#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…

[thepersonalwords]

Most startups actually start down and only go up if they catch the winds of market demand.

Ryan Lilly

[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

[2hdedmthr]

𝑃𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑠𝘩

mother miranda x vampire!reader

・❥・E(xplicit), 3200 words

✧༺ ❥ ༻∞

A wave of indescribable bliss came over you with the squirming of Mother Miranda’s gift in your abdomen. It was nesting deep in your nervous system, having found purchase along your spinal cord. Slowly it crept up, up, up towards your cranium— then finally, the neurons in your brain began to synapse; and before you knew it, endorphins were flooding your system.

“Mother, oh!” you giggled, your forehead drenched in sweat, delirium roping your mind. The torches that lined the dank laboratory walls began to, in your vision, dim and blur. You looked toward your priestess— who had been sitting at your bedside since finishing your operation, silently monitoring your condition. She was jotting something down in a leather-bound journal. You continued, even though she did not look up at you: “I’m so terribly content! Comfortable, even— I think we ought to do away with these restraints.” You tugged a bit at the thick leather straps keeping your wrists bound up on either side of your head, and your ankles to the bedposts. They were uncomfortably tight.

Mother Miranda simply continued to write, no doubt documenting your hectic state. “You are in the rudimentary stages of transformation,” she returned dully. “You are to remain bound until I’ve seen proof of your fortitude.”

Excitatory chemicals were still running rampant through your body, so you’d no clue what Mother Miranda was going on about. All you could focus on were the warm streaks of color snaking, leaping, pulsing through your vision: you were in a weightless, feverish state of bliss incomprehensible to the ordinary human mind. Until, of course, small bursts of ineffable pain began to spark and flower across every inch of flesh your body had to offer. You’d fallen painfully from your high in less than a millisecond.

“Mother!” you wailed, arching your back up off the bed. The pain that came merely from lying still was too agonizing to bear. You began to sob, and, shortly thereafter, to plead: “Please, please, please, Mother! I cannot suffer this— I cannot endure this hell! Oh, what is happening to me? I beg of you, I beg: my heart will give out if you do not make it end!” You were pulling and tugging against your restraints, trying to reach for Miranda.

Your priestess merely dipped her pen into the pot of ink, continued writing, and said: “Your body is dying,” she paused, tilted her chin slightly upwards, and met your eye; “and your mind is trying to comprehend it. That is all.”

“No!” you cried out, still arching your torso, twisting every appendage and extremity against your restraints. You were desperate to flee the touch of the bed. “No! It cannot be, Mother! I cannot be—!” You stopped to sob for a moment, then finished, hysterically, “Oh, I beg you to kill me! Truly kill me!”

“Ah-ah,” returned your priestess, who had, at last, flipped her journal shut and set it aside. Her affect remained unfeeling as ever as she reached to splay a palm over your abdomen, and then pressed your squirming body back against the mattress. “You must endure. Find the source of your agony, and it shall be quelled.”

Despite your continued sobbing, you dug deep inside yourself to root out your pain; when had Mother Miranda’s advice ever led you astray? Within, you were met with a hunger so primordial, so physical— so carnal— you’d no idea what, exactly, it was that you were hungry for.

“It hurts,” you managed; “I am starved, Mother; famished. Yet I know not for what.”

But Mother Miranda already knew exactly what you needed. It was in her preternatural nature, after all, to know everything that her subjects did not. She stood to retrieve a sharp, silver dagger from somewhere deeper within the lab, then returned to stand beside the bed with it in her grasp. At that point, she began, unaffected, to cut a deep gash into her wrist. The spine of the blade flashed keenly as she carved, blinding you horribly for a split second; though, as soon as your sight returned, you found yourself wishing to be blind again! Miranda was hovering her gashed wrist just above your mouth. Thick, black blood dripped and trickled down, steadily, onto your trembling lips.

“Drink,” she ordered— and that was all.

Your stomach churned: you felt extremely ill at the notion of drinking from another’s wound. But… you neither could deny the inherent temptation of it: the way your gut twisted was, in a way, perversely pleasant, subtly craving that which Miranda had offered you.

Should you… drink?

Oh, you couldn’t, you shouldn’t!— but your body was begging for it.

You couldn’t refrain. You ravaged the laceration with your mouth, latching onto it like an emaciated animal, sucking and biting as Mother Miranda pressed her arm into your want. She tasted dull— as if her blood had been stagnant for years; but even then, you simply couldn’t stop drinking. The bliss was coming over you again, washing clean away the pain of cell death. All you had to do was slide your tongue along the gash, suck, and the endorphins came rushing back. It was that easy.

Miranda observed aloud as she watched you feed: “Yes, an insatiable appetite, indeed.” She put a hand down round the back of your head to support your neck, then continued, “I’ve seen it a manifold of times before; though you are certainly my strongest to date.”

After a few more moments of starved suckling, panting, and licking, you fell back against the pillows in order to catch your frail breath. Your face was still half-drained of color— perhaps a lasting side effect of death— and your soft flesh glistened with sweat; though, you were invigorated as ever. Once you’d caught your breath, you licked a bead of Miranda’s blood from the corner of your mouth, leaned back up (as best you could against your restraints), and began to trace your tongue along her wound again.

But as soon as muscle met muscle, Mother Miranda pulled her arm away. She kept it a tentative distance from your face, where you could not reach, but still could ogle.

“You must learn discipline, if you wish to remain in my service,” she said. The wound then healed near instantaneously, and she brought her hand to her side. “No more puerile indulgence.”

‘Puerile’? you thought. But how could the need to sate your hunger be deemed puerile, or an indulgence, when there was a very real, very terrible ache in your gut for more of your priestess’s blood, her flesh? It was an ache so great that a whine had begun to creep up your throat; though, luckily, you managed to swallow it in time to prevent its escape.

No indulgence. For now.

“Of course, Mother,” you replied breathlessly, still half-leaning up. “As you wish.”

Pleased enough with your compliance, Miranda reached for the nearest of your bound wrists. “Now,” she began, freeing the restraint, “undo the other.” She waited, and then— “Sit up straight.”

As you straightened to your full sitting height, your head pounded, and swam with a tumultuous current of warmth. Everything was slipping in and out of view as your vision darkened, then returned, then darkened again: the dank stone walls, the scattered medical equipment, the dark holding cell in the corner. The minimal lighting couldn’t have been helping. It was like the time you’d had too much wine before bed, and woke the next morning feeling more ill than ever you’d felt before; only this time, it was amplified twentyfold— and had come merely from fixing your posture! You rubbed your eyes; Miranda began toward the end of the bed. Her stride was meticulously slow, each deliberate click of one heel identical to the last.

Once her steps had halted, she unstrapped one of your ankles, then the other, and asked, “What do you feel?”

You breathed out— only once, very weakly.

“Like… I’ve had too much liquor,” you replied. Your gut still ached with a dismal sense of vacancy, and you knew that you should not beg, or pry, but you could not bear the pain: “And I am still very hungry, Mother. If only I could have—“

“Patience, dear child,” Miranda interjected. Her tone of voice was as strategic as her stride. Once she’d retaken her post at the side of the bed, you looked over at her. “You’ve a far more acquired taste than the Countess: not just any petty, virgin flesh will do.” She wiped a bit of sweat from your forehead with her palm, letting her cool hand linger there as she went on, a bit quieter, “I am your lifeblood; and if you come to prove yourself as vexingly greedy as the aforementioned Lady, know that I will not hesitate to sever your access to nourishment.”

A weak, “Yes, Mother,” was all you could muster before your priestess was ordering you to get out of the bed; she’d like to see how you held yourself, now that your mind was not so clouded with bliss nor hunger.

You will only be fed if you obey. That is what Miranda’s keen, steel-blue eyes silently conveyed.

Once you’d managed to stand (your legs were incredibly weak, hardly able to withstand the scant weight of your deathly frame), Mother Miranda began to circle you. Again, her steps were slow and deliberate, as she was being very thorough in her scrutinies of your appearance.

“You hunch your shoulders; push out your chest. Yes, like that. No— now you’ve an unpleasant look about your face. Don’t allow yourself to appear so bothered. Fine, I suppose that…” This went on for the better part of a minute, Miranda fixing your posture, your face, your hands, your hair— until she had, at last, come around in front of you again, and quit her prowling.

Your eyes darted between her fearures, vision blurring, clearing, blurring again. Gods, were you hungry! Famine had consumed your every thought, poisoned your mind so that you could think only of feeding. You soon found yourself staring over-covetously at the pulsating artery along the side of Mother Miranda’s neck. You hadn’t even considered the possibility that she might still have a living, beating heart; but, considering, it must’ve been true. And what heaven it would be, you dreamt, to gnaw right through her soft breast, and tear her heart from its calcic cage. But your dull maws would be ill-fit for such carnivorous endeavors… Oh! who gives a damn? The experience would only be prolonged.

Your fantasies of soft, sacred flesh were cut short when you realized your quivering knees were about to give way. You breathed out another small plea to your priestess for more of her blood: without it, you did not think you could hold yourself upright any longer.

Begging again.

But she only tsk’d, and said: “If you are no longer able to stand without aid, perhaps you should kneel.” Mother Miranda emphasized her final word as a command, tilting your chin up with the gold-razored tip of a single finger. “I will not simply hand over my blood as if it were some meager commodity; you must earn the right to feed.”

To feed. The subtle promise of sweet sustenance— flesh, blood— spoken into existence by your priestess was a spell you could not help but fall under. So, as if it were in your very nature to serve, your knees came down in a bruising tumble onto the stone floor. In lieu of asking, though, in plain words, ‘What might I do next?’— you simply looked up into the eyes of your Creator, and let your softening gaze speak for you.

Anything at all, it said; I shall do anything for another taste of your blood.

This pitiful display of obedience made Miranda’s keen eyes dull just a bit with pleasure, and an arch little smile crept across her lips— “Greedy, yes,” she mused, threading her fingers through your hair, “but so very eager to please.”

You sucked in a quiet breath. “Please, Mother. I don’t…”

She pulled your face closer to the apex of her thighs. “Quiet,” she hissed. “How much can you take?”

For a moment, you were too stunned to reply. Had you any blood still coursing through your veins, your cheeks would’ve been flushed deep and hot. “I— Probably very little, Mother. I’ve never…”

“Good.”

Mother Miranda ordered you to hike up the skirts of her robe, and, of course, just as you’d been conditioned to do, you obeyed. Inch by tantalizing inch, her legs came into view: they were smooth, pale, and firmly toned— and they made you forget, for a split second, how carnally starved you were for flesh and blood. You clasped your thighs together unconsciously, not caring to brood over the indecency of your current thoughts. The thick, heavy fabric of the robe continued to creep higher by your hand: you pushed it up over her knees, her thighs. Once you’d hiked it up to her hips, you found that she’d been wearing no undergarments at all; for the patch of blonde hair covering her mound was at perfect eye level, and you could not look away. Earn the right to feed. You quickly tried to lean in, but Miranda yanked your head back, forcing you to look up at her once more.

“My true form: another privilege you’ve yet to earn.” While she spoke, the quiet sounds of transmutation came from between her legs; but she kept your head tilted upward so that you couldn’t see a thing. How cruel. “You will prove yourself another way, tonight.”

At last, she loosened her grip on your hair, allowing you to drop your gaze between her legs again. Though, instead of her cunt, you were met with the sight of a thick, erect cock. You swallowed hard, and found yourself short of breath.

“Do not fret,” Miranda soothed, gently scraping her talons over your scalp; “it is entirely artificial.”

“I…” You were at a loss for words. You’d never done anything so… base before, so salacious. And you wanted to, really; you wanted to please your priestess, so that she might grant you another quart of her blood. But you simply didn’t know how.

Miranda, though she could, at times, be effortlessly malevolent, did not disregard your apprehension: “There are other ways you may please me, if you so wish,” she said.

But you’d already gotten this far, hadn’t you? Knees pressing deep into cold stone, face inches away from your priestess’s cock— one mouth-fuck away from being fed? You shook your head no, managing a quick, “I want this, Mother.”

A faint grin flashed across her lips, and she wasted no time in pushing your face a bit closer to the newly-formed appendage. Then, she began to guide you:

“Open. Yes— good girl. Keep it just there.”

Your priestess pulled your head forward again, silently ordering you to wrap your virgin mouth around her cock. So you did. You’d not a clue what you should be doing; but you absentmindedly pressed your tongue along the bottom of Miranda’s shaft while she pushed into you— and, sure enough, it created a pleasant amount of pressure between her and the roof of your mouth. At least, you supposed as much from the way she gasped.

When the head of her cock finally bumped against the back of your throat, you gagged quietly, and your eyes welled with tears. There was still about a quarter of her length to go before she was fully sheathed; and you hadn’t a clue how you were going to take it.

“That’s it. That’s good,” Miranda praised. She rocked her hips forward, trying to coax herself a bit further down your throat. You gagged again, and she chuckled. “Is it too much?”

A moment passed wherein you thought it was; perhaps you weren't ready for her. Though, just as you were about to pull back, you felt your throat ease up a bit. That’s when you knew you could take her all. And, oh, the whine Mother Miranda let out as your warm mouth enveloped the entirety of her cock: it was utterly delectable. When you began to suck, her thighs quivered, and her fingers tightened through your tresses. You went slow— in part for the sake of your throat, seeing as you’d never sucked cock before; but also because you wished terribly to savor this moment of worship. It was languid, raw, intimate: the way Miranda allowed you to slowly ease her dick back into your throat then out again, never forcing you to take more than you could handle. You’d grown terribly aroused.

Though, this gentleness, this intimacy that you’d so quickly become accustomed to, lasted no longer than two minutes. Soon Miranda was fucking your face with abandon, grunting breathlessly out of exertion with every forward thrust of her hips. Each of her hushed groans were trailed by short growls of pleasure, usually when the head of her cock hit the back of your throat just right. At one point, she even uttered your name, to which you replied with a surprised gag. You continued working your flattened tongue over, under, along her shaft the best you could, desperately trying to keep up with her sporadic and vigorous pace. Until, finally, she came. Hard.

Hot ropes of cum shot down your throat and coated your tongue, all while Mother Miranda tipped her head far back, and let you suck her dry. She was drowning, and fast, in the throes of pure bliss: breathless, uninhibited moans tumbled dryly from the depths of her trachea in a manner quite unlike anything you’d ever heard before. And you, too, had become more vocal upon her release: you whined ceaselessly around her hard cock as it throbbed, and twitched and pumped your mouth full of cum. You were struggling to swallow it all (it was so unpleasantly salty and thick!) but felt you should not waste any part of your priestess’s pleasure, either— and so, you swallowed, and gagged, and swallowed some more until she’d no more cum to fill you with.

Mother Miranda pulled out of your mouth with a long, outward breath, and, at that point, you let her skirt fall back over her legs. She yanked you to your feet by your hair, and told you to clean yourself: your mouth, as well as your chin, were coated in a diluted amalgamation of spit and cum.

Immediately embarrassed, you began to wipe your face with the back of your hand, licking away any excess fluid that got into either corner of your mouth. Jesus, you’ve already begun to like the taste. Meanwhile, you noted the familiar sounds of transmutation from between Miranda’s legs, and her cock dissipated into the rest of her flesh.

“That’ll be enough, little dove,” Miranda said finally, grabbing your chin. Your face was clean. “You’ve proved your merit for the night.” She then slipped her hand round the back of your head, guided your mouth right to her cold neck, and gave one last order:

“Drink.”

✧༺ ❥ ༻∞

[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.

[ilookattextile]

hi, i have an old cotton weave table runner and sadly i spotted a pretty big ink stain that is probably 1-2 months old now and would like to ask you for advice on how to get rid of it and if its possible 😞

It’s very nice to be asked textile advice heheh thank you. Really it depends on what kind of ink it is and probably the stain won’t come out 100% but you can try to soak the spot in in water and using a sponge try to lift the stain, if the water turns the colour of the ink change the water quickly so it doesnt tint the rest of the textile. The ink may be soluble in alcohol which could also help, you could test it with a cotton swab dipped in rubbing alc or vodka or something of that sort.

[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

[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.

[xenofact]

Not Alone Among The Books

As I mentioned several times before, I like to read various Taoist documents as it helps me build a mental “ecosystem.” That ecosystem helps me understand my meditative work, develop philosophical understanding, and better connect to the world. However, I noted another benefit as of late - a feeling of understanding.

I read of historical figures whose tales border on or are legend, often presented by Taoist writers as examples or cautionary tales. I find some of them relatable, in virtues, in flaws, and in experiences. Across the centuries, the aeons, I feel kinship, even in my own mistakes.

There are authors who comment on their experiences, plans, and desires. There, reading a book from a thousand years ago, I get them. I understand what they’re trying to do, what they’re experiencing, and even their mistakes. Sometimes you learn a lot by going “I understand why you said that” and “been there.”

Then there’s all the advice and observations these ancient Taoist writers provide. Timeless stuff, the same observations, even the same issues, are things they wrote about and things I learn about now. It’s not just that it’s useful, someone wrote it down to help others, someone going through what I went through.

Then when you look at these books hundreds or thousands of years old, you realize that you have it because of a chain of scribes and printers transcribing it. Someone made sure you had this book, dipping their pen into ink, arranging blocks on the press. You have that book because of people who did that - and if you’re someone like me, that’s someone like us.

Finally, there’s the translators, some of whom leave their own notes and commentary, sometimes even their own experience getting the book done. These are the people that made sure you can read the book - and make sense of metaphors, cultural tropes, and so on. They did this for a reason.

All these books make me feel not just informed, but less alone. There’s people like me, people who I get and relate to. Whatever wisdom I gain from their works and efforts, I also gain a sense of camaraderie.

Maybe this also explains some of the thrill I get sharing books that matter to me. A book may find someone who connects to it like I do, and there’s one more person feeling that connected to all those who came before.

-Xenofact

[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.

[soltheinkwizard]

I heard you draw with a dip pen, do you have any advice on how to do it good? Where do you buy your stuff from?

I love dip pens but starting out might be a bit difficult but I have some tips:

-Get yourself a nice nib, not the cheapest one, it REALLY makes a difference. My favorite nibs are: Nikko G Nib Matte, Leonardt Hiro Crown and Brause 65 School. If you can, get a few different ones from different manufacturers and see what you like.

-Nibs have to be primed! They are covered in protective layer to prevent them from rusting by the manufacturer. That HAS to be removed because otherwise the ink won't flow well if at all. Usually I just put them in boiling water but there are other methods. Any oils make drawing harder, so keeping your nibs clean and not touching the tip is the key!

-Get good ink. There are many ink types and not all of them will work with a dip pen. The ink can't be too think or too thick. My favorite ink I tried is Kuretake ZIG Cartoonist Super Black Ink. It's on the more pricy side but one bottle lasts forever. The colour is really deep and nice too and doesn't disappear when erasing. But, again the only way to find products that work for you is to experiment with different ones. Speaking of ink, white ink can be really useful for corrections. Myself, I use Kuretake ZIG Cartoonist White Ink 30 (applied with a small brush) and Uniball Signo white gel pen for smaller corrections, it's the best white ink pen I ever used.

-Pen holder: I like to use thicker ones but that is my preference. I use classic pen holders, nothing fancy.

-Paper: smooth paper works better but you need to try different kinds to see what works the best. Paper can't be too thin.

You should be able all these things online or in any better art store. They usually don't have nibs on display so you have to ask them.

And lastly, practice. When I first started experimenting with dip pens I never thought I would switch to them completely, but I ended up liking them more than fineliners. Hope this helps!