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justanotherbirdbrain-blog · 1 year ago

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A Workshop for Creating Magical/ Fictional Crystals: A Guide from a Geologist

Hi folks, its me, here to talk about fictional writing again! Today I'm just tackling the idea of magical stones/mana stones by looking at existing minerals today and some neat properties that they have, and how you can apply these things to a fictional world. The goal is mainly to help you if you are stuck trying to come up with a unique magic system, or a unique identification/characteristic of your mineral.

First Things First: Mineral Shapes

I am exhausted, petered out, down-right fatigued by seeing every mineral depicted with having the crystal structure of calcite and quartz. There are soooooo many cooler, more interesting crystal structures, don't you think you would stop and take a look at a perfect cube in nature? It is completely unsettling.

Second: Color

Color within minerals can either be really important, or not important at all! It is your choice to decide if color is going to be something that means something to your mineral. But what are some times when the color is important? Well.... there are some elements that are called chromophores, this classification just indicates that these elements, when present, will determine the color of whatever they are in. So, if you wanted to treat mana like a chromophore, you could say, "Oh everything that contains mana turns green!" This could mean that regardless of the mineral, if that mineral is a specific color, it means it contains mana. This concept is exciting because you can just stop here and use minerals that already exist! You can also use it as an indicator for a magical ore! Chromophores are typically metals, so if you are making a new metal weapon, making the ore of that metal a unique color would make a lot of sense!

However, your mineral can also just be every color of the rainbow like quartz and perhaps that's what makes identifying your mana stones elusive and create an illusion of scarcity that your character can solve.

There are other things that can change the colors of minerals, like radiation damage, and electron exchange, but I think that is beyond what would be helpful! So lets talk about some unique color properties that happen in nature that seem magical in the first place! Maybe you don't need to design a mana stone, but you want a unique gemstone that only the royal family passes down or something (IDK).

The first one is the alexandrite effect! This is where a mineral can change color in natural light vs. incandescent light. (the mineral itself is not changing, but the lights contain different amounts of different colors that then get absorbed by the stone). Even if you don't use electricity in your fictional world, you could have the colors change in the presence of light magic. This could create fun misunderstandings about what the mineral is reacting to!

Pleochroism

Pleochroism is something that most minerals have, it is frequently used to help identify minerals in thin sections, however minerals are usually not pleochroic enough for it to be visible to the naked eye! Pleochroism is just a fancy name to describe the change in how light is absorbed based on the angle of the mineral! So if you scroll up to the first image where I showed a lot of crystal shapes, most of them have angles where they are longer and shorter! This will effect the way light travels in the crystal. Tanzanite is a popular mineral that does this.

Photochromism

This is when a mineral will change color (in a reversible way) when exposed to UV light (or sunlight), I am not going to go too into the details of why this is happening because it would require me to read some research papers and I just don't feel like it. The mineral that is best known for this is Hackmanite!

Alright! These are all the really cool color effects that might inspire you or maybe not, but now I am going to talk about how you might find your minerals within a rock!

When I see a lot of magical caves/mines, typically I see them with some variation of a geode honestly, but most minerals are not found like that! Now I am sure most of you guys have seen a geode, so I will not really talk about those, but I will talk briefly about porphyroblasts which is when the mineral grows larger than the minerals around it, this happens in metamorphic minerals!

sorry random stranger, but this is an image of garnets inside a finer-grained rock at gore mountain in New York!

Another way you might find minerals is in a pegmatite! This is when all minerals are really large! This is a formed from really slow crystalizing magma!

But something else to think about is that your mineral might just be massive, it doesn't have to have distinct crystals, it may be similar to jadeite where small grains grow together which leaves it looking smooth and seamless! A note about all of these is that you would have to mine into the rock to find these, there would not be any natural caves in these rocks! Caves are only ever really formed in limestones and maybe marbles (rocks that react with acid).

How can your characters identify these minerals?

Typically when you are out in the field you will look to see what type of rocks the minerals are found in (The overall texture of the rock will tell you how it formed). If you know how the rock formed, it will narrow down the amount of minerals you need to think about by quite a bit! Next, you are going to look closely at it and observe its crystal structure, does it have an obvious crystal? if so what is the general shape? If it is broken, how did it break? Did it fracture like glass or did it break along uniform planes. Some minerals have a thing called cleavage (breaks along planes of weakness). If a mineral exhibits this habit, it will again help narrow this down. Next we can look at color. Color can be misleading, because minerals like quartz can be any color imaginable, but minerals like olivine will always be green! The next thing your character can do is test for hardness, minerals all have a specific hardness that can help identify it as well.

After you go through all of this, your mineral might have some special property! This could be magnetism, fluorescence, reactions to acid, or any of the color changing effects I mentioned above! Other than that, your character can take it back to a lab and do a number of things to identify it, but the most typical thing would be for them to make a thin section (very thin piece of the rock) and observe it under a cross polarized microscope!

On that note folks! I hope this helped in some way in thinking of new magic mineral properties! I have other guides that explore some different fictional worldbuilding issues you might run into, but if you have any topics you would like me to cover please that I haven't mentioned already, let me know!

#geology #rocks #creative writing #fictional world #worldbuilding #dnd #dnd worldbuilding #worldbuilding stuff #writing resources #info post #information #writing

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cressidagrey · 9 days ago

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Like Origami

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary: Felicity folds their lives around Oscar’s.

Warnings and Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

Oscar had always known that being an F1 driver came with a cost.

Time, mostly. Energy. Pieces of himself chipped away across continents — interviews, debriefs, simulator hours, long-haul flights that blurred the edges of his life into airport lounges and hotel lobbies.

He missed sleep. He missed Bedtime. He missed Bee’s first attempt at drawing a cat (which looked more like a haunted pancake). He missed days at home with Felicity.

But it never really broke him.

Because Felicity never let it.

Being an F1 driver required everything. His time. His focus. His body. His brain. It asked for obsession and then demanded more. And somehow, Felicity had folded their entire life around it — not like a sacrifice, but like origami. Seamless. Beautiful. Functional.

Their schedules bent around his. Flights arranged, appointments timed, Bee’s activities slotted into neat little windows that didn’t collide with debriefs or simulator days or media obligations. The chaos of the racing calendar never touched him at home — because Felicity had already smoothed it out.

She handled the mortgage and the taxes and the kindergarten applications. She learned the structure of F1 contracts before he even signed his first one. Their fridge always had the right snacks, Bee always had backup outfits in her cubby at Kindergarten, and Oscar never, ever had to think about whether they were low on laundry detergent.

The garden bloomed when he was home. Dinners appeared like magic. Bee’s schedule adjusted itself so he could still read her a bedtime story before she fell asleep drooling on his shoulder. The house was calm. Meals were warm. The only thing he ever had to remember was where his slippers were.

Oscar never asked Felicity to built their lives around his.

She just did it.

Without fanfare. Without passive-aggressive remarks or pointed silences. Felicity folded their entire world into a rhythm that let him chase speed while never falling apart.

There were meals in the freezer labeled with dates and instructions. Garden vegetables cleaned, chopped, and tucked into glass containers. His race gear was always washed, his vitamins stocked, his passport renewed before he even thought to check. When he came home, the house felt like a deep breath. Like rest.

When he was home, she never handed him a to-do list.

She handed him their daughter.

And that was it.

He didn’t have to manage groceries or bills or appointments. He didn’t have to double-check if Bee had clean socks or if the chickens had eaten or if the plumber was coming Thursday. He didn’t even have to pack his kit —because Felicity had already done it, tucked a protein bar into the side pocket and added a hand-written note.

No expectation to fix the fence or organise the pantry or figure out why the hot water pressure was acting up in the guest shower. She’d already handled it. Or would. What she needed was him.

Just him. Present and soft and theirs.

Oscar didn’t know how to explain it to people who hadn’t lived it. Who hadn’t walked through the door at 1 a.m. after a red-eye and found their home warm and humming, their child asleep in a bed full of storybooks and dreams, and their wife sitting at the kitchen table with tea and a smile that made him forget every horrible session that came before.

All he had to do was come home and be.

Be Bee’s dad. Be Felicity’s husband. Be the quiet, tired, grateful version of himself that only existed within their walls. The one who didn’t have to be sharp-edged or interview-ready. The one who could collapse on the floor and let his daughter crawl onto his back mid-storytime.

Felicity had made a life that worked around his — so that when he walked back into it, he wasn’t expected to fix or lead or plan.

He was expected to rest.

To hold Bee.

To breathe.

He’d never asked Felicity to do any of it. She just did.

She learned what days he needed quiet. She knew when he was withdrawing too far into his own head. She knew how to keep the house humming while giving him space to exhale — without making him feel like he was failing for needing it.

And that was what broke him, sometimes. Quietly. Privately.

Because Felicity never made him feel like a burden. Never held it over his head. Never once made him feel like she’d put her life on hold for his.

But she had.

Not because she was dependent.

Because she chose to.

Because she loved him.

Because she believed in him enough to bend the edges of their world so that, when he came home, all he had to do was walk through the door and exist.

Oscar wasn’t naïve. He knew she was brilliant. That she could be doing anything. That she could be running companies or winning awards or building something extraordinary in her own right. And in some ways, she already was.

Because their life — their quiet, beautiful, functioning, chaotic life — was something only Felicity could’ve built.

And he would spend the rest of his life making sure she knew he saw it.

Even if she never asked him to.

He didn’t know how to repay that. Not with wins. Not with flowers.

But every time she curled into his side at night, every time Bee reached for him with sticky fingers and sleepy eyes, Oscar knew one thing for certain:

The only thing he had to do now — the only thing he wanted to do — was show up for them, again and again, and never, ever forget what it took to make this possible.

Felicity held up their life like it was nothing.

And that made it everything.

***

Oscar realized it while sitting at the kitchen counter, barefoot and still damp from his post-run shower, a half-drunk protein shake sweating beside his laptop. The house was quiet—Bee at kindergarten, Felicity out in the garden talking to the hens like they were co-workers—and he was meant to be going through the calendar Mark had sent over. Just blocking out dates, syncing with Felicity’s schedule, adding a few notes.

He scrolled.

Paused.

Scrolled back.

July 21st. Hungarian Grand Prix. Bee’s birthday.

His stomach dropped.

He stared at the screen like it might change, like maybe the dates would shift if he just blinked hard enough. But they didn’t. The 21st stayed where it was, bright and bold, nestled between two practice days and a press briefing.

Bee was turning four.

Four. The age where memories stuck like glue. Where birthdays became important—not just cake and balloons, but promises. Traditions. She’d been talking about it for months. Sea-themed cupcakes. A dolphin-shaped cake. A sparkly blue dress.

And he’d nodded, said “I’ll be there, Bumblebee,” without realizing the truth sitting quietly in his own damn schedule.

The guilt hit him like a sucker punch—instant, sharp, and mean.

He didn’t even remember walking out to the garden. Just the disjointed blur of grabbing his phone, sliding open the back door, and calling out, “Fliss?”

Felicity turned from where she knelt by the herb beds, sunhat perched on her head, dirt smudged on her wrist. “Everything okay?”

“I need to talk to you.”

She wiped her hands on her jeans “Oscar?”

His voice cracked a little. “Hungary’s on Bee’s birthday.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I didn’t realize,” he said. “God, I didn’t realize, and now I feel like the worst—I promised her, Fliss, I told her I’d be there—”

“Hey,” she interrupted, standing now, brushing grass off her knees. “Breathe.”

“I was supposed to be there,” he said again, softer this time. “She’s been planning it for months. The dolphin cake, the cupcakes, the balloons—and I just—how did I miss it?”

“You didn’t,” Felicity said gently. “You’re just juggling a hundred other things. But you’re not missing it.”

He blinked. “What?”

She smiled, walking toward him across the grass, sunlight catching the gold chain around her neck. “I already booked the flights.”

Oscar just stared at her.

“I figured it out last week,” she added. “Called Mark, sorted the paddock passes. Bee’s excited about it. She wants to wear her dolphin dress to the track and bring cupcakes for the engineers.”

He was stunned. “You’re serious?”

“Of course I’m serious,” she said. “You’re her dad. You don’t miss her birthday unless you’re in space. We’ll come to you. It’s just geography.”

“But—race weekend—media—timings—”

Felicity reached for his hand. “She doesn’t care about any of that. She wants her papa to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ slightly off-key and help her blow out candles. That’s what matters.”

Oscar scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly breathless with love and relief and the unbearable ache of it all. “How do you always fix everything?”

Felicity shrugged. “Because I know you. And I know her.”

And just like that, the weight lifted.

He’d still be racing that weekend. Still chasing tenths and points and podiums.

But when Bee turned four, Oscar wouldn’t be missing him.

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x reader #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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apartmentwhereikeepallofmyswords · 10 months ago

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Oh oh! I actually had a similar thought!

So my headcannon is that he’s opening mini wormhole kind of things, like one of those doctor strange portals but better. And he’s able to open and close it quickly enough to make it appear like instant teleportation when really he’s walking through different portals he can open

And when it comes to multiverse/au things monsters who can go to different worlds are doing something similar, like the same again but to the left and are able to make that door between two words instead of two areas in the same world. With that there’s also objects/weapons that can sort of cut a hole in the same way but they destabilize the code of the world.

And it’s probably a specialized kind of magic. Like with blue magic having the attacks where you don’t move to not get hit brig sort of special sub-attacks, the teleportation would have its own sub-magic ability if multiversal travel

okay... so i'm asking the undertale fandom in general here? how do you guys think sans' shortcuts work? i've seen so many different interpretations (literal shortcuts he knows in the underground, fourth-wall jokes, code manipulation, etc.), but instant teleportation seems to be the popular one. does anyone have specific headcanons when it comes to sans' shortcuts? i feel this is rarely explored.

#the brainrot is real #I’ve had so many thoughts about how different magic things work #i just think it's neat #especially cause a character of mine is able to mimic any magic but needs to learn how to use it #so I’ve been figuring out what the basics of magic things might be #i just.#i love thinking about this #these kinds of questions that dive into how things work in a world #oops im rambling

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hy6erion · 5 months ago

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Uh, consider, if you will, JayVik x artists reader? Not sure if u wrote for JayVik so if not then just Viktor’s good too!!

But uh, I’ve been drawing for my whole life and I’m kinda ass at science and I just think it’d be neat to hang out in the lab with them and be,, entirely unhelpful

I’m making little doodles of characters or flowers and they’re making magic tools for the betterment of society (very cool)

Also, it seems to b common for artists characters to also paint but i mega hate painting cause it’s evil and, the worst ™️. I mostly work with markers

Also also, I think it would b very cute if the reader just doodled Jayce n Viktor n showed them after all proud of the drawing n stuff!!

Obviously u don’t have to include everything, I kinda rambled a bit here, but uh, yeah!

Hope ur doing good :))

𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 - 𝐉𝐚𝐲𝐕𝐢𝐤 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

⍣✰..𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦, 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟

⇢ 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲/𝐧, 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐣𝐚𝐲𝐯𝐢𝐤, 𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 (𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞) 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑

𝐢 𝐠𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝟏𝟎 𝐦𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞. 𝐈 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐣𝐚𝐲𝐯𝐢𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐨 𝐈 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜 ｡^‿^｡

The lab had become something of a second home for y/n. Not because she had any business being there—Hextech and alchemical theory went straight over her head, and she was perfectly content to keep it that way—but because of them.

Jayce and Viktor were as different as fire and steel, the kind of contrast that made their arguments legendary and their rare moments of agreement dangerous. They bickered, they teased, they pushed each other to the edge, but beneath it all was something unshakable.

And Y/n had somehow found herself tangled in the middle of it.

The stool she sat on had long since become hers by default, wedged between Viktor’s usual seat and Jayce’s endless mess of blueprints. It put her right in the crossfire of their arguments, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.

At the moment, Viktor was winning—at least, if the smug little curve of his mouth was any indication.

��Jayce, you must be at least somewhat familiar with the concept of precision.”

“Don’t start with me, Vik.”

Jayce was pacing again, shirt sleeves rolled up, hands running through his hair in frustration. The moment Viktor challenged him, he had to make a show of his suffering, like the world had personally wronged him. Y/n, who had been sketching the curve of Viktor’s jaw just moments before, sighed dramatically.

“Jayce, I’m begging you to sit down before you wear a hole in the floor.”

Jayce turned to her, looking personally offended. “Y/n, love of my life, have you seen what he’s making me deal with?”

Viktor barely looked up from his work. “Making you? I was under the impression you begged for my help.”

Jayce groaned, dropping into his chair with all the weight of a man carrying the world’s burdens. “I hate both of you.”

“You love both of us,” Y/n corrected, flipping to a fresh page.

“Tragically,” Viktor added dryly.

Jayce huffed. “This is abuse.”

“It is affection.” Viktor’s hand reached out absently, fingertips grazing Jayce’s wrist before returning to his work. It was a small thing, an automatic thing, but it made y/n’s heart clench just a little.

Because that was how they were. Not just words or dramatic declarations (though Jayce was particularly good at those), but the little things—familiar touches, the way they naturally fell into each other’s space, the comfort in their presence.

She sketched the moment without thinking.

Jayce, head tipped back, exasperated. Viktor, ever smug, hand still resting against him, fingers loose. The way their bodies leaned towards each other, even in irritation.

“You’re drawing us again,” Jayce accused, though there was no heat to it.

Y/n smirked, dragging her charcoal in long, confident strokes. “Can you blame me? You two make excellent muses.”

Viktor hummed, casting her a sidelong glance. “And which one of us is your favorite muse, I wonder?”

“Oh, don’t do this,” Jayce groaned.

“Oh, but I must.”

Y/n, to her credit, considered it. “Hmm. That depends.”

Viktor quirked an eyebrow.

“On?”

“On which of you is willing to pose shirtless for my next series.”

Jayce’s head snapped up immediately. “Oh, I volunteer.”

Viktor scoffed. “Of course you do.”

“Come on, Vik, don’t pretend you don’t like showing off,” Jayce said, leaning against him now, all broad weight and smug warmth. “I like when you show off.”

Y/n watched with barely concealed amusement as Viktor shot him a long, unimpressed look—but there was a flicker of something softer in his expression, something that told her Jayce’s words weren’t entirely unwelcome.

Jayce grinned, and before Viktor could protest, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to his jaw, barely above his collar. It was quick, casual—something that had once been rare but had now become theirs. Viktor didn’t react, not visibly, but y/n caught the way his fingers stilled over his work for just a second.

It was moments like this that made her work impossible to put down.

“You two are ridiculous,” she said, though she was smiling.

“You love us,” Jayce echoed back at her, smug.

“Tragically,” Viktor deadpanned.

She laughed, shaking her head as she finally turned the sketchbook around. “Speaking of love—look.”

They did.

The pages were filled with them.

Viktor, hunched over his work, a lazy smirk on his lips. Jayce, mid-laugh, all wild joy. The way they moved around each other, the way they fit together, even when they were arguing. The way they looked at her.

And at the end—

All three of them.

Jayce, sprawled back, arms draped lazily over both of them, his usual warmth pulling them in. Viktor, against his side, head tipped slightly toward y/n, something softer there. And her, caught between them, exactly where she belonged.

There was silence.

Then Jayce exhaled. “Shit, that’s—”

“Perfect,” Viktor finished, voice quieter.

Y/n bit her lip. “Yeah?”

Jayce was already pulling her in, lifting her straight off the stool, laughing into her shoulder. “You’re insane, you know that? How did we end up with you?”

“You charmed me,” Y/n teased. “Or maybe Viktor did, I don’t know. He’s hard to resist.”

“I am,” Viktor agreed, flipping through the pages with something bordering on reverence. “And yet, it is you who captured us.”

Jayce pressed a kiss to her temple, grinning against her skin. “What do we have to do to get you to paint these?”

Y/n hummed. “Well… I do take payment in the form of physical affection.”

Jayce didn’t even hesitate before kissing her properly, pulling her into his chest with the ease of someone who knew she was his. Warmth, security, the unmistakable feel of home.

And then—before she could blink—Viktor’s hand curled against her jaw, tilting her just slightly. His kiss was softer, more controlled, but no less possessive. A silent claim, spoken through the press of lips and the steady grounding of his palm against her cheek.

When he pulled away, Jayce whistled low. “Damn.”

“Payment,” Viktor said simply.

Y/n was breathless. “That might be worth a series.”

Jayce groaned, flopping dramatically against the table. “Oh, great, now she’s inspired. We’ll never get her back.”

Viktor smirked, tugging y/n back onto his lap as she flipped through her sketchbook again.

“That,” he said, kissing the top of her head, “is a problem I am willing to have.”

#✰⍣ 𝐡𝐲𝟔𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐧 #arcane #x reader #x you #arcane viktor x reader #viktor x reader #viktor arcane #arcane viktor #arcane jayce #jayce talis #jayce arcane #jayce talis x reader #jayce x reader #jayvik #jayce x viktor #arcane jayvik #the more the merrier

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p0orbaby · 6 months ago

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All I Want for Christmas

summary: your daughter didn’t get the one present she really wanted

warnings: none !

a/n: thank you for the request, i hope you like it !

word count: 2.9k

You notice something’s off with Eliana two days after Christmas. At first, it’s subtle—an anomaly so slight it could almost be chalked up to post-holiday fatigue. Normally, mornings with Eliana are chaotic in a way that feels both exhausting and oddly necessary, as though the house depends on her noise to keep it from crumbling into silence. She bursts into the day like a firework: her small feet slapping against the wood floors, her hair a wild halo of dark curls, her voice ricocheting between pitches as she narrates her life in real time or belts out whatever song has recently embedded itself in her psyche.

Today, there’s none of that. She lingers in her pyjamas—a pair with faded unicorns that she refuses to let you throw away despite the fraying cuffs—long after breakfast. When you remind her to brush her teeth, she drags her feet, her movements lethargic in a way that feels rehearsed, like she’s trying to stretch each step into eternity. It’s the absence of urgency that unsettles you. Eliana thrives on urgency. She once cried because Alexia beat her to the front door when the postman rang.

But this morning, there’s no competition. No noise. No off-key rendition of Vampire by Olivia Rodrigo echoing from the bathroom as she “forgets” to spit out her toothpaste. You’re struck by how quiet the house feels. Not peaceful—just wrong.

By lunch, the feeling hardens into certainty. Eliana picks at her sandwich with the detached precision of someone performing a task they’ve been paid to complete. She peels the crust away slowly, meticulously, her small fingers working like a jeweller inspecting a flawed diamond. The crust sits in a neat pile beside her plate, untouched. So do the carrot sticks you’ve artfully arranged into a star shape—an attempt to disguise healthy food as something fun. Usually, she’d at least nibble on the points before declaring them “too crunchy.” Today, she doesn’t even bother with the charade.

And then there’s the Coke. You could write a thesis on Eliana’s Coke-stealing habits. How she waits, biding her time like a cat stalking prey, until you’re sufficiently distracted—mid-sentence, mid-bite, mid-thought. The moment your guard drops, she strikes: clutching the can with both hands, her face breaking into a grin so triumphant it’s impossible to be mad. You always let her have one sip, though you draw the line at more. She doesn’t push her luck; she knows where the boundary is and takes satisfaction in skirting it.

But today, the Coke sits untouched. You leave it on the table deliberately, watching her from the corner of your eye, waiting for the familiar rustle of movement. It doesn’t come. She doesn’t even glance at it.

Alexia notices it too. She’s standing at the kitchen sink, rinsing the cutting board she insists on hand-washing because the dishwasher “ruins the wood” (a claim you’ve never verified but don’t argue against). “She’s been quiet today,” Alexia murmurs, glancing towards the living room. Her tone is casual, but there’s an edge of concern beneath it.

You follow her gaze. Eliana is curled up on the sofa, her knees drawn to her chest, her chin resting on top of them. The TV plays some saccharine animated film about magical snowmen and plucky penguins—one of those films where everything sparkles unnaturally, and the characters blink too often. Normally, Eliana would be transfixed, laughing at all the wrong parts and narrating the plot aloud despite everyone already watching. But today, she’s motionless. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused, as though the screen is a window to a world she can’t quite enter.

“Maybe she’s tired,” you say, though you don’t believe it. Eliana doesn’t do tired. Even as a baby, she fought sleep like it was a personal enemy, crying herself hoarse rather than admit defeat. Sleep was a battle you rarely won outright; most nights, you settled for a stalemate.

Alexia doesn’t look convinced either. She dries her hands on a dishtowel, her brow furrowed. “I don’t know,” she says. “This isn’t like her”

It isn’t. And that terrifies you in a way you can’t fully articulate. You watch her from the kitchen doorway, your hand resting lightly on the frame, as though bracing yourself against an invisible weight. She looks small. Fragile. The kind of fragile that makes you want to wrap her in bubble wrap and keep her from the world.

But it’s not her size that unnerves you—it’s the silence. Eliana’s silence feels like an absence, like something crucial has been taken away without your permission. You can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong, though you don’t know what.

And that, more than anything, is what scares you.

You get your answer that evening, during bedtime. Eliana’s room is a testament to her devotion to pink—a monochromatic sanctuary where even the air seems tinged with a rosy hue. The walls are painted a soft blush, a decision you regretted halfway through applying the third coat but one you could never take back once she saw the finished product and declared it “princess perfect.” Her duvet cover is a riot of pastel stars, most faded from repeated wash cycles and the occasional chocolate milk spill. On her bedside table sits a lamp with a shade adorned with tiny ballerinas, their poses forever frozen mid-pirouette.

The bookshelves, crammed to the edges, are an organised chaos of her literary life. Picture books dominate the lower shelves—familiar titles with tattered spines that you could recite in your sleep (Guess How Much I Love You has practically become your mantra). Higher up, a collection of chapter books gathers dust, ambitious purchases she insisted on during a trip to the bookstore, her eyes wide with determination. She struggles with the longer words but refuses to ask for help, insisting on piecing together syllables with the kind of stubborn grit that feels both infuriating and endearing. She gets that from you.

You tuck her in with the practised efficiency of someone who has made a ritual out of bedtime. She clutches Mr Snuggles, a stuffed rabbit so battered it looks like it’s survived a war zone. He’s missing an eye, his fur matted beyond recognition, but to Eliana, he’s irreplaceable. You know this because you’ve tried to replace him—multiple times, in fact. You’ve scoured boutique toy stores, online shops, and even eBay, searching for a plush rabbit with vaguely similar dimensions. Each attempt has been met with disdain. “It’s not him,” she always says, clutching Mr Snuggles tighter as though you’d threatened to take him away permanently.

“You’ve been quiet today,” you say, brushing a strand of dark hair away from her face. Her hair has reached that awkward in-between length where it’s too long to leave unchecked but too short to do anything meaningful with. She hates the hairdressers, the stiff capes they drape over her, and the stylist’s endless chatter about her favourite Disney princess. You’ll have to bribe her with ice cream to get her there.

She doesn’t respond immediately. Her gaze drifts upwards, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as though it holds the answer to some unspoken question. Her fingers tighten around Mr Snuggles, her thumb absently stroking the spot where his eye used to be. Finally, she speaks.

“Santa didn’t bring me what I wanted”

Your stomach twists in the way it does when you know something is wrong, but you can’t yet identify what. “What do you mean?” you ask, keeping your tone light. “He brought you loads of things. That dollhouse you’ve been asking for since May, the colouring set with the glitter pens—”

“No,” she interrupts, her voice soft but resolute. “I wanted a sister”

You blink. “You wanted what?”

“A sister,” she repeats, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And he didn’t bring me one”

For a moment, you’re too stunned to respond. Your brain cycles through a series of fragmented thoughts: What? When? How? You glance over your shoulder, half-expecting Alexia to materialise in the doorway, her presence offering a lifeline. But the hallway is empty, save for the faint hum of the washing machine on its spin cycle. You’re on your own.

“When… when did you ask Santa for a sister?” you manage, your voice strained with the effort of keeping a straight face.

“At school,” she says matter-of-factly. “We wrote letters. Miss García said we could ask for anything we wanted”

“And you asked for a sister?”

She nods, her expression solemn in the way only a six-year-old can manage when they think they’ve been wronged.

“And you didn’t think to mention this to me? Or Mamá?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise”

You press your fingers to your temples, as if physically holding your head together will help you process what you’re hearing. A surprise. Of course. Eliana watches you with wide eyes, her expression expectant. It dawns on you that she’s waiting for an explanation.

“Well,” you begin, your words slow and deliberate, as though carefully navigating a minefield, “Santa doesn’t… bring people as presents”

“Why not?”

Because it’s illegal. Because Santa isn’t real. Because your wife and I can barely handle the one child we already have.

“Because,” you say instead, stalling, “that’s not how it works. Sisters are… different. You don’t get them from Santa”

Her brow furrows, and for a moment, she looks startlingly like Alexia—her small face drawn into a frown of concentration, as though dissecting your words for hidden meaning. “Then where do they come from?”

You pause, the weight of the question settling over you like a heavy blanket. There are a dozen ways you could answer this, most of them wildly inappropriate for a six-year-old. You settle on, “From Parents, sweetheart”

She considers this for a moment, her head tilting slightly to the side. “So can you and Mamá make me one?”

The question hangs in the air, absurd and sincere in equal measure. You feel a sudden, overwhelming urge to laugh. Or cry. Or both. “It’s not that simple, Eliana”

“Why not?”

Before you can answer, Alexia appears in the doorway, her hair pulled into a loose bun, her face flushed from the effort of folding laundry. She takes one look at your face, at the strained expression and the faint sheen of panic in your eyes, and bursts out laughing.

Later that night, after Eliana is finally asleep, you and Alexia sit in the living room, letting the weight of the day settle over you. The room is dim except for the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights, blinking lazily in alternating patterns. The air smells faintly of pine needles and the remnants of the vanilla candle Alexia lit hours ago but forgot to blow out. There’s an almost sacred stillness in the house, the kind that feels rare and precious when you have a six-year-old.

Alexia hands you a glass of wine, her fingers brushing yours for a moment longer than necessary. She sits beside you on the sofa, curling her legs beneath her and pulling a blanket over both of your laps. She’s wearing an oversized hoodie—yours, you think, judging by the way the sleeves swallow her hands—and a pair of faded joggers. Her hair is loose, falling in soft waves around her face, and there’s a faint smudge of mascara beneath one eye that she hasn’t bothered to wipe off.

She looks tired but beautiful, the kind of beauty that feels effortless and intimate, like a secret only you’re privy to. It makes your chest ache in a way you don’t entirely understand.

“So,” she says, breaking the silence, “our daughter asked Santa for a sister”

You exhale, shaking your head as you take a sip of wine. It’s red, something bold and expensive that Alexia brought home last week. She has a knack for choosing good wine, even though she always claims it’s pure luck. “She did”

“And she’s heartbroken Santa didn’t deliver,” Alexia adds, her tone half-amused, half-disbelieving.

“She is,” you say, setting your glass on the coffee table. The table itself is covered in the detritus of Christmas: an abandoned roll of wrapping paper, a pair of scissors, and the instructions for the dollhouse you spent three hours assembling on Christmas Eve while Alexia supervised with a glass of champagne in hand.

Alexia leans back, stretching her legs across your lap. Her socked feet are warm against your thigh, and she wiggles her toes absently as she looks at you. “What do you think?” she asks, her voice light, as if she’s testing the waters.

“About Eliana asking for a sister?”

“No,” she says, her lips twitching into a small smile. “About giving her one”

You laugh, a short, sharp sound that feels more defensive than amused. “You can’t be serious”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” you repeat, incredulous. “Because we barely survived the first time around. Do you not remember the colic? The sleepless nights? The time she screamed for three hours straight because she didn’t like the colour of her bib?”

Alexia tilts her head, as if genuinely considering your words. “She was a baby. That’s what babies do”

“Exactly. And you want to do it all over again?”

Her smile widens, and there’s a mischievous glint in her eyes now. “Maybe”

You groan, leaning your head back against the sofa. “You’re insane”

“I’m not,” she insists, nudging your thigh with her foot. “Think about it. Eliana’s older now. She’s more independent. She’s in school most of the day. We’re not in the trenches anymore”

“The trenches,” you mutter, reaching for your wine again.

Alexia shifts closer, her foot still resting against your thigh. “I loved it, you know. All of it. Even the hard parts”

“You loved it?”

“Yes,” she says firmly. “I loved being a mum to a newborn. Watching her grow, seeing all the little things she learned every day. It was… magical”

You glance at her, and the soft, wistful expression on her face makes something inside you twist.

“And you,” she continues, her voice lowering slightly, “you were amazing”

“Alexia,” you say, a hint of warning in your tone.

“I’m serious,” she says, her hand finding yours beneath the blanket. Her fingers are warm, her grip gentle but insistent. “You were. You still are. And when you were pregnant…”

You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

She grins, her teeth catching the light. “You were insatiable”

“Oh, for God’s sake”

“It’s true,” she says, laughing now. “I could barely keep up with you”

“You managed,” you mutter, taking another sip of wine.

Her laughter fades into a softer, more thoughtful smile. “I’m just saying,” she says, her thumb brushing over the back of your hand, “I wouldn’t mind doing it all over again”

You study her, trying to discern if she’s really serious or just testing the waters. But there’s something in her eyes, a quiet certainty that unnerves you.

“You really want another baby,” you say, not quite a question.

She nods. “I do”

“And when were you planning on telling me this?”

She shrugs, looking faintly sheepish. “I don’t know. I guess I was waiting for the right moment”

“Like now? After our daughter guilt-tripped us with her Santa request?”

Alexia laughs, and the sound is warm and infectious. “Exactly”

You shake your head, but a small smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. “You’re unbelievable”

“I’m practical,” she counters. “Think about it. We can afford it. We have the space. The time. A great support system. Mami would love to help us out again”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want to tell her we’re thinking about having another baby? You know she’ll start knitting booties the second the words leave your mouth”

Alexia shrugs, unbothered. “Let her. Eliana would love matching booties for her and her sibling”

The image of Eliana holding a tiny, wriggling baby flashes in your mind, unbidden. It’s too cute, too perfect, and you push it away before it can take root.

“It’s not just about logistics,” you say quietly.

“I know,” Alexia says, her voice softening. “But we’ve done this before. We know what to expect now. And we’re not the same people we were back then. We’re stronger. Better”

You glance at her, at the quiet confidence in her expression, and feel a pang of guilt for doubting her. She’s right, of course. You’ve come so far since those early days with Eliana. But still, the thought of starting over feels overwhelming.

“I don’t know,” you say finally. “It’s a lot to think about”

Alexia nods, her thumb still tracing slow circles on the back of your hand. “I’m not asking for a decision tonight. Just… think about it”

You nod, letting your head rest against her shoulder. The wineglass dangles from your fingers, forgotten. The weight of her hand on yours, the steady rise and fall of her breath, grounds you.

For a moment, the two of you sit in silence, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Then Alexia speaks again, her voice so soft you almost don’t hear her.

“She’d be a great big sister,” she says. “Don’t you think?”

You close your eyes, letting the words settle over you. In your mind’s eye, you see Eliana again, her wide, hopeful eyes as she clutched Mr Snuggles to her chest. You see her laughing, running through the park with a smaller version of herself trailing behind her.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “She would”

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #fcb femeni #fcb femeni x reader #espwnt #espwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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impyssadobsessions · 5 months ago

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More DMC x DP XD Danny hanging out with the crew uwu. Ghost be his mum uwu. ;3 Imagine Danny like 16-17 and since Patty did always claim she date someone younger (even if its a joke) she does get a mini-crush on danny. But then they become cool friends uwu Patty sticking up for him and showing him around properly. And when Dante away for long periods he crashes with Nero and them. Ends up being Nico's driving buddy. OH NEAT THING IS- I imagine like Danny helping dust and clean and accident knock open a case that had the swords from dmc3 (Agni and Rudra) Which Dante had cooped up because they wouldn't shut up again. Which then becomes Danny's problem and Dante nopes out letting kid handle them. They end up becoming rings for him though since he has such an affinity to magic he can make use of their full power. (Granting him control of fire n ice which he lost since he got into this world) Which is why he can casually light Nico's cigarettes to keep her from trying to find a lighter while driving :D I explained the situation poorly its much funnier situation and makes sense in my head. But I can't draw it out atm T w T. Danny bumping his fist to shut them up sometimes. Dante like uwu you felt sorry for them kiddo uou. They can be annoying and butt in- but Danny also encourages it... to annoy Dante in revenge =w=b But only when Dante is around. XD For having him fight them. Which they fought him- so he could claim ownership =w= And then the thing with his mom. Sadly it is a character from DMC I killed off >> and have to work around to make the storyline work with the other dmc titles. But I felt like She would work well for this kind of story, and also just pain :D ;w; I actually like her.. I swear... But I imagine at least atm (could change depending) that she was tricked by chronos ( the half that still laid in this world) to create a portal to save Danny- which it did send him to a safer home-but the portal required a sacrifice to work... and she ended up becoming it.

Only for technically Danny becoming one himself :D Also Danny because of his ghostliness is very attuned to magic and imagine Vergil helps spur this on- noting it right away that he's a spell caster. Which does give Danny his niche. Also imagine Danny doing his own kind of work- being able to see spirits and interact constantly- they both help him while he also helps them in return. The ghosts when completing their business turning into a crystal tear of memory. Which has its own uses. The ghosts both help and hinder missions. Though can also see them mistaking Danny for an angel of death which disturbs him a bit.

which this is all head canon stuff that can change hehe. I've been simmering over this for months. I really dove deep in the weeds and can't express even a quarter what I thought of XD. Oh and the bracelet thing becomes like in universe reason how danny can carry all his shit.. also like a gift from clockwork/chronos as the chain comes from the staff. Like he "knew" ;3 That's the god of time for ya.

#danny phantom #danny fenton #dmc #devil may cry #dp crossover #dmc crossover #crossover #ghost will cry #ghost can cry #dmc nico #nicoletta goldstein #dmc patty

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avithenaftali · 9 months ago

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October 28, 2022, 7:11 P.M.

For whatever reason I enjoy thinking about Diana Wynne Jones' writing as a whole and picking out unexpected or resonant trends. For example, some things that comes up often is:

She'll fabricate a world (right down to its cosmology), fill it with memorable characters, set one or two short novels in it... and then never touch it again. On to the next one. Rinse and repeat for her entire career.

The concept of multiple/parallel universes appear half a dozen times in different novels/sequences, but always in completely different ways. The multiple worlds of Chrestomanci function very, very differently from the multiple worlds of The Homeward Bounders, which themselves function so different from the Ayewards/Naywards of Deep Secret, or the walls between the worlds in Dark Lord of Derkholm. More importantly, all these approaches to multiverse explicitly contradict each other. There is no larger DWJ multiverse; there is no way to coherently combine any of them, much less all of them. I love her for this. Every book is its own project. Franchising be damned.

With one exception (which is the Dalemark quartet, oddly enough), none of these worlds are sealed-off secondary worlds. Our own Earth appears in all of them, though usually from the 'wrong' end of the telescope. Meaning, it's stuff like reading Charmed Life and assuming you're reading a magical secondary world fantasy for most of the book... up until the point when Janet is pulled into the story due to Gwendolyn's spell. The reader instantly understands that Janet is from our own world, from the 1970s when the book was written. She never makes it home, either. She never sees her parents again. She's a supporting character who becomes permanently stuck in the world of Chrestomanci, as a casualty of Gwendolyn's spells.

It is interesting, though, how there are almost no sealed-off secondary worlds in DWJ's oeuvre.

There are lots of neat things to say about how DWJ did this, and why she'd do it, and the implications in the storytelling. But tonight I'm thinking mostly about how it can be a moment, narratively, that makes you halt and have to recontextualize all these things you thought you knew (or were assuming) about the nature of the story.

In Ursula Le Guin's The Dispossessed, Urras is obviously the metaphorical capitalistic stand-in planet for our own Earth... up until a moment right near the end, where we realize our own Earth exists in this novel too and is an ecological wasteland due to unchecked climate change.

Urras may be the distorted-mirror, uber-capitalist version of our own world. But it's also a planet with a functional ecosystem. It's a planet where society is careful about maintaining that ecosystem. We're not going to be Urras, says Le Guin. We'll be lucky if we become Urras. To become Urras means we wised up in time to not go extinct.

And suddenly, little subtle moments in the worldbuilding around both Anarres and Urras—their shared attention to their own ecology—come into a different light. All because our own, devastated Earth turns out to be present in the novel too.

And in Howl's Moving Castle, Howl is a magician who fits into the fairy tale landscape of Ingary as naturally as anyone else—until the chapter when he has to go home to retrieve a lost spell, and you realize home is in another world, aka home is our world, aka Howl is fucking Welsh and found his way into Ingary by pure accident. And Ben Sullivan, Ingary's missing royal magician, is no native of Ingary either.

To Sophie, it just means that both magicians travelled to Ingary from the same enigmatic foreign land, which is as strange to her as any spell.

To us readers, it means "oh my god he's Welsh too? Just how much is Wales secretly connected to Ingary? Next thing you'll tell me Ben Sullivan's a rugby player as well—"

#diana wynne jones #ursula le guin #howl's moving castle #chrestomanci #the dispossessed #cohost post

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