#(or they feel they lack art skills rather but still)

[doodlebeeberry]

Sometimes I think about how writing is received by the osc, particularly in comparison to art itself, and while I get that the community is for obvious reasons very visually driven, I feel like writing as a creative form just. Isn’t given as much credence. And I don’t mean this in a ‘pitting art/animation and writing against eachother’ kind of way, or in a ‘folks don’t care about/pay attention to the writing of a show’ way—both art and writing are important but different, and folks talk about good vs bad writing in shows all the time, at least. Rather, i think if your someone who buy n large just writes, your work is much more likely to be passed over, particularly if you don’t really write much fanfic. Folks just aren’t interested. Which is kind of a shame, honestly! It can be tricky sometimes to adapt objects to more literary storytelling forms, but imo it’s a fun challenge, not to mention that it opens the door to all sorts of different tools and angle you can use to tell your story. Not to mention that it can be more accessible than digital art and animation for some folks. Like. I want a novelized object show. Or something consistent of letters or news articles or an anthology of poems. I wish more regard wasn’t given to just writing is all, particularly in regards to original/non-fanfic writing

[neptuneschldd]

Difficult Placements in the Natal Chart.❤️‍🩹🖤

small disclaimer; none of these placements listed are depicted as bad or evil placements, these are areas in a chart that require more attention to and tell more about a much more darker/struggling side about the individual.

Sun in 8H/6H/12H. These individuals may take on the heavier parts of life rather than having things come easy to them. These individuals have a possibility of having a distorted self-image, they may not even know exactly who they are and may bc hidden from the spotlight. These individuals are resilient and often work hard in secret, they’re the type that don’t trust anyone and sometimes not even themselves, they can be critical on themselves. Additionally these individuals may have a struggling or complex relationship with father/make figures.

However in maturer years they learn to go with the flow of things, and find peace even in difficult moments.

Along with this, mainly any personal placements within the 8H/12H. These individuals at a young age are shown to the tougher sides of lives, they experience a lot and hold lots of knowledge even at young ages about various things from their own personal experiences. They have a heightened awareness and deeper understanding of the things around them. Wise yet unheard, often very misunderstood individuals. They benefit from expressing their emotions verbally or even through art or their desired professions.

Lilith at 18°. These individuals suppress their shadow side and several traits that make them, them. These individuals are strong beings yet are often underestimated by others because of how much they suppress themselves. These individuals should work more on their inner beings (ie. shadow work) to appreciate the different sides of themselves.

Jupiter 3H. These individuals in early life may lack when it comes to communication skills, they often hold themselves back from their full potential. Once they get out of this they can amass huge amounts of success, they grow when going out of their comfort zones and communicating with others.

Sun/Moon-Pluto Asp. (Esp. conjunction). These individuals are powerful people, seriously. However, they often have complications with their image (Sun) or their emotions (Moon), they can. They tend to have inner turmoil that they usually hide effortlessly, their issues may fluctuate and they’re always experiencing new things every month, they often can’t catch a break.

Sun-Chiron. These individuals have serious issues with their images, often dealing with power struggles in younger years. As they get older they may have felt like they spent an eternity trying to figure themselves out yet still haven’t made any progress (I promise its okay🫂). Once these individuals accept their past experiences and grow their confidence and work on themselves, they’re truly unstoppable.

Chiron in Aquarius/Leo/Gemini or in 11H/3H. These individuals may have struggled in the past or have a common theme in their lives relating to their self expression. May have been force to hide their true selves and conform to societies standards. They may have been treated as the odd “black sheep” or the outcast in groups/family. Misunderstood however as they get older they learn to shine a lot better and it comes almost effortlessly.

Moon-Mars/Mercury Negative aspects. These individuals may struggle with emotions. They may spiral out of control and express things that they don’t actually mean. They often don’t know how to properly express negative feelings and people may see them as too much. They find it hard to put their thoughts into words. They often need to journal out their feelings, even talking to people anonymously may benefit even possibly therapy.

Jupiter/Moon-Neptune negative aspects. These individuals are more likely to highly depend on daydreaming as means of escape. They may even resort or become highly co-dependent on false depictions of love, substances, etc. With these individuals there’s like a huge storm cloud that’s constantly covering up the beauty of a scenery. They may overindulge in materialistic things and are likely to maladaptive daydream or technology. These individuals should spend more time away from material things, or do small activities that keeps their mind stable and working.

Neptune/Pluto in 11H. These individuals constantly are blinded by their surroundings and their enemies tend to hide in plain sight. They’re more likely to fall susceptible to the evil eye, and attract envy a lot from others. They may be delusional when it comes to friendships, and not notice that the people they call their “friends” are actually trying to tear down their energy. These individuals are also likely to absorb a lot of negativity from others and can often feel drained easily from being around people. They benefit from becoming more aware of the people around them, perhaps having a form of protection near them and watch carefully who they let in their vicinity.

Uranus 12H. Similar to an Aquarius Chiron imo, these individuals suppress who they are from others. They have a subconscious fear that often holds them back from expressing their unique side completely. They benefit and notice good change when they be their authentic selves rather than conforming to society because they truly are one-of-a-kind individuals 🖤.

Saturn in the 1H/5H/7H/11H/8H. These individuals often restrict themselves from the pleasures of life, they can’t have fun and often are overly critical of themselves. These individuals are highly reflective people and often have trust issues, they overanalyze people and themselves throughout their lives. These individuals need to learn to let go of the harsh standard they hold themselves and other people to, they can’t change things that are out of their control and should learn to relax and live life, these individuals will find fulfillment when they finally let go.

Virgo Moon. These individuals may have grown being overly criticized, they also may have had a critical mother and often take onto these traits into their adulthood. These individuals are the type to work hard and don’t give themselves any time relax at all, they are genuine people yet most people often misunderstand them as controlling or too serious.

Mars/Mercury in Pisces/12H. These individuals may have a lot of suppressed feelings, they often don’t express how they truly feel and perhaps people around them often made them feel that they shouldn’t show their emotions. These individuals can even be explosive at times, they need to learn to control their emotions.

Saturn Square Venus. These individuals not only struggle in relationships but often struggle with themselves and their self-love, these individuals restrict themselves and often have a closed minded approach when it comes to love, either this or they don’t receive much opportunity to experience it. These individuals are pushed to find love within themselves without the dependency of someone else.

——————————————————-❤️‍🩹

That’s all for now, please comment if there’s any other things that can be added. And if you have any of these placements listed here’s a hug 🫂!

-neptune. ❤️‍🩹

[vampsywrites]

IV — i remember her hands, and the way the mountains looked.

Synopsis: In which the Sullys approach the mountain clan for sanctuary. The Olo'eykte agrees but proposes one condition: Toruk Makto's eldest son must be promised to her daughter. Surprisingly, instead of the solemn response one would expect, Neteyam agrees almost instantaneously.

Tags: Female! Mountain Na'vi! Reader, Arranged Marriage, Strangers to Lovers, Neteyam is whipped, Making out, Mentions of blood, Arguments, Physical Fights, Protective Neteyam, Slight Jealous Neteyam

Word Count: 5k | AO3 LINK

< PREV | SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT >

"Control your breath, like a soothing river finding its rhythm."

Today's lesson was a departure from the usual climbing sessions you've had the last months. Neteyam had proven himself more than capable of scaling the heights with ease, showcasing his prowess as a skilled and agile climber. It was time to advance his training further and introduce him to a new and essential skill: the art of breath control.

As Omatikaya, he lacked the enhanced lung capacity that your own physiology provided. Over generations, your people had adapted to the challenging conditions of Pandora's higher elevations, making your lungs incredibly efficient at utilizing the limited oxygen resources available. This biological disadvantage of his made it all the more crucial for Neteyam to learn proper techniques.

Sitting cross-legged opposite each other, knees touching, your hands gently pressed against his diaphragm and chest as you began the lesson.

"Close your eyes and take a deep breath through your nose," you instructed softly. "Fill your lungs to their fullest capacity, and feel the air spreading to every corner, energizing your body."

Neteyam followed your guidance, his eyes fluttering shut as he inhaled deeply through his nose. His chest rose, and you could feel his abdomen expanding under your touch as he took in the breath. His inhale was steady but not as deep as you wanted it to be.

"Remember to ease your body," you pointed out gently. "Try again. I want you to hold that breath for a moment, just a beat longer than you're used to. Then release the air slowly through your mouth. Let it flow out like a gentle stream, not a gusty wind."

Neteyam complied. He closed his eyes once more and took a deep breath through his nose, following your guidance carefully. His chest expanded further this time, and you could feel the tension in his body as he held his breath for a moment before exhaling slowly through his mouth.

"You are doing well," you beam.

Despite appearing as though you were focused on teaching Neteyam, your gaze occasionally shifted to the others around you. In the distance, Lo'ak, Tuk, and Kiri were having their own lessons, led by a skilled warrior-hunter from your clan. It seemed as though they were learning well, albeit still displaying moments of clumsiness.

These past few months, normalcy resettled itself in the Sully family rather quickly, like a piece of a puzzle that’s been jostled loose slotting seamlessly back into place.

Kiri, in particular, seemed to be in her element — lost in a world of her own. The girl had long wandered away from her group, traversing the slope of the rock with a skill that far surpassed her experience. She was completely absorbed in the breathtaking views the mountain provided and the wild flora that adorned its sides.

Tuk, on the other hand, was having a blast with a group of younger kids. They were energetically bouncing off the lower parts of the rock wall with their ropes, playing and laughing together. Their youthful enthusiasm was contagious, and it brought a nostalgic smile to your face, reminding you of your own childhood.

Lo'ak had also adapted smoothly, effortlessly climbing higher peaks with a few Na'vi your age. He appeared at ease, his initial apprehension towards the heights now gone as he engaged in friendly banter and conversations with your people.

“I think you’re just using this as an excuse to feel me up, syulang.”

Neteyam's voice draws your attention away, his calloused hands cupping over yours and pressing them flat against the planes of his chest and abdomen. His dark azure skin was smooth beneath your touch, the defined muscles firm and sculpted, evidence of his disciplined training and physical prowess as a warrior.

A cross frown danced on your lips as you retorted, "It is you who is placing my hands over your skin. I am just making sure you're learning properly. “

Neteyam's lips curled into a smirk, amusement dancing in his eyes. "I don't see you removing them," he quipped, his fingers lightly brushing against the back of your hand.

With a shake of your head, you slap at his side of his ribs, eliciting a grunt of surprise from the man.

"Enough. Show me the form I taught," you instruct, shifting back into your role as his teacher.

Neteyam does his breathing exercises accordingly, and you watch with a keen eye, pleased to see his improved technique.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

"Yes," you nod approvingly, genuinely impressed, "that is good."

As the lesson continued to flow smoothly, you instinctively moved closer to Neteyam, wanting to better feel the rise and fall of his chest as he practiced his breathing. In response, Neteyam couldn't resist the impulse to pull at your arms, playfully coaxing you into his lap.

"Skxawng! " With a laugh, you surrendered and settled into his embrace.

Fronts firmly pressed against each other, the closeness between you felt comforting and familiar. It was like two halves of a whole coming together, bodies fitting together so naturally that it was as if they were meant to be in this position.

Neither of you made a move to break the embrace. There was no rush, no need to move on from this moment of connection. Instead, you found yourself cupping his face in your hands, a rare smile gracing your lips as you gazed down at him. Neteyam's fingers traced soothing patterns on your back, fiddling with the back of your woven chest piece, causing a delightful shiver to travel down your spine. The simple touch spoke volumes, conveying a level of intimacy that went beyond words.

"I am still so impressed at how fast you have learned," you whisper softly.

"I have a great teacher," Neteyam laughs, his tail coiling around your thigh in an affectionate manner. Mirroring his actions, your tail trails up his torso, exploring his rugged skin before wrapping itself around his forearm.

As your hands move to his sides, intending to trace comforting circles, you notice a sudden jerk from Neteyam, followed by a low hiss slipping from his lips. In an instant, worry floods your senses, and you draw away from him, giving him space.

"What is it?" you say in panic, your eyes quickly scanning his figure for any signs of distress. They land on small, bloodied scratch marks by his ribs, and realization washes over you.

"Ah," you grimace, a hint of shame in your voice as you hastily reach into your medicinal pouch, your fingers searching for a specific bottle. "I apologize. I did not realize my claws were digging into your skin."

Neteyam offers a reassuring smile, though you can tell that he isn't blaming you in the slightest. "It's alright," he says. "You are acting like I was just maimed. These are little scratches, nothing serious."

You appreciate his attempt to alleviate your concern, knowing that he is not blaming you in the slightest. Still, you find the bottle you were searching for and carefully apply the healing ointment to the scratch marks, your touch featherlight. Neteyam observes your hands move swiftly, appreciating the skill with which you handle the situation.

As Tsahìk, you were used to being gentle and careful with your touch, but there were moments when your physical attributes could unintentionally cause harm. At the tips of your slender fingers were rugged and curved structures resembling claws. This unique feature was a defining characteristic of your people, granting you a remarkable advantage in navigating challenging terrains with ease.

Once you finish applying the ointment, Neteyam takes ahold of your hands, dragging them up until they are eye-level. The warrior's touch is tender as he begins to trace his finger along the curve of your claws. His eyes study the intricate detailing, admiring the look of your unique appendages.

When relaxed, your fingers appeared deceptively normal, concealing the sharp daggers within. But with a simple flex of your hand, the claws emerged gracefully. During his lessons, you would usually keep them out, ready to demonstrate and assist him at any moment.

"I should have been more careful," you murmur, withdrawing your claws.

Neteyam shakes his head, his expression gentle and reassuring. "It's not your fault." He then holds your hands in his, his large palm practically engulfing yours. "Your baby hands did not cause much damage anyways."

In offense, you playfully slap his shoulder, your mouth dropping open in feigned shock. "I will have you know that these 'baby hands' have scaled mountains and traversed terrains you cannot begin to imagine!"

Neteyam raises an eyebrow, pretending to be unimpressed, but a mischievous grin tugs at his lips. "Oh, I am sure they have."

The carefree scene is abruptly interrupted as a shadow suddenly looms over you. Lifting your gaze, you find a familiar face twisted into a stern expression, the lines of displeasure etched across his edged features.

"Tserat," you spat the name out as if it were a poison lathered on your tongue, your disdain for him evident in the sharpness of your tone.

Throughout your life, this man had been a constant thorn in your side, always critical of your choices and quick to engage in arguments.

Among many, his vehement disapproval of your sudden engagement with the eldest Sully boy was no secret, and you were well aware that he had something to say about it now.

The Na'vi acknowledged you with a forced smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. There was a flicker of malice in his gaze as he shifted his focus to Neteyam, sizing up the warrior with a critical eye.

"Forest boy, I see you're enjoying your little lesson," Tserat quipped with a mocking tone. "Didn't know you needed such close instruction."

"We were just practicing some breathing techniques," Neteyam replied, his eyes narrowing slightly as he maintained a remarkable composure despite the charged atmosphere. The venomous tone with which Tserat addressed him was not lost on the Omatikayan, but he chose not to acknowledge it — avoiding any unnecessary conflict.

And yet, Tserat's taunts only continued as he stepped closer, trying to provoke a reaction. "A lesson on breathing techniques?" he scoffed. "Those are only given to little children."

Your patience was wearing thin, and frustration seeped into your voice as you snapped back at him, "Why do you come to us? What do you want?"

"What do I want? I want to know why you are allowing him to seduce you like this," Tserat hissed, his glare intensifying. "This vrrtep—"

The derogatory word hit a nerve, and anger surged within you. Snarling in response, your tail whipped around angrily, "You speak to future Olo'eyktan, Tserat!"

"Future Olo'eyktan?" Tserat scoffed derisively. "The halfbreed can barely scale up a hill! A forest dweller like him wouldn't last a day with our mountain-born warriors, let alone dare to lead them."

"You would do well not to underestimate him," you spat back with a fiery edge, warning firm as you stood your ground, defending Neteyam. "He is embracing our ways with utmost respect and honor, more than some who were born into it."

"This outsider can learn, but his roots are deep in the forest. He will never truly understand the heart and soul of our people." Tserat remarked, face twisted in a hateful sneer. Then, his attention shifted to Neteyam, words dripping with scorn, "You should just go away!"

"Tserat—" you interject, but your words are cut short when a strong hand latches onto your elbow, shutting down the stream of your furious thoughts.

Neteyam steps closer, his hands now moving to gently grip at your waist, seeking to ground you.

"Leave it," he urges softly, trying to diffuse the tension. "Leave it, tìyawn."

You oblige, trying to shift your focus to Neteyam, desperately wanting to tune out Tserat's jeers, to let them fade into the background like distant echoes. But you knew him all too well; if he was anything, he was relentless.

"Stupid girl," the hunter hisses, his words laced with venom, as he whips his head back in agitation. "Always going head first. Never thinking!"

"Watch your tone," Neteyam growls under his breath, the low rumble vibrating through his chest like distant thunder, as his tail wraps itself around your hips protectively. Though his eyes remain fixed on Tserat, Neteyam's senses are on high alert, attuned to every nuance of your body language—from the subtle shift of your ears pinning back against your head to the coiling of your tail low by your feet.

At the sight of your clear discomfort, his other hand itches at the side of his hip where his blade was, instincts screaming for him to act.

"Hey!" The loud voice of Lo'ak booms across the clearing, announcing his arrival. His eyes narrows as he strides forward, each heavy step accompanied by the rhythmic swing of his braids and the clicking of beads.

"Fuck is your problem?" Lo'ak scowls, his tone laced with anger and disdain. He forcefully shoves Tserat back, nearly knocking the man off balance. The grin Tserat flashes at the Omatikaya in response is nothing but a display of teeth and pure viciousness.

"Look who's here, another half-bred freak," Tserat bites back as he pushes against Lo'ak's shoulders, attempting to regain some ground.

Kiri, appearing in a disheveled mess but fierce as ever, storms into the scene — anger lacing her features. Without hesitation, she raises her voice, directing her anger at Tserat.

"Leave us alone!" Kiri shouts as she takes hold of Lo'ak's arm, preventing her younger brother from making any rash moves. But before she can persuade Lo'ak to calm himself, he wrenches his arm free from her grasp.

Without a second thought, Lo'ak hurls himself forward, his fist colliding with Tserat's jaw in a sickening thud. The hunter's head snaps to the side, blood spewing from his split lip as he's left momentarily stunned. After coming to his senses, Tserat snarls, eyes filled with rage as he hits back at Lo'ak with an equal measure of force.

Both of them grapple each other, bodies locked in a struggle. In the chaos of the crossfire, Tserat unexpectedly knocks into you, catching you off guard. Your feet tangle, and you stumble backward, unable to maintain your balance. With a harsh thud, you crash onto the unforgiving dirt ground, pain flaring through your body.

"Tserat!" you shriek, a mixture of anger and pain lacing your voice.

Before you can fully gather your bearings, Neteyam is already in action. In one fluid and furious motion, he lunges forward and shoves Tserat away from his brother, the sheer force of the push sending the hunter hurtling back into the rugged rock face of the mountain. The impact reverberates through the air, a loud thud echoing in the clearing, followed by the rumble of loose stones tumbling down the slope.

Dust billows up around Tserat, momentarily obscuring his figure in a haze of grit and debris. As the cloud of dust clears, Tserat emerges, his eyes burning with a dangerous glint, his rage undeterred by the impact.

Neteyam's lips curl back into a snarl, fangs bared in an unmistakable display of aggression. A guttural hiss then erupts from his lips, a growl that emanates from deep within his chest. It's a primal warning, a clear message that he will not tolerate any further harm directed towards you or anyone else he cares about.

"You—!" Tserat, refusing to back down, meets Neteyam's hiss with one of his own, his fingers tightening around the hilt of the axe at his hip.

Neteyam's response is swift and decisive. He too arms himself, unsheathing his knife. Its sharp metallic sound rings out like a battle cry, slicing through the air with a deadly "shhlck!" The blade gleams in the dappled sunlight, its edge honed and ready for any threat that may come his way.

As the pain from the earlier shove courses through your body, you grit your teeth and rise to your feet, adrenaline fueling you. You rush to Neteyam's side, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your trembling hand as you press it against his chest.

"Ma'Neteyam" you hush. "Mawey. It is alright. It is alright."

Tserat's eyes burn with envy and resentment as he watches the bond between you and Neteyam, a bond that he can't comprehend, much less accept. To him, it's a betrayal, a disloyalty to your people.

The way your touch traced the outlines of Neteyam's skin, the concern in your eyes, and the unwavering support you offered—it all but intensified his misplaced fury. The sight of your closeness with this outsider feels like a knife twisting in his heart, fueling his anger and pushing him to the brink of it all.

Driven by a whirlwind of emotions, Tserat lunged toward you both with a roar of anger. But before he could reach you, a commanding voice cut through the air like a thunderclap, halting him in his tracks.

"Ftang!"

As you turn around, you see your mother landing with a mighty thump, her ikran letting out a shrill, piercing cry. The elderly chief dismounted and approached your group with a stony expression, her fur coat still adorned with remnants of snow.

With every step, your mother shed away her usual warm and caring persona as Iumayi and slipped into the familiar face of Olo'eyktan. Ruthless, cold, Olo'eyktan.

"Why are you here, boy?" she hissed, her icy gaze remaining fixed on Tserat. He looked away, clearly disgruntled and tense under the weight of her scrutiny. ”You disobeyed direct orders! You are supposed to be on patrol! Instead, I see you stirring up a fight!"

Amidst her tirade, your mother's gaze locked onto yours. Her stern expression softened momentarily as Neteyam rushed to help you up, his touch tenderly tracing the outlines of your bruises. The sight of her child in distress stirred her maternal instincts, but she swiftly composed herself, tearing her gaze away from the display of care between you and Neteyam, refocusing on the matter at hand.

"Olo'eykte," Tserat gritted his teeth, his words now flowing in the Iuva'rian dialect, knowing that Neteyam couldn't understand it, "Can you not see this mockery of a union? Y/N was promised to me."

"It doesn't matter what you believe was promised," your mother stated resolutely, switching her language to match his. "Eywa did not will for your union to happen. The Great Mother guides us all, and sometimes our paths lead us in different directions."

As his ears pinned back, a hint of vulnerability flashed in Tserat's eyes. Frustration, resentment, and envy tangled together, gnawing at his heart.

The memory of your father's vision surged in his mind, a painful reminder of what could have been. He recalled how the Olo'eykte had approached him, believing it was he who was in the vision. "A mighty warrior, fierce and protective of his people," she had said, her eyes ablaze with belief in his destiny.

With those words echoing in his ears, Tserat had undergone rigorous training, honing his skills and preparing himself for the role he believed was his birthright. But all of that changed when the Sullys arrived. With Neteyam's emergence as Toruk Makto's son, everything shifted.

The vision, once meant for Tserat, was now directed toward Neteyam, a forest dweller with no ancestral ties to the clan. The mantle of leadership, which he had longed for and devoted himself to, was abruptly snatched away, as if it had never truly been within his grasp.

"Everything is changing," Tserat spat out, hurt etched across his features. "This family brings destruction and war wherever they go. What's to say they won't bring it here?"

"This warrior," Tserat turned to look at Neteyam, his expression brimming with disdain."—does not even know how to breathe our air properly. And you want him to lead us?"

"This is not the time or place for a challenge," Iumayi scorns. "If you believe yourself more worthy to lead, you will have your opportunity to prove it in a ritual battle after he completes the coming of age ceremony."

Tserat ran his tongue over his lips, his emotions carefully hidden behind a neutral mask. With a sigh, he averted his gaze, locking onto the ground, refusing to make eye contact with the chief.

The tension in the air was palpable as the confrontation reached its conclusion. Tserat eventually turned and left, his departure marked by one last glowering look directed Neteyam's way.

Neteyam, still holding you close, sensed the lingering unease and decided it was best to move away from the scene. With one arm wrapped protectively around you, he bid a goodbye to your mother and led you toward Seze.

The Omatikayan carefully lifted you up and secured you onto her back, ensuring your safety as he climbed on behind you.

"Irayo," you whisper. Neteyam's strong arms encircled you, and you leaned back, resting against him

"Kea tìkin," Neteyam hums.

Neteyam had led you to a secluded green clearing hidden deep in the heart of the valley. The tall, ancient trees stood as protective guardians, shielding you both from the prying eyes of the outside world. The rustling leaves and the distant songs of wind created a calming atmosphere, offering a private haven for you and Neteyam to grapple with the emotions that had been swirling between you.

Approaching the dense thicket of trees that hovered over the peak, your steps faltered when Neteyam's rough fingers wrapped around your elbow, gently pulling you back. His hand then rested softly on your hip, thumb tracing soothing circles on your striped skin.

The weight of moodiness still clung to you like a stubborn fog, but his touch and tender words began to penetrate that cloud, slowly lifting the veil of uncertainty that had settled.

"What's wrong? Talk to me, baby," Neteyam murmured, the foreign English endearment slipping off his accented tongue as smooth as the cascading waters of a tranquil stream.

Despite his plea, your lips were sealed shut, teeth biting down on the plump flesh, eyes refusing to look away from the blooming purple bruises on your skin. Faintly, you felt a burning sensation building up on your waterline, an all-too-familiar sign of tears threatening to spill over. It was an emotion you had long tried to suppress over the years, but the events of the day had taken their toll on your strength.

"Sweet girl," Neteyam soothed, his thumb pressing onto your lips and gently easing it away from your fangs. He then reached out to brush a reassuring hand against your cheek, guiding your watery gaze to meet his. The sight of your unshed tears pierced through him like a spear, striking a chord deep within his heart.

"Tserat is a fool," you drew in a shaky breath, the frustration evident in your voice. "Stubborn. Resistant to change!"

"I saw," he acknowledged with a low chuckle, but his expression softened with understanding. "People like him hold on to old ways out of fear. But change is the natural course of life. Do not worry, they will come to understand soon. Give them time."

Neteyam then paused, his eyes taking you in, a rugged hand running up your back in a comforting gesture. The forest around you seemed to grow quieter. "You two seemed to know each other…"

You nodded, a mix of emotions welling up inside you as memories of the past flooded back. "Yes," you replied, your voice tinged with nostalgia. "We were once very close. Me and him were promised."

"Oh," Neteyam breathed out, his voice tinged with a deep, rich green envy that simmered just below the surface. The intensity in his eyes blazed, and a hint of possessiveness seeped into his tone.

His hand on your waist tightened slightly, drawing you closer to him, and you willingly leaned into his embrace, finding comfort in his protective hold.

The lithe form of his tail swished from side to side, revealing the restlessness he felt, while his eyes remained fixed on yours, guarded yet filled with a yearning for understanding. You could tell the man before you bled with questions, but he was treading carefully, respectful of your boundaries and not wanting to intrude.

It was something you had noticed over the past few months spent together. Neteyam, a warrior at heart, was skilled at concealing his emotions. He had a way of pushing down his feelings, riding out pain - both emotional and physical with a stoic determination until they dissipated. His strength and resilience were admirable, and you respected his ability to handle difficult situations without faltering.

But as the days turned into weeks and then months, a part of you longed to see more of his vulnerability, to understand the layers beneath his tough exterior. You wanted to know the man beyond the warrior, the man behind the title of future Olo'eyktan, the person he was when he let his guard down.

In moments of quiet intimacy like this, you caught glimpses of tenderness in him, emotions he carefully kept in check. It made you feel that you were so close to understanding him on a deeper level, yet there was still a distance that kept you from fully unraveling the complexities of his heart.

"I said once," you reiterated gently, wanting him to know that the past was merely a stepping stone that led you to him. "I did not go through with the ceremony."

His grip on your waist softened, and he pulled you even closer, intertwining his fingers with yours. It felt as if the world around you had melted away, leaving just the two of you in that secluded green clearing.

"Why did you not?" Neteyam's question hung in the air like a delicate thread, his voice barely above a whisper, brimming with vulnerability.

You took a moment to gather your thoughts, the topic of conversation causing your heart to race. The freckles upon his nose and forehead caught the golden rays of the setting sun, making him look even more mesmerizing as his eyes languidly traced your face.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you found the strength to answer honestly. "I did not want him," you stated firmly, making it clear that your heart had never truly belonged to Tserat.

Ears pulled flat back, he stepped closer and found his hand reaching out to take a hold of his your hip. His gaze was dark, untamed like the forest as flickers of emotion flashed across the specs of gold, brown and green in his eyes. The tension between you and him thickened, fueled by a potent mix of jealousy, desire, and the simmering anger from the confrontation.

"And who do you want?" Neteyam's voice was a husky murmur, tinged with longing. He searched your eyes for an answer, almost as if he feared what would come out of your lips.

And you knew that this was the moment of truth, where your confession could either bring you closer or drive you apart.

In the past few months, both of you had danced around the touches of affection, tiptoeing around the unspoken feelings that had quietly but intensely grown between you. On the surface, it seemed as if you were merely fulfilling your duties, following the paths arranged for you. But beneath it all, there was something deeper, a bond that had become undeniable.

Standing before Neteyam, you could feel the tremor in his touch, the unspoken fear of rejection. But there was also a glimmer of hope shimmering in those golden pools, a belief that maybe, just maybe, you would choose him.

Without skipping a beat, you looked up into his eyes, your own gaze unwavering. "You."

"I want you, Neteyam."

Neteyam felt his heart leap to his throat at your words, desire chipping away at was left of the walls he had built up. His grip on you tightened and he looked into your eyes, seeking permission for what he was about to do, gaze gliding down to your lips.

Without words, you both knew what you wanted, what you needed. You understood the unspoken plea in his eyes and nodded, granting him permission to close the distance between you.

Neteyam's hand moved from your hip to your lower back, pulling you closer as he drew you into a deep kiss. Your fingers threaded through his dark hair, and you felt the roughness of his braids against your skin. The taste of him was intoxicating, a blend of earthy warmth and a hint of something uniquely him.

"I want you too," he breathed out against your lips, attempting to pull you even closer, molding his body onto yours. "More than anything."

Minutes pass and the intensity of your passionate kiss gradually subsided. Finally, you both drew away, finding yourselves breathless yet exhilarated. The rush of emotions still coursed through your veins, leaving you both trembling with the weight of the moment.

Neteyam's forehead pressed against yours, his warm breath mingling with yours as you gazed into each other's eyes, the unspoken words hanging heavily in the air.

"I see you," you finally gasped out, your voice hitching. Those three simple words carried the weight of all your feelings, a declaration of your understanding and acceptance of him, flaws and all.

Neteyam froze, his breath catching in his throat. The exhale from his lips was entirely broken, as if you had stolen his last remaining breath from his lungs. Slowly, he found himself giving in to the overwhelming rush of emotions, the walls he had built over years finally falling down in ruins.

"I see you," Neteyam returned, accent thick, voice breathless and guttural. He leaned in to kiss you once more, sealing his emotions with the tender touch of his lips against yours. Those three words were repeated over and over against your lips, a desperate show of his affections.

Neteyam bared everything he had inside, his deepest desires, fears, and dreams, pouring his heart before you like a crimson offering as he hoped beyond hope that you would handle it with the utmost care.

< PREV | SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT >

the relationship is established! now its time to plan on how to destroy it. /hj

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[fatkish]

Aisles and Class 1A x Fem Quirkless reader platonic hcs who’s cold, reserved, but still polite and nice to others. She’s a strict badass who’s also street smart and masters a bunch of weapons like throwing knives, guns, pole arms, etc, to replace her lack of a Quirk. One of the top students as well as the scariest girl in class as she gives it her all in class, sending anyone who challenges her to the infirmary anytime they fought her. Unlike Izuku, who at least grew up with a parent’s love, she had nobody and had to survive on the streets and illegal underground rings, earning many nasty scars that she hides behind her bandages and clothing which she always covers up with stuff like scarfs, gloves, even if it’s super hot out. She craves any love but backs down due to heavy discrimination, bullying, etc. hcs?

(So I’m gonna assume that Aisles is Aizawa because I don’t recall a character with that name. Also I’m gonna make the reader similar to Illumi Zoldyck from HxH)

Aizawa & Class 1A x Quirkless Reader

Growing up in the underground was harsh and brutal. In order to survive you had to be willing to do whatever it took

Whether it was stealing food, or fighting, you did anything that could increase the chances of your survival

Living on the streets, you grew up facing villains and thugs in the alleys, they would see you as an easy target so you had to learn to protect yourself

After years of fighting and being subjected to multiple quirks, you’ve built up a high resistance to physical pain. Not that you can’t feel pain, you just tolerate more of it better than others

You’ve learned various techniques and skills when it comes to fighting but you’re not just skilled with combat

Having no parents, you had to learn to cook for yourself and became somewhat skilled in the culinary arts

In order to make up for not having a quirk, you learned to wield every possible weapon and mastered the use of each

And in order to have money, you fought in illegal and legal underground fighting rings. These fights landed you plenty of scars to the point that you’re covered in them

You wear bandages and long clothing to hide the scars, however your choice of style can make you look suspicious

Due to growing up the way you did, you developed a rather cold and reserved personality but you maintained your manners and are very polite

You don’t really show a lot of emotion which can make people uncomfortable being around you, but you don’t really care

Originally, you weren’t going to go to highschool but you came across Aizawa one night when you were cornered by some thugs. He was about to step in when you seemingly appeared behind the thugs, then they all fell down unconscious. Aizawa thought you used a teleportation quirk. He understood that you were essentially homeless and had no family so he offered for you to stay with him for the night

As he began to understand your predicament, he was amazed at how quickly you picked up on things. You were incredibly smart and observant but that’s probably due to having lived on the streets

When Aizawa learned that you didn’t have a quirk he originally didn’t believe you. But after testing his quirk on you, he realized you were telling the truth

Aizawa actually gave you a recommendation to UA since he deeply believes that you would make a good hero

When you took the recommendation exam, you met Inasa who surprisingly quickly managed to worm his way past your walls and became your friend during the exam

After having passed the exam with flying colors you were given Inasa’s phone number since he learned you didn’t have a phone

Aizawa had later that day, bought you a phone for you to connect with the friends you would hopefully make

When school came around, Inasa had been coaching you on how to make friends, despite your cold personality you managed to befriend Izuku on the first day (more like he just didn’t have the balls to tell you you were scary)

You saw how Bakugou treated Izuku and you didn’t like how scared Izuku was so you decided to make an example out of Bakugou

During All Mights hero class, you were paired with Izuku and Uraraka. You followed Izuku and protected him from Bakugou. When Bakugou ignored All Might and used his stored up sweat, you decided that you had enough. You quickly went behind Bakugou and started to let loose on him, in the end, you accidentally sent him to recovery girl’s office since you didn’t know how to hold back

When Izuku saw this, he realized you weren’t that scary and you’re just not that good with social situations, he then took it upon himself to make you apart of the Dekusquad and you decided to keep hanging around him

Shoto and Momo have become some of your closer friends. Momo takes you shopping and loves to dress you up

Mineta, Koda and Aoyama are terrified of you. The girls all love that Mineta is too afraid to perv on you, so they use you as a shield to ward off Mineta

Kirishima and Ojiro are constantly asking you to spar with them as well as Bakugou. They don’t care that you can’t hold back most of your strength, the don’t care that sparring with you is a one way ticket to Recovery Girl, they admire your strength and they want to get stronger

When you’re relaxing, Shoto likes to hang around you since you both have the same cluelessness in the sense of social interactions

Although you have a hard time initiating affection, Aizawa makes sure you receive plenty of it whether it’s just a simple head pat or a small hug. Aizawa and Midoriya help you with learning how to express yourself since you’ve closed yourself off as a means to protect yourself

[alexiethymia]

Ka Zuigetsu

(spoilers for the manga, LN, WN you name it)

Jinshi or rather Zuigetsu is such an interesting character for me because of the dichotomy. We're initially introduced to him as someone with a lot of pride in his looks, confident, mature beyond his years. Later on, we find that his true self is quite self-depreciating and childish.

He doesn't have an attachment to power, nor his looks. He's actually not the arrogant lord Maomao initially thinks he is because he's open to learning and taking the advice of those who know more than him. And while this feeds into his complex that he's surrounded by eccentrics who are extraordinarily good and excel at one thing (the entire Ra Clan, Maomao included, Basen etc.) he's no slouch himself!

I mean Jinshi doesn't think much of himself considering himself a jack of all trades, but what a wide variety of trades it is - he can beat Basen using skill instead of force, he beat the Emperor at Go at the tender age of fourteen and this is with the Emperor having been taught by the Sage who is one of the only two people known to have beat Rakan, he dances with such grace that foreign envoys can only think of him as a goddess, he's enough of a quick study with medicine according to Maomao, not to mention his prowess at both the military arts and diplomacy.

As if to make up for all that he perceives he lacks, he knows talent when he sees it and will use people accordingly. Ironically (and though they would both hate to hear it) Jinshi and Rakan are more than a lot alike. Despite his complex, these qualities actually make him quite a good leader and you could see why the Emperor really wants to make him the Crown Prince even if this isn't Jinshi's wish.

But unlike Rakan, he is still soft-hearted at his core (see the case with Fuyou for example). And though Maomao is rankled at how he attempts to be both pragmatic and kind, at his inability to wholly abandon his heart for the things he knows must be done, at her core, I think that trait of Jinshi's is the main reason why Maomao finds herself unexpectedly loyal to him.

Much has been said for Maomao's charisma, but Jinshi also attracts loyalty from unexpected places. Like Gyokuyou, he surrounds himself with capable people. While part of me is cheering him on to get his wish of being an ordinary person, I feel like everything has been building up to his eventual ascension to the throne. Because while Jinshi may complain and grumble about his work, ultimately he will still do it. At present, he could only implement his plan because he still thinks he's just the Imperial Brother. But the moment the truth gets revealed, he won't easily be able to shake off his burden.

A part of me thinks that he will eventually take the throne in some form or the other, but only until Gyokuyou's son comes of age and he can finally pass on the crown and become an ordinary person once and for all. This scenario would actually be the perfect pretext for him to justify having only Maomao for his sole consort since he can reason out that he doesn't want to further complicate the lines of succession by having more children with more consorts. In other words, a win-win possibly for both Jinshi and the current Emperor (except Maomao haha).

[koscheys-skull]

When it comes to Necromancy and Death Work, I think people are often misunderstanding the art of Death Work. I know this will sound rather harsh, but if you cannot be good with people that are living and breathing then you're not going to be good with Death Work in any regard. I mean it. You are still working with people, my loves. You still need to have good communication skills as well as people skills. You need to be able to listen and set yourself and what you think or feel aside for a while and take in what the other person wants, needs, and is expressing. If you lack those, then you will not do well as a Death Worker. This is on top of you already possessing good discernment and spirit working skills as well as hopefully a reliable and very well honed divination skill. Now, everyone starts somewhere, but the approach is the most important thing. Not everyone will immediately be "out of the gate" excellent. I do understand that and I do expect people to need to develop skills as they go. But the approach is imperative. What attitude you're going into this is critical to your success.

Many people are attracted to these themes as a trend. When some people gravitate towards schools of Death Working practises, they do so because they are fascinated and intrigued and allured by the concepts of "Bones. Blood. Black." because it's your standard motifs of emo teenagers. Please. It is not that sort of practise. It requires sensitivity, awareness, openness and understanding. It does also require you to communicate and set good boundaries and be firm in yourself while being receptive and attentive to others. It can often be a sensitive practise and this is no place for children to be bumbling about making a mess of things and disturbing the dead by being inconsiderate and selfish because someone wanted to feel cool and edgy. Please take that attitude somewhere else. Death Working is not for you until you can get out of your own ego and head.

[crowlipso]

MC - Agatha Crowley sheet

Information under the cut!

Basic Information

Full name: Agatha Chandra Crowley

Nickname: Ag, Aggie

Gender: Female

Sexuality: Bisexual

MBTI: ESTP

Species: Human

Date of birth: 18th June 1875

Nationality: British (British/Trinidadian/Siamese)

Blood status: Pure-blood/Half-blood (unclear)

Wand: Redwood wood with a dragon heartstring core 10 ¼" and quite bendy flexibility

House: Slytherin

Patronus: Dragon

Boggart: [LOCKED]

Amortentia: Burnt wood, Chocolate, Gasoline

Appearance

Hair colour: Platinum white

Hairstyle: Short soft curls

Eye colour: Magenta 

Skin tone: Medium-dark skin with yellow-golden undertones

Height: (unclear) 3cm shorter than Sebastian

Weight: 60kg

Other distinguishing features: Two moles under the bottom lip, Fangs, Black nails polish

Personality 

Agatha is confident and ambitious despite feeling neglected by her family and has developed a strong sense of self-worth. She's rebellious and doesn't conform to traditional gender roles, preferring to dress and act in a way that makes her feel comfortable rather than trying to please others. She can come across as cocky and sarcastic at times, partly because of her family's wealth and status, but also as a defense mechanism developed from her experiences with bullying.

While Agatha can be sarcastic and biting in her humour, she's also fiercely loyal to those she cares about and will go to great lengths to protect them. Her experiences with bullying have made her somewhat hostile towards those she perceives as a threat, but she's not inherently violent or cruel. She values intelligence and cunning.

Traits: Chaotic, Cocky, Charismatic, Sarcastic, Barbaric

Likes: Dragons, Insects, Leeches, Forbidden Knowledge

Dislikes: Milk in tea, Skirts

Good at: Martial arts, Animal Handling, Intimidating, 

Bad at: Showing true emotions and Affection, Persuade

Hobbies: Bug collector, Quidditch for fun(played as Beater), Drawing

Fears: Become nobody, Her father

Ambition: Domesticated Dragons

Family & Backstory

Agatha Crowley was born into a wealthy and prestigious pure-blood family known for their diplomatic skills and trading. Her father always wanted a son to carry on the family name and legacy, but instead, he was disappointed to have a daughter. As a result, Agatha was neglected by her father and most of her extended family. Only her mother showed her affection and attention, taking care of her and even allowing her to play with muggle children in their neighborhood.

Agatha's childhood was rough due to her family's neglect and the bullying she experienced from muggle children because of her unnatural hair and eye color. To cope, she became rebellious and defiant, refusing to wear skirts and acting more like a boy to try and please her father.

Despite not showing any signs of magical ability, Agatha's maternal grandfather, a Siamese man who was skilled in Muay Thai, taught her martial arts from a young age. Agatha fell in love with the discipline and art of fighting and trained vigorously with her grandfather.

At the age of 15 Agatha's magical abilities finally awakened, and she received her acceptance letter to Hogwarts, Though she possessed traits of a Gryffindor, her ambitious nature led her to be sorted into Slytherin, much to her family's relief.

In Hogwarts, Agatha's skills in martial arts proved to be an asset in her studies, especially in Defense Against the Dark Arts. However, her troubled past and lack of parental guidance caused her to develop a rude, sarcastic, and mean personality, often pushing people away with her hostile behavior.

Despite this, Agatha remained fearless and savage, always ready to fight for what she believed in, and became a force to be reckoned with in both academics and combat.

Father: Josiah Crowley

Mother: Chandra *Thai people still haven't had a last name back then*

Paternal grandparents: Victarion Crowley and Calypso Lovegood

Maternal grandparents: Narong, -

Uncles: Bran Crowley (Josiah’s brother), Edward Crowley(other brothers)

Aunts: Alannis (Crowley) Sanchez

Cousins: Isis Crowley(Bran’s daughter), Rose Sanchez, Jason Sanchez (Alannis’s children), Ramsay Crowley, Victarion II Crowley, Aretha Crowley (Edward’s children)

Pet: Bunch of unnamed insects, two leeches name Robert and Henry

Family home: London, Wandsworth

Relationships 

Friends: Sebastian Sallow, Ominis Gaunt, Giona Regali(oc), Natsai Onai, Poppy Sweeting, other fifth years

Best Friends: Sebastian Sallow, Ominis Gaunt

Love interest: Sebastian Sallow click

Others

Headcanon CV: Robyn Addison

Character inspiration:

Rhaenyra Targaryen - House of The Dragon

Nanno - Girl from nowhere

Veronica Sawyer - Heathers 1988

Cruella De Vil - Cruella 2021

Jo March - Little Women 2019

Agatha Harkness - Wandavision

[gabessquishytum]

So! Idea! We've got a Sex-Neutral/Sex-Positive Ace Dream who has been trying to work more on improving his writing for sex scenes. He's had sex before. It was... fine? But he realizes, as he's trying to write it, he has absolutely no idea how these limbs should be working or if things would even feel good.

So he tries watching porn and reading other works as research. And it helps! But he still feels like his writing lacks something. Authenticity, he suspects. So, he asks a good friend of his that he trusts (Hob) to act out this scene with him so he can make adjustments to his writing as needed.

Hob, who has been pining over his friend for far longer than is probably healthy, agrees cause he's pretty sure this would be his only chance. And if he goes a bit off-script and lets his hands and lips linger a bit too long or holds Dream a little too close, a little too tight? Who's to say?

Dream's pleased enough with his findings. He's still not sold on the intense desire people have for it, but it was fun enough. And Hob's rather skilled as well, so that helps with his research.

Dream also asks him various questions as well. He'll be writing on the couch, Hob's sitting in the chair beside him, when Dream asks him to describe being horny. Which is an experience. Hob struggles through it and pats himself on the back for not immediately outing his feelings for Dream in the process.

Their "research" continues a few more times. Dream's rather enjoyed the time spent with Hob like this. He especially likes their chats just lying in bed, content and worn out from whatever sex scene Dream needed to visualize. He also realizes he quite enjoys the sight of Hob in the throws of pleasure. He likes knowing that he put that look on him and made him feel good. It's in the middle of the night as Dream is watching the gentle rise and fall of Hob's chest that he realizes he loves this man.

Eventually, Hob can't do the "casual" sex anymore. His heart can't take it. He confesses his feelings for Dream, who is initially shocked, but very, very pleased, tells Hob that he loves him as well.

They still do plenty of research together, but now it also encompasses quiet mornings in bed and dates to museums or art galleries and Dream's favorite: falling asleep on Hob's chest while his hair gets played with.

Actually screaming at the idea of Hob acting out sex scenes for Dream. I know that he totally would.

Poor Hob, though. He’s already dying every time he reads one of Dream’s books. He can’t help trying to squeeze out every drop of information in the fictional characters about what his friend might like in a partner. Or in bed. Once or twice he’s wondered if Dream’s make love interest characters could be a little bit based on him? But he quickly represses that thought! It’s a totally different ballgame (hah) when Dream asks him to actually bring those sex scenes to life, though!

Hob wants to make Dream happy as a writer, of course. But also wants to give him pleasure. And he wants to show Dream how good he is at sex, so maybe Dream will fancy him more… it’s all very complicated. Mostly he just loves Dream, and loves having sex with him for sure, but ultimately his ole romantic heart can’t take it any more.

The news that Dream loves him too nearly has Hob falling out of bed in shock. For all that he’d hoped, he never believed that he’d be good enough for his perfect friend. Dream wryly points out that he is far from perfect, but Hob still disagrees.

And yes, the brunet golden retriever boyfriend in Dream’s books may or may not be based on his ACTUAL boyfriend. And YES! Hob really can do that thing with his tongue that Dream wrote about. He does it frequently.

But most of their long and happy relationship stays firmly behind closed doors, where they can love each other and be weird happy gremlins in private <3

[shuttershocky]

Hey shutters, just wondering if you think any of the upcoming operators in AK are worth leveling or getting to m3

Your favorites :)

If you're asking for "meta" picks, then the strongest are going to be Ray, Arturia, Ela, Shu, and especially Degenbrecher who is so ungodly strong I believe she will eventually challenge the dominance of the Mlynar-Surtr-Chen Alter trio. She's that good.

Arturia is pretty straightforward: if you thought Valarqvin's 12,000 pseudo-True Damage and -50% ATK debuff is good (and it is, you could defang Clip Cliff without using Heat Vents just by constantly alternating Tank skills and Necrosis on him) then get Arturia (I'm forgetting her actual operator codename). Along with Ebenholz's new delta module, you can wreak a lot of havoc on virtually every enemy in the game, as no enemy has Elemental Resistance yet.

Ray is a little difficult as you need to deploy her sandbeast pet as well as her, but if you've played with Coldshot you would know that Hunters basically act like physical Mystic Casters. Ray's DPH is very high, enough that some would argue that Schwarz's fiercest competition isn't actually Pozy, but Ray, who preys on the same enemy types that she does. Just like Schwarz, she's not someone you really /need/, but if you insist on punching through armor via high DPH rather than through Arts damage, Ray's your girl.

Ela is a trapmaster like Dorothy. Unlike Dorothy, Ela's module foregoes the crit traps in favor of letting Ela deploy on melee tiles and place her mines on ranged tiles. This is significant because Ela's mines are the only Trapmaster mines that trigger when someone steps near, rather than on the mine itself. This increased versatility in unit placement serves Ela well, as she's the only Trapmaster who is designed around her autoattacks instead of her traps. Ela does a lot of attack damage on enemies debuffed by her traps, making her own positioning just as important as her traps are.

Does Shu powercreep Saria? Well not really. Is she still ridiculously busted and both the most interesting and unique operator to come in the next 6 months? Absolutely. Though lacking Saria's bulk and simplicity, Shu's ricefields act as both HP regen (heals unhealable units lul) and Shelter source, making her decently tanky in her own right while also protecting allies from damage. Her 2nd talent also showers the entire fucking team in free buffs (if team has 3 operators of different classes, +12%HP, if 3 of the same class, +12 ASPD, if 4 Sui are in the team, +12% ATK and +1 SP every 4 seconds) which honestly feels a lot to me like a "Shit she has to compete with Saria" panic button. Her most interesting feature however, is her S3 turning her rice fields into portals for enemies, forcibly teleporting them back to the first rice field they touch after moving 2 tiles. The possibilities of this skill are sky-high (example: the rice portals preserve momentum, meaning you can constantly push an enemy through a ricefield tile to build a ridiculous speed) and make Shu my pick for the most valuable and interesting operator to look forward to.

Degenbrecher is like what if we had a new Mlynar but a Swordmaster instead of a Liberator, so unlike Mlynar she actually blocks and fights while her skill is still charging. Press S3 to destroy everything in sight and remind Chen why she became a support and make Irene question why she's even here. Unlike the other Swordmasters, her S3 charges based on time rather than by attacks, so even if there are no enemies onscreen, Degenbrecher's S3 will still get ready. I truly wonder what HG was thinking completely removing Irene from the game like that, but our poor seagull at least has a second module to look forward to (unlike Carnelian after Lin).

[quillsandblades]

A levihan fic I wrote inspired by the wonderful art of @addiej01

Lucky

Dust motes and overflowing sewerage. Dirty streets, uneven houses, and a large rocky ceiling, cutting out the sight of—Levi could only imagine what it may look like— the sky.

A typical day in the Underground.

Levi was eight, and pissed off at the random men that kept showing up to the small room where they lived. His mother had, as usual, sent him away, sneaking him out through the window and drawing the threadbare curtains over it before anyone could see him. He knew she was doing it—whatever it was—for him, and it also hurt her. And it involved men.

She had explained patiently to him that she was working and he must never peek through the window or she would be very angry and sad. But he’d seen her tired eyes, pale face and the dried tear tracks on her cheeks. He’d seen how she would wince in pain when she moved, and he’d heard her silent sniffles in the deep night when she thought he was asleep. He blamed the men, and her work, that she was so adamant on hiding from him.

He had been tempted to look through the window once. If he knew what was hurting her, he could find a solution. But her words had rung sharply in his mind and he knew if he followed the impulse, his mom would never ever forgive him.

So there he was, wandering the streets on yet another day, feeling helpless and cursing life with all the ferocity a child could muster.

Levi knew his way in the area around his home quite well. He was familiar with the narrow alleyways and passages that ran through the district like a tight network of spider webs. And just like a spider web, they were traps for all the stupid flies that dared to venture into it.

Levi was not a fly; rather he was one of the spiders, albeit a smaller one. Having grown up on those streets, he knew exactly what kind of person to avoid and how to avoid them. As a child he did lack many talents needed on the streets, like strength, fighting tactics and killing, but he knew how to survive, and that’s what mattered most. He was pretty quick and stealthy as well. Though his mom didn’t like the idea of stealing and Levi went along with it, it was still a handy little skill.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck stood up and he instantly looked around. The distant sound of hurried footsteps compelled him to dive into a gaping alley. He flattened behind a dripping pipe, holding his breath, partially due to the stink, and peered out.

A tall, burly man marched through the street; waves of anger were emitting from him and he was fingering the gun in his belt, moving with a purpose.

As he’d suspected, it was one of the spiders. A big one. Levi wouldn’t want to be in its pincers. He waited with bated breath, until the man was out of sight and it was safe for him to come out. But just then, he heard a small squeak and jerked back, fists raised.

‘Who’s there?’ he called out.

When nothing but silence answered, he stepped back into the alley, and squinted in the semi-darkness, eyes roving, searching—there!

A small figure was hunched behind some boxes. Another squeak sounded.

Levi approached it and realized it was a kid, around his age. The kid stumbled back as Levi came closer, hands held in front of him . . . or her? It could be a boy, sure looked like one. He wore glasses and was dressed in fairly bright and expensive looking clothes, but they were covered in dirt, and his short brown hair framed his face in messy strands.

He looked terrified, but was doing a fairly good job in masking it.

‘Who are you?’ Levi asked, folding his arms.

‘H—Hange,’ surprisingly the voice sounded female.

Levi raised his eyebrows, ‘You a girl?’

‘Uh, I . . . yeah,’ her eyes darted around, unsure and nervous.

‘You’re not from here,’ Levi stated flatly.

She winced, ‘Well, yes . . . but I swear I’m not gonna cause any trouble! I just wanted to look around! I’ve never seen the Underground before!’

Levi rolled his eyes; as if it was such a delightful place. So she was from the surface, and completely oblivious to this world. What an idiot.

The perfect fly.

He decided it was better not to let the girl, Hange, wander around by herself, so he accompanied her to the gates. Besides, he had nothing to do anyway.

She liked talking, as he soon found out. A lot. And throughout their little journey, she chattered happily in his ear. In a span of forty minutes, he knew everything from the name of her pet dog to the annoying governess who made her sit through hours of lectures on how to be a proper lady, even though she didn’t want to be one. Apparently, her father was a kind-hearted doctor who had come down to treat the victims of a prevailing disease in the Underground. Naturally, Hange wasn’t allowed to come with him. And naturally her unbridled curiosity made her slip in while her father crossed through the gates. How she managed that feat was beyond him.

He learnt quite a lot about life above the ground, and realized just how different it was from his own. But he really wished she would shut up for a while, otherwise he was sure to have a headache soon.

Thankfully, the gates came in sight, and she turned to him. She was grinning, and her eyes were shining brightly.

‘Thanks for being my guide, Levi!’ she exclaimed.

‘I wasn’t your—’ his retort was cut short as she enveloped him into a hug.

‘Bye! I’ll see you tomorrow, okay!’ she shouted in his ear.

‘Oi! Get off four-eyes!’

She laughed at the nickname and headed towards the gates, preparing to sneak out. She might get caught but it wasn’t like he cared. She’d managed to come in after all, he was sure she could go out as well. He turned on his heel and walked away.

***

True to her word, Hange came down again the next day. He saw her descend the giant stone steps with a man that could only be her father. It seemed she’d somehow convinced him to bring her along this time. She beamed down at him and adjusted the bag at her shoulders, as the guards held them up by the entrance.

‘You were waiting for me!’ she jumped in excitement as she rushed down.

Levi scowled, ‘I wasn’t.’

Of course he wasn’t waiting for that moron to come; he was simply walking around the gates. It’s not like he was bored or anything.

‘Your father let you come today,’ Levi pointed out.

‘Yeah! I asked him sooo many times yesterday that he just had to,’ she said.

‘But he only agreed when I told him I made a really nice grumpy friend,’ Hange skipped ahead, full of energy. ‘So, where are we going today?’

‘I’m not your friend,’ said Levi, ‘and we’re not going anywhere.’

‘Oh c’mon grumpy pants,’ she pouted. ‘Show me around! I even brought food for us today; we can have a picnic somewhere!’

Levi shook his head, equal parts amused and irritated. What did she think this place was? An amusement park?

‘You can't fool around here,’ he said gruffly. ‘It’s dangerous.’

‘Buuut I wanna explore,’ she whined, ‘and you know the Underground well. Pleeease Levi.’ She looked at him with big, pleading brown eyes.

He sighed and trudged ahead, ‘Come on.’ It wasn’t as if he was busy, some company wouldn’t hurt.

‘Yes!’

He led her to areas that he knew were relatively safer. Four-eyes tagged along, staring at the shops, houses, bars and people as if she’d never seen those things before. He noted that she stared at the stone ceiling every now and then, mouth half-open in wonder.

‘These people,’ she began after a while, ‘they’ve been in the Underground all their lives?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So that means none of you have ever seen the sky?’

He nodded stiffly. Hange gasped.

‘That’s horrible! You’re telling me you don’t know how it looks like when it’s clear, or cloudy, or early in the morning, or when the sun’s setting?’

‘I don’t.’

She stopped and grasped him by the arms, bending forward. Levi leaned back, eyes widening.

‘Don’t you worry Levi, I’ll take you to see the sky!’ she said earnestly. ‘Why don’t you come with me today when I leave?’

‘I can't,’ he shook his head. ‘None of the Undergrounders can leave just like that.’

‘Oh,’ her shoulders slumped and she frowned, crestfallen.

But then her eyes lit up once more, ‘Y’know, my mom’s a painter, and I just remembered two of her really good paintings about the sky. I’ll bring them tomorrow for you to see!’

And with that she bounded forward, calling for him to catch up.

Levi stood there for a second, not knowing what to make of this overly enthusiastic girl who somehow felt it was her duty to show him something he’d always wished but never had the chance to see. Was this what they called kindness? He couldn’t be sure.

Four-eyes insisted to see a livelier place next, so he took her to the market square, bustling with people. She moved around the stalls with a bright gleam in her eyes and gushed over the local handiworks. After she’d looked around to her heart’s content, they both sat down on the large steps of a storehouse and four-eyes took out food from her bag. Bright-colored fruits, bread, sandwiches, an orange drink.

The sight made his mouth water. How long had it been since he had a proper meal? Weeks? Months? How long since his mother had eaten anything?

Hange nudged him, ‘Go on, I brought this for both of us.’

He picked up a piece of bread gingerly and took a small bite. It was warm and sweet and so painfully real that for a moment he just savored the feeling of something solid and edible filling his mouth. He tore off a large bite, then another and another, filling himself with food. He finished the whole loaf in a minute.

Levi glanced at Hange, expecting her to be staring at him judgmentally, but she was simply chewing an apple, gazing around thoughtfully.

So Levi picked up a sandwich and bit into it, taking time to chew properly and eat slowly this time.

‘So . . . you said you lived with only your mom,’ she started.

‘Hmm.’

‘Where’s your dad?’

‘Dunno, and don’t care,’ he shrugged.

‘Can I meet your mom?’ four-eyes asked eagerly.

‘She’s busy right now, working.’

Her face fell. He hesitated, and then said, ‘Maybe another time?’

‘Of course! I would love to!’

She began taking again, telling him about her life, her little adventures back at home. This time he threw in small comments here and there, making her laugh out loud. It was a nice feeling: to learn that you could make someone smile widely just because of your words.

Much too soon, it was time for her to go. She let him—more like forced him—to take the rest of the food home, and promised to come down tomorrow and show him the paintings.

The next day, Levi greeted her with the words, ‘I want to show you a place.’

‘Ooh!’ Hange was all excitement as she followed him.

He went to the far corner of the district where the tumbledown houses gave way to the high walls that marked the end of the city. The spot was a mess of cracked rock and broken stones protruding from the ground and rising up to a great height.

‘C’mon,’ Levi said, lodging his hands and feet between the gaps in the stone and hoisting himself. He looked back down at four-eyes, ‘Can you climb up?’

She nodded, a bit uncertainly but followed his lead. It wasn’t that hard, the rocks weren’t slippery or steep, but they did have a long way to go. Levi focused on climbing up and kept checking on Hange in between. She seemed to be doing okay.

Finally they reached the wide ledge at the top and Levi pulled himself up and then helped Hange. They both sat there, catching their breath for a while. Hange produced a bottle of water from her bag, drank some and then handed it to Levi.

She turned to look back and gasped.

‘Whoa!’

The whole Underground city was spread out below them. From their great height, the houses looked like children’s toys. The buildings were squashed in close to each other, with narrow streets weaving between them. The tall towers stood out majestically among them. Everything shined in the flickering lights of the city.

Levi looked at four-eyes and almost smiled at her expression of awe. She was quiet for a while, watching the scene intently.

‘This is beautiful,’ she said finally in a quiet voice. Then turned to him and smiled, ‘Thank you for bringing me here, Levi.’

He turned away from her and mumbled, ‘Yeah whatever . . .’

Hange chuckled and settled back comfortably on the ledge. Then opened her bag and took out various food items and patted the space beside her. Levi sat down and they began to eat, looking down.

‘I noticed that there aren’t any plants or flowers in the Underground,’ said Hange.

‘How could there be any, you moron. There’s no sunlight.’

‘I know, but look at that,’ she pointed to the roof that felt way closer now that they were up there. It was damp and covered with fungus. ‘There are parts of the roof that have grown thinner than the rest,’ she went on. ‘And the stone will continue to weather away due to wind and water. It’s possible that a hole might open up in here. So if sunlight comes in there’ll be greenery.’ She smiled.

‘Like I care,’ said Levi, although he did find the idea nice.

‘You will care when it happens. A little green would look good here—oh! I just remembered! I had to show you something!’ she unzipped her bag.

‘Is it those paintings?’ Levi asked, curiosity seeping through the indifference.

‘Yes that too, but there’s one more thing!’ Hange pulled out a book and held it up.

‘I don’t know how to read four-eye,’ he said flatly.

She simply opened the book and pulled out a small leaf from it. It resembled a flower, and had four bright green petals. She held it out to him.

‘That’s a clover leaf,’ she said proudly. ‘And they usually have only three petals. Four petals are sooo rare that people say if you find one, you’re really lucky!’

Levi held the leaf in his hand and observed its fresh green color. Lucky, huh?

‘People will make up anything to satisfy themselves,’ he said and handed the clover back to her. She carefully placed it between the pages once more.

‘But still, seeing how rare it is, it’s still quite a precious thing,’ Hange countered. ‘I’m so glad I found it.’

Next she pulled out two pieces canvas from her bag and showed them to Levi with a grin, ‘As promised, I brought you a glimpse of the sky!’

The two paintings were a splash of color that was so rarely seen in his world.

‘This one’s a sunset,’ she pointed to the one that looked like fire. Molten red and orange hues bathed the canvas, mingling into a gold-yellow. Distant black silhouettes were painted that Levi recognized as mountains and horses. A huge pale orb—the sun—was half-hidden between the hills.

‘And this one’s a clear sky.’ The second painting showed a soft blue shade dotted with something that looked like fluffy pieces of cotton. Little red-roofed houses peppered the ground, surrounded by vibrant green fields. He could see small figures of children, frozen in time, chasing each other. He could almost hear their laughter.

‘You like it?’ Hange asked.

The places in both these pictures felt free. The people there could look up and see an infinite stretch of something that wasn’t the roof of a cage. Something that washed them in different colors at different hours of the day. It wasn’t a monochrome black all the time.

‘It’s . . . nice.’ He said quietly. This was just a picture; the real thing would be a hundred times better. He wondered if his wish to go out in the open would remain a wish forever.

‘I think,’ Hange’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts, ‘the clover leaf really is lucky.’

He raised his eyebrows, ‘And what makes you think that?’

She shrugged, ‘I found the leaf. Then I met you,’ she locked her warm brown eyes with his. ‘And that was indeed very lucky.’

Levi tore his gaze away, not knowing what to say. Hange laughed quietly, ‘You’re a really good friend, Levi.’

Hange kept coming for many days. They would talk, play around, and often climb onto that ledge. She would tell him about the outside world and he would mention brief fragments of his life and the Underground. Once Hange sneaked in some of her mother’s paints and they both spent a good amount of hours on their ledge, making a mess of the colors. He liked the routine; it was the first time he’d made a ‘friend’ and Levi was actually having fun.

One day four-eyes came to him with a sad smile; she was carrying just a book, no backpack. Her father didn’t go off to attend to his patients as he usually did, but stood back at a distance as she approached him.

‘Hey,’ she whispered.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘We’re leaving,’ said Hange. ‘Father’s work here is done, we won’t be coming back.’

Oh.

He knew she wasn’t going to come down everyday forever, but . . . he hadn’t expected that day to come so soon.

‘I asked him to let me just meet you one last time and only then I’d go,’ she said. Then she handed him the book, and opened a page in the middle. Upon it sat that clover leaf she’d shown him before, carefully dried and pressed between the pages.

‘I dried it. If you keep it inside the book, it’ll last for quite some time.’

Levi shut the book and looked at four-eyes. He had to say something.

‘Thank you,’ he said. She smiled, this time happily. Then he said, ‘And this won’t be last time we’re meeting, four-eyes. I’ll get out of this hellhole with my mother and then we’ll meet again.’

Her eyes widened, and then gleamed behind her glasses. She crushed him in a hug, and he let her do it this once.

‘All right then, I’ll see if you keep your word Levi.’

***

‘The name’s Levi,’ he stared down at the lined up soldiers who would blindly throw their lives away in the name of freedom. Isabel and Farlan stood on either side of him, both alert and cautious.

Then his eyes caught a familiar sight of messy brown hair and glasses. Vague memories stirred within him.

. . . I’ll see if you keep your word . . .

Well, he did keep it. Here he was, beneath the vast open sky, and four-eyes was right in front of him. He held back a smile. How lucky indeed.

Read the sequel on ao3

[seven-meds]

Hi!

I love your art and I am extremely enamored by the beauty of your writing !

That being said, I am an artist as well and I feel like I have been stuck in a creative rut and I don’t know how to get to out ? Do you have an advice on breaking out of the hole and as well do you suggest drawing everyday as a method to keep up with skill?

Thank you so much <3

Thanks so much! I considered this for a while. Giving artistic advice, whether broad or targeted, is always difficult. It's too nebulous of a process for rules but everyone still has such a strong opinion on what the rules should be. 

In my experience, lulls are beneficial when seen from the correct perspective and then taken advantage of. Endless production is antithetical to all art that is not corporate in nature, and lack of inspiration means you will benefit from something often overlooked: new experiences and engagement with new things. Though if you do want to feel productive, take a sketchbook and a pen to a public area and draw what you see for an hour or two. You likely won't be inspired but you will feel accomplished.

Historically, artists took extended periods of time away from creating in order to experience life and take in the world, its people, and themselves. Not always willingly; some were torn away and sent to war, fled their homeland, or were imprisoned, enslaved, or institutionalized. And there are those who spent long periods of time bedridden by illness or injury. But whether their experiences were gained by choice, by force, or by nature, their time away from art is what ended up shaping what they made. Drawing in isolation will sharpen a skill, but it's through repeated use of that skill to translate your experiences that your art improves.

An artist's goal is communication first and foremost. This is why drawing daily on its own cannot make anyone a better artist. It will eventually lead toward some sort of technical prowess, but technical prowess with no voice is fairly pointless and very dull. Ideally, the development of voice will precede the development of technical skill and the two become honed in tandem. What you want to say should define what you need to learn. If you are developing an understanding of your own intentions then you are already a step ahead of the artist who is focusing solely on their ability to draw a head from every angle. 

It's beneficial to conceptualize art as a series of choices rather than a display of objective prowess. The more experiences you have and the more educated you are, the more sophisticated your choices become. You'll also find that you're able to analyze and appreciate (or criticize) the choices of other artists, increasing the enjoyment of engaging with art as a whole. You'll then be led toward more complex and unique work as you become bored with things that salivate over their own palatability. You may also find that art you've passed over before suddenly begins to speak to you.

Spend time exposing yourself to new art, ideally from large swathes of eras, places, and forms, including art that communicates things uncomfortable, disturbing, or offensive to you. Delve into the history of the artists and works you enjoy (or hate) in order to fully understand what's being said and why. If you currently find yourself interacting solely with contemporary art delivered largely via algorithm or advertisement that elicits feelings of familiarity and comfort, you should recognize that as a limitation. You are certainly free to work within it, but you will stumble into inspiration more quickly through exposure to different ideas.

It's also a good time to interact with others, if possible (even from a distance), and to look into topics completely divorced from art. Enrich yourself in many ways. The world is so vast and full of so much. What can you experience and learn that will make you yearn to communicate again? 

Try not to waste years studying aimlessly. Develop an interest, a concept, an idea, an experience, and then work toward communicating it effectively. You will learn as you develop new pieces (because you will put effort and energy into targeted research and study), and those pieces will become more complex in both substance and technique. 

Good luck!

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Thirty-five

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: none

— WORDCOUNT: 2.6k

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir @thiefofthecrowns

I

Mr. Malfoy was losing his patience, although nobody would have been able to tell by looking at him. He sat as still and poised as a child at school, dressed in his muggle best, in a room well out of sight of all the other bidders going home. They filed out past the closed door, some stumbling drunk, some laughing, all of them loud and uncouth. Muggles. One by one they all had left within the hour, so when he heard the trapdoor open and steps approaching from the other room, he knew exactly who it was.

“What took you so long?” he thundered at the figure that appeared.

“Pardonnez-moi, monsieur,” said Donatien, bowing deeply in the doorway.

“Bring it over, you incompetent cur.”

The young man stepped forward, moving more slowly than Malfoy would’ve liked, and with a deliberately mocking sort of grace, presented the package. Malfoy took it from him, brow cocked coldly at Donatien. The boy lacked his usual obeisance. He even dared to smile at him. It bothered Septimus, but not enough to distract him from the book. Donatien stood back and to his left, out of sight.

“You’re rather quiet. Done all your croaking for the day? Irksome frog.”

Donatien did not respond, not that he needed to. Mr. Malfoy made short work of the wrappings, tearing off the carefully tied bow and throwing it, velvet wrap and all, onto the ground.

“Petty frills and ostentations. Is this what they wasted your time with downstairs?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

Malfoy grunted something scathing as his dry hands fumbled with the box.

“You’ve been speaking English too often on my account,” he said. “That accent sounds quite wrong, boy. You haven’t forgotten your own language, have you?”

He was too distracted afterwards to pay any attention to Donatien, although he was not so insensitive as not to feel a wave of anger from above his shoulder. None of it mattered, not more than Malfoy’s own anger at being kept waiting on what was the most important night of at least the last ten years for him. His hands were nearly shaking.

It had taken years to track down this book, one of the very last of its kind. The other two were well out of his reach, and this one would’ve been as well if not for his careful planning. Finding out about the Baron was easy, but making his way into his secret auctions took more skill than any muggle endeavour was worth. If not for his connections among vampires he might never have made it this far, and to his great fortune Ambrogio far respected wizards above his non-magical peers. And now he’d finally made it. He had in his grasp, in his old lap, that book the whispers of which caused shivers to run down his spine when he’d first heard of it some thirty years ago.

The lid clattered to the floor and the book was in his hands. At last.

He opened it, fingers almost trembling and read the title page.

“There you are, my beauty,” Malfoy whispered. From over his shoulder, Donatien could see his bone-white fingers trace the frontispiece. The inky devil on its throne waved silently at him, small as the palm of his hand yet dignified and cold. Each line, a thread of darkness pressed into the white that centuries had barely touched. Above, Delomelanicon. Below, Aristide Torchia & LCF. “Mine… At last.”

It was a marvel. At every turn of the page a touch of magic. The illustrations, headings, footnotes, the text that went from edge to edge in neat stout paragraphs in Latin, it made for an intimidating piece of art that hid the foulest magic. It was, under Donatien’s admiring gaze, like a nightmare given birth.

The air around them stilled. Mr. Malfoy read under his breath a spell from a page he paused upon at random but he was too frightened to actually cast it, and as he held it in his hands he had the distinct impression that he was close to dropping the book to the ground. It was a dizzying experience as if he could sense the very turning of the earth or the rushing of his blood inside him... Somehow, he knew the book wished to be placed upon an illuminated surface, shared, and read. It took a great deal of self-control to close it again and the sound of its shut maw echoed through the room. He sighed and closed his tired eyes, and inwardly felt grateful that he’d come all the way to buy the book himself rather than send his useless son. Abraxas was too busy throwing wasteful dinner parties for his friends — not that reading had ever been his forte.

“Shall I take it from you, sir?”

“I did not ask for your help!”

Donatien remained quiet for a moment.

“But yes. Take it,” said the wizard, caressing the book on his lap one last time.

Then, with some reluctance, he held it up. Donatien took the book with care, lifting it from the old wizard’s hand and into his possession. Mr. Malfoy didn’t even have time to regret it for a satisfied peal of laughter followed and the old wizard felt the unmistakable press of a wand tip at his temple.

II

Tom looked into Mr. Malfoy’s eyes like a baker checking a bun in the oven. He smiled at what he saw. Complete and utter contentment was there together with the usual arrogance, all in a mind that presently tried to catch up to its reality.

“Thank you, Donatien. You may go on ahead. Place it in my suitcase at the hotel.”

By now the Polyjuice potion had faded away and all of Tom’s features were his own, but that made no difference to Mr. Malfoy, not in the state he was in. He’d be lucky if that Obliviate didn’t leave his brains scrambled forever, but Tom had been planning for a while now exactly what memories to alter and which to wipe.

“Yes, sir,” he said with an overly enthusiastic bow.

His, finally his, and even old Malfoy didn’t stand in his way anymore. He’d eliminated everyone else who could — Oso, the Baron, even Donatien and Clement who foolishly thought they could have robbed a man like Malfoy themselves. Tom was so pleased with himself that it felt a real shame to give this book away to somebody like Burke, not after all the trouble he went through. But there was enough time left to make some arrangements.

With a chuckle, he turned to leave the room, book safe in hand. It had been given to him freely, after all. No spell could prevent him from taking it out of the building now… And by the time Malfoy returned to England empty-handed and realised something was wrong, the book would be far from Italy as well. Its protection spell, however cleverly designed, was no match for Tom’s designs.

But his smile died when he looked up and saw who was standing in the doorway. In her fingers, hanging limply, was a thin piece of paper — the receipt he had forgotten to take.

“Oh, fuck.”

Confusion, fear, panic. His heart dropped at the prospect of having to Obliviate her as well. She saw him still wearing Donatien’s clothes, saw him hold his wand and cast the spell, witnessed the unravelling of Mr. Malfoy’s mind — which was probably why she hadn’t said a word the whole time she was there. Now, she looked at him in innocent and sweet confusion and with every fevered heartbeat he could see her putting it all together in her head. She wasn’t just an ordinary muggle, after all. Her profession exposed her many times to the notion that magic was real… And now she’d seen it.

But instead of stepping away, pointing a finger accusingly at him and calling him ‘witch’, or even any hint of fear — instead of all of that, she came to him, admiration in her eyes. She looked at the enchanted Mr. Malfoy, his gaze no more intelligent than that of a child’s, and then at Tom again. He was breathless for long moments, and for the first time in a while felt… scared. Just as he’d been in fifth year when Dumbledore refused to let him stay at Hogwarts over Christmas. He felt the same violent surges as then, his whole self reduced to a volatile point. He was so distracted that he could hardly read what was going on behind her eyes.

“Tom,” she said with an uncertain smile.

“Yes?” he said, a little roughly.

“Why are you wearing Donatien’s clothes?”

“He, erm, let me b-borrow them?”

“And… did Mr. Malfoy let you borrow his book as well?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m… looking after it for him.”

“Are you?” she said, her eyes lit with playfulness. She had the same sugary tone she did when they came across a stray cat and she wanted to entice it close enough to pet.

“I will see it all the way to England, in fact.”

There, he said. It was a naked challenge, and Tom could see her smile fade with the meaning of it. Between them, Mr. Malfoy groaned and rested his head in his hands as the effects of the memory charm finished taking root inside his mind.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Headache,” said Tom, and he quickly grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her away. “We shall fetch you a cup of tea, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Sod the tea,” growled the old wizard, his voice strained with the effort to keep his dinner down. “Where’s my wand?”

Tom shut the door behind them but not fast enough. The sound of dry heaving came through, muffled and confused, and in the quiet of the empty shop it seemed all the louder. The question was already in her eyes, which quickly flitted to the wand he held. Even though it was no use, he tucked it behind him.

“I knew that wasn't just a good luck charm!”

“Listen, you —”

He wanted to say that she was just imagining things but it would have been a stupid thing to do. There was no fooling her, not with everything that happened right before her eyes… Tom sighed, frustrated by his own stupidity and carelessness.

“I, what?”

He knew the only solution was to Obliviate her too… But the longer he waited, the harder it was to do. She was beautiful, standing so close, looking up at him, demanding that he share everything with her. Her hair was messier than when he’d kissed her last — still disguised as Donatien — her hands were dark with dust, her shirt unbuttoned at the top after a long night of working. He could see her blushing still, probably piecing it together and realising what he’d done. She may not have known how, but finding him in the French boy’s clothes cast the shrowd of guilt over him. Tom felt suffocated by it. And Mr. Malfoy… One didn’t need to know a lot of magic to figure out what happened there. He could hardly look at her — the accusations there, the fear, and memories of how his mother died rushing through his mind.

But when he looked into her eyes with all the shame of a child caught stealing sweets, and the wide expectant shine of them made a certain hope grow in his chest, wild and rampant like a rose bush.

“You did something to Mr. Malfoy, didn’t you?”

Tom kept quiet, fingers growing stiff around the wand, and waiting, waiting for her shock to turn to terror.

“D-did you… curse him or something?”

“Not… exactly.”

From behind the closed door, another wave of retching could be heard. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, gaze drifting, mind working fervently behind those tired eyes as she took in his clothes again — the awkward fit of them now that he didn’t have Donatien’s body — and the book in his hand and the other arm twisted around his back trying to hide that stick of his. She looked into his eyes reading things there he dared not even guess at and licked her lips to speak.

“Are you a… erm, a magician?”

In her voice was all the innocent wonder his own voice had one rainy day at Wool’s.

“The, ahem, the proper term is ‘wizard’.”

Was she going to laugh? She didn’t laugh. He feared she might scream instead but she didn’t do that either. Between them hung only a heavy silence, his blood cold, his body stiff, a slave in waiting for what she had to say.

“Tom!” she gasped. “That’s amazing!”

He looked into her eyes and frowned but seeing her smile at him made dangerous emotions grow. His brows smoothed and his lips curled at the edges and he felt on the verge of picking her up in his arms and twirling her. She’d looked at him many times in joy and sorrow but never quite like that — like she wanted to hug him and kiss him and crawl into his soul.

Was that his heart set aflutter or someone knocking on the door?

They turned together and hurried toward the sound — it was coming from the entrance. They found Frederico there, behind the glass, looking terrified and tired with his coat thrown messily about him as if he’d just been roused from bed. A taxi was waiting behind him.

“Open up!” he shouted. “The Baron’s dead!”

III

The Baron was found dead, or parts of him were. It was difficult to tell because his library had been set on fire with him inside of it. His secretary, Berit, was nowhere to be found. As Fred rambled on Mr. Malfoy stumbled past them, still dazed and somewhat angry that Donatien had gone to the hotel ahead of him. Without a word, he took Fred’s taxi and drove off, leaving them stranded at the shop.

The Carabinieri had tried to reach both her and Tom at their homes, but as they were at the auction all night they were forced to search further afield, and so reached out to Fred.

And now all poor Fred could do was tell them what had happened over an unsweetened cup of coffee. Tom took care to hide the Delomelanicon at the first opportunity while she sat Fred down and started brewing a fresh pot.

“They… they said arson was suspected.”

“But who could —”

“He had many enemies.”

“Yes, Tom, but arsonists?!”

“No, no, no, the Baron was a good person,” said Fred. “And his enemies are good people too! None of them would burn a library.”

“They could’ve stolen books before setting the place on fire,” said Tom as sat down, straddling the chair backwards.

“Yes, but so many books? Hardcopies too and leather-bound volumes?” said Fred. “No, no, no… They weigh too much, and there’s too many of them.”

She brushed a hand across his back as she placed the cup of coffee in front of him, then went to give one to Tom. “What else did the police say, Freddy?”

“That, erm, they can’t find Mrs. Boveri. They couldn’t find you two either, but I told them… I told them…”

“Will we have to speak to them?” asked Tom as he took a sip.

“The Carabinieri? Yes, they’ll want… proof. Of where you were, I mean.”

She and Tom exchanged a look. The bidders were a solid alibi, but how many of them would want to admit they were at an illegal auction?

“Cazzo!” shouted Fred. “I was supposed to tell you to call them right away!”

“Alright, alright, I’ll call the station.”

“No, I’ll do it.”

“Your Italian is garbage, Tom. Sit down.”

[muriels-brainrot]

૮꒰ “ . . ꒱ა

{Referencing this post: https://www.tumblr.com/muriels-brainrot/755439602787139584/how-do-you-cope-with-the-fandom-being-so?source=share }

Forgive me if I'm intruding but I recently came across some very helpful advice which I think is quite insightful.

To set the scene, before I found this advice, I myself was struggling with staying consistent with art. This time however, I had decided that no I won't keep procrastinating. SO, in my attempt to find resources, I stumbled onto this video. Now suddenly it all began to make sense. The reason I was struggling was not because i'm lazy and horrible and lacking motivation. Rather it was because I had outcome related goals. TLDR: I was focused on the outcome (wow rlly iri we didn't know that's what outcome related goals meant pfft-)

Anyways so, instead of focusing on the process, I was instead focusing on the end product aka the finished drawing. Ofc I'm a beginner so I wouldn't look like I wanted to. Not bad but it wouldn't be what I wanted so i'd get frustrated and eventually give up on drawing . . . before inevitably returning with my tail between my legs cause I still rlly want to get better.

Honestly, it's natural and normal for these feeling to occur, because like you said we pour so much time and dedication. Not to mention heart and soul to make these creative projects that it feels almost personal when it doesn't get engagement. But if there is something i'd like for you to know, it's that it rlly helps if you take enjoyment in the process. Draw inspiration from odd places and craft scenarios.

Don't write for others, or the cliche of writing for yourself but rather think of it as you sharing your brainrot with ur future self haha. Write stuff that you'd wanna read yourself! (then come back to read it like a crazy person at the dead of night . . . wait, don't tell me that just me-)

Just . . . let your brain do its thing! Let your brain create instead of letting the ideas and projects fester in your head. Keep growing your skill because you never know, these might be the very thing that comes in handy later on in life. Think of singers like Sabrina carpenter who was niche (I mean to say not worldwide popular yknow, but u get my point) for a long time. However, if you look at her now that she's gone viral, it's the hard work during the years she spent creating with most of the world with their backs to her that is the sole reason she continues to be so well known for her . . . well, everything! (For example: She is extremely comfortable on stage while performing and looks like she's in her element even with thousands of eyes on her . . . it's cause she's been performing for almost 10 years I think.)

So, to both anon and anyone else reading this, pls keep creating stuff. Especially passion projects. Even if you feel like you're screaming into a void. You'll only get better IF you continue. Also, you never know maybe there is someone out there that really enjoys your work. Even if it's one person, that still someone out there that keeps coming back just for your work. This silly tangent I went on, won't completely get rid of all the thoughts and feelings . . . but it's a start. Hope this helps . . .

(Example: I always find myself coming back to this artwork by @cinsilly cause Asra's expression here is so funny. No not once a week but every few days oops- )

Oh my god thank you!! I'll post my thoughts in the comments. But it was honestly v cool of you to share this, the only thing that keeps me together in any fandom is knowing we're not alone in feeling this way :'> !!!

[cilil]

AN: Dear @blauerregen, I love all the art you made for @angbangweek (and in general) so much that I just had to get you a gift fic and I chose to write you something for iron. Yes, I even rewatched the movie scene for it. Everyone please go look at the art, it's gorgeous🖤

⚡︎ Prompt(s): Iron ⚡︎ Synopsis: Mairon is working late in the forge. Melkor decides to seek him out and "assist". ⚡︎ Warnings: Sensual, innuendo ⚡︎ Short oneshot (~600 words) | AO3

The hour was late and the forge was empty save for Mairon, still working on his latest project. 

Garbed only in a short white tunic, he sat on his workbench right in front of his anvil. His hands rested on a block of iron, his palms and fingers engulfed in a golden glow as he called forth his element to heat it. He had wanted to experiment with shaping molten metal using his bare hands, but Aulë always insisted on him using proper tools and equipment, lest those of fiery nature imitate him and end up burning themselves. 

Let them burn then. Mairon clutched the iron harder, enjoying the feeling of its slowly softening surface yielding to him. He was a being of fire, unaffected by heat and thriving in it. 

The sound of footsteps rang out behind him, yet he paid it no heed. At this hour it could only be one certain Vala, and that one was not Aulë. 

Humming to himself, Mairon continued his work. The mighty presence entering the room, the subtle notes of discord sizzling in the air, they were neither strange nor frightening to him. 

Cold breath tickled the tiny locks on the back of his neck, and he could feel Melkor sitting down behind him. In lieu of a greeting, he leaned backwards slightly, allowing his upper arm to brush against the cool and very much unclothed chest of the Vala. 

Silent as well — Mairon appreciated the surprising lack of disturbance from a being as loud and pompous as him — Melkor looked over his shoulder to see what he was doing. He watched for a moment, unusually patient as the iron grew softer and hotter in the Maia's skilled hands, then gingerly reached around him as if to embrace him. 

Mairon allowed it. Two large hands appeared in his field of vision, fingers brushing against his arms, trailing down, reaching for his own hands. It was only then that he glanced over his shoulder to meet Melkor's gaze, bright and piercing. He had the Vala's full attention, and it pleased him. 

"Let me help you," Melkor whispered. 

Under normal circumstances Mairon would take it as an affront, yet he could sense desire and tenderness reverberating in the air between them. 

Melkor placed his hands on his, and his palms were hot. At first they merely rested there, then he intertwined their fingers. 

Feeling bold, Mairon kissed him before turning back to focus on his work again. The iron glowed, now melting faster. He would be able to shape it soon, though the thought was almost regrettable; he would love to sit like this a while longer. 

Mesmerised, he watched as the iron gradually lost its shape and became a clump of malleable molten mass in their hands, resembling wet clay rather than metal. Melkor placed one thumb on top of it and began to apply gentle pressure, slowly but surely causing it to give way and engulf the digit in its hot embrace. His lips brushed against Mairon's cheek, then wandered to his neck, kissing his nape. 

The meaning of it was not lost on him. 

Mairon wrapped his fingers around the iron more tightly, running his hands up and down to coax it into a more cylindrical shape. What he had originally intended to make he had forgotten, his mind now wandering to different, more delightful places. 

"Such capable hands you have, little flame," Melkor purred in his ear. "It is almost a pity to see your touch wasted on mere metal." 

"If you are patient a while longer and let me finish this I may yet be of service to you," Mairon said, smiling to himself. 

"Very well."

He felt sharp teeth grazing the side of his neck.

"I shall do my best to be patient, but I will make no promises..." 

Thanks for reading! ♡

Did you catch the true meaning of what they were doing with their hands at the end? Spoiler: Not imitating the pottery thing...

taglist: @angbangbaby @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @blauerregen @bluezenzennie @destinyeternity1 @edensrose @elanna-elrondiel @eunoiaastralwings @i-did-not-mean-to @just-little-human @melkors-big-tits @melkors-defense-attorney @saintstars @sauron-kraut @urwendii @wandererindreams

[rubypasha1]

I’m going to be honest and say I had some bad experiences in the Transformers fandom. I wrote fics for it, admittedly very bad but they were my first. Had to learn somewhere. Thing is I enjoyed the writing, actually I loved it and it made me realize my passion for writing fiction.

But that didn’t stop the bad experiences. Mostly people. I won’t go into detail but for the love of god please don’t ask or encourage a 12 year old, who has clearly stated they are one, to write smut. And don’t send them very explicit, dead dove do not eat fics without at least staying “hey, there’s some messed up stuff in here so just be warned” instead of “Here’s some inspiration!” And constantly asking when smut will be written.

I swear Ao3 saved my creativity. I pretty completely left Wattpad after that, didn’t touch transformers content again till recently this year.

And I’ve made a decision. I’m going to write a transformers fic. Not now, only next year it’s my last year of school and stuff is hectic. But I’m going to write it. To prove to myself I can write a good transformers fic with good characterization. And a reader or oc that has a bit more depth.

Anywho, @ss-shitstorm fic “Breaking Bread” heavily inspired me and actually was the reason I got back into the Ttansforemrs fandom. I highly recommend it it’s one of my new top favorites and has a terrifying attention to detail. Great characterization, hilarious reader insert that’s basically a very stressed out certain magical princess who’s got a knack for science and baking. And a crazy dog. And sassy bird. Who likes Fluttershy. It’s amazing.

Did I mention there’s actual science stuff in it? Stochiometry my nemesis.

And it’s got me thinking about making my own. Maybe more of an oc fic but still written like ny other reader ones.

I’m thinking of doing one where a human is put in a cybertronian body, TFP universe. They have basic knowledge of TFP, watched it but couldn’t remember everything. But they knew enough. Definitely enough o know that cybertron being alive was before the war.

They’re placed in a cybertronian body before the deception uprising. Still around the time where Functionisin ruled and they were in a kind of ‘presenter’/‘video camera’ alt mode.

Except they have anxiety, often freeze up with a panic enduring lack of social skills driven from their natural personality and the fact they’re a human soul shoved into a metal body. Completely alone and forced to adapt to a society that bases value on an alt mode.

The were an artist while human and over time through constant stress and a lack of familiarity with materials on cybertronian, they loose their love of painting and creating art.

But it’s reignited. They find a underground club where mecs and Femmas of many alt modes come together to anonymously submit art ranging from poetry to music and more. And that’s when they find it, a piece of writing that captures their soul. Something so deep and beautiful they feel their own spark reigniting, and they try their hand at creating again. Even if small.

They keep going to the club, building up courage to place art pieces on view. They don’t get much attention, except for a mech who seems curious and stands beside them as they pick apart every little detail.

They talk for a bit. Share a few critics, nothing too crazy. Turns out he’s the one who wrote that lovely piece of writing that inspired them. They turn around, gasping and thanking him for creating something so inspiring-

Megatron stands before them.

Or rather, Megatronus.

The gladiator had just begun his days of battle in the arena but the end was inevitable, the reader knew who he was and fled in terror leaving a confused (and proud, it felt good to know his words inspired at least one person) Megatronus behind.

Readers in a panic, but it doesn’t end there. Their ‘job’ forces them to begin recording the gladiator fights, particularly the rising star Megatronus leading to the eventual meet up of the two again.

But it doesn’t stop there. Soundwave came soon after and, shockingly enough, Ratchet after some unfortunate events (who is far flirtier and leaves the reader thinking “Oh my god he’s so smooth but whyyyyy”)

And it gets worse. Megatronus clearly wishes to se ether atrworks, one of the few along with Soundwave who sees something more than just a waste of time or hobby.

A relationship is formed, tentive on the readers side. They see him and Soundwave less and less like the terrifying deceptions they would become but rather who stood before them. Mechs bashed by a cruel system, they’re creativity forced to writher in their sparks painfully, smothered by a need to fight for the entertainment of others or die by the claws of the system.

They care about them, they eventually realise in horror. And on an unfortunate night they broke down and revealed to Soundwave a horrible truth. War was coming, and they knew what he would become. What All of them would. They beg him, plead to not take things too far. Life was precious, organic or not and taking those of innocents . . .

Soundwave was an outlier himself, but he remained somewhat skeptical. It wa shard to not belive them, the raw emotions they displayed showcased fear and he was good at reading others frames.

The little cybertronian was odd, but intriguing. A friend he had grown to care for, to wish to protect as his closest companion Megatronus insisted, over time. But if there was truth to their words they must know things that could endanger all of cybertron. Soundwave didn’t see himself as a activist nor rebellious but even he couldn’t deny the waters were churning.

Things happen, yada yada yada, reader gets kidnapped and put into stasis just as the war starts and wakes up many years later to the face of a human child se knew very well from a certain TV series.

All out panic ensures

OR, the other fic idea:

Human wakes up as a vehicon . Says “nope”, tries to get away and accidentally becomes the leader of a vehicon rights movement.

The autobots it’s are confused, the decepticons are angry and the reader just wants to get some dogs or cats dammit.

Of course, a dog does gain interest in them. And by that I mean a terrifying metal dragon who decides this trembling little con would be the perfect way to help him attain details on how to resurrect his kin.

He is very mistaken. Reader can’t even be in the same room as one of the deception lieutenants without rattling like a tin can.

Honestly don’t know if it would be a Soundwave or Megatron x reader. Definitely will be friendship developing there. Maybe both? I’m a sucker for tall dark and creepy guys who have a soft spot for tiny

Second idea is just all the vehicons lining up to get names form reader. All very human ones. . “Bill” “John” Matthew” Thomas” “My names already Steve” “Jenny” “Bucket”

And Reader is just stressing cause they’re not running a rebellion or anything. They’re running a daycare for a bunch of guys who do not care about their own safety and lives at all and she constantly has to tell them, no you cannot go to the Autobits the will shoot you on site. No, wanting to sacrifice yourself isn’t a good idea- CANDICE GET AWAY FROM THE FRAGGING WRECKER GOD DAMMIT DO NONE OF YOH UAVE ANY WILL TO LIVE?

Chaos ensures

[ceilidhtransing]

This isn't the kind of stuff I usually post about, and I have zero interest in Drama, but I want to talk about a tangential element that the whole James Somerton Debacle has rather highlighted. I saw someone say something along the lines of “who would expect a business grad to have the skill of reading from a variety of sources and synthesising their ideas into good original media analysis content” and like... yeah.

It's such a common refrain to shit on arts and humanities degrees by going “what's that actually teaching you? What skills do you even get from that? It's all useless, it's not relevant to anything, you come out of that sort of degree with nothing but pointless facts on obscure literature or some pish like that”. But no, the distinct skill of learning from a variety of sources and developing the information and perspectives into new unique work of your own is the bread and butter of such degrees, and it is not a skill everyone has.

I feel like those of us who have been trained to do this (or who have developed the skill through their own independent learning outside of an academic institution) have a tendency to devalue it, to forget that it's an actual skill, to assume everyone just does this on the reg. And the idea of simply copying and pasting excerpts from other people's work, without credit, into your work and calling it a day wouldn't even cross our minds as a thing to do, because it's so obvious that the end result would be absolutely terrible, full of points that don't connect, ideas that don't go anywhere, sections that seem to lightly contradict, writing styles that don't cohere. I'm still stunned that anyone would have the audacity to do that, not just on an ethical level, but also on a quality level - is it not obvious that what you would produce by that method won't be very good?

I don't know this person, and I don't want to speculate too much - I don't know whether he genuinely lacks this skill, or if he has the skill and is too lazy to utilise it (though given the standard of his videos, I would hazard a guess at the first, because surely if this was a thing you were good at, your every instinct would be screaming at you to spend a short amount of time just tidying everything up, making it cohere, linking ideas together, doing something to make it better than a load of quotes haphazardly chucked together). What I do know is that this whole incident shows up perhaps better than anything before the very skill that a humanities background gives you, precisely by demonstrating what humanities-style content done without that skill looks like.

Hbomberguy does make the point in his video that creatives often don't value their skills because to them, they're just second-nature; they don't register as skills anymore. And a very similar thing goes on with people with humanities backgrounds. Artistic, creative, literary, intellectual skills get devalued by society all the time. But this stuff is valuable, something that evidently not everyone has or bothers with, and ideally I'd like to see a whole lot less of “but what does a degree like that even teach you”.