For Tales of Sunday today I was very self-indulgent and did two drawings of my Graces redesigns for Sophie and Cheria :3c took the first (full) pose of each character I found in a search and drew my designs in a similar manner!
Surprising they don’t draw Cheria in a full-body pose very often…
44 notes
·
View notes
actually making my tags from my last post into their own post. writers who struggle with grammar, spelling, typos, errors etc i love you. writers who struggle with rereading their stuff thoroughly no matter how much they try, who don't always have access to other people to help them read i love you. whilst reading through and checking for these things is good practice i really believe that the weight of it should not be put wholly on the writer's shoulders. especially writers who are neurodivergent, disabled, have any condition that can impede their reading + comprehension, are overworked and overtired, are not writing in their native language, list goes on....because grammar mistakes/language mistakes/typos have nothing to do with your abilities as a creative. this is where editors should be uplifting writers, helping them, not scrutinising them for something they cannot always control
45 notes
·
View notes
Ships as Tarot Card Pairs Quiz
Tagged by @adelaidedrubman to do this quiz! Thank you! :D
Tagging: @strafethesesinners @harmonyowl @derelictheretic @teamhawkeye @purplehairsecretlair @peachyaliien @ri-a-rose @redreart @statichvm @shellibisshe @minilev @beemot @radiojamming @glowwormsmith @fuckin-nancy @wrathfl @isobel-thorm @jacobsneed @cassietrn @blissfulalchemist @direwombat @jacobseed @wrathfulrook @dumbassdep
Dove x John:
the devil + the emperor
There's only one religion for the two of you, and that religion is the other. You two are very nearly unhealthily obsessed with one another, and that's just how you like it. When they touch you, they can feel the blood pumping under the surface of your skin. Your hearts beat for one another. When the day comes that one stops, the other will soon after. Until then, you both will live out your lives in perfect, gothy paradise. Deck: the tarot of vampyres.
Dove x Grace:
the devil + the emperor
There's only one religion for the two of you, and that religion is the other. You two are very nearly unhealthily obsessed with one another, and that's just how you like it. When they touch you, they can feel the blood pumping under the surface of your skin. Your hearts beat for one another. When the day comes that one stops, the other will soon after. Until then, you both will live out your lives in perfect, gothy paradise. Deck: the tarot of vampyres.
Dove x Cooper:
ace of cups + ten of cups
Your romance is the love story that seems only possible in movies. It starts from a youthful first meeting, innocent. And from what may seem like a lifetime later, you both end up happily in union, perhaps even married! Your coupling is the epitome of emotional fulfillment and devotion. Neither of you thought you'd end up here, but damn if you aren't glad you did. Deck: thelema tarot.
Dove x Anya:
ace of cups + ten of cups
Your romance is the love story that seems only possible in movies. It starts from a youthful first meeting, innocent. And from what may seem like a lifetime later, you both end up happily in union, perhaps even married! Your coupling is the epitome of emotional fulfillment and devotion. Neither of you thought you'd end up here, but damn if you aren't glad you did. Deck: thelema tarot.
Lyla x Daud:
the two of cups + the star
Your romance is a wish granted. Finally, finally, they're here. Finally, *it's* here! The time where you don't have to feel lonely anymore - you'll never feel that way ever again. Laughter, joy, sweetness, kisses - be at ease. All of these are things you have found someone to share with. Your love is a dreamy fantasy of love and devotion and miracles. At first, your chest gets too tight when they're around - until they become as natural as the air in your lungs. Deck: ethereal visions tarot.
Izel x Astarion:
the devil + the emperor
there's only one religion for the two of you, and that religion is the other. you two are very nearly unhealthily obsessed with one another, and that's just how you like it. when they touch you, they can feel the blood pumping under the surface of your skin. your hearts beat for one another. when the day comes that one stops, the other will soon after. until then, you both will live out your lives in perfect, gothy paradise. deck: the tarot of vampyres.
17 notes
·
View notes
Ninety percent of the Cornley Polytechnic Drama Society members are time travelers. None of them are meant to be there. Therein lies the problem.
(A story of two unstoppable forces: the flow of time, and a group of friends fighting to return to each other.)
---
hey hi the time travel au has landed! after a whole year in the making!! pls enjoy!!!!
24 notes
·
View notes
Really had a guy ask me for a smile
Me: 😷
2 notes
·
View notes
man fuck it im gonna start doin wip wednesdays here
Summer is sweet and endless and she has nothing to do but look at me. She's looking at me now, through the sun's glare on her mirror. She shadows the shapes of my mouth, but doesn't put her voice to my words.
My parents are worried about Grace. They think something's wrong with her - I know what it is. Grace knows, too, looking at me, looking through the glare in the mirror. Everything about her is wrong. I could fix her, if she would let me.
Solid, measured knocks. "Gracie?"
"Yeah?" She pulls her braids back to look at her shoulders uncovered. The angle of her jaw. She is trying to see how it matches up to mine.
"Your mother and I are going to go to the mall. Do you want to come?"
I've never been a fan of the sweltering heat of a cracked-asphalt parking lot, nor the chill on my skin in a Macy's. Grace says, "Okay." But she only said that so that she can look away from me. She is a fool. I can be found in anything that can reflect. I watch her in the windows, in silver lockets, in the mirrors she models new boots in. She parades about like a wind-up toy, a ballerina in a music box. Her mother hands her new skirts for the new school year, button-up blouses, low-cut but not whorish, and modest stockings.
The dressing rooms are hidden in the corner, neatly separated by two icons of triangles - one upside and one downside. I follow her to the wrong one, the wrong stall. It's cramped and ill-fitting, somewhat like a body. Grace tries her best to avoid me still. It's a valiant effort, I'll give her that much. But at some point, in a few minutes, maybe, she'll have to turn around and face me.
Grace takes off her tanktop like the accused pushing off concrete slabs. She hisses with impatience at the clasp of her bra and its stubborn claws in her skin, throws it on the bench with more violence than is necessary. Branded into her back it remains, aching, smoking. Cramped and ill-fitting. She itches at it like the fabric is stuck in her, like it still remains subcutaneously and she could pull it away finally, permanently, if she also removed the skin. Her nails are well cared for, and so, won't do the job. I smile at the sound of her bent elbows.
Her pants go too, her keys squeezing free of the claustrophobic pockets and diving with raucous applause to the floor. Her phone is in her purse, because the back pockets are only decorative. Grace doesn't curse. Her words are never ugly. Instead, her lips bend into the shape of: "shit", and then she bends and picks up the keyring. It is unadorned. Why should it be anything else? A key only has one purpose.
For a moment we stand there together, Grace's back to me, my back not quite to hers. She is hesitating, stretching out the moment between one set of clothes and the next. The blouse is slippery and coarse in texture, sends spider legs running over her back. The skirt is of good quality, but takes up in the back, so she is afraid to bend. No pockets.
I ask her if I can see it. She stares at the off-white wall in silence, and then she turns.
"Oh, no, Gracie. That won't do at all." I tell her. "That thing isn't even fit to be a tablecloth. It's see-through, it's itchy on my ribs. It's pushing my skin too close to my bones, the points of my ribs poking at my lungs. It's like a coffin leaking air, sighing its way into the ground."
Her breath hitches. "I don't know what's wrong with me." She's saying to herself, to the mirror, to me. I make a sound - in my mouth it is sympathetic, but in hers it is animal, pained, cornered.
13 notes
·
View notes