#step by step process on how to draw horse

[c10v3r]

Do you just kinda mess around when drawing ponies or do you look on Google for an mlp tutorial?

Btw I love the way you draw ii as mlp <3

the only tutorials i follow is my own baby i am the land of the free CAWCAW

BUT NAH a lot of what ive learnt is my own stufd !!! im majorly self taught in like all areas aka i fuck around and find out

TYSM BTW !!!!! that compliment means a lot rn !!!!!!! :]

[p0orbaby]

Too Hot To Handle

summary: Alexia doesn’t want the past to repeat itself

warnings: a smidge of heatstroke, and a collapse, how fun

a/n: thanks for the request !

word count: 828

-

Record temperatures they said.

You can believe it.

The aircon was dearly missed as soon as you stepped off the bus.

“Aquí”. You turn to find a bottle of water being eagerly pushed into your empty hands. “Necesitas mantenerte hidratado”

“I’ve just finished one” you tell her, ready to put the bottle in your backpack for safe keeping. But the look she gives you tells you there’s no room for arguments. You roll your eyes at her stubbornness, “thanks, Ale”

“De nada”

Girlfriend, captain, synonyms of each other, really. Her protectiveness spans over both mantles. That’s Alexia for you, in control of every situation, regardless of whether football is involved or not.

You take the bottle from her with the intention of sipping on it as you get changed for warm-ups, but she grabs your wrist and stops you from following your teammates into the stadium.

“Ahora, cariño”

“Alexia,” you start, very aware of the horde of fans calling for the two of you. “I’ll be pissing like a horse if I have any more right now”

She looks at you with a furrowed brow and a tilt of her head. Her English has improved immensely since you’ve been together, but even now some phrases catch her out.

“Necesito el baño” you clarify.

She relents, partly because the sun is beating down on her, partly because she doesn’t want to make a scene in front of the sea of traveling blaugrana.

Their dedication is rewarded with a wave and a smile from her, and a shrug of the shoulders from you as you're whisked away towards the changing rooms.

-

The game started as usual, but the scorching sun quickly turned every movement into a struggle. The hydration breaks were a welcome respite, yet even those seemed insufficient as the match wore on. You pushed yourself, focusing on the ball, the strategies, and your teammates, but the heat was unrelenting.

With every sprint, your legs grew heavier, and your head pounded in rhythm with your racing heart. You caught glimpses of Alexia, her worry evident despite her composed exterior. She was always perceptive, always attuned to you, and now was no different.

You ignored the warning signs, convincing yourself you could handle it, that you had to push through for the team. But as the game entered its final stretch, your vision began to tunnel, and a wave of dizziness washed over you.

Just a few more minutes, you thought, trying to steady yourself. But your body had other plans.

The ground felt like it was moving beneath you, your legs buckling under the strain. You stumbled, hearing a distant shout, but before you could process what was happening, everything went dark.

-

She still blames herself, even after all this time.

You weren’t together then, not quite. The lines between teammates and more were starting to blur as your relationship blossomed in the shadows.

You know she feels guilty for not keeping a closer eye on you during that match, afraid that her concern would draw too much attention to the two of you. She didn’t want people to find out about your relationship before you were ready to go public. The secrecy made her hesitant, and she worries that her hesitation contributed to your collapse.

You’ve told her countless times that it wasn’t her fault, that she couldn’t have known. But Alexia, ever the leader and protector, took it to heart. Since then, she’s been extra vigilant, constantly checking in, making sure you’re taking care of yourself.

Today’s heat brings those memories back, and you can see the worry etched on her face despite her attempts to stay focused on the game.

You push yourself to play smart, to stay aware of your limits, knowing that’s the best way to ease her mind. As the match progresses, you find yourself glancing at her frequently, sharing small smiles and nods of reassurance. Each time your eyes meet, there’s a silent understanding between you, a promise that you’ll both be careful.

When the final whistle blows, signaling a hard-fought victory, you make your way over to Alexia. She’s already looking your way, concern and relief in her eyes. But before you can even say a word, she’s ushering you towards the shade near the bench, her hand firm on your back.

“Drink,” she says, shoving another bottle of water into your hand.

She must mean business if she's dusting off language number three.

“Ale, I’m fine,” you start, but she cuts you off with a determined look cutting through her sweaty features.

“Drink,” she repeats. Deadly serious.

You sigh but comply, taking a few sips to placate her. “¿Lo veis? I’m drinking”

She nods, but her eyes scan you from head to toe, making sure you’re really okay. “Bien. Continúa”

You know there’s no point in arguing, so you take another sip. “Happy?”

“Por ahora,” she mutters, still watching you closely. She doesn’t relax until you’ve downed half the bottle.

[mschievousx]

now and then | b.b.

pairing: benedict bridgerton x ofc, anthony bridgerton x ofc (platonic)

summary: loraine silva always knew she was not normal. she loves unusual things. she love her father's guns, horses, boxing, climbing a tree, falling from a tree, engineering, astronomy... oh, and a man eleven years older.

series masterlist

prologue

she stirred awake with a grumble, as she does most days—which is immediately replaced with a grin after ten minutes of simply opening her eyes and staring at the ceiling. another day, another number of various things she can do. and so, she wasted no time to freshen herself up.

as she stepped out on the streets of grosvenor square, her immediate touch brought radiance to the place. no, she was not a smiling fool nor was she greeting everyone. it was not that type of radiance. she hated that. yet, one can argue the opposite when she finally arrived at the bridgerton's house.

"'tis a fine day, is it not?"

"raine!"

the girl jumped up, her book forgotten as she put it on the couch and hugged the girl who's standing with open arms under the arch to their drawing room.

"oh, how i have missed you, eloise!"

"why do you both act like you were not together the entirety of yesterday?" colin voiced out as he read the newspaper, not bothering with any greetings. they have all long passed that. eloise sent a glare to her brother just as their mother arrived.

"loraine, darling!" she took the young lady's cheeks in delight, "how are you and your father?"

she smiled warmly at that. violet took it to herself to act as her mother-figure, given that their families were closely tied, "never been better, lady bridgerton."

the older woman gave her a look at the use of her title before leading her to a couch near the fireplace.

"are you well-prepared for tomorrow's start of the season?"

━━━ ✦ ❘ ☽ 【❖】 ☾ ❘ ✦ ━━━

"are you well-prepared for tomorrow's start of the season?

violet smiled as she asked her second-eldest daughter. eloise is well-prepared, she knew, in terms of physical and material aspects. internally, however, her daughter was having a fit, both of nervousness and fury.

"mama, i am very much prepared, but you should know that i am calling for all miracles right now so that i cannot attend tomorrow."

raine laughed, saying it's a good thing she's much prepared at the very least. her friend turned to her with a look of betrayal.

"you will be this next year, and i thought we're gonna be spinsters together!"

"no, that was penelope." she said as she stood up and dusted her dress, "when my season comes, i would very much like to marry, especially to that man dabbling on his pad."

she gestured with a head tilt to the man sitting near colin. they all need not turn to know who she was referring to as eloise rolled her eyes. raine chuckled at her reaction before another voice graced the room. well, not exactly grace.

"ugh, it's too early to deal with you."

violet turned to her eldest and immediately closed her eyes with a sigh before giving him a pointed look.

"anthony, it's already nine, and don't be rude."

the young lady turned to the source of the voice and grinned in an instant, clasping both her hands together in chest level sweetly, "i have missed you so much, anthony!"

"i don't share the sentiment." he replied with nonchalance as he took a biscuit and sat by his younger brothers.

"anthony will be marrying this season."

she paused for a moment, as if processing, before she broke out with laughter as she heard the words marry and anthony in the same sentence, but noticing the silence around her, she turned back to violet, "no... seriously?"

"why does it come as a surprise to everyone?" the man in question grumbled. raine finds herself nearing the eldest.

"but why the sudden change?"

anthony sighed as he swallowed the biscuit on his hand, "it probably has not come to your little mind that this family needs a viscountess. a viscountess is a lady that—"

"shush," he's lucky that's the only thing he got from her, given that she is to become a viscountess herself next year and he was mansplaining. she looked up in glee and clasped her hands again with true joy this time, "oh, i'm going to have so much fun this season!"

violet thinks that anthony and raine is a great pair and she would have been pushing for it already, had raine not been in love with benedict.

━━━ ✦ ❘ ☽ 【❖】 ☾ ❘ ✦ ━━━

"as much as i love you, lady bridgerton, i do not want to talk about anything with relation to my societal season and marriages."

kate and anthony entered the room, just in time for the debutante's antics. the matriarch sighed at the apparent lack of interest from the girl, while the latter broke into the widest grin.

"i would, however, welcome the conversation if i'm paired with benedict."

she turned to her other side where lies the subject, both of the topic and her affections, "speaking of which, will you marry me now, ben?"

the second-eldest son did not open his eyes from the sleepless nap he was having as a boyish smile made its way to his lips, "not a chance."

"ah, what a shame." she smiled at the sight of him before turning back to his mother with a clap, "well, there's always tomorrow."

[pinep-ne]

More of a drabble (deepest apologies) and a little Jovier doodle cause u deserve it (to make up for it) ^_^

AHH!!! First time drawing them...

Anywho. (Lifting the cloche) Your fic, @officialbugdrink...

Placed in Blackwater, pre-canon, where instead of acquaintances, Charles and Arthur's relationship is semi-established.

(i have this fic and more posted on ao3!)

----------

"Charles."

The voice behind him is out of breath. Charles had already known who it was before a word was uttered. Arthur tends to stumble about a lot, not necessarily stomping unless he's particularly angry, but there's an off-kilter sway to it, and it holds an odd little rhythm Charles can recognize yards away.

He turns behind him and sure enough, the man stands before him, clouds of soft white billowing from his nose and mouth, chin tilted down, unconsciously searching for the warmth of his fleece-lined collar. Looking a lot like he has no clue how he got there in the first place.

Charles turns to him fully. The lantern sitting at his feet— its amber light shifting, casting different in angles upon Arthur's unsure expression. He has his hands behind his back, very obviously putting a wall between Charles himself and the culprit of his own bashfulness.

Charles finds it so endearing in this moment he feels he's forgotten how to breathe. He sets his rifle against the tree he's been leaning on.

"Arthur," he says, like a soft sigh. "Why're you up so late?"

Arthur shifts again, turning his head to behind him, very inconspicuously, then back to Charles.

His voice stays hushed like the entire world is listening. "I know you ain't like a whole lotta attention, figured you was guarding tonight, woulda made it a little more... well..." Arthur trails off, averting his gaze again, shoulders dropping. Then, he starts up as he usually does, as if he's been shocked. Opens his mouth, and shuts it; another telling quirk of his.

"I made you somethin'," he settles on.

Before Charles can even process it, Arthur's slowly revealed the item in his hands, unable to hold back a smile. A small, whittled figure. Charles stares blankly at the thing, then back to Arthur, before he recognizes its shape.

It's... a horse. Not much bigger than his palm, carved and smoothened by deft yet obviously intermediate hands. Arthur's steps forward, offering for Charles to take it, like they're exchanging some divine, precious object.

Precious, certainly. "It's Taima," Arthur exclaims, a little less quiet than before.

"Arthur, I've never..."

"I know!" He huffs, "I just wanted to give you somethin' anyway. An' the gangs doing the whole gift thing come morning. Lord knows I'd get shit for the next week, if I'd shown you this then. Save us both the trouble."

Charles runs his thumb along the detail, still fixated on it, feeling like his heart's caught in his throat. It certainly looks like her, now. Stylized slightly, but the head especially, her character portrayed to an impressive extent. He's known about Arthur's sketches. Seeing it translated to a tangible, sentimental thing, and a craft born from love specifically, is a whole other experience he's found himself unprepared for.

It was the smallest detail he'd shared over a few beers; only the vast prairie and Arthur having the ears to hear it. A simple admission, that he's never really had the opportunity to celebrate anything close to Christmas. As a child, it simply wasn't a part of his culture. Now it's merely on account of his lack of community, of permanence, and by that matter, any relation to anyone.

Arthur, still, rambles on all matter-of-factly. As if the gesture isn't completely shattering Charles where he stands, unable to yet say anything. Soon though, he notices, and immediately begins to wind down. Takes it as distaste, maybe. He starts spewing out empty apologies, under the guise of reassurances, doused greatly in insecurity, as he usually does when he can't really make sense of a reaction.

Charles doesn't take the time to decipher it, only grabs Arthur by his collar before the man can tear away anymore pages, catching him in a fleeting kiss. Embodying the desperate need to express something back; so rushed that it's painful. He snakes a hand, occupied with the little figure, beneath Arthur's arm, covering the expanse of his back— embracing.

"Thank you," he manages, muffled somewhere in the fleece of Arthur's coat. The figure is warm in his hand, as are the arms wrapped around him, and the body that sways them both.

[tomlinfonda]

"Why are artists so butthurt about AI art? Horse carriage drivers didn't complain when they invented the car, they were just grateful that the technology evolved and made it easier to get around."

Art is not a carriage, it's not a vehicle. Its purpose is not to be efficient, to do a practical job with as little effort as possible. Art is not something that can be automated, because its artistry lies in the humanity of its creator. Art is wonderful, from a baby's first drawing, inexperienced and unskilled, to the paintings adorning the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

If you consider yourself an AI artist, I ask you: are you proud of yourself when the computer has completed another image that you will claim as yours? Do you look at it and feel the joy of having created something?

Does the generative process teach you how to see the world better? With every image created, do you evolve? Do you understand the planes of the face better now than 1000 images ago? Do you know what rim light is, and where to put it? Do you understand light sources? Tones? Could you take a piece of paper and shade a portrait by yourself?

"AI software is just like Photoshop or Blender, the next step in artistic technology".

It's not though, is it? A digital artist uses a pen to put colors on screen, chooses where to put each brush stroke, when to smudge or use the liquify tool. A 3D sculptor manipulates basic shapes into characters just like a traditional artist molds clay. An AI "artist" doesn't make any of the thousands of choices that lead to the creation of a real piece of art.

"But art is hard, and I'm not good enough."

Neither am I! Man, I'm not the worst artist in the world, but I'm not great, still not at the level I would like to be. Sometimes I draw something and I look at it and realize that it sucks ass! Sometimes I post a drawing online and realize that I drew a character out of proportion, that the light source is not consistent, that I've shaded outside the lines! And you know what's great? That I get to have an understanding of what I did wrong! I get to evolve! I redraw something from 5 years ago and realize that my composition is much better, my shading more believable. And I know that in 5 more years, I might redraw it again and pride myself in how much I've evolved.

I've been drawing since I was a baby, and I still have a long way to go. And that is also fine, because art is a lifelong pursuit, growing, changing, just as I am.

It's okay to not be good. Hell, it's okay if you don't even try to get better. By drawing, you WILL. It's inevitable that, by practicing, you'll learn.

You know what will not make you a better artist? Software that will generate your "art" for you. The result might look more complex than what your skill level allows you to create right now. But it doesn't look better. You could draw a crooked circle on xerox paper and it will look better than all the AI art in the world. Because you made it. Have some faith in yourself. Your vision has more artistic value than what that computer generated.

"If you're afraid that AI will steal your job, learn to draw better!"

I'm trying. Are you?

[tramon81]

The mechanics of Play pretend.

You know, I think that one of the reasons stuff like bakugan, beyblade, hell even skylanders and arguably ben 10 were so popular in their era is thanks of the focus of depicting it's main gimmick as mysterous artifact merges of these supernatural powers within a mechanical doohickey that has a physical way to be operated.

If you look at a bakugan in your hand and you can see how it works where it opens, the first step is a physical understanding on how it works in real life, and the next part is left to your imagination. It introduces a device that correlates those two things, and to put it simply, there's a reason why one can consider it "Rad as hell" both first hand as a kid, and retroactively as an adult.

image taken from this video

These all kinda introduce a ritual to "activate" that supernatural power these pieces of plastic are asking you to imagine them having.

Throw the bakugan, the bakugan handles the mechanics they need to Open up you handle imagining it as a cool ass dragon emerging from it.

Let the bayblade "rip" through its mechanism, and as they clash you can imagine a winged horse emerging and fighting it out.

Push the button, the dial pops up, select one of these misterious alien siluettes by spinning the dial, Slam it, and you bet the kid who bought that toy omnitrix is gonna pretend to be Fourams or whoever ther favorite is.

Skylanders is weird in this sense, since it has the mechanism, but instead of leaving it to the imagination it outright shows on screen how the toy ahem "came to life". While it does make really cool the whole process of placing the skylander on the portal and them arriving in the game, it all feels very magical. Altough their medium can make them feel pretty robotic at times.

What you can see here is a physical, real and mechanical interaction with the toy, being used to justify an imaginative, supernatural and fictional effect that is given to them. Just how a kid will need to take a stick before they can imagine having a magic wand in their hands, these toys focus on that aspect as a way to bring to life their own ideas into the playground.

I feel this is partly a reason why this type of toy had a bigger sucess in general. Give a kid a toy that has tons of very specific features like "the toy talks" or "the toy walks on its own" and probably they will get tired of it sooner rather than later. Give a kid a toy that has some specific actions wich let them imagine the effect and how they use that effect and little by little the kid has imagined their whole game by themselves.

Even in the case of skylanders where the toys do talk, walk and have their own powers the kid can have the console represent for them. That activation process, specially with how well the portal cutscenes are represented with its sound design, goes a long way to inmerse that kid within that game world. The portal of power is a completely different beast than the NFC reader for amiibos for example, cause skylanders while products at their core, have had effort put into selling the idea through a "play pretend" approach.

All in all, parts of my infancy were pretty defined by this style of toys, specially ben 10 and to a lesser extent bakugan. As somewhat of a digital artist nowadays a lot of the motivations that i have for drawing were developed in that stage. I see drawing in a sense of a sort of evolution to that play pretend, what once we imagined as children, be it your own custom ben 10 alien, or bakugan or the like, now i have the power to bring those ideas to life and more importantly, share them with others they way i imagined them.

[no6secretsanta]

From: @skiesinlove

For: @dreamingsap

Happy holidays!

*

Nezumi hates hospitals. This is no secret. The way they look with their walls so white it's like all the color's been sucked clean out of them; how they smell with an astringent so potent he can taste isopropyl in the back of his throat; the beeping of machines rhythmically broadcasting how close people are to death.

Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep days. Two days. Two days.

If he could never step foot in a hospital again, it would be too soon. Fuck this noise—he'd rather die in a ditch than be poked and prodded and restrained and given mysterious substances and the whole thing is really just a nightmare for Nezumi specifically.

But he's here. With gritted teeth and the fury of a thousand ordinary men, he's here—because Shion's here, and he sure as fuck isn't going to leave him alone, not like this. He's oscillating wildly between feeling like he's going to throw up and feeling like he's going to punch a hole in the wall and feeling like he's going to cry. Fear like claws tears him apart from the inside out and makes him want to scream or fight someone until he gets answers or both.

The first day was spent pacing in circles around the too-big room while nurses and doctors filtered in and out, putting all kinds of tubes and needles in Shion with very little explanation for Nezumi.

"It's to help with the tachycardia."

"We'll monitor his heart better with this."

"He can't protect his airway right now, so he has to be intubated."

"It's pain control, for when he wakes up."

When he wakes up.

Nezumi holds onto that line like it's a life preserver and he's drowning at sea. Not "if," but "when." There has to be a "when," because if there's no "when" then Nezumi is going to make that everyone else's problem before he implodes in on himself.

Shion has to wake up. He's going to wake up.

It all happened so fast that on the second day, when Nezumi has time to slow down instead of tearing his hair out and walking a circular groove into the linoleum, he finally tries to process it. It still doesn't seem real. It was like this:

Nezumi comes home from his daily scavenging of the West Block for anything of significance that can be salvaged to the little cottage he and Shion share between that area of the city and No. 6. Shion, it turns out, has been home all day, which is very unlike him. He's been known to go into work practically on death's door. He's semi-conscious, flushed, vomiting, and burning up so badly Nezumi can feel it without needing to touch his skin. When Nezumi tries to rouse him, he just groans and tries to roll away, shaking. Nezumi tries everything he can think of to break the fever—cold rags, herbs, drawing a hot bath that he basically has to carry Shion into and hold him upright within—and nothing helps.

It's when his breathing begins to shallow, his pulse racing so quickly Nezumi isn't convinced his veins won't burst, that he snaps and finally brings him to the hospital in their horse-drawn cart. He carries Shion inside because he's not even conscious enough to stand and Nezumi barks and yells and screams until someone takes his love from his arms and whisks him away in a wheelchair, leaving Nezumi in the hospital waiting room. It isn't until hours later that he's finally allowed to see Shion with the briefest, most "I have to do this because it's part of my job description" explanation of Shion's condition.

"We're not sure what's wrong. We're running some tests. He's unconscious but stable. You can see him now."

And that's about as much as Nezumi's gotten in the two days they've been here.

"We're not sure yet, but we're running some tests."

It's an answer he gets about a hundred times before he finally snaps.

“What's going on?” Nezumi finally demands of one of the nurses, grabbing them by the elbow as they leave. He releases them the second they turn to face him, stiffening into a pillar of quietly shaking rage, because he's sure any longer will get him thrown out.

Thankfully, the nurse looks more irritated than frightened. Even though that annoys Nezumi even more. 

You should be more frightened, he thinks darkly. I'd burn this place to the ground if I thought it would help him.

“We’re not sure. Still running tests,” the nurse says curtly.

“You've run a thousand tests already. How do you not know what's killing him?” Nezumi practically spits, his throat tightening to keep from yelling.

“We're doing everything we can.”

And that's the last human interaction Nezumi has that day.

Nezumi hasn't slept in all that time, not since he came home to find Shion barely responsive in their bed. Exhausted and at his wit's end with fear and frustration, Nezumi collapses into the chair beside Shion's bed.

He's barely recognizable, hooked up to all those monitors with a huge plastic tube down his throat doing his breathing for him. Nezumi watches the rhythmic, mechanical rise and fall of his chest in a sleep-deprived, hypnotic trance. Almost automatically, he takes one of Shion's hands and presses the back to his lips. It's warm and soft and smells like that horrible jasmine-scented soap that Nezumi hates, but right now it smells like Shion so it becomes another raft keeping him buoyant enough to breathe. He brushes his lips against Shion's skin over and over and over and over again, until his lips are chapped and the back of Shion's hand is pink and the only thing his body seems to know how to do or feel is the motion of the kiss.

Hypotheticals have never been Nezumi's forte. There's always too much to worry about in the present to think too far into the future. It's the only saving grace now, his ability to pull his mind from the worst case—the only thing worse than the incessant beeping of the machines, which would be them ceasing to do so—and simply focus on the smell, the feel, of Shion against his lips.

At some during this reverie, he nods off. It is in this space that Nezumi is plagued by the what-ifs. What if Shion doesn't wake up? What if he's hooked up to all these monitors and machines forever? They'd ask Nezumi to be the one to pull the plug, and he would just to spare Shion any further torture in this place, but at least a part of him would be pulled out and die alongside him. Or even worse, what if Shion does come to and is completely, irrevocably different? That happens sometimes, Nezumi’s heard. What if he loses Shion, to death or to a changed mind?

It's not that Nezumi can't lose Shion, as in “it isn't possible to lose Shion,” it's that Nezumi can't lose Shion as in, “I will tear this city apart before I lose this man.”

It's been a while since Nezumi has been this afraid, and there aren't even any guns involved.

The what-ifs give way to sleep. His dream is amorphous and confusing: he's following Shion down a long, dark hallway, and he's always about twenty feet or so behind him. When he tries to call out, it's silent, and when he tries to run forward, he can't seem to catch up. The longer he follows, the more Shion starts to change. His hair slowly starts growing just a little too long, fading from white back to its natural brown, his shoulders slimming down more than normal, his fingers growing just a touch too clawed. There's a point when Shion stops in the middle of the hallway, and Nezumi stops too, and then Shion starts to turn around and Nezumi isn't sure if he should look at the face of the creature in front of him—

When he wakes up, the first thing he becomes aware of are the voices in the room. He keeps his eyes shut because it's probably just nurses and doctors coming to stick more things in Shion or take more things out of him like he's a kitchen junk drawer. But then there's some canned laughter and a musical sting and he realizes it must be one of those fancy televisions built directly into the wall opposite Shion’s bed. When his eyes fly open, he almost comes to with fist swinging because what kind of unprofessional, inconsiderate fuck would watch a sitcom in the room of a dying man and his lover?

But then eyes the color of a dying star flick to his face and thin, serpentine lips curl upward and Nezumi nearly vomits.

“Fuck.” Nezumi straightens as relief and affection and more anger (this time the knife points inward rather than outward) flood his system. He wipes some drool off the corner of his mouth, realizes he was still holding Shion's hand from where he'd slumped forward against the hospital bed and wipes some saliva from there too, and scoots closer. “Fuck. I'm sorry. I—god I didn't mean—how long was I out? When did you wake up?”

“Hello to you too,” Shion says with a quiet, croaky voice. Shit. That's right. He had a fucking plastic tube shoved down there for at least thirty hours.

“Don't talk, it sounds painful,” Nezumi corrects quickly. He reaches forward and brushes a thumb across Shion's cheek, feels his forehead. He's still warm, but not enough to kill braincells. “Just… fingers, how long have you been awake for?”

Shion's smile widens and he looks bemused, if not exhausted. He could move across the world packed in the bags under his eyes.

He holds up two fingers.

“Hours?” Nezumi clarifies.

Shion nods.

“Do they know what happened?”

Shion nods again. 

Nezumi exhales. “Is it contagious?”

Shion shakes his head. He opens his mouth to speak, but Nezumi leans forward and captures those lips in a kiss before he can cause any more damage to his clearly raw throat. It's short, but Nezumi pours a thousand unsaid words of gratitude and love into the contact and hopes to god Shion can understand all the things he can't say. By the soft, contented look on his face when Nezumi sinks back into his chair, it appears he does.

“Oh good, you're both awake.”

Nezumi nearly falls out of his chair at the sound of someone suddenly at the end of Shion's bed. God, he's so sleep deprived and distracted he hadn't even heard them come in. He's got to be more on his edge than this. Especially now.

“I just came to check on Shion here, make sure he's still recovering.” 

The… doctor? Nezumi assumes by his long white coat that Nezumi can't believe people still actually wear and isn't just something from old movies. Anyway, the doctor pulls out a piece of technology Nezumi thinks is called a tablet or something and starts tapping away at it. 

“You certainly gave us quite the scare,” the doctor continues. “Toxic shock is serious business.” The doctor's gaze moves to Nezumi and Nezumi squirms internally. There's something piercing about those eyes he immediately detests. “Good on you for bringing him in when you did. A few more hours without medical intervention and I'm not sure he would have made it.”

Okay. Okay so maybe… maybe Nezumi did do the right thing.

Nezumi just nods. He should probably thank the doctor for doing whatever they did to make sure Shion was okay, but Nezumi isn't in the practice of thanking people for just doing their job and he's not about to start now.

Shion, ever the more polite one, manages to rasp out a “thank you,” for them both anyway.

“Of course. Now, rest up. We're not out of the woods yet.”

The doctor doesn't say anything else to clarify whatever that extremely upsetting phrase means, just taps a few more times before giving both Nezumi and Shion a nod and leaving.

“They seemed nice,” Shion says, then coughs, then coughs harder.

Nezumi reaches over to the bedside table and shoves a cup of water into his hands, which Shion gratefully accepts.

“You think everyone is nice.”

Shion takes a long, long drink, actually finishes off the cup of water and swallows a few more times in an attempt to lubricate his throat. 

“No, I don't. I think most people aren't… well. They might be nice for politeness sake, but they aren't kind,” Shion says thoughtfully. “It takes too much effort to be kind.”

Nezumi snorts and shakes his head. Almost automatically, he reaches forward and grasps Shion's hand with both of his, brings it to his lips again. “I've made you too cynical.”

Shion hums at the kiss and settles back against his pillows. “I was cynical before you. I just didn't voice it.”

His head rolls to the side, and he looks absolutely exhausted but for some reason he's smiling. “I can't believe you actually brought me to a hospital. Are you starting to put trust in society again?”

Nezumi makes a disapproving noise through his teeth. “Fuck, no. But I wasn't about to watch you die on our bathroom floor.”

Shion's smile fades and his brows pinch together. “Was it that bad?”

Nezumi clenches his teeth, remembering Shion leaning over the side of their bathtub and vomiting blood into a tub they used for washcloths, and he nods. Shion's face falls. 

“Oh. I'm… I'm sorry. I didn't—”

Nezumi lurches forward and captures Shion's lips in another kiss, not at all interested in hearing Shion apologize for something that wasn't his fault, as usual. Shion makes the most adorable little noise out of his nose before relaxing against Nezumi’s mouth. Feeling Shion's living, breathing warmth soothes something inside Nezumi. 

Shion is here and he's alive and he's going to be okay. The sun could fall out of the sky and Nezumi’s world would still be fine. 

“Don't apologize, idiot highness,” Nezumi mumbles, pulling back. “Just… don't scare me like that again. Ever.”

Shion chuckles, his cheeks pink again but not feverish. “Alright. I'll do my best. Kiss me again?”

And Nezumi does. And does. And does. 

Loving someone might be a burden, but with Shion alive in front of him and kissing him, Nezumi feels it's more than worth it.

[skycowboys]

Hi! My daughter REALLY likes your drawings (she LOVES pegs) and would like to learn how to draw them better, and was wondering if you might offer classes, or, maybe do step by steps. Thank you!

Hi there!

Aw, that's super sweet :)

I don't currently have any official media that counts as "instructional" other than my tips on drawing wings post. However, I do sometimes do art "drawover" notes for people in my Discord community -

As far as learning how to draw fantasy creatures, I can say what helped get me started -

Practice drawing the anatomy of real animals

Drawing animals from life at the zoo is a fantastic way to practice. Your daughter can also find areas like petting zoos at the fair, or ask a local riding stable if she can observe a lesson to draw horses in motion. I remember hanging out at the riding stables where I kept my horse and drawing for hours after riding. Once she feels comfortable with anatomy basics, she can start combining parts. That's essentially what my pegasi are - horses with bird parts and attributes patched on top like some sort of wild Garry's Mod creature.

And, most importantly...

Draw so so so much. Draw all of the time.

The best way to get comfortable with drawing animals to draw them for hours and hours and hours. Fill up hundreds of sketchbooks with loose, fast, messy, unpolished sketches of animals. Animals - specifically horses - are very hard to draw. They'll look wonky and not quite right at first but the more a person draws, the more solid the drawings will become.

Some of my favorite animal books and artists -

The Art of Animal Drawing by Ken Hultgren. This book has been my staple go-to book since highschool. I've worn through 3 copies.

Principles of Creature Design by Terryl Whitlatch

Science of Creature Design by Terryl Whitlatch. Whitlatch's work is very grounded in hard science, great for ultra-realistic species that could really physically function.

Dracopedia by William O'Connor. A very fun book on O'Connor's process of drawing and painting different dragons.

Animal Essence by Joe Weatherly. This is a great book about how to capture live animals in all sorts of mediums.

James Gurney - creator of Dinotopia. His work is realistic, yet still contains an element of "rule of cool".

Cory Loftis has lovely animal sketches in Art of Zootopia. His work is heavily stylized, but I love how he simplifies animal anatomy into easily recognizable shapes.

I hope this helps in lieu of step-by-steps!

~ Larn

--

Discord | Patreon | Art Prints

[darkangel319]

WIP Questionnaire

Tagged by @faeriecinna (here) and @wintherlywords (here)

This is kind of late, but I have a ton of tags drafted and I'm slowly working through them when I find my motivation. Here's the response for my current WIP: A Tale of Frost and Flames (still a working title)

✨What was the first part of your wip that you created? ✨

It all started with a knight kneeling before his princess and promising to be her sword and to mow down any enemies that stand in her way. Now it has evolved far past just that.

✨If your story was a TV show, what would the theme song/intro be?✨

Definitely a powerful instrumental intro with a touch of whimsy.

✨Who are your favorite characters you've made? Why?✨

Taliesin is certainly a favorite of mine because I wanted to create a strong morally grey character who is also a dragon. Although I'm attached to all of them, especially the ones I have yet to introduce. Rhidian because he's a himbo who just wants to be a good person and is stuck being the 3rd son of a king, so his job is to be married off to make an alliance. Despite this he wants to make his arranged marriage work.

✨What other pieces of media do you think would share a fan base for your story?✨

Anything with a heavy romance element in an in-depth fantasy world. Other Media with political drama, faefolk, magic, and dragons.

✨What has been your biggest struggle with your wip? ✨

My biggest struggle has been with my pacing. Trying to find the right pace for plot points to unfold themselves. Just recently I decided that my pace was going too fast, so to slow it down I'm refocusing book one into more of a focus on where Eirallia is now/who she is rather than pushing her too quickly into evolving into the character that I imagine for her. I'm slowing it down to focus more on her character journey, but it's been a struggle to take a step back and to make that choice.

✨Are there any animals in your story? Talk about them!✨

Regular animals so far. There's natural wildlife in the kingdoms. As for Melione...there are a lot of creatures in the wylds. Animalistic and not. There is another character that I have in mind (without a name yet), but she has a secondary form that's cat-like.

✨How do your characters get around? (ex: trains, horses, cars, dragons, etc.)✨

Horses and carriages in the human kingdoms, along with ships and other vessels. Melione is a special case where there is an abundance of magic. Some have wings and other gifts that can get them around quicker.

✨What part of your wip are you working on rn?✨

After some rough decisions, I split the draft that I had been working with into the beginning and end of book one. So right now, I am working on Eirallia's slow processing of grief while she is being overloaded with responsibilities that don't belong to her in a place where she knows that she isn't wanted.

✨What aspects (tropes, maybe?) of your wip do you think will draw people in?✨

It's my hope that my themes of adversity and overcoming will shine through and draw people in. Along with the progression of growth that all of my characters have to go through in order to find who they're meant to be when not being forced into a mold created by their parents and the society that they live in. There's a heavy theme of grief and trying to fit into a mold made for someone else. Basically, Eira's life is a mess. Her love life, her family life, everything is a mess. She's learning along the way how to be herself while processing big losses in her life.

✨ What are your hopes for your wip?✨

My hopes are pretty simple with this one: To be able to physically hold my wip in my hands.

No Pressure Tags: @fantasywriternimzy, @oodles-of-noodles, @spideronthesun, @melpomene-grey

[soulofapatrick]

Cold, Hard Honesty - Tommy Miller x Reader

Summary: Y/N has to trudge home from patrol cold and wet in the middle of winter and Tommy is there to help you warm up before you catch a cold but things get admitted

Words: 1.8K

Warnings: none (I don’t think)

Notes: Just something small while I try come up with more ideas x

Y/N’s POV

The gate opens for me and I ignore the huddled group of my friends and family who by the looks of it were about to send out a search party for me. Ellie and Tommy are calling my name but I just ignore them, not in the damn mood for anything. I head straight to my small house, wanting to get out of my sopping wet clothes that have been chaffing painfully for the last hour, ripping the skin open and drawing blood in some places that has been my only source of warmth. I must look like shit and am definitely deathly pale, my lips and fingertips are tinged blue and they’re practically numb to any feeling so I keep trying to flex my hands to keep some blood running through them. I would rather kill myself than get hypothermia and have to have my hands or fingers amputated. 

Of course, my not so trusty horse - Indiana - decided that today he would spook at a flock of birds and reared in panic subsequently throwing me into the ice cold lake then bolting back to Jackson. Today was the first time I was allowed to take this route on my own to prove myself and I’m pretty sure I won’t be allowed on any patrol routes on my own anymore let alone this one. With Indiana gone the only way home was to pull myself out of the river and trudge my way back, through the heavy snow for a hour and just hope no raiders or infected appear as my weapons are attached to Indiana’s saddle and I’m too slow to defend myself. The cold’s too busy setting into my bones and wrapping her icy fingers over every inch of me despite how much I try and warm myself up by rubbing my arms. It just speeds up the process of chaffing so I have to stop, keeping my arms around myself as I walked, barely able feel my feet and my whole body is trembling from the cold and water, my hair practically frozen against my back. 

The snow crunches behind mine as one of them breaks away from the concerned group to follow me. I don’t dare look behind me because as soon as I look at whoever is following me I’m going to break down and… I don’t cry. I’m not that type of person. I’ve killed hundreds of infected, clickers and blasters alike, many are scared to hear my name let alone meet me. 

I. Don’t. Cry. 

My keys fumble in my hands and I let my eyes slip shut when the person’s body presses up against my back and gently nudges the keys from my shaking hands so they can unlock the door. They smell of vanilla; coffee and woodsmoke and I try not to groan knowing it’s Tommy. Tommy is the one currently ushering me into my own house with large hands on my hips before he’s kicking the front door shut behind us, his chest still practically pressed to my back. He doesn’t speak, just keeps his hands on me being slow with his movement as he drags them up my front and carefully unzips my coat, letting it fall to the floor between us. I almost whine when he steps away, the cold making its way back through me until hands are gripping mine and he’s now in front of me. 

I don’t want to meet his gaze but he’s staring, waiting for me to do it so with a shaky breath I’m flicking my eyes up from the floor to meet his cognac ones. They’re full of concern and worry when I barely react to his thumb brushing over my trembling bottom lip, hardly feeling it through the chills. He’s drawing me forwards with every step back until we’re in the bathroom, only letting go to begin running me a bath. Quicker than I can process he’s back, nimble fingers moving to my shirt now, carefully unbuttoning it and a gasp escapes his lips when he sees the blood. It’s trickling down my shoulders, red and watery trailing little bits of heat over soaking my entire being. The shirt is flung aside before I just watch as Tommy sinks to his knees, popping the button on my jeans and sliding them down just as slowly, pressing scorching kisses on hips every time I wince at the drag of the denim. Soon enough they’re joining my shirt and Tommy’s standing, checking the bath is ready for me. 

“T-Tommy…” My voice is hoarse and shakes, hands reaching for him and he just pulls me against his chest, wrapping those strong arms around my shoulders and pressing a sweet kiss against my forehead that has me burying my face in his chest as the tears prickle behind my eyes. The feeling of safety and comfort wafting off of him is almost too much and he cards a hand over my slowly melting hair, rocking us on the spot and I let the damn burst. I’m sobbing, being done with everything and just so fucking wrecked and Tommy just holds me through it all, not saying a word knowing I’ll talk when I’m ready, “Stay.” 

“I’m right here sweet girl,” He soothes, holding my face in his hands and making me look at him, thumb brushing away the tears before he’s guiding me towards the bathtub, “You need to get warm before you catch a cold.” His lips pressing against my forehead again and the water stings as I slowly step in, sinking down with his large hands helping me. He’s moving away from the edge of the bath and I’m letting out a whimper, grabbing his hand tightly as I don’t want him to go. I need him here with me and keeping me safe. I don’t want to be alone and his gaze softens until he’s kneeling next to the bathtub. His arms resting along the edge of it and head on his arms as I sink back, letting the water warm my freezing joints, the chaffing making it somewhat uncomfortable. 

It’s as if Tommy can sense my discomfort as he’s moving, leaning over me to grab the wash cloth and I let him run it over the open wounds, hands gripping his arm at the pain but he soothes every action with quiet praises. I wish this was real, him soothing and praising me but he doesn’t see me like that. I’m just his niece’s best friend and nothing more, he’s looking after me out of courtesy and the fact I won’t let anyone near me like this except him and maybe Jesse. I want him to want me back but he’s not going to.

“Hey sweet girl,” His thumb brushes another tear off my cheek, “What’s wrong? Am I hurting you?” 

“N-no Tom, no you’re okay.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

“N-Nothing.” 

“Don’t lie to me.” 

“I’m in love with you.” I blurt out, keeping my face turned away from him, not wanting to see the disgust on his face. He’s silent, the washcloth still making comforting strokes over my skin and I want to just sink under the water. I’m sliding myself down but his hot hands grip my shoulders and he’s turning my upper half to face him. His cognac eyes are full of a mixture of emotions but the way they dart down to my parched lips and back up has a little bit of hope swelling in my chest but I could be hallucinating really. A reaction to the changing temperatures or something. 

It’s very real and heartbreaking when he gets up and walks out, hesitating by the door and I’m breaking down again. Embarrassment and loss adding to the pain encompassing my body as it tries to find the base temperature. I just stay there, laying back so just my face is still above the water and cry, feeling so stupid. I’ve probably ruined my friendship with Tommy forever now and that seems to hurt even more than him walking out on me after my admittance. 

I don’t know how much longer I lay in the bath but by the time I get out the sun is setting and the water has gone cold. My muscles scream at every movement as I dry myself gingerly with the towel before pulling on a clean shirt and pants then trudging to the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee and find something to eat. Just my luck my fridge is practically empty and if I had any more tears left I’d be crying again but instead I’m resting my elbows on the cool counter and my face buried in my hands as I wait for the water to boil for my coffee. 

I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts about Tommy and they way he looked at me, looked down at my lips, before he walked out that I don’t hear my front door open and close. I’m jumping, spinning around with my hands raised ready to defend myself, at the clearing of someone’s throat. 

Oh. It’s Tommy. He has a sheepish look on his face, a bag in his hand and he’s just standing there. I want to yell and throw something at him, instead mustering a broken, “Get out.” His face breaks and he’s putting the bag down before moving towards me with purpose, “I said get out Tom-“ Lips are on mine, feverish and needing. Strong hands on my hip and cupping my cheek as he kisses me like I’m the air he needs to live. My hearts pounding but then again it could be Tommy’s but all I know is I need him like I need oxygen. 

“I’m sorry I walked out. I didn’t expect you to say that let alone feel the same way,” He gasps out when we part and I just turn my head away but he’s holding my face between those gun-calloused palms, forcing me to look into those endless pools of cognac before he continues, “I am madly in love with you too and I want you so much, if you’ll still have me.” 

“What’s in the bag?” 

“Dinner, I saw your fridge was empty.” He blushes, his sun kissed skin flushing red and he’s ducking his head. A surprised sound leaving those beautiful lips when I yank him closer and steal his breath away with another kiss. I forgive him. Of course I forgive him. How could I not forgive him? He’s so addictive and I could spend all day like this, his lips bruising mine with a passion that I have only ever dreamed of and read of in those books from before the outbreak, “Come on, let’s eat before it gets cold.” 

“You won’t leave me?” 

“Never.” 

-----------

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[punished-impartial-speaker]

You good? Seems like December hasn't been kind to you

ehhh, it’s just a bunch of work bullshit piling up. I got handed this complicated freestanding conversion project and spent a good couple of weeks figuring out the interior design (at the cost of my own free time and sleep) to meet what the client said they had wanted, only for the client to change their mind two days before the deadline and tell me to do the entire thing over again based on a totally different design idea. Which was an idea I had shown them when I did my initial test fits months ago, but they decided to go a different route at the time. Sigh.

And then I’ve got this other situation in PA where a plan examiner is being a huge pain. Basically they have this really bizarre submittal process where you can’t permit just a cold dark shell building, and unfortunately the majority of my projects are a shell and a tenant fit-out (both by me) with the landlord paying for the shell permit and the tenant paying for the TFO permit. Pretty much every other jurisdiction lets you do this, including every other jurisdiction in PA that I’ve worked in, but not these guys. So now I gotta retroactively combine two separate sets of drawings and get this whole thing resubmitted ASAP because we are already dragging on schedule. Fortunately no one on the client side is mad at me at all, but the plans examiner is an absolute cunt every time I call to ask questions and make sure I’m getting the submittal requirements correct.

And then on top of that, I have like six other active stores in various stages of drafting or construction that I have to keep an eye on. Including one with a new kid shadowing, so I have to keep an eye on him too. He’s a good kid at least, and he knows how to work hard, but taking time to make sure he’s getting the guidance he needs is time I don’t have for the other things that need attention. And like god damn does my client need my attention for the dumbest fucking shit sometimes. And everybody’s shit is more importanter than everyone else’s, and it’s Q4 so we gotta scramble to get all this shit in to make the year end numbers look good, because if we don’t the development director will publicly humiliate us on the weekly conference call. And nobody fucking talks to each other so it’s constant panic that the architect always has to step in and solve. I exist in a constant cycle of anxiety and exhaustion and I hate everyone.

but aside from work, I have a cozy house and fun cars to drive, and all of my animals are happy and healthy, and I have the best husband ever who’s always there to listen and give me a hug or send me a funny video when I need it, and a nice lady the next county over lets me hang out with her horses for as long as I want after my riding lessons because I said it makes me feel at peace, and everybody in my life at least has their health, and the world is maybe possibly starting to turn over to partially a tiny little bitty bit the right direction again, and idk man. it’s been fucking shit but there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.

guess I can’t complain!

[aesa-draumspakr]

Okay it's been some time but I made this kidney pouch as a Kris Kringle gift for a member of my (SCA) household, and it wasn't without tribulations.

Tribulations and *the process* continued under the cut

So I used the pattern from Dark Horse armoury (which is great, highly reccomend. I'll link it if someone asks)

What I didn't account for was how much of the vege tan leather I had left. So I had to print the pattern multiple times at different scalings to see what fit with the leather I had, but! I persevered.

Next came punching all the holes, I used the smallest drive punch I had for all the stitching holes and crouched on the concrete of the garage for hours tapping away and slowly eroding my cutting mat (I have a punch block now, this whole project was made in desperation)

But alas! Tragedy struck

When I bent and then snapped my punch most of the way through! But ingenuity provides and I continued by using some jewellery pliers.

With that out the way, then came stitching.

This went pretty smoothly all things considered, I even managed to watch a whole season of the vox machina animated show on a friend's reccomendation

And that's it! This was a very "step 1: draw a circle, step 2: draw the rest if the owl" walk through of myself making a kidney pouch

[mllenugget]

Hey!

I'm looking for tips on improving my art. I'm currently a broke-beginner but really want to improve. Any advice or drawing tips?

Oof beginner art tip ? Uhm 🤔 My Too Long Didn't Read take is : Fill your head with lots of references from real life photographies, movies, comics or any other artists that inspire you and analyse how they work and why you like them As well as practice practice practice ! Explore and experiment ! There's a LOT of free art ressources on the internet and specific tutorials for what you may be interested in Some of my personal favorites are ARVEN92's My rambling answer is :

Personally, I know that my art level stayed stuck for a very long time because I kept drawing the same things over and over again. I used to never get out of my confort zone.

Exploring new horizons is hard and frustrating and sometimes it takes a dozen of failed attempts before you finally make something look just like how you want it to (I sure did) But I can't recommend practicing and experimenting enough !

Look up artists' who inspire you and study their pieces in order to understand what you like in them (watch their speedpaints if they have any to check out their process)

Google photography of people and analyse how the lighting works. Find painting of landscapes and try to understand why such cluster of pixels looks like a bush from afar, how can you replicate that with your own hand ?

Take/Print multiple pictures of the same animal and TRACE IT, that's right don't be scared to do so ! It's a taboo topic in art communities but it shouldn't be ! As long it's not from a fellow artist and as long as you don't claim it as yours then it's perfectly fine ! So trace over it and try to get a grip of how the anatomy work and where the bones are and how the muscles wrap around all that mess. Then try to replicate that same drawing but without the model. Compare the result to the image again… See what might be off Then do it again, this time try to stylize it and shape it however you like !

Photography source

Also, don't hesitate to take a step back. You won't notice your improvement right away because, just like your own face : you see it everyday and thus may not notice the slow changes as you grow, yet they are still there ! If you feel exhausted from practicing, take a break for a couple of days and come back with a fresh eye and mindset I used to think I never changed my way of drawing horses, but once you look back how far you've come you only realize that is simply not true

[deadboyfriendd]

for the wip game!

Bisbee please!

if it's the Bisbee I'm thinking of?

if not, I still very much need it

deeply curious about all of them, tbh

It is the Bisbee you're thinking of.

Here's the playlist for it

As you know, Bisbee belongs to my Cochise universe, centered around the after events of Cochise and how the sheriff processes his trauma while attempting to find love again.

He is God's silliest cowboy, life is his horse and love is his lasso.

Jokes aside, I plan on this fic being marginally more violent and, fingers crossed, a little more raw than Cochise ever was and can ever hope to be. I was inspired by my latest read, Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy.

This sheriff is a little more than rough around the edges. He is trying to process unbelievable grief and years worth of trauma on his own, while meeting Nellie's cousin, who is a wild card merchant's daughter for Louisiana who, despite her own naivety, is also running from a dark secret.

Bisbee is going to be raw, and gritty, and deep rooted in violence, but hopefully Steve and reader can find some healing and solace within each other.

The letters are available to read now, and I plan on drawing a lot of parallels from those and using them as an unofficial timeline for the story, despite the letters being written before reader even steps off the train in Cochise county.

[lassieposting]

God though

There are multiple references to "the General" building the Little Palace as a safe haven for Grisha. As in this General, General Kirigan, not a previous persona of Aleksander's from a long time ago.

So the Little Palace must be fairly recent? Within Kirigan's believable lifetime. So it hasn't really been that long since Grisha were living in hiding, or in tiny hidden villages, or whatever. Outside of his time in the army - throughout various lives - this is probably the most people he's ever had living and working and learning around him at one time.

And. If the Little Palace is where all the new baby Grisha are brought to grow up and study, and it's also where he lives and works most of the time, he's going to cross paths with the children a lot.

I love the idea that sometimes he's just. Accosted, by small Grisha. In the hallways or the gardens. Because the Little Palace is safe, and they're too young to remember how it was before, how dangerous it would've been for them. And the Black General is feared and respected and hated in equal measure at court and across the borders, but these children, growing up under his protection, have no fear of him at all, even as a near-stranger. To them anyone in a kefta is part of their family.

And like. This is bizarre beyond belief for him - for all the adult Grisha who grew up before he made a deal with the King - at first. Baghra beat it into him young that he should never trust anyone, not even other Grisha, for desperate men will do terrible things to survive. Always a litany of rules to keep him safe, to stay one step ahead of the otkazatsya. Don't tell them your name. Don't summon where they might see you. Don't wander too far or the Druskelle will snatch you. Don't let anyone touch you, or they'll kill you for your bones. Love no one, boy, it makes you weak.

And now, suddenly, that is over. These children will never know that fear, will never understand what it is to be hunted for existing, with nowhere safe to turn. They will always have a bolt hole to return to, in the Little Palace. And he finds that he doesn't really know how to deal with that - with how much more trusting it makes them.

A procession of small children passes him in the corridor as he's talking to Ivan, and a little girl at the end of the line stops to tug at the sleeve of his jacket. When he looks down, she holds up a tiny flame cupped in her hand like she wants to give it to him to hold. Her front teeth are missing. I can make it by myself now, she announces through a thick lisp. Every instinct he has is screaming at him to close his hand over hers, quash that flame and hiss at her the same reproach he'd always get when he used his abilities somewhere he could be seen, where he could've put them both at risk. He has to remind himself that that was a different world, and a fear this girl will never truly understand. He blinks, and his throat feels dry and scratchy when he manages to choke out, Well...well done. Keep, uh. Practicing. As the child darts away after her classmates, he meets Ivan's eyes, as wary and mistrustful as his own, and can tell he's thinking the same thing.

He loses count, over the decades, of the number of children who shyly sidle up to him to ask him questions. He's used to being the subject of curiosity, at court. He's used to being feared, too. Hated. But these young Grisha, their curiosity is untainted, friendly even. You're General Kirigan, aren't you? Is it true you can summon shadows? What's your horse's name? How many battles have you won? My pa's First Army, an' he says he would'a never come back from Ryevost if you didn't come help 'em, so...thank you. Do you really get to go to the Grand Palace and see the king?

Alina finds a drawing hidden among a stack of papers in the top drawer of Kirigan's desk - a smiling boy surrounded by a sea of happy people in blue and red and purple, and a single figure in black. The words My Famlee have been painstakingly scrawled in a top corner in a very young child's shaky hand. The parchment is yellowed with age and battered around the edges, the colours have faded - this picture is old, certainly old enough that the child who made it must be a child no longer. She's never thought of Aleksander as someone sentimental enough to keep a child's picture; she's far too young to have any idea how it twisted up his insides, a bittersweet kind of grief, to see young Grisha feeling safe and happy and valued as he never had. The precious result of a lifetime of struggle and sacrifice. A reminder of what he'd achieved for his people, made for him by a boy with no idea of the trauma he'd been spared.

Fedyor tells Alina a story over drinks one evening, about the time a misplaced toddler from the creche wandered into the war room, and Kirigan conducted half of a morning briefing while valiantly trying to ignore their attempts to climb onto his lap, before giving in and spending the other half stiff-backed and tense with the little wretch on his knee, happily colouring in a map of Ravka so messily it had made the muscle in Kirigan's jaw twitch. Does him good to get pushed out of his comfort zone once in a while, he tells her. Reminds him he's human.

A kid falls over in the courtyard and starts to cry, and Alina goes over to pick them up and dust them off and give them a hug, because she's done her share of helping out with the younger kids back at the orphanage. She's no stranger to a scuffed knee. Aleksander follows behind her to hover at her shoulder, like he doesn't know what he ought to do, while the child sniffles into their sleeve and Alina tidies their hair. She feels him move behind her, and the child suddenly bleats out a laugh, high and delighted. He's crouched down like she is, his hand outstretched, and a little horse figure made of shadows is gambolling in the air inches above his palm. The child is transfixed, scraped knee forgotten. He glances over at her, eyebrow raised, and she gets the strangest feeling he's looking for her approval, confirmation that he reacted correctly.

You make me a better man, he told her once, as though she was the only person ever to have that effect on him.

She isn't. She sees it, even if he doesn't. The Grisha he's protecting make him a better man, too.

Just. Local scary shadow-summoner army general completely bewildered by friendly kids, more at 11

[void-botanist]

Spinder & Isabel OTP questions 2/6

"we're back", I said, in September. Well, now we're back back.

From this question list.

There are 60 questions, so I’m doing this in 10-question chunks. #spinder & isabel otp will give you all of the parts.

Nicea taglist: @kahvilahuhut @kk7-rbs @outpost51 @writernopal @athenswrites

Do either try to hide their emotions if upset? Can the other still tell? Spinder is, unsurprisingly, good at hiding his emotions when he's upset. Isabel can tell sometimes, but it's often more of a context thing than being able to read it directly from him. For him, it's usually fairly obvious when she's trying to hide her emotions but it's also fairly obvious to everyone else too. If it's not anger (or horniness, though that one's most obvious to him personally) she's trying to tamp down on, though, it's generally harder for him to tell.

Do they have many heated arguments? How do they smooth things over? Not many, but for any disagreement that's a little intense they have a process for smoothing things over. Before they can apologize, they have to step away and stew/cool down for a bit. Usually that’s a few minutes, or maybe a few hours if it was a particularly intense argument or something else takes priority, but there have been a handful of times when it took them days or weeks to actually be able to talk through the issue and move on (at least one of those was a pretty heated disagreement but I’m not sure what it was about). The apologizing itself is usually easy. The hard part is the untangling that comes after that, but the cooldown period makes it easier to laugh at themselves a little bit (which usually involves being comedically overdramatic and calling each other names). Once one of them can kind of make a step toward explaining or compromising then they can make their way toward a resolution.

Who’s the bigger tease? Isabel, but only because she's more obvious about it. Spinder is, however, a master of pressing her buttons.

How do their personalities compliment each other? How do they clash? While they are good at compromising, they're also both stubborn, and have a tendency to get pissy at each other. But they each often have patience for things that the other doesn't, and they both try to help each other improve. And Spinder always lets Isabel eat off his plate, so it works out.

Do they always say 'i love you' before leaving? Not always. But they do always say goodbye and that kind of serves the same purpose.

Can they stay up all night just talking? Isabel can. At some point Spinder will inevitably doze off.

Who's more likely to pull the other in by the waist and kiss them passionately? I feel like this specific move is more of a Spinder thing. He's too short to just kiss her, though (she's 5' 9", he's 5' 2"), so she either has to catch on and play along, or he has to have a hand on her face to draw it down to his level.

How likely are they to have fur babies? How many and what kind? If they didn't spend half their time in space Isabel might get on a "let's get a dog" kick. She loves dogs (that's hands down her favorite part about visiting her mom: her mom's dog) but Spinder thinks dogs are too much work. However his ideal pet (which he will probably never have) is a horse, so he has less of a point than he feels he does.

How do they feel about PDA? They're chaste about it, but they also don't entirely consider being halfway in each other's space at all times PDA. That's just how they've been as friends for ~20 years.

Choose one song that perfectly describes their relationship. Back in high school/early college when I was writing Old Canon Spinder and Isabel, I imagined the coolest AMV for them to Lovesong by The Cure. It fit them a bit better back then but I'll stand by it (the AMV can only get cooler if it's set in space).