funny image to think of him just being like 'one sec i gotta go all the way home and grab my other brace to do this'#he can take off the back brace too cause hes not wearing it in the scene where he's in the hospital bed and you can see his shoulder#where the strap would be#but that one seems to make even less sense functionality wise#everything looks like its screwed together#or screwed INTO him#but only the top bolts on his spine are i think#in the close ups of his back brace model it looks like theres cushioning underneath the parts of it that cover the rest of his spine#so he can take it off. but HOW#what parts of it unscrew/detatch to pull open and off#does it not do that at all and he just has to shimmy it off his shoulder and all the way down his legs to get it off like a romper#the shape language of the designs are cool but like. tell me how it wooorrkkksss#forgive me if im just dumb and dont know at all how braces work and theres a very simple practical explanation for all this#any king who wants to infodump about mobility aids at me....the floor is yours#something to be said i suppose about the fact that zaunites have crazy prosthetics with wild augmentations that work flawlessly#and piltover's like. idk heres some fucking uncomfortable ass metal. salo gets wheelchair in non ada compliant place#they havent ever needed to adapt to accommodate disabilities etc etc#or maybe artists were just like 'heres a design' and everybody clapped and didnt give it a second thought#and then they just turned off the visibility on the mesh when they didnt need it knowing thered not be a scene where its taken off#dont even wanna THINK about what that rig would look like#like 40 different controllers#soft body and rigid hard surfaces needing to move together....#a cold chill just shot up my spine#<- guy who is only an animator and doesnt know how to rig#forgive the magic wand tool with zero cleanup. i am lazy
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deweyduck · 3 months ago
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@easthigh's wiztober 2024 event 🔮 week four: beyond
↳ 2008 vs. 2024
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cubbihue · 4 months ago
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A common misconception about Fairy Crowns is that it indicates the emotions a Fairy has. This is not true. A Fairy's Crown is purely an indication of their magical energy, as magic is directly connected to their health.
A crown losing its form is an indication that the flow of their magic is fluctuating, which humans often mistaken it as high emotions. Humans should be wary of Fairies with visible fluctuating magic, as it can mean that they are about to impulsively use magic in an erratic or dangerous manner.
Thankfully, crowns cannot do direct harm to others, and Fairies cannot do magic without a wand! Take their wand, and they won't do you harm!!
Bitties Series: [Start] > [Previous] > [Next]
Instability: [Start] > [Previous] > [Next]
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drgnflyteabox · 11 days ago
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red ochre [4]
series masterlist previous || part four -> orchil || part five -> kermes
pairing: viking goap x fem! nun reader summary: double-edged swords, field trips, and wolf figurines w.c: 4.2k tags/warnings: religious & sexual guilt / shame, stockholm syndrome, inner turmoil, suicidal thoughts (minor), violent thoughts, oral (f), dubcon/noncon, stockholm syndrome, reader says "stop" / "no" but johnny continues, reader has some puritanical ideas about sex (virtue, virginity) but shes a nun so give her a break, power imbalance, thoughts of death/afterlife, self hatred, "little" used affectionately not as a size indicator lol
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You wake up to the sound of a childs’ babbles the next morning, disoriented and confused - had sister Margery taken in another orphan girl to raise up in the convent? The softness of the bed beneath you betrays your confusion, rocking you slowly into reality as you blearily open your eyes.
Johnny sits at the table, cooing to a baby on his knee. He bounces them as they make sounds, soft happy ones that contrast with his muscles and scars and hair. In your observation of him you think about how a man so coarse-looking could be so soft to lay against, how he could go from sweet to firmer than stone in a moment. How his hands held you down not two days past, and soothed the skin that still ached as you shifted in bed now.
A conflicted series of emotions had risen in you since, and though something had calmed inside you, the primary tide was a pervasive sense of shame and it tended to overpower everything else.
“Who's that?” Johnny says, his voice high-pitched. “Is that my wife?”
He's cooing to the child, but still you burn and twist with too many things to dwell on lest you go mad.
Simon is nowhere to be found, but that's not been unusual in these winter mornings.
“Who's this?” You murmur, sitting up. Your woolen shift is warm, a soft red colour dyed by one of the village women that Johnny told you he'd traded for specially. Red ochre, he’d said, fingering the cloth. A beautiful muted red kind of colour.
A little like dried blood.
“Gaz's bairn,” Johnny says. “His house is gettin’ invaded by some rowdy boys, and the lasses’ are at the river.” 
He must see the confusion on your face, because he adds, “boys are gettin’ ready for a hunting party.”
The baby shrieks, clapping clumsily as Johnny lifts a carved wooden toy up to them. He crinkles his eyes, looking between you and the baby. You want to discourage whatever thoughts he's having, so you stand and move to the fire, away from his wandering blues.
“Should I make something?” You don't dare look at him.
“So sweet of ye,” Johnny hums. “The baby eats eggs.”
You nod.
As you steadily become more awake, thoughts begin to cloud your mind.
Guilt is strange; it spreads like a plague, tainting anything you've decided to take some control of. Cooking, chores, talking cautiously with the men or allowing your heart to soften. The poison has grown from your first peak, spreading outward from your core and into your mind, leaving you worse off.
Simon hadn't done anything else, nor had Johnny. You'd cooked them lunch and breakfast, asked for sewing equipment for mending and receiving it promptly after. From Gaz's woman, Johnny had said. She says hello. Any contact outside of Johnny or Simon hadn't once crossed your mind, especially not since having sat on Simon's lap at the feast like a prize.
But you were a prize, a stolen woman, taken to wife. However you spun the narrative it was hard to get past that fact and harder still to get past that it might fulfill something inside you that nothing else could or could've. That perhaps you were tainted, and the taking had been because they saw it in you somehow. Sniffed the false servant of God as you worked, not anything by coincidence but guided by some instinct that told them you were just as bad.
Your little book, the one you missed dearly, the one piece of physical evidence that damned you. 
Though God had never spoken to you back, you'd imagined in the convent that when you passed he'd simply show you the blasphemous, lustful evidence of your filthy mind and send you to burn.
Now you knew that He wouldn't have to do that. You'd simply burn without any chance, damned worse now by your treacherous cunt.
“-nun? Where's my little nun gone?” You turn, startled. The eggs are crisp, and darkening by the second.
You hurry to pull them out of the hot fat as Johnny watches you, still cooing and bouncing. 
“Sorry,” you slide him a nearly burnt egg. “Can the baby still eat them?”
 “Should be fine,” he tears the egg with his fingers, offering tiny pieces.
It's hard, but not too tough or burnt. Just browned, fried and crispy. You wonder if this could count as a sin, how nearly wasting food would weigh against coming on the fingers of a viking heathen.
The hopelessness gets you sometimes, gets you as you try to sleep and in moments like these. What option do you have? Adapt, or what? Sure, it's probably better to take advantage of their lack of extreme violence and make your predicament as best as possible, especially without an escape route and without the strength to fight them. 
You feel watched, judged, observed on all sides. Giving in and navigating how to be a viking wife might be better than resisting forever, but the unseen eye of divine judgement and its gaze rests heavily on you. In fact, it's like it seeps into you through your skin and connects with the shame to compound both feelings.
“There she goes again,” Johnny says, but you hear him this time.
“I'm here,” you say. The baby smacks their lips, enjoying the egg despite its texture.
“No ye aren't,” his blue eyes are piercing, cutting through the fog of unease. “Ye getting all worked up again? I better not catch ye out back again.”
You shake your head, though he's right to think that way. Cleansing yourself has been on the back of your mind, not only the holy kind but what they can bring you with a different kind of force. 
There's the sprout of desire that's grown bigger and bigger, as if some dry seed had always resided inside you and they had watered it back to life.
“I'm not,” you finally say, though too much time has passed and it's clear Johnny doesn't believe you.
The door opens and you're saved by the interruption. A new anxiety forms as multiple people enter, curling suddenly like a hook. Simon, Gaz, Gaz's wife and Price step in.
“Tyra,” Gaz says. “Where's my little Tyra?”
The baby shrieks again, reaching her hands out. You see the resemblance to both Gaz and her mother now, seeing them up close again. She claps for Gaz, her mother behind him and smiling at you gently.
“How are ye, Kari?” 
“I'm well, thank you,” Kari says. She's always so soft, so glowy every time you see her. No wonder Gaz has scooped her up, you think you'd have also planted a baby in her belly if you were both able and a viking. Such thoughts sometimes arrested you at random in the convent, admiring the other women and dismissing them as silly. 
You try not to put more weight into them now, as it doesn't serve your predicament. 
But still, you admire Kari. 
“And you?” her eyes soften.
“Well,” you parrot. There’s no way to explain how unwell you really are - or how your well-ness is causing that unwellness. It's confusing enough for you.
“She's settling in,” Simon says. He's trading looks like Price, whose beard is becoming a little overgrown.
Gaz takes Tyra, who babbles happily. For a moment it's like this place isn't all evil and temptation, but also love and care. It's easy to get lost in the image of Gaz and Kari making kissy faces to Tyra, who is unknowing of the world and happy to be in it.
They don't linger long. There are words exchanged that you don't pay attention to, hands clapped and Tyra kissed goodbye. You learn that she's nearly two, still a baby but getting bigger. Price teases the couple about their next as they leave, making Kari laugh a hearty laugh that fills you with warmth.
It evaporates a little when you're left with Simon and Johnny and silence, the atmosphere changing to something unfamiliar. This boundary you'd crossed with them has left you someplace awkward, with you mostly lost in your head.
Simon is good at getting you out of that space, but he's been gone often since the incident and Johnny's intensity tends to push you further inward.
He comes up behind you, now, and sets his heavy hands on your shoulders.
“She been like this all day?” He asks Johnny, who hums affirmatively.
Simon leans down, lips brushing the top of your head, hands squeezing your shoulders, before he pulls you backwards into his torso.
“Your god speaking to ya?” He asks. 
“No,” you say honestly. “He's silent.”
“Silent, eh?” There's a chuckle, then two. They're heathens, you remind yourself. Heathens.
“Lamb, why don't ye spend some time with the wee lady Tyra?” Johnny scoots forward on the bench, touches your knee, smiles.
“Might do you some good,” Simon agrees. “‘specially since we're goin’ on a hunt.”
You pause.
“A hunt?”
Johnny nods. 
“I'll be stayin’ behind,” he says. “Watch our little nun.”
Simon finally sits behind you, hands sliding from your shoulders to the softness of your upper arms, still squeezing.
“It's past time,” Simon says quietly behind you. He explains the yearly hunt, the walrus in the right location, the ivory they will sell and the oil they will gain for use. There's a whisper of something there, maybe longing, maybe not. You can't tell, not with his aloofness. He's closed off as a default, but he rubs your arms like he's comforting you and you decide to take it as such.
There's nothing left for you to say, so you just nod. You're still trying to resist taking on an intimate role, a wifely role, something that will make them think you've given up. You haven't yet, you might not. You have options, even if they're unpleasant or permanent. 
A shiver passes through you. That isn't what you want. You're stuck, but you have to rationalize: it isn't what you thought it would be.
You've felt good. You feel good now. The remaining pain comes from the twisting, growing shame that slowly turns in a circle and ensnares your insides.
That, and the taking. It still feels unfair, feels wrong. If you think on it too hard you start to feel like a thing, not a person.
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Johnny seems regretful that night, a mix of pride and love for Simon warring with his need to stay home with you. He sleeps in the middle, leaving you near the wall and opting to join hands with Simon through the night. These moments humanize them to you as well – to your distress, and to your softening. 
They love each other in the way you've seen some of the villagers love each other, in the way that love is universal; it's a little different, because they're different, but it's tender nonetheless. 
Love is luck, you think. Luck enough to find someone to be tender with in a world that is hard to live in, that is so utilitarian, so survival dependent. 
Simon leaves the next morning with a group of hunters. Price leads the pack of them, slapping the backs of some of the younger ones who for them it'll be their first or second winter hunt, encouraging them. It's a mixed group with both men and women, younger and older, seasoned and green. 
You stand beside Johnny at the door, watching the group move through the village until they are gone. Johnny tells you that they’ll ride horses, but they’re further out. Lest we smell the horse shite, he laughs. Got enough on our plate with Si. The joke has a thread of longing in it.
You’ve never been truly alone with either of them, you realize. Sure, a few hours here and there, but never for the days that Simon plans to be gone. Never slept alone with either of them.
Simon has been somewhat of a buffer, even if he’s the one who initiated the incident and carried it out. He balances the infinite well of restlessness Johnny has.
It’s frightening and comforting all at once. For one, you don’t feel like a bug pinned by its wings, even if that means you’re even more anchor-less than before. Simon is solid despite his surliness, and without him to steady the dynamic you worry.
“Ah dinnae know what to make,” Johnny bemoans. He wants to prepare some kind of gift as a surprise. “Already got too many statues.”
“Statues?” you ask, tilting your head towards him.
“Aye,” he nods, moving to a far corner of the house. He produces a little leather pouch, then little carved wooden figurines. One of them is a wolf, the other a bird.
“You made this?” you take one delicately in your hand, as if it would break. Statues, he said. They’re cute, clearly having been made with care.
Turning the wolf in your hand, you admire the polished shine of the wood.
“Aye,” he says again. “Si’s got too many.”
He spends a portion of the day puttering about, stoking the fire, sharpening various tools. You can’t tell if he’s restless because Simon is gone, or if you hadn’t noticed his restless nature as much because Simon was his outlet.
An urge rises in you, that screaming urge you know more intimately than anything else, awakened and restless like a hungry beast – it stirs as Johnny stokes the fire, crouched and with his back to you.
The only way to go if not out is in and you won’t. Push him in, you think. If you want out, push him in. 
But you won't. There’s darkness at the core of you to be sure, but not that kind of darkness. Not the kind both he and Simon are steeped in. Violence, sadism maybe.
That would make you the other side of the coin. 
The same swirling pattern of thoughts plague you even as Johnny serves you fish and more turnip for dinner, even as he pulls you into bed for that night and wraps himself around you.
You want to kick. To scream. To have a fit. Some insane, perverse fit; something that would have earned you an exorcism or an execution in the village. These thoughts come unbidden to you as you try not to feel the grasp of Johnny’s hand to your waist, nor the scruff of his beard on your throat. 
Your identity has shifted, already. You aren't dead inside, not anymore. Not hoping for some outer force to take you away.
An outer force has taken you, and now you wrestle with the ramifications on your spirit.
It's unclean now, surely. But hadn't it always been?
Hadn't you willed this?
Happy faces appear in your mind. Kari. Tyra. Gaz. Price. Johnny. Simon is too hard to read, but the way he treats Johnny is enough to convey some kind of contentment.
And then the look at breakfast. The baby. Johnny’s gentle cooing, his attention. Simon’s hands squeezing you, reassuring you.
They contribute to the degradation of your spirit, to each rend of the glue that has held you together since first consciousness.
You try to hold onto the fear from before. Their words from before – behave and we won’t kill you. Does that still apply? Are you still under an ever present, looming threat? Were they only trying to get you moving? 
Some part of you shudders to realize that it doesn’t feel that way. Even when they had sprung it on you to marry you, you hadn’t felt the same mortal fear as when they had absconded with you. 
No, it had been hurt. Disappointment. The fear had shifted with your identity, staying present but becoming unfamiliar.
The you that they had taken was unfamiliar too. She’d have never built snowmen, nor ground her pussy into the hand of a viking and relaxed into another’s hold as you are now.
You wanted to live, you think. Even then.
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A couple days pass. Johnny finally finds a suitable enough gift for Simon, a double edged blade he’s carving and sharpening.
The sight of it makes something tighten in your chest, so you avoid looking at it.
Between you both, it’s less awkward than you worried about. You come to a different understanding of him, one that comes from watching his independence without Simon. They truly do fit together, you think. Complement each other.
What about you? Are you here for them to have other options? A cunt, you think crudely. Something that gets wet without extra effort, something easy. You’ve certainly not made it hard. The thought puts you in another stink, frowning down at the pair of linen summer pants you’d found and started to mend.
“What’s this face ye got on?” Johnny steps up to you, setting the heavy blade on the table, and sitting.
You don’t speak, you just sew. Are you just a womb? Is that it?
“Awe, lamb,” he leans forward, hands finding the tops of your thighs and leaning on them. “So sour.”
When you still don’t respond, he reaches to take your sewing. You lose some bearing and prick him with the needle, frissy that he’s trying to take you out of your ruminations.
Provocative.
“Och,” he waves his hand, then laughs. “Prickly, are we?”
He forces the fabric from your hands, squeezing your hand until it opens with the needle and thread. You make some kind of irritated sound, like a growling cat, still half in reality and half in your mind.
“Ye’ve been stuck,” he pokes your forehead. “Stuck here, eh? Let me fix that.”
And then you’re pulled up to your feet, steered to the bed, and pushed before you can adapt.
“Simon’ll have’tae forgive me,” he murmurs. You’re sat on the edge, looking down at him with a frown.
“What-” you make a strange, caught off guard squeaking sound as he pushes you by the shoulders, lifting the edge of your dress.
“Sh,” he says sharply. “Should’a done this days ago.”
“Wait- don’t-” you slam your knees shut, trying to sit back up. Something sharp you can’t name explodes outwards from your chest, sharp spikes pricking your lungs and your heart, twisting.
Your struggle is mostly futile, though it’s easier that Simon isn’t here. Your arms flail, your legs scoot you away up the bed.
“Noo-” you try again. Your fear stems mostly from the uncertainty of what he’ll do, of the fear that he’ll steal the last true thing you have; your virtue. 
“Relax,” he strong-arms you into lying down, arms crossed at your chest and his huge hand keeping them pushed down.
He positions himself parallel to you, replacing his hand with his bigger knee, his face right where he wants it.
“Ye should’ve asked me, lamb,” he murmurs, then kisses the hair above your pussy. Your stomach tightens, breath coming out in strained gasps from the combined weight of his knee and your shame.
You’re wet.
“I won’t smack ye if I don’t have tae,” he says. His hands rub up your hips, then your thighs, before coming up to your pussy and spreading your lips open.
Your clit strains in the open air, a cool breeze from the gaps in the door making it jump. He watches for a moment, cruelly, listening to the sound of your laboured breathing.
Then he dives in, tongue first. Because of the angle, his tongue dips down towards your hole while his lower lip catches your clit, making you gasp.
“Let me,” he hums, pauses. “Let me take care of ye, lamb.”
And God, he does. Johnny licks over you like a starved man, sucking your labia before flicking the tip of his tongue over your clit again as sounds come out of you like someone is pounding a fist into your chest.
He slurps your wetness obscenely, using his fingers to scoop whatever leaks from your hole as best he can and bringing them to his mouth to suck clean. He murmurs fervently about how good you taste, how he can smell the desperation from you.
“So neglected,” he sucks the wetness from your hair, even. “Forgive me.”
He’s talking to your cunt again, leaving you trembling against the bed and tightening, tightening, rising, rising–
He stops. 
You damn near scream, but the sound gets trapped where he’s still putting his weight on you.
“I’m gonnae move, and yer gonnae stay right there all sweet for me, aren’t ye?” he turns to look at you, and though you can hardly see him you nod.
He lifts off, making you grunt involuntarily, then switches positions so he’s on his hands and knees nearly on top of you.
“Open those legs,” he says. Leans down to kiss your sternum over the fabric of your dress. “Let me ease yer mind.”
You can feel yourself falling further from grace, but God help you – you open your legs.
Johnny keeps eye contact as he slides down, getting on his stomach with those piercing blue eyes cutting through you.
When his mouth touches your cunt again, you feel yourself start to shake, growing more insane by the second. His tongue touches your hot, swollen flesh, dragging wetly against everything sensitive. He’s like an animal, you think. A heathen. No wonder these people have not seen God’s light. No wonder it does not reach here.
Something so sinful, so good, couldn’t possibly exist in the puritanical world you’d been taken from.
God, you think again, body twisting against the sheets, is this really what they kept from us?
“Please,” you cry out. Please stop? Please continue? It’s a plea for more than just Johnny, more than God. It’s a question that burrows deep in your mind and begs you to understand yourself, to untangle, to feel and release.
And oh, you’re breathing, breathing in, breathing in perhaps for the first time in your life. You wrench his hair in your fists, uncaring, screaming into the cold winter afternoon without a care. Your back arches, tilting your cunt further into his face, legs straining, gushing. Blood rushes in your ears, deafening you, once again turning the world into a small point where you can neither hear nor see.
All you can do is feel, ride, undulate. This is that fit you’d wanted earlier, it’s some insane hysteria, some sin that feels like ecstasy. 
Your nipples tighten, stimulated by the chill of the air and the scratch of your woolen dress. Your peak is maddening, drawn-out and pushed further by Johnny’s lips suctioned around your clit and sucking in hard.
The moment you truly finish, when the stimulation turns to discomfort, you release his hair and push at his head.
“Stop,” you gasp. “Stop it.”
He doesn’t. His hands find your thighs, holding you open, running his tongue from your clit and then piercing it into your hole. His nose rubs on you, and though tears spill from your eyes you grind into it, crying for him to end it.
“One more,” he grunts.
“No,” you moan. Then you peak again, mouth open in a silent scream and eyes screwing shut, the fusion of sharp, near-painful pleasure and actual, overstimulated pain brings you a climax you could have never imagined of on your own.
You weep again as he pulls away, feeling raw and tender. 
Boneless.
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You wake in the middle of the night bundled and in both furs and arms. You’re pleasantly sore, pulsing a little still between your legs where Johnny’s thigh keeps you company. He’s so warm, so comfortable, that it’s easy for you to fall back asleep.
You wake again in the early morning, so early that the light of dawn hasn't yet breached the cabin.
Johnny snuffles behind you. Nose on your shoulder, hands migrating to rest just below your breasts.
“Mmmlamb,” he murmurs.
Your muscles are heavy, still. Weighed down with relaxation. It's true that you had gotten worked up, and that his actions had helped. You don't find any shame, not now. You've found a rare pocket of respite.
Simon is due back in a day or two unless there are extenuating circumstances. A winter storm, maybe. Or an errant predator. 
What would life look like if he never returned? It’s an uncomfortable thought. You’re still on the edge of how you feel, teetering between extremes, but you rely on them both for survival.
Where could you go? Even when you’d ran, the plan had been borne of heart, not mind. Without Simon or Johnny, you’d be in a terrible precarious situation.
Without Simon permanently? You weren’t sure.
You very slowly extricate yourself from Johnny’s arms, sliding out of bed and into the cold air. The fire is just coals, so you add a few pieces of wood and stoke it for the day. In the dark, you can see the reflection of the fire in the sword Johnny had left on the table.
You pad to it, staring, curious and afraid. It looked orange from the fire, only darker. It looked like your beautiful red ochre dress, your blood dress.
You reach your fingers out and stroke along the blade, breathing shallowly in the dark.
Dawn breaks.
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aliettali · 3 months ago
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skilltober day 8: inland empire
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uncharted-constellations · 4 months ago
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Cdiverse i love u unironically
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myokk · 4 months ago
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escaping madame scribner🫶
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formulanni · 3 months ago
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Esteban Ocon as the Knight of Wands:
This person is a man of action - he represents the manifestation of an idea and the passionate pursuit of a vision. Because this person is highly focused on action, he can also be brash, impulsive and unrealistic.
This card embodies high energy, enthusiasm, and a willingness to take on challenges. The Knight of Wands encourages us to embrace our ambitions and pursue work that aligns with our passions. However, it also cautions against hasty decision-making and advises careful research and planning for long-term success.
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Tag list: @st-leclerc @rubywingsracing @saviour-of-lord @three-days-time @the-wall-is-my-goal @albonoooo @ch3rubd0lls @brawngp2009
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ihatebrainstorm · 1 year ago
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[Medicine]
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"The Caduceus. Commonly mixed up with the Rod of Asclepius."
Guys I think it'd be really funny if Pharma and Ratchet had the same voice
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minus-world-of-love · 3 months ago
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shrimpalbuspotter · 7 months ago
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Imagining some pompous rich kid coming to Hogwarts a few years late and having one goal in mind: Befriend the richest people in his year.
Just to find out that the two richest people in his year, aka the two richest families at Hogwarts, are Albus Potter and Scorpius Malfoy. Complete utter losers, outcasted from even their own house, and currently giggling to eachother while picking out their bags that had been thrown into the black lake.
Maybe networking isn't that important...
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azurityarts · 1 year ago
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go read PMD: The Rogue Team by @teeterarting now
textless edits here!
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erin is so wonderful and tabor is such a cheeky bastard your honour they are awesome i love them both so much
Reading this comic is like watching an anime; it's so wonderfully drawn and put together AND we get super engaging characters and a fantastically crafted world? Loving seeing this comic come to be, and ever-excited to see where it'll go! Check it out if you haven't!
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starcrossedbrothers · 11 days ago
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lately i can't stop thinking about sirius living in that cave in hogsmede during goblet of fire. like. did he stay a man or stay as padfoot? did the hogsmede inhabitants just accept a large stray dog wandering around? did they feed him scraps, give him a pat? or did they think he was the grim, turn away? i keep picturing padfoot curled up on someone's back doorstep, listening to the voices inside, to the quiet life he could have had. what if the only times he bothered to turn back into a human was when he was reading harry's letters and writing him back. what then
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cubbihue · 3 months ago
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have a quick doodle of chimmy changa using an inaccurately drawn guitar or smnth.
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curiouslymyown · 15 days ago
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James is the kind of guy who has a lightsaber and be sickeningly good at weaponising it
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