#i like it when i get to draw new stuff. i have drawn a horse several times but this comm made me google stuff like horse body language and | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

trigger-discipline · 4 months

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I dreamed that I saw an image that I thought was AI generated. I mean I guess it was generated by a neural network, but like... my own...

When I woke up I tried to get DALLE-3 to produce something close as a joke, but...

The prompt was:

A landscape, of lava flowing down the center of a green valley. At the top, in the purple sky, there is a logo which resembles the Taco Bell logo. On the left side of the valley is a poorly-drawn cartoon t-rex on its back, dying. In the foreground, two giant photorealistic strawberries stand on their points, one on each side of the flow. The tops of the strawberries have been removed and the insides hollowed out, and they hold a glowing yellow-green liquid.

I don't think it understood the whole strawberries full of cartoon acid thing. Also why is there a volcano? I know that lava is supposed to come from somewhere, but I didn't ask for a volcano. All of the results had volcanoes... I guess the vibe is sort of there though?

I love how it can't handle the art style mismatch, either. A lot of the quick and easy consumer-facing stuff has One Art Style and it's so funny. And it's always so nice-looking... "Why would you want a poorly crafted image???" IDK . Sometimes I want Taco Bell. Fuck you.

I also tried to get it to generate another figure from the dream because their whole floral schtick was very algorithmic:

This was the only semi-accurate result. (There were a lot of really, really bad ones.) There's a lot to unpack here (horse ass ribs), but the way the roses sort of grossly sprout out of the ground is accurate to the dream? Sort of? I asked for bones sprouting too though...

I don't know, I would prefer to fucking draw this myself at this point, or just leave it in my head. People are always like "oh AI is so powerful actual artists are unnecessary" and it's like, sure, if you don't care what you actually get out?

And then people never question this claim and appeal to like, Catholicism, or whatever. You don't need to do that! The claim is already wrong!

It is useful for like, stochastic imagery (cw flashing lights, body horror, Tame Impala). I think those results are great! Clearly not something where you want it to specifically resemble anything, and, when combined with a framework of more explicit imagery, it works as interstitial trippiness...

But trying to get something specific turns into total dogshit. Cause like, I do care about specifics. To the point that even when what I want is explicitly meant to look AI-generated, it doesn't... work?

I know there are more powerful tools than DALLE-3 and other basic text-prompt based tools though, ones which allow you to redo parts and specify composition. But like... With that, and even with the stochastic work - that takes a lot of human effort and ingenuity! That takes artists! Congratulations, new art form invented.

I guess it's like how most people can't just point a camera and get a really nice looking photo. You might accidentally get one, but not consistently. Sure the camera is doing the "work" of recording the light, but you still need a human to consider composition, lens type, exposure; not to mention creating or chasing after subject matter, etc...

That isn't a "need" in terms of like, for the "spirit" of the art or whatever, who cares. It's just practical need. If you want something to look like a human made it, then you need a human to make it...

Of course that requires you pay close attention to quality in the first place. Maybe most people just don't and I'm a weirdo or freak for bothering in the first place... The visual equivalent of a pedant... (Animal crossing wind sound effect)

I might try playing around with other tools though. Some combo of curiosity + genuine desire to see these images... Or I'll just draw/collage it myself

#Chatter

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m0r1bund · 2 years

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[Image: Sketches of the Chief in various stages of transformation. The leftmost is Chief at rest; she’s a brick wall of a woman with broad shoulders, unusually long, black hair, and an armored prosthetic arm.

The middle sketch is a transition state between her human form and monster-y form. She becomes even taller and more top-heavy, with longer arms and digitigrade feet. She also gets pretty fuzzy—her hair becomes long and moppy, trailing down her back to the beginnings of a stumpy tail. Body hair grows into full-on fur on her arms and legs, and nails grow into talons on her right arm. Her face is masked by a gas mask, which looks a little bit more like a muzzle, right now.

The rightmost is a fully monstered-out Chief. She has something like a full-body horse’s mane now, with hair growing in a continuous line from her scalp to her spine to the tip of her large, possum-like tail, which is unfurred on the underside. The tail counterbalances her extremely top-heavy frame and huge claws. Her face is shown in this drawing. It’s hard to pin down, like a human head stretched out into a muzzle, with a sort of gorgonopsid-lookin’ puppy mouth. Her eyes are shadowed by her long hair, with only her pupils visible as two white dots.]

◆

EauuuuauaauUUuauuuu I’m out of control. Realized I’ve drawn a lot of chiefs, but only like two chiefs in crittermode. So, this is that.

I don’t know that I have a lot to say about it….?! I guess there’s mechanics. She can go back and forth between shapes, and can middle anywhere on the spectrum rather than just one end or the other. Emotions are a big factor in triggering the change—namely ones that she never had the chance to experience or regulate in their most extreme forms, like fear and joy (the ‘perks’ of being a genetically-engineered supersoldier.) It becomes increasingly difficult to talk the more changed she gets, but she picks up a form of sign language from the R.A. that she uses while shifted.

I don’t know what the situation on clothes is (i.e. whether they are assimilated or annihilated in the act of changing) and I’m trying not to worry about it. What’s worse? chewing through new shirts every other week or 　 flesh clothes

Not shown are the neural cables that attach to the ports on her spine and neck, which become appropriated into extra appendages when they fill with tendon and muscle and stuff. Flesh tubes. Don’t think about it too hard.

#chief tag #oh mary oliver. the soft animal of her body is really in it now #Chief and the R.A. tag

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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years

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NMJ is the only one that knows bc he’s the only one that NHS truly trusts, he’s the only one who knows why NHS focuses so much in painting and art, NHS doesn’t know why or how but with a little bit of spiritual energy he’s able to bring what he paints in paper to the real world and with that the Nie sect has the beasts of legends under their command

on ao3

“How about you draw a flower?” Nie Mingjue said without much conviction. It was hard to have conviction when you knew it was pointless.

“No!” Nie Huaisang shouted, unsurprisingly, because toddlers always shouted. They seemed to have a great deal of feelings and sound for such small frames. “Taotie!”

Nie Mingjue grimaced. “No, no, not Taotie,” he said quickly. Never Taotie, not again. “How about the Baihu? Nice fuzzy tiger?”

“No!”

“Fenghuang? You like birds.”

Nie Huaisang considered it. “I like birds,” he agreed.

Nie Mingjue heaved a sigh of relief. “Me, too,” he said enthusiastically. “I love birds.”

He had never had especially strong feelings about birds, but he was willing to develop some.

“Okay,” Nie Huaisang said, and patted his thigh comfortingly. “I’ll draw you a bird, da-ge.”

“…thanks,” Nie Mingjue said.

When Nie Huaisang was done, he proudly presented Nie Mingjue with the results of his work.

Nie Mingjue put the baby phoenix in the new aviary he’d secretly had constructed behind his father’s back, thinking to himself that the high-grade construction materials he’d insisted on were totally worth losing his allowance for the next year.

The phoenix chick - it looked like a plucked chicken with maybe three feathers total - weakly coughed smoke.

Because of course it did.

Sometimes Nie Mingjue wished that he could just tell someone about Nie Huaisang’s unusual gift – it was a pretty big burden to bear, and he really wasn’t sure he was old enough for this type of responsibility – but no one else deserved to know. If they didn’t have the good taste to like Nie Huaisang when he was no one and nobody, pointless and useless, they didn’t deserve the benefits of knowing him now that he could do stuff.

Even if it was weird stuff.

Stuff like his ability to summoning the things he drew into existence.

Even things that might not really exist.

Besides, the thought of Nie Huaisang getting wrapped up into war and politics when he was still so young –

No, better to just store away what he made and hope he grew out of it.

And no more Taoties.

“Lan Zhan said his uncle shows people his artwork,” Nie Huaisang said, sitting on Nie Mingjue’s table in the family study. “Why don’t you ever show my artwork?”

“You do art?” their father asked absently, most of his attention on the report he was reading.

“Huaisang does great calligraphy,” Nie Mingjue interjected very quickly. “You’ve seen it – it’s beautiful. And his poems are very well crafted, too.”

“But Lan Zhan said –”

Nie Mingjue mentally resigned himself to not being friends with Lan Xichen any longer, no matter how well they’d gotten along, on the basis that the other boy would probably take it personally when Nie Mingjue murdered his brother.

“He also said stuff about rules,” he said. “Hundreds and hundreds of rules. Do you want to listen to all of those, too?”

“No,” Nie Huaisang said sulkily, five years old and bitter with it. “But…”

“How about we show Lan Wangji your aviary?” Nie Mingjue coaxed. “Go ask him if he’d like to see it. I bet he’s never seen anything like that – and you can ask him what type of animal he likes best, too!”

Nie Huaisang’s eyes went wide at the thought and he dashed off.

“You spoil him far too much,” their father commented. “An aviary – you talk about it more than he does, and you’re always getting birds to fill it up for him, too. Why are you so devoted to him learning to like birds?”

“Better than him liking fierce beasts,” Nie Mingjue said, omitting to mention exactly where he obtained the birds that filled the aviary. “Or corpses.”

“If he liked fierce beasts, perhaps he’d be more martially inclined.”

No, we would be, Nie Mingjue thought. He’d gotten a lot of spare practice with Baxia trying to fight corpses that had no business being there during the period in which Nie Huaisang had gotten temporarily interested in the things in his father’s stories – and that was before Nie Huaisang had learned about yao.

“I don’t want him growing up morbid, that’s all,” he said.

“You’re his brother, not his nursemaid,” their father said, a little exasperated. “Nor are you his mother. Why are you fussing over him so?”

Nie Mingjue huffed and shook his head. “How goes recruitment for the border?” he asked instead, and listened to his father tell him about how people barely a year or two older than him were being sent to risk death in the name of sect honor.

Not Nie Huaisang, he promised himself. Not yet.

He’d tell his father when Nie Huaisang was old enough to handle the consequences.

“Huaisang, didi,” Nie Mingjue said, and tried to smile, even though it pained him. “Can you do me a favor? A really, really big favor?”

Nie Huaisang sniffed, clutching at his arms and shaking. “What, da-ge?”

“You remember Jiwei? A-die’s saber? Can you draw that for me, please?”

It only made it worse.

“Da-ge?”

“Yes, Huaisang?” Nie Mingjue asked, scowling at the map. It didn’t get any better the longer he looked at it, but maybe if he kept glaring he could cow it into submission.

“Don’t you want me to help?”

Nie Mingjue looked up at where Nie Huaisang was wringing his hands by the door. “Help? With what?”

Nie Huaisang rolled his eyes at him, like it was Nie Mingjue being dense instead of him having started a conversation in the middle. “Uh, with border defense?”

“Why would I ask you to help with that?” Nie Mingjue asked blankly, then realized how his words could be misconstrued. “Not that I wouldn’t ask you to help, of course, but you’ve never really liked battlefield strategy, and anyway you are only twelve –”

“Da-ge!” Nie Huaisang whined. “I meant drawing!”

“…as in maps?”

Nie Huaisang’s glare could light fires.

Nie Mingjue coughed and put aside his work to focus on his brother. “Huaisang, why do you think I would use your drawings in planning out a possible battle?”

“Because they’re useful?” Nie Huaisang said, crossing his arms. “I can make things appear, da-ge, just by drawing them. Not sure if you’ve noticed, but that’s not something that normal people can do.”

“I know,” Nie Mingjue said. “It’s not. But just because it’s not normal doesn’t mean it’s not a wonderful ability, Huaisang.”

Nie Huaisang looked a little bit appeased.

“But just because it’s wonderful doesn’t mean I’m going to abuse your ability,” Nie Mingjue continued. “You should be playing, not working, and if anyone tells you otherwise, you tell me and I’ll straighten them out.”

Nie Huaisang came up and hugged him. “So it’s not that you’re not ashamed of me being weird and useless?”

“I think we’ve already established that an ability like yours is far from useless. And I don’t care how weird you are, principles are principles: you’re too young to be used for battle. Sorry, Huaisang; my hands are tied.”

Nie Huaisang laughed at him and left, looking much happier.

“So what would you like?” Nie Huaisang asked, eyes sparkling. “Me and my brush are at the ready, here to help!”

Nie Mingjue rubbed his forehead. “If you’re sure…”

“Da-ge! I’m seventeen – you were already sect leader for two years by my age. And it’s not like I’m going out there on the front lines or anything; I’m just going to draw some stuff for you.”

“You say ‘just’,” he grumbled. “It does drain your qi, you know. That’s why you took such a long time to form a golden core…”

“Yes, but I did get there eventually, didn’t I? And anyway, it’s fine, I’ll do it instead of my usual landscapes. What would you like? A dragon to devour our enemies? The white tiger, nipping at their heels? A taotie –”

“No Taotie.”

“You’re so weird about that,” Nie Huaisang complained, rolling his eyes again. “Fine. Then what?”

“Sabers,” Nie Mingjue said, giving in. “Standard steel, not spiritual. Horses, feed, saddles. Say, how are you at drawing arrows?”

“Da-ge,” Nie Huaisang said. “I can draw you the beasts of legend, and you want me to draw you arrows?”

“Yes. As many as you can bring yourself to create, really; everyone’s always short on arrows. More rice would be good, too –”

“This wasn’t exactly what I was expecting when I volunteered to help,” Nie Huaisang grumbled.

“Are you going to do it for me or not?” Nie Mingjue asked, unimpressed. “You asked me to use you, not to give you an art project.”

His brother heaved a sigh. “Yes, yes, I will. Can you explain to me why this is your choice, at least?”

Nie Mingjue ruffled his brother’s hair. “Huaisang, when you draw something, it comes to life. Fully to life, as a separate and independent creature of its own – if you draw a dragon, who’s to say that the dragon will choose to fight the Wen sect, instead of turning on us? It wouldn’t be much help if we had to run out, sabers drawn, to deal with whatever it was, only to be exhausted before the Wen sect even arrived.”

“…oh.”

“When we’ve made some progress in the field, I promise to let you help build fortifications,” Nie Mingjue said. “You can start thinking of really nasty traps –”

“Da-ge?”

“Yes?”

“…is that why you hate the idea of me drawing Taotie so much?”

Nie Mingjue coughed.

“Da-ge!”

“Don’t worry about it. It was always really good saber practice…”

“And if anyone tries anything against you at the camp, you draw something really mean, okay?” Nie Mingjue said, pressing paper and a brush into his brother’s hand in addition to the ones he’d hidden away in his luggage - there was a chance that might be confiscated upon his arrival. “I don’t care what it is.”

“I know, I know –”

“Promise me!”

“I will!” Nie Huaisang exclaimed. “I promise already!”

“Not just if they’re aggressive. Even if things just look suspicious –”

“Suspicious? Like what?”

“If they take you somewhere secluded,” Nie Mingjue said, face drawn with worry. “Somewhere where it’d take us a long time to find your bodies. I don’t care if you put other people in danger from your creation, okay? Don’t make me have to find your corpse.”

Nie Huaisang was silent for a moment. “I understand,” he finally said. “I promise.”

“I’m never drawing anything legendary ever again,” Nie Huaisang sniffed into Nie Mingjue’s collar. “That Xuanwu was awful. It tried to eat all of us!”

“Do you want me to help with the logistics, Sect Leader Nie?” Meng Yao asked.

“You already help with the logistics,” Nie Mingjue said, not really paying attention. If it was serious, Meng Yao would bring it to his attention – he was a truly remarkable aide-de-camp. “You already help with everything.”

“I appreciate Sect Leader Nie’s confidence in me,” Meng Yao said, smiling a little. “But no, I meant – with the imports.”

“Imports?”

“Every week we receive new shipments of goods – food, weapons, defenses – from Qinghe, and we don’t send any money back. Surely such expenditures are putting a strain on the Nie treasury..?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Nie Mingjue said. “Huaisang is handling it. It’s good for him to have responsibility.”

Meng Yao looked a little skeptical, but in his defense, he’d met Nie Huaisang.

“Really,” Nie Mingjue assured him. “He’s not going to hurt our budget – it’ll be fine. They’ve come steadily every week so far, haven’t they?”

“If Sect Leader Nie is content, then so am I,” Meng Yao said, but he was pouting a little, perhaps at the perceived lack of trust. He did so love to be helpful.

“You know I trust you with my life,” Nie Mingjue told him. “But this is something that Huaisang is, for once, best placed to handle. Don’t worry about it.”

It wasn’t really his secret to share, after all. Maybe when the war was done.

Nie Mingjue was on his back in the throne room of the Fire Palace, staring up at the man who murdered his father and who was about to murder him, too, when he heard the sound.

A high-pitched squeal, unlike anything else he’d ever heard – a little like a pig, a little like a wolf, a little like the long slow grate of metal against metal. It burned on the ear, a vile sound on the verge of being physically painful.

“What is that?” Wen Ruohan asked, frowning. He was standing above Nie Mingjue, his foot crushing down on his chest; Baxia was out of reach, knocked away, but at least no longer in the traitor Meng Yao’s hands. “Meng Yao…?”

“I - I’m not sure, Sect Leader Wen,” Meng Yao said, looking equally confused.

Nie Mingjue laughed.

They both looked at him.

He grinned up at them, blood in his teeth.

“What?” he said. “Never heard a Taotie before?”

#mdzs #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #jin guangyao #my fic #my fics #purple crayon #timetomakeanewwish

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queenxxxsupreme · 4 years

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I just thought of something- Arthur as a dad and having a little girl that he's so overprotective of and he's got a ranch and he's all healthy and thick- This should be canon I swear.

A/N: BABE this might have just started a mini series involving dad!Arthur and my new ending to rdr2 that I know we deserved. There’s at least going to be two more parts (that could be read separately from this one) including Daisy’s birthday which has some members from our lovely gang in it and some drama as well as the part where Daisy gets her first horse which also has some drama in it! Also just saying, I am open to dad!Arthur requests...

Additional Note: So in this, Charles’s SO is named Lucy and Abigail and John’s unnamed daughter that they eventually have is named Grace :) They are just mentioned but in this RDR2 AU mini series they will be appearing!

Warnings: DOES INVOLVE SPOILERS FOR RDR2 ENDING, mostly fluffy!, female!reader,

***

“I’m a survivor, Morgan!”

Arthur jolted awake. His hands gripped the pillow beneath his head with white knuckles.

For a split second, he didn’t know where he was. The room was dark save for a bit of moonlight that came in through the curtains that covered the window.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes as he tried to get his bearings. A thin layer of sweat covered his skin. He pushed the quilt and fur blanket off of himself, throwing his legs over the side of the bed.

Arthur’s gaze fell on the end table by the bed. The picture on the table brought him back to reality.

He picked the wooden frame up, a small smile coming to his lips. It was a picture of you, him, and Daisy when she was a newborn.

“Oh how time flies.” He murmured quietly, placing the picture back down.

Arthur glanced over his shoulder to where you should have been sleeping, but that side of the bed was empty. It wasn’t too much of a surprise that he was alone. You had trouble sleeping sometimes. But it was odd that he hadn’t noticed you getting out of bed.

“I’m a survivor, Morgan!” Micah Bell’s voice thundered in Arthur’s ears. “That’s all there is! Living and dying!”

Arthur stood to his feet and moved down the hallway, making his way to Daisy’s room. He pushed the door open and poked his head inside.

The little lump beneath the blankets on Daisy’s bed settled Arthur’s racing heart. All the worry that had been swirling in his stomach dwindled down at the sight of his seven-year-old daughter.

The family dog, Carson, huffed from the foot of her bed, alarmed that someone had opened the door.

“Shhh, boy.” Arthur tried to hush him before he could disturb Daisy, but it was too late.

“Carson.” She whined.

“Sorry, sweetpea.”

“Daddy?” Daisy turned over in her bed, brushing her messy hair back out of her face.

“Didn’t mean to wake ya up.” Arthur moved into the room, giving Carson a pat on the head. “Just wanted to check on ya.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause…. Well ‘cause I was just worried about ya.” He explained.

Daisy looked up at him for a few moments.

“Momma said you was havin’ bad dreams.”

Arthur furrowed his brow.

“When did she say that?”

“Earlier when she came in to check on me.”

Arthur would’ve laughed if the reason that you both were so insistent on checking on Daisy wasn’t because of your past.

“Were you havin’ bad dreams, daddy?”

“No, sweetpea.” He started to tuck her in, making sure the blanket covered her properly and that she was comfortable. “I was just a little restless. Sometimes it’s hard for daddy to go to sleep ‘cause he knows there’s so much to do around here.”

“I can help you do stuff, daddy.” Daisy offered. “That way you can sleep better.”

Arthur smiled.

“Sweet girl.” He leaned down to kiss her forehead. “You help me plenty. Try to get some rest. Tomorrow is a busy day. Do you know why it’s a busy day?”

A huge grin spread across her face.

“I get a horse.”

“What? No, no. That don’t sound right.” Arthur shook his head.

“Daddy!” Daisy giggled.

“I’m just teasin’ you, sweetpea.” Arthur kissed her head once more. “Sleep tight, sweetpea. First thing tomorrow mornin’, we’ll be goin’ into town to get you a little horse.”

“What if I want a big horse?”

“Well, we’ll have to just see what the stables have got.” He chuckled. “Good night, sweetpea.”

“Good night, daddy.”

Arthur closed the door to Daisy’s room behind himself.

He looked down the hallway towards the kitchen, hearing the sound of a quiet conversation.

He found you and Hosea sitting at the kitchen table.

“Drinking coffee in the middle of the night? What is it with you two?”

“We’re already up.” Hosea shrugged his shoulders. “No point in trying to go back to sleep.”

You chuckled a little.

Arthur moved around to stand behind your chair.

“Was Daisy up earlier?” He leaned down to kiss your head.

“Yeah, briefly. Carson heard something outside and started barking.” You nodded, taking a sip of coffee.

Arthur looked to the large window in the kitchen that looked over the backyard. His brows furrowed together.

“Hm. Why didn’t I hear nothin?” He moved towards the window, lingering towards the side instead of standing directly in the middle.

“You were talkin’ in your sleep again.” You said quietly. “You only do that when you’re having real bad dreams.”

Arthur nodded.

“I already went out there and looked around. Didn’t see anything.” Hosea told him.

“I’m gonna go double check.”

“What- You think I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“That’s not it, old man.”

Hosea watched as Arthur disappeared down the hallway, going to the backroom to retrieve a gun.

“He only wants to see for himself that there’s nothin’ out there.” You spoke so only Hosea could hear you. “He was sayin’ Micah’s name again, Hosea.”

Hosea let out a sigh.

“He thinks Micah’s gonna come after him.”

“You don’t think so?” You tilted your head to the side a little, eyebrows drawing together. “After…. After what happened…. Arthur ruined his plans at getting the money from Blackwater. Dutch died on that mountain. You’re the only other one who knows and Micah knows you’re here too. It would only make sense for him to come here and…. and I’m afraid, Hosea.”

Hosea shook his head softly, reaching over to take your hand.

“Micah Bell is a coward, Y/N. He knows it. He knows Arthur’s got all of us in his corner. You, me, Charles, John-,”

“But Hosea, we’ve got families.” Your voice cracked. “We have Daisy and-and Charles and Lucy are having one of their own. Abigail and John have Jack and Grace. We-We ain’t what we used to be.”

Hosea was quiet for a few moments.

Arthur passed through the kitchen fully dressed and carrying a shotgun.

Your eyes met his briefly. The air in your lungs escaped. It felt like someone was sitting on your chest.

The back door closed behind Arthur.

“If it comes down to it, Y/N, we will do what we have to do.” Hosea assured you.

You nodded your head, wiping the tears from your cheeks that managed to escape.

***

A half an hour had passed and Arthur had yet to return to the house. You ventured out to find him. He sat on the front step with the shotgun still in his hands. Upon hearing the front door open, he looked over his shoulder.

“Do you plan on stayin’ out here all night?”

He didn’t answer you, turning his head to look back to the woods.

You sat down next to him, slipping your arm around his. You kissed his shoulder and leaned against him.

“Is everything okay?”

“I just…. just got this feelin’ that ain’t sittin’ right with me. That’s all.”

“We’ve been here for four years, Arthur. We’ve been quiet, haven’t drawn any attention to ourselves and haven’t let any of the locals know our real names. There’s no way he’d know where we are.”

“If that snake wants to find me, he could. I know it. And if he…. I don’t want him anywhere near Daisy.”

“Charles and Lucy are just down the road. You know Charles is just as vigilant as you are and with those dogs he’s got, he’d know if anyone was setting up camp in the woods between our property and his. If need be, next time Sadie comes through we can ask her to dig around and see where Micah’s at. You know she’d be willing to help.”

“I hate to get her involved.” Arthur muttered, shaking his head softly.

“If it involves the future of her niece, you know damn well she’d want to be involved.” You rubbed his arm. “It’s early, but we still got a couple hours before the sun comes up.”

He let out a breath.

“M’not gonna sleep at all tonight, pumpkin.”

“Then at least come lay down. Let me read to you. You don’t need to be out here alone with just your thoughts.”

Arthur’s eyes found yours.

“You know I love you, don’t you?”

“I know.” You smiled. “Come on.” You patted his arm and stood up.

“Daisy’s real excited about gettin’ herself a horse.” Arthur put his hand on the small of your back as he walked behind you. “You don’t think she’s still too young for one, do you? I mean, she’s so small. She’s smaller than Jack was and he was a tiny kid.”

“She’s just fine for her age, Arthur.” You assured him. “It’ll be good for her to get started with a horse now. It’ll keep you both busy all spring.”

“What if she gets hurt?”

“She’s bound to get hurt. It’s a part of growin’ up.”

“I don’t want her gettin’ hurt.”

The door to Daisy’s room opened and Carson slipped out.

“Daisy.” You said her name. “You should be in bed. It’s four in the morning.”

“I can’t sleep, momma.” She lingered in the doorway to her room, a frown on her lips.

You looked back to Arthur. He nodded his head, moving past you so he could get to your daughter.

“You wanna come lay down with me and momma? She’s gonna read a storybook to me.”

“Yeah!” Daisy held her hands out for him. Arthur grunted as he picked her up and placed her on his hip.

Carson slipped into the bedroom just before you closed the door. Arthur put Daisy down on the bed and took his hat off, placing it on her head.

“Daddy! It’s too big!” She giggled, pushing it back so it didn’t fall over her eyes.

“Nah, I think it fits just perfect.” He grinned. “I’ll be right back. M’gonna go change. Don’t get too comfortable though, sweetpea. You’re in my spot.”

You slipped off your houseshoes and pulled a book from the shelf.

“Momma?”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Where can I get a hat like this daddy’s?” Daisy put Arthur’s hat on the stand next to the bed and then settled back against his pillows.

“I reckon if you mention it to daddy while you’re in town tomorrow he can get you one.” You sat down on your side of the bed, opening up the book. Carson made himself comfortable at the foot of the bed.

A few moments later, Arthur returned to the bedroom. He stopped just after shutting the door and put his hands on his hips.

“Sweetpea.”

“Yes, daddy?” She giggled, bringing the blankets up to cover her nose.

“I think we got a problem. Where am I supposed to sleep if you’re in my spot?”

She giggled again, pulling the blankets up over her head as if to hide from him.

“Arthur, she needs to sleep some.” You told him quietly. “Don’t get her-,”

He didn’t listen. Instead, he chose to tickle her through the blankets. Daisy’s delighted laughter filled the room. You couldn’t help but smile.

Once Arthur was content with her laughter, he stopped tickling her and pulled the blankets back. Daisy’s hair was a mess.

“Little Miss Daisy, we are definitely going to have to fix your hair in the morning.” Arthur leaned down to kiss her forehead. “But first, you need to get some sleep.”

“Nuh-uh! Momma was gonna read to us!”

“I’ll read until someone falls asleep.” You yawned. “Though I might be that someone.”

“You heard your mother, sweetpea. Scoot over so she can read us a story.” Arthur nudged Daisy over towards the middle of the bed.

Once the two were settled, you began your story.

“A long time ago, there were two cowboys….”

Taglist: @doggone-cowgirl @winterwolf @lauramb7 @caraqas @bluscryn @krenee1drful @zodiacaldust @nonodino @gabstaroc @cal-lifornication @thefirelordm @sargeantsea @sokkasdarling @thecollection @mayday1284

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x reader fluff #dad!arthur morgan #dad!arthur morgan fic #rdr2 #rdr2 fic #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan ask #kacey answers

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quantumlocked310 · 3 years

Text

Summon Up Remembrance

@deans-ch-ch-cherrypie. Cherrypie. My friend. My OG. My Vikings Mom. My shared braincell about everything Hvitty. You encouraged me to put myself out there and talk to people. You’ve given me some of my best ideas. You’re an amazing human who works so hard both in fandom and irl. I’m so happy I took the plunge and wrote you Bjornekram so we could start up this wonderful friendship. Congratulations on your 500 followers! Every single one is well-deserved.

So! In order to celebrate our love, I’ve tortured myself and Hvitty with this story inspired by The Little Match Girl. I’d say “Enjoy!,” but I have a feeling that’s not the right word...

Summary: What if Ivar hadn’t found Hvitserk in that cold forest in time?

Warnings: not a happy time, depression, graphic descriptions of violence, major character death, loss, despair, drug use, oral sex female receiving

Note: Title from Shakespeare’s Sonnet 30

Don’t forget to tap the moodboard to see it in its highest quality!

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He’d used his last coin to buy the matches. Everything else had already been spent on the sweet release the mushrooms and drink provided him. His greatest triumph bled into his deepest failure when Bjorn sentenced him to live in the frozen forest. He knew it would not be long. His half-brother had given him painful and terrible mercy. Already he could no longer feel his toes, and his hair was stiff with ice.

His first match is useless. Scraped against the frozen rocks he huddles behind for some semblance of shelter. He knows he’s going to die, but he’d like to have a last taste of heat before he goes. Even the memory of the bright burning flames of his execution can no longer keep the shivering at bay. The cold and wet sticks he’d gathered couldn’t catch, even with the pine needles he’d found to shove under the bundle.

He is resigned to no fire and no hope. Only four matches to keep him company. The last vestiges of drink and drugs are leaving his body aching and freezing; his hands have barely enough movement to strike the next match. He watches this one burn. Its tiny flame dancing merrily along the wood. In its flickering he sees a better time; his favorite feast.

He’d been younger then, and happier. Not yet burdened with a legacy and revenge. The feast fires had kept him warm inside the packed great hall, and his belly had been full of food and satisfied with drink. It was the night he learned a woman might prefer his mouth over his other parts, and he’d been fascinated. The thrall he’d danced with had taken him aside and shared in his body, and shown him things other women hadn’t yet taught him. Their copulation was in a side room; their sounds of pleasure hidden by the noise in the hall. He remembers the delicious wet heat of her body against his tongue, and the way she whimpered and begged so sweetly for him.

The match goes out and Hvitserk is thrust out of the memory. He grows melancholy as he remembers the thrall was killed by horse hoof to the head when she was cleaning the stables one day. A horrible accident.

He scrambles for the next match. Wanting to leave this new remembrance aside and see something joyful once more. The next match strike flares bright in front of his eyes and he hears the clang of axes on swords. His best battle. He’d felt invincible that day. Bobbing and weaving in between English soldiers. Feeling the thunk of his axe as he buries it in the flesh of his enemies. The sweet and terrible smell of blood and guts and fresh mud. Hearing screams and battle cries around him as the Vikings cut a swath through the English forces. Getting to fight alongside his brothers, and seeing the prideful look in Ubbe’s face when he swoops in at the last moment to save his older brother from danger. Ubbe.

The match goes out, and the cold rushes into Hvitserk’s head. His despair is palpable. Ubbe could not let him die as he’d wished for on that fiery spit. But Ubbe let him walk into this cold and certain death demanded by Bjorn.

His saddened breath rattles his chest, and he feels the exhaustion in his bones; the wet snow seeping further and further into his clothing to numb his skin. The stinging tears falling from his red-rimmed eyes freeze to his cheeks, and he is barely able to lift a hand to strike the match. The tears fall faster as he stares into the flickering orange and gold to find a moment of peace.

They’re all there. Ivar, Ubbe, Sigurd, and Hvitserk. The four of them that beautiful spring day, together in the forest trading blows of the sword and the axe. Even their verbal sparring brings a smile to his disheveled face. He remembers going toe to toe with Sigurd, and being equally matched with Ivar. The rush of adrenaline in the fight is a distant comfort, and he dwells again upon youth; how young they all were. Naive and furious; untouched by the horrors that awaited them.

The match goes out and shivers wrack Hvitserk’s body. He sobs and shakes as he memorializes the family he will never see again.

Desire floods his system. The desire he’s always had to escape, to be someone he is not, to chase the dreams he had but could never fulfill. He weeps for his brothers, his mother, and his father. The most torturous thoughts follow, and he mourns and cries for himself. For the person he will never be. For the women he loved, and the children he never gave them.

This is his last one. The last chance to see his loved ones again. To see his brothers happy and together and alive again. Perhaps he will catch a glimpse of Thora or Margrette in this last memory. He draws strength from this small hope.

His breaths rattle and he lights the match. In the tiny flame it is his mother. How tall she felt when he was a child. She is loving peering down at his small frame as he plays with a wooden horse from Floki. Her smile is radiant as she talks to him. Asking him about the horse and the world inside his mind. Her tone is warm and loving, and it floods his body with a final burst of heat.

The match goes out and Hvitserk’s hand falls. In front of him his mother hasn’t left. Standing there like she was in his memory, with a gentle, proud smile on her regal face. She raises her hand, palm up, open and beckoning him. He rises and falls deeply into his mother’s embrace, clutching at her silken robes that catch the salty tears still falling down his face.

“Come, my son. You have done well. We must go to meet your father and brother.” Aslaug wraps her arms around her beautiful boy and holds him close. She feels his sorrow and his perfect joy as their souls connect and ascend.

Some hours later the stomping of boots and the rattle of wheels can be heard in the forest. Ivar looks to his side, observing the landscape around him, and his eyes are drawn to a cluster of rocks. They’re not at all interesting he thinks, but a strong winter wind whips past his face, and the rocks flutter in the wind. No, not the rocks. The hood of the person hunched behind them.

Ivar calls for a halt and carefully climbs down from his rig. He doesn’t know why, but he knows he has to see who it is for himself. His heart is pounding, and his instincts are screaming, and when he rounds the cluster he sees why.

The body is Hvitserk.

White hot rage floods his body, and Ivar lets out a primal scream. His sorrow and pain released in one powerful sound. Tears flood his eyes and freeze on his cheeks. He gestures to the closest soldiers to help carry his brother. They can barely lift him; Hvitserk has frozen in place, but Ivar is determined to give his brother the Viking funeral he deserves.

Ivar cries and mourns, and swears that he will seek revenge on his brothers in Kattegat who shoved one of their own into the wild to die. They did not even allow his fearsome brother the warrior’s death he deserved. What Ivar misses in his incandescent rage is the sweet smile on Hvitserk’s frozen face. Ivar should be celebrating, because as he was not in life Hvitserk is euphoric in his death; together with those he loved and lost once again. The image of rapturous bliss frozen forever in time on the face of his mortal body.

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If you want to read other stuff I write here’s my masterlist!

Taglist: @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @punkrocknpearls @solinarimoon @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom @southernbe @vikingstrash

Photos are not mine they are from Pinterest.

#cherrypie’s500 #hvitserk #hvitserk lothbrok #hvitserk ragnarsson #the little match girl #vikings rewrite #it's a sad one folks #I would say i'm sorry but I actually kind of love this

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pressedinthepages · 4 years

Text

Breeze

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier

Rating: T

Masterlist

a/n: reader request: [Hello! I read that you would like to write something other than x reader from time to time, so I have a (hopefully cute 😳) Geraskier-request for you: Geralt saving money and surprising Jaskier with buying him his own horse. And Jaskier is deeply moved by that action (maybe he's crying) and Geralt just laughs and gives him cuddles/kisses him. 😌] awe dumb softe bois

also thanks to @sometimesiwrite for being a wonderful beta :)

(There is a link on my page where you can be added to my taglist :D)

Warnings: mild language, ~yearning~, geralt has to use his voice to communicate

Two idiots and a horse get another horse.

“Geraaaalt. Why aren’t we staying at the inn? I can literally see it from here, the soft bed and the warm bath beckoning to me through the dark. ‘Come to me, Jaskier,’ it’s saying, Geralt. It’s not like we’re strapped for coin, either. The alderman actually paid you pretty well for that bear ghost-”

“Barghest.”

“Yes, yes, exactly. But back to my earlier line of inquiry. I ask again, why in the shit are we staying out in the middle of the woods for what feels like the thousandth night in a row?”

Geralt sighs, staring up at the stars on the clear night. “I’m trying to save my coin.”

Jaskier scoffs, drawing a raise of the brow from the Witcher. “For what, pray tell?”

“New armor.”

“Oh, so the Witcher can get new armor every other week and it’s fine, but when I go and buy a new outfit for a performance, it’s a ‘waste of coin, Jaskier?’”

` Geralt hums with finality, listening as Jaskier just continues prattling on. There’s no real heat behind it though, and Geralt does feel bad making Jaskier rough it out here with him. But he knows that if he lets the bard wander into town on his own, Geralt will end up having a much larger and more annoying mess to clean up.

“Jaskier,” Geralt hums, listening as he stops his ranting. “Come get some sleep, I’d like to get down to Blackbough by the new moon.”

Jaskier huffs in response before he undoes the little buttons down the front of his doublet. He shucks it off of his shoulders and drapes it over a log on the ground, rolling up the sleeves on his chemise up to his elbow. Geralt tries quite desperately not to watch, but his eyes are drawn to every new inch of skin revealed under the low light of the embers.

Jaskier’s bedroll flaps loudly as he sets it between Geralt and the fire. He plops down onto it, stretching out and turning to face Geralt. The Witcher peers over at him, admiring quietly the way that the last few sparks of light dance over the high planes of his cheeks.

“Ah, Geralt. Another day, put to rest. Sleep well, dear Witcher.” Jaskier turns over with his back to Geralt, scooching back a bit, close enough that Geralt can feel the heat radiating from his skin. Geralt hums, his fingers flexing at his sides, itching to touch, to hold, to gather Jaskier into his arms and never let him go.

Instead, Geralt only gives a whispered, “Goodnight, Jaskier.”

***

The sky is black when they do finally arrive in Blackbough, bespeckled with stars far and wide. Jaskier leans against a post while Geralt checks over the notice board in the center of town, the bard kicking off one boot and digging his thumb into the tender skin of his sole.

“Fuck, Geralt. My feet are exhausted. Don’t get me wrong, I would happily trot along at your side until the end of my days, but I may need to invest in some new boots sooner rather than later if that’s to be the case,” Jaskier groans, sliding his foot back into the soft leather of his boot. Geralt hums as he tears a slip of parchment from the board, watching it flutter between his fingers.

“Wind’s howling,” Geralt rumbles, tucking the parchment into his pack atop Roach.

“Yes, dear Witcher,” Jaskier’s hair flaps about his face, “thank you for the weather update.”

“Why don’t-” Geralt starts, peering over at the bard. “Why don’t you head to the tavern, see if they’ll let you play for a night in a room. I’ll be out scouting this contract, so you should absolutely stay here.”

Jaskier looks back at the little building, noting the light shining from the windows and the voices still floating in the din of the evening. He nods, and Geralt raises an eyebrow at the lack of argument. “Oh shut it, Geralt,” Jaskier grins, “you know that I would typically be more than happy to traipse through spooky fog and poky underbrush. Alas, I am fucking tired. So, on this one occasion, I will admit that you are right.”

Geralt gives one of his rare smiles, a cheeky turn of the corner of his lip, and turns to lead Roach out of town. “I’ll come collect you in the morning. Try not to get into too much trouble.”

Jaskier scoffs half-heartedly, swinging his lute case around as he turns towards the tavern. Geralt listens to be sure that Jaskier is secure in the building before he changes course, heading instead to a large structure situated just on the edge of town.

***

Geralt stands in Jaskier’s room, surrounded by the dulcet tones of his deafening snoring. He has called out to the bard several times, but nothing has been able to wake him. That is, nothing until Geralt decides to grab a sweet bun from the innkeeper and a cup of steamy tea.

Jaskier hums when he smells the herbs next to his face, smiling a bit when he sees Geralt brooding in the corner. Jaskier takes a great bite out of the pastry, moaning quite obscenely at the taste. ��Have a nice night, Geralt?”

Geralt hums, gathering Jaskier’s stuff from around the room. By the Gods, he was only here for a few hours. There is a doublet over a chair, trousers on the dresser, one boot by the door and one by the fireplace, and blankets and furs all over the place.

“Alright, Bard. Let’s go, I have something to pick up before we leave town.” Geralt chucks the pants to Jaskier. They hit him square in the face before falling into his lap, revealing quite the impressive side-eye.

Jaskier sighs, sipping his tea as he goes about getting dressed. Geralt watches once more, chuckling to himself as Jaskier tries to ruffle his hair into something that doesn’t quite resemble a harpy’s nest.

The two of them head out of the tavern soon after, the morning sun greeting them through the dew. “Geralt, where’s Roach?”

“Stable.”

Jaskier responds by strumming a chord on the lute with a look over to Geralt, confirming his permission to play for the time being. Geralt gives a short nod of the head and Jaskier begins, something quiet and slow as the world warms in the dawn.

The stableboy sees them approaching and ducks inside, leaving Geralt and Jaskier standing alone. Geralt closes his eyes and just listens to the tune that Jaskier hums, relaxing into the sweet tone that drips like rainwater off of a fresh flower.

The stableboy comes back out, followed closely by Roach and a second horse. She is palomino blonde and slender with a spring in her step. Jaskier quirks his brow at the latter, stepping confidently towards the stablehand, who most certainly does not get paid enough for this.

“Thank you sir, but it’s just Roach for us. Geralt, would you mind-”

Geralt tosses the kid an extra coin as he takes both sets of reins, passing the palomino to Jaskier. But Jaskier only looks at him, even when he gives the soft leather a good shake in the bard’s direction. Roach butts Geralt on the shoulder, wisely prompting him to use his words. “She’s uh...she’s your horse, Jask.”

“What? Geralt, I don’t have a horse. Did you get hit on the head or something, you silly Wi-”

“I bought her, Jaskier. I bought her for you.”

Jaskier finally shuts up, taking the reins from Geralt’s hand with a tentative grip. The palomino steps closer to Jaskier, snuffling his hair. He giggles, setting something quite tender alight in Geralt’s heart.

“Geralt, I-I don’t quite know what to say...I thought you needed new armor?” Jaskier’s voice is quiet as he scritches along the horse’s nose.

Geralt shakes his head, fiddling with the straps on Roach’s saddle. “No. Wanted this to be a surprise.”

Jaskier goes silent, and Geralt can’t quite bring himself to look over at him. But then Jaskier sniffles and Geralt looks up, finding tears on his cheeks and a soft look in his eyes.

“You-you got her for me?”

Geralt nods, struck by a sudden boldness. He moves forward, grabbing the soft fabric of Jaskier’s doublet at his wrist. “I don’t like seeing you hurt. You-” Geralt huffs, grappling for words. “You’re far too important to me.”

“I-do I need to actively hold onto the reins all of the time, Geralt?”

“No, why?”

“Because I would very much like to kiss you right now, and I would love to have both hands free for that.” Geralt’s eyes widen a bit and he nods, his breath catching as Jaskier drops the reins and surges into him. Jaskier’s lips are so much softer than Geralt had ever let himself imagine, and his fingers in Geralt’s hair feel like the closest thing that he will ever get to true paradise.

They part, but only far enough to look each other in the eyes. Geralt looks into those eyes, the clearest blue rivers rushing to raging seas. Geralt’s hands rest on Jaskier’s hips, his thumb rubbing little circles into his sides. He closes his eyes and leans his forehead onto Jaskier’s, reveling in the way that Jaskier’s heart speeds up and his breathing tightens a bit in his embrace.

“Thank you, Geralt. Truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you,” Jaskier whispers, light as a feather between their lips.

Geralt hums once more, still holding fast to the bard. “We should be leaving soon.”

“Can I have another kiss?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt can hear the smirk in his words.

“I suppose,” Geralt smiles as he leans back into him.

#geraskier #fluff #THESE TWO #i love them

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imagine-always-and-forever · 4 years

Text

Flutterings & Tequila - Part 13

A Klaus Mikaelson Imagine

Pairing: Niklaus Mikaelson x Reader

Summary: you’ve decided to go clubbing with your best friend the last summer before college starts to take your mind off of the Mikaelsons who have invaded your life this summer. Specifically, you’re trying to distract yourself from Niklaus Mikaelson and the flutterings he has caused you. Tequila is your friend tonight.

Part Summary: Clue hunting.

Warnings: typical stuff you’d see in the show

Word count: 3,115

Tags: elle88531, violentmommabear42, pisicakawritesshitatfour, a-quarter-horse-called-biscuit, hoeofnjadaka, thegingerthatwaited, despressolattes, aomi-nabi, pie46733, (let me know if you want to be tagged or I missed you out on the tag list!)

Authors note: so I’ve been saying I’d get back to this for ages. I know. But truthfully I hit such a brick wall that writer’s block as a concept had to add another tier to it’s existence just for me. Thankfully, for no clear reason whatsoever, it poofed away as some strong desire to write this again came to me after work. So... tada? Also I am sorry but so so many of you asked to be tagged (I’m very flattered!!!) that I think I’m missing a bunch of people. If I missed you send me a message and I’ll add you to the list. Enjoy 😊

You’re trembling slightly as you walk down your stairs, breath coming out shakily as you try to calm yourself down. You had 24 hours to find out at least something about what the Mikaelsons were doing here. 24 hours and no clue where to start.

Through the back window you could see Klaus and Elijah making their way out of the guest house. Their expressions were drawn and Klaus had a small black bag clutched in his hand. Your eyes darted to the door to the house. Were you that stupid?

The fact that your feet were already moving you forward gave you a clear yes, but at least you could report back to Josie that you did, despite her belief, have some sort of self-preservation. It was just a really fucked up kind.

The door to the guest house opened with ease. Of course the Mikaelsons didn’t think to lock it. What was the point? Who would try to get in to their home without their permission and who would live to tell the tale?

Well, hopefully you.

The painting supplies were still right where you left them. Your eyes swept across the room in front of you, cataloging what you saw. You’d helped Josie redecorate last summer, but it looked like the Mikaelsons took it upon themselves to do some of their own renovations. It was a little bit embarrassing how little of the place you’d payed attention to when you were here with Klaus.

They’d rearranged half the furniture for gods sake and you hadn’t noticed at all. With a frown on your face, you examined the new layout of the room. You wondered what prompted the rearrangement. The couches being moved about made sense to give Klaus extra space for his easels. But what was the purpose of switching the office area with the dining room?

The office, which you were truthfully rather proud of last summer, looked like Elijah’s doing. Two bookcases now sandwiched in the desk against what was supposed to be the accent wall of the room. Not a single bit of the pop of color on the wall was visible now. The imposing set up didn’t even look touched. You could feel your eyebrows tense as they tried to furrow further with your deepened confusion. Dust collected across the books on their shelves. You swiped a finger through it. Coated.

It surprised you that Elijah wasn’t as much of a neat freak about his environment as he was abou his appearance. Though, you suspected if he was he’d have spent most of his millennia+ on earth cleaning up after his siblings. You snorted to yourself. Didn’t he already do that?

A blank space on one of the shelves drew your eye. Amongst a sea of books and paperweights, a patch of dustless real estate on an otherwise packed bookcase stared back at you. If those Nancy Drew books you read as a child had taught you anything, that prominent rectangle of empty space meant that something had been moved. And recently.

That, you smiled to yourself, was a lead.

A scan of the desk and the rest of the shelves confirmed that whatever it was hadn’t simply been reorganized. You pulled open the drawers of the heavy oak desk. Pens, paperclips, highlighters, sticky notes, stapler, hole punch, scissors, and more pens. No. Notebooks, empty folders, the coffee maker’s instructional guide. No. Empty space with a single pen cap rolling around. No.

A dead end.

You got down on your knees. The floor was clean. Under the couches, too. The ottoman with the lift up storage option, empty. The side tables small draw with it’s tendency to stick (a single missing screw from Ikea can really screw your building abilities), empty. You moved to the TV console, frustration building.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

You checked the shelves. You were too short to reach the top ones but the Mikaelsons weren’t. You grabbed a chair and stepped up. It was in vain. Careful to put it back as you’d found it, you moved the chair in defeat. You checked the kitchen. Drawers and cupboard were empty. The fruit salad in the fridge seemed to judge you and you sighed. You didn’t expect it to be in the fridge but it was almost eight at night and you’d torn the downstairs of this house a part.

The Mikaelsons could be back any minute and you’d found nothing. What if there was nothing? Had you wasted hours of your short time frame on trying to find something that didn’t exist?

It dawned on you that Klaus’s little black bag just might have –

A groan escaped your lips. What a colossal waste of time. Time that to you did not have to waste. You closed the fridge, head coming down to lean on the cool stainless steel door in defeat. Maybe there was a clue you could find back in the main house. Josie’s room might have something that you could give Jess.

With a deep breath, you straightened up. No point in giving up until Jess’s voice was ordering you to kill yourself. Josie would expect nothing less from you, and in truth, so do you.

As you walked through the house to the door you passed by one of the many shelves you checked and just like in one of those long rumored witch’s intuition stories, something pulled your eye to it once again. Something pulled your eye directly to an unassuming wooden framed photo that you didn’t register as new. So, something you’d had to have seen a million times by now, surely. But why then did it feel so very important to look at it?

You walked over, cautious of this intense urge in your blood. It was often hard to tell with magical urges if something was for good intent or bad.

The photo was in black and white. A little girl sat on a dock, one tooth missing right in the front. A man in an ornate three piece suit that had to predate the Georgian era stood by her, looking out of place but pleased with himself. Beside him was a boy that looked around your age. He was scowling in the photo. In his had he held something tightly, as if he would die if it were ever lost to him. Your eyes scanned the photo back and forth, that feeling still present. What was it? What were you supposed to see?

The background of the photo was just water. A lake most likely. There were no lakes here. Where were they? Who were they? You leaned in to get a closer look. The photo quality was bad and it wasn’t until you looked hard that you realized it wasn’t a photo at all. A painting. A small, incredibly detailed painting.

Klaus?

But no. How? You knew this painting wasn’t unfamiliar to you. You also knew that some how you had never noticed it. How could you go so long seeing something so often, convinced it was just a photo of something unimportant?

Almost like magic. Why would anybody spell this little painting with an unnotable spell? More specifically, why did Josie (because it had to be her) cast this spell when you were the only other person than her to see it? You didn’t have guests usually. It was why you had been so surprised when she had announced the renovation of the guest house last summer.

The moment the skin on your fingers touched the painting’s surface, a vision clear as an actual photo slammed into your mind’s eye. Blinded by the image, nothing existed but it and you were enraptured what you saw.

It was the exact image that had been painted, but the details were sharp. You could see the threads of the man’s suit. The pours of the little girl. The splintered wood of the old dock. Everything of the moment preserved perfectly in a snapshot.

There was no sound. You felt nothing from the scene. This was not a vision of the past that let you experience the moment with those in it. You could see the wind sweeping through the girl’s locks but you couldn’t feel a thing. This was the scene of the painter through the painter’s very eyes.

But who’s eyes? And who were these people?

You looked focused on their faces. The little girl’s slightly downturned nose and her rounded jaw clicked in your mind as your eyes rested on her’s. Josie. A young Josie. This made sense. This was a memory Josie had that she wanted to keep private. But why? And why keep the painting if she wanted it secret? The man beside her was probably her father, right?

As your eyes shifted to his features and they sharpened into view for you, Josie’s body blurred away. No, you realized. That was not Josie’s father. Though you had never met the man or seen his photo before, you knew this was not him. Because this was Elijah Mikaelson.

At least it made sense now how they knew Josie. Old friends indeed. But what on earth was Elijah doing standing on a dock on some lake with a Josie when she was a child and a boy? As your eyes darted to the boy, the change of the image didn’t surprise you. Josie and Elijah blurred and he came into focus.

Despite not having known him for as long or studying his face too much, it was clear by his eyes that you were staring at a teenage Jess.

You gasped and were ripped from the image.

Around you, the guest house came back into view. In your hands, clutched tightly, was the photo. Your heart rate was up and you didn’t know when you had started to breath so quickly or so hard. You blinked your dry eyes. Josie, Jess, and Elijah?

The sound of wheels pulling up on the gravel drive had your head shooting up. They were back. You didn’t have time to get to the house and though beautiful, Josie’s flower filled garden didn’t actually give you much cover to hide. Without a second thought, you dashed up the stairs.

The bathroom door was open and from downstairs, it was easy to see. Too obvious someone was here. The bedroom beside it was locked and you didn’t have time to find the spare key somewhere on top of the door. The closet next to it was too small with the vacuum in it. It wouldn’t do. You spun around, unsure how close the Mikaelsons were and if they were listening.

The other bedrooms had their doors open. Shit. Too suspicious. One door, directly across from the stairs remained. Could you even make it before they opened the door?

You didn’t have a choice. The handle to the room jiggled and the door clicked open. You slipped inside and went to close it as gently as possible when the front door opened. You froze. The door was still a jar. They’d notice if for sure.

“Well that was fun,” Kol sighed and you heard him flop onto the couch.

“It wasn’t supposed to be fun,” Rebekah huffed and her heels clicked on the floor as she made her way through the house.

“Drink?” Elijah asked nobody in particular.

“I’m going to bed,” Rebekah said with a short tone and you almost squeaked in fear as you realized she was starting up the stairs.

“Don’t be so dramatic, sister!” Kol called after her.

“You’re a reckless idiot without a scrap of self-control,” she seethed back.

“It’s not like he actually liked you,” Kol scoffed.

Something expensive sounding shattered followed by Kol’s laugh.

“May I remind you that this is not our home?” Elijah’s calm voice of reason came.

You waited with baited breath for something to happen next. If Kol could get one more quip in to make Rebekah break something else you could use the distraction to close the door properly.

“What happened?” Klaus said, evidently just entering the house.

“I’m going to bed,” Rebekah stated and you closed your eyes as a curse tried to come out of your lips.

“Sister,” Klaus stopped her and his voice was much closer now. He was on the stairs with her, you guessed. “You cannot get angry every time one of your many suitors gets eaten by our brother. You know how he is,” he explained in a hushed voice with a taunt.

Something smashed against the wall again.

“KOL,” Elijah reprimanded.

A thud sounded against the wall and you reached for the door, ready to close it if another opportunity struck.

“Enough property damage,” Klaus told his brother.

“It was her fault anyway. You know it,” Kol argued.

“I was getting him to trust me,” Rebekah’s voice was further away. She must have joined her brothers down stairs again.

“And that involved opening your legs for him, did it?”

You knew it was coming so as Rebekah jumped to attack her brother, you ceased the moment to shut the door. The soft click would be lost to them as they tried to pull their sister and brother apart.

The room you were in hadn’t been touched since the renovation. You walked over to the window to see if there was any feasible way down.

“Deal with it,” Klaus’s voice came from just outside the door.

You whipped around, eyes wide, as you realized they solved the little dispute far faster than you thought they would. You dropped to the ground as you heard Elijah reply to his brother. The door clicked open as you lifted the duvet and scooted yourself as quietly as possible under the bed.

Luckily, Klaus’s instructions invoked a lot of opinions from his siblings. He stood in the doorway and barked out orders at them. Something else was thrown. As you spelled your breath silent, you spared a thought for all the things you’d have to replace by the time the Mikaelsons moved out.

Klaus shut the door with a harsh thud and switched on the light by the bed. You squeezed your eyes shut at the sheer bad luck you had that this of all the rooms was his.

Klaus moved around the room, silent except for his steady breathing. Something was placed delicately on a surface in his room. Then, he moved to the window and you heard it slide open. He breathed deeply. The rustling sound of fabric peaked your interest. Something landed on the bed. The unmistakable sound of a zip had a flush come to your face. Oh no.

Another thing was thrown on the bed. You imagined Klaus’s shirt and jeans piled on his sheets. This was bad. He was going to bed. You were going to be stuck down here for the night.

Klaus opened his door. Huh? And then he left. Wait what?

Cautiously, you lifted the duvet and peeked out. Nothing. You scooted to the other side of the double bed, wincing as the underneath spring of the bed caught your hair and it pulled. The other side confirmed that he had definitely left and shut the door behind him.

Apparently the plus side of hiding under the bed of a paranoid hybrid with even his siblings at times out to get him was that he kept his room strictly closed off to everyone else.

You scooted out from under the bed. The window, now open, was your best bet. Who was to say if the path to the door was empty or if you could open the front door without alerting anyone. A well timed cushioning spell would make the rose bush you’d land on hurt a little less. The thorns would still be a bitch though.

A sudden realization hit you that you forgot the painting at some point in your scooting. You rushed back to the bed and had to scoot back under a bit to reach it. As your hand touched it, you were once again rushed into the snapshot of the scene.

This time you knew you weren’t the painter. You looked down to your right at the top of Josie’s head. To your left was Jess. This was Elijah’s view. Which meant, if you looked straight ahead you’d most likely see –

It wasn’t Klaus.

You frowned. You were sure it would be Klaus. But you didn’t recognize the man painting on the tiny canvas in front of him with a concentrated look on his face. He had brown thinning hair and a sullen face with cupid bow lips and a nose people would pay good money for. He was an odd man that was handsome and not. You wondered who he was and tried to get the image to focus in further to find some distinguishing feature of some sort.

You were once again ripped back into reality as you registered the sound of footsteps outside the door. The window would have to wait and you dived back down and rolled under the bed, hitting you head as you did so. You bit your lip in pain as the door opened.

Klaus was back.

You couldn’t say if he was gone long or not as you had no idea how much time you had been lost to that vision. It didn’t seem long, but then again they never did.

Klaus sighed. The distinct sound of a towel rubbing against hair was the only sound in the room for a while as you put together that he just came from a shower. So, he was probably naked. You bit your lip for a different reason. You listened as Klaus toweled himself dry. He pulled a drawer open and assumingly put on some kind of clothing. You hopped it was at least a pair of underwear.

The bed dipped as Klaus sat. The lamp was clicked off. Shuffling from above. The bed dipped in different places as Klaus got comfortable. As luck was not your fan, he settled directly above you. You didn’t dare scoot one way or another. He’d surely hear it.

So you were spending the night here then. Great.

Klaus fidgeted above you again, having the gal to not find a comfortable position for the night. You stared at the springs and mattress centimeters from your face in annoyance. To be fair, this could have been the comfiest floor in the world and you still wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. Not with Klaus above you and the rest of the Mikaelsons scattered about the house. No hope of escape until morning.

A sharp inhale cut through your self pity. Another one. Was he…?

#Klaus Mikaelson #klaus mikaelson imagine #klaus mikealson x reader #the originals imagine #flutterings & tequila #part 13 #niklaus mikaelson #niklaus mikaelson imagine #niklaus mikaelson x reader #oh my god it's been over a year since the last part #damn writers block and inspiration really be like that #idk why i'm back at it either but let's hope it lasts i'm having fun

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shirecorn · 1 year

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I find it incredibly funny that we both tuned out of fim after the comic book episode. Understandable experience I suppose.

Sunset shimmer in Equestria Girls is a wild ride. Ngl one of my favorite characters but she has So. Many. Different. Forms. It’s ridiculous. Regular unicorn, Demon form, Phoenix form, regular magical girl to horse girl form(?), daydream shimmer form, element of harmony form, too many forms. If you ever draw her it will be fun to see what aspect(s) you draw from.

I love your art style! It’s very pretty! I was drawn to your blog cause I saw your redesigns of the alicorns. Inspired how they are larger then life. I then spent over an hour hour scrolling through your speculative biology stuff. Your art has a great flow too it, and you have great concepts that kept me wanting more.

I was still a teenager when Power Ponies aired but my siblings and I all sort of looked at each other and said "this show is too different from what we started watching and has become something we don't enjoy anymore" and just stopped right there.

That episode really felt less like a story to be told and more like Content™. Like the current showrunners didn't have anything to say, they just needed the characters to move around on the screen so they threw something together using buzzword salad of what media was getting views at the time.

Today, there's a distinct difference between season 1-2 and the show that follows. There's less singing and less meta-plot. It's more episodic, and feels more "plot of the day" and characters only change and grow from the beginning of the episode to the end. It doesn't feel like it stacks.

But that's ok! Especially for me picking and choosing which episodes to watch. I rally don't feel like I'm missing anything when I see a description for "the ponies are in go-karts in this one" and decide to skip it.

---

Damn sunset shimmer how come your mom lets you have so many merchandise variants forms? I will probably only watch one ep with her because equestria girls doesnt interest me

---

Thank you! I really like my style as well!! I am especially proud of how well it works in quick sketches so I can get a lot of ideas out in a short amount of time.

I need to make new posts with stuff I have in my head, like mermaid singing mechanics (oh its almost mermay!) and the super fun connection I have between unicorn and kelpies. Oh you're gonna love it. Just wait 2 months to a year for me to get around to it lol

#ask #ramble machine

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sunflowersseemhappy · 4 years

Note

Hey there! Could you do Arcana main 6 finding and reacting to MC's sketchbook full of cute little drawings of them? only if you feel like it !

This feels a bit messy but as I’ve been moving I’m probably just too tired to notice! Now I want to draw these sketches tho...

REQUESTS ARE CLOSED, but in the meantime here is my Masterlist

Thank you for the request, I hope you enjoy!

Asra

A leather-bound book falls to Asra’s feet from the stack he’s putting away onto the shelves.

He hadn’t really noticed it until now, among all the knickknacks of the shop it seems like any ordinary notebook but he’s struck by familiarity.

It’s like the book and its contents are calling to him, like a long-forgotten memory.

Kneeling, Asra hesitantly turns the open book over and there is… a drawing of him. Sitting slouched against a table as his hand hovers over an image of Faust looking for his affection.

He remembers now, you drew like this before the plague but he had searched for that sketchbook and never found it after you were gone. He knew you had taken it with you to the Lazaret and it had burned with you.

This is a different book, in a different life almost but your careful sketch is just the same.

Asra is almost in disbelief as he flicks through the book, there are sketches of Faust snuggled up to the crook of his neck, Selasi the baker and Asra with armfuls of Pumpkin bread, Asra walking the streets of Vesuvia, there are more sketches of him than he can count.

He can’t believe he never noticed you drawing, but truth be told he never expected to see your drawings again. He thought your abilities with a pencil and paper were forgotten with your memories.

He should have known better…

As Asra reaches the last page he shakes his head in disbelief at the soft sketch of his sleeping form, perfectly drawn by your hand. Just as he remembers the pages in your old book looked like.

That in itself gives him hope that maybe your memories aren’t as lost as he thought.

Nadia

Nadia has noticed that you’ve been very engrossed in that little notebook of late, spending the late nights and early mornings scribbling on the pages.

Although Nadia doesn’t make a habit of prying into other people’s (even yours) business, she is starting to wonder what’s so important about that book.

And why you keep glancing at her as you write in it.

Oh, how she tries to resist but its just sitting on the bed and she plucks it up and flicks to the latest page.

Her gaze stares back at her, why it’s a drawing of her!

Nadia is intrigued, she recognises this particular moment from earlier in the day when the council meeting had run late.

In this book Nadia has the same aspirated expression as she stares at her tea rather than drawing her attention to the talks.

She flicks backward through the book and there they are, more sketches of her face, serene and placid.

She’s impressed, dare she say it they are better than many of her portraits. Nothing is left to the imagination, they’re just her as you see her.

Scratching Chandra feathers with a soft smile on her face, tools in her hands and oil and grease on her fingers as she makes a little invention, hair drawn back and laughing as she gallops on her horse.

Clear cut and real, smoothing her fingers against the page Nadia mulls over an image of her with wet hair with just her robe on.

How you manage to catch these moments and put them down on paper like this she’s always wonder but she’ll let you know how flattered she is that you enjoy drawing her so.

Julian

Another late night at the desk it seems, Julian’s had a few of late but even he is starting to feel the hours catch up to him.

Retiring to bed where you are already softly snoring, Julian takes immediate notice to your little book you’re always carrying around lying in his space.

Usually he would just move it and go to bed, but as he draws close, he notices a face drawn on the page.

Scooping it up Julian almost thinks his eye is deceiving him in the darkness and sleepless haze, is that a drawing of him?

Slipping into bed with the book in hand Julian takes of his eye-patch to get a better look, it is him! Leaning over his desk with a concentrated gaze over the papers in his hands.

He can’t help but give a sly smile to your sleeping form, so this was what you got up to when he wasn’t looking.

He thought he was an alright artist, but you? Wow, he’s speechless over how much care has been taken to get the curve of his nose and the curl of his hair just right.

So as not to wake you Julian takes quiet care as he leaf’s through the pages, most of them have drawings of him and he marvels over them all.

There’s a drawing of Malak preening Julian’s hair (his comical wince obvious), hugging his little sister as if his life depended on it, holding up a pint of salty bitters with that roguishly silly smirk he does.

If he didn’t know any better than he’d think you like him!

Next time he’ll definitely make sure to pose!

But for now, he’ll settle on returning the secret favour by getting his own book and drawing you whenever he can.

Who knows? Maybe you’ll be able to give him some pointers.

Muriel

It’s a lazy morning for Muriel, a rare treat? He’s still getting used to sharing the chores and not having to do as much as he used to.

You’ve gone to work the shop leaving him and Inanna alone for the day, but before he can even begin to guess what to do Inanna plops a familiar looking book next to him.

Your notebook, he’s seen you writing in it all the time and you never go anywhere with out it, he wouldn’t admit it but right now it’s the only excuse he has to go see you.

Picking it up and calling for Inanna to follow the two make their way to Vesuvia, book in hand.

Whatever is in it seems important…

Muriel can’t ever remember looking inside it though, he’s not usually that curious but before he’s even thinking about it, he opens it as he’s walking and halts in his tracks.

There’s a carefully crafted drawing of him, sitting by the fire as Inanna lays at his side whilst he whittles away at a little figurine.

He snaps the book shut a red blush racing against his cheeks, whatever he’s feeling it’s new and he doesn’t know if he’s embarrassed or happy that you’ve drawn him.

Now curiosity has completely taken over and he hesitantly flicks to the first page, that one is Asra but as he progresses, he sees Inanna, the hut, your favourite tree, and that doe with her fawn.

His cheeks get redder every time he crosses a drawing of himself, most have tense gazes but between them he sees in each face his soft smiles and almost unnatural gentleness in his eyes.

Is that how you see him? Soft? Gentle? He’s never seen himself that way before, but the drawings don’t feel fake, they’re almost too real.

He sees his hand buried in Inanna’s fur as he cradles an ill chicken, weaving his braids in the morning, standing bare chested in the evening as he cooks dinner. Scars mirrored in the pencil work.

He takes your sketch book to you with a knowing smile.

Portia

One of the few day’s she gets off from working the palace and she can’t spend it with you.

Apparently the shop has been so busy you’ve had a que going out the door. Portia is disappointed but in times like this it can’t be helped so she decides to indulge in some light reading.

Browsing her small shelves Portia almost doesn’t notice the small book with bits of paper sticking out of it.

But she notices it there, it reminds her of the journal’s Julian kept on medical procedures and stuff, maybe he accidentally left it here or she picked it up from his?

But there on the spine are your initials, plucking it from the shelf Portia turns to a random page and…

There she is on the paper, a drawing! She’s sitting with a blanket on her lap and a needle and thread in her hand as she works at the patchwork quilt she’s been making.

Ooh, she’s never seen such a pretty drawing of her and its not long before she’s jumped on her bed and is flicking through the book.

She’s awing over the drawings and they’re almost too amazing for her to believe.

There are so many; sitting on the beach, dancing with Pepi in her arms, munching on that delicious cupcake from last week! Oh, she misses that cupcake.

She’s squealing in excitement over the drawings, she has such a talented and cute partner.

Lucio

Lucio’s been without you for all but an hour and he’s already bored, how did he ever entertain himself without you?

He’s never been a willing reader but soon enough he finds himself browsing the shelves out of pure boredom.

Then he spots it, small leather-bound book with one of Camio’s gorgeous feathers peeking out from the top. How did that get there when Camio has the same aversion to books Lucio does?

Disinterested Lucio plucks it from the shelf and turns to the page where Camio’s feather sits and wow…

There’s a wonderful drawing of Camio sitting proudly on the back of a chair as Lucio pets the bird. Sure, it’s only pencil but its better than the painting he had done of the bird.

And there’s more, as he flicks the page, he finds himself. Standing bare-chested with the dogs and giving them a fuss, he remembers that. Last week if he’s right.

As he flicks through the rest of the carefully crafted sketch book Lucio can only guess this is your work, how busy you’ve been drawing him...

He is absolutely flattered; you draw him much better than the portrait artists (maybe because it actually looks like him).

There he is applying his makeup, chasing the dogs after they stole his prosthetic, Camio sitting on his head with proudly puffed up feathers.

He’s enthralled that you draw him so well, maybe he’ll commission you to do some portraits but for now he’ll enjoy the ones in the book.

Maybe he’ll do a cheeky pose for you when you’re back!

#the arcana #julian #nadia #asra #muriel #portia #lucio #drawing #sketch #the arcana mc #the aracana nadia #the arcana asra #the arcana muriel #the arcana julian #the arcana portia #the arcana lucio

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fallingoverharrypotter · 3 years

Text

If We Make It Through January 7th

Draco and Harry on the wrong side of the holiday season, making the gloom a little bit brighter. Also on AO3 here.

I’m barely through the front door of the place before I catch a glimpse of the man behind the counter and freeze up. Right there in the doorway.

A frustrated cough comes from behind me, and I hear a rude “excuse me.”

I swear. “Sorry,” I move out of their way, back onto the icy cobblestones: the patron flicks me an insincere smile as they hurry into the warmth of the bakery, and the door shuts in my face with a clang. The noise of the store, regular café sounds and music with it. That’s unfortunate, as Diagon still has Christmas jingles incessantly twinkling across the cold brick back and forth down the alley on this side of the new year, and that’s… only one part of the reason I want to enter.

Surely there are other places on Diagon that sell hot drinks and buns this late on a Wednesday. But… I know there aren’t. Even in muggle London.

Going home empty handed on Monday was one thing, but going home empty handed on Wednesday seems out of the question.

The cheerful drawings of smiling faces and steaming pastries on the glass are mocking me - there’s raucous noise of laughter just from the other side of the windows. I’m drawn up close and shivering in my winter robe, and it’s so cold that the warming charms keep wearing off. There are the sludgy remnants of snow on the cobbles, and I had to save myself from a couple of falls on the way down here. The blush on my cheeks is definitely from the embarrassment of the wobbles, but thankfully it’ll be passed off as the bite of the air. He probably won’t realise a difference anyway.

I take a deep breath, and go to reach for the door again, but then my hand stops, barely within my control. I close my eyes and try once more. Breathe deep, hand out to grasp the handle. I pretend not to think about whether any patrons of the bakery are staring at me through the glass. I hypothesise that if this takes me longer than five minutes, I’ll get an Auror called on me for drunk and disorderly, and wouldn’t that truly make my day.

Suddenly, it’s too much. I don’t even want to see his face. Wednesday pastries will just have to go without. It’s a silly tradition anyway. Surely if I’m ever allowed to forgo a habit, it would be as a new year’s resolution. It was his neurotic practice anyway. Probably one of those things I should toss out like I did all the rest of his stuff.

I take another deep breath and point my chin up, stare challengingly at one stupid smiling figure on the glass, and turn to make my way down to the other apparition point at the end of Diagon.

Stupid ex-boyfriends and stupid bleeding-heart holiday seasons. I manage to keep my feet reasonably stable as I walk down the almost icy path on this darker end of the street.

Unfortunately for me, however, a loud noise startles me and I completely wipe out.

A loud grunt expels itself from my chest as my back hits the ground. Thankfully my neck and head seem to be pretty well protected by the thick green scarf I’ve got wrapping me up, but my ass doesn’t fair all that well. “Fucking hell,” I mutter, and groan as I roll over onto my side. I wince when a sharp twinge in my back is set off with my movement.

Thankfully I’m not alone in my predicament, because the noise that startled me was an initial slick sharp sound of a slip against the icy cobbles. I tilt my head up and see heavy black boots, worn just slightly at the sole, and the figure of their owner, a man in amongst a mountain of sludgy snow that someone had just moved to the side instead of vanishing. I mutter to myself about the absolute travesty which is Diagon without proper foot traffic. People here get bloody careless this time of year.

I push myself up by my gloved hands, now soaked, along with the backside of my cloak. “Are you alright?” I half-heartedly direct to the man who I can hear angrily muttering to himself in his current position. I have to pay direct attention to getting my feet under me so that I don’t make another trip, but I do finally stabilise myself. I sigh crossly. My penance for getting so startled is that I don’t immediately get to grab my wand and dry myself off.

The man sighs too. His reply is muffled, but I think I can make out a “yep”. Charming.

He’s not moving though, so I huff out a breath impatiently and wander over to where he lies carelessly under an awning, face shadowed from Diagon’s twinkling lights. Good King Wenceslas chimes out of the charms on the street, and seems to mock me, and I have to force myself to think of how best to rectify this. I hope this guy isn’t drunk. Or maybe I hope he is, so that I can just call the aurors to deal with this.

“Are you pissed?” I ask, just to know.

“I wish.” Is his muffled reply. “Would be a bit less embarrassing if I were, I think.”

I roll my eyes. “Can you get up?”

“Yep.” He repeats, and then groans again as he pulls himself out of the soaking wet, dirty grey cushion, that is the snow bank.

My mouth drops open. “Potter?”

And, yep indeed. It’s Potter. He’s leaning back on gloved hands when he looks up at me quickly and then he groans. Throws his wet haired head back, and those green eyes look up at the awning like he’s berating whatever trickster god pulls his strings of fate. Or, so I assume.

He leans his weight on a single hand and stretches out the other in my direction.

For a second, I think he’s extended it so we can shake hands, before I realise that he just wants a hand up. I flush and hasten – carefully – over. A quick pull from my hand and he does the rest of the work, but he has to grab at my shoulders when he’s upright, a little wobbly.

He looks at me and grimaces. “I’m a danger to myself and others.” His hands release my shoulders, but only, it seems, to brush off bits of snow and dirt off of my coat.

I huff, my breath making a cloud of vapour in the space between us. “Well, I won’t disagree with you on that. Do you need me to go and get someone for you, or can you make your merry way to your reserved bed at Mungos?”

He laughs just a little. “It’s always a pleasure, Draco, honestly.” He’s joking, so I reserve the right to kick him until later. Maybe when he’s a bit less pathetic from the slip. “Are you okay?”

I scowl, and don’t answer his question. “It’s bloody 6pm on a Wednesday. In the middle of winter. After a snow storm. Who’s honestly buying wands this time of year?”

He smiles, winks slightly. “Gotta be made, don’t they?”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, I get it. You’re chained to your desk. A snowstorm fit for the arctic circle could blaze through here and you couldn’t be moved.”

He laughs. Harry laughs the same way he’s always laughed, and I blush just a little bit, as I’ve always done. I feel a shiver start to come upon me, but I keep it away by share force of will as he continues. “The new year is good for the thestral tail hair.” A dirty glove subconsciously comes up to rub at his wet hair, and he grimaces when he feels it. “Decay, new life, you know. The Death-horses and Winter going hand in hand.”

I smirk as he tentatively tries to rub his dirty glove off against a cleaner part of his cloak. “Cruel of them. Not taking the time to consider your plight.”

“Well,” he challenges, “I doubt it’s a major concern. It’s actually not every day that I slip and fall on the pavement. I survive my walks, mostly.”

“Well,” I answer, “I never slip or fall.” I raise a haughty eyebrow at him, and I can see the humour dust his eyes a little bit more. “Don’t go blaming me for this.”

He rolls his eyes and grimaces. “Why are we still so wet.” He flicks his hand and a wave of annoyingly familiar magic crests itself over my figure until the dirt and the moisture are driven right away. I flick a warming charm over him in thanks.

He seems to pay a bit more attention to his surroundings now that he’s dry and warm. “You just come from Finch-Fletchley’s? You mind reminding him that if the other shops are closed down for the holidays that it’s his job to vanish the snow after a blanketing?”

I avert my eyes, drawn to the bright lights of the bakery. I scowl. “You can tell him yourself, thank you very much.” I take a deep breath, and straighten my back. Keeping some decorum, hopefully. “We’ve broken up.”

Potter’s eyebrows are up when I glance quickly back to his face. He looks at me, and his face is very controlled. He looks at the bakery. “When?”

I swallow. “Week before Christmas, if you can believe.”

He can’t seem to stop himself from whistling sympathetically. Then he winces. “Sorry.”

I shrug, casually. “No matter.”

He snorts.

“I’m serious” I say, pointlessly.

He crosses his arms and looks hard at me. “Oh yeah? What are you doing here, then? Surely not too many muggleborns turning 11 around this time of year.”

Not to back down, and turn to face him properly and cross my own arms. “You know full well that’s not all I do, Potter.”

He rolls his eyes. “Like my point doesn’t still stand. What? You doing a lot of muggleborn house calls the week after new year’s?”

“Not every muggleborn celebrates Christmas and New Year’s.”

“Sure, technically. In reality, though?”

I turn away, and don’t answer his questions. He snorts, but then steps a little closer. We’re facing the bakery, because of course we are. O’ Holy Night plays above us. I wonder who chooses these songs.

I hear him take a deep breath in and out. “I really am sorry.”

I sigh, too. “It’s really not a big deal.”

“It’s only been two weeks, Draco.”

Two weeks and 5 days. If we’re counting. I don’t say this though.

He bumps my shoulder. “Not to pick at the wound, but what areyou really doing here.”

I consider lying to him again, but we’re not really in the business of doing that. It’d just be a bore. And he’s always been… good about things like this. “Christmas.” I swallow. “It gets lonely, you know.”

He hums.

I kick out at the ground with my foot and it slides a little bit too far, and I end up having to take a step forward to balance myself again – Potter grabs at my arm.

He laughs, a little anxiously. “Never slip and fall, huh?”

I ignore that, my face flushed and hot. “We had a tradition. Wednesday pastries at the bakery. I would assume it’s common decency to let someone know in advance if you’re going to break up with them. So that one can plan for these moments, right?” I close my eyes against the lights of Justin’s bakery, feeling unwelcome. “I apologise. I’m morose. It’s not exactly the post-holiday cheer I’m sure you want on a nice evening.”

He chuckles. “I wouldn’t call this a nice evening.” My warming charm wears off, and he flicks his wrist for another one to settle over us. He lets go of my upper arm, and puts a hand on my shoulder – drags me around a bit to face him. “Fuck him, right?”

I roll my eyes. “He’s not a bad guy, Potter.”

He rolls his eyes right back, and then looks quite serious. “Be a little indulgent with yourself sometimes, Draco.”

I look back at him. He’s only just shorter than me, and I’ve always cherished that fact, but now he almost seems to be towering over me, even with a bit of a slouch to his stand. His messy hair and his shadowed cheeks and under-eyes the likes of which I only really see during the summer break when I’m chaperoning muggle families and their muggleborn children to get their first wands before September. Working too hard. Chained to his desk.

“Do you want to have dinner with me?” I blurt out.

His eyes widen. So do mine. The heat in my face expands to a blaze, and I groan as I drop it into my cold gloves. “Merlin, I’m sorry. You just said the indulgent thing, and I couldn’t stop myself.”

“Hey, it’s fine.” He grabs at my wrists lightly and tugs a bit, but I don’t budge. “Draco.”

A clang mutely sounds from just up the street, the usual echo of the door in the cobbled street trapped by the snow. “Draco?” I hear, and look up. Startle, because that’s definitely Justin at the door, surrounded in the glow of the lighting. I take a step back almost without thought, and Harry’s grip on my wrist unfortunately makes me lose my balance. I go right down, and he follows. Right on top of me.

I groan loudly, my head and back and arse all once again wet and cold. Harry groans too, and his warm weight gets off me very quickly, tugging me up by my hands, and then a hand tight on my waist to right me. I don’t step out of his grip immediately, too overcome with the situation. Ready to take another crack at the cobbles and see if this time I brain myself.

“Hell, Draco,” Harry mutters, and then grabs his wand to get the wet and the dirt off the both of us again. Another of his beautiful warming charms settles over my body. “We’re even now, okay? No more falls, for god’s sake.”

Justin has wandered a bit closer by the time I look away from Harry’s face, a little consternated. “Draco? Are you okay? Merlin, what are you doing standing out here?”

I don’t respond. Harry coughs. “That’ll be me. I basically tripped him earlier, and we got talking.”

Justin’s eyes widen just a little, and he looks at Draco in concern. “In this weather? It’s freezing! I’ll grab you mug of spice cider, alright?”

“No,” I say, finally finding my bloody voice again. “No, I’m fine. And anyway.” I shoot a glance at Harry. “We’re tied one-for-one.” Harry smirks.

Justin continues when I look back to him. “Dray, come on. A cup of cider, a bite to eat.”

I shake my head, wanting this day to be done with already. “I’ve got plans.”

Justin eyes get just a little softer. “Come on, please?”

“He does. Have plans.” Potter says, and my neck twinges with how fast I turn to look at him. “We’re going to dinner.”

Justin goggles, just a little, looks between Harry and me. There’s a certain part of me – a different part to the one that’s processing whether or not Harry means what he said about dinner – that’s a little vindictively pleased about Justin’s reaction. “Oh!” Justin says. “Okay, no… No worries!” He meets my eyes, and I flush. “It was good to see you. Please, do come around. The staff miss you, you know.”

I smile politely. “Thanks, Justin.” I stand a little taller, and nod to him. “Take care.”

“You too.” And he grins kindly, lifting a hand to Harry and me, before hastening back into the warm sanctuary of his bakery. The door does its little muted clang again as it closes. My mouth – still sitting in a polite smile – relaxes, leaving a little pain in my cheeks.

Harry hums. “Do you ever think that we’re all a bit toomature now?”

Surprisingly, I laugh loudly at that. I’m nodding even before I get the words out. “Yes. I’d almost wish to be fifteen again and have a real proper tantrum about this.” I sigh, laugh a little again. “But, you know. Fifteen-year-old me? Good riddance.”

“I don’t know…” Harry trails off, “there were some redeeming qualities. He was certainly a creative sort.”

I goggle at him, and immediately stop when I realise that I’m imitating Justin to some extent. “Stop having me on.”

Harry… laughs. “Yeah, I’m having you on. You were a right bastard.”

I shake my head, and turn away from the lights of the bakery, and start walking. He’ll surely catch up.

“I was serious.” Harry says, and I turn my head a little to let him know I’m listening as I walk. “About dinner.”

“I assumed so,” even though that’s a bit of a lie.

“And,” Harry catches up. “I mean ‘dinner’ as in. A date.”

I’m not proud of this, but I slip. Just a little. “Fuck,” I say as I try to catch myself. Thank goodness that Potter’s a bit more onto it, though. He just grabs my arm, and an arm around my back. Straightens me up.

“Bloody hell, I should have talked to him about the snow vanishing,” Harry’s saying as I brush off my cloak to hide my flush. “It’s all the Diagon Business Association talks about during winter, I don’t know what he’s on-”

“Harry.”

He stops and looks at me. Christmas music is still playing, and its still grating, but goodness the lights work well on his complexion. And his eyes.

I smile, just a little. “We’ve got dinner plans, I thought? We could talk about this there, surely?”

He laughs.

#drarry fic #drarry #drarry fanfic #harry potter fanfic #this came out of nowhere and was supposed to be something much different before it became this #fluff #pure and simple #and god now all i want is to have 30k of Harry as wandmaker and Draco as the muggleborn liason #brining the little muggleborn kids and their families through Diagon before they go off to Hogwarts #and Harry and Draco learning to like each other through that #and falling kind of just #slowly for each other because of it #and Draco deserves a little date #as a treat

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