#Ink-Dipped Advice

[devonellington]

Wed. Jan. 17, 2024: A Half Snow Day

image courtesy of uknowgayle via pixabay.com Wednesday, January 17, 2024 Waxing Moon Uranus Retrograde Cloudy and Cold The photo above is not one I took, but it looks very much like what things looked like around here yesterday (and even this morning). Over on Ink-Dipped Advice, I have a post about creating LOIs that get attention. You can read it here. Today, we have two serial episodes…

[iloveboysinred]

Under the Canopy [Firelord Zuko]

Mdni 18+ content | Firelord! Zuko x Reader

Synopsis; Being Firelord had been taking up all your husband’s time. It was hard trying to be a supportive wife by keeping your own desires to yourself.

cw; fem!reader, sexually explicit content, messy oral sex (giving and receiving), fluffy smut, smut with feelings. P in V sex, two seconds of subby Zuko if you squint, split second of overstimulating the firelord, slight mentions of exhibitionism, kinda long and written by an amateur. ;<

; 3291 words

Masterlist

Sorry for the way the paragraphs are formatted, apparently tumblr’s servers cant handle long paragraphs 😒

GIF by @/choschang

It was quiet in the Fire Nation tonight.

You sat by Zuko’s study in your shared room, watching him work. He was writing letters in response to the leaders of the other nations, addressing their concerns as well as handling issues within his own nation. It took all his focus, brush in his hand sliding around on the parchment with precision. While you, left quiet and nothing to do, occasionally took the time to study him. His brow furrowed in concentration as he wrote, his steady hand occasionally pausing to dip his brush in the ink to continue writing on the scroll. The task seemed so simple, but you could see in his eyes he was beginning to grow tired. Zuko has been up long nights as well as enduring equally as draining meetings with diplomats, generals, and his advisors, all in the name of restoring peace to the world, and honor to the Fire-Nation. After the 100-year war, the burden of his forefather’s mistakes fell on Zuko and Aang, working restlessly to reverse 100 years of oppression, which of course, was no easy task. Paired with the uprising of rebellions, and the daunting task of earning the trust of his people and the whole world, being Firelord has kept your husband occupied and stressed.

Many times you found yourself in the same exact place you are now, leaning over the edge of the desk, offering little comments of advice and correcting his grammar, ignoring his occasional demands you get your rest. These long nights were the only alone time you and your husband could enjoy together right now, even if its just you sitting by his side quietly as he worked. Occasionally he would reach over and tangle his fingers with yours, squeezing your hand to let you know he appreciated your presence.

Your heart craved more than gentle hand squeezes and rushed pecks here and there, you missed the warmth of your husband. Many nights you’d lay alone in your extravagant bed, longing for the tender love and passionate touches only Zuko could provide. The silk red and maroon bedsheets reminding you of your husband’s insatiable appetite for your body. Your mind wandered back to your first few nights as newlyweds, when Zuko fucked you on any surface he could hold you up against. His hips rocking into yours hastily, pussy drunk and inexperienced, making his pace desperate. But by the time night had fallen, he had gained plenty of practice on exactly how to please you, making sweet love to you under the stars, not caring how loud you were or who saw you.

You rubbed your hand up the side of your neck, once constantly covered in angry red and purple marks. All gifted from your needy husband who couldn’t keep his lips off of your skin. You sighed, shifting your position on the chair you had taken next to the study. You tried to shake off the creeping arousal you started to feel in your core.

Zuko had to work. It would be selfish to interrupt him.

But you couldn’t help but want to be selfish. The bed behind you looked emptier than it has ever been. The duvet crisply folded over top of the cool, silk red sheets underneath pressed to perfection, not a single wrinkle in sight. Your soft, elegant pillows perfectly arranged in various shades of burgundy and red. All sitting on top of a strong, oak bed frame. A huge tapestry of the fire nation insignia hanging from the wall. Your gaze seemed to stick to the canopy you had specifically asked your husband to have built for you. The thick curtains now tied neatly to their posts. You pictured the lazy mornings you had with Zuko, your legs spread and comfortably resting on his shoulders, his head buried in between your thighs sloppily getting his fill of you. You’d thread your fingers through his hair, lightly grinding your pussy onto his face, urging his tongue deeper. Those very same curtains blocking out the morning light, letting you and Zuko enjoy a little more time with each other.

“Y/n? Cant you hear me talking to you??” bringing you back to the present, you tried to give your husband your undivided attention, your thighs clenched together, your undergarments now damp from your heated arousal. Those filthy thoughts of your husband making your heart race and your clit pulse. “Are you tired or something?” He asked you, tenderly reaching over to place his warm hand on your knee. You jolted at the contact, confusing your lover, who gave you a sideways glance before moving his hand to grasp yours, now resting on your thigh. “N-no i’m not tired baby. I’m just…reminiscing.” Zuko narrowed his eyes at your response, piercing gold looking straight into your soul. “About what?” He questioned, rubbing circles around the back of your palm. The warmth of his hand on your skin made your body tingle. “Well, i’m just thinking about our honeymoon…how I used to have you all to myself. Now it feels like I can barley get two minutes alone with you..” A knowing look overcame Zuko’s face, and you thanked the spirits your husband could read you so well to know what you meant without having to say too much. His cheeks flushed lightly, not expecting an answer of that nature and you smiled warmly at him. He never stopped being bashful, despite being well aquatinted with your needs and desires by now.

“Its okay though, my love. I know you’re busy nowadays. I wouldn’t want you to abandon your duties because of me-“ “come here, love” Zuko interrupted your rambling, pulling his chair away from the study and beckoning you over to sit on his lap. He spread his thighs as you sat down, giving you room to get comfortable. You clung to his robes, and he wrapped his arm around your back, holding you steady against his chest. His other hand rested at your thigh, rubbing and squeezing the soft skin. You felt your clit pulsing between your legs. You were so close to your husband’s dick, resting just under you. The only thing separating you from him being the thick robes that he adorned, and the thin fabric of your panties, now clinging to the damp skin of your pussy. Zuko caressed your back, pressing slow kisses up the length of your shoulder and neck. Nuzzling his nose against your cheek, his warm breath fanned across your skin, you melt into his embrace, breathing out in contentment.

“Tell me exactly what you remember about our honeymoon.” He murmured, sighing blissfully as you threaded your fingers through his hair. You flushed, timidly hiding your face in his neck as you recounted the filthy thoughts you had been thinking about just minutes before. “Well..i was thinking about the first night on Ember Island” you mumbled, moaning when you felt Zuko sucking on your neck, already attempting to leave a hickey on the skin of your throat. “ mmm..mind telling me the details?” His raspy voice made your heart skip a beat, light breaths escaped you as Zuko continued kissing your jaw, his other hand creeping up your thigh, causing your night dress to hike up, the fabric bunching up around your hips. You stilled as his hand ghosted over the skin of your inner thigh, dangerously close to your core. “I was thinking about how you put me up against the wall.. you fucked me so good that night. You always do” you breathed, shivering when you felt your husband’s finger ghosting over the flimsy panties stuck to your skin “And what else?” you barely heard him, the ache between your legs and his teasing was mind numbing. “I just miss you so much, Zuko.” you confessed, your voice was close to whiney, trying to pull at your husband’s heartstrings as much as you can. Zuko hummed, his hands tracing over the lining of your panties, thumb rubbing over the fabric covering your mound. Your breath hitched, the cotton clinging to your lips. He traced over the indent of your pussy, never once taking the soiled fabric off your skin. It was torture, the way his finger pressed slow circles over your clit, the friction of the fabric against you driving you insane. “I want you so bad baby, please” you whined, pressing yourself into his hand. You just about cried with relief when you felt your husband’s fingers slip past the band of your panties, right into your entrance. You arched your hips up, chasing the pleasure.

Zuko smirked against your neck, curling his fingers deliciously against your g-spot, his fingers moving in and out of you steadily. “Zuko..” you sighed, trying your best to fuck yourself against his hand, your hips matching the push and pull of his fingers. “Yes, my love?” He murmured against your ear, knowing exactly what you wanted. But you knew your husband. You knew he wanted you to use your words. “I want you to fuck me..” you whispered, grinding down against his semi-hard dick the best you could with his hand in the way, his thumb pressing harder against your clit. Zuko groaned at the contact, looking into your eyes, glazed over in desperate arousal, lust dancing in his own golden irises. Faster than you could even think, Zuko picked you up off his lap, hastily laying you down on your shared bed. The cooling red silk of your bedsheets felt pleasant against your heated skin. He leaned down, pressing a heated kiss against your swollen lips and you him kissed back, sloppily sucking his tongue into yours, eagerly grabbing at anything you could reach on your husband’s body. Zuko matched your fervor, with his hands running down your sides, fingers hooking onto the hem of your night dress, rolling the fabric up over your thighs and exposing your clothed sex. He pulled the flimsy fabric off with ease, slowly dragging the soaked garment off of you, discarding it somewhere you didnt see, or care. His hands grabbed the underside of your knees, pulling your legs open and pushing them up to your chest, opening you up for your husband’s hungry gaze.

He was quick, dipping his head down and pressing a wet kiss on your mound, dragging a finger up your slit to spread your pussy open, revealing your soaked folds. Your body shivered, the warm air against your clit sending shockwaves up your spine. You felt so open, completely exposed and at your husband’s mercy. Zuko wasted no time, pressing his warm lips against your clit, he suckled on the sensitive bud slowly, parting from you just to press his hand over the surface of your mound, the firm pressure causing your clitorial hood to inch back, giving your him more access to your bundle of nerves. You whined when he resumed his ministrations, devouring your pussy whole. Your body jolted when his fingers entered your heat, the pleasure almost overwhelming your senses. Zuko moaned against you, eating you like a starved man and fucking his fingers into you, curling inside of you and massaging your walls. You gripped his dark locs, hips bucking into his mouth out of reflex. A warm pool began to form in your stomach, the familiar feeling setting your nerves a light. Zuko spread your thighs, burying his face deeper into you, pulling away from your clit to replace his fingers with his tongue, tasing you whole. You gasped from the welcome intrusion, legs closing around his head, holding him still against you. But your husband was having none of it. He aggressively spread your legs open, tongue fucking you with vigor, fingers coming up to rub quick swipes over your clit. It didn’t take you long for your to reach your release, your vision going white as your body convulsed above him. Chant after chant of Zuko’s name as he continued to eat you out, riding out your high. Your chest rose and fell, your breath labored as you looked down at your husband, his hair now tousled and free from the top knot he had neatly placed it in. His chin was shining with your essence, and his pupils were blown. Even with his disheveled appearance Zuko still looked so handsome, and you felt butterflies in your stomach, just as you had when you first met him. Zuko leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to your navel, leaning up towards you and capturing your lips with his. Then he moved back down to your neck, placing feather light kisses against your skin.

A few moments later you caught your breath, your husband still cuddling against your chest, sucking marks on whatever patch of skin he desired. You tugged at his thick robes, successfully pulling the heavy fabric off your husband’s body with his help. Your eyes racked over his body, drinking in the sight of him. Zuko didn’t bother to move the robes off the bed, instead kneeling on them as he pulled his undergarments off, his hard length slipping out, tip flushed and drooling with pre cum. You pushed your hand gently against his chest, laying him back down and reaching for his dick, wrapping your hand around him. You stroked him from base to tip, twisting your wrist around the head and thumbing over his slit, rubbing his pre cum into his skin. Watching your husband shudder and lean his head back in bliss was rewarding. You lowered down to take him into your mouth, tongue flat against the side of him. Zuko sucked in a sharp breath, his hips stuttering up into your mouth at the sensation. You gazed into his eyes as you swallowed him whole. Holding your breath to stop yourself from gagging, you bobbed your head up and down his entire length, breathing through your nose as best you could. Zuko let out a drawn out moan, throwing his head back. You watched him, face hidden from your view, dark hair splayed out on the pillows. You knew exactly how to make your husband fall apart, and you loved every second. You dragged you tongue up his length, wrapping your lips around his tip and sucking, hollowing your cheeks as you bobbed your head, focusing all your efforts where he was most sensitive.

Zuko had been reduced a mess above you, whining your name out and panting, begging you to bring him to orgasm. “Oh fuck baby.. just like that”, “youre doing so good baby”, “you look so pretty sucking my dick like this” were a few of the phrases he slurred, praising you as you pleased him exactly how he liked it. Your free hand came down to cup and rub his balls. Squeezing them gently in time with your bobbing head. You swallowed him down once more, choking against his length as you bobbed your head at his base, his tip hitting the back of your throat. You swallowed around him, sending him over the edge. Zuko took a deep breath as him came, his body going rigid as he spilled into your throat. A jumbled mess of curses and your name spilled from his lips as he drowned in bliss. Eventually you pulled off him, stroking his length to milk him for everything he had. Zuko shuddered, pushing your hand off him, feeling over stimulated. But if it was one thing your husband had, it was stamina. Giving himself a few seconds to recover, he was on you again. Flipping you on your back, he wasted no time situating himself between your legs, his flushed tip rubbing poking your skin and his hair curtaining around you as his body leaned over yours. You stared up into his eyes, so many different emotions swimming between you both. Longing, lust, and love. “I love you” he mumbled, leaning down to rub his nose against yours, kissing your lips sweetly. “I love you most, Zuko” you responded, lovingly placing your hand on his cheek, his pressed a kiss to your palm before leaning back up, taking his warmth with him. The loss was soon forgotten when you felt him enter you, your walls expanding to welcome him in. You let out a low moan, wrapping your legs around his waist to bring him closer, deeper. His pace started out slow, rubbing his warm hands down your thighs as he rolled his hips into you, fucking you deep. “Zuko..” you sighed, his name seemingly being the only word your fuzzy brain can remember. “I know baby..” he leaned down towards you again, mouth pressing a kiss to your ear. “Just let me take care of you” he whispered, threading your hands together. His pace soon picked up, his hips meeting your thighs with every thrust. The weight of his body on yours felt amazing, the obscene sounds of your wetness filling the room and fueling his libido. Every thrust into your heat was filled with longing, the same desperation you had reflecting in him as he fucked you eagerly. You shuddered as your husband moaned into your ear, letting out strings of curses and praise as he lost himself in you. “Fuck baby.. i love you, i love how you feel” he slurred, reaching between your sweating bodies to rub at your clit, urging you to near your end. You cried out as you felt his dick beat against your g-spot. Your walls contracting around him, the pleasure in your core almost too much to bear.

The silky sheets under you felt suffocating, seemingly trapping the heat of your bodies. The sensations you felt becoming overwhelming. “Yes baby, yes!” You cried as he continuously hit that spot inside of you, his relentless pace driving you further and further over the edge. “You fuck me so good baby, oh fuck!”your voice reduced to whines, rolling your hips to meet his, fucking him back. “Let it out baby, give it all to me” Zuko grunted in your ear, his own release creeping up behind him. He rubbed your clit in fast circles, desperately chasing your release, as well as his. Your body went rigid as you came, the breath forced out of your lungs. Your walls squeezed and spasmed around Zuko, who bottomed out inside of you, releasing deep into your pussy. He let out a deep groan, his eyes shut tight and his eyebrow furrowed as he lost himself in pleasure. It was a sight to behold, and you considered yourself lucky to have it reserved just for you.

After a few heartbeats Zuko pulled out of you, grabbing one of the towels the maids made sure to leave on your night stand. He dipped it in the water basin, heating up his palm to warm the cloth. He cleaned you up, carefully wiping the mess up from between your legs, pulling the top sheet off the bed and throwing it somewhere on the floor. You sighed in contentment when you were in his arms again, he had taken the canopy down from its posts, the dark curtains blocking out the candle light in your room. Happiness surged through you as you snuggled into him, your back pressed to his bare chest as he tenderly pressed kisses to your shoulder blades. “That was amazing” you whispered, cuddling into his bicep and closing your eyes, enjoying the afterglow. “Yeah, it was” he murmured, wrapping his arm around your mid-section. “I’m sorry i’ve been so busy my love.” He sighed, pulling the discarded duvet over “like i said, its okay baby. Being Firelord isnt an easy job.. your nation comes first” you sleepily assured him, nodding off in the warmth of his embrace. “But you matter too..i promise i’ll make time for us. I’ll ask my advisors for more help. I’ll get through this as quick as i can” you smiled against him, bringing his hand up to press a gentle kiss on his knuckles. “Okay baby” you mumbled “i love you…” “ i love you too, y/n. So, so much” he whispered, putting out the candles in your room, tugging you closer to him. You slept peacefully that night, and in the morning your husband helped himself to another serving of you, just as he always had before.

Reblogs and notes appreciated :> hope you enjoyed!

Edited and final proofread; 04/28/24

[spurbleu]

rendezvous

ch.1 mother’s advice

[ johnny ‘soap’ mactavish x f!stripper!reader ]

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S. mother left you with very little aside from her cat, calloused advice, and a legacy at your local brothel.

warnings. shameless men, customers service industry, mentions of abuse

a/n: lore drop and y'alls first meeting :) again, slowburn so be patient

word count: ~3.2k

‧︎༚︎☉°︎༚︎‧︎༚︎✳︎☉︎︎°︎‧︎༚︎‧︎

“Only eva’ let the good lookin’ ones get dirty wich ya, darlin,”

your mama had said rather plainly one night as you fixed her tea, voice coarse under cigarette,

“no use ina ugly fuck.”

Strange, how the only good advice she had given you (alive, at least. plenty of lessons from her dead), was about sex. She’d never been gentle enough with your hair to elicit the idea she might be with her words (but being a daughter meant you hoped). So, when you buried her, outdated ramblings and boorish tongue, most of what you took with you was boneless.

You packed the vulgar with the rest of the house, strapping it to the back of your truck and hoping it would nestle in the tobacco-less walls of your new apartment (a different shade of yellow- little kinder- absent of bile). Or maybe the newer wooden floors, eroded under boot heel, sturdy still.

On arrival you discovered it had found a less subtle home. Must have been some twisted fate (a mother’s memory- hardly sweet), that your new apartment was neighbors with your town’s brothel.

Funny, how a broke, orphaned woman like yourself, sun bleached elbows and sore neck, was given an opportunity to finally test the merit of a mother’s advice.

The withering building paralleled one of her last gifts to you, a lingerie set. Old brick red, lace trim gauze between blocks. Thick straps bridging bralette to panties like the iron beams holding up a raunchy sign- Rendezvous.

Stench of sex fogged up greasy windows, drunk mumblings of wifeless (or, a more depressing thought, married) men on its porch, wearing crucifixes in bogus devotion. The oak beneath their leather was rusting by their print of dust and the grooves beneath a bottle of beer- sorrel glass broken at the foot of creaky stairs.

Recently, your old church pews found their way back to your mind. You pushed the last of your boxes through the door, knees blushing purple with guilt. No, you had decided upon arrival- you wouldn’t even look at the place.

Pig stye, you’d convinced yourself, whore house. You turned your nose to it all, prissy and ornery even as they whistled from the railings, red knuckles itching for your attention. Hasty for the day they’d see you in dusk light, starting your shift. Only for you to leave them, day after day, cockdumb and unsatisfied.

And you had been doing so well, too.

That was until you opened the envelope- your mother’s allowance. The one useful thing that the drunken, deceased mess of a women could’ve given your hopeless soul. Magnum Opus of her faulty motherhood, forgiven with just some fucking money.

But she was always more complicated than that, wasn’t she. Peaking from the back of the white fold was, indeed, that wonderful, faded green of cash- but in front of it was a depressing beige- capitalized by black ink.

Girl,

Leave this apartment to you, take care of the old thing. That brothel knows me likes me; they’ll give you a job. Make yourself some real money, use my looks, darling. Be good. without me

Much love,

Mother.

You tossed the note aside before your hungry fingers tore the dip of the paper apart- revealing, and you counted a dozen times to be sure, sixteen dollars.

Sixteen dollars is what you’re worth. Cheap cattle at a fair, squalid men drooling as your mother snickers. Your scrawny legs buckled under the weight of the gold bell- which, you’ve now discovered, costs more than you do.

You’d be angrier if you were surprised. But you weren’t. Hell, sixteen wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been- with the way her money was spent on dozens of those cancer packs a day, cig smoke stealing your wages one stick at a time.

You plucked up her note, reading between the pen’s blood to find anything else. Searching, like you had in her for decades, for a little more. A secret message between your fiber taught liaison, written in the tone she had used with you (old spice on dry meat) up until she couldn’t anymore. You could hear it now, reading the note to you, and suddenly you were five again, tugging at her shawl as sleep nipped the last pages of your Goodnight Tales.

You didn’t fail to notice the way she signed it, either. Mother. You had always opted for the simpler, casual name, ‘mama’. It felt truer to what she was, an apparition of a parent spared by a younger nostalgia- lacking the reliance, the respect, of an actual mother.

Yet another opinion where the both of you seemed to diverge.

No, of course you weren’t surprised.

But you were now extremely aware she had limited your options to the worst one. No southern shop, built on dirt and sweat, was going to take a labor virgin without a foot in the door. Which meant the only place desperate enough to take soft, vestal hands and good hair was that ratty brothel.

So, stubborn oxen halting actual progress, you watched the bar for a week.

Perched on a chair by the sill, the last bags of honey tea in your cup as you observed the lulls in its busy. That way, when you eventually forced your ass from the dips it made in the old seat, you’d walk to the door with as little shame as possible.

As you scurried across the street at dawn, sunrise made the old cobble appear prettier than it was. Light finding the gaps between stone, serenity’s veil cast over the Dutch Gables in early morning. The birth of day scared off the grimier patrons, leaving you in the barren womb to watch it’s first breath. You paused there, relishing the one time the small market looked…worth it.

Seconds after you slide through the saloon doors, barely given enough time to drink up the sandy lighting and timber walls, a voice calls from behind the bar.

“We’re closed.”

She’s a natural blonde, you can tell by her lighter roots. Freckles contour a round face under eye bags- and you even catch the subtle crease of crows’ feet next to her grey eyes- blemished and old. Her lips screwed into what you think might be a permanent frown- that is until you speak,

“I’m here to apply.”

and it turns into a snarl, skin pitching at the bridge of her nostril, “We ain’t hirin’.”

Your mother’s note comes back to you, and you loosen the resentment in your voice as you say her name. “I’m her daughter. ‘Said I- you’d let me work here.”

The wrinkle laxed, and her snarl came down to a thin neutral line. “Did she finally kick the bucket?”

You nodded, unsure how to feel when her lips curled. “Damn. Y’had a firecracker of a mother. Worked alongside ‘er iner prime. Solid woman,” her eyes ran up your shoulders, “terrible mother, I reckon.”

You swallowed- she grinned. Her hand beckoned you to the stools, and you took a seat, shaking her outstretched hand. “You got ‘er looks. You’ll do fine ‘ere. Names Francesca.” Her eye narrowed to slits, “Nobody calls me Franny. Its Francesca, or Miss- got it?”

You nodded, and she flashed you another glimpse of her yellow teeth.

“I’ll start ya at the bar. See ‘ow long ya last.”

-

Turns out, you lasted a lot longer than she thought you would.

Swatting advances away as you gave patrons bottles, but smart enough to never get mouthy. You caught more flies with honey anyhow- so as your boots became comfortable in the mop-clean lumber floors, you’d occasionally entertain some of them.

“You single, sweetheart?” Slurred from a regular as you filled his tab. Grisly looking fellow, got years on you. Too many to be talking.

“Enough to work here.” You slid him a drink with a smile. Syrup on a glass rather than salt. The spread of his lips was telling- he tasted it.

Boisterous laughter- too loud to want just liquor- “’nough to sit on an old man’s lap?”

No. Not enough that they thought they’d get lucky- but that was the trick, wasn’t it? Just barely easy enough to send them wily looks over your shoulder, cover the spite in your voice with flirts- onion layered by a blushing red skin- weak enough that it kept them hoping. But never truly easy, moving to the next customer before the last could lean for a fat kiss.

You rolled your eyes with your back turned to him, jaw clicking in thin patience.

“Not over here. That’s for the other rooms.”

His eyes followed your pointer finger, attention sinking its dull teeth into the cardinal doors.

You pretended not to mind your position as the face of the brothel rather than the body of it. Why would you anyway? You’re sure the girls back there would kill for an easy job like yours- given the chance to politely navigate around advances rather than being forced to feed them. You only had to serve the dry slacks- and watch them as they left soiled. You didn’t have to see- no, make- that filthy in-between.

Church taught you enough. Nothing but festering confessionals behind that door.

But goodness, could you be childish. Curious mind, insecure heart- all of you greedy. You were positive they made bushels more than you- and all for some more skin, done up hair and lidded eyes?

You could do that.

Bitter, confusing envy. Makes you mad when Francesca gave you a hard no after asking for a promotion- but sorry as you curl in thin sheets before dreamless slumber.

(Did your greed weigh more than morals? Did church and your father’s absence teach you that little? Nothing should be this existential- but maybe that’s why it’s uprooting. Forked road- giving up a part of you either way.

You hate to admit you buried something of your own with your mother’s body, but what you hate more is that it’ll take this decision to figure out just what it was. Your innocence- daughterhood and a sweet virtue, or your hearth- the fight to survive and earn. Living for a little vice.

You’d dream in saturation on these nights, colors crisper than they’ve ever been- even young. You were never sure why the colors were so bright.)

So here you are, another night drawn as a sloppy line under a bar, marking…3 months? Sunrise and sunset look so similar nowadays, and it made the silhouette of an hourglass harder to etch in the tan pages of your moleskin.  

However, it did give you more time to sketch out the pub.

The booths pulled the same wood of the wall forward in a curved seat, split by a table and cushioned by yellow pillows- filled with rice, those damn things must have been harder than the booths themselves.

Around them, dark oak tables and creaky chairs- makes any working man feel ten pounds heavier with the way they whine when sat on. A candle and 3 coasters in the center of every round table, beckoning more drinks as the day died. In fact- those wax sticks were everywhere along the tavern- even in a chandelier that dangled above the liquor shelf, occasionally dripping hot tears on the bar.

Just the kind of place you’d expect to see the men you do.

Seedy- dusting in the corner of your bar are built scrawny- diet of yeast and grass evident in the hollow of their back. Mouths they hide from their mothers, hands that hit harder than their fathers. But in the redness of their cheeks- bloated by the sun and the contents you served them- was a weakness.

Masculine insecurity that had them calling you a ‘pretty bitch’. A compliment, but derogatory enough their clam tongue wasn’t revealed under the folds of their shell. No pearl, no wealth- just a common, beached, animal.

“’nother round, for mah fellows, baby.”

You glanced up. Sullen face, grey beard- twisted lips that cracked under ale. He flashed crooked teeth, and you strained a smile, forcing the tired plump of your cheeks to spread. You slipped your journal beneath the bar, taking his cups and filling them until the clouds of foam kissed the rim.

He flipped a couple coins on the counter, and you slid them into your palm.

You sighed, running your tongue along the cast of your teeth. Late hours were so boring- never new- repetitive that even the loud, sudden laughter from that back corner didn’t phase you anymore.

There were no more surprises- because everyone was here.

Ned and his calloused farmer men. Not too much of a hassle, sat in the back and called you names- but let you work. Callum and his wallowing ass in the center tables, nursing his umpteenth glass of the evening ever since his wife left.

And Silas- sweet boy- young and excited to drink. He’s more often than not by himself, drunk silly as he draws. You liked him more than the rest- brother feeling about him. Kinder.

So, it surprises you when the bell rings, well into the night, and he walks in.

Brutish arms- hung by shoulders that nearly reach the door frame. The rest of him was just as big- military fed, you had to assume. Strong jaw, buzzed skull except for a well-trimmed bush down the center. He stood out like a sore thumb, the slender builds of farmer boys a third of the bull that stood in front of you.

You weren’t the only one who noticed, as you heard the laughter behind you hush and Callum’s wallowing come to a lull. He didn’t seem to mind- especially as he made his way to the bar- eyes and smile beguiling- and directed at you.

Now you weren’t easily charmed- but you knew a handsome man when you saw one. It’s the particular weight on their shoulders- making their feet come down heavier and gate smooth.

Nothing wrong with looking at them- just as long as you don’t get too comfortable. Just because they’re clams with nicer shells, maybe even a pearl between clean teeth, doesn’t mean they’re any less washed up.

“Welcome. What can I get’cha tonight.” You offered him the same smile you gave everyone.

“Aye. A pint ‘il do.”

The thick arches of gaelic in his voice caught you off guard. Deep timbers, pine rooted in his throat, leaves lime with humor. It pooled in the back of your mouth- an aftertaste you found yourself liking.

You filled his glass, rolling the shock off your shoulders. “We don’t get many scots ‘n here.”

He chuckled as you handed him a glass, blue eyes unwavering as he took a sip. “Nae? Though’ it’da be fool of ‘em.”

He pulled a genuine laugh out of you- the sound of sarcasm familiar- comforting. “What brings you here.”

“Work.” He said plainly- but the twitch on his knuckle told you he wanted you to ask more.

“Military?”

“What gave ye tha’ idea?”

You hummed, eyes running up his shoulders. You didn’t miss how they squared, conscious under your gaze. “You don’t look like a farmer. Too much of you.”

“Aye, ere’s neva too much of me, darl.”

You sucked in your bottom lip. Charmer.

“So, you are military, then?”

“Yes ma’am.”

You idled your hands with one of the many dirty glasses that blistered under old soap studs and dried foam. The rags bumpy fabric prickled your fingers- enough to keep them from trembling when he spoke.

“What branch of the military brings you out in the middle of nowhere?”

“Most of em.”

Your lips thin to an embarrassed line. Right, of course. “I…guess I’m really asking what branch you are.”

He took another swing of his beer, and you watched as he tipped his jaw back- revealing the catch of his throat as he swallowed. Must have been on purpose- show off.  “SAS. On leave, yer place looked tidy,” his eyes gave you a once over, “good tae see ’m right.”

Turning to set the glass down gave you an excuse to avoid his eyes. Demin blue but not casual, deep-set and sharp. Military grade, you could tell by the way they really saw. Accessing you, ran up the hunch of your spine and the click of your wrist- aiming to find spare bullets and threats.

He’d come up empty, though. No, not in you. All he’d find was the jump of your heart against your cervical.

“Mmm,” you offered, “Its cute, I’ll give it that much. Good for the drinks.”

He nodded, “’N maybe somethin more…”

These are the moments when your mother’s voice comes back to you. Thick spit, coarse hair- tangled and suffocating- your lungs sting almost as much as the red print on your cheek.

“Foolish child.”

Your back was turned, so you thought maybe you’d finally been tempting enough to something pretty. That the lilt in his voice, the gravel as it went an octave deeper, accent blooming under light o’s and rolled r’s- meant for your company.

That maybe, the looks you had been told were your only asset, had finally done some good.

You were left disappointed when you turned back around, cheeks a hopeful rose, when his eyes had left you. Instead, past your shoulder, to the red doors.

You’d never seen what was actually behind them, Francesca made sure of that. You could only assume it was the collection of every mans desire painted pretty- shelves of toys, women in bright, expensive lingerie, red lips on rum ones. A childish image, really, but what else were you to do?

In a way, you were just as desperate to get behind those doors as every man here. Not necessarily in the same way- not to satisfy some sick desire, dig up a buried, old arousal that their poor wives didn’t anymore.

No, for you it was to satisfy your own insecurity. Hungry creature, eager to prove and ready to sweat. To be something- pretty, ugly, didn’t matter. As long as you had a place there, you’d be rich.

“Oh, yes,” you let your customer smile come back, editing the script you were given in your head, “pretty gals over there. If you wanted a-“

“Ye work tere?”

You choked on nothing. “What?”

“Do ye work ‘n ta brothel?”

Genuine curiosity. Maybe he was hiding something else behind thin lips, but the question came out too casual for its boldness that you wouldn’t’ve caught it. You found yourself unsure in your own body, standing stiff as your bones questioned whether to lean, sit, or run.

You chose none of the three, and instead you spoke.

“No.” Not yet. You wanted to add. He hummed, taking a last swig of his pint before placing the cup on the table with a…hefty tip. You opened your mouth to say something, but when your eyes met his you were quickly hushed.

Ripped denim, now razor blue. The yellow of the lights seemed to bring it out, and if you weren’t confident he had killed a man, you were now.

“Shame,” he said, standing, “Such a bloody waste.”

[blackboard-monitor]

how i've finished inktober every year for eight years and counting

Every time I mention around other artists that I finish inktober every year (meaning I draw and ink 31 drawings, one every day in October), I get questions like "how???", so I figured I'd make a post about it on the off chance it's helpful to someone. Please note that all my advice is based on my personal experience and you're a different person so what works for me may not work for you, and you can do whatever you want forever.

What it boils down to for me is two basic rules: 1) keep it simple and 2) manage your expectations.

Tools

Paper/sketchbook

I started my first inktober in my journal at the time, and because I'm neurotic like that, I've had to do every subsequent inktober in whatever journal I was using at that point.

The benefit of this is that each journal has had a page size of A5 or smaller, which can be tricky when trying to get in a lot of detail, but on the other hand forces you to limit the size of your drawings to a pretty managable size.

Paper type can also be important! Last year in 2023, my journal was a Moleskine sketchbook (image 1), which was actually designed to handle some degree of wet media, which was a game-changer for me as an ink wash enjoyer. Don't get me wrong, I've been using ink washes in most of my previous journals as well, but inking is a lot nicer when your paper isn't constantly buckling (image 2) or pilling and the ink isn't bleeding all over the place, inclunding through the page (image 3). Pages that stay flat instead of buckling are also a lot easier to scan or photograph, if like me you want to post your art online.

In short, my inktober paper recommendation is to use a sketchbook no larger than A5, and go for one with nice, thick paper if you intend to use wet media.

Sketching

I sketch everything with a single 6H pencil that I got from my brother in 2019. Because the lead is so hard, it allows me to scribble to my heart's content without the sketch getting too dark or hard to erase. Sometimes I'll refine the sketch with a HB mechanical pencil, which shows up really nicely on top of the 6H lines, but I may skip that step if I'm feeling lazy or the first sketch is clean enough.

Inking

I've used a variety of art supplies in my inktober drawings. For the most part I've always stuck to greyscale, with the exception of a couple of red or gold accents some years.

My main inktober tools are a set of Micron fineliners in various sizes, and liquid India ink, which I use with a dip pen and with brushes. I usually mix up a mid-tone ink wash in a small bottle, and use that throughout the month.

Fineliners pros: portable, require minimal setup, can use on the sofa or in bed or wherever Fineliners cons: creating texture and filling large areas is a lot more time-consuming. In 2021 I did inktober exclusively in fineliner because I was tired and couldn't be bothered to deal with liquid ink, but I ended up spending more time than maybe ever on the drawings because it took so long to add texture with pens.

Ink pros: you can achieve small details with a dip pen as well as quick texture and fill in large areas with a brush and ink washes Ink cons: can be messy (protip from 2022 Liekki, don't spill ink water all over your laptop), usually you have to sit at a table of some kind, you need to wash your brushes and dip pens, if your paper isn't designed for wet media, it'll buckle or bleed

Pick your inking tools and techniques based on how much time you have!

Prompts/ideas/subject matter

I've always stuck to the "official" prompt list, because it brings me joy to scroll through the tag of the day on instagram and see how others interpreted the same prompt. Or, rather, it used to bring me joy to do this, until instagram's enshittification stole our ability to look at tags. Maybe I'll have some luck with that on Cara going forward; here's hoping.

As for ideas, sometimes they come easy, sometimes it's like pulling teeth and I have to enlist all my friends to brainstorm with me (sorry, y'all). When in doubt, draw the first thing that comes to mind when you read the prompt; don't overthink it (like I often do). I like to try to come up with a less obvious interpretation of a prompt, but this is also where I often get stuck and have to harass my loved ones for ideas. Sometimes it helps to relate the prompt to a tv show/book/etc. you're into; I've done quite a bit of inktober fanart, as well as art of various DnD cahracters from games I've played/DM'd. If all else fails, just look at what everyone else is drawing that day.

Time management

Be realistic about how much time you have in a day to work on inktober, and then set your expectations accordingly. If you only have an hour, stick to a size and level of detail that you can realistically finish in an hour. I've done some very quick scribbles in my years of inktober when I've been busy that day.

My personal philosophy is that I try not to plan too much ahead; I don't do any sketching until day of, and ideally I don't try to come up with ideas for a prompt or at least decide on an idea until the day before at the earliest. Containing each drawing in one day helps me have realistic expectations of what's doable. This does mean drawing late into the night sometimes after procrastinating or struggling to find an idea all day, but it's what works for me.

If your goal is to complete inktober, it's better to do a small shitty drawing in ten minutes than to fall behing by starting something way too ambitious that you'll never be able to finish in a day.

Secret third rule!

Accept the fact that you aren't going to be happy with every drawing.

Inktober was created as an exercise to practice inking. Think of your drawings as sketches, not finished masterpieces. Some of them will be bad, at least in your own eyes. Sometimes you'll put a lot of effort into something that just doesn't work out. For example:

To quote Joe Hills, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results is the definition of practice. So you fucked up today's drawing. Tomorrow is a new day – that's the beauty of inktober. "Ever tried, ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better." (Samuel Beckett) Progress isn't linear, either; some years are consistently mediocre, other years it's all over the place with a couple bangers and a couple really shitty ones.

Every inktober I've made drawings I love,

drawings I'm indifferent to,

and drawings that straight up suck.

And I'm at peace with that.

Thanks for reading what turned into a pretty long post, and I hope some of it was helpful. Happy inktobering!

[darth-kote]

Wrecker Headcanons P. 1

When he has the time, space, and proper ingredients, Wrecker loves to be in the kitchen. Instead of destroying something, he gets to create, and he's found that it helps distract him from any stray worries. Of course, for him, the biggest plus is that he has people to share it with and get feedback from. There's nothing this man loves more than his squad, and I imagine him on Pabu constantly going to Shep for advice and then surprising his brothers and Omega with a new recipe. His eyes glimmer watching everyone laugh and dig in. And when compliments are given to the chef, he humbly concedes to each of them.

Is an absolute sucker for a nap. And he can sleep just about anywhere, no matter the noise or perceived comfortability of the space. If the squad is in a meeting that goes on a minute too long, he'll fall asleep sitting up, armor digging into relaxed flesh, snores ramping up in volume until a brother notices and calls to adjourn for all their sakes. He's slept through bombs dropping during the war, so there isn't much that can keep him from sleeping when his body needs it, and the batch has started to take Wrecker falling asleep as a signal they all need some shut-eye.

It's not that he's necessarily afraid of water, it's just that... He doesn't trust himself not to sink and drown. On Kamino, he always made sure to keep away from the edges of the city's platforms, terrified of his weight being tipped and falling into the cold and wild sea. Not only was he relatively untrained in swimming, but the thought of his armor weighing him down even more and dragging him to the depths of the ocean made him shiver in his bunk at night. It's not until they get to Pabu that Omega, completely taken with the water, helps ease him into joining for a swim. For the first several weeks, he prefers to sit on a rock close to shore, and he gets worried about Omega when she's out during high tide. She constantly reassures him she'll be alright, but his eyes never leave her for a moment. Eventually, he starts to realize how much she enjoys the water, dipping below to wet her hair, splashing at Lyana as they both use him as a shield (which he doesn't mind at all, even when a bit of water gets in his eye) and making sure to slather sunscreen oil atop Wrecker's head now and again. At some point, he starts to spend the evenings packing a picnic basket for the next day at the beach, fruit, sandwiches, and cheese galore. It starts to become something he looks forward to, and he thinks his heart nearly explodes at Omega's excitement when she sees him dip his toe in for the first time.

Has experienced a Traumatic Brain Injury, if the scar webbing across the side of his face was any indication. The headaches he gets are unbearable, and the sun on Pabu can make him feel a little irritable at times. When this happens he likes to retreat either to the Marauder or, if he can't find quiet there, beneath the boughs of the weeping maya tree atop the city. The squad knows they all need a moment alone at times, but they make sure to keep an eye out and to be there when he needs them.

Tattoos kinda freak him out. He's a big guy, yes, but that doesn't mean he can't be afraid of a needle pricking him hundreds if not thousands of times in quick succession, for hours on end. He remembers watching Hunter and Crosshair get theirs, neither flinching as the ink was injected into their flesh. (Call him crazy, but they seemed to have been in some sort of silent competition with one another.) Besides, he didn't know what he'd get; plus it would drive him mad to sit still for too long.

[bogkeep]

Hello, extremely random ask: Please do you, clearly a great fountain pen connoisseur, have any advice for a poor leftie trying to get into fountain pens? I love the way they look and the feeling of writing/drawing with them but everything I do smudges :( (But no worries if not, I'll just keep admiring them from afar then)

Also, I have been obsessed with your art for ages, I could stare at it all day, it gives off such great vibes and character to me! And the way you line things is delectable.

hi! i'm so sorry to inform you that i am very much Not qualified to give advice for lefthandedness as i am not one of you...!

the friend i got into fountain pens over the weekend is left-handed, but is only planning to use it for drawing and not writing exactly because of the smudge problem. with drawing you're at least on the same footing as right-handed people and you just learn to draw and ink in a direction that's least likely to smudge. unfortunately it seems like the great injustice of left-handedness in the western world is the standard direction of writing from left to right, which is not so easily fixed. i have heard of left-handed people who've learnt to write sideways to get around it, and that's the extent of my knowledge. SURELY there's some Tips & Tricks for avoiding smudges out there by people with more experience...! (not that i am immune to smudges as a right-handed person either, i have experienced Many Such Cases from being a lifelong fountain pen user and the occasional dip pen enjoyer)

if you're interested in getting into fountain pens, the basic bitch starter pen is the Lamy Safari, which is very much on the affordable scale of fountain pens And has a grip that should work for either handedness. (it also comes in many cute colors which is important to Me!!!)

the way fountain pens work is that the more you use them, the nib gets shaped by their use and they become comfy for your exact way of holding the pen. i think. at least that's what i've heard. i've never really understood what's so difficult about using fountain pens - i got into fountain pens by accident, by attending czech school where you're not allowed to write with pencils and they just sell a lot of cheap fountain pens for kids over there. i've gone through So Many because they would only last for like a year or two before they broke in some way. it's only fairly recently that i'm getting more serious into fountain pens and getting some actual good ones :')

idk if this helps but that's what i have! thank you so so much for your kind words <3333

[ramlightly]

Hi hi! Love your art and linework. I marvel how "flowy" it can be like a pen. Out of curiosity how do you keep yourself from being super neat? I feel like I'm always fighting this perfectionist urge.

Three pieces of advice/insight!

Try not to zoom in too much if your working digitally. Its easier to make longer lines and not get obsessed with individual pieces of the illustration.

I keep my sketches really loose. I hate it when it feels like I'm just tracing over the sketch, makes my lines feel stiff and boring. I want to build upon the sketch, not try to recreate it.

Maybe try traditional inking if you're having trouble with digital! Take a ballpoint pen and just work in a sketch book, or try something like dip pen, or a fountain pen or whatever. This was something that really helped my confidence with my lines. Helped understand what I like in my art.

I hope that helps at all!

[mantisgodsdomain]

As we're a Fountain Pen Guy now, please tune in for our reviews of random fountain pens. We have two and they are both in the realm of Starter Pens. Hold for our opinions.

Pilot Metropolitan (fine). This is, we're told, the Stereotypical Starter Pen, but it works well, and we like it a lot. Good enough of a pen that it has us aimlessly sketching for the sensory input while it's in our hand. Worked out well enough to genuinely make us want to check out more fountain pens, because if the "basic bitch intro into fountain pens" pen is This Good, we dearly want to see what else is on the market. It's got a nice weight to it. Feels fancy. Also, spending twenty dollars on this feels exceptionally fancy, we're used to Spendy Art Supplies being in the realm of, like, $10-15 for a brush.

Diplomat Magnum (medium). We don't like using this one. It writes fine in theory, and we're told via a contact that knows significantly better about fountain pens than us that it has a very impressively smooth glide, but all of that gets sort of overshadowed by the fact that the person using it does flash poses every week in life drawing and as far as we can tell with the differences between how our contact uses it and us the flow is just physically not designed to be able to keep up with someone used to banging out a basic pose drawing in less than a minute. It skips a lot, and it writes with a very... shallow depth of ink? We're sure there's an actual term for it, but we're getting the ink much lighter in the page with it compared to any other pen or assorted dipping implement, and then it runs out of ink and stops writing and we have to wait for the ink to flow back to the tip. Our rating: unpleasant

If you know things about fountain pens, please feel free to message us or send us an ask. We accept both advice and exclamations of horror, but if sending the latter we would appreciate it if you take a tone akin to some sort of fictional mad scientist discovering that their creation has become evil and turned against them or something of equal drama. We will not be writing slower. Thank you for your time.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

In Vogue’s 1969 Christmas issue, Vladimir Nabokov offered some advice for teaching James Joyce’s “Ulysses”: “Instead of perpetuating the pretentious nonsense of Homeric, chromatic, and visceral chapter headings, instructors should prepare maps of Dublin with Bloom’s and Stephen’s intertwining itineraries clearly traced.” He drew a charming one himself. Several decades later, a Boston College English professor named Joseph Nugent and his colleagues put together an annotated Google map that shadows Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom step by step. The Virginia Woolf Society of Great Britain, as well as students at the Georgia Institute of Technology, have similarly reconstructed the paths of the London amblers in “Mrs. Dalloway.”

Such maps clarify how much these novels depend on a curious link between mind and feet. Joyce and Woolf were writers who transformed the quicksilver of consciousness into paper and ink. To accomplish this, they sent characters on walks about town. As Mrs. Dalloway walks, she does not merely perceive the city around her. Rather, she dips in and out of her past, remolding London into a highly textured mental landscape, “making it up, building it round one, tumbling it, creating it every moment afresh.”

Since at least the time of peripatetic Greek philosophers, many other writers have discovered a deep, intuitive connection between walking, thinking, and writing. (In fact, Adam Gopnik wrote about walking in The New Yorker just two weeks ago.) “How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live!” Henry David Thoreau penned in his journal. “Methinks that the moment my legs begin to move, my thoughts begin to flow.” Thomas DeQuincey has calculated that William Wordsworth—whose poetry is filled with tramps up mountains, through forests, and along public roads—walked as many as a hundred and eighty thousand miles in his lifetime, which comes to an average of six and a half miles a day starting from age five.

What is it about walking, in particular, that makes it so amenable to thinking and writing? The answer begins with changes to our chemistry. When we go for a walk, the heart pumps faster, circulating more blood and oxygen not just to the muscles but to all the organs—including the brain. Many experiments have shown that after or during exercise, even very mild exertion, people perform better on tests of memory and attention. Walking on a regular basis also promotes new connections between brain cells, staves off the usual withering of brain tissue that comes with age, increases the volume of the hippocampus (a brain region crucial for memory), and elevates levels of molecules that both stimulate the growth of new neurons and transmit messages between them.

The way we move our bodies further changes the nature of our thoughts, and vice versa. Psychologists who specialize in exercise music have quantified what many of us already know: listening to songs with high tempos motivates us to run faster, and the swifter we move, the quicker we prefer our music. Likewise, when drivers hear loud, fast music, they unconsciously step a bit harder on the gas pedal. Walking at our own pace creates an unadulterated feedback loop between the rhythm of our bodies and our mental state that we cannot experience as easily when we’re jogging at the gym, steering a car, biking, or during any other kind of locomotion. When we stroll, the pace of our feet naturally vacillates with our moods and the cadence of our inner speech; at the same time, we can actively change the pace of our thoughts by deliberately walking more briskly or by slowing down.

VIDEO FROM THE NEW YORKER :: The Men Walking Every Block in New York City

Because we don’t have to devote much conscious effort to the act of walking, our attention is free to wander—to overlay the world before us with a parade of images from the mind’s theatre. This is precisely the kind of mental state that studies have linked to innovative ideas and strokes of insight. Earlier this year, Marily Oppezzo and Daniel Schwartz of Stanford published what is likely the first set of studies that directly measure the way walking changes creativity in the moment. They got the idea for the studies while on a walk. “My doctoral advisor had the habit of going for walks with his students to brainstorm,” Oppezzo says of Schwartz. “One day we got kind of meta.”

In a series of four experiments, Oppezzo and Schwartz asked a hundred and seventy-six college students to complete different tests of creative thinking while either sitting, walking on a treadmill, or sauntering through Stanford’s campus. In one test, for example, volunteers had to come up with atypical uses for everyday objects, such as a button or a tire. On average, the students thought of between four and six more novel uses for the objects while they were walking than when they were seated. Another experiment required volunteers to contemplate a metaphor, such as “a budding cocoon,” and generate a unique but equivalent metaphor, such as “an egg hatching.” Ninety-five per cent of students who went for a walk were able to do so, compared to only fifty per cent of those who never stood up. But walking actually worsened people’s performance on a different type of test, in which students had to find the one word that united a set of three, like “cheese” for “cottage, cream, and cake.” Oppezzo speculates that, by setting the mind adrift on a frothing sea of thought, walking is counterproductive to such laser-focussed thinking: “If you’re looking for a single correct answer to a question, you probably don’t want all of these different ideas bubbling up.”

Where we walk matters as well. In a study led by Marc Berman of the University of South Carolina, students who ambled through an arboretum improved their performance on a memory test more than students who walked along city streets. A small but growing collection of studies suggests that spending time in green spaces—gardens, parks, forests—can rejuvenate the mental resources that man-made environments deplete. Psychologists have learned that attention is a limited resource that continually drains throughout the day. A crowded intersection—rife with pedestrians, cars, and billboards—bats our attention around. In contrast, walking past a pond in a park allows our mind to drift casually from one sensory experience to another, from wrinkling water to rustling reeds.

Still, urban and pastoral walks likely offer unique advantages for the mind. A walk through a city provides more immediate stimulation—a greater variety of sensations for the mind to play with. But, if we are already at the brink of overstimulation, we can turn to nature instead. Woolf relished the creative energy of London’s streets, describing it in her diary as “being on the highest crest of the biggest wave, right in the centre & swim of things.” But she also depended on her walks through England’s South Downs to “have space to spread my mind out in.” And, in her youth, she often travelled to Cornwall for the summer, where she loved to “spend my afternoons in solitary trampling” through the countryside.

Perhaps the most profound relationship between walking, thinking, and writing reveals itself at the end of a stroll, back at the desk. There, it becomes apparent that writing and walking are extremely similar feats, equal parts physical and mental. When we choose a path through a city or forest, our brain must survey the surrounding environment, construct a mental map of the world, settle on a way forward, and translate that plan into a series of footsteps. Likewise, writing forces the brain to review its own landscape, plot a course through that mental terrain, and transcribe the resulting trail of thoughts by guiding the hands. Walking organizes the world around us; writing organizes our thoughts. Ultimately, maps like the one that Nabokov drew are recursive: they are maps of maps.

Why Walking Helps Us Think

By Ferris Jabr

[fiftysevenacademics]

The Portrait

Summary: The Juniors get curious about what Wei Wuxian looked like before he died, and collaborate to paint a composite portrait based on what they can find out about his appearance. Inspired by this post.

************************

Lan Wangji and Lan Sizhui sat on opposite sides of a low table with a tattered scroll between them. The library was silent but for the whisper of quick brushstrokes on crisp white paper, giving new life to the ancient words, and for the rain tapping a lullaby on the roof.

The grey afternoon slanted through the windows at a peculiar angle, and the teapot had been emptied long ago. Both figures sat perfectly poised, but their fingers manipulated the brushes as if of their own will and their eyelids felt like lead. Lan Qiren always said copying manuscripts should be something they could do even in their sleep, and today, it almost felt like they were.

"Hanguang Jun?"

The question punctured the stillness like a firecracker. Lan Wangji's eyes shot open wide and he took in a sharp breath. He threw a scolding glance at Lan Sizhui, and dipped his brush on the wet inkstone.

"Quiet."

Lan Sizhui made a few more strokes then put his brush down.

"How did you recognize Wei Wuxian when he returned from the dead?"

Lan Wangji paused mid-stroke and his eyelids fluttered, but he finished writing the character without replying.

"He looked like Mo Xuanyu, so how did you know it was him?"

This time, Lan Wangji kept writing without any outward reaction but slightly flushed earlobes, which only Wei Wuxian would have noticed.

"What did Wei Wuxian look like back then?"

Now, Lan Wangji's mouth looked pinched, and Lan Sizhui knew if he continued, he might end up copying the whole manuscript by himself, three times over. So he picked up his brush again but gave in to a sudden impulse. Punishment be damned! He made long, fluid curves and sharp, defined lines on a clean sheet of paper and, when he was done, accented two points with red ink. The latter caught Lan Wangji's eye because they had not been using red.

Lan Sizhui pushed the paper across the table. Lan Wangji looked at the charicature of a wild-haired man with a brutish jaw and bulging red eyes, and was instantly displeased.

"Not accurate."

He continued writing for a moment, then said calmly, "You have seen Wei Wuxian. You should paint what you remember."

"But I don't remember his face," Lan Sizhui said plaintively.

"Clear your mind and paint the images that surface."

The rain continued for a few more days, and life at Cloud Recesses slowed. Disciples used the weather as an opportunity to spend more time in meditation, study, or practicing music. The idea of Wei Wuxian had taken root, however, and Lan Sizhui heeded Lan Wangji's advice. He had no choice, since Lan Wangji refused to speak of the matter.

He composed himself on a cushion, closed his eyes, and released a big breath, thoughts dissipating like smoke. He sat like this for a while, his breath measured and slow, images surfacing and fading until they began to take form, then he opened his eyes, and began to paint. But every time his brush touched the paper, he felt farther away from the face he saw in his mind, which was more of a feeling than memory. How could he paint a person he remembered only as a mood?

On the second day of trying, Lan Jingyi came to visit.

"It's more boring than usual around here. Where have you been, Sizhui? Let's go do something. We won't melt in the rain."

"I've been trying to paint from memory Wei Wuxian before he died, but I always get it wrong. I can't vividly remember what he looked like, but I know I'm doing it wrong."

Lan Jingyi leafed through the discarded attempts.

"I'll say! This one is all eyes, this one is all mouth, and this one looks like a monkey."

"Don't be rude." Lan Sizhui looked sad.

"I'm sorry," Lan Jingyi said sincerely. "Why do you want to know what he looked like back then?"

"I should remember, but I don't. If I knew what he looked like, maybe a lot more of my memories from that time would return."

"Hanguang Jun..." Lan Jingyi began but Lan Sizhui cut him off by shaking his head.

"Well, you know who knew Wei Wuxian even better back then? Jiang Cheng."

"I don't dare ask him about Wei Wuxian."

"Right. But Jin Ling can."

********************************

Jin Ling crumpled the letter and threw it into a wastebasket. He had long since made peace with the fact that he had grown fond of resurrected Wei Wuxian. But when he thought of the old Wei Wuxian, he longed to be held by his mother, a comfort he could not remember and had not experienced since infancy thanks to Wei Wuxian, and he was filled with rage. How humiliating to be a clan leader and miss such childish things!

He kicked the wastebasket over and paced the room with his arms crossed over his chest, Fairy looking at him quizzically from a little bed in the corner. Lan Sizhui had a point. The man who saved Sizhui's life was also the man who had ruined his. It didn't seem fair that neither of them knew what such an influential person looked like. Would knowing sedate the nameless, helpless thing clawing at his heart? It couldn't hurt to ask Jiang Cheng if he happened to have an old portrait laying around, and his uncle was scheduled to visit next week.

*******************************

"Why do you want to see that?" Jiang Cheng fumed. "Do you feel so much affection for that traitor in his resurrected form that you want to feel it for the version of him responsible for the deaths of your mother and father, too?"

"No, jiujiu. But shouldn't I know the face of the man that left me an orphan?"

Jiang Cheng softened.

"My parents had portraits painted of all three of us but they were damaged when Lotus Pier was destroyed, and then, after..." his voice caught. "I burned his."

They looked away from each other awkwardly, Jin Ling at Fairy and Jiang Cheng at a butterfly hovering near a flower.

"But I can describe him for you."

*********************************

Jin Ling, Lan Sizhui, Lan Jingyi, and Ouyang Zichen sat around a table beneath a shady pavilion at Jinlintai.

"How did I get dragged into this?" Ouyang Zichen said, waving his hand at the stack of paper and brushes, several colors of paint, and a little porcelain pot of water in front of him.

"You're the artist, Zichen," Lan Jingyi said. "In fact, you should be honored to paint a portrait of the infamous Yiling Patriarch."

They all pictured the Wei Wuxian they knew, flitting around Hanguang Jun like a moth and subtly encouraging the juniors to make small transgressions against the Lan's many rules, and snickered at the dramatic moniker.

"Jiujiu said he was vain, always bragging about how handsome he was and checking his hair in mirrors like a girl, but he wasn't really all that great," Jin Ling said. "He thought that girls swooned over his looks, but girls do that for any man with money and status."

"Why aren't you painting, Zichen? Get this down!" Lan Jingyi scolded.

"He hasn't said anything! I can't paint 'vain braggart who fancies himself a ladies man,' can I? Did clan leader Jiang tell you anything specific, like what shape his eyes were or how big his chin was?"

"His eyes were big and could make you feel like the most important person in the world one instant and and like a worthless ant the next. He smiled easily, but there was always a hint of cruelty in the corners of his mouth."

Lan Sizhui looked at the painting taking shape.

"No! His eyes were kind and bright and his smile was generous."

Ouyang Zichen altered a few strokes and Lan Sizhui said excitedly, "That looks so familiar!"

They went on like this for some time, until Jin Ling relayed everything Jiang Cheng told him and Lan Sizhui's hazy memory ran dry. Ouyang Zichen held aloft the painting of a young man with long black hair tied up in a red ribbon and a face that might be considered handsome if it could decide what expression to wear. The nose had a bump in the middle-- Lan Jingyi had slapped the table laughing at his own joke and it shook Ouyang Zichen's hand. The smile was crooked, and one eye was a little higher than the other, but overall, it was a passable painting, though not one Ouyang Zichen would endorse with his good name. He handed it to Lan Sizhui.

"You have two people at Cloud Recesses who can tell you how accurate this is. Good luck!"

****************************

Lan Sizhui knocked on Lan Wangji's door.

"Who is there?"

"Sizhui. Hanguang Jun, I have something to show you. May I come in?"

He heard frantic scrambling then the door opened and Lan Sizhui saw Wei Wuxian standing by the bed, hastily fastening his robe and smoothing his hair. His cheeks looked a little flushed, but Lan Wangji, as usual, looked icily elegant, even though his forehead ribbon was askew. Lan Sizhui cleared his throat.

"Do you remember what you told me a few weeks ago?"

Lan Wangji spied the roll of paper in his hand and recalled the moment precisely. "Show," he said.

Lan Sizhui unrolled the painting, and Lan Wangji struggled to control himself. Lan Sizhui knew this because something close to a big, proper grin played on his mouth, which he had seen only on the rarest of occasions, all of them since Wei Wuxian's return.

"Accurate," he said. "Wei Ying?"

Wei Wuxian bounded across the room and snatched the painting from Lan Wangji's hand.

"Is this supposed to be me, Sizhui? Is this some kind of joke?"

Lan Sizhui felt mortified.

Turning accusatorialy toward Lan Wangji, Wei Wuxian said, "Did Lan Zhan tell you this is how I looked back then?"

Lan Wangji strained so hard to contain his laughter and let no emotion taint his cheeks that he feared he'd either burst a blood vessel or qi deviate.

"Hanguang Jun told me to look deep into my own memories, but what I found were feelings that looked like images that I couldn't paint. So Jin Ling asked clan leader Jiang. Then Ouyang Zichen painted what clan leader Jin and I described."

"Jiang Cheng! No wonder the person in this painting looks like a shifty lowlife with a weak chin and beady eyes! Is this how you respect your elders, Sizhui?"

By now, Lan Wangji was visibly struggling.

"Did you know about this? Are you in on it, too? Lan Zhan, please tell this naughty child how beautiful I was!"

"Wei-qianbei, if Hanguang Jun loved you, I knew you must have been beautiful. And every feeling, every memory of you I could summon was beautiful. But I wish I could remember clearly. I apologize for offending you."

Wei Wuxian handed him back the painting and patted his head.

"A-Yuan. Those were hard times, and maybe it's best you don't remember," he said gently.

It was likely, after all, that he had witnessed Wei Wuxian being torn to shreds until nothing was left. He hoped the child never had to bear the burden of that memory. If the face of the man who became his father was the price of blissful ignorance, Wei Wuxian considered it a fair one.

[winterweary]

Day 5 - 9 Days of Solomon

Day 5: Pact

Solomon finds a new pact mark.

SFW but suggestive, GN Reader

It’s early, but you don’t want to open your eyes to see how early. You’re hoping you’ll have a few hours yet, tangled in bed under fluffy covers and wrapped up in Solomon’s arms. You’re still a bit sore from the night before, but it feels good. Satisfying. You imagine once the two of you are feeling more awake you’ll end up performing an encore, but for now it feels good to just bask in one another’s warmth.

His breathing is steady but he’s awake: his fingertips trace gentle shapes over your back, long looping movements that draw you from sleep slowly. He doesn’t stop until you shift to give a stretch, nuzzling your cheek against his chest. Even then, his hand doesn’t leave you, just moves to run through your hair instead.

Without opening your eyes, you tilt your head, kissing up his jaw until you find his lips. There, you both linger, kisses slow and deep in marked contrast to the hurried, desperate ones from the night before. When you have to break to yawn, his lips move to the palm of your hand, slowly drifting down your arm to the tender dip of your elbow. There, your pact marks are visible, gleaming black “ink” that appeared after your pacts were formed with the brothers.

You smile as you feel him place a kiss on each one, starting with Mammon’s on the inside of your wrist, down the line…

Then you feel him pause, an inhale the only indication he’d noticed something. You peek open an eye, wondering what had caught his attention, and then flushed a hot red.

Oh. That.

“Oh my god. You weren’t supposed to see that,” your groan, making to pull your arm out of his grip so you can cover your face in embarrassment. But instead of releasing you, Solomon tightens his grip, keeping your arm out and extended. He’s not looking at it anymore though, his eyes on yours.

“You did that?” he asks softly, and you can feel how red your cheeks are. His slides his hand down your arm, stopping to run his thumb over the last mark you’ve scrawled yourself. An eighth sigil.

“I just…I wanted you there. It felt wrong not to have you there,” you admitted, and from the way his throat flexes as he swallows, you know Solomon is moved by the gesture. You had completely forgotten it was there, to be honest. You’d drawn it on the morning before, just to see what it looked like with the others.

“Where did you find it?” he asked, still watching your expression.

“A book. From the RAD library,” you admit, and Solomon gives a soft chuckle.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it,” he admits, returning his gaze to the seal that carried his name. After a moment he dips to press his lips to it, finishing the line. 

“Then we’ll need to make one for you,” he murmurs against your skin, and you shiver.

“For me?”

“Both sides of the pact should have marks, shouldn’t they?” Solomon finally releases your arm, rolling to hover over you and steal a kiss that is once again hungry and desperate. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve the dedication of a person like you, but he’s planning on spending the rest of his infinite days earning it.

Notes: My MC's pact marks go up both her wrists to her elbows, the seven split between two arms. Very tender sensitive parts of the body and good for kissing. That's just some free advice.

[ask-felix-aberg]

Mr. Felix!

How much do you like arts? Do you like arts? Have you ever painted something? Doodled? Maybe danced? Or sang! Would you like to? We are wondering

We want to ask you for some assistance, Mr. Felix! We are organising an art show for the upper classmen for everyone to see how cool 1st years can be but we cannot levitate the chairs around just yet. And we are not tall enough to put the paintings up! And we cannot assemble the stage...

Could you please please please help us? Just a bit of magic! We are afraid to ask the prefects (what if they cancel the show?) We worked really hard on it!

Anxiously awaiting,

1st year Witches and Wizards

The Ravenclaw read the letter with a broad smile on his face. The adorable scribbles and spelling mistakes reminded him of his younger brothers, their own letters similarly endearing in their eagerness and earnestness. First years could be so adorable, with their enthusiasm radiating from every word.

As he continued reading, Felix' smile grew wider. He felt a swell of pride for the first years - organising an art show was no small feat. Not wasting a second, Felix pulled out a piece of parchment and dipped his quill in ink.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─☆: .☽ . :☆─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Dear 1st Years,

Thank you so much for your lovely letter! I was thrilled to read about your fantastic idea for an art show. It sounds like a wonderful idea, and I’m so proud of you for taking the initiative. You can always count on me; I will happily help you with whatever you need!

I must admit, I don't have any special talents in the arts myself. My paintings tend to look like a troll did them, and my singing… well, let's just say it's best left to the experts. But that doesn't mean I don't appreciate the arts - I admire anyone who can create something beautiful.

One piece of advice: never be afraid to ask the prefects for help. They are here to guide you and are always willing to lend a hand. In fact, I'm good friends with a certain Slytherin prefect who is an absolute master at organising events like these. If you'd like, I can ask him to help as well. I'm sure he'd be delighted to assist you.

Rest assured, I’ll be there to help levitate chairs, hang paintings, and assemble the stage. Together, we’ll make this art show a spectacular success!

Looking forward to seeing you all soon,

Felix

[bananafire11]

Summary: A small look into the night after the chupacabra episode with Carol taking care of a very out-of-it Daryl.

Warnings: Daryls loopy on pain meds, reference to past child abuse, Daryls scars and mention of injury

Pairings: Caryl, can be seen as either romantic or platonic.

Care

"You've done more for my little girl than her own daddy ever did his entire life."

"..didn't do nothin' Rick or Shane wouldn'ta done."

"I know. You're every bit as good at them. Every bit."

That's what she'd told him before she had left him to himself.

Carol had been horrified by the sight of Daryl all mucked up with blood and dirt, caked head to toe in mud and dry leaves. Blood covering his chin and temple, crusted under his fingernails and fresh bruises forming across his pale skin like black ink across paper.

Even once Hershal had stitched the worst of his injuries and cleaned the majority of the filth off Daryl he still looked like a masterpiece of black and blue. Carol had caught a glimpse of scars, old and new, that covered his back and chest as she'd entered his current room with his food. He had clenched the pale blanket to his chest but she still saw.

It pained her to see him like that because he had gone looking for Sophia. And had still brought her little girl's doll back even amidst the shitshow he must have endured. One step closer to finding her baby.

"Hey," Carol jumped, cocking her head to see Maggie peeking around the corner of the kitchen entrance. The young woman waved her hand. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Carol sighed, snapped out of her spiraling thoughts. "No, it's ok. Do you need something?" Carol stood up straighter where she'd slumped against the kitchen counter.

Maggie gave her a small smile. "I was goin' to tell you that Daddy sent me to ask if you could freshen Daryl's bandages? He would do it but he's busy with the generator outside. It's been a real pain lately." She fiddled with her tank top's strap.

Carol hummed, "of course. I'll get to it right away."

Maggie nodded, brown locks bobbing with the movement. Carol listened as she exited the house, the old screen door squeaking as she did so.

Carol acquired the medical kit from the kitchen pantry and quietly padded her way up stairs to where Daryl resided for the time being. She reached the old tawny door and knocked twice before entering. The lights were dimmed except for the soft warm glow of the lamp on the bedside table. Carol saw the plate she'd brought him for dinner last night except now it was completely cleaned, the exception being a few spare crumbs.

She hummed, glad that he had taken her advice and eaten. It seemed she were right to assume he'd been starving. Speaking of the man himself, he was passed out in the white sheets, drooling into the pillow. She smiled, he deserved the rest.

But she'd have to wake him in order to tend to his bandages. She'd rather do anything but that, but the wounds he had could easily become infected without proper treatment.

Carol stepped closer to the bed, settling herself on the edge, the mattress dipping slightly under her small body. She gently pressed her palm into his bare shoulder, jostling him just enough for him to wake and not to disturb the stitches on his side.

Daryl groaned into the pillow, shrugging her hand off his shoulder, mumbling something she couldn't quite decipher. She snorted at his stubbornness. Carol leaned forward just enough to be able to call his name, hopefully without startling him.

"Daryl, hey, wake up," she coaxed. Soon enough he scrunched up his nose and his eyes opened to peer over his shoulder at her. His stormy blue eyes were foggy and he made a face at her. "Hey, sleepyhead."

Daryl stared at her for a few moments more before blinking at her like she wasn't real. "Wha'..," his voice was thick with sleep. Carol watched as he furrowed his brows and shut his eyes and she wondered if he had a headache. She figured a bullet to the temple would do that to you.

The bandage wrapped around his head had turned a muted red where he'd been shot. She couldn't see the other bandages but they probably aren't looking too great either.

Carol prodded at his arm, rousing him again and she vaguely remembered Hershal giving Daryl some painkillers. That must be why he was so loopy and out of it. Daryl grumbled and swatted lazily at her hand, trying to brush her off. Carol huffed, he was stubborn as ever.

She needed him to sit up in order to reach all the dirty wraps. She rested her hand on his shoulder blade, ushering him gently to lean forward. Eventually she had gotten him to settle on the edge of the bed with his legs hanging off.

Carol gathered the medical supplies and reached for the bandage around his temple first, gently peeling it off. She couldn't help but grimace at the way the skin had been torn, even cutting through his hairline. Applying some gauze onto a rag, she covered the fresh stitches before getting a new clean bandage to wrap his head.

She glanced worriedly at Daryl's face, trying her damndest not to cause him anymore pain then necessary. His eyes were still glossed over when she finished moving his hair out of the way and securing the wraps.

"How are you feeling?" She prompted, almost smiling at the way he blinked dumbly up at her. He licked his lips before humming in response.

"Like shit," he slurred. Carol couldn't help but but smirk at his thick southern drawl, even more pronounced than usual with the drugs faltering his speech.

"I figured as much," she gestured at the large bandage around his waist. "Can I?"

Daryl turned his head to look at where she was looking, like he couldn't register in his head fast enough to keep up with her. He probably couldn't. Both his hands came up to cover his torso best he could. Carol frowned, "What is it?"

The man's brows tightened into a scowl and his bottom lip jutted out. Carol couldn't believe what she was seeing.

Daryl Dixon was pouting.

Despite the hilarious and admittedly adorable image, Carol knew why he was covering himself. After all, she had seen all the scars littering his body the night before. His shoulders were hunched and he suddenly reminded her of a stray dog, distrusting and wounded.

She slid forward, just close enough so he could move away if he wished. Carol tilted her head towards him, forcing him to make eye contact with her. She held her hand out and touched his bicep, warm to the touch.

"Daryl, let me help you. Please."

His blue eyes widened at the sincerity in her voice. The man peered at the hand holding onto his arm, gentle but firm. Grounding.

Carol held his blue gaze even as he dropped his hands to his lap, fiddling with the hem of his pajama pants. She smiled softly at him, her heart swelling with the fact that he trusted her enough to let her see his scarred skin.

She slowly reached for the material around his waist. Delicately removing it and setting it aside to throw in the bin later. She stood and moved to his left side so she could see the stitching up close so as to not disturb anything and have them tear open. With small precise movements she repeated what she had done with his head. She admired the small freckles that were sprinkled across his skin and the warmth of his thigh against hers while she worked.

She couldn't help but grimace at the impale wound. She lightly circled her gauze-covered fingers around it, careful of the tenderness of the flesh there. She let her nails rub along the small scars that were scattered along the soft skin of his belly. She recognized knife slices and cigarette burns and her heart ached inside her ribs.

She wouldn't dare ask him about them.

Finally the job was done and he was wrapped in clean bandages. Carol humphed with triumph at her accomplishment. Daryl cocked his head at her, tongue just about lolling out of his mouth.

"All done," she announced. He hummed in response, clearly not up to speed with what was going on around him. Carol smiled fondly at him. She stood up and stretched her legs which had gone stiff with time. She leaned around his frame, gathering the off white blanket into her arms. "Let's get you tucked in now."

Daryl huffed at her, "M' ain't a baby." He glared at her through his dark lashes and she couldn't help but chuckle.

"Of course not," she carefully ushered him to lay down on his right side, "but you need to rest after all you've done for my baby."

She fluffed up his pillow and pulled the blanket up to his chest. "Still treat'n me like a kid," he grumbled. "Tuck'n me 'n an' shit."

"Well, everyone deserves a little care every now and then. Even tough guys like you," she replied. She thought he was more than tough though. Clever, brave, sweet, even.

He only hummed in response, falling into unconsciousness as soon as he closed his eyes. She congratulated a job well done as he fell victim to sleep he very much needed. Carol leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek, small stubble rough against her chapped lips.

He certainly deserved more than a little care.

[jedi-lothwolf]

Soultember Prompt 4: Fun Holidays, Handwriting day Jan 23ed

Fandom: The Dragon Prince

Summary: When your soulmate writes on themself it appears on your skin too. Soren likes writing his soulmate and Corvus sort of likes answering.

  'Heyyyyyy' Soren wrote on his arm, 'how are you?'

    Corvus looked down at his arm, feeling a slight tingle in it. It was his soulmate. He always felt his soulmate was a little too silly for him. He was so serious and quiet but they were funny and energetic.

    Soren checked his arm throughout the day, waiting for his soulmate to respond. 'Hello????' He wrote impatiently.

    A tingle, 'hello.'

    'Oh hi! How are you?'

    'Fine, how are you?'

    'I'm good!' Soren fawned over his soulmate's handwriting. It was so clear and neat.

    Corvus sighed at his. He wondered what fate could have in store for two people who clearly seemed to be opposites. When he talked to Gren about it he said 'opposites attract.' It was the most, least helpful piece of advice he could have given him.

    Grabbing a cloth Corvus dipped it in water. He gently ran the damp cloth over his arm and dried it off. Sitting on his bed, he put water back on the floor.

    As the lines smeared, Soren took a cloth from the table. He couldn't find any water so he tried to just use the fabric to get rid of the ink. Placing the cloth of his skin he roughly pushed the cloth into his skin, trying to keep the smudging at a minimum.

    'Take your time.'

    Soren Smiled. He drew a little happy face and put the pen down. Leaving his room, he set off to get some water.

    Gren walked into Corvus's quarters. "What are you up too?"

    "My soulmate wrote. He sure likes to."

    "I think he'll be good for you" Gren smiled and walked over to the bed. "Someone has to get you out of your shell."

    Corvus ignored the commander's comment.

    "What do you know about him?"

    "Not much, we can't share our names. He's in the crown guard of Katolis."

    "See, you already have something in common! You're both in the Katolis military!"

    "I suppose we are."

    Soren walked right into Callum as he rubbed the drying ink off his arm. "Hey step-prince!"

    "Oh, hey Soren."

    Callum looked at Soren's arm, "writing your soulmate?"

    "Yep!"

    "How's it going?"

    "Good! He actually wrote back for once!"

    "Have fun with that. Tell them I said hi."

    "Will do, step prince."

    Soren rushed off to his room where he could continue talking to his mystery person. 'Im back!'

    Gren grabbed Corvus's arm, "what did he say?"

    "I'm, not sure." He drew a question mark next to the illegible words

    The guard chuckled then wrote slower. "I'm back." He spoke to himself.

    Corvus smiled. 'I see that.'

    The two wrote for a little longer before someone walked into the tracker's quarters, "both of you are needed by General Amaya."

    "Okay. Tell her we'll be right there." Gren got up, "let him know that we need to go."

    Corvus quickly but neatly wrote that he had to go. He pulled his sleeve down, leaving the ink there. Most of it had dried.

    The guard took his chance. He pulled his pen out and started to trace what his soulmate had said. Each stroke was placed with deliverance.

    Though the meeting Corvus had a hard time concentrating; the tingling feeling from his soulmate writing in his arm almost worried him.  It felt like it was always the same thing in the same place.

    As soon as the meeting was over, Corvus, followed by Gren, walked back to his quarters. He threw the door open pulling his sleeve up. There was, nothing new?

    The tingling was still there. He had to be okay. Gren handed him the wet rag and he quickly scrubbed the ink off. But nothing changed.

    Soren felt a change. He grabbed the rag by his bed and cleaned his arm off.

    'Are you okay?' This time it was Soren who drew the question marks.

    'Are you okay?'

    'Yeah why?'

    'You were just writing a lot. What did you write?' Corvus sighed and turned to Gren, "he's okay."

    "That's good."

    'I was tracing your words. I like your handwriting and want to have better handwriting so you don't have to draw so many question marks '

    Corvus smiled. 'Thats sweet.' His stomach filled with butterflies.

    'Awww thanks!'

    Gren sat down next to Corvus, handing him a rag so he could clean off his arm. He took the cloth and rubbed it on his arm.

    'Im going to go train for a little bit. I'll write to you later!" Soren rubbed everything but that off.

    'Okay.' Corvus laid down.

    "I told you it would be okay."

    "You were right."

[katastronoot]

So I've just gotten myself a set of 48 oil pastels, and I was wondering how you color the small details in your drawings? I admire your art a lot!

A lot of patience and skill of using the little sharp edges on the pastel sticks 😅 or I just grab a paper towel and roll it to a point like a tortillon then I take that and rub it on the pastel stick directly and then to my paper. Like a makeshift quill that I’m dipping in ink ( in this case oil pastel) I also use colored pencils to help wherever it’s needed

I can’t wait to see what you make on your pastel journey! I’m always here to offer advice!! ^-^ tysm

[monomanicvicky]

Crossroads of the Heart

Chapter One: Before the Storm

The early morning sun bathed Canterlot in a soft lavender hue. Outside Shining Armor's apartment, the city stirred to life. The sound of car horns echoed through the streets, blending with the lilting melodies of street performers playing violins and guitars. Vendors called out their wares in rhythmic chants, offering everything from fresh produce to warm pastries. The hurried footsteps of the morning rush tapped against the pavement, some accompanied by the soft rustle of newspapers or the clink of coffee cups.

In the distance, the steady hum of buses and the faint screech of a subway on its tracks added a constant undercurrent to the waking symphony. Even the occasional bark of a dog and the cheerful chirps of birds from the nearby park seemed to contribute to the morning's energy.

Shining Armor smiled at the familiar scene. He'd lived here his entire life, and yet each morning still felt new. But today was different—today, he'd be leaving for the weekend. He was headed to Ponyville, a quaint, rustic town, to visit his sister Twilight for her birthday tomorrow. She was turning 23, and the thought almost caught him off guard. His little sister, growing up so fast.

Rolling out of bed, he made his way to the closet, uncertain of what to wear. He didn't want to be too formal, but he didn't want to come across as too casual either, especially considering he was publicly courting the Princess of Love. He had to make a good impression on all of Equestria.

After nearly an hour of trying different outfits in front of the mirror, Shining Armor finally settled on something simple yet classy: a black button-up shirt and dark wash jeans.

He was admiring himself when a knock at the door broke his focus. Oh, right, he thought. Cadance. He'd almost forgotten she was accompanying him to Ponyville. He quickly made his way to the door and opened it.

"Are you ready to go?" she asked, her voice smooth and sweet, like every word was dipped in honey.

"Yes, ma'am. Just need to grab my suitcase!" he replied, his tone light and eager. He hurried to gather his things before heading outside to the waiting car, where Cadance's chauffeur stood.

Once they reached the car, the chauffeur took the bags from Shining Armor and loaded them into the trunk. With his hands now free, and having been raised to be a gentleman, Shining opened the car door for Cadance.

She smiled warmly, her cheeks flushing a soft pink. "Thank you," she said, her voice carrying a note of appreciation as she climbed in.

During the short drive to Ponyville, Shining Armor and Cadance reminisced about their high school days. He'd been infatuated with her back then, but had never been brave enough to say anything. He had always thought she was too beautiful and of too high a status for someone like him.

Shining forced a smile and laughed along with her, though inside, his stomach twisted with unease. Lately, he'd been questioning his feelings for Cadance. He hoped this trip would give him a chance to reconnect with her—or maybe even get some advice from his genius sister.

At last, they arrived at the Golden Oak Library, where Twilight lived. She was waiting for them on the porch, her long purple hair tied in a messy ponytail and her ink-stained hands waving excitedly in their direction. She must have been writing to Princess Celestia just before they arrived.

"Hey, Twily," Shining greeted, feeling a bit awkward as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Pinkie Pie will be here any minute to harass you with party planning," Twilight laughed.

And almost as if summoned by her words, Pinkie Pie's hot pink Volkswagen Beetle pulled into the driveway, Applejack in the passenger seat. It was the perfect car for the eccentric Pinkie Pie. Without hesitation, Pinkie jumped out of the car and dashed toward them.

"Hi, Twilight's brother! Are you ready to plan her party, huh? Huh?" she asked, her smile so wide it was almost unsettling.

"Uh, yeah, I guess so," Shining chuckled, his amusement mixed with mild apprehension. God, this girl is weird.

Applejack is letting us set up at Sweet Apple Acres, which I think is perfect," Pinkie said, her hands gesturing wildly. "It represents all of our friendship, and since it's such an open space, we'll have plenty of room for lots and lots of decorations!" She grinned. "We should head over there now if we want to finish before sunset."

With that, Shining and Cadance climbed back into the car, following Pinkie to Sweet Apple Acres.

When they arrived, Shining stepped out of the car, feeling the crunch of fallen leaves beneath his feet as a warm breeze ruffled the air. The midday sun bathed the trees and grass in a golden light, making the orchard look like something out of a postcard.

As he took in the beauty of the orchard, something else caught his attention—a figure in the distance. Tall and rugged. That must be Applejack's brother, Big Mac, he thought.

He should've been able to look away after recognizing him, but for some reason, he couldn't stop staring.

He watched as Big Mac carried two square bales of hay across the yard. That's gotta be a couple hundred pounds, Shining thought, his eyes wide in disbelief. He wasn't sure what he was feeling—admiration? Awe? Something else entirely?

Before he could dwell on it, he was snapped out of his trance by Cadance, who lightly tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hello? Shining, are you with us?" she giggled. "You've been staring off into space ever since you got out of the car."

"Oh, sorry," Shining mumbled, his face growing crimson. "It's just so pretty here," he lied, trying to cover up how long he'd been staring at a man he didn't even know. His heart pounded in his chest as he realized how embarrassing the whole thing had been. "What do we do now?"

"According to Pinkie, we've got plenty of decorations to put up," Cadance replied, her voice as warm and gentle as always. "You should go help Big Mac with the heavy lifting while we handle the banners and stuff."

Shining's thoughts immediately spiraled. Working alone? With this man I've been staring at? His palms started to sweat, and his face flushed again, betraying his nervousness.

He took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm. No turning back now.

“Okay, sounds good," he said, trying to sound confident despite the turmoil inside.

He walked over to Big Mac, his steps feeling heavier than they should have. As he approached, he opened his mouth to introduce himself, but no words came out. Instead, he found himself staring into Big Mac's eyes, completely frozen.

Before he could recover, Big Mac spoke, his deep voice low and surprisingly melodic.

"Shining Armor, right?"

Shining blinked, a little taken aback. "Y-yeah, that's right. I'm Shining Armor," he replied, his voice soft and shaky.

Big Mac gave him a small, knowing smile and chuckled. "We've got a lot of decorating to do," he said, stepping forward and giving Shining a nod. "C'mon, let's get to it."

There was something undeniably warm about Big Mac, something Shining hadn't expected. Despite his imposing size and rugged exterior, there was a softness to him—a quiet strength and an unexpected gentleness. His deep, steady voice carried an undercurrent of tenderness that immediately put Shining at ease, a comfort he hadn't realized he'd been longing for.

"I think it's real nice of you to come all the way out here for your sister's party," Big Mac said, his hands working with practiced care as he set up the decorations. His words were simple, but they carried an earnestness that resonated with Shining. "I'd sure do the same for Applejack any day."

The sincerity in Big Mac's voice made Shining's chest tighten, a flutter of something unrecognizable stirring within him. His heart skipped a beat at the quiet conviction in those words, a warmth that spread across his skin and crept into his cheeks. He cleared his throat, trying to push the feelings down, but it was no use.

"It's what family does," Shining replied, his voice quieter than usual, almost softer. He glanced at Big Mac, suddenly aware of how close they were. "Especially older brothers."

Big Mac's smile deepened just a fraction, and for a brief, fleeting moment, it felt like the rest of the world had faded into the background. Shining held his gaze, and something passed between them—unspoken, yet tangible. It made his pulse quicken, a quiet understanding, perhaps, or the stirring of something more. But neither of them broke the silence. It lingered between them, thick with the weight of a promise—or maybe a secret neither was quite ready to face.

Shining found his eyes lingering on Big Mac, lost in the quiet tension, until he felt a light tap on his shoulder. It was Cadance.

"How's it going, boys?" she asked, her voice carefree and innocent.

Shining's heart dropped as reality hit him. What was he doing? He was a loyal man—honorable. He couldn't entertain feelings for anyone else while courting Cadance, the woman he was deeply fond of. He took a slow, steadying breath, trying to gather his composure.

"It's going fine. I think we're almost done, right, Big Mac?" he said, forcing his voice to sound casual as he avoided eye contact. Maybe it was nothing, after all. Maybe he just admired Big Mac—nothing more.

"Yes, ma'am, he's right," Big Mac responded, his voice calm, steady, and somehow more reassuring than before.

Cadance gave them both a satisfied smile and sauntered off to join the rest of the girls, leaving Shining to gather his scattered thoughts.

After wrapping up, Big Mac gave Shining one last smile. "It was nice working with you today."

Shining's heart gave an unexpected flutter at the words, and he smiled back, trying to mask the warmth spreading through him. "Yeah, you too," he replied, his voice a little softer than he intended.

I can't do this, he reminded himself. I have Cadance to think about.

With a quick, almost hurried step, Shining walked over to the girls. "Are you ready to go, Cadance?" he asked, his tone a little too sharp, as if to rid himself of the thoughts clouding his mind. She nodded, and he immediately took her hand, leading her toward the car. He could feel the heat of a ruby blush creeping across her cheeks, and a pang of guilt tightened his chest.

He couldn't meet her gaze, his frown deepening as he fought the rush of conflicting emotions. How could he let himself be so distracted? He had feelings for Cadance—he'd been in love with her since high school. He couldn't let one moment, one lapse in judgment, change everything. She deserved more than that.

The drive back to the Golden Oak Library was a quiet one. Shining stared out the window, lost in his thoughts, trying to make sense of the turmoil inside him. It had always been Cadance. He loved Cadance. They were meant to be together. They were going to get married. They'd have a life together, just like they always planned.

He tried to convince himself of it, but the uncertainty lingered, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn't shake.

He was so deep in thought that he didn't realize they had arrived until Cadance, once again, lightly tapped him on the shoulder.

"We're here," she said, offering the same soft smile she always did. He looked at her like a deer caught in headlights, shocked and frozen.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, her smile fading into a frown.

"Everything's fine. I was just lost in thought, and you startled me, that's all." He tried his best to return a warm smile, like she had done.

Content with his answer, she got out of the car and went inside. Shining sat there for a moment, nervous about going inside to face his sister, who he desperately needed to confide in.

As he sat there, overwhelmed by his thoughts, he was interrupted by a man's voice.

"Are you alright, sir?" asked the chauffeur. It hadn't even occurred to Shining that he wasn't alone in the vehicle.

"Like I told Princess Cadance, I'm fine. Just have a lot on my mind. I'll head inside now, so you can head to your hotel for the night," he said softly, followed by a hesitant smile as he opened the door.

As he headed toward the door, his mind raced. What was he going to say to Twilight now? Not only was he having doubts about Cadance, but he was also having thoughts about someone else—a man.

When he reached the door, he closed his eyes and focused on his heartbeat, trying to steady it before going inside. He sighed and opened the door, finding his sister seated in a blue velvet chair with an open book in hand. She was so absorbed in it that she didn't notice him come in.

"Twily?" he chuckled. This was typical of Twilight—completely consumed by her book.

Startled, she slammed the book shut with a loud thud that sounded almost like thunder. BOOM.

"Oh my God, I didn't even notice you guys were back," she said, her face flushed with embarrassment. "I was so lost in my book." She stared at him with wide eyes, her hair even more frazzled than it had been earlier.

"I see that," he said, glancing around the room, his eyes searching for any sign of Cadance. But all he saw were bookshelves lining the coral walls, decorated with gold patterns.

"Yeah, of course. What's wrong?" Twilight asked, her voice full of concern. Shining took a seat in the chair across from hers.

"It's about Cadance," he began, feeling a lump form in his throat. "I've been having doubts lately, and I'm not sure what to do about it."

"What exactly are you doubting? This has been it for you for years," she said, her brow furrowing in confusion.

"I know," he replied, rubbing his temples. "And I love Cadance—at least, I think I do—but... I don't know. It just hasn't felt like I thought it would. I hoped coming out here and being away from the city would make me feel better, but it's only made things worse."

"Worse? How so?" Twilight's eyebrow raised, a hint of worry crossing her features.

Shining felt a wave of nausea wash over him as he realized what he had said. "It doesn't matter. Forget I said anything," he quickly added.

Twilight frowned and placed her hand on his shoulder, her touch gentle. "Maybe you should talk to Cadance about this. I'm sure she'll understand," she said softly.

"Yeah, maybe," he murmured, knowing deep down he wasn't going to talk to Cadance about any of this. "But for now, I think we should all get some sleep. Your party's tomorrow." He stood up and walked upstairs to find the guest room.

After walking through two wrong doors, Shining finally found the guest room. It was painted a soft cornflower blue, and the bed was adorned with deep navy silk and a velvet blanket. Cadance was already fast asleep, nestled under the covers.

Shining smiled, both in admiration for how beautiful she looked even in her sleep, and out of relief. He took the free pillow, found a burgundy blanket, and made himself a bed on the floor. After all, he was a gentleman.

As he laid there, his thoughts began to wander. Was it worth talking to her about? Maybe he could just forget about Big Mac once they returned to Canterlot. The idea of confronting his feelings seemed too difficult, too confusing.