#how do you permanently heal a fissure

[lasertreatmentindia]

Something You should Know about Recurrent Anal Fissures : Laser 360 Clinic

The use of laser treatment for fissures has significantly increased as a speedier method of healing. The procedure is without difficulties. Read More >>

[saintsenara]

If Voldemort had repented and felt remorse like Harry offered him, what exactly would have happened to him? Would his soul have been healed and he forgiven? I mean, I’m pretty sure he would definitely be thrown into Azkaban for life, but would he be normal again? Like, no longer that bald, no-nose snake face creep and his soul intact.

thank you very much for the ask, @hollyparker! i can think of no question more suitable for this season of allhallowtide.

canon is clear that genuine remorse would have resulted in the fissures in voldemort's soul being healed:

"Isn't there any way of putting yourself back together?" Ron asked. "Yes," said Hermione with a hollow smile, "but it would be excruciatingly painful." "Why? How do you do it?" asked Harry.  "Remorse," said Hermione. "You've got to really feel what you've done. There's a footnote. Apparently the pain of it can destroy you. I can't see Voldemort attempting it somehow, can you?"

so, the only thing necessary to trigger the healing of the soul is the feeling of remorse. there's no need to perform any sort of public penance, nor even to actually say out loud that you're sorry. you just need to be sorry, and the slate of your soul is wiped clean.

[that is - as we'll come to below - your salvation is achieved by faith alone, rather than by works and rituals...]

so yes, voldemort would be forgiven. but only in the theological - rather than the psychological, social, or legal - sense of the word.

his victims wouldn't suddenly be expected to be fine with him, his slate wouldn't be wiped clean in the eyes of the wizarding legal system, and he would still be expected to be punished for what he'd done. if he survives putting his soul back together, instead of dying on the spot, he's definitely looking at life in azkaban - if not a capital sentence - and he'd deserve it. and if he dies, he's still going to be remembered as an evil man, rather than the history of his crimes being erased by his deathbed repentance. he would simply rot in azkaban and/or die with an intact soul.

but what about with an intact appearance?

canon doesn't ever discuss what would happen to voldemort's body if he healed his soul, and either option - that his appearance would revert or that it wouldn't - is justifiable. but my view is certainly that healing his soul would trigger the transformation of his appearance.

[i don't have a preference on whether this means he would revert to the body he had when he first split his soul - that is, his appearance would be as it was when he was sixteen - or if he'd be his canonical age, just with a human face. either makes one hell of a premise for a fic.]

voldemort's physical degradation is directly caused by making horcruxes - right down to the very first time he splits his soul - and it accelerates as he goes beyond the norms of even this darkest of magic. the version of him which visits hepzibah smith - who has made two horcruxes: the diary and the ring - is very thin, very pale, and heavily implied to look quite sickly, and he also has a red gleam in his eyes. the version who comes to see dumbledore for a job interview - who has made four or five horcruxes: the diary, the ring, the cup, the diadem, and possibly the locket - is unnaturally pale, has skin which looks like melted wax, has eyes which are starting to look permanently bloodshot, and [much to harry's disappointment] is no longer good-looking. creating harry - rather than his resurrection ritual - is what seems to cause his looks to degrade further, since the voldemort of philosopher's stone is described facially in identical ways to the voldemort of goblet of fire, although the creation of nagini probably makes these features even more horrifying.

as a narrative device, voldemort's physical changes has an enormous amount in common with the gradual disfigurement of the portrait in the picture of dorian gray.

in both texts, damage visited upon the soul - and, indeed, damage visited upon the soul in pursuit of immortality - is visited upon the face [although in dorian's case, this damage is confined to the portrait, while his flesh-and-blood self lives behind a mask of false youth and beauty]. at the end of the novel, dorian - horrified at the portrait's appearance - resolves to mend his ways, but only does so half-heartedly [by deciding that not seducing a woman he feels nothing for is enough to cancel out murder and driving two people to suicide], which causes no change to the portrait. in a fit of rage, he destroys the portrait rather than attempting true repentance. this kills him, and when his body is discovered his appearance is the monstrous one of the painting. that is, he - like voldemort - finally has to wear the damage to his soul on his face.

from which we can reasonably suppose that the impact of true repentance on the soul would reflect similarly on the face. voldemort being returned to his former humanity - then - would be the proof [since, as we've seen, he wouldn't need to prove his remorse through works or words] that his repentance was genuine and he had - again, only in the theological sense of the word - been forgiven.

but he's still going to be thrown in azkaban, or hurled through the veil, or die on the spot even if he's pretty again. it doesn't change anything about what he's done on earth.

what it changes is his experience in the afterlife.

the text approaches the possibility of voldemort's remorse very interestingly. by which i mean, it presents it not just as a purgative act, but as a quasi-baptismal one.

the wizarding world canonically has two stable spheres of existence - life and afterlife. there's no suggestion in canon that this afterlife attaches a moral price to admission - that is, it doesn't seem to function as [the christian] heaven, and nor does there seem to be an in-universe version of [the christian] hell - but it does require something: an intact soul.

in between these two spheres is a liminal space - the theshold between life and death which appears to harry as king's cross. this threshold exists so that the newly dead [those who aren't harry, whose experience is unique, at least] can make a choice - to move on to the afterlife or to return to the sphere of the living as a ghost.

there's some implication in canon that it takes some people longer to accept the need to move on to the afterlife than others - and so there's some sense of the threshold serving a similar purpose to purgatory, and serving as an intermediate space in which an intact soul sheds all the baggage it's carried with it from life before it settles happily into death.

but in voldemort's case, it represents something very different... limbo.

and, specifically, the limbo of infants.

this term refers to the permanent - rather than liminal - sphere in which the souls of unbaptised babies linger, unable - since they've never been cleansed of original sin via baptism, but also haven't committed any sins of their own [since, y'know, they're babies] - either to access heaven or to be condemned to hell.

within the metaphysics of canon, then, voldemort's mutilation of his soul has a similar impact to the state of unbaptism. it prevents him from moving across the threshold between life and death, thus causing him to get stuck forever - in a baby-like form! - in the liminal space of king's cross.

and this is fascinating.

as deathly hallows reaches its climax, the themes and tropes the doylist narrative draws upon are overtly christian. harry freely chooses to die for the salvation of the world, rises again from the dead, and then protects anyone who believes in him from coming to harm at voldemort's hands with the supernatural force of his love. numerous other characters have arcs in the final book which have similarly christian overtones - lily as the virgin mary [who crushes the serpent's head, before her son defeats him entirely], dumbledore as john the baptist [who teaches and guides harry-as-christ, but is subordinate to him in greatness], and ron as st peter [who abandons harry-as-christ and then returns to him].

but - crucially - its christian tropes are not simply christian. they are protestant.

and voldemort - as much as his christian-literature archetype is satan [hence all the snake imagery] - is approached by the text, especially when it comes to the text's treatment of his horcruxes, with christian allegories which are catholic.

the horcruxes are relics, and his belief that they - rather than faith in the power of love as the text understands it - will save him is delusional. jkr has heavily implied in several interviews that they are created via a cannibalistic ritual - which calls to mind the doctrine of transubstantiation in the catholic eucharist. there are seven of them, just as there are seven sacraments in the catholic church, since voldemort believes seven to be the most powerful magical number - something he's wrong about, since the seven-fold power of his horcruxes is nothing in the face of harry's faith in the trinity of the hallows. and his clinging to them condemns him to a post-death state which calls the limbo of infants - which, while not official catholic doctrine, is a hypothetical concept only catholic theology entertains; all mainstream protestant and orthodox denominations reject it entirely - to mind.

it's a really interesting example of what both the doylist and watsonian texts believe him to have transgressed through the creation of horcruxes.

because, of course, he's not condemned to limbo for the sin of murder, he's condemned to it because he puts his faith in something other than faith [or love] alone.

[ladynearthelake]

Bad Ending

The Feywild is beautiful.

Orym is aware of that objective truth as he sits atop the lofty boughs of Ligament Manor. Time remains a weird soup, and he isn’t sure just how much time has passed since the battle with Ludinus. For all he can actually remember of the event, he thinks it must have been centuries. But it can’t have been that long. The acute pain of loss is still present in his chest.

Covetous of her company, Nana Morri had extended Fearne’s life unnaturally. Orym knows the Fatestitcher enjoys his company, maudlin as he is. He wouldn’t put it passed her to do the same to him. Fearne still visits, but she had fallen in love with Exandria and the planes beyond. Orym relishes her visits, and tries not to hate her for leaving him when she flits away. His deal was his own choice. His chest aches. Nana’s bargain was sealed permanently over his heart when he returned. It shadows the other pain there, but cannot eclipse it completely.

The red moon is no longer in the sky in the Feywild, so Orym assumes that they defeated Ludinus. That brings him no comfort. He lost everything, so what does an averted apocalypse mean to him?

He remembers an elegant twirl of a familiar blue cape rushing forward. He remembers the world shattering around him as Dorian fell.

Orym’s memories grow soupy after that. With Dorian gone, nothing else could ever really matter, could it? He had only just managed to claw himself out of his choking grief for Will. He let himself think of a future beyond the battle. That had been his mistake. He should have known better than to look beyond the mission.

So, perhaps the battle was won, but Orym doesn’t really care if Exandria fell to ruin. His heart, impossibly, had been ripped out for the second time. Better to give the remains to Nana Morri. She could find a use for it.

Orym sits among the topiaries of broken promises and tries not to miss the moons in the sky.

He doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but he startles when a familiar hand presses to his cheek.

“Orym?”

He smirks as his eyes open. It’s always good to see Fearne.

But she’s panicked. Tears are gathering in the corners of her eyes. Her face is streaked with red, both sticky and sandy. His brow furrows.

“Fearnie, are you alright?”

She sobs, holding his face firmly in her hands. “You have to come back to us. You have to. We won. You have to come back.”

His body is heavy, and he cannot move. This doesn’t make sense.

She’s here with him, isn’t she? He hasn’t gone anywhere in ages. He’s right here.

Another voice, so different than when he would hear it over the sending stone.

“Orym, please…” Dorian’s voice is exhausted and tight with pain. “You must come back. There’s still…still so much we need to say.”

He feels something stir behind Morri’s seal. His heart shudders.

Orym isn’t in the Feywild. This isn’t Ligament Manor. Fearne’s hands are gone from his cheeks, and Orym looks behind him. He sees a blossoming tree in twilight with a familiar, loved shadow standing beneath it. Will raises his hand in greeting, but makes no move to go towards Orym. They’ve spoken about this before.

“Not yet,” Will whispers in his ear.

Orym nods, his hand raising in return. “Soon.”

“But not too soon.”

His heart beats again, and he feels a hook behind his navel pull his being back through the planes. He coughs, hacking up blood and sand. The arcane fissure across his chest knits itself back together.

“Orym?”

Drips of wet plip against Orym’s cheeks. There’s a body hovering above him, radiating the warmth of the sun. The ashari can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth as he opens his eyes.

Dorian looms over him, tears rolling down his eyelashes as he stares. His cheeks are blotchy and purple. There’s a wide stain of crimson across his ragged sheer shirt doing little to hide the healed gash on his chest.

The sight of that hurt has Orym springing to his feet. He regrets the movement immediately, but only for a second. He crashes into Dorian’s arms.

“I…I don’t…” Orym stammers.

Fearne appears beside him, wrapping them both in her arms tightly.

“That was worse than the last time.”

Oh.

“I was dead?” Orym asks.

He feels Fearne’s head nod against his, and Dorian’s arms pull him in tighter.

“I thought you both were, but Dorian was only unconscious. You must have thought…” She trails off.

The memory is clear in his mind now. Dorian falling, and then an unyielding rage consuming his small form as he charged screaming at Ludinus.

“You distracted him while Imogen finished him off.”

“We did it?”

Fearne smiles. “We did it.”

Orym can feel Dorian shaking against him. He draws away slightly to look at his beautiful face.

“I told you that you didn’t have to save everyone,” Dorian says, fighting off tears.

“Old habits die hard,” Orym says, his eyes dropping from Dorian’s crystal eyes to his lips. “Didn’t seem to matter much anymore if you weren’t there to save.”

“Orym…that’s ridic—”

The world is safe. There’s no reason to resist anymore. Orym presses his lips to Dorian’s, quieting his protests. He feels Dorian startle at the contact, but then he melts into the kiss, gripping the back of Orym’s shirt.

Orym pulls away, feeling lighter than he has in years. The unrestrained happiness on Dorian’s face makes him giddy. There’s still so many unknowns, but he’s be happy to find his way with the wind in his arms.

[onewomancitadel]

Oh I never thought about any of that. That was a really great point about Cinders world view. Holy crap that would basically make Jaune the same as her so there no way it can happen. Thats genius! Thank you! I think I understand this theme stuff a little better. but I dont understand what you mean about Jaunes sword though. Is that supposed to have some deeper meaning or somethign?

Original anon ask and my response about Jaune, Cinder and Penny.

I'm glad to have been of some help, that makes me happy more than anything. <3

Holy crap that would basically make Jaune the same as her so there no way it can happen.

Exactly. That's the farce of that type of analysis in the first place. He can't validate what she believes because then he's just like her (well they are like each other in a fundamental way but bear with me here), he's got to challenge it, and I'm not sure why their characters would be connected unless that's supposed to be a big deal. As I mentioned in the reblog:

tl;dr As if the ultimate resolution of him failing to heal Penny wouldn't be him going to any ends to help someone if he can, even further than he conceived of before.

I think I understand this theme stuff a little better.

You probably understand themes intuitively. Themes are the thesis statements of a story. Characters are expressing and exploring those ideas and are tools of the story. This is a rather linear, mechanical view, but it will get you there. When you see people say the themes of a story are abstract ideas like 'innocence' or 'climate change' that's really not the best way to describe it, because it's a statement about innocence, it's a statement about climate change. A full thesis statement is something like 'It's not about fighting what you hate, but saving what you love'. In mythic stories you will often see the statement said in full by characters, or you will see it made fun of (or realised in an ironic way) by villains.

but I dont understand what you mean about Jaunes sword though. Is that supposed to have some deeper meaning or somethign?

Oh I put that in partly because I wanted an image to go with it and partly to demonstrate what is being visually conveyed to us about the Penny conflict; the blood on Jaune's sword was Penny's, and when it broke fighting with Cinder, only a small part covered in blood remained in his hand. By it breaking fighting Cinder, it visually, partly, absolves him of the act, but also breaks the sword of family lineage - a fissure in his identity. The sword is symbolic.

Take note that Cinder's swords also break frequently and just as easily, so it's even weirder that one of his breaks just like hers.

I was just demonstrating that if they intended to make killing Penny 'right' we wouldn't have him partly absolved, because why would you absolve someone of something he's supposed to do and evolve darkly through? It doesn't really hold. What I do think it's doing is that the act has connected him and Cinder again for a reason, and yes, he may struggle, but he's not going to be permanently disillusioned.

It's not like Jaune needs much disillusionment. He's a cynic for a reason. This isn't really about him realising his ideals are broken (of always being able to help and save) alike to Ruby and Cinder - this is about who he is as a person and what he's capable of.

I wouldn't expect Penny to be signalling what he must eventually do at this point in the story either; it's a challenge to him of how far he can possibly go and trying to identify what the real pain is. The healer does have the bloodiest hands; they are intimately connected and acquainted with violence; they do have to find where it hurts and fix it, and Cinder's right there!

When I talk about Jaune's role in Cinder's redemption on my blog, I need to stipulate that Volume 6 or even Volume 8 Jaune is not in the position where he can see what his destiny is yet. He's not perfect right out of the box, just made for her. His character arc is happening in tandem with hers. Volume 5!Jaune did not want to help Cinder; he wanted to die giving time for his friends to do what they needed to do. How do you get him to a point where he starts to sympathise with her? Or ask further questions at all? The mercy kill is something meant to fundamentally disturb him to disrupt the comfort he had settled into, because the story isn't just about helping the Good People until all the Bad People are dead and then nothing bad happens ever again. He's got more work to do than that and so does Cinder.

The wound is where the light enters. 🥰

[galadhremmin]

mise en abyme

(for the WIP meme)

okay so I better explain what this fic is about first-- I wanted a very different take on the first orcs. Instead of either a secretly 'good' Angband or brutal torture I wanted to use the way cults indoctrinate victims in how Morgoth (well Sauron actually but under his supervision) 'turns' the first elves. He abducts them and does mutilate but they never know it; he makes them fear the outside world and establishes himself as the 'safe' point, an artificial us vs. them... creates an adverse reaction to starlight in them but not much else permanent. Also, elves are special in how much their fea controls (and presumably shapes over time to a degree) their bodies. If you can irreversibly change someone's idea of what and who they are there is no need to mangle them all that much in that case. If someone is sure they are a monster they might over centuries take on those characteristics. Wiki defines 'mise en abyme' as 'a formal technique of placing a copy of an image within itself, often in a way that suggests an infinitely recurring sequence.' And yes, basically... that too. Irretrievable original self.

It is also about the horror of not being capable of regretting what you have become because that ability has been taken away from you; horrifying joy, incapable of grief!

Anyway the actual writing is shitty and doesn't reflect any of that because these are tbqh, these are hard themes for me to write about. Dunno when I will try again. I know what I want from it, just hard to get there!

He is the only warmth you know, for a long time.

Mise en abyme

You wake up with bandages over both your eyes. Something here smells foul. But even through the fabric the warm light of a fire can be seen, and when he tells you with soothing voice that everything will be fine you still beneath his touch. Nothing has hurt like this before. You find you know no way to respond to it. A shiver runs over your frame. The air is cold, and damp; it carries the scent of deep caves. His hand is warm.

Sometimes you fall asleep, still trying to remember. Often you suddenly fall asleep. He says; it was a fall. It was a hunting accident. It was a fall, during a hunting accident (a black rider silhouetted against faint white stars, and the crack of branches (branches?) snapping). Scraps of shifty memory drift in and out of immaterial reach; and you reach, and you reach, listening to the sound of water on stone, smelling the cave's faint scent of rot, its strange sounds scuttling away on the dark until you dream again at last. But now the night is full of eyes where light, you think, should be. What shines through is too sharp, and you-- with your bandaged hands, with your stench of rot, you, you-- (he cannot always be there for you, it's not that you are ungrateful, but-- it is so hard to move, so hard to stay still, so hard to do as he wishes and so hard not to do it; when you feed on squirming larvae because he has nothing else to share and feel such terrible guilt for your disgust, invisible in the dark--)--

Soft and enfolding it is, damp and dark; with sleep an oblivion to sink the sharpest pain into, still healing only slowly, the location of fissures somehow unable to pin itself onto still evasive memory. Something seems to slip. Something struggles to the surface, must have hurt you, terribly; and the thought sends your entire body into shivers, playing at more than it is willing to tell. But silence settles over you, eventually. Sometimes a current of warm air passes through the room at even intervals, trailing over bare skin like the hot breath of a beast. It comes with a kind of terror at first, but nothing ever hurts you here. The warmth becomes another comfort, eventually. 

He does not speak to you often.

Most things do. Almost anything does, once its repeat becomes predictable.

When you dream now a darkness which should remain unseen from beneath the soft fabric of your dressings insists on itself a presence, not absence; surrounds you like the oil-slick that coated to your fingers one time, a strange bubbling stink only Finwë had known what to do with, had scooped up carefully to seal the tightly woven reed of his fishing raft with. There must be—something similar, here. It is hard to say. A crushed nose (a fall—)-- all smell is stifled. All sight is. You are becoming very good at listening.

Time-- almost impossible to gauge in this meagre refuge where your rescuer has hidden you from the hungry eyes of beasts that prowl the shores of the lake, from the harsh white light the made you such an easy prey. 

The only stars you see are those in your dreams, and even those seem to lose their shine, somehow; and even when you dream of them the eyes beneath your wraps are full of useless burning.

[flamingsemi]

Animal Crossing: New Horizons Declassified Island Survival Guide From a Seasoned AC Veteran

A friend of mine recently bought ACNH and was very confused as this was her first foray into AC, so I made this info dump guide. I thought somebody else in the world might be able to benefit from it as well. Hope you enjoy! Happy Animal Crossing-ing!

Daily Tasks:

Talk to your islanders. talking to them, completing favors, and giving them gifts will increase your friendship level. Don’t forget to check up on villagers that are inside their houses! They might be crafting a DIY and they will give you the recipe if you talk to them!

Shopping. Everyday the items in the shops will change, this include the items on the nook store, accessible through the Nook Kiosk in town hall/the tent in the plaza

Log on to the Nook Kiosk every day for free nook miles!!!

Walk your beaches. You’ll find shells, and a message in a bottle with a DIY will spawn every day.

Watering flowers. Watering your flowers will lead to hybrids growing. this is how you get colors of flowers such as purple and orange, etc. If it rains, you don’t have to water the flowers, but if you do, then you have a higher chance of hybrids growing.

Money Rock. Every day there will be a money rock. hit it with your ax or shovel (I use the shovel) for cash. Don’t forget to dig a barricade behind yourself to keep you from sliding so you can get all 8 hits in. 

Money tree. Every day there will be a glowing fissure on the ground. Dig it up and you’ll find bells. HOWEVER DO NOT FILL THE HOLE. Instead, bury bells there. This will result in a nursery money tree growing. Trees take 4 days to grow. IMPORTANT AND I DIDN’T KNOW THIS AT FIRST money trees will only grow money once, so after you’ve collected the bells, it’s just a regular tree. I personally have four money trees with one being used and then replaced every day for an endless loop. However many bells you bury is how much money will grow X3, however keep in mind that sometimes it will only grow bags of 10,000 bells, despite planting more than that. To be safe, never go above 50,000 bells, as the likelihood of not getting back what you buried seems to increase after that, but do whatever you’re comfortable with. 

Fossils. Everyday you will see star-shaped markings on the ground throughout your island. Those markings indicate that a fossil is buried in that spot. Dig it up! Then, (once he is unlocked on your island which shouldn’t be too far off) take your fossils to Blathers at the museum to get them assessed. He will tell you what the fossil is. From there they can be donated to the museum if it doesn’t have that fossil yet, or if you already have it you can place it on your island or you can sell it. ALWAYS GET YOUR FOSSILS ASSESSED BEFORE SELLING THEM. An unidentified fossil is only worth a few hundred bells, where an identified fossil is worth a varying couple thousand depending on what it is. There will be 4, sometimes 5, fossils to find on your island everyday.

Catch bugs and fish! bugs and fish spawn throughout your island everyday all day. Different bugs and fish have different conditions for spawning. Some spawn all day in any weather, some only can appear at night, others only during the day. Certain fish only are catchable in the rain. Also most bugs and fish are seasonal, with new bugs and fish being able to be caught every month. Donate your fish and bugs to Blathers to fill up your museum, and sell the rest! It’s one of the main ways to make money. 

Dive for scallops! Go swimming and dive for sea critters. If you catch a scallop and you have space in you pockets, Pascal the otter will spawn and ask you for it. In return he will give you either a pearl or a special DIY recipe. He will spawn once a day. Also the critters you catch can be donated to the museum and also sold.

Not daily tasks:

* Potential weekly visitors include Leif, Kicks, Sahara, Flick, C.J., Gulliver, Gulllivar, Label, and Redd. Characters that can be found on the Plaza are Leif, Kicks, and Label. Leif is a sloth who will sell you plants, Kicks is a skunk who will sell you bags and shoes, and Label is a hedgehog who will ask you for fashion help. Characters that can be found wandering around your island are Sahara, Flick, and C.J. Sahara is a camel who will sell floorings, wallpapers, and rugs, Flick is a chameleon who you can sell bugs to, and C.J. is a beaver you can sell fish to. Both Flick and C.J. will buy their respective creatures for a higher price than the Nooklings will so it may be a good idea to save your bugs and fish for when they visit to make bank XD. Another character that you will initially find wandering around your island is Redd. Redd is fox who you will unlock later after you have donated enough stuff to your museum. Once you have, you will see him wandering around your island. Talk to him, and then the next day his boat will appear at your secret beach which is the tiny stretch of beach off by itself. Redd will sell you art work which can be donated to your museum. BE CAREFUL Redd will sell fake artwork!!! You can only donate real artwork, so choose wisely, as one player can only purchase one piece of art per Redd visit. Other players can purchase one piece of art from him too though. Gulliver and Gullivar are seagulls you will find washed up on your beach. Talk to them or hit them with a net until they wake up (just keep at it!) Talk to them and they will explain what you need to do for them. If you complete the task, you can expect a letter and a gift from them in the mail the following day. You will get one of these visiting characters everyday save for when K.K. Slider is in town. They are random, but characters that did not make an appearance one week are more likely to show up the next.

if you’re early enough in the game that the clothing store is still a visiting event, One day you’ll walk into the Nooklings and see a Hedgehog. After that, the hedgehog will be selling clothes in the plaza on random days. After I think 3 visits she will ask you about setting up a permanent shop. After that, this is store you can buy clothes from, clothes change every day so check often!

General tips:

Don’t sprint near water if you are looking for fish. Sprinting will scare the fish away.

Just regular running and walking will scare away bugs that spawn on trees, stumps, and flowers, so proceed with caution when hunting for bugs. When holding a bug net, hold down A while you walk to creep towards bugs without scaring them away. Release A to swing your net. Bugs like butterflies, dragonflies, and bugs that spawn on the ground will not disappear when scared, they will just try to get away.

Fishing tip if you find yourself struggling: it’s easy to get trigger happy when fishing. Something I do to make it easier is closing my eyes and relying on the rumble of the joy con and the sound of the of the bite. You register sound better than you do visual cues. This is how I catch all fish cause I get to nervous and anticipate bites.

If a villager has a thought bubble above their head, TALK TO THEM! They have something important to say! They either are thinking about moving (which you can encourage or tell them to stay) or want to give you something. 

The same goes for if a villager runs towards you calling your name to get your attention. They either have a reaction to teach you, or a gift!

Don’t be upset with your island layout. Eventually you will unlock terraforming which will allow you to destroy and create rivers, cliffs, and pathways anywhere you want. The only thing you cannot change is the plaza, and the mouths of your rivers. You can also build inclines and bridges, and move the museum, shops, campsite, and houses, at any time so long as you have the bells. You can only build one bridge or incline a day though, and the same goes for moving buildings. 

Eating fruit will give you strength. With that strength, you can destroy rocks by hitting them with your shovel or ax (they will respawn in a different location the next day) and pick up entire trees with your shovel.

a stone axe will allow you to hit a tree indefinitely, but just an iron Axe will cut down the tree in 3 hits, so don’t farm for wood with the iron Axe! also you can remove stumps with your shovel

when filling a hole, press Y to use your foot to cover the hole instead of using your shovel. This will increase the longevity of your shovel.

BE CAREFUL WHEN SHAKING TREES!!! There is a chance of a wasp nest falling! If that happens, wasps will chase you and try to sting you. You can catch the wasps with a bug net, or you can run into a building to get them to stop chasing you. If they sting you, use some medicine to heal yourself. If you get stung a second time before using medicine, you will pass out and wake up in front of your house.

IF YOU ARE GOING TREE SHAKING have the net equipped and shake the tree from the front. If a wasp nest falls, it will fall to either side of you (or right on top of you but it doesn’t matter.) Your character will turn to face the wasps. Immediately after your shocked animation, swing your net to catch the wasps. 

2 items will spawn in 2 random, non-fruit-baring trees on your island everyday. Shake trees (with a net equipped in case of wasps!) and there’s a chance an item leaf will drift down. 

On mystery islands there will be 1 item in a non-fruit-baring tree. Same tactics suggested as seen above

Don’t be afraid of spiders and scorpions.  They will only try to bite/sting you if you are holding a bug net, otherwise they will ignore you. You should try to catch them if you are comfortable doing so though, as you can donate them to the museum and you can sell them (they are expensive! more so if you sell them to Flick!) Just creep up to them slowly and you’ll catch them just fine.

Depending on the season, there will be some special materials floating around your island that you can catch with your bug net. This include snowflakes in the winter and cherry tree petals in the spring. I assume there might be some falling leaves in autumn, but I haven’t experienced autumn in the game yet so I can’t say for sure. 

To raise your island’s star level, there are two major things to do. One, put flowers freaking everywhere. Two, put furniture FREAKING EVERYWHERE. your beaches, your plains, your mountains, DECORATE EVERYWHERE!!!!

Every sunday before noon, there will be a little piglet girl walking around your island. She is selling turnips. This is the way to MAKE BANK in Animal Crossing. the turnips are meant to be sold in The Stalk Market (get it?). Everyday (save for sunday) you will be able to sell your turnips to the Nooklings. The price of the turnips changes twice a day every day, the change occurs at noon. the idea is to buy turnips low and sell turnips high. the buying price of turnips will range from around 90 to 110 bells every week. The selling price will range from like 30 bells to like 700 something. Obviously, the higher the better. IMPORTANT! Turnips go bad after one week, upon which they are worthless. Make sure to sell your turnips before the next sunday!! However I would allow one stack of turnips to go bad once as this is how you catch ants. Drop the rotten turnips outside and ants will spawn on it. The same goes for catching flies, just drop some trash outside. BUT DON’T LEAVE THE TRASH FOREVER it will lower the star rating of your island.

Never sell things to the Nooklings via the drop box unless you have to. Selling via drop box comes with a like 15% reduction on the sell price, so you won’t get as many bells as you would if you sell to the Nooks by talking to them.

Day resets at 5 AM, not midnight, so don’t panic if you need to complete something by the end of the day and it’s almost 12.

Your villagers will teach you reactions. Aside from the 4 defaults you start with, The reactions you can learn are divided up amongst the villager types. For example, from a Normal type villager, you can learn Pleased, Fearful, Sadness, and Glee. Additionally, a villager will teach you one extra reaction if you max out your friendship level with them. If you’re best friends with a Normal type villager, they will teach you Daydreaming. So if you wanna unlock all 44 reactions, it’s important to get villagers of all different types and befriend them!

Dropping items of any kind will lower the star rating of your island if there are too many things on the ground. This includes turnips unfortunately -_-

Giving villagers gifts increase your relationship with them. But, if you wrap the gift before giving it to them, your relationship will increase by an additional point. Color of the paper doesn’t matter as far as I can tell. 

Villagers have preferred styles and colors of clothing. You can give them whatever you want, but they will particularly enjoy items that match their preferred style and colors. Villagers also really appreciate gifts on their birthday! You will be notified via the notification board in the plaza about a week in advance of a villagers birthday

See a yellow bird (daytime) or an owl (nighttime) sitting on top of your notification board in the plaza? That means there’s a new post on the board! Go read it!

Holidays occur in animal crossing too! Holidays like Halloween, Christmas, Easter, New Years, and many others have Animal Crossing equivalents. Special events and items can be experienced and obtained on these days, so make sure to check in! You should also check in on YOUR birthday ;)

All in all, Animal Crossing is what you want it to be. This is just one way of playing. You can focus on whatever you wanna focus on, and do whatever you want to do. I just went crazy covering all the bases. I’m here if you have more questions. I hope you have loads of fun!

If you’re interested in keeping track of all the stuff you have, there is a free app called ACNH Guide. It can help you keep track of what bugs and fish and fossils you have and also what bugs and fish are currently available and where to find them. You can also log items and DIYs and music and what villagers you have and mark off the rocks you’ve hit, the money tree you have planted, and the bottled message. It can also help you keep track of what days the visiting characters come. It also has a built in turnip predictor which can help you make the most money that you can! And they are adding to the app all the time. I really recommend it if you want to keep track of all the craziness. 

[katsukikitten]

Cremari

Life with a healing quirk was hard on the heart.

Not because of the stress or because of the long shifts. Not even the seemingly endless hours of moaning and groaning from severe patients.

It was because you couldn't save everyone.

Most of your patients fully recovered after you've laid hands on them.

Key word, most.

Only one man proved difficult. He was around your age with black hair and piercing eyes who seemed to show up to your underground hospital weekly since his first burn. A time when you two were so young, too young to be exploited for your quirk no matter how exceptional you two were.

But there he sat in the chair fighting back tears as your hands smoothed over ointment on a deep burn, massaging soothing power into his skin.

At first you could heal it completely. It was easy to coerce his skin to meld back together but soon he would use more and more of his power. Damaging himself and taking longer to come and see you between burns despite your nagging.

Here he was again much older and much more burnt than you remember. His wounds fresh as you can tell from the steam coming from the sutures in his arm. Your heart pounds harshly in your chest, rattling your rib cage as you stare at his charred skin.

Some of it you will not be able to convince to return to its healthy glow as it stares up at you with black angry eyes. Jaded from the repeated trauma, bitter enough to resist your power.

Which is something you've never come across before and you have healed a lot of shit since you were six.

Your fingers work on the newest burn on his shoulder, begging the skin to calm down. To stop being angry blisters. You watch him fight to keep his face from contorting as he sighs deeply. Pushing into your touch, not only can you administer chemicals that act as pain medicine through your finger tips you have this naturally soothing vibe about you.

Something he has come back for time and time again.

"I think you should stop using your quirk." You say quietly, fingers aching from trying and mostly failing. Having only brought his skin to a first degree burn. Those damn blue eyes snap open and give you a rare icy glare before settling to boredom.

"I need to use it to get what I want." He sighs grabbing onto one of your hands, working his thumbs in smalls circles to help with the aching. A gesture he takes after every healing session, he has been the only one to ever think of what the toll of healing can do to you.

"But is it worth permanently disfiguring yourself?" It comes out harsher than you intended but you cannot help it as you stare at his mostly naked body littered with your failure. His hands stop working on yours but he does not drop it.

"You sound disgusted." He says flatly but you see the hurt flash in those blue eyes.

"I..I didn't mean for it to...I'm just...I'm worried...Dabi-kun." Even after all this time you do not know his real name. A secret he has kept and a name he has only recently given himself.

A cruel joke in his name. One that mocks you although he sports it for irony.

He kisses your finger tips one by one before pressing his untouched lips to your palm. You swallow thickly. You know what comes next. He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the make shift bed motioning for you to stand between them.

You obey, stepping gingerly between his exposed legs. He smiles warmly at you and you cannot find the heart to return it.

Not with what he is doing to himself. Every part of his skin marred in purple is a reminder to you. A reminder that he chooses to do this to himself for whatever seemingly unattainable goal that he has.

And there is no amount of talking, sex or unrequited love that will change his mind.

Still as he grabs onto your face gently pulling you to him to capture your lips you'll still try.

You'll try to convince him as you do his skin with ever open mouthed kiss.

Every swipe of the tongue and thrust that you take.

With every shared earth shattering quake that you're sure to lock eyes with him for.

You just hope you can convince him before he himself becomes too jaded.

He lingers longer than normal this time, pressing agaisnt your body in the much too small cot. He lies on his side facing you as you feign and fight sleep. His fingers pushing back damp hair from fucking for so long. Fingers that slowly trace from your third eye chakra to the bridge of your nose.

Almost instantly putting you to sleep although you fight it hard. You do not like to sleep while he is around.

Because you every time you wake up he's vanished.

And today is no different. You fight back tears as you relive the night before. You regret it.

Not the kissing, the touching and certainly not the fucking. You regret falling asleep.

You regret letting him leave.

Months pass and worry plagues you so deeply it has wrapped its spindly fingers around your bones. Sapping any and all energy from you, keeping you up at night and having your body give up mid healing session on your top paying clients. Something your boss is seething over. The very same boss you sit across now.

He slams his meaty first onto the desk, cracking the lacquered surface with deep fissures. You jump, never getting used to his temper.

"Damn it Y/N." He growls, leaning much to close to you, "Do you even know why you're here ?"

You look down into your lap, knowing exactly where this story is going.

"Your mother had you in my hospital." He pushes his finger into the desk as if pointing out a physical fact, "Do you know what she said when she was discharged?"

You do not answer, wringing your little apron with white knuckles.

"The nurses asked her to wait to take you and she said 'I dont care what happens to *it*.' And then she left!!" He's yelling now, "Out of the kindness of my heart I gave you to my wife and this is how you repay me?!"

Spittle flies into your face and you wipe it away gently. Careful not to move to quickly.

"I'm sorry sir." You bow further and he scoffs, his chair creaking from his weight as he leans back.

"You're God Damn right you're sorry!" He finally looks at you and your downward face before sighing, "Look finish this shift and then take a few days off okay? Stop thinking about whatever the hell you're thinking about so you can heal blokes again. Got it?"

"Yes sir." You say before standing walking back to your working room, grabbing onto a clip board with the next case.

"Ah Y/N. You already have a patient." The charge nurse says, grabbing the clipboard back. You give a puzzled look.

"Who? I don't have an scheduled appointments."

"Oh your usual. Uuuhhh that burnt to fuck dude." Your heart stops in your chest. You turn on your heel before he can finish speaking breaking out into a full sprint to room 405.

Your heart beats faster than your little white sneakers can slap agaisnt the heavily bleached linoleum just before you rip open the door to be met with the rancid smell of burnt flesh.

Oh how you wish you hadn't opened that door.

Dabi lies with fluttering eyelids from the searing pain. Skin beneath his eyes and from his lips down to his collar bone are charred that angry unforgiving purple. Depsite having never had to previously heal those places, whatever he's done there is no going back.

No healing those full lips that speak soft kindness to you. That press soft kisses to your brow bone at least not with out him being in constant pain.

"Y/N." He says softly, letting a smile play on his lips before he audibly winces. Readjusting himself to sit up more properly for you to heal him. You stand stunned in the hallway as you look him over. Heart finally catching up with your feet as it pounds, banging on to your ribs before free falling into your stomach.

Awaking a new and extremely rare emotion in you.

"Get out." You say darkly and he is taken a back. Not quite sure as to what you said considering you spoke so softly.

"What love?" He sits on the side of the jarryrigged bed, hands out reached to you. You're shaking so hard you have to clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering.

"I SAID GET OUT! GET OUT GET THE FUCK OUT!!" You find yourself screaming as his eyes widen. Filled to the brim with hurt that threatens to spill over. But he stops it just in time, blinking it away as he stands. He tries to console you, placing his burnt hands into your slender shoulders, rubbing up and down them before he leans in for a kiss.

A kiss that would hurt you more than he could imagine and you cannot help your self as a slap rings out in the quiet hallway.

"I said get the fuck out. Now Dabi." You bite out so harshly that even the passing nurses shrink back. He stares at you stunned a final time before his gaze turns icy cold.

"It was fun while it lasted I guess." He is seemingly apathetic as he looks down at you.

As if you always meant nothing.

And clearly you have, what with the state he has brought himself into. You watch as he walks from the hospital, burning the chairs in the lobby with bright blue flame to spite you.

This was the hardest part you were talking about.

You couldn't save everyone.

@ha-tep per your persuasion/request. Hopefully it lives up to my others. I liked working with his character though I feel I need more exposure/ research to get him right or to write longer fics. ENJOY

[lessofthelego]

MURKY OF MIRKWOOD

[Part Two: Elven Steel]

“Let’s have these off you, Murky-me-lad!!” says a doughty guard removing the irons: he was back in the Walnut Cellar, his details finally processed. The dwarf gestures rightward to a blind-ended hallway, short and dark stained: “Second door down, get yourself washed; there’s nowhere to run, I’ve got the key… I’ll knock on when we‘re ready for you!”  

So-named ‘Murky’ finds himself in a curiously hot and dim booth with a curtain in front, the waxy tanned fabric feels strangely moist to his fingertips as he pulls it back. Immediately a wall of hot air encompasses him about and bright light blasts through. Beyond this lies a steam-filled bathing area; the sudden illumination shows no sign of any other present therein and at his right-hand side there is revealed a wooden chest nestled in the cubicle. He guesses rightly that the curtain and box are employed to save any clothing from excessive damp; therefore he disrobes and enters in, drawing the screen behind. Having passed through a swirling cloud of hot steam he fully discerns a sunken bath; a chunky square column stands to the left, atop which and set flush rests a wide silver font, almost filled with a brown substance like clotted mud. The mixture looks disgusting but the scent of it intrigues him; almost like the grasslands nigh to the Elven-gate of Greenwood in the days of his infancy. He dips in the tip of his left hand for a closer whiff as memories of his mother sat peaceably in a meadow light his mind’s eye. He undertakes to rub off the sticky matter on the back of his right hand but finds that it thins with friction and the more he wipes the further it spreads up his arm. Reaching toward the bath water to wash it away the immense heat almost scorches him ere he plunges in his arm, he swiftly withdraws. Something happens then that he does not expect… a thing remarkable: the mud balm reacts to the heat and hardens, moreover wherever it makes contact with his skin it feels cool. He forms a fist with his right hand and the brown surface cracks into dusty fissures as his arm muscles and tendons contract. The residue is easily brushed aside and the soft flesh underneath gleams new; but most noteworthy, the reddening and soreness about the top part of his wrist is gone. He hurriedly revisits the clothes chest to retrieve thongs to tie up his long hair and proceeds to coat himself from top to toe in the earthy salve.

Before long Legolas gingerly submerges into the searing pool: the ‘Mad Matted Mudman!’ of fable; and so, he enjoys the most invigorating bath he has taken in a long time, if indeed ever. Alas, it was over all too soon: knock—knock—knock! The bather reluctantly removes from the water to find a rubbery second skin has formed about him. He manages to peel away the coating almost in one piece without any pinching or resistance against his blonde mane, nor even fine body hair; moreover, the gashes on his shin and head have inexplicably healed. He is instantly dry and feeling good as new. knock—knock—knock: “I needs be clad” he shouts in reply.

At the sound of laughter beyond the door, Legolas finds that his garments have been confiscated and replaced by a scratchy dun sack with hastily cut-out holes to fit his arms and head. His annoyance is heightened as he wonders how he did not hear the dwarves engaging in the swap; but there is much about dwarf keys that the elves do not know. Thus, he has no choice but to tie the sack around his waist with the tatty rope provided and meet the captors bedecked as a beggar; whence he is led barefoot to reconvene upstairs at the Hall of Hearing. Upon mounting the first tread he hears tumult above, and by which time they reach the top Legolas witnesses the leading out of hapless Dimroc and Gimroc. The dense hall-door slams behind them, causing the elf to detect a feature he had not before noticed: sunken in the wall on either side of the door frame there are mounted two enormous horns with gilded flutes ever poised to announce themselves.

In-going: the disparity versus wood and stone registers immediately beneath his exposed sole, whereat Legolas motions to revisit his former place of standing. The cubic chamber is disproportionately large, being designed no doubt to daunt any unfortunate respondent summoned there. This room offers scant lighting (unlike other regions in the vast subterranean development) save at the fore where the Heads wait; all seated in a preformed and hastily assembled semicircular bench, behind which is an usher’s pulpit with a granite hoarding beyond concealing the high seat of the absent Lord Dain. At the centre of the wooden crescent sits a round dais of bare brick, hooped at its kerb, serving as a dock. The heavy door stands directly opposite the bench, and dim-lit public galleries fill the side walls. Hence the walk from the stairs to the bench seems rather excessive; especially so when countless sets of accusing eyes monitor every footfall from the shadows. At length he ascends the stony disc as his four escorts surround him at ordinal points marked on the floor. Each dwarf faces the front and dares not crane his neck upward; Legolas however stands at a height where his eyes meets those of his prosecutors. And then… nothing: no pronouncement, no whispers nor grunts, nothing but silence! Legolas wonders greatly at this since his former appointment had been met with much derisive clamour and expectant chatter. Moreover, a draft of cold air concentrates all at once about him; and not knowing prior that of old the Dwarven engineers had contrived adjustable ducts leading to the outside world, he finally guesses at the reason for his abrasive burlap garb.

Another minute passes by in chilly silence. Presently, four bell peels mark the time of day and Legolas realises that one hour exactly has passed since he last stood here.  A deep low chant blends seamlessly with the dying reverb of the final bell; the Heads rise from their seats being closely followed by the sounds of shifting and shuffling as the meeting stands to its feet. The intensity and volume of the chant grows into discernable words uttered in ancient Dwarvish. The unseen cantor stops abruptly and those assembled answer him reverentially; this process continues for two more call-reply cycles, concluding with one last solo intonation. Throughout all this the scholarly prince discerns the words ‘Mahal’ and ‘Durin’; this in itself is remarkable since no outsiders are learned in Dwarric-wisdom. Therefore, having no way of knowing what this means he supposes that the ’fourth of noon’ must be a sacred hour among them, or that this date and time holds some significance on their calendar.

The Head on the far left begins, “Are you ready to furnish this hearing with your true name, Elf?”

“I have given it!”

“Very well,” he sighs, “If we are to continue in this pretence, have the Arraigned registered as ‘Prince Murky’ and be done with it!” The gallery erupts with laughter but the speaker remains unimpressed, “Since you come to us with such an implausible account, ‘Your Highness,’ we must view this question most seriously, the Dispensation charges you with spying and trespass: what say you?”

Legolas answers disbelieving: “Spying, on what grounds?”

“Face the front!” demands the dwarf: The so-called ‘Arraigned’ slowly complies, having already noted the radial iron petals set around his feet. The questioner continues, “I note you do not contest the charge of trespass!”

“On what grounds?” repeats the elf.

“I’d worry more about the penalty than the grounds if I were you, Murky!”

“Please enlighten me!”

“For spying, death by hanging!” he gloats “...and for trespass...” but soon falters as one caught out “Der-death by hard labour!”  

The room gasps: “Since you mean to kill me either way; I am as well to take the harder charge and the swiftest course.” reasons the elf.

“We mean to hear you!” another interjects sternly, “Now, lest we gravely lose our patience, reveal yourself and your purpose!”

“Murky of Mirkwood, trespasser and spy, or Legolas Greenleaf, traveller of what used to be called the ‘Free-lands’: what difference does it make here?”

“We could wring the answers from you!” puts in a third.

“I am sure the dutiful Dimroc and Gimroc would oblige you.”

“How do you know their names?” demands the first.

“I asked them: does that equate to spying in these lands?”

The same dwarf sniffs in retort: “You’re awful sure of yourself… for such a one in your shoes…”

Impassive, Legolas glances down at his bare feet with a slight tilt of the head. The flushed inquisitor barks out unformulated words whilst the others splutter and cough; all of them save one, himself of the two panellists who directly faces Legolas, being sat to the right from the elf‘s viewpoint. He is an immutable and permanent looking fellow, not unlike the plain granite behind him: inscrutable yes, but lucid.

As the muttering subsides, Legolas addresses this one directly: “May I speak?”

“You may!”  

“Sirs, I hold it decorous to compliment your inspired dwelling; especially the bathing facilities, of which I can truly say I have never before benefited from the like. However, it is plain to all that I do not find myself stood before you now clothed as I was one hour prior. Is it reasonable to assume that the joint-board has possession of my garments and belongings; and that they have been duly inspected?”

“It is!”  

“There is much at hand in those effects to substantiate my words and to confirm to you all that you have indeed (to be blunt) bagged a prince.  Would it be adequate then to say that in terms of my answering thus far, in relation to who I am, I have not attempted any deceit?”

“It would:” the dwarf then addresses the reporter, “Revise the name on the register to that formerly specified by the Bidden!”

“Not the Arraigned?” considers Legolas to himself.

“How very clever of you,” sneers the first Head, “You have talked yourself into becoming a hostage of war: Haha, and apt for hard labour after all!”

Legolas answers steadily, “I am not aware that our peoples are at war!”

“Oh really,” he snarls, “Our Warrior Lord and his finest soldiery departed these lands not much more than thrice-a-day’s hence: now, Wood Prince, why was that?”

“Ultimately to succeed Thorin Oakenshield as King under the Mountain, it would seem.”

“Ah yes, our beloved Thorin and the elves…”

The centrally sat dwarf stays him, “Ffodor: enough for now, my friend!” who then fixes his gaze on Legolas: “Why are you so eager to prove who you are; when (war or no) my co-auditor rightly points out your value as a hostage?”

“I am not a liar!” replies Legolas.

“And that is your only reason?”

“Is that not enough?”

“Do not misapprehend the licence of this Dispensation, Prince, nor its willingness to act!” calls out the other Head facing Legolas; who then acknowledges his neighbour already addressing the newly renamed Bidden: “Wãelyn, you know elves are dishonest, never tolerate them the slipper‘s twist!”

“Thank you, Karnaech, I need not remind you that the ‘Branch of Juris’ falls to my family this season; however, I will reassure the Mete again that every measure stands upon the sounding and hearing of all occupants at this form!”

Silence falls momentarily until Wãelyn speaks again to Legolas: “So, you are not a liar, I am sure your mother would be most plea…”

“My mother is dead!”  

“Do not over-speak me!” blasts Wãelyn, “If it pleases the Branch, whom I am, we could set a holder’s-bit about you and proceed in your hearing only…”

Legolas stalls…

“As amusing as we find your florid obsequiousness, the Dispensation is not satisfied with your scrubby responses to direct questions, hence I reiterate: Why the fervour to prove your credentials against the merit of your being our hostage?”

“And speak plainly!!!” demands a heckler from the gallery.

Wãelyn makes to stand up, whereupon no other onlooker dares to coo or jeer in agreement with the last comment. At considered length he resettles: “Indeed, be plain!”  

“I am not accustomed to Dwarric Law and do not understand the intricacies of standing before you as the Bidden or the Arraigned: I could cite myself as the Ambushed, the Assaulted, the Abducted or the Tortured…”

Seven faces snarl at him: but Wãelyn, although calloused to these opening words, remains attentive.  He considers the state of mind of the one stood before him, pondering how given the situation he could remain so at ease.  He thinks to himself, “Does he not realise that I could have him hanged right now without issue or repercussion?” The elf continues…

“However, I stand before you as Legolas, called Greenleaf by his mother after her people, Son of King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm in Greenwood! And in the absence of King Dáin, I concede to the authority of his Dispensation.”

“How very kind of you, Highness!” gloats Karnaech; some others harrumph at this but neither Legolas nor Wãelyn react to the interruption.

“You found me recently departed from Erebor where, after the slaying of Smaug by one of the Lake-towners, a battle had ensued…”

“Aye, no doubt prompted by your king!” adds Ffodor.

“Enough!” demands Wãelyn: Legolas resumes…

“For my part I embarked upon a scouting mission to Gundabad and there witnessed the marshalling of the second host set against Erebor; it being led by one Bolg, son of Azog, whom I later slew in single combat. It was here that the fatal contest took place between Thorin and the Defiler, Azog himself; the king fought val…”

“Wait now,” interjects Wãelyn, “you witnessed this but did not intervene?”  

“I was engaged with Bolg at lower quarters and did not witness their fight; however I aided him with a sword!”

“Can you produce witness to this effect?”

“I am not sure: my comrade and a Halfling traveller were close by but I do not know what they saw.”  

Ffodor laughs, “Haha, you provide a little truth to bear out a big lie! You don’t know what your comrade saw: What then: did you and he have a falling out, are you not talking anymore?”

“She... was immobile at Bolg’s hand and about to be slain ere I befell him.”

“Oh it just gets better,” he sneers, “elf-maids trading their silks for armour.”

“Believe what you will,” answers Legolas.

Wãelyn asks, “What of this Halfling?”

“I know that he was a companion of Gandalf and known to Thorin’s company; I heard him referred to as Mr. Baggins but did not catch his first name!”

“Our people trade with the Shire-folk,” says another, “they’re not fighters nor wizard‘s apprentices,” he sniffs: “Huh, shopkeepers more like!”

“Wait now… Baggins, Baggins… I have heard that name before: Haha, Old ‘Third time pays for all’ Bungo the Broker!” Wãelyn smiles for the first time: “He worked for the Took family as I recall, many years ago, he must be ancient by now; a decent fellow, but I’m inclined to agree: not warrior class!”  

“Even so, Mr. Baggins was there; but not so old I would guess,” says Legolas.

“And yet, there is something more,” adds Wãelyn.

“I cannot add much more about him, save that he attended to Thorin as he died of his wounds: this I saw at Ravenhill some way off!”  

“I notice that throughout you are skirting the issue of your father, the King!”

“What would you know?”

Wãelyn summons the usher to bring him a thin stack of documents: “Perhaps it is time that you should hear what we know!”  He straightens the bottom edges of the papers against the board and clears his throat: “I have here a number of drafts of the ‘Ravens’ sent to our Lord Dáin by the hand of Thorin himself…”  He hands the notes back to the usher, “Wylenhin, read these aloud for the benefit of the Mete!”

Wylenhin takes up his position on a high rostrum directly behind Wãelyn and Karnaech, proceeding to read in a loud and clear deep-brown voice:

Lord Dáin,

Allow me to be the first to inform the Seven Families through you, Esteemed Cousin, that despite your shared reticence I am finally to come into my own. The key to the hidden door of Erebor has come down to me from my father; and now on this our day, Durin’s Day, the King’s Stone shall return to its rightful owner.

 Thorin Oakenshield.

Lord Dáin,

At long last our people are avenged: the worm is evicted and Erebor is ours. Come and see it, Dáin; see the blanket of gold in which we smothered Smaug the Terrible ere he met his end. Bring with you your bards and minstrels and let us compose a new song: ‘The Ballad of the Toy-makers and the Merchants!’

Thorin ii, son of Thráin.

Lord Dáin,

So it begins, the birds descend: the Lake-town lackwits insist on remuneration, I might have aided them had they not so soon enlisted an army of wood-elves to press their claim. The starlight grubbers are upon my doorstep but these I will not entertain; lest of course it is in like manner to which King Prig and his heir forcibly and unjustly entertained my company and I not long since prior: behind bars!

The King under the Mountain.

“Hang him! Axe him! Make him suffer!” demand several onlookers.

“What say you to this!” says Wãelyn to Legolas.

“To which: the hanging, the axing or the suffering?” he answers amid much uproar and general incredulity.

“The Frequentery will hold its peace…” insists Wãelyn; “The Bidden will curb all glibness and I will have his answer!”

“You refer to the letters just read aloud?” clarifies the elf.

“I do!”

“I have naught in those sheets save for a thinly veiled insult…”

“Read between the lines: tell us of your encounters with Thorin!”

“Very well…” begins Legolas. “Thorin and his company had become ensnared in a giant-spider nest and were fighting their way out, when my division first came upon them. They must have strayed from all known pathways to become thus straightened. However, our greater forces purged that colony of monstrous pests which had been…”

Wãelyn interjects, “You say ‘my division’ meaning that you were in command?”

“Correct!”

“Hmm… so this was not a rescue of dwarves but rather a vermin-control exercise where by some strange chance your company and Thorin’s momentarily fought a common foe?”

“Correct!” repeats the elf.

“So the bugs were squashed: Continue!”

Legolas takes pause to consider his response…

Ffodor speaks gravely, “We come to the truth at last, the Bidden is lost for words; no quick witted retort in light of facts that now lead to the inevitable end. We know Thorin and his company were detained with prejudice by the Woodlanders, we have the evidence of the letters; there is also the testimony of he whom it was that gave the very command to…”

“I believe it was upon me to continue…” puts in the elf.

He is overridden, “HE whom it was that gave the very command to seize our beloved king…”

Legolas defies him again, “So this is what is meant by the inevitable end!?”

“OUR BELOVED KING:” insists the dwarf, “Whom it was His Father that had turned his back upon our kin in the gravest hour of need!”

“I am standing trial for my father too?”

Rising suddenly, Wãelyn slaps down on the board with a mighty thud: “You are the one stood before us, and the only other apt to represent his house. You may continue if you wish…”  

“It is true, I apprehended this party of dwarves! In my military capacity I did everything necessary to ensure that  my father’s orders were carried out.”

“And his orders were?”

“To imprison them!”

“And release them when?”

“No such command was given: they escaped!”

“How was that?”  

“They secreted themselves in barrels and floated downriver to Lake-town,” explains Legolas; “With hindsight I surmise that Mr. Baggins assisted in this endeavour since we knew not then of his part in this…”

“The resourceful Mr. Baggins!”

“Quite so…”

Wãelyn sinks back into his chair, blank faced with his hands loosely cradling their opposing elbows: “Hmm… The Mete has not heard any reasons for your prolonged encampment on the borders of these lands: indeed upon this rests the validity of the charges against you! How do you respond?”  

Presently, a brassy note reverbs mightily through the hall by way of the horns beside the entrance. The door creaks slowly open revealing two figures, notable in their differences; the taller clad in grey advances with the aid of a staff, allowing his tiny companion to keep pace as they take the long walk of the accusing eyes.

At length Wãelyn speaks, “Not casually do the Horns of Juris sound during session, Gandalf the Grey; the Branch and this form will hear the cause of it!”

“Indeed, no casual matter at all!” says the wizard who mounts the platform to stand beside Legolas, the hobbit refrains and waits behind: “Much has occurred these last days since the battle; I carry a document of importance, a North-east Accord, if you like...”

“What is that to this hearing?” inquires Wãelyn, gesturing to have it: Wylenhin accommodates him as Gandalf waits.   

“It matters much, Sirs!” says the wizard at length, “Erebor and the Woodland Realm have pacted together with the Lake Town Men to rebuild Dale and renovate the waterways of Esgaroth. This means employment of all kinds for all kindreds; surely wine and ale will flow freely once more…”

The gallery combusts with applause; not even Wãelyn’s glower can stop it, but he remains patient holding up a forefinger to stay his colleagues until the clapping abates: “I tire of speeches in place of answers and I say again, what is that to this hearing?”

“I am sure by now you have verified the seal of the King under the Mountain and noted the signatories in front of you…”

“I have!”

“As you can see this declaration is to be sent to all regional authorities of peoples concerned. Perhaps an adjournment is in order whilst you peruse the document...” suggests the wizard.

“Agreed!” says Wãelyn.

“Perhaps too, my friend here might have his effects returned to him as you deliberate!” adds Gandalf.

The Branch of Juris assents to this amid his fellows’ habitual snippy discontent: “We shall have the truth in this!” he tells them; and to the wizard he says, “I should also like to speak with you separately, that goes for your little friend malingering behind your cloak tails too!”

“Of course!” says Gandalf with a courteous nod.

“But tell me, Gandalf,” asks Wãelyn ere they retire to chambers, “How is it that you came thither in person and did not send a herald, or nary a raven?”

“Some birds fly higher than ravens and can see much more clearly!”

[saoirse-argentum]

Fan-fiction Friday with Final Fantasy: The Beginning...or Something.

Well, after thoroughly enjoying myself during the FFXIV Writing challenge last month, I have decided to keep the story going, but… IT’LL BE TEN TIMES MORE INSANE. XD

This is the first installment of what I am dubbing: Fan-fiction Friday with Final Fantasy.

I will post new updates at least once a week on Friday, and more if time allows between finishing manuscripts, grading papers, and drawing trashy fanart. =]

Thanks for reading. <3

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

Saoirse’s eyes were weary. She’d barely slept, how could she with the guilt she felt over leaving Aymeric and Estinien’s whiskey caresses. Estinien on the other hand seemed to be in good spirits, and she worried it was because he intended to gloat when they met back with Aymeric at Forlemort’s estate.

He stopped, a few feet ahead of her and looked back. “Need I carry you?”

She shook her head as she caught up to him.

He took her by the hand and waited for her eyes to meet his. “What troubles you?”

“I just…I know you’re not particularly fond of Aymeric at the moment, but he’s my friend and I feel awful. I just wish there was a way for everyone to be happy.” She let her forehead rest against his chest.

“Saoirse, do not aim against yourself; when you have but a single heart to bestow.” Estinien gently ran his hand along the length of her hair. “Aymeric’s sorrow will pass, but such wounds require time…and though I know it pains you to hear it, space too is much needed.” He pulled back and raised her chin with his fingertips. “You cannot heal him. Not this time.”

She was surprised to hear Estinien speak without the normal agitation his cadence carried when discussing Aymeric. Whatever jealousy and distrust he harbored, he suppressed to comfort her. She laced her fingers with his. She knew he was right. This was one thing her magic could not fix.

 Aymeric wasn’t surprised to see Saoirse with Estinien upon her return. When he awoke and found her missing, he knew where her heart led her. He wanted to run after her, beg her to stay, but it would only serve to hurt her and humiliate him. So, he remained and let his own soul grieve in silence. He wasn’t ready to stop loving her, but so long as Estinien looked her way, his fight was over.

“I have packed your belongings. We should depart before we impose on Lord Forlemort any further.” He walked around Saoirse toward the door.

“Aymeric, wait. I—”

He looked back at her and smiled. “So long as he is good to you…so long as you are happy. You need not say more.” He did not wait for a reply.

Even though he’d stood tall and smiled she could see it in his eyes…his heart was broken.

As they prepared to leave for Ishgard, a heavy silence weighing on the group, a familiar voice called to them in the distance.

Saoirse squinted, trying to see through the blinding white reflection off the snow. “Haurchefant?”

Haurchefant was running toward the entrance, waiving his arm with a bright smile. When he halted before them, he hunched over, placing his hands to he knees and he desperately took in air. “I am overjoyed to see everyone is well,” he spoke between breaths.

“Why are you not back in Ishgard?” Saoirse placed her hand on his back to see to it he was okay.

“When I told Estinien about the storm he just waltzed right out into it. I couldn’t allow him to leave alone, unprepared, so I followed soon after, but it would seem it was for naught.” He straightened with a stretch. “Perhaps the fire in his loins propelled his haste. Had I not gotten stuck in the heart of it, I would have arrived sooner.”

“Hmph. If only you’d remained stranded.” Estinien huffed.

“Wait…Have you been outside this whole time? Are you alright?” Saoirse examined his body for injury, but he stopped her, setting his hand on her head.

“I am well, I swear it. I found natural shelter and made it through…Which brings me to my next point…There is something amiss. I know not what, but I find it’s best you follow me.” He turned on his heel and beckoned them to follow. He’d explain everything on the way.

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

According to Haurchefant, he’d seen a strange light inside the cave in which he dwelt the night before and he was certain he’d heard a voice call to him in the distance. He explored the best he could, but found no one. He considered that maybe he was delusional due to the cold and lack of sleep, but before he set out for Coerthas that morning, he saw the light again…in the cracks of the cave floor, coming from below. He thought it best not investigate on his own considering his state, so he made way for Coerthas immediately.

“Perhaps you too have the Echo,” Saoirse suggested but Haurchefant didn’t seem to think that was it. This was a physical manifestation, but the energy surrounding it certainly felt off and once they arrived, they understood.

It felt as though they were being called to, drawn in deeper and deeper until they stood just before the light Haurchefant spoke of.

“What could possibly be casting such radiance from beneath the surface?” Aymeric knelt to examine the rock. It was uncertain whether it was still stable enough to maintain weight. He pressed his palm to it, and the earth felt solid, but he was still wary about moving closer to the center where the fissure was at its worst.

Just as Aymeric’s hand pressed against the surface Saoirse’s ears twitched at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, but no one else seemed to notice. She looked at the fractured stone. It was coming from below. She walked by Aymeric.

“Saoirse, wait!” Aymeric called to her, but she did not stop until she stood at the seeping center of the light.

“Someone is down there. I can hear them…They’re calling for help.” She stood in place, listening.

Aymeric and the others looked to one another as if to confirm that they were not hearing as she did.

“Well, then we will find a way down, but until then, it is best not to test the permanency of such broken ground.” Estinien held his hand out to Saoirse, but she was not as concerned as the others were. There was a certain insecurity in the rock beneath her, but she hardly considered it. She was more worried about the voice calling to her.

“It sounds like a woman…” She looked away from Estinien’s hand to her feet.

“Saoirse, whatever lunacy you are thinking, I swear…by the Fury, if you do not take my hand—”

Before Estinien could say more Saoirse raised her foot and brought it crashing to the ground below. The rock shook, and just before Estinien could reach for her, the ground gave way.

Estinien didn’t hesitate. The moment Saoirse fell through, he jumped down after her.

Aymeric looked back at Haurchefant. “Why would she…”

Haurchefant shrugged. “I suppose we will have to follow suit if we wish to find out.”

Aymeric nodded and they too jumped in the brilliant white light below. It swallowed them in a blinding glow before flickering out.

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

When Saoirse finally hit the ground, she landed mostly on her backside. “Ouch.” She winced as she situated herself. She remained seated, too sore to stand right away. She looked around, confused by her surroundings. She was no longer in the cave…or Coerthas by the look of it. A barren wasteland stretched out before her, and two large towers stood off in the distance. Where was she? Where were the others? “Estinien? Aymeric? Haurchefant?”

“A woman?” A cool, deep voice spoke from behind her.

“And a strange one at that,” another unfamiliar voice replied.

Saoirse hurried to her feet, not realizing that upon landing she’d injured her ankle. She stumbled backwards and sat on the ground, facing the strangers before her.

One seemed inhuman in size beneath a full suit of blue armor, he had to be at least seven feet tall and was broad like an oak. The only part of his body not covered by armor were his hands which were an ash gray with pointed black nails. His companion was slender in comparison, and nearly a foot shorter in height, but something about him seemed far more intimidating. His eyes were a pale turquoise and piercing. He wore a long black coat that revealed his muscular chest with leather suspenders crossed over it. The shiny pauldrons on his shoulders matched the belt at his waist. His hair too was a gleaming silver that fell beyond his waist and like the sword in his left hand, reflected the light of the sun.

“Do you mean to run?” He questioned standing over her.

Saoirse swallowed and shook her head. “I just…I’m not sure where I am, and I seem to have been separated from my companions.”

“Then you are new to this world.”

“But who called her here?” The armored one interrupted. “Speak, girl. Who are you?”

“Saoirse. My name is Saoirse. I’m the Warrior of Light.”

“Impossible. My memory serves well, and the Warrior of Light is certainly a man. Is he not?” He looked his silver haired ally.

“Interesting.” His mouth curled into a sly smile as he knelt before Saoirse. “It would be simple enough to kill you, but you may just prove useful.” He offered Saoirse his right hand.

“What are you scheming, Sephiroth?”

Sephiroth glanced at the massive man standing at his side. “You shall see. Not to worry, I think you’ll like it. Now, then.” He returned his gaze to Saoirse, guiding her view to his leather clad hand.

Saoirse looked from Sephiroth’s eyes to his hand and back again. She hesitated. In her condition she certainly couldn’t run, and something told her that her abilities as a White Mage wouldn’t be enough to fight off the two of them. She was lost in a strange place and she worried about Estinien and the others. She was left with little choice. She accepted his hand, and in that moment, darkness washed over her. But it was already too late.

Just where had she led them…

UNTIL NEXT WEEK! TO BE CONTINUED...

[lasertreatmentindia]

Something You should Know about Recurrent Anal Fissures : Laser 360 Clinic

Chronic treatment for anal fissure is not an issue. Laser surgery has immensely emerged as a guardian angel for healing the fissure at a faster speed. Read More >>

[letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked]

Words On My Skin (Part 22)

Bucky Barnes x Reader (Soulmate AU)

A/N: For those of you who read Center Ice and New Beginnings, I promise I’m working on them! I’ve been busy with my inspiration for this, as well as two oneshots! I’ll post the next parts soon!

Warnings: Feelings. Swears, as usual. Self-loathing Bucky. DRAMAAA

Main Masterlist // WOMS Masterlist

 Eight days.

You hadn’t seen Bucky in eight agonizing days.

Okay, you couldn’t act like you’d been agonizing for that long… you were unconscious for two of the eight days.

The medical team had apparently kept you drugged up and unconscious, because they were doing some work on your neck with something they called ‘The Cradle’. It was, apparently, some magical machine that some scientists made that heals tissue and all the science-y medical mumbo jumbo that you didn’t understand.

What you did understand?

Your neck had nearly been crushed by the vibranium hand of The Winter Soldier. You were lucky that the damage wasn’t permanent, and that science was a lot further along than you’d realized. All that was left of your wounds on your neck was a large, hand-shaped bruise… and a sprained wrist… and a stitched-up gash on the back of your head… and a Bucky-sized hole in your heart.

He wasn’t there when you’d woken up.

Steve was there.

Apparently, your soulmate had stolen a quinjet and immediately left the country – going straight to Wakanda to get his head back together. Not that he’d been there to tell you any of this. He’d left the compound before you’d even made it to the medical wing, three days prior.

When you woke from your two day nap, you’d been hysterical – much to your embarrassment. You’d burst into tears, gasping awake and calling out for Bucky. Steve nearly had a heart attack, before the nurse had threatened you with more sedatives. Guilt bled through the bond, so you knew that he was aware that you woke up, but it was overshadowed by the empty feeling in your chest.

You just wanted him back home.

Was that selfish?

He came back on day six, which was two days after you’d been released from the medical wing and allowed to be back in your own room. The only reason you knew he was back, was because of FRIDAY. You’d tried to talk to him, tried knocking on his door, tried calling, texting… anything.

He was avoiding you.

“Hey… It’s me. Again.” You sighed, leaving another voicemail on Bucky’s – new – cellphone. “I can feel you when I call, so I know you see me calling. I’m… I’m not mad at you. Not even a little bit. It’s not your fault. We’ve been under a lot of stress, lately, and… I understand. I just… we promised each other that we’d communicate more, and…” You inhaled a shaky breath, tears welling up in your eyes as you stared at the off-white walls of your office. “I need you. I miss you. I…” The tears fell down your cheeks as your voice cracked, leaving hot trails down your cheeks, dripping off your chin. “I love you, okay? Please… talk to me.”

You hung up, wiping the tears off your face with the back of your hand, careful to keep your makeup un-smudged.

He was still ignoring you…

GOD DAMMIT.

A small surge of anger shooting through your veins and boiling out any sadness. The phone that had been in your hand was launched across the room before you could even comprehend your actions, bouncing off a canvas painting of some bullshit flowers – ripping the material. Both items fell to the floor, disturbing the immaculate cleanliness of your office.

There was only so much stress-cleaning and burying yourself in paperwork you could do. You were officially caught up with every stitch of paperwork, you had every appointment scheduled for the next month, the entire Christmas party was planned and ironed out, your room was spotless, your bathroom was spotless, your office was spotless, the kitchen… You’d stress cleaned the kitchen well over three times.

In just a few days.

But, Y/n, don’t you sleep?

Nope.

There was no sleeping in your bed. You physically couldn’t. It was too cold, and too empty. You’d gotten so used to having him next to you, listening to his soft snores and leeching the warmth from his feverish body, that sleeping in your own bed felt foreign to you – it was like the first night in a new house, or in a hotel. Trying to get comfortable was impossible, so you just avoided your bed at all costs.

You’d even resorted to falling asleep on the new couch in the living room – apparently Steve had broken the couch when he’d tackled Bucky – and avoiding your bed, altogether.

Dr. Burson – who came to see you while you were still in the medical wing, as well as stopped by this morning – let you air out your frustrations, as well as talk with you about ‘the incident’. Talking with her had improved your mood quite a bit, but… she’s not the one who you wanted to talk to.

Bucky was the one you wanted to talk to.

He’d gone as far as skipping appointments to avoid you, much to your chagrin.

Did he forget that he could get sent to The Raft if he purposely skipped his appointments?

He probably wanted to go to the fucking Raft.

Over your dead fucking body.

“You know, when I told you the phone was not easily broken, I assumed you wouldn’t test out that theory.” You heard from the door of your office, Tony’s sneaky ass leaning against the wall next to the door with his arms crossed against his chest. The smug smile he usually wore was gone, replaced with slight amusement and concern. “What’s with the impromptu demolition?”

“Sorry.” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose and closing your eyes, trying to stop the flow of tears. “I’m just… frustrated.”

“I can see that.” He nodded towards the broken canvas on the ground, and the perfectly fine cellphone. Sauntering over to your desk, he plopped down in Bucky’s usual chair and sighed, “You and Elsa will be fine. He’s just freaking out. He’ll let it go.”

“I think it’s a little bigger than that.” You swiped your hands over your wet face, trying to remove any trace of tears. “I can feel what he feels.”

“And?”

“He absolutely hates himself.” You couldn’t help the little crack in your voice at the end of that sentence, trying not to focus on the feelings that were ebbing through the bond and leaving a tightness in your chest. “There’s so much regret, self-loathing, and anger. I hate it. I… God. I hate it so much.” So much for no tears. You swiped at your face, trying to banish the annoying wetness. “He won’t talk to me. He won’t see me. He’s avoiding me… I feel so fucking pathetic, to be honest. I’m crying all the time, letting anger get the better of me, and leaving these pathetic ass voicemails where I beg him to talk to me. I’m just… an emotional mess.”

“Maybe you’re pregnant.” He joked, humor in his eyes. When you tossed a pad of sticky notes at his head, he laughed loudly, “Kidding! Kidding! Lighten up!”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes and shaking your head. “You’re kind of a dipshit for someone who claims to be a genius.” A small smile lifted at your lips at his passive wave, “You usually need to have sex to get pregnant, Tony.”

“You mean to tell me that, after sharing a bedroom all this time, you two haven’t-”

“Shut up, Tony. We’re not talking about my sex life.”

“Or lack thereof.”

“Fuck you.”

“You wish.”

A loud laugh escaped, before you could hold it back. It felt good to laugh, after all the negative energy surrounding you for the previous few days. “Oh, my god.”

“Close. Tony Stark. Though that’s usually what women yell out.” He winked, a small giggle escaping him as he grabbed your watch off the desk and fiddled with it. “Anyways, welcome to the ‘Winter Soldier tried to kill me’ club.”

“Your empathy astounds me, Tony.” You groaned, shaking your head and leaning back in your chair. “Did you come to my office for a reason?”

“I… wanted to check on you.” He glanced down at your watch, fiddling with the settings and frowning at the little fissure in the screen, “Aside from Elsa locking himself away, are you doing okay? How’s your neck?”

You reached up, pulling your turtleneck of your dress down slightly to show him the progress of the healing, finger-shaped bruises spanning along the skin of your neck – which was looking better with every passing day, since the treatments in the cradle. “It doesn’t hurt, anymore. It’s mostly just ugly to look at.”

“What about your wrist?” He leaned forward, setting your watch back on the desk, before leaning back in the chair. “Does it still hurt?”

“Not really.” After fixing your neckline, you pulled up the sleeve where your wrist was wrapped, “The bruising isn’t as healed as my neck, but the sprain isn’t throbbing, anymore.”

“Your head?”

“It’s fine, Dr. Stark.” You snorted, though it was nice to have someone care about your health so much. Especially in the last few days, since you felt a little… secluded. Steve was busy with Bucky, which you preferred over him fretting over you every second of the damn day. Wanda and Vision were on a recon mission, Natasha and Clint were staying at Clint’s for a few days, Sam was busy doing renovations on a leaky pipe at his own place, and Tony was working on a new project. Tony and Pepper were the only ones you’d seen since you’d left the medical wing. You were lucky that Caleb and Claire came to visit you, or you’d go insane. “You missed Claire, yesterday. She wanted to tell you about her science fair.”

“Did she win?”

“She got second place.”

“That’s bullshit!” He scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ll have to have a word with the school.”

“Don’t you dare embarrass her and do that.” You scolded lightly, carefully placing your sleeve over your wrapped wrist before smoothing down the skirt of the dress. “She was happy with it. Don’t be that asshole that tells her ‘if ya ain’t first, you’re last’.”

“Well, Ricky Bobby,” He scoffed, fidgeting with his own watch. “I promise I won’t be that asshole if you promise to cancel all my meetings, next Tuesday.”

“What’s next Tuesday?”

“…December 16th.”

Oh. Shit. That’s right.

“Consider it done.” You quickly wrote yourself a memo in your computer. “Anything else?”

“Nope!” He sprung up from the chair, walking over to your cellphone on the floor to pick up and inspect before he gently set it on your desk, and headed towards the door – dramatically twisting around to say one last thing, “Barnes will get over it. I’m sure he’s just as upset about the separation as you are.”

“I hope so,” You muttered as he spun around the wall, out of sight. “My sleep depends on his return.”

---------

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap….

The heel of your sneakers were bouncing against the hard kitchen floor as you stared at your phone while trying to eat alone in the kitchen, not really wanting to eat the offensive health food.

Why the fuck did you Postmate a bland as shit salad? You should’ve got the chicken one.

Wellp, too late now.

It wasn’t the food’s fault that you were mad at it, you were just… pissed off.

Bucky made his first appearance since the incident.

Not on purpose, of course.

Nope.

He was accidentally in the same place as you, at the same time.

In an attempt to make yourself tired enough to possibly pass out in your bed, you’d – horribly enough – decided to head to the gym. Working out was, supposedly, supposed to make you feel better and you were always exhausted after working out with the guys… So, why not?

When you’d peeked through the window next to the locked door, the place looked empty – which was pretty common around seven o’clock – and you decided fuck it and went inside. The place was almost empty, save for a rhythmic pounding of combos against a sandbag and some angry grunting. You’d been to the gym enough with your soulmate to know that it was him that was beating the holy hell out of a bag – probably about to destroy the crap out of it and deplete the stack of bags.

Your heart nearly skipped a beat once his sweating frame was in your sights, and you watched his combo faulter slightly – knowing he felt you.

Tears sprung up, as you leaned against the wall, debating if you wanted to confront him or not. You didn’t want to scare him away, but you also wanted to scream and cry until he listened to you – which wasn’t exactly rational, so you ignored that feeling. Instead, you stood there watching him, waiting for him to finish up so you could corner him and attempt to talk to him.

“You know, it’s rude to stare.” His voice suddenly filled the empty gym, and you realized that he’d stopped punching the bag while you were having your internal battle with yourself. “What are you doing in here?”

Realizing his tone was annoyed, you stayed silent for a moment – trying to gulp down any anxiety and repeat your mantra in your head – before responding, “I was… going to work out… I can leave, I guess.”

What?! Why are you offering to leave! Confront him stupid!

Ignoring yourself, you turned towards the door with a heavy heart, hurt piercing through your chest as you tried to hold back tears.

“Wait.”

You froze, back facing him as you sucked in a steadying breath – trying to calm your nerves. Your chest was burning from anxiety, on both ends of the bond, and you shoved your trembling hands in your pockets as you heard his footsteps.

He stepped in front of you, and you looked up to meet his tired eyes. The dark circles under his eyes practically matched your own – he probably wasn’t sleeping, either – and he looked exhausted. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, his usually icy eyes were dark, and his pallid face was unshaved. He reached up to grab the zipper of your high-collar, zip-up sweatshirt with his trembling flesh hand.

“Don’t.” You whispered, closing your eyes but making no moves to stop him. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

When the zipper was lightly pulled down, you gulped in anticipation as you felt his fingers freeze against the tab.

His gasp cut through the air, and your chest squeezed painfully at the disgust and self-loathing that was ebbing through the bond. It was like a white-hot fire poker being repeatedly stabbed into the center of your chest, burning the air from your lungs and radiating throughout the entire cavity of your chest. You knew he was staring at the bruises that stained the delicate skin of your neck. Though they were faded considerably, they were still a nasty yellow and blue in the exact shape and size of his vibranium hand.

The tears that you’d been holding back betrayed you as you opened your eyes, leaving hot trails down your cheeks, dripping off your jaw and onto his hand. “Bucky…”

“Don’t.” He snapped, voice cracking as he pulled his hand away in disgust. “I’m a fucking monster.”

“No.” You disagreed, voice thick as you reached forward to hold his scratchy, unkept face. You could see the lines under his beard where you’d scratched at him in a panic, but you ignored them. Bringing attention to them wouldn’t help your case. “You’re not.”

His eyes slid closed, shoulders tense as you watched his adam’s apple bob with a thick swallow. You felt the emotions ebb through the bond: anger, disgust, fear… Heartbreak.

“Bucky…” You continued to caress his face, his unkept beard scratching against your palms as you watched his lower lip wobble slightly. “Please… Talk to me.”

The silence in the room was unbearable and thick. The air was cold, but the tension radiating from both of you was enough to nearly make you sweat. The only sounds in the room were your shaking breaths and the gentle whir of the fans to regulate temperature. If a pin were to drop across the room, you’d be able to hear it.

Which is why you were able to hear the faint whisper of your soulmate, “I can’t.”

Those two words were enough to completely fissure the hole in your chest, shattering your heart into metaphorical pieces.

He turned away from you, pulling out of your grasp and hastily heading towards the door. He slammed his hands against the door, the flesh one pushing it open and the vibranium one accidentally cracking the glass in the door – making you jump slightly – as he shoved it open. He didn’t even glance at it as he left you alone in the empty gym.

Fuck.

A small sob bubbled up, your shaking hands grasping the tab of your zipper to hastily cover your neck. You left a hand on your chest, attempting to hold yourself together by literally holding your hand against yourself, but failing epically. The tears were in full force, as a particularly loud sob nearly sent you to your knees.

Pushing forward, you ran to the locker room, not wanting anyone to find you breaking down alone in the gym.

It took you a full thirty minutes before you left the locker room, eyes bloodshot, skin raw under your nose, and heart broken.

That lead you to where you were sitting, now.

You’d decided that you were just going to Postmate some food and sulk on the couch. Alone.

Why you spent your money on a stupid salad you could’ve made with the shit in your fridge, was beyond you.

You weren’t thinking clearly.

Instead of worrying about it, you picked at your salad, staring at the photo Wanda had posted of you and Bucky on her Instagram a few hours before the incident. It was of you and Bucky, locked in an embrace and kissing in front of all the agents. It was nearly inappropriate to put on social media, considering your legs were wrapped around him, but you didn’t care.

You stared longingly at the photo, basically rubbing salt into your wound.

Why was loving someone so fucking complicated? Why did stupid shit have to happen? Why couldn’t fate just let you be fucking happy and move the fuck on?

You’ve had enough of receiving the fucking shit-stick.

Standing up, the chair scraped loudly behind you.

“Fuck this.” You whispered, anger shooting through your veins.

If Bucky wasn’t going to talk to you about your relationship issues, there was someone else you could confront.

Your parents.

It was time to find out what the fuck happened at the cabin.

--------------

After practically sprinting to your room to grab your coat, keys, and purse, you stomped down the halls – ready to take down anyone in your path, as your anger began to consume you.

You knew you were fixating your anger on one thing, versus the many things that were making you upset, but there was no stopping it.

You didn’t want to stop it.

“Y/n?” You heard Caleb call after you, confused. “Are you okay? Where are you going?”

“Out.” You whirled at him, irrationally lashing out at him. “Fuck off.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise, and he took a tentative step back, raising his hands in surrender, “Okay, okay. Why don’t I come with you? You need an escort.”

“The fuck I do.” You whirled back around, stomping towards the garage. “I’ll be fine.”

You could hear him say something in his comms, before he chased after you, “Y/n… Y/n! Seriously! You need-”

“FUCK OFF!” You yelled, echoing in the garage as you made your way to your car. You should’ve felt bad… it wasn’t Caleb’s fault that you were angry at the world. Was this a breakdown? Probably. “I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going?” He asked softly, trying not to further your yelling. “Should you be driving when you’re this upset?”

Ripping open the door to your car, you glanced back at him, hoping that he could see that you didn’t mean to be so angry with him, “I need to figure some stuff out, okay?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets, apprehension all over his face. “Mr. Stark is on his way down.”

Panic seized your chest, as you quickly ducked into your car, locking the doors and quickly starting the ignition. It had been a hot minute since you drove your own car, since you usually got driven around by someone or rode with Bucky, but you had enough muscle memory to squeal out of the garage – leaving the compound.

Surprisingly, the security check point let you pass, but you could feel your phone vibrating in your pocket, nonstop.

As you got closer to the big city, you slowed down to the speed limit, feeling your anger begin to dissipate a bit. Was… that Bucky’s anger, too? Was that why you were in a complete rage?

Anxiety began to ebb through the bond as you continued to drive, and you wondered if Bucky was the one calling your cellphone.

Pulling it out of your pocket, the screen was lit up with Tony’s name and picture.

Reluctantly, you hit the green answer button, flipping it on speaker and shoving it in your cup holder.

“Y/n, what the hell?” Tony’s voice immediately filled the quiet car, as he yelled into the phone. “What the fuck are you doing? Why didn’t you take security with you?”

“I need time to think.” You sighed, feeling a slight headache form between your eyes and at your temples. “I’m going to see my parents. I need answers.”

“Are you sure this isn’t about Barnes?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” You growled in frustration, not knowing which feelings were your own and which were from the bond. “I just… I need to understand something! I can’t just… I don’t…”

“Okay.” His voice was soothing, trying to calm you down as much as he could. “Would it be okay if someone at least accompanied you back to the compound, after you’re done?”

Taking a deep breath in, you held it for a moment to level your blood pressure, before blowing it back out. “Fine.”

“Are… you coming back?” He asked, clearing his throat. “I mean… You’re not going to leave forever, are you?”

“No, Tony, I’m not.” You sagged in your seat, getting annoyed with the New York traffic, but beginning to feel guilty for the way you left the compound. “Can… You send Caleb? I need to apologize to him.”

“I can do that.”

“I’m hanging up, now.” You replied, grabbing your phone from the cup holder. “You can tell Bucky to stop pacing.”

A small pang of annoyance and disbelief rushed through the bond, so obviously he was standing there with Tony.

Doing exactly what you just said.

He scoffed at the last bit, sounding more like a chuckle but ignoring your jab at Bucky. “Be safe.”

“Yep.” You hung up the phone, tossing it carelessly onto the seat.

It was… a tad dramatic, now that you were thinking rationally. Leaving like that was not the smartest move, and you were sure to catch hell for it, later. You just… You needed to do something to make yourself feel better.

If Bucky wasn’t going to talk to you, then you were going to focus on the next bullet point of the ‘what’s bothering Y/n’ list, and that was the cabin.

Hydra being the third bullet point.

Another day, Y/n.

One at a time.

It was time to suck it up and stop compartmentalizing your feelings. Facing them head-on seemed to be the only way that you’d get some shit figured out. The game-plan was that you were going to demand answers, whether they wanted to give them to you, or not. If not, then you were going to utilize the team that Bucky was talking about when he’d confronted your father.

It was time.

Pulling up in front of your parent’s building, you quickly snatched your phone and glanced at the missed calls. 10 from Bucky, and 5 from Tony before you’d answered. There was also one text.

Bucky: What the hell.

God dammit. You were going to catch Bucky’s almighty wrath for that hasty exit with no security.

Y/n: We’re going to talk when I get home. Whether you like it, or not. I’ll see you in a bit.

You hit send, shoving your phone in your purse and quickly exiting the vehicle. A small pang of fear hit you through the bond. Good. He got the message.

When you entered the building, you were stopped by the doorman, who called your parents to let you know you were on your way up. By the look of terror on the man’s face, you were probably projecting your anger out on the poor man, but it didn’t matter. You needed to do this, before you lost your nerve.

As the elevator ascended, as did your anxiety.

It was time.

You were finally going to get answers.

Ding!

The doors slid open, revealing your mother and father, both of which were confused.

“Y/n?” Your mother frowned at your appearance, taking note of your dark circles and wrapped wrist. “My god, what’s happened? Are you alright?”

“No, mom. I’m not.” You leveled your glare onto your father, who had his arms crossed defensively over his chest. “I’m here for answers.”

“Darling, what are you-”

“Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we, mother?” You cut your mother off venomously, ripping off your coat and tossing it on the couch that you and Bucky had previously occupied at your last visit. “Dad?”

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating, Y/n, but you can’t just-”

“I saw your face.” You stood, beginning to pace as your parents took a seat on the other couch. Looking like a caged animal, you continued, “I saw your fucking face, yelling at me, ‘What the fuck did you do?’ We were in the woods. Someone had been shot. There was blood on the tree. I was…” You stopped pacing for a moment, swallowing down your anxiety. Handshake your fear. “Did… Did I shoot someone?”

Your father was silent, refusing to give you any sort of confirmation.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You exploded, nearly ripping out your damn hair in frustration. “I need answers!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, darling.” He scoffed, shoulders tight and arms crossed over his chest. “Nothing fucking happened.”

“You owe me this!” You cried, voice cracking on the last word as you threw your hands in the air, making your mother jump. “Obviously this was the reason you decided you didn’t love me, anymore! You just… You fucking checked out! You broke my fucking heart, Dad!” At the sight of your father’s face falling, you continued, “Is it because… Did I shoot someone? Did you shoot someone?”

Your father pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes as your mother watched him like a hawk, confusion still lining her face.

“Adira, love, will you please grab us some glasses and the whisky?” He finally responded, voice wavering slightly – which was uncommon for your father to be anything other than demanding. It was unsettling. “It seems I have some explaining to do.”

Oh, God.

-----------------------

Part 23... where it’s all explained...

--------------------------

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FOREVER TAGS: (OPEN)

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WORDS ON MY SKIN: (OPEN)

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[yeoldontknow]

Virgin In Furs: Prologue

Author’s Note: happy birthday to the sun! ive had this in the works since july lmao. the prologue is first person but the rest of the story will continue with second person pov. Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Genre: fashion industry!au; model/photographer@!au; romance; angst; smut Rating (this chapter): R Warnings: dark themes; mentions of drugs; mentions of an overdose Word Count: 1,554

masterlist

What I'm about to tell you is going to hurt. It will hurt so deeply, you will feel as though your soul has begun to fissure. From the start, I’d like to tell you this is normal. You should enjoy the hurt, for there is little beyond this brief, fleeting brush of adrenaline.

This story will live inside you, curling around your ribs to fester and rot; willfully taking up residence in spaces you did not know existed within your lungs. It will corrode your goodness, your innocence, hungry for your kindness with an urgency bordering on ravenous, until all that is left is a jaded cynicism aching for ignorance.

I'm going to tell you a story about lust, not love. This is not about love, likely was never about love. We are not the kind of people love graces. Sometimes, we smell it on the wind, an elusive foreboding that has the potential to be delicious, and sweet, and just as dangerous as the great unmaking of love. As quickly as it comes, it leaves us, or maybe we choose to leave it, for our method of tasting and taking is not meant for the delicate patience of loving.

This story is not a romance. There is no lesson here, nothing valuable enough to break your heart or change you, permanently, though ultimately, for the better. There is no sensual healing to be found, no great cathartic, emotional release. No. This is not that kind of story, though most love stories often aren’t either. There is nothing holy in the martyrdom of anguish for another.

I hope that everything I tell you will haunt you, force unwanted self reflection in a dimly lit bathroom. If I tell it well, it will make your soul feel like a dead thing, a tainted thing, delightedly ripping at your tenderness. If I tell it correctly, it will chew at you, relishing the taste of your regret, your hope, your heart.

This is lust. It is always swift and it is always reckless.

This is lust. You will not recognize yourself when it is done with you.

What I'm going to tell you will disgust you. Repulse you, most likely. That's okay; I want it to. Keep in mind this is not a cautionary tale. Do or don't, your choices will not affect me. I don't care if you follow this as gospel, if you crave self-destruction in the flick of a tongue. Your heart, blood soaked and broken, does not matter to me. I want you to hurt with me. I'm selfish. This is not the worst of my traits.

I am not a good person. Get used to this. You are not going to like me. Your sympathy is not something I crave. I simply want your attention. Full. Undivided. I want your breathing to hurt, like mine does. I want your bones to rattle with regret, like mine do.

I am not a good person and neither is he.

The first time I saw him, I became absolutely and utterly disinterested in a life without him. But then, you have to understand it was his job to be wanted...desired. He existed solely to make you feel worthless, to render you and everything you stood for pointless.

You had goals before you saw him. Dreams. You were satisfied with your life and your job, your comely wife and the house you could only just afford with a little help from your parents. And when you looked at him, you thought it was the watch on his wrist or the tie around his neck - those were the things that could reassert your self-importance. It was the way he’d rolled his sleeves or the shoes on his feet, those were the things you needed to make people love you, want you, remember you.

The truth is that you built the shell of him, the things he wore for the magazines and the adverts, and thought that you were becoming him. Replicate him and you’d get that sense of satisfaction back. Replicate him enough and it’s no longer you wearing the clothes, it’s him and everyone likes you enough for you to like yourself again.

You see? It was his job to do this. His job to unmake you and my job to make his gaze so penetrative that the veneer of your reality could chip just enough to let us both inside.

We are an industry.

We are the makers of tomorrow, the pathos of the zeitgeist. We own it, we own you.

He owns me.

I’m thirty-eight now, was thirty-five when I met him. He was just a kid then, but really they all are. Gloriously basking in the religiousness of his twenties; exquisite enough to get the alcohol; charming enough to get the drugs, the cocaine; sensual enough to earn the worship of men and women. He bartered his beauty with the promise of transcendent sex and orgasms so deep your thighs would ache for days at the thought of him. He never followed through, and no one would ever mind.

As people, we are used to disappointment and dissatisfaction. We’ve been promised this, we expect it, and we will never blame him.

It’s important you remember models always start like this, wide-eyed and gorgeous. I was the first photographer they came to when they’d made it, when the industry had stamped their approval on them with a glossy Vogue spread. He’d had two by the time I met him, one in Bazaar, and three in Marie Claire. I’d never seen his face but I knew all his magnificent and manufactured shades.

Golden skin. Narrow the light space and make him into the sun.

Dark hair, wild eyes. Light falloff on white background - make his shadows so deep your skin imagines it can feel even these impossible, nonexistent touches.

Tall, so wondrously tall. Shoot head on. Make him human enough to be relatable. Attainability was never a factor, it didn’t need to be. You can’t reach through a photograph. You can’t take what was never yours.

But that’s just it. I lived behind the camera. There was no frame to block me. I was the one who touched him, shaped him, groomed him. I was the one who molded his shadows, his highlights, the very tone and essence of him. I was the one who put the gleam in his eyes and the envy in yours. I was the one who taught him to pout and you to get wet at the sight of his mouth. I was the one who transformed him from a boy, fragile and naive, into a man so seductive and aware of his beauty for a single moment you could believe he was fiction.

Trust me. He was real.

He is real.

He was mine.

I’ve gotten ahead of myself. Thinking about him makes me excited; remembering him makes my joints ache, leaning into the memory of his palms. He’s a race to a finish line, a high speed chase through memory, and I am too old to keep up. The plastic wristband holds me back, makes my actions too slow. My Sunset Boulevard is distorted, warped and pot-holed into a compressed form of nostalgic longing. The flickering bulbs do the work for me. They are camera flashes and hair flips, slick lips and bright eyes; the white of the light lingers on my tongue and I suck on the phantasm of recollection.

I told this story once, on a police report. I was high. It was disjointed. Many of the details were erroneous then, but I felt they were absolutely imperative. They were the truth, not the dead girl with the nosebleed and the endless assortment of photos. Surely they, the cops, had to know I loved him? Wasn’t it equally important to know he loved me too, once? The fabric of his coat, you know which coat I’m talking about - the brown one with the tartan lining that made him seem like an antique but so inexplicably present - mattered just as much as the illegal sex, and the restraining order, and the way he cowered away from a naked corpse.

LAPD didn’t believe me.

It’s important to note no one killed her. The blow did. That’s fashion for you. Am I lucky because I didn’t die with her? Maybe. My therapist thinks so, but I think luck comes down to choice.

They chose the blow. I chose to come and pick up the last of my things. I chose to go alone. He chose her for the hollow, meaningless sex and the skin so supple he could try to forget himself, even just for fifteen minutes. She chose the cocaine addiction to keep herself “aware,” but really she meant “thin.”

Look back further.

I chose to make him bleed. He chose to beg.

Go deeper.

He chose to kiss me back. I chose the lens. He chose the bed. I chose to break the frame.

We’re here because we wanted to be here.

All that’s left is choosing where and how to set the record straight.

[cozy-possum]

Regional Vampire Variations

The enviorment a vampire grew up in as a human and the area they spend their “newborn year” in alters their physical and vampiric traits slightly. As time goes on these traits will fade the more they move around.

Southern Vampires (Southern USA, mild to hot climates with little rain)

the farther spread the territory they exist in the easier time they have controlling their thirst (marginally different form other newborns, they still have a one track mind)

Move slower and are able to cover longer distances with less fuel

Taller and thinner than average vampires

like the desert plants they grow with they can store excess blood within their tissues

Generally stronger than the average vampire as they retain the blood within their tissues, not as strong as a newborn

Their skin is not as vibrant in the sun, while it does shimmer and sparkle it’s dulled allowing them to travel and blend in during the day better

Northern Vampires (Northern USA, Cold to freezing climates, varying rainfall)

Faster speed than average

Higher body temperature than the average vampire, still ice cold but not as extreme

Tend to have more brittle bodies, the stone they’ve been turned to doesn’t do as well is cold

Due to the weather risks of cracks and fissures being exposed can lead to erosion and permanent scaring that venom can’t heal

Commonly shorter and stockier than average vampires

Forest/ Tropical ( Large expanses of forest, mild to humid weather, large rainfall)

These vampires look the most “vampiric” 

Most commonly nomadic, they travel and their ranges and territory are expansive

their bodies are average, closest to however they were during their human life

they often can last slightly longer on an average amount of blood

far better eyesight and reflexes than most

they’re able to respond faster/better to stimuli than the average vampire

City/ Urban (Varying weather, average temperatures, average rainfall)

These vampires lose very little of their “human visuals”

Their bodies cool only slightly

They retain their human eye colours in rare cases, it will only be visible before they reach the “black eye” thirst stage to make the appear closest to human to attract prey

they sparkle in excess, not in an ostentatious way but more a constant attractive shimmer, they shimmer even without sunlight

Nomadic/ General (turned in varying other locations)

the area a vampire is turned will effect their thirst levels, if they are nomadic within their first year their traits never “settle” they look closer to their human forms

Nomads often “devolve” the traits they form from where they were turned slowly morphing back into how they existed in human form

Nomads do not “pass on” any traits when turning other vampires, if bitten and turned by a nomad you would simply resemble the idealized version of yourself

As populations increase and the need for expansive territories becomes less and less, these regional traits slowly diminish

[bellecherieau]

Does Getting a Cosmetic Tattoo Hurt? Read Before Getting a Treatment

Eyebrows are one of the most striking facial features. Everyone wants eyebrows that have thickness, shape, and most importantly, fit their face. They often spend a lot of time and energy in front of the mirror to get the perfect, natural-looking eyebrow shape. There is an alternative to the daily routine as well as a permanent way to get around it which is known ascosmetic tattooing for eyebrows.

Although cosmetic eyebrow tattoos are becoming more common, they are not for everyone. Also, different people perform this procedure for different reasons. There are four reasons to get a cosmetic eyebrow tattoo:

People with thin eyebrows or those who pluck their eyebrows excessively.

Those who have fissures and scars in the place of their eyebrows.

People who suffer from an illness or accident that results in the loss of all hair.

Those who want to give their eyebrows a certain shape.

Procedure for tattooing eyebrows

To get a natural brow look, strokes are made in the direction of growth with a needle and colour. It helps in reproducing the original eyebrows. Since eyebrow tattoos are also a type of tattoo, and because they are likely to fade over time, you will need to do some touch ups from time to time.

The process of eyebrow tattoo makeup begins with a pigment and a device that injects colour into the top layer of skin.

The needle can vibrate like normal pigment.

The patient may be given a local anaesthetic to prevent pain.

You may notice redness or darkening that returns to normal in some of the indentations.

Why get one yourself?

You may decide to get a permanent eyebrow tattoo for a number of reasons, such as:

With sparse eyebrow hair.

They mean to get rid of the need to do your eyebrows every day.

You want a different look on your face to make it stand out and look attractive.

Does Cosmetic Tattooing Hurts?

If you’ve ever wondered what eyebrow tattoo feels like, you’re not alone. This procedure has become increasingly popular in recent years as more and more people strive to achieve perfect eyebrows. But while the results from eyebrow tattoo can be amazing, the process itself is not without complaints.

So, does eyebrow tattoo hurt?

In short, yes, permanent eyebrow tattoo can be painful. The needles used in this procedure are very fine, but penetrate the skin, which can cause discomfort. Pain relief creams can help relieve pain, but they are not always completely effective.

Some people report feeling a sharp scratching sensation during the eyeliner tattoo procedure, while others say the sensation is more like a mild burning sensation. However, the pain is usually temporary and will subside once the pain relief cream wears off. So, if you’re considering permanent eyebrow tattoo, be prepared for a bit of discomfort.

The following things must be avoided:

Do not rub, pluck or scratch as the colour may heal unevenly and you run the risk of infection which in turn can lead to scarring.

Get rid of scabs or dry skin naturally.

Avoid direct sunlight/tanning beds or tanning beds for 4 weeks after the procedure.

Wear a hat and/or large sunglasses when outdoors.

Avoid using skin care products or cosmetics on the treated area.

Use a new pillowcase. Avoid sleeping on your back for the first 10 days.

Avoid excessive alcohol consumption because it can slow wound healing.

How to take care?

Just like you would treat a permanent tattoo, eyebrow tattoos also require special care. The face should not be exposed to water for at least a week, as the water will thin the ink and will splatter everywhere. You should stay out of the sun for at least two weeks, as sunlight can fade the colour before it dries on your skin. Sometattoo artistsadvise against applying makeup, cream, or moisturizer near your eyebrows to avoid infection.

[tegary-blog]

55 and 67 for tropes, please and thank you!

For sure!

55 + 67: Established relationship & Character in peril 

It had all happened so quickly. After they had retrieved Stormbreaker from Nidavellir, Thorhad barely given them a moment to breathe before he was calling on the power ofthe Bifrost, cleaving the universe in two. Loki hadn’t the time to marvel atthe sheer magical prowess of theweapon before he was thrust directly into the fray, fighting against creaturesthat he had once commanded as his own.  

Allies come and go from his side: some he recognizes, some hedoes not. The Widow and the Captain both briefly join him in protecting Thor ashe ravages wave after wave of Chitauri with his newly-forged weapon, along witha man with scruffy brown hair and a metal arm. After they leave, Banner takestheir place, though looking far from the way Loki had expected: instead oftaking the gargantuan form of the Hulk, Banner is encased in a suit similar tothat of the Man of Iron. 

“Will your green friend not be joining us today?” Lokicalls, pulling his favorite dagger out of the chest of one Chitauri just tospin and implant it in another’s. 

“He’s on vacation!” Banner calls back, blasting a row often of the alien creatures away with one of his palm repulsors. 

“I certainly hope he’s having a pleasant time of it,” Loki snaps in response, flinging three of his throwing knives at a few Chitauri that try to sneak up behind Thor while he’s taking down another wave of the creatures. Thor in this form is undoubtedly powerful, but also a bit paradoxically vulnerable: as he lets this power rage, he seems mostly unaware of his surroundings. It would be painfully easy to ambush his exposed back.

Luckily, he has Loki for that. 

Tiring of having to retrieve his knives from the fallen bodies of his assailants, Loki takes a moment, reaches deep inside himself for something that he buried long ago.

The next Chitauri that makes contact with him freezes instantaneously. When Loki sees his reflection in the creature’s glazed, unseeing eyes, it is in swaths of blue. 

“You change colors, too?” Banner calls, and Loki bares his teeth in a savage smile. 

The battle rages. Loki calls again and again upon the powers of winter, freezing his assailants or running them straight through with spears of ice. Loki is unsure of how long he and Banner have been fighting side-by-side before the scientist receives a call from the Captain.

“I’ll be right there,” Bruce says, before turning to Loki. “You got this under control?”

Frost races along the fissures engraved in the dusty ground beneath Loki’s feet, turning a wave of Chitauri crystalline on contact. Loki raises an eyebrow.

“Showoff,” Bruce mutters under his breath before he takes off. 

This, Loki decides later, is how he misses it. As Banner leaves, Loki turns to receive another wave of Chitauri, frothing at the mouth and desperate for the taste of blood. He takes out a good fourth of them before one knocks him over and he struggles under its weight, skin turning blistering cold in desperate defense and turning the air rancid with the smell of singed skin.

When he stands, the Cull has already made its move. 

“Thor!” Loki screams. It is too late.

Loki watches in horror as Thor falls from the sky, Cull Obsidian’s axe embedded in his back and Stormbreaker falling from his grasp. With a cry of anguish, Loki freezes over the wave of Chitauri surrounding him before he’s running as fast as his legs can carry him, skidding to a stop with barely enough time to call on his magic to soften Thor’s fall. 

“Silvertongue,” Cull Obsidian gruffs behind him, and Loki spins to face it, arms spread wide in front of Thor. “Thanos believes you dead.”

“Thanos does not know as much as he would like to think,” Loki responds, voice a tight hiss. Behind him, Thor groans in pain. Loki sees red. 

“And you,” Loki continues, black frost eating at his fingertips, “Should know the consequences of threatening a Jötunn’s mate.”

The Cull moves before Loki does, but Loki is prepared. He throws up an icy shield as the giant rushes him, sending the dull creature toppling backwards as its skin goes frostbitten on contact. Magic flows from Loki’s being into the Earth beneath him as he approaches the Cull, and Loki watches with a strange sort of detachment as tendrils of black begin to eat their way up his prey’s body.

“You haven’t an idea of what you’re up against,” Loki murmurs, before moulding his palm to the side of the Cull’s face, watching its horrified expression freeze in to a permanent scream.

Turning, Loki crashes to his knees before Thor, desperately checking him over. The axe is still embedded in his back, though not as deep as Loki first thought. If he’s careful, he should be able to remove it.

“I’ve never seen you do such things,” Thor wheezes as Loki begins his work, carefully cauterizing the wound as he goes with brief touches of frost.

“Shut up, you idiot,” Loki grumbles back, brow furrowed in concentration. “I came up with an ingenious plan to save you from Thanos, and for what? For you to let one of his lackeys take you out?”“The blue is a good look on you,” is Thor’s response. Were Loki a lesser man, he might jostle the part of the axe still embedded in Thor’s back, just a bit. Luckily for Thor, Loki is both above that and totally besotted with the fool.

“Don’t make me regret saving you,” and with a gentle tug, Loki frees the weapon, tossing it to the side as he closes the wound with a bit of frost bite. Thor will have a nasty scar after he’s healed, but Loki has not the time to center himself and call on his proper healing magic. 

“Thank you, beloved,” Thor murmurs as he uses Loki’s outstretched hand to help him stand, pulling Loki close to smooth a kiss over his lips. 

When he breaks away, Loki is smirking. Thor’s brow furrows, and he turns to follow his mate’s line of sight.

Behind him stands a Chitauri, frozen solid in its tracks. One of its hands is outstretched, poised to attack.

“Watch your back,” Loki says. 

[cardhouseandthecage]

@any-shadow ;______; OK here goes

Short answer: yes. everything. always.

Long answer:

Technically, the Cardmaster doesn’t remember being Mischance. He doesn’t even remember the full history of the Cardhouse: it’s crucial to his delusional “stability” that he exist in a kind of eternal present. But he hates the idea of losing information permanently, so he’s not purged any part of his memory out of existence entirely. He’s externalised it. He’s put in a box and put that box in another box and mailed it to Oskyod who has buried it in their labyrinth of an office somewhere. Theoretically, he can still access it if the need arises. Obviously memories of LV and of being Mischance are buried the deepest (Oskyod has access to a lot of history, but I’m pretty sure they don’t know who LV is): the Cardmaster must have hid that early on somewhere within or beneath the House itself.

But the externalisation is imperfect. His history has marked him in ways that he can never fully separate from his present form, and a lot of what he misses about being Mischance can be read through those imprints. Here are a few things he really obviously misses, to give you an idea:

1. He misses not feeling diseased. So the Cardmaster in fact bears literal marks, all over his body. They look a bit like black handprints and they always bleed through no matter what form he takes. As if this isn’t bad enough from a cosmetic perspective, these marks have a tendency to spontaneously mutate into dark residue (which is lethal to him), so he has to medicate constantly to keep them under control. He’s effectively the most contaminated and volatile thing in his house. Not many of his denizens know this. Anyway, it’s a huge pain, and very upsetting. He is repulsive to himself. He knows there was a time before the marks, and he’s always trying to find a way to get back to that and be free of them. 

2. He misses getting out. On account of the immunodeficiency problem, the Cardmaster and all his denizens can no longer venture beyond the White Desert. Mischance frequently journeyed deep into Faerie, alone or with LV, and even the Cardmaster could get out now and again before the problem got too bad. That was recently enough that he remembers it clearly, and now and again he does miss it. Relatedly, i think on some level he misses not being hemmed in by his own neuroses all the time. Mischance was always a little nervous about Going On Adventures, and the Cardmaster even moreso (he’s just a very anxious fairy)—but it was important to Mischance that they did not let their fears rule them. The Cardmaster hasn’t faced his fears in at least 500 years. He doesn’t remember how to: if he’s really afraid of something, he simply Can’t Do It. He probably lost the ability to get out largely because he stopped going out with any regularity. I think he misses feeling brave. Was Mischance fearless? Gods no. But Mischance was not a coward. 

3. He misses necromancy. The Cardmaster is still really attracted to dark magic. This terrifies him. Necromancy terrifies him, but there’s a part of him that craves it like nothing else, which makes it even scarier because he can’t trust himself not to cave in a moment of weakness. He makes all kinds of drugs and orchestrates all kinds of scenarios to try and simulate what he wants without actually using dark magic, but it’s never quite satisfying. Mischance got to mess around with necromancy on the regular, and thoroughly enjoyed it (both from a professional standpoint and also in a sex way). The Cardmaster really misses that. He misses it without even remembering it. It’s very disturbing. He frightens himself.

4. He misses being motivated by aspirations rather than fear. The Cardmaster believes some really depressing shit about the nature of existence.* He doesn’t remember LV, but he can’t shake the impact of what her death “proved" to him about the way of things. Life is cruel joke: try to change things for the better and you will be broken, pitilessly. He can only ever take the edge off of that despair temporarily: it always comes back. He’s miserable by default, and he misses not feeling that way. He misses fighting for what he wanted directly, and believing that he could win. The whole premise of his current enterprise is “if you can’t defeat it, exploit it” because that’s the best he can hope for. Mischance really wanted to heal the wrongs they perceived in the world—things like the fissure between faerie and reality and the tyranny of the mundane—and fought very hard for “justice”, in their way. Now the Cardmaster more or less struck a deal with the tyranny of the mundane and is exacerbating the disconnect between faerie and reality to create one tiny death-free realm, for himself. Just himself. This is not what he really wants. It’s the opposite of what he and LV had been working towards, and a small part of him hates what he’s become. But he’s convinced himself that death is the real enemy, and that he must combat it at all costs. At his very best, he might still entertain some hope that he’s hit upon a way to work towards his true aims again, but it seldom lasts. 

5. He misses working with equals. So i’ve mentioned that the Cardmaster doesn’t exactly love being the sole and absolute master of his House 24/7? One of his biggest kinks is having control taken away from him or being dominated in any way, and it’s a Wild Fantasy precisely because he’s made it fundementally impossible for him to achieve within his House. He has no equal. As Mischance, things were very different. LV was technically much more powerful than they, and Mischance generally preferred to present themself as her subordinate in some way (her apprentice, her jester, her hight hand). Intellectually they were equals, however, and respected one another as such. The kind of partnership they had is really his preferred state of affairs, and even without remembering LV per se, he misses it. He’s constantly trying to replicate it in various ways with his denizens, but at the end of the day they’re still his creations, and he still controls them, and there’s no amount of tweaking he can do to their designs to change that. He can get pretty close sometimes though. Lux was a stroke of genius: he really feels like she has power over him a lot of the time. He loves it when Logus finds flaws in his work and challenges him, or when Jezebel surprises him. It’s almost like working with equals.

6. He misses being whole and self-sustaining. So the elixir the Cardmaster takes effectively empties large portions of him out and replaces them with fresh substance. Over time, this has weird effects. Directly after taking it, he feels amazing, but after a bit this wears off and a feeling of incompleteness settles in. He feels…drained and cold and hollow and “not himself” and hungry, but nauseous at the same time? ( “Shiver” by The Birthday Massacre actually evokes it pretty well? and is just a really good CM song :P) When he first went on the drug, it wasn’t so bad, but the longer he’s been on it the shorter the “feeling amazing” phase lasts and the quicker the feeling of incompletion comes on, ultimately morphing into a into a craving for more of the drug (i mentioned it’s incredibly addictive). The Cardmaster has been on it so long that if he were to go off, he would fade pretty quickly into something very like a nazgul, and then even that would disintegrate and he’d blow away on the wind. He has to take it much more frequently than he used to, and to conserve resources he spaces his doses out as far as he can tolerate, such that he does have to endure feeling of incompleteness for a while in between. He tries to treat it with other drugs, of course, but the elixir is the most powerful drug he makes and it’s very hard to alter the effects of it with anything else.

*Things like: death negates all meaning and can not be made to serve any good; the tyrrany of the mundane is absolute; the fissure between Reality and Faerie is unbreachable; the power of love is illusory and cOMES TO NOTHING IN THE END, EVERYTHING IS BAD FOREVER AND THEN YOU DIE, and so forth.